“Greetings, Lady. My humble name is Yuen Sou Yuet, courtesy name Yuan Yi Feng.”

The woman was tall, taller even than the necromancer, such that she had to stoop a little to leave the door of her own hut. She raised her head slowly and gently. Her large, dark eyes had no whites, but she blinked soft and slow as she looked from the monk to the necromancer and back again. Shaking back her long, wild mane of dark brown hair, she approached, leaning in close to look at the monk, her hands always held close to her sternum, as if she rarely used them. Sou Yuet almost felt like she was some kind of wild animal, ears flickering with curiosity.

“Yuen Sou Yuet,” she said, in a husky, lilting voice that reverberated in the monk's skull, “who is known as Yuan Yi Feng... I am Rīganī.”

“Lady Rīganī... Excuse me, but do I smell unpleasant?” For the lady's nostrils flared as she sniffed and sniffed. “I suppose other than our swim in the ocean just now, I haven't really washed properly for a while...”

She laughed, a faint whickering sound. “You smell of moonlight on grass, child, of ferns in the mountains, of the breeze across a field of tormán.”

“Which plant is that?” Sou Yuet asked curiously, their notebook suddenly in their hands.

“A herbalist?” Rīganī nodded approvingly. “Good. Very good. Let me teach you, child.”

She turned, leading them into the hut. As she moved, her long legs flashed from between the folds of her dress, revealing distinctive purple stretch marks across her thighs, like a tiger, Sou Yuet thought.

“Not a tiger.” Rīganī shook her head. “Call me Mam.”

“Y-Yes? Is that...?”

“Ye're all very thin. Please come inside and have some food. I have plenty.”

“Um... Why don't I make something for us, Mam?”

“Ye've only just arrived though, child. Let yer mam fix ye something.”

“Isn't it better if I cook for ye, though? Do something nice for me old Mam?”

“Well, if ye're sure...”

Before his mother could change her mind, the necromancer hurried over to the kitchen area and began chopping root vegetables.

Sou Yuet, in the meantime, was examining all of the hanging herbs and piles of leaves around the hut. “Lady Rīganī, what are all of these?”

The interior of the hut was large, dark and warm from the low fire burning in a hearth. Various objects lined the walls, or lay haphazardly on shelves or tables. Rīganī seemed exceedingly pleased to have such an attentive student, although she instructed the monk to called her 'Mam' again, before she led Sou Yuet around the hut, pointing out herbs one by one with nods of her head, explaining their properties and uses.

“That stick there, that's blackthorn. And that one, hazel. Both good for protection against nasty things. And those there are pine needles. Burn them to clear the head, or make a tea when ye're feeling off. And those juniper berries make a lovely alcohol that'll knock out a demon...”

At last, she fumbled a dark wooden object from the folds of her bosom, that had a leather cord tying it around her neck. She cradled it proudly. “Me child has always been good with their hands.”

“Did you make this, Pang Yau?”

It was a simple little whistle, soft and dark with years of loving handling by Rīganī. “This was made with the heartwood of a rowan, Caorthann.” She clasped it to her chest, closing her eyes. “I have always dearly loved Caorthann.”

Sou Yuet produced the clarinn buirthe from their sleeve.

“Ye were in a hurry making this one, weren't ye, dear?” Rīganī said, taking the bullroarer and turning it over in her hands.

“I'll make a better one,” the necromancer snapped, flushing a little pink as he stirred a pot.

“No, no,” Rīganī said smilingly. “It's beautiful. I can feel the love of a sweet child for her mother. There is warmth and sweet grass here. What manner of creature was she? I can see her... but I do not know.”

“She was a kei-leon foal,” Sou Yuet said. “They're gentle, and it's great luck to see one, but...”

“I see. Did ye find her mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, that's alright. Hold onto this carefully.”

Sou Yuet smiled and tucked the clarinn buirthe back into their sleeve. “The term you used before... 'heartwood'? I don't think I've ever heard it before.”

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“No?” Rīganī went to a stack of firewood by the hearth and lifted a large log easily. Her hands, which hard so far floated by her chest meekly, proved themselves to be very strong. “See here, how the wood changes colour in the centre? This is the heartwood, croí-adhmad. It no longer grows, but it sits in the centre of the wood and gives the tree its strength.”

“We don't have such a term in our language,” Sou Yuet said, almost wistfully. “The wooden centres we use for medicine or products all have their own names, depending on the tree.”

“And that is how yer lands work. Here, where we came from the woods, and will return to the woods, it is understandable we would have such a word. Even in me earliest memories, when the language was different from now, this name existed.”

“Íriu has also had changes to its language?” Sou Yuet asked.

The necromancer grunted.

“What's wrong?”

Rīganī laughed. “Once, words were not only male and female – Did me child tell ye about this? - Yes, the language of this place now reduces all words to male or female, but in the past, there were words that had no need for such categories. They simply were. This land... has changed.”

“What was it originally, then?” Sou Yuet asked with surprising eagerness. “The word for 'heartwood', I mean.”

“'Wood' was still masculine,” Rīganī admitted, bending to stoke the fire. “Admat, it was. Not only did it mean 'wood', but also 'a poem'. But 'heart' had no gender, as it should be. Cride, it was called.”

“K... Ke... lee... dey?”

“Tongue between yer teeth, dear. Somewhere between a 'd' and a 'th' sound. And that's a 'r' sound, rolling your tongue.”

Sou Yuet repeated the sounds to themselves under their breath.

“What're ye trying so hard for? There's no need.” The necromancer waved the ladle around. “Food's ready. Come and eat.”

Rīganī ate several bowls of vegetable stew with great pleasure. Scraping her fifth bowl clean, she enquired casually, “So when will ye be having children?”

The necromancer choked. Sou Yuet stared, slack-jawed, soup falling back into their bowl. Collecting himself, the necromancer growled, “Not happening!”

His mother looked mildly confused. “Why?”

“Why? Ye know how me body is-”

“Then what about you, little Yuet?”

Sou Yuet continued to drip soup.

“Yuet might not be able to! Don't bring them into this!”

“Might not be able to?” Rīganī blinked. “My child... Our people have children as easily as breathing. My cousin Credne gave birth to his first child a few years back. My younger sister and her wife decided to both carry one of their children each. They're due in a couple of weeks. I once stamped my feet on the Mullach and all the barren humans conceived. There is no reason ye cannot have children.”

Sou Yuet had run out of soup.

“Unless, of course, ye don't want to,” Rīganī added. She gestured with her head at a large stone jar on one of the higgledy-piggledy shelves. “Then make sure ye brew and drink a cup of that every day for a week.”

“Grand...” The necromancer offered Sou Yuet a cloth to wipe up the spilled stew.

“So.” Rīganī leaned back in her chair, her hands folded over her breast. “Will ye tell me what's yer happenings over the last year? I'd like to hear it from the two of ye, rather than a certain nosy, noisy bird.”

They filled her in on their journey, Sou Yuet doing most of the talking. The necromancer seemed reluctant to say much, avoiding speaking of his first journey to Yuan Mei with the Aiteann mages. Rīganī's large dark eyes filled with tears throughout, but she did not interrupt. When they finished, they all sat in silence for some moments, interrupted only by the sound of Sunny gnawing happily on a bone.

“Thank ye for coming to see me,” Rīganī said. She stood and carefully wiped her eyes on a cloth. “Stay here a while. Ye'll be safe in here. And I... Methinks I have something I need to do.”

“Do you need us to come with you?” Sou Yuet asked, clearing the bowls.

“It would not be safe, little Yuet. Just rest. I'll be back in a few days.”

She fetched a brown cloak from behind the door, hugged Sou Yuet and the necromancer, and stepped outside. In the twinkling of an eye, she had disappeared over the horizon, a blur of brown and stripes.

Sou Yuet stared through the door after her. The monk had not had a good look at the land in the daylight, and, having been in winter for so long, was now was fascinated by the rolling, lush green hills and stands of verdant trees.

“Why don't ye go look around?” the necromancer suggested, yawning. “I'm going to eat some more. Ye still hungry, Sunny?”

Sou Yuet needed no more encouragement. They bounded out into the countryside, immediately becoming absorbed in the wildflowers – brilliant blue cornflowers, yellow catsear, red poppies and purple scabious. There was a cold, clear creek nearby, and the monk took the opportunity to have a refreshing bath in the chilly water. It was only as the sun was setting that they realised they had been outdoors all day, and hurried back to the hut.

The necromancer was sitting on the doorstep when they returned. He held out a flat object to Sou Yuet. “Here. Ye seemed to like it, so...”

The new clarinn buirthe was made of dark rowan heartwood, a flat piece with triangular notches cut into the edges. Like Rīganī's whistle, it had a leather string.

“I think I preferred the string on the first one you made me.”

“Me hair? Don't be weird.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

Without another word, the necromancer drew a knife from his belt, and cut a lock of hair. He sat down next to Sunny, removed the leather strap from the wooden bullroarer and began to weave a new one with his long, black hair. It was slightly damp, Sou Yuet noticed. He must have gone to bathe in the creek too.

Sou Yuet leaned against his back, drowsing like Sunny in the weak sunlight of the Spring sunset. The monk woke from the doze as the necromancer looped the clarinn buirthe around their neck.

“Sorry, did I wake ye?”

“That's alright,” Sou Yuet said dreamily, turning the wood in their hands. “You've given me a poem of your heart.”

“Ye what? Are ye still asleep?”

Sou Yuet kissed him. “No. Thank you.”

The necromancer gently rubbed the monk's cheek with his thumb. “Will ye... come inside with me?”

Leaving Sunny napping outside, they went back into the hut. Sou Yuet stood dissolutely in the middle of the room.

“Ye alright? Ye don't-”

“I... don't know what to do. What should I do?”

“Whatever ye want. Like ye usually do,” the necromancer said. He gently pulled the monk down onto the pile of bed furs in one corner.

Sou Yuet hesitantly kissed the necromancer's face repeatedly until he laughed. Rolling on top, he gently pulled open the monk's inner robes, and sighed deeply at the sight.

“Is... I'm sorry.”

“Eh?”

“Are... Are you disappointed?” Sou Yuet was trembling very slightly, from cold, or anxiety perhaps. “That this is.. what I am?”

They flinched in surprise as the necromancer's palm tenderly pressed against their chest, over their nervously beating heart.

“Ye dumb monk.” He grinned, pulling off his own clothes. “I've been wanting to get yer like this for a long time. I've got ye where I want ye now. Why would I be disappointed?”