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From the crowd at Hekani’s back stepped Jenla, the planter. “I came with Hekani to answer that question, Karada.”

The nomad chieftain nodded at the formidable old woman, and Jenla said, “As near as I can tell, I’ve seen fifty-six summers. I know I wouldn’t have lived so long, had it not been for the Arkuden and his village. Now I’m too old to wander, and Yala-tene will be my home until I die.

“Many old people in the village feel as I do. We’ll stay in the valley, dragon or no dragon, Arkuden or no Arkuden. We have our gardens, our orchard, and our thick stone walls.”

Hekani spoke again. “For us”—he gestured to the crowd behind him—“that’s not enough. We want a leader of power and spirit. The Arkuden was strong in wisdom and kindness, but we’ve learned the hard way that’s not enough. Even having a dragon as our protector didn’t prevent the raiders from attacking us. The way to be free is to be strong. We want to follow you, Karada.”

She took a long time before replying, her eyes sweeping over them. Finally she spoke loud enough for all to hear, “If you think life will be better with me on the plain, you’re fools. Stay here. Grow your gardens and live inside your stone walls. That’s the best choice for you.”

Amid mutters from the crowd, she called to Pakito and Bahco, and the three of them rode off. A short distance away, they stopped and looked back. “They’re not leaving,” Bahco reported.

The villagers milled about where Karada had left them, watching them from a small hill west of the nomads’ camp.

Karada didn’t turn around, but said, “Let’s see what they’re made of. If they can keep up with us, I’ll take them in.”

“They’re not nomads,” Bahco objected.

“Neither were you when we met. You crossed the sea in a basket of logs, seeking a new land. Was I wrong to take you in when you asked to join Karada’s band?”

He grinned. “No. And we call those baskets of logs ‘ships,’ chief.”

She waved a hand, dismissing Bahco’s ships, then twisted right and left on her horse, saying, “Anyone seen our highborn hostage this morning?”

“Balif and his soldiers were waiting for us at sunrise,” Pakito said. “I told them to march with the raider-men. Might as well keep all our troubles in one pouch, eh?”

Karada sighed. “As if those were our only troubles! Very well, Pakito, lead the band into Bearclaw Gap. Bahco, hold back a hundred riders, and let the raiders and elves enter the pass ahead of you. You follow them through till we reach open ground again.” The two men nodded, and she sent for Targun.

The old nomad rode up to Karada on his dappled mare, the same horse he’d ridden out of the Valley of the Falls thirteen years earlier. Karada gave him charge of the travois and those folk on foot. He asked about the young people from Yala-tene still milling about on the hill.

“Ignore them,” she said. “If they can keep up with us, we might take them in.”

She gave more orders, and the nomad band sorted itself accordingly. Pakito led the foremost riders into Bearclaw Gap. As they rode away, Beramun, mounted now, cantered up to her informally adopted mother and was told to stay close to “learn how to lead a band.”

Beramun put her horse alongside Karada’s. Pakito’s nomads rode past, waving and calling their chiefs name. She did not return their salutes but watched impassively as they passed.

“Don’t you answer their hails?” Beramun asked in a low voice.

“Only in battle. All other times I assume a lofty air. It gives them confidence.” At Beramun’s confused expression, Karada smiled ever so faintly. “A stern face helps them believe I’m thinking deep, wise thoughts on their behalf.”

Beramun had a lot yet to learn about being chief. She laughed long and loud at Karada’s admission, and all the riders passing gawked at her in surprise.

The elves shouldered their packs and marched out. At their head, Balif set the pace.

“I’m glad to see the end of this valley,” Farolenu said, walking at his lord’s side. “Too much suffering and sorrow happened here.”

Balif made no comment, and they trudged in silence a while. Then the elf lord said, “What will you do first when we get home, Faro?”

“Bathe,” said the bronzesmith. “In heated water. And love my wife.”

“In that order?”

“Arikina, my wife, will insist on that order. What will you do, my lord?”

“I shall dine on nothing but fruit for thirty days—washed down with the rarest nectar in Silvanost. The coarse food these humans eat has aged me a century.”

Farolenu looked forward and back at the lines of humans on foot and horseback. “So many of them,” he remarked. “For short-lived creatures, they breed quickly!”

“Too quickly. Our sovereign and his counselors must understand that.” Balif spotted the mounted figures of Karada and the black-haired girl she’d taken as her daughter. “Many things need to be explained to the Speaker. Many things..

The elves tramped by the nomad chief. At Balif’s command, they fell into matched step, arms and feet swinging in unison.

“Face the honor!” Balif cried. All the elves’ heads turned toward Karada, rendering her a salute usually reserved for the highest Silvanesti. If the nomad chief was surprised, she didn’t show it, staring ahead impassively with a lofty air.

At the tail of the long column, winding its way across the valley floor to Bearclaw Gap, Targun waited with the unmounted nomads. Most of them were children who rode the travois with the baggage. As he wiled away the time until it came his moment to move, Targun glanced at the crowd of villagers still clustered and waiting on the hill a hundred paces away.

Targun was reminded of how he and his mate had come to Karada’s band after the death of their adult son. They’d been as forlorn and anxious as those villagers. His mate was now long dead, but Targun felt moved to do something he rarely did—act without Karada’s approval. He picked a boy from the idle nomad children and sent him to the leader of the villagers with a message: Karada says if you keep pace with us, you’re in.

He could tell when the message was delivered. A few villagers jumped to their feet. The motion spread throughout the crowd until everyone was standing. A cheer went up. Targun pulled the brim of his woven straw hat down and hid a satisfied smile in his gray beard.

Thus did Karada’s band depart the Valley of the Falls. Once out of the mountains, she kept her word and released Balif. The elf lord gave her back the bronze sword she’d returned to him before the battle with the ogres and raiders. It was the same weapon he’d used against Zannian. Farolenu had restored the battered blade to shining perfection. Karada accepted the sword without emotion.

“Farewell,” Balif said. “Until we meet again, peace to you, as your people say.”

“What makes you think we’ll meet again?” she asked.

“Our lives are entwined. Haven’t you noticed?”

Karada colored, her tan face growing pink.

“So we will meet in battle?” she asked with affected brusqueness.

“I hope not. I’d hate to cross swords with a comrade.”

He did not salute, but waved breezily as he led his small band away. Karada was silent until Beramun teased, “You’ve made a friend, it seems.”

“He’s not a friend,” Karada replied stiffly. “Just a very good enemy.”

Not long after Balif and the elves departed, Karada relented and let the two hundred men, women, and children from Yala-tene join her band. As Hekani said, the villagers brought with them much learning and many new skills. In one generation, bronze became common, not only for blades and arrowheads but even for homely tools and personal decoration. Raising crops in temporary gardens brought more food to the nomads, and their numbers waxed larger.