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The sky had an unfriendly look to it. Myranda quickened her step. Snow came suddenly and severely this time of year, and to be caught in it would be very treacherous indeed. As the minutes wore on, the air became colder, and stinging pieces of ice were hurled into her face by a swiftly stiffening wind. She pulled her tattered hood forward and leaned into the wind, which blew out of the southeast. She had only just reached the fork when the wind began to carry not only snow from the ground, but also fresh flakes from the sky. She took the left turn and exposed her right cheek to the blustery assault that the left had thus far endured. The cold bothered her little, her mind locked instead on the consequences it brought with it.
A snowfall alone would slow her, so long as there was little wind. Likewise, wind alone was more an annoyance than a threat. Together, though, they were deadly. The wind and snow were growing in intensity with equal ferocity. If she did not get a roof over her head soon, all of that bargaining would have been wasted. Periodically, a gust came so strong it stopped her in her tracks. Myranda closed her mouth and breathed through her nose, longing to gasp but knowing that air this frigid could tear at her insides if she didn't warm it first.
The sun was still high in the sky, but the curtain of snow blocked its rays, making early afternoon seem like dusk. The road in front of her was a wall of white. In these conditions, she could pass within an arm's length of shelter without seeing it. Finding what her eyes told her useless, Myranda closed them to spare them the stinging wind. Now she had only the sound of her feet to guide her. Even under layers of snow, the crunch of a road had a different timbre than that of the turf of the field. Before long, she was not so much walking as wading through snow that had already drifted to knee height in some places. With each passing step and each icy flake, the hope of reaching the church seemed to fade.
A streak of ice beneath the snow caused her to slip. She stumbled forward to catch her balance, but instead caught a sharp blow to the shoulder from an unseen obstacle. Sparks swirled against the black of her closed eyes as she reeled from the impact. She opened her eyes a sliver to see what had happened, and nearly cried out in joy at the sight of the frosted over shingles of the church. Feeling along the wall with what little sensation her fingers had left, she came to the door. Eagerly she pushed the gateway to savior, but after only a few inches it stopped and would not budge.
"Hello?" Myranda said, banging desperately at the door. "I need help! Please let me in!"
Even if there had been an answer, she could not have heard it over the howling wind. She shoved the door with all of the strength she could muster. It slid open a bit more. One more valiant push allowed just enough of a gap for her to slip through. She angled herself through the opening, a task greatly complicated by the large pack and long sword she carried. When she finally tumbled inside, she heaved the door shut against the biting wind.
After spending several minutes catching her breath and brushing the caked snow from her clothes, she inspected the clearly unoccupied church. A pale white light filtered through the snow-encrusted windows, dimly illuminating what little there was to see. Aside from the odd broken chair or pew strewn about the floor, there was nothing in the way of furniture. It was clear that this place had been ransacked long ago and stripped of anything of value, leaving a large, empty room with a raised platform at one side and a fireplace.
Myranda slid to the ground with her back against the door. Even with little more than the wind and snow out of her face, she could feel her cheeks redden with warmth. She sat for a time, letting her heart slow to a more normal pace and listening to the wind rattle what few shutters remained on the windows. When she finally recovered from the onslaught, her trembling having subsided somewhat, she rose to inspect the fireplace. The flue was clear, so at least a fire would be safe. She gathered together some wood from a broken pew and carefully arranged it in the hearth.
Eventually, she was able to get a fire started. After basking in the much appreciated warmth, she pulled her provisions from her pack. The last of the purloined food would have to serve as her meal for the day. In truth, it might have been wiser to ration the precious stuff, as this blizzard had the potential to block her way for days, and there was no other food to be had. The meat was old already, though, and only getting older. She would rather have a full stomach today than an upset one tomorrow. She dropped all of the salted meat into the pot and put it over the fire.
The fire was weak and not nearly able to heat the whole of the empty church, but, huddled near it, Myranda finally began to feel like herself again. The smell from the food was not exactly appetizing, and stirred memories of her uncle's hideous attempts at cooking. It seemed that whenever he tried anything more complicated than applying heat to a pot of water, the results were sickening. Myranda's father would kid that if he churned out one more concoction, he would ship him over to the enemy.
That had been one of the last times she'd seen her father. Myranda tried to push the unwelcome memories away, but a tear came to her eye when she pictured the two of them together. It was foolish, but something inside her refused to believe that her father was gone. Somehow, after all of these years, she would still ask after him in each new town, even though every answer thus far had been one of ignorance or doubt.
A draft from one of the several broken windows whisked through the largest hole in Myranda's worn cloak, reminding her once again that it needed to be replaced. Of course, she could never do that. Links to what little past she had were too precious to give up simply because they had lost their usefulness, and this cloak was the last thing she owned that had belonged to her Uncle Edward. She pulled the blanket from her sword and wrapped it around her. As she recalled the history of the cloak, she vaguely remembered relating it to that Leo fellow she had met. Quietly, she wished he were here to keep her company again.
The light of the fire danced on the mirror-like finish of the blade. She stared at the pristine edge. It had likely been used in battle, certainly left to the elements, and yet the edge looked to be as keen as the day it was forged. Her eyes drifted to the grip. The jewels there were like none she had seen before, though, in truth, she had seen very few. Gazing into the deep blue gem at the hilt's center, she swore that she could see on forever, like looking into an endless dark tunnel.
Myranda reached for the magnificent weapon, but stopped. She turned her palm up, the very same one she had risked to touch it with the first time. It had healed quickly. Now all that remained was a thin pink scar running across her palm, with a single red mark just below her middle finger. The longer scar, centered on her palm, was a long, curving line that twisted back and forth on itself. It resembled a pair of smooth waves with a trough between. The red mark was centered above this trough. It was the very same mark that adorned the blade. The blade, not the handle.
Carefully, she touched the scabbard and flipped the sword to its other side. There was no mark anywhere near where her hand had touched the sword. How could such a scar have been formed?
"Magic," she decided aloud. The owner had some sort of spell cast on the sword to brand the would-be thief with the mark of the rightful owner. For such a fine blade as this, a security measure of that type would hardly be out of place.
Satisfied with her own explanation, she looked back to the fire. Using the corner of her blanket to shield herself from another burn, Myranda pulled her pot from the flames. The heat had done little to improve the flavor of the food, but the ration was nonetheless filling. With the meal gone, she realized that so long as the storm raged, she would have nowhere to go. Her weary muscles made it quite clear how they felt she should spend the spare time. She sought out perhaps the only unbroken chair in the church and sat upon it. Sitting on the cold floor was one thing, but sleeping on it was quite another. Once properly situated, she wrapped herself all the more securely in her blanket and drifted quickly off to sleep, regardless of the fact that there were still hours of sun left.
The single night in a proper bed had spoiled her, it would seem. The clattering shutters and sudden drafts pulled her from slumber a handful of times through the afternoon and night. At first, she would jerk awake and look around, but soon she tried simply to ignore them and get back to sleep. In a way, the light sleep was a blessing. It spared her the terrible dreams that she had been suffering. Not once in her life had she had a recurring dream, though she had often hoped for one. Such dreams were said to carry great meaning. The dark and frightening images of her nightly torment did not bode well for the future.