Imraldera placed a hand to her cheek, her smile a little lopsided but still present on her face. Then she reached up and gently touched the poet’s scarlet face.
“Eanrin,” she said, her voice rough and low, “I know your true name.”
“Well, of course you know my name, my girl. Everyone knows Bard Eanrin. I’ve told you, I’m the most famous . . . Hold on! Did you just . . . Imraldera, my dear, did you just speak?”
7
WATERSKINS DRAPED OVER HER SHOULDER, Fairbird made her slow way down to the stream. She avoided the other women and did not take her water from the same streambeds as they. There was no reason for this. No one was unkind to Fairbird, especially since she was a favorite of the High Priest.
But when she was a little girl, her sister had taken Fairbird to a private place and always gathered water there, just the two of them. Now Fairbird did the same.
She preferred solitude, with only Frostbite for company. They had begun life as outcasts. And when that dreadful day had come and her sister was taken from her, when the women of the village came up to the house on the hill and brought Fairbird down to their homes, it made no difference. Fairbird shut herself up inside, hiding under a shell much thicker than silence.
As a child, she had been glad when the Eldest did not return, though it meant years of war for the tribes of Redclay. The Eldest had taken Starflower from her. If he would not give her back, well, he might as well not return himself.
The silent girl, her face pinched, her mouth always frowning, made her way down to the water and knelt to fill her skins. Frostbite lowered her grizzled muzzle to lap at the stream. Fairbird stroked the dog’s head and down her back, feeling the protruding bones. Her faithful companion was growing old. How lonely her life would be when the lurcher died.
Suddenly Frostbite growled and lifted her dripping muzzle. Fairbird sat upright and turned to look where the dog’s gaze was fixed. A woman she did not know stood downstream near the edge of the gorge. Had she just climbed up? Was she a woman of the Crescent Tribes? A victim of the wars, fleeing for safety? Her dress had once been white and might have been fine indeed. Now it was brown and torn. Her face was dirty and streaked, as though she had wept many tears. A refugee for certain, she looked no more than Fairbird’s own age.
Frostbite growled again, backing up a step or two. Fairbird placed a soothing hand on the dog’s head, then turned to the girl. “You have come to Red Clay territory, near Redclay Village,” she signed. “Where have you come from?”
The girl raised her hands and signed in return: “From beyond the Circle of Faces.”
Fairbird frowned. At first she thought she must have read the strange girl’s signs wrong, and she asked her to repeat herself. The girl obliged, signing the same odd phrase. “Beyond the Faces?” Fairbird asked. “That is . . . not possible.”
The stranger’s eyes filled with tears. Fairbird watched them fall down her cheeks as she drew nearer. Then Fairbird drew a sharp breath, and Frostbite whimpered. The girl’s drawn face was so familiar.
“Who are you?” Fairbird signed.
The stranger came nearer still until she stood no more than a few paces away. Her black hair blew across her face, but she pulled it back impatiently, her mouth opening and closing. Then she spoke out loud.
“My sister,” she said, “I have found you.”
Fairbird staggered back, tripping over her waterskins and almost falling into the stream. Her heart raced with terror. Blasphemy! A woman with a voice! The Beast would descend upon them, and who would stop him? Not Wolf Tongue! No, though the Beast slay half the women of the village, the High Priest would not move to protect them.
“Sinful woman!” Fairbird signed, her eyes wide with terror. “Sinful, blasphemous, blight among your people! Is this why the Crescent Tribes sent you here? So you could hex us with your wicked tongue?”
The girl’s face was very still. What longing was in her eyes as she gazed upon the other girl throwing curses in her face! But at last Fairbird’s hands stilled and she stood panting in the stream. Then the stranger spoke again.
“Forgive me. I . . . I did not know how long I left you. My poor Fairbird! So alone.”
Fairbird stared. Her face went deathly pale. For the space of three breaths she did not move. Then she gnashed her teeth, and her hands tore the air as she signed: “Who sent you? Was it Wolf Tongue? Because I will not accept his advances! Who sent you to torment me with the memory of my sister?”
“Fairbird,” the stranger said, “I am your sister.”
“Liar!” Fairbird’s hand lashed the word like a curse. “My sister died ten years ago. Offered in blood debt to the Beast. She died in my place. She died and left me with the curse of guilt. She died and she left me!”