Vode An, 1

Kashyyyk
Mirdala Clan Encampment

The jungles beyond the beach were clamoring with sound, the shrilling of birds, the cries of hidden animals. She longed to disappear into the treeline and go alone, with only trunks and branches for company, and the shadows of the leaves. Four days ago, she found the soft and rotting timbers of an abandoned village, and the hunting there was good. But she had to stay here, and stay in sight; people would talk about her when she was away, worse than what they now said. She was hearing whispers in the camp, among the men as well as the women. If she went away now, they would say she poisoned him, that she used magic. She had done neither of these things; in truth, at the end, her heart ached. She did not want him to die.

Was it a mistake to come to this world? The hunting was good, that was true; the great forests provided food and furs for the people, and from time to time Czerka would ask for warriors. One could go for weeks without seeing hide or hair of a wookiee, in this part of the world, and there was land and air enough for all. The beaches were safe enough, and the waters gave up big fish. By all rights it should have been paradise for the remnants of Clan Mirdala; Lord Mirdala brought them here to start again, to raise children, to train warriors. It is no Dxun, he had told them, but it is as close as we can get. It was his dream to come here, but now that dream quickly unraveled.

A month ago, they had lost a brace of warriors to a beast within the jungle; only bits and pieces of their armor were recovered. Three weeks ago, one of the women had birthed a stillborn child and died thereafter. Then a storm blew down a row of daub and wattle huts. Lord Mirdala fell ill a couple days ago, from what, none could tell precisely; some said it was something in the tropic water, some said it was the bite of an insect, those of the camp that did not secretly whisper it was her. Lord Mirdala was confined now to his bed, and it was unlikely he would ever rise again. In his fevers he shouted and raved; he was all his life a quiet man, thoughtful, cunning even, true to the Mirdala name. But now he howled and said strange things; there was no rest in the camp. Even Marev seemed on edge; he did nothing but scour his armor and clean his weapons, entrenched in the circle of his cohorts. And Czerka watched, curious, always curious and waiting.

The soothsayer drank in every moment of this crisis. The old bitch went hobbling from one end of the beach to the other, tossing about portents and omens like handfuls of sand. Only out of fear of Marev did the crone not name her name outright, but the whole clan knew the insinuations that she made. She spoke of a "red demon" she saw in her dreams, a "red demon" that lingered in the woods, waiting to strike, eyes full of evil, teeth dripping with venom, and claws made of lightning.

This annoyed her. When things went well, they slapped her back and praised her like any other mando, but when things were bad, they shrunk from her, all cautious eyes and whispers. She handled her weapons well, both blade and rifle, and it annoyed her when the others whispered about her rumored dark powers. She did not have any-- that one time.. that one time was an accident, a coincidence. She didn't need any extra help to bring down her prey. She was a warrior in her own right, but these whispers made her into a witch, a monster, whenever the jealous or the superstitious needed some new rumor to pass about the camp. To hell with them.

"Getlika!" A healer hailed her from the far end of camp. She shaded her hand with a glove, and went as she was called. "He asks for you." Once she came close, she was told on a sigh, "It isn't long now. He will go to the manda."

The white light of the beach was smothered once the flaps of the tent fell behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim interior; Lord Mirdala, in the earlier stages of his misery, had requested a tent far from the others in the camp, not wanting to spread whatever it was that he had contracted. He was sweating on a pallet loaded with furs. In Kashyyyk's humid heat, he shivered as though he suffered bitter winter.

"Getlika," he rasped. His bloodshot eyes turned to her, in the dim light. "Getlika, my Little Red Hair. You must help me put on my armor."

"There's no one to fight," she said, thinking of his earlier madness. "There's no wookiees here, they're weeks away, deep in the jungle."

"No, no.. " Is he dreaming of the war? Doesn't he know it's over? The old chief shivered, and went on, "I need my armor. If I must die here, in weakness, let me die in my armor."

Sometimes, when the jeers and whispers were hard for her, Getlika had wished secretly for this moment. She had held her hate close, letting it burn, making the chief the root of her troubles. But not that the moment came near, she found she had no taste for revenge, real or imagined. "You won't die," she said. "You shouldn't talk like that. You'll get better, it's only your body getting used to the planet. You'll be sick, but you'll get better."

His cracked teeth showed in a slow, sad smile. "I will be better soon, that much is true," he said. "When I go to my fathers, when I go to the manda. They will know I did the right thing. They will know I chose the right path, I did what's best for Mirdala, I wanted the best." Not this again.

She looked upon the trembling form of Lord Mirdala, the war chief, whose wisdom and strength had won the people many victories; she saw now a sickened man, an old man, with the flesh falling away from his bones, his hair lank and sweaty, and his dark eyes blurry and full of red. She felt shame.

"I.. I'll go get your armor," she told him, and bowed out.

His attendants gazed at her, curious, standing about outside the tent. She walked the length of the beach, back to the building they used as council chambers. She looked for Marev, but he was not in his place; his cronies, his armor, and his weapons were gone. She felt anger; he should be here for this, him, not her. He was his father's son, flesh and blood.

The building was empty. It had once been a supply shed of some kind; this, and a couple other buildings here, were once part of an outpost that Czerka founded here. They had cut back on their operations here and moved elsewhere, and they let the Mandalorians do what they would with the outpost. From time to time they paid good credits for warriors to protect them in the northern sector, or to hunt the wookiees. Getlika had contempt for Czerka; their weapons were shoddy, their employees were cowards, and their credits were not worth the trouble. They thought they could buy anything.

She found the armor in the room reserved for the chieftain. The walls were hung with furs and hides he had won across the years, and other, stranger trophies. An enormous tusk. A fused two-headed skull. A length of embroidered silk. Ropes and ropes of beads. A mummified hand of a jawa. A broken saber hilt. Strange currencies. The armor was there, orange and gold, the colors of Clan Mirdala. It was rare that any of the chiefs had retained their old armor, and this was only another reason why the other clans despised Mirdala. It was demanded of all the clans to give up their armor, their droids, and their best weapons, after the last battle, when the Warlock and the Demon destroyed the tomb world, when Revan took the head of Mandalor Anila. But Mirdala had come late, and escaped early. They had retained most of their numbers, most of their weapons, and they had lost their honor.

Gazing down on the chestplate, and on the helmet, Getlika tried to remember life before this very armor appeared before her, the orange and gold swimming with reflections from the flames. She could recall very little. It was drowned out in the vivid memories of fire, the explosions. She could remember clear as day the sound the iron dragons made, and the destruction that they wrought. But it was quiet now. That village and that wreckage were gone forever. Sometimes she dreamed to return, but she did not know where to go; her memories were hazy to recall, and her heart ached, feeling torn in two. Where would she go? Would I really want to?

Getlika brought back the armor, hefting it across the shoulder. At least the soothsayer was quiet now; Getlika noticed the distinct lack of the old crone's voice. Even the tropic birds were silent now, and all she heard was the rolling of the waves and the wind in the trees. The sound the armor made as she took it up the beach.

"..the mistake was to go at all," his voice came to her as she entered the tent. Had he been talking all this time, not aware that she had stepped out? "They said I came late, they said I was a coward, that I cost them victory.. no. Shouldn't have gone at all, then Mirdala would be stronger, it was their last chance, they gave all they had.. "

"Mirdala will be strong," she told him, as she brought the armor to his pallet. "Mirdala is strong."

"Should have gone to Dxun," he was mumbling now. "Instead of here. I thought it wasn't time yet, I thought there was too much danger.. but I should've died there. Not here.. Czerka.." He hissed when he sat up. His bedding was soaked with sweat.

"You'll get better," she said. "Please.. " Feeling a stab of fear, she pulled the armor away, but he motioned for her to bring it back. "They need you. Please.. let me bring Marev here."

She realized that it was the armor she had hated, that she had feared, before she came to know the man that it protected. She looked into his eyes now, seeing the pain and regret; she wished she could use her power to save him.

"He can't see me like this." Lord Mirdala shook his tattered head. "I'll need my armor. He has contempt for me.. his mother taught him to hate me."

As she helped him pull on the armor, fitting him first with the padding, he began to talk again. "I should have never taken a bride from Clan Dral," he said, with sharpening focus in his eye, his manner. "The whole thick lot is nothing but cannoks, grumbling, snorting, eating. I thought it would seal an alliance.. but Mirdala never needed them. So long as you have.. so long as you have yourself, and keep true, you can stand alone.. better be true to yourself, than to stand with false allies.. "

"Marev's your son."

The old man seemed to draw strength from the armor. His voice hardened. "He must not be chieftain after me. I know he thinks that way.. I know the young ones go to him, I know Czerka watches him with interest. Czerka thinks they have found a man to buy completely. It is a mistake..I.. He will understand, one day, when he is old as I am. I must be Lord Mirdala, and not only Buir. He must understand. You will tell him."

"I'll tell him. Let me bring him here, when you're suited up."

"These past years I have told him all he needs to know. You can bring a bantha to water, but you cannot make him drink. He will grow into a fine man, some day, but this is not his time. The clan must choose. And they will choose Fen, I know they will. He is respected here."

Getlika was buckling some of the straps. "Fen," she said. "Fen's a good man. He's not half as clever as you, but he's loyal, and he'll know better than anyone. He's well liked by the others."

"He was there with me," Mirdala said, suddenly. "He was there when Mandalore died. He saw it, same as I. We've never said. Maybe he has. I don't know. He'll explain to them, after all these years of silence. Then we'll go to Dxun."

She paused, and peered around, toward his face. Was he sinking back into that haze again? "I didn't know you were there when Revan defeated Mandalore.. " These words she said, gently; she felt a curious sort of dread, and at the same time, she didn't want to trouble him further by questioning his account.

"No. I was there in the battle prior.. Clan Mirdala and the Togorian Guard. You should have seen it! A battle like nothing else. Our last victory.. " The memory of the triumph briefly sparkled in his eye, but there was dread in his face, a weird mood brought out by jungle sickness. "We'd been fighting for two days, in stinking armor, in muddy trenches. Eating fishmeal we thought was as old as the Exar Kun war. It was the greatest time of my life, better than my first hunt, better than my wedding night. I spit on the name of Clan Dral! Cannoks all. No, no.. " He seemed to waver. "We'd been fighting two days. Deaf, all of us, from all the artillery.. but when the Togorians made their last charge, some on foot, some on vehicles, some swooping down on the mosgoths.. you could only hear their roaring. It was the only sound, that roar, and your own slamming heart. "

Getlika saw him go away from her, in his mind. He was very sick. She shouldn't be suiting him up in his armor. He needed rest. He'd be all right.

"It was our great victory," he said softly now. "Our last triumph. We drank gal and sang songs, til we were all sick. Wasn't until the day after that we came to find that Mandalore was struck low. A stray piece of shrapnel got him, maybe. I don't know. He was breathing hard, talking to us as we stood in his tent. Wasn't making any damn sense of us. His women crying.. he asked for me, you know, me in particular. Said Lord Mirdala was the wisest of all of us, said he'd know what to do."

She felt a creeping horror come upon her, and she was not sure what it was. She had this feeling sometimes, this bad feeling, and it had never failed her. "What was he saying?" she asked, suddenly aware of the quiet in the tent, and the quiet from outside. She felt her skin prickle, like she knew this from someplace, like she had heard and seen it before.

"Don't know. He was trying to tell me something.. but I couldn't hear him from behind the helm, mumbling, suffering. Couldn't hear him with those women crying, couldn't hear from my own damn hurting head, half-deaf from artillery.. I should have known. I should have said something to the others."

"Then what?" she said.

"I talked to Fen, and we wondered who would challenge for the helm. Night came, and went, and when the sun rose we saw Mandalore walking round the camp, like nothing was different, like nothing was hurt. Like a new man. First I thought he didn't want anyone to know he had been in pain and weakness.. that he had been wounded by shrapnel and not by a proper enemy. I thought he was trying to seem strong in front of the others. Now I know different.."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"I am trying to tell you that after that, Lord Mandalore wasn't the same. I had seen him start down a path I didn't understand.. he had made choices he didn't need to make.. he had done things that a honorable warrior had no need to do. I never questioned him, out loud, I never spoke against him. We must follow the commands of Mandalore. It is the Sixth Act. It is our way. Mandalore had started down a dark path.. but after that battle, there was no going back. He was utterly changed. I found excuses to keep our clan away in other tasks, in other worlds.. I knew something bad would come. When Mandalore broke our tradition and dragged us to the forbidden world, I couldn't obey his command, even though I swore on my armor as chief to follow where he led. I couldn't. I knew it was wrong. I felt the ancestors at my side, I thought I heard them in my dreams. Clan Mirdala must not go to that evil place. So I stayed.. I kept us behind. The Togorian Guard knew this; that's why they went away. They knew better than I, since they did not look back." He sighed. "I shouldn't have changed my mind.. I thought that even with the monster that Mandalore had become.. the monster that replaced him. I thought the people needed us. I was arrogant enough to think they needed me, in all my wisdom. Ha! I arrived just in time to retreat again. Some wisdom, that."

Getlika said nothing. Her hands had gone still. Her mind was full of uncomfortable visions. In the heat of Kashyyyk daytime, she felt a chill, and her little hairs stood.

In her silence, the old chieftain said, "Once the clans feared Mirdala, feared our cunning and our strength. Now they scorn a fool, a coward. They see our armor and our droids and they gnash their teeth with envy. We had the most survivors of Malachor.. the most remaining clan. And each one of them despises me.. "

"No, no." She snapped out of it. "They don't despise you. It's just.. the young people don't understand how it was. They were too young to fight. They'll understand, when they've grown out of being boys. They've got to see Czerka's offers for what they are. Cheap work, and cheap toys. We need our own men, our own weapons."

"Fen or no, the clan must go to Dxun. Maybe not this year.. but in the next. I hear the murmurings that the clans are coming back together. They'll go to Dxun, of course. It's on the Rim, and the whole moon would be ours. A good place. A good place, for what is coming.. "

"What's coming?"

"It is. Whatever it is. I do not know what Revan battled above the forbidden planet, I don't know what she fought there, but it isn't defeated. The clans must come together and stand united."

He looked at her, with his manic gaze, and she felt a thrill of fear. Was it true, what he was saying? How much was true, how much fever, and how much wounded pride? Her flesh crawled, thinking of the last moments of the battle, as the ships arrived just in time to watch the green storm overtake the planet. The soothsayer said that the Warlock had destroyed the world with a magic spell, with the sound of his voice. Getlika thought of that evil world, what evil things must have been upon its surface, what evil whispers emanated from its heart..

"Revan has always understood this threat," the old chief said, suddenly. "Even when the darkness dragged her down. She's always known. The clans must stand with her, and welcome her as sister. It won't be like before. It won't be like Exar Kun."

So urgent and intense was the look on his face that Getlika did not have the heart to say anything against his delusions. He was a smart man, a clever man, but in his sickness and fever he was becoming confused. Revan was dead; he had died almost two years ago, when Malak betrayed him. There were strange rumors flying about, of course, but they were impossible. For a moment there was silence between them, and neither Getlika nor the old chief did anything. He only trembled in his armor. Then, all of a sudden, a host of bird wings were heard outside. They must have launched up from the trees. It was like an explosion. The spell was broken, and sound seemed to return to the camp.

"You think I'm an old fool," Lord Mirdala said, and he smiled a teeth-chattering smile. He almost looked himself again. "You'll see. I tried my best.. should have kept us all home. It's Dxun for Mirdala now, you remind them that, when I'm gone. You tell them that I heard it was Clan Ordo that was there. A tough, crazy lot of bastards, Clan Ordo. A forgotten friend it is now time to remember."

"I'll get Marev now.. " She was hearing voices from down the beach. Some life had returned, perhaps, to the camp. Clan Ordo..

"No. Not yet." Lord Mirdala shook his head. His hands were reaching shakily for his helmet. He did not put it on, but kept it on his knee. "Not yet. I wanted to talk to you. I've always thought of you as my own, you know, I know you hate it. You've been more loyal to me than that cannok Marev."

She said nothing, and looked away. There was sound of goings-on from down the beach.

"You know that when I'm gone, you go free, if that's how you want. There's nothing to hold you here, if you don't want it. I know you think I tell Mirdala lies when I tell you I don't know what happened to your village, and I know you think it's Mirdala cunning when I tell you I pulled you out of wreckage, but I swear on my father's armor that it was so. You were a gift from the manda. The ghosts of your ancestors whispered in my ears; I know it was their love for you that made me find you. You would have died if I hadn't. I knew all at once I had to save you."

Getlika felt a lump rising in her throat.

He went on, "I don't know much about your village, whatever people that they were. I don't know about you, you were so young. There was one word you kept saying. I don't know what it means, or what it's for, but it was mira. Mira. I don't know what it means. Maybe someone will know." He blinked hard. "If you want to find your people, you'll go to the smuggler's moon.. refugees there, someone might know something in the camps."

She considered her reply carefully. She considered the troubled, anguished look upon his face, the hollows of his cheeks, the pained eyes, the shivering, feverish weakness of his body. She had lived in fear and awe of this man, when he still had his strength, when he still had his will and mind. She told him, in a voice she fought to keep steady, "I have already found my people."

He laughed a great big laugh, shaky though it was, a wild edge to it. "Good girl, what a good girl you are. Dare I hope you forgive me at last. Heh. You're right, though, they're your family here, you know. I can think of one young man who would want you to stay. I know they say things, the people, it's just they don't understand right away. When we join with Revan, it will be clear." He smiled, and it turned into a wince. "They'll see you as the gift you've always been, my Little Red Hair. You'll be our great hero. You'll make us proud. She'll need someone like you."

Getlika looked away, her mouth pressed into a line."Maybe you should take your armor, off, now. You should take it off and lay down, and try to get some rest.. I can bring more furs if you're cold." Is something happening outside?

"No." He had made his voice firm. "I've got my armor now. I am Lord Mirdala. Go find me Marev."

Getlika rose, and paused, not knowing what to say.

"Well, girl, go find me my son, that Dral-whelped pup," he said. He was bracing himself on one of the tent poles, making himself stand. It was slow and laborious; she almost went to him, in case he fell.

"I.. I'll speak to you a little later," she said, feeling her insides go in a twist. She saw him stand, and thought, perhaps he won't die after all.. perhaps he will get better. He will bring the clan to Dxun. The rumors of the gathering were true, weren't they? Even Czerka seemed to think so; they were always asking questions. Mirdala will go to Dxun, and the wounds between the clans will heal. Mirdala had great numbers, if nothing else. Clan Ordo would look upon them and see a host of warriors, a cache of weapons. They still had vehicles and droids. And experience. Hardened warriors, and new young people. A welcoming sight to tattered old Ordo. The desert-worlders had always been friends and friendly rivals with their clan.

What of that thing he spoke of, though, that IT, that darkness? She was feeling a bad feeling again, and she tried to shake it off. She went out of the tent. She'd come back later, and ask him again. Or ask Fen, he'd tell her, now. Mira. What is a Mira?

Shading her eyes against the setting sun, Getlika saw a throng of people at the far end of the camp. What business they were attending to, she didn't know; around the tent, she could not see the healers. They had probably slipped away to run errands or take a bite to eat for themselves, leaving Getlika and Lord Mirdala to talk in confidence.

Marev was breaking away from the people; even though he had shoddy armor like all the others, she knew the way he walked, and his choppy haircut. It was the only time that he had cut his hair by himself, and not her; it showed. She raised her hand to catch his attention, but it seemed he was already walking this way. Good. He should come and speak to his father. Concern and love would win out, in the end; it had to. She knew that there was goodness in Marev, beneath his pride.

Getlika went to meet him. "I spoke to your father," she said. "He's very sick.. but I think he'll get better. He just needs to sweat out his fever."

Marev said nothing at first; he only wiped his gauntlet across his brow. It was silly to wear full armor around the beach for no reason, but Marev was always the one to posture. He didn't need to. No one, at least any of his friends or those he wanted to impress, thought that he was lacking as a warrior or a hunter.

"He's asked for you," she said. "I told him I'd go get you."

"You spoke to him?" Marev said, looking toward her. She saw now that the smear on his armor was blood; trust him to go shooting ro-roos like some big man, with his friends, while his father lay on his sickbed. She would have normally been angry, but she was feeling sick, and strange. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Was she becoming ill now, too?

"I talked to him," she said. "He.. well, he'll tell you. And please listen." She suddenly felt like she had to get away. She was feeling bad. "Marev."

Marev grunted and walked past her. She watched his armored form go up the beach and toward the lone tent, and then she walked away. She wanted to be alone, someplace cool. She wanted to splash water on her face. Her thoughts swirled: she had a flash of herself standing in a tent, over a deathbed, but it was not Lord Mirdala, it was Mandalor, raving against the darkness. She saw a basilisk droid turn its head toward her, eerily intelligent. She saw women who opened their mouths to speak to her, but they spoke in blood.

Getlika held her head, and curled in on herself, as though she took a physical blow. She returned quickly to her senses; she didn't want anyone to see her looking weak. Or looking weird. Surely the sickness wouldn't come on this quickly. No one else had caught the sickness. Not even the healers, who tended Lord Mirdala night and day. The healers. Where were they now?

She became aware of her surroundings once again. The waves striking the shores. People talking, gesturing, yelling. People in a thick knot down at the end of the beach. Mothers dragging their children away. Getlika started toward them a few steps and then went into a sprint, her long legs carrying her down the beach to the source of the commotion, toward the source of her premonition.

A half-dozen bodies lay in the shallows and up on the shore, where at least two of the warriors had crawled off to bleed to death. The sands were red and pink and black; the tide was licking at the fresh corpses. The healers were trying to get a survivor out of his armor, to tend to his wounds, but they were being chased, dragged, or slapped away by other warriors. The young ones. Marev's shoddy-armored friends.

"What happened here?" Getlika cried. "What did you do?"

"Blow away, witch," said Uteesh, crouched to pick through a fallen warrior's belongings. He was covered by the watchful eyes and hot weapons of his comrades. "It was a fair challenge. They lost. We won."

"Where's Fen?" She had to find--

Uteesh nodded over his shoulder, and then shrugged.

Getlika saw. Then she whipped round, and ran back down the beach, running alongside heavy prints in the sand. "You can't change anything, witch," Uteesh called after her. "Don't give us any trouble."

Marev was leaving the tent when she came up on him. He left a bloody print on the tent flap coming out. Getlika screamed and threw herself at him, raining blows on his armored chest and shoulders. It served only to annoy him; he caught her wrists, his gloved fingers all wet red and black.

"What did you do!" she shouted. "What did you do!"

"I've done what I had to," he answered. "I've become Lord Mirdala, chief of our clan."

--

Later, when the sun went, when the funeral pyre took the old chief and other warriors, Marev came to stand beside her. She was rigid with fury, watching the flames burn, watching the waves throw back their reflection.

"You see, no one objects," he told her. "No one raises any fuss now. You're the only one, it's only you. Even Fen's woman understands. It's our way."

She refused to look at him, gazing at the fire. In the edges of her vision she saw the clan, silent hundreds, gathered in accordance with the rites. Marev laid his hand on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off hard.

"You should be glad I did it, glad I admitted openly to doing it," he said. "They thought it was you, you know. It was said you put a curse on him. Everyone knows you hated him, that you hate us all. In a way.. in a way, I did it to protect you. I did it openly, and I said I did. They think you're a witch. I'll protect you."

"I don't need your protection," she spat. "He was sick. You killed him unfairly. You didn't even give him a fight on fair ground. That is our way, Marev."

"He didn't deserve a fair anything. Not after the shame he brought on our clan. I should have challenged him long ago. Even that miserable Fen should have challenged him, before he lost his spine. But it doesn't matter now. This has come at a good time. In fact.." A pause, and he looked at her. Suddenly, he said, "You think you'll leave. That's what you're thinking right now, isn't it. You'll go now, now that he's dead."

"Maybe I will."

"How will you go? I'll tell Czerka not to let you go, and they won't. They'll stop you in the starport. It's for your own good. Where did you think you'd go, anyway? Nar Shaddaa, that stinking moon?"

"Maybe."

"And what would you do on Nar Shaddaa. How would you eat?" He leaned in closely to ask her this question; his breath licked her ear. "Be real. And your people didn't want you. Most like they thanked the gods that you were taken. They probably thought that you were a freak. Not me, though. Have I ever said?"

She said nothing, holding her fury tight to herself. She had to hold it tight, she thought, or she would explode.

"Don't you know this is where you belong?" Marev whispered to her. There was a time when she found comfort in his steady presence, and that time was gone. She trembled with the urge to hit him. "I won't let them treat you poorly. Not like he let them. They stopped listening to him. They'll listen to me. I made them listen today. They're listening now. They respect strength. I have strength, and more. And weapons."

Getlika drank in the sight of the flames, and she hissed, "What strength does it take to kill an old, sick man?" When she turned to him, she saw a flash of rage in his eyes, saw the flames reflected in his eyes from the pyre.

For a moment she thought he'd strike her, but then he said, "I know you're upset. You were better to him than he deserved. I know you came to think of him as buir. But you know I have always thought of you as my sister." He touched her hair, and she smacked his hand away. "I will take care of you."

"I don't need anyone." She turned a hard look upon him. "I don't need you," she spat.

His smile was grim in the firelight. "I think you will."