Kite and Saryth took three weeks to travel through the dreary, scrubby uplands known as the Barren Hills south and east of Corwaith. Saryth proved to be a surprisingly good travelling companion, not given to chattering but willing to talk. His education was unsurprisingly limited and patchy, but he was eager to learn, and what knowledge he had of the world was useful. There were precious few settlements in the area, but that meant there was less need to worry about his hair.

Somewhere in the Barren Hills, they left the duchy of Corwaith and entered the country of Westleshire, which was currently undergoing a power struggle. Kite and Saryth heard about it when they stopped to buy supplies at a small town, the first they’d seen in weeks. Kite had been relieved to see the settlement for more reasons than one. She’d persuaded Saryth to let her cut up and resew the dark gown he’d worn in Corwaith Keep, to make a kind of hooded overtunic, but he had not been enthusiastic. This would be the first time the disguise had really been tested, and she had been hopeful, but judging by the suspicious glances they’d got from passersby, the hood was failing its first test. All the same, they made it to the town centre and the short row of shops without being arrested, so she had been able to buy more supplies, and they’d even managed to trade the rest of Saryth’s worn finery for some more appropriate clothes for travelling. No hat, though. There weren’t any available. The makeshift hood would have to do.

They spent four days crossing Westleshire, avoiding any group of houses bigger than a hamlet. Several times they had to hide from military patrols. The roads were good, but that facilitated the movement of soldiers. The townsfolk had suggested they were recruiters, but there was no point taking a risk. It was a relief to leave the last border town behind, and with it any risk of being press-ganged into King Kerain’s army.

The country directly south of Westleshire was Irshand, a place about which Saryth knew very little. For nearly a week they walked through rolling hills which might have resembled the Barren Hills in geology but not in any other way, being green and fertile and lovely to look upon. However, by this time winter had well and truly set in, and more often than not, they walked under grey skies heavy with the promise of rain or its actuality.

"I can see a light ahead."

Kite squinted into the distance, vision hazed by twilight and the steadily pouring rain.

"Are you sure you're not imagining it?" But even as she spoke, she caught a flicker of light, and unconsciously sped up, wanting dearly to get dry. Saryth matched her pace, and she hesitated for a moment. Lights meant people, and people meant dealing with the ingrained reactions to Saryth's white hair. Was it too much to hope that Irshand might be more a more enlightened country?

The golden light grew in size until it could be identified as a window set into the side of a sturdy farmhouse. The lashing rain obscured all around them, but Kite picked out odd shapes here and there in the fields next to the house. Farming equipment, perhaps? She hurried forward, boots splashing in the mud, to stand by Saryth even as he knocked hopefully on the heavy door. She caught the sound of voices and then hasty footsteps, and the door cracked open slightly.

"What - what are you doing here?" A young man was peering through the crack, his face tense and exhausted. He wore what appeared to be a uniform, albeit grubby and creased, and held a spear, awkwardly angled through the crack in an attempt to menace the visitors. "Who are you?"

"I'm Kite, and I'm on Quest," Kite replied, hoping that the ritual words would get them through what looked to be a more awkward encounter than she'd expected.

"Where did you come from?"

"Westleshire, over the passes north of here."

"Why should I believe you?" The spear quivered. "How did you get past the guards?"

"Guards?" Kite said, nonplussed. She glanced round, but the driving rain made it impossible to see further than a few feet. If there were guards out there, she felt more sorry for them than threatened by them.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, man!" a voice butted in from behind the soldier. "Let them in! Out of the way," and the nervous soldier was pushed aside by the owner of the voice, the farmwife who must be the actual inhabitant of the house. She smiled and opened the door wide, the unhappy face of the door guard hovering over her shoulder. "Welcome, travellers," she said formally. "I'm afraid we're a bit squashed right now, but welcome all the same." And she stood aside from the door, revealing the entire room.

It was large, paved by stone flags, and dominated by the range that filled the alcove to the right. A cauldron hung over the central fire, containing what was probably stew, judging by the scent that wafted out from it. Directly ahead stood a sturdy table, covered with medical supplies; bowls of water, bandages and bottles and pots of unidentified liquids and powders, some open. All around the room, clearly the entirety of the ground floor of the house, men lay in various states of disarray. Some, like the door guard, essentially unhurt but grubby and tired, were tending to their fellows, but most were wounded in some way. They lay next to each other or sat where seats were available, some huddled in blankets, waiting in stoic silence for their treatment. Most of them did not look up at the new arrivals.

"Lyra!"

From the other side of the table, a little girl looked up. She carefully put down the mortar where she had been crushing some dark green leaves and trotted over to her mother.

"Lyra, take our new guests upstairs and get them dry clothes. Leave the wet ones to be washed, and get them blankets." She favoured the visitors with another smile, then turned back to more immediate concerns.

"This way," Lyra said, and picked her way delicately through the wounded soldiers to a door at the back of the house which led to a narrow staircase. The stairs creaked as they ascended, and Kite winced at the drips of water their sodden clothes and boots left behind them.

"Your mother seems a bit overwhelmed," she said, trying to pick her words carefully. "Can we help?"

"What's happening?" Saryth asked directly and tactlessly, and she sighed.

"We got beaten a month ago," Lyra said, not seeming upset by her guests' bluntness. "The front's not very far away, now. All the hurt soldiers come in here when it rains." She glanced over her shoulder at them, and added, as though she thought the clarification necessary, "'cause it's dry."

The upstairs hall was narrow and surrounded by doors, mostly closed. Kite guessed there were more soldiers behind each door, if this farmhouse was acting as a field hospital. Lyra went through one of the doors into a room with a double bed and a bright rug on the floor. Across the room, under the window, stood a large chest, and she went straight to it, lifting the lid and rummaging inside.

"Here," she said. "Blankets and clothes." She turned, and her eyes widened. "Are you a sorcerer?" Her voice had gone high, perhaps excited, perhaps afraid. Kite looked round, and saw Saryth's expression, caught in the act of pulling his hood down. She closed her eyes briefly, but then, he would have had to take the hood off some time. Saryth knelt down.

"Yes," he said, voice quite calm. "But don't tell anyone. They might get... upset."

Lyra nodded silently, eyes still wide, and waited outside the door while they changed.

Being dry was the best feeling in the world. Lyra led the way back down the stairs, below the ground floor to the basement. The stairs led to a well-stocked store room with barrels on one side and shelves full of preserved food and herbs on the other. An archway led into a small room with its own stove and a healthy stack of logs waiting to be used; Lyra directed them to the laundry baskets and they left boots and cloaks in the warmth to dry.

"Thank you," Kite said, feeling better than she had done for days as they climbed the stairs back to the ground floor. She hadn't realised how much the constant damp and driving rain had eroded cheer and depressed her spirits. "Can we help in any way?"

Lyra stepped delicately into the room, avoiding the legs of the man who half-sat, half-lay closest to the door. His eyes were shut, but his brow tensed; Kite thought he must be in pain. His arm had been freshly bandaged, and a splint was woven into the wrapping. She copied Lyra's care as she came out into the main room, under the gaze of all the soldiers - those who were conscious, anyway. She was horribly aware of the shift in mood as Saryth followed her; a mutter ran round the room, and the tension increased.

Witch, said somone, and the word was picked up and repeated.

"Mum," said Lyra brightly, innocent of the undercurrent as only a pre-occupied child could be, "they say they want to help."

"I don't want help from a witch!" The words came from a big man who was propped against the wall of the fireplace alcove. His head was bleeding steadily from a long scalp cut; he kept a reddened pad clamped against it and moved carefully. Sticking out either side of the pad, his hair was salt-and-pepper, marking him a veteran. His words prompted a further murmur running round the room, louder this time. Kite glanced back at Saryth, whose face was taut and set. Had he been hoping things would improve outside of Corwaith?

"None of you have any wits, do you?" Lyra's mother confronted the injured veteran, hands on hips, anger in her voice. "Your own sergeant has white hair!"

"But -"

"Welcome," she said, ignoring the splutters of the man behind her as she swung to face her visitors. "I'm Fiona."

"Kite."

After a slight pause, "Saryth." He spoke quietly, his voice very controlled. Kite didn't need to look at him to know how tense he was.

"I won't hold you to it," Fiona said, either unaware of or deliberately ignoring the tension, "but a bit of help would be wonderful. We've been busy for two days now, and more are always coming."

And so they joined in the care of the wounded, applying bandages, washing cuts and occasionally splinting broken limbs. The aid was of necessity basic, but Fiona and Lyra took every care in their work and Kite made sure to do the same. Saryth, whose assistance was disdained by the soldiers despite their need, was instead given the task of handing out bowls of the lamb stew simmering over the fire. He still got glared at when he gave the bowls to those soldiers who could eat, but they did take the food.

The evening passed into night before every man was tended and every mouth fed. The last to eat were the able-bodied, presumably the few soldiers who'd guarded the train of the wounded back to this area. Kite got the impression that most would be moving on in a few days, to a real hospital and barracks.

"... will want to talk to them," said the voice of the nervous door guard. Kite looked over his way as she finished her own bowl of stew. He was talking to Fiona.

"He can wait until the morning," that lady said brusquely. She was tired, and it showed in her tone. "It's after midnight! They've worked hard this night - let them sleep before the interrogation you're planning!"

The door guard muttered something inaudible and looked away, dissatisfaction written in his stance. Ignoring him, Fiona came over to where they sat spooning up the hot stew.

"This is an awful thing to have to say," she started, "but... the beds are all full."

"We'd be fine in the storeroom," Saryth interjected, unexpectedly taking the initiative. Fiona's expression eased.

"If you're sure," she said, reluctant and eager at the same time. The storeroom was not exactly suitable, but there was no other option.

"We'll sleep well there," Kite said, and Fiona sent Lyra to the store chest once again, to fetch blankets, sheets and pillows. The storeroom was quiet, and there were enough blankets to take the hardness out of the stone floor where they lay. The warmth of the furnace would have lulled them to sleep even had they not been tired, but it had been so many days of walking in the rain, sleeping in the rain, having it always there, nagging and irritating and rendering everything soggy and uncomfortable, that the blankets on the stone floor felt like luxury. Saryth was asleep as soon as he lay down, and Kite barely had time to gather her thoughts before sleep crept up on her, too, and took her down into its silent, dark warmth.