Rain found them before noon.
Not the polite kind.
It came down hard enough to blur the road, drumming against Maevra’s hood and turning the earth beneath the horses into slick brown mud.
Thunder rolled over the hills.
Taven shouted something from behind her.
Maevra turned.
“What?”
“I said we need shelter!”
“Excellent idea! Perhaps tell the storm!”
Rhydan rode beside her, rain running from his hair onto his collar.
“There’s a waystation ahead.”
“How far?”
“Two miles.”
Another flash split the sky.
Her horse flattened its ears.
Maevra tightened the reins.
“Make that one.”
They pushed harder.
The road climbed through a narrow valley before widening around a stone building crowded with wagons, horses, and travelers fleeing the weather.
Maevra stared.
“So much for secrecy.”
