Ms. Majaumahada's back hurt. She rubbed it as she bent over the well, deciding whether to try drawing water. Yes, she thought. It was worth it. Her weathered hands grasped the pulley rope and pulled, the friction barely noticeable due to years of caluses. The old wooden bucket came up to her slowly, as constant as the steady movements of her arms.

The sky was clear that morning. The sun had only barely crested the northern mountains, and yesterday's rain clouds were dissipating into the orange expanse of the sky. The air still carried the chill of winter, but the rays of un-smothered sun pricking over the mountains belied the warmth of spring. It was a morning for change and new beginnings, Majaumahada thought.

The elderly woman grabbed the bucket, arms straining under the weight. She had considered waking her apprentice for the task, but had found him sleeping so soundly that she thought it better to let him rest. After all, she knew how late he stayed awake practicing. Weighed against alternatives, the bucket was really not so heavy.

She set it on the ledge of the well and went to fetch her watering can. Teeming flowerbeds lined the outsides of her cottage, each segment boasting a unique color or shape. The air was sweet with floral scents. The flowers could tell it was spring. It would be much easier to keep them alive, now. Majaumahada filled her watering can. She walked beside her flowerbeds, sprinkling her water onto each in turn. She felt the process acutely, as if she herself were the water coursing through the flowers. She breathed deeply, senses tingling with awareness of every root, bud, and beetle beneath her. Then, she felt something else.

Something on the northern horizon caught her eye. This area of the provinces was flat and plains-like, meaning one could see far out into the horizon. Backlit by the sun, this figure was hard to make out. A rider on horseback. Majaumahada stood still, watching attentively as the rider approached. Soon, she could make out a second figure on the horse. It seemed to be slumped over, lifeless, in the arms of the rider. Seeing this, she could guess why they had come to her.

They were not Taronan. Majaumahada recognized the make of their clothing as Northern, and their skin and hair were too fair for them to be Taronan. The slumping figure was a boy, and the rider a girl. Neither looked older than nineteen. Both were covered in blood.

Majaumahada set down her watering can. She had begun to feel the presence of the girl and horse when they got closer, but the boy remained undetectable to her. He was very near death, if not dead already. He lay between the girl and the reins, leaning against her. He was bleeding badly somewhere underneath the furs he was wrapped in. The girl stared at Majaumahada with intense blue eyes. She brought the horse to a stop just before her.

"You are Majaumahada. The essewitch." She spoke in fragmented Taronan, stress evident by the waver of her voice.

"I am," Majauamahada responded evenly in Kor, the common tongue of the north.

"You owe the Celghana a debt." The girl spoke with a false confidence that did little to hide the concern in her voice.

"I do," she responded again.

"Repay it now." She paused, as if considering her next move. "Help him."

The girl waited tensely, hands gripping the horse's reins tightly. Majaumahada saw the boy's chest rise slightly. He was breathing.

"Bring him inside."