warriors had hunted, the fires were set. When third moon began to rise, Psal and Ephan climbed to the tower to study the controlled blaze.
See then: Psal and Ephan. Silent, both peering through spyglasses. The double moonlight usually turned the night sky from pale indigo to dull gray. But now, the distant sky glowed like torches: red, white, yellow. Nearby, the smoke mocked the day, misting the forest with bright grays and dull blues. Around the longhouse, the fire flickered and crackled. From the northwest, the terrified howlings of wild cats, from the northeast, the hoof beats of stampeding animals, echoing in the sky the cawing of fleeing birds.
Trouble grew inside the longhouse; First Night had gone. Second Night was come. Psal’s young sisters had not yet returned. In the gloom, there was no glimpse of the lost girls’ yellow tunics.
“Cloud.” Psal noted the fatigued jitteriness of Ephan’s eyes. “Are you sure the count is right?”
“I am not blind.” Ephan climbed into the watchtower, the rounded spire of the tower. “I’ve told you already. Four hundred and eighty-six. All are inside except your sisters.” His tone calmed. “Psal, the fires are far away. The girls are wise enou—”
“Nine and six year-old girls are not wise, Cloud. Earlier, when you spoke to Father—”
“No, they haven’t crept in through any window or any of the lesser doors.”
Psal sighed, caught between anger and worry. What if the fire outpaces my sisters? What if the night outpaces them? Nahas will send warriors to search for them, but the advancing night! Even if we anchor the longhouse tonight in this region, the night.… He leaned against the watchtower, then paced the rampart. He strained his ears. “Do you hear that?”
“The sound of a child crying. But it is not the voice of either of your sisters.”
Netophah, golden-haired, nature-blessed, raced up the tower stairs. He tugged at his brother’s arm. “Firstborn, Father says Lan is the fastest of us. Lan will search for our sisters. We can wait no longer.”
In the gathering room, Lan—fleet Lan, wild Lan—stood at the threshold of the longhouse’s main entrance. Twenty years old, well-favored, slender, black-haired Lan was the child of a studier. Psal’s friend, he had been allowed inside the studiers’ ghostly circle. Smoke billowed past him into the gathering room as all awaited the king’s command.
Chief Studier Dannal approached Lan. Aged, his body blighted by enslavement to Tomah and the Wheel Clan disease, he placed a hand covered with cancerous sores on Cyrt’s shoulder and spoke to Lan.
“Lan is swift, but—even if he finds them—how would the little ones fare, hungry and night-tossed without a studier’s help? Ephan’s knowledge will guide all the lost home.”
True. Lan knew more about towers than the other warriors, but he was not a studier. A studier could hear the barely audible songs of towers and regions, as well as the heartbeats of spoiled little girls lost in a blazing forest.
“I will return again with the king’s daughters safe at my side,” Ephan said, but Lan remained at the door.
Psal grasped Ephan’s hand. “I will accompany Cloud.”
Ephan glanced at Psal’s deformed leg. “You’ll delay—”
“I will not.”
Psal’s two young brothers at her side, Hinis hurried toward Ephan. Fear for her own daughter and for Netophah’s sister lined her face. She hastily removed the leather cloaken from Lan’s shoulder and placed it across Ephan’s. Folded and strapped to the shoulder, the cloaken—when unrolled—was large enough to cover three large warriors—or two slender studiers and two careless little girls—and would prevent the night from separating them. “Bring my daughters home,” she commanded.
Out the studiers ran, the longhouse fast-fading behind them, second night riding hard at their heels. Psal’s weak muscles complained; his left leg and thigh hurt. Emon pharma, powerful though it was, only dulled his pain. Now, as he ran into the smoke, his lungs screamed in pain. Yet, he had to run. Then, a cry so small only a studier could hear it. As one, both turned eastward.
Ephan ran fast, faster, toward the cry. Second night and fire swirled about him, dust and smoke hid him from Psal’s sight. Psal hobbled behind, cursing his wretched leg, strengthening his heart against anticipated grief. Then he heard the girls’ voices issuing from a smoky clearing beyond a fiery thicket. The flames crackled all around. Past the blaze and into the clearing, Ephan ran. Out he came again, the fire licking at his heels, the girls in his arms coughing.
“Give Ria to me,” Psal said. Tears and smoke burned his eyes.
Ephan pushed Psal’s arm away. “I can carry both.”
Not in this smoke! Not with this fire! Not with the unmaking night fast approaching. “Give her to me!”
Another cry sounded from within the fire. A baby’s wail.
“The newborn? Is it still alive? Cyrt promised mercy!”
Ephan grasped Psal’s hand. “Hurry! Away!”
Psal shook off Ephan’s hold, ran into clearing. The child lay gasping amidst the brush. Psal lifted his dagger, held it high above the child’s struggling chest. He could not strike. Out he came again, the blaze nearer. “Ephan! Please! Be merciful! Kill it for me.”
Ephan’s mouth dropped open.
“You should have killed it when you found it!” Psal shouted.
“The fire rages!” Ephan yelled.
“Where is your mercy? Like Cyrt, you would allow it to burn in this fire!”
Ephan placed Tanti on the ground. Hasting, silent, he raced back to the infant, knife drawn. A moment passed. Ria leaped onto Psal’s back. The child’s wailing stopped. Ephan scrambled from the smoke, wiped his bloodied dagger against his tunic and returned it to its sheath. Immediately, Tanti climbed into Ephan’s arms.
Suddenly, strength and power flowed through Psal’s damaged body. How fast he ran—and without pain! As if the wind bore him along. How fleet his feet! As if tower music pulled them in its wake. Like arrows shot forth from a bow, they flew from that forest, the darkening smoke pursuing.
At the longhouse, Psal’s youngest brother greeted him. “I watched from the rampart, Firstborn! How fast you ran!”
“As fast as any other.” The next to the youngest shouted, leaping as children do.
“Faster! If I had not seen it, I would not have believed it!”
Psal, too, could not believe it. He laughed, blushed when his father smiled. His mother smiled also. A smile not wide enough to remove the memory of her disdain, yet this rare tiny thing lifted Psal’s heart.
He set his sister on her feet. “I should’ve let the Voca find you,” he shouted. “They keen for abandoned towers and lost little girls like you!” He pointed through a window to the rising moons. “Did you not hear Lan’s horn?” The girls glanced at each other—guilt and relief on their faces. Fear as well. His heart softened, his voice too. “I teased.”
His
