“I told them you ran from the enemy swine to join our ranks, called by the gods themselves.”

“You lying—”

He reached out and grabbed me, almost pulling me from my saddle. “Careful, Princess,” he hissed, his face close to mine. “Do not forget who you are when you speak—nor who I am. I’m the Komizar, and I’ll give them a morsel of whatever they need to fill their growling bellies. Do you understand?” The horses jostled beneath us, and I feared I would fall to the ground between them.

“Yes,” I answered. “Perfectly.”

“Good, then.”

He released me, and we traveled on for several miles until the next hamlet came into view.

“So is this how it shall go all day?” I asked. “Am I never to meet the backbone of Venda, or will I only be pointed at with your long, bony finger?”

He looked down briefly at his gloved hands, and a sliver of satisfaction warmed me. “You’re hot-tempered,” he said, “and not mindful of your mouth. Could I trust you, or would you slash away at their hope?”

I looked at him, wondering why a man who seemed to feed on sowing fear was now so sensitively concerned with sowing hope in the hillfolk. Was it really just the coming winter that he was trying to prepare them for, or was he bolstering them for something else?

“I know what it means to hold on to hope, Komizar. Many times in crossing the Cam Lanteux, it was all that sustained me. I would not steal their hope, even if it comes at my expense.”

He eyed me with suspicion. “You’re a strange girl, Lia. Shrewd and calculating, Malich tells me, and adept at games, which I admire. But I do not admire lying.” Our gazes were locked, his black eyes trying to read every line of my face. “Do not disappoint me.” He clicked his reins and moved on.

As we got closer, the longhouse door opened and an old man limped out, aided by a crooked stick. I had noticed in Venda that there were few stooped adults with white hair. It seemed that the aged were a rare treasure. More people trickled out behind him. The man greeted the Komizar as an equal, not as one of his fearful groveling subjects.

“What brings you?” he asked.

“A few gifts to tide you through the winter.” The Komizar signaled a guard, who hefted a large tied bundle onto his shoulder and dropped it near the longhouse door.

“News?” the Komizar asked.

The old man shook his head. “The winds are sharp. They cut both rider and tongue. And the gods promise a hard winter.”

“But spring has greater promise,” the Komizar said. “And that hope can stave off the talons of winter.”

They spoke in riddles I couldn’t follow.

The old man looked at me. “And this?”

The Komizar grabbed my arm and pulled me forward so the old man could get a good look. “A princess of Morrighan with the gift. She’s run from the enemy swine to join our ranks, called by the gods themselves. Already the enemy scatters. And as you can see,” he said, viewing my vest, “she’s been welcomed by the clan of Meurasi.”

The old man aimed a squinted eye at me. “That so?”

The Komizar’s grip on my arm tightened. I looked into the old man’s eyes, hoping to convey more with a gaze than my words. “It is as your Komizar says. I am a princess, First Daughter of Morrighan, and I’ve run from my countrymen who are your enemy.”

The Komizar looked sideways at me, a slight smile creasing his eyes.

“And your name, girl?” the old man asked.

I knew you would come.

The voice was as clear as the old man’s. I closed my eyes, trying to chase it away, but it only came louder and stronger. Jezelia, the one marked with power, the one marked with hope. I opened my eyes. Everyone stared at me, silent and waiting, their eyes wide with curiosity.

“Jezelia,” I answered. “My name is Jezelia.”

His watery eyes studied me and then he turned to the others standing behind him. “Jezelia, who has been welcomed by the clan of Meurasi,” he repeated. They spoke in hushed tones among themselves.

The Komizar leaned close, whispering in my ear, “Well done, Princess. A convincing touch.”

It was only a clever sham to him, but clearly more to these hillfolk. The old man turned back to us. “Some thannis to warm you on your way?” he offered.

The Komizar forced a weak smile. Even he thought thannis tasted like sour dirt. “We need to be on our way—”

“We thank you for your graciousness,” I interrupted. “We would love some.”

The Komizar shot me a dark glare, but didn’t balk in front of the old man, as I knew he wouldn’t. It would never do to have a newcomer embrace the tradition of Venda more than its ruler—no matter how distasteful it was.

I lifted the proffered mug to my lips. Yes, sour moldy dirt, but not half as bad as wiggling white grubs. I drank heartily and handed my mug to the woman who served it, thanking her for her kindness. The Komizar took twice as long to down his.

He berated me when I didn’t offer a “display” of the gift at our next stop.

“You said word passes quickly among the hillfolk. A light touch is better than a heavy-handed performance. Leave them wanting more.”

He laughed. “Shrewd and calculating. Malich was right.”

“And he is right about so few things.”

And so the day went, hamlet after hamlet, the Komizar gaining favor with gifts, sacks of flour and morsels of hope, with me as proof that the enemy was trembling and that the gods were smiling on Venda.