s night fell, the ice cave was engulfed in inky darkness. The chill in the air was brutal as it bit into her exposed flesh. Sickened and delirious from the venom, she faded in and out of consciousness, often awakening in a surge of panic with a cry in her throat. The terror of her friends beat upon her senses but she had no soothing words for them. Her own spirit flagged beneath the weight of overwhelming despair.

Between her moments of consciousness dwelt nightmares, prodded loose like creatures stirring from the muck of a lake bed. Visions of the Searing, of her beloved home crashing down around her, of the terrible ash fall and scorching air; of finding her sister crushed to a bloody pulp, of knowing that she alone had survived. It all came back to her now that her own death approached. No longer Lyssae, no longer blessed by the goddess, she was just a frightened girl raised to be dependent upon others.

What she did after the Searing brought her occasional shame. The worst of it was surviving while everyone else was dead. Most of all, she missed her sister, Radha, and a day seldom passed that she did not think of her. Simply glancing in a mirror was a reminder of the ragged hole in her spirit. Even the sound of laughter was too much sometimes. Solitude and silence were her only relief from the constant grind of sorrow.

Awakening once more in the belly of the night, she surrendered and no longer fought her bonds. There would be wholeness after death, reunion with her sister and peace. She let her mind wander to fairer times, to memories of the boy she had adored playing his pipes and of her various schemes to catch him alone once he became cantor. There were stolen kisses behind the choir screen and a vivid image of his svelte silhouette standing in a doorway as he prepared to leave her behind forever.

Her final wish was to say farewell, something that had been denied to her before. She reached out for him with her mind, wanting him to die knowing who she was and that her love for him had been authentic even though it was also naive. But he was not there and the injustice of losing him again was too much.

Maeve wept in the darkness, as alone as she had ever been. She was about to be slaughtered like a lowly animal and she wished that she had died beside Radha. Everything that had happened since the Searing had been meaningless and cruel, an unnecessary prolonging of her misery.

“I served you, I gave you my youth and my heart and all you have given me is sorrow,” she thought, her prayers to Lyssa turned acrid as she was clenched in the jaws of despair, “Why taunt me with the man I loved only to let him die here beside me? You are as cruel as the dryders.”

In her bitterness and grief, she did not hear the commotion in the neighboring cavern. Her emotional agony eclipsed all hope and made her blind to the gleam of torches upon the icy walls of the cavern. It was not until she heard voices calling names into the darkness that she choked back her tears and gazed numbly down upon her rescuers.

“Why?” she mentally screamed at her goddess, “Why are you tormenting me like this?”

No one called for her. She dangled above the charnel pit that had opened to take away her hope. Others called for Mog but they would learn soon enough that he could not respond. Cries of disgust mingled with the frantic responses of the other prisoners. Maeve made no sound as their rescuers labored to reach them and cut them free.

She ended up in Brigit’s care while the woman’s lover shouted himself hoarse calling for Mog. While the others searched, Brigit and one of the dwarves carried her to a small section of ice cave where a fire crackled and breathed warmth upon them. Maeve did not need to ask what had become of the dryders. There were signs of battle: gashes and blood-darkened clothes, the sticky black ichor of the dryders stained armor, cloak and weapon. Brigit and her mother, Neave, wrapped Maeve in blankets and examined her for wounds.

“How many were in the cave with you?” Brigit asked her, “Did you see Mog?”

“Five. I did not see him after we were poisoned and bound.”

Maeve kept her speculation that he had been slaughtered and eaten to herself. They were arriving at the same conclusion on their own, she read it in their faces as they helped Maeve sit up and take sips of melted snow and brandy from a tin mug.

“Poor thing,” Neave murmured, squeezing Maeve’s shoulder tenderly as she rose and went to attend to the others. Brigit lingered beside her a while longer, offering to fetch food but Maeve shook her head. Her stomach was queasy and the venom was still making her feel weak and feverish. Eventually the frantic calls for the missing died down. A young Canthan monk knelt at her side to drive away the nausea and poison but could do nothing for emotional state. She said nothing as Armand swore and paced in the little cave.

“If they killed him we’d have evidence,” Anluan said, “We found Hrul, we should have found Mog’s corpse as well. Most likely he was with the group the Norn attacked.”

“Then I’ll track them down,” Armand announced bitterly.

“Not now,” Anluan said, an edge of steel in his voice, “It’s dark and it’s beginning to snow. Our first responsibility is to look after the ones we’ve rescued.”

A momentary glimmer of hope stirred in Maeve’s breast. Was it possible Mog was alive after all?

“We dwarves know the Norn,” said Fensk, rising grimly from Ryllan’s side, “We will send word to our kin in the north and seek your friend. If the Norn took him into their care, they will not harm him unless he is an honorless thief.”

Armand nodded grimly and sank down beside Brigit, saying nothing.

“What will they do to him?” Brigit asked.

“The way of the Norn is strange to us,” said Fensk, “I do not think they are evil, but they are fey. They may find it amusing to recover a human to health so that they can test his mettle. They are ever on the look out for new creatures to hunt.”

“I’m going to find him,” Armand said, “and if they’ve harmed him, they’ll find out just how nasty a human can be.”

“It is winter,” Anluan said firmly, “I forbid you to travel alone in the mountains at this time of year. Be grateful he was spared a death by dryders and trust the gods to deliver him home.”

"He is my friend!" Armand nearly shouted but Brigit put a hand on his shoulder and he sat back down.

"And you are to be my daughter's husand and that makes you kin," Anluan said, unperturbed by Armand's outburst, "and I still forbid it."

Maeve sighed. She did not trust the gods, they had proved themselves to be negligent when it came to protecting nations let alone individual human beings. But at least he was alive. She hoped.