Not far away, Manig Tomanyi was stewing glue from the deer she and Mariya had killed.

“It was just a warning kick. If that bad-tempered beast had meant to cripple him, he’d have done so. Here, little one, come try this now.”

She set down her burden. Grasping the wood at the center, she set one tip on the ground and leaned into it as the old man examined the way the lower limb bent.

“Would you take off more wood?” he asked her.

She flipped the bow and leaned on the other end. “This end is stiffer. Who is the bow for?”

“Asya is ready for a bow with more draw. That one there—” He pointed toward a composite bow braced into shape and curing.

“Yes, I know,” she said with a laugh. “Mine will be ready in a few months.”

He smiled. “A good bow demands patience.”

“Let me get this to the churn and I’ll come back,” she said to the old man, handing back the stave.

Little Danya was twisting the rope that turned the drill, and Feder the Cripple bent over the wood he was shaping into a bowl, whistling in time to the rhythmic whoosh whoosh of the turning. He could sing, too, and his ancient winged kur with its horse head, stylized wings along the neck, and two strings sat in its place of honor in the small wheeled cart on which he got around. He had been a fighter before the incident that had crippled him; his saber rode in a sling alongside the precious kur.

He didn’t look up as she passed. He didn’t need to. “Ei, ei, Kiri! Here’s a tune for you today. I can hear it coming out of your ears!” He swung into a new tune. With a smirk far too knowing for her tender age, Danya altered the pace of her twisting to match the words. “ ‘Who is that handsome youth walking through camp? His sister is looking at me, but he pretends not to see me.’ ”

Her ears burned.

Orphan was scraping the last hide, stripped to the waist, skin gleaming. He was a very good-looking youth, a few years older than Kirya and Mariya, but of course to even think of an orphaned lad who did servant’s work was impossible.

“ ‘Why is that handsome youth hanging around camp? His sister brings cheese and boiled meat, but he pretends not to see me.’ ”

Orphan had showed up at the edge of camp about two years ago, silent and empty-handed, and at first they hadn’t been sure if he was a demon because although he was black-haired and dark-complexioned like Mari, he had twisty eyes, pulled at the ends as though drawn like a bow, a sure sign of demon blood. But he spoke their language in the same way they did, and he asked what work he could do in exchange for a bit of food and worked so hard day after day and month after month that eventually they simply accepted that he belonged to them now. After all, what other tribe was desperate enough to take in an orphan?