“You’ve saved my life.” He carried song cloth from the ancestors, a library from the floating cities, and conjure scrolls from around the Golden Gulf. This girl-woman who knew the language of bees, rivers, horses, and dirt might actually be able to bear the weight. He squeezed her shoulder. “What do they call you?”

“Awa. And what shall I call you besides the Master of Poisons?”

“My name is lost. I’m only what I do. You’re bold, naming soldier horses Fannie.” He chuckled. “Call me whatever you like.”

Awa sputtered at him.

“Crow distance?” He nodded. “And shade sentinels. Sound reasoning. We’ll rest here before heading on to Arkhys City.” He swung a leg over Awa’s head and dismounted.

Startled, Awa slid from the wet horse onto slippery ground. Her battered leg crumpled. She clutched Fannie’s bushy red tail and leaned against sturdy haunches. “You’re strong and brave.” She stroked the exhausted horse.

“So are you.” He pulled bandages and healing herbs from his bag. “May I?”

Awa stared at him wide-eyed. “I’m filthy.”

He pointed at water gushing from a hole in the trunk-tower.

Awa took off bracelets and a snake-head necklace. She undid her belt and Aido bag, wincing as her tunic got tangled. “I can’t manage the rest. My bad arm is caught.”

He pulled his diamond-tipped blade and sliced the shoulders of the filthy green shift. It landed in a heap at her feet. Skin hung from her bones; her breasts were as flat as a child’s. She thrust the Aido bag at him and closed her eyes, shuddering, yet trusting him. Unlike good citizens, Green Elders saw no shame in naked bodies. In Holy City, acolytes and priests abused transgressors regularly. What torment had she survived? Avoiding rage, he removed the mesh glove from his right hand and drew her under the warm, fragrant water. The bees flew back to the hive, and Awa sighed as filth and crusted blood washed away. He stuck his head in the spicy wetness too.

“You crack my heart.” His voice was rough. “I … I feel you.”

“High praise,” she replied. “I feel you too.”

“For hunger cramps.” He made her drink an herb potion then drizzled a healing salve onto her festering arm and leg. She flinched but tolerated cloud-silk and silver-mesh bandages. He pulled a black robe and pants from his bag, smooth outside, furry inside, what Vandana wore for mountain travel. “A Mama Zamba cloak.” He cut a foot from the hem using the thin blade.

“A Green Elder knife.” She struggled into the pants. “This can slice rock.”

“The Lahesh first crafted such knives.” He slipped the robe over her head; it caressed her ankles—a perfect length. “Better?” he asked.

“Hmm.” She hugged the robe close with her good arm as he cinched the waist with her belt and Aido bag.

“Shadow-warrior’s cloth.” He touched the bag. “A gift from your Bal?”