pearls, bartered from the traders-who-walked. The quilt caught the sunlight as she lifted it and ran her hands along the edge. Tiny bells rang, soft as ladysong. She put it on top of her dress and folded the felt over it.
The box held all she would bring from her home, besides Tumble. She didn’t want to close it; not yet. When she opened it in Nooria, perhaps her husband would run his hands along those bells, pull the wedding dress from its wrapping. She imagined him: dark hair and flat cheekbones, black eyes full of want. Would he dig through, heedlessly breaking beads and threads with rough hands?
A shift in the tent flap, the sound of wool brushing wool. Her mother approached down the centre of the longhouse to where Mesema’s bed lay along the wall. Mesema didn’t turn, or speak. She wasn’t ready yet.
“I have something for you.” A creak of ropes as her mother sat down on the bed.
“I have until midday,” Mesema said, but more to herself than to her mother.
“Ah, but we won’t have another chance to speak privately.” Mesema felt her mother pull on her skirts. “Sit down, daughter.” Mesema sat and folded her hands in her lap. She pressed her lips together to control the trembling. She would say goodbye like a woman.
Her mother held a small pine box in her hands. She put it down on her knees and opened it, revealing an oiled bundle tied at both ends. “They will want a son from you almost before you get there,” she said, undoing the ties and pulling away the fabric. Inside was a stinking grey-brown resin.
“Your husband will come to you every night and day until it takes—your father was the same way. But it is your duty to choose the right stars for your child. You must make them wait.”
“Why—? How?” It was bad enough that Mesema had no plains-children. Now she must pretend to be barren?
“Mesema, daughter, listen. The Cerani are strange and unholy creatures. Everything must be auspicious—for us.” She put emphasis on the final words as she pinched off a bit of resin the size of a thumb. “Work this between your fingers until it’s soft, then put it inside. It tricks his babies so they won’t take root in you. In the morning, pull it out and burn it. When the Bright One is over the moon, burn it all and make your child. Do you understand me, daughter?”
“This doesn’t offend the Hidden God? He chooses the stars for every child.”
“The Hidden God doesn’t live in Nooria. Outside His dominion, you do what you can.” Mesema’s mother rolled the resin back up in its fabric and retied the ends. “I will hide this at the bottom of your trunk.” She paused. “Keep it out of the sunlight. Listen to me: if you have a son, I will send you more. Listen. You must have only one son.”
“Mamma! I should have many sons—”
“Not in Nooria you shouldn’t.”
A Rider stuck his head through the door flap. “Chief wants Mesema,” he shouted.
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Mesema put one hand over the pine box.
Her mother drew in her breath. “Perhaps you will learn to hold your tongue among the Cerani,” she said. “But never mind that. Go on.”
Mesema kept her back straight as she walked out of the rear of the longhouse. Fabric rustled as her mother hid the resin inside the wedding trunk behind her.
Outside, the breeze carried the scents of late summer: apples, manure, and the fresh blooms of sheepseye, heaven-breath, and mountain beauty. The sun shone over the crest of the hill and warmed her skin. She took a deep breath. Her new home would not smell this way—even the flowers and the breeze would be different there.
The Riders ran through their manoeuvres in the field, riding hard, slashing their swords through the tall grass, throwing their spears into the soil. New Cerani breastplates sparkled in the sun. Once it was harvest time, they wouldn’t have any more days left for their manly games. And after the harvest, the peace of winter would be upon them.
Her father waited by the horse-pen, his shadow long and thin. His hair travelled two brown roads down his white tunic.
“Mesema,” he said in the affectionate tone, opening his arms.
But she held back and looked to Banreh, who stood by his side as always, golden and small.
“Mesema,” her father continued more formally, “I have a gift for you: a teacher. He will guide