“I don’t know what to think.” No sound escaped him, but his eyes began to brim with tears, and he ducked his head the way he always did when he was in pain.

Sugar wanted to cry with him, wanted to feel overwhelming grief. But she was empty, as desolate as rock. And that pained her as much as anything else. What kind of daughter was it that had no tears for the butchering of her parents? What kind of daughter was it that ran? She had a knife. She knew how to use it.

“Da always said you were an uncanny judge of character,” said Sugar. “If your heart tells you to be afraid, then let’s trust it. Da always did.”

Legs leaned into her, and she took him into an embrace, putting his face in her neck and stroking his hair.

Things to act and things to be acted upon. She had a knife. Lords, she’d had at least six, for there were a number in the kitchen. She could have done something. She could have sent Legs to the pheasant house, gone around back herself, and surprised that line of bowmen. She could have distracted a whole group of men. She might have tipped the battle.

Why? Why had she run?

And if she hadn’t run, if, beyond hope, she’d tipped the battle, what then? She’d seen Mother. Seen her horrible power.

Legs gently pulled away. “Will we talk to Horse?”

They had no tools to survive in the wild. Besides, an army of hunters would be combing the outer woods, expecting them to run there. If Horse helped them, and that was a desperate if, then maybe they might be able to survive until all but the most patient hunters gave up dreams of a bounty and went back to their normal labors. If she and Legs survived that long, that’s when they would escape.

“I don’t know,” said Sugar. “Let’s just take this one step at a time. Right now we need to find where they ford this river.”

9

Talen still ached from the beating he’d taken at Stag Home. He stood, took off his wide-brimmed straw hat, and wiped his brow. Then he gingerly felt his ribs and looked for Da. Nettle had returned from taking his message to the Creek Widow long ago. But there was still no sign of Da.

Nettle threw another pitchfork full of dried bracken onto the wagon bed. They still had three windrows of the stuff to haul off the hill. From the time Da left until now, Talen had eyed the woods every chance he got. But after hours of vigilance, and seeing nothing more exciting than three hogs rooting for acorns in the distance, he began to think less of the dangers and more on the promised bounty.

The reward was a miller’s annual wage. Goh, he could buy a Kish bow for that.

And why couldn’t a Koramite bring them in?

Why couldn’t he bring them in?

Sleth were wily and dangerous. And maybe he’d need help. After all, it was said Sleth had animal strength and could twist your head off as easily as a housewife could twist the head off a chicken.

Nevertheless, they were, after all, only children. Not full Sleth.

He and Nettle piled the wagon high with another dozen forkfuls of bracken then took it to the last haystacking site. Prince Conroy, their red rooster, clambered up on top, surveying the world as the wagon moved along.

They put a thick layer of the long fronds at the base of this last site for the hay they’d use this winter to feed their horse, cattle, and small flock of sheep. A thick bracken base kept a dry layer between the hay and ground. They’d also cut enough for lining bundles of foodstuff, for the rats did not like chewing through it because it made their mouths sore.

When they’d finished the last stacking site, Nettle said, “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” said Talen. “You stinking Mokaddian garlic-eater.”

“Koramite goat-lover,” Nettle shot back.

Talen smiled. This name-calling had been their joke for some time now. And with the possibility of Talen being adopted into Argoth’s clan as a member by privilege but not blood, it took on a new meaning. Of course, Talen had already been recognized by the Koramite Council and granted a man’s braid to hang from his belt.

The Koramites didn’t proclaim their clan or male-rights by elaborate tattoos. One small tattoo was sufficient. Your clan was in your blood. What more did you need? And your male-rights were things you earned or lost by your actions. Talen’s braid, which was only to be worn at formal occasions, was kept in a box with those for Ke and Da. It was a simple leather braid with three silver beads. Other men with greater capacities extended their belts and added disks. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless of the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.

In the meadow, River and Ke turned the rows of cut grass with their hay forks so it could finish drying. A flock of blackbirds followed behind, picking through the grass for a meal.

“I’ll start on that acre your da wants cleared for the oats next spring,” said Nettle. “You get something to eat.”

“I thought you were supposed to be riding with your da today anyway, not here eating up all our food.”

“No, the captain wouldn’t let me come on patrol.” Nettle referred to his father this way when he was dissatisfied with him. “He made some excuse again.”

Uncle Argoth was responsible for watching a stretch of coastline. “He’s just trying to protect you,” said Talen.

“I don’t want protection. Half of the men resent me because they’ve been ordered, behind my back, to keep me safe. So instead of being a full member of the patrol, I’m a burden. To the other half I’m nothing but a joke. They might as well bring along an infant in arms.”

“You don’t know what they’re thinking.”

“I can read a man’s eyes,” said Nettle. “I’ve heard their whispers and seen their patronizing smiles.” He shook his head in disgust.

Talen didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. Of course, why court death when you didn’t have to? He was happy he didn’t have patrol duties and was about to say this when Nettle looked at him honestly.

“I envy you,” said Nettle.

“Me?” asked Talen. Nettle had everything. Looks, wealth, the right blood. He might not be a giant like Da or Ke, but he was larger than Talen. And he had a father who was a captain in the Shoka clan.

“Not you exactly,” Nettle said and grinned. “But your da trusts you. You have your braid. He treats you like a man. You almost have your life taken and he simply dusts you off and sends you out to the fields to work.”

“If it’s damage you want,” said Talen, “let me find a stick. I’d be happy to give you a good thrashing. Especially since you failed to come to my aid this morning.”

“See,” said Nettle, “my passivity is becoming habitual. I’m sick to death of being coddled. I want to do something real.”

No he didn’t, Talen thought. There is no joy in being on the receiving end of the stick. “The acre that needs to be cleared is real,” said Talen. “And don’t worry about stumps. We’ll just plow around them. When they’re good and rotted they’ll come out just fine.”

“Whatever,” said Nettle, obviously frustrated with Talen’s response.

Talen picked up the hoggin. He might as well fill it back up with water. But when he turned to walk back to the house, he got a chill. There were stories of one Sleth lord who had lain in wait for his victims in their cellars. Talen and the others had been working out in the fields since before noon. That was plenty of time for hatchlings to move about and hide in a cellar.

“What are you doing?” asked Nettle. “I thought you were going to get some food.”

“Nothing,” said Talen. But, of course, he was doing something-he was acting like a coward again. “Just thinking about what we’re going to have for a snack.” Then he strode toward the house as quickly as his injuries would let him, hoggin slung under his arm.