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No matter how often I complained, grumbled, and wailed about the sheer monotony of my profession, I always felt a secret comfort in it. I would sometimes wake up early, before even leaving for the market, and feel the soft fabrics and admire their beautiful colours in the soft flickering candlelight.

For hours on end, the rhythmic sound of thread pulling through silk was the only sound in the house when Grandmother was running errands and Miarka was out playing. It was soothing, and the results were always tremendous. Although I had yet to become popular with customers, I felt a surge of pleasure every time I shook out a finished shawl, or tapestry, or even handkerchief.

But I needed to become popular fairly quickly, because summer was fast approaching.

Again.

Summer was quite possibly my least favourite time of the year. The devastatingly scorching sun dipped below the horizon for only an hour or so during the night and then began its rise. It was always so hot, and the sweat would trickle down my neck even as I worked in the relative cool of indoors. The marketplace became a blur of dust and flies flocking for the food stalls. Every time someone walked by, no matter how slowly, an inevitable cloud of the awful sandy dust would swirl up and cause me to choke.

Actually nobody in Harmindon enjoyed high summer very much. The cool of the baths at Na'Man ab Jubayr were a popular relief, night and day alike. It was truly life-giving - if it weren't for the river, the summer would bring many deaths of the heat and exhaustion.

But I would have taken a thousand deaths by choking in sandstorms or exhaustion over a slow death by starvation. When I mentioned devastatingly scorching, I was being in earnest. The usual drowsiness caused by midsummer descended upon Harmindon much more quickly than usual this year, much to everyone's horror.

In the market, I would overhear farmers discussing the possibility of drought, and what would happen if the Golden Serpent wreaked its havoc upon their precious land. It would slowly but surely dry up the earth, usually rich and dark from natural irrigation by the river. But this year, the tide was turning in favour of the sun in the battle of elements. Even the volumes of water from Na'Man ab Jubayr, which of course never dried up completely, were slightly decreasing, and some of the smaller aqueducts and channels had indeed dried up.

We knew well that after a month or two the worst would have passed, like it always did, and the lifesaving river would return to its rightful volumes and restore our lives to normal. But first there was hardship to endure, like there always was.

The other day, when packing up my wares to take home after a long morning having sold nothing, I noticed an empty stall across the square. That was the stall where one of the City's more prosperous farmers always set up shop - not herself, of course, but sent one of her children to mind the stall and deliver fresh food every morning. It was very unusual that it would be empty so I went to investigate.

I heard him before I saw him - the farmer's youngest son, ten years old, crouched behind the counter and sobbing quietly. I knelt down, frowning in consternation.

"Hello, little one. What is the matter?"

It took some sniffling and one of my fine lace handkerchiefs to get him composed. "We looked at one of our far fields this morning- we never bothered to check it much before, because Father had a little channel installed to keep it watered. But the waters are so low, it has completely dried out our field! Mother says we have to water it by hand, and therefore we cannot come to the market," He wailed. I patted his shoulder uncertainly, the weight of his words sinking in.

I went home and delivered the bad news to Grandmother, who sighed and said she wasn't a bit surprised. "Much as I disliked the notion I suppose it seems inevitable now."

So for the next few weeks, every able bodied person in the city was helping out with the harvest in some way- the men by digging temporary channels to transport water to the fields, the women by carrying water in large clay urns, back and forth until their backs and shoulders ached and sweat dripped from their foreheads. The children were involved in harvesting the yield, and sorting out the rotten and dry from the fresh and edible.

Both Miarka and I were involved in the harvest at first, but when the problem of drought became worse, I was enlisted in carrying water. And it hurt. I was used to carrying heavy burdens - firewood in bundles, the one table in our house used as both workspace and dining table, and occasionally Miarka when she was too tired. But this was almost out of my league entirely. For a while I couldn't get the hang of swinging the urn onto my back, and once I very nearly shattered the thing because I miscalculated the swing, and scraped my hands horribly saving it.

The gardens in immediate vicinity of the river remained lush and green, although slightly withered at the edges. We stopped every morning to drink from the cool, refreshing spring, feel the grass and rich earth under our feet like a royal carpet, and then make our dreary way to the farmland beyond the city boundary, where the earth was dry and cracked and the air smelled dusty and parched.

What made it worse was the hunger that permeated it all. The meat, a luxury we could rarely afford before the drought and certainly couldn't now, was lean at best and was always surrounded by flies. The few greens that the poor farmers could spare for the hardworking populace were pitifully small and ragged, and the usual eggs and rice weren't as plentiful as usual.

But, as predicted, the wind changed after a while. The sun wasn't nearly as strong, and we could go about without shawls and headwraps to protect our skin from the heat. Often a cool wind blew, and Na'Man ab Jubayr rose to the occasion, filling the aqueducts once again and letting us return to our professions and lives.

I managed to sell some small items to women whose shawls had been worn ragged by dust and use. Thus, our rice bucket was full once again and we could actually afford vegetables for once in what seemed like a very long time. I even bought some coconuts once on a whim, and we feasted well that night. The worst was well over, and everyone from Ramyah to beggar heaved a huge sigh of relief.

"That was by far the worst drought I have seen in my life," Grandmother remarked casually one evening in early autumn, as we sat around the fire. I was stitching away, Miarka was playing quietly - for once - with her little dolls I'd made her from scraps of material, and Grandmother was sitting still, watching the fire with wise, experienced eyes.

"I cannot believe that. We live in a desert, Grandmother," I rolled my eyes, but Grandmother shook her head ruefully. "I have seen many a terrible summer but none so bad as this. The War was hard on our food supplies, sure, but at least we could stay home in the cool of our houses while waiting for the menfolk to return. This was almost worse."

"Thank the Stars we made it out alive and well," I muttered to myself, and later that night, as I couldn't sleep, I went for a walk. I climbed up a small path carved into one of the cliffs overlooking the city, and sat down, smiling to myself as I breathed in the thankfully cool night air. While I watched the dim candlelight flicker softly and go out, one by one, in the windows of the houses, I suddenly felt as though I was not alone.

Upon investigation I discovered my friend Thekla, on her knees in the dark with her head in her hands, crying quietly. I was appalled, because Thekla never cried. Of the two of us, she was always the most cheerful, the most sunny-natured. I was mostly quite serious, preferring sitting indoors hunched over my needlework to go out and have fun.

"Why, whatever is the matter?" I asked tentatively. I remembered with a shudder how I had asked the farmer's son the same question, only to be saddled with weeks of hardship and exhaustion. A prickle of fear ran down my spine as I patted her shoulder comfortingly. Thekla took some time to compose herself before looking at my with tragic eyes.

"My father... and brothers... came home today and told Mother.... they had to leave."

"What? Why?"

"It's not just them. All men have to leave, very soon. They have to travel very far, to distant Rhûnic lands, to wage war on the people of the West. Again."

We sat in silence for a while, the once refreshing night air chilly. I wrapped a comforting arm around my friend, unsure of what to say. If this was true, my household would hardly be affected because we had no men. But Thekla- I knew the people she loved most of all were her brothers. She would be devastated if anything.... permanent were to happen to them, as would her mother, and all the other mothers and women who were sending husbands, sons, brothers, whoever, to this campaign. We were just recovering from (in Grandmother's opinion) the harshest summer in over sixty years. How could this happen?

"But why?" I whispered, not quite meaning to speak aloud. Thekla answered anyway.

"It apparently has nothing to do with us - the folk of Rhûn were promised land and riches during the war with the Dark Lord, and were angry that they lost. It took some years for them to reassemble their army, but now they are ready, and want Harad as an ally in their campaign."

"But why does Chief Na'Man wish to join them again? Surely we will be torn apart! We do not have the strength to take on any Western army. They have allies too, and are much more powerful and prosperous than we are."

Thekla lowered her voice as if to reveal a great secret. I leaned in, curious. "We will join with Abrakhân and Pazghar, of course, but there are rumours that the Chieftains have discussed suing for peace with the West."

I sat back and leaned my head against the cliff face, shifting to a more comfortable position on the bare rock. It seemed there was much to think about.

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