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.
Gifford was always doing things he shouldn’t. Always pushing people and breaking rules. There were times she felt he used his ailments to manipulate others, knowing no one would stand up to him because it would make them look like the bully. This time he’d gone too far. This time he’d pushed someone who wasn’t afraid of what others thought.
Before the potter could say anything, Eres sprang. He took the weapon in one hand and Gifford in the other. For one terrifying instant, Moya thought he might thrust the javelin through Gifford’s twisted little body. Instead, he held him by the throat while he gently laid his javelin aside.
“I’m sow-wee,” Gifford had said. “I just wanted to look at it.”
When the beating began, Moya was relieved Eres had used his fists. Fleshy sounds filled her ears as he pummeled Gifford, who cried out only once before losing the air to make any sound. Crumbled into a ball, he endured Eres’s kicks, hugging himself and gasping for breath as tears rolled down his cheeks.
The other Galantians watched with passing interest. Moya had stared in horror. For the first time, she found she didn’t have the courage to speak or even move. She silently watched Gifford take the beating. I should have helped him. If I had asked Eres to stop, he would’ve, wouldn’t he? Why didn’t I?
Sitting under the wool with Padera watching her, Moya started to cry. “He’s a cripple, for Mari’s sake! They didn’t have to…” Moya bit off the rest and crushed her lips together.
“People never have to be mean,” the old woman said.
“Gifford should have known better. The Fhrey treat their weapons like children. They name them, for Mari’s sake! I’ve seen how protective they can be, and Eres is the worst of the lot. Gifford shouldn’t have taken it; he shouldn’t have even touched it.”
“Gifford didn’t take the little spear.”
Moya looked over at Padera and shook her head. “Well, I guess you don’t know everything, do you, old woman? Gifford came right out and said he did. And it’s a javelin not a spear.”
Padera looked at her once more. Strange how that one eye could make Moya feel so small.