The Gambler's Fortune

Dragons were not nearly the danger I had feared in Gidesta, but we would see them flying over in the spring and sometimes raiding down into the valleys in the autumn. This is one of the many Mountain myths in which they figure.

Upper Reaches of the Pasfal Valley, 13th of For-Summer

Come on, wizard! Any slower and your lice’ll get off and walk!” For all his cheerful words, I noted ’Gren was leaning on a large boulder as he taunted Usara.

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to take it a little easier,” I retorted. “The air up here’s thinner than a beggar’s dog!” That was an exaggeration but I was finding the steady incline a long haul. At least there was a breeze to cool the early summer sun. A hopeful butterfly went past in a lazy pattern of pale blue that mimicked the bleached sky above us.

Sorgrad, some way ahead, sat down on the rough turf fringing the narrow scar of the path. “We might as well stop and eat before we go any farther.”

Usara’s pack hit the ground with a thud. “How much farther is it to the next village?” he asked, narrow chest heaving.

Sorgrad shook his head. “There’ll be no more villages, not this high. This is Anyatimm territory now. Westerlings keep to the old ways, more than anyone.”

“So if there are no villages hereabouts, where do these Westerlings live? Where are we likely to get shelter, come to that?” I looked up from unpacking the calico bag of provisions I’d wheedled out of the last hamlet, from women short and stocky, light of hair and eye.

“We stop at the next fess, the next compound,” replied ’Gren with a touch of scorn. “Any traveler has the right to ask for fire, food and shelter.”

“Which is freely given because everyone knows they’re in the same situation when they travel,” added Sorgrad. “This is a hard land and the only way to survive is to cooperate.”

I nodded, seeing the bleakness underlying the thin soil and short-lived blooms so bright with the sun’s gloss. I wouldn’t want to be up here much beyond the turn of For-Autumn. “So who were those people in the valley bottom?”

“Lowlanders.” ’Gren held out his hand to me and I filled it with a wedge of creamy sheep cheese and some coarse bread.

“They looked mountain-born.” Usara had got his breath back.

“Some Anyatimm men marry lowland women,” explained Sorgrad, “but they’re no longer counted as blood.”

I chewed thoughtfully on my bread, not the finest I’d ever tasted but at least it was light with leaven and baked in a proper oven. “Is that important?” I picked a husk from between my teeth.

“Yes, to the Westerlings certainly. Once a man leaves the mountains, it’s hard for him to come back. If he’s married a lowland woman, it’s nigh on impossible.” Sorgrad unhooked a waterskin from his belt and drank.

Something chirruping in a stand of long grass was the only sound to break the silence. I wondered how far we were from Selerima. We’d walked right out of Aft-Spring and on into For-Summer, nearly a whole half-season by my reckoning. The comfortable little towns of Solura growing fat in the lush river valley had dwindled to smaller villages carefully tending stock and crops in less generous lands and these had finally given up to close-shuttered knots of stout stone houses resolute in the hollows of the rising hills.

I looked around as I ate. My wonder at this country was slow to fade. Rolling hills of lush green grass had sharpened to stark fells, purpled with ling and berry bushes, striped with screes and waterfalls. Our pace had slowed and there were days when I’d wondered if we were getting any nearer at all to the great folded mountains that rucked the land up to the sky. Now we were into that land I realized the distances had deceived me. What had looked like a mere shrubby cloak draping the bones of the land was revealed as forest to rival the land of the Folk. Unfamiliar firs mingled with tall straight birches cascading down steep hillsides in endless billows of trees. There were no roads worth the name and precious few tracks. It was a vast country, daunting, and it made me feel very small and insignificant.

On the far side of this valley, I could see a blackened scar of wildfire softened with a bloom of new green. Beyond, a jutting jag of stone burst from a jumble of grass and saplings, a stream fell to its fate over the angular edges, splitting and plaiting to plunge into a rainbow haze. Behind, a rampart of flat-topped rocks marked the far side of another valley hidden in the folded land, no way of guessing how far, how deep or how long it might be. The striped and dappled face of a cliff shifted and changed as a cloud passed between it and the sun. Still farther away, a saw-edged peak pied with snow and rock was merely the nearest of the massive mountains drawing clouds close around their shoulders.

“Are those the high peaks?” I asked Sorgrad.

“No, just the southern ranges. The land falls away again beyond there, into a wilderness of lake and plain. The highest peaks are a season’s journey farther north again.” He looked up at the sky, face unreadable.

“So where exactly are we?” asked Usara with a frown.

“Hachalsoke.” ’Gren waved an expansive arm. “Home to the Hachalkin.”

“One family owns all this tract of land?” Usara’s confusion was hardly surprising. You could fit Hadrumal and all its wizards into the wide valley whose sides we’d been toiling up.

“You have to understand that things are very different up here,” said Sorgrad slowly.

“Tell us,” I encouraged. “We don’t want to get someone’s hackles up by saying the wrong thing.”

“You need to watch what you say, both of you.” Sorgrad was deadly earnest. ‘This isn’t the Forest, everyone used to new faces and new ideas. Things move slowly up here and change comes seldom. The sokes have good reason to be wary of incomers; whole kindreds have been wiped out by pestilence brought by travelers.”

I couldn’t see any sign that hand or boot had ever touched this place. “Do you know where the closest compound is?”

Sorgrad pointed to the middle distance. “That spur valley where the river runs down toward the lake. A fess needs water, shelter, and timber to hand. It’ll be set halfway between summer and winter grazing, close enough to the heights for hunting and mining, not too far from the main valley for taking the metals and pelts down for trade and exchange.”

“So what makes this compound different from a village?” Usara’s face was unenthusiastic as he assessed the terrain we’d have to cover.

“Each fess is just one kindred,” replied Sorgrad. “Maybe fifty or more people in a big soke, not counting the children, but all just the one family.”

“How in Drianon’s name does that work?” I spoke before I could help myself. All family ties meant to me was the heavy disapproval laid on my head by my mother’s bevy of superior sisters and my grandmother’s constant scorn for my Forest blood. “What if you can’t stand each other?”

Sorgrad paused before speaking. “You have to understand that the family is everything in the mountains. The soke is more than valleys and dales. Anyatimm belong to the land more than it belongs to them. That’s been so since Maewelin raised the mountains and Misaen forged the people. A soke is bloodline as well as territory and both are the women’s privilege; they are its guardians.”

“Eldest daughter inherits?” I prompted as he fell silent. I’d shielded him from Usara’s prying questions all the way up here but now it was time for him to lay out the runes for all to see.

“It’s not like Tormalin land, which can be owned, bought or sold,” he said finally, eyes acknowledging my silent demand. “Each daughter gets a share in the resources of the soke: the animals that can be caught or pastured there, the metals or gems that can be dug. The rights are tied to the blood. If a woman has no daughters to follow her, the rights are passed back up the line, mother to mother and down to another branch, sister or niece.”

“And the men do all the work,” grunted ’Gren. I passed him a honeycake to stop his mouth.

“The men do the physical work,” Sorgrad echoed, “away in the hills for half a season at a time. But that’s their half of the compact sealed on the hearth of the rekin. A stone is set there when a boy reaches his ninth summer and leaves his mother, when a couple marry, when an elder steps aside to yield precedence to son or daughter. The hearth is the heart of the rekin, the stronghold, I suppose you would call it. The rekin is the heart of the fess and the fess is the heart of the soke.

“Those elders fit enough and younger boys herd the goats while the men in their prime go trapping in the winter, work the mines in the summer. A son’s labor is owed to his father until he’s of age in his twenty-seventh year, you see. Up here a man works to bequeath coin and valuables to his sons, who will take that patrimony to a different soke when they marry. That’s their contribution, the means to trade for whatever a soke may lack. The women work in the rekin and the fess, cooking, weaving, spinning, curing hides, rearing the children.”

“Curious.” Usara’s color was better for some food.

“No more so than paying someone to take a daughter off your hands with a dowry and eldest son grabbing everything at the deathbed,” Sorgrad laughed. “Lowlands customs amazed us at first, didn’t they, Sorgren?”

“It was those enormous black cows I couldn’t stop staring at,” shrugged his brother. “I’d only ever seen goats.”

I shared out the rest of the cakes and chose my next words with care. “So what brought you both down to the lowlands?”

The brothers exchanged a strangely reluctant look.

“It’s not only the Forest Folk think it’s ill omened to be born at the dark of both moons,” admitted ’Gren. “It wasn’t so bad when I was still at my mother’s heel but once I was out in the diggings, every accident or piece of ill luck was laid at my door.” He shrugged. “I got sick of it and decided to leave.”

“And I came too.” Sorgrad’s blue eyes were as distant as the sky beyond the farthest peaks. “Middle sons of a long family, no one missed us.”

“Did you live in these mountains?”

“No, the far side of the Gap, what would be called the Middle Ranges.”

“So it had nothing to do with you being mage-born?”

It took a breath for my ears to convince my wits I’d heard right. “What did you say?”

Usara was looking intently at Sorgrad. “I asked if your decision to leave the mountains was related to the fact that you’re mage-born.”

“You’re mistaken, wizard! The air’s too thin for your wits up here!” But as I spoke, I saw ’Gren look at Sorgrad and knew it for truth. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Sorgrad gave a careless shake of his head but his eyes were angry. “When’s it ever been relevant? You’ve always said magic is trouble and I agree. That’s all it’s ever been to me. They said ’Gren was unlucky, but no one wanted to be within arm’s length of me after tinder started lighting itself in my empty hand! No one would go in a shaft with me, in case firedamp blew everyone clean down to the plains. My first winter hunting, I was lost for three days in a blizzard and everyone said the wind was trying to claim me for its own.”

“I thought your affinity was for fire,” interrupted Usara eagerly. “I should have realized you were helping to warm Zenela. It was the flood confused me; the more I thought about it, the more certain I was some elemental disturbance provoked it. What exactly were you feeling when—”

“Shut up,” I told the wizard abruptly. “Did you choose to leave or were you sent?”

“I was banished,” Sorgrad told me, pain fleeting in his voice, ignoring Usara utterly. “Still, it could have been worse. The Middle Ranges haven’t fallen completely away from the old ways like the Easterlings above Gidesta, but on this side of the Gap the Westerlings probably still kill anyone marked for Misaen.” His smile was thin and humorless.

“Is there anything more to eat?” ’Gren took the calico bag from my numb hands.

“But where did you get your training?” demanded Usara testily. “I’ve been watching you every step up this valley and your control’s had me uncertain all the way. That discipline has to be taught and by an advanced practitioner. What wizard gave you instruction, without either sending you to Hadrumal or at least contacting the Archmage—”

“We’ve never had anything to do with wizards.” ’Gren’s words were muffled with dried fruit. “Not before our girl here got us mixed up with you.” He clearly had no high opinion of that turn of events.

“I’ve been taught by no one.” Sorgrad shook his head. “All magic means to me is trouble.”

“I cannot accept that.” Usara flushed. “Unguided affinity manifests itself, come what may. There is simply no way you can restrain it as you do without expert direction—”

“If you’re calling me a liar, mage, you’d better have a knife in your hand,” said Sorgrad softly.

I had to divert this before blood started flowing. I snapped my fingers. “Was ill-omened runes what you meant about being born to be hanged?” I demanded incoherently of ’Gren.

He stopped looking at Usara with an air of anticipation. “That’s right. That’s what Sheltya said.”

“So just who are these Sheltya? A ruling clan, the reigning bloodline?” I hazarded.

“You’re still thinking like a lowlander,” Sorgrad chided me. “No one rules the Anyatimm. Each soke has charge of its own affairs.”

“That’s all very well if whoever’s in charge is committed to fair dealing,” I said cautiously.

Sorgrad nodded. “Which is where Sheltya come in.” He was looking thoughtful again. “They are outside the blood, still of the people, but free of ties and bias. If a dispute cannot be settled, they arbitrate. There were appalling feuds in the ancient days, a quarrel would spread right through kith and kin.”

“A feud lasts three years for theft,” ’Gren supplied. “Nine for violence or twenty-seven if a death’s involved.”

“That must keep everyone busy,” I commented.

“Sheltya mostly keep the sokes from outright bloodshed. They’re healers as well, for when they can’t stop the fighting.” Sorgrad grinned. “They are teachers, philosophers. They hold the old sagas and, by custom, should be consulted about any proposed match, in case two sokes are breeding too close. That’s the theory anyway. I don’t recall seeing one more than a handful of times as a child before some strange old man turned up at the mines and announced I had to leave.”

“What gave him that authority?” Usara wrapped his arms around skinny knees, intent on this new puzzle.

Sorgrad ignored him. “Once he had spoken, that was that. Even my father wasn’t going to gainsay him and I’d seen him stand up to a bear spring-roused from winter sleep without flinching. I was packed off before sunset.”

“And I went as well,” ’Gren chipped in. “This old fool kept going on about my birth omens.”

“So their word is law?” I saw Usara’s impatience out of the corner of my eye but dared not look away from Sorgrad.

He shook his head. “Sheltya were losing their influence in the Middle Ranges even then. My father couldn’t gainsay the banishment but he forbade my death, which is what the old bastard first called for. My uncles all agreed that custom was the only thing they were going to throw off a mountaintop. My grandmother insisted on Sheltya being summoned if a match was proposed, but after she died my mother and the other women usually debated marriages between themselves.”

“But you think they will still be around these mountains?” I asked Sorgrad.

“If they are anywhere.” He nodded. “And if any Anyatimm know any aetheric magic, I’d say it’ll be Sheltya. They’re certainly the ones you need to talk to about that book of yours.”

“If they exiled you for magebirth, what do they reckon to wizards?” I wondered aloud. “Will they be able to tell what Usara is?”

“I can’t say.” He shot Usara a piercing glance. “Don’t do anything to give yourself away.”

I retrieved the calico bag from ’Gren and shook out the few remaining crumbs. “We’d best move if we’re to make that fess before sundown.”

Usara rose wearily to his feet and looked at his pack with distaste. “We should have kept the donkey.”

“And fed it on what? Fresh air and sweet words?” Sorgrad’s composure was iron hard as ever.

“There’s plenty of grass,” objected the wizard.

“This is winter grazing for the goats of the soke.” Sorgrad shook a mocking head. “You don’t trespass your animals on someone else’s forage up here.”

Usara sniffed crossly as he shouldered his pack with a stagger and set off up the narrow path. ’Gren sauntered along behind him and I walked more slowly still with Sorgrad. “So that’s why you sold off your finery and trinkets along the way?”

He adjusted the strap of his single satchel where it was catching on the scrip at his belt. “That, and I wanted an impressive purse of coin to jingle in case anyone wonders why we’re traveling up here. I think I’ll be a younger son of good blood who’s made himself a fat patrimony in dealings with the lowlands and is looking to settle on a nicely schooled bride in a comfortable rekin.”

I laughed. “They’ll welcome you, will they? Good breeding stock?”

Sorgrad shrugged. “Perhaps. We all know the dangers of breeding too close up here but strangers bring their own dangers. It’s a fact that Mountain women marrying lowlanders suffer far more losses and dead births.”

I grimaced. “And what about ’Gren?”

“No one with any sense travels the uplands on their own,” said Sorgrad. “Even the best weather can turn to storm and fog inside less than a chime.”

“So I’m a balladeer, keen to learn more about my song book? What’s Usara doing? You’ve heard him sing; no one’s ever going to believe he’s a minstrel.”

“He’d best be a scholar of history again. Sheltya hold the sagas after all.” Sorgrad hissed slow breath between his teeth. “With luck we’ll be able to just rely on travel truce.”

“On what?” I shifted the tie of my own kit bag where it was digging into my shoulder.

“Travel truce; it’s good for three days and three nights. If you claim formal right of fire, food and shelter, no one can pursue a feud or demand any information you don’t wish to give, not even your name.”

“That’s worth knowing.” Looking up the path, I could see Usara slow his first obstinate pace. “You could have warned him you were going to sell the donkey.”

“I can’t help it if he’s unobservant,” Sorgrad grinned.

“He has his uses,” I protested. “Don’t forget the flood!”

“Living on some magical island is precious little schooling for country like this,” said Sorgrad bluntly. “I’ll shed no tears if his stupidity gets him killed but I’ll come back from the Otherworld to haunt you if I end up dead because of it.”

We walked on in companionable silence, a few birds rustling about in the grass and one soaring high above, the liquid delight of its song poured out in profligate ecstasy.

“Now I understand why you wanted to go to the Forest first of all,” I remarked some while later.

“If we’d found what we needed in the wildwood, there would have been no need to raise all this.” Sorgrad’s eyes were fixed on the still distant glen. “But I have it tamed, whatever our noble mage may think.”

“Is that hard?” I wondered how so close a friend could hide so huge a secret.

“Not these days.” He gave me a familiar wicked grin. “More so when I was younger. Remember that apothecary’s shop? I’m afraid that was me.”

“From what I heard, the foul-mouthed old skinflint deserved it.” The years of trust between us outweighed this one deception, now I was over the first shock. “It’s of no consequence to me.”

“But claiming a debt from this Messire is, isn’t it?” Sorgrad looked at me. “And if that’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

“I don’t doubt it but you’ve more reasons for being here than that, haven’t you?” He still owed me some answers.

“I wasn’t that sad to leave, truth be told,” he said after a while. “Me and ’Gren were already talking about heading into Gidesta, where the Easterlings are more tolerant of marrying out and working with the lowlanders. As middle sons, our patrimony would have been thin enough, and anyway neither of us particularly relished marrying girls we’d known all our lives. I’d rather have left of my own choice but lowland life has suited us well enough, you know that.”

“So why go back, why now?” I pressed him.

“Why not now? This landed in front of me and I thought I’d play the runes as they fell.” We walked on a little farther. “It’s your man who’ll be doing the asking, after all, and he has magic of his own if they decide to take offense. I’d like to know what powers Sheltya hold, beyond the weight of fear and custom,” he admitted. “I’d like to know why some trick of birth brought their hatred down on me. When I was a youth, I just accepted that it was so. Now I’ll see some justification, if they can offer it.”

“Curiosity got Amit hanged,” I reminded him.

“Not in that song book,” he countered with a mischievous smile. “I’ll take the risk.”

I felt uncomfortably responsible now that the stakes were so much higher. “Whatever deal I make with D’Olbriot, getting Draximal to call off his hounds will be non-negotiable. Fair recompense?”

’Gren was getting bored, casting off to either side of the path, looking for entertainment. He scrambled down a rocky crag in front of us. “I saw bear tracks up there,” he announced, bright-eyed.

“Let’s have a look.” Sorgrad climbed after his brother and I picked up my pace to join Usara.

A dew of sweat beaded the wizard’s forehead, sticking the sparse tendrils of his hair to his sun-reddened scalp. “You need to be wearing a hat,” I said.

He hoisted his pack higher in a vain attempt to ease the burden. “Life in a lofty tower doesn’t really fit you for expeditions like this.”

So he and Sorgrad could agree on something. “No one expects scholars to have much stamina.” I passed him my water flask.

“So I’m hoping to study these sagas?” puffed Usara. The wizard groaned as we saw the path coil away downward to a ford at the bottom of the valley hiding the fess. “These people can have a good laugh at the idiot academician carrying such a weight, and then they can have the pick of what I don’t need. That should earn us some good will?”

Sorgrad and Sorgren arrived as we started down the hillside. “There is a bear,” said ’Gren eagerly. “We can kill it if it attacks us, that’s not poaching.”

“Is that likely?” I asked Sorgrad.

“Only if ’Gren pokes a stick up its arse to rile it.” He shook his head. “No, they’re fat and happy eating in the summer seasons.”

We walked down to the ford without further diversion and picked our way over the slippery stones. The shadows were lengthening as I looked up the valley. Close to the stream, a sparse crop of grain whispered in the breeze, green but already yellowing at the tips. Goats were being driven into sturdy stone-built pens while a handful of mules on long tethers still grazed. I studied the fess. The massive perimeter wall was pierced only by a double gate to the front and a water gate to the off side where the little stream had been taken under the protection of the walls, regaining its freedom through close-worked metal bars.

“There’s a sally-gate on the far side?” I queried ’Gren.

“Even a rabbit knows a one-entry burrow is a death-trap,” he confirmed.

I looked up at the central keep; the rekin, I reminded myself. Foursquare and forbidding, built of solid gray stone, at least one sentry was keeping an efficient vigil from its watchful windows. The main gates opened as we made our way up the valley and a handful of men moved between us and the goats, another taking an uncompromising stance on the path.

“Good day to you and yours.” Sorgrad stopped some paces from the man. I found it strange to hear him speaking his mother tongue like this.

The man said something in a thickly clotted Mountain accent but he smiled and his hand stayed away from the sword at his belt. He was about the same height as ’Gren, white hair fringing a bald pate and deeply wrinkled face. His face was pitted with tiny scars and an ugly wound, long healed, marred one cheek. Age was tightening his hands with joint evil but hadn’t yet wasted impressive muscles.

“Hachalfess are pleased to offer you shelter in your journey,” he said to me and Usara, his Tormalin nigh on impenetrable.

I smiled warmly. “We are honored by your hospitality.”

The man nodded but I had the distinct impression he hadn’t understood a word. I turned the friendly smile on the lad tending the mules and two younger boys who had driven their goats almost to the gate in their eagerness to see who had fetched up. Their huge brindled dog, thick coat ruffed around its neck, came closer, sharp face questing for our scent and ears pricked with curiosity. The men who had backed up the speaker shooed the lads away, helping pen the goats and leading the valuable mules inside the protection of the walls for the night. The dog barked loudly, answered by more hounds giving tongue from within the fess.

“I don’t see us troubled by too many curious questions here.” Usara was nodding and grinning like a marionette.

“How do we find anything out if we can’t talk to them?” My own face was starting to ache.

We went through the lofty gate and I dropped the smirk. We emerged from a virtual tunnel made by the thickness of the wall into a broad open yard. The regular rasp of grinding spoke of grain milled by the stream and hammering rang from a smithy close by the gate, someone laying into stubborn iron with a heavy hammer. A man at a bench beside an open hearth was working sparkling gold with fine tools while another was intent on white metals, a young lad at his elbow studying the techniques.

The rekin dominated the compound, tall, square and adamant. The windows at ground level were little more than arrow slits and the ones above scarcely wider. The main entrance was a door that looked built to withstand a battering ram and now that we were within the walls I could see a second entrance on one side, where a wooden stair ran up to a door on the first of the upper levels. I looked a question at Sorgrad.

“So you can retreat to the higher floors and then cut away the steps,” he supplied. “Then attackers have to take the main door while you’re dropping things on their heads from above. Once they’re inside, they can still only come at you one at a time up the inner stairs.”

“I thought you said these Sheltya kept quarrels from ending up in fights?” I frowned.

Sorgrad shrugged. “We’ve always built that way. After all, you never know, do you?”

The air was heavy with sweet fermentation and a woman emerged from a door opening on the wide tuns of a brew-house. A younger woman came out of the rekin, wiping her hands on a stained apron, and consulted briefly with the brewer. Both wore round-necked linen blouses belted over undyed woolen skirts reaching to mid-shin, boots laced to the knee beneath. They were unmistakably mother and daughter, pale hair braided close and gleaming in the sunshine.

The old man led the way. “His name is Taegan,” Sorgrad told us. “His eldest daughter’s husband is away in the hills at the moment, so Taegan holds his authority in trust.”

“That’s the daughter?” I queried.

“Damans,” confirmed Sorgrad, “and the mother is Leusia.”

’Gren and Sorgrad both swept low bows and Usara managed a creditable attempt. I wasn’t about to try curtseying in breeches so hoped another smile would suffice.

“You are welcome to our home,” the daughter said. Her Tormalin, while heavily accented, was fluent enough to suggest we might actually be able to hold a conversation. Her mother continued smiling, a sideways glance of pride at her daughter.

“Thank you for taking us in,” I said, for want of anything more inspired.

There was an awkward pause and then the younger woman, Damaris, ushered us all inside. The central hearth of the large room was hemmed in with firedogs, iron tripods for cook pots and a complicated arrangement of arms and hooks where several small kettles and a griddle hung. Two women of about my own age were busy cooking while a bevy of children sat around a long table where lamps cast a golden glow on their painstaking efforts. The unmistakable scritch of slate pencils set my teeth on edge. All the youngsters looked up until the old woman at the head of the table recalled them to their lessons with a few soft words.

An old man chuckled to himself. He could have been Taegan’s older brother, age spotting a head bald as an egg and the backs of his withered hands. He was deftly working bone with knife, file and fine chisels to make a comb patterned with diamond panels. As I watched, he fitted copper studs to hold the teeth secure.

“This is my aunt’s husband, Garven,” Damaris introduced him with a wave of her hand. I noticed that half of the room was subtly divided with stools and low chairs, clutter on the shelved wall behind separated with regular spaces. Sorgrad and ’Gren stepped forward and greeted the old man, who replied eagerly. Usara stood a pace behind them, looking a little uncertain.

Damaris laid a gentle hand on my arm. “You will sit with us, on the women’s side.” Two middle-aged women on the far side of the hearth looked up with bright curiosity, distaffs laid aside, baskets of brown wool at their feet. I hoped I wasn’t expected to join in their work; I’ve no more idea of how to spin than fly. I took a seat on a high-backed bench, a blanket of fleecy weave softening the whole, expertly embroidered cushions resting on top. These women must learn needlework in their cradles.

One of the spinners said something and Damans turned to me. “These are my aunts, Kethrain and Doratie.” I fixed the names in my mind; Kethrain had a wider forehead and little gold drops hanging from her ears while Doratie was missing a tooth in her lower jaw. “Kethrain says you have pretty hair.”

“There are women in the lowlands would walk barefoot over hot coals to be as golden-fair as you ladies.” Flattery is always easier when it’s the truth.

Damans translated and all three laughed. I folded my hands in my lap and hoped no one thought it friendly to offer me needle or thread. These women might admire my hair but they’d be appalled at my sewing. I felt my smile becoming a little fixed, so I looked around again.

A tow-headed little girl peeped around her shoulder at me, unruly curls falling over her eyes. I winked at her and she whipped her head back around, hunching over her work and whispering to her neighbor. The old dame supervising was about to speak when Damaris clapped her hands together. My two new friends immediately stowed their work away while the children hastened to clear the table of slate pencils and counting frames. One fetched a cloth to wipe it down while others began setting places with polished pewter plates, cups and jugs.

The old craftsman, Garven, made his way slowly to the door, his back twisted with more than age. He pulled on a bell rope to send light brazen clangor ringing out across the valley. Approaching voices grew louder and soon the room was full of sturdy men and women in creamy linen, tan leather and brown wool, all with a similar cast to their features. There seemed to be no fixed seating pattern at the table; one girl swapped places with another and two little boys were forcibly separated by Damaris when they began messing about with their spoons. The only exception was a high-backed chair with solid arms set at one end of the table. A few moments behind everyone else the whitesmith and his lad appeared carrying the gold-worker, whose legs were wasted and useless. He was set on his seat, cushions wedged around him without fuss.

I hurried to sit between Sorgrad and Usara. “Accident or disease?”

“Cave-in down a mine,” Sorgrad replied. “Garven said he was lucky to survive it.”

I wouldn’t have called it luck myself but at least a cripple here looked better placed than a lowlander begging in the gutters. A couple of girls were ferrying plates to the women at the hearth. “I’d like chicken,” I told Sorgrad, seeing some go past.

“You are welcome,” one girl said in passable Tormalin, taking my plate.

“We teach them the lowland tongues since last year,” one of Damaris’ sisters said across the table. “Else the boys cannot trade and the girls not deal with travelers. More come every year, even to the uplands.”

One of the older men, flour dusting his shirt, spoke patent disapproval. Doratie rebuked him and I looked at Sorgrad. “It’s an old complaint,” he told me, “that lowlanders always expect us to speak their tongue but never learn ours.”

“You’d better give me some lessons,” I said ruefully.

Everyone was eating heartily and conversation swelled around us. One of the half-grown girls was casting longing eyes at the whitesmith’s lad and he was preening himself with that realization as he talked to the goldsmith. Two of the old men were having a heated discussion about something or other, punctuated every so often with a pointed interjection from Kethrain. I applied myself to an excellent meal of pot-cooked fowl.

Usara reached past me for some black bread. “You and I stand out like poppies in a cornfield here, don’t we?”

“Yes, but we knew that would be the case, didn’t we?” A girl appeared at my elbow with a foaming jug and I held up a bright pewter tankard. I felt easier to be an outsider here than being taken for kin in the Forest by folk superficially similar yet so strange. I sipped at the curious brew. Darker than any ale I’d come across, it had a resinous taste and an odd, oily quality. I realized I was being watched with amusement from all sides.

“What am I drinking?” I murmured to Sorgrad, the rim of the vessel hiding my lips.

“Fir beer.” He drained his own measure. “But there’s malted barley brew, if you prefer.”

I finished my drink, deciding that much was a point of honor, but laid a hand over my tankard when the lass went to refill it. “I think I’ll stick to what I’m used to.”

Damaris’ sister passed a jug giving off a reassuring scent of hops. “I’m Merial,” she introduced herself.

“I’m Livak, and this is Sorgrad,” I turned to my near hand, “and Usara.” ’Gren was some way down the table between two children with others all craning to see him rolling a coin down the back of one hand. He made it disappear, only to pluck it from behind the ear of a wide-eyed toddler sitting on his knee. “And that is Sorgren.”

“Middle Range names?” Merial was studying Sorgrad with a frank interest.

“True, but we left our homes long ago,” he said easily. “We have been traveling and dealing in the lowlands.”

“And your present business?” These Westerlings shared ’Gren’s directness. This truce clearly didn’t stop questions, even if it entitled us to refuse answers.

“My brother and I are thinking of returning to the uplands.” There was a hint of encouragement in Sorgrad’s pleasant smile. “We find ourselves traveling with this scholar,” he nodded to Usara, who was mopping the last of the gravy from his platter with yet more bread. The mage swallowed hastily. “I am an antiquarian of sorts and eager to learn the sagas told in the Mountains.”

Merial raised one fine golden eyebrow. “It’s seldom a lowlander thinks we of the heights might have worthwhile knowledge.”

“A true scholar respects all learning,” said Usara earnestly. “There is no single path to an enlightened understanding of this world and our place within it.” There was no mistaking his sincerity. If I could learn how to fake that, I’d have a fortune made inside a year.”

The old man barked some query, nodding at me. “I am a singer, a traveler,” I said readily enough. “I bought an ancient book with songs in the old tongues of Plain, Forest and Mountain. I want to learn their meaning.”

Merial smiled. “You must talk to Garven and to Doratie’s mother.”

“When I was a boy, such tales were told by Sheltya,” remarked Sorgrad casually.

Conversation around us faltered as that word fell on everyone’s ears. “Yes,” Merial said slowly. “That is so here.”

“I’ve only heard half-tales from those Easterlings who dwell in Gidesta,” Usara said with honest eagerness. “I would dearly love the chance to talk to your Sheltya. Are they not keepers of important knowledge?”

Merial looked at Sorgrad, who spoke to her in rapid Mountain speech, manner courteous and reassuring.

“That might be possible.” Merial turned to attract the attention of the old man sitting by Doratie. He shot a suspicious glance at Usara but as she continued his face grew more open and even a little smug. He nodded finally and Doratie added what sounded like approval.

“My uncle sees no harm in Sheltya judging you for themselves,” she told Usara, her eyes flicking to Sorgrad.

“How do we contact them?” asked Usara. “Forgive my ignorance.”

Merial shrugged. “When they are wanted, they will come. That’s always been the way of it.”

That sounded promising, I thought. From the little I’d learned from Guinalle, being able to hear thoughts from afar was a fundamental part of what she called Artifice.

A bowl of summer fruit mixed with toasted nuts and grain was set between us and my plate was swapped for a fresh one. A platter of flat oatcakes was added, with some rounds of bright white cheese. That had to be made of goats’ milk, even if I hadn’t smelled it coming. I opted for the fruit and grain.

Merial turned to talk to Doratie, drawing Sorgrad into their conversation. It was no hardship to sit quietly with my thoughts for a change. I let my mind idle through imagining what Ryshad was doing, wondering how Halice was finding life on the far side of the ocean as she captained the mercenaries defending the unlikely colonists of Kellarin. Unlocking the secrets of aetheric magic would give her increased protection against Elietimm greedy to seize that fertile land and kill any who disputed their claim. She was another friend depending on my success, so this scent had better lead to something.

The meal drew to a close and children were shepherded through a far door to sounds of protest and washing. The aged men and older women drew chairs up around the hearth, now clear of cooking pots. A few had needle and thread or some small craft in their hands, but work was desultory at best. Doratie fetched a flask of clear liquor from a cabinet high on one wall and Kethrain followed with tiny crystal goblets. The atmosphere was warm with good humor and tolerance.

Merial passed me a stack of plates. “The scullery is through there.” Sorgrad shared a smirk with Usara, which Merial soon wiped away. “You two can help with the firewood.”

As I headed for the scullery, I saw ’Gren disappearing up the stairs with an adoring covey of children, clamoring for more entertainment. I wondered if Damaris knew what she was letting herself in for.

Othilfess, 14th of For-Summer

Teiriol yanked at the recalcitrant mule’s bridle. “I’ll stake your hide out for the fork-tails to peck at,” he told the black and tan face. The mule set its ears back and lifted its gray muzzle sharply, nearly banging Teiriol on the nose.

“Get on!” Cailean cut at the animal’s hocks with a switch and it jumped forward. Teiriol hauled on the reins, giving the beast no chance to dig its hooves in. With three others jostling behind it, the mule yielded, ears pricking at the prospect of water and fodder as it recognized its stable.

Teiriol gaped at the activity all around the compound. Both forges, the small one he’d always considered his own and the larger one cold since his uncle’s death, were red hot and blazing, molten scale flying in brilliant sparks as hammers pounded iron into submission. One smith quenched his handiwork in a hiss of steam and, as he raised the tongs, Teiriol recognized a spearhead. Satisfied, the man laid it beside a line of others and stood for a moment to watch his colleague deftly shape the tang of a sword blade.

The mules all balked at the commotion and Teiriol’s charge threatened to buck as a lad chased a frantic goose past them, a cleaver in his hand showing the bird its fate only too clearly. Jeers came from an open workshop, a drift of bark and shavings blowing all around as a gang of men turned rough poles and narrow wands into shafts for spears and arrows.

“Catch it, Nol,” urged one, laying his knife aside with an air of finality. “That’s a quiver’s worth of flights and a good roast dinner getting away from you!”

“He couldn’t get work as a whorehouse handyman, that one,” sneered another, cursing as his blade snagged in the wood he was shaping.

A dull, repetitive thud penetrated Teiriol’s bemusement; the ore mill was working. “You see to the animals. I’m going to talk to Keis.”

Cailean’s indignant protest went unheard in the general hubbub. Teiriol hurried to a long building set against the far wall beyond the rekin. The steady beat was being driven by a weary mule pacing a circular track and harnessed to a pole that turned a pillar driving a shaft running through the wall of the building. Teiriol looked in vain for anyone tending the sweating animal and shoved open the door.

The rhythmic noise was redoubled inside the stone shed. Iron-shod timbers lifted in sequence as lugs on the rotating shaft caught matching spurs in their sides. Released as the shaft turned, they dropped to crush tinstone against a granite mortar. Keisyl was sorting unhammered ore, his concentration complete. Fine sandy dust hung in the air, coating Keisyl, the mill and a large tub of water with pale scum.

Keisyl coughed and noticed Teiriol. “Outside. Can’t hear myself think in here!” Wiping his face clean of muck and sweat, he pulled the door to behind them. “When did you get back?” Keisyl took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Just now.” Teiriol pointed to Cailean who was unloading bulky sacks of ore from the mules with mumbled complaint.

Keisyl knuckled his red-rimmed eyes. “I’ll start crushing that lot tomorrow. We’ve plenty stamped fine enough for dressing. You and Cailean can make a start on that. The assay looks good and rich. When are the others due back?”

“Tomorrow but—”

“I’ll boil his arse for axle grease!” Keisyl hurried over to the mill mule and brought it to a halt, no great task since the animal was fit to drop. “Get some water, Teir.”

Teiriol hesitated, mouth half open, but took a bucket from beside the door. Going down a passage built into the thickness of the massive wall, he filled it from a rock-cut cistern, working in the darkness with the ease of familiarity. He counted the stairs down to the water out of old habit and frowned as he registered how far down the level had fallen. So many questions clamored to be asked that he could not frame a single one.

“Will you just look at this?” Keisyl raged, carefully easing harness from a bloody gall. “I told him I needed the boy out here. Have you seen Nol, that beggar boy from the valley bottom?”

“What’s going on, Keis?” demanded Teiriol, perplexity threatening to turn to anger.

“It’s nothing to do with us,” snapped Keisyl. “I’m keeping well clear and you’ll do the same.”

“Clear of what?” Teiriol asked, exasperated.

“Jeirran reckons he’s going to take on the lowlanders,” spat Keisyl, voice thick with contempt and dust. “Drive them out, reclaim the land, get reparation for ten generations of loss!”

Teiriol looked at the purposeful activity on all sides. The lad had managed to corner the goose and was now inexpertly stripping the twitching corpse, fluff clinging to his hair and face. An elderly fletcher was busy with the long feathers, oblivious to the banter all around.

“It might be time to make a stand,” said Teiriol slowly. “Remember Teyvasoke.”

Keisyl snorted. “You think Jeirran’s the man to do it? His brave words are the same as his promises of riches in Selerima. Follow him and you’ll end up worse off than just empty in the pocket! No, when he runs himself over whatever precipice he’s headed for, we have to be here to take care of Eirys and Theilyn.”

Keisyl led the mule out of the jinny-ring and into the stable. Cailean was busy bedding the other beasts down with old straw, clicking his tongue over the poor hay left in the racks. “Who’s had all the forage?”

“Who do you suppose?” snarled Keisyl.

Cailean began to groom the mule he was tending. Teinol took a stiff-bristled brush to the next and they worked in tense silence, broken only by the whickers of the mules and the occasional scrape of a hoof on the cobbles of the floor.

“So, what does Eirys think of all Jeirran’s plans?” Teiriol asked at length.

“She thinks he’s run mad. Her home is filled with strangers eating the table bare without so much as a by your leave.” Keisyl’s savage tone was at odds with his gentle fingers salving the jinny-mule’s galls with unguent from a small green-glazed pot. “They’re halfway to drinking the cellar dry and Theilyn’s already been offered more insult than I have time to settle if I fight a man a day from now until Solstice. I tell Jeirran to get his sorry crew of scavengers in hand and he just says he has weightier matters in hand.”

Teiriol frowned. “Perhaps we should talk to Eirys about repudiating him, if he’s fallen that far short of the marriage compact—”

“She won’t.” Bafflement outweighed scorn in Keisyl’s reply. “She says she loves him. Whether that’s the truth or she’s just plain scared of him, I couldn’t say, but all she does is make excuse after excuse for him.”

“Perhaps we should act for her,” suggested Teiriol dubiously. “I mean, Sheltya—”

Keisyl’s laugh was a hollow bark. “Sheltya are already here, my lad, and dug in as deep as any.” He wiped his fingers clean on the mule’s woolly back and stoppered the jar with a sigh. “They’re taking their lead from that whey-faced bitch Aritane. I’d say she’s planning her own little campaign among the keepers of wisdom.” He looked sharply over to Cailean. “And you keep that to yourself, do you hear? In fact, you keep clear of the whole mire, if you’ve got any sense.”

“I’ll be back to the diggings as soon as may be, don’t fret,” Cailean replied readily.

Keisyl’s eyes were preoccupied again. “Teir, you’d better come and see Mother, but we’ll not eat at the hearth tonight. Cai, I’ll get Theilyn to bring us some food upstairs and we can discuss how best to organize the smelting.”

Teiriol gave Cailean a half-hearted wave of farewell and apology as he followed his brother. Keisyl’s lips moved in silent calculation, points ticked off on his fingers as he ran through some list. Queasiness undermined Teiriol’s happiness at being home; strangers infesting the familiar surroundings brought some indefinable sense of menace. Why was Keisyl distancing himself from everyone and everything? Always being told what to do by an elder brother was bad enough, Teiriol decided, but being left without guide or instruction could be infinitely worse.

“Hi there, you!” The curt hail startled both brothers out of their preoccupations. A gray-haired man riding a dappled jennet with silver-mounted harness had ridden unchallenged through the open gate. He was surveying the courtyard, hooked nose lifted with an arrogant air. “Tell Jeirran I’ve got all the ironstone he wanted, wet-dressed and ready. Show me where the furnace house is.” Teiriol saw a mule’s head poking inquisitively over the threshold. “I’ll see to the melt tomorrow,” the man continued. “It’s too late in the day to start now.”

Scarlet fury suffused Keisyl’s face. “The furnace house here is mine, from bellows to float stone, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

“Jeirran’s paying me to smelt for him.” The newcomer shrugged. “You’d better take that up with him. Where do we stable our beasts around here?”

Keisyl was already crossing to the rekin, angry strides eating up the distance. Teiriol hurried after, the ground seeming more uncertain beneath every step. Keisyl kicked the door open with such violence it crashed back on its hinges with an audible crack of splintering wood.

“There are certainly advantages to letting an enemy set things in motion and then pacing your moves to his,” Jeirran was saying with an air of grave consideration. He barely missed a breath at Keisyl’s precipitous entrance. “But equally there are benefits to seizing the initiative. One can catch a foe off guard by doing the unexpected, leaving them unable to see where your strategy is leading.” Jeirran lounged in a high-backed chair set by the hearth while four other men on stools leaned eagerly forward.

Keisyl marched to stand in front of Jeirran, thumbs tucked into his belt and cold rage in his face. “Why’s some Middle Ranges hireling saying he’s here to run a smelt in my furnace?”

“Wernil? So soon? Then we’re ahead of ourselves already!” Jeirran preened himself in the admiring nods of his companions.

“I’ve tin to work and no one smelts on my floor without my say-so,” glowered Keisyl.

“You work the diggings on Theilyn’s behalf,” Jeirran corrected him with silky courtesy. “I think she’ll allow Wernil a turn with the bellows, given how hard I am working for the future of this soke.”

“You conniving—”

“Keisy, Teiro, can I speak with you for a moment?” The scullery door opened to reveal a thin woman pleating her apron with nervous hands. Her hair was faded and colorless, her eyes washed-out blue. Years of worry and toil had carved deep lines into her face, but her back was straight with resolve and the determined set of her countenance was echoed in her sons’ features.

“If anyone sets a brand to my furnace without my permission, I’ll ram his head in after it,” Keisyl growled in a vicious undertone. He pushed past and left the room. Teiriol followed, eyeing the clutter of leatherwork and horn shavings all around the room, the long slate table covered in debris. He found his way blocked by the women’s chairs, drawn back from the hearth and tight in a circle. He looked, dismayed, at the grubby fingermarks on the embroidered linen cushions, at a torn edge to the rug hemmed in by the seats.

“Mother.” He went to embrace her but she retreated, shutting the scullery door before laying her forehead on his shoulder with a silent sigh. In the next breath, she pulled away to brush the hair from his forehead with a fond smile. “What’s going on, Mama?”

“Jeirran’s got some Middle Ranger—” began Keisyl hotly.

“Yes, dear, I heard.” Ismenia laid a finger on his lips to silence him. “But let him work his ore. The sooner he’s done, the sooner he’s out of our home.”

“Mama!” protested Keisyl.

“Will your tinstone go rotten in the next few days?” A shadow of a smile flickered briefly across Ismenia’s face. “Is it too much to ask for peace in the household?”

“There’ll be precious little peace if Jeirran arms every malcontent west of the Gap and marches on the lowlands.” Keisyl’s voice rose in frustration and anger.

“If letting him make his weapons means he marches this rabble out of here, then that’ll do much for the peace of the soke,” retorted Ismenia. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want Eirys disturbed.” Worry creased her forehead.

“Where is she?” Teiriol looked around the scullery. The usual racks of plates and pots were joined by a couple of workboxes, cloth stuck with threaded needles and two distaffs propped in the corner. The normally bare and scrubbed table had three rough stools set around a clutter of pewter beakers.

“Upstairs, resting.” Ismenia looked as if she needed to sleep from sundown to sundown herself. She glanced briefly at a sink where leafy vegetables awaited attention, but with a shrug took a seat

“Resting?” Keisyl looked sharply at his mother.

“We think so. Misaen make it so,” she added in fervent prayer.

“Eirys is with child?” Teiriol tried to catch up with the conversation.

Ismenia nodded. “We think so, which is why I want you both to bite your lips till they bleed if need be. Let Jeirran play the lead-ganger all he wants. This early on, if Eirys is worried or—well you know as well as I that if Jeirran loses his temper, she’ll be the first one he takes it out on.”

“If he’s mistreating her, why doesn’t she stand up to him?” demanded Keisyl. “She knows we’ll back her! If she gives me leave, I’ll beat the piss out of him willingly. Perhaps we should go to Sheltya ourselves if that cold bitch Aritane is cowing her.”

“Eirys is as likely to turn against Jeirran as she is to fly.” Despair tainted Ismenia’s voice for the first time. “She won’t hear a word against him. Bad-mouthing him just makes her cry, so keep your opinions to yourself. Maewelin grant it’s early days with the child making her so sensitive.”

“We can’t go on like this, Mama,” protested Keisyl.

“No, not forever.” Ismenia rubbed a water-wrinkled hand over her face. “Until the babe is born and that’s why I don’t want anything to risk Eirys letting slip, do you hear?”

“And when the babe is come?” Teiriol watched his mother closely.

“Then Eirys will have something to love above that glossy little cock,” replied Ismenia, a steely look in her faded eyes. “Since he’s not about to make a fond father, she might just see him for what he is. He’s too used to being the hand-fed kidling to take kindly to anyone usurping his place.”

“We could get her to repudiate him?” asked Teiriol hopefully.

“And what if her next choice is as bad?” Keisyl muttered. “She’s always had more hair than sense, has Eirys. Come to that, Theilyn could land us with someone just as useless.”

Ismenia looked at him sharply. “You thought well enough of him when they were courting, don’t deny it. We all did, not seeing fine clothes and fancier words was dressing up fools’ gold. Now, about Theilyn—that stuck-up sister Jeirran’s claimed back from Sheltya has taken her under her wing. Don’t tell her anything that you don’t want Jeirran to know, especially not the chance of a baby. Did you see her in the yard at all?”

Teiriol frowned. “Isn’t she up with Eirys?”

“No.” Ismenia rose wearily from her seat and poured water from a heavy ewer into the sink. “She’ll be trailing after Aritane or skirting around the ne’er-do-wells in the workshops.”

“Mother!” objected Keisyl.

“Don’t raise your voice to me, Keisy.” She lifted a warning finger. “If she’s so keen to be considered grown, she can behave herself or face the consequences.”

“But what if—” Teiriol hesitated, reddening.

“What if she comes in with her petticoats soiled and swearing she found the bracelet?” The pair of them gaped at their mother’s coarseness.

“Then we’ll get another birth to the soke, and if Misaen wields any justice it’ll be a girl.” Ismenia set her lips in a bloodless line. “And if no man after will overlook her dishonor for the sake of fathering his own children, it’ll serve Theilyn right. You two will be assured of the diggings for as long as there’s ore to be dug, won’t you?”

“That’s hardly just—” began Keisyl with some heat.

“I told you not to raise your voice to me,” snapped Ismenia. “It’s no harder a truth than all the others I’ve faced since your father died. I’ve kept this soke safe for my children thus far and I’m not about to give up now.”

Teiriol looked uncertainly from his bitter-tongued mother to his grim-faced brother. “I’ll go and see if I can find Theilyn.”

Ismenia turned to the sink with a snort and began sluicing through green leaves. Keisyl rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. “So do you want these chopped or stripped?”

Teiriol left the scullery hurriedly rather than see Keisyl doing woman’s work and then wondered where under the sun he should go.

“Ho, Teir, come over here.” Jeirran called him to the far side of the fire.

Teiriol reluctantly crossed the room. “Good day to you.” He studied Jeirran’s companions. The two older men, one graying, one bald, each had mining calluses on their hands, the bald one missing two fingers on one of his. Both were looking at Jeirran as if he could offer them a fresh-faced bride with her own gold seams. The younger men shifted in their seats, glancing from the door to Jeirran, restlessly shuffling boots on the flagstones. One had been richly dressed but was now travel-stained and ragged. When he reached for a cup, the sleeve of his shirt pulled back to reveal flogging scars on his arm. The other was neat enough but had a sly cast to his muddy gray eyes. Both were more sandy-haired than blond, faces soft.

“Take a seat, Teir.” Jeirran shoved a stool with a foot and proffered a beaker of mead, pewter dull with countless fingermarks. “Listen to what Ikarel has to tell us.”

The sly-faced man shrugged. “I can’t say if it’s truth or not but I heard the same tale in two different villages. There’s wizardry afoot in the Great Forest. Some great mage has been rallying the Folk, using sorcery to defeat any who stand against him and claiming the wildwood for his own.”

Teiriol felt distaste curl his lip.

“False magic,” spat the man with the missing fingers.

“Eresken should be told.” Jeirran frowned. “Where is he?”

“Find Aritane, you’ll find him,” sniggered the youth with the whip scars. He subsided at Jeirran’s glare.

“I’ll go.” Teiriol hastily set aside his untouched cup.

“No, wait, I want—”

He ignored Jeirran’s indignant words, cutting them off short with a slam of the door. Circling the rekin, pushing past a gang of strangers half-heartedly urging two yapping dogs into a full-blown fight, he saw his quarry. “Aritane, a moment.”

Aritane turned haughtily. She unbent a little when she recognized Teiriol. “I didn’t realize you were due back. You are welcome.”

“And good day to you.” What right had she to welcome him to his own home? “Theilyn.” He made his sister a curt bow and was pleased to see uncertainty at war with defiance in her smoky blue eyes. He was less impressed to see her hair curling loosely around her shoulders and the way her cross-tied shawl accentuated the curves of her developing figure.

“And I am Eresken.” The man between the two women offered his hand. Teiriol took a firm grip on the smooth palm unmarred by toil or injury. He closed his fingers tight, eyes expressionless as he looked for the other man’s reaction.

“I am very pleased to meet you.” Eresken’s smile remained unchanged and after a moment Teiriol dropped both the stranger’s hand and his own gaze. “Mother needs your help in the scullery, Theilyn,” he said without preamble. “Whatever else is going on—” he shot Aritane a hostile glance— “you should not forget your duties or your responsibilities.”

Theilyn colored, lifting her chin arrogantly. Aritane forestalled her reply. “He’s right, my dear. I am keeping you from your work.” She favored the girl with a private smile. “Run along and we can tell Teiriol just why we have filled his home with strangers. He’ll see how a little sacrifice now will lead to so much greater reward in the future.”

Teiriol folded his arms a touch defensively and studied Eresken critically. Who was this man of obviously mixed blood, for all his local clothing? “Jeirran wants you. Someone’s brought news about wizards in the lowlands.”

Aritane frowned. “What has that to do with us?”

“Jeirran keeps himself fully apprised of anything that might affect his plans.” Eresken rested his hand briefly on hers. He smiled at Teiriol. “It is something, is it not, that a man has finally emerged to voice all our dissatisfactions and urge us to stand up to the lowlanders?”

Teiriol felt uncomfortable as Eresken’s green eyes bored into him. Memories of past outrages, witnessed, reported and spoken of over long winter evenings down the years echoed in the back of his mind. Whatever he might think of Jeirran personally, it was true that the man was displaying a courage no one else had shown in recent times. Disloyal irritation with Keisyl’s aloofness pricked him.

“Come on, Theilyn.” Taking her hand, he hurried back to the shelter of the rekin.

“Do you think he will join us?” Aritane asked dubiously as she watched him go.

“I think so,” nodded Eresken. “There’s much anger inside him, and an outward-looking mind. As long as we can focus that where we want it, he’ll be unable to hold out for long.” Eresken pointed to Theilyn hanging on her brother’s arm and talking intently, half skipping in her urgency to match his pace. “Theilyn will convince him.” In the shelter of gathering shadow, he lifted Aritane’s hand to kiss it swiftly.

“I wish I could read people as well as you.” Aritane’s cold poise was melted now, humility mixed with a hint of envy.

“You will, one day,” Eresken promised her with warm affection. “When we have peace in the uplands, I can teach you everything I know. When you share that learning, you will raise the Sheltya to the honor rightfully theirs—and yours.”

Aritane’s mouth opened on an intake of breath. “Then you will be staying? Truly?” Hope strangled her words.

“I will need my father’s blessing, but I cannot see him refusing, not once he has met your mind in the honesty of true magic.” Eresken ran a self-conscious hand over his hair, dark against her fairness. “I cannot see him rebuking me for falling in love with a woman of Tren Ar’Dryen, just as he did.”

Aritane was at once distracted. “What did you say?”

“My mother was of the Plains to the east and south of here,” said Eresken with a shrug. “My father crossed the ocean long years since and where he made landfall her people took him and his voyagers in. They were of the ancient blood of the Plains; a few still hide from imperious Tormalin steel.” He smiled. “Not all have passed into lowland myth as Eldritch-men living in the shadows of the chimney corner. When the ship sailed in the spring, she was aboard and I within her.” His face fell a little. “I have heard some disparage my blood. I suppose I am a lowlander mongrel but—”

“The ancient race of the Plains shared in true magic, the sagas confirm it,” interrupted Aritane hotly. “Such a lineage is no disgrace.”

“Perhaps we might circulate the truth among our immediate circle,” suggested Eresken diffidently. “I had better see what Jeirran needs. Until later, my beloved.”

He turned from Aritane and within a few strides the modesty that had so touched her was replaced with a well-disguised look of satisfaction. Aritane twisted her hands together before walking toward a knot of gray-clad figures sitting around a glowing brazier.

“Ari! Hold up there!” Another man in the dusky wool and long tunic that marked out the Sheltya hailed her. He was tall for their race, narrow shoulders hunched, wringing large hands in an absent gesture. A few curious heads rose around the compound and immediately ducked back to their work when they caught Aritane’s commanding glare.

“Bryn,” she inclined her head in reserved welcome. “I hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Didn’t we agree you would best serve the cause by continuing to travel with Cullam?” There was a faint sneer in her tone as she mentioned the name.

“Cullam has gone over the heights, summoned to the Hachalfess,” Bryn replied, confidence in his tone belying the diffidence of his manner.

“Sheltya at the beck and call of every goatherder as usual.” Aritane commented sarcastically. “You didn’t fancy the trip?”

“I made excuse to stay behind,” Bryn told her a little hesitantly. “I didn’t think it wise to go so far that I would only be able to contact you with far-speech and risk being overheard by the Elders.”

“If you don’t have the skill to shield yourself, perhaps that was wise.” Aritane looked at Bryn a touch contemptuously. “But why come here? I wanted you to stay within the fold for the moment, to warn us if suspicions are aroused.”

“The Elders will have more important things to concern them,” retorted Bryn with spirit. “Cullam has asked me to relay a message to the high peaks. A scholar has come to Hachalfess, seeking old sagas and asking about ancient lore. Cullam senses he is searching for true magic and wants to know what to tell him.”

“That stupid old man?” gasped Aritane. “He must tell this fool nothing, not a word. How else will our skills baffle the enemy? Surprise is our greatest advantage!”

“So what do we do?” demanded Bryn. “I’ve not yet passed on the message but I’m already going to be rebuked for delay. I cannot hold it much longer without arousing suspicions. The bones at Solstice telling every Sheltya and every soke to follow Jeirran to war will do me no good if I’m stripped of all knowledge before you act!”

“Come with me.” Aritane hurried Bryn toward the rekin, a forceful hand behind his elbow. “We must talk to Eresken at once.”

Hachalfess, 15th of For-Summer

“What do you suppose he’s telling him?” ’Gren shifted in his chair, as he had been doing constantly all evening. “Perhaps—”

“Perhaps you should be patient?” I waited for Halcarion to drop a star on my head. Usara and Sorgrad were deep in conversation with an old man in gray but the genial hum of the room made it impossible to hear what they were saying. I was no less keen than ’Gren to be involved but Sorgrad had told us very firmly that we were not wanted. Reluctantly I had to agree that introducing Usara as a scholar with Sorgrad to translate was as much as we could risk, given the aged visitor’s obvious caution in dealing with lowlanders. The men and women of the soke were keeping very strictly to their separate roles and duties around the old man so I’d dug out skirt and bodice from the bottom of my bag.

I studied the old man covertly. About the age of Garven, small-boned and hungry-looking, his loose gray tunic and cloak looked to have been made for a bigger man. With thin white hair and watery gray eyes set deep in a wrinkled face, he sat hunched in a fine-carved chair listening intently to Sorgrad. One disregarded hand shook with a faint palsy and I’d seen the same tremor in his head earlier. There was no way such a frail and ancient man had come up the trail we’d followed, not without help or a beast of burden.

“You were going to ask Doratie about Cullam,” I reminded ’Gren. The old women had been the first to welcome him when he arrived with no pack, no water and no support beyond the prop of a staff.

“She says he’s from the eastern reaches,” ’Gren shrugged.

“The valleys leading down to the Gap?” I wanted to be quite clear on this. “Across the higher ground to the west? He got here from there since yesterday?”

’Gren nodded. “Sheltya do that kind of thing.”

Which was either a lie to impress the people of the soke, or it was the truth. What was gained by a lie? Pretense to impress bites back when the falsehood’s revealed and these things always come out. What if it were truth? Then these Sheltya, whoever they were, had the same means to shift themselves from place to place that made Elietimm such a frustrating and dangerous foe. Which meant aetheric magic. Hope warmed me more than the dancing flames of the hearth.

’Gren fidgeted again. “I could go and see if they want a drink.” We were sitting as close as we could without attracting comment, which meant we could talk as long as we didn’t mind other people overhearing. The goldsmith’s assistant and one of the younger girls were doing the same at the opposite end of the room. From the affronted glares another lass was giving me, we’d taken the place of some other couple keen to get to know each other under the benign restrictions of family and custom.

“No,” I said a trifle curtly. “So, what have you been up to today?”

“Helping dose mules for worm, playing with the children, chopping firewood, the usual. I told the children an old story about wyrms burrowing under the mountains, eating up the rocks until Misaen captured them and locked them away!” He smiled with happy recollection. “You want to learn that one.”

“And are you going to be the one getting up past midnight when the little ones are all wetting their beds with nightmares?” Damaris wasn’t going to thank him for that.

“They won’t wake up. How did you get on with these lovely ladies?” he asked with a touch of malice.

“I had a very nice time polishing the pewter.” It might have been more productive if any of the women had spoken enough Tormalin to gossip properly but at least I hadn’t lost the touch. I picked some sand and wood ash from beneath my scuffed fingernails.

“Good evening.” Merial came to sit beside me, nodding politely at ’Gren. His eyes brightened at her small tray bearing gold-rimmed goblets and a small green glass bottle of colorless liquor. “We call it mountain dew. We make it from…” she frowned a little as she poured, “varsi? I don’t know the lowlander word.”

“Rye,” supplied ’Gren with pleasure.

I sniffed at my thimbleful and rolled it around the glass, noting the sluggish lines clinging to the sides. I was pleasantly surprised by the smoothness of the spirit and the tang of herbs on my tongue.

“My mother used to flavor hers with rowan berries,” ’Gren was saying, “but I think this has more character.”

“It’s very fine,” I agreed. “Do you distill it yourself?” If I couldn’t listen in on Sorgrad’s conversation, I could at least make myself agreeable with some of my own.

Merial busied herself with her spinning basket. “If there’s grain enough to spare.”

“Every soke has its different ways of finishing and flavoring it,” volunteered ’Gren, pausing to raise an inquiring brow at Merial before reaching for the flask at her nod. “One of my uncles always said if he got storm-lost in the heights, all he had to do was find a fess, taste the dew and he’d know where he was.”

Merial laughed. “A fair few men could claim the same.” She was deftly spinning woolly animal hair into a fine, even yarn.

“I’ve never come across goats that you could pluck before,” I commented. “Lowland goats are only good for milk and hide. It’s sheep that are sheared for spinning.”

“Damaris said stripping the nannies made you sneeze?” Merial managed not to laugh.

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s obviously not a task for me.” I’d been forced to resurrect my housemaid skills in order to salvage some pride.

Merial continued her work with unconscious ease. “Sheep don’t do so well in the heights but sometimes we trade for fleeces. They’re much messier to spin.” She reached over to brush an unnoticed fragment of fluff from my sleeve. “Still, it can be worth it for the chance of colors. The goat yarn doesn’t take dye very well. We breed for different shades of coat—”

She broke off, spindle whorl slowing unheeded. The main door to the room swung open slowly, the cold draft setting lamps flickering in their niches all around the walls. Four shadowy figures stood on the steps behind the gate ward. Everyone in the room rose to their feet, me and ’Gren the same as the rest.

Taegen barked a sharp demand. Uncertainty colored the gatekeeper’s reply.

“What is it?” I mouthed at ’Gren.

“Sheltya,” he murmured between motionless lips.

I looked at Merial and saw that all the blood had drained from her face. Damaris beyond her looked fit to faint.

“Why the reaction?” I shifted half a pace closer to ’Gren, not about to risk anything louder than a voiceless whisper in the tense silence.

“Four of them—pestilence or capital crime,” he breathed.

Somewhere off toward the scullery, someone’s knees gave way. The scrape of the chair as she sat caught everyone’s attention. I used the moment to edge behind Merial, wishing fruitlessly for some way of covering my hair. This was not a good time to be a poppy in a cornfield; they get yanked out good and quick.

The gatekeeper had moved to stand behind Taegen’s shoulder. The old man was deathly pale, the ribbed scar on his cheek livid in contrast but his voice sounded calm and polite. I seethed silently with frustration. Drianon be my witness, I was going to make a Solstice vow to learn every tongue spoken from the wilds west of Solura to the eastern ocean and down to the southern archipelago.

The Sheltya entered the room, four of them, gray-cloaked, gray-hooded. The leader put back her hood, revealing a long face with deep-set, arrogant eyes and satisfied superiority curving her smile. Her cut-close hair was a blond almost white and her skin was so pale that veins showed blue at temple and neck. An ice maiden. No, that mouth was anything but frigid, and worse, those opaque eyes were lit with a dark intelligence.

She waited, perhaps a sign of respect or more likely calculating to put the onus on the aged Cullam. The old man leaned heavily on his stick, palsy shaking him. Sorgrad beside him looked apprehensive and awe-struck all at once, just like any other son or nephew of the house. Cullam spoke; his voice was firm and authoritative, for all the uncontrollable shudder in his hands. Whatever he was saying, he was displeased. The man next to the woman in charge put back his hood with reluctant hands, his tone defensive as he answered Cullam’s accusations.

The woman cut across them both, her voice sharp. I watched the figures behind her, both anonymous beneath gray cloth and thought I caught a glance in my direction, a glimpse of eyes neither blue nor brown. A faint chill fingered my shoulder blades and I fought an impulse to shudder. I slid my feet silently on the flagstones to put Merial fully between me and whoever lurked beneath that hood.

As the Sheltya raised voices on both sides, I noticed uncertain looks passing across the hearth and around the room. Taegan was frowning now, anger rising above his apprehension, keen to start asking his own questions.

“You say you are a scholar?” The woman’s clipped accents notwithstanding, her Tormalin was precise and clear. She took a few paces forward and fixed Usara with a disdainful stare.

“That is correct, my lady.” Usara bowed with exquisite courtesy. “Of Col, and I am most eager to learn the history of your mountains and of your people—”

She cut him off with a contemptuous laugh. “Why do you lie when we can see right through your pretense? You are a deceiver and a sham.”

“I assure you, my lady—forgive me, I know neither your name nor title—but—” Usara’s high cheekbones were colored with temper.

“You are a mage, a dealer of false magic.” She raised her voice to drown his soft politeness. “Tergeva!” She stabbed one long white finger at him. Whatever this meant, it was unwelcome news to these hospitable people. Everyone close to Usara took a hasty step away. Sorgrad did the same, face mirroring the shock around him, but the woman turned her accusing finger on him.

“Tergeva na tures,” she spat. “Misaen en shel tures.”

Sorgrad answered her back robustly. I missed his words as Merial turned toward ’Gren, sadness in her eyes. ’Gren nodded regretfully. I’d never seen such mortification in his face.

“You there, woodswoman! You are with them!”

I tried to look innocent, silently cursing Merial for stepping aside. “I am just traveling with them—”

“That is no excuse. Nor do I believe you. There is word of the mages of Hadrumal suborning the Folk of the Forest. I see your presence as proof of such a plot!”

Didn’t this bitch let anyone finish a sentence? I kept my face bemused as the woman spoke on in the Mountain tongue. Halcarion knows what she told them; Damaris looked utterly betrayed and Kethrain began weeping silently into a handkerchief.

Who was this arrogant shrew, coming in to play judge and jury without so much as a by your leave? That her accusations were in some sense true was beside the point. I stood expressionless under her harangue, soon as isolated as Sorgrad as everyone edged away. She was someone with enough power, both by magic and custom, to do exactly what she wanted. That made her extremely dangerous. Not that that was going to bother ’Gren. He came sauntering around the hearth to stand beside me, a mocking smile on his face as he bowed to the woman. He said something that halted her in mid-tirade and brought all her lackeys up short. Again, I caught a disquieting glimpse of that rearmost hood turned toward me.

“Don’t make them mad, ’Gren,” I warned. We needed to get something besides our necks out of this unwelcome turn of events. I began searching my mind for options.

“You will quit this place now, at once.” The bitch was back to Tormalin, her sweeping gaze encompassing us all.

She pointed dramatically to the doorway, still open to the night. “No fess will give shelter to such deceivers!” She had a flair for the dramatic to rival Niello, I thought contemptuously. She also had a fine-braided leather belt around her trim waist, a little purse, a knife and a few other oddments tied to it, hanging against her unadorned gray gown. Someone must be raising that color of goat exclusively for Sheltya use.

“Kovar en ria—” one of the younger girls spoke up without thinking, blushed scarlet and hid her face in her hands. The Sheltya woman stared incredulously around to see who had dared to voice an objection. She took a deep breath, a withering look in her eyes.

Before she could speak, Taegan stepped forward. “Kovar al tures,” he said firmly to Sorgrad. “Ilk marist en firath.” His voice cracked a little and he looked beseechingly at Cullam.

“Sikkar,” the old man confirmed. This time it was his turn to drown the woman’s protests, shouting her down with an unexpected authority. Disquiet ran rife around the room.

“What are they saying?” I demanded of ’Gren.

“The bitch wants to put us out into the night,” he said, eyes bright. “Taegan is claiming right of travel truce and old Cullam’s backing him.”

“May I say something?” Usara’s mild request was so unexpected it silenced everyone. “Please will you translate for me, Sorgrad? First, if Cullam is in any way able to vouch for the truth of my words, I would be very grateful for him to do so.” The mage folded his hands together, looking about as dangerous as a milk-fed pup but with unmistakable authority in his bearing. “It is true that I am a wizard as well as a student of history. I have the ring of a scholar of Col, though I do not wear it at present. Yes, I am a mage of Hadrumal, but I did not believe that would be an offense of itself against your customs, as long as I wielded no magic within your territory. Nor did I believe it was wrong for Sorgrad to come here. As I understood the tale, he was banished from his home, not from the whole of the mountains in perpetuity.”

He paused for breath and Sorgrad rapidly translated for those unable to follow the wizard’s own speech. When Sorgrad finished, there was a tense moment until Cullam nodded.

“Sikkarl turat en tergeva,” the old Sheltya said curtly.

Usara nodded as one equal to another. “I came to learn what I could of your history and your wisdom. The misunderstandings between lowlands and mountains are longstanding and many arise from ignorance. Knowledge can salve that ignorance and perhaps enable us all to live and work in harmony. As for magic—”

“Silence!” the woman shouted harshly. “You will not speak of such things on pain of death!”

That grabbed everyone’s attention and I slid a hand inside my sleeve to check the knife I kept sheathed there. All my other weapons were up in the room where I had been sleeping, so if I only had one throw it had better be a good one.

Usara’s unruffled calm made a mockery of the woman’s flushed and angry face. He looked briefly at Cullam, at Sorgrad and then turned to Taegan. “I apologize that we have inadvertently trespassed on your hospitality and your good will. We meant no offense. Rather than bring further discord to your house, we will collect our belongings and leave at once. Please accept my most sincere regrets.”

He bowed and made for the stairs. Sorgrad was relaying Usara’s words to Taegan loud enough for everyone to hear, and from the time he was taking about it adding some amends of his own. Taegen’s reply was understandably curt but not outright hostile. Sorgrad bowed deeply and followed Usara.

“Come on,” I said to ’Gren. “Let’s get our kit and clear out. Time to cut our losses and draw again.”

He followed me to the stairwell door where I looked over my shoulder before going up. The Sheltya woman was in the midst of a nervous knot of women and girls, composure restored as she played the gracious lady answering their hesitant questions. Her male companion stood a little awkwardly by the younger men, none of whom seemed to have much to say for themselves. Cullam stayed next to Taegan, exchanging remarks in low voices and directing carefully neutral glances at the woman. The remaining Sheltya were still standing by the door, motionless apart from the breeze plucking at the hems of their cloaks. The one at the back turned a hooded head toward me again and this time I caught a flash of green eyes from within the shadow.

An inexplicable disquiet gnawed at me. These eyes were not the clear green of the Folk, echoing summer leaves, but had the cold pallor of the winter ocean. Why did that worry me so much? Sudden fear sent me fleeing up the stairs like a child seeking the sanctuary of blankets to shut out the night’s terrors. I stumbled on the uneven risers of the steps.

“Slow down!” ’Gren exclaimed, his own boots scraping on the stairs as they spiraled up through the thickness of the wall. “What’s the hurry?”

I paused, breathing heavily. “I—” I found I had no answer. “Why can’t you cursed people build an even flight of steps!”

“Because uneven stairs trip up anyone trying to attack in the dark, why do you think?” ’Gren’s literal-minded approach to life didn’t miss a breath.

“What?” I stared at him.

“Different pattern in every rekin,” he explained readily. “Go up and down them every day, and you never notice. Try being a stranger sneaking up in the dark and you’ll go flat on your nose!”

“And I thought it was just you two who were paranoid.” The thrill of dread had evaporated, leaving me feeling small and foolish. “I’ll meet you back here.”

Going up the next set of stairs, I reached the female floor of the rekin and passed through the smaller rooms set aside for married women until I reached the broad dormitory for girls and guests. I unlocked the little chest set at the end of my allocated bed and took out my kit-bag with a little regret. I’d been looking forward to finding out more about the finely worked Mountain Man locks that were traded the length and breadth of old Empire.

I shed my skirts without any compunction. Since we were already as welcome as a mangy dog, the household could be scandalized by me in my breeches. I wasn’t about to go out into the dusk with only thin wool between the biting insects and me. I also swapped soft shoes for my usual boots, checking the daggers sheathed in the seams and the darts in my belt-pouch. I didn’t trust that loud-mouthed virago down there not to try something to finish us off once we were beyond the shelter of the fess. I wasn’t done with her either, I decided, loosening the dagger beneath my shirt sleeve and unbuttoning the cuff so I could palm the blade in an instant.

’Gren’s double knock on the outer door set me stuffing the rest of my belongings anyhow into my bag. I hurried back to the stairway and found all three of them waiting for me.

“We will make our departure with dignity and courtesy,” Usara said firmly. “I do not wish to cause any more upset.”

“It’s her can’t keep her tongue behind her teeth,” I objected. “What about—”

“We are leaving,” said Usara, cutting me short just as ruthlessly as the woman.

“As long as Cullam is on their side, those other Sheltya can’t make too much trouble for the soke.” Sorgrad laid a hand on my arm, expression somber. “If we do anything to turn the old man against us, these people could find themselves without the help of any Sheltya when they really need it.”

I studied him for a moment. “All right.” I moved to let Usara lead the way down the curving stair, Sorgrad at his heel. As I walked down, I rubbed at my elbow as if I had inadvertently knocked it on the wall. I could feel ’Gren’s eyes on the back of my neck but forced myself not to look at him.

Conversation more normal in pitch and tone was filling the downstairs room now, but everyone still fell silent when the four of us entered. A pathway cleared to the far door in an instant. Usara walked slowly, smiling to either side, for all the world like Messire D’Olbriot gracious to his tenants at a festival supper. Sorgrad followed him, expressionless but uncowed. I did the same, but as we drew level with the Sheltya woman, ’Gren halted.

“Mer dalta enres?” he inquired genially. “Dalrist maires reman ilkreal girast nor surel.”

The woman blinked with startled outrage. The older women looked bemused, some of the girls giggled, and ’Gren took a pace closer to the Sheltya female, mischief in his smile. She stepped back as I moved forward, ostensibly reaching out for ’Gren’s arm. We collided, I apologized profusely and hustled ’Gren past her, hurrying for the door where Usara was waiting, irritation in his eyes, faint suspicion in Sorgrad’s. I kept my head down, hands thrust deep into my breeches pockets, not daring to look at the hooded figures standing to one side.

“Let’s go,” Usara said grimly as we walked through the compound beneath the unseen eyes of sentries. The kenneled dogs had been roused by the disturbance and barked inquisitively, a lantern bobbing through the gloom as someone went to them. We were passed out through the main gate without a word and took the track leading down to the river in continued silence. It was a pale blemish in the dark of the grass, everything colorless in the deep twilight, but with care there was enough light to be sure of our footing, with the brilliant stars and the lesser moon waning to its half in a clear sky. The air was cool but not unpleasantly so, fragrant with the moistness of dew refreshing the sun-parched grasses. We trudged on, the glen featureless in the darkness until the chatter of water over stones told us we were nearing the river. I looked in vain for any paling of the sky but Halcarion’s Crown was still bright on the western horizon.

“Can we cross this without light?” Usara peered forward. “I don’t think this is quite the time for me to raise magefire to show us the way.”

I laughed dutifully at the feeble attempt at a pleasantry but the others stayed silent as we slowly picked our way across the stepping stones, luckily without mishap. I paused to fill my waterskin and the river was as cold as a mother’s curse as I hurriedly rinsed the handkerchief I’d been clutching.

“We’ll keep moving until daybreak,” said Sorgrad suddenly. “We want to get clear of the soke and down to the villages as soon as we can.”

“Then we can plan our next move,” I agreed. I sucked at the shallow cut on the ball of my thumb, tasting the bitterness of the dried blood. Full-time cutpurses carry a sliver of horn to protect themselves from their own blades.

“Then we head down into Solura,” Usara corrected me.

“I think you can lose the lordly tone now that you’ve finished impressing the girls back there.” I was going to have my say now. “What’s the point of going back to Solura? We know they’ve got the knowledge we want up here now. What we need is to set about planning a way to get it!”

The wizard halted, faint light reflecting off his balding head, his face in shadow. “Knowledge isn’t some silver cup you can go about stealing, Livak!”

“Where’s that written, O wise one?” I retorted.

“You can’t say something’s impossible until you’ve tried it, wizard.” ’Gren’s smile was a gleam of white in the darkness.

“Do you have a better plan?” inquired Sorgrad, a creak of leather suggesting he was putting his hands through his belt.

“Curse it, Usara; you were the one complaining about wasting time in the Forest. Now that we know where to look, why delay?”

The wizard ignored me, much to my irritation. “What exactly did that woman say? Did she give any reason for her hatred of our magic?”

Sorgrad’s tone was both light and bitter at the same time. “We are apparently abominations in Misaen’s eyes, a foul betrayal of Maewelin’s goodness, polluting whatever we touch.”

“Oh,” said Usara blankly. He sighed. “If she had a rational argument, no matter how flawed, we might have some chance of pointing out the error in her logic. If it’s a matter of entrenched belief, no amount of reason will prevail.”

“So why bother arguing with her?” I demanded.

Usara peered upward to check the sky. “We should see the first arc of the greater moon tomorrow, shouldn’t we? If we can make it back to Pastamar by the end of For-Summer and as long as certain people have remembered the Soluran calendar doesn’t march quite in step with the Tormalin one, there’s someone I need to meet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Spit it out, Sandy!”

“What’s in Pastamar?”

Usara shook his head at all our questions. “Given we know Artificers can eavesdrop on conversations from quite some distance, I would prefer to get away from that unpleasant female before I discuss it further.”

That silenced us all. We began the long and weary trudge up the side of the main valley and I struggled to contain my irritation. As soon as Usara was prepared to talk again, my first question would be what did he have planned to make up for having to spend the Summer Solstice in some benighted Soluran backwater. The next was how were we going about getting our hands on the undoubted knowledge of the Sheltya. Usara could give up if he liked, but I wasn’t about to. I owed the bitch that much.