Even as she sat there dumb and speechless during the unexpected development, the man’s scrutinizing gaze was holding onto her face unbroken.

He reached for the hilt of his sword.

“Brother!” the girl cried, seizing the rising arm.

He started, and dropped his hand. It had been an unconscious movement.

Cordelia’s heart drummed, her mouth slacked stupidly. Her legs were far too weak to even crawl away, to flee. It was doubtless malice that she had seen in the warrior’s eyes. An unmistakable intent to kill.

His sister seemed bewildered by it, but Cordelia, a stranger, somehow, understood the reason.

After all, she was to prey on his dear sister. How he had instinctively come to perceive this, she could not know. Was it a warrior’s keen sense? Some divining magic innate to people of this land? Or perhaps there had been a different reason for him to see in her a grave danger. He was staring at her face still.

A second passed. Then the man turned away, coughing. “My apologies,” he said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Uneasily, the sister got on her knees, her face painted with concern, “Derrick meant you no harm, absolutely none, you have to believe me. You are safe now.” She reached out her hand, smiling cordially.

It seemed to Cordelia an exceeding amount of friendship to offer a stranger. And yet she accepted it, taking the strange girl’s hand. But immediately she jerked back. As though burnt by it. And indeed she was. The moment their skin touched, her hand had felt as though dipped in sizzling oil. Even now with her hand freed, the searing sensation lingered its effect achingly.

“Your senses,” Mastema hissed, “they are overtuned. Don’t touch the Maiden just yet.”

The brother grunted. “She’s confused,” he said, his voice deep. “Give the girl some space, Esme.”

“Ah, of course.” The sister, Esme, drew back sheepishly with an awkward smile. “Of course, space.” For all her overfriendliness, the girl did not seem too accustomed to dealing with over-frightened strangers.

“Can you stand?” Derrick asked, “If not, my sister and I can help. Our lodge is nearby with a fire. You will freeze to death out here.”

“Y-yes, I can. It’s just...” She was at a loss for words, positively overwhelmed by all the strange and successive occurrences.

“ ‘Tis all right,” he said, “You need not explain. But follow us.”

So she did. The trip carried them past the carnage at the dirt road. As they rounded the scene, Derrick halted, a question perched on his lips. But he swallowed it. And they continued on. No more than ten minutes later they arrived at a clearing. A short trip, all told, even in Cordelia’s freezing and wobbling state.

It was a much too humble estate for how richly in steel the warrior dressed. A sorry shack humbled by the trees flanking it. A quaint garden of vegetables occupied most of the clearing. Somewhere in the back a goat bleated.

The door was not locked and without a latch. The abode’s outward appearances promised little in terms of wealth. Inside it was no better. Two pallets lay close to a firepit, draped with some rough fabric. Though ample were the preserved foodstuff on a shabby shelf, there was little else. Racks for weapons, two moldy chests presumably for clothes, crude earthenware and other items much used but of no clear function to Cordelia’s eyes.

As Esme started a fire, her brother commenced the careful process of taking off his armors, piece by piece. It was an elaborate outfit, with no fewer than ten pieces covering his body from neck to toe. And underneath it all was yet another layer of hauberk. All this he placed almost reverently on a shelf that seemed designated only for their storage. For all the blood that had tainted them, each piece was of unquestionable quality and polish. His last layer, a crude roughspun tunic, was anything but.

That done, he took his blade and a whetstone to the door. “I will check on Eudora, keep the fire stocked. We should have a warm meal tonight.”

By then Cordelia was already glued to the newly kindled fire, her clothes dripping miserably. Once he had left, Esme gave her a change of clothes. Tactfully, the girl turned away as Cordelia struggled out of the rough outfit. It was the same affair as Derrick’s underlayer. A roughspun tunic of somewhat slighter size, coarse and patchy. She tried her best to keep her face unreadable, but it was a veritable rag to anyone’s standards.

“Are you not going to change?” she asked, shuffling in the uncomfortable material. The pallet where she sat offered as much luxury as the outfit, whose dampened hay stuffing she could feel through the thin cloth.

Esme had taken off her leather armor, and had placed it in a chest with far less ceremony than her brother’s. “I’m made of as stern stuff as my brother,” she said with an awkward smile.

A rush of shame and guilt rushed to Cordelia’s face. It was obvious; the tunic she was wearing was the girl’s only other set. Their poverty was so unbearable, it made her wonder if the warriors of this world were such an unpaid class.

“Well, ‘tis nothing much,” Esme answered her silent misgivings, “but we never want food here. And sometimes we go to the village to exchange for some nice stuff.”

“No,” Cordelia stammered, “I could never thank you enough. ‘Tis rude of me to... No, it’s fine. I’m not uncomfortable, just...”

Esme was amused. She too hung close to the fire, but on the opposite side instead of huddling together with the only other person in the lodge.

“It would be strange if you were...” she paused, as though she was unsure of the following word’s real meaning, “...comfortable. I mean, from the look of it, you’re used to wealth, or something close.”

“Am I?” Cordelia asked cautiously. She unconsciously reached for the bracelet. Then she flushed. It looked very much the behavior of someone guarding their rich against some thug. And yet Esme did not pay the slightest attention to the act, training her eyes on the fire. As though the fact never occurred to the girl.

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“How you look,” Esme said without looking up, “Derrick wasn’t even that awkward around his first love, you see.” The corner of her mouth curled into a mischievous smile. Someone was going to be teased later.

“Well,” Cordelia frowned, struggling to follow. She was not quite sure if readying to arm could be seen as boyish awkwardness. “You left quite a first impression on me too.”

“Oh!” A crimson flushed to the girl’s face. An overreaction to what Codrelia had thought of as little more than a half-flatter, and half-hint at the unpleasant truth.

She regretted it instantly.

Though ‘twas true that the girl possessed her own charm, for all her roughness of hair and garments, an alleviating softness which simply lightened the mood, and helped abate the dread of a near-death experience that was not an hour passed.

The door swung open, an unpleasant smell rushed in. Derrick entered with a bucket in addition to his gears.

Seeing her reaction, he grinned, placing the bucket near the fire. “Eudora’s courtesy.”

The whitish substance inside was not promising. But it was warm.

The siblings prepared the meal shortly. Goat milk was the drink of choice. And if the goat cheese, herbs and salted game were hard to swallow, they were rich in taste and quantity. Again Cordelia gave her best effort to conceal her thoughts. Too little avail, perhaps.

Derrick sat on a chest, leaving the chairs to the girl. The siblings clearly were not used, or ever expected, to receive guests in this place. Idle conversations punctured the meal, of the weather, of little chores around the little house, the goat Eudora. The glaring incident from earlier was tactfully ignored.

Only once Cordelia had sat back with a look of fulfilled contentment, and her eyes dreamy with the thought of sleep, did the brother broach the subject.

She hemmed and hawed, carefully picking her words at first. During their walk to the house, Mastema had attempted to craft a story for her. As sound as it did to her ears, she was yet a stranger to the land, each careless reference she made of things outside of her immediate circumstance could hint at a disparity and unveil her as an otherworldly creature.

Yet when she started speaking, it came as easily as telling her life story for the thousandth time to acquainted ears. As though there had been a silent agreement between two parties of which parts need not be mentioned, which facts were rather too obvious, which truths should be carefully ignored but read between the lines. And she perceived all this easily, masking things of which she was uncertain with vague hints that could be construed in many ways.

The gist of it was a tragedy. She was a lady-in-waiting for a gentry house of minor affluence. Orphaned and sheltered from a young age, she had little skills outside of polite tasks around the small estate, and thus must depend upon her foster family for employment. Misfortune struck when a disagreement occurred between her house and their liege lord, which subsequently birthed enmity. The nature and details of this quarrel she would not divulge on the grounds of preserving the dead’s images. Only that the family, servants and a couple of men-at-arms were as a result driven to exile. And en route to life in a country new, they were attacked. By which assailants, she could not tell for surety, for she and the young lady had scrambled to the bottom of the carriage once the combat had begun. Of the rest of what had transpired, she told truthfully, save the minor fact of her little familiar.

That done, Cordelia breathed deeply. Her lips quivered, in part for how easily she had lied. Never before had she constructed so large and grave a lie with a straight face. But by the end of it, her words were so convincing she almost believed it herself. As though she had really been there, panic-stricken by the brutal clamor of unseen assailants, the blood-curdling screams of her lady. These ghastly sounds echoed in her ears. And all the memories of idyllic days when sunshine shone over an easy life had been forever blemished by blood. She started, trying in vain to check her uncontrollable trembling.

All in front of her was an impenetrable darkness.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and cried out.

“Sorry,” she came to, not quite stable yet.

A stunned Esme stood some paces to her side, her hand hanging in the air, unknowing of the invisible scorching mark she had left on Cordelia’s shoulder.

“No... I’m sorry,” Esme said, her face ashened.

“Give the poor girl some space, Esme,” her brother repeated his advice from before. His deep voice had significantly softened, now with the tender quality of someone fearing to wake a sleeping babe.

“So you have no living relatives,” he sat back and remarked, “no acquaintance in this land. Whether it was by bandits or hired hands of your old liege, I doubt they left aught of value in the carriages. What are you planning to do?”

“She can stay here for a while,” Esme said, “We can afford to be a little hospitable.”

“Even as best we could,” the brother shrugged, “I doubt the young lady would find our living agreeable. But she may find employment in town, and a better life. Recall you Sir Kamaric? His castle might be in need of a governess, and he may yet honor the request of a fellow knight. If not, some other reputable estates may. And failing that, there are the taverns--”

“Surely you don’t mean that!” Esme cut him off, “That’s hardly a respectable thing for someone of your occupation to say!”

“Of course, I don’t,” Derrick growled, “what manner of miscreant think you I am? She may work as an honest barmaid.”

“And how is she to know which places are honest and which not? She is without a ward, alone by herself, and you meant to throw her out there, in this day and age?”

He looked away, grumbling, but conceded the point.

“Well, what say you, Cordelia?” Esme turned to her, “You may stay as long as you should like. And then perhaps you could get acquainted with the village people, learning at ease your desired course. Stay here the while, I warrant you won’t find our home so terrible after a few days.”

Cordelia opened her mouth. The answer seemed so obvious she hardly needed to think about it. But she checked herself, thought some more, and took a sharp turn from the all too obvious path.

“No. A few days perhaps. I would like to go to a city and seek out my own fate there.” So she had decided and truthfully expressed.

“Ah, of course,” Esme said, looking as though she had just been struck a heavy blow, “If that’s your wish. But please, do stay a while. My brother and I will take you to the nearest town before long. Till then you will be safe here, I promise!”

Cordelia smiled, plagued with guilt. “This is a kindness I won’t forget.”

“The Good Lord bids us serve all souls in their hour of need,” the brother said solemnly. “Such is my knightly vow, lady.” He rose. “But you are tired and it is time we retire. I will sleep outside for the night, and do not concern yourself, for I have endured much worse conditions for much less pleasure and gladness.”

Cordelia’s horrified look was genuine. “Are you certain? These beasts are still around, surely, and they are not the kind of beast that fear fire, I think.”

He grinned and said with something like pride, “Esme’s talks are not all foolishness. Our home is not as shabby as it seems. Barriers I have erected here could rival strongholds of great wizards. And so long as they stand, no feys shall trouble us.”

And he left with a heavy blanket in his arm.

Darkness filled her heart. Never a fey but the most vicious had entered his home. One born for the sole purpose of preying upon his dear sister.

For this, and more besides, she resolved even more to thwart the quest she had been given. To the city she shall go, and as soon as could she would quit these kind people and live the different life she had wished for. And to some degree, this new resolve did soothe her heart, and would have helped her to a good night's sleep, if not for some distant laughter echoing from a realm beyond the world’s darkness.