The morning was grey and chill. Boots settled close to the fire as he ate his morning meal. It was a time of the year for change; sun, rain and sometimes snow, chased each other through the days; the sky above delighting in confounding those bound to the land below. 

Meranin was sitting by the window that opened out to the garden, settled into a pile of blankets in her large, ornate chair. A book was open on the sill allowing her to read by the light of the sun’s early rays. 

“How do you think the weather will be today?” he asked. 

“I don’t think it will rain too much.” She paused in her reading to peer up at the clouds. “Should hold off until at least after midday. I saw the bees go out this morning in no big hurry.” 

It was known that the behaviour of bees could predict the weather, but Meranin’s bees seemed to be more accurate than most. As he warmed his bones and filled his belly, Boots pondered how to best spend his day. He curled the fingers of his right hand; they were stiff and sore. 

“I will take a look at that hand before you make any plans today, Boots,” she said, noticing the gesture. “That’s two days in your field and two days in Balert’s.” 

“Yes, but in Balert’s field I had help,” Boots said with a grimace that was equal parts due to the soreness in his hand and having accepted help in Balert’s field. It had been Balert’s insistence that Boots take extra help in the field for the foreseeable future. Boots was not happy about it, a share in work meant a share in profits, but Balert was immoveable on the point. 

“And thanks to my friends helping out, I think I am – well, I’m not caught up – but things could be much worse. And still no sign of blight in either. I was actually going to go to the village in the afternoon, talk to Balert. And maybe just see some people. I haven’t been there since…you know,” he finished. 

His mother nodded. “I also have business there, and with Balert as well. Why don’t I meet you on the path later? I’ll pack some food.”  

 

Meranin had been right, probably more right than she realized, Boots’ hand was in a lot of pain. Halfway to the field he had to awkwardly pull the cart with his left hand to try and save strength in his right for when he had to work. The only thing that forced him to rest was the knowledge that his hand would heal crookedly if he did not. But every time Boots set out to do something, he realized there was a little more work to be done than he had thought, and that he was slower at it than he used to be, so he always pushed a little harder than he should. 

A few small bursts of rain came along, enough to loosen the soil and encourage the new shoots, so Boots could not complain as it pattered against his back and shoulders while he bent over his work. Boots hammered a few tall stakes in the ground and made a note to ask Balert for something to string between the poles to hang with bits of bright fabric, small stones, shells and sticks. The wind would set everything waving and deter birds with sound and movement. He had stakes to put in Balert’s field as well. 

As planned, he met his mother on the path, a basket under her arm. They leaned against the cart and ate. When they were done, Boots admitted he was not able to pull the cart all the way to the village, so they pulled it off the path and left it in the shelter of some trees. It would be safe enough; the only people who would come across it would be those taking the path to Boots’ cottage. It was more likely someone would do the neighbourly thing and bring it the rest of the way home than steal anything from it. Besides, if someone was after tools, they could certainly do better than Boots’ collection, which was modest in both size and quality. 

As Boots turned to go, he realized his mother was still standing by the cart looking up at the trees. He walked back over, and she has such a calm and appreciative look on her face he took a moment to look around as well. 

The heavy air and the brushing of rain had ignited the forest with green, the trunks of the trees seemed to glow with moss that dripped onto the forest floor to varnish the dark earth in a sheen of emerald. She cocked her head to the side, as if listening or thinking, then took a few deliberate steps towards a fallen trunk to peer over the side. Boots joined her and saw a row of tiny white mushrooms dotting the decaying wood. 

“What are those ones?” Boots asked. 

“Drasir mushrooms,” she said moving around to examine them without touching them, “they are not ripe yet, but they can be a potent consumer of rot.” 

“What does that mean?” Boots asked. 

They turned and went back to the path, the tails of new ferns not yet unrolled dampening their legs. 

“You know that when a wound is sceptic maggots can be used to eat the dead flesh?” she asked. 

Boots nodded, he and Colin had helped Meranin perform the task for livestock in the village. It was delightfully disgusting, and although she was not queasy, Meranin was content to leave the removal of the maggots to Boots and Colin, so long as they were careful. 

“Well, drasir mushrooms can perform much of the same task but on plants.” 

Boots thought it over and followed his mother’s logic. “Are you thinking about this blight Balert was talking about? Could the drasir mushrooms eat it?” he asked. 

“Something like that. Or at least it may consume any rotted plants before they spread. Or even eat the disease out of the soil in the fields and protect the rest of the plants from getting infected.” 

“But?” Boots prompted, hearing the reserve in her voice. 

“‘But’ many things. For starters, drasir mushrooms are difficult to cultivate, they need moisture and shade and prefer wood to soil. Getting them into a field will be difficult. There is also a risk that the blight will kill the mushrooms, or worse, be spread through their roots into more of the soil. I will have to know more about this disease and speak with Jayna on it.” 

 

It was with those weighty thoughts of the blight on his mind that Boots made his way into the village. His thoughts were distracting enough that he forgot it was his first visit to the village since the festival. While convalescing he had imagined judgment and cold stares would greet him from the faces of Holding, but he should have known better. The people of Holding had no care for Lord Narosh and his honour. And their busy little village always found new concerns and gossip to turn their thoughts from old gossip to new. Boots thought he detected a few judgmental looks, and curious glances at his bandaged hand, but that could have been his imagination. Mostly, it felt like any other day in the village, and it felt good to walk its paths again. 

 He waved to a few people, smiling and calling out hellos. His mother delivered stately nods and smiles; occasionally stopping to have a close chat with someone. They were passing the village hall when a large horse out front caught Boots’ attention. 

It was a lovely broad beast, solidly muscled and calm. It was loosely tethered outside, nosing a few things with its ears swiveling to listen to the sounds. Boots stopped and looked more closely. 

Rolled blanket saddle, twin sword pommels poking out from the back where they were wrapped and sheathed. He knew that horse, and he wagered he had seen it yesterday on the path behind him. 

“Boots!” Colin called. 

He turned to see his friend’s excited face approaching. 

“Does that horse belong to -” Boots began. 

Colin’s response came out in a rush before Boots even finished the question. “Yes, Bridda her name is, was with that captain Burig fellow. She’s been hanging around since they left.” 

“Really?” Boots asked, intrigued. 

“Your mother didn’t want us telling you, thought it might upset you,” Colin said, he was a little sheepish about it, but Boots shrugged. He was more interested in any gossip Colin had about the animal and its rider than why his friend had concealed it before. 

“Isn’t that the western way of saddle?” Boots asked. 

“Yes, that is what everyone is saying,” Colin said, excitedly. “Although it’s hard to place her accent, maybe she’s been away for too long. I heard my mother say braids like that are from the north.” 

“The horse doesn’t have braids,” Boots, said checking the mane. 

“No dummy, the lady, Bridda, she has all these braids in her hair.” 

“Oh,” Boots said, trying to picture her. He didn’t remember her hair being long that day by the field or the next day, but he could not remember if it had been braided, tied up or sheared off. It was not surprising; his mind had been on other things when he had seen her last. 

What truly interested him were the pommels sticking out of the bundle on the saddle. He examined the one closest to him. It was certainly a sword hilt, in the style for a shorter blade. It was made of either horn or wood; polished so dark by age and use it was hard to tell which. There were bands of copper set around the crosspiece that seemed to travel a little ways up the blade. But rather than decorated with the usual sinuous designs of interlocking beasts the copper seemed to be engraved with intricate and precise rows or runes.  

“Has she taken the swords out yet?” Boots asked. 

A voice answered from behind them. “No, and if she does it best be for good reason.” 

Boots and Colin both jumped and spun around. Bridda raised an amused eyebrow at them as she strolled by with an apple in hand to feed to her horse. Boots and Colin shuffled a bit further back. 

“It’s all right, she won’t mind, she likes company,” Bridda said, stroking the horse’s nose with one hand while it munched on the apple. 

They had not shuffled away because of the horse. Boots searched his mind for something to say to this soldier-woman that was not as silly as: “can I see your swords?” 

Naturally, Colin was ready with a question. “What’s her name?” Colin asked. 

“Shanksey. It’s short for Longshanks.” She smiled at their looks of confusion. The horse was not that old. 

“She was born as ornery and sullen as an old nag, there’s certainly worse things they could have called her,” Bridda said, with an affectionate smile at the beast. 

Longshanks was a greyish-brown, with dark varnishing at the shoulders and ankles. Her mane and tail were a light straw colour, and her eyes and lashes were dark. Shanksey was not elegant, nor was she some bulgingly proud war beast, but she was certainly handsome and strong. Boots did not know very much about horses, but he knew enough to appreciate how the fair mane contrasted with the dark, glossy coat. A fly landed on her rump, causing her tail to swish and her hide to twitch in a ripple of muscle. 

“She doesn’t seem ornery,” Colin observed. 

Shanksey finished the apple and bumped Bridda with her nose, returning the affection. 

“That’s because we have an understanding,” Bridda explained, resting her forehead against the animal’s for a moment. “As in, we understand each other quite well.” 

Bridda straightened up and looked past the two boys, wiping her hands on her breeches. 

“That’ll be your mother then,” she said, as she stepped around the horse to greet Meranin who was making her way over. 

“Hello Meranin,” Bridda said, with an easy smile. “I don’t think that we were properly introduced. My name is Bridda.” 

This pleasant greeting was met by stony silence and an even stonier composure from Meranin. Sensing the brittleness in the air between them, Colin and Boots took an involuntary step back. But Boots’ mother surprised him by folding her face into a smile and offering her own pleasant if sharply polite greeting. 

“Yes, Bridda, I had heard you were here. I have just been so busy caring for my son,” and here the touch of emphasis was clear, “that we have not had the opportunity to get acquainted.” 

“Well, I’m certainly not here to prevent anyone from going about their business,” Bridda said, with easy brightness. 

“No, why would you ever want to do that?” Meranin asked with a look and tone that implied that was exactly what Bridda intended on doing. 

Colin and Boots exchanged glances. Boots had mentioned to his mother that the woman had tried to stop lord Narosh, but it did not seem to matter to Meranin. His eyes strayed to the two pommels, ‘don’t make me draw my swords’ she had said as the guards moved to block her from Boots. 

Boots looked back at the two women, and Bridda was smiling, as if Meranin had scored a well-made point in a game they were playing. “I’ll tell you what. If you ever want to sit down and get acquainted, I can tell you a lot about why I am here – and also about where I’ve been. When the mood strikes you of course,” Bridda said. 

Meranin pursed her lips and said, “I’ll give it some thought.” Then she turned abruptly to her son. “Boots, I need to look in with Siggu’s father. I’ll be happy to walk home with you later, I’ll find you near the hall.” 

Boots just nodded and his mother marched away. Bridda raised her eyebrows at Boots and Colin with a look that seemed to say that went about as well as it could before giving Shanksey a final pat and sauntering off. 

“Well, it was almost as though they didn’t like each other,” Colin said. 

“I noticed that too,” Boots said. 

Colin glanced over to make sure Bridda was still walking away from them and not about to catch their conversation again. 

“Why do you think she’s really here. Do you think -” Colin paused and looked uncharacteristically nervous “- do you think she’s here to, you know, find out what happened?” 

Boots took a moment to consider what Colin was saying. He answered in the same hushed tone Colin had used. 

“Oh! You mean about the,” he sketched out shooting an arrow with his hands. “I don’t know. Do you think so? I think that’s all over with, what more could they possibly want?” 

Colin was fiddling with the edge of his shirt. Still nervous, but maybe a little uncertain too. “Boots, I never really said about…look I’m really sorry. I never should have encouraged you to do it and then I was too much of a coward to speak out like you did for Siggu.” 

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Boots said, quickly. Managing, for once, to hide his emotions behind a mild tone. 

“That’s nice to say, but how can it be true?” Colin said. He had stopped tugging at his shirt and was watching Boots carefully. 

Boots picked over the thoughts he had endlessly played in his mind, finding the right words as he went. “Because no one would be in any less trouble if you had said something. Sure, maybe you would have been in my place, and then I would be in your place. But, if you were in my place, would you really hold it against me?” Boots asked. Colin opened his mouth to answer but Boots kept going needing to say it out loud. “I think if you were me, you wouldn’t want apologies and stuff, you would just want to be with your friends, and to feel like the same person again. The person you were before things happened.” 

Boots realized they were both avoiding saying exactly what had ‘happened’ and he was comfortable with that. What use was there in always bringing attention to what was missing? Colin looked at Boots thoughtfully, as though just noticing a new haircut, as if there was something a little different about him that he had not noticed before. 

“You’re right,” Colin said. “I think that is how I would feel. But, well,” and they both looked at the horse to avoid the awkwardness of having to see the emotions in each other’s faces, “just remember that if you ever feel angry, or frustrated or want to talk or something. I’ll understand, or at least try to.” 

“Thanks,” Boots said with a half-smile. 

There was silence between them for a few moments, then Colin suggested they go and see if there were any penny pies for sale along the market street. 

“Is that Tafner?” Boots asked as they started walking. 

“Yes,” Colin said with an understanding smile. 

Tafner was coming along the road, her tall lanky form as distinct as ever, but she looked very different. She was wearing pants, and where that was not so unusual for her, she generally wore baggy hand me downs or a hastily altered skirt. Today she was wearing proper pants, more fitted through the leg, showing off her ankles. She had a man’s style shirt on too, that was tucked in. Not to be overlooked, Tafner had completed the look with a brightly coloured scarf to tie the neck of the shirt closed. The most telling part of her outfit was her hair; rather than the usual hasty knot or single plait, it was done in a few smaller braids twisted with some ribbon and pinned around her head. It was probably the most time and care Tafner had ever bothered to put into her hair and outfit. 

“How long has that been going on?” Boots asked, amused but also impressed. The look suited her. 

“It started a few days in, I don’t think Tafner has ever been so smitten with anything, and she isn’t the only one,” Colin said, nodding to a few more girls going by wearing various pieces of clothing hastily altered or borrowed from fathers or brothers. Their hair was also twisted up in braids. 

The group congregated around Bridda, who greeted them all pleasantly and equally whether the speaker was shy or boisterous. If Bridda was aware of the mimicking of her hair and dress she gave no indication that it bothered her. Boots watched as Bridda bent down to receive an apple from a small girl and then look over at Shanksey with a smile and a nod; clearly the gift was for the horse and not for her. Bridda took the girl’s hand and led her over to the horse, the other girls and young women trailing along. 

Boots saw Fauna had joined the group, her face curious, and his heart skittered a little inside his chest. Fauna was still wearing a long skirt, and her hair was done up in the same sort of complicated and neat braids and loops she usually wore. But her friend was wearing wide pants that had probably been a skirt until a few days ago. Fauna spotted Boots and gave a shy smile. He grinned back widely and waved. 

Colin and Boots went to Bessie’s bakery to look at the penny pies made with some of the final stores of last season’s berries and honey. Bessie offered to throw in a third pie if they helped swap out the empty barrels for full ones from the still to the cellar. Colin quickly bartered for two cups of what was in the barrels. Bessie gave them each a considering eye –probably remembering the time they had snuck into the cellars a few years back to help themselves. They contrived to look innocent and trustworthy until she rolled her eyes and sent them off with a warning to be careful. 

They sat outside a little later, thoroughly enjoying their reward. Meranin would spend infinitely more time and care brewing a draught or ointment than she would cooking or baking. And Colin was always fighting off siblings for seconds at mealtimes. They were both happy to have a treat just for themselves. 

Boots added further flavour by sharing what Meranin had told him about her past. It was the smallest of glimpses, but Boots and Colin could not resist trying to guess at more of the picture. 

“Maybe,” Colin speculated, “she was some kind of healer, but to some real fancy hob nobs. Like, maybe she knows some secrets about bastard sons and nobles with diseases they keep hidden. You know, when Balert and Siggu come back with all those stories the ladies love to gossip about?” Colin batted his eyes and whispered with mock fascination, “Lord Crumly has three legs, he stuffs two inside one pant leg to hide it.” 

“Wouldn’t he look rather funny?” Boots asked with a smile. 

“Ah, he has a fourth, fake leg that he stuffs in the other side so that they are the same size. He had a toymaker design it with a bending knee so that he can walk. But every time he has to sit on horse I imagine it would be rather uncomfortable.” 

Boots thought about that for a moment. “But why wouldn’t he just wear the fake leg on the outside instead of in the middle where it goes right into his…?” he asked, indicating at his crotch. 

Colin shrugged, “I never said Crumley was a smart fellow.” 

Boots had another bite of his pie and tried to picture his mother in some busy city, or visiting some mysteriously ill lady in a large, fancy home. He tried to fit her no-nonsense face and plain village dresses into a babble of gossiping grins and colourful, silken intrigue. The image was incongruous, even though the idea had merit.  

They were just licking their fingers clean when they spotted Meranin herself approaching. She was walking with Balert, and Siggu was tagging along a few steps behind. 

Balert rarely mentioned what had happened with Lord Narosh, whether by direction from Meranin or because of his own son’s involvement, but it was clearly on his mind. Interactions with the man were always grating, but lately they had been unusually stiff and curt. As though the merchant was limiting what he said in case something of his true thoughts broke free. The most direct mention of the incident was a statement that Boots’ injury had better not impede his ability to work and the insistence on taking hired help. 

Boots eyes flicked to Siggu and then away again. He knew that Siggu faced his own losses and struggles and guilt. But at the end of the day Boots could not completely ignore the thought that Siggu’s loss was in feelings, things that could be smoothed over and healed by the passage of time. Boots’ loss was permanent, a literal piece of himself gone forever. There would be healing, but nothing would be made whole again. 

Sensing, or guessing, something of Boots’ thoughts, Colin gave his friend’s shoulder a little shove before getting to his feet. Boots rose as well, resisting the urge to straighten his clothing; he wagered Colin resisted the urge to rumple his more. The two used to waver between trying to appear benign to Balert and deliberately provoking his disapproval. Since being employed by the man, Boots had mostly stopped trying to annoy Balert. Although, Boots considered that Balert’s disapproval had now been quite thoroughly provoked. 

As he and Colin brushed crumbs off their fingers, Boots watched the trio approach thoughtfully. For all his superiority and arrogance, Balert always treated Meranin with respect and would sometimes even defer to her opinion. And although Meranin privately considered Balert to be a stuffy twerp, she did trust the man to find her certain goods in his travels and never gossiped about him to others. Boots wondered why this wealthy, traveled, self-aggrandizing merchant took the time to listen to a woman with an unknown past who lived on the edges of a small village. 

As they approached, Meranin shifted her basket from hand to hand, hefting it a little as though it was heavy or uncomfortable. 

“Is your basket heavy? Should I carry it?” Boots offered to his mother. He was already reaching for it before she could answer. 

She started to say, “I think I’ll manage -” but Boots had already seized the handle and lifted. His arm bobbed as he took a moment to balance the heavy basket. 

“Ooof, what did you buy anvils?” he asked, surprised at the weight. 

“Tiny ones, I’d wager,” Colin added, eyeing the size of the basket. 

“You should have told me it would be heavy, we could have brought the cart,” Boots said, momentarily forgetting that they had left the cart because it had been too awkward for him to pull with his hand. Once he had said it, though, he remembered, and realized he would run into the same problem with the basket. Some of what Boots was feeling most have shown on his face because it prompted a quick response from both of his friends, who spoke at the same time. 

“I’ll walk home with you, and we can take turns,” Colin said as Siggu suggested, “I’ll nip home and bring it on my wagon later.” 

Boots was caught between a smile and a cringe, he settled for muttering thank you to both of them. 

“What’s all that over there?” Balert asked, gesturing with his chin to Bridda and her admirers. 

“That’s Bridda, the soldier, sorry, the commander, that’s been staying here,” Siggu said. 

“I know who she is,” Balert said, impatiently. “I want to know what she thinks she is doing.” 

Siggu shrugged. “She’s been spending a lot of time talking to people. She’s quite nice.” 

Maybe Siggu had said it purposefully to annoy his father, maybe it was a genuine thought, maybe it was both of those things – but “nice” was not a compliment in Balert’s opinion. 

“Hmph, nice enough to distract and derange every woman in the village. Not that some of them need much encouragement.” Balert said that last part with emphasis as Tafner stepped away from the others to swing a stick around wildly. There was laughter from the group, and Bridda stood up and walked over. Not to take the stick, but to give Tafner a few pointers on how to hold her mock weapon. Tafner took the advice, then restarted her performance, this time it seemed to be led by an exchange of insults with an imaginary foe. 

Colin and Boots could not help but smile as Tafner called her invisible opponent an outlandishly rude string of names then charged forward, only to follow with a sudden jerk as though she had been stabbed. She then proceeded to swish her stick around wildly while hunched over with one arm wrapped around her invisible wound. The girls around cheered her on with laughter and warnings of her imaginary attacker. Despite this encouragement, her ramblings and actions slowed, and she finally stumbled to a halt. 

“Fair sisters. Do not let me die unavenged!” she declared before collapsing in a tragic death. 

The laughter turned to applause as she leapt up to bow. Boots put down the basket, clapping somewhat awkwardly against his right wrist, and joined Colin in hollering his appreciation. Delighted at the extra attention, Tafner turned and bowed at them too. Siggu was clapping his hands distractedly, the dreamy smile on his face making it clear he was interested in more than just Tafner’s antics. Tafner caught his eye and her smile deepened, then she turned away with a wink and went back to her group. 

“Despicable to carry on in such a way. Certainly, that one will not make an easy wife for any man,” Balert said, with a snort. 

His phrase was clearly meant to cast doubt on Tafner’s suitability as a match, but had he bothered to look at his son’s face he would have known he had greatly missed the mark. The smile and wink had left a deep blush creeping up Siggu’s cheeks. If he heard his father’s remark, he gave no indication. This annoyed Balert even more. 

“I think it would be my duty to put an end to this,” Balert said, tipping his chin up and settling his shoulders. 

“I should think not,” Meranin said, disapprovingly. “What reason could you possibly have to do so?” 

He opened his mouth as if to argue his point but was swiftly cut off by Meranin. “That woman is a commander in the king’s army, and of rather an important branch I presume. How do you think it would go to accost a group of girls and young women not just in her presence but because of it? What report would she send back to the castle about such an incident as that? And really, do you think you could challenge her?” 

Balert’s teeth clicked shut and Boots, Siggu and Colin could barely suppress the smug looks on their faces at seeing the man cowed. But Balert’s face soon twisted in a satisfied smile. “It seems I will not have to,” he said. 

All four followed his gaze and took in a collective sharp breath at seeing who was approaching. A wiry woman who marched rather than walked, her skirts gripped tightly in her hands to keep them out of the way of her swiftly moving feet. Her head pitched forward from her neck and shoulders, perpetually ready to be thrust into any conversation or argument, whether it concerned her or not. The frown carved into her features was directed at the group of girls and young women around Bridda, but specifically towards her daughter. 

“Oh, by Skogar’s chestnuts,” Meranin muttered. 

“Tafner!” The approaching woman’s voice cut through the streets causing all who heard it to wince. “I knew I would find you here, even after the long talk we had about it. I suppose it must be nice to have so much leisure time that you can spend it gallivanting about, almost as though you hadn’t got a basket of wool to be spun at home and bread that needs – what are you wearing?” 

The tirade ended in a shriek. The group had cleared out of the way, not wanting to be between Sheffi and her daughter. This had left Tafner completely visible in her man’s shirt and pants, taking Sheffi by surprise. It did not help that Tafner’s recent theatrics had left her scuffed with dirt and her hair and clothing all askew. 

“They’re called pants, mother,” Tafner said with a startling degree of calm, then she smoothed them over appreciatively, “and I like them.” 

“Well, I like a stiff feather and a full codpiece, but you don’t see me trailing after the nobles to set up a whore’s tent, do you?” 

Colin bit his lips around a burst of laughter; Boots actually drew back in reaction. It was really the type of thing Tafner would come up with. Strange the ways in which Tafner and her mother were so similar and so different. 

Sheffi forged on. “And why, because some fancy lady with a sword is here you think you can just shirk your family? Wearing pants is not going to knead and bake the bread, wearing pants is not going to spin the wool, wearing pants is not going to keep your mother from an early grave. I will die with your shame upon my heart, you ungrateful girl.” 

It was something to watch Tafner’s proud resolve start to crumple and twist into a sort of angry defiance under the beating of her mother’s tongue. 

“My girl, I have to say I quite agree with your mother,” Balert said, sidling up to the conversation. 

“Father!” Siggu said, following close behind. 

“Don’t you ‘my girl’ me.” Tafner said. 

“No one asked for your opinion,” Sheffi snapped at Balert, who tossed his chin up as if she had flicked him under the nose. “If I want some turncoat cradle robber’s brother to advise me on the raising of my daughter, I’ll know who to ask.” 

“Oh no, the feud,” Boots whispered. 

“Oh yes, the feud,” Colin also whispered. “You’d think with her sister and his brother having left the village some ten years ago it would have passed.” 

“Sheffi lets nothing pass, not even wind,” Meranin said. 

“Because she’s so uptight. So the foulness all comes out her mouth.” Colin amended. 

Both Boots and Colin snorted in an effort not to laugh out loud less they draw attention to themselves. Meranin’s lips twisted so as not to smile. 

“Is that a daughter?” Balert was saying, making a show of observing Tafner in her men’s wear. “I can’t tell if she should be behind a plow or a pot.” 

“At least she will be doing good honest work for a living, not learning to be a swindling fancy boy. That is, when he isn’t getting drunk and antagonizing nobles instead.” Sheffi said with a smug smile. Boots could only imagine the satisfaction Sheffi felt at dealing such a solid blow to her enemy. Balert’s face purpled over with rage. From there things quickly began to break down into shouting, snippets of insults ringing out, no one really listening to anything. 

“Mother! Siggu is not—”  

“Tafner it isn’t worth—” 

“Don’t you defend her. I am speaking—” 

“Side with them against your own mother and your dear lost auntie—” 

“She isn’t dead or lost, she left because—” 

It was entertaining, but also worrisome. Tafner, Sheffi and Balert would all pounce on the opportunity to argue and lash out at each other like spitting cats. But Siggu was more serious, once provoked his anger burned hot and he was known to do and say things he would later regret. 

Even now, Siggu was trying to mitigate between the three of them, but it was clear that with Tafner as the target of both his father’s and her mother’s ire it would not be long before he mounted an impassioned defense. 

“Maybe we should stop them,” Boots said. 

“Maybe,” Colin said reluctantly. It was always satisfying to see well-deserved insults hurled at Balert and Sheffi. 

“I think that may already be in hand,” Meranin said. 

Boots looked over at his mother, but she was watching just beyond the arguing parents. Bridda was quietly speaking to some of the other girls, who were nodding and smiling nervously. Then she strolled up to the argument and announced in a loud and jovial voice: “Excuse me.” 

It was not quite loud and jovial enough to break through the bickering so she tried again with more emphasis: “Excuse me!” 

And now the arguing drifted off somewhat, Sheffi was the last to stop, her tirade dying off with some reference to a blessed great aunt who had lived off bark and pinecones for a winter. 

“This has been a lovely afternoon,” Bridda pronounced in an impeccably polite voice that Boots was beginning to recognize, “but I need to be tending to my horse and checking in at the hall to see if any missives have arrived from the captain – or maybe even the castle.” 

She let her connections sink in for a moment before continuing. “I am sure we all have duties to attend to. Good day to you,” she said with a polite nod of the head. 

While she was talking the arguers had drifted apart, and Bridda stepped into the space her conversation had made. Behind her the girls and young women had lined up with a small chorus of where they were off to followed by a regal ‘good day’ or ‘thank you’ as they passed between Balert and Sheffi just as Bridda had done. Fauna was there too, looking giddy and nervous, she bobbed a little curtsy as she passed through then rushed to catch up with a friend. 

Tafner announced loudly, “you’re right mother, I do need to get to my chores,” and allowed herself to be pulled away by the stream of girls and young women leaving. 

Sheffi turned in a huff and marched after her. It left Balert trying not to look put out and Siggu scratching his nose to hide his expression. He said something to his father then hurried away. Balert was left staring angrily after the departing crowd, his gaze seemed to rest on Bridda. 

“Well,” Colin said. 

“Well indeed,” Meranin said. 

“Let’s leave before Balert comes back over here,” Boots suggested. 

Colin and his mother showed their agreement by hastily hurrying away. Boots could speak to Balert later when the man was in a more agreeable mood.  

“I like Bridda,” Colin announced as they walked, “I think she’s nice.” 

“She’s probably killed a lot of people,” Meranin put in bluntly. 

“Mostly enemies of the kingdom, I would guess,” Boots said. 

“And she didn’t stab Balert or Sheffi today, so she can’t be all that bad. Though she would have been doing us all a favour,” Colin added, cheerfully. 

“Colin!” Meranin said, her tone admonishing but her face smiling. “And how is Bridda settling in at Holding, what are people saying?” 

Her eyes slid towards Colin, who delayed his answer by taking the basket from Boots. He stumbled a step. “Woah, you weren’t kidding. This is ridiculously heavy.” He went to peek under the cloth. 

“Colin,” Meranin said, a warning and a reminder of her question. He guiltily put the corner of the cloth back down. “A lot of people, I mean, word in a lot of circles, is that they don’t really like that she’s here,” Colin said, clearly trying to choose his words. 

“Anyone specifically?” Meranin asked. Colin hunched his shoulders against the question. He did not have to answer, but he knew he would. 

“Not exactly. I mean, I only know what I hear from the people I talk to.” 

Here Meranin gave Colin a bit of a sarcastic look. The truth was that Colin talked to everyone, all the time. And he listened to everything. Whether it was a way to waste time, or just part of his nature to be curious and a bit meddlesome, Colin was a spectacular gossip. 

“You probably guessed Balert and Sheffi aren’t too happy, I think mainly the older people don’t like her so much. They won’t say anything to her outright, but they don’t like her…her influence, I guess. Even though she is very kind to all the kids that hang around, wanting to pet the horse and asking her questions about everything from her hair to her horse’s harness. But some people enjoy her company,” he said, brightening a bit. “I mean Bessie loves having her stop by for a chat – at least they seem to get on well, I’d say. And I hear she was helping Provinny quite a lot around the hall, since she’s staying there and all.” 

He let that rest while they continued to walk. Meranin seemed to be thinking something through in her head. Boots was absorbing it all in, trying to see how Bridda, a commander of some kind, would fit into this village where nothing changed. Where they had all been there for so long there was a degree of ownership about the whole place. Where you could not rebuild a well without letting one hundred people or more vote on the details or else risk having a minor riot. Of course, even if they did vote, you still ended up with a minor riot; but at least they were rioting for the good of the village. What interest did Bridda have in the well-being of Holding? 

“Anything else?” Meranin asked. 

“Well,” Colin wrinkled his nose, “it’s sort of about Bridda, but sort of not. People are worried about the blight, of course. Even though it doesn’t seem too bad here, everyone has a sister or cousin or uncle a few villages over that is seeing worse. So, there is gossip that Bridda is an envoy sent to keep track of things, and report back to the king.” 

“Which doesn’t seem like a bad thing,” Meranin said, her tone knowing that there was going to be more. 

“Right,” Colin agreed, “it would not seem like a bad thing, except that everyone is suspicious of the new king right now. Like, is he trying to get a foothold into the outer-regions, like Holding, and using the blight as a way to get connected?” 

Boots started to understand. “Like you explained about your dad and Balert not wanting to get help just yet. In case it gets lord Narosh involved or costs us too much in taxes.” 

“Is anyone speculating about where the blight has come from yet?” Meranin asked carefully. 

“Uh, no,” Colin answered, giving her a curious sideways glance. 

“Maybe don’t bring it up then,” Meranin said, rather quickly. “What else are they gossiping about?” 

Now Colin’s sideways glance darted at Boots. “Given what recently happened with that lord, and similar things elsewhere, as I understand it, people wonder if the king is setting up watchers to – I don’t know – keep us all in line? Maybe prevent any sort of rebellion? See if she can convince us to follow what King Harald is proposing with these new land divisions? Like I said, it’s a lot of gossip.” 

“Doesn’t look like Holding is preparing to rebel,” Meranin commented, “and I hope everyone is wise enough not to consider that sort of talk.” 

“Not me, that’s for sure,” Colin said. “But they’re too busy talking even crazier than that anyway.” 

Meranin raised an eyebrow, doubtful you could get crazier than rebellion. Colin was happy to explain. “Some people are sort of mixing everything together and coming up with some wild ideas.” 

“Like what?” Boots asked, intrigued.  

“Like, someone here might be an outlaw from the old king’s court in hiding and Bridda is trying to suss them out. And then, of course, these mysterious outlaws are also suspected of trying to instigate rebellion against the new land laws to bring back the old king.” Colin said, clearly finding the idea to be exciting. 

“Well, that’s silly. I mean, the old king is dead, right? And as for outlaws, there would be no such person in Holding,” Boots said, even though the idea was intriguing. “Everyone has been here for years, generations even. Except me and my mom, and a few others, but none of them really seem like secret outlaws. And if they are here to instigate anything they’ve been doing a poor job of it. Unless someone new has turned up. Wait, has someone new turned up? Or has someone gone missing?” 

After all, he had been ignorant to Bridda’s presence, maybe someone else had appeared, or had gone missing, while he convalesced. 

“Not as far as I’ve heard,” Colin reassured him. 

“Well, that’s certainly quite the stack of tall tales,” Meranin observed. 

“It isn’t done, it gets even stranger,” Colin said, remembering more as he talked. “I guess some people are thinking about where the blight came from, but it’s not what you’d think. You know the wizard that was supposed to have been the downfall of the old king?” Colin shifted the basket to his other arm. “There’s talk that the wizard set a curse on the land, and that the blight, is his final revenge on the new king.” 

“Wait, didn’t this happen almost twenty years ago? That seems like a poorly planned curse for such a mighty wizard,” Boots observed. 

“No kidding. The other thought is that Old King Frederick is still alive, and the so-called spies of the old king are causing the blight to throw the land into chaos. Then when the kingdom is weak, he’ll reclaim his throne.” 

Boots’ mind spun with all the ideas. “What, and then he reclaims the throne of a ruined kingdom? What good is that. Might as well accuse King Harald of causing the blight to weaken the villages so that he can –” 

“Boots.” His mother cut in sharply. She stopped, causing them to also stop, and fixed them each with a stern look. “Do not, either of you, take that thought any further. It’s a wonder we’ve made it this far without hearing it. And putting a stop to rumours like that may very well be why Bridda is here.” 

She started walking again and Boots and Colin fell into to step with Meranin; the friends silent and thoughtful to either side of her. She sighed. 

“You may be quiet, but I can practically hear the wheels turning, you two. Out with it, I’d prefer you ask now and get sensible answers rather than speculate dangerously later on.” 

Boots and Colin each took a deep breath then both asked, in a jumbled rush, to know more about the wizard. Meranin raised an eyebrow, as if she had not expected that to be their first question. 

They walked in silence for a few steps, Meranin’s pensive, Boots’ and Colin’s anticipatory. When they were younger, Meranin would tell the best fireside tales – ones that could bring you on a high adventure as easily as leave you clutching a blanket in fear. As Boots grew, he started to realize that some of those stories seemed to be rooted in reality, or myths braided with just enough truth to seem plausible. When he started to ask specific questions, trying to follow the threads of reality, the stories seemed to stop. Or perhaps his mother had just thought him to be too old for such tales. 

“Being a king is not an easy job – from what I can gather,” Meranin said, as they walked. “Think about how difficult it is for Yuggen to keep everyone in this village content. Now imagine each of these villagers as a lord and lady with much more to lose than a few squares of land or a chicken – imagine gold, and villages, and houses in three different places, and status and respect. Imagine being at the top of a heap so precariously high that any step you took might send you crashing down.” 

And such was the magic of his mother’s words that he really could picture it. He could picture gilt furniture, mounds of silk and lace, leather boots, chests with jewels spilling out of them all pushed and stacked together to make a tall, unsteady, mountain of wealth. At the top balanced a chair and on it sat a lord in all his finery. All it would take was unraveling one velvet curtain from the bottom of the heap and the whole thing may well come tumbling down. 

“So, the last king wanted to find new ways to hold and have power. Instead of ruling with reason, he twisted truths and set his subjects against each other, making them jealous and suspicious. They became too occupied with watching each other to pay attention to him. And while they had their heads bent over their own secret plans, he set about finding ways to gain more power.” 

“Magical power?” Colin asked, hopefully. 

Meranin though a moment. “Any power he could get. Magical, military, money, land – anything he held that someone else wanted gave him an advantage. They say that magic is much like healing, the more you hold of the source the more potent it will be. Healing is, of course, for good, so more power is a better thing because it creates a stronger treatment or cure. 

“But magic has no set intention for good, it can be whatever the wielder wants it to be. Power for the sake of it, is dangerous and can twist the mind. It is said that the wizard and King Frederick were much alike in that way, wanting and wanting and wanting, until their minds began to bend and twist under the weight of all they had amassed. 

“Instead of sharing his power by binding people to him through gifts or bribes, King Frederick wanted everything for himself, so they say. That made some powerful lords wary once they realized what was going on. They began to worry King Frederick and his wizard would eclipse any power and wealth they had, leaving them as powerless as the rest of us. So, they banded together to try and raise their own power.” 

“Is that how the new king came to be?” Boots asked. “Did he lead the nobles against Frederick and take over?” 

“No, well not right away, anyway. Once the idea of unseating the king became possible it led to all sorts of scheming and planning and alliances. At least, I imagine that it did,” she amended with haste. “There would have been those supporting the old king, then those wanting to take his power for selfish reasons, and probably two or three groups that were truly concern with the good of the kingdom and finding a rightful and decent king to succeed.” 

“Why two or three groups? Wouldn’t that just be one group?” Colin asked, shifting the weight of the basket to his other hand. 

“You would think that, and I’m sure in the end they probably found some common ground. But everyone has ideas about the best way to do things, even when they agree on what needs to be done – whether it’s building a well or a kingdom. You remember when we rebuilt the well, here in Holding.” 

Boots and Colin remembered the building of the well vividly. Some of their fondest memories were from that memorable spring when the villagers in Holding worked “together” to rebuild the well. It was still a forbidden topic in Colin’s house, mentioning it set Tale on edge. Many villagers made a point of using the old well as a sign of protest to what had happened. Boots remembered how passionately some had felt about the type of stone that was to be used. Then he imagined being a lord and having piles of wealth at stake and having to decide which king to support instead of whether to use limestone or river rock. 

“So how did they agree?” Boots asked. 

“With no small amount of secret dealings and bloodshed, I would imagine,” she responded. “That is to say, I do not think they all just agreed after having a nice, long chat.” 

Colin, as usual, had moved to speculating in every direction. “Does that mean the new king, before he was the new king, and all the people that followed him, were they committing treason up until the point that the new king actually became the new king?” 

Meranin nodded. “Yes, they did. And once Harald was in power many men and women in the nobility tried to use that to immediately unseat him as a usurper. And those people were then committing treason in turn against Harald, as was anyone still supporting Frederick. Although those refusing to recognize Harald claimed that Harald and his supporters were the traitors. Suffice it to say, it was rather messy.” 

Boots asked, “what happened to the others then? The men and women who were against the new king taking over. Did they lose all their lands and titles – or whatever it is they have? Did they get executed?” 

“Goodness no!” Meranin said. “Can you imagine? Imagine if a wealthy landowner fired all his workers every time they disagreed with him. Or if a farmer killed his sheep every time one wandered off? No, you need all the parts to make the whole work. I am sure there were some lords and ladies that met an unfortunate demise. But, overall, the nobles have wealth and power that feeds the kingdom’s wealth and power and keeps the king wealthy and powerful. It is a chain that needs strong links.” 

“And they just get to keep being themselves?” Boots sounded a little disgusted. 

“Yes. Unjust as it sounds, they do. They change their alliances; they make gifts and promises of peace and the king pretends that it is sincere even if it isn’t, so long as they keep their word. The king cannot afford to go to war with everyone that opposes him within his own kingdom. It would be disastrous. 

“That might account for some of the mistrust Bridda is facing. There is no way for a villager in Holding to know the inner-workings of the castle and the old kings and new kings and how they fell or rose. But it would be foolish to think that every man or woman that sits on the throne is entirely righteous. Before old Frederick fell to temptation, he was a decent enough ruler. But look how he turned out. It pays to be vigilant.” 

“You mean suspicious. It pays to be suspicious,” Colin said. 

“Suspicious is another way to look at it,” Meranin agreed.  

Boots and Colin thought this over while they walked. Merging this less ideal -but evidently practical- approach to kingship with the more honourable and duel-challenging version they entertained in their minds. Both had a very recent reminder of the realities of tangling with royalty. Boots’ was wreathed in shame and Colin’s in guilt. But the question they both wanted answered had somehow been absent from the explanation Meranin had offered. 

“So, all that stuff about power and magic. Are you saying it was real. That the wizard was real?” Boots finally asked. “Everyone talks about it, but no one seems to really know what it means. Or even if it was true. But just now, you seemed to talk about it like it was.” 

Meranin paused before answering. “The world is full of unexplained strangeness,” she said, seeming to build her answer as she spoke. “It would be foolish to dismiss something out of hand if it had the potential to alter the course of your life so fully. If you admit for the possibility of something, then you are at least somewhat prepared for it when it happens.” 

Boots could not help but feel like she was speaking more about him than any wizard. About the dreams and warning she had for him, and how he had foolishly dismissed them out of hand. But when he looked guiltily her way, she seemed lost in her own thoughts. Then she gave her head a small shake. 

 “I suppose many things are possible, and there is no shortage of rumours about the wizard. But it is as I said, the walls to the castle are thick and strong, they keep their own secrets. What Holding villager would have any real insight into wizards and kings? What need have we of that when there are seeds to put in the ground and water to draw from the wells?” 

They spoke a little more of Bridda and some of the things Colin had overheard. Then it was time for Colin to make his way home. Boots took the basket from Colin, and even though he was ready for the weight, it still surprised him anew. 

“What is in there?” He asked as they turned for home. 

“A small anvil,” Meranin said with a smile. 

“Not really?” 

“Yes. And some odd bits of metal and a few specific stones, and some other things. I am going to craft a few things. I need a small anvil to work the metals.” 

“What for?” Boots asked, hefting the basket into the wagon. 

“Just trying something new,” she said. She was looking through the contents, they were out of Boots’ sight, but he heard some clinking as she moved things around. 

“For the blight?” He asked. 

“Hmmm, what’s that?” 

“The copper and stuff. Is it somehow going to make a cure to fight the sickness that’s taking down the fields?” 

“Yes, yes, for the blight,” she answered. 

The sky was clear blue, and the sun was bright and hot. There was a gentle breeze that was refreshing when encountered on a shady path. Boots and his mother walked in contented silence, alone with their thoughts. 

Meranin seemed deep within her own mind, her eyes looking outward only enough to see the path before her and place her feet without tripping, but the rest of her was deep in thought. She could be plotting to bring down a wizard or determining how many berry shoots to cultivate – her face showed only that she was pensive. 

Walking beside her, Boots had an easier expression to read. His forehead was creased ever so slightly between his eyebrows, in a way that meant he was worrying through something in his mind. He scuffed his feet a few times on the path as he walked, as if any time his thoughts became snarled it tripped him up wholly.  

He was thinking about the idea of castles, and lords and the politics of royalty and rule that his mother had painted. And even as what she said made sense, the more he thought about it, it also made the missing pieces more obvious. It was like a forest in the fog, you could see the trees in front of you, but what was behind the gloom? The idea of a wizard was like the gloom – unknowable and full or foreboding, but still part of the picture and his mother had lied about it. 

Meranin was very much a person who decided what truths people needed to know. Because of that she was not only comfortable lying but felt justified in doing it. It was not something widely realized; but Boots knew from experience. She did, Boots had noted, make an effort not to lie to him. She would certainly avoid the truth or refuse to tell it – but she seemed to avoid lying outright to her son. Maybe from some sort of maternal duty, or maybe because she was aware that he could tell the difference.  

In his thoughts, Boots kept circling back to one, precise moment in the conversation. When Colin asked the question about the wizard she had hesitated. And then, before answering, she had taken a quick breath like a swimmer about to duck her head under water. It was not much different from gathering your thoughts to answer a complicated question; and would seem like exactly that to someone who did not know her as well. But Boots was fairly certain that, just before his mother answered the question about to what degree a wizard was involved in the demise of the old king, she had decided to lie.

Boots went on for the next few days in an easy enough routine. He would wake, peek outside for signs of his mother, eat, go off to work, return, eat and endeavour to shoot his bow. At some point Bridda would stop by – usually while he was in the fields – and inquire about his day, his health and then his mother. They both knew the last question was her true interest, but they worked politely through the first two. 

It was enough to unsettle Boots just a little about his mother’s whereabouts. On the third day he asked Bridda if there was something to be concerned about. His worry must have shown in his face because she seemed to check a retort and instead say, with a reassuring smile, “as you have said, I’m sure your mother knows what she’s doing.” 

Then the question hung between them, but why do you care so much, but it went unasked. It was a puzzle, but he had other things to occupy his mind. The village was slowly on the mend from the flood. Everyone was concentrating on the mill, but Boots had little to offer and less time to spare in that regard. He was not a skilled craftsman nor could he draft up plans and measurements. He was strong enough for lifting and moving, but they had plenty of help for that already. 

Word had been filtering in from other villages about the damages from the storm. There had been a death from a tree falling on a house, and any number of injuries. Jayna was always seen on the move, borrowing a horse or donkey to go from one place to the other, healing and helping where she could. Boots was not around anyone long enough to hear them ask about where his mother was, but he was sure that Jayna missed her being around to help. There was also a lot of movement on the roads, people going to check on relatives, or lend their skills where needed. 

It was not all about broken things being fixed, there were also celebrations to prepare for. The end of summer festival, Moonwhistle, was coming up. It was held in the evenings, so as not to waste precious daylight hours, the games and events taking place by the bright of the moon and the orange flicker of torches. Boots usually loved the midharvest festival, but this year as he watched the moon’s face grow fuller there was a bit of trepidation. A village festival like this was when he would be honing his skill with the bow and maybe knife throwing, preparing to compete and, most likely, to win. Not so this year. 

In the handful of days since he had starting practicing, he had seen no progress. But for some reason it did not feel like failure. He thought of Colin’s grandfather making wheels and carts with his mangled hand. He thought of Burig handing him the copper token and saying, ‘see, learning already,’ when Boots took it with his left hand instead of his right. Boots found the salmon token and started wearing it as a reminder to keep trying. He continued to drag out the target and his bow and attempted to define the shape of his losses so that he could begin to fill them in. 

But that did not mean he was less embarrassed to go to Moonwhistle. He could not help but think he would be conspicuously absent from the events he usually took part in. 

On the fourth day of his mother’s absence, Colin had made plans to stop by in the evening. Boots made sure to have the target put away and bow stowed before his friend arrived. It was likely Colin knew Moonwhistle would be a little difficult for Boots to face, and that was fine, but he wasn’t prepared to answer any questions about his attempts to rebuild his skill. 

Colin sauntered up as the sky was purpling over the trees. Boots had a merry fire started in front of the cottage and had soaked the heels of bread from the loaf his mother had left in some honey and milk and sprinkled them with nuts and dried berries. Delicious, but also a way of stretching out the food she had left before he would have to attempt baking. The concoction was warming in a heavy pot near the flames. Colin arrived with some root vegetables stewed with meat, still warm from the cookpot at his house. Boots fetched some butter and bowls. 

They drank cool water from the well as they feasted. 

“Have you been to the river today, or the mill?” Boots asked. 

“Yes, only briefly, with my father. The river is flowing in the right direction again. It is being hailed as an auspicious change as we get closer to the festival.” 

Boots nodded, “and the shark?” 

“Still on the shore, but they plan to try and butcher it. As long as it has not spoiled too much to eat. Bessie has offered to try and prepare it.” 

Boots made a face at the thought. Colin shrugged and continued. “Apparently, you can eat the meat, but only after carefully smoking and drying it – or maybe you bury it in the ground. I don’t remember the details, only that It’s supposed to take months and is poisonous if not prepared properly. Balert has, of course, offered to gather the ingredients if he can be guaranteed an opportunity to sell it for profit.” 

“Really?” Boots raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be a very rare meat, and I think sacred in some cases. Luthi has asked for the teeth – which Balert wanted as well. You can probably guess what each of those wants them for.” Colin waited a beat while they stared at the crackling flames, then said with studied casualness, “I kind of had other plans for the teeth myself.” 

It took Boots a moment to catch the unspoken intent behind his friend’s words. Boots slid his eyes sideways and saw Colin’s lazy smile. “What, that beast didn’t try to sink its teeth into either of their hides, did it? Besides, you remember, there are lots of teeth. Who would miss a few?” 

Boots nodded, the image of those rows of bloody teeth breaking through the water brought a memory of fear that was quickly quelled by the idea that Colin was proposing. 

“Are you thinking tonight?” Boots asked. 

“Why do you think I brought stew and not beer?” Colin asked, giving Boots’ shoulder a shove, “I want you fed and alert after a long day in the sun. Get your shoes back on and let’s go!” 

 

They made their way quickly to the river. It took longer than usual because they avoided paths, not wanting to be seen. They chatted when they took breaks from jogging to stroll along. Boots found out that Bridda had been inquiring after his mother quite a bit. 

“I heard my mother tell my father something along the lines of: she’s a nice enough lady, that Bridda, and no doubt a fighter. But I wouldn’t advise her to be crossing Meranin. I hope she hasn’t been harassing poor Boots, we should ask Colin,” Colin said, keeping his voice low, but pulling off an apt imitation of his mother’s voice all the same. They were far from anything or anyone, but getting close enough to the river to be cautious. They could see the orange glow of torches and fires set up in the distance. 

“And what did your father say?” 

“Something about Provinny being none too happy about it either, I think?” 

“Well, that’s more than I hear about Provinny in a whole year,” Boots said. 

Provinny, the magister’s wife, seemed more frail and elderly than Yuggen even though she was younger than he. She was slight, and stooped and crowned by a fringe of white hair that escaped in wisps from whatever bonnet she put on her head. She always had knitting or a needle and thread in her hand. And it always seemed that her thoughts wove in and out of reality with the same regularity as her stitches. It was hard to picture Provinny having the wherewithal to have an opinion about anything, no less be unhappy about it. 

Colin shrugged and then filled Boots in on a few other bits of gossip. Apparently, there had been a long stretch of afternoon where Tafner could not be found. Sheffi showed up at Bessie’s looking for her, only to find Siggu’s mother, Naani, looking for her son as well. That’s when they realized that both Siggu and Tafner had been gone the better part of the day. 

“But before sparks could start flying, Bessie came out from the kitchen waving a wooden spoon and chased them out. Then asked how in Wodan’s name they hadn’t learned anything after losing Sarna and Toby. She followed up with: if history repeats itself, you’ll only have yourselves to blame.” 

“I’ll bet that went well,” Boots said, stifling a laugh as he picked his way through some uneven ground. 

“Sheffi is already trying to prevent Bessie from bringing her pies to Moonwhistle and insisting upon a public apology.” 

“I imagine she’ll be waiting for quite some time,” Boots said. 

“I imagine she’ll be waiting until she needs something from Bessie’s store more than she wants that apology,” Colin qualified. 

They both smirked into the darkness then stopped talking by unspoken agreement. They would soon be too close to make any unnecessary sound as they crossed the mostly-open field. They relied on the gurgle of the river, the swish of the wind through the grass and the dark, cloudy sky to cover their approach. They crouched behind some bushes about half way between a large fire and the riverbank. There were murmurs of conversation from a few people around the torches that dotted the space in between. They heard a familiar voice and looked panic at each other in the darkness. Colin peeked overtop the bushes to be sure then sat back down. 

“Bollocks. It’s my father,” he whispered. “I was counting on a few half-bored villagers and maybe Balert hiring a few men to keep an eye out. Not my father.” 

Boots knelt up to look as well, “maybe he’s just checking on things and then he’ll leave.” 

“As long as he doesn’t try to check on us after.” 

Boots and Colin looked at each other then broke into wide smiles. 

“This was a great idea,” Boots said. 

“Honestly, I thought I was going to have to pry you away from your field. I didn’t even have to bribe you with the beer I stashed in the old woodshed.” 

“Well now you do.” 

“It can be for the victory celebration.” 

They sat with the low shrubs between them and the riverbank. There were a handful of villagers milling about with a vague sense of purpose. Most were probably drawn by curiosity and the welcome change from the day to day. Drinking by the fire in the warm night air, the shark a talking point that led in all manner of interesting speculation about the world beyond their village and its routines. That had certainly been the direction of Boots’ thoughts as he’d toiled away in his fields these past few days. His shovel had been firmly in the ground, but his mind traveled along the river and out to the open sea. He imaged the fields and forest he would pass, a little fishing village or maybe a bustling port of some kind -he was fuzzy as to what that would look like but he was able to imagine it. Then past some large boats and into the deep, blue depths. 

“How many do you think are here with coin from Balert to watch the shark?” Colin whispered, breaking into his thoughts. 

“Probably a few,” Boots whispered back, “who would believe that anyone in this village would actually try to sneak in and steal a shark – or its teeth?” 

“Yeah. Who would ever plan on such a thing?” Colin responded, and Boots could hear his impish grin even if he could not fully see it. 

“Do you have a plan?” Boots asked. 

“Ummm, no,” Colin admitted. He held up the sac he had brought to collect their trophies in. “Well, I brought this to put the teeth in. I just decided today when I heard they were going to start butchering it up that we needed to get those teeth first.” 

They scanned the area in the flickering firelight, weighing their options when a new voice joined in. Boots and Colin both cursed silently as the figure approached. Bridda called out a greeting to the people assembled and started talking to Tale. 

“I believe he should arrive soon,” she was saying, “he’s been making his way across the country and was able to stop by with someone who could help.” 

“Is he coming straight here?” Tale asked. 

“Yes, then to the village hall briefly.” 

“What about Balert, I thought he was heavily interested in being here.” Tale said, his voice was neutral but Colin and Boots both knew how Tale felt about Balert. 

Bridda’s reply was such a study in neutrality that it was almost funny. “I told Balert the party would stop at the village hall to gather he and Yuggen before coming to the river. It’s possible I was incorrect. How very unfortunate”  

“Ah.” Was Tale’s diplomatic answer. 

Boots and Colin grinned at each other in spite of themselves. Bridda’s alert presence would make it more difficult to steal the teeth, but her way of dealing with some of Holding’s more eccentric personalities was increasingly entertaining. 

Albo had wandered over to Tale and Bridda, the three stood speaking in lowered voices. Boots and Colin looked over the shrub again, trying to better hear what was being said. 

They were so focused on trying to decipher Albo’s deep tones they did not notice Bridda peering in their direction. Colin gave Boots a warning jab, and Boots saw the commander looking their way. Had it been daylight, he was certain she would have met his eyes. 

Boots and Colin froze. Maybe if they did not move she would not be able to distinguish them from the bushes. She turned her attention back to Tale and Albo. 

“If I could propose that we carry on just over the bank, beyond the smell? I don’t think our friend here will go anywhere,” she said, with a nod towards the shark. 

The two men agreed and the three of them went up the riverbank. Their voices joining with those of the villagers at the fire. 

Well, maybe that had been luck or maybe that had been a gift from the commander, but they would not waste time wondering which. Boots looked a question at Colin, who nodded vigorously. The two set off down to the riverbank. They stopped at the final tufts of grass and reeds right before the exposed sandy patch where the shark had been dragged ashore. Boots plucked at Colin’s shirt and gestured at the ground near his feet. Sticking out from Colin’s shoe was a bundle of herbs tied with string that was half-crushed under his weight. No doubt the result of Luthi’s, Jayna’s and Meranin’s efforts. Colin lifted his foot and picked up the wreath, it looked like it was supposed to be a pentagram. He carefully bent it back into shape and placed it on the ground again. It sat somewhat lopsided, Boots gave it another nudge to adjust it, having some vague idea that one of the points should face east. 

They looked up over the beach in the flickering torchlight and saw that there were other animals on the beach. A few turtle shells could be seen on the other side of the shark body, some with legs and heads mouldering away in the dirt. A little beyond that someone was standing by a torch, Boots was not sure who it was based on the silhouette, but they did not seem keen on watching the shore too closely. 

Possibly it was the smell. 

Now that they were closer, the reek of rotting animal and souring fish combined into something powerfully disgusting. Overlaying the smell was the buzz of flies and the whine of tinier, biting insects. Boots waved one away from his face and wished he had some of his mother’s piney bug paste to keep away the bugs and the smell – it was so strong he could taste it. 

“Isn’t this past the point of eating?” Boots whispered. 

“I wouldn’t try any,” Colin said. Although it was likely if someone actually prepared the shark meat, they would both try it in a heartbeat. 

“We’re going to have to use the shark’s body to hide behind,” Colin said, in a whisper hampered by his unwillingness to breath the rancid air. 

“I guess we were going to have to get close to it eventually,” Boots said. “You’re faster, you go first.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Colin said without enthusiasm. 

Boots shrugged, for once enjoying that he always lost to Colin in foot races. “And don’t wait for me; if you have a chance, take it. You have the bag?” 

Colin nodded and settled himself just at the edge of the small beach. His long legs carried him the short distance in three or four long strides. The man stationed by the torch didn’t even turn around. Then Colin sat behind the shark, leaning back as far as he could, as if he could avoid that smell. Boots watched the guard by the torch who still did not seem very interested in the beach. Boots followed Colin’s route to crouch beside him. 

  The smell was foul, but they were already getting used to it. At least someone had washed away the fecal matter that had gushed out of the shark, because they now crawled through the sand towards the head of the beast to get close to its mouth. There was no way to get the teeth out without being in full view. 

“You keep watch,” Colin whispered to Boots, then he crawled around to the front. Boots really had to focus to keep his attention on the guard. His eyes kept dropping to the lipless maw that Colin was about to stick his arm into. It occurred to Boots that Colin should be extremely careful not to cut himself. Who knew what strange disease of the blood he could catch from those teeth strung with rotting fish guts. 

Even as Boots had the thought, Colin scrambled back around empty handed. “I don’t want to get cut,” he explained. 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Boots agreed. 

“The teeth are so jagged and look difficult to grab. Give me your shirt.” Colin demanded in a whisper, putting out a hand. 

“What? My shirt? Use your own shirt!” Boots hissed back. 

Colin peeked over the shark again. “I need to wrap my hand in something to grab the teeth. I don’t want to be caught out there with no shirt and my hand in a shark’s mouth!” 

Boots could see his friend’s point, but he did not want to be caught shirtless hiding behind a shark either. 

“Here, use my stockings,” Boots said, slipping off his shoe. “You can put your hand right in it like a glove. Take both.” 

Colin slid the footwear over his hands and up his forearms. He grimaced at the sweatiness. 

“Your hands are about to be someplace much worse.” Boots chided. 

Colin made a face and went to crouch near the shark’s nose. He waited until Boots gave him the signal to sneak back around. Boots was feeling a new sense of urgency about their quest, and he had an easier time focusing beyond the dead shark at the man in the torchlight. He ignored the occasional loud breath from Colin and the faint clicking sounds of the teeth falling into the bag. 

“Colin,” he hissed, “someone’s coming.” 

A figure was heading towards the man who had been standing by the torch, one hand extended like he was carrying something, maybe a drink or food. They called greetings to each other as Colin scrambled behind the shark again. His eyes wide. His hands wrapped around the bag. 

“Did it work?” Boots breathed. 

In response Colin opened the bag and held it in front of Boots. Boots peered in and saw a dull sheen of white from inside. He tentatively put his hand in and very carefully felt the smooth surfaces and jagged edges. They felt strangely human and he subconsciously ran his tongue along his own teeth. It was disconcerting and incredible. 

He gave a silent laugh, a push of air that was relief and amazement all together. Colin’s face had gone from near-disbelief to excitement he stripped the socks off of his hands and tossed them into the sand. 

They had a stolen bag of shark’s teeth! But their quest was not over until they made it home again. Boots risked a quick look over the shark’s body. The two men by the torch were now turned, looking over the past the shark and towards the river. Running across the open space to get back to the grasses was not going to be an option. 

They were deciding if they should throw a rock as a distraction when another arrival changed their plan. 

Hoof beats could be heard approaching, there were raised voices calling out greetings, Bridda’s among them. Who would Bridda be so eager to greet in Holding? 

“Captain Burig,” Tale’s voice carried through the chatter, “thank you for taking time to visit.” 

Colin and Boots stiffened as the captain’s voice answered, “Really, it’s in my interests I assure you. Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.” His greeting rolled into a series of instructions for the soldiers that must have arrived with him. 

Boots felt a trickle of panic. Why else would Burig be back in Holding except to see the shark? Beside him Colin clutched the bag tightly, his eyes wide. Boots was clutching the rock he had thought of throwing just as tightly. His mind jumped to the moment when they would be discovered hiding behind the shark like children, their stolen goods gripped in sweaty hands. 

Boots eyes fell on the bag. Well, he could at least do something about that last part. He looked his meaning at Colin. Boots took the bag, dropped the rock in, tied the top tightly closed, gave it a swing, and launched it off to the left at a low angle. He was hoping his aim was still good and that he would be able to find it again in the darkness, or even if they had to come back in the morning. It landed in the grasses with hardly a sound. With Burig’s orders being carried out and the stamping of horses and feet, no one noticed. 

It was a good plan, if a bit unnecessary. Because with Burig’s arrival drawing attention there was no one watching the beach anymore, and Boots and Colin easily slipped back across the sand. 

Colin waited quietly in the longer grass while Boots carefully went to retrieve the bag of shark’s teeth. He had a moment of pride when he found it had landed exactly where he had expected it to. Regardless of his slow progress with the bow, his aim was still good. 

He took a moment to remove the stone he had put inside, grimacing as he reached around the teeth. He re-tied the bag and tucked it into his shirt, not wanting to risk it dropping or spilling if they had to run. 

Boots was getting ready to head back to where Colin was hiding when a few soldiers strode closer to where he was. His thoughts bounced around. If he moved now, he would likely be heard or seen. But these soldiers did not know who he was, would not suspect he had just pilfered some shark’s teeth. He tried to picture just standing up casually in the grass and greeting the soldiers in a nonchalant way as Colin might do. After all, the only suspicious thing he was doing right now was hiding. Maybe he could pretend he had fallen asleep. 

He shifted his weight, thinking he could take very slow, crouching steps backwards through the long grass. But the approach of Burig’s voice changed his plans again. Accompanying Burig was an intriguing figure, cloaked despite the warmth of the evening. A third, shorter figure, also hooded, followed quickly behind. Soldiers were moving torches to light a path and brighten the beach. Except for Tale, no other villagers remained nearby. 

Curiosity winning out over the fear of being caught, Boots sank a little deeper into his hiding place to watch and listen. 

“I think it would be best if the good villagers of Holding started to make their way home,” Boots heard Burig say to Tale, “this will take some time and Chandra’s work is that of the Cloisters. It is carefully guarded.” 

“I understand,” Tale said. “Albo can send word to them, unless you want me to leave as well.” 

“Not just yet, if you please,” Burig said. “But send Albo, and I will have soldiers to help clear the area.” 

Boots took in a deep, silent gasp as a million thoughts flooded his brain at once. 

The Cloisters.  

The Cloisters was, according to those who considered themselves worldly, a rambling stone building found in some remote area of the kingdom. A place that used to be home to a religious order whose purpose and gods were long forgotten. All that remained was the name of what it had been: The Cloisters. And that had remained as its title, as befittingly vague as its purpose. 

Ostensibly, The Cloisters was a place where academics trained in specialized fields to serve the castle. Men and women who could design bridges, plan villages, balance large accounts, track trade goods and plan how and when to store foodstuffs towards a famine. There was a great deal of power attributed to those roles. And it was easy to imagine a place filled with clicking abaci, murmured discussions over detailed maps, and the smell of ink and paper as these fine minds set order to the kingdom. 

But there was another image of The Cloisters, also in service to the king, but one that held much more allure and trained its recruits in fields that were much more specialized. This was a place of secret passages, shadowed halls, and greenhouses filled with mysterious plants. Of alchemists and assassins brewing poisons and forging gold behind a forest of glass tubes and coloured smoke. It was a place where you could learn fighting arts that were nothing like the brash clashing of an army. 

There was also magic, it was said. But that was spoken in hushed whispers. Ever since the old king and the wizard, so went some of the rumours, a student of The Cloisters gone to the bad. The new king could not risk another upset, not after the last incident. Rumour was that The Cloisters had been shut down, or forbidden from using magic. 

Crouched unseen in the grasses, Boots was not about to miss an opportunity to glean something about the mysterious place. The cloaked figure with Burig was, Boots discovered, a woman named Chandra. She was almost as tall as Burig, with her darkish hair piled on top of her head making her seem even taller. The way she was dressed showed off a silhouette that was so elegant it was intimidating. As she turned this way and that to survey the shark, bits of her clothes and hair glinted a warm amber in the flickering torchlight. Bits of metal, Boots wagered, either gold or copper. 

The third person, shorter, could have been a girl or boy. Also cloaked, but long limbed and a little gawky, they seemed to be assisting the mysterious Chandra in some way. The woman moved with purpose, as though looking for something or listening for someone. The assistant followed at a discreet distance, darting forward when needed then falling back again. 

Burig stood further off, but was clearly waiting for a moment he would jump into action – or maybe he always looked that way. Tale and Bridda stood even further, talking to each other, but glancing the woman’s way. 

Looking at Tale, Boots could read that the man was on edge. It was the set of his shoulders, the way he kept crossing and uncrossing his arms, trying to keep his hands busy in the absence of something to actually do with them. It was the same way Colin acted in the rare moments that he was nervous enough to show it. 

Boots glanced behind to see if there was any sign that Colin was nearby but he could see nothing in the waving grasses. He wondered if his friend could hear and see what was happening too. 

Chandra, was now holding some sort of mobile in front of her. Bits and bobs dangled on strings and slowly turned in the night breeze, glinting as pieces caught the flickering firelight. 

For the first time, Boots heard her speak clearly. Her voice was pleasant and bore the cultured accents of the city. 

“Someone has already been here. And done quite impressively well,” she said, still watching the mobile. 

Tale uncrossed his arms again and lifted his voice to answer. “We do have a very competent healer here in Holding.” 

“And a vidari woodsman,” Bridda piped in. “I’ve met him. And he is as close to genuine as I have ever seen.” 

This did break the woman’s attention from what she was doing as she turned to Bridda. “Really?” Chandra’s tone focused on the commander. “And is that what you have been doing here all this time?” 

“Oh, I am not at liberty to discuss that,” Bridda said, with a smile in her voice. 

“I’ve trained you so well,” Burig responded, sounding annoyed. Boots could not be sure, but he thought Chandra clucked at him, as if at a petulant child. 

“Well, I wish we had more time here, I would love to meet this man – and your healer woman too. The work that’s been done here is quite fine. I would almost think they’d had Cloister training.” Chandra said. 

“I could send someone around to see if Jayna or Luthi are free to meet us at Yuggen’s,” Tale offered, and his voice was a little higher pitched than usual.  

I suppose, Boots thought, that the combination of Burig and this woman would be a little unnerving. 

It did not escape Boots’ notice that his mother’s name had not been mentioned in all of this. No doubt Tale would correctly assume that Meranin would not want to be drawn into the conversation, being the recluse that she was. Boots did wonder that Bridda and Burig, given their seeming interest in Meranin, did not mention her either. 

“As much as I am curious about some of the methods I see here, I don’t suppose we have time for that. Much to your relief, I am sure, captain,” Chandra said to Burig. “I will set to work and we will be on our way as scheduled.” 

“Your diligence is appreciated,” The captain responded politely. 

She said something they were too far away to hear as she turned to give instructions to her assistant and others. The assistant dashed away, Bridda had some soldiers set up a folding table and a lantern, the assistant reappeared lugging a heavy bag and carrying a cumbersome box under one arm. The woman thanked everyone as they came and went, then began searching through the bag for items and setting them on the table. 

The assistant scurried around with a smaller lantern peering at the sand. The figured paused in the spot where Colin and Boots had hidden before. 

“Here, Lady.” He or she called in a voice that was still not clearly male or female. 

Chandra looked up from what she was doing and then lifted her skirts so they would not trail through the sand as she made her way over. 

“What is it, Vicely?” she asked. 

Boots could see what was in the assistant’s, or Vicely’s, hands. It was the pentagram of bent twigs and herbs that he and Colin had crushed earlier. Chandra inspected it, as if reading some message written on the stems and bark. 

“Best make a new one,” she said. “Someone thinks we need a high level of protection here, and who am I to judge?” 

“Well,” Vicely said, “you actually are one of the best people to judge.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Chandra said, with a voice like a cat’s purr. “And since I am in a position to judge, I would have to say I agree. Can you make a new one? And quickly, I don’t think we can –” Her voice trailed off. 

She held up a finger to indicate silence. 

And there was silence. Total silence. 

Boots’ breathing sounded strangely ragged and harsh in his ears and he tried to lessen it lest he be heard in the sudden quiet of the night. 

He realized that the chirrup of the crickets and the buzz of the insects had gone. The grasses had ceased to sway in the breeze. The only other sound was the trickling along of the river and even that had a different quality to it. There was a regularity that should not be there, a rhythm, like the rowing of oars, or someone walking very slowly through the shallows. 

“Vicely, you need to put the wax in your ears, now. And stay close to me.” The sudden command in Chandra’s voice put Boots on edge, something was happening. 

Vicely dropped the bundle of twigs and scrambled to obey. Chandra had issued her orders without looking away from the river, she kept her eyes trained in that direction as she called the Captain over. 

“Burig,” she said. 

Her voice was not too loud, but it was very taught and it pulled Burig quickly to her side. He also looked out into the darkness as they spoke. 

“They’re coming.”