Kite came into the farmhouse with the last batch of laundry to see Saryth sitting at the empty table looking disconsolate.

"How's it going?"

He glanced up. "The sweetbread's nearly ready." Which wasn't an answer to the question she'd really asked. "Washing all done?"

"Yes." She put the basket on the floor and sat down next to him. "Where are Fiona and Lyra?"

"They went to do the hens." He sighed and looked away, then pushed up from the table. "I think we've outstayed our welcome." He went over to the oven and opened it, using a towel to protect his hands from the heat.

"Well, we're going south in the morning." Kite was more convinced than ever that south was a very interesting direction.

"Yes, Fiona seemed relieved when I told her." Saryth placed the hot sweetbread on the table, where it filled the room with its sweet, warm scent.

"Well, we -" Kite started, but was interrupted by the sudden scream of a siren, filling the air with an ululating wail. The noise penetrated the thick walls of the farmhouse, shivering the air and jerking them both from their seats. Jostling to the door, they stared out at a field suddenly teeming with running men and shouting commanders. Airmen swarmed over the flying machines, checking straps and tightening bolts, shouting for various bits of equipment as pilots strapped themselves into their harnesses. A soldier knelt in the mud by the command tent and wound a horn frantically, producing the eerie, skull-splitting howl.

Kite looked up, and for a moment saw nothing more threatening then the same grey clouds of the morning, with the occasional patch of blue here and there. But the soldiers were shouting and pointing, and following their gaze she saw a host of black specks rapidly approaching. As they neared, the foreign design became apparent; the pilots sat astride the machines rather than hanging beneath them, and the twin-tailed bodies were solid, not fragile laceworks of struts. She could just about make out the glow of the firestones that powered them embedded in the wings, the same in Eskandia as in Irshand - for this had to be the Eskandian air force.

"A different design," Saryth murmured beside her, coming to the same conclusion. Fiona and Lyra ran towards them, the basket and the hens forgotten.

"We should go inside," Fiona panted, fear written over her face. Kite guessed that was for her son, rather than herself. Despite her words, they all clustered by the door of the farmhouse, staring up at the teeming sky as the Irshandian airmen scrambled into the air. Kite tore her eyes from the other side's flyers to watch as Padraic hooked himself into his harness, swiftly checked the crossbows and activated... something. The entire assembly rose into the air, creaking and shifting as though an invisible giant had plucked it up, holding it by the struts where the firegems blazed. It sagged between the gems, and then, about a hundred feet up, the the flyer jerked and fell, as though the giant had dropped it, gathering speed rapidly until it could swoop upwards again, airborne by its own power at last. The gems glinted dully in the weak sunlight as Padraic joined the battle, his flyer dwindling to one of many little bat-winged machines darting and diving beneath the clouds.

"Padraic..." Lyra murmured, and there was pride as well as fear in her voice. They all gazed upwards, craning their necks to see how the battle progressed, barely able to tell the difference between each side at the height they now ascended to. Any hope of distinguishing Padraic's precious flyer was long gone, but still they waited, watching, as the specks swirled and swooped and shot each other with invisibly tiny darts. Until one speck became larger, and larger still, until it was clear it wasn't just a dive but a helpless spin out of control, the Irshandian pilot slumped onto the control bar of his flyer, unable to halt its fall.

Lyra started forwards as the doomed flyer spun to the ground, appearing to fall almost slowly, gracefully, until it suddenly impacted about fifty feet beyond the edge of the camp, and the ground shook. "Padraic -" she started, and then, as it burst into flame, "Padraaaaaaic!" She buried her face in her mother's skirts, weeping uncontrollably, and Fiona stroked her hair.

"Oh Lyra," she whispered, "it wasn't your brother." She sounded certain, but her tone was sad, and Lyra didn't stop sobbing.

"Then it's someone else's brother," she choked, her words muffled by the skirts, and Fiona closed her eyes and bowed her head, unable to argue. As though to underscore the moment, it started raining, spotting drops falling from massing dark clouds beneath which the flyers still spun and swirled in their ominous dance.

Standing beside Kite, Saryth gazed at the airman's pyre, metal struts outlined in rising flames, now surrounded by a small group of ground support troops. He started forwards uncertainly, and Kite, worried, reached out for him.

"Saryth?" Walking faster through the increasing rain, he ignored her. He stopped atop the small rise, and raised his hands, palms upwards, as if to catch the rain.

"Saryth, stop!" Kite ran after him, but too late, too late, she had not seen this coming. She felt the magic gather in his hands, obedient to his bidding. She saw his whole body tense as he focussed, controlling it through instinct and not training. She heard Fiona's choked scream as the air quivered and ionised around him, lending him a faint purple aura. The tension thrummed in the air like a drawn bow and then, conductor poised at the heart of it all, Saryth released the power to his will, and lightning lanced from the darkening sky, striking each flyer cleanly, running them through and leaving them powerless, reduced to a controlled fall through the buffeting wind and rain.

Kite slowed down, stunned by what she'd sensed and seen. Saryth stood slumped, as though exhausted, the rain wetting his hair in silver snarls across his face. Above, the Eskandian flyers were straining away, trying to make it to their own camp before they were forced down, while the Irshandian flyers swooped in to a more or less controlled landing. One skittered to a clumsy halt near the farmhouse and she saw the neat, surgical precision with which the lightning had destroyed the firegems. He had not done this unthinkingly. Well, he did think, but.. only about one aspect. Muddy pilots freed themselves awkwardly from their grounded flyers, twisting to undo buckles or cut straps. One came storming up to the ridge where the sorcerer still stood, and Kite felt her stomach lurch as she realised she was too far away to intervene. She hurried towards the hill as the pilot raised his goggles, leaving clean white circles in a mud-smeared face. Saryth stood, head bowed, unmoving - either accepting, or unaware.

"You filthy witch!" Padraic snarled, and threw a roundhouse punch that caught Saryth hard on his cheek, throwing him off balance to the ground where he sprawled in the mud. Padraic kicked him hard in the side, and Saryth curled up, protecting his stomach and head with the speed of practice. Kite felt sickened both at the violence and at the evidence that this had happened before. Padraic raised his leg to stamp down, but was interrupted by the camp commander, come at last to investigate what was happening.

"Padraic Harensen!"

"Sir!" Padraic hesitated, looking over his shoulder.

"Stand aside, pilot."

"Yes, sir." He wore a sulky look, but he obeyed. The commander waved a weary hand in the air towards Padraic's victim.

"Tie him up and confine him. Make sure he's gagged." Two soldiers gingerly pulled the barely-conscious sorcerer from the mud by his arms, and towed him away. The camp commander turned and gave Kite a very calculating look. "And you," he said, "had better come with me."

Kite obeyed.