“The fire will dry out your clothes,” he said. “Not that you can precisely catch your death and die of a fever,” he added as she turned her mirror to catch the flames in its reflection.

Moisture rose like mist from her clothes. “Could you see what the mirror forced me to remember?”

“No. Guardians are veiled each to the other.”

She looked up sharply. “Tell me the truth, Uncle. Am I still a slave?”

He studied the half-finished carving he held in his right hand, a sinuous otter with laughter carved into its curves. “Now, there is an interesting question. What is a Guardian, if we were formed by the gods to serve the land?”

“Why should I be forced to serve your land?”

“Why were you chosen? There is a question I cannot guess at, unless you tell me your tale.”

She said, to the fire, “There are men not so very far from here, building a compound. Did you see them?”

“I saw them. They don’t know we are here. In any case it’s unlikely they can climb to an altar even if they would be bold enough to break the boundaries of what is forbidden.”

“There are eagles, too. Huge eagles.”

“Yes. I’ve seen them. The eagles will ignore us, but their reeves might spot us. It would be prudent to move on.”

“Some of the men there are Qin. I recognize them.”

“The Qin are outlanders, pasture-dwellers like the lendings here in the Hundred, only unlike the lendings the Qin look perfectly human to me. What do you know of the Qin?”

“They are my enemies. They call my people demons. But that’s not what I mean. I mean, I know those particular Qin. Because I traveled with them.”

“You’ve surprised me!” He set down the half-carved otter and picked up his staff, resting it on his thighs. The wood was as smooth as silk under his hands from untold years of handling. “When did you travel with them?”

Addressing the restless flames, she began to talk. “One never knows the gifts a stranger brings. My cousin Mariya and I were out hunting. She showed me the gift a lad from another tribe—a lover—had given her, even though he ought not have done so. It was bold of him, not proper. Little nets woven with lapis lazuli, very pretty, to bind the ends of your braids. . . .”

A STORM PASSED, and night fell with sheets of rain as she talked. Later, the clouds parted, and the Embers Moon rose late, a stroke against the sky.

“. . . MASTER GIRISH WAS dead. They knew I killed him. When a slave kills a master, then the slave must die.”

“So you drank the rest of the poison.”

“I drank the poison.” It was remarkable how calm she sounded, but her hands were wrapped tightly over the mirror, hiding her reflection.

“Is that when you died?”

She blinked. “I died when I walked into demon land.”