Then Ruti hears the voice of a figure in the trees, who never quite materializes into a person. The group is moving swiftly through the woods now, so quick that they’re nearly being carried, and she hears the chorus of song around her, the forest and the Heir and Orrin and Ruti an organ of the magic of the woods.
And as their voices crescendo, Ruti sees where they’re going. The woods climb higher in front of them, a final remnant of the mountains at Zidesh’s border, and they stop abruptly at a cliff forested with tall pine trees. There is a drop before them, a sheer fall onto rock down below, yet Ruti’s soprano soars joyously with the trees as her heart beats with terror.
Ruti’s foot touches the edge. Her whole body arches to leap when something hits her. She doubles over, nearly slipping forward. The same thing that hit her now seizes her, yanking her back and shoving a mixture of leaf and dirt and underbrush into her mouth. She chokes, her song muffled and then stopped, and she hurls herself forward again as she realizes what the Heir is about to do.
What she’d been about to do. The trees are still singing, but their power has lessened, and there’s a blur of energy passing Ruti now, tackling the Heir to the ground and then Orrin. The one unaffected member of their party stuffs more underbrush into their mouths, and Ruti stumbles back, dumbfounded at how close she’d been to death.
Kimya moves as quick as lightning, darting between them and wrestling with all three as the trees still harmonize. She holds up a warning finger as the Heir attempts to sing past her gag, and she reaches out and claps her on the head, hard.
The Heir looks at her in outrage, then slow comprehension. The truth is beginning to dawn on Ruti, too.
Kimya makes a quick sign with her hands, a command they both recognize. Run, her hands say, and the girls run.
Orrin follows behind them, all four of them stumbling through the woods as the forest coaxes them to sing again. Ruti wants to, craves it as much as she knows it will be her doom, but Kimya slaps her the moment she manages to pull some of the leaf from her mouth and shoves in more. Run, she signs again, and they run down the side of the mountain, slipping and sliding and utterly lost and terrified, until they tumble down in front of a large, absurd-looking structure.
It is a house built three stories high of gleaming metal that winds through the trees of the forest, the branches still growing. There is no brick or clay or mud to hold it together, only solid metal with no gaps even where it touches the trees. Ruti skids to a halt in front of it, and a woman steps outside and stares at them.
“Ahi’ataka,” she says, and at their blank stares, switches to a thick Ruranan dialect of Zideshi. “I thought we might have some visitors for the guest house tonight.”
Ruti tears the gag from her mouth. It is quiet here, the singing trees giving the metalwood monstrosity a wide berth, and she says, spitting out dirt, “Guest house?”
“I’m one of the proprietors,” the woman says, kind eyes swallowed by smiling round cheeks and stubby-nailed hands smoothing down the colorful fabric of her tunic. She waves them toward her as though they aren’t ragged, terrified strangers covered in dirt. Ruti sees ashto and endhi joined on the woman’s palm, the odd mixture that gives its Bonded mastery over metal. “Come in, come in!”
Inside, the metal house is just as odd as the outside. The trees that make up its walls are alive, creatures moving in and out of the house through knots in the trees and scampering past them. The tables in the main room are tree stumps, and there is a winding metal staircase in one corner that is surrounded by leaves.
The woman who brought them in is a pleasant-looking Niyarumi named Yawen, plump and cheerful and fully awake, as though it isn’t the middle of the night. “We’ve talked about building a proper inn here, but there just aren’t enough visitors to justify all that effort,” she says, shaking her head. “Aeil’ita’ya—the Murmuring Woods—is the end of most travelers.”
Kimya signs a question to her and glances over to Ruti to translate. But to Ruti’s surprise, Yawen says, delighted, “Ah, you’ve been taught the hand-language of the Niyaru!” She signs in response, her hands flying so quickly that Ruti can’t follow her words. Kimya answers, her own hands just as fast. Ruti had thought herself skilled at Kimya’s language by now, but she is left with the uncomfortable sensation that she’s been utterly ignorant all along.
After a few minutes, Yawen looks up again as though she’s just remembered the rest of them. Kimya, she signs, as slowly as one might speak to a toddler, and simultaneously speaking out loud, “says that you came close to an end of your own in the woods.”
The Heir, looking dignified with her face cleaned and only a few stray leaves trapped in her braided coils, says, “We were nearly sung to our deaths.”
“Legend has it that a witch-prince with the powers of majimm and endhi combined was once killed by a tyrant king in this place,” a voice says from the stairs. A second woman descends, tall and pretty, her puffy hair streaked with an odd red that looks like the glint of steel when it’s heated. “Where he died, greenery grew to create the forest, and at night, he still seeks his vengeance. The spirits roam free here, and they protect only those who make them offerings before they sleep.”
They stare up at her and she smiles, extending a hand. “I am Adimu. With my wife, I maintain this guest house,” she says, and Ruti sees on her outstretched palm a mark that matches Yawen’s. “I have been tracking your donkeys from above.” She gestures vaguely upstairs. “When they arrive, of course, we can settle the matter of payment, but why don’t you enjoy something to eat first?”
Her hand still dangles in front of them, waiting for them to press their palms to hers, but no one has moved yet. Finally, Kimya stretches out her dirty gloved hand to Adimu’s, and Ruti blurts out, “Are you Bonded?”
Never has she experienced such a thing before, two women with matching marks who exchange an indulgent smile at her disbelief. “Yes, darling,” Yawen says. Kimya signs a question to her, and Yawen signs back in a rush of information of which Ruti only gleans a quarter. “It is not altogether uncommon for two men or two women to be bonded to each other.”
Adimu’s eyes are sharper. “If this is a shock for you, perhaps you will be best served in the woods tonight.”
“No, not at all,” Ruti hastens to explain. “I just … I’ve never seen it before. Not Bonded.” The idea of being with another girl had always seemed like a relationship unique to the Markless, to Unbonded who hadn’t found their match. Ruti has always thought that destiny must not look kindly on those who will not breed, and she hadn’t imagined that.…
Beside her, the Heir stares at the women’s marks, the same look of disbelief on her face. “My tutors … my teachers say it’s impossible,” she says at last.
“And yet, here we are,” Adimu points out.
The Heir is uncowed by Adimu’s hard eyes. “You share a mark,” the Heir concedes. “But so do thousands of others with metal skill. It means nothing.”
“It meant something when we touched for the first time and our hands glowed,” Yawen says serenely. “And then we were Bonded. Not every soulbond is between a man and a woman. Not every soulbond is romantic, either. I have met a woman who bonded with her own son, her life entwined with his forever. We once hosted soulbonds who were traveling companions, a blind man and a deaf one, who guided each other on their travels and were not in the least bit attracted to each other. Or so they said. The person your soul craves to bond with can serve many purposes for you, my dear, and the most shortsighted of them is marriage.”
Ruti gapes at them, lost. “I’ve never heard any of that before.”
“Well, you are Zideshi,” Adimu says, her eyes sweeping over their garb. “The Zideshi prize some limited traditions, if you’ll pardon my saying so. We are from Niyaru, where the Fanged One roams free. Even speaking aloud can draw her fatal interest, and life is too short to dwell on old customs.”
“We aren’t Zideshi,” the Heir lies. “We are travelers from the sea.” But it is clear that they aren’t, from their colorful dress to the lack of bands around their necks. The people of Rurana wear plain colors, greys and browns, and their ornamentation is in their jewelry.
Adimu lifts one dubious eyebrow. “In Niyaru,” she says, “Bonded women can live where they wish, though the land is far more dangerous than it is in this place. Rurana is more like Zidesh, but no one bothers us here. We are protected by the trees and by the Fanged One herself.” She gestures at the walls around them, and Ruti notices for the first time that there are gaps in the walls, openings in which Fanged Ones lie dormant. Their scales gleam in the light, and Ruti sees one enormous, lazy eye open to watch them and then close again.
Ruti shudders. Adimu exchanges a glance with Yawen. “Come,” she says. “Eat something. My wife will fetch your donkeys.”
Yawen disappears out of the house while Adimu prepares a warm soup for them on heated metal. “Ruranan soldiers gifted us this stove while they were traveling,” she says. “It never cools.”
“Kuduwaí,” the Heir breathes, staring at the stove. “I’ve only ever heard rumors.”
Ruti is bewildered. “What’s kuduwaí?”
“Magic. Of sorts.” The Heir sits down at a table as Adimu brings them soup. “There are stories that the Ruranan witches have crafted a way for Bonded to keep their powers alive even after they’re gone, with the blessing of the spirits. That a Bonded with mastery over water might keep the waves flowing long after he has departed, that a Bonded with mental powers could keep a whole city floating with kuduwaí. It is a jealously guarded secret, if it is true. Only Ruranan royalty and the generals of their army know how to create kuduwaí. It’s said that it is how the Ruranan navy is so strong.”
“I have seen it in action,” Adimu says soberly. “We are all fortunate Rurana keeps to itself rather than attacking its neighbors. And for my stove, of course.” The soup is hot, and the metal still glows red when they’re done and Yawen has returned.
“The guest house is small, but it should serve your purposes,” Yawen promises them, leading them up the staircase to the top floor. “There are two bedrooms. I will bring you some water once you’re settled in.”
She leaves them at the top of the stairs. Ruti ducks under the doorway of the low ceiling to survey the room on the right. It’s a small room, one large bed in the center of it and a dresser beside the bed. A small wooden chair is against the wall, though it looks hard bottomed and uncomfortable.
