I stayed back. “I left the settlers.”

“You’re silver! You’re a settler!”

“I am alone.”

“I’m not for sale, settler!”

Fear poured off vim in waves. Ve was petrified, shaking, a heartbeat away from violence. I shaped vim. I did. I saw no way out but to do it, to manipulate this terrified child using magic ve did not understand. I shaped vim with a song, a Droma song, about birds.

Ve lowered vis stick and frowned. “That one wasn’t Hradata. Who are you? Where are you from? How do you know Droma?”

“My name is Ariah. I’m from the west. I know Droma because I listened to ones who were sold.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Not much,” I said. “Surviving. I ran from the settlers.”

“You’re just out here by yourself?”

“Yes.”

The child chewed vis lip. “You need a clan, settler.”

“I had one. The Qin took me away from them.”

Ve sighed. Ve plucked at vis hair and poked at the goats with vis stick. “You need a clan,” ve said again. Ve left; the grass swallowed vim and the goats back up, and I was alone again.

I caught more fish and made more improvements to my shelter. Three days later, on an unseasonably warm day, the Droma child returned again. I was naked and perched on a rock, washing out my one set of clothes. Once again, I’d been singing. I felt vis presence—it was a gentle tug, like a string wrapped around my wrist—and stood up. I looked around but saw nothing but grass. “Are you out there? Are you back?”

I frowned at my naked body and my wet clothes. I had nothing to cover myself with but the remnants of the sack I’d used to steal cheese some four months before, which I used as a paltry blanket at night. I wrapped it around my hips and stared at the grass. I felt the tug again, this time south of me. “Do you want some fish?” I called out.

The grass swayed. A dark-brown hand pushed a clump aside. The Droma child stepped out, followed by a person about my age. The little goatherd watched me with furrowed brows, but the one ve’d brought with vim regarded me with the hint of a smile. Ve had a knife strapped to vis belt. “A settler with no town,” the older one said.

“My name is Ariah. I have no more love for the towns that you do. I’m unarmed.”

“How is it you speak Droma so well?”

“Magic,” I said.

“Are you an echo, settler?”

The sackcloth threatened to fall to the ground and leave me wholly exposed. I wrestled it back in place. The Droma laughed at me, and I smiled in return. A little of the tension in the air cleared. “I don’t know what that is.”