A vulture perched on the ground, staring at a stubborn knot of mist pooled within another of the sinks where spring’s rains had collected and slowly were drying out. A second landed a short distance from the first. Both fixed their gaze on that insubstantial clot.

At first she thought it might be an animal, shifting as it struggled. But it was not. The misty silver substance was cloth so fine it appeared as light as air, and rippled in the wind that blew out of the east. She crept closer, pausing at intervals to scan the horizon and the heavens for threat. The vultures, seeing her, kept their distance. She kept her bow held ready, arrow taut against the string. Grass crackled under her steps, but as she moved into the sink the crackling faded to a softer sound where the grass had enough moisture to bend without breaking. At a stone’s throw out, she halted.

It was cloth of a fine silken weave, precious fabric trapped by a weight wrapped within it. A body, but whether living or dead Kirya was not sure. By the behavior of the vultures, they were unsure as well, and she trusted them to know better than she the presence of the breath of life in any creature left lying on earth. Demons haunted the shadows that bridged the gap between the living and the dead; it was dangerous to pass too close to the edge.

But such fabric, shimmering and rich, was worth the risk. Anyone must fear demons; it was only prudent, especially here so close to the eastern drylands where demons haunted the night, and where their more human enemies, the dreaded Qin, hunted in summer and autumn. But the daughter of a poor tribe must brave dangers that would chase away the less desperate daughter of a more prosperous tribe.

She slipped the arrow into the quiver and unhooked her mirror. The reflection showed her nothing different than what she saw with her eyes. She drew her knife. With her bow in her bracing hand and the knife in her strong hand, she approached. She hesitated a body’s length from the body, seeing coarse black hair fluttering at one end and the fabric twisted so tightly around the rest that only a single bare foot could be seen. Brown-skinned. This was no tribal woman, but a stranger.

The vultures watched as she knelt beside the body. The unstained heavens cast no cloud shadow. Perhaps this was a demon pretending to be a dead woman, hoping to snare her. Perhaps the vultures were its cousins, in bird form, luring her in.

Her iron knife, blessed by a Singer, would protect her.

She studied the wrapped body, the layers of finely woven cloth. Its color was magnificently subtle, more silver than gray, shot through with the delicate light that is mist rising off the earth at dawn. She touched the cloth with the blade.

Death can overtake life between one breath and the next. A man may blink, and find a sword in his gut. The deer may leap, and be dead before it falls.