“Afiila.”

An edge in Mama’s voice says she’s called for me already, but I was too lost in my thoughts to hear. I look up from the plate I’d been scraping clean and blink at her.

“The bed,” Mama says, still sitting at the table with the others. I had started clearing the table when everyone finished eating, giving them more time to discuss Papa’s time as a soldier, but it seems they’re done now.

“The bed,” I echo. “Yes. I will prepare a pallet for Tenant Gryfalkr before the fire.”

Papa makes a coughing sound. “The fire! No, we will not insult the tenant by making him sleep on the floor.”

“He can take my bed,” Aze says brightly.

“That is kind,” Mama says, glancing at Papa. “But that would not be proper.”

It certainly would not be. I share the loft with Aze, which Papa built as one open room to hold the heat. A curtain divides my part of the room from his, but that’s not enough to separate me from a strange man overnight.

“I am perfectly happy to sleep beside the fire,” Tenant Gryfalkr says, but Papa shakes his head.

“You are our guest, and you will have a bed. I insist.”

“Then he can take my bed,” I say. “I’ll go to Mjera’s for the night.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Mama says. She turns back to the table, and I go back to my cleaning. At least it keeps my hands busy. The light from the fire pit emphasizes the raised scars on my palms, and I’m glad to have my back to the rest of the room. Usually, I wear gloves to keep them covered, but I took them off to help Mama prepare the meal and forgot to put them back on. If the tenant noticed them, at least he hasn’t said anything.

“Father has taught me to use the sword,” Aze is saying, his voice tinged with an orange glow of pride.

“Is that so?” Tenant Gryfalkr says. “You should show me what you know. It’s rare to find a recruit who can already fight. If you know the basics, I might be able to accelerate your training.”

Aze shoots to his feet. “There’s a full moon tonight—it will be plenty bright enough to see.”

“I’m sure the tenant is tired,” Papa says.

“Not at all,” Tenant Gryfalkr says. “I like to exercise after dinner. Go and get your sword.”

Aze hurries to the ladder leaning against the northwest corner of the room and climbs into the loft. His footsteps echo overhead as I drop the last of the table scraps into a bucket for our barn cat, Bear, and stack the plate with the others for Mama to wash in the creek tomorrow.

When Aze slides back down the ladder, he nods at me and sets a bag on the table. “I packed some clothes for you,” he says, then adds with hand signs, “Don’t look so put out. This is a good thing.”

“For you,” I sign back.

He straps the sword belt Papa gave him around his hips. “Everything will work out,” he signs. Then, at my scowl, he adds, “Thanks for giving up your bed.”

I didn’t do it for him, but his obvious enthusiasm burns off some of my dour mood. If Aze is going to be a soldier, spending more time with his commanding officer could give him an advantage over the other recruits. Aze has always had an easy way of making friends, and if he can make a friend of Tenant Gryfalkr, I should be grateful to give him the opportunity.

“Good luck,” I tell him with my hands. I even try to offer a smile, which Aze accepts with a wink.

“I’m going to miss you,” he signs, ruining the sentiment by using the word “miss” as in failing to hit the mark instead of the sign for noticing the absence of something.

Mama clears her throat to get our attention and signs, “It’s rude to use another language in front of our guest.”

Aze grins and jogs toward the door. “If you’re ready, Tenant?”

The tenant inclines his head to Papa and gives Mama a cheery smile before following Aze out the door. I open my bag and sort through the clothes Aze packed, which he did with surprising thoughtfulness. He really must be grateful. Or guilty. Either way, I don’t have to climb the ladder to get my things.

I move around the table and kiss Mama on the cheek. “I’ll go to the Kynstett from Mjera’s in the morning,” I tell her, and she grips my hand and squeezes. I look at Papa over her head.

“Good night, Papa.”

“Good night,” he says. His gaze is on the door, but he flicks it back to me and offers a tight smile. “Be careful.”

I nod and take my jacket from beside Aze’s empty hook, shouldering my bag over the top. Mjera’s house isn’t far, and I’ve made the trip so often that I could do it without the moon, but I am grateful for the soft white light when I step outside. It shimmers on the banks of snow piled beside the walkway, which Aze has dutifully cleared all winter. One more chore that will fall to me when he leaves.

“So your name is Afiila?”

I start, spinning to face Tenant Gryfalkr in the darkness. He holds up his hands in apology. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t frighten me,” I say, scowling. “I just didn’t expect you to be standing there.”

The tenant waves toward the barn. “Aze went to get a lantern.”

“Ah.”

I start to turn away again, but he stops me with another comment. “Afiila is an Ielic name, isn’t it?”

“It’s just a nickname my mother uses.”

“So it’s not your name.”

“If you must know it, you can ask Aze. He’d be happy to tell you anything.”

The tenant gives a pained smile and leans against the house. “I’m afraid it’s too late to ask without appearing unbearably rude. How could I have spent the evening here and not know the name of my hostess?”

“My mother is your hostess,” I say.

“Well, perhaps you’ll answer a different question instead,” the tenant says. I sigh and face him, crossing my arms impatiently. He smiles at my reaction. “What can you tell me about Wordweaving?”

Cold panic lances through me. I knew it. I knew there was something else, some other reason for singling me out. How long will it take Aze to find and light the lantern? If I can stall long enough, he’ll return and distract the tenant again so I can escape to Mjera’s. I resist the urge to glance at the barn. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“I know that Wordweaving originated in the mountains,” the tenant says in the same mild tone. “Right here in Phoenix Valley, if what I’ve read is to be believed. I was hoping to learn more about it while I was here.”

A tremor of relief pulls at the panic. He’s not here for me—just information. “Why not just talk to the fryrs? They would probably let you read the records.”

“I only have a day,” he reminds me. “But as their apprentice, you must have read the histories. Perhaps you can explain them to me.”

I furrow my brows at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“Wordweavers have been used in war since the beginning of Awnia,” the tenant says. “But they’ve rarely made much difference in individual battles. I’m hoping…” He trails off, hesitating, and I find myself stepping closer to hear the rest. His gaze locks on mine, more intense than at any other time during our brief acquaintance. More than his talks of battle with Papa, more than his meeting with Fryr Edlan and the rest of the council.

Whatever he wants from this conversation, he wants it badly.

“What is the limit of a Wordweaver’s power?” he asks at last.

I swallow. “It depends. All Wordweavers get their power from the Phoenix, so it depends how well they can harness and use it. Some can only channel a small amount, while others learn to control more at a time. The first Wordweaver in recorded history used it to build the city of Andred.”

“Vilden Phoenix-Hand,” the tenant answers. “He helped settle Awnia with Eileifr Ryvenlock, the first king.”

“Yes. He made a sacrifice to the Phoenix in exchange for the power to save his friend’s life.”

“His hand,” the tenant says.

I nod. The Phoenix crippled Vilden’s right hand, but in return, he was given the ability to Wordweave. I press my scarred hands tighter against my folded arms. “Every Wordweaver must make a sacrifice,” I go on. “It has to be on behalf of someone else, without the intention of gaining power for oneself. Most Wordweavers don’t even realize they’re making a sacrifice. They do something out of desperation to save a loved one, and the Phoenix takes a piece of them and gives its strength in return. Then, if they learn how to channel the energy, they become Wordweavers.”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“And if not?” the tenant asks.

“Then… nothing. Some of them die, depending on how much of themselves they sacrifice.”

“And it is always men?” the tenant presses. “There are no female Wordweavers?”

The cold air raises goosebumps on my arms. “According to the records,” I say.

Obviously, I’m not in the records.

“Surely women can also make sacrifices?” the tenant says. That intense look is still burning in his eyes, creasing the skin between his brows.

I give what I hope is an unconcerned shrug. “In theory. But none of them have ever survived their sacrifice. The only records the fryrs have of women channeling the Phoenix’s power is during childbirth, and they never survive. Sometimes the power is transferred to the baby during birth, though those Wordweavers are generally weaker than the ones who make their own sacrifices.”

The tenant shifts, revealing the snow-covered roof of the new lambing barn behind his shoulder. What’s left of the old barn is buried a stone’s throw from the house, though I wish it was farther away. I can still smell the smoke on hot days, thick as water in my throat, pouring into my lungs as I begged for the Phoenix’s protection.

It’s one reason I’ve always preferred winter.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and turning back to the path. I should have known better than to try to talk about this—it’s too close, too dangerous. “I’m keeping you from Aze. I should—”

He steps closer and sets a hand on my arm. “Wait, please. Just one more question.”

I still under his touch, holding myself like a deer watching a wolf. “What is it?”

“In battle,” he says, urgently, as though the question will consume him if I don’t answer quickly enough. “What are the limits of a Wordweaver’s power? If it were fully realized, used remorselessly—what could such a person do?”

His words are a careful mask of dull blue, betraying a surface level of curiosity, but nothing underneath. I narrow my eyes and pull away from his hand. “Wordweavers aren’t as dangerous as you think. It takes a tremendous amount of energy, and using up too much at once could be fatal. They would tire quickly, and certainly wouldn’t last throughout a long battle. And they have to be touching the thing they Wordweave, so even if they had enough power to kill directly, they would have to be in physical contact with their victim the whole time, and they could only do it one person at a time. How often does someone get uninterrupted access to a person who isn’t fighting back in the middle of a battle?”

“Not often,” the tenant admits. “It’s why I was hoping to reevaluate their use.”

“Then...” I clamp my mouth shut. I hadn’t meant to continue, but the word slipped out before I could catch it.

Tenant Gryfalkr waits, impatient. “Then?”

“Well... a Wordweaver could still be useful in battle.” I take a small breath and push on. “As a healer.”

His eyebrows lift over his dark eyes. “Historically, they haven’t been used in that way. Wordweavers seem to have more talent for destruction than repair.”

I bristle at the word used, as if we’re just tools for his war game. “But it doesn’t have to be that way. They could protect and heal rather than destroy.”

“They could.”

Something kindles in my mind, something small and bright and hopeful. “If they did,” I say slowly. “If they could be healers instead of fighters, maybe—”

“Got it!” Aze calls. He hurries toward us, a burning lantern held high. When he gets closer, he cuts a sharp look in my direction and signs, “What are you doing?” with his free hand.

“Talking,” I answer silently.

He hands the lantern to Tenant Gryfalkr and opens his arms to me. “A hug goodbye,” he says out loud. “I know how much you’ll miss me.”

He crushes me to him, bending low to put his mouth against my ear. “What’s the matter with you? Were you really going to tell him about your—you know?”

“I’m not stupid,” I hiss, squeezing him back a little tighter than necessary. “You were eavesdropping?”

“Of course I was. How long do you think it takes to get a lantern?” He releases me and leans back to straighten my scarf. He’s only a couple of inches shorter than Tenant Gryfalkr, and I have to crane my neck back to see his face.

“Why?” I whisper.

He hitches one shoulder. “I was hoping you’d feel better about this all if you could talk to the tenant.”

Maybe I do, but not for the reason he thinks.

I squeeze Aze’s arms and step, once more, onto the path. “I’ll leave you to your sparring,” I say, leaning around him to meet Tenant Gryfalkr’s gaze. “Good night.”

“Good night,” the tenant says. Aze watches me until I reach the road, then turns and draws his sword to face the tenant.

***

I arrive at Mjera’s house in a tangled mood. The walk was not long enough to sort out the threads of thought tumbling around in my head, and when I rap my knuckles against the heavy door, I still don’t know what expression to present to whoever opens it.

The clatter of boots warns me it will not be Mjera, so I summon a smile as the door creaks open to reveal her youngest brother, Tomsu. “Mjera’s in the barn,” he says, tugging down the sleeves of his oversized shirt. It used to be Arun’s—I helped Mjera embroider a row of bears along the hem when he turned eleven—and Tomsu has always admired it.

I reach out to ruffle the boy’s hair. He celebrated his tenth birthday a few weeks ago, but I can still see him as the toddler who used to bring me wildflowers. “Is your mama inside?” I ask.

Tomsu nods and steps back to let me enter. His mother, Aaste, looks up at me from a stool before the fire pit. Arun sits on the floor beside her, winding a tangle of yarn into a ball while she knits. Across the room, Aaste’s mother, Sariruuse, rocks on a chair that is older than she is.

“I’m sorry to come over uninvited,” I say in Saani. Sariruuse comes from one of the last nomadic tribes still herding reindeer in the mountains, and though she understands Awnian, she is more comfortable speaking in her native language. At Mjera’s house, most of our conversations are in Saani. “You’ve heard about the soldiers in the village?”

“Arun brought us the news,” Aaste says, glancing at her oldest son. Her voice is a heavy, sodden indigo, the color of clouds before the rain.

“There isn’t enough room for all the soldiers,” I say apologetically. “We offered my bed to their tenant. Can I sleep here tonight?”

“Of course,” Aaste says. Their roof isn’t as well ventilated as ours, and the smoke from the fire pit curls around the low rafters. “Mjera will be back shortly. She’s finishing a few chores.”

“I’ll help her.”

I flee the smoky room and the sadness gathered within it, breathing in the cold air as I jog to the barn. The door is ajar, and soft lantern light spills out onto the snow. “Mjera?” I call, setting my hand on the door.

She looks up from her work of spreading fresh hay into the pigpens. “Is something wrong?” she asks, icy blue anxiety spiking through her words.

“No,” I say quickly. Ever since her father’s accident last year, she anticipates bad news with any unexpected arrival. She relaxes, and I step into the barn and pick up a handful of hay to help her. “Nothing’s wrong, unless you count the soldiers.”

Mjera turns back to the pigs, her golden-white braids swaying with the movement. She’d spoken Awnian when I first came into the barn, but now she slips back into Saani. “Arun said he’ll be the one to go for our family, and Mama’s been crying all evening. Tomsu too. I tried telling them that the army couldn’t possibly want a child so young, but they won’t listen.”

“My father gave Aze permission to go,” I say. “They leave the day after tomorrow.”

“What are we going to do?” A tremor of desperation runs through her voice, but she still won’t look at me. “If anything happens to them…” She gives a sudden, violent kick to the pen, and the pigs inside snort in surprise. “It isn’t fair! Why do they need to take our men? We don’t have any problems with Ieli. Let the lowland men serve if there really is a war.”

The pigs snuffle through the clean straw, and Mjera brushes a hand along the nearest one’s back in apology. I bump my shoulder against hers. “I talked to their leader. Actually, that’s why I’m here. He’s staying at my house because there isn’t enough room for him in town.”

Mjera’s gray eyes widen. “What did he say?”

“Nothing helpful. That this is the way things are, and there’s nothing we can do to change them. My parents said the same. Aze is old enough to make his own decisions. And…” I hesitate, but Mjera watches me expectantly. “They’ve decided about me, too.”

Her face falls. “Bronhold?”

I nod miserably.

“Even when he’s about to leave?”

“My mother said everything’s been arranged. I’m to move into Bronhold’s house when the soldiers leave.”

Mjera throws her arms around me. “That won’t happen. You can live with us if you have to leave your house.”

But it’s more than that, and we both know it. When an engagement is made, the bride joins the groom’s house until the wedding. There she learns to fit in with her new family, how to take over the running of a household, how to manage her new husband. Then after the wedding they move into a new house to begin their life together. But how long will it be before Bronhold returns? Months? Years? What if he never returns, and I waste my life waiting for something that will never happen?

Mjera leans back and rests her hands on my shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I wish you could find someone like Sovlin.”

My stomach flips as a new thought occurs to me. “Sovlin isn’t leaving, is he?”

“Thank the Phoenix, no. His older brother is going.”

Good. Mjera and Sovlin’s official betrothal was postponed because of her father’s death, but they’ve been courting for over a year. If he left her too, I’m not sure Mjera would recover.

And if anything were to happen to Arun…

I throw another handful of hay into the pen. “What if Arun didn’t have to go?”

“Do you think they would make an exception?” Mjera asks.

“No, but…” I trail off, unable to voice the thought that has only half-developed in my mind. If I keep it there, safe and unfinished, it can remain a daring and impossible thing. Once I speak it, there will be no going back.

I meet her gaze. “What if someone takes Arun’s place?”

“But who would...?” She snaps her mouth shut and stares at me, her gaze darting across my face as she reads my intentions. “No.”

“It would save Arun.”

“No!” She turns away, shaking her head, and then spins back to face me. “We’ll find another way.”

“Another way that solves both of our problems?” I say. “I finish my apprenticeship in a couple of months. What then? I can’t be a healer, and if I marry Bronhold, I won’t even be able to work as a midwife. There’s no future for me here. I would have to leave anyway, and this way, Arun won’t have to.”

“They won’t take a woman as a soldier,” Mjera says, exasperated.

“I’ll disguise myself.”

“Ynria.” She sets her hands on my shoulders and gives me a long, level look. “This isn’t something you can come back from. Do you really want to be a soldier?”

“I want to be a healer,” I say. I wish she could hear the wine-red wanting in my voice, or feel the cold dread that creeps in whenever I think of a life without my work. “If I can’t do it here, I can do it with the army. And then I can watch over Aze.”

She opens her mouth, shuts it, and lets go of me. “You would really do this?”

I don’t know. Leaving the valley has always been a familiar daydream, something to think about whenever the threat of a future with Bronhold felt too realistic. I thought I had more time. I thought I’d be able to convince Papa not to go through with it. I thought there would be some way to stay with Edlan, to continue my work. Now that possibility is gone, and I... I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t just sit here and wait to marry a man who will never understand me.

I give her a single, sharp nod. “Yes. If it will save Arun and give me a chance to be a healer, then yes. Will you help me?”

Her pause is longer than mine. I give her time with her thoughts by pitching the rest of the straw into the pigpen and then scratching their bristly backs, trying not to watch the emotions play across Mjera’s face. When her eyes well up with tears, I reach out for her hands and press them between mine. “I will do this with or without you,” I say quietly. “It’s my choice, and I’ve made it. You are not responsible for my fate.”

The tears spill over, running in tiny rivulets down her red cheeks. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispers.

I pull her into a tight hug. “I’ll come back,” I say. “After the army sees what a gifted healer I am, I’ll set up my own practice in the lowlands. Once that’s established, I’ll come back to meet all of your babies.”

A wet laugh bursts out of her, and she leans back so I can see her face. “I will help you. Of course I will help you.”

I give her another hug, soaking in the honey and herb scent of her soap, the warmth of the barn, and the feeling of her arms around me.

Then I pull back and squeeze her arms. “Then we have a lot of work to do before tomorrow night.”