Thrace threw out her arms and spun around. “This is Dahlgren. This is home.”
Hadrian dismounted and looked around, puzzled. They stood on a small patch of close-grazed grass beside a well constructed of ill-fitted planks with a wooden bucket, wet and dripping, resting on a rail. Two other rutted trails intersected with the one they followed, forming a triangle with the well at its center. On all sides, the forest surrounded them. Massive trees of dramatic size still blocked the sky, except for the hole above the clearing, through which Hadrian could see the pale blue of the late-afternoon sky.
Hadrian scooped a handful of water from the bucket to wash the sweat from his face and Millie nearly shoved him aside as she pushed her nose into the bucket, drinking deeply.
“What’s with the bell?” Royce asked, climbing down off Mouse and gesturing toward the shadows.
Hadrian looked over, surprised to see a massive bronze bell hanging from a rocker arm, which in turn hung from the lower branch of a nearby oak. Hadrian guessed that if it had been on the ground, Royce could have stood inside it. A rope dangled, with knots tied at several points along its length.
“That’s different,” he said, walking toward it. “How does it sound?”
“Don’t ring it!” Thrace exclaimed. Hadrian pivoted his eyebrows up. “We only ring it for emergencies.”
He looked back at the bell, noting the relief images of Maribor and Novron, along with lines of religious script circling its waist. “Seems sort of extravagant for … well …” He looked around at the empty clearing.
“It was Deacon Tomas’s idea. He kept saying, ‘A village isn’t a village without a church, and a church isn’t a church without a bell.’ Everyone pitched in a little. The old margrave matched what we had and ordered it for us. The bell was finished long before we had time to build the church. Mr. McDern took his oxen and fetched it all the way from Ervanon. When he got back, we had no place to put it and he needed his wagon. It was my father’s idea to hang it here and use it as an alarm until the church went up. That was a week before the attacks started. At the time no one had any idea how much use we’d get out of it.” She stared at the huge bell for a moment and then added, “I hate the sound of that bell.”
A gusty breeze rustled the leaves and threw a lock of hair in her face. She brushed it back and turned away from the oak and the bell. “Over there”—she pointed across the rutted path—“is where most of us live.” Hadrian spotted structures hidden in shadow within a shallow dip, behind a blind of goldenrod and milkweed. They were small wooden-framed buildings plastered with wattle and daub—a mixture of mud, straw, and manure. The roofs were thatch, the windows no more than holes in the walls. Most lacked doors, making do with curtains across the entrances, which fluttered with the wind, revealing dirt floors. Beside one, he spotted a vegetable garden that managed to catch a sliver of sun.
“That’s Mae and Went Drundel’s place there in front,” Thrace said. “Well, I guess it’s just Mae’s now. Went and the boys … they … were taken not long ago. To the left, the one with the garden is the Bothwicks’. I used to babysit Tad and the twins, but Tad’s old enough now to watch the twins himself. They are like family really. Lena and my mother were very close. Behind them, you can just see the McDerns’ roof. Mr. McDern is the village smith and the owner of the only pair of oxen. He shares them with everyone, which makes him popular come spring. To the right, the place with the swing is the Caswells’. Maria and Jessie are my best friends. My father hung that swing for us not long after we moved here. I spent some of the best days of my life on that swing.”
“Where’s your place?” Hadrian asked.
“My father built our house a ways down the hill.” She gestured toward a small trail that ran to the east. “It was the best house—best farm, really—in the village. Everyone said so. There’s almost nothing left now.”
Pearl was still staring at them, watching every move.
“Hello,” Hadrian said to her with a smile, bending down on his haunches, “my name is Hadrian, and this is my friend Royce.” Pearl glared and took a step back, brandishing the stick before her. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Her parents were both killed two months ago while planting,” Thrace told them, looking at the girl with sympathetic eyes. “It was daylight, and like everyone else, they thought they were safe, but it was a stormy day. The clouds had darkened the sky.” Thrace paused, then added, “A lot of people have died here.”
“Where is everyone else?” Royce asked.