"I'm fine, just a little bruised," she said. She dusted off her clothes and smiled at the huge man. He wasn't any taller than anyone else in the village and his hair was black, but his eyes were blue and his skin was as fair as Serali's own. The broad-chested smith and the gangly girl looked nothing alike, but it was easy enough to see why the others in the village tended to lump them together under the heading "outlanders."

"I wish there was something you could do about them, lass. It's not right, nor fair."

She sighed. "No it's not. But I'll be fine." Then she grinned. "Just give me a few more years and I'll be big enough to whip any of them."

He chuckled. "Aye, you probably will be. Am I right to think you were on your way to visit me when those scoundrels jumped on you?"

"Yes. Pappa has a couple of things he wants. I have a list."

"Well let's be on our way then," said Breck, and he set off down the street Serali trotted after him and soon caught up. Together they entered the smithy, which was attached to the side of Breck's house. It was a modest affair, a small forge, a smaller anvil, an assortment of hammers, tongs, and other tools. Iron bars were stacked in one corner and another was occupied by a heap of charcoal. The forge cast a glowing red light around the room and it was stiflingly hot.

Serali handed over her list and the smith surveyed it. "Looks like nothing particularly unusual this time. You can tell your father that it will all be to him by the end of the week."

Serali nodded and smiled. "That's what he said it should take, so he'll be pleased to be right."

"He often is," said the smith with a chuckle. "Now I've got work to do. You can stay and watch if you want, just keep out of the way."

Happily content to sit in a corner, Serali watched with fascination as Breck heated iron, bent it, folded it, and sculpted it into dozens of useful everyday items. She loved to come here and see things made, it was wonderful to watch as nothing turned into something before her very eyes. She was also fascinated by the fire, its leaping tongues that came in so many surprising colors and how the iron put into it copied its bright glow. She loved the way it danced and darted, but a bit of her fascination of late had become odd. She had experienced on several occasions an almost irresistible urge to put her hand in the fire. She had the insane feeling that if she did so, it would feel warm and pleasant on her skin, that she could play with it, dance with it like an Arandian dancer with her serpent. This irrational feeling frightened Serali a little, and it was made worse by the fact that it was not the only such that she had felt.

The other inexplicable compulsion was even worse than this. She had first encountered it while exploring a gully that led to the edge of the Great Escarpment. Looking over the half-mile drop to the dry desert floor below, she was seized by a desire to leap off the edge. It was not suicidal, she had no accompanying desire to hit the ground far below, rather she had the odd feeling that she could spread her wings and fly, as she did in her dreams. She could picture it precisely, the feel of wind in her face as she fell, the unfolding of her wide wings, the peculiar uplifting sensation as she caught the warm thermal that rose off the desert floor. It was so vivid she sometimes wondered if she had lived another life as a bird, but somehow that didn't feel right.

She loved the impossibly high cliff, partly because of how spectacular the view from it was, and partly because few from the village ever ventured in that direction, so she could be almost certain to be alone there. But now she felt a little nervous every time she went near it. She didn't want to suddenly give in to the crazed impulse and throw herself to her death. And yet like worrying at a loose tooth she couldn't help but worry at the strange impulse, and she kept going back to the cliff again and again.