Decision

A bonus chapter about the love story between Esbar and Tunuva,
originally written for the Waterstones Exclusive Edition of A Day of Fallen Night.

You can buy the book from Waterstones here.

❀

The Lasian Basin grew thick as cloud. It was rare for its trees to give way to a meadow, but swathes of wet grass could occasionally be found, if a sister rode for long enough.

Close to one such meadow, southwest of the Priory, a twig broke underfoot. Its snap made a young crookhorn tense. One flinch of its ears, and it ran for the trees – just as an arrow shaved its neck, drawing an indignant bleat.

Esbar uq-Nara lowered her bow with a curse. Jeda padded out to join her and followed her line of sight, to where the crookhorn had been grazing.

‘You missed.’

‘Yes. Thank you, Jeda.’ Esbar ground her jaw. ‘The birds will have to do.’

‘Hadug will not be pleased.’

‘Better we cut our losses, or what we have will spoil.’

Jeda said nothing else. Esbar went to recover the arrow, frustration tightening her chest.

Over an hour on foot, and all she had to show for it were a brace of ducks, a scrawny pheasant, and a foul mood. Shame enough, after fifteen years of archery – but now she was an initiate, her senses honed by her kindling. She heard and saw more than she had as a postulant. Her body rang in answer to every nearby sound, every movement.

All those gifts from the orange tree, and she could still blunder. It served as proof of how unbalanced she had been of late.

Jeda led her back to a pool they had passed, fed by a trickling waterfall. Esbar splashed her face and nape and willed the cool water to calm her.

It was not just the men she would displease with her slim pickings. The Prioress would reproach her personally. Her failure to bring enough food – a simple task for a woman of twenty – would be a dent in her chance to be chosen.

For years, Gashan Janudin had been the only woman standing in the way of that dream. Now she stood in her own way, trapped in thoughts of Tunuva.

Tunuva Melim, who spent her days studying in the archives, or refining her deadly skill with a spear – the skill she had kept to herself for so long, content to be overlooked.

And overlooked her they all had, until she disarmed Gashan.

She had been a gracious victor, offering Gashan her thanks for the fight, and returning her lost sword. Esbar had laughed at how shocked Gashan looked, though she had been just as taken aback. They had locked eyes across the room, realising there might be another contender.

Esbar had spent the rest of the duels in a state of fascination, shooting Tunuva sidelong glances. She was a tall and striking woman, yet seemed to shy a little from her sisters’ looks of admiration, keeping her steady gaze on the fighters.

They were almost the same age. Their birthmothers had been pregnant together. They must have been close as children, yet their relationship had amounted to little more than passing nods and occasional pleasantries. Esbar had been so concerned with Gashan – the only woman she thought was her match – that she had closed her eyes to others.

Then again, Tunuva had taken pains to conceal her talent. Though everyone liked her well enough, she seemed content with her own company, or that of her ichneumon, Ninuru. Perhaps she harboured her own ambitions to be munguna, and that was why she kept to herself, avoiding the circles that had formed around Gashan and Esbar.

Or perhaps she was wiser than most. You are not queens at war, Denag had warned once, after Esbar and Gashan had fought yet again. If you hold your own courts, you will sunder this family. Tunuva might prefer not to involve herself in politics.

As soon as training was over, Esbar had convinced Meren to slip her a jug of good wine and two cups, resolved to befriend Tunuva, to chip away at her reserve. She had found her stretching and insisted they share a drink.

By dawn, when Esbar retired to her bed, she had been hoarse from talking. As it turned out, Tunuva Melim was neither proud nor timid, as some of their sisters had assumed. Their conversation had poured like the wine, honeyed by laughter, all through the night. As if they had always been friends.

After that, Esbar had thought her curiosity was sated. Tunuva had no interest in being Prioress. Yet Esbar had found herself seeking her out, wanting to spend more time with her.

Esbar glanced back into the pool. Her reflection looked tired beyond its years, brow crinkled and mouth downturned. When Jeda nudged her, she mounted up, securing her spoils for the ride home.

No matter how fast Jeda ran through the forest, Esbar could not stop thinking of Tunuva. Her warm smile and her deep brown eyes. The freckles on her nose. Esbar had wanted to kiss her before, but stopped herself, afraid to risk the delicate friendship that had bloomed.

The Crimson Desert had changed everything.

Esbar remembered that day in stark detail. Seeing it all had rooted her: the red vastness of the desert, the cloudless blue that soared above, the distant peak of Mount Enunsa – and none of it as breathtaking as Tunuva, reaching out for the whole sky.

One moment they had been dancing in the sand, giddied by the splendour of the world, drunk on it; the next, their eyes had met, and then their lips. Desire had come like a spear to the heart – sharp and hot as the thirst in her throat, the hunger burning under her ribs.

In twenty years, Esbar had never felt so alive as when Tunuva gripped her shoulders, held fast, and kissed her back, as if she had been waiting all her life for this embrace. Esbar might worship the Mother, but that kiss had brought her to her knees.

It had not been her first. She had spent time with two other women, though not for long enough to distract her from her calling. Vazraka had brushed it off like dust. Yusul had forgiven her, in the end.

But Tunuva was not Vazraka or Yusul. Esbar had come to know her well, over the months since that long night of talking. Before the Crimson Desert, Tunuva had never been with anyone; she had told Esbar so herself. Her heart was as soft as it was unarmoured.

Esbar had known that, and still kissed her.

She had tried to deny what that morning had done to her. She had almost convinced herself it was madness – a fever, an afterglow of their kindlings. Of course they had reached for one another, in a place so glorious, the fire of the tree blazing through their blood. A kiss to rejoice in being alive.

But then she had started dreaming of it, after their return to the Priory. She had woken at night with the thought of Tunuva.

She had never once dreamed of Yusul or Vazraka. Never slept to the memory of their laughter, or longed to find them lying beside her when she woke. Never imagined sleeping beside them every night for the rest of her life.

Jeda stopped at the foot of the ancient fig. As Esbar slung her light pack over her shoulder, she realised her ichneumon was giving her a pointed look.

‘What?’ she said curtly.

‘You are thinking of her again.’

‘Who?’

Jeda flicked her tail, betraying her annoyance. Esbar kept walking.

‘You have been different since the desert. Distracted,’ Jeda said at last, following close behind her, ‘and stupid.’ Esbar opened her mouth to retort. ‘I am not wrong.’

‘You are unquestionably wrong.’

‘Ichneumons are clever.’

‘Ichneumons should not always be so brutally honest with their little sisters, or ichneumons may find themselves having to brush their own fur this evening.’

‘Go to her, or you will not be Prioress. You will be too busy thinking of tall women with spears.’

‘Why did I name you after a queen known for her mercy?’ Esbar muttered. ‘You have never once remarked on my desire to lead. Why now?’

‘You fed me.’

The ichneumon circled in front of her, forcing her to stop. Esbar folded her arms.

‘Jeda,’ she said, ‘Tunuva has a gentle heart.’

‘Yes.’

‘It would fall very hard on her if things between us went awry.’

‘Do not let them.’ Jeda stared her out. ‘Stupid.’

‘By the Mother,’ Esbar growled. ‘Where is the sweet pup I fed from my hand?’

‘You want to wear a red cloak. That outcome is not certain. You still try.’

‘Oh, hush.’ Esbar brushed past her. ‘Go to the river to bathe. Ridiculous cat.’

‘Little sisters are cruel to ichneumons.’

Esbar rolled her eyes and marched into the Priory.

In the scullery, some of the men in their early twenties were preparing the last meal of the day. Among them, Imsurin worked by himself, cutting sprigs of mint with his usual sedulity. She dumped her pitiful sack of kills in front of him.

‘Here.’

Imsurin sighed. ‘Good evening, sister.’

‘Is it, indeed?’ Esbar scraped back her damp hair. ‘I can’t say I noticed.’

He deigned to glance at her. Only a few years her senior, he had the resigned grimness of an elder, which made him a delight to tease, when she was in the mood. He took his time cleaning the mint from his blade, then pulled out her sad pheasant and the two ducks.

‘A rich bounty,’ he said drily. ‘Did the game flee from your sour expression?’

‘Hunt it yourself, if you like.’

‘Esbar.’

She let out her breath. ‘I was distracted,’ she said, lowering her head. ‘Forgive me, Imin. I understand if you must tell Hadug.’

Imsurin studied her, drumming his fingers.

‘This once,’ he said, ‘I will not tell him.’

Esbar raised her eyebrows. ‘I’ve failed to bring my share. Why spare me a reprimand?’

‘Because I suspect your hunting will improve if you speak to Tunuva, not the Prioress.’ Imsurin returned to his tiny piles of leaves. ‘Goodnight, Esbar.’

Esbar stared at him, then left the scullery, so hot she thought her flame might burst out.

This was a problem. Even Imsurin – indifferent to gossip – had somehow caught wind of the change. Even her ichneumon. Jeda had never remarked on her dalliances, except for the night when Esbar had forgotten to groom her, causing her to shunt Vazraka into the river (‘You fed me, not her’). Esbar was not too proud to admit she had deserved that embarrassment.

But how Tunuva Melim, of all women, had left such an impression that Jeda was encouraging her – that was beyond her understanding. She had thought she was being discreet, to spare Tunuva their sisters’ curiosity. Now she knew otherwise, and it shook her.

In a hallway near the scullery, an urn overflowed with fragrant girin. Esbar stopped beside it, pinched her brow, and gritted out a low sound of frustration. She had to regain her composure.

‘Esbar?’

A soft, familiar voice. Tunuva Melim had stepped into the hallway, carrying a cup.

She wore cream silks that crossed at her waist, baring her neckline and breastbone, her arms. Her hair curled from under a circlet of flowers. Esbar could only gaze at her, unable to muster a word, as she drew closer, placing the cup in an alcove.

‘Esbar,’ she said, in her gentle way. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ Esbar recovered her voice. ‘Just a headache.’

‘Denag has lemon balm. It helps.’ Tunuva took another step. ‘I could—’

‘No need,’ Esbar said, firmer than she had intended. Tunuva stopped with the barest flinch, and Esbar cursed her sharp tongue. ‘Sorry, Tuva. I hunted so poorly today, I fear some of the children could have outshot me.’

‘The forest has wildered us all.’ Tunuva kept a cautious distance. ‘What troubles you, Ez?’

‘Nothing that matters.’

Tunuva snapped her gaze down for a moment. Finally, she managed a tiny nod, throat working. ‘I will leave you in peace, then,’ she said. ‘I hope you feel stronger tomorrow.’

Esbar wanted so much to reach for her. Every thew and string of her was telling her to move.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

It was a stiff and formal way for anyone to part, and Esbar could have sworn she saw the inner fire wane from Tunuva. With the cold tug of remorse in her throat, she let Tunuva walk away, wishing she had the words to explain.

❀

Tunuva watched the sun descend. All initiates were granted the use of a shared balcony, where they could admire the Vale of Blood.

As she sat in silence, she stirred honey into her drink. Meren had left a jar in her room to sweeten her day, as he often did. She would thank him in the morning.

Over a week since she had found Esbar alone in the hallway, and still the memory stung. She had folded the pain as tight as she could, but always found more ragged edges to tuck.

It had been naïve of her, to think Esbar might want anything more than kisses on the sand. Yusul uq-Bardant had been wretched for weeks after Esbar ended their entanglement. Clearly she had no intention of committing to a woman – and if she did, it would not be Tunuva. Esbar was bold and driven, and came from a bloodline gilded by great deeds.

Tunuva had none of those things in her favour.

So that was the end of the matter. It was past time to bury it. Yet every night she would think of Esbar. Her unexpected kindness. Her laugh as they lay entwined on the sand. Tunuva dreamed of that intimacy. She had admired women before, but never like this, and had never summoned the courage to act.

And then Esbar had kissed her, turning all that longing into possibility.

It haunted her still, that Esbar had started it. Esbar had been the one to move first.

Tunuva closed her eyes. How firmly her feelings had set; how heavy their weight now hung on her heart. All those evenings together, talking deep into the night, had sown a wayward seed in her, and she could not uproot the feelings that had grown from it. She rested her forehead on her knees, wishing she could ask her birthmother for guidance. Liru had always come to see her when she returned from the Ersyr.

She had been killed by an Yscal, a man determined to convert the heathen Ersyris. Remembering the sight of her body, Tunuva clenched a hand to her chest.

Her sadness had cracked open a door into the dark. Before she could brood any longer, Ninuru came to sit at her side.

‘Nin.’ Tunuva hated the bleakness in her own voice. ‘Do you need anything?’

‘No.’ Ninuru looked at her. ‘She is stupid.’

‘Who?’

‘Esbar.’

‘Nin, you must not speak that way of a sister.’

‘She has stopped coming to see you.’ Ninuru flattened her ears. ‘Stupid.’

Tunuva shook her head. ‘It’s all right,’ she murmured, giving her ichneumon a stroke. ‘Esbar made no promises. I was the foolish one, to hope.’

‘No.’

Ninuru nuzzled into her lap. Tunuva scratched between her ears, leaning down to kiss her. ‘I have you and the Mother,’ she said. ‘That is enough for me.’

‘You smile when she is with you.’

Tunuva glanced away. ‘I care for her. Of course I do,’ she said, with difficulty. ‘But Esbar wants very much to be Prioress. I would never stand in the way of her dream.’

Ninuru huffed. Tunuva gathered her close, patting along her flank.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let’s get some rest.’

‘Yes.’

They walked down the dim corridor, Tunuva leading with her flame, which guttered in her palm. She had watched her older sisters since she was a child, but summoning fire herself, or sustaining it – that was a different matter.

‘Tunuva.’

She stopped. Gashan stood beside the fountain outside the initiates’ quarters, filling a cup with water. Barsega, her masked ichneumon, gave Ninuru a friendly nip.

‘Gashan,’ Tunuva said. ‘How was your day, sister?’

‘Fruitful. And yours?’

‘Less so.’

Gashan regarded her. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Why the spear?’

‘I find that I can dance with it. A sword is not the same.’

‘A spear also keeps your opponent at a distance. A good weapon, for a wyrm. Your victory reminded me to keep my guard up, and inspires me to improve,’ Gashan said. ‘Thank you, sister.’ Barsega returned to her side. ‘The Melim bloodline is a quiet one – the quietest in the Priory. Few memorable warriors. No grand deeds, before Liru gave her life.’

‘Narha was loyal to the Mother.’

‘They all were. Do you have no higher ambitions than loyalty?’

‘The Priory is a family. I do not aspire to stand above my sisters, but beside them.’

‘Fortunate for me. You would be a worthy rival, Tunuva.’ Gashan inclined her head, eyes reflecting the flame. ‘Tell me, who would you prefer as munguna – me or Esbar?’

‘I trust what the Prioress decides. For myself, I think you would both lead us well.’

‘I thought you had grown close to Esbar.’

‘I thought the same.’

Gashan raised an eyebrow. ‘Dancing with a spear is one thing. Dancing with a woman is another,’ she said. ‘You will need to find the courage to close the distance, Tunuva. No sister ever left her mark by not taking a risk.’

She stepped into the shadows, and Tunuva was left with her small flame, deciding.

❀

Apaya uq-Nara was often away from the Priory. After Liru Melim had died to defend the House of Taumagam, Apaya had taken over as their principal bodyguard, but Esbar knew she was back for what remained of summer, to renew her siden and make her report.

She found her birthmother in the archives. Apaya was reading, her dark hair in a braid that fell over her shoulder.

‘Apaya,’ Esbar said.

‘Esbar. It’s been some time.’ Apaya set her tablet aside and gestured to the table. ‘Sit with me.’ Esbar did. ‘You look tired. The Prioress was telling me about your journey into the Crimson Desert. How did you find the world?’

‘I am glad to have seen it.’

‘You returned later than expected.’

‘The mountain was a hard climb at midday.’

‘I see. And how did you find Tunuva Melim?’ Apaya probed. ‘I have not heard a great deal of her accomplishments, but Liru was a good woman, and a courageous warrior.’

‘Tunuva is the same. I have never seen anyone wield the Kumengan spear as she does.’

Apaya narrowed her eyes. ‘Does she seek to be munguna?’

Esbar was silent, gazing at the nearest oil lamp. Tunuva was walking through her thoughts again – Tunuva, coming to life in her arms, her firm grip and her breathless laughter.

‘Esbar,’ Apaya said, bringing her back to herself. ‘Did you hear me?’

‘Yes, sister.’ Esbar cleared her throat. ‘Only Gashan now openly seeks the position.’

‘Good. Your spearwork needs refinement.’ Apaya nodded to a letter. ‘I must send this to the Ersyr. What is it you wanted to ask me?’

‘If you ever had a partner.’

‘I assume you are not referring to your birthfather.’

Apaya spoke tersely, as she always did about Sigan.

She had chosen him each time she tried to conceive. They had weathered the two miscarriages together, and kept trying. Privately, Esbar had wondered if her birthmother had hidden the strength of her feelings. Perhaps she had never acknowledged them herself.

Sigan had died of the quivering fever, brought from outside by one of their sisters. It was not always fatal, but the men rarely ventured into the world, leaving their bodies unfortified. Apaya had never been the same after his death.

‘No,’ Esbar said. ‘Not Sigan.’

‘It would not have lasted. I always meant to take a post in the Ersyr, even before Liru.’ Apaya paused. ‘Am I to assume someone has caught your interest, Esbar?’

‘I am not sure I know yet.’

‘You know, else you would not have asked.’

Esbar breathed out. Nothing escaped Apaya.

‘Fine. Yes,’ she finally said, rubbing her brow. ‘Apaya, I have never felt like this for anyone.’

‘What about the last two girls, Vazraka and Yusul?’ Apaya said. Esbar looked at her in exasperation. ‘Oh, yes. Denag keeps me abreast of what blooms in our garden.’

‘By the Mother,’ Esbar bit out. ‘Has Denag told the Prioress?’

‘Most likely.’

‘Will she hold it against me?’

‘It depends on the woman holding the position. Some Prioresses prefer a munguna with no other commitments; some are less stringent. I still cannot guess, with Saghul Yedanya.’

Esbar pressed her lips together. It was true that the Prioress could be capricious, but Esbar liked and admired Saghul, and was confident that Saghul liked her nerve, if nothing else.

‘I want the red cloak. I want to stand where Siyati stood,’ she said. ‘But I also want her.’ It was easier than she had feared to admit it. ‘Is it possible for a Prioress to be a loving partner?’

‘The Mother never forbade it.’

‘That is no answer, Apaya.’

‘I nurtured you for nine months, Esbar. Now you are a woman, I cannot tell you how to grow.’

Esbar nodded, her jaw so tight it hurt.

‘You should speak to the Mother. She may grant you her insight.’ Apaya laid a hand on the table. ‘I will ask one thing. Does this woman know of your ambition?’

‘Yes, of course. Everyone does.’

‘Do you believe she would support you, and not resent the weight of the cloak?’

‘I do.’

‘Then she may prove good company on your path. Besides,’ Apaya said, ‘a Prioress must have many strings to her lyre.’ She stood. ‘I chose your name with care. You lay unanointed for days while I thought on it. Only when I prayed did it come to me – a name that means decision. I urge you to make one, Esbar. I do not know what Saghul will think of your choices, but she knows one thing well, as the Mother did. An irresolute leader is no leader at all.’

❀

In a small clearing near the Priory, Meren sang in mellow tones as he collected honey from a comb. Tunuva watched him from the low bough of a skirtwood.

Meren went into the forest on most days. She had joined him at dawn, wanting to be away from the Priory, where she risked seeing Esbar. She needed time to mourn a hope.

Ninuru swiped at a honeybee with her paw. They flew in lazy circles, wings humming.

‘Ninuru,’ Meren said, ‘please, be careful with my friends.’

‘Ichneumons do not like bees.’

‘Ah, I never used to like them, either, when I was a child. But a bee is like an ichneumon.’ He dabbed a little honey on her nose. ‘Harmless unless provoked.’

Ninuru licked it away, then licked his face. He ruffled her fur with a grin.

Tunuva raised a smile. When they were children, they had often slipped into the forest together, and Meren would teach her the names of the plants. Over a decade later, he still had new discoveries to share with her.

Today he had picked her a bloom he called dayflower, tiny and blue as a speck of the sky. Tunuva took it from her hair and turned it between her fingers.

‘Thank you, Meren,’ she said. ‘For the honey.’

‘You have not seemed yourself of late.’ Meren looked up at her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘I would not want to trouble you.’

‘It already does, if it troubles you.’ He used a wet cloth to wash the honey from his hands. They were long and slender, like the rest of him. ‘Is it Esbar?’

‘How did you know?’

Meren laughed. ‘Tuva, we live in a small world. Everyone knows everything.’ He hung up the cloth. ‘No, fear not. It was just some gossip among the men, but no one is certain. I hear you and she have been joined at the hip.’

‘Not since our journey.’

‘Why?’

Meren came to stand beside the tree, resting his arms on the bough. His eyes were a clear, greyish brown that drank up the sunlight, seeking hers from under thick brows.

‘It would not have lasted,’ Tunuva said softly. ‘Not for long.’ She let her head fall against the trunk. ‘Esbar is called to be Prioress, and will let nothing stop her. I admire that determination. She knows exactly what she wants.’

‘And what do you want?’

‘To be a warrior for the Mother. To bear her a child one day, if I can.’ Tunuva gathered her knees to her chest. ‘We are so fortunate here. Our home is a perfect sanctuary, untouched by the world. Was it selfish of me to want more?’

‘Only a fool would call you selfish.’ Meren patted her booted foot. ‘You know I respect Esbar, very much. If she does not desire you in that way, so be it. But she will have shut a bright light out of her life, and that will be her loss.’

‘Meren, I am a moon to her sun.’

‘No. A moon cannot shine alone. You do, Tunuva.’ Meren held out a hand. ‘We should go home. You must face it sooner or later. It will be all right.’

Tunuva clasped his fingers, mustering a tired smile. ‘I wish I had half your hope.’

‘I wish I had half your strength.’ He returned her smile. ‘Come.’

Ninuru took them back to the Priory, where Meren went to teach some of the children by the river. Tunuva was almost tempted to follow, but if Meren had seen her sorrow, so might others. Better to spend the night by herself.

She would dance with her spear and pray to the Mother, as she had every day since she was five. It might lend her the peace she had not found alone.

‘Tunuva.’

The voice sent a prickling chill down her sides. Esbar had appeared from another corridor, a little dishevelled, as if she had run. Tunuva lifted her chin.

‘Esbar,’ she said.

‘I was looking for you.’ Esbar approached her. ‘May we speak?’

Tunuva almost refused, for her own sake. She wanted to hide in her chamber and curl up until the pain disappeared. Still, Esbar was gazing at her with such intensity, dark brows knitted above her eyes, that all she could do was nod.

They took the stepway to the valley, neither of them speaking. Esbar led her into the shade of the orange tree, and Tunuva walked at her side, all hope sinking out of sight.

Esbar must want to tell her, in no uncertain terms, that there would be nothing more between them. Tunuva turned to her. Her expression flitted between worry and resolve.

‘Tuva,’ she said, ‘I know I have been distant with you. I’m sorry. It was craven of me.’

‘You owe me nothing, Esbar.’

‘Please, let me speak.’ Esbar drew a deep breath. ‘You know how long I have wanted to be Prioress. As a child, I promised myself that I would follow that dream at any cost . . . but sometimes it has cost others. Yusul was falling in love with me. I saw too late, and hurt her, when I ended it. The last thing I wanted was to do the same to you.’

‘Esbar, I truly understand. There is no need for this.’

‘Yes, there is.’

‘No.’ Tunuva could hardly get the words out: ‘I knew.’ A hot weight had risen behind her eyes. She needed to leave. ‘I knew it would be fleeting, yet still I gave my heart to you,’ she said, voice strained. ‘Please, Esbar. Do not make me stand and watch you let it go.’

Esbar never broke her gaze, but her mouth and jaw hardened. For the first time in their lives, she seemed almost helpless. Her arms were folded like a barrier against her ribs.

Ninuru and Jeda exchanged a silent look. Together, they shoved Tunuva and Esbar, forcing them to step towards each other, Tunuva so unprepared that she stumbled. She felt Esbar catch her elbow to steady her, and realised she had grabbed for Esbar in return, fingers bunching in her sleeve.

‘Jeda,’ Esbar hissed.

Tunuva shot Ninuru a look of reproach. Even then, she was too aware of where Esbar was touching her.

Their eyes met again, and Esbar seemed to steel herself. She took Tunuva firmly by the hands.

‘No,’ she said in a low voice. ‘That’s why I’m here, Tuva. I don’t want to let you go.’

Tunuva dared not trust her own ears. Her heart was a drumbeat in a vast chamber, each beat loudened by the last. Her hands might have trembled, had Esbar not been grasping them.

‘How can we do this, Esbar?’ Tunuva whispered. ‘How long could it last?’

‘I know it may sometimes be difficult. Our duty is too important to risk,’ Esbar said quietly. ‘I have been afraid that if I let myself feel too much for you, it would dull my judgement, make me weak. I thought of you and forgot how to hunt. But then I understood, Tuva. It was the fear of losing you that had clouded my mind.’ She cupped her cheek. ‘When I am with you, I feel as strong as I do when I fight. As I do when I pray.’

She was as warm as the sunlight. Tunuva caught the scent of roses on her skin, in her black hair.

‘I prayed last night. I prayed for guidance,’ Esbar told her. ‘And then I dreamed of you again.’ She stroked a thumb along her jaw. ‘Who am I to deny the Mother?’

Esbar had made the first move before. Now she waited for Tunuva, who felt the anticipation in her stance. Tunuva threaded the right words together, stroking down her bare arm.

‘If it lasts for a week or a month or a year, it will still be ours to cherish,’ she said. ‘Does a flower bloom any less sweet for its brevity?’

Esbar smiled.

‘No,’ she said, leaning close. ‘Nor less beautiful.’

Tunuva slid a hand to her nape. She leaned down just a little and smiled as she kissed the woman she loved, sealing her decision. Esbar wrapped both arms around her waist, and when they finally parted to breathe, they were laughing for joy, as they had in the desert.

Some trees lost their fruits at the end of a season. But Tunuva and Esbar knew better than most that some trees bore fruit for as long as they lived.