Age of War Page 10

  You moron, Brin! I told you not to say it! Idiot! Idiot.

  He’d laugh now—no, most likely he’d ask what a raow was and then not believe her when she explained. She’d face the humiliating experience of telling the tale of how she’d once nearly had her face eaten by one. Any thoughts about her being the sort of person he should stay clear of would be confirmed. He’d see her for what she really was—the real her—what she never was in her fantasies.

  “Really?” he said.

  Brin didn’t know how to respond. She searched his eyes for evidence of sarcasm, his lips for hints of mockery. Nothing—nothing obvious, at least.

  “You…you believe me?”

  He nodded easily, shifting his weight, and resting a hand on the butt of one sword. The confident, casual act was so insanely attractive that Brin sucked in a breath.

  “My mother told me about the raow. Come from bodies left unburied, people who were wronged in life—betrayed, usually. Wait, you’re Brin, aren’t you?”

  “You—” Her throat closed on her. She swallowed hard to clear it. “You know me?”

  “Well…” He chuckled.

  “What?” Her heart hesitated mid-beat.

  He pointed to the house. “I was told Roan, Padera, and Brin lived here. I’ve met Roan.” Then he chuckled again. “I’m guessing you aren’t Padera.”

  “Oh—” Brin laughed then, too. “No…no, I’m not her.”

  “Yeah, I heard she’s like a couple hundred years old and doesn’t have any teeth.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Tesh.” He extended a hand.

  Brin hadn’t shaken many hands. Her mother and friends were huggers. Unsure and tentative, she reached out. He did the rest. He had rough skin that in places was polished to smooth calluses and a firm grip that tightened in stages, but he didn’t squeeze. He pulled her hand toward him giving it three solid pumps before letting go.

  “Nice to meet you,” she replied, then immediately wondered if that was the right thing to say. She’d thought it was appropriate, but coming out of her mouth it sounded too formal and—

  “Why do you think a raow was here?” he asked, looking down at the flower bed.

  She shrugged. Her hand was still up from the shake, and she had to will it down to her side. She could still feel the warmth of his palm. “It’s hard to explain. But what they were saying was—”

  “Raow talk?

  “Yes, but maybe it wasn’t two raow—maybe it was one raow, and one…I’m not sure. I only know for certain that one was a raow.”

  “How do you know?

  “The voice. It sounded—”

  Tesh’s eyes grew big, realization dawning. “You’re Brin.”

  “We’ve already established that.”

  “I mean—the Brin. Roan mentioned you. Told us about how you were grabbed by a raow under a Dherg mountain. She said you almost had your face eaten off.”

  Thanks a lot, Roan. I should just die now.

  “Is it the same one? Did it follow you?” Tesh looked around, as if the monster might jump out at them from a nearby hedge.

  “No,” Brin said. “The one in Neith was killed.”

  “So, why is this one after you? Do you think it knew the other raow?”

  After me? The thought rocked her. Is it? It was outside my window, wasn’t it? “I didn’t until just now. Thanks. I’ll never sleep again.”

  “Sorry.” He looked guilty, which only made him more handsome. “What did it say? What did you hear?”

  “The raow said it was hungry, and the other one insisted it was too dangerous, and it had to wait. Said he would bring the raow something to eat. That he would arrange it.”

  “Arrange it?”

  “Like he did with Jada.”

  “What’s Jada?”

  “No idea.”

  “And they weren’t both raow?”

  “I don’t know. Only one of them had a voice like the one I heard in Neith. But maybe not all raow sound alike.”

  “What did it sound like?”

  “A raspy, dry whisper.”

  Tesh looked less convinced. “Maybe it was just an old man with a cold.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m just saying—I mean…” He looked around again. “What would a raow be doing here? Raow live in remote places where they can keep their piles of bones. They need them to sleep on. At least that’s what my mother told me. Raow roam the countryside looking for victims because once they wake they can’t sleep again until they feed, until they add bones to their pile. So, how could such a thing live here? Where would it keep its pile? People would notice.”

  “Well,” she said, figuring it out as she spoke, “maybe someone is hiding it.”

  Tesh looked skeptical. “Someone is hiding a raow?”

  “It sounded that way.”

  “That’s like saying a lamb is hiding a lion. Why wouldn’t the raow just eat the person keeping it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tesh scratched his head and narrowed his eyes. “Unless that person was Fhrey. Maybe raow don’t eat Fhrey.”

  Brin shook her head. “They were speaking Rhunic.”

  Tesh looked skeptical.

  Brin shrugged. “Maybe it was just an old man with a cold.”

  Tesh looked up at the house again. “Maybe you should keep your window closed and bolted just the same, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  An awkward silence followed. Finally, she said, “Well, when I see Roan I’ll mention you were looking for her.”

  “Right, and I guess I’ll check back at the smithy.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Brin said. She was torn. On the one hand, she didn’t want him to go, but on the other, she didn’t think she could endure more self-inflicted humiliation.

  Brin watched him walk down the road and around a corner.

  Tesh, she thought. Not a bad name. She had expected something more like Spencer or Stanton. He looked like a Stanton, or maybe a—

  “Brin!”

  She turned to see him coming back into sight, waving for her to join him. She trotted down and followed him around the corner. There, in another, muddier, bed of would-be flowers, Tesh pointed to two sets of footprints. One was clearly made by a pair of common sandals. The other was barefoot, and had just three toes…and long, sharp claws.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Tetlin Witch

  I think we accept all too readily what we are told by those we love. It is not that our friends and family lie, but that they do not know the truth.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Gifford sat in the corner on a small stool, his usual place when visiting Roan. She had a staff of more than twenty, and a cripple anywhere else in the workshop was a roadblock to progress. He watched her work and hoped to be on hand if she paused to eat the meals that Padera made and Brin carried up. The weather being so nice, he even dreamed of persuading her to go out to the courtyard for a picnic. He figured his chances were about the same as beating Brin in a foot race, but if there was one thing Gifford had in abundance, it was dreams.

  Leaning back against the wall of the smithy, he watched Roan beat sparks out of a brilliantly glowing glob. She didn’t hit very hard and had to take frequent rests, but there was a single-minded clarity of purpose behind each stroke. When beating metal, Roan was more authoritative, decisive, and sure of herself than Nyphron when he gave a speech at the general assembly. Even the three dwarfs took direction from her.

  Creating iron swords turned out to be harder than anyone had thought. That included Roan. Her first attempts ended in failure. Observing the process was distinctly different from replicating it. Roan had lamented her misery, explaining the hundreds of little specifics she hadn’t noticed, things she didn’t even kno
w to look for: the amount of air, when to pump the bellows, the exact time and temperature to leave a blade in the furnace, the ratio of carbon to iron, and how often to temper. They saw their first snow fall before Roan produced her first sword, and it was an awful-looking thing, heavy and dull.

  Gifford expected the dwarfs to be of more help, but as it turned out, none of them had a clue about metallurgy. Still, Frost and Flood were able to build first-rate forges and workstations throughout the fortress and the city by studying the ones the Fhrey had made. This tripled the smithing capacity of Alon Rhist. They also trained members of each clan, who were charged with going back to their dahls and building their own equipment. While Frost and Flood were busy building the infrastructure of smithing, Rain spent the winter days leading teams of miners who dug for raw materials. It wasn’t long before carts of iron and coal flooded into Alon Rhist. All this help was well appreciated, but it was up to Roan to figure out the magical secrets of metallurgy and the keys to sword making.

  A major breakthrough occurred when Brin finished translating the entire text from their trip to Neith. Gifford had been there when she read the passages. Roan had sat in openmouthed wonder listening to what Brin said, calling the girl a genius. Brin laughed, saying she had no idea what she’d just said, but Roan understood at least some of it. Despite Brin’s genius, Roan continued to struggle, and the number of failures grew into a mountain that the dwarfs routinely melted down for new attempts. But it wasn’t just the method that vexed Roan. Part of the problem was her inability to physically wield a heavy hammer. That issue was largely resolved when she created a smaller, more Roan-sized tool.

  The last part of the equation was Roan’s belief that the formulas of the Ancient One weren’t right. Maybe Brin translated incorrectly, or perhaps the prisoner in the Agave had held back some of his secrets, but she kept insisting that she could do better. Even after her first success, Roan wasn’t satisfied. She was looking for something more. Under pressure from Persephone, Roan was forced to establish a method others could duplicate, even though it wasn’t as good as Roan thought it could be. By midwinter, human-made iron weapons were being produced at varying degrees of quality all over Rhulyn, but Roan continued her struggle to find a secret only she seemed to know existed. Gifford could see it in her face, in the way her eyes searched in a void for answers to questions no one even knew to ask. She saw something no one else could, heard music others were deaf to, and for Roan, iron wasn’t good enough.

  On that spring day, Gifford sat in the corner watching Roan use her whole body when swinging her specially made hammer. Her hair, chopped to a short, practical length, still hung in front of her eyes. A drop of sweat always dangled from the tip of her nose, and in her eyes was a fire hotter than the furnace. The woman was possessed.

  She’s fighting her own war.

  Watching, Gifford had to wonder if Roan was happy. He imagined she liked feeling useful, and he knew she loved working, but Persephone had asked for ten thousand swords, helms, and shields of the finest metal. It didn’t matter that by spring hundreds of smiths all over Rhulyn were working night and day to meet the quota. Persephone’s decree was, for Roan, her own personal task—her fight to win or lose. Roan was the faithful hound who would run to death for her master. Was it a tragedy when such a dog died, or was that the life and death the animal would have chosen?

  Roan put down the hammer and set the glowing glob back into the fire. She wiped her forehead with the rag that was never far from her left hand.

  “You hun-gee, Woan?”

  Hearing her name, she looked up, her face red from the exertion and heat. She raised her brows in surprise. “When did you get here?”

  “This mo-ning,” Gifford replied.

  “Oh,” she said, considering his answer. “Didn’t see you come in.”

  He held up the cloth sack and shook it side to side. “Bwin went to all the twouble of bwinging it to you. Seems a waste not to eat.”

  Roan hated waste.

  “Maybe later,” Roan said. “I want to get some more done before noon.”

  Gifford held back a laugh. “No, Woan. Be night soon.”

  “Night?”

  Gifford nodded.

  She looked out the window. “Oh. I guess so.” Roan looked back at him apologetically. “And you’ve been here since this morning? I’m so sorry. I was so—”

  He threw up a hand. “No need to explain. You be busy, I know; it’s fine. All of humanity depends on the swing of that mallet—but you need to eat, yes?”

  “I suppose…” She looked back at the crates of iron ore that would have to be smelted, then at the dwindling pile of charcoal.

  A wagon pulled into the yard, another delivery. Roan rushed out. He could hear her voice outside, shouting. “Where is it from?”

  The reply was a list of village names that Gifford had never heard of. Roan probably knew every one of them. In her head, she likely had a list and mentally checked off the locations. “Plenty of shields, why so few swords?” Gifford didn’t hear the reply. The man’s voice was low and didn’t carry the way Roan’s did.

  She stayed out there until the weapons were unloaded and the wagon rolled out. Then she returned, wiping her hands on her apron. Immediately she picked up her hammer and headed for the forge.

  “Woan, you need to eat,” Gifford said.

  “You still here?”

  “Yes, Woan. Still am. And you still need to eat. You know…food? It’s like the fuel you put in the fu-nace. If you don’t keep putting some in, the fu-nace goes out and all things shut down. Don’t want that, do you?”

  She smirked at him.

  He shook the bag once more. “Smells good. I think it’s chicken.”

  She mopped her brow again and, wiping her hands on the leather apron, walked over.

  “Let’s eat outside,” he said.

  “Why?” She pierced him with an intent stare. Anyone unfamiliar with her would have seen it as suspicious, or accusing. Gifford saw it as the bright light of a focused mind capable of seeing beyond the shadows that confused everyone else. Roan always wanted to know the why of everything.

  “I have this old fwend I want you to meet,” Gifford replied. “You’ll like him. He’s quiet, but pleasant, handsome, and especially bwight.”

  Another smirk. “The sun?”

  He grinned. “Is nice out. Pwetty, even.”

  With the desperate concern of a young mother asked to leave her child with an irresponsible guardian, she looked back at the ore glowing in the fire. Gifford pressed his lips together as he imagined how Roan would one day have her own children and look exactly that way. Gifford wouldn’t be the father. He couldn’t even be a guardian; she couldn’t trust the wretched cripple to protect her baby. The thought hit hard. He felt it in his stomach like a punch, and in his throat like a hand squeezing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

  “What’s wrong?” Roan asked, the bright light of her stare upon him again, eyes that saw far too much.

  “Nothing,” he managed to say.

  “You look in pain. Are you feeling okay?”

  He put a hand to his chest. “Nothing a little sun wouldn’t fix.”

  As they walked out of the smithy into the sunbathed courtyard filled with the grunts, shouts, and clangs of men training to fight, Gifford mentally chided himself. Greedy is what I am. I should appreciate that she talks to me at all. If Iver hadn’t messed her up so badly, she wouldn’t dream of eating a meal with me. She’d have already married one of Tope’s boys and wouldn’t be allowed to speak to the twisted pottery goblin.

  The thought was well intentioned, but the pain devouring his insides wasn’t listening. He was going to lose her when the better man came along, which could be virtually anyone. No, not anyone. Not me. I’m not the one man whose touch she can accept. The man who could take her in his arms, who could kiss
her without her screaming. That day would come. He knew it would. He constantly prayed each day for Mari to heal Roan, to let her live the normal life she deserved. He had faith it would happen, and when that day finally came, he would cheer for her even if that same day his heart would shatter, and happiness—as he knew it—would fly out of his world.

  “How about this?” he said, finding a sunny patch of thick grass far enough outside that the sounds of crashing hammers wouldn’t interfere with conversation.

  “Wait,” she told him and took off her apron. “Ground will be wet this time of year.” She laid the thick leather out for them to sit on.

  He smiled.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing—just you.”

  “Just me, what?”

  I just love you; that’s all; I love you with every breath, every thought, every beat of my heart because you’re more than a person, you’re a world unto yourself—a rich, vibrant, exciting, fascinating universe, and I want to spend my life exploring every forest, field, and stream.

  “Always thinking,” he said.

  Roan looked down at the leather beneath her knees and shrugged. “Just didn’t want us to get muddy.”

  He dumped out the bag’s contents.

  “Chicken legs!” Roan burst out with a huge smile. “I love chicken legs. I’ll have one; you have the other.”

  “They both fo’ you.”

  “No! No!” She was shaking her head even as she bit into the first leg.

  “This isn’t my meal. I’m just going to watch you eat.”

  “You have some, too. It’s good.” She wiped grease from her chin, then grabbed up the other leg and held it out.

  “I’ll have a bite.”

  “Oh, and yellow cheese!” she said, unwrapping the cloth-covered hunk.

  He watched her devour the food in precise bites, while in front of them a class of soldiers practiced moves under the barking tutelage of a Fhrey instructor. Behind them, the smithy’s little chimney belched black smoke that blew east with the spring breeze. Roan forced him to eat some of the chicken before she finished it.