Brother Justus said. Rhiannyn walked to the stream that had beckoned hours earlier when they had first begun following it, and lowered to her knees. She dipped her hands in the water and splashed it over her face and neck. Gasping and blinking, she savored the cold trickling over her heated skin, then scooped more handfuls until the front of her perspiration-dampened tunic was soaked through. Heart beating briskly from the pace the monk had forced upon her, she lifted the hem of her tunic to dry her face. And paused over her distorted reflection. On the surface of the water was something of the young woman she had been, the layers of age and wear peeled away to reveal herself to her again. Granted, she appeared older than her ten and eight years, but much fresher than the thirty she had looked upon escaping her prison cell. And she was alive. Shying away from remembrances of what had transpired hours earlier, she buried her face in the tunic and rubbed vigorously—as if doing so would banish those memories.
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