A slight frown creased Harknorth's brow as she gazed down at her work, a sign of immense concentration and mild irritation. She reached up to tuck a stray wisp of hair back under her cap, accidentally painting a black line across her left cheek in the process. Ignoring this frankly irrelevant detail, she dipped her pen once more in the inkwell at her belt, held the papyrus down with her right thumb, and painstakingly inscribed a collection of arcane syllables potent enough to melt a rhinoceros where it stood. Not that she had any intention of doing such a thing. Where would she even find a rhinoceros at this time of year? They'd long since started their annual westward migration.
She paused to scatter a handful of chalk dust to dry the ink. It always reminded her of flour, of childhood surrounded by the creaking of the mill and the tireless circling of sails. Wonderful stuff, flour; you could do practically anything with it, if you knew how, turning feather-soft dust to bread or glue, cleaning copper, repelling ants, even treating skin disease, all through the humble alchemy of the hearth. Her parents said it was like a child, unformed and capable of anything, and looked at her with warm pride. They had high hopes for her, and so did she.
The young wizard bent low over her tome as a breeze rustled through the grass, bringing the scent of woodsmoke. A faint scratching filled the air as her pen danced across the papyrus, forming knots and glyphs with the ease of long practice. It was, all things considered, a nice afternoon to be out in the sun. The pile of debris she was sitting on was largely free of shrapnel, and the slight overhang of the grassy bank behind her helped to deflect the roiling bursts of ice and lightning that sporadically erupted nearby. Speaking of which, Harknorth paused for a moment as a minor divination tripped. She clutched the tome to her body and leaned over to the right as a wash of turquoise flame flowed over the top, reducing grass to ash and scorching the bare earth before winking out.
When the Cranemount 4th Regiment held a live fire exercise, they clung to literalism with the same tenacity they showed in battle.
Nevertheless, Harknorth was resolute. This sort of thing was frankly routine by now. After putting the final flourishes on her spell, she sheathed the quill, and focused on the current objective. The enemy strongpoint ahead was protected by a fast-flowing river that made attacking on this front virtually a deathtrap, which is why the troops were concentrating on scaling the hills on the north instead. Her small expeditionary force were a feint at best, pinned down in the rocks and with both their wizards fully occupied in maintaining a barrier against the casual bombardment the defenders occasionally granted them.
Of course, their third wizard had wriggled forward to this sheltered spot and was busily engaged in mischief, but the defending troops weren't to know that. She'd traded uniforms with one of the main force and looked like any other soldier, even if someone were specifically looking out for her. Ideally she'd have prepped the incantation in advance, but this one called for too many variables she hadn't been able to pin down without a good look at the site.
Spell prepared, Harknorth began to chant. The words on the page writhed and blazed into green-hot raw magic, peeling from the page to orbit her like glittering eels. Time to go; the mana pulse would certainly have been picked up if there were any half-competent thaumographers on the defending side. Since Raned was assigned to that squadron, no question remained.
She slipped the tome back into her holster and pulled herself up over the lip of the crater, turning the movement into a graceful roll that carried her into the shelter of some nearby scrub. If anyone was rushing over to trace a superfluous wizard, they shouldn't know where she'd got to. Even the eeliness of the spell would be hard to spot through the foliage. Like an oversized weasel, she slunk through the leaves on all fours, divinations tuned to maximum sensitivity in case of traps.
They'd done their best, but with her face only inches from the ground it was far easier to spot the signs. Harknorth skirted cautiously round a tripwire that was, almost certainly, enchanted to go off like a troop of howler monkeys if triggered. The pattern discreetly etched into the earth on the far side would have caught anyone careless enough to simply hop over the wire. It could have been any number of nasty enchantments, but given its location amongst a cluster of hungry briars, she suspected a minor animation that would leave the trespasser snared and bleeding in their branches until someone bothered to collect their prisoner.
At last, the wizard weaseled her way to the riverbank and peered out. Not wanting to risk a keen sentry glimpsing her face amongst the undergrowth, let alone the twisting green fire that was weaving around her, she found a spot where weeping willow hung low over the water. Figures could be vaguely seen on the battlements, crouching low to avoid the sporadic arrows of her force. She spotted one of them gazing purposefully left and right, a little orb of fire suspended over her left hand. Raned. Well, that would make things trickier. If this was a straight duel, Harknorth fancied her chances, but she had no doubts about Raned's ability to hone in on her position the instant she began to unspool her incantation.
What she needed was a distraction.
Harknorth bent low over her armband and muttered the password. It tingled for a moment as it synced with the team leader. "Hippopotamus conjures Peacock, hearken."
"Peacock answers, have you laid the foundations? Concede."
"Foundations are ready to lay, Peacock. There's a bear on the plot. Can you supply honey? Concede." This hadn't exactly been unexpected. Jallas had the situation in hand. There was a short pause.
"Ow. We've divined your bear, Hippopotamus. Prepare for honey in nine. Concede and banish."
"Signed and sealed, Peacock. Banish." The tingle faded and Harknorth looked back at the keep. The glint of Raned's flame was still visible, but hopefully-
Trailing crimson sparks, an arrow split the sky and arced down onto the battlements near Raned, the 'bear'. Even at this distance, the crackle of a detonating invocation could be faintly hear. Gatherfern was on target as usual. She watched with pleased anticipation as the defenders dove for cover, then gradually raised their heads as nothing appeared to happen.
A fluttering pigeon appeared in the sky, swooping towards the keep.
From elsewhere, two cawing jays broke cover and made for the same spot.
Then a cloud darted through the sky, starlings writhing like smoke as they coiled and danced towards the spell that had called them.
Within less than a minute, birds were descending on the battlements from all quarters, soaring and fluttering and squawking their way in answer to the summons. The defenders on the wall were caught on the back foot, ducking and shouting in confusion. Even Raned was lost amidst the cloud. This was Harknorth's chance.
Rising to a crouch amongst the reeds, she snagged the eely coils of her spell and reached into the river, carefully stitching the magic into the warp and weft of the waters. She felt the cold of the river sapping heat from her fingers, and the frantic wriggling of the spell threatened to wrench it from her grasp. Thankfully, with the enemy blinded, there was no distraction to break her concentration. With practiced movements, she wound the spell deeper and deeper until it stopped writhing, already welding itself to the waters.
Harknorth scrabbled hastily back in case of belated incoming, and waited. Her breath was not ragged. She was confident. It was a complex spell, but a familiar one that she'd practiced intently the previous night. There was almost no chance that she'd made a trivial error, dooming the manoeuvre and probably the entire battle-plan during the final assessment their futures depended on. She was gripping the pouch of sacred wasp galls in her left hand because sound scientific evidence showed it offered a small but appreciable reduction in risk from projectile weapons, not because Aunt Galuhla had given it to her for luck.
Magnificent as a brontosaur matriarch, the river awoke and stirred. It arched its back, rearing up slowly into the air, waters and muddy riverbed and all, still flowing swiftly without spilling a single drop.
Beneath it, the raw stone stretched across in a rough path to the far bank twenty metres away.
Harknorth, for whom the issue had never been in doubt, raised her bracelet to her lips with her hand still clutching the pouch. "Hippopotamus conjures Peacock, hearken."
"Peacock answers, I see foundations are laid. Is it time for the festival? Concede."
She glanced back, saw nothing amiss. "Festival is open, don't be late. Concede and banish."
"Signed and sealed. Banish"
They must have been moving from the moment her spell triggered, as it was only seconds before the first of the troops rushed down the slope towards the path she'd opened. They wouldn't have long before the defenders recovered, realised what was happening and delivered whatever countermeasure they'd assuredly prepared for the outside chance of a doomed cross-river assault. The birdcall must already be dying down, and while it was effective, it wasn't exactly a subtle decoy.
One, two, more than a dozen soldiers hurled themselves through the tunnel; she briefly glimpsed 'Peacock' amongst them, and the two official wizards assigned to the group. Yearsend spared time for a brief "Nice working!" as he sped past her. As the last of the expeditionary force arrived, Harknorth slid down the bank herself and followed. Despite a moment of worry as the earth above them creaked, the spell was holding up perfectly. It had been less than a minute since she'd bent the river, and a beanstalk was already rising beside the walls where the first of the troops had planted their bean.
A couple of javelins whistled down from the walls as the defenders regrouped. One struck a soldier, and its alchemical tip exploded into the bright blue that marked a casualty. She halted, made a frustrated gesture and began the walk back to the briefing area. A couple of the expeditionary force knelt and provided covering fire with their bows, forcing the defenders to keep their heads down. Nevertheless, the rhythm of an incantation was drifting over the battlements. Not good.
Harknorth gestured to Yearsend and pointed an eyebrow at the battlements. He nodded to convey he'd already noticed, and she saw the web of acrid shapes clutched in his left hand, ready to release. She pulled out her own grimoire and joined in, selecting a quick warding and spilling its syllables out with the ease of long practice.
The bricks of the wall erupted into brilliant, agonising light as Raned's spell took hold. A flurry of curses marked the blinded soldiers all around, followed moments later by a triumphant shout of "Loose!" from above as the defenders sprang up to hurl their javelins. They met Yearsend's wards, and waspish buzzing filled the air as the spell tried to hold back the weapons, slowing time into amber stillness for precious moments. Unfortunately, with the attackers blinded, they weren't in much of a position to take evasive action with the borrowed time.
Blight Raned, the little fox. None of them had predicted that particular move.
Eyes watering, Harknorth seized the percussive warding she'd formed and cracked it like a whip - not, as intended, at the figures on the battlements, but in a desperate arc at her own comrades. Eardrums popped unpleasantly as the spell's power discharged, slamming into the soldiers and shoving them wildly. Some crashed into the wall, others tumbled to the floor, but when the wasps stopped singing and the javelins landed, they scattered their blue onto empty grass.
There was, unfortunately, the small matter of the one that shattered on Harknorth's forearm. It wouldn't be considered a disabling injury, but it did dye her arm brilliant blue and forbid the use of her hand. Single-handing a grimoire was a spectre's bite, even with training, but no help for it. With her vision slowly clearing, Harknorth spat a volley of vexes into the air as suppressing fire - those, at least, she didn't need to read.
One of the soldiers was already at the beanstalk, eyes blinking furiously as she climbed by touch alone. Yearsend had sprawled headlong and his grimoire lay metres away where the blast had flung it. Naslana, however, seemed to have avoided the worst of the flare; she was rattling through a curse at headlong speed. It rose from the pages like a shark, rippling hungrily for a moment before the wizard launched it through an arrow-slit. Screams followed as fear took hold of the defenders.
With a second beanstalk now rising to the left, things were looking up. From the far side of the keep they could hear the sound of the main force launching an attack, dividing the defenders' strength. Harknorth had no chance of climbing the beanstalk now, so she changed tactics, awkwardly fumbling the pages to one of her favourite divinations. The smoky wisps of the spell drifted up, floating towards the handful of birds that hadn't yet abandoned the area. There, a jay. Like a silken net, the spell closed in on the guileless bird.
Wings were hard, but Harknorth enjoyed them, and often spent an evening drifting in the mind of a swift or bat. She spread this pair, feeling the flow of air around her wings, and flapped into the sky. Far below, the other half of her mind continued to leaf through her grimoire. Soldiers were scrambling urgently up the beanstalks now, some already lightly dusted with blue where their armour had defeated a javelin. She saw the defenders spread out below her, no more numerous than her own squadron but in a stronger position. The vexes were flitting wildly around one or two, darting at eyes and mouth and keeping them occupied. Raned, of course, had shrugged off that attempt and was busily weaving a screen of crackling lightning atop the wall, ready to shock anyone who tried to cross it.
No sportsmanship in war.
Preoccupied with her working, Raned barely noticed the jay swooping over head. The gentle pressure of its feet as it settled on her shoulder wasn't enough to break her attention; Cranemount trained its wizards well, after all. It was only when the bird gave a deafening caw directly into her ear canal that her willpower finally gave out. Raned cried out in shock, dropping her grimoire as her hand darted instinctively to protect her ear. Merciless, Harknorth-jay began pecking at her fingers. The wall of lightning crackled and fizzled out of existence, and the first of the attackers launched himself over the wall.
As if that weren't enough, all three of the attacking wizards had regained their composure. Yearsend cloaked the boarding party in swirling fog that grabbed at any incoming weapons, while Naslana was drawing out pre-worked spell after spell from her aura, whipping them at the keep wall in an unstoppable barrage. The woman's phenomenal capacity for spells never ceased to amaze Harknorth, whose aura could bear a respectable half-dozen at a time. Though the walls were strengthened with all manner of military-grade wardings, Naslana was eroding them steadily, peeling apart the magical protections and leaving the stonework vulnerable.
Taking shelter by the wall, Harknorth knelt and flipped methodically at her grimoire. This incantation, at least, she'd been able to prepare ahead of time, even if it was too bulky to wear. The blueprints of the keep had been extremely useful. Always worth doing research ahead of time. As Naslana bullied the wardings into submission, with the boarding party thoroughly occupying anyone who might be inclined to stop her, Harknorth began to speak.
Teleportation was a tricky business. Generals had lusted after it since the dawn of time, and been perpetually disappointed that their dreams of evoking armies within enemy strongholds were doomed, since living things were nightmarish to transport without catastrophe. Oh, the odd messenger or scout, yes, but even that required a stablising circle to get the parameters absolutely right. Besides, any fortress worth its bread was warded against intrusion. Fundamentally, it was only useful for moving supplies over difficult terrain, preferably bulk goods that wouldn't be dangerously ruined by any mishaps, and ideally into a well-established circle.
Without a proper circle, there was a very real danger that the items in question would arrive off-target, scattering themselves over a wide area. It was particularly hazardous if the goods weren't properly stored. A couple of tons of loose flour, for example, would spill across a small courtyard and all the nearby rooms, making the floor slippery and filling the air with blinding, choking dust. Naked flames would need to be extinguished for fear of explosions, and wizards would be barely able to get a spell out for coughing. It could render a small keep helpless for a few crucial minutes.
Hypothetically.
As the teleportation took hold, burrowing an ephemeral tunnel from A to B via her very soul, Harknorth grinned.
It had been a good exercise, all told. Casualties on both sides were low, and mostly could have been healed up within a few days if the injuries were real. The keep had been secured with minimal structural damage. Raned had told her to bathe in treacle, to choke on salt, and to pray in the Cave of Jashnagor, but she'd been grinning ruefully at the time, so Harknorth considered it a compliment.
On the whole, it was a satisfactory conclusion to several years' hard slog, first in the mageries, then here at the military academy. Thousands of spells written and incanted, hundreds of practical exercises, dozens of training missions. Two fairly nifty scars (although that one had a frustrating habit of ruining promising trysts). Countless memories, triumphs and disasters, and plenty of firm friends. Harknorth had risen to the challenge every time, bounced back from defeat, earned the respect of her peers and most of the instructors, and was now calmly waiting to find out where she'd be assigned without the slightest fear that she'd be branded a laughable failure unworthy of serving in the Host of the Eternal Throne, marched away in disgrace under the eyes of all her friends and several relations, and spend the rest of her life hiding from her shame as an anonymous hermit in a leech-infested bog.
The apricots were in bloom, forming a low cloud of gentle pink around the academy that blended pleasantly with the deep red sandstone. On the south side, a crowd milled about noisily, waiting for the speech. A dozen tables were lined up against the wall, heaped with significant scrolls, and officials standing by ready to distribute them. The schism in the audience could be easily distinguished; friends and family in bright clothes and lively mood as they mingled, while the graduates-to-be were dressed in formal green and largely silent, eyes darting ever and anon to those ominous scrolls.
The autumn weather was soothing and warm, perfect for an outdoor event. There was no need for wardings against rain or darkness this year. In the still air, the Grand Secretary's voice carried effortlessly across the courtyard to his audience, delivering a fine example of the graduation speech. It was poignant, yet inspiring; poetic, yet pragmatic; rich and resonant in mellifluous tones, speckled with references to classical literature and modern in-jokes alike. It touched the hearts of the graduands, planting seeds that would be carried with them throughout their lives and bloom into trees of wonder. All things considered, it was a great shame Harknorth didn't register a single word of it.
At last, the Grand Secretary left the stage and the drums struck up a triumphant fanfare. A hundred illusory winged stags poured from the archways, darting between the guests and swooping overhead with playful jubilance. Harknorth couldn't help reaching out to brush one as it passed, and felt her stomach settle in response to the cold tingle of magic on her fingertips. Maybe they really were auspicious.
"Come on, dallymouse. Time to learn the awful truth." Gatherfern, who'd materialised at her side, grabbed her elbow and tugged her towards the waiting tables. Harknorth let herself be led, grinning confidently back at her family and tripping over her own feet in the process. Perfect, yes, a picture of dignified professionalism, that was her. Thankfully, Gatherfern's steely grip kept her from actually sprawling headlong in the dust.
They joined the end of the queue, which stretched green and many-legged across the courtyard like one of the monstrous centipedes found in the western forests. Ushers took names and directed the anxious supplicants hither and thither. Always eager, Yearsend was just being despatched to collect his scroll as they reached the back of the queue. He strode with the measured step of someone mentally caught between the desire to saunter and the urge to run.
Dynasties rose and fell, and mountains were worn to dust by the winter winds, replaced by fresh peaks thrust raw and bleeding from the burning heart of the world. Children were born and grew to adulthood, carving their deeds of heroism across the lands, then fell into bones and legend, until only the echoed remnants of a single verse recalled aeons-twisted mockeries of their lives unthinkable ages past. At last, however, Harknorth found herself reaching the front of the queue, where a harrassed but kind-eyed uncle pointed her towards the desk at the Sign of the Porcupine.
Gatherfern gave her hand a squeeze. "Don't worry. See you back here next year, eh?" Nobody would dream of risking optimistic words on an occasion like this, when any number of drifting spites might overhear and twist them to ruin.
The courtyard seemed to have grown much larger since Harknorth last crossed it. She half-expected to see the sun set as she strode endlessly towards the banner where a jaunty porcupine danced in the wind. Her throat, too, had gone unaccountably dry. It must be a curse, she thought absently; some vast linnorm had laid a spell of timeless deserts upon them, and they would perish here, with the wind-blown sands scouring their bleached bones. Well, nothing could be done about that now.
A polite nudge awoke Harknorth from her reverie, and she realised her journey was at an end. The elegant wood of the table stood before her, carved with knots and whorls, and heaped with scrolls. The official - Chaudlin, normally in the armouries, she recognised - gave a sympathetic smile. "Welcome. What name, please?"
"Harknorth." What a ridiculous name, she thought suddenly. Why would anyone be named Harknorth? Even the syllables felt heavy and alien, making her doubt herself. But casting a keen eye over the scrolls, Chaudlin seemed unmoved.
"Ah, here we are. Harknorth, Teynivar." The official pulled out a scroll case, simple leather with the stamp of the academy on each end. She took it with as much patience as she could muster, and stepped back from the desk in search of privacy. All around, aspirants were standing in the shade of trees and statues, or huddling together. Faint gasps and joyful cries could be heard. Someone's family had already started singing a carol of congratulation.
Harknorth saw an empty nook and made a crowflight for it, only to be intercepted by one of her tutors. "Morning, Harknorth. Congratulations," he said, giving her a beaming smile and nodding towards the scroll. "We're all very proud of you. You've worked your fingers to the bone here, and after your performance in the Trial, well, I think you've earned it."
"Um, thank you, Instructor," she managed. The slight hesitation and the tension in her face must have given her away, as Instructor Mossom stepped back apologetically.
"Sorry, thought you'd already have seen it. Please, go ahead. No need to stand on ceremony, not today!" He smiled again, and wandered off to greet someone else.
Well, it wasn't a failure then. Not that she'd considered that more than a remote possibility, of course. Mossom sounded very pleased, so she must have been given a prime assignment. Maybe the Oceanwatch, or one of the Road Warden forces? She could almost feel the steel fastened around her, the weight of the spear at her back, as she fumbled to extract the scroll and break the black seal. It was a heavy duty, yes, but what could be a better life than to stand in the front lines of humanity's defences, holding back whatever demons or monsters would roar forth from the wild places of the world?
Licking dry lips, Harknorth slowly unfurled the scroll and shut her eyes tightly. No, that was wrong. She opened them again and stared down, skimming the flowing paragraphs of formal congratulations and bureaucratese until at last her eyes lighted on the fateful paragraph.
Assignment: Southern Logistical Corps, Umbermarsh Sub-Regional Depot, Wizard IVth rank
She read it again, in case there was something wrong with her eyes. Apparently not.
Logistics? Logistics. Spreadsheets and maps and quantity surveying and stock control. Stuck in a depot miles from the borders, far from the closest moondrake or skittering dead. No swords, unless carefully packed in crates of sixty. No glory.
She groaned, as a tree that saw the dawn of civilisation groans when the last of its strength fails.
"A thousand congratulations, gorgeous! Reluctant as I am to bestow them upon you, of course." It was Raned, larger than life, rushing in to grasp her wrists and share the day's triumph. "Mossom told me, which he shouldn't, but I'm so pleased for you. Talk about high fliers! Your parents are going to be thrilled; can I tag along? Dad's already nattering with a couple of colonels, you know how he is."
She paused. "You don't look pleased."
Harknorth gave a tight-lipped smile. "It's not exactly what I was hoping for."
"Oh. Oh? I'm sorry." The midday sun in her face faded immediately to a twilight look of pragmatic kindness. Her voice was perplexed, though. "Hardly anybody gets sent straight into Logistics, though. I thought you'd - well, never mind."
Raned fell quiet and just walked alongside as Harknorth slowly drifted back across the courtyard, the scroll clutched tightly in one hand.
"Can't believe I've broken my bones for six years for this." The words burst out of her. "Silver seals on practically every assignment, winning team in the Trial, ranked for spear and bow and shield."
They walked on, in silence.
"Murder bones, I wanted to defend the realms, not tally shipments in an ashing warehouse! A hundred hundred praises, wizard, most marvellously done, go and put those talents to use holding a pencil! What, are there not enough ashing wyverns on the frontier now, they're worried about running out if I take up arms?"
With immense presence of mind, Raned slipped an arm through Harknorth's and pivoted smoothly, adding a circuit of the orchard to their route. "Yes, maiden mine, that's probably it. National wyvern shortage, but they're keeping it quiet to avoid a scandal."
Somehow it helped. "Sorry, Nedned. I've been throwing myself at a target for six years and it just blew away. They're breaking my heart."
"No, I get it. At least, I knew you had high hopes and big dreams. I didn't realise you were so set on being on the front line, though." Raned's tone left an inviting open door, and Harknorth looked turned to face her in surprise.
"Haven't we talked about ambitions a hundred times? I always wanted to do something really vital, not just a cushy post in the capital. Guarding caravans or enchanting uniforms or whatever isn't exactly the cutting edge of saving the world."
The reassuring arm-in-arm turned into a determined elbow in the ribs.
"Ow. What's that about?"
"I remember now, you didn't take the advanced administration or military science options. I realise this isn't what you wanted, but logistics is just about the most essential role in the service. Especially for mages. There's not a lot of magicians out there who can handle the fine detail under pressure. Troopers can't save the world if they're starving."
Despite her focus on more applied subjects, Harknorth had, of course, studied the basics of military science. "I know that. I do." She just didn't like it. "...anyway, who's a maiden?"
A brief break in Raned's measured step. "You're not distracting me that easily, but I will conduct an extensive inquisition later. With tea and gingerbread. And possibly military-grade scrying."
"Promise?" She rested a weary head on Raned's shoulder. "You're paying though."
"Fair."
Harknorth sighed ruefully. "All that battlefield training, was that a waste, then? I don't understand. Half a score of the officers came to congratulate me after the Trial. Mournwake told me I should have been born a mongoose."
"I remember that," said Raned, nodding appreciatively. "Possibly, if you were dead set on throwing yourself at wyverns with grimoire in one hand and spear in the other, you shouldn't have wowed them with your ability to reengineer the battlefield and teleport bulk supplies through a warded garrison wall, one-handed, under sustained attack from a dozen soldiers and, I quote, 'the graduate I would least like to be ignited by in recent years'?"
"Who said that?"
Raned grinned. "Essoc. You know, the shield trainer."
"Nice." Harknorth reached out and gave her a pleased one-armed hug. "Nedned, I didn't even ask about you. Sorry. Where are you going, little fox?"
"Sixtree Valleys. Not far from Umbermarsh, you know, there's a depot down that way?"
Harknorth jerked her up short. "Never."
"Yes, what - wait, where are they sending you to push pencils and mangle spreadsheets? Because-"
Harknorth grabbed the scroll with both hands, unfurled it, and thrust it under Raned's nose. She went cross-eyed for a moment trying to read it.
"Pure serendipity! Our ancient rivalry shall endure into this new era. Plus you can show me the best places to eat when I'm on leave."
For some reason, the emptiness and tangled anger that had been knotting in Harknorth's soul had resolved themselves into a lump in her throat. It was making her eyes water. She blinked a few times, and the apricot blossom came back into focus. It really was very beautiful.
Raned gave her arm a soothing pat. "We're nearly round the orchard now. Are we taking another turn, or do you feel up to telling your mum and dad?
Well. Logistics it was. Harknorth gave a sigh that issued from the very core of her heart, taking with it the lingering dust of her ambitions; visions of valiant battle and arcane glory now cracking, crumbling and fading, carried away to drift on the wind.
"They'll be wondering where I've got to. Are you coming?"
"Of course." They quickened their step.
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