“I know. But you should try and eat.”

And because Nemek looked so miserable, Keirith took the bowl and thanked him. Nemek lingered a moment as if he meant to speak, then rushed out. Keirith heard Mintan say, “There, lad. Get hold of yourself. It won’t help poor Keirith to hear you making such a fuss.” Mintan probably thought he was whispering, but deaf as he was, his softest comment always came out as a shout.

He knew he should eat—the gods only knew when he’d have hot food again—but after choking down one bite, he put the bowl down. At least he’d kept Fa from attacking the chief. He just hoped he wouldn’t do anything foolish like trying to free him. He’d seemed calm enough when he’d first entered the hut. It was all an act, of course. Just as he’d been trying to act calm so he wouldn’t upset his family further. Perhaps that’s why the law said a condemned man had to spend his last night alone. As hard as it was to be away from his family, it was a relief to abandon the pretense of calm.

He had never witnessed a casting out, but every child knew what was involved. Worse than the shame of the ceremony itself was the thought of his family witnessing it.

Unwilling to think about that, he rose and paced. Five strides across the hut. Five strides back. There was nothing here to remind him of Jurl or Erca. Someone had placed a pile of rabbitskins near the fire pit, along with a waterskin and a stone bowl in case he needed to relieve himself. He might almost be back in his little room in the palace; he even had his two guards outside.

He felt no bitterness toward the elders; he was merely angry that he had allowed himself to hope. But anger was as fruitless as clinging to the belief that none of this would have happened if he had resisted the temptation to fly with the eagle. Long before then, his power had set him apart. He wished he knew why the gods had chosen him. Perhaps it was one of the games the Trickster enjoyed playing on hapless mortals.

Oddly, it was the Trickster’s words that helped calm him: “Don’t think about the future. Just survive one moment and then the next.”

He forced himself to sit. He picked up his bowl of stew. He finished every bite. As he was setting the bowl down, he heard a commotion outside: Conn demanding to see him; Mintan protesting that there was no need to push; Nemek murmuring something too soft to hear.

The bearskin was flung back. For a moment, Conn’s stocky figure stood silhouetted against the soft twilight. Then he stepped inside and let the bearskin swing shut behind him.

Keirith endured the silent scrutiny as long as he could. Then he said, “Hullo, Conn.”

His milk-brother flinched.

It was as if Conn had slapped him. Last night had been hard enough—waiting, hoping Conn would come to welcome him home. But this . . .

Conn took one step toward him, shaky as a newborn lamb, then sank down on the rushes and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders heaved as he sobbed.

“Don’t.”

Conn’s head jerked up. Fat tears oozed down his cheeks. “I should have come! You’re my best friend. And I didn’t even come see you. And now . . .” His voice broke and he covered his face again.

Keirith knelt beside him. “You can’t cry. You can’t! Because then I’ll start. And if I start . . .”

Conn raised his head and dragged his sleeve across his nose. “I’m sorry.” His face crumpled and he shook his head angrily. “I won’t.”

They sat side by side, neither daring to look at the other. Conn took long, heaving breaths until he got himself under control. “I was watching the flock. When Fa came and told me.” He slammed his fist against one of the stones of the fire pit. “How could they do it?”

“I cast out a man’s spirit.”

“I don’t care! It’s still you.”

Keirith swallowed hard. His hand groped toward Conn who nearly crushed it in his grip.

“We’ll run away,” Conn said. “After dark. I’ll pack food and weapons. I’ll hide them down by the lake and come back for you. I’ll . . . I’ll knock Mintan down. Nemek, too. And we’ll steal a coracle and go . . . somewhere. Downriver, maybe. Or up. It doesn’t matter. We can live off the land.”

“You’re a shepherd.”

“So what? I’m good with a sling. Better than you. And I’ve got a bow and arrows.”

“Aye, but you can’t hit anything with them.”

Conn opened his mouth and closed it again.

“And The Ferocious Scowl won’t change that,” Keirith added.

After a moment, Conn’s face relaxed. “That was The Mutinous Glare. It’s new.”

“It’s good. Really.”

Conn punched his arm. He punched Conn back. They both laughed. And then the laughter caught in their throats and they just stared at each other.

“What will you do?”

He thought about his father, sitting under Tinnean’s tree, contemplating death. Perhaps he should find a tree. One with a view of Eagles Mount. And just sit there until the end came. A slow death, but a peaceful one. And then he remembered his father’s plea: “Death is easy. It’s living that’s hard. But as long as there are those who love you, it’s worth the struggle.”

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I guess I’ll just have to figure it out as I go along.”

“Well, that’s a piss-poor plan.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“ ‘Figure it out as I go along.’ Gods, Keirith.”

“Sorry!”

Conn sighed. “Is there anything I can do?”

“This is good. Just . . . talking. Like normal.”

“Do you . . . do you want to tell me about it? What happened? You don’t have to. I can understand if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t. But you’re my milk-brother. You should know.”

Darak left once, to visit Sanok and to inform Nionik of their decision. “Sanok thought I was my father,” he said when he returned. “He kept calling me ‘Reinek’ and asking after the boys.”

“And Nionik? He didn’t try to change your mind?”

“He simply reminded me the law must be carried out. And told me we were entitled to our share of last season’s harvest.”

“Good.”

“I’ll not take anything from him!”

“It’s our right. And we’ll need the food.”

And he swallowed his pride and agreed.

Their kinfolk began arriving as the gloaming gave way to darkness. Some came and went furtively. Others announced their presence boldly. Just like the night before Darak and Urkiat left, word of their plans had spread throughout the village. Tonight, though, far fewer came to bid them farewell; clearly, many people supported the council’s decision. But those who slipped into the hut brought gifts: spare clothes, packets of food, flints and arrows, axes and fires-ticks.

“We’ll never be able to carry it all,” Faelia whispered.

“Aye, we will,” Griane replied with grim determination.

Sali brought three charms. “This one wards off tiredness,” she explained to Faelia. “This one protects you from wild beasts. And this one brings true love.” When Faelia eyed the last charm skeptically, Sali gave her a weak smile. “Well. You never know.”

Griane patted her cheek. “You’re a good girl. And you’ll make a fine healer. Don’t be afraid to shout at people, though. It makes them think you know what you’re doing.”

“Aye, Mother Griane,” she said in her usual meek voice.

“Sali . . .”

“Aye, Mother Griane,” she repeated with more spirit.

“That’s better.”

Muina brought a flask of elderberry wine and laughed when Ennit produced a jug of brogac. “After a few drinks,” he promised, “you’ll be able to drive off the wild beasts just by breathing on them.”

Somehow, she managed to say farewell to Ennit and Lisula without crying. “We’re best friends,” Lisula whispered fiercely. “Nothing changes that. And someday, perhaps, you’ll come back.” They both knew that would never happen, but neither wanted to believe this was the last time they would ever see each other.

Muina’s eyes were bright when she offered her blessing. “It’s a hard path, child, but if you could manage in the First Forest, you’ll manage now. The gods bless you and keep you safe.”

Ennit and Darak embraced, both of them fighting to keep their emotions under control. Ennit was the only friend Darak had ever had—save for Cuillon—and now he was losing him. But they were all losing friends; that was the only way they could keep their family together. She just wished Keirith could be here to share the farewells with them.

She hated to think of him sitting alone in Jurl’s hut, but there was so much to do before dawn. Darak assured her that Keirith understood what they were planning and once their preparations were complete, he promised to remain with him until the casting out. Even so, this night must be lonely for him—and long.

When the last of the visitors left, she tucked Callie into bed and picked up two waterskins, a handful of nettle-cloths, and the basket she used to collect herbs. Darak looked up from his packing, but all he said was, “Don’t be too long.”

She had nearly reached the far end of the lake when she realized she was being followed. Even in the thin light of the waxing moon, she recognized Hircha’s fair hair.

“I thought I could help.”

Griane hesitated, then thrust out the waterskins. “You can fill these. There are some plants I want to dig up.”

“Now?”

“There won’t be time on the morrow.”

She dampened the nettle-cloths and knelt down, guiding herself with her fingertips. Carefully wriggling her fingers into the soil, she freed the roots and wrapped the first plant in one of the cloths.

“What is that?” Hircha asked, peering into the basket.

“It’s called heal-all.”

“I’ve never heard of it before.”

“You wouldn’t have. It’s from the Summerlands.”

Hircha caught her breath. With one forefinger, she gently brushed a slender leaf. “Are they beautiful? The Summerlands?”

“Oh, aye. More beautiful than any Memory-Keeper could describe.” Griane bent closer to the heart-ease. “I should have come before the light went.”

“Let me.”

“Be careful not to bruise the roots. Or pull too hard.”

“I know.” After a moment, Hircha added, “My mother was a healer.”

Griane watched her to be sure she knew what she was doing. “You’ve a gentle touch.”

“She let me help her gather plants. And tie them up for drying. I even helped make infusions—simple ones. But then . . .” Hircha’s voice trailed off.

“Then the raiders came. How old were you?”

“Nine.”

She groped for Hircha’s hand and squeezed it. After that, they harvested the plants in silence, lulled by the chorus of frogs and night insects. When Hircha finally spoke, her voice startled Griane.

“I liked knowing what each plant was used for.”

“Aye. There’s a comfort in plants.”

“Does . . . does Faelia help you?”

“Faelia wouldn’t know Maker’s mantle from mugwort. She’s a hunter.”

“Lots of girls snare rabbits and birds.”

“Aye. But Faelia’s brought down a deer.”

Hircha digested this in silence. “My tribe didn’t allow women to hunt with a bow.”

“Nor does mine.”

Another silence, longer this time. “Does Darak know?”

“There hasn’t been time to tell him. Everything’s happened so fast. Nay, leave the rest. I must remember to tell Sali about them before we go.”

Together, they walked back toward the village. It was a soft, warm night. The smell of peat smoke mingled with the faint odor of decay from the Death Hut. By habit, Griane paused outside the birthing hut, listening for sounds, but both Catha and the babe must be sleeping.

She paused again beside the tribal cairn and rested one hand on the rocks. She had barely finished her prayer when Hircha blurted out, “Did Darak tell you he’d asked me to come with you?”

“We discussed it beforehand. Have you made up your mind yet?”

“I don’t want you to take me just because you feel . . . obligated.”

She peered at the girl, trying to read her expression. Finally she gave up and said, “I told you when you first arrived that our home was yours. And I meant it. We haven’t had much time to get to know each other. I see someone who is young and strong and tough-minded. A little free with her tongue. A bit like me, I suppose. I’d like to have another woman around. Especially one who knows something about healing. And you get on well with the children.” With them, at least, Hircha could let down her guard and dare to show affection. “Both Faelia and Callie seem to like you.”

“Darak doesn’t.”

They did seem uncomfortable with each other, but Darak would never have suggested that Hircha come with them if he disliked her.

“He’s afraid I’ll hurt Keirith.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know! I don’t want to hurt him. It’s not like I’ll try to.”

“Good.”

There was a long silence. Griane curbed her impatience and waited.

“I hated him,” Hircha said in a low voice. “Keirith. I didn’t want him getting too close. Because if you let people in . . .”

“Sometimes, they’ll hurt you. Even the ones you love. If you’re afraid of people getting close, you should stay here. Even in a village this small, you might be able to manage that way. But not with five other people. We’ll need to trust each other. And we’ll have to risk far more than our hearts if we’re going to survive.” Griane hesitated, then decided to ask the question that had been on her mind since Hircha had arrived. “Do you love Keirith?”

Hircha’s head jerked toward her. “Nay.”

“Does he love you?”

“I . . . I don’t think so.”

“But you’re friends.”

Hircha considered. “Aye. I guess we are.” She sounded surprised but not displeased.

“I think you can help each other. You both understand what it was like in that place.”

“Darak—”

“Is his father. Keirith still needs a friend. And so do you.”

The gods only knew what the raiders had done to the girl. She still wasn’t sure if it had been wise to ask her to join them. But she’d seen the longing in Hircha’s eyes when she listened to them arguing and weeping and laughing together. Hircha needed a home and a family and a place to belong.

Griane bent down to pick up a rock and placed it atop the cairn. “The bones of my mother and father are inside. And my sister. My aunt and uncle. My son. Aye, I had another boy. He only lived a few moments . . .”

And only after a moon could a child of the tribe receive a name. But she had named him in her heart and that was how she remembered him in her prayers. Rigat.

“I’m sorry I won’t lie with them. But a body is just flesh and bone and blood. It’s the spirit that matters. And the heart.”

Darak might understand that, but understanding and accepting were very different.

“It’s hard . . . when the body is before you every day.”

Lost in her thoughts, it took Griane a moment to realize Hircha was talking about Keirith—and the man whose body he now wore.

“I know it’s Keirith inside,” Hircha said. “I can see that. Not just in what he says but the way he walks, the gestures he makes. His kindness.”

She must have known the other man well. Darak claimed she had feared and hated him, but Griane suspected there was more to it—and that Keirith knew what it was. There may not be love between them or desire, but there was a bond. The kind that formed when people shared tremendous adversity and survived. And that could only help them both in the hard times ahead.

“None of us can wipe out the past,” she said quietly.

“No matter how much we might want to. All we can do is acknowledge it—for better or worse—and move on.”

“Aye. But it’s not easy.”

Griane brushed a wisp of hair off Hircha’s face. “I know.”