“But you saved us,” Moya said. “No one would have survived otherwise, and everyone knew it. People listened to you after that. They still listen to you. You just have to talk to them.”
Persephone shook her head. “Konniger is chieftain.”
“Sure, now he is, but you could—”
“No, Moya. Don’t you see? When Reglan agreed to ration food that spring, what would have happened if your mother had found herself a Dureyan warrior and challenged him for leadership? How would that have been? You wouldn’t have liked that, would you? Konniger isn’t a great chieftain—not yet—but if we stand by him, he could be. He just needs a little help at the moment, and it doesn’t help that Hegner is whispering lies about me.”
“Konniger is worthless. Did you know he named Hegner as his new Shield?” Moya said. “What kind of idiot makes a one-handed man their bodyguard?”
“There has to be a reason; he’s just not telling us. When I was Second Chair, Reglan and I couldn’t always tell everyone everything. We had secrets we had to keep hidden for the good of the clan.”
“Like what?”
“Like what really happened to the missing bodies waiting for a spring burial.”
“What did happen?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t animal tracks we found.”
—
Suri sat in the rain outside Roan’s home, her back against the doorposts and legs outstretched to the edge of a mud puddle. Minna lay beside her, the big pile of wet fur rising and falling with the wolf’s breath. As always, the animal’s heat kept her warm. The mystic had the loop of string in her hands again, weaving another web with the added challenge of the rain, which created pretty liquid jewels on the string.
Suri felt time slipping away, and she had to think. The yakking going on in the roundhouse was distracting, but the rain helped. The gray curtain and the constant patter assisted in blocking out the rest of the world. Not all of it. She still could hear the conversation inside if she listened. That was where the string came in. It helped her concentrate. Strings were like that. So were ponds—hard to find a good thinking pond, though. They needed to be isolated in a deep wood with plenty of cattails and dragonflies and few, or preferably no, biting bugs. A good thinking pond was located on the northern side of the Crescent, but it was too far so she settled for her string.
What is the secret of the bear?
If she’d had a chance to speak to Konniger, she might have learned something. The bear might be a bendigo, morvyn, or yakkus. A bendigo she could deal with; a yakkus would be bad. She didn’t think it was a yakkus. They killed with sickness, and so far everyone had been ripped apart. It was probably a morvyn. In fact, it was most likely a morvyn. The eating of people was a big hint, but she didn’t want to face a demon on a guess.
Despite the sound of the rain and the distraction of the string, Suri heard Persephone’s accounting of the Great Famine. We stacked the bodies in the snow because the ground was too hard to dig. We waited for spring to bury them. When bodies started to disappear, Reglan and I prayed it was wild animals or even ghouls stealing them.
That was particularly strong evidence they were dealing with a morvyn, unless Persephone was right about having a ghoul problem. Suri pulled the string through her fingers, thinking about bears and forest spirits. One thing was certain—death was coming unless she could stop it, and she couldn’t stop it unless she understood what it was.
Inside, the conversation had shifted from famine to a debate about who the chieftain ought to be. Raithe and Malcolm were also in there but said little. She liked that about them. Reminded her of Minna. Fools believe silence is a void needing to be filled; the wise understand there’s no such thing as silence.
“Nice wolf,” said a young man, hobbling forward assisted by a wooden stick under one arm.
His back was twisted, his face misaligned—one eye and the corner of his mouth higher than the other. His right shoulder was pinched up to his cheek, and his left leg dragged as if one foot were dead. He wore a surprisingly clean tunic, although at that moment it was soaked through. His hair was combed neatly back, which was probably easier since it was wet. In his free hand, he held a beautiful clay amphora with an enamel finish. Around the belly of the pot was the image of a woman with a broken chain in her hands.
“Her name is Minna,” Suri replied.
“Fiwst wolf with a name I’ve met.” The man paused. “Come to think of it, I can’t say I’ve met a wolf.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, and sounded as if his nose was stuffed. “Pleased to meet you, Minna. I’m Gifwadd.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Suri asked. “Are you cursed?”
Gifford laughed. “Many times, I suspect.”
“Nice stick,” Suri said. “I have a staff but never tried using it that way.”
Roan came out of the roundhouse. “I call it a crutch.”
“She made it fo’ me,” Gifford said. “Should have named it without an r, though.” The cripple smiled…or the closest thing to a smile that his face could produce.
“I’m sorry, Gifford. I should have thought about that. We could change its name,” Roan said.
“No. It’s fine.” He held out the amphora with his free hand. Rainwater splashed off its sides; the few drops that found the opening made a deep, hollow sound. “Woan, this is a peasant I made you. I think it’s my best yet.”
Roan didn’t move. Her hands covered her face as she stared at the ceramic vase, shocked. “It’s…it’s so…it’s lovely. And is that the new glaze?”
He nodded. “Inside and out. Difficult to paint the inside, too. Took awfully long to do.”
“You can’t give this to me.”
“I don’t see why not. I made it fo’ you. It has a pict…ah…an image of you.”
Roan bent over and peered closely. “That’s me?”
“Who else?”
Roan squinted at the image as raindrops ran down the side of the ceramic. “But…but she’s beautiful.”
“Uh-huh.” Gifford nodded. “Exactly. Now please take it. It’s quite light, but holding it out like this is—”
“Oh! Sorry.” Roan took the vase, continuing to marvel at it. “This is a work of art. I don’t understand why you would give such a thing to me.”
Gifford hesitated a moment. Suri had trouble understanding the expressions of people, and seeing as how Gifford’s face was already squished and askew, he was harder to gauge than most. Still, he looked as if he was about to say something, then changed his mind. He made an attempt to shrug, but only one shoulder responded. “Goes with the set of cups I gave you.”
“You can’t keep giving me things.”
“Did the chieftain pass a new law?” He gave another lopsided smile, but Suri imagined all his smiles were that way. “Even if he did, I’d bweak it.”
Roan looked flustered. “I meant that I don’t deserve this, any of these things. I’m just a—”
“He’s dead, Woan,” Gifford told her, his voice louder. “You not a slave now. You fwee. And I’d—” The potter bit his lip and sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. “Cups and pots would be the least I would give you. If I could…if I wasn’t…”