Dorrin started to say, “But they’re dead,” but stopped.
Falk nodded as if she’d said it. “You understand,” he said. “It is not your task; it is not your honor. Your honor is unstained—whatever others think, I know—and the High Lord knows, by whatever name the high gods are called—that your honor is unstained. And that is all you need. Except … what do you really want?”
A quiet life. At least not a life where—though Falk said her honor was unstained—others still doubted her.
“So you need to start again. A new name—are you willing to give up Verrakai?”
She had been willing to give up Verrakai at fourteen, when she ran away; she had not used it for years. But she had begun to make it honorable … but Beclan could do that. She could—maybe—shed Verrakai and its associations like taking off a dirty cloak. “Yes,” she said to Falk’s patient face. “Yes. But what name would I have? Dorrin … something …?”
“Dorrin was enough for you once. Falk has been enough for me. Or you may find another name you like better.”
That night she slept again under the stars and, if she dreamed, did not remember it when she got up. She woke to the clonking of sheep bells and the smell of sheep. She rolled over, unwrapping the blanket, and two sheep shied away, baaing. Half the flock was already at the water, drinking, along with a shaggy dog. Staring at her from the other side of the flock was someone in a long shirt with a patched cape over it, bare-legged. Falk was nowhere in sight, and she knew he would not return. The box she had fetched from the bottom of the pool lay beside her, tied with three leather thongs.
Dorrin rolled her blanket, tied it, and picked up the box; it felt heavy again. She hung the blanket over her shoulder and moved slowly through the sheep; the dog, she saw, had returned to the shepherd. Half the pool’s margin had no sheep near it; Dorrin dipped her mug into the clear water, then walked a distance from the pool and sat again. She opened the box. Bread, cheese, sausage.
“I have food,” she said in Common, hoping the shepherd knew it. “Will you come?” She made the gesture she knew. The other stared for what seemed a long time, then spoke to the dog, which moved off toward the flock. Then the other—Dorrin still wasn’t sure if man or woman—came closer, slowly.
“Thought you dead.” The voice was high for a man, heavily accented, and closer Dorrin could see a vague female shape under the big loose shirt. Her face was tanned and grimy, smeared with what looked like charcoal. “Share.” The woman—or girl?—pulled a small leather bag from somewhere in the cloak. “Salt.”
“Share,” Dorrin said, setting out the loaf, the cheese, the sausage.
“Meat!” A sudden grin flashed white in that dirty face, and by the teeth Dorrin decided she was young, no more than fifteen summers. “You share meat?”
“Share,” Dorrin said again. She sliced off a hunk of sausage, a thick slab of bread, and set the sausage on the bread.
The girl sat down; this close Dorrin could see the smooth skin of youth under the dirt. Dorrin set the bread and sausage between them and cut a serving for herself. The girl held out the leather bag. “Salt,” she said again. “You put.” She pointed at the bread.
Dorrin took the leather bag—greasy and smelling of sheep and dirt—and opened it. Grainy, gray, but—probably—salt. She took a pinch and sprinkled it on her bread and sausage. The girl nodded, snatched up the bread and sausage as if afraid Dorrin would take them back, and bit into the sausage, watching Dorrin closely.
Dorrin ate her own too-salty bread and sausage more slowly, then pointed to the cheese. “Share?”
The girl shook her head and pointed to the sheep. “No need.” She looked around. “Much water. No water last time come. You bring?”
“Water came,” Dorrin said.
The girl peered at Dorrin’s face, leaning close. “You … strange.”
That was probably true, Dorrin thought, suppressing a desire to laugh. This girl, living in this remote wherever it was—might never have seen a woman soldier—though at the moment she wasn’t a woman soldier.
“Red. There.” The girl’s dirty finger pointed at Dorrin’s forehead.
“Bumped head,” Dorrin said, though she didn’t remember bumping her head.
“Not hit. Thing. Red thing face.”
Before Dorrin could answer, the dog barked and charged back up the slope across the pool: barking and barking. Dorrin looked … four riders on small rough-coated horses coming down the slope. One of the riders yelled something Dorrin couldn’t understand; the girl waved. “Friend,” she said to Dorrin. Dorrin stood up; the riders reined their mounts to a halt, staring at her.