Our men were our lords. They slept on the softest sleeping mats in the choicest places near the fire; the finest goat hair and wool went into coats and trousers for them; and they had first choice of all our food. Our men, though Quelled, were still called men, but we, being both Quelled and female, were not called women. We were called harsha, a name made up from the old Quelled words for oppression and earth. Only females of the Chosen were called women, and it was a term of respect. I dreamed sometimes that a man, faceless and tall and with a tender voice, did call me woman. It was my finest, maddest dream.

After the men had eaten, my mother and I ate what was left. My father always left the choicest bits for my mother, but my brothers were not so kind to me. I think they were jealous of me because I was my father’s only daughter and, though I grieved and worried him, he favoured me. My brothers all were older than I, except Mishal.

After the meal I collected some water from the trough outside, heated it over the fire, and washed our bowls. My brothers spread their sleeping mats on the earthen floor and started playing a game with bone dice Mishal played with them, though he did not fully understand the rules and howled when he lost.

I finished washing the bowls, then pulled on my heavy hooded cloak. “I will go and see Lesharo for a while,” I said.

“Don’t be long,” said my mother, with a gentle look. “You’ll need a good sleep tonight, Elsha, and all the energy you have for tomorrow.”

3

My Calling

LESHARO’S TENT was not far from ours. Sometimes at night, if the camp was quiet and the wind was right, I could hear him play his pipes.

Shivering in the frosty air, I stood outside the skins of his dwelling and called his name. The tent entrance was flung aside and he stood there, smiling, welcoming, his blind eye a black pool in his shadowed face.

“Welcome, she who is called Elsha,” he said, with his quiet laugh, and he put his hand behind my neck and kissed my cheek. His face was warm from the fire, and his hand behind my hood was steady and strong. Always I had loved that strength in him, that silent energy. He laughed often, and I had never seen anger in him. It was his joy, I think, that was his strength. It was like an endless spring in him, finding expression in his music, his voice, his smile, his gentle ways.

All his family had been killed years before in an explosion in the mine, and I marvelled that even that had not destroyed his spirit. He was a man apart, a lord among the Quelled. It was Lesharo who was called if there were difficulties or accidents in the mine. He had an amazing way with people, of dispelling discord and fear.