《Age of Monsters》


 In the City of the Scholar Masters

    The stranger was big and hearty, and his hair was so coppery that it seemed to have verdigris. He smelled of turned earth, and the skin around his eyes looked too soft, like the frilled flesh under a toadstool¡¯s cap. When he rubbed at his nose, Manrie expected it to come apart and release its spores into the air. She sat on her bed and ate a bun and watched him.


    He had come into the room to lay a sparrow¡¯s nest on the table before Aizdha, who sat back and looked at it, a sick expression on his face. He seemed to know Aizdha, and Aizdha seemed to know him. He reached out a moist looking hand to seize one of the buns that Manrie had brought for Aizdha¡¯s breakfast. ¡°I am so sorry,¡± he said.


    Aizdha sighed. ¡°I knew when I saw the hawk yesterday that the fledglings would be dead today.¡±


    ¡°I saw the mother at the bottom of the stairs. Her body had been torn asunder, and her feathers were scattered on the ground.¡±


    Manrie hadn¡¯t seen this when she had gone to fetch breakfast from the kitchens, although she had turned left along the base of the wall, and couldn¡¯t be certain that the dead sparrow hadn¡¯t been deposited somewhere to the right.


    ¡°Truly,¡± the stranger sighed, ¡°this world intends to kill us.¡±


    ¡°It is how things are,¡± Aizdha said mournfully. ¡°How they¡¯ve always been. This world is a cycle of death and dissolution, and the emergence of new life.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps for those creatures it considers its own,¡± the stranger said. ¡°But we are not of this world. From the moment our ancestors came through the Door of Hasra, we have had to contend with the land. It has never accepted us.¡±


    ¡°But there¡¯s bread to eat, and fruit, and meat. You make it sound like the land itself was a monster.¡±


    The stranger nodded. ¡°It is. But you cannot fit the whole of it into your bestiary. And so you must describe the parts. The manifestations of the monstrous, rather than the monstrous itself.¡±


    This seemed to trouble Aizdha. He frowned and turned his head to glance at the bestiary, which was sitting at its usual place on the end of the long table that was closest to his bed. He had an odd look on his face, as if he found his life¡¯s work strangely repellent.


    ¡°Listen, my friend, let me tell you a thing,¡± the stranger continued, sitting forward, his expression a mask of sincerity. ¡°When I was a child, a great plague came upon my village. It was as if the air itself had turned to poison. The farmers reported that the ground had turned yellowish in patches, out in the fields. Like moss growing on a tree, only the color of a seeping wound, and pungent.


    ¡°My parents died, and my sisters. I was left alone. And then great carrion birds came. No doubt you have studied and classified them, but I knew them only as huge blue birds, as blue as the sky, and impossible to see until they were plummeting towards you. They should have been natural hunters, but they only cared to feast on corpses. Why, I ask you. Birds that are disguised by the sky, but do nothing with this camouflage. We can only understand it as a form of maliciousness. The land showing us how little we matter, our short lives meant only for the gullets of cowardly vultures.


    ¡°But I digress. When one of these birds landed on my mother¡¯s corpse I clung to her, and tried to beat at it, and in its malice it seized me and flew high into the air. I was sure that I would die. But I was turned in its claws, and found myself looking down. And do you know what I saw? I saw those patches of yellow in the winnowed fields, and they formed a pattern. They looked at me with a horrible, leering face. I knew that I was looking down on the true face of the land.¡±


    Manrie closed her eyes for a moment. She saw a bloated body lying on the ground, and a piece of sky floating down towards it, like a flake of diseased skin. A memory from her childhood, although she could no longer say whose body it had been. But Aizdha was distracted, frowning in his scholarly way. ¡°Giant blue carrion birds? Gorpsarra. I had the opportunity to dissect one, when I was younger. They have two stomaches. What the second one is for, I could not determine.¡±


    The stranger blinked. He gave a soft, sad smile. ¡°You are missing the point. When I say that the land is trying to kill us, I mean that it has a mind, a will. It has a face. And the object of our studies should be to discover its weaknesses.¡±


    ¡°Do you wish to kill the land?¡± Manrie asked.


    The stranger ignored her, so Aizdha repeated her question. ¡°Do you wish to kill it?¡±


    ¡°To tame it. To keep it docile.¡±


    ¡°To enslave it,¡± Manrie said.


    ¡°I was a slave once,¡± the stranger told Aizdha, pretending that he hadn¡¯t heard her. ¡°A good and useful slave. I sold myself to a clever merchant. What else could I do? I had no family, no village. The merchant was an upright and fair man, and part of his fairness was that our roles were always clear. Slaves should not talk, he told me, unless asked a question. A good adage.¡±


    Manrie expected Aizdha to wave this away. But instead he murmured, ¡°perhaps,¡± and for a moment she couldn¡¯t breathe. But then he continued. ¡°Perhaps there is some record of this moss. Have you asked the Archivist of the Second Tower?¡±


    ¡°I have been among the books.¡±


    ¡°I seem to remember reading something¡­yes, in the Jara Floriary. A strange contagion of the earth, to the west of the mountains. Caused bulbous sores that leaked pus. Is that right? Or was it asphyxiation?¡± His hand reached out and seized a small scrap of paper, and he wrote hurriedly on it with a stylus. He held it out from his body, as he always did when he was in the midst of excited research, and Manrie rose from her bed and took it. She smirked at the stranger as she did so.


    But it was unfortunate that the floriary was in the possession of the Archivist of the Second Tower, for he had always treated her as a slave, and his people did likewise. When she presented Aizdha¡¯s note to a feeble little clerk sitting at the marble desk in the antechamber, the girl brought out her tome of handwriting samples. After a moment of study she looked up. ¡°Not verifiable.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean, not verifiable? You can see it¡¯s his handwriting. And anyway, you know he¡¯s my master.¡±


    ¡°The loop of the t is wider than usual.¡±


    ¡°He was scribbling. In the midst of research. The ees and ohs are tiny, like they always are.¡±


    ¡°Not verifiable.¡±


    Manrie sighed. ¡°Fetch Pluegit,¡± she said. The girl looked up, and for a moment their gazes locked in silent combat. Pluegit, at least, was terrified of annoying the great scholars, and would balk at the idea of sending Manrie back to Aizdha for such a flimsy reason.


    The clerk turned her bulbous eyes back to the handwriting samples. ¡°I will compare it with another entry. Yes, I see. The r looks suspicious, but it will pass. The Jara Floriary. We will fetch it.¡± She lifted a thin hand and languidly rang a little bell. One of the book slaves scuttled forward from the bench where they all sat, waiting to be summoned. He disappeared through the marble arch into the tower proper, and Manrie went to sit on a windowsill.


    ¡°You know, I just came back,¡± she said to the clerk. She kept her tone light, conversational. ¡°I was in the Gaendolin Hills. At the summer house of Lady Katemzan Daturi. We dissected the husk of a huge insect together. A real monster. It must be somewhere down in the caves, eating with its gigantic mandibles. I was able to determine that it has nineteen legs, which is eerie, don¡¯t you think? Being asymmetrical, I mean.¡±


    The clerk gave a little shiver and then ignored her. Manrie had been creating her own mental bestiary for years, full of the people Aizdha wouldn¡¯t let her list as monsters. The clerk was classified with the other papery-skinned dust dwellers who fed on rules and regulations and amused themselves with causing difficulties.


    The Jara Floriary was quite large, and she was allowed to take it to a reading desk so that she could make notes on a few scraps of paper. It was poorly organized, with entries inserted without any order, and she glanced with annoyance at the clerk, who could be a useful monster if she would only apply herself to the task of organizing scholarly mess. There were a number of pages, written in blue ink, that dealt entirely with types of seaweed, and a long section on the great distances that seed pods could travel through the air. Finally she found what she was looking for on thin paper sheets that had been casually inserted into the text between pages that described carnivorous plants. She was just settling down to copy out the information when a shadow fell over her, and she looked up to find the odious stranger looming above her.


    He seemed intent on pretending that she wasn¡¯t there. He leaned over and ran a finger along the words, something that you were never supposed to do, as human touch could degrade the inky knowledge. He was breathing roughly through his nose, as if he were in the throes of sexual congress. He smelled musty, and his skin had the sheen of the most poisonous of fungi. ¡°Yes, yes, yes,¡± he murmured to himself.


    Manrie hunched forward and blocked his access to the book. She tensed her body and resumed her copying. If she didn¡¯t exist for him, then he didn¡¯t exist for her. But he seemed to have found what he needed, and he drifted away. When she was leaving the Second Tower she spotted him seated at a table by the window, writing furiously in a book of his own. He had a gold stylus that glinted in the sunlight.


    When she returned to Aizdha¡¯s chamber her master was lying in bed with his face to the wall. She went and stood over him, but he didn¡¯t seem to sense her presence. ¡°I¡¯ve copied the pages out of the Jara Floriary,¡± she told him.


    He turned his head and looked at her. Then he unwound himself from the bed, went to his table, and sat in front of the bestiary. But he did nothing more. His eyes strayed to the window and he settled into an eerily placid silence. There was a strange odor in the room, resinous and pungent. But there were no used plates or cups, no open bottles of mysterious liquor, no source for the smell that she could find.


    He stared quietly out of the window for most of the day. She busied herself with cleaning his chambers, which had gotten very dusty while she was gone on her travels. Then she sat and carefully pasted the pages that she had brought back from the Gaendolin Hills into the fifth signature of the bestiary, having decided that the nineteen-legged monster belonged with locusts, even if it didn¡¯t fly. As she turned the pages, she was gratified, as always, to see her handwriting and her drawings covering the vellum. When the sun began to set, Aizdha shook himself and asked for water. She watched his face as he drank. Watery light from the old glass in the windows moved across his features. He looked like he was floating up from a deep pool.


    ¡°Are you sick?¡± she asked him.


    ¡°No,¡± he smiled. ¡°No, I am very well.¡± But he wanted to wash and then sleep. She fetched a pail of water for him from the kitchen, sloshing it slightly on the tiled outer stairs. He would never let her bathe him, not out of any vanity regarding his plump body and thin arms, but to save her embarrassment. The slaves who served other scholars were never shown such consideration.


    That night she dreamt that he was moving about the room, picking up objects, examining them, sometimes lifting them to his face and touching them with the tip of his tongue. He picked up a stylus, a chipped water jug, a string of beads that a village matriarch had given him once, each in turn. But he never touched the bestiary. She awoke and opened her eyes and saw him standing over her, blue light rippling across him. He was looking down into her face with an expression of such sadness that it made her gasp. She reached out to take his hand, to reassure him, but there was no one there.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    She lay frozen in the bed, her heart pounding. There were stories in the towns and villages. Shades of the dead walking abroad, as if the graves had become overcrowded and there was no space for them beneath the earth. But Aizdha wasn¡¯t dead. She looked across the long room and saw him lying on his bed. Was his chest moving? She could just make out the still features of his wizened face. Slipping from between the blankets, she padded across the room and knelt beside him. Her fingers found his wrist and she counted his pulse, feeling her own heartbeats calm as she reassured herself that his life was still present, rhythmic, steady.


    But she was afraid when she woke up the next morning. She brought him his breakfast, and then she went out, leaving him at his work table, his stylus poised above the notes that she had copied from the floriary the day before. He never stopped her comings and goings, trusting that she would be there when he needed her. He had rarely raised his voice to her, had never touched her in an unwanted way. She was his slave, but she wasn¡¯t like the other slaves. Larta, in the kitchens, often bore bruises on her arms, inflicted by the Master of the Outer Wall. When she strung the curtain so that Manrie could bathe behind it, she was extending a protection that she didn¡¯t have for herself. The kitchen boys, with their lascivious eyes, were often forced to endure the pinches and caresses of the scholars as they carried meals to their chambers and tidied up their night waste. Aizdha was special, and his gentleness, his refusal to demean her, was part of his greatness.


    She left the library and went into the city, climbing through its streets to the Pinnacle Gate. Beztrae, the guard captain, smiled at her when she came into his room at the top of the north tower. ¡°Questions from your master?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°He wants to know if you have ever seen a face in the earth.¡±


    Beztrae was married to a small, plain woman who kept a garden in the town, and who had littered his command room with pots of flowers. His gaze strayed to them, and a quizzical, alarmed expression tightened his fine features. ¡°In the earth?¡±


    ¡°Not in a pot of chrysanthemums,¡± she assured him. ¡°In the mountainside, for instance.¡± She glanced out the window. ¡°Did the forest, or the rocks, ever rearrange themselves into a face?¡±


    ¡°That would be very alarming.¡±


    ¡°How about mushrooms? Have you ever met a monster made of mushrooms?¡±


    ¡°No¡­Surely these are questions for one of the scholars. For your master.¡±


    She gave a little smile and shrugged. ¡°He¡¯s collecting information. Sometimes the best information isn¡¯t found in books.¡±


    When she returned to Aizdha¡¯s rooms, the stranger was there again. The two scholars were facing each other across the table, and the stranger had spread a dirty handkerchief on the scarred wood. There was a yellowish, mossy substance on it, mixed with wet-looking black twigs. The stranger was packing this substance into a pipe when she came in.


    ¡°Ah, Manrie,¡± Aizdha said. ¡°We need you for an experiment.¡±


    She paused in the doorway. She could feel her heartbeat quicken. ¡°An experiment?¡±


    ¡°We are going to smoke this fascinating substance. I need you to sit beside us, here, at the end of the table ¡ª move the bestiary out of the way. Sit here, and we will extend our wrists to you, and you can feel our pulses. You must keep a careful count of how many times our hearts beat in each turning of the glass.¡±


    She noted that he had placed the minute glass on the table. It was inexact, and neither of them knew how many minutes it really measured. She sat where instructed. The stranger had finished packing the pipe, and he passed it to Aizdha. He reached into his robes and removed another pipe to fill. ¡°No need to count my pulse,¡± he said, casually.


    ¡°No?¡± Aizdha asked, and Manrie disliked the diffidence in his tone.


    ¡°I have smoked betzazarra on many occasions. I am not doing so experimentally. And besides, since I have a tolerance for it, I would skew your results.¡±


    Aizdha seemed to accept this. He turned the pipe in his hand, gazing down into the bowl and poking at the substance with a quivering finger. ¡°Will its effects be like the kealorea that we smoked yesterday?¡±


    ¡°Much different. The kealoria produces a sense of euphoria. The betzazarra lifts one into the realm of dream. You will leave your body and walk where you will.¡±


    Wavering sunlight fell through the ancient window glass and revealed a gleam of eagerness in Aizdha¡¯s eyes . Manrie saw that his scholarly manner from an hour before had been replaced with manic energy. He was always like this when on the verge of a discovery. ¡°Fetch a taper, Manrie,¡± he said.


    It had been too hot for a fire in the room, so she went down the tiled stairs to the kitchen, where a sweating Larta was staring grimly down into a simmering pot. The stone walls of the kitchen maintained a subterranean coolness, but the fire pit seemed to be enticing the outside heat in, and Manrie¡¯s robes stuck unpleasantly to her back as she knelt and lit a thin candle. ¡°Put it in a lantern box,¡± Larta mumbled, and this was generosity, since every scholar demanded one of the beaten tin boxes, and she protected them fiercely.


    Back up the stairs, the tile hot and gleaming, the orphan flowers wilting. It was only spring, and they were in the mountains. As she pushed the door to Aizdha¡¯s chambers open, Manrie blamed the stranger for the unseasonable weather, while knowing that this made no sense. A man couldn¡¯t bring the weather with him. He was seated away from the windows, able to lean back into the shadows of the room. She slid the lantern box onto the table and opened the tin door so that the candle light flickered across his features. But the heat from the flame didn¡¯t seem to bother him.


    The stranger stretched out a languid arm and plucked away the pipe that Aizdha was holding. He placed it between his lips, lifted the taper with his other hand, and set the twigs and moss alight. Aizdha seemed caught off guard. He hurriedly extended a wrist to Manrie, and she sat and placed her fingers on his soft skin, feeling the brittle lines of his tendons beneath it. The stranger passed the lit pipe to him and he breathed in deeply, then started coughing. ¡°Easy,¡± the stranger said. ¡°Pull it into your lungs and hold it there.¡±


    The smoke was cloying and smelled like a bog. Manrie lifted her free hand to pinch her nostrils together, noticed that she had failed to turn over the minute glass, pulled the collar of her robe over her mouth and nose, and flipped the little timer. She counted, her gaze on the sands as they ran down. It was hard to see through the smoke, for both men were inhaling deeply. Two hundred heartbeats before the time ran out. That would have to be her baseline, since Aizdha hadn¡¯t thought to ask her to establish one before he started smoking. No matter. She had counted his heartbeats in the middle of the night. She knew the rhythm of his resting pulse.


    The table shifted slightly in front of her. The beam of sunlight falling across it rippled, and one part of her mind remembered that this was normal, an effect of the old window glass. But another part of her mind saw a pattern in the rippling, a rhythm that accompanied Aizdha¡¯s heartbeat. Her fingers on his wrist were leaping slightly, as if his pulse were the footsteps of a giant. His fine arm hairs seemed to be growing and swaying slightly, like a field in a breeze. The bestiary had been pushed to the far side of the table, out of its usual place, and she realized that her arm, and Aizdha¡¯s, were lying on the rectangle of tabletop where it usually sat. She thought she could hear voices from the bestiary, calling out to her ¡ª the trumpeting of the tiger swans in the third signature, the hooting of the drum owls, the morose bellow of the tentacled rams at the end of the seventh signature. Their calling seemed to be coming closer to her, and she stared down at the tabletop beneath her arm and thought that she could see their shapes forming in the whorls of the bare wood.


    She stood up, releasing Aizdha¡¯s wrist and gasping, ¡°Too many, too many heartbeats.¡± Her master didn¡¯t seem to notice. He was staring into a corner of the ceiling, a strange, sad grin on his heavy face. Across from him, the stranger seemed to be asleep. ¡°I need air,¡± Manrie whispered, and turned, and was terrified by the way the door seemed to be moving away from her. But she reached it, and opened it, and went out onto the landing of the stairs. The green and blue tile of the steps assaulted her with reflected sunlight. She could see tiny mites, crawling along the petals of the orphan flowers that sat in their pots along the wall. She looked perilously down at the ground three stories below. It seemed to leer at her. She turned to go down the stairs, slipped, and fell onto her bottom. The shock reverberated through her body and she was afraid to stand back up. She started sliding down, step by step, and the tiles were warm, like human flesh, and she felt that they were embracing her, contracting to push her downwards, like the intestine of a giant beast.


    She found the foot of the stairs, and the wall, the old, familiar stones. She moved along them slowly, pressing into their grit with her fingertips, feeling a cold pulse within them. If she put her ear to the wall, she could hear all of the voices in all of the chambers above her. She could hear the boiling of Larta¡¯s pot. She could hear the scratch of a dozen styluses on paper and vellum, and the buzz of the thoughts that directed the writing.


    And then she heard a thud, and turned, and saw what looked like a dropped sack of flour, lying in the dirt at the tower¡¯s base. It seemed very far away, but she reminded herself that she was used to going on long journeys for Aizdha, and she forced herself to move towards it, until she stood looking down at her master¡¯s face, his eyes open and staring up at her, his face wavering in sunlight that seemed to be passing through panes of old glass as it fell from the sky.


    It was then that one part of her mind awoke and looked about sharply. She was all alone at the base of the wall. The stairs to Aizdha¡¯s chambers were right beside her. The stranger was up there. Had he pushed Aizdha out of the window? If so, all he had to do was blame her, and he would succeed in his murder. The lethargic, drugged part of her resisted, but the woman who had walked through the Gaendolin Hills and received the praise of Lady Daturi insisted on obedience, and she found herself going up the stairs of the tower, going quickly, so that the green and blue tiles flashed by, blending into a sheen of water.


    The stranger was still asleep, leaning back into the shadows of the room, his heavy lids closed, his nostrils pulsing in and out like the frills of a living mushroom. She was afraid to move past him but she forced herself to turn sideways, to slide between his chair and the wall. The ceiling slanted down and scraped the top of her head, and for a moment she felt the talons of an enormous bird, descending from the shadows. Her hand reached out and tried to find the stranger¡¯s pulse, pushing into the strange, soft flesh below his jawline. He did not awake, but she could feel no pulse, and she thought that if she cut him, his flesh would part simply and softly, and no blood would well out of it. She slipped to the end of the table and seized the bestiary. All was silent. The window, thrown open and gaping cruelly, omitted no sound from below.


    She found a scrap of paper, fumbled with an ink pot and stylus, and then paused, slowing her heartbeat, focusing her mind. She wrote carefully, making the loops of the ¡°t¡±s thin, the ¡°e¡±s and ¡°o¡±s tiny. A few short words, but she struggled over them more than she had struggled over anything in her life.


    She did not quite know how she got to the Pinnacle Gate, only that her head began to clear as she hurried through the town. Halfway there she realized that she didn¡¯t have her pack, that she was fleeing with only the bestiary. It was too late. She could feel the maliciousness of the library breathing at her back, the petty meanness of the clerks and archivists, the sour jealousy of the other slaves. She came to the gate and found Beztrae there, standing with two guards. They were inspecting a wagon that had just come through the pass.


    ¡°Back again?¡± he asked her, his handsome eyes twinkling. And then he saw the bestiary. ¡°On another mission for your master?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she breathed. ¡°Yes.¡± Then she paused. ¡°Would you walk with me?¡± she begged him. ¡°Just a little way into the pass. I¡­my master gave me a message to deliver to you privately.¡±


    The captain glanced at the guards and the wagon driver, then nodded. He stepped with her through the gate, into the deep, shadowed coldness of the road between the cliffs. The chill brought her fully back to herself. They continued a little way down, the stones breathing darkly on either side, the sky a haze of blue high above them. ¡°Listen,¡± she said, pausing and gripping his arm. ¡°A monster has come into the city. No, don¡¯t worry, he didn¡¯t come through your gate. Or maybe he did, I don¡¯t know. Only he looks like a man, so you wouldn¡¯t know. But I assure you, he is a terrible monster, sent by the land itself to corrupt and destroy our knowledge.¡±


    For all his friendliness, Beztrae was wary. ¡°Your master says this?¡±


    She reached into her sleeve and handed him the note that she had forged. He read it quickly. His hand touched the handle of his long knife. ¡°Where?¡± he asked.


    ¡°My master¡­my master¡¯s chambers. I had to save the bestiary. I don¡¯t know¡­I don¡¯t know if my master¡­¡±


    Alarm had sharpened his features, and they were no longer handsome. ¡°Come back with me to the gate,¡± he said.


    ¡°No. No, I must save what I can.¡±


    ¡°But you don¡¯t have a pack. You don¡¯t have a weapon.¡± He saw the look of despair on her face and said, ¡°Go to the Vise Tower. I will send you with a message for them, and they will equip you.¡± He patted ineffectually at his robes. His face fell. ¡°I don¡¯t have any paper.¡±


    Her heart was beating quickly. She felt a sense of desecration even as she held the bestiary out to him and fumbled her stylus from the hidden pocket in the sleeve of her robe. He frowned, looking down at the blank page that she proffered to him. ¡°I can write on the backside of your master¡¯s note.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she said quickly. ¡°You must keep it. Evidence.¡±


    His eyes met hers. Then he nodded. He scribbled in the bestiary, then stepped back and gave her an odd, boyish smile. ¡°I always wanted to contribute something to one of the great works.¡±


    ¡°You have,¡± she told him. ¡°You¡¯ve made certain of its survival.¡±


    She might as well have said ¡°My survival.¡± But they were the same, now. The bestiary and the living person who could carry on the work. He turned and ran back towards the gate. She watched him, and wanted to weep. Then she turned and began to run up the road between the slabs of stone, towards the Vise Tower, the bestiary clutched, like a warm body, in her arms.

 In the House of Shifting Colors

    The curved walls of the room were broken by a pattern of round glass. She lay in the bed he had given her and stared up as the morning sunlight flashed through the blue and orange discs, and wondered if it was glass at all. The house was very quiet, the thick walls dampening the sounds of the mountain, and it was so cool that she stayed under the woven blanket. She hadn¡¯t been cool for days. Drifting from sleep into drowsy awareness, she felt a strange kind of absence in the room, the feeling that someone had just left it.


    Her host had laid out clean robes for her, and she wasn¡¯t surprised that they fit her, for she was as tall as he was. The bestiary was still tucked safely into her pack, and when she looked in to make sure that it hadn¡¯t been disturbed she saw a shifting of dirt and grit in the bottom of the pack, the accumulation of days spent fleeing down the road. She left her things in the sleeping room and walked through the silent house, discovering, to her joy, a ¡°seat of satisfaction¡± behind a closed door. She sat and relieved herself, then sprang up to watch her night water go swirling down into some hidden place in the earth. She frowned, thinking for a moment that she had seen a movement in the depths of the plumbing.


    She found her host in a clay yard behind the house, where he was thrusting a spade into the heavy earth.He was a stocky man, and his every gesture was purposeful and abrupt. When he had met her at the door the evening before, she had thought that he must be expecting her, but now she suspected that he met every moment with the same quick, analytical decisiveness that had led him to pour her a cup of water and hand it to her before either of them had spoken a word. Now the morning sunlight glinted off of his silver hair, and when he looked up from his spade work she saw that he was quite old.


    He nodded at her and smiled in a strangely unnatural way. As if someone had told him that there was a proper order to a greeting ¡ª a nod, a smile, and then words ¡ª and it was necessary to follow this order at all times. ¡°Good morning,¡± he said. There was a small table set beside where he was digging, and he picked up a cloth from it, unfolded it, wiped his brow, and then carefully folded it again. ¡°There is breakfast in the solarium.¡±


    He led her there. Its walls, like those of her bedroom, were curved, and light poured in through the strange colored discs that patterned the ceiling. ¡°Is it glass?¡± she asked, waving at it.


    He looked up, as if surprised that she had noticed the discs. ¡°I find them in the clay beds. Not glass, something else. There was a great river that ran through this valley at one time. I believe that it still runs somewhere deep under the earth, that we are seated on a roof above a chasm of flowing water. The discs are very strong, but transparent, and, as you see, beautiful. Perhaps¡­¡± And he suddenly became awkward, shy. He pulled out a chair for her at a table, and when she sat she found that she was submerged in blue light that fell through a disc just above her.


    He seated himself, uncovered a basket of rolls, and removed a cloth from a plate of butter and jam. ¡°Are there cows here?¡± she asked.


    He seemed confused, then very serious when she nodded to the butter. ¡°I have a friend who brings it. He brings me many things. I believe that you will meet him.¡±


    He then sat very still, staring down at the table in front of him. Manrie reached out and took a roll, broke it open, and began to spread it with the butter, noticing as she did so that her fingernails were dirty. His mouth was moving, as if he were rehearsing a series of sentences, practicing the act of speech. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said, when he seemed satisfied, ¡°you will allow me to look at Aizdha¡¯s Bestiary. He was very interested in the colored discs, when he visited many years ago. He thought that they might be the scales of some monstrous creature, or perhaps the lenses of monstrous eyes. I have always imagined that he investigated further, when he returned to Libreigia.¡± And then, as if he couldn¡¯t help himself, he said, ¡°I¡¯m not certain that there are cows anywhere.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± she asked, and then endured a pause as he took a roll, studied it, broke carefully into it, and separated it into eight pieces. He arranged them on the table in a line and carefully picked up the crumbs.


    ¡°We came naked through the Door of Hasra. Do you know that? It was more than eight hundred years ago, so you probably wouldn¡¯t remember. All we had was our bodies, and words. But the words were from the previous world. We used them to describe the things we found here, but how do we know that the creatures we decided to call ¡°cows¡± actually resemble the cows of the previous world? We don¡¯t. Cows there might be carnivorous. They might be smaller or larger. They might have seven tails. We cannot know the true cow, only that our ancestors were lonely and grieving and they wanted the things they found here to become familiar to them. So they used words that they already knew.¡±


    Manrie set down the bun that she¡¯d been eating. ¡°Our ancestors weren¡¯t the only ones who grieved,¡± she murmured. He didn¡¯t seem to hear her. She met his gaze and said, ¡°You can look in Aizdha¡¯s Bestiary. But there¡¯s nothing in it about glass discs, either as scales or as eyes.¡±


    He sat forward, an abrupt, awkward gesture that disturbed his pieces of bun. ¡°Here¡¯s what I really think. The discs are worlds. Other worlds. Sometimes they glow at night. Sometimes the colors erupt on them, or become occluded. They are other worlds, like the stars.¡±


    She was suddenly afraid to look up, to see any changes in the colored discs. She looked down at the table top. Was the light around her shifting from blue to purple? ¡°The stars are other worlds?¡± she asked softly.


    ¡°Sometimes. Sometimes they¡¯re this world, only from a year ago, or ten years ago, or a hundred.¡±


    She glanced up at him. His sturdy, workaday face was calm, his eyes mildly distracted. She remembered Aizdha once gesturing at the path up the mountain that broke away from the road. ¡°The Man on the Mountain lives up there. But we won¡¯t visit him. Not today.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± she had asked, since Aizdha had always led them on long side trips to visit his many friends.


    But her master had only frowned and mopped the sweat from his jowls. ¡°He believes too many odd things.¡±


    Now she faced that man. She kept her voice curious but noncommittal. ¡°Why would you think that?¡± she asked.


    Her host blinked, tilted his face to the ceiling, and rehearsed what he would say. ¡°I observe them,¡± he said slowly. ¡°In my telescope. And sometimes I see myself, moving across a star, working at all my usual tasks. Digging in the clay yard. Shaping the pipes. Digging the hole.¡±


    ¡°What hole?¡± she asked, and then, to keep the conversation from flitting away completely, she said, ¡°How far back can you see? Can you see us coming through the Door at Hasra?¡±


    He paused and considered. ¡°I think I¡¯ll be able to. When I¡¯m able to look down.¡± He saw her confusion. ¡°There¡¯s another world, right beneath us. On the other side of the river. Flipped, you see, so that for them we are upside down. I believe that some of their stars show that moment, that day when we came through the Doors of Hasra. Just as some of our stars show¡­well, things that happened to them, that we can¡¯t make sense of.¡±


    She blinked. Then she pushed her chair back from the table and said, ¡°I¡¯m finished with breakfast.¡±


    He asked her to help him with his daily tasks and led her out a back door of the house. The mountains rose to either side and the dried river bed narrowed as it climbed above them. There was a narrow footpath leading away to the right and winding its way through tall pines. There were wooden cages built on a piece of flattened ground a little way up the path, and he stopped before them and gestured for her to inspect them. A maktikhura lay dead in the first cage she walked up to. She stood staring down at its stick-like body. Flies were buzzing around its snout. She glanced back at him and he hung his head.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want you to look at that one first. I didn¡¯t manage to keep it alive.¡±


    ¡°Why did you capture it at all?¡±


    He blinked. ¡°For Aizdha. For the bestiary.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯ve seen maktikhura many times. They¡¯re not uncommon in the mountains.¡±


    He closed his eyes and opened them again. She couldn¡¯t tell if he was offended. ¡°There¡¯s a dorleku in that other cage. The one to the left.¡±


    She knelt and looked in at the shelled creature. Its luminous eyes met her gaze, and it blinked. Then it began rearranging the pearlescent plates on its back. She watched them slide from the creature¡¯s resting pattern to its distress pattern. ¡°What are you feeding it?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Lizards. Acorns. Apple cores.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°But why keep it? When was the last time that Aizdha was here?¡±


    Her host tilted his face and inspected the tops of the trees. ¡°Recently?¡± he asked.


    It meant nothing. Aizdha had never come here during the eleven years that she had been his slave. She straightened, and an inrush of grief for her dead master made her stagger. ¡°I¡¯ll sketch it,¡± she said. ¡°For the bestiary.¡±


    But he had more to show her, and he led her back down the trail, propelling her along with his strange, darting manner. They went around the side of the house, and she was surprised to see that the colored discs in the wall were glowing, as if lit by an interior luminescence. But she knew that the rooms of the house were dark, shadowy, and cold. He led her down the dry river bed, past the strange, half-assembled clay pipes that she had seen when she came up the road the night before. He stopped at the hole she had passed, and in the morning light it looked less ominous, less like a trap set for unwary travelers or a grave that was being dug. There was a ladder that descended into it, and he went down, lifted a pick axe, and drove its sharp tip into dry stone. Perhaps he had meant only to demonstrate his efforts to her, but he got lost in the work, and started to dig in earnest, and after a few moments he asked her to come down into the hole and fill a bucket that was laying there. For a few hours she labored, shoveling chipped stone into the bucket, dragging it to a rope and pulley system that ran beside the ladder, slipping a hook over the handle, and scurrying up the ladder to winch the bucket up the side. It began to wear on her, as he kept snapping out directions. She resented his tone. She had never taken orders from anyone but Aizdha, and the fact that she was masterless did not mean she wanted a new master. Aizdha had always been gentle in his direction, had requested, not ordered, had asked her what she thought of his choices and allowed her to direct her own work. Thinking this, comparing him to her host, caused grief to beat down at her like the hot sunlight.


    She rebelled, and sat on the lip of the pit. ¡°What is the hole for?¡± she called down to him. He didn¡¯t answer at first, but paused and scooped away some of the broken rock with his thick fingered hands. Then he squinted up at her.


    ¡°You have seen an hourglass?¡± he asked, and her mind flashed to the minute glass on Aizdha¡¯s table, the grains running through it on that last morning of his life. She nodded. ¡°That is what we are,¡± he said. ¡°This whole existence. A grain that has been stuck in the neck of an hourglass. The previous world above and the next world below. I am widening the neck.¡±


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    She stared at him. ¡°And if you succeed?¡±


    He gave her a rare, shy smile. ¡°Then this entire world is freed, and flows down into the world to come.¡±


    ¡°Which is upside down,¡± she muttered. He didn¡¯t seem to hear her. But he also seemed content to end his work. He straightened and stretched, and climbed up the ladder.


    ¡°Come,¡± he said. He led her back up the riverbed to the clay piping. It terminated in a large, bell-like piece of pipe, and one of the strange colored discs was fitted to its end. This piece of pipe was connected to another, and another, extending back up the hill. He led her along it to the other end, which lay in the dirt, unconnected piping stacked beside it. ¡°We will need to dig some fresh clay, and tear up some muslin.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°To continue building the pipe.¡±


    ¡°But what is it for?¡±


    Again the shy, awkward smile. ¡°Put your eye to the end of it.¡±


    She had to kneel and set her cheek against the earth. She gazed in and reared back. Then she returned her eye to the end of the pipe. She could see all the way down the riverbed, down to the copse of trees and the narrow trail leading through them from the road far below. She could see the ridges along a leaf, the glint of sunlight on the back of a bark-colored finch, the wood chip pattern of its feathers. She wished that her host wasn¡¯t there, gazing down at her, waiting for her to ask a question. Setting her face into a blank mask, she denied him her wonder. But as they trudged back up to the house and went around it, she studied the discs set in the walls. They seemed opaque. Maybe they needed the pipes to turn them into lenses. Or maybe he had found the one disc that could act as a lens. She would have asked Aizdha. Awe and speculation was something they had shared. She wouldn¡¯t share it with anyone else.


    There was a vegetable garden on the south side of the house, with a small chicken coop nearby, and a stack of the odd translucent discs beside it, dug up and left to collect dirt and leaf fall and feathers. Her host bent in the garden and cut a head of lettuce with a small, sharp knife that he drew from the sleeve of his robes. He handed it to her. ¡°Wash it at the pump,¡± he ordered, nodding at an odd contraption in the center of the garden. When he saw her look of confusion, he went to it and showed her how it worked. She found it fascinating. A long stave of wood, attached to two other staves at either end, with a clay pipe between them. He rocked the handle back and forth, and she watched in surprise as water splashed from the mouth of the clay pipe and fell into a basin that was waiting below it. ¡°Wash the lettuce,¡± he said again.


    ¡°Is this the water from the river?¡±


    ¡°What river?¡± he asked her.


    ¡°The one that runs beneath us.¡±


    He looked at her as if she were mad, and then left her, disappearing into a subterranean ice house.


    He wasn¡¯t a fool, and yet he was. His cleverness was evidenced by the pump, the coolness of the fish he brought from the ice house, the efficient fire that he built in an iron basket and set alight using a small contraption made of flint and steel. She thought she knew the tricks of a kitchen, and those tricks included banking coals, nursing heat, never letting a fire truly die. Fire was something that was passed from hand to hand, carried from one place to another. It could be summoned by rubbing sticks together when you were on a journey, but when you were at home it was always present and required no labor. Watching him in his singular task, she realized that all of Libreigia had been a single shared hearth, each fire reliant on neighboring fires, a form of goodwill passed from cook to cook. And she understood the source of his foolishness. He was all alone here, with only his thoughts, and impossible ideas grew from his solitude. Only now she was alone as well, a fugitive from Libreigia, and she saw, clearly, what would happen to her mind if she remained in her own solitude.


    After they ate she washed the plates and cups at the pump, but she didn¡¯t return to the pit with him. Instead she wandered through the house, investigating the domed rooms, and trying to discern some pattern in the placement of the strange colored discs in the walls. Sunlight shown through them and speckled the rooms. She found some comfort in returning to the domestic tasks of a slave. She swept the floor. She chased a spider out of a corner of the solarium where they had eaten breakfast. The house remained cool, despite the heat outside, but there was something awkward about it. Each time she entered a room, she had the sense that someone had been in it just a moment before. And she thought, several times, that she heard someone moving around on the other side of an open doorway.


    That night, she had a dream. She was lying in her bed, and the discs in the walls began to glow a deep, pulsating blue. She stood on the bed and brought her eye level with the disc just above her. Some part of her sleeping mind resisted this movement, tried to warn her that it was a dangerous dream. But her dream self reached out a hand to touch the disc, and felt no surprise when her hand went through the pulsating blue. As if she were dipping her fingers into warm water. She wasn¡¯t even surprised when she felt someone grab her hand, but when the unseen person began to pull her, she resisted. She was falling backwards, her hand released, and maybe she was laying on the bed, and maybe she was suspended in air, but there was another hand reaching through the surface of the disc, a chubby, ink-stained hand, and then a wrist that she knew, and she could see a heartbeat jumping beneath the tendons.


    She woke up, aware that she had been trying to cry out, her body rigid with tension. Her eyes flickered to the wall above her, where the sheen of the discs shown dully with moonlight. *I can¡¯t,* she thought. *I can¡¯t stand that he is dead.*


    She slipped from the bed and picked up her pack, thinking that she might flee. But the hallway outside was peaceful, the whole house bathed in sleep. And where would she go? She padded down the hallway to the solarium, where the little table was shadowed within the dim blue light that fell from the discs in the ceiling. Going to the table, she sat for a moment and studied the room. Sleep was still close and waking reason far away, and she allowed herself to imagine that she was inside a giant shell, and that she and her host were simply the meat of an acorn, growing on an enormous oak.


    This, she thought, was what had happened to her host. In some twilight between dream and waking, he imagined another world beneath them. Perhaps he heard the running of the subterranean river as he sat in the darkness and imagined that it wasn¡¯t subterranean, but glinting with sunlight, and had people living along its banks, villages where there were dances, and grand feasts, and storytelling. Whimsical companions who would free him from loneliness.


    She pulled out the bestiary and found an ink pot and stylus in the grit at the bottom of her pack. She opened the bestiary to the last signature. There was the note written by Beztrae, the guard captain, which she had presented at the Vise Tower. She had received her pack, and some rations, and a knife, and a canteen in return. Beztrae¡¯s note was the first thing ever written in the bestiary without Aizdha¡¯s knowledge or intention. She turned a page. The blue plates provided enough light for her to sketch, and she began to draw her host, trying to capture the blunt solidity of his features, the uneven crop of his light silver hair. She was doing something that Aizdha would never have allowed, adding a human being to the bestiary. But she had always argued against this prohibition of his. In her experience, human beings were monstrous, as monstrous as any of the creatures that her master had catalogued.


    She finished her sketch and looked up, and sprang back in her chair. There was a figure standing in the beam of blue light that fell from the disc that was closest to the door. Shorter than her host, fatter. A figure that she knew. ¡°Master Aizdha?¡± she whispered, and the light sharpened, his features became clear. He was gazing at her with an expression of deep sadness. ¡°I¡­¡± she glanced down at the book. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t think it could matter, now.¡± The skin around his eyes crinkled with kindness, as they often had in life, and his lips quirked in the whimsical way that they did when she was misunderstanding some instruction. He held her gaze, and then tilted his head up, slowly and deliberately, until she was staring with him at the blue disc. It seemed to grow, and its light fell in a sharp beam. And then it went out.


    She sat for a moment, her heart pounding, then pushed the chair back and stumbled across the room. He was gone. There was no one standing in the dull aura of the blue disc. She craned her head to look up at it, and as she did so the blue began to shift, marbling, turning green and then white and then a nondescript brown. The room itself grew darker. She had to fumble her way back to the table to collect the bestiary and her pack. She had to feel along the walls of the hallway to find her way back to her bed.


    When she woke, her host was already gone from the house. She opened the front doorway and looked down the riverbed. She could just make out the bucket and winch glowing beside the pit in the morning sunlight. She watched until she saw him scurry up the ladder. His movements were precise but also slightly ungainly, as if he were a child who was concentrating hard. For a moment she thought that she might learn to enjoy his company, and in that generous spirit she went out into the garden, picked some herbs, and went down into the icehouse, which was neatly arranged and tightly packed. She found a ham and sliced some pieces off of it, then paused in the garden, knelt, dug some potatoes, and slipped into the chicken coop to steal some eggs. She made a fire in his little grill by making a tinder nest and drilling with a sharpened stick into a block of wood, as she would if she were in the wilderness. As the potatoes were cooking she indulged in an act of whimsy, and took two of the strange discs from the stack beside the chicken coop. She washed them in water that she pumped into the basin, watching the way that the rivulets seemed to inspire streaks of color in the depths of the strange material. Perhaps the discs were pustules that rose on monstrous flesh, somewhere far beneath the earth. Or lily pads that grew in still pools beside the upside down river. Today, they would be plates, and she slid the breakfast that she had cooked onto them, and saw iridescent colors flow beneath the white eggs.


    She walked down the river bed, carrying the two plates, thinking that she might sit with her host on the edge of the pit as they ate. Something glinted at the base of the mountain, in the copse of trees that screened the riverbed from the road. She was just coming up to the end of the long pipe where it lay in the dirt, so she indulged her curiosity, set the plates down on the rocky ground, and put her eye to the pipe¡¯s opening. A horseman was turning off the road and making his way through the trees. Her breath caught. He was wearing a muslin sack over his head. She could see the fibers of its weave. His posture, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he held his head were all familiar to her. She was certain that he was the stranger who had invaded Aizdha¡¯s rooms in Libreigia, the mushroom man who had given her master strange plants to smoke, who had sat in a trance, after she had found her master dead at the base of the stairs. *Why didn¡¯t Beztrae arrest him?* she thought, but she knew why. She was a slave, and the mushroom man was a scholar. He would be believed and she would not. And he would have told them that she had killed her master.


    She leapt up and, irrationally, grabbed the plates of food. Back up the riverbed to the house, running, the potatoes falling from the plates into the dirt. She turned both discs over, letting all the food fall from them, and ran, holding them at her sides, the grease of the meal threatening to make them slip from her fingers. Into the house, down the hall, to the room she had slept in, where she stuffed the discs, unthinkingly, into her pack, checked that the bestiary was there, and rushed with her belongings towards the back door. She paused there, looking up the straggling path that led to the depressing menagerie beneath the trees. She was aware of the sound of hoofbeats, coming up the dry river bed. She was aware that the light in the house had turned blue, and she turned, half expecting to find Aizdha¡¯s spirit standing behind her.


    Voices from the front of the house, the horse snorting, booted feet clomping into the dust. If she ran up the path, they could chase her. They would find her. Her host must know every nook and cranny of the mountain. And here, in the house, the discs were casting blue light down onto the floor. She decided, and with five quick strides she was in the solarium, standing in the beam of light that Aizdha had stood in the night before. She could see the back door, see the green rise of land beyond it, and it seemed to mock her foolishness.


    He came striding down the hallway, still wearing his muslin sack, and she thought she could smell the wet odor of fungi emanating off of him. She watched his shoulders as he moved to the back door. He was a large man, larger than her host, who came trailing after him. He stood framed in the doorway, studying the hill beyond, and she knew that her ruse had been too simple, stupid, really, and that she would be discovered. The cloth covered face turned towards her. She could feel his gaze through the muslin. He stared right at her. Then his gaze moved past her.


    Her host gave a little cry, and the mushroom man turned back to the open doorway. ¡°A movement, up by the cages,¡± her host said. The mushroom man nodded, and strode out the door.


    For a moment she stood still, barely breathing, listening for the crunch of their footsteps on the path. Then she was moving, running back through the house. The horse was standing by the front door, its reins hanging loosely. She slid her arms through the straps of her pack. She paused for a moment with a hand on the horse¡¯s neck, trying to reassure it, although she knew little of horses. Panic gave her a competency that she didn¡¯t possess. Her foot slipped into a stirrup, her leg swung over its back, and she was astride it, gripping the reins, turning it and sending it trotting back down the riverbed.


    There was a cry behind her, and running footsteps. She was afraid to gallop, afraid of the slant of the riverbed, of the horse stumbling and injuring itself. She glanced back and saw them emerging from the house. But they couldn¡¯t catch her. And as she went by the pit, she risked a glance at it, and saw, to her surprise, a small spring of water burbling up from the hole that her host had been digging.

 In the Meadow of the Monsters

    There was movement in the meadow¡¯s tall grasses. Lazy, casual movement by a large rock. Manrie thought that it was a person. She had seen the glint of a white sleeve. It had flashed and then disappeared again. She watched from her seat on the horse, waiting for some further movement to disclose who or what she was looking at. The horse was restless, enticed by the grasses. It lowered its head and nibbled at the fringe of the meadow. She had to restrain it from stepping out of the shadows beneath the trees.


    She looped the reins over a low hanging branch, then tilted her head to inspect the tree. After a moment she stood up in the stirrups, grasped the crook where a higher branch met the trunk, and began climbing up. She worked her way along a broad limb, to where the sunlight could beat on her back and the meadow was directly below her, then lay flat, inspecting the rock. There was a woman lying against it, her body awkwardly twisted. A corpse? No, for she lifted a languid hand and tried to wave away some insect that was buzzing by her head. Her hair was greenish-gray and long, and she was wearing white robes. They must have been very white, to stand out in the way they did against the tan rock. Manrie watched for a few moments more, and saw the child. A girl, also dressed in stark, improbable white, the sunlight glinting off of her nickel colored hair. She was carrying something, her little arms hugging her burden to her chest. She squatted beside the rock and tipped the load into the dirt, and then began picking up individual objects to show them to the woman.


    Manrie slid back along the tree limb. She could ride on, find a campsite further up the ridge. But she had been alone now for at least twelve days, and her throat felt dry even when she drank, as if it were rusting without the lubrication of words. She dropped to the ground beside the tree and the horse rolled an unhappy eye at her, chiding her for startling it. She patted it, then took the reins and led it out into the meadow.


    It was high summer, and the grass was tall and green. Wild rye lifted whiskery seed heads into the air and then bent with their weight. Manrie and the horse went slowly, as the ground was seamed with creek beds, mostly dry, some still carrying a trickle of moisture between round stones. She gave her attention to picking their way, worried about the horse and only occasionally lifting her head to glance at the rock.


    She half expected the woman and girl to be gone when she reached it. The girl had fled somewhere at her coming, but the woman was waiting for her, propped on an elbow, her legs twisted strangely. Manrie, who had never had much skill with social graces, painted what was probably a false looking smile onto her face and gave a little wave as she approached.


    ¡°But you¡¯re just a girl,¡± the woman said. She had very tight skin, and sunlight glinted on the sheen of sweat on her cheek.


    ¡°A woman,¡± Manrie told her.


    ¡°Well, yes,¡± and there was such joy and relief in the woman¡¯s expression that Manrie relaxed a little, and was even willing to accept the woman¡¯s appraisal of her youth.


    ¡°Where did your daughter go?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s hiding on the other side of the rock. Praeda,¡± she called, ¡°you can come out.¡± Silence, and the woman tried to push herself up further. ¡°Praeda?¡± she called again, her voice sharpening with worry.


    A giggle from above. The girl had crawled up on the rock and was peering down at them. She was very small, maybe no more than five or six years old. Her face was softer than her mother¡¯s, although there was a pestered, annoyed expression in her eyes.


    ¡°Hello,¡± Manrie said to her. ¡°I¡¯m Manrie. And you¡¯re Praeda. Why are you hiding?¡±


    The little face disappeared and there was a scrambling sound, pebbles rolling down, feet landing on grass. She came around the side of the rock and went to her mother, squatting by her deposited burden, her back to Manrie.


    ¡°I am so relieved that you¡¯ve come,¡± her mother said. ¡°I¡­well you see that I can¡¯t move.¡±


    Manrie let go of the horse¡¯s reins and squatted by the woman. ¡°What¡¯s happened to your legs?¡±


    ¡°There was a snake.¡±


    ¡°Is a snake,¡± the little girl said.


    ¡°Yes, I suppose, but it slithered away. It bit my ankle.¡±


    Manrie didn¡¯t ask permission, but carefully pushed up the hem of the woman¡¯s robes. This caused a little mew of distress. Manrie ignored it, and inspected the snake bite. The skin around the two punctures was very white, and when Manrie touched it she felt the cool of stone. ¡°A sugemoema,¡± she said.


    ¡°Is that a word?¡± the girl asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s a monster. Its bite will petrify the body. Like wood is sometimes petrified.¡± The woman gasped. ¡°The venom doesn¡¯t spread well,¡± Manrie reassured her. ¡°It won¡¯t go further than it¡¯s gone.¡±


    ¡°But I will be like this forever?¡±


    Manrie pulled the hem of the white robes over the injury. ¡°There¡¯s an antidote,¡± she mumbled. Then, louder, she said, ¡°but I¡¯m more concerned with the snake. When did it attack you?¡±


    ¡°Two days ago.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been lying here for two days?¡±


    A small, despairing nod. ¡°Praeda has been trying to feed me.¡±


    Manrie glanced at the little pile that the girl had created. She saw sorrel and garlic. Some dandelions. Discarded, off to one side, were lily of the valley, and flat, evil looking mushrooms that made her shudder. She stood and went to the horse, whose saddlebags had been full of food when she stole it. Now her stores were running low, but she removed cheese and flatbread, and the last of her jerky. The little jar of pickled cabbage she left nestled in a saddlebag. She couldn¡¯t bear to part with it.


    After they drank from Manrie¡¯s canteen, the woman and girl ate ravenously. Manrie inspected the ground around them. ¡°You haven¡¯t seen the snake since it bit you?¡± The woman shook her head, her mouth full. Manrie shrugged. ¡°They turn to stone when they are preparing to reproduce. They lay dormant for two moons. The danger is probably gone.¡±


    ¡°It was bad luck, then,¡± the woman said between bites of cheese.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    A sigh, as if the woman expected nothing less. ¡°And the antidote?¡±


    Manrie hesitated. ¡°We would have to find a village. An alchemist.¡±


    ¡°There are no villages this high in the mountains.¡±


    ¡°I have my horse.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t go west.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    The woman glanced at the little girl, who was making a pattern with the dandelions in the scuffed earth. ¡°We were looking for some place to be alone.¡±


    Manrie looked at the sky. She felt the loneliness of the last days like a weight on her back. Sometimes, when she woke in the night, it sat on her chest and made it hard to breathe. But she nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll set some snares. Build a fire. We¡¯ll go in the morning.¡±


    She had to trek back across the meadow to the tree line to find firewood, and she went carefully, watching for the pale, whip-like form of a sugemoema in the thick grasses. She found herself glancing back towards the rock where the horse nibbled placidly at the grasses, the bestiary in its saddle bags. With each step that carried her further from the book she felt more bereft and naked. She moved quickly when she reached the trees, collecting branches and twigs.


    She caught a mountain hare very easily. It came right up to the snare and there was something close to resolve in the way it stuck its head in. As if it were more than tame. As if it had been convinced by some rhetoric of surrender, told by the mountain air and the rye and the dry stream beds that its purpose was to die for her supper. She skinned it and skewered its corpse on the long, strange needle that she had found in the horse¡¯s packs. She had been using it for days, uncertain if it was a kind of stone or metal. It looked somewhat like a quill with all of the feathers stripped off of it, but it was very strong and not malleable. It didn¡¯t heat in fire, and she found that she could roast anything on it. The woman and child watched her cook with avid expressions on their faces. She gave the hare to them without taking any for herself. There was something that she didn¡¯t like about its complacent surrender to the snare.


    She served them on the two strange discs that she had taken from the Man on the Mountain. The little girl was delighted by the way that the streaks of grease made the colors change in the discs, and sat making patterns in the fat long after the food was gone. The smoke from the fire drifted lazily over the meadow, and little creatures rustled through the grasses. The sun was barely setting when the child began to fall asleep in her mother¡¯s arms, lulled by the heat and the comfort of a full stomach. ¡°Put your blindfold on, Praeda,¡± her mother muttered, and the little girl rummaged obediently in an old sack that the woman had been using for a pillow. Manrie glanced a question, but the woman gave a short shake of her head and mouthed ¡°Later.¡±


    The fire burned low. A high thrum of insect noise rose from the grasses, and a flock of striped woodcocks swirled over the meadow and then landed, the little migratory birds feasting on crickets. Manrie watched in silence. She was aware, from time to time, of the woman¡¯s small movements. She was surprised that they gave her such comfort.


    When the sun began setting over the rim of the mountains, Manrie said, ¡°Why must she be blindfolded?¡±


    The woman sighed. ¡°You¡¯ll see when the moon comes out.¡±


    ¡°What will I see?¡±


    ¡°Watch the edge of the meadow. The places between the trees.¡±


    ¡°Are we in danger?¡±


    The woman hesitated. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. But they scare Praeda. It¡¯s why we came here. We were looking for a place without people. A place that¡¯s never had people.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because then there wouldn¡¯t be any ghosts.¡±


    Manrie had been sitting with her back against the rock. She turned her head and stared at the woman. ¡°Ghosts?¡±


    ¡°Oh yes. They came out of the grave at Hareramanda. It was overfull, you see. Laenrid put too many in it.¡±


    ¡°Too many ghosts?¡±


    ¡°Too many bodies. Too many people.¡±


    ¡°And who was Laenrid?¡±


    She was quiet for a moment. ¡°Is Laenrid,¡± she said softly. ¡°He¡¯s still alive. As far as I know.¡±


    ¡°A killer?¡±


    ¡°He wasn¡¯t always. He was just a digger¡¯s son. Poor, but handsome. I remember finding him very handsome, when we were young. But I was a daughter of the First Families, not a client.¡± She flashed a small, self-deprecating smile. ¡°My ancestor was one of the founders, and Laenrid¡¯s family drifted out of the hills and settled with the other clients long afterwards. We¡­well, we were together, one spring, and then my father found out. He drove Laenrid¡¯s people from the village, and then I was married to Ruetheted, and I forgot about him. But he came back.¡±


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    She was silent for a moment. The corona of the setting sun flashed against the peaks, and the flock of woodcocks rose into the air with a shrill whirring sound that was reminiscent of a warning whistle. A few embers from the dying fire were blown to light by the breeze that their wings stirred up. ¡°He had gone off into the hills to do what his family did best, dig in the earth. And he had found gold. He was a rich man, richer than my father. He came back to the village and began to build a large house in the sycamore grove along the river. He had clients, men he paid to build and farm for him. And dangerous men, bravos who he paid to do nothing but wander through the village, drink in the tea house and the trading house, and menace the First Families.


    ¡°And he still wanted me. He found me one evening after I had gone to the river with the other women to bathe. He told me that I was all he had thought about, when he was digging in the earth, and after he had found gold. I hadn¡¯t thought about him. ¡®Surely you¡¯ve seen more beautiful women than me by now,¡¯ I told him, but he denied it. He said that there is a wolf that lives in the Sandhills, around Yenceyan. This wolf mates for life. He compared himself to this wolf, and then laughed when I showed my fear. He told me that Ruetheted wasn¡¯t really my husband, and Praeda wasn¡¯t really my daughter. As if I had stopped living when my father forced him from the village, and now that he had come back I could live again. I ran away from him. I was frightened. And the next day, one of his bravos picked a fight with my husband and killed him.


    ¡°They took over the village. The First Families tried to fight them, and some of the young men were killed. Then everyone submitted. Laenrid¡¯s men came to my house and took me. They left Praeda.¡±


    She fell silent. The moon began to rise over the meadow, and its glow illuminated the woman¡¯s smooth cheeks and chimed against her white dress. She was almost too bright to look at. Her heavy lids closed over her wide eyes. She kept them closed as she began to speak again.


    ¡°My father was biding his time. He had sent his most loyal clients to hire mercenaries, and one day in late autumn they came. Laenrid had set himself up in the tea house by then, and he often had me with him. I was to sit at the table with him and say nothing. From time to time I would see a slave lead Praeda about the town. To the well. To the weaving rooms and the chandlery. She was growing, a strong, sturdy child. But she never looked up, and she never smiled.


    ¡°When the mercenaries arrived, they killed some of Laenrid¡¯s bravos. My father had given them specific orders to free me, and they did, for Laenrid fled to protect his own skin as soon as he saw them. I was reunited with my daughter, and I could go to the barrow and mourn for my husband at last. But Laenrid came back in the early spring. There are always more bravos to buy, if you have gold. This time, the village would not bow complacently. My father was killed in the fighting, and my two brothers. Some of the other patriarchs came to our home and demanded that I give myself to Laenrid, that I sacrifice myself to save them all. But it was too late. Laenrid had decided to punish all of them, and the Lord of Yenceyan was very far away. Laenrid lined up the First Families in the center of the village, and he had them killed, one by one, men, women, and children. Praeda would have died, but I told him that she was already dead, that she had been killed by a fever that winter. And everyone lied to protect her. Even as they saw their own children murdered, they lied. She was hidden in a cellar of my father¡¯s house, and the clients protected her. But he would have found her eventually, if the dead hadn¡¯t come out of the barrow.¡±


    The heavy eyelids lifted, and the woman turned her head and looked across the meadow. ¡°There. Do you see them?¡± Manrie followed the direction of her gaze, and saw pale shapes standing under the trees. ¡°They can¡¯t come into the meadow. Or they haven¡¯t, yet. I think it¡¯s because no one has ever died here. I¡¯ve lain here, the last few nights, knowing that I would die. And then the dead would come for Praeda.¡±


    Manrie stood. She took a step away from the rock, towards the line of trees. The horse lifted its head and snorted nervously. The forms under the trees were dim and wavy, speckled by the pattern of moonlight falling through the leaves. Human shapes, but indistinct. Some she took to be children, and others women, tall and still in the sudden silence that had come over the meadow. There were taller shapes as well, some large and dominating, some thin and stooped, as if bending under a weight. One caught her eye especially, a plump, comfortable looking figure with his head raised. She could make out his face, even as all the others remained shrouded. ¡°Aizdha,¡± she breathed. She took a step forward, and the horse snorted again and stamped a foot. It rolled its eyes at her.


    ¡°You recognize one of them,¡± the woman said.


    ¡°Yes. My¡­friend. He died within the last moon.¡±


    ¡°So we are not the only ones who are being followed,¡± the woman whispered. Then, alarmed as Manrie took another step, ¡°Do not go to them!¡±


    ¡°He is my friend,¡± Manrie said.


    ¡°When they came out of the barrow, they killed Laenrid¡¯s men. At least two of them. Laenrid hid in his house, but I escaped. I have thought, as we traveled, that they are protecting us, guarding the road behind us. But you should not go to them.¡±


    ¡°They never came close? As you were traveling here?¡±


    ¡°We would see them standing at a distance. Praeda would scream and scream. She wouldn¡¯t sleep. The blindfold helps.¡±


    ¡°How does it help?¡±


    ¡°It allows her to pretend that they aren¡¯t there.¡±


    Manrie glanced back at her. ¡°And you?¡±


    A wry smile broke the smoothness of the woman¡¯s face. ¡°I am used to traveling with the dead.¡±


    Aizdha stayed at the edge of the meadow throughout the night. Manrie lay with her back to the rock, drifting in and out of sleep, listening for any sound of increased alarm from the horse and watching the rigidly quiet ranks of the dead. She didn¡¯t dream, or her dozing was too close to dreaming for it to matter. Figures from the past presented themselves before her eyes. Beztrae¡¯s wife, with dirt in the wrinkles of her hands. Larta in the kitchens, sweat gleaming off of her scowling face. Guillaemes the illuminator, hollow-cheeked and spastic, waving his hands around in the courtyard of his house as his wife and seven pretty daughters all laughed at him. The people she had lost when she fled Libreigia. All of them still alive, as far as she knew, but traveling through her half-doze as the dead traveled the road behind the woman and her daughter.


    She didn¡¯t sleep but somehow she woke, and the sun was already sharp and defined as it rose over the mountaintops. Dew had settled over the meadow, and a low fog moved across the weighted grasses. The horse nickered at her, sensing that she was awake. She turned her head and saw that the woman had her eyes open, and was looking at her. The girl, Praeda, was stretched out along her mother¡¯s useless legs, lying on her bag, her little mouth open and her chest rising and falling softly. Manrie glanced at the tree line. The dead were gone.


    Manrie stood and began to pack the saddle bags. ¡°There must be shepherds,¡± she said. ¡°Mountain villages. Sometimes alchemists wander among them, looking for unclassified plants. We¡¯ll go north. Even if we find no one, we¡¯ll come to Zaira Lake eventually. There are towns along the shore.¡±


    The woman nodded and gently shook the girl awake. Praeda pushed herself upwards and pulled the blindfold down from her eyes. ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± she said.


    Manrie was squatting beside the packs, rummaging for any remaining food, when there was a whirring sound, sharp and distinct, and the horse reared, squealed, and then collapsed onto its side. Manrie blinked, but the sharp and able part of her mind was already taking over, and she turned her head and saw glistening mandibles emerging from the horse¡¯s neck. She moved immediately, without thinking, scooping up the child and dodging around the side of the rock. The woman was crying out in alarm. The whirring sound came again, and she fell silent. Praeda started to scream. Manrie held her face against her chest, and could feel the strength of the screams shaking her own body.


    ¡°Quiet!¡± she hissed. ¡°Praeda, listen, you must be quiet! I have to be able to hear.¡±


    But the girl couldn¡¯t quiet herself, and Manrie stretched her hearing beyond the screams, listening for the whir of wings. She knew what it was. She had seen it, pinned to a board. The zaizectu. Wing spots that were the color of bile. A thin, segmented body. And those mandibles. Heavy. Sharp. Like scissors, seeking to snap a windpipe. The scholars had speculated that it might feed on trapped air, or unsaid words, or screams caught in the throat. Aizdha had said that it would keep flying, looking for soft tissue, relentless and never sated. But, he had said, it was very easy to crush, if you could only catch it under a boot heel. Few people could. There were stories of caravans, wiped out by a single zaizectu, their bodies left to rot or feed the mountain scavengers.


    ¡°Mama!¡± the girl was screaming. ¡°Mama!¡±


    ¡°Pull your blindfold back on!¡± Manrie hissed. ¡°And stop screaming. I can¡¯t hear your mother over your screams.¡±


    The little hands fluttered at the blindfold and pulled it up, then went to her mouth and pressed flat against her lips, silencing the screams. Her body continued to convulse with the trapped cries, and Manrie gripped her tightly. The meadow sounded like a meadow. The birds were launched in their dawn chorus, and some small mammal was shuffling along beneath the bent rye. The woman was silent. Probably dead.


    Holding the girl tightly to her chest, she slipped to the side of the rock, her back to the meadow, their throats protected, she hoped, against the stone. She risked a glance around the edge. She could see the body of the horse, its brown hide turned golden in the morning light. The bestiary was in the pack that it had collapsed onto. The strange needle and the colored discs were in the other pack, and she could see that it had come open a little, and that the edge of one of the plates was peaking out, bright and yellow as the sun. She shuffled forward, and Praeda dropped her hands from her mouth and stifled her sobs in Manrie¡¯s chest. Later, she would think of this as the moment when she first loved the girl. The warmth and dampness of that little face seemed to demand that the world be good, and offer some form of protection.


    She could not see the zaizectu. She moved a little forward until she could see the woman, her body oddly arched, as if her frozen legs were acting as a lever, tilting her stomach upwards as her heavy head fell back against the ground. Her torso blocked Manrie¡¯s view of her neck. She couldn¡¯t remember if the zaizectu stayed to suck the air from a ravaged windpipe, as some insects sucked nectar from the mouth of a flower. Perhaps it had sped away, seeking whatever the creature was that was stirring the tops of the rye to the east.


    She needed the packs, if they were to survive in the mountains. And besides, she could not leave the bestiary. She cast one last careful glance over the scene of carnage and then scuttled forward, bending her body low, pressing her neck into the top of the girl¡¯s head. But when they got to the packs she knew she would have to let Praeda go. She would have to lift the horse, somehow, to get at the bestiary.


    The horse, that had been her companion and friend for twelve days, was now nothing but an obstacle. Her hand was shaking as she snatched one of the plates from the half-open pack. ¡°Praeda, here, it¡¯s one of those colored plates you like. Hold it in front of your face. I have to put you down.¡±


    ¡°No!¡±


    ¡°Just for a second.¡±


    ¡°I want mama!¡±


    ¡°Yes. But hold this plate in front of your neck. Do you have it? Here, press yourself against my back as I work.¡±


    She undid the straps that joined the two packs with quavering fingers, having to fumble at the clasps for useless seconds. Praeda¡¯s little body was wedged tightly against her spine, warm and soft except for the disc, which was, reassuringly, where it should be. Manrie was very aware that her own neck was exposed. She tried to hold her chin against her breastbone and peer out under her brow. Her hand found the needle and she gripped it like a weapon, and couldn¡¯t help raising her face to peer defiantly around her, as if daring the zaizectu to return. But she had to set it down to tug at the trapped bag, and the horse¡¯s weight seemed boundless, as if it had gathered the weight of the mountains into its corpse. She could not get the bag free, but she got the flap open, and there was the bestiary. She used the needle to pry it out.


    Just as it was released into the dirt she heard a sound, and glanced up. The zaizectu was sitting on the top of the rock, sunning itself. As she watched, it turned its vicious head towards her. Instintively, she grabbed the bestiary and held it in front of her face. She scrambled backwards, hissing ¡°Praeda, turn around and run. Run, Praeda!¡±


    A sound from the rock, and Manrie peaked over the edge of the book. The monster had disappeared. Then she saw a whirling sheen in the air, and saw that it had launched itself, that it was circling like a hawk, waiting to plummet. Her frantic hands found the pack with the discs and the remaining food. She remembered the needle at the last moment, and held it with the bestiary, weapon and shield clutched awkwardly in one hand. Then she, too, was running, the pack bouncing against her back, held by one thin strap, and the sound of whirring filling the air behind her.


    She saw Praeda just ahead of her, stumbling through the grasses. ¡°Hold the plate to your throat! Hold it to your throat, Praeda!¡±


    She couldn¡¯t tell if the girl heard her. The little form tripped, ungainly on the uneven earth, but kept running. Something thunked into the pack, and she glanced back and saw the zaizectu on the ground. She turned back and lifted a boot, but the creature had already recovered, and shot past her face, into the air. She turned and ran again, her chin held tightly against her breast bone. Rolling her eyes up, she thought she caught a whirring glint in the air above them.


    She saw the exact moment when it plummeted, not towards her, but towards Praeda. The breath went out of her body. But as the monster streaked downwards, the stalks of rye lifted their heads and whipped at it, as if guided by an unseen hand. The zaizectu zipped away, then turned and began to arc back towards the girl. And a rock shot out of the earth to block its passage. It came so suddenly that the ground shook and Praeda fell backwards. Manrie saw her drop the disc. But she also her a wet slap against the rock, and she ran forward, feeling more hope than dread.


    The zaizectu lay at the base of the rock, oozing a strange, greenish bile. Its mandibles were crushed. She stood over it, making sure that it was truly dead. And then she looked at the rock. It was so familiar that she took a step backwards. There was even a smear of blood where the woman had died. But no corpses. Manrie stepped around it and gazed back the way they had come. The rock had moved, had been sucked into the earth to emerge where it was needed. She began to shake with a mixture of relief and fear.


    She ran to Praeda¡¯s side. The girl was gasping, tears running down her dirty face. But her white dress was oddly clean. Manrie stuffed the bestiary and the needle into the pack, and gathered Praeda in her arms. ¡°We have to leave,¡± she said, and she could hear the panic in her voice. ¡°We have to leave this place.¡±


    ¡°Mama!¡± the girl insisted.


    ¡°Maybe it was her,¡± Manrie said, choosing to misunderstand Praeda¡¯s demand. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She didn¡¯t speak the other possibility out loud. She didn¡¯t say that the meadow was alive, and that it had chosen to save them.

 In the Rookery of Faces

    They were sheltering from the rain in a slump block cave when they saw the stranger pass along the ridge below them. No road, no trail, and yet he had found them. But maybe it was that the ridge along the river gorge was the only natural way to go north along the mountain heights. Manrie watched him with her eyes narrowed, one finger pressed to Praeda¡¯s lips to silence her. The big shoulders swaying without seeming volition. The face covered in a muslin sack. Her enemy. He was looking for her, and as his horse plodded through the rain she tried to convince herself that he had found her by accident.


    When he was gone she removed her finger from Praeda¡¯s lips and the little girl exhaled heavily. Maybe she had been holding her breath. It was hard to tell with Praeda. She hadn¡¯t taken the blindfold off since her mother had died, and yet there was a playfulness in her. When Manrie carried her on her back, Praeda played with her hair and sang little songs and asked for stories. Then she would take the stories and shift them about, changing the names of people and places to nonsense words, making the heroes into fools and the fools into heroes. But when the sun began to set the games would vanish. The girl would cling to Manrie¡¯s side, terrified. Manrie foraged and cooked with little hands always gripping her leg, her arm, her shoulder. Sometimes Praeda seemed like a useless appendage, a dead limb. But then she would curl against Manrie¡¯s side to fall asleep, and Manrie would feel a sense of contentment, of love and warmth, that she hadn¡¯t known since she was a child. Since her own mother had given her up.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have to go back up into the forest,¡± Manrie whispered, although it was raining hard enough to muffle their voices.


    Praeda shook her head. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°That person who went past, he¡¯s been looking for me. He killed my friend Aizdha. If he finds us, he won¡¯t spare us.¡±


    ¡°Who is he?¡±


    His face flashed in her mind. The blandly handsome features. The strange, gill like quality of his nostrils. The fungal smell of his breath. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Why did he kill her?¡±


    ¡°Her?¡±


    ¡°Your friend.¡±


    ¡°My friend was a man. A scholar. He¡¯s the one who wrote the book of monsters.¡±


    ¡°I thought you wrote it.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s my handwriting on some of the pages. And my pictures. But he told me what to write.¡± She thought, then amended that. ¡°He taught me how to write in it.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to go back into the forest.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the woodpecker will be gone.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t be.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know that. And anyway, it didn¡¯t do anything to us.¡±


    ¡°It made you afraid.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Manrie said, staring out at the rain, ¡°I¡¯ll have to be brave.¡±


    It was cold, but Manrie wouldn¡¯t light a fire. She and Praeda smelled like the forest, like animals, and she wouldn¡¯t do anything to create a human smell, the scent of smoke and food cooking. They ate wild apples. As she watched the rain she imagined those nostrils quivering beneath the muslin mask.


    Praeda dozed, then played with some of the loose rock that had accumulated in the cave, stacking the flat pieces, making a house, then a village, taking up more and more space. Manrie sat by the cave entrance, her back against a slab of stone, the rain misting in and wetting her face. It was amazing to her that Praeda could play without seeing, that she seemed to remember where she had built her fragile buildings and could move her little body around on the gritty ground without knocking anything over.


    Dusk came with a barely perceptible darkening of the clouded air, and the spirits began to gather on the ridge below them. They stood, looking up at the cave, and Manrie looked back at them. Aizdha was there, and Praeda¡¯s mother, and the people of the village that Praeda had come from. Staring at her, their faces blank, without demand or desire. It occurred to her, with a frisson of fear, that the stranger might be following the ghosts. Could Aizdha¡¯s shade be leading him? But Aizdha¡¯s spirit had helped her escape from the Man on the Mountain. And besides, the stranger had ridden past them hours before the ghosts gathered.


    By morning, Praeda seemed resigned to climbing back up the escarpment into the strange, quiet forest that fringed the base of the mountain. The rain had let up, or transformed itself into roving patches of mist that amplified the weak sunlight and coiled around the twisted trunks. They had barely gone a mile before Manrie saw the first face. She recognized a woman from Praeda¡¯s village, one of the ghosts that paid their nightly visitations. The face was carved into the trunk of a camphor tree and breathed out a sharp, resinous scent. Praeda was riding on Manrie¡¯s back, seated on the saddlebag that was strapped to her shoulders. Manrie was careful to keep her breathing normal, her shoulders loose and her heartbeat steady. She went past the face in the tree without looking at it, and Praeda sensed nothing in her body that would reveal that it was there.


    But when the hammering began in the woods ahead of them, the little girl tensed and whimpered. She dug her fingers into Manrie¡¯s neck. ¡°Praeda, you¡¯re hurting me,¡± Manrie said. And then, when the grip wouldn¡¯t loosen, ¡°If you don¡¯t let go, you¡¯ll have to get down and walk.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m scared.¡±


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t hold onto my neck. Can you hold my shoulders? And practice your breathing, like I told you.¡±


    ¡°Breathing doesn¡¯t help. I can taste the faces.¡±


    ¡°You mean that you can smell the camphor. I wish I had never told you about the faces. If you didn¡¯t know about them, you would think that the forest smelled nice.¡±


    ¡°I would still hear the woodpecker.¡±


    ¡°So? There are woodpeckers all through the woods. They¡¯re just hunting for insects in the bark.¡±


    ¡°This one isn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°How do you know? Maybe it¡¯s the insects that are making the patterns of the faces.¡±


    That was a mistake. Praeda gasped and dug her fingers deeper into Manrie¡¯s shoulders. Manrie fell silent. She wouldn¡¯t speak her real fear. That it was the stranger, the mushroom man, who was controlling the woodpecker. He had told her, when she first met him in Libreigia, that as a child he had seen a face in a field of blighted grain. Or rather, he had told Aizdha when she was in the room. He had never addressed her directly, had pretended that she wasn¡¯t there. As a slave, she was beneath his notice. It seemed unfair that he was hunting her now.


    It was because she had the bestiary. If she left it beside the trail, he might abandon his hunt. But if she left it beside the trail, she would surrender who she was. She would loose her link to Aizdha. And the mushroom man might destroy the book. All of the knowledge that she and her master had carefully accumulated would disappear. Perhaps she could make a new bestiary. How much did she remember? Not enough. Facts would disappear. Drawings would shift and lose their exactitude. Any book she made would be one step away from the reality that they had encountered and recorded. And there was one page that she could never replicate.


    ¡°Do you want to know about the strangest page in the bestiary?¡± she asked Praeda.


    There was a pause, then the girl said, ¡°Yes,¡± in a tiny voice that was almost lost beneath the hammering of the woodpecker.


    ¡°It¡¯s a monster that can only be described, can only be talked about, really, by two people who have seen it. Aizdha and I made the page together. We had to sit side by side and remember the facts, and when I drew it he had to put his hand over my hand.¡±


    ¡°What does it look like?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I can¡¯t remember it because he¡¯s¡­because I¡¯m alone now.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not alone.¡±


    ¡°Well, he isn¡¯t with me anymore.¡± Although, maybe at night, when his spirit came near, she would be able to see it. She would have to try when they made camp for the evening.


    ¡°How did you know what the monster looked like?¡±


    ¡°We encountered it together. In Lacernae. It had come down from the highest peaks and was terrorizing the village. Only they didn¡¯t know it was there. Or, they knew when they were together. They knew when they talked about it together, but when they were alone, they forgot. In some ways it was good.¡±


    ¡°How was it good?¡±


    ¡°All they had to do was go off by themselves, and they would forget to be afraid.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t leave me alone!¡±


    Manrie laughed. ¡°That¡¯s not what I¡¯m saying. But you¡¯re not afraid when you¡¯re asleep, are you?¡±


    ¡°I know you¡¯re with me.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but in your sleep you¡¯re alone.¡±


    ¡°No I¡¯m not.¡±


    ¡°Of course you are.¡±


    ¡°There are people in my dreams.¡±


    Manrie thought about that. Eventually she said, ¡°Yes, I suppose that¡¯s true.¡±


    And she didn¡¯t tell Praeda about the way the monster had stalked people when they were alone. When she and Aizdha had arrived in Lacernae, all anyone knew was that people were going missing. They had already taken precautions, had organized into groups. She remembered how crowded the cliff dwellings had been, as hermits and widows left their lonely hovels and found their way to the town, how people had helped them up the ladders and made them welcome in their homes. She could picture the multi-colored robes that had hung down from the ledges, drying in the sun. She could smell the stew pots. For that brief time during which the people had come together, the poor had been protected, the strange and cantankerous had been tolerated. The monster had brought fear to Lacernae. It had also brought love.


    The thought of the meals they had shared in the different dwellings made her stomach growl, and she stopped in a grove of twisted trees and squatted so that Praeda could get down from her back. The little girl insisted on clinging to her, and Manrie sighed, and pried one hand free from her shoulder so that she could release the saddle bag¡¯s strap. ¡°I¡¯ve become your horse,¡± she said.


    ¡°The last horse died,¡± Praeda replied.


    Manrie ignored this. ¡°I¡¯m hungry and I need to set some snares.¡± She moved around the grove, setting her snares in the branches of the low shrubs that grew at the roots of the trees. Praeda moved with her, bunching her robes in one tiny hand and pulling them so that the collar cut into Manrie¡¯s neck. It was like she herself was in a snare that the child had created. When she was done, she picked Praeda up and held her cradled against her chest, so that the little girl¡¯s soft hairs tickled her chin. She realized that the sound of the woodpecker had stopped. ¡°We could build some bird snares, I suppose, and see if we could trap it.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a bird snare?¡±


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Just a clever way of catching dinner. Only birds don¡¯t provide much meat, so they¡¯re hardly worth catching if you can snare a squirrel or a hare.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sick of hares.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be even sicker of squirrels. Come on, let¡¯s try.¡±


    She broke a dead branch off of one of the camphor trees, ignoring the face that stared at her from the trunk and telling herself that it wasn¡¯t like snapping off a human arm. The tree hadn¡¯t become a person when the woodpecker decorated it. But as she worked with her knife to sharpen one end of it and drill a hole near the top, she couldn¡¯t help glancing at the tree to see if the face had changed expression. She didn¡¯t think the woodpecker would choose to be snared, but threading a piece of twine through the hole and tying it about a rock gave her something to do as they waited for the other snares to catch their meal. When she was finished she dug a hole for the pole in the center of the grove, then led Praeda to the base of an uncarved tree, and sat with her back against the trunk, regarding her work as the little girl settled against her side and began to snore.


    Her eyes drifted from the bird snare to the faces on the other trees, and when she was certain that Praeda was deeply asleep she shifted the child off of her lap and brought the bestiary out of the saddlebag. She turned through the pages, looking at the drawings and descriptions that she had added over the years. Her handwriting was better than Aizdha¡¯s, and she was a better illustrator. Eventually he had allowed her to fill most of the pages, directing her work at first, then trusting her more and more. His writing and drawing was entirely absent from the last signatures of the book. The only other hand that had written there belonged to Beztrae, the guard captain in Libreigia. She frowned as she considered the page he had written on. Then she turned the page and her frown deepened when she saw the picture she had made of the Man on the Mountain. Aizdha had always objected to having human beings pictured and described in the bestiary¡¯s pages. ¡°We are not monsters,¡± he had said.


    *But some of us are,¡±* she thought. She dug a stylus and ink pot out of the saddle bag. The pot was still fairly full, although spilled ink had hardened around the cap and flaked off when she opened it. It had a dank, mealy odor which she associated with concentration and the pride that came from writing and drawing well. She dipped the stylus into it, and then paused, considering. Her glance strayed to the bird snare, and she imagined the woodpecker landing on it. She could draw it, if the trap failed, if it chose to pose for her in the weak mountain sunlight. But the trap wouldn¡¯t fail, and the woodpecker was too smart to land on it. She glanced at the carved tree trunks instead, took a breath, and began to draw one of the faces before she could reconsider her actions.


    It was a stern, rather angry face. The mouth rested in a permanent scowl, and the little snub nose was dominated by the wide, accusing eyes. A woman whose disappointment with life had settled into her features. Manrie sketched, glanced at the face, sketched again. She imagined the face¡¯s expression shifting between glances, and it scared her, but the sketch gave a kind of permanence to the face. As if by sketching it, she could control what it might do. She didn¡¯t know if she had seen this face in the night, standing in the crowd of ghosts that always appeared but never came close. She wouldn¡¯t want this woman to approach. Wouldn¡¯t want to spend time in the company of such a dissatisfied spirit.


    She finished the drawing and shifted her attention to another tree. The face that the woodpecker had carved on it was kind. A young man with deep set eyes and a quirk to his mouth, so that he looked thoughtful and questioning. Someone she would have liked to meet. Again, she wasn¡¯t certain if she had seen him among the ghosts. Maybe death made people anonymous. Maybe the woodpecker was enacting a kindness, returning the spirits¡¯ personalities to them by making them concrete in carved wood.


    Thoughts of the woodpecker caused her to glance at the bird snare, and she froze, her breath caught in her throat. There was a bird perched on the branch of the snare. Perched impossibly, since its weight should have caused the branch to slip out the hole in the pole she had carved and snap the twine tight around the bird¡¯s legs. But the bird seemed to have no weight.


    It was a very strange bird, smallish but extremely plump. There was a crown of red on its forehead, and its beak was long and pointed. Its body looked lumpy and unnaturally bloated, as if it were hiding large objects beneath its feathers. It was impossible that it hadn¡¯t sprung the snare. It was sitting very contentedly and staring directly at her.


    There was a disruption at the other end of the grove. A snap and then a small, distressed squeaking. Manrie and the bird stared at each other. Then it unfurled its wings, folding them out in segments, its body thinning as the great wings stretched. It gave one long, reverberating cry, flapped the enormous wings, and disappeared into the sky.


    Manrie held her breath. The squeaking of the trapped hare punctuated the stillness. Praeda¡¯s mumbled something, realized that she was lying alone on the ground, and flailed with her arms, looking for Manrie. ¡°I¡¯m here, Praeda,¡± she said, gathering the girl into her arms. For a moment the little body relaxed back into sleep. Then Praeda gave her head a little shake. ¡°Did you catch something?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Should we go see?¡±


    It was a tremendous mountain hare, sitting very still beside the tree trunk. The face on the tree was that of fat man, his beard carved in luxurious rivulets. Manrie bent beside the snare, Praeda clinging to her back, and cut the hare¡¯s neck with her knife. She wiped the blade on its warm hide, then glanced up at the face. ¡°Praeda, was there a fat man in your village? With a very big beard?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Mikjoen.¡±


    ¡°A nice man?¡±


    ¡°There were always dogs by his shop. He was nice to them.¡±


    ¡°What kind of shop was it?¡±


    ¡°Butchers.¡±


    Manrie nodded. ¡°I suppose he helped us catch the hare.¡±


    She lit a small fire in the grove, then slipped the saddlebag on and squatted as Praeda climbed up onto her usual perch. They walked away from the grove, Manrie clutching the hare by its hind legs, the fire sending a ribbon of smoke into the air behind them. They walked east for a little while, going uphill, and then Manrie lit another fire on a large flat rock.


    ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± Praeda said.


    ¡°We need a few fires to confuse the man who¡¯s following us. If he is following us. He passed us by a day ago. And he was on a horse. He¡¯s probably far to the north by now. But we should be sure.¡±


    ¡°But he might just come to the last fire.¡±


    ¡°The last fire?¡±


    ¡°The one you¡¯re going to cook with.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Manrie agreed. ¡°But he¡¯ll only have a one and three chance. And maybe the woodpecker will frighten him off.¡± At her words, the hammering started up again, as if she had invoked it. Praeda grasped and seized her hair in both hands. ¡°Ow! Praeda, let go!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m scared!¡±


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t be. I saw the woodpecker while you were sleeping. It isn¡¯t scary.¡±


    ¡°But the faces.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re on our side.¡±


    ¡°Like Mikjoen.¡±


    ¡°Yes. Like Mikjoen.¡±


    She didn¡¯t cook the hare until the third fire was lit, another hour¡¯s walk to the north. They settled beside a stream. As their dinner was roasting on the curious spit that she had found in the saddlebag, she squatted beside the cold water and washed the two strange discs that she had taken from the Man on the Mountain. She found salsify growing at a little bend where the water rushed over a tumble of rocks. Praeda seemed strangely secure in this place, content to stay beside the fire and turn the spit. When Manrie returned from foraging she placed one of the discs directly on the glowing embers at the edge of the fire and simmered the salsify in shallow water.


    They ate together in a silence that was so deep that it seemed original to the world. The silence of the land before there were animals or trees, and the only possible sound was that of water running over stone. Manrie watched the little stream and heard only the burbling of the current as it ran around the rocks. Shards of sunlight glinted off of it. And then there was a flash of light, and she looked up to see the strange bird, the woodpecker, soaring across the face of the mountain. Another flash, and another.


    ¡°Praeda,¡± Manrie breathed. ¡°There are three woodpeckers. No, there are more. They keep coming. They¡¯re flying above the stream, going right past us.¡±


    Praeda clutched at her. But she couldn¡¯t subdue her own curiosity. ¡°Where are they going?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. They¡¯re like fish swimming upstream. If they were fish it would mean that they were going to mate in the mountain pools.¡±


    ¡°Fish aren¡¯t bad.¡±


    Manrie hesitated. ¡°No, they aren¡¯t,¡± she assured the child, deciding not to tell her of the signatures of the bestiary that dealt with monstrous fish.


    ¡°Are we going to go with them?¡±


    ¡°Do you want to?¡± Manrie asked, surprised.


    ¡°You want to.¡±


    And it was true. Manrie did. She hastily washed the disc and the needle in the stream and pushed them into the pack. A steady stream of birds flashed through the sky above them. The movement of their wings blew down into the little valley and fanned the flames of the cook fire. Manrie stomped it out, sending a great plume of white smoke into the air. She imagined the mushroom man looking up and seeing it, and turning his horse. Burdened by the saddle bag and by Praeda, seated upon it, Manrie stepped into the stream and made her way carefully up it, slipping on the slick rocks, her boots filling with cold water. But she would give the mushroom man no footprints to follow, she would leave him no trail of broken branches to hunt them along.


    After a few miles they came to a waterfall, and had to leave the water to make their way up a rocky escarpment. They had put enough distance behind them that she could reconcile herself to the signs they left as they scrambled upwards. As they climbed, a great whirring sound grew and grew. At the top of the ridge they found that the stream ran between two tight cliffs. They abandoned it and turned towards the sound, moving carefully, afraid of startling the birds.


    The trees fell away and they came out onto the rim of an enormous bowl in the mountains. Birds were settling onto the ground, and a tremendous stench of guano rose into the air. Praeda wrinkled her nose. ¡°You should take the blindfold off,¡± Manrie whispered.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Praeda, you want to see this.¡±


    ¡°You tell me what you see.¡±


    ¡°Praeda, you should look for yourself. Don¡¯t worry. I¡¯ll tell you if you need to put the blindfold back on.¡±


    ¡°Please, Manrie.¡±


    Manrie sighed. ¡°Very well. We¡¯re looking down onto about a hundred birds. They¡¯re each settling onto a patch of ground, about a man¡¯s length away from any other bird. They¡¯re looking at the sky. Like they¡¯re waiting for something.¡±


    ¡°Waiting for what?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Praeda, I wish you¡¯d look.¡±


    ¡°Do they have faces?¡±


    ¡°The birds? They have beaks and eyes and plumage. Like any bird. Is that what you mean?¡±


    ¡°Are they making faces? On the ground?¡±


    ¡°Like the ones carved into the trees? No. They aren¡¯t moving at all. I think the last one just landed. I don¡¯t see any more coming.¡±


    Praeda didn¡¯t say anything in answer. The mountainside fell silent, except for the sound of the running stream. It was eerie, looking down at the faces of the birds. They were so still. As still as the ghosts that appeared each evening. Manrie studied them, breathing slowly. They were of varying shades of black and gray, and there was something almost intentional in the way that they had arranged themselves on the ground. There seemed to be a pattern to it, but she couldn¡¯t quite discern what it was.


    Then a high whistle pierced the air, and a shape soared down from the mountain peak. A sleek, white form, no larger than the birds that waited for it, but trailing tendrils of feather that glinted like snow in the mountain sunlight. It found a place in the sky and began to circle, looking down into the bowl.


    The birds on the ground ruffled their fat bodies, and then, with bizarre synchronicity, unhinged their hidden wings. Plumage lifted beside their faces, and the air flashed with the deep blue and green of hidden feathers. In unison, they took a few steps to one side, and then a few steps to the other, and began to spin. The green and blue flashed and then flashed again, as if butterflies had settled on the birds and were fanning their intricate wings.


    ¡°Praeda, you must look!¡± Manrie breathed, and the excitement and wonder in her voice caused the girl to raise a cautious hand to the blindfold and lift it above one eye. The birds tail feathers spread out like the skirts of a maiden, and startled the air with the intricate designs that they had been keeping hidden. Praeda stared and pulled the blindfold off, blinking furiously in the light.


    The birds began to hop, and their talons clicked rhythmically against the ground. Then they frilled up their wings and held them out in front of their chests, so that they looked like shards of obsidian before they were flipped back against their bodies.They dipped and straightened, as it looked like their whole bodies were striking the ground, then shattering into gem like color as the wings turned back into the folds of swinging skirts. They began to spin, and Praeda laughed out loud, and clutched Manrie¡¯s arm with glee. They were like wobbly, shuffling tops, all moving together. It was as if the entire forest was dancing. The bobbing heads, the flash of yellow from their throat patches, the small piercing pinpricks of blue from their eyes. And above them, the white bird circled lower and lower.


    Then, with a satisfied yet ungainly squawk, it fluttered down into the middle of the spinning circle. For a moment, the whole circle froze, and Manrie¡¯s breath caught. For the gray and white feathers, the flash of green and blue, the arrested gleam of yellow, fell together into the pattern of a mosaic. And she saw a face looking up at her from the ground. A human face, kind and intelligent, and very plump.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± Praeda breathed.


    ¡°Aizdha,¡± Manrie said, before she could stop herself. ¡°My master¡­my friend.¡±


    ¡°A ghost?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Seemingly with that word, the pattern fell apart. The bird in the center of the circle mounted the snow white hen and the other birds cast themselves into the sky. They soared right past Manrie and Praeda, and the air was turned to dusk by their feathers. And then they were gone, and the white bird was rising from the ground, its mate rising beside it, flowing up into the sky, where they separated, seeming to cut the air in two with their flight.


    Praeda didn¡¯t put the blindfold back on. ¡°Are you scared?¡± Manrie asked her.


    She was blinking, her gaze traveling over the sky and the trees. ¡°It¡¯s pretty,¡± she said.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Are you scared, Manrie? Are you scared of the mountain?¡±


    Manrie remembered the mushroom man, leaning back in Aizdha¡¯s chambers, saying ¡°the land is trying to kill us.¡± He had seen a face in the ravished fields. But she had seen a face as well. And it was not a cruel face. It was a gentle and sad face. A face she knew better than her own. ¡°No,¡± she said, ¡°I¡¯m not afraid.¡±

 In the Improbable Caravan

    The chrome-haired man didn¡¯t ask about Praeda¡¯s blindfold. Manrie saw him note it, saw a thought flicker across his open face, and saw decision settle in his asymmetrical eyes. She detected no fear in him at all. He simply bent down to the cracked bowl that he had been collecting herbs in, pinched a sprig of rosemary in his long and agile fingers, and held it under Praeda¡¯s nose. ¡°I will make a delicious pancake with it, so light and delicate that you will think that you¡¯re eating the springtime.¡±


    Praeda sniffed at it cautiously. ¡°Why?¡± she asked.


    He glanced at Manrie, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. ¡°You look hungry. Like someone who has been traveling a long time, and needs a good meal.¡± One of his eyes wandered, and it seemed to look behind her, at the journey she¡¯d been on.


    ¡°We have been traveling a long time,¡± Manrie said, ¡°but I¡¯ve fed her well enough.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the man agreed. ¡°*Enough*. But I am interested in more than enough. I believe that people deserve more than enough.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s more than enough?¡± Praeda asked.


    He laughed. ¡°Delight. Joy. People think that *enough* is safe. But I think it¡¯s like a slow poison. Beauty is safe. Laughter is safe.¡± He lifted the rosemary to his nostrils and sniffed. ¡°Delight is safe.¡±


    Manrie shifted uncomfortably. ¡°Are we near Zaira Lake?¡±


    ¡°Very near. If you step to the left and look down between those two hemlock trees, you will see it glittering in the valley.¡±


    ¡°And do you live there? Along the lake?¡±


    Again the busy, chiming laugh. ¡°We live everywhere. We are traveling there now. But we left the road to look for tantralamuhn.¡± He looked down into his bowl and shifted its contents carefully, extracting a stem with swollen leaves marching up it in pairs. ¡°It is past its flowering season, or we would hear it singing. It is very, very delectable. I will cook it with lake squash in a sea of butter. It will make you weep with gladness.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s very kind of you,¡± Manrie said, ¡°but we¡¯ll be moving on.¡±


    The expressive face fell. ¡°To eat a lonely meal on a lonely hillside?¡± Then the mismatched eyes narrowed with consideration. ¡°If you are being chased, it is more conspicuous for you to be alone. The best place to lose oneself is in a crowd.¡± Had his wandering eye seen the mushroom man, somewhere on the trail behind them?


    ¡°Do you have a crowd?¡±


    He flashed a grin. ¡°There are only four of us. But we go into the towns to find the crowds. And sometimes the crowds come to find us.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    He shrugged again. ¡°Because we feed them.¡±


    ¡°And your food is so good that they come running out to you?¡±


    ¡°People respond to generosity. They will give to you if you give to them.¡±


    Manrie thought of Libreigia. ¡°Sometimes.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± he smiled, ¡°let this be one of those times.¡±


    Praeda pulled at Manrie¡¯s hand. ¡°Could we, Manrie?¡±


    Sunlight was glinting off of the hillside, and the tall grasses were bending gently over as a breeze passed along them. A chickadee was fluctuating between two high notes, and a herd of deer was moving in a line along the ridge to the north. ¡°We¡¯ll come if you tell us your name,¡± Manrie said to the man.


    The smile flashed. His teeth were very clean and surprisingly straight. ¡°Cloedeya,¡± he said. ¡°And you are Manrie.¡±


    She stiffened. ¡°How do you know that?¡±


    ¡°Your friend just called you that.¡± He knelt beside Praeda and said, ¡°You can keep your name to yourself, or tell me if you like.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Praeda.¡±


    ¡°Yes you are,¡± he said. ¡°Praeda who knows beauty through scent and touch. Come. Let me cook for you.¡±


    He led them to the foot of the hill and around it, to a grove of sycamores that grew along a small stream. There were two wagons sitting in the shadow of the trees. They were tall and enclosed, and brightly painted. Manrie saw plants growing on their roofs, and ladders up the sides to reach these mobile gardens. There was a chicken coup at the back of one wagon, separated by a wall from the rest of the interior. The chickens were pecking at the ground beneath the trees, a rather handsome rooster strutting among them. Two goats were munching at tufts of grass beside the wooden wheels, and two horses and one cow had plodded over to the riverside to graze. A white cloth had been tacked up to provide a roof that spanned the space between the wagons, and dappled sunlight fell through it onto a pair of women who were standing at a high table. They were slicing vegetables.


    Cloedeya whistled as he led his guests into camp, and the two women looked up and smiled. ¡°I have found us some friends to share our supper,¡± he told them.


    One of the women dried her hands on her apron and came forward. She squatted down to look at Praeda, then reached a shy hand out and touched the little girl¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Hello,¡± she said softly. She had a wide face. A line of acne stuttered across her forehead. Her lips had a strangely purplish hue, as if she had been holding her breath. Which might account for the roundness of her cheeks, Manrie thought.


    ¡°Hello,¡± Praeda said shyly.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± the woman asked.


    ¡°Praeda.¡±


    The bluish lips flashed into a smile. The woman ducked her head shyly, then raised it and gave Cloedeya a strangely direct look. ¡°Me too. My name is Praeda, too.¡±


    Cloedeya nodded judiciously, as if he approved of some decision that had just been made. ¡°We will have to call you Big Praeda and Little Praeda,¡± he said. He nodded to the other woman. ¡°And this is Melsa.¡±


    Melsa had very square, sharp shoulders. She seemed very shy. She met Manrie¡¯s eye, gave her a weak smile, and continued to slice a long carrot, working her knife carefully and skillfully, cutting the orange tuber into thin sticks. ¡°I learned one of our guests¡¯ name by accident,¡± Cloedeya said to the two women. ¡°So I won¡¯t tell it to you. She can if she likes.¡± He went to Melsa¡¯s side, snatched up a stick of carrot, and chewed it thoughtfully. ¡°Is Taeyaho still out gathering?¡±


    ¡°He went upstream. He said that he saw a heron snatch a bluegill from the shallows.¡±


    Cloedeya nodded. ¡°The bluegill in this stream are more succulent than most,¡± he told Manrie. ¡°The taste of the mountain is in their flesh. A hint of iron and stone. It pairs with a sauce made of plum and honey that will make you dream of the Previous World.¡±


    Big Praeda was leading Little Praeda, Manrie¡¯s Praeda, over to the table. ¡°Would you like to taste each ingredient as we prepare it?¡± she asked the little girl. ¡°You will know each part of the meal, and then, when we are done cooking, you will understand how all of the different flavors come together.¡±


    Manrie hovered uncertainly at the edge of shadow cast by the cloth roof. ¡°What should we call you?¡± Melsa asked. Her voice quivered slightly, as if it had to be strained through her shyness before it could be heard.


    Manrie thought for a moment. Cloedeya had disappeared into one of the wagons. ¡°Kumynoe,¡± she said. It was her mother¡¯s name.


    Melsa seemed to need time to consider this. She worked in silence, but her mouth quirked slightly, as if chewing on words that she wouldn¡¯t say out loud. Her hair was quartz colored and hung down over her eyes.


    After a while a thin boy came walking along the stream, carrying a string of fish that flashed gold and blue in the dappled sunlight. He was singing in a high, chiming voice. He stopped at the edge of the camp and looked at Little Praeda and Manrie. Cloedeya had emerged from the wagon and was grating a block of cheese. He glanced up, grinned, and said, ¡°We have visitors.¡±


    ¡°Hello,¡± the boy said. He smiled. Manrie thought that he was the most beautiful person she had ever seen. He had the beginnings of a wispy beard, and blue eyes that flashed against his dark skin. His shoulders and arms were rounded with lithe muscle, and water glinted off of his bare chest. He seemed to collect the sparkling peace of the stream into his person and refract it back into the air.


    ¡°This little girl has my name,¡± Big Praeda said quickly. ¡°Praeda.¡± The boy looked at her and she looked back at him. ¡°And this young woman is named Kumynoe,¡± she said.


    Cloedeya glanced at Manrie, nodded, and then said, ¡°You had a good catch, Taeyaho.¡±


    The beautiful boy brought his string of fish to the table. ¡°I feel sorry for the heron. It will find its fishing grounds empty when it flies back.¡±


    ¡°You couldn¡¯t have caught every fish in the stream.¡±


    Taeyaho laughed, and it was a surprising abrasive laugh, high and hacking and hard to bring back under control. ¡°No, but it isn¡¯t the only heron.¡±


    The boy busied himself making a fire, and after a moment Manrie began to collect twigs for him. The saddlebag was still strapped to her back, and swayed and banged against her hips as she bent to the ground. If Taeyaho thought that this was strange, he gave no indication of it. They built the fire beneath an elaborate iron grill, and then the four cooks set to work with great intensity. Their movements and their quiet, murmured words were almost prayerful. Watching them, Manrie was reminded of the way that Aizdha had moved when stalking some monster. Slowly, his fat body strangely agile and concentrated. She had learned how to shift her position from him, how to make her steps light and her motions so slow and careful that they barely disturbed the air. And she had learned how to concentrate all of her being on the creature that she was observing, memorizing its shape and color so that she could draw it later, observing what it ate, how it moved its head or tail, how the marking on a hide or carapace could shift as it grazed or hunted. The four cooks had the same concentration, and Little Praeda, standing near them, was quite still and focused. Her blindfold was dirty, but her robes were a dazzling white. This surprised Manrie, who had stopped noticing how clean the girl always looked. She glanced down at her own robes, and saw that they were white as well.


    They ate as the sun was setting, sitting at a table made from the unhinged wall of one of the wagons. The interior it exposed was full of pillows and blankets, quite obviously the place where the travelers slept. Cloedeya sat beside Manrie¡¯s Praeda and had her smell the meal and then take small bites, savoring the fish and its sauce. The carrots had been braised in a tangy wine, and tasted like sunlight on the top of trees. They had made a pilaf with wild rice and cranberries. Halfway through the meal, Manrie found that she was crying. No one commented on it. They seemed to expect that their food would evoke emotion.


    When her plate was clean, Manrie sat back on the little camp stool that they had given her. She glanced towards the stream, and froze. Melsa followed her gaze. She leapt up, knocking her stool over. She blinked, her fists clenched. Cloedeya glanced towards the stream, and then at her. Melsa lifted her eyes and looked at him. Then she picked up her stool and sat down again.


    ¡°There are more of them tonight,¡± Cloedeya said.


    ¡°More of who?¡± Little Praeda asked, immediately on her guard.


    ¡°They have been appearing all through the Sand Hills. But I¡¯ve never seen them in this number.¡±


    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°Manrie, is it the ghosts?¡±


    ¡°Kumynoe,¡± Cloedeya corrected her. Then he reached across to lay the flat of his hand against Little Praeda¡¯s cheek. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s the spirits. We have seen them in every town we¡¯ve visited. But not here in the wilderness. And never so many of them. Do you know them?¡±


    ¡°They are following me,¡± Manrie said quickly.


    Cloedeya considered her. ¡°Well,¡± he said, ¡°they must love you very much.¡±


    Taeyaho untangled himself from his stool and walked under the trees to the edge of the stream. The ghosts faced him from the other bank. Manrie looked at his straight back, the way that the moonlight shone on his pearlescent hair. After a moment he sat down in the dirt, crossing his legs and facing the dead quietly, as one might look at the stars.


    ¡°I¡¯m scared,¡± Little Praeda whispered.


    Big Praeda said, ¡°May I pick you up?¡±


    The little girl nodded. Her namesake took her into her lap and nuzzled her. ¡°Much of the world seems frightening, but isn¡¯t. And some of the world hides its nature, so that we don¡¯t know to be frightened of it. But the spirits won¡¯t hurt us.¡±


    ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°Kumynoe says that they¡¯ve been following you. Have they done anything to you?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s assume that they¡¯re gentle. That they¡¯re like deer, that come to the river to drink.¡±


    ¡°Are we the river?¡± Manrie asked sharply, and Melsa shifted nervously on her stool.


    ¡°I think that we share the same river,¡± Big Praeda said. ¡°Like different animals do.¡±


    Manrie turned her head and looked at Aizdha¡¯s ghost, standing in the front rank of the spirits. She had never been afraid of him in life. Cloedeya shifted and stood. ¡°I will offer them a plate of fish,¡± he said. Melsa gave a little mewling sound. But Cloedeya assembled a plate with careful concentration, and then carried it to where Taeyaho was sitting. He bent and said a few words, and then he kicked off his sandals and waded into the stream. He didn¡¯t step onto the other shore, but set the plate on the far bank, and then raised his head to look into the faces of the ghosts. But they paid him no mind. They stared across the river, at the table where Manrie and Praeda were sitting, watching them with tired, wary eyes.


    It was the beginning of a stream of days that Manrie would remember in flashes. They traveled downstream and found the Ordaelauwa River and journeyed up it, stopping in towns and villages that were full of fisher folk, lean and tan and with battered, scarred hands. One village at the top of a rise was famous for its great herd of swine, and Manrie stood with Cloedeya in a smokehouse and watched great haunches of meat sway in the dusty light that came through a high window. Cloedeya shaved at a ham with a paring knife and rolled up his eyes with ecstasy when he tasted the flesh. In another village, he waded into the water beneath a little bridge and picked watercress, working somberly and quickly, commenting on its properties to Melsa, who waited on the bridge with a woven basket. They cooked for everyone, and they never paid for anything. Manrie and Little Praeda slept in the second wagon, which was loaded with food, and their sleep was soothed with the scent of onions and dried fish and pungent cheese. Some nights Big Praeda would sleep there, too, and Little Praeda would roll into her arms, and Manrie, staring at the shadows of the herb bunches hanging from the rafters, would feel both jealousy and relief.


    She began to understand that the travelers were like a breeze that picks up seeds and pollens and scatters them across the countryside, helping things to grow. Each village was benefited by the labor of the other villages, because the travelers brought them herbs and vegetables and meats that had been grown and cured only twenty miles away, but seemed entirely exotic to the isolated river folk. Little Praeda began to take her blindfold off during the day, and Manrie, who had only seen her eyes on that first day in the meadow, was surprised that they were a greenish brown, and capable of showing delight instead of fear. She charmed the people in the villages, who commented on the gleaming white of her robes. Other girls wanted to plait her hair. Women wanted to pick her up. It seemed to Manrie that Little Praeda had also become a gift that the travelers carried from place to place, a necessary element in the feasts they hosted, as expected and welcome as a song or a story at the end of the meal.


    As they traveled, Taeyaho¡¯s beauty seemed to dim. Maybe it was only that Manrie grew used to it, that she learned to look at him in the face without feeling blinded. She could see the small bump on his nose, now, and that his lips were often chapped. She noticed, and then couldn¡¯t help noticing, the cowlick that sprang up like a weed at the top of his head.


    One night she passed by the sleeping wagon and looked in through a crack in the door, and saw Melsa and Cloedeya and Big Praeda all lying together, clasping and kissing each other. She stepped quickly away and a flush rose over her body, a confusing burning that made her strangely angry. The next night she sat in the shadows outside of the wagon and listened to the sounds coming from within. They weren¡¯t unfamiliar to her. She had been a slave in Libreigia, and she knew what sex sounded like. But she had never expected to feel the swell of desire and longing within herself, and it bothered her more that she didn¡¯t know what or who she desired.


    ¡°Do you know what they do at night?¡± she asked Taeyaho, as they were walking beside the wagons along a rutted river trail.


    He looked away, blushing, flashing the blue of his eyes at the ground. ¡°They don¡¯t disturb me.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    ¡°They know I don¡¯t want to be part of it. They let me be.¡±


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you want to be part of it?¡±


    He struggled to answer. His dark skin flushed with embarrassment, and he pulled his shapely shoulders inward, as if he could fold himself vertically and hide within his own body. Then he gave his strange, abrasive laugh, and began to whistle tunelessly.


    She let him be. His beauty wasn¡¯t for her. She wondered, as they traveled, if that made him any less beautiful to her. And she wondered if she wanted anyone else¡¯s beauty, wanted to be touched and caressed by another person. Aizdha had never touched her, although she knew that other masters did what they liked to their slave¡¯s bodies. When she had first learned of this, she had resolved to kill Aizdha, if he ever laid a hand on her. She had gone so long equating murder with touch that she didn¡¯t think she could change.


    Still, as he walked beside her, Taeyaho would sing. It was a strange song, with no set tune, although certain melodies returned again and again, and with words that were always changing but seemed to speak of the same thing. A joyous song, reflecting the land they traveled through, the bright sunlight on the sides of the seer hills, the birdsong and the sound of fish leaping in the streams and rivers. She didn¡¯t ask about it, or try to learn it. She was content to hear Taeyaho sing it in his high tenor voice.


    It was on a hot, bright day that she saw the mushroom man in Hiraherra. They had come into the lake town and gone immediately to the old, squat keep that sat on the bluffs by the river mouth. The First Families had come to greet them, and slaves had set trestle tables in the courtyard of the keep, and brought wood for the cooking fires. The town was big enough to have an inn, and the kitchen slaves were sent to help make the meal. Manrie climbed to the top of the walls to watch them. Little Praeda sat with her, her back to the courtyard as she looked out over the rippling water. Manrie could tell that the people from the inn were in a celebratory mood. They were working hard but were happy, flashing grins at each other, and Cloedeya was teaching them, laughing with them, flipping little fish off of the grill into the bowls they brought him. Big Praeda had attracted a gaggle of children, and Manrie thought that this was what had caused Little Praeda to leave her side. They were teaching her songs as she minced herbs and mixed a marinade. Melsa, ever an island of shyness, seemed looser somehow, her gangly movements less awkward as she beat the batter for a pan bread. Taeyaho was no where to be seen. A tinker has set up his cart on the road leading to the keep, and was haggling with a woman over a small, glinting object. Manrie lazily watched the cooks, half dozing, her feet dangling over the narrow wooden walkway, her back against the battlements, a feeling of contentment seeping into her from the hot stones.


    Then there was the sound of a horse¡¯s hooves on the hard pack of the road that led up to the keep, and a figure appeared at the top of the rise. Manrie¡¯s breath caught as she looked down at a head wrapped in muslin, set on strangely immovable shoulders. He was met by the scions of the First Families, who had been sitting in the grass near the gate, passing a bottle between them. Young men, who rose to meet the stranger and block his path. They exchanged words that Manrie couldn¡¯t hear. Then the mushroom man turned his horse and rode away.


    When the feast began, Manrie led little Praeda to a table set up in the shadow of one of the wagons. The girl, still shy of the other children, seemed content to sit with her, grubbying her hands with roasted corn. Taeyaho joined them, smelling of lake water and mud. He seemed to note Manrie¡¯s anxiety, but said nothing of it. It was only when the feast was over, and the towns people were hurrying home before night fell, that he slipped away, and Cloedeya came to sit with her soon after.


    ¡°Taeyaho says that something frightened you,¡± he said, handing her a cup of watered wine.


    Little Praeda had fallen asleep with her head in Manrie¡¯s lap, her body stretched along the bench. Manrie looked down at her and watched the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath her gleaming white robes. She had forgotten to tie her blindfold back on. ¡°I thought the feast might continue late into the night,¡± she said.


    He studied her with his mismatched eyes. ¡°The spirits are rising here, as well. They say that the barrow is leaking their dead. They hide behind closed doors at night.¡±


    ¡°But not us?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°We have seen the dead every night since you joined us. I¡¯ve prepared a plate for them. Maybe someday they¡¯ll eat one of the meals I make for them. But that¡¯s not what frightened you.¡±


    She sighed, and then, with a sense of wildness mingled with despair, she decided to trust him. ¡°I¡¯m being pursued. By a man who wears a muslin sack over his head.¡±


    Cloedeya blinked. ¡°The bounty hunter.¡±


    ¡°No, he¡¯s a scholar. He smells like a mushroom and he poisoned my master.¡±


    ¡°Sip your wine. There is only one person who wears a muslin sack and travels the mountains and the Sand Hills. He takes bounties for the Lord of Yenceyan and the scholars of Libreigia, and sometimes goes as far as Hasra to deliver prisoners to Lady Daturi.¡±


    Manrie¡¯s breath caught in her throat. ¡°Do you mean that someone has taken a bounty out on me?¡±


    ¡°It must be.¡±


    She couldn¡¯t meet his gaze. She stared down at the table. Praeda, sensing her tension, stirred in her sleep. ¡°Will you sell me to him?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°Have you ever seen us buy or sell anything?¡±


    ¡°Will you¡­will you give me to him?¡±


    He was silent, and his silence made Manrie look up. She saw wonder, mixed with affront, in his asymmetrical eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t own you. I can¡¯t give or take you. Besides, he¡¯s not looking for you, Kumynoe. He¡¯s looking for someone else. Someone whose name I¡¯ve forgotten.¡±


    She felt tears rise in her throat. ¡°Why¡­why are you so kind to me?¡±


    Big Praeda was weaving her way between the tables. She came up to them, noted the tension, and sat down quietly. She reached out and took Cloedeya¡¯s hand. Cloedeya looked at her and smiled. ¡°We ground a special peppercorn in the meal tonight. We found it growing on a vine far to the south of here, in the misty heat of the Zahamaendas. Big Praeda ate it, and then we knew that we could eat it, too. She always tastes the new foods that we find. It¡¯s not because she is immune to poisons or toxins. It¡¯s not because she has an especially strong stomach. It¡¯s because there is a sweetness in her. We think, when we eat or drink something new, that our bodies have to adjust to it, learn to digest it. But when my darling here eats something, the land agrees to adjust to her. Poisonous plants fall in love with her, and decide that they will not poison humans any more.¡±


    Big Praeda laughed and patted his arm. ¡°You always say that. It¡¯s a ridiculous story.¡±


    He sat very still for a moment, holding Manrie¡¯s gaze. Then he laughed and shrugged. ¡°Maybe it is.¡±


    Manrie pondered this story as they traveled back into the hills, northeast to Tzurfaera. She and Praeda stayed hidden within the pantry wagon, but the masked bounty hunter did not meet them on the road. During the day she gazed out through a knothole in the wagon side as Little Praeda played with the meat and cheeses. Cloedeya¡¯s story made her look at the land with new eyes. She watched the gulls that wheeled over the lake, their white wings snatching at gusts of wind to glide for a moment before the breeze abandoned them, leaving them to flap and slide at ungainly angles until the wind picked them up again. She watched for the flash of fish in the water. At dawn one morning she saw a bear shamble out from a line of trees and drink from the lake. Nearby, a doe led two fawns to the water, the early sunlight glinting off of her tan hide.


    ¡°Tell me a story,¡± Little Praeda said to her as the wagon juddered over the uneven road.


    ¡°What kind of story?¡±


    ¡°A story from the bestiary.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to tell those stories anymore. And anyway, you always say that they¡¯re too scary.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not frightened now.¡±


    Manrie glanced into the corner of the wagon, where her saddle bag sat under a string of dried fish. She hadn¡¯t opened it for days. She could picture the bestiary sitting in it, nestled against the strange needle and the two odd discs, their colors sleeping in the darkness. She was frightened, but only of the man in the muslin mask. She thought of adding him to the bestiary. But then she wondered if anything should be added, if the bestiary was a true record of the world.


    That night she sat with Big Praeda after the others had gone to bed, looking out at the spirits who had gathered around the wagons. The fire was burning low, and the ghosts seemed peaceful and distant, like the stars. ¡°What¡¯s your real name?¡± Manrie asked quietly as a small breeze stirred the embers.


    Big Praeda gave a little laugh. ¡°You know, I don¡¯t really remember. I¡¯ve taken so many names since I met Cloedeya and joined this caravan.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hardly a caravan.¡±


    ¡°Well, it grows and will keep growing. I think it will become a caravan.¡±


    ¡°How do you always remember what people should call you?¡±


    The older woman smiled and scratched at a broad cheek. ¡°My friends remember for me. Changing your name is easy, as long as the people who love you agree to the change.¡±


    ¡°But why keep changing it, if everyone loves you?¡±


    Big Praeda was thoughtful. ¡°I suppose I still need to feel protected. Maybe I¡¯m testing them. Maybe I¡¯m afraid that someone, somewhere, is trying to create a necklace that is beaded with my names. If I ever stop, they¡¯ll be able to close the clasp, put me around their neck, and wear me.¡±


    ¡°You have enemies.¡±


    She sighed. ¡°I did. Long ago. I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re still my enemies. I don¡¯t know if they even remember me.¡±


    ¡°Did you¡­did you lose anything, when you met Cloedeya?¡±


    ¡°No. Or yes. Not so much loss, as seeing things become something different. I think about that when I cook. How spinach looses its crisp nature. How its taste mixes with other tastes, so that it¡¯s both spinach but also something else, and needs a new name, the name of the dish I¡¯ve created.¡±


    Manrie looked down into the embers. She looked up, at Aizdha¡¯s ghost, facing her from a hundred paces away. ¡°I would like to lose something,¡± she said.


    Big Praeda put a hand on her arm. ¡°Sometimes food has to cure in dark and dry places, for the true flavor to come out. Or to pickle in brine. Maybe you can¡¯t truly lose anything. But you can store it for a while, Kumynoe.¡±


    So they went into the pantry wagon, and Manrie picked up the saddle bag carefully, trying not to disturb Little Praeda as she slept. They went outside, and dug a hole in the ground, and buried the saddle bag in it. Manrie worried that the earth¡¯s moisture would creep in and destroy the bestiary. But maybe it would make it something different, the damp erasing certain words and making news sentences, new meanings, by their absence.

 On the Cliffside of Despair

    Tafaemi¡¯s skin was so soft that it seemed like it had become one of the creams that she slathered on it. Her hair was so heavy and thick that Manrie suspected that its gold was just an enamel that would reveal some dull, drab metal if it were scraped. She and her son were utterly alone when the caravan came up to them, but Manrie could sense the leers and gazes of men clinging to Tafaemi like scraps of ripped clothing.


    ¡°They¡¯ve sent us out here to die!¡± the woman wailed, almost as soon as Cloedeya had brought the wagons to a halt.


    ¡°Who has sent you?¡± Cloedeya asked, laying a calming hand on the side of the ox¡¯s wide neck.


    ¡°Who do you think? Macbrau, of course!¡±


    ¡°But you were so happy, when we were here last autumn.¡±


    ¡°It was two autumns ago, and *she* wasn¡¯t even pregnant, *then*.¡±


    ¡°Liezhae is pregnant?¡±


    ¡°Not anymore. She had the baby, didn¡¯t she? And then she told Macbrau a pack of lies. Said that I was always talking down to her, bossing her around. Because of Malekeisae.¡±


    At the sound of his name, a boy had been leaping between the large rocks that littered the way glanced back at her. He had been humming to himself, ignoring the arrival of the caravan. Little Praeda, who was lying with Manrie along the floor of the pantry wagon and staring out through a slightly raised panel, seemed fascinated by this child, who had golden hair like his mother but a wily hardness in his preoccupied gaze.


    ¡°Well, you were never very kind to her,¡± Cloedeya said.


    ¡°Whose side are you on? And anyway, I couldn¡¯t be kind. If I didn¡¯t point out that Malekeisae was Macbrau¡¯s only son, Liezhae would keep treating me like a slave, wouldn¡¯t she?¡±


    ¡°You are a slave.¡±


    This infuriated the blonde woman. ¡°*Was* a slave. I stopped *being* a slave as soon as I had Malekeisae. Not much good it did me in the long run.¡±


    This seemed to enrage Melsa, who has been standing a few feet back from Cloedeya, scowling at the rocky ground. ¡°You always do that,¡± she said sharply. ¡°You disparage and belittle everything around you, even your son. Of course he did you good. Does you good.¡±


    At this the woman started to cry. ¡°But they¡¯ve sent us out here to starve to death! The sun beats down at us during the day, and there are creatures that come prowling about at night. We haven¡¯t had anything to eat or drink in two days!¡±


    ¡°We just left a the Spring at Five Rocks this morning,¡± Cloedeya said patiently. ¡°It¡¯s less than a morning¡¯s walk away. Quicker for you, since you don¡¯t have wagons.¡±


    Tafaemi dismissed this. ¡°Maybe the boy could go there. It would be too much for me.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you bring any food with you when they sent you away?¡± Melsa asked, moving her wide shoulders back and forth, as if preparing to swing an arm out and slap the woman.


    ¡°And who would carry it?¡±


    ¡°But you have a basket right there.¡±


    The woman glanced at the basket by her side and said, ¡°That contains my unguents.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d rather be beautiful than feed your child.¡±


    ¡°I only have a child because I¡¯m beautiful.¡±


    ¡°Did you think some man would come along and save you?¡±


    Tafaemi simpered at Cloedeya. ¡°Some man has come along and saved me.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re going to Tzurfaera,¡± Cloedeya said gently. ¡°Will Macbrau welcome you back?¡±


    Tafeami shrugged. ¡°So we don¡¯t go to Macbrau. We go to the Enrieghos, on the other side of the valley. They¡¯ll take me in. Rue Enriegho has always blessed me with his regard.¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you go to them to begin with?¡±


    ¡°Macbrau made his men march us out here. And besides,¡± she said, with another glance at her unguents, ¡°I thought that one of the Enrieghos might happen to come along.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Cloedeya said, ¡°you might as well ride in the sleeping wagon. Malekeisae can walk with me, if he likes.¡± He went to the side of the sleeping wagon and banged on the panel. ¡°Taeyaho, you¡¯ll have to get up. We have guests.¡± He turned his head and saw Manrie peaking from the pantry wagon. He looked back at Tafaemi, who had not yet moved from her seat on a rather low and couch-like rock. ¡°Any visitors in Tzurfaera right now?¡±


    Tafaemi pouted. ¡°No one. And no one has come up the road for three days.¡±


    ¡°Unfortunate,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°We¡¯ll have to hold two feasts, then. One for the Enrieghos and one for Macbrau and his people. Guests do bring the warring camps together. But we have some remarkable ham to offer, and a butter that makes peas dance when they¡¯re cooked in it.¡± He glanced back at Manrie. ¡°It¡¯s a good thing we have some extra hands.¡± He strode to the pantry wagon and lifted the panel. ¡°Here are Little Praeda and Kumynoe, guarding the cheeses.¡±


    Tafaemi grazed them with disinterested eyes. Malekeisae, who had clambered down from the rocks, tossed a stone in their direction. ¡°Have you gotten rid of the one with no name?¡± his mother asked.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m here,¡± Big Praeda said, stepping from behind one of the wagons, where she had obviously been hiding.


    ¡°So dull, not to have a name,¡± Tafaemi yawned.


    ¡°Father says she has a name,¡± Malekeisae said with a canny look. ¡°Only they won¡¯t tell us what it is.¡±


    Taeyaho chose that moment to emerge from the sleeping wagon. He stood in the hard sunlight, half naked and blinking sleepily. Then he noticed Tafaemi and his whole demeanor changed. He blushed, stammered, and gave a little bow. Tafaemi greeted him by spreading her arms wide and pushing out her bosom. ¡°There¡¯s my darling boy!¡±


    To Manrie¡¯s horror, her beautiful friend took two quick strides and buried himself in the horrid woman¡¯s embrace. ¡°Inexplicable, isn¡¯t it,¡± Big Praeda murmured, coming up to her side. ¡°It¡¯s because he¡¯s never known a mother.¡±


    The sloth and weight of Tafaemi¡¯s presence made the wagon¡¯s go even slower. She kept the wall panel of the sleeping wagon open, and Taeyaho walked beside her, his face tilted shyly at the ground, smiling softly as she reached out a wan hand and stroked his cheek. Her son had insisted on riding on the ox¡¯s back, and didn¡¯t notice this. He protested in a high, domineering voice when Cloedeya pulled the ox to a halt. The whole procession juddered with the sudden stop, and Manrie, who was walking glumly along the side of the road, saw Taeyaho¡¯s head jerk up to meet Cloedeya¡¯s backward glance. He went forward without comment and stood with Cloedeya, examining the ground before them.


    ¡°Why have we stopped? Why have we stopped?¡± Malekeisae shrieked from the ox¡¯s back.


    Manrie went forward and stood beside the two men. She saw what they saw ¡ª disturbed earth, a smear of blood on a rock, and scratches along the trunk of an old withered tree that grew stubbornly out of the barren ground. Cloedeya turned and walked back to the sleeping wagon. ¡°When did the last caravan leave Tzurfaera?¡±


    ¡°Oh, caravans, they come and go,¡± Tafaemi said indifferently.


    ¡°Try to remember.¡±


    "How could I pay attention to caravans, with Liezhae plotting against me?¡±


    ¡°No one passed you on the road?¡±


    ¡°I told you, we¡¯ve been dying in the hot sun for three days.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t act like someone who hasn¡¯t had anything to drink for three days.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps it was two days.¡±


    ¡°It was two nights ago,¡± he son called back, and then smirked when she gave an embarrassed shriek.


    ¡°Well, *I* can¡¯t be expected to keep track of time.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s been violence on this road.¡±


    Tafaemi fanned herself. ¡°Well, I¡¯m sure it doesn¡¯t have anything to do with me.¡±


    It was almost dusk when they came over the last rise and saw the narrow valley that held Tzurfaera squeezed between two high cliffs. Manrie had been here once before. She and Aizdha had been guests of the Enrieghos, bidden to explore the mines on their side of the valley. She had wondered, then, at the high walls of their compound, and the men who patrolled along them, looking out at the meager and dispirited town that was compressed between the two opposing camps. As the wagon juddered along the uneven roadway, she gestured at the cliffs and whispered to Melsa, ¡°They were made by some monster, you know. Aizdha called it the lacing worm, since the caves on the north cliff are mirrored by the caves on the south cliff. Like they were the eyelets of a shoe.¡±


    Melsa shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. ¡°I hate coming here.¡±


    ¡°Why *do* you come here?¡±


    ¡°Cloedeya says we have to go everywhere. He says that we bring joy, and that Tzurfaera needs joy more than most places.¡±


    Manrie considered. ¡°It is joyless,¡± she agreed. Her gaze returned to the holes in the cliffs. She was filled with a sudden sharp sadness at Aizdha¡¯s absence, compounded by the fact that she wouldn¡¯t see him that night. The ghosts had disappeared once she¡¯d buried the bestiary, as if they had never been following her, but the book itself. But then, she had always known that her master loved his book more than her.


    They threaded their way through the narrow town, past a sulky looking tavern and a tea house. There was a wide, beaten space which the caravans occupied when they came through. A desultory alchemist¡¯s sign swung from a weathered crossbeam. Cloedeya turned the oxen to the right, towards the Enriegho¡¯s compound along the south cliff.


    They were met at the gate by two men, one armed with a cudgel and the other with a spear. Word of their arrival was sent back into the compound, and after some moments Ahlo Enriegho emerged. Manrie remembered his thin, foxy face, and the freckles on his dark skin. The setting sun glinted off of copper color hair. He looked up at them from beneath a lowered brow, as if he were shy, or up to something mischievous. Men crowded into the gateway behind him.


    The wagon creaked as Tafaemi got down from it. ¡°Ahlo, Ahlo!¡± she called, as if she needed to get his attention. ¡°Tell Rue that I¡¯ve come to be with him. That I can now truly be his, as we dreamed when we were young!¡±


    Her son craned his head over the side of the ox and spit in the dirt. Ahlo looked at him, then at his mother, and then down at his own hands, which were cupped in front of him, as if he were holding something delicate. They were calloused, hardened hands, and they were empty. ¡°Rue isn¡¯t here,¡± he said in a scratchy voice.


    ¡°Then we will wait for him,¡± Tafaemi said imperiously.


    Ahlo studied her, a bright spark in his hooded eyes. ¡°Did Macbrau send you?¡±


    ¡°Send me? He sent me to die in the wilderness, that¡¯s what he did! And all at Liezhae¡¯s bidding.¡±


    ¡°We found her there,¡± Cloedeya said, a note of apology in his voice. ¡°And we found signs of a scuffle, about a mile further up the road.¡±


    The younger Enriegho brother turned and looked at someone behind him. There was something in this gesture that Manrie didn¡¯t like. For some reason she found herself looking around for Little Praeda. She saw the girl peeking out from behind the pantry wagon, and breathed as sigh of relief when she saw Melsa standing protectively behind her.


    ¡°It has been sometime since you visited us,¡± Ahlo said.


    ¡°A number of years,¡± Cloedeya agreed.


    Ahlo considered this. He glanced back again and then said, ¡°You are welcome here. We welcome your feast.¡±


    The wagons rattled through the gate. Cloedeya led the ox to a patch of beaten ground beside a well. He seemed indifferent to the strange, watchful attitudes of the Enriegho¡¯s men. He and Taeyaho went about pulling down the side panels of the wagons with their habitual efficiency, and Melsa and Big Praeda came forward to help bring provisions out of the pantry wagon. Manrie went to help them, and Little Praeda came to her side. For a moment it seemed as if the scene would relax into normality. But Ahlo Enriegho stood beside the well, his thin body tense, his large, strong hands cupped in front of him. He glanced past the wagons towards someone who was still standing by the gate, and Manrie followed his gaze. He was looking at a thin but blocky man whose hair was a shocking white. Little Praeda caught sight of the man and gasped and clutched at Manrie¡¯s hand. Manrie turned her head back to Ahlo, who had shifted his gaze and was looking right at her. She met his gaze, daring him to recognize her. A line of confusion appeared on his freckled brow. Then he shook himself slightly and spoke to Cloedeya.


    ¡°I have always wondered how you can travel so freely, without anyone trying to stop you.¡±


    Cloedeya, who had unfurled his roll of knives and was sharpening one of them, glanced up, saw the expression on Ahlo¡¯s face, and froze. ¡°Why would anyone stop us?¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°The great cook, famed throughout the Sand Hills, and no one has tried to make you a slave?¡±


    Carefully, with feigned indifference, Cloedeya returned to sharpening his knife. ¡°If they made me a slave, I wouldn¡¯t be able to collect the herbs and spices, the vegetables, the dried fish and hams and smoked beef, the unusual eggs and legumes that make my dishes so special.¡±


    ¡°There are caravans. Merchants who would bring those things to us.¡±


    ¡°No one else knows where to find half-moon mint, or where the golden peacocks nest.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure I could convince you to tell me where to look for them.¡±


    Cloedeya paused and looked squarely at the other man. ¡°Would you enslave me, Ahlo Enriegho? You were my friend, when we were young. You and your brother.¡±


    The foxy-face lowered to the ground. ¡°My brother wouldn¡¯t. Perhaps he will come back.¡±


    ¡°And if he doesn¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll stay here awhile. Until he does.¡±


    ¡°How long has he been missing?¡± Cloedeya asked in a low voice.


    ¡°Two nights. And you say you saw signs of violence along the road.¡±


    ¡°We were not involved in it.¡±


    Ahlo shifted his gaze to Tafaemi, who had gone to sit on the rim of the well and was fanning herself with a lace cloth. ¡°Make your meal,¡± he told Cloedeya. ¡°Perhaps it will entice my brother to return to us.¡±


    There were women in the household, but they were shy, peeking from the windows and doors. There was also a gaggle of boys, who emerged as soon as Ahlo left the courtyard and immediately started a fist fight with Malekeisae, as his mother shrieked in protest. Manrie gathered with the others around Cloedeya, and they whispered to each other beneath the sound of the scuffle.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he told them. ¡°If Ahlo tries to keep us here, the First Families of Hiraherra and Raesidae will demand our freedom.¡±


    ¡°What do we do?¡± Melsa asked, hanging her pretty head between her wide shoulders.


    ¡°We cook the feast.¡±


    ¡°And after?¡±


    ¡°We go to Macbrau¡¯s compound, if they¡¯ll let us. If they won¡¯t let us,¡± he said, preempting Melsa¡¯s question, ¡°we stay here until we¡¯re allowed to leave. Maybe until Rue comes back.¡±


    He gave them instructions, and they set about their work. Manrie, tasked with carrying hams from the pantry wagon, almost tripped over Little Praeda, who seemed intent on hiding herself behind Manrie¡¯s legs.


    ¡°Praeda!¡± she said sharply, and the little girl started to cry. Manrie¡¯s arms were full, so she couldn¡¯t pick her up, but she didn¡¯t protest when Praeda slipped beneath her robes, even though this made it very hard to move with anything like grace. Once she¡¯d deposited the hams on a table she waited as the girl extricated herself, then squatted down beside her and said, ¡°You can¡¯t behave like this. We¡¯re all scared. You have to be strong.¡±


    The little girl shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s not that. It¡¯s Laenrid.¡±


    Manrie frowned. The name was familiar to her, although she couldn¡¯t quite place it. ¡°Laenrid?¡±


    The girl nodded. ¡°Mama thought he was following us. But he¡¯s here instead.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Manrie said. And then, ¡°Oh!¡± She looked around quickly and saw Cloedeya, bending over the iron grill, trying to light a fire with shaking hands. Another glance around the courtyard revealed the block-shaped man, standing with three others by the gate. They seemed engaged in desultory conversation, not aware of Little Praeda at all. ¡°Get under my skirts again,¡± Manrie said. ¡°Match your steps to mine. I¡¯ll go slow.¡±


    They crossed to Cloedeya, who looked up at Manrie as if about to issue an order, then stopped when he saw her expression. ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°One of the men here,¡± Manrie whispered. ¡°He¡¯s been hunting Little Praeda. He¡¯s a very bad man.¡±


    Cloedeya¡¯s mismatched eyes stopped wandering and focused on her. ¡°Has he seen her yet?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°There¡¯s a path up the cliffside. You can get to it through a gate behind the smelting house.¡±


    ¡°How? Everyone is looking at us.¡±


    ¡°Go pretend to look for something in the pantry wagon. Take your time. We¡¯ll cause a distraction. Find your way to Macbrau¡¯s compound, if you can.¡±


    Both side panels of the wagon were open. Manrie pushed Praeda up into the wagon and then clambered in after her to stand among the urns and tied vegetables. Praeda slipped back under Manrie¡¯s skirts, but a glance towards the gate showed her that the blocky man was still watching, and she doubted that he was fooled. She saw Taeyaho walk past Cloedeya out of the corner of her eye. Cloedeya said something, and handed Taeyaho a platter. He hefted it onto his shoulder and walked towards the well, grinning in his bright, distanced way. Tafaemi watched him approach, batting her eye lashes in the dying summer light. He lowered the platter and lifted a piece of pickled vegetable from it, and held it teasingly above her mouth. She simpered and then snapped at it with her little teeth. Manrie was aware that the gazes of the men in the courtyard had turned towards the well. Taeyaho raised another piece of pickle into the air, and Tafaemi giggled, a bright, feminine sound that made Manrie blush. Then Tafaemi cried out and slapped Taeyaho away. He stepped back, confused. Tafaemi began to shake all over, her ripe breasts bouncing back and forth as she screeched, ¡°You dropped it down my robes, you foolish boy!¡±


    Manrie grabbed Praeda, slipped over the edge of the wagon, and ran for the gate. They were through it and on the path up the cliffside within moments, and Tafaemi¡¯s giggling, screeching voice followed them until they came to the first flight of stone steps that ran along the surface of the cliff. It took them to the first lace hole, the one that the Enrieghos used as a barrow. There were two guards standing at its entrance. One of them gasped and the other immediately lowered a spear. Manrie stopped, flinging a protective hand across Praeda¡¯s chest and pulling her close.


    ¡°Are you spirits?¡± One of the men asked in a rough, low voice.


    ¡°Of course we¡¯re not spirits.¡±


    The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ¡°Your robes are very white.¡±


    ¡°We wash them daily.¡±


    ¡°What, daily?¡± the other man said. ¡°You can¡¯t wash them daily! There isn¡¯t enough soap in the world to wash clothes *daily*.¡±


    Manrie sniffed. She was shaking slightly from their dash up the path, but she forced the quiver from her voice. ¡°You seem to be on a yearly cycle.¡±


    The guard straightened, offended. ¡°I wash ¡®em whenever it rains. Just like everyone else.¡±


    ¡°Well, it doesn¡¯t rain soap from the sky, apparently.¡±


    His companion grew tired of this banter. ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    Manrie stared at him. ¡°You don¡¯t remember me? I am Aizdha¡¯s assistant.¡± When she saw them struggling to remember who Aizdha was, she snapped, ¡°The monster hunter.¡±


    ¡°Oh, him,¡± the second guard said, suddenly bashful. ¡°You remember, Delharro, the one who came to look at the skull.¡± He shuddered, then peered at Manrie. ¡°You were with him, were you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said patiently, ¡°and now I¡¯m back. Ahlo Enriegho has asked me to investigate the caves higher up.¡±


    The guards exchanged glances. ¡°You came quick.¡±


    ¡°I happened to be in the area.¡±


    ¡°And he thinks that Rue¡¯s up there, does he?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s looked already,¡± the other guard said.


    ¡°Maybe he didn¡¯t know what to look for,¡± Manrie told him.


    ¡°What¡¯s the girl for?¡± the second guard demanded.


    ¡°What do you think she¡¯s for?¡±


    Manrie could see the men¡¯s imaginations turning over nasty possibilities. ¡°Well, go on, then,¡± the first guard said. ¡°And wear darker clothing. We thought you was spirits.¡±


    Manrie pulled Praeda past them along the darkened path that wound upward towards the second cave. She could hear the guards mumbling as they left them behind.


    ¡°He¡¯s not up there. I was with Ahlo when he looked.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but the caves are strange. Sometimes they¡¯re different than they were before, you know that.¡±


    ¡°Manrie,¡± Praeda whispered, ¡°did you find teeth?¡±


    ¡°Teeth?¡±


    ¡°In the skull.¡±


    ¡°Never mind that now. Here¡¯s the second cave. Five more to pass, and then we¡¯ll have to climb a ladder onto the top of the cliff.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid.¡±


    ¡°Well, you can¡¯t be. Not now.¡±


    As they passed the highest cave, Manrie glanced into its dark opening, trying to remember what it had looked like when she and Aizdha had been there years before. She remembered it as fairly shallow, not going back more than two hundred feet, and full of strange echos. There had been a hole dug in the floor, and a ladder leading down to the vast, echoing chamber where Rue Enriegho had found the skull. She and her master had spent many hours measuring it, sketching it, speculating about the teeth that clung to its heavy jaws, which were sharp and pointed, not the type of teeth that could grind away rock. Aizdha had said that this creature couldn¡¯t have been the worm that made the lace holes. Manrie paused for a moment, and considered leading Praeda down into the darkness, where it was unlikely that anyone would look for them. But the girl was clutching tightly at her hand, and Manrie couldn¡¯t bring herself to take her into that ancient grave.


    They came to the ladder and climbed it, with the little girl only one rung ahead of Manrie, so that she was embraced as she went, although Manrie¡¯s arms ached from holding her body curved so that the child could fit within the ellipse of her chest and thighs. She didn¡¯t look down. She wondered if anyone had spotted the whiteness of their robes against the cliff face.


    Reaching the top, they crawled outward into warm summer grasses. The bluffs were alive with the sound of insects and frogs. She and Praeda lay flat, catching their breaths. After a moment, Manrie sat up and looked around. The grasses slanted downwards towards a stand of trees, and a silver line of river ran between them. Praeda climbed into Manrie¡¯s lap. ¡°Praeda,¡± she said, ¡°we can¡¯t rest here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m scared.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why we need to keep moving.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have my blindfold!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be okay. We haven¡¯t seen any ghosts since I buried the book.¡±


    ¡°I saw them before I met you. They were following me and mama.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s true. It¡¯s strange. Well,¡± Manrie said, getting to her feet and pulling Praeda upwards, ¡°maybe they just like the bestiary better than they like us. I had a dog once, or I thought I did. It followed me for three days as I went on errands around the city, and I fed it scraps. Then we passed a butcher¡¯s shop, and the butcher threw some offal to it, and it never followed me again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not very nice.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it cared about being nice. It was just a dog. It cared about being hungry.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m hungry.¡±


    ¡°I know. I am, too. But I don¡¯t even have my snares.¡± Suddenly she felt very exposed. They hadn¡¯t been with the caravan for very long, maybe less than a single moon cycle, and already she had come to expect that Cloedeya and the others would take care of them. That she didn¡¯t need to be wary or equipped. A sense of her own foolishness slapped at her and she felt her cheeks becoming hot. ¡°I guess we have to go to the other compound. Macbrau¡¯s compound.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s as I thought,¡± a voice said from behind them, and Manrie twisted around. She pushed Praeda off her lap and went into a low crouch, her knife slipping from her sleeve into her hand. A figure had emerged from the top of the ladder and was stepping to one side so that another figure could climb onto the bluff behind him. ¡°It *is* the false daughter, just as I thought.¡±


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Manrie demanded, although she knew. The figure stepped forward, and a third man came onto the bluff.


    ¡°Amurka¡¯s little lie,¡± the man said. His teeth flashed in the moonlight, white against his shadowed face. Manrie looked at his hands, assessing the threat. He was clutching a small, dully-gleaming hatchet.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a lie,¡± Praeda said. Manrie straightened and started to back away, pushing the girl behind her.


    ¡°Her little lie,¡± the man repeated. He was slurring his words slightly.


    ¡°You¡¯re drunk,¡± Manrie told him. She glanced at the two who were flanking him. ¡°He killed a whole village. Just so that he could pretend that his girlfriend had waited for him.¡±


    ¡°We know,¡± one of the men said. ¡°We were there.¡±


    Manrie took another step backwards. She flashed the knife in the moonlight. One of the men was holding a pick axe. The other was a club. Laenrid lazily tossed his hatchet from one hand to the other.


    ¡°Well, she¡¯s dead,¡± Manrie said.


    The grin faded from Laenrid¡¯s face. The gleam of his eyes disappeared as he blinked once, then blinked again. ¡°Amurka is dead?¡±


    ¡°She died in a mountain meadow. A zaizectu killed her.¡± She took another step backwards. She was moving downhill, towards the trees, knowing that she was given the men the advantage of height, and the trees were too far for her and Praeda to ever reach.


    ¡°Impossible,¡± Laenrid decided. ¡°If a zaizectu killed her, it would have killed the girl, too, wouldn¡¯t it? Where is she hiding?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s hiding in death. We were followed by her ghost for many days.¡± She heard Praeda suck in her breath.


    The shadowed face turned and looked about facetiously. Moonlight caught on his stark white hair. ¡°Then where¡¯s her ghost?¡±


    As soon as he said it, there was a sound behind Manrie. Laenrid froze, looking past her shoulder. She risked a glimpse behind her. A horse had emerged from the line of trees. The figure astride it had wide shoulders that moved oddly on its stolid body.


    Manrie hissed out her fear and turned Praeda, backing away from both threats along the slant of the hill. The horse clomped slowly towards them. It shook its head and snorted, the sound carrying above the chorus of crickets and frogs. Laenrid and his men stood, waiting for it.


    ¡°Bounty hunter,¡± he said, when the horse was a dozen strides from him.


    ¡°The butcher of Hareramanda,¡± the figure in the muslin mask said. Its voice was oddly gruff, pitched low, and the words sounded dusty.


    The moon¡¯s reflection in Laenrid¡¯s eyes seemed to turn liquid with fright and spill out. ¡°You can¡¯t be here for me!¡± The figure didn¡¯t answer him. ¡°There was no one left to set a bounty!¡± he protested, and then he laughed. It was a high pitched laugh that seemed to merge with the insect voices that sang over the hillside. He fell silent before the figure¡¯s passivity. Then, with a sudden jerk of an arm, he sent his hatchet spinning through the air. It was well thrown, and it embedded itself in the bounty hunter¡¯s head.


    For one frozen moment nothing happened. Then the bounty hunter¡¯s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh, and a dagger whipped out and sliced through the air to strike Laenrid in the shoulder. He fell back into the grass. The man who was holding the club turned and ran at Manrie, lifting the club and bellowing. A flash of moonlight along a blade, and he fell forward, his body breaking the long grasses. Manrie ran, dragging Praeda behind her.


    The trees were just ahead, a dark line of soft shadow. A drum owl hooted. The horse¡¯s hoofs pounded through the grass. Manrie tensed herself, waiting for the dagger in her back, and felt the loom of the horse. It was going to run her down. And then it was gone, passing to her right. It circled in front of her and came to a stop. The bounty hunter looked down at her, the hatchet¡¯s handle projecting from its forehead like a horn. Manrie steadied herself. Her breath was coming in gasps. She looked at her pursuer and he looked at her. Then she dropped her knife and squatted down, and felt a moment of sharp relief as Praeda clambered onto her back.


    The bounty hunter gave a little laugh. With one fluid movement, he threw a leg over the side of the horse and dismounted. Then he reached up and removed his own head.


    Praeda screamed. There was something strange about the bounty hunter¡¯s neck. It was topped by hair, and eyes glinted from between the man¡¯s shoulder blades. The bounty hunter set the head down in the long grasses, reached up again, and removed his own shoulders. The shape became human. Short, rather stocky, with glittering eyes peering from between wrinkled cheeks. An old woman.


    She was quite still for a moment, observing Manrie and Praeda carefully. And then she gave a chiming laugh. ¡°I rarely do that,¡± she said, ¡°but it¡¯s always so delightful when I do. Poor child. Did you think I was coming to kill you?¡±


    ¡°You killed those men,¡± Manrie said.


    The woman nodded. Her iron hair was short and spiky. ¡°Should I have spared them?¡±


    ¡°They were your bounty?¡±


    ¡°Oh no,¡± the woman said. ¡°That would be you.¡±


    Manrie tensed, preparing to run again, but the woman held up a hand. ¡°The Archivist of the Third Tower sent me to find you. To bring you back home. With the book. You made it easy, by going to Haerahiz.¡±


    ¡°Haerahiz?¡±


    ¡°The Man on the Mountain. An old friend. Why did you run?¡±


    ¡°They¡­they would have blamed me for Aizdha¡¯s death.¡±


    The woman shook her head. ¡°No. That was clearly an accident. But avoidable. Baenlaez is the only one to blame, although he claims he was asleep when it happened. Caught up in a betzazarra dream.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean the mushroom man?¡±


    A smile puckered the rather hard and thin mouth. ¡°Oh, I suppose. He has always had a rather pungent odor. But he wouldn¡¯t like being called ¡®the mushroom man¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Then¡­then I ran for no reason?¡±


    ¡°Yes. And I didn¡¯t see much purpose in chasing you. I told myself that if you journeyed much beyond Haerahiz¡¯s house, I would return to the Archivist and tell him that I couldn¡¯t find you. But then you stole my horse.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. It died.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m more interested in what was in the saddle bags.¡±


    Manrie glanced down at the moonlit grasses, taking a mental inventory of everything that had been in the bags when she stole them. Food, mostly. Cheese, flatbread, jerky. Pickled cabbage. ¡°Do you mean the skewer?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Skewer? I have always called it the ¡®needle.¡¯ But yes, that is what I mean.¡±


    Manrie thought quickly. ¡°Will you make me go back to Libreigia?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to go back?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a slave, there.¡±


    ¡°Some would say that you¡¯re a slave here, too. A slave who ran away. But it¡¯s not an ontological status.¡±


    ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    The woman sighed. ¡°It is sad, how we lose words. It means that it¡¯s not a question of being. You are not a slave by nature. Only by circumstance.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to go back.¡±


    ¡°Then you won¡¯t. Give me the needle, and I¡¯ll even let you keep the book.¡±


    Manrie glanced behind her. She narrowed her eyes in calculation. ¡°I don¡¯t have it.¡±


    The woman sighed. ¡°That is very bad news. Where is it?¡±


    ¡°Down there. In the Enrieghos compound.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go get it then.¡±


    ¡°You just killed three of their men.¡±


    ¡°Laenrid and his two goons? I doubt that Rue Enriegho would accept them into his little gang.¡±


    ¡°Rue¡¯s missing.¡±


    The woman frowned. Then she walked past Manrie and Praeda, leading the horse up the incline. Manrie looked at the trees, considered, but then turned to follow the bounty hunter. The woman stood at the edge of the rise, looking down at the long grasses. ¡°It seems that Laenrid is missing, too,¡± she said when they came up to her. ¡°I must have only injured him.¡± She glanced at Manrie. ¡°What were you going to do?¡±


    ¡°We were going to Macbrau¡¯s. Ahlo says that he¡¯s going to enslave Cloedeya and the others.¡±


    The woman snorted. ¡°And you think Macbrau will help with that?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where Cloedeya told us to go,¡± Manrie said stubbornly.


    The woman tilted her head and looked up at the sky. Then she looked down at the valley, considering. ¡°Then that¡¯s where I¡¯ll go, too.¡±

 In the Camp of Swollen Knuckles

    ¡°We must leave this here,¡± the woman said, pausing at the root ball of a fallen tree. Manrie and Praeda watched as she grasped the smooth crookedness of a tangled root and pulled open a hidden door, revealing a large opening in the hollow trunk. She placed the muslin head and the wide, stuffed shoulders inside it and closed it softly. The soft leather gloves that she wore weren¡¯t part of her costume, apparently, as she left them on and even pulled them tighter with a small fastidious gesture. Then she turned and winked at them, the moonlight bringing the crow¡¯s feet beside her eyes into stark relief.


    ¡°What is it made of?¡± Manrie asked curiously.


    ¡°What is what made of?¡±


    ¡°Your head.¡± The woman had carried it easily on their trek through the woods, going around the edge of the ravine and coming down the opposite slope. She had strode along with the head under one arm, the shoulders under the other, allowing Manrie and Praeda to ride the horse, and Manrie had looked down at her spiky silver hair with dull, dreamlike amazement.


    ¡°I constructed it from the bark of the drifting trees that you sometimes find in the forests by the sea. It¡¯s very light, and it keeps me out of the weather. Like wearing a roof on your head.¡±


    ¡°But why do you wear it?¡±


    She winked again. ¡°I believe you found it intimidating. In general, bounty hunters like their prey to be a little bit intimidated.¡±


    Manrie frowned at the word ¡®prey.¡¯ But she said nothing. The woman picked up the horse¡¯s reins and began leading them again, down the final slope before they reached the road. ¡°You are, of course, required to be silent about who I really am. You may call me Raeflin. Never mention the bounty hunter, please. This will not work, if I am exposed.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your plan?¡± Manrie asked her.


    ¡°Oh, to stir things up. Fortunately, I¡¯ve been here before. I know the Enrieghos, and I know Macbrau even better, unfortunately. But they¡¯ve never seen me as I really am. They¡¯ve only spoken to me when I¡¯ve been wearing the head.¡±


    They reached the road, and the horse jostled Praeda against Manrie as it stepped onto the beaten dirt. They were where they had been a few hours before, looking into the narrow valley between the cliffs and the dispiriting, shadowy buildings of the town that eked out its existence between the two opposing camps. The woman, Raeflin, led the horse forward. The clip clop of its hooves echoed dully against the cliff sides.


    They came up beside the shambling tea house and paused. To their left, a glow of light rose behind the walls of the Enriegho compound and the sound of raucous voices poured over them. Manrie listened carefully, but the sounds were happy, slightly drunken, somewhat delirious. She thought she could make out Tafaemi¡¯s screech of delight, and the high, sweet tones of Taeyaho singing. The two guards were still standing beside the gate. They peered down the wide street at Manrie and Praeda atop the horse, and Manrie realized that Raeflin was deliberately presenting them to the guards, making sure they were seen before she turned the horse to the left, towards Macbrau¡¯s compound. As they went by the tavern, a woman whose robes were hanging off of her shoulders came out and leaned drunkenly against a post to watch them go by.


    There was a single guard at the rather spindly gate of Macbrau¡¯s compound. The walls were made of wattled sticks, and seemed like an afterthought. The guard seemed distracted by something. He was quite huge, with a large belly that peeped through the opening in his robes and caught the moonlight on greasy, slightly mangy skin. Manrie could see that he was wearing worn trousers beneath his robes, and that they had holes at the knees. He looked up at her and Praeda and addressed them, instead of Raeflin.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    Raeflin spoke for them. ¡°We¡¯ve come to speak with Macbrau,¡± she said in a light, wavering voice. It was so different from the gruff tones she¡¯d used as the bounty hunter that Manrie looked at her sharply, wondering if she had become a different person.


    ¡°Speak with. Expatiate. Vocalize. Natter,¡± the guard said.


    ¡°Yes, all of those.¡±


    The guard moved his jaw back and forth in a chewing motion. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°Just someone with something to say.¡±


    ¡°Eminence. Personage. Big shot.¡±


    ¡°You have a big vocabulary.¡±


    The guard shrugged. ¡°Gives me something to do. To render, or decode, or decipher.¡±


    ¡°Well, may we enter? Or should I say ingress or pass into?¡±


    ¡°Or infiltrate. Or insinuate.¡±


    ¡°I thought that it was sad, how we lose words,¡± Manrie murmured into the back of Praeda¡¯s head.


    Praeda said, ¡°I¡¯m hungry.¡±


    This caught the guard¡¯s attention. He squinted up at her. ¡°Poor little thing,¡± he said. Then he gave a small huff and stepped aside so that they could go past him.


    The Macbrau¡¯s compound occupied a semi-circle in front of the cliff face and was littered with leaning structures, the ground strewn with discarded rope and chain. As Raeflin led the horse through the clutter, people emerged into the doorways of the shacks looked out at them. There was no central house, like in the Enriegho¡¯s compound, and the pathway up the cliff wasn¡¯t guarded by any gate. There was only a hitching post, sunk into the ground at a drunken angle. It was as if Macbrau was afraid of making anything plumb.


    Raeflin tied the horse to the post and glanced back at Manrie. ¡°We walk from here,¡± she said.


    ¡°Won¡¯t they wonder how you know the way?¡±


    The old woman shrugged. ¡°People always assume that the whole world understands their living arrangements. Especially people like Macbrau.¡±


    For the second time that evening, Manrie led Praeda up a narrow, steep path, with the cliff on one side and a precarious drop below. When they were high enough to see past the compound¡¯s wall, she glanced across at the rival camp and the lit up cliff behind it. She hadn¡¯t realized that the Enrieghos were neat and well organized. She wouldn¡¯t have realized it, without the comparison to Macbrau and his people.


    They came to the first lace hole, and Manrie was surprised to see that there was a door across the opening. Raeflin gave it two sharp knocks, and there was the sound of stirring within. The door opened a crack and a woman¡¯s face peered out at them. A rather beautiful face, raw boned and weathered, with a high forehead and onyx hair. She was holding a baby.


    ¡°He¡¯s sleeping,¡± she said, without asking who they were.


    ¡°I wonder what it would take to wake him,¡± Raeflin said brightly.


    ¡°A good reason, I suppose. Are you a good reason?¡±


    ¡°An excellent reason.¡±


    The woman looked at her, then at Manrie and Praeda. ¡°I¡¯ll wake him,¡± she said, and closed the door.


    ¡°Was that Leezie?¡± Manrie asked. ¡°The one Tafaemi hates?¡±


    ¡°Liezhae,¡± Raeflin corrected her.


    The door opened again, the woman looked out at them, then gestured them inside. It was just like the lace holes on the other side of the valley, large and round, as if a hefty pole had been driven through the rock. Only it had a platform built along its bottom, making a flat floor that was reached by a flight of short steps. There was a fire burning in a brazier, the smoke venting somewhere in the ceiling of the cave, and four poster beds built around it. A man was sitting with his legs dangling off of the side of a mattress. The most striking thing about him was the burn scar on his bald forehead. It created a wide circle above his bushy eyebrows, and it drew the eye, so that it was hard to stay focused on his face. His shoulders were bulbous, his elbows bulging, but his arms were skinny, as if he were a doll made of string, his joints articulated with knots. He had enormous hands, which were resting on his blanket-covered knees. Praeda was scared of him, and hid her face in the skirts of manrie¡¯s robe.


    ¡°What is this, then?¡± he asked in a strangely high voice. It sounded like the chirping of a canary, just before it asphyxiated in the depths of a mine.


    ¡°In a few minutes,¡± Raeflin said, ¡°the Enrieghos will arrive at your gates.¡±


    The man stared at her. The puckered skin of his burn scar seemed to contract slightly in the wavering firelight. ¡°Will they, then? And why would they do that?¡±


    ¡°They want these two girls.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°They are part of Cloedeya¡¯s caravan, and they ran away.¡±


    ¡°Why did they need to run away?¡±


    ¡°Ahlo has captured the caravan.¡±


    ¡°Tsk tsk,¡± the man said. ¡°And he wants a complete set, does he?¡±


    ¡°Complete set?¡±


    ¡°Of cooks. Of caravan people. No tasty morsels for old Macbrau.¡±


    ¡°He wants to know what happened to his brother.¡±


    One of the huge hands lifted and the man scratched his face with a cracked yellow fingernail. ¡°That I know. He¡¯s been bothering me about it all day. But I¡¯m not his brother¡¯s keeper. Not for a long time, now. Not since they broke my heart, those two boys.¡±


    ¡°Tafaemi is there, too. And your son.¡±


    This sparked the first sign of worry in the old man. He glanced at his wife, who was sitting on her own bed, looking down at the sleeping baby in her lap. The curtains of the four poster were half-closed, and her face was in shadow. ¡°Had to send those two away,¡± he said glumly.


    ¡°Could be you thought of making a little trap for Rue. That¡¯s what Ahlo is starting to think.¡±


    The puckered skin of the burn mark swung back towards Raeflin. ¡°You seem to know a lot.¡±


    Raeflin shrugged. ¡°I was traveling with the caravan, too. But I got detained in Hiraherra. Manrie here has told me everything that I need to know.¡±


    Manrie winced at the sound of her name. She had forgotten to tell the bounty hunter that she was called Kumynoe now. She glanced down at Praeda and saw the girl looking up at her, an alarmed expression on her little round face.


    Macbrau¡¯s attention shifted to the two girls. ¡°Am I supposed to protect them, then? Not give them back to Ahlo?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve already killed two of his men,¡± Raeflin said.


    Macbrau tensed. ¡°Then I should give him you, too.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because this is your chance. Rue is gone, and you know that Ahlo cannot lead in his place. Ahlo likes caves and delving deep, just like you taught him. He isn¡¯t one for haggling with merchant caravans, or commanding men.¡±


    ¡°Friends with Ahlo, are you?¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°I was a friend of Old Riman.¡±


    At that name, Liezhae gave a little hiss, and Macbrau gazed across the fire at her with narrowed eyes. ¡°Caravan guard, are you?¡±


    ¡°Until I met Cloedeya.¡±


    ¡°Now you¡¯re a cook?¡±


    Raeflin shrugged. ¡°I hunt. I gather.¡±


    ¡°And you guard. Failed in your duties, somewhat, it seems. But I¡¯ve never met you before, and I¡¯ve seen all the caravans that go through here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed you with Rue and Ahlo, on your trips to Hiraherra,¡± Raeflin said sarcastically.


    The old man stared at her. ¡°You would have, when they were boys. Before they betrayed me.¡±


    ¡°How many years has it been, since they last let you into their company?¡±


    One of the enormous hands reached up to rub the burn mark. As if Macbrau were scratching an old wound. ¡°My chance, eh? Hit ¡®em while they¡¯re weak.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t have a better one.¡±


    ¡°No? You think Rue will come back?¡±


    ¡°Unless you¡¯ve done something to him.¡±


    Macbrau considered. He glanced again at his wife. ¡°Liezhae,¡± he said, ¡°go and open up the door. Let¡¯s see if there¡¯s a commotion at the gate.¡±


    She left the baby lying in the blankets, and plodded indifferently across the platform to the stairs leading down to the cave floor. Manrie was looking past the circle of firelight and into the darkness beyond. ¡°You don¡¯t worry about things coming out of the cave?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Built a wall there,¡± Macbrau said indifferently. ¡°Nice wall, with a good solid door. If something knocks, I might open it.¡±


    ¡°The Enrieghos found a skull, in a hidden cave.¡±


    The burn scar turned slowly towards her. ¡°How do you know that?¡±


    ¡°Everyone knows that,¡± Raeflin said quickly. ¡°It¡¯s known throughout the Sand Hills.¡±


    The old man scratched his cheek with a split fingernail. ¡°Well, we didn¡¯t find one. Seems the mirror¡¯s a little cracked.¡±


    A gust of air came in when Liezhae opened the door. They could see across the valley from where they were sitting. There was a procession of torches approaching the gates of the compound. Macbrau sighed and stood, the blanket falling from his legs and revealing his nakedness below his grimy shirt. He leered at Manrie, who ignored the burn mark and stared into his eyes.


    ¡°Seems I better go meet them,¡± he said.


    ¡°Like that?¡± Raeflin asked, her voice sounding sweet, curious, inflected with the titter of a shocked old woman.


    He pretended to notice his nakedness and gave a little bow, so that his member jiggled. ¡°My apologies to the fine young ladies.¡±


    Robed, and carrying a worn and notched pickaxe, the old man led them down the trail to the gate of the compound. Manrie was surprised that Liezhae and the baby came with them, but understood when she saw Tafaemi among the crowd of Enrieghos. Macbrau¡¯s people had fallen lazily in behind him, picking up cudgels and spears from where they lay discarded on the ground. The scent of alcohol mingled with the reek of their unwashed bodies, and the few children among them seemed just as drunk as the rest. The gate was standing wide open, and the large guard who loved words was standing in the gap, facing the Enrieghos with lowered shoulders.


    Ahlo Enriegho stood in the center of his people, his hands cupped in front of him, his face made more triangular by the sharp moonlight. Laenrid was to the left of him, a wad of bandages tied to his wounded shoulder. His white hair seemed to grab the moonlight and settle it against his scalp. He saw Manrie and stared at her with burning eyes.


    ¡°Macbrau,¡± Ahlo said, ¡°I see that you¡¯ve decided to return my guests, at least.¡±


    ¡°I see that you have the Butcher of Hareramanda with you,¡± Raeflin called. She was standing just behind Macbrau, and Ahlo turned his sharp eyes on her, so he didn¡¯t see the gate guard stiffen. But Manrie, who was standing near to him, heard the man murmur, ¡°butcher, despoiler, destroyer.¡±


    ¡°And who are you?¡± Ahlo asked respectfully.


    ¡°A witness.¡±


    The big guard turned his head and looked at her.


    ¡°You weren¡¯t there,¡± Laenrid spat.


    ¡°Not to the act. To the aftermath.¡±


    ¡°Laenrid has told me a strange story,¡± Ahlo said, ignoring her. ¡°He says that he met the Bounty Hunter at the top of our cliff. He says that he threw a hatchet right into the Bounty Hunter¡¯s head, and it didn¡¯t kill him.¡±


    ¡°I saw that, too,¡± Manrie said. ¡°After Laenrid tried to kill Little Praeda here. She is the daughter of Amurka, whose husband he murdered.¡±


    ¡°Not her husband,¡± Laenrid spat. ¡°She was never false to me in that way.¡±


    Ahlo held up a hand. ¡°I ask that you return the two girls to the caravan, that¡¯s all. They won¡¯t come to any harm.¡±


    Macbrau scratched at his cheek. ¡°I will,¡± he said. The valley went silent. The moonlight seemed to flatten all the faces. ¡°If,¡± he continued, ¡°you will return to me everything you¡¯ve stolen.¡±


    Ahlo sighed. ¡°What have we stolen?¡±


    ¡°Half my valley. All of the iron and gold and gems that you have extracted from my lace holes. My woman Tafaemi. My son. Yourselves.¡±


    ¡°We were never your slaves.¡±


    ¡°You were my children,¡± Macbrau spat. ¡°We took you in, when you came wandering, shoeless, out of the lace holes. I taught you how to delve, boy. All your knowledge belongs to me.¡±


    Ahlo looked down into his cupped hands. ¡°And you have taken my brother.¡±


    The old miner grunted a laugh. ¡°Maybe. It is what you keep saying.¡±


    ¡°We will allow no more caravans to turn towards your gate, until Rue is returned to us.¡±


    ¡°Allow?¡±


    Ahlo sighed. ¡°We have more men, Macbrau. Better men.¡±


    ¡°You have butchers and thieves. Your brother had all the brains. And Old Riman is dead. You have nothing.¡±


    There was a long pause. Manrie was aware that the big gate guard was breathing heavily, as if he were drowning. At last Ahlo looked up from his hands. ¡°We shall see,¡± he said, and turned to lead his people back through the little town.


    Macbrau watched them go for a moment, then turned to the big guard. ¡°Bar the gates, Lummox.¡± He turned to the men who had gathered behind him. ¡°We need twenty of you. Volunteers. Quickly!¡±


    His people seemed eager to fight. Manrie paid little attention to them. She remained fixated on the guard, who closed the gate and lifted a huge bar across it and then stood facing it, as if he could see through the boards to the Enrieghos compound. Macbrau and his people were moving off, receiving orders and running to their tasks. Praeda had buried her face in Manrie¡¯s skirts.


    ¡°Is it true?¡± the huge gate guard asked. ¡°Was that the Butcher?¡±


    Raeflin answered him, stepping to Manrie¡¯s side. ¡°His hair is white because of the spirits that came out ofHareramanda Barrow.¡±


    ¡°Barrow,¡± the guard said. ¡°Crypt, sepulcher, tomb, grave.¡± His gaze drifted downwards, to Manrie and Praeda¡¯s white robes.


    ¡°It was as terrible as everyone says,¡± Raeflin told him. ¡°When I rode through, the bodies were still lying in the streets and beside the river. But the spirits were gone.¡±


    ¡°Where did they go?¡±


    No one answered him. But Praeda lifted her face from Manrie¡¯s skirts. ¡°Manrie,¡± she whispered, ¡°why aren¡¯t there any ghosts here?¡±


    Manrie looked down at her. She glanced at Raeflin, who was inspecting her curiously, her crow¡¯s feet puckered, as if she were amused. ¡°Come, Manrie,¡± she said. ¡°Bring the little girl. She should sleep.¡±


    But she didn¡¯t lead them back to Macbrau and Liezhae¡¯s cave. Instead she lead them past it, and past the next lace hole, only stopping on a wide ledge in front of the third.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to sleep here?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°Not sleep. Watch. Although you should sit, and make a pillow of your lap for the little girl.¡±


    ¡°Watch what?¡±


    The old woman grinned at her. ¡°You¡¯ll see.¡± She sat down on the broken ground and crossed her legs. ¡°This will do. Macbrau has no doubt sent men further up, to keep watch from the highest cave. But we can see enough from here. There, do you see his men slipping out through the secret gate beside the cliff wall? They¡¯re going to make their way down the road and prevent the Enrieghos from creating a blockade. I imagine they¡¯ll make a blockade of their own. And look at the top of the cliff over there,¡± she said, gesturing with a gloved hand towards the Enriegho side of the valley. ¡°There go Ahlo¡¯s men, creeping up the ladder. They¡¯ll come down from the woods, and no doubt meet Macbrau¡¯s people on the road. But that¡¯s not the real action.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the real action?¡±


    ¡°Can you make out the gate below? It is unbarred.¡±


    Manrie squinted. The base of the cliff was a haze of torch smoke. Manrie was surprised that it didn¡¯t set fire to the alcoholic vapors in the air. The gate seemed to be partway open. ¡°Someone is letting the Enrieghos in.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Raeflin said. ¡°Someone has gone out.¡± She jerked her chin up, at the shanty town in the center of the valley. A hulking figure was moving stealthily from shadow to shadow. ¡°Uku.¡±


    ¡°What is Uku?¡±


    ¡°Not what. Who. Our friend the gate guard.¡±


    ¡°You know him?¡±


    The withered lips twitched into something close to a smirk. ¡°I¡¯ve been hunting him. Not much, and not often. But there has been a bounty on him for several moons. He fled Libreigia before you did.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Raeflin glanced at her. ¡°You never met him? Well, I suppose that his days as a slave in the archives were long over by the time you came to Libreigia. He was once one of the boys who sit on the benches in the atriums, and are sent to fetch books and scrolls. And he might have had a happy life working in the towers, if he hadn¡¯t grown so big. But he frightened the scholars, and they sold him to work in the tanneries. Terrible work. Many die from infections, and the stench is awful. I¡¯m not surprised that he ran away.¡±


    ¡°But¡­but why is he sneaking towards the Enrieghos?¡±


    Raeflin grimaced. ¡°He did what all slaves do, when they manage to escape. He tried to go home, as I discovered when I went to Hareramanda. After you escaped me at Haerahiz¡¯s house in the mountains, I had to guess which direction you would go in. I thought you would go south, to try to fool me, since you had been heading north before you stole the needle. I wanted my needle back, of course. I rode into Hareramanda hoping that the First Families would have some news of you, and found the butchery. But I also found a few survivors. They told me that Uku had been there. They also told me that poor Amurka and her child had survived. And both had gone north. But they had never seen or met you.


    ¡°I turned north, and after three nights of hard riding, I saw the ghosts. I recognized some of them, as I¡¯ve passed through Hareramanda many times in my travels. And I surmised that they were following Amurka. But then I found her dead in that meadow. I also found a greasy cloth, woven in a checkered pattern, that I once bought in Ibimendi, and had wrapped my cheese in for many years. And I knew that the little girl must be with you.¡±


    As Raeflin talked, Manrie hugged Praeda closer, until the dozing little girl mumbled a protest. ¡°But you won¡¯t take me back?¡±


    ¡°To Libreigia? No. Slavery is disgusting.¡± The old woman sighed. Her sharp gaze was still concentrated on the valley below. ¡°It is the saddest thing that has happened, since we came through the Door at Hasra. Slavery was outlawed in the Previous World. It should only be allowed in the most extreme circumstances and even then its use is¡­a tragedy.¡± A shadow crossed her face. But then here eyes brightened. ¡°Look. Uku has almost reached the Enriegho¡¯s compound. It seems he can be very sneaky, if he wants to.¡± She stood up and dusted herself off. ¡°It¡¯s time for me to go.¡±


    ¡°Go? Go where?¡±


    Raeflin gave her a sharp, slightly mocking glance. ¡°Why, to get my needle. You say it¡¯s with the caravan.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Manrie lied.


    ¡°Where will I find it?¡±


    ¡°In the pantry wagon. Will you¡­will you bring the others back with you? Cloedeya and Melsa and Big Praeda and Taeyaho?¡±


    Raeflin looked away from her. ¡°After I have my needle.¡±


    ¡°Promise.¡±


    The old woman sighed. ¡°Do you think I¡¯d let Ahlo keep them?¡±


    With that enigmatic statement, she turned and began to jog down the trail. Manrie watched her. She felt a tremor pass through her body, and Praeda shifted uneasily in her lap. She flexed her hands. She couldn¡¯t stay here, merely watching, as all of the action happened below. And what would Raeflin do, when she discovered that Manrie had lied? Turn her over to Ahlo? Stand by while Laenrid killed Praeda? There was something about the old woman that she didn¡¯t like. She was like a scholar, pretending to know things that couldn¡¯t possibly be known, lecturing ceaselessly because she liked the sound of her own voice. Scholars had a way of standing to one side when bad things happened, blinking studiously and making notes so that future generations might know of rapes and murders. No, Manrie would not stay on the cliff, as she¡¯d been told to. She was not a scholar, and she was not a mother, and she was not a slave.


    She stood, heaving Praeda in her arms and nestling the little girl¡¯s head against her shoulder. Then she went quickly down the path, to knock on Liezhae¡¯s door. When the older woman opened it, Manrie said, ¡°Praeda needs to sleep here. It¡¯s too cold on the cliffside and too dangerous in the shacks below.¡±


    Liezhae wasn¡¯t holding her son, and she seemed oddly shaped without him, as if she were missing a limb. She was old, and she must have looked like this for many years, incomplete and only partially present in the world. She held out her arms for Praeda and Manrie gratefully transferred the child¡¯s weight to her. ¡°And you?¡± Liezhae asked.


    ¡°I can sleep anywhere,¡± Manrie said blithely, and didn¡¯t wait to see Liezhae¡¯s reaction. She turned and rushed down the trail and through the compound and out of the half-open gate.


    The buildings in the ramshackle village were silent, as if the people were asleep. But Manrie had the feeling of being watched as she dodged from shadow to shadow. She knew there were observers high on the cliffs on both sides of the valley, and realized that they would see her regardless of her stealth, their eyes drawn to the sheen of her white robes. So she left the shadows and ran, down the wide street to the gates of the Enriegho Compound.


    They were closed, and she looked wildly along the wall, trying to see some other means of entrance. But just as she was about to turn and run along it, the gate opened and Raeflin looked out at her. For a moment the woman¡¯s face was naked, free of dissembling. In that moment Manrie saw a flash of something immeasurably old, and tired, and despairing. But then her expression snapped shut, and the mask of the brisk, competent bounty hunter reasserted herself. She looked at Manrie with an expression of extreme disapproval.


    ¡°You lied, and you have abandoned the child.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s¡­what¡¯s happening. Where is Uku?¡±


    Raeflin stepped forward, pushing Manrie back into the street. Manrie caught a glimpse of one of the guards, lying in a heap inside the gate. Raeflin saw her looking, and grimaced. ¡°Unfortunate,¡± she said. She stepped forward again, maneuvering Manrie away from the wall. Then she turned and briskly pulled the gate shut behind her. ¡°Come,¡± she said, and seized Manrie¡¯s arm to pull her back up the street.


    But not back to Macbrau¡¯s compound. They came to the dissolute looking tea house and Raeflin turned Manrie and pushed her up onto the porch, following close behind her. ¡°Sit,¡± she said, gesturing to a worn chair beside a worn table. She glanced at the darkened doorway that led into the interior and said ¡°tea!¡± in commanding voice. Someone stirred within.


    Raeflin sat down firmly on a chair and then leaned it back, so that the top of her head rested against the wall. She gave Manrie a sidelong glance. ¡°Where is my needle?¡± she demanded.


    ¡°Are the others¡­are they all right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course they are. I asked blue lips, the one who likes to change her name, where your pack was, and she said you buried it.¡± The gloved hands moved in a short, impatient gesture, stilling Manrie¡¯s reaction. ¡°Not her fault. I woke her, and she wasn¡¯t thinking. She didn¡¯t betray you. But where did you bury it?¡±


    ¡°You said you would free them.¡±


    ¡°I will. Once I have my needle.¡±


    ¡°Why should I believe you?¡±


    Raeflin squinted at her, the wrinkles beside her eyes tightening. ¡°Take stock. You now have hostages in both camps. The caravan with the Enrieghos, the little girl with Macbrau. You¡¯re the only free one left. But what can you do? Are you a fighter, Manrie of Libreigia? Are you a great strategist? Do you know how to manipulate this situation to your advantage? What do you know of Rue and Ahlo? What do you know of Macbrau? I¡¯m your only advantage, and I¡¯m not doing anything until I have my needle.¡±


    ¡°Why is it so important?¡±


    ¡°Never you mind.¡±


    At that moment a girl shambled out with a tea pot and chipped cups on a small tray. Raeflin waited impatiently as she poured the tea, then said, sharply, ¡°leave.¡± The girl left.


    The old woman leaned forward. ¡°Trust is the only coin you have,¡± she hissed. ¡°You should use it.¡±

 Within the Ambush of Ghosts

    They did not see the ambush but passed through the hills to the south of it, and Raeflin nodded at the dim shapes of the blue-black hills and said ¡°They¡¯re waiting for each other on the road.¡± Her words were muffled by the muslin-swathed head of her costume, and swallowed up by the violent expectancy of the night. She had retrieved her horse from Macbrau¡¯s compound, retrieved her costume from the hidden room in the fallen tree trunk, and had forced Manrie to ride behind her and hold onto her waist as the horse jolted into its gallop. Away from the road, the riding was rough and unpleasant, the horse¡¯s stride uneven and juddering. Manrie¡¯s spine felt like it was coming undone, and she imagined her vertebrae scattering the ground like breadcrumbs and giving away their trail.


    But after a few more miles Raeflin turned the horse north and they cantered out of the foothills and back onto the road. Moonlight stretched along it and brought every rock, every small and straggling tree into sharp relief.¡°You¡¯ll be able to recognize the place?¡± Raeflin asked again, her voice barely audible over the thudding of hooves on hard packed ground.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Look for the ghosts.¡±


    She could feel Raeflin stiffen, then relax. It gave Manrie a grim sense of defiance. She liked that Raeflin might be frightened of the ghosts.


    But when they came through a grove of mimosa trees and saw shimmering figures in the road before them, the bounty hunter didn¡¯t hesitate. The trees were sleeping, their leaflets closed up, and the ghosts turned their faces towards the horse with a stillness and quiet that seemed to want to dampen all sound. But Raeflin spurred the horse towards them, and started to laugh as she did so. There was Aizdha, standing over the place where Manrie¡¯s pack was buried. She looked right into his eyes, and he smiled and stepped aside, just as he had when training her, in order to give her a more generous view of some monster or species of plant that he had been examining. The gesture was so specific, so personal, that Manrie began to cry.


    The horse shied away at the last moment and veered to the left, tilting as it ran along an escarpment. Manrie forgot everything for a moment as she clung to Raeflin, who was cursing. The false head and shoulders tipped and then fell from the old woman¡¯s body and went skittering down into the road. A long, dangerous moment as the bounty hunter fought for control, and then the horse was brought back to the road and pulled to a stop. It stood shivering and squealing, and Raeflin bent over its neck, whispering at it, trying to calm it.


    Manrie slid off its back and landed on the hard pack of the road. She turned and walked deliberately back towards Aizdha, who had shifted his position and was watching her from the midst of the dead villagers. There was Amurka, named now and no longer simply Praeda¡¯s mother. She gazed at Manrie with the tragic, beseeching look of the recently dead. The spirits of the villagers stepped aside for Manrie and she passed between them. Their presence made her feel as if she was asleep. Not in the natural sleep of dreams and a stilled body, but as if she were a limb that had gone numb, and that was just beginning to tingle painfully back to life. She came up to Aizdha, and he stared at her and beyond her at the same time, as if she were the ghost, and he was viewing some other, more real world through her shimmering form. She looked down at the ground so that she didn¡¯t have to look at him.


    ¡°Is it there?¡± Raeflin asked from outside the circle of spirits.


    ¡°How should I know? It¡¯s buried.¡±


    ¡°Well, dig for it.¡±


    ¡°With my hands?¡±


    A sound, and she glanced up to see Raeflin stalking back towards the horse, which she had tethered to a lonely tree. In a moment she was walking back, and Manrie squinted through the darkness to make out the pick axe and shovel that she was carrying in either hand. She seemed reluctant to breach the sphere of dead bystanders, and dropped the tools onto the ground with a loud clang. Manrie glanced at Aizdha, in the old way in which they would share a look to comment on some incident, but she could see no knowledge of their former closeness in his eyes. He was distracted, as he would get when studying some important task. At those moments she would become nothing but a slave to him, of no more significance than his stylus and his jar of ink.


    She retrieved the tools and set to digging. The sound of the spade in the hard earth reverberated over the hills, as if it wanted to offend the stillness that the spirits imposed. It didn¡¯t take her long to unearth the strap of the saddle bag, and she got down on her hands and knees and dug around it, scraping the earth from its sides with her fingers, and wishing that the bounty hunter had handed over her gloves.


    Raeflin was impatient. ¡°Well?¡± she called.


    ¡°It¡¯s here.¡±


    ¡°My needle is still there?¡±


    Manrie hefted the bag out of the hole and onto the road and undid the ties on its flap. ¡°It¡¯s here. And the bestiary. And the discs.¡±


    ¡°Discs?¡±


    ¡°I took them from the Man on the Mountain.¡± Manrie stood and slung the saddle bag over her shoulder. Clumps of earth avalanched down from it, smearing her robes. But by the time she got to the edge of the circle of ghosts, her clothing was white again, and shone sharply in the darkness.


    Raeflin was watching her with narrowed eyes. She held out a hand. ¡°My needle.¡±


    Manrie gave it to her. As her fingers closed around it, the bounty hunter relaxed. The crow¡¯s feet around her eyes puckered upwards, and for a moment she was just an old woman, pleased by the reception of some present. Then her eyes narrowed. She rubbed a gloved finger along the needle, then sniffed at the fingertip. ¡°It¡¯s greasy.¡±


    ¡°I was using it as a spit. I cooked rabbits on it.¡±


    A fleeting mood of danger, and then Raeflin smiled. ¡°A unique use for it. They were quite dead before you stabbed them through with it?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Did she imagine that Manrie had delighted in torturing dinner?


    The old woman looked up at her, a long, considering gaze that had a strange tinge of threat. Then she sighed. ¡°You are an interesting young woman.¡± There was a hint of resentment in her voice, as if, by being interesting, Manrie had denied her something. ¡°Well,¡± Raeflin said, ¡°I could leave you here, but I made a promise. Shall we go and rescue your friends?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Manrie repeated.


    They did not leave the road, but cantered along it in the sharp moonlight, Manrie riding pinion behind the bounty hunter, the saddle bag slapping at her back. After half a mile Manrie glanced back. ¡°The ghosts are following us.¡±


    She felt Raeflin stiffen. The bounty hunter had put her false head and shoulders back on, and her voice was muffled. ¡°Not because of the needle.¡±


    ¡°No. Because of the bestiary, I think.¡±


    ¡°Why would they care about that?¡±


    ¡°Well, Aizdha cares about it.¡±


    ¡°And Aizdha is their leader? Why would the rest of them care about Aizdha?¡±


    ¡°There has to be some reason.¡±


    Raeflin was quiet, deep in thought. They came around a bend in the road and saw a haze of dust rising into the plane of moonlight that slid over the Sand Hills. ¡°We¡¯ll ride through them,¡± Raeflin said. ¡°Drop the saddle bag when we¡¯re in their midst.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Do what you¡¯re told.¡±


    The bounty hunter kicked the horse into a gallop and Manrie saw a handful of men in the road ahead. Some of them were standing with their hands on their knees, as if trying to catch their breaths. She saw a flash of white hair, and Laenrid¡¯s triumphant face turning towards the sound of the horse. He let out a cry, but the horse charged past him. Manrie threw the saddle bag at his feet.


    As soon as they were beyond the ambush, the bounty hunter reined the horse in and turned it in the road. Laenrid was facing them, glaring. He was hefting a spear. There were bodies scattered on the road around him and a few surviving men, who were following his lead and brandishing their weapons. ¡°It seems that you were successful,¡± Raeflin called to Laenrid.


    ¡°It seems I have more people to kill tonight,¡± he called back.


    ¡°Look behind you.¡±


    He seemed reluctant to glance back. But then he seemed to sense the onrush of ghosts, and turned just as Amurka led the spirits of the villagers onto the bloodied ground. She seemed elongated as she rushed forward, her mouth stretched, her eyes oddly solidified by intensity. Laenrid screamed. The men around him began to scream. Manrie slid down from the horse but then merely stood in the middle of the road as the animal shied and squealed beside her and Raeflin strove to calm it. The ghosts of Hareramanda seemed to rush into Laenrid, as if his whole body had suddenly become a door that they were passing through. He stood, rigid, convulsing, his back arched, his limbs thrashing out. He screamed and screamed. And then he fell onto the road. Manrie took a step forward, and the horse stepped with her, cautiously, carefully, snorting its distress. She glanced up at Raeflin, but the muslin-shrouded head was facing down the road and she had no sense of the bounty hunter¡¯s reaction.


    One of the men with Laenrid took a step forward, as if intending to go to his side, but the body suddenly began to convulse again, and the spirits stepped out from it, one by one, as if they had finished some orderly and necessary task. As they left, Laenrid began weeping. It was an astringent, wet sound, a pathetic, unbelieving howl. Laenrid¡¯s companion took a further step towards him and Laenrid squirmed up onto his knees and faced the man. ¡°Your knife,¡± he said, and then he screamed it. ¡°Your knife!¡±


    The man was shaking. He fumbled his knife and dropped it in the road. Laenrid scrambled forward for it, his white hair strangely sinuous against the dark road. As if he had become a mist, a vapor. Manrie watched as he seized the knife, brought its point to his neck, and fell forward onto it. His body quivered and went still. His companion screamed. The ghosts didn¡¯t even bother to look. They had returned to the dropped saddle bag, where they stood in a circle around it, as if in expectation.


    Raeflin kicked the horse and it moved forward reluctantly. The remainder of Laenrid¡¯s men were running away, scrambling up the uncertain earth of the escarpments on either side of the road. After a few steps the horse stopped and wouldn¡¯t go any further. The muslin clad head turned to stare back at Manrie. ¡°Get the saddlebag.¡±


    ¡°What happened to him?¡± Manrie asked.


    The shoulders couldn¡¯t shrug, but there was the sound of a shrug in Raeflin¡¯s voice. ¡°They rode him.¡±


    ¡°Rode him?¡±


    ¡°What would you call it? I imagine they showed him their pain. The pain that he caused. I hope they left it with him.¡±


    ¡°Look,¡± Manrie said. There was a new ghost, at the very edge of the crowd of spirits. Laenrid himself, staring down at the saddle bag with the same posture of patient waiting that the rest of them held. ¡°They¡¯ll just accept him?¡± Manrie asked.


    There was something pensive in Raeflin¡¯s tone as she replied. ¡°It is the one great hope. That we may be forgiven, when we¡¯re dead.¡± Then the bounty hunter shook herself. ¡°I would not want to be him,¡± she said.


    The sun was rising as they returned to Tzurfaera. The ghosts disappeared from the road behind them. ¡°Will they appear in the town tonight?¡± Manrie asked.


    Raeflin seemed impatient with her questions. ¡°Why would I know that? Only there don¡¯t seem to be ghosts in Tzurfaera, although many have died here. Now be silent. I need to confer with Macbrau.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    She turned the horse to the left as they came onto the street of the little town. The fibers of her muslin mask were picked out by the dawn. Riding behind her, Manrie wanted to pluck it from her shoulders and fling it down into the dirt and expose the bounty hunter¡¯s true identity. In her tiredness and confusion it all seemed like a stupid sham, meant to protect no one. And when they came up to the gate of Macbrau¡¯s compound, and Raeflin called out in the harsh, low-pitched voice of the bounty hunter, Manrie had to stifle a hysterical laugh.


    Uku had not returned to his post. There was no guard at all on the gate, and Raeflin¡¯s call didn¡¯t cause any immediate stir within the shacks that lined the base of the cliff. Manrie slid down from the horse and walked forward. She pushed the gate open and went through it. She was too frightened and exhausted to go carefully. The first shack she came to was empty, and so was the next. She glanced back. Raeflin hadn¡¯t moved from the street in front of the gate.


    ¡°Praeda!¡± Manrie called, and her voice echoed off the cliff side. She could feel her heart pounding as she ran to the path that led up the cliffside. She dropped the saddle bag beside the angled hitching post and sprinted forward, coming to the door in front of the first lace hole and pounding on it. She almost collapsed with relief when she heard Liezhae¡¯s voice on the other side.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± Liezhae called, and the baby started to cry.


    ¡°Manrie. Is Praeda all right? Let me in.¡±


    A pause. ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to open the door.¡±


    ¡°Is Praeda all right?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here,¡± Praeda called.


    ¡°Praeda, are you well?¡±


    ¡°I was sleeping.¡±


    ¡°Liezhae, why can¡¯t you open the door. Where are the men?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve gone to attack the Enrieghos. Macbrau led them along the top of the cliff.¡±


    ¡°And he left no guard?¡±


    ¡°What is there to guard?¡±


    ¡°You.¡±


    A pause, as if Liezhae was considering her plight. ¡°The door is strong,¡± she said.


    ¡°You won¡¯t let me in?¡±


    ¡°No one can come in until he comes back.¡±


    ¡°And what if he doesn¡¯t come back?¡±


    A wry laugh. ¡°Macbrau always comes back.¡±


    Wearily, Manrie turned and looked across the valley. She thought she could see people moving along the ridge, although her eyes were red with sleeplessness and her vision swam before her. She and Praeda had been on that ridge only the evening before, and her exhausted mind indulged a brief moment of hallucination, and she felt afraid, imagining that they were still on it, sitting in the grasses, gathering their strength after their flight up the cliffside.


    She glanced down. Raeflin was still sitting on the horse in front of the gate. The muslin-clad head was tilted to look at her. Manrie lifted an arm and pointed across the valley. The bounty hunter turned the horse, and it stamped and snorted, its haunches quivering in the morning sunlight. The poor horse must be at the end of its energy, as well.


    The figures on the ridge had come to the ladder and started down it. Manrie sat down on the dusty path and watched them moving stealthily down the cliff path. She counted the lace holes. They came to the first one, directly opposite her, and the two guards she had encountered the night before were taken by surprise. She saw them fall, pushed off the trail to tumble down onto the roof of the Enriegho compound, where they lay still. For some reason, she began to cry.


    ¡°Manrie, are you still there?¡± Praeda called through the door.


    ¡°I¡¯m here, Praeda.¡±


    ¡°Are you afraid?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m tired. And hungry.¡±


    ¡°I have porridge, but Liezhae won¡¯t let me open the door.¡±


    ¡°Never mind. I can eat later.¡±


    Macbrau himself was towards the back of his men. His long, weirdly articulated body made him seem insect-like as he moved among them. They had come to the gate and were passing silently through it. The two wagons of Cloedeya¡¯s caravan were to their right, and for a tense moment Manrie feared that they would turn to them, and murder her friends. But they turned to the left, towards the Enriegho¡¯s main house.


    A sound from below, and Manrie glanced down to see the horse trotting away, up the long street. She expected the bounty hunter to go to the Enriegho¡¯s gate, but instead Raeflin turned the horse to the right, and rode away, leaving the town. Manrie felt as if she had been dealt a blow. The old woman had broken her promise. But perhaps Macbrau would murder Ahlo Enriegho and release the caravan. Maybe there was no more promise left to keep.


    A cry from the Enriegho¡¯s house sounded across the valley, and then a crashing sound, calls, a deep pounding as if someone were hammering the walls. The little town seemed to curl into itself, like a frightened child pretending to be asleep. The two gate guards left their posts and ran for the house. A side panel on one of the caravan wagons flew open, and Melsa emerged, a tiny form in the distance, her distress obvious in the pitch of her shoulders. Manrie¡¯s other friends piled out of the wagons, and Manrie frowned when she saw that Tafaemi and her son were among them. Another exhausted hallucination assailed her. Taeyaho spending the night in Tafaemi¡¯s arms, suckling at her motherly tits. Manrie¡¯s whole body flushed, and she shook her head quickly, trying to clear the vision.


    Someone screamed in the house, and then all went silent. The caravaners were still, like frightened animals sensing danger. ¡°The gate is unguarded,¡± Manrie murmured. ¡°Escape. Come on, Cloedeya. Escape.¡±


    The door of the house flew open, and Ahlo Enriegho stepped into the morning light. He was made tiny by distance, and yet she could sense his triumph, even from her high perch. Uku emerged behind him, and he was holding Macbrau by the scruff of his neck. More men came out into the courtyard. They were dragging bodies behind them. No prisoners, except for the old miner.


    Ahlo led his people to the gate and threw it open. Manrie scrambled to her feet. ¡°Praeda,¡± she called through the door, ¡°I¡¯m going down into the town. Just for a little while. Don¡¯t be afraid.¡±


    ¡°What was that noise?¡±


    ¡°Something is happening, but you¡¯re safe. Don¡¯t be afraid.¡±


    ¡°Manrie, don¡¯t leave me!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back. I promise.¡±


    She ran down the path and dodged between the shacks. Ahlo was leading his procession to the tea house, and people were coming out onto the porches of the other building or leaning out of the windows. Manrie came to a stop a few paces from the crowd. Her friends were opposite her, unguarded, having followed the Enrieghos out of their gate. Cloedeya¡¯s face wore an expression of horrified curiosity, and Big Praeda was hiding behind him. Tafaemi was clutching at Taeyaho¡¯s arm, a gesture of weak dependency that screamed her uselessness to the world. Her son had stepped forward, to stand beside Ahlo Enriegho.


    Ahlo was looking down at his cupped hands. He didn¡¯t raise his voice when he started to speak, but he was loud, his words reverberating off of the cliff sides. ¡°This old man came to kill me. After having killed my brother.¡±


    Macbrau tried to shake loose of Uku¡¯s grip, but failed. ¡°I didn¡¯t kill your brother.¡±


    ¡°Brother, brethren, kin,¡± the giant muttered.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t kill him,¡± Macbrau insisted. ¡°He came to me. Three days ago. He said that he had looked across the valley from your highest lace hole. He had looked directly into the lace hole opposite, and he had seen the ocean.¡±


    Rue blinked. His shoulders heaved, as if in a sob. But his voice was very calm. ¡°That is a lie.¡±


    ¡°He saw it, Ahlo. He saw your home. The land he was searching for. He asked me to let him climb my path. He asked me to let him go home. Without you.¡±


    ¡°A lie.¡±


    ¡°Without you, Ahlo. He didn¡¯t even think of you.¡±


    ¡°A lie,¡± Ahlo repeated, in a dead tone.


    Macbrau¡¯s head swung about wildly, the burn scar on his forehead like a search light. He was looking for some friend, some ally. He was met by blank or frightened stares. ¡°Son,¡± he said, settling his gaze on Malekeisae, ¡°you were there. Speak the truth. You were there when I led Rue up the path.¡±


    The boy smirked. ¡°You¡¯ve ignored me ever since that baby was born. He¡¯s your son. I¡¯m not.¡±


    The burn scar sought and found the boy¡¯s mother. ¡°Tafaemi, my love. You know I only sent you down the road to trick Ahlo. To make it seem like Rue had gone running after you.¡±


    ¡°And why would you do that?¡± Ahlo asked with a kind of deadened curiosity. He found something to scratch at on one of his palms.


    ¡°I thought I could use it. The fact that Rue was gone. I thought I could finally have my valley back.¡±


    Ahlo looked up suddenly, and there was an expression of raw rage on his foxy face. ¡°Your valley? For ten years, you made Rue and I slave for you, delving about in the darkness, sleeping in a shack, the cold wind coming through the walls. You called us your sons but you treated us like slaves. You and Liezhae. And if we hadn¡¯t found Old Riman, we¡¯d still be there, wouldn¡¯t we? Sent to delve deep in the lace holes.¡±


    Macbrau blinked, and Manrie was surprised that the burn scar didn¡¯t blink along with his eyes. ¡°You¡¯ve done some delving yourself,¡± the old man said, as if amazed by Ahlo¡¯s resentment.


    ¡°And you continued to benefit. We brought the caravans here, and you lured them to your side. We found gold in the fifth hole, and you knew to mine for it in its opposite. Everything you have, old man, was stolen from me and my brother. And now you¡¯ve stolen Rue.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t. He left you, boy!¡± It was a harsh, disciplining shout, and Ahlo responded by stepping forward and punching him in the gut. He curved forward, and Uku lifted him and shook him like a rag doll.


    ¡°Hang him up,¡± Ahlo said.


    Manrie glanced to the west, in the direction that Raeflin had ridden. She half expected the bounty hunter to come charging back into the town. But sunlight slanted caustically along the road, carving out the ruts and potholes with acid.


    Uku had let Macbrau go. There was an expression of disgust on his large face. ¡°I won¡¯t kill. Slay. Dispatch.¡±


    Ahlo snorted his disgust. ¡°You came to my house to kill. To lay in wait for that Laenrid.¡±


    ¡°Him, yes. It¡¯s justice. Magisterial. Righteous. Fair.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s already dead,¡± Manrie said, and all eyes turned to her. She stepped forward. ¡°On the road. He died in your ambush.¡±


    Ahlo grimaced. ¡°And my other men?¡±


    ¡°A few of them were there.¡±


    ¡°And you? Why were you there?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°I was with the bounty hunter.¡±


    A stillness descended over the little town. ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± one of the Enriegho gate guards said. ¡°I saw them this morning.¡±


    ¡°And where is the bounty hunter now?¡± Ahlo asked in a quiet, reflective voice that seemed to hide a well of deep violence.


    ¡°She rode off,¡± Manrie said, and then froze, realizing her mistake.


    ¡°She?¡± Manrie said nothing. Ahlo was staring at her from beneath lowered brows. Then he smiled. ¡°The old woman? She¡¯s the bounty hunter? The great terror of the Sand Hills?¡± When Manrie still didn¡¯t answer he lifted both of his cupped hands and suddenly broke them apart, as if dispelling a nightmare or flinging away a burden. He turned to the gate guard who had spoken. ¡°String him up,¡± he said again.


    They pulled the struggling miner to the tea house¡¯s sign post and heaved him to dangle over the dusty street. Tafaemi turned her head and buried her face in Taeyaho¡¯s shoulder. Malekeisae stared up as his father kicked and struggled, his face full of dreadful interest. Manrie couldn¡¯t watch. She found herself staring into the face of the giant, who was gazing at her with tears in his eyes. He stepped towards her, and she felt the shadow of his protection fall across her. ¡°He¡¯s really dead? The butcher?¡±


    ¡°He was killed by the ghosts of Hareramanda,¡± she whispered, and saw his eyes widen.


    ¡°You saw them? Was my sister among them?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know your sister,¡± she said gently.


    He looked away, at the sunlight clanging off of the rooftops. ¡°She was small. As I am large. Dainty. Delicate. Fine.¡±


    ¡°When did you last see her?¡±


    ¡°When I was a child.¡±


    ¡°Uku, was she a child then as well?¡±


    He lowered his face to her. ¡°You know my name.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He took a sudden step forward, and she reared back, afraid. But his two huge arms came around her and he held her gently. ¡°She was a child,¡± he whispered into her hair. ¡°A lass. A maiden. A damsel.¡±


    ¡°You might not recognize her,¡± she whispered into his hard and fragrant chest.


    ¡°Will I see her?¡±


    ¡°Tonight. Maybe tonight.¡±


    ¡°Because of you?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t know. And maybe not here. There are no ghosts in Tzurfaera.¡±


    ¡°He is dead,¡± Ahlo said in a dry, loud voice. Manrie pulled her head away from Uku¡¯s chest and looked at the dangling body. She looked away. Cloedeya was watching her from the crowd, and Big Praeda had taken a step forward, as if to protect her.


    ¡°He is dead,¡± Ahlo repeated. ¡°And I lay claim to his mine and his compound. I lay claim to his people. Do not worry. I will enslave no one. All are free to go. But I ask, first, that you help me search. I must find my brother.¡±


    At the fringe of the crowd, people were turning to face down the road to the west. Ahlo frowned at his loss of their attention, but then turned to look as well. Manrie couldn¡¯t see over the heads of the people. ¡°What is it?¡± she whispered to Uku.


    ¡°A man. On the road. He is injured. Harmed. Wounded.¡±


    Ahlo was stepping forward, his people with him. ¡°Well met, Farahzin.¡±


    A voice answered him. ¡°Ahlo. They¡¯re dead. Macbrau¡¯s people.¡±


    ¡°So is Macbrau. Where is the rest of your party?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the only one left. It was the bounty hunter. And the girl. She made the ghosts come.¡±


    Ahlo glanced sharply back, looking for Manrie in the crowd. ¡°Giant, bring her forward.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Uku said. ¡°I claim her.¡±


    A small, sharp grin on Ahlo¡¯s foxy face. ¡°You would break her.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s under my protection. Safeguard. Shelter.¡±


    Ahlo came pacing back to them, and the wounded man followed him through the crowd of his retainers. Manrie studied him from the safety of Uku¡¯s encircling arms. The stubble on his face seemed to want to climb to his eyebrows, and his obsidian hair was very dusty. One of his arms was bandaged all the way to the fingers, and blood was leaking through the cloth in a circle on the back of his left hand.


    ¡°Girl,¡± Ahlo said to her, ¡°is it true?¡±


    ¡°There were ghosts on the road,¡± she admitted.


    ¡°There have been ghosts for months. It¡¯s why the caravans have been less frequent. But did they kill my people?¡±


    ¡°Laenrid killed himself.¡±


    A murmur of disquiet from the crowd. Ahlo stared at her, puzzled. ¡°You have no power over them?¡±


    Manrie felt as if she were balanced on a pinnacle of rock with two deep valleys on either side. She looked across the crowd for Cloedeya, seeking guidance. His mismatched eyes met hers and he gave a little shake of his head. ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°I don¡¯t know why they were there.¡±


    ¡°The bounty hunter?¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I don¡¯t know what power she has over them,¡± Manrie lied.


    ¡°We must speak to the bounty hunter,¡± Ahlo included. ¡°Giant, you will keep this girl here, in Tzurfaera,¡± He said it with a note of presumed command, but Uku seemed to accept it. Ahlo turned swiftly away. ¡°Now,¡± he said, ¡°we search Macbrau¡¯s compound. We will find my brother.¡±

 In the Tunnel of the Dead

    ¡°You must open the door, Liezhae,¡± Ahlo demanded.


    Liezhae¡¯s voice was muted by the thick wood. ¡°Where is my husband?¡±


    ¡°He is dead, Liezhae. I am your protector now.¡±


    Silence from the other side of the door. Ahlo lifted his gaze from his cupped hands, stepped forward, and gave a swift, authoritative knock. ¡°You will open this door.¡±


    After a moment, they heard Praeda¡¯s voice. Small, whispery, afraid. ¡°Manrie?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m here, Praeda,¡± Manrie called back. Ahlo gave her a sharp glance. ¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± she said, although she didn¡¯t believe it herself. ¡°You can open the door.¡±


    More silence. Manrie¡¯s heart began to beat too quickly, and she felt tears come into her eyes. Her whole body felt like a rag that had been run out and left to mildew in a corner. Exhaustion was disintegrating her.


    Maybe out of concern for her, or maybe as a reaction to Ahlo¡¯s sharp glance, Uku stepped forward and spread his hand across the door, as if to learn something about the wood. ¡°Can you break it down?¡± Ahlo asked him.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Uku said loudly, while shaking his head to indicate that he couldn¡¯t.


    A scrambling sound from within the cave. Cloedeya, who, with the others, had been behind Manrie on the path, stepped around her. ¡°Liezhae, it¡¯s all right. We are going to cook a meal. A wonderful meal. It will bring peace. Come, open the door, and delight in it.¡±


    ¡°Open the door, Liezhae,¡± Tafaemi muttered in a low voice from a little further down the path. It wasn¡¯t meant to be heard by her rival. Her son gazed past her at the door with terrifying avidity.


    The door shook slightly from the inside. There was a scrabbling, clumsy sound. Then Praeda¡¯s voice. ¡°I can¡¯t lift it.¡±


    ¡°Lift what?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°The bar on the door.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Liezhae?¡±


    ¡°She went through the other door. At the back of the cave.¡±


    Ahlo sucked in a breath. ¡°Little girl¡­¡± he began, but Uku interrupted him.


    ¡°Step close to it. Put your hands up by your shoulders. Bend your knees, and push up with them.¡±


    A clanging sound, and a yelp. ¡°Praeda!¡± Manrie yelled. But then the door cracked open, and Praeda¡¯s little face peered out. Ahlo pushed past her into the cave. He stood for a moment, surveying the stairs and the platform, the four poster beds and the fire pit.


    ¡°So this is how they came to live,¡± he said to himself. Then he seized Praeda¡¯s shoulder and turned her. ¡°Show me the door.¡±


    His men tried to enter the room after him, but Uku blocked them, a door himself, that only opened for Manrie and her friends to pass through. The giant followed them and kept his body as a screen between them and the Enriegho miners, who didn¡¯t protest but moved slowly, with a kind of dumb solidarity, Malekeisae in their midst, as if he had joined them. Up the steps and across the platform, to the door that led deeper into the cave. This door had a keyhole, and the key was missing.


    ¡°She took the baby and went in there?¡± Ahlo asked. Praeda nodded, and winced, as he was still clutching her shoulder. ¡°And is that where they¡¯re keeping my brother?¡±


    ¡°Your brother?¡± Praeda asked.


    ¡°Listen child,¡± Ahlo said, ¡°if you know, you must tell me.¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t know,¡± Manrie told him. ¡°How would she know that you even have a brother?¡±


    Ahlo turned to Uku. ¡°Knock it down.¡±


    Again the big man stepped forward and laid a gentle hand against the hard wood. He shook his head. ¡°You need some tools.¡±


    Ahlo nodded. He turned and looked back at his men. ¡°Take one of the posts from the beds.¡±


    They set to work dissembling a bed, putting their axes and hammers to good use. Farahzin, the wounded man who had survived the ambush, sat on the bed opposite, his bandaged arm curled against his stomach. He cast surreptitious glances at Manrie as the others worked, as if he were afraid of her. In the fog of her exhaustion, Manrie¡¯s mind confused him with someone she knew. A slave of the Archivist of the Third Tower, perhaps? Why not? Uku had come from Libreigia, after all. She wouldn¡¯t be surprised if everyone she met had a secret origin in the library.


    Tafaemi came huffily up the steps and stared down at him. ¡°You are sitting on my bed,¡± she said.


    Farahzin looked up at her. ¡°Everyone here belongs to Ahlo now.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Ahlo said, and there was danger in his voice. ¡°Not to me. To me and Rue.¡±


    They brought all four posts to the door, as if they expected to wear each one out with their battering. But it only took three strikes with the first post to shatter the lock, and the door swung open into darkness. The men hesitated.


    ¡°It only looks like the entrance to our barrow,¡± Ahlo told them. ¡°Macbrau¡¯s people aren¡¯t buried here.¡±


    ¡°Where then?¡± one of the men asked.


    Ahlo glanced back at Tafaemi. ¡°Where?¡± he asked.


    She shrugged. ¡°You¡¯re wrong. They¡¯re in that cave.¡±


    Ahlo shivered. ¡°He slept beside his dead?¡±


    ¡°They never stir. The door is solid.¡±


    ¡°And yet you chose him.¡±


    Tafaemi looked up at him, and Manrie was surprised to see tears gleaming in her big, heavy-lidded eyes. She looked about for her son, and saw him standing in the entrance to the tunnel, his back to them, his thin shoulders tight with fear, or perhaps excitement.


    ¡°Bring torches,¡± Ahlo said quietly, and turned to face the tunnel entrance, an almost wistful expression on his foxy face.


    Uku turned and picked up little Praeda, and somehow absorbed Manrie into the orbit of his big body as he stalked back across the platform. The caravaners followed after. ¡°Where are you going?¡± Ahlo called.


    ¡°To sleep,¡± Uku called back.


    Ahlo didn¡¯t protest. Manrie glanced back and saw that he had turned his face to the darkness of the tunnel. His posture was tense with waiting, and something else. Longing? She could not understand it. He was so officious and brutal. Where did this stance of yearning come from?


    They were halfway down the ridge path when Manrie noticed that Tafaemi was with them. It didn¡¯t matter. She would have gladly fallen asleep with her head against the woman¡¯s pillowy bosom. Uku was carrying Praeda, and Manrie wished that he could carry her, too. When they got to the tea house she had to sit on the porch where she and Raeflin had sat the night before. It didn¡¯t matter that Macbrau¡¯s corpse was hanging there, turning at the end of the rope, his puckered scar finding her gaze again and again and staring at her, unblinking. Taeyaho kept her company as the others went to fetch the caravan from the Enriegho¡¯s compound. He sat on the edge of the porch, and Tafaemi came to sit beside him. None of them spoke.


    But Cloedeya was aware of Manrie¡¯s plight. The caravan came up the street, Uku leading one of the horses, still carrying Little Praeda in one arm. Cloedeya, leading the other horse, stopped beside Manrie and said, ¡°Go into the sleeping wagon. We are going to cook. We won¡¯t disturb you.¡±


    Gratefully, Manrie climbed into the wagon. There were mattresses and pillows, and they bore the intimate scents of her friends. It was reassuring, an entirely human smell, slightly musty and cloying, but very close to being held in Melsa¡¯s or Big Praeda¡¯s embrace. She turned to pull the side wall of the caravan shut, but Uku loomed there. He deposited Little Praeda beside her, and the child nestled into her arms.


    ¡°You were very brave,¡± Manrie murmured to her, as the giant man closed the wall and allowed them the protection of darkness. The little girl made a small sound, but nothing more. They slept.


    She was woken by someone crying. Not an alarming cry. A low, self-pitying keening that might have been going on for a very long time. She would have ignored it and gone back to sleep, if she hadn¡¯t heard a voice murmuring and recognized Taeyaho¡¯s soft condolences.


    ¡°It¡¯s not my fault,¡± Tafaemi said, her voice damp and sulky. ¡°It¡¯s because the witch cursed me.¡±


    It was Uku¡¯s voice that answered her, and Manrie thought that he must be sitting beside them, still at the edge of the porch. ¡°Curse, jinx, blight,¡± he murmured.


    ¡°Yes, jinx!¡± Tafaemi said loudly. Loud enough to make the clanking of pots and pans pause momentarily. ¡°Yes, blight!¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s still there, then?¡± Uku asked.


    ¡°Of course she¡¯s still there. She¡¯s always there. On her island.¡±


    ¡°Had an uncle who was cursed by her. He had to make and fulfill a vow everyday. Oath. Pledge. Promise.¡±


    ¡°Well my curse is worse,¡± Tafaemi pouted.


    A pause. A well-meaning murmur from Taeyaho. Then Uku¡¯s voice. ¡°What is it, then?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± Manrie, half-asleep and annoyed, could imagine Tafaemi¡¯s swell of outrage.


    ¡°No,¡± the giant said simply.


    A small, dramatic sob. ¡°She cursed me with never getting the kind of love that I want.¡±


    ¡°Many people love you,¡± Taeyaho said.


    ¡°Yes, but not with the kind of love *I* want. *He* didn¡¯t love me, even though I gave him a son. *My father*¡­well, my father. And Rue didn¡¯t love me as anything more than a sister. I *amused* him.¡±


    ¡°Why did she curse you?¡± Uku asked with mild curiosity.


    ¡°She curses everyone,¡± Tafaemi said dismissively.


    ¡°Manrie, who are they talking about?¡± Praeda whispered.


    ¡°The Witch of Zaira Lake. Now go back to sleep.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Her,¡± Praeda said, and nuzzled against Manrie. Her breath was sweet on Manrie¡¯s cheek.


    ¡°But why did she curse you?¡± Uku insisted.


    ¡°It was my father¡¯s fault. He thought that he had created a concoction that could protect against the curses. And he had heard of the shieroeno flower that only grows on her island.¡±


    ¡°He took you to the island?¡±


    ¡°No, of course not. But the witch knew that he had a daughter, somehow.¡± A sniffle. ¡°The concoction didn¡¯t work.¡±


    ¡°Elixir, philter, nostrum,¡± Uku said.


    ¡°Why did she punish *me*?¡± Tafaemi sniffled. ¡°Why *me*, and not my father? Even my own son can¡¯t love me.¡±


    Cloedeya¡¯s voice, then. ¡°Here. Eat this. We are all sad and afraid. This will help.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Tafaemi asked suspiciously.


    ¡°A delicate soup made of the petals of the rienoro flower. It is like the shieroeno flower, except that it protects against complaining.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Tafaemi seemed to miss Cloedeya¡¯s obvious joke. She fell silent, and Manrie tried to drift back into sleep. She had heard of the witch of course. Yet she hadn¡¯t thought of her as they were traveling along the bank of Zaira Lake. She remembered Aizdha talking about her. ¡°Maybe she is a monster,¡± her master had said, ¡°but if we start looking for monsters in human guise, then we must suspect many people, and the bestiary will lose its purpose.¡± She had left the bestiary in the saddle bag, leaning against the askew hitching post at the base of Macbrau¡¯s ridge path. Perhaps someone would find it and take it away with them. She had buried it, and now she felt strangely afraid for it, as if it would be a tragedy to lose it. And yet she could not force herself to rise from the blankets and go and search for it.


    The next thing she knew, the side panel of the sleeping wagon was being lifted, and Cloedeya was smiling down at her. He waited for her to blink awake and come up on one elbow, then handed a bowl across Praeda¡¯s dozing form. ¡°Rienoro flower soup?¡± she asked.


    He smiled and shook his head. ¡°We ate it all before noon. This is dinner.¡±


    The bowl was full of herbed dumplings. ¡°Dinner? I slept all day?¡±


    ¡°Yes. But nothing has happened. Ahlo has disappeared into the tunnel. Him and Malekeisae. His people are afraid, but they won¡¯t go in after him.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°It is a grave.¡±


    ¡°But the ghosts don¡¯t leave their graves. Not here.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean that they want visitors. Here, I fetched your saddle bag.¡±


    He lifted it into the wagon and set it down, oblivious to the dirt that showered down onto the pillows. She picked out a dumpling with her fingers and put it her mouth. It tasted like spring. She regarded the saddle bag hopefully. ¡°Will we be leaving, now?¡±


    ¡°Soon. These people are suffering. They are afraid, and they don¡¯t know who will lead them. We need to feed them.¡±


    ¡°Even though they tried to imprison you?¡±


    A look of worry flashed across Cloedeya¡¯s mismatched eyes. ¡°Ahlo did. I won¡¯t blame his people.¡±


    ¡°But you would feed Ahlo, too.¡±


    He sighed, then climbed into the wagon and sat on a pillow beside her. He picked a dumpling out of the bowl and ate it. A flash of memory. Cloedeya and Melsa and Big Praeda embracing each other on these pillows. Manrie felt warm and consternated. But the side of the wagon was open. There were people sitting at tables only a few paces away. And Cloedeya wouldn¡¯t touch her. She was sure of that. He was like Aizdha.


    She ate another dumpling. ¡°Poor Ahlo,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°What Macbrau said is true, although it was a great secret for many years. I came here, you know, after I left Raesidae as a very young man. I cooked with one of the caravans, and I met Ahlo and Rue. They were just boys, then. One night they came to my cook fire. We were alone, the rest of the caravan slumbering around us. They told me. I don¡¯t know why. Perhaps they trusted me. They had helped me throughout the day, fetching water, chopping herbs. They told me how they came through one of the lace holes. Years ago. They were boys, and they¡¯d been playing in caves beside the ocean, and got lost, and came here.¡±


    ¡°The ocean? But that¡¯s¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s hundreds of miles away. They don¡¯t know how long they were wandering in the darkness. But they weren¡¯t thirsty when they emerged. And they weren¡¯t starving.¡±


    She craned her neck and could see the lace holes on the Enriegho¡¯s cliff through the opening in the side of the wagon. She noticed that the man Farahzin was sitting at a nearby table, watching her, his head slightly bent, as if he had been listening. His stubble had grown more lush throughout the day and sprouted high on his cheeks, as if he were a boar. ¡°But Aizdha and I explored those holes,¡± she said. ¡°The longest tunnel only goes on for five thousand steps or so. Maybe eight thousand at most. There are branching tunnels, but they all connect.¡±


    ¡°I have¡­¡± Cloedeya began, and then stopped. He ate another dumpling and looked at her shyly. ¡°I met a man once. A speculative gentlemen. I suspect that he was a scholar from Libreigia. He asked me why I thought that we were the only ones who ever came into this world. What if other doors have opened at other times? What if other doors are opening now?¡±


    ¡°Doors to other worlds?¡±


    ¡°Or doors through this world. Rue and Ahlo might have come from some other world. But I think they came from this one. After I left here I went east, traveling across the mountains with a series of caravans. I made it all the way to the ocean. The cliffs at Doelenara might be the cliffs that they described to me. And the people there told me a legend. Of two boys who went into the caves and found their way back to the Previous World.¡±


    Manrie stared at him. ¡°But if you found where they came from, why didn¡¯t you take them back there?¡±


    ¡°Because it was a legend. The two boys, if they existed, disappeared more than a hundred years ago.¡±


    A wave of sadness washed over her, and Cloedeya, seeing it, leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. ¡°It is why I must feed Ahlo, too. If Rue isn¡¯t dead, if Macbrau told the truth, then his brother will never return. He is lost somewhere. In this world. In another world. In another time. Ahlo will never see him again.¡±


    ¡°But why didn¡¯t Rue take him along?¡±


    Cloedeya¡¯s face clouded. The sun was setting outside. The figures at the tables were mere shadows. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Rue was always the clever one, the industrious one. Ahlo only wanted to delve in the caves. And yet, a few years ago, they switched places. Rue became obsessed with the caves, and they had words. Ahlo knew that one of them had to maintain their authority in the valley. Had to deal with the caravans and recruit miners. All of the things that Rue was good at. Ahlo floundered. He allowed the Butcher of Hareramanda to join his company, after all.¡±


    ¡°Why did he do that?¡±


    ¡°They were old friends. Laenrid came here when he was just a boy himself. He learned from Ahlo. That¡¯s how he found his own claim, further to the east.¡±


    ¡°And Ahlo didn¡¯t care that he had murdered an entire village?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if Ahlo believed it. Macbrau was always spreading lies about the Enrieghos. Trying to damage their reputation. Perhaps Ahlo thought that the story of the butchery was a lie as well.¡±


    Manrie ate another dumpling. ¡°Have you known who Praeda was this whole time?¡±


    ¡°No. I refuse to be curious. I know nothing that someone hasn¡¯t told me themselves.¡± He plopped another dumpling into his mouth and smiled. ¡°Come. If you¡¯ve rested enough, you can help me make a wonderful pancake. I make the batter from milled corn and fragile onions, and the pancake tastes like a harvest moon.¡±


    Praeda woke as Manrie was stepping out of the wagon, so she turned back and gathered the little girl in her arms. She set her down in the street, which had been filled with tables, brought from the tavern and tea house and the shanty homes that made up the town. Men and women sat at the tables, the townspeople and the Enrieghos people sitting together. She turned to look towards Macbrau¡¯s compound, and her eyes met the gaze of the man Farahzin. He quickly looked away. There was an expression of pain and shock on his face. A scar left by the ambush, she thought. An expression he would wear for the rest of his life.


    Melsa came by and took Praeda away with her, but Manrie didn¡¯t go immediately to help Cloedeya with the pancake. Instead she perched on the edge of the wagon and pulled her saddle bag to her. The jar of pickled cabbage was still there, and the bestiary, and the two strange discs. She opened the bestiary at random and found herself looking down at the picture she had drawn of the strange carapace found in the Gaendolin Hills. The last picture she had drawn before fleeing Libreigia. There was the Lady Daturi, drawn beside the carapace to show scale. And Manrie¡¯s notes, neatly written beside this image. The tunnel that the carapace had been found in had been strangely marked. As if the giant insect had inscribed it with its odd and superfluous nineteenth leg.


    She was leaning closer to study the minute details of her drawing when there was a commotion all about her. Glancing up, she saw that the crowd had divided its attention, heads turning to the north and the south. She looked towards Macbrau¡¯s compound, expecting that it was Ahlo, returning from his search. There were wavering forms on the ridge path. The dusky blue of the crepuscular sky made them indistinct, a ripple of mist moving down into the valley. She turned her head and saw that shapes were coming down the cliff above the Enriegho¡¯s house as well. Spirits. And the first thing she thought of was Praeda¡¯s blindfold.


    The people were scattering, running into the houses. Cloedeya, standing over his little grill, had just turned the pancake and was straightening up, contented with the results of his concentration. Then he saw that the street was abandoned, and looked around in confusion, and met Manrie¡¯s gaze. Uku came around the side of the wagon, carrying Praeda, who had buried her face in his chest. He was followed by Melsa and Big Praeda. Tafaemi pushed past the others, and pushed Manrie aside, and vaulted into the wagon, giving a little cry of terror. She threw herself down onto the pillows and pressed her face to the wagon wall, her back to the opening.


    ¡°Get in, Manrie,¡± Melsa said.


    ¡°But the spirits don¡¯t walk abroad in Tzurfaera. And we¡¯ve seen them before. They¡¯ve never hurt us.¡±


    ¡°Something has happened,¡± Melsa insisted. ¡°Ahlo did something.¡±


    Manrie looked at Cloedeya. He refused to panic. He took his pan off of the grill and slid the pancake onto a plate, which he carried to her. Taeyaho appeared at the end of the street, just as the first of the ghosts reached the Enriegho gate. They seemed to be following him. But he was walking quickly, frightened by them, or as if he needed to fetch something. He came up to Cloedeya and took the plated pancake. ¡°We must cook for them. All of them.¡±


    ¡°We have tried,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°The spirits won¡¯t eat.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re coming to us. We must make them welcome.¡±


    Cloedeya nodded, and glanced at his friends. ¡°Give Little Praeda to Tafaemi. Close the side of the wagon. There is no reason for them to be frightened.¡±


    Uku was looking to the south, towards the corner where the road met the street. Figures and come around it, and were joining the mass of Enriegho dead. ¡°Aestahana?¡± he said softly.


    A small woman, a shade whom Manrie had seen many times before, her back bent from labor. Her face bore no expression as she came to a stop a few yards from them. All of the ghosts had filled the street, but none came closer than Uku¡¯s sister.


    ¡°I see Old Riman,¡± Cloedeya said softly. ¡°And both of Macbrau¡¯s dead daughters. And there is Joenhri, who sang so sweetly. He always loved my honey cakes. Melsa, we still have that honey we procured in Gatizar, don¡¯t we?¡±


    But Manrie was looking down into her saddle bag. The two discs had begun to glow, as they had in the Man on the Mountain¡¯s house. A shifting pattern of blue and yellow. Her hand touched the bestiary, and she paused, wondering. She looked up and found Aizdha, standing among the spirits. His hands were crossed in front of his plump belly. His expression was wistful, as he sometimes was at evening time, and particularly in summer. ¡°Not the bestiary,¡± she murmured to herself. ¡°I had the bestiary when I left Libreigia, and I didn¡¯t see you until I got to that house.¡±


    She picked up one of the plates, and felt a sharpening of attention on the spectral faces. ¡°Uku,¡± she whispered, ¡°I think I can take them back. To the tunnels. I think I can make them stay there.¡±


    ¡°She was never in a tunnel,¡± he said. ¡°A barrow. A grave. Her body was left to rot by the well.¡±


    ¡°I should take her to Macbrau¡¯s, then. Not the Enrieghos. Not the place where her killer was hiding.¡±


    ¡°Not to Hareramanda? She can¡¯t go home? ¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I only have two discs. What if I need one for each side of the valley? I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°May I walk with her?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Of course.¡±


    Manrie glanced at her friends. Melsa and Cloedeya were digging in the pantry wagon. Taeyaho was trying to offer the pancake to the ghosts. Big Praeda had been listening to her talk to Uku. She stepped forward and embraced Manrie. She smelled of sweat and rosemary and fear.


    Manrie set the saddle bag down in the dirt. She placed one hand on the side of the sleeping wagon and whispered, ¡°Be good, Praeda. Be good. I¡¯ll try to come back for you.¡± In the other hand she clutched the two discs. She stepped forward and turned to the left, and began to make her way along the ramshackle street.


    The spirits followed. Uku fell away from her, and she looked back to see him keeping pace with the ghost of his sister. His robes seemed bleached, like her own. She walked to gate where she had first met him, and felt a hysterical laugh rise up from within her as she said ¡°Gate, door, portal.¡± Past the shanties and to the akimbo hitching post, and up the narrow path.


    The door to the first lace hole was standing open. There was a dim glimmer from the platform, where the last embers of the fire struggled to breathe. She passed it, passed the dismantled beds and thrown aside blankets. The spirits filled the cavern with a blue glow. As if they were the reflection of rippling water. The door to the tunnel was standing open.


    ¡°Manrie,¡± Uku said, as she was about to step through it, ¡°all of the spirits have followed you here. They make no distinction. Laenrid walks among them.¡±


    She turned and looked at the crowd of faces that filled the cavern. She felt a deep expectancy, and a deep sadness. She found her master¡¯s face. He stared back at her with scholarly interest.


    ¡°Aizdha,¡± she whispered. ¡°Will you rest here? Are you content?¡±


    He gave her no answer. It was familiar. As if he had set a problem for her, and would not shift the blankness of his expression to give her some clue to its solution. But she knew the solution. Why couldn¡¯t they all rest together? Those who loved each other. Those who hated each other. Why couldn¡¯t they all be united in death?


    She turned and stepped into the tunnel. She felt breathless, and light, and she moved forward through the deep darkness, feeling as if she had been struck, as if she were suspended in the moment of shock before her body crumpled to the ground. Step after step, and the light of the spirits dimmed, but she could feel them with her, feel their breath on the back of her neck. The tunnel seemed wide, as if it were a cave. Her footsteps echoed all around her. It did not resemble the lace hole that she and Aizdha had once explored on the other side of the valley. She half expected to hear the shuffling of an enormous insect, and feel the prickle of many legs seize her out of the darkness.


    She stopped and stood for a moment, breathing shallowly. All was dark, such a deep darkness that she didn¡¯t think she could emerge from it. She squatted and placed a hand against the ground, and felt the reassurance of uneven rock. She set the disc down and removed her hands from it, and knew that she wouldn¡¯t be able to find it again in the darkness. So she stood, and turned around, intending to go back the way she had come.


    Only, after she had taken a few steps, she felt disorientated. She might have only made a half turn, she might be angling off into some deep recess of the cave. Her pulse began to pound in her ears. Maybe she was to be lost here forever. She thought of Little Praeda, cowering in the wagon. She thought of Taeyaho, with his ridiculous plate of pancakes. She wanted to weep. She wanted them to be all right, to be happy, to walk through a world without death or spirits.


    Then she heard a voice. It was singing. It came from in front of her, slightly to her left. She turned towards it and walked, and then ran. The voice became stronger. A high, piercing melody. Each note as clear and kind as sunlight on water. She saw a flickering light, and then the entrance of the tunnel, and there was Taeyaho, framed in the doorway, singing.


    She fell into his arms, and he caught her. He pulled her back into the room, and Uku closed the door. There were torches, and flame wavering across the faces of her friends. Cloedeya was there, and he immediately held a plate to her, and she tasted the cake, and it tasted like the harvest moon. Melsa gave her an awkward embrace, and Big Praeda held her for a long moment, and cried softly into her hair.


    There were others there. Ahlo stood by the ruin of the beds, and Liezhae stood beside him, holding her baby. And the boy, Malekeisae, kicked at the bed clothes with a disinterested foot. ¡°How?¡± she asked, looking at them.


    ¡°They came out after you went in,¡± Uku said. ¡°Emerged. Resurfaced.¡±


    ¡°Why is it light outside?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s dawn,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°You were gone for hours.¡±


    She blinked tears from her eyes. ¡°Taeyaho, did you sing all night?¡±


    ¡°He did,¡± Melsa said. ¡°He sang and sang.¡±


    ¡°And did they all go in? All of the dead?¡±


    ¡°They did, Manrie. But Taeyaho said that you wouldn¡¯t stay with them. He insisted that you would come back.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Praeda?¡±


    ¡°Where we left her. Asleep in the wagon.¡±


    ¡°And Ahlo? And Liezhae? What happens now?¡±


    ¡°Now?¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°Now Ahlo will rule the valley. Or Liezhae will. None of them have spoken. Not even the boy. And the baby has been silent, although he breathes, and nurses.¡±


    ¡°And Rue? He wasn¡¯t in the tunnel, was he?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Cloedeya told her. ¡°No. He is gone. Maybe someday a door will open here again, and Ahlo can walk through it. Or maybe you opened a door last night, and now we have shut it forever.¡±

 Within the Cocoon of Sand

    They were two days out of Tzurfaera, winding their way northwest towards Raesidae, when the wind rose and lifted the tops of the hills and sent them howling through the narrow wadis. Cloedeya stopped the wagons and turned them to block the wind, and he and Taeyaho struggled to pull the cloth screen across the space between them, providing a meager roof. They brought the horses and the milk cow into this shelter, and the stood between their legs, bleating unhappily. The chickens were brooding securely in their coop. Melsa and Big Praeda and Manrie went up and down the ladders to the wagon roofs, carrying the potted herbs and vegetables to safety. Then the people of the caravan climbed into the wagons and shut the doors.


    Uku was with them, and Tafaemi. Uku because he was wanted, and Tafaemi because Cloedeya was kind. For two days they sheltered within the wagons, only going out to check the animals and relieve themselves, or to switch wagons, so that no one had to endure Tafaemi for very long. Melsa couldn¡¯t stand her, and could not hide her resentment when she was made to shift back into the sleeping wagon, which Tafaemi never moved from. But Cloedeya eased the tempers of the others by telling stories and inviting their own stories, and the time passed.


    ¡°Being from the Library in Libreigia, you must know all about the Horse of Ibimendi. Perhaps you have an entry for it in your book?¡±


    Manrie was seated with her back to the wall that faced the storm, and she could feel the grit striking the boards. Little Praeda was in her lap, playing with an onion doll. The smell of onion drifted upwards, and Tafaemi was pinching her nose against it, while, at the same time, trying to get the little girl¡¯s attention. She had become enamored with Praeda, and was always trying to hug and pet her. Praeda would have none of it. She fled into Manrie or Uku¡¯s arms whenever Tafaemi came close, but Uku was rarely in the sleeping wagon, so it was mostly Manrie that she clung to. Uku was spending the days filling half of the pantry wagon with his enormous body, curling himself up tightly, to try to make room for the others to sit and work. Perhaps he had tried to make himself small in similar ways, when he was growing too large to serve in the library anymore.


    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Manrie said in reply to Cloedeya¡¯s question.


    ¡°Nor should you,¡± he said. ¡°The Horse wasn¡¯t a monster. It was a horse, like our two unfortunate draft horses, who are being so patient during this storm.¡±


    ¡°We should bring them inside,¡± Little Praeda said.


    ¡°Silly girl!¡± Tafaemi squealed, trying to tease her. ¡°Then *we* couldn¡¯t fit!¡±


    Cloedeya ignored them and went doggedly on. ¡°The story goes that Lehtahnbin found the horse, a few years after we came through the Door at Hasra. It was the first creature of this world that was kind to us. It was grazing along the Dihtusahlobo River when Lehtahnbin went there to fish. There are many stories of Lehtahnbin. He is said to have fed our ancestors throughout our first years in the land, as he was adept with snares and traps and spear fishing. There were many dangers then as now, and at first many of the fish he caught and much of the game he trapped was poisonous. Do you know, Little Praeda, that our hair was very drab when we came through the Door? Now it glitters like precious metals, and this is because of the food that the land provided. Only many died from eating during those first years, but never Lehtahnbin. His stomach was very strong, and it is good that he had many children.¡±


    Manrie couldn¡¯t help interjecting. ¡°It is a popular story, but the Archivist of the Second Tower says that it isn¡¯t true.¡±


    Cloedeya laughed. ¡°Scholars always argue with the truth of anything. They are great fabricators and story-tellers, and the stories they tell always make them and the people of their own time seem like the wisest and cleverest people who have ever lived.¡±


    ¡°Some of them are very honest,¡± Manrie objected, and Cloedeya saw that he had offended her.


    ¡°Some are,¡± he agreed. ¡°But even our curiosity can be warped by our need. Never mind. Lehtahnbin found the horse, or maybe it found him. He was already far from Hasra, and he was alone, but he followed the horse when it set off to the south. It went slowly, and often looked back at him, to make sure that he was following it. When sleep overtook him, it waited patiently a few steps away. When hunger found him, it led him to apple trees and mushroom patches and wild onions. He followed it for many days. It was teaching him how to eat in the land, and he remembered everything. They say that in the Previous World, some creatures do not eat meat, but every horse I know has enjoyed a fish or a rabbit from time to time. Lehtahnbin hunted for the horse, and when he caught some strange creature he would know if it was safe to eat if the horse ate it.


    ¡°They were friends for many years. Eventually the horse came north and led Lehtahnbin back to Hasra. His friends rejoiced to see him, for they thought that he had died and left them with his many children to feed. In truth, few of his friends were still alive, as the monsters had killed many, and many had been starved or poisoned. But he taught them what the horse had taught him, and people began to thrive in the land. He stayed only as long as the horse stayed, and then he followed it south again. When he returned years later, he told the growing colony that the horse had died at a gap in the mountains. It had lain down on a hillside and looked at him for a long time as it died, and he had sat and stared into its mournful eyes, and fed it little pieces of a sweet crow that he had trapped, and kissed it when the last breath left its body. He put a marker there, and when his descendants came to the mountain pass they found it standing among a grove of fruiting aspen trees, which is still there. The Grove of Ibimendi. Have you seen it?¡±


    ¡°We went there once,¡± Manrie said.


    ¡°So did we,¡± Cloedeya continued, after waiting a moment for her to tell the story. ¡°We were allowed to pick some of the fruit, which is, of course, not fruit at all, but the chrysalis of the mountain butterfly, which returns again and again to the grove to build a new cocoon and emerge with different wings. The tenders of the grove told us that only one kind of chrysalis is safe to eat, and that we had arrived at a fortunate time, as this delicacy, known as the oyakhuna, had just been found dangling from a high branch. Usually it is reserved for the Matriarch of Ibimendi, but that good lady suffers from dyspepsia, and was very grateful for a broth that we made her, which eased her symptoms. She rewarded us with the chrysalis. We still have it. We grate some of the fibers from the cocoon into our most delicate soups, and only rarely. The butterfly inside it will never emerge. Like the Horse of Ibimendi, it seems content to let us eat.¡±


    Little Praeda was looking at her doll with suspicion, as if afraid that the onion bulb it had for a head would break open, and an insect would emerge. Tafaemi opened her silly mouth to prattle about something, but Manrie forestalled her. ¡°I think I¡¯ve seen it. In that yellow sack that hangs beside the dried fish.¡± Cloedeya nodded, but something in his expression made her wish she hadn¡¯t said it. Was he afraid that Tafaemi might try to steal it, now that she knew its value. To cover her mistake, Manrie asked, ¡°What is that bat in the brown sack that hangs beside it? The one with four wings?¡±


    Cloedeya and Melsa exchanged a look. ¡°It is two bats, actually,¡± Melsa said.


    A drawing from the bestiary flashed across Manrie¡¯s mind. ¡°Not the okubrahchi?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s an okubratti?¡± Little Praeda asked.


    ¡°Okubrahchi. It¡¯s a bat that mates for life. If you eat it,¡± she found herself blushing and finished lamely, ¡°well, you¡¯ll be in love.¡±


    ¡°Or more in love,¡± Cloedeya said softly, looking at Melsa.


    Melsa cleared her throat. ¡°We went west after Ibimendi,¡± she said, changing the subject. ¡°Do you remember, Cloedeya? How we followed that mountain butterfly through the pass, and it never once made a cocoon to change its shape?¡±


    ¡°It led us through the Sand Hills,¡± Cloedeya agreed, smiling.


    ¡°Yes, and then it disappeared, but you kept claiming that you saw it, flitting off to the west. All because you wanted to see what was beyond the plains.¡±


    ¡°Well, it was worth it, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but all those days of eating antelope and agorabehn. And you insisted we try the grass lizards, and the locusts, and the breathing wheat. We didn¡¯t have the Horse of Ibimendi with us. We could have died.¡±


    ¡°We had Big Praeda with us, and she makes everything sweet.¡±


    Big Praeda was in the pantry wagon, no doubt napping or listening to the storm or talking with Uku. Perhaps they were making lunch. Manrie was getting hungry. Tafaemi was staring at her, a naked, hungry look that seemed very close to anguish. An embarrassing look. Manrie wished that she hadn¡¯t mentioned the okubrahchi.


    Melsa made her particular gesture with her wide shoulders, swinging them back and forth as if she wanted to fan the story into life. ¡°Do you remember the man we met? He was coming from the west. He had that wide hat.¡±


    ¡°He was a strange one,¡± Cloedeya agreed. ¡°He ate all of our potatoes. Ate them raw. He wouldn¡¯t let me cook them.¡±


    ¡°And he was leading that turtle on a leash. He claimed that the turtle nursed him, that he survived on its milk. I didn¡¯t think that turtles gave milk, but this one did. From dugs on the side of its eyes. So that it could stare at its young as they fed, he said.¡±


    ¡°I remember that the milk was very bitter and made you throw up. Even Big Praeda couldn¡¯t sweeten it. I doubt that it was really milk. More a poison to be sprayed in a predator¡¯s face.¡±


    Melsa shivered. ¡°I still say that he was in love with that beast. It was unnatural, the way he cooed over it and petted it.¡±


    Tafaemi, who had been reaching across to stroke Praeda¡¯s hair, arrested the motion of her hand. Instead she felt at her face with the tips of her fingers, as if assuring herself that it was still there. She pinched the skin beside her eyes, seemingly worried that she might have sprouted nipples on her brow.


    ¡°After that we met Taeyaho,¡± Cloedeya said.


    ¡°Really?¡± Manrie asked, surprised.


    ¡°Really. He was all alone, wandering through the grasses. He was naked when we met him.¡±


    ¡°But where did he come from?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s never said. We weren¡¯t even sure that he could speak, at first. But then he started singing.¡±


    Manrie frowned. ¡°Like he sang in Tzurfaera?¡±


    Cloedeya measured her with a look. ¡°That was a new song. He¡¯s very good at making up songs.¡±


    ¡°Cloedeya,¡± Manrie said. ¡°I still have one disc.¡±


    ¡°When we get to Raesidae,¡± he told her.


    ¡°But if it works, we need to go east. Back to the Man on the Mountain. He has stacks and stacks of them.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know if it was the lace hole. If the discs need a lace hole.¡±


    ¡°We could sell them for a great fortune,¡± Tafaemi said.


    ¡°No, we couldn¡¯t,¡± Cloedeya told her.


    Melsa continued her story, to cover the awkwardness that followed this exchange. ¡°We would have just kept going west, if we hadn¡¯t come to the bank of the great river.¡±


    ¡°What river?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°Far to the west, there is a river that you can¡¯t see across. You might think it was an ocean, or a lake, if not for the rush of the water. It tumbles down and roars over rocks, only Cloedeya said that they must be mountains. Mountains beneath the river. It is so loud that at first we couldn¡¯t hear each other. We had to shout and shout. And then, somehow, we learned to hear above it.¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    ¡°There were flat turtles that rode the current,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°Not like the turtle that followed the man in the hat. Their meat was so flavorful that it made all the other flavors on the plate seem dull and uninteresting. They could only be eaten by themselves.¡±


    ¡°And there were birds that flew across, from the unseen bank. When we cooked them, they tasted like honey and cinnamon.¡±


    ¡°And there were the stones that crawled. When we heated them in a fire and spread dough across them, the dough bubbled into geometric patterns. Beautiful to look at it, but it tasted like rotting fish.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s where we met the crone and the little girl.¡±


    ¡°Little girl?¡± Praeda asked.


    ¡°Older than you,¡± Melsa told her. ¡°Both the old woman and the girl shared a name. What was it, Cloedeya?¡±


    ¡°Bihazaila. They claimed to have come from the other side of the river. When we expressed doubt that anyone could cross it, they said that people could in their own time. We asked what time they came from, and they said that at some future moment people will cross the river, and there will be colonies there. That first there will be great empires that will rise and fall, and a time of pestilence, and times of famine. That there will be wars and revolts, and much misery. But people will survive. We will cross that river.¡±


    ¡°Did they come through a lace hole?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°No,¡± Cloedeya told her. ¡°They had hourglasses. Each of them. And they showed us the boat they had come on, and it had hooks for the hourglasses on the prow and stern. They stayed with us one evening, and ate what we cooked for them, and then, as the fire was dying down, they turned their hourglasses over and disappeared.¡±


    ¡°Taeyaho made a song for them,¡± Melsa said, ¡°but I doubt he remembers it. He never remembers his songs.¡±


    ¡°Where is Taeyaho?¡±


    Cloedeya looked around, as if surprised that the boy wasn¡¯t with them. ¡°He¡¯s probably out in the storm. Don¡¯t worry,¡± he said, when Manrie tensed with alarm. ¡°He often goes out in the storms. He finds dens and caves to hide in. He loves us, but he cannot stand these close quarters for very long.¡±


    Tafaemi simpered. ¡°He always seems quite content in my arms.¡±


    ¡°You are the mother he never had,¡± Melsa said acidly.


    ¡°I¡¯m not old enough to be his mother,¡± Tafaemi told her, and Melsa snorted.


    ¡°Cloedeya?¡± Manrie asked. ¡°How did you know that. About what our hair was like, in the Previous World?¡±


    He frowned, trying to remember. ¡°I think that the man with the turtle told us. Yes, that¡¯s right. As he was eating all of our potatoes. He said that they would make his copper hair verdigris. Apparently he desired that. It must be why I thought of it, just now.¡±


    ¡°He was not the strangest person we¡¯ve ever met,¡± Melsa said.


    ¡°No?¡± Cloedeya asked. ¡°Who was stranger?¡±


    Melsa thought, swinging her shoulders back and forth. ¡°The man in the peach grove?¡±


    Cloedeya chuckled. ¡°Yes. He was strange. He claimed that the witch had cursed him seventeen times, and that every day he had to live with a different curse, round and round in a cycle, starting all over again on the eighteenth day. Mostly the curses had to do with the peaches.¡±


    Melsa was smiling again. For some reason this story brought the shy quiver back into her voice. ¡°One day he had to mash the peaches and cover his chest with the pulp. And then the next day he had to count his collection of peach pits all day long. And on another day he had to stay up in the trees, and couldn¡¯t let his feet touch the ground.¡±


    ¡°A terrible life,¡± Tafaemi said with relish.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Cloedeya said, ¡°but I came to doubt that he was cursed at all.¡±


    ¡°Why wasn¡¯t he cursed?¡± Little Praeda asked.


    ¡°The witch may be real. But I¡¯ve never seen her. And I¡¯ve met many people who say that she¡¯s cursed them, as an excuse for their bad behavior. There was that man who went about pinching everyone. And all the people in his village tolerated it, because they said he was cursed. But you could see the delight in his malicious little eyes. His ¡®curse¡¯ was his excuse for doing whatever he wanted to do.¡±


    Cloedeya was looking across at Tafaemi as he said this, and Manrie watched her face flush with outrage. She might have said something if the wind hadn¡¯t picked up at that moment and sent a blast of sand rattling against the wagon wall. *Cloedeya would never make her go out in the storm,* Manrie thought, *but she thinks that he would.* She felt a strange pity for Tafaemi in that moment, and remembered her saying that no one ever loved her in the way that she wanted to be loved. Her own son had been happy to see her go, or at least had declined to come with her. Her beauty could not protect her from abandonment and loneliness.


    Manrie shifted Little Preada off of her lap. ¡°I have to answer a call of nature,¡± she said.


    Cloedeya cradled Praeda and began to tell another story, illustrating it with small images made by twisting the hairs on the onion doll. Manrie slid the side of the wagon open just wide enough to roll under it, but even so Tafaemi gave a shriek of protest as sand and grit blew in. Manrie pulled the door shut behind her and fumbled for her neck cloth, pulling it up over her mouth and nose. She shaded her eyes with a protective hand and tried to look into the storm. Skirls of sand twisted up from the hills and spun through the air. But the storm seemed to be lessening, after that last great gust. She pulled up her robes and squatted and felt the sharp prick of blown debris against her ankles as she urinated.


    A figure moved along a ridge to the northeast, and the stream of her urine cut off abruptly. A figure on a horse, with an oddly shaped head. A muslin wrapped head. It seemed to look at her, indifferent to the slicing sand. Then it turned the horse and disappeared over the ridge.


    She pushed out the last flow of urine and stood quickly, turning.She saw that Uku was facing her on the other side of the animals, standing in the opposite gap between the wagons, his large body creating a windbreak for the cow and horses. The wind from the south was incredibly fierce. It moved up the back of his body and lifted his hair. She hesitated, then wound her way between the horses in the tunnel of calm air that he was creating.


    She came up to him and shouted ¡°Did you see her?¡±


    ¡°See who?¡±


    ¡°Raeflin! The Bounty Hunter!¡± the storm seemed to snatch her words away and sent them skirling over the hills.


    ¡°I closed my eyes. To give you privacy. Repose. Ease.¡± His low voice was barely audible amid the scratch and tumble of the wind.


    ¡°How long have you been out here?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I came out to relieve myself, and became frightened for the animals. The beasts. The menagerie.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯ve just been standing here, saying words to yourself?¡±


    He gave a wincing grin. ¡°It passes the time.¡±


    She found herself stepping closer to him and placing her head against the top of his stomach. He was surprisingly warm, and smelled of the wind, and like a different kind of dust, the kind that collected on books and scrolls. Did people carry the scent of the past with them throughout their lives? Did she smell of ink and lairs and snared rabbits?


    ¡°Why is she following us?¡± she asked into his billowing robes.


    He was silent for a minute, then said, ¡°I only met her once. When Laenrid came to the gate. She named him for me. So that I would go and try to kill him.¡±


    ¡°Yes. She makes other people do things for her.¡±


    ¡°Then she must want us to go and do something for her. One of us,¡± he said.


    She moved her face so that she could kiss his stomach through his robes. She didn¡¯t know why she did so. He didn¡¯t seem to notice. Perhaps the grit pummeling his back distracted him from all other sensations. ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± she said. ¡°I won¡¯t do what she wants me to do. I¡¯m not her slave.¡±


    A shiver crossed the massive body. ¡°I am not a slave either. A man who said that slavery was wrong still owned me for seven months. He then sold me to the tanning yards, to ease his conscience.¡±


    She placed her ear against his stomach and could hear the rattle of stones against his back. ¡°My master was kind,¡± she said. He made no response. She lifted her head and looked up at him. His eyes were closed. ¡°Won¡¯t you come inside? I could turn the horses, so that their faces will be protected.¡±


    ¡°The wind is dying, the storm will end soon.¡±


    She darted her face forward and kissed his belly again. ¡°I¡¯ll bring you food.¡±


    ¡°I must hold my hands to the sides of the wagons.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll feed you.¡±


    Big Praeda was mincing ham in the pantry wagon. She lifted a large platter to shield it from the wind as Manrie came in. Her bluish lips quirked into a smile. ¡°Have you and Uku changed places? I didn¡¯t think he could fit in the sleeping wagon, with everyone else.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s creating a wind break for the horses.¡±


    Big Praeda frowned. ¡°Creating it how?¡±


    ¡°With his body.¡±


    The older woman considered, then nodded. ¡°He wants punishment.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For not being there to protect his people.¡±


    ¡°But how could he have been? He was enslaved.¡±


    ¡°Many people blame themselves for their distress. It is easier than saying plainly that there are things that are outside of our control. Fetch the little pot of mustard, please. And that stale bread. We can crumb it and make a salad. Pluck some parsley. And cut some celery.¡±


    Manrie moved among the pots carefully, stepping gingerly so as not to knock them over. When she brought the round loaf of stale bread to Big Praeda, she said, ¡°I wasn¡¯t born a slave, you know.¡±


    The older woman glanced up at her. The blue lips fell into a placid smile, inviting her confidences. A large boil had burst high on her cheek, and the healing skin was greenish-gray in the shadows of the wagon. On the other side of the far wall, the chickens rustled in their coop, barely audible above the kick of stone and sand against the wagon.


    ¡°We were clients of one of the first families in Akahvihl,¡± Manrie said. ¡°Good clients. My father was a miller. Which is why the bandits killed him, when the famine had been going on for two years. People always thought that a miller must have bread, even though they knew that there was no grain for him to mill. The bandits killed him, and my brothers, and they raped my mother.¡±


    Big Praeda¡¯s chapped hands never stopped mincing the ham. ¡°How old were you?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I was five. Haerzarin Ahntal said that we should join him. Everyone was leaving, and our patrons were dead. The Ahntals took our clientage, more out of charity than anything else, and they led us with the rest of our people from the town. We were part of the great migration, the starving people who went west. After a few days we joined a caravan. Only it was a caravan with no trade goods. Just people who could barely walk, who shared what little food they had as generously as they could. The bandits would come and kill some of us, but they knew that we had nothing, and they mostly left us alone. Aizdha was traveling with that caravan. He had gotten so thin that I didn¡¯t know that he was really a fat man. He had gone east, with many other scholars, searching for the cause of the famine. He showed me pictures of blight flies and worm locusts that he had drawn in the bestiary. It was the first time I ever saw it. The bestiary, I mean. He was impressed that I could read. I became his assistant, and my mother would watch us. I don¡¯t think she intended to protect me, if he showed himself to be a bad man. I think that she was only wondering what she could get out of it.


    ¡°When we reached Libreigia, she came to him and asked him to buy me from her. He said that he would take me as an apprentice, but she insisted that I should be his slave. Then he said that he would take us both in, that we could live with him. But she refused this, as well. I think that she hated me, because I had lived, and was a little child, and found ways to be happy when everyone else was very sad. She wanted me to be a slave.¡±


    ¡°And yet you took her name. When you first joined us,¡± Big Praeda said.


    Manrie found herself blushing. Her hands worked at the bread, scraping crumbs into a bowl. ¡°I couldn¡¯t think of another woman¡¯s name.¡±


    ¡°Where is she now?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s dead. She threw herself from the walls when I was nine years old. She had become a prostitute, and was often abused. But she would come, sometimes, to stare up at Aizdha¡¯s room. He would take food down to her, but she wouldn¡¯t eat it.¡± The metal rasp scraped against the hard loaf. ¡°I was glad when she died.¡±


    Big Praeda held out a hand and Manrie gave her the bowl of crumbs. ¡°It is why I don¡¯t stay in the sleeping wagon, when they¡¯re telling stories,¡± the older woman said. ¡°It makes me think of my own stories. I will not remember them.¡±


    ¡°You can choose not to remember?¡±


    ¡°Like I can choose my own name.¡±


    ¡°But aren¡¯t you afraid that it will return to you? The past?¡±


    ¡°That is what a story is. The return of the past.¡± She began to mix the ham and the mustard and the herbs she had torn into the bowl of crumbs. She broke an egg into the mixture.


    ¡°Cloedeya and Melsa were telling stories about the caravan. About your travels.¡±


    The bluish lips twisted in a small smile. ¡°Those are the stories I like. But I won¡¯t tell them. No habit of storytelling for me. Here, this is done. You can take it across. I am going to slice some tomatoes and cucumbers for another salad. Come back to get the bowls and spoons. And, Manrie, cover it before you go out.¡±


    Manrie tied a cloth over the bowl, but made sure that it was loose. Outside the storm was, indeed, dying down. Uku raised his head to her. ¡°Victuals,¡± he said. ¡°Provender, sustenance, nourishment.¡±


    She had forgotten a spoon. She fed him with her fingers, feeling the touch of his warm lips against her skin. He looked into her eyes as she did so, and she felt a flush come over her body. She could imagine the wind dying, and his large hands slipping from the sides of the wagons to clasp her. To distract herself, she thought of the bestiary. And wondered if she were creating the wrong book. Perhaps she should be recording the stories of the dead. She was not like Big Praeda. She could not tolerate the idea of stories being lost or forgotten. Even her mother¡¯s story. She had hated her mother, but now she wished that she knew some story about her. About her youth, or her marriage, or what she was like as a young mother. All she knew was the great sadness that had afflicted that strange and distant woman. Perhaps she couldn¡¯t avoid adding people to Aizdha¡¯s book. Her book. Who else did it belong to, now?


    Uku nodded at the bowl. ¡°The others must eat.¡± Manrie was surprised to see how much of its contents had gone.


    ¡°Big Praeda is making more. I¡¯ll bring you more.¡±


    He nodded, but in that moment a ray of sunlight fell across his head. Manrie glanced up and saw a patch of clear sky. The storm was moving off.

 In the House of the Newly Weds

    The house seemed to take the scoured night and embed it in the mortar of its tall, sloping walls. A new moon had risen into the sky above the lake, and the house seemed opposed to it, denying the thin scrape of its light. The house loomed over the scattering of hovels that lined the road, and as the wagons came up to it Manrie could hear an unnatural booming beneath the pavement, as if something in the ground was heaving itself against a cage.


    ¡°It¡¯s the water in the caves,¡± Big Praeda said, noticing Manrie¡¯s alarm. She was holding her namesake, the little girl half asleep, half looking at the outskirts of Raesidae with drooping eyes. No one was abroad in the night. The doors and windows were shut tight.


    The wall of the pantry wagon was open, and they were perched in the opening, dangling their legs over the edge as the wagon jolted along. Behind them, Uku sat in a cleared space, his big hands steading the pots and boxes, moving between objects and seeming to know which would be upset next. As they came even with the house, Taeyaho began to sing from the roof of the sleeping wagon, his voice high and bright. Manrie felt her shoulders loosen a little. It was as if his song were creating a ward against the malevolence of the looming mansion.


    The road ran right through the house¡¯s covered portico. There were six rounded doors set in the wall, and all of them were open. Manrie could see the glint of water in the courtyard beyond. But there were no people about. ¡°Whose house is it?¡± she whispered.


    ¡°The Jahnajeel,¡± Big Praeda told her. ¡°The most cursed of the four cursed families.¡±


    ¡°Cursed in what way?¡±


    ¡°It depends. Each member is born into their own curse. But in some of the other families, people are born without any curse at all.¡±


    ¡°Cloedeya doesn¡¯t believe in the curses.¡±


    Big Praeda pursed her bluish lips. ¡°That¡¯s because Hirikai Ehwaeya is unable to savor his food. Because of the curse. But Cloedeya won¡¯t accept it.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°The patriarch of one of the other families.¡± Big Praeda gave her a sidelong glance. ¡°You¡¯ve never been to Raesidae?¡±


    Manrie shook her head. ¡°Aizdha always talked of it. Perhaps we would have gone next year, if he had lived.¡±


    ¡°Well, you¡¯re here now.¡±


    They fell silent as the road left the portico and turned in a long curve towards the north. ¡°Manrie, come walk with me,¡± Melsa called from the front of the wagon. Manrie hopped down onto the ragged road and jogged up to Melsa, who was leading the horse. ¡°I wanted you to see the waterfall. And the standing stones.¡±


    There was a river to their left. It had grown wide as it came to the edge of the cliffs, and it roared its way down into the water below. In the darkness, Manrie could only see the slender moonlight glinting off of the spray. North of it, large monoliths lined the river bank. As they passed them, she saw that they were carved. ¡°The wandering people made them,¡± Melsa said. ¡°And they made the storage mounds, and the barrow. They would winter here. The cliffs fall away to the west, and there is a beautifulbeach. They would store what they had gathered in the summer and fish all winter. I think they must have been very happy.¡±


    ¡°Where did they go?¡±


    ¡°Further north. When the refugees from Cahntada came,¡± she nodded at Jahnajeel House, looming over the road to their right. ¡°The First Families. Only they weren¡¯t first. The wandering people had families, of course.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever met them? The wandering people?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. We are very like them, you know. We go where the food is, and leave when we want to.¡±


    A thought occurred to Manrie. ¡°Melsa, where do you bury your dead?¡±


    The older woman fell silent. Her shoulders swung back and forth. ¡°No one has died, Manrie,¡± she said. ¡°Not yet.¡±


    Taeyaho¡¯s voice fell silent. Manrie could see a bridge spanning the river ahead of them, and she could see shimmering figures on it. She glanced back, and heard Big Praeda telling Uku to put up the wall of the pantry wagon. She didn¡¯t know where Little Praeda¡¯s blindfold had gotten to.


    The road turned, and they were at the foot of the bridge. The dead of Raesidae stood upon it, as if trapped between the two banks of the river. But on the far side, Manrie could see a line of them, turning to the north and disappearing into the little valleys that ran between dark mounds of earth. The caravan came to a stop. Manrie glanced at Melsa, then made her way forward.


    Cloedeya was standing in front of the sleeping wagon, facing the spirits. His hand was on the horse¡¯s nose to calm it. Taeyaho had clamored down from the roof to stand beside him. ¡°Should I get the disc?¡± Manrie whispered. ¡°Should I lead them off the road?¡±


    Cloedeya¡¯s chrome-colored hair was dull in the moonlight. There was misery in his mismatched eyes. ¡°Yes, I suppose so. But Taeyaho and I will go with you.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Tafaemi¡¯s voice called from the interior of the wagon. ¡°Why have the wagons stopped?¡±


    ¡°Stay where you are,¡± Cloedeya said to her. Then he nodded to a spirit that was closest to the end of the bridge. ¡°That¡¯s Odiril Narm. I didn¡¯t know that she had died. She always loved that chilled raspberry soup. You remember it, Taeyaho. The one that must be made from the cream of a spring cow?¡±


    ¡°Do we have some?¡± Taeyaho asked.


    Cloedeya smiled sadly. ¡°No. It¡¯s the wrong time of year. But that¡¯s little Nekaen Zairiset, standing just behind her. She died when I was just a boy. I remember that she loved hollyhocks. She would carry them around on their stem, and tap your head with them, as if she were blessing you.¡±


    Manrie turned and walked back along the wagons. She slid open the door of the pantry wagon and heard Little Praeda gasp. ¡°I¡¯m just getting my saddlebag,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Manrie, are they gone? Are the ghosts gone?¡±


    ¡°They will be soon, Praeda. Stay in here with the others. You¡¯ll be safe.¡±


    ¡°I will come with you,¡± Uku said. His face swam out of the darkness, and Manrie lifted the wall higher so that he could scramble out. He handed her saddlebag to her.


    ¡°I only need the disc,¡± she said, and passed the bag back to Big Praeda. It was light now, with only the bestiary inside of it.


    They walked back to the foot of the bridge. Manrie held the disc above her head, and the spirits lifted their faces to it. She walked forward, and her friends fell in step beside her. Uku was right behind her. She could feel the reassuring loom of his presence. The ghosts made way for them, stepping to either side of the bridge and letting them pass. It was a very wide bridge, wide enough for several houses to sit side by side on it. The river gurgled beneath it, as if innocent of the roar of the falls to their south. The dead made no sound as they fell in behind. Only the steps of the four caravaners echoed on the stone slabs.


    They reached the other bank and came to a crossroads. ¡°To the north,¡± Cloedeya whispered behind her, and she turned. The mounds loomed ahead of her. There were paths up their sides, long ladders abandoned beside them. The river moved placidly to their right. The moonlight was stronger here, as if the slim crescent in the sky had gathered the strength of past and future moons and was shining all of their rays down along the road. The road itself was very wide. Manrie glanced behind and saw that the spirits were walking five or six abreast. Their faces were drawn forward, their expressions concentrated on the disc that she held above her head.


    They came to a final mound, and the road wound its way up it in a great spiral. When they came to the rim Manrie saw that it was a crater, and that the road wound along its edges as if it were scooping out the inside of the hill. In the center of the crater was a rise of earth, and a door was set in it. She paused before beginning the descent and looked back at the dead that ringed the hill. There were archaic figures among them, people dressed in furs and pelts, their hair plated or built into wild configurations atop their heads. Even the wandering people had found their burial place here. Until now. Why was the land rejecting them?


    Down, down, along the great spiral, dirt and stone skittering under her feet, down onto the flattened basin and to the door. It was very tall. Even Uku could pass through it without bowing. It had a rope handle. Cloedeya stepped around her and grasped the handle. The door opened very suddenly when he tugged it. The smell of dank earth and decay washed out at them.


    Manrie suddenly felt afraid. She turned and found Taeyaho¡¯s eyes. ¡°You will sing?¡± she asked. He nodded. He stepped to the doorway, and began. His voice was light and as clear as the crescent moon. As Manrie stepped into the darkness, she concentrated on his words. He was singing for the dead as they followed her in, filing past him.


    ¡°Here is a mother, her hands raw from the rag with which she bathed her sick son¡¯s brow. And here is the son, lost to her, as she, soon, was lost, the fever gone from both of them. They walk together into the grave.


    ¡°Here are the five children who were lost in a boat upon the lake. They were gone for many months, and the boat was found, caught in rushes along the bank, and the little bodies were within it. They held each other in death, and gave what comfort they could. They walk together into the grave.


    ¡°Here is the miser, much hated by those who knew him, who never would allow his wife to dress herself in finery. Yet when he lay dying she sat beside him and counted all his coins. She was showing them to him, so that he might delight in them one more time. And she was telling him that they were hers, now, and that she would spend them. They walk together into the grave.¡±


    The tunnel was dark, and Taeyaho¡¯s voice echoed along it. It, too, spiraled downwards. A spiral within a spiral within a spiral. Perhaps the ghosts were meant to become lost in it. The thought made her afraid. But Taeyaho¡¯s voice was strong. The melody was sweet and moved fluidly through its fluctuations. As if he had summoned the river into his song. The words became indistinct, but she felt them. Felt the lives that followed her. The people who had traveled along the river, hunting, fishing, gathering fruits and vegetables. The long summers, the moments of danger, the songs sung beside campfires at night. Generations of people who no longer remembered the Door at Hasra, or had no need for it. People who wouldn¡¯t go back to the Previous World if they could. Manrie felt their lives, the moments of their births, their play, their laughter, their love-making, their child-bearing, the way their memories changed as they spoke them, their deaths. She thought of the birds in the mountain rookery, dancing, the air flashing with the deep blue and green of hidden feathers. A sweet taste came into her mouth, as if Cloedeya was feeding her. When the walls fell away to either side of her, and she was standing in deep, echoing darkness, she was not afraid.


    She took a few steps forward, listening to the tendril of sound from Taeyaho¡¯s voice, and set the disc down on the rocky floor. She could not see the dead, but she knew that they were all around her. She closed her eyes and stood for a moment, breathing quietly, and she felt the earth breathe with her, as if the dirt and stone wanted to fill her with what they remembered of light and fresh air.


    Then she turned and followed the sound of Taeyaho¡¯s voice back out of the cave, fleeing upwards towards it, her footsteps moving faster and faster, until the door loomed ahead of her, and she saw Uku peering in, a look of worry on his face. She fell into his arms and pressed her ear against his stomach, and felt the beating of his heart and the movement of air that touched the top of her head as he released a held breath.


    Taeyaho fell silent and embraced her, and she felt Cloedeya¡¯s arms slip around her. They stood like that for a long moment. Then Cloedeya broke away, stepped to the door, and closed it. He stood looking at her. The moonlight cast a long shadow across the basin, and only the sheen of his eyes were visible. Like ill-sorted pebbles, placed beside each other.


    ¡°We will go back to the Man on the Mountain,¡± he said. ¡°We must get other discs.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    She nodded. Then she saw a movement on the rim of the basin, and gasped. For a moment she thought that it was Raeflin, staring down at them. But the figure was too tall, and the moonlight revealed flowing garments and the fall of a veil across its face.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± she whispered.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Cloedeya said. And then the figure was gone.


    They climbed back out of the basin warily, looking for the figure. But when they stood on its rim, the landscape of raised mounds was empty of people. ¡°Taeyaho, how did you know those things?¡± Manrie asked as they followed the winding road down.


    ¡°What things?¡±


    ¡°About the people. The dead? About the miser and the children and the fevers.¡± She could sense that the others were listening, waiting for an answer.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said after a moment. ¡°Only I reached out my hand and touched them as they went through.¡±


    As she had reached out to touch Aizdha in Libreigia, the night before he had died. Only that had been a dream, not a ghost. And she hadn¡¯t been able to feel his hand.


    When they came back to the bridge they found that Tafaemi had moved to the pantry wagon. Afraid to be alone, Manrie thought. But she stayed there as Cloedeya and Melsa got the horses moving, pressed into a corner beside the dry fish, having forgotten to protect her golden hair. Manrie coaxed Little Praeda out of the wagon, and they climbed the ladder and sat on top, among the pots of herbs and plants. ¡°That¡¯s the waterfall,¡± Manrie told her, pointing to the south.


    ¡°Manrie, are the ghosts really gone?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re really gone.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    Manrie gave a little laugh. ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°My robes aren¡¯t white anymore.¡±


    Manrie glanced down at her own robes in surprise and saw that they had returned to their shabby dust color. ¡°Well, good. We¡¯ll be less conspicuous.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that mean?¡±


    ¡°Noticeable. Obvious. I sound like Uku.¡±


    She laughed, and it surprised Praeda. But then Praeda laughed, too.


    They didn¡¯t turn right, towards the mounds, but continued straight at the crossroads and came to another huge house. Its stone walls were warmed by the moonlight and the sound of whinnying slipped through a large round door. It was closed and locked, but Cloedeya banged on it. Manrie and Praeda couldn¡¯t see past the sleeping wagon, but they could hear Cloedeya¡¯s voice, and a voice answering him, and then the wagons were moving, down a wide tunnel and into a large yard. The draft horses neighed a greeting which was met by the voices of other horses, sounding from the stables that lined the yard. People were emerging from stairways, some still in their day clothes, others mussed by sleep.


    A large man strode across the yard and Cloedeya turned squarely to face him. ¡°Cloedeya?¡± the man said, and sloped his head and shoulders forward, as if he wanted to bite him.


    ¡°He¡¯s like a horse,¡± Praeda murmured, and Manrie could see it. The long face, the big eyes, the slight twitch to his head, as if his ears were trying to flick.


    ¡°Gaelstrup,¡± Cloedeya said.


    ¡°You come at night? When the spirits are walking the roads?¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t walk them anymore,¡± Cloedeya said. He laughed suddenly, a sharp, joyful sound. The same laugh Manrie had given, when she realized that her clothes weren¡¯t white. ¡°It¡¯s true. Go and look at the bridge. They¡¯re gone.¡±


    ¡°How are they gone?¡± Gaelstrup muttered.


    ¡°We brought a disc, from the Man on the Mountain. Its traps the ghosts. We¡¯ve returned them to the barrow. They won¡¯t leave there now.¡±


    Gaelstrup turned to a stable boy. ¡°Fetch the Patriarch,¡± he said. Then he turned to the draft horses, ignoring Cloedeya, as if he distrusted him and the truth could only be fully known when it was verified by a horse. He walked along the horses¡¯ sides, running his hands over flank and shoulder, inspecting the harness lines, the collar, the blinders. Cloedeya watched with his head lowered, an uncharacteristically mulish set to his shoulders.


    ¡°Do they know each other?¡± Praeda whispered.


    ¡°They know each other¡¯s names, at least,¡± Manrie replied.


    Then the large man was whistling and boys were running forward from the stables. The horses were set free of their harnesses and led to a long water trough. Manrie glanced back at the tunnel they had come through. She had thought people would run to the door, throw it open, look out at a night that was empty of specters. *Why don¡¯t they trust Cloedeya?* she wondered.


    Her gaze ranged around the large courtyard. The house that surrounded it had two stories, and the second floor had a mezzanine. One wall of the courtyard was the back of a taller house, with rounded windows that opened out onto balconies above the horse yard. Another large tunnel granted access into this house, and she saw a movement in it, a face peering out. Strangely furtive, like an actor peeking from behind a theater curtain before the start of a play. She kept watch, and saw more shadows fill the tunnel.


    The other caravaners had gathered around Cloedeya at the side of the sleeping wagon, and Manrie nudged Praeda, indicating that they should go down and join them. She felt that she was being watched as she turned her back on the courtyard to descend the ladder. When they joined their friends, Big Praeda had placed a protective hand on Cloedeya¡¯s arm, and Melsa was standing in front of him, swinging her wide shoulders back and forth as if she were fanning away an unpleasant odor. Uku towered beside the wagon, his whole being concentrated on some unseen threat. Manrie glanced back and saw Tafaemi peering out of the wagon¡¯s open side. Taeyaho had crawled into her arms and was resting his head against her generous breasts. Manrie shivered with revulsion.


    There was no fanfare, but suddenly everyone knew to look at the entrance of the tunnel to the tall house. A figure emerged from it, a woman who moved in the oddest fashion. She walked with her pelvis thrust forward, her stomach and chest concave above it, and her shoulders and head bobbing brazenly, so that her upper body formed a crescent moon. There was a man walking at her side, much younger than she was, and seemingly nervous. She wasn¡¯t touching him but she was leading him, her grasp on him as firm as if she held a chain. They were followed by two other couples, whose apparent normality only accentuated their oddity. Two bronze-haired men in their thirties, each with a wife. One wife was plain and plump, the other tall and quite beautiful.


    The oddly moving woman walked right up to Cloedeya. She tilted her head to look at him but said nothing. Her young companion spoke. ¡°The boy told us that the ghosts are gone?¡±


    Cloedeya stared at him. ¡°Where is the patriarch?¡± he asked.


    The old woman snorted. The young man, annoyed, said, ¡°I am the patriarch.¡±


    Cloedeya looked past them, to Gaelstrup the stable master, who had fallen in at the back of the procession. ¡°You are not Gabreev Zairiset.¡±


    The old woman simpered. ¡°My dear husband of many years died last autumn. This is my new husband, who has become patriarch in his place.¡±


    Cloedeya shifted his gaze to the two men who had followed her out of the tunnel. ¡°But you have two sons.¡±


    ¡°As long as I am the matriarch, my husband is the patriarch. Besides, they each have a new wife of their own and are,¡± she tittered, ¡°well occupied.¡±


    Her husband would not be distracted from his inquiry. ¡°The ghosts are gone?¡± he repeated.


    ¡°They are. We have returned them to their barrow.¡±


    An eager expression passed over the young man¡¯s face. He glanced back at the two sons of the household, as if seeking an ally. ¡°Alohwa, will you go and see?¡±


    The taller of the two brothers detached himself from his plump wife with some reluctance. She clung to his arm and then stood biting her lip as he walked past the wagons and went to the tunnel that led to the outer door. All heads turned to follow him. The door was thrown open, revealing the empty road and the empty bridge, silver in the moonlight. He turned and came back to his wife. ¡°Do the Jahnajeel know?¡± he asked in a muddy, adenoidal voice.


    ¡°You are the first we¡¯ve told,¡± Cloedeya said.


    The old woman sounded a little peel of pleasure, like the nicker of a horse. ¡°It is good to know that old loyalties still remain, Cloedeya. You have not forgotten that you are my client.¡±


    ¡°But how did you do it?¡± her young husband asked impatiently. He was very handsome, with sharp blue eyes, but also very restless, as if he were pacing some internal cage.


    ¡°A disc. Delved from a riverbed by the Man on the Mountain, and given to Manrie here. She used another disc to return the dead of Tzurfaera to their rest.¡±


    ¡°Whose dead?¡± the old woman asked contemptuously. ¡°Macbrau¡¯s, or the Enrieghos¡¯?¡±


    ¡°All of the dead,¡± Cloedeya told her.


    She considered this. Then she smiled. ¡°The Jahnajeel will be miserable.¡±


    ¡°Why will they be miserable?¡±


    ¡°They say that the ghosts ride them.¡± She tittered again, and the shorter of her sons gave a low, amorous guffaw. ¡°They sit in their house and summon the spirits as if they were summoning clients. Then their eyes go white and they scream in rapture, and they speak as if the ghosts were inside of them. Jandro and I attended one of their seances, and I will admit that I found it very frightening. But Jandro was there to reassure me.¡± She stroked a spavined finger up her husband¡¯s forearm. ¡°Everybody was coming to them, and I¡¯m sure that they would have claimed status as the First Among Firsts, but now it seems that your little friend has restored the natural order of things.¡±


    ¡°Ride them?¡± Manrie asked. She could hear the alarm in her voice, but couldn¡¯t explain the burst of fear that moved through her.


    ¡°So they claim. It¡¯s quite a performance. But the curious thing is that we can see the ghosts quite clearly when they are standing on the road from the barrow or standing on the bridge. We did not see one enter House Jahnajeel before the seance began.¡± She tutted and waved a finger in the air, as if admonishing a small child. ¡°The triplets are not to be trusted.¡± She clapped her hands together, banishing all talk of her rivals. They were big hands and distorted by arthritis, but the clap was sharp and authoritative. ¡°And now I suppose that you will throw one of your banquets. Where were you, when we got married?¡±


    ¡°I am sure that my uncle prepared a wonderful feast,¡± Cloedeya said softly.


    ¡°Oh, him. He died two moons ago. We had to bring cooks from Yenceyan. My husband fetched them when he went to fetch my daughters-in-law. We all celebrated our nuptials together. Isn¡¯t that nice.¡±


    Manrie could not tell whether the woman truly thought that it was nice. She only knew that there was something about the six members of the Zairiset family that embarrassed her. As if she had seen all of them naked. She sniffed the air and realized that they all smelled like the sleeping wagon after Cloedeya, Melsa, and Big Praeda had been lying together.


    Cloedeya was blinking in shock. ¡°My uncle is dead?¡± he asked quietly.


    ¡°Oh yes. He cooked a tremendous meal but he wouldn¡¯t allow anyone else to eat it. And then he died. The slaves say that a ghost appeared in his kitchen and directed his cooking. The Jahnajeel claim that they have talked to that ghost. Is it possible that they directed it? If you are looking for vengeance, look to them, Cloedeya.¡±


    He was reeling, and Big Praeda placed an arm across his shoulders. ¡°I thought you said that they were charlatans,¡± Melsa said sharply. She did not try to hide her contempt for the old woman and her sons.


    ¡°Well, yes. Probably. But we who live in this land are used to many strange things. The land is always trying to confuse us, and certainty is very hard to find. But there are things that ground us.¡± She pursed her lips and examined Melsa, and Manrie thought that she must know, somehow, that Cloedeya and the two older women were lovers. As if her dalliances with her young husband gave her some sort of special insight into all affairs of the bedroom.


    Melsa refused to be embarrassed. ¡°Perhaps we should go and make camp in House Jahnajeel,¡± she said. ¡°We can make sure that the ghosts are really gone.¡±


    Little Praeda gave a mew of fear. Manrie squeezed her hand to reassure her. It was the stable master who spoke in opposition to this idea. ¡°The horses are already in their stalls,¡± he said gruffly, as if offended that anyone should think to interrupt a horse¡¯s rest.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re not breeding them,¡± Uku muttered. Manrie had forgotten that he was there. He was staring at the matriarch of Zairiset House with open distaste.


    The matriarch responded with a high, peeling laugh. ¡°It is true that great fecundity has come upon this house since my marriage. Alohwa and Sindri are already expecting, and Craejo and Koenbahki will be soon. Won¡¯t you, my dears. Even I have thought, on certain mornings, that I might be able to bear once more.¡± She saw the dismay on their faces and laughed again. For some reason she decided to address Manrie. ¡°Someday you, too, may know the joys of a young husband. Or should I not say that in front of your current one.¡±


    ¡°Current one?¡± Manrie asked, and then realized that she was talking about Uku.


    ¡°We are unmarried,¡± Uku said dryly. ¡°Unwed. Spouseless.¡±


    ¡°And with a child! How you clients enjoy your freedom!¡±


    ¡°We are not clients. And the girl is not ours.¡±


    ¡°Whose is she, then?¡± The withered mouth rounded into an oh of feigned shock. ¡°Yours, Cloedeya? Gotten on one of your paramours?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m mine!¡± Little Praeda said, and the six Zairisets laughed at her.


    ¡°Poor innocent! No one is their own. But never mind.¡± The old woman swung her pendulous head back to Cloedeya. ¡°How long will you need to prepare your feast?¡±


    He stared at her mulishly. ¡°Tomorrow,¡± he said. ¡°We have been traveling all day and through the night. We need to rest, and share a meal among ourselves. Will you allow our wagons to stay here for the night?¡±


    ¡°Of course, of course,¡± she said, waving a hand in the air. ¡°You are our client, are you not?¡±


    ¡°My uncle was your client,¡± Cloedeya said.


    She stared at him, pursing her wrinkled lips, as if deciding how to answer his challenge. ¡°Then you agree with the child? You think you can belong to yourself alone?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he said softly. ¡°I belong to the caravan. We will make a meal and eat among ourselves, and tomorrow we will hold our feast.¡±

 At the Banquet of Distant Tables

    The lake water was very cold, and the breeze that blew along the beach was tight and held the chill of autumn coiled inside of it. Cloedeya had led Manrie and Little Praeda onto the strand and shown them the valghasta that the outgoing tide had left tangled in the pebbles. He had shown them how to bundle it so that the inner strands would stay sweet and lemon flavored, while the drying strands on the outside would take on a ripe, licorice flavor. Yet he had done so pragmatically, quickly, his manner glum, and with none of his usual effusions over flavor. And then he had disappeared, going back up to House Zairiset to collect the wagons and take them to the bridge, where the feast would be held when evening came.


    Without his enthusiasm, the task of collecting the grass was just a chore. Manrie tried to make it more fun by channeling his voice. ¡°This grass will make your teeth feel as if they had been scoured with sunlight, and banish the memory of every bad taste you¡¯ve ever had in your mouth.¡± Praeda looked at it suspiciously. Manrie tried again. ¡°Its flavor will cool your throat. You¡¯ll feel like you¡¯re drinking sherbet for days after you eat it.¡±


    ¡°No it won¡¯t,¡± Praeda said.


    Manrie sighed and bent forward to gather more grass. It was the height of summer and yet the morning sunlight was weak. As if its heat had been strained out by the witch¡¯s malevolence as it slanted across her island in the middle of the lake.


    ¡°May I help you?¡± a voice asked, and she glanced back to see one of the daughters-in-law of House Zairiset standing behind her. The tall and beautiful one. Her sharp cheekbones and the tight bridge of her nose brought her face forward, as if she were constantly leaning in to hear the answer to some question. Her eyes were silver but flecked with gray, the colors so similar that Manrie wanted to study the difference. She was fascinated by those eyes as the clean, eager face turned towards Praeda and the morning sunlight shone through them as if they were water. Her hair was amethyst touched by silver, and looked very soft. Seeing it made Manrie¡¯s fingers tingle.


    ¡°It¡¯s boring work,¡± Manrie told her. ¡°It will spoil your robes.¡±


    The woman looked at her and she found herself blushing. ¡°It took me seventeen days to make these robes, to spin the thread and weave the cloth and cut it and sew it. If I spoil them, I can hide in my chambers for another seventeen days, making another set.¡± She flashed a sudden grin, then knelt on the sandy pebbles and began to gather the valghasta in her long hands.


    ¡°Let me¡­let me show you how,¡± Manrie said, and knelt next to her. She willed Praeda to come and join them, thinking that the little girl could somehow screen her from the intensity of the woman¡¯s presence. But Praeda wandered down the strand to stand at the edge of the water, throwing pebbles into the lake.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± the woman asked.


    Manrie was tempted to give her a false name, or rather a secret one, a name that only this woman would know. But she said the two drab syllables of her real name instead, and felt a spark of anger at her own embarrassment.


    ¡°I¡¯m Koenbahki,¡± the woman said with a little twitch to her mouth. ¡°It¡¯s not much better than Manrie.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not?¡±


    ¡°Pruetahna is always saying that it¡¯s a common name. A common name for a common girl, she says. Sindri says I should ignore her, but Sindri loves Alohwa, so everything is easier for her.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t love your husband?¡±


    Again the mouth twitched. Thin lips, but pert and humorous. Manrie wanted her to taste one of the strands of valghasta. ¡°I should, I suppose, and we try. He¡¯s very kind to me. And I try to sound like Sindri and Pruetahna, although no one can really sound like Pruetahna. She sounds like a flock of crows fleeing a roof when she¡¯s in the throes. And Sindri makes little squeaking sounds, like an axle that needs grease. But I¡¯ve promised not to make fun of her for it.¡±


    ¡°It is¡­¡± Manrie tried to pick her words carefully, ¡°an embarrassing house to be in.¡±


    ¡°Yes. And the slaves are always tittering about us, although it¡¯s Pruetahna that they find most amusing. But Jandro seems to love her. It¡¯s amazing. I never thought that he could love anyone, all the time that we were growing up. He was selling scraps from his father¡¯s sweet shop to the rest of us from the time that he could walk. Never gave anything away. Never wanted to trade. He only wanted money. I suspect that¡¯s what he wants now. Maybe he thinks of Pruetahna as one big coin.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s kind of coin shaped,¡± Manrie said shyly, and then, quickly, ¡°her posture, I mean.¡±


    Koenbahki laughed, a high, ringing sound that seemed too big for her body. It was ungainly and a little crude, the laugh of a kitchen slave, not of a scholar. Its reverberated off of the cliffs behind them and made her suddenly shy. She bent and gathered another skein of valghasta. Waves lapped the beach, and Manrie looked for Praeda. She was still throwing stones into the chill water.


    ¡°You knew her husband, when you were children?¡± Manrie prompted. It took courage to say it, which annoyed her. Why should she be afraid of talking to this woman?


    ¡°Oh yes. We all grew up in Yenceyan, Jandro, Sindri, and me. And then Mueslahvin began his revolt.¡± Her voice faltered. ¡°My father was a great admirer of Mueslahvin. Soldiers came to the door, and we fled, following Mueslahvin and his men to the fort.¡± She raised her head and looked to the west. ¡°A tinker came through yesterday morning. She said there had been a great battle. That Mueslahvin is dead.¡±


    Manrie considered what she knew of Yenceyan. She had heard the name Mueslahvin before. ¡°Wasn¡¯t he the king¡¯s friend?¡±


    ¡°He was the king¡¯s seneschal. He was a good man. He cared for the people, and the nobles hated him for it.¡±


    ¡°And your family was with him?¡±


    She nodded. There were tears in her eyes. ¡°Jandro came to the fort and said that he had met a rich woman in Raesidae, and that she was looking for wives for her two sons. My father insisted that I go with him. He didn¡¯t say it out loud, but I think he knew that they were doomed. All of the people who had followed Mueslahvin.¡± She dropped her gaze. She gathered a skein of valghasta with her long fingers. ¡°So Sindri married Alohwa and I married Craejo and now I live in a house where I must low like a cow every night or pretend that I have my flow.¡± Her fingers shredded the valghasta as she spoke. Realizing what she was doing, she attempted an apologetic grin. ¡°We¡¯ve met before,¡± she said. ¡°You don¡¯t remember me.¡±


    Manrie dropped a handful of valghasta in surprise. ¡°You and me?¡±


    Uncertainty flashed in Koenbahki¡¯s eyes. ¡°Weren¡¯t you with Cloedeya when he came to Yenceyan?¡±


    ¡°Me? No. I¡¯ve only known him¡­¡± Manrie paused. ¡°For two moons. Even less. Since just before Hiraherra.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± the beautiful face went still, and then the woman laughed. ¡°Of course. It couldn¡¯t have been you. That was ten years ago, and you would have been a child. I was a child myself, and I thought that the girl with him was very sophisticated.¡±


    ¡°Girl? Was it Big Praeda?¡±


    ¡°No, that wasn¡¯t her name. She had hair like yours, though.¡±


    ¡°No one in the caravan has hair of my color.¡±


    A shrug. ¡°Then she must have gone somewhere else. But I followed her around for days. She was nice to me. Cloedeya came to prepare a feast for the funeral of the king¡¯s uncle. He asked my father if he could use the bakery, and my father said yes, of course. Beautiful bread came out of the ovens, then, and my father¡¯s bread has been better ever since.¡± A pause. ¡°Was better.¡± She sighed, looking inward, gathering herself. Another weak smile. ¡°Cloedeya kept thanking him for teaching him how to truly bake. My father loved Cloedeya. He named my youngest brother after him. They had a feast for me and Sindri, the night before we left the fort.Father kept telling everyone that his daughter would be living in the house where Cloedeya was born, although it¡¯s not true. Cloedeya was born in one of the clients¡¯ shacks to the west.¡±


    ¡°He seems very unhappy here,¡± Manrie ventured, but her mind was on her mysterious predecessor. She hadn¡¯t thought that people would leave the caravan, or had assumed that they¡¯d be talked about, if they did.


    ¡°Everyone is unhappy here,¡± Koenbahki said. She paused and shrugged again. ¡°Because of the witch.¡±


    Praeda, bored of skipping pebbles, came walking back along the strand. ¡°Manrie, don¡¯t you have enough of that already?¡± she asked her little voice sharp with boredom.


    ¡°Cloedeya doesn¡¯t seem to remember me,¡± the girl said quickly. ¡°He looked right at me last night and didn¡¯t seem to see me. Could you¡­could you ask him if I might join you? Just to help with the feast tonight, of course.¡±


    ¡°Just for tonight¡¯s feast?¡±


    The woman blushed. To cover her embarrassment she stood and wiped sand from the knees of her robes. ¡°Yes, of course. What else?¡±


    Manrie occupied herself with bundling the sheaths of valghasta together. ¡°If you like.¡±


    Koenbahki loitered for a moment, then said, ¡°Well, I really have ruined my robes. I¡¯ll go and scrub them. The day should be warm enough to dry them. You will ask him?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Manrie took her time tying the valghasta bundle, and then asked Praeda to help her strap it to her back. By the time she stood, bent under its weight, Koenbahki had disappeared up the beach. ¡°She was very beautiful,¡± Manrie said, because she had to say it to someone.


    ¡°She only talked about herself,¡± Praeda said. Yet when they arrived back at Zairiset House, she ran up to Cloedeya and said, ¡°One of the wives wants to help with the cooking.¡±


    He stared down at her with a distracted expression on his face. The wagons were packed up and were just about to turn out of the stable yard and go down the long tunnel into the street. ¡°The wives?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Her name is Koenbahki,¡± Manrie said, coming up to them. ¡°She says she knew you in Yenceyan.¡±


    His mismatched eyes widened. ¡°The baker¡¯s daughter.¡±


    Manrie nodded.


    ¡°Well, we can always use the extra hands. But I have already been to the kitchens here and asked the cook to manage the baking for tonight.¡± He picked Praeda up and put her on the back of the horse, then pulled on the reins and the sleeping wagon started forward. It was too late for Manrie to deposit her burden in the pantry wagon, so she walked beside him.


    ¡°You should get another wagon,¡± she suggested. ¡°It¡¯s getting too cramped for me and Praeda and Uku.¡±


    She was afraid that he would say that it wasn¡¯t needed, that they would all be gone from the caravan soon. Instead he nodded. ¡°I had thought to, when we got here. I¡¯ve known the Nahrm wagonwright since childhood. Perhaps tomorrow.¡± He glanced at her, seemed to notice her distress, and said. ¡°Tomorrow I will ask him to start building one. But we will have to return here for it. We¡¯ll leave for the Man on the Mountain¡¯s house in the morning.¡±


    Manrie was certain that her relief showed on her face. ¡°I don¡¯t like it here. Everyone is unhappy. They don¡¯t seem to care that we¡¯ve returned the dead to their graves.¡±


    ¡°They care,¡± he said. ¡°Only they are used to a certain mood. Because of the witch, or their belief in her. She only curses some of them, yet everyone is cursed in Raesidae.¡±


    ¡°But not you.¡±


    He smiled then, the first time he had smiled since they came into the town. ¡°I found that one can run away from curses. Or at least from a cursed place.¡±


    ¡°Why do you come back here, then?¡± She was surprised by the frustration in her voice.


    He considered the question. ¡°I always say that it¡¯s because they need me the most. The worst places need me the most. But I wonder if¡­well, the only thing that can counter a curse is a blessing. And blessings are easy to make. The land itself blesses us with food. It feels¡­necessary to bring that blessing here.¡±


    They came onto the bridge, the horses¡¯ hooves clattering on the slabs of stone and the wagon wheels sending a shudder of sound to meet the voice of the river below. Cloedeya led the wagons to a resting place at the center of the bridge¡¯s span, pressed tightly up against the north wall. As soon as he had done so, another wagon appeared on the eastern bank and began trundling across. The bridge was wide enough to hold at least four wagons, passing abreast each other. This wagon was open, and loaded high with casks. ¡°Salt fish,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°The Jahnajeel sending their trade goods to Yenceyan.¡±


    ¡°Not in a caravan?¡±


    ¡°The King of Yenceyan keeps patrols on the road. Word is that there was a revolt, but it¡¯s been put down. The roads are safe. The people west of the mountains are considered primitive, but in many ways they are better organized than eastern people.¡±


    Cloedeya fell silent again as he lifted Little Praeda down from the horse and turned back to the wagon to open the side. Melsa and Big Praeda, emerging from the other wagon, were also more silent than usual. Melsa took the bundle of valghasta and inspected it, giving Manrie a weak smile. Shortly thereafter Uku and Taeyaho appeared carrying large baskets. They had been collecting among the houses, and disgorged a cornucopia of fish and early summer vegetables. These served to lighten Cloedeya¡¯s mood. Manrie was set to shelling peas, which her hands had learned to do automatically. She watched the others as she worked. Taeyaho was still beautiful, she thought, but his beauty had dimmed somehow. She could look at him easily now, without a sense of shy surprise. Uku was not beautiful, but the memory of her fingers in his mouth made her flush, and she wanted to lay her head against his broad stomach. Attraction, she thought, was a strange thing, and as she worked she imagined making an entry in the bestiary, a composite creature that was Taeyaho and Uku and Koenbahki as she stood on the beach, not a monster necessarily, but something that stood just beyond the possible, and looked like people do when bright sunlight obscures their features.


    A figure appeared on the west end of the bridge, and she blushed, thinking that it was Koenbahki. But then she looked again, and saw that it was a veiled figure, and a half-shelled pea pod dropped from her hand. She looked around for her friends. ¡°Uku,¡± she called. He was sharpening knives at the end of the table where she was working. He followed her gaze. Cloedeya came out of the pantry wagon. He stared at the figure. Then he strode towards her. He was carrying a bunch of carrots, and for a frivolous moment Manrie thought that he meant to use them as a weapon. But he paused on the bridge and laid them down on the stones, as if they were an offering.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    The figure walked forward. She walked past him without turning her head. In the morning sunlight Manrie could see that her clothes were made of tatters. As if she had gathered and dried sea grasses, and sewn them into a veiled headdress and robes. She was tall and she walked imperiously. If she had been passing through a field, she would have expected the blades of grass to bend out of her way. She came abreast of the wagons but her head didn¡¯t turn towards them. A gull that had been wheeling above the bridge let out a cry and suddenly dived for a loaf of bread, as if ordered to distract the caravaners. Manrie became aware of someone sobbing. She thought it might be the woman, then realized that it was Little Praeda. It was daylight and the spirits were vanquished, and still she panicked in her thoughts, trying to remember where Praeda¡¯s veil had gotten to. Then the woman was gone, disappearing down the road to House Jahnajeel.


    Cloedeya brought his carrots back to the wagon. He was pale, and also oddly embarrassed. ¡°What is it?¡± Melsa asked him, her voice tense.


    He wouldn¡¯t answer, but Tafaemi, who had been lounging in the opening of the sleeping wagon, said ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? That was the witch.¡±


    ¡°The witch?¡± Melsa said, then gave a dismissive laugh.


    ¡°Yes, of course. And you said she wasn¡¯t real.¡±


    ¡°Even if she is real, she never leaves her island.¡±


    ¡°Cloedeya thought it was the witch.¡±


    ¡°No, he didn¡¯t.¡± Melsa turned to him. ¡°Did you Cloedeya?¡±


    ¡°Why else would he offer her carrots?¡±


    Cloedeya¡¯s expression was pinched. He seemed to be holding a silent argument with himself. ¡°She felt¡­¡± he looked around, as if hoping someone could find words for him.


    ¡°She felt like the dead beside the river,¡± Taeyaho said. ¡°On the other bank. That first night that Manrie and Little Praeda were with us.¡±


    ¡°But the dead are back in the barrow,¡± Manrie objected.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Cloedeya said miserably. ¡°I know they are. But Taeyaho is right. It felt the same.¡±


    Tafaemi snorted. ¡°You will tell yourselves anything, to deny that there¡¯s a witch.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t deny it,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°I only say that people use the witch as an excuse to do whatever they want.¡±


    ¡°We are talking too much about this,¡± Big Praeda said brusquely. She had resumed her task of picking through the valghasta and sorting out the fresh from the dried. The others began to return to their tasks.


    ¡°Hello,¡± a new voice said, and they all looked and saw that Koenbahki had come onto the bridge. She was wearing the same robes, which were dark around the knees where she had scrubbed them. She had caught her silver and amethyst hair in a kerchief, and her sharp, clean features looked suddenly girlish. As if she had dismissed ten years of aging with a change in hairstyle. *She¡¯s my age,* Manrie thought, and wondered if she herself were capable of the same trick, if people noticed her shifting from girl to woman throughout the day.


    ¡°Koenbahki,¡± Cloedeya said, and there was relief in his voice, and his usual kindness. He set the carrots down and went to her. ¡°I remember you as a little girl! I am sorry I didn¡¯t recognize you last night. We were tired, and your mother-in-law is¡­somewhat distracting.¡±


    Koenbahki laughed. ¡°She enjoys shocking people. Was she always like that?¡±


    A shadow crossed his face, but he smiled through it. ¡°She used to be very beautiful. All of the patriarchs were in love with her, and her husband could not contain her. But there was a joy in this place because of her, despite the jealousies. I was too young to wonder how she might age.¡±


    Koenbahki nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve heard some of that. They even say that she was the mistress of Odril Jahnajeel, and that poor Maedreth was made to watch them together.¡±


    ¡°Is she still alive? Maedreth?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to tell, because of her curse.¡±


    ¡°What curse?¡± Little Praeda asked, reminding them that she was listening.


    Koenbahki knelt to address her directly, a friendly, easy-going gesture that didn¡¯t seem to lessen Praeda¡¯s suspicion of her. ¡°She never wants to be seen. People make jokes about it. How you can be alone in a room and then have a feeling that someone has come in, and a little voice says ¡®don¡¯t see me.¡¯ It¡¯s even become a game among the children. But the funny thing is that people don¡¯t really see her anymore. Not even her own children. Of course, they have their own curses to worry about.¡±


    Little Praeda turned her face away and buried it in the skirts of Manrie¡¯s robe, but Manrie was curious. ¡°What curses?¡±


    Koenbahki turned her face up, and Manrie felt her breath catch in her throat. ¡°Haelahza always has her words stolen by other people, and Braedsmi never notices anything that isn¡¯t delightful, and Nuhrmer stinks. Braedsmi never notices, and Nuhrmer never hears Haelahza when she tries to tell him to take a bath, and so they¡¯re all cursed together.¡±


    Manrie laughed. ¡°Well, that¡¯s horrible,¡± she said, and then worried about how her reaction would be perceived.


    But Koenbahki winked. ¡°It is horrible. Wait until you meet them. Only now they wear veils all the time, and say that the dead are whispering in their ears.¡±


    This seemed to bother Cloedeya. ¡°Not anymore,¡± he said tersely, and turned back to the other table, coddling his carrots in his arms.


    Koenbahki¡¯s face fell. ¡°Did I offend him?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Manrie whispered to her. ¡°Everybody is in a bad mood. Do you want to help me with the peas?¡±


    They worked together throughout the morning. Koenbahki¡¯s hands were long and her fingers were agile. She sorted the good peas from the bad. Manrie found her work slackening as she watched those slim fingers picking up and casting aside the pods that had were too fibrous, their hardness indicating that the peas inside of them would be inedible. It brought her back to a memory from her childhood. Her father¡¯s hand picking between sheafs of grain, and her mother¡¯s worried voice, saying that all of the grain had come from the same field, and now half of it was inedible, the husks too hard to thresh, the kernels inside too small to produce enough flour.


    ¡°Cloedeya?¡± she called, to escape the memory, ¡°why do crops go bad?¡±


    He looked up at her, and the gaze of one eye wandered past her while the other focused worriedly on her face. ¡°We don¡¯t know. It never happened in my youth. Famines were caused by locusts then. Or drought. Now, sometimes the land simply decided to return to the wild.¡± Then he shrugged, and smiled. ¡°But there is so much land. We never go hungry.¡±


    At noon they all gathered around one of the tables and ate. Cloedeya had made a wonderful curry, and he watched their faces anxiously as they sampled it, as if worried that it might taste of his dolorousness. But it was delicious, tasting of citrus and anise from the valghasta, and cumin and cinnamon, turmeric and ginger. The fish nestled inside it was so tender that it fell apart in Manrie¡¯s fingers, and she worried that Koenbahki would find her coarse, but the other girl ate with so much relish that the front of her robes became smeared with the yellow sauce. She laughed when she noticed, and Manrie laughed to, and then looked around at the others, to see if their laughter would catch. But the rest were intent upon their plates. All but Uku, who was looking at her with an expression of regret. ¡°We¡¯re making a mess,¡± she called to him, and he said ¡°smear, muddle, disarray.¡±


    Koenbahki seemed unbothered by the sadness of the others, and after lunch they went to the foot of the bridge and washed the plates in river water. ¡°We¡¯re hundreds of miles from the World¡¯s Teeth,¡± she said, ¡°but I still think I can feel the ice in the river. Even in summer. Pruetahna makes the slaves heat a bath for her every day, but I prefer bathing in the river. I come down here with Ahleis Nahrm and Waendha and Naepinghi Ehwaeya.¡±


    ¡°You have friends here,¡± Manrie said, feeling almost disappointed.


    ¡°Friends? I suppose so. It¡¯s funny, I¡¯ve had other people around me all of my life. Other children to play with, boys to flirt with. But when something happens to you, well¡­well then you know whether all of those people are really friends.¡± Then she grinned. She was refusing sadness. As if she had commanded that this would be a happy day for her, a day when grieving would be set aside. ¡°Where are you from, Manrie?¡±


    ¡°Libreigia,¡± Manrie said, and Koenbahki¡¯s eyes widened.


    ¡°Libreigia! But that¡¯s on the other side of the mountains!¡±


    ¡°Yes. But just on the other side. Not nearly as far away as Drachahda or Lawhahkla.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to tell me you¡¯ve been there, too?¡±


    ¡°Well, yes. I¡¯ve been to most places. I traveled with my master. And sometimes alone.¡±


    ¡°Not with Cloedeya?¡±


    ¡°No, although he¡¯s been most places, too.¡±


    ¡°All I¡¯ve ever been is here and Yenceyan. Although I traveled halfway to Ispilu once.¡±


    She made Manrie tell her about all the places they¡¯d traveled, and the afternoon passed quickly as they picked the leaves off of herb stems and ground spices in the mortar and pestle. The other cooks listened to their chatter, and began to smile, and tell their own stories, and the mood of the morning slowly lifted, so that the midafternoon sun found them laughing, and pausing to listen to Taeyaho sing, and teasing Uku by asking him for synonyms for all of the words they could think of. Only Tafaemi remained unhappy. She didn¡¯t join in either the general work or the laughter, but moved to the pantry wagon, where she sat in the open side and handed out whatever people needed. She was working on some private dish of her own, grating and kneading, but she threw a towel over it whenever anyone came near.


    Men began to appear as dusk came near, carrying tables from the great houses. The bridge began to fill, but a space was kept clear at one end, and musicians came and started tuning their instruments, and Manrie realized that they had prepared a floor for dancing. She had danced many times, of course. In Libreigia the slaves and the apprentice scholars would dance together at the summer solstice and the two equinoxes, and the Lady¡¯s court in Hasra was full of dancing. But she felt shy of dancing, now, even though Koenbahki began to swing her hips as the musicians played a little tune to warm up.


    The patriarchs and matriarchs of the First Families appeared in short order, followed by their clientele. The Zairiset were obviously the largest, and Pruetahna bobbed at the front of them, leading their procession with her jittery hips. Her husband walked proudly at her side, and her tall son and his wife followed. But her other son was strangely bereft, looking around as if he had lost something. Manrie saw him notice Koenbahki and give a double take, but it would, apparently, be beneath his dignity to approach his wife and ask that she join him at his side. Instead he sat with his mother and looked dolefully at her, until she left Manrie¡¯s side and went to him. She didn¡¯t sit but stood beside him, flirting, and Manrie looked down quickly at the pot of rice that she had been stirring.


    The Nahrm and the Ehwaeya seemed united in their smallness. Like the Zairiset, they had made sure that their best tables were set closest to Cloedeya¡¯s wagons, and their clientele fanned out away from them, sitting at smaller and shoddier tables that spanned the bridge. The matriarchs and patriarchs were all dressed very finely, in brocade robes that were probably too hot for summer, but they had slaves who wielded huge blue gorpsarra feathers, fanning the sweat away from their masters.


    The Jahnajeel were the last to arrive. They came onto the bridge and found their places at the tables that were furthest to the east. Manrie looked closely at the veiled triplets. She couldn¡¯t help sniffing the air, but Nuhrmer Jahnajeel¡¯s famous odor could not contend with the scents of Cloedeya¡¯s cooking. She could tell who he was because she could easily identify his sister Haelahza, who¡¯s posture seemed angry and defiant, and his brother Braedsmi, who immediately removed his veil and grinned around at the other families with an expression of idiotic delight.


    Two other figures appeared on the east end of the bridge. One was the tall and imperious woman in the tattered veils. The other was small and seemed to hide within the other¡¯s shadows. The tall woman couldn¡¯t really be the witch, could she? Wouldn¡¯t all of the people she had cursed turn on her and throw her from the bridge? The two figures didn¡¯t go right to a table, but came to stand in front of the wagons. Cloedeya faced the woman in the tattered veils. He was charring chicken on a brazier.


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me,¡± her companion said in a small voice. ¡°Don¡¯t see me.¡±


    The tall woman in the tattered veils said nothing. She stared into Cloedeya¡¯s face, and some secret seemed to pass between them. Then she turned and went to the Jahnajeel¡¯s table, where she sat with great primness and stared into the air in front of her, treating her companions as if they were beneath her notice.


    Cloedeya wiped his brow. But then he looked to the others and they began to carry platters that were heaped with rice and curry and pickled vegetables to the tables. The musicians began to play, and voices broke out in exclamations of delight. Manrie carried a laden platter to the Zairiset¡¯s table and caught Koenbahki¡¯s eye, and heard her say to her husband, ¡°But you see, I am ruining my game by tarrying with you here. I must go and serve your feast.¡±


    ¡°As long as we might have another feast later,¡± he leered indulgently, and his mother gave a great peal of laughter.


    Pruetahna waited placidly as her husband loaded her plate from one of the platters. She dipped her arthritic fingers down into the curry and raised it to her mouth. Manrie watched her taste it, thinking that those withered lips must coat anything that passed through them with the dust of age. So she wasn¡¯t surprised when Pruetahna¡¯s face twisted into a scowl. ¡°What is this?¡± the matriarch asked. ¡°What is this slop that Cloedeya thinks he can poison us with?¡±


    She stood, as if offended, and her bewildered husband stood with her. ¡°My darling, what is amiss?¡±


    ¡°Taste it! Taste the food! It is like eating excrement!¡±


    He bent obediently forward and pulled a dollop onto his fingers. He sniffed at the morsel, then tasted it with the tip of his rather sharp tongue. His face fell into an expression of disgust. ¡°Unpalatable!¡± he declared.


    Manrie glanced back at Cloedeya. He was staring around wildly. Many of the matriarchs and patriarchs were having the same reaction. Groans of disgust and angry expletives were drowning out the music. Manrie darted a hand forward and picked a morsel of fish from the platter. It was even more succulent than it had been at lunch. But members of the First Families were rising from their tables. Not all of them. Some were eating lustily.


    Pruetahna Zairiset was pushing her way past the rickety tables of her house¡¯s clients, as if in a hurry to escape the bridge. But when she came to the last one, where the slaves sat, she paused. Manrie watched as she sniffed the air and her shrunken head tilted down towards the platter of food on the table. She pushed a slave aside and darted a hand forward and brought it dripping with curry to her mouth. ¡°But this is delicious!¡± she cried, arresting the flight of the others.


    Then all was pandemonium for a few moments, as patriarchs and matriarchs displaced their slaves and sat down at their shabby tables to gorge themselves on the curry. The slaves milled about in confusion. ¡°It¡¯s all the same dish!¡± Cloedeya called above the clamor, and then, when no one would heed him, he began going about among the slaves and ushering them to the tables of prominence that sat nearest to the wagons. It was as if the entire social world had been shaken and rearranged. The musicians began to play again, and a few people began to dance, their fingers stained with turmeric.


    The members of the caravan stood together, watching in amazement. After a few moments had passed, Cloedeya said, ¡°we should eat.¡± So they sat together on the tables that had been cleared of all but the last platters, and began to eat.


    ¡°I can¡¯t eat this!¡± Tafaemi spat, throwing down her plate. ¡°It tastes like slag!¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you should try the food at one of the farthest tables,¡± Melsa suggested, with a glance at Cloedeya.


    Tafaemi stood up and pushed her way through the crowd, coming at last to the Zairiset¡¯s table and taking the place beside Craejo that Koenbahki should have occupied. ¡°Who is she?¡± Koenbahki whispered to Manrie, watching with a kind of amazed jealousy.


    ¡°Tafaemi,¡± Manrie said.


    ¡°Tafaemi? Not Tafaemi of Tzurfaera?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°But she¡¯s a great beauty! Or at least she¡¯s said to be.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s her. In all her glory.¡±


    ¡°But don¡¯t you see?¡± Melsa was whispering to Cloedeya. ¡°You¡¯ve been cursed. That is the witch, and she¡¯s cursed you.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± he asked, as near to anger as Manrie had ever seen him.


    ¡°Your food. All of the bad people, the cruel ones, the ones who manipulate others and insist on their own importance, they¡¯re at the farthest tables. And the kind ones, the compassionate ones, they¡¯re right by us. Slaves and First Families all jumbled together.¡±


    ¡°How is that a curse?¡± Big Praeda asked.


    ¡°Is it me?¡± Cloedeya said slowly. ¡°Do I get to decide who is good and who is bad? I don¡¯t want that. That *is* a curse.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Big Praeda snapped.


    But he turned to her with tears in his eyes. ¡°Who am I, to judge others in that way? My food is for everyone, not just for the people I approve of.¡±


    ¡°Well, they¡¯re all eating,¡± Big Praeda pointed out.


    Their argument was interrupted by a strange pall that suddenly fell across the diners. Every head was turning to the west. The sun was sinking beneath the tall walls of Zairiset house and casting its shadow down the road. It reached almost to the crossroads. There were figures walking down the road from the barrow, undulating in the falling dusk. One by one the musicians realized that something was happening, and the sounds of their instruments dropped away. Manrie found that she was standing. Other people were leaping to their feet. They watched in horror as the dead came back onto the bridge.

 At the Seance Beside the Cistern

    Manrie expected the people to flee, but instead they stood up from their tables as the dead went past them. There was something expectant and reverential in their postures. The food was forgotten, and the grease-smeared faces shone in the dying light. They looked relieved. ¡°But don¡¯t the people of Raesidae want their dead to rest?¡± Manrie whispered to herself.


    Koenbahki answered her in the same low tone. ¡°Some do. I do. They are not my dead. I¡¯m frightened, Manrie.¡±


    She took the other girl¡¯s hand, and looked around for Little Praeda. Taeyaho was comforting her, holding her in his lap, one thin hand covering her eyes. The silent procession moved between the tables. The spirits¡¯ faces were strangely still, as if they were deep in thought or listening to some distant music. In life they must have moved through shades of expression, showed joy or sorrow, teased and scowled. Now they were reduced to the same mask of distraction, worn on every face. They did not seem aware of the crowd as they walked over the bridge.


    The figures that led the shimmering parade reached the furthest of the Jahnajeel tables and began to pass it. Braedsmi Jahnajeel was grinning with delight and bouncing on his toes like a small child. The Jahnajeel, too, had been rearranged by Cloedeya¡¯s feast. Braedsmi¡¯s siblings were scattered throughout the other tables. But as the ghosts left the bridge the triplets moved together, and the rest of their household began to follow them, the clients crowding close behind them, the slaves at the back, as if the ghosts had reasserted the social order. Only the tall veiled woman and the short, unnoticeable woman who was her companion stayed seated at the head table.


    Cloedeya was at Manrie¡¯s side, his voice urgent. ¡°Manrie, could you go back into the barrow? Could you see if the disc is still there?¡±


    Manrie shivered at the thought of standing in that dark, cavernous place, with no sense of walls or enclosure, bounded only by the permanent night. ¡°Why?¡± she asked, in a small voice.


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t need to,¡± Big Praeda said. ¡°It¡¯s obvious that the Jahnajeel have stolen the disc.¡±


    ¡°But how?¡± Cloedeya asked, and his voice seethed with desperation. They all turned to look at the veiled woman, who had walked past them on the bridge that morning, going to Jahnajeel House. Cloedeya took a step forward, as if he meant to confront her, but Big Praeda blocked him. And then people were moving around them, having left their meals to follow the procession to the east bank of the river. ¡°Why?¡± Cloedeya asked, glaring at them, and Manrie thought *he is angry and he¡¯s never angry ¡ª he must be very afraid.*


    ¡°It¡¯s been like this,¡± Koenbahki said miserably. ¡°Not for all of us. But every night, certain people have found their way to the Jahnajeel. To hear the dead speak.¡±


    A figure passed close to them and Cloedeya called out to him. ¡°Gaelstrup, where are you going?¡±


    The stable master¡¯s big face swung towards him, and his head shook rapidly, like that of an anxious horse. ¡°You had no right,¡± he hissed. ¡°No right to hide our dead. The Jahnajeel have brought them back.¡±


    ¡°But how can you want that?¡±


    ¡°She talks to me. My Sahlda. I can hear her again, in the mouth of Haelahza Jahnajeel.¡± He turned away, and Manrie studied the other faces, all avid, some joyous, each seeking a reprieve from grief.


    The other caravaners were whispering among themselves. ¡°If they¡¯ve taken the disc, we need to get it back.¡±


    ¡°Why? Maybe it¡¯s better there. Why shouldn¡¯t they speak to their dead?¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s selfish!¡± This was Big Praeda. ¡°Some get solace, but everyone else is afraid.¡±


    ¡°Raesidae has always been a selfish place.¡±


    ¡°Was that really the witch? Why would she want to play games with the disc?¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t be the witch. Why would they tolerate her?¡±


    ¡°Enough!¡± Cloedeya said. He turned to Manrie. ¡°Will you¡­¡± he hesitated, suddenly shy, almost diffident. ¡°We should go together. To Jahnajeel House. How else will we know?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said. ¡°But not Little Praeda.¡±


    ¡°No. Just you and I.¡± He looked around. ¡°And maybe you, Taeyaho, if you¡¯re willing.¡±


    The boy lowered his bright head, his sweet features clouded with reluctance. But he nodded.


    ¡°And the rest of us?¡± Big Praeda demanded. ¡°Are we to just stay here and do the dishes?¡±


    ¡°Come with us if you want. But I won¡¯t ask you to.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll stay,¡± Uku said. ¡°None of my dead are here.¡±


    ¡°I¡­I¡¯ll stay too,¡± Melsa said, all the events of the night having returned her to shyness.


    ¡°My dead aren¡¯t here, either,¡± Koenbahki said, ¡°but I want to go.¡± She squeezed Manrie¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Big Praeda?¡± Cloedeya asked.


    The last glimmer of sunlight flushed across Big Praeda¡¯s wide cheeks. ¡°I¡¯ll stay and take care of Little Praeda. I have no need to talk with the dead.¡±


    Cloedeya nodded. He turned and began to walk towards the east side of the river. The others fell in beside him. They passed the littered tables, and Manrie looked with regret at the neglected feast. She glanced behind her and saw that the Zairiset were making their exodus towards the west bank, followed by the other families. And she understood how Raesidae was divided. Not only between slave and free, client and patron, and between the four merchant houses. Divided between those who grieved and those who didn¡¯t. Like every place, she supposed.


    And then they were at the end of the bridge, and turning to the south, walking down the road that ran beside the river. The thin moon was casting its light over the lake water. The night had fully arrived. Somewhere out there in the middle of the lake was the witch¡¯s island. If the woman in the veil was really the witch, there was a boat tied up somewhere along the shore, hidden away. Manrie imagined a rough hewn vessel, scarred wood made tarry with curses.


    The road turned east and brought them under the portico of Jahnajeel House, and there was no one to stop them from going through the six rounded doors. As they passed through a tunnel in the wall, the sound of water in the caves below boomed up at them. It seemed to Manrie like the sound of a giant fist, knocking on a door. They came out into a wide courtyard and found themselves at the back of a crowd of people. There were trees growing up from the dusty ground, gnarled and twisted as if they were growing out of the side of a cliff. There was a pool at the center of the courtyard, with a low wall tiled in blue speckled with lantern light. Seeing it, Manrie felt a wave of deja vu. The same shade of blue as the tiles on the stairs that led to Aizdha¡¯s chambers. The tiles that she had gone up and down for years as she served her master. The scholarly part of her mind named the beetle from which the glazers extracted that blue shade. But the rest of her mind seemed to fill again with the pungent smoke of the betzazarra that the stranger had packed into Aizdha¡¯s pipe. She felt time constricting. Only Koenbahki¡¯s hand in her own kept her rooted to reality.


    Nuhrmer Jahnajeel was speaking, his breath moving his veil. His rank odor seemed to travel with his words, and some of the people in the crowd were not shy about holding cloths to their noses. He was addressing an old woman who stood close to him, trembling as if she were afraid or moved deeply by fear or love. ¡°Grandmama, I am here,¡± Nuhrmer said in a high pitched voice. The voice of a child, although Nuhrmer¡¯s stockiness was visible beneath his robes. ¡°I am here, and I love you. I forgive you for taking my rag doll. I was naughty, I admit it. I didn¡¯t mean to burn the hem of your robes.¡±


    ¡°Child,¡± the old woman said, her voice cracking, ¡°child, I am to blame. If I had held my anger, you wouldn¡¯t have run down to the lake and¡­¡± A sob. She buried her face in the sleeve of her robe.


    ¡°Grandmama, that was my choice. My action. I could have stayed. I could have apologized. You are not to blame.¡±


    ¡°But I am,¡± the old woman sobbed. ¡°I am!¡±


    ¡°No. And I am not unhappy, here in death. I rest. I feel as if I lived a full life. It was my only life. How could it not be full?¡±


    ¡°Speak for my father!¡± an impatient voice called out from the crowd. Manrie could barely stand to look at the townspeople¡¯s faces. They all seemed distorted to her, leering, as if they were more hungry than sad. As if their everyday faces were only masks that hid a desperate need.


    Braedsmi Jahnjaeel turned his head toward the man. He was veiled, but his glowing eyes were wide with approval. ¡°You should do what he says,¡± his sister murmured.


    ¡°I will do what you say,¡± Braedsmi said, as if the thought had just occurred to him and he was delighted by his own cleverness.


    Then he went rigid, his back arched, his hands gripped the edge of the cistern. He began to shake, a wild trembling that threw him down into the dirt beside the well, where he writhed as the crowd watched him in silence. When it subsided his sister leaned forward and extended a hand to draw him up. He stood, hunched over, his head quavering beneath the veil. ¡°I am here, Ruprae. What is it you ask of me?¡±


    ¡°Father, where did you bury the gold? That bag you stole from that traveling merchant? I have looked everywhere, but I cannot find it. Where is it, Father?¡±


    ¡°In the caves below, my boy. Do you have the courage to go and seek it there?¡± He let out a howl of delight, as if he had played a great joke on the man.


    ¡°But where are the ghosts?¡± Manrie hissed. ¡°I don¡¯t see them here, in the courtyard.¡±


    ¡°I think¡­I think they¡¯re in the cistern,¡± Koenbahki said.


    ¡°In the water?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Won¡¯t they spoil it? Would people really drink that water after this?¡±


    Manrie wanted to move closer, but everyone had suddenly stilled. She glanced back and saw the tall, veiled figure emerging from the tunnel behind her. People shifted away, pressing close to each other. Braedsmi¡¯s body shook and then he straightened, the guise of the old man flying off of him. The veiled woman stalked forward, the separate strands of her strange robes undulating softly in the still air. She stood before the twins and said, ¡°Speak of Tirtatehni Jahnajeel.¡± Her raised a hand as Braedsmi opened his mouth. ¡°Do not call her!¡± she hissed. ¡°Call her brother. Call her father.¡±


    Manrie moved, pushing through the crowd to the side of the courtyard, from where she could see the triplets in profile and the wide pool of the cistern behind them. Koenbahki came with her, and she was aware of Taeyaho and Cloedeya following after. There was some secret communication passing between the veiled figures. Manrie could almost feel the tattered woman¡¯s will, as if it was a stone pressing down on her. She could sense the Jahnajeel siblings giving way to it. The only sign of their surrender was a wisp of light that rose over the pool. A sinuous band, like a beam of sunlight that had been twisted. A face passed along it, and Haelahza went rigid. Her brothers held her as she shook, rooting her to her seat on the rim of the cistern. Then the shaking stopped, and she raised a steady hand and pulled her veil away.


    Her face was clean, shining, her features very regular and attractive. But her mouth was pinched and lines had formed around it, a miser¡¯s mouth. ¡°I am too old to be disturbed,¡± she said in a querulous voice. The voice of an old man.


    ¡°You are Stahmak Jahnajeel?¡± the tattered woman asked.


    ¡°I am he.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    She turned her head to Nuhrmer. ¡°Summon his son. Summon Abaalcri.¡±


    The stink coming off of Nuhrmer seemed to grow, as if it was the effulgence of fear. Manrie gasped. It was like a wall of putrescence. And then it was gone, and a shape was rising out of the pool. It seized the stocky man and he fell face forward, down into the dirt. No one helped him up. His brother Braedsmi beamed down at him, as if delighted to see him stricken. His spasming hands quieted, and then they flattened against the earth, and he pushed himself to standing and faced the tattered woman, his shoulders thrown back in arrogant self-regard.


    ¡°Abaalcri Jahnajeel, you believe that the grave has absolved you of your crimes,¡± the tattered woman said. ¡°I call you forth before this tribunal of your descendants. You must speak the words that you have kept hidden. You must tell of your transgression.¡±


    The veiled head moved as if in protest, and then bent forward, cowed. ¡°It was not my fault,¡± a voice hissed from beneath the veil. ¡°She always enticed me. Even when we were children. She always touched me. We would reach for a ball at the same time. Or she would hold up some morsel for me to taste. She would leave her window open when she was dressing. One night she saw me watching her, and made to close the shutters. But I saw the look of regret on her face as they closed.¡±


    ¡°She was barely a woman. She was your sister.¡±


    ¡°She flirted with everyone. All of the men of Raesidae. And I had to endure their comments, their sneers. She kissed Danalbawae Nahrm under the spruce tree beyond the barrow. I saw her. I saw his hands on her. And when she sat at dinner that night she looked at me. I knew what she wanted of me.¡±


    ¡°When you called her into your chambers, she was frightened when you shut the door. You had sent all of the slaves away. Your father had traveled to Yenceyan.¡±


    ¡°She pretended to be afraid. I saw what she wanted. It was in her eyes. I knew that she felt it, too. We were held by the same desire.¡±


    ¡°You were not. You raped her.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°You raped her, and then you were ashamed, so when your father returned you told him that you had caught her entertaining a traveling merchant in her chambers.¡± The tattered veil swung towards Haelahza. ¡°You did not believe him, Stahmak Jahnajeel. You closed yourself in your room and pondered what you should do. Why did you decide what you decided?¡± The woman¡¯s voice rasped over the last words, and Manrie thought that this was the source of her anger. All of her outrage over the rape concentrated within its aftermath.


    Haelahza¡¯s pretty face clouded with self-loathing. ¡°They made me choose!¡± she complained, her voice quavering. ¡°They made me choose between them. My children. If what my daughter said was true, my son would be disgraced. My line would end. Jahnajeel House would fall, and could no longer claim its place among the First Families. We would have to flee, to leave our beautiful home, to leave the lake, to try to find our way in Yenceyan. And the story would follow us. It would follow us everywhere. How a brother raped his sister. Besides, who would the townspeople believe? My upright son, so canny in his business dealings. Or my daughter, already known as a flirt and much given to seeking the attention of men.¡±


    Haleahza stared at the tattered woman. Crows feet had grown around her eyes and dark patches weighed them down. ¡°It was not an easy decision. I sat in my room, in the dark, for three days. I could not stand my life, could not accept what my son had done. I never accepted it. I killed myself a year later. My daughter was gone, and there he sat, day after day, making sums in the counting rooms, taking inventory in the vault, preparing goods for travel. He, who had never touched a woman before, now fondled every slave. I watched him, and I knew that I had created him with my lie. Better that he had died. But I made sure he married, made sure that his wife became pregnant. And then I sailed out into the lake and set my boat afire.¡±


    ¡°You are not absolved,¡± the tattered woman said. She turned to Braedsmi Jahnajeel. ¡°Summon Olaeyorg, the fisherman.¡±


    This spirit came reluctantly out of the cistern, a meager, flickering light. It settled on the smiling Braedsmi with an air of apology. His smile faded. His lips turned downwards and a line appeared between his eyebrows as he scowled. ¡°I am here.¡±


    ¡°Tell it,¡± the tattered woman demanded. ¡°Tell how you rowed her to the island.¡±


    ¡°I was meant to kill her. To take her onto the water and push her from the boat. Three gold coins I had from Stahmak Jahnajeel to do this deed. But I am not a murderer. I knew of the island, as I had sailed further into the lake than many a man. I took her there, and left her with provisions. And I returned to her, again and again throughout the years.¡±


    ¡°She begged you to take her back to shore. She was so lonely. Cold at night. Afraid. Bitten by the spiders that crawl from the sand. Threatened by the snakes that sun themselves on the rocks. She slept in trees at night, and spoke to no one.¡±


    ¡°I could not take her back. Her brother would have learned that she was still alive.¡±


    ¡°You could have taken her to the western shore. You could have released her to find her way in the land.¡±


    ¡°I was good to her. I never forced her. She tried her wiles on me, and when I would not bend to her requests, I did not demand that she continue.¡±


    ¡°You were happy to lay with her, but you were deaf to her entreaties.¡±


    ¡°I suffered enough,¡± the spirit said mulishly. ¡°She cursed me. I was the first that she cursed.¡±


    ¡°And when you fell ill, you made no provision for her. You sent no one to the island with food. She cursed you, and it meant her end.¡±


    At that moment a gust of wind rushed through the six doors and into the courtyard. People bowed under it. Voices cried out. Manrie cowered away from it. It slammed into Braesdmi and Halaehza and pushed them back into the cistern. Nuhrmer fell to the ground and cowered against the cistern wall. People were running for the tunnels, pushing against the wind. The tattered woman had disappeared.


    Manrie hunched her body and crawled forward, buffeted, her robes flaring around her. There was a voice calling through the wind, a sharp, angry voice, but none of the words were meant for her. They slid around her and refused to enter her ears. She came to the edge of the cistern and looked down. Braesdmi and Halaehza were flailing around in the water, their robes billowing up around them. Manrie saw the disc glowing at the very bottom of the cistern, and put a foot up onto the rim. A hand grabbed at her.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Koenbahki screamed. Her voice was full of terror. But she had followed Manrie to the well. Such courage must be love. Manrie gave into it. She stepped back. She could see the spirits in the roiling water, their faces shifting across the surface. Halaehza had managed to thrash her way to the edge. She lifted an entreating hand to Manrie, and Manrie took it and began to pull at her. Then Taeyaho was at her side, and Cloedeya, and together they helped the scrambling woman out of the water. Braedsmi came next. He was smiling again. His body was spastic with fear, yet the grin could not leave his face. Manrie stared into the vacuum of that grin as she helped him from the water.


    The wind had died. The triplets shivered against the edge of the cistern. Halaehza was crying. Nuhrmer was cursing quietly, and the words were as foul as his stench. Braedsmi grinned and grinned.


    Cloedeya bent, meaning to comfort Halaehza, but she hissed at him and bared her teeth, just like a wet cat. Slaves were shuffling forward, reluctant and afraid. They came in a group, finding safety in numbers. They subsumed their cowering masters and patted at them with the sleeves of their dried robes. Cloedeya stepped back and watched, critically, his eyes made even more asymmetrical by his distress. Then he caught the glances of the other caravaners, gave a sad little nod, and led them away.


    They went back through the tunnels and out onto the road. Below them, water boomed in the cave. As if it was the voice of the stars, shouting down into the ground and echoing up at them. Manrie looked out at the placid lake water. She found that she was shaking, as if she¡¯d just emerged from that water, and, like a dog, was trying to find a way to dry herself. And suddenly she found all of it so repulsive. The three weird triplets. The lascivious swiveling of Pruetahna Zairiset¡¯s bony hips. The meek little woman who hid beside the woman in the tattered veils - the witch - the ghost. Koenbahki chose that moment to try to take her hand, and Manrie was suddenly sick of her as well. The speed with which she¡¯d tried to claim an intimacy that she had no right to. Her cloying need.


    She brushed Koenbahki away and quickened her pace to catch up to Cloedeya, who was walking with his head down, dejected. For a moment she let his silence rest, but only for a moment. Her mind was casting around for something to comment on, something to say that would fill the awful silence and give vent to her hatred of this place. A shimmer of moonlight across the lake water caught her eye.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why it gets so loud when it goes into the caverns,¡± she said, her voice tart with bitterness. Then she paused over her own words. ¡°Cloedeya, where to they get the salt?¡±


    ¡°The salt?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Those wagons on the way to Yenceyan. You said they were carrying salted fish. Where do the Jahnajeel get the salt?¡±


    She had managed to rouse him from his brooding. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I suppose they trade for it.¡±


    ¡°Have they always salted their fish?¡±


    ¡°As long as I remember.¡± He shrugged, with an uncharacteristic lack of curiosity. But she understood. He hated Residae, too. He had spent his childhood trying to get away, trying not to think about his home. She could picture him leaving, setting out on the road and slowly being charmed by the world as he journeyed further and further from his birthplace. Seduced by it, when perhaps he hadn¡¯t liked it at all when he left home.


    They came onto the bridge, and saw Big Praeda and Little Praeda and Melsa moving among the tables, in the company of the household slaves. They were taking the platters of half-eaten food and sadly scraping them into the water below. Melsa looked up and caught Manrie¡¯s eye. She blushed. For a moment Manrie was confused by her embarrassment, but as she stepped closer, she heard a high, piercing groan coming from one of the wagons. Then panting, squealing, high and ecstatic howls. Offered to the night as if they were a musical performance. Koenbahki came up beside Manrie and tilted her head to the right, listening closely, her lips pursed as if she were a connoisseur of such sounds. ¡°No one I know,¡± she said briefly.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± Manrie demanded of Melsa. ¡°Who¡¯s in our wagon?¡±


    Melsa couldn¡¯t meet her eye. ¡°Tafaemi...and Uku.¡±


    ¡°Uku! Uku? But¡­why? I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s been making eyes at him all day.¡±


    ¡°So? He doesn¡¯t have to respond!¡±


    ¡°But he chose to.¡±


    Manrie turned in fury. She found herself staring straight into Cloedeya¡¯s face. All those nights when he and Big Praeda and Melsa had disappeared into one of the wagons. It was as if they had been creating this moment between them. Turning the caravan into a place that allowed more than food and friendship. That allowed this. He hadn¡¯t ever really fled from Raesidae. He had carried Pruetahna Zairiset¡¯s smug carnality within him. As if it were a disease that had infected him, that he had spread to the two women he traveled with. She almost spit on him in her anger.


    Behind him, Taeyaho retreated into an embarrassed sulk. No wonder he went and slept in caves when he could. She brushed past him, fleeing the bridge, running deliberately into the eery and demanding shadows of Jahnajeel House. Back through the entrance tunnels, back into the abandoned courtyard, only stopping at the edge of the cistern, where she gazed down past the blue tiles, into the cloudy depths. She thought that she could see the disc glowing beneath the murk that the spirits had brought to the water. She poised to dive, then stopped. Why should it matter? Didn¡¯t Raesidae deserve this? Deserve seances and the accusations of the dead? Deserve to never move beyond past crimes, to flagellate themselves with guilt and never believe a word of forgiveness? Why should she rescue them? Why should she rescue anyone? The world deserved its ghosts. The discs could stay with the Man on the Mountain, as far as she was concerned.


    A movement out of the corner of her eye. The small, frightened woman, the mother of the triplets. Maedreth. Manrie went for her. The woman tried to dart away, to find sanctuary in the shadow of a pillar. Manrie grabbed her and shook her by her rough robes. Slave¡¯s robes. But this woman wasn¡¯t a slave.


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me! Don¡¯t see me!¡± Maedreth cried.


    ¡°That won¡¯t work on me. I haven¡¯t heard it a million times. You haven¡¯t lulled me into thinking you¡¯re not here.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me!¡±


    ¡°Why are you like this? Why do you just let things happen to you?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me!¡±


    ¡°Stop it! I see you. You are here. You are real. You don¡¯t deserve your curse.¡±


    ¡°You heard her! We all deserve it!¡±


    ¡°Because of something your ancestors did? Because a man decided to rape his sister, and his father didn¡¯t punish him?¡±


    The little woman looked down. She was breathing quickly, spastically, her bird-like form fluttering in Manrie¡¯s arms. ¡°She hates us,¡± Maedreth whispered. ¡°She curses us all.¡±


    ¡°Is that why she left her island? To accuse you? To curse you some more?¡±


    Wide, luminous eyes lifted to her. The tight, wizened face seemed to flatten. ¡°She came because the ghosts are walking. Because she can confront them now, when she couldn¡¯t in life.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re helping her. You¡¯ve been with her all day. She brought the disc from the barrow. She gave it to your children.¡± Then Maedreth¡¯s words caught up with her thoughts. ¡°Confront them? In life? But she couldn¡¯t have known them.¡±


    ¡°She did.¡±


    ¡°A woman can¡¯t live that long.¡±


    ¡°Not a woman,¡± Maedreth¡¯s voice was barely a whisper. ¡°A ghost.¡±


    Manrie almost let her go. ¡°A ghost?¡±


    ¡°Her ghost.¡±


    ¡°Whose? The girl who was raped? The witch¡¯s?¡± Maedreth nodded. Then Manrie did release her. She stood back, stunned. ¡°Both?¡± she asked. ¡°The witch is a ghost? A spirit?¡± Another small, twitchy nod. ¡°But she walked in the daylight,¡± Manrie protested. ¡°She isn¡¯t affected by the disc.¡±


    The little woman had no answer for that. She was looking away, her terror shrinking her. ¡°Don¡¯t see me,¡± she pleaded in a small voice. ¡°Don¡¯t see me.¡±


    Manrie felt the unwanted tug of pity. The same tug that had brought Cloedeya back here. Cloedeya, who didn¡¯t think joy could be kept for oneself, or protected, but must be brought into the most terrible of places. Then her pity turned to anger. Anger at the witch, who could not let things lie, who had subjected generations of innocents to her revenge. What did Maedreth have to do, really, with that ancient crime? Yet here she was, trying to make herself a shadow. When she had given birth to her children, had anyone even noticed? Or had they found the infants abandoned, here in the courtyard? Or not abandon, but with a mother they could not see or notice? Raesidae was terrible, because the witch had made it terrible.


    Manrie turned and went to the edge of the cistern. She looked down into the cloudy depths. Then she shrugged out of her outer robes and dove.

 In the Cave of Two Waters

    She was walking along the lake front, and the sun was shining, and a small lizard was keeping pace with her, peeping out of the grasses, and then it ran forward and bit her ankle. She was very tall and always hitting her head on lintels, and her wife, who hated her, placed a poison needle in just the spot where she always hit her head. She was sluggish with fever and the heat in the room was tremendous, and the sunlight was like a cleaver, cutting across her body as she lay in the bed. She was at the very top of a tree, and the other young men were calling out to her, urging her on, and she noticed that the leaves up here were very beautiful, like lace. They brushed her cheek and there was a bird¡¯s nest, and she thought that the tree loved her very much. She had just stabbed that merchant from Yenceyan who always cheated her, and he had plucked up a knife and stabbed her back. She had built the boat herself and was very proud of it, and couldn¡¯t believe that it was filling with water. She was mystified by the puffiness of her hands, and how hard it was to move her fingers, but she kept eating the pretty green berries anyway. They were waiting for her in the courtyard and she had a thousand things to do and she was only dimly aware of the puddle of water that her husband had left from his bath.


    They were annoying, these spirits who only thought about the moments of their deaths. She swam past them, the disc glowing before her. The spirits fled from her, as if afraid of her annoyance.


    She was in love, so in love, and amazed by how delicate and round Hananda¡¯s breasts were, and entranced by that particular scent of rose and iron that lingered in Hananda¡¯s hair. She had just bitten into a scallop that Cloedeya had cooked, and he was grinning at her, because he could see the emotion on her face, the way that the taste of butter and citrus and saffron made her whole body seize with delight and something deeper - the way the taste returned her to some place beyond her memory, beyond her life itself, someplace she had never known but had always missed. She had completed the blue dress, and the embroidery was exquisite, the best that she had ever done, the little flowers along the sleeve moving in and out of her vision as she gestured with her arms, meaning that she was aware of her movements in a way that she had never been before, as if the dress had changed her body, made her understand herself in a new way. She had just won the race, and they were carrying her, actually carrying her, up from the beach, and her arms were tired from rowing, her shoulders ached, but they were cheering her, laughing, so ecstatic at her victory, as if they had won, as if she were the summation of every little victory that they¡¯d ever had.


    This was even more dangerous than their deaths. She wanted to stay in these little moments of beauty and joy. Instead she pushed them away, the stroke of her arms through the water clearing a path, as if they were leaves that had fallen onto a calm lake.


    Okra again, and mama always cooked it wrong. It was so slimy and disgusting. All day hammering at the frame of the house, and with each hammer blow the work drew him deeper, so that he felt that he had to finish it, but he was tired, and he would be doing this again tomorrow, and the day after. Why did he always come at her after he had been drinking, so that he was a little flaccid when he tried to enter her, and would be angry if she didn¡¯t pretend to enjoy it? That sycamore tree exhausted all three of them, every autumn. Here they were, having to rake the leaves off the road again. She was so tired of playing this infantile dance music, but no one wanted to listen to the songs she wrote, even though she knew that they were better. Why did she always leave her slippers in the middle of the floor for her to trip over? The clerk always miscalculated the inventory, and always blamed it on the abacus, but she couldn¡¯t dismiss him because he was her third cousin.


    It was amid this flurry of everyday annoyances that Manrie¡¯s hands gripped the edges of the disc. She emerged from the water almost immediately, as if she hadn¡¯t been swimming for ages, as if she hadn¡¯t been resisting the pull of different lives until her mind felt thin and ripped, like too-dry dough that shredded as you rolled it. She broke the surface of the water with a great gasp. She could feel the dead swimming after her as she kicked towards the edge of the cistern. Following the disc, as she intended.


    She rested for a moment on the cistern¡¯s edge, dripping water onto the blue tiles. The dead were chorusing in her ear, asking her to pay attention to their tangled memories. A dissonant chorus, with no beauty in it. She blinked and rubbed the water from her eyes. Her wet hair hung down in strands in front of her face. She pushed it away and stood up, looking around the courtyard.


    Maedreth was just where she¡¯d left her, cowering against a column. Her posture just the same, her expression just the same, as if mere seconds had passed. They probably had. Whole lives, trying to summarize themselves in the briefest of moments. Battering Manrie with memories. She found that she was scowling as she prowled towards Maedreth.


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me, don¡¯t see me!¡± the little woman said.


    ¡°I do see you, and you see me. Look into my eyes, Maedreth. Do you see much pity there?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m being hounded by ghosts. They¡¯re right behind me. You see them. I want to know where the witch has gone.¡± The frightened eyes flicked towards a dark shadow under one of the balconies. ¡°What¡¯s through there?¡± Manrie demanded.


    ¡°Stairs.¡±


    ¡°Lead me.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me!¡±


    She grabbed the little woman and shook her. ¡°Lead me, Maedreth! I¡¯m not without pity. Only it¡¯s being stretched between all of your ancestors. There isn¡¯t much left for you.¡±


    Darting, hesitating, veering left and right as if she were nothing more than a vapor, Maedreth led Manrie to the shadow beneath the balcony. There was a door there. A rather wide door, wide enough for a wheel barrow. It was unlocked. Manrie swung it open, then reached out and grabbed Maedreth, who was trying to make her escape. ¡°Lead me!¡± she insisted.


    Down a twisting ramp. No stairs here, but a groove in the center of the floor for a wheel to jolt along. Lamps in sconces along the walls, flickering weakly. The passageway flattened. A stairway led off to the right. Maedreth made to continue down the ramp, but Manrie reached out with her free hand and grabbed her collar. ¡°What¡¯s down there?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Salt,¡± the other woman said. ¡°Don¡¯t see me!¡±


    They stood still, and Manrie listened. The booming sound of water wasn¡¯t coming from the base of the ramp far below them. It was coming up the stairs. And Manrie saw that there was a shaft dug beside the stairs, with a winch and pulley, and a large bucket hanging idly on a chain. ¡°Why does it sound like the ocean?¡± she asked.


    But Maedreth made a flickering movement and escaped from Manrie¡¯s grasp. She went running down the ramp. Manrie hesitated, feeling the ghosts build up behind her. Then she followed the little woman down.


    The ramp ended in an open cavern and came out onto a strand of sand. There were boats pulled up on the sand, the Jahnajeel¡¯s private fishing fleet. One boat stood on the water, bobbing gently. An old boat, carved, not planked. The witch was standing in the stern, facing Manrie from beneath the heavy overhang of the cave opening. Maedreth had flattened herself in the shadows beside one of the beached boats.


    Manrie suddenly felt afraid. She could sense the spirits behind her, as if they were a great wave, pushing her forward. The witch stood like a rock in the middle of a rushing river. All of these spirits would break against her. The tatters of her strange robes seemed to writhe, as if they were the tendrils of memory that wanted to ensnare Manrie. The witch ignored them. Manrie stepped to the edge of the water and held the disc out with both hands, pushing it forward. The witch was indifferent to it. Her head didn¡¯t move and her veils protected her expression.


    ¡°Why doesn¡¯t it affect you?¡± Manrie called. The witch said nothing. ¡°I know you can speak!¡± Manrie insisted. ¡°You spoke in the courtyard.¡±


    ¡°I came to speak to the dead,¡± the witch answered. ¡°Are you dead?¡±


    ¡°You know I¡¯m not. Why speak to the dead? What good does it do? What good does it do to curse people, generation after generation?¡±


    ¡°They are all afraid,¡± the witch said. Her tone was flat. She wasn¡¯t gloating. She wasn¡¯t defensive.


    ¡°But you curse them even when they¡¯re good people. It doesn¡¯t matter to you if they¡¯re good or bad.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°No? What did Maedreth ever do to you?¡±


    ¡°She isn¡¯t cursed. Not by me. By her husband, perhaps. By her children.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re cursed. What did they ever do to you?¡±


    ¡°Not to me. To her. To others.¡±


    ¡°And Cloedeya? You cursed his banquet.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I saw it! You changed the taste. You made people sit at different tables.¡±


    ¡°A blessing.¡±


    ¡°But now Cloedeya is the judge. He¡¯s worried he might be the judge. That his food will judge people.¡±


    ¡°It always does.¡±


    ¡°Food judges people?¡±


    The witch made no answer. Manrie wanted to throw the disc at her. Then she sighed, and some of the energy went out of her body. She felt very tired. She sat on the edge of an upturned boat and looked at the witch. ¡°And now? Do you return to your island? Must you be lonely forever?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°You could rest with the other dead.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    She felt the hard energy of despair rise inside of her. ¡°Can¡¯t I help you in any way?¡±


    ¡°No. See Maedreth.¡±


    ¡°I do see her.¡±


    ¡°See her.¡±


    ¡°I do!¡±


    But the boat was moving away, the witch still standing in the prow. It moved of its own accord over the still water, slipping from under the overhang and out onto the moonlit lake. The gleam of light on the water was like the shards of something that had broken when it fell to earth.


    Manrie watched, then became aware that the sound of waves hadn¡¯t changed, that somewhere a great tide was beating against the caves. She frowned. She went to Maedreth and knelt beside her. The dead came and stood around them, silent and expectant. ¡°Maedreth,¡± Manrie said gently, ¡°I¡¯m going to take you away from here. But first, I need you to show me the other water. The salt water.¡±


    Maedreth looked up, afraid. ¡°He¡¯ll beat me.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°Odril.¡±


    ¡°Odril?¡± She remembered Koenbahki saying the name. Hours ago, seemingly days ago. Before the banquet. ¡°Your husband. But Maedreth, he¡¯s dead.¡±


    Her eyes flicked to the spirits, and Manrie looked and saw a tall man. Whatever he had been in life, he was dulled by death, his face was as blank and indifferent as the other ghosts. Of all the ghosts she¡¯d seen since she¡¯d left Libreigia, only Aizdha¡¯s had been lively with expression. Maybe because she loved him, and had known him so well. Perhaps when Maedreth looked at her husband¡¯s face she saw anger, or arrogance, or gloating.


    ¡°Maedreth,¡± Manrie said softly, ¡°I¡¯m going to the lay them to rest. In a place where your children cannot reach them. If I can. Show me the salt water.¡±


    She had to help the little woman to her feet. She made Maedreth walk in front of her, holding her close with one hand, as if she were a frightened child. With the other hand she held the disc, glowing blue and green, casting a porous light into the darkness in front of them. They stepped across the strand and back to the ramp, and the dead followed. To the foot of the ramp and up it, the light washing over the walls of the tunnel as if it were moonlight chiming off of the surface of an ocean. She thought of the Man on the Mountain, and his upside down river. Maybe she had reached the other side of it, but it wasn¡¯t what he wanted it to be. It wasn¡¯t a place of sunlight and peace. It was a sad collection of spirits, refusing to be truly dead, caught forever in what they had been when they were alive.


    They came to the landing and Manrie turned Maedreth towards the stairs. The little woman shivered but descended. The stairs twisted downward. The booming of the ocean rose in their ears. It gathered specificity, becoming the lap of wave against rock, the skitter of petals caught by the tide, the rearrangement of a beach beneath the ocean¡¯s violence.


    They came out onto a large platform, built of struts and wood. There were holes in the platform, and buckets. There were large cauldrons with cloth stretched over their mouths. The moon rose over the ocean and threw its light down onto the waves, which took the light and fractured it, as if to churn it into some unknown substance.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Manrie walked to the very edge of the platform. The dead were following her. She could feel their eager attention. She held the disc by the edge, and then sent it spinning out over the water, as if she were skipping a stone. She felt the ghosts rush past her, felt their memories strike against her skin like pebbles. She hardened her mind against their rush so that she could watch as they threw themselves into the waves. She imagined that the disc would be pulled away from this shore with the tide, that the dead would forever pursue it across the waves.


    She stood there, Maedreth shivering beside her, and thought of Ahlo Enriegho. Of his brother. If only they had known that there was a lace hole here, in Raesidae. A stable one. A cave that never closed off the past, but opened, always, to the sea. She imagined them as children, walking with Macbrau along the road, past Jahnajeel House. If their story had been known, the triplets might have looked out at them, might have seen them and known that they had a way to send the two lost boys home. But the triplets wouldn¡¯t have acted. They¡¯d have kept their secret, their method of salting fish, their banal source of wealth.


    They were waiting for her in the courtyard. Their mother did not have to tell them not to see her. They looked past her as if she wasn¡¯t there. Nuhrmer¡¯s reek swung out at Manrie, as if it was a fist that he was aiming at her head. Braedsmi grinned at her with idiotic happiness. Only Haelahza seemed truly angry.


    ¡°You have taken our disc!¡± she spat.


    ¡°You have taken our disc?¡± Braedsmi asked, as if coming to a sudden realization.


    ¡°It¡¯s not your disc,¡± Manrie said. ¡°I brought it here. It was meant to be the town¡¯s disc.¡±


    ¡°She brought it to us,¡± Haelahza hissed.


    ¡°But it was given to us,¡± Braedsmi objected, and Nuhrmer said, ¡°it was a gift from the witch.¡±


    Manrie decided that she was speaking to Haelahza. ¡°Your curse doesn¡¯t affect me,¡± she said to the other woman. ¡°I don¡¯t need your brothers parroting your words back to me.¡±


    This caused Haelahza to blink in surprise. ¡°They won¡¯t stop. Everything I say they take as their own idea.¡±


    ¡°Then you should find someone else to talk to.¡±


    ¡°I am cursed. It isn¡¯t only my brothers. No one hears me. Why do you?¡±


    Manrie didn¡¯t know. She shrugged. ¡°I have been talking with the witch. I didn¡¯t know that ghosts could talk.¡±


    All three siblings reared back at this. ¡°A ghost?¡± Haelahza said.


    ¡°A spirit?¡±¡± Nuhrmer gasped.


    ¡°I believe I heard somewhere that she is a ghost,¡± Braedsmi opined. ¡°Yes, I believe that¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°But you speak for them!¡± Manrie said. ¡°Surely you must have known that she was a ghost.¡±


    ¡°We remember nothing,¡± Nuhrmer told her.


    ¡°After they ride us, they leave no trace. Others must tell us what they said,¡± Haelahza said. She was still looking at Manrie with a sense of surprise that verged between repulsion and yearning.


    ¡°We have no sense of them when they¡¯re riding us,¡± Braedsmi said. ¡°Someone told me that it¡¯s as if we¡¯re asleep, and that they¡¯re a dream we forget upon waking.¡±


    ¡°I told you that,¡± Haelahza said with annoyance.


    ¡°But I remember,¡± Manrie said. ¡°I went into the pool to retrieve the disc, and I swam through their lives. I remember all of it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not possible,¡± Haelahza said, and Braedsmi repeated her, ¡°Impossible!¡±


    ¡°What makes you so special?¡± Nurhmer asked with disdain.


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s just that I¡¯m not cursed. Or that I¡¯m interested in who they were, when they were alive.¡±


    All three triplets seemed offended by this, but they didn¡¯t speak their offense. Instead, Haelahza said, ¡°Where is the disc?¡±


    ¡°This is all beside the point,¡± Braedsmi said. ¡°The important question is, where is the disc?¡±


    ¡°I have discovered your secret,¡± Manrie told them. ¡°I went through the lace hole. I flung it into the sea.¡±


    ¡°The lace hole?¡± Braedsmi asked in confusion.


    ¡°Whatever you call it. The tunnel that leads to the ocean.¡±


    ¡°You must never speak of it!¡± Nurhmer breathed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if we should let you live,¡± Braedsmi said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous,¡± Haelahza snapped. ¡°We can¡¯t kill her, and besides, many of our clients know, and our slaves.¡±


    ¡°Although I suppose it¡¯s an open secret,¡± Braedsmi said, ¡°known by many of our slaves and clients. And besides, we¡¯re not murderers.¡±


    ¡°But they all fear us,¡± Nurhmer said, ¡°because we can channel the spirits.¡±


    ¡°They feared father,¡± Haelahza reminded him, ¡°and he wasn¡¯t ridden by ghosts. And they¡¯ve kept the salt secret since his death, even if they don¡¯t cringe before us like they cringed before him.¡±


    ¡°They have always kept our secrets, even before the ghosts,¡± Braedsmi said reasonably. ¡°They fear us like they feared father. And besides, they all benefit from it. We all get rich together.¡±


    ¡°Probably not the slaves,¡± Manrie said. She was suddenly very tired. She wanted to return to the bridge and creep into the sleeping car and sleep forever. Only Tafaemi and Uku were in there. Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered. She didn¡¯t know why it hurt her so much.


    ¡°If the disc was thrown into the ocean, I suppose it might wash up again,¡± Haelahza said.


    ¡°That disc is never coming back to us,¡± Nuhrmer spat, as if he were responding to Braedsmi. ¡°The tide will take it, and if it ever comes to shore again, it will be somewhere else. I suppose that all of the dead followed it,¡± this addressed to Manrie.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Then all of our ghosts will be haunting the coast.¡±


    ¡°Where is the coast?¡± Manrie asked, alarmed that she might have sent the spirits of Raesidae to plague some innocent fishing village. The three stared back at her. They didn¡¯t know. Perhaps they¡¯d never thought to wonder. ¡°I¡¯m leaving,¡± Manrie said, after a moment.


    ¡°It won¡¯t change, you know,¡± Haelahza said with bitter smugness. ¡°More people will die. The dead will walk through Raesidae again.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that you were very successful,¡± Braedsmi said regretfully. ¡°People always die. We¡¯ll have plenty of ghosts again soon.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be drawn here,¡± Manrie said, with a confidence she didn¡¯t feel. ¡°They¡¯ll walk past you on their way to the lace hole. You might be able to snare them, but only for a passing moment.¡±


    ¡°We really should kill her,¡± Haelahza said, but her tone held no heat in it.


    ¡°You could be the first,¡± Braedsmi suggested. ¡°Test your theory.¡±


    Nuhrmer took a step forward, and Manrie was suddenly aware of her vulnerability. They could kill her, very easily. And who would know that she had been here? Surely Cloedeya and Taeyaho would come looking for her. But perhaps not. A vision of her spirit, floating out on the lonely waves, flashed in her mind.


    She was backing away. Moving between the columns. The triplets seemed indecisive, Braedsmi uncertain, Haelahza indifferent. Only Nuhrmer seemed ready to make good on the threat. He paced after her, his fists clenched, his stench assaulting her. He couldn¡¯t beat her to death with his hands, could he? She wondered if she should cry out. But that might summons slaves, servants, people who could be convinced to join in the murder. The cistern sent the reflection of moving water swaying about the courtyard, and Nurhmer¡¯s stink seemed to grow stronger as he gathered himself to spring at her.


    Then Maedreth slipped from the shadows and stood in front of him, and he slammed into her, stumbling and falling to the ground. Manrie turned to run. She heard him gasping, ¡°What was that?¡± and Haelahza saying ¡°you tripped over your own feet,¡± and Braedsmi repeating ¡°you seem to have tripped.¡± She imagined Maedreth laying on the ground, struck down by her unseeing son.


    But she was free, running down the entrance tunnel and through the portico and out onto the road, the lake lying placid to her left. She ran past the monoliths, their ancient symbols casting thin shadows against their sides. The wandering people, she remembered. They seemed to breathe an aura of benevolence into the air, and she slowed down. No one was chasing her. The bridge was ahead. She came out onto it and found that the wagons were gone, as were the tables and chairs. The one remainder of the banquet was a faint scent of curry that lingered on the air.


    Taeyaho was waiting for her halfway down, sitting on the bridge wall. He smiled at her as she came up to him and jumped down from the wall, and the moonlight struck against his beauty as she fell into the halo of his protection. He held her, and she could feel her heart beating against him. He smelled of onions and fish, and his own distinct aroma, which was clean as sand and warm like wheat growing in a field. ¡°Where are the others?¡± she asked into his shirt.


    ¡°They¡¯ve gone to Nahrm House,¡± he said. ¡°Cloedeya is friends with the wagonwright. No one wanted to go back to the Zairiset.¡±


    ¡°Thank goodness,¡± Manrie said.


    They walked together across the bridge and then turned with the road to pass by Zairiset House. There was a grove of trees to their left, lining the river, and an owl hooted plaintively from a high branch, its voice barely heard over the roar of the waterfall. The road turned and Manrie looked out at the lake, wondering if she could see the witch¡¯s skiff moving across the still water. But the witch was long gone. Somewhere out there was her island, and her lonely afterlife. *I know now that some of the dead will never be laid to rest,* she thought to herself, and it made her sad. It made her feel like her life in Libreigia would always be with her, that one part of her would always be subject to the snide superiority of clerks and archivists, would always be wary of the unwanted touch of the scholar masters.


    Nahrm House was smaller than either Jahnajeel House or Zairiset House. The wagons were parked in the courtyard, and their sides were warmed by the light of a few lanterns that had been kept burning. Cloedeya was waiting for her. He was sitting on the edge of a cistern. It was untiled, made of rough field stones. Their edges had been worn away by generations of people who had sat on them, a human erosion that somehow made Manrie feel safe.


    ¡°The others are asleep?¡± she asked, coming to sit beside him.


    ¡°Melsa and Big Praeda are in the pantry wagon with Little Praeda. I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re asleep, but she wanted them to lay down with her.¡± He glanced at the sleeping wagon and grimaced. ¡°I am sorry, Manrie. I hurt you, and I don¡¯t know why.¡±


    She sighed and sat beside him. Taeyaho had been hanging back, and he took this moment to slip away, going to find some bed in the shadows. ¡°I thought better of Uku, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°He is very sad. He is mourning. Perhaps he is looking for comfort where he can.¡±


    ¡°He could have sought it with me.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°But you spent the day with Koenbahki. I offer no blame. I think for you, people might be what food is for me. A delight. A fascination.¡±


    Manrie didn¡¯t think that could be true. She hesitated, then whispered, ¡°I think we might be monstrous. Us. Human beings. I¡¯ve started drawing us into the bestiary.¡±


    He considered her. He was very tired, and one of his mismatched eyes was wandering freely. It gazed past her, as if looking at something that she couldn¡¯t see. ¡°Then perhaps you need to stop thinking of it as a bestiary.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s full of monsters.¡±


    ¡°Or simply the beings of this world. Who are we to say what is monstrous?¡±


    ¡°Some of them are.¡± She shivered. ¡°A zaizectu killed Praeda¡¯s mother.¡±


    ¡°But perhaps to a zaizectu we are the monsters. Or we are the meal. Perhaps it is a connoisseur of our breath, as I am a connoisseur of mountain honey. What gives us the right to go about the world, categorizing creatures and plants and stones that were here long before us, and have their own lives?¡±


    Manrie thought about this. She wondered what Aizdha would say. After a moment she said, ¡°Cloedeya, did you cook a scallop and give it to someone?¡±


    He was confused. ¡°A scallop?¡±


    ¡°Maybe a long time ago. When you were a boy here.¡±


    His eyes widened. ¡°I¡¯d forgotten that. There was an old woman who was dying, and she loved scallops. A client of the Zairiset, who always made rye biscuits for me, and still had a beautiful singing voice, even though she was very old. I wanted to please her. I wanted her to be happy when she died.¡±


    ¡°You cooked it in butter sauce, with saffron.¡±


    ¡°I traded with a merchant from across the mountains. I gave him a strange stone that I had found in the hills. Manrie, how do you know this?¡±


    She smiled. ¡°I went into the cistern at Jahnajeel House. I took the disc and I led the dead to a new home. The old woman told me. Her spirit did.¡±


    He stared at her. His wandering eye had come back to her face. ¡°It is as I said. You love people. You want to know them.¡±


    She looked down. ¡°I didn¡¯t think that I did.¡±


    He smiled and laid a hand on her head, as if he were blessing her. ¡°It starts with small things. I made the scallops for my friend, and then she died, and I knew that I had to leave Raesidae. She was one of the few people who had ever been kind to me. I went to Yenceyan, and I was glad to be rid of this place, and I told myself that I hated all of the people here. And because of that I believed that I hated most people. But I was traveling with a caravan, and the cook saw my interest in the food he was making, and I assisted him. And when I got to Yenceyan I stayed with him, and he cooked in the caravansary, where he had a wife and three children. And then after a while he became restless again, and joined another caravan, and I went with him. I met other cooks. I learned to make many dishes, and then I made dishes of my own, and climbed mountains, and went down into gorges, and traded with all sorts of people, and discovered tastes and flavors that I didn¡¯t know existed. But when I made them only for myself, the flavor was different. Not as good. So I cooked for the people I had come to love. And then one day some bandits attacked a caravan I was traveling with. They captured me, and I cooked for them. The whole time I plotted my escape, but I was also happy that they ate with such appetite and always demanded more. They would have kept me with them forever, but there was a leadership dispute, and the bandit leader was killed, and in the commotion I slipped away. I wandered through the cities east of the mountains and cooked everywhere I went, and always it was the same. I couldn¡¯t help loving the food, and found that people understood my cooking as an expression of love for them. And after a while I had to admit that they were right.¡±


    ¡°And then you came back to Raesidae.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t easy the first time. I came on my own, and all of my old enemies were here. The people who had hurt me. The Zairiset still insisted that I was their client. But I held a banquet. I cooked for everyone. And after that I couldn¡¯t belong to any one house. I didn¡¯t stay long. But I returned a few years later. And I have kept returning. I don¡¯t hate anyone here, anymore, although they oppress me. I don¡¯t know if I love them. But I pity them, and pity is a form of love.¡±


    ¡°What will you do now?¡± Manrie asked softly.


    ¡°Now?¡±


    ¡°The witch has cursed you.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. I¡¯ve been sitting here thinking about it, as I¡¯ve been waiting for you. Maybe she has cursed me. Or maybe she¡¯s given me what I¡¯ve always wanted. A way to bring low the arrogant and raise up the lowly. I don¡¯t like the idea that I can judge people in that way. But is it my judgement? If it comes from my food, then it is derived from the ingredients. Maybe it is the land that is judging them.¡± He shrugged, then shook his shoulders as if shaking off a thought. ¡°I am not content with it. I will try to make a dish that judges no one, and maybe I will succeed. But I don¡¯t feel cursed.¡± He smiled, and kissed her forehead. ¡°And now, Manrie, we should go to bed. I will sleep on top of the pantry wagon, and you should go in with the other women.¡±


    She opened the side of the wagon and slipped in, and went to sleep among the scent of herbs and onions.

 Within the Helpless Pursuit

    ¡°Cloedeya, I told the witch that I would take care of Maedreth.¡± It was morning, and the others were gathered for breakfast, sitting together at the table. Only Tafaemi and Uku were absent, still cloistered in the sleeping wagon. Manrie didn¡¯t want to think of their bodies lying together, the sheen of sweat, the shared stench of morning breath. Everyone at the table had bathed, going to the river and coming back together. Koenbahki had been at the river and had joined them. She was sitting beside Manrie and Little Praeda was in her lap, eating a piece of rye bread that was sticky with honey.


    Manrie¡¯s announcement cut through the general chatter. Taeyaho started visibly and dropped a hard-boiled egg. Melsa looked up from some internal dialog that had been taking all of her attention, and began to fan her wide shoulders back and forth. Big Praeda¡¯s cheeks flushed, as if Manrie had somehow embarrassed her. Cloedeya stared at her with his mismatched eyes.


    ¡°The witch?¡± he asked. ¡°You talked to the witch?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Manrie said, regretting that she had raised the subject and interrupted the light, relieved feeling of the breakfast. The morning sunlight was crisp and clear and it fell among the biscuits and steamed buns and little dishes of sauce and curry, seeming to bless them with a bright, citrusy aura. There was no shadow of cloud in the sky, but Manrie knew that she had brought a shadow. She tried to make amends by saying, lightly, ¡°She¡¯s a ghost, of course. I didn¡¯t know that ghosts could talk.¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t curse you?¡± Koenbahki asked, and she allowed a teasing note into her voice. Yes, her tone said, the witch could be a joke, or if not a joke, an object of amused curiosity. Manrie was grateful.


    ¡°Who¡¯s Maedreth?¡± Little Praeda asked, smearing her cheek with honey.


    ¡°She¡¯s the matriarch of Jahnajeel House, although nobody seems to know it,¡± Koenbahki said.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t they know it?¡±


    ¡°She says ¡®don¡¯t see me, don¡¯t see me,¡¯ over and over again, and so they don¡¯t,¡± Manrie told her, as if it were humorous, instead of very sad.


    ¡°Don¡¯t see me,¡± Praeda said, trying it out, and Koenbahki pretended that she wasn¡¯t there, plucking an orange from the table and beginning to peel it on top of her head. Praeda let out a squeal of laughter, but Cloedeya¡¯s expression remained serious.


    ¡°It was her, then. In the veils. That was the witch.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell Tafaemi that she was right,¡± Manrie said, and regretted that, too, as everyone glanced towards the sleeping wagon.


    ¡°And she came here to reveal the truth, to tell her story, like we heard last night.¡±


    ¡°What was the story?¡± Melsa asked.


    ¡°Too sad,¡± Taeyaho said, shaking his head quickly from side to side, like a dog trying to get dry. ¡°Too sad, too sad.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Cloedeya agreed, nodding imperceptibly toward Little Praeda. ¡°Not a good story for breakfast.¡±


    ¡°See me, see me!¡± Little Praeda squeaked, giggling and upsetting the pile of orange peels that was balanced in her hair, sending them flopping down her shoulders and into her lap.


    ¡°I see you,¡± Koenbahki assured her, and kissed her head.


    ¡°But can she?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°Can she what?¡±


    ¡°Travel with us? Can we take Maedreth with us?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°Of course. It will be very tight, until the new wagon is built.¡±


    ¡°Can I¡­¡± Koenbahki said, suddenly shy, ¡°can I come with you, too?¡±


    They all turned their heads and considered her. Manrie felt compelled to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her as the silent decision was made. ¡°You would leave your husband?¡± Cloedeya asked.


    ¡°I do not love him. He tries to be kind, but he belongs to that house,¡± she gave a little shudder. ¡°I do not want to remain there.¡±


    ¡°We will go to Yenceyan, eventually,¡± Cloedeya said softly, as if warning her.


    ¡°I know. I guessed. But it will be all right, if I¡¯m with you. We wouldn¡¯t want to go there now, anyway. Not until things have settled down again.¡±


    ¡°It is good we¡¯re going east, then,¡± Cloedeya said. He moved his gaze around the table. ¡°It seems that the caravan grows.¡±


    ¡°Is this the biggest it¡¯s ever been?¡± Manrie asked.


    ¡°Oh yes. Until a few years ago it was just Melsa, Big Praeda, and me. We only had one wagon.¡±


    ¡°The First Family,¡± Koenbahki suggested.


    But this caused Cloedeya¡¯s face to cloud, and his right eye wandered away, as if it were too embarrassed to look at her. ¡°We don¡¯t think of ourselves like that. We¡¯re not like that. We have no First Families.¡± Then he clapped his hands and wiped crumbs from his robe. ¡°We¡¯ll leave today. As soon as we can. We¡¯re going east, to the Man on the Mountain. We need more discs. I¡¯ve already thought of the meal that we¡¯ll cook for him. There are mushrooms growing in the foothills that growl and roar like a lion.¡± He said this to Little Praeda, who laughed and clapped her hands.


    They all began to get up, to tidy away breakfast, to begin to pack. Manrie fetched a bucket of water from the Nahrm cistern. The people of the house wove through the courtyard, going about their private business. Some children appeared and began to play with Little Praeda. Melsa led Koenbahki onto the top of the pantry wagon and began showing her how to secure the plants and tend the sourdough. Taeyaho collected plates and brought them to Manrie. He stood beside her, holding a rag for drying and singing under his breath.


    The side of the sleeping wagon opened and Uku shambled out, just in time to seize the last of the breakfast scraps before they were put away. Manrie saw Tafaemi through the open wagon side, turning slightly, moving her hands in front of her face, soft, lazy, satiated. She rose and one breast was exposed before she slowly pulled her robes together. She saw Manrie looking at her and smirked.


    Big Praeda had gone into the pantry wagon, and now she emerged. Her purplish lips were pursed, and the line of acne on her forehead seemed to flare with distress. ¡°Cloedeya,¡± she said, and her voice was terse. In the other wagon, Tafaemi went still, listening. Cloedeya, who was at the table, cutting the remaining rolls into thin slices for toasting, turned his head. Manrie, observing this tableau, felt the world pause.


    ¡°Cloedeya,¡± Big Praeda said, ¡°the okubrahchi is missing.¡±


    It had some meaning that Manrie didn¡¯t understand. The okubrahchi? Wasn¡¯t that the dried bat that was kept in the bag beside the butterfly cocoon? Two bats, someone had said, and they mated for life. Cloedeya had turned his head and was looking at Uku, who was taking surprisingly dainty bites out of the remains of a steamed bun. Cloedeya turned to look at Tafaemi. Big Praeda stepped from the wagon and went to stand beside Cloedeya. She, too, looked at Tafaemi.


    ¡°What have you done?¡± Cloedeya asked.


    ¡°Done?¡± Tafaemi pushed her shoulders back and lifted her breasts, as if they were a shield. ¡°I haven¡¯t done anything.¡±


    ¡°You were making your own dish, at the banquet. You wouldn¡¯t let me see it. And then no one ate it. Or I thought no one ate it.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t good. I thought that I could cook. I was embarrassed to try.¡±


    ¡°I ate it,¡± Uku said softly. He was looking from face to face, sensing that this had something to do with him. ¡°She brought it to me. Last night, after the ghosts marched through. The spirits, the specters, the shades.¡±


    ¡°Tafaemi,¡± Big Praeda said, and her voice was very low, as if she intended to knock the woman¡¯s knees out with it, ¡°did you feed the okubrahchi to Uku?¡±


    ¡°Why?¡± Manrie asked into the pause that followed. ¡°What would it do?¡±


    ¡°They mate for life,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°For life. They are always engaged in the act of mating. Their bodies joined together. They are the greatest aphrodisiac that I know of.¡±


    ¡°Aphrodisiac?¡± Taeyaho asked.


    Uku said, ¡°Love potion. Philter. Elixir.¡±


    ¡°Is that why Uku went to your bed last night? Did you poison him?¡±


    ¡°Poison?¡± Tafaemi protested. ¡°How could it be poison? It gave him pleasure.¡±


    ¡°You said that no one ever loves you in the way you want to be loved. Is that how you want to be loved?¡±


    Cloedeya¡¯s tone was too soft, hinting at understanding. Manrie felt a flush creep over her body. She was finding it hard to breathe. ¡°You raped him,¡± she said.


    Tafaemi scoffed. ¡°Rape? How could it be rape? He came willingly.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Big Praeda said. ¡°You poisoned him. You robbed him of his will.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t!¡± Tafaemi spat. She was enraged. Her whole body was quivering.


    They were all staring at her. No one moved. The silence stretched, inviting her to condemn herself. She refused.


    ¡°Am I still a slave?¡± Uku asked softly.


    Manrie turned to him. He was moving his enormous jaw back and forth, as if chewing on something. She saw him as she had first seen him at the gate of Macbrau¡¯s compound. His robes were still ragged. His belly still peeped through the opening. Not beautiful, but still, she felt the softness of his mouth on her fingers from when she had fed him during the sandstorm. ¡°Uku,¡± she breathed.


    ¡°Well,¡± Tafaemi said, ¡°if you are all going to stare at us like that, perhaps we will stay here, in Raesidae, and not travel with the caravan.¡±


    ¡°You will stay in Raesidae,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°Uku will come with us.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she said, shaking her thick, enameled hair. ¡°You are mine, aren¡¯t you, lover?¡±


    The giant blinked. ¡°I stay with Tafaemi,¡± he said.


    ¡°Uku,¡± Manrie stepped forward. ¡°Uku, she¡¯s trapped you. It¡¯s the okubrahchi.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t stay anywhere,¡± Big Praeda said, seething. ¡°You¡¯ll be exiled. We¡¯ll tell the First Families what you¡¯ve done. They won¡¯t have you in Raesidae.¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°They won¡¯t? Do you think that Pruetahna Zairiset will care?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯ll care,¡± Koenbahki called from the top of the pantry wagon. ¡°Why would she want you here? She¡¯ll see you as competition.¡±


    ¡°That shriveled old crone?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s what you¡¯ll be, when you¡¯re old.¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Cloedeya said. ¡°Leave, Tafaemi. Leave, and never come into our presence again.¡±


    Tafaemi tried to stare them down. She wouldn¡¯t bow her head, but after a moment she turned aside, as if inspecting the sleeping wagon. ¡°Uku,¡± she snapped, ¡°gather my unguents.¡±


    He moved to obey her. ¡°Uku, don¡¯t,¡± Manrie said.


    But he didn¡¯t look at her. He stepped forward, and for the first time his size was threatening. No one tried to stand in his path. Manrie threw her dish cloth at him. It slapped into his back and fell off, leaving a soapy damp spot. She turned to Cloedeya, ¡°When will it wear off? The okubrahchi?¡±


    He was pale. ¡°They mate for life.¡±


    ¡°Then why do you even have it?¡±


    He turned his head towards Big Praeda. ¡°We agreed. We chose it. We kept it for anyone else who wanted to choose it.¡± He lowered his head. ¡°We should have gotten rid of it.¡±


    Manrie was so angry that she could have struck him. Instead she strode forward, intending to put her body in front of Uku. But he had already reached the wagon, and was helping Tafaemi down. Manrie grabbed at his arm and hung from it. It did nothing to arrest his steady movement. Tafaemi, reaching the beaten earth of the courtyard, sneered at Manrie and struck her across the shoulders with a fan.


    ¡°Cloedeya! Help me!¡± she cried.


    He stepped forward uncertainly. Big Praeda brushed past him and slapped Tafaemi across the face. The other woman cried out. ¡°Uku, stop them!¡± she demanded. He turned, his large body threatening everyone. He shook his arm and Manrie fell into the dirt.


    ¡°I am a slave,¡± he said. ¡°I am her slave.¡± His voice was mournful, but there was no rage in it, no desire to writhe against his circumstances.


    ¡°If I go, he comes with me,¡± Tafaemi said, challenging them all.


    She swept from the courtyard, Uku at her side, as the others trembled with inaction. Manrie pushed herself up and ran again to block their path. Someone was running with her. She saw a flash of golden hair and knew that it was Taeyaho. They spun their bodies in front of the giant and Manrie began beating at him. He flung out a huge arm and swept them away. Again they were up, going through the entrance tunnel, out onto the road, where Tafaemi and Uku had turned towards the west.


    ¡°I think we will take a boat,¡± Tafaemi was saying.


    Taeyaho fell to the ground in front of her, trying to trip her, but she stepped over him, sneering with contempt. Manrie grabbed the hem of her robes and pulled. There was a ripping sound, and Tafaemi turned to her, outraged. The robe had come open along the front, exposing her nakedness. She looked down at her own body, then smirked. She turned, deciding to leave it that way, and Manrie dropped the hem of the robe. Tafaemi would walk naked down to the beach if she had to, and expect everyone to admire her.


    But Taeyaho was up. He ran past Uku and Tafaemi and stopped in the road in front of them. He started to sing, loudly, aggressively. It was unlike any song he had ever sung before. A song of anger. Of outrage. Uku picked him up by his shoulders and gently placed him at the side of the road. They went past.


    The road was sloping down towards the beach. Manrie ran past them. The fishermen were out on the lake. There were only three boats left beached on the sand. She ran to one and began turning it over. It was heavy and sand flaked from its side, scattering across her robes. It came onto its keel and rocked back and forth. ¡°Taeyaho, help me!¡± she shouted, and she began to push it towards the water. He was beside her in a moment, but she shook her head. ¡°The other boats. We have to get them off of the beach.¡±


    It was too late. A large hand clasped her shoulder. She was hunched over, pushing at the stern, shoving it, cursing. Uku lifted her. She struggled in his grip. Her feet left the ground. He turned her and looked into her face. His expression was very sad. Then he set her down on the beach and lifted up the stern and pushed the boat as if it were a plow, delving a deep rut into the wet sand. Tafaemi walked beside him, carrying her basket of unguents, her head lifted imperiously, her mouth pressed into a self-satisfied smile.


    Taeyaho made to run in front of them, but Manrie snapped at him. ¡°The other boats. We can follow them!¡±


    They scrambled to turn over a gray, shallow, weather-beaten boat, to push it along in Uku¡¯s wake. The other boat was already on the water, Tafaemi seated in the prow, smiling back at them. Wintry. Cruel. Gloating. Uku sat in the stern, also facing them, working the heavy oars. There was a wind on the beach, and clouds had appeared on the horizon. They were scudding violently across the sky, as if they wanted to plane away the morning¡¯s sunshine. Water, soaking Manrie¡¯s feet, and then she was in the boat, and Taeyaho was leaping in behind her. They rocked violently in the shallow water. Then the boat surged forward as he found the oars.


    A voice from the beach. ¡°Manrie! Uku! Come back!¡± Koenbahki¡¯s voice, and Little Praeda¡¯s under it.


    ¡°Come back! Come back!¡±


    But she would not go back. She wouldn¡¯t glance back. How could they let this happen? How could they simply decide that Tafaemi should win? How could they accept Uku¡¯s slavery?


    The other boat was making towards the middle of the lake. The wind was swirling around them, as if they had summoned it with their anger, with the poisoning of the joy they had all shared at breakfast, with the clap of thunder that had occurred within them when Big Praeda announced that the okubrahchi was gone. Okubrahchi! It was disgusting. Creatures that mated for life. That flew through the air while mating. That swallowed insects, defecated, slept, gave birth, while mating! This world was full of things like that. Horrors. Monsters. Their true nature revealed, even as Cloedeya tried to claim that they were good, a gift. She could imagine him chewing the meat of the okubrahchi, closing his mismatched eyes as his face went slack with sensual delight. She could imagine Melsa and Big Praeda eating, delicately, carefully, savoring the flavors, looking at each other, feeling something lock within themselves, allowing their willpower, their freedom of choice, to fall away. All for what? So that they could be united in their love? If you could call it love. No. Manrie didn¡¯t see it as the enshrinement of their commitment to each other, no matter how they thought of it. They had done it because they wanted to taste the okubrahchi. They had done it because the land had seduced them.


    A peel of actual thunder. The wind over the lake was cold. It bit into her face and she stared ahead. The other boat was drawing further away. Uku was too strong. Taeyaho couldn¡¯t keep up. The water was choppy. The other boat moved on its swells, thrusting upwards, then seeming to sink behind the ridge of the following wave. Rising and sinking, and this movement filled Manrie with distaste. The very movement of mating. No wonder Tafaemi had chosen it. Let the storm come. Let it drown the other boat. Uku could swim. He would escape. Tafaemi would go to the bottom, weighed down by her basket of unguents.


    A voice, crying over the water. At first Manrie thought that it was Koenbahki and Praeda on the beach. But they were far behind, now. It was the witch. The witch¡¯s voice, calling her curses over the land. *Curse Tafaemi!* Manrie thought. *Make it real. Make it so no one will love her!* She willed the voice to grow stronger. She willed the words to become specific, to call out Tafaemi¡¯s name.


    An island loomed on the starboard side. Hard rocks, black with rain. Trees somehow clinging to the bluffs, thrashing back and forth. Waves battering up over the stone, as if to submerge the entire island. And a voice, crying out, loud, imperious, as strong as the storm.


    But otherwise occupied. ¡°Curses on Jahnajeel house! Curses in this and every generation! Curses on the children of Braedsmi! Curses on the children of Haelahza! Curses on the children of Nuhrmer!¡±


    It was unfair. What use were these curses, if they didn¡¯t interfere with Tafaemi¡¯s crime? The witch had claimed that her curses brought justice. Where was that justice? It was overwhelmed by, swamped by, obliterated by vengeance.


    At the stern of the boat, Taeyaho began to sing. As if he could drown out the witch¡¯s voice. A loud song, yet still delicate, somehow. Mournful, his tone the same that he had used as she had walked into the barrow. ¡°Here is the thin boy, so good at spotting fish, the boy of mud and sand bars, of shadows over the river, the boy who wandered far to the west, and came to streams where beaver taught him how to swim. And here is the girl who goes in pursuit of knowledge, who cannot keep from helping, who stares into faces as if she¡¯s studying a map, who wants to find some path to goodness, who has stopped looking for monstrous lairs. They ride together on the waves.


    ¡°And there is the big man, stolen away from generous love, made slave in the city of ink-spots, made to sit on benches and run alongside the curiosity of scholars, made to scrape dead flesh, to turn the paddle through urine vats, to bate leather in animal brains. Always the stench, always the reek of dead things made useful within a cauldron of waste. There is the giant, who took refuge in words, who turned them and saw them change and clothed himself in them and found warmth.¡±


    Manrie found that she was crying. It was as if Taeyaho were trying to convince the witch of something, to show her the rapturous beauty of the people rowing past her island, to turn her from curses to wonder. Manrie knew that Taeyaho had truly seen her, as he truly saw Uku, and saw himself. But then his song turned to Tafaemi.


    ¡°There is the little girl who played with dolls, who tried to wring an ounce of love from an old rag with a painted on face. Who sat at her father¡¯s feet as he worked at his bench, as he heated his crucibles, as he pounded his pestles. There is the little girl who he touched in the night, and filled with fear. Who tried to take refuge in other children, and found the fingers of boys, straying beneath her clothing. Who tried to find safety in the man of the caves, who lay with her although his eyes were full of tunnels, his forehead scorched by the pursuit of darkness. They ride together on the waves.¡±


    ¡°Be quiet, Taeyaho!¡± Manrie shouted at him. ¡°You can¡¯t be on her side! You can¡¯t still want to lay with your head in her lap! She¡¯s not your mother! She¡¯s a monster!¡±


    He fell silent. The island was falling away, the witch¡¯s voice skirling off into the pummeling wind. Another flash of lightning. The thunder right above them. For a moment the sky opened, a long vein of light shining through and falling onto the roiling water, like it was making a path for them. Manrie could not see the other boat within the slicing light. Then it was gone, and the rain came, fast and hard, and they were enclosed in it, lost on the water.


    They could not turn back now if they wanted to. Who knew where the shore was? Who knew where the island was? They were in a place of swirling darkness, worse than the barrow. She suddenly realized what she had done, when she had thrown the disc out into that distant sea. The dead of Raesidae were condemned to a realm of chaos, of sudden storms and thrashing waters. They would never again know the deep silence of that darkest place within the barrow. She had been cruel without knowing it. And they had somehow reached back out to her, intending to force her to share their fate.


    A lightning strike, and the water flared for a moment, showing the loom of land to their left. Trees bent under the tumult, so that their tops almost touched the water. ¡°Taeyaho, there!¡± Manrie cried, thinking that he could somehow steer the boat beneath the shelter of the bowed branches. But there was nothing he could do. The land shot past them, a dark and dangerous shadow. Lake water seemed to boom against it, and the rain wanted to cut slices from it, as if it were meat on Cloedeya¡¯s cutting board.


    Taeyaho lost control of the boat. One moment they were surging straight ahead, and the next they were swirling, Manrie¡¯s insides gripped as they tipped to the side. She was screaming. She glanced back. The oars had been snatched from Taeyaho¡¯s hands by the water. He was hunched forward, staring at her from under his soaked hair, an expression of lugubrious sorrow on his face. A mere glance, to tell her that he had surrendered. Had she? The boat was about to turn over, and the water would take her, and she would drown.


    She screamed again, inarticulate, and shifted her weight, insisting that her small body, her small impact on the world, should save her life. A branch scudded by, and she grabbed, and brought the boat into alignment with its drag. There was another one, and she glanced behind her, and saw a whole tree, fallen into the water, rushing along with it, reaching out to seize them and hold them in its crown. She closed her eyes and heard the crunch of the branches against the hull. But they were still floating, somehow. When she opened her eyes again Taeyaho was clinging to a branch that had gone through the stern, as if it were a rudder. The boat was filling with water. He reached his hand out to her.


    ¡°We need to climb!¡±


    She lunged towards him and he caught her. He was wet and very thin, frail even. A leaf to be swept away. But he pressed her hands to the branch, and together they crawled up it, out of the boat, leaves thrashing their faces. She was cut and there was blood running into her eyes. She was only aware of it because it was warmer than the rain. The tree was swaying, thrashing, beginning a long turn. Together they crawled through the branches, trying to stay ahead of the spin towards the water. But they were losing their race. The tree was turning too quickly, and the water was reaching up towards them. She felt Taeyaho¡¯s arms go around her, pressing her to a thick branch. ¡°Breathe!¡± he cried in her ear, and she pulled in a huge breath and held it, and they slipped beneath the water.


    The press of oxygen against her lungs. The water trying to tear her from the tree. Taeyaho¡¯s body pressed against her, lifting with the waves, but his arms adamant, strong, pinning her in place. The storm¡¯s sound drowned by the water. Not peace, but a different kind of chaos. Weight pulling at them, pulling them down. She kept her eyes open. She imagined that she could see to the bottom of the lake, that she could see a window there, and beyond the window there was a bright world, where everything was upside down.


    Then the tree turned, and they were in air again, and she breathed hugely, and choked on rain. Taeyaho was still there, still pinning her, and she could feel his ravished breaths against her back. She didn¡¯t think they could survive another dunking, and almost welcomed the loom of the shore as it rushed up at them.


    A tremendous crash, the tree trying to root its high branches in the muddy bank. Wood splintered all about them, and she heard Taeyaho cry out. His body when limp, but she was turning, and grabbing him, so that he would tumble with her down the slide of slick limbs and sudden kindling onto the bank. They rolled, hearing crashing all around them, and were showered with a second rain from the trees that were breaking above them. A shape came down at them, branches cracking, leaves scattering, a tremendous noise. The trunk missed them by feet. A curved branch swept the dirt above and below them, and made a roof for them. They were trapped together. Taehayo¡¯s breath was small, a tiny bird fluttering against her neck. She stared up into the storm and thought that she could see his spirit fluttering away. He would never go to a barrow. His ghost would always be free in the world, but hidden, known only as the strange passage of a warm breeze.


    ¡°Don¡¯t die, Taeyaho,¡± she cried into his hair. ¡°Don¡¯t die!¡±


    Another lightning strike, but the thunder came later. The storm was dying. Yet there was still a thrashing in the branches that she didn¡¯t understand. And then she heard voices. Perhaps it was Uku, come to save them. A rending sound, and branches were lifted away above them. The dark sky turned to a cold gray. Faces looming down at them. At first a stranger¡¯s. And then coppery hair flattened by the rain against a wide forehead. Wrinkles around the eyes that looked like the frills of a toadstool. A poisonous sheen to the wet face, and the smell of fungi, somehow ripe above the smell of turned earth.


    ¡°Ah,¡± a voice said. ¡°Aizdha¡¯s little slave girl. How fortunate.¡±

 In the Painted Infirmary

    The walls of her room were frescoed with images of plants and monsters, as if the pages of the bestiary had been ripped out and shuffled with pages from the Jara Floriary and then pasted to the wall. At first she thought that she was looking at her own drawings, and then she realized that these had been painted by another. She moved in and out of consciousness in the manner of waves advancing and retreating across a beach. She would feel herself roll towards wakefulness, her eyes would flutter open, and she would see mandibles and carapaces on the ceiling above her, and imagine that her wave was full of pinching, biting creatures that belonged somewhere else, back in the depths of unconsciousness that the wave receded into. Sleep again. So much sleep that her body seemed to exude the excess, to send it into the atmosphere of the room, so that the drum owl and the memory gull and the tiger swan were lulled to sleep as well. They must be asleep, as their painted forms never moved.


    There had been strange birds, that danced, that made a face with their wings. They weren¡¯t on the wall, and when she came to consciousness she clung to this fact, as if it were a sodden log, and she didn¡¯t quite go to sleep again. She was awake enough that when the woman in the winged head dress came into her room to feed her, she held the three spoonfuls of soup in her mouth, and when the woman left she spit them out onto the pillow beside her head. The sound of three thumps had proceeded the woman into the room. They always proceeded the woman. And as Manrie¡¯s mind tightened and dried, she realized that it was the sound of bolts being pushed back. Three bolts, on the outside of the door.


    Her body hurt, but then she decided that it was just the usual ache of having a body. The soup had removed it, had made her forget that she had arms and legs and a head that was heavy and a back that was tight with inaction. She decided to teach her vertebrae how to move again. There was a painting to the left of her bed. A caterpillar. *Yes, little caterpillar*, she thought, *come and crawl upon my back.* She felt it there, crawling, as if it were crawling along the windowsill. The windowsill! There was a windowsill just to the right of the caterpillar. Therefore there must be a window. Which was why she could see the room. It was daytime. And if it was daytime, and there was a window, she could go to it and see where she was.


    She stood at the window, which was open, but the ground was very far below. She was naked, which felt like a victory, because an autumnal breeze was blowing and it awakened her flesh. It blew over fields below, and there were people working in them. There were other buildings, and each building was surrounded by fields, as if the fields were skirts that the buildings were wearing, fanned out as they squatted on the ground. The fields ended at raw cliffs in all three directions that she could see from her window. A valley, then. The cliffs were very high, but if she tilted her head she could see trees scraping the sky along their heights. There was a roaring sound, the sound of the ocean she had floated on as she slept. Or maybe the roaring of one of the creatures on the walls. But no. There was no ocean, and the creatures were merely paintings. It sounded like a waterfall, but she couldn¡¯t see a waterfall, so it must be somewhere behind her.


    She stood there watching, observing the people going back and forth. Some of them were wearing the odd, winged head dresses. White, with pleated folds stretched out to either side. Like a thick sheet that had been frozen as it was shaken out. She couldn¡¯t see their faces, and thought, for a while, that they didn¡¯t have any. Then she realized that they must be veiled. They worked the fields, squatting, harvesting, turning the earth. The fields looked ripe, an amazing yield of cabbages and beans and very red tomatoes.


    Other people passed back and forth, men and women in tapestried robes. She couldn¡¯t see the designs, but somehow she thought that they were wearing the paintings that were on the walls of her room. Which was odd, because they had been wearing normal robes when they found her and Taeyaho beside the lake. Taeyaho! He flashed back into existence. She remembered. The men had lifted the tree away, and there had been a branch in Taeyaho¡¯s side. There had been a little man, quite quick and agile with his hands, and a big, careful man who seemed very clean despite the rain and mud, and four or five others, and the mushroom man, watching all of them and giving orders. The rain had ended and she had sat by a fire as they bandaged Taeyaho, and the little man had winked at her, and winked again, and gone on winking, until she realized that he had a tic. He told her that Taeyaho would live. Then they had fed her soup, just like the soup that the woman who came into her room gave her, and she had gone to sleep.


    She remembered words, spoken a lifetime ago. ¡°Will its effects be like the kealorea that we smoked yesterday?¡± And a voice, answering. ¡°Much different. The kealoria produces a sense of euphoria. The betzazarra lifts one into the realm of dream. You will leave your body and walk where you will.¡± She turned from the window and went to the bed. The spit-up soup was yellow. She sniffed at it. But she couldn¡¯t remember what the betzazarra had smelled like, only that it had made distance and time strange, and caused Aizdha to fall to his death. There was no place to hide the pillow. No way to explain its absence if she did. She turned it over to hide the mess.


    Then she went back to the window and watched the people come and go. She didn¡¯t see the mushroom man, but she did see the big, careful man from the lakeside. He emerged from a tall building and walked right under her window. His head was bare and she could see that he was balding. He walked quickly, but he seemed aware of each step, as if his mind were focused on nothing but the movement of his body. His robes were plain. Green and brown. Like a patch of forest. He went past her building and disappeared.


    Dusk came as she was examining the frescoes in her room. They were all rather common creatures, although some of the plants were unknown to her. As the sun set there was a great cawing, and she rushed back to the window. Birds were lifting from the tops of the cliffs and skirling away into the sky. Very large birds. The setting sun caught against blue wings, as if they were shards of the daytime sky, flying to some hidden perch beyond the veneer of night. Gorpsarra. The mushroom man had been lifted into the sky by a gorpsarra, when he was a boy.


    In the morning, the woman in the head dress returned, and fed her soup. She held it in her mouth and when the woman had gone she went to the window and spit it out. But she wasn¡¯t careful enough. There was a cry from below. She ran back to the bed and pretended to sleep as the three bolts went back on the door. Footsteps across the floor, and hands grabbed her head and lifted it, turning it back and forth. Other hands felt along the bedsheets, then turned the pillow. ¡°As I thought,¡± a voice said. ¡°She is guilty of the First Disobedience of the Will. I will go and fetch Karkriesha. You stay here and watch her.¡±


    Indistinct sounds, then the scrape of a chair being dragged into the room. Which meant that the door was open. Manrie peered through slit eyelids. The woman in the white head dress was settling down onto the chair, blocking the exit with her body. Manrie closed her eyes just as the woman turned her head towards her. The sound of paper shuffling.


    ¡°I know that you¡¯re awake. No matter. A chance for me to read to you. Wasted time is a victory for the land.¡± This said with the pert complacency of an aphorism. Whose aphorism, though? It wasn¡¯t a saying that Manrie had ever heard before.


    The woman rustled the paper as if it were a bell that she was ringing at the beginning of a ritual. ¡°From the Scrupulous Canons, Fourth Book of Tenets. ¡®A blade of grass is not a blade of grass until we make it a blade of grass. An olive tree is not an olive tree until we make it an olive tree. A bean is not a bean until we make it a bean. Rye is not grain until we make it grain. Wheat is not grain until we make it grain. Corn is not grain until we make it grain. Rice is not grain until we make it grain. A plum is not a fruit until we make it a fruit¡­¡¯¡±


    It went on. Plants listed. Then animals. ¡°A pig is not a pig until we make it a pig. A cow is not a cow until we make it a cow.¡± On and on. Her voice was toneless, dry. It lulled Manrie, as if the words had become a drug. She didn¡¯t bother to think that it was nonsense. She didn¡¯t bother to engage with it at all. She slit open her eyes and regarded the woman. She was big, and she had big hands, sheathed in red gloves, the color meant to turn them into a threat. Manrie didn¡¯t think she could get past her. If she did, where would she go? Better to make her escape when she had more knowledge of her surroundings. And after she had found Taeyaho.


    The recitation changed, like the wind shifting. The words were much the same, but blown from a different direction. ¡°Lokeyn said, ¡®If we meet an aurochs, and we train an aurochs, and we milk an aurochs, and we build a paddock for an aurochs, and we build a barn for an aurochs, and we mate the aurochs with a fine bull, and we mate the calves that are most complacent when they are grown, and we continue down through many generations, and we create a cow, one morning we will come into the barn, and the land will have infested the cow, and the aurochs will look through its eyes, and it will gore us or refuse to give milk or kick out the boards of its stable and go to run wild through the woods. If we find a wild grain, and we grow that wild grain, and we throw away the tough stalks, and we keep the tender stalks, and we invite the bees and flies to the field, and we grow more grain, and we throw away the tough stalks, and we keep the tender stalks, until that grain is soft and sweet and gives joy to the tongue, one morning we will go to make bread, and the grain won¡¯t grind, and it will blow up in our stomaches, and we will be crippled with pain, as the land will have infested the grain, and we will starve again. If we find a wild bird¡­¡±


    Her voice continued, but Manrie, in her wandering thoughts, had been taken back to her childhood, to the caravan that she and her mother joined, full of starving people. Because the land had ceased to yield its fruit. Again she remembered the mushroom man, and it was as if his voice were speaking in the room. ¡°When I was a child, a great plague came upon my village. It was as if the air itself had turned to poison. The farmers reported that the ground had turned yellowish in patches, out in the fields. Like moss growing on a tree, only the color of a seeping wound, and pungent.¡± Another famine, years before she was born. The land hates us, he had said. We must tame the land. We must make it a slave.


    She thought of Uku. Had he and Tafaemi died in the lake? She could not imagine Uku dying. Perhaps he was here, in some other room of this strange house. Perhaps some woman with white wings on her head was reading to him in a dull voice at just this moment. She imagined him looming in the doorway. She imagined him picking up the woman in her chair and carrying her to the window and throwing her out.


    Someone did appear in the doorway, but it wasn¡¯t the giant. It was another woman, whose white head dress had even more pleats, as if the birds that the head dresses were meant to imitate were becoming more palsied with each iteration. Poor birds, so bent in on themselves. But the birds that had danced in the bowl in the mountain had wings like that. Collapsible. Oddly hidden in their fat bodies.


    The reading woman was standing up and moving her chair aside. She slipped her sheath of papers back into her sleeve, her red gloves like agile wounds. The newcomer walked past her and paused at Manrie¡¯s bedside and gazed down at her. She tutted. ¡°Not even pretending to sleep.¡± She had a very high voice, unnatural, as if a little girl was speaking through her. ¡°Never mind. Poor dear. You were so injured when they found you. They saved your life, you know.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t remember being injured.¡±


    ¡°Still in the First Realm of Knowing, I see. But I give you the gift of the First Step Along the Road to All Knowing. Not all injuries are of the body. Retoebaeni saw a grievous wound, deep beneath your mind and actions. Of course he did. So he offered you the Happy Rest of First Healing.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Retoebaeni?¡±


    ¡°Why, you¡¯ve met him. Don¡¯t you remember? He sewed up your friend, so that he could live. There are many life-givers in our community. Retoebaeni stands above them all. He is much greater than my poor self.¡± She made the mistake of following this statement with a titter, and Manrie could tell that she didn¡¯t believe a word of it.


    ¡°Taeyaho. Where is Taeyaho?¡±


    ¡°That sweet boy! He is resting, as you were. But lie back. Allow me to assess you. If your will has awoken to Disobedience, it is be time to begin the Healing of the First Knowing.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°The beginning of wisdom, sweet little love. The beginning of wisdom. I know, I know. Graecelle has been presumptive in your catechism. Don¡¯t deny it, Graecelle, I heard you as I came up the stairs. You were reading aloud from the Fourth Book of Tenets. I¡¯m afraid that is a mark of guilt for you, my dear. You are guilty of the Seventh Disobedience of Pride. I will have to tell the Master. But no matter. Your purgation won¡¯t be strenuous.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Karkriesha,¡± the other woman said. She had reseated herself in her chair. A little smile was playing around her mouth, as if she were enjoying being chastised, and would enjoy her purgation, whatever that was.


    Manrie had lived among scholars. She knew how strange words and phrases could be turned into a secret language, how they could be used to prove belonging and confuse outsiders. She refused to be mystified. ¡°I¡¯d like to see Taeyaho.¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. But first, my assessment. Lie back, lie back. There we are. Now breathe slowly.¡± The woman didn¡¯t touch her, but began to run her hands through the air over her body. Her head dress flapped about her face. Her brown skin was very smooth and shiny, and a cloud of golden hair floated from beneath the head dress. She looked like an egg that had been cracked and somehow contained a stone, rather than a yolk. From time to time the hands would pause and the woman would twist her fingers into odd positions. When she was finished, she lifted her hands and clasped them to her chest, like a young girl delighted by a present. ¡°Oh, yes,¡± she breathed. ¡°Oh, yes. You will be quite useful to the Master.¡±


    Manrie kept her expression blank. Of course she¡¯d be useful to the master, if the master was who she thought he was. She had been Aizdha¡¯s assistant, after all. ¡°Who is the Master?¡± she asked innocently.


    ¡°Oh, he is marvelous,¡± Karkriesha said. ¡°I have not starved once. Not for seven years!¡±


    The women went away again, and the door was bolted. But an hour later it was reopened and a girl came in, carrying a tray that contained brown bread and butter and a leg of mutton and some very lovely cooked squash. Manrie was ravenous. The girl sat on the edge of her bed and watched her eat with a serious expression. The door was left open behind her.


    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Manrie asked, wiping grease from her face with the bed sheet.


    ¡°They call me Pumpkin.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t have a real name?¡±


    ¡°I will receive one. When I¡¯m older.¡±


    ¡°Well, Pumpkin, why are you watching me eat?¡±


    ¡°I am to report on your appetite.¡±


    ¡°Report to whom?¡±


    ¡°Karkriesha, of course.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s in charge here?¡±


    ¡°She runs the infirmary.¡±


    ¡°Who runs everything else?¡±


    The girl seemed to misunderstand. ¡°Naiklora is the Field Mistress. Taeslahbin is the scout. Braelmith was the scout, but he was killed by a rinchonyan. Retoebaeni is the alchemist. Slohrta is the carpenter. Her husband was the carpenter, but he was guilty of the Fourth Disobedience of Hopelessness. Haelkiz is the weaver. Parahti is the potter. Wiltruen is the tanner¡­¡±


    ¡°Enough. I won¡¯t be able to remember all of those names. How many people live here?¡±


    The girl scrunched up her face. ¡°If I tell you, you will be guilty of the First Disobedience of the Curious.¡±


    ¡°Is it wrong to be curious?¡±


    ¡°Not wrong. But it¡¯s a disobedience. Unless you become a Master of the Canons. Then you can be curious about everything.¡±


    ¡°Are you a Master of the Canons?¡±


    Pumpkin made a face, to show Manrie that she was being ridiculous. ¡°I am a child. But none of the purgations for children are that bad. We¡¯re not really guilty of a disobedience until we¡¯ve learned the Children¡¯s Catechism.¡±


    ¡°What purgation will I get, if I¡¯m curious?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re guilty of the First Disobedience of the Curious,¡± Pumpkin corrected, as if there were a panoply of disobediences, and you had to be specific, ¡°you would be given the Purgation of the Cliffside. I think it¡¯s much scarier than the Purgation of the Fields. At least in the fields, you¡¯re with someone you know.¡±


    ¡°What is a purgation like? What do you have to do?¡±


    The girl frowned. ¡°How would I know? We don¡¯t talk about the purgations.¡±


    ¡°But you know what they are.¡±


    The frown deepened. ¡°I know *where* they are.¡±


    Manrie let that pass. ¡°There are many masters, then?¡±


    ¡°Well, there are masters, and there¡¯s The Master. He was the first master. The Master of Masters, I guess.¡±


    ¡°And who is Lokeyn?¡±


    The girl stared at her. ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± she said.


    ¡°But he wrote the book?¡±


    ¡°What book?¡±


    ¡°The one about grass not being grass.¡±


    The girl didn¡¯t know what she was talking about, but wanted to pretend that she did. Which made her guilty of the First Disobedience of Hubris, Manrie supposed. Although maybe hubris was a good thing, according to the way these people saw the world. Manrie finished eating and pushed the tray aside. ¡°I want to explore,¡± she said.


    ¡°Yes, you¡¯re supposed to.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m supposed to?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yes. You must familiarize yourself with the Infirmary. I¡¯m supposed to guide you.¡±


    ¡°I seem to be naked.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all right. We¡¯re all naked at birth.¡±


    ¡°But I was born a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°No you weren¡¯t. This is your birth. You¡¯re being born now. But if you like, I can get swaddling.¡±


    ¡°What will that look like?¡±


    Pumpkin goggled at her. ¡°Clothes, silly.¡±


    She left the room and came back again. Manrie was standing by the wall, examining the frescoes. ¡°Pumpkin,¡± she asked, ¡°who painted these?¡±


    ¡°Oh, he was very sweet. He had spiky silver hair. And he liked to make up nonsense songs. He would paint our arms, too, if we asked him.¡±


    ¡°Did he have a name?¡±


    ¡°He was just The Painter.¡±


    ¡°And where is he now?¡±


    ¡°In the fields.¡±


    Manrie frowned. ¡°He¡¯s a farmer? That seems like a waste of his talents.¡±


    The girl shrugged. ¡°Purgation,¡± she said.


    The door of the room was set on a spiraling ramp that seemed to descend through the whole building. It was wide, which was good, as the odd angle of the doorsill caused Manrie to trip, and she sprawled on the smooth stone and almost started rolling down. The ¡®swaddling¡¯ that Pumpkin had brought was a white shift, barely a robe, and Manrie felt it ruck up around her, revealing her nether regions. Pumpkin made no comment. She waited as Manrie scrambled back to her feet and then turned to lead her down the ramp.


    ¡°We could go up,¡± Manrie suggested.


    The girl shrugged. ¡°Maybe later. Now we¡¯re going down.¡±


    ¡°How high does it go?¡±


    ¡°Very high. It¡¯s the highest building. And you were very high up in it.¡±


    There were doors on either side of the ramp. All of them were bolted with three bolts. Manrie nodded at the inside doors. ¡°What¡¯s in there?¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s in there,¡± Pumpkin corrected.


    ¡°All right. Who¡¯s in there?¡±


    ¡°The Innocent Newcomers.¡±


    ¡°And who are they?¡±


    ¡°Wee little babies,¡± Pumpkin said, and laughed.


    ¡°You lock up babies?¡±


    ¡°Not real babies. Don¡¯t worry. You might get to go there, once you¡¯re done being born.¡±


    ¡°Can I open the doors?¡±


    ¡°If you want.¡±


    Manrie stopped at the next one and slid the bolts back. She opened the door and a dense, fungal smell wafted out at her. It was worse than Nuhrmer Jahnajeel¡¯s reek. She reared back and raised a hand to cover her face. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Just the Master¡¯s Milk. It¡¯s very good for babies.¡±


    ¡°It smells disgusting.¡± She peered into darkness. She could see almost nothing. There was a voice sounding throughout the chamber. A disembodied voice that made Manrie¡¯s head ache. There were individual words but they seemed smeared somehow, and her mind couldn¡¯t grasp them. ¡°Are there people in there?¡±


    ¡°Babies,¡± Pumpkin reiterated. ¡°Smile so that they have nice dreams.¡± She slipped past Manrie and stood in the doorway, cooing. ¡°Sleep, little babies. Sleep well, little babies. Have sweet dreams.¡±


    Manrie stepped back. She felt sick to her stomach. She wished that she hadn¡¯t eaten so much. The light in the ramp came from above, as if the top of the building were a thin egg shell that was being candled by the sun. But the air didn¡¯t move, and the fungal odor seemed intent on filling the spiral. She turned to the door on the opposite side of the sloping hall and pushed back the bolts.


    The room beyond was full of light, and fresh air was coming in through an open window. There was an old man lying in the bed, quite naked beneath a tangled sheet. He turned to Manrie and blinked very blue eyes. ¡°Is it now?¡± he asked. ¡°Am I going to get the Purgation of the Cradle?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve just come in for some fresh air,¡± Manrie said, going quickly to the window.


    ¡°Well, will it be soon?¡± the old man snapped.


    People were working in the fields below. She was on the other side of the tower, and she could see the waterfall. There was a tall building at its base, with a waterwheel that turned quickly in the churn of the cataract. Smoke was billowing from seven chimneys. The women in the fields didn¡¯t turn their heads towards this building, but something in their posture showed their awareness of it. In one field, an oxen was pulling a plow, turning stalks of harvested wheat into the soil. Manrie breathed in fresh air as she watched, then turned to look at the old man.


    ¡°What is the Purgation of the Cradle?¡±


    The blue eyes dimmed. His thin, rather moist mouth drooped into a frown. ¡°You¡¯re just another newborn,¡± he said.


    Pumpkin came into the room. She took Manrie¡¯s hand without looking at the old man. ¡°Come along,¡± she said.


    Back onto the ramp, and down. On the lower floors, the doors widened. They were left open, and Manrie could see that one led into a laundry, full of great billows of steam. Another led into a kind of kitchen, where people were slicing tubers on large cutting boards. No one looked up as Manrie went past. Another led into what appeared to be a bathing room. Pools on the floor, and long tables, where women were bending over naked bodies, scraping at them with shells. These rooms were much larger than the one that she¡¯d woken up in, so the tower must widen at its base. And indeed, the ramp ended in a cavernous entry hall, with doors open onto the fields. This, too, had interior doors, set along the giant pillar in the center of the tower. They had no bolts that Manrie could see. She could hear a voice speaking in whatever room lay beyond them, but she couldn¡¯t make out any words.


    Pumpkin led her out into the fields. They went along a path that ran between two pitches of broken earth. There were women kneeling as they harvested, each with her own row, each veiled, their head dresses casting gray shadows across the white cloth covering their faces. Were they blind, or was the cloth thin enough to see through? The fields ended and Manrie looked back. The tower looked like a woman in a wide skirt, her waist more than halfway up its height at the place where the spire thinned. The windows looked blank, but she had a sense that someone was watching her.


    There was a large expanse of open ground before they got to the fields that surrounded the next building, which seemed to be a weaver¡¯s house. She could hear the thump of looms. Flax was growing in the fields that surrounded it. The stalks had been cut and the pods laid across the damp earth to soften. Although there was no work to do in these fields, there was a person kneeling at the front of each row. Both men and women. They were frowning down at the brown earth, and their mouths were moving, as if they were in the midst of silent recitation. Their robes were plain, homespun. Not for them the beautiful tapestries.


    ¡°Is that purgation?¡± Manrie whispered to Pumpkin.


    ¡°That? It¡¯s the First Grounding Practice. They¡¯ll teach you, once you are grown.¡±


    As they went through the flax fields, Manrie glanced back, and was shocked to see a familiar face among the kneeling figures. It took her a moment to place it. A face that she had seen in Tzurfaera. Obsidian hair and stubble that climbed high on his cheeks. One of the only survivors of the ambush on the road. She struggled for his name and found it. Farahzin. He gazed at her with a bewildered expression. ¡°How am I here again?¡± he asked. ¡°And in this body?¡± He raised both arms and waved them at her, as if he were planted in the earth and only able to signal his distress by agitating his leafy stalks. His was still injured, she saw. A red wound pierced through his palm.


    ¡°Come,¡± Pumpkin said.


    ¡°But I know him.¡±


    She glanced back, indifferently. ¡°He came into the valley with you. But he woke up sooner. He was deemed an Innocent Newcomer. He¡¯s just come from the cradle.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the cradle?¡±


    Pumpkin made a face. ¡°You saw it, silly. You said that it smelled.¡±


    Manrie brushed this aside. ¡°But I know him from before.¡±


    Pumpkin was unimpressed. ¡°People are always coming here. Everyone wants to be here. They come from all over.¡±


    The girl led her across a bridge and to the building with seven chimneys. The sound of the waterfall was enormous and the air was full of spray. Pumpkin stopped at the end of the bridge. ¡°You need to go on alone!¡± she shouted.


    ¡°Where am I going?¡±


    ¡°Into the Master¡¯s House! Don¡¯t worry. He¡¯s waiting.¡±


    Manrie¡¯s white shift was wet. It clung to her body. She was certain that it did nothing but accentuate her nakedness. Still, she moved forward. She studied the ground as she went, and halfway to an open door at the end of the path she pretended to trip, and palmed a satisfyingly jagged looking rock. The door was framed by heavy stones, and there were voices coming through it. She went to it and peered in, and immediately pulled her head away, as something squealed within the shadows of the room.


    ¡°Another failure,¡± a voice said, and she recognized the resonant tones of the mushroom man.


    ¡°But closer,¡± another voice said. ¡°Closer. We have found the right genus. We only need to find the correct species.¡±


    ¡°You have said that before.¡± A brooding silence. Then the mushroom man said, ¡°Kill it.¡±


    A footstep, the sound of a hinge, a screech. Then silence. After a moment, the sound of a chair scraping back. A huff, as someone sat down. Then the pompous, plummy voice again. ¡°Taeslahbin, invite the girl in.¡±