The Falcon in the Barn (Book 4 Forest at the Edge series) Read online

Days went by, as did weeks, and moons, and even a season and a half. By the middle of Raining Season, Edgers were like an old house dog: fattening, happy, and settling in comfortably for the snows. The village was rebuilt, cellars were filled, the taxation had been paid in full, and there was no evidence of the land tremor anywhere.

  All of which struck Jaytsy as wholly unfair.

  Because nothing was better at the Shins.

  There had been signs of improvement, for three or four days at a time, when Perrin would sleep relatively soundly, smile on the second day, maybe even chuckle on the third, then go rampaging again on the fourth. By the beginning of Harvest Season, Jaytsy was giving up hope that the pattern would ever improve permanently, until the taxation came.

  For a couple of weeks Colonel Shin became a constant presence in the village, riding a horse to every farm and ranch and large garden pretending to supervise the collection for Iris’s demands, and spending a great deal of time in the sunshine. He rarely left his horse of the day, however, allowing that distance between him and Edgers to keep them from interacting, while Shem was the soldier to cheerfully thank the villagers, slap them on the back, praise their efforts, and gently remind them of deadlines.

  Still, when Shem decided to schedule the Strongest Soldier Race for the same weekend as the taxation—probably because he hadn’t seen Perrin such a good mood for so long—Jaytsy began to believe the nightmares were maybe finally over. Even though Perrin lost the race by several minutes—likely because he hadn’t been running for such a long time, except to chase down an unsuspecting villager—he was grinning when he plodded in to the village green.

  And then the next week came the rains. Dark and cold and evil.

  And all progress, Jaytsy bitterly recalled, that her father and family had made was washed away like a child’s mud mountain.

  Now in the middle of Raining Season the world was perpetually gray, with bland snow and washed out skies and dirty farms.

  Feeling as dreary as the world outside, Jaytsy stared at the pages in her book—one that she had read half a dozen times already, about girls who were too easily offended and cried out, ‘Oh, the impertinence!’ far too often. She brooded like her father, never before realizing how long Raining Season could last.

  All around her was noise and even some laughter, but she didn’t notice. It was Game Day again, and Mr. Hegek had encouraged several families to join him and his wife and son in the training arena of the fort. Perrin used to head up these activities, and since the weather turned colder and the need arose again for families to gather inside, Mr. Hegek had been directing these weekly evenings of fun and frivolity with the soldiers.

  Such meaningless words.

  Colonel Shin stood in a corner, arms folded, stance ready, eyes casing everyone and everything.

  As Jaytsy stared beyond the pages of her book, she sighed in misery. She felt as disconnected from the world as her father. She had nothing in common with the girls at school, and her mother was so preoccupied with her husband’s moodiness that Jaytsy didn’t see any reason to bother her. Besides, Jaytsy had nothing to say to her. Or to her brother. But he was usually gone at kickball practice. Even when there wasn’t a practice, he still went to “practice,” and she wasn’t about to give away his secret.

  It was only on evenings like this that the whole family was together again, “together” being a relative term.

  Jaytsy peeked over the edge of her book and noticed Peto wrestling another unwitting soldier while others laughed at their companion’s failure.

  One happened to catch Jaytsy’s eye. She lowered the book and smiled experimentally at the private, but she knew what would happen. His eyes grew larger and he started to smile . . . until a sergeant leaned over and whispered something into his ear, and the private’s brown skin blanched.

  Jaytsy sighed. What those whispered messages were, she wasn’t sure, but she had a suspicion. And it wasn’t completely her father’s fault.

  It was Captain Thorne’s. He hadn’t just kept trying to find her during Planting and Weeding Season while she weeded; he kept tracking her down everywhere. In the marketplace, in the village, and most especially at the fort when she happened to bring her father a meal, or on evenings like this. A pair of eyes watched her closely, always where she least expected them, and suddenly there he’d be: Captain Lemuel Thorne.

  It happened already that evening. Her father took up his post as other families came in, her mother sat down to talk with Mrs. Hegek, Peto went in search of gullible soldiers leaving the mess hall, and Jaytsy headed to the guest washing room.

  He was standing outside the door when she came out.

  “Miss Jaytsy,” Captain Thorne nodded to her, taking a step closer. He had the unnerving habit of standing just a little too near.

  Jaytsy always felt slightly off balance when he was around. She had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she felt off because she actually was attracted to his clear blue eyes, his perfectly chiseled face, his muscular chest, his straw-colored hair . . .

  Nope. Not one bit.

  Men should be rugged and only a little bit handsome. Her father was almost too handsome. So was Uncle Shem. But Thorne? Men should never be beautiful. She always found herself taking a step backward, trying to get away from his scent. It was just too pleasant. Men should smell of dirt and sweat and if there was anything pleasant, it should be slightly sweet, as if they just snuck some cake and bits of crumbs remained on their chins. Men should smell like her father: earthy-sweet.

  That evening Thorne smelled as if he had rolled around in pine sap and violets. Likely something he brought with him from Idumea to splash on his face after he shaved each morning. It was all wrong.

  “Captain,” she said formally and tried to make her way past him.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said with an unnatural chuckle as he caught her arm. “Quite a lively filly you are tonight. Game night again?”

  “Yes. My father’s expecting me,” she said, hoping that might alarm him.

  “He won’t miss you for a few minutes,” he said confidently. “I haven’t had the chance to speak with you lately. You look well.”

  “Thank you. I really should go—”

  He firmed his grip on her arm. “I’d like to come talk to you some time. Some evening after dinner? Perhaps take a walk?”

  “In the cold and snow?”

  “We wouldn’t have to go far. I could find someplace for us to warm up.”

  It was his eyes, Jaytsy decided. They were clear and blue and beautiful and told lies left and right.

  “I’m not interested,” and she made another lunge to leave.

  Still he held on to her, taking yet another step closer. “You will be,” he said in a low voice he probably thought sounded seductive. It just made her break out in goose bumps—the bad kind. “You will be, very soon. I’m watching for that moment. It’ll be worth the wait, I’m sure.”

  “I have a book waiting for me, Captain,” she informed him.

  Half of his face smiled. “Studying for your End of Year exams already are you?”

  She latched on to that. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.”

  “Why? You know those tests are really only for the men. They let the girls take them just to make them feel part of something important. But you, Miss Jaytsy, as the wife of an officer, need only worry about looking pretty and producing a son or two.”

  Jaytsy clenched her teeth. She didn’t even know where to start stabbing with so many targets presented. She zeroed in on the most annoying one. “Captain, I’m not sure I will marry an officer. My tastes tend to—”

  “There’s no one else you could marry, Miss Jaytsy. And no other female worthy of a man like me.”

  He glanced quickly to either side—as did Jaytsy—and seeing no one around, he began to lean into her face.

  She ducked abruptly and pulled out of his grip. As he was about to kiss the wall, she was already running down the hal
l to the training arena.

  That’s where she ran smack into the back of her father.

  “Jaytsy!” he bellowed in surprise as he spun around. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing!” she said in a nervous laugh. “Just . . . racing myself to get here. Didn’t realize you’d be standing in the doorway.” She backed away from his inquisitive glare. “I’ll just go . . . sit down now. Over there.” She retreated to her usual bench with her usual book, and looked up at the door.

  Her father had walked away to talk to a soldier, and there stood Thorne again, his gaze intent on her. A moment later he sidled over to a group of soldiers.

  Jaytsy glanced at her mother, hoping maybe she noticed, but she didn’t. Neither did her father. But Thorne had stepped over to a sergeant who came to watch Peto’s wrestling matches, whispered something into his ear, then left. The sergeant glanced at Jaytsy, then began to watch the soldiers in the room.

  That’s why the soldier who smiled at her fifteen minutes later received a few words from the sergeant, then never looked her way again.

  “This is the worst Raining Season ever,” she told the book. It was a bad time to be nearly sixteen years old with vague dreams of meeting a young man with gentle eyes. He wouldn’t even be able to get within ten paces of Jaytsy before a falcon or a mountain lion would attack him.

  Struck with an idea, she slapped the book shut and edged over to her father.

  His brooding eyes evaluated her. “Something wrong?”

  “No, no, it’s just that I was, uh, the Briters. Do you mind if I go visit them? I had some ideas for . . . broccoli planting, and I wanted to get Mrs. Briter’s opinion. There’s something on the End of Year exams about farming, and I—” She wasn’t very good at lying, but fortunately her father hadn’t been very good at listening, either.

  He shrugged. “I’ll have the sergeant walk you over there.”

  Jaytsy knew better than to argue that she didn’t need a guard. Besides, it was rather dark and cold outside, and she didn’t want Captain Thorne suddenly deciding she needed warming up.

  Five minutes later she nodded goodbye to the sergeant and knocked on the Briters’ kitchen door. A moment later it opened and Mrs. Briter exclaimed, “Jaytsy! Oh, it’s been weeks—come in!”

  “Thank you,” she said as she stepped into the bright and warm kitchen. She sighed as the tension of the evening melted away like the snow on her boots.

  Mr. Briter was already pulling out a chair for her. “Miss Jaytsy, why are you out on such a night like this? Won’t your parents be worried?”

  “My father knows I’m here,” she told them as she unbuttoned her cloak. “I was at the fort for Game Night, but I told him I had an idea about broccoli plants and wanted to check it with you.”

  Mrs. Briter placed a mug of hot broth before her as she sat. “Interesting. And what’s your question, dear?”

  Jaytsy squirmed in her chair. “Uh, I really didn’t have a question about broccoli, except to wonder why people eat it.”

  To her relief, both Briters laughed. She joined in a moment later, not used to the sound.

  Sewzi Briter squeezed her hand. “Well, you come on over and chat about any vegetable you want, at any time. Ah, how I miss the garden on nights like this!”

  “I know,” Jaytsy said wistfully. “I never realized how fun it is to dig through the dirt finding potatoes, and realizing that just as you thought you were done, there’s another one hiding from you. Or pulling the corn from the stalks and banging them against my knee to see how many bugs fall out. Or the taste of a green bean, straight off the vine! I can’t believe I spent almost sixteen years of my life never knowing the wonders of plants—” She stopped, suddenly realizing she’d been rambling, and blushed at the Briters.

  But they just beamed back at her. “Oh, how I understand you, Miss Jaytsy,” Sewzi said. “You truly have brown fingers!”

  Jaytsy refrained from examining her stubby nails as she had several moons ago the first time Mrs. Briter told her that. She was now a proficient enough gardener to know that “brown fingers” was a compliment.

  Cambozola Briter elbowed his wife. “Now why didn’t we have a child like her?”

  Sewzi playfully slapped her husband.

  “I mean it,” Cambozola exclaimed. “But at least our son gets to be with his love all year long.”

  “His love?” Jaytsy asked.

  Cambozola leaned over. “Cattle. The boy’s obsessed with them. Oddest young man you’d ever meet.”

  Jaytsy giggled and Sewzi swatted her husband again. “Don’t listen to him, Jaytsy. He thinks our Deckett is a little crazy just because he appreciates cattle.”

  “Oh Sewzi, I appreciate cattle,” Cambozola said, his face becoming vibrant, and Jaytsy knew it would be another one of his overly energetic and lively discussions.

  No wonder he made Perrin Shin nervous.

  “But our Deckett? Sewzi, if he just appreciated cattle, that would be one thing. But what Deckett does . . .” and he made his eyes as big as the moons and fluttered his eyelashes.

  Jaytsy covered her laugh with her hand and Sewzi smacked him yet again, this time a bit harder. “Cambo, now, stop! Jaytsy, our son is a very smart, thoughtful young man. This is just what they do,” she glared at her husband. “In Mountseen they study cattle to improve production. Or something. That’s what a university is for, Cambo.” To Jaytsy she whispered, “They never would have let Mr. Briter in. They have standards, you know.”

  He scoffed over Jaytsy’s giggles. “I already know cows! But what those professors have those boys doing . . . Miss Jaytsy, they do talking and treats and music and massages—it’s only a matter of time before those cows agree to marry those boys.”

  Jaytsy laughed, easily and lightly, as Sewzi scooched her chair away from her husband.

  “Oh, honestly, Cambo. It’s nothing like that, Jaytsy. Deckett’s always had a very good sense for cattle, that’s all. Someday he’ll come visit us,” she promised, “and I’ll introduce you to him.” Her eyes lit up with too much planning.

  Jaytsy blushed. “Yes, well, we’ll see,” she said, worried that Deckett may be as loud and engaging as Cambozola. She liked the man, but in small doses. To keep from saying anything else, she sipped the marvelous vegetable broth and felt a warm Weeding Day slide down to her belly.

  Over her mug, Jaytsy noticed Mrs. Briter watching her closely. “Bad day?”

  Jaytsy shrugged. “Avoiding a certain captain.”

  “Ah,” Sewzi said. “The same one who frequently scoured our fields in Weeding Season looking for you? Rides a gray horse?”

  “The same,” Jaytsy sighed. “Was I relieved when the tomatoes grew tall enough to hide me.”

  Cambozola smiled mischievously. “So . . . not too interested in soldiers, then?”

  “I don’t know who I’ll be interested in,” Jaytsy said honestly and sipped more broth as Sewzi smacked her husband once more.

  “Hush, you! Don’t you go scaring off my best weeder.”

  Jaytsy grinned. “Would take a lot more than that to scare me off. This place . . . it’s like Paradise.”

  Sewzi squeezed her arm. “It’s Paradise when you come to visit us. I hope your father doesn’t mind?”

  “I convinced him moons ago that you aren’t really Guarders in disguise,” she assured them.

  “How’d you do that?” Cambozola wanted to know.

  Jaytsy squirmed. “Actually, he came to that conclusion himself. He said that you were—” she hesitated as she looked into the hopeful eyes of Mr. Briter, “—too loud and obvious to be a Guarder. Sorry.”

  His wife burst out laughing as Cambozola’s face twisted in dismay. “Too loud?! Obvious? Me!”

  Jaytsy shrugged in apology. “You make him nervous. You could take that as a compliment?”

  Cambozola’s dismay dissolved into despair as he watched his wife laughing.

  “I make him nervous?!”

  Sewzi wiped a
way a tear. “See? It wasn’t just people in Moorland! Ah, Jaytsy,” she said, “you come here whenever you want, on the pretense of sorting seeds—”

  “But we already did that,” Jaytsy reminded her.

  Sewzi blinked meaningfully. “My husband makes me nervous, and I drop the baskets. Frequently.”

  “Hey!” he protested, but Jaytsy grinned in understanding.

  “What about your brother? Does he have a place to go?” Sewzi asked.

  “To hide, you mean?” Jaytsy said with a sad scoff. “Yes, he does. I never thought my mother would agree to let him play kickball, but when my father handed him the slips of silver, there wasn’t much she could say.”

  “Kickball?” Cambozola frowned. “Still? In the snow?”

  “My parents don’t know the season ended several weeks ago. Peto kept leaving each afternoon anyway, and I followed him once. Turns out he was helping Rector Yung with the peach harvest, and he still sneaks over there almost every day.”

  Cambozola sat back and smiled. “So that’s why Yung said he didn’t need help with his woodpile when I offered. Said he had reliable assistance.”

  Sewzi sighed. “You children are remarkable. Someday, your parents will notice again.”

  Jaytsy blushed. “Thank you, but I don’t know . . .”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Sewzi squeezed her again. “I saw your father at the taxation collection. He was actually smiling.”

  “And laughing,” Cambozola added. “I’m sure that was him, sounding like deep bells?”

  Jaytsy nodded and stared at her mug. “He was so close to being better, back in Harvest,” she murmured. “This stupid season, these stupid snows, the stupid gray sky.” She sniffed.

  Cambozola cleared his throat. “So they always run that Strongest Soldier Race, he and Zenos?”

  Jaytsy knew why he brought that up: to make her smile. She obliged him. “Usually they hold it later in the season, but Shem thought it’d be a good idea to hold it with the taxation gathering. Everyone had to bring their donations to the village green that day anyway—”

  “—So why not turn it into a village party?” he chuckled. “Your grandmother makes excellent cake, and I’ve never seen so many different kinds of cookies. And that Hegek— Did you see the sign he put on the basket of apples he donated from the old school orchards? ‘Iris, accept these apples as a token from the schools of Edge. And those little black things in the middle? Seeds. Try planting some and see what happens.’” Cambozola laughed, and Jaytsy and Sewzi chuckled with him.

  “Yeah, that race,” he continued, grinning, “Karna sure looked sheepish when they finally finished it. He ran those poor men fifteen miles through the village, and still your father had a smile on his face when he lumbered in a minute behind Zenos.”

  “He was smiling,” Jaytsy remembered wistfully. “And then he kissed my mother, in front of everyone. Grandmother Peto started bawling,” she murmured. “I started to as well. To see him again running and laughing and—”

  Next to her, Sewzi sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “He seems like a very good man when he’s not . . . troubled.”

  “A few more moons. That’s all he needed. But then the sky became dark again, and . . .” Jaytsy rubbed the handle of her mug.

  Cambozola, uncomfortable that the two females seated with him were sniffling, said, “So Karna was responsible for all those soldiers as well?”

  “The fifty he brought as additional guards for the caravan? Yes, he didn’t want any threat to the twenty-five wagons. And after they left the village green, Captain Rigoff took over command.”

  Cambozola chuckled darkly. “I’m sure Captain Thorne wasn’t too pleased by that.”

  Jaytsy smiled genuinely. “From the reports we got back later, he was furious! Here he’d made that droning speech all about service and duty—”

  “The only reason people cheered him,” Cambozola told her, “was that he had finally shut up and was leaving!”

  Jaytsy grinned. “I hadn’t realized that so many in Edge don’t like him much either. Nothing was better than knowing I wouldn’t have to avoid him for two weeks while he was taking the caravan to Idumea. But then Rigoff insisted he was in command, since he’d lived in Edge at the time we used the surplus, and he did outrank Thorne, so Thorne was relegated to the end of the line to watch for lame horses.”

  “Edgers hate him,” Cambozola confided. “Thorne tried a few times to ‘motivate’ villagers to meet the donation quotas, but couldn’t understand why no one responded to his name-dropping and threats. Edgers did, however, react whenever Zenos and Yung came around with their little cheer parties. Those two were so enthusiastic and convincing that even I donated one of my better milkers, and I didn’t even eat any of the food from Idumea!”

  Sewzi shook her head. “You never liked that cow, and you know it. She hated you too, and sending her to Idumea was the best thing for everyone involved.”

  Jaytsy giggled.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh, Miss Jaytsy. You need to have some fun,” Cambozola decided. “What about those dances they hold down in the south side of—”

  The frantic head shaking of his wife shut him up, for once.

  Jaytsy sighed. “Mr. Briter, my parents won’t let me attend. From what I hear they’re nothing like the dances in Idumea. There’s just loud drums with teenagers and soldiers bouncing into each other.”

  Cambozola scowled. “No, not like the dances I knew in Sands.”

  “Besides,” his wife said quietly, “Jaytsy told me her dance instructor in Idumea was a Guarder who later came back and . . .”

  Her husband caught on. “That’s right. Heard about that. Sorry. Nothing good at the amphitheater either, anymore. Not unless you like strange contests, or plays where everyone ends up either dead or mating or both—”

  “Cambo!” Sewzi exclaimed.

  Jaytsy smiled dimly. “It’s all right. My parents feel the same way.”

  “So Game Day not that exciting either?” he probed.

  Jaytsy rolled her eyes at him. “Mr. Hegek started it up again, and playing with eleven-year-old girls obsessed with puppies isn’t exactly my idea of an interesting evening.”

  The Briters nodded in grim agreement.

  “But visiting us is? My, Miss Jaytsy—I wished I had something more interesting. Wait,” he brightened up. “Did you know I played the harmonica?”

  “Cambo, please—no!” his wife pleaded.

  Jaytsy grinned. “Really, this is wonderful.”

  “Poor girl,” he sighed. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”

  She spent the next hour with the Briters talking about nothing and everything. When she left she felt as if she’d been bathed in sunshine. The Briters walked her home, and she impulsively hugged them both before she went into the house.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, hoping they understood that she was grateful for more than just the escort home.

  Mr. Briter only cleared his throat, but Mrs. Briter squeezed her back. “Anytime, Jaytsy. You know that. Anytime.”

  ---

  Peto snipped the leaves with the tiny scissors and looked up to see if he’d done it right.

  Rector Yung beamed at him. “Perfect, Peto!”

  Peto shrugged. “But it looks like a miniature tree.”

  The old man chuckled. “Well, that’s the point now, isn’t it?” He slid a box over to him.

  Peto took out a dried piece of peach and examined the shriveled but tasty fruit. “Still can’t believe we got only twenty peaches from that entire orchard.”

  Yung smiled. “Actually, I was quite impressed we got an entire twenty peaches from that orchard.”

  “Yeah, but all that work!”

  “You say that as if we did more than just an hour of tree trimming each day for a week.” Yung nibbled on a peach ring.

  Peto bobbed his head back and forth. “Well, true . . . but I still hoped for a better harvest.”

  “The orchar
d had been neglected for a decade, Peto. A harvest of even just one peach is better than nothing at all.”

  Not really knowing much about reviving orchards before the past year when he spent more time in Yung’s orchard than he did playing kickball, Peto shrugged as he chewed on another leathery piece.

  Yung regarded him for a moment. “How’s that taste?”

  “Like a dried up peach.”

  “Remember the ones we pulled off the trees fresh?”

  Peto grinned. “Juiciest things. I was sticky all day.”

  Yung matched his grin. “What would have happened to those peaches had we not given them a chance?”

  Peto shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe . . . not get juicy?”

  “Not enough sun, not enough water, and they would not have matured. But if they did, they would have been dry and small.”

  “There’s another Holy Day talk in here, isn’t there?”

  Yung chuckled. “There is. Now you tell me what it is.”

  Peto sighed. “I swear you’re trying to turn me into a rector. All right. Peaches deserve to live and . . . sometimes others have to help them have their best shot at living, even if not a whole lot of them respond, or even if there’s not even a lot to harvest.”

  Yung cocked his head. “Inarticulate, but you’re on the right path.”

  “So you would have gone through all this work even if there was only one peach this year?”

  “Peto, I would have been out there every day trimming branches and pulling weeds and watering roots all season even if there were no peaches this year, just to let the trees know I was there and willing to help, so that next year they’d have a bit more faith to put out a few more fruits.”

  Peto stared at the little tree in front of him which he’d been trimming. “You say that as if the trees actually know you’re there.”

  “Peto,” Yung whispered, “that’s because they do. Everything’s alive. We have a stewardship from the Creator to care for all living things. And yes, I believe they do know I care,” Yung said, a bit bashfully. “They just need to know they’re not alone. The harvest will come, but we can’t force it. All we can do is encourage the trees until they’re ready to dare.”

  Peto examined his tiny tree, turned from a gnarled bush into a small piece of living art. “When will my father finally dare, Rector?” he whispered.

  Yung sighed. “I don’t know. But Peto, he’s lasted much longer than many others like him. Without so much faith, he wouldn’t have made it this far. That gives me hope. Should give you some as well. Never give up. The Creator never does, so neither should we. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  Peto frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Yung smiled and slid the box of peach rings over to Peto. “For your father, from me.”

  ---

  Perrin sat on the sofa before dawn, waiting for the morning to come. He wasn’t going back into that bed. Not after what he dreamed happened there.

  On the side table was a small box of dried peach rings that Peto had brought home, from Rector Yung who Peto saw on his way home from kickball.

  Feeling guilty for his neglect of the old man the past year, Perrin picked up a ring and nibbled dutifully on it, even though peaches weren’t his favorite fruit—that would be bacon—and felt a twinge of guilt that others gave him things, but he never reciprocated.

  Perrin looked at the books lining the shelves. Useless as distractions, since he’d read most of them already. There were The Writings, but he had he neglected them too, along with his daily discussions with the Creator.

  That’s when he saw them. Reluctantly he got up, retrieved the stack of messages the fort had been receiving for several moons now, and sat down. He pulled out the message from the boy at the Stable of Pools and reread it. Roak was likely fulfilling some dreary school assignment to write a letter to someone. Perrin was the recipient, now doomed to return the favor—

  No. Roak had been sincere. He didn’t know the depth of Perrin’s pain, but he had thought of the Shin family.

  Perrin opened another message and read it. Gizzada was worried about him. Another message. Another citizen. And again.

  And then another that sank his heart.

  Sergeant Major Grandpy Neeks had sent a long letter full of reminiscing about Relf Shin that twice made Perrin smile, and at the bottom of it was a note from now Corporal Qualipoe Hili, stating how sorry he was, and that he hadn’t caused any new trouble.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to the messages, thirty-two of them. But that wasn’t good enough, and he knew it. He went to the study and returned with pieces of parchment, ink, and quills.

  He stared at the messages before he started to write.

  Roak, I’m sorry this note is coming to you so late. I haven’t been well, but I wanted you to know that I was grateful for your letter. At this difficult time in my life it means a great deal to me that people throughout the world share my pain . . .

  ---

  Later that morning in the command tower, Perrin heard the knock on the office door, a familiar and welcome rhythm.

  “Come in, Zenos,” he called.

  “Perrin?” he said softly.

  Perrin only glanced up from the dull reports on his desk. “What?”

  Shem tried to smile as he approached the desk cluttered with piles. He managed to find a corner to sit on and casually propped himself there. “I have something I want you to try that might help with your nightmares.” He whispered the last words, even though no one in the outer office could hear them over the conversation going on out there.

  Perrin sat back in his chair. “Is this really the best time—” He stopped when he saw Shem holding up a length of wool, knitted into a dense, thin chain. “Knitting? I should take up knitting?”

  Shem grinned—a rare sight these days—and shook his head. “No, this is for your wrist. You wear it, like a bracelet.” He held it out by both ends, but Perrin didn’t move. “On your sword hand?” Shem shook the soft chain, but still Perrin didn’t offer his arm.

  “A bracelet? To stop nightmares? This is sounding desperate—”

  Shem sighed and dropped his hands to his lap. “You wear this, all the time. It’s your connection to reality. The idea is, if you see this on your wrist, especially when you hold a weapon, you’ll understand that at that moment you’re in reality. But if you hold a weapon, look at your wrist, and see nothing, then you can be assured it’s a dream. Then maybe you can start getting control of it.”

  “But what if I dream that I’m wearing the woolen chain?”

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know,” Shem admitted. “It’s just a tool. Worth a try, isn’t it?” He held up the length again, a pale cream color almost the same as Perrin’s skin. “Just for you to see. To . . . to ground you.”

  “And who’s idea was this to tie me up?”

  “The surgeon’s,” Shem said.

  “Then why isn’t Stitch here himself?” Perrin asked.

  “Because I knew you’d have this attitude, and I thought I might be the best choice for getting you to try it.”

  “So who knitted it?”

  Shem groaned. “I don’t know! Does it matter? Please, Perrin?” He whispered earnestly.“You’ve . . . you’ve gone darker. It’s due to the weather. The fewer hours of sunshine, the bleak skies . . . we’re losing you.”

  “In know. But it won’t work,” Perrin whispered back. “Nothing works.”

  “Please, just try it? For a few weeks? Think of it, look at it.”

  Reluctantly, Perrin raised his right arm to allow Shem to tie the length of knotted yarn to his wrist. For good measure, Shem slid it up to hide it under his jacket. “Consider it a trick up your sleeve.”

  “Zenos,” Perrin said, dropping his arm, “the only length of yarn that helped a man in my situation was tied into a noose.”

  Shem’s eyes flared. “Don’t
even joke like that, Perrin! Don’t even joke.”

  “Who said I was—” Perrin stopped, realizing he was adding even more pain to his brother’s already anguished eyes. “Thank you, Shem,” he said instead. “For trying.”

  ---

  Late that night Zenos trudged deep into the forest to the hot steam vent and sat on the log next to the man waiting for him.

  “Well? How did it go?”

  Shem sighed. “Took a bit of convincing, but I finally tied it on to him. I guess I should have explained it better, but—” He shook his head, closed his eyes, and went silent.

  The man squeezed his shoulder. “You’re doing well.”

  Shem scoffed. “If this stupid season would just be over! We almost had him back, and then—” He clapped his hands loudly and winced, forgetting the need to keep silent in the woods. “Shin asked where it came from. Said I didn’t know. So Jothan, who knitted it?”

  “It came from Gleace himself.”

  Shem smiled. “That should carry something, shouldn’t it?”

  “It may, but will he recognize it? That’s the question, Shem.”

  Chapter 5 ~ “What did I almost do?”