'That wasn't precisely a question. How far back do the records of your Lantern's temple go?'
T wouldn't know, me being apprenticed to the Witherer in my time. But my lad, the older boy, the one who died, he was a Lantern clerk for three years. He one time told me the records in
the temple went back to the very first day folk built the temple here. So it surely is very very old.'
'Very old, indeed. I'm sorry to hear of your misfortune, losing the child.'
Her stride continued unchecked. 'He was a good peaceful boy. But I'm fortunate, even so. I've birthed nine children and only lost three, and two of those before their first moon's turning. So really, the gods have blessed me, nay?'
They passed a row of squat charcoal* kilns built of earth and stone, empty and cold. Goats chewed at brambles grown around the brick. 'There was a dispute over the ownership of these kilns,' added Fothino, sliding so smoothly into this new subject that it seemed of equal importance to the death of her children, and in the life of the village, no doubt it was.
'Was it resolved?'
'Nay. Now we buy from Mussa Village, so it costs us more. It would be good if we could get these kilns running, but no one wants to open the dispute. There was a killing done over it.'
'A killing!'
'A man died up on Curling Beach who was one of them arguing over kiln rights. Maybe he drowned, or maybe he was hexed, or maybe he was stealing from the trade offering left for the merlings — that's what I think he was doing, for he was a sneaking sort of man. That was four years back. Those two clans involved barely speak to each other to this day.'
'A trade offering left for the merlings?' Marit had heard of this ancient custom in tales. 'Do you folk still make such offerings?'
'Don't all folk do so? How can the proper balance be held, if the trade offerings aren't made to the other children of the Mothers? We share with each other, just as it says in the tales.'
The woods gave way to sheep pasture and orchard. 'How often do you see outsiders?'
'Outsiders? Like outlanders? A fishing boat or two, every year, from up north-away. They are very ugly people, skin like a white-fish's underbelly and — although I admit it is difficult to believe — some have red hair.'
'Red hair?'
'Like flames.'
Marit shook her head, unable to envision red hair. 'What of folk from the Hundred?'
'There's a regular trader what comes in from High Point off
Little Amartya once a year. Sometimes fisherfolk bide over here in a storm.'
'You're well cut off.'
'Are we? From what?'
They approached on a path through neat garden strips, the sturdy long houses rising beyond. The whole village had turned out, frail elders, wriggling little ones, restless youth, and stolid mature women and men. Singing and gesturing in a talking line, they chanted the familiar closing scene from the tale of the Silk Slippers in which the innocent girl is welcomed at long last to her home.
'Come in, come in, we welcome you with garlands Come in, come in, at long last you return Food and wine we will bring you Sit with us, for we have been waiting Come in, come in'
A girl child and boy child were urged forward with a bucket of water and juniper soap so she could wash face and hands. A second pair offered a ladle of fresh water to rinse her mouth. A third presented her with a garland of aromatic maile. The porch of the most prosperous family in the village — they were proud to tell her they were blacksmiths who worked metal for most of the peninsula — had been hastily garlanded with kuka nut and myrtle wreaths. A low eating table and pillow had been set out where she sat. An elderly man ceremonially wiped out a drinking bowl of fine white ceramic, small enough to cup in her hand, a piece of exceptional beauty in such an isolated village. A woman carried in a vessel of heated rice wine, and some rice cakes arranged on a wooden platter. A different woman, head shaved in the manner of the Lantern's clerks, murmured over these offerings a blessing so ancient Mark had never heard it outside of tales: Let the breath of the Mothers enter. Let the breath of the Mothers invest all things. Had she walked into the past, through an unseen gate? The master blacksmith himself knelt humbly and poured out the wine. He stepped back.
'Let me not sit alone,' Mark said.
Aui! Everyone crowded forward; the frail elders were brought up onto the porch and helped to sit on frayed pillows brought by children racing away to other houses to fetch extra; children and
youths hunkered down in a crouch, arms hooked over knees; the others stood or sat or crouched according to their wish. But she must drink and eat alone, regardless, their gazes intent on her in a way startling to her after all this time with folk avoiding her gaze. She was careful to look no person straight in the eye, and yet their fascination did not overwhelm her. Not that they were innocent; far from it! But they did not fear her. It was fear that made the intimacy of the exchange so invasive and horrible.
Their silence lasted as long as the rice cakes.
'Honored Guardian,' said the clerk, 'we have sent runners to the other villages. Do you wish to visit each village separately, or meet at some central place? If I could recommend the Lantern's temple in Mulla-'
'Nay,' objected the blacksmith, 'the Devourer's temple is more appropriate.'
'Only because your cousin is hieros there,' said the clerk.
'Begging your pardon, honored Guardian,' said Fothino. 'What is your Wish?'
T have to go,' said Marit, surprised by their assumption that she had come on purpose to preside over an assizes. Yet why not? They knew no other story here, where they saw one trading vessel every year and, perhaps, a few flame-headed barbarians. Here came a Guardian, so naturally she would preside over an assizes.
'I have to go,' she continued, 'in another day. Best call for the assizes tomorrow at a location folk can easily walk or ride to.'
'Begging your pardon, Guardian,' said Fothino, 'but the folk from Rulla Village will take an entire day to walk even to Hasibal's stone. Can you not preside for two days at the assizes?'
They watched so expectantly and with so much hope.
A company from Wedrewe must march overland to the port of Dast Elia before sailing up the length of the Elia Sea and along a coast known for its rocky dangers and intemperate seas.
'Two days.' She could say nothing else.
Long into the night the villagers chanted and danced, and golden mead and an amber ale with the essence of pears flowed as freely as if it were festival time.
Warning returned to her at dawn, an event that silenced the merrymaking. Leading the horse, she walked with the entire village singing and clapping in procession along a path that wound inland
through woodland. Before midday, they arrived in a meadow partway up the slope of the northern peak. In this vale of the Formless One dwelt an ancient stone sacred to Hasibal; flowers had been left as offerings on its flat water-pocked surface: a pair of fresh wreaths, withering bouquets, a desiccated necklace of blooms almost ground to dust.
She knew nothing about the rituals attendant on a Guardian assizes, but here the priests could recite the forms from memory. According to the gathered priests, the Guardian's seating place must face south in the morning and north in the afternoon; those who came to watch must stand at a distance; those who brought their cases must enter in groups and wait their turn at specific stations according to the nature of their complaint and whether they were accuser or accused. For the aged, pillows to sit on under shade; for young people come in from distant villages who could expect to meet and mingle with other young folk, a discreetly blind eye turned to the usual activities of youth. A makeshift market sprang up under the shadow of the wood.
No offerings of any kind were allowed, to avoid the appearance of bribery, and every village was expected to contribute food and drink in proportion to the number of people attending from that village. Folk must eat! For herself, she sipped at juice and ale, nibbled at flat bread, white pears, and a fish stewed with barley and some spices for which she had no name.
A pig had broken into a garden one too many times, destroying several crops of tubers, and the gardener had finally in a rage killed it and eaten it. The owner wanted damages paid; the gardener blamed the owner for not penning the pig properly after multiple warnings and demanded damages equal to her loss of crops. Five years had
