Kristian shrugged, as if to say 'suit yourself', and took the bottle from Marcel's grasp and tucked it neatly in the place a book had been removed from the shelf on the wall. "Well, I'll leave this here; you may need it later. I know if I had to share my bed with a mage who was handy with a firearm, I'd want something to help me sleep," he snorted, some of the joviality leaving his tone.

Marcel frowned at his brother, as much for taking away the whisky as for what he said next. Of the Therriens, Marcel was the only one who'd really been friendly with Constance, even if he'd largely been tasked to be by their father. Sure, she was a mage, but she was a noble, so it wasn't really the same. "Careful what you say, that 'mage' is a lady, and she'll be your sister-in-law quite soon."

Lord Burrows opened his mouth to interject at this point, but Brendan Burrows got there before him, speaking for the first time. "She'll be your duchess," he corrected. And the elder Burrows nodded his head in agreement.

For a moment, an uncomfortable tension settled in the air. Marcel broke it, grinning at Erwin. "Well then, Captain Serious, I hope your nerves are steady without any liquid courage, then. Because we're not here to force a drink down your gullet. We're here," his grin widened considerably, thoroughly enjoying his grave elder brother's discomfort, "to escort you to your wedding. Time to go."

It was like an out-of-body experience. Constance Carwick was dimly aware of the fuss being made over her – and what a fuss it was! – but felt oddly removed from it; more of an observer than a subject. Was this really happening to her? Not that she was able to form a question like that into an actual, concrete thought with the cacophony of chatter in the room. When had Olive last been surrounded by so many women? So many noblewomen at that. A perpetual tomboy who, as a child, had chaffed easily under the attention of only her mother and Grace whenever she needed to be made presentable, Olive thought the answer was perhaps never.

Grace was here now, of course, doing something both time-consuming and uncomfortable with her hair. Two additional maids were there at Grace's disposal to hold this or tie that or pin here. Then there were Adette and Marietta, Erwin's two younger sisters, both teenagers still and filled with such unwavering and inexhaustible enthusiasm for the day that it nearly bowled Olive over. The pair flitted between Olive, the maids, and the other guests, cheerfully speaking with everyone and anyone who would listen. Lady Rosengard, an old friend of Lord Burrows, who the Master of Coin had recruited to spearhead the wedding planning was in the room with her two daughters, only a bit older than Erwin's sisters and, like their mother, brimming with opinions. Lord Burrows' three daughters, for that matter, were here as well. Olive had to search between all the shifting women in the mirror to find the figures of the only two members of her family – the only two left – sitting quietly apart from the rest. Olive didn't know Ainsley and Bryony as well as she'd known their brothers; they had come much less often to the Keep. There was less reason for them to. But she thought they felt the same ghosts here that she did. Ainsley, the elder of the two and only a year older than Olive, had been hastily married to a middle son of the family who inherited Birchollow, looked solemn but not out of place in the room. Bryony, on the other hand, both stood out and simultaneously nearly disappeared in her modest gray nun's habit. Olive tried to catch her eye in the mirror, but her cousin hastily looked away, casting her eyes down.

Almost as surreal as the scene around her was the cause of it. This was the day Constance Carwick would disappear, and she would become Constance Therrien. Duchess of Wulfbauer. Inwardly, Olive hated that; she liked the sharp alliteration of her name. Constance Carwick. It felt right. 'Constance Therrien' felt awkward and muddled on her tongue. She could barely even get it out. It was an annoyance that she focused on, perhaps, to distract herself from the real business of the day. Becoming a duchess. Becoming a wife. The thought nearly took her breath away. Not in a rush of romantic excitement, but like a cold, clawed hand reaching into her chest and crushing her lungs. It wasn't because of Erwin. Erwin was, she knew, a better option than many that might have been given to her. And since their reconciliation after the night she'd moved the earth to save the trapped refugee mages, Olive had made a concerted effort to spend more time with him, at least for a mug of tea, even when they didn't have anything to speak about. And though the idea of having a more intimate relationship with him than that still made her feel a little uneasy, she accepted that he was the partner life was giving her, and she would give it her best. It wasn't him, personally, but what the whole affair represented. For years her life had felt full of possibilities determined by her own agency. Today, she felt, that all ended. Constance Therrien would be bound to duty, whose agency would be determined by the needs of the duchy and her husband.

"There. You look beautiful, Olive." Grace's voice, spoken quietly and only for her, crystalised amidst the din of the room. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Olive could see that Grace's were shining with tears. Olive reached out and squeezed Grace's hand, yearning for her mothers. "Come on. It's time to go."

---

The scene was more subdued in the Duke's quarters, where Lord Burrows was finishing going over some final details with the Duke – who he was quite sure was not paying attention – while a manservant attempted to ready Erwin for the event. That was, until the raucous sound of laughter echoed down the hall and finally erupted into the room in the form of Kristian and Marcel Therrien. The slightly quieter but genial form of Brendan Burrows, whom Lord Burrows had introduced to the Duke some weeks earlier, and who was staying in the Keep to aid the old Master of Coin with all the necessary arrangements. They passed a bottle, half empty, that sloshed with a fine, peaty-smelling amber whisky between them.

"Watch yourself, Kristian," Marcel warned, pulling a serious face, "you don't want Captian Serious catching you with that!"

Kristian laughed and picked up the nearest discarded glass he could find. "Normally you'd be right enough, but today of all days," Kristian answered in a feigned grave seriousness, pouring a generous amount of the liquid into the found glass, "I imagine our dear teetotal brother could do with a bit of Serenian courage." Placing himself entirely in the way of the poor manservant, whose job was not done, Kristian clapped Erwin firmly on the shoulder and thrust the glass upon him. "Don't worry, we, your brave and caring and ever supportive brothers, selflessly tested it to make sure there was nothing nefarious, no hidden poison, to spoil your big day."

"Aye, though, mind you," Marcel agreed, drinking from his own cup, "I had a look at the old chapel earlier. That gargoyle's still missing an eye. With a wife who's a better shot than half your brigade, poisoned whisky might be the least of your worries."

Brendan's heart raced as he watched the cool expression of the man across from him. Kenins was taking his time to respond, turning over his quill in his hand thoughtfully. After what felt like an excruciating wait, Kenins looked across at Brendan. "Perhaps. But you hardly needed to come here in the middle of the night to put yourself forward for the position, as I believe you are." Kenins raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"No, you're right. And frankly, my lord," Brendan continued, just slightly too quickly, betraying the nerves underlying what he was actually here to propose, "I don't think I need you in control of Wulfbauer Keep to become Master of Coin." He could tell that caught Kenins attention, and went on with more confidence. "From my uncle's letters, I can tell that Erwin Therrien relies heavily on his Master of Coin, and trusts him greatly. If anything were to happen to him, I have no doubt that he would appoint his chosen heir without hesitation. You know, my uncle could have chosen my cousin Frederik as his heir, as well. But he trusts me. And so would Erwin Therrien. The Master of Coin knows intimately every decision a duke makes. Is responsible for allocating and distributing funds. Or withholding him. He would be a powerful ally to have in the heart of the government. So you see, Lord Kenins, I have not come to beg anything of you. But to make you an offer."

Kenins put down his quill and inwardly Brendan smirked. Now he had his attention in earnest. "There is just one little hitch, Brendan. The good Lord Burrows is not – in his current state of, well being alive – in a position to pass anything on to you."

"My lord, my uncle is an old man," Brendan entreated, his voice dripping with sympathy, "if the excitement of a wedding or a war were too much of a strain on his aged heart, I do not think anyone would be surprised. We are on the brink of both. I ride to Wulfbauer Keep the day after tomorrow to help my uncle with the former. And I have heard through the hops hedge* that you have plans for the second."

---

OOC: * I couldn't help it! Wulfbauer makes beer, not wine!

Olive looked down at the folded sketch that Erwin pressed towards her for a long moment. For a long moment she considered it. A reminder, he called it. Constance did not want a reminder. She did not need a reminder. The faces of the others visited her most nights and in much of her waking days. Gently, she moved Erwin's hand back, until it and the drawing were pressed against his chest.

"If it's a reminder, I think it is best for you to keep it." There was no barb in her voice, no judgement. It was matter of fact, and afterwards she gave Erwin a small brief smile. She paused then, looking at Erwin without yet moving away. She looked as though she were regarding him, or trying to decide something. Though she felt better, calmer, now after speaking with him, the reality of her situation and of her future settled on her with a gentle resignation. So. So she lifted herself up onto her toes to kiss Erwin on the cheek. "Good night, Erwin."

With that she released the hand pressed to his chest and silently left Erwin alone in his chambers.

---

Erwin Therrien and Constance Carwick were not the only ones burning the midnight oil in Wulfbauer. Far away in the deeply wooded land Lord Roland Kenins called his own, the candle that was melting wax onto a carefully folded letter was already only a stump. Kenins pressed his seal into the wax. When a servant appeared in the darkened doorway of his study, he didn't even look up as he said, "See that this is sent with great haste to town council of Knightsbridge."

The servant nodded curtly and came forward to take the proffered letter. "My lord, Brendan Burrows is here to see you. Shall I see him in?"

Kenins looked momentarily annoyed, but quickly composed himself. "Yes, of course." A few moments later, a well-dressed young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a mop of red hair entered Kenins' study. The young man made a quick, curt bow and waited until Kenins' waved for him to sit before took the chair across from Chancellor of Wulfbauer. "Brendan. To what do I owe the pleasure at this late hour?"

Brenden Burrows flashed a confident yet disarming smile. "I have a proposition for you, my lord."

"Perhaps."

Privately, Olive thought Erwin was probably wrong, on both accounts. If anyone should have had more years as duke, she thought a little bitterly, it was Avery. Or Caspian, who was always so bright and full of life and mirth and whose loss she could still barely bring herself to think of. Both consumed by the unsatiable machine of war. Part of her wanted to remind him of this, of them, but she couldn't bring herself to. Still, given the quick succession of her own father's assassination, and the deaths of Avery and Caspian in battle, she doubted very much that anyone but Erwin assumed it was a given that the younger Therrien would have 'many years' to learn at his father's side. Instead, she just listened, watching his features as he spoke of his father and his resignation to his role.

Nor was she certain that Erwin or Silas was correct that she would be able to do more here. Have a greater influence? Perhaps. As a symbol, not as an active participant driven by her own agency. She could, she thought, live with that but it made her feel trapped, small. But perhaps Erwin was right, and Erwin.

Olive stayed where she was for several long moments, watching the glow of the fire's embers, unconsciously moving her thumb against Erwin's hand. Suddenly, it seemed, she remembered that it was the middle of the night and that she had, after all, intruded. "Sorry, I came and imposed myself on you well past reasonable hours. I'll let you sleep."

Olive lingered for a moment, then rose. "Thank you, Erwin, for... talking to me." She turned to see herself out, but something caught her eye and before she was at the door, she found herself drawn over to the sketch of the woman and her grandson. Olive stared at it wordlessly for a long time. The fact that Erwin had taken the time at all surprised her, and moved her. Nor did she miss the trace of hope in the subjects' eyes. Erwin's hope for them, perhaps. But more than anything, Olive was impressed that Erwin had seen them. Really seen them. "This is very good."

Olive was about to ask if he meant that really, considering what battles his men might have been fighting before Erwin, as Duke, had recalled them to Wulfbauer. But he quickly corrected himself and Olive only nodded, listening. Somehow listening to him and his own worries drew her out of her own personal anguish a little and brought her to the present.

”I know what you mean, about being the same as any other man, out there. I stopped being Constance Carwick after Mercuxio sent me away from that first camp. In that place over our northern border, nobody cared what your title or lineage might be.” A chill entered Olive’s voice as she spoke of it, her eyes becoming distant. That was not a place she often recalled. And for good reason. ”I won’t pretend that it wasn’t terrifying, losing what protection my name had granted me in the first camp and, I suppose, my entire life up to that point. The fear that comes when you’re trapped and truly powerless, held by those who consider you little more than an animal or a plaything…” She didn’t elaborate, and for a long moment she was silent. ”But after I escaped, living on the run with others like me, then there was a real camaraderie in being the same as everyone else. Finally I was really worth what I could do, what I earned with my own actions. And I wasn’t alone.” Olive let out a little puff of an exhale, looking down guiltily and adding, ”Silas says I’m in the same position still; but now I’m in a position to do so much more. But it comes at the cost of that camaraderie. And I know others believe I have betrayed them. Believe that if I’d been loyal to the cause, I never would have agreed to leave the dungeon once I’d arrived here.”

That thought had not ceased to trouble Olive. It was not, in fact, confirmed. But it was the logical extension of what many of her compatriots had said. And if the roles had been reversed, would she feel any differently? How could they not think that she had given up their ideals for the sake of her own personal benefit? She glanced at Erwin’s hoarse laugh at the thought of his soldiers who would be so quick to trade places with him. ”I can’t say that I don’t appreciate the physical comfort of being here. Out there, hunger and cold can be a more deadly enemy than a soldier. But out there we shared everything. But having these comforts when they don’t…” She sighed. ”Well, imagine if we both had our way and were back out there, instead of here. I imagine things wouldn’t be quite so cordial, were we to meet.” Then it was her turn to give a short laugh, glancing over at him.

”But Erwin,” she continued, more earnestly now, and she turned a little to face him, ”you must realise that when the lords chose a new line to take the Dukeship that they wouldn’t have only thought they were choosing your father. I know he passed before he ought to have, but he was not a young man. I know I wasn’t in the room, but I can’t imagine that those lords did not also think that they were choosing you. And listening to you talk about your relationship with your men, you remind me of my father. Not some pompous aristocrat, like you might find in Hellvion, but a Duke of Wulfbauer.”

When Erwin's gaze found Olive's, hers mirrored the grandmother and grandson as Erwin had idealized them: full of foreboding, but with a clear note of hope. Just as had been the case with Mercuxio all those years ago, Olive needed someone to trust. But since she first met Merric in the ramshackle chapel they'd erected in Valarinus, Olive had spent five years surviving the war. She'd learned a lot about people in that time, and how to trust her gut. And in the quiet of that moment, Olive trusted Erwin Therrien.

A shadow flickered across her features, though, at Erwin's next words. 'No matter what happened in the camps, you're here now and alive.' She physically recoiled at the thought, her hand clenching in Erwin's. She looked away from him to the dying fire, her expression awash with both guilt and sadness.

"But that's the thing. By no merit of my own, I'm spared again. Because of the accident of my birth. Living here like this, safe inside a defended castle with a warm fire and always enough food and – I know it sounds silly, bit it feels terrible. I feel terrible." She trailed off for a moment, then realizing how that must sound, looked up at Erwin. "Please don't misunderstand me. I'm very grateful, Erwin. You didn't have to take me in and you've given me back... Well, as much as my old life as is left. But..." Olive searched for the words to express the anguish she felt, being set apart from the nation's downcast mages. "You were in the military," she finally tried, searching for an analogy, "doesn't it weigh on you living like, well, this," she looked around the comfortable and secure room, "when you think of your men out there? It weighs so heavily on me..."

Now that Olive had opened a crack of vulnerability, all the doubt and misgivings she'd kept bottled up in the last months were trickling out.

”He’s the Duke of Bellkrath now, I’ve heard.”

Constance couldn’t bring herself to say the name of Mercuxio Rastognlir, but even mentioning him her shaky voice steadied into something cold, full of a different emotion all together. And yet she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go on, if she wanted to share this with Erwin. Or with anyone, for that matter. Part of her never wanted to speak about it again. What would he think of her? But her reaction last night and this morning made her realise perhaps she needed to. And who else did she have? She had no siblings, her cousins were dead. She would never have dreamed of telling her parents, even if they lived; one of her most fervent hopes was that they died without ever really knowing what they had sent their daughter into. She hadn’t even told Valerian about her time in the camps more than a few words. He would listen now, she knew, if she turned to him. But Olive had to think about what was fair to him now that their lives were necessarily diverging. So she went on.

”But he was a priest at the time. A Confessor, though he kept that to himself. He – I trusted him, maybe because I knew him. I had been friends with his sister. Maybe it was easier to trust him, though I hate to admit it, because he was like me: a highborn noble who never expected to find themselves in such a place.” Her cheeks burned with shame at the thought, and the memory of that very accusation that had been thrown at her. At the time she hadn’t been able to acknowledge the possibility that it might be true, but now she wasn’t so sure. ”Or maybe I just needed somebody to trust. Someone who might actually have the power to do something. I tried to do everything I could there, leveraging my position to protect the people I could. But I was just a girl, and still a mage, whoever my parents were. But the adult son of a duke, of the duke whose lands held the camps, and a representative of the Church… When he said that he wanted to change things, that he wanted to help, I believed he could. I was such a fool. Those were the very things that should have told me I could never trust him. But he did change things…”

Olive’s voice dropped and she fell silent for a moment, grappling with the memory. With the very real hatred she felt just recalling the man. She would kill him, if she could. She would do it with her bare hands.

”And when the Mordecai in the camp suspected him, I protected him. I thought I was protecting everyone and it nearly cost me my life… I’ll bear the scars of that mistake until I die.” Figuratively as well as physically. ”Gods, if I hadn’t… If they had detained him before he was able to call the others from his Order…” She had to stop again, hanging her head in her hands. But when she lowered them, they found Erwin’s again, and she looked up at him for the first time since she’d began. Her eyes were wide, plaintive.  ”They murdered everyone, Erwin. Everyone. Everyone except me. And I – “ Her throat closed again and she dropped her gaze. She was, she realised, shaking. ”He made them spare me. I was too personal for him, I think, to let them kill me with the others. For a long time, I wished bitterly that he hadn’t.”

The appearance of Erwin's form in the doorframe made Olive swallow a hard lump in her throat. Finding him awake and willing to talk to her, she had to remind herself, was what she should have hoped for. But still she had to steel herself to follow his gesture of invitation into the room with a quiet, "Thanks."

Now that she was here, Olive at first wasn't sure what to do, where to put herself, what to say. After a moment of hesitation, she simply chose the nearest option and perched half-sitting, noncommittally and not quite settled, on the edge of Erwin's bed. That thought on its own sent a cold feeling in her stomach; it was the same bed she'd crawled into as a small girl, wedging herself between her parents. She felt small now, and vulnerable.

"I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for how I acted this morning. I – I don't know what happened," she said after letting out a shaky sigh, her gaze fixed on some indecipherable point in the middle distance. She sat with her hands in her lap, fingers interlaced in a tight grip. Though she spoke softly, there was an emotion clear in her voice that was akin to fear, but this time it was not directed at Erwin. "Sometimes I saw something similar, I think, in people who'd come from the camps. Even though it might have been months since they'd escaped, they had spells were they couldn't understand that they weren't there anymore, that those particular dangers and threats were in the past. It might be any number of things that triggered it and it could be very difficult sometimes to bring them back to the present..." She paused to swallow again, feeling a burning shame kindle in her again. She frowned, continuing in a lower tone, "I think something like that happened to me. I- It never happened to me before, out there. I don't know what's wrong with me now." She rested her face in her hands and let out another long exhale then drew her hands down to her chin, fingers curled and a fingernail pressed into her lower lip. She felt deflated, defeated, and ashamed. Ashamed to be anything less than strong, defiant, and fighting.

But she forged forward, glancing with a nervous uncertainty at Erwin. "I think seeing you there, out there, with those vulnerable people..." Olive wanted to stop, to leave it there and keep the rest to herself. But she knew she owed Erwin an explanation. She bit her lip, hands falling to her lap again. "When I was in the camps, I made a mistake, a terrible mistake. Trusting a man like you, a nobleman who said he wanted to help. I believed him and because – because of that – I – " She tried to go on, but Olive felt her throat tighten, choking out any more words. Instead she glared furtively at the ground, angry at the hot welling of tears that threatened to fall if she went on.

The hard, blazing suspicion that had been clear on Olive’s face faltered at Erwin’s words. It was replaced by an uncertain tumult of emotions. She was still present enough to see that Erwin was earnest, or at least appeared earnest, making her feel both embarrassed and guilty. But even that earnestness brought back a hot flush of painful memories. Erwin Therrien was not the first nobleman to tell Constance Carwick with an earnest sincerity that he wanted to help the suffering of mages, help her.

In that moment, she did indeed want to flee the castle. But instead she only nodded numbly at Erwin’s offer to let her be. ”Yes, I should… Grace must be worried,” she mumbled lamely, looking down at the library floor. She paused a moment and opened her mouth as though she was about to say something, but closed it and slipped silently out of the library. She stopped momentarily in the library doorway, casting one last look over her shoulder at Erwin, then disappeared.

---

Though it had been an excuse, Olive was right. When she entered her quarters, Grace was waiting here with a face like thunder. She stood up when Olive entered the room, mouth open ready – Olive was sure – to reprimand her. But one look at Olive and the coming tirade dissipated, Grace's shoulders slumping and expression softening into something that Olive thought looked awfully like sadness.

”Come on, let’s get you in the bath,” Grace sighed, sweeping Olive up and getting her out of her soiled clothing. Olive let Grace fuss over her like this; she could see the clear concern on the older woman’s face. But she stayed mostly silent, only uttering simple ‘thank you’s at the appropriate moment. And when the bath was drawn, much to Grace’s displeasure, Olive dismissed both her and the other maid who’d brought up the hot water.

Once she was alone, Olive sank into the hot water. She sank into it like she might disappear into it. She wasn’t sure how long she soaked there, feeling oddly disassociated from her body, her surroundings. Long after the water turned cold, an urge drove her to slip into it until it had enveloped her entire body. She opened her eyes, looking at her distorted knees through the bathwater and holding her breath until necessity drove her upwards. Gulping in air, Olive felt – finally – a return to the reality of her surroundings, of her life now. Yes, the night before she had been outside of the safety of the Keep, side-by-side with those made refugees and criminals, and yes for a moment Erwin had seemed a threat. But that moment had passed. Here she was, immersed in (once) hot soapy water with loyal staff at her call if she wanted them in the center of a fortified castle, a castle she would soon be mistress of. Whatever immediate threat she’d felt, she realised with a cold clarity, was in her head. It wasn’t here in the Keep, and it certainly wasn’t Erwin Therrien.

The realization was a cold comfort. Olive didn’t know how to fight an enemy in her head. Where to run from it or how to hide. And with it came a new rush of not only embarrassment – at the way she’d reacted to Erwin – but shame. Since she returned here, she kept lashing out at the people who wanted to help her. She’d done the same thing to Valerian when she’d first seen him again, as well. But she’d had a lifelong friendship to fall back on with Vale. There was nothing to fall back on with Erwin. And it wasn’t only how she treated him that stoked the shame in her now. She thought of herself as stronger, as more resolute than this. Why was she cracking up here, now? When she had more comfort and protection than possibly any mage in the country. It was pathetic. She wanted to shake it off and go back to the plan of proactive involvement, of doing things. No longer fighting a guerilla war, but using her position to leverage change, save lives. But more than ever, the oppressive weight of it all lay on her like lead, unshakeable. The weight of the guild and sadness, and confinement.

So when Grace finally gave up on waiting and came to fetch her from the cold bath, the only resolve Olive could muster was to curl up in bed. She would apologise to Erwin tomorrow, she resolved. She couldn’t face him today. She spent much of the day in bed, half-asleep or shuffling through the charcoal sketches she’d made while she was still in the East Wing; her memories of the camps. As day turned to night, Olive grew increasingly restless, the weight of her guilt and the knowledge that she would need to speak again with Erwin sitting heavier on her chest. She stared sleepless at the shadows cast by the moon on her ceiling until finally it became too much for her to bear. For the first time that day, Olive got out of bed. Shrugging on an old dressing gown over her night clothes, she padded barefoot out of her room and down the corridor to where the duke slept. The castle was already silent and dark, but it was a path Olive had tread countless times as a child.

When she reached his quarters, she hesitated for a moment, then rapped her knuckles against the door. She pushed it ajar just enough to say quietly into the darkness, ”Erwin? It’s Constance. I… I’d like to talk.”

Olive took an unconscious step back as Erwin stood, staring sternly and stonily down at her. Again the Erwin she’d come to know, and even like, in the past months was slipping away, replaced with the vision the old mage woman had when Erwin appeared at the cave entrance. A military man, a man of power, a threat. Dimly aware of the trap her mind was laying for her, Olive tried to shake herself out of it and focus on something, anything, that would turn him back into the man she’d called a friend only a week before. But she could feel her pulse quicken, her heart thundering in her ears, pushing her towards she wasn’t sure what. She wanted to flee, out of the library, out of the Keep, to somewhere where she could tell in stark clarity what was safety and what was danger. But she forced herself to stay where she was, rooted in place, meeting Erwin’s cold stare.

And for a moment, the fog of anxiety began to lift. She blinked when Erwin offered to find another way to help the refugees find safe passage on their way to safer lands. For a moment that other Erwin, the real one, came back into focus. She felt her breathing return to a more normal rhythm. And though she noted it, she did not even react with Erwin looked over her shoulder; a move that moments earlier would have made her certain that another threat lay behind her.

It didn’t last. Olive’s eyes widened at Erwin’s next question. He wanted to see how they had been doing it? Why? Now it was not only the part of Olive’s brain reacting to the rising panic in her body that regarded Erwin with suspicion and fear. The request felt like the setting of a trap that he was now leading her into, one that would spring as soon as she'd said what he wanted to know. Shown him the methods and means of the already desperate operation. An alternative reality started creeping into Olive’s mind. One in which Erwin had been gaining her trust to find the information he needed to root out what was left of the mages still fighting for freedom in this part of Wulfbauer.

How does that make sense? He had no part in you showing up on his doorstep. But the small part of her that could still remember these things critically was drowned out by another memory. Of another mage, Darnell, yelling at her in the camps that she trusted those in power too easily because she came from the same ranks. She had trusted Mercuxio Rangstolir, certain that he intended to help them to safety. An icy grip clenched her stomach thinking of the results. Maybe Darnell was right. What made her think Erwin Therrien was different?

”No,” she answered after a long, tense moment, voice firm and clear and suspicion clear in her eyes, ”I would rather not. I said it would stop. Why do you want to know more?” She thought not only of the fleeing mages, but of Bairn and Astrid, and now even Valerian, who might lose their positions or worse if Olive exposed them.

Olive hadn't thought long enough before speaking to have any expectations of Erwin's reaction. But now that it had all spilled out of her, something in the coldness of Erwin's response startled her. She frowned and, suddenly wanting more space than the small window seat afforded, jumped to her feet, regarding Erwin with her arms crossed tight across her chest.

She looked no less agitated, however, and was barely was able to stand still. She had heard him say that he supported her, but what he said next – 'I'd just like to ... know what the plan is.  So I'm not making any rash decisions again because I walked into an unfamiliar situation.' – sounded to her in that moment almost like a threat. She stood like that for several long moments, arms crossed, fidgeting, staring defiantly at him.

"No," she answered, finally acknowledging his earlier question, "I haven't done this sort of thing before, not since coming to Wulfbauer. How could I have?" she added sharply, a barbed reminder that until very recently, Olive had not been free to come and go as she pleased. "But," she paused, tight-lipped, before going on, "but I have been using the old store room of the stables, at times, as a waypoint, a safe station, on the way out of Connlaoth. For people like we met last night. I won't do it anymore," she added quickly, making that decision as the words came out of her mouth. "I realise that the stakes are too high for that now."

Olive glowered defiantly at Erwin, as if daring him to challenge the morality of what she'd done. But for all of Olive's sharp looks at Erwin, something in her expression made it unclear if he was really the source of her ire, her agitation. Or if it was some inner demon that troubled her.

I just worry that you think you can save every single one of them out there.

Constance did not hear anything Erwin said after that. The words sent a chill down her spine and the temperature in the room, already tepid, plummeted. She was very still and very silent, letting Erwin go on, but her attention was dragged back to other places and other times. When she finally spoke, the control she had to exert to keep her voice steady was obvious.

”No, Erwin,” she answered quietly, ”I am painfully aware that I cannot ‘save every single one of them.’”

She remained silent for a moment, then turned to fully face him, pivoting her body toward him in the limited space afforded by the window seat. ”Would you like to hear their names? The ones I couldn’t save. Or how they died? Their brains splattered against a camp wall, or hunted down in the wild like whale-eyed hares, or caned into unconsciousness and left to die as an example? Or what it’s like, being forced to dig their shallow graves in the frozen earth? Or how, when there were too many to bury in the ground, they piled their corpses into unholy pyres? How long those fires take to burn? What it does to the air, what it smells like? Or maybe what they did to them before they were killed? Old men and women barely able to carry themselves, much less a burden. Children ripped from their parents and families made to toil at their side. Pretty girls barely teenagers left at the mercy of bored and cruel guards.”

She was shaking now, and so was her voice. Constance looked like she might strike him, or up and leave altogether, or – even less characteristically – burst into tears. But she did none of them, only stared tight-lipped at Erwin, a face not like thunder, but like a swelling storm threatening at any moment to break.

”So yes,” she finally said, ”I will try to save every single one that I can.”

"Of course there's a better way," Olive answered matter-of-factly. She looked at Erwin nonplussed for a moment. Did he really not understand? Realising that maybe he didn't, she finally went on, "That's why I'm supporting you, Erwin. Even before you asked... anything of me," she stumbled a bit to avoid saying anything directly about marriage. "You stopped the deportation of mages from Wulfbauer, whatever mages are left. You withdrew the duchy's troops from Calent's war. You've already enacted real change, change that Kenins would undo in a heartbeat. And I – I'll be a duchess and a publicly known mage. If that does nothing to change people's hearts, then..."

Olive trailed off, leaving her doubt unspoken. But she frowned as she reflected on Erwin's words. She chose not to say anything more about his admission of how quickly he would have cut Silas down. It stirred a certain resentment in her, but back in the Keep and knowing the truth of what she'd just spoken, she didn't want to quarrel more with him about that more. It was the scenario he had imagined, where it hadn't been him who'd found her in the Maze. She thought he'd given her less credit than she deserved, assuming she'd have ended up dead rather than the non-Erwin, but that wasn't what troubled her. "But if you think that involves less personal risk than 'riding out alone in the night,' I think you're being naïve.  A duchess who's a marked mage. I'll be the most obvious and symbolic target for any radical conservative, ardent supporter of the Grand Duke, or a vigilante acting in the name of the Church." She sounded neither accusatory nor afraid as she said this, only as though she were explaining something obvious. "I did think about that, though, before I agreed. That's a risk I can take."

She sighed and leaned back against the stone wall, feeling her muddy riding clothes brush against the sleeve of Erwin's clean shirt as she did so. For a moment she watched the play of the colored light against the library. "It isn't just the camps, Erwin. The camps could disappear tomorrow, the whole country could go back to how it was before this whole bloody war began, and it would be neither safe nor just for us here. This war can't end with things going back to how they were before. I'll play whatever part needed, to try to shape a better future, for all Connlaothians. Even if I would rather be out there," she nodded to the window he pointed at, "riding on my own."

She let out a short exhale, though, and looked sidelong at him. A little sheepish. "I know that's not what you meant, though. I – I'm sorry that I put myself at risk without telling you. You're right, that's not what we both agreed to. I just wasn't willing to risk their lives, if you said no." She glanced at him again, briefly, before adding, "It isn't as though I've seen much of you, anyway, if I'd wanted to."

'Remember that thing we said the other night, about honesty?'

Those words settled meaningfully on Olive and she blinked, looking at Erwin anew. Since the previous night, she'd been seeing Erwin with the same eyes the old woman had. As a soldier, a symbol of the oppressive regime that had wrecked all their lives and ended so many more, as a threat. As the enemy. But his words now made her see him again as she had the other week, when she'd agreed to marry him, and she remembered his slumped and, she thought, vulnerable stature when she had first realized that he was not only a duke, her duke, but a man. A man who needed a friend.

Olive swallowed, her posture relaxing a little. And though she gave him a troubled frown at his 'joke,' after a long moment she nodded, "Alright."

She scooted over in the window seat, leaving room for Erwin next to her should he choose to sit down. For several long moments she was silent, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. Erwin was right. For better or worse, she had agreed to bind her future to his, and she owed him a certain degree of transparency. But the remnants of a defiant anger still smoldered in her stomach.

"I am aware that I will be the Duchess of Wulfbauer and I do understand what that entails in terms of balancing my own personal freedoms and desires against what duty requires, even if it seems to you that I acted rashly," she began, speaking slowly and measured, finding her way through what she wanted to say, her voice quiet. "And I daresay that I have been bound by that duty for much more of my life than you have been. I went willingly to the camps when they came for me, without struggle or even complaint, because my parents asked it of me and because I, like them, understood that my actions had repercussions for the Duchy. I did it to protect them and, I thought, Wulfbauer." She paused for a long moment, looking up towards where the colored light played against the spines of books, as though looking for words. "I don't see things the same way anymore. What I've come to learn is that those actions only protect a Wulfbauer that includes some. It doesn't include good men like Silas, whose village was not far from Arbutus Vale, you know. It doesn't include that man or his wife, or the starving child. And if I had been born to any other father, it would not include me."

Olive fell silent again for a long moment. Wherever she was going with those statements, she did not immediately continue down that path. Instead she continued, "You can't know what it's like. To have someone just look at you and in that moment decide – because you don't look right, because how worn your clothes are or how hollow your cheeks are, because you're in the wrong place at the wrong time – decide in just a moment that you're disposable. That there is no reason not to act immediately with violence. If you're not a mage, you're probably a bandit or a beggar. Either way, no one will miss you and no one will ask questions. To have people just... utterly refuse to see your humanity."

She let out a long sigh, releasing some of the anger that built up in her with those words. Finally she turned to look across to Erwin at her side. "I don't want you to think that I just run wantonly around, or intend to, thinking I can still fight for my cause like I had before I arrived here. Using my... using magic terrifies me. But what was I supposed to do? Forfeit nine lives to protect my position? To protect yours? To protect a Wulfbauer only for those it doesn't condemn? I can't do that anymore. When the choice is that stark, I can't choose like I used to. Not anymore."

Shafts of red and blue sunlight shone through the stained glass window onto Olive’s face. The morning sun was already well above the horizon and, blinking off sleep, she realized it must already be mid-morning. If she’d dreamt, she had no memory of it; Olive had slept straight through the night and felt now like she was emerging from a deep, heavy mist back into wakefulness. The next thing she noticed was the strangeness of her surroundings. The colored light that shone in her face and, when she shifted, the stiffness in her muscles from sleeping curled up in the library nook. Olive rubbed her face, shrugging off the quilt she realized someone must have placed on her in the night. That jolted her and she felt a flash of annoyance that someone had found her here like this, out of place and vulnerable. Looking at her palms, she realized too that her face was still smudged with mud and, worse, dried blood, both of which she also found under her fingernails.

Scenes from the previous night flashed back through her head. The thrilling, terrifying, icy magic coursing through her. The struggle to control it. The injured man’s hollow grey eyes. Erwin’s eyes, flashing with hot anger. The near miracle Silas had worked on the injured man’s leg. Something cold trickled through her, settling uneasily in her stomach. Her place here felt suddenly and frighteningly insecure. She glanced down at the open pages of the Epic of Herion, which someone had placed carefully on the little reading table next to the seat, still open to the page she’d left on. In the margins of the illuminated tome, the Red Witch stood in her terror and glory, wreathed in blood red serpents. How appropriate, Olive thought. What aspiring ruler, what Herion, would welcome a witch into his home, once he saw what she was?

Something else was nagging at Olive’s senses as she woke. The increasing feeling that she wasn’t alone; that someone was watching her. Her green eyes looked slowly up and over to the door and she visibly startled when she saw Erwin Therrien there, silently watching her in the doorway. Olive scrambled to sit upright, back plastered straight against the wall of the nook, facing Erwin wide-eyed. She looked now more than ever like a cornered animal. How long, she wondered, had he been there? Suddenly Olive didn’t only look like a cornered animal, her back against the wall, but as her heart thundered in her chest, she felt like one as well.

”Good morning,” she finally said after what felt like an eternity. ”I suppose you’re here to tell the unkempt, unruly mage that it’s high time she pack her bags and go trouble some minor lord rather than keep her under your own roof.” The question, if it was a question, had the cadence of a joke and it was clear Olive was trying to break the tension. That she was trying to joke. But it was equally clear, in her stiff posture and the fear that shone clear in her eyes, that it was no such thing. ”I’m sure Burrows already has a list of options drawn up somewhere.”

The real fear, of course, was not that Erwin would decide she was too much trouble and foist her off to some other lord to marry. The real fear was that, after what he saw, Erwin wouldn't turn to Lord Burrows. But to the Church. But that was a fear that even Olive could not joke about.

A somber silence surrounded Olive on their ride back to the Keep and she made no attempt to engage Erwin. She rode several paces behind him, watching him with a strange mix of emotions, though they were all secondary to the exhaustion that still wracked her body. It was a strange mix of anger, appreciation, and fear. She couldn’t forget the ease and the haste with which he’d moved to attack Silas. The easy assumption that anyone who looked downcast, who didn’t fit into society’s prescribed norms was not only assumed to be an enemy, but disposable enough that a nobleman could afford to draw his blade first and ask questions later. But once he’d understood the situation, he had not thwarted them, as he so easily could have. Couldn’t he have? More than that, he had helped and when he returned from retrieving his sword, he hadn’t berated her. He’d helped her; his skeepskin coat still warm around her shoulders. But for all that… what would he think of her now? Now that he’d seen some of what she could do? Seen her with, in her mind, her own people. She’d seen the fear in his eyes. Would she prove as disposable as Erwin had first flagged Silas to be? And what would she do, if Erwin decided it was safer to turn her out, or turn her over, than to keep her? Somehow she didn’t think that he would, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. She didn’t flatter herself that he needed her that much. But some gut feeling told her he wouldn’t. Then again, her own father had signed her over to the camps. So she took nothing for granted. But she didn’t say anything; she was too tired, and too sad. She only rode dutifully behind Erwin and looked, every so often, over her shoulder into the night.

When they arrived at the Keep, Olive slid off her horse without a word and was handing his reigns over to one of the newer stable hands when she saw Bairn rush forward. ”Miss Olive! Er, I mean, Lady Constance, what – I’ve been waiting, since you left so late – what…. Are you okay?” The obvious, almost fatherly concern on Bairn’s face made Olive’s stomach churn with guilt. How could she keep track of everyone who might be affected by her actions? And of course, Bairn’s concern was more knowing than that, which was underscored when he said in a lower, worried tone, ”You look likeyou’ve been through the trenches. You’ve blood all over your sleeve, Miss- m’lady.”

”We came across an injured hind,” Olive lied unconvincingly. ”We put her out of her misery, but she was too sickly to warrant bringing back, and it would have taken too long, at any rate. But I am sorry to come back so late and to cause you worry, Bairn.”

Olive did her best to muster a small, reassuring smile for the old stable hand, but she felt her reserves quickly failing and thought she might soon collapse where she stood if she stayed much longer. So, without another word, she handed Searchlight’s reins over to Bairn. Turning to Erwin still without making eye contact with him, Olive shrug off his coat, handing it up to him with a quiet, ”Thank you,” then hurried still a little shakily back to the main Keep.

Bairn frowned deeply as he watched her go, glancing uncertainly at Erwin. ”Lady Constance always brings her horse in herself,” he said plainly, clearly dismayed as he stroked the horses’s velvety nose. ”Poor soul. Putting that hind out of her misery must have shook her. I’m sure you did the right thing, though, m’lord.”

---

Inside, Olive found herself standing in front of the closed door to her quarters. Somehow, even though she was bone tired, she couldn’t bring herself to go in. The juxtaposition between scrambling in the mud with the refugees – knowing that they were in this very moment likely huddled together in the cold, struggling to sleep in the cold night, wary of danger – and the safe, cozy bedroom of her childhood was too much for her to take. She took a few steps backwards, then decided to simply collapse in some unused guest room. But as she wandered down the hall, her mind was racing with too many half-materialized thoughts to fall silently to sleep. Changing direction, her feet carried her to the now dark library.

Olive picked up an oil lamp positioned near the door and lit it, lowering the flame to just enough to see by. She let the large, heavy doors swing closed behind her, not noticing that one remained slightly ajar. She wound her way silently along the shelves until she saw the spine of something familiar. With some effort, Olive pulled out the green, leatherbound, and worn copy of The Epic of Herion, an Old Connlaothian, pre-Angsarian national epic. It was now forgotten in many circles, but one Olive had read as a teenager and even written a series of essays about at university in Uthlyn. This copy was a large, heavy vellum tome and Olive had to lug it over to a plush nook of a window seat beneath a tall, narrow stained glass window. Still in her stained and muddy riding clothes, Olive curled up in the nook. She didn’t even open to the first page, or a particular page. She just opened the book at random.

Herion was trapped in the snares of the Red Witch, whose aim was to seduce him and waylay him from achieving his ultimate goal of reunifying his father’s fractured kingdom. She had succeeded in luring him back to her lair having disguised herself as a frightened and helpless, but young and beautiful, widow in need of his aid to oust the lecherous and violent barbarians who’d invaded her home. When he arrived, though, Herion found that he was the one in trouble and the hapless widow was infinitely more powerful than he thought. Stripped of the magical hide armor that made him invulnerable to any man’s weapon and bound hand and foot by hissing, venomous serpents conjured by the Red Witch, Herion could only imagine what dark and nefarious purposes the dangerous woman might have….

But what they were, or what Herion did next, was lost on Olive. She only made it through a page and a half before sleep took her, curled up in the window nook with the tome open in her lap, the oil lamp still flickering on the colorful windowsill above her.

Olive nodded numbly as Erwin handed her the reins, not making eye contact. She only even watched him scramble back up to the cave from the corner of her eye. The idea in his mind, of her mounting her horse and riding off after Silas and the others, didn’t even enter hers. Without the urgency of the situation pumping her full of adrenaline, Olive felt the full effects now of the feat she’d performed. She was beyond exhausted all of the sudden and, partially as she had left her coal on the old woman’s shoulders, she was feeling very, very cold. It wasn’t exactly the magic that consumed so much energy; it was controlling it. And controlling it in the emotional state she’d been in had required a considerable effort that was starting to take its toll on her.

Feeling suddenly faint, Olive leaned her weight against Searchlight’s black fur. For a moment she felt relieved, but a wave of light-headedness flooded through her. She very much did not want to appear weak now, expose her vulnerabilities even more in front of Erwin. She already felt vulnerable enough that he’d seen her perform magic, found her amongst the refugee mages. But a darkening in the corner of her eyes told her she had no choice and she made her way unsteadily to the broad trunk of a beech tree, sliding down its smooth silver bark until she was sitting crouched at its base. Realising she was shaking badly now, Olive pulled her knees up around her, letting her forehead rest on her folded kneecaps. She just needed to rest, she told herself. In just a moment, she would be fine.

”On to safety, God willing,” Olive answered, eyes not leaving the weary group of refugees, and she did not look as hopeful as her words. The others helped up the poor man whose leg might carry him, but whose wife would remain in these woods, buried beneath earth and stone, as he moved on. The older woman huddled close to him now, speaking low words of solace and encouragement as the man’s bereaved stare refused to leave the cave.

Olive broke away from Erwin and moved over to the man, gently touching his arm. ”Tell me, brother, your wife’s favorite flower.” The question snapped the man momentarily out of his reverie, and he hoarsely told her of his wife’s love of maybells, the herald of spring turning into summer. ”I will come back here and raise her a cairn, surrounded by maybells. She won’t be forgotten. I promise.”

As Olive spoke to the wooden-legged man and the old woman, Silas Greene approached Erwin. His blue-gray eyes regarded him more frankly now than they had before, as if trying to decide what to make of this nobleman, this famous military leader – of a military which had, of course, harassed and persecuted his own people for years – but who had aided them without question tonight, and in whose hands the fate of young Constance rested. After a long moment he spoke, ”Thank you for your help tonight, Duke Therrien, and for your discretion,” he added pointedly. ”If I can at some time be of service to you in turn, you need only call on me.” He paused, something shifting in his expression, and it felt for a moment that he had more to say, but it passed and he only said, ”Constance knows how to contact me.”

Silas turned then to address Olive, who’d returned from the bereaved man, but before he could she pulled him into a fierce hug. Olive buried her face in her friend’s shoulder, desperate to hold onto this moment. She didn’t want to say goodbye to Silas now; she knew she wasn’t just bidding farewell to him. Or to the mages he was shepherding. But to the life he represented, the version of herself that she got to inhabit again for a few hours tonight, the one that really felt like herself. Free. And a life amongst people who understood her; her own people. A cold stab of loneliness penetrated deep into her. With a final squeeze, she felt Gilas gently release her from his embrace and hold her at arms’ length. The emotion on her face could not have been plainer; it left no room for doubt about which life Olive would choose, were she given a choice. She looked for a moment nearly as grief-stricken as the widower. But Silas leaned forward and spoke something quietly in her ear and, though she frowned, her expression settled into an unhappy resolve, and she nodded.

Turning one last time to regard Erwin, Silas gave him a curt nod, then turned back, as it were, to his flock, shepherding them into a narrow passageway by this time engulfed in shadows. He was the last to follow, giving a low whistle into the night before he disappeared into the maze. A few moments later, the soft clop of the horses’ hooves could be heard, and the beasts rejoined their masters in the clearing. Olive felt the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end as she became suddenly very conscious of being alone with Erwin now. The look he’d given her earlier flashed back in her mind; his anger and, later, his fear. But Olive was exhausted now, cold and drained, both physically and emotionally. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but she turned slightly towards him, looking determinately at a particular leaf on the ground, to which icy frost still clung, and bracing herself for the censure she was certain Erwin would deliver.

Concern was etched on Olive's face, and a deep sadness at the man's sorrow and regret over his wife. But there was a firmness in her expression, too, and she did not seem nearly as shaken by the bloody, gory mess of the injury as one might expect from a young lady. The violent reality of war had touched her on many occasions and, in other circumstances, she had chosen Erwin's unspoken option. But now they would not need to make such a crude choice. With a determined look, Olive shook her head.

"No, not a surgeon," she responded, her green eyes leading Erwin's to where Silas was already crouched next to the injured man. As Erwin had spoken to Olive, Silas had already set to work cutting away the man's trousers from the crushed and bloody leg with a long, bone-handled knife. He tapped a green-gray ash out of his pipe into his hands and, spitting on them, rubbed it into a thin paste, which he spread over the worst of the bleeding.

"Olive," he called her back, his eyes not leaving his work and his voice still eerily calm, but now with a steady focus and underlying urgency, "I need two young rowan beams. I saw a tree on the far side of the clearing."

Silas passed her the long knife and Olive sprang off in the direction he'd indicated with a newfound energy. Before Olive came back, the little black mouse appeared by Silas' side with two companions. Each mouse carried a ball of a different kind of moss. Taking the moss from each, Silas thanked them and whispered something else, and the mice scurried hurriedly away. Counterintuitively, Silas removed now Erwin's ersatz tourniquet. Where the blood might have been expected to surge out after this, it only seeped slowly into the green-gray paste the mage had applied there, making a dark ooze. Silas tore up the mosses into small pieces and, taking a handful of nearby mud, made a thick paste which he slathered over the man's open wounds. At first nothing happened, but when Silas breathed a fine, shining powder he'd produced from a small pouch, the thick muddy paste began to glow softly silver green. When the glow subsided, what was left was not untouched skin exactly. It looked more like the bark of a beech tree. It was stiffer than normal skin and the color was a pallid green-gray, but there would be no more blood lost.

The other seven mages watched on in nervous anticipation, their eyes wide. Whatever the common rumors in Connlaoth might be, most of them did not know how to effectively use their magic. When could they have learned? From whom? The older ones had been taught, like everyone else in Connlaoth, that using magic was the greatest sin and most had been taken from their families and raised by the Church. The children had only been raised in war. Many of them feared, as Olive did, that if they used their magic, they would quickly lose control of it. So seeing Silas work in this calm, practiced, steady way was a wonder.

Olive returned with two mottled silver beams of rowan. They were longer than the man's leg and did not look sturdy enough to make a reliable brace out of. Silas took the young tree beams and the knife and deftly cut off the clusters of small red berries, handing them back to Olive, and stripped the bark off one side of each beam. When that was done, he took the half the berries back from Olive and crushed them against the stripped side of the beams, staining them red. He then crushed the rest in his hands and spread the red juice over the man's leg, staining it the same color. When he held the beams to either side of the man's leg, at first nothing happened. Silas closed his eyes, breathing in and out, whispering something that Olive couldn't understand. Not, she thought, a human language. And the rowan responded. Slowly at first, new shoots emerged from the rowan wood, stretching over the man's leg, then once it had begun, it started to spread rapidly, like a living, ravenous tree devouring the man. At a change in Silas' whispered mutterings, though, the sudden growth ceased and when Silas placed his hands on the leg, the wood began to subside, shrink inwards until what was left, to anyone's eyes, was only a leg. A leg of wood.

Silas let out a slow, shaky exhale, nearly spent himself. Just then the first little black mouse appeared again on his shoulder with a mouth full of teaberry, its smooth, dark green leaves and bright red berries shining dully in the moonlight. "Thank you," Silas said as he took the little bundle. The mouse stayed there to watch, whiskers twitching curiously, as Silas tore a few of the fragrant leaves and placed them gently between the man's lips.

The man stirred slowly, then woke with a start. The scream that had been on his lips when he'd lose consciousness cried out now, but Silas put a hand on his shoulder and the man stopped, looking at Silas with wide, frightened eyes. "Flex your leg," Silas instructed gently. At first the man looked like he didn't understand, then he looked in shock down at his leg.... At what had been his leg, and now looked like something between a leg and a tree. But, cautiously, he did as he was told. And the man's foot flexed, then his knee jerked. With a few more tries, it appeared as though the man were controlling it almost as normal. "Good," Silas nodded. "It will always be a bit stiff, but it will carry you. Let's get you to your feet. We need to keep moving."