Anya closed her eyes, pulling her focus inward, trying to release the tight muscles along her spine.
Then suddenly, they clenched again. The peal of the town alarm bell screamed for attention, and in two heartbeats Anya had grabbed her backpack and was pelting down the trail toward Northend Homestead.
This time it wasn't a direct raid; there was no noise of fighting staining the town. Nevertheless, Anya's landlady Elena was crying quietly, a group of women gathered around her. Hovering at the edges of the crowd, Anya was able to glean that Elena's oldest, nine-year-old Justine, had left before dawn to deliver eggs and had not returned after half a day. She should have been gone just a candlemark.
Justine's father was one of the men who had followed the raiders ten days ago. Elena and Justine had not seen or heard from him since. After Anya moved to town three years ago, Justine had become a frequent visitor to Anya's room. Just last night, Anya had prepared a tea of comforting herbs to ease Justine's bedtime fears. The girl had stammered and thanked her. Then Anya had held her close for almost a full candlemark, while she cried for her father, until Justine fell asleep in a tangle of bedclothes and blond hair.
Only a handful of candlemarks remained until dark. Teams split up in the four directions, agreeing that the town bell would call them back if anyone succeeded in finding Justine. Tim insisted they go east, the same direction as his underground home. They stopped there to provision, but rather than helping Anya, Tim sat down in front of the small altar and just stared at his drawing.
"Well?" she looked at him.
He didn't respond at all, just picked up the picture of the three people and held it in his hands, his eyes closed.
Anya gathered cheese, bread, and an herb kit into packs. She stared at Tim's unmoving back.
After a few moments she said, "We need to hurry. Justine could be hurt."
Tim ignored her and slipped into his bedroom, closing the door.
Anya waited, drumming her fingers, and then pacing.
When he finally emerged, Anya raised her eyebrows at him.
"They're...from how I lived once before." A quite serviceable sword was buckled around his waist, and a long knife stuck hilt-up from his boot. In his right hand he held out a short dirk toward her. He looked unfamiliar, different. Somehow he fit the mood he had been in all day: stern and serious
"But...but you've always told me you weren't a fighter."
"I didn't say I wasn't one. Just that I'm not one now. So go on, take it. I'll feel better. I made you stop practicing with the young men at guard, but that was to hone your focus on healing skills," Tim said.
"I've seen you use a weapon, you'll pass. You may need one today. Go on."
Puzzled and a little alarmed, Anya palmed the blade and stuck it in her waistband. They left, climbing up the rise behind Tim's cave. A stream ran down the hill on the other side, and there they walked with just the water between them, searching for tracks, but close enough to talk. "So, tell me about it," Anya said.
"I used to be a fighter."
"I can see that."
"A mercenary. I thought it was a good thing to be. I loved the action...loved being so strong. But then I went too far."
"And?"
"I killed people for money. Sellswords do that." Tim stopped for a minute and bent down to look at the ground. Then he shook his head. "Not Justine's track. Someone bigger, but not necessarily an enemy." He shrugged. "Anyway, I went too far and one day I woke up sick and tired of it all. I had done something...wrong...terrible the day before. At first, I drank it off. But in the morning, my head became crystal clear, and I got up and walked away."
That wouldn't have made him popular with his troop. "What did you do?"
"We'd been hired to clean out a bunch of thieves from someone's holding."
"That sounds pretty normal," Anya said.
"Yeah. But it turned out we were the thieves."
"Does this have anything to do with the pictures on your altar?" Anya asked
"They were the rightful owners." Tim's voice clamped down and he walked a while before he spoke again, "They were defending their home. I killed the man with my own hands. I broke his back and pulled his head back and snapped his neck. I threw the fire-brand that caught the house's roof on fire.
The woman and the boy burned alive. I did it just because I was told to. I didn't think."
Anya had no response. They walked as quickly as they could and still watch the ground. At one point they found a bit of red string stuck to a low branch, about waist level. There was no way to know if it was Justine's, but it kept them following the stream. As the sun touched the treetops, the temperature dropped, shadows, lengthened, and Anya felt fear building.
"So, when you left, when you walked away from being a mercenary, what did you do?"
"I got lost." Tim stood still and looked around. "We should stop soon, we may spend the night out here."
"I haven't heard the town bells."
"You won't. I'm sure we're going the right way."
"I thought you said FarSeeing wasn't a Gift of yours."
"It's not. But sometimes I just know things. I have ever since I was a kid. I think that's what made me good at fighting in the first place."
Three forest tracks converged near the bottom of the hill. Gold light dappled the paths and a rabbit flashed its white at them as it dove into the safety of the underbrush. Tim pointed out shallow hoofprints.
"These look fresh. Probably made today, at least." He gestured at her to stay close to him. "Did you think about what is stopping you?"
Anya bit her lip. "Fear, I guess."
"Of course. But what are you afraid of?"
Anya let the question hang in the air for a bit. She was so absorbed in trying to read the faint tracks that her next words surprised her. "Healers are people in stories and songs-not me. I'm just Anya."
"You don't know how good you are."
Anya smiled. Tim was always saying she was good, and complaining at her for failing, all in the same conversation. "But still I can't do half of what you do. How will I ever take over for you?"
"When you have to, you will."
An owl screeched. It was close to dusk, but still early-owls shouldn't be hunting yet. And the sound was-desperate. Anya looked at Tim.
He was standing completely still. "I think we'll know something pretty soon. Follow." Tim took off to the right, toward the sound. The owl screeched again, sounding at once angry and frightened. They ran.
Two hundred yards farther along, Anya heard the sounds of fighting. Tim gestured to her to stay back, and he kept going, running low, tugging his sword from its scabbard as he went. He disappeared down the edge of a ridge.
Anya's breath tangled in her lungs as she worked her way quickly and silently to the fir trees at the ridge's edge. A shadow passed over her head. She looked up. The bird was impossibly big, twelve feet or more wingtip to wingtip, and it was diving down, silent and deadly. The owl arrowed directly at a man Tim was fighting. The man flinched, stepping back to avoid the wings and talons directed at his face. Tim ran his sword through the attacker, whirling to hold off a second man.
Anya's fingers clenched the dirk's hilt, fear and confusion anchoring her feet. Her eyes swept the scene, trying to make sense of the movement. A wagon sat in the middle of the path, twisting dangerously as two horses danced and kicked with their back legs. The spooked horses were unable to run; leather hobbles bound their front legs. A small figure lay in the wagon, covered by a blanket. Justine?