When Ash screamed and fell, Chaiel's only thought was that he should have expected something like this. Things had been going too well.

He was able to get his hands under Ash's head before it hit the stone, but snatched them back immediately as a cold burn of power snapped at him. The little girl was whimpering, hiding her eyes. Ash lay slack-mouthed, twitching, while the structure of the ward dissolved and reeled into him in pale, roping strands. This went on for a handful of long seconds, and then the ward was gone and Ash lay quiet. Chaiel made one more attempt to reach out to him, to see if he lived; what he sensed when he came near, though, made it impossible for him to offer any help. All of Ash's natural aura was replaced with a high, tight vibration of foreign energy.

Chaiel bowed his head. The blue-eyed boy was not yet dead, but it seemed his mind had been burned away. Such a shame. It had been a beautiful mind.

"There's nothing more we can do for him," he said softly. He reached for the child's hand. "He sacrificed himself so we could escape. Let's not waste it."

She obediently put her clammy little hand in his and let herself be pulled to her feet. Walking slowly, as much from his own fatigue as from consideration for the child's weakness, Chaiel led her away past the place where the ward had been. His thoughts turned ahead: there was chaos all around, above and outside, and it would be difficult to get through it, unarmed and with a sick child in tow. It would have been better if Ash hadn't let his ambition outrun his abilities. Still...

I won't forget what you did for me, Chaiel thought reverently. Or what Medur said through you. All people are mine; mine to care for, mine to watch and learn from. I'll begin with this child.

It began as a headache. Everything was just a little too loud. Moving a little too fast. Duyam Sona thought it might be just the onset of one of his spells of despair, at first. They had been more frequent since he'd been recaptured. He sat listening to the distant sounds of running and barked orders, not really trying to imagine what might be going on out there, ignoring the muttering of his cellmate. Gibner was acting a bit odd. The bald, bearded man who was his only remaining friend generally responded to every stimulus with the same surly silence. Muttering wasn't his style. But then, they'd all been a bit more insane than usual since that bastard Trevarde had got some of them out and then left them to their own devices.

The problem with his head was getting worse. His brain itched. He felt the walls pressing in, felt Gibner in the cell with him, agitated. Like a jittering flame, like the spitting spark on the end of a fuse. Sona could almost smell the smoke.

"God's balls!" Gibner leapt to his feet, looking more like a monkey than ever. "Motherfucker! Fuck!"

Sona turned, scowling, and then his jaw dropped. Gibner's bed was on fire.

"Holy shit," Sona breathed, awestruck. His head-problem jumped into focus, and he suddenly understood that it was not a problem at all.

Gibner raised his head slowly to meet Sona's eyes. The understanding was mutual. "You're a kinetic," the bald man said. "Ain't you."

As an answer, Sona spread his fingers across the lock plate in the cell door. There was a faint creaking, as of metal under stress, and then a heavy clank. The door swung open.

The next few minutes were a smear of noise and movement. Others had realized it at about the same time -- the ward was down. Their magic would work again. Kinetics, pyros, breakers, all the destructive Talents came swarming out of the cells, to find only a quartet of fearful guards between themselves and freedom. There were some shots fired, but Sona didn't see who fell; the guards lasted only a breath's time beyond that. Torn apart, burned up, and melted down, all at the same moment.

Those who had been present for Trevarde's stunt after the storm, which was most of them, would rather have died than be recaptured again. No one said it out loud, but all had the same idea: make certain that this prison could never enclose them again. Deafening noise rose up as debris showered down. Some kinetics, Sona among them, had the presence of mind to steer the falling rubble toward areas where no one was standing, but they couldn't catch every boulder or glass shard. There were screams, and sobbing whimpers afterward.

Desperate men ignored wounded ones. The roof came down. The walls crumbled. A slope of crushed stone formed at one end, the one with the door that led to the mess hall and exercise yard, the direction most of them associated with 'out.' Men began swarming up it before others were finished making it, and more injuries resulted. Sona was one of these, though he didn't remember deciding to climb up. One moment he was realizing that escape was possible -- then there was a mess, and catching falling things, and then he found himself twisted beneath a slab of stone, and howling.

He bent everything he had to lifting the stone off him, but it wouldn't budge. It had crushed one of his legs. He could see, in the flickers of lucidity between swarms of pain, that his left leg was utterly gone, not just broken but smashed to paste. He wanted to separate himself from it, certain that the pain would go with it. Tugging at it made him scream, but he couldn't stop doing it.

Somewhere above, guns were barking. Shouting and flickers of power. He rolled his head, but it was aiming in the wrong direction. Back toward where his cell had been. Please all the gods, don't let that be my last sight. Urotu help me -- haven't I always been true? Haven't I always resisted the Dalanists and their heresy? Is this my reward?

Something moved, something pale, in a hollow of broken rock. Up above the shells of the cell tiers, up where the gun post had been. A soldier? Watchman? Left alive to shoot me dead? The figure went to the edge where the floor had broken off, stepped out onto thin air, and drifted gently down. I used to be able to do that... Sona wanted to play dead, but couldn't keep his sobs behind his teeth. The pain was unbelievable.

Bounding lightly over the strewn floor, the figure came nearer, and Sona began to doubt his senses. Not a soldier. The paleness was not a white uniform, but white flesh, crowned with something that in Sona's blurred eyes glowed like a streak of fire. Flickered, as the figure moved through bands of falling sunlight.

"Can you speak?" The voice was gentle. A young man's voice, and oddly familiar. "Can you hear me? Do you remember me, Sona?"

Sona clenched his teeth, blinked fast to clear his eyes. The bright figure's face jumped into focus. It was Trevarde's redheaded bumboy. It was Ash Trine.

"I'll have to make a tourniquet, or you'll bleed to death when I take that rock off you. It's going to hurt, but you have to try to hold still. Do you understand?"

"You came back." Sona's voice came out in a thin whine. "You came back for us. Is he here too? Trevarde?"

"Yes. I'm going to use some of your shirt, I don't have a lot of clothes left." Trine barely touched Sona's arm, but the sleeve of his sweat-soaked prison shirt flew away in neat strips. A brush of power trailed it along his skin, and that tiny touch was enough to clear his mind and ease the pain.

With full consciousness came a different kind of confusion. Trine's face was unmistakable, nobody else had a beaky freckled mug like that, and for all the dirt in it his hair was still a dead giveaway. But somehow, Sona was certain that if he thought of this as the same person he'd brawled with before, he'd be wrong. Power breathed from Trine like the cool of evening. His pale blue eyes, no longer frightened, held a kind of wry serenity that Sona had seen in the eyes of very old men. The pain in Sona's leg as Trine knotted twisted fabric around it wasn't nearly as bad as it should have been.

He would have been afraid, remembering how nasty he'd been to the kid, except that he had a feeling that this version of Trine would never harm him. Was too powerful to have to do harm.

"This is going to hurt a lot," Trine cautioned. "Are you ready?"

"Thank you," Sona said. Just in case something kept him from saying it later. There was no use in wondering how Trine could be so different, or even whether it was enough to help. "You don't owe me this and I know it. I'm ready."

With no sign of effort except a slight frown, Trine pressed his palms to the slab of stone that pinned Sona, and it shattered to gravel.

Pain fizzed up Sona's spine and burst in his head in a galaxy of spinning sparks.

When he woke, he was alone. He was dizzy, nauseous from loss of blood, but nothing hurt. By inches, he raised himself on his elbows to look at what was left of his leg. Ready for anything, not sure what he expected. Gagged at the sight of the mess of bloody meat and splintered bone that stretched out before him -- but it wasn't attached to him. Beyond where his trouser leg had been neatly sheared, the brown skin of his thigh gave way to pink, shiny scar. The stump looked as if it had been healed for years.

Beside him, placed neatly to his hand, was a length of steel bar from one of the skylights, one end melted and fused into a shape like the handle of a cane.

Colonel Warren had gone past the point of having his hands full about fifteen minutes ago. Five minutes ago, he'd stopped trying to contain the breakout. Now all he could hope to do was save as many of his men as possible.

Rifles were a little use against the escaping prisoners, but not much. For the most part the weapon of choice in this fighting retreat was magic. Warren had only a handful of men left -- he'd counted twenty-one, but a few had gone down since then. They were backing toward the only intact building he could see, firing and casting as they went; he could feel that they were exhausted.

"That's it, boys," he kept saying. "Just a few more yards." He hoped they couldn't hear his fear in his voice.

The prisoners flinging themselves against his line were a snarling mass, all filthy skin and stringy hair and blue-gray rags. Rabid. Not like last time, when they'd all bolted as far from the compound as possible. This time they were determined to tear the place apart. Warren didn't have time to wonder how the wards had come down. He didn't have time to wonder what he'd do when the few men he'd managed to chivvy out of the shaking mountain had reached the guardhouse that was their goal. They'd be boxed in, there. But at least they'd have cover... cover which would come down on their heads if they didn't spend energy keeping it up...

A breath of wind ran across his sunburned skin, and with it came clarity, and the smell of cold brine. At its passing, a change fell over the sound of the battle; not a hush, not at first, but a faltering of fury. Then, one by one, the prisoners straightened their backs, took deep breaths. Their magics went from attack to defense, then ceased completely. His own men began by crouching to reload and check their ammunition, but lost interest in the process partway through, and they too were still.

Warren felt his own spine straighten, his own lungs and eyes clear. Peace grew through him. It was a spell, of sorts, but not a heavy hand of passivity like the spells he knew. He still had the option of fighting, if he wanted to. It was just obvious to him, suddenly, that fighting was the least logical of his options, provided this cease-fire lasted into the next few seconds.

Waves of murmuring went through the prisoners. They parted; someone came through. Someone tall, bird-boned, pale as new ivory, with eyes like sea ice.

"My God," Warren breathed. "How -- of all the -- what --"

"Empathy, Colonel. Just empathy." Ashleigh Trine's tone was conversational, but his voice penetrated the mind without seeming to pass the ears. His expression wasn't that of a man possessing this kind of power; he looked a little worried, a little angry.

So why were some of the prisoners sinking to their knees? Warren felt his own exhaustion keenly, and the urge to bow his head in respect was part of that.

"I think," Trine said kindly, with a graceful gesture of his hands, "that you should go that way, and these men should go that way. And none of you should look back."

"What did -- what --"

"And I think now would be a good time for that to happen."

Some of the men were already taking this apparition's advice. Prisoners in one direction, Watchmen in another. Warren remembered his duty clearly enough, but it didn't seem as important as his life at the moment. He spoke to convince himself as much as to answer Trine. "I'm a soldier of God. I don't desert my post."

Trine tilted his head like a bird. "What's God need an army for? No, don't answer, I'm sure you've got an argument but I don't have time. But..." He sighed. "It's strange, but I'm glad you don't know what it's like to have your mind gang-raped. If you did, you'd want to undo it, and you can't. Go away now, Colonel Warren."

Against his intention, Warren took a step back. The terrible thing was that he knew Trine wasn't influencing his mind with anything but words. Everything was too clear. "I --" He meant to say something else, but what came out was: "I do know. It's part of our training."

"Go away," Trine repeated gently. The curve of his mouth was kind, but his eyes were like diamond drills.

Warren turned on his heel and ran.

Cut, twist, block, break, dodge, cut. There was no more thought. There was no time to have an opinion. No time to wonder whether he could win, or what would happen if he lost.

He barely knew that he was kneeling, hands fisted in the sand. Blood and sweat running into his eyes had no effect on the senses that mattered. He couldn't be bothered to wipe away all the things that ran out of his nose and eyes and mouth, tears and snot and blood and spit. The sounds he was making had nothing to do with anything. His enemy's body was just the nucleus of the shape he was trying to wreck, and the fact that this nucleus still stood upright and did not fall was of no importance.

He could barely remember his name anymore, but knew his pattern better with every moment.

What had once been a shifting shape in his mind's eye now stood out more clearly than earth or sky. Its colors gave light. Dark light, most of it; his enemy's was all pale and glittering, but his own was full of a thousand shades of black, the darkest greens, streaks of crimson and deep blue. No doubt it looked like the soul of an evil man. He was aware that his tactics were also those of an evil man; he caused as much pain as he could, using the distraction it afforded to press home the most damaging attacks he could devise. As he began to understand the structure of his enemy's soul-shape, he chose his targets with more care: self-image, sight, thought, hope. He knew that he was confirming Thelyan's certainty that he had to be defeated for the good of the world, but he couldn't care about that.

Only one thing mattered: Ash was moving again, out among the chaos, and any moment some stupid accident could take him away.

The act of sharing that power surge had connected them even more strongly. There was now a constant circuit of energy and emotion running between them. Kieran knew Ash's intentions despite the distance between them, and knew that he was sending his own struggle in return. He was afraid that if he was killed in this fight, his death would wash back along that connection and harm Ash -- and he couldn't pretend that a power backlash was the only hurt his death would do. He was the reason for everything Ash was doing, just as Ash was his own reason for fighting.

Still fighting, though beaten to his knees. Though his skin was a mess of cuts, though his muscles ached, though he'd been thrown tumbling across the stone a dozen times. He thought some bones might be broken, knew for certain that things inside him were bleeding. Unless he could keep enough energy for healing, he'd die even if he won.

There is no if, he snarled at himself. I will win. A world in which I don't doesn't matter. And the world got smaller every second.

Smash, slice. Bite and scratch. Shoulders hunched and creaking with repeated blows. We're killing each other by inches. Whenever he managed to steal some power away from Thelyan, he had to use it to repair himself. No time to heal properly, just barely enough to stop the worst bleeding so that he could keep going.

Ash was nearer. Nearer than he should have been -- nearer than Kieran wanted him. Coming up, somehow coming up the side of the mountain, faster than climbing, had now figured out the kinetic's ability to lift himself.

Don't! It's dangerous up here, everything is knives --

Kieran's incoherent message met the sweet calm of Ash and brought back a reply strong enough to contain words:

It's time to trust me. Do as I say, now, and we'll win. Love, will you trust me?

Yes. No other answer was possible.

Pull in. Shield yourself.

Kieran obeyed without wondering why. He yanked back all his thorns and blades, walled himself in tight. Suddenly his body mattered again, and it hurt all over. He wiped his eyes clear, took a creaking breath.

Thelyan was standing, but in a staggering posture, white uniform red-speckled. Some of Kieran's needles had gotten through. The Director was frowning, turning, as Ash rose over the mesa's edge and alighted weightlessly.

The scene was too familiar.

Something seemed to burst open in Kieran's heart. He had seen this before. He'd seen Ash shining like that, glowing like precious metals, his eyes brighter than the sky, walking as if touching the ground was optional.

No. Not this. Not this dream.

But he knew what came next. As Ash went to stand between Kieran and Thelyan, the message he sent was no surprise.

Pick up your gun now. Don't hesitate. Don't argue. This will work.

A thin, high sound rose up in Kieran's throat, but his hand closed around his gun. It seemed to take forever, but Thelyan had just begun to open his mouth to speak, and the dust raised by Ash's footsteps was still floating.

Ash spread his arms, meeting Kieran's stare. His pattern blossomed around him, for a split-second unfurled as a golden chrysanthemum with ten thousand petals, so bright Kieran could almost see it with eyes alone. Then it contracted, spinning itself glittering around the thread that linked them.

And the path it made went through Ash's chest, and speared toward Thelyan's throat.

Ashes, no! You're the one thing I can't spare!

Ash smiled, and it looked like a goodbye. He had never been so beautiful as in that moment. His voice had never been so sweet as in the one word he spoke:

"Now."

No. No. But it would only work in this moment. One second and the chance would be gone, Ash had his unprotected back turned to Thelyan, Thelyan was readying something big and full of whirling knives of air --

Kieran brought the gun into the path Ash had made, and fired.

Thunder echoed forever and ever. It took years for Ash's loving smile to turn to slack, stunned nothing. The hole in his white skin stood empty for ages before blood began to roll from it, so brightly terrible, so slowly that Kieran could see it bead before it ran.

Ash's knees bent, balance lost, somehow still graceful as he fell, reaching one hand to catch himself, the other coming to cover the wound, its movement like a bird's flight.

Beyond him, Thelyan was still standing, staring, and everything below his chin was wet red chaos.

Then time snapped right and Kieran was on his feet, flinging himself to Ash's side. In the corner of his eye he saw his enemy wavering, about to fall, but didn't care. Dropping his gun, he grabbed Ash's shoulders, trying to lift him from his kneeling slump. Babbling, words discarded half-formed, eyes blurring -- so irritating, he needed to see Ash's face -- and when Ash lifted his head it was such a relief to see him still alive that the blur turned to pouring tears.

"Got him?" Ash's mouth was too red. Crimson drooled out with his words.

"Yes. Yes. Oh god Ashes, why --"

"'Splain later." Frowning in an effort to focus, Ash groped across the ground until he found Kieran's gun. Fitted his fingers around it; used the wrist of that hand on Kieran's shoulder to push himself up. Kieran, belatedly understanding, helped him stand, though they were both reeling. Ash nearly fell over when he turned to Thelyan.

The Director was still standing, though the whole front of his white uniform was now sheeted wetly red. His pattern was beginning to fragment. Some of it still moved with purpose, though. Moved toward his torn throat, healing. His eyes, impossibly, were still full of terrible intelligence, though the white of his spine was showing.

Ash brought the pistol up. Kieran took his wrist, steadied his hand.

Five shots thumped out. Thelyan jerked with the first shot, fell with the third, but Ash went on pulling the trigger after the bullets were gone. Kept clicking on the empty chamber after Thelyan lay sprawled on the ground. Crumpled like discarded clothing, eyes rolling, then empty. Flecks of dust stuck to their clouding surface.

The shards of his pattern swirled for a moment, settled, turned to flimsy veils. Fluttered in an intangible wind. Then began to grow, to reel out like silk from a spool, creeping across the ground.

Eyes narrow with intense concentration, Ash took his hand from the bullet hole in his chest and spread the bloody palm toward the pattern billowing from Thelyan's corpse. Kieran's arms were wrapped around him from behind, holding him upright. He took a gurgling breath, and as he let it out a shape spread from his hand. A sphere, a glittering honeycomb of force scribbled with intricate equations interlocked. It closed around the corpse, and where the growing power touched it, it glowed brighter.

"There," Ash said. A sigh of deep satisfaction. Then his eyes rolled up, and he slumped.

With a wordless cry, Kieran caught him, scooped him up. Ash still lived -- blood bubbled around the wound, streamed from his nose and mouth. But when Kieran tried to spin the wound closed, his power wouldn't adhere. He wasted precious seconds pouring out his energy to no effect, before an idea occurred to him: the Watch. There were healers among them. They'd help, he'd make them help.

Gathering up what little power he had left, he took a running leap from the mountain's edge, pushing himself away from the ground just enough to break his fall. His ankles jarred as he came down; he went to his knees to avoid jolting Ash. Then he was up and running.

He could sense where they were, the people with magic clinging to them. The desert was a blur. He leapt wreckage and bodies. Blasted a fence out of his way, saw figures in the distance. Closed at the best speed he could manage, ready to turn away whatever spells or bullets they sent at him.

Ash coughed a little, shuddering in his arms. One pale hand still clutched Kieran's empty gun, holding to it as if terrified to let go. Beneath the streaked blood, his lips were going purple.

Kieran plowed right into the midst of the knot of startled men, shield thorn-spiked and attacks prepared, before he realized that these were not Watchmen. These men wore prison-gray, and some of their faces were familiar. Those familiar faces looked amazed, some a bit alarmed, some muttering his name in confused tones.

He knelt to lay Ash on the sun-hot ground, propped up against his knees, to have a free hand to press over the bubbling wound. He looked up at the circle of faces, pleading.

"Tell me one of you is a healer. Please."

They talked, but he didn't hear the answer he was looking for, and none of the rest of it made sense. Questions, recriminations, distrust, demands.

"Please." He could feel Ash's life draining away under his hand. He set his power's hooks in Ash's soul to keep it from fleeing, but the blood kept pouring out, filling lungs, and he knew he couldn't hold Ash to life forever. "Please." He couldn't stop saying it, and they were all just making noise. "Please!"

One of the faces loomed closer, and a slap stung Kieran's face.

"Listen, boy." It was Duyam Sona; Kieran recognized him when the slap cut through his panic. The man was leaning on a crutch now, one leg missing. With his free hand he was pointing emphatically at Ash. "He's a healer. He'll heal himself, that's what I'm trying to tell you. But he's worn out." Sona gestured to the stump of his leg. "From doing stuff like this. If you can share your power with him --"

Kieran saw the truth of it before Sona was finished speaking. He didn't waste time acknowledging. Through his hands slicked with Ash's blood, through the cord spun between their souls, he let the power run. A trickle at first, until he was sure Ash was taking it. Then he opened the stops. But there was too little of it left. There was no time to comb it out of the air.

Dimly, he sensed a hand come to rest on his shoulder. Then another. From these hands, more power came. The energy spread, linked from source to source. A chain of hands and minds; exhausted men, newly returned to their Talents, poured their life into him, and through him, into Ash.

At first it seemed to disappear, as if the wound was an endless void that couldn't be filled. But little by little, Ash's failing pattern began to brighten. Things torn and broken began to right themselves. Warmth grew and spread from him. A sense of well-being, as strong as a lungful of opium but bringing clarity instead of dreams, threaded into Kieran and spread from him to the men around him.

Pain faded. The pain of his body and the hurt in his heart. He could feel his own injuries healing, and saw the bruised and battered faces of the prisoners returning to health. All the world glowed gold, and just a little green.

At last the glow settled to the normal light of afternoon, and Ash smiled up into Kieran's eyes. "Kai," he murmured. "You trusted me."

Swallowing a sob of gratitude, Kieran crushed Ash close and kissed him. His mouth was still full of blood, and in it Kieran tasted the truth more clearly than words could have conveyed: We will never be lost again. This is permanent. Ash's arms came up to encircle him, strength returning. He buried his face in Kieran's shoulder.

"It's over." Kieran stroked his dirty hair, his bare back streaked with blood and dust. "It's over now. Let's not ever do that again, all right?"

"Okay." Ash's laugh sounded a bit choked. Then he pulled back, and an unpleasant realization showed in his eyes. "Wait. Where are we? Which side of the tracks?"

"What?"

Struggling out of Kieran's embrace, Ash stared back at Churchrock. Kieran followed his stare, as did those of the prisoners who weren't already looking that way. On top of the mountain was a flaring light, as if some huge mirror was catching the sun. But he knew there was nothing reflective up there. Whatever it was, it was glowing on its own.

"The ward I made," Ash said. "All Thelyan's power is inside it. It's overloading. It's not going to hold."

Sudden understanding made Kieran jump to his feet, hauling Ash up after him. "Across the tracks," he ordered. "Everyone. Now!"

The prisoners didn't ask questions this time; they obeyed. Kieran turned to run, but Ash's hand hauled him back. Pointed him at Sona, who was grimly struggling along with his cane. Kieran met Sona's eyes. Sona grimaced and nodded. Kieran set his shoulder to Sona's gut, hefted him, and in this undignified posture jogged away with him. Ash staggered along beside, carrying the cane.

"It's about to go!" Ash yelled. "I can feel it!"

Kieran had thought he had no power left, but he found just enough to speed himself for the last hundred yards to the rails. Men were struggling up the embankment, some helping each other and some leaving the rest behind. Ash seemed to have found power of his own, because he was grabbing the worst stragglers and throwing them up the slope. Kieran was only halfway up with his burden when he felt the soundless explosion behind him.

"Go!" He was shouting himself hoarse, not paying much attention to what he was saying. "Go, go!" He dragged a final burst of speed out of his worn-out nerves, and tumbled down on the other side of the tracks. Dropped Sona sprawling, scrambled to see whether Ash had made it, charging back until he saw the redhead with a straggler's arm clutched in each hand skidding heels-first down the gravel slope.

Then the sky flashed white, and a cold prickle scraped across his skin.

"Keep moving!" Ash was yelling, shoving men along. Groaning, Kieran picked Sona up again.

"I don't like this any more than you do," Sona grunted as he bounced over Kieran's shoulder.

"Let's not talk about it," Kieran returned.

With Ash herding them, the men dragged themselves about a quarter mile from the tracks before they refused to move any more. Kieran managed to set his burden down a bit more gently this time. He straightened, wincing, to look back at the mountain. He half expected to see a chunk bitten out of it as if mining charges had exploded it.

There was no such physical damage. What he saw with his eyes was nothing but a bit of smoke streaming from the train he'd wrecked.

With his mind's sense, though, he saw what they'd been running from. A new Burn, boiling out from where Thelyan had died, the sphere of it centered on the mountaintop, angry jags of thought-lightning roiling in chaos. Where they neared the railroad tracks, the streaks of energy smeared and bent. A secondary Burn, linear, rushed in either direction along the bands of steel.

Ash came up next to him, and with an arm around his waist watched with him until it was certain that the new Burn wouldn't overflow the rails. Once they were sure the danger was past, they leaned into each other and stood embracing. There was nothing that had to be said out loud. They just held each other for a long time.

It was Sona's bald friend with the beard who finally got their attention. He stood around clearing his throat until they turned to him.

"Hate to bust up your romantic moment," he said, "but we're all kinda wondering -- what now?"

Kieran raised an eyebrow. "You're asking me?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's true not everybody likes you much. And to be honest, looking at you boys grabbing on each other is making me sorta sick. But you came back for us. We ain't gonna forget that. So if you got us out to do something for you, like fight or something, looks like we're up for it."

Kieran opened his mouth to protest that he hadn't freed them, but Ash touched his lips to silence him, and answered for him. "If you want to fight, that's up to you. We all have reason to be rebels. But be smart about it. Don't waste yourselves. As for us, we're used up."

"Fair enough." The bearded man glanced around at the other men who were watching this conversation. "We got no food or water, though."

"Food's a problem," said Kieran. "You white boys better ask the Iavaians to help you with that. As for water..." He rolled his eyes up to the sky, sent a brush of thought out to see whether anything was coming. Smiled. "You got about five hours to find something to catch it in."

"Wait!" That was Sona, calling out as Kieran turned away. "What are you going to do?"

He glanced at Ash, who grinned back at him.

"I don't think you really want to know."