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[Ember Cawood]

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Ember opened her eyes and winced as she sat up. She was wrapped in her own blankets, on the ground inside her own tent. She squinted at the sunlight that streamed into her open tentflap. What time was it? For that matter, what day? The walls of her tent spun around her, and she swallowed hard to keep nausea at bay. A scrap of fabric lay folded neatly over the rim of a water bucket next to her, and Ember wondered idly whose hands had left it there…who among Ceinwyn’s fold had cared enough to heal and tend her after she fell to Jase? She sat cross-legged to steady herself and dunked the cloth into the cold water, then wrung it out and dabbed at her face gingerly.

Everything hurt. There wasn’t one part of her body that didn’t ache, that wasn’t tender to the touch. The water on the rag smelled faintly herbal, or maybe medicinal. She washed her face, finding quickly that the concoction soothed her pain and cleared her foggy head. She examined the bruises on her arms and legs from the numerous duels. Her long auburn hair hung limp, some of the strands still stiff with dried blood.

Henry stood in the corner of the tent, watching warily as Ember regained her composure. On the ground next to Henry sat a bushel of pears, still untouched, with no note or clue as to who had left it. Ember managed a faint smile and held out her hand toward the horse, who lowered his head and crept forward until her hand cupped his chin. She stroked his nose and lifted it to cradle against her cheek. Finally, her thoughts began to turn toward the subject she had subconsciously been avoiding.

The agreement with Lady Ceinwyn was useless. Another two weeks of training – or even another two months – would never prepare Ember for what she had to do. Either she was ready or she wasn’t. She hoped that she’d only lost one day to sleep after she fell in the duel, but she had no way of knowing how long had passed. She felt a pang of guilt in the pit of her stomach, knowing that she would have to break the agreement. The Umbrans had been accommodating to her at a time when she needed it most. No one else had ever been there for her – not since Steve died. But what could happen in those two weeks? What might happen in those mountains that Ember could have prevented?

Ember sighed heavily and Henry cocked his head to look at her. He turned an ear toward the north instinctively and lifted his head. Ember wondered if he could hear something that she could not, but she knew that either way, Henry had an idea of what was coming. He knew what weighed on her heart so heavily.

Ember scrambled to her unsteady feet, finding a plate of hard rolls and a basket of apples on the table. But what of her armour? Ember found herself wearing a nondescript grey robe, and no sign of her armour or weapon anywhere. Snagging an apple on the way past the basket and biting into it, she went to the battered old chest in the corner and opened it. Inside was her armour, already mended. She held up the tunic, noting that it was much smaller now. It looked as if it would fit her perfectly, though she still recognized aged scars on the leather from Steve’s hunting trips past. Someone had seen to everything that Ember needed, which only made it harder to do what she now must.

She shuffled past Henry, scruffing the mane on his forehead and speaking softly. “Ah wish ah din’t ha’e teh ask this o’ ye, ‘Enry, but Ah jes’ cain’ do it by meself. It’s time…”
Ember took a deep breath and sat down at the table to write.

Dearest Lady Ceinwyn…

[Ember Cawood]

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Ember had completed the letter over the course of an hour, sighing and starting over several times before she came to a draft she could accept. She folded the letter carefully, picked up a basket from the corner, and exited her tent, still clad in the pale grey robe. A gypsy boy squatted by a communal fire outside the tent, stirring the ashes and adding firewood so that it would be ready to cook this day’s meal.

“C’mere ye,” Ember commanded once he was through.

The lad stood and approached Ember over-cautiously, avoiding eye contact. “Aye Miss Ember?”

Ember tucked a blood-stiffened strand of hair behind her ear. “D’ye ‘appen teh see ‘ow Ah got back ‘ere? ‘Oo brought me to me tent an’ led ‘Enry ‘ere with a basket o’ pears?”

“No Miss,” the lad replied quietly. “None of us seen nofin’.” The boy’s denial was too quick.

When the boy finally lifted his eyes to meet Ember’s quiet gaze, she saw a look she recognized. The look she had seen in her own reflection that night in Britain sewers, with the word “vampire” ringing in her ears. A loss of belief, a loss of faith. And fear.

He had seen who brought her here. Maybe they all had. Ember took a quick survey of the faces around the gypsy camp and noted that no one looked her way. No one made eye contact, and it unnerved her. But she knew they would not talk about it, and perhaps it was better that way. The less involved they became, the better.

Ember knelt in front of the boy, whose face looked about ten years old, his eyes suddenly immeasurably older. “Don’ ye be worryin’ o’er anythin’, kiddo. Ah won’ let any ‘arm come t’ the good people ‘ere. Ah’ll be movin’ on in an hour an’ no matter wot ‘appens, Ah won’ be comin’ back ‘ere. I won’ put that on ye.”

The boy seemed to understand what she was saying, and he embraced her. “Where ye goin’ Miss Ember?”

Ember hugged the boy briefly, then stood again. “Ah’m goin teh bring back ‘ooever it is we ‘ear in them mountains. Ah won’ let ‘em disappear, not this time. Ah won’ let ‘em die fer sech a stupid thing as a black rock.”

The boy looked up toward the mountains and then back at Ember. “A’ight Miss Ember. I’ll come wif ye.”

Ember smiled but shook her head. “Ah’ve got a more important job fer ye.” She held out the letter to the lad. “Kin ye ta’e this teh th’ moongate yonder an’ speak th’ word “Umbra…”

The boy flinched and Ember laid her hand on top of his head. “Ye’ll be safe, jes’ don’ leave the city…if’n ye jes’ wander aroun’ fer a bit, ye’ll fin’ somebody ‘oo kin ‘elp ye. Ask fer a lady name o’ Ceinwyn, an’ they kin ‘elp ye fin’ ‘er. Gi’e ‘er this letter an’ this basket.. Once ye gi’e it to ‘er, come back ‘ere. Ah’ll be gone but ah’ll leave ye mos’ o’ them pears in tha’ basket teh share wi’ yer little sis.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “I’ll do it, Miss Ember. An’ when I do, I’m gonna give ‘er the best part o’ them pears. I’m bigger’n she is. I take good care o’ her, I do.”

Ember smiled. “Ah’m sure ye do. Bes’ big brother ever, aye?”

The boy’s face beamed. “Sure am. Be safe Miss Ember! I’ll find yer Lady Ceinwyn!” With that, he took the letter and basket, and sprinted eastward toward the moongate.

Ember ducked back into the tent, tied the flap, and dropped her robe. She leaned over an empty tub and poured pitchers of water through her hair until it ran clear, free of the blood that stiffened it, then she tied it back into a ponytail.

Without ceremony, she put on her armour and strapped on her dark red kryss. The armour fit perfectly. Ember dumped the apples and rolls from the table into her pack, and grabbed several pears from the basket for Henry. Henry watched as she buckled the pack tightly, and he walked ahead of her out into the sunlight. Ember left nothing in her tent but the basket of pears. She owned nothing more to leave.

The sky was clear, and the day was warm. Ember apologized to Henry as she mounted him bareback. “Sorreh Boy, we need teh ma’e good time.” Henry held his head high, almost prancing in place as he waited for Ember’s command. Ember settled the strap of her pack across her shoulder so that the load rested behind her on Henry’s back.

“A’ight, ‘Enry. Le’ssgo.”