Kendath sat, his hands on his knees, and scanned the slope one last time. His gaze rolled over the bumps of blankets in the grass where people slept, then over to the wagons, gray in the darkness. He thought he glimpsed a flash of white robes that might have been Garthag, before he shifted once more to look at Merrin.

I was so scared.

Shadows flickered across her eyelids and around the soft curve of her mouth. She'd been afraid. What had she said? Afraid of the dark. Afraid of falling. Afraid of being... alone? Slowly, almost hesitantly, Kendath reached out to stroke her cheek, running the back of his hand along her jaw and down to her chin, where his fingers gently brushed the hollow of her throat. And at that moment she was no longer the Chosen of the Gods but a human, a girl - Merrin, his Merrin, who needed him beside her.

He lay back on his bedroll, his hands behind his head, his face upturned to the blanket of stars high above. Merrin would be all right. Merrin had faith. Merrin was strong. Merrin...

Despite his exhaustion, it was still a long, long time before night receded to the oblivion of sleep.

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The creak of wagon wheels and the treble mingling of children's voices extended a gentle call into the moonlight of Merrin's dreams. She murmured, shifting to bury her head in her arms. Consciousness gradually dawned.

Bright rays made the snowy peaks of the mountains glow pink. The barest hint of hoarfrost on the grass was the only sign of how cold the night had gotten, and Merrin shivered and burrowed deeper into the warmth of the bedroll for just another moment. The thin wail of a baby pierced the faint hush of wind that rattled the pine needles.

She sat up. Beside her, Kendath's bedroll was rumpled and empty. Merrin scanned the camp, the huddled shapes of threadbare tents intermingled with the pine trees, and small gatherings of the children that were awake. Without realizing, she raised fingertips to her lips, feeling the smile that flickered there.

An authoritative baritone floated over the tops of the pines. Reverie abandoned, Merrin reached for her boots and gathered her bedroll into a bundle, shivering against the crisp air.

A minute or two and a few steps brought her to where T'mor was dispensing breakfast to a gaggle of children, from the open end of a wagon. Stowing her bedroll in amongst the crates and barrels, Merrin turned around and promptly found bread and cheese firmly shoved into her now-empty hands. "Good morning," said T'mor, grin as rakish as ever. "I'm told you've been neglecting meals."

The portion was ridiculously large. Merrin looked down at it helplessly. "You and Kendath both," she said. A reluctant grin would not be suppressed. "I can't eat all this."

"Nonsense, of course you can." T'mor seated himself in the wagon. "Besides, we can't go until you finish."

"Why no -" began Merrin, but a glance at his expression was answer enough. Of course they could go, but knowing T'mor, he'd hold them all up until noon if she took that long. "Blackmailer," she muttered.

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It was the third glare that Kendath had received since daybreak.

The woman this time was fiercely gray-haired – old enough to be Kendath’s mother but not old enough to take pity on poor boys like him. Her glare could have spoiled the slice of cheese currently sitting in his hands.

“Cenna is allergic to cheese,” she informed him. “You could have killed her. She could have died.”

There was a spattering of mud on the toe of Kendath’s boot. He found it strangely fascinating. He grumbled something incoherent, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Sorry.”

“You better be.” The woman sniffed. Beside her, a freckly creature by the name of Cenna snorted up her nose and rubbed her eyes on the hem of her skirt. The woman, smiling, patted Cenna’s head. Her scowl slammed back into place not an instant later. “I don’t want any more fatal accidents. In fact, I don’t want you anywhere near these children. Why don’t you hustle on over there?” She flapped her arm toward the opposite end of camp, where a cluster of wagons still waited to be loaded.

As if Kendath wanted to be anywhere near the snot-nosed, teary-eyed – He smiled. “Of course.”

A half hour later, he found Merrin and T’mor at the vanguard of the caravan. The sun had just begun to sidle over the mountain peaks. Its rays cast pale stripes across the road. Kendath squinted at the ribbon of smoothed gravel, up to where it twisted around and around the nearest mountains. He glanced at T’mor as he approached. “How much farther til – oof.”

The two-legged blur, having smacked into his knees a second before, raced by. It was giggling and clutching a loaf of bread.

Kendath glared after it. “How much farther to Riversmeet?”

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T'mor chewed contemplatively on a thick slice of bread and cheese. "Four days, five," he said. "Hard to say. Once we're clear of these mountains, the worst of the journey's done. As long as we don't run into some early snow."

Insistent tugging on his pant leg was rewarded when T'mor handed down yet another portion of breakfast. The small girl, clutching her newly repaired doll, piped a thank-you and scampered off, threadbare slippers making marks in the faintly hoarfrosted grass. She flashed a tentative grin over her shoulder at Merrin, who watched her go.

Glancing up, T'mor slid off his seat in the half-empty back of the wagon and ducked around to check the waiting horses, continuing to talk while he checked the well-worn harness straps. "Hold that, Merrin? Aye, we'll be coming down into the foothills by tomorrow midday, as I figure it. Easier going then, just south and west until we hit the river Seiren, and follow it down past the falls. S'called Riversmeet for a reason, you know."

He straightened and flicked a look from Kendath to Merrin, lingering slightly longer on the latter and then moving to scan the active camp. "You both ready to go?"

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Those four days - the short journey to Riversmeet - were easily the best days of Kendath's life.

It wasn't merely the ease of feeling a weight lifted, or the relief of putting one foot in front of the other, each step taking him farther and farther away from that place of darkness. It wasn't even the reassurance of glancing at Adeila's pack and knowing the Celestial Shard to be theirs. It was simply...

The world. Yes, that was it. It was as though, in those few short days, the universe had condensed, had become less vast and less daunting, had faded to nothing more than the nearest sparkling mountaintop or the patches of wildflowers beside the road. By day, the walking. By night, the campfires, their smoky whispers climbing into a firmament of stars. In the morning Kendath would rise again and reload the wagons, and the cycle would begin anew.

And then there was Merrin.

She called it blackmail. Kendath, T'mor, and Adeila called it necessity. In any case, between the food and the sleep and the rest, the color returned to Merrin's cheeks. Her step livened. She learned how to laugh again. And as the road descended and the nights grew warmer, Kendath could think of nothing more peaceful than the sight of Merrin's face, girlish in slumber, or the sunlight upon her eyelids each morning when he awoke. Hers was a face he'd never grow tired of.

All the while, the caravan rolled on. The refugees pressed forward everyday until they collapsed from exhaustion. The children grabbed their bread and plopped down without a whimper. Their mothers unrolled the blankets and dropped, senseless, beside them. They were too weary to ask for help, too proud to complain. They trudged and slept and did as T'mor asked them.

On the evening of the fourth day, T'mor halted them in a glade by the river Seiren. The waters here frothed and churned around boulders worn smooth by the years. The first of the stars were already creeping upon the dusk. Kendath squinted into the surrounding foothills but could discern little more than the shadowy limbs of trees. He glanced over his shoulder, to the cluster of wagons waiting patiently by the riverbank, then back ahead toward the looming slopes. Riversmeet lay just beyond that ridge, T'mor had said.

Riversmeet. Kendath's stomach clenched. Perhaps he was just hungry.

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"I'll eat it later, T'mor!"

Merrin hastened out of his sight before the all-too-familiar cloth-wrapped parcel could be pushed into her hands. The nearest hillside, still washed in the warmth of the sun's receding rays, climbed up far enough that she could turn and squint into the sunset. Was she only imagining chimney smoke, just peeking above the edge of the silhouetted ridge?

Probably. But Merrin grinned to herself and sat down in the sweet-smelling grass, letting warmth fall on her upturned face. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they'd be home, and tomorrow she'd see the twins and Jayen - and Mama and Da and Rhie, little Rhie she'd never even met - and tomorrow perhaps she could be Merrin Tanner again. Just for a day, for two days. She envisioned it. The twins would shriek - did ten-year-old boys shriek? - and Jayen would hug her quite as tightly as T'mor, and then Mama would make dinner, and it would be as though it had been five years ago, before Vryngard and Wyvern and the Chosen of the Gods. Before Kendath.

Kendath. Merrin opened her eyes, sweeping her gaze across the little dell where they'd clustered the wagons, just on the brink of the foaming Seiren. Not just as it had been. Just as it had been, but with Kendath beside her. Just as it should be. Always.

Merrin trotted down the little hillside, having spotted him, and left behind the last slivers of sunlight. A trail of sweet-smelling grass and wildflowers marked her wake, and she paused only momentarily, to capture the nearest sky-blue blossom. Dancing, on Midsummer's Eve.

When she reached where he was standing, Merrin twined her fingers through his and leaned her head on his shoulder, raising her eyes to where he looked up at the ridge. Echoes of childish voices mingled with the rush of the river. "Only one more day," she said. Then she held up the blue flower, tilting her head back to grin at him. "Do you remember?"

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"Temperamental little dove," Kendath replied. In one deft movement, he snatched the blossom out of her hand. He held it above her reach, pretending to examine it by the light of the slipping dusk, then flashed a grin and tucked it behind her ear. "I remember."

The children were lively tonight. Their voices trilled above the shouts of the grown-ups and the churn of the river, and though Kendath had long grown accustomed to the din, their yelping still grated on his ears. Hand tightening around Merrin's, he started off at a walk along the riverbank. Soft grass parted beneath their boots. Golden glows of fireflies danced among the trees. Kendath tore his gaze away from the distant ridge and rested it on Merrin. "How long has it been, since you left here?"

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Merrin looked down at their hands. It was still a tingling thrill, to feel her curled fingers nestled in his. "Five years," she said, counting them back. Six, at Yuletide. "I was fourteen."

Could they just walk, just a little further, and perhaps see the hearth fires of home before night fell? Merrin know they couldn't, but she ached just to glimpse it. The sky, flushed pink, seemed to beckon with promises that it was merely steps, a short walk up and down and there sat Riversmeet...

No, another day, half-day of travel lay ahead. Her mind knew it. Her feet would rather have forgotten. "They thought I was crazy," she said. "Peasants don't become dragonriders. Or they didn't. I wonder if they would believe it...everything..." She shook her head, trying to reconcile the anonymity of Merrin Tanner with the Chosen of the Gods. "I did it, anyway," she added, with a half-smile up at him.

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Fourteen? Added to five... that would make her nineteen. Merrin was nineteen? It shouldn't surprise him, Kendath knew. Her unblemished innocence had always astounded him, but still... Still. The Chosen of the Gods. Merrin. He'd been right, all along. She was a girl.

No, not a girl. Far from a girl. He glanced down and was surprised to see the lump of his bandaged hand curled around hers. He hadn't noticed. Neither had she.

Silence stretched on between them, but this silence was familiar, comfortable, broken only by the quiet murmurs of water rippling around rocks. The moon, a white disc high overhead, brightened and sent the first of its silver rays slanting down among the trees. By its dim light, Kendath peered at Merrin's expression in the corner of his eye. A half-smile flitted about her lips. He found himself returning it.

"You miss them," he said. "Your family, I mean." Another glance at her. "Can you... tell me about them?"

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Tell him about them - the flood of words, of pictures and memories, was unending. Of course Merrin could. She could have talked for hours. She opened her mouth and paused.

"I can tell you...how I remember them," she said. The words came slowly. How much had five years changed those memories? Merrin raised her eyes to the sky, to the horizon, then to Kendath's face. Hard, as always, to tell what he thought. Did he have a family, once?

She pulled her eyes away, too ready to stare up until she fancied she could read what he felt. Maybe the ghost of his smile still lingered. Merrin wished it would stay. Wished she could keep it. "Well," she began, slowly, "Da's a tanner. I was...Merrin Tanner, before. Jayen'll be a tanner too. Da's where T'mor gets his -" she gestured, meaning to indicate size "- well, that. T'mor's bigger, though. Da's very..." She trailed off, trying to think of the word. "T'mor makes swords. Da could never hold a sword, not in his life."

The words came easier as she went. Merrin absently twined a strand of hair around her finger as she spoke. "Mama could, I think. Mama will make me eat. More." She cast him a sidelong look. "You, too. She was always saying I didn't eat enough. T'mor used to say - still says - that the only reason Da married Mama was because she scared everyone else off." It had never struck her as funny, then - Merrin hadn't understood - but now she laughed at the thought.

"And then - Jayen's the oldest." She stopped, remembering Jayen, hoping he had not changed, not too much. "He thinks, sometimes, that he has to watch out for everyone. Me...me especially. He told me I should go, go to Vryngard, but he didn't want me to. I think...maybe he was lonely. It's hard to tell, just from letters. I don't...I don't know how I'm going to...tell him."

She let her eyes drop to the ground. Amid warm memories of winter evenings by the fire flitted the cold thought of telling them. If they had not already heard. Sitting there, at the broad sooty hearth, telling them that little Merrin was the Chosen of the Gods. Little Merrin. Little peasant girl.

Her fingers in Kendath's had tightened. Merrin loosened her grip. "The twins are ten, now," she continued, softer. "They always thought I could do it, I think. I wish they could meet Wyvern. Rhie's the last one. She was born...after I left. I've never met her." Was it sad, to not have met one's little sister? Merrin supposed so. She'd be a stranger to Rhie.

She looked up, caught his eyes, and smiled. "That's all. And you've met T'mor."

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They had come to a stop, standing beside a bend where the water spurted over the rocks in tiny cataracts. For a long while, only the whisper of the river could mask the silence.

Merrin loosened her hand. Kendath caught it again and held it, his large hands enfolding her small one. "How will you tell them?" he asked. She had a large family - already he had trouble remembering the names, although Merrin's mother... and Jayen... His stomach knotted. He took a breath. "Your parents and your brothers and - " The words tasted strange on his tongue. He tried again. "How will you tell them about... you? Being Chosen, I mean."

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Merrin turned her hand so that her palm, fingers spread, lay against his. Her hand seemed very small, in comparison. "I don't know," she said, raising her eyes to his face. "T'mor knows. Most of it." A laugh, rueful, escaped her. "I hardly believe it. Me, being -"

It could only be described by a wave of her hand, meant to indicate the magnitude of everything that she'd become. Merrin looked again at their hands, hers small and his large. "I wouldn't blame them if they didn't believe it either."

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Kendath had no response to that, no words to reassure her with. He looked down at the top of Merrin's head, shining waves of copper in the moonlight, and wanted very much to -

Something rustled in the trees. With a curse he dropped her hand and groped for his falchion. Empty scabbard. With a louder curse he spun around just in time to see branches snap apart and a lone figure burst through.

The boy could be no more than thirteen. He stopped short, his breath short, his cheeks flaring scarlet. "Erm. Uh. " He scuffled backwards. "It's Addie. She needs help. Erm, well, Dia needs help. But Addie needs help too. My sister's doll, that is. Addie lost her. I mean Dia lost her. I mean - " He ducked into a hasty bow, as though he'd just remembered how to. "We would be most obliged if you could help, Miss Merrin."

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Kendath's fumble for his falchion brought back sharp recollections, which had blurred over the days of travel. Merrin drew a breath, realizing in all of half a second that her sabre was not even belted at her hip. Because she hadn't thought -

And of course she didn't need it. As quickly as the thought had occurred, it was gone. Merrin said, "Of course," in the same soothing tone she'd used with all the children, and smothered a stab of reluctance. "It's - she's - likely in the wagon."

Kendath had let go of her hand. She found his again. The boy's name was Elbric, if she remembered right. Merrin gave him an encouraging grin. "Lead the way."

With Kendath in tow, she followed him back, to where a small bundle of distressed four-year-old hurtled from the circle of light cast by a campfire to wrap arms around her knees. "Merr'n! I can't find my baby!"

Dia's lips were trembling dangerously. From what Merrin could see, her mama was probably occupied with the youngest of the family, a baby barely out of the cradle. "Shhh, she's probably in the wagon." A grin at Kendath, over Dia's head, and Merrin reached down for the little girl's hand. "Come on. See Kendath? He's going to help me find your baby."

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Kendath choked. He violently shook his head, but Merrin was either unobservant or ignoring him, for she seemed not to notice. A deft spin of her heel had her leading him away, toward the wagon, with a teary-eyed Dia skipping ahead and Elbric shuffling behind.

The doll wasn't in the wagon, to Dia and Kendath's mutual despair. Nor was it with Dia's mother, or in the babe's cradle, or lost in the bushes where the other girls were picking invisible berries. The night deepened. One by one, the campfires flickered out. Elbric mumbled something about "ma needin' me" before endeavoring a beeline toward the bedrolls. Kendath, crawling around in the shrubbery surrounded by squealing brats, gazed after him. He pondered the pains he'd suffer if he decided, purely hypothetically, to tie Dia to a bedroll -

"Found her!" came the triumphant shriek from the other side of camp.

Kendath disentangled himself from a knot of thorns and trotted over. The girl was clutching what looked like a stuffed potato. With hair.

"I found her in my pack." She dimpled, proud of herself, then leaned in to whisper, "Secret co'parpment."

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"And - bedtime," said Merrin, swinging over the side of the nearest wagon and giving Dia a firm push in the direction of her mama and her bedroll. "Imp. Next time look in your pack first." She softened the rebuke with a smile. "Don't wake the baby."

"He wern't sleeping," said Dia, holding up the bedraggled specimen of her beloved 'baby'.

"The other one. Your sister. Come on, time for bed."

Merrin saw her safely into a bedroll, managing not to wake the one baby and not to lose the other. She emerged from the little copse where the family had their tents shaking her head and pulling remnants of straw from her hair. They'd searched the wagon with the horses' food, too.

Somehow, the blue flower still nestled behind her ear. Merrin scanned the groupings of tents and the semicircle of wagons, and wandered back to Kendath. Some of last year's dry leaves had somehow made it into his hair. She reached up to brush them away, and offered an apologetic grin. "Tomorrow we'll be there. No more doll-hunting."

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