Roan knelt down beside her, nudging her way in beside one of the bushels, and studied the markings Brin had drawn. They were lines and circles mostly. Four looked like clouds, with lines below. The next was the same fluffy ball without lines. The third was a circle with lines shooting out from it in all directions. The pictures were simple but pretty, and she marveled at Brin’s artistry.
“This is beautiful.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to know if you understand it. Can you figure out what I’m trying to say?”
Roan nodded.
“Don’t nod, tell me. What does it mean?”
“It rained for four days, and then the sun came out.”
Brin’s jaw dropped, and a huge smile pulled at her lips. “Yes! Exactly! That’s perfect. That’s wonderful. You understood a dozen words from only three pictures.” Brin reached out and hugged her.
Roan sucked in a sharp breath and went rigid. Her shoulders seized to her neck; her hands and teeth clenched. She started to shake.
Brin let go. “Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry…I…I’m just so happy. Are you all right?”
Roan focused on breathing. Pulling in air and pushing it out. She tried to stop the tears, but they slipped down her cheeks, first the left then the right. The left was always first, and she could never understand why. Maybe its socket wasn’t as deep.
Roan heard a pounding, faint and muffled, as if from far away. She heard low thuds repeating over and over. Then she heard Brin yelling.
Brin? Why is she yelling? Is she all right?
“Stop it!” Brin shouted. “Roan! Roan, stop it! Stop it.”
Roan looked down and saw her fists pounding her thigh. She was hitting quite hard and yet could only dimly feel the pain.
“Oh, blessed Mari, Roan.” Brin was crying, too. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”
Roan stopped hitting herself and went back to breathing. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. Her breath slowed. The tears stopped. She wiped them clear and looked at Brin. “Are you okay?” Roan asked.
Brin looked incredulous. “I’m fine. Should I get Gifford?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay, really. And I’m sorry for…for being me.”
Brin didn’t say anything. She had both hands up to her mouth. She looked frightened, as if Roan were some horrible creature.
Roan wanted to crawl into a hole and bury herself. At times like this, she used to go back to Iver’s house and curl up on her mat and hide in the blanket. But Iver’s house was gone, and she didn’t know where her blanket was, lost with everything else to the storm. All she knew was that she couldn’t stay there with Brin staring at her in horror.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and walked away, escaping from under the wool.
As she did, Roan noticed people were looking down the length of the wall toward the Fhrey camp. The Galantians had made their settlement away from the others near the eastern side. A commotion was causing several people to point that way.
“What happened?” Viv Baker asked Tressa, who was sitting in the sun, sewing.
“The cripple did something he shouldn’t, I guess.”
Roan started running then. She raced toward the Galantian camp. Most of the Fhrey were standing in a circle. Gifford lay at its center, his face blotchy, cut, and bloody. One eye was already puffed up and closed. Blood dribbled out his nose and mouth. He was curled up, coughing and spitting. After one last kick, the Galantians moved away.
Roan froze, unable to move any closer. Gifford’s one good eye stared at her. A tear slipped free and down his cheek.
Iver was dead, but Roan still heard his voice, “You killed your mother, Roan. You’ve been a burden to me your whole life, and you’ll be a curse to anyone who cares about you. That’s what you really are, Roan. That’s right, an evil curse, and you deserve what I’m going to give you now…”
—
“What did you expect?” Padera asked Moya. The old woman was sitting under the awning in a pile of wool, carding away like a spider in her cloudlike web. Padera hadn’t looked up. Not that she could see much through the slits she called eyes. Still, Moya found it disturbing that the old lady could always tell whenever Moya entered, as if she could smell her.
“Huh? What? Try making sense, old woman,” Moya replied. She ducked under the wool drape and flung herself down on the ground where the grass had been pressed flat. “Or were you talking to yourself again?”
“I don’t talk to myself. Although I should start. I’m two hoots and two halves more entertaining than anyone I know.”
“That would be three hoots. Whatever in Tetlin’s name a hoot is.”
“You’re only proving my point, dear.”
Moya poured a cup of water from a jug. She drank half, then poured the rest over her head, letting the water drizzle down her neck and soak the top of her dress. She sighed.
“Not sure why Roan went to all the trouble to put up these roofs if you’re just going to douse yourself,” Padera told her.
“It’s hot out. Hot and muggy. I just wish I knew where Bergin stored his beer.” Moya took a seat with her back against the cool stone of the wall, the empty cup still clutched in her hand. The wind blew the drapes, but she didn’t feel any relief.
The old lady continued to scrape the wool out. The sound annoyed Moya. “Okay, I’ll bite. What should I have expected?”
Padera opened one eye and fixed her with it. “They are men of war. They speak through violence. That’s their language.”
“They aren’t men,” Moya said. “They aren’t human. They’re Fhrey.”
“Close enough.”
“And what do you know about it? How do you always know everything! You weren’t even there.”
“Bet you’re wishing you could say the same.”
“Shut up, you old witch.” Moya slammed the cup to the ground, and turned away.
Tekchin had been teaching Moya how to use a sword. Every day she trekked to the Galantians’ camp for personal lessons. He’d often stand behind her, his chest against her back, his arms guiding her movements. Whenever they stopped, she could feel the fast beat of his heart.
Everyone else was terrified of the Fhrey, but Moya was a regular fixture in their midst. She had become accepted. Moya loved the way the Fhrey welcomed her, the way they smiled as if she were one of them, a Galantian-in-training. They all liked her, but none more than Tekchin. And she liked him, too, so different from any man she’d known before—aggressive, funny, clever, and confident. His looks didn’t hurt, either. He wasn’t pretty like the other Fhrey. Tekchin looked rugged with his scar, leathery skin, and rough hands.
She had been there when Gifford showed up with Eres’s javelin.
Gifford was always doing things he shouldn’t. Always pushing people and breaking rules. There were times she felt he used his ailments to manipulate others, knowing no one would stand up to him because it would make them look like the bully. This time he’d gone too far. This time he’d pushed someone who wasn’t afraid of what others thought.
Before the potter could say anything, Eres sprang. He took the weapon in one hand and Gifford in the other. For one terrifying instant, Moya thought he might thrust the javelin through Gifford’s twisted little body. Instead, he held him by the throat while he gently laid his javelin aside.
“I’m sow-wee,” Gifford had said. “I just wanted to look at it.”
When the beating began, Moya was relieved Eres had used his fists. Fleshy sounds filled her ears as he pummeled Gifford, who cried out only once before losing the air to make any sound. Crumbled into a ball, he endured Eres’s kicks, hugging himself and gasping for breath as tears rolled down his cheeks.
The other Galantians watched with passing interest. Moya had stared in horror. For the first time, she found she didn’t have the courage to speak or even move. She silently watched Gifford take the beating. I should have helped him. If I had asked Eres to stop, he would’ve, wouldn’t he? Why didn’t I?
&
nbsp; Sitting under the wool with Padera watching her, Moya started to cry. “He’s a cripple, for Mari’s sake! They didn’t have to…” Moya bit off the rest and crushed her lips together.
“People never have to be mean,” the old woman said.
“Gifford should have known better. The Fhrey treat their weapons like children. They name them, for Mari’s sake! I’ve seen how protective they can be, and Eres is the worst of the lot. Gifford shouldn’t have taken it; he shouldn’t have even touched it.”
“Gifford didn’t take the little spear.”
Moya looked over at Padera and shook her head. “Well, I guess you don’t know everything, do you, old woman? Gifford came right out and said he did. And it’s a javelin not a spear.”
Padera looked at her once more. Strange how that one eye could make Moya feel so small.
“He lied.”
Moya laughed. “So you can tell what’s in people’s hearts now? Know their innermost secrets from all the way out here?”
Padera didn’t reply and went back to her carding. The old woman was so self-assured she didn’t even feel the need to argue.
“Gifford took the javelin. He had it. I saw him bring it back. How could he have—” The answer came to her then, and the revelation felt like running into a wall. Moya felt her stomach rise and catch in her throat. “Oh, Grand Mother. It was Roan. She took it.”
Padera nodded and Moya felt sick.
Roan likely just wanted to see how it was made. Probably took better care of it than Eres would have. Roan couldn’t have asked permission. Roan wouldn’t dare speak to a Fhrey, and when she got into her thinking mode, she sometimes blocked out everything else.
Gifford must have seen her with it. He knew what would happen when he brought it back.
I might have stopped it. I should have at least tried.
Gifford was her friend, but she hadn’t helped. She stood by and watched him take a beating because he refused to let anyone hurt his friend. He was willing to stand up against the Galantians for someone he cared about, but she couldn’t say the same. Who’s the real cripple?
Then the worst thought of all entered Moya’s head. Gifford wouldn’t even be upset with her for standing by and doing nothing—he would have expected it.
Moya’s stomach twisted into a knot. She hated herself so much it physically hurt. Her pain must have been painted on her face because Padera added, “You shouldn’t feel so bad. It’s not like you or I were beaten. Gifford is used to pain.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Council of Tirre
The famous Council of Tirre that everyone speaks so highly of was not a grand thing. The chieftains were not eloquent, or geniuses, or selfless heroes. And they did not sit at a table of gold. The gathering that changed the course of human history was nothing more than a circle of chairs filled mainly with stupid, vain men.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The day was sunny and warm, so the chieftains’ meeting was held in the open courtyard of the dahl. Unlike Rhen, Tirre’s inhabitants didn’t live near the lodge. Long ago, fishermen, craftsmen, and traders saved themselves the daily walk by moving down the hill to the village of Vernes. Only the chieftain, his family, and his staff remained in the roundhouse, which was much larger than the one Persephone had lived in. Uncluttered by other structures, the yard of beaten grass and dirt patches remained open, breezy, and both majestic and dismal. Seven chairs were set in a circle in front of the lodge. Lipit’s people brought jugs of mead from his storage pits. Refusing drink would have insulted her host. Still, she wanted to keep her wits, so Persephone intended to have just a sip. She nearly changed her mind after discovering the mead was not only good but cold.
All seven Rhulyn chieftains were there, and Persephone knew each one except Alward, the new leader of Clan Nadak. The sickly thin man with oily hair wore a ragged version of the brown-and-yellow pattern of his people. Lipit had positioned Persephone to his right—as she had been the one to call the meeting—and Raithe on her other side, probably because they had arrived together. She was surprised to see him and hoped his attendance indicated a change of heart. Maybe she had managed to talk some sense into his thick Dureyan head.
Outside the circle, behind each of the chairs, others stood. These were the elders, the Shields, and the Keepers of Ways. Tegan of Warric had eight advisers behind him. Harkon of Melen had six, including a man who looked as old as Padera. Persephone had Brin and Nyphron. The girl had come with a thin slate of gray stone in her arms; Persephone had no idea what for. She was equally confused by Nyphron’s presence. She hadn’t asked him to attend, but given he was going to aid them in a war against his own people, she thought it fair for him to be there. His presence drew stares from the other chieftains.
Only Malcolm and a young boy she didn’t recognize stood behind Raithe.
“Well, let’s get to it,” Tegan of Warric bellowed. “Who’s going to be the keenig? You, Lipit? Is that why you brought us here?” he added with bombastic poison.
Their host straightened up and scowled. Lipit had dressed for the affair, wearing earrings of silver and bracelets of gold. “Are you saying I’m unfit?”
“Since you’re asking, you must agree.”
“And who do you think would be a better choice?” Lipit asked. “You, perhaps?”
“Of course. Why else would I come all this way? I am here to accept the crown of the united clans.”
Harkon of Melen laughed, slapping his bare thigh with a loud smack. “And the rest of us came all this way to make certain that wouldn’t happen.”
This ignited a round of laughter. Persephone only smiled.
“I won’t support Lipit as keenig,” Tegan declared, pounding the arm of his chair with a big fist. He wasn’t a tall man, but he had broad shoulders, strong arms, and huge hands. The thump of his fist cut the laughter short.
“Nor I,” Krugen said. The chieftain of Menahan emphasized his unsolicited vote by adjusting his robes. Only Krugen wore robes—rich, lavish garments of dyed material embroidered with patterns of fine needlework. The opulence of so much material to clothe just one person seemed absurd.
“I think we are getting ahead of ourselves,” Lipit said. His words were sharp, maybe in response to the quick, unnecessary rebukes. “Perhaps we should hear from Persephone. After all, she was the one who called for the gathering.”
Persephone saw skepticism on their faces. To them, she had always been Reglan’s wife.
“She did?” Tegan continued to speak to Lipit while casting cursory glances at Persephone. “I thought the messengers calling for this meeting came from here.”
Harkon folded his arms and scowled. “A summit called by a chieftain’s widow, war with the Fhrey, is this some kind of joke, Lipit?”
“Not unless you consider the death of thousands of men, women, and children funny,” Persephone replied. “Do you? Do any of you feel that the destruction of Dureya, Nadak, and now Rhen is humorous? Maybe you’ll feel differently when you find your own dahls in similar straits.”
No one answered. The smiles and bravado shrank into uncomfortable shifts and awkward glances. Persephone had their attention and planned to use it. She stood up. “The Fhrey have declared war on us. Those whom we once thought benevolent gods revealed themselves as treacherous enemies. Without warning, without cause, they attacked and erased two of our clans, and very nearly a third.”
“The way I heard it, one of ours killed one of theirs.” Tegan let his eyes shift toward Raithe.
“A man killed a Fhrey,” Raithe said, “because the Fhrey killed his father.”
“And I heard the men trespassed where they weren’t allowed,” Tegan said. “They crossed the river. Something all the chieftains agreed would never happen.”
“This is your fault then?” Alward glared at Raithe.
“The trespass and the death are not what has turned the Fhrey against us. Do you really think they would unleash so much destruction because of the loss of just
one of their own? Does that make any sense?” Persephone said.
“Perhaps I could lend clarity,” said Nyphron. “May I say something?” He stepped out from behind Persephone’s chair and into the center of the ring. No one moved or replied. The Galantian’s long golden hair flowed off his shoulders. His face, unblemished and unscarred, was the perfect canvas for his dazzling blue eyes. The morning light enhanced the yellow metal of his armor.
Nyphron didn’t wait for the permission he’d requested. “I am Nyphron, leader of the Instarya tribe, commander of the famed Galantians, and the legitimate lord of Alon Rhist. I’ll bear witness to what Lady Persephone asserts. A single death didn’t launch this curse upon your people. Shegon’s death was an excuse. The Fhrey have long planned to remove the Rhunes from Elan, and now their campaign has begun.”
As he spoke, he rotated slowly and made eye contact with each chieftain. “Our fane has decreed that your kind has grown too numerous. Your very numbers are seen as a threat. Your success upon this land, your mere existence, is the cause of your doom. The fane fears a growing horde of Rhunes as numerous as the stars, and he wants you gone. All of you.”
He paused, but remained in the center of the circle.
“If that is true,” Tegan was the first to find his voice, although not the same as he used before. It lacked the loud, brassy bellow it once had. “Then why is the lord of Alon Rhist here? Do you come to parley our surrender?”
“You are Tegan, chieftain of Clan Warric? Your people are great traders of jade from the eastern hills of Galesh along the western banks of the Galeannon River. I’ve heard your people are great drinkers and speakers, but I wasn’t aware that Clan Warric also possessed such wisdom, for that is a very good question.” Nyphron paused, making them wait, making them wonder if he would answer at all. “While I am the true lord of the Rhist, sadly the rest of my people, including the fane, don’t see it that way. I was cast out for refusing to butcher Rhune women and children. I wasn’t able to stop the slaughter of Dureya and Nadak by my brothers-in-arms, but my band and I reached Rhen in time to prevent its total destruction. We defended that dahl first against my own people, and then against a band of Grenmorian giants.”
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