Kacey sat on her bed in her cramped, dingy apartment in the West End, and shook. Elbows were braced on her knees, and her head was cradled in her hands. The bottle of scotch she had brought with her from the Red Dragon Inn sat between her feet, and occasionally she reached down long enough to retrieve it and take a swig of the amber liquid. Mainly, however, she shook, trembled, and couldn't stop the convulsive shudders if she had tried. Drunk, yes, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

She hadn't been injured, hadn't even come close, but still she shook. She hadn't reacted like this just the week before, when she'd been hit and wounded by the errant manhole cover - but then, the explosion beforehand had sent her into the same defensive crouch as the shotgun blast this evening. And again, that hadn't been an aimed, controlled attack. Tonight - tonight was different, and too close. The dragons in the Inn acting oddly, then attacking for no reason - Kitty's shotgun going off, so near - it was too much.

And so she shook, and trembled, and memories from months past spun and merged with those from a week before, from earlier in the evening. Fires of pain danced in her head, closed eyes seeing nothing but blood and shattered bone, and she reached down for the bottle at her feet. It wasn't enough to stop the nightmare swirling, but it was a distraction. And finally, after most of the bottle was emptied, great, wracking dry sobs shook her shoulders, though no tears fell. Her muscles were tensed with the effort of emotion, but the tension couldn't be maintained forever. Eventually, the sobs died down, to be replaced with long, deep breaths, and she calmed enough to kick off her boots and crawl under the covers of her bed. She would be late to work in the morning, if she made it at all, but that was something to be dealt with later. For now, she could only try to sleep.

It had been several days since the turmoil that had brought Kacey so close to the edge. Through dint of much effort, she had regained her footing, and once again could sleep without first drinking until she passed out.

Another job, restoring a grand old house at the edge of the Dockside district that had suffered from years of neglect, had done much to help restore her balance. The job was too large for Kacey alone, however, and so there were three others working with her - two men and a woman. Their cheerful banter as they worked acted as a balm on her soul and helped her push the broken edges of herself under the surface. Until lunch on their second day, when conversation turned to stories of what brought them to Rhy'Din.

"An' so wi' me sister settled an' me paren's passed on, I took ship, an' when it docked 'ere, I decided t' stay. So much 'appenin' 'ere tha' I knew I'd ne'er be bored. Wha' abou' ye, Kacey? Why'd ye come 'ere?" Mairee, the other woman on the team, asked cheerfully, her manner as blunt and open as always.

"I can't fight... I can't stay here. I'm leaving."

"Oh, you know how it goes, Mairee. Once you do everything you can in one place, you move on to the next." Kacey's voice was friendly, with no hesitation in it, but to call that a sparse answer would be exaggerating. Especially compared to the amount of history the others had revealed.

"Wha' abou' family? 'Ave ye got anyone that'll be missin' ye?" Mairee questioned with friendly persistence. Kacey, however, didn't want to think about such things, much less answer.

"But, Kacilla, you can't leave, your sister's baby is about to be born." "Kacey, don't go - the company won't be the same without you." "If you leave now, Kacilla, it's over between us."

"Oh, I've got family. But that's why there's the post, right?" Kacey's smile was brittle, and her tone designed to put an end to further questions. Mairee blinked, taken aback, then turned to the others on the team with a slight huff.

"I'm thinkin' we should be gettin' back t' work, lads. Leave some folks t' themselves awhile." With that, Mairee ushered the other two into the house, leaving Kacey outside to work on the front porch by herself.

It took several hours of sawing and hammering before Kacey was able to regain her composure and her good humor of the morning. The advantage to carpentry, and one reason she had chosen to do this as her primary job after she arrived in Rhy'Din, was that you had to concentrate on what you were doing. After all, if you didn't, you could wind up with a nail in your hand, or worse. Mairee's questions had been of things she didn't want to think of, and there were worse ways to evade answering fully than work.

Hammers pounding, saws humming their rasping tunes, paintbrushes swishing quietly over primed wood, all combined to create their own soothing music. Kacey put down her saw and leaned back from where she'd been standing, one knee still propped on the board she was cutting to hold it steady. Work-toughened hands ran back through her dark hair, pushing it out of her eyes, and she wiped the sweat from her brow with a quiet sigh.

Mairee's voice cut through the noise of the worksite like a bell on a still night, teasing laughter in her words. "I see ye o'er there, slackin' off on us! Too much partyin' las' nigh'?" Mairee laughed at her own joke, then - she knew Kacey had barely gone out the past week or so, and then only to sit by herself and brood.

"Oh, yeah, Mairee, you know I was out dancing the night away. And then the three most handsome men in town fought over who got to take me home. It was marvelous!" Kacey returned the banter with good humor, supressing any hint of the bitterness that could have tainted those words. Mairee set down her own tools and wandered over to where Kacey was working.

"Aye, an' ye should go out an' do th' same t'nigh', m'lass. I'd offer t' go wit' ye, bu' me an' Ian 'ave got plans." Mairee's wicked smirk left no doubt what those plans involved, either. "Ye should doll up an' let those pretty boys know tha' ye ain' taken." Mairee's expression grew a bit more serious. "Truth, m'lass, ye should go ou' an' live it up t'nigh'. Ye cain' hide all th' time."

Kacey smiled fondly at her friend. "All right, Mairee, just for you. I promise I'll go out tonight." Then she lightly smacked the other woman on the arm, with a grin. "Now who's slacking off, huh?" With another wicked smirk, Mairee returned to her tools. Kacey picked up her saw and resumed cutting the plank she'd been working on, but a smile now tugged at the corners of her lips. "Good night for some fun..."

Days were lost in an alcoholic blur. It was her refuge, her sanctuary, and Kacey had fled to it once again. When she crawled back from the edge of the abyss in her mind, it took another full day before the hangover wore off and she felt human again. Her stash of ready coin was greatly depleted by the binge, but still enough to last her a week or so - and cover the cost of a day at the public bathhouse.

Kacey emerged from that bathhouse refreshed, almost relaxed. Her dark hair was restored to its former luster, the scratches on her cheeks were almost healed, and she felt almost in balance again - precarious balance though it might be.

She avoided looking at the building across from hers as she re-entered the rundown apartment building and headed for her own cramped room. Then again, so did almost everybody else on the street - even in the West End, what had happened there was too gruesome to be alluring. Besides, the streets were humming now with rumors of a strange blue killer-beast, and its terrified, eyeless victims. Kacey had heard the whispers in the bathhouse, the scared and intrigued thrill in the whisperer's voices.

Once inside her room, she knelt and pulled a long box from its resting place under her sagging bed. Her hands trembled slightly as she unlatched the lid and the hinges squealed in protest as she lifted it. Inside was a black cloth lining, and resting on the cloth were no less than six blades. The longest was an elegantly sweeping sword, one-handed and meant for use by a single fighter, not in the line of battle. The shortest were the pair of small knives no longer than three inches, intended to rest in hidden sheaths constructed into the leather of her boots. In between, a short-sword, a dagger that was nearly as long though slimmer, and a much shorter knife that looked to have seen much use.

Calloused fingers shook as she reached into the box for that last blade - almost touching its hilt before her stomach knotted and she choked back a heaving retch of what she had eaten. Quickly she withdrew her hands and shut the lid with a snap, fumbling to fasten the catch. She knelt there, huddled over the box, for several long minutes before she shoved it violently back into its place under the bed. With a quiet moan, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against the edge of the mattress. Her arms crept up, wrapping around her head, with her hands knotting together in her hair.

It was almost an hour before she moved again.

Sawdust and the fumes of varnish filled the air to choking levels, and the red linen bandanna Kacey had tied around her face to mask her nose and mouth was only a partial fix, at best. Still, she worked on stubbornly, sawing through one plank after another, piling up the cut lengths neatly. Down the hall, another of the workers on this job was carefully rubbing varnish onto a finished table.

Her thick dark brown hair was tied back out of her face - the scratches she had torn into her own flesh long healed. Sweat occasionally dripped, stinging, into her eyes, and she impatiently wiped it off, leaving dirty trails on her exposed skin. Given her track record, showing up late for jobs - or not showing up at all - she was lucky to have this job. Still, there was a surprising amount of construction going on in the city, and she was a good carpenter. Able to do tear-down, construction, and finish work, as well as read blueprints - yes, there was a demand for skilled workers.

Almost two weeks had passed since her trip to the public baths, and the blue killer had been caught, or turned himself in (the rumors on the street were erratic as ever). Two weeks without bodies on the streets. Two weeks of relative peace, the haven she had sought when she fled her home finally seeming to become reality. She wasn't even drinking as much.

With luck, the peace would last.

She was almost a zombie, going through the motions of each day as if they had meaning. She flinched if the men she worked with moved too quickly, and going out in public took an immense effort of will. She was existing, enduring each day by drinking herself to oblivion each night. It wasn't living, it was barely surviving, but it was all she felt capable of. In a way, even that was a triumph.

She had spent another full day at the Public Baths, scrubbing herself over and over, until her skin was raw, weeping all the while. The odd looks from some of the women were ignored as much as the looks of understanding sympathy from others. Rhy'din was a dangerous place, and too many of the women who frequented the Public Baths recognized her actions from personal experience.

She had tried to spend an evening in the Red Dragon Inn, and that had lasted only a few minutes before she fled. She had even ventured into the Marketplace at one point, a vague thought in her mind to seek out the Ranger, Hawk. He had seemed willing to help her before, and her mind was swinging between a desire for revenge, and a desire for someone to listen. She had the odd feeling that he would be capable of helping her with either need. That half-formed thought came to nothing however, the press and crowds and enforced closeness of the Marketplace driving her away before she had even stepped on the street to The Forge.

Kacey was living in suspension, unwilling to move back, unable to move forward. The only constant of life is that everything changes; it would be anyone's guess how long her stasis could endure.

She wasn't breaking any further. She had fallen, whirling, into the depths, and reached the bottom broken. Piece by shattered piece, she was regathering herself. Each day was another bit of glue, a nail supporting her reassembled frame. Kacey looked into her mirror again, finally, and could almost meet her own eyes.

She still flinched away from men who spoke too suddenly, moved too quickly, and she remained wary in their presence. But she wasn't driven out of a room simply because there were men there, not any more. She tensed and froze, heart racing, when one of the frequent fights broke out in the Inn. Still she remained. Strength is gauged by more than one measure, and she was starting to learn her own.

She drank, and gods above and below did she love her haven, her refuge. She ran to it like an abandoned lover, and leaned on the scotch like a crutch. But she survived, and she was starting to live again. No longer frozen in stasis, suspended in fear. Once again, Kacey was in motion.

She was leaving a trail of gore behind her, dripdripdripping from the tip of the sword in her hand, bloody footprints. Her clothes were ruined beyond recovery, her boots that had lasted so long hopelessly fouled. Kacey entered her room moving like a sleepwalker, and really that was as good a description as any. She had been awake for almost 48 hours, fighting for at least the last four, and when she had taken the sword, her mind had simply shut down. She was moving on automatic as she carefully cleaned the blade - no sheath, she wrapped it carefully in a spare shirt and shoved it under the bed.

Clothes were next, peeled off and tossed onto a sheet, wrapped and wrapped again so no blood would soak through. Her boots went onto the pile as well. It would all be burned, later. She had to leave her room to reach the bathroom and the tiny shower there. Gore was thick in her hair, smeared over her skin - she didn't bother to pull anything on before she went down the hallway, her neighbors were all locked in their rooms.

Water poured clear over her skin, ran red down the drain. It took three rinsings before her hair was clean and the water went down the drain as clear as it came from the showerhead. Still she didn't think, still moving on automatic. A large towel was all her covering as she padded back to her room, locked the door behind her. Sagging mattress of her bed called, and she crawled under the blanket without ever allowing herself to think. Sleep was an avalanche.

Dreams. Nightmares.

A zombie musketeer leered at her, lifted his gun, fired. Undead rapist thrust into her, and when she screamed it bit her shoulder. She lurched down a street, mind screaming while her body lunged for one of the zombie-hunters and was cut down. Sword impacted her knees, shattered bone, and the pain in her stomach was unbearable ? she wanted to die and couldn?t. Healer?s gentle hands turned, grasped her wrists, held her down ? healing magic pouring into her body as rapists? seed. Echoing blast of gunfire and splatter of blood as a zombie fell. As she fell. She was dead. She was undead, she was alive, she was ?

Gasping breaths, wide eyes, Kacey sat bolt upright with cold sweat soaking the blanket. Tears fell unheeded, streaming down her cheeks, as she looked at her hands. They were covered in blood.

The thick glass around her emotions was a savior, as far as Kacey was concerned. She was able to function, to even be productive. She could think, without the walls splitting and ? her mind shied away from the rest of that thought. She could work with men crowding near, even joke and tease a bit.

Each stress was a little chip at the glass. Leri?s disrupted state was too close to her own fragility, and little spider webs spread from that chip, more damage than immediately apparent. The long day Dockside again, after barely three hours of sleep was another chip. Anybody?s guess how many more such chips before the glass just shattered.

In the meantime, she was pushing herself, pushing to her limits and past them. If she worked to exhaustion, she could sleep without nightmares. The conversation with Lang, Kalis and Harry had been productive, but it was one more chip against her walls, too. She and Lang were now officially in charge of restoring Dockside, more stress against the glass.

The rasping in her throat from the smoke and the dust of demolition had progressed to a dry, wracking cough when she laughed or breathed in too deeply. It was troublesome, but the thought of a healer sent her mind skidding away as well. She?d conceded enough that she would follow Lang around the next day, organize without getting hands-on into the work. Chip, chip, chip. If the situation had been designed to break through her defenses, it couldn?t have been done this well.

Silence and waking nightmares. That was all her room held. The peeling, flaking paint stood silent testament to the neglect of the room and the building. The bed filled most of one wall, sagging and narrow, and the blankets crumpled on it were thin and often-patched. Kacey looked around the room and listlessly twitched the corner of one of the blankets, a half-hearted attempt to straighten it that failed entirely.

This was her reality. She couldn?t afford to stay at the Red Dragon for long ? helping out Dockside was rewarding mentally, but not financially. She was still working down there, though she no longer was taking such a prominent role. Once more a simple carpenter, she was heading a team reconstructing a house, not organizing an overall effort. Simple carpenters, especially volunteers, don?t get paid much at all.

The rebuilding had reached a tipping point, was speeding along under its own momentum. She only occasionally interfered to remove a rock from its path, to smooth the way, and none of that was overt. It was all traded favors, and playing upon the respect she?d built with a few key workers there ? Dans, once a simple dockhand, had turned out to have an unexpected capacity for organization and management.

This was her reality. Bleak, faded walls and chipping paint. Silence and nightmares. A few, very few, that she was beginning to trust, thought she could call friend ? Lang and Lerida, Harry and Maia. None at all that she would let within her chipped walls of glass, not consciously. Blades beneath her bed, untouched, and the siren song of scotch ? amber-gold heat to fill the cold emptiness.

Her fever had finally broken in the early afternoon of the previous day. She thought she remembered Lang looking in on her once or twice, while she had been feverish. Someone at least had cared that much. Sasha, barely more than a stranger, had made her a hot toddy, a soothing drink, out of the blue. Another woman, later, had fixed her a mug of tea ? Kacey took it, drank it, but its flavor was uncomfortable, tasted uneasily of green-gold invasion. Still those small and random kindnesses had given her a measure of hope. And then she had slept. Then she had dreamt, woken screaming.

This was her reality. Silence and nightmares. Waking dreams of blood and pain. Blades hidden in a case beneath her bed, collecting dust. Broken courage, shattered strength. The welcoming warmth of whiskey and the release and relaxation she could find there ? her only true safe haven. This was her reality, and though she tried, she could not seem to escape it.

Dawn-light was a lance into her eyes. The faint clatter of other people starting their day echoed ringing through Kacey?s head. She groaned faintly and buried her face into the pillow for another long moment, unwilling to face the day. The light scent on the pillow had her blinking into the fabric for a few seconds before she sighed and sat up, stretching.

Scent of skin against skin, sense memory from a time before this room, before this land. Hangover met not with a lonely room, but a gentle hand and a quiet, soothing male voice.

The fact that she had room to stretch without one hand hitting the wall was only one of the reasons she preferred staying at the Red Dragon to her dingy apartment. Unfortunately, she couldn?t afford to stay here often. Wouldn?t have been able to the night before, if Lang hadn?t volunteered the room. He wasn?t using it, was staying with Icer and her family ? close to his new love interest. She had taken the offer gratefully.

Feel of smooth cotton, light and sun-warmed, and drowning in feather pillows and mingled laughter.

Drunk as she had gotten, she wouldn?t have been able to make it safely back to her apartment. She glanced over toward her ruined jacket, flinched away from the sight of it ? blood had soaked into the brown leather, dried and stained it up to the elbows, dark splashes on the front and sides still only a fraction of what Lang had lost.

Sight of thick crimson blood drying to caked black on her hands, as she tried not to claw into her own wound in a futile effort to stop the pain.

When he?d been shot. She had been skidding away from that, from the memory of the healing magic performed right there, only inches away, from the sound of the bullet clinking on the wooden floor and rolling away. It had been too close to her past injuries. Too many memories had leapt up to swarm her under ? almost dragged her down screaming right there in the middle of the common room.

Sound of hoarse screams, keening sobs, dying whimpers all around, strained voice long since past such efforts.

And then he had admitted to not only inviting the injuries, but welcoming them. He?d deliberately drawn the attack to ?defuse the tension? or some such nonsense. He was one of two people in the realm who she had begun lowering her walls of glass for ? he seemed to eat away at them anyway ? and he had almost died for convenience. For nothing.

Taste of thick copper in her mouth, certain knowledge that she was dying, that she would be dying and in pain forever. Gold-green healing a sweet syrup that choked her, invading, and then hurt beyond all previous measure.

She had escaped, stalked away. The darkness was a mistake. Lurking memories had ambushed her, swept past into present with vivid clarity, and the rest of the night was spent trying to separate the times with the aid of a bottle of scotch. Thick glass walls were reinforced, and she resolved again not to venture beyond them. Her jacket was beyond saving. Sometimes, she thought, so was she.

Two steps forward, one step back. Kacey sat cross-legged on the sagging mattress in her dingy apartment. There were no lights, not a lamp, not a candle ? even the moonlight was mostly hidden by the clouds. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, fingers curled up in limp relaxation. Her eyes were fixed on her palms. Unable to see them in the dark, still she looked.

One finger moved on her right hand, and then the next, each in turn. There were no scars on either palm, only calluses. No muscles sliced open and inexpertly stitched together. When the offer to heal her hand had been made, Kacey looked her demons in the heart, and decided to trust. If anyone else had made the offer, she likely would have declined. Certainly would have declined ? the very idea of asking for the invasion of magic into her body gave her the horrors.

But she decided, this once, to trust. To allow the green-gold healing magic to slide into her palm and repair the damage there. It hurt. Oh, gods, it hurt, more than the original wounds had, as flesh was forced to knit with unnatural speed. She could deal with pain. But that creeping invasion unnerved her, and undid her strict controls. Deep breaths in an attempt to calm, to fend off shock, instead just let free tears.

Embarrassment. Shame. They were overwhelming, but she could not stop the tears. Rather, she fled. She always fled, always ran away. The night, just outside the Glen, had been peaceful, still, open. She had just stopped, there in the dark, in the trees. Had collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Had wept silent tears, until finally the peace and the calm there had emptied her tears.

Two steps forward, one step back. She had allowed the healing. She had decided to trust. And then she had run away, as she always ran.

Just once, she wished that someone would follow.

Two weeks were gone of the three Kacey had promised Lerida it would take for the table and chairs. The sunlight was too bright to her hung-over eyes, and her head throbbed. She couldn?t afford to take the time to nurse that hangover, and her hands, thinner now on the scant rations of late, trembled badly. Fortunately, today?s work was sanding. The work took care and attention, but didn?t matter as much if her hands slipped.

She was smoothing the last of the chairs. The table-top was resting across two workbenches, ready to be planed absolutely flat once her hands were steady again. She?d become a virtual hermit over the last fortnight, almost all her effort turned to this job. Only once had she ventured out at all ? and that only last night, to the Inn. She hadn?t had a full night?s sleep in over a week, and the promise of scotch to send her a dreamless night? the craving had been too much.

It had been a quiet night in the Inn, and she?d spoken briefly to a woman with blue hair about the string figure Kacey had been forming. Precious coins had been sacrificed for a mug of cocoa, but the rich chocolate had been worth it. The bottle of scotch, the reason she had come out, came back with her to the workshop and her empty pallet of blankets. It had helped her to sleep, but the nightmares still assaulted, and won.

No sight of Lang, no sight of Lerida. Only a brief hello to Jade ? and in all the crowded room, there had been nobody else she recognized. Kacey?s hands continued their work on the chair, sanding, pausing to run her hands over its surfaces, feeling for any hint of roughness. Wood-dust was an almost choking cloud in the air, thick in her hair, even coating her eyelashes. She switched from the finest grain of paper to a handful of raw wool for the final smoothing, remnants of the dust gathered and swept aside.

Her attention wasn?t really ? or even mostly ? on her work. The light cut knives through her eyes, stabbed back into her head, even though the day was mostly overcast. She couldn?t afford to take the day off. The sooner she finished this job, the sooner she could be paid, and discharge the debts she?d taken on. Her pride had kept her from taking Lang?s offer of money before. She wasn?t sure she could afford that pride any longer ? a moot point, since she hadn?t seen Lang in a fortnight, either.

A crooked, bitter smile curved her lips upwards, even as a sudden shaft of sunlight breaking through clouds had her wincing. See how her pride was preserved, even against her frailty. The quiet brush of wool over wood and the crackle of the fire in the iron stove were the only sounds in the stillness of the room, and the bottle of scotch lay near her pallet, empty.

Linseed oil and wax, sawdust and varnish. The scents filled the workshop. Lerida?s table and chairs sat in neat array along one wall. They were simple, elegant, with no ornamentation but their clean lines. A chest of drawers was in progress, clamps holding together two of the long boards as they dried. Kacey paced around the workshop restlessly. It was raining today, a light drizzle, but waxed canvas would keep the moisture off of the furniture as it was delivered.

The heavy rattle of a cart over cobblestones outside broke the circle of her pacing. The carter she had hired was here, and with some effort Kacey drew back the large, heavy door that opened onto the street. She had a sharp flash of apprehension as she saw the man, his bearded face and large frame. An indrawn breath, and then she forced a smile for the driver, and nodded in the direction of the furniture.

?The table and the chairs. I?ve got canvas to cover them with, once they?re on the cart safely.? Her words were just short of curt. Kacey went to the bundle she had prepared earlier, heaved it up to carry it out to the back of the wagon. The carter leered after her briefly, unnoticed, before he began loading the furniture. As he lifted chairs up, Kacey arranged them in the cart-bed and tied canvas over them in the drizzle.

Jacket still not replaced, she was wearing three sweaters, layered over one another. They were soon soaked through, and her hair was a limp straggle over her face and down her back. The driver was wrapped in an oilcloth coat with a similar hat, and he grinned through his beard at the sight of her. ?Could share th? dry wit? ya, li?l lady, if ya were real nice-like.? They were carrying out the table as he said that, two pairs of hands needed for the weight and length of it. Kacey almost dropped her end.

She waited until the table was safely in place and covered with the canvas before she replied, her voice slightly shaking, and definitely cold. ?Thank you, I?ll be fine. I won?t melt in the rain.? The carter glowered a bit at being rebuffed, then shrugged and moved up to sit on the bench and take up the reins. Kacey swung down from the wagon-bed and pulled shut the workshop door, locking it behind her. When she re-entered the cart, it was not on the bench with the driver, but in the back with the furniture. Safe.

She had promised Lerida she would deliver the furniture. She had said she would visit Marban ? but she hadn?t said for how long. As the driver began to sing some scurrilous carter?s song, Kacey pulled out her loop of string and began a cat?s cradle. Her fingers, chilled by the cold and rain, slipped and stumbled through the string figure. She didn?t notice. Her mind was whirling, a hundred miles a second and more, and still going nowhere.

There is only so much fear a person can sustain before it either fades or drives them to death. Kacey had reached the limits of her fear. At least, she thought she had ? she had been wrong before. The explosion was ten days gone, her last descent into waking nightmare a week in the past. Sleeping nightmares still haunted her rest, but those she could quiet, with the amber-gold burn of scotch and the bitter brew of Elessaria?s tea. She had purloined some of that from the Inn, to take home with her.

Her hands were bandaged in gauze, and she hissed out a breath of air through her teeth in dismay as she carefully undid the wrapping, first left hand then right. Her hands were her livelihood, calluses, scars and all ? she had not treated them well. That day, looking at the Marketplace memorial, she had dug her fingernails deeply into her palms, half-moon crescents, and then torn, turning the crescents to deep gashes.

Running to the glen to spend the night statue-still in the rain, her hands gripping the bark of a tree as if it were a lifeline ? that had been another mistake. Bits of dirt and bark had driven themselves into the raw and bleeding wounds. Now, a week later, she was seeing the consequences of her actions. The cuts were not healing, and yellow-green pus rimmed their swollen edges. It hurt to close her hands.

The thought of pain brought action, and Kacey carefully fumbled in her pocket for the small bottle that Viktor had given her the night before. Aspirin ? a name unfamiliar to her, but the small white pills worked as well as he had said to prevent a hangover. For the first time in weeks she had woken up without one. The pills should help against the pain in her hands, as well.

Drifting in memory, Kacey held the small bottle and looked at it unseeing. She didn?t understand his random kindness. She knew well enough why she had relaxed in the presence of a stranger ? Sasha?s reassurance along with quite a bit of scotch had blurred the sharp edges of her wariness. She didn?t understand why she had even told Viktor about the cuts on her hands, much less that she had waking nightmares. Was she that drunk?

It was possible. She didn?t even know how drunk she got, anymore. Anything to still the screams that battered around inside her mind. Her hand tightened on the small bottle, and the burning pain of that wrenched her from memory to present. Her hands needed tending. Two of the small white pills before she began; she carefully took a pad of cloth and doused it with almost pure alcohol. Tears gathered in her eyes, swelled and silently slipped over her cheeks as she ruthlessly scrubbed at the gashes.

No sound; she almost bit through her lower lip as she held back the whimpers of pain. It was ingrained habit. Wounds were tended in silence, because an enemy might be close enough to hear a noise. Cleaned, she soaked another small pad with the alcohol and pressed it deep into the gashes, first on one hand, then the other. Only once that was accomplished did she lay a dry pad over each set of cuts and begin to wrap her hands with gauze once more.

The aspirin did help.

The workshop was slowly gaining the little amenities of a home ? like a bed-frame. However, with no mattress, there still was spread a pallet of blankets on the floor next to the frame. That pallet was where Kacey sat now, unwrapping gauze bandages from her hands. They had been bunched and torn away in her sleep to hang loosely from her wrists, and the gashes along her palms were once more open and bleeding sluggishly. There was blood under her fingernails again. Kacey studied the damage dispassionately before she sighed and cast the destroyed bandages into the belly of her iron stove.

Folded pads of cloth over the gashes, and then she took a fresh roll of gauze and began wrapping her hands once more. It was a motion too-well practiced for even these weeks since she first had sliced open her own palms. A motion of habit, that sent her spiraling back in memory.

?Look you, to keep a firm grip on your sword and strengthen your wrists against a blade-bind, you must wrap your hands and wrists to the distance of four finger?s-widths along your forearm. Use leather and make sure the bindings don?t twist. Wrap tightly enough to support and not yet tightly enough to hamper your motion. So. Who wants to try first?? The sergeant?s voice was rusty, grating and harsh from an old blow to his throat. Kacey listened as raptly as to the sweet voice of a bard. Davarin was a warm presence at her side, as attentive to the sergeant?s words as she.

They had been playing at soldiers for as long as she could remember. Now they were learning in truth. It took seven months before the wrist-wrap came easily and quickly. She could do the motion now in her sleep. Wrist-bindings hadn?t kept her from losing her grip, that day.

Kacey gasped and shuddered where she sat motionless on the pallet of blankets. After a moment she closed her eyes, a hot tear brimming restrained, and took a deep breath. She couldn?t lose the good memories, too. Leaning over, she reached blindly for the piece of wood she was carving and the small knife set next to it. Her hand closed around the knife uncertainly, and it slipped through her fingers, leaving a wicked slice across the pads of her fingertips. Breath hissed in as her eyes flew open, and she examined the droplets of blood beading up.

?Keep your blade sharp enough to cut the wind. A dull blade won?t do anything but piss off the enemy and get you killed. Neglecting your weapons is worse than neglecting yourself!? First day with issued metal blades. Weighted wooden swords had outlived their usefulness in training, and now they learned to use their weapons. Kacey was leaner, harder than only a year before ? and driven to excel, always. She kept her blade sharp enough to make the wind sing, and more than once the small cuts on her hands gave evidence of that.

Coppery warmth filled her mouth as she sucked away the beaded blood. After a moment she picked up the small knife more carefully and studied the piece of wood in her other hand. It was more than half-carved, and the work was intricate, delicate. A cage of thorns, carved in careful detail and hollow ? inside was a rose, suspended, trapped. She was carving it all of one piece, and it took a delicate touch with the knife. A drop of blood caught on one of the thorns, sank into the light wood and stained it, and Kacey frowned unhappily before she continued. There wasn?t enough time to begin all again ? Yule was too close.

?If you think the winter is a time of rest, you?re wrong! If you have a holy day at the Solstice, or Yule, or New Year, or whatever celebration you?re used to playing at ? don?t expect the enemy to respect that! You may or may not be fighting against someone who gives a rat?s tail about what you believe in ? so don?t count on a day off, ever!? Davarin mocked the words, tenor voice a poor imitation of the baritone sergeant?s rasp, one Yule morning that they woke in a feather bed together. He reached over and pulled out a small box, dropping it on her stomach as she giggled. Inside was a bracelet, a plain circle of white gold, and he clasped it on with a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

She hadn?t taken it off for nearly ten years. Now it rested with her few other belongings, locked in a box she rarely opened. Another drop of blood fell through the thorns to roll along the inside of one carved petal before it soaked into the fiber of the wood. A breath hissed out through her teeth and then Kacey carefully set down both the knife and the carving, leaning back to rest her head against the empty bed-frame. A small pile of wooden carvings sat at the end of the bed, gifts for those who had touched her life here in Rhydin.

?You don?t have to give me anything, Kacey, you know that.? Davarin?s tenor was quiet, warm, and he meant his words with all sincerity. A smile bloomed on Kacey?s face, she could feel it stretching her lips and lighting her expression. ?I know I don?t have to. But this is my thank you, for staying with me. Who would have guessed we?d wind up just where we wanted to be??

The threatening tears spilled and traced burning lines over her cheeks. The words were bitter now in memory, when they had been so sweet at the time, the last Yule before she broke. She pushed away the memory violently and turned to sort through the pile of carvings. When she impatiently brushed aside the tears she left smears of blood on her cheeks without noticing.

One carving for Lerida, set aside for delivery to Marban. Kacey didn?t know if Leri would receive it ? a small wooden owl, large eyes and wings half-spread. One for Eless ? two for Eless, really. A solid rod of wood worked with a vine pattern, and a carving of two cupped hands cradling a flame. Icer?s carving, a dragon coiled back on herself with a pair of hatchlings playing in the circle formed by her wings. For Sasha a disc of wood, polished to a high sheen, with a salamander in relief; for Lucas a cat reclining with head alert, and for Viktor ? it had taken some thought ? a miniature globe, a replica of the one in Teas? N? Tomes although without the magic. Only one carving was still unfinished, the rose in its cage of thorns.

?You put too much of yourself into everything you do. You?re going to get hurt.? The gravelly, raspy voice of the sergeant was bitter as she stood before his desk at attention. ?I thought I already had been, sir.? She looked over his shoulder through eyes swollen nearly shut by bruising. The aches screaming in her body were ignored as she took the chewing out for the fight. He didn?t oblige with anger, and his voice now carried nothing but weary resignation. ?No. Not yet. But you will be.?

Crumpled paper burned to feathery ash in the belly of Kacey?s iron stove, its bitter scent tainting the fragrance of burning apple wood that warmed the shop. The bed had been joined by a small chest of drawers, a table barely large enough for two, and a chair. Now the rhythmic thud of a hammer on solid wood marked Kacey?s current effort. She was adding a frame to the open floor of the workshop; when complete, a wall would separate her small living section from the much larger work floor.

Nightmares came less frequently, waking her with visions of blood and horror only every few nights, instead of each night. Perhaps she was even past the waking nightmares that dragged her down with the sound of gunshots ? there had been no gunshots recently to test that against, and just as well. Kacey paused in her hammering for a small coughing fit, evidence along with her congested sinuses of a head-cold. Miserably achy bones and light-headed fever didn?t stop her work on the wall, though. She needed the separation; she needed the respite from the world that only work seemed to provide.

Kacilla,

You should know that your sister had a boy, born strong and healthy. She named him Levan, after his father, though the man has not been seen since he discarded Aramissa. She holds out hope that all will be made right between them, still. She also holds out hope that you will return to us. Please make at least one of those hopes true for her, as the birth was harder on her than on the baby. She has not recovered properly from it, and remains confined to her bed. My daughter, please come home, where you belong.

By my hand,
Evalanna Raeborne Lynne

Five months it had taken the first letter to arrive. The paper was in sad shape, crumpled, water-stained, even a ring of coffee and a splash of mud. The seal had been broken open, and sloppily re-joined. The fire of the stove took it as gladly as the second letter. That second letter had only taken eight weeks to make its way to RhyDin and her hands, and had in fact been delivered at the same time as the first. It was short, in much better state, and the stove took it just as easily.

Kacilla,

Come home. Aramissa is very ill and Levan is showing the first symptoms as well. I fear for them.

Evalanna Raeborne Lynne

Thud. Thud. Thud. Kacey?s hands shook as she pounded the frame into place, ensuring it was seated securely, that the bracing was strong enough. Illness clouded her emotions, her thoughts, and she clung to her task as a lifeline. The final letter had shaken her stability beyond all bounds, and she held back the release of emotion through will. The letter had arrived only a day after the others, though it was dated a full two weeks after the last.

Kacilla,

Aramissa and Levan recovered from their illness, but the child was blinded by it. Before I begged you to return home. Now I tell you that this is not a home for you to return to.

Evalanna Raeborne Lynne

Thud. Thud. Thud. The hammer blows echoed and pounded in the confines of her head. She welcomed the throbbing pain and punished herself with it, sinking into a half-trance of concentration on her work. She would build this separation of her own will.

Dawn-light shone warm through the shutters, lines of gold sliding over the blankets to land on Kacey?s face. It was enough to stir her from a restless sleep to wakefulness. She lay perfectly still, disoriented, as her thoughts moved from incoherency to slow comprehension. She was sprawled in a rather awkward position over one of the beds in the Red Dragon, sheets and blankets tangled around her legs.

Scent of skin against skin, sense memory from a time before this room, before this land.

It wasn?t just a memory. Dark brown eyes flew open to stare up at the ceiling, but she remained otherwise unmoving. The uncomfortable press of seams into her legs was a reminder that she had fallen asleep fully clothed, apart from the sweater that had been drenched with ice-water. The light shirt that had been beneath the sweater was twisted and bunched up; she could feel it gathered under her breasts and baring her stomach.

She lowered one hand to press against the scar on the right side of her stomach. She could feel the knot of the larger scar on her back without moving. The motion brushed her hand against warm skin, and Kacey closed her eyes. Davarin. Scent of skin against skin. She had fallen asleep sitting in the curl of his arms, and it seemed he hadn?t moved, nor moved her. She?d just slid down into a twisted sprawl as the grip of his arms loosened.

Feel of smooth cotton, light and sun-warmed, and drowning in feather pillows and mingled laughter.

?If you leave now, Kacilla, it?s over between us.? Flat anger and a harsh tone as he spoke words she thought irrevocable.

?Kacilla... I know it's been over eight months... but I came here to try and fix things between us.? Quiet tenor voice. ?I'm like you now. I get by with what your parents taught me.?

Fear, anger, pain, betrayal, joy, hope ? it was too much, too fast. Her emotions were too much to bear. She felt almost numb inside, empty. Sun was warm on her face, and she opened her eyes again to stare up at motes of dust dancing in the beams of light. Eyes catching eyes in the bar mirror, and her first reaction had stunned her with its strength. Fear and a sharp stab of unmitigated joy. Anger had followed that in a rush.

He knew her too well. He knew how to break through the barriers she?d erected so carefully. Knew the way her face tightened when a headache turned vicious. Knew how to make her smile, or laugh, even when she was furious with him. It scared her, how much he knew.

It scared her, how much she didn?t. She kept expecting one reaction; he would give her another. She?d known him for twenty-three years, and she felt as if she?d never known him at all. It was too much. It wasn?t enough. And so, tangled in a weave more complex than any of her string figures, Kacey closed her eyes, and let the warmth of the sun take her back to sleep.

A week and a half of frantic work passed in an eye-blink. Kacey and Davarin finished the commission for the set of bedroom furniture with not a day to spare. Kacey hadn?t made her usual trips Dockside during the entire period. Each morning the pair cleared the center of the workshop and sparred for an hour or two ? it had been the only waking time not devoted to work in the last weeks. Davarin had been less out of practice, and his rough edges were working off faster. Kacey was fighting herself with every stroke of the blade, as much or more as she was facing her opponent. Progress was slow, and she carried the marks of countless bruises from attacks that slipped through, from uncontrolled falls.

Now the bedroom furniture was delivered. Kacey and Davarin had finished their morning spar, and after a quick bath Kacey pulled her hair back into a long braid and began to gather her toolbox. Since the night she?d almost been attacked, right outside the workshop door, there was an addition to her usual outfit. It went oddly over the carpenter?s jeans, but on her hip was the long dagger from her case of blades. The marginal warming of the weather had her forsaking her jacket in favor of a sweater layered over a long-sleeved shirt. Finally prepared, she left Davarin with the workshop and set out on a course Dockside.

The toolbox was a weight she was used to, not a burden, and the walk went quickly. A smile touched her face in the gray, overcast light as she thought of her first stop. The Bever family had been one of the first she?d helped rebuild, after the zombie attacks. A man, a woman, a three-year old boy and a newborn girl ? Alice Bever had been heavily pregnant when chaos enveloped the city. It was almost a miracle that the whole family had made it through unharmed. Kacey had helped rebuild their house ? it had been completed just in time, and Alice had given birth in her own home. Kacey still began every trip Dockside with the family, just to chat and share a cup of tea. Little Ryan was starting to call her Aunty Kacey.

The smile faded from Kacey?s face as she grew nearer to the district. She?d walked the path so often she could do it in her sleep, and her feet continued without guidance as her eyes fastened on the wisps of smoke rising ahead. She?d heard the news of riots as protests against the elections grew ? with riots came fires. From a walk to a jog to a dead run, Kacey pelted through the streets, only to skid to a stop on the street in front of the block of homes that included the Bever?s residence. That had included the Bever?s residence.

Rubble filled the streets of the mostly-ruined town. Kacey picked her way through the maze carefully; it wouldn?t do to break an ankle, when the rebellious townsfolk weren?t fully suppressed. She drew up short when she came to one half-burned house. The inhabitants had been overcome by smoke before they could reach the exit. Now they were charred bodies, a mother and a small child huddled protectively within the curve of her embrace. Kacey caught her breath with a wrenching gasp of pain.

The toolbox fell from her hand unnoticed to spill its contents on the soot-stained ground. Half of the block was gone, just scorched frames left to thrust their broken wood at the sky. Kacey had helped rebuild most of the houses on this block, though not developed the close friendship with the owners that she had with the Bevers. Now it was all ruins. She couldn?t draw a breath ? it felt like the air was frozen in her throat. Finally with a wrenching gasp she walked forward, trancelike. The front steps were almost gone, only enough stability left to hold her weight for a moment. She had to open the door to get in despite the fact that the walls were almost gone.

?There will be innocents in this town. I want you to understand that now. Some of them will die. We need to keep doing our job. Don?t lose your focus.? The harsh rasp of the sergeant?s voice strove to prepare them for what they would see. It still caught Kacey off-guard. The distraction was almost her undoing ? while she was frozen looking at the pitiable sight, a townsman who had been hiding in the rubble lunged for her back. She whirled when there was a thud from behind. It was the sound of the townsman?s body hitting the ground with a slit throat. Davarin met her eyes, and then jerked his head up the street. Time to move on.

Echoes of the past. It looked like they had been sleeping, that the fire had caught them by surprise. By the time they woke to the danger, it was too late. Tomas held Ryan in his arms; the pair of them sprawled almost to the door. Only a few feet further and they would have been safe. Alice cradled the infant Beth with one hand, her other hand stretched out with a grip on her husband?s heel. The only way to stay connected in the smoke that must have filled the house. They?d been trying to crawl to the door, to fresh air and escape.

More than a day had passed since the fire had devastated this block. When Kacey tore her gaze from the sight of the family, she could see the evidence of looters. They would have taken advantage of the confusion to grab what they could of value. Kacey didn?t need to see the other burnt houses to know that something similar had taken place in them. Then something else caught her eyes. It hadn?t been rioters that had set the block on fire, nor the smoke alone that had killed the Bevers. The windows, windows she had helped build, were fastened from the outside. She turned to look at the door where it stood half-open behind her.

It had been locked from the outside as well. A padlock had been fastened to the frame. She hadn?t noticed it at first in her shock. She?d been able to open the door only because the screws holding the padlock had lost their grip on wood more ashes than solid. Stretched too far, something in her snapped. She could almost feel it, the moment when pain and grief turned into rage. She was bitterly, coldly furious.

There had been something wrong in the West End for a long while. Now it was spreading Dockside. It was taking her friends, undoing everything she had been working for. Kacey walked out of the house, shut the door behind herself carefully. Her foot went through the top step ? she jerked it free and stalked back to her abandoned toolbox. Tools that she had packed with care just a short while before were tossed in without any attention. She didn?t notice the screwdriver that had rolled away to lodge against a fallen length of wall.

?We do this because we can, because we?re good at it. Better for those who wish to fight to go to their deaths than farmers, craftsmen, or workers. We can pick our fights, and our Captain doesn?t pick a fight that sets us against innocents. Better that we fight who can and defend those who can?t.? It was time to defend.

Thud-CRASH! The sound of the hammer hitting the wall and bouncing off to clatter on the floor was inordinately loud. Kacey followed the throw with a suppressed screech of utter frustration. Despite the efforts she and Davarin were making to investigate, they were finding out very little indeed. Neither of them was trained in investigation, and they each had obstacles standing in the way. Kacey knew the city better, had been there longer ? long enough to be known and recognized by people from all walks of life. In other circumstances, that would have been a benefit. Now those same people refused to speak to her, afraid to be ?contaminated? or accused as accessories to the murders. Davarin was being close-mouthed about the results of his own searches, but she could only guess that he was having as little luck as she.

Time was alternately rushing and crawling, and now and then seemed to do both. Her court date would come up within a month, no longer than two. For now the system had been distracted by Renna?s self-delivery under the wheels of justice. Eventually those wheels would roll on and catch up Kacey beneath their relentless turn. If no alternate suspect was found, there seemed little doubt that the Guard would have the conviction they desired. And to ensure that conviction, they seemed to be doing very little to investigate the matter on their own. Kacey held back another screech and instead lifted her hands to rake her fingers through her hair. The glint of white-gold on her wrist stopped her bitter thoughts cold.

?Don?t paint us all with the same brush.? The man had said it as he dropped the bracelet onto the table in the Inn, interrupting her conversation with Lydia. Kacey hadn?t been able to find words, hadn?t asked his name. She had the vaguest memory that perhaps he had been in the station when she was brought in. If so, he had stood up to not only his fellow members of the Watch, but also the officer of the Holding House to retrieve her bracelet. Perhaps not all in the Guard were corrupt ? and that train of thought brought her up short.

Corruption in the Guard. It had never really occurred to her, such a fact of life that it went without notice. But the padlocks must have taken quite a bit of time to install, on all the houses that were burnt. There should have been at least one patrol through the area, if not more, in that time. Where had the Guard been? Kacey went from pacing around the workshop floor to an abrupt cross-legged seat on the ground. The thought was overwhelming, and all the more frustrating, since she had no means to investigate. Or did she? Alain wouldn?t be in his office until the end of the week, and her visit to him would have to wait until then. But she could at least try to seek out this nameless Guard, who had thought enough of honor to retrieve her bracelet ? and enough of his own pride to resent being tarred with the mark of petty thievery.

Until she could find the man, she could at least revisit the Scathachian Sanctuary. She had avoided the place after her arrest, for more reasons than she really cared to explore within her own mind. But frustration can be a powerful driving force. The fluid motion she used to stand was one that few here in the city would recognize from her. Carpenters, after all, didn?t know how to move like that. Frustration was shredding her mask and destroying her walls.

Kacey sat on a workbench in her workshop and scrubbed at her face with her hands. Splitting her time between Esperance and the shop meant she felt she was giving her best to neither. With less than three weeks until her trial, she didn?t think she?d be able to give her best even if there had been only one place to focus on. Finally she lowered long scarred and callused fingers, trailing them over the smooth surface of the wood in front of her. Dark brown eyes were unfocused as she saw not the present, but the past.

?The thing about wood is that it?s solid, but forgiving, too. Not like stone ? stone?s too hard. Make yourself stone and you?ll go from solid to shattered when you hit the wall. Wood has the give, the resilience to survive.? Her father?s voice was quiet as he worked in dark polish to the surface of the tabletop. His large, rough hands moved the rag slowly and carefully over the wood and left the stain flawless. Kacey listened wide-eyed as she mimicked his motions with her small hands gripping a clean soft cloth.

?She?s only five, Marcus. She doesn?t need to hear such things ? she can?t understand them yet.? Evalanna?s voice was clear and sweetly lilting in the quiet of the room. Kacey looked over to see her mother framed in the doorway. Sunlight shone gold through her hair, and she was heavily pregnant. It blurred the delicate half-elven fineness of her features, but in Kacey?s eyes her mother was still the most beautiful woman in the world. Her father?s hand came to rest on her shoulder lightly.

?She might not understand yet, but she?ll remember. When the time comes, she?ll remember, and she?ll understand then.? His tone was firm, but unspoken resignation laced through the words. Kacey would have to remember, because he wouldn?t be there to remind her. Marcus hadn?t been a young man when he met Evalanna, and each year wore more heavily on him than the last. Each winter his lungs were clogged with the illness that would eventually kill him, and his hands, sure at their work, were twisted with arthritis.

Older than her husband by more than twenty years, Evalanna looked only barely more than half his age. Her half-elven blood granted her years her husband would never see. Kacey looked so much like her father ? from her dark brown hair the shade of his, before silver covered it, to the shape and color of her eyes and the square, too-firm set of her jaw ? and neither Marcus nor Evalanna knew whether Evalanna would one day watch her eldest daughter die of old age, as well.

Kacey didn?t understand the brief shimmer of tears in her mother?s eyes, or the tremble of her mother?s lips before her mouth firmed and she held out her hand to Kacey. ?Come, Kacilla. It?s time for your lessons, and we have to make the room ready for the Kell boy. He?ll be coming to stay any day now.? Kacey looked up at her father, with wide eyes the same shape as his. Marcus nodded and squeezed her shoulder lightly before he ushered her gently off her step-stool towards her mother.

Small bare feet pattered across the warm wooden floor and Kacey took her mother?s hand. As her mother led her away, Kacey looked back over her shoulder. Her father was working polish into the tabletop with infinite care, ensuring there was no unevenness to the tone of the stain. Though the workroom was well-lit, in contrast to the bright sunlight outside it appeared that he was standing in the shadows.

Kacey?s hands tightened on the stain-soaked rag on the bench in front of her. The bitter scent of ground walnut shells and the heavy fullness of linseed oil hung in the air, almost chokingly thick. For a moment, dust and dry summer heat seemed to cut through the atmosphere; it evaporated as quickly as memory. Her voice came out as a whisper in the stillness of the workshop. ?But wood burns.?