Kite and Saryth took three weeks to travel through the dreary, scrubby uplands known as the Barren Hills south and east of Corwaith. Saryth proved to be a surprisingly good travelling companion, not given to chattering but willing to talk. His education was unsurprisingly limited and patchy, but he was eager to learn, and what knowledge he had of the world was useful. There were precious few settlements in the area, but that meant there was less need to worry about his hair.

Somewhere in the Barren Hills, they left the duchy of Corwaith and entered the country of Westleshire, which was currently undergoing a power struggle. Kite and Saryth heard about it when they stopped to buy supplies at a small town, the first they’d seen in weeks. Kite had been relieved to see the settlement for more reasons than one. She’d persuaded Saryth to let her cut up and resew the dark gown he’d worn in Corwaith Keep, to make a kind of hooded overtunic, but he had not been enthusiastic. This would be the first time the disguise had really been tested, and she had been hopeful, but judging by the suspicious glances they’d got from passersby, the hood was failing its first test. All the same, they made it to the town centre and the short row of shops without being arrested, so she had been able to buy more supplies, and they’d even managed to trade the rest of Saryth’s worn finery for some more appropriate clothes for travelling. No hat, though. There weren’t any available. The makeshift hood would have to do.

They spent four days crossing Westleshire, avoiding any group of houses bigger than a hamlet. Several times they had to hide from military patrols. The roads were good, but that facilitated the movement of soldiers. The townsfolk had suggested they were recruiters, but there was no point taking a risk. It was a relief to leave the last border town behind, and with it any risk of being press-ganged into King Kerain’s army.

The country directly south of Westleshire was Irshand, a place about which Saryth knew very little. For nearly a week they walked through rolling hills which might have resembled the Barren Hills in geology but not in any other way, being green and fertile and lovely to look upon. However, by this time winter had well and truly set in, and more often than not, they walked under grey skies heavy with the promise of rain or its actuality.

"I can see a light ahead."

Kite squinted into the distance, vision hazed by twilight and the steadily pouring rain.

"Are you sure you're not imagining it?" But even as she spoke, she caught a flicker of light, and unconsciously sped up, wanting dearly to get dry. Saryth matched her pace, and she hesitated for a moment. Lights meant people, and people meant dealing with the ingrained reactions to Saryth's white hair. Was it too much to hope that Irshand might be more a more enlightened country?

The golden light grew in size until it could be identified as a window set into the side of a sturdy farmhouse. The lashing rain obscured all around them, but Kite picked out odd shapes here and there in the fields next to the house. Farming equipment, perhaps? She hurried forward, boots splashing in the mud, to stand by Saryth even as he knocked hopefully on the heavy door. She caught the sound of voices and then hasty footsteps, and the door cracked open slightly.

"What - what are you doing here?" A young man was peering through the crack, his face tense and exhausted. He wore what appeared to be a uniform, albeit grubby and creased, and held a spear, awkwardly angled through the crack in an attempt to menace the visitors. "Who are you?"

"I'm Kite, and I'm on Quest," Kite replied, hoping that the ritual words would get them through what looked to be a more awkward encounter than she'd expected.

"Where did you come from?"

"Westleshire, over the passes north of here."

"Why should I believe you?" The spear quivered. "How did you get past the guards?"

"Guards?" Kite said, nonplussed. She glanced round, but the driving rain made it impossible to see further than a few feet. If there were guards out there, she felt more sorry for them than threatened by them.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, man!" a voice butted in from behind the soldier. "Let them in! Out of the way," and the nervous soldier was pushed aside by the owner of the voice, the farmwife who must be the actual inhabitant of the house. She smiled and opened the door wide, the unhappy face of the door guard hovering over her shoulder. "Welcome, travellers," she said formally. "I'm afraid we're a bit squashed right now, but welcome all the same." And she stood aside from the door, revealing the entire room.

It was large, paved by stone flags, and dominated by the range that filled the alcove to the right. A cauldron hung over the central fire, containing what was probably stew, judging by the scent that wafted out from it. Directly ahead stood a sturdy table, covered with medical supplies; bowls of water, bandages and bottles and pots of unidentified liquids and powders, some open. All around the room, clearly the entirety of the ground floor of the house, men lay in various states of disarray. Some, like the door guard, essentially unhurt but grubby and tired, were tending to their fellows, but most were wounded in some way. They lay next to each other or sat where seats were available, some huddled in blankets, waiting in stoic silence for their treatment. Most of them did not look up at the new arrivals.

"Lyra!"

From the other side of the table, a little girl looked up. She carefully put down the mortar where she had been crushing some dark green leaves and trotted over to her mother.

"Lyra, take our new guests upstairs and get them dry clothes. Leave the wet ones to be washed, and get them blankets." She favoured the visitors with another smile, then turned back to more immediate concerns.

"This way," Lyra said, and picked her way delicately through the wounded soldiers to a door at the back of the house which led to a narrow staircase. The stairs creaked as they ascended, and Kite winced at the drips of water their sodden clothes and boots left behind them.

"Your mother seems a bit overwhelmed," she said, trying to pick her words carefully. "Can we help?"

"What's happening?" Saryth asked directly and tactlessly, and she sighed.

"We got beaten a month ago," Lyra said, not seeming upset by her guests' bluntness. "The front's not very far away, now. All the hurt soldiers come in here when it rains." She glanced over her shoulder at them, and added, as though she thought the clarification necessary, "'cause it's dry."

The upstairs hall was narrow and surrounded by doors, mostly closed. Kite guessed there were more soldiers behind each door, if this farmhouse was acting as a field hospital. Lyra went through one of the doors into a room with a double bed and a bright rug on the floor. Across the room, under the window, stood a large chest, and she went straight to it, lifting the lid and rummaging inside.

"Here," she said. "Blankets and clothes." She turned, and her eyes widened. "Are you a sorcerer?" Her voice had gone high, perhaps excited, perhaps afraid. Kite looked round, and saw Saryth's expression, caught in the act of pulling his hood down. She closed her eyes briefly, but then, he would have had to take the hood off some time. Saryth knelt down.

"Yes," he said, voice quite calm. "But don't tell anyone. They might get... upset."

Lyra nodded silently, eyes still wide, and waited outside the door while they changed.

Being dry was the best feeling in the world. Lyra led the way back down the stairs, below the ground floor to the basement. The stairs led to a well-stocked store room with barrels on one side and shelves full of preserved food and herbs on the other. An archway led into a small room with its own stove and a healthy stack of logs waiting to be used; Lyra directed them to the laundry baskets and they left boots and cloaks in the warmth to dry.

"Thank you," Kite said, feeling better than she had done for days as they climbed the stairs back to the ground floor. She hadn't realised how much the constant damp and driving rain had eroded cheer and depressed her spirits. "Can we help in any way?"

Lyra stepped delicately into the room, avoiding the legs of the man who half-sat, half-lay closest to the door. His eyes were shut, but his brow tensed; Kite thought he must be in pain. His arm had been freshly bandaged, and a splint was woven into the wrapping. She copied Lyra's care as she came out into the main room, under the gaze of all the soldiers - those who were conscious, anyway. She was horribly aware of the shift in mood as Saryth followed her; a mutter ran round the room, and the tension increased.

Witch, said somone, and the word was picked up and repeated.

"Mum," said Lyra brightly, innocent of the undercurrent as only a pre-occupied child could be, "they say they want to help."

"I don't want help from a witch!" The words came from a big man who was propped against the wall of the fireplace alcove. His head was bleeding steadily from a long scalp cut; he kept a reddened pad clamped against it and moved carefully. Sticking out either side of the pad, his hair was salt-and-pepper, marking him a veteran. His words prompted a further murmur running round the room, louder this time. Kite glanced back at Saryth, whose face was taut and set. Had he been hoping things would improve outside of Corwaith?

"None of you have any wits, do you?" Lyra's mother confronted the injured veteran, hands on hips, anger in her voice. "Your own sergeant has white hair!"

"But -"

"Welcome," she said, ignoring the splutters of the man behind her as she swung to face her visitors. "I'm Fiona."

"Kite."

After a slight pause, "Saryth." He spoke quietly, his voice very controlled. Kite didn't need to look at him to know how tense he was.

"I won't hold you to it," Fiona said, either unaware of or deliberately ignoring the tension, "but a bit of help would be wonderful. We've been busy for two days now, and more are always coming."

And so they joined in the care of the wounded, applying bandages, washing cuts and occasionally splinting broken limbs. The aid was of necessity basic, but Fiona and Lyra took every care in their work and Kite made sure to do the same. Saryth, whose assistance was disdained by the soldiers despite their need, was instead given the task of handing out bowls of the lamb stew simmering over the fire. He still got glared at when he gave the bowls to those soldiers who could eat, but they did take the food.

The evening passed into night before every man was tended and every mouth fed. The last to eat were the able-bodied, presumably the few soldiers who'd guarded the train of the wounded back to this area. Kite got the impression that most would be moving on in a few days, to a real hospital and barracks.

"... will want to talk to them," said the voice of the nervous door guard. Kite looked over his way as she finished her own bowl of stew. He was talking to Fiona.

"He can wait until the morning," that lady said brusquely. She was tired, and it showed in her tone. "It's after midnight! They've worked hard this night - let them sleep before the interrogation you're planning!"

The door guard muttered something inaudible and looked away, dissatisfaction written in his stance. Ignoring him, Fiona came over to where they sat spooning up the hot stew.

"This is an awful thing to have to say," she started, "but... the beds are all full."

"We'd be fine in the storeroom," Saryth interjected, unexpectedly taking the initiative. Fiona's expression eased.

"If you're sure," she said, reluctant and eager at the same time. The storeroom was not exactly suitable, but there was no other option.

"We'll sleep well there," Kite said, and Fiona sent Lyra to the store chest once again, to fetch blankets, sheets and pillows. The storeroom was quiet, and there were enough blankets to take the hardness out of the stone floor where they lay. The warmth of the furnace would have lulled them to sleep even had they not been tired, but it had been so many days of walking in the rain, sleeping in the rain, having it always there, nagging and irritating and rendering everything soggy and uncomfortable, that the blankets on the stone floor felt like luxury. Saryth was asleep as soon as he lay down, and Kite barely had time to gather her thoughts before sleep crept up on her, too, and took her down into its silent, dark warmth.

The morning found them better rested than they had been for days, despite the stone floor. The kitchen was full of bustle as soldiers ate, changed bandages, and helped each other dress or wash or head out of the door. Two overflowing laundry baskets stood by the far wall. Fiona was at the range stirring a big pot of porridge, but when Kite and Saryth emerged from the stairwell she sent Lyra over with bowls and instructions.

"The commander wants to see you," said the girl as she handed over their breakfast. "Mum said you should have breakfast first but then you have to go."

"Thank you," Kite said, and blew on the porridge. Saryth, less careful, hissed as his spoonful burned his mouth. They ate standing by the far wall as the soldiers bustled around them, too busy now to do much more than sneer at the white-haired boy who had handed out food last night.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

The guard who led them to the command tent was the same one who had opened the door to them upon arrival. He was having difficulty stopping himself yawning as he marched over the trampled mud that had once been a field, following and adding to the marks of many muddy boots that formed a rough sort of path. The command tent was much like the other tents, visible now in the watery morning sunlight; dull, grubby, tough cloth stretched over a thin pole frame, looking like it wouldn't stand up to a light breeze. Their looks were deceptive, Kite knew; they had been up all through last night.

The guard stopped by a pole sticking out of the ground near the door flap, and rapped it with his dagger, making a sharp, metallic noise.

"Come in," called a voice from within. The guard poked his head inside.

"Sir, the visitors from last night are here."

"Send them in, please. You may remain outside."

The guard withdrew and jerked his head at the waiting visitors, managing to sneer at Saryth while hardly moving his face.

Inside, the tent was surprisingly warm and dry. A rug covered most of the planked wooden floor, with a desk at one end, occupied by a man who had to be the commander. He was young and tired-looking, black hair sticking up from his head and circles under his eyes. For all that, he measured them keenly, and Kite felt a chill run up her spine, suddenly uncertain of how easy it would be to bluff her way through this. She didn't dare look at Saryth, but she could almost feel the tension in him.

"Kite... and Saryth. Our interesting visitors from last night." The commander waved at two camp stools that stood near the entrance. "Please, have a seat. Where did you come from?"

"Westleshire. We came south over the mountain pass," Kite said, struggling to hide her difficulty balancing on the rickety stool.

"Mmhmm. Who ruled at the time?"

"Lord King Kerain, when we left." This is a test, then. "He succeeded the Excellent Duke Ecgbert, who was in control when we entered." Even to her own ears, that sounded like a joke, not the sudden, violent reality she had heard about from the people there. Kite hoped devoutly that this commander was familiar with Westleshire.

"Ah, yes. Ever an unstable country." That's an understatement. "Before that?"

"Um, I think Grand Duke Marliforth," Kite started, but the commander interrupted.

"No, my apologies. I meant, where were you?"

"Oh - in the western ranges. The Barren Hills." Beside her, Saryth's tension eased slightly at the innocuous questions. Don't relax yet!

"Why were you there?"

"We were travelling from Corwaith." Please don't ask where we were before then...

"I see. Are you spies?" The abrupt turn almost caught Kite out, but she had partly been expecting it.

"For whom would we spy?"

"Why, the Eskandians, of course." The commander picked up one of the sheaves of paper that swamped his desk, flicking through it, apparently not concentrating on his visitors. "Or didn't you know we were at war?"

"Honestly?" Kite felt more in control now. "No, commander, I didn't. Although it's blatantly clear in daylight."

"And you say you saw no guards last night?" The commander put his papers down and leaned his chin on his interlocked hands, gazing directly at Kite.

"We saw no one."

"You are on Quest?"

"Yes, I am." Kite felt a slight twinge of discomfort at the less-than-honest admission, but it was as good a way as any to describe her mission.

"What is your goal?"

"I'm looking for the sun."

"Well, that seems impossible - about ridiculous enough." He relaxed, turning away slightly, then looked back again.

"One more thing."

He stood up, seeming in that motion to dominate the tent. Kite felt her control of the situation slip from her grasp as he walked over to where she sat. Without their getting up, which could be construed as a threat, or at least being obstructive, he would tower over them. He stopped in front of Saryth.

"You. Saryth. You haven't said much." The commander raised his sword hilt and used it to pull aside the loose bangs that Saryth habitually hid his face behind. With difficulty, Saryth held still beneath the commander's scrutiny.

"Your hair is very... white. Are you a mage?"

Saryth sat silently; Kite guessed he didn't think he could pull off a lie. She stood up.

"Commander. Judging by hair colour doesn't work." She moved to stand behind her companion. "Saryth is as much a mage as I am."

The commander eyed them both dispassionately. It's the truth. In the dim light in the tent, her blonde hair was dulled, but still distinctly not white. They bore up under his doubtful gaze for a full minute, but then the commander abruptly sighed, and turned back to his table.

"Very well. I choose to trust your words." He ran his hands over the table surface, snagging documents, making a pile, now looking like he really was thinking about the next task. "Mistress Fiona welcomed you to her house. This, however, is our camp." He looked back towards them. "Do not outstay your welcome."

Kite left the tent feeling as though she'd been put through an intensive exam rather than a short interrogation.

Back in the house, the soldiers had been cleared from the ground floor, presumably back to their now-dry tents. Kite forced lightness into her voice as they came through the door.

"We are officially not spies!" Fiona turned round from the sink where she was scrubbing the porridge pot and smiled. "So," Kite continued, "I claim the laundry."

"Are you -" Fiona started, but Kite had already grabbed one of the full baskets and was heading out the door, accompanied by Lyra.

"We'll be back for the next lot," she called cheerfully, and made her getaway, following her guide to the river.

Saryth hovered for an instant by the door, then gathered his nerve. Fiona had been kind to him.

"Can I help in any way?" he asked.

"Well, no," Fiona replied, somewhat nonplussed by Kite's absconding with the soiled linens and her daughter. "Oh, well, there's the bread..."

"I can help with that," Saryth said, brightening. Bread-baking was something he did know, thanks to a tender-hearted assistant cook who had served in the Duke's kitchen for a few years when he was younger. Fiona made to protest again, then laughed a little helplessly and stood aside from the table to let him get on with it.

Lyra led Kite through the camp, hurrying through the tents, wagons and soldiers that cluttered the field with the ease of familiarity. The men, for their part, ignored the little girl and only gave Kite a cursory glance as the pair made their way through, trying not to slip on the muddy ground.

At the far side of the field, the ground sloped down to a small, clear river, running bright and fast, swollen with the rain that had fallen constantly for the past few weeks. Lyra led Kite to a rock jutting into the river.

"We normally wash there," she said, and Kite rolled her trousers up and twitched her skirts out of the way so they wouldn't get dirty when she knelt down. Lyra joined her, and they skirled the cloths in the river, letting the looser dirt be swept away before they started scrubbing the more ingrained stains. The scrubbing was repetitive but not hard; the sandy soap that Fiona had given them very effective at removing marks from cloth even in such cold water.

"Lyra?"

"Mm?" The little girl turned round with a wet cloth in her hand. She turned out the dirty cloths onto the rock, put the clean one in the now-empty basket, and took a soiled blanket to wash.

"What is the war about?" Kite plunged her cloth into the river to remove the last of the soap, wrung it as dry as she could and added it to the basket.

"I'm not sure."

"When did it start?"

"About two years ago." A serious war, then, not a little skirmish. "I don't know what caused it, but we sent a messenger." Lyra pulled her blanket from the river, struggling a bit with the heavy folds. "To ask for peace."

"And?"

"He never came back. Nor a message." She tugged the blanket into shape and started wringing it, excessive force making up for the small size of her hands. "So... it's their fault, isn't it? My brother Padraic." She pushed the blanket back into the water. "He's a flyer. If he dies... it's their fault. Right?" She had stopped rinsing the blanket and was just sitting there, tears running down her face. Kite felt both horribly guilty to have brought a constant worry to the fore, and uncertain of what to do; cautiously, she put a hand on Lyra's shoulder and waited until sobbing slowly eased. Unwilling to try asking any more, she returned to her washing, and Lyra followed suit. They finished the basketload in silence.

By midday, the air was warmer and the sun had burned through some of the obscuring clouds, although it hadn't managed to do much to the mud. The sky wasn't really blue yet, but it looked more promising. Kite and Lyra carted the now-heavy basket back to the house slung between them and canting precariously due to the difference in height. They made it safely despite the slippery footing, putting the basket down with relief when they made the farmhouse doorstep. Inside, Saryth stood at the table with his back to them. The scent of fresh bread and a sprinkling of flour over the table, the floor and his tunic testified what he had been doing. Kite wondered if there was any flour in his long hair, and if there was, would she even notice? At the sound of the basket being put down, he turned round. His cheek was smudged with flour, and he was smiling.

"Finished the laundry?"

"Just this load." Kite took the top sheet from the basket and shook it out in preparation for hanging it up. "You're making bread?"

"Yup." He held a lump of dough in his hands, halfway through kneading. Beside Kite, Lyra giggled.

"You've got flour on your face," she said.

"I have? Where?" He sounded surprised, as though he hadn't noticed the flour strewn all over his clothes and the work surface.

"On your -" Lyra began, but Kite cut her off before she could finish.

"On your forehead," she said. Lyra stared at her, and Kite winked discreetly. Saryth disentangled one hand from the sticky dough and brushed at his forehead, ignoring the bangs dislodged by the gesture.

"Anywhere else?"

"On your chin. And your left cheek," Kite said mendaciously. Lyra stifled her giggles as Saryth put the dough down and trustingly wiped flour and sticky dough across his face in an attempt to remove nonexistent smudges. The original smear remained untouched.

"Is it gone now?" he asked cheerfully, and Lyra burst into laughter.

"What?"

"Now you've got flour all over!"

Saryth stopped in surprise, and then, realising the joke, raised a dough-covered hand and started forwards. Kite dodged one swipe, still laughing.

"Saryth, no! Clean laundry!" She backed out of the door, clutching her sheet and followed by Lyra, still giggling.

"Go and wash clothes!" Saryth shouted from the door as they fled, and the sound of his own laughter followed them out.

As the sun began sinking towards the horizon, Kite and Lyra hauled the last basket home and wearily draped the clean linen over the makeshift washing lines set up outside the house. They had run out of space in the basement halfway through the first load, and the second load had filled up Fiona's normal washing line, so a pair of soldiers had offered rope and struts in a rough but effective jury rig. The clean blankets and sheets waved gently in the evening breeze, but Kite didn't think they were dry yet. They'd probably have to come in for the night, in case it rained, but the thought of arranging them around the limited indoor space was depressing.

"Is Saryth good at making bread?" Lyra asked, giving a final tug to her blanket so it hung square. Kite hadn't actually known he could bake, but the scents drifting from the house all afternoon had certainly been promising.

"I think so," she said, putting a peg over the blanket's edge.

"I'm hungry."

Saryth smiled at them as they came through the door, taking off their muddy shoes at the threshold. He was wiping his hands on a wet cloth, and the last of the loaves was sitting on the table, almost glowing with warmth and the lovely fresh bread scent. The table was liberally spread with food; portions of cold ham sat amongst bowls of vegetables, peas, carrots, lettuce and tomatoes all jostling together with tubs of pate, butter and plum jam. A jug of milk stood in the centre of the table, and five plates sat around the edge.

"Welcome back," Fiona said from the doorway behind them. She bore a basket containing a round cheese protected by a deep reddish wax and several eggs, which she put straight on the table. Behind her, a slim, bearded man came through the door, nodding to Kite and Saryth as though familiar.

"My husband David," Fiona said, and David nodded again in response to Kite's "good evening." He seemed content to remain silent even as he took his place at the head of the table, and the meal was a quiet one, but the silence was good-natured. Towards the end, when much of the food was gone, Fiona broke the silence to say:

"Thank you for your help today." Kite looked up from the last of the warm bread.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she replied. Fiona smiled.

"It's the first time we've caught up on the laundry for weeks."

It was not hard to believe.

After the meal they cleared the table together, and Fiona washed up while David dried, insisting that their guests do no more work. Lyra was sent to bed amidst half-hearted protests, almost asleep on her feet. The firelight flickered around the room, its dying glow catching on the cutlery and pans hanging on the walls, emphasising that night was coming on.

Fiona finished by hanging David's teatowel up, and bidding her guests goodnight. Kite had almost fallen asleep at the table, and she jumped awake at Fiona's voice.

"I'm really sorry," Fiona added, as her guests made their way to the basement stairs. "There's nowhere else..."

"It's fine, really," Kite tried to reassure her. "It's nice and warm." And in any case, they were both so tired she didn't think it would matter.

It didn't.

Morning dawned as it had the previous day, thin sunlight on muddy ground and skies that half threatened rain, half promised sun. A weak, undecided day. Kite was just relieved it hadn't rained overnight. The laundry was still damp, but it was only dew. She hung back by the basement door as Fiona waved David off to go about the farm work. Then she tensed, and peered out across the field, shading her eyes with her hand. For a moment she was still, then she stepped back from the door with a broad smile.

"Padraic! Welcome home!"

A young man who could only be her son stepped into the house and smiled back at her. Lyra came hurtling down the stairs and squealed with delight before flinging herself at her brother for a hug. He swung her round with a grin.

"It's good to see you," Fiona said. "Have you come on leave?"

Padraic's face fell. He turned away slightly, not seeing the strangers behind Lyra and Fiona. Saryth, hair rumpled with sleep, had come up the basement stairs in time to catch his reply.

"I'm not on leave," he said. "My wing was posted here yesterday." He looked back at his mother, and the anxiety in his face was clear to see. "It's not going well. The enemy are only a few miles away." He cleared his throat. "This is our last main camp. We're fighting from here now."