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“Spoken from your spleen and not your mind, just as the Northerners see our small numbers and underestimate us. Yes, our ally Aveston cannot help us, and with the siege engines, our enemies do not need to breach the gate. But you both mistake the purpose of this conversation—­I am not looking for advice this night from either of my sons. The witches may or may not aid us, that is true. Sometimes risks have to be taken. Sometimes the impossible attempted. And for that, there is no one I trust more to give this task to. The two of you and three others will go.”
    Shock kept Ramiro silent. Go to the witches! Why would his father pick him? He was one of the least experienced men in the pelotón . There were so many more likely choices. Not that it mattered, though, he thought bitterly. Stay here and fight uselessly to save the city or venture out practically alone on a suicide mission. His brother was shaking his head, obviously coming to the same conclusion.
    â€œThe witches will never agree to help us,” Salvador said. “They’d dance to see us eliminated.”
    â€œThey may hate us”—­Julian held up a finger—­“but would they rather we lived here or the Northerners? Will the Northerners stay out of the witches’ swamp? The witches know we will ignore them. Can they say the same of a new enemy? That will be your negotiation point.”
    â€œWhy me?” Ramiro said in a whisper, then louder, “Why me? Why not someone better suited.” Pride, worry, and confusion took equal shares in his head.
    â€œAs I said, I need ones I can trust to keep this mission secret. If the ­people learn of our desperation, they will panic. And why not you, my son. Are you not fit and ready? Do you not love our home and follow duty as much as anyone?”
    For that Ramiro had only one answer. And yet, it didn’t seem his father was being entirely truthful about his reasoning . . . or this mission.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    C laire wiggled her toes in the grass, studying the shape of her feet. Maybe a little too thin, like the rest of her, but not bad. Her dress of undyed linen showed too much leg, but it couldn’t be let down any more. No hem remained. She hoped there was time to sew a new dress before winter arrived, but so many other things had to be done first. Firewood. Garden. Harvesting herbs for medicine. It was hard to manage all of it between just her and her mother.
    A clear day wasn’t such an uncommon event in late summer but still to be enjoyed. And she didn’t really need shoes on dry land and so close to home. It wasn’t as if she got to walk across the swamp to the village to trade beaver and mink skins for supplies. Sometimes, it seemed like she’d never be given the chance to do that. Especially with all the chores her mother piled onto her.
    Beside her, the pot containing lye, lard, and water boiled merrily. Molds lay beside her, waiting to receive the hot liquid when it reached the right consistency, which wouldn’t be for a while yet. Claire stayed upwind to avoid a noseful of stink. Making soap was no picnic, but she got a day alone.
    She dropped the stir paddle and flopped onto a hillock of grass, letting the sun soak into her bones. With no lessons to be learned and nothing to do, she sighed and wrapped her long braid of wheat-­blond hair around her wrist until the end nearly reached her elbow. The goats’ bells tinkled in the distance. “I can be as lazy as I want!” She shouted because Mother wouldn’t allow it and to see if there’d be any echoes. There weren’t.
    There never were.
    She let go of her hair and lay back in the grass to watch the clouds. Before the first batch of white puffiness drifted past, movement caught her eye. A small brown rabbit ventured from under the dangling, ball-­like flowers of a buttonbush. She sat up on an elbow.
    â€œShould I?” Mother wasn’t here