The mountains dividing Cinder and Rainon, called the Scar, loomed ahead. Quinn cut through Silence to walk the border of North Forest and waited to catch sight of the bounty hunters. They knew where she was headed, but maybe the creature that attacked her scared them off.

Quinn didn’t get the ominous feeling associated with North Forest as she walked in the soft green grass and listened to the swallows singing in the trees. It was strange, that was certain, but ominous was unfair. Part of her considered staying in the Forest. It hadn’t done anything but support her.

The thought quickly vanished when an unmoving figure in the Silence came into view. She entered the Gray and trotted over to it, and wrinkled her nose at the sight. She hadn’t seen the man hunting her with Mage Xander, but if she had to guess this was him. His clothes were in the sleek, clean style of Rainon and completely impractical for the desert.

Nothing looked physically wrong with thim; there was no blood or obvious open wounds, which would’ve still given a faint white glow from the invisible force of decay. The skin on his pale face had both grayed from death and began to burn in the bright sun that left little blisters. Quinn checked him over with careful hands, removed his belt and pack, and still saw no sign of what killed him.

Buzzards circled over them, and Quinn hurried her pace. With everything she owned back at the Wind Song caravan, she would need anything she could find. She put the bounty hunter’s belt over her own and emptied the contents of her smaller pack into his. He had significantly more rations than she did, two empty water skins, spare clothes and a heavy sack of coin she thanked the gods for.

The corpse, now stripped of anything valuable, lay ready to feed the carrion birds soaring above and perched on the naked trees dotting the Silence. Quinn hoisted the heavy pack onto her shoulders and looked one last time at the dead man and dropped the Gray. She froze.

Black veins, faint enough she missed them in the Gray, reached out from his collar, sleeves and hemmed breeches. The man’s mouth and shirt were clean, so she guessed he didn’t die like the gypsies had. What happened to him? If anything, he looked like the creature. Quinn’s mind spun. A mental image of Mage Xander came to her mind’s eye. The tanned man with a scar from the corner of his mouth to his ear didn’t appear malicious beyond his intention to capture and deliver her to certain death, at least not in whatever sense this body gave her. But he was the only one connected to both events.

She scanned the horizon, and it was barren save for the ravens and buzzards politely waiting for her to leave. She had an odd affinity with carrion eaters. They might’ve been the only creatures unafraid of her. Unsettled, Quinn continued west toward the mountains.

Night fell before she reached the small town at the base of the pass. Due to their close proximity to North Forest it crawled with more guards than people it seemed. The last two hours were an upward climb and hardy grass and pine trees replaced the rocks and sand, and bitter cold set in that bit through her clothes. She didn’t dare use her magic this close to the Rainon border. If she were a bounty hunter, this is exactly where she would wait to catch any necromancers trying to flee Cinder.

The hour was late by the time she stumbled into one of the handful of sparsely populated inns, and only two men drank their woes away in the common room. A middle-aged woman with her graying brown hair tied back and pulled over her shoulder swept the floors and a younger woman, likely her daughter, wiped down the bar and carried the last of the tankards and carafes to the back through the swinging double doors.

“Oh, dear,” she said and dropped her broom. Quinn’s knees hit the wooden floor when the warmth of the inn surrounded her. She hadn’t slept in...two? Three days? Exhaustion covered up by magic was never truly gone, and she had never pushed it this far before. The energy she absorbed from the creature in the Silence had lasted her much longer than she anticipated.

"A room, please,” said Quinn and set her hand on the pouch at her belt. “I have money.”

“You can settle up tomorrow,” said the woman as she helped Quinn to her feet. “I’m Madam Honey.” When Quinn gave her an odd look she waved her hand. “An old nickname, dear, now let’s get you upstairs.”

The room was the first one off to the right of the stairwell and Madam Honey brought her to the wooden chair. Quinn took off her heavy pack and let it drop to the floor. The bed over in the corner neatly made with thick blankets called to her, but the smell of food was more appealing as the younger woman brought up a tray of whatever was left from dinner. It would be cold, or maybe barely warm, but it would be the best thing she’d ever tasted.

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“Get some rest,” said Madam Honey. “We’re here all night, so if you need anything come on down.” The kind innkeeper closed the door behind her and Quinn dug into the pot pie. The buttery crust, savory gravy and generous vegetables with just enough meat that she didn’t question its origin. Peddlers made their way to the cities and towns near the passes, but it was more out of courtesy than out of profit. Some peddlers met with the gypsy caravans this far north, but frequently it was easier to meet with them near the southern pass instead.

Quinn finished her pie, stripped off her filthy clothes to make an attempt to clean herself with the pitcher and basin in the corner, and promptly dropped into bed in the clean and oversized clothes she found in the bounty hunter’s pack.

The sun didn’t rouse Quinn until midday, and she still felt as if she could sleep for days. However, she didn’t have the time to linger. If Mage Xander was still following her, which was very likely, she would need to be on her guard.

She packed up her things and made her way down to the common room with much more spring in her step. Madam Honey wasn’t behind the bar, but a man that could’ve been her husband tended to the patrons in the common room. It would be around time for the midday meal and Quinn’s stomach grumbled in anticipation.

The man saw her sit down and ducked into the kitchen. He came back out with a tray loaded with leftovers from breakfast and the stew they were serving for midday.

“The wife mentioned a young girl looking worse for wear coming down late,” he said, his voice gruff. He set the tray down and nodded once. “Tuck in. She’ll be upset if there’s more than crumbs left.” He turned on his heel and went back behind the bar to get his carafe to refill the other patrons’ mead. Oh, there wouldn’t be any crumbs left, and she would be washing it all down with at least two tankards of mead.

Quinn didn’t get the chance to thank Madam Honey before she left. According to her husband, Master Bran, she was taking care of the hives before winter fully set in. She paid him, much less than she anticipated, and he sent her off with a bottle of mead and some bread and apples from the cellar.

After she had said goodbye and had her back turned, she hesitated. She turned back around.

“Have you seen a man come through here,” she began, and Master Bran stopped. “Big nasty scar running here?” Quinn drew a line with her finger from her mouth to her ear. Master Bran rubbed his chin through his beard and shook his head slowly.

“Not while I’ve been manning the common room,” he said. “I’d remember a scar like that. Friend of yours?”

“Not really,” said Quinn, and adjusted her pack on her shoulders. The man nodded, understanding.

“Then I hope we don’t see him,” he said. “Careful on the pass. Word this morning said a big squall came through last night. Not bad enough to close it up, but it’ll be happening soon.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And thank Madam Honey for me.”

With that, she headed upwards and west towards the pass.

The snowflakes were small at first, falling quietly on the drifts that began only several inches high. Quinn put on the extra pair of woolen socks she pulled from the bounty hunter, and the spare coat. The flakes grew fatter, making whispering sounds as they collided and fell. She followed the path that was cleared once a day by a pair of oxen pushing a plow, but snow had quickly undone their work.

It would take her two full days to get through the pass, though the second day would be much easier than the first. The northern pass was steep on the eastern side and treacherous and smoothed out on the west. It seemed like everything about Rainon was going to be easier for her than Cinder. Quinn shook her head and continued her hike up the snowy path.

She passed two peddlers, both of them unfazed by the state of the pass. A drawn hood didn’t look odd in weather like this, and Quinn decided against paying for a ride through the pass. The fewer people who could confirm she had come this way, the better. She had already taken a risk at the inn and she couldn’t afford to take any more.

The work of the oxen became clear near the top of the pass where the walls of snow stood taller than she did. Their daily plowing kept the snow from getting too deep, but soon the winter snowfall would be too much and the pass would close. Based on the clouds Quinn saw brewing behind her, it could be as early as tonight.

She followed the sun as it arched through the sky, and she had to shield her eyes when the cloud cover broke for a few sweet hours and bathed her in pale warmth. The stillness of everything around her made the horrors of the last several days seem like a distant dream.

Before sunset Quinn found a drift of snow shielded by a pair of thick evergreens and dug a long, narrow trench. She made it deeper at each end to catch the cold, tore her filthy shirt to use between the snow and the bedroll and hoped the low branches of the trees would be enough to stop any significant snowfall from burying her overnight.