“Your mother’s bow,” Gatha says gently, as if the weapon were not as recognizable to me as my own skin. “She fought bravely. Took at least three Amparan soldiers with her.” This is Gatha’s way of telling me what I’d been too afraid to ask. My hands shake when I take the bow—the wood is worn smooth where my mother held it.

When my father died eight years ago, my mother didn’t let me cry. Instead, she’d strapped my father’s dagger around my waist and pulled the belt tight. If you love him, Dineas, avenge him. It was what she’d said then, and what she’d want me to do now. Still, my eyes burn and I turn away. The weight continues to press on my chest.

Gatha’s voice is gruff. “I won’t lie to you, Dineas. Things have not gotten any easier. The soldiers continue to hunt us. They strike at us from their bases in the valley villages.”

I brush the dust off my arms. “Cowards.” The villagers have always traded their self-respect for safety, and their cooperation makes it that much easier for Ampara’s armies to fight us.

“Maybe, but there may come a time when we need each other. Ampara doesn’t stop until it drains you dry. The Dara are starting to realize this.”

These are words I’d never expected from Gatha. “Have you been talking to them?”

“A bit.” Gatha doesn’t elaborate.

We’re facing desperate times indeed, if Gatha’s thinking of allying with the villagers. But still, how helpful could they be? “They’re not warriors. They’d be destroyed in a fight.” Ampara forbade them to bear arms when they surrendered, and like sheep, they obeyed.

“Maybe,” says Gatha. “But they have strengths and skills that we don’t.”

I look back toward the campfire. A boy and girl of eight or nine have started an impromptu grappling match, and people gather around to cheer them on and give advice.

“You’re heavier, boy. Push your advantage!” one man shouts as a woman tells the fighters to guard their faces.

Suddenly, a cheer erupts. I crane my head to see around the crowd. The girl has her arm snaked around the boy’s neck from behind, and after a moment he taps his defeat. Onlookers congratulate the victor and give advice to the loser.

In the aftermath of the contest, I make my way back to the campfire and settle down. It’s not long before Tus, the man who’d teased me about being kicked out of Zenagua’s underworld, comes to my side.

“Gatha told you?” he says.

He means my mother. I nod, my throat constricting, and keep my eyes on the flames.

Tus lets out a long breath. “We’re never really orphans in this tribe,” he says. “Shidadi blood runs deep.”