They found the horn-blower on the far side of the ridge where the terraces broke into scrub and boulder. A crude cairn marked a triangle of goat paths; around it, four figures waited in a formation that spoke of practice: two flanking, one behind, one at the fore with the horn slung over his shoulder.
The one at the fore wore a leather jerkin patched with care, a scarf the red of old bricks, and an amulet of bone carved into a spiral. He was Arya's age or a little older, with a face that had learned to be open so people would forgive how sharp his eyes were. When he smiled, it was not cruel. It was worse: it was sure.
"Storm-bearer," he called across the distance, as if greeting a cousin at a market. "I'm Ketu."
Mira muttered. "Of course you are."
Ketu lifted both hands to show they were empty, then pointed at the spiral amulet. "Oath-bound," he said casually. "Different god, same habit." He nodded at Arya's bandaged palm. "You do it with lightning. I do it with thread."
Lhakpa's posture adjusted a fraction—respect offered without surrender. "What does your thread bind?" he asked.
"Travelers," Ketu said promptly. "Promises. The kinds that go slack if you don't yank them now and then. My oath is simple: I keep roads open."
Yeshe's chin tilted. "Useful."
Ketu's smile widened. "Practical," he agreed. "Which is why I don't like what's happening south of here. Doors waking. Eaters sniffing. Guards blundering. It makes roads unsafe. So I came to ask you to stop being a problem."
Mira planted her staff. "You came to ask."
"Yes," Ketu said, unabashed. "Asking is cheaper than fighting."
Arya studied the spiral bone carving. It was not pretty; it was worn. The grooves held the sheen of fingers. "And when asking fails?"
"Then I close roads another way," Ketu said, matter-of-fact as weather. He jerked his chin toward his companions. "This is Pemba, Dolma, and Suresh. They are good at the other way."
Pemba, a woman with rope-scarred hands and the eyes of someone who enjoys solving problems, gave a polite little bow. Dolma smiled without showing teeth. Suresh examined Lhakpa with the speculative pleasure of a carpenter appraising a straight piece of wood.
"Yes," Yeshe murmured. "Practical."
Ketu's gaze returned to Arya. "I watched what you did at the well," he said. "Heard about what you did at Changu. I approve of small circles. I disapprove of hungry rocks and priests with portable suns. So here's my bargain: you keep your leash tight, your circles small, and your feet away from gate hinges. I, in turn, keep roads clear of copper and white cloaks near you."
Mira arched an eyebrow. "You're offering to be our broom."
"Brooms are sacred," Ketu said cheerfully. "But no. I'm offering you orders. You seem to be short on those and long on opinions."
Arya's mouth twitched despite himself. "What happens if I don't take orders from a boy with a horn?"
"Then I blow it again," Ketu said, unbothered. "And people who are better at closing roads than opening them will show up."
The wind shifted. A smell like iron filings ran up the slope, slicking the back of Arya's tongue. The storm under his ribs leaned and then bristled. It did not feel like the herald. It felt like a window someone had polished too hard.
Yeshe's cane ticked the cairn stone once. "He is a child of roads," she said to Arya, as if announcing the weather. "You are a child of storms. Roads and storms hate sharing the news."
"Which is why we meet at a cairn," Ketu said. "You put a rock somewhere to keep two cousins from shoving."
Mira's voice dropped. "Do you hear that?"
Everyone did. A sound like silk pulled slow between fingers, soft and wrong. The air just ahead of the cairn smeared, then resolved into a slit with no depth and too much promise.
Ketu's mouth flattened. "That is why I blow horns," he said to no one in particular. He slid sideways so he was no longer directly in front of the slit. Pemba and Suresh moved without looking at one another, angles adjusting. Dolma dipped to touch the ground with two fingers, muttered something that tasted like road dust, and blew it softly across the stones.
The slit did not widen. It thinned in a way Arya had learned to fear—like a smile before a bite. The storm under his ribs rose—eager and disciplined, a soldier who wants to run and knows the drill says wait. He raised his hand and felt the leash tug. No fear. No pride. No harm to mine. No storm on a plea. No villages as price.
Ketu's spiral bone warmed under his fingers. He cleared his throat. "Pemba," he said, "line."
She pulled a coil of faded cloth from her belt, flicked it out, and cast it low across the ground in front of the slit. It landed like a snake that had just died—unimpressive, home-colored, ordinary. The slit stuttered, as if it had tripped over something it couldn't see.
Arya almost laughed. "You net with rags," he said.
"Threads remember better than light," Ketu said, not looking away. "Light is vain."
Mira grinned. "I like him."
"Don't encourage him," Arya muttered, and drew his own net—not bright, not high, not a sign. Thin lines like dew across spider silk, anchored to rocks and roots. The slit flexed again and met stitch in two places at once. It hesitated, confused—and confusion is a kind of wound.
The herald did not step through. Whatever peered from beyond felt smaller, cheaper—a clerk at the gate, not the king behind it. It pressed once more, found thread and light in a weave that didn't care it had come from two boys who didn't respect each other, and decided to try elsewhere.
The slit smoothed to air.
Ketu let out a long breath and slung the horn back over his shoulder. "See?" he said. "Roadkeeping."
Arya kept his hand up. The net hummed faintly. He remembered the copper-band man on the bridge, how easily the line had snapped where his intention thinned. He thickened it now with one more promise he hadn't named until this moment: No storm that confuses ally and obstacle. The hum steadied.
"New vow?" Yeshe asked, hearing the change without being told.
"Yes," Arya said. "Small one."
Ketu watched him with the professional suspicion of a boy who dislikes surprises, even helpful ones. "You can set vows where you stand," he said. "Useful. Dangerous. Tempting."
"Yes," Arya said, returning the suspicion. "Like orders."
Ketu's smile came back, sharp with relief at not having to dislike him yet. "Come to the wayhouse at the stone bridge by dusk," he said. "Eat. Sleep. I'll keep copper off your door. In return, you won't open anything bigger than your hand can close within six miles."
Mira lifted a palm. "Define 'miles.' "
"Far enough that you are my problem if you break the rule," Ketu said cheerfully. He pointed up the ridge. "There's a shrine stone there that likes to gossip. Put your new small vow on it when you pass."
Lhakpa tilted his head. "For the record," he said, "this is the most reasonable threat I've heard this week."
Ketu barked a laugh. "Reasonable threats keep roads open." He sobered. "And storms who don't respect roads get people killed. Including the storm."
He didn't wait for agreement. He gestured, and his three companions fell in with him, slipping between goat paths as if they had been born wearing hooves. Their formation dissolved into landscape. The cairn remained, puzzled but game.
Mira glanced sidelong at Arya. "Well?"
"I think I just got bossed politely," he said.
"Yes," Yeshe said. "It might be the only way you tolerate it."
They climbed toward the gossiping stone. The wind carried a new scent now, faint and ugly—ashes from far off, threaded with something sweet like rot covered in flowers.
"Ash-walkers," Lhakpa said. "Again."
"Of course," Mira said. "They're practical too."
Arya reached the shrine stone and laid his palm against it. "No storm that confuses ally and obstacle," he said softly. The stone accepted the whisper without fuss. A crow on a branch above tilted its head and croaked approval like a bad elder.
They angled toward the stone bridge wayhouse as the sun tipped west. The road widened here, wheel ruts polished by decades, pilgrim walls etched with old names. A line of prayer flags crossed the gorge: red, blue, green, yellow, white—wind remembering five things at once.
The wayhouse door stood open. Lamplight fell across packed earth. Voices rose, friendly enough. Arya exhaled.
"Food," Mira said, reverent.
"Walls," Lhakpa said, equally reverent.
Yeshe's cane hesitated. "Footsteps," she said. "Too light to be soldiers. Too certain to be harmless."
A laugh spilled from inside that Arya knew before his heart did. Not cruel. Playful. A mask you choose because it works.
He stepped into the lamplight and met Aama Gita's eyes.
Except they weren't Aama Gita's. They belonged to a woman with the same kind of amused clarity but a face he had never seen—hair in a knot, travel cloak dusty, hands stained with lamp oil. She raised a cup.
"Keeper sends her love," she said. "And her instructions. Sit down before you fall down."
Arya's knees told him the instructions were wise.
From the corner, someone in a white cloak turned just enough to be recognized and then didn't turn any further.
Captain Sagar held his cup and did not smile.