Sirj, Elica's husband, stepped around from the back of the house, his shirt soaked with sweat, a load of unsplit logs in his arms. He wasn't a big man-he was only slightly taller than Elica-nor was he particularly broad. But he was lean and strong, like a wildcat in the warmer turns.

"What are you going on about, Elica? I could hear you all the way back at the woodpile."

"It's nothing," she said.

Sirj didn't say anything. He put down the wood and regarded them both, waiting. His house, his question. He was entitled to an answer and both of them knew it.

"I colored a flower for Mihas," Besh finally told him. "I wanted to show him some magic. He was asking if Mettai powers were real."

Sirj eyed the old man briefly, his expression revealing little. It might have been that he knew Besh didn't like him, or maybe he was no more fond of Besh than the old man was of him. Whatever the reason, theirs had never been an easy relationship. But after a moment, Sirj merely shrugged and continued past Besh and Elica into the house. "No harm in that," he murmured.

Besh and Elica exchanged a look before following him inside.

Their supper consisted of smoked fish, boiled greens, and bread. Annze and Cam, the young ones, spent much of the meal teasing one another across the table and, after being chastised for that, feeding their fish to one of the dogs that ran wild through the village and in and out of nearly everyone's home. Except Lici's, of course. Even the dogs knew better than to bother her.

After they had finished and Mihas and the little ones had been put to bed, Besh lit his pipe and went out to smoke it in the cool evening air. He walked to the stump Sirj used for chopping wood, sat down, and gazed up into a darkening sky. Panya was already climbing into the night, her milky glow obscuring all but the brightest stars. No doubt red Bias was up as well, following her across the soft indigo, but Besh couldn't see the second moon for the trees.

After a short while, Elica came out, walked to where he sat, and rested a hand easily on his shoulder.

"It's a clear night," she said.

"For now. The fog will come up before long. It always does this time of year."

She nodded. Then, "I'm sorry about before, Father. I shouldn't have said what I did. Sirj is right. There's no harm in showing Mihas some magic now and then." She kissed the top of his head. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm too much like Mother."

Besh smiled. "There are worse things."

"I suppose."

Elica started to walk away.

"He asked me about Lici."

She stopped, turned. "What did you tell him?"

"Same thing I always do: Stay away from her. But he won't be satisfied with that for much longer."

"She won't be alive much longer," Elica muttered. Immediately she covered her mouth with a hand, her eyes wide as she stared down at Besh.

"Forgive me, Father. I shouldn't have said that. It was cruel. And I didn't mean that because she was old-"

Besh began to laugh.

"You think it's funny?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, in a way. Mihas asked me today if I was the oldest person in Kirayde. That's how we ended up speaking of Lici." He took Elica's hand. "It's all right, child. You're right: She won't be with us much longer. And-Bian forgive me for saying so-perhaps that's for the best." He gave his daughter a sly look. "I, on the other hand, intend to stay around for a good many years. So don't go selling off my pipe- weed any time soon."

She kissed him again. "Good night, Father. Don't stay out too long. It's getting cold."

Besh gave her hand a squeeze, then watched her walk away. After some time his pipe burned out, but still the old man sat, enjoying the air, and the darkness, and the sounds of the night. A few crickets, the last of the season, chirped nearby, and off in the distance a wolf howled. In recent nights Besh had heard an owl calling from the hills north of the village, but not tonight.

Eventually he began to see thin strands of mist drifting among the dark trunks of the firs and cedars, and he stood. The cold night breezes were one thing, but as Besh had grown older he'd found that the nighttime fogs chilled him, bone and blood. He retreated into the house and made his way to bed.

None of the rest would remember.

Why should they? Most hadn't even been alive at the time; those who were had been too young to understand.

But she knew. Oh, yes, Lici knew.

She could still see it all. She could see houses that had long since been broken by storms and snows and howling winds. She could see copses and clearings that had since given way to homes and garden plots. She could close her eyes and summon an image of Kirayde just as it had appeared that first day. She could walk the lanes past house and plot and tell any who cared to listen when each had been built or first tilled. She could go to any person in the village and give the year, turn, and day of his or her birth.

Lici remembered all of it.

They thought her crazed. She never married or had children, she didn't speak to them, she refused to prattle on about nothing or smile greetings that she didn't mean. And so they called her mad, they called her a witch. The children mocked her and their parents scolded them in turn. But then those same mothers and fathers ignored her, as if she were nothing more than a spider spinning webs in her tiny corner of the village. Did they really think that was better? Would they have chosen silence over taunts had silence been all they knew?

How long would it take them to realize that she was gone? Who would be the first to notice? Would they think that she had wandered off by accident? Would they think that she had drowned herself in the rill or gotten lost in the night mists? Or would they know that she left them by choice? Might there be one among them who would even guess her purpose? Would any of them know why she had chosen this night? Probably not. But it amused her to imagine the possibilities.

Sixteen fours. Sixty-four years. To the very day. That was long enough for anyone to stay in one place, to live among the same people, to turn over in one's head the same thought again and again, to direct every moment of every day toward a single purpose. Sixteen fours. Some said there was power in the very number. Indeed. Lici had power in abundance. And she would need all of it.

She had learned her craft well. Not basketmaking, though she also had much skill at that, but rather the blood craft, the magic of her people. The white-hairs thought that Qirsi magic reigned supreme in the Southlands, and perhaps they were right. But the magic of the Mettai was no trifle. And in the hands of a master, even one as old as she, it could be a mighty weapon.

At last her waiting had come to an end. She had planned and waited, she had suffered indignities both glaring and subtle, she had trained herself in both her crafts, pushing herself harder than any master would push even his most prized apprentice. All in preparation for this night, which was both an ending and a beginning. Kirayde would be lost to her forever, and despite all that she had endured here, the thought saddened her. This had been Sylpa's home and so had been as much a home to Lici as she could have expected after Sentaya. Now, though, she would begin a new journey, a new life, if one as old as she could ask for such a thing. She had hungered for this countless long years.

From her but by the rill she could see the mist gathering about the village, shifting and elusive, glowing like a horde of wraiths in the white and red radiance of the two moons. It was nearly time. She had her baskets packed and ready in her old cart. She could see the nag from her doorway, gleaming white in the moonglow, shaking her head impatiently, ready to be on her way. The creature would be a good companion in these last days.