In Search of a Homeland - Part Seven: Memories

Figments

She was home again. Grandmama was sat in her chair, and Papa was coming through the door, smiling. She looked around, for the first time in weeks feeling at peace. Everything here was familiar, even down to the smell of food from the kitchen, and the smoke rising from the candles at the family shrine.

“Tiersu dear, it's good to see you,” Grandmama said, but the moment she spoke something in the atmophere changed. It wasn't...wasn't right, somehow. Tiersu felt sick of a sudden, and turned anxiously to see her Papa's expression contort suddenly to one of anger.

“Get out of my sight!” he yelled, striding forward. He raised his hand to slap her. “You bring disgrace upon this family and it must stop now!”

Tiersu ducked and ran, the house dissolving into a dark mist around her. Behind her, his voice echoing, she could hear her father shouting: “I have no third daughter!” again and again until she fell to her knees sobbing, her hands over her face.

The voice stopped and she looked up. She was standing in a wooded area, the sound of water close by. She stood, taking in her surroundings, the strangest sense of deja vu coming over her-

A hand clamped over her mouth, and an arm wrapped around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. She kicked out with her feet, but they felt sluggish, as though she dragged them through tar. Hot, foul air rushed past her face and she gagged, the hand over her mouth not budging a millimetre. Something wrapped tightly around her legs, pinning them in place and she struggled harder, terrified. What would happen next, where was her staff... her staff!

There in front of her, but a shadowy figure held it in oversized hands. It was bending it, bending her staff and as her eyes widened in horror it snapped it in two, the crack echoing around her like a clap of thunder. She moaned deep in her throat with despair. Not the staff; not her one link with her ancestors!

With renewed vigour she struggled against her captor, writhing against that which held her helpless. She searched deep inside her for something to fight with and felt the hot, sharp heat of lightning simmering and cracking there. Well, if it killed her she would fight back. What had she to lose now, after all?

CRRACK! The bolt flew and Tiersu's world exploded into light. Bright and electric, it burned through her eyelids, illuminating the veins. She opened her eyes and saw wood above her, fabric around her, and felt, scant moments later, the pain of burning. Shocked to wakefulness she rolled, fumbling with her magic to draw water out of the humid air. A few more seconds of rising agony and a burst of water sprayed out across the room, dousing the flames and drenching her in one. She gasped, finally free of the traces of sleep which had clung on past waking.

Her hair hung damply across her face, and she had rolled out of her bed onto the floor in a tangle of blankets which were now both singed and sodden. The tiny room with its leaky roof and draughty walls was a small comfort to wake to, but at least it was real.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Six

City of Dashed Dreams

It all hinged on the city. She hadn't realised until she'd arrived just how much she had banked on finding the branch of the Kellith family which had settled there in the last half century or so and being reunited. Perhaps they would have information she could use, perhaps they would not. But they would welcome her, and the staff she carried, and they would set her on a path to her goal.

They hadn't. Hadn't been there, hadn't welcomed her, hadn't offered her advice or a headstart, or food or stories. No one had heard of a family named Kellith. No one would help her without money, or without favours she was not about to provide.

For the first few nights she had slept on the streets, half awake and clutching her belongings close by. The noise and the people were terrifying; fights broke out and were left to end on their own, and people of all races mingled in numbers far greater than she had ever seen.

Her purse, already small, had dwindled swiftly, and by the end of her first week she was faced with the very real possibility of starvation. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not the plan she'd had when setting out from Divinity's Reach, brimming with anger and ready for anything. Everything had gone...wrong.

Sheer desperation sent her down to the docks, where she found a one-off job as a mercenary on a trade ship travelling along the coast. The work was foul, and the pay not much better, and she vowed to never work on a ship again.

No one in a city made of wood wanted the skills of an elementalist specialising mostly in fire and air. As her purse grew empty for the second time, she changed tact, and looked around for tailoring work. She'd never been especially good at it, but at least she had a bit of an edge from growing up in the business.

After several days of fruitless searching, she was taken on by a woman who Tiersu could have sworn was a thousand years old, and as mean as they came. But the offer of not only a job but a bed with it was too good to turn down, even if that meant, when she'd bought food as cheaply as she dared, she was left with just a few coppers at the end of each day. Saving enough to travel again was going to take some time.

The work was hard, and demoralising. She'd never wanted to go into the family business in the first place, and taking on tailors' work dented her pride and her spirit. But as the weeks went by, it was hard to foresee a way out of it. Her 18th birthday came and went without fanfare or word from her parents, though she had scraped together the money for a letter to Kinu to let them know that she had arrived in Lion's Arch and was “hale”. Whether the letter had actually reached them was another matter of course, but she had held out a tiny shred of hope that at least her sisters would keep up contact with her, if her parents wouldn't. Now that had been dashed as well.

A week or so after her birthday, a letter finally arrived. It was short, and Kinu's handwriting was rushed and untidy.

“Hey 'Su, glad to hear you are doing well. I wish I could send good tidings, but I don't dare show Papa your letter, although Mama sends her love. Papa is not well, and I fear his meeting with Grenth draws ever closer. I did hint to Mama that they ought to write to you, but He will not hear your name spoken in the house. I am sorry, sister. I write this at the messenger post. With love, Kinu.”

She snapped. Saving and saving and never going out had netted her pitifully little thus far, and had made her downright miserable. Well, gods be damned, she needed to get out of her alcove in the attic for one night, and do something to take her mind off things. She made for the cheapest tavern she knew of, and burned through half her savings on a single glass of wine.

The next morning was awful. Nursing a headache – that had been her first drop of alcohol in months – she got through her work, then went to buy breakfast. A storm was brewing offshore, and the air was even more thick and muggy than it usually was away from the docks.

She didn't have time to go down to the beach, instead eating her meal as she walked back to Edith's shop, which was far sturdier than the shack she rented out to her staff. Once there, she tried to take her verbal beating for being late with good grace. The old woman was some kind of demon, after all. The shock should be if she wasn't a vicious bully on any one occasion.

The storm struck as she made her way home, dousing the streets with rain, and whipping her hair about her face with the strength of the wind. Reaching her room, she realised with dismay that water was coming in in about a dozen places, and her bedding was soaked through. She stripped the sheet off of her bed and poked it into the biggest hole, then rummaged in her pack for her sleeping roll. She spent the night curled up inside it, sleeping only when the storm blew out in the small hours of the morning, and she could spare a little energy to light a fire and dry her bedding a little.

Early the following morning, dripping wet, she wrapped as much of her bedding and extra clothes as she could handle into a large bundle, and lugged them down the narrow staircase to the street. Still grumpy from lack of sleep, she shook them out one by one and started drying them, calling a stiff breeze to blow as much of the water out as she dared this close to other people and their homes. It left her tired, and old Edith was unhappy enough with her work that she docked her the day's pay.

Fuming, exhausted and above all hungry, Tiersu made her way home. The streets were still riddled with puddles, and, distracted, she tripped and fell face first into a muddy patch. Her temper, which had been fraying all day, snapped. Standing up, she shook with rage, wiping her face and flinging the glob of mud to the ground with a scream. She followed it up with a bolt of lighting, which blasted the mud, baking it and the ground around it solid. Then she turned her attention to the puddle, boiling the water off and baking the mud hard.

Passers by were staring at her, and she flushed red, disguising her embarrassment by zapping another puddle dry. They watched on, and realising they expected a show, she turned her attention to her clothes, brushing the mud off more conventionally. After a minute or so the crowd moved on, except for an asura who waddled up to her, an odd look on his face which Tiersu couldn't exactly place, but which she knew she didn't like.

“You. Bookah. Girl. I have a proposition for you which it would be in your best interest to pay close attention to. I shall be embarking shortly upon an expedition to the Black Citadel, and from there into the territories skirting its outskirts, and I have reason to suppose that the skills which you have exhibited her will be of benefit to my cause. I'll pay you, of course, and there will be a moderate allowance for any expenses you incur so long as they are within reason, not including expenses incurred for behaviour deemed illegal or unwise. I won't add leniency for your age and your race I'm afraid but those are the terms I offer.”

Tiersu stared at him, taking a moment or two to catch up due to the speed at which he spoke. Then she was nodding, agreeing to anything as long as it included the prospect of money and a way out of Lion's Arch, however brief.

Tarnished Rose - Part Two

Recollections. Part the first.

I was “home” again, as home as I ever get. Back at the grove, where at least the Mother Tree doesn't judge me, even if everyone else does. Passing through, from killing things south of the Grove to head out and kill things further north. Time for some new foes, some new battlefields. The churned up earth and the pyres just fascinated me then.

She was there, as I made my way along the path, sitting by a pool of water with her back to me. Pale, white-blue leaves, and delicate, so delicate. There was this, this feeling about her – it filled the air nearby, so calm and sweet and pure. I stopped walking. Heck, I couldn't help myself, I walked right up to her and asked her name.

“Ifanwy,” she said, not even looking round. And then – and she still hadn't looked at me you know – she said: “You've come a long way to reach me.” She looked round then, and her eyes... There was no judgement there, just something else, something I didn't understand then and still don't, not really. She never did tell me what she was thinking that day. I still wish I'd asked.

She took me as I was though. Never did judge me, not even though we were like night and day. Even her skin was soft - soft and smooth from her youth and her life, all of it spent under the branches of the Tree.

We used to sit and share our memories, talk about what we'd seen, and what we thought. Well, I guess I did most of the talking. I was six years old by that point, and she barely one. I'd seen battle, and other races and places, and she had spent her time tucked in the safety of the Grove, learning and helping those who came and went. But she was never as sweet with the others as she was with me. She never gave them that look in her eyes, or held them close, not moving, not speaking, just standing there, arms wrapped round me, head on my shoulder.

I used to watch her as she patched them up, those travellers who came home sick or injured. Once or twice it was me getting the poultices and bandages, but even though she never understood why I went out there, put myself in harms way, she never asked me to stop, never asked me what I was doing.

She was my hope for the world, there waiting for me back home after the blood and the death and the fires. But I was a damned fool. Oh, I told her what I did, how I mowed down the undead with bullets and blade, how it was kill or be killed, how it was dangerous. But she...She never understood all that. She never got hardened to it like I had, never got used to the constant watch you put up for danger, the way your senses sharpen to danger until you can smell it on the air.

She just followed me one day, and like the fool I am I didn't make her go back. Of course they got her. They were hot on her trail the moment she left the shade of the Pale Tree. Someone as sweet and bright as her, how could they damn well resist? I should have made her turn round, walk right back into that Grove, and damn the argument. But, I could never be hard around her. She brought out that last little softness, the light and the joy, and I loved her for it.

They knocked me on the head first. Took my guns, took my knife, tied me good and fast. It was half over by the time I woke, anyway. She would never have been the same. But they weren't done. They're not like anything else. Not like battle. In battle, you go to kill. You kill one, then then next; you're a machine, killing without thought until there's only one side left. You don't play around with death, drawing it out, making them scream, making them weep. Ain't how a person ought to be.

I snapped. Nothing was going to hold me down, not even the ropes around my wrists. Not even the pain as my hands were scraped and battered by pulling them from the knots, and from loosening the bonds around my legs to move.

He never saw me coming, never saw until I grabbed my gun and cocked the trigger. Turned round just in time to see who did for him. Just like I got there in time to hold her as she died. I think she smiled there, right at the end. But she didn't speak. She never got a chance to say those last words people talk about. Just died in my arms as I reached her, before I even managed to say goodbye.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Five: Memories

Festivities

Tiersu sat on the steps, watching the celebrations start. Her sisters sat beside her, and around them their friends; young men and women waiting for the dancing to really begin. Finally it did, and in small groups and couples they wandered down to the fairground. Before long, only Tiersu was left watching the dancers, with an expression that could be mistaken for thoughtfulness or a deep concentration.

Although one of her sisters had gone without a backward glance, Kinu, the oldest of the three, kept returning to the silent girl on the stairs. Finally she came and sat beside Tiersu, not speaking.

“She wouldn't be cross, 'Su,” she said at last. “Not about you enjoying yourself, or laughing or thinking of other things.”

Tiersu didn't reply. Kinu sighed, and carried on:

“I know it's hard now she's gone, but... Grandmama would want you to be happy, you know. To live your life, not wait to join her in the Mists. Our people here in Tyria have lost their abilities to speak with our ancestors, but that doesn't mean they're gone forever.”

Tiersu looked at her sharply. “I know,” she said at last. “It's... it's just hard to focus now she's gone. This is me, and I can't switch off knowing I won't hear her voice; won't kiss her cheek, or blow on her soup. It's hard to forget, even though it's been months now.”

Kinu nodded. “It is hard, 'Su, but that's why carnivals and festivals are so good. You dance, and get caught up in the mood. It helps – even if only for a while.”

Tiersu looked up to see a pang in her sister's expression which matched her own. She sighed, and stood, dusting off her clothes. They merged with the crowds until they found themselves with a group of their peers dancing, drinking and laughing. Kinu brought Tiersu a drink of spiced wine; a “don't tell Papa” treat to celebrate the holiday.

Tiersu smiled a little and took a sip; it was a sharp but not unpleasant taste. By the time she had emptied her glass by sips and small mouthfuls, her cheeks felt warm and she was able to smile with more feeling. The dancing was picking up, and before long she had a partner she vaguely knew; the elder brother of Emille, an old friend she had drifted apart from over the years.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed, couples wandered off in slow but steady numbers. Despite herself, Tiersu had been caught up in the excitement and euphoria, and compliments from her dancing partner had gone straight to head. She'd been kissed before, and knew the intentions behind his embrace when he wrapped his arms around her waist.

Tired, both emotionally and a little physically, she leaned into his shirt. It was exciting in a way, to let go of the grief for just a while and let kisses make her happy again. She had no objections when he led her away from the dancing, to somewhere they could be alone.

*

It was just after dawn when she crept back into the house. Her parents, blissfully, were asleep. That was a blessing Tiersu thanked the Six themselves for. Kinu had left a note on her bed, which she read slowly and carefully in the morning's light.

“Told Mama and Papa you were staying with Emille tonight. It's even true, in a way. Love Kinu.”

Tiersu felt a weight ease from her mind. Things were bad enough without her Papa getting involved.
She sat on the bed and furiously blinked away the itch in her eyes which promised tears. After all, it was no one's fault but her own that she'd misunderstood.

Tired, and a little sore, she curled up in her bed and let the grief back in, to take the sting of humiliation away. Of course it was only a one-off. Everyone did it, it seemed, so why had she thought it would be anything more?

Because you wanted the first time to mean something, her treacherous brain informed her. Because you made a mistake and you feel like an idiot. But you don't have to make that mistake again.

As she drifted off to sleep once more, she promised herself she would make sure that next time, everything would be right. No matter how long it took.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Four

Traveller


The sunlight peeked through a crack in the shutters, and fell onto the sleeping Tiersu's face. She slept on, unheeding, until it made its way down her face and to her eyes. She frowned in her sleep, disturbed, and awoke from troubled dreams. Daybreak. Time to go.

She dressed in silence, not paying notice to her run-down surroundings. All inns were alike, or at least, those that she could afford were. The ill-fitting shutters and sagging bed were inconveniences she had grown accustomed to. It was better than a bedroll in the cold outdoors, with the pre-dawn chorus to waken her, and a cold stream to bathe in.

Her bag bulged uncomfortably as she slung it on her back, and she rolled her eyes. Sighing, she upended it over the bed, and prepared to re-pack it.

Her bedroll, spare clothes and sewing kit she placed at the bottom, re-folding the clothes so they sat neatly around the needles and thread. She hoped she wouldn't need those any time soon. Next came her sceptre, inherited from old Matthias when he'd passed into Grenth's hands. He'd said she was his best student - his only student, mind - and had earned it. She smiled a little as she remembered the first time she'd used it to practice with, and almost set his house alight. He'd set her sweeping his house for a week in return for that one. Her focus was newer, with no sentimental ties, but it did the job. She didn't often use them, in any case.
Those were the big items, the easy ones. She looked at what remained on the bedspread. Odds and ends; trinkets that she kept for small convenience or because she hadn't gotten round to discarding them. She made a pile of the things she could discard - loose threads, scraps of this and that, the detritus that gathered in the bottoms of bags everywhere - and swept it to one side. What was left?

A small knife, twin to the one in her belt. Into the bag it went. A polished metal mirror and a comb, her last scrap of vanity. In. Some animal teeth and claws. Well, she could always peddle them if she got desperate. She glanced down at the last item left on the bed and closed her eyes, breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't much. A small necklace - a carved wooden charm strung on a leather thong. But suddenly, momentarily, she had been a child again, getting dressed ready to go out and play with the other children in the district. Suddenly Grandmama was in the corner again, smiling a wrinkled smile and running her hands over the knots in the staff. Father was-

She shook her head sharply, and looked at the floor, refusing to acknowledge the sting of tears in her eyes. It was over. She couldn't go back. She wouldn't go back, not now.

For a moment she considered throwing the necklace away. She didn't wear it, after all. Then she softened, and picked it up, stroking the familiar shape absently with her forefinger and thumb.

"Ten years," she whispered to herself. "Ten years, and I have changed so much."

She fastened the thong round her neck, and slung the bag on her back. Now it was time to go.

The Masks We Weave - Part Three

Hate and Ambition

Ingrid stared bleakly into the polished metal, hating the face that returned her gaze. But hate was good. It was a hard feeling, a strong feeling. You did things when you had hate – it was a motivator. And it was always better than fear.

Her mother had gone on a Hunt, and wouldn't be back for some days. Ingrid was glad of that – it meant she could put off the inevitable argument until it was settled. There was a knot of hope in her heart that might yet be dashed, and Gudrun would trample right over it without even noticing.

Looking down, she straightened her tunic, skelk claws neatly fastened onto the trim as she had promised herself those weeks before. She clung to that satisfaction, trying to drown out the memory of her mother's exasperated face when she had dumped the head of the thing beside the hearth.

“There, you're not the only mother of a thirteen-year-old who's never made a kill. Happy now?” she had said, in a rush of boldness that had taken them both by surprise. Her mother had responded with that deep frown which she saved for special occasions, and Ingrid had turned on her heel and stormed out before her nerve could fail her and the argument start again.

But today would be different. A whole new challenge, a whole new set of obstacles – fears – to overcome. And without the hate, that warm, constant undercurrent of loathing, she would never manage to get through it at all.

Mesmers weren't exactly common in Hoelbrak, and those willing to train youngsters were even fewer. Ingrid had learned by listening from nooks and corners that they tended to be a proud bunch, but then she had also seen warriors such as her mother look down their noses at them, and jibe that they dealt in illusions rather than real battle. To Ingrid, their pride looked all too familiar.

In the end, she had settled on asking Old Sigrid for tuition, in exchange for doing chores. Sigrid was ancient to Ingrid, and even her mother didn't remember a time that her face hadn't been lined with wrinkles and her hair the grey of snow-filled skies. But her eyes were lively, and although her hands were arthritic, they were danced over by illusionary butterflies and sparks when she waved them while telling some fellow twice her size to carry her ale over to her carefully.

The hulking norn ambled away muttering curses under his breath about the “old witch”, but Sigrid was no longer paying attention to him. She was watching Ingrid, who had emerged from a behind a nearby pillar, and, biting the left side of her mouth to pull it up slightly, walked quickly over, hands clasped in front of her. Sigrid was wizened with age, and sat hunched so far over that Ingrid towered above her standing. So she knelt, and looked up at a wrinkly face which caught her in its gaze and held her, frozen in place.

There was pressure on her head - not painful, but not gentle either - as though she was being poked in her mind as the students of warriors were prodded by hand when their masters took a look to see if they were worth the bother. Sigrid's face remained neutral as she looked Ingrid over, and Ingrid felt for a moment as though they old norn could see into the tiny recesses of her mind – or could she? The moment was fleeting, and insubstantial – was it just another illusion?

“So,” Sigrid barked eventually, in a voice as cracked as dry leather. “You're too old and cowardly for stories, so you must be here for training.”

Freed from the grip which had held her, Ingrid gulped. Sigrid looked her and broke into a broad grin.

“I may be old and weak child, but I'm not blind yet, and nor am I deaf. Oldsters like me hear all the stories, good and bad, and I'd be a fool not to have heard of Gudrun and Oddr's daughter when your face and your attitude mark you so. It's no mystery that I know who you are, and it's not much harder to guess why you're here.”

Ingrid blushed, and looked down, letting her hair fall in front of her face.

“You want me to teach you tricks of mesmerism, no? You think it will be easy, or fun?”

Ingrid shook her head. “No, Sigrid. I don't. But if I have a way with it, is it harder than making a face like this talk properly, or than learning to be silent as I move so the others don't see me? I'm not a shirker; I'm not lazy. If I start a thing, I'll put the work in, both studying and paying my debts.”

Sigrid nodded. “Well, I've had a look at you. You'll do. You won't be catching the best at their game, but you've a raw strength and a stubbornness in you, and there's a hint of a calling as well. You want this, child, for your own reasons as well as the little spark in your gut, and that's half the trick, I say. Very well. Come back in the morning, when I've less ale in my belly, and we'll get started.”

Ingrid said nothing, too relieved to speak. She simply nodded, backed up a few paces, and ran all the way back home to stare at her reflection in her father's old shield again. Soon, she thought, stroking her lopsided face. Soon I can say goodbye to this face forever.

In Search of a Homeland - Part Three

First Blood

The campsite was a well-used one, that much was plain. A prime location by the side of the road, it would likely be in use every night. At mid-morning, however, Tiersu did not expect to see signs of a hasty departure - still less a recent one.

She stood up, brushing the dust from her knees, and looked around warily. A jug had been knocked over, spilling ale over part of the campsite, and preserving a clear footprint in the soil. It suggested that whoever had been here had not gone towards the road, and that they were human; most likely male by the size.

Tiersu wasn't a tracker. The rest of the assorted scuffs and prints would probably make sense to someone, but just looked like a mess to her untrained eye. It was significant though - when she left a camp she had made a habit of leaving it as she had found it, and most were neat, with the stones around the fire neat, and the ashes cleared or scattered somewhat. A stone here had been knocked from its place in the circle, and half-burned sticks still smoked.

This wasn't just recent; had she arrived a minute or so earlier she must surely have seen the camp's occupants leaving. She looked back at the road. The day was passing, and Lion's Arch wasn't getting any closer by her standing here nosing about. On the other hand, what had happened? Generally people didn't up sticks without a pressing reason, and those were rarely good. What if someone needed help?

Mind made up, Tiersu adjusted her bag, and set off in the general direction of the footprint. Not far from the site, the ground sloped up to a crest, and back down into woodland; she was blind and exposed all in one as she reached the hilltop. Ducking to a crouch as she made her way downhill, she heard the sound of water up ahead. A stream, it sounded like, running over pebbles. There wasn't much other noise.

She heard the clink of metal at the same time as she spotted the man, stood by a tree. He had his back to her, a pack at his feet, and was fumbling at his waist. He turned suddenly and looked at her, flushing scarlet a moment before she realised the truth of situation and followed suit.

"I...I..." she stuttered, looking away as he straightened his belt.

"Saw me dash off, eh?" he asked, apparently cheerful. "Yeah, I musta looked a fair old sight. All that ale caught up with me of a sudden."

Tiersu struggled to make her mouth work, or her legs, or something - anything - to get her away from the agonising shame of the situation.

"It's alright, girl. I can see you're a good sort. Concerned for old Adam were ya? Well, no harm's done.”

Tiersu looked up, to see a broad grin on Adam's face. "I'm that touched," he said, offering his hand to shake. She was about to step forward and take it when an arrow sprouted from his chest. He didn't move; just looked puzzled for a moment, mouth twitching slightly, then slumped to the floor.

She stood transfixed for several long seconds, her mouth agape, before reality finally sank in. He was dead? How could-? What had-?

A hand clapped itself around her mouth. Hot breath reeking of alcohol rushed past her ear, and another hand pinned her arms to her sides. Her staff fell to the floor with a gentle thud. Stubble grazed her cheek. Too shocked to resist, she was pulled behind a tree, in time to glimpse a sword-bearing centaur appear.

Her assailant cursed, breaking the spell that seemed to have fallen upon her. She squirmed, thrashing with her legs since her arms were pinned to her sides, and the man cursed again – louder - and let go. There was only the briefest time to marvel at the ease of her escape; a moment later the centaur attacked, making straight for the man while Tiersu ducked down and scrambled for her staff. Grasping it, she whirled round in time to see the centaur run him through.

She retched this time, stomach heaving violently, but held her own and managed to fire a lightning bolt at the beast. It reared, and turned about, but got tangled on the branches of the tree nearest to it. She fired another bolt, which seared it on the rump, and it gave a screech of pain. Disentangling itself, it ran.

She darted over to the man it had attacked. Maybe he had just been trying to save her, and she had, indirectly at least, caused the centaur to find them. Crouching down she saw that he was alive, for now at least. The centaur had aimed high, and the blade seemed not to have penetrated his lung, instead taking him near the shoulder. He had a cloak beside him, which she reached out for, meaning to stem the bloodflow. As she leaned forwards, he grabbed her wrist with the arm on his good side.

"Came back for more, eh?" he rasped, leering at her. "I like a girl wiv spirit."

She tried to pull back, but his grasp was surprisingly strong. "Oh, I ain't lettin' go of you a second time," he said. "I'm not so badly done I can't control a filly like yourself." He tightened his grip, and raised his other hand to grab further up her arm.

Tiersu's blood ran cold. With her free hand, she grabbed at her staff, and swung it round. It hit him in the side, and he roared in pain, letting go. She fell backwards, and scrambled quickly to her feet, looking at him again as she backed away. There was a quiver on his back. She felt sick anew thinking of the innocent man he had killed.

The man – bandit, she realised at last – struggled to his feet. He had to have been hampered by his shoulder wound, but didn't seem to regard it as serious. He leered again, and took a step forward.

"I'm not such an easy target," she said, stuttering. "L-leave me alone...I mean it!" She pointed her staff at him. "I'll do it! Don't make me hurt you!"

He grinned, and let out a snort of laughter. "You ain't hurting no one, girly. I know your type. Now you just come along nicely." He reached into his belt and pulled out a knife. "No one else has to get hurt today."

She fired a jet of water at him; her warning shot. He roared in anger and threw the dagger, which missed her by scant inches. Reflexes took over, and she shot him with a sustained blast of lighting. He had life enough for one more cry of pain, and then collapsed in a heap of seared flesh.

A moment later Tiersu collapsed too, bringing up her entire breakfast. She had killed a man. Her second day on the road, and she had both seen death and been its instrument.