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almost been robbed or worse, or when the weather had turned so foul that he actually feared for his life. Through all of that, it was his memories that brought him through: Linhona in the kitchen or garden, her competent hands busy at whatever task, Annaya bouncing around, always so small, and Scaja's solemn face by the firelight. True as rain, they were his life.

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    37
    Scarlet and the White Wolf--Book One
    by Kirby Crow
    A week and a day Scarlet stayed in the village. Then, on the eighth morning, a cold wind began to blow from the northeast and a light layer of frost crunched under his boots when he went to fetch water from the well. If he did not leave soon for Khurelen, he would have a hard time getting through the Snakepath into the lowlands. It was just as well. The soles of his feet had already begun to phantom-ache with the want for travel. The fence was fixed, the roof was patched, and he had helped Scaja put a new wheel on a freight carriage that broke down two leagues from the Salt Road. The night they returned from fixing the carriage, after a long dinner as Scaja lingered over his pipe, Scarlet told him he would be trying Whetstone Pass the next day.
    Scaja looked at Scarlet through a wreath of smoke, his black eyes narrowed but soft, and he nodded. If he had objections, he knew well enough to keep them inside. Scaja left to tell Linhona that her son would be leaving.
    Scarlet's bedroom was just a cot behind a curtain next to the kitchen, and later, as he packed and the smell of the waybread baking for his journey filled the house, Scaja pushed aside the curtain. There was a linen-wrapped bundle in his hands. He sat on Scarlet's bed, unfolded the linen, and began to carefully lay out the bundle's contents on the covers. Scarlet stared in astonishment, and Scaja gave him a small smile.
    "Busy as bees, all of you!" Scarlet exclaimed. He touched the treasures that Scaja had presented: silver-plated pins and buckles, iron needles and tin spoons, and a handful of small, 38
    Scarlet and the White Wolf--Book One
    by Kirby Crow
    delicate buttons carved from bone. There was more: three linen lapels richly embroidered in blue and green by Annaya, and two lace collars stitched in a dragonfly pattern by Linhona, fully as good as any he had seen in the cities. He touched the buckles, admiring the light chasing of fine scrollwork Scaja had set into the metal.
    "How did you ever...?"
    Scaja shrugged. "Well, making a buckle is not so different from welding a wheel spoke. Easier, in some ways." He began gathering the wares up. "Work's been slow," he ended the subject brusquely. "I had the time."
    "Scaja, is there anything—"
    "Hush, lad, and let me help you pack."
    Scarlet packed as carefully as he could without knowing how rapacious the Kasiri horde would be. Nothing too costly for a trip to Khurelen, except a small bottle of perfume he hid in his boot. The fine lace, the embroidery, and the better silver-plate he stowed under his bed, showing Scaja where it was for safekeeping. He wore his old gray woolen shirt, threadbare at the elbows but still warm, beneath the crimson leather coat and hood that denoted a pedlar throughout the world. It came down to his knees and the red dye was still bright after three years of use. He wrapped a length of faded wool around his neck and pulled on the storm-gray leather gloves that Masdren had crafted to fit his mismatched hands.
    Scaja nodded his approval at Scarlet's appearance and kept his doubts to himself.
    "Just have a care," Scaja growled as they stood together in the yard before he set out.
    39
    Scarlet and the White Wolf--Book One
    by Kirby Crow
    "I always do," he answered, knowing that Scaja didn't believe him. He had half a mind to say that it was Scaja who being reckless now, but again held his temper and kept mute.
    Scaja gave him a brief, fierce embrace and Annaya kissed his cheek. Linhona was pretending to be busy in the house, not ready to speak to him yet. She had