Dismissed from Aimo’s side, Sylvia turned her attention to Rise. Unpacking her tent and setting it up for the first time, she found that she had been given a simple ridge tent, just big enough to crawl into on hands and knees. As long as it sheltered her from rain and bugs, she did not care much how small it was. After untying her bedroll and straightening it out in the little shelter, Sylvia crept back outside and let her eyes dart through the slowly forming camp.

Most had tents which were a fair bit larger than Sylvia’s, and extra blankets, too. They had saddle bags filled with clothes, tools, and equipment. Some spent the evening combing their hair or helped each other braid it. After the battle in Surtearv, a lot of hair was ruffled. The scarcity of water made grooming difficult, but at least the blood stained clothes were changed, and everyone made a point of scrubbing their boots with dry brushes. Injuries were checked and bandages were changed. Shallow fire pits were dug. Before long, a series of fires crackled among the shelters, spreading light and warmth.

The oblong baker’s tent had been set up near the centre of camp, by a bed of coals. Several metal stands were placed into the bed of glowing embers. Each held a grid, on which meat was roasted alongside carrots and turnips. Joining the gathering, Sylvia first went for the barrels to refill her water skin. She drank half before refilling it anew, and then found a seat on the edge of someone’s blanket. The two women who had been butchering horses at the edge of the woods in Surtearv were now sitting by the grills. They reached out with bare hands and pushed the food around, turning it over repeatedly to keep it from burning. There were five cooks in total, two men and three women. Sylvia watched their quick hands.

Aimo soon joined the gathering as well. He placed his small stool down near Sylvia and took a seat. Seeing Sylvia’s wide eyes grazing over the food, he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “The one you want to flatter is Frida.”

“Smells fantastic, Frida!”, he called.

One of the women shook her head. She was surprisingly young. She looked to be barely twenty, but she was strong. She had tied the arms of her shirt up, so they would not get in her way while she cooked, and the gleam of the coals accentuated every muscle. She could certainly lift a barrel on her own, if need be. The apron around her waist was deceptively domestic in contrast. Picking a chicken off the heat, she peeled a piece of the crisp skin, and handed it to Aimo with a wink. Then, she cut the bird into smaller chunks and handed them out. Soldiers and waggoners alike accepted food and broke it apart with their hands, if at all, before eating. Fingers were licked and beverages were slurped. Many did not even bother sitting down to eat. The exception was Aimo, who produced a plate, a fork, and a knife, from one of his deep pockets.

“You do not happen to have another set of cutlery, do you?”, Sylvia inquired.

“I sure do, Young Sylvia, but that will be silver”, Aimo answered.

“Right. Maybe not, then.”

Lacking a better option, Sylvia reached out for a piece of chicken and a toasted roll. She tore the hot bread with her fingers and stuffed the chicken inside along with a handful of collards. She accepted a dribble of hot fat atop it, and tugged in.

Walking back to her tent a short while later, Sylvia rubbed her fingers together. They felt tacky. What a wonderful sensation. Looking at the gleam of fat, she brought her fingers to her lips and liked the tasty residue off. Her mother would have been outraged.

Fingers mostly clean, she dried them off with the hem of her tunic. Afi’s tunic, that was. Sitting down at the mouth of her tent, she ran the fabric between her fingers. Afi’s tunic was a lot thinner than the ones Sylvia used to own, but it was heavier due to its size. Thinking back to the first time she wore it, she figured she must have grown into it a little, at least around the waist. That was not saying much, but she had noticed the difference. She had so much energy these days.

She bunched the hem of the tunic up in her hands. She had not found any trace of Afi before they left Surtearv, but the city was a lot bigger than her humble home, and the bodies were plentiful. Most of them were Wolves. It was not hard to imagine that she simply missed him in the chaos. She hoped not. There was still hope. Sylvia frowned at herself. It was a confusing feeling to care for a Wolf, but she did. She could not help it. He had been good to her. He had been kind. He had been the only one there for her ever since the raid. Not to mention, he held a piece of her, even if he was not aware of it. Now she was alone again. Tears welled in her eyes. She swallowed hard to force them back. There was no sense in crying. It would not help. It would not make a difference. Tears held no answers.

The emotional battle in her chest was cut short by a shrill and familiar call. Heads raised all around the camp, and silence fell over them like a tick blanket. Yri was standing near the baker’s fire, an oblong bottle in her hand. Holding it up for everyone to see, she cleared her throat and called anew. Her high pitched voice carried her call far enough to warrant a faint echo. Sylvia felt a tension building in her chest at the sound of evening. It was the call to return home. Sylvia had never truly mastered it. Her mother used it often, though. Rebecca had even learned to cast her voice through the deep quiet woods of Nyberg. She would call out when Sylvia was late for their meeting at the Silverwood tree. It was said that a woman who can cast her voice across the land, who can cut the silence and split the dark, can lure any manner of creature close. The cattle would come trotting, and the birds would nestle around her. Beasts would go to sleep, and her children would gather around her fire for supper. Myth or not, the Fri and their horses were at least paying attention.

Bringing one hand to the side of her mouth, Yri continued her evening call. “Hooo-hi-hoohoo-ha! My little birds! Gather round and share a drink! Gaia knows you deserve it!”

A roar of agreement erupted. The soldiers hurried over to grab the bottles of spirit Yri was handing out. A bearded man got a hold of a bottle and tore the stopper out with his teeth. Taking a big gulp, he grimaced. Then, he handed the spirit on to whoever stood nearby. The woman taking the bottle from him repeated the procedure, drinking, hissing in a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, and then passing the spirit on. So each bottle travelled a different route around the fires.

All the while the alcohol burned down throats, Yri stood by the fire, her lovely voice echoing through the valley as she sang of gruesome fates. A woman who was raped and then executed for telling the truth. A man who was pushed to suicide by his own pride. A farmer lamenting a winter that arrived too soon. Sylvia could feel her soul grow heavy in her chest even without a sip. She closed her eyes and listened, letting her very being bend and sway in accordance with Yri's song.

Several days passed in a similar fashion. Yri entertained the caravan, and answered any and all of Sylvia’s questions. She was happy to have someone listen so eagerly while she detailed the map of Holmen. When they made rest, she tried drawing it into the ground with a stick, but the crude illustrations gave Sylvia less information than her verbal description, and the stories she could tell about each and every road and settlement. For every village and town that the caravan passed, Yri told Sylvia the name, the approximate population, who the mayor was, and what their agreement looked like. Some were enthusiastic about their Fri alliance. Others agreed only because they knew better than to refuse an armed force at their gates. Sylvia found the difference easy to spot in the décor of the settlement in question. If the Fri flag was dirty and torn, it meant it was well used. A pristine flag was not a sign of respect. Some had no flag at all, which visibly darkened Thorun’s mood.

While helping Aimo in his trade, Sylvia saw first hand what the local attitude was toward strangers, traders, and Fri. She also learned a great deal about the kinds of wares which could be successfully traded. Some folk bought metal and sold food, while others did the opposite. Especially people by the water were eager traders. They had an abundance of fish and plenty of wet soil to farm, but sparse access to metals from the mountains.

Despite the abundance that water could offer, there were only a handful of communities on the fertile lands along the river East Cut. Bandits kept the waterway besieged. It required a strong city guard to keep them from raiding. Not even AudOlafsson could counteract this. The ties between AudOlafsson and the Crown of Sev certainly gave them the authority to take action against the bandits, but only on the Sev side of the border river. Crossing into Severn waters with military vessels would be considered an act of war. This did not deter the bandits, however.

In the evenings, Sylvia would sit by her tent, going over her mental map of the area, filling in gaps and memorising crooks in the road. After a few days, she could enumerate the Fri controlled settlements by name, population, and location. It was calming to have something to digest, to visualise and memorise. It kept more unsettling thoughts at bay.

When the sun hid among the trees, the Fri shared meals and told stories, or played games. Sylvia soon learned the rules of several dice games, the most popular of which were merely games of chance. Wine was passed around frequently, but no spirit. Aimo made sure of that, keeping the bottles safe in his wagon. Some evenings, Yri sang, but only a song or two. She only let her beautiful trill nudge the souls of her soldiers, before retreating to her tent. The soldiers raised their own voices in her stead, performing far more cheerful tales. As the battle in Surtearv grew more distant, the level of intoxication decreased, and gave way to more clapping and dancing.

The tales of heroes and silly adventures, presented in cheerful, unharmonious howling, did not touch Sylvia’s soul the way Yri’s mellow voice could, but on the last evening before their journey’s end, a group of wagoners played mouth harp and hummel, and Sylvia found her soul dancing along with the shadows whirling among the tents.

Even the Fri sisters joined the festivities. Thorun moved with strength and elegance, but Yri outshone them all. Her trousers tied over her knees, and her chest free, Yri pulled a blond woman into the centre of the trampled ground. Hand in hand, they danced like one being, turning on the tips of their toes and bending at the waist. Their bodies flowed like water among the fires. Red and blond hair fanned around their shoulders. It was an enthralling display of strength and control.

The blond woman eventually let go of her dance partner and bowed low, her hair nearly touching the ground. Yri spun and spun, taking one small step for every turn, until she was at the edge of the bed of coals in front of the baker’s tent. She paused for dramatic effect, before clapping her hands, swinging her arms out to either side, and stepping out onto the embers on her bare feet. The orange light played along her pale legs and stomach, painting a beautiful sunset across her body. The coals did not singe her while she shifted and swayed to the sweet tunes of music. In the middle of the glowing field, Yri stopped and stretched her hands toward the deep dark sky. For the space of a long breath, she stood still as a statue, but still the heat dared not harm her. Then, she danced again, with steps as light as a deer’s. Upon reaching the other side of the coals, she received roaring applause. Making a flourish, she reached out toward the young cook Frida. Frida smiled and swatted at her, but ultimately took her hand. Together, the two women left the tumult behind, and retreated into the privacy of a nearby tent.