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“Ai, God!” she said a moment later in frustration, pulling the mantle around her as Eldest Uncle chuckled. “Is there nothing I can clothe myself with?”
“Indeed, Daughter, the women have concerned themselves mightily to please your modesty. See here.”
Out of a second basket he lifted a folded square of cloth as though it were more precious than gold. “In the vaults beneath the council chamber the last treasure has been removed, oil and grain stored against the final drought, bronze tools, cloth, and the scrolls sacred to He-Who-Burns.”
The cloth was undyed although a trifle yellowed with age, and finely woven out of a thread whose softness she did not recognize. When she unfolded it, she discovered a sleeveless tunic that reached to her knees. She quickly slipped it on. It was shapeless, two rectangular blocks of cloth sewn together along the sides and shoulders, but functional enough to give her the confidence to test her legs. She tied the mantle on over it, then walked to the river to drink her fill. Berries ripened in dribs and drabs along the banks, and she ate until her fingers were stained purple although the berries tasted tart.
“I’m so hungry! Ugh! I’ll give myself a stomachache with this.”
“You’re feeling better,” said Eldest Uncle, who had followed her. She saw no sign of Falcon Mask and Buzzard Mask.
“Stronger, too. I dreamed …”
A horn’s call sounded to the north.
“It wasn’t a dream! Come quickly!”
While she slept, they had fixed a rope bridge over the rushing stream, three thick ropes strung taut between trees, with one for the feet and two above to hold on to. She got the hang of it quickly, balancing as she crossed with her bow slung over her back and Eldest Uncle behind her. The flower trail had bloomed in sickly patches of color, covered by a skin of ashy gray dust that coated leaves and stones. She shaded her eyes, then lowered her hand.
“There’s no sun,” said Eldest Uncle. “I remember sun from my youth, but we’ve seen the sun no more than two or three times while you slept and then only for a brief span.”
“How long did I sleep?” They walked into the shade of the pine forest. Fallen needles squished under her feet. Before, everything had been so brittle. Now it seemed spongy.
“Ten nights. Eleven, perhaps. I lost count. The days are hazy, and the council argues.”
“Look.” She pointed to the watchtower. Falcon Mask perched on the uppermost wall, peering west.
Buzzard Mask saw them and came running. “Who are they?”
“Who are who?” Eldest Uncle replied.
Buzzard Mask had a youth’s voice, not quite sure that it had broken. “There’s an army coming along the White Road! They’re not dressed like us, but many wear warrior masks.”
Liath ran to the watchtower and clambered up beside Falcon Mask. The young woman looked at her, surprised, then grinned and sidled to one side to make room. Young and bold, she did not fear heights, but for Liath it was dizzy-making to crouch up here with sheer wall and steep hillside plunging away below. Yet that giddy feeling was no worse than the sight of the desolation she had wrought, off to the north, the wasteland that was the aftermath of the eruption that had killed Anne and her people, most of them guilty of no greater crime than loyalty. What manner of man would refuse the summons of the skopos, after all? Yet Anne had not cared for their virtues, or their sins; they were pawns, nothing more, and pawns are sacrificed.
On the road, the lead group came into view beyond a straggle of trees, then was lost again behind foliage. Eldest Uncle spoke a word and crumpled to his knees. He would have fallen if Buzzard Mask hadn’t leaped to his side to support him.
“What is it, Uncle? What ails you?”
“I am struck,” he said to the youth. “I am hit.”
“Get their attention,” said Liath to Falcon Mask.
“There are so many! And more behind them! I’ve never seen so many people!” The young woman wavered. She was unsure, reluctant. “Is it safe?”
“They are your own people.” She scrambled back down and knelt beside Eldest Uncle, who seemed too weak to rise. “Is it your heart?” she demanded, terrified that he would die right then.
“It is my heart.” He wept silent tears as the procession reappeared on the White Road below them. It was strange to watch with the steep hillside and ragged forest on one side of the chalky ribbon of road and on the other the scarred, barren earth stretching north as far as she could see. These refugees were caught between two worlds, it seemed, as they had been for centuries.
She walked down the slope to meet them. Her hair was all tangles, and sweat and grit slimed her body.
I should have stopped to bathe.
Stepping onto the White Road, she faced their approach. The line of marchers wound away beyond a curve in the path, hidden behind trees and a distant ridgeline. They were the same people she had seen in her dream. The man leading them wore a crested helmet unlike the animal masks worn by the other warriors. He had a proud, handsome face, terribly familiar in a way she did not understand. As they neared and saw she did not mean to move, he raised a hand and halted and the others slowed to a halt behind him. He looked Liath up and down while a fox-masked woman beside him glared, but it was Sanglant’s mother, in the front, who spoke first.
“Liathano! Where is my father?”
Liath gestured.
