Bastion

even more grateful to see the glow of light through the trees ahead of them almost immediately. By now he was chilled, and the prospect of a warm fire was almost as enticing as the prospect of seeing Amily again.
    When they trotted into a clearing, it looked as if their friends must have been there since early afternoon at the latest, and possibly for a couple of days. Things were very much in order.
    The caravan was pulled up beside what looked like a substantial little stone cottage; there were two horses in a lean-to stable that would easily accommodate four, Lanterns had been left alight outside the stable, and as they rode up to the cottage itself, the door opened.
    A female form was silhouetted against the light from the doorway. “We’ve been expecting you for the last two days,” said a strangely familiar voice. “Were you gorging yourself at inns at the Crown’s expense again?”
    Jakyr nearly tumbled from his saddle in surprise. “Lita?” he gasped.
    “It’s not the Crown Princess,” the (former?) Dean of Bardic Collegium said testily. “Get your friends bedded down and get in here. It’s bloody cold and I’m not holding the door open all night.”

7
    T he Waystation was warm and stoutly built; the stone walls were quite thick, and the windows had bullseye-glass in heavy frames, which didn’t seem to be leaking cold air at all. There was a fine fire going on the hearth, and there was space in front of it for two bedrolls. But the atmosphere within the four walls was decidedly frosty.
    Bear and Lena sat together, with Amily sitting apart. Mags’ happiness at seeing them again was tempered by discovering that Master Bard Lita was going to be the other mentor here. Every time he’d seen Lita and Jakyr together, sharp words had been exchanged. And yet, Lita had to have volunteered for this. Why?
    The other three looked a bit discomfited. Mags decided he wasn’t having any of it. However, he also wasn’t going to directly confront Master Bard Lita, who was probably stillhead of the Bardic Circle and was definitely still a Master Bard, even if she wasn’t Dean of Bardic Collegium anymore. “I’ll take care of the Companions if you cook, Herald Jakyr,” he said, and before Jakyr could reply, he looked over to Amily and asked, “Want to help?”
    “When have I ever turned down a chance to get my hands on Dallen?” she asked rhetorically, and got up from the box bed on which she had been sitting. There were two of those box beds, with bedrolls in each, and another pair laid out on the floor, so there was no telling what the sleeping arrangements were going to be. Mags decided he’d let Lita and Jakyr sort it out.
    Hopefully they would manage to do so without coming to blows.
    The first thing he did as soon as the door closed on the others was to take Amily into his arms and kiss her as thoroughly as ever he could manage. She wrapped her arms around him under his cloak and held him close, warming him with her body. It was bliss, right up until the wind whipped the cloak away from him and blasted them both with ice.
    She squeaked, and he swore, then they both laughed. “Let’s get this over with, so we can get back in the warm,” Mags said.
    :I second that. I want two blankets, thank you. And we both want a warm mash. Jermayan just told Jak as much.:
    The Companions had already moved into the shelter of the stable, which turned out to be built right at the chimney wall, so some warmth was radiating into the space from the heated stone. Mags got the packs off both Companions and deposited them just inside the door, while Amily took off their bitless bridles, hung both up, and uncinched the saddles. By that time, Mags had gone to the caravan and retrieved the bigger blankets and the rubbing cloths from the storage box on the side that had been helpfully labeled “blankets” in blue paint, and the two of them got the saddles off and into the racks, took off the smaller saddle blankets and draped them over the rails to dry, and rubbed both Companions down before blanketing them cozily. The two horses watched all of this with mild interest.
    These horses were not like the draft horses that Mags was used to seeing, whose shoulders were easily as tall as his head. These fellows were compact, giving an impression of enormous strength, and standing about fifteen hands tall—not small by any means, but not as tall as the great draft horses that pulled the working wagons up at the Palace. They