“How went your first day?” he asked.

“She has a fast mind,” Abban said. “I started by teaching her simple phrases, but she was dissecting the sentence structure in minutes. She’ll be able to introduce herself to anyone and discuss the weather by the time we reach Everam’s Bounty, and proficient by winter.”

Ahmann nodded. “It is Everam’s will that she learn our tongue.”

Abban shrugged.

“What else did you learn?” Ahmann asked.

Abban smiled. “She likes apples.”

“Apples?” Ahmann asked, confused.

“A Northern tree fruit,” Abban said.

Ahmann frowned. “You spoke to the woman all day, and all you learned was that she likes apples?”

“Red and hard, fresh picked from the tree. She laments that with so many mouths to feed, apples have become scarce.” Abban smiled as Ahmann’s face deepened into a scowl. He reached into his pocket, holding up a piece of fruit. “Apples like this one.”

Ahmann’s smile nearly reached his ears.

Abban left Ahmann’s tent, feeling a slight twinge of guilt at withholding Leesha’s reaction to his mention of the Par’chin. He had not lied, but even in his own heart Abban could not explain the omission. The Par’chin was his friend, it was true, but Abban had never let friendship stand in the way of prosperity, and his prosperity was inextricably tied to Ahmann’s success in conquering the North. The surest road to that success would be for Ahmann to find and kill the Par’chin quickly. The son of Jeph was not an enemy any man should take lightly.

But Abban had survived as khaffit by keeping secrets and waiting for the proper opportunity to exploit them, and there was no secret in all the world greater than this one.

Leesha was stirring a cookpot when Jardir came to her circle. Like the Painted Man, he walked casually through the unwarded areas of the Krasians’ haphazard camp. He wore Leesha’s warded cloak about his shoulders, but it was thrown back, offering him no protection from coreling eyes.

Not that he was likely to need protection, unless a wind demon spotted him from above. The dal’Sharum made sport of hunting the field demons that infested the camp when the sun set, piling the bodies of those stunted offshoots of wood demons into what would be an enormous bonfire when dawn came to set them alight.

“May I join you at your fire?” Jardir asked in Thesan.

“Of course, son of Hoshkamin,” Leesha replied in Krasian. As Abban had taught her, she broke a piece from a fresh loaf of bread and held it out to him. “Share bread with us.”

Jardir smiled widely, bowing low as he accepted the bread.

Rojer and the others came to the pot for their meal as well, but all drifted away at a meaningful look from Leesha. Only Elona stayed in earshot, which Jardir seemed to think was perfectly proper, even if Leesha resented the spying.

“Your food continues to delight my tongue,” Jardir said when he finished scraping the stew from his second bowl.

“It’s a simple stew,” Leesha said, but she couldn’t help but smile at the compliment.

“I hope your belly is not too full,” Jardir said, pulling out a large red apple. “I have grown fond of this Northern fruit, and would share it with you, as you shared your bread.”

Leesha felt her mouth water at the sight. How long since she had eaten a ripe apple? With starving refugees scouring the land around Deliverer’s Hollow like locusts, apples were gone from the trees the moment they became edible, and often before.

“I would like that,” she said, trying to keep the eagerness from her voice. Jardir produced a small knife, cutting neat round slices for them to enjoy. Leesha savored the sweet crunch of every bite, and it took them some time to finish the fruit. Leesha noticed that however fond he might be of apples, he left almost all of it to her, nibbling only on the irregular cuts and watching her chew with delight in his eyes.

“Thank you, that was wonderful,” Leesha said when they were done.

Jardir bowed from where he sat across from her. “It was my pleasure. And now, if you wish, it would be my pleasure to read to you passages from the Evejah, as I have promised.”

Leesha smiled and nodded, producing the slender leather-bound book from one of the deep pockets of her dress. “I would like that very much, but if you are to read me your book, you must start from the beginning, and swear to read it through, omitting nothing.”

Jardir tilted his head at her, and for a moment Leesha worried that she might have offended him. But then, slowly, a smile crept across his face.

“That will take many nights,” he said.

Leesha looked around at the camp and the empty plains. “My nights seem to be rather free at the moment.”

Surprisingly, it was not Wonda who garnered the most attention when they reached Everam’s Bounty, but Gared. Jardir watched the eyes of the Sharum take in the Cutter’s enormous frame and powerful muscles, searching for weaknesses, sizing him up for the kill as they did everyone. It was the Sharum way to be ready to fight anyone—enemy, brother, father, or friend. Every one of his warriors would be eager to test his strength against the giant Northern warrior. The Sharum who brought him down would carry great honor.

It was only after the warriors had assessed Gared, the most obvious threat, that their eyes slipped to Wonda, and a few did a double take, realizing she was a woman.

They sent no word ahead, but when they rode into the courtyard of Jardir’s palace, Inevera and the Damaji’ting were there waiting for them. Inevera lay on a pillowed palanquin held up by muscular chin slaves clad only in bidos and vests. She was dressed as scandalously as ever, and even the greenlanders gasped and colored at the sight of her as her slaves set the palanquin down and she rose to her feet. Her hips swayed hypnotically as she came to Jardir with her hands outstretched.

“Who is that?” Leesha asked.

“My First Wife, Damajah Inevera,” Jardir said. “The others are my lesser wives.”

Leesha looked at him sharply, and as Abban had warned, her face became a storm cloud.

“You’re already married?!” she demanded.

Jardir looked at her curiously. Surely she had understood that much, even if she was prone to jealousy. “Of course. I am Shar’Dama Ka.”

Leesha opened her mouth to retort, but Inevera reached them, and she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

“Husband,” Inevera said, embracing him and kissing him deeply. “How I have missed your warmth in our bed.”

Jardir was taken aback for a moment, but he saw how Inevera’s eyes kept flicking to Leesha, and felt as filthy as if he had been marked by a dog.

“Allow me to present my honored guest,” he said. “Mistress Leesha, daughter of Erny, First Herb Gatherer of the Hollow tribe.” Inevera’s eyes narrowed at the title, and she glared at Jardir, then Leesha.

For her part, Leesha acquitted herself well, not backing down an inch as she met Inevera’s gaze with a calm serenity and dipped into the skirtspreading bow the women of the green lands favored. “An honor to meet you, Damajah.”

Inevera’s smile and return bow were equally unreadable, and Jardir knew then that Abban was right. Inevera would not accept this woman as a Jiwah Sen, and would certainly not take it well when Jardir married her anyway and gave her dominion over the women of the North.