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easily discernible, his loose golden curls a match for the yellow decorating his green thawa. He had brought the filly’s dam out of the shadows of the stables and was brushing her now; the donkeys who had pulled the plow through the tough soil had already been retired for the day and were no doubt groomed, fed, and drowsing in their stalls.
    Who would’ve thought a Mandarite nobleman could be such a conscientious farmer? He pampers even the chickens, laying straw to catch their guano and cleaning their house every few days. Despite all the things the village could have held against him, his rank, his nationality, his unfamiliarity with Sundaran ways, he was earning the respect of her people. And he’s earning my respect, too.
    Kedle cleared her throat. Pulling her attention back to the task at hand, Chanson moved away from the edge of the roof. The clouds had moved close enough that Jimeyon would need to begin shortly. That meant monitoring him and his efforts with her instinctive awareness of the water heading their way.
    I think I should tell him that he’s earning our respect, she decided, getting ready to coach and praise her young apprentice. Like I do with Jimeyon, here. It won’t hurt him to know we think he’s doing alright, and as I was the one who first welcomed him, if a bit tartly, I should be the one to let him know he is welcome among us. Especially now that his Arbran friend is gone and he is alone. And I did treat him roughly when he first arrived.
    Yes, he needs to know we are warming up to him now.
     
     
    Several weeks later, tired from channeling the latest, late autumn storm and its worrisome lightning, Chanson found herself distracted by a burst of laughter from somewhere beyond the temple walls. Leaving Jimeyon to assist dyara Kedle down the steps, she crossed to the edge of the roof and leaned over the waist-high parapet.
    There, on the street leading into the village, walked a very muddy, very bedraggled figure. It was so muddy, Chanson had to look twice even to realize what the gender was, let alone the identity. When she did, she winced. Poor Eduor! He has so much quiet dignity, but everyone is pointing and laughing at him now.
    The voice of one of the younger men who hadn’t left with Falkon floated up to her on the wall. “ I think he’s trying to make himself look like one of us!”
    Someone else called out, “Hey, Eduor—you missed a few spots!” and a third, a grandmother, lifted her hands as she cried, “—You’re supposed to leave your palms pale, not the back of your hands, boy!” and that set the rest of them laughing even harder.
    Even Chanson felt the urge to giggle. It was quickly stifled by the silent not-smile Eduor gave in reply, and the stiff way he continued up the street, limping toward the temple. Toward the bathing halls, in specific. I think he’s hurt, she realized. Not just by their jokes, but physically hurt, too. I should get downstairs to see if he needs tending. Not to mention find out what happened to him.
    Now that the latest storm was over, the wind was beginning to pick up; from the heat carried in the breeze, she knew it was the meltimi , the hot, dry wind that signaled the start of the winter season. Not that winter in Sundara was anything more than a convenience of language; it simply meant the cooler of the two local dry seasons, with spring and autumn bringing the few but necessary rains.
    She was a good enough water-caller that neither she, nor her apprentice, nor the reverend dyara had gotten wet. The same could not be said for the land outside the village walls. With the planting season nearly over, the trio had diverted some of the water into the cisterns, but had let the rain pound the ground; the roots of their crops were firmly established, and it never hurt to let the soil soak up the last of the rains this late in the season. Early on, the rain wouldn’t penetrate the too-dry soil and would only run off into the wadis of the desert, but