"This is not a nice situation," Saryth said, pulling taut the laces on his tunic collar before tying them crosswise.

"No. No, it isn't." Kite was braiding her hair to the side, forming the small plaits that normally curled up into her buns. She let them fall either side of her face when complete, leaving the rest of her hair to tumble down her back. It was good to be back in her normal clothes.

"Are we leaving?"

"We should." Kite tugged her belt tight. "But I promised Fiona I'd do the laundry again. And you promised Lyra sweetbread." Saryth smiled, remembering. The single loaf of sweetbread had gone down very well. "But we'll leave tomorrow morning."

"There's no sign of the sun?"

"No. If it were here, we couldn't miss it. There's a war going on, after all."

Saryth tapped his heels down to push his boots on properly and followed Kite up the stairs. "Is there nothing we can do for them?" he asked. "For Lyra, and..."

"No. Not in a war. The only thing that can help is ending it, and we can't do that." Pushing the door open ahead of her companion, Kite missed the thoughtful expression that crossed his face.

Fiona turned as they entered. "Oh, good morning," she said cheerfully. "Breakfast is ready." She was standing at the cooking range, her back to the table and the door beyond. Lyra sat at the table with her brother, who was still dressed in his flying gear.

"Kite, Saryth, this is my son Padraic," Fiona introduced them. "Padraic, Kite and Saryth are our guests, on Quest."

"Pleased to meet you," Padraic said, sounding anything but.

"And we you." Kite kept her tone light and a smile on her face. Awkwardness with their hostess' son would hardly help matters. Padraic glanced over them, and stopped when his gaze met Saryth's.

"You have very distinctive hair," he said bluntly, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Saryth scowled sidelong through his hair, but Lyra broke in, grabbing her brother by the arm, looking hurt.

"Padraic!"

Fiona took advantage of the pause, bringing over bowls of hot porridge and setting them on the table.

"Eat up," she said sunnily, ignoring her son's obvious anger. Padraic got up abruptly even as they sat down.

"I have to go, mother," he said. "My squadron has a briefing soon."

Fiona looked after him as he left, but made no move to stop him.

When they had eaten, Kite thanked Fiona and turned to the door, where a fresh batch of laundry from the soldiers still in the beds upstairs sat waiting to be taken out. Fiona followed Kite's motion, and, shocked, called for her to stop.

"Kite, wait a moment! You don't need -"

"I'll be back by lunchtime," Kite said with a grin, and swung out of the door with the bigger of the two baskets in her arms. Fiona smiled a little helplessly and turned to Saryth, who had taken his own bowl to the sink.

"Are you going to insist on doing something, too?"

"I promised Lyra I'd teach her how to bake sweetbread," he responded, "if you would be so kind as to lend me your oven." Fiona nodded assent, and Saryth rolled up his sleeves. "After I've done the washing up," he continued, "if you would be so kind as to lend me your sink."

Fiona sighed, and let him get on with it.

Outside, the weather was similar to yesterday's, but a slight tang of cold in the air warned that winter was approaching. Irshand was south of Corwaith, so the season was slower to turn, but soon the snow would come. Kite couldn't think of much worse than to be caught in a country at war during the winter. It's a good thing we're going tomorrow.

On the field, the flying machines stood at rest, managing to look like they wanted nothing more than to be aloft again. Kite looked them over as she passed, noting the apparent fragility of the struts and canvas, and the streamlining of the forms. Beautiful. Twin crossbows were mounted on the mobile triangles of metal that hung down from the main frame, which she thought were probably the pilot's control mechanism. Beautiful and deadly. On the upper side, a slender shaft of metal stood above the nose, raising up the control wires that ran to the edges of the wings and the tailpiece. Wires also ran to similar struts on the leading joint of the wings, which were shaped like a bird's wing, but those struts held what looked like gems. Red gems, that caught the sunlight and blazed like fire. Kite stared at them, feeling the magic resonate deep in her bones and wondering how she'd missed it before. "They're not just decoration."

She didn't realise she had spoken out loud until she was answered. "They're firegems, lady." She spun round, almost dropping the laundry, to see a soldier standing behind her. He was nobody she knew or recognised, just another of the many soldiers who populated the camp, running around on inscrutable errands, or standing guard over an otherwise entirely ordinary-looking tent. An man of average height, in a neat uniform, with dark hair that poked limply from under the rounded metal helmet he wore. "Firegems from the south."

"Firegems?"

"They catch fire easy."

"From the south?"

"They use them for sky mining."

"Sky mining?" Kite felt like a parrot.

"They sift the air to catch metal, I'm told." The soldier spread his hands, to indicate the reliability of the rumour. "Sounds a bit daft to me. You're the guest of the farmhouse?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Thank you for looking after Jeorg." And he turned, and walked abruptly away, as though what he had said was somehow embarrassing. Kite stared after him, a little nonplussed. Still, he had mentioned some interesting things... potentially very interesting. Sky mining sounds far too technologically advanced for this world's current state. She stared thoughtfully at the glowing embers atop the flying machines.

The weight of the heavy basket reminded her what she was supposed to be doing, and she headed to the little river to dunk the first sheet in its icy rushing current. World dilemmas can wait. It's laundry time!

"You have to knead the dough as long as possible," Saryth explained to Lyra, who was all ears as she watched him making the sweetbread. He suited action to words, rolling and pummelling the dough in sticky, floury hands. "The longer you knead it, the nicer it will be." He handed the doughball to Lyra, whose smaller hands could only just contain it, and watched as she copied his actions.

"I think it's trying to escape," she said dubiously, and he laughed.

"While you do that, I'm going to put a knob of butter in the tin and melt it to spread it around."

"Why butter and not oil?"

"Butter tastes nicer in sweetbread." Lyra smiled at the promised treat, and turned her attention back to the kneading, plunging her hands enthusiastically into the dough and clenching her fists round the warm softness. After a few more moments, her interest waned.

"Is this enough?" she asked plaintively, holding up the dough, and Saryth nodded.

"I've kneaded it for a while, so it should be fine. Put it in the tray, and we'll leave it to rise in the furnace room." Lyra attempted to do as he said, but ended up standing helplessly over the tin, with the sweetbread clinging stickily to her hands. Saryth carefully scraped the dough off her hands, trying not to laugh, and it glumphed into the container in reluctant obedience to gravity. Lyra trotted off to the basement stairs with the tin held carefully in still-sticky hands.

"Thank you for doing this," Fiona said, and Saryth glanced round. She had just come through the door, and was taking off muddy boots.

"Thank you for putting us up," he replied, "especially in such circumstances."

Fiona sighed, and looked down. "I'm sorry for Padraic's behaviour," she said quietly. "He was rude."

"I've heard worse." Saryth cleaned his hands carefully on a damp cloth, not looking at his hostess.

"That doesn't make it right."

Saryth sighed. She sounded tense and miserable, clearly torn between her natural fairness and hospitability, and her son's distrust. "We'll be leaving tomorrow morning," he offered, and she relaxed a little.

"I'm sorry to say it, but I think that's for the best."

"What is?" Lyra bounced up to her mother, just returned from the furnace room.

"That you're here," Fiona said, turning to her daughter who returned a pout, knowing she was being put off. "You can help me with the chickens."

"But, the bread -" Lyra turned worried eyes to Saryth.

"I'll put it in the oven for you," he said. "It'll be ready for lunch."

Reassured, Lyra followed Fiona out of the door. "Don't forget," she called behind her.

Kite came into the farmhouse with the last batch of laundry to see Saryth sitting at the empty table looking disconsolate.

"How's it going?"

He glanced up. "The sweetbread's nearly ready." Which wasn't an answer to the question she'd really asked. "Washing all done?"

"Yes." She put the basket on the floor and sat down next to him. "Where are Fiona and Lyra?"

"They went to do the hens." He sighed and looked away, then pushed up from the table. "I think we've outstayed our welcome." He went over to the oven and opened it, using a towel to protect his hands from the heat.

"Well, we're going south in the morning." Kite was more convinced than ever that south was a very interesting direction.

"Yes, Fiona seemed relieved when I told her." Saryth placed the hot sweetbread on the table, where it filled the room with its sweet, warm scent.

"Well, we -" Kite started, but was interrupted by the sudden scream of a siren, filling the air with an ululating wail. The noise penetrated the thick walls of the farmhouse, shivering the air and jerking them both from their seats. Jostling to the door, they stared out at a field suddenly teeming with running men and shouting commanders. Airmen swarmed over the flying machines, checking straps and tightening bolts, shouting for various bits of equipment as pilots strapped themselves into their harnesses. A soldier knelt in the mud by the command tent and wound a horn frantically, producing the eerie, skull-splitting howl.

Kite looked up, and for a moment saw nothing more threatening then the same grey clouds of the morning, with the occasional patch of blue here and there. But the soldiers were shouting and pointing, and following their gaze she saw a host of black specks rapidly approaching. As they neared, the foreign design became apparent; the pilots sat astride the machines rather than hanging beneath them, and the twin-tailed bodies were solid, not fragile laceworks of struts. She could just about make out the glow of the firestones that powered them embedded in the wings, the same in Eskandia as in Irshand - for this had to be the Eskandian air force.

"A different design," Saryth murmured beside her, coming to the same conclusion. Fiona and Lyra ran towards them, the basket and the hens forgotten.

"We should go inside," Fiona panted, fear written over her face. Kite guessed that was for her son, rather than herself. Despite her words, they all clustered by the door of the farmhouse, staring up at the teeming sky as the Irshandian airmen scrambled into the air. Kite tore her eyes from the other side's flyers to watch as Padraic hooked himself into his harness, swiftly checked the crossbows and activated... something. The entire assembly rose into the air, creaking and shifting as though an invisible giant had plucked it up, holding it by the struts where the firegems blazed. It sagged between the gems, and then, about a hundred feet up, the the flyer jerked and fell, as though the giant had dropped it, gathering speed rapidly until it could swoop upwards again, airborne by its own power at last. The gems glinted dully in the weak sunlight as Padraic joined the battle, his flyer dwindling to one of many little bat-winged machines darting and diving beneath the clouds.

"Padraic..." Lyra murmured, and there was pride as well as fear in her voice. They all gazed upwards, craning their necks to see how the battle progressed, barely able to tell the difference between each side at the height they now ascended to. Any hope of distinguishing Padraic's precious flyer was long gone, but still they waited, watching, as the specks swirled and swooped and shot each other with invisibly tiny darts. Until one speck became larger, and larger still, until it was clear it wasn't just a dive but a helpless spin out of control, the Irshandian pilot slumped onto the control bar of his flyer, unable to halt its fall.

Lyra started forwards as the doomed flyer spun to the ground, appearing to fall almost slowly, gracefully, until it suddenly impacted about fifty feet beyond the edge of the camp, and the ground shook. "Padraic -" she started, and then, as it burst into flame, "Padraaaaaaic!" She buried her face in her mother's skirts, weeping uncontrollably, and Fiona stroked her hair.

"Oh Lyra," she whispered, "it wasn't your brother." She sounded certain, but her tone was sad, and Lyra didn't stop sobbing.

"Then it's someone else's brother," she choked, her words muffled by the skirts, and Fiona closed her eyes and bowed her head, unable to argue. As though to underscore the moment, it started raining, spotting drops falling from massing dark clouds beneath which the flyers still spun and swirled in their ominous dance.

Standing beside Kite, Saryth gazed at the airman's pyre, metal struts outlined in rising flames, now surrounded by a small group of ground support troops. He started forwards uncertainly, and Kite, worried, reached out for him.

"Saryth?" Walking faster through the increasing rain, he ignored her. He stopped atop the small rise, and raised his hands, palms upwards, as if to catch the rain.

"Saryth, stop!" Kite ran after him, but too late, too late, she had not seen this coming. She felt the magic gather in his hands, obedient to his bidding. She saw his whole body tense as he focussed, controlling it through instinct and not training. She heard Fiona's choked scream as the air quivered and ionised around him, lending him a faint purple aura. The tension thrummed in the air like a drawn bow and then, conductor poised at the heart of it all, Saryth released the power to his will, and lightning lanced from the darkening sky, striking each flyer cleanly, running them through and leaving them powerless, reduced to a controlled fall through the buffeting wind and rain.

Kite slowed down, stunned by what she'd sensed and seen. Saryth stood slumped, as though exhausted, the rain wetting his hair in silver snarls across his face. Above, the Eskandian flyers were straining away, trying to make it to their own camp before they were forced down, while the Irshandian flyers swooped in to a more or less controlled landing. One skittered to a clumsy halt near the farmhouse and she saw the neat, surgical precision with which the lightning had destroyed the firegems. He had not done this unthinkingly. Well, he did think, but.. only about one aspect. Muddy pilots freed themselves awkwardly from their grounded flyers, twisting to undo buckles or cut straps. One came storming up to the ridge where the sorcerer still stood, and Kite felt her stomach lurch as she realised she was too far away to intervene. She hurried towards the hill as the pilot raised his goggles, leaving clean white circles in a mud-smeared face. Saryth stood, head bowed, unmoving - either accepting, or unaware.

"You filthy witch!" Padraic snarled, and threw a roundhouse punch that caught Saryth hard on his cheek, throwing him off balance to the ground where he sprawled in the mud. Padraic kicked him hard in the side, and Saryth curled up, protecting his stomach and head with the speed of practice. Kite felt sickened both at the violence and at the evidence that this had happened before. Padraic raised his leg to stamp down, but was interrupted by the camp commander, come at last to investigate what was happening.

"Padraic Harensen!"

"Sir!" Padraic hesitated, looking over his shoulder.

"Stand aside, pilot."

"Yes, sir." He wore a sulky look, but he obeyed. The commander waved a weary hand in the air towards Padraic's victim.

"Tie him up and confine him. Make sure he's gagged." Two soldiers gingerly pulled the barely-conscious sorcerer from the mud by his arms, and towed him away. The camp commander turned and gave Kite a very calculating look. "And you," he said, "had better come with me."

Kite obeyed.