Page 48

THE TRADERS ARRIVE

WREN

I am inside my now bare cottage, still dressing for the day, a sick pit in my stomach at the thought of what’s to come, when the first shouts echo through the village streets and a rush of pounding feet move so quickly past my door that dust swirls in under the sill.

Frowning, I make a mental note that the fit needs to be fixed before the rains come.

It wouldn’t do to be locked inside watching poison seep in further and further, pushing me back, unable to mop it up lest I touch it accidentally.

Another shout, and then disbelieving laughter, pours through my windows like pure water, bouncing around the now empty walls.

“Traders!” The word is repeated like the refrain of a song, over and over, becoming a call and response, until it sounds more like music than speech. “Traders! Traders! ”

Strange reluctance seizes my throat in unexpected panic.

There is something portentous about this moment, the joy outside a glaring counterpoint to the hollow in my chest. Too much is new about this year, too many things are unknowns.

After a lifetime of well-worn paths, this abrupt, constant change is unsettling.

“Traders!”

“Traders! ”

The women’s voices throb with unshed tears, the men’s with a clawing hope.

Traders . If their wagons are full enough, if they are laden and heavy, like the golden memories of their last visit…

we could survive the Storms. It would be a desperate time — so much more desperate than any we have lived through before, but we would live through it.

Most of us. And I wouldn’t have to hear the pain of every life lost, souls singing far from my aching fingertips, swallowed by the winter, unable to be carried safe home.

I wouldn’t have to press myself to the door, flesh imprinting with the wood grain, hour after hour, feeling them slipping from flesh, fading from bone.

Little Keeper.

Lorcan’s voice is a wisp of smoke, curling around me, warm and soothing, so gentle, as though he knows how close I am to breaking.

“I’m fine, Lorcan.”

He’s amused, but in a sad sort of way.

Of course. Of course. But it is time to face the world now. The worry only grows if the door remains closed.

“I don’t want to.”

He barks a laugh at the pout in my voice, forcing my lips to curve in response. Lorcan’s mirth is so rare it is irresistible to me, a sun—soaked pathway of warm dirt and clean cut grass.

Stop moping, Little Keeper. Adventure awaits.

“Bossy, bossy,” I mutter, but finish tying on my vertebracelets, inexplicably comforted to have them back on my arms, especially given the amount of time I spent wishing them away.

I’m feeling oddly alone with only the Silent bracelets and my Protector, swallowing back a surging sorrow thinking of the Hunter and the Jeweler, and thanking the Gods above and below that the Baker and her son are safe with Marrin around his neck.

No more stalling, Wren.

Rolling my eyes, I glance around the room once more before I leave.

“The Knife?”

He is quiet for a long moment, then Yes to the Knife, but tucked inside. We don’t move without the Guiding Knife anymore, and only against flesh. It would draw too much attention on a board where we don’t know the pieces.

Nodding, I fasten the Guiding Knife against my skin, making sure it is completely hidden from view.

Grabbing one of my few fully sleeved shirts, I pull it on, mostly covering my bracelets, and then tie a high necked cloak around my throat.

Lorcan is still bare down my back — I own nothing that does not expose my spine, but the heavy cloth hangs in such a way that you would have to be close and staring to see my Protector clearly. It will have to be enough.

By the time I open my door, the streets nearest to me are quiet, all the noise and chaos now by the Northern Arch, giving me enough time to look up toward the mountain path where none have traveled for over twenty years.

It is like a dream from another lifetime to see them now, a riot of colors I’ve never imagined, shining brightly even in our pale sun, decorating a long, seemingly endless row of precariously balanced wagons.

They are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, tall things, almost cottages on wheels, with short, straight sides and large, curving roofs, the fronts taken up completely by ornately carved doors covered in gleaming gold, little windows covered with laced curtains.

Each is pulled by two stocky, shaggy ponies, who seem to be close relatives to our own, though their long manes and tails are intricately braided with colorful ribbons that trail down their straining muscles.

Even at this distance I can hear the large wheels groaning and creaking as they begin the descent toward the village walls, the drivers’ shouts of “whoa, there” and “steady, steady” echoing from the mountainsides.

Something about their voices on the wind makes the entire thing real, and I’m unprepared for the surge of hope battering the curve of my ribs in my chest like blood moths in the night.

I spend so much time wishing my life away here, but this could save Marrin.

Could save Tahrik. It seems like a sign from the Gods.

And if a Xenium is given, after so long, will it move us forward toward an end to this seemingly endless suffering?

I want, desperately want, to witness this moment, to run with the rest of the village and see the Traders arrive after so long, but there is nothing on earth strong enough to force my feet back to the Northern Arch.

Even the thought makes my stomach curl, bends me over, exhaling like I’ve been punched, and I have to breathe deeply through the pain.

Little Keeper. There is nothing you could have done.

Lorcan is so sympathetic it hurts. I force myself to straighten, and walk away from the path leading to the arch, away from the Traders and the bright, shimmering chaos, away from the sparkling possibility.

“I won’t risk it, Lorcan. Never again. Unless my throat is cut wide open and you are under my flesh against my veins, coated in blood from my beating heart, it will not happen.” The words are a promise, a vow, an oath.

There is a startled silence, and then That’s quite the picture you paint, Wren.

He is trying to tease, but there is a note in his voice I can’t identify. I don’t much care. He can lead me in many ways, but on this I’ll brook no argument. The Gods could come to earth in human form and command my feet from this village, but I won’t risk sending Lorcan to the silence.

“Don’t press me on this, Protector.”

As you wish, Little Keeper.

Again, there is a strangeness in his reply, but his agreement is enough to quiet me.

So I wander away from the rest of the village, the rest of the world, and find a quiet corner to wait.

It is both forever and not even a moment before the first strains of music wind down the streets to me, and I am left wondering how it took so long and how it happened so quickly, all at once.

The bones against my back are quiet, not whispering any secrets to me, so I am caught by surprise when the first children burst from around the corner, laughing and cartwheeling, joy exploding from their bodies in raucous motion and chortling shouts of pure happiness.

They are followed closely by a tumble of people, familiar faces mixed with new, unknown voices weaving unfamiliar melodies with strange accents.

At the head of the crowd are Silas and Rannoch, walking with a grey bearded man who moves with a swagger and wears a smile that indicates he’s unsure of his welcome, and is masking it with false confidence.

The strangers behind him wear similar looks of cautious hesitance, eyes darting around quickly, belying the grins on their faces and friendly countenances.

I barely have time to wonder what happened at the gate before Nickolas and his friends round the curve, faces dark and angry, not bothering to hide their displeasure at the presence of the visitors.

Ah. If Raek were here he’d caution his brother not to be so obvious, but without him, Nickolas is less careful of his missteps. And Denian and Allford trail him without thought.

Still, the remaining members of the Council and the rest of our leaders — the Protectors, the Renders, the Reapers — all wear their welcome openly, even those who were at the Blood Tree, and it’s enough to balance out the few who are practically vibrating with anger.

As more and more villagers push forward down the main street, the crowd spreads sideways, making room for the strange wagons and nervous ponies, and come close to where I rest. For one wild second I forget myself, stepping forward, joining the tumult, caught up in the surging mayhem of noise and happiness and hope, losing myself, if only for a short time, in this impossible moment.

Children brush against me, not paying attention, focused solely on the newness surrounding them, and I have just enough time to think maybe, maybe…

But the adults, even now, flow around me like water around a rock, and I am left in a lonely pocket of space, feeling happiness slide past my skin, breath skirting flesh, close enough to almost touch me, but never making contact.

Something cold shivers over me, storm rains on my flesh, and I risk a long searching glance, looking for something or someone to connect me to this, to pull me into this piece of history and make me part of it, to write me into the story of our people.

Silas and Rannoch are already ahead of me, beyond me, but…

there! Tahrik’s dark hair is unmistakable, standing out against the unusual burnished autumn colors of the Traders.

He is laughing, face lit with joy, and I half-step toward him, knowing in my bones he will feel my presence and see me, as he always does.

But his face is turned, focused on the man and woman walking beside him, a giggling child on his shoulders, another hanging from his shirt, and he walks by without a thought.

Then they are all gone, or it feels like they are, and I am left behind.

The noise continues, a trill of music like bird song beckoning any stragglers with a welcome not meant for me.

Behind me, the bones warm finally, their soft voices waking with memory, and I lean back into them, into their acceptance, into their comfort.

I remember when ? —

There was once a man ? —

This reminds me of ? —

Their voices whisper and whisper, a soft counterpoint to the gaiety, and I sink into their stories, into their lives, away from the emptiness that is my own.