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After Wilia, I finished the entirety of the introduction of Arnal, the only child in the groups. She's 7 years old, about half the age of Lur and Paka. I am not sanguine about my ability to write from the POV of a child, but I have a mommy beta-reading for me! I will probably change Arnal's name at some point, as it's not a good choice, in my opinion.

She turned over every aspect of her new situation. First, she spent a few minutes in the simple appreciation of having escaped the horrible fate of losing a hand. She was not going to wallow in gratitude to Hawksblood, however. She would show him outward gratitude and obedience, but she knew that a man like him could not be trusted. He planned to use every one of them, her, the boy, the scribe, and whoever the fifth Talon might be, for his own ends. Nor did she trust the scribe any further. He was a canny and selfish man. Of course, neither she nor the boy could be trusted, either, she thought with a smile, but they understood each other, and she stood in no danger from him.

Then there was the dragon to be considered. Did it really exist? Or was Lord Niam some kind of magician, leading them along an elaborate path of his own making, for his own purposes? She would reserve judgment until she knew more, but at the moment, she was inclined to believe in the existence of the dragon. A powerful, spiritual beast was a more logical way than any possible arcane magical ability on Niam's part to explain the mark which had appeared on her head, and how Niam had found her in the bowels of the jail when he came from halfway across Elegar. After all, there were songs and legends about the dragons, but none about humans wielding magic. Easier to believe a great dragon had summoned them from beneath the sea than that one man should suddenly develop great power and then, having attained it, gather about him such a motley group of people.

However, no matter which explanation was the true one, she knew she was stuck. Niam pretended that she had a choice, but she knew better. If she tried to leave now, and the dragon didn't stop her, then Niam would find her again. And when he did, he might be irritated. The thought of that man irritated gave her the same cold chill that she'd gotten so recently in the cell.

Besides, as it was, if she went along, at least she would be seeing more of Elegar, and she would be doing it in a grand style, both of which strongly appealed to her.

The door opened as she reached this place in her ruminations, just enough to admit the head of the boy. "Hey."

"Come in, come in." As he slid inside, closing the door behind him, she beckoned him closer and held up her square of knitting. "Do you know, I might just have enough yarn here for a sweater for you. And blue suits you, I think. Would you like that?"

He sat on the floor before her with a wry smile. "Sure. If that's what you want to do."

"One must always have a purpose." With him so close, she was inspired to test one aspect of Lord Niam's story. "Lur, you have the mark, too?"

He shrugged assent.

"May I touch it? Do you mind?"

"Go ahead."

She set aside her knitting and leaned forward, running her fingers over his right ear. Yes, it was there, just like hers, a curving line of coolness. She shuddered.

"I don't like it, either," he said. "It makes me feel weird. Like I'm branded."

"Yes, that's exactly it. Like they did for slaves, all those centuries ago."

"You know a lot, for a thief."

"I'm not a thief. I simply borrow things," she said, but she couldn't help meeting his sardonic smile with one of her own. "I got a little education in my later years, when I began to be a lady's maid."

"What were you before that? A prostitute?"

"You are too young to be speaking of things like that."

"Why? I knew plenty of them, where I came from."

She supposed he did. And being a boy, he probably had not been as lucky as she had, finding someone to watch out for her. "I knew some generous gentlemen," she conceded.

He gave a whoop of laughter. "I bet!"

"And what did you do, before you joined this little group? Pick pockets?"

"Among other things."

"I'm sure you were very good at it."

"I wasn't bad. I keep in practice." He lifted a hand, and between the fingers flashed a coin. A gold coin. "This is from the lord's pouch. Tomorrow, I'll put it back."

"Are you mad? Do you know who he is?"

"No. I mean, I know his name, but nothing else."

She leaned down and gripped his chin to keep his attention. "He is known as Hawksblood, and he is famous not only for being a great warrior, but also as one of the most violent, dangerous, ruthless men who ever swung a sword. If you steal from him, who knows what he will do to you?"

"He has to catch me at it first," the boy said. His tone was flippant, but the coin disappeared again.

She tweaked his chin, then released him. "He doesn't have to catch you. He only needs to suspect you. That would be enough for him. For all we know, once you've discovered your talisman, he would cut off your head and take that to the dragon. Stick to the scribe for your practice."

"And you."

She chuckled. "You won't get past my guard, young man."

Chapter 9: Arnal

Her valley had been invaded.

Arnal pouted in frustration. The valley wasn't really hers, she knew. It wasn't even a real valley, simply a depression in the ground which had been cleared long ago for a now-forgotten reason and which the forest had not yet reclaimed. The road to Tistek went through it, but almost no one traveled that road these days, now that the new road had been built to the north. The new road was longer, but with the superior grading and the gravel which had been laid in the low places, it was quicker for merchant wagons. Once the inn had opened, even fewer travelers took this more direct road from Amfeni to Tistek, and Arnal was able to play there whenever she wished, free from interruption. At various times, the modest clearing had been the site of great battles, royal coronations, sailing explorations across the seas, weddings, funerals, stampedes, floods, and every other possibility that a child's imagination could conjure on any given day.

But now, as she grew older, her free time was becoming increasingly rare. And here she was, with hours where she wouldn't be missed, and her valley was full of people.

She crouched in the underbrush and looked at them. She could be a scout. Yes, a scout for the king's army, seeking out rebels. Her imagination was not limited by the fact that the last rebels had been captured long before she was born, after all. She settled, concentrating on becoming one with the forest, being invisible like the best scout, and learning all she could about these dangerous rebels so she could take it to her general, who would then give her a commendation and throw a party for her, in honor of her intelligence and courage. Yes, that would be fun.

She diligently counted. Five people, four horses, one donkey. Only one of the people looked like a warrior, and she believed that person was a woman. There was an old lady with white hair and an odd, whiplike cane, and a girl older than Arnal, but not as old as her half-brother. There was a pretty woman with long black hair, holding something in her hand that sparkled in the sunlight. There was a one man, tall, with brown hair that curled like a goat's, but he didn't look dangerous.

Even Arnal's imagination couldn't make this group into dangerous rebels, especially when she saw that what the pretty woman held was a set of pipes, and woman put them to her lips and began to play. Arnal had been about to leave, disappointed, but the tune held her, and she listened with parted lips. The woman played as well as the minstrel at the inn, and Arnal curled her legs up against her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and listened with delight. Her imagination created another story against the backdrop of the merry tune. Again ignoring time and current fact, she decided these were Wandering Folk, hiding from... she pondered, and decided they were in hiding from a wicked lord who hated all music and merriment.

She was trying to decide if her role would be as one of them, a queen of the Wandering Folk, or if she would be the betrothed of the lord, who wasn't really wicked, simply sad and lonely. She would make him happy, and then the Wandering Folk would be welcome in his home. But as she was contemplating the various merits of both scenarios, her thoughts were interrupted with a jolt. A snake, a large coppery snake, was slithering toward her.

With a yelp, she threw herself backward and scrambled crablike away from it. It halted and lifted its head to stare at her. Down in her valley, she heard the man wondering what the noise was. He was coming!

Arnal got up and ran. She could run fast, faster than anyone else her age in all the farms of Tistek, faster than most girls and even some boys who were older than her. She could run with the wind, and she did now, arms and legs pumping, hair flying. She heard the man behind her crashing through the brush, and she grinned. A man that clumsy would never come close to catching her.

When she broke from the forest into her farm's cornfield, she had already slowed to a walk and caught her breath. There was no sign of the man, naturally. Plowing had already begun, so she skirted the field, avoiding the wet dirt, and wondered what she could do with the rest of the day that would not bring her where her mother might see her and give her chores. She hadn't worked so hard to finish early this morning only to be given more work to do, after all. Her father saw her, and they waved to each other, but as he was taking his turn behind the mule with the plow, a wave was all he would give her.

She circled the north edge of the fishpond to come up to the farmyard from behind the barn, but she was spotted anyway. Luckily, it was only her little brother, Istin. He greeted her with enthusiasm and urgency. "Arnal! I was looking for you! Come quick, the sow is having her babies! Come on!" He then hurried away on his sturdy little legs, clearly expecting her to follow.

Laughing, she did. A birthing was something she had seen before, but this would be the first for Istin, who was, after all, only five and only this year allowed to wander the yard. She wanted to share his wonder.

The two of them climbed up on the pen, shoving their feet between the slats, and leaned over the top to peer down at the sow. She was grunting, her huge belly heaving and rippling like a pudding. Two piglets were already born, moving feebly, looking for a teat, and even as they got into position, the sow heaved and yet another piglet emerged, wet and bloody and, Arnal was glad to see, just as healthy as the others. Istin made an awed sound and pinched her arm, but she didn't pinch back. She knew he was just excited.

They stood there watching until every piglet was born and was suckling. There were twelve in all. Their parents would be thrilled with that, for it meant they would have extra pigs that they could sell for some of the things that the farm couldn't provide them. "We should tell Mama!" squealed Istin.

His words caught the sow's attention. Her head jerked up and toward them, tusks bared. Although they both knew she couldn't reach them, their automatic reaction sent them both falling backward off the pen. Istin fell onto grass, but Arnal, with a shriek of disgust, toppled into mud.

Istin at once went off into a peal of laughter. "Arnal's in the muuuud," he teased. "Ooh, Mama will be so mad!"

Arnal burst into tears. Mud matted her hair, slid down her back when she sat up, and squelched in her shoes. And her mother would be mad. She would lecture her and probably not let her out of the house again for days. While she wept in frustration, Istin called her a crybaby, but he was already sounding as if he were sorry.

A long arm swept Istin off the ground, and a big brown hand swatted him on his rump. Their half-brother Hannin had descended on them without them hearing him. His blond curls were stuck to his head with sweat, so he must have just recently relinquished the plow to their father. A good-natured young man, his swatting of Istin was light, if pointed. "You should be helping your sister, not standing there laughing like a tinker's monkey," he said.

Istin's lip quivered. He worshiped Hannin, and the least unkind word from the older boy had the power to discompose him. Istin's distress made Arnal stop crying at once, for he looked at her with that lower lip protruding and said, "I'm s-s-sorry, Arnal. I didn't mean it."

Hannin set him on his feet. "Well said, Issie." He ruffled Istin's hair. "Now, go and tell your mother about the pigs, but not about Arnal. All right?"

Istin gave him a brilliant smile and dashed off. Hannin bent and held out his arms, lifting Arnal from the mud. She clung to him, burying her face in his neck, smelling man-sweat and the sweet scent of hay on his skin. "Don't cry, Arn. Maybe Mother won't find out." Hers and Istin's mother wasn't Hannin's or Elta's, but they called her Mother anyway, at her request. Arnal liked that, because it felt then as if Hannin was her for-real, blood brother, not just a half-brother. Elta, she didn't care about – in fact, she would have been happier if Elta wasn't related to her at all, sometimes.

She hiccupped down a stray sob. "How can we keep her from finding out?"

He carried her toward the house. "First, you have to change and get clean. I'll put you in your window and hand in a bucket of water for you to wash with. You toss your clothes out, and I'll tuck them behind that bush there," he said, indicating the flowering bush just to the left of her bedroom window. "The sun will dry them quickly, so later today when no one is around, come out, take them to the woods and beat them against a tree. That will get most of the mud out. Then you can just put them in with the laundry, and Mother won't see any mud."

"What if Elta comes in?" Elta would take one look at her muddy hair and clothes and go running to their mother.

"She won't. Mother is teaching her how to baste a goose."

Elta was always learning something like that. Everyone knew that Hannin would take over the farm someday, and likewise, everyone knew that the pretty Elta would be a wife. Elta herself was sure of it, and she had been planning for it for most of her fourteen years. Because Mother agreed with her, or at least agreed that Elta would be good for nothing else (in Arnal's opinion), Mother let Elta stay with her through the day, learning how to manage the household. Therefore, all of Arnal's chores ended up being farmyard ones, which suited Arnal completely. She wasn't sure yet what she wanted to be when she grew up, but she didn't want to be anything like Elta.

Hannin's plan went without a hitch, as all Hannin's plans did. Clean and wet, and in another set of clothes, Arnal climbed back out the window and waited in the barn for her muddy clothes to get dry. She stayed in the loft for most of the day, which was nearly as good a playground as the woods or her valley. In the afternoon, at the time that Mother and Elta were busy making dinner for the family, Arnal slipped down the rickety ladder, ran to the house, grabbed the mud-caked clothes, and then ran to the forest. Just as Hannin had said, beating the clothes against a tree broke up the caked mud. A choking shower of dark dust fell all around her, and she brushed that away with frantic hands. When she was done, both sets of clothing looked dirty, but not as if she'd been rolling in mud. Critically inspecting the clothes which had actually been muddied, she thought she could detect a faint outline still, so she decided she would hide them until tomorrow, which was laundry day, and then sneak them into the soaking tub.

She slipped through the yard to her window and climbed in again, awkwardly, wishing she had Hannin's help. But Hannin was at the front of the house. She could hear voices there, Hannin's, and her father's, and some strangers' voices. She wasn't concerned, for the new road passed within sight of their house and travelers sometimes turned down their lane for directions or water for their beasts. In fact, she was grateful, for Elta never passed up a chance to check out groups of travelers for possible husband material, so there was no chance of her older sister catching her stuffing her clothes under her mattress. Then, curious, for the strangers didn't seem to be going away, she went to the front of the house and looked through the open door.

The invaders from her valley were assembled there. The old lady was talking earnestly to her parents. Hannin was also listening, his face grave. The pretty woman, the warrior (who was definitely a woman, Arnal saw now) and the girl held the horses and donkey. Elta was flirting with the clumsy man, although he was far too old for her.

The old lady was the first to see her. She turned to face Arnal and said, "Here she is now."

Everyone turned to look at her. Every single person. Blushing, she backed into the shadows inside the house, searching her memory for what she could have done that was so bad, it brought her this much attention. She hadn't done anything to those people, except watch them for a few minutes and then run away. She hadn't made the man chase her! Why were they here, looking for her? Even her active imagination couldn't come up with a reason for this.

Her father came in and held out his hand. "Arnal. Love. Come on. This is very important."

He didn't look angry. Maybe she wasn't in trouble. But he looked sad, so when she put her hand in his, she held on very tightly.

Arnal's father brought her to the old lady, and the old lady knelt to her level. "You can't see it," she told Father, "but you can feel it. Here." She touched Arnal's head, just above her right ear, where the silver thing had appeared a few days ago.

Mother touched the place, gasped, and let her fingers follow it around to the nape of Arnal's neck. Then Father and Hannin did the same. Arnal wrinkled her nose, uncomfortable with all this feeling of her skin. Mother said, "Arnal? Do you know about this mark?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"I was going to. But it didn't hurt, so I didn't think it was important. It's silvery if you look at it in water, but I guess you can't see it without the water."

The old lady said, "No one can see it at all except you and me, Arnal."

Elta said, "I knew it was there." She was always trying to be important. "I felt it when I brushed Arnal's hair yesterday."

But this attempt at being noticed went awry. Mother frowned. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"I... I didn't think it was important."

Hannin made a rude sound.

"Well, Arnal didn't think it was important either!"

Father said sternly, "Arnal is half your age, Elta. She has a reason not to know better. But you should have said something to us about it."

Now everyone was looking at Elta, and no one was sympathetic when she got tears in her eyes, not even the clumsy man. Elta stamped her foot, angry now. "How was I supposed to know? I never even heard of those stupid dragons!" she raged, and ran into the house.

Dragons? Now Arnal was interested in all these goings-on for the first time. Dragons had been among the many denizens of her valley, although that was long ago, when she didn't know they were only made-up monsters.

There was a long silence, with all the adults exchanging glances over her head. The old lady slowly straightened, and by the way she turned her head, Arnal realized she must not be able to see. Yet that couldn't be right, for she had seen her, Arnal, in the doorway when nobody else had, and she had said that she could see the mark on Arnal's head. Yet her eyes didn't move as she turned toward Mother and Father.

Maybe the only thing she could see was the mark. That would explain it.

The old lady said to Arnal's mother and father, "I think we should talk, the three of us. Naturally you are worried and concerned about your child. I want to answer all your questions. But while we talk..." She hesitated. "Who would be the best person to tell her what the mark means?"

Her parents looked at each other, clearly torn. Then Father said, "Hannin? Will you?"

Hannin nodded.

Arnal put her hand in Hannin's and followed him around the back of the house, unconcerned despite all the serious faces. Nothing bad had ever happened to her with Hannin around.

Their favorite place to talk was in the barn, near the stalls for the horses. A bench was set against one wall, and Hannin sat there and picked Arnal up, settling her in his lap. She snuggled, for lately, this was a rare treat for her. Hannin said, "I don't know if I can tell you this very well. I don't really understand it myself. But I'll try." He was silent for a long time, but she waited patiently. Hannin rarely spoke without thinking. "You see, Arnal, even if you can't see it, there is a dragon who lives in the earth and the sky. This dragon watches over us humans. He makes the animals fat and helps the crops grow. He brings rain in the dry summers and keeps the frost from coming early."

She nodded, picturing to herself a dragon slithering about under the ground and through the clouds, watching over their farm and all the island. It would have to be invisible and able to glide through rock and dirt, which she thought was impressive.

"The thing is, every 200 years, another dragon, one who lives deep in the sea and who doesn't like humans, comes up into Mount Stelenath and fights with the good dragon. Do you remember where Mount Stelenath is?"

"Of course I do," she said scornfully. She went to school, and Mount Stelenath was the highest mountain on the island, after all. It was the first landmark they'd been taught in geography lessons.

He gave a small, distracted smile. "Good. Well, the 200 years are up, and it's time for the two dragons to fight. In just a few weeks, at the solstice."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, her mind making images of two dragons rampaging through her family's fields and frightening their animals. "Will they come here? What will we do?"

"They will fight inside the mountain," he reassured her. "They won't be anywhere near here."

She nodded understanding, and he went on, "But, you see, the dragons need help from certain humans, in order to win their battle. They choose these humans and mark them. Just like you have been marked."

She touched the cool spot on her head. "You mean, the dragon chose me? Me?"

"Yes, he did."

A horrible thought occurred to her. "Which dragon? The good one or the bad one?"

"The good one. He chose all those people out there except the lady with the sword. Now they want you to go with them to help the dragon."

"Go where?"

"To Mount Stelenath."

He might as well have said she was going across the sea to the West. The distance was incomprehensible to a girl who had been no further from her home than the town of Tistek, which was a mere hour's walk. "I can't do that," she said. "Who will feed the pigs and horses? Who...?"

He interrupted her. "You don't have to go. That's up to Father and Mother. That's what they're talking to the priestess about."

"The blind lady? She's a priestess?"

"Yes. And she says she will not ask you to go with them without Father's permission. But if Father says you should go, then the rest of us will do your chores until you come back home."

"Elta won't."

He chuckled, his mood lightening. "Oh, yes she will. Even if it's only to gather the eggs."

Arnal wrinkled her nose. "I don't understand. How am I supposed to help the dragon? I'm just a little girl."

"I don't understand that, myself. You're supposed to find something called a talisman along the way. Something that is important only to you. You give this talisman to the dragon at the mountain, and then he uses it to fight the other dragon."

"What if my talisman is something you can't fight with? Like a pillow?"

"I think the important thing isn't what the talisman is. I think the important thing is that it means something to you, that it holds a part of your spirit. You know how, sometimes, you pray to the gods for help or strength? Well, the talisman is a way of giving the dragon help and strength from you."

"Does that make me the dragon's god?"

He laughed. "Something like that. But don't let it go to your head." Then he sobered. "Arnal, listen. You don't have to go with those people. Even if Father and Mother say you can, the decision is yours. Nobody else's. Just yours. If you don't want to go, then you don't have to."

She studied his face. "Do you think those people might hurt me?"

"No. No, I don't think that."

"Oh. Then why shouldn't I go with them?"

He said wistfully, "Because you don't want to leave us?"

"But, if the dragons fight at the solstice, then I can come right back. I might even be back by first harvest. So I won't be gone long."

He pulled her close and hugged her. After a moment, he loosened his hold and said, "But we'll miss you."

She hugged him back. "I'll miss you, too. But I have to help the good dragon, if I can." I'll be a hero, she thought. This is an adventure, a real adventure. And it was an adventure greater than any that she had been able to imagine for herself.

When they emerged from the barn, they saw that someone had put the strangers' horses and donkey in the paddock and hung the saddles over the fence. The donkey was nibbling on a girth, and, laughing, Hannin and Arnal got it and all the saddles away from the creature and put them on the bench in the barn, then brought out armfuls of hay for the animals.

When they went into the house, everyone was gathered in the front room around the table. Every chair in the house had been brought in, for they had never entertained so many guests before. The room seemed too full, especially since Arnal was the shortest one there, Istin having been put to bed. She gripped Hannin's hand tightly. He would take care of Istin, she knew. Then she let him go and climbed up into the chair left empty for her, next to her mother, across from the priestess.

They had been talking about her, she knew, because they had gone silent when she and Hannin had come into the room. Mother rose, mumbling something about serving soup. Father looked searchingly at Arnal and said, "Did Hannin explain it to you? Do you think you understand?"

As if she was in school, she repeated her lesson back, keeping it as short as possible, concluding with, "And the good dragon chose me and wants me to come to Mount Stelenath with these people. Is that right?"

He nodded. She had never seen him look so grave and unhappy. "You have to tell them if you want to go or not. But you don't have to tell them now. You can think about it."

"I already did think. I want to go. I want to help the good dragon."

The priestess smiled at her. She had a soft, pretty smile, the kind of smile that Mother sometimes gave her when she was being particularly good. "You're a brave girl, Arnal."

"If the good dragon needs me, I have to go. Can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask me anything. I will always tell you the truth."

"Are you blind?"

Father made an inarticulate sound of protest, but the priestess simply said, "Yes, I am."

"Then how are you going to find the dragon?"

"That is a good question. The dragon will find me. He will tell me where to go and how to get there."

That made sense. "I have another question." This was one she didn't want to ask, but needed to. Encouraged by a nod, she said, "Will I get to come home again? Or will the dragon eat us all?"

"Another good question. The dragon will not harm you. Once you have helped him and the fight is over, one of us will bring you home again."

"What if the bad dragon wins?" she whispered.

"He won't harm you, either. He will let us bring you home again, safely."

Her mother put a bowl of soup in front of her, and Arnal picked up her spoon. "All right. What kind of priestess are you?"

"That's right, you haven't met us. I am Mazya, a priestess of the Shrine of Johe, which is in Mount Stelenath."

"Good, then you know how to get there."

The lovely smile widened. "Yes, I do. The lady next to your brother is Capt. Koras. I suppose you would call her my bodyguard. She knows how to get there, too. That gentleman next to your sister is Geram, and next to him is Paka." The young girl wiggled her fingers at Arnal in greeting. Mazya finished, "And the lady on your left is Birili from the Bard Hall."

Arnal turned to Birili, eyes widening. "You're a bard?" she gasped.

"No, a harper only. Why? Do you like music?"

"I love music!"

Mazya said, "I think that, if these good people are willing, you should sing some of the tales of the Dawn Dragon tonight, Ril."

Elta said, "Oh, yes, please do! It will be like a festival day!"

Birili kept everyone up late that night with her music, and by the time Arnal crawled into her bed, she was exhausted. But her head still hummed with the songs and danced with images of the two great dragons. To her surprise, her parents came to tuck her in, something they hadn't done since she had gotten old enough to start school. Her mother had tears running down her cheeks that wet Arnal's face when she bent to kiss her, and her father gave her a hug. Nothing else impressed on Arnal the significance of her decision to leave more than these two simple gestures, and she pulled the covers up to her chin. She would have worried, but she fell asleep too quickly.

The strangers had gone to the inn for the night, but they arrived at the farm just after the family finished breakfast. They brought another saddled horse with them, a short buckskin with good solid bones. Arnal liked him at once and was thrilled that he had been bought just for her to ride. Mother put saddlebags on the horse, bags which she had somehow packed during the night. Hannin picked Arnal up and settled her into the saddle, then patted her leg, looking at the horse's mane. "You be good, sis," he mumbled.

Now she wanted to cry. "I will. I promise. I'll be back soon!"

He bent to adjust a stirrup, surreptitiously wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "You'd better be." When he looked up again, he was smiling. "After all, I'll probably be the one doing all your chores."

She bent to give him a hug, then did the same for her mother, father, and even Elta, who looked stunned, as if she couldn't believe Arnal was leaving. Istin was still sleeping, but she had slipped in to kiss him goodbye on her way out.

All the way up the lane, and on the road while she could still see it, she stared back at the familiar place that was her home as it got smaller and smaller, further and further away. Finally it disappeared altogether around a bend, and she stared instead between her horse's ears. Geram, the clumsy man, peered at her anxiously and said, "Cheer up, kid. You'll be back soon."

Birili took out her pipes and began to play a lively tune. Geram knew it and sang along in a decent baritone, watching Arnal as he sang. She knew the song, for it was a common one, even if the words she had been taught were different from his, and when he gestured to her, she raised her voice and sang the verses she knew. By the time Birili had sung what she called the "proper" version, they were miles from Arnal's home, in a place she'd never been, and slowly her mood became less mournful, although she remained sad. Somehow, when she had pictured herself going on adventures, leaving home and her family hadn't been so hard.

They were camped for the night before she learned about the coppery-colored snake. While Paka and Geram set up the tents, Mazya sat on a convenient rock. When she was settled, the snake came out of her robes and settled about her neck.

Arnal stared. "Is that your snake?"

"He's not a snake. He's called an ithi. And he can understand what you say, so be careful not to offend him."

"I won't. I'm not afraid of snakes. Not really, unless they're poisonous. Will he like me?"

Mazya stroked the ithi. "Lithi, go over and make friends with Arnal."