A Plague of Giants

“How has the Siren’s Call been treating you?” I asked him as we squeezed past a crowd of people shouting at a fishmonger for his freshest catch. “You said the ale was good, but what about the rest?”

“It’s been delightful. I sing one song when I walk in after the performance on the wall, and then I eat and drink for free the rest of the night. People want to tell me their stories, and I want to listen. It’s a perfect arrangement, really.”

“What have you learned from these stories?”

“Lots of different accounts from the northern cities along the Gravewater River. The Bone Giants seemed intent on raiding the outlying farms as much as the cities.”

“Makes sense. The way I hear it, they were pretty hungry.”

“But they were also degrading your ability to withstand a siege of any kind,” Fintan pointed out.

“It never came to that.”

“True enough. Have you ever seen one of them in the flesh?”

“No. They never got over Pelemyn’s seawalls. I’ve only heard tales. Have you seen them?”

“Aye. But that story is weeks away. I began in the west and didn’t come this way until somewhat recently.”

As I suspected, the Kaurian café had some fresh limited-time specials: spicy grilled shrimp and baby longarms over cilantro lime rice pilaf and even garnished with lime wedges. Citrus like that was hard to come by in our part of the world. Fintan was impressed, and I thought it was a boon to know what had just arrived at the docks.

Though I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised, Fintan was recognized by the server, a dour gentleman with a short beard and an expansive forehead. His face lit up in a brilliant smile as his eyes took in Fintan’s Jereh band.

“Reinei give me breath, you’re him, aren’t you? The Raelech bard?”

Fintan beamed at him. “I am, sir.”

The Kaurian gushed for a minute and welcomed us both and rushed away to tell the owner of the establishment that we were there. She emerged from the kitchen, smiling widely, and insisted that our lunch was on the house and it would be her privilege to serve whatever we liked from the menu. We ordered the lime-squeezed special.

Once they left our table, my expression of wonder caused Fintan to flick a finger at my face. “Close your jaw, Master Dervan. You could hurt yourself.”

“Does this happen to you all the time?”

He shrugged, a tight smug grin on his face. “Let us say most of the time. It will be like this from now on, I expect. If they somehow miss that my skin is lighter than a Brynt’s and my hair is straighter, then the Jereh band is a giveaway that I’m Raelech, and if they know their colors, then they can easily put together the rest even if they’ve only heard me, never seen me.”

My eyes flicked down to his Jereh band, which all Raelechs wore to signal their status through the polished stones set in a bronze or gold torc wrapped around their biceps. They forced all foreign visitors to wear one while within their borders, too. There were always three main stones that echoed the ritual of their formal introductions—patron goddess on the left, rank in the middle, and profession on the right. Fintan’s Jereh was citrine for the poet goddess Kaelin, amethyst for the master rank, and then another citrine stone representing the bards. His wife, Numa, wore a ruby for the huntress Raena, a master’s amethyst, and mother-of-pearl for her profession, linking it visually with the Triune Council, whose members also wore mother-of-pearl on the right side. If you knew the Jereh table—as all Raelechs did—you’d be able to tell at a glance who you were dealing with, and I saw the practicality of that.

“How many people know the colors, would you say? I mean, how familiar are Brynts in general with the Jereh table?”

He winced and sucked at his teeth. “I can point to any fish in the sea and a Brynt can name it for me, but most of you can’t tell a Raelech miner from a beekeeper without a guide. And that’s not a knock against you; it’s the same wherever you go. Most people who aren’t Raelechs don’t know more than the few colors they might see in their daily lives, you know? They know the colors for merchants, certainly, and the blessed craftsmen who are typically employed abroad, like stonecutters and masons, and people in government know about couriers and diplomats, but otherwise we usually have to say out loud who and what we are. Most people miss the relationship status, too.”

“What? I didn’t even know—where’s that?”

Fintan reached across with his left hand and tapped the metal with his finger. “Gold means I’m married, bronze means single.”

“Ah. I have a feeling you brought that up because someone missed that signal.”

He nodded. “I have been the subject of spirited flirting at the Siren’s Call. When I tell them that I’m married, they are utterly surprised even though I advertise it clearly. It’s simply ignorance.”

“Sure, I understand. Maybe I can help a bit with that. Would you mind helping me write down a current Jereh table? For an appendix, perhaps. I don’t know it all myself.”

“Certainly. It’s changed in the last five years anyway.” There was a small bowl of fruit on the table—citrus, of course—and as I got out my writing materials, Fintan casually removed an orange and held it in his palm, considering it. “Do you know what this color signifies in Rael?”

“No.”

“We use the same stone—a special orange garnet—for millers, merchants, coiners, and thieves.”

His eyes fixed on mine as he said “thieves,” and I almost laughed. Rölly had been right; he would say things merely to gauge my reaction. I’m sure he knew that Pelenaut Röllend was dressed entirely in orange that day and furthermore knew that I’d had breakfast with him in the palace.

“Fascinating,” I said. “A reminder to merchants, millers, and coiners that they’re being watched at all times?”

“Yes.” He dropped the orange and sighed. “I know how they must feel now.”

That did elicit a chuckle. “I am not watching you so much as enjoying your company,” I said, acknowledging that I knew he was being watched but carefully making no comment about it.

“True. Aside from performing, it’s my favorite part of the day. Thank you for that. Shall we fill out the Jereh table now and see if we can work faster than the kitchen?”

“By all means.”

That kept us busy until the food came out; it was utterly delicious, and Fintan promised to mention it on the wall, which pleased the owner no end. I waited for him to pull my chain again to see what flushed, but he had no further prodding scheduled, and I didn’t feel like asking him about the Triune Council just yet. That could wait. We worked over drinks, chatted with the Kaurian staff and some other customers who wanted to talk to Fintan, and then it was time to return to the wall. Inspired perhaps by our earlier conversation and a desire to forestall further flirting, he shared a Raelech children’s song about growing up couched in the colored stone markers of their social hierarchy.

Jade and marble till we’re twelve,

Into studies we will delve

And earn our brown apprentice stone,

Keep it till our craft is known

Then step into our journey blue,

Grow until we’re ready to

Go test for master amethyst,

If we’re lucky we’ll be kissed

And marry someone wise and bold,

Turn our bands from bronze to gold.

“Today we begin by checking up on Kallindra du Paskre, the trader’s daughter who chronicled her family’s encounter with one of the Bone Giants. I mentioned at that time that the du Paskres weren’t the only ones to see them in advance of the invasion. Kallindra’s family had been on their way to a trader clave in Setyrön, where she learned more.”

He cast down his seeming stone and took the form of the sleepy-eyed teenage girl. Whereas before she had worn a wry smirk, she now appeared almost jubilant about something.

I cannot tell you who was most excited in my family to finally reach the trader clave in Setyrön, nor can I tell you who hid their excitement best. I would like to think I won in both categories, but Jorry caught me smiling once too often for no apparent reason.

“You can stop pretending you don’t care about the clave,” he said. “I see you there smiling like a kid at a tide festival.”

“I wasn’t smiling about that,” I said, scowling at him.

“Then what?”

“Dad getting robbed the other night.”

Jorry frowned. “That’s hardly anything to smile about.”

“Mother sure smiled about it. She nearly died laughing.”

“But we were robbed.”

“And we’ll remember it well, won’t we? It was an excellent lesson for us all. I can’t remember half the things our parents have tried to teach us, but I’ll never forget that.”

Jorry snorted and allowed himself a half smile. “No, I guess not.”

In truth I was smiling because the clave was one of the few times and places where we could relax. It was safe and everything smelled good and tasted delicious, and those things are the fundamental building blocks of a great day. And we had many such days to look forward to.

Father, however, stopped thinking claves were safe a couple of years ago. Ever since I came of marriageable age, in fact. Nope, not a coincidence! He seems to think I would abandon the family at the first proposal, and so he tries to forestall any attempted courtship with his looming presence, following me around most of the time. That was all right with me. I’m not chafing to be free just yet; I have yet to find someone who suits me. The handsome boys my age tend to be more than a little doltish, and older unattached men tend to be unattached for good reasons. I’m not sure marriage would suit me, anyway. Men so far appear to be more trouble than they’re worth.

The clave was being hosted by a farmer outside Setyrön who had yet to plant his crop for a fall harvest and wasn’t using his field for anything else. He’d pocket a healthy sum for letting us trample all over it and enjoy clave prices in the bargain.

When we pulled up to the posted, gated entrance to the farm, there was a friendly greeter there to take our entrance fee and register us.

“Ask him, Father. Ask him.”

“All right! Patience!” he said, then turned to the greeter. “Could you tell me if the du Lörryls are here yet, sir?”

The young man smiled. “You’re not the first to ask. They are indeed. I think you’ll find them already busy.”

Jorry and I clapped and made high-pitched noises of excitement. We passed on to find a spot to park our wagon, necessarily taking a spot on the periphery. It wouldn’t be the periphery much longer; more wagons would arrive and form rings around us.

“Go on, kids,” Father said. “See where everything is and find our friends. I’ll expect you back in an hour, and then I’ll want you to take me to the du Hallards, Kallindra.”

Jorry and I shot out of the wagon like bolts, clutching our purses with the few coins in them that Mother had given us when Father wasn’t looking. I think Father knew, though; he was too shrewd with his money not to know where it all went, which made me wonder why he pretended not to know.

We called out greetings to families we knew who worked the inland routes, and they called back. We depended on them to supply us with wool and honey and wax, and they depended on coastal traders like us for fish oils, inks, imported goods, and so on. I asked the du Nedals where we could find the du Lörryls. Dame du Nedal smiled at us and said, “You want that honey-apple bacon, don’t you?”

“My mouth is already watering,” I said.

“Yours and everyone else’s. You can almost smell it from here. They’re frying it up two rows over and north. Hurry before it’s gone, now.”

We thanked her and dashed between wagons, turned to our right, and spotted the line. We joined it gladly and knew it would keep growing. The du Lörryls had found a farmer somewhere upstream from Göfyrd who made the world’s best bacon and furthermore dealt exclusively with them. They got premium prices for it, and deservedly so. We always bought some at every clave and never held on to enough of it to resell, though Father claimed every year he was going to buy five stone of it and make a fortune marking it up.

“You smell that, Jorry?” I said. We both took obnoxiously loud, deep whiffs of the air, making little wafting gestures with our hands around our noses. “Smells like bacon.” And money. And earth ready for replanting. And perfect contentment, that sublime moment when you’re at peak anticipation for something and you know you’ll get it soon. I often think that moment is better in some ways than getting the thing itself: it’s the awareness of your own joy at being alive and that the gods of all the kennings have blessed us, even those of us who never seek a kenning.

The couple in front of us were strangers and we gave them tight smiles of greeting, but Mella du Bandre came along a few seconds later and joined the line behind us. Her family was coastal like ours, working between Setyrön and Gönerled, and we competed in a friendly manner with them for customers in Setyrön. She had a hug for me and a shy smile for Jorry. His smile in return was a bit goofy as he stammered out a hello, and I could see already that this present awkwardness would be fertile ground for future teasing. I take my sisterly teasing duties very seriously because it’s so much fun.

Mella had grown up and filled out a bit since last I saw her, so it’s no wonder that Jorry noticed. She had pretty eyes and a quick wit that I’d always appreciated. If Jorry managed to win her consent, I’m sure both of our families would be delighted to see them matched.

“How have the tides treated you?” Mella asked. “Wash up anything interesting?”

“Yes, but why do you ask?” I said, because I sensed it wasn’t a casual query. “Have you seen anything strange?”

Mella nodded, “Yes, but you go first.”

Jorry caught my eye and gave a tiny shake of his head. Perhaps he didn’t think I should share the fact that we had been robbed. But it was only a map, not our entire inventory. And if there had been more people like that strange woman—Motah or whatever her name was—I wanted to know about it.

“The tides brought us a very tall woman who looked like she was starving.”

Mella gasped. “A woman! We saw two different men, also very tall, and we could see their ribs. And strange skin.”

“Strange how?”

“We couldn’t tell if they were pale with sunburned skin or just naturally kind of reddish.”

“It was the same with the woman we saw!”

“Did she have a little boat?”

“Yes, though we didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Did you understand anything she said?”

“No. What about the men?”

Mella shrugged. “We had no idea what they were talking about.”

“Did they buy anything?”

“No, but I don’t think they had any money. They were almost naked.” Her eyes flicked to Jorry. “Was she naked?”

Jorry’s face was priceless. Panic and indecision and then a silent plea to me to save him from speaking.

“Mostly,” I answered. “She seemed to be lost.”

“Same with the men. Makes me wonder if there was a shipwreck out there somewhere and they were the only survivors.”

“Did you show them a map?”

“We didn’t have one.”

Jorry found his voice. “Any idea where they might have been from?”

“No; that was the weird thing. If you assume they were sunburned pale people, that means they had to be Hathrim or Fornish. But they didn’t look or speak like either one.”

“You’re sure they weren’t Hathrim?”

“Quite sure. My brother speaks their language fluently, and he didn’t recognize a word they said.”

My initial excitement and wonder at finding someone else who’d run into the strange people turned into uncertainty and a touch of worry. “Do you think we should be telling someone about this?”

“Like who?”

“Well, I don’t know. Our parents for starters. You tell yours we saw one, too, and we’ll tell ours what you saw. I have to think someone would want to know that we’re seeing people no one has ever heard of before.”

“Well, yeah,” Mella said, “but—”

“What can I get you?” a voice broke in. We had inched our way to the front of the line as we talked, and now it was our turn to order bacon from Master du Lörryl. Jorry insisted on buying a few slices for Mella, and the strange people were forgotten between their flirtation and the delightful baskets of greasy meat.

I remembered them later, of course, and even mentioned to Father that the du Bandres had run into two lost giant men on their route. But he was too preoccupied by the absence of our best friends among the merchant families to pay any real attention.

“They’re not the only ones lost,” he grumbled. “Are you sure you looked everywhere for the du Hallards, Kallindra?”

“I am, Father, but I will gladly search the clave again if it would ease your mind.”

“I think it would—but take Jorry with you. And don’t just look; ask about. Maybe they’re running late, but maybe they’re nearby and need help, too. Thieves like to take advantage of traders going to claves when they can, you know.”

“Yes, I know very well.” Anticipating his next words, I said, “I’ll be careful, and I’ll return soon.”

We didn’t find the du Hallards that night but discovered why they were late the next day. Just after midmorning, Jorry and Mella were smiling and practically drooling on each other near the Glorious Bacon Wagon, as they had taken to calling it, and I was utterly fascinated by how they seemed to grow more stupid with each passing moment. But then news rolled through the clave like high tide: Tarrön du Hallard had stumbled into the clave on his own, half dead. No word on why or where the rest of the family was.

“Father will know,” I said, and the three of us hurried back to our wagon, thinking he’d be able to give us the truth. He gave us more than that: he put us to work immediately, because Tarrön du Hallard was there, cradled in Mother’s arms, and there was a crowd of people around the wagon, trying to get a look at him, and all of them were asking questions.

“Get rid of these people!” Father hollered at us once we pushed through. “Tell them you’ll give them the facts when we have them but right now we need to get him well. He can hardly tell us what happened when he’s unconscious.”

“Shall I fetch a hygienist?” Mella asked, and Father said several people already had gone to do just that.

We spent a good while just trying to disperse people with promises to report as soon as we knew anything and then fending off new arrivals as they came. Though the du Hallards were closest friends with us—Father had known Umön and Lyra since they were kids together—the whole family was well loved in the clave. Tarrön was a couple of years younger than me, and I think that Father and Umön had been hoping we’d take a liking to each other. He was nice enough and told a good joke, but I’d never felt attracted to him, nor, so far as I could tell, was he attracted to me.

He looked to be in pretty dire condition, though I’d only caught a short glimpse of him in the back of the wagon before Father stepped in front to block the view and discourage precisely that sort of gawking. But poor Tarrön! His lips were swollen and bloody, his clothing was shredded and his skin bruised and lacerated, and there was a nasty gash across his scalp that probably would leave a scar through that pretty, poufy hair of his—okay, so maybe I felt a tiny attraction to him. But he’s still a kid. And so am I, technically. Let’s simply observe that we both have potential.

The summoned hygienist finally appeared to assess the damage. Mother had given Tarrön water, of course—first thing you do—and attempted to clean him up a bit with boiled rags, which the hygienist approved. But he’d lost a lot of blood and used up all his strength just trying to get to the clave, and there was definitely contagion in the blood he had left.

“I know you want to speak to him,” he said, “but he is in poor shape. He needs time to rest, and I’ll need time to cleanse his blood.”

That didn’t really satisfy anyone, but we couldn’t argue the facts. Obviously something horrible had happened, and Father requested that we get both the constabulary and the mariners at Setyrön involved. Normally we took care of our own business at the clave and didn’t want outside authorities involved, but everyone wanted to find the rest of the du Hallards.

Tarrön woke on his own from a bad dream in midafternoon. Mother and I were with him in the back of the wagon along with the hygienist. His head began to turn back and forth in troubled sleep at first, a prelude to his horror, then he sat up, fully awake, and screamed, “No!” And then when he realized where he was and with whom and that he was safe, he just wept, and it pulled tears out of my eyes to see him so upset.

“You’ll be fine, Tarrön,” Mother said, pulling him to her, and Father, who’d been outside, appeared at the back and peered in.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Father asked. “Where’s your family?” Tarrön simply shook his head and took great shuddering breaths, holding on to Mother. “Were you attacked by bandits?” Another shake of his head.

“Really, we should let him rest,” the hygienist said. “Perhaps a tea with a soporific would do.”

Unsure why I spoke, I blurted out, “Did you see a pale giant, Tarrön?” and he startled, eyes turning to me, and caught his breath. The barest nod. “We saw one, too. Halfway to Möllerud. Where did you see one?”

“Nuh, not far,” he managed. “Road to Göfyrd. Top of the peninsula. Due north of here.”

“Sunburned? Starved?”

“Uh huh.”

“What’s he talking about?” the hygienist asked. “He saw a Hathrim?”

We all ignored his question, and Father said, “Did the giant do this to you, Tarrön?”

His eyes shifted to Father and welled with fresh tears. He pressed his lips together, and they trembled, trying to hold back another sob. He nodded once.

“Bryn drown me … and your family? Umön and Lyra and your sisters?”

Tarrön couldn’t keep it in after that. He gave one disconsolate moan and dissolved into sobs.

The hygienist’s mouth dropped open, and he turned to Father for confirmation. “He’s saying a Hathrim murdered his family?”

“Not a Hathrim. Something else.”

“That’s three encounters we know of if you count Mella’s,” I said. She had left by that point, and I hadn’t thought to ask her precisely where they had seen their giant or what had happened afterward; we’d been distracted by bacon.

“What did he want, Tarrön?” Mother asked.

He gulped and sniffed. “I don’t know. We couldn’t understand him. He talked for a while and then just—started killing us. I fought back, tried to choke him, but he got loose, took off in his stupid boat.”

The story came out in little spoonfuls after that. Tarrön had come to the clave for protection instead of going to the city, since he realized that no one might believe his story and then he’d be blamed for his family’s deaths. But we knew he was speaking truth; he would have our backing, plus the du Bandres, if the constabulary wished to make anything of it. Once word spread around the clave, another family confessed to seeing one of the strange giants.

When the Setyrön constable showed up, she was willing to believe that Tarrön was innocent and had fought off somebody … but she seemed oddly unmoved that four coastal traders had encountered what sounded like a new race of people from across the ocean.

“You can’t get across the Peles Ocean,” she said in a flat tone that communicated her disbelief. “What you saw was probably a tall Fornish pirate. I hear they have little colonies scattered around the archipelago, maybe even on the Longarm Isles. Been there ever since the Rift, you know, isolated, maybe a bit … uncivilized.”

Father scowled. “You think they’re Fornish pirates? If that were the case, why would they be landing all the way up here? By themselves, in four different places, speaking a language that sounds nothing like Fornish, and somehow growing two or three feet taller than normal while looking like they haven’t eaten in months?”

The constable shrugged. “I don’t know. I admit I’m speculating. I’ll ask around and see if the mariners have seen anything strange. We’ll make sure your family is given proper rites, Tarrön. And if we run into these giants who aren’t Hathrim, we’ll contact you.”

Her attitude didn’t fill me with confidence that anything would be done, but there was nothing to be gained by pushing her further. We assured her that Tarrön could stay with us until he recuperated and we could get him to family in town.

The episode cast a pall over the rest of the clave. Even the honey-apple bacon didn’t taste so good anymore. Jorry remarked in a rare effort at thought that tragedy sort of has its own aftertaste.

“I know what you mean,” I said, “but it feels more like a sponge that soaks up your happiness and squeezes it out somewhere else. It makes everything that’s good just a little bit … less.”

There were few in the audience who couldn’t relate to that sentiment, but Fintan didn’t allow us much time to dwell on it. “Let’s jump back to the west now and see what Nel Kit ben Sah did next,” he said.

My report at the Second Tree did not go as well as I had hoped, but neither did it go as badly as I had feared. It is an enduring truth of life that we must all struggle for our place in the sun, and I am content to stretch out my arms until my leaves collect that which I require.

For most of my life the Black Jaguar and the Blue Moth Clans have been able to go to the Second Tree and have their words accepted without question. I want that to be a reality for the White Gossamer Clan before it is my turn to die and become one with the roots of Forn, and perhaps this is an opportunity to take a step along that branch.

While I ran along the Leaf Road to Pont, word came through root and stem from greensleeves to the south that Mount Thayil had indeed erupted and Harthrad was a total loss. The ash cloud would trail south to fall on most of Hathrir, though some would inevitably coat the southern coast of Forn. It’s as if Mount Thayil coughed and soon it will make all of Hathrir sick.

If the Hathrim are smart, they will hire Kaurian blowbags to funnel the ash into the Rift. Cyclones, I mean: that’s the proper term, and I should use it.

When I arrived at Pont, the merchant clans were already discussing the probable boon to Fornish farmers this eruption would bring; dead Hathrim crops meant a lot of hungry giants, and they would need our produce. But no one was talking about what happened to all the giants in Harthrad, or if they were, it was with pity, because they assumed that they all died in the eruption.

I swung up higher into the canopy once I reached the Second Tree, struggling to find a space where I could send out my shoots and join the sway. There were far more Black Jaguars than there needed to be. They couldn’t all have something important to contribute; they just wanted to drink up all the news and choke out the roots of other clans. Pak Sey ben Kor, that sour cabbage, actually questioned my presence as though I had no right to join the sway like any other greensleeve.

“Why aren’t you on the coast?” he said, making it sound like an accusation.

“Because I have new mulch for the garden to help us all grow.”

He snorted in disbelief. “Doubtful. You’re a dormant seed.”

I’d been prepared to allow him a thorny word or two because he lost his nephew at the Seeking, but my sympathy evaporated at such a stark insult. I told him he had no nuts in his shell and swung up beyond his voice. He would fight me in the sway on general principle, so there was no use fighting before.

I found an unoccupied branch that was high enough that it protested under my weight. I guessed I would be part of the sway in both the figurative and the literal sense.

Caressing the bark of the Second Tree with my fingers and humming in pleasure, I took a moment to appreciate the blessing of being a greensleeve. Odious clan politics aside, I always know my place in the Canopy, and it’s a good one, an important one to the ecology of the forest even if I am not so important in the hierarchy of humans. The First Tree gave me an equal voice, and the Black Jaguars and Blue Moths could not shut me out, much as they would like to.

Pressing my palm flat against the living bark of the Second Tree, which was carved with ridges and festooned with mosses and mushrooms, I closed my eyes and felt the solid patience of the silverbark, the determination to grow and remain, to be nurtured and nurture in return, to give shelter to the small and be sheltered itself by the surrounding canopy and the forest of Forn, to share in the strength of intertwined roots and interests. My bark sprouted, shoots slithered into the bark of the Second Tree, and I joined the sway.

The minds of the Black Jaguars and Blue Moths were there, of course, and I felt them also at the First Tree and on the far coast in Keft as well. But luckily they were not all. I also felt the presence of greensleeves from friendly clans: the Red Horses, the Yellow Bats, the Gray Squirrels, the Invisible Owls.

Sending quick love and acceptance of all in the Canopy and my pledge to defend it with my life, I announced that I brought news from the coastal watch north of Pont. I believe I have seen the giants moving toward Ghurana Nent, I said. Many tens of boats passing in the night. It was no trade fleet. I think it was the entire population of Harthrad. They had fires on the water, and only the giants do this. I think they are going to land on the north side of the Godsteeth and cut down the unprotected trees there to finance the building of a new city.

Much discussion ensued and requests for further details. I had little else to offer, and there was never any question of deception on my part—just questions about my judgment and how I interpreted what I saw. Condescending doubts and suggestions that I might have imagined it all.

See and judge for yourself, I replied. A fleet that size deserves watching even if it is not the people of Gorin Mogen. Pak Sey ben Kor suggested I might not have seen a fleet of ships but rather a migration of sea creatures that emitted their own light from within as some creatures were known to do.

Should we not confirm? I asked the Canopy. If it is the Hathrim, then surely Forn has an interest in their destination. Our northwestern region has no thornhands garrisoned at all, only greensleeves and a few grassgliders.

Pak Sey ben Kor could hardly argue that we should ignore potential threats to the Canopy or our allies in Ghurana Nent, and so it was quickly decided: the sway ordered him and Tip Fet ben Lot of the Blue Moths to accompany me north in search of this fleet to confirm its existence and final destination if possible. They are not ideal companions and will try their best not to see anything at all, so I must show them something undeniable or my whole clan will suffer for it. Pak Sey ben Kor was quick to let me know that as soon as I withdrew my shoots and descended to the Leaf Road.

“You may have won a small victory in the sway,” he said, sneering at me, “but when we find nothing, your clan will not be able to dodge the shame of your foolishness any more than the earth can dodge the rain.”

Tip Fet ben Lot was only marginally less threatening. “I hope for your clan’s sake you are right, Nel,” he said. He might have added my name to seem friendly, but somehow it conveyed the opposite of friendliness. “The White Gossamers have some good people, and I would hate to see their honor stained in service of a delusion.” I bit back an angry retort. I had made a report according to my duty, not as a political maneuver, yet they had cast it as such.

Pen Yas ben Min arrived with a triumphant smile before we set out, and her appearance curdled Pak Sey ben Kor’s already sour expression. She’d been blessed by the First Tree, and his nephew had fed the roots. Rather than accept his nephew’s faults—or his own, since he’d been the one to present him—he’d resent Pen’s excellence.

She shone with health and new growth, her symbiosis complete. Moss hadn’t begun to grow on her silverbark yet—that would take a season or two, and its lack would mark her as newly blessed for a while—but she had budding mushrooms on her shins. “How was your journey?”

“Full of wonders,” she replied, beaming at me.

“I’m so glad you made it here in time. We were just about to leave on a scouting mission.”

“Yes, if we could get on with it,” Pak Sey ben Kor said. Pen’s face fell at his rudeness, but I caught her eye, kept a polite grin on my face, and gave her a tiny shake of the head to tell her not to respond.

“Certainly, benmen. Let’s be on our way.”

I set a brutal pace and told them to keep up, a command with which they had considerable difficulty. They were not used to exerting themselves, having spent so much time dangling on branches and talking rather than doing. It was probably petty of me to enjoy their panting and especially Pak’s eventual entreaty that I slow down, but if so, I think I can live with that particular guilt. Pen, as I suspected she would, kept up just fine.

“Why are we moving so fast?” she asked me after the first hour.

“It’s more peaceful,” I explained. “They can’t sow their poison if they haven’t breath to speak.”

We camped for the night and filled our bellies with fruits and seeds. When we reach the sentinel trees on the border with Ghurana Nent, we will borrow horses and any other weapons we may need for our scouting. Some of my clansmen will be there and will join us, no doubt. Cousins I have not seen for seasons but close to my roots, and in their eyes I will see if I have grown straight and true on my own—I am only five years senior to Pen, after all. Perhaps the Black Jaguars and the Blue Moths will not be so eager to disparage the White Gossamers when they are outnumbered. Perhaps, if the Canopy is well served by my watch, the White Gossamers will climb again. I would dearly love to be the sprout of that new growth.

Even in the company of wilted men like Pak Sey ben Kor and Tip Fet ben Lot I exult in running the Leaf Road, where every step brings new smells and sounds and I can feel the filtered sun dapple my skin through tiny gaps in the leaves. The blessing of the First Tree flows through me, energy singing ballads in my blood and urging me onward in service to the Canopy. My two companions gave up on asking me to slow down, realizing it didn’t reflect well on them, and instead I waited for them to catch up periodically, wordlessly pointing out that they were not so superior after all and it was fortunate for everyone that the White Gossamer Clan protected this stretch of the western coast instead of the Black Jaguars or Blue Moths.

My clan members waited for us at a sentinel station at the base of the Godsteeth. They had not seen the Hathrim fleet pass by, nor had they received any word of timber piracy north of Pont, and my political rivals seized on this news as proof that I had misinterpreted the evidence of my eyes.

“The lights must have been sea creatures, as I said,” Pak intoned as if he were quoting wisdom straight from the roots of Forn.

“Or the ships passed by too far from this shore to be visible,” I replied. “We will ride north of the Godsteeth to be sure.” The terrain would not allow us to follow along the coast—the rocks of the Godsteeth broke up the canopy and produced large gaps in the Leaf Road—so we’d travel inland a short distance to the nearest pass between the peaks. I ignored Pak’s grumbling and insistence that this was a waste of his time and greeted my clansmen, two of whom—Yar Tup Min and Kam Set Sah—were close cousins. They weren’t benmen, but they were expert horsemen who patrolled and harvested the area’s fat spider silks and reported any trouble to the greensleeve on station.

Kam and I had grown up together but hadn’t seen each other since I set out for the First Tree and became a greensleeve. He was taller than me now, though just barely so, his hair bleached white by the sun and his skin tanned by regular exposure out of the shade. He threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek, his whiskers tickling, then he stepped back and admired the silverbark on my forearms and shins.

“You wear the forest so beautifully,” Kam said. “We are all very proud of you, Nel.”

“Thanks. But are you proud of your sister, Yar?”

“What of her? I was just about to ask about the Seeking.” He looked worried, and I smiled at him.

“She’s come back to you as Pen Yas ben Min.”

Pen had taken to some higher branches above the Leaf Road to keep it a surprise, but now she swung down on a vine and landed next to us, her silverbark plain to see. “Hello, brother,” she said.

“Pen! You’re a greensleeve!”

She chuckled. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Yar rushed forward to hug her, crying happy tears, and their reunion was one of those rare slices of perfection when you feel all your life’s trials are mere shadows thrown by the brilliant light of that moment.

Once they parted, Yar said, “I don’t have any expectation that you’ll be able to stay, but I’m very glad you had reason to visit us.” He flicked his eyes to my winded companions. Startled into remembering my manners, I introduced Pak and Tip and my clansmen welcomed them, according them honors they probably didn’t deserve, but that is the White Gossamer way, and in truth their courtesy shamed me. I should be as gracious as they were—I was, once—but that simple meeting demonstrated to me that my conduct has deteriorated since I’ve become a greensleeve. It would be easy to blame it on the low standards set by the Black Jaguars, but I don’t need a giant’s glass to see my own faults and I am not one to shrink when the sun provides me light. Henceforth I shall follow my cousins’ good example and recall that honor lies more in the giving of it than in the expectation of receiving it—even if Pak and Tip are perfect toads and know nothing of honor.

We descended from the Leaf Road to the forest floor and visited the stables, where Kam invited Pak and Tip to choose their horses. Pak chose Kam’s favorite horse—I could tell when Kam blinked—but my cousin only smiled and said we would be ready to ride in the morning.

“Kam. A word?” I said as Yar led Pak and Tip to their nests in the canopy for the evening.

“Sure.” I waited until I was sure we were alone before speaking any more.

“How many net launchers do you have here?”

“Enough for everybody.”

“Okay, that’s good. Offer them to Pak and Tip tomorrow but don’t be surprised if they refuse them. However, I’d like to make sure all the White Gossamers carry them. Bring them all. I’ll take two.”

“Of course. But why, if I may ask?”

“We haven’t had to fight giants up here in the north for a long time. Never in my lifetime, in fact.”

Kam’s eyes widened. “Are you expecting a fight?”

“No, I’m merely preparing for one. I’m thinking we might have trouble bringing them down with arrows. They are strong enough to wear very heavy armor, and even if they don’t, who’s to say a single arrow will bring them down? They’re more than twice our size. If someone sinks a shaft into us, we’ll go down, but would a giant?”

“Oh.” Kam’s mouth opened a little bit as he thought about it. “That’s right; we tend to think of fighting in the forest borders where we can call on root and stem to join in. And usually there are thornhands. But we’ll be on the other side of the Godsteeth.”

“Open land. There are trees on the slopes, of course, but nothing like a Leaf Road.”

“But you could still call on the plant life there, right?” he said, gesturing to the symbiotic evidence on my arms.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not as quick to obey, not as strong. And if I’m right, Kam, the Hathrim are going to be out on the plains.”

My cousin twitched. “The plains?”

I nodded. “Treeless plains. The giants are not used to trees, remember. They don’t think of them as shelter, only as fuel. As timber.” I shuddered, despising that word: a Hathrim root, of course, that implied trees were good only for building or burning. “So they wouldn’t think of hiding on the slopes. We’ll find them wading through the grass.”

“You realize that we qualify as food out there, right? And the horses, too?”

“Yes, I know. Out in the open like that we’ll be at a disadvantage. That’s why I think the nets might help.”

“What are we trying to accomplish?”

“We’re just scouting. We find the Hathrim and report on what we see. But we have to find them, Kam.”

“Why?”

“The Black Jaguars and Blue Moths are out to discredit me and, by extension, the entire clan. Everything they say makes that clear. They want us brought lower than we already are. They don’t want us to threaten their position again.”

Kam scoffed and narrowed his eyes. “We were children when that happened.”

“So were they. But they remember.”

My cousin folded his arms. “You’re making it sound like we have more to fear from them than we do from the giants.”

“We do, Kam. The Hathrim might want to kill us, but these other clans—they want to disgrace us.”

“I think your priorities could stand some examination, Nel.”

“Our reputation outlasts our bodies. You know this to be true. My parents are gone, yet I am paying for their actions. We all are.”

“That’s not the way I see it, cuz. I mean, sure, they got treated like weeds in a vineyard, but apart from missing them every day, the arguments of the past don’t affect my life in the slightest. I have a profession and may have a family soon, and there isn’t anyone trying to take that away from me. Clan politics aren’t my concern, nor are they the concern of most people. It’s only you who have to deal with that. The curse of being blessed, I guess.”

It was my turn to scoff at him, remembering how much I enjoyed running on the Leaf Road. “I don’t feel cursed.”

“Time to start acting blessed, then?” my cousin said, his eyebrows raised so high that they nearly melted into the hair on top of his head.

“Yeah,” I admitted. He’d scolded me well, and it was what I needed. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said, and clapped me a couple of times on the back. “We’ll find the giants, and all will be well. I mean, with the other clans.” He winced. “Not sure about the giants.”

And that wry, halfhearted joke of Kam’s almost put me on the same side as Pak Sey ben Kor and Tip Fet ben Lot: I hoped we wouldn’t find the giants at all, and my reputation and the clan’s could grow mold. Because if we did find them, it wouldn’t just be the Nentian pines in danger. It would be Kam and Yar and Pen and whoever else would be joining us tomorrow.

I didn’t like the way this tree was branching, but I had no way to prune it.

“Speaking of Hearthfire Gorin Mogen, let’s catch up with him and the fate of his migration northward.”

Fintan’s transformation into Hearthfire Gorin Mogen evoked a much louder response than it had the first time; more people could see him now. But unlike previously, the giant wasn’t cloaked in an ice howler fur but rather in his customary slate gray lava dragon leathers shot through with streaks of black and maroon, tied with a dark blue belt and a steel buckle engraved with the Mogen crest. His beard, too, was different in that it appeared to be groomed and gathered at the bottom with two heavy gold ties.

We came to fresh shores on the first day of the new year—the first official day of spring in 3042. An auspicious beginning for the Hathrim in the Nentian plains. Or perhaps I should think of them as something else. “The Mogen plains” has a pleasant sound to it. Perhaps in a month I will wake up feeling arrogant and declare it.

The vast stands of timber on the northern slopes of the Godsteeth beckoned to us in the wind. Never have I seen such riches! They will fuel a new age of prosperity for our people, and our hearths will smell of woodsmoke again instead of stinking blocks of compressed weeds and vegetables.

Thinking of hearths, I called my son Jerin to me before we set foot on the beach and charged him with forming a crew to harvest the first wood for our new home. We would need not only fires but docks for our fleet, for we would be dependent on the sea for a while and rocky beaches are not gentle to glass-bottomed boats. He predictably recruited his betrothed, Olet Kanek, and her small train of followers who had come with her from Tharsif to await the wedding. Her relationship to the powerful Hearthfires of Tharsif and Narvik would provide us a political and economic boost: They would be our first trading partners, no doubt, and perhaps provide us with new settlers. And once Winthir Kanek decided we had the right to be here, all the other Hearthfires would hasten to agree.

Volund hauled his thick blond braids and some of my gems aboard a ship and continued north to Hashan Khek, where he would hire Raelech stonecutters to come down and throw up some walls and basic structures for us. I told him to lie and say the work was for a new settlement near Tharsif. If he sailed cleverly and timed it right, returning under cover of darkness, the Raelechs might not even realize they were building on Nentian soil.

Taking stock of our population as they filed off the boats was a sobering task. I had hoped to save more. The lack of warning doomed many.

But the culling might end up saving us in coming months, horrific as it is to say. I do not think we could support Harthrad’s entire population here, having no existing infrastructure on which to build. As plentiful as the game is in Ghurana Nent, it is not sufficient to support so many giants for long. The sea will provide for a while; only when we have reliable crops coming in will we be out of danger. But what potential exists in this land!

Trees on the mountains for the taking. Metal inside the mountains to be scooped out. Fertile land for us to tame and ocean waters that have rarely been fished. We will sow and we will reap a future undreamt of in the minds of Hathrim, who have so long thought themselves confined to Hathrir—who have, for too long, shied away from taking what is here to be taken.

That is, if we do not combust out of sheer stupidity.

Once we got a communal hearth going—a row of fires, really, over which we were roasting our first meal slain by Halsten’s pack of hounds—I was forced to let the new head priestess of Thurik speak to the people as soon as the sun set. Or at least there was no reason to deny her. If I’d known what she would say ahead of time, I might have simply cut out her tongue, but the old priest, lost in the explosion of Mount Thayil, had never given me cause to worry before.

She was a different creature from old Durif Donorak. Where he was staid and musty, she was a riot of color and energy. All the lavaborn draped themselves in the fireproof leathers of lava dragons out of practical necessity, but she wore a fitted corselet fashioned from their spiny tails, and at the center of it she wore a harness of blown glass chains that looped over her shoulders, under her arms, and about her waist and were clipped front and back to a brushed bronze and copper circle of Thurik’s Flame, similar to what I wore on my own armor. But the chains had been heated and treated to reflect different colors—the entire spectrum if I wasn’t mistaken—and she used this to dazzling effect. When she stepped near the fires, her shaved head gleamed in the light, and the glass chains shimmered over the lava dragon scales. Putting a finger between her brows, she sparked it, and the whale oil she had smeared over her shorn skull ignited, setting the glass chains to gleaming. That made for quite the visual; Durif had never indulged in such theatrics. She had a chain leading from her right nostril to her ear as well and additional chains around her neck. Only ten feet tall, but she dressed and carried herself to command attention.

“We gather around Thurik’s Hearth for comfort,” she said, her voice ringing like a hammer striking steel. “And a comfort it is. That’s one of the many uses for fire. It can give us a sense of safety and protect us. But we know better than all Hathrim now how destructive it can be as well. And while we mourn the loss of our homes and especially the loss of our friends and family, after every fire it is our duty to consider what comes next. Do we rebuild? Do we move on? How best to proceed? For one of Thurik’s most sacred commands to us is to use fire as a creative force more than a destructive one, to craft tools so fine that they are themselves works of art.”

There were some nods and grunts at this, and the priestess lifted a finger. “And while we are creating, we must not forget to build for strength as well. And we do that by burning away our impurities.”

The response to that was far louder than I expected. I realized I might have misjudged the mood of the people and shot a startled glance at Sefir, who stood next to me. She gave the barest shake of her head, reminding me that my every move was watched by more than one pair of eyes, and I quickly mastered my expression. It would be better for me to watch the expressions of others.

“We are allowed a short time here, a safe place to huddle around the hearth and think well. When the ash from Mount Thayil is cleared, we will return to build again—but build what? I urge you to consider the blessing hidden in the tragedy: we have an opportunity to show everyone, like no generation before us, that the people of the First Kenning are also first in civilization.”

Nostrils flaring, I craned my head around, seeking out Halsten and beckoned him forward. He stepped up, the silver threads in his mustaches somehow still immaculate, and I spoke in low tones for his ears only. “I need to speak to this new priestess tonight. Do you know her name?”

“I do not. But I’ll find out.”

“Good. Bring her to me soon.”

The priestess wrapped it up quickly after that with an exhortation to think on the path ahead more than the ruin behind, and the brevity and clarity of her message was so well received that my stomach soured. She would be a problem—and not an easily solved one. I had to eat and be merry after that, suffer through the farce of communal, convivial warmth when all I wanted to do was take an axe to something. The meat we shared of some nameless herbivore brought down by the houndsmen was tough and poorly seasoned and stuck between my teeth.

Sefir and I chose a place away from the main crush of the camp, a spot near the foothills of the Godsteeth where we could pitch a tent and hear about the aches of others. Sefir took care of most concerns regarding settlement and supplies; she had organized much of the provisioning herself, and she had a mind for details, hailing as she did from Haradok, where nothing but logistics allowed them to survive the frigid southern winters. She would make an excellent Hearthfire in my stead should it become necessary. I could not pretend that I would not be a target for much longer.

Halsten ushered petitioners to and fro, and when the fire priestess arrived, it was I who spoke, but Sefir was at my side, listening intently. Halsten introduced her as Mirana Mastik. “Honored to meet you, Mm—La Mastik,” I said, remembering the church honorific for lavaborn at the last moment. “Your ascension to Keeper of the Flame came under regrettable circumstances, but I am sure you will guide our people wisely.”

“I am honored to meet you, Hearthfire Mogen,” she replied. She had thin, almost nonexistent lips, as if she were hiding them. “I certainly did not expect to lead Harthrad’s population. I am a transplant, after all, from Tharsif.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. I came to Harthrad with Olet Kanek. I was her personal cleric.”

I shot a glance at Halsten, annoyed that he hadn’t told me this ahead of time, and he gave a tiny shrug. But perhaps this was fortuitous. If the new head priestess of the church was intimate with my soon-to-be daughter-in-law, that might make her more willing to work with me.

“Your delivery of Thurik’s Flame is somewhat unusual,” I said. “Or is it common to set your head on fire in Tharsif?”

“It is a fairly common practice there,” she admitted. “But some priests are more vain about their hair than others.” Her eyes flicked to Halsten’s silver-threaded mustaches, and I almost smiled. “I do not expect others to follow my example, of course. I simply follow the path that Thurik has blazed for me.”

The ego required to utter such statements always took my breath away. “Thurik blazes your path?” I said.

“Of course.”

“You are suggesting that Thurik made Mount Thayil erupt and wipe out our city so that you could be head priestess of the survivors?”

She did not pale at the insinuation or stammer. No, she laughed at me.

“I did not say that in jest, La Mastik.”

“Please forgive me, Hearthfire. We were speaking of my shaven head, not Mount Thayil. To jump from one to the other was surprising. I make no claims that Thurik arranged matters here to suit me or that he killed my elders to give me a promotion.”

She handled that well, and unlike my advisers, she managed to look me in the eye as she spoke. Admirable.

“Then tell me, if you will, what path you believe Thurik is blazing for us now. I found your earlier words interesting.”

“Which words, Hearthfire?”

“The ones regarding a wise use of our resources and the people of the First Kenning becoming first in civilization. You spoke aloud my wish for the Hathrim: not only to be first in our size or first in appetite but first in craft and culture. We have been wood-starved and resource-poor for so long that we could never hope—until now—to build a society equal with our stature. I have long held that the power of fire should allow us to shape and forge our own destinies as it shapes glass and metal, but fire needs fuel, and here we finally have enough of it to make a difference.”

She frowned, and her head tilted slightly. “Build a society? You speak as if you intend to stay here.”

“And why shouldn’t we? What better place for a new Hathrim city than here?”

She spoke with a tone of patient disbelief, as if I were some child. “This place belongs to Ghurana Nent. We cannot stay.”

“We most certainly can,” I growled. “There is only a piece of paper signed by our ancestors that defines where we can build and thrive. And it says we can only build in treeless wastes, where we most certainly will never thrive. Time to set that nonsense aflame.”

“That nonsense will have serious consequences if you flout it,” La Mastik said. “I cannot condone it.”

“I’m not asking for your approval. Or anyone else’s.”

“Clearly. But you’re putting all our lives in danger acting alone like this.”

“We won’t be alone for long. You’re from Tharsif, and so you must know that Winthir Kanek is a Hearthfire of my mind. That’s why he sent his daughter to marry my son.”

La Mastik’s brows drew together, and a corner of her mouth turned up. “Are you sure about that, Hearthfire? It’s true he may be in favor of expanding his territory, but I rather think sending his daughter to you announced his intention to expand into Harthrad next.”

My hand twitched toward my axe, and Sefir grabbed it and interlocked my fingers with hers, a seemingly loving gesture. Which it was. She saves me so often. “He’s welcome to expand into Harthrad now. It’s a lava flow covered with a thick frosting of ash. I think he’ll prefer to profit from the trade we can offer. The first shipment of lumber should do much to convince him. And if you wish to depart with that shipment, La Mastik, you’re welcome to do so.”

Her eyes narrowed. “A kind invitation, Hearthfire. But I’ll remain to minister to Olet Kanek and the good people of Harthrad who have no other spiritual guidance. I notice you have not tended Thurik’s Flame since I came to Harthrad.”

“The crush of responsibility prevents me. But never fear, I’ll make sure someone attends in my stead and pays rapt attention to your every word.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Speak all you want about rebuilding strong and well, La Mastik. But I hope we’ll hear no more from you about returning to Hathrir.”

That finally fueled some anger in her, and she pointed a scolding finger at me. “Thurik’s Flame is not subject to the governance of a Hearthfire. You cannot prevent me from speaking my mind.”

“You are quite correct. And you cannot prevent me from splitting your unprotected head with my axe.”

Her hand dropped, and she sneered at me. “Ah. So it’s a naked threat, then.”

“I dislike threats. They carry the implication that one might not follow through on them. Do spout what other fire you wish, La Mastik, but speak another word to my people about leaving here or one word against me and I promise you will be dead moments later, consequences be damned.”

Her eyes shifted to Sefir, searching for assistance, perhaps, or some sign that I was insincere. She would find no help there. When her eyes returned to me, she said, “I appreciate your candor, Hearthfire.”

“And I yours. We both want the best possible lives for these people. Let’s focus our efforts on making that happen.” I pointed a finger at the ground. “Here.”

When her thin lips pressed together she almost appeared to have no mouth at all, just an unbroken mask of skin beneath her nose. I waited for a retort, some blast of defiance, but she only nodded once.

“I’ll bid you good evening, then,” she said, and Halsten escorted her away. Sefir told him to wait a few minutes before bringing anyone else forward. Once the priestess and the houndsman were out of earshot, Sefir kept her voice low and spoke her concerns. “What are you hoping to kindle here, Gorin? Confronting her like that could complicate matters.”

“She would also be a complication if I did nothing. Better to control the fire when it starts than let it burn freely. You saw her at the hearth. She has far too much charisma. Let her continue to preach about returning to Hathrir and that’s all we’ll hear about.”

“Fair point. But she’ll go straight to Olet now and blacken your name for this. She may try to get the marriage called off.”

“Let her. I only agreed to the arrangement so as not to provoke Winthir. Let Jerin choose his love and be chosen in turn, as we did.”

Sefir hummed with pleasure. “That would be my wish for him. And if he truly likes Olet, then …”

“Of course, of course. It’s too soon to tell.”

“You should make some art with him as soon as possible. New glass, new steel for our new city. Inspire others with your fire and hers will be doused.”

“That’s a fine idea. I’ll begin building a smithy tomorrow.”

“Good.” My bride released my hand and turned around, surveying the site. “Are we settling our hearth here, then?” We were slightly elevated above the rest of the plain and could see the dozens of campfires spread out beyond us, stretching to the beach on our left. Behind us lay the roots of the Godsteeth, inestimable riches in fuel growing on their slopes. An excellent spot: the view was priceless, yet we were not so high that people would think we were looking down on them.

“It suits me well if it suits you. But then I am well suited wherever you are.”

Sefir smiled at me and ran the tip of her finger along my jaw, through the beard. “Gorin?”

“Yes?”

“Have you been reading Raelech romances again?”

“Shh! Halsten might hear.”

Sefir laughed low in her throat, and her eyes sparkled at me. “He might, but he would never dare speak of it.”

“He’d better not.”

“I am content, Gorin. We will build our new hearth here, and it will be the envy of the world. Give it time and fire and the hammer and you will see.”

The orange glow of open hearths didn’t look like much at that time, but I knew Sefir was right.

This humble refugee camp will be a great city someday. I should probably start thinking of a name for it.

Once he returned to his normal form, the bard paused for a drink and then raised both hands, a seeming stone in one of them.

“Now I need to introduce you to a new figure, Melishev Lohmet, the viceroy of Hashan Khek and closest Nentian government official to Gorin Mogen’s occupation of his country. His city is many leagues away from the Godsteeth, but the responsibility to confront Mogen will still be primarily his.”

The black smoke curled around the bard, and his tailored Raelech silhouette faded away to be replaced by a formal Nentian tunic, the kind with excessively flared lapels that roamed uphill to the shoulders and around them, providing a stage of sorts for the new glossy black hair that fell to the middle of his torso. Pale green with silver accents to let the hair shine, the tunic was belted at the waist with a silver sash embroidered with vertical lines of gold thread. Very fine clothing indeed, but the viceroy’s expression failed to reflect similar refinement. His broad cheeks and generous nose were pinched in a scowl, and his voice dripped contempt like bitter syrup..

I despise unctuous shits, yet I am surrounded by them.

And I am sure that there is someone in Hashan Khek who envies my position as viceroy, but if they knew what I had to deal with, they might reconsider.

I have demands from authority in Talala Fouz that have nothing to do with reality.

I have transient families that enjoy the city’s services and drain its coffers yet never pay taxes.

Corrupt merchants do the same and profit immensely by it but then pull out their giant hairy balls, plop them on the dining table of my welcome hall, and complain that I’m not doing enough for them.

I have a military that can’t be trusted to do anything but sleep on duty and eat everything.

I have the responsibility to defend a huge portion of the country with that same military.

And the Raelech stonecutters, whose services come at great cost, are taking far too long to expand our walls.

I also do not understand this extreme discomfort whenever I urinate.

But who am I kidding? The entire city envies my position because they are surrounded by shit of a slightly different stench from mine and think the viceroy never has to smell any of his own. They think I live a privileged life—and they are right. I certainly do. My boot closet is probably second only to the king’s. But that does not mean I am free of worries.

I have material comforts and no security. People see the material comforts and believe I must have security, too, but no, that is not the case. I only have a finer bed, a chef to cook my food, a man to taste it for poison (after which it is cold), and a safe place to dump it all when my body is through with it.

These privileges, no doubt, are very fine indeed: a safe dump should never be scorned.

And yet I think the stress of my existence will end me. If the king doesn’t send an assassin to kill me first. I’m on his list now, I can feel it, because he knows I covet that cushy chair of his. But he needs a good reason to replace me. He would find it very convenient if I died, but if I do something he can label as a failure of leadership, that will serve as well. If I don’t get the city expanded on time, that might be all the excuse he needs. Even a dip in revenue could spell my doom if it’s big enough, and now it might be here.

That simpering wine-soaked liaison to the merchant clave, Badavaghar, claims that we have lost our trading partner in Harthrad in a single night and this will create a costly deficit in the treasury; they imported a lot of our goods. New trading partners will have to be secured in other Hathrim cities if we want their glass and steel and terms might not be as favorable as before, and so on. I banish him to the cellar where he can marinate in his favorite cask, leaving me to think. I climb the dank stone steps of the tower, spiraling ever up and misted with sea spray under the open windows, until I can look out at the entirety of the city without obstruction or interruption. The cry of seabirds and the bustle of industry reach my ears, and underneath it the dull whoosh and hiss of the ocean, but that is all.

Strange, looking out at Hashan Khek from the Tower of Kalaad, to think that the city might be in any kind of danger, economic or otherwise. It is a vista of prosperity viewed from on high, the beasts of the plains all safely deterred by our walls, and it is easy to imagine that everyone below is happy and fulfilled. Rooftops shield the people from rain and their rulers from the reality of the streets.

I know that they suffer. I know that they need more room and that the farmers and herders outside the walls need more protection. That’s why I approved the expansion of the city at great expense. And if we don’t make up this sudden trade deficit, we won’t be solvent and the king will shove a hot poker up my anus before he kicks me outside the walls for the animals to eat. He won’t care that a volcano melted and buried our revenue stream.

Dhingra bursts into my tower study while I’m meditating on what to do next. “Viceroy, the Raelech stonecutters are gone. They’ve been hired away.”

That means the city expansion is on hold indefinitely—another reason for the king to serve me whole to a family of harkha weasels. “Who hired them?”

“Hathrim—I mean the ones from Harthrad. The Raelechs left a note. Said they’d return in a month to finish with no further payment required.”

“The ones from Harthrad? But Badavaghar just told me that Mount Thayil killed them all.”

“Yes, but Badavaghar needs help to find his boots in the morning.”

That was certainly true. The drunken sponge needed help to take them off at night, too. “Wait a moment, Dhingra. We may have a problem here that could solve all my other problems.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’ve been given two steaming piles of shit news mere minutes apart: Harthrad was destroyed, but the survivors just hired my Raelech stonecutters out from under me. What does that tell you about the direction the survivors sailed?”

My chamberlain’s eyes widen. “They didn’t stay in the south. They’re in the north!”

“And they would be foolish to land in Forn, correct? That would be about as smart as sliding your penis into a monkey’s cage to see if he tries to pull it off. But we have all that empty land between us and the border.”

“You think they’ve landed in Ghurana Nent?”

“I think it’s possible. And if our trading partners have become invaders, I’d like to know sooner rather than later. Fetch Badavaghar out of the damn cellar and bring him to me under the skylight. We’ll use him to find out what’s going on.”

Descending from the tower, I smile to myself, hoping the Hearthfire was dumb enough to invade us. That would start a war. The king wouldn’t replace me in the middle of a war. And if I wound up winning that war, well … I might as well be the new king. I would be the new king.

I beat Badavaghar to the skylight and wait for him, standing in front of my throne. He shuffles into my presence a few minutes later, asking how he can serve. His speech is slurred; he had taken my caustic suggestion to drink some more as a command.

“Outfit a fast ship with a lot of food but only ten swords. It’ll be an honor guard for someone from the merchant clave. Someone who has—or had—a lot of money tied up in Harthrad. Who’s into their glass and steel?”

“Chumat hash—or rather had—shignificant glassh holdings,” Badavaghar says right away, and after a moment’s thought adds, “Panesha buys finished shteel pieces but not so much raw material from them.”

At least the sot knows his clave. Perhaps his only redeeming feature. “Either or both will do. Find out where the survivors of Harthrad have gone and reestablish ties. Offer our aid now in return for favorable terms in the future. They’ve hired our Raelech stonecutters; tell them they’d better make sure they return here to finish the job they started or I’ll be lodging a formal complaint with the Triune Council. And if Chumat or Panesha wants to visit any other Hathrim ports while they’re down there and spread their assets, so be it. But the survivors of Harthrad need to be found first, am I clear?”

His hands lift up to the sun shining through the glass ceiling. “As the sky when Kalaad shmiles upon us, Viceroy.”

“Good. And tell the ship captain not to take the safe route down. I want them to hug our coast on the way south and watch for anomalies.”

“What sort of anoma-loma-nomalies, m’lord?”

“Giant ones.”

Badavaghar gapes at me, his brain trying to attach meaning to my words. His yellow teeth flash when he finally gets it. “Oh! Because the Hathrim are giants. You did a … you made a pun. Hee hee hic!” He belches after his hiccup and apologizes for that but not for getting smashed on my wine. Kalaad save me from unctuous shits.

Fintan offered a sardonic twist of his mouth to the spectators sitting on the wooden benches below the wall. “His leadership style is a bit different from Pelenaut Röllend’s, yes?” Laughter from the crowd. “More from him later. Let us stay in Ghurana Nent, though, and see what happened next with Abhinava Khose.”

Well, my life is certainly different now. I’m so glad I took time to write down something before I left the walls of Khul Bashab.

Our wagons are pulled by wart yaks, and since they are notoriously slow, we are hunters built for defense rather than speed. We never sneak up on anything and never outrun anything. We make a lot of noise, try to smell delicious, and the predators of the plains come to us, leaping onto our spears without ever thinking that perhaps they might be the prey.

But for three days we trekked south from the city with very little to show for it. My father grew more annoyed with each passing day and my mother and sisters grew more sullen, and I supposed I joined them in a sulk, Father’s annoyance hanging over all of us like grim thunder-clouds exhaled from the Godsteeth.

My uncle Navir tried to cheer Father up last night by pointing out that his “shitty ass was more attractive than his face lately.” His gambit failed to improve my father’s mood somehow, but the rest of us found it amusing and laughed about it once we were safely out of Father’s hearing.

We’ve seen no kherns and very little else to hunt, so I’ve had no opportunity to address my desire to be anything but a hunter.

Well, that’s not true; I could bring it up at any time. But my thinking is that if I bring it up as they’re going to hunt, they won’t be able to discuss it for long. They’ll have to go after the prey before it escapes, and that will be my escape. Besides, I still have to think of what else I want to be. Maybe I could go to the university in Ar Balesh—or almost anywhere else—and find something worthy of study. I’m beginning to think that hunting for a livelihood will be more difficult than hunting on the plains.

What’s changed for the better is that I won’t have to hear about choosing a bride anymore. Over breakfast this morning Uncle Navir was talking about my cousin Favoush getting married soon, and inevitably his eyes slid over to me and a grin spread across his face. “What about you, Abhi?” he said. “When will you pick out a woman?”

“Never,” I blurted out in front of everyone. “I’m sakhret.”

It wasn’t the way I’d planned to tell them, but their reaction wasn’t what I expected either. A great cry went up from everyone around the campfire, not in outrage or shock but in appreciation and with many congratulatory slaps on the back for my uncle. Everyone was smiling but me. I didn’t understand what was happening until people started handing my uncle money.

“Wait,” I said. “Did he just win something?”

“We’ve had a standing wager for a year now,” Father answered, smiling for the first time in days. “We had to get you to admit you’re sakhret without directly asking you.”

“What? You mean you knew?”

“We’ve known a long time, Abhi,” Mother said, and she stepped around the campfire to embrace me and kiss my cheek. “We were just waiting for you to tell us.” As soon as she released me, Uncle Navir crushed me in his arms to thank me for ending the suspense and filling his purse while I was at it.

I was happy for Uncle Navir and grateful beyond words that my family loved me unconditionally. It should be a gift freely given to all, a thing taken for granted, but I knew many sakhret never felt such acceptance. Quite the opposite. And that made it so much harder for me to tell them that I never wished to hunt again, to reject their way of life and a large part of their identity when they had already given their blessing to a large part of mine.

But the day would come, and it would come soon. We would find the kherns, and when that happened, I would wager my family had never thought to place another wager on my refusal to pick up a spear.

“What happened next to Abhi and his family will take up the majority of our time tomorrow,” Fintan said. “And I assure you that none of them would have bet on it happening.”

Agroan accompanied the creak of the door when Elynea returned from her first day of work. She had a hand on her back and a wince of pain crinkling her brow.

“That bad, eh?”

With her free hand she pulled out a small leather bag and shook it. Coins made music inside, and she managed a tiny smile. “Not that bad.”

“Good. Save it all. Eventually you’ll be able to get your own place somewhere.”

“I think there’s a mariner waiting for you outside,” Elynea said.

“What?” I peeked through the window, and sure enough, there was a blue and white uniform. Maybe he wasn’t there for me specifically but rather was a security detail. He was smiling and nodding at passersby on the street. “I’ll go see what he wants. It’s time for me to go anyway.”

I gathered my paper, quill, and ink pot and left Elynea in the kitchen with her kids, making them lunch from a few staples I had ventured out to get that morning. The mariner was indeed waiting for me.

“Master Dervan, good day. I’m to escort you to the bard.”

“No need. I already know my way to the Siren’s Call.”

“He’s not there. He was moved to a safer location last night.”

That stopped me. “Safer location?”

“I don’t have many details, unfortunately, but I’m sure he can fill you in.” He pointed in the opposite direction we would have taken to the Siren’s Call. “This way if you’re ready.”

“Absolutely. Lead on.”

The benefit of living in a city blessed by the Fourth Kenning is that the streets and buildings are usually clean, disguising some of the markers of poverty one might normally see in other cities. One has to look at the size of the homes, then, the lack of decorative touches, the hollow cheekbones, the worn hems, and the baggage hanging under the tired eyes of the citizens to spy their struggle. It was into such a neighborhood that the mariner led me; some of them were no doubt longtime residents of Pelemyn, but others were refugees like Elynea’s family. Curious eyes followed our progress, and a few children asked for coins; I had nothing to give them, unfortunately.

Fintan was waiting for me, scowling, outside an inn of questionable structural integrity. Again, like all things in Pelemyn it was fairly clean, but the wood trim was rotting and in need of new paint at the least, if not replacement; I guessed that at one time it had been blue. The second floor appeared to sag somewhat in the middle to my eye, and I would not like to set foot in there without some advanced carpentry to repair it first. The shingle outside was also faded and in need of paint, perhaps fortuitously so. The chipped and weathered sign depicted a silhouette of a cloven-hoofed animal in a state of nearly supernatural arousal, which made more sense once I squinted at the faded words underneath until I could make out that we had arrived at the Randy Goat.

“Why am I at this festering sore of an inn?” Fintan demanded of me, dispensing with his usual greeting. He was accompanied by a pair of mariners, who stood at rest behind him.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” I said.

Fintan cursed and rounded on the mariners. “You told me all would be made clear once Master Dervan arrived.”

“Apologies, sir,” one of them said, a hulking lad who spoke softly. I think his arms might have been thicker than my thighs. “I should have said all will be made clear at your luncheon. A third party will join you.”

“Which third party?”

“Will you follow us, please,” the mariner said, ignoring Fintan’s question. Having little choice, we trailed after the mariners to one of Pelemyn’s celebrated luxury establishments along the docks called the Steam Spire Loose Leaf Emporium. It was in fact a series of small tearooms clinging to a central tower with two elevators inside controlled by steam-powered hydraulics, one for diners and one for service. Bell-pulls let the workers in the elevator room know where and when to take the elevators, the steam for which was generated by thermal vents on the ocean floor. Those who preferred the stairs could take them if they wished.

Each of the tearooms held only four tables, all windowed and suspended over the bay, affording beautiful views. Much of the city’s—or indeed the kingdom’s—expensive business got handled there. The menu offered the finest imported Fornish and Kaurian teas and delicacies as well as the best local seafood available. Usually there was a wait of an hour or more even with reservations. We were ushered immediately to the topmost room, the Kraken Tea Suite.

The pelenaut’s Lung, Föstyr du Bertrum, sat behind a round table covered with a white cloth, which appeared to have been composed for a still life painting with tea service, silver bowls of fruit, and miniature frosted tea cakes that I could not believe anyone still had the ingredients to make. Föstyr looked uncomfortable and almost afraid to touch anything. Or perhaps I was projecting my own feelings onto his face.

His bottom lip, jutting out like a pink precipice, stretched into a joyless smile at our entrance. “Masters Dervan and Fintan!” he boomed. “Come, join me. Can I pour you some tea? It’s the Sif Tel variety grown by the Red Horse Clan in the southeastern lowlands.”

Dazed, we both nodded to him, and he visibly brightened at the opportunity to serve us. Porcelain clinks and liquid sloshing noises filled the room as we took our seats, which were upholstered in the tanned hide of some unfortunate creature from the Nentian plains, no doubt. Three other tables occupied the room, but they were empty. The mariner escorts exited via the elevator so that it was just the three of us. The bay stretched out below, jewels of sunlight winking from the surface of a rippled ocean.

Föstyr set our tea before us, a rich golden brew, and exhorted us to enjoy it.

“You first,” Fintan said. The Lung grimaced but said nothing as he sampled the tea and something from each bowl as well as a bite of each cake. That task done, he spoke.

“An unfortunate necessity, for which I apologize.”

“What is going on?” Fintan asked. “Why was I whisked away to a sty like the Randy Goat with no explanation?”

Föstyr sighed and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin before answering. He deliberately placed his palms on the table and looked directly at the bard. “For your own safety. We received threats against your life and wished you to see the sunrise, so you were discreetly relocated and an impostor spent the night in your room.”

“And what happened to the impostor?”

“He lives, but only because he was expecting the visitor who tried to slit his throat as he slept.”

“No!” I exclaimed, but the other two men ignored me.

“Start at the beginning,” Fintan said, crossing his arms and pointedly not enjoying the repast laid out in front of him.

Föstyr looked as if he’d been asked to eat something repellent, but after a short pause he began. “Very well. About an hour after your tale yesterday we received an urgent visit from the Nentian ambassador, who said that the few Nentian nationals we have living in our fine city did not take kindly to your portrayal of either Melishev Lohmet or Abhinava Khose.”

“I assure you that my portrayal of Viceroy Lohmet was as kind and generous as I could make it.”

“I have no doubt. But the idea that one of their leaders might be a heartless shitsnake disturbed some of them greatly, and they decided they would rather not hear you speak of it anymore.”

“That comparison,” Fintan pointed out, “is somewhat disrespectful to shitsnakes. But the best way these citizens thought they could ensure that I never spoke of it again was to kill me?”

“You have a quick mind. They fear you will tarnish their good name in the city. The ambassador warned us that your life might be in danger, and they were very anxious to add that the Nentian government was not to be held responsible.”

“I fail to see what good name these Nentians might have if they’re the sort to hire assassins. You have no other details?”

“There was the suggestion that your portrayal of the viceroy either is an outright fabrication or that you somehow gained unauthorized access to his private documents, since there is no way he would share such sentiments with you freely.”

“It is true that he never asked me to read his diary, and it was in fact stolen from him, but not by me, and I only read it because I was bored. Anything else?”

“Nothing except complaints about the obvious anti-Nentian slant of your tale.”

“I don’t understand. How was the portrayal of Abhinava anything but positive? He’s thoughtful, properly respectful of his family—”

“The ambassador claimed that some small-minded Nentian citizens were not so accepting as the young man’s parents were about his sexuality.”

Fintan pressed his palms into his eyes and muttered, “Goddess give me patience!”

“They don’t serve patience here, but this tea really is quite lovely,” Föstyr said, picking up his cup and slurping from it. “You should try some before it gets too cold.”

The bard dropped his hands. “Well, if they objected to what little they’ve heard so far about the viceroy, they’re going to soil themselves over what’s to come.”

“I imagine they will,” Föstyr said, nodding agreeably. “So we must move you around, you see.”

“I’m not changing my tale to please them. That would betray my duty to the poet goddess.”

“You will note, Master Bard, that I did not even suggest it.”

“I’m not here to promote the agendas of any government—even mine. I’m here to tell this story, and it’s going to be uncomfortable for everyone because war is bloody uncomfortable.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? What happens to me when I present some of Brynlön’s closer allies in a less than favorable light? You have little to do with the Nentians, but what if I offend the Black Jaguar Clan in Forn or point out some embarrassing facts about Kauria? That might threaten your little tea party here. You’re already dependent on imports for food and other necessities with most of your economy wiped out. They could put pressure on you to silence me.”

“My government won’t hurt you.”

“But it might cease to protect me from others; is that it?”

Föstyr deliberately dabbed at the corners of his mouth before replying, perhaps to give himself time to think. “We are not so unworthy as you suggest. The pelenaut is invested in your tale, and so are the people. It’s all they talk about, and it’s frankly a relief, because they’re getting answers from you that we could never give them. They’ve stopped asking what we’re going to do next, and that’s giving us time to work instead of answer questions all day. We’re very grateful to you, Fintan; you are the finest of distractions.”

It occurred to me that we did not know for sure that any of this was real. We had no proof except the Lung’s word that the Nentians objected to his story or that an attempt was made on Fintan’s double last night—or even that they put a double in place. I was not about to bring it up, however. Instead I asked, “Am I still allowed to take him wherever I wish in the days ahead?”

“Yes,” the Lung replied, and reached for a tea cake that no one else seemed intent on eating. “It’s good that you visit the city and that Fintan talks about it, beneficial for everyone to hear that we still have a functioning civilization, however strained. We will, however, discreetly follow and provide some extra protection.”

“I’m already being followed everywhere,” Fintan said, his voice rising, “and you’re not very discreet about it.”

Föstyr appeared not to notice Fintan’s irritation and replied affably. “It’s for your own good. Can’t protect you if we don’t know where you are.”

“You could protect me better by simply housing me in the palace.”

“Please forgive us for that,” the Lung said. “We would not want to accidentally leave any private or sensitive documents in your view when you were bored. Can’t be too careful around someone with a perfect memory.”

Fintan’s face twisted in disgust as if he had smelled something foul while Föstyr favored him with a tiny smirk.

“I think I will have some of that cake,” I said, desperate to break the tension.

“Excellent,” Föstyr said, placing his hands flat on the table and pushing himself up. “I’ll leave you two to your work. You have the room to yourselves until it’s time to perform this afternoon. Farewell.”

“Thank you,” I said, and Fintan remained silent. He sulked for a while, and I let him. He could sit there with his arms crossed and listen to the clink of my fork on my plate if he wished. I set aside the dishes when I finished and moved myself to the next table, getting out my materials. When I had my ink pot uncorked and my quill ready, I looked up to see Fintan staring out at the ocean.

“It’s strange,” he said, his voice soft. “Looking out this window, you’d never think there was anything wrong with the world, that everything’s a blue-green paradise watched over by clouds. You’d forget that people are absolutely miserable starting ten lengths behind us and extending far inland.”

“I suspect that’s one reason this establishment is so popular.”

Fintan snorted. “Too true. When your only view is one of such peace and beauty, you can believe the happy lie that the rest of the world is just so. Well, my duty—our duty, I suppose—is to make sure people look through plenty of other windows. Let’s be about it.”

We climbed the steps up to the wall a bit earlier than usual, and the stands were not quite filled when Fintan hopped onto his makeshift stage. He employed his kenning and broadcast his voice across Survivor Field and the city. “Friends! My tale is going to be somewhat longer this afternoon, so I’ll be starting directly. It will be so long, in fact, that I worry about your health, sitting down for so long. So let’s get plenty of exercise now, shall we? Instead of singing today, I’ll be playing a Raelech instrumental guaranteed to get you dancing and lose a stone or so of weight in the process.”

He got everyone clapping—a magnificent sound to hear thousands of people clapping in unison—and then performed a scorching number on his hand harp while singing a wordless percussive beat that complemented the clapping.

At first I was too shy to dance myself because everyone could see me on top of the wall. But soon I realized no one cared and flailed about with everyone else, albeit with my upper body only; my knee wouldn’t take much else in the way of dancing. When the song ended and the bard called out for fifteen minutes’ rest until he began his tale, we were all sweating and out of breath and needed the break.

The bard hopped up onto the stage after taking a few long draughts of ale and said, “Let’s travel back to the west, where several decisions altered the course of our history, beginning with our hunter who no longer wished to hunt, Abhinava Khose.”

We finally found the kherns, and close behind them followed the moment when I had to inform my family that I wouldn’t be hunting with them. It was not merely unpleasant: it was the end of my world.

Uncle Navir spotted them coming. They were only a plume of dust above the plains at first, a small cloud on the horizon to the southeast, where the headwaters of the Khek River began their long journey to the ocean. It was the mark of their passage, earth and grass churned up by the pillars of their legs and thrown into the air by their tapered snouts. We were skirting an island of broad-trunked nughobe trees in the sea of grass because you never go into that darkness: you make the animals inside come out if they want to eat you, where you can see them before their teeth sink into your flesh. But we had circled around it from the north side and traversed its western border with not so much as a howl from a wheat dog. It was once we began to swing around to the south that my uncle shouted and pointed to the khern cloud in the distance. Father climbed up on top of our wagon and shielded his eyes from the sun, and when he was satisfied that he really was looking at a boil of kherns, he unpacked his smile and spread it out for us to see.

“Great Kalaad blesses us! It is a mighty boil at last! The Khose will get to be hunters after all!” My mother was driving the wagon, and he bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Move us away from the trees. We don’t want anything coming at us while we are busy with the kherns.”

And so the wart yaks were turned due south and goaded to increase their speed by a step or two, and my aunt and my cousins did a little dance in the grass while Uncle Navir for some reason thrust his hips repeatedly in the direction of the khern cloud. He stopped when his daughter asked him what he was doing.

My sister, Inasa, laughed at him and then turned to me. “Come on, Abhi. Let’s get ready.” I joined her at the back of the slow-moving wagon, but not to get ready for the hunt. My preparations looked similar but were intended for something much different. We had field bags for hunts like this when we would be away from the wagon for extended periods. Usually they were filled with twine and snares and implements for simple meals. I loaded up on the simple meals.

I packed many water skins, so many that Inasa said I would spend all my time draining my bladder and miss out on the hunt. I also carried a very small cooking pot filled with a bag of dry beans, along with a separate bag of root vegetables and a few onions, a box of salt, a blanket, and a firestone enchanted by a Hathrim sparker. She picked up her bow and quiver, but I left my spear alone. I had a hunting knife on my belt for defense; the spear would be useful against larger beasts should I be attacked by one, but it had become a symbol in my head and I didn’t want to touch it again.

When I left it behind, Inasa pointed it out. “You forgot your spear, Abhi!”

“No, I didn’t. I won’t need it.”

“We’re hunting kherns! Of course you’ll need it.”

“No. You will see. But thank you, Inasa. You are the best of all possible sisters. I love you.”

She flinched as if expecting an attack, and when none came and she saw I was being serious, she cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “What is wrong with you? What have you eaten recently?”

I grinned at her. “I love you regardless of what I eat.”

“Yeah, but you don’t usually say it.”

I sighed and said, “It’s a truth and a fault. One I’m trying to remedy. I should remind you more often.”

Inasa stared at me, her mouth hanging open, so rather than shock her any more I strode to the front of the wagon to remind my mother. She trailed after me, calling my name, while I called Mother’s.

But Father’s voice cut through both of ours, assuming it was an unimportant sibling squabble. “Everybody gather over here for your duties!” he yelled from the other side of the wagon, so I reversed course to jog around the back—it’s unwise to step in front of wart yaks. Inasa tried to grab me, but I dodged around her and continued on, joining Father and Uncle Navir and all my cousins to the right of the wagon, keeping pace with it so that Mother could hear.

“This looks good. It’s a big enough boil that we might get two, maybe even three. Two would give us a handsome profit, and three would be astounding riches. As always, we need to flank to either side and pick off the ones in the back. Navir, take your family around the near side, and I’ll go with Abhi and Inasa on the far side.”

“No,” I said.

“Shut up, Abhi,” Father said.

“I’m not going.”

My uncle told me to shut up next. “It’s not the time for jokes.”

“I’m not joking. I’m staying with the wagon.”

Everyone’s eyes traveled up and down my body, looking for injuries. “What’s wrong with you?” Father growled. “Stub your toe?”

“No, I simply don’t want to hunt anymore. I’ll stay and watch the wagon and protect the yaks. But I won’t seek out another creature’s death.”

My family physically recoiled from me as if I had announced I was diseased, and then their expressions hardened, taking their cue from Father. But he was the only one who spoke.

“Tell me you’re joking, son,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him.

“I’m not.”

“You’re a Khose. That means you’re a hunter. That’s it.”

“I think it’s time that Khose meant more than that.”

“Like what, Abhi?”

It was the question I’d dreaded and still didn’t have an answer for. “That’s what I plan to figure out.”

“There’s no need. I’ve figured it out for you. You either come with us and help this family of hunters prosper or you leave the family.”

Inasa gasped. I think my cousin Pandhi did, too. But it was no less than I expected. Father can be stark and uncompromising at times, and I assumed that this would be one of those times. And I also knew from experience that there would be no arguing with him. There was only submission or walking away.

“I want you to know that I love you all,” I said, looking around at the faces of my family. “But I will not hunt. And I can do both of those things: love you and hunt no more.” I returned my eyes to Father and finished, “If you will let me.”

Father’s lip curled in a sneer. “Contribute nothing but say you love us? Your actions don’t match your words. If you want to contribute nothing, then contribute it elsewhere. We will not support you.”

I nodded once, carefully keeping my emotions packed away in my field bag; I planned to open it later. “Farewell,” I said. “Good hunting.”

Pivoting on my heel, I faced north and began to jog toward the island of nughobe trees, the water skins heavy and sloshing around as I moved. Mother cried out in confusion, unable to believe what had just happened; Inasa called after me and took a few steps, but Father barked at her to let me go and her footsteps halted. Mother pleaded with him, Uncle Navir said something and so did my aunt, but he said they had a hunt to finish and they could worry about me later.

All of that went as expected, and painful as it was, I had prepared for it. I had prepared to walk all the way back to Khul Bashab by myself and start a new life in peace with other creatures and hope that one day, after they had some time to recover from the shock I had given them, my family would talk to me again.

But then the ground began to shake and thunder and the shouts of my family changed their tenor, and when I turned to look, the distant dust plume of the kherns was closer—too close—and the largest boil of them I have ever seen was not merely traveling but stampeding directly at our wagon. We had taken our eyes off them during my selfish drama and thus had little warning.

There could only be one reason why: something was pursuing the kherns from behind. The Khose were not the only hunters on the plains. Though in fact the hunt was off now; there is no stopping a khern stampede except the will of the kherns themselves. The only thing my family could do was run. It was the only thing I could do, too.

I turned ninety degrees and headed straight east, hoping to get out of the path of the kherns and let them pass me by. Outrunning them would be impossible.

There were dozens of the gray-skinned behemoths—perhaps more than a hundred beasts spread out and churning the earth, snorting and trumpeting and running full speed, heads lowered, their great black curved horns thrust forward and ready to ram anything, including our wagon and the wart yaks tied up to them.

Wart yaks stand six feet tall at the shoulder, and their horns are dangerous. But though they’re strong and sturdy, they’re not particularly fast. And they’re half as tall as a khern, less than half the weight, and far less than half as fast. I didn’t think they stood a chance of surviving the charge of the kherns. What chance, then, did my family have?

They ran to the sides, as I did, to try to beat the edge before it overwhelmed them. But they had been on the other side of the wagon—my uncle’s family ran in the opposite direction from me. But Mother jumped down to run in my direction, perhaps to warn me, because I saw her waving her arms over my shoulder as I ran. Father came after her, climbing over the wagon and doing his best to catch up, but they were far closer to the boil than I was. I saw the wart yaks begin to panic, saw the twelve-foot-high wall of horn and meat thunder closer, saw my mother open her mouth in a scream I never heard over the rumble of the kherns, saw her see me looking back at her as I ran, and she reached out to me, mouthing my name and something more as she realized she would never make it, my father behind her, shouting as well, and then my parents disappeared under the boil of kherns, the wart yaks were plowed under, the wagon splintered into pieces and got chewed up by the stampede, and it came for me, growing larger, quaking the earth beneath my feet. I hardly had breath to make noise, but I did, limbs pumping as fast as I could make them, my field bag flapping madly in my wake and tears leaking out of my eyes as I ran for my life. And I wasn’t alone: other creatures in the path of the boil were flying if they could or running to get out of the way—a stalk hawk, a covey of gharel hens, a saw-beaked owl taking wing in the daylight, plus rodents and serpents and lizards scrambling through the grass.

I cleared the edge of the boil by no more than a couple of lengths, the turbulence of the last khern’s passage knocking me off my feet. For a moment I expected to be trampled anyway, but the beasts kept going, and I struggled upright on shaky legs to get my bearings.

The boil was far broader than it was deep. It had flattened out in response to the pursuit of a sedge of grass pumas, perhaps ten of them anxious to make one of the kherns go down and then prevent it from ever gaining its feet again. Most of them stopped and converged on the wart yaks; that was the way they operated sometimes, never bringing down a khern but taking advantage of whatever the kherns brought down in their stampede. But of course the wart yaks weren’t the only victims. The grass was flattened where the kherns had passed, and so I could see them, broken and crushed and smeared on the plains because of me, when not five minutes ago I had told them that I loved them all—

I don’t think I ever made noises like I made right then. Whimpers at first and then a long, sustained cry of denial when I could catch breath enough to voice it. That cry drew attention, however. One of the pumas was having trouble getting its fair share of yak meat with all the others crowding around, and it looked up with interest while all the others were feeding. It decided I looked delicious and easy to catch and arrowed through the grass in my direction.

There was no outrunning it. It was coming specifically for me, and for a moment I thought, why not? Why not die with the rest of my family? Since I had been the one to distract them from the danger and take their eyes off the boil, should I not pay the same price in blood?

But then I supposed I didn’t want this sedge of pumas to be the end of all the Khose. They are not bright creatures, only savage and unafraid of anything. I have had more than one jump at me in the past and die on my spear. I missed my spear now.

I pulled out my hunting knife and shifted my field bag to the front, holding it up just below my chin with my left hand and gripping the knife with my right. The grass puma leapt at me, mouth open, going for my throat, and I raised the bag and fed it to him as he came, going down to the ground so that he would land on top of me. That was what he wanted and what I wanted, too. He tore into the bag instead of my throat, his teeth bursting through a water skin instead of my skin, and I stabbed him repeatedly with my knife as he got a mouthful of water and nothing else. I wasn’t trying to kill him, just make him decide to eat something else. After five or six stabs I must have hit something that really hurt. It jumped up and back from me, ripping the knife out of my hand and bounding away with it still lodged between its ribs. It left me alive but deeply scratched, weaponless and with a lot less water to drink when I was days away from home.

There was no going after it because it staggered back to the other grass pumas, making a noise between a wail and a roar. I was making similar sounds, but more from grief than from physical pain. The other pumas had enough to occupy them, so they ignored both me and my attacker. Still, I needed to get out of there; more predators and scavengers would be coming this way, following the scent of blood. I didn’t have a goal in mind except to live long enough to mourn them properly, to release them to the sky, and then, perhaps, Kalaad would take me or show me what to do next. The pumas wouldn’t go into the island of nughobes—even the kherns wouldn’t go in there. They were already swerving around to the west to avoid them.

The canopy held its own dangers for me but nothing as immediate as the pumas; soon there would be packs of scavenging wheat dogs and then a cloud of blackwings descending to pick over the bones. And once they had all gone, maybe then I could return and pay them the honor they deserved and beg their spirits for forgiveness.

I ran in an awkward crouch away from the pumas, half in staggering grief and half in hope that my back didn’t crest above the grass and give me away to any other predators nearby. My breath heaved raggedly out of my lungs and my eyes streamed and my nose, too, if I am honest, and I felt trickles of blood down my arms and sides from where the puma scratched me.

Nothing chased me into the canopy, and the temperature cooled noticeably as soon as I entered the shade. The broad trunks spread out with long, heavy branches that drooped all the way to the ground, allowing almost any creature to climb up into the trees with ease. The branches of the nughobes always hid more dangers than the ground, which was carpeted with the leaves of many seasons, which smothered almost all undergrowth aside from a few low-light ferns.

I didn’t stop once I made the border of the island but kept going inside; the truly dangerous creatures inhabited the periphery so that they could hunt in the plains or the interior. The fact that none of them had attacked our wagon didn’t mean they weren’t there; it simply meant they were more likely nocturnal.

I ran until I could run no more, when all I could hear was the rasp of my breath and the plodding of my tired feet, heavy with loss. I stopped in the middle of a triangle of trees, scanning the branches quickly to make sure I was not about to rest in the middle of a howler colony. I should have taken more care, but I was too exhausted to be careful.

Collapsing to the ground and folding my legs beneath me, I inspected the contents of my field bag, which had been ripped and chewed but not ruined by the puma. Two skins still had water in them; the rest had been punctured. That alone made my survival doubtful past a day or two. I didn’t know where to find fresh water between here and Khul Bashab. Unless I returned to the wagon and found more unbroken skins, surviving until the city was as likely as a kraken grazing on dry land. The jerky and all the beans remained, but with little water to cook the beans they were almost worthless. And even if I had water, without a weapon for defense my death was almost certain. The chances of crossing the plains without running into something with sharp teeth and an appetite were extremely small.

But the journal my aunt had given me remained along with my quills, and my ink pot was still intact because it was made of thick Hathrim glass.

I began writing what had happened while I was still breathing hard, sorrow springing fresh in my eyes. I will never forgive myself should I live to return to civilization. My family had died because of my selfishness.

The sun is sinking to the horizon, shadows darkening in the forest.

A flicker of movement in the trees. Is that—?

Kalaad’s judgment is upon me. I am in the middle of a nest of bloodcats, their fur camouflaged against the bark of the nughobes. They were asleep when I arrived, but now they stir and I can see them moving where I didn’t before. They will smell me soon if they haven’t already. They will certainly see me when I move. There is no escape; they are too fast and too many. They will hunt me down together, and I have nothing to keep them at bay.

So be it. It is only fair that I be food for them when I have made food of so many other creatures on the plains. It is natural, and it may even be justice.

Teldwen will prosper without me, I am sure. Farewell.

A cry of dismay rose on the wind when the bard returned to himself. “Don’t worry,” he reassured his audience. “That is not the end of Abhinava’s story. It is only the end for today. Meanwhile, near the Godsteeth, Gorin Mogen’s plans took shape while most of the rest of the world wondered if he was still alive.” When he took the seeming of the Hearthfire, more than doubling his size, the giant looked pleased with himself.

Shaping steel is all about the application of heat and pressure. Shaping the hearts and minds of a population is similar, except instead of the hammer and tongs, one uses words and gestures, and they generate their own heat and pressure. Before Mirana Mastik could sow any more discontent and get people thinking of sailing south, I gathered the survivors and told them to make themselves comfortable for the season at least.

“The ash continues to rain down from Mount Thayil and spread south to any place we might think to land to start afresh. If you were inclined to think of Thayil’s eruption as some kind of judgment or punishment—and I am not one of those—then the judgment will hang over Hathrir for the entire season. So we must remain here, sow and reap here, build here, and yes, even prosper here. We have no other choice. Very soon, there will be no patch of sky in Hathrir where the sun is not blotted out by ash. I have brought you to the best possible place to start anew. So let us begin!”

I gestured to Jerin. “My son, Jerin Mogen, will begin building a proper hearth for Thurik’s Flame under the supervision of La Mastik herself!”

Applause broke out for this, and I grinned. Let her complain now when the very first thing I commanded was to do honor to her god.

“And I will personally build our first smithy so that we may create the Hathrim glass and steel the world hungers for!”

More applause.

“There is employment for everyone here. Trees to be harvested. Land to be sown. Animals to be hunted. An entire city to be built! For though this is Nentian land and we are guests here, they will no doubt approve of our industry and be grateful to us for developing land they have long thought too wild to be tamed. And honestly, when the Nentians see the benefit of having quality glass and steel on their doorstep—in effect, becoming an exporter of it instead of an importer—why not let us remain here in this land of abundance, in harmony with them? Think of the new era of prosperity we will all enjoy—and again, what other choice do we realistically have? We could not choose when Mount Thayil erupted, but we can choose how to react to it, and I, for one, choose not to cower in defeat but to rebuild and prove, as La Mastik said, that the people of the First Kenning are first in civilization!”

No one had anything but shouts of approval for that sentiment, and La Mastik’s opening play was effectively neutralized for the moment. Once we had something built and the people felt they had something to fight for, it wouldn’t matter that I had spouted pure dragon shit about living in harmony with the Nentians.

Sefir would see to logistics as she always had, getting people to work; it was her particular genius, and she had done far more to make Harthrad an economic powerhouse than I had. She knew what needed to be done, and I provided her with a motivated labor force since my talents tended toward politics and persuasion.

Before Jerin and I got started on our construction projects, I took hounds up into the hills with him so that we could talk away from the eyes and ears of others. We gave them rein to pick up trails, and when they caught the scent of prey and lowered their heads and ears, asking permission to hunt, we grinned at the danger, gave the hounds a chuff of approval, and held on.

There are few rushes that can match riding upon such concentrated power and ferocity. Especially through a forest where the low-hanging branches threatened to knock us off our mounts or spear us—neither of us was wearing full armor, just the customary lava dragon hide. My hound cut too close to the trunks of a few old scaly pines, brushing my legs against them, scraping off chips of bark and bruising me through the leather. It was not long, perhaps only a minute, before our bone-jarring progress revealed the prey: a squalling herd of spotted khekalopes bolting from where they’d bedded down for the day, spraying panicked shit out of their asses as they ran before the oncoming teeth, and the hounds tore into the back of them, jaws snapping over necks, severing spines, taking out ten and letting the rest go. We called them to a halt, dismounted, and dragged the kills into three piles. Three khekalopes each for the hounds and four to take back to camp.

We unsheathed our blades and began to dress them, sawing through hides and scooping out entrails. A perfect time to talk—anything to take the mind off the squelching of intestines and the sloppy chop-licking and crunching noises the hounds made.

“So tell me how Olet is feeling,” I said. “I’ve not seen her since she first came to Harthrad.”

Jerin grunted and sniffed, which meant he was thinking about it. “Resentful, if I’m reading her right.”

“Of you?”

“Not necessarily me. Maybe. More resentful of you and her own father for putting her here, for depriving her of the chance to choose her own future.”

“That’s created a chill between you?”

“Oh, a mere chill would be nice. I think she arrived in Harthrad upon a glacier. And I don’t blame her. If she discovers that she likes me, then it will please both you and her father, and she’s not in the mood to please either of you.”

“I see. And how do you feel, son?” Silence. Or rather, not silence but the savage tearing of flesh and the splash of blood and no words. “You can tell me how you feel, Jerin. I must know the truth of things to make informed decisions.”

“I feel resentful as well, because you feel entitled to make these ‘informed decisions’ about my life and hers.”

“We’ve discussed this before. Your union will prevent us from going to war with Winthir Kanek. You’re saving lives.”

“Yes, we’ve discussed it before. Or at least you talked and I listened. All very noble, Father. But it doesn’t stop Olet and me from feeling like your playthings. It doesn’t stop me from feeling acutely embarrassed to be in her presence, knowing that she wouldn’t care to be breathing the same air as me if it weren’t for you.”

“All right, back up. How do you feel about her? Separate from me and her father?”

“How can they be separate? She is Olet Kanek, daughter of Winthir—”

“Forget who her father is and who your father is and just think about her for a moment. What do you think of her?”

Jerin sighed. “Her eyes possess a keen wit, and she carries herself like a well-trained fighter. That’s about all I know. She has not spoken to me beyond the most formal, distant responses. And I will not force my attentions on her when they’re not wanted—even if that’s conversation.”

“I think perhaps I see.” Sefir and I watched five of our children jump into the lava boil at Olenik, and only our youngest, our last hope to continue the Mogen line, climbed back out lavaborn. And we raised Jerin to believe that by forging his future as a Hearthfire he would forge a better future for many people. Winthir no doubt did the same with Olet. Little wonder that they chafed at these circumstances, in which they were unable to shape matters as they wished. “Your best hope is a slow kindling based on respect, which may, in time, flare into something more. Perhaps if you speak to her frankly, as you are doing now, you can acknowledge the awkwardness and control it because you name it. She may yet prove to be a blessing. But if it doesn’t work out and she is of the same mind, you may have my permission, at least, to be free of the commitment. Winthir Kanek may take insult from it, and we may fall to fighting, and should that happen I honestly do not know which of us will emerge the victor, but we can let that hammer fall when and where it will. You have jumped into fire for your mother and me. We would not condemn you to a life of unhappiness.”

The sounds of sawing flesh stopped, and I turned to look at Jerin, who had cocked his head, unsure if he’d heard correctly. Black-bearded and blue-eyed like me, he was already strong and still packing on muscle. Shorter than me by the width of a finger. Kinder than me by the width of an ocean yet still able to fight and sail well. His crew regularly stole from Winthir Kanek’s timber pirates based in Tharsif—or at least they used to. They’d have to stop that now, but at least there was no need for it anymore.

“That’s … unexpected. And appreciated.”

“It’s also deserved, son. I couldn’t ask for a finer boy.”

We bent to our work in silence for a while, savoring a moment of accord.

“The hammer’s going to fall here soon enough, Father. The Nentians, and I imagine even the Fornish, will object to us being here. Do you know if we can win that fight?”

“I have no doubt of it. It’s a fight the Mogens have been planning for a long time.”

“But you made it sound earlier like the Nentians will welcome us.”

“Yes. They will prove me wrong, and we’ll go to war. But the rest of what I said was absolutely true. There is not a place in Hathrir so fine as this. Should we try to start a new city in Hathrir, it would be under the cloud of Thayil’s ash, and should I decide to challenge another Hearthfire, I would win nothing better than what we have here. This will be a splendid city because we’ll make it so.”

Satisfied and packing the dressed kills on the hounds, we took our time returning, and I admired all the timber as we descended. My timber. It was a day of hope and fine promises, one of the best in memory.

Volund somehow snatched three Raelech stonecutters away from Hashan Khek and played it perfectly. They arrived at dawn the next day, we told them they were in Hathrir, and they were gullible enough to believe us. Landlocked as they were and wedded to the earth, they had no knowledge of the sea and took our word for it. They probably could not conceive that we would have stones big enough to lie about something like that. Or else they were blinded by the stones we offered in payment.

Sefir got two of them started right away on the outer walls she’d laid out with a wood frame for the foundation, the earth underneath it already salted. Volund had brought a shipment of quicklime with him, and a couple of men mixed and poured it ahead of the stonecutters, who lifted massive hunks of rock out of the earth with their kenning and shaped it into a solid wall. Once the living stone was set upon the lime, it was cut off from the earth and the stonecutters could no longer manipulate it except via direct touch, and they also could not undermine the salted earth below the wall. We’d never let them touch it after it was built; they’d have to walk through fire first. Judging by the rate they worked, we’d have our city walled up in ten days, possibly less.

Jerin directed the remaining stonecutter to fashion irrigation canals for the crops and sewers underground. We were also going to make sure we had a deep and protected well within the walls. While the Raelechs worked, I summoned Halsten and Volund to my hearth to discuss our next moves.

“What else did you bring from Hashan Khek besides the quicklime?” I asked Volund.

“Brewing supplies and smithing tools—the basis of all civilization.” He produced a bottle of grain alcohol and waggled it for us. “And I brought something to tide us over until we make our own.”

“What can you tell me about the city?” Volund’s mouth twitched in a sneer of disgust. He looked tired, or perhaps it was only his beard. Normally it was the most energetic part of him, brushed and shining with oil, but now it was dry and scraggly like summer wheat. He spat into my hearth, a summary judgment.

“Miserable from top to bottom. They live like shitsnakes.”

“Who’s the viceroy there now? Still Melishev Lohmet?”

“Yeah. Worst of the lot.”

“Well, he’s going to be curious about us now that you’ve stolen his stonecutters and put a halt to whatever he had them working on. How long do we have them?”

“As long as needed, Hearthfire. They were impressed with your gems.”

“Good. We need to restrict their access to others and warn everyone who does come in contact with them not to speak of this place as Ghurana Nent. Though I doubt it, they might quit as soon as they found out, and I don’t want to risk it. And we need to let fishermen and houndsmen and anyone else who might make contact on our borders know that they should call this a refugee camp instead of a city, at least in front of any outsiders. And you left a couple of men behind to plead our case to the viceroy?”

“Yes. They will have done so by now.”

“Excellent.” I turned to my master of hounds. “Halsten, have you got the patrols straightened out yet?”

“The plains patrols are settled and simple, Hearthfire. Still working on the wooded foothills. It’s difficult going in there for us since the trees grow too close together in some places. It will take time to weave in and out and scout a path.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the difficulty. Mark trees to be cleared and we’ll make that path a bit wider.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Volund, I’m putting you back on the boat—but don’t worry, I’ll let you sleep and oil your beard first.”

He gave me a weary grin. “My thanks, Hearthfire. Where am I going?”

“Down to Tharsif. Hearthfire Kanek needs to know his daughter survived the eruption and the wedding to my son will happen as scheduled, but it will be here. Issue him an invitation to our new city.”

“We’re going to tell him it’s a city and not a refugee camp?”

“Yes. It needs to sound like a destination and a trading center, not a collection of campfires. So you will tell Winthir Kanek I have a new city up here, a city with plenty of fuel, and he is welcome to send emigrants and traders if he wishes.”

“He’ll send you his dregs and criminals and a spy or two,” Halsten warned.

“I know. But they’ll be model citizens or we’ll give them a fresh grave.” I turned back to Volund. “You’re going down with a load of timber, and that should buy some things we need. I will give you a list before you go. Nothing like timber to establish that this is for real.”

Volund nodded. “And what name shall I give him for this city, Hearthfire?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. If we give it a Hathrim name, that will only make the Nentians bristle. Give it a Nentian name and that gives us some leverage with everybody, the veneer of legitimacy. You’re better with the Nentian tongue, Halsten. How would you say ‘Giant Plains’ in their language?”

“Uh.” He scrunched up his face. “I think you’d say ‘Baghra Khek.’ ”

“That is fantastically ugly. I love it. Volund, tell Winthir Kanek that the Hearthfire of Harthrad is now the Hearthfire of Baghra Khek and would like to resume trade as before, except now with timber.”

“It’s a fine, hideous name,” Halsten said, rising to his feet and extending his right fist. He poured the remainder of his drink over it and then sparked it up. “Shall we light a tower and write it in fire?”

“Aye!” Volund said, springing up and setting his clenched fist on top of Halsten’s. I added mine on top of theirs, and on the count of three, we opened our fists just enough to create a sort of chimney out of our stacked hands, allowing air and a gout of fire out of the top. As it spiraled orange over our heads, fanned and shaped by our combined powers, the city of campfires saw its name spelled out in the flames.

Presumptuous of us, perhaps, but ideas and names are at times far more important than substance. A collection of buildings cannot inspire people to action, but the ideas behind them, the associations with their names—those can be so powerful that people will fight to the death for them. That was exactly the power I needed.

“Meanwhile,” Fintan said, briefly returning to himself before taking on another seeming, “Nel Kit ben Sah was crossing the Godsteeth to deprive the Hearthfire of that power.”

During our journey to Ghurana Nent, Tip and Pak predictably trailed complaints behind them like thorny vines:

“Why don’t we use the Leaf Road as long as we can?”

“Why do these horses smell so bad?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because you need to get used to riding a horse before we find the Hathrim. Because horses don’t bathe in perfumed oils like you. And because you are rotten fruit.

I didn’t say any of that aloud, of course, but I certainly thought it, and I know I wasn’t the only one thinking along those branches. I traded a look with Kam, and we rolled our eyes at their ridiculous whining. We ignored them most of the time, but when Pak Sey ben Kor directly addressed me, demanding to know why we must operate in such foul conditions, I carefully composed my features and answered him in bright tones: “I see no foul conditions, good benman,” I said, using the formal term for the blessed. “Why, I see only sun and a chance to serve the Canopy. You and I and benman Tip have been blessed by the First Tree, and I’m delighted to suffer any hardship in return, especially one so small as riding a horse up a steep mountain. Do you not feel the same?”

Yar and Pen chortled, and Kam smiled broadly. “I’m equally delighted,” he said, “and I’m not even blessed. It’s a beautiful day in Forn.”

Pak scowled and was about to reply when his horse sneezed for perhaps the tenth time since he had climbed on her back.

“I worry about the good benman’s horse, Kam,” I said. “Does she normally sneeze so often?”

“No, but she seems fine otherwise.”

Yar saw where we were heading and chimed in. “I do not think she is used to smelling such concentrated florals. What’s that delightful perfume you’re wearing, ben Kor?”

“It’s … never mind.”

The complaints from Pak and Tip stopped after that, and I felt good about handling it without descending to their level of nastiness. The White Gossamers believed that one could be both strong and gentle, and I had forgotten the latter in my time away from home. It was good to be with my clansmen again.

We had a party of eight all told and ten net launchers. Pak and Tip refused to carry them as I assumed they would, but Kam and I carried two each.

Two members of the party were new acquaintances. Both were clansmen, but I had never met them before. They were younger, and their eyes shone as they took in my sleeves and Pen’s upon our meeting that morning.

“We have two greensleeves again!” one said.

“What do you mean, ‘again’? We have three now.”

Kam cleared his throat. “Mat Som ben Sah returned to the roots last week, Nel.”

“Oh!” My hand flew to my mouth. “I had not heard. I’m sorry, Kam.” Mat had been his grandfather. I hadn’t known my great-uncle all that well, but he had been kind to me on the few occasions we’d met—especially once I was blessed with my sleeves—and I’d been looking forward to seeing him again. I supposed he must have been much older than I realized. Everything does indeed have its own season.

“No, I’m sorry. I thought you already knew,” he said.

“We can remember him later,” I assured him, since there were introductions to be made.

The two clansmen were young men who had no plans to seek a kenning. One was fascinated by the sea and wished to be a trader, forsaking the Canopy for extended periods. The other wished to be a mushroom farmer and couldn’t tear his eyes away from the specimens growing on my legs.

So we were an odd bouquet of people leaving the Canopy and crossing over the westernmost pass of the Godsteeth in search of giants. The air became stark and cold, and I felt as if I were walking through emptiness even though there were still plants and peaks around me. I saw that Pak and Tip felt uncomfortable, too—they felt the change as I did, felt vulnerable outside the Canopy—while the others smiled in the abundance of sunshine.

There was a stretch of barren ground in the saddle of the mountains where our horses’ hooves clattered over dark shale and the sound echoed back to us, hollow and haunting. Only in a few crevices where some soil had accumulated did we see thin tongues of grasses; lichens on the rocks were the only other greenery. When we began to descend on the other side, we saw trees again, but they were softwoods like pine and juniper with evergreen needles rather than leaves. The horses trod on a carpet of needles as we picked our way down, and the smell was invigorating if lacking in complexity.

Sparse at first, the trees grew denser as we descended, and I felt less exposed. In some places our horses barely fit between the trunks, for this forest had never been touched so far as I could tell. Birds and squirrels cried out their alarms at our trespass. Some hours later, as afternoon crept by and shadows lengthened, the trees thinned out and the land flattened until we suddenly emerged from the forest and there was nothing ahead but grass to the horizon, not a single tree to be seen.

“Horrifying,” Pak Sey ben Kor declared. I don’t know if I would have gone quite so far, but it wasn’t pleasant.

“Ugh,” was all Tip Fet ben Lot had to say. It was fortunate that they were not our ambassadors to Ghurana Nent.

“Well, I see no Hathrim,” Pak said. “Or anything else. We’ve wasted enough time on this foolishness. Let’s return.”

“We haven’t searched the coast yet, benman,” I said. “We need to head west and perhaps travel some distance up the shore before I’ll be satisfied that the Hathrim do not threaten our borders. Like you, I don’t want to find them. But if Gorin Mogen does threaten the Canopy, it’s our duty as greensleeves to discover that threat before the first axe swings in our direction.”

The Black Jaguar’s eyes seethed with hatred, and his mouth twisted in a snarl. He didn’t like to be publicly schooled on his duty as a greensleeve, but I had said it more for young Pen’s benefit than to shame him. I turned my horse west and urged it to pick up the pace somewhat. We rode two abreast so that we wouldn’t be vulnerable to isolated attacks from plains creatures, and we skirted the tree line so that our left sides were less vulnerable; we’d be able to see anything approaching on that side before it leapt on us because the needles choked out most of the undergrowth. The grasses on our right could hide any number of dangers.

We managed an easy trot into the sun, a pace that ate up the unfamiliar ground but didn’t strain the horses. It jarred our bones, but I had no problem enduring that if it would get us our answer more quickly. Pak Sey ben Kor pointedly brought up the rear, refusing to ride anywhere near me. That was fine; he could mutter curses to himself if he wished.

Tip Fet ben Lot rode next to me, a smirk on his face about which I carefully did not ask him. Eventually he could not keep his amusement to himself. “You haven’t made a friend with Pak Sey ben Kor,” he said.

“He was never going to be my friend. The Black Jaguars hate the White Gossamers, and that is all he cares about.”

“Is not the reverse also true?”

“We are aware of the Black Jaguars’ feelings, but we have the Canopy to serve, and that is what the White Gossamers care about. I for one would welcome reconciliation with the Black Jaguars, but that appears beyond my powers.”

“Perhaps my clan could help.” The plain disbelief on my face caused him to add, “I’m being serious.”

“If the Blue Moths wish to broker a peace between our clans so that the Canopy may thrive, that would be fine. But if you have in mind some scheme where the White Gossamers would be indebted to the Blue Moths for services rendered, then I will respectfully pass.”

Tip snorted. “Don’t be so naïve. Favors are currency in politics.”

“No, I’m not naïve. I understand the game you’re playing, ben Lot. I just refuse to play it.”

“You’d rather let your clan languish in obscurity, then, when you were once so bold?”

“That wasn’t me. My elders strayed out too far on the wrong branch; it broke, and they fell. I’m a bit more cautious. Canopy first, clan second, and myself third.” I didn’t mean to chide him with the oldest moral maxim of our people—I’d recited it as my guiding principle, not as an indictment of his behavior—but I supposed he took it as a personal insult. Perhaps he had been putting the Canopy third and that was why he huffed and reined in his horse, dropping back a rank or two and urging Yar Tup Min to join me at the front.

My cousin grinned knowingly and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tease me. “It’s a good thing you don’t have political ambitions, Nel,” he said, “because you’re making friends about as fast as furry swamp fungus.”

I was about to retort when movement ahead caught my eye. Far ahead—straight ahead—a grand moss pine that was only a splinter in the distance toppled over into the plains, silhouetted against the sun, a silent death drowned out by the sound of our horses. I couldn’t see what caused it, but I could guess. I signaled to everyone behind that we needed to halt, and once we did, the other greensleeves asked why. I turned my ride around, as did Yar, to face the others.

“I saw a tree fall ahead. Maybe it was natural. But it’s more likely the Hathrim cut it down.”

Pak Sey ben Kor sneered and said, “A fallen tree that no one else saw is not proof the Hathrim are here.”

“I know that. We’re going to take a closer look. But we’re going slower, and I recommend getting weapons ready.” I pulled out one of my two net launchers and hefted it in my right hand before guiding my horse west once more, forestalling any more debate. I let the horse walk at its own pace instead of trot and heard the others follow. The land ahead was not entirely flat; it had waves to it, the trailing roots of the Godsteeth causing gentle rolls of land and hiding the ocean from our view.

We couldn’t see anything for a while as we negotiated a small valley in the foothills, but when we crested the next hill, we had a beautiful view of the ocean and all the Hathrim glass boats flashing in the sun. We lined up, taking it in, and saw what could only be called a settlement. Walls were rising out of the grass, visibly growing as we watched, which indicated that they must have Raelech stonecutters working for them. A large swath of ground appeared to have been plowed and planted, soon to be irrigated with water diverted from a stream into a canal that another stonecutter was shaping as we watched. I saw him, a tiny ant of a man at this distance, with the equivalent of a swollen grub beetle looming over him. Seeing a Hathrim next to someone of normal stature is always sobering.

“Are you all seeing this?” I said. “That’s an entire population of Hathrim on our border building walls in front of us. Cutting down these beautiful old moss pines and occupying land that belongs to the people of Ghurana Nent.”

“I sure see it,” Yar growled.

“I do, too,” Pen said, and then Kam echoed her.

“I see it,” Tip Fet ben Lot said, “but I can scarcely believe it. This is illegal. I mean it goes far beyond a timber raid. It could be called an invasion.”

“Invasion?” Pak Sey ben Kor sounded incredulous. “I hardly see an army there. I agree the Hathrim shouldn’t be cutting down trees or occupying the land without permission, but it looks like a peaceful settlement. It’s not a martial force, and the Raelechs are there helping them.”

“I think you’ve delved to the roots, ben Kor,” I said, privately noting that since the Hathrim existence was now indisputable, he had immediately thought of how to cast them as harmless. Later he would insinuate that I was worrying about nothing. I needed to get at least Tip Fet ben Lot to agree that such a group on our border was dangerous. “How will we report this to the Canopy? An invasion or an illegal occupation?”

“I think those are both inflammatory characterizations, ben Sah,” he said.

“What would you say, then? Surely this is more than a family camping trip.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Can you think of any legal reason for a force this size to be here?”

He didn’t answer the legal question but focused instead on my word choice. “I think calling it a force is stretching the meaning of the word.”

“Pick your own noun for that very large number of Hathrim, then, and tell me if you think they have legal standing to be building walls and canals and what looks like docks in Ghurana Nent. Have you or ben Lot perhaps heard through diplomatic channels that the Nentian king has authorized the Hathrim to build a new city here?”

“No, I haven’t,” Pak said. Tip shook his head to indicate he had heard nothing either, and Pak continued. “If they are here illegally, the Black Jaguars shall certainly support action against them.”

“So you believe there might be legal justification for their presence?”

“I’m not saying either way, ben Sah. I’m saying we have no grounds for pursuing punitive action until we know more.”

“Let’s review what we do know,” I said, “just to make sure we’re all agreed on the facts. I saw fires on the ocean pass by my post the night after Mount Thayil erupted. They were headed north. Here, to the north of my post, we find a very large group of Hathrim and a fleet of glass boats docked on the coast of Ghurana Nent. We know that Harthrad had a fleet of glass boats for many years. We are therefore most likely looking at the survivors of Mount Thayil’s eruption. Yes?”

“Most likely,” Tip Fet ben Lot said.

My clansmen agreed, and ben Kor grudgingly said, “Agreed that it is most likely, but by no means certain.”

“I would agree that confirmation is necessary, ben Kor. But should this prove to be the citizens of Harthrad, there can be no justification for them landing here. They should have sailed to one of the other Hathrim isles or else to the main continent of Hathrir. Unless they negotiated a secret treaty with Ghurana Nent that we don’t know about that gave them permission to land here, this is a breach of Nentian borders. An invasion, in other words. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Burrs and weeds!” he exploded. “You can’t throw around words like invasion so casually! It’s that kind of talk that starts wars!”

“It should start vigorous diplomacy first,” I said. “And I think this situation requires plenty of vigor. We don’t want a population of lavaborn with this much fuel for fire so close to the Canopy.”

“No. No, we don’t,” Tip Fet ben Lot said, and I was glad that he at least appeared to be thinking of the Canopy first now. He’d support my view of things in the sway should it come to that.

“Let’s just confirm who these Hathrim are and what they want before we start assigning them motives from a distance,” ben Kor said. “That’s all I ask.”

“Uh, I think we’ve been spotted,” Pen said, her finger pointing ahead of us and to the left. We’d all been looking down to the right, where the settlement was, and therefore hadn’t seen the movement.

Three houndsmen emerged from the trees perhaps a hundred lengths away, fully armored and wielding the long-handled axes that they liked to swing down at the tiny heads of people like us.

For a few seconds, all was still. The houndsmen halted when they spied our party, and the horses froze as if they hoped the hounds wouldn’t see them. It was the first time I had seen the Hathrim hounds in person, and they were nothing short of terrifying. A cold shudder shook my limbs, and my jaw dropped. Such monsters should not walk in the world. I had seen kherns once, great horned beasts twelve feet tall at the shoulder and deadly on the run but ultimately herbivores and not interested in attacking other creatures. These hounds were nearly as large—and they would have to be to support the giants on their backs. They were saddled and harnessed like our horses but also armored in the front to deflect arrows in a head-on charge. Their coats were largely gray and short, dotted with patches of white and black, and their mad eyes were yellow. When their lips drew back and they snarled, their teeth appeared to be larger than my head. The horses shied, Kam’s reared and whinnied in fear, and the hounds each barked once in concert. That was my first clue that it was not to be a diplomatic meeting.

“Straight up the hill, into the trees!” I shouted. “Go!” The party turned their horses and goaded them, a hardly necessary encouragement, but I held on to mine for another couple of seconds, waiting to see what the houndsmen would do—they had reins as well. Seeing that we were only eight Fornish people on horses and no threat to their encampment, they could hold back if they wished. They could raise an empty hand and talk. Or, if they saw that we were only eight small people and would rather we disappeared, they could order an attack.

I don’t speak the Hathrim tongue, but when they shouted, kicked the sides of their hounds, and raised their axes high, it wasn’t for parley. They sprang forward, and I turned my horse uphill and told her to go, wondering if I would ever see another sunrise.

Kam’s horse was the farthest uphill, he being the one who had spooked first, and close behind him were Pen, the boy who wanted to be a mushroom farmer, and Pak Sey ben Kor. The hounds would have to go through us first to get to them—more specifically, me. But Tip Fet ben Lot and Yar Tup Min were only slightly ahead, and in front of them ran the would-be sea trader.

Within seconds it became clear that the hounds were faster than our horses. There would be no outrunning them, and Tip Fet ben Lot saw this as soon as I did. Awkward as it was, he had just enough of an angle to twist around and fire off a shot with his bow. And he actually hit the lead hound on the run, one that was bearing down on me, which I found a remarkable feat of marksmanship. But the shaft glanced off the armor between the eyes, causing the hound to flinch and then focus on Tip instead, shifting its angle of pursuit slightly to close on his horse.

I heard their snarling between the hoofbeats of the horses, felt their hunger and my fear, and knew that if we simply ran, they would take us down one by one. And being rearmost though only slightly behind ben Lot, I would be first to fall.

When the lead hound was almost within lunging distance of ben Lot, I twisted in my saddle and shot the net launcher at it. The gossamer net, crafted of spider silk harvested and spun by my clan, was nearly unbreakable by blunt force. It was made to ensnare smaller animals, but it spread out and the hound ran directly into it, tangling his legs and falling face forward to the ground. That launched the giant on its back through the air directly at ben Lot’s back, and he sheared the Blue Moth in half with his huge axe before crashing to the ground himself in an awkward clatter of armor. The horse sprinted onward, uncaring that its rider was now only legs and intestines and listing in the saddle to the left. I shucked my second net launcher out of its sling, turned in the saddle, and fired it at the next closest hound coming after me. Its front legs tangled and froze as if rooted, and its momentum, suddenly halted, was such that its rear end flipped over, tossing its rider to the earth before landing on him, audibly snapping bones, though I could not tell if it was the hound’s bones or the giant’s or both.

While I was focused on him, the third hound passed me by, and I faced forward just in time to witness Yar Tup Min and his horse snatched up into the jaws of the hound and tossed into the air, blood spraying from their bodies and already dead before they crunched to the ground. The houndsman swept his axe at the would-be sea trader and took off his head, then the hound snapped at his horse and killed it, too.

“Use your nets!” I shouted. Pak Sey ben Kor didn’t have one, but Pen and the mushroom enthusiast did. They pulled out their launchers, turned, and fired at the final houndsman as their horses struggled uphill. The young clansman’s shot sailed high, but Pen’s net settled around the hound’s head, and it tossed about, trying to shake it off. Its legs remained unbound, and if given enough time it would win free, especially with its rider’s help, and resume the chase.

“Kam! Your nets!”

My cousin wrestled his horse from a full panicked gallop to a canter, then turned it around and whipped a launcher from its sling. The houndsman was trying to free his hound from the net, but the creature thrashed around so much that he couldn’t get a grip on it. I slowed my horse, coming up behind him, and brought up my own bow to bear, pulling an arrow out of my quiver. My shot, though carefully aimed, missed the houndsman because of a last-second lunge by his hound. I’d do better to aim for the beast.

Kam had two launchers, like me. He shot his first net at the houndsman, which prevented him from swinging his axe, and then he drew closer, pulled out his second launcher, and aimed for the hound’s front legs. Once it was tangled up and it went down, both it and its rider howling in frustration, ben Kor and I poured arrows into its vulnerable side and into the houndsman until their struggles ended. The other two houndsmen had died along with their mounts, the force of their collisions with the earth snapping their necks or something else vital. Large beasts moving that fast weren’t meant to stop that suddenly.

Tip and Yar and the trader boy whose name I am ashamed to admit I could not recall were all dead. I wanted to sing the songs and give them back to the roots but knew we wouldn’t have time to do it properly. Our clash surely had been heard by others, and they would be coming soon, or else they would when the patrol did not report in. Pen’s chest was heaving and tears streamed down her face as she saw Yar and his horse lying downhill. I felt the pricking of tears in the corners of my eyes, too, but they would have to wait.

“We have to keep going,” I said. “The Canopy must know as soon as possible that the Hathrim have a military presence here.”

“What?” ben Kor said. “What about our people?”

“We have to leave them. We still have a mountain to climb and can’t be sure we’ll make it without a significant lead—you saw how fast they moved. If we don’t make it back, then that gives the Hathrim more time to dig in, more time to plot an invasion of our shores.”

“We can’t simply leave!” Pak protested. “Tip was my friend!”

“And Yar was my clansman!” I yelled at him, refraining from pointing out that he had not fought at all to save the friend he cared so much about now. “And Pen’s brother! But it’s Canopy first, benman; you know that! We have to get back to Forn and let them all know through root and stem that we have been attacked by houndsmen, and what’s more, there’s a whole host of Hathrim just a few hours away from our border. Imagine the damage a few firelords could do to the northern hardwoods before we’d have time to muster a response.”

He spluttered, “They would never attack us.”

“I’m sure you thought they would never settle north of the Godsteeth either. And now they have this incident that they can use as an excuse to retaliate. Because of course they won’t say that they attacked us; they’re going to say we attacked them! What if this isn’t just Gorin Mogen, ben Kor? What if this is a plot among all the Hearthfires to wrest the Fifth Kenning from us to fuel the First?” Both Pen and Kam gasped at the thought. It was an ancient fear among us all. The Black Jaguar squinted at me. “You’re saying this was planned?”

“Yes.” It galled me to have to fertilize his ego, but prudence dictated that it was the only way to get the harvest I wanted. “You’re good at this kind of thinking. What would the plan be?”

His eyes fell to the back of his horse’s neck as he thought about it. “Wait for Thayil to erupt and move to Ghurana Nent as refugees, harass our northern border and draw our forces there, and then the rest of the Hearthfires strike massively in the south.”

“Or some variation on that theme, yes! Our strategists can run scenarios and plan countermeasures. But only if they know about it, right? So we have to go.”

“All right,” he said, all his anger gone as he nodded. “We will go and report together. But if we can risk the time and bring the fallen back to their roots,” he said, jerking his chin downhill, “it would not only be proper but galvanizing for the Canopy. You see that, yes?”

Fine. A compromise. He would argue away any time I thought we’d save—he already had. It was a terrible risk, but he was right about the effect it would have: Tip’s death would motivate the Blue Moths for sure. Since we were outside Forn and leadership consisted of we two, no silverbark except that which grew on our limbs, I extended my left arm, moss up, simulating the sway. “I see and agree. Accord?”

He paused, looking down with surprise at the offer to proceed as suggested. He was used to arguing for days before achieving anything in the sway. But perhaps, like me, he was realizing that we would no longer have the luxury of days to argue. He touched his right arm to mine. “Accord.”

“You get ben Lot, I’ll get my cousin, and Kam, will you get our clansman? Quickly.”

“I should help,” Pen said, her voice rough and filtered through a sob as she took in the body of her brother.

“No, we need your eyes and ears for approaching Hathrim,” I said. I dreaded every second of returning downhill, knowing that if any other houndsmen appeared, we’d be every bit as dead as Yar Tup Min and the others. Net launchers only had the single shot, and I had no arrows left.

I had plenty of tears for Yar, though, like Pen, and a forest of regrets that I hadn’t saved him. If I had said something to the Hathrim, would that have stopped them? Not sure what good it would have done unless they spoke Fornish. I didn’t speak their language.

Getting him on the horse was not all that difficult, but lashing him so that he wouldn’t fall off took more time than I thought we could afford. My horse snorted in outrage at the extra burden, but she wanted to leave the scene as much as I did, and soon enough we were clambering uphill again with no signs of obvious pursuit. Pak was able to recover only the top half of Tip because the dead man’s horse was still running uphill with his lower half bouncing in the saddle.

We spoke little on the trek back to Forn, our voices failing along with the light. The horses picked their way through the needles and rocks with little guidance from us, and it wasn’t until we were nearly at the pass again that we heard them coming.

It was a single bark in the darkness, followed by another, that alerted us that we were followed.

“Go!” I shouted. “Quickly as you can!” We spurred our horses onward, but they were already tired; their breath sprayed wetly out of their nostrils, and they managed only a labored trot, whereas Pen’s horse, not burdened down, leapt into a full gallop. Good. Perhaps she would make it if we did not. At first I felt like I might be able to run faster than the horses, but they soon realized what those barks behind us meant and sped up. After a few minutes of panicked flight, we crested onto the bare shale of the pass, and had we sufficient light to see it, the Canopy would have been there, welcoming us. Pen and the surviving clansman were far ahead, perhaps already safe; it was only Kam, ben Kor, and myself who lagged behind.

The barks were closer now, though; the houndsmen were gaining much too fast, and I doubted we would make it. But perhaps this close to the Canopy I could do something about slowing them down. Except I would have to dismount to do anything; the vegetation could hardly help me if I was floating above the earth on a horse’s back. The others didn’t even see me rein in and hop off my horse since I was the rear guard. Time to make that duty mean something.

Slapping the horse on the flank to send it and Yar’s body after the others, I ran alongside it for a short distance until it outpaced me. I kept churning after it, starlight and sound guiding me, hoping that soon I would find a patch of ground that wasn’t solid stone, a layer of topsoil through which I could call on the powers of my kenning.

The clatter of the horses’ hooves on the shale kept me from hearing anything of the hounds beyond their barking; I couldn’t tell how close behind us they actually were. But then the sound of the hooves changed as they hit the high mountain turf, and I knew that the soil I needed wasn’t far ahead. The collected thumping of their gait matched the hammering of my heart, and I took big heaving gulps of air to give myself as much energy as possible, straining against muscles that had tightened up after hours on horseback.

Reaching into my vest for a sealed inner pocket, I remember thinking years ago that I’d never have occasion to use the dormant seed waiting there inside a slim wooden box. It was given to me by Mat Som ben Sah once I’d adapted to my silverbark; every greensleeve got them from an elder of his or her clan. I remember feeling awed at its appearance as he placed it in my palm; even as a seed, the carnivorous bantil plant looks hungry and vicious, having a scalloped red hook and thorn to it. Animals that were too strong for the vines to take down took seeds with them, snared into their fur or flesh, and soon the seeds burrowed in and bloomed, consuming the animal from within and taking root in the soil where it died and then consuming any scavengers that came to feast on the corpse. It grew very quickly that way, converting blood and tissue into its own and growing more thorny vines tipped with toothy blooms that were really mouths.

“Plant it shallow, Nel,” Mat told me, words issuing from behind the impenetrable thicket of his gray beard. “Cut a finger and give it a single drop to get it started. More if you need it to grow big quickly.”

I would definitely need it to grow big quickly, and I would have to channel a huge amount of energy from the Canopy to do it. It would cost me a year or so of my life to accelerate the bantil’s growth to the extent that it would even stand a chance of stopping the houndsmen. But if it would save Pen and the others and guarantee alerting the Canopy before Gorin Mogen’s plan could take root? That would be worth it.

The jarring shock of stone ended, and spongy loam cushioned my feet. It was an island of soil in the rock, or more like a pool, blown into a water-carved depression and then rooted there by lichens and eventually grasses, and I could feel that it connected to the soil of the Canopy. I remembered seeing these areas trace up the hillside from Forn, hollows of vegetation streaming between ridges of shale.

The horses’ hooves faded in and out like the staccato barks of treetop apes, sometimes falling on stone and sometimes on turf. They were getting close to the Canopy. But the houndsmen were gaining. The barks were louder, and I heard massive claws scrabbling on the rock and the clanking of armor. Was I already too late?

Whipping the box out of my vest, I spun in the turf and knelt, poked a small depression with my finger, and upended the box over it, careful lest the hook of the seed get caught on my own flesh. I tossed the box away and pulled out my knife, slicing the tip of my left middle finger and holding it over the seed. Six drops and I pulled away, getting to my feet and stepping backward as the seed exploded into ravenous life, a small feral red mouth springing up a couple of fingerlengths even as roots shot into the earth. Hungry, the bloom of teeth searched for more blood, more meat, but that was not how the bantil plant would grow now. It would be fed from the Canopy itself at my direction.

Silverbark shoots dipped down from my legs and sank into the earth as I walked, picking up again before they tore as my movement demanded, pale tendrils that moved like the spokes of a wheel, communicated to the Canopy, requested energy, received it, and delivered it again to the roots of the bantil plant.

Mat Som ben Sah had told me what it was supposed to feel like, and he had been told by his elders, and they by theirs, because no greensleeve of the White Gossamer Clan had done this for generations. But the lore was clear: “If you’re directing the energy properly, you will feel as if you’re burning from the inside,” he told me.

He was right, but it wasn’t burning like the Hathrim burn or like any fire I have known. It was the day’s sunlight channeled through my core, and although I did heat up and break into a sweat, it was not painful but enervating, as if I had not eaten for days—a strange sensation to feel such exhaustion when I was funneling weeks of growth through my cells.

Yes, it was weeks, for the bantil plant grew eight, perhaps nine feet high, a seething mass of thick, murderous vines, and its mouths faced north naturally, for it could sense the oncoming meat of the houndsmen, a far greater meal than I could ever provide; it would never eat me anyway since I enjoyed the protection of the Fifth Kenning. Seed hooks flashed in the starlight as vines snaked along the ground, hoping to snare a passing animal. They would have their greatest hopes realized soon enough.

Hounds do not track plants. They track animals like me, focus on their prey, and never think about vegetation as being dangerous or edible. So even if they smelled the bantil plant growing in front of them, they had no reason to be wary. And at the speed they were climbing over that saddle in the mountains, the houndsmen wouldn’t see it in time. But maybe they would hear ben Kor shouting from behind me, no doubt already safe under the leaves of the Canopy: “Ben Sah! What are you doing?”

Four mounted houndsmen bounded over the pass into Forn, and unable to see well, one of them ran directly into the bantil and went down howling in a tangle of snapping vines, its rider soon enough adding his screams to the hound’s as the blooms fed on them both. The other three passed by but brushed against the trailing seed vines.

I broke my connection with the Canopy, withdrew the silverbark roots into my legs, and staggered as the energy left my body. One of the hounds either saw or smelled me and pivoted to charge, allowed to seek a target by his rider. I knew I wouldn’t be able to dodge, much less fight such a beast on foot with only my hunting knife. I was too tired even to try. All I could do was collapse, and I did, the hot breath of the hound blowing my hair and its stench filling my lungs as it snapped its jaws above me, missing by inches as its trunklike legs passed me on either side.

The houndsman yanked his ride around to try again, and I thought perhaps I could manage a feeble roll, but I doubted it. The two other houndsmen were circling about, taking in their dying counterpart and realizing that I probably had something to do with the bantil plant.

A couple of steps more from each, and then their hounds yelped in unison. One sat to chew on one of its feet, and the other two spun in a circle at some irritation, bewildering their riders. I knew precisely what the irritation was: bantil seeds burrowing into their flesh and eating them. Only one of the giants had the sense to dismount and get clear. The others tried to hang on and get control of their hounds, but that didn’t work out well for them. The hounds flopped onto their sides, desperate to get at their feet, and that trapped their riders underneath them. The bantil seeds were young plants now, growing and eating fast, and soon enough they’d send roots into the ground, lash their prey to the earth, and feed until they could feed no more. I was not quite trapped in a circle of four bantil plants, but very nearly so. They might not burrow in and finish me, but those toothy blossoms might take a bite of me before they realized I was off limits.

The single giant that had avoided the bantils retreated and watched his feet as he ran. When he got close to the first monstrous bantil I had planted and its trailing vines blocked his path, he shouted a curse and pointed his axe, and flame traveled up the handle to the head and sent a gout from the blade, lighting the vines on fire. He was lavaborn—and he alone, since none of the others had set anything alight. And it was precisely that ability that was so dangerous to the Canopy. The bantil vines blackened and shriveled, and he stepped across them into safety before stoking the flames higher and making sure the entire bantil plant would be consumed—along with his erstwhile companion, who had stopped screaming but was still being eaten. I lost sight of the giant after that; he was hidden behind a wall of flame and writhing vines. He left the others to die, I noted, but perhaps he realized there was nothing he could do to save them now. A strategic retreat was his only option, and it was mine as well.

My muscles wouldn’t obey me, though. I couldn’t get up; channeling all that energy had wiped me out, and the fire most likely would move faster than I could. No matter; the others had escaped and would warn the Canopy of the danger, and I had served the Canopy above myself as a greensleeve should.

I lost some time in the darkness, a blissful time when the screams and the flames all faded, and woke up as someone grunted and tried—unsuccessfully—to lift me onto a horse. It wasn’t Kam Set Sah or Pak Sey ben Kor. It was my cousin Pen Yas ben Min.

“What’re you doing?” I mumbled.

“What needs doing,” she replied. “Pak was saying you shouldn’t have sprouted the bantil plants and Kam was telling him he has the brains of a puffweed, and neither of them was saving you. Can you just help a little bit? Get yourself draped across the horse and I’ll walk you down.”

She gave me an undignified push on the rear, and I scrabbled weakly across the saddle, draping across it much like a sack of barleycorn. There were no sounds of dying now from the hounds or their houndsmen, only the sound of the fire behind me and the three other young bantil plants feeding on their kills and growing at their natural rate.

“Have you seen the last Hathrim?”

“The lavaborn? You mean he got away?” Pen asked.

“Unless one of you killed him, yes.”

“We didn’t see him come our way. We just saw him briefly as a silhouette and assumed you must have gotten him after that since he didn’t start any more fires.”

“No, he didn’t need to,” I said. “I think he just wanted to get away, like us.”

“I’m glad he did.” She took the horse’s lead to guide us downhill, watching out carefully for any scattered bantil seeds or vines that might have slithered across her path since she had passed. She had a bright yellow glow bulb in one hand to help her see, brighter than the ones I was used to.

“Where’d you get that glow bulb?”

“Jak had it with him.”

“Who?”

“Jak Bur Vel. The boy who wants to be a mushroom farmer?”

“Oh. Sorry, I think it’s me who has the brains of a puffweed.”

“He’s really into fungus like this. Told me all about the Silver Carp Clan that harvests these in the caves near the Raelech border.”

She was talking fast, obviously nervous, and I listened to her talk about Jak and his strange fungus collection so that I wouldn’t have to listen to the bantil plants eating. Pen might have been talking for the same reason. I grunted in appropriate places as we picked our way downhill to the Canopy, where the others waited. Jak and Kam were relieved to see me and heaped praise on Pen for rescuing me. Pak Sey ben Kor, I noticed, said nothing as they helped me off the horse and braced me between them. I met his eyes and asked him a question.

“Did you report what happened already through root and stem?”

“Not yet.”

“Then let’s do so now, together, as agreed.”

“Let’s talk first about what you just did,” the Black Jaguar said, pointing at the fire. “You used your bantil seed, and now there are hundreds more of them up there. You’ve effectively turned the pass into a major hazard.”

“The lavaborn are a major hazard to the Canopy,” I replied. “And thanks to the bantil plant, the one they brought with them never got this far.”

“He’s going to get reinforcements.”

“And so will we. I think we should request them now and not wait for the sway to suggest it.”

“You don’t seem to realize that you’ve quite possibly provoked a war.”

“They were hunting us, ben Kor, trying to prevent us from reporting their presence. The provocation was all theirs—we acted in self-defense only. And now it’s up to us to inform the Canopy and let our diplomats try to find a solution before anything else burns.”

He seethed, knowing I was right and hating me for it. And now that we were out of immediate danger, he was ready to twist events to spite me. I don’t think he honestly disagreed with anything I said; he simply couldn’t stand the fact that I was correct and he was wrong; it was a poisonous mindset. And that is what happens to people who do not put the Canopy first.

“Come. Let’s report as agreed.” The roots of my silverbark lengthened and dipped into the soil of the forest, and seeing this, Pak Sey ben Kor had no choice but to join me. He dismounted and his own roots snaked into the ground, and we spoke through root and stem to all of Forn. By dawn, even the greensleeves in Keft would know what happened here, and they would spread the news to the Raelechs and Brynts and Kaurians. Gorin Mogen’s sneaky invasion would soon be simply an invasion, and the world would not let him get away with it.

Fintan waved to the crowd. “Tomorrow we will find out what happened to Abhinava and the bloodcats!”

When I returned home after the tale, Elynea was sitting up straight in a chair and obviously waiting for me.

“Good, you’re here,” she said. “Kids, go outside and wait for me. I’ll be out directly.”

As they filed past me to the door, Tamöd waved and said, “Bye, Dervan.” Pyrella said nothing but gave me a brief hug. And after the door closed behind them, I turned to Elynea with a question on my face, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Dervan, you’ve been so kind to let us live here, and we’re so grateful,” she said. “And I know it’s not your fault, but this isn’t the best place for my children anymore. We’re going to move in with my friend Garst du Wöllyr.”

“You mean your new employer?”

“Also my employer, yes. He has room for us, and since he’s in the furniture business, he has, well … furniture. Real beds for the kids instead of cots.”

I forced a smile onto my face. “Of course. I completely understand.”

She stood and clasped her hands together before her, finally looking up at me. “I wanted to tell you in person and not leave a note.”

“That was nice of you,” I said. “I might have worried. I wish you all good fortune and happiness, and of course please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

“You’ve been a blessing to us as it is. Thank you.” She stepped forward until she was directly in front of me, her eyes downcast again. Then she placed her hands on top of my shoulders, stretched up on tiptoe, and quickly kissed my cheek. “Goodbye.”

I stood there dumb as she exited and the door clacked shut behind her. The house seemed especially empty now even with me inside of it. I was alone again, a prospect I had in the past weeks looked forward to with relish, but now that it had happened, I recalled the stark fact that it is truly horrifying to be so alone. I still missed Sarena, and now that Elynea and her kids were gone, now that I couldn’t lounge in the palace and chat away the time with mariners and longshoremen, now that I had nothing but bare walls to look at and four cots and four chairs for my use only, my home felt like the Mistmaiden Isles, a place no one ever visited, populated entirely by ghosts.

Shuffling to the kitchen, thinking that food might distract me, I opened the pantry without enthusiasm and saw no comfort there. There was none to be had. I closed it again and announced to the walls, “I’m going out.”

Locking the door, I strode briskly to the Randy Goat, the sagging and practically derelict inn where Fintan had spent the previous night. It was dark inside, the weak light shining in the oil lamps dirty somehow, and it smelled of urine and grease and bad decisions, but it was full of loud unwashed people ready to talk and share a joke, their tongues loosened by drink and their senses of humor in keeping with the inn’s name. I paid for a room and a round for everyone and thereby ensured that for one night at least I would not feel like the old man in the stories about Blasted Rock who grew so lonesome in his lighthouse that he went mad and became four different people in his head.

Fintan was in a much better mood than I when we met the next day at a bacon bar, the invention of a Brynt businessman that was becoming popular in both Rael and Kauria. The idea was simple: You could order tea, bacon, eggs, cheese, and bread, all of the highest quality, or nothing. You could order a plate of shark shit before you could order fruit, and they were always out of shark shit.

The bard owed his fine spirits to his stay at the Coral Reef, an establishment that bordered on the luxurious, and unlike me, he had enjoyed a restful night’s sleep.

“Apart from the usual nightmares,” he said, though I didn’t inquire further. He was solicitous about my obvious hangover and turned out to be a patient companion, not feeling it necessary to fill up silence with talk while I recovered. We slurped tea and inhaled bacon and egg sandwiches until I felt closer to human, though I’m sure I didn’t look it. Perhaps I could use that to my advantage, catch Fintan off guard. Might as well get around to asking what Rölly wished me to.

“Who’s on the Triune Council these days?” I asked him, breaking the silence. “I don’t even know.”

A single eyebrow hiked up his forehead for a better view, then slid down as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, the senior member is Dechtira, who will be missed when her three-year term ends this year. In the middle is Clodagh, and—” He halted, blinking his eyes a couple of times and then deliberately clearing his expression. “Well, I suppose I don’t have much to say about her. The newest member is Carrig, and he seems a decent sort. Tough to predict where he’ll throw his vote, though. Sometimes he’s with Dechtira, sometimes with Clodagh, which I suppose is a good thing. Provides some balance.”

“So that means Dechtira and Clodagh are often on opposite sides of any given issue?”

A furrow appeared between Fintan’s eyes. “You wake up with a hangover and the wrangling of the Triune Council is what you want to talk about?”

“No.” I shook my head and chuckled somewhat sheepishly. “Desperate for conversation, I suppose. Though I am genuinely curious about something else.” I took a sip from my tea, which had begun to grow cold, and set it down with some disappointment. “Do you ever miss Numa?” I asked him.

“Every day.”

I nodded. “I understand that completely. Your heart is a harp string, and every day the memory of your love plucks at it. So here’s what I want to know: How do you bear it, being alone?”

He thought in silence before answering. “I don’t think loneliness is a thing that can be borne: it’s so heavy and crushing for something that is essentially emptiness. It’s like being trapped beneath a boulder, this immovable weight that presses your ribs and slowly steals your breath. And so it must simply be endured, and you do that by looking away. I hope you will not be offended if I admit that I am looking away right now. Every minute she’s out of my sight, I am looking away. But never fear—that boulder of crushing emptiness will still be there when you look back.”

I snorted. “That’s the least of my fears.” But his advice was well taken. I pulled out my paper and ink. “Think I’ll look at my work for a while. We have a lot to write down from yesterday. Ready?”

“Absolutely. Let us look elsewhere together.”

My fingers had begun to ache by the time we finished, and I was grateful when Fintan assured me that the day’s tales would not be quite so long this time. The bleacher seats below the wall were packed an hour before he arrived, and I doubted many of them moved when he gave them the quarter-hour warning.

“This song is a rather grisly one that Nentian parents sing to their children. When I’ve heard it done, they try to make it cute—the tone is delightful, it’s a catchy melody, and there’s usually some tickling at the end to make the child laugh. But the lesson sticks with the children as they get older. Or if it doesn’t, they most likely won’t get older.”

Sleep on the ground and die

On the plains of Ghurana Nent!

Your body is a meat pie

To the eels of Ghurana Nent!

Chew and chew, chew and spit,

Flesh eels can’t get enough of it!

Tasty meat, tasty meat,

Just lie down and they will eat …

You up!

The grin on the bard’s face was wicked as he retook the stage. “We’ll begin today with the scheming of Viceroy Melishev Lohmet.”

Chumat set sail with a troop of lackeys to discover where Gorin Mogen’s people had gone, but he’s not far over the horizon when I receive two different people telling me precisely where the Hearthfire is: squatting on my land in territory I’m supposed to defend, just as I both feared and hoped.

The pale, whimpering Fornish ambassador tells me first, shrouded in green robes and moving in an almost visible cloud of florals. Her name is Mai Bet Ken, and she might have been pretty if she weren’t so deathly white. Her voice might have been pleasing were it not so soft that it could almost be bruised if I coughed. She projects weakness, and it annoys me that she represents my strongest ally at the moment. No one else is close enough to render any assistance. The capital would move slowly if it got around to moving at all; I’ll have to do what I can with the resources I have for now.

“Viceroy Lohmet,” she says in a breathy whisper, “the Canopy wishes to inform you, should you not already be aware, that a sizable force of Hathrim have landed on your southernmost shores, almost on our border.”

“A military force?”

“Partially. We know that they have lavaborn and houndsmen since our scouts were attacked by them. We think—”

“Wait a moment. What were your scouts doing in my territory?”

“Forn has a vested interest in keeping the lavaborn away from the Canopy, and it also has an interest in enforcing treaties. We sent a small scouting party—a mere eight people—to find what happened to a fleet sailing north after the eruption of Mount Thayil, and they found the survivors of Harthrad camping on your land. They were discovered by a patrol of houndsmen and immediately attacked.”

She provides precious few details on the settlement: her people ran at the sight of houndsmen as any sane person would. But they had accounted for themselves quite well; they lost three against a total of six monsters and their riders. Put my army in the field and I’d probably lose twenty men or more for each houndsman and count it a bargain.

We could use more intelligence for sure. And if a Fornish party of eight could take out six houndsmen, then I wouldn’t mind them sending in a few more scouting parties like that. Let them get chewed up and turned into epic piles of dog shit and do our work for us. That would give us a fighting chance, perhaps. I paste an expression of sincere gratitude on my face and clear my throat to make it sound warm.

“Ambassador Ken, Ghurana Nent appreciates your information and would welcome more. You have my permission—now and retroactively—to cross our borders for purposes of scouting the Hathrim invaders. It is in both of our interests to purge them from the plains. I must communicate with the king, of course, before agreeing to anything else, but you can be sure my attention is fixed on solving this problem.”

She bends at the waist and whispers that she’s glad to be of service to Ghurana Nent. She assures me that she will relay my desires back to the Canopy and will no doubt have much to discuss with me again soon. Then she floats out of the room—or seems to, since her long robes conceal her feet and drag on the floor—but leaves the stink of her perfume behind her. I order the room aired out while I climb the tower to think again, but as before, I’m interrupted. It’s clear I’ll never have another moment’s peace until we kick Gorin Mogen back into the sea.

Dhingra answers my scowl at his entrance first with a smirk and then with a wide grin; he is often amused whenever I am not, and he looks highly amused.

“Back under the skylight with you, Viceroy,” he said. “We have two Hathrim who urgently wish to speak to you.”

“Hathrim? Are they Mogen’s people?”

“I think they might be.”

“How delightful. Make them wait a moment, and when you show them in, offer them tiny little chairs to sit in.”

Dhingra snorted. “It shall be as you say.”

“And make sure there’s a couple of squads of men in there with crossbows.”

“Oh, yes, they’re already waiting for you.”

And so they are: twelve leather-faced and ornery men on either side of the throne, a dozen for each giant. Dhingra knows how I like things done. Incredibly, even with the stink of soldiers lining the walls, the floral scent of the Fornish ambassador still lurks in the reception hall. And when the Hathrim duck through the double doors at the other end, their heads scraping against the ceiling and then the skylight, I can see their massive nostrils twitch at the smell. Their eyes dart uncertainly among the crossbowmen, wondering which one of them might be responsible for the perfume.

The planks of the floor groan under their heavy booted feet, and Dhingra, true to his word, comically offers them simple wooden chairs that would instantly splinter to kindling if they sat on them. They look down at him in disbelief, wondering if he’s joking, but he keeps a magnificent straight face and so do I when they turn to me.

“Thank you, no,” one says, and the floorboards squeak in protest when they take one knee in front of me and still remain taller than anyone in the room. They both have large, bushy beards, one blond and one red, and eyes as blue as the famous waters of Crystal Pond upriver. They look half wild and disheveled, though I discern after speaking with them that this is probably intentional. They are doing their best to look desperate and in need.

The blond one’s cheeks are flushed and fat, and he might have eaten four whole hogs for breakfast. He introduces himself as Korda Belik and does all the talking; the red beard just nods and tries to look somber while his companion spins a story.

“Thank you, Viceroy, for seeing us,” Korda says. His Nentian is accented but perfectly understandable. “I won’t waste your time. You may have heard already about the eruption of Mount Thayil. Most of Harthrad died within the first hour, and hot molten rain and ash fell out of the sky to the south, forcing the few of us who could make it to boats to head north and land in the safest place we could think of: Ghurana Nent. We now throw ourselves upon your mercy and your famous generosity, hoping you will allow us time to regroup and perhaps aid us with a shipment of grains so that we may not starve.”

I stare at him, astounded at his gall. I let the silence lengthen until he clears his throat, uncomfortable.

“I have questions, Korda,” I said. “And I want you to answer as quickly as possible. Just facts. No embellishing.”

“Understood.”

“I am saddened to hear about the loss of so many Hathrim, but I know not how to gauge the depth of this tragedy. You said your numbers are few. How many of you, precisely, are now occupying my land?”

“I cannot give you a precise number—”

“Then give me your best estimate. Give or take a hundred, I won’t mind.”

“Viceroy, I was sent here instantly by Hearthfire Gorin Mogen upon our nighttime landing, and we had no time to count heads before I left.”

What a pile of yak shit. “I will need a number if I am to estimate how much grain to ship you, Korda.”

That traps him. “Say a thousand, then, Viceroy, though that is most certainly high.” The red beard nods vigorously.

That means that number is most certainly very low. Hundreds of starving giants sounds manageable. Thousands of giants sounds like a recipe for panic, and they do not want me to panic yet.

“Very well. And where am I sending this grain?”

“The southern edge of your coast, just north of the Fornish border. We were too exhausted to travel any farther, and we also had no wish to alarm your citizens with our sudden appearance.”

I give him a cheerless smile. “My thanks. And how long does Gorin Mogen plan to stay in my country with his thousand giants, Korda?”

“Just until the ash clears away and we can safely return to Hathrir. I believe all the cities are suffering now.”

“Again, help me with a number. How long?”

He shrugs massive shoulders. “Two months, perhaps three.”

“Two months should suffice for the dust to settle. So two months’ grain for a thousand giants, is that correct?”

“Yes, Viceroy.”

“Dhingra, I will want to discuss the specifics of that with you after this.”

He dips his chin. “As you say, Viceroy.”

“Korda, you will remain here as my guest. Your friend there will go back with the shipment of grain and some of my men to deliver my personal condolences and promises of continued friendship to Hearthfire Gorin Mogen.”

I pause to let Korda respond to my bald statement that I’m effectively taking him as a hostage. He’s a smooth one: he only blinks once.

“Of course, Viceroy.”

I turn to the red beard. “You will inform Gorin Mogen in the very plain terms that I am using now that he and all other Hathrim must be out of Ghurana Nent in two months’ time regardless of how much ash and molten rain may be ravaging Hathrir. After two months you are no longer welcome guests and the sad victims of fate we are happy to succor in your most dire hour. At that point you are trespassing and will be treated as trespassers. Is that clear?”

The shoals of Red Beard’s facial hair mash together in the space where his mouth is supposed to be. He’s biting back an angry retort. But Mogen has them trained well. After a moment, he gives a curt nod and says, “It is.”

“Do you have a ship?”

Korda answers. “No; our ship returned ahead of us with some emergency supplies. We were going to beg passage south on a merchant vessel in exchange for work.”

“Good. You’ll go on my ship, then,” I say to Red Beard. “I’ll have a room for you at the Pelican by the docks. They have Hathrim-size ceilings. These lovely gentlemen,” I say as I gesture to the crossbowmen on the right, “will escort you there.” Pointing to the crossbowmen on the left, I continue, “And these fine worthies will escort you, Korda, to our largest room here, and should you need anything in particular, please ask one of them and it will be brought to you.”

They make noises of gratitude and depart with their heavily armed escorts. Dhingra sidles up to me once the doors close.

“Load only ten bags of grain into the hold and call it a clerical error, assuring them that we’ll give them more.”

“Will we?”

“Of course not. But make sure Red Beard delivers that two-month deadline to Gorin Mogen. Take the best head count you can, especially of their military forces, and get back up here as soon as possible. Set sail tomorrow.”

“As you say, Viceroy.”

“And make sure Korda and Red Beard don’t leave their accommodations. They are still guests but guests with restricted access. Bring them whatever they need to be comfortable.”

“Aye,” he says, and then sneezes. “Sorry. Perfume.”

“Yes, I need some air.”

We part: he to work, I to the blessedly scentless Tower of Kalaad to compose a missive for the king. Something along the lines of “We’ve been invaded, send help.”

I’ll have to summon the tactician and tell him to get his boys ready to fight lavaborn giants wearing the world’s strongest armor. And I’ll have to resume my own military exercises. There will be a necessary diplomatic dance before we trade blows, and if Kalaad smiles on us, maybe it will work. But it is more likely to end in death and wailing families of the fallen. Giants aren’t known for backing down until you drop them on their backs by force; sooner rather than later I’ll have to ride out and trip them up myself. Can’t stay here in my tower if I want to rule the country from a more pleasant spot than this backwater town that smells of borchatta guts and cabbage ass. No, when I ride out to deprive Gorin Mogen of his throne, it will assure me of mine … so long as we win.

I chuckled softly as Fintan dismissed the seeming of Melishev Lohmet. That little vignette would annoy both the Nentians and the Fornish. He certainly wasn’t holding back for fear of criticism. Looking down at the bleacher crowd, I saw many of them shaking their heads and discussing the viceroy with their companions. His opinions were odious, but many had laughed at the image of offering small chairs to the giants.

“Elsewhere in Ghurana Nent,” the bard said, “Abhinava Khose was making a new friend.” When he took on the young hunter’s seeming, he was bloody and bruised and his field bag hung in tatters from his shoulder.

I cannot explain why I still live. It makes no sense. I should be making my way through the digestive systems of about thirty bloodcats now, but instead I’m cursed to live a while longer.

The bloodcat that moved first stretched and stood on the branch, looked directly at me, then gave a short cry that was almost a bark, waking up the others. The branches of the nughobe trees around me writhed, the rest of the bloodcats revealing themselves once they moved. Their ears, pointed triangles with tufts at the tips, rose above their heads as they saw me. Without moving anything but my head, I noted that they were on all sides and must be behind me as well.

They were beautiful creatures. I had only seen dead ones before, their reddish-brown furs brought in by other hunting families that specialized in the dangers of nughobe groves. Bloodcats rarely strayed into the plains. But they possessed a more pleasing shape than grass pumas, more attractive pelts, faces that could be called cute until they revealed their teeth, and pointed, tufted ears that were almost adorable. The bloodred eyes that gave them their name were difficult to classify as kind, however.

One by one they descended from the branches, almost noiseless save for the noises they chose to make. They began to circle me clockwise, waiting for me to move or show fear, but I had none because I already counted myself dead. What I felt instead was grief for my family, sorrow that I would never see my sister smile again or my uncle tease my father or my aunt spontaneously decide that the best possible thing she could do was dance in the middle of the plains to music only she could hear. I wept and wished the bloodcats would hurry up and end it, but they kept circling and growling at me. I had never heard of such a thing.

“Come on!” I finally shouted at them, and that did it. Their muscles bunched and their ears flattened against their skulls, they hissed and charged. Sitting passively on a carpet of leaves, I should have been dead seconds afterward. The first one bowled me over flat onto my back, claws raking my chest, and then the rest of them descended to feed. But their teeth bit into my shoulders, arms, legs, and ribs, a single bite from each of them. None ever attempted to tear my flesh away, and none of them bit into my throat as they would have done instinctively if they wished to kill me. They bit and scratched and made me hurt everywhere, and then they all gathered together in front of me in a mess of fur, laid down in the leaves, and licked themselves as if they had no other pressing business. As if they had not just attacked and left me there to bleed.

I thought at first that perhaps I was delirious from blood loss and was hallucinating all this as I was being eaten and soon my vision would wink out and the nonsense would end. But no, the licking continued, and I would like to observe here that there is nothing quite so maddening as the loud lapping of genitals.

“What’s the matter?” I said to them. “Don’t I taste good?”

I received no answer, of course. And then I understood: I wasn’t giving them a chase. They wanted to hunt me. They were playing with their food as cats are fond of doing. That meant if I wanted to die, I’d have to get up and run for it. So I did: I staggered to my feet, lurched a few steps, and discovered that lurching was the best I could do with my injuries. I lurched straight away from them. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that a couple of the bloodcats had turned to watch me run, but most hadn’t even interrupted their ritualistic laving. Bewildered and feeling quite weak in any case, I stopped running. Perhaps they were simply not hungry and wanted me out of their nest, nothing more. Possible, I supposed, but unlikely; I had heard that bloodcats were extremely territorial. Their behavior was utterly baffling.

Still, having been given a reprieve, I resolved to behave as if I had a chance of surviving after all and putting my family to rest. My field bag was largely shredded, my water skins destroyed and my food eaten or lost, but it still held my journal and ink, the firestone, and the remnants of a blanket. It might allow me to return to the plains, make camp, and have nothing to worry about except scaring off a few blackwings in the morning. My spear could have easily survived the khern stampede, and maybe a few water skins remained as well, or at least a knife. I should be able to find someone’s knife near the wagon.

It was a very long series of lurches, during which I imagined that the bloodcats would simply track me down and finish me off when they were hungry again. Or something else, drawn by the scent of my blood, would put me out of my misery. I heard the yips and howls of a pack of wheat dogs approaching at one point, but after I hoped aloud that they wouldn’t find me, their cries veered off and faded in pursuit of something else. Kalaad must want me to live long enough to do right by my family.

I kept going in darkness, navigating a slow path by the stars peeking through the leaves. Once I reached the plains, I stopped, gathered some dead wood, and built a fire under the branches of the last (or the first) nughobe tree. I had nothing to eat or drink, a body covered in scabbed wounds that might fester sooner rather than later, and only prayers to defend myself should anything wish to eat me.