Heror emerged to a red sky at morning.

  The ragged horizon leaked a blazing scarlet luminance, overlaid by silhouetted and blackened tufts – coals accompanying a stoking fire. Above, the night was nearly banished, but a hint of darkness still lingered in the cobalt canvas. The snow-capped mountains to the east stood sentry over the farmlands. A cool wind still blew, fighting the warmth.

  As he ventured out, Heror came across Aspur. The bearded man stood by his corn field with a walking stick – no doubt feeling the pain in his knees – but his face bore the same content, jovial expression. His knotted hand brushed gently against the silks of the corn, as he studied its growth. He met Heror with that same contentment as the young man approached.

  “Good mornin’, Heror!” Aspur greeted. “How are you on this fine day?”

  “Good, Aspur,” Heror said with a small smile; he didn’t have to lie today. “How are you?”

  “Just peachy,” Aspur exclaimed through an impulsive chuckle. “Seems as though Shen’thide’s blessed us with a boomin’ harvest this year. Some of these silks are already browned, and we’ve not yet reached the solstice!”

  “Ahead of schedule?”

  “Very! I pray that this foretells our fortunes to come. A good year came just when we needed it. Luck more often has its way with me, ha!”

  Aspur moved his hand from one stalk to the next. He leaned forward and twisted the silk between his fingers.

  “This one is ready,” he grinned. “I’d wager we’ll be able to harvest the lot within a half-moon.”

  “How can you tell?” Heror asked.

  “When the silk on the top of the ear here is browned and dry,” Aspur replied. “This means the kernels are full, fresh, and ripe.”

  Aspur glanced at the young man and saw his curiosity.

  “Good of ya to listen so closely, Heror!” Aspur chimed. “After yer recommendation from Ylar, I may call upon yer services myself to harvest.”

  “I’d be happy to help.”

  Aspur nodded to the boy with an eager smirk, and then he stepped back onto the heavy-trodden path. For a moment, they stood in silence, facing east. The fire hearth began to rise above the coals on the horizon. A warm breeze cut through the looming cold.

  Aspur took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Heror watched him, as his face relaxed and fell into sudden contemplation.

  “Many a’young men spend too much of their lives… Heror… lookin’ for that which will fill them,” Aspur told him. “Take it from a much, much older man… sometimes, the harder you look, the harder it is to find.”

  Heror considered the old farmer’s words. Another phrase echoed in his head – one he’d heard not all too long ago.

  If you spend your whole life waiting for something… you forget to live.

  The brightsun peered above the cloudsmoke. Heror smiled softly to himself. A smile that faded as his thoughts ran on, but never truly left.

  After a time, Heror offered Aspur a grin: “You’re not much, much older.”

  Aspur laughed: “I’m goin’ to tell Ebica you said that. Perhaps with such vocal support, I can convince her!”

  Heror bid farewell to Aspur and went past the homestead to the road, where the barley cart was waiting – stacked high with bags of feed and cereals. Here, young Cedor sat alone. He’d kicked his woolen shoes off, and he brushed through the grass with his toes, leaning against the edge of the cart. As Heror approached, Cedor glanced up and saw him. They shared a smile.

  “Morning, Cedor.”

  “Good morning, Mister Heror!”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m tryin’ to close my eyes and see if I can imagine it being somethin’ different.”

  Heror raised an eyebrow and chuckled, stepping up to the edge of the road.

  “Start from the beginning, Cedor.”

  “What?” Cedor chirped, already losing his focus.

  Heror laughed: “What is ‘it?’”

  “Oh,” Cedor smiled sheepishly. “The… the grass. It’s so soft. If I close my eyes… I can almost pretend it’s somethin’ different. Like… a fair maiden’s hair, or… or wooly rhino fur.”

  “Why isn’t grass good enough?” Heror asked with a smirk, sitting beside the boy.

  “It is good! It’s good enough,” Cedor backtracked as his eyes drifted, worried he’d offended the grass. “It’s just… it’s everywhere. It’s not… it’s not special.”

  “I think it is special,” Heror countered.

  “Grass isn’t special,” Cedor refuted, shrugging off potential objections from the grass. “I’m sorry, but… it’s just grass. How can it be special if it’s so easy to find?”

  “Sometimes you need to look deeper. If the grass is everywhere, that means that… anywhere you go… you can kick off your shoes and brush your toes, and you’ll feel a little bit of home. You can try and feel a wooly rhino’s fur, or… something else incredible and miraculous… but it wouldn’t be familiar. It wouldn’t… it wouldn’t give you that warmth.”

  Cedor blinked, and then his bare toes dove again. He felt the bristles of the grass blades against his soles now. He closed his eyes; his smile was warm. Heror’s was weak and ephemeral. A calm wind passed by.

  “Where’s home for you?” Cedor asked Heror.

  Heror’s brow twitched and tensed at the question – at the advance of memories. But a calmness soon came over him, and his eyes relaxed. He looked down at Cedor, and he started to open his mouth, when he heard the crunch of hay and twine beneath footsteps. His gaze went ahead, and he watched as Ylar arrived with a tin in his hand.

  “Heror!” the man exclaimed. “Ready to go to market?”

  Heror cleared his throat and nodded. Ylar set the tin on the back of the barley cart. Heror and Cedor stood, and they started to walk onto the road, when Ylar called Heror’s name again. When Heror turned, he saw Ylar holding out a woolen hat for him to take.

  “Might get less looks this way,” Ylar noted.

  Heror’s brow creased again, as a lost conflict breached his thoughts once more. But he soon shedded these thoughts and gave Ylar an expression of gratitude, taking the hat and slipping it over his hair and his ears.

  They were just about ready to leave, when another voice stopped them all.

  “Hey! Wait for me!”

  Xirre rushed to the road’s edge from the direction of the barn, garments already caked with dirt and grime. She made no attempt to hide her frustration at Ylar as she approached, as her fingers tightly clutched a linen bag.

  “You told me yesterday I could come with you. I asked, and you said I could,” she grumbled to her father. “Did you not remember?”

  “Oh,” Ylar recalled, trying to recover. “Y-yes, I did… I remember now! You were saving up for more yarn and wicker. Come along, Xirre.”

  “Sorry to remind you that you do, in fact, have a daughter,” Xirre snarled, stomping to the front.

  Heror glanced at Ylar, and the man tugged his lips down in a wince. Xirre went and picked up the cart handle. Ylar lifted a hand.

  “Xirre, don’t you think someone else should–”

  “I’ve got it,” Xirre growled, glaring back at him.

  “At least… at least have Heror help you,” Ylar suggested. “It’s a heavy cart.”

  Xirre begrudgingly considered his words, then nodded.

  They set off to the west, as the city of Eonos grew on the horizon. Ylar walked ahead, guiding Cedor with a hand to the shoulder, while Heror pulled the barley cart alongside Xirre. The girl had to adjust her grip every now and then, but she pulled her weight. The wood creaked. The axels spun. The clouds roamed in blue above.

  Ylar spoke softly, eagerly to young Cedor as they ventured on. A dozen paces behind them, Heror glanced at Xirre. He saw her hazel eyes lingering ahead. He thought of what to say, but before he could find words, Xirre had her own.

  “Don’t think you’re a part of our family,” she warned. “You’re not.”

  Her eyes didn’t stray from the path ahead. Heror’s brow lowered again. But he could sense that she was only venting her emotions. He thought he saw regret flash across her face. He took a deep breath and let the silence stay for a moment. Then he spoke.

  “Cedor… mentioned Yselar to me once,” Heror started. “He was your brother?”

  Xirre didn’t speak. They passed a quartet of Pylanthean soldiers heading east. The chant of metal swelled and faded.

  “What about… your mother?” Heror asked faintly. “What happened to her?”

  Xirre looked across the gulf that separated her from her father and brother. Still, she said nothing. Still, she tugged the heavy cart.

  “I know a little bit about… what it’s like to hold things in… because you don’t think they’ll listen, or understand, or even care,” Heror offered. “But I also know it helps to talk about it. And… I can listen. I’ll try, at least.”

  “You’re the last person I’d talk to,” Xirre scowled. “I don’t even know you.”

  “You know enough,” Heror insisted.

  “What is ‘enough?’” Xirre questioned, terse skepticism in her voice.

  “You know I was an orphan,” Heror replied. “You know I was lost.”

  “Aren’t you still?”

  “Maybe…” Heror admitted, before laughing and saying: “But at least I’ve broken down my last barn door.”

  Xirre kicked a pebble as she stepped: “Yeah, you’ve found a place where you can have a nice warm bed and four walls and… steal away at our home-cooked stews and stale bread. Another mouth to feed, like we needed one more. Actually, why don’t you kick in more barn doors? Go up and down the road like a tramp! It seems to be a good option for you. Leeching off of others.”

  Heror’s next words caught in his throat, and he went silent. He blinked, and his eyes dropped to the dirt-crusted cobbles. He was content to stay quiet and tug the cart along now… when, after a minute, Xirre sighed gently and spoke again. Her voice was softer now.

  “I’m not being fair.”

  Heror looked at her again. Her light brown locks obscured her face.

  “You’ve done a lot to help da,” Xirre conceded. “Just this harvest alone… it’s more than he could manage two summers ago.”

  She looked ahead to Ylar. Heror’s eyes followed hers.

  “We lost them both, one after the other,” Xirre said. “It was hard on him.”

  Xirre’s steps slowed just a bit. Heror felt her grip loosen on the handle. He saw her lip quiver ever so slightly, beneath a firm exterior.

  With the sun at their backs, they soon approached the city gate. As they approached, Heror slowed and stopped, and his eyes went north to the stables. He peered up the road and called to Ylar.

  “What is it?” Ylar asked.

  Heror gestured to the stables, and Ylar suddenly remembered.

  “Ah, yes!” Ylar exclaimed with a grin. “Go to it.”

  Heror smiled and dropped the cart handle, and he hurried to the edge of the road, where the fencing met the cobbles, walling off the vast grazing area that bordered the river. Xirre followed soon after.

  “Wait, where are you going?”

  As she ran up beside him, Heror leaned on the fence posts and shouted a name.

  “Shaadur!!”

  From the throng of horses grazing in the fields, Heror and Xirre heard an energetic trill of a whinny, and a smoky black horse came into view, barreling toward the fence. The horse might’ve careened right into the barrier and knocked it down, had Heror not stood up straight and held out his hands.

  “Whoa, Shaadur!” Heror laughed. “Slow down! Slow down…”

  The horse’s tongue flitted in excitement, as Shaadur pressed his muzzle down on Heror’s shoulder – so heavily that Heror almost stumbled and had to bend his knees under the weight. Heror chuckled and cradled the horse’s head in his arms.

  “Good to see you, Shaadur. I know I’ve been gone too long. I know, I know… ow, alright, you’re hurting me. Let me stand up, Shaadur…”

  Shaadur huffed and breathed out his happiness, but then his expression turned to confusion as he glanced at Xirre. The girl blinked and took a half-step back, as the horse studied her with standing ears. Heror dropped his hands, and he too stepped back, to clear the way for Xirre to approach.

  “It’s alright,” Heror assured her. “He’s harmless.”

  Xirre’s eyes jumped between Heror and the horse, and then she trained them ahead. She slowed under the horse’s waiting stare, but nonetheless extended her hand, softening her palm. She had nearly made contact, when the horse forcefully leaned into her hand and nuzzled back and forth, moisture dribbling from his nostrils.

  Xirre yelped and grimaced as Shaadur let out a snort. Heror laughed again.

  “He’s just happy, don’t worry.”

  “N-no, I know,” Xirre fumbled. “He’s just… more excitable than I’m used to.”

  Heror turned and noticed Cedor looking on with eager anticipation. The young man smiled and motioned for the boy to join them at the fence. Cedor scampered to the wood and stood on his toes, leaning over the slats. As Xirre at last swerved away, groaning and wiping her face with her sleeve, the horse turned his attention to the child. The animal’s excitement became curiosity. Cedor’s curiosity became fear. He suddenly froze in place beneath the stallion’s gaze. He started to lean back just a bit.

  “It’s alright,” Heror whispered above the breeze; in this moment only, he knew it was.

  Cedor did not move. Not at first.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  With an anxious breath, Cedor started to lean in. He extended his left hand and spread his fingers. He let them lift.

  Shaadur’s warmth met these, too.

  Heror promised Shaadur he would come back after the market, and then they bid the horse goodbye and carried on to the city gates. Already in the morning hours, merchants and traders and travelers clustered on the river road – so much that the tall oaken doors of Eonos were kept open. The guards waved Ylar in, and the others followed with the cart in tow. In seconds, the crowd engulfed them, and the chatter of dawn filled their ears.

  “Stay close, everyone!” Ylar urged above the clamor.

  They carried on past the fountain at the center of the city square, setting a course for the market stalls at the southwest end. As they passed the fountain, Heror noticed a clustered row of beggars by the water, in the shadow of the aqueducts. Men and women and children, they pleaded without avail to passersby. Their garbs were worn and dusted with soot. Some held with them sparsely-packed travel bags. Some had wounds, only recently bound.

  Heror studied them until his neck craned and he felt the cart turn against his weight. His saddened eyes dropped, and he turned to match Xirre’s pull as they followed Ylar to the open stalls.

  By now, the sun had risen fully, and many other merchants were already set up on the market street. Ylar found an open stall in the middle of the row – farthest from both the passage to the gates and to the upper levels of the city. It wasn’t a moment after Ylar began setting up shop that Cedor bounded away from the cart. Ylar raised his head and his voice.

  “Cedor!”

  “What?” Cedor questioned, oblivious.

  “Where in Shen’s great name are you running off to?” Ylar scoffed.

  “Pa, Rhowen is here!” Cedor exclaimed. “She has the cocoa crumbles!”

  “That’s wonderful,” Ylar sighed through a smirk. “You can go beg for them after you help me unload the cart.”

  “But pa! They go fast!”

  “Faster you help me, the faster you can go,” Ylar reasoned.

  Cedor’s eyes lit up. He sped back to the cart and began throwing bags of barley onto the stall platform.

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  “Cedor, be careful!” Xirre scolded. “You’re spilling it all over!”

  Ylar laughed at the boy’s exuberance. Heror helped clean the spill. Xirre glanced and sighed, then began helping with the remaining bags.

  “Stack them neatly, Xirre,” Ylar chided. “Think about presentation.”

  Xirre huffed and sent a glare that wasn’t seen.

  It didn’t take long for the market to fill, and the noise of the morning to swell. At first, Heror helped with the setup, but when it was clear his work was done, he merely watched and let his eyes drift about. And he soon found himself transfixed by the bustle of the city.

  He had only seen two markets before: The main market of Cephragon, and the dockside market along the pier. At both, voices sailed through the air and mixed into an unceasing whirr. At both, common citizens rushed back and forth in search of items that had once before caught their eye. But in Ardys, everyone had been the same. The privilege of freedom and commerce had only been reserved for a certain kind. Here, in Eonos, beneath the grand aqueducts, Heror could only stare in awe at the difference.

  There were Pylantheans, with fair skin and trimmed beards and spiraled locks of blonde and brown and chestnut. But there were also others: Dark-bearded and dark-skinned travelers with intentful brown eyes and bright-colored headdresses, presenting rugs and blankets and textiles just as vivid. Merchants with curls of dark brown atop complexions of caramel, who announced discounts with voices sharp and alluring. Caravaneers who championed exotic goods from the farthest rainforests of southern Hithain, the canyon riverlands of Mathingar, and the golden coasts of Tephire. And bright-eyed brunuuls, who brought sweet fruits and tangy vegetables and buttery fava beans from the rich volcanic soils of Charondor.

  It was a sight Heror had never before beheld. It was a sight that freed a bounding curiosity he’d felt long ago.

  “Now, pa??” Cedor’s begging broke Heror out of his trance.

  Ylar sighed: “Alright, fine. Now you can go.”

  Just as Heror glanced at Ylar, he caught Ylar looking at him.

  “You mind going with them, Heror?” Ylar asked. “I can manage the stall.”

  Heror nodded and smiled, barely hiding his own excitement: “Of course.”

  Cedor started to dart away, when Xirre grabbed his shoulders and tilted his face toward hers.

  “Cedor, calm yourself,” Xirre sighed, allowing herself a feeble grin. “You sure you can handle more sugar?”

  Heror had no Kivs, but he was content with satisfying his own wonder as he followed Cedor and Xirre down the row of stalls, through the clamoring crowds of late morning. In the sunlight, they sauntered past throngs of commoners – Xirre leading the way as she held Cedor’s hand, while Heror trailed them closely.

  They carried on for several minutes, along the merchant row that seemed to be endless. Heror noticed how differently Cedor and Xirre handled the sights. Cedor’s eager eyes flitted back and forth, as with each passing second, a new item or trinket or color caught and captured his attention. Xirre’s eyes, however, were fixed ahead, as she dutifully led Cedor along her path.

  Eventually, they neared the upward slope to the city’s residential section. It was here that Xirre suddenly stopped them. She glanced at Heror and pointed across the way.

  “Rhowen’s stall is over there,” Xirre informed him, already taking steps away. “The one with the painted awning.”

  “Wait, where are you going?” Heror asked.

  “I’ll be back soon,” was all she offered.

  With that, Xirre left and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Heror and Cedor alone. The two exchanged a look, and then Cedor’s eyes went ahead to Rhowen’s stall, where a line had already begun to form for the foreign, delectable treats.

  Heror was almost frightened by how quickly and violently Cedor grabbed his hand.

  “C’mon!” Cedor rushed.

  The boy tugged Heror along and filed in behind a dozen other children and teenagers, who all waited impatiently for chocolate batter treats being passed out by a tanned, well-traveled older woman. Cedor’s hands flicked to his pockets, as he took accounts of all his coin. A couple children farther up pushed and shoved for superior positioning. Shouts of protest barely pierced above the market’s hum.

  “They can’t be this good,” Heror scoffed.

  “Speakin’ on matters you’re not educated on,” Cedor shook his head.

  Heror smirked: “I’m much older than you, and you’re making comments on how educated I am.”

  “Much older, yes,” Cedor jibed. “But in this, you’re much younger.”

  “Sorry for doubting your age-old wisdom.”

  “I’ll forgive you this time, Mister Heror.”

  The line moved slowly. The crowd grew quickly. And soon, Heror felt the space condense. Over a chorus of chatter and calls, his ears listened. Battle had taught him to heighten his senses in the scrum, and so anxiety began to take control. His eyes darted back and forth. His breath flickered and caught in his throat. A taller man brushed by to his right, and Heror jolted left. A loud laugh careened through the air, and Heror’s right hand rushed to his empty belt…

  … when Cedor’s right hand took Heror’s left.

  Heror froze and glanced down at the boy, who huddled close to Heror’s side. It had been an unconscious gesture from Cedor, who only sought to keep track of his guardian in the crowded market. But at the gesture, Heror’s anxiety crumbled, and a feeling he could not name flooded in its place. His shoulders, once tense, now relaxed. His breath, once skittish, now settled. The sharpness of the sounds around him suddenly dulled. He felt the wind from the avenues and alleyways. The warmth from the sky. He inhaled. He exhaled.

  They stood together and waited. Slowly, the line moved.

  As they grew closer, Cedor’s wandering eyes drifted to the adjacent market stall. They lingered there once, twice, three times – and soon, Heror couldn’t help but be curious. And so he too looked.

  Behind this stall, for which there was no line, he saw an old olive-skinned man, dressed in ornate and hot-colored garb, with a thick black beard that frayed grey at its fringes. The merchant sat cross-legged on a stool, his hand stroking the snout of a tired-eyed mule. His counter was stocked with a vast variety of trinkets and oddities and complex tools – a bounty Cedor’s curiosity could not ignore.

  “Something catch your eye?” Heror asked quietly after a moment.

  “No,” Cedor said at first, though he soon abandoned this lie. “I mean… nothin’ in… in p’ticular.”

  Heror watched the boy as his powder blue eyes gazed. Then, as a flash of recognition came across his face, Cedor spoke again.

  “On that circle. I know that image. It’s a… a… a consta…”

  “Constellation,” Heror assisted.

  “‘Constellation.’ Yes. That.”

  Heror saw what Cedor saw: An intricately carved and layered wooden disc propped up against a shelf, with tracings of star patterns and fine, delicate notations of ink running along its circumference. A faded familiarity came to him; it was an instrument he’d seen once before on the docks in Ardys, hauling cargo. More often, he assumed, it had been hidden in the captain’s quarters, or in the helmsman’s possession. Now, it was open to him.

  He shared Cedor’s curiosity.

  “Do you want to go see?” Heror asked quietly.

  Cedor glanced ahead only once. Then, after a moment of thought, he looked at Heror and nodded.

  They filed out of the longer line and approached the vacant stall, Cedor leading Heror. The merchant noticed only when they arrived at the booth, and he regarded them with a warm, weary-eyed smile, turning away from his mule.

  “Hmbaan, gentlemen!” The merchant said with an accented voice, soothing and full, before settling his attention on Cedor: “I sense that you are an intellectual, my child. They call me Cymir. What do they call you?”

  “Cedor,” the boy said, confident yet shy, as Heror stood alongside him.

  “Wonderful it is to meet you, child,” Cymir continued, shifting his gaze with a flourished hand. “And your brother here. What is his name?”

  “Oh, he’s…” Cedor paused, but only for a second: “His name is Heror.”

  Heror’s cheeks warmed.

  “Cedor and Heror, a blessing of Ynd it is to have you here,” Cymir went on. “I travel the roads from Mathingar to the jagged coasts of the Painted Sea and back. I am on my way west once again from Pylantheus, but still have many remarkable treasures for you to browse. Tell me what first drew your curiosity, and I can strike a deal that suits you.”

  A thought crossed Heror’s mind. The merchant Cymir had been to the Painted Sea, or so he claimed. He had traveled far and wide. Perhaps he would know of the Heran family. Perhaps he would know more than most.

  Heror opened his mouth, but Cedor’s silence stopped him. His eyes fell on the boy. The boy was shy. The boy was unsure. Heror closed his mouth and cleared his throat, then pointed to the carved wooden disc.

  “He was wondering about this,” Heror remarked.

  Cymir leaned forward on his stool and brushed a few scrolls to the side, clearing a line of sight to the artifact. Upon seeing it, he let out an unconscious “ah!” and gripped the disc with his hand, resting his elbows on the counter.

  “Come close, child,” Cymir said. “Let me show you.”

  Cedor glanced at Heror, and Heror nodded with a smile. Cedor stepped forward and lifted ever so slightly on his toes.

  “This is a tool of exploration, of divination,” Cymir began, an air of genuine wonder overtaking his voice. “The astrolabe. Sailors aloft the waves of all four seas use the astrolabe to navigate, by judging the position of the stars. The priests of Pyn in Mathingar’s great woodlands use the astrolabe to determine the exact moment of the Equinox, to pay tribute to the guardian of the wilds. The Geisrund, in their temple near to the sky, use the astrolabe to foresee celestial events, to foretell Bor’s Darkness and the bleeding of Gantuin. You see, it is their belief, and many others’, that the Gods themselves use the stars to speak to us, because they are big-minded, and we are small.”

  “So you can read what they say to us?” Cedor asked, awestruck eyes stuck to the instrument.

  “They are a most mysterious ilk, but I make an attempt,” Cymir chuckled. “I craft these myself, but even I had to learn how to read and listen to the Divines with time. You might do the same.”

  The talk of the Gods drew an evasive glance away from Heror. A glance and a query from Cedor brought him back into focus.

  “What do you think?”

  Heror forced a small smile: “If you want it… see what he wants for it.”

  “This is one of only two I have left since leaving Pylantheus,” Cymir informed. “And I have made my coin from them. For you, curious Cedor… I think I might gift you a bargain price.”

  “I have…” Cedor said, fishing through his pockets. “… thirty Kivs!”

  “I will gift you this for twenty-five.”

  “Deal!”

  Cymir smirked: “Don’t you want to haggle, child?”

  “Oh…” Cedor fumbled, then righted himself and lowered his voice. “Twenty-five simply will not do. It has to be twenty.”

  “Twenty-two,” Cymir countered.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “I accept. You drive a hard bargain, young one.”

  Heror grinned as Cedor passed over the coin. In exchange, Cymir presented the astrolabe to him. As Cedor took it in his palms, Cymir tapped the carved wood one last time.

  “The Gods’ gifts give on and on, child,” Cymir advised. “Use this to find them.”

  Cedor nodded and smiled wide. Heror let out a shallow breath and thanked the merchant. He didn’t ask about Heran.

  As they turned away and strode back toward the fountain, Cedor stared down in awe at his new artifact. Heror guided the boy with a hand on shoulder, and was about to turn back in the direction of Ylar’s stall, when he suddenly ran into Xirre.

  Quickly, he realized that Xirre had sought them out. The girl stopped and was silent for a moment, her hazel eyes jumping between them. Heror remembered he and Cedor had left their original line. Perhaps she had lost them.

  “I’m sorry,” Heror offered. “Cedor was–”

  “Heror,” Xirre interrupted. “I…”

  She paused. Then she continued, emotions veiled: “I need… your help… for something.”

  Heror eyed her, brow furrowed. With reservations, he nodded. He approached her and started to guide Cedor along, when Xirre stopped them again.

  “Let’s… take him back first,” Xirre said of Cedor, before turning to the boy and lightening her tone: “Da might need your help.”

  Xirre gripped Cedor’s hand and led them back to Ylar’s stall. When she and Heror left again, she told Ylar they would continue shopping. But it was clear to Heror there was more she wasn’t letting on. As they walked – Xirre carving through the crowd ahead of Heror – she said nothing. They went past the fountain, across the cobbles, and past the crowds, until Xirre slowed her pace across from a stall near the end of the market row.

  This stall was larger, and Heror recognized it immediately. It was an armorer’s shop, situated close to the district overlap. Past the thinning late morning line and past the counter, stacked with armor pieces and finished weapons, was an stout and gruff older man, with balding grey hair and a greying-brown beard. Upon recognizing the armorer shop, Heror turned to Xirre for an explanation. She took a sharp breath.

  “I need you to help me buy something,” she revealed.

  “What?”

  Xirre sighed: “A dagger.”

  “Why do you need a dagger?” Heror asked, unsure.

  “Just… are you going to help?” Xirre grumbled. “If you vouch for me, I might be able to convince him.”

  “I need to know what you plan on doing with it first,” Heror cautioned. “Why don’t you want Ylar to know?”

  “Why do you care? Do you really expect me to run off and do something drastic?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you want it for?”

  “I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

  “Xirre.”

  Xirre glowered and shifted her eyes away.

  “If you want my help, I need to know,” Heror reaffirmed, taking on a serious tone. “A weapon is… not a small purchase.”

  Xirre sighed. Her expression weakened, her head still bowed.

  “It’s to protect the farm,” Xirre finally replied. “Nothing else.”

  She paused. Heror watched her.

  “My da… he still isn’t always… present, a-and… Cedor and Nispur and Nenor are too young, and Aldur’s away fighting, and Uncle Aspur’s hobbled, and–”

  She caught her voice quickening, and she abruptly went silent. Once more, she sighed.

  “I need to be ready if something happens,” she said simply. “Da wouldn’t let me buy it if he knew.”

  Heror took a deep breath, then glanced ahead at the armorer shop. He pursed his lips, and after a short thought, he nodded.

  “Alright. I’ll help.”

  Xirre nodded back, then sharply turned and made her way toward the shop, parsing past idle market goers as Heror followed close behind. She hadn’t reached the counter yet when the armorer recognized her once again. The old man glared and pressed up against the wood, his low and raggled voice ringing out amidst the chatter.

  “No!” the armor merchant snarled as Xirre strode up. “Not you again.”

  Heror saw Xirre twitch with anger; she opened her mouth to start arguing again, and so Heror stepped up alongside her to intervene.

  “Sister, stay yourself,” Heror improvised, blocking off Xirre with an arm before turning to the merchant: “Can you tell me what the problem is? Maybe I can help clear it up.”

  “The problem is, you don’t have this huss on a leash,” the old armorer growled.

  Xirre tried to shove past Heror, and Heror held her back again.

  “What happened?” Heror asked, shooting a warning glance at the girl.

  “She was trying to buy a dagger,” the armorer answered. “She obviously hasn’t been taught that women – let alone young girls – aren’t to wield. Being the elder brother, perhaps you can assist her there. And when I told her ‘no’, she bickered and tantrumed and used… very colorful language, unbecoming of a lady.”

  “He’s greatly exaggerating,” Xirre hissed in a whisper.

  Heror ignored her: “Sir, is there any way she could make amends and carry on with the purchase? I’ll be… off to the army soon, and… we don’t have protection at the farm–”

  “It’s not about making amends,” the armorer scowled. “It’s the law of men. She isn’t to wield.”

  “Please, sir, you have to reconsider–”

  “I am done discussing this. Hold up my line any longer and I’ll call the guards on you for hassling my shop.”

  The man aggressively turned away and acknowledged another customer, leaving Heror and Xirre. Xirre glared at the merchant, as if she could burn through skull with eyes alone, but Heror pulled her away from the counter. As soon as they left, he halted her next to the line.

  “Fake an argument and give me your Kivs,” Heror whispered to her.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to fake an argument,” Heror explained. “I’ll take your Kivs as punishment. Then I’ll buy the dagger for you.”

  Xirre understood, and showed it with a smirk. Not a second later, she unleashed a fake shove – real enough to elicit a surprised grunt from Heror – and commenced her tirade.

  “You could’ve done more,” she lamented, raising her voice with fabricated emotion. “You should’ve done more!”

  “Excuse me??” Heror scoffed.

  “You didn’t even try to get me that dagger!”

  “It’s not my job to clean up your messes!”

  “There you go, acting like I’m the problem again!”

  “Yes! You’re the problem!”

  In the close vicinity, heads began to turn. So too did the armorer’s.

  “Maybe if you’d just known your place, you wouldn’t be such a burden!” Heror exclaimed.

  “‘Known my place??’ You’re just like all the rest of them! Closed-minded, pretentious, prejudiced swine!”

  “Ah yes, there’s that colorful language! You know what?? That’s it!”

  Heror grasped Xirre’s wrist; Xirre discreetly passed over the Kivs. And then Heror wrenched the coin purse away.

  “If you don’t know how to be responsible with your words and actions, then maybe you shouldn’t be responsible for this.”

  “Hey, give that back!” Xirre feigned.

  As Xirre stood agape, Heror stomped up to the market stall again and slapped the coin purse onto the counter. The armorer’s eyes – a bit startled – met his.

  “Sir, I would like to apologize sincerely for my sister’s poor behavior,” Heror began. “I assure you she will no longer be wandering the market on her own.”

  “No apology is necessary, young man. Accountability satisfies me well enough.”

  “Yes, and I will absolutely be holding her accountable for her actions,” Heror went on, glancing back. “I think this coin belongs with no one else but you. And I’d like to buy the dagger she wanted for myself. Think that’ll teach her a lesson, won’t it?”

  The armorer looked past Heror at Xirre, who crossed her arms and looked away in disgust. Then he grinned and let out a chuckle.

  “Yes, yes it would.”

  The armorer swiped the coin purse, then ventured to the left and retrieved a honed steel dagger with a dark leather sheath. He returned and presented the dagger to Heror, who took it in both hands.

  “Use it well,” the armorer advised. “And keep an eye on your sister. Let ‘er know a husband wouldn’t take well to that attitude of hers. Better if she’s set right sooner rather than later.”

  “I will, I will,” Heror assured him. “Thank you for showing grace.”

  Heror stepped away from the stall and rejoined Xirre. He stopped and looked back until the armorer eyed him again. Then he handed the dagger to Xirre.

  The armorer’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded and aghast. Heror turned and left. Xirre smirked wide and triumphant. She raised an eyebrow at the old man, then hurried after her fake brother.

  ~:{~}:~

  It was almost midday when Heror and Xirre returned to Ylar’s stall. And already at midday, the market’s many crowds began to disperse. The merchants began closing their shops, to spend the rest of the day’s waking hours on their work. Ylar joined them in this. And as Heror and Xirre approached, Ylar and Cedor had nearly finished packing the cart again.

  “Ah, Xirre! There you are!” Ylar exclaimed at the sight of his daughter. “Did you find what you wanted?”

  Xirre shot Heror a quick glance, then smiled and nodded.

  “Yes, I found it.”

  “Wonderful! If you two could help me finish cleaning up around the stall, I’ve only got one more thing to attend to before we leave today.”

  They finished tidying the area and readying the cart, and then Ylar led the way – not toward the gate, but southeast along the market row. They carried on until they came to a stall that was still set up – manned by a large, black-bearded ironworker. As Heror and Xirre settled the cart, Ylar greeted his fellow merchant, who seemed disinterested as he wrapped a hammer’s handle.

  “Afternoon, Tyric!”

  “Pleasure, Ylar. What d’ya need today?”

  “I’m looking to buy some iron fittings and hinges, among other things,” Ylar said. “Equipment’s in a pretty bad way right now. How much for… say… twenty fittings, three hinges, and a door latch?”

  “For new prices, y’can refer to th’parchment.”

  “New prices?”

  Ylar’s eyes fell and landed on the parchment, which sat at the front of the ironworker’s table. Almost immediately, Ylar’s expression shifted. His face went pale.

  “These… are…”

  He stopped and cleared his throat.

  “These seem higher than… when I last came here.”

  “More Proven raids out east over th’past few months,” Tyric mumbled. “Losin’ supply. Roads isn’t safe. Towns isn’t any safer.”

  “Enough to mark up… this much?”

  “Y’know business, Ylar. This how’t is.”

  “Well…” Ylar weighed a coin purse weakly in his hand. “I can’t… I can’t make these prices work.”

  Tyric set down the hammer and started gathering smaller tools, eyes away from the conversation. Ylar took a deep breath and stepped closer.

  “You sure you can’t give a small discount? I’ve still got some barley left from today. Could trade.”

  “I don’t ‘ave livestock to feed. Sorry, Ylar.”

  “But–”

  Now Tyric looked up, eyes stern but compassionate: “If y’can scrounge the coin, I’ll be ‘appy to supply to ya. But I got costs. I can’t be cuttin’ prices. I’m sorry, friend.”

  Heror saw Ylar’s jaw clench. The farmer frowned and fought the urge to bargain any longer. And then, after a moment, he summoned a small, feeble nod, and started to turn away.

  “Alright, then. Thank you anyway, Tyric.”

  Ylar looked troubled when Heror saw him fully turn.

  They ventured back to the city gate and out onto the main road, lugging the lighter cart behind them. And then, to Heror’s surprise, Ylar stopped them at the stables. He tossed the coin purse to Heror.

  “Go and fetch your horse. You’ll need him.”