They'd started that morning before the sun, so night moved in as a welcome tide. The main house had warmed enough for comfort, and while Lena napped in the loft before supper, Peter sat on a knee by the hearth and mindlessly stirred at the bubbling pot, eyes low on the contents therein while he downed the last of a bitter drink. His mind, so often racing, had yielded to the simple desire to eat and rest. Long days tended to have that effect.
He glanced through the fire when an incoherent mumble broke the crackling stillness, but Ethos showed no signs of change from his place on the other side. He was still curled on the bedroll, warmed by blankets and a set of old clothes, sweating out whatever flight he'd gone to.
Peter quickly lost interest and nudged the pot hook away from the coals. He thwacked a ladle against the iron and swapped his empty cup for a pail. The journey to his feet was surprisingly taxing, and despite his efforts to exit discreetly, the front door rebelled and rasped shut behind him.
A light rain persisted, enclosing the stoop. Sheltered by the dripping overhang, he gazed out into the night for a while before proceeding forth.
The river wasn't far, a quick round trip, and he could see town lights from the rocky bank. The full pail hung heavier at his side, as if it were more than water he'd fetched, but he chalked it up to sore muscles and tottered back home, taking care not to spill.
Ethos was sitting up when he returned, enveloped by the mound of his blankets and looking more than a little disoriented. The rasp of the door drew his eyes from the fire.
Peter searched the immediate area for a hand cloth. "Ho, stranger," he greeted, kicking open the linen trunk. "You've been out for hours."
"Where am I?"
"Nahga, town's end. How'd you hurt yourself?"
Ethos looked down at his bruised arm. "A stag kicked me."
Peter approached with the supplies, eyebrow raised. "A stag did?"
"It wasn't his fault. He didn't know what he was doing."
Peter, wisely, neglected to comment. He set the pail down beside Ethos, towel and all. "Sorry it's not warmer," he said. "Have at it."
"It's water?"
"Aye, river water. Clean yourself. I'll splint you up after." Peter righted the stool he'd toppled in his haste to cart the boy inside. "There's food," he added. "It's not much, but you look like you could eat." Ethos wasn't paying attention. He'd shrugged out of the blankets and was groggily pulling at the fabric of his shirt, examining it for a hidden purpose. Peter admitted, "It's big, I know."
The short sleeves swallowed his elbows. "It's like floppy skin."
"You're welcome," Peter said, drily. "You can work it off when you're feeling better."
Ethos bent over the pail and took a few hungry swigs from the cup of his hand. He then submerged his injured arm and sagged, head sinking forward in silent relief. He didn't move.
Peter asked, "Do you understand what happened today?"
"That's a difficult question to answer."
"It's Ethos, right?" Peter was deliberately silent until the kid looked up at him. "I made the call to take you in," he explained. "The least I need in return is for you to tell me what you are and where you came from."
"I'm nobody dangerous."
"I didn't ask if you were dangerous."
Ethos didn't reply. It was hard to discern any emotion beyond exhaustion.
"Or you can go." Peter indicated the entrance. "There's the door."
Lightning flared outside, but Ethos almost seemed tempted to go. A low roll of thunder passed by overhead, and his outrageous eyes moved between options.
With a sigh, Peter reached for the fire iron. "It's near in all directions, you know."
"Near what?"
"Near winter, for one. And near freezing." He pointed the iron at Ethos. "And you're near useless without that arm. So do me a solid and help me to wrap my head around this."
Ethos stared hard at the iron. But then his eyes jumped to Peter. "Who else is here?"
Just like the water pail, the weight of the iron grew tenfold. "It's just us."
"That's a lie." Purposefully: "Do me a solid."
Peter tried not to glare. "My sister."
"Does she have a name?"
"Lena."
"Upstairs?"
"Aye, sleeping."
Ethos nodded, just once. "Ask your questions."
"Great. Where did you come from?"
"It was all destroyed. You saw it."
"Did you live there by yourself?"
"No. There were others."
"How old are you?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"That's what I said."
"What are you?"
"Human."
"Ballsch."
"Ballsch?"
"Aye, ballsch. How'd you do that thing with the trees?"
Maybe he'd forgotten that part. Ethos kneaded his forehead, canvassed by the fire. "I should have died," he said again, eyes low. "I should have burned with the rest of them."
"What exactly happened?"
He was silent for a time. "My head hurts."
"Aye, on the grounds of you kneading a bruise into it."
"There's something wrong with my eyes."
"I'll say," Peter scoffed, of the world's greatest national understatement. He poked at the fire. "I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw you. If you're not spriggan I'll eat my socks."
Ethos glanced over. He seemed genuinely confused, if not partly amused by the threat and wincing because of the pain. "What are you talking about?"
Peter gestured at him. "Your eyes."
"Yeah, but what about them."
"They're unreal. Too green, I guess."
A strange look passed over his face. "My eyes are blue."
"I don't know what to tell you, brother. I've never seen anything like it before."
Ethos made another pass at his brow, pressing his mind into motion. "That doesn't make sense."
Peter watched him. "You said there was another one."
The topic change was too abrupt. Ethos blinked at him. "Another?"
"When we found you out there. You said there was someone else. Like me."
A few more blinks, before slow comprehension. Reminded, Ethos sobered. "He was their leader, I think," he recalled. "Four men in total. I met with them because I knew the language." His expression was seriously lacking something, like he still couldn't register what he'd experienced. "They destroyed everything," he said. "I didn't listen."
"You think it was them that set the fire?"
"It's the only explanation I can think of."
Peter returned to poking the hearth. "What did they want?"
"He called it mutual aid. He'd heard stories about what the clans could do."
"So it's true." This, from above. They glanced up at the loft where Lena was listening, arms folded over the ledge. "The forest there," she went on, to Peter. "Jonah's talked of it, of the lore. Ancient trees and ancient creatures, all in tune with nature belike."
"Atokai," Ethos corrected, softly. "Who's this Jonah?"
"Our father," she said. "He's a shipman and out for tales to tell."
Peter retrieved the cooling ladle and nudged the pot hook back over the coals. "I thought you were sleeping up there," he said, eyeing her. "How long have you been snooping?"
"I'm surprised at you, brother," she said, with a yawn. "The skies were turned black for days when it burned. Jonah himself set out with the townsmen." She waited for him to remember, in vain. "It was a month or so after Skinny Rolf was crushed by that shipment from Backwater Bay."
Peter frowned. "That was fifteen years ago."
"Aye, at least," she replied. "Atokai, was it? Jonah had a different name for them. Said they'd been around for ages before the tono dropped out of the sky." She shrugged at that, bobbing her head. "Hard to say how true it is. His stories are known to have added color to them."
Ethos had gone very still and quiet. He was staring at the pail as if it were at fault for what he was hearing. "Ethos," Peter said. "You've got a look in your eye. Mourn before you decide what to do."
Ethos made annoyed sort of sound. "How I mourn is my business."
"It was fifteen years ago."
"That's impossible. Look at me."
"I'm looking. Call it hibernation if you have to."
"People don't hibernate."
"Okay, but you were in a tree."
That earned Peter a glare, but it didn't last. Sourly, Ethos looked back at the pail. "They came from out west," he muttered. "Land of soap and pastries."
Peter traded a quick glance with Lena. "Oldden," he knew, and she nodded. "They must've been delegates. If they caused the fire, someone told them to do it."
Lena scowled. "Highborn scum."
"Highborn," Ethos echoed, eyes rising. "What's highborn?"
"Old money, mostly," she leered. "Litters of inbred pups with power."
Peter sent her a tired look, but she just shrugged at him. "Highborn can trace their lineage back to the founders," he reiterated, for Ethos. "They're not all inbred and plenty are hardworking."
"Ballsch," Lena spat. "Stonehand stock gets reserves, I hear."
"Stonehand stock can't still have reserves."
"Aye, Liam said so. How do you think Gladius got where he is?"
"Nepotism. Gladius got where he is on account of his dad overthrowing Mungo."
Lena rolled on the loft, inverting. "Then how do you think Mungo got where he was?"
"Mungo was a thug in a tiara, but the answer's still nepotism. Greentide highborn."
Ethos was carefully watching them argue, brow deeply furrowed. "Gladius?"
"Aye, King Gladius," Lena confirmed. "The Ruddy Revival himself."
Gears moved behind his eyes. "And Bonesteel? What's that?"
Peter said, "Bonesteel's a founding family."
"They have territory high north," Lena helped, gesturing vaguely northward-ho. "Up along the coast, off the Riftlands. The bogs."
"I don't know the land," Ethos said. "Are they allies?"
She flopped back onto her belly. "Who?"
"Gladius and the Bonesteels."
Peter snorted. "Nobody's friends with the Bonesteels."
"High north doesn't have any friends," Lena said, and she pivoted to descend from the loft. "That goes double for other high north. Battlefrosts and suchlike."
"Nobody hates high north like high north."
"Some consider us high north."
"We're not high north. We're high east."
Ethos had closed his eyes tight in thought. Or maybe it was the headache. "We have maps," Peter assured him. "I'll pull them out in the morning."
But Ethos shook his head. "He said he'd feed me to the dogs."
"Who did?"
"The Bonesteel. I insulted him."
Lena set three bowls out on the hearth's warm ring of capstones. "So that's why you're interested," she guessed. "How do you know he was a Bonesteel? Did he say so?"
Ethos looked up at her. "He said he represented them."
"Ah," she mused. "A representative. They'll have records in Oldden."
"Lena," Peter cut in, hoping to impart some caution with a weary parting of hands. "Let's hold off until morning, yeah? I still need to put his arm right."
She made a face and asked, "What, we can't talk about it?"
"Just don't get him overexcited, is all."
Ethos said, "Peter."
A single word, politely spoken, but not to be taken lightly. Peter met his stare and was instantly reminded of their encounter in the wilds: the unfounded familiarity, like they'd met somehow in the past. He suddenly knew beyond doubt to be silent.
Lena snapped him out of it by taking the ladle out of his hand. She caught his eye as she spooned out servings, privately concerned by him. "How bad is the break?" she asked, to keep him talking. "It looks closed."
"Aye, closed."
"Good. Shall I get the kit?"
"Please." Peter poured himself another drink, heart curiously pounding. But Ethos was watching, so he held up the bottle. "Snort?" he asked. "It's not awful."
Ethos crookedly smiled at that. "Since you put it so appealingly."
"You know the common tongue pretty well for someone who's never had much use for it."
He shrugged. "I always spoke with the crows in my first language."
"Crows?"
"Black birds," he said, curtly. "Go caw."
"I know what a crow is, you pinworm. Are you messing with me?"
Lena circled around the fire, unrolling a drift of pottage steam. Ethos glanced up when he realized she was headed for him. "It's hot," she said, touching his shoulder as the bowl changed hands. "Don't be shy about asking for more. There's plenty."
He seemed more interested in her face than the meal. "Thank you."
"There's not plenty," Peter grumbled. "Don't act like we're well when we hardly meet ends."
She crossed the room for the medical kit. "I'll give him half of mine."
"You won't. You haven't eaten since morning." Peter couldn't hear her retort, but he was sure it was snide. He let it go. He instead watched Ethos sniff at the pottage. "Cabbage," he said. "Just cabbage and carrots. And parsnips. Old parsnips. I know it's not much."
"That's a matter of opinion," Ethos said. "I've never had a hot meal like this."
"You couldn't have lived off of bark and nuts."
"I didn't."
"Bugs and vermin?"
Ethos just smirked. "What will you do to my arm?"
Lena had left Peter's bowl on the capstones. He helped himself to it, chasing down vegetables with his spoon. " 'You again,' " he said, hung up on it, frankly. "Why'd you say that to me?"
"I thought bugs were crawling out of my skin," Ethos reasoned. "What about my arm?"
He'd answered pretty quickly. Peter chewed at him, but didn't push it. With a shrug, he returned to his pottage. "It depends," he said. "Can you move your fingers?"
Ethos drew his arm from the pail. "Yes."
"Which one hurts the most?"
"Which finger?"
"Aye."
"The littlest one."
Peter thanked Lena as she handed him the kit. The third bowl was hers. He gestured for her to sit with them and turned back to Ethos. "You've got nothing to worry about," he said. "It's not bad. You'll be right as rain in a few short weeks even without a pother."
Ethos set his bowl down. "What's a pother?"
"Out here they're dosers and sawbones," Peter said. "Farther south they're witches and healers. Up north they're medics. West, they're practitioners. Any sort of man that'll cure you."
"And you don't count?"
"Me? No. I'm just a farmer."
Ethos nodded, though it was hard to say if he understood. He absently scrubbed at his jaw with the hand cloth. "I should return," he said. "I'm unprotected out here."
Lena frowned at him. Mouth full, she asked, "You can't protect yourself?"
He, too, frowned. It was like the notion hadn't occurred to him. He looked confused again.
Charmed, she sniggered and said, "It's okay, we'll protect you."
"I don't think it's that kind of protection."
"There's nobody out there," Peter cut in. "Both of you, eat."
So they complied, albeit like reprimanded children, and while Ethos was clearly unaccustomed to bowls, his face was quickly at home in it, spoon forgotten somewhere on the floor. Just cabbage and carrots and a few rotten parsnips, devoured faster than food of the gods.
Fourteen years asleep in a tree. Small surprise he was on the brink of starvation. Privately amused throughout the meal, Peter finished his own meagre portion and began an assessment of the medical kit, which had all but a cloth to secure the arm.
"I'll find something," Lena whispered, reading his mind like she always did as she gathered the dirty dishes. "The rest is all there?"
"All but a sling."
Ethos was drying his face on the blankets when Peter circled the fire. He was certainly cleaner, but far from clean. He jumped a little when he saw Peter near and sighed, "Sorry."
"Let's see the arm," Peter replied. "Take it slow."
"I'm finding it hard to focus."
His skin was hot to the touch. Worryingly so. Peter made the mistake of reaching for his forehead, which prompted a violent flinch of surprise. "You're burning up," Peter explained, to his furious look of betrayal. "Quit glaring at me."
"I feel fine."
"You just said you couldn't focus." Partly in disbelief, Peter dunked his hand in the pail and found the river water just short of steaming. "This is crazy," he said. "What's happening?"
Ethos quieted him. "Just give me a second."
"Does it hurt?"
"I said— "
"Has it happened before?"
Ethos made a slightly frustrated gesture with his free hand, a search for words, and in his simple carelessness he wrenched a gnarled juniper tree up through the flooring. It split the foundation in an earthy shower and curled tightly against the ceiling. Dust coasted from musty crossbeams.
At the other end of the room, Lena dropped a handful of linen.
All in all, it ended the developing argument rather magnificently. Ethos himself seemed the most stunned, staring in shock at what he'd done. He didn't look like he knew what to do with his offending hand. "I'm sorry," he said, with a quick glance at Peter. "I'm not supposed to be able to do this."
Lena whispered, "It's like Jonah said."
Peter returned to his feet very gradually. He refused to feel guilty as Ethos watched him go with those big confused eyes. "Stay," he just said, pointing him down. "I'm serious. Stay."
Mercifully, Ethos didn't argue. He nodded.
Peter circumvented the juniper in all of its absurd glory, watchful, part-ducking as if it might jump alive, and he continued to stare at it with distrust when he blindly steered Lena toward the exit. The insufferable door rasped shut at their toes. The rain enclosing the stoop was a blessing.
"Peter," Lena murmured, gripping his arm. "What do we do?"
She was pale, he thought, when he turned to answer. It was unlike her. But he probably looked the same. He drew her in for a hug, squeezing tight. "We're okay," he swore, and they were. "He was just as surprised as we were. And it's just a tree."
"Just a tree," she scoffed. "The floor was to pieces."
"Just a tree, just a floor. We can fix it. We'll fix it tomorrow."
"He can't be here. What if people come looking for him? They'll know from our papers."
"Nobody's looking for him. He's been as much dead for over a decade."
"Aye, but he'll draw attention if he can't control it."
"I can't just force him out in the rain." Peter gently pushed her back. "And we could use him if you think about it," he said, catching her eyes. "We have fields that need help."
"It's been a bad season. An overstrong yield would attract just as much attention."
He shook a finger at her. "Not if we're smart about it."
"And who's to say he'll help in the first place?"
"We saved his life. It's a debt."
"That's a real dangerous course, brother."
"We're all a lot more likely to help the people we think we owe."
"Aye, maybe, but it sounds like he's gearing up to take on the Bonesteels." Lightning pulsed in the north, silhouetting mountain summits. He wasn't about to argue with her, but he wasn't wrong about the advantage. She must've seen it in his eyes, because she moved to open the door, but then stopped. She glanced back and said, "It's your fault we're in this position, you know."
Blame: great fuel for a fire. "Aye, halfwit that I am."
"Halfwit, enough. It is."
"Right, I should've just left him for dead like you wanted, let the buzzards have at him so we could free ourselves up to enjoy Karna's blandest pottage and Dirty Neck Esther's unaged horse piss. And they say altruism is dead."
She'd gone inside by the time he said piss. The door slammed.
Peter chased after her, slamming it himself just because. "Aye, run off," he spat, at her heels. "Go on, run, as you know I'm right."
She spun on him, pointing. "I'm not helping you chop down that juniper."
"I'm not getting that food off your face."
"Sea slug!"
"Swamp donkey!"
Lena stormed off, scaling the loft in record time and banging all manner of things along the way, making noise like to prove how angry she was, and while Peter would have liked to congratulate himself on a job pretty damn well done, it quickly occurred to him that they'd been too outspoken. Ethos was staring over at him, injured arm awkwardly elevated.
On the spot, Peter jerked a thumb at the loft and said, "Women."
"The juniper's my fault," he replied. "I'll take it down."
"You got a spare arm I don't know about?"
Surprisingly, Ethos smiled, like he was hiding a larger one right behind it. "Thanks for not leaving me to the buzzards," he said. "I'll help your fields, if I can. You're right that I owe you. I do."
It took Peter a moment to follow. He glanced at the door and back. "You could hear us?" he asked, incredulous. "From where you're sitting?"
"It comes and goes."
Peter joined him by the fire, salvaging a strip of cloth from Lena's pile of fallen linen. "So I'm sure you could tell that we like a low profile," he ventured. "Am I right?"
"I'll only stay as long as I need to. You won't have to worry about unwanted attention."
Peter had to look at him. "This family had issues long before you cropped up."
He gave a nod. "I understand."
"Good." Peter reacquainted himself with the supplies. "Let's see to your arm, then," he said. "Last chance for a swig at Esther's poor excuse for shine. It'll take the edge off."
"Again, as appealing as you make it sound— " A thought must have come to him, because Ethos submerged his good hand in the pail of murky water. Peter could hear his nails scraping the bottom. "In the forest, we would take oupir," he said. "There was always plenty by the boundary. It liked the partial shade of the folius trees."
Peter asked, "It's a plant?"
Ethos withdrew a dollop of muck. "It's a weed."
A snarled knot of root and stem emerged from the little gobbet of soil, slithering downward and upward, respectively. Narrow, pointed leaves unwound into finely-textured wings, lengthwise charted by parallel veins. It grew no taller than a healthy hyacinth, flowering into violet spires.
"Oupir," Ethos repeated, hand lost within the mass. "Shima taught me where to find it in case I ever seriously injured myself while she wasn't around."
"How does it work?"
"I'd show you if it wasn't stuck to me." He attempted to shake it loose. "It's kind of invasive," he admitted. "Sometimes it kills the stuff around it."
Peter smirked. "Only sometimes?"
The oupir plopped loudly into the pail. It floated there while Ethos inspected it. "It's the leaves you want," he explained, and he picked a few, offering one. "The flowers are a little toxic. They make it hard to move for a while."
"Are you asking me to try it?"
"I'm not asking you to do anything. You just seem interested."
Peter grudgingly took it from him, scowling. "So, what, I'm supposed to eat it?"
Ethos already had one in his mouth. He turned the plant in search of another. "No, please don't eat it," he said. "Just suck out the juices."
Up above, Lena muttered, "Do the smell check."
Too late. But the flavor was fascinating, and Peter couldn't be bothered enough to admit a moment of carelessness. "It's sweet," he said. "It's like sugar. Like candy."
Ethos seemed to find him amusing. "What were you expecting?"
"Medicine's supposed to be bitter."
"Then you must have bad medicine."
"I'm losing feeling in my face." A numbing agent— a humble leaf. Someone sighed, and Peter looked up to find Lena at the ledge again. "Forget fallen stars," he called to her, intending to brag about the new find, but something about her expression stopped him. "What's up?"
She turned her cheek and rolled out of sight. "Nothing."
She wasn't really angry, he knew, but she'd sulk until he apologized. He'd do it tomorrow, when he wasn't being scrutinized by a one-armed woodling. "How's the pain?" he asked, of the woodling in question. "Better now?"
"Much."
"Glad to hear it." Peter motioned for his arm. His skin was still overwarm, but not hot. "You've cooled down. Why is that?"
Ethos just sort of shrugged him off again. The changes he'd undergone were clearly a source of discomfort. "My head doesn't hurt as much anymore," he said, eyes low as he watched Peter identify the fracture site. "The oupir helped a lot."
"Then keep taking it," Peter said, glancing. "Our folks are due back in weeks and I'd like there to still be a house to return to. Can't hole them up with the goats all winter."
Ethos glanced back, imparting a tired gleam of good humor. "Understood."
Peter finished tying him off and gathered up all the unneeded bits. "Sorry about your family," he said, sensing he ought to. "Breakfast's at dayrise."
"Thank you."
Peter stood with the supplies, fishing the depleted leaf from his mouth. He used his foot to push the pot hook out of the fire. "It's late," he said, pausing. "Are you alright down here? Need anything?"
"I'm fine," Ethos answered. "Thanks again for not leaving me for dead."
"Right. You owe me. Don't fall asleep on your arm."
"Okay."