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

Padera gave him one of her famous squints—her way of letting him know she didn’t like having her word questioned. With god-like knowledge came god-like irritation when doubted. “Persephone went with the three Dherg to get weapons from their people, and Moya tagged along to protect her. Moya took Roan so she didn’t get into any more trouble.”

Padera smacked her mushed-melon mouth, looked at his hand pressing against his ribs, and she said, “So what’s your plan? Hop down to the dock while trying not to pass out? Then fight your way onto a Dherg ship? Force their captain to take you to Caric where you’ll track her down by sense of smell? Or no. Love, that’s what you’ll use. Yes, that’s it. Somehow, love will direct your twisted feet, and you’ll find her. Of course you will, because that’s how the world works, you know? She’ll be in some pit just about to be eaten by a wild animal. You’ll batter the beast to death with your crutch, assuming I’m kind enough to fetch it for you, which I’m not. And you’ll save her. Then you’ll take her up in your arms, lifting her with your mangled excuse for a back, and return home, walking across the surface of the sea, no doubt.”

Being beaten unconscious by the Fhrey didn’t hurt half so much as her words. Gifford hesitated a moment then took a deep breath, letting the pain rack him. For once, it felt good. “Why do you hate me?” he asked. “You always nice to ev-we-body but me. You the long-lost mommy to all the people in the clan. Why—” His voice hitched, and he stopped himself, taking another breath. “Why do you have to be such a witch to me?”

The old woman stared hard at him with both eyes—both eyes. That had to be a first. She rumpled up her mouth like a poorly rolled rug, her frown reaching new lows. Not a happy face. Not a friendly face, either. Very slowly, she began to speak, “You know the story about how you were born, yes?”

He nodded. “My ma died giving me life.”

“That’s right. Aria was…” Padera chewed her lips and dragged in a breath. “She was courageous. Always had been. People talk about her like they knew, but they didn’t. Few did. Now I’m the only one alive who remembers.”

“Memba what?”

The old woman fumbled with her lower lip as it began to tremble. “She knew.” Padera backed up and leaned her shoulder against the stone wall of Dahl Tirre, easing the weight of her bundle, or just needing help to stand while she said the words—words that seemed too heavy for her. “It’s common for young mothers to seek out the mystic to ask the future of the children they carry. When Tura cast bones, most of the prophecies were what you’d expect: Your daughter will be beautiful and marry well; your son will be a great hunter. Though some were surprising. The prophecy she gave your mother was one of those. You had a great destiny she said, but it would come at a price. The cost would be Aria’s life.”

Gifford’s eyes widened.

“Yes, she knew.” The old woman sucked her lower lip tight, but still it shook. “She could have stopped it. Stopped you. I knew how. But your mother…she…” The old lips folded again, quivering and chewing. “We loved Aria, the whole dahl, because she was special. Everyone knew it. She was smarter, kinder, braver and just plain better than the rest of us. We cherished her.” Padera sucked in a breath. “And when you came out, it was too much to bear. Aria had sacrificed everything for you because you were going to…going to…”

“What? What did the mystic say about me?”

Padera peered at him. She was back to one eye, but that eye could have cut stone. “She said you would run faster and farther than any man ever had, and that the fate of our people would rest on the outcome of you winning that race.”

Gifford felt as if she’d hit him, and not lightly, but a good stiff fist in the gut. He really had killed his mother.

“Seeing you come with that twisted back and shriveled leg, we knew Tura was wrong. Your father refused to accept that Aria had died for nothing, and he took care of you. Maybe he was willing himself to believe you’d get better, because he couldn’t bear the truth. He died brokenhearted. So I raised you.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Didn’t I?” Padera gave him a wicked grin that wasn’t at all wholesome. “I made your life a living pit of despair every chance I could. When you were six, who do you think put the burr under those boys’ belts to pelt you with stones? Who do you think urged them to beat you bloody when you were twelve? Who gave them the idea to call you “the goblin”? And who made certain Myrtis hated you?”

Gifford couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Padera, the kindest woman in Rhen, the one who made pies and cookies for the kids, and who selflessly healed the sick, was the Tetlin Witch in disguise. Though as he thought about it, perhaps it wasn’t much of a fa?ade. “Why would you do that? Punishment? Vengeance? You’ve been vicious to me my whole life because my ma wouldn’t kill me and live—”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course not!” She scowled, and, being better equipped for it than anyone, Padera did it well.

“Why then?”

“Tura is dead. Your mother is dead, and so is your father. All the people who knew about that prophecy are gone. Everyone sees you as a cripple who makes pretty cups. But I still remember the promise Tura made to Aria. I may be a fool, but I still believe. I have to. Your mother was special, and you’re supposed to be special, too. And by the Grand Mother, you’re going to be or I’ll kill you in the process. The day is going to come when you have to run a race. And you won’t win it by being weak. I’ve made you take beatings so you’ll know how to endure pain. And I’ve taught you to fight. To fight when every single person around you would walk away. I’ve taught you to strive for the impossible because that’s what you’ll have to do. You’ll have to accomplish the inconceivable, Gifford. One day you’ll have to run faster and farther than anyone has because that is the only thing that will save our people. It’s why your mother died, and I won’t let her death be in vain.”

Padera hoisted her bundle to sit more centered on her back, turned, and walked away.

Gifford could barely remain standing. He leaned against the wall, staring into the dark. He was halfway between East and West Puddle, feeling as lost as if he were in the darkest of forests. Across the water, he could see the lights of the Gula-Rhunes, scattered on the hillsides. War was coming. Being outside the walls, he and the rest of Rhen would be the first to die. All he wanted that night was to find Roan, to tell her he was all right. He knew she would be upset, that she would blame herself for his beating. Gifford didn’t want to die without first having absolved her of the crime she didn’t commit. And he wanted to clear his own conscience for having hurt her, for not having been strong enough to take the beating and still return and explain that it was okay, that it was his choice, that she didn’t do anything wrong.

As it turned out, he was a long way from a clean conscience, from absolution.

Gifford placed his back against the wall and let himself slide down until he was sitting.

“I’m sow-wee,” he said to the night, because he couldn’t say it to the ones he loved.