A rustle of movement startles me awake, and I blink at the glow of sunlight coloring the sky. I push away from the tree trunk, wincing as my muscles tighten in protest. The rangers are already busy erasing our presence from the little hollow, packing up the smoked meat and burying the remains of the fire.
“Shall I scout ahead?” Thare asks.
Six shakes his head. “Watch our back trail in case the Awnians are still around,” he says. “But stay close. I want us together when we join up with the regiment.”
Thare melts into the space between two trees without answering. Six takes one last look over the campsite and, satisfied with the results, climbs out of the hollow. I fall into line a few steps behind Six while the others range out to either side until I only glimpse them every few minutes, moving between the pines like shadows.
After a couple hours of walking, the mountainside levels out and the forest thins. I scan the underbrush for herbs, and am so caught up in my task that I jump when Thare appears at my side. He ignores me and continues to Six. “Unit’s close,” he says. “We should reach them within the hour. No sign of anyone following.”
Six nods, and Thare stands aside to join the back of the line. The other rangers have rejoined the procession as well, drifting out of the trees and walking as though each step into Ieli renews their energy. I look back at the cover of the mountain as the ground levels out, feeling like a rabbit caught too far from its burrow.
Up ahead, two men lean against one of the remaining trees. They snap to attention when they see us, but relax when they recognize Six.
“You’re late,” of them says.
Six brushes past the first man and fixes his eyes on the second. “Where’s Captain Bayal?”
The second man resumes his resting position against the tree and tosses his head behind him. “Expecting you. We were told to send you to his tent as soon as you arrived.”
Six nods and starts past, but the first man holds out his sword to block my path. “Who’s this?”
“He’s with us,” Six says.
The man looks down his nose at me, angling his blade to set the point against my chest. “A prisoner?”
“Six said he’s with us,” Iorin says, stepping past Orami to stand behind me. “We’re taking him to see Captain Bayal.”
The man shrugs, dropping his sword. “On your head, then.”
Iorin puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me past the sentries. When we’ve gone a few yards from them, he pats my arm and releases me. “Expect some stares,” he says quietly. “But no one will question you as long as you’re with us.”
I nod and try to put on a brave face. Before us is the main branch of Six’s unit—hundreds of men in various positions of resting, polishing, sharpening, and sparring. A few turn to watch us as we pass through paths in the chaos, muttering to each other and pointing at us. At me.
Six leads the way to a large tent with men stationed outside. When they see him, one ducks his head through the entrance and reappears seconds later, holding the flap open for us. “Redge,” Six says, waving for him to enter. “The rest of you, replace our supplies. We’ll fill you in after.”
The tent is lit by a pair of lanterns on a wooden table in the center of the space, around which stand three men. One, who appears to be in his early forties, leans on the table and studies a map spread across it. The man beside him holds a rolled-up scroll in one hand and reads the map over the other’s shoulder, his long black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. The third, at least ten years older than the other two, stands a few paces away and watches them with a scowl on his face. They look up as we enter, and the man at the table straightens.
“Where have you been?” His eyes fall on me and dart back to Six for an explanation.
“This is Brennr,” Six says. “He helped me escape after I was captured by the Awnians.”
“Explain.”
Six tells his story, starting with finding the tunnel and ending with the rangers’ vote to bring me here. Unlike when he told the other scouts, no one interrupts with questions or comments. No one says anything, even after he finishes; they seem to be waiting for something else to happen.
Waiting for the man by the table, most likely. He looks me over, a frown settling over his brown face, and I try not to fidget. Finally he says in Awnian, “I am Captain Tiiberial Bayal. You saved the life of one of my men, and for that I am grateful, but you have the opportunity now to save even more lives. It will require a difficult choice, and I am sorry to say that I cannot give you much time to consider it.”
He pauses, watching for my reaction, but I only swallow and wait for him to ask me to betray my country. His voice is a bright, metallic gold I haven’t seen before, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Unlike Oristel, Captain Bayal looks like a true soldier. He wears shining plate mail with a cinquen—a belt with strips of studded leather marking him as captain. A blue scarf is tied at his neck beneath his breastplate. Oristel carried an ornate sword, but Bayal wears a thick leaf-shaped blade about the length of his forearm on his hip. A longer sword is strapped across his back, and he carries the weight as if he’d be incomplete without it. His dark hair is cut short, simple and practical, and he watches me through a pair of brown eyes that remind me of the polished wood on Edlan’s desk.
A man without ornament, without airs. A man I can be honest with.
“I am loyal to the men from my village,” I answer at last, in Ielic. “The soldiers from the fort conscripted us a month ago to dig their tunnel. We had no choice, and the more I learn about the Grand General, the less I wish to serve him.” I take a breath, watching the captain’s face for his reaction. “My mother is from Ieli, but my father served Awnia in the Coastal Wars. I won’t help you hurt my people.”
The captain presses his lips together and glances at the man on his left, who wears the same uniform, armor, and swords, but his cinquen is shorter than Bayal’s and the scarf at his throat is white. “This is Commander Ilaric Vikko,” Bayal says. “My second-in-command. And Tuuro Somre, head physician.” He nods to the older man, the only one not dressed for battle. Instead, he wears the simple tunic-and-jacket combination favored by mountain folk.
“Perhaps we can help each other,” Captain Bayal goes on. “If you tell me about the tunnel and the Awnians’ plans for it, I may be able to seal it without risk to your people. Perhaps we may even be able to help your fellow villagers.”
Hope flares in my chest, hot and painful. “You would free them?” I breathe.
“Contrary to what you might expect from my profession,” he says. “I do not celebrate killing. I would rather your people return to their lives as farmers than continue as soldiers.”
I glance at Six, who nods in encouragement, and turn back to search the captain’s hard face for any hint of deception. “Before I tell you anything,” I say slowly. “I must have your word that you will do your best not to harm them and that you will release them back to their homes.”
“If it is within my power to do so,” Bayal agrees. “I will do it. You have my word.”
A golden halo burns over his words—he’s telling the truth. I take a shallow breath. “I was told the Awnians were not planning an invasion. The tunnel was a security in case Ieli attacked, nothing more. But when Six was captured, it seemed many in the fort wanted to push forward with an attack. I don’t know what their plans are now.”
“An Ielic prisoner escaped with knowledge of the tunnel,” Vikko says, his voice a deep, rich red. “That alone would escalate any plans they may have had.”
“With this tunnel, the Awnians could save weeks of travel through the mountain passes,” Somre puts in slowly. “We’re the only unit near this part of the border. We wouldn’t stand a chance against an organized attack.”
Captain Bayal looks at Six without turning his head from me. “Could we block the tunnel?”
“With time, maybe,” Six answers. “But the Awnians would stop us before we succeeded.”
“Would it be possible to collapse it?”
“There were guards posted outside the tunnel. We’d be found out before we could do any damage.”
Bayal touches the short beard on his chin and frowns at me. “How many soldiers are there within the fort?”
Traitor, Oristel’s voice says in my head. I clear my throat. “Perhaps a hundred and fifty, including the trainees.”
The captain shares a look with Vikko, who appears just as troubled by the information. “Ielics value personal freedom,” he says. “We do not have to force our soldiers to serve. King—” He breaks off and sends another glance to Vikko. “Our former king, Órsurin, would have considered it his duty to release your people. We cannot simply block the tunnel. We will have to take it.”
“We will have to send a messenger to King Aquillis,” Vikko says. “As soon as possible. We can’t be left to defend the border alone.”
“Go,” Bayal says, and Vikko sweeps out of the tent. The captain looks at me again, folding his arms. “Now what to do with you?”
My stomach clenches. I open my mouth, but he goes on before I can speak.
“You were taken into the Awnian army against your will,” he says. “What would you be doing if you weren’t a soldier?”
I choose to interpret that as What would you rather be doing? “I trained under an healer in my village,” I say. “My apprenticeship would have ended in the spring. All I’ve ever wanted is to be a healer.”
Bayal rubs his chin again. “The world can always do with more healers. If you are telling the truth, you will be set free with the rest of your village.”
“I am telling the truth,” I say, and then hesitate. The captain’s eyebrows go up, and I rush on. “That is, most of the men were taken against their will. I didn’t need to go, since my brother was already going to serve for my family.”
“Then you volunteered,” the captain says. “That changes things.”
“I went in place of another family. One that had no man to send, who would have had to give a child instead. I took his place.”
Captain Bayal flicks a look at his physician. “What do you think, Somre?”
“Hard to tell,” Somre answers. “I can test him, see what he knows... I could always use more help.”
The captain nods. “Very well. Brennr, was it? You shall be given over to Somre’s care until we receive word from King Aquillis in Elni. Is that acceptable to you?”
I blink at the physician, resisting the urge to look back at Six. I can’t exactly call him a friend, but something in me hesitates at being parted from him. He is my last tie to the fort—to Aze. But Six says nothing, so I give a feeble nod to Somre.
“It’s settled then.” Bayal gives me a smile and steps away from the table. He walks with a stiff limp, and for the first time I notice a plain vinewood cane leaning against the side of the table. “You are not to go anywhere without an escort,” he says. “And you will need to change clothes. We can’t let you walk around in Awnian colors.”
I put my hand self-consciously on my sword, and he notices. “I will allow you to keep your weapon as long as you prove yourself trustworthy with it.”
“Thank you, sir.” It must be clear that I don’t know how to use the sword if he’s willing to let me keep it.
“I’ll get him a change of clothes,” Six volunteers. He turns to go, but Bayal stops him with a quiet question.
“How did you escape?”
Six tilts his head. “I told you, sir. Brennr created a diversion.”
“What kind of diversion?”
Six looks at me, and I know that this time, he will give up my secret. He owes his allegiance to his captain, not to me. I shake my head, my stomach rolling, but he has the nerve to smile. “Bayal is a good man,” he says softly. “You can trust him.”
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But can I trust Six?
Self-pity crusts over the gash of fear in my stomach. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wish I was back at the fort, wrapped up in my scratchy blanket, listening to Aze and the other boys sleeping around me. Or better yet, back home with Mama and Papa, making tea and feeding the animals.
And waiting for Bronhold to return and make me his wife?
No. I knew that there would be risks when I left home, and there’s no reversing that decision now. Whatever awaits me at the end of this path, I have to see it through.
With a hard swallow, I conjure up the warmth of last night’s smoke pit and the warm taste of fennel. “Fire,” I whisper. A tiny flame kindles to life on my fingertips, flickering uncertainly as I try to summon the courage to look at the captain.
Behind me, Redge gasps, “Wordweaver,” like the name is a curse. My heart beats faster, and the flame sputters in response.
“I caused an earthquake,” I say quietly, releasing the power and letting my fire fizzle out. “Six and I ran in the confusion, and when the soldiers chased us, I froze their feet to the ground so we could escape through the tunnel.”
Captain Bayal blinks his eyes back to my face. “Yours is a rare gift,” he says. “Did your commander at the fort know you had it?”
“Not until I used it to escape.”
“Why keep it secret?”
I catch myself twisting my fingers together and force them to still. “My father told me stories about the Coastal Wars... about Wordweavers used in battles, being forced to kill.” I swallow. “I’m a healer. I don’t want to use my abilities for anything else.”
Across the tent, Somre lifts heavy gray eyebrows. Bayal keeps his eyes on me. “Do you not fear that fate now?”
“If you value freedom,” I answer carefully. “You will not force me to fight for you.”
He doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes are bright with something like approval. “In Ieli, Wordweavers work in their own interests,” he says. “Many hire themselves out as builders, fighters, or healers, and most make a great deal of money doing so. Unfortunately, I do not have the authority to hire you—that would require permission from King Aquillis. We don’t have time to wait for his response, but your intervention on this mission could prevent casualties.”
“If you think I can be helpful,” I say in a small voice.
He looks to Six and gives a curt nod. “Get him a change of clothes, then take him to Somre for an assessment of his healing skills.”
Six salutes and nods at me before leaving the tent. I glance back before following him and Redge out, but the captain has already returned his attention to the map.
Orami is waiting for us outside. “Vikko gave the order to start breaking camp,” he says. “I guess that means we’re going back to the tunnel?”
“Not yet,” Six answers. “We need permission from the king first.”
“Won’t that take too long?”
“There’s no way around it.”
“Not going would be a way around it,” Redge mutters, pushing through Six and Orami and stalking away.
Orami frowns at me. “What happened in there?”
“Brennr is a Wordweaver,” Six answers.
“Oh.”
My face burns, but my spine is straight. “What’s wrong with that?”
Orami opens his mouth, but Six’s sigh cuts him off. “Redge has his reasons for distrusting Wordweavers. I thought hearing it in front of the captain would help, but... Well, he’ll come around eventually. Orami, did you resupply?”
“Iorin’s taking care of it.”
“Good.” Six claps Orami on the shoulder and gestures after Redge. “Get some rest while you can.”
“Rule number seven,” the boy says.
“Go on. Brennr and I are going to get him some new clothes. We don’t want any more trouble.”
Obediently, Orami turns to follow Redge while Six leads me back out into the unit. Men in red clothing look up, staring openly as they take in the black and silver on my arm. Voices hum around us, but apparently Six’s presence is enough to keep them at bay. No one approaches, but several hands reach for swords as we pass.
“Do the Ielics really not force men into service?” I ask, desperate to distract myself from the murmurs and pointing.
Six slides his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “No. King Órsurin stopped that practice when he was crowned, and his brother Aquillis has kept the same rules since his death. Only men willing to serve are accepted.”
“And women?”
Six laughs. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“There’s nothing insulting about being called a woman,” I say stiffly. “In my village, women do most of the same work men do—especially now with the men gone. Why should they be barred from fighting if they want to help?”
Six tilts his head, and I launch into my next argument. “If women—”
“You’re right,” he says.
I snap my mouth shut, frowning, and he laughs. “What, you’re not used to being right?”
“I’m not used to others admitting it,” I say. Men, specifically.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, tipping back his head to look at the sky. “There are women here in the camp. I’ve seen how hard they work to keep their men clothed and fed, to care for the children the men leave behind. They march with us everywhere but into battle, and then all they can do is wait and hope. They bear everything the men do, plus the burden of knowing that each mission could be the end of everything they know. Soldiers die and go on to the Pathkeeper, and their worries are over—the women are the ones who have to keep going when the battle is done. I would rather face an enemy sword than have to sit back and wait for it to strike the ones I love. Why shouldn’t women have the same choice?”
“But… can’t they?”
Six answers without taking his gaze from the sky. “Have you heard of Belendres Pathmaker?”
I shake my head.
“He’s a famous Ielic warrior,” Six says. “From the Coastal Wars. He started in the infantry as a nameless foot soldier, but after his first battle, he distinguished himself and began to rise in rank. By the end of his third year in the army, he had been named captain. His bravery and cleverness were unparalleled in Ieli or Awnia. Even the Ryvenlocks heard of his deeds and feared any battle they knew he would be a part of.”
“But?” I ask, anticipating the ending.
“But after five years, he was finally struck in battle. It was a severe wound, and the best healers were sent to tend to him, including the king’s personal physician. Care to guess who?”
I frown, then blink in surprise. “You don’t mean Somre?”
A faint smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “The same.”
“Somre was the king’s physician? But then… why is he here?”
Six takes a breath, looking down at me at last. He’s not as tall as Chass—or even Aze—but he still has several inches on me, and he has to angle his head down so I can see his face. “When Somre arrived, he discovered that Belendres hadn’t been entirely truthful when he enlisted.”
I watch his eyes, trying to guess his thoughts. “Belendres was a woman.”
He hums an affirmative. “When her commander found out, he spread a rumor that Belendres Pathmaker had succumbed to his wounds.”
“But… she risked her life for five years and was even injured in service. They made her fake her death rather than admit their greatest warrior was a woman?”
“They didn’t fake it.”
I stop to stare at him. “What?”
“She wouldn’t go through with the plan,” he says. “When she made it clear that she intended to make her identity known, they ambushed her in the middle of the night and slit her throat.”
Nausea bubbles up in my stomach like fish churning the surface of a lake. “After everything they did to save her life... after everything she’d done for them. They betrayed her?”
Six nods and looks away. “Somre was furious. He resigned his position with the king’s attendants and returned to Elni, where he met up with Commander Vikko. He and Vikko knew each other from their training days, and when Captain Bayal appointed Vikko as his second-in-command, Somre went with him. They’ve been here ever since.”
I rub the thumb of my gloved hand along my bare palm. If that’s how they treated a national war hero, what would they do to me? “Did anyone else know about her?” I ask. “I mean, she couldn’t have preserved her secret all on her own, could she? Someone else had to know.”
“If they did, they didn’t come forward,” Six answers. “And she didn’t give their names away. But anyone who knew would likely have suffered the same punishment.”
I look away. I’ll just have to leave before anyone can find out then. My situation isn’t like hers—I’m not trying to be a hero. I just want to find a little village where I can practice my healing and live out my days in peace.
“What was her name?” I ask after a few moments. “Her real name.”
Six shakes his head. “I don’t know. I doubt anyone does.”
Guilt and fear join the nausea, pounding through my body with every heartbeat. Will I end up the same way? Just a nameless girl caught where she doesn’t belong, tossed aside to make room for the men she lied to? I am struck by the sudden urge to tell him not to call me Brennr anymore, to hear my real name spoken again. To go back to being Ynria, healer’s apprentice, shepherd’s daughter.
And Wordweaver, whispers a selfish voice from deep inside.
That’s asking too much. I push the thought back into the secret place in my heart where it belongs.
“Here we are,” Six says, opening the flap of a large tent. “Take off that armband and your padded shirt—no one in Ieli wears cloth armor. It marks you as Awnian as clearly as the black and silver.”
I fidget with my scarf. “What do Ielics wear for armor, then?”
“Nothing.” Six runs his hand along the shelf at his shoulder until he finds a squat cloth pack, which he tosses to me. “Those who can afford it buy chain or scale mail, but most of the men carry shields.”
Except Six is wearing leather armor, and I haven’t seen any of the rangers with shields. I look at the wrist guards on his arms and back up at him, lifting my eyebrows in a silent question.
He laughs. “Metal armor is too loud on missions and shields are impractical in the denser parts of the forest, so Bayal provided leather for me and the other rangers. You shouldn’t need to worry, though. You won’t be close enough to the battle to need armor.”
He hands me a red linen tunic and turns away to fill my new pack with supplies: a bedroll with an extra blanket, a mess kit, an extra pair of stockings, a waterskin, a bar of soap, a whetstone, flint, and a sewing kit. I remove my padded shirt, but hesitate over the new tunic. My shirt is filthy with sweat and dirt, and though the tunic is old, it smells like tallow and ash—crude soap, but better than nothing. It’s clean, and that’s more than I can say for anything else I have.
Twisting to put my back to Six, I tug the tunic over my head and pull the shirt off underneath. It’s not as thick as my shirt, but with my jacket, I’ll be plenty warm. I wrap my scarf around my neck as Six finishes with the pack and holds it out to me.
“Now,” he says, stuffing my discarded shirt into the pack. “On to Somre’s.”
Somre’s infirmary is a long tent filled with cots and tables, like a field version of Edlan’s sick room. The physician hovers over a table at the far end of the tent, his back to us, and he doesn’t seem to notice our entrance. Six smiles at me and clears his throat. “Somre?”
The physician turns, barely sparing a glance before turning back to his work. “Larkspur?”
“Yes, sir,” Six answers. “I’ve brought Brennr.”
“About time.” Somre turns back to us, speaking in a tone that somehow conveys both kindness and irritation. “Let’s see just how much experience you’ve got, then.”
“I—” I begin, but Somre talks over me.
“Come here, boy, we haven’t got all day. Larkspur, you may go.”
Six mouths “good luck” and abandons me to the physician. I watch him go, rubbing my fingers together as Somre shuffles through the supplies on his table.
“Why did you call Six Larkspur?” I ask.
“Ah—that. It’s my way of coping with a specific kind of blindness.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t recognize faces.” I stare at him, mystified, and he snorts. “I can see you, boy, and I can read your expression. I just can’t recognize you as you. I can’t even tell the difference between a stranger’s face and my own reflection. Thus, I must find other ways to recognize those around me. The different colored scarves were Vikko’s idea—blue for the captain, white for him, green for the rangers, scarlet for archers, and so on.”
“Like my colors,” I say.
“What colors?”
“Oh, I—” My face warms, but Somre’s attention never wavers. “I… I sometimes see words and voices as colors.”
Somre’s gray eyebrows lift. “Fascinating. Is it related to your Wordweaving?” When I shrug, he asks, “What do they mean?”
“They’re nothing important.”
“Come now.” Somre sits on the edge of the table and gestures for me to speak. “There’s no need to fear me. I’m interested in the knowledge, that’s all.”
Like Edlan. I bite the inside of my lip, but his expectant silence compels me to speak. “Sometimes they represent emotion or personality,” I say haltingly, reaching up to fidget with the edge of my scarf. My fingers touch the ring at my throat, and its cool solidness settles me. “It’s like… reading someone’s body language. Just another layer to understand.”
“You can tell a stranger’s personality by the color of his voice?”
My fingers itch with nervous energy. I want to get on with the test, but something tells me Somre won’t let this go until I satisfy his curiosity. “When you look at me,” I say, switching tactics. “What do you see?”
Somre’s gray eyes focus on my face, my hair, my clothes. “You stand as if the weight of your sword is foreign,” he says slowly. “Not a warrior. You only wear one glove, likely because you removed the other to Wordweave, and yet you keep this one on—perhaps to hide the scars on your hands. And your hair has been dyed, recently enough to still hold most of its color, but long enough ago that the roots are growing through.”
I put a reflexive hand to the back of my head. “I took the place of another boy,” I say in a rush. “I couldn’t risk being recognized before we left the village.”
“Of course,” Somre says, bowing his head a little as though making a great concession.
I speak over the accusation he won’t say out loud. “You may not be able to tell my personality for certain, but you have an impression. It’s the same with the colors.”
“Fascinating.” He looks me up and down again, eyebrows raised. “And what color do you see in me? What does it tell you?”
I consider the physician, unable to keep from comparing him to Edlan. Edlan is older, frail where Somre still looks strong, though the signs of age are starting to crowd his features. His gray eyes are bright in a face bronzed by exposure to the coastal sun, and the lines around his mouth and eyes speak of as many smiles as frowns.
“Green,” I say finally, focusing on the echoes of his last words. “Like the green of a shallow pond reflecting a summer’s sky.”
“That’s very specific.”
“It tells me that you like people,” I say, ignoring the growing warmth in my cheeks. “That you like helping them. You value your work and see it done well.”
Somre laughs. “You will have to see for yourself how true that is. I wonder if it would help me to see as you do. I find it easier to relate people’s qualities to my knowledge of herbs. For example, larkspur is used to treat insomnia, and Six suffered from that ailment when we first found him. It also signifies boldness, which he has displayed in the time since his recovery.”
“When you found him? He didn’t enlist?”
Somre pushes away from the table and beckons me closer. “Yes, when he joined. Let’s get to it, boy, we haven’t got all day.”
I move closer, waiting to be directed. “What do you call the others?”
“I call Bayal Vervain, since vervain is used for protection against weapons. And Vikko is Yarrow, which is used to treat wounds. A warrior’s herb. Tall and unyielding, like he is.”
I nod, fascinated, but Somre waves toward the table again. “How much experience do you have with healing?”
“I’ve been an apprentice since I was six.”
He nods to a row of identical herbs spread out before him. “Do you know what these are?”
“Winterfoil,” I say, pointing to the round leaves. “It grew in my village.”
“Yes, it seems to be quite abundant near the mountains.” Somre plucks a leaf and holds it out to me. “Though where I grew up, it was called anelyn. It can be substituted for yarrow to stanch bleeding, which is lucky since yarrow won’t be in bloom for another couple of months. How is it used?”
“Bruise the leaf and apply it to a wound. Yarrow and winterfoil both work best fresh, rather than dried.”
Somre nods, setting the leaf on his tongue. “It can also be chewed to relieve toothache,” he tells me, turning back to his inventory. “Yarrow is more effective, but anelyn is better than nothing.”
He takes me through the bundles of herbs hanging throughout the tent and quizzes me on the uses of each. I tell him everything I know: tamarack bark for jaundice, dried silverweed for ague, mountain sorrel to treat scurvy. He also has me recite the medicinal uses for several poisons and prescribe different treatments for imaginary ailments.
“Well,” Somre says finally. “Your teacher knew something, at least. I will tell Bayal that you may remain with me until we leave for the fort. There is always work to be done in the infirmary. You can start with mixing salves. If there’s to be a battle, I want plenty of supplies ready beforehand.”
Eager to prove my knowledge and my worth, I get to work.