“I thought that was why you helped Gelston, what made him so appealing. Because he couldn’t wememba you.”
She nodded, but it was a slow, sad nod. “I come over here every day. I feed him, bathe him, wash his clothes, clean his backside, and we talk. We talk for hours, he and I, about stupid stuff like hats and snowflakes and why the gods hate us. Sometimes he smiles when he sees me come in, but yesterday he…” Tressa sucked in an abrupt breath and held it with mashed lips. She stayed that way for a second, then let it out slowly, carefully. “Yesterday he rushed right over and gave me a…a hug.” She halted again, and swallowed twice. “A real tight, I-love-you kind of hug, you know?” She glanced at Gifford and shook her head. “Okay, so maybe you don’t know, but it was nice—real nice. Not romantic—nothing like that—just appreciation, love. I hadn’t been hugged like that in…” She looked up at the sky and took a few more deep breaths through her nose. “And then today—today it’s like that never happened. He’s a stranger again.”
She hooked her thumb in the jug and tilted it up to her lips. “Want some?” Coming off the neck of the jug, her breath was an invisible cloud of fermented rye.
“No thanks.”
“It helps. Trust me, it helps.”
“Thank you, but no.”
Tressa nodded and wiped her mouth. She also deftly wiped her eyes, trying to clear the wetness on her lashes without him seeing. He pretended not to.
“Did you manage to have your picnic?”
He nodded.
She stared. “Didn’t go well, huh?”
“No.”
“Any other man would have given up on her by now.”
“If I was anyone else, I wouldn’t have to.”
Tressa laughed. “Is that what you think? You think she’s the catch in this pairing? Roan would fit right in here at Hopeless House. I realize you love her and all, but honestly, that girl is messed up. She won’t even let you touch her, will she? Won’t let anyone. How’s that gonna work, do you think? I mean, even if you pull off some miracle and get her to marry you, what kind of marriage will that be when you can’t touch your own wife? For Mari’s sake, you can’t even hold hands, can you?”
“Not without Woan scweaming.”
Tressa shook her head and held the jug out to him again. “You sure?”
He shook his head. “Woan has weasons.”
“We all have our reasons.” Tressa took another pull from the jug. “Mari knows; we all have our reasons.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Pottery Man
Heroes are those who refuse to create or become victims. I failed to see it then, but I lived among many heroes. I think maybe everyone does.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Balancing on the railing of the Spyrok balcony with her arms opened wide, Suri imagined she was flying. Wasn’t that hard. The world spread out below her, and the wind was so strong it watered her eyes. For the first time, she wished she had longer hair just so she could feel it blow.
“Having fun?” Arion asked, but Suri heard, Are you insane? You’re scaring me to death!
That was happening a lot. Suri had always received messages from Elan, from trees, the weather, and animals. What she had believed to be a mystic talent had actually been the Art, whispering. Intuition, premonition, a sense of oneness with the world were all the result of her gift for hearing the language of creation. Most people heard its call. Moments of unexplained dread before a tragedy, inexplicable coincidences, or a sense of destiny were all faint signals sent from Elan. No one was entirely deaf, but few had the ability to understand what they were told; fewer still could hold a conversation.
While not as strong as Suri, Tura must have also had a talent for the Art. All genuine mystics and seers had at least a knack for hearing the whispers of the world. Sadly, Tura died never knowing the true nature of her power. Had she known, the old woman might have learned to focus, to train her inner ear to listen. Suri had spent the winter doing just that, and now instead of merely hearing the voice of the wind, she could hear other people’s thoughts. At least it seemed that way. Arion insisted Suri merely picked up on strong emotions the same way people sensed changes in temperature. Her talent made her adept at interpreting people in the same way she was good at reading bones.
At that moment, Suri could tell, Arion was terrified.
Suri didn’t care. She was too busy flying. Tilting her hands, she noticed how her cupped palms caught the wind, giving them lift. I really should have been born a bird.
“Can we fly?” Suri shouted against the wind.
“No.” The single syllable was drenched in tension.
“I meant with the Art.”
“I know what you meant, and no you can’t.” The last few words were hastily added, as if Arion was certain Suri was on the verge of giving it a try.
“I thought you said anything was possible.”
“I said it feels like anything is possible. It’s an illusion. You can’t do anything unnatural. You can’t become invisible or turn yourself into a frog. You can’t create life, bring back the dead, or—”