1 – 3

We leave the riverside with the setting sun painting the sky in soft, vibrant colors. There's pink and orange, red and gold that filter down through the treetops and cast the evening in a gentle haze. Night is falling fast and bringing autumn's chill with it. I feel it soak into my clothes, damp after an hour's basking in the sun. It leaches into my skin and I pick up the pace, eager to get home and changed into something dry and warm. “Get a fire going, please,” Mother says to me as I pull ahead. Her voice is hushed as she has Tals dozing in her arms. He wore himself out, bringing most of us with him. Between the dance and the hours in the water, I ache from scalp to sole. I want nothing more than to sit and rest at the fireside.

“Alright,” I answer, just as quietly, “I will.” She smiles at that and runs a hand down Tals' back. He shifts in her grasp, tucking his face into her neck and heaving a great sigh. Djan is walking with Father and doing his best to hide his fatigue. He staggers, tripping over his own feet, and is scooped up by Father. Not a word of protest follows. Father gives me a wink and my lips curve up. I'll remember this next time Djan claims to be too grown for something.

I'm eager to get dry and warm and so I start to run. The clearing isn't far. If I want to get the fire started before the rest show up, I need to hurry. The stomp of hooves on the ground and swish of tails through the air reach me just before I reach it. It's our mules that I see first. They're huge beasts with reddish-brown coats and broad, strong backs. Wide and flat enough to lay on. I have. Doleful flicks an ear at my arrival before returning to cropping grass with his wide, flat teeth. Near to him, Soulful is stripping an unfortunate bush of its leaves.

As to what the mules pull; our wagon. Our home. My people, the Royah, are wanderers. We stay in place for a while, six months to a year, before moving on. We've done this since the beginning, since the Lost took the first of us under their wing and taught them the ways. It was from them that we learned the hidden paths and secret places of the world. This clearing is one of them. Untouched by any hands but Royah. We came to it two months ago. I think it was to finish my instruction away from prying eyes.

Every Royah wagon is decorated by the family line that drives it. Generations of marks made in wood for their descendants to enjoy. Ours has a rearing horse carved into the door, surrounded by looping gusts of wind. Father did that after Tals was born. Swirls and spirals of paint run the length of the walls, splashed as if by a mad painter with a loaded brush. Or as if three children were left alone with paint buckets for a half-hour.

Unsupervised.

It took hours to get the paint off.

Unlit lanterns hang from hooks at each corner of the peaked roof. A short ladder on a hinge is stored against the door. I pull it down and climb up to let myself inside. Our wagon is big, like our mules, because it has to be. Five people live in it. At the front is Mother and Father's bed, separated from the rest by a hanging curtain. It blocks sight well enough. Sound, lamentably, not at all. We children have our bunks in the middle and back of the wagon. Each one is a shelf of wood wide and long enough for us to lay on, set on hinges against the wall. We fold them up for more space while on the road.

My bunk is closest to the door, and beneath it there is a small chest with my clothes and other things I've picked up over time. Boots go next to it, laces tied together so one doesn't wander off without its twin. I open the chest and consider what appeals most among my options. I've two other dresses to wear while this one dries, but also a tunic and trouser pair. I choose the latter out of laziness, it being easier to wiggle into trousers than lace up a dress by myself.

I groan. I have to contend with these laces now. They're even more uncooperative now, having swollen with water from their time in the river. After a struggle worthy of song I manage to free myself, then dress myself in the tunic and trousers. Their thick and dry cotton feels wonderful on my chilled, damp skin. I leave my feet bare and slide back out to get the fire going.

First I duck under the wagon to grab a few of the fallen limbs we put there to dry out. I bring them to the firepit that had been built long before we'd arrived and lay them in it. Soot stains my fingertips and the soles of my feet. The pit is ringed in stone and floored with sand, perhaps taken from the riverbank we just left. I stack the wood just so and lay the dry tinder among it. The first of the sparks fall from the firestarter when Mother and Father arrive with the boys. I blow gently on the embers and see them brighten and take.

Tals seems to have roused himself enough to be upright and looking around. Still in Mother's arms, his eyes light on the growing fire and grow wide. For weeks it has fascinated him. He'll sit as close as he's allowed and watch the fire in stillness and silence. Djan is back on his own feet and talking with Father, streaming words that, “it doesn't really count 'cause she's bigger, so her splash would be bigger, which means she cheated and it doesn't count. So I won really.”

Oh, did he? I'll have to come up with something suitable for retribution. I'm not sure what, yet. I'll have to think about it.

Only I won't be able to, will I? I'm leaving at dawn. There'll not be an opportunity for retribution, nor for play at the riverside, nor for anything else. I'll not see Father's dry smile, nor feel Mother's hand in my hair. I'll be alone. Just me, for the first time in my life. There's a knot in my throat that I swallow hard to get rid of. It stays. Father and Mother take the boys into the wagon to wrestle them into dry clothing. There's an annoyed sound and Mother's voice rings out, “And what have I said about leaving wet clothes on the floor?!” I huff a laugh past the knot. I'm going to miss this. I really am.

- - -

“Boys,” Father says, voice rumbling over the crackle and pop of the fire. It casts a warm glow over us all, eyes reflecting the light as we bask in its warmth. “this is a special day,” he looks from Djan who sits beside him to Tals in Mother's lap. “Who can tell me why?”

Because I'm leaving tomorrow, I don't say, because I won't see any of you again for a long time. Tals, enraptured by the firelight as he is, doesn't answer. I hug my knees and try again to banish the knot in my throat. Djan rolls his eyes and says, “It's Zira's birthday,” and surprise jolts through me. It is?

Cursed moonlight, it is! My lessons started a year ago today, the day that I turned fifteen. Surprise becomes embarrassment, rushing hot across my cheeks and the back of my ears. I say nothing. If I speak a single word it will come out a squeak and that, I will not abide. I watch the fire and hope no one notices.

At the mention of birthdays, Tals emerges from his fascination with flame. Now full of childish greed, he asks, “Gifts?!” Mother smiles and gives him a smacking kiss to his cheek.

“Gifts,” Father confirms, leaving Mother to explain the gifts are not for Tals, but for me. He accepts this without a single argument or thrown tantrum.

For once.

Though he does have a mighty sulk on his face as Father goes to the wagon to fetch these gifts. Djan wishes me well over the fire and I smile at him in thanks. After some prompting, and with reluctance, Tals does as well. The knot in my throat eases for me to laugh and thank him.

Father returns soon with three cloth bundles tucked under his arm. Two are of a size, while the third is smaller and more slender. He carries a walking stick of some sturdy wood. It's been sanded and polished, with a dark green cloth wrapped around it a half forearm's length from one end. He gives me the stick first. It's solid and heavy, warmly glowing in the firelight. Then the bundles, all at once, pile into my lap. Before returning to his seat, Father kisses the crown of my head.

The knot in my throat burns as a wave of warmth spreads downward. There's a breeze that blows smoke into my eyes and I have to close them for a moment. I wait until the burn stops before opening them again. “Open them!” Tals demands, impatient and curious.

I nod and take up one of the two like-sized bundles. I hear the clink of metal against metal as I unwrap it. It's a satchel of deer's hide. A long, rawhide strap is stitched to the top, meaning its to be worn over the shoulder while the satchel rests against my opposite hip. I run my fingers over the smooth, soft leather. I see Father's work in that, Mother's in the stitching. Again comes the clink of metal and I look inside.

Coin. A handful of it. Some are old and tarnished, others new from the mint. There's a few silvers, a great deal of coppers, and one gleaming gold. I look up and meet Father's eyes across the fire. He nods, beard twitching as he smiles. There's something soft and sad in his eyes.

I smile back and, without a word, reach for the next gift. It's the smallest, slender and near the length of my forearm. I know what this is. Even before unwrapping, I know. A knife falls into my palm; hilted in deer horn, sheathed in thick leather. I draw it and see a smoky indigo curve in the metal. The firelight catches on it and it gleams. Djan gasps and glares covetously at me. I can't look away from the metal. “This–” I croak. I clear my throat and try again. “This is Cobalt steel.”

Mother grins widely at me. “It is,” she agrees, and offers no explanation of how they could get some of the continent's finest steel for me. I return the knife – my knife – to its sheath and place it atop the satchel. I breathe shakily. This is too much. It's too much. They could have bought a third mule for what this knife should cost. “Go on,” she prods gently, “you've one left.”

I do, and my hand trembles as I pick it up. It's the densest of the three, as if containing more than its size would suggest. If they've gotten me armor as well...

It's not armor. I undo the buckle and one of Father's belts falls away as a traveling cloak unfolds, spilling over my lap. It's warm and thick and dark, dark green in color. It has a deep hood and is utterly, utterly perfect. My eyes burn as the smoke returns. I bury my face in the cloak to hide from it.

Only, there's no smoke in my eyes. There never was. The knot in my throat dissolves into a sob as I cling tightly to these, the last gifts my parents will give me. Their last efforts to prepare me for walking my road.