Summer Nights

Six days later, by sunset, Vessa smelled of salt, smoke, fruit, and roasting meat.

The sea breeze had strengthened through the afternoon, moving inland from the cliffs and through streets bright with white and yellow cloth. Pineapple hissed over coals. Whole fish turned above long fires near the central square. Honey warmed in shallow pots until it ran thin enough to brush over bread, fruit, and anything else someone could reasonably argue would improve by becoming sticky.

Three deer had been brought in that morning.

None were Toren’s.

Kellan had mentioned this twice already.

A third time, Toren had decided, would justify violence.

Sanctuary Day always changed Vessa, but this year the village seemed to have surrendered itself completely to the occasion. Households had hung lanterns from balconies and garden walls. Children had looped cloth through the old stone anchor holes along the central roads. Garlands of moonvine and salt jasmine climbed doorways and wrapped the trunks of trees, their pale flowers shifting whenever the wind reached them.

The preparations extended far beyond the central square. From the higher streets Toren could see lanterns appearing between trees on distant hillsides, one neighborhood after another answering the deepening dusk. Vessa was too large for everyone to know everyone else, and large enough that families from the lake district might visit the sea-facing streets only occasionally.

Tonight, all of them seemed to be moving toward the same place.

The great tree stood at the center of it.

Hundreds of lanterns hung beneath its spreading canopy, some glass, some paper, others carved from thin pieces of pale wood. As evening gathered, flames appeared among the branches one after another until the tree seemed to hold a second field of stars beneath its leaves.

Toren stopped at the edge of the square.

Kellan stopped beside him.

For once, neither of them spoke immediately.

Toren had seen the tree dressed for Sanctuary Day every year of his life.

Not like this.

Perhaps nothing about it was truly different. Perhaps three hundred years simply gave people an excuse to use every lantern in Vessa.

Or perhaps Toren had changed enough during the last week to notice what had always been there.

Kellan tugged once at the collar of a shirt that had clearly been chosen by someone else.

“Your grandfather’s?” Toren asked.

Kellan looked offended.

“How did you know?”

“You look like you’re being punished by an ancestor.”

“My mother says he wore it to her first Sanctuary dance.”

“And now it’s trying to kill you.”

Kellan adjusted the collar again.

“I can respect the dead without letting them choke me.”

His attention shifted past Toren.

The humor disappeared from his face.

Toren followed his gaze.

Lysa was crossing the square.

He almost failed to recognize her.

Her hair, normally tied back for the gardens and half-fallen loose by midday, hung over her shoulders in dark waves held away from her face by two narrow gold pins. Her dress was pale green, simple enough that she still looked like herself, though tiny white flowers had been stitched along the sleeves and hem.

She noticed them looking.

More specifically, she noticed Toren.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You were staring.”

“I was surprised.”

“That is not better.”

Toren searched for a safer answer.

“You look nice.”

Lysa’s expression flattened.

He corrected himself.

“No. I mean really nice.”

For once, she had nothing ready.

The silence lasted only a moment, but Toren noticed it because silence around Lysa was rare.

Then she glanced down at herself.

“That was almost competent.”

“I can do things.”

“Occasionally.”

She came closer and straightened the front of his collar.

“You look better than I expected too.”

“That sounds less generous.”

“My expectations were lower.”

Toren smiled.

Only then did he notice Kellan was already several paces toward the food.

“Kellan.”

His friend glanced back.

“You seemed occupied.”

Toren followed him.

Lysa came with them, smiling to herself.

The meal had no real beginning.

Food appeared, people ate, and somewhere along the way everyone seemed to decide that the celebration had officially started.

Long communal tables filled the space beneath and around the great tree, though few people remained in one place for long. Families gathered, separated, found neighbors, lost children, recovered them, and surrendered seats to anyone older who looked tired enough.

The food had come from everywhere in Vessa.

Ocean fish roasted with herbs and citrus. Shellfish opened over hot stones. Rice and vegetables from the inner terraces. Mango and pineapple. Strawberries that disappeared faster than anyone could refill the bowls. Dark bread glazed with honey. Preserved fruit opened from jars that had been waiting months for this night.

Toren ate standing for most of it.

Lysa disappeared among friends from the gardens. Maera was claimed by three different groups who wanted to congratulate her before she had done anything worth congratulating. Garran moved slowly through the crowd and was stopped every few steps by someone wanting to speak with him.

Kellan stayed close until a girl Toren recognized from the lake district approached him.

Several minutes later she was still there.

Toren watched with interest.

Kellan noticed.

“Don’t.”

Toren grinned and left him alone.

Near the edge of the square, Senn and Marek had found a quieter table.

Toren joined them.

Marek was eating with the focus of a man who considered conversation an obstacle.

Senn held a cup of something dark.

Toren glanced at it.

Senn said, “No.”

Toren sat down.

Across the square, Garran had been trapped by an elderly woman who held both his hands while speaking to him with enormous seriousness.

Toren watched the chief attempt an escape without visibly moving.

“That may be the first time I’ve seen him frightened.”

Senn followed his gaze.

“You weren’t at his wedding.”

Then he drank.

Toren decided not to ask.

Music had begun somewhere beyond the tree, quietly enough at first that conversation continued over it. A drum established the rhythm. Strings followed. Then a flute.

The light changed.

Sunset had disappeared while no one was paying attention, and above the lanterns the four pale moons and the dim Far Moon had risen.

Toren found Lysa again near one of the tables.

She and Maera had reached simultaneously for the same piece of preserved mango.

Their hands stopped over the plate.

Maera looked at Lysa.

Lysa looked at Maera.

Neither moved.

Maera said something Toren could not hear.

Lysa’s expression hardened.

Maera withdrew her hand.

Lysa took the mango.

Then Maera stole half of it directly from her fingers and walked away.

Lysa stared after her in disbelief.

Toren laughed.

Lysa saw him.

“You saw nothing.”

“I saw enough.”

“Then forget it.”

He was still smiling when the first drumbeat sounded from beneath the great tree.

The conversations around the square began to fade.

People settled wherever they could.

The younger children were gathered closer to their families. Those old enough to believe themselves independent remained at the edge of the crowd until their parents looked at them.

Toren found a place with Lysa, Kellan, and several people from their street.

Maera stood beneath the great tree beside a small table.

The founding record rested there beneath a protective covering.

Iven stood close enough to intervene personally if anyone breathed on it incorrectly.

Toren smiled at that.

Then Maera stepped forward.

The smile faded.

He had seen her stand before groups plenty of times. Wayfinders gave route reports. Maera had argued with Garran in front of half the village without appearing uncomfortable.

This was different.

Hundreds of people waited.

Maera looked toward Garran.

He nodded once.

She lowered her eyes to the copied page in her hands.

For a few moments, the only sound was wind moving through the leaves overhead.

Then she began.

“On the thirty-seventh day after we left the river settlement, there were forty-nine of us remaining.”

Toren knew the shape of the story.

Every child in Vessa did.

The founders had fled.

They had lost people.

They had found the old settlement.

They had stayed.

That was the version told to children.

Maera read something else.

“We had lost the last cart three days before. What food remained was carried by hand. Neral could no longer walk and was borne between his sons. Three children had fever. Two others had stopped speaking.”

No one moved.

Toren glanced at Kellan.

His friend had spent the evening pulling at his grandfather’s collar whenever he thought no one noticed.

His hands were still now.

He was listening completely.

Maera continued.

“We believed the coast lay another two days south. We had been wrong about distance so many times that no one trusted the estimate.”

A few quiet smiles moved through the crowd.

Toren thought of the library.

Maps.

Old accounts.

People doing their best with incomplete knowledge.

Maera turned the page.

“By evening, the wind changed.”

Toren knew what came next.

“We could smell salt upon it.”

As though the sea had been waiting for the line, a breeze moved through the square.

The lanterns shifted.

Salt touched Toren’s lips.

Maera waited.

“The children smelled it first. They began running before the rest of us understood why.”

Her voice carried cleanly beneath the tree.

“We followed them uphill.”

The founders had reached the coast exhausted.

They had expected nothing.

Instead they found old walls beneath vines and trees. Abandoned houses. Fresh water. Fruit growing wild. A settlement large enough to shelter far more people than remained among them.

But Maera did not make the discovery sound triumphant.

“They asked whether we would stay.”

She raised her eyes briefly from the page.

“I told them I did not know.”

A small murmur passed through the square.

Toren had never heard that part.

“We had called too many places safe before learning better. We had buried too many people beside walls that failed us.”

No one smiled now.

“So we slept beneath the trees rather than the houses. We kept watches through the night.”

Maera looked down.

“At dawn, everyone was still alive.”

The words seemed to settle over the entire square.

Toren felt Lysa shift beside him.

Her shoulder touched his.

Neither moved away.

Maera continued.

“The children asked again whether we would stay.”

Her voice softened.

“This time, I said yes.”

She stopped.

No flourish.

No speech afterward.

Just those words.

Garran stepped forward.

Every Sanctuary Day ended the reading the same way.

Toren had repeated the response since childhood without thinking about it.

“Three hundred years ago,” Garran said, “they stayed.”

Hundreds of voices answered.

“So do we.”

“Sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary.”

The word rolled through the square and into the branches above them.

Toren felt it in his chest.

Two nights earlier, sanctuary had been the gate closing between him and a Kraithe.

The founders had not known whether their walls would hold. They had survived one night, then another, until staying became a life. Three hundred years later, their descendants had to be reminded what the running had meant.

Toren looked toward Garran.

The chief was not watching the crowd.

He was watching his daughters.

Lysa had reached Maera first. She put both arms around her before Maera seemed prepared for it.

After a brief surprise, Maera held her back.

Garran’s expression changed.

Barely.

His eyes softened, and for one heartbeat Toren saw something in his face that did not belong entirely to the two women standing beneath the tree.

Someone missing from between them.

Then the moment was gone.

Garran looked away.

Toren did too.

Iven immediately moved toward the founding record.

Whatever solemnity remained in the square surrendered to the sight of him guarding the book from people who had no intention of touching it.

Conversation returned.

Then music.

Lysa found Toren when the dancing began.

He had positioned himself near enough to the outer edge of the square that leaving would not look suspicious.

She appeared directly in his path.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were leaving.”

“I was moving.”

“Away from the dancing.”

“There are many directions.”

She held out her hand.

Toren looked at it.

“I don’t know what they’re playing.”

“You do.”

“I know enough to make both of us regret this.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

“That seems irresponsible.”

Lysa did not lower her hand.

Toren sighed and took it.

The dance was old enough that everyone in Vessa learned some version of it while still young.

Step.

Turn.

Change hands.

Back again.

The musicians began slowly, giving people time to find the rhythm.

Toren nearly missed the first turn anyway.

Lysa corrected him without comment.

“You did that deliberately,” he said.

“I kept you from walking into another couple.”

“I had them.”

“You did not.”

The music quickened.

Lysa moved easily.

Toren had forgotten that she danced well. Most years they had been part of larger groups, changing partners so often that nobody remained together long enough to notice much.

Tonight, she had come looking for him.

The thought occurred to Toren only because she had dragged him away from escape.

Then the rhythm changed and he forgot about it.

They turned.

Separated.

Came together again.

Toren caught her hand.

For a few steps, Lysa stopped teasing him.

Her fingers settled properly into his, and when he looked at her she was already watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The answer came too quickly.

He smiled.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Where you say nothing and mean something.”

“I learned it from you.”

“I don’t do that.”

Lysa laughed softly.

The next turn carried them apart.

When they came together again, she was herself.

“Try not to step on me.”

“You stepped on me last time.”

“That sounds unlikely.”

“It happened.”

“Do you have witnesses?”

Toren looked around.

“Hundreds.”

“None reliable.”

The music ended.

People around them began changing partners.

Toren loosened his hand.

Lysa did not.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then her fingers slipped from his.

“Better than I expected,” she said.

“That seems to be everyone’s opinion of me tonight.”

“It’s good to exceed expectations.”

She turned away before he could answer.

Toren watched her disappear into the crowd.

Then someone struck him lightly between the shoulders.

Kellan.

“You survived.”

“I was excellent.”

“You were recognizable as someone dancing.”

“I’ll take it.”

Kellan nodded toward where Lysa had gone.

For a moment Toren expected a comment.

Kellan only said, “Your collar’s crooked.”

Then walked away.

Toren fixed it.

Later, he found Garran sitting on a low stone wall beyond the brightest part of the square.

The chief held a cup in one hand and watched the celebration.

Toren sat beside him.

Garran allowed it.

For a while they said nothing.

The night had cooled. Music drifted from beneath the tree, mixed with conversation and the occasional shriek of a child who had been permitted to remain awake long past reason.

Lysa was dancing with a group from the gardens now.

Maera stood nearby talking with Senn.

The sisters crossed paths as the dance shifted. Lysa caught Maera’s hand and pulled her into the circle.

Maera resisted for perhaps half a second.

Then gave in.

Garran watched them.

Toren watched Garran.

There it was again.

Not sadness exactly.

Something quieter.

The shape left by a person who should have been there.

Toren remembered Garran’s wife mostly through fragments.

Her laugh.

Her hair wet from the lake.

The way she used to call Maera from the street when dinner was ready.

She had died on the same expedition as Toren’s mother.

Five years ago.

Tonight, Toren could imagine her standing between the two daughters more easily than he could remember her face.

He said nothing.

Garran drank from his cup.

Neither of them needed to name who was absent.

After a while Toren said, “Maera chose well.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell her to pick that passage?”

“No.”

That was all.

Toren smiled.

“Proud of her?”

Garran looked at him.

Toren immediately understood he had asked one question too many.

Then Garran looked back toward his daughters.

“Yes.”

The answer was so simple that Toren did not know what to do with it.

He leaned back on his hands.

Across the square, Kellan was dancing with the same girl from the lake district.

Still competent.

Disturbing.

Garran noticed where he was looking.

“Something wrong?”

“Kellan can dance.”

“Most people can.”

“He has concealed it.”

“I imagine from you specifically.”

Toren considered that.

“Fair.”

Garran stood.

“Go enjoy yourself.”

“You make that sound like an order.”

“It may be the only one you follow willingly.”

He walked away.

Toren watched him disappear into the crowd.

A hand entered his field of vision.

Maera.

“Up.”

“No.”

“You danced with Lysa.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“She insisted.”

Maera held out her hand.

“So am I.”

Toren looked at her.

She smiled.

He stood.

Maera refused to choose the slow dance.

Instead she waited until the musicians shifted into something quick and familiar, then used the first turn to nearly send Toren into another couple.

He recovered at the last moment.

“You did that intentionally.”

“Yes.”

“That isn’t dancing.”

“It improved the evening.”

He attempted the same on the next turn.

Maera anticipated it and changed direction before he could.

“You’re cheating.”

“How?”

“I’ll decide later.”

She grinned.

There was no self-consciousness with Maera. She had been part of his life for too long.

She had spent too many years knocking books out of his hands, stealing his food, correcting his climbing knots, disappearing beyond the walls, and returning only to refuse most of his questions.

Nothing about standing close to her felt unusual.

It was simply another version of home.

They turned through the crowd.

“Tomorrow,” Toren said.

“No.”

“You promised.”

“I know what I promised.”

“After Sanctuary Day.”

“Yes.”

“It is after the reading.”

“That is not what Sanctuary Day means.”

“You are changing the terms.”

“I am interpreting them.”

“Iven has corrupted you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“All the maps?”

“No.”

“Maera.”

She laughed.

The dance separated them.

When they came together again, she said, “Enough to make you annoying for another year.”

Toren considered the offer.

“I accept.”

“I hadn’t offered.”

“You did now.”

Maera shook her head.

The music carried them on.

The children were still awake long after they should have been.

That was part of Sanctuary Day too.

For one night, bedtime became an idea rather than a rule.

Small groups raced between tables carrying lanterns. Older children tried to persuade younger ones to stand closer to the bonfires. Someone had begun the founding song near the tree, badly enough that the musicians eventually joined in to rescue it.

Food continued to appear.

Toren had stopped asking where it came from.

Someone handed him grilled fish wrapped in broad leaves.

Someone else gave him chilled pineapple.

Lysa returned with honey bread and broke it in half before sitting beside him.

Maera eventually settled on Toren’s other side, shoes removed, legs stretched out in front of her.

Kellan passed once with friends and raised a hand without stopping.

Garran was somewhere among the crowd.

Iven had left the moment he was certain the founding record was safely back in the library.

The bonfires burned lower.

Lanterns swayed overhead.

Toren sat beneath the great tree with Lysa on one side and Maera on the other and listened to Vessa.

Music.

Laughter.

Children calling through the dark.

Plates being stacked.

Wind moving through leaves.

And beyond all of it, faint but constant, the sea breaking against the coast.

He had spent most of his life imagining places beyond the walls.

Dareth.

The northern mountains.

Roads leaving Caldris.

Cities described in books.

Flamebearers carrying Celestial Rods into battle.

He still wanted to see them.

That had not changed.

But for one night, wanting somewhere else did not make Vessa feel small.

The village stretched away from the square in every direction, lanterns shining through trees and along distant streets. Beyond those streets stood the walls.

Beyond the walls waited everything he had dreamed about.

Toren did not look toward them.

Not once.

Tonight, there was nowhere else he wanted to be.