It was hopeless. All she had done was give the village back its dead, to bury or burn, whatever they did with bodies. Scant comfort, and what they needed was water, clean water … again tears came to her eyes, a misery so great she could not hold back her sobs. Her family legacy: poisoned traps, a painting that bled in a frame of bones, a ruined well, dry filth where once there had been clean water. The tears ran down her face, dripped onto the rock, formed a runnel that trickled into the cleft … and spread, a thin film that thickened, widened … Dorrin stared, her tears drying, as the water rose, first just wetting the stone, then deeper, deeper. It touched her boots; she put out her hand … it moved, rich with life and health, wetting her palm, rising around her hand.

Drink. She obeyed, cupping a handful of water and sipping cautiously. Clean, cold, teeth-aching cold … she clutched the bundle of bones and stood.

“Thank you,” she said aloud. “Falk’s grace, Alyanya’s bounty—”

The surface of the water rippled and it rose even faster. Dorrin retreated up the uneven rock surface; it was a hand deep now at the cleft, lapping at her boot where she stood. She reached for the rope, but before she touched it, the water surged up, lifting her with it so fast that all she could do was try to hold the bundle of bones out of it. She was halfway up when she realized how this was going to look—the first female duke in generations, rising out of a well sopping wet and half-naked—but had no time to do more than start a chuckle before she was once more at ground level.

The villagers and her escort had come closer with every successful lift of a rock; her escort had the presence of mind to throw her cloak around her. Dorrin handed the bundle to Sennet.

“These are the bones of the woman and child,” she said.

He looked down; none of the villagers was looking at her. “My lord …” he said in a choked voice.

“Your well once more gives water,” Dorrin said. “By the grace of the gods.”

They all fell on their knees, still staring at the ground. A whiff of roasting mutton came from the village clearing. One of her escort had taken off his own shirt and offered it to her. Dorrin shrugged into the sweaty shirt, put her formal armor back on. No one had moved. This was ridiculous …

“There’s a sheep on the fire,” Dorrin said. “Weren’t we supposed to have a feast to celebrate my birthday?”

Sennet looked up cautiously. “Yes, my lord, but—”

“I know I have brought you three of your own to lay to rest, but can the feast still go on? It would be a shame to waste the sheep.”

Dorrin could not read all the emotions that ran across his face; he still held the bundle of bones.