“She?” one of them asked him. “You mean—”

“Aye, a maid,” the leader said. Amusement still colored his voice, and Alexeika’s cheeks burned like fire.

She rose to her feet and looked carefully to one side to see if she could escape this clearing for the nearby thicket before they had time to stop her. Her hands settled themselves unobtrusively on the hilts of her daggers, ready to throw with deadly accuracy if these men decided to try other sport with her.  “Come, lass,” the leader said to Alexeika, stretching out his hand. “Climb behind my saddle and guide us to where we can shelter for the night in this blighted cold.”

While Alexeika hesitated, the biggest man cleared his throat. “Nay, sire,” he protested, “be not so generous or so trusting.”

“She’s a proven thief,” another one remarked.

“I’m not leaving her here in the cold,” the leader said. “Come, maid. We mean you no harm, as long as you try not to steal our horses.” Stung by that remark, Alexeika tossed her head. “I’m no thief.”

“Were those horses yours?”

Grinding her teeth together, she would not answer.

“A thief,” the large man said with a growl. “Leave her be, yer grace, and let’s quit this wood as fast as we can.”

“Thod knows how far it is to the next settlement,” the leader said with a weary sigh. “And we’ve ridden hard this day. We need rest and warmth for a while.” His gaze returned to Alexeika. “Will you guide us?”

“How much coin do you offer?”

“Two silver dreits.”

In Mandrian coin? Her mouth opened in shock even as she thought he must be a fool. The offer was too generous, which meant he knew nothing about Nether at all.

“I know more than you think,” he said gently, as though he could read her very thoughts. “Would you rather have skannen instead—” “I’ll take the dreits,” she said swiftly, and gripped his stirrup.  The large man kicked his horse forward. “Nay, lass, you’ll ride with me. And you’ll hand over both daggers and the sword first.”

She backed up at once. “Never!”

“Sir Terent, you affront her at every turn,” the leader chided the man gently.  Despite his odd accent, there was something familiar about his voice, something that toyed with her memory. “She’s no enemy of ours.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Sir Terent replied sourly. “We’ve met no friend in this

forsaken land yet, and—”

“What is your name?” the leader asked her.

“Alexeika.”

He waited a moment as though he expected her to tell him the rest of it, but when she did not he bowed to her from his saddle. “Alexeika is a highborn name, is it not? Very pretty.”

She flushed at the compliment, then felt renewed anger at herself for being swayed by his charm and manners.

“You are welcome to come with us, Alexeika, and show us to good shelter. Will you give me your word that you will not use your weapons against me or my companions?”

She hesitated, sensing the suspicion and distrust that surrounded her from everyone except the leader. “You’re no enemy of mine,” she said begrudgingly.  “I’ll strike you not, providing none of you strike me.”

“Fair enough,” the leader announced, and held out his hand to her again. “Climb up behind me.”

The thought of those two silver dreits decided her, for they were a fortune. At best, Costma would have given her only a few skannen for the horses. But Mandrian dreits would put an end to the shortage in her purse, meaning she’d have enough to live on for the rest of the winter. It was incredibly good fortune, and she hesitated no longer.

When she grasped the stranger’s hand he pulled his foot from his stirrup, and she climbed up behind him with quick agility. Settled at his back, she resisted the impulse to put her arms around him and clutched the back of his fine thick cloak instead. He was a rich man, this stranger, and why he’d chosen to travel into Nether at this time of year was a mystery she did not care to unravel. Soon enough he’d run into more trouble than his three men could handle, and then he’d be shorn of his fine clothes, his boots, and his fancy horse, not to mention his fat purse. For a moment it was tempting to consider guiding him to Costma’s camp and turning him over to the bandits.

But then she thought of her father and what he would have said to such a dishonorable scheme. Ashamed of herself for even thinking it, Alexeika tapped the Mandrian lord’s shoulder and pointed deeper into the forest. “That way.” In less than an hour they reached a sheltered spot that was Alexeika’s camp.  Nestled beneath the overhanging bank of a small stream that was now a half-frozen rivulet in the snow, it was a good place, protected from the wind and easily defended. Alexeika showed the men where they could tether their horses in a small, sheltering grove of shtac. She dismounted, then ducked beneath the overhang and pulled aside the stone where she kept her strikebox and tinder dry.

A few moments later she had a fire going. The men moved back and forth, unsaddling and caring for their horses, talking softly among themselves as they decided who would stand watch and in what order. Alexeika fed sticks to her small fire, which blazed stronger, and watched the men without appearing to. She found herself approving of their camaraderie and discipline. Three of them, the lord included, were clearly knights, for the firelight glinted off their mail hauberks and spurs. The fourth individual, young and very thin with freckles and dark red hair, served the lord as squire.

It was he who spied the bark bucket Alexeika left hanging on a tree branch. And he who used it to carry water to the fire.

Giving her a tentative smile, he said, “I am Thum du Maltie, squire to our master. May I heat this water for his comfort?”

She nodded, not yet ready to smile back. “If you don’t set my bucket afire.” There was a simple trick to heating bark containers, but it seemed the squire intended to take no chances. He produced a metal pot from his saddlebags and used it to heat the water. Then he set about unwrapping some bundles of waxed linen to produce a feast of cold meat, cheese, flat cakes, and apples.  Although Alexeika had eaten, her supper had been meager fare indeed compared with this. As the men gathered around the fire, crouching low to keep from bumping their heads on the overhang, Alexeika shyly retreated deeper into the shadows.

The largest man was clearly the lowest born. Sir Terent, the lord had called him, and he was rough-edged and plain, sitting there with his ruddy face and gapped teeth. His green eyes remained forever watchful for trouble in the dark woods beyond their fire. Now and then he glanced at her, alert to her movements.  By his actions, he was clearly the lord’s protector, she realized.  The other knight was fair-haired and soft-spoken, a courtly man whose manner reminded her of her father’s. Suddenly she yearned for her old life, when her father had still lived and there had been a few remnants of civility and grace in their camp.

“I am Sir Alard,” he said to Alexeika as he carved himself a hearty slice of meat with his dagger. “Will you eat with us?”

She’d had no meat in several days. Game had grown scarce here, and she knew she’d have to move her camp soon. Silently she nodded her acceptance of the man’s offer, and grew round-eyed as he handed her the large slice of meat he’d cut for himself.

“Cold rations again,” Sir Terent grumbled between bites of flat cake. “Nothing to warm a man’s bones in this supper.”

“Be glad you’ve got food at all,” Sir Alard told him, and offered Alexeika a flat cake.

She took it politely. The cake was light in texture, baked of fine flour with no coarse grain in it. Ravenous, she devoured it in four bites and gnawed happily at her meat, grateful for the men’s casual generosity.  Thum took the heated water and carried it out to the shadows for the lord to wash with.

Warmed by the fire, Alexeika pulled off her tattered cloak and knelt to put another stick on the blaze.

“Thod’s mercy!” Sir Terent shouted, reaching for his sword.  That was all the warning Alexeika had before she found herself knocked sprawling. Coughing, she lifted her head and found Sir Terent’s sword tip at her throat. Sir Alard’s foot pinned her arm.

She lay there, half-winded and paralyzed with alarm. “What—” “Silence!” Sir Terent roared. “You’ll have steel down your gullet if you try your wiles on me.”

She could not understand what had turned them so suddenly against her. Sir Terent’s hostility, however, could not be doubted, and when she shifted her gaze to Sir Alard, that knight looked no less dangerous.

“I’ll hold her,” Sir Terent said grimly to his fellow knight. “Run and tell his grace that we’ve caught ourselves a Nonkind witch.”

Sir Alard obeyed, while Alexeika glared up at Sir Terent. She realized now that it was the sight of her red hauberk that had alarmed him. He was a fool to jump to conclusions, but when she opened her mouth to tell him so, he pressed harder with his sword, and she felt the tip break her skin. She froze, hardly daring to breathe, and moved no more.

At that moment, the lord strode up. He had thrown back his cloak hood like the others, but unlike them, he had removed his mail coif and washed the road grime from his face and hands. His black hair fell, neatly combed, to his shoulders.  When he stopped next to her, he stood so that the fire was at his back and his face remained cast in shadow.

“What’s this about Nonkind?” he asked sharply.

“Look at her, sire,” Sir Terent said roughly. “Look at what she’s wearing.”

“Gantese mail.”

“Aye. That makes her one of the murdering savages if not—” “She’s Netheran, not a Believer,” the lord said sharply.  “But we know that Nether and Gant are allies now,”Sir Alard said. “Strange how neatly we fell into her path. She could have led us into a trap and—” “There’s no trap here,” their master said. “Let her up.”