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towards the sun, a shadow fell across it.
    â€œI give you the greatest gift I can muster, but it must be for a short time only. I cannot spare him that long. Before the snows arrive…” Her father looked over his shoulder at the Riders.
    So the women had spoken true over their needles. The Riders did not practise their skills for play. The wind felt cold against her wet cheeks. “Arigu will come back before the snows close the paths,” she said. So he was planning a new attack on the Red Hoof tribe that lay between them both. Banreh would come home, to speak the words of war for everyone.
    In the chief’s voice he replied, “Our clan’s future is too vast for one person to see. Do not concern yourself; you have your own duties. Become a mother, and soon. And learn what Banreh has to teach you.”
    â€œYes, Father.” She wiped her eyes and looked at his boots. So hard, such strong leather.
    He took her hand, and dropped it. It seemed almost an accident. Then he turned and made his way through the mud to his Riders.
    Banreh’s eyes met hers with their usual composure, and he raised both hands to his chest, a sign of service. Clever hands. But those and his tongue were the two edges of a sword, concealed behind a patient expression. As terrible as a weapon could be, she knew it was nothing more than a tool for a strong man. She turned away from him and took three steps towards her longhouse.
    â€œMesema,” he called out, his voice a croak, “are you unhappy?” She stalked back to him, her hands on her hips.
    â€œDo you not remember the Red Hoof Wars, Lame Banreh?”
    His cheeks grew red at the name. “I remember them.”
    â€œDo you remember my brother died that year? Stuck through the heart with a spear?” When he nodded, she went on, “Do you remember when some Redders got into our village and took Hola’s daughter against her will? She was too little to have that baby, and she died trying to give it life. Do you remember that?”
    Banreh nodded again. She could see from his eyes that he understood now, but she didn’t stop.
    â€œWhen you convinced me not to run, when you convinced me to turn back that day—you knew the war depended on it, and yet you said nothing to me.”
    â€œIt is not for you to concern yourself—”
    â€œNot for me ? Don’t make me laugh. You are barely more than a woman yourself, and my father uses you the same way.” As soon as the words left Mesema’s mouth, horror crept over her.
    Banreh sucked in his breath, but his next words were mild.
    â€œAt midday, then.”
    â€œBanreh—” Mesema said, but he turned away.
    â€œTame your mouth before you meet your Cerani royal.” He limped past the horse-pen, pulling his bad leg through the mud.
    The first chill wind of autumn swept over her. Mesema looked down at her feet, still in their summer slippers with no linings. She wouldn’t need to put the linings in this year. She would be warm. She would give birth to a prince in the summery sands. Or an emperor: a Windreader emperor, who might bring the two people, Felt and Cerani, together. Would that not bring a longer peace, over time?
    Perhaps Banreh had been right.
    â€œGreetings, Your Majesty,” she said in Cerantic. “Yes, Your Majesty.” The words felt sharp and unmanageable. But she would learn them.
    She turned towards the fields, breathing in the scents of home. A sharp wind came, bending the grass, and Mesema’s hair blew across her face in a dun storm. The grass thrashed, furious before the squall, and in the waving tumult she saw something, or thought she did. She shook her hair out so it streamed behind her and climbed the fence of the horse-pen for a better vantage point. A Red Hoof thrall, shovelling manure, gave her a look, half-smirk, half-sneer. She turned her gaze away from him.
    In the rippling grass, ephemeral amid the seething