Sherif led his horse out of Bellis Wood with a woman on his mind. He hummed softly, his knuckles rubbing against Flikka's soft cheek, kicking up storms of fiery red maple and golden ash leaves. Bellis Wood, where he adventured as a boy, playing him a welcome home song. Denuded, knobby-fingered oaks clacked silver-cold in the crisp blue evening, revealing the thatched roofs of White Falls, the mill road, the high pasture trail, apple trees and grape vines laden with fruit, tantalizing the wispy wiregrass.
Sherif led his horse out of Bellis Wood fifteen years after he had walked out of White Falls to win a woman's heart. He was not unconscious of the extreme unlikelihood that she had waited for him. He mused with some alarm that maybe she had. Maybe she had died - some disease, or in childbirth, or an accident. Or she was married now, to Nerice or perhaps Maro, having inherited the mill from his father, with boys grown to near men.
Sherif hummed to Flikka and released the bridle, but the steed did not lower his muzzle to the ground like a common walking horse. Flikka was used to the sound of clashing steel, the war horns of the Outlegion, the screams of the wounded and dying. Flikka took commands by the touch of a spur to his flank, the pressure of a knee at his withers, a shout from his rider. His hooves were shod in steel, and he was accustomed to carrying the weight of a fully armored warrior. The pack and sleeping roll that jostled lightly behind the saddle were unnoticed by him, nonetheless he patiently followed his unusually quiet master, who had traded his raspy chain and greaves for soft leather and wool.
Sherif had not intended to stay away so long, to return at age thirty-two, nearly an old man. No one had told him that once he left, there would be no reason to return, that time would pass so quickly, that the world was so broad. The love of women was not unknown to him, and Beh had faded to angelic unreality in his memory, unrecoverably idealized. Standing outside the fallen walls of Nath last spring, the siege over, the defenders vanquished, he knew that he could only be free by extinguishing the fire that had first driven him to walk out of Bellis Wood and had since become an ashen burden, a formidable specter that kept him from ever returning.
Sherif chuckled to himself as he picked his way down the stony road that switch backed the Hollow to meet Roaring Spring and trickle together into town. He laughed aloud; White Falls was not on the way to anywhere, it was the end of the road; it boasted no inn or church, no tavern, no wall. Two score buildings, every one of which he knew by heart. He saw Reece and he running through the paddock after the calf, playing at war, a lifetime ago. His sister Ane in his father's arms, carrying boughs of tamarack, called out to them.
Sherif wondered soberly that he did not castigate himself for never penning them a line in ten years, for sending only three letters in the five before that. How many of his brothers and sisters still lived? Surely his father had long ago been laid to rest, though perhaps his mother still baked and stewed in the old kitchen where he had warmed himself in the cold winter months, struggling to learn the secret of letters and numbers. If he felt no remorse, neither did he carry the weight and mercenary cynicism of war with him--what distanced him from the comforting warmth of the former insulated him as well from the alienating ice of the latter.
Sherif saw no sign of life at first, no smoke or early-evening storm lamps. He had a chill moment of foreboding, but the barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle relieved him. White Falls, untouched by the world, unsullied by the grime that besmirched his vocation, seemed immune to the ghosts that followed at his back. So, he could feel. So, this was his land, his home; he feared without reason that he had forfeited that life, and his heart raced and pounded when he thought on who he might see first, what their reaction might be, what welcome or hard-eyed rejection awaited. He was unrecognizable to himself, but he did not hesitate in his stride--like a well-trained soldier into the fray, with unrelenting pace he approached a cataclysmic reunion with the ground from which he was made.
Sherif saw the young boy first, before the latter heard the sound of Flikka's hooves or caught sight of Sherif's dark green cowl. He favored the lad with a smile, Maro's curly dark hair unmistakable on his lanky frame. The boy froze, but Sherif flowed on toward him without ripple or pause. "Hi," said little-Maro shortly, and ran off toward the Maro homestead. Sherif heard more sounds of life: dinner pans on the iron stove, the rush of steam as water struck the fiery surface. A voice called and another answered, too far to understand or identify. He continued on directly to his father's house, passing Maro's as the door banged open under the insistence of a fast-moving child.
Sherif smiled to himself, throwing a look at Beh's house through the conifers that ran the length of the mill run, as he had day after day on his way home from Maestro Liro's lessons. He led a clopping Flikka up the familiar stone path to their porch, goose-stepping the blue and red slate unconsciously, and flipped the reins over the porch rail with lazy ease. The sounds of dinner preparation inside continued as a voice neared the front door to see who had approached. He started up the three steps to the front door to meet a stunned Ane, drawing in a quick breath, starting backwards. He heard a woman call from inside, "Who's it?"
"Sherif," she whispered.
Ane stood framed by the door of the house, hands frozen in her apron, caught in the act of drying by an arresting surge of recognition. So much time had passed since she had laid eyes on this man, herself barely more than a toddler when he had walked seemingly forever out of her world, and yet every line and hair of his was known to her more intimately than her own. Her older brother had become for her an idol of heroic legend, a demigod, a king of far-flung lands and history deep and turbulent as the stormy seas she knew he had sailed, but held always close to her heart, ever near in her dreams.
Ane broke his gaze when Idiopat her cat twined his golden tiger-stripes between her bare ankles, mewing sweetly after the fresh bread and rich cream that she had lately been handling in the kitchen. Idiopat was accustomed to hunting nocturnally, and was just rising for his nightly sortie, but he was not above a fattening handout before he began his vigil. He may have been confused by Ane's lack of attention, but a cat does not dwell long on the whys of humans-they were not to be fathomed, only cajoled and conquered through that patient persistence of which Idiopat was a master.
Ane stepped aside slightly, looking back up quickly to make sure that Sherif was still there, and not some phantasm that her subconscious had summoned on a lonely fall night. "Who's that?" repeated their mother, now making her way out of the kitchen to see what delayed her daughter. She caught sight of her son, smiling warmly and standing on their porch like a small boy who has come home past his curfew. "Sherif, Sherif," she gasped, falling heavily upon her daughter's shoulder so that Ane reached out to catch her for fear she would faint.
Ane longed to throw her arms around her brother's neck as her mother soon did, rest her face against his powerful shoulder made strong by the weight of a sword and cry softly, breath deeply of the scent of earth and leaf which clung to his woolen cloak. She settled instead for shyly taking his hand, calloused and firm, in her own and leading him into the home of his youth behind their mother who ran before them, nearly tripping over her niece and nephews and calling out, "Lomil, Lomil, he's home! Our son is home!"
Ane settled him immediately into a chair by the stove as their brother's scions began to clamber upon him unceremoniously, and pressed a mug of warm cider into his hands. Without a word, without needing to ask, she knew what he liked, knew it better than her own indifference; she cut hard cheese, sharpened by age, and warm rolls, arranged them on the cutting board and placed it in front of him while her father practically cooed at him. He was healthy, he looked good, he had been away so long.
Ane faded back, taking up the dinner preparation with one ear to the conversation and one filled with a torturous silence. She ladled the soup into wooden bowls and formed the hot corn cakes with wetted hands; she cut the sausages and arranged them around the vegetables on the platter; placed the stack of plates on the sideboard and gave her nephew a stern gaze to warn him away from the pickles. "Call your father," she admonished, and began setting the table.
Ane was the last to sit, smiling tearfully through her brothers' reunion, serving all and shushing the children as her father said grace. "...And thank you, God, for bringing him back safely to us," he finished, and all gave a hearty "Amen," but Ane knew that Thec was saddened that his brother had never gotten to meet his wife, buried these past three autumns. She knew how to comfort him with a kiss on the cheek and a word to his daughter, the very image of her mother. Thec smiled at her, rejoining the conversation.
Ane could not speak through most of the meal, and could not look directly at Sherif but kept stealing glances on the sly as she passed food to the others. She occupied herself with a near-officious governance of the children, as they talked about her siblings who had moved to Oak Ridge and Bokingdale. She somberly nodded when they talked of the flu of twenty-nine that had taken their uncle and cousin, and how they had been spared in White Falls. The reunion was like a dream come true for Ane, but one that she knew had to end in sorrowful awakening; her father finally caught her eye as the main course wound down and the children began to fidget expectantly for dessert.
Ane looked down at her folded hands, heart racing, unable to bear what must be said. Her father just stated it so flatly, framed like a question but one with an answer already understood, and a dead silence fell around them like midnight dread when Sherif answered with prompt candor, unaware of the abrupt change in mood that settled about them like a quiet thunderclap. "Who have you come back to see in White Falls, then?" Lomil asked without asking.
"Beh," Sherif replied.
Beh had taken to a life of seclusion, high in the mountains that framed White Falls from the north wind and cast premature evening shadows across the vale nestled below. Sherif found himself clambering through brambles and fallen trees on a near-invisible trail, unused for a decade and a half. Barely a month she had mourned his leaving, they had said, locked in her father's house, before retiring for ever from roads trafficked by men. Her name had become a byword, an epithet, used by children in dares and threats when parents were not around.
Beh had grown wild, they had told him, unkempt and incomprehensible, reduced to living like the beasts with whom she shared the lonely summits. His brother had tried to dissuade him: she was surely dead, one woman in fifteen cold winters, or rendered so haggard and crazed that she could be no more than a troll or hobgoblin. His mother had wailed quietly, wringing her hands and shaking her head. It was because her mother had died in childbirth, she thought; her father did not know how to keep three unruly girls, and had never remarried. Now the house stood rented by another, the woman's sisters maintaining ownership from Bokindale but rarely venturing back.
Beh had no brothers, no man to chase her down and lead her home, to forgive her for the coquettish diffidence that had sent her one infatuation beyond her reach. And go he had, convinced of her secret admiration for him and confident in his quest for the intangible virility that she seemed to crave, though he knew no trade. There turned out to be one thing that he was good at, that came in high demand: staying alive.
Beh faded from his mind abruptly when, stumbling over a trunk hidden in the undergrowth, he came face to face with a snowy owl roosting close by the bark of a dead oak, its miniscule perch hidden entirely by its downy breast. With piercing, unblinking eyes it stared down this intruder, so obviously far from home. The owl was not accustomed to seeing men this far in the wilderness, not in these lands, shunned by the villagers for many years. And this one, in particular, was so startled to find himself here, that it perceived no threat from him at all. Doubtless he was looking for the little stone house inhabited by Beh. Obligingly, the owl winged over to it, near at hand, and came to rest on the roof covered in brown pine needles and dark green vine. It spun its head smoothly, regarding the man who, mesmerized by its silent flight, could no longer recall whether the bird had moved or if it had always been where it now sat. So closely did the house upon which it alighted resemble the tree and stone around it, that at first he did not recognize it as a dwelling; but the furred skin that hung in its short and narrow entrance gradually communicated its purpose to him.
Beh emerged without call, slipping lithely between skin and wall like liquid. She was spare but beautiful, with long hair the color of autumn tamarack cascading about her tanned face in abundant ringlets. She smiled voluminously, even merrily, dark eyes dancing with anticipation as she slid her hands down her thighs to rest between her knees and leaned forward with adolescent insouciance. Her dress was of one piece, royal blue, in fine cotton the likes of which could only be had in Haven Downing or farther, and it clung possessively close to her arms and throat and dangled flirtatiously from her hips, lightly caressing her bare ankles.
Beh raised a brow as if posing, as if she had expected him, planned the surprise and taken out her best to welcome him home. He had returned to her after fulfilling his heroic quest, and she had waited for him, tended the hearth, prepared his bed. She had set a feast before him, and invited him to dine.
Beh could see that there was another thought, a preoccupation, a nagging call that she could not understand and he could not even hear. Sherif was enthralled, but passionless. She could speak to him and he would answer, but he was shut up within himself so tightly that it was as if another man tenanted his body in his absence and fed him irregular reports on what was going on there.
Beh furrowed her brow slightly. "You brought me gifts?" she inquired softly, her rich voice echoing down the long halls of his memory to reach the oubliette in which he languished. He had, a fact that surprised him slightly, although when he pulled the strange items from his cloak he did remember acquiring each in far off lands, the spoils of war. He set them down on the ground wordlessly and turned away, confused, stumbling back down the trail it had just taken him a half day to ascend. "Who was calling?" Beh wondered aloud at the owl.
"Ane," the bird replied clearly.
Sherif stumbled blindly down the steep mountain path while vines and branches clutched at him, hawthorn raked his hands, and serpentine roots snared his feet. A dull but rising panic impelled him, convinced him that he was running against time. In his mind's eye he saw White Falls nestled in its shadowed vale, finishing another harvest day. Beyond Bellis Wood, a darkness burst from the ground like a gout of fetid bile and rushed headlong down to the village leaving a swath of decay in its wake.
Ane stood abruptly in the kitchen, casting the pot of potatoes lately located in her lap to the floor. A chill fear gripped her, and she cried out, reaching blindly for support. The room darkened as her father stepped into the ambient light from the doorframe, looking at her with a grim resolution in his face. "Gather the village," he grumbled without preamble, knowing that she understood without needing further elaboration. She edged by him as he made room, ignoring the upturned pot.
Beh studied the little wooden houses she had set up outside her own hovel, sprinkling them with the blood of a recently dead woodchuck. "So, little Ane," she crooned aloud. "So close to me all these years... how could I not know?" She gritted her teeth and set her jaw angrily, pouring the remaining blood in a continuous stream on one little stick pile until it crumbled under the liquid that seemed to flow without end from the bowl. "Soon it won't make any difference, will it?" she hissed venomously.
Flikka smelled them long before anyone could hear them; it was a smell he knew well--blood and death. He snorted and pawed the ground, snapping against the tether that kept his head next to the wall of the barn. Lomil turned at the sound, not able to place it at first. An eyebrow shot up when he realized that it came from Sherif's horse and he turned to look at Ane, who was herding all the village's youth into the back larder. She did not comprehend at first, so he explained, "Release the horse." She nodded quickly, and moved to comply.
Idiopat slunk into White Falls like a flash of fur, gliding with unnatural speed along the edge of the road. He darted from house to abandoned house, crisscrossing the village in an intricate and deliberate pattern, after the instructions of his mistress. Mission completed, he trotted over to the farmhouse and curled up in the late afternoon shadows to wait.
The Snowy Owl stopped preening itself when Beh smashed the model village with her bowl in a storm of rage. Her face was twisted with bitterness and hate, and she knifed the cotton dress off of her body in a single vicious swipe, nicking herself in the process. Raising her clenched hands to the darkened pine boughs that roofed them against the pale blue sky, she let her frustration and vitriol out in a deafening banshee shriek. "Go!" she commanded hoarsely, after she had spent her breath, "I wish to watch their end." The bird took wing without comment.
Sherif saw Flikka galloping up the slope toward him, and his heart calmed. Breaking forth from the last of the groping undergrowth, the path seemed to melt open to his warhorse's hooves. Flikka wheeled next to him, breathing hard with excitement, and he vaulted effortlessly onto the steed's bare back. Attached around Flikka's neck was his sword belt, scabbard hanging down along his right front leg. Sherif reached down and unbuckled it, drawing it around his own waist. "Hah!" he urged quietly, with calm determination, and touched the horse lightly with his heels. The mount sprang powerfully into motion.
Ane stroked Idiopat anxiously, keeping watch on their front porch for her brother. She felt the throb of many hooves riding like a flood through Bellis Wood, a pestilence intent on White Falls. As the cat purred softly, a web of power thrummed quietly around the still village center. Ane stretched forth her sight, combing the mountain for any sign of her brother. But the reassuring presence of him, so intimately present within her mind for fifteen years, was gone as surely as when he first set foot on that mountain path this morning. And for that, she hated Beh with a terrible oath.
Beh saw through the owl's eyes, four horsemen in dark fur and mail, pounding through the wood and cascading over the hill into White Falls. Their black helms overshadowed their faces, and the hollow rush of their maces haunted the crevices of the silent valley. Beh smiled without mirth and the owl swung low, back over the village roofs. It was then that she saw Sherif leaning over his steed's neck, skillfully and relentlessly threading the fields and low stone walls of the high pastures. She could feel his resolve as he plunged into the town, and she nearly cried out in warning. The owl shrugged it off; there was nothing that could be done, the man would fall with the others. So be it. The bird alighted remorselessly on a roof peak to wait in clear view of the farmhouse.
Sherif pulled the leather lashing around his wrist tighter with teeth and free hand, feeling the reassuring bracing seize the tendons at the base of his hand. He fulfilled all the rituals of the warrior, reciting the Litanies in his head and under his breath as he heaved up with Flikka, clearing a rill. The steed flowed smooth as fog over the nap of the earth while his master flexed and swung his sword arm. Both could see the four dark forms on the south hill, crashing headlong down, disdaining the switchbacks. His was a soldier's practicality, rarely given to fancy; by his estimates they would arrive ahead of him. He set his will and refused to speculate any further, concentrating instead on staying as close to his mount as possible and allowing Flikka to move unrestrained.
Ane felt the riders entering the web at the edge of White Falls like a boot on a delicate flower. Idiopat hissed, standing and arching his back, and then leapt like a feline ghost from the porch rail to take off like a shot toward one of the nearby houses. Lomil was at the door, hands on either lintel, hesitating. "Ane," he began, his will wavering for the first time in her life. "Seal it," she replied evenly, and stepped off of the porch.
Beh watched the black riders with apprehension through the owl's eyes. She could no longer see Sherif; perhaps he would be too late, or maybe wise enough to know that he could not defeat them. He had slipped past her finally, so far withdrawn that she could no longer protect or even locate him. The riders wheeled suddenly to the left, charging the open door of a milk shed. The owl tracked them, and picked out the waiflike form of Ane in the doorway, standing just in the shadows. The lead rider gave a raucous cry and plunged within, morning star whirling. The other three reined in their mounts, prancing outside, until the first emerged. The weapon was bloodless, and he roared again, suddenly spurring his mount across the street toward where Ane stood on a farmhouse porch.
The dance continued from building to building, now Ane, now Idiopat, while Beh raged in frustration. "Fools!" she hissed, urging the owl to take flight. It glided low in front of the lead rider, hooting once to arrest his attention, then winged over the farmhouse at the edge of town. Ane watched the owl with anxiety, and the riders confirmed her fear, suddenly ignoring her and making for her home. "No!" she cried, stepping with a rush onto her porch. She was suddenly facing four horsemen, bearing down on her and her father's ancient ward hard at her back. She gathered herself to take as many with her as she could.
Her tactic had bought Sherif the time he needed. He let out a battle cry as Flikka thundered down the paddock road, windmilling his broadsword once. The riders wheeled their mounts in unison to meet the new threat; this was an enemy that they understood. The leader stood high in his stirrups, wheeling his spiked flail above his head and keening. The other three spread wide to flank Sherif, swords drawn.
Ane stretched out instinctively, trying to join with her brother to guard him as she had so many times before, but to her panicked frustration he was still unreachable. She held her breath and clutched the porch rail as Sherif rode straight at the leader, sword upraised, to take him on the right side.
His eyes narrowed as he watched the rhythm of the morning star, saw it begin its last turn before the rider would bring it down with force upon him. One of those on the rider's right moved wide to take him from the left if the flail didn't complete its work, but Sherif ignored him. With less than three strides to go, the horseman swung the chained ball down low to bring it up over his shoulder in a crushing blow. Sherif lightly slipped his right foot back and crossed his left arm in front of his waist to get a handful of Flikka's mane. His mount responded to the move it had learned long ago, leaping across the path of the oncoming steed to pass it on the left. The horseman's mount reacted predictably, rearing up in surprise, as his master fought to keep his balance, bringing the morning star down on empty air. Sherif deftly reversed his grip, driving the point around behind his back to plunge it through the breast of the horseman.
He released the hilt lest the impact take him off the bare back of his steed, and let his forward momentum carry him toward the flanking rider. The other was just a little too far past him, and a little too surprised by the sudden change in movement, to get in a good strike. He leaned hard to take a swipe at Sherif. Sherif let the blade pass harmlessly past his right shoulder before lashing out to snag his opponent's wrist in a viselike grip. He leaned forward and gripped with his knees, letting Flikka's weight pull the other from the saddle. Sherif let his grip slide slightly to rest under the crossguard of his enemy's sword, and pulled it easily from his grip. Rearmed, he wheeled expertly and let Flikka trample the downed horseman.
The remaining two circled back warily, looking for an opening, but Sherif continued to ignore them. Riding by the fallen leader, he reached down to extricate his own sword, protruding from his chest. The two took the opportunity to drive forward again, one on either side of him. On the porch, Ane released her breath, wonder in her eyes; she had never seen her brother fight, only felt the calm determination and confident strength from half a world away.
He turned Flikka left across the two riders, and they veered together to intercept. Amateurs. He reversed direction as they closed, so that the nearer blocked the farther, and passed him on the left side. With left sword reversed, he swung down across the rider's chest, resting the other sword over his left shoulder and down his back to take the clumsy cross-body cut of his opponent. It was not a kill, but good enough to take the enemy from the saddle.
He continued the arc and then kicked Flikka into a gallop to bear down on the last horseman. He caught the black rider as the latter was still turning his mount, crossing swords only twice before finding the opening that took first his enemy's right arm at the elbow and then his throat just between the top of the gorget and the bottom of his visor. His eyes were fixed on Ane as he rode past the injured barbarian and plunged the black sword into his back without mercy.
She returned his gaze with loving admiration, heedless of the owl that winged its way back up the mountain.
"Sherif!" she cried as he rode up, bloodied broadsword held out and down. He squeezed Flikka tight, as the steed pranced and quivered with excitement, wound up for fighting.
"Ane," he replied, looking at her with a quietly comprehending eye, as if for the first time. He slid off the horse, soothing him with gentle strokes of his left hand, somewhat embarrassed of the weapon that he did not wish to sheath in its present soiled state.
"Uh...," Ane laughed nervously, "let me get something for that." She turned to the kitchen door, but her father was there, stepping out with wonder and pride. She slipped around him wordlessly to disappear inside, where Sherif could make out inquisitive faces crowding hesitantly near the opening.
Sherif stepped away from the horse, which had quieted enough to pluck at a few stray blades of grass near the edge of the foundation, to stand a stride before the porch steps and gaze at his father. Lomil certainly showed the outer signs of his age, but a spirit as fiery as that which had pushed an angry farmer to denounce a count to his face still lit his eyes.
"I'm sorry to have caused such a mess," Sherif replied with true remorse. "This has been my fault."
Lomil was shaking his head. "No. No, you were taken by witchcraft even as a youth--we saw it...," he explained with the strain of guilt. "But, we couldn't...," he shook his head, unable or unwilling to make himself more plain.
Ane emerged with a rag and a small crowd of men at her back.
"No, it wasn't just her," Sherif explained, taking the rag and some of the responsibility. "I was willing to let myself be lured and played. It was a game for me." He wiped the blade carefully, and finally resheathed it, as the men respectfully stepped around him and went cautiously to collect the bodies and horses. As they passed, they each laid a hand on Sherif thankfully, as if to say they did not hold him accountable.
"Shoot the horses," Sherif advised his father, watching them walk over. "They are trained warriors, too, and they'll take a man down with them before they come under the whip."
Lomil nodded, reaching out his hand to help his son up the steps. "They know what to do." As Sherif preceded him into the house, he caught Ane's eye and motioned her in as well with a nod.
She looked around distractedly, before starting back up the porch steps.
"Idiopat?" he murmured quietly.
She nodded, still searching questioningly.
"He'll come in his own time; cats are wise."
She turned resignedly and passed him on her way in. Lomil gave one more look around, and then closed the door behind him.
The townspeople were crowded into Lomil's kitchen, children jockeying for a view from the doorway to the larder. Miss Carmen shushed them and arranged the taller ones behind and the smaller in front, keeping one ear to the conversation around the table. Hano wanted to head up the mountain and hunt the witch, confidence boosted by Sherif's heroism, but Ane flatly refused: they would be separated and destroyed in the witch's demesne. Lomil dissembled, stalling by reviewing banalities and waiting for the return of the older men who had gone to address the bodies.
Nira and Otas came back first and headed wordlessly to the wash basin where Sherif's mother hurried to add a ladle of hot water from the cauldron to the pitcher. There was silence as the men washed thoroughly up to their elbows, and then stood by Lomil, unwilling to sit despite the generous urging of their sons. "We started a fire," Nira announced laconically, clearing his throat.
"Out at the dump?"
The two nodded curtly, then deferred to Lomil.
He stood and leaned forward over the table so that he was centered in the group and could be heard clearly. "The attack will come on two fronts," he began, as if the entire previous conversation had never occurred. "The women and children will stay in the house, with the young men to guard. I will close the house so that you will be safe."
A deadness like winter chill fell over the room, and not only the children jumped when a half-burnt log popped suddenly on the fire. Lomil continued, unruffled but still soberly serious.
"Nira, Otas, you two, Aru and Dan go to your posts, just like we practiced."
Carmen let a small cry escape from deep within her breast as her father's name was mentioned.
Lomil turned to her compassionately. "No one needs to be afraid; we succeeded against her father and we have grown stronger since," he said, looking pointedly at a shocked Sherif.
"So has she," Ane reminded him with a hint of cynicism.
Lomil nodded acquiescence, but Sherif was staring at the two in open-mouthed horror. "Her father?" he repeated, uncomprehending. Kuwen had been a drunkard and a misfit from what he recalled of his childhood, and had disappeared down the Bokingdale road one day with a bottle and his cloak and had never wandered back. It was hard to imagine he could have brought any more mischief to White Falls than three orphaned girls and a dilapidated farm.
Lomil hung his head, but set his face. "Kuwen was never what he seemed; he took Lilly to wed so that he could pass along his arts to a new Wielder, just as he has been doing for centuries." He sighed. "I was to watch him." Here he looked up at Nira and Otas, who returned an impassive gaze. "-We- were to watch him, moved here when he first married Lilly. We knew it would be by Lilly." He looking comfortingly at Otas, but the latter seemed indifferent. "But we grew lax when he left," continued Lomil, "believed that we had foiled him. Beh had long since gone to her self-imposed exile, and no one could believe that either of her daft sisters could be a concern."
"The power hadn't been passed yet," Nira interjected softly, by way of excuse. Sherif looked at the old farmer with new eyes. "It wasn't what we had been taught to look for," Nira finished, meeting Sherif's gaze.
"That's not quite true," Lomil said quietly, and suddenly all eyes were upon him, including the two men and Ane's.
"What are you talking about?" she practically barked at him.
"Beh already -had- the Art," Lomil reminded them, looking meaningfully at Sherif. "My son left under her influence." Lomil chose his words carefully and met no one's eye. "Kuwen was shaping Beh from the start."
Otas' face was contorting through conflicting pain and anger. "Then why the last child?!" he thundered, finally finding voice. He looked over at Ane's mother, the village midwife. But she did not look up from her methodical cleaning of the wash basin.
Lomil came to his wife's defense. "We agreed that the risk still existed!" he shot back firmly, then sweeping the room with his gaze, "we -all- agreed. Masarette did what -we- asked," he nodded in her direction, but she just poured out the rinsing water calmly and carried on.
Otas' eyes were brimming with tears, "And did we agree to my sister's death, too?" he cried angrily.
Sherif's mother slammed the basin down on its stand with a resounding clang at that, her face red. "Lilly -died-, Otas!" she retorted through clenched teeth. "In -childbirth-. It -happens-. How long has this been rotting your heart?" she whispered fiercely.
Otas hung his head but did not respond, and Masarette clenched the edges of the basin trembling in fury.
Ane's brow was furrowed, and she spoke hesitantly into the embarrassing silence. "I thought Lilly died when Beh was born. I mean, I just assumed..." she trailed off.
Lomil shook his head. "There was another..." he began, but shook his head. "Before you were born," he ended absently, considering Otas in his peripheral vision. Would he stand with them?
Sherif stood slowly. "Where should I stand?" he said, pulling the scabbarded blade from the back of his chair where he had hung it.
Lomil moved again, as if freed from a trance. "With your sister," he replied, nodding toward Ane. "We will hold the town." He brushed past Nira and Otas and headed outside without glancing back.
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