“There you are, dear.” Kleev set a bowl of steaming stew in front of Ishtal with a cheery grin, and bustled away almost before Ishtal could manage to thank her. It was the end of the week, and apparently a day when most people had been paid, and the Salamander was at full capacity. Every seat was filled, and there were more people leaning against the walls, drinking and chatting. Ishtal had been lucky to snag her usual place in the corner, and didn’t dare try to save a seat for Lilah or Marcienette or anyone else who might turn up. 

Kleev and Tem had been constantly on the move all evening, with no time to stop for conversation. Ishtal had offered, as she always did on busy nights, to help out, but Kleev had turned her down genially but firmly.

“Tem and I’ve always managed before, and we’ll go on managing,” she’d said. “You’re a guest, paying room and board; it would be ridiculous for you to start waiting tables as well. And it’s no longer even remotely charity now that you’re earning your own way and paying dues, so don’t try that on me.”

Ishtal therefore contented herself with watching the clusters of people—the family group of goblins evidently out celebrating something, the dwarf and hornpate sitting oddly close to one another in a corner booth, the hooded folk of assorted sizes and indeterminate origin huddled around a far table, and more—and enjoying her stew. It, like all of Kleev’s cooking she’d sampled so far, was delicious, and somehow contained none of the ingredients common to the outside world that she’d been warned would poison her, despite the fact that she’d never gotten around to giving Kleev a list of what she couldn’t have.

It was just one of several small mysteries that had been accumulating, and when Kleev made her way back over during a lull, Ishtal found herself asking, “Do you often have other Onena exiles coming through here? I haven’t seen any since I arrived, but you and a few of the others seem to know more about my People than most.”

Kleev looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wouldn’t say we’ve had any exiles here before you,” she said, “but you’re not the first Onena we’ve met. You’ll probably meet her yourself eventually—she never stays very long, but she’s never away all that long either.”

At that point, someone at another table hailed her, and she went trotting away, leaving Ishtal terribly confused. How in the world had Kleev met an Onena who was outside the evergreen forest and yet not an exile? That was the very definition of an exile! It simply did not make sense.

But, she supposed, if Kleev were right, she would not have to wait very long to meet this mysterious person and get everything cleared up for herself.

It took Ishtal a moment, when she and Kosef walked into the Salamander the next evening after a pickpocketing shift, to pinpoint exactly what was different. The public room was crowded, as was usual for this part of the week, but there was less talking than was normal for a crowd of this size, and everyone’s attention seemed more or less focused on the far corner of the room. And there was a particular scent in the air, under the usual smells of food and ale and sawdust and packed-together bodies—something so familiar she almost didn’t notice it, and simultaneously something she hadn’t encountered since leaving home.

Then a strummed chord from a lute sounded through the room, and a voice called out, “Aupa! Have you missed me?”

The crowd roared in assent. Ishtal couldn’t manage to do anything, too frozen in shock at what had sounded like a greeting in Onena-speech. It couldn’t be. She must have imagined it.

“Well, I’m here now,” the still-unseen speaker said, “and have I got a show for you.”

Someone moved a little to the side, and Ishtal got a clear look at last at this mysterious person. When she did, she could do nothing but gape. It was another Onena-woman, standing on a cleared table and striking up a familiar tune on her lute. Her dress was in shades of deep green and yellow with layers of multicolored skirts, bright against her white fur and cut low like Kleev’s dresses were even though Onena didn’t quite have the curves for it. She seemed perfectly at ease, moving to the rhythm of her music and the clapping that her audience had already started, and presently began singing with cheerful abandon, a folk song that Ishtal remembered from festivals when she was growing up.

She hadn’t heard Onena-speech in months. She didn’t know whether to laugh in delight, or cry, or simply stay frozen like this for the rest of time.

Kosef, at her elbow, seemed much less taken aback. “Looks like Zorione’s in town,” he commented, nodding towards the entertainer.

Ishtal wrenched her gaze away to look at him. “You know her?”

“She comes through…well, not regularly, but pretty often,” he shrugged. “I’d have thought somebody would have told you about her.”

“Kleev mentioned something, I think…but no one ever said outright.” Ishtal shook her head, trying to clear the daze. “Is she…?” She wasn’t sure what question she wanted to ask. This might be the only other member of her People she would ever see again, and Kleev had said she wasn’t quite an exile, and how could she look so…comfortable, so confident, so happy here in the middle of all these ilegabeak, singing in Onena-speech like it was nothing? Is she nice didn’t really cover all of that.

Kosef seemed to understand, at least partially. “We should find a spot and watch the show,” he suggested. “Afterward, I’ll make sure you’re introduced.”

Finding a spot was easier said than done, but with some navigation and some nudging, they managed to make their way to a place at the edge of the crowd and near the front, where they had a clear view of Zorione’s performance. She was vibrant, dynamic, constantly in motion. She sang in Onena-speech and in the common tongue and a couple of songs in Elvish and one rollicking ballad in Goblin that Ishtal couldn’t understand, but suspected (given the roars of the audience and the snickers she glimpsed from Kleev in passing) to be very bawdy. Often, the audience clapped and stamped along, and occasionally people got up to dance. Ishtal wasn’t sure whether to be amused or consternated at that; the song they were dancing to at one point was a traditional Onena tune to end funeral rites with celebration, and meant for dancing, but not the way they were doing it.

At last, after a length of time she couldn’t possibly have estimated, the notes of the last song died out, swallowed by cheers, and Zorione bowed, flourishing. “Thank you! Eskerrik asko! I’ll be here again tomorrow; you know how it goes.”

Most of the assembled people began to filter out, and Kosef nudged Ishtal gently, starting to lead her towards where Zorione had hopped nimbly off the tabletop.

She spotted them while they were still a ways away. “Kosya!” she called out, and darted across the remaining distance to pull Kosef into a tight hug. Something in Ishtal’s core rankled at the scene for reasons she couldn’t name—surely it was Kosef’s own business who was affectionate towards him—but she didn’t have time to think on it any further. In another moment, Zorione had released him and turned towards her, saying “And who’s this? You have to introduce me; nobody told me there was another Onena around here.”

“This is Ishtal,” Kosef said, smiling faintly, “a new thief of Lilah’s. Nobody told her about you either, apparently. Ishtal, Zorione.”

Automatically, Ishtal held out her hand and shook Zorione’s. “Pleased to meet you,” she managed.

“And I’m delighted,” Zorione said warmly. “Kosef, we’ll have to catch up later, after I’ve gotten to know this one.”

Kosef, smiling sideways, let Zorione pull her by the hand towards a seat at the bar. “So you’re a thief! Good for you; how’d you get into it? Tell me everything you can stand to—I don’t remember the last time I met another Onena who was actually making a good life for themselves.”

Something twisted in Ishtal’s chest as she settled onto a stool. “Is it really that bad for us in most places?” she asked quietly. “I…I know I was lucky to meet the Dragons, but…”

Zorione scoffed. “Honestly? It’s less about that, and more about them. Nowhere’s perfect if you’re not human-passing, but there are still plenty of ways to land on your feet if you’re only willing to try. No, for the exiles I’ve met, at least, the problem is that they don’t think they deserve to have anything good. The guilt gets to them, and they take the worst jobs they can find, or scrounge for scraps on the edge of society, or disappear to scrape out a living in the wilderness. Not to mention the ones who really did something horrible enough to deserve exile, and keep on doing terrible things until someone puts them down.”

She clapped Ishtal on the shoulder, grinning. “But then there’s you! You’re actually doing all right with all of this—if I know Trip and Tem and Kleev, they wouldn’t let you do otherwise.”

“They have been very kind,” Ishtal said, since that was something she was absolutely sure of as she tried to process all this new information. “I’m still adjusting to…everything, but things have been starting to get better.” Potential assassins notwithstanding, but that didn’t seem relevant for the moment.

Zorione tilted her head, considering her. “So were you exiled, or did you choose to leave on your own? I thought it might be the second one for a moment there, but…”

Ishtal’s tail twitched in shame that still hadn’t left her entirely. “No, I was exiled. I…I steal things, little things, without meaning to, and I did the best I could for years to control it, but…eventually someone who wanted me gone set a trap for me. If it had been anyone else, it might have been fine, but they couldn’t have a future guardian who was known for that kind of trouble.” She’d told herself that several times in more recent days, trying to assuage the last remaining sting of her father and Arancha turning from her. She wouldn’t have been a good guardian; she was, or at least could be, a good Dragon. It was for the best that this had happened. She had been sent to the best place for her.

Zorione’s eyebrows rose. “You were going to be a guardian? What village?”

“Bosgarren Herria.” It was good, in a bone-deep way she never would have guessed, to be able to name the place she’d grown up and have someone know what she meant by it.

“Oh, so you’re Arkaitz and Nahia’s daughter!” Zorione exclaimed. “I remember him, at least a little, I suppose, although I knew her better—she was from my village. They were about to marry when I left; I wasn’t quite of age then.”

That, Ishtal supposed, gave her a rough idea of the other woman’s age, but she was too busy processing the rest of the information to care. “You’re from Lehen Herria?” she checked. “You knew my mother?”

“Yes, and I suppose so.” Zorione shook her head. “It’s a strange world. Tell me, how is she doing? We weren’t especially close, but I wonder sometimes.”

Ishtal’s throat suddenly felt very tight. “She died,” she said once she could get the words out. “Shortly after I was born. My sister and I haven’t ever been over to Lehen Herria; Father was always the one to go if someone had to.”

Zorione made a soft keening sound in the back of her throat. “Oh, chikia, I’m so sorry. That can’t have been easy.”

Ishtal managed a one-shouldered shrug. “I haven’t known anything different.” Seeking to change the subject, she ventured, “Why did you leave? Kleev said something about you not technically being an exile, or at least I think she was talking about you.”

That prompted a snort of laughter. “I don’t know why she would have been so cryptic—her and apparently everyone else around here. I’m not exactly the secretive kind. But no, I didn’t get exiled. I left because I wanted to.”

That still didn’t make any more sense than before. “But why?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Zorione leaned against the bar. “I wanted to see what was beyond the forest, out there in the world. I didn’t want to just cower in fear all my life. Our people are so afraid, and they know so little about the thing they’re afraid of, even with the guardians’ research—which, no offense, seems to be biased towards assuming the worst of everyone, from what little I know of it. They’re all so focused on surviving that they’re willing to settle for quiet, boring lives that barely leave a mark. I couldn’t handle it. I needed to get out, take risks, have my life mean something.”

Ishtal thought she understood. “You’re an itzulera,” she said. “Someone like our wandering ancestors, born in the latter days.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Zorione said, unconcerned. “I don’t care much about that. I just do what I want to do.”

It was still very confusing, to Ishtal’s way of thinking, but she was beginning to think she didn’t mind. “Will you be staying in Lozhapad long?” she inquired. “I’ve heard that you keep on the move.”

“Yes, but not according to any kind of schedule. As long as I have a crowd to perform for, I can hang around for a few weeks, easily.” Zorione’s smile turned warm. “And with as much as we have to talk about, I’ll be making sure to.”