Free Path of Fate by Diana Pharaoh Francis Page A

bread and sharp goat cheese.
    “So what was this foolishness of the bells? Taktitu making a ruckus with Imeilus again?”
    Reisil smiled. Meelaru’s temperamental husband often went head to head with the tanner over an assorted variety of complaints: smell, noise, dirt, rude apprentices, wagons blocking the street and so forth. They’d a long history of bickering, and at least once a month the entire town of Kallas was drawn to one of their arguments.
    “There was a herald from Koduteel. He says there’s going to be peace.” Reisil described the events in the kohv-house, ending with Saljane’s arrival.
    “The Blessed Lady is indeed generous,” Nurema murmured when Reisil finished her dissertation. “Tell me again what Varitsema said about this truce and the ambassador from Patverseme.”
    Reisil did so in careful detail. She had been trained to pay careful attention to her constituents; their ills were often caused or made worse by events in their lives, and the tark must treat the spirit as well as the flesh. She ended with Varitsema’s proclamation that the goshawk was a sign from the Blessed Lady.
    “Hmph. He’s a clever one, that Varitsema. Could have been a thief. Almost married him—did you know? Courted me for nigh on two years, but he was too pigheaded.” She chuckled. “Pot calling the kettle black, I suppose. Least I had sense enough to know better. Varitsema and I would have been like Taktitu and Imeilus. Every morning a battle, every night a war. But trust him to take good advantage of that bird’s arrival. Maybe he’s right; maybe it really is a sign from Amiya. Either way, he’ll stir the pot into a boil. No half measures. Got to show off for those Patversemese. Strutting like cocks in the butcher’s yard. Just you wait, girl. By morning there will be all sorts of projects going on. Won’t be a single soul with a moment to set and talk, but everyone will be dashing around dusting, polishing, painting, fixing, arranging, decorating—chickens with no heads. Good thing we live a ways out here. Peace and quiet.”
    Reisil finished her meal and then stood. “I had better get going. Thank you for the tea and food.”
    Nurema waved off her thanks with a knobby, arthritic hand. “You’ll be back tomorrow to look in on Teemart?”
    “I’ll come midmorning before I make my rounds in Kallas. I won’t be late.”
    Nurema sniffed. “See that you aren’t.”
    Reisil bade farewell and made her way back up the path to the road. Her eyes felt thick and her pack unbearably heavy. The events of the day seemed far away, as if behind a window of thick, wavy glass. She was too wrung out to feel anything but a creeping numbness, which she welcomed.
    She trudged up the hill with wooden steps. The sun had begun to set and already fireflies flittered brilliantly in the dusky air. Purple bindweed closed its petals against the night and a woodpecker pounded away on a birch glowing gold in the setting rays of the sun. Despite her exhaustion, Reisil couldn’t resist stopping to smell a wild cattleberry, the sprays of tiny white blossoms smelling of vanilla and bergamot. She sighed and picked some. The flowers made a lovely flavoring for sweet breads. She would bake some in the morning and bring it back with her to Nurema and Teemart. It would help tempt his appetite and Nurema’s too. She had little doubt that the bread and cheese they just had together was all the other woman had eaten in the last day.
    She reached the road and turned back toward Kallas, then veered off along the path to her cottage. She ambled along the crown of the hill into the copse of trees through which she’d sprinted that morning. She stopped for a drink at the stream and then jumped over, this time not splashing herself.
    Whoever had built her cottage had been a fine crafts-man. It had two rooms and a loft, and was entirely made of smooth round stones hauled from the river. All but the back wall. The builder had set the cottage