“They’re leaving the dead down by the front gate,” Tesh explained.
In addition to three sons, Wedon had a daughter named Thea. Raithe had spoken to her only once in Dahl Rhen. He remembered that she wore her hair braided, and she was rail thin and tall for her age. She had died in the giants’ attack on Dahl Rhen a year ago. That’s when Wedon stopped being a farmer and became a soldier. I was just talking to him. How can the world change so fast?
Padera created a sling to hook around his neck. As she tied it up, Raithe spotted Roan standing nearby. She had her heavy smithing apron on, the leather stained and scorched. Her face hadn’t fared much better; her cheeks were smeared with soot. Arms across her stomach, she clutched her elbows and stared with worried eyes.
She shook her head. Then without a word, she walked away.
Raithe stared after her.
“She’s worried about Gifford,” Padera said.
“Gifford? Why? Where is he?”
“Only Mari knows, and I suspect even she might not be certain.”
Raithe was confused. “How far can a cripple go?”
Padera smiled. “That, I think, is the question of the century.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Pile at Perdif
I truly believe that hardship makes better people. Pain—assuming that it does not break us—provides the strength of knowing that such things can be endured and overcome. And I know of no one who suffered more than Gifford.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
There was no one there; just a pile on a hill.
Didn’t take long for Gifford to figure out why. Cresting the mound, he spied the village of Perdif below, the remains of five charred huts circling a well. He counted the people, too. Wasn’t hard, only twelve—all dead. The bodies lay scattered—men, women, children, and two dogs. They lay twisted and splayed on the dirt, not a weapon visible.
Gifford fell off Naraspur’s lathered back. No other way down. The ground was as hard as it looked, and he lay for a moment waiting for the pain to pass. The horse left him and walked slowly, wearily away. She’d be thirsty after their long morning race. Maybe she could smell water. Climbing to his feet and filling his lungs, Gifford called out. He waited, looked for movement below, listened, then called out again. No one answered.
The only sound was the harsh, dry wind that blew unabated and the flap of vultures’ wings as they landed and fluttered from one body to the next.
The sun was high, and Gifford hoped minutes didn’t count because he had no idea how to light the signal fire. They had sent him out with food, water, magic armor, and an amazing sword but nothing that could produce a flame. In that scorched land, he didn’t think it would take much, but he didn’t have much—he had nothing. No one expected the Fhrey would have visited Perdif first.
Most villages had braziers. Given the trouble and time that went into making fire, they just kept one going. Such a thing, he could see, was a luxury in Dureya. Not a tree visible for miles. There wasn’t even much wood on the pile. Most of it looked to be sheep dung.
How well can that burn?
Persephone had likely ordered a mound of logs built last fall, but who could resist a giant pile of wood just up the hill from a village facing a cold winter?
He hobbled toward the pile as best he could, which wasn’t good at all without his crutch. Giving up, he crawled. Within the ambitiously wide circle of stones, only three logs and a few dried dung patties remained. This wasn’t a signal fire; this was barely a campfire.
Gifford lay on his back and let his body rest. His arms and legs ached, but he was alive. He’d done the impossible. Gifford had broken out of Alon Rhist and raced across Dureya in less than a day on the back of a horse. But now what?
He sat up.
What would Roan do?
She’d manage something ingenious, something that harnessed the power of the hot winds. Looking at the pile, Gifford didn’t even see kindling. I don’t have so much as two sticks to rub together. Crawling around, he found plenty of rocks. Gifford had seen Habet create sparks by striking two stones against each other, and he tried reproducing the process. None of the rocks he found worked.
I shouldn’t have gotten off the horse.
He could have ridden farther. Perhaps there was another village nearby, one with a proper bow and kindling, or an eternal flame he could tap. Searching around, Gifford realized he couldn’t even see Naraspur, who had wandered off.
How long does Alon Rhist have? How long does Roan? What a great hero I am, to come so far to fail because I can’t…
Gifford focused on the little pile of logs and dung.
What was it Arion had said? Something about holding a sunbaked rock, and…
People who are creative are usually that way because they are more attuned to the power and forces of nature. They can hear the whispers of the world, and it helps guide them in the right direction.
Gifford stared at the pile. He had no hope of lighting it, unless…