The summer air—even at night—had taken on a softness Rennika had never felt when she lived in the mountains. As the strawberries faded, the raspberries grew heavy on their canes. When she wasn’t begging or running messages, Rennika helped Sieura Barcley find herbs under auspicious celestial signs, and the magiel, still grieving her son’s disappearance, instructed Rennika in magic.
But now as summer mellowed, Sulwyn had told them he was leaving. And Meg and Janat talked of going somewhere, too, which Rennika couldn’t fathom. They had friends in Silvermeadow. Her sisters had found enough work to live and they weren’t beaten often, as long as they stayed out of the way. Rennika didn’t want to go back to wandering.
But the morning came when Sulwyn packed his cart, Janat had scrubbed his clothes and hung them to dry, then later, folded them and brought them to him. Meg and Rennika went to the tavern stable to say goodbye.
Janat was sitting on the stone wall that divided the yak pen from the horse stalls as Sulwyn brushed the mare Sieur Dwyn had procured for him. “If there are no buildings there, you’ll have a lot of work before winter,” she was saying.
He stroked the tolerant mountain pony with a wide brush. “No merchant is a stranger to work,” he said as Rennika and Meg slipped through the barn door.
Rennika ran to him and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t go!”
“I have to go.” Sulwyn hugged her back. “I have to work.”
“Get someone else to do it.” She climbed onto the stone wall beside Janat.
“That’s part of my work,” he said, pulling the bridle from its hook and sliding it over the mare’s head. “Showing others why they should join us.”
The door opened and a tall man peered in. “Ah. Sulwyn.” It was the man who was once king of Gramarye, and didn’t want his title used, so they all called him Dwyn. He eased himself through the door and closed it behind him. He had a head of thick dark hair with bits of gray that fell to his shoulders, now tied back but for a few strands. His clothing was good but used, and he covered it with a ragged woollen cloak. His boots, though, had not yet worn out.
Sulwyn led the pony to her place before the cart. He nodded at Dwyn, which was completely wrong to Rennika, though Meg had explained why it must be so. “Sieur. I thank you again for your generosity.” He gestured to the horse and cart.
Dwyn’s nod was graceful and kingly. Like the other refugees, he struggled to copy the low accent. “You’re working for Shangril,” he said. “You need tools to accomplish your undertaking.” He swept a glance over Rennika and her sisters. “What of the magiels?”
Rennika startled. He knew?
Sulwyn took the harness down from its peg. “They’ve been discussing staying in Silvermeadow for the winter.”
“Out of the question. Too many people here suspect who they are.”
“They do not!” Janat cried, but the king silenced her with a glance.
Meg lifted her head. “Sieur—”
“Silvermeadow is on the King’s Road,” Dwyn said in a tone that permitted no debate. Meg looked as though she wanted to argue, but for once she didn’t.
Rennika looked to Janat for support, but her sister only stared at Sulwyn, sudden fear on her face.
Sulwyn draped the harness over the mare’s body. “My father had a friend, a trade partner, actually, with cousins in Wildbrook.”
“Where is Wildbrook?” Meg asked.
“The country of Elsen. North and west of here. Some distance.”
The deposed king placed his hands behind his back, head lowered, centering on Sulwyn’s words. “The King’s Road will take them through Midell.”
“Beorn is going to Pagoras. He could see them safely past Midell.” Sulwyn’s fingers stilled on the buckle and he gave Janat a reassuring look.
“How long a journey?” Meg looked from one man to the other.
Sulwyn limped to the other side of the mare to adjust the straps on the harness. “Two weeks, depending on the weather.”
“They can’t all go,” Dwyn said.
Rennika gripped Janat’s hand.
“Why not?” Meg demanded.
With a look, Dwyn deflected the question to Sulwyn.
Sulwyn’s fingers fell from their work and he turned to Meg. “Three of you together. Your accents. Your ages. One scintillating, one variable, one steady.”
“Be plain.”
He shrugged apologetically at Janat. “It’s clear who you are to anyone who knows what to look for.” He flicked his gaze to the king.
“There are rumors Talanda’s daughters escaped Archwood the night of the attack.”
Janat hung her head.
“No one has substantiated them,” Sulwyn interjected, finding his mug. “So far, the civil war has thrown the country in chaos. No one knows—for sure—who’s been killed, who’s in exile...”
“Nevertheless,” Dwyn said. “The king’s men will be watching for three young girls. Just as Sulwyn described.”
Janat’s grip on Rennika’s hand tightened. “You can’t separate us.”
The king looked at Janat. “You may not wish to live, but as magiels of a great house, your place in this war is of far greater importance than your personal desires.”
“But there are lots of displaced magiels, lots—”
“What about Spruce Falls, Janat?” Meg asked in a low voice. “And Grassy Bluff? It took no time for people to start suspecting who we were. And that farmer’s house when we first found our way out the wilds? Women—children—” She looked at Rennika. “—don’t travel. Especially not alone.”
“We’re refugees,” Janat countered. “Things have changed!”
“But as the countryside settles. As King Artem imposes law. As people begin to live their lives again,” Dwyn said, “it becomes more and more dangerous for the three of you to be seen together.”
Janat’s grip on Rennika’s hand was hard. She wouldn’t let the men split them. Meg wouldn’t—
Dwyn took a deep breath. “Perhaps the two. Meg and Janat can go together. For now, until we can come up with a plan.”
Janat released Rennika’s hand and threw her arm protectively around her shoulder. “You won’t take Rennika from us!”
“A servant of mine—a good man,” the king said. “He’s taken a small yak holding above Highglen.” He nodded at Rennika. “He could take the young one. Make a story about a niece whose parents were caught in the fighting.” He peered thoughtfully at Rennika. “You look worldling enough.”
“I’m not a worldling!” Rennika’s heart began to pound. She shrank into Janat’s protection.
“I’ll provide a small stipend for her keep, and she can learn to help out with the holding,” the king offered kindly. “It won’t be easy, but she’ll be out of harm’s way.”
“No!” Rennika cried.
“Send Janat with her,” Meg said reasonably. “I don’t mind traveling with Sulwyn alone.”
Janat shot her a sudden dark look.
Sulwyn drank from his mug. “I won’t be going to Wildbrook. I head west. I would only give you a letter of introduction.”
“The young one has a convincing accent. My man can explain her.” Dwyn nodded at Janat. “You, girl, lovely as you are, must keep the role of a refugee for now.”
Sulwyn set his mug down and hobbled to Janat. “He’s right. And it’s a generous offer.” He took Janat’s free hand and looked into her eyes. “Rennika will be sheltered and cared for. Fearghus can take Rennika to Gramarye before he goes to Arcan. She’ll be all right.”
Sulwyn couldn’t do this. Rennika had helped him. When he was ill. And now—
Janat’s arm on her shoulder loosened as she looked into Sulwyn’s face.
A hardness gripped Rennika’s throat and tears sprang to her eyes.
“And in Gramarye—and I think in Orumon—children do as they are told,” the king said.
Rennika looked to Meg, but Meg was biting her lip, looking down. “Meg,” she whispered.
Meg looked away for a moment, as though she couldn’t meet Rennika’s plea. “It’s safer for all of us,” she said at last. “And it’ll only be for a little while. Until Sulwyn and Dwyn can restore Shangril.”
“Until the day comes,” Sulwyn said to her, “when we need a magiel again.”
Kandenton was a pretty little village clinging to the side of a ravine above the rushing Kandon River—more of a creek, really—surrounded by thick, dark forest. Dwyn Gramaret had suggested, and Janat and Meg had agreed, that they leave Silvermeadow early and keep up a steady pace that they might reach the hamlet by nightfall. Rennika had been hard pressed to keep up, but she’d walked all day without complaining, and Janat had come to realize that her younger sister, now just turned twelve years old, was getting taller. A hint of curve promised to sprout beneath her lean figure.
Janat was tired when they trudged beneath the eaves of the cantilevered buildings lining the King’s Road. The village had a shrine, smithy, tavern, mill, and a scatter of houses, everything to supply the community for miles around. There were no soldiers, and children in the streets seemed friendly enough, as though war had not yet touched this corner of...she thought they might now be in the country of Gramarye. Meg, of course, had dropped her sack and gone first to pray at the shrine in thanks for their uneventful day, and to ask for continued good weather and safe travels on their way to Zellora.
Zellora was where Fearghus would turn south to take Rennika to Highglen, and Janat and Meg would go north with Beorn. Then later, if they could find the way alone, to a small village in Elsen, called Wildbrook.
Beorn stepped out of the tavern to where they waited in the warmth of the summer evening. “The taverner welcomes magiels. He has a stable out back, and his mare is about to give birth. Her nipples began waxing three days ago. For a spell to ensure the foal’s safe birth, he’ll put us all up for the night, with supper and breakfast. He says there’s an apothecary down the street who owes him a favor, if you need herbs or animal parts.”
Janat flicked a glance at the narrow strip of sky above the street. The day had been warm and clear, and the evening promised to be cloudless. Tonight, Kyaju’s arrow would high and bright, near the One God’s star, an auspicious time to cast a birthing charm.
“Oh, Meg! A baby foal!” Rennika perked up, the day’s despondency sloughing from her shoulders. “Can I do it? Can I cast the spell? Remember, I helped Sieura Barcley ease that woman’s birth on the road from Fairdell when she was going to give breech? I remember the spell.”
Janat couldn’t suppress her grin at her sister’s eagerness. “Yes, let her.”
Meg smiled her assent, and Rennika ran to the apothecary.
The tavern was crowded with locals and ringing with choruses held together by tin whistles and spoons and a lute. Rennika rejoined them just as the wench brought small bowls of steaming rice and yak dumplings to their table. Beorn and Fearghus stayed in the lively room after the girls left, drinking rice beer and listening to bawdy songs and talk of the political situation in the south.
But Janat knew the stable was where Rennika had been itching to go all through the generous meal. Once they could eat no more, they followed the taverner out to the quiet, rich-smelling stall where his fine mare paced and pawed. The taverner brought them an armload of towels and fixed three candles to niches in the stable walls, then left them to their work. Janat soothed the sweet creature, offering bits of apple, as Meg cut a single hair from the mare’s tail and Rennika laid out her ingredients.
The charm was a simple one: a worldling spell. Janat knew how to cast it, as did Meg, and it was usually cast without magiel magic. The herbs it required, and the binding words and the celestial arrangements that maximized its effectiveness were sufficient. But Rennika wanted to practice her magiel magic. She would get no teaching in Highglen.
“You’ll have time rebounds,” Meg warned. “And we have a long way to walk tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.”
“I’ll just do a little,” Rennika begged. “The apothecary had a kitten’s heart, but it was harvested two days ago. It’ll work so much better, fresh. And we can use less poppy if I age and concentrate it.”
“A mare doesn’t need poppy.”
“If she visits her future, we might learn something,” Janat pointed out. “This is a safe place to use magic. We have beds for the night.” She worked her way along the mare’s side and felt the beast’s swollen belly. “She’s pretty heavy. The foal may come sooner than the taverner thought.”
Meg knelt in the straw and pulled a bowl from her sack. “All right.” She smiled.
Rennika squealed with pleasure and set about combining her herbs and other ingredients, bringing each to its most fecund time, chanting the spell words under Sashcarnala’s solitary star, and painting the final paste on the mare’s belly. Then she tied the single plucked hair from the mare’s tail into a long loop and embedded it in the potion on the horse’s skin.
The mare calmed, once the potion was applied, and it became clear to Janat that the spell was strong. The foal would be born this night.
At midnight, after endless pacing and nipping at her belly, and a handful of grunts, the mare dropped the colt with ease in a gush of birthing fluid onto the straw of the stall.
Janat squeezed Rennika’s hand. Then the three of them helped the little thing struggle from its sack. It blinked and shook its head, surrounded by a scatter of legs, as the sticky waters dripped away. The mother turned and sniffed her newborn, nudging it with her nose and licking it clean.
“Oh,” Rennika murmured, tears streaking her face. “It’s so delicate.”
“No,” Meg said. “See?” She put a blessing on the colt’s naval and checked the afterbirth.
Within minutes, the spindly horse gathered its legs beneath it, and came to a wobbly stand. Janat held back her giggles, but she couldn’t hold back her smiles. She led the colt to its mother’s teats, and it began to suckle.
She almost missed Rennika’s stillness and the age and worldliness that crept into her eyes. Meg touched her arm.
“Rennika?” Janat whispered.
Rennika gave her a single knowing nod.
“When are you from?” Janat asked quietly.
A tiny frown creased the child’s brow, as if she weighed her words. “You’re strong,” she said at last in satisfaction. “Remember. You’re sisters. Hold on to that.”
That wasn’t much help.
“What do we need to know?” Janat persisted.
The girl took a long look around the stable: the foal nuzzling its mother, the candlelight, the mellow smell of straw and horse. “Remember tonight.” Her words were passionate, and Janat wondered if she might cry. “Remember Kandenton.” She nodded and took a deep breath, and smiled. “Remember this gift.”
“But Rennika!” Meg rose to her knees.
And then Rennika blinked and the eloquence left her eyes. She gasped a little to see them both staring at her.
“When were you?” Meg asked again.
Rennika stared at them for a moment, reassembling her memories. “In a shrine, high on a hill. An ancient one—its walls had mostly collapsed. But it was a holy place. I could feel it.”
Janat sat back. “Was there anything? Any clue?”
Again, her sister thought. “It was night, and I was alone. All my ingredients were laid out.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t a time in my past.”
Meg sighed. “Nothing.”
A sorrow descended on them, then; each, separately.
But Kandenton was a jewel. As Rennika had said: it was a glittering moment of happiness.
Janat touched Rennika’s fingers and reached out a palm to take Meg’s. It was impossible to know if they would ever be united again.
Carn Highglen, for all it had at one time been a seat of great power, was a small, almost deserted city tucked high in the mountains of Gramarye. It perched on the edge of a hanging valley behind an impressive outer wall very much like Archwood. It took Rennika and Fearghus three days of steady trudging to reach it.
Within its walls, destitution was evident. Though the city had fallen to King Artem less than a year earlier, many had abandoned it. Seeing the destruction of their prayer stone, they fled to neighboring countries—Midell, Teshe, even Arcan—seeking a land where they could pray to their Gods. Disillusioned, some had returned, but not enough for the city to thrive. Shops stood empty, and doorways and alcoves sheltered rag-wrapped vagrants. Of magiels, they found none. Under the regent King Artem had put in place to rule until Princess Hada came of age, magic wielders were not welcome.
The sun was brilliant and the morning air crisp when Fearghus took her through the city to the meadows beyond, where drovers kept their yak herds. Beyond the city walls, trees grew only in stunted clusters around meadows of tall grass. The wind blew cold from high glaciers, numbing Rennika’s fingers and face, so like Orumon that she could have cried. High above the city, they found a moss-chinked stone hut with a shed for the milk yak, and a barn with chickens and a pig.
Colin Cutter, Carn Highglen’s one-time master of livestock, was an old man whose two sons had left for the promises of rebel uprisings, and whose wife had died in the spring. He had little to spare, but for a girl to cook and mend and heal while he watched his herds, he would share his yak milk and fire.
He sat at the table, silent, as Rennika stood by the door the next day, forsaken, watching as her rebel protector bundled himself up in his threadbare cloak and trudged into the rain.