—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Persephone winced and pulled, but the ring refused to come off. Little wonder, given that Reglan had slipped it on her finger twenty years before, when she was seventeen and he forty-one. She hadn’t removed it since.
Twenty years.
It didn’t seem so long ago, yet Persephone felt as if they’d always been together. The day he’d put the ring on, it had been too large. She’d wrapped string around the little silver band to hold it snug. The ring was a sacred relic handed down since the time of Gath, and she was terrified she’d lose it. She never did. The need for the string had disappeared during her first pregnancy. Staring at her hand, she realized how much she had changed over the years.
We changed each other.
“I’ll get some chicken fat.” Sarah moved toward the door.
“Hang on,” Persephone said, stopping her. She wet her finger in her mouth. Then, with a firm grasp and clenched teeth, she painfully wrenched the metal band over her knuckle.
“Ow,” Sarah said with a sympathetic grimace. “That looked painful.” Her wise, motherly tone spoke about more than the pain of a finger.
With a curious sort of mental hiccup, Persephone remembered that Sarah had been there when the ring was placed on her hand. Most marriages were informal and gradually built over time. The only public declaration came when a couple began sharing the same roof or a child was born. But Persephone had married a chieftain, which required a formal ceremony, and Sarah, her closest friend, had stood beside her. The ring and the torc were the badges of the Second Chair’s office. But in Persephone’s mind, the silver band had always been the symbol of Reglan’s love.
Persephone nodded and tried not to cry. She’d done enough of that already, and her eyes and nose throbbed from rubbing.
After the death of her husband and with no son to inherit his father’s position, Persephone was expected to leave the lodge to make way for the new chieftain and his family. More than a hundred years had passed since a chieftain’s wife had failed in her most important responsibility: bearing a child who lived to assume the First Chair. Maeve, the Keeper of Ways, had been consulted, and she decreed that Konniger, Reglan’s Shield, would assume the position. There might be challengers, so the matter wasn’t officially settled. But no matter who prevailed, Persephone’s fate would be the same; she had nowhere to go.
Sarah had been there for her twenty years before, and she once again stood by Persephone’s side, offering a place to live. From the outside, all roundhouses were as identical as the materials and land allowed. On the inside, Sarah’s was by far the most welcoming. Filled with animal-hide rugs, baskets, a spinning wheel, a sophisticated loom, and a huge bed covered in furs, it offered a comforting respite. An open-hearth fire in the center of the floor kept the space warm. Without a chimney, a thick layer of smoke hovered at the peak of the cone-shaped thatched roof. Its slow escape dried herbs and cured meat and fish hanging from the rafters.
Part of the coziness came from the piles of wool, thread, yarn, and the stacks of folded cloth that provided softness. But what made this roundhouse special were the walls—or wall—as roundhouses had only one. The interior was plastered in daub, and designs of great beauty had been painted by Sarah’s daughter, Brin. Some were as simple as charcoal outlines of little hands; others were circles and swirls of yellow and orange paint. A few were complex illustrations of people and events. Even the logs framing the entryway, not to mention the door itself, displayed celestial swirls and stars. The circular wall of Sarah’s home was a marvel of artistic wonder.
“I can’t believe I forgot to take it off.” Persephone held out the ring. “Would you mind returning this to the lodge?”
Sarah took it and nodded, offering pitying eyes. Persephone didn’t want to be pitied. She’d always seen her role as an example to her people and found herself ill suited to the role of woeful widow.
“No, wait.” Persephone stopped her. “I should be the one to give it to Tressa. It will look like I disapprove if I don’t.”
“Might not be Tressa,” Sarah said. She walked to the door and peered out. “Holliman has challenged Konniger. They’re getting ready to fight now.”
“Holliman?” Persephone said, confused. “Are you serious?”
Persephone joined her friend at the door. The front of Sarah’s home faced the little grassy patch of open space before the lodge steps, which the dahl’s residents used for outdoor gatherings. Between the burning braziers in front of the stone statue of Mari, the two men checked the straps on their wooden shields, each armed with an ax.
“It’s not like he doesn’t stand any chance.” Sarah held the door open as the two looked out.
“Holliman is only a huntsman,” Persephone said. “Konniger has been Reglan’s Shield for years.”
“He’s big.”
“Konniger is bigger.”
“Not by much. And there’s more to combat than size. There’s speed and—”
“Experience?” Persephone stared at Sarah as she let the door close. “I guess it’s good that the matchup is so one-sided, Konniger won’t have to kill Holliman. He’ll yield quickly. We can’t afford to lose such a talented hunter.”
The door jerked open, and Sarah’s daughter entered. “Sorry I’m late.”
Brin was tall for her age, most of the height in her legs, and in many ways she was a ganglier version of her mother. Sarah possessed a tiny nose and an easy smile, and although not particularly beautiful, she’d always been remarkably cute. Both braided their hair, or more likely Sarah braided both, the obvious choice in style given that Sarah was the dahl’s most talented weaver.
The girl flopped on the bed and sighed heavily.
“Something wrong?” Sarah asked.
“It’s Maeve. She’s crazy and being stupid.”
“Brin!” her mother scolded.
“I mean, I don’t know how she expects me to learn everything down to the emphasis on words and the order of lists of names.”
“Maeve is an extremely talented and capable Keeper.”
“But she’s old,” Brin said.
“So am I. So is Seph, and I can assure you we aren’t crazy.”
“Okay, but if you’re old, she’s ancient, and definitely losing her mind.” Brin bounced up to a sitting position and crossed her legs. “It’s insane to think a person can remember that much detail. Who cares if Hagen comes after Doden in the list of men slain at the Battle of Glenmoor?”
“I know it must be difficult keeping everything straight,” Sarah told her. “But you shouldn’t blame your failures on others. You won’t be Keeper that way. You need to pay better attention.”
“But…” Brin frowned and folded her arms.
“Your mother is right,” Persephone said. “Being a Keeper isn’t only about remembering the stories; it’s an important responsibility. It’s crucial that you know the customs and laws. I realize you find details such as when to plant which crops boring, but those are the kinds of things that determine whether everyone lives or dies. That’s why Keepers are so revered.”
“I know, but…” Brin looked hurt and turned away.
Persephone sighed. “Brin, I’m sorry. I’m just…listen, you’ll make a fine Keeper, but you’re still young. You’re only fifteen and have plenty of time to learn. You need to listen to Maeve, do as she says, and don’t argue. If she gets frustrated, she’ll pick someone else.”
“Which wouldn’t be so awful,” Sarah said. “You could get back to learning the loom.”
“Mother, please!” Brin rolled her eyes, then got up and reached for the empty water gourd.
“Well, you were the one pointing out how old I am. I’m going to need someone to take over when I’m too feeble.”
“I didn’t say you are old. I said Maeve is old—then I clarified that she is ancient. You were the one who brought up your age.”
“Pretty good memory,” Persephone said.
Brin flashed her a mischievous
grin.
“You’re supposed to be on my side, Seph,” Sarah told her, then turned to her daughter. “Your grandmother, Brinhilda, taught me her secrets to making Rhen cloth, and—”
“And you hated it,” Brin said. “You despised how Dad’s mother forced you to work at it for hours at a time.”
“Of course I did. I was a stubborn young lady like you, but I did it. I learned, and it’s a good thing, too. Otherwise, you and half the dahl would be standing here naked, and what would we do with the wool your father shears?”
“Being a Keeper is important, as well. Persephone just said so, and she’s the Second Cha—” Brin stopped herself and covered her mouth, looking as if she’d accidentally stepped on a newborn chick.
“It’s okay,” Persephone told her. She rubbed the empty place where the ring used to be. “We all have changes to get used to.”
The clangs of battle erupted outside as the fight commenced. A curse was followed by a grunt. Then came the gasp of spectators followed by cheers, boos, and the thud of ax on shield. Brin rushed toward the door, but her mother caught her by the wrist. “You don’t need to see.”
“I’m getting water. You need water, right?”
“Brin…” Sarah spoke the name dressed in a heavy coat of disappointment.
“But I—”
More grunts could be heard and the sound of shuffling feet, then a crack was followed by a scream. Another collective gasp was heard, but this time there wasn’t a cheer.
—
The fight for chieftain had ended, and another battle began—this one waged by a team of women trying to save a man’s life.
“Move!” Padera shouted.
The little woman was the first to react. With a round head, full bosom, and ample hips, she looked much like a skirted snowman as she bustled forward, shoving aside men twice her size. Ancient when Persephone was born, Padera was the oldest living member of Clan Rhen. She’d been a farmer’s wife and had successfully raised six children and countless cows, pigs, chickens, and goats. Padera also regularly won the fall harvest contest for biggest vegetables and best pies. There wasn’t anyone more respected on the dahl.
The ring of onlookers broke on Padera’s approach, giving Persephone a clear view of the common where the two men had fought. The sight made her gasp. From the knee down, Holliman’s leg was covered in blood. Glistening with sweat, Konniger backed away, his ax dangling from loose fingers, the sharpened stone edge dark and dripping. He stared at Holliman with an expression Persephone struggled to place. If anything, Konniger looked guilty.
Holliman rose up on elbows that he jabbed into the grass. Arching his back and wailing in pain, he dragged his body to…well, to nowhere Persephone could discern. She didn’t think Holliman knew, either. He probably didn’t realize that he was moving or that he was pumping a stream of blood, which soaked a wide swath of spring grass in a thick coat of brilliant red.
“Hold him down!” Padera called out. “And get me a rope!”
At her command, several people grabbed Holliman’s arms, pinning him, while others ran off in search of twine.
Roan, who had been in the ring of spectators, rushed to Padera’s side and stripped off Holliman’s thin rawhide belt. She held it out to Padera.
“Around the thigh, girl.” The old woman held up the bleeding leg. “Loop it above the knee.”
Roan executed the instructions as if she’d been asked to tie closed a bag of apples. Padera’s indifference in the face of so much carnage was understandable. The old woman regularly set bones, even those that had broken through skin. She also sewed up deep wounds and delivered breech babies from both women and livestock. But Roan taking the initiative, and with such stoicism, was surprising. The young woman, who until recently had been the slave of Iver the Carver, was normally timid as a field mouse. She rarely spoke and was seldom seen outside the carver’s home, which she had inherited upon his death. But there she was, acting with precision and clarity, undaunted by Holliman’s screams, and either unconcerned or unaware that her dress was soaking up blood.
Each woman took an end of the rawhide strap and then pulled it tight. The fountain of blood slowed to a stream.
“Get a stick!” Padera growled.
Straining with both hands on the leather, Roan focused on Sarah’s daughter. “Brin! Get the hammer from my bag.”
Brin squeezed through the crowd, rushed to Roan’s side, and pulled open the satchel. Out of it the girl drew a small hammer.
“Here, child. Lay the handle where the straps cross,” Padera ordered.
Brin hesitated, looking at the blood and cringing with Holliman’s screams.
“Do it!” Padera shouted.
Persephone pushed forward and took the hammer. She placed it where indicated. Padera and Roan crossed the straps, wrapping it.
“Twist,” Padera ordered.
With weak, shaking hands, Persephone managed to find the strength to tighten the belt. The stream of blood subsided to a trickle, then a drip.
“Hold it there,” Padera commanded, then pointed in the direction of Mari’s statue. “Fetch down a brazier.”
The closest man removed his shirt and wrapped his hands. He placed the pan on the ground near the women. Padera snuffed out the fire, leaving the smoldering wood.
Holliman’s struggles were subsiding even before the hot poker used to stir coals was pressed to his leg. He let out a violent scream, then went limp. The smell was horrific, and Persephone held one hand under her nose while the other remained clamped tightly to Roan’s hammer.
Around them, faces clustered, peering over shoulders. Those who spoke did so in worried whispers.
Holliman was one of the dahl’s best hunters. The deer he killed in winter were often the difference between life and death. He had no children, and his wife had been lost to a fever three winters back. He hadn’t taken another. Too heartbroken it was said. Although not someone Persephone would pick as chieftain, he was a good man.
Konniger leaned against the well, waiting and still holding his bloody ax. Persephone wouldn’t have chosen him, either. He didn’t impress her as being wise or the sort to inspire others. He was a warrior, a shield, an ax.
Padera, who was wrapping the blackened flesh of Holliman’s knee, paused. She stared at his face as if the unconscious man had asked a question. Putting aside the wounded leg, she reached over and laid a hand to the side of the man’s neck. As she did, the furrows on her craggy face deepened. The urgency the old woman had radiated died along with Holliman. She untied the leg and returned Roan’s hammer. Then the old woman walked to the well to clean up.
“Congratulations,” Padera told Konniger. “You’re the new chieftain.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Before the Door
Delicate, radiant, beautiful, in our eyes she was every inch a god, and she scared us to death.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
While every other Fhrey in Erivan celebrated, Arion stood alone in a darkened tomb. She put a hand on the marble urn that held Fane Fenelyus’s ashes. The vessel was eight feet tall, wider at the top, tapered near the bottom, and polished to a smooth luster.
Just outside, crowds filled Florella Plaza, all the avenues, and even the palace. A thousand bonfires blazed, commemorating the start of Fane Lothian’s reign.
Less than a month and they’ve already forgotten you.
Arion rested her head against the urn. The stone was cold, so very cold. “I worry about what’s to come and could use your counsel.” She paused, straining to hear any faint sound.
Fenelyus had been the first to wield the Art and founded the Miralyith tribe. In her time, she’d single-handedly defeated entire armies, built the great tower of Avempartha, and become the fifth fane, leader of all Fhrey.
Is it so unreasonable to hope she can speak to me from the other side? Why not? The old lady did everything else.
But if Fenelyus had replied, Arion couldn’t have heard over the whoops, cheers, and laugh
ter of the city’s celebration.
The tomb of the old fane was dark; Arion hadn’t bothered to light the braziers. Instead, she left the door open to admit the moonlight, and along with it came the noise. Somewhere a group was singing “Awake the Spring Dawn,” but their rendition was so bad that winter was certain to return. The clamor ruined her mood. The very idea that anyone could be happy after Fenelyus’s passing made her angry. Death wasn’t something Arion was used to. None of them were.
Why am I the only one here? The only one who seems to care?
Arion tried to block out the shouts and the singing and focused on the urn. She wasn’t going to hear any messages that night, but that wasn’t really why she was there. Arion just wanted to say goodbye, again. “I’m going to teach Mawyndulë as you asked. Lothian has decided to allow it. But will that be enough? After all you did, after all you gave me, taught me, will anything ever be enough? I just wanted to—”
Outside, cries of celebration became shrieks of terror.
She rushed out to find a flooded Florella Plaza, the entire square had turned into a lake. From the steps of Fenelyus’s tomb, Arion could have dived from the porch of the sepulcher and not hit bottom. Streamers and banners, splintered boards that once had been part of a stage, and other debris bobbed and spun on the surface. People thrashed and gasped for air. Those who could swim, screamed; those who couldn’t weren’t able to.
Arion flung out her arms and with one loud clap exploded the water. Like stomping in a puddle, the lake burst in a spray that flew in all directions. She did this three more times before the stone was visible again. What had been a marketplace recently decorated for the coronation was now a disaster of shattered shops and horrified people spitting water and holding on to poles or one another.
A gaggle of soggy youth picked themselves up, laughing. Arion marched toward them. “Who’s responsible?”
Eyes shifted to the tall one in a powder-blue robe with a smirk on his face.
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