Chapter 7

The great stone pot was scraped clean. The last drops of broth were sopped up with coarse bread by a few warriors, who then practically licked the inside of the pot. The square was littered with the bodies of clansmen, not dead, but lying on the ground, groaning with the unfamiliar pleasure of a full belly. The cloud of despair that had hung over the tribe was gone, replaced by a sleepy, satisfied contentment.

The Chieftain, holding his own empty bowl, walked to Abigail. His face was a complex mixture of gratitude and shame. He bowed his head, a rare gesture for a leader of his stature.

"I was wrong," he said, his voice low but clear for all to hear. "You have saved us. I apologize."

The remaining clansmen fell silent, watching with a new, respectful awe.

Abigail accepted his apology with a gracious nod. "There is more of it in the forest," she said, pressing her advantage. "Enough to last the entire winter."

A cheer went up. The crisis was over.

But a sharp, discordant voice cut through the celebration. Chelsea stepped out of the shadows, her face a pale mask of fury.

"One meal does not solve a famine," she sneered.

She held up a flat piece of wood covered in carved notches. A primitive ledger. "You frightened away a herd of horned beasts. Enough meat for a month," she announced, her voice ringing with legalistic venom. "What you brought back-this boar and these roots-will last two days. The debt is not paid."

The clansmen looked at each other, their happy expressions fading. Chelsea was right. According to the tribe's sacred and unbending law of equivalent exchange, the accounts were not balanced.

The Chieftain's face hardened. He wanted to protect Abigail, this treasure who could find food, but he could not break the law. He was the Chieftain, the law's ultimate guardian.

Shaman Gifford, who had returned to watch, stepped forward, leaning on his staff. "The law is the law," he intoned, seizing the opportunity to restore his bruised authority. "Death is no longer required. But a punishment is."

He looked at Abigail, his eyes cold and unforgiving. "You will be confined to the Penitent's Cave for one month. You will be given only enough water and food to survive."

A gasp of horror went through the crowd. The Penitent's Cave was a cold, damp cavern in the back mountains. A month in there for a female was a slow, agonizing death sentence.

Bronson exploded.

A sound like cracking bone erupted from his body as his muscles tensed. He drew a wicked-looking bone knife from his waist, and his killing intent, raw and unrestrained, locked onto the Shaman and Chelsea. A bloodbath was imminent.

The Chieftain's guards flinched but raised their weapons, preparing to die defending their leaders.

"Bronson, NO!"

Abigail threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his knife arm, holding on with all her strength. "Stop it!" she hissed in his ear, her voice a fierce, desperate whisper. "If you attack them, you become the enemy of the whole tribe! We can't kill everyone and survive the winter alone! Think!"

His eyes were blazing red with fury, but her touch, her logic, pierced through his rage. With a shuddering breath that sounded like a dying animal's growl, he slowly, reluctantly, lowered his weapon.

Abigail let go of him and stepped forward, pushing him behind her. She faced the Shaman's smugness and Chelsea's triumphant sneer alone. Her mind raced, searching for a loophole, a way out. They were using quantity to condemn her. So she had to offer them infinity.

She took a deep breath, and her expression shifted. It became serene, mysterious, and deeply profound. She was about to bluff for her life.

"I can do more than just find food," she announced, her voice taking on a strange, holy cadence. "I possess a sacred art. A secret that can make food grow from nothing. That can make one piece of food multiply a hundred times over."

The square fell silent again. Even the Chieftain stared, dumbfounded. Such power belonged only to the gods.

Chelsea let out a hysterical laugh. "She's insane! A liar to the very end! Drag her to the cave!"

Abigail ignored her, her eyes fixed on the Shaman. She delivered the killing blow. "And I am willing to teach this sacred art to the tribe."

She let the words hang in the air. "But if you lock me in that cave," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "the secret dies with me. The tribe will lose its chance for endless food this winter. You will be spitting on a gift from the gods themselves."

Gifford's eyes narrowed. As a man of faith, he was a professional dealer in miracles. He was deeply suspicious, but also deeply greedy.

The Chieftain immediately raised his hand, halting the guards who were about to seize her. His eyes burned with a feverish intensity.

"Prove it," he commanded. "Show us this... multiplication art. Now."