A/N: I'm back again with a new idea for characters and places that belong to the creative genius of Tamora Pierce!

If asked, The Crowned Prince of Tortall Sir Roald of Conte would say that a Midsummer Ball was always a chaotic event. If asked, he would point out that things always went wrong. Enemies always crossed paths and no one could ever hold their tongues. Young ladies vying for husbands usually got into catty tiffs that would most likely result in revenge and years of grudges. Young noblemen looking for beautiful ladies to enchant and possibly snag for a wife or a night could end up dueling and more likely prank each other immediately. There were jilted lovers, drunken accidents, and spats that surfaced at every event. It was an optimist or a liar who said the ball went grandly. Usually, as the future King of Tortall, he would fall on the liar who said it went grandly and would gloss over all of the issues as blown out of proportion. But this particular ball was a disaster no one would try and gloss over.

Roald only thanked the Gods that his wife had been too exhausted with her second pregnancy to attend the ball and his son was too young to be up that late. The ball had been going on for nearly three hours and would go on for another two hours at least. Some of the elderly nobility had already left and the younger crowd was getting fairly drunk with liquor and flirtations now that parents were starting to leave. Roald's own parents had left him to watch over everything alone at this point. His own friends would visit now and then between their dances and flirtations but it was becoming fewer visits and further and further apart. But overall he was left alone to examine the regular chaos that ensued.

Feeling tired, Roald flagged down a squire with a tray of tea near him. He was pleasantly surprised to realize the squire in service to the palace was a young woman. He knew, of course, females had started to enter the page program more frequently and he was truly happy to see it. What he was surprised to see was the young woman had to be roughly sixteen and he knew she hadn't been in service to the palace for two years so she had to be a new squire. He could ask her her age and about her decision to start late. He intended to ask her such a thing except that as she reached him with her tray full of cups of tea her smiling face changed. Her smile dropped down to a small frown, her wide blue eyes narrowed on something just over Roald's shoulder. And then the tray was on the ground with shattered cups and spilled tea and Roald was falling.

As Roald hit the ground he heard screaming erupt throughout the ballroom. Men were shouting, ladies shrieking, and there was a pounding vibration under his head that told him people were running. Firm hands helped him to sit up and a warm, wet cloth was touched to his head. He reached up a hand to examine why it was there and found blood on the cloth. The firm hand pushed it back into place.

"Come on Roald, you know better," a familiar voice spoke in his ear. "Where else are you injured Roald? Were you hit?"

"Hit?" He found he was dizzy and guessed he had hit his head when that squire had shoved him to the ground. "The only thing that hit me was a squire. What did I ever do to her?" He turned to look directly into the dark eyes of his best friend Sir Faleron of King's Reach. His dark eyes shifted telling Roald he had missed the mark. "What?" No answer. "What? Dammit, Fal, what in Mithros name happened?"

Faleron still didn't answer. Instead he moved ever so slightly to the side allowing Roald to look past him to see the squire laying in her own tray wreckage with three arrows sticking out of her chest. Two men were turning her onto her back and examining the damage.

"That's Dom, right? Kel's Dom?" Roald asked Faleron who nodded confirming the identity of the second man helping Sir Nealan of Queenscove with the squire. "The archer?"

"Aiming for you. We saw you fall and we saw her take the first arrow… you have some well-trained warriors on your side."

"Is she dead?" Roald nodded to the squire.

"Not yet but it's a possibility," Neal called over. "Dom, we need to get her to the infirmary. She's losing blood fast."

"I have someone grabbing a stretcher." Dom's deep voice carried like a command in battle.

"She won't make it that long. We need to get her there now." Neal's deep emerald Gift was sparkling over the wounds.

"Fine. Just get Uncle ready," Dom stood and in one swift movement scooped the squire into his arms. Neal was already opening a speech spell as Dom disappeared into the hallway.

"We should get you down to the infirmary too," Faleron moved to slip a large hand under Roald's armpit to lift him up. Roald knew he should argue. He wasn't full of arrow holes or dying. He simply had a bump on his head and taking attention from a real injury seemed petty. But at the same time he knew it was stupid to ignore a head injury. With a nod of confirmation, Faleron steered him out of the ballroom with a squad of the King's Own joining them.

It's one thing to die. It's another thing for it to start to become a familiar sensation. One would think that the sensation would be pain, a slow creep of a black chill, and the ripping of the soul from the body. But it wasn't really like that. Death comes cloaked in confusion. And she, Gwendoyln of Merrywood, stood on a fog locked road alone doused in confusion.

This place was familiar. A dream. No. A memory. She had brushed death twice before. Once when she had been pushed by her sister out of their hiding place in their tree when they were both young she had stood on this road and cried because she was suddenly alone and didn't know why. It had been a bad dream, she had been told by the healer who pulled her back from death. But the bad dream had returned only four years later when she had jumped in flood waters near the Convent in the City of the Gods to save a commoner's child who had slipped and had tumbled in. Now she knew it was no dream but simply a reality. This was the roadway to death. Or how her spirit realized death, really. But she didn't understand how she got to this point. What had she been doing when she died?

It took some thinking. And she started by looking at her clothes. A pair of blue hose, a blue shirt, a silver tunic… the clothing of a squire in palace service. Of course that one made sense to her. After her second brush with death and the endless verbal abuse she had received at the Convent for her stupidity at being so heroic for a commoner, she had simply quit and gone to where such acts would be expected since she had no remorse for saving a life and no intention of avoiding it in the future. In fact, when she had joined page training, she had been simply thrilled at the prospect she might be able to do some good again. So she had survived pagehood to become a squire but had not been picked by a knight yet.

An image flashed before her: a tray with cups on it being passed to her. Squires served at meetings and parties. That was common knowledge. So which was it? Neither seemed particularly dangerous. Though meetings could get heated if opposing political views were involved or old blood feuds between families. And parties, well things could certainly happen at a party. There was usually too much going on to keep track of everything so something dangerous could slip in. But usually there were too many eyes keeping track of so many different things.

Another image flashed before her eyes: a tall flower and garland wrapped pole in front of the palace and another one wrapped in ribbons inside of a large marble room. She recognized these as traditional decorations for summer festivals. Usually Beltane and Midsummer. So which one. She sat on the road, because walking in either direction without information seemed silly, as she thought. If it was Beltane she would still be a page, not a squire. So it made sense that it was a Midsummer festival of some type. Yes, she remembered that much now. It was a Midsummer Ball put on by the Royalty. She had been serving at a Midsummer Ball.

Her fingers found the first hole in her tunic and shirt. They were clean with no blood to indicate that was how she had gone. But then again a spirit had no blood so it wouldn't show anyway. She fingered the second hole and then the third. All were in her chest. If she had been pierced three times over in the chest, she probably would die. It was a likely answer. But who would stab a squire three times over at a ball? It seemed terribly silly.

Her family fief, Merrywood, was an unobtrusive fief in the middle of a dense wood that kept to itself. They didn't have political enemies because they didn't put themselves forth politically. They made no trade enemies because they didn't undercut and they didn't pressure. It truly made no sense.

The feel of her hands pushing against silk over hard muscle jarred her. She had shoved someone. Fairly hard by the memory of the feeling. She never shoved out of malice. After her first brush with death her family had drilled into heads that shoving someone had consequences and it should only be done in protection, not in jest or malice. So she had to have protected someone. She couldn't remember who but the fog around her was starting to sparkle shades of green. That seemed a bit odd but then again she was dead and who was she to decide what was odd and what wasn't in the Peaceful Realms. Then the fog in front of her started to lessen while that behind her grew denser. Clearly that was the way she was supposed to go, so she rose and started to walk.

With the first ten steps in the green sparked fog she was winded. Then next ten saw three circles of numbness burning in her chest under the holes in her tunic and shirt. The next ten had the numbness turning to searing pain. Another ten and she was stumbling with weakness while her chest blazed with fiery agony. She struggled to push her foot forward for another step while her brain screamed for her to stop. Moving forward was hurting. Moving forward was killing her. But her body seemed to ignore that that and she took another step as darkness closed around her taking the road, the green sparked fog, and all thoughts with it until there was nothing more.

A/N: Those of you who have read Being the Godssent from me will notice several name similarities. It's simply because I like the names of people and places and it took me a long time to find what I viewed to be good names of people and places. Please note this story is not connected in any way to any of my other stories. Please Read and Review!