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“You see, young Lerris, with each transfer it takes longer to rebuild his body image and energies because his soul ages, even though his body doesn’t. Chaos disrupts the soul itself.”

I could see the peaked roof of a wayfarers’ hut and the cleared space surrounding it, as we plodded around a gentle curve—a refreshing change from the deadly straightness of the road into and out of Frven.

The hut looked empty, though well-kept. Neither surprised me, for Justen had indicated Weevett was but a few hours’ ride ahead, and most travelers would prefer a warm inn to the best of huts.

“We should stop.” Justen said nothing besides the three words, and I realized that it took all his energy merely to remain in the saddle.

Nothing more than four stone walls, two shuttered windows, a door, a thatched roof, and a small hearth—but it was swept clean and empty, for which I was grateful.

At the same time I wondered why some poor soul had not tried to appropriate the place, since it was far more hospitable than the ramshackle thatched wattle-and-daub dwellings outside Howlett and, presumably, Weevett.

Even though I half-dismounted, half-fell off Gairloch, the pony remained fast as I turned to look after Justen. The wizard in gray was gray all over. He said nothing as I helped him off Rosefoot and onto the stone bench outside the hut.

With short gusts, the wind was picking up, swirling scattered pieces of dried and colorless straw around my boots, puffing dust and scattered snowflakes at Justen’s face.

I found a short axe in Justen’s pack, poorly-sharpened but adequate, and carved out some shavings to start the fire. There looked to be a small creek downhill from the hut, but Justen needed the fire more than he needed the water.

The flint and axe-steel were sufficient; but then, I’ve never had trouble starting fires.

Justen watched as I unstrapped a small kettle from his saddle kit.

“Going to the stream.”

He might as well have been asleep, for all that he looked at me. For some reason, I stopped and took my staff from the makeshift sheath on Gairloch. The pony tossed his head once, and chuffed. His breath was like steam. I swung the kettle in my right hand and grasped the staff in my left, though the water was almost within sight of the hut.

As I scrambled down the path, worn down by years of usage, I felt watched. But then, one way or another I had been watched all day.

Crack.

Thunk!

A figure in rusted armor lay at my feet, between me and the stream bank.

The staff had moved in my hand, reacting before I had seen more than a flicker of movement.

This time I studied the overhanging trees, and the underbrush. But now there was a sense of emptiness.

Hssssssss…

As I looked back down at the fallen figure, mist began to rise, slowly at first, then quickly, forming a small luminous whirlwind. The shaggy man who had been inside the armor was gone, and only the rusted metal links and few plates remained. Then they began to crumble in on themselves, and they too were gone.

For somebody who hadn’t been sure about magic, I was seeing a lot. Or I was losing my mind. I preferred to think that magic was real.

Scooping up a kettle full of water, I hurried back to the hut. Justen had straightened himself up a little, but still sat in the chill outside, rather than by the small but bright fire.

I hung the kettle on the hook over the fire, then I took Gairloch’s reins and stood there, wondering whether I should unsaddle him and let him browse or tie him near the hut. Finally I began to unsaddle him, lugging the tack and saddlebags into the hut. I unclipped the reins but left the halter part of the hackamore in place.

Rosefoot whinnied gently, as if to ask for the same treatment. I obliged her as well. By the time I finished, Justen had dragged himself into the hut and onto the single rude bench inside.

“Any tea?”

“Bring me the reddish pouch.”

“This one?”

He nodded, and I handed the pouch, more like a small bag, to him.

“Here. Two pinches