Never make promises. That’s what Edlan told me, back on my first day as his apprentice. “Never make promises and never set limits. When someone asks how long a task will take, say it will take as long as it must. That will guarantee two things. First, you will only ever complete a job before you are expected; and second, you will develop a reputation as a wise and mysterious miracle worker. Both are essential if you want to be an healer of any value.”
I’ve tried to take that advice to heart, but it’s much easier to appear wise and mysterious when you’re one of the village elders. Nobody wants to ask advice of a 19-year-old apprentice. Least of all a 19-year-old female apprentice. Ieldran save us—what would the ancestors think?
Well, maybe the female ancestors would approve. Papa does not. It would be different if I were just an apprentice, I think. He indulged me as a child because of the accident, but as I grew closer to marriageable age, he may have given in to the gossip and ended my apprenticeship early if Edlan was not so deeply imbedded in my secret. Edlan says keeping secrets is like keeping promises: it’s better to avoid them altogether.
But he’s kept mine for thirteen years, so I suppose there are always exceptions.
Fel stamps his hoof and lips at my braid, annoyed at not having my full attention. I push his huge head away and refocus on his breakfast. “I’m adding some dried apples,” I tell him, burying the fruit into his oats. “We don’t have many more, so try to savor them.”
Fel shakes his shaggy mane and blows an acknowledging breath into my face. “You’re welcome,” I say, patting his neck. “Now go on. I have to get to work.”
He snorts a goodbye as I make my way back to the barn door, listening for sounds outside. Besides Fel’s munching in the stall behind me, everything is quiet. Papa and Aze have already taken the sheep to the creek for water, and Mama is in the house getting ready to start the day’s baking. I am alone, and it is early. Edlan won’t expect me for another half hour.
I have time to practice.
I open my right hand, holding it up so I can see the scars lacing across my palm and down my wrist. My first inclination is always toward fire, but I won’t risk that in the barn. Maybe ice? I open my mouth to form the word, the chill of it already spreading across my tongue.
A sharp, intruding knock shatters the moment. The power fades as quickly as I’d summoned it, driven deeper with every rap of knuckles against wood.
Bronhold.
Maybe I can hide in the barn until he leaves—but no, Mama will answer the door if he keeps knocking, and she’ll tell him where I am. “So much for a morning to myself,” I mutter, tugging open the door. Fel pricks his ears toward my voice, but his breakfast is more important than my misery, and he goes back to eating. “Thanks for the support,” I tell him, but he only flicks his tail as if to say, Get on with it.
Bronhold stands at the door to the house, his fist raised to knock again, but he turns when I step out of the barn. “Ynria,” he says, a rosy tint of pleasure brightening his voice.
You can tell a lot about a person from the color of their voice. Mama’s is the burnished gold of sunrise, the glow of a fire holding back the cold of a winter night. Papa’s is the opposite: cool blue to balance Mama’s passion, adding depth and stability to her outbursts. And Aze, a combination of the two, is the friendly green of a spring meadow that shoots up overnight when winter finally fades, full of hope and promise.
But Bronhold—dull, relentless, uninspired Bronhold—has a voice the color of mud. “Shall we?” he says, striding through the snow and offering his arm to me.
I pull the door closed behind me. “I’ve told you already. I don’t need you to walk me to town.”
Bronhold’s arm remains extended, sticking from his body like a wind-blown branch. “I have your father’s blessing today.”
“When did you speak to my father?”
“Yesterday. In town.”
I edge past him, turning sideways to keep from stepping into the snowbank Aze cleared from the door yesterday. Bronhold trots after me, oblivious to my displeasure. “I met him as I was returning from work,” he says. “When I told him about the disappearances, he agreed that I should accompany you from now on.”
“Disappearances.” I snort the word, shoving my hands into my pockets. “You’ve been spending too much time at the inn. You know better than to listen to rumors.”
He overtakes me in a few easy strides. “They aren’t rumors. The traders from Norwikk came in yesterday, and Kjerrin talked with a few of them. He said they’ve seen Awnian soldiers in the valley, and they take anyone they find on the roads for the war with Ieli.”
“There is no war with Ieli.”
“There will be soon.” Bronhold offers his hand as I step over another snowbank to reach the road, but I pretend not to see it. “Mother says this is how it happened before, during the Coastal Wars,” he goes on. “Men started disappearing months before the first battle.”
“No one from the valley has gone missing. Fryr Edlan would know, and if he knew, so would I.”
Bronhold laughs. “I doubt Fryr Edlan shares everything with his apprentices.”
“I’m his only apprentice,” I remind him. “And yes, he does.”
Bronhold’s only response is another indulgent chuckle, so I give up the conversation. If he weren’t the only man to show interest in me, I might have a better chance of convincing Papa to refuse him, but I alienated myself from most of the respectable suitors when I became Edlan’s apprentice. A man wants a wife who will put him first, not her studies. And Bronhold will never understand my interests in herbs and healing.
Or Wordweaving.
We pick our way across the icy road toward the light burning in the Kynstett’s tower far ahead. It used to be my job to trudge up the endless curling stairs to light the lantern every sunset, kindling the beacon to guide travelers to our haven. The fryrs rarely make the trek themselves, so the job falls to the youngest apprentice. For years there was only me, but three winters ago Fryr Arveg took on a boy from Norwikk as an acolyte. Now Hallis gets to make the climb.
Thankfully, Bronhold remains silent for the duration of the walk. When we reach the outskirts of town we find shops already opening, and a handful of villagers stand in their doorways sharing gossip before the day begins. Fraue Strom lifts her hand from a basket of laundry to give us a cheerful wave. Her gaze lingers on Bronhold, a calculating smile touching her lips.
Wonderful. By the time we reach the Kynstett, all of Vallegat will know who walked me to town, and Bronhold’s mama will mark it as another tally in their favor. She and Bronhold already act as if he is my betrothed, even though Papa has made no agreement. He promised to hold off on his decision until I finish my apprenticeship in the spring. It’s been my only hope for the last year, since Bronhold first started to pursue his (mother’s) interest in me.
Or, specifically, in Papa’s pastures.
It takes most of my control not to sigh in relief when we reach the Kynstett. The ancient structure’s spire rises over the sod roofs like a mother goose over her chicks, welcoming me to safety, and I turn my back to its comforting shadow to face Bronhold. “No soldiers to snatch me here.”
He attempts a gallant bow, but he’s so tall that he has to bend nearly double to look up at me. “I will return to walk you home at sundown.”
“Oh, I’m stopping by Mjera’s tonight,” I say, inventing the excuse on the spot. “Arun will walk me home.”
“Arun is only twelve,” Bronhold says.
“Too young for any soldier to want,” I say. “If they really are taking men, I’ll be safer with Arun than with you.”
Bronhold blinks as if trying to find a way around my reasoning. “But I would—”
“You needn’t make a special trip,” I repeat firmly. “You have plenty of work to do, and so do I. Edlan’s waiting for me.”
“Then… I will return for you tomorrow,” he says.
And I will leave early to avoid him. “Goodbye, Bronhold.”
He waves, and I hurry up the stairs before he can argue. I slip through the doors into the great hall, breathing out a sigh when I am safe within its walls. The Kynstett has always been a haven, and to more than those fleeing unwanted suitors. In ancient times, it was a meeting place for kings. High stone arches support a marble ceiling carved with images of all-powerful Ieldran and his other two forms, the Phoenix and the Pathkeeper. I lift my eyes to the towering figures, murmuring a morning prayer as I pass under the stone gazes.
“Ieldran, bless my work. Phoenix, protect my home. Pathkeeper, guide my way.”
Fryr Edlan is in his study, already at work despite the early hour. His back is to me, so I shutter the lantern he keeps hanging beside the door to get his attention. He turns as the light winks over his desk, blinking behind his spectacles. “Ah,” he says. I hear the question in the syllable and answer in the hand language he taught me.
“I know I’m early. Bronhold walked me in again, so I hurried.”
Edlan gives me a sympathetic nod. “It’s just as well,” he answers, his wrinkled hands forming the words as he drops his gaze to his desk. “We have several new orders. Where did that list go…?”
I shift a stack of papers and hold out the note he’d charged me not to lose yesterday. He lays it on his desk and taps his messy handwriting. “I have had three more orders for your mallow tea. The fever is lingering late this year.”
“I can make enough to distribute at the evening meditation,” I sign.
Edlan nods. He lost his hearing to silver fever when he was a young man, and I know he fears another outbreak. “I could do more…” I let my hands fall slowly, trailing off, hoping Edlan will guess at my meaning.
The wrinkle between his brows tells me he has. “You know that is not an option.”
“Wordweaving could heal them faster than any tea,” I press. “Faster than bloodletting. It could prevent the sickness from spreading.”
“And how would you explain it?” he signs.
I try a smile. “Your reputation as a miracle worker would do that for me.”
“We have been over this,” he signs. He does not return the smile.
“I only want to help.”
The hard line of his mouth softens, but his eyes remain sharp. “It’s too dangerous. Do you want to be taken away? Do you want to be forced into service in the king’s army?”
“Surely if I only used it to heal—” I start, but Edlan waves over my words.
“The king doesn’t care why you Wordweave, only that you can. He would use you as a weapon, Ynria. Why do you not understand this?”
“I do understand,” I say, my hands drooping. “But why would the Phoenix give me this gift if I was not meant to use it?”
“None of us can know the All-powerful’s mind.” Elden gives me a long, tired look, and then gestures at his order list. “Do you have enough supplies for that much tea?”
My heart sinks at the dismissal, but I try to keep the disappointment from my face. “If we limit it to the elders and the infirm.”
“Then prepare it. We will treat the others individually.”
By we, he means he, but I try not to dwell on it. Women cannot be apothecaries, and most of the villagers refuse to let me treat them without Edlan there to supervise. Some women might accept me as a midwife without sorestry training, if I could convince Papa to let me remain unmarried, but they would never come to see a female healer.
I look at my teacher as he turns back to his work, at the way the candlelight casts a halo over his white hair. I was too young to understand the scandal he caused by taking me on as an apprentice, but Papa likes to remind me of it when he feels I’m not doing enough for the fryrs. “They all suffered for Edlan’s decision,” he says. “You must serve them all to pay off that debt.”
Most of the fryrs are grateful to have any apprentice around, boy or girl, especially since they know nothing can come of my work. I will either leave to learn midwifery with the soers in the Norwikk sorestry, or marry and discontinue my studies to take on the duties of a wife. Neither outcome affects them, and in the meantime, I am free labor.
But I’m determined to be as helpful as possible during my time here. Maybe if I’m useful enough, they’ll let me stay after my apprenticeship ends and I won’t have to marry Bronhold after all.
At least I can hope.
***
I’m filling the last of the tea sachets in Edlan’s office when a thump of boots echoes down the hall. A moment later, a tawny-haired boy bursts into the room. Hallis, Fryr Arveg’s apprentice. “Ynria!” he pants. “Bring Edlan, quick!”
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I tug on the fryr’s robes and point toward the door. “What’s the matter?” he asks aloud.
The boy straightens, composing himself under Edlan’s strict eye. “There are strangers outside,” he says, signing hesitantly along with his speech. “Dozens of them. Soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” Edlan repeats, slowly, like he thinks Hallis used the wrong sign.
But Hallis nods, his eyes on me. He celebrated his fifteenth year this past fall, his third since he left his widowed mother in Norwikk to serve the fryrs. “Ynria, you have to see it,” he says. He’s only been learning hand language for a couple of years, and though he tries, I know he’s more comfortable letting me translate. “They’re asking for the master of the village, so Fraue Jarrin sent them to the Belenost.”
Soldiers. Real soldiers, here in the village. My heart stutters in my chest, sending waves of anxious nausea through me. Did someone find out about me? I’ve been so careful to only Wordweave when I’m alone, but maybe someone saw Edlan and me talking. Would one of my neighbors really turn me in to the king?
“Likely just travelers,” Fryr Edlan says, as if sensing my panic. “Come along. Let us see what they want.”
I put away the herbs with trembling hands and follow Hallis and Edlan through the halls. Out in the street, a crowd of villagers has already gathered to gawk at the newcomers. Most of them do look like soldiers, with leather armor and black armbands edged with silver thread, swords sheathed on belts against their hips or backs. Only a handful of them have horses; regal stallions that stand on slender legs, holding their narrow heads high. Compared to Fel, with his heavy muscles built for dragging plows and hauling wagons, they might as well be completely different creatures.
A dozen men stand behind the soldiers, indistinguishable from my neighbors but for the fact that I don’t recognize them. Travelers with an armed escort? Or are they soldiers too?
Bronhold’s warning comes back to me: They take anyone they find on the roads for the war with Ieli.
Gathered at the foot of the stairs, the eleven other fryrs wait in stoop-backed anticipation, wringing their withered hands in the sleeves of their robes. They look at Edlan as we come through the door, deferring to his wisdom.
One of the soldiers on horseback notices the attention paid to Edlan and calls up to us. “I ask to speak with your council,” he says, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “I’ve been informed your village has no master.”
Edlan’s eyes are still scanning the assembly, so I tap his arm and point out the soldier. “He wants to speak with the council,” I sign.
“We will meet with you,” Edlan says out loud. “Leave your horses for the boys to care for and follow us into the courtroom.”
The soldier dismounts, his long black cape somehow appearing majestic rather than cumbersome. Four others on horseback follow him, handing off their reins to the several boys who dash forward. The rest of the soldiers stay where they are, keeping the non-armored men in the street.
I step aside as the soldier and his comrades approach the stairs. Hallis leans close to me and points at the plain-clothed men with the soldiers. “They’re from Norwikk,” he whispers. “I know some of them. We can ask them what’s going on.”
I hesitate, eyeing the crowded street before glancing back into the gloom of the Belenost’s grand hall. “You go ahead,” I say. Hallis nods and hurries down the steps, leaving me alone. If the soldiers were here for me, they wouldn’t have asked to speak with the elders, and they wouldn’t have come with a whole unit of soldiers. Even Wordweavers are not all-powerful. I could not be expected to fight off even a handful of men on my own, Wordweaving or no. Bronhold must be right.
They’re here for the war.
Edlan has taken the head of the round table the fryrs use for meetings, leaving the rest of the men to fill in around him. Two soldiers pause by the door, and I squeeze inside and take up a position against the wall as they close the doors, cutting off the sounds from the street.
The lead soldier takes the chair across from Edlan, motioning for his comrades to sit. “My name is Tenant Warchass Gryfalkr,” he says, setting long fingers against his tanned brow in a formal salute. “We represent the First North Infantry stationed at Fort Foltepp, two days’ march from your village.”
“Welcome, Tenant,” Edlan says cautiously, his eyes on the soldier’s lips. “What brings you to Vallegat?”
“I seek courageous hearts to serve our cause.”
I frown from my vantage point at the side of the room. The tenant’s voice is the deep blue of distant storm clouds, and the threat of thunder rumbles on his words. His hair is vaak, a common mountain coloring of white with black roots. A squareness about his chin speaks of mountain ancestry as well, but his voice carries the flat accent of a plainsman.
“What cause?” Edlan asks after a heavy exchange of looks with the other fryrs.
“With Ieli just beyond the valley, you more than anyone must know the threat of war,” Tenant Gryfalkr says. “I trust there have been no raids on your village?”
Edlan’s eyes flick to mine. “No raids. Valued members of this community proudly claim Ielic lineage, Tenant. We know King Ryvenlock holds no love for the Ielics, but we of the valley have always maintained peace with our northern neighbors.”
I give him a weak smile. Mama would thank him for that comment.
“The king’s love is irrelevant,” Tenant Gryfalkr says, his voice streaked with surprised gold. “I come to you on behalf of Grand General Ambritten.”
“Grand General?” Edlan repeats. “A new promotion? Forgive us. Winter makes travel through the mountains difficult, and the snow has been heavy this year. We often go without news from the king’s city until the passes clear.”
“Then I have the honor of being the first to spread the happy news,” Tenant Gryfalkr says in a slow, flat voice. “The Ryvenlocks are dead.”
A murmur of surprise ripples through the fryrs. Confusion stains their voices a thick, muddy yellow, and the sound of it seeps into my skin like cold water soaking through my boots. Dead? All of them? Since the beginning of our history, a Ryvenlock has ruled over Awnia. How can there be no king?
And then, shamefully, a spark of hope burns through the surprise. If there is no king, do I still have to hide?
“King Anvarr Ryvenlock was a tyrant,” the tenant goes on. “His death is no great loss. We are free under Grand General Ambritten, and you will soon see how much better life will be for all Awnians. However, Ieli still threatens our borders, now more than ever. Their king believes Awnia to be weak because of this change in leadership, and he has amassed an army thousands strong.”
Edlan’s frown has gone from puzzled to fearful. “And you need soldiers.”
The tenant nods. “We have but one way of mustering a sufficient defense. One man from every family in Awnia is hereby called upon to serve in Grand General Ambritten’s army.”
The color drains from Edlan’s face—and the faces of the other fryrs with him. “Conscription has not been practiced in generations,” Edlan says. “The king’s standing army has always been able to—”
“The Grand General has found the king’s army lacking,” Tenant Gryfalkr interrupts. “If he is to defend our borders, he must have more men.”
“We would need to give the men time to put their affairs in order before leaving,” Edlan hedges.
“We will leave the day after tomorrow.”
I stare at Edlan, my throat squeezing around my breath. Winter has stretched so long this year that the planting is already delayed. How will we be able to do the work with so many gone? “We can’t spare them,” I sign. “Tell them we can’t.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” Edlan answers silently, his hands trembling around the words.
The tenant turns his head, following Edlan’s eyes and fixing me with a gaze that pins me to the wall. “Hand signing?” he asks, still looking at me rather than Edlan. “Come closer. Repeat what you said.”
I flick a desperate glance at Edlan, who has half-risen as if to come to my aid. But he said he could do nothing. If the tenant is inviting me to speak, perhaps he can be reasoned with.
I take a breath and push away from the wall. “Our families can’t spare the men,” I say, slowly, trying to make my voice even. “There must be some other way to get soldiers.”
Tenant Gryfalkr studies me, raking his eyes over my simple dress and the two white braids hanging on either shoulder. “Your concern is understandable,” he says finally. “You stand to lose a sweetheart, perhaps?”
Please. If they take Bronhold, all the better—I’d help him pack for the journey.
“It’s natural to feel some trepidation,” the tenant goes on. “But we must have every man possible if we are to have hope against Ieli. We’ve already gathered men from your neighbors in Norwikk, and they were glad to join us. Some sacrifice is necessary for the safety of our great country.”
His volume rises slightly, but the inflection of his voice never changes. I shake my head and take another step forward. “But if a family cannot—”
“The order has been given,” he interrupts gently, turning back to the table to address Edlan. “Will you obey?”
Edlan sends a long look towards me before glancing at Fryr Bronin, who has been interpreting my conversation with the tenant. “We will make your order known among the villagers,” he says at last, refocusing on the tenant.
“Good,” Tenant Gryfalkr says. “Then we must discuss tonight’s lodgings. My men will need a place to stay. Have you an inn?”
Edlan settles his hands on the table. “Yes, but it will not host all of your men. How many do you have?”
“Forty.”
“We have some cots for travelers who cannot afford the inn,” Edlan says. “We can set them up here in the hall, but there will not be enough for your whole force.”
“Then your villagers will house the rest,” Tenant Gryfalkr says.
Anger flares in my chest. It’s not enough that they will take our men—they will demand to stay in our houses, too? I wait for Edlan to argue, to tell him they will have to make do with the inn and the great hall, but he only dips his head in a show of submission. “I will arrange it.”
“Thank you,” Tenant Gryfalkr says in that same flat tone. He pushes his chair back and rises to his feet. “The Grand General is grateful for your compliance.”
The other men at the table follow, and the soldiers turn as one to leave the hall. As he passes me, Tenant Gryfalkr catches my gaze before turning his eyes to the door. I chase him from the room with my glare, fighting the urge to run back to Edlan. Three of the fryrs follow the soldiers to spread the word to the other villagers.
Edlan watches them go, his shoulders drooping further with each man who exits the building. “Ynria,” he signs. The shape of my name in his hands is loose. Defeated.
“There must be something,” I say.
Edlan shakes his head. “Ieldran bids us submit to our government. If the new ruler has made this order, then we must obey. Come, help Hallis set up the cots.”
“And who will have the honor of hosting their kidnappers?” I sign, switching to hand language in case any of the soldiers are listening.
“Do not be difficult,” Edlan signs. At my sullen silence, he deflates and goes on with softer motions. “Sometimes in life, we come up against problems that cannot be solved. Not by reasoning, not by resisting, and not by…” He hesitates, but I know the word he refuses to sign. Wordweaving. “Every healer faces these situations, eventually. In spite of all our knowledge, treatments sometimes fail. For the sake of your patients and for yourself, you must accept this. Learn this lesson now, while you are young, and let it inform your future.”
What future? I want to demand. I can’t be a healer. Even if Bronhold leaves with the soldiers, I’ll have to forgo my studies to take over Aze’s work at home, and when Bronhold returns, everything will go back to the way it is now. There is no future for me here.
But Edlan is already turning away to usher me toward the storerooms. He tells me to get started while he fetches Hallis, and I swallow my discontent to play my part as the obedient apprentice.
Hallis and I spend the next hour dragging cots from various storage rooms throughout the Belenost and depositing them in the main hall, Hallis chattering excitedly while I try to control the urge to throw up. I find my eyes drifting upward as we work, returning again and again to my favorite sculpture: a phoenix rising from a bed of intricate flames, wings spread wide over the huddled forms of a raven and a dragon. The creatures represent Awnia and Ieli respectively, coming together under the shelter of the Phoenix’s protection. Whenever the two countries have had conflict with one another throughout history, they have come here to Phoenix Valley. To Vallegat. The size of the valley prevents large armies from gathering during peace talks, making our little village the perfect meeting place. Fryr Edlan said his grandfather was present during the last great meeting between the kings of Awnia and Ieli, before the ancient treaties were broken. There has been conflict ever since.
I blink up at the statue. If ever we have needed a mediator, it’s now. Please, Phoenix, send us a miracle.
The door opens as if in answer to my prayer, but instead of my salvation, it is Tenant Gryfalkr who enters the hall. He scans the progress of the beds around the room, squinting in the low light. His eyes slow as they pass over me, recognizing and dismissing me in almost the same moment.
The phoenix’s gaze burns into me. I won’t make it that easy for him.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Hallis, hurrying across the room and patting the dust off my sleeves. I clear my throat and force a polite, “Tenant?”
He studies me as I approach, gaze lingering on my hands as I smooth out the wrinkles in my dress. Up close, he doesn’t look old enough to hold the rank of tenant—he must only be a few years older than me. “You again,” he says, his voice pleasant but uninviting. “Let me guess. You’re here to beg an exception for your sweetheart. Are you to be married soon?”
Irritation swallows uncertainty, strengthening my resolve. “I don’t have a sweetheart. But surely there must be exceptions for others? Would you deprive a wife of her husband and a daughter of her father when there is no one else to work their land?”
“There can be no exceptions,” the tenant says. “If we make an exception for one family, we must excuse them all.”
“That isn’t true. What of families who have several sons? They can spare one more easily than a widow who has no one but her only child. And what happens to families who have no men?”
“Are there any?” the tenant asks.
I frown at his implication that I would lie. “My friend Mjera lost her father last year. Who should she send?”
“She has no brothers?”
“She does, but the oldest is not yet thirteen. Surely the army has no use for someone so young.”
“I was younger than that when I joined the army. And I find young men often enjoy the life of a soldier. Travel, adventure—”
“Dying in battle?” I snap. A few heads turn my way, and I clamp my lips shut over my rising anger.
Tenant Gryfalkr watches me, folding his arms and leaning back against a stone pillar. “No, don’t censor yourself now. If you’re going to speak, you might as well be candid.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Pale, sober blue envelopes his words, adding a shade of sincerity to his voice. “I know this is difficult, but it’s the reality of the world. We need men to fight, or we will be overrun by the Ielics. Other villages have supplied their men. Why should your home be exempt?”
“No one should have to fight if he doesn’t wish to.”
“It’s a privilege,” the tenant argues. “A chance for glory, to put your village in a place of honor among the bravest in Awnia.”
“Ieldran teaches that it’s more honorable to go quietly about your work without expecting praise.”
A smile touches the tenant’s face. “I appreciate your candor. And I wish I could help.”
“But you won’t.”
“I can’t.”
Helplessness sinks through me, and I turn away to hide the frustration on my face. He reaches out and catches my elbow. “What is your name?” he asks.
I jerk my arm out of his grasp. “Why?”
“Your fryrs tell me there are eight beds at the inn. How many do you have here?”
Confused by the change in topic, I frown and search his face, tempted to tell him to count them himself. “Twenty-eight.”
“That leaves only four to be hosted in the village.”
“Can you not find room for four here?” I ask, exasperated. “Would you really impose upon a family during their last days together?”
He lifts a hand to his chin, which is shaved close in the lowland style. His face is windburned, but I can see the hints of a light complexion beneath the red skin—another suggestion of mountain heritage. “I propose an exchange. I’ll find a place for three of my men within the inn or here in the hall—” I start to thank him, but he holds up a finger to stop me. “If you agree to host me.”
His words hit me like a wall of winter air. “Why?”
“You asked for a way to spare your villagers the burden of hosting my men,” the tenant says. “I offer it to you.”
My eyes narrow, and a needle of suspicion pierces my anger. “Why me?”
“I’m curious,” he says. “I want to know who you argue for, if not a sweetheart. A brother, perhaps? If he has your spirit, he may make a valuable soldier.”
No, that isn’t it. There must be more, but I can’t imagine what he could want from me. There are prettier girls in the village, if that’s what he’s after, and it’s not as though he could do anything to me with Papa and Aze at home.
At my continued silence, he lets a small sigh through his lips and lowers his voice. “Very well. In the past, I’ve found it helpful to spend the night away from new recruits when we stay in villages. It preserves their sense that I am separate from them, that my rank allows certain privileges, and they respect me more for it. When it comes time to give orders, they’re more willing to follow them. It also provides a chance for me to learn more about the culture of the village itself so I can better understand the men.”
Deep, honest blue permeates his words, but still I hesitate. There’s something else, I’m sure of it, but I have nothing but a feeling to argue with. The tenant gives me a moment to consider his words before adding, “And I wish to help.”
“Conditional help is not help,” I say.
“It’s all I can offer.”
I want to argue, but if it would keep the other soldiers out of villagers’ homes, how can I refuse? “We have no extra beds,” I say. “You would have to sleep on the floor.”
“I’ve done so before.”
I make a minimal effort to keep the glare out of my eyes. “Then by all means, Tenant. When I’m finished here, you are welcome in my home.”
The flat tone of my voice, so similar to the one he had used earlier, draws a half smile to his lips. “And you promise you will not try to leave without me?”
Edlan would disapprove of the wording, but what choice do I have? I take a slow breath, burying the misgivings that twist through my stomach as I meet the tenant’s gaze.
“I promise.”