Channeler magic is devilry in its darkest form, a scourge sent from Shaerdan . . . Those inflicted must be cut down and their powers eradicated. I read the Purge Proclamation once, found it in Papa’s books. The Proclamation didn’t start the mutual hatred between Malam and Shaerdan, but it certainly sealed it. In Shaerdan, Channelers are revered.
There’s nothing to be done for the woman. The guards will decide her fate. Still, it’s challenging to pull my eyes away and to not selfishly worry that an accusation will be made against me now that Papa’s gone.
I clutch the satchel’s straps, fingernails biting my palms, and search the crowd three times over. Leather coats, earth-colored tunics, blackened trouser cuffs, sweeping skirts. None wear the royal red. The king’s watchdogs aren’t near the pillory or in the market. For the time being, they’re letting the townspeople torment and shame the woman into submission.
While skirting the market, my bag hangs from one shoulder, as if full of feathers and not elk. The last thing I need is questions. I’ve every right to shop at the market, but no one likes to be seen consorting with the Shaerdanian girl. My trade opportunity is limited to Mr. Tulach, the only merchant who willingly did business with me when Papa wasn’t at my side.
A gaggle of children winds around a log, laughing uproariously and singing a tune of Midsummer’s Tide as they imitate the maypole dance. I sidestep their play, wondering how it would’ve been to have so many friends. You won’t trade with Britta? Then I’ll take business elsewhere, Cohen once told a merchant, and never bartered with the man again. Cohen was the only friend I needed.
Mr. Tulach’s tent is busy with patrons who are admiring winter blankets and woolens.
“Filth.”
It’s spoken softly, but the venom in the word snags my attention. I glance up to find two townswomen, woolen brown dresses, full skirts dusting the cobblestones, and arms holding baskets of tubers and carrots. One woman is old, her skin like crumpled parchment, and the other is young and well fed, if not overfed. The two months of isolated mourning come to mind, and my abdomen grumbles in remembrance. Under the women’s gaze, I self-consciously smooth a free hand over my ratty skirt.
The older one turns her nose up. “Dirt. Like her mother.”
I stiffen. Papa said not to let their words affect me. Words cannot hurt.
Besides, the same could be said of her, considering the mop of hair on her head looks like an entire flock of birds has used it for nesting. I cannot react. Ignore them. Biting the inside of my cheek, I force my feet to the side of Mr. Tulach’s tent where the leather flaps hide me from the market and those awful crows. It doesn’t block the sound, though.
“Their kind shouldn’t be allowed here.”
“Gods bless the border.”
A murmur of agreement then: “Did you know her mother tried to follow the Archtraitor?”
I roll my eyes at the outrageous rumor and the ones that follow about the Archtraitor’s blood thirst, the savages he’s gathering, his plan to take over Malam. The gossip never changes.
Malam’s built on gossip; its towns are pens of sheep. Papa’s silly saying makes me want to bleat at the ladies, since nobody really knows where Millner Barrett, the Archtraitor, is or what he’s doing now. Once he was captain of the king’s guard. Then he opposed the Purge and the border closure before he cut down his own men and fled. His disgrace will never be forgotten. At least, not till he’s caught.
Once they leave, I release my grip on the table and quickly straighten the leathers and wools as Mr. Tulach steps to my side of the tent. His attention remains on the passing patrons. He doesn’t like for others to see us trading.
“You haven’t been here in a while.” Mr. Tulach’s chin dips in a subtle nod.
He knows I’ve been in mourning, so I forgo this detail. “I need to trade. I have bull elk for you. A six-point catch. It’s fresh—”
“Where’d you hunt it?” He whips around to me, raven braids slicing around his broad back. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” His eyes volley to the crowd. “What are you asking?”
The profile of his hawkish nose doesn’t alter direction as he waits for my answer.
“You have a connection to a place of lodging in Fennit,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from cracking with desperation. “I need a place for winter.”
Mr. Tulach shoots me a questioning look.
Surely he knows about the king’s inheritance law. I meet his stare, but when he doesn’t yield, I rush to explain, “The king will soon be seizing my cottage.”
Mr. Tulach turns away, crossing umber-brown arms. “I cannot take the risk. Not when we’re on the brink of war. The guards overlook nothing these days. A bunch of bloodthirsty wolves, they are.” His voice drops. “You’ve known the law your whole life. You must have other options.”