The rustle of leaves in gusts of wind.

Hard ground, the prickle of leaf litter, the damp green scent of the earth.

What happened?

A throbbing pain on the back of his head.

Where is -

Saryth opened his eyes, squinted in the dull daylight, tried to focus. Scrubby grass and old pine needles, blurry tree trunks and further away a red shape.

Kite.

He raised his head and focussed on the red. Yes, it was Kite. Lying on her back, hand outstretched, close to her staff, eyes closed. Leaning over her, a grey and brown shape. A moving shape. A man, a soldier, on top of Kite and reaching for her belt.

Playing with the material world is very different from illusions.

He stretched out his hand and felt the connection from six feet away. The warmth, the shape, the regular movement, the vitality.

You’ll get used to it.

He closed his hand around the soldier’s heart and squeezed until it stopped moving, stopped beating, as the soldier choked and fell backwards over Kite’s legs, as she sat up with shock and horror in her face.

The man was heavy on her legs, a dead weight, and that was true and horrible and she didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about Saryth, his hand still stretched between them, his fist clenched. Magic still shimmered between that hand and the dead man. She didn’t want to think about the dead man, the man who had been about to assault her, the man she had been preparing to fight while feigning unconsciousness. Slowly the magic bled away, and Saryth looked down at his hand as if wondering why it was there. I didn’t know he could do that. I didn’t think he would do that.

He did do that.

“Saryth?” It was a strain to say his name. He looked up at her, his eyes focussing on her face at last, his attention an accusation, unbearable.

“Kite! Are you -”

“What have you done?” She pushed back away from him, struggled out from under the thing he had caused.

“I -” Saryth pushed to his knees, confused. “He was going to -”

“I had my staff! I was awake!” Kite tried to stand up but her legs felt like jelly. She scrabbled backwards.

“I didn’t -”

“You didn’t have to kill him!”

“Kite, I -” Saryth came closer, his hand outstretched in appeal. The hand that had killed for her sake.

“No!” She managed to stand at last, and staggered back. “Get away from me! Murderer!” She turned and ran, stumbling through the trees, tears hazing her vision, desperate to get away. Away from the dead man, away from his killer. Her friend. Her fault. Her responsibility.

There was nothing left.

He lay curled up in the leaf litter, not waiting, because there wasn’t anything to wait for now. He couldn’t undo what he had done. She would not come back.

There was nothing left.

After a while, voices became audible, and footsteps tramping through the trees.

“Hey, Beran! You done yet?” Cheerful, rough voices, men at ease with themselves.

“What, are you after having a turn?”

“There’s always the boy, if Beran’s still busy.” They came closer, and then the footsteps halted.

“Hey, you -” Suddenly serious. Worried.

“What?”

“Beran?” A crunch and crackle of leaf litter from where the soldier stood by the corpse.

“He’s dead.”

“How?”

“No wounds. No girl, either.”

“Maybe she did it.”

“How?”

“Sorcery?”

“Oh, so now we have a witch running loose?”

“Maybe the boy knows something.”

“You!” A sharp pain in his side from the hard toe of a boot, then a yank of his hair, raising his head. Saryth didn’t resist. The soldier scowled at him.

“Stop hiding your face. Do you know where the witch went? Speak up!”

“She’s not a witch.” It was important they didn’t look for her.

“So? Then who killed Beran? You?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How?” The soldier drew his dagger. It didn’t matter.

“Magic.”

The soldier hissed, letting go of Saryth’s hair as though it was poison. A sharp pain exploded in the back of his head, knocking his face into the dirt.

“Witches travel better unconscious.” The pain pulsed through his head in waves, making it hard to hear the soldiers’ discussion.

“Garth, you take Beran. Taran, take the witch.”

“What if he wakes up?” A hard prod between his shoulderblades.

“Blindfold him, gag him and break his fingers. There’ll be no spells out of him then.”

“Can’t we just kill him now?”

“No! He goes back for trial. Pick him up! You only have to get him to the cart.”

“Hmph.” Footsteps came closer, then his head was jerked up by a yank of his ponytail. The soldier stared at him, sneered, then slammed his head down with force. Saryth let go of consciousness with relief.

Kite’s headlong stumbling run ended when she fell into a dry creek and couldn’t get up. She curled round herself and cried so hard she couldn’t think. Everything was wrong, and everything she had done had made it worse. She was making a noise, and there were soldiers around, but her horror and her grief demanded an outlet and she couldn’t stay quiet.

She did draw attention, but not from a soldier. As her sobbing finally quietened, a hand touched her back and she jumped, heart in her throat. It was a child, crouched in the grass above the creek, a concerned expression on her face.

“Miss, what’s wrong?”

There was no way to answer that simply, no way to explain everything that had gone wrong.

“I -” Kite started, “there was a soldier -” But the girl patted her back gently.

“Don’t, miss. Come with me. I’m Arla.” She scrambled down into the creek and urged Kite to stand. Swaying, Kite complied. It was so much easier to follow someone, and Arla seemed to know what she was doing. But as they walked, a nagging feeling rose within that she couldn’t ignore.

“Where are we going?”

“To my house,” Arla said. Kite hesitated. It wasn’t that she distrusted the girl, but she couldn’t just leave, not without checking.

“No, wait,” she said.

“What?”

“I forgot someo - something. I need to go back and look.” She turned round, and was faintly surprised when Arla followed her.

“Be careful,” the girl said as they came to the clearing, but there was no danger any more. The only signs that anyone had been there were were footprints in the dirt by the tree roots. Her staff was gone. So was... so was he. Kite stopped and stared at the crushed grass where they had lain, even now springing back into shape.

“Is it here?” Arla asked.

“No. No, it’s not. They must’ve taken it.” Him.

There was nothing in the clearing any more, so Kite submitted to Arla’s leading, following her back through the trees to a small track, then along the track to a village, and through the village to a small well-built stone house with a thatched roof, looking no different to any of the others.

“There,” Arla said, pointing, then hurried to the door and called, “Da!”

A man came to the door, meeting Arla with a wide smile before looking up at Kite.

“What is it, Arla? Oh - greetings.”

“There were soldiers, and I found her -”

“All right, all right.” He patted Arla and she stopped speaking. To Kite, he said, “I’m Harvis. Welcome.”

“I’m Kite. Thank you.” The commonplace greeting was the first normal thing that had happened, and it steadied her. “What Arla says is true. We were attacked -”

“There was someone else?” Arla piped up, concern in her voice.

“Yes, and they must’ve taken him... And I - I ran away.” She couldn’t say any more, couldn’t get the terrible words out.

“It’s likely the best thing you could’ve done,” Harvis said soothingly.

“No,” Kite said, and felt the tears coming. “No, you don’t understand.”

“Come on in.” He headed through the door, Arla in front of him.

“I - I abandoned him,” Kite whispered, forcing the words out. “And... And I called him a murderer.” But Harvis didn’t hear. She ventured inside, feeling sick with dread.

“Arla, get your mother,” Harvis said. “And tell her we have company.”

“No,” Kite interrupted, wishing she had stayed outside. “I should be going. I have to catch up with them -” But he put a hand on her shoulder, ushered her to the table.

“Not tonight,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon. They’ll have stopped for the night as well. You can get an early start tomorrow. Sit.”

Every fibre of her being wanted to be back on the roads, looking for him, finding him, rescuing him. Apologising, if he would listen to her. But just the act of sitting down made her realise how tired she was, and the rational part of her mind knew she wouldn’t make it very far.

“What would they do with him?”

“That depends.” Harvis sat down opposite her and steepled his hands in front of his face. “Would he have fought them?”

“Yes,” Kite said, and felt the tears coming again.

“Then they’ll have taken him prisoner,” Harvis said. “They’ll be going to Dunburgh.”

“Why were they there?” She put her head in her hands.

“This is an occupied country,” Harvis said, and the gentle, informative tone let her swallow her tears in privacy while he continued the conversation. “General Vorannen conquered us five years ago, and he visits every now and then to check on us. He’s coming by in four days or so, I believe. His soldiers are supposed to keep the peace, but in reality, they only bother patrolling when -”

“Enough,” a new voice interrupted. “No need to fret the poor girl.” Tears under temporary control, Kite lifted her head to see a tall dark woman with a friendly smile.

“Enna,” said Harvis, but she carried straight on, talking to Kite now.

“I’m Enna. Arla tells me you had a run-in with some soldiers.”

“I’m Kite. Thank you for your hospitality.” Again, the routine was comforting.

“You’re very welcome. Let me take your cloak.” She turned to call, “Arla! Daren! Dinner!” Kite undid her bag straps and handed them and her cloak to her hostess as Arla and a chubby child, presumably Daren, came bouncing into the room. The complications of preparing the table, bringing the food out, washing hands and serving portions caught her up, and the food, simple stew with fresh bread, filled a void inside her that she hadn’t even noticed until she started eating. Feeling better came with fresh guilt, but also gave her the energy to ask questions. She needed information. She waited until everyone had had a chance to eat, which took a while for Harvis and Enna, since Daren was still learning how to use cutlery and vastly preferred his fingers. Eventually she felt able to ask her questions.

“Why is this country occupied? What is Vorannen doing?”

“He’s out to conquer the world, as far as we can tell,” Harvis said. “But we were the first to be attacked. For two reasons, I think.” He took a drink and leant forwards. “Mostly because we’re the neighbouring country, but also because this land is rich in magic. Even weak wizards can work marvels here. Not that it does them much good now.”

“Why? Is this Vorannen against mages?” Kite’s stomach lurched. This can’t be another place like Araithel!

“Not as such,” Harvis said. “I’m told he’s a mage himself.” Her relief was short-lived as he carried on. “But using magic against non-mages is a capital offence. And he makes sure all accused of such a crime are caught, tried and executed. In practice, the only mages left are the ones working for him.”

Kite managed to finish her meal, glad she had waited until she was mostly done before asking questions. She couldn’t bring herself to ask any more.

They put her up in the front room by the banked fire, with plenty of blankets and many apologies that they had no spare room. For Kite, exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally, it was more than enough, and her exhaustion carried her past the waiting nightmares into oblivion. She woke just as quickly when the birds started singing, and was ready to leave before the dawn poked silvery fingers into the sky. Enna came down, blanket-wrapped and sleepy, saving her from having to wake her hosts to say goodbye.

“My dear, do you have to leave so early?”

“I do, and I’m sorry to inconvenience you. But if what Harvis says is right, about Vorannen’s visit to Dunburgh in four days’ time, then I have no time to lose. Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”

“I understand.” Enna smiled warmly, and pressed a packet into Kite’s hands. It was travel bread and dried meat, and the kindness made Kite feel like weeping again. “Take care,” Enna said. “Don’t forget, you’re welcome here any time.”

“Thank you.”

The road beckoned, and Kite started walking, feeling off-balance without her staff. Without him. The little village disappeared behind the trees. Kite walked, and walked, and tried not to think about what she was walking to, what she had done.

Would they welcome me back if they knew?

Two days of cart travel, of casual abuse from the soldiers, of barely any food and precious little water meant Saryth experienced his trial through a haze of exhaustion, hunger and pain. A sharp noise preceded a bored voice shouting “Next!” His guards, different men from the ones who had brought him in, hauled him through a door, down a flight of shallow steps, and dropped him in front of a dais. Kneeling, head down, he saw only the floor and the engraved wood of the desk in front of him, and it didn’t matter.

“What’s this?”

“A sorcerer prisoner, honoured Judge,” said one of his guards. “The soldiers who arrested him say he killed one of them with his magic.”

“I see. Is this true?”

There was a pause, and then one of the guards kicked him in the side. Long ago he’d learned to curl up to protect himself from that kind of treatment, but it wasn’t important any more.

“Answer the Judge!”

“Yes. It’s true.” It was the first time he’d spoken for days, and his voice was hoarse and barely audible.

“Why did you do that?”

“The man was going to attack my friend.” The explanation stirred something inside him, but he ignored it and it went away.

“What is the testimony of the soldiers?”

“Your Honour, they swear there was only this man. No other was present.”

“Very well. Use of magic against non-mages is a capital offence, as is murder. You are hereby sentenced to death. He can join the others in a few days’ time. Make a good show for the General. Get him a helm and take him to a cell. Oh, and have him branded first.” Another sharp noise, and then the guards hoisted him to his feet and marched him away. The door slammed behind them as the voice of the judge called again, “Next!”

The next stop was a smithy, characterised by heat and noise and the sharp scent of iron. The soldiers pushed him through the doorway to face a broad, bald man wearing a leather apron and a resigned expression.

“What, another one? Condemned again?”

“Judge’s orders.”

“I never see the point in branding a condemned man. Take his shirt off, please, and put him on the anvil.” The smith moved to the back of the smithy and rummaged among the tools there, and the soldiers shoved Saryth over to an anvil which stood near the fire and pulled his shirt off roughly. His heart ached dully as the fabric tore under impatient hands, but he turned away from the memory. The anvil was warm against his chest, and the heat of the forge fire beat on his back and arms.

“It’s not like he’s going to get off lightly,” the smith said, now standing over him. “Not with the General overseeing the execution. Hold him.”

For a second there was just the impact and the hissing, and then the hot iron on his shoulder seared through the numbness and he screamed, jerking rigid against the restraining hold on his arms. For a moment he felt everything with clarity, the overwhelming pain in his shoulder echoing his heart, and then his vision blurred and dimmed, a welcome promise of release. He slumped over the anvil. Dazed, he heard one of the soldiers say “He’s going to be no fun if he faints like this, though.”

“We need a helm, too,” the other said.

“Oh, a mage, is he? Here.” Something was pushed over his head, cool metal with an unpleasant smell. The smith fiddled at the back of his neck, then stepped back. “Take the poor fool away. If he’s lucky, he won’t wake up.” The soldiers hoisted him to his feet and he swayed between them, his head hanging heavy in the helmet, the burn on his shoulder protesting each movement. He barely made it outside before the soldiers, complaining, had to carry him to his assigned cell.