Venn and the child Issofur slept curled up on a bed, as if they had nothing in the world to worry about. Udinny spent the night sitting cross-legged in quiet contemplation of Ranya, staring at a plant the Leoric kept inside her longhouse. Cahan had thought he would be happy to be free of the monk’s constant chatter but he was not. Something had changed in the monk since they had ventured into Wyrdwood. He could not place it but she was different. He wanted, for the first time in as long as he could remember, to talk.
His mind raced. Thoughts of the village, where it was, how such a place could be defended, ran in circles like the winds around Crua. He wanted to give voice to those thoughts, as if by doing so he could empty his mind and sleep. Or at the very least, he could sort the jumble of ideas through in some way he was currently denied.
So Cahan spent half the night staring at Udinny as she sat, in silent communion with a plant, her hands flat on the earthen floor of the longhouse. He became annoyed with her, and hoped she would somehow feel his gaze upon her and speak to him.
It seemed even in silence the monk of Ranya could find ways to irritate him. Maybe she had not changed at all.
There was a conversation he could have joined. Beyond the partition Furin sat with Dyon, trying desperately to convince her second he was making a mistake. Dyon could not see it. He lacked her knowledge of the world outside; in some ways Cahan thought his ideas strangely childlike and innocent. Give the Rai something valuable and they will treat you well in exchange. He saw the world like a trader, as trade was his world. He imagined the world outside to be like Harn, where the people worked together and looked out for one another. In a way Cahan pitied Dyon, the shock of what was to come, when he found out that the Rai were ruthlessly selfish and they considered people like him as little more than tools, to be used until they were broken and then thrown away.
From the urgently whispered conversation he could tell there would be no changing Dyon’s mind, though the Leoric did not give up and their whispers were the background noise of the night while Cahan worked through all the ways he could think of to defend Harn. Again and again he came to the same conclusion.
He could not.
Not alone.
Sleep, when it eventually did come, was not restful.
In the morning he woke to find himself unrested and alone. Udinny, Venn and Issofur were gone and the Leoric’s room was quiet. He walked through and took a bowl of broth, eating in the gloom and listening to the comings and goings of the village outside. It was odd, he thought, that they could know the threat they were under and yet they went about their business as normal, as if nothing wrong was happening. As he finished the broth Furin walked in. She looked tired, like a woman who knew that her doom was upon her and there was little she could do about it – and a woman who had been up all night.
“How long do we have, Cahan?” He shrugged.
“It is difficult to know.”
“Looking at you, in that armour,” she said, “I feel that maybe you will be able to make a better guess than anyone else here.” He could not fault her reasoning, and stared morosely into the embers of her fire. “Do you sleep in your armour, Cahan?”
“Yes. It is not like clothing, more like a second skin. Difficult to describe.” She sat opposite him.
“So how long do we have, your best guess?” He chewed on a rubbery piece of meat, giving himself time to think.
“Sorha was on foot, she will make for Harn-Larger and from there she will go on to Harnspire.” The Leoric stared at him. The make-up that covered her face was still the previous day’s and had begun to flake away. He had never seen her without the white clay, her clanpaint and the black whorl of the Leoric carefully applied. Her eyes begged for what she would not ask, that he give her some hope. “The circle winds blow away from Harnspire at this time of year, so unless the skyraft is in…”
“It is not,” she said.
“Then in that case it is quicker for her to make direct for Harnspire on foot, rather than ride the skyraft to Stor and cut across.”
“Won’t she send a skipper?” Furin poked the embers with a stick, coaxing a little life into the fire before adding a log. “They can make that journey in an eightday if they are fresh.” Cahan shook his head.
“She has failed here,” he said. “The Rai do not like failure so she will not want to tell them of it in a message. She will want to explain it herself, show it in the best light possible. Beg them for a chance to redeem herself.”
“Then what?” The Leoric was not looking at him, she was staring into the fire.
“They will put together a punitive force. A full trunk of soldiers at least,” he found he had lost his appetite, “and five or so Rai to command them.”
“They must want you a lot.”
“This is not for me, Leoric, not any longer. You heard Venn. The Rai will most likely think I am gone, with the trion. Because that is what they would do.” He hoped they would think that at least. If they did not, if they thought that either he or Venn were still here then he felt sure they would send Hetton. They might send them anyway, but he did not want to think about that. “They want Harn gone. Because you know about me.” She stared at him. For a long time. “What?”
“I was going to ask,” she said, “what makes you so important that you feared others knowing your name. But I do not think I want to know.”
“No, you do not.” They sat, sharing the warmth of the fire. Listening to it crackle and spit in an almost companionable silence. The Leoric was watching him and he did not know why. Eventually she nodded to herself.
“How long to put this force together?” she asked.
“The Cowl-Rai in rising has their forces spread out over Crua, so it depends what they have close,” Cahan said. “Anything from a quarter season to a full season.” She nodded to herself, still staring into the fire. “A force that big,” he added, “I do not think they have the marants for it, and the skycarts are wary about transporting large military forces, so they will have to walk. Armies move slowly. A quarter to get here at best.”
“So,” said the Leoric, “we are about to enter Least, we can expect them as Harsh begins to bite again.”
“Aye,” he said, “and that bite will be deep.”
“Can we do it in that time, Cahan?”
“Do what,” he said quietly, though he knew what she meant. He wanted to create time to think, though he had thought about little else all night and still had few answers.
“Have the village and the people ready, to defend ourselves.”
“We will have to.” He rinsed his bowl in the water by the fire. Looked up. “One day,” he said, “one day of fighting and they will realise the danger and we will flee to the forest?” She nodded.
“One day, that is all we need.”
“I think I can do that.” They were interrupted by noise from outside, a babble of voices.
“That will be Dyon,” she said, standing. “Getting ready to leave.” She began to walk away and he stood, took her arm. She looked up at him, almost smiled, but when she saw the look on his face any happiness fled.
“I worry that by being here I make things worse. If I am here they will—”
“Never stop? Keep coming?” she said, and looked strangely disappointed. “If you feel you need to leave before they arrive then do. I will not stop you. I know Dyon’s idea of them treating us well because they want our knowledge of treefall is a nonsense. I know the idea we can make them respect our strength is even more foolish. But they are coming whether you are here or not, Cahan Du-Nahere.” She put her hand on his. She was warm, soft. He was not used to being touched. “I would rather face them with you by our side than not, but it is your choice.” With that she walked away, leaving a whirl of confused feeling within him.
A count later he followed her outside to find Dyon, standing with three others. He recognised Furden and his firsthusband, Duhan. The woman with them he had seen about the village but did not know, she gave him a look that left him in little doubt she blamed him for her troubles. They had packs ready for their journey. Dyon looked happy, peaceful even. Villagers were handing him bread and dried meat for his pack. Wishing Tarl-an-Gig to accompany him and look down on him. There was an air of celebration about the village.
“We go,” shouted Dyon, “to bring peace and prosperity back to Harn. Yes, mistakes have been made. We lost Gart who was dear to us.” He looked at Cahan, but did not mention his name or blame him. He wondered if Furin had made sure he did not. The crowd became quiet. Dyon raised his hands. “But I will bring back enough to make up for that, and we will give a piece of our new wealth to Gart’s family, and we will make good his loss to them.” A chorus of agreement. “And now we go!” he shouted. His words greeted with applause and shouts of “Iftal bless you, Dyon!” Cahan let him walk away, then went to find Udinny and Venn. They were squatting in the mud, playing a game that involved a circle in the dirt and some pebbles.
“We need to go with them,” he said. Udinny stood.
“Gladly,” she said. “I long for adventure.”
“She was losing,” said Venn.
“It was a tactical retreat,” said Udinny, then kicked the pebbles out of the dirt. Moved a little closer to the forester.
“Are you leaving, Cahan?” whispered Udinny, “because without you these people…”
“No, Udinny,” he said. “I am not leaving. I think I must stop running. But I need some things from Woodedge, and Dyon may end up being glad of my company.”
“Why?” said Venn.
“You will find out,” he said. Then looked for Furin in among the crowd of villagers watching Dyon and his party leave. He took the Leoric aside. “I am going to accompany Dyon a little of the way.”
“You are going?” Worry, further cracking the mask of white on her face.
“Not for long.”
“How long is not long?”
“Could be a few hours, could be a few days, but I think it will be worth the time.” She stared at him, and must have been wondering whether he was running and too cowardly to say so. She looked to Udinny.
“You are going with him?” The monk nodded and this seemed to calm the Leoric a little. She turned back to Cahan. “Is there anything we can do while you are gone?”
“Yes,” he said, “the stakes that are around the village, move them closer together.”
“How close?”
“Close enough that you would need to turn sideways to pass through them.”
“We do not have enough stakes.”
“Then cut more,” he said. “In fact, clear Woodedge around the village to do it. The more clear ground between the wood and the village the better.”
“I have heard that the forest does not…”
“The forest will understand,” he said, “and Woodedge is hardly the true forest. More like cutting its nails or hair.” She nodded. He began to walk away then stopped and turned back. She smiled at him.
“Cahan, I…” she said.
“And dig a pit,” he added, “in front of the wall, as deep as the tallest villager, more if you can. Wide enough you would struggle to jump it. After that, dig another before the stakes. And strengthen the wall, too.” She looked disappointed and he did not understand why. If she wanted kinder words or assurance he was not the person for it. Maybe what he said only brought home what was to come, the inevitability of it.
“It will be bad, won’t it,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he said. “It will.”