Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

“That’s because they don’t have a Woan to make them a spinning table.” He grinned broadly—the good smile.

“They also don’t use glazes. They just fill the insides with pitch. Makes everything taste like tar, I’ll bet. They would love your stuff. You could trade your pieces.”

“And get what?”

“Food, wine, metal, salt. They have a lot of salt here…oh, and cloth. They have something called linen! It’s really light and would be great for the hot weather. They dye it in different colors. Moya’s got her eye on a purple dress she found. You could have your own stand, a kind of table where things are sold. Brin said the market is filled with crowds of people who wander through and make deals. You’d be huge.”

“Maybe we could both use the same stand.” Gifford pointed toward the wall. “Those big wooden pots you make is fantastic.”

Roan narrowed her eyes. Usually, she understood what he was trying to say. His inability to make the rrr sound, and the embarrassment from trying, made him avoid certain words. Sometimes he got a bit too creative with his substitutions. She knew how much stress talking caused, so whenever possible, she worked out his “Gifford-speak” on her own, but sometimes she just had to ask.

“Barrels?” she posed.

“You named them that?” Gifford sounded hurt, his eyes lowering, his sight falling off her.

“No. I made that mistake once before.” She looked at his crutch and frowned. “Barrels is what Rain called them. The little men have names for all kinds of things.”

“What would you have called them? Not wooden pots, I suppose.”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I would probably call them casks.”

“Why?”

Roan shrugged. “It’s short. And there’s no ‘r’ sound in it.”

Gifford smiled. He looked out over the field for a moment then said, “Will we be staying long enough to build an oven? Do you know?”

Roan shrugged. “But it doesn’t take long to build one. I’ll help.”

He nodded. “Also need stuff to make glazes.”

“There’s a sandy beach and a salt sea here. I saw some cliffs, too. With any luck, I might even find some metal. Let’s go explore after lunch.” Roan looked at the bow. “I wonder if some tin might help strengthen this.”

“How is it supposed to wuk?”

“Oh, let me show you. She picked up the javelin from a pile of sticks.

Gifford’s eyes nearly fell out. “That’s one of the Galantians’ javelins.”

She nodded. “I borrowed it.”

“Does he know? Did he give it to you?”

Roan paused in thought. She hadn’t asked, but the one called Eres was there when she borrowed it. He hadn’t objected, so he must not have minded. Thinking back, though, she wondered if he had seen her.

She shrugged. “No. Might not have noticed. Now feel this.” She held it out. “See how it’s weighted?”

He didn’t take it, but he did step closer. With an intense look he whispered, “Woan, you…you…took the Fhwey’s weapon?”

Gifford never used the word Fhrey unless it was important. She didn’t understand why he was using it now, but it concerned her.

“Yes, I needed to study it.”

“How long have you had it?”

Another shrug. “Couple of days.”

“Days!”

“What?”

Gifford took the javelin from her. “I’ll deal with it.”

“With what?”

“It’s not a pwoblem.”

Problem? He’s nervous about something.

Gifford let bees land on him without flinching, swam in the deep parts of the lake, and even challenged chieftains at meetings. He was the bravest man she knew, so it worried her that he seemed frightened.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I said it’s fine, Woan. I’m just going to give it back.” He smiled then, but it wasn’t his good one. Gifford had many kinds of smiles, and she’d seen them all. When she scolded herself, he wore the sad one—she never understood why. The cheerful grin was often used like a mask for him to hide behind. Then there was the stiff, toothy-faced expression that usually meant he didn’t understand—and it was usually accompanied by a slow nod or two. She rarely saw the good smile. She liked that one.

“Oh. I almost fo’got. Bwin wants to see you.”

“Where is she?”

“Still un-da the wool.”

Roan nodded. “She’s been under the wool since the giants attacked.”

Gifford looked at her puzzled for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. Yes, I think so. A lot of us have been un-da the wool a long time.”

—

Gifford hobbled toward the Galantians’ camp, Eres’s stolen javelin in one hand, his crutch under the other arm. The warriors respected strength and beauty; he had neither. For years, Gifford had clung to the hope that things could change. He’d believed that if he tried hard enough for long enough, he could will himself to straighten and stand on two feet. It never happened.

But his leg and back weren’t the worst of it.

Gifford was also cursed with half a face. Everything was where it ought to be, but like his bad leg, one side was useless. The left sagged and couldn’t move, making it difficult to see and torturous to talk.

But his face wasn’t the worst of it.

When he was eight, Gavin Killian dubbed Gifford “the goblin,” and Myrtis, the brewmaster’s daughter, had called him broken. Of the two, Gifford preferred goblin—at the time, he’d had a crush on Myrtis. While growing up, it seemed everyone had called him something. Over the years, the names faded, and although people probably still considered him broken, no one said it to his face.

But the name-calling wasn’t the worst of it.

For most of his life, Gifford’s “morning baths” had been the worst of it. He had trouble controlling his bladder; and thankfully the accidents usually occurred at night. He frequently woke in a soaked bed, humiliated and embarrassed. As with his other adversities, he’d found a way to cope, a way to persevere. He drank little, never at night, and made a point to sleep alone, which was easier than he would have liked. He wasn’t that broken.

Although Gifford’s roads appeared narrower, rockier, and strewn with more thorns, he always found a way to cope. Nothing came easy, but he refused to see himself as a victim. It was only when he looked at Roan that 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 could change that.

Gifford would have preferred to stand tall, admit the mistake, and defend Roan like a hero. Instead, he would do what he could, what he was good at, perhaps what he did better than anything else.

—

Roan found Brin sitting with her back to the wall, wedged between two bushels of grain. On her lap was a flat gray stone, a shard of slate or perhaps shale.

“Roan”—Brin looked up—“you need to help me.”

“Okay.” Roan expected Brin would want more paint. That was what she usually asked for. Maybe she was planning to start a mural on the dahl’s wall.

“Look at this and tell me what it says.” Brin held up the stone with several chalk markings. “Ignore the ones I crossed out. Those are mistakes.”