Amero walked through the camp. Arriving at last at her tent, he found Karada. She was seated by the fire and draped in her white wolfs robe. Their blind brother sat a few steps away, a trencher of meat before him. Amero smiled. Karada must have brought him the food.
“Nianki,” he said. She didn’t look up, but Zannian tilted his head and turned sightless eyes toward his elder brother.
“Is it done?” she asked, poking the low flames with a stick.
“It is. I am mated at last.”
“Good for you,” said Zannian. “Is Beramun with you? heard she agreed to see me.”
“I’m alone.”
Amero crossed the large tent and sat down at the hearth across from his sister. She dropped her stick into the flames.
“I wish you’d been there,” he said. “The whole valley turned out to see us. As the oldest creature in the valley, Duranix played the elder’s part.”
“We’ll be gone by midday tomorrow,” Karada said abruptly. “I wanted to be out before then, but Bearclaw Gap is too narrow to allow the band to ride out more than two abreast.”
“There’s no hurry, you know. Stay longer if you want.”
“No, it’s time to go. I’ve stayed long enough, and I can’t bear to see you—” She cut herself off, jaw muscles jumping as she clenched her teeth.
“You both sound strange,” Zannian said, yawning. “What’s wrong? You’re talking like a jilted lover, Karada.”
“Shut up,” she told him.
“Hmph,” Zannian said, yawned widely, and pushed his trencher aside. He curled up on a bearskin with his back to them and soon was snoring.
“I thought he’d never sleep,” she grumbled. “I put herbs in his wine—the same ones I used to soothe Beramun.”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll make a gardener of him yet.”
She looked him in the face for the first time. “Don’t be a complete fool, will you, Amero? Brother or not, he’s a savage, bloody killer and will be again if he gets the chance.”
“People change.”
“No, they don’t. Have you forgotten so soon what he tried to do to your village?”
Now it was Amero’s turn to look away. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Besides, Lyopi won’t let me do anything stupid.”
Mentioning his new mate was a mistake. Nianki brought her fist down on a hearthstone, splitting her knuckles. Amero rose, expressing concern.
“Stop!” she said, holding up her bleeding hand. “Pain helps sometimes. I found that out long ago. Don’t try to comfort me.”
Amero sat down with a thump. Her calm, flat statement—pain helps sometimes—sent a chill down his back.
“I only want to be a good brother,” he said at last.
“You are good. Most brothers wouldn’t have anything to do with a tormented, unnatural sister like me. But you’re always kind.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Sometimes that just makes it harder. Your kindness can be as bitter as Zannian’s hatred.”
The tent was quiet, save for the crack and pop of the fire. Into the awkward silence, Amero said, “What if I asked Balif for help? An elf used spirit power to inflict this curse on you. Perhaps another elf can cure you. I know he’ll help if he can. He and I have become friends.”
Nianki lowered her hands and gazed wonderingly at Amero. She laughed, a short, harsh bark of sound.
“Merciful spirits! He’s not your friend! He’s an honorable enemy, no more. Besides, I don’t want all of Silvanost to know my problems.”
“They may already. Vedvedsica’s in disgrace, Balif says. His past doings are a public scandal. If there’s a chance Balif could help—”
“Enough! I don’t want to talk about it any more! I will be fine.” With effort she added in a calmer tone, “Go home, Amero. I’m sure your new mate wonders where you are.”
He circled the hearth, bent down, and took her under the arms, dragging her to her feet. Nianki pulled out of his grip easily, though she looked a bit flushed.
“Farewell, sister. I suppose I won’t see you tomorrow.”
“No. I’ll send Zannian to you.”
“I’ll take care of him.”
She nodded. He clenched his empty hands into fists, resisting the urge to embrace her.
“Peace to you, Nianki, for all your life,” he said and left the tent. He didn’t hear her murmured response.
“Peace to you, Arkuden. Peace forever.”
The feast had broken up by the time Amero left his sister. Small bands of nomads and villagers carried on earnestly, but the majority had gone to bed. The great bonfires were heaps of ashes now, with a few bright embers winking through. Heat shimmered above the firepits, blurring the cold stars. Soli was high, gathering in the offering of heat, saving it for the next sweltering summer day.
Amero walked faster. He felt very guilty for having left Lyopi so long, on this night of all nights. Oh, well, he could spend the next decade or two making it up to her. The thought made him grin as he climbed the mound of rubble outside the north baffle.
Compared to the open valley, the streets of Yala-tene were dim and close. By day the stone houses soaked up heat from the sun and remained warm all night. In the winter this was a blessing, but in summer it was close to intolerable. Many villagers abandoned their houses in the warmest weather and slept outside. Some, like Hekani, preferred to camp outside the walls most nights, so long as no rain was falling.
The route Amero followed back to his and Lyopi’s house was deserted. He saw no one on the way, met no families sleeping on the cooler dirt path. By Soli’s light he could see the crossing paths ahead. To the right was the lane leading home. Sweating from the sultry night and his brisk pace, Amero decided to detour long enough to get a dipper of cool water from the cistern at the Offertory.
As he crossed the lane, he heard the soft scrape of leather on stone. He glanced around and saw nothing. The shadows were too deep.
No need to be so jumpy, he chided himself. There were no Jade Men left, seeking his blood.
The outer walls of the Offertory shone in the moonlight. Lutar was long set, so the pure white light of Soli was bright on the white stones. The upper courses of the wall had been mined away during the siege, but enough was left to shine like a beacon in the night. Amero went, inside to the cistern. The Sensarku’s drinking gourd was still hanging on its peg. He stirred the water, then filled the dipper.
Clink. Metal on stone.
“Hello?” he called. “Is someone there?”
No answer. He drank the water and returned the gourd to its place.
“Can’t sleep?” he said, conversing with his unseen guest. “I can’t blame you. It’s too hot in the village. Water’s good, though. Help yourself.”
He turned to go. As he passed through the gap in the Offertory walls, he heard the rapid patter of feet coming at him. Puzzled, he faced the oncoming sound.
Out of the darkness hurtled a slender figure, wrapped in a black ox hide cape. He got a fleeting impression of a pale face wreathed in curly auburn hair. The next thing Amero knew, a span of sharp bronze penetrated his buckskin shirt, then the flesh below his left ribs.
Astonished, he grasped the two hands holding the dagger’s handle and forced them back. The blade twisted as it was pulled out. Blood sluiced from the wound, pouring down his leg and over his feet.
“Die, traitor!” said a high, quavering voice.
Duranix devoured six full-grown elk before midnight and then settled down to sleep off his prodigious meal. His heavy, dreamless rest ended suddenly when he felt a sharp pain in his lower left side. The sensation was so strong and so real that he felt along his scaly flank, expecting to find a fresh wound. There was none.
His long neck snapped around, and he stared at the intervening mountains. Something was wrong—deadly wrong.
“Amero,” he said, and launched himself skyward.