Chamera couldn’t be certain, but it seemed as if Pan might have been recovering. The icy cast to his skin seemed lesser, somehow, but she was no healer, no true wizard, and she had not seen such an affliction in all her days. The Wychlaren would know. They knew winter and magic like she knew the magic of a song, and they could have helped. But she had no means of sending them a message. Ghyvain had known how to dream across the realms.  

Where [i]was[/i] Ghyvain?  It was not the first time she’d wondered this. She and Pan had been inseparable when she had left them in Rashemen. But when Chamera had asked after their horned friend, he had shrugged and answered that they had parted ways. It had been a wall that she knew better than to scale. But Ghyvain could have called to the Wychlaren. She might have known how to heal Pan herself.

Chamera tucked a heavy woolen blanket around his limp body, dropping her forehead to his. She prayed. She prayed desperately to her Lady of Fortune. [i]Do not let him die. I owe him so much. He has given me peace and friendship when I did not deserve it. Smile on him and bring him back to me, my Lady. Let his dice fall lucky.[/i] 

Her eyes stung as she pulled away, tawny fingers splayed across his pale face. He looked so small, like he was merely a fraction of his six feet and massive frame. They had been through so much—he could not die now. She had to trust in doubt and daring that he would pull through.

She was halfway through assembling her tent when the dro—[i]Jeron’s[/i] activities made her pause. He did not build camp, nor tend to his wounds. A crisp white scroll, starker against the pitch of his hands, instead drew her curiosity. He held it so delicately, as if it might burst into flames. It was an unusual way to study a scroll, as if he did not know quite what it was.

But he had implied that he had slipped through Elminster’s tower, and her mouth went dry. She should stop him. Elminster was a man of traps and a mind like snakes, blown to the edge of madness by the Weave in his veins. She knew what he was capable of, but her companion had slipped open the scroll before she could protest.
The scroll was blank. It was rather underwhelming. She returned her attention to securing stakes and poles through oiled canvas, the motions smooth and familiar. Jeron gasped and spoke, reclaiming her attention with the flicker of golden eyes.

Now [i]that[/i] was interesting.

Chamera rose to her feet, approaching the scroll carefully. She eyed it as one might a trap, head cocked to one side. Slowly, she knelt, running a finger down its edges, whistling low as she tried to feel for magic. Something in it sparked warmth in her hand, familiar, but no insight flashed through her mind. It was magic—neither good nor evil—but she did not know its mysteries. She eased it from the dirt, pristine as the day its parchment had been woven.

“I’ve seen messages that act like this,” she commented thoughtfully, turning it over in her hands. “Sometimes they reveal their secrets to the right eyes, or to a command word, often both.”

She hesitated for a long moment, before breaking the wax with the slip of a thumb. The parchment did not tear as she eased it open. Something shimmered beneath her gaze, but it did not reveal ink before it dissipated to blank parchment. Chamera frowned deeply. Was this for her? How? Why? Or perhaps it was a lingering touch of magic from her simple spell.

“I don’t know,” she frowned more deeply, releasing the scroll. It snapped shut, sealing itself in the breath it took to fall to the forrest floor. She glanced to Pan, ignoring the way her heart clenched, the pool of shame and worry in her belly. “Pan will know. Or, at least, he will know how to find out.” She returned her gaze to Jeron, her brows knitting together. “You are wounded, no? Do you need assistance? I am no healer, but I can follow direction.”