“Give it to me.”

She looked him in the eye. “I can do this, Shion. I’ve had blisters before. It’s amazing you know what they are, since you obviously don’t get them.”

“What scars I have I will always keep,” he replied, dragging the edge of his finger along the curve of his cheek. “Yours will heal.”

He stared at her, his expression showing that he wanted to help tend to her, but he would not force it on her. She hesitated, seeing the polite entreaty in his eyes, and then offered the needle and he accepted it. Cradling her foot in his lap, he studied the size of the blister, running his finger around the dirty skin. He shook his head and removed his water flask and unstopped it. He carefully washed away the dirt. The feeling of the water on her skin was pleasurable and she found a memory floating into her mind.

One of her favorite things about living at the Winemiller vineyard had been crushing the grapes in the giant vats. There was no experience like it in the world. The grapes were soft and squishy beneath her feet, the cloying smell from the juices filling her nose. For several days after the harvest they crushed the grapes to make wine, and she had always found joy in the process, the useful act of tending the vines, culling the grapes, and then transforming it into a drink that could be stored for years to come. Having sticky, stained feet was a memory she would miss.

He pricked the edge of the blister with the needle and it brought her back to the dust-choked land of Boeotia. She hadn’t realized she’d dozed off. Shion carefully pressed, draining the fluid from the blister, and then covered the clean skin with salve to protect it.

“You had a peaceful look on your face,” Shion said, helping tug off her other sock to examine her other foot.

“A memory from back home,” she answered. “I would ask you, but I don’t think you’d remember it if you did.”

“Ask anyway.”

“I was remembering crushing grapes into wine after the harvest. Have you ever done that?”

He examined her other foot carefully and then nodded, satisfied. “I don’t believe so. I have no memories from my childhood. But I enjoy the taste of Stonehollow wine. I wonder if I’ve ever drunk a cup crushed by these feet?” He squeezed her foot with just the hint of a teasing smile.

She felt a little flush rise to her cheeks. “Well, it may be. I don’t know that any of our wine ever made it to Kenatos, but I can tell you that Dame Winemiller made us all wash our feet very thoroughly before standing in the vats.” The memory was sweet but painful. The thought of never seeing Dame Winemiller again brought a lump to her throat.

“Cherish the memory,” he said softly. “Even though it brings you pain. I would give anything to have mine back. I learned that recently . . . from a girl. I believe her.”

She looked into his calm blue eyes, not seeing the menace or the danger there, but a thoughtful, caring man. His moods were mercurial. She wished there was a way she could keep him less dangerous more often.

“Thank you for treating my blister,” she said, smiling at him. “There is something about this place.” She stared up at the gaunt stone walls. “It has no memories. I pity it.”

“It is your Dryad nature speaking to you. You live to preserve memories. Even the painful ones.”

“Even the painful ones.” As she stared at him, she realized that in order to restore his memories, after she gained access to her full powers, she would need to kiss him. The thought wasn’t all that terrible in that moment.

“I can hear something coming, but I cannot see what it is,” Khiara said. “It’s coming down the road we arrived on.”

“Prepare to depart,” Tyrus announced. “Gather your bedrolls. Dawn will shortly arrive. Paedrin, can you determine if it is a threat? Report back quickly.”

“I will, Tyrus.” The Bhikhu gripped the pommel of the sword and rose into the air, flying away from their small camp at the edge of the city. Phae shook out her cloak before fastening it around her neck. Only the Vaettir could hear the trouble coming clearly, but she was just beginning to as well with the sound coming down the canyon wall. It was like the lumbering of a great beast.

They cleared the camp quickly after everyone rose, watching the pale orange of the dawn start to blush in the sky. Phae slapped the dust from her clothes and watched as Shion scanned the Bhikhu floating up toward the road. He seemed to hang, poised, and then came swooping down like a hawk, landing in front of Tyrus.

“It’s no animal I have ever seen before,” Paedrin said, much to everyone’s amazement. “It is tall, like a horse, and has long legs with flat feet. There are these strange humps in its back and it has a long neck. There’s a rider on its back, swathed in many drapes, but the face and head are covered. A single rider. The beast has a saddle of some kind and something to hold up a covering against the sun. It is strange to see, Tyrus. But only one of them comes.”