The boy looked at the seed cake again. Then, after stuffing his knife into his belt, he reached out his hand—not to Malcolm, but to Raithe. They shook. The boy squeezed hard. “Agreed,” he said.
The boy took the cake and devoured every bit of it in seconds, allowing no crumb to escape.
“That’s how you treat food,” Raithe told Malcolm. Then, looking back at the boy, he asked. “What’s your name?”
The kid was still licking his fingers and getting more dirt than crumbs. “Do I have to use my old one, or can I pick something new?”
“I don’t care,” Raithe said. “I’d just like to know what to yell when I want you.”
“Then call me Fhreyhyndia.”
“I’m not calling you that.”
“It’s a Fhrey word,” the boy said.
“I know.” Raithe wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but he’d heard Nyphron use it several times, usually while pointing his way, so it probably meant ugly or clumsy. “I thought you hated the Fhrey?”
“Do you know what it means?” Malcolm asked.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s too hard to pronounce.”
“It means ‘the killer of Fhrey,’ ” Malcolm supplied.
The boy nodded. “That’s what I want to be called because that’s what I am going to be. I’ll be the greatest warrior who has ever lived, and I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
Raithe smiled. I really do like this kid. The boy hadn’t sprouted a single hair on his chin, and yet he was eager to take up arms against an entire race. “You can’t go around with that as a name.”
“Why not?”
“It would insult the Galantians, and I need a Shield, not a target. Pick something else. Something simple that won’t tie my tongue in knots.”
The boy frowned but relented. “I suppose you could call me Tesh.”
“Tesh?” Raithe said. “I like Tesh. That’s a good Dureyan name.”
“I like Fhreyhyndia,” the boy grumbled.
“Too bad. It’s settled. I’m calling you Tesh,” Raithe declared in his best chieftain voice, which he felt lacked all authority.
“Why did you pick Tesh, anyway?” Raithe asked.
The boy shrugged. “That’s what my mother named me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Under the Wool
As a person who loves words, I take great joy in knowing that I was there when the saying “under the wool” came into being, even if no one these days has any clue about where that phrase originated.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The rain finally stopped, and the people of Rhen made an exodus from the wool awnings to bask in the muddy but sunlit field. In a matter of hours, the world returned to a form of normalcy as folks resumed daily tasks. Moya went back to spinning wool, Bruce to carving, and Riggles to his leatherwork. The sheep and pigs were driven out to graze. The only difference was that they were driven by farmers deprived of their fields, who took care of livestock deprived of their shepherds.
“That’s much too big,” Gifford told Roan as he hobbled over on his crutch.
She looked up and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun that had finally reemerged after days in hiding. Gifford stood over her, a shadowed silhouette in his draped leigh mor, drawn up in summer-style so his knees showed.
“You’ll not make a flame with that,” he said.
Roan looked at the stick bowed by the taut string secured to the ends.
“Has to be small.” Gifford chuckled. “That’s as big as you.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s supposed to be this size. Might need to be thinner though. I’m still working it out.”
She plucked the string with a finger and listened to the twang, a deep throaty sound.
“That’s not fo’ making flames, is it?” Gifford asked.
“No,” Roan replied. Setting the bow down, she glanced at Gifford. He didn’t ask where she got the wood, and she wondered if he knew. Gifford was smart and a good guesser.
Limited room in the carts meant she could only bring a few things from Rhen, but this was special. She’d heard about the lightning strike that split open the old oak, and something that unusual needed to be seen. Just as described, Magda had been divided in half. Her trunk had been splintered and Roan found one great sliver standing straight up. Blackened only at the tip, the rest was perfect. She took the staff from the exposed heart of the tree with no more intent than bringing a part of Magda home. Now, it was the only wood she possessed suitable to the task.
“What’s it fo’ then?”
“Throwing things.”
Gifford squinted at her and at the stick but didn’t ask anything more.
“What have you been up to? Are you making cups again?” she asked, knowing that almost all of Gifford’s work had been destroyed. “Yesterday Moya and Brin went down to the village near the sea. Said a bunch of people were trading stuff in a place called the market. According to them, the pottery here is terrible…thick and uneven. Everyone uses the coil method. Don’t think they know how to spin clay.”
“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?”