He waited, gauging the moment. She was silent, combing her hair.

“You are incurious.”

She glanced up. “I am sitting in the mud at the bottom of a hole with a kitchen magician for my companion and a village of depravity above. My head hurts. My cloak is gone. I’m hungry. And cold. I see no way out of the present coil and no reason to be in it at all.”

“Ask your Goddess, if you lack reasons.” He had not intended his voice to be so sharp. “I’m told She has a plenitude.”

“She does not Speak.”

Lute shifted and carefully extended his legs.

“If my bag were here, we might dine on cheese and bread and fresh milk,” he said musingly. “I would share my cloak and mix you a tincture I learned in the Wilderwood that is efficacious in the soothing of headaches.” He sighed. “Rot those lamps—it’s getting dark. I hate to talk to someone I can’t see.”

Moonhawk raised her head, tracing the flicker of Power to the man—and out of him; flowing to the sticky floor.

A small blue flame appeared in the mud between them; faded, flickered, steadied. The man Lute settled back, sighing as one who has expended much effort.

“Light at least, Lady. I apologize that it does not give heat. If I had my bag…” He let the sentence go, peering upward for a moment before settling harder against the fabric of the pit, hope as thin as the wan blue light.

“Please, my name is Moonhawk—and I thank you for the gift. You should conserve your strength.”

“My strength will return soon enough. They won’t come for me tonight, I think. More likely tomorrow mid-morning—after Lady Drudae is angry.”

* * *

“OPEN IT! “She augmented the order with a ringing slap across the man’s ear.

“Lady, I cannot! It does not—there is no—I see nothing—”

“Open it or fry! “This time she aimed her blow at the bag, knuckles sharp, as if she struck the idiot’s simpering face.