“Mummy! I saw him!” The words echoed from the old farmhouse to the battered outbuildings as the child raced indoors, her shouting muffled by the walls. Kite winced. Trying to sneak past the settlement in broad daylight had been a mistake. Out in the open, with raised herb beds on one side and a well-populated chicken coop on the other, there was nowhere to duck out of sight.

“Oops,” Saryth said as the child disappeared through the open door. “Can we run?”

“Too late,” Kite said. A middle-aged woman had stepped through the door. She turned to face them, squinting in the sun.

“Another night’s sleep,” Saryth muttered, as the woman called out.

“Excuse me?” She came closer, hesitant. Her face was worn by more than just age. Sorrow had settled into the lines around her mouth, and grief lurked in her eyes. She scrutinised them both, then fixed her gaze on Saryth, who took a step back as she focussed on him. “You are a mage, aren’t you?” she said, and didn’t wait for confirmation. “Please, my son is ill. I’ll give you everything I can.”

“I -” Saryth faltered in the face of her need. She pressed forward.

“Please, will you see him?”

Kite eyed the woman, concerned. How had she managed to identify Saryth so easily? Dunburgh was not like Araithel, where his hair would have been a giveaway. If the rumours of a white-haired sorcerer had spread from the botched execution attempt four months ago, surely the woman should have been scared, not pleading. Surely?

“Your choice,” she said in response to Saryth’s worried look. “It’s a delay.”

“Could we help?”

Unlikely, but... “Can’t say without looking.”

“Then there isn’t much of a choice.” He faced the woman. “We’ll come.”

“Oh, thank you! This way!” She hurried back inside, and Kite made her way after with a growing sense of foreboding.

The building was not how she expected a farmhouse to look, nothing like the house where Harvis and his family had lived. The front door opened onto a long tiled hall with many small doors, inadequately lit by a single small window at the far end. A flight of stairs led up to a balcony with more small doors on the other side. The woman hastened up the stairs and paused by one of the closer doors, looking at them expectantly.

“What was the course of the illness?” Kite asked as she and Saryth climbed the stairs.

“About four months ago, he wasn’t eating well,” the woman said. She had been about to open the door, but paused, speaking quietly. “I put it down to grief for his father, at first. Months on, though, he still wasn’t eating right. He’s had the runs and been sick. He’s always tired and his stomach hurts. And two days ago, he threw up blood. The healer says there is a growth in his stomach.” She finished her recital of symptoms - depressingly well-practiced - and opened the door to a small room with a bed tucked under the sloping eaves. A boy lay on the bed, seemingly asleep. Next to the bed was a single chair, and its occupant, a young man wearing a dull red robe with a patterned sash, looked up at their entry.

“Ah -” he began, a questioning expression on his face.

“Adept, here is the mage my daughter told us about,” the woman interrupted.

He nodded and smiled. “I am glad to see you.” He looked tired. “There is little I can do for Beran, now.”

Saryth started violently. Kite turned to him in concern to see his face drained of all colour. He was almost shaking.

“Are you all right?” she asked, at the same time as the woman turned back to them.

“Sir?”

Saryth took a breath. “Yes,” he said, and his voice was steady even if his face was still pale.

“Let me look,” said Kite, hoping it would give him time to get a better hold on himself. She approached the bed and the adept relinquished the chair to her. Putting her staff down, she rested both hands on the boy’s chest. He was breathing shallowly, and did not respond to her touch. It didn’t take long to confirm what his mother had told them. “She’s right. There is a cancer.”

“What do I do?” Saryth knelt down next to the chair. Still upset? Apparently not, but why had he reacted so strongly?

“Just like you did for the virus in Setharye,” Kite said, pushing her worries aside. The boy - Beran - mattered more right now. “Find the sick cells and expel them. Only, the sick bits are native to the body, so it’s harder. You must get rid of them all.” Saryth nodded and leaned forward, and Kite stood up. “Take the chair, silly,” she said, and he obediently took her place. As he bent his head to his task, she turned to the young man in the robe, who was watching the proceedings with great interest. “Um, Adept, could you make an infusion please? Valerian root, if you have any.”

“Yes, of course.” To his credit, he didn’t look too disappointed as he bustled off, and he did sound like he knew what he was doing. Some kind of cleric or hermit? Is this some sort of medical centre?

He left them in peace of a sort. Kite stepped back to stand a little way away from the bed, keeping herself between Saryth’s bubble of concentration and the boy’s mother, who was radiating fear and hope and desperate grief. The minutes ticked by, and the tension grew. She wanted to go closer, to monitor what was happening, but she feared to distract him. He should know what he’s doing by now. But reminders of Setharye - where he had worn himself out on the virus - weren’t as comforting as she would have liked. And if it was bad for her, how much worse for the mother, who had called on strangers - stranger than she knew - because she thought one of them might be a magic-user?

Time stretched out, and the tension with it, until it could no longer be borne.

“The healers here have been very kind.” The mother’s words fell into the silence like a drop of water falling into a pool; a quick ripple in the surface and then they were gone. Saryth didn’t respond, his concentration unbroken. Kite held herself still, and the woman persisted. “We came only two days ago. This is not our home. We brought only need. But they made us welcome. We - I - have nothing to offer for their kindness. We are on a journey, you see.” Why are you talking, Kite wanted to say, a life story is not required, shut up, shut up, but her own voice would certainly catch Saryth’s attention. He was motionless, a seated statue, and she only knew he was still at work by the constant flux of magic he was pouring into his task.

“We are going to my parents’ village,” the woman said. “Because my husband is dead. So we can no longer stay in the army quarters.” Kite looked back, and saw her face was drawn and worried, but she kept going. As though she was compelled to speak and couldn’t stop, despite the risk. “He was in the army... He was a scout. And he was killed four months ago by a sorcerer.” Kite started, held her tongue. Saryth carried on, seemingly unaware of the world around him. On the bed, the little boy flinched and drew a deeper breath, his first movement. His mother didn’t seem to notice.

“They did catch him,” she said, voice low and strained, “but he got away.” Her fists were clenched. “I have often thought, that should I see that sorcerer, I - I would curse him. For killing my husband, who had no defence against magic. For taking their father from my children.”

Saryth recoiled from the bed, shoving the chair back so that it scraped across the floor, the harsh noise breaking the silence in a way the woman’s speech had not. “I’m done.”

“It’s all gone?” Kite couldn’t see his face behind the fall of white hair and the eyepatch, couldn’t make out his expression at all.

“It is.” He caught the chair, braced himself against it, standing with his back to the woman as though to protect himself from her words.

“They say he had white hair, so I could mark him,” she continued, unstoppable. “But now...” she stepped forwards, raised a hand to his shoulder, then pulled back. “For your sake, I would say nothing. I would let him pass by in peace.”

Saryth stayed motionless, head down, hair hiding his face. Having said her piece, Beran’s mother stepped back. Kite tried to say something but the words weren’t there.

“Here you are!” It was the adept who broke the silence as he came bustling into the room bearing a tray with a steaming cup on it. His cheerful greeting banished the tension in the room.

“Ah good,” Kite said, relieved to return to the practicalities. “Give it to the boy when he wakes.”

“How is he?” The adept looked to the bed. Saryth took one step away, and Beran’s mother fell on her son with an incoherent cry.

“He is well,” Kite said. “We should leave - we have a long way to go.”

“Oh, but -” the adept’s protest was cut short as Kite hurried from the room, Saryth a few steps behind her.

“Thank you!” she said.

“Safe journey,” the adept said, bemused, already turning back to his patient and the weeping mother.

Kite hurried down the road away from the settlement, keeping an eye on Saryth as she went. He didn’t look like he was about to collapse, but a weary kind of misery showed in his expression. There was nothing she could do about that, so she kept going, and he followed.

They finally stopped an hour or two after dusk, when it got too dark to see where they were going. Kite had left the road some time before, in an attempt to put any pursuers off their trail, taking a detour to fill her waterskin from a brook. Now she stopped by a fallen tree which should provide shelter from the weather and any unfriendly eyes alike. Saryth slumped against it and let out a long, tired breath.

“Better not have a fire tonight,” she said, and he nodded. “We shouldn’t take any chances.” She fiddled in one of her larger pouches and found the sticks of dried fruit and meat which she carried in case of emergencies. Is this an emergency? She held it out. “Here, have this. Get some sleep. I’ll watch first.” Saryth obediently chewed the dried food, swallowed a mouthful of water, lay down and instantly fell asleep. He must have been more tired than I realised.

Kite chewed her own ration, drank the water and settled back for a long, boring wait. The forest was dark around her, but alive with its own life. Scuttling noises, the swish and crackle of small creatures through the litter on the forest floor, the occasional call of a night flyer overhead, each made her jump, eroding her nerves. There was no moon visible. How do I tell when to wake him up for his watch? The thought made her yawn widely. When I can’t keep my eyes open, I suppose. Walking around to stay awake would be counter-productive. She tried counting, forwards, backwards, up and down in sevens, then tried reciting the poetry she had learned as a child, the call and response histories of her people. But too many of those stories had been bedtime tales for her and Chess when they were little. She stopped when she found herself yawning more than thinking. The night wore on, the silence profound around her.

The silence. Kite tensed, realising. Where had all the noises gone? She listened hard, but heard nothing until the voice whispered in her ear, “stay very still, girl,” and the cold hard threat of a knife lay next to her neck.

The next thing Kite knew was waking to the noise of someone knocking at the door and the unexpected comfort of a bed. It had been more than a week since she’d had a bed to sleep in, and for a moment she was entirely disoriented, expecting the roof beams of Top House, or even her own bed in her parents’ house. But the room she lay in now was small and unadorned, the bed was hard and the cover thin, and she was still fully dressed, although they’d taken her boots and cloak. And the staff, of course. She felt only half rested, grubby and tired and resentful.

The pounding at the door began again. “What?” she demanded. The door opened, and a soldier looked in. He was wearing a familiar uniform and carrying her boots, which he slung into the cell.

“Put those on and come here.”

“Where am I going?” Kite asked, not moving.

“To see the General.” He strode into the cell and Kite bent to pull her boots on, unwilling to be dressed like a child.

Two soldiers escorted her through anonymous corridors to a large room with the walls covered by faded hangings. Tall windows set high in the wall cast a dreary kind of light on the worn floorboards. At the far end was a slight dais, and on that dais, seated at a rickety-looking table piled high with papers, was the man she had last seen condemning Saryth to death.

He turned as she was brought before him. His face was unremarkable save for a thin scar down his right cheek, but the power he held was tangible in his gaze. She caught her breath, then met his eyes, managing somehow not to look away.

“Kite, correct?” he said. “Tell me, how do you travel between worlds?”

The question chilled her all the way through. He was trying. He knew. She held her silence with an effort. Vorannen didn’t even seem annoyed.

“You will answer,” he said, without any change in his voice to accompany the threat, “or you will be further responsible for the pain of your friend here.” He nodded to the side, and she heard footsteps entering the room from a different direction. Turning, she saw two more soldiers, and held between them, sagging in their grip, was -

“Saryth!”

“Answer the question,” Vorannen said again. Kite hesitated, horrified. Saryth hadn’t responded to her call. His head hung down, his face hidden completely behind his unbound hair. What have they done to him? “Hasn’t he already suffered enough for you?” Vorannen persisted. She looked back to the dais, hoping for a hint, a lead, something, but he was implacable. “No? Very well. His right -”

“I can’t!” Kite blurted, desperate.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t cross the void. I don’t have the power.” Which was true, and speaking seemed to have started her brain working again. Where is my staff? Do they know what it is?

“But you know how. He does not.” Apparently they don’t. She tried not to look relieved, lowered her gaze, thinking furiously. What had they done to Saryth to find that out? What’s believable?

“No, he knows nothing! But -” a flash of inspiration - “neither do I! The spell is pre-prepared for us.”

“So where is it now?”

“I ate it.” She kept her eyes down. Plausible lying had never come easily.

“Pardon?” Vorannen sounded surprised, the first time his voice had been anything other than businesslike.

“I ate it! So it couldn’t be used!” She emphasised the reason. Believe me.

“You ate it.” He repeated her words slowly.

“Yes!” Kite said, shrugging off the soldiers’ grasp on her arms and glaring at him. “There’s no more!”

“Then I have no more use for you. Kill them both.”

Kite froze, horrified, only just realising how badly she had mishandled the encounter. That was when Saryth raised his head, revealing a bruised cheekbone and split lip.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t!”

Vorannen stood up and made his way down to his captives, taking his time over it.

“Why should I not?” he asked Saryth. “What can you offer me that I should go to the trouble of keeping you?”

Saryth dropped his head again. “I’ll serve you.”

“Serve me? How can I trust you?” Vorannen looked around and saw Kite, watching aghast. “Ah. Yes.” He smiled. “You’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you?” He reached out and gripped Saryth by the chin, lifting his head, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Even kill. Very well. Promise me that you will serve without treachery while she is kept alive and well.”

Saryth raised his head from Vorannen’s hand with evident effort and scowled back at him. “I promise.” Kite’s heart ached for the grim commitment in his voice. Vorannen smiled.

“Excellent. Get him cleaned up and put him on the Echo project. Make sure he gets trained and understands his duties.” The soldiers supporting Saryth turned round and hauled him away. Kite watched him go, stomach in knots. This was all for Saryth, wasn’t it? Not for me at all. But Vorannen had a need for her now. He faced her, and she tried to stand up straight despite everything.

“You understand, of course,” he said, “that his wellbeing also relies on your behaviour. Yes, you do. Now... Ah yes, take her to the devotional. She can help the good women there care for the orphans of our brave soldiers.” He waved a dismissal and the soldiers turned and bore her away, in a different direction to Saryth. Kite stumbled between them, wavering between despair, rage and grim determination.

Devotional. The Echo project. Saryth.

I won’t forget.