The night of Shavnah had passed in a haze for Bran Finn. There were too many things to process, too many things to think about. He fixed his eyes on the green-cloaked back of the clan's druid riding before him as his horse stumbled along the narrow forest path. Always he had looked to him as the source of answers, but he had an uneasy feeling that even the druid didn't know what was happening this time. He thumbed at the leather reigns he held. First there had been the vision that night... nobody seemed to have known who the dead man had been, but he had apparently appeared to them all. Never had Finn heard of such a thing happening, and it put him in a dark mood. Rarely did a dead person appear to those who did not know them, and never did they appear to an entire clan at once. Then there had been the attack by Paddock Marsden, and the slaying of the same. Finn shook his head and glanced around his wagon back at Connelly, who rode just behind him. A stormy scowl was fixed across his friend's face, unchanged since the night before.

Poor Connelly, thought Finn as he his hand drifted down to touch the point just below his knee where his right leg ended abruptly, life's not fair, is it? A wry smile flickered across his face and then was gone. He loved him like a brother, but he couldn't deny it: the boy would be a terror if he ever became a rider.

"How fare ye, Connelly?" He called back over his shoulder.

The boy made a rude sound with his throat and shot back, "How d'ye think, traitor?"

Finn smiled to himself. Earlier that night, the clan druid had decided it would be wisest to leave the settlement and find shelter among friends until less hostile lands could be found. Finn had supported him. Connelly, of course, had been of the mind that they should simply slaughter the Paddocks to a man, Dau be damned, and let the refugees know who it was they should listen to. He loved the old stories too much.

The druid's horse stopped. Finn nearly plowed into him. He frowned. The druid turned his horse around. The man had a strange look in his eyes. As he passed Finn, he whispered, "Get ready to run." Finn's back went rigid and he started to reach out through Ena and Dau to sense his surroundings. His mouth went dry. They had walked into an ambush.

The druid calmly proceeded down the line. He was about halfway to the end when an arrow pierced his chest. The druid shouted something and Finn whispered a prayer to Dau. With a loud scraping sound, his wagon unhitched itself and flew off to the side as the ground beneath it heaved. He left the path behind him clear and thus was his conscience. He took off at full gallop. Behind him he heard screams as trees where archers had hidden themselves burst into flame. The druid was using his last breaths to fight, even as new attackers poured from the brush on either side. He urged his horse onward, praying that none would follow. Eventually the sounds of battle faded and he could only hear the blood pounding in his ears and the hooves striking the earth beneath him. He caught his breath and pulled his horse off the path. He could see a trail of smoke far off in the distance snaking down to meet the tree line. Down the path he could barely make out the form of someone on a horse galloping towards him. Finn squinted. It was Connelly, followed by someone else. He closed his eyes and let Dau's power wash through him. Yes, they were out of danger for now. Dau confirmed it.

Connelly pulled his horse up beside Finn's, clutching a bloody sword. Behind him came Derrick, with Quinlan holding on to him for dear life. Apparently they had also been near the front of the line when the Paddocks struck, though Finn did not recall seeing them. Both had a wild look in their eyes, as if expecting another attack at any moment.

"We're safe," Finn said. "No one followed you."

All three relaxed visibly.

"We need to go back," said Quinlan, her voice hollow.
Derrick's back stiffened and conflict passed across his face. Connelly looked at Finn.

"No," said Finn. "They will not be careless in leaving survivors. Even if there is anything left to salvage, we will only be caught by the Paddocks."

Connelly spat. Quinlan buried her face in Derrick's back. "So what d'we do now?" Connelly asked.

There was possibility in that question, and also a threat. Finn knew that Connelly had never enjoyed being told what to do. He'd always dreamed of escaping the clan and pursuing a life of adventure. There was only one right answer to that question and Finn knew what it was.

"Connelly... I can't pretend to tell you what to do. I can't pretend to tell any of you what to do," he said with a glance at the other two. "The right thing is to warn the En'ric in Croston about what happened here and give them whatever aid they need, if they need it. That's what I plan to do. As for you... do what you will."

Connelly's face went dark, his jaw thrust forward. "Alright then,” he said after a moment, “we'll go."

With that, Connelly kicked the side of his horse and started back down the path.

"We should leave our horses, Connelly," said Finn.

Connelly stopped his horse and looked back at Finn. Damn it, but he knew the boy was right. He jumped off his horse, gave it a swat to get it moving, and headed into the brush. Finn followed suit. As Finn looked back to see if Derrick and Quinlan were doing the same, he noticed that both their faces were streaked with tears. Odd, he thought, that he and Connelly should be the only ones not moved by the loss. And then only Connelly's eyes were dry.