Songbroken

By Heather Osborne

She sang a vow to learn to heal, but the person she needed to save was herself.

 

Nils is a healer's apprentice faced with a difficult choice. Only men are allowed to be healers. But if Nils denies her heart and chooses that path, neither a healer's status nor the balm of study will make up for losing a chance at marriage with the person she loves.

 

Instead, concealing her true self from everyone she knows, Nils risks an dangerous journey to the distant city, desperate to find a balance between life's passion and heart's life. But always, the question remains—can a healer's songs truly work for a woman? And should Nils's deception be discovered, she will be songbroken: shunned by her family, dismissed by her master, and denied any contract, vow, or relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Forest Path Books
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781951293451

Book preview

Dedication

for my mother,

who taught me everything

Chapter One

NILS WOKE at the clink of a tin plate hitting the iron porridge kettle. Throwing off down quilts, Nils scrambled to the window, unhooked the shutter, and peered out. Last night’s rain had passed! Clear sunlight gleamed through the mist.

Trenon must be home from overmountain. Had to be.

And mothers would want every hand at the logging camp today. Not just today—for as long as the weather held. Fathers wouldn’t let the children miss the work. They’d be set to gathering deadfall for the charcoal kiln or whittling feather sticks to sell as kindling. Nils would be stuck working the felling saws or shepherding siblings. The little ones still slept softly, snuggled together under eider quilts on the room’s other straw pallets, but the sounds of crockery from the kitchen would soon rouse them.

If Nils could slip out—before fathers could start assigning chores—there was a chance.

A chance to see Trenon.

Silently, shivering, Nils tugged on a pair of canvas trousers and goatskin boots. Yesterday’s linens would last another day before they needed boiling in fathers’ laundry cauldron. The trousers were frayed at the heels, but that, and the grass stains, could be hidden under woollen gaiters. Nils tugged on a plain-woven tunic, ignoring the pop of stitches along the shoulder seams. The cuffs fell short, baring three finger-widths of Nils’s wrists. A quilted cloak covered the worst of the embarrassment.

Easing out of the children’s room and into the hall, Nils heard the usual morning grumbles filling the kitchen: the bad weather; the worse land claims; the sucking mud that could founder the mules, so mothers and sisters would end up hauling the logs back from the camp to the drying sheds themselves. Nils could smell meat in the porridge—Ranis had taken a spruce grouse with a lucky arrow yesterday. There would be barley, and thyme, and rich rosemary... Nils’s stomach gave a pang of complaint.

But if fathers saw Nils was awake, there’d be no escape. Grabbing a rucksack from a hook by the guest door—an excuse, if brothers were already out hitching the mules—Nils inched the door open. The yard was empty, and the kitchen windows still shuttered against yesterday’s rain. No one would see Nils heading for the muddy path to the village.

Nils sniffed at the green, damp air, and stepped outside. Wind rustled in the thatch above. The latch clicked shut softly. And Nils bolted for the trees.

SPRING HAD teased the mountains of Asaresta since the frost lifted: a day of warmth, followed by a nineday of chill rain. But today, the weather promised hot and clear.

Nils ran through the woods, despite pinching boots, leaving behind a dark trail in the silvery dew. Spring meant new contracts: families claiming their lands for planting; labourers promising a season’s work for wages. Trenon couldn’t afford to miss the spring songs.

There weren’t many contract singers in the tiny villages of the back ranges. Trenon had left before the snow cleared the passes in order to negotiate as many songs as possible. He needed to earn as much silver as he could scrape together. With the spring floods, though, men and women from nameless farms in the high glens were arriving in Asaresta every day, hoping to contract for a season’s work. With the change in the weather, Trenon had to have turned back.

And he’d promised to be home for Nils’s birthday—he’d promised to sing the rite himself.

Nils’s heart hammered, breath rasping, as the path steepened. Men were out in the stepped fields, taking their mattocks to last year’s claim-cairns. Soon everyone would be out, impatient to make this season’s claims and start planting.

The path opened out into a clearing above the thundering river. Stone-walled Asaresta lay in a notch in the mountains, between the inland miners and chamois shepherds and the few hardwood and wheat traders from the plains willing to climb up to meet them. Nils slowed to a jog. An arched gateway at the highest point of the village led from the field path to the village’s narrow streets.

Traders and their wares filled the market switchbacks. Mules and mountain ponies added their droppings to the mud that slicked the cobbles. Nils slipped through the press disregarded. No one in the market bothered to turn, let alone demand courtesy, even if Nils trod on their toes. Children didn’t have the place to give insult, nor to take offence, and everyone could see Nils’s unbelted, undyed cloak. Faded and frayed, it barely reached Nils’s knees. Why waste good cloth on children, no matter how tall and broad, in that last awkward season before they came of age—let alone for the final nineday?

A nineday! Nils turned down a crooked stairway and left the market, and the crowds, behind. The season had truly turned. When Trenon had left Asaresta, the snow had packed these streets to his knees. Nils had followed Trenon halfway to the pass that day. Trusting the skirling snow to hide them from watching eyes, they’d lingered over a kiss warm enough to melt the frost from Nils’s eyelashes. Then Trenon had left, a muffled form dark against the icy path.

Now he’d be back. Trenon was less than a year older but a man already. Apprenticed in his trade since the fall. But in a nineday, Nils would be—

Old enough. At last.

Nils paused at the mouth of an alley. The tall house across the street had once been part of a much larger claim, and its granite face was still imposing. The nearby dwellings had once been ells and outbuildings, sketching a sizable courtyard. No longer. Year by year, Trenon’s parents had lost their bids and the claim had shrunk. All that remained within their claim-cairns was a low wall outlining a weedy kitchen garden. There had even been rumours that they might lose their claim altogether this spring, and be forced to claim some other, smaller dwelling. But then Trenon had apprenticed to the contract singer, Dalor. Some in the village muttered that Dalor might let Trenon’s family hold their claim for another year, for Trenon’s sake. But the mutters never grew to accusations. Dalor had always treated bids fairly. Place didn’t sway his songs.

Nils leaned against the cool stone of the alley wall, watching for a twitch of curtains or a flicker of lamplight that might show who was home. A child couldn’t simply ring the chimes at the guest door and expect a welcome. Not if Trenon’s mother answered the door. Nils wasn’t that reckless.

But the windows on the women’s side were dark. A thread of smoke rose from the chimney on the men’s side. Nils wrung a loose shirt-end with damp palms. Across the street might as well be mothers’ logging camp, at this rate!

Crossing the street quickly, Nils went to the smaller door on the men’s side. Even here, away from the guest door, there were echoes of a grander, vanished claim. The door was built of oak planks, with brass hinges instead of leather. There weren’t any chimes, so Nils tapped softly, prepared to turn and run. Trenon’s father, Ralon, was as craggy as a cliffside and just as sharp. But when the door creaked open, only Trenon stood on the step.

Nils’s lips dried. Trenon wore a loose linen shirt above his left-belted trousers. His long chestnut hair was curly and mussed from sleep. He was slender, spare, and completely beautiful.

Trenon’s sleepy scowl vanished when he saw Nils. What are you doing here?

I wanted to see you. Excitement tingled in Nils’s skin. The hall behind Trenon was empty, with no sign of Ralon. How was your trip? You must have done well. Nils reached out to finger the soft weave of Trenon’s new clothes, dyed in fawns and muted reds. They made his brown eyes look even darker and deeper than usual.

Trenon’s smile curved slowly. Well enough. He tilted his chin to look up at Nils. Were you always this tall?

Sometime since winter, Nils had passed Trenon’s height. The glint in Trenon’s eye showed his appreciation, and a burning flush of heat rose in Nils’s cheeks. You’ve been gone so long. The dent in the center of Trenon’s upper lip: Nils dreamed about kissing him just there. Nils leaned down—a new sensation—to brush lips across Trenon’s inviting mouth.

But Trenon’s gaze shifted past Nils to the muddy street. The rising sun had found the tops of the stone walls, casting shadows around the doors of the claim opposite, where anyone might be hidden, watching. You should come in.

Nils resisted the urge to follow Trenon’s glance. Are you offering guesting rights to a child? It was a tease, a dare: Trenon was an adult and had place; Nils had none to lose.

Trenon’s scowl returned. With a tight shrug, he said, My parents have gone guesting. Come in if you want.

The bald offer set Nils back. Ralon and Berin guested often enough, but there was a venom in Trenon’s voice that Nils didn’t understand. Where are they guesting?

Trenon ignored the question and turned away, leaving Nils to close the door. Nils ducked inside and quickly stepped out of muddy boots to avoid incriminating footprints. The hall was empty and grey as a glacier. There wasn’t a single tapestry to take the chill from the granite walls. Nils’s woollen socks whispered on the polished stone.

Trenon headed for the men’s parlour. He crossed the room to the small cast iron stove and poked in a fresh length of birch. Nils leaned against the doorjamb and watched him. Despite the fire, the parlour was as cold as the hall. Trenon’s poker clattered as he prodded the coals to life. Flames flickered, silhouetting Trenon in golden light.

Nils wondered if the house’s silence weighed on Trenon. He had no brothers, no sisters, no siblings in the children’s room. His father and mother prowled their separate domains alone. Even when Trenon and Nils had both been children and no one cared where they met or which door they used, they’d rarely spent time under Ralon and Berin’s hawkish gazes.

Trenon dusted bark from his hands and opened the stove’s flue for a better draw. He raised his eyebrows at Nils with a slow smile. They won’t be back for hours.

Nils glanced back into the hall, as if Ralon or Berin might appear out of nowhere. Negotiating the spring claim? No, Trenon wouldn’t miss that. This was Trenon’s first spring as an adult. He’d want his voice to be heard.

Trenon came and planted a hand against Nils’s chest, nudging closer until their bodies touched. Who cares? This time he was the one who kissed Nils.

Nils leaned into the warmth of Trenon’s body. They’d barely touched for an entire season. Trenon had sung his apprenticeship contract in the fall and spent most of the winter with his master, learning how to craft contract songs. Now they could make up for lost time. Nils deepened the kiss, chasing sweetness.

Trenon was too old to be playing pleasure games with children—that’s what Nils’s fathers would say. It was different when they were both children. They’d met in the woods nearly every day. Trenon—Trenn, still, before the rite—had found a clearing with a pine needle carpet, sheltered by the roots of a windfall pine. It had become theirs for a season. Hot-faced and prickle-skinned, Nils would sneak away from chores and siblings to follow Trenn past the brambles. The first time, they’d barely more than touched hands, but Nils shivered when Trenn brushed a thumb up the long vein on the inner side of Nils’s wrist, tracing a flutter of goosebumps.

With the fall frost came Trenn’s birthday. They should have stopped. Or over the winter—when Trenon was first apprenticed, then away—Nils should have accepted that they couldn’t continue seeing each other.

Instead, Nils sought Trenon out. And he’d let Nils in. The only warmth in the parlour was Trenon’s eager body, his willing mouth.

After a long, warm moment, Trenon pulled away. Have you thought about it?

Nils traced the fine line of Trenon’s jaw with a fingertip, then found the full flush of his lips. I haven’t decided.

Trenon’s sombre brown eyes watched Nils carefully. There’s only a nineday left.

I know.

Most children choose long before the rite. Trenon caught Nils’s braces and moved in closer. His hand at Nils’s waist slipped underneath the canvas.

Nils didn’t answer. A wash of heat followed Trenon’s touch. Nils resolutely ignored the line of Trenon’s throat, and the slightly paler brown line of skin that showed at the collar of his shirt. My parents...

Trenon worked his fingers into Nils’s curls. Tightened. The rite’s between you and the contract singer. You just need to choose.

Nerves tingled in Nils’s scalp. Open-mouthed, gasping, Nils said, If it were that simple—‍

Make your choice, Trenon murmured. Become a woman.

Nils leaned back, breaking their mingled breaths. "And what would Berin say if my mothers came to negotiate for your hand? Foresters and farmhands courting her son? We can’t marry!"

After a moment, Trenon’s hand loosened in Nils’s hair. His seeking fingers withdrew from Nils’s waistband. With a distant, wounded look, he drew his palm down Nils’s cheek, then dropped his hands. You’d rather become a man than fight for me.

I’d rather my mothers weren’t laughed out of your guest room! We can’t offer place; we can’t offer cash—‍

I don’t want your silver!

Trenon might be a man, but he slipped too readily into childish fantasies. Berin and Ralon didn’t want silver—they desperately needed it. They couldn’t survive on the few silverwhits Trenon could glean from his journeyer’s earnings. This cold house had shrunk with the seasons. Last spring, they’d nearly lost it to larger families with better claims. They needed Trenon to marry, just to hold onto these few remaining rooms. And if he married well, then Trenon’s wife could gild his place. Then they could count silverweights, not whits, in their lockbox.

Where are your parents guesting? Nils asked, feeling stupid, the implication of the question—and of Trenon’s avoidance—abruptly real.

Trenon shrugged away and glared into the dying fire. They’re off trying to sell me.

Where? Nils should have known. Trenon’s parents had fine wares this spring. Trenon’s apprenticeship as a contract singer would draw plenty of interest. In a few years, Trenon might be presiding over every claim in Asaresta, arbitrating any dispute. There was silver in his future, and favours, and power: a prize for any woman who needed a first marriage to seal her place.

It doesn’t matter, Trenon said. They’ll listen to me if I tell them I want you—Nilis.

Nilis. Trenon’s love-name for Nils. The name of the woman he wanted to marry.

Nils’s eyes closed. Don’t.

Trenon’s thumb found the corner of Nils’s mouth. More than once, Nils had shuddered under that touch. Nilis, Trenon insisted.

The woman Nils might never be.

Don’t sing me songs of what I can’t have, Nils said, and kissed Trenon again.

Chapter Two

NILS STEPPED out of the chill of Trenon’s house into a balmy noon. The sun had climbed above the eastern peaks, and warmth filled the valley to the brim. Chickadees squabbled cheerfully with the nuthatches and finches in the eaves above, and a grey jay scratched, looking for seeds, in the overgrown garden in front of Trenon’s house. Fathers would long since have sent Nils’s siblings off with mothers to the logging camp. They might believe Nils had wanted to gather early greens. Or that the master healer had wanted an assistant for the day. Or…

But inventing excuses could wait. There was no point in facing the uphill path back home until dark. Feeling lazy and satisfied from a morning’s dallying, Nils wandered down a twist of steep streets, then left Asaresta through a narrow, arched gate and headed for the deep crack that split the village in two.

The bridge spanning the gap was built with hardwood sledged from the city downmountain. Nils paused in the middle and leaned against the polished oak rail. Far below, the river ran in spring spate, scouring away Asaresta’s winter slops. Mist scudded up from the cascading dash. Nils lifted closed eyes to the dazzling sky and let the sun soak into winter-sallow skin.

The glacier-melt river ran green as a woman’s robe. Nils breathed deeply, almost able to feel the line of belt loops that would fall from high on the waist at the left side, knotting low on the right hip. Imagine Berin’s shock if Nils showed up on her doorstep dressed in a woman’s robe. Imbued with a woman’s place, Nils would present her with some precious guest-gift that she couldn’t in courtesy refuse. Trenon would bow his head, and they’d solemnly declare their courtship. Trenon’s own master would conduct the marriage duet. Nils and Trenon would sing their promises. A first marriage must prove their love’s claim for a full year before bringing more spouses into their family. A year to spend together—

The hollow clap of a pony’s hoofs on the bridge planks made Nils straighten and turn.

It was Trenon’s parents, returning from their guesting. Berin rode while Ralon led their old gelding. Mud spattered the billowing edges of Ralon’s guesting robe, but the rich material shone russet in the sun. Embroidered chevrons ran from his shoulder to his hip, emphasizing the robe’s left-knot. Berin’s blue robe was worked with the silver of her trade, suggesting a waterfall of wealth pouring down from neckline to hem. They crossed the bridge without a glance at Nils.

Nils swallowed against a hot, bitter lump. Childish infatuations ended with coming of age. So did silly dreams. Nils’s family were foresters and field hands. They sang their labour to other families and weren’t any worse for it. They might be gnarled as wind-bent pines, but they had their place. And Berin would look right through it, just as she had the ragged child in her path.

BERIN AND Ralon disappeared through the village gate. Nils watched them go with a growing frown. On the opposite side of the bridge, Asaresta’s main street became a wheel-rutted dirt road that banked sharply around stepped fields. Farther on, an occasional path ran under the eaves of the forest to a barn or a half-hidden claim. But there was only one claim rich enough on that side of the river to have lured Berin out on a muddy morning. Nils gripped the bridge rail, knuckles whitening.

Larik’s family pastured their chamois flocks on the high fields west of the bridge. Larik had been a woman for nearly a year.

And Larik was the only one who knew Nils had kept meeting Trenon after he came of age.

Nils’s cheeks burned hot. Larik had told Trenon more than once that he should know better than to play with a child’s affections. Nils thought she was being protective, since even knowing better, Nils hadn’t refused Trenon’s invitations. Had she actually meant... that Trenon should turn his attention to someone more suitable? More mature?

Someone whose guest-gifts Berin would treasure instead of spurn?

No.

Nils ran before stopping to think. The high, lonely claim of Larik’s family made a cawing boast of the inconvenient path. The farther guests had to climb, the more the claim must be worth visiting. Sweat soon soaked Nils’s linens despite the cooler air under the pine shadows. The sprint faded to a jog, then to a labouring walk, but Nils pushed on.

The first claim-cairn marked an open slope that climbed up to a substantial stone farmhouse. Twin fieldstone chimneys marked the men’s and women’s sides. The open space was flanked by a large barn on the left, and the weaving hut on the right.

The signs of the morning’s guesting were clear. Willow-withe chairs were set out, two on one side of a trestle table and five on the other. Pewter dishes held the sticky remains of birch-sugar candy. Nils wanted to sweep the teacups from the table with a crash. Larik had accepted her mothers’ negotiations on her behalf without saying a word.

The weaving hut’s wide shutters were propped open to let in the south sun. The clacking sound of loom work spilled out of the open windows. Nils stormed across the yard without even considering ringing the guest door’s chimes. Children always had an excuse; they couldn’t know better. It was a lie, but one Nils was furious enough to use.

Larik sat at the loom nearest the open door, where the light was best. Her spools darted quick as minnows through a patch of delicate lace.

Larik!

At the bark of Nils’s voice, three other women—Larik’s sisters and her second mother, Shayin—dropped their work and twisted around. Nils’s face burned, but there was no turning back. I want to speak to you.

Larik’s hands drooped for a moment, then she went back to work with fierce concentration. Twisting her spools of different-coloured thread, she tied one deft knot after another, creating patterns of brown-orange chevrons for autumn leaves. The clever face of a lynx was just beginning to emerge from the growing lace.

The other women followed her example and rocked their feet on their treadles. Wheels turned, shafts moved, and the clatter of work started again. They couldn’t take offence at Nils’s demands, but they could ignore the child who’d broken their rhythm.

The pause brought Larik’s first mother, Peris, out of the back room of the hut, wiping her hands on a rag. Woad stained her arms blue to the elbow and streaked the thighs of her trousers. She squinted into the sun at Nils glowering in the doorway. With a rough sigh, she put her hands on her hips. Larik. Kell saw a windfall alder below the chamois pasture. Go strip the branches; I need the bark. Peris eyed Nils once more. And take this child with you, if you please.

Larik stood up and stretched deliberately before brushing past Nils. She headed for the farmhouse and pulled open the women’s door. The kitchen was cluttered with worktables and herb racks. Shelves strained under dye casks and sacks of mordants.

Nils dithered, anger breaking against Larik’s pointed silence, then slunk in after her. I know Berin and Ralon were here today. Mule trading, Trenon called it. Pinching him to feel the fat, like a carcass hanging in the butcher’s stall.

Larik shot Nils a cutting look and pointed. The cellar trap in the middle of the kitchen floor was open. One of Larik’s sisters was hunting among the bolts of linen and chamois cloth, a jumbled rainbow of women’s greens, purples, and dark blues; men’s reds, oranges, dusky ochres; and, in softening contrast, the creams and sandy tans of undyed children’s fabrics, alongside the occasional mournful ghost-shell grey. Nils’s jaw clamped shut. Larik waited until her sister puffed up from the cellar under a weight of cloth and left for the weavers’ hut.

As soon as they were alone, Larik shoved her shoulder against Nils’s. What was that? You came in like an avalanche.

Larik might be a woman, but they’d come into their growth together, sharing miserable confessions, sniggering awkwardly over new hair and spotty faces. Nils shoved back. You’re courting Trenon!

You know my mothers are protective of my place. Larik’s eyes glinted like stones under green water. If you’d shown a little courtesy, they might have let me offer you guesting rights.

Nils swallowed a scoff. No one offered guesting rights to a child, however old. Larik might as well say her mothers would offer guesting rights to a badger under their floorboards. Why didn’t you tell me?

Instead of answering, Larik said, I’ve got a birthday present for you. She stepped back and tilted her head, eyeing Nils with a seamstress’s consideration. Hold out your arms.

Nils immediately tried to crouch smaller and remove the strain on the shoulder seams of the too-small child’s tunic. Was Larik trying to point out that Nils had no right to court Trenon? Not until—or unless—Nils became a woman.

But, for Larik, Nils held out bare wrists. It would be a waste of cloth and fathers’ mending time to sew a child’s tunic that fit. Nils didn’t know which was more embarrassing, the inadequate hand-me-downs or the sudden growth that made them impossible to ignore.

Right! Larik led the way from the kitchen to the open door of the women’s sleeping room. A row of rope-net beds each bore a richly patterned quilt of scraps and spares. Larik opened a cedar clothes press near the door and drew out a length of fabric. Her mothers had chosen the finest chamois fleece, warm and incredibly soft, and yarn-dyed it with a man’s reds, autumn and late larches, weaving them together in an elegant masculine herringbone. The sharp noses of embroidered shrews peered out from the hem and cuffs. Curious voles scurried along the neckline.

Larik had sung her weaving apprenticeship to her mothers the day she became their daughter, but she’d been working alongside them for years. This robe would likely sell for cash silver to a downmountain trader. Some rich city boy would come of age wrapped in Larik’s vivid handiwork.

Nils’s siblings each had choice of two linen robes when their birthdays came. One in dim woad for a daughter, the other in faded madder for a son. They both smelled of camphor and stretched in odd spots where a generation of hunched shoulders and rough elbows had struggled to fit.

Don’t you want to touch it? Larik swirled the robe like a cape, letting it fall gently over Nils’s threadbare tunic.

Nils tensed under the gossamer weight. The fit was perfect, broad enough for Nils’s shoulders and draping in soft folds to ankle and wrist. To become a man...

You look good, Nils—Nilos, Larik said.

Trenon’s whispered name, Nilis, sounded far sweeter. Grabbing a crushing handful of the material, Nils yanked it off and pushed the robe back. Larik must have been working on the robe for months, if not a season, but today the gift felt like little more than a birch-candy bribe for a child’s good behaviour. So Trenon’s parents found a buyer.

Larik’s face grew still. She turned away, draping the robe back into its careful folds and tucking it into her press. Berin approached my mothers, she said. Nils could hear iron in her voice. I know you love him. I’m doing this to help. She glared at Nils, her face set in stubborn lines. Come on. Let’s get upmountain before Peris thinks of a worse chore for me.

LARIK PACKED a hatchet, a handsaw, and two draw knives into a leather rucksack. She stalked out the door without checking if Nils was following. Her pace didn’t slow as she passed the kitchen garden and started up the rocky trail, just wide enough for a string of mountain ponies, that led up to the chamois pastures. Nils pushed to keep up. Frustration at Larik’s hints made a strong goad, even if Larik’s legs were longer. After a quick, steep stretch, they reached the cairn separating Larik’s family claim from a wilder slope choked with scrub pine. The tips of the pine branches were bright green with unfurling growth.

You could have stopped this if you wanted to, Nils said.

Larik shot a withering look over her shoulder. Don’t be dense. My parents can’t see past Trenon’s place, and Berin thinks she’s found another silver mine.

Nils bristled, all the more because Larik was right. Trenon’s complaints hadn’t even slowed his parents’ negotiations, let alone stopped them. Why didn’t you tell me?

Do you think Trenon wants me?

Nils squinted up at Larik, trying to see her as Trenon might. She was even featured, square shouldered, with ropy muscles in her hands and forearms from her work at the loom. Her skin was the rich, warm brown of good honey. Did Trenon imagine sharing her bed?

Larik snorted. You look like our mare when she’s scared herself silly tripping over a branch and doesn’t understand why her rider’s suddenly on the ground. Come on.

She hitched up her rucksack and pushed off the cairn. Nils followed automatically. A burst of squirrels’ chattering marked their progress. Silent, Nils watched the braid trailing down Larik’s back, swaying as she hiked. She twined her straight dark hair simply, without plaiting sticks. Nils wanted to reach out and stroke the tip. More than that, Nils wanted to feel the braid’s tight weight tugging at the scalp, as if Nils’s curls could hold the same design. Watching Larik was like looking into a running creek, and seeing a reflection distorted by hope.

Nils knew Peris and Shayin must want Trenon’s influence for their family, but what did Larik want Trenon for? Just to please her mothers? What did she mean, she was trying to help?

The fallen alder was where Peris had pointed them, at the edge of the trees. Larik set to work limbing the alder’s freshest branches. Nils sighed and began stripping off the inner bark with a draw knife. High above, wind moaned and hissed in the low grasses. The faint call of voices came down from the heights, where Larik’s sibling and brothers rode fearless mountain ponies, overseeing the chamois heavy with spring fawns. Nils sweated out anger on the task, arms and shoulders burning. After an hour, they’d filled their rucksacks. Peris would use the bark to make dyes, warm browns and yellows to suit a working man.

Larik waved Nils to leave the rucksacks, and sat on a fallen log in the shade under a spreading fir. She tossed her leather water bottle across. The water was still cold from the well and tasted deliciously green. Nils handed the bottle back.

Larik took a long drink before