The forest gives way to craggy cliffs. A small lodge sits before us, domed and made of a wooden patchwork, like a beehive—like the other huts that are built into the mountainside, resting places for those who need silence and privacy. We are no more than a five-minute walk from the village's constant pulse of laughter, song, the cries of children, the barks of dogs; the rich smells of woodsmoke, roasted meats, horses, sweetgrass—but up here, it all feels very far away.
A young man—brother or cousin to the sick girl?—stands outside, like he's waiting for us. His shirt is the sky-blue color Matisa's people are so fond of, with a line of beading along each sleeve that glints in the setting sun. Usually Matisa's people wear their hair braided, sometimes adorned with colorful strips of leather or feathers. This man's is loose and long—a sign of mourning. He, too, knows Matisa's not here to help the girl.
They exchange words in their tongue. When he opens the door and light floods out, I can see a form lying on skins and furs inside.
Shivering.
And suddenly I'm grateful I'm expected to stay outside.
Matisa turns to me. Her face is unreadable.
"I'll be right here," I say, and put a hand on her arm.
She disappears inside, and as the door is pushed shut behind her, dusk falls around us once more.
I look to the man and offer their greeting: "Tansi." He acknowledges me with a polite incline of his head and turns his eyes away. I follow his gaze, tracing the route Matisa and I climbed.
From here, the glimmer of the village is visible over the treetops; several thousand people's homes nestled in the shadows of these impossible mountains. Farmlands lie at the far end of the valley, next to a glistening lake. The walls of rock create barriers near impassable to the stranger who doesn't know this land, and the east entry to the valley is guarded by a long stretch of sentries. From a distance, this place is a picture of strength and beauty.
But from up close, it's under attack, one person at a time.
A murmuring of voices comes from beyond the door. I picture that girl in there, trying to speak around a swollen, bleeding tongue, and all at once I want to clap my hands to my ears and flee back down the mountainside.
Shame courses through me. My fear helps nothing.
Still, some days it creeps into my mind and muddies my thoughts until I don't know up from down. Those days, I miss Kane so much, it feels like a part of me has been ripped away and thrown to the winds. Those days, I dig for memories of him, desperate to remember his face, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hands. I struggle to light my heartfire, which once burned so bright for him, I thought it might burst.
I rub my hands together, not so much for warmth as for something to do, and stand in strained silence beside the man, thinking, not for the first time, that I must seem dimwitted. Can't speak but a few simple words in Matisa's tongue, and I'm forever gaping at her people's ways. They're a mix of two different groups, like we were in my settlement, but they've learned one another's tongues—something we never did. And not everyone here speaks English perfect, but most understand it. Learning the language and weapons of the Dominion helped osanakisiwak understand the danger their dreams foretold. Being protected from the Bleed was supposed to ensure their survival.
I stare out at the glimmering valley, reaching for a feeling of peace.
It drifts beyond my grasp, like a torn leaf in a breeze.
An eternity passes. Matisa reappears. She places a hand on the arm of the man, giving him a look of condolence, and gestures for me to follow her.
Once we're well into the forest, out of earshot, we stop to speak. In the twilight her eyes are shadowed, giving her a haunted appearance.
"She rode out yesterday to find her younger brothers, who were hunting goat in the ravine," she says. "She forgot her waterskin and drank from a small creek."
"And her brothers?"
"They had their skins, filled with the water from here."
"They didn't drink from the creek like her?"
"No."
"So it's the same as the other deaths." The handful of families we've spoken with said their loved one was out beyond the reaches of the village before he or she became sick.
"No," Matisa says. "It is not the same. Her mother has been ensuring they take the remedy each day."
"All the victims' loved ones say they were taking the remedy—the circle believes they say that to save face."
"I asked the girl. The fire in her eyes spoke her truth."
"But …" A sliver of fear jabs at my heart. The remedy no longer protects. "But how can this be? When your people discovered the remedy all those years ago, bringing it here was the reason you survived. You said my settlement using it unknowing is the reason we survived."
"That is what happened."
"Then how—?"
Matisa shakes her head and is quiet for a long moment.
"My dream last night," she says finally. Her voice is halting, like she's trying to figure her words as she says them. "I am in the woods on my hands and knees, searching for something, as before. I come upon a great fire of the remedy plants. They all burn until they are ash." She closes her eyes. "And then I am buried in the dirt near your settlement." I draw in a breath. It's like my dreams. "The feeling I have, when I am buried …"
"What?"
Her eyes open and find mine. "It is one of peace."
I chew on my lip. "It doesn't mean what you think." But my voice quavers. Been worried for weeks that my dreams foretell Matisa's death.
She offers me a faint smile.
I take her hand and grip it tight. "We'll figure it," I say, fierce.
She nods, untangles her fingers from mine, and starts down the mountain.
I follow her home, to our beds.
But I know she won't sleep tonight.
The dead in the river sing out. I turn my head to look at the shining waters, where the sun is glinting so bright, it near blinds me. I want to hush them, want to clap my hands to my ears, block out their song, but I can't move.
The fortification walls cast long shadows on the Watch flats where I stand. I see the figure lying in the dirt.
It's Matisa, her skin mottled and bruised, swollen with blood.
In her hand she holds the remedy plant. She crushes it, letting the dust drift from her slack fingers.
I fall beside her and dig, pulling up handfuls of soil and pressing them to her, covering her in earth.
A rush of hoofbeats comes. Gunfire. Horses. Screaming.
The voices of the dead call out.
Make peace with it.
The morning light peeks through the window in the wall above me, and dust dances in a long line, streaming to the wood floor. I push the soft bison blanket down and sit up on my bed. I know without looking that Matisa's bed is empty: I'm alone.
That dream leaves a chill of unease on my skin each time, but this morning it coats me in dread.
I pull on my moccasins and dress quick in the sleeping space Matisa and I share. Our beds sit opposite one another, and an unlit, strange-looking hearth sits at the far end of the room. Its chimney is a long cylinder, and the fire is contained in a metal box shut behind a small, heavy door.
Matisa was raised here in the healer's lodge, away from her family. New members of the circle are chosen as children, and an elder healer raises each child selected. Sokayawin, both a healer and Matisa's aunt, raised Matisa. Oftentimes the new members are family, since ties of blood ensure loyalty, but being chosen so young to such an honor pretty well guarantees loyalty, as well. Everyone protects their vow fierce.
Everyone except Matisa.
She told me about the remedy when we left my settlement. She knew I wouldn't leave without being reassured my people weren't at risk from the Bleed, and she believed we had to stay together. By then, she'd already disobeyed the circle by searching for me. They didn't share her dreams, so she left of her own accord, which was rebellious but not unlike her. Even as a child she'd tested the circle's patience: asking questions about every little thing, wandering off to think on the answers, and skipping her chores.
Sokayawin loves Matisa dearly, so she tolerates her willfulness. It's clear Matisa's always had her own mind. Even if that means risking people's favor.
And mayhap that's why I feel a kinship with her, why we're so connected.
I find her sitting outside, facing the river. I've slept long; the sun is already visible over the far peaks.
I stand before her, my shadow casting her in shade.
"You told the circle about the girl?" I ask.
She raises her eyes and nods. "Meyoni will conduct a quick burial. It is not proper, but it is the way of things now." The circle is sacred, so they oversee such things as sending people to their Peace. Matisa told me there used to be rituals that lasted days; lately there've been too many deaths for that.
"But what did they say about the remedy?"
She shakes her head and stands. "Sokayawin was not in the hall, and I want to tell her first." I raise my eyebrows; it's custom that the circle speaks on important things all together. "And I would like you to come with me." She starts walking.
We're halfway through the village when Tom and Eisu approach. The boys are walking close together, and Tom's wheat-blond head is bent toward Eisu's chatter. Eisu's long, dark hair is pulled back, away from his handsome face, and he's gesturing with something in his hands.
They don't notice us until we're near right on top of them.
"Eisu's showing me a spot in the lake where you can catch bull trout," Tom says in a rush, before I can ask where they're headed.
I raise my eyebrows, and his cheeks pink.
"Make sure you show him how not to lose his line to the trees on the far side," Matisa says. "If you know how to do that?" She's teasing.
Eisu's mouth pulls up in a smile. "His aim is perfect," he remarks. "He won't lose his line." Tom ducks his head, pleased.
Matisa rolls her eyes. "Go before the day gets hot." We watch them pass, and once their backs are turned, she shares a knowing look with me. I wait until I'm sure they're out of earshot. "Do you think Eisu … ?"
Matisa has a gleam in her eyes. "I have never known him to share his secret fishing spot."
We find Sokayawin checking the vine tripods in the gardens, a short distance into the fields. The farmlands stretch out lush behind her, stalks and vines heavy with all manner of vegetables. Matisa says this valley is special, that most soil in the mountains would not grow such things. Here, though, the summers are longer and the winterkill not so deadly. Animals journey to this place for shelter during the harshest months of La Prise.
Matisa's people once roamed the prairies, following the great herds and gathering sustenance from the forests and grasslands. When they united with groups to the south and moved here, their manner of living changed. They shared ideas, found new ways of existing. Lots of the plants they grow I've never seen before, and their tools are also new to me. At my settlement, we hauled buckets from the river to water our meager gardens. Here, the water is drawn up from the river by a kind of wheel and brought through a series of ditches to feed the thirsty plants. And they have a couple of strange plowing carts for when they plant and harvest—like the ones we saw in Genya's village. They have tools to sort seeds from dirt and debris, and a building where they gather the crops and clean them for their food storages. Some of these tools run on their own, powered by the river, or, as Matisa tried to explain to me, by water becoming air.
The rhythmic clanking of those tools used to spark fear in me. Seemed too unnatural for them to be running without a hand to crank them or a beast to pull them, but over the weeks I've gotten used to the sound.
All their methods and ways of living are new to me. Different but good.
The gardens, glinting green and gold in the morning sun, stand in sharp contrast to my settlement's sparse harvest.
Sokayawin straightens when she sees us coming.
We cross through the soft soil, the heady scent of green leaves and dirt rising up. There are particular factions of Matisa's village whose tasks are planting, tending, and harvesting the gardens. Sokayawin is not one of them, but she loves to be out here anyway, fussing over the vegetables.
"The squash looks good," Matisa remarks—in English, for my benefit. "This spot was a good choice."
The old lady clucks her tongue in agreement. "It grows better now."
"You changed its planting place?" I ask.
"The soil tires after too much of one plant. They moved the squash from the west end of the gardens." Sokayawin takes a pinch of shredded root out of the pouch at her belt.
Matisa nods at the sprawling vines. "Soon you won't be able to contain it."
Sokayawin levels her a look. "I am used to that." Matisa pretends to study the vines. The old woman sighs. "But you are not here to discuss the squash." She places the shredded pinch in her mouth.
"Meyoni is overseeing the latest burial," Matisa says. "A girl my age."
Sokayawin is quiet, worrying the root with her teeth.
"She was taking the remedy."
Sokayawin's jaw stills. "You are certain?"
"I am."
The old woman holds Matisa's gaze a long while. She looks at me, like she's deciding something. Finally she gestures toward the lake. "Let us sit."