“The wyrm provides,” Soryn said.
He looked between the two of them again, his gaze lingering on their joined hands.
“Your bond is stronger here,” he said softly. “Do you feel it?”
She did. It pulsed faintly under her skin, like the valley itself was a body, and their joined palms were its heartbeat.
The air warmed the further they walked. Insects whirred faintly beneath the steady burble of water, a song that seemed impossibly out of season.
Some Kelthi emerged from their homes as the three of them entered the village. Some were young, others old enough that their antlers had grown pale and knotted with time. The women never had any quite as large as the men; Lain assumed they must shed. And while the men had antlers that looked very much like an elk’s, bone and off-white, many of the women had antlers that were blue like her own. They didn’t wear slacks; rather, their robes were cut to the thigh, long down the center and back, with a notch for their tails, their legs mostly bare. She’d never seen clothing like this before, and she was both repulsed and envious of the freedom they must feel.
A woman stepped forward, her tail draped in ribbons of blue cloth, her ears pierced with small copper discs that rang faintly when she moved. “You’ve brought a stranger, Soryn.”
“And family,” Soryn said. “This is Lhainara Ashael. She is our niece.”
The name still sounded strange to her ears. Murmuring erupted around them. Lain’s true name, spoken in the mouths of people who looked like her, seemed suddenly enormous.
Soryn introduced her to her aunt, Atheri, who threw her arms around Lain as if she were a much loved and seldom seen relative, and not a total stranger.
“She has the scent of Oranthis,” she said. She stepped back and examined Lain’s face. “That’s the name of your father. Your eyes are his as well.”
“Oranthis,” Lain said. “What was my mother’s name?”
“Nimaira.” She glanced down at Lain’s slacks. “Is your wool white or mottled?”
“White.”
“Ah, that’s your mother’s side. My sisters and I were always envious of the Edran wool.”
Envy for her Kelthi legs wasn’t something Lain could even comprehend. Before this moment she would’ve traded them for human legs and feet in an instant.
Soryn inclined his head toward the largest of the round houses near the water’s edge. “The council will want to see her.”
“Certainly,” Atheri said. “But after, she must meet her cousins.”
Cousins. Cousins. It was only Mallow’s sweet nudge that made her aware she was grinning. She blinked the tears from her eyes.
They led her into a round hall roofed in reed and sod. Smoke bled neatly through a louvered crown; the air tasted of wet stone and boiled bark. A table circled the center hearth. The walls were lined with maps, inked topographies of valleys and switchbacks, narrow passes annotated with dates and water marks. Pragmatic hands lived here.
A woman stood when Soryn entered with Lain and Mallow. She wore an undecorated wool mantle pinned with a single copper clasp, her hair in a plain knot. She wore a bandolier of bells across her chest as well, though fewer than Soryn, and Lain wondered what it meant, to have multiple. Perhaps children? Or, sadder, lost family members?
“Warden,” Soryn said. “This is Lhainara Ashael, daughter of my late brother. I found her at the ruins of Edran’s shrine.”
The woman’s gaze went to Lain’s face, then her head, cataloging the antlers. Her assessment was swift and clean.
“You’re in season,” she said, matter-of-fact. “First or second this year?”
Lain flushed. “First.”
A younger Kelthi at the table with short braids and a smudge of charcoal on her wrist passed a clay cup without fuss. “Fenleaf and mint. It won’t end the Heat, just makes room to breathe.”
Another Kelthi at the table chuckled. “And it keeps one from going weak-kneed at every breeze.”
“Thank you,” Lain managed, surprised by the absence of shame, the way the word Heat sat on their tongues like weather. Ordinary. Planned for.
“Ah, Fenleaf, of course,” Mallow said, smacking his forehead. “I should’ve known.”
“No licorice?” Lain asked.
The younger Kethi’s brow furrowed. “Why? Do you have a fever?”
Lain shook her head. “No.”
“Then you shouldn’t need it,” the girl said. “It just makes us tired. Pliant, really. Good for stress.”
A rush of some sick feeling filled Lain’s gut. Pliant. Good for stress.
The Warden gestured to empty seats. “Sit. Speak plainly. Soryn says you’re the Ashael line. Your bell bears Edran’s sign?”
Lain handed it over. The Warden turned the cap, checked the stamp, and set the bell down beside a map. “What name have they given you, Lhainara?”
“Lain,” she said, and the word felt suddenly small.
“Curious. Lain will serve. I am Warden Myren. This is the council – Tamar of irrigation, Vesse who keeps stores, Harka who tracks patrols. We vote when it matters and decide fast when we must.”
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Her eyes flicked to Mallow as if measuring a tool. “And the human?”
“Guarding her,” Soryn said. “Though I have not garnered their full story.”
Mallow inclined his head, hands visible, posture easy but edged.
Myren’s attention returned to Lain. “We heard a bell from the ridge.”
“I rang it,” Lain said. “The shrine was burned. The bell… told me. There used to be a wyrm there.”
A brief silence. Harka marked something in charcoal on a piece of vellum.
“Tell us who you are,” Myren said.
Lain began at the beginning. “I was raised among the Dagorlind. As Bellborn.”
The group was more than shocked at this; a rush of fury swept across Myren’s face, then she seemed to reel self-control back in a breath. It was obvious in their faces they were each in turns angry, confused, saddened. There was a time where she would’ve shared this information with pride; but now, she felt only shame.
After the shock in the room cleared, Lain went on to explain: the Ceremony, how she’d failed, what she was sent out to do, how they had tried to kill her, how Mallow had saved her.
“And now?” Myren asked. “What do you want?”
Lain swallowed. “To wake the wyrm under Ivath. To end the Dagorlind’s hold. I need Starbloom, brewed in daylight. I know what it does. I know why they brew it half at night, half in the day.”
Harka set her elbows on the table. “You’ll need more than flowers. The Brighthand have riders on every river road.”
“We lost them,” Mallow said. “They won’t follow us here.”
Myren gave him a measured look. “No, they won’t. We knew they rode north before you came. Our watchers saw their banners.”
Soryn nodded. “That’s how I knew to look for you. The bell was only the last sign.”
Lain stared between them. “You knew a Veinwright was near, and still you stayed hidden?”
“We survive by choosing when not to act,” Myren said. “We are not the war you seek, girl. But we remember what it costs.”
Her tone softened, but only slightly. “You said you meant to wake the wyrm under Ivath. That is not a small thing.”
Lain met her gaze. “The Spire has bound it. Every time they use it, something in the world dies. The only way to end that is to free it.”
The Warden’s expression barely shifted. “And when you wake it?”
Lain hesitated. “Then it will be free. Maybe… maybe the Glinnel will be free, too.”
Tamar glanced at Myren. “That’s a lot of maybe.”
Myren folded her hands. “And what happens to you, Lain of Ashael, if it wakes angry?”
“I don’t know,” she said. In fact, she hadn’t even considered it. “But I must do something.”
There was a long pause. Finally, Myren spoke. “Soryn tells us you came from Edran’s shrine.”
Lain nodded.
“They burned it because it was guarding a wyrm egg,” Soryn said.
Lain blinked. “An egg?”
He nodded. “We moved it before the patrol came, down into the caverns beneath this valley. The hatchling grew here. It keeps Vaelun alive.”
Lain stared at him, uncomprehending. “You mean – the wyrm here –”
“Was born of your village,” Myren said. “The one you lost.”
The world seemed to sway around her.
“You were not the only survivor, it seems,” Soryn said. “Your mother gave her life for you. This place bears the fruit of your village.”
“Why didn’t they leave, when they knew the patrol was coming?” Lain asked.
“Some did,” Soryn explained. “Myself. My wife. A few others. But we were a proud community, and we thought they would be merciful, if not reasonable.” He shook his head sadly. “We were wrong.”
Mallow nodded, as if he understood.
Lain’s throat closed. “Then I’ve come home.”
For the first time, Myren’s voice gentled. “In a way.” She stood, walking to the center of the room. “You have a bond, girl – to the wyrms, to your Heat, to your human beside you. But what you need most now is to remember what you are.”
She gestured to the packed earth floor. “Sit. Feel what’s beneath us.”
Lain hesitated, then lowered herself to the ground. The warm air smelled faintly of loam.
“Don’t sing,” Myren said. “Listen.”
Lain pressed her palm to the soil. For a long while there was nothing. Then, slowly, warmth rose through her hand, something deeper and more patient than Heat.
It grew stronger until she could almost see it: a coil shifting in the dark, curious and half-dreaming. A young mind brushing against hers, wordless, bright as molten glass beneath the crust of the world.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Hello.”
The sensation answered, rippling faintly, like the press of a great heartbeat far below.
When she opened her eyes, the Warden and council were watching quietly.
“He knows you,” Soryn said.
“He knows Kelthi,” Myren corrected, but there was warmth in her tone. “And he is still learning what you are.”
Lain’s breath trembled. “The Spire told us the wyrms were gods. That we were their servants.”
Myren’s mouth tightened. “Convenient for them.”
Soryn folded his hands. “We tended them. Fed them songs when they woke from sleep. The Dagorlind learned how to twist those songs into power. When the Kelthi resisted, they burned the mountains clean.”
Lain closed her eyes. “They burned my family.”
“And from it, a wyrm was born,” Myren said. “That’s the way of things.”
For a while, none spoke. Then Myren said, “You’ll have what you came for – Starbloom. But we cannot go with you. We keep this place alive. We swore an oath to protect our people.”
Lain nodded. “I understand.”
The Warden studied her face. “The wyrm under Ivath will know you. If you wake it, you’ll need to guide it before the Glinnel do. That will take more than courage.”
“I’ll have Mallow,” Lain said softly.
At that, Myren’s gaze flicked toward him. “Your bond with him may help you. But be cautious. The link cuts both ways. Pain, sickness, fear – you’ll feel his, and he’ll feel yours.”
“Is that fate?” Lain asked.
Myren smiled. “No. It’s physics.”
Mallow nodded once. “We’ll manage.”
Myren seemed satisfied. “Then rest today. The watchers will mark your path for three night’s march. At dawn, you walk.”
Soryn rose as well. “Lhainara,” he said, the name soft and reverent on his tongue. “Your Heat will crest again soon. Here, that’s no sin. Eat well. Sleep when you can. The wyrm likes the sound of hooves; if you can’t find peace, walk.”
Lain exhaled, dizzy from the shape of everything she’d learned: her name, her kin, the egg that survived, the wyrm born beneath them, the truth that her gods had been stolen.
When she finally stood, the Warden stopped her with a light touch to her forearm. The Heat’s reaction was dulled; she could handle the touch, and still enjoy it.
“For what it’s worth,” Myren said quietly, “we don’t care what you still believe. We care what you do next.”