In reality, he never heard them say a word as they passed. Those were just the sorts of things Gifford always imagined people saying about him. Usually, he was right.
Is that part of the magic, too? Can I actually hear their thoughts somehow?
He still wasn’t sure if he could swallow all of what Arion had told him about his being a magician, his ability to wield cosmic power. Gifford, who had been the butt of jokes and tormented since birth, wasn’t easily duped, but a few things didn’t make sense. Why would Arion, a high-ranking Fhrey whom he’d never spoken to before, seek him out just to lie? What little he knew of her, and of Suri, suggested they weren’t the sort to mislead or make fun of others. Persephone trusted them, and Gifford had always respected the keenig’s opinion.
So, why did she do it?
After they left, he’d tried boiling water, catching twigs on fire. Nothing even got warm. He was positive she’d lied to him—just couldn’t understand why. This unanswerable question, this strange doubt left the door of possibility open just a crack, just enough so that whenever anything unusual did happen, he wondered.
To a man with so little, hope is a barrel of ale. It alleviates pain for a time, becomes a crutch, but it also ruins what little good a person might otherwise squeeze out of life. Gifford wanted to think he was special. He wanted to believe that somehow the gods had a plan, and all his suffering was for a reason. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe it was true. Those were dreams that ended in nightmares.
The pair was stopped at the lower gate by two Fhrey guards who had never been there before.
“I’m personal healer to Keenig Persephone, and this is my grandson who helps me,” Padera told the soldiers.
“Helps you with what?” one asked, looking Gifford over skeptically.
Gifford smiled at him. He’d heard the same from hundreds of others. What good could he possibly be?
“It’s true,” the other guard said. “She’s the Rhune healer. Padera, right? She was at the Kype earlier, after the keenig was attacked.”
Persephone was attacked? Gifford stared at the guards, neither of whom was looking at them anymore.
“What happened?” the first guard asked.
“Raow gutted her,” said the second.
“What!” Gifford shouted, surprising everyone.
“She’ll be fine.” Padera grabbed his arm again. “But I need to see Roan at the smithy, get some more needles from her. Are we free to go?” she asked the Fhrey.
“Sure, go ahead.”
Padera jerked him forward. “Keep walking. You’re slow enough as it is, and you don’t have much time. There’s so much we still have to do.”
“What is we doing?” Gifford asked as he hobbled after her up the slope.
“Roan and I are going to make you a hero.”
And I thought I’m supposed to be the magician!
They entered the smithy, and even at that late hour, it was no surprise to see Roan hammering on the anvil. What shocked Gifford was that Frost, Flood, and Rain were there as well. Each of them rushed with a terrible urgency.
As Gifford entered, they all paused to stare at him. Each showed the same horrible expression of sympathy. Roan looked as if she might burst into tears.
“Okay, will someone tell me what’s going on?”
“The elven army has arrived,” Padera said as Frost trotted over with a length of string and began measuring the width of Gifford’s shoulders. “Hundreds of them have fanned out in front of the Grandford Bridge, maybe more. Hard to tell in the dark. They’ll likely attack at dawn.”
“Oh, holy Ma-we, you sewious?”
“Thirty-three,” Frost shouted.
“Thirty-three,” Flood repeated.
“What’s more,” the old woman went on, “the signal fire that was supposed to let our army know it’s time to come to our aid was blown away by elven magic.”
Frost lifted Gifford’s arm and stretched the string down his side. “Fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” Flood echoed.
“We’re all trapped here and will certainly be slaughtered to the last man, woman, and child unless the signal fire at Perdif is set alight.”
Frost drew the string around Gifford’s waist. “Twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine? Seriously? Are you sure?” Flood said.
“Not everyone is as fat as you! Yes—twenty-nine!”
“Perdif is forty miles away,” Padera told him. “Someone has to race there and light that fire by midday tomorrow or everyone in Alon Rhist will die, and after that, the rest of mankind.”
“And you want me to—I can’t get to Pew-dif by midday. I’d be lucky to walk back to Hopeless House by then.”
“Here she is.” Gifford spun to see Raithe’s friend Malcolm. He entered the smithy leading a beautiful white horse. “They didn’t even ask me what I wanted her for. The Instarya aren’t overly fond of horses. In general, Fhrey prefer to keep their feet on solid ground.”
Gifford had seen horses before, but never this close. He sometimes spotted them along with deer in meadows near Dahl Rhen, and on occasion—also like deer—they were hunted for food.
“Her name is Naraspur,” Malcolm explained, rubbing the animal’s muzzle. She snorted and stomped a hoof, making a disturbingly loud noise on the stone floor.