The new encampment the clan had set up lay a few hours’ ride behind Gilene, and still she caught its stink on the wind. The green scent of sweet vernal was a welcome change.
A group of women and children, accompanied by a handful of archers, had left at dawn for a part of the steppe where one of the scouts had located a wide patch of wild strawberries not yet trampled or eaten by the horse herds. Gilene accompanied them, riding next to Saruke, who explained they’d cook for everyone while the women and children picked and gathered the berries.
They traveled for several miles, stopping when the scout who rode ahead whistled and waved to indicate the place where the strawberries grew. Tamura, lightly armored in a leather breastplate, vambraces, and greaves, rode up next to her mother. Even though Gilene had resided with their family for two months, Azarion’s sister remained guarded around Gilene, the suspicious light in her eyes undimmed.
“The six of us”—Tamura indicated the other five archers with a broad sweep of her hand—“will ride in the four directions to make sure we don’t have thieves from Clan Saiga lurking in the grasses.” She rode off, long braids bouncing against her back as the horse galloped toward the waiting archers.
When the foraging group reached their destination, they dismounted and fanned out, satchels draped across their shoulders, and bent to harvest the steppe’s bounty. Gilene stayed behind to help Saruke set up a makeshift kitchen on the open plain. Soon flames coaxed out by fatwood and flint danced merrily under a large kettle filled with mutton fat.
She and Saruke sat side by side on a square of horsehide to keep their backsides dry and took turns placing flat rounds of barley cakes into the sizzling fat to fry. A bowl of butter sat nearby, alongside larger bowls of curds and hot, salty milk tea thickened with crushed barley.
Gilene handed one of the cooled cakes to Saruke. “Do you want to make more, or will these be enough?” Stacks of the cakes were piled up on a sheet of tin between them, glistening with fat and dripping with the butter spread on them. A few of the children lurked nearby, willing to brave Saruke and her long, accurate reach with a stick for the chance at snatching one of the treats.
“Oya!” Saruke snapped and waved the stick in a threatening sweep that sent the nimble youths bounding out of the way like startled hares. “Make yourselves useful and pick me some wild onion. I’ll add it to the pot.” They bolted away, part eager to help, part fearful of raising her ire.
She winked at Gilene and lowered her stick before taking the offered cake. “This is good,” she proclaimed after a few bites. “They won’t complain, especially after hours with their backs bent over those berries.”
Gilene wasn’t so sure. Even though Saruke had made and rolled out the dough into individual cakes the night before, Gilene had been the one to fry most of them. The Savatar women would note it and no doubt criticize her efforts. As a possible agacin, she was treated in the most civil manner, given food to eat, a comfortable bed to sleep on, and shelter from the elements. But civility didn’t translate to friendliness, and so far only Saruke had warmed enough to her to carry on a conversation that consisted of more than grunts, a few monosyllabic replies, and suspicious scrutiny. She might be an agacin according to those witnesses who’d seen her walk through the Veil, but she was not Savatar.
Saruke finished her cake and eyed the tin sheet holding the rest of the bounty. “Another handful will do it,” she said. “Then we’ll call the others back. A pack of them that size should be able to gather every berry out there in no time. We’ll eat and head home.” Her faded eyes swept the landscape. “We’ve wandered far today and are very close to Clan Saiga territory.”
Gilene followed her gaze, seeing only the cluster of berry gatherers and the endless plume grass that grew as far as the eye could see. “How can you tell?”
Her companion audibly sniffed. “The smoke from their camp. They’re down from the mountains earlier this year. There will be skirmishes over the best pasturelands.”
In the time she’d been with the Savatar, Gilene had learned many things about the people of the Stara Dragana—mainly their love for fighting. “I thought the Savatar were united.”
Saruke scooped curds into small cups and set them out near the tin of cakes. “In their hatred for the Empire, yes, but they still squabble among themselves. One clan against another for grazing and water rights. They marry each other’s daughters and sons off to quiet the fighting, but it doesn’t last long. The moment someone from Clan Marmot kills and eats a sheep belonging to someone from Clan Wolf, they start up again. Blood feuds, ritual combat. I sometimes wish the agacins would quench the Veil. Our warriors are restless pent up behind it. If they can’t fight the Empire, they fight each other.”
If Azarion’s mother knew what Gilene did about Azarion’s plan regarding the Empire, she might not wish for such a thing. Then again, Saruke might volunteer to ride alongside him in battle. The Empire had enslaved her son. She certainly had the motivation to heed a call to war against it.
“Karsas does nothing but drink and tup,” Saruke muttered. “Useless leader, useless warrior. It’s probably better the Veil stays up.”
Her comment spurred Gilene to pursue a topic that had made her wonder since her meeting with the agacins. “Karsas betrayed Azarion, took the chieftainship from him through treachery instead of combat, yet Azarion says nothing of this to either council. Why? Wouldn’t doing so make his claim stronger? Leadership of Clan Kestrel is his birthright. His reason for bringing me is to reclaim the chieftainship. Why not tell them what happened?”
They were out of earshot from the harvesters, but she took no chances, keeping her voice low. Karsas’s wife, Arita, and their children were among those who picked, and while she observed that the marriage seemed more for political convenience than mutual affection, Gilene understood that loyalty was often commanded by more than emotion. She herself was loyal to Azarion. He was her way back home to Beroe. If she heard anything that might jeopardize his welfare, she’d tell him. That Arita would do the same for Karsas seemed probable. A memory of her time with Azarion in front of his family’s barrow, when he became something other than her adversary, teased her mind.
Saruke finished filling cups and turned her hand to pouring the milk tea. “Because he can’t prove Karsas planned his capture and enslavement, and those who could bear witness to it because they were part of it are dead. Azarion is patient. He’ll know the best time to make his accusations and take his revenge.”
“I’d think it more justice than vengeance.”
Was that a gleam of approval in Saruke’s eyes? “Can it not be both?” she said and passed a cup of the milk tea to Gilene. “You defend him as fiercely as if you were his woman, though you are not.”
Sharing the same qara day in and day out had made it difficult for Gilene and Azarion to maintain the lie that she was his concubine. Saruke was an observant woman, and it hadn’t taken her long to understand their bond was built on something else. With a warning to keep what he said between them, he told her and Tamura the truth. Gilene sat next to him, listening and nodding as he explained their first meeting, his extortion of her help, her role as a Flower of Spring, and their escape from the Empire. He left out the part about Gilene’s trickery with illusion and his own ability to discern it.