I lifted my hem.
“Throw!”
My knife sliced through the air so fast and clean it was hardly seen. It hit red, dead center. Out of twenty throws by four contestants, mine was the only one to hit red. The game master took a second look, confused, and then disqualified me. It was worth it. I scanned the mass of onlookers lining the ropes and caught a glimpse of a retreating back being swallowed by the crowd. The nameless soldier? Or someone else?
It was a lucky throw. I knew that, but my watcher didn’t.
I walked over to the target, pulled my gem-studded dagger from the center, and returned it to its sheath on my thigh. I would practice as I’d promised Walther. There would be no more throws left to luck.
The crowned and beaten,
The tongue and sword,
Together they will attack,
Like blinding stars thrown from the heavens.
—Song of Venda
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
KADEN
I didn’t trust him. He was more than just the farmhand he claimed to be. His moves on that log were far too practiced. But practiced in what? And that hellish beast he rode—that wasn’t the average docile nag from a farm. He was also strangely deft at disposing of a body, as if he’d done it before, not the least bit hesitant as a rural bumpkin might be, unless his rural activities ran on the darker side. He could be a farmhand, but he was something else too.
I scrubbed my chest with soap. His attentions toward Lia were just as bad. I’d heard her screaming at him to go away last night. The sudden singing of Berdi and the others drowned out what else was said, but I’d heard enough to know she wanted him to leave her alone. I should have followed, but Pauline was so intent on me staying. It was the first time I had seen her without her mourning scarf in weeks. She looked so fragile. I couldn’t leave, nor would she let me.
I rinsed my hair in the creek. It was my second bath of the day, but after catching fish, swinging axes, and racing to start a fire with two sticks, the so-called games had left me in need of more bathing—especially if I intended to dance with Lia tonight—and I did intend to dance with her. I’d make sure of that.
The way she had looked at me last night, touched my shoulder, I wished things could have been different for us. Maybe at least for one night, they could be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I leaned against the porch post. We were waiting for Berdi to join us for the walk to the plaza and the night’s festivities. She had gone to wash up and change. It had been a long day, and I was still pondering the knife-throwing event and the strange feeling of being watched when certainly a hundred people were watching me. What was one more?
“Pauline,” I asked hesitantly, “do you ever know things? Just know them?”
She was silent for a long while, as if she hadn’t heard me, but then finally looked up. “You saw, didn’t you? That day we passed the graveyard, you saw that Mikael was dead.”
I pushed away from the post. “What? No, I—”
“I’ve thought about it many times since then. That look on your face that day. Your offer to stop. You saw him dead.”
I shook my head vigorously. “No. It’s not like that.” I sat down beside her. “I’m not a Siarrah. I don’t see like my mother did. I just sensed something, something vague, but strong too, a feeling. That day I just sensed something was wrong.”
She weighed this and shrugged. “Then maybe it’s not the gift. Sometimes I have a strong sense about things. In fact, I had a feeling something was wrong with Mikael too. A sense that he wasn’t coming. It turned over and over inside me, but I refused to believe it. Maybe that was why I was even more eager for him to walk through the tavern door. I needed to be proved wrong.”
“Then you don’t think it’s the gift.”
“Your mother’s gift came in visions.” She looked down apologetically. “At least it used to.”
My mother stopped seeing visions after I was born. On occasion the vicious would imply I had stolen the gift from her while in her womb, which of course turned out to be laughable. Aunt Bernette said it wasn’t me at all, that her gift slowly diminished after she arrived at the citadelle from her native land. Others claimed she’d never had it at all, but years ago, when I was very young, I had witnessed things. I had watched her gray eyes lose their focus, her concentration spike. Once she had ushered us all out of harm’s way before a spooked horse trampled the path where we had just been standing. Another time she led us outside before the ground shook and stones crashed down, and often she shooed us away before my father would burst through in one of his foul moods.
She always brushed it off, claiming she had heard the horse or felt the ground move before we did, but back then, I was certain it was the gift. I had seen her face. She saw what would happen before it did, or saw it happen from afar, like the day she took to her room in grief on the day her father died, though she didn’t receive the news until two weeks later, when a messenger finally arrived. But in these latter years, there had been nothing.
“Even if it’s not a vision,” Pauline said, “it could still be a gift. There could be other kinds of knowing.”
A chill clutched my spine. “What did you say?”
She repeated her words, almost the same ones the priest had used that morning.
She must have seen the distress on my face, because she laughed. “Lia, don’t worry! I’m the one with the gift of seeing! Not you! In fact, I’m having a vision now!” She bounced to her feet and held her hands to her head in mock concentration. “I see a woman. A beautiful old woman in a new dress. Her hands are on her hips. Her lips are pursed. She’s impatient. She’s—”
I rolled my eyes. “She’s standing behind me, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I am,” Berdi said.
I spun and saw her standing in the tavern doorway just as described.
Pauline squealed with delight.
“Old?” Berdi said.
“Venerable,” Pauline corrected and kissed her cheek.
“You two ready?”
Oh, I was ready. I had been waiting for this night all week.
* * *
Crickets chirped, welcoming the shadows. The sky over the bay was draped with thin streamers of pink and violet while the rest deepened to cobalt. A bronzed sickle moon held a pinprick star. Terravin painted a magical landscape.
The air was still and warm, holding the whole town suspended. Safe. When we reached the main road, a crisscross of paper lanterns twinkled overhead. And then, as if the landscape alone weren’t enough, the song.
The prayer was sung as I’d never heard it sung before. A remembrance here. Another there. Voices separate, combining, gathering, giving, a melody coming together. It was sung at different paces, different words rising, falling, streaming like a choir washed together in a cresting wave, aching and true.
“Lia, you’re crying,” Pauline whispered.
Was I? I reached up and felt my cheeks, wet with tears. This was not crying. This was something else. As we got closer to town, Berdi’s voice, with the most beautiful timbre of all, moved from song to greetings, the remembrances melting into the now.
The smithy, the cooper, the fishermen, this craftsperson, that dressmaker, the clerks of the mercantile, the soap maker who reminded Berdi she had some new scents she must try, they all offered their greetings. Soon Berdi was pulled away.