“No.” Padric did not look up and continued to fret with the feeble pile of twigs and wood shavings. Rosheen blew air noisily between her lips and began drumming her fingers against her face. She had been sitting atop Padric’s pack for some time now and had worked several new braids into her hair. One of them was now woven with a squirrel bone she found on the first day of their travels. She toyed with it idly and tried to fight her boredom. There was nothing to do but watch Padric struggle to get the fire started, his flint in one hand and the absurdly large knife in the other.

Damn thing.

The knife was almost bigger then she was and Padric doted on it more than he ever did that girl-child from the fort. Still, it was not iron and that was something. Rosheen shifted uncomfortably on the pack at the thought of Padric’s axe tucked away inside. It was more tool than weapon, the scourge of firewood, but his mother had wanted to leave it out for Rosheen’s sake, which was a kindness. Rosheen had insisted it be brought along. There were beings in the wilds other than piskies with an aversion to the cursed metal.

A tautly whispered curse issued from Padric as he struck tiny showers of sparks from his flint with the steel knife, desperately trying to ignite the tinder. The wood is too wet. It had rained lightly but steadily all day as they made their way down the narrow herd paths and game trails that cut through the woodlands. Padric was in high spirits for most of the day despite the weather and he was as fresh four days into their journey as he had been the first night out. Today, Rosheen was forced to ride along on his shoulders after her wings failed to keep up with his aggressive pace. Their journey would take well over a fortnight, but Padric seemed determined to do it in mere days. Of course, his easy mood had fled when they stopped for the night and could find no dry wood.

There was a bark of triumph from Padric as the tinder caught fire and he hunkered down to carefully feed the flame with bits of kindling. Rosheen pushed her eyebrows as far up her skull as they would go and watched without movement or comment. Padric nurtured it with care and then with increasing force as his frustration grew in opposition to the wilting flame. The tiny fire weakened and withdrew from the wood. A pitiful stream of mocking smoke leaked upward from the pile as the hope of light and heat died. Padric stared at it scornfully as it drifted away into the treetops, where dusk lay dying behind the leaves.