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  His eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms.

  “So the kitten has claws. Who’d have thought?”

  “And who’d have thought I’d find you standing so far back, in the rear of trouble. But then, you’re always behind the trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Careful how you go, little sister. Don’t forget I’m ahalad-kaaslane.”

  “And don’t you forget you’re ahalad-kaaslane, big brother,” Reisil retorted, her heart thundering. It wasn’t much, but standing up to Juhrnus after all these years was like climbing to the top of a mountain or swimming across the ocean. Exhilarating, empowering.

  “Please, don’t let me keep you from your work,” she said, gesturing to where Upsakes, Sodur and Felias continued to mollify the townspeople. “You’ve been so helpful today. Almost like you were actually here.”

  He flushed and and opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait for his response. Hugging her victory to herself, she tunneled away through the crowd.

  She found Raim in his kitchen. He smiled welcome as she leaned in the serving window but did not stop kneading his dough.

  “Bright day to you, Reisil. A blessed day indeed. You have seen?”

  She nodded. “The Lady is generous.” She changed the subject, not wanting to talk any more about Saljane, not wanting to even think about her. “I have brought you some of that perin thistle we talked about, and berigroot.” She put the two pouches on the counter. She’d harvested them on a recent overnight trip up the Sadelema.

  Raim dusted off his hands and took the pouches reverently in his hands. “Magnificent! You are the tark of my heart,” he said, opening the perin thistle and sniffing. “Ah, like a blessing from heaven. I thank you. Will you sit and eat?”

  “I’d like to, but I’ve more errands.” She no longer felt hungry.

  “Do you think anyone will mind?” He waved a flour-dusted hand at the thickening crowd. “Today is a new holiday.”

  “Teemart has a fever and I promised his mother I would look in,” she said, trying to sound regretful.

  “Nurema? I would not be late to her door for all the world. Such a tongue she has, like a whip of nails. Ah, well, such is the life of the tark. Sun shine bright on you, and thank you for these.” He tapped the pouches. “I will set you a feast next time.”

  “Then I will make sure next time comes soon.”

  Reisil remembered Meelaru. “Raim, when all this settles down, could you ask Sodur to go see Meelaru? There’s a woman there, another refugee—I think he can help her.”

  “Another one?” Raim shook his head. “My heart weeps for them all. I heard of this plan to begin a new town. Varitsema does not like it, but it is a good thing. I shall tell Sodur. You had better go before Nurema gnaws herself into a frenzy.”

  Reisil waved good-bye and squeezed out through one of the arches. She turned her feet back toward the main gate, swinging into a swift walk, padding past shops built of gray flagstone, bright Lady Day banners fluttering in the wind.

  As she walked, the specters of Saljane and Juhrnus rose in her mind. She felt a certain amount of elation. She had finally confronted Juhrnus. And she had twice stood her ground and rebuffed Saljane.

  Rebuffed the Lady, she reminded herself and suddenly her elation drained away, her shoulders slumping. She trudged on, her stomach roiling.

  The ahalad-kaaslane were heroes, each and every one. With the noted exception of Juhrnus, she thought dryly. Each shop in Kodu Riik kept a small area set aside for the ahalad-kaaslane where proprietors would offer food and drink and whatever supplies might be needed. These gifts were given without reservation or hesitation. The ahalad-kaaslane were bound to take no more than need required, forsaking personal gain or possessions.

  So did tarks! Reisil gave all she had freely. She tended the ill—human and animal alike. She was a healer, a midwife and a counselor. She could do no more as ahalad-kaaslane than she could as tark. Indeed; she would do less. What did such as she know of that life? She knew nothing of battles or weapons. She’d never hunted except for plants, never stretched a bowstring, never hurt anyone. She was a tark!

  She shook her head, rubbing at the ache in her forehead. She had made the right decision. The only decision.

  The crowded shops with their second-story residential apartments and rooftop gardens faded into imposing houses with tall trees and wide grounds full of flowers. There were few walls inside Kallas. Its dusky-pink curtain wall built upon imposing earthworks made it a fortress, but within it was open-aired, with wide streets and courtyards.

  Snow never fell on Kallas. The winters brought warm drenching rains. The runoff ran into storm sewers, which fed into a marvelous natural formation called the Sink. During the summer it was merely a rivulet running through a ravine, disappearing into an underground cavern. The water reappeared half a league away in a large pool before draining into the Sadelema. Once, in an effort to discover how long it took the water to run its course to the pool, the mayor of Kallas had ordered a crimson dye to be dropped into the Sink. Almost a full day had passed before the red-dyed water had filtered into the pool. It still remained a mystery what lengthy path the stream took in its journey. Yet no matter how much rain fell, Kallas never flooded. The Sink absorbed it all.

  Reisil glanced up at the sun and realized how late it was. She hastened past the commons and the Sink and through the main gate. She smiled a distracted hello at the gatekeep and attendant guards, then trotted out along the road, following it as it curved out of sight around the shoulder of the wooded hillside, then dropped in lazy switchbacks to the river bottom. She passed the path leading to her cottage and continued down to a narrow trail through close-growing woods. The shady walk lent Reisil tranquillity. Songbirds twittered in the canopy and the sweet scent of carnillions, lupine, honey-roses, and starflowers wound together on the warm breeze. The Sadelema sparkled at her through the trees, last fall’s crunching leaves beneath her feet adding a tangy fragrance to the air.

  The path ended in a clearing where a small croft nestled. Tumble-stone fences hemmed in a kitchen garden and two paddocks, where grazed an assortment of chickens, goats, pigs and a milk cow. A hive of bees hummed merrily in one corner, and butterfly wings winked from wildflowers. Smoke curled from the chimney, the shutters and door closed despite the warmth of the day. Reisil knocked on the green-painted door. Moments later it swung open and she stepped inside, squinting in the gloom.

  “It’s about time,” a wiretwist of a woman said, gray hair caught behind her head in a strict bun, black eyes snapping. Her wrinkled skin was dark, as if she was not native to Kodu Riik, but she had been a fixture of Kallas since Reisil could remember. “My son’s hotter than a frying pan. That tea of yours hasn’t done a lick of good. Can’t hardly talk, his throat’s so swollen. Suppose you’ve been up in Kallas dawdling about instead of tending the sick. Racket of those bells woke Teemart just when I finally got him asleep. Now he’s coughing and sounding like a half-dead dog.”

  “My apologies, Nurema,” Reisil said, setting her pack on the kitchen table, clearing her throat on the thick, dry air. “I had planned to be here sooner.”

  Nurema was a sharp-spoken woman, but kind and generous for all that. She had a special affection for her mild middle son, who, though now grown into a young man, had not yet married and instead took care of his widowed mother. For all her rough edges, Reisil appreciated Nurema’s genuine fondness for Teemart. A mother’s love. Would that mine had shown the tiniest speck of feeling for me that Nurema has for her son! As soon as she thought it, Reisil suppressed it. Now was not the time.

  “Open these windows and the door,” she ordered. “I know I said to keep him covered, but he needs fresh air. This smoke and heat don’t do anything for him at all.”

  Reisil fit actions to words and flung open the shutters, turning to the cot in the corner where Teemart huddled beneath a thick layer of wool blankets, his breathing stertorous. She wrinkled her nose at his ripe odor, then touched her hand to h
is flushed forehead and cheeks. “You’re right. The tea hasn’t been able to do much. I brought some other things that should do the trick. Boil some water for me.”

  “No doubt he’s being laggardly, and right now when there’s so much work to be done,” Nurema groused, snatching up the bucket and heading out to the well. She sloshed water on her skirts on her hurried return. “Place is falling apart and there he is napping, lazy as a snake.” Reisil wasn’t deceived by the old woman’s sour tirade and smiled to herself.

  Nurema hovered over Reisil as she pawed through her pack, pulling out the things she needed: a vial of goris root extract, a clay jar of crushed teris and another of powdered oleaven leaves. There was a ball of red clay wrapped in damp cloth, and a bottle of fermented jess berries. Measuring carefully, Reisil prepared a brew that should break Teemart’s fever. She then had Nurema hold him upright as she coaxed him to drink it.

  “Easy now, Teemart. It tastes bad, I know, but it will make you feel better so that you can have a bath and stop drawing flies.” A weak smile flickered across his face and he drank the foul tasting concoction obediently. Nurema tucked the blankets in around him, stroking his hair from his forehead.

  “Lazy brute,” she murmured.

  “He’ll need another dose tonight and then in the morning,” Reisil said. “I’ll come around tomorrow to see how he’s doing. Now to speed things up, we’ll make a plaster.”

  She kneaded ground mustard and eucalyptus into the block of damp clay and pressed it onto the sick man’s chest, laying a hot, damp cloth over it. “Don’t let that dry out, or the mud will crack off. Hopefully he won’t toss and turn too much. Give him some broth next time he wakes up, as much as he’ll take. Float some bread in it. He needs both fluid and nourishment.”

  Nurema nodded, and Reisil knew the other woman would follow instructions precisely. She packed her supplies back in her pack and then arched her back, hearing it crack.

  “Have a seat on the bench outside there and relax. I’ll make some tea,” Nurema ordered brusquely. Reisil obeyed gratefully. Her hunger had returned with a vengeance and her head pounded.

  The bench had been made by Teemart for his mother and had a comfortably curved seat with a high back. Nurema had woven rag cushions for it, and Reisil dropped down onto them with a sigh, kicking her feet out before her. The older woman soon followed, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, a plate of bread and sharp goat cheese.

  “So what was this foolishness of the bells? Taktitu making a ruckus with Imeilus again?”

  Reisil smiled. Meelaru’s temperamental husband often went head to head with the tanner over an assorted variety of complaints: smell, noise, dirt, rude apprentices, wagons blocking the street and so forth. They’d a long history of bickering, and at least once a month the entire town of Kallas was drawn to one of their arguments.

  “There was a herald from Koduteel. He says there’s going to be peace.” Reisil described the events in the kohv-house, ending with Saljane’s arrival.

  “The Blessed Lady is indeed generous,” Nurema murmured when Reisil finished her dissertation. “Tell me again what Varitsema said about this truce and the ambassador from Patverseme.”

  Reisil did so in careful detail. She had been trained to pay careful attention to her constituents; their ills were often caused or made worse by events in their lives, and the tark must treat the spirit as well as the flesh. She ended with Varitsema’s proclamation that the goshawk was a sign from the Blessed Lady.

  “Hmph. He’s a clever one, that Varitsema. Could have been a thief. Almost married him—did you know? Courted me for nigh on two years, but he was too pigheaded.” She chuckled. “Pot calling the kettle black, I suppose. Least I had sense enough to know better. Varitsema and I would have been like Taktitu and Imeilus. Every morning a battle, every night a war. But trust him to take good advantage of that bird’s arrival. Maybe he’s right; maybe it really is a sign from Amiya. Either way, he’ll stir the pot into a boil. No half measures. Got to show off for those Patversemese. Strutting like cocks in the butcher’s yard. Just you wait, girl. By morning there will be all sorts of projects going on. Won’t be a single soul with a moment to set and talk, but everyone will be dashing around dusting, polishing, painting, fixing, arranging, decorating—chickens with no heads. Good thing we live a ways out here. Peace and quiet.”

  Reisil finished her meal and then stood. “I had better get going. Thank you for the tea and food.”

  Nurema waved off her thanks with a knobby, arthritic hand. “You’ll be back tomorrow to look in on Teemart?”

  “I’ll come midmorning before I make my rounds in Kallas. I won’t be late.”

  Nurema sniffed. “See that you aren’t.”

  Reisil bade farewell and made her way back up the path to the road. Her eyes felt thick and her pack unbearably heavy. The events of the day seemed far away, as if behind a window of thick, wavy glass. She was too wrung out to feel anything but a creeping numbness, which she welcomed.

  She trudged up the hill with wooden steps. The sun had begun to set and already fireflies flittered brilliantly in the dusky air. Purple bindweed closed its petals against the night and a woodpecker pounded away on a birch glowing gold in the setting rays of the sun. Despite her exhaustion, Reisil couldn’t resist stopping to smell a wild cattleberry, the sprays of tiny white blossoms smelling of vanilla and bergamot. She sighed and picked some. The flowers made a lovely flavoring for sweet breads. She would bake some in the morning and bring it back with her to Nurema and Teemart. It would help tempt his appetite and Nurema’s too. She had little doubt that the bread and cheese they just had together was all the other woman had eaten in the last day.

  She reached the road and turned back toward Kallas, then veered off along the path to her cottage. She ambled along the crown of the hill into the copse of trees through which she’d sprinted that morning. She stopped for a drink at the stream and then jumped over, this time not splashing herself.

  Whoever had built her cottage had been a fine crafts-man. It had two rooms and a loft, and was entirely made of smooth round stones hauled from the river. All but the back wall. The builder had set the cottage against the base of a finger of white-and yellow-streaked rock that towered over the trees around. Reisil liked it because few could get lost trying to find her. Her greenhouse was connected to the cottage on this wall, and in the winter the sun-heated stone reflected back warmth to her plants. The kitchen fire did the rest, as the chimney wall joined the two buildings together. Her garden spread out from the greenhouse and was bounded by a wood fence overgrown with gooseberry vines. Fruit trees clustered between the finger spire and the bluff.

  When she’d returned to Kallas six months before, the council had offered her Kolleegtark’s house. But though she remembered her times there fondly, his home had proved too small and didn’t at all suit her needs. The townspeople had been so pleased at her appearance that they had not objected to her living so far outside the walls, and refurbished the cottage and built the greenhouse according to her specifications, donating materials and home comforts. Though no formal acceptance of her had been made, their generosity promised a future here, that they would provide for her needs as she would provide for theirs.

  “I belong here,” she told the twilight. “I am a tark. Nothing else.”

  Kek-kek-kek-kek.

  The cry came like an answering challenge.

  Reisil jerked out of her reverie, the strident sound reminding her of the barking wails of wild mountain dogs. She stared woodenly at the goshawk, who settled on the peak of her roof.

  “Go away,” she said at last in a low, adamantine voice. “I don’t want you.”

  ~Stay.

  Chills like fingers of ice danced over Reisil’s flesh. That voice in her mind. It had the feel of steel, of fingernails scraping across slate. It no longer held any of the qualities that had seemed so dangerously enticing at their first encounter.

  “You cannot stay. I don’t want y
ou. I don’t want you!” Reisil shouted the words like a child shouts at a monster in a nightmare.

  The bird’s head swiveled, eyes glowing orange in the sunset.

  ~Stay.

  This time the word stabbed into Reisil like a jagged blade. Saljane bent down and snapped her beak at Reisil as if to tear her flesh from her bones.

  Reisil flinched and stepped back. Dismay and frustration balled in her stomach. Tears slid down her cheeks.

  After a moment the bird straightened, mantled, and shook herself from head to tail.

  Reisil pressed a hand to her lips, her breath shaking in her chest.

  She flung herself into the cottage beneath Saljane’s shadow and slammed the door. She pulled the shutters closed and latched them, as if by doing so she could get rid of Saljane and all she represented. Without lighting a lamp, she crawled into bed and huddled wakefully there all night.

  Reisil stumbled from her cottage at dawn, eyes deep-set and bloodshot in her pale face. Palpable relief coursed through her when she realized Saljane was gone.

  For good, she hoped.

  But she knew better. The goshawk had made herself clear the night before. Now it would be a contest of wills. Reisil squared her shoulders. It was a contest she would win. During the long night she’d gained control of her fears and uncertainties. Her refusal of Saljane, of the Lady’s gift, had been swift and instinctive. But none of the doubts that rose like phantoms in the night could tear from her the certainty that she had made the right decision. Her will was fixed.

  She prepared herself a breakfast of oatcakes with butter and honey and a compote of dried fruit stewed with red winter wine and walnuts. She washed the dishes in the hot water left over from her tea and then set off for Nurema’s her attention fixed on the ground in front of her.