He led them into the woods until he was certain they were deep enough they’d not be stumbled on, and overheard. Stopped, he had them introduce themselves so they weren’t entirely strangers any more.

The oldest of them was Phryn of Tanny hamlet, on the eastern edge of the Black Woods. Bushy grey eyebrows pulled low, he worried the wattles on his neck.

“So, Jervale. What is it you want to say?”

Bannet gave him a small, encouraging nod. Warmed by it, Jervale cleared his throat. “First of all, I want to know if you believe the things I said in the hall last night.”

“Say we do,” said Neese of Dellin, once she and old Phryn and the others finished exchanging cautious glances. “So what?”

“You want us to chime our elders to say we were wrong, the Doranen should be sent back over the mountains?”

And that was sharp-faced Boyde from Jerring village.

Jervale pulled a face at him. “No. Truth is, like I said, Barl Lindin’s magework will save us from drought and famine and worse.”

“Then what are we doing here?” said Eryn of Sapslo, sounding plaintive.

“We’re here ’cause there’s another truth,” he said gently. Was she too young for this? He feared so, but had to follow his dream’s prompting. “There’ll come a day when the Doranen are helpless… and then it’s an Olken as will save Lur.”

Comfortably middle-aged Emmie from Hoyne, near the Flatlands, made a disbelieving sound. “Helpless? How could these Doranen ever be helpless?”

“They’re flesh and blood,” said Bannet. “They make mistakes. Had to run, didn’t they?”

Old Phryn snorted. “Pity they had to run here.”

“Not if they save us from the drought, it’s not,” Emmie muttered. “There’s nine dead of it already, in Hoyne, and a score of others mortal sickly.”

“Last night, Jervale,” said Boyde, before a brangle could start, “you were hard set against us giving up our singing. But what can we do if the Doranen want to magic it away?”

“That’s a fair question,” said Bannet, as the others shared dismayed looks. “Ain’t none of us strong enough to stand against those mages. And I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“I might have an answer to that,” Emmie said slowly. “Born on the coast, I was. Bibford. Lived there half my life. Every season the fisherfolk gather to sing the sea. It’s a powerful song, and when you sing it with so many folk, you can get into strife. There’s a herbery most everyone drinks. Keeps the singing from sinking into you, doing all kinds of nasty mischief. Could be there’s a way to make it even stronger. Strong enough to fuddle a Doranen mage. I’m a herbery woman. I know about these things.”