“You are my dearest friend,” I said, kissing his cheek again. “You are all my joy, Lesharo.” An emotion I had not seen before crossed his features. We did not move, but his warmth flooded all my soul and blotted out the world.

“Go home, lionheart,” he said hoarsely, bending his forehead to mine, and stroking my hair. “Go home. Your mother will be waiting for you.”

“I’d rather stay here awhile,” I whispered.

He moved away, and threw unnecessary firestones on the fire. “The whole camp is asleep,” he said. “Take your woman-stone, and go. I’ll find you in the mine in the morning, and help you all I can.”

I tucked the woman-stone inside my dress. My rope belt would stop it falling through. Then I pulled my thick hood over my head, and went to the tent entrance. He came with me, and we stood for a while in the bitter smoky air, looking out across the camp towards the mountains. We did not have seasons in those days, and it was always winter. At that time there was no snow, and the bare brown rocks of the mountain ravines and peaks were savage and bleak.

Lesharo and I saw nothing of the wild heights as we stood there that night; we could see only the dim glow of fires within the tents of the Quelled, the lightless black of the valley beyond, and then, scattered on the nearest mountain slope, the mansions of the Chosen. They were preparing for their pilgrimage to the festival. We saw their torches as they rushed to and fro, loading up their donkeys and carts in readiness. Torchlight leapt along the narrow winding mountain paths between their houses, and crawled along stairs cut deep into the rock. It gleamed on painted doorways and gold-tipped towers, and on high, ancient stone walls. Most of the Chosen had already gone, and these last were the families of the mine overseers.

“They’ll all be gone tomorrow,” Lesharo said. “Only ten Chosen left in all of Siranjaro to oversee the mine.”

“A fine time to revolt,” said I.

I heard his sharp intake of breath, and felt his body go tense. We were standing close for warmth, and his arm was around my waist. He withdrew his arm, and stood in front of me and took my face in his hands.

“I never heard those words,” he said gravely. “For lesser words than those I have seen men have their tongues torn out.”

“I’m not a man,” I said. “I am a woman.”

“You are harsha,” he said. “A harsha with a lion’s heart, and a spirit that frightens me — a harsha whom I love. Now go.” He kissed me on the mouth quickly, and pushed me away.

I ran all the way to my father’s tent, stumbling and laughing in the dark, singing inside for joy, for that first kiss on my mouth, for the music, and for the woman-stone I loved.

I had no idea what hour I awoke. I rolled out of my sleeping mat, careful not to disturb my mother next to me, and threw several handfuls of firestones onto the embers of last night’s fire. I put a bowl of water in the glowing ashes, and hoped it would soon warm. I had no time to eat, of that I was certain, but I needed a hot drink before the long day’s labour. We slept in our clothes, so there was no need to dress. But I pulled on my wool-lined boots and my heavy cloak.