The next morning, I wake before dawn and lie in the darkness, listening to Mjera’s quiet breathing at my shoulder. It should be a peaceful moment, but my stomach twists in restless knots, and after a few minutes I get up and stir the coals before adding more wood to the flames.

“Ynria?”

I look over my shoulder at Mjera, who lifts her head and blinks blearily at me.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” I whisper, brushing bark off my hands.

She rubs her eyes and stifles a yawn. “Is it time?”

It is for me. It will be a while before her family wakes, but I can’t stand the thought of waiting any longer. “I’m going to go,” I say in a low voice. “Tell your mother I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye.”

“She won’t mind,” she says. “I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

I leave the comfortable glow of the fire and pad across the room to pull on my boots and jacket. As silently as possible, I open the door and ease out into the cold, filling my lungs with the clear, cold air. I pause, taking in the stillness of the morning. This is all I wished for two days ago, when Bronhold came to walk me to town. It feels like a lifetime ago now.

Wrapped in gray light and pre-dawn chill, I hurry across the field to the meeting place Mjera and I set during our planning in the barn. Her family’s lands run parallel to the road leading into Vallegat, but I follow the thin, iced-over creek to avoid anyone making their way to town. Before long, the silhouette of the tiny hut appears against the snow, and I jog the rest of the way to burn some of my restless energy. I use the shovel leaning against the wall to dig away the snow blocking the door, trying to take my time so I don’t end up with nothing to do while I wait. The work warms me, and by the time I finish, I feel a little more settled.

“Fire,” I say, pushing a burst of energy into the lantern hanging inside the hut. Pale light filters through the room, illuminating the bare bunk and small table taking up most of the space. The building has stood empty for more than a year, unused since Mjera’s father died. Before that, it served as a place to sleep while his herd was at pasture in the summer. It’s a snug little hut, built of fieldstone and packed tight with turf for insulation, but there’s no place to start a fire.

That’s fine—I won’t be here long.

I leave the door open to let in more of the light and drop my bag on the table, digging out a pair of Aze’s old trousers and one of the two wool shirts I took from his trunk. He outgrew them ages ago, and I’ve spent the last several months telling him he should give them to Arun. Bless his procrastination.

I don the trousers, rolling up the cuffs to fit my shorter legs, then pull my dress over my head and yank on the shirt. Thank Ieldran this is happening in the winter, when no one will question baggy clothes and multiple layers. My chest is small enough that I shouldn’t have to worry about binding it to stay concealed, but having a coat to hide under makes me feel even better.

I’m stuffing the extra fabric at the end of each leg into my boots when Mjera arrives. “Sorry!” she pants, heaving her own bag onto the table. “Mama made me eat before I could get away. I brought some for you, though.”

She holds out a chunk of oat bread, which I am far too nervous to eat. “Did everything go well?” I ask.

“I told them the tenant didn’t want anyone as young as Arun,” Mjera says. “Mama was too grateful to question it. She also agreed to let Tomsu help out at your house while Aze is gone.”

“And you’re sure Arun will be able to handle your herd on his own?” I ask.

She nods. “He won’t have to do it long. Sovlin will help him once we’re married.”

“Then everything is settled,” I say, letting out a relieved breath.

“Almost everything.” Mjera hands me a waterskin and a cup, and I pour out the dark liquid while she rolls my discarded dress into a ball and stuffs it into her bag. Clumps of the oak galls, walnut shells, and ground crowroot I gave her last night float to the top of the cup, and I scoop them out and toss them through the doorway into the snow.

“Sit down,” Mjera says, taking my sewing kit from my bag and withdrawing a pair of scissors. I obey wordlessly, picking at the bread while she takes my left braid and lays it between the blades of the scissors.

Snip.

The hair comes away in her hand, and she sets it on the table and moves on to the next. After a few minutes, she has both braids tied off and lying between our bags, with the rest of my hair cut short around my ears. “Turn and look at me,” she says, standing back to admire her work.

I roll my shoulders away from my neck and marvel at how light I feel. “Well?”

“Your face looks sharper with short hair,” she muses. “You make a handsome boy. Now let’s do something about that color.”

She dips a rag into the dye and squeezes it into the roots of my hair. I’ve never colored my hair, but we dyed Mjera’s a few years ago when she first developed an interest in Sovlin. Her father had been furious, but Sariruuse had only laughed and said that sometimes men needed help to notice the obvious.

“Mjera is a beauty,” she’d said. “But she isn’t the only beauty. A dark flower stands out in a field of snow.”

When she finishes, Mjera wipes her hands on another rag and pulls a mirror from her bag. “What do you think?”

I study my reflection, turning my face to get a better view of Mjera’s handiwork. Instead of the exotic ash gray Mjera boasted after our efforts to gain Sovlin’s attention, I end up with a muddy brownish black. It’s darker than we intended—my white hair takes the dye easier than hers did—but there’s enough Ielic blood in Vallegat to excuse the color. It should last a couple of weeks, if I’m lucky, and longer if I can find the time to reapply the dye. She left the hair near my face long enough to hang into my eyes, but the rest is only half an inch long at the most. Add a hood and some luck, and I might be able to pull this off after all.

The fully risen sun glares across the mirror—I’m running out of time. “It’s perfect,” I say, pouring the rest of the dye back into the waterskin. “I’ll send you word as soon as I can. You have my letters?”

“They’re at home,” she says. “I’ll deliver Edlan’s this afternoon, and I’ll bring the other to your parents tonight.”

I nod and tie off my pack, looking around the hut for anything I might be forgetting. “Then… I think I’m ready.”

Mjera throws her arms around me. “Be careful,” she says, her voice splintering into indigo shards of grief and worry. She pulls back and brushes her stained fingers over her eyes, then dabs her sleeve at my own. “None of that,” she sniffs. “Soldiers don’t cry.”

My chest aches as she backs away, but I try to summon a smile. “I’ll be back,” I say. I reach for my bag, but she stops me with a hand to my arm and unclasps her cloak.

“Here,” she says, holding it out to me. “This was my father’s. It’s got a hood, and it’s warm—and it might help you blend in a little more.”

I stare at it. “Oh, Mjera… I can’t.”

“Go on,” she says, flashing me a trembling smile. “If you’re going to use his name, you might as well have something to go with it.”

When I hesitate, she wraps it around my shoulders and lifts the hood over my wet hair. “Now you’re ready,” she says. Then she hands me my bag and steps out of the way, and I take a shaky breath to steady my nerves before plunging into the snow.

***

Despite my worries, I arrive in the main square of the village in plenty of time. Men and boys cluster at the steps of the Kynstett, lined up before Tenant Gryfalkr and a man with a yellow mustache, who holds a book and a quill in his gloved hands. When the men of the village pause before them, the mustached man scratches something in his book and nods until Tenant Gryfalkr points the villager toward the soldiers waiting beyond.

I search the crowd for Aze, but don’t see him. I’d promised to say goodbye in town, and I hope he isn’t too disappointed that I won’t be showing myself until later. Keeping my hood pulled low over my eyes, I move to stand in line behind Tenn the baker and glance at the other men from under my hair. It’s cold enough that I’m not the only one wearing a hood, but I don’t want to act too suspiciously.

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The line moves quickly. Before long I find myself only two men away from Tenant Gryfalkr and the mustache, and I fold my arms to keep from fidgeting.

“Name,” the mustache says in a pinched voice.

The villager before me ducks his head in a friendly way. “Alc Hardysson,” he says. The carpenter’s son.

“Haaaaaaardysson,” the mustache repeats, making a note in his book. He waves dismissively and Tenant Gryfalkr points to the soldiers.

“Wait over there,” he says.

Alc goes, and then it’s Tenn’s turn. The three of them repeat the exchange while I focus on my breathing, clearing my throat gently. Why hadn’t I thought to practice my voice on my way into town?

“Next,” the mustache says, and I move forward. He doesn’t look up from his paper. “Name?”

“Brennr Hirdinn,” I force out, my voice low and gravelly.

The mustache checks his book, and I hold my breath while he scans the page. I keep my eyes down, waiting for Tenant Gryfalkr to recognize some detail I couldn’t change. Too short, my heartbeat thumps. Too skinny. You’ll never fool them.

But then the mustache nods and makes his note, and Tenant Gryfalkr tells me to wait with the other soldiers. I hurry away without looking up, clutching Mjera’s father’s cloak around my shoulders.

And then there is nothing to do but wait. There are another two dozen men to go through and I turn my head each time one of them looks my way. Once the rest of the villagers have filed through the line, Tenant Gryfalkr moves into the crowd and I lose sight of him. I stand awkwardly, pulsing with nervous energy, trying to force slow, calming breaths through my lungs.

“Move out!” the tenant calls, and the men begin walking.

That’s it? No speech, no announcement, nothing to mark the biggest event in our lives? I look out beyond the gathered villagers into the faces of the outer crowd, pressing forward as the new soldiers follow the men from Norwikk. The faces of wives, daughters, and sisters stare back, anguished as they strive to keep sight of their loved ones. Women who were told they can do nothing but wait. That this is the way of the world, and there is nothing they can do to change it.

But if Ieldran wanted women to be silent onlookers in our own lives, why did he give us so many talents of our own? Why make me a Wordweaver? Why give me this desire to be a healer? These are skills I can use to help people, and I cannot believe he only wants men to use the gifts he gives them.

The Pathkeeper blesses those who choose their own way, and I have chosen mine.

I walk in a gap between a group of men I recognize but can’t name, careful to keep my hood pulled low. They pay me no mind, engrossed in their own conversations. For a while, I listen to their words and let the crowd sweep me on, drifting farther and farther from Vallegat. When the last view of the Kynstett’s spire fades beyond the treetops, I begin my search for Aze.

I move carefully, looking for his dark hair among the pale heads. Plenty of other men are shuffling through the throng as well, moving to walk beside friends or relatives, so no one questions my cautious push through the ranks.

At last I recognize Aze beside his friend Kjerrin, and I move until I am directly behind them and tug on Aze’s sleeve. He looks over his shoulder at me, and I watch his eyes narrow and then widen as he goes from confused to astonished. “Yn—” he starts, but I jerk on his arm to cut him off.

“What’s wrong?” Kjerrin asks.

Aze stares at me, his mouth hanging open. “Uh...” he manages finally. “I’ll be right back.”

I drag Aze away, back until we’ve reached the end of the line, letting the last row of men move ahead of us.

“Surprise,” I say.

Aze doesn’t look amused. “What are you doing here?”

I tip my hood back so I can see him better. “Taking Arun’s place.”

“What do you mean? How can you take his place?”

“I told them I was Brennr Hirdinn, and they believed me.”

Aze gapes at me. “You can’t be here. Go back before someone sees you!”

“And what do you think will happen if I do that?” I ask. “Do you think they’ll just let Arun stay home because he missed the first conscription? Do you think they wouldn’t punish him? Or me?”

Aze lets out a frustrated sigh, but there’s enough resignation in it to give me hope.

“So you aren’t happy to see me?” I press.

“Sure,” Aze grumbles. “Assuming you don’t get yourself killed for impersonating a soldier, and me for knowing about it.”

“I’m not impersonating a soldier,” I argue. “Just a shepherd. They never actually said a woman couldn’t join.”

“Women can’t fight in the army!”

“Says who?”

Aze sputters and gestures helplessly. “History?”

“Aze,” I say, willing him to understand. “What else was I supposed to do? Move in with Bronhold’s mother? Wait for him to come back and marry me against my will? It’s better this way. Now Arun doesn’t have to fight, and I can actually use the things Edlan taught me. I can help people.”

“And if you get caught?” he says.

“I won’t get caught.”

Aze shakes his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t agree with this,” he mutters. Before I can answer, he rolls his eyes and nudges my shoulder with his. “Come on, let’s get back up to Kjerrin. He shouldn’t recognize you. I barely do.”

I follow him back to his friend, and Aze feeds him a story about me being a distant cousin from Norwikk. Kjerrin accepts the lie and tries to ask me a few questions, but after my third grunted answer he gives up and focuses his attention on Aze. Most of what they say is echoed by those around us: speculations about what the fort will look like, what our training will entail, and who will be the better swordsman.

“How long do you think it will be before we’re sent into battle?” Kjerrin asks excitedly.

“Weeks,” Aze answers. “Most of us don’t know anything about fighting. It’ll take at least that long to train us.”

Not to mention there’s no battle to fight yet. Tenant Gryfalkr said they needed soldiers for the upcoming war, not that there was one happening already. If that’s the case, it could be months or even years before we see action, which will give me time to prove myself as a healer.

As the sun climbs overhead, a horn blows from the front of the line and a hush falls over our group. Nothing else happens for about ten minutes, but then a soldier pushes toward us from ahead with a small cart filled with crates and bags. “Rations,” he calls. “One ration per man.”

“Lunch,” explains a man from Norwikk. “We eat at midday and in the evening. Don’t count on breakfast unless you brought some of your own.”

I glance at Aze. We don’t normally eat a midday meal, though some bring hard bread or nuts with them to eat throughout the day. I can’t imagine waiting until midday for my first meal of the day.

But Aze lifts his eyebrows at my frown. “This is what you wanted, right? Think you can handle skipping breakfast?”

I clear my expression and tip my chin up. “Of course. I only hope you can keep up with me.”

I pinch at the thick muscle on Aze’s arm, and he snorts and shoves me away.

Nearly half an hour passes before we get our share, and its contents make a disappointing meal: one chunk of dried meat, one slice of bread, and a cut of cheese to round it off. Most of the men stack the ingredients together to eat, but I eat mine slowly, savoring each bite. Who knows what they’ll serve us for supper?

We eat while we walk, having received no commands to stop. There are no breaks called, either, except the short respites when we slip into the forest to relieve ourselves. Aze keeps watch while I find some bushes far enough from the main group, but my heart pounds the entire time and continues long after we return to the road. All around us, the mountainous landscape changes, tall crags and pines fading to scattered oaks, ash, and white willow. I even spot a few clumps of thyme nestled among the brush, which I pick carefully and add to my bag.

By the time the sun sinks toward the horizon, I hate my decision to join the men. The strap of my bag digs into my shoulder no matter how often I reposition it, and my feet and legs ache at the unfamiliar exercise. Even the excited chatter among the boys has quieted.

The soldiers herd us toward the side of the road, where they break us into groups and assign us chores. My group, which includes Aze, Kjerrin, five other villagers, and three soldiers, gathers wood for a fire. We forge out into the forest, stacking our arms full of branches. Six other soldiers heft crossbows as they watch us fan out between the trees, and I make sure to keep them in sight.

Are they there to protect us, or to keep us from leaving?

“You and you.” Devlinn, one of the soldiers in our group, points to me and Kjerrin. “Take your firewood to the first quarter.” He gestures down the road, then turns to give more orders to the others while Kjerrin and I start off. I avoid his gaze as we walk, and that of anyone else I pass, and manage to drop off my load of kindling without anyone questioning me. Then we return to our group—our quarter—as they emerge from the forest to start our own little fire.

I search hopefully for a tent, but it seems we’ll be sleeping in the open tonight. The temperature drops with the setting sun, and images of my warm bed swim in my mind. Mama and Papa will discover my absence soon.

“Here,” Devlinn says, holding out a blanket and bedroll. “Part of your supplies. Every man is issued an extra blanket for the cold nights. Most of us are from the plains, but I suppose you’re used to the cold up here in the mountains.”

I accept the bundle silently. Being used to the cold and wanting to sleep out in it are two different things. I wish I’d thought to bring my own blanket.

As our fire sparks to life under the expert hands of our soldier guardian, the rest of us spread out our new bedrolls in a kind of wagon wheel formation with the fire at the center. I take my extra pair of stockings from my satchel in preparation for the cold night ahead.

Another quarter passes out our supper rations, a slightly more satisfying meal of salted pork, a loaf of bread and some cheese to split between our quarter, a few dried apples, and a cup each of weak ale. While we eat, the soldiers share stories with the eager villagers in our group. Only Aze, Kjerrin, and I are from Vallegat. The others are from Norwikk, thank the Phoenix, and range in age from twenty to fifty.

Finally, Devlinn stretches and yawns. “Better get some sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow we’ll arrive at the fort, and then your training starts. You’ll want whatever rest you can get.”

Gratefully, I take off my boots and cloak and snuggle down into my fire-warmed blankets, eager to give myself over to sleep. By now, Mjera will have told Mama and Papa what I’ve done, and guilt churns my stomach whenever I think of their reactions. I’m sure they’ll be hurt, especially since I left without saying goodbye. And Edlan... Will he think me ungrateful? Will he call me selfish for abandoning him just so I would not have to marry Bronhold? Or will he understand that had no other choice?

I’m not even sure I can name the emotions fighting for attention in my head. There is no excitement, no relief at having succeeded so far. Mostly I just feel… tired. Tired of thinking, tired of walking, and tired of worrying. And there will only be more to face tomorrow.

Feeling wearier than I ever have before, I curl my back to the fire and thank Ieldran for keeping me safe so far. Aze rolls to face me. “You’re still sure about this?” he whispers.

I wrinkle my nose. “There’s not much I could do if I wasn’t.”

“We’d figure something out.”

I flop onto my back, looking up through bare overhanging branches at a cloudy sky. “I’m here, Aze,” I say. “There’s no changing that.”

Beside me, Aze readjusts his position and grumbles under his breath.

“Good night,” I tell him, already feeling myself drift toward slumber.

“Night... Brennr.”