“Who is there?” she called, not recognizing him, but he ran away. He had recognized her, and feared her, just as they all had in the days before Alain had come.
The lower ramparts overlapped to make a cleft between them, an easily defended opening. The workers had dug a steep ditch here and lined the bottom with stakes; planks thrown down over the ditch made a bridge. Two adults stood on sentry duty, but they shielded their eyes and murmured polite greetings without looking at her.
When she emerged from the cleft she looked down the slope at the village and, by aid of the moon’s light, surveyed the change two seasons had wrought. In the time she had been gone, the villagers had finished building the log palisade around the village, with watch posts set up at intervals and a double tower on either side of the gate. Torches burned at each watch post. Sentries stood by the torches, looking out into the night. How strange to see her peaceful village transformed into a camp made ready for war. How strange to see the serpentlike earthworks bristling with wood posts, like the ridged back of a sinuous dragon at rest.
It ruined the peace of the landscape. Yet they could only live in peace and without constant fear once the Cursed Ones were defeated. Her own sorrow, her own life, meant little compared to the life of the tribe. She hardened her heart as she descended the path.
The plank bridge had been drawn back, exposing a fresh ditch lined with pointed stakes. Lifting her staff, she shook the bells, calling out to the guard at the gate.
“Hallowed One!” By chance, her cousin Urtan stood on gate duty this night. Soon enough, the gate was opened, the plank bridge thrust across, and she welcomed inside.
“Where is Alain?” Urtan asked. Other villagers, alerted by the horn call, hurried up as torches ringed her.
“We despaired of you, Hallowed One!”
“The Fat One is merciful, Hallowed One. She brought you back to us!”
Beor shouldered through the crowd, pushing forward to see her. “Where is Alain?” he demanded.
Thinking of Alain made her so tired that she thought she might fall down where she stood, only no one here could touch her to lift her up again. Only Alain could do that.
“Let me sleep,” she said hoarsely, unable to say more. She had to choke her heart as in a fist; she dared not start crying now.
Mother Weiwara came forward, looking prosperous and healthy. “Let the Hallowed One go to her bed,” she said sternly to the folk crowded around. She escorted Adica to her cottage and crouched outside, just beyond the threshold, as Adica ducked under the door and dropped her pack on the floor, then sank onto her knees on the musty pallet.
“You have been gone a long time,” said Weiwara through the door. “More than two seasons, now. The dark of the sun is only half the moon’s cycle away—”
“I know.”
“Oh, Adica.” Once, Weiwara had been her dearest friend, two girls growing up together. With the darkness hiding them each from the other, she had the courage to touch that lost friendship again, despite the evil spirits that could smell the threads binding one person to another and use those links to sink their claws into the unsuspecting. “Where have you been?”
“On a long journey. I’m so tired. I lost Alain.” His name caught in her throat. She had to pinch the skin of her neck with a hand to strangle a sob. “But do not fear, Mother Weiwara.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “The working will go forward. Soon you will be freed from fear.”
If the weather held. If the Holy One still lived. If Laoina reached her people in time to lead a strong band of warriors to the aid of Two Fingers, in the land of Horn. If they could drive the Cursed Ones away from that stone loom, and so link up with the others. If Hehoyanah did as her uncle asked, and joined the weaving. If no Cursed Ones attacked the tents of Brightness-Hears-Me. If Falling-down did not die. If she herself did not break of sorrow.
“Tell me what you saw,” breathed Weiwara in a low voice.
She began to object but caught the dismissal before it passed her lips. Alain had taught her how to listen to others in a way that allowed her to see past the words to glimpse the heart. Was that curiosity, even wistfulness, in Weiwara’s tone? Did her old friend conceal a hankering to see distant lands and strange sights?
Sometimes telling is the only way to make the pain end, or at least lessen.
She told Weiwara the story of their long journey, of the strange creatures they had seen, of the unknown cities they had glimpsed, of the ambushes they had avoided. She even told her of the vision she had seen of the banquet of plenty, burnished by gold, and the woman with fire in her heart who had given her a ring to return to Alain. As she told the story, she pressed the ring into her cheek.
