“That’s him.” Suri pointed at Gifford, whose brows jumped.
“What’d he do?” Tressa asked. “There’s no need to pick on him. Gifford’s a walking curse to himself as it is.”
“We aren’t here to pick on him,” Arion said. “Just want to talk a while.”
“Talk, eh?” Tressa peered at them suspiciously. “About what?”
Arion held up the cup. “About this.” She addressed Gifford, “You made it?”
He nodded.
“What of it?” Tressa spoke with the verbal equivalent of an antagonistic shove. “You against a cripple making a living?”
Arion looked at Tressa. “Could we speak to Gifford alone, please?”
“Will that make it easier to cast some hex on him?” Tressa asked. “I have a better idea. How about the two of you just leave. Go back to your fancy stone fortress, your one-eyed newts, cauldrons, and bat wings, and leave us in peace. Will you do that, please?”
“I’ve never known any newts with only one eye,” Suri said. “And I know quite a few.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll bet you’re on a first-name basis with them, aren’t you?”
Suri nodded. “Of course. Newts are ridiculously friendly.”
This left Tressa looking confused. She glanced at Gifford as if at a loss.
“Gifford,” Arion said, holding the cup up. “I think your workmanship is wonderful. Stunning, really. I’ve never seen the like. The porcelain is so thin, so delicate, you can almost see through it.”
“Has a lot to do with the type of clay I use: soft, usually white; the wheel I spin it on; and the heat. You need lots of heat.”
“Well, it’s lovely what you do, and not just the skill, but the creativity. The way the cup is shaped, this flower-like tapering, and the gentle swirl of the handle.”
“Thank you.”
“Came all the way down here to compliment him on his pottery?” Tressa asked skeptically.
“Partially,” Arion replied. “I also have a few questions. Gifford, do you sing?”
“Ha!” Tressa slapped her thigh. “Like a bullfrog with a cold.”
Gifford frowned. “I can’t speak well. Singing is even mo’ difficult. My mouth doesn’t act like it should. The sounds get mushed sometimes.”
“Okay, maybe not singing; how about humming? Do you ever hum while working?”
Gifford thought, then nodded. “I suppose.”
Arion looked at Suri with a smile.
“So the man hums, so what?” Tressa grumbled. “Is it a crime to hum? I’ve been known to hum on occasion myself. What of it?”
Arion ignored her. “Have you ever felt certain it was going to rain when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and then it did? Or have you known winter would arrive early or late?”
Gifford shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Have you ever started a fire by clapping your hands?” Suri asked.
Both of them looked shocked.
“No,” Gifford said.
“I think what Suri meant to ask was, have you ever wanted something to happen and then it did? Have you noticed a lot of happy coincidences, like finding someone or something when you really needed to, or having rain hold off until after you were safely inside?”
“Don’t think so.”
Tressa laughed. “This”—she indicated Gifford with both hands—“can hardly be mistaken for the face of happy coincidence. This”—she clapped him on the shoulder—“is what you get from a life of careful misjudgment and a bunch of drunk-off-their-asses gods in a bad mood.” Tressa spit, wiped her chin, and shook her head. “You think he’s some sort of magician because he can make nice cups?”
“It’s possible,” Arion said. “I want you to do me a favor, Gifford. I want you to move your hands like this.” Arion made a plucking motion with her fingers while sweeping her hands back and forth. “That’s right. Now look at my palms and think hot. Imagine my hands on fire. Imagine them melting. Imagine my hands turning black as ash. Concentrate. Close your eyes if you need to.”
Gifford stared at Arion’s hand, and Suri was worried the potter might succeed in setting Arion on fire. She assumed Arion knew what she was doing, but, just the same, Suri was ready to smother even the hint of a flame.
Ever since Neith, Suri no longer had any trouble tapping the Art. Over the last eight months, her work with Arion had been mostly about technique. To Suri, it was like they were back in the lodge, once more playing the string game together and learning Rhunic and Fhrey. Arion would demonstrate a standard weave, and Suri would take it and often improve the idea, making Arion smile and often laugh or shake her head and say, “Why has no one ever thought of that before?” Suri was certain she could protect Arion from anything Gifford might do; still, she was nervous.
The deaths of Tura and Minna, and the appointment of Persephone as the keenig, had left Suri not only devastated, but alone. People were all around, but her family was missing. Trapped in the cold dark of Alon Rhist in winter, Suri had suffered depression so black she couldn’t eat. Raithe and Arion had pulled her out, but the losses were still fresh, and this made her protective, perhaps beyond reason.