“The salves are made, Yrene.” Hafiza groaned as she rose from her perch on the steps and adjusted the lapels of her thick woolen jacket—cut and embroidered in the style of the Darghan riders. A gift from the last visit the Healer on High had made to the steppes, when she’d taken Yrene along with her. “They are counted. There are no more supplies with which to make them, not until we reach land and can see what might be used there.” Yrene clutched her cloak to her chest. “I need to be doing something.” The Healer on High patted the railing. “You will, Yrene. Soon enough, you will.” Hafiza
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