I advance outside the tavern with my arms crossed and my fingers tightened around the hood. I hold it well over my shoulders, after lifting It to cover my dark hair. My haircut is short, just enough to make the gesture quick and simple.

Two steps and I'm already on the street. How I miss those long stone paths that descend slowly to the hillside in the countrside. The houses, here, do not even have proper windows. The Lunar Cry, with it's cold and snow, can enters and leaves buildings with extreme ease. Maybe too much.

I beckon my Sisters to follow me. We are all hooded. The Princes invited us to choose gray: the color of the plague victims and the children of Tzaarat.

How ironic. "If only they knew!" but I keep those words to myself.

I move along the battered steps of a path that seems to have been designed to be faulty. From time to time, I see wooden poles pushing the walls of multi-storey houses, where signs of neglect and degradation have opened conspicuous cracks in the masonry. Oblivious to the danger, or perhaps unable to avoid it, forgettable figures beg for mercy to anyone who passes under those dilapidated structures. One of them grabs my leg.

"Lord, have mercy! A bronze ray is all I ask for!"

Maybe he can't see beyond my hood. No, now that I look at him better, he can't do it regardless: man is blind. I sneak a hand under the mantle. I search for the purse. I do not know how many coins I have left, nor how many I will need to hire the Princes, but one less will not cause me problems.

I grab the Bronze Ray and hand him two pieces without saying a word.

The man grabs the coins. He bites them. He realizes what he has achieved and bursts into tears. "May the Bride of the Divine Sun bless you." He say, prostrating.

"Which one, the one that abandoned us?" I wish I could say. But I have to be careful: I'm no longer at Nashira's court. Here half a word is half too many. Especially on the Bride. I swallow and resume the march.

"Meroll," I begin. I feel something bubbling inside me, but I don't know where the anger begins and where the disgust ends.

"Yes?"

"Do you still think this place deserves to be saved?"

Meroll is behind me, but I don't need to look at her to know what face she's doing: she must have raised an eyebrow, with her lips barely open. "I don't think destroying the city is a good solution. Your father..."

"No," I interrupt her. "My father had his own agenda. As sorry as I am, it's not my own. This place is rotten."

As I walk, I recall what the tradition teaches. On this hill, the first of the Brides who came for us healed a poor man of his illness. She healed the evil. And look at it now, how it proliferates. The Hill of the Beggars, poor was and poor remained. As well as all of Ras Alhague.

"A gangrenous limb need to be amputated" but my voice is too low to reach anyone. Yes, Ras Alhague is sick. It has been since I've known it. And this sickness has a name: it is Salah Yusuf, the King of January. He and his offspring plague the whole kingdom.

A bump shakes me. I don't fall to the ground just because Meroll grabs me by the arm. A sound of pain escape my lips. My head spins for a moment. Everything is so confusing. Only when I manage to settle down do I notice a man on the ground.

Rosanne, one of my Sisters, reaches out to help him, but he beckons to stop her and gets up by himself. "Forgive my carelessness!"

I take a quick look at his clothes and figure. He has dark, curly hair. The eyes tired and burdened like those of a scholar. Yet, at first glance, one would easily mistake him for a bum.

"If you need help, there's a canteen not far from here. In a small church, for the poor, the sick and orphans," he coughs, makes a bow, and walks away apologizing again.

I stand still for a moment. Then I realize that the disguise works: he must have taken us for plague victims.

Claudiette, the younges of pur Sisters, gives me a pat on the back. "Not as rotten as you said, huh?"

Already. "Maybe." I shake off thoughs and I start walking again.

When I reach the main street I discover, with a big surprise, that it is not as spacious as I hoped. The closer we get to the market area, the more I feel a lump in my throat.

There is an unbearable stench. If the snow can rot like the flesh of a carcass, then this is the stench that this city emanates. I roll my eyes. The Sun God is not yet to be seen. It's always like this when the Silver Ode begins. Sure, it's like that every time the cold season comes, but even a cloudless Note is rare lately.

"How to blame him" and I must have said it out loud, because Meroll is immediately by my side.

"Is something wrong?"

Sigh. "I'm not familiar with this area." I don't like people to see me in trouble.

"That's where they gave us an appointment." Meroll raises her index finger against a statue. You can see her from every corner of the Hill: she is a woman in prayer, with a veil on her head. She is the Bride. The one who had to come back to redeem us all. She who, this time around, did not appear as promised. Did I really have to live in the only Score of the whole story chosen by the Bride to desert her duty? I wonder if this is a sign. A way of telling us that, now, we are all without hope of salvation.

"I would like you to make your way," I add.

Meroll surpasses me. We take the first arch in sight. The part of the peristyle around the inner courtyard is full of merchandise and stalls. The atmosphere is full of all kinds of smells: there is livestock, food, crafts and even poor personal hygiene. But I am surprised: with the favor of darkness, now that the Solar Pacts are on us, the black face of the market is shown. And among the goods, I see in large numbers the human one.

Everywhere I turn I don't see that people moving in a sparkling ocean of colors and goods. And shouts. Shout everywhere. Buy! Fresh fish. Salami, potatoes, onions, slaves. But not young men or girls: that, the Choir, forbids it. I have issue moving freely. I find myself pushed between so many people. There is no order. I miss the air. I look up. I seek God the Sun and His light. I find only that of the torches and the evil Moon. Curtains. I don't see anything anymore. Where is Meroll? Meroll! My voice seems to come from elsewhere. For a moment I lose my balance.

Rosanne leans towards me. "Are you all right?" Her hand on my back sways up and down.

"Yes," I answer abruptly. "We have to pretend to be sick, don't we?" Where is Meroll? Why doesn't she answer to me?

She comes out of nowhere. "Mom," I'm about to tell her, but I'll stop in time. My mouth is wide open. I steal more air than my lungs can hold. The cold is already at home in my numb nose. How I hate places full of people!

"We're almost there," Meroll grabs my hands and speaks to me in a low tone. She knows what's up and smiles at me. It is a honey that not even bees know. And it's mine alone.

I grind my teeth. "Let's not waste time then." I want to leave, but I have to resist. I pull the air in and keep it to myself.

Meroll is in front of me. This time I stay close to her. So much so that I could bump into her, if she ever had to stop. I hold her hand, but I hide it so that others do not see.

We advance in silence through the crowd. I brush her fingertips. They are rough even when covered by gloves. I feel the calluses. She has always had them. Although it's common between Sisters, hers are different. They are older. And I have known those calluses since before we joined the coven. I see in them that part of her life as mother and wife, before that of Sword's Sister. A life that, however, she rarely ever talks about.

I close my eyes and, for a long moment, Meroll and I are climbing a hill. She is tall and sturdy as a tree and I am slender and fragile as a reed. The air is fresh. The wind brushes my hair. My eyes are wide shut. The valleys are in bloom and the sky has never been more cerulean. There is a white church set on the horizon a few meters from us. In the background, the tents of the camp.

I feel the need to embrace her, but I restrain myself. I'm not a brat. At least not the one who entered the coven crying.

The shadows of the columns stand oblique on the floor, where the caravansary houses chariots and horses. The snow of the Lunar Cry enters in waves, from outside and from above.

"We have arrived," Meroll announced.

It takes quite a bit of muscle strength not to smash on her. "Rosanne, Claudiette," I begin, after having fixed my voice after coughing. "I want you two to guard the outside. Keep your eyes open."

The two Sisters do not breathe. With a nod they leave me and Meroll alone.

I take off the cap. I fix my face with a couple of taps on my cheeks. Then I step foward between bluish curtains embroidered with floral motifs that are suspended between columns. On the other side there is a circle of people sitting around a fire. A woman in skimpy clothes dancing. Wine flows in rivers. The loud music. Everything stops as soon as I enter.

Of those present, the first to welcome me is a middle-aged man. He is not very tall and his face lets you imagine his lost youth.

His wrinkles stretch out in a smile. "Welcome to our humble home," he says. He embellishes his words with feigned courtesy.

I take a step forward. "The pleasure is mine. I'm glad you accepted my invitation." I stop where I stand.

I strain my voice into a rough tone so that it's sound like that a man. I'm good at it, although Claudiette always repeats that some males would still be willing to take me to bed even if I was actually a male. I feel a smile ready to appear on my lips and I kill it immediately. I struck those present with the best glare that I can. I don't know the Beggar's Princes that well. Nor do I know what face they have. But now that I'm here, I know I have to get more than their presence: I have to earn their respect. First as a warrior and, perhaps, if I'm lucky, also as a woman.

"Your reputation precedes you," retorts the stranger. I'm pretty sure it's him. An Ashvin. One of the Princes.

I make a short bow. "You do me too much honor. I am but a humble guest" and I lift my head immediately after. I have short hair and I know that my face is not that of a girl of marriageable age. Which does not work in my favour. However, once they at least treat me as one of their own, I will only have to think about how to convince them to join my cause. If I play it well...

The man beckons me and Meroll to sit down. "I can only imagine what prompted you to pretend what you are not, Miss Mithra. But know that, here, there is no difference between man and woman: in my court, only money and business count."

I remain stunned for a moment. I am sure that I've raised my eyebrows so much that they are now behind my neck. It is certainly not difficult to imagine that I am a woman, but it is rare for a Sword's Sister to be treated as such. As our Mother Superior said, we should not consider ourself like any other female.

It takes me a great deal of strength to shake myself. "In this case, then allow me to introduce myself properly," I resume in a clear and decisive voice. "I am Mithra, Commander of the Black Bands, and, as many of you already know, I am also the leader of the rebel forces opposing the King of January." I shift my eyes to everyone present. Like if I could shock them. I have to intimidate them. If my reputation really precedes me, then they know well what I am capable of. But whatever fear or reverence I have to awaken in them, I must bring it out three times as much if I wish to seize this unique opportunity. I grab the purse, lift it and swing it halfway. Meroll right after me reveals two more.

I rattle the coins as much as I can and resume: "But I'm not here to waste your time, but rather to buy your services."

The man, the Prince, weighs my words. Scratches his dark beard. "And what can I do for you, may I ask?"

"I want to take the head of the Heir of the Throne, Sheikh Yusuf."