There was a shout, and Rojer looked up to see the Krasian leader approaching, followed by his two bodyguards, Hasik and Shanjat. They wore their spears and shields on their backs, but while Jardir looked relaxed and serene, the warriors had the look of men surrounded by enemies. Their hands flexed unconsciously for want of a spear.

Jardir headed toward Rojer, and Gared gave a shout as he and a few Cutters hurried to intercept. Jardir’s bodyguards whirled to face them, spear and shield appearing in their hands instantly. The Cutters lifted their own weapons at the sight, and it seemed a clash was inevitable.

But Jardir turned, taking in Cutter and Sharum alike. “We are guests of Mistress Leesha!” he cried. “No blood will be shed between our peoples until she decrees otherwise.”

“Then tell your men to put their spears down,” Gared said, holding an axe in one hand and his warded blade in the other. Dozens of Cutters hurried across the graveyard and gathered at his back, but Hasik and Shanjat seemed unfazed—more than willing to fight the lot of them. Having seen the Krasian warriors fight, Rojer expected they would give far better than they got.

But then Jardir shouted something in Krasian, and his bodyguards sheathed their spears, though they kept their shields out.

“Din’t say put ’em away, I said put ’em down,” Gared growled.

Jardir smiled. “Guests are not asked to leave their knives at the door, Gared, son of Steave.”

Gared opened his mouth to reply, but Rojer cut him off.

“Of course, you are correct,” he said loudly, looking at Gared. “Put up your axe,” he told the giant Cutter.

Gared’s eyes widened. It was the first time Rojer had ever publicly given Gared an order, and it was one the Cutter might well refuse to accept, for if he put up his weapon, every other Cutter would as well.

Their eyes met, and Gared challenged him in that look, but Rojer was a mummer, and his face easily imitated the harsh look of the Painted Man, his voice deepening to the rasp Arlen used to frighten people and distance himself from them.

“Ent gonna tell you again, Gared,” he said, and he felt it as the giant’s will broke. Gared nodded and stepped back, returning his axe to its harness and his blade to its sheath. The other Cutters looked at him in surprise, but they did the same, taking comfort in their numbers.

Rojer turned to face Jardir. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Indeed,” said Jardir, bowing. “I wish to speak with Mistress Leesha.”

“She’s not in town,” Rojer said.

“I see,” Jardir said. “Can you tell me where I might find her?”

“The Core we will!” Gared growled, but Rojer and Jardir both ignored him.

“Why?” Rojer asked.

“She has given me a gift of incredible value in the cloak,” Jardir said. “I wish to bestow a gift of equal value upon her.”

“What gift?” Rojer asked.

Jardir smiled. “That is a matter between Mistress Leesha and myself.”

Rojer considered him. Part of him screamed not to trust this smiling desert demon who had slaughtered and raped so many, but Jardir seemed to have his own code of honor, and he did not think the man would try to harm Leesha while the truce held. And if the gift he offered was truly magic of equal value, they might be fools to refuse it.

“I’ll take you to her if you leave your warriors behind,” Rojer said.

Jardir bowed. “Of course.” The guards gave a cry of protest, as did Gared and a few of the Cutters, but again Rojer and Jardir ignored them. “My intentions toward Mistress Leesha are honorable, and I will of course accept a chaperone while in her presence.”

It seemed an odd choice of words, but Rojer could not find further cause to argue. Soon they were walking the path to Leesha’s cottage. Gared insisted on coming along, and glared at Jardir the whole way, though the Krasian leader seemed thankfully oblivious.

“Why does the mistress not live on your village’s wondrous greatward?” Jardir asked. “I would think her too valuable to risk to the alagai.”

Rojer laughed. “If all the Core rose up tonight, you’d be safer in Leesha’s cottage than anywhere else in the world.”

Jardir found that hard to believe, but as they came close to the cottage, he found the path laid with a walkway of stone wards, each large enough to stand upon without marring it.

Jardir stopped short, looking at the stones in amazement. He squatted, pressing against the stone with his hand. “Everam’s beard. It must have taken a thousand slaves to carve these.”

“We ent a bunch of filthy desert slavers like you,” Gared muttered. Jardir’s first impulse was to kill the man, but that was no way to impress the mistress. He embraced the insult instead and gave it no further thought, returning his focus to the path.

“The wards were poured, not carved,” Rojer said, “made from a mixture of stone and water called crete, which hardens as it dries. Leesha cut them into the ground herself, and free men poured the stone.”

Jardir scanned the path ahead in amazement. “These are combat wards. And linked.”

Rojer nodded. “Any demon that sets foot on this path might as well step into a sunbeam.”

Jardir realized he had been arrogant and naïve to scoff before. For all their savage ways, not even Sharik Hora held the power of some of the Northern woman’s wardings.

The yard was no less stunning, filled with more crete walkways that wove a complex wardnet around the cottage and its environs. A large garden bloomed brightly, the herbs and flowers arranged in neat groupings, their lines forming yet more wards. Jardir couldn’t recognize many of them, but he saw enough to know that these did far more than banish or kill corelings.

Stronger than ever, he felt Everam’s will thrumming within him. This woman was destined to be his bride. With her and Inevera behind him, what in the world could he not accomplish?

Leesha listened to the comforting rhythm of Wonda chopping firewood as she prepared lunch. The simple task helped give her mind clarity as she went over the night’s events and compared the men she had met with the tales of the refugees and Arlen’s words of warning.

It was not that she did not trust the accounts, but Leesha preferred to form her own opinions. Many of the refugees spoke hearsay and exaggeration, and Arlen’s heart could be hard and unforgiving at times. Something had happened to him in Krasia, some hurt done he could not forgive, but since he would not speak of it, Leesha could only guess as to what it was.

Whatever else might be true of the Krasians, they were warriors without equal. Leesha had seen that instantly as she watched them fight. The Cutters were generally larger and more heavily muscled, but they moved with none of the precision that marked the dal’Sharum. The fifty camped in the clearing could cut a swath of destruction across the Hollow before they were pulled down, and if the rest of Jardir’s army had half their skill, the Hollowers would stand little chance against them, even with all the secrets of fire she could muster.

And so she had determined that they must not fight, if it could be avoided. It was one thing to kill demons, but every human life was precious. The books of the old world said mankind had once numbered in the billions, but how many remained after the Return? A quarter million? The thought of the last men in the world fighting one another sickened her.

Yet neither could she surrender. She would not spit on her hand and wet the Hollow for the Krasians. She had worked too hard to hold the Hollowers together after the flux to assimilate the refugees from Rizon and Lakton to just turn them over. If there was a way to negotiate a peace, she had to find it.

The first meeting with the Krasian leader had seemed to indicate that was a possibility. He was cultured and intelligent, nothing like the rabid animal the accounts had portrayed, and clearly held true to his beliefs, even if Leesha thought them brutal and cruel at times. She had looked deeply into his eyes, and there was no cruelty there. Like a stern father administering a needed spanking, Ahmann Jardir was doing what he thought best for humanity.