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

“What it says?”

“Yes. What is the message? I think I finally got it right. Took a lot of tries.”

Roan knelt down beside her, nudging her way in beside one of the bushels, and studied the markings Brin had drawn. They were lines and circles mostly. Four looked like clouds, with lines below. The next was the same fluffy ball without lines. The third was a circle with lines shooting out from it in all directions. The pictures were simple but pretty, and she marveled at Brin’s artistry.

“This is beautiful.”

“I don’t care about that. I want to know if you understand it. Can you figure out what I’m trying to say?”

Roan nodded.

“Don’t nod, tell me. What does it mean?”

“It rained for four days, and then the sun came out.”

Brin’s jaw dropped, and a huge smile pulled at her lips. “Yes! Exactly! That’s perfect. That’s wonderful. You understood a dozen words from only three pictures.” Brin reached out and hugged her.

Roan sucked in a sharp breath and went rigid. Her shoulders seized to her neck; her hands and teeth clenched. She started to shake.

Brin let go. “Sorry, sorry. I’m so sorry…I…I’m just so happy. Are you all right?”

Roan focused on breathing. Pulling in air and pushing it out. She tried to stop the tears, but they slipped down her cheeks, first the left then the right. The left was always first, and she could never understand why. Maybe its socket wasn’t as deep.

Roan heard a pounding, faint and muffled, as if from far away. She heard low thuds repeating over and over. Then she heard Brin yelling.

Brin? Why is she yelling? Is she all right?

“Stop it!” Brin shouted. “Roan! Roan, stop it! Stop it.”

Roan looked down and saw her fists pounding her thigh. She was hitting quite hard and yet could only dimly feel the pain.

“Oh, blessed Mari, Roan.” Brin was crying, too. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

Roan stopped hitting herself and went back to breathing. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. Her breath slowed. The tears stopped. She wiped them clear and looked at Brin. “Are you okay?” Roan asked.

Brin looked incredulous. “I’m fine. Should I get Gifford?”

She shook her head. “I’m okay, really. And I’m sorry for…for being me.”

Brin didn’t say anything. She had both hands up to her mouth. She looked frightened, as if Roan were some horrible creature.

Roan wanted to crawl into a hole and bury herself. At times like this, she used to go back to Iver’s house and curl up on her mat and hide in the blanket. But Iver’s house was gone, and she didn’t know where her blanket was, lost with everything else to the storm. All she knew was that she couldn’t stay there with Brin staring at her in horror.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and walked away, escaping from under the wool.

As she did, Roan noticed people were looking down the length of the wall toward the Fhrey camp. The Galantians had made their settlement away from the others near the eastern side. A commotion was causing several people to point that way.

“What happened?” Viv Baker asked Tressa, who was sitting in the sun, sewing.

“The cripple did something he shouldn’t, I guess.”

Roan started running then. She raced toward the Galantian camp. Most of the Fhrey were standing in a circle. Gifford lay at its center, his face blotchy, cut, and bloody. One eye was already puffed up and closed. Blood dribbled out his nose and mouth. He was curled up, coughing and spitting. After one last kick, the Galantians moved away.

Roan froze, unable to move any closer. Gifford’s one good eye stared at her. A tear slipped free and down his cheek.

Iver was dead, but Roan still heard his voice, “You killed your mother, Roan. You’ve been a burden to me your whole life, and you’ll be a curse to anyone who cares about you. That’s what you really are, Roan. That’s right, an evil curse, and you deserve what I’m going to give you now…”

—

“What did you expect?” Padera asked Moya. The old woman was sitting under the awning in a pile of wool, carding away like a spider in her cloudlike web. Padera hadn’t looked up. Not that she could see much through the slits she called eyes. Still, Moya found it disturbing that the old lady could always tell whenever Moya entered, as if she could smell her.

“Huh? What? Try making sense, old woman,” Moya replied. She ducked under the wool drape and flung herself down on the ground where the grass had been pressed flat. “Or were you talking to yourself again?”

“I don’t talk to myself. Although I should start. I’m two hoots and two halves more entertaining than anyone I know.”

“That would be three hoots. Whatever in Tetlin’s name a hoot is.”

“You’re only proving my point, dear.”

Moya poured a cup of water from a jug. She drank half, then poured the rest over her head, letting the water drizzle down her neck and soak the top of her dress. She sighed.

“Not sure why Roan went to all the trouble to put up these roofs if you’re just going to douse yourself,” Padera told her.

“It’s hot out. Hot and muggy. I just wish I knew where Bergin stored his beer.” Moya took a seat with her back against the cool stone of the wall, the empty cup still clutched in her hand. The wind blew the drapes, but she didn’t feel any relief.

The old lady continued to scrape the wool out. The sound annoyed Moya. “Okay, I’ll bite. What should I have expected?”

Padera opened one eye and fixed her with it. “They are men of war. They speak through violence. That’s their language.”

“They aren’t men,” Moya said. “They aren’t human. They’re Fhrey.”

“Close enough.”

“And what do you know about it? How do you always know everything! You weren’t even there.”

“Bet you’re wishing you could say the same.”

“Shut up, you old witch.” Moya slammed the cup to the ground, and turned away.

Tekchin had been teaching Moya how to use a sword. Every day she trekked to the Galantians’ camp for personal lessons. He’d often stand behind her, his chest against her back, his arms guiding her movements. Whenever they stopped, she could feel the fast beat of his heart.

Everyone else was terrified of the Fhrey, but Moya was a regular fixture in their midst. She had become accepted. Moya loved the way the Fhrey welcomed her, the way they smiled as if she were one of them, a Galantian-in-training. They all liked her, but none more than Tekchin. And she liked him, too, so different from any man she’d known before—aggressive, funny, clever, and confident. His looks didn’t hurt, either. He wasn’t pretty like the other Fhrey. Tekchin looked rugged with his scar, leathery skin, and rough hands.

She had been there when Gifford showed up with Eres’s javelin.