With summer came word that the queen in the west had won, against all odds, and the few surviving sorcerers were trudging home, tails tucked between their legs like whipped mongrels. Mula wasn’t very good at sleeping. So she often lay awake at night wondering about the western queen, marveling that any person in the world could defeat an army led by blood sorcerers with magic stones.
The end of summer brought chilly nights. The White Hairs stopped coming at all, and somehow, Orlín seemed to think this was her fault. He cuffed her more often, tied her nighttime bonds tighter, made her fetch water when the air crackled with cold and the creek iced over—even though she had no shoes and only a burlap shift to wear.
It was going to be the worst winter many of them had ever known, everyone said so. A girl like Mula, with her bare feet and fleshless limbs and a sleeping roll in the back storeroom as far away from the hearth as it could be, might not even survive such a winter.
One day in autumn, after the poplar tree had coated the inn’s roof with dry leaves and all the merlins had flown west to warmer weather, Mula felt it again. That little jump in her chest, followed by a steady buzzing in her limbs. It meant a sorcerer was approaching.
She was in the common room, gathering filthy rushes to replace them, and she paused, eyes darting around in panic. Orlín was there, serving mugs of ale from a tray; he would notice if she fled to the outhouse or into the kitchen. She was trapped.
The brass bell on the door rattled. Four people walked in, and Mula gasped. The tallest was clearly an Invierno, with long, slender limbs, eyes like emeralds, and badly dyed black hair that was growing out yellow-white at the roots. His three companions were Joyan, with hair of true black and deep brown eyes and dusky skin. One man wore an eye patch. The other two were women—one tall for a Joyan, the other shorter and generously plump.
It was the plump woman Mula couldn’t stop staring at. She was young, with shining black braids wrapping her head like a crown. She wore the clothing of desert nomads: an undyed linen shirt tucked into a utility belt, all over woolen pants and camel-hair boots. The fabric may have been undyed, but it was still the prettiest fabric Mula had ever seen, with a fine, soft weave and decorative brown stitching at the hem. The plump woman was a fancy lady, no doubt about it.
But the thing that made Mula stare, that stopped her in her tracks, was the fact that the itching in the girl’s throat, the buzzing in her limbs, the feeling of something inside her yearning to burst free—it all came from her, the short Joyan woman.
As the group settled at a table and called for stew, Mula realized she was sensing something from the Invierno too, just a little. But it was nothing like the riot of feeling inside her every time she looked at the woman with the crown of braids. She was a sorcerer, just like the White Hairs. She didn’t have an amulet around her neck or a magic staff, but she was hiding a sparkle stone somewhere. Mula would bet her evening bread crust on it.
“Mula!” Orlín yelled. “Venison stew for our guests. And be quick about it, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
Mula dropped the rushes. As she fled to the kitchen, she felt the strangers’ eyes boring into her back. Quickly she ladled dogmeat stew into four bowls, balanced them on her forearm, and returned to the common room.
She slipped the first three bowls onto the table with practiced ease. But as she neared the plump woman, something leaped inside her, and the fourth bowl met the table too hard and fast. Dogmeat stew sloshed over the side, onto the planking.
Mula stared at the mess in horror. “Lady,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell that I spilled.”
The plump woman regarded her thoughtfully. She was probably wondering how much blood she could take, wondering how much it would cost. Mula ought to be afraid of her, but she wasn’t, because her hidden sparkle stone felt different. Louder. Joyous. Like it was greeting her.
Finally the woman said, “I see no spill.”
Mula flashed her a quick grin. Then she dashed back to the kitchen.
Beside the hearth, Orlín was head-to-head with the cook. “They’re fine lords and ladies, mark my word,” Orlín was saying. “Finest I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s the second group this week with Joyans and Inviernos traveling together,” the cook observed.
“These are strange times,” said Orlín.
“Will you be wanting real venison for them?”
“Don’t bother.” Orlín spotted Mula, hovering near the door. “Girl, when the newcomers are done with their stew, show them to their rooms. Give them the dormers, hear?”
“Hear.”
“And as soon as you get a chance, find out what’s inside those travel packs. They might be traders. Rich traders.”
“You want me to steal something?” Mula hated stealing, but she did it once in a while on Orlín’s orders. She could be quiet as a rabbit in a burrow, when she needed to be.
“Not yet. Just tell me what’s inside.”
Mula nodded and backed out the door before Orlín could think up some other awful task for her.
The girl did exactly as asked. Once the strange group had finished their stew, she led them upstairs to the dormer rooms. She lingered while they settled in, hoping to get a glimpse inside their packs.
The tall woman approached her. “Do you need something from us?” she asked with an arch look.
“What’s inside those packs?” Mula asked. “Are you traders?”
The two women exchanged a glance.
“Just supplies,” said the plump woman.
“Orlín thinks you might be traders.”
“Orlín?”
“Man who owns this inn and everything in it.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, traders,” the tall woman said. “Spices. If they sell well, we might come back with more.”
The plump woman stepped forward, cocked her head to study the little girl. “Did the innkeeper put you up to asking?”
Mula should lie. She knew she should. But Mula was terrible at lying, and these people had kindness in their eyes, so she nodded once, quick, then looked away, unable to meet their gazes.
The plump woman said, “You may tell your innkeeper that we carry marjoram and sage. Now please allow us some privacy.”
Mula turned to go. She knew what sage was, but she’d never heard of the other one. She practiced the word in her head.
Mula wasn’t sure what made her turn back around, pin the plump woman with a look and say, “Orlín says you might be fancy lords and ladies. He’s got a very bad want for seeing inside your packs.”
In the ensuing silence, the girl’s heart was fierce in her chest. What had she just done? If Orlín found out . . .
“But please don’t say I told!” she added, then she fled, pounding back down the stairs in her bare feet.
Orlín was waiting for her in the common room. “Well? What did you find out?”
“Traders,” Mula said, breathless. “They have spices. Sage and merry jam.”
“Marjoram?”
She nodded.
“Did you see? Or did they tell you?”
“They told.”
Orlín frowned. “When they leave their rooms tomorrow, I want you to get inside and have a look around.”