“That will only go so far,” Vika said.

Leesha nodded. “Corkweed may be tough and bitter, but it’s nutritious enough, grows on just about everything, and survives year-round. Put the younger children to work gathering it, and I’ll think of a way to cook and season it in bulk. If that’s not enough, there are edible barks and even insects that can fill a starving belly.”

“Weeds and insects?” Elona asked. “You’re going to ask folk to eat bugs?”

“I’m seeing to it they don’t starve, Mother,” Leesha said. “If I have to sit and eat bugs in front of them to set an example, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Well enough for you,” Elona said, “but don’t expect me to do the same.”

“You’ll have your own part to play,” Leesha said.

Elona looked at her. “I’m not making my house into an inn for every vagabond that comes down the road.”

Leesha sighed. “It’s getting dark, Mother. You’d best head home. we’ll talk in the morning.”

The others took this as the meeting’s end and filed out of the room after Elona, leaving Leesha alone with Stefny.

“Don’t fret,” Stefny said. “I’m sure your mother will be more than willing to do her part, opening her home to the Rizonan men with the biggest dangles.”

Leesha glared at her. “My mum isn’t the only woman in this village who broke her wedding vows,” she reminded her. Stefny’s youngest son Keet, now nearly twenty, was fathered not by Smitt but by the village’s previous Tender, Michel. It was still unknown to Smitt and the rest of town, but Bruna, who had midwifed the child, knew from the outset.

“Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking Bruna’s secrets died with her,” Leesha warned. “Keep your hypocrisy to yourself.”

Stefny blanched white and nodded meekly. Leesha gave an amused snort at how she scurried out of the room, and then started suddenly, realizing she sounded just like Bruna.

It was well over a week after Marick rode off—to the cheers and adulation of those he was deserting—before the Painted Man and Rojer returned. Erny and the Cutters had drifted back into the city over the first few days, each bringing groups of refugees with them, but the Painted Man and Rojer kept ranging ever farther, and all who came to the Hollow told stories of encountering them.

Leesha was proud of Arlen and Rojer for the lives they were saving, but by the time they returned, so many folk had come that she despaired of feeding them all, weeds and bugs or no.

“We went as close to Rizon as we dared,” Rojer said over hot tea at her cottage the day they returned. “I think we found everyone who took the road, though there are likely some who tried to cut overland. The Krasians have dug in firmly, and send out regular patrols on the road.”

“They’ve only dug in temporarily,” the Painted Man said. “It won’t be long before they’re on the move again.”

“Back to the ripping desert, I hope,” Rojer said.

The Painted Man shook his head. “No. They’ll conquer Lakton, and then they’ll turn north and head right for the Hollow.”

Leesha felt her face grow cold, and Rojer looked like he might be sick.

“How can you know that?” she asked.

“The Krasians believe that Kaji, the first Deliverer, unified the tribes of Krasia and then rode out of the desert, spending two decades conquering the lands to the north,” the Painted Man said. “He called it Sharak Sun, the Daylight War, and levied the men into Sharak Ka, the great holy war against demonkind. If Ahmann Jardir thinks he is the Deliverer come again, he will attempt to follow the same path.”

“What are we to do?” Leesha asked.

“Build defenses,” the Painted Man said. “Fight them, every inch of the way.”

Leesha shook her head. “No. I won’t support that. These aren’t demons you’re talking about killing, Arlen. They’re human beings.”

“You think I don’t know that?” the Painted Man said. “I have Krasian friends, Leesha! Can you say the same?” Leesha looked at him in shock, but she recovered and shook her head.

“Make no mistake,” the Painted Man said, his voice quieter, but no less vehement, “the Krasians believe every single person in the North is inferior to the least of them. They may make a show of being merciful to leaders they can use to further their goals, but there will be no such concessions to regular folk. They will kill or enslave everyone who does not swear utter submission to Jardir and the Evejah. We have to fight.”

“We could retreat to Angiers,” Leesha said. “Hide within the city walls.”

The Painted Man shook his head. “We can’t give them any ground. I know these people. If we show fear and retreat, they will think us weak, and only press the attack harder.”

“I still don’t like it,” Leesha said.

The Painted Man shrugged. “Your liking it is irrelevant. The good news is that I doubt they have more than six thousand warriors of fighting age. The bad news is that the least of those can outfight any three Cutters, and when they’re ready to move, they’ll have levied thousands of slave troops from Rizon.”

“How are we supposed to fight against that?” Rojer said.

“Unity,” the Painted Man said. “We need to open dialogue with Lakton now, while the lines of communication are still clear, and petition the dukes of Angiers and Miln to put aside their differences and commit to a common defense.”

“I don’t know the duke of Miln,” Rojer said, “but I grew up in Rhinebeck’s court when my master Arrick was his herald. Rhinebeck is more likely to put aside his differences with the corelings than with Duke Euchor.”

“Then we’ll have to convince him personally,” Leesha said. She looked at the Painted Man. “All of us.”

The Painted Man sighed. “Just as well I not go to Lakton. I’m…not very welcome there.”

“So the tale’s true then?” Rojer asked. “The dockmasters tried to kill you?”

“After a fashion,” the Painted Man said.

Rojer sat in the music shell that night, playing to soothe the hundreds of refugees still living in tents in the Corelings’ Graveyard. Many of them drifted over to sit by the shell, basking in the warm glow of the greatward as they fell under Rojer’s spell. His music swept them up and carried them far away to forget, at least for a short time, that their lives had been shattered.

It seemed a terribly inadequate gift, but it was all he had to give. He kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, letting them see nothing of the bleakness he felt inside.

Tender Jona was waiting for him when he finished playing. The Holy Man was young, not yet thirty, but he was well loved by the Hollowers, and no one had worked harder to bring comfort and necessities to the refugees. In addition to organizing most of the food and shelter rationing, the Tender walked among the refugees, learning their names and letting them know they were not alone. He led prayers for the dead, found caregivers for orphans, and married lovers brought together by tragedy.

“Thank you for doing this,” Jona said. “I could feel their spirits lifting as they watched you play. My own, as well.”

“I’ll perform every evening I’m not needed elsewhere,” Rojer said.

“Bless you,” Jona said. “Your music gives such strength to them.”

“I wish it could give some to me,” Rojer said. “Sometimes I think in my case the opposite is true.”

“Nonsense,” Jona said. “Strength of spirit is not some finite thing, where one man must lose for another to gain. The Creator grants strength and weakness to us all. What has you feeling weak, child?”

“Child?” Rojer laughed. “I’m not part of your audience, Tender. I have my fiddle,” he held up the instrument, “and you have yours.” He pointed with his bow at the heavy leather-bound Canon that Jona held in his hands.

Rojer knew his words hurt the Tender, and that the man deserved better, but his mood was black and Jona had picked the wrong time to condescend. He waited for the Holy Man to shout at him, ready and willing to shout right back.