I was fairly sure the Weir’s name was Zaran, but all I knew for sure was if he taught Zimora to fight, you should fear him. He whirled so quickly I couldn’t quite trace what he was doing. His staff landed in Ordin’s stomach and then whacked into Diamus’s head, he kicked Thomas and tripped him just in time to whirl and snap the staff into Yennis. They had all rushed him at once, they weren’t taking turns. Four on one and they were down in seconds. The Weir had just laughed, and then made him do the same with three of the older apprentices, ones that were supposed to become warriors at the festival come spring. No one landed a blow. Anyone who hadn’t seen Zimora pitted against everyone had heard about the results.

I tried not to stare, as I always did. He stayed on my mind, as one does when they saved your life six years ago and hadn’t spoken to you since. My fixation with him couldn’t yield anything, but it stayed. He lived in my brain, and I wondered what happened in his. What he thought. Why he did it, that day six years ago, when he took me from that train that stayed in my dreams. If I regretted that he did. I watched him, on the rare occasions the Weir brought him down into the village. He never even looked at me. There weren’t many people I could ask questions to. I’d tried asking Mirjam, and she’d just shook her head. I supposed it didn’t matter now.

The Weir’s job was to be a bridge, a layer of insulation between the village and the world that would allow the majority of the town to stay isolated without being unprotected in their ignorance. His business was to know the region. He was master of foreign policy, and no decisions concerning it were made without him—or that was how it was supposed to be. He was also something like a sheriff, enforcing the charter and making judgments when something went amiss—judge, jury, and executioner.

Instead of speaking reason into the situation, the Weir gestured with crass apathy. “What is to me, how many women he fucks?”

Michaelis was silent, his eyes like a thundercloud. Kholtan glowered. The Weir offered nothing further.

I shut my eyes and exhaled, desiring to punch something. And then Ru’our, of all things, began running his damn mouth.

“We are entering the future!” Elder Kholtan declared firmly, his public persona swinging into full action. “We are no longer a village that dies of starvation, exposure, and plagues! We are the beginning of a new generation, one that flourishes, one that becomes powerful, one that brandishes burnished iron and towers over its neighbors as a leader! Our period of isolation, of purgatory, of waiting with nothing more to offer the world, unable to do anything in it or about it, is over! We are a village of warriors! Let us raise high Elder Callomen and Elder Peters, who slaughtered those who invaded village territory!” I didn’t remember that particular occasion because it had happened over six years ago, but I distinctly remembered it being talked of as the destruction of some poor Kyjan migrants who didn’t join the village because they didn’t know the Northern language. “Let us raise high Master Byron, who killed eleven men to defend our village from the southern enemies! Let us lift high our Elders Viratt and Hochwallen, who mounted the heads of encroaching slavers in our square! Let us raise a glass to Head Elder Wainwyre and his father before him, who have strengthened us and lead us to this point! We will take what we want from the world! Let our new era begin!”

The village roared a wild cheer.

“I bring a gift!” Ru’our announced loudly, and the village quieted quickly to loud whispers and murmurs. Gasps filled the meeting hall again as the serving boys came forward with thirteen neatly-folded outfits, one for each member of the council including him—which was excess, because he was already wearing a purple silk tunic and robe to stand before us. With long, gathered, billowing silk robes and serving boys to help strip away their yarn-embroidered, fur-decorated woolen-and-skin ones, he dressed them all like himself. The elder’s robes were supposed to be traditional—every warrior sacrificed an animal from the woods for good fortune upon his graduation, and that skin and antlers or horns or teeth would become his ceremonial attire to ward off the Misfortunes. Wainwyre’s new robes were gold and everyone else’s were orange, but the ones Kholtan brought for himself were a deep, emerald green. Two serving boys helped him dress instead of one, and he wasn’t attempting to help them like most of the elders were.

The town became rather quiet, hushed with admiration, their elders looking… I don’t know, I supposed it looked dignified, their sun-tanned faces set above their neatly embroidered collars, like heads on pedestals. Dignified or… Expensive. Indebted. Fragile. I didn’t really care, but I liked my wool-felted shirt even though it wasn’t the dead of winter today.

The boys were lighting incense, the amazing, cloying smell starting to drift to the back of the room on the breeze. I didn’t notice the smell of body odor until the two of them mixed. I folded my hands, they were dirty. We were all dirty, no one wore shoes while the ground wasn’t frozen, no one wanted to wear them out when they’d need to be as intact as possible for winter. Our clothes were full of patches, and everyone was smiling.

Serving boys rolled in barrels of drink, sloshing as they came up the aisle Aralise Kholtan had walked through. They stood one up, opened it quickly, and dipped in a heretofore unseen crystal goblet into the barrel of drink. He handed it to Kholtan, and then drew another one and offered it to his new wife, who took it carefully. There was a red mark on her wrist.

“Let us raise a glass high!” Ru’our pronounced.

And then a roar started up, echoing through the meeting hall, cheering for the elders. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” Everyone was drinking and laughing, even Yanja had a little red wine poured into her wooden cup by a server, who sloshed some of it onto their family’s picnic blanket. Olivine laughed in wonder, her eyes bright beneath the patched scarf on her head, and raised her glass, knocking half of it back in one shot. The server refilled it immediately, then turned to the family next to theirs.

That much wine would last weeks if everyone wasn’t getting drunk on it. The village never used to do things like this before Ru’our got here. They started serving cake from somewhere. The village began their picnic, but I found myself leaving the meeting hall with my back bothering me, tired.

Tired beyond tired. I need to leave. I’m not doing this.