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  Time passes slowly as the morning matures into noonday. My thoughts circle Tarsys, Elias, and Forest Hill, swirling around in my skull and causing me to sink deeper into my sullen silence.

  AFTER A LONG DAY OF plodding through the Emberwood, the caravan finally comes to a halt on the very edge of the forest, an hour before sunset.

  The thick woodlands have thinned out considerably since leaving Forest Hill, giving us plenty of room to set up camp. Rolling hills stretch out before us, like a vast, dark sea of grass stretching on as far as the eye can see.

  The journey itself was rather uneventful. I spent most of it riding quietly at the rear, brooding and trying to sort through my own thoughts. Every time we stopped to rest and water the horses, I would patrol the perimeter with my bow in hand, magnifying my duty as a ranger's apprentice. Zara would avoid speaking to me whenever we got near each other, which was fine with me because I didn't much want to talk with anyone.

  As the hours dragged on, however, I found my thoughts drifting to Zara more often than anything else. I felt bad for the way our last conversation had turned out, and I felt the need to confront her and apologize for what I had said.

  Even though, deep down, I wasn't sure why I needed to in the first place.

  At the camp, I help the others secure their horses and prepare their tents for sleeping. With only a dozen or so travelers in total, it does not take us too long to finish. The carriages have been pulled into a wide semi-circle, giving us a perimeter to guard our tents, and in the middle of the camp a fire blazes and food is being prepared for supper.

  I help the caravan guards chop wood for the fire, using the opportunity to think about what I am going to say to Zara. By the time we return with our timber in hand, night has fully fallen over the camp and people are dishing up.

  Judging by the smell, it’s beef stew and bread.

  Mouth watering, stomach grumbling, I make my way to the table that has been set up and grab a bowl and a spoon. Zara is already there, sitting on a stone by the fire, eating quietly and not participating in the pockets of conversation buzzing around the camp.

  A servant sloshes some of the savory-smelling stew into my bowl and hands me a hunk of bread. I thank her and step to the opposite side of the fire from Zara, as far away from the others as I can be while still feeling the warmth of the flames.

  Both of us avoid making eye contact.

  I dig into the meal with vigor, tearing away chunks of bread with my teeth and washing it down with the dark broth. I'll approach her the next time that she is alone, I think as I devour my stew. I'll apologize for the way things turned out, and everything will be back to normal.

  Girls don't normally hold grudges, right?

  It isn't long before my bowl is empty and I am mopping up the bottom with my last scrap of bread. Satisfied, I look up and see that Zara has finished as well, and that she is heading back to her tent.

  Realizing this as my last opportunity to catch her before bed, I race over to the table and place my bowl and spoon inside the wooden bin to be washed. Weaving around the scattered mages and guards, I jog over to Zara and catch her before she steps into her tent.

  "Wait – Zara! Can I talk with you for a moment?"

  She looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes suspicious, but she nods and walks inside.

  Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I enter the tent flap after her.

  All the tents in the camp are basically the same; scratchy canvas pulled over a skeleton of wooden poles lashed together by strips of leather. The inside is just large enough for a bedroll, a pack or a trunk for personal items, and a wash basin for bathing. It is tall enough for the two of us to stand and talk with one another comfortably, but not nearly wide enough to allow for much movement.

  As the two of us stand there, it feels like we are uncomfortably close.

  Zara regards me coldly, her arms folded in front of her as she waits for me to get on with it.

  Clearing my throat, I begin. "Zara, I... wanted to apologize for the way our conversation ended earlier. I wasn't in my right mind, and I didn't mean to chase you off like that."

  She continues staring at me, one of her eyebrows going up questioningly.

  I continue. "It's just that... leaving the Emberwood for Tarsys, the demons, Elias abandoning me... I guess I feel like things are changing too quickly. I don't know where my place is going to be in the future, and that concerns me."

  Her expression softens somewhat, and she relaxes into a more neutral posture. Nodding her head, she replies, "It's alright, Owyn. I understand. A lot has happened in the last few weeks, and it is a difficult thing to come to terms with."

  "I'm glad you understand," I say, giving her a relieved smile that she mirrors. "I mean, Tarsys is just a stupid city after all. I shouldn't let it intimidate me. It won't be long before Elias comes back and I will be back to where I am supposed to be, ranging in the forest."

  Her smile falters, and I can tell that I've once again said something wrong. "Is that all you care about?"

  The question takes me off guard. "Yes, I suppose so," I say, shrugging. "I am a ranger, after all. Cities and mages do not mix well with a ranger's lifestyle."

  "And what of me? Is there no part of this trip that you were looking forward to at all?" The way she asks the question makes it sound like a plea.

  "Light, Zara," I reply brusquely, giving her a small, placating smile. "You're great and everything, and I've really enjoyed our time together, but mages and rangers don't really mix. You of all people should know that."

  Zara is quiet for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, after a brief but awkward pause she speaks up, her voice bristling with annoyance. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have come with us after all, Ranger Lund." She says the name like it's a curse. "Maybe you should have stayed behind and played hero in the forest and let the mages take care of the rest."

  For a moment I am taken aback, my face no doubt plainly stunned by her response. Then, my expression twists into one of derision. "Perhaps you're right," I reply acidly.

  She glowers at me for a moment before turning her back on me. "It's been a long day," she mutters coldly. "I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight."

  I open my mouth to respond, but quickly snap it shut. Turning on my heel, I leave her tent and pull the flap closed behind me. I don't think I've ever met a more infuriating person in my life, I think to myself, fuming as I walk out into the darkness. I went in there to apologize, and that's the way she treats me? Ridiculous!

  I decide to spend some time walking off my anger, letting the cool night air temper my emotions like a bucket of water tempering hot steel.

  She's right, I shouldn't even be here. My place is out in the Emberwood, protecting the realm from demons. The faster that I can get this trip over with, the better.

  The heat of the moment begins to settle down the more I walk, and I find myself walking the perimeter of the camp, aimless as I try to sort through my jumbled thoughts. What possible excuse does she have to be mad at me? What have I done to her? She and I have become close friends after the incident with the demons, despite our very different circumstances and responsibilities.

  Maybe she is upset that I am not as excited as she is to go to Tarsys. She did seem thrilled when we were talking about the city earlier. But what is she so blasted hard to talk to all of a sudden? It's like she can't understand my point of view.

  The more I think about the way I've been acting on this trip, the more I start to understand what she must be feeling.

  She wants me to be excited to see her world, I realize as I walk. I made it seem like I don't want to be with her, that I want to leave and abandon our friendship the way Elias abandoned me.

  My thoughts are interrupted as my boot thuds against something lying on the ground. Squinting my eyes, I bend down to see what it is.

  A body, I realize, feeling the chainmail armor and the limbs bent at odd angles. Grabbing it by the arm I heave, rolling the body ont
o its back to get a better look. In the soft moonlight, I recognize the corpse as one of the guards assigned to guard the caravan, a wide-faced mercenary with a scruffy beard and a hooked nose. His eyes are wide open in shock and wet blood glistens on his armor, revealing an ugly wound on his neck, extending from ear to ear.

  "Eleven Hells," I breath, standing up and putting a hand on my father's hatchet. "There's a killer in the camp!"

  Every instinct I have tells me to raise the alarm, to seek whoever did this and put a stop to them. However, only one foolishly reckless thought prevails in my mind, moving me to immediate action.

  Zara needs my help.

  Chapter Six

  Zara

  The tent flap swishes behind Owyn as he departs, leaving me alone and blinking away hot tears.

  Idiot girl, I think to myself as I furiously wipe my cheeks with the hem of my sleeve. You thought that you and him could be something more than you are. He doesn't care about you. He never did.

  I take in a ragged breath as I struggle to compose myself.

  You are soon to be a mage of the Conclave. Act like it! You can't allow yourself to be swept up by some country boy, especially not a ranger. It takes me a moment, but eventually I manage to calm myself down.

  Wiping my cheeks one last time, I begin to get ready for bed.

  My tent is sparsely furnished, with a dirt floor and a washbasin on a wooden stand next to my bedroll on the ground. A trunk containing my clothing sits on the far side of the tent, its wooden surface gleaming in the light of my single oil lantern. I begin unlacing my robe as I make my way to the washbasin to clean my face.

  Sniffing, I dip my fingers into the cool water, cupping my hands and bringing them up to my face. The moisture feels good on my flushed cheeks and puffy eyes, and I dip my hands in again to get more water.

  Behind me, I hear movement as the tent flap rustles open. I stiffen, water dripping from my hands and face as I reach for a washcloth to dab myself dry. "Go away, Owyn," I say, my voice still shaky with emotion. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

  I bring the washcloth up to my face and hastily wipe away the water, then glance over my shoulder to shoot Owyn a glare.

  Only it isn't Owyn standing at the entrance of my tent.

  It is a man that I do not recognize, with a lean face and dead-looking eyes. He is cloaked all in black with a hood pulled over his head, shrouding him in shadows and filling me with an overwhelming sense of dread. In his right hand is clutched a long-bladed dagger, which glints in the flickering light of my lantern.

  "Zara Dennel," he states in a low voice, menacing and dangerous.

  "What are you doing here," I reply, starting to panic. My hand strays up to the talisman hanging from my neck. "Who are you?"

  The stranger smiles a mirthless, cruel grin. "I am but a messenger," he says, taking a step forward. "And the chosen send their regards."

  I pull in source energy as he charges, filling my body as much as I can as he runs toward me brandishing his knife. Raising my open hand, I utter the words, "Sciath draíochta," and a shield of radiance materializes in front of me just in time to stop his dagger from reaching my heart.

  He curses, the tip of his dagger glancing harmlessly off the surface of my radiant shield, and he takes a step back, fixing me with a hateful glare. We stand there for a moment, both of us apparently unsure of what to do next, when his eyes begin to wander around my tent, eventually landing on the oil lamp resting on the ground.

  Flashing me a sinister grin he bends over and picks it up, then proceeds to smash it against my wooden trunk, spilling burning oil all over its surface.

  "Help!" I shout, trying to get somebody's attention. "Anybody! Help, please!"

  The fire begins to spread quickly, igniting the wooden truck and spreading to lick the walls of my canvas tent.

  The assassin turns just as Owyn rushes into the tent, his hatchet in hand and his expression worried. "Zara!" He cries, seeing me standing at the rear of my tent surrounded by a sheen of magic. He notices the man in black a second later and falls into a defensive stance, bringing up his hatchet to ward off any attacks.

  Like a viper the assassin lunges, silently striking out with his dagger with the skill of an experienced killer. Owyn deflects the blow with the haft of his weapon, turning it away and using the momentum to drive his shoulder into his attacker's chest.

  Air blasts out of the assassin's lungs but he does not relent, twisting his body to allow him room to strike again. He brings the dagger down, intending to stab it into Owyn's neck, but the ranger's apprentice blocks it by bringing up his forearm and connecting with the man's elbow.

  Seeing an opportunity to intervene I drop the shield and proceed to pull in more source energy. I yank the talisman from my neck and take a step back, raising my open palm again toward the man in black. Taking careful aim, I say the words, "Taflegryn tân!"

  A beam of blue, fiery light lances from the center of my hand, shooting across the tent and into the assassin's side.

  He gasps in pain, stumbling from the force of the blow, and Owyn uses the opening to bring his hatchet down on the man's head. The wedge-shaped blade bites through the hood and deep into his skull, resulting in a sickening crunch and sending the assassin sprawling to the ground.

  We look at each other, stunned for a moment, before the pungent black smoke brings us back to reality. Pulling in source energy, I walk up to my growing blaze, spraying blue energy from my fingertips and extinguishing the flames. The fire has consumed my wooden trunk and much of the tent's wall, but fortunately I am able to contain it before it can engulf everything around us.

  When I am finished I take a step back, regarding the charred remains in dismay.

  Owyn pulls his hatchet free from the assassin's head and wipes the blood away with the hem of the stranger's cloak. "Eleven hells! Who was that?" He asks, still jarred from the confrontation.

  I shake my head. "I don't know."

  Somewhere in the camp, someone screams and immediately we are back on the defensive.

  "There must be more," Owyn says, his expression hardening. "Whoever they are, they are attacking the entire camp."

  Nodding, I move to follow him as he exits the tent, stepping out into the cool night air and into the chaos of battle.

  Everywhere tents are blazing, and figures are running every which way, obscured by the darkness of night. Flashes of brilliance burst throughout the camp as mages defend themselves from hooded attackers, and the sounds of steel clashing echoes on the wind.

  "C'mon!" Owyn yells, sprinting toward a guard surrounded by three of the knife-wielding men. He shoves one out of the way and brings his hatchet down on another, hacking into the man's arm and eliciting a scream of pain.

  I grasp my talisman and fill myself with source energy, looking around and to see where I might be the most help.

  Muttering the words of power, I throw a ball of magefyre at a man chasing a servant girl, setting him alight like a human torch. Next, I release magefyre in a wide arc, igniting a pair of hooded men as they charge me from the side, blades held high.

  We fight as wildly and ferociously as we can, beating back the enemy and rescuing as many people as possible.

  Our intervention couldn't have come at a better time. Owyn and I manage to mount some semblance of a defense, and it isn't long before the assailants are on the run, fleeing our camp into the wilderness and disappearing into the dark.

  Owyn, the defenders and I chase them out, but stop just beyond the ring of carriages, deciding that the hooded men are no longer a threat.

  Panting from the exertion of channeling so much magic, my head throbbing, I turn to survey the scene behind me. About half of the tents are set on fire, our provisions and personal effects strewn about the campsite. And yet, surprisingly, there are few casualties – a couple of guards and a mage woman named Ashleigh. All carry knife wounds and burns from the fires.

  Where in the Hells did those men come from? I th
ink to myself in a daze. What possible reason could they have for wanting to kill me?

  We work to extinguish the last of the fires then do our best to clean up the camp. I thank Owyn for intervening in the tent, and he acknowledges me with a smile and tells me not to worry about it. Yet it feels strange afterward, strained even, between us. We spend the next hour or two in silence, picking up refuse and moving the bodies of the assassins into the woods. It is grisly, dirty work, but it gives me time to clear my head and think.

  It seems that slaughter was not the intent of the assassins, only to cause chaos and throw us all into disarray.

  But what about the man in my tent, the one Owyn killed? He seemed rather intent on ending my life. Perhaps the mages were the primary targets. And the words he spoke... who are the 'chosen' that he mentioned?

  Questions. More questions and not enough answers.

  Eventually, I find the smoking remains of my tent among the wreckage. Even though I had extinguished the fire inside, the blaze of another tent nearby had made its way over to mine. Everything that I had brought with me on this journey has been completely destroyed – including my clothes and the books I had stolen from the Academy library. Oddly enough, I feel nothing. My entire body feels numb as I poke around, looking for anything that might be salvaged.

  Amid the ruined heap I find the corpse of the assassin who had tried to kill me, his body no more than a charred husk laying in the ash. Something catches my eye as I pass by, a piece of metal glinting in the pale moonlight.

  The assassin's dagger.

  Bending down, I pry the weapon from his withered hand, grimacing as his blackened, cracked skin flakes off as I bend his fingers. Standing up, I regard the knife with piqued interest. It is still warm from the fire, though it is not burning hot, the metal marred but not completely ruined. Using the hem of my robes, I clean off the soot to get a better look.

  The dagger is of exquisite craftsmanship, even to my untrained eye, and seems to be made of a silvery metal. Most curious of all, however, is the symbol stamped into the weapon's hilt. It is a four-pointed star of red and black, surround by a circle of twisting, intertwined lines. I've never seen the symbol's like in my entire life, and something about it makes me feel uneasy, like a bystander who may have just witnessed something horrible.