He’d met our villagers in Cholvekesta after the plague, when we were desperate. He’d heard of the Northern Village’s heavy guard and devotion to maintaining a military in spite of their isolation. He offered them relief, and in the end, they’d opened up to him visiting. That was a raging fight in the council meeting—outsiders were banned by the foundational charter. It was a shame they didn’t mind who was listening outside their windows, I’d overheard every word.

He was not truly rich, he’d just come to the place where he was the richest. I knew what he thought he’d find here—a people so far removed from the world that they were inevitably naive, a place where he would be the most impressive man in miles simply for making an ordinary living. Unfortunately for everyone, he was right. It was amazing how you could buy not only someone’s affections, but their common sense.

He’d married Elder Michaelis’s daughter, Kaergery, which I believe Michaelis regretted allowing even before he did it. But of course, she’d fallen in love with the the handsome, charismatic, wealthy man that showered her with attention, praise, and knowing smiles. It was impossible not to love him, and I think she had high hopes of being loved. I’d seen them together, we all had, spinning her in the town square in a bastardization of a Xavian ballroom dance—he could be dazzling when he wanted to.

And of course, Ru’our Kholtan brought in money. Jobs. Livestock. A fresh perspective. A new set of eyes. Hope. He was welcomed to come and go as he pleased with open, if suspicious, arms. In the past, he’d allayed that suspicion with spectacles like these.

And then it got worse.

“But don’t think we’ve forgotten the ladies. My dear,” Kholtan called towards the back doors of the meeting hall in heavily-accented Xavian. “Would you come in?”

I turned my head towards the back double doors of the meeting hall with the wave of rustling and turning heads that went through the crowd.

The Xavian girl from the gondola slipped into the building and forward in her wedding veil. There were gasps of pleasure and awe as the people on their old quilts and patched woolen blankets scooted themselves and their things out the way so she could pass through unobstructed. She was blushing delicately and smiling, a dimple on one cheek, the two women who had rowed her gondola holding up the train of her pale blue gown so it wouldn’t so much as gather dirt from the floor. Her feet were bare and dry, her small, bony toes picking carefully over the rough logs that had been dug into the ground to form the floor. They were made for calloused feet, like mine. I furrowed my brow, occupied with the bizarre thought that she’d get a splinter. Delicate things didn’t belong here—they died.

I looked at Mirjam and I muttered in Kyjan, “He can’t get married twice here, it’s against the village charter.”

“Interesting,” she muttered back quietly, devoid of emotion. I didn’t like that tone.

She approached Ru’our with her pale, bare hand raised and he kissed it. He guided her closer and put a hand on the small of her back.

“I would like you to meet my second wife, Mrs. Aralise Kholtan of Nundal.” Nundal was a border town, she was a Xavian citizen.

He’d taken a second wife, a Xavian, in a town in the middle of nowhere, where the charter dictated isolation and monogamy? Incredible. Some polite applause began. I watched, confused.

“I am blessed… to be with you?” she attempted delicately, in hesitant, heavily accented Northern, her face warm and blushed.

The applause swelled rapturously loud, and I found myself clapping slowly, absentmindedly, thoroughly lost. This is impossible. How had this village altered so completely, right under my nose? She smiled again and I swore half the town, men and women alike, swooned. Were they bewitched by her amber gaze, or had they all lost their helldamned minds? That was the magic of silks, strawberry blonde hair, kohl on your eyelashes, and pastel blush. He’d brought weapons. He’d violated the charter. And they were cheering.

Elder Timothy Michaelis intervened. “Forgive me, but I must interrupt this now. Master Kholtan, you may have forgotten, but men are not permitted to take second wives in this village, as explicitly dictated by this charter. It would be one thing if you were a foreigner, or your… second wife was not living in our village and your first wife was not married from among our people, but you’ve joined our council of elders and made oaths to my daughter, Mrs. Kaergery Kholtan before us.”

“I saw no such thing in the language of the charter, Master Michaelis. I assure you, you are mistaken,” Ru’our Kholtan replied smoothly.

He was not mistaken.

“I am not mistaken, Master Kholtan, that particular part of the charter was clear and deliberate.”

Now Aralise was looking more than merely blushed, she was looking confused and embarrassed, and Ru’our’s face was reddening and tightening as his throat worked to keep his expression from twisting to outrage, poorly hiding the fact that he was irate. “Surely there is no cause for public debate, Mrs. Kholtan is new to this village, she has traveled far and long in anticipation of meeting everyone in this room. I fear it would be an offense to her delicate sensibilities. I assure you I anticipated a warm welcome.”

Some of the villagers began to clap, and more joined them. The bewildered Mrs. Aralise Kholtan looked marginally better.

“And I am deeply regretful I cannot offer it to you, but the charter is explicit. Polygamy is completely banned in our village, it is an offense to our ancestors and the women who are expected to be faithful to their husbands. A man cannot give undivided attention and provision for more than one woman. Our traditions are employed for a reason, Master Ru’our, to protect women who may easily be passed over for another, and to ensure stable and peaceful homes! Your wife is deeply pregnant with your third child! This is an affront!”

Master Kholtan’s hand was on the hilt of the jade sword. Michaelis stood up, fingers on his own hilt.

“Master Michaelis, please!” Wainwyre stuttered, “do not create a misunderstanding. The charter does specify that elders are to have one wife for these reasons, but the reasoning does not… need to apply to Master Kholtan—” who was glaring, hand on the sword, “who is neither unable to manage his own household or provide for two wives. He’s doubled the size of our economy, brought us better farming tools and weapons, provided jobs for many of our villagers who have no other place but the fields. I cannot imagine his house is a place where either his wives will be passed over.”

I looked around and noticed that Ru’our first wife, Kaergery, was conspicuously absent.

Michaelis shook his head warily and pinched the bridge of his nose wearily. Slowly, he took his seat. He was elderly, his silver beard to his waist, but this was one of the few times he truly looked his age. “Benjamael, your father—

“Has passed in a plague we did not have the resources to fight well, and it falls to me and to ensure our better fortunes. We must make improvements if we wish for a better life. We must be open-minded to new ideas if they are good,” he said. It would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t shook. And if I didn’t suspect he was quoting what Kholtan directly.

“When has having to complete for their husband’s affection been a good idea for the women of our village?” Michaelis insisted, “Where is Master Kholtan’s first wife, Benjamael? She is not in this assembly.”

“My wife is ill with the complications of pregnancy, you would not dare to insult the honor of my household!” Ru’our snapped quietly, his fingers digging into his knew wife’s wrist, which happened to be the most nearby object for him to crush. Now she was looking quite afraid.

“You would not take a second wife over your Uria, would you?” Michaelis fixed his eyes on Wainwyre and pleaded with his junior.

“I beg you would not appeal to my personal affairs in council,” Benjamael shot back curtly, “it is entirely—

“I appeal to the Weir,” Master Michaelis replied exasperatedly.

The meeting hall collectively turned to the back corner. The Weir and his apprentice had slipped in without notice in the midst of Ru’our’s parade of imported textiles, vases, horses, steel-tipped arrows, and wives. He was a grisled man with stubble for a beard. He looked even older than Michaelis, but no one had any doubt that he could take a younger man down. He held a steel-tipped staff. On his left was his apprentice, a lithe, hard-muscled young man with a shaved head, who knelt with his hands folded formally on his lap, watching the proceedings with a stone face and dark crimson irises—none other than Zimora.