“A word, sir,” she said, stepping close and offering him a hand up. She only had a moment, but still she hesitated, wondering what to say, what not to say. Herrin had been adamant about not threatening the Inquisition, but she was going to need both whip and carrot to carry this off. “You have been very lucky here today. All the Null Runes used by the Inquisition are ancient, fragile iron. It was inevitable that one would eventually break and release its dark spirit of vengeance back into the world. But you were lucky because you had a warrior close by capable of expelling such dark spirits”—glossing over the wizard sword as much as possible. “You would do well to repay Trayn of Harebridge by exonerating him of all these trumped-up charges and exalting his heroism. Why, you ask? Because the Inquisition has other Null Runes hidden away in its strongholds. What will happen when they, too, break? As the old saying goes, ‘Only a fool would turn away a strong sword arm in his hour of need.’ And I do not think, sir, that you are a fool. Moreover”—and here was the delicately applied whip— “you would do well to overlook any awkward details of the moment so that it never becomes commonly known that the Inquisition, against all Church policies, is trafficking with cursed spirits.”

  She said it quickly, then stepped back and waited. She thought she had made her case well enough, but it all depended on how much of a political animal the Inquisitor was. A true religious fanatic would drag her down for sorcery, but a politician would hedge his bets by any means available.

  He turned and stared at her appraisingly. “The exorcista has a surprisingly pragmatic view of the situation. Your Exorcist-General might have a different opinion of cursed spirits imprisoned in Null Runes.”

  Jenna returned his stare. “The politics of King’s City are a quagmire of shifting alliances, but I think, sir, that the threat of dead wizard-lords gives you and me a firm cause for alliance. Am I wrong?”

  He held her eyes a moment longer, then shook his head. “You are not wrong, Exorcista. I am not a fool. Even the ambitions of my master the Lord Inquisitor must give precedence before a clear and awful danger. I choose alliance. Know me as Bardet.”

  “Jenna,” she returned with a nod.

  Then he stepped forward and addressed the crowd. “Subjects of the King. Today dark and vile sorcery broke free from the past and found its victim in my Captain of Guards. But the quick action of Trayn of Harebridge, of late mistakenly accused of sorcery himself, has not only saved the day but also proven beyond doubt that he is free of any taint. Let us rejoice that today was not far worse than it was.”

  The response was a series of cheers followed by the immediate buzz of villagers conversing with their neighbors. In terms of spectacle, this execution was exceeding all expectations.

  Jenna slipped away in the general confusion and found Trayn at the edge of the square, carefully rewrapping the wizard sword in leather. “Today you are a hero, Sir Knight,” she said.

  He gave her a sharp look. His throat was still red and swollen from the noose, and he could only muster a whisper. “You’re a wonder, Mistress Exorcista. A fool and a double-fool for tempting my cursed sword like that when it would have eaten your soul had you tried to use it—but still a wonder. I can only imagine what you told an Inquisitor that would cause him to about-face like that.”

  “Not to mention killing a wizard-lord,” Dwarf added, fading into view. He held the second wineskin of blood and was guzzling it like a drunk.

  Denying Dwarf his reward would have been a complete waste of blood. “You did well, Dwarf,” she said. “Thank you.” She gave Trayn a nod. “Perhaps you should thank Dwarf as well for holding you suspended.”

  Instead Trayn gave a snort. “Oh, then much thanks indeed for making me sit on a block of ice until my nethers were near frozen.”

  “Stupid to the end,” huffed an invisible voice in Jenna’s ear.

  And so the bickering continued. Jenna smiled. It was good that it could.

  Sky, Clouds, and Sonam

  Catherine Mintz

  The sky we will always have with us. The people we love will die. Change is inevitable, but it’s neither easy nor fun to deal with.

  Catherine Mintz has published nearly seventy works of fantasy, science fiction, and horror, including novels, graphic works, short stories, poems, and video scripts. She has served as both SFWA’s Eastern Regional Director and its Secretary, and hosted one Nebula. She is interested in book design and animation.

  The rasp of stone grinding stone and the work chants of the girls and women filled the air. Down in the rift, just-unpenned goats and kids capered, pursued by whistling men and boys. First day out: the whole valley was ready for summer, women, especially.

  Sonam took up her heavy grindstone with a grunt, bent to her task. Just being out in the open after the walled-in caves of winter was a treat. No wonder the goats bolted and the menfolk were happy to chase them.

  The weaving bowls where the girls and women sat to work had to be reground hand-smooth today. Tomorrow, and every sunny day after, all the short summer long, the fine weavers would sit there, warm in the sun, the cold winds from the always snow-capped peaks sailing over their heads, gossiping, telling genealogies, arranging marriages, making the cloud-soft rugs that paid for Dagdong’s barley, tea, and salt.

  A thunder roll of batons deep in the rift signaled they had finished the last of the matting. Sonam peered down; already roadmen were starting up the path bent under rolls of brown. They would mark the safe routes, fence the paths the cashmere goats and boys would travel twice a day, set up the temporary corrals on the rift rim, and maintain it all until autumn.

  Watching the first roadmen’s tiny figures climb, Sonam sipped a half-cup of icy water. Grinding was hot work and the sun was almost too warm in the stone hollow. She wiped her sleeve across her face. It was wonderful to be too warm, to sweat, to be thirsty for the gritty glacier water in the bowl’s communal jug.

  Winter, even down in the rift, was cold. There were whole days when you sat, swathed in scarves, hands in fingerless gloves, carding and spinning all day long, stopping only to eat yogurt on hard barley bread and drink hot butter tea. Near the end of winter, when times were hardest, it was sometimes so-called white tea, hot water, and the bread had to be soaked in it.

  But now the youngest girls and the oldest women were out gathering. There would be greens in the thukpa tonight. Cooks would be generous with the butter even though there wasn’t much surplus yet from nannies with new kids. Mouth watering, Sonam fingered her personal spoon on its cord around her neck, then retucked it inside her tunic.

  Dropping back into her crouch, she began moving her stone again.

  You started at the bottom of the bowl and spiraled up, freeing the cold spirits of the earth. Time out of mind, this rock had been smoothed; the new-ground surface was almost velvety under her hands. Once it was wiped, it would be clean, ready for the fine summer weaving that must be done in bright light.

  The bowl was almost ready to be washed when her cousin, Dawa, came to its rim, padded jugs hung on her yoke. “Break time,” she said, and sat down. Sonam pulled her cup from the folds at her waist and held it out. Dawa poured it full, poured herself a half-cup, too. “Good,” she said, after sipping.

  “Good tea,” agreed Sonam.

  After a few minutes of silent communing, Dawa said, “I have to go on.”

  “Go then,” said Sonam, tucking her cup away, reaching for her stone. She was eager to feel its vibration under her hands. “Bring water?”

  “Yes,” said Dawa. “Next trip.” Swinging her yoke onto her shoulders, she went on to other workers.

  Sonam bent to her task again, absorbed. Her spoon, slipping free, swung back and forth on the cord at her throat. She loved the sound of stone on stone. It meant weaving in the sun, watching the youngest girls knitting, going to the fire to see if it would be a good year and to have any curses lifted—

  Dawa went by, waving in passing, on her way down to haul water up. It was hard work, hauling tea and water, but Dawa’s brown legs were sturdy. Even during winter, she hauled water, baled and unbaled fleece, washed and carded. Dawa had no interest in fine handwork.

  Done grinding, Sonam set her stone in its niche. She shouldered the basket of winter debris she’d swept up: pea gravel and wind-blown glacier grit, plus dust so fine some girls powdered their faces with it to block the fierce summer sunshine. The muscles in her calves protested as she climbed. They’d harden soon enough.

  Nothing was ever tossed down that could be carried up. Even children knew better than to throw pebbles into the river: the river was the sword of the god that had cut the rift and it must be respected.

  Animal and human wastes were carried to the walled garden plots, basket after basket of spring’s bounty of round cobbles went up to weight stream-washed fleece. Anything useless—old bones, broken tools, cracked pots—was sorted into the pits and covered until some new need might make it useful again.

  When Sonam arrived, the pit master was sitting, tea in hand, jug at his knee, considering the line of holes his men had emptied for the season. He glanced at Sonam’s load and pointed where it should go. “A good day,” he said when she came back, empty basket in hand. “Have some tea.”

  She pulled out her cup and sat down.

  He filled it. “Nice cup,” he said.

  “A present,” she said, deflecting the evil demons praise might attract.

  It was a fine cup, of wood, hard and smooth, and lined with silver. It had been a wedding gift to her great aunt, and her great aunt had gifted it to Sonam, now that her great niece was a woman. It matched the spoon hanging at Sonam’s throat.

  Pit master and junior weaver sipped. The high, dry air, and the constant chill made everyone thirsty and hungry, but you could not always be stopping to drink and have a meal. Butter tea filled the stomach, gave you energy, warmed you up.

  “Thank you,” said Sonam, and left, cup tucked into the waist fold of her chuba again.

  The weaving bowl was dry and warm. A bucket of water sat at its lowest point, a wad of rags flapping on its handle. So close to the rim, everything had to be tied or weighted down.

  Many a young weaver had forgotten to set her stones and seen days of work taken by the wind, with nothing to do but to chant a dedication to the god. Sometimes the god left it, lying along the edge of the river, or hung it on a rock for nesting birds. Most often, it was gone forever.

  Sonam wiped, slowly and carefully, a job she, as junior-most, would do every day until the end of the season, when the bowl would again be abandoned to winter. Today that day seemed a long and happy time away.

  “Sonam,” called someone on the path up. “Sonam? Is it ready?”

  “Almost,” Sonam called back.

  “I’m so tired,” said Yonten, setting the bundle of rugs down with a thump.

  “It’s not noon yet. Have some water.”

  “It makes my stomach ache.”

  “Well, sit there, then, until you feel better.”

  Her younger brother would be spending another summer with the women, even though he was old enough to go with the men: his spirit was generally willing but his flesh was weak.

  “Is that the rug?” he said as she carefully unpacked one from its wrappings.

  “Yes.”

  Unrolling it, Sonam spread it in the center of the bowl. The round carpet was beautiful, sky blue with curly clouds, and very old. Today was the one day of the year it would be used. Even so, people would actually sit on their weaving rugs to admire it and the weather. They would drink butter tea and eat the snacks that they had carried up. As the sun started down, the rift city’s treasure would be repacked and stored away.

  Tomorrow would be a real working day, although, with everyone tired from today, less than the usual amount of work would be done. Sonam’s fingers were eager to begin. This year would be the first she would weave a wall hanging, a story strip, and she had spent the last days of winter planning it.

  “Yonten? Are they—”

  But Yonten had fallen asleep where he sat.

  Sonam sighed, spread all the rugs carefully, then went to sit beside him, shielding him from the chill breeze. Somewhere down in the valley, someone was sounding a singing bowl. Sonam put her arm around Yonten and listened to the long slow notes. It was time for the procession.

  ~o0o~

  Almost midsummer: soon the sun would soon begin its retreat. The rock-cut temple’s fires smelled of burning wood, dried grasses, and herbs, rather than the usual dried goat and yak dung. The outer court, a stable in the coldest time, had been swept, swabbed, scrubbed with handfuls of fine sand, then whitewashed as high as tall men could reach.

  The bowls sang a long slow tune. Even the smallest children were silent, tired if not awed. Yonten was slumped against his sister, eyes closed. His slow even breathing said he was asleep, an old fur-lined chuba pulled tight around him.

  Sonam stared straight ahead, listening. It would be Yonten’s first time to look into the fires. Maybe her brother would see something that would let the geshe lift the curse upon him. Maybe that would make him better. Their mother gathered and fussed over her pot, but Yonten had eaten very little of the fresh greens of spring, rich in life forces.

  “Sonam!” said the geshe’s red-robed assistant.

  She stood.

  “Bring your brother!”

  Sonam sighed with relief. Yonten could hide in her shadow all the way to the fires. “Yonten,” she whispered, “Yonten, wake up.”

  A murmur of amusement went around the room from men and women who remembered how excited they were to look into the fire for the first time and—this boy slept.

  The temple, cut out of the side of the rift by skilled hands over centuries, was a maze of small rooms filled with pillars, pitch dark wherever there were no lamps. Sonam followed their guide closely, for she did not know the way.

  Perhaps it changed from year to year.

  Perhaps not.

  The outer temple was plain but deeper in stone figures smiled and danced in the flickering light of the butter lamp. They came to a small room with a fire burning in a metal bowl mounted on the four guardian beasts: turtle, tiger, bird, and dragon.

  Sister and brother bowed.

  Their guide bobbed up and down, and asked, “The sister stays?”

  “The sister stays.”

  The guide bowed and left.

  The geshe rose to greet them. The honored teacher only came twice a year. In late spring, she came down the mountain, from the fields of snow. In early autumn, she came up the path, going to the fields of snow. It was said she meditated all winter, deep in a cave, drinking only water, and eating, piece by piece, the hard barley bread given her at this, the last place she stopped.

  “Sit there,” she told Yonten, pointing to a place a little too close to the bowl of flames.

  The geshe stirred the fire. “Look. Tell me what you see.”

  Sonam turned away. The future in the flames was for her brother.

  “Birds,” said Yonten. “Big birds.”

  The geshe waited.

  “Bone breakers,” said the boy.

  Sonam pressed her hand to her mouth. Vultures. Death.

  “Look again,” said the geshe.

  “Red flowers, gold flowers—”

  Sonam bit her palm.

  “Look a third time.”

  But Yonten said nothing, slumped, and had to be pulled away from the fire-filled bowl.

  “Take him back,” said the geshe.

  “His future—”

  The geshe signed negation, tapped the small bowl at her side with her ring finger. It gave one clear, lingering tone.

  Their guide reappeared. Arm around her brother’s shoulders, Sonam followed.

  Pema, their mother met them, face anxious.

  “Nothing this year,” said Sonam as cheerfully as possible.

  Her mother gave her a skeptical look, and then gathered her son to her and led him off to bed. “A long day,” the mother murmured as she helped her son into the gloom away from the firelight. “Time to sleep.”

  Sonam went back, sat down behind the others who were waiting, hoping she had been forgotten. She hadn’t, but she was the last.

  “Look into the fire,” said the geshe.

  “I see nothing,” Sonam said, looking at the dragon of the east upholding the fire bowl instead of the flames.

  “As it should be for this time,” said the geshe. “You can go.” She tapped the small bowl, one, twice, thrice, announcing the time of foretelling was over.

  ~o0o~

  The round purple bruise where Sonam had bitten herself was fading. It had been six days since her mother had asked four roadmen to carry Yonten down to the bottom of the riff, following the path the geshe had taken when she left them.

  Breathing was easier for invalids down in the deep valley, but Yonten had no trouble—

  “Gently, gently,” said Jampa. “Even tension makes good cloth.” Then, with understanding, “They’ll do what they can for him.”

  “I might never see him again.”

  Jampa carefully shot her shuttle through. “Maybe,” she said. “We can only do the best we can do, and—” She picked up a different color thread, a dull violet, considered it against the cloth on her loom, and decided against it. “Sometimes, not even that.”

  Sonam stood up. “I can’t weave today. I’ll go comb out fleece.” The distant bleating of goats came and went on the wind.

  “You’ll spoil your hands for fine work. Sit down, sort my yarn, wind my new colors onto shuttles. What did you see in the fire?”

  “I didn’t look.”

  “Ah.”

  Untangling a hank of bright blue, Sonam began winding it into a ball. “The honorable teacher thought it was all right.”

  “You have to look.” Jampa shot a shuttle of madder red through, thumped the beater home. “The geshe doesn’t always know best. How could she? She comes, she goes; she knows so little of our lives.”

  Sonam pressed her lips together, keeping bitter words inside.