“Are you referring to Willis of South Hill and his little band of fanatics?”

“I’m told he has fifty followers, which means he really has at least two hundred. And most of them are veteran Paladin irregulars, like him, not the kind of people I would lightly dismiss.”

Mabin paused, perhaps expecting that Norina would use this opening to continue to accuse and challenge her. “Do continue, Madam Councilor,” Norina said.

“If Karis were to join these people who call themselves Death‑and‑Life, their numbers would immediately swell to thousands. An irresistible army. The Sainnites would be defeated.”

Now it was Norina’s turn to use her teacup as a prop to make herself seem unsurprised, and even indifferent. But the raven spoiled the effect by uttering a harsh caw of laughter.

Norina said, “And yet you want to prevent this from happening? I thought you wanted to rid Shaftal of its Sainnite scourge.”

“Has Karis thought of joining them? She must have heard that they believe the Lost G’deon will appear to them.”

“I’ll answer you, if you tell me why it would be so terrible if she did. Because you yourself would be put out of power?”

Mabin said quietly, “Although these people call themselves Death‑and‑Life, they have no alliance to the old ways. They would dismiss the orders, the law, the code–” She paused. “Madam Truthken, I am an old woman, and sometimes I am very tired. Inevitably–soon–I will be put out of power by someone, or by death. But I do not want to die in a land I loved and could not save from destruction.”

“Truth!” said Norina, amazed.

Mabin gave her a wry look. “How can you waste such talent?”

“It’s no waste to serve Karis, I assure you.”

“Who also wastes her talent.”

“She’s saving the land from being devastated by plague.”

“Saving it for what?”

“This is a fruitless argument,” Norina said.

“Will she join these people who call themselves Death‑and‑Life? Or not?”

“Of course not. They are warmongers, and war makes her sick.”

But Mabin did not seem relieved. She set down the empty teacup on the table, and took a breath. “I want Karis to know that I regret that she was hurt by the way she was treated in the past. I thought I was acting for the best–”

“I listen to people try to justify themselves all day long,” Norina said. “I wish I might meet one who could do it with brevity.”

“What I did was wrong,” Mabin said. “I wish to ask Karis to come to me, to the Lilterwess Council, and take her rightful place in the G’deon’s chair.”

A long time Norina gazed at her, but, although she was not certain what had caused this amazing reversal, she could see no sign of dissimulation. Even the raven stared at her, speechless. “The last time I saw you,” Norina said, “you declared that Shaftal would never come into the hands of a Sainnite pretender, the smoke‑addicted daughter of a whore. Those are your words, exactly as you uttered them.”

“Karis no longer uses smoke. Her mother was of an ancient, respected people. I would wish Karis a non‑Sainnite father, but so might she.” Mabin seemed to realize how self‑serving these corrections on her past statement might sound, and added, “I’m very sorry for those angry words. I was mistaken. And I was wrong.”

Norina turned to the raven in astonishment. “Did Karis think she’d live to see this day? How shall I reply? Does she want to know why Mabin has changed her mind? Or does it even matter?”

The raven said, “Give her the note.”

Norina found herself reluctant. “The councilor has made a sincere apology.”

“Give her the note.”

Karis had written the note many weeks ago, shortly before she, Zanja, and J’han stepped into the snowstorm. She had not asked for Emil’s advice on how to deal with Mabin’s request. She had simply written three words on a piece of paper, which Norina took out of a pocket now and handed to Mabin. “Leave me alone,” Karis had written.

Mabin read the note and then crossed the room, threw it into the fire, and watched it burn. When she turned back, though, she seemed calm enough. She said to the raven, “Haven’t I already left her alone, these four years? And not because I feared this.” Her hand briefly touched her breast, where Karis’s steel pierced her heart. “She’ll regret making this choice. What is happening in Shaftal is worse than a plague.”

“There is no choice,” the raven said.

Mabin turned to Norina, who read in her face an honest desperation. “Will she give up Shaftal to Willis, rather than give up her anger against me? Will you knowingly allow her to do so? And will even Emil fail to intervene? Does every one of Karis’s followers think loyalty must be blind?”

“We are not her followers, and we argue with her and with each other incessantly. I don’t know how Emil would advise Karis, but he certainly would disagree with you about the way you have conceived these choices. We air bloods are always drawing neat lines through everything, as though dividing good from bad and right from wrong were a simple business. When I first began to live with three fire bloods, I feared their chaos of possibilities would drive me insane! My companions live courageously, in doubt and loss and desperate uncertainty, and I’ve come to tolerate their thinking and even to admire it sometimes. But your way, Councilor, is too simple. If Karis refuses to restore the old order, and also refuses to embrace the warmongers, why does that mean she has no other options?”

There was a silence. Mabin said, “I used to have arguments just like this with Harald. Might as well argue with a wall. Shout all I want, the wall is unmoved.” She turned away as though to leave the room, and then turned back. “Karis is the hope of Shaftal. How can she refuse?”

Norina said wearily, “When I was young and knew no better, I delivered Karis to you, and betrayed her without knowing it by pressuring her into obedience. I am fortunate that she forgave me for it. But she is in her full power now, and even I don’t know exactly what that means. Only a fool would trifle with her–and I am not a fool anymore.”

“I’m not asking you to betray her, just to remind her,” Mabin said. “When the day comes that she can leave her bitterness against me behind, remind her that I said I would acknowledge her.”

“I will remind her, Mabin, though a reminder will not be necessary.”

When Councilor Mabin had left the room, taken her leave of the farmers, and ridden off with her attendants down the muddy road, Norina said to the raven, “I had to promise Mabin something or I would not have gotten rid of her. Are you still hungry, raven?”

The raven flew away with a sausage roll in its beak. Norina tossed her cold tea out the window and poured a fresh cup, but then sat without drinking it. She was expected in a nearby town to judge an accused murderer–and, if necessary, to execute him. But she was considering what a relief it would have been to her had Karis simply accepted Mabin’s offer. And then she considered how little she would admire Karis had she accepted.

Chapter Five

Zanja’s clan brother, Ransel, had been dead for years, yet every day she missed him. They had been born in the same lodge within a month of each other, and as infants they had nursed at the same breasts and slept in the same cradle. Inseparable as children, they had remained scandalously close into adulthood, and the gossips were always examining Zanja’s shape, hoping to be the first to discover that she was concealing an incestuous pregnancy. The fire clan of Tarwein was mostly known for its skilled, artistic rug weavers. Only occasionally did the clan produce a person like Zanja whose elemental talent, and the confirmation of the owl god Salos’a, destined her to be a crosser of boundaries. But Ransel also had become a katrim,and served the raven god–Raven in his trickster aspect–for Ransel’s relentlessly lighthearted delight in the world had seemed inextinguishable. Nearly six years after the Sainnites killed Ransel, what Zanja remembered most vividly was his wide grin and his loud laugh–both rather shocking among a people of such emotional restraint.