Duranix launched himself skyward, the Silvanesti threat forgotten. While he had been dawdling here on the eastern plain, snacking on boar and horse, a hideous danger was aimed at his valley, his home. If he flew as fast as he could, he could reach Yala-tene just after dawn.
If there was anything left of Yala-tene by then.
“Bad. This is very bad.”
Jenla knelt in the muddy orchard. She probed through the hay with a stick, gently lifting it to see if any green sprouts were visible. So far, she’d crawled down half a row without finding a single shoot.
“Are none alive?” asked Tepa anxiously. Without fruit trees, there’d be no blossoms. Without blossoms, his bees couldn’t make honey.
“Not yet.” She slid her damp knees forward and probed again. A slender shoot, more yellow than green, poked up through the soggy soil. “Ha!” Jenla crowed. “Apple tree!”
“That’s one.” Tepa ran a hand through his thinning gray hair, repeating sadly, “One.”
“Tiphan will answer for this.” Jenla marked the sickly seedling with a stone. “Heed my words — and watch where you step!” she said loudly, pushing Tepa away from the single live tree she’d found.
The old beekeeper wasn’t listening. He was gazing at something far away, brow furrowed w T ith effort. When she noticed his distraction, she followed his rapt gaze, shading her eyes.
“What do you see?” she asked. Though he was old, Tepa’s excellent vision was well known. His keen eyes could still track bees in flight.
He concentrated for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he finally replied. “There’s something lying on the bank below the bridge. It’s not moving.”
“Probably a dead mountain goat, washed down from a higher valley. Maybe we can salvage the hide.”
The orchard was empty of other villagers, as work this morning was concentrated in the vegetable gardens, out of their sight. In companionable silence, the two elders walked along the shore toward the object Tepa had seen.
When they’d covered about half the distance to the unknown object, Jenla asked, “Can you tell what it is yet?”
He didn’t answer, and Jenla wasn’t surprised. Tepa was a cautious man. He didn’t volunteer opinions unless he had facts to back them up.
They drew nearer, and Jenla suddenly saw movement from the object. “It’s alive,” she said.
Simultaneously, Tepa cried, “It’s a girl!” He ran the rest of the way to the prone figure. Jenla shouted hoarsely at him to wait for her.
Tepa reached the fallen figure. Skinny arms and legs stuck out from beneath a mound of piebald oxhide.
“Can you hear me, girl?” he asked. She didn’t answer. He used the tip of his staff to lift the filthy hide. A cloud of flies rose up, and Tepa flipped the hide away, exposing the fallen stranger.
She was thin to the point of gauntness, wearing a tattered shift crusted with dried mud. Her bare legs and arms were black with muck, and her waist-length black hair was matted and stiff. Tepa could see her bony ribs moving through a gash in her shift. Her eyes were closed.
Tepa dropped to one knee and gathered her in his arms. When he lifted her, her head lolled back.
“Poor little one,” the beekeeper soothed. “You’ve traveled far, haven’t you?”
Jenla arrived, panting. “Careful, old man!” she said sharply, though not without affection. “She could be a spirit, even a dragon in disguise.”
Tepa dipped his hand in the stream and let the cool water dribble across the girl’s forehead. He chided Jenla, clucking his tongue.
“This is no monster,” he said, “just a lost girl, who’s gone too long since her last meal.”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes as black as her hair. Seeing Tepa, she began to struggle. He let her go and stood back with Jenla. The girl rubbed her eyes and got to her feet, regarding the couple warily.
Tepa asked gently, “What’s your name?”
“Beramun.” She dusted sand and dried mud from her doeskin shirt and kilt, keeping wary eyes on Jenla and Tepa.
When nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, Jenla asked, “Who are your people?” The custom among plainsmen was to introduce themselves by the names of their parents.
“I have no people. I’m Beramun. That’s all.” She pointed past them to the town across the lake. “Is that the place called Yala-tene?”
“It is,” Tepa said.
Beramun sighed, her eyes closing briefly. “At last! I’ve wandered through half these mountains, looking for this place.”
She swayed a bit on her feet. Tepa stepped forward to help her, but she shrank from his proffered arm.
“When did you last eat?” he asked, stepping back.
“I don’t know.” She looked in the leather bag looped around her shoulder. From the way the limp bag hung, Tepa knew it was empty.
Beramun added, “Some days ago, it seems.”
“Well, come with us, girl,” Jenla said firmly. “We’ll feed you.”
Beramun resisted. “I must speak to your headman first!” Fear darkened her wan face. “I bring news of great danger!”
She was so insistent Jenla relented, and the three of them set off for Yala-tene at once. On the way, Tepa found a few dried apple slices in the pocket of his wraparound tunic. He offered the fruit to Beramun. She took them without hesitation but otherwise remained silent, obviously not intending to divulge her news to anyone but the headman of Yala-tene.
After a long, slow walk, they reached the village wall. Beramun had never seen such a structure. She marveled at the large stone blocks and how tightly they fit together. Inside, the town bustled with activity. Potters carried their wares to the kilns on long, ladderlike racks. Basket makers, coopers, and cobblers haggled over barter rates with the folk who gathered the raw materials — woodcutters, tanners, and the fishermen who cut rushes in their spare time.
Beramun was overwhelmed by the tumult. She had never seen so many people in one place, and everyone seemed to be going in all directions. They spoke her language but much more quickly than she was accustomed to. Here and there she saw black-skinned men and women she knew came from across the sea.
Her head swam as she tried to make sense of the cacophony. The old man, Tepa, tried to talk to her, but Jenla shushed him. Beramun gave the woman a grateful look. The teeming streets passed by in a blur, and an ache quickly bloomed behind her eyes.
At last they came to a low, rather tumbledown structure made of round rocks and slabs of bark. Fire glinted from within. In front of this building many people had gathered. Some were speaking with great heat at the top of their lungs.
Her guides led her through the crowd to where two men, one standing, the other seated, were loudly declaiming. The standing one was tall, and rather good-looking, but his hair was white, which seemed odd for one with such a youthful face. His eyebrows and eyelashes were also white, giving his whole face a very strange cast. The seated fellow was some years older. He had very short light brown hair and a closely trimmed beard, not at all like the luxuriant beards she was used to seeing on men his age out on the plains.
“… further evidence of Silvanesti plots against us,” the younger, white-haired man was saying. “My companions were cruelly slain — even the centaur Miteera sent to help us!”
The seated man looked even angrier, his face red above his whiskers. “And I say you had no right to go off on your own like that!” he countered. “Your folly cost the lives of two young people you were entrusted to guard. What did you say to their parents, Tiphan?”
White Hair replied loftily, “I said they died for the good of Yala-tene.”
His opponent scowled, drumming his fingers on his knee until he spotted Beramun in the crowd. The drumming stopped. He stood up.
“Jenla. Tepa. Who is this?” he asked.
The two villagers moved forward with the girl between them. Jenla explained how they’d found her, finishing
