"A place to change."

"Lose the modesty, junior." Stiles leaned back in her chair, raising the front legs as a sly smile formed on her face. "Abbye has obviously seen it, and I could personally care less."

Rankil bunched the soft tops of the new boots in her hand. "Commander, I-"

"I said strip! That's an order!"

"Yes, Commander." Rankil swallowed hard and removed her top and undershirt. Abbye made herself busy cutting a patch while Stiles occupied herself by gathering scattered pins on one of the worktables, saving Rankil further discomfort. The black knit undertunic Abbye passed her slid on easily once Rankil figured out the collar hooks, and a rough hide jerkin with side laces over that. They were identical to Stiles's except for the rank patch, and Rankil felt good in them, strong and somehow invincible. Such majestic clothing demanded respect.

"What you think, Abbye? Will they do?"

"Don't matter what she thinks," said Stiles before Abbye could respond. "I've final approval on what you do and don't wear from this day forward." She had Rankil turn then nodded her head. "A trifle large in the shoulder, but we'll remedy that. Are the leggings laying about, seamstress woman, or does my newest trooper go bottomless in the cold?"

"They were on top of the pile you moved." Abbye tossed Rankil the top pair and smiled at her, small-talking despite Stiles's preference she not with new recruits. "How is that lady of yours?"

"Fine," mumbled Stiles around her cup. "Just fine. Looking forward to spring as we all are."

"I didn't mean you." Abbye resumed sewing, the machine clanking and popping in time with the movement of her feet on the pedals. "I saw Annyalae this morning. She stopped by to pick up your new shirt. I was referring to Rankil's gentlewoman. Was she upset?"

"She made me fried bread and gravy before I left this morning." Rankil's stomach gurgled. Myrla had indeed roused her for an early breakfast, saying the meal was penance for drunkenness. But that wasn't what concerned Rankil. In fact, it had been expected. Myrla had been clear about her beliefs on alcohol. They were the same as Jewel's-the less the better. There was something more going on in the mind of that doe-eyed gentlewoman, something Rankil wasn't quite able to comprehend. She'd woke Rankil with a hungry kiss to her mouth, wrapping and drawing her bare, agile legs up and down Rankil's until Rankil fairly ached from the pleasure. Then Myrla had risen from the blankets to dress, pulling off her winter gown without turning away, revealing more than Rankil had envisioned seeing at this stage of their relationship. Familiarity sometimes bred casualness, but Rankil believed there was more than that. Maybe she should ask Abbye.

"Gravy on a sour stomach?" Abbye's grimace shook Rankil from her thoughts. "Well, at least you know where she stands." She watched Rankil struggle with the bottom lacings of her first pair of hide leggings. "How's the baby?"

"Baby?" Stiles peered inquisitively at her recruit. "I was told you wouldn't be assigned to the barracks after your training because you were committed but not that you had a family. How did you come to have a child at your age?"

"Right time, right place, Commander." Rankil buckled the top of her boots, slid her knife into place and straightened. Time would condition the leather, but for now it was stiff, though warm, with each piece lined with light cloth to keep the hide from chafing.

"I understand you've a knack for that." Stiles indicated Rankil should gather her new belongings and follow. "A family will not excuse you from basics isolation, night duty or from taking arms when the border is threatened."

"Yes, Commander." With quick assistance from Abbye, she bundled the uniforms, grabbed her piece and hastened to keep up with her superior. Midway across the main courtyard, she realized she had forgotten her cloak and begged for the chance to retrieve it. Stiles refused the request, stating, with a shake of the intimidating wrap on her shoulder, that the Powder Barrier wore a specific manner of cloak, one of which she would be provided as soon as she settled in the barracks. Her hopper cloak, Stiles added, could be picked up at a later time.

"I'll allow you tonight to say farewell to your family. There'll be no contact during the first cycle of training, so make it last."

"Yes, Commander." This time, they stopped outside the open walls of the Gretchencliff metal works, a freestanding stone structure whose interior heat was stifling even in winter. Twenty or more broadbacks, and to Rankil's immense surprise, three sweat-streaked gentlewomen and an Aut woman worked within, some hammering, others on complicated presses, each forging the items needed to maintain the Tekkroon existence.

Stiles spoke with one of them then vanished into the forge area's only fully enclosed room, returning with a sheathed rapier marked with the Powder Barrier's skull emblem. "Here, junior." She added the weapon to Rankil's load, wedging it between her arm and body.

"Run that stuff home then join me at the west stables." Stiles pointed the general direction the building lay. "We'll get you mounted and equipped. Ever done much riding?"

"No, Commander Stiles."

Stiles looked anything but pleased. "Tekks ride young, but you'll learn, girl. You'll learn quick. Now get home."

Rankil shuffled off, shifting her load to avoid dropping something into the slush and slop of the pathways. She managed to maintain the precarious balance until she reached the door of her little home then stood on the threshold, wondering how she was going to enter without assistance. The answer came soon enough as Myrla opened from the inside.

"You, too?" She took some of the load then held the door wide. "They've loaded me up as well."

"With what?" Rankil placed her piece against the wall, the rapier on their small eating table.

"Scrolls on teaching philosophy, slate boards to write assignments on-most everything." Myrla stepped back to admire Rankil's new attire. "You look incredible." She fingered the edge of the jerkin. "Is this your new uniform?"

"Yeah." Rankil smoothed the leather. "I love it." Her attention now settled on Myrla who had removed her headscarf and braids and pulled her hair back in the loosely banded style common to Tekkroon gentlewomen. She wore leggings, unheard of in the Serpent clan, and her long, belted tunic, again a style of the Tekkroon, was cut to show her upper cleavage. Rankil's gaze halted there, pondering the line. Serpent clan garments were never revealing, so she had never actually considered Myrla's endowments to any lingering extent. They came hurtling toward her now, as did the memory of the morning's bedroom disclosure, tensing muscles in new ways, teasing her nose with scent-Myrla's inviting own.

"You look beautiful." Rankil's gaze drew upward into her eyes and stayed there. "After tonight I have to stay in the barracks. It's only until I finish my initial training."

"I know." Myrla wrapped her arms about Rankil's waist. "Dawn told me last night. She said I could stay with them if I wished, but I think Hestra and I will remain here. They've too many responsibilities as it is. It's time I dealt with things myself."

"Your choice." Rankil gathered her tight, lifting her from the braided rug to deposit her on the table, the embrace continuing while Rankil slid into a chair and pulled Myrla into her lap. "I'll miss you and Hestra while I'm gone. Will you miss me?"

"Don't you know?" A kiss as sweet as the morning's crossed Rankil's lips. "You'll be missed and longed for. I've become rather used to sharing a bed with you."

"As have I," quipped Rankil, pulling back so she could view Myrla's face again. "There's a community fire tonight. Want to go?"

"Not tonight. I'd rather spend it here, just us."

"Let's go anyway, just for a bit." Rankil's eyes danced a hot blue flame. Myrla was hers by heart, and the time had come for it to be so in the clan's eyes as well. "The stories are always good, and we can slip away when Hestra becomes tired."

"All right, but just for a while." They clung together for a moment more, stroking one another's faces, their love expressed in the quick pace of their hearts. Then Myrla, overwhelmed by her requirement to return to her training, whisked away from Rankil's arms and pulled on her cloak.

"I'm sorry."

"I've gotta go, too." Rankil grabbed her weapons and bounded for the door. "Commander Stiles will rake me over if I'm not prompt."

"I'll collect Hestra from the creche and have dinner waiting for you." Myrla blew a kiss over her shoulder and descended the stone stairway leading to the lower pathway. "See you tonight."

"The sooner the better," called Rankil, taking the path leading the opposite direction. She hoped a raking wasn't in order for either of them. Things were beginning to go as they should. The evening fire would only solidify it all.

"Good story!" Applause and laughter were amplified in the interior round. An evening snowfall had cancelled the bonfire and brought everyone indoors. They sat shoulder to shoulder, discussing the day's events. Even with the heat turned off and the ventilation slats open, the room was sweltering, everyone shedding their cloaks to combat the stuffiness. Rankil placed her small family at one of the benches near the round's center and bided her time. The overall mood was jovial, the stories humorous and tailored to the family air, a perfect evening to make it all permanent. When there was a lull in the conversation, she raised her arm for Medrabbi to recognize.

"And it's young Rankil with the next tale, I believe." Medrabbi waved her to the center of the room. "What yarn of wealth and glory do you offer us tonight? A harrowing one from your first day with the Barrier, perhaps?"

Rankil ignored the snickers of a group of broadbacks dressed similarly to herself, several of whom probably had stories of their own concerning her first day nassieback, complete with colorful descriptions of Rankil's multiple falls and rodeo throws courtesy of her unruly mount. "No stories, Medrabbi. I have something important to say." Rankil drew Myrla to her feet and gently pulled Hestra from her arms.

Elreese, who was sitting nearby, took the rosy-cheeked infant into her lap and held her upright so she could watch. "You may not remember this, young one," she whispered into Hestra's tiny ear. "But you can say you were here for it."

Rankil squared her shoulders and began to speak. "Most of you remember me from last night." Webbic, who was in yet another's lap, giggled loudly.

"And you all remember Myrla. We have been together since before entering the Tekkroon lands, and now I wish to seal our relationship by your clan standards." She glanced at Medrabbi in search of what to do next.

"A marking!" Medrabbi jumped to her feet. "What a perfect ending to the day." She pulled her boot knife and held it over her head until the room grew quiet. "Rankil wishes to proclaim Myrla as hers, unavailable to the courtings of other broadbacks. Are there any objections to this union?"

Myrla stood erect, unsure of what was happening but positive it was something wonderful.

"Silence means acceptance," said Medrabbi. "The union will be." Medrabbi flicked the blade tip over her right index finger, drawing forth a tiny shimmer of blood. "Rankil, your right hand, please." Medrabbi used her index finger to smear an X on Rankil's palm.

"The stroke of my blade brings forth your soul, droplets of your inner being, your very life." Medrabbi drew her knife across the red streaks, opening the top layer of Rankil's flesh and, using the blade's flat side to spread the blood, thinly coating every crease of Rankil's hand. Then she drew behind Myrla and pulled her collar to one side, revealing Myrla's right shoulder. "Do you wish this woman yours?" Medrabbi asked Rankil.

"In every way."

"And does she desire you?" Medrabbi looked at Myrla.

"Yes," assured a breathless Myrla. "More than anything."

"Then it is done." She pressed Rankil's bloody palm onto Myrla's shoulder then placed another X of her own blood on the back of Rankil's hand. "Be it known only those who seal this relationship can unseal it."

"Remove the sealing cross before it dries! An objection has been declared!" Harlis stood in the round's doorway, holding it open for another to pass. A hooded woman pushed past her to the center of the round, her cloak sprinkled with snow, the gold handle of her boot knife glistening with cold moisture, her cloak held closed by two half-heart pins. Rankil didn't recognize the individual but Myrla did and she recoiled, crashing over Medrabbi's bench in her retreat. Her knees gave way, and she crumpled at Rankil's feet, sobbing in a distress she could only express in a single word.

"Recca."

Part IV.

Adrift.

Chapter Sixteen.

To lose Is to learn.

-Anonymous.

Rankil Danston, the misplaced sister claimed by the Tekkroon clan, returned to what she once was-lost, longing for Myrla and Hestra, dejected by Archell's continued absence when she needed his wisdom and song. She eclipsed the sullen, withdrawn individual she'd been when Kaelan's family had taken her in, becoming a loner, an antagonist in any situation where her anger could be displayed. Her heart became hard and uncompromising. Love led to pain, to disgrace, deserting as soon as one grew accustomed to its feel. She wouldn't repeat the blunder.

"Get up, junior, and join the fun." Genevic, the gangly broadback who occupied the bunk over Rankil's told her as their squadron was enjoying an evening of gaming. "You've an excellent opportunity to show off. Odds say your aim will be wrong."

"Who'd bet on me?" Rankil sprawled belly-down across her bunk, face into her pillow to smother another throbbing headache.

"Those who desire to expand their purse," piped Genevic, jerking her leg. "Come prove them right."

"What'd you wager?" Rankil looked up, eyes squinted against the barrack's multiple lanterns.

"Most my Aut coinage, so don't miss." Genevic pulled on her again, agitating Rankil until she kicked back.

"Get your hands off me." She rolled to see her bunkmate's anxious face. "What are the odds?"

"Five to one against you."

"Give me sixty percent, and I compete."

"Sixty!" declared Genevic, slapping at Rankil's upraised hand. "You're insane. I was planning to spend my winnings on Isabella."

"Don't care." Rankil held her head in her hands as she sat upright. This headache had lingered, refusing to leave despite her efforts at relaxation. A Gretchencliff healer had given her powders to calm the ache, but they made Rankil woozy, something the Powder Ranks could ill-afford so she seldom took them. "Sixty still doubles your purse. Take it or leave it."

"But Isabella has her eye on a bracelet the traders brought back." Genevic pulled on her short braids. "I suppose she would settle on something less pricey, but the reward for me would be lessened." She grinned furtively. "And Bella's phase is worth any price."

"What a waste." But Rankil was pulling on her boots.

"Ah, Isabella is worth it."

"No woman is worth it."

"You don't know Isabella."

"And I don't want to." The light had become daggers to pierce Rankil's eyes. "You want my help or not?"

"Asking, aren't I?" Genevic followed Rankil to where the majority of the squadron had gathered, taking turns sinking their blades into a hay stuffed sack. Rankil examined the lay of the target then, stepping to the throw line, tossed her blade into the target's narrow center.

She extended her right hand to Genevic. "My fee?"

"No fair!" cried another squadron member. "We didn't know junior here had a profit in it. It changed the odds."

"You suggesting I cheated?" seethed Rankil, quick to retrieve her blade.

"Not directly," said the portly broadback who'd expressed the objection. "Your fee increased your concentration, heightening your senses. None of us thought Genevic would actually talk you into it what with your head splitting like it's been."

"Yours will be splitting, too, if you don't pay up." Rankil snatched her profits from the Autlach coins slapped into Genevic's outstretched palm then returned to her bunk, hurling herself across the top, oblivious to Commander Stiles's critical observation of the goings on.

"Dammit, Commander Stiles, my head is fine." Rankil's name had been withdrawn from the next morning's duty roster. Infuriated by the change, she'd stormed, without knocking, into the duty commanders' bunkroom.

"Cease the expletives in the same breath as my name, Junior." Stiles, still in her under leggings, looked up from the scrolls littering her worktable. "You will report to the infirmary as ordered."

"Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Mounted maneuvers are this morning and-"

"And you can't imagine missing them?" Stiles pushed up her reading spectacles, gaining a clearer view of her youngest squad member. "The nassies won't miss your company nor you theirs. Your mutual dislike has become famous." Stiles's tone softened, as did her glare. "Besides, we cannot have our junior falling from her nassie, or worse yet, from a treetop post. The Powder Ranks must maintain their health." Though Stiles's mouth tightened with her next words, there was no concealing her concern. "You've been in four brawls in the past two cycles, the latest one earning your challenger a broken jaw. There's been a marked change in your temperament, junior. One I don't fancy. Any more fights or trainings missed because you can't see to aim your weapon, and you'll find yourself booted from my squad. You're useless if you're incapacitated by a splitting cranium."

Stiles stood before Rankil, placing one hand on the callow woman's lean shoulder. "I've no wish to lose you, Rankil. Go to the healers. Let them decipher the rattles in your skull then come back to me renewed." Stiles's warm smile diminished the officious voice she regained. "Go, junior, NOW! You try my patience."

"Yes, Commander." Rankil departed the Gretchencliff's Powder barracks, taking the wide, silent paces she'd been taught. Though the light hurt her inflamed eyes, she walked straight toward her destination, facing the rising sun, her head held high. Her station allowed for nothing less.

The Tekkroon medical facility rested deep inside the volcano, in one of the larger multi-colony hubs, which Rankil entered and exited the finely tiled medial before morning business began. The infirmary's elderly gentlewoman clerk greeted her and led the way to a small room furnished with nothing more than a tall lounger, shelves and a chair.

"Make yourself comfortable." The clerk lit the hanging lantern. "They'll be in shortly."

"They?" Rankil draped her cloak over the chair.

"Yes, they," replied the gentlewoman, pulling a pillow and blanket from the shelves. "Now take your boots off and lay back. You Barrier types are always short on sleep."

"What-" began Rankil, but the clerk pointed to her boots.

"Short on sleep and patience. Off with the boots." The clerk pulled the curtain. She had been correct. Rankil was tired and in pain. Her head only eased when she lay still with her eyes shut. She tried not to think, but the silence tempted her mind to wander and wander it did, thoughts on Myrla's well-being and how Hestra must have grown in the four moon cycles since the Serpent clan's refuge arrival at the Tekkroon border. Recca had insisted on Myrla's return and Harlis, for the sake of peace and trade, had reluctantly agreed. The reserved Serpents were small in number, but their combat abilities were legendary, an allegiance between the two clans necessary in light of Longpass's increasing attacks. Rankil fell asleep in mid-consideration of this and maintained an agitated slumber until the Gretchencliff senior healer woke her.