Beramun found herself helping a band of village women bathe the children. Long lines of yelping youngsters wound down to the lake, where each child was scrubbed head to toe by mothers, aunts, and older sisters. Pumice removed dirt and sometimes a little skin, too.
Talked into the duty by Lyopi, Beramun discovered she enjoyed it. Her hands grew raw from washing, and she stayed wet all morning from wrestling with balky and rambunctious children. After so much fighting and cruelty, it was good to exhaust herself in such an ordinary, useful job.
When the last child was scrubbed clean, the tired women trudged ashore. Hulami the vintner sent skins of wine retaken from the raiders, and never was the drink better appreciated. Loud laughter echoed against the walls of Yala-tene, bringing curious villagers to the parapet to see the cause of so much merriment.
“There’s a happy sound,” said Jenla, watching from the wall.
“Happy but dangerous,” opined Tepa. He looked ten years younger since Jenla had returned alive.
“Dangerous? How?”
“There’s a hundred women down there, all made merry by Hulami’s good wine. I would sooner cavort with centaurs than try to cross that crowd!”
Jenla laughed. “You’ve learned a few things in your long life, haven’t you?” She left her old friend on the village wall and went down to join the women by the lake.
Preparations for the coming feast were well underway in the nomad camp. Three firepits were dug, and more wood was gathered for the bonfires. The raider prisoners who remained were set to digging the holes and gathering wood. They gave the nomads little trouble. The worst of Zannian’s horde were either dead or had escaped with Muwa. Karada, having no desire to shepherd a bunch of prisoners around the plains, wouldn’t let Bahco track them down. The sooner the ex-raiders were gone, she said, the better.
The fifty-odd men who remained in the captives’ pen chose Harak as their spokesman, as he seemed to have access to Karada and the Arkuden. They wanted their fate settled. Their pen was rife with rumors that they’d be put to the sword before the nomads left the valley. Harak couldn’t believe it himself, but he didn’t object when his fellow prisoners demanded he seek out Karada and speak to her about their plight. It was a good excuse for him to slip away from the feast preparations, too. No one challenged him. People had become accustomed to seeing him roaming the camp.
Laughter and singing drew Harak to the lake. The impromptu party was breaking up, and women streamed up the hill to village or camp, some weaving a bit as they went. Harak passed unchallenged through the flow of cheerful, red-faced women. He saw many he knew—Samtu, Lyopi, vintner Hulami, and the tough old woman called Jenla, whom Zannian had captured early in the battle. Karada was nowhere to be seen.
He was about give up his search and look instead for a place to stay out of sight until the toil at the firepits was done when a face caught his eye.
It was Beramun, walking slowly up the lakeshore, carrying a baby on her hip. She looked so content and easy with the child that a stranger might have thought it hers. Harak fell into step beside her.
“I’m looking for Karada. Have you seen her?”
Beramun shook her head.
“Whose baby?”
She hefted the year-old boy leaning his head on her shoulder and he gave her a sleepy smile. “This is Kimru, son of Udi and Tana.” The names plainly meant nothing to Harak, so she added in a quiet voice, “Udi and Tana are dead. Kimru is an orphan.”
“I’m sorry,” Harak found himself saying, for reasons he didn’t understand. He hadn’t killed anyone named Udi or Tana—at least, not that he knew.
“Udi’s father, Tepa the beekeeper, has him now. He’s an old man, though, and I fear the child will lose him before he becomes his own man.”
By the north baffle Beramun handed young Kimru to a village woman. She gave the boy’s downy head a final caress and watched until he and the woman disappeared behind the wall.
Sighing, she said, “I will miss him.”
Harak trailed after her. “You act as though you aren’t going to see him again.”
“I’m not.”
“Karada’s not leaving for another two days.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Beramun said flatly.
He caught her hand, stopping her. “But why? You have Karada’s favor. If you remain with her hand, you could he chief some day.”
Anguish bloomed in her dark eyes, but she shouted, “I don’t want to be chief of anything!”
People nearby glanced their way. Beramun pulled away and started walking faster.
Tall Harak, with his long, lean legs, easily caught up with her. “Where will you go? What will you do?” he asked.
“I’ll wander. It’s the life I was meant for.”
“What about a mate and children? You seem to like children—”
She whirled to face him. “Will you leave me be? I don’t want to answer your questions! I’m in this place because men like you murdered my entire family!” She tore at the neck of her doeskin shirt, exposing the green triangle high on her chest. “This is why I must go! The green dragon gave me this mark. It binds me to him!”
Harak frowned. “Sthenn’s dead. What hold could he possibly have over you now?”
“Just because a viper dies doesn’t mean its venom becomes water. Duranix says I’m tainted forever by Sthenn’s mark,” she said and backed away from him, retying the lacings of her shirt tight at her neck. “What did the green dragon intend for me? Will I end up like Nacris, crazed, eaten up with hate? How can I live among good people knowing I may grow evil in time?” With a violent shake of her head, she added, “No! Better to be a wanderer for the rest of my life. Alone!”
She ran. A bit stunned, Harak did not react for a moment. Then his thoughts sharpened, and his choice became clear. He ran after her.
Zigzagging through the rows of tents, Beramun ended up at Karada’s. She ducked inside, thinking he wouldn’t dare follow.
Mara was there, kneeling by the entry flaps, a whetstone in front of her. She was sharpening the bronze dagger she always kept in her shirt. When she spied Beramun, she recoiled like a guilty thief.
“Where’s Karada?” asked Beramun, breathing hard.
“Not here,” Mara replied. “What—?”
Harak barreled into the tent, nearly knocking Beramun off her feet.
For a man—a raider!—to enter Karada’s tent in such a way was unforgivable. Mara leaped to her feet, presenting the dagger point-first to the intruder. The newly sharpened tip gleamed like gold.
“Who do you think you are?” Mara shouted. “Get out! This is Karada’s tent!”
“Shut up, girl!” Harak snapped. Mara jabbed at him, but he stepped nimbly back, unharmed.
“Put that down! I’m not here to cause harm. I need to talk to Beramun.”
“Get out!” Mara repeated shrilly. “Karada will hear of this intrusion!”
Harak lashed out with his foot, kicking the weapon from her hand. The blade spun through the air, and he caught it neatly. Mara let out a short, horrified cry and ducked behind Beramun, then continued her furious denunciations.
“Leave,” Beramun said, interrupting Mara’s tirade. Arms crossed over her chest, Beramun glared at Harak.
He flipped the dagger, catching it carefully by the blade. He presented the pommel to Beramun.
“Hear me out and then I’ll go.”
Beramun took the dagger. Mara promptly tried to snatch it back, but Beramun thrust her aside. The girl tripped over a pile of furs and fell backward to the floor.
“Don’t listen to him!” Mara urged. When Beramun paid her no heed, Mara crawled away. She circled wide of Harak and, near the entry flaps, rose to her feet and dashed outside.
Harak said, “We don’t have much time before she brings Karada. Listen to me, Beramun. You don’t have to go away alone. I’ll go with you!”
The young woman was not impressed. “I know your kind,” she said bitterly. “I know what you want. You’re no different than Zannian!”