Angry murmurs swelled for a moment and Jeirran fell silent until the noise subsided. The air was ripe with expectation.

“Are we to suffer this insult? Is this to be yet one more abuse of our land and our people that goes unchallenged? Are the lowlanders and their Forest allies going to bar us from roads and trade now that we’ve been bold enough to mark our boundaries?” His voice was unexpectedly calm. “Isn’t it time to tell them enough is enough? Mustn’t they learn we will not stand to be so disparaged and denied?” He shook his head. “I’ve been breaking my heart and testing your patience with questions long enough. You must decide what to do. All I know is I have a murder to avenge. I will not cross my wife’s threshold until I have claimed a life to repay the soke for its loss. I will not take food from her hearth until I have lit a pyre to break the bones of that murderer to splinters. I will not return until I can swear to my sons and daughters yet unborn that I have defended their birthright. Misaen and Maewelin both may judge me if I do not spend every last drop of blood in my veins before I abandon this pledge.”

Jeirran did not look back as he walked away from the rekin. He strode forward but eager men shouting their support, reaching forward to shake his hand or slap his shoulder, soon blocked his path. Those who could not get close raised clenched fists in noisy approval, more soon raising weapons in their hands. The crowd moved awkwardly toward the gate, shifting and seething until it emptied through the narrow stone tunnel. Men in twos and threes ran hastily between the workshops and storehouses of the compound, emerging with sacks, bundles, swords and quivers. They halted for a moment as a great cheer boiled up outside the walls, the sound echoing from the cliffs all around, startling birds from their roosts.

“Do you suppose Eirys heard all that?” asked Keisyl despairingly. “She’ll be opening her arms to him soon enough if she did.”

“I don’t care if she was listening,” said Ismenia grimly. “That’s an oath that won’t go unheard where it matters.”

“You don’t believe he means what he’s saying?” Keisyl demanded. “That’s just his way of excusing himself to his rabble, avoiding explanations when they see this door is barred to him.”

“Whether or not he means it doesn’t matter,” said Ismenia with cold satisfaction.

“Misaen and Maewelin will answer when their names are invoked, even in vain,” nodded Fithian.

“He just realized that there were no fancy words he could use to get men to force their way into the rekin.” Keisyl sighed. “When he has them eating out of his hand by boasting he’s their champion for ancient rights, he’s hardly going to risk all by asking them to break down the door and defile custom along with the threshold.”

“None of them would go that far,” nodded Fithian slowly.

“Jeirran’s not got the wit for that,” said Ismenia scornfully. “It’ll be that harlot he’s reclaimed as sister.”

“Aritane may be many things and some of them foolish, but harlot she is not.”

The unexpected voice was rough with emotion and male.

Ismenia whirled around, hugging her arms to her, face ashen. Fithian reversed his grip on his flask and raised it menacingly. Keisyl stepped in front of his mother, fists clenched and scowling. “Theilyn! What do you think you are doing?”

The girl stepped down from the stairwell door and the gray-cloaked figure behind her put down his hood. “I went to find Bryn,” Theilyn said in a shaking voice. “Even if you’ll never forgive me, I wanted to make some amends to Teiro.” She glanced at the corpse and bit her lip but she had shed all her tears for now.

Bryn twisted his large hands around each other. “She has good cause to be concerned,” he began apologetically. “In this season, even salting the body—there is very real danger of corruption.”

“I’ll have no Sheltya dancing to Aritane’s tune saying the rites for my son,” Ismenia told him with simple truth. “I’ll risk the stain on his bones and answer for it if need be.”

“We could argue the rights and wrongs of what Aritane is doing from Solstice to Equinox but that will be of no use to Teiriol. I cannot leave matters like this.” Bryn colored and shifted uncomfortably. “It looks as if we will be leaving within the day. Once we are gone, I can ensure some Sheltya unconnected with all this will come to you, if you wish it. But I would need to have your word that you will not speak of Jeirran’s army or of any Sheltya presence here.”

Keisyl couldn’t ever recall hearing fear in a Sheltya voice before.

“I would not lie to Sheltya, even if I could.” Ismenia shook her head, more puzzled than defiant.

“Do not say how Teiriol died,” pleaded Bryn. “Or rather, just say that he was attacked in the lowlands, not that he was part of a parley or anything to do with Jeirran’s ambitions. Sheltya will respect your grief, you know that.”

“That would surely suffice, Mama. The important thing is to get the rites for Teiro,” said Theilyn. “If we say anything more, then Sheltya will put us all to the test and Eirys will never be able to stand it.”

Ismenia scrubbed her hands over her face, looking up with hollow cheeks and disordered hair. “I will not lie but I will not volunteer what I know,” she said finally.

“We don’t know that much as it is.” Keisyl looked unsmiling at Bryn. “We’ve done our best to keep ourselves out of this folly.” He moved to open the door. “It’s up to you how you answer for your part in all this.”

“No, I’ll leave by the side steps,” said Bryn hastily. “It’s better that I am not seen.”

He patted Theilyn clumsily on the shoulder as he turned and hurried up the stairs. She nodded absently and moved to the long table, picking up her needle and resuming her task with even stitches. After a moment, Ismenia moved to look over her daughter’s shoulder. With a grunt of approval, she pulled up a stool to the great slate slab and began working an awl through the stubborn leather, marking a line of holes for Theilyn’s sewing to follow. Keisyl collapsed on a stool between them, laid his head in his arms and wept, ceaseless tears falling on the indifferent stone. Fithian sat in a corner and drank from his flask with single-minded intent.

The Great West Road,

6th of Aft-Summer

I wasn’t really paying attention when the arrows came raining in; since murderous Mountain Men hadn’t caught up with us so far, my main worry was our empty bellies and the thirst that was closing my throat. The road was deserted and I was some way ahead of the others, having no wish to take a turn supporting Usara any sooner than need be. The mage was doing his best with a rough crutch, though his leg must have been ablaze with agony.

The arrows sprang from dense thickets low beneath mighty trees, cleaving the air with their spiteful swish. I had barely time to register their flight before all burst into flames. Bright gouts of fire flared in the shadows striping the road and a stink of charred feather hovered on the slow-moving air as scorched arrowheads clattered down. A rustle of consternation in the bushes betrayed at least one assailant. I backed rapidly to join the others, where Gilmarten was looking justifiably pleased with himself.

Darni stepped forward, one hand on his sword-hilt. “We have no wish to fight anyone. Can we parley?”

“You have been fighting, we see your wounded.” The shouting voice sounded young, nervous and angry, a bad combination. A second voice told us we had enemies in the branches of the trees. That’s all it told us, since this one spoke the Forest tongue. We exchanged looks of incomprehension.

“You, there, you of the blood,” it yelled in exasperated Tormalin. “Are you prisoner or traitor?”

“My father was of the blood, but I was born and raised an outdweller,” I called out cautiously. “These men are friends and companions of many years. They have attacked no one.”