I’m going to die.
The thought wasn’t painful, or scary, just heavy, sobering, like the end of an era. He felt nostalgic rather than frightened, which was strange because Gifford had few good memories. But those he had—every one of them—involved Roan.
“Woan…” he began. “I know about Ivy. I know Padewa killed him to save you.” Bad time to bring it up maybe, but time was running out. He knew she felt guilt for Iver’s death, for what Padera had done on her behalf. He wanted to help her understand it wasn’t her fault. This would be his last gift to her, his last amphora.
Roan dropped the helmet on the ground. It rattled and did a half-roll, bumping up against her foot.
He waited.
She slowly turned, her eyes wide, but this time she looked right at him. He loved those eyes, those windows to worlds of marvels yet undreamed.
“I—I know this is a bad time to be…” he started, then paused and took a breath to center himself. “I’ll pwobably not see you again, and I just wanted you to know that—”
“Padera didn’t kill Iver,” she said in a weak voice. “I did.”
The words spilled out of her in one breath. They fell between them like the helmet, with a rattle.
Gifford stared, confused. “You did? What do you mean you—”
Roan looked down, maybe searching for the helmet; he couldn’t tell.
“Woan?”
Her face came back up, pulled by her name. She wanted to take the words back. He could see it in her furrowed brows and lips squished in a sour frown.
“Tell him, Roan,” Padera said as she rubbed the horse’s nose.
Roan glanced at the old woman, then back at him, then at the helmet still on the ground. “Plants,” she said. “Certain plants and rocks—you grind them up.” She made a pestle and mortar action with her hands. “I fed what I made to mice I kept in a cage. Some just made them sick. Others…” She looked at her feet. “I had to know if it would work on something bigger. So, I gave it to one of Gelston’s sheep. Mixed it in with the feed. Next morning it was dead—a froth around its mouth.”
Gifford couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Gelston cursed the gods, but it had been me.” Roan bent down and picked up the helm. “Iver killed my mother. He beat her to death. I watched him. He wanted me to see, wanted me to remember. I did.”
“You don’t need to justify anything to me,” Gifford told her. “Honestly, if I’d known, I would have killed him myself. I think anyone in the Dahl would have.”
She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “But I was his slave. I was his property. He had every right to—”
“No, he didn’t. No one has such a wight. They want you to think so. Twust me, Woan, I know about this.”
“But he owned me. Me and my mother.”
“How?”
“Because he bought my mother.”
“How?”
“He traded wood and grain with a man in Dureya.”
“And how did that fellow get to own anyone?”
“My mother was Gula. She was captured in a battle. Her husband was killed; she was taken as a slave.”
“Was that wight? Was it wight she was taken? Husband killed? Made a slave? Was that wight, Woan? And what did you do? If it was wight fo’ a man to kill a husband and make his wife a slave, how can it be wong fo’ a child of that same woman to kill a man to be fwee? The man who made a slave had no wight to do that, just the ability. You had the ability to fwee you self, Woan. You had the ability and the wight.”
“I killed a man. I’m a murderer.”
“You killed a fiend. You a he-wo.”
“How do you know? How can you tell the difference? A lot of people cried at his funeral. I saw them. I watched my neighbors, my friends, weeping over his grave. I caused all that pain. It was me. Iver always told me I was a curse to everyone who cared about me. That’s what I am, a curse, an evil curse, and I deserve everything that happens to me.” She was starting to cry.
“That’s not twue.”
“It is!” she shouted, so loudly that the dwarfs and even Naraspur looked over. “You care. Don’t you? You—you love me, don’t you? Don’t you?”
Gifford felt as if she’d reached into his chest, took hold of his heart, and was thumbing over it. He stood stiff and helpless under her teary gaze. He nodded slowly. “Mo’ than anything in the woold.”
“See,” she said. “And look what it’s got you. You’re going to…you’re going to…” She clenched her teeth and wiped her eyes. “I am a curse.”
Gifford’s arms started to rise. He wanted desperately to take her, to hold her, to hug her tight. This might be the last time he’d ever see Roan. He wanted, if nothing else, to kiss her goodbye. He saw her flinch and stopped.
“Got food here,” Tressa said, running into the smithy with a leather satchel and a wine skin.
“You’re optimistic,” Flood told her as he put the finishing touches on the horse, then blew on it to dry.
Tressa shrugged. “The guy is due for a win. You can’t lose your whole life, am I right?”
The three dwarfs looked at each other, not appearing to agree.