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Nils departed, fingering his prize through his shirt, stammering thanks. I waved his gratitude away with a smile; he would either have the courage, or he would not. Still, I found myself wishing him well, and not just because

  I hoped that a happy outcome would benefit me, as well.

  I spent the long winter content enough and dry, cozy in my tiny cabin. Before the first snows buried the brittle grass, the surrounding country folk began to arrive, drawn to me by Mistress Leah's stories of her daughter's “miraculous recovery.” A week later, Nils returned, bearing clay jugs of milk and a basket of eggs. His radiant smile told me all I needed to know about how things had gone with Greta.

  Soon, the arrivals were coming several times a week, mainly for the more mundane cures in my pharmacopeia: willow bark tea, laxatives and soothing balms for fussy babes, and the like. Once, an old woman came down with the rust cough, and the family hurried to my cabin, forcing a path through the deep snow.

  After I had given them tea and let them warm themselves at my fire, they asked me to come to her bedside, but I was not sure my disguise would hold alongside the genuine article. I pled a case of gout and sent them on their way with a parcel of my special tea and a bag of herbs, along with detailed instructions on how to boil up the poultices that would help clear the wetness from her lungs.

  She, too, recovered, further adding to my reputation. I continued on with my plan of asking little and graciously accepting whatever tribute was offered in return for my services.

  It seemed a good plan, and served me through the long cold months. When the spring thaws began, I found myself in possession of a modest surplus of food, something that not every family who came to me for help could boast.

  I decided to share my good fortune, a decision that brought me further luck. A few wizened apples, given to Mistress Abuna, the local seamstress, brought me the promise of a new woolen dress. A measure of stale grain, gifted to John Petros, the blacksmith's apprentice, resulted in a fine set of black iron tableware, a stout kettle and, best of all, a sturdy iron gardener's trowel.

  The gift inspired me. When the threat of frost was finally passed, I began my planting. Out in the forest, hidden from curious eyes, I turned the rich, black earth and tended my new garden. I knew from my mistress that one should never let a client see one's garden, least they steal seeds or clippings. Let them wonder how an old, blind woman like myself managed to gather the herbs my medicines required.

  The month of Rammat approached, and with it the Festival of Blossoms, which my clients told me was held in the town of Mosby. There would be games, they said, and a crowning of a new Maid of the Planting. On a whim, I decided to attend.

  I left before dawn, my empty pack on my back and my walking stick in my hand. In the seam of my cloak were sewn the three golden rukhs and eleven silver c'tees I had managed to gather from my clients. I hoped to purchase things my garden lacked from wandering herbalists: seeds, or clippings, or possibly even rare bulbs.

  I felt strange as I walked the muddy road. Exposed. Revealed. My time alone had already made me feel more at home when sheltered from observing eyes. Late in the afternoon, Nils and his betrothed rode by in a cloud of feathers, atop their wagon. The back was full of crates, stuffed with squawking, flapping chickens. They offered to let me travel with them, and I accepted with thanks.

  We reached the festival grounds just before dark. The sounds of music and revelry floated on the chill night air, spiced with the trill of laughter. Mosby was a large town, a densely-packed cluster of granaries, cattle barns and pig pens mixed with slate-roofed cottages, home to nearly six-score families, or so Nils claimed. The town's main building, a tall water mill, stood proudly at the center of the sprawl. Farmers for miles around brought their harvests to the Mosby Mill, and the town was rich, relatively speaking.

  As such, the festival the town fathers sponsored was always lavish, or so I had been told. The road into town, which crossed the river Mos on a proud stone bridge, was lined with cherry trees. Their pristine white blossoms carpeted the road like snow, filling the air with their delicate perfume.

  "It's a shame you can't see this, Mistress,” Greta said with a sigh. “The cherry blossoms are so lovely."

  Nils whispered something to her, and I heard her gasp. Even through the linen covering my eyes, I could see her blush in the lantern light. “Oh. I'm sorry, Mistress Selvina. I meant no offense."

  "Oh, don't you mind that, deary,” I croaked. “I had years and years to enjoy my sight, and I remember well what flowers look like, never fear. Their scent makes me feel like a young girl again, it does."

  Oh, you do lie so prettily, sister, I heard in my head, soft as wind over an owl's wing. But one day there will be a reckoning, mark my words. I frowned, wondering what she meant, but she chose not to elaborate.

  Greta smiled as blossoms fell into her hair, her plain, moon face transforming into something radiant and lovely. She was a gentle soul, meek and plain. Her looks would never inspire a minstrel, but her smile was another matter, infectious and warm. Nils had done well, and all because of my little charm.

  You only fooled him into thinking any of this was your doing, remember, my sister whispered, maliciously. The risk, and courage, was all his. You're nothing but a charlatan. I did my best to ignore her; I knew my skill and wisdom had done much good, had saved lives. Nonetheless, her words evoked a quiver of guilty dread all the same.

  Market Square, and the festival grounds proper, were just south of town. Many had already arrived, and the field was dotted with tents and wagons. A hundred campfires glittered in the darkness, each the center of a small knot of revelry. The sun would be reborn upon the morn, marking the end of the months-long dark and cold, and the people had come, ready to celebrate.

  Barrels of beer and mead had already been breached, and brays of raucous laughter greeted us from most every fire. Children ran hither and yon, in laughing packs, playing at hoops, or at epic games of knight's gambit or chase-thechasemaster.

  "If you need a place to stay, we have room in the wagon,” Nils began. I assured him that I would be fine. I knew it would be hard enough to keep my disguise intact, amongst so many new eyes. The possibility of discovery as I slept was an even greater risk.

  I slept in a hedge at the edge of the grounds, sheltered from the night mists by a dense wall of boxwood. I rose the next morning stiff and cold; I had grown soft during the winter, sleeping on a straw mattress and beside warm banked coals. I did not begrudge my pain, for my hunched posture and shambling, stiffened gait would only add to the illusion of age that camouflaged me.

  I wandered the faire, taking in the sights from behind my translucent blindfold. As I walked, I felt the stares of the passers-by, heard their whispered comments. She's the one who saved Leah Johann's girl from the rust cough ... I hear she can make potions that drive men mad with desire ... Her creams ease the pains of my swollen joints, I've used them myself...

  I smiled, groping about with my stick, apologizing when I bumped into people. I wondered if my mistress ever felt the way I did, if the knowledge of her influence on the people of her village brought her the same satisfaction that I felt.

  I was still smiling, congratulating myself on my wise plan, when I bumped into the man ahead of me. “Cry your pardon, good sir,” I said. He turned, a scowl of irritation sitting upon his brow like a storm cloud.

  Even before he looked at me, I knew who he was; the line of his jaw and the thin, sandy blond hair cried his identity, even through the cloth over my eyes.

  Urik. My husband. Best friend of Marcus, the man I had killed.

  "Watch where you're going, you...” he began, then stopped. His eyes went wide. In his hand, he held a scrap of parchment, upon which a rendition had been sketched in charcoal, the face dreadfully familiar.

  My face.

  Already I was turning, drawing my hood down low to hide my face, but I saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. I heard him, moving behind me, shoving through the crowd.<
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  I slipped amongst the milling throng, threading my way through the densest knots of revelers. “Wait!” Urik cried, trying to force himself through the same crowds I had slipped through. “You there ... I want to talk to you!"

  Then, he shouted my name. My true name.

  Despite myself, the power of it compelled me stop, made me turn. I looked him in the face, straightening, the cloak of age I had adopted falling away. Through the crowd, I saw him, saw the flash of certainty that filled his eyes.

  He had lost weight during the long winter. The soft, round face I had known was leaner, more angular. Predatory eyes sparkled amongst folds of bruised flesh, over stubbled cheeks.

  On his back, the great horn and ash longbow that had belonged to Marcus rode amongst a thicket of brown-fletched arrows. Marcus’ leather vest clad his chest, the lacings barely stretched. The Urik I had known would never have fitted inside.

  The tableau held for a long moment whilst the fairegoers, oblivious to our drama, passed by. Urik took a step forward. His hand dropped to the hilt of a knife.

  I recognized it: the Ulean steel knife I had left beside him in our bed. The bloodthirsty mistress I had gifted to him on the night my sister died.

  I turned and bolted, his cries of frustration rising behind me. I did not run, though every nerve and sinew cried out to do so, but I walked faster than any old woman should. I told myself not to turn, to not look back, lest he be right behind me.

  In my head, my sister howled for vengeance, screaming defiance and filth at me, calling me coward, over and over.

  I implored her to be still. Begged her to stop. I could not hear. All around me, people were looking, their eyes drawn to the muttering, hurried woman with the wildly flailing stick.

  I reeled through the festival crowds until I reached the livestock pens at the edge of the field. Then I ran, blindly, dropping my stick when it hindered me. It was only the work of moments to reach the trees, but already I heard voices raised behind me.

  I blundered into the thorns and brambles, thrashing wildly, and cast my eyes back the way I had come.

  Urik was there, in the company of four hard-looking men, all grim and unsmiling. They bore weapons, things of age-darkened steel, thick with the patina of hard use, carried lightly. Urik pointed to my trail, still clearly visible in the damp, springtime mud.

  As one, they started towards me. In their eyes were a flat, cold hunger and a grim amusement. They were enjoying the hunt I was giving them.

  But Urik ... Urik's eyes were the worst. In them was rage and loathing, raw emotion forged into something almost palpable, mixed with something even more terrible.

  Love. Hopeless, twisted love. Love enough to destroy the thing that had shattered his entire world, as mine had been shattered.

  Reckoning! my sister cackled. I said there would be a reckoning, and now it has come. It has come!

  Sobbing, ignoring my sister's ravings, I turned and fled into the woods, while, behind me, the hunters took up the trail.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The guards, farmers all, take me to the burned farm's stable. I wonder, for a moment, where the livestock has gone. Eaten, most likely, by the hungry refugees. Or killed by the Mor.

  The stalls are untenanted, in any event. I am tired, so very tired. The piled straw looks as inviting as a featherbed.

  A man stands at the door, a pitchfork in his hands. He eyes me, his expression full of fear. It would be simple, the work of but a moment, to get past him and disappear into the waning dark. So very easy to reach out and pull his life out by the roots, but why?

  I am tired. Of running. Of fearing the people that I seem destined to help. Let them kill me while I slumber, if that is Ato's will and that of his close-minded goddess. I sink to the straw, and am asleep moments later.

  When I wake, sunlight casts beams of golden light through the open stable door. The guard stands at the entrance to my pen, his rude weapon trained on me. Behind him are others, all men.

  I sit up, comb the straw from my hair. My mouth is filled with the bitter gall of not enough sleep and too little food. Nausea ripples through me. The light tells me I have been unconscious for over an hour, perhaps two.

  "Brother Ato has called for you,” the farmer says.I nod and rise, then follow my captors out into the sunshine. The early morning light is radiant and lovely, bathing the fields in molten gold, as if the idiot gods have decided to ignore the atrocity all around. The rains have scrubbed the worst of the burning stink from the air.

  The camp has swelled further in the night; ten score or more people now fill the yard, a floodtide of human misery.

  None have escaped unscathed, and all around I see suffering in either body or mind.

  The few surviving men surround me, weapons held in white-knuckled hands. I keep my head high, walking slowly, as if they are my honor guard.

  Let the blood magic loose, my sister whispers to me, her tone as seductive as a lover's. They would dare trifle with you? Let slip the magic, and show this priest the true meaning of power.

  "They know not what they do. They are frightened and tired,” I reply aloud, no longer caring if they hear. I can scarce make things worse for myself.

  The men mutter and sketch warning signs in the air, then steer me towards the blood-spattered tent. Ato steps forth, taking off his butcher's apron and taking up his crosier. His eyes burn, with weariness and the greasy light of fanaticism. Lia emerges from behind him. Her porcelain skin is blotched, face swollen from weeping.

  "Do you wish to confess your regrets to Shanira, before I—before we pass judgment?” he asks.

  "I have no regrets,” I say, my eyes alighting on the little girl from last night. She smiles at me from behind her bandage. Her mother is beside her, her face awake and alert. I see others I have helped in the crowd, many just behind the ring of menfolk guarding my escape.

  "Y'can't just kill ‘er, Brother,” a woman says from the crowd. “She's a healer like you."

  "Not like me,” Ato insists. “I told you. Her power comes not from the pure light of Shanira, but rather from the evil dark beneath the earth. Any she touched should be checked for signs of corruption. I must—"

  "She set Jada's arm and sewed her head,” the little girl's mother says, stepping forward. The child follows, walking up to Ato boldly. “No other would help, not even you, Brother. Gods only know what would have happened to her, lying all night in the cold mud."

  "There were others whose need was greater, goodwoman. As I said—"

  "She set my mother's leg,” another woman adds. “She's sleeping right peaceful now, if you feel the need to check on her."

  "She made my husband comfortable until he passed,” an old woman says, tears running down her face. “She did what she could, but the Mor burned him up on the inside. She...” the woman's voice falters. She wipes the tears from her face savagely, shaking her head, then looks straight into my black eyes. “Thank you."

  Others add their voices, telling of things I barely remember doing. Limbs set. Wounds sewn. The offer of comfort to the dying in their last moments, or even, for those beyond help, the final peace of the blade, helping them cross over. There are so many of them.

  "People ... good people, please,” Ato says, raising his hands for silence. “I do not dispute that Kirin helped you. But that still does not balance the evil things she has done. That she will do again if we allow her to escape. She might go to the Mor and bring them here."

  "No!” I say, stepping towards him, and the guards do not move to hinder me. “I would never bring those beasts here!"

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps not,” Ato says. “But we cannot risk that."

  "No offense, Brother, but that's not your decision to make,” a man says. “These here are hard times, and, no offense to you or Shanira, but you're only one man. We've got many wounded, and she knows the ways of the Wise Women."

  "Superstition and trickery,” Ato scoffs. “Perhaps even the power of the infernal. You must n
ot trust her!"

  Lia steps forth, into the ring surrounding me, and approaches. She stops. Her eyes stare into mine, searching for something. I see the lightning in them, and realize that here is another judgment I need fear.

  "Do you swear that there is nothing of the darkness in your healing?” she asks, softly. “Do you promise those you help will recover, or if they are beyond helping that they will not ... rise again?"

  Who is she to command us? my sister howls. Insufferable brat! We could raise an army of your children! We could take the battle to the Mor and—

  "I swear it,” I say, silencing her ravings.

  "Then that is enough for me. Let her go."

  "But ... you musn't!” Ato stammers, his face purpling.

  "We've need of her, Brother,” the man from a moment before says. “And, of you,” he adds, quickly. “Come, let's see if there's anything I can help you with.” He leads Ato away, the priest still stammering his outrage, but the man's presence is as implacable as a palisade, solid and impervious. They disappear back into the mercy tent.

  As soon as they have gone, the circle of guards dissolves, as the crowd presses forward. Voices reach me, pleas for help for this one or that. Hands reach out in supplication.

  "I must help them,” I say to Lia. “But I wish to speak with you and to whoever leads these folk. Do you know who he is?"

  "I do,” she says. “Go. We will speak later."

  I allow the crowd to pull me away, towards the lines of pallets, each one supporting its cargo of human suffering. Some, seeing my black eyes clearly in the light of day, sketch the warding sign of Shanira, or sometimes even Lillit, at me, but all are so broken, so weak, that none can put up more than a token protest. Any who do have the strength can wait.

  Later, I look up as a bowl is thrust beneath my face. Brown liquid, steaming hot, in which chunks of crudely cut carrots and potatoes float, spots of grease sparkling like jewels on the surface.

  I look up, and there is Lia. I blink stupidly; the day has stretched, unnoticed, into late afternoon. The sun is an orb of blood, hanging low in the west. Shadows stretch from the trees and copses bordering the trampled fields, reaching towards the farm like giants’ arms.