Turning to Brin, she added, “Your grandmother Brinhilda is waiting with the children. I asked them to stay. Didn’t want to overwhelm. Some people bring the whole clan, but I know how confusing coming down here can be. I thought it might be you; a mother’s intuition doesn’t end with death, and I remember that you were never a diver, always a wader.”
Sarah took hold of Brin’s hand and started off.
“Wait!” Gifford said.
They all stopped and looked at him. The potter was staring into the depths of the dispersing crowd, where a small woman was slowly revealed. She was young and thin and wore her hair straight and short. As the throng peeled away, the woman stepped slowly forward, approaching hesitantly, her hands shaking, tears welling—her sight locked on—
“Roan?” Reanna said in a soft voice while inching toward her.
Mother and daughter were so alike, though disturbingly, Roan looked a bit older. Moya had to remind herself that Roan’s mother had died young.
They didn’t embrace, not at first. When they did, their hug lacked the wild abandon that Sarah and Brin had shared. Instead, they crept up, hands out but clenched. Then slowly, haltingly, Roan’s mother closed the distance and took Roan in her arms as if her daughter were a fine porcelain figurine. They stayed that way for a time, then slowly Reanna began to stroke her daughter’s hair.
As she did, Roan cried. Moya had rarely seen her friend that way. Roan didn’t just weep, she sobbed.
The two huddled with shoulders hunched and backs bowed. Lifetimes of cowering had turned these women, who might otherwise have been beautiful and proud, into lesser versions of themselves.
While alive, they hadn’t merely cast tiny shadows upon the world; they were shadows.
Moya adjusted her grip on her bow as she scanned the faces around them. She pointed at Roan and Reanna, and said, “Anyone know where Iver the Carver has taken root?” She peered down the brick road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster who, for far too long, she had mistaken for a man. “I’d like to put an arrow or maybe six or seven into that worthless excuse of a man.”
“What’s an arrow?” Delwin asked.
“This.” She held one up.
“Is that supposed to cause pain?”
“It’s been known to.”
“It won’t here,” Sarah said. “In Rel, pain is muted like the light. And I’ve never seen Iver—not around here. He might be farther in. Most of us don’t travel far. We like our little village. Come, let me show you.”
Gifford didn’t want to intrude. He left Roan alone with her mother and walked up the brick road with the others, but he stopped at the well so he could keep his wife in sight. Seeing mother and daughter together was both wonderful and devastating—a tragic miracle of sorts. The two were a marvel, like a shattered mountain that left behind the breathtaking beauty of an exposed cliff. He watched them the way he might stare at a rainbow, trying to grasp the whole of it. When he realized he was staring, he turned away to grant them privacy.
He discovered he was standing in what appeared to be a village remarkably like Dahl Rhen. Many of the houses were similar to those he remembered. Where they fell short of identical was in their perfection and lack of wear. They all sported thick, straight timbers and fresh thatch of bright blond. And not a single roofline listed or bowed. The other notable difference was the vast number of buildings—thousands, maybe tens of thousands—that radiated out from the well’s central location. All of them were classic Rhulyn-Rhune roundhouses, but then again, not quite. Gifford spotted cook fires outside the homes, just as there should be, but he didn’t smell food or even smoke.
A good many people in the crowd waved at Gifford and the others as they walked past, everyone smiling, all friendly. None of them was thin, pale, or sickly. No one limped or coughed. He searched the faces for his father, who was little more than a vague memory, and he hoped to finally meet his mother. All he knew about her came from others. By all accounts, Aria was amazing. She’d died at sixteen but had left a deep and wide mark on everyone who knew her. Brave, kind, and wise were the words most often used to describe her, and over the years, Gifford had come to idolize this woman who knowingly sacrificed herself so he could live. He wanted to meet her, if only to say thank you, but he didn’t know what she looked like, and she wouldn’t be able to recognize him, either.
Did she come to the gate but hadn’t realized who she was there for? Maybe we passed by each other without even knowing.
No, he concluded. Surely, Delwin and Sarah knew Aria, and they would have reunited mother and son. Now that he thought of it, he wondered why Brin’s parents had said that Audrey would be back for Moya, but they hadn’t said the same about his family.
What does that mean? Has something happened to them?
Maybe his parents were like Meeks, wandering the world of Elan and never finding their way into Phyre. The thought made Gifford feel suddenly alone.
Brin had gone into her parents’ home. Moya stood with Tekchin, speaking to a handful of Fhrey, who seemed fascinated and a bit disconcerted by Moya. Rain continued to chat with his fellow dwarfs. Oddly, everyone was speaking in Rhunic.
Maybe they’re using their native languages, but because I’m dead, I can understand them. Perhaps when I talk, they are hearing Fhrey or Belgriclungreian.
Smiling at the idea of speaking Fhrey and wondering what that must sound like, Gifford spotted Tressa resting beside the well. He went over and sat on an overturned bucket. “Misfits together again, huh? Just like sitting in front of Hopeless House.”
“No,” Tressa replied. “You were expelled from there.”
“What? Why? Because I can speak better?”
Tressa shook her head. “No. We kicked you out years ago.”
“Really? Who’s we?”
“Me, I guess. I’m the only one left, aren’t I? Anyway, you have her.” Tressa pointed at Roan. Mother and daughter continued to speak, foreheads touching. “Oh, yeah, and there was that thing about saving all of mankind that you did a few years back. That really ruined your worthless status. People think you’re a hero now. Can’t have heroes in Hopeless House.”
“You’re not worthless, Tressa.”
“I don’t see a line forming to thank me for all the good I did with my life.”
“It isn’t over.”
“Yeah, it is,” Tressa said with a terrible certainty. “And what a mess I made of it, huh?”
“What did you do that was so awful? You married badly—must be millions who have done that.”
Tressa shook her head. “I can’t blame it on Konniger. If I didn’t know what he was up to, I should have, isn’t that right? I mean, what kind of wife doesn’t know when her husband is out killing people? And I’ve always left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth even before I met him. Folks started calling me a bitch when I was eight years old—eight! I don’t know why. Didn’t even realize what it meant. I tried to be a good person, brought back the Killians’ cow when she got lost. I was out all night, tore my dress, and took a beating from my father over it. The stupid animal had gotten caught in thickets, probably would have broken her leg and died. No one saw me, though, so I didn’t get any credit. And I was the one who made Heath Coswall return Tope Highland’s knife—that nice one he had, remember? I made Heath give it back; said I’d tell if he didn’t. He did, and I kept my promise, never said a word. Of course, no one knew it was me. I kinda thought that was a good thing, you know? I guess I was wrong. Been wrong a lot. Funny how you get to see things so clearly right after you can’t do anything about them.”