Age of Myth (The Legends of the First Empire #1)

He had trouble controlling his bladder. The accidents occurred mostly at night, and he frequently woke in a soaked bed. For most of his life his “morning baths” had been the worst of it. Yet as with all his other adversities, he’d found a way to cope, a way to persevere. He drank sparingly and never at night. Even on the coldest winter nights when the villagers of Dahl Rhen huddled together in the main lodge for warmth, he always slept alone, which was easier than he would have liked.

Although Gifford’s roads appeared narrower, rockier, and strewn with more thorns than others, he always found a way to deal with life’s setbacks. Nothing came easy, but Gifford refused to see himself as a victim. He was alive, generally happy, and people loved and praised the pottery he created. That was more than many people had, and more than enough to satisfy Gifford.

And yet whenever he looked at Roan, he knew the worst of it—the worst part of being him—was that the only thing he truly wanted was forever beyond the reach of his feeble body, and no amount of positive thinking would change that.

Roan lashed the wood-and-tin contraption to his left leg, tightening the leather straps. She knelt before him wearing her work apron, a smudge of charcoal on the side of her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, which was so high on her head that it looked like a rooster’s crest.

Her clever little hands were marred by dozens of cuts from working with sharp metal. He wanted to hold them, kiss the wounds, and take the pain away. He’d tried once, and it hadn’t gone well. She’d pulled away, her eyes wide with fear and a look of horror on her face. Roan had an aversion to being touched, and not just by him, thank Mari. Mountains of praise for his beautiful cups and amphorae wouldn’t have been able to offset the anguish if her reaction had been limited to him.

Roan yanked hard on the ankle strap and nodded with a firm, determined expression. “That should do it.” She stood up and dusted her clean hands symbolically. Roan’s voice was eager but serious. “Ready?”

Gifford answered by pulling himself up with the aid of his crafting table. The device on his leg, comprised of wooden planks and metal hinges, squeaked as he rose, making a sound like the opening of a tiny door.

“Do you have your weight on it?” she asked. “Put your weight on it. See if it holds.”

For Gifford, putting weight on his left leg was akin to leaning on water. But for Roan he’d willingly fall on his face. Perhaps he could manage a roll and make her smile. She rarely smiled and never laughed. If only he’d been born with two stout legs, strong and agile, he’d dance and twirl like a fool and make her smile, make her laugh. Gifford would show Roan what he saw when he looked at her, but broken as he was, the twisted potter made a poor mirror and could only cast back a shattered reflection.

Gifford tilted his hips and out of faith and love, shifted some weight to his left leg.

He didn’t fall. A strain tugged on the straps wrapped around his thigh and calf, but his leg held. His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened, and he saw Roan grin.

By Mari, what an amazing sight.

He couldn’t help smiling back. He was standing straight—or as straight as his gnarled back allowed—he was winning an impossible battle using magic armor Roan had fashioned.

“Take a step,” she coaxed. Both hands were clenched in fists as if she were hanging on to something invisible in front of her.

Gifford shifted his weight back to his right side and lifted his left leg. Swinging forward, it squeaked again. He leaned and took a step the way normal people had done a million times. The moment he did, the brace collapsed.

“Oh, no!” Roan gasped as Gifford fell face-first, barely missing the set of newly glazed cups drying in the morning sun.

His cheek and ear slapped the dirt, jarring his head. His elbow, hand, and hip took most of the punishment. To Roan, it must have looked painful, but Gifford was used to falling. He’d been doing it all his life.

“I’m so, so, so sorry.” Roan was back on her knees bent over him as he rolled to his side. Her grin was gone, and the world less bright.

He couldn’t help feeling it was his fault. “I’m okay, no pwoblem,” he said. “I missed the cups.”

“The hinge failed.” She struggled to hold back the tears as her injured hand ran over the brace.

How many cuts came from building that brace for me?

“The strut bent,” she said. “The copper just isn’t strong enough. I’m so sorry.”

“It held fo’ a while,” he said to cheer her up. “Keep at it. You’ll make it wuk. I know you will.”

“There’s an additional force when you walk. I need to account for the forward motion and the additional weight when your other leg is raised.” She slapped the side of her head several times, eyes flinching with each blow. “I should have realized that. I should have. How could I not?”

He instinctively grabbed her wrist to prevent additional blows. “Don’t do—”

Roan screamed and jerked away, drawing back in terror. When she’d recovered, they exchanged embarrassed looks, mirroring each other. The moment dragged unpleasantly until Gifford forced a smile. He didn’t feel like smiling. He wanted to crawl into a hole and weep. But he donned the expression the same way he forced himself to get up each morning and greet a world that wasn’t meant for him.

The smile wasn’t one of his best, but it was the best he could manage and, whether Roan knew it or not, he offered it out of love.

To ease past the uncomfortable pause, he picked up their conversation where it had left off. Pretending that nothing had happened. “How could you know something that’s not been done befoe, Woan?”

She blinked at him twice, then shifted her focus. She wasn’t looking at anything in particular; she was thinking. Sometimes Roan thought so intensely that he could almost hear it. She blinked again and emerged from the stupor. Roan walked over to Gifford’s craft table and picked up one of his cups. The awkward moment had vanished as if it had never existed.

“This design is new, isn’t it?” she asked. “Do you think it could hold its shape at a much larger size? If we could find a way to—”

Gifford’s smile turned genuine. “Has anyone told you yew a genius, Woan?”

She nodded, her little rooster crest whipping. “You have.”

“Because it’s twue,” he said.

She looked embarrassed again, the way she always did when he complimented her, the way she looked when anyone said something nice, but it was a familiar unease. Her eyes shifted back to the brace and she sighed. “I need something stronger. Can’t make it out of stone; can’t make it out of wood.”

“I wouldn’t suggest clay,” he said, pushing his luck by trying to be funny. “Though I would have made you a beautiful hinge.”

“I know you would,” she said in complete seriousness.

Roan wasn’t one for jokes. Much of humor arose from the unexpected or absurd—like making a hinge out of clay. But Roan’s mind didn’t work that way. To Roan nothing was too absurd, and no idea was too crazy.

“I’ll just have to think of something,” she said, and started unbuckling the brace. “Some way to strengthen the metal. There’s always a better way. That’s what Padera said, and she’s always right.”

The wind gusted and blew Gifford’s cloths from the crafting table. Two cups fell over with a delicate clink. Thick voluminous clouds rolled in, blotting out the blue and blanketing the sun. Around the dahl people urgently trotted toward their homes.

“Get the wash in! Get the wash in!” Viv Baker yelled at her daughter.

The Killian boys raced after chickens, and Bergin rushed to shut down his new batch of beer, cursing as he did. “Perfect blessed day a minute ago,” he grumbled, peering up at the sky as if it could hear him.

Roan glanced at the cups and bowls scattered around the craft table. Gifford had been having a productive day before Roan stopped by, but he was grateful for the distraction.

“You need to get your work inside.” She redoubled her efforts to remove the brace, but was having trouble with one of the buckles. “Made this one too tight.”

The wind grew stronger. The banners on the lodge were cracking with sharp reports. The fire braziers near the well struggled to stay lit, but lost their battle. Both were snuffed out.