Chaos by Megan Derr Page A

bring himself to touch it.
    He rifled through the saddlebags after a nervous glance at the bed, but found only a spare change of clothes, travel food, a map, and compass. Well, at least there were clothes for the sorcerer to wear, though they would need to be washed, if the smell was anything by which to judge.
    Finally he looked at the sword. He had never seen a sword up close, not really. Swords were weapons of the sorcerers and guards; they were not for mere peasants. Like the sorcerer, it was unexpectedly beautiful. The hilt was wrapped in leather stamped with an image he could not quite make out, but it fit his hand well when he cautiously gripped it.
    It was the stone set in the end of the sword that was most beautiful, however. It was a deep gold color, something that fell just shy of being orange. The stone reminded him of that moment when the sorcerer had opened his eyes and they had seemed gold for a moment. His heart started beating a furious pace again, and he looked helplessly toward the bed, wondering why a sorcerer's eyes would have looked yellow.
    It must have been a trick of the light. David hung the sword from its belt next to the saddlebags on his chair. He finished setting the porridge to cook, then did some quiet tidying up. He picked up the teacup he'd used for the sorcerer's medicine and like a fist, memories of Reimund struck. Hot tears trickled down his face, but David wiped them away. He couldn't cry when there was someone to take care of. There was also the bartering to handle in a few days. Reimund always said the work had to come first, because people were counting on it and that mattered more than anything else.
    Rinsing the cup out and putting it aside,  David fetched the broom and went back to cleaning.

Chapter Six: Magic
    Sasha's stomach felt as if someone had raked it open with hot knives and then shoved hot coals inside it. There was also a general ache and a nauseous feeling, but he had the sense that it all could have been much worse. He tried to sit up, but then immediately regretted the action and fell back on the bed with a loud groan.
    Bed?
    He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He was in a small, dimly lit little house. It reminded him of country houses back home, especially with the stove in the middle of the room. The room smelled like winter, potatoes, and a faint hint of tea.
    Where was he? Had he been figured out? Captured? But no, if someone had figured out his artifice he would not have been lying in a bed, and he certainly would not have been in someone's home.
    Movement caught his eye as a shadow by the fireplace turned toward him, then stood up. Sasha's eyes widened as the light fell across a face that left him breathless. The boy was handsome, the sort of flame that drew moths and convinced them they were happy to die just for a chance to touch. Something in his chest twisted, ached, left him longing for … something … and then the shadowy memory slipped away from him once more.
    "You're awake," the boy said, the word spoken in a thick, ragged accent that took Sasha a moment to catch up to. Why had he thought the accent strange? But like so many other questions, it remained unanswered. Sasha watched as the boy went to the stove and picked up the kettle to pour hot water into a little, handle-less teacup. The smell of tea and herbs sharpened, and then the boy walked over to him. "How are you feeling, my lord?"
    "Like I angered a fireplace poker and my stomach suffered for it," Sasha said hoarsely.
    The boy froze, laughed for a moment, but then immediately stopped as fear overtook his levity. "Uh. I am sorry, my lord. Here, are you up to drinking the tea yourself? It will help ease your pain. I just changed your bandages a short time ago. The wounds are healing well."
    Sasha nodded in answer to the query about tea and accepted the cup when the boy held it out. He cupped one hand around it, braced the bottom of the cup with the other, and drank the tea slowly,