og did not awaken all at once. First there was pain blazing behind his eyes followed by the throbbing of his jaw and the faint metallic taste of blood in his parched mouth. Then there was a moment of panic when he could not move his arms and realized they were folded and bound against his back. He lay on his belly and someone was dabbing his face with a damp cloth.

“Help me sit him up,” came a man’s voice. He assumed it was connected to the hand that was cleaning the grime and blood from his face. Mog jerked instinctively away from the strangers who hauled him upward until he was kneeling. He was mentally aware of four people in the dim space even though he could see nothing. They had blindfolded him.

“No magic, do you understand?” came the same voice, “It will do you no good and it will only make matters worse for you.”

He nodded, too thirsty and giddy to resist. Even if his life depended upon it, he doubted he could focus upon the simplest spell. To his relief, the speaker pressed the edge of a ceramic bowl to his lips, urging him to take small swallows of sweet spring water. Mog nearly choked, partially inhaling it in his hurry to slake his thirst.

“What is your name.”

He hesitated in the expectant silence that followed.

“Mog Ruith,” he said in a low voice.

“Release him,” said a clipped female voice. It was strangely familiar and sent a thrill of dread down his spine.

“He hexed Alric…”

“And you broke his jaw.”

“It was nothing Ronan couldn’t mend. He’s dangerous…”

“I know what he is. Give him food and water while we prepare to leave.”

Mog blinked as the strange room swam into focus. Sunlight pierced the dim chamber through a high square opening in the cracked clay wall. He was kneeling on a straw pallet while someone stood over him. Mog instinctively rubbed his arms and winced as his hands tingled.

“Where am I?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” the man replied. He was the first who had spoken and was currently the only one who had remained behind, “Drink this. Vrael will bring food by in a moment.”

Mog did not refuse the bowl of water. It was all he could do to restrain himself from slurping it greedily and pouring half of it down his chest in his haste. He was gratified when the man tipped a large clay jug into the bowl to refill it. When the plate of shredded pork arrived, his hunger returned. He ate like a ravenous animal and washed it down with a third bowl of water.

“Your keepers did not take very good care of you,” noted the man, “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Mog accepted the man’s help in regaining his feet. He swayed for a moment, and then ducked before smacking his forehead on a low beam. The tiny square room was clearly not built for someone of his proportions.

“Are you Ronan?”

“Yes,” the man replied.

As they stepped out into purple twilight before dawn, he saw the bearded man clearly for the first time. His bald pate was level with Mog’s shoulder and he bore a fringe of ebon hair to match his goatee and mustache. His garb was simple and stained reddish dun by the landscape. The intricate tattoos on his bare crown revealed that he was as a servant of Dwayna.

“Thank you for mending me and for the food and water.”

“You are welcome,” Ronan replied, indicating by his clipped responses that he did not wish to talk to Mog. Whether it was out of a desire to stay detached or haste was unclear. They emerged into a dusty yard surrounded by the cliff-hugging adobe buildings Mog had seen from afar. There was an ox yoked to a two-wheeled cart near a rickety gate and a score of strangers gathered around the central fire pit as children flitted giggling around the periphery.

Then he saw Akemi and his knees nearly gave out. She had not changed much since the last time he had seen her seven years before. Still lithe and graceful as a stalking cat, her blue-black hair was cropped short and her form-fitting leathers were supple and in good repair. She looked slightly more careworn and was caked with the same dust of hard travel as everyone else. She wore a bandolier of fine daggers and the hilts of a pair of long blades stood out above her narrow shoulders. She approached him slowly and he imagined this was the last thing many people saw when they encountered her.

“Did you want to come back and serve?” she asked. It was hard to meet those dark brown eyes and it was impossible to read her, as ever it had been.

“No.”

“I thought not,” she said, turning away, “I stopped asking you to return a long time ago.”

“You are not angry at me?”

Akemi shrugged.

“Sure. I have certain opinions about people who shirk their duties, but under the circumstances, I suppose it is understandable. I’m not the one who lost my homeland.”

Mog blinked, taken off-guard by her uncharacteristic kindness. At least it was kindness compared to how he remembered her even if it was still wrapped in thorns. He followed her to the cart where she helped the villagers load the last of the large clay water pots.

“Do you know why you are here, Mog?”

He watched her move the heavy jugs effortlessly. Despite her narrow stature she had the strength and flexibility of steel.

“Because I was sought for.”

“Not just sought for, you were summoned. You were summoned and you resisted.”

“Why?”

“It is complicated, but it was not my wish. Not when I realized you would not come of your own free will. I suspect you have had a very unpleasant time getting here.”

Mog was at a loss for words. He nodded.

“Maziba overruled me in the end,” Akemi continued, “I was an idiot and told him too much about our past. I suspect he continued to work the summoning until it succeeded or he found you.”

“A little of both, I imagine,” Mog coughed, horrified by the implications of what he was hearing, “but that means you also tried to summon me, otherwise how did I end up here?”

His trembling was now of barely contained rage.

“I was told you were traveling with Maziba’s band while you were on the other side of the falls. I asked Lyssa to show you an alternate route.”

“I could have been killed running through that canyon chasing after you. Curse you and him both, you got Maeve killed!”

Akemi blinked at him apologetically. He realized she had no idea who he was talking about.

“We can talk about this more later,” she said evenly, “I suggest you get in the cart unless you would like to learn why Maziba wanted to summon you so badly. They will be here by noon.”

His throat knotted and no words came out. Mute with rage, he climbed onto the cart’s bed beside Ronan and the water pots while Akemi donned pale robes to conceal her weaponry. A pair of muscular figures in White Mantle garb perched on the bench beside her. One of them took the reins.

“Do not be alarmed, we do not work for the White Mantle, but we borrow their clothes from time to time,” the monk said, reading the alarm in Mog’s face.

“Who do you work for?” Mog demanded. Ronan shrugged.

“The Shining Blade,” Ronan said, and seeing the anger in Mog’s face added, “but not the zealous crowd. We’ll look after you. Just relax.”

Mog clenched his jaws, swallowing his desire to begin ranting. Did these people have no idea what kind of living hell he had endured? What their meddling had cost? He wanted to scream and weep but instead he looked away, staring at the billowing dust rising on the track behind them.