It was luck alone that saved Tara’s life. A heavy rainstorm in the late morning left the forest floor treacherously slick, so the four travellers made slow progress throughout the day. As a consequence, the long shadows of encroaching night swallowed up the wide gorge before they entered it, and most of the people dwelling there had long since retreated to the comfort of their homes. If they had arrived any sooner, she would, no doubt, have been captured, her sentence pronounced long before her return. The council her father served upon would have seen to it that she was tied to one of the high platforms where the dead awaited scavenging birds. She would have perished slowly over a matter of days, most likely from dehydration.

“Take my hand; the rocks are slick.”

Mist’s strong fingers closed over Tara’s hand, and she followed, trusting to the keen eyes of her avowry and the strength of the taller woman’s arm.

The two women skidded down the steep path towards the flood plain the river had carved into the bottom of the gorge. Varn was next—his eyes keen in the night and his step confident. When they had found the path that snaked along the waterside, Moseley lowered the packs down to them before at last, Mist helped him make the final descent. They had made no effort to be quiet. For three of them, this was simply a homecoming after a number of seasons away. For Varn, it was a new adventure as these were not his people and he had not entered a Tolthian tref before. This was safe ground, they thought, with no threat of attack and no need to mask their presence. Care flew to the winds and they laughed easily, relieved to have reached the end of a long journey.

A lone figure walked out of the gloom towards them, a lantern in one hand and a cluster of fishing pots in the other.

“Mist?” he called out uncertainly.

“Father?”

Joyfully, she advanced to meet him. The rest stood back, allowing these two a little space for their reunion. The older man took his daughter’s hands and looked into her face for a long while.

“Is something the matter?” Mist asked.

“I thought you were dead.”

“It’s been a little over two turns, no longer than we’d said.”

“When Tara returned without you, I thought the worst.”

Mist glanced back over her shoulder and puzzled over his words.

“What are you talking about?”

“I suppose you two were separated somehow, but she was back a moon ago and it is well you were not with her.”

“Father…”

“Come home with me, I’ll tell you the worst of it. Bring your friends.”

“Father…”

This time, before she could try and explain, Tara stepped forward into the small circle of light. The green tones in her hair showed brilliantly and her dark eyes flashed. She met the old man’s gaze evenly.

“Hello, Will, what’s been happening?”

He stepped back, a troubled expression on his weather-worn face.

“You should know well enough.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

Tara’s tone was even, belying the fear she felt. This was not the homecoming she expected.

Will edged along the path, not breaking eye contact with the young woman, although obviously keen to put some distance between himself and her.

“Mist, come with me, girl; there’s no one to speak against you and plenty to speak for, no doubt.”

“What is going on?” Mist asked, apprehension audible in her voice.

“Ask her. She has shed the blood of her kin and is marked for death.”

“She couldn’t have. We’ve only just returned; she’s been with me these last two turns. Tara hasn’t done anything like that. What are you talking about?”

“Is that your word?”

“Yes.”

“There are a dozen others whose word is that she entered the house of her uncle, quarrelled violently with him, and gutted him with a sidion knife.”

“What?” Tara exclaimed, shocked by this seemingly impossible revelation.

It seemed to her that she had fallen into a waking nightmare. That her uncle was dead was shocking enough; that she was accused of killing him was so nonsensical, that her mind struggled to accept the news.

“I am one of that dozen; I saw you enter. I saw you leave with blood on your clothes. I heard your uncle accuse you with his dying breath. Murderer!”

The weight of this word shocked Tara into silence.

“You had best kill me as well,” he said evenly. “Unless you do, I’m going to raise the alarm against you. We will hunt you down—you and anyone who stands by you.”

“I’ve never shed the blood of a friend, and I don’t mean to start now,” Tara answered.

She felt as though she was being slowly smothered.

“Mist?” Will asked.

“I am Tara’s avowry; I go where she goes.”

“Even to death?”

“If it must be so.”

The four stood in shocked silence as Will departed, leaving them in utter darkness as soon as his lamp was out of sight amongst the trees.

“This is madness,” Tara murmured.

“He’s convinced of your guilt—I know my father well enough,” Mist replied. “We’ll have little time. Do you want to run, or face this?”

“I am already judged and spoken against. Who would speak for me?”

“Then run,” Moseley said, “now.”

“Where?” Mist asked.

It was late and they were hardly prepared for another night sleeping rough in the forest. With the light gone, it would be difficult to make a camp, or to find a suitably safe place.

“I know,” Tara said.

With her uncle dead, she could not seek shelter from her family. There was, however, one other person in whom she dared to place her trust. Tara had been a child in this great tref, growing up amongst its trees and the labyrinths of wattle buildings. She knew its paths and shortcuts well.

“We go to Emyr,” she said. “He will know what to do.”

The wheel of the year had turned twice in her absence, but her memory had not dulled, despite the many strange things she had seen in her travels. Even though she could barely see in the near darkness, she could remember, and with Mist’s hand in hers, she negotiated the twisting walkways at great speed. The two men followed close on their heels and Tara was glad she had not been abandoned in the face of such terrible danger. More than anything else, they needed safety and some chance to learn what had happened. There was no reason to think her family would show her any mercy at all, not if the council both her father and her now-dead uncle sat on had condemned her to death without even hearing her word on the matter. There was only one person she thought she might be able to turn to in this dire circumstance.

* * * *

The house stood on a small plateau higher above the river than most of the tref’s dwelling places. Emyr had always been a touch reclusive and liked the quiet of this spot. In her youth, Tara had resented the long, hot climb from her father’s establishment in the very heart of the community up to this hillside retreat, but now, she was grateful for it. There were other houses close by, but the steep slope offered only occasional spaces suitable for building and the nearest construction was perhaps a hundred paces away. It meant there was a fair chance no one would see their coming.

Tara approached the house cautiously and chimed the small wooden bell, hoping it would be loud enough to rouse her one-time mentor without waking any of his neighbours. The tightly woven door swung open soundlessly and, illuminated by the light of a small lantern, Emyr appeared, dishevelled and clearly disturbed from his sleep. He was a slender man, with high cheekbones and an intense look to him. Upon seeing Tara, he pulled her across the threshold and peered round the door.

“Are the others out there with you?” he hissed.

“Yes.”

He sighed, and opened the door again to grant them access.

Rather than risk that further light would draw unwelcome attention, they sat on the low benches and Emyr shook up his fire-box, feeding a handful of resin pieces through a small hole so the rocks inside gave off a sweet smell as they began to heat. Coils of smoke rose up, dancing like spirits about the tree trunk around which the house was built. It was a small, modestly appointed place, with much of the space given over to manuscripts and simple comforts—a store of culinary herbs, a selection of drapes and blankets and, hanging from the ceiling, a leg of smoked duffet.

“You realise that I am risking exile, if not worse, simply for letting you cross the threshold,” their host remarked.

There was a touch of humour to his voice that put Tara at ease.

“I will admit that I had rather hoped you would come to see me sooner, but then again, this unfortunate business with your uncle… I was hoping there might be some reasonable explanation.”

“I returned here only tonight. Two days ago, I was at the mouth of the Lia, where it meets the Sen. Before then, we spent over a week on a raft.”

“This is your word?”

“As I live and breathe.”

“And these three will speak for you?”

Tara looked at her companions. Mist nodded.

“Absolutely,” Moseley said.

“As will I, if the word of one not of your kith carries any weight.”

“It is better than nothing,” Emyr mused, “but not enough to outweigh a dozen who have given their words against you. If you want to save your honour and your life, it will take a lot more vows than that.”

“What do you suggest I do?” Tara asked.

She had long been accustomed to trusting his judgement, and the situation had overwhelmed her such that she could hardly think at all.

“If you have no regard for your honour, then flee to safety and never show your face in this tref again.”

“This isn’t just a matter of my honour, this is braint—this is the honour of my family and my community. Someone has killed my uncle. If I flee, they will go unpunished and that dishonours us all.”

“You are right, of course,” Emyr answered. “The question remains—how will you prove your innocence and find the true killer? You cannot walk freely in the tref. You will be taken on sight, and we do not yet have enough people to speak for you.”

“Will you help me?” Tara asked, her voice more plaintive than she had meant it to sound.

“Of course I will.”

“We all will, won’t we?” Mist added, looking at the two other men for confirmation.

They were both quick to nod.

“Perhaps we should not try to make any sense of this tonight. Let us eat and talk. Introduce me to your friends and we shall see if we can make more sense of this in the morning than the night.”

The duffet was tender and succulent, having been smoked in uley wood until the timber’s sharp flavour mingled with the rich animal fats. There were martas and moseley nuts, orin roots and crisp coaley leaves—enough to make quite a considerable feast. Tara worried that they would soon eat the lore-keeper out of supplies but, looking at him, she thought he seemed remarkably at ease, given the precarious nature of their position. He watched them all closely, his scrutiny making Moseley uneasy. Varn was so used to drawing the attention of those around him, that he hardly seemed to notice it. The young man who had travelled with them from the distant Straifian hills was handsome enough, and compelling whenever he chose to speak or sing.

Emyr passed round several steaming wooden bowls, pungent from the concoction of dried flowers he had brewed. They drank eagerly, glad of the warmth and the civilised feeling that warm liquid brought.

“So,” he said, “tell me your stories.”

Tara felt she was hardly in any mood to talk and so she looked appealingly towards the others. Moseley was the first to speak, clearing his throat nervously. Being a young man from a family who consisted largely of artisans and traders, Moseley was somewhat in awe of the older lore-keeper. Tara had talked about her mentor considerably in the short time he had known her, and the impression she had created was a daunting one.

“I am, of course, from this tref—my parents live here. I have been upriver bartering and visiting cousins—nothing worthy of note. I met these three on the journey back. I’ve only known them about a week.”

Emyr nodded thoughtfully, but kept his observations to himself. Mist was the next to speak.

“I don’t know if you remember me. My father, Will, is avowry to Tara’s father. When Tara announced her journey, I offered myself and she accepted me. I’ve been her avowry ever since.”

“And a fine one at that,” Tara interjected warmly. “I don’t think I’d have survived without you.”

“Of course I remember you,” Emyr said, “although I think you must have grown since I saw you last. Either that or my memory is going.”

Mist chuckled softly at this.

“And you?” Emyr asked the raven-haired young man whose eyes glistened like sidion. “You are not Tolthian, I gather. What is your kith?”

“Straifian.”

“You have travelled some way, then.”

Varn nodded. “It was my intention to see a little more of Estraguil, to meet with the other kiths and learn their stories.”

“And how are you finding your learning?”

“Interesting, certainly, although there is a great deal I have not yet seen.”

“I would surmise that you are a wordsmith-in-training?”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“I would be interested to hear more of your craft, if we find ourselves in a better time.”

“Gladly.”

“And you, my girl, how fared your quest?”

Tara had almost forgotten about the reason for her long absence and the observations she brought back with her. Up until that evening, her work had seemed important and all-consuming, but now, faced with death and dishonour, it hardly seemed to matter at all.

“Well? I am waiting. What did you find?”

“Forgive me, I can hardly think at the moment.”

Emyr shook his head, exasperated.

“I’ve waited two years, and now you want me to wait longer still?”

“There is no knowledge worth having that it is not worth waiting to possess,” she intoned.

Smiling, he shook his head at this, hearing his own oft-repeated words thrown back at him.

“You should rest,” he said, “all of you.”

He looked around the one room of his house, wondering what best to do.

“Tara, I would offer you my bed, but it would be better if you were not quite so apparent, I think.”

He rose and opened a small trapdoor that had been almost invisible in the woven texture of the ceiling.

“There is room enough for you and Mist. Not terribly luxurious, but safer than anything else I can think of.”

Mist and Tara exchanged looks, and then giggled.

“I think Mist would rather stay down here, somehow.”

Emyr glanced at the two young men, and very rapidly determined why this might be. He had wondered if the wordsmith had won the hearts of one, or both of the young women.