FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
The old struggle continues; I see no end to it. All that has changed is the manner of the fight. Over the last few months, I've had to learn to use different weapons, and I'm still learning.
There was a time when I lived in a different kind of world, when the Fyana would start upon a raid with no more than a kit of bread and a skin of wine. After the first night, we very well might be dependent on the generously of supporters along the way for even our most basic provender. Sometimes we had no recourse but to tighten our belts and chew a plug of bitterroot to slay the gnaw of our appetites, trusting that our excitement would give sufficient strength to our limbs at the crucial hour.
We experienced misery and fear in great quantity, but the most fearful in the land were not the Fyana but its supporters. The loyal, generous people who opened their hearts and homes to us did so at an awful risk. Too often we would learn that a yeoman's family had been massacred by a militia patrol for having given us aid.
Occasionally, the peril would come down on their heads even while the warrior was lodged with them. More than one Fyana swordsman had laid down his life on the very threshold of his host. And when the victorious militia tramped over his dying body, the family sheltering behind him would be put to the sword...
*****
The Speaker in the Shadows
