“And this?”

“That is called latha. Ma na va’me latha.”

“Ma-ma na va mee latha?”

“Close. Va’me.”

“Ma na va’me latha?”

“Yes. Breathe…soft on va’me.”

“Ma na va’me latha?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. If I want to change the item, I just change the name? For example…Ma na va’me vitra?”

She nodded. “Yes. That is good.”

Lukios grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

He was a surprisingly quick learner, though Ba’an supposed it could have been boredom. Boredom was a great motivator.

It had been many years since Ba’an had had a student. It was…nostalgic, though he was no witch-to-be. He was simply an outlander man laid out on her bed, too crippled to do anything except learn K’Avaari and pester her with questions.

Yes, it was very, very nostalgic. People had often pestered her with questions.

Well, he was useful as well. They had made a deal as soon as he was comfortable talking with regularity. Ba’an was too busy to speak with him in the mornings, but in the afternoons they would speak in Dolkoi’ri, so she could practice. In the evenings they practiced K’Avaari. He seemed to find this agreeable.

He was more patient than she had thought he would be.

“Close. Try narrowing your mouth more. It’s more of a ‘fuu’ sound.” He demonstrated and she stifled a laugh. It was true he was exaggerating for her benefit, but it did not change the fact that he looked rather ridiculous with his lips puckered.

“Fuuu?”

“Yeah. Just needs some practice.”

Dolkoi’ri was difficult to pronounce. It had more sounds than K’Avaari, and the language itself was hard, with many consonants that required her to open her mouth wider than usual. It was an invasive tongue for an invasive people, though the better she was at it, the easier it would be to trade. She could speak it enough to barter—poorly—but she knew she was often cheated. It would be good to speak it with more proficiency.

Ba’an ladled the broth into the bowl and brought him his dinner. He was already propped up against the wall, sick of lying down but not well enough to walk any further than the privy and back; he needed assistance even then.

“Thank you.” He sipped. “What’s in this one?” Usually they started practicing K’Avaari after dinner. This suited Ba’an fine, because she needed all the practice she could get.

“More lizard. Mushrooms, rao-rao roots. Mm…some plants. They mean nothing now, so I show them and tell you names after.”

“Oh. It’s good, thank you.”

“You are welcome. Here. There is flatbread – you can–“ She made a dipping motion, frustrated at her own lack of vocabulary.

“Dip it?”

“Yes.” Dip. That was the word.

That had been the last of the flatbread, of course. She had not been to a Dolkoi’ri city for over a month now. Trading was the only way she could get goods like flour, spices, and salt. Everything was expensive. Ba’an was fortunate she was not only proficient in herblore, she could refine the plants, too. She knew how to make extracts, potions, unguents, powders, salves—things that were easy to use and in demand. Sometimes she brought some desert animals—ones that she had managed to trap live—to the market. Those were popular. But sometimes Ba’an had nothing to trade, and in those times, she had resorted to theft.

She had never been caught, so far. It was one of the advantages of being a witch. Ex-witch. Having magic. She could make people look away, distract them, confuse them, while she took whatever she needed.

She had never imagined she would use her skills for petty theft—but she had never imagined she would end her years living like this, either.

And Ba’an was always hungry.

Traditionally, the host would wait until the guest was finished before eating, but Lukios was a stubborn man; he refused to start eating unless she did, too. Ba’an was not sure if this was Dolkoi’ri manners or if he was only very stubborn, but she was becoming accustomed to breaking bread with him. After five years of eating alone, it was a welcome change, though she would never say so out loud.

Ba’an ate her portion, forgoing the flatbread. There was only one portion of that left. There were plenty of mushrooms, but they would not be able to live on that. Ba’an thought that she would have to make a trading trip soon—if not to the nearest city, which was over a week away on foot, then to a village or hamlet.

No K’Avaari tribe would trade with her, so she was left with few options.

A piece of bread appeared in her line of vision.

“Here. I think I’m done.”

Ba’an blinked. He was offering her half his bread. “No. Eat dinner.”

He tilted his bowl so she could see it was empty. “I did. See?”

Ba’an gave him a look full of suspicion, but he only smiled back at her very sweetly. Slowly, she took the bread and dipped it into her soup.

She ate, watching him watch her eat.

He was perceptive, this one. She would have to be careful.

As predicted, Lukios had been fascinated by the underground cave system her not-vuti sat on. The incomplete cave system was labyrinthine, but Ba’an had grown up in a large saa-vuti vur whose network of underground caverns had been truly astonishing.

This was nothing.

The cavern itself was natural, though the numerous branching tunnels were not. She could see where the stone-shaper had started his work, but it looked like he had faded before finishing. If he had been alert until the end he would not have stopped so abruptly.

The carved areas were incomplete, but still useful. Sunlight poured in from a neatly shaped hole right above the uppermost pool of water, and plants grew with abundance in and around it. Deeper into the caves, where it was dark and damp, was a cornucopia of mushrooms and other edibles. The water was fast-flowing and cold, coming down from somewhere inside the rock. Ba’an suspected the river system was fed by the underground lake that sat north, right beneath Vala-Tu’rin territory.

She knew Vala-Tu’rin and their territory quite well. After all, they had been her home, once.

Ba’an turned her attention elsewhere, very quickly.

This was a very nice bir-vuti, all things considered. Best of all, there were no bats. Ba’an had taken great care in making certain no unwanted critters made their home in her area of the cave. She couldn’t stop the odd rodent, true, but a colony of bats would have spelled trouble—they were simply too prone to disease. She didn’t want their guano in her water, and there was no cure for the frothing madness that came from their bites.

“This is…this looks like it was done all at once. There are no chisel marks. How?” Lukios’ eyes were wide as he took in the structure properly. He was correct, of course. The K’Avaari only used chisels when they were carving art, not building. Stone-shapers did not need chisels, only magic.

She was not about to spill K’Avaari secrets to an outlander, however.

“Stone-shapers shape rocks.” She shrugged as though that was that. As far as she was concerned, it was.

“But how?” He gestured to the archways that held the ceiling in place. They were one continuous line, perfectly smooth and unbroken with the exception of half-finished decorations carved into the stone. “There are no chisel marks. No fittings, either. I can’t see where the seams are. Are there seams?”

“Perhaps. I do not work stone.” That was a half-lie. She did not work stone, but she did know how it was done. Ba’an had been a witch. She had given more than one shaper to the stone to do their work.

This was not something for outlanders to know, either.

“Well, tell whoever did this that they’re incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He wouldn’t have.

“Yes. Outlanders are not permitted inside the saa-vuti vur.”

“What is a saa-vuti vur?”

“It is the…inside village. It means ‘place of many vuti.’”

“So what’s a vuti?”

“It means…” she wrinkled her nose as she tried to think of the right words. Lukios watched her quietly, saying nothing while she thought. “…’home.’ No, not only that. Hm, maybe ‘living and sleeping place’? Yes, I think so.”

“Okay. So saa-vuti vur basically means ‘village’ or ‘town’?”

“It is different, but close. Yes, that is close. K’Avaari do not have villages or towns like Dolkoi’ri. They have saa-vuti vur and bir-vuti.” She gestured to the cave. “Inside saa-vuti vur there is always bir-vuti.” And sometimes there were entire road systems connecting the different bir-vuti, but he didn’t need to know that, either.

“That’s good to know. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” She pointed to the river and the little pools that had formed in the rock. “You bathe there. Do not use one at top. That is for drinking.” The water was cold, but there was no help for it.

“Thank you.”

Ba’an handed him a washcloth and some soap. It was not very good soap, but it would have to do. She left him a sad, threadbare towel as well. Unfortunately for him, it was all she had. She could tell by his clothes that he was likely used to much better.

Too bad.

“You must yell loudly if slip. It is deep. You will drown.”

“Right. I will. Where will you--?”

She pointed to the far end of the cave where the sunlight spilled in. “I will care for plants there.” She gave him a stern look. “Remember. Yell loudly if slip. You will drown.”

He gave her a very charming smile. This was a man who knew he was handsome and how to use it. It immediately annoyed her—it was just so obnoxious. She scowled and he eased it back so it was merely friendly. “I will. Thank you.”

Ba’an clicked her tongue at him and left.

He was such a bother.

Perhaps she ought to let him drown, after all.

Lukios did not drown. He did not almost drown, either, which was just as well because Ba’an had been busy trying to figure out what was killing her masu’kla. She was always fastidious about keeping pests out, planting the sharp-smelling saa’ri-lahi in between the rows and checking on them every morning and evening.

But they were wilting. Why? They were getting plenty of sun, water, and compost. What was killing her plants?

She heard him coming before she saw him. He was limping, which was expected. Perhaps it had been too much to expect him to exercise common sense and walk along the flat path back into the not-vuti rather than walk uphill to her. Ba’an did not think he was an idiot, but there were times when she thought herself mistaken.

Ba’an rebuked him without looking up. “Path back is flat. Path here is not. Are you stupid?”

“I…hope not?” His breath caught and she knew he was in pain now from the walk. She sighed. She picked some saa’ri-lahi leaves and rolled them up.

“Chew.” Idiot. If he had torn his stitches, she would slap him.

He obeyed, making a face as the bitterness hit his tongue. “Ugh. Okay, is this the same stuff that was in that paste you gave me? The peloiti-sahum?”

“Yes. Come here. Stitches?”

“I think I’m okay…”

“Come. Here.” She clicked her tongue again. Was he a child?

He must have sensed her exasperation. Wordlessly, he shuffled to her so she could lift his tunic and check his wound.

It hadn’t torn open again, but it did look red and puffy. Had he scrubbed himself raw?

Ba’an sighed. “Need more peloiti-sahum.” She held the end of her apron out so it became a kind of hammock. Ba’an began to pick at the leaves of all the things she would need. She would have to check the fungi that grew in the darkest parts of the bir-vuti to see if there was enough mould to scrape together for the mixture. If there was, she would make some more before she went to bed. He was recovering well, but he often strained himself doing stupid things, like walking uphill; as she had predicted, he was not a very good patient. He did not like lying still and sometimes tried to move as though he had not been nearly spitted on a sword only a mere week or so before.

Men. They were always like this. It never failed to annoy her. What was so hard about lying quietly in bed? It was easy. There was no effort needed.

Ba’an squelched the urge to smack him where the wound was red and irritated. It would likely make it worse, though perhaps the pain would teach him a lesson about following instructions.

She sighed again.

“…That one’s my fault too, isn’t it.”

She didn’t look at him as she answered. “Yes. I not know why you walk uphill. It is uphill. Bad for…” She frowned, searching for the right word. “…Injury. Pull stitches.” She fixed him with a glare. “Hit your head too?”

He let out a surprised sound that could have been an aborted laugh. “What? No. I don’t think so.” He grinned at her again. “I thought you might need help with something.”

Her expression did not shift at all. “Why I need help from you? I not sick.”

“Sorry. I really was just trying to be useful.” He did not sound at all contrite. If anything, he was insufferably cheerful.

“Resting is useful. Not pulling stitches is useful.” Ba’an stood and put his arm around her shoulder. “Come. Do not fall.” She felt him hesitate, then give in. Surely he had not thought he could walk down an incline in his condition without help? Clearly he had not thought this through. Idiot.

“…Do you want me to carry the—”

“No. Stop talking. I am annoyed.”

“…Sorry.”

They would have to make their way slowly. If he stumbled and fell it would be very annoying.

“But why do you have to boil it a second time?”

“Too much water. I want paste. So put here and boil, but not too much. Dry is not good.”

“Okay, but you’re catching the water on this lid and back into this basin here. What’s that for?”

“Not waste water. This is desert. I make tea.”

“…Oh.”

Lukios seemed interested in everything, which was both gratifying and annoying. It was gratifying because it had been a very long time since she had taught anyone anything; it had been a natural thing once, to have her apprentices beside her, peppering her with questions. It was also annoying, however, because she was no longer used to interruptions. Ba’an had grown accustomed to working alone with only the wind and the quiet voice of her coat in the background. Now she could not only hear the particular chords of Lukios’ soul—which was very bright and loud—he was speaking to her, which normally meant she had to say something back.

It was…different. Ba’an had not yet decided if she was enjoying herself or not.

They were making the peloiti-sahum now. Or, more accurately, Ba’an was making the peloiti-sahum and Lukios was making a nuisance of himself. He had been obediently lying in bed when she had started, but had eventually hobbled over while her back was turned. He had immediately opened with somewhat intelligent questions about the entire process, which had done exactly what it had been designed to do: distract her enough to keep her from sending him back to bed.

He was the stupidest clever man Ba’an had ever met. Well, perhaps not the stupidest clever man, but very close.

“I guess that makes sense. It’s just distilled water so I guess there’s no flavor or anything, either. I mean that peloiti stuff is bitter. Can’t you add some honey or something?”

“I not have honey.”

“…Sorry. Didn’t mean to complain. That was rude.”

“Yes.”

He winced. Ba’an tilted her face down to hide her smile. It amused her to see him squirm. He was a very frank man, and he knew it. He was modest enough to apologize quickly over his own rudeness, however, which made him somewhat tolerable for an outlander.

It could have been worse.

“But do not add honey. It will change…effect.”

“Really? Why?”

“Honey is very…difficult. Not just sweet. It has…effect. Add with peloiti and peloiti will change. Can be dangerous. Can give blood fever.”

“I’m not sure I really understand it, but I guess the lesson is not to mix honey with peloiti.”

“Yes. Do not forget. What did I tell you? Is this true peloiti?”

“Oh. No. You said it’s peloiti-sahum. It’s not as strong as peloiti, right?”

“Yes. Good. How to make peloiti with peloiti-sahum?”

“Um…you said you needed a stone kit.” He gestured with his hands, sketching roughly the size and shape of the kit that she would have needed. “There’s a distillation apparatus with some heat control and you would let it broil overnight. The water goes into three different chambers and after the third time the concentrate is peloiti. Did I remember that right?”

“Almost. It is not always three times. You must check the…concentrate. Yes. You must check if pure or not.”

The problem with working with herbs was that the plants always varied in potency. There was a way to check the purity, which was to drip some concentrate onto something rotting, but it would only indicate whether the concentration was strong enough to work or not. Ba’an always distilled the mixture an extra time, just in case.

“Is peloiti only for infections?”

“Yes. Sometimes fevers go down. But that because infections die. It not…It is not direct.”

“So this other stuff is for fevers then?”

“Yes. This you mix with…”

The lesson continued into the night.

“Bowl.” He handed it to her. Ba’an dumped the final few ingredients into the paste and handed it back to him. “Mix.” He obeyed.

“How do I know when it’s done?”

“Once it is smooth. There are some small bubbles that come. See?”

“Oh. Wow, I was not expecting that.”

Ba’an began cleaning the bowls and sticks she had used to make the paste. He was concentrating on making the peloiti-sahum, mixing with a bit too much enthusiasm for such a boring task, but then again, perhaps it was better than lying in bed again.

This was very convenient. Ba’an did not like mixing. It irritated her wrists.

Well, perhaps Lukios would like to help some more in the future. Ba’an was looking forward to sparing her wrists.

She smiled as she washed out the bowls.

Ba’an climbed the last set of stairs that took her to the roof of the not-vuti. The top of the not-vuti was round too, the surface lumpy where no one had bothered to smooth the rocks down. There was a single, lonely tree, gnarled and twisted, that clung to the rock still, tilting in a way that suggested it would fall someday. It had held on for five years. Perhaps it would hold on for five more.

Tonight, the moon hung low, white like a bone half-sickle hanging in the sky. The sky was littered with stars, a dizzying vision stretching as far as the eye could see. The desert lay beneath her in the dark, lonely and looming, forever thirsty and dry.

Her guest was sleeping in the bed. Ba’an was still not used to sharing such close quarters with a stranger; the feeling of being pressed in and stifled had kept her awake. Even when he was asleep she could feel his presence. He was rei-tat; his soul seemed to glow hot in the dark. The hum of it had become intolerable, and Ba’an had sought refuge on the roof.

He had a bright, lively soul. It made her hungry.

It would be rude to eat a guest.

Even so…

Ba’an sighed quietly and pressed her hands over her eyes. The night air was cool and smelled of sand and dry sagi grass. She inhaled, filling her lungs to their limit before releasing it. It was the same smell everywhere, though here there was no smell of goat. Ba’an did not have a herd, though her old tribe had had one. They were very clever, strifa goats. Ba’an missed their bleating and their good sense of humor. She wondered if the little one she had helped birth all those years ago was running around now, a hale, happy adult. She had had the biggest brown eyes with outrageously long lashes. Ba’an had named her Am’rayanasa, though Old Bu’rin had told her that was a terrible name for a goat. She was sure he must have renamed her by now.

Ba’an stared into the distance, into the never-ending black of the night sky, then tilted her head down.

The roof was very high up.

Ba’an wondered, not for the first time, how painful it would be to die falling off the roof. From this height, the things inside her not-vuti looked like small children’s toys. If she looked into her courtyard, the ground seemed very far, and the stone slab appeared to only be a small, flat rock.

Would she feel it if she fell and smashed her skull open? How long did people live with a smashed skull, anyway?

Well, a very long time if they were unlucky. Ba’an had seen her share of head injuries. Some unlucky patients had survived having their brains nearly bashed out. There was no curing them and they simply lived half-lives until they died. It was a terrible fate.

But if she failed the first time, couldn’t she simply try again?

No. Her hand went to the necklace of teeth that sat around her neck.

Many had died to keep her alive. Too many. Stepping off the cliff was not an option.

Ba’an sighed, looking at the tree clinging tenaciously to the edge of the cliff. They were the same. Ba’an had no choice but to cling to life the best she could until she lost her grip and fell. Anything less would be an insult.

In some ways, she thought an execution would have been more merciful.

She sighed again and began to make her way back down. It would do no good to stay up here any longer. She was becoming…maudlin. Ugh.

That she had even thought about stepping off the roof was an embarrassment.

Ba’an made her way down the stairs as quietly as she could, hand against the wall to keep herself steady. Halfway down, she paused, staring at the sleeping form of her guest. Had he roused?

Ba’an watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. He seemed completely asleep.

No, of course he hadn’t. Why would he? She had been very quiet. Good. It would be awkward to explain why she was skulking around in the dark.

She made her way to her nest of blankets on the floor, thinking of the sky, the stars patiently waiting to return to the Wheel.

No, it had not been a very good thought. It had been the opposite.

It was rude, after all, to expect a guest to clean up after a dead body.