The high commander had moved them from the inn to a caravansary near the fort when he had returned at mid-morning. By the time the harvest sun reached its peak, Amien had a nice fire going in the courtyard of the caravansary, hanging over the fire was a large iron pot that would eventually be stew, but for lunch there were dozens of skewers containing little cubes of meat roasting over a bed of coals she had pulled aside. Only the Franklin brothers were still in the caravansary, but she knew others would be coming soon. Ulresh had said they would be recruiting and provisioning for the expedition over the next little while. If nothing else, they would eat.

She stirred the stew and glanced over toward where the Franklins were caring for their horses. Amien had been around the strangers for longer than anyone else, she was familiar with their strange way of speaking and the other oddities about them. “Come.” She called out to them. “You eat. Is lunch.”

“Be right there, Miss Amien!” Clark answered. He led both horses to the paddock and set them loose.

Howard, on the other hand, didn’t say anything, but he rinsed his hands with water and walked toward her. He ran the fingers of one hand through his dark, almost curly hair, leaving a few tufts sticking up. She studied his face, his narrow once broken nose, beautiful dark eyes, and neatly kept (if somewhat bushy) mustache. He kept those warm eyes firmly on her face. She couldn’t help but smile.

“Is good. Eat.” She handed him a pair of the skewers and turned back to the cooking fire, stirring the stew again.

She could hear him as he settled on one of the low benches that were built around the fire pits in the caravansary. The pair of them had learned fairly quickly not to ask what they were eating or complain about the tastes, Amien tolerated no complaints about her cooking. Her blue eyes looked out over the city, a faint sneer of distaste flickering to life on her lips before she carefully smoothed it away. “Why city?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Reckon the High Commander figured we’d get more volunteers thisaway.” Clark answered as he stepped up to the cookfire. “Don’ ‘spect he was wrong.” He shrugged as she turned to him.

“Small maybe is better.”

Howard only grunted.

“‘Spect you may be right.” Clark gratefully took a pair of skewers when she offered.

“Outlands dangerplace.”

“Why?” Clark asked as he sat next to his brother.

He asks that question as though it were simple to answer. She thought, frowning as she considered it. “Weave dead.” She said after a long moment. Perhaps the answer was that simple after all.

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The Franklins exchanged a frowning glance, both looking troubled. She could tell that they had more questions, but her inexpert grasp of the common language created a barrier between them and she knew it. Frustrated she turned back to the cookfire. Common is a stupid language filled with useless words. She turned a few of the skewers, moving some away from the heat to where they would be warm, but cook much slower.

How do you explain the Weave to someone who has never heard of it before? Her thoughts were broken by the return of the tusked warrior, Tamesh. He strode into the caravansary heading right for the cooking fire. She wordlessly offered him a pair of skewers and ignored his lingering look.

“Him, ask.” She said to Clark.

Howard was watching the tusked orckin as he lingered near Amien, looming next to her. Clark, on the other hand, looked up at the orckin with obvious curiosity. “Tamesh, why’re the Outlands so dangerous?”

Tamesh only grunted, chewing on his lunch and watching Amien as she stirred the stew. “Explain Weave.” She prompted.

The orckin laughed, a deep hearty sound. “Explain the Weave she says,” He said at last. “As if it were easy.”

Amien shrugged. “Is easy. Explain.”

“If it’s so easy, you explain.”

She snorted. “Words, not have words.”

The orckin heaved out a sigh and finally looked away from the farspeaker. “I can try to explain, but I don’t understand the Weave much better than anyone else who isn’t a weaver of somesort.”

“Weaver?” Clark asked.

Another heavy sigh escaped Tamesh as he settled down on a separate bench. “You really know nothing, don’t you?”

“Ain’ really a Weave where we’re from.” Clark said, at the same time that Howard said, “Yep.”

“Right.” Tamesh said, throwing the wooden skewer into the fire. “A weaver is someone who can influence the Weave and bring the possibilities it contains into being. As I understand it, the Weave contains all the possibilities of every moment.”

“All of them?” Clark’s voice was filled with wonder.

“That’s right. Everything is possible to a spellweaver.” He used the second skewer to pick at his teeth for a moment before carrying on. “The Outlands have no Weave. No possibilities. What lives there has learned to live without the Weave. We have not. No spellweavers will come with us on this endeavor. That means no healing. We cannot even be certain that healing potions will work, but we will bring them.”

“There is healing?” Clark seemed excited by the prospect, rather than disappointed that a healer wouldn’t be joining them.

“There is, but it will do us no good in the Outlands.” Tamesh met Clark’s eye. “Do you understand now why it is so dangerous?”

“Yep.” Clark and Howard spoke almost in unison.

Amien stirred the stew one last time before hanging her long wooden spoon off the rack that held the cauldron. “Dangerous.” She agreed as she turned toward the men. “Still. We go.”

“We go.” Howard agreed, a fire in his brown eyes. Clark nodded in agreement. Tamesh looked a little less certain but he too said, “I will go.”