mean you'll become corrupted as he did.'
He felt its weight dragging like stone on his shoulders, and yet its power coursed through his body like a river's streaming current or the wind's blustery push or a flame's fiery snap. It draped over him, whispering against the stone on which he sat. An arrow was half hidden under the fabric. When he picked it up, it fit easily in his hand.
Across the ledge a glittering labyrinth flowered as if the arrow's touch on his skin had brought it to life: the maze that led to the altar and its hidden pool spread in patterns that winked and tempted. How easily he could walk it now! Those twists and turns ignited memories, banished the haze.
'Captain Anji killed me. Only he didn't really kill me. He didn't dare strike at me. That gods-rotted bastard. He had his soldiers kill-'
'Calm down, Joss. You're upsetting Scar. Here now, give me a kiss.' She tipped his chin up and kissed him lightly once, twice, thrice, until he laughed and, behind her, that cursed envoy of Ilu — what was he doing here? — spoke.
'Yet again we have proven women believe sex solves everything.'
'He was getting agitated!' retorted Marit, but she sat back on her heels and smiled in a way that made Joss's ears — and more — burn. 'The hells, Joss. Not that you weren't a pleasant armful before, but you were just not this cursed handsome when you were young. What happened to you?'
He was working back through her words, spinning the arrow
once around slowly. 'What do you mean? I'm upsetting a scar?'
'Ah.' She rose, walked back to the fire, and poured liquid from a leather bottle into a cup. Beyond her, three horses stood close together, heads and necks drooping, one with a hind hoof tipped up on the toe. A feathery bulk sprouted from their shoulders and folded back along their flanks all the way to their croups.
'Those are winged horses,' he said indignantly as she returned.
'Drink this.'
It was a tart cordial, just the way he liked it, with real bite. And he was cursed thirsty all of a sudden. But he set down the cup.
'Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that I'm awake, and not dreaming or plowing my way through some manner of drunken stupor. Let's just say those are three winged horses. Let's say I'm wearing a Guardian's cloak, for I'm certainly wearing something like it. And that this arrow in my hand is somehow connected to the cloak of Sun. Let's say that you and these two individuals are also Guardians. I can't believe I just said all that.'
Now he did knock back the cordial, and it seared his throat and made his eyes water in a most satisfactory way.
'Do you remember what Marshal Alard used to say, Marit? If you have to choose between what seems the most reasonable explanation, and what the cold, hard evidence reveals-'
'Go with the evidence,' she finished.
'There you stand, wearing the cloak of Death. Him, the cloak of Sky, I suppose. And her-' The firelight must have been playing tricks on him, for she looked like a ghost, not like a person. 'My apologies, verea. We've never met.'
Marit tugged him up, biting her lower lip in that way she did with her eyes so inviting. She chuckled as he flushed. Eihi! Now he remembered what he had been doing not long before he'd died, and it hadn't been with Marit but rather with that gods-rotted magnificent hierodule Zubaidit, and it had been cursed energetic and tremendously wild and hot and-
'What are you thinking about?' she demanded, really laughing now. 'Neh. Never mind. For I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. And now, thank the Lady, I don't have to.' She led him by the hand over to the fire, where she introduced him to Jothinin and Kirit. The girl was a cursed odd-looking person, an outlander, ghastly pale with almost colorless eyes and hair like straw. Fortunately, she was quite young, likely not more than sixteen or
eighteen, and treated him with the reserved deference due to an uncle never before met.
They had a nicely spiced porridge and several ripe sunfruit and mangoes, not that he was particularly hungry, and more of that wonderfully tart cordial. He had a curious idea that he didn't actually need to eat, but the act was comforting, and the food was tasty, and he had anyhow lived all his life eating in company. It would have seemed strange not to do so now.
Jothinin was a talker, just like the foolish Jothinin in the tale, but he had a pleasant voice and a great many entertaining tales to tell, many of which were a joke on himself. But at length even he fell silent as the fire sparked and popped, and Kirit, its keeper, gifted more wood to its flames.
'So let's say it's true, that I'm a Guardian,' said Joss. 'What does that mean? For here are four of us. Anji has the other five cloaks. He's bound them with chains into chests and I'm pretty sure he means to hold them. I admit, seeing what happened with Radas and Night, it's not entirely surprising Anji believes the cloaks dangerous and corrupting.' Yet when he pulled the fabric of his Sun cloak through a hand, he felt no shadow, no dark seam cracking wide to eat out his heart and turn him into a lilu. Not that he couldn't crack. Not that every person wasn't vulnerable in some way. But it wasn't inevitable, as Anji had claimed.
'We weren't sure what happened to the other cloaks. But we're the ones responsible. For we — Jothinin and Kirit and I — told him what he needed to know to kill Guardians.'
Kirit said, 'But the bad ones are gone now. Isn't it better they're gone?'
'So there we lie, between the sea and the shore, just like in the tale.' Marit turned to Joss. 'What if it is better that they're gone? It seems the Hundred is settling into peace again. Folk can labor and live without the fear they had before. Because the outlander rules with his army. They rule the roads, the gates, the assizes, the markets. You see where I'm going with this. He's not a cruel master. Life prospers. The crops are good. The roads are safe. Children sleep in peace. But we daren't get close. His soldiers and his reeves are hunting us. Hunting Guardians. Now that he knows he can kill us, he means to rid the Hundred of Guardians. And what if he's right to do so? Who among us is free from the threat of corruption?'
Jothinin scratched his head. Kirit stared into the gulf of air, as if the night held answers.
'No one is,' Joss answered. 'Not us. Not Anji. Not any man or woman. What are you all looking at me like that for? It wasn't that cursed wise a comment.'
Kirit's eyes had gone wide and she shrank down as if to curl herself into a ball. Jothinin shifted to place himself between the girl and the fire. Marit rose as the ground made an odd shushing sound behind him and a light tremor vibrated up through the stone into Joss's body. The horses woke, and one — two — three they spread their fine bright wings and galloped off the cursed ledge and into the night.
'Why are there only three horses, if there are four of us?' he asked.
'Aui! That was the other shock, the one we've been waiting to drop on you. Just stand slowly, and turn around.'
He obeyed her, for he felt an odd monstrous presence looming behind him like the charged breath of a late season storm prickling his neck.
'No one truly understands the bond between eagle and reeve, what invisible leash jesses one to the other. We guessed you must have died because your eagle died. For I am cursed sure living eagles don't fly at night and seek out Guardian altars, not as this one does.'
The old raptor lowered his head to Joss's level, an uncanny glamour in those huge depthless eyes.
'How can this be?' Joss asked, as Scar offered a series of chirps in greeting.
'In a way,' said Marit, 'you died together.'
Joss was left to wonder if it was he, or Scar, who had died fighting for justice. Or maybe after all it was the two of them in partnership, just as it had always been.
When a pregnant widow and her household move into town, the event is certain to be talked about for days. When the widow is young and beautiful, the gossip will spread across weeks. And when she opens her own emporium that competes successfully with local warehouses and merchants who have lived for generations in the bustling port of Salya on Messalia Bay, then it is likely that rumor will mildew into the kind of antipathy that flourishes for months in shadowed corners and uncleaned cupboards.
And yet, stage by stage, week by week, month by month, it did not.
Mistress Karanna, the head of Seven Cups clan, was won over when the young widow advised her on the quality of silks and which hues were more appropriate to her particular complexion and personality. Master Dessottin of Merling's Gift clan discovered that the widow's married sister — not that anyone believed they were
