That had been a lie.

They had left the little canyon housing her not-vuti for the field of akaikai trees. The key was timing. Once the northernly wind came in, the valley of trees often encountered rain. Not true rain, but little showers, often in bursts. Immediately after, all of the flowering plants in the grove would blossom for however long they could. The wasps in the valley used the nectar to make honey, stored in their nests for lean times ahead.

Ba’an was going to get that honey.

“Let me get this straight,” said Lukios. “You want me to…keep this fire going and keep throwing in sambi-sahi leaves? And then…fan the smoke toward…wherever you are?”

“Yes.”

“And while I do that, you’re going to…just put your stick into the wall and take out some honeycombs?”

“Yes.”

“And the smoke will make them too drowsy to attack you.”

“Yes.”

“…Ba’an.”

“Yes?”

“You live alone.”

She sniffed and refused to answer his obvious observation.

“Ba'an. This is a two-person procedure.”

She ignored him, looking between the cracks in the cliff face for tell-tale signs of a wasp nest.

“Ba’an. Ba’an. Have you actually done this before?” Ah-ha! Success. There was a wasp nest, glued tightly into a crack in the cliff wall.

Lukios had come over to stare into the crack too. He made a noise of distress.

“Holy fuck. Ba’an. Ba’an. Those are—those are horned desert wasps. Know what we call ‘em? Murder-wasps. Ba’an, let’s go back. I’m serious. I don’t want to die over honey.” She flapped her hand at him, nonchalant.

“It will be perfectly safe. You will not die. I will not die. Not even the wasps will die. And we will have honey. Honey!”

“Ba’an. I’ll buy you honey once we get to the city. I swear on my name. This is…a terrible idea. Just…I can’t even describe how bad this idea is.” She rolled her eyes. Like his name meant anything to her.

“But I want honey now. For dinner.”

“We have to survive to have dinner.”

She sighed loudly. “Oh. I was wrong.”

He perked up. “Yes, yes, exactly! This was a terrible idea. Let’s head back.”

“No,” she said patiently. “I was wrong. I thought you are a man. But no, you are a boy. Afraid of wasps.”

“…That’s low.” He glared at her, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe you’re calling me a child because I don’t want us to get murdered by wasps. This is ridiculous. Ba’an.”

She sighed. “Very well.” He stared at her, waiting for the other sandal to fall. “You go. I will get honey. Alone.”

He didn’t look surprised at all. He glared at her with a sort of clenched-jaw look before he ground out, “Switch.”

“What?”

“I said switch.”

Ba’an stared at him, confused by the sudden change. “Why? You are afraid of wasps.”

He sighed at her. “How much sambi-sahi at a time?”

“Only a handful.”

“Okay. Whose handful?” He held up his hand, which was much larger than hers. “I don’t even know how these leaves work, or how to tell when to throw some in. So switch.” She stared at him.

“But…you are afraid of wasps.”

“No. I’m afraid we’ll die horribly over honey. But I have reach. Ba’an, switch.” Ba’an continued to stare. She could tell by his stony expression that he was serious. But…

“But…I am the one who wants honey.”

“Don’t worry, I noticed.”

“No. I am saying…it is more dangerous here.”

“I know that too.”

“You are not making sense.”

He continued to glare. Abruptly, he sat in the dirt. “I am not moving until you switch with me.”

What?

“That is…now you are being ridiculous!”

Wordlessly, he looked up at her, elbows on his knees. He raised one hand and rested his chin on it, as though to say he was ready to really wait.

Ba’an worried her lower lip between her teeth. This was an unexpected development. She had thought he would just leave if he wasn’t man enough, but no, he wanted to switch.

Perhaps this had been a bad idea.

Ba’an was confident she could survive wasps, provided it was not the full fury of the entire nest. She was a witch. Even without her coat she could use magic, though it was much more limited. Lukios was just a man. He would be stung, possibly to death. That was why she had wanted him behind the smokescreen—they wouldn’t go after him. The smoke would also make them slow and lethargic, and some of them would even sleep.

She began shaking her head. “No, Lukios. You do not understand. I am—I can—” He looked at her, expression patient and placid. It was as though whatever stupid decision he had made had given him peace. How aggravating. Ba’an floundered, trying to think of what to say. Perhaps she should simply tell him she had magic?

But he was an outlander.

Sometimes, witches were captured and sold in Dolkoi’ri slave markets. Not often. The K’Avaari preferred death to slavery, and witches had more ways than usual to kill themselves. But sometimes, very rarely, they would manage to capture a witch and keep her alive, though never for long. She had heard they were worth a small fortune.

Ba’an didn’t think he was that kind of man. But if there was one lesson she had learned well, it was that one never knew another fully. There were shadows in the soul, always: dark places, full of teeth and claws and jagged edges, hidden inside where no one could see. Sometimes the one who harboured the shadows did not see them, either.

Ba’an’s hand went to the necklace of teeth hanging around her neck and she gave it a nervous little twist.

Lukios’ eyes never left her.

The silence stretched on.

“No,” she said, finally. “I will not be killed by wasps. But you will be.” He only raised an eyebrow at her declaration.

“Really. Are you perhaps made of metal?” His eyes swept pointedly over whatever skin was exposed on her arms and legs. “It doesn’t look like it.”

Ba’an scowled and stomped to the little fire that he had already started building. Lukios frowned as he watched her finish and spark the flint and tinder against the kindling.

“You can’t be serious.”

Ba’an glared at him. “I am. Stay here.”

He started to stand. “Ba’an—"

She pressed her hand against his shoulder and he thumped back into the dirt, startled into compliance. His eyes on her face were wide.

“Stay. Here.”

Lukios shook his head, placing his hand over hers. His hand was pleasantly warm, though his fingers were all hard muscle and bone. “Ba’an. I’m serious too. If you really, really want to do this, you should let me poke the nest with the stick. I have reach. And, quite frankly, I probably run faster than you do.”

“Lukios.” Ba’an looked him in the eye. “Believe me. They will not sting me—much. They will sting you. To death. Understand?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t understand. Explain it to me.” There was something deeply piercing about his stare, and Ba’an dropped her eyes. “Ba’an?”

She shook off his hand. “You are impossible. Like an old strifa. Stubborn. No, worse. Like two old strifa.” She saw the corners of his mouth twitch up, very briefly.

“I know. I warned you, didn’t I?”

She glared at him, then kicked dirt over the fire. “Fine. You win. When we are at Kyros you will buy me honey. Many pots.” She continued to glare even as his lips curled into a smile. “Many pots.”

“I promise. I’ll buy you as much honey as you want. Other things too. Whatever you want.”

She turned around and ignored him. “Bring the sambi-sahi too.”

“Right.”

Ba’an stomped away, taking the cliff trail wordlessly. It was irritating how easily he kept up with her, even when she was striding quickly to leave him behind. Stupid long legs. At least he knew enough to keep his stupid mouth shut.

Ba’an ignored him all afternoon, annoyed. She had finally run out of salt rocks, which meant her food now tasted flat and flavorless. There was only so much she could do with what she had, and she did not eat as well as she had with her tribe—not even close. Aside from that, it embarrassed her to serve simple fare every day—a guest was a guest, even if he wasn’t staying much longer. Wasp honey was not as good as what could be bought in Kyros, true, but it was something.

Ba’an scowled at her plants as she weeded. She liked sweets as well, which were, of course, nearly impossible to come by in the desert. It was wasp honey or nothing.

“You still mad?” Lukios ambled up the path to her garden, expression not nearly as contrite as it should have been. “I made you a snack.”

“Thank you,” she said, stiffly. She was still angry, true, but she never said no to food. Hunger was hunger.

He crouched across from her watching wipe her fingers on a cloth she had dampened using her watering pot. He had baked her some mushroom wrapped in mus’ka leaves. The flavour was smoky and meaty, but she knew it would have been better with some salt—or honey. He was grinning as he watched her eat, inexplicably pleased at the sight of her putting food in her mouth and chewing.

He was a madman. No one should have been that happy watching someone else eat. It made no sense. She offered him half her portion, trying not to look begrudging. It was rude to eat alone, though—she was very hungry.

He waved his hand airily. “Nah. I’m good, thanks.” He reached over and began finishing her weeding. He had gotten very good at spotting the weeds from the herbs these past months; Ba’an thought it was a shame he was an outlander. His ability to learn seemingly anything in a short span of time would have been a great boon to any tribe. He was clever and strong, and she did not doubt that he was badly missed.

“This it?” Lukios gestured to the pile of weeds.

“Yes. I will dry them on that mat over there.” She pointed to the spot in the cave directly under the sun hole. He nodded and put the plants into a basket, and she watched, munching, as he spread them in neat, even rows.

Once she was finished eating, she rose to help him and they made short work of it. “Didn’t know you could eat this stuff.” Lukios picked up a stem with leaves and waggled it in the air.

She only nodded. Normally she would not eat balu’ta, using it for weaving instead, because it was very tough and stringy. But food was always scarce now that she lived alone, and she had fallen into the habit of wasting nothing. Once dried, she would powder it and use it to bake with. It did not make very good flatbread, but food was food.

Lukios was watching her again. Ba’an stared back at him, raising a quizzical eyebrow, but he only grinned.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “You’re still mad.” He stood up and offered her his hand, which she promptly ignored. “Definitely still mad,” he said, and she could hear the hint of laughter in his voice.

Why did he find everything so funny?

Insanity. That was why. He’d laugh the entire way to his grave, she was sure.

“And now you’re thinking awful thoughts about me, aren’t you?” Lukios leaned over so he could put a finger on her nose. “I can tell. You always get a wrinkle right—here.” He ran his finger over the bridge of her nose, and she scowled at him until he retreated, though his grin never drooped or faded.

Ba’an raised her chin and glared down her nose at him—or tried to. He was very tall, so it did not work very well. Lukios only chuckled, very quietly, before speaking again.

“Oh, Ba’an. I’m sorry we didn’t get your honey. I’ll get you as many pots as you want in Kyros, really. Really.”

“They are only wasps, Lukios.”

“No, they’re horned desert wasps. Just ‘cause I’m an outlander, doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Like fuck, those things are scary.” He shuddered dramatically. “I still can’t believe you wanted to poke them with a stick.”

“I grew up in the desert, Lukios. The dramatics are not necessary. This is the usual procedure.”

He looked at her skeptically. “Your people poke at wasp nests with sticks to get honey?”

“…Yes.” It was not technically a lie. Normally it took many people to manage the procedure, but Ba’an had magic—more magic than any normal witch. She was certain she would have managed.

“Uh huh.” He gave her a disbelieving look. “Bet you it takes more than two people, though.”

She glared.

“Yup. Thought so.” He raised his hand again, presumably to poke her again, and her glare deepened as she stepped back.

“Do not poke at my nose, Lukios.”

He raised his hands in the air in a ‘Who, me?’ gesture. “Nuh uh. Thought you’d look pretty with one of these.” He grinned and gave her a very elaborate bow with a flourish at the end. A bright red bus’ka flower appeared in his hand, as though by magic. She blinked. Now where had he been hiding that? She eyed the folds of his clothes, puzzled.

She schooled her expression before he could see it, though she did not think she succeeded by the way his grin widened. Ba’an only raised her eyebrow again, this time rather archly. “So, I am so ugly I need a flower to make me pretty?”

“What?” The grin dropped from his face, and he looked genuinely flustered. “Wha—no. I wasn’t—”

Ba’an tried to turn away quickly to hide her smile, but she was too slow.

“—ah. Oh, that was mean, s—Ba’an. Real mean.” He gave her a wounded look and put his hand over his heart. “You shouldn’t degrade a man’s sincerity, Oh Great-Witch-of-the-Cave. It’s cruel. Cruel.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I am not a witch, and this is a nur-vuti. Do not call it a cave. It is rude.” Of course, it really was a cave, but it was discourteous to say so out loud. It wasn’t as though she wanted to live in an unfinished vuti.

“Okay. Cranky-Healer-of-the-Sands? Grumpy-Lady-of-the-Nur-Vuti?” He stepped closer and closer, and Ba’an found herself moving backwards, craning her neck to scowl up at him. “Pretty-Lady-with-the-Mean-Scowl?”

“Now you are reaching.” How ludicrous. He was back to grinning again.

“About what? You being pretty?” He laughed a little, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you think I’m lying. Even your scowl’s pretty—unless—is that why you’re so cranky all the time? No one ever told you how pretty you are, even when you scowl?”

What?

“That makes no sense, Lukios. Why would I be cranky if I thought my scowl was not pretty? No, wait—no one scowls to be pretty, Lukios. This is a ridiculous conversation.” As many of their conversations were, naturally. He was insane. Ludicrous. He was lucky he was so handsome, because no one would put up with him otherwise, she was certain.

And Ba’an was not flustered. She was not. He was only a mad outlander man who said the most outrageous things whenever the mood took him. Ba’an was not some silly girl to be charmed, she was a witch, a—

He dipped his head down so he could look down into her eyes and she squeaked in surprise, nearly falling over backwards. He reached out and gripped her about the waist, pulling her close to keep her from tumbling.

When he spoke again, his breath stirred the hair that had escaped her bun. It tickled. “Careful! That’s a pretty steep hill. Can’t have the healer become the patient now, can we?”

“It is your fault, Lukios.” She put her hand on his chest and pushed, but he only let out a soft chortle of amusement. He did not budge, not even a little. It was like an ant pushing at a boulder.

Lukios always radiated heat, like a rock that had baked beneath the sun all day. His warmth was seeping into her through their clothes. The hem of his chiton brushed her dress and she was suddenly aware of what lay beneath it—skin and muscle, bone and soul. She could feel the strength in his arms as he held her up.

She felt her face go hot. It was very annoying.

“Okay. It’s my fault. Here’s my apology.” He reached down and she felt his fingers in her hair, tucking something in between the strands. When he released her the bus’ka flower was nestled behind her ear.

“One flower is a poor apology,” she groused, but she did not pluck it from her hair. It was a sweet gesture, though she was determined not to say so. He would be gone soon, so there was no point in being friendlier than she already was.

“True,” he said, and pulled her even closer. Ba’an blinked, staring up into his eyes as his grin broadened. “How about I—”

“—Stop talking and check the traps? Very good idea. Go, Lukios,” she snapped and broke away, hastily retreating down the hill. The spots where his hands had been felt cold now, and the fact that she noticed bothered her intensely. “I will prepare…dinner.”

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she realized they had just had lunch only a few hours before. The sun was still high in the sky. By now her cheeks were flaming, which she knew was stupid. Knowing it was stupid made them even hotter, which only served to aggravate her further.

Ba’an was not running. She was not. She was walking quickly. Very quickly.

Lukios was still staring at her from the top of the hill. Even from this distance she could see that he was grinning.

“Whatever you say, Ba’an!” He gave her a very Dolkoi’ri salute as she scrambled as quickly as she could while still remaining dignified to the not-vuti. She scowled to herself as she entered the kitchen—and paused. On the counter was a pot full of bus’ka flowers from the valley.

Oh.

She felt her cheeks go hot again. Tentatively, she reached out and touched one of the large, waxy petals with her fingers. They only bloomed for a short time, right after the rain. Their sweet scent had filled the small space of the not-vuti, and Ba’an’s mouth stretched into a smile as she leaned over and sniffed them.

Hm. Perhaps she ought to make something he liked for dinner.

Gathering honey, aborted as it was, had been the second last thing on the list. Ba’an had her herbs, and she spent the evening preparing them—she hung whatever had to be dried and took down whatever was already dry to make powders. Powders were not as potent as freshly made decoctions and ointments, but they kept much, much better and were easy to measure out and sell.

Once everything was ready, they would leave for Kyros. Lukios would be able to send a message from there to whomever, and he would finally go home. Ba’an would sell off everything she could and buy as many supplies as she could manage on one trip before returning to her not-vuti.

There was one last thing on the list.

Lukios was well enough to make the hike back to the road.

She had given him his things back by the time he had been able to stand and wander around on his own. She had gone back to the site before he had woken the first time to pick up his clothes and weapons. The truth was that her power was limited—she could not take that which was not living flesh and blood with her when she used her coat. So she had ended up taking him naked back to her not-vuti, which meant that she had had nothing to clothe him with. She had had to haul everything back on foot.

That had been…unpleasant.

Lukios had wanted to go back to the site of the attack at least once. Ba’an had told him everything she remembered: the number of bodies, what they had been wearing, where they had been laying. She had told him about the empty carriage too, which he had seemed to find particularly disturbing. Even so, he had insisted on seeing the site for himself, though she had told him that by the time he was well enough to walk there, the attack would have been discovered and reported and the road cleared.

She would take him there, though. She had a feeling this was much more personal than he was letting on. After all, he was a man. He was not likely to admit why he was so adamant on seeing the site for himself.

She would take him to the road so he could have his peace. Then, she would take him to Kyros.