With the infuriating being by his side, Lain wore a far more stern expression than usual. It became clear that she had no intention of heeding his order to leave.

"I haven't the time to deal with you at the moment. Keep out of sight. If we are pulled into another battle because of you, I will see to it that you do not survive it," Lain grumbled as they reached the trees at the edge of the clearing.

"I a.s.sure you, no weak-minded beasts that seek you and I shall discover us and survive to spread the knowledge," the creature said.

They trudged on. Lain had a determination in his stride that carried he and the seemingly indefatigable woman far ahead of the others. Now among the trees, they didn't have to rely upon distance alone to hide them from prying eyes. This fact, coupled with the hundreds of different trails made by the other prisoners, made discovery of the growing group exceedingly unlikely. This was fortunate, because the chill air of the hardening night was beginning to take its toll. Myn had taken to puffing flame once a minute or so to keep warm, and before long Myranda was shivering uncontrollably. She was walking now simply out of reflex, shuffling in a daze, eyes closed. After her staff slipped out of her hand for the third time, Desmeres decreed that the time had come to stop until morning. He lowered Myranda to the ground and began to gather dry boughs from beneath the trees. He had already begun to spark flint against steel to start the fire before she realized what was going on.

"You can't start a fire . . . pine . . . too much smoke," she objected weakly.

"I am in no mood to spend the next few hours finding a more appropriate fuel, and we need this fire. It would be awfully anticlimactic if you froze to death tonight," he said, mustering a weak grin.

The cold, frost crusted wood was not being cooperative. Myranda, moments before succ.u.mbing to exhaustion, whispered a barely audible request to Myn and a burst of flame from her lips lit the stubborn wood quite nicely. Shortly after, Lain and the woman approached. He cast a stern look at Desmeres, but relented upon seeing the collapsed Myranda with Myn curled on top of her. The woman looked upon the sight with the same sterile stare she'd worn since her arrival. Lain sat cross-legged by the rather meager fire and closed his eyes.

"I was under the impression that our intention was to avoid detection," the woman remarked.

"I am afraid that the fire is a necessary risk. We mortals are quite fragile after all," Desmeres said with excessive pleasantness.

"Infuriatingly so. Those two are sleeping, I suppose," she said.

"As I hope to be shortly," Desmeres said, adopting a similar posture to Lain. He then propped his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists.

"Such a pitiful requirement, a mandatory period of helplessness at the end of each day," she remarked as she bent low to inspect the girl and the dragon. "And these eyes are woefully inadequate."

"What exactly are you accustomed to?" Desmeres asked.

The woman remained silent, inspecting the fire instead.

"Ah, I see. I must answer your questions but you needn't answer mine," he said.

This too was ignored. Suddenly, flames swept up around the woman and, in mere moments, she was consumed in flame. A moment later, it was clear that she was, as before, actually composed of the flame. At this distance, the wonder of the sight was breathtaking. The flame was like cascades of liquid gold flowing upward in graceful curves over her body. Behind the bright tips, the flame was a deep red, and behind that was a dark, almost black core that was just barely visible among the brilliant gold and red. The fiery being was more defined now than she had been before, looking more like the woman from whom she'd borrowed her form. The ground beneath her feet sizzled briefly before she stepped onto the campfire. Its flickering flames joined with hers and she took a seat.

"It isn't nearly as strong and pure enough a flame to suit my needs. I shall require a fair amount of time to restore myself to the strength I enjoyed this morning," she remarked in a voice similar to the one she'd had as a human, save for a peculiar crackling quality that underscored it.

"I shall endeavor to build a more appropriate one in the future. Have you any specific requests?" Desmeres offered with a yawn.

"Use the wood of several trees and fan the flames constantly with strong, focused winds. That should provide adequate intensity," she stated simply.

"I think that may be a fire more visible and taxing than I am willing or able to create," Desmeres said.

"I suspected as much," she replied.

After a few moments, the form of her body seemed to flicker away into the flames. Lain sat in deep concentration as the others slept. It was often as near as he would come to sleep for weeks or even months at a time. His back was striped with slashes from the cloaks he'd battled. Many still leaked blood, contributing to long maroon stains along his own cloak. If he managed to sink deeply enough into this trance, the last of them should close. He had no use for magic, but the warrior's sleep had saved his life more than once. It was no replacement for true sleep, though. The body was greatly rejuvenated, but at the expense of the mind. Dark thoughts from long ago had a way of finding their way to the surface. Few had even heard of the warrior's sleep, but those who had heard of it had learned of it first through the tales of those minds lost to it. Madness was often the price of the technique. For a few hours Lain endured the twisted remembrances. Sometimes the faces of his victims would flash in his mind. Other times some of his darker deeds would crawl out of the murky darkness and linger. One scene in particular came so frequently it seemed to become an old friend.

The setting was always the same. He was on the farm of his youth. The only man who had shown him anything but hatred, blind Ben, was being beaten before him. As he watched, he - lashed to a plow - was being beaten as well. He was too exhausted to continue. Ben, old and feeble, finally took his last lash with a whip and fell to the ground, dead. Shock, pain, rage. Emotions burned at his brain. The baser instincts inside of him screamed for revenge. Ignoring the increasingly intense lashes of the slave driver's whip, Lain tore at the leather straps that secured him. Tooth and claw reduced the last of them to shreds and he was free. The acts he committed were unspeakable. Inexcusable. He tore through half a dozen slave drivers and guards before a team of them managed to force him into a shed. This would be the last mistake they made.

The shed they barricaded him into was filled with supplies for the harvest. Taking up a scythe, Lain slashed through both the door and the men who braced it. Before the thinking part of him returned, he had stained the blade with the blood of fifty men or more. Only the other slaves and the youngest son of the owner were spared. Those who found the aftermath of his rampage did not know what to think. It was as though a bear had mauled half of the men, while the other half were simply cut to pieces.

Finally Lain forced the remembrances from his mind and pulled himself from the warrior's sleep. It was these soul searing visions that served as a reminder to him that whatever horrid end he may come to, it was deserved. He knew that the life he had led could not be redeemed. He did not fear death. A part of him craved it, but the same instincts that led him to his atrocities that day continued to demand that he do whatever it took to give the lives back to those like him, through any means necessary. In doing so, perhaps, he could prevent another from becoming the twisted demon that they had made him into.

As Lain hunted down a meal, the others slept. Once fed, he remained vigilant. With the wretched swirling wind which it seems had been the newcomer's doing gone, the breezes again brought him smells from far away. Soldiers were numerous, the wind carried their scent regardless of direction. Most were in the company of horses. Some were joined by far more fearsome beasts. They all seemed to be growing nearer. With the others to slow him, an encounter was inevitable. Each pa.s.sing moment brought the first of what was sure to be a string of battles nearer, but Lain knew it was best to fight sooner with the group well rested than to run now and face a battle later with his group useless. His group . . . Lain furrowed his brow. He had never been comfortable as part of a group. Now there were four who looked to him. He was not a leader. He was not a protector. This was not his place. His solitude was broken when the rising sun roused Myn, who in turn roused Myranda.

The girl was far from recovered. Her strength was a fraction of what it should be, but that still made her several times stronger than the previous few weeks of captivity and torture had allowed. Thoughts and memories of what had occurred in that terrible place constantly leapt to the surface of her mind and had to be brushed away. She attempted to rub her sore neck. The collar that had severely limited her spell casting was still locked in place, but without the crystal it was little more than a nuisance. Now that there was nothing to prevent it, her mind worked to heal her body as she slept, but even so she was sore from head to toe. Slowly she surveyed the status of her friends.

Myn was off faithfully hunting down breakfast. She must be healthy enough. Desmeres was sleeping propped against a tree. Here and there a place where one of the cloaks had managed to reach his skin could be seen. One or two such wounds still had the look of fresh blood about them. They should be healed. Lain was crouched at the edge of the clearing. His clothes, formerly white to blend with the snow, now were streaked with the remnants of his injuries. He didn't seem to be bleeding any longer, but the wounds were still quite large, quite numerous, and quite deep. They must be terribly painful.

"Lain, you're still hurt. Let me heal you," she said, fetching her staff and using it to struggle to her feet.

He silently agreed. Within a few minutes she had found all of the visible injuries and healed them. She knew better than to ask if he had any others. He would deny it. Instead she turned her attentions to the sleeping Desmeres. His gashes were easily dispensed with, though the warm, tingling sensation of their removal was enough to wake him while she was still crouched by his side.

"Why thank you," he said with a yawn, admiring her work as the last wound shrank away. "I must say, you do a better job than those potions of mine. Mind you, you might wake me up next time you feel inclined to cast a spell. I may have an opinion about it. By the way, there is a nagging pain in my lower back that you missed. Yes . . . there . . . this is why I have made it a policy never to get my hands dirty."

Myn came trotting back with some manner of wild bird for Myranda. The girl cleaned it, fashioned a spit, and held it over the fire.

"What do you suppose you are doing?" came a voice from the flames.

Myranda, startled, fell backward. The form of the newcomer separated itself from the flames and shifted slowly back to her human form. Desmeres chuckled to himself.

"I am sorry, I didn't know!" Myranda apologized.

"No. Of course you didn't," the woman said, her cold voice bore a hint of the tone of a weary teacher consoling a poor student. "A creature of your level could not be expected to understand the nature of my being."

Myranda felt a twinge of anger, but there was no use voicing it. She cooked her meal as best she could over the remnants of the fire. When she was through, Myranda offered the rest to Desmeres. Myn, apparently still holding a grudge for being tied up and bagged the day before, would not allow it. Instead she quickly ate it herself.

"Well if you could behave yourself I wouldn't have had to bind you in the first place," Desmeres stated, correctly a.s.suming the motivation for the act. "Ah, it is just as well. We need to move before someone spots the smoke."

"We shall stay here until I have fully recovered," the woman announced.

"We leave now. It is already too late to escape cleanly, but if we move quickly we may limit our encounters," Lain said.

"I cannot be expected to perform the acts of which I am capable if I am not allowed to recover fully," she said.

"How much longer will you need?" Myranda asked.

"With a fire this size? Several weeks more," she stated.

"Well, when the soldiers find you, lie to them about where we went," Desmeres said, quickly following Lain, who had already set off in the direction they had been headed in the day before.

"Wait! Lain, you mustn't leave her behind. You are both Chosen! You must remain united," Myranda called after him. He did not turn.

Myn trotted halfway to Lain and turned to urge Myranda on.

"Please, you must follow now. I am sure you are strong enough to reach wherever we are headed! If not, I will help you," Myranda pleaded.

"To suggest that I would ever require your aid is tantamount to blasphemy. Even in my weakened state I am more powerful than you can imagine," the woman snapped, a rare hint of emotion flavoring her usually sterile voice.

"Then let us go! Quickly!" Myranda urged as Lain disappeared amongst the thickening trees in the distance.

The being tore a branch from a tree and dropped it on the smoldering fire. She quickly shifted back to flame and settled down.

"No! No, I . . . He isn't like you! He . . . has spent too much time among us. He doesn't even believe he is Chosen. He doesn't believe that the Chosen exist! He has become . . . tainted, disfigured by our way of thinking," she attempted, hoping that appearing to share her distasteful view might convince her.

"I am aware of what he has told you. I have been watching him since he left the cave. He is lying to you, no doubt in attempts to rid himself of you," she said.

Myranda looked desperately about. This could not be happening. These were the warriors that were intended to save this world. Now one refused to believe his place, and the other refused to help him.

"However . . . " came the voice from the fire. "The mere fact that he has been willing to suffer your presence for so long, let alone his consideration and even protection of you, betrays a fundamental . . . alteration of his character that will need to be reversed if he is to rise adequately to his true purpose."

Slowly she removed herself from the fire and shifted back to the human form. As she did, the last lingering flames were drawn into her, leaving the fire fully extinguished. The woman walked with purpose in the direction of the others. Myranda remained behind long enough to disguise where the fire had been. Myn trotted quickly back to aid her and urge her along.

"Myn. This is going to be more difficult than I'd imagined," she said as she turned to follow.

When she reached the others, Desmeres was walking a few steps behind. The woman was beside Lain. All were silent. When he noticed Myranda, Desmeres took a few steps further back to join her.

"Well. Quite a pair, aren't they?" he said quietly. "So far all she has done is order me to take a more fitting position. I appreciate people who make an accurate first impression quickly. It saves time."

"Where are we going?" Myranda asked.

"There is another safe house. Still a fair distance away. Of course, this one is much smaller. Barely built to house Lain and I. With you, the dragon, and our new ray of sunshine, things are going to be cozy," he remarked.

"What do we do next?" she asked.

"First we find the safe house. Once inside we can start making plans," he said. "To that end, I've a few issues that you may be able to help me with."

"I imagined you might," she replied.

"You mentioned that Epidime used a halberd like the one the woman had. That was Arden who used the Halberd, not Epidime," Desmeres observed.

"Arden is Epidime," Myranda said.

"No . . . How could Arden be Epidime? Do you know this for certain?" Desmeres asked doubtfully.

"If that brute who tried to kill me at the mines was Arden then I am convinced he is Epidime. I spent the last two weeks struggling to keep him out of my mind," she said.

"Keep him out of your mind . . . so he was attempting to read your mind?" Desmeres said, suddenly a good deal more interested.

"Read is too gentle a word. He was forcing his way in. He was trying to take it for his own," she shivered.

"Are you sure Arden was the one doing it? Is it possible that he was just an enforcer and the attempts were coming from elsewhere?" Desmeres asked.

"The attempts were doubly intense when he made contact. It was him," she said.

"Mind reading. It must have been Epidime. Arden is Epidime. He had us fooled. He had everyone fooled," Desmeres said quietly to himself. "I am not accustomed to being caught off guard with information such as this. Information is the biggest part of my role in the partnership. This changes things."

"How so?" she asked.

"Well for one, the contact I have in Arden's organization has just become infinitely more valuable. And . . . other things," he said.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing that might interest you," he said.

"Why don't you want to tell me?" she asked, having heard too many such responses to take them at face value.

"Not to offend you, Myranda, but it seems fairly clear to me that we are not likely to receive the rest of the price on your head. Any attempts to secure it from this point forward would be folly. Not that I am disappointed. The half that they have given us more than triples the amount we've earned on our three best years combined. However, since you aren't terribly likely to join our cause, it does mean our bizarre little partnership is nearing its end. Soon we will part ways. With that in mind, you already know more about us than anyone alive today. If we tell you much more, you may as well go into business for yourself," he explained.

"I don't understand. When you were planning to hand me over, alive, to the very same people trying to hunt you down, you were willing to answer any question I had. Now that you have given up on turning me over, you begin keeping secrets?" she said. "Why? What was different then?"

"You don't want to know," he said, the earnestness in his voice a warning.

"You know me better than that. Tell me," she said.

Desmeres heaved a heavy sigh.

"It will strain our relationship. I would be lying if I said that I hadn't become fond of you in the time we've been working together. I would much prefer to leave on pleasant terms," he said.

"Desmeres, you and Lain have been trying to claim a ransom on my head for the better part of a year, and despite that fact, you remain my two closest allies in all of this," Myranda pointed out.

"Yes, twists of fate and quirks of incident have certainly cast us in the role of protectors more frequently than captors," he agreed.

"If I could come to trust you despite the fact that I know you had only the worst intentions in mind, what could you possibly say to 'strain our relationship'?" she asked.

"You would be surprised," he said.

"Only if you tell me," she said, growing impatient.

"Lain?" he said, raising his voice slightly.

"Tell her," came his response.

Desmeres sighed again.

"The plan was to accept full payment and exchange yourself and the sword at once. Lain would then follow the courier to where you were taken and poison you," he explained. His tone was not apologetic, merely antic.i.p.atory or the reaction he knew would follow.

Myranda stopped walking. She was silent for a time. Lain and the other Chosen continued on. Desmeres stopped a few steps later. He turned to her.

"I warned you," he said.

"That . . . How could you even . . . ?" She attempted.

"Is it really so much worse than merely handing you over? We were doing so with the full expectation that you would not last long once we turned you in. The poison would have been a quick death, far better than anything that they would have had in store," he offered.

"Are you still planning to kill me?" she asked.

"Against all good judgment, the decision has been made to let you live your life to its natural end," he said.

"Well, I am glad that-" she began.

The ring of a sword being pulled from its sheath cut her remark short. Lain held the sword to the neck of the other Chosen.