The Four Forges (11 page)

“I don’t think it needed to be.” She leaned down, kissing his temple. “Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. They’re good lads, they’d have come to the right conclusion on their own.”

“And what is it
you
think?” Her hand twisted in her apron.

“I think it’s astonishing how quickly the Gods decided to give us another girl, my love.”

“By the grace of the river.” Lily looked up at the ceiling beams toward the other part of the house, where Nutmeg and the stranger slept.

“Rivergrace. Good name for a new Farbranch.” Leaning out of his chair, he picked up the scraps of the raft and tossed it in the fireplace. The wood caught smokily, and the leather lashings flared up with a great stink as the fire began to consume the evidence.

Lily waved away the smell, coughing. “Tolby! Next time you’ve something smelly to burn, do it outside!” She dodged away from him.

He winked at her. “I’ve a bit to do before I sleep. I’ll meet you in bed in a moment or two.” Tolby stood and hugged her before making his way out the back door to see to the farm and other things. Lily caught a glimpse of him framed in the doorway by midnight sky and stars before he passed through.

She waited till the door closed and the sound of creaking stairs and such had quieted all over, then she went to the kitchen and down into the root cellars, lamp in hand. The area had been cut as a maze, purposely deceptive, against marauders and other dangers of living alone in the country. She’d only seen Ravers once in her life, but all knew the Demon wrath they held, and the malicious Bolgers were enough to put anyone in a stew. She stepped down twice more before reaching the dry and cool root cellar, where bags of onions and garlic lay nestled. She dug up a small box there, and opened it. Her dowry had come in this box. Nestled in a beautiful square of fabric was the ring Tolby had given her for his pledge. She could no longer wear it, years of farming increasing the size of her knuckles, so she kept it here, along with coins of their hard work, coins even Tolby did not know she saved. She pulled a remnant from her apron, spreading it out, and examining it carefully by the lamp’s soft illumination.

Handwoven, crude, yet beautiful, it might have been a blanket once, but time had raveled it away till it could only serve as a neckerchief, and that had been its place when she took it from Rivergrace while she slept. Lily smoothed it out. Dark fabric rippled under her touch, and she could make out silvery threads running through it, and perhaps a rune or two which faded the moment she tried to focus on them. Magic ran in the weave of the material. She knew it. Magic that the Gods had taken from all of them, except the Vaelinars who did not bow to the Gods of Kerith and held their own powers. She should burn it, to protect them all, but she could not, as it was all Rivergrace had left of her beginnings. Someday her other daughter might want this. She folded it carefully, pressed it into the box, and buried it deeply in a corner under the edge of a rack.

NUTMEG WOKE TO FIND her bed shaking. Rubbing her eyes against the crust of heavy sleep, she blinked in the twilight, a gleam of splintery moonlight coming in through the tiny attic window, and saw the other lying on her stomach, her body shuddering. Nutmeg put her hand out, wondering, and touched her. The girl turned her face toward Nutmeg, cheeks dripping with tears, nearly soundless with her sorrow, her thin body quaking with need.

Nutmeg reached for her, her heart filling with ache. “Derro,” she whispered greeting softly, the Dweller word for hello, how are you, good-bye, take care, all in one. “It’s all right. I found you.”

“Aderro,” the girl echoed, her eyes opening wider in the moonlight, and she put a slender hand up to scrub the tears away.

“Derro,” repeated Nutmeg firmly, correcting her.

The girl buried her face on Nutmeg’s shoulder as they hugged, and her tears made a very damp spot on Nutmeg’s nightgown. She didn’t know what could be wrong, and she didn’t want to wake anyone and make the stranger more afraid than she already seemed to be. Nutmeg waited a moment, then said as she pulled back, “Are you hungry?”

Rivergrace stared at her, biting her lip, her eyes welling up.

“Hungry?” Nutmeg rubbed her stomach through her cottony nightgown and then brought her fingers to her mouth and made nibbling sounds and motions.

The other nodded wearily and then sighed, as if nothing could be done about it. Nutmeg clambered to her feet, and tugged the other out of bed with her. “Come on!” Then she brought her hand to her mouth, saying, “Ssssh.”

Rivergrace nodded, her long hair all in a tangle about her face, and Lily’s nightgown dragging in a pool about her feet, and followed Nutmeg down the loft stairs, one at a cautious time, as if she’d never seen wooden stairs before. Feeling a bit like a mouse, Nutmeg scurried the two of them through the main house and to the larder. She found a candle nub near the cooking hearth and lit it carefully, bringing a soft glow to the room. Grace hung back a little, and Nutmeg squeezed her hand reassuringly. Her newfound sister nodded slightly as she followed her lead.

“You can eat anything,” Nutmeg declared, throwing the cupboard door open, and Grace reeled backward with a gasp, landing on her bottom on the floor, flinging both hands to her mouth.

She got to her feet, crying soft, wordless sounds, grabbing at Nutmeg and pulling her away, shutting the cabinet doors clumsily, hiccuping as they flew open again and she fought to shut the doors and find the latch for them, and pull Nutmeg out of harm’s way all at the same time.

Nutmeg caught her flailing hands. “No, no. It’s all right. It’s all right,” she repeated slowly. She held her quietly for a few moments, watching the girl shiver as rapidly as a tiny, captured bird with its wings fluttering, mouth open, eyes so wide that they looked as if they’d swallowed the moon. She waited a bit longer, till Grace squeezed her hands, then took a long, quavering breath.

Nutmeg let go of one hand only to unhook the cabinet door. She opened it carefully, stood on tiptoe, and took out a cloth napkin wrapped about a bit of soft cheese she knew had been left over. Then she reached back and found the box of smoked strips. Pushing the napkin into Grace’s open hand, she balanced the box on her knee and managed to get it open and free three strips from it before the lid slipped back into place and she replaced it on the shelf.

Then she latched the larder doors and sat down, pulling on Grace’s hand again. She fed the soft cheese to her in small bites, taking one for herself now and then, and they both enthusiastically devoured the smoked meat as well. Nutmeg took one of the many corked kegs of apple juice stacked against the larder and they shared that as well, pleasantly cool and definitely needed after the salty meat.

Grace sat back and uttered a tiny belch. Her eyelids fluttered and she covered her mouth. Nutmeg giggled. “Full,” she said, and patted her stomach. She managed a delicate burp as well. Rivergrace did not giggle, but her mouth twitched a little. Then she stood, and pulled on Nutmeg, as if still afraid they might be caught stealing something to eat.

Once in the main room, Grace roamed about a bit, ducking her head and muttering a word now and then. Nutmeg followed, till Grace stood at the door. She opened it, and the night’s air bathed both of them, billowing their nightgowns about them. Rivergrace shook again, then took a step out. Nutmeg wasn’t sure what the girl wanted, but she had to visit the convenience Da had built for her and Mom, so she led her that way, and as she used the shed, it seemed to be what the other needed, too. Nutmeg made her wash after, as Mom taught her. Having a sister was work, she decided, sort of like being a mother, but she would do it right.

The wind through the orchard sounded like the sea, her da told her. Never having been to the sea, she didn’t know; to her, it was the wind whipping through the branches and leaves. It sounded very loud that night. She looked up and pointed at the moon, saying the Dweller words for things she’d known her whole life and taken for granted. Rivergrace looked as if she’d never seen the moon before. But she listened to the noise of the river which also reached them, and dropped Nutmeg’s hand. Nightgown balled in her fists to free her legs, she raced across the chilled ground, crying something, and Nutmeg could only race after.

At the river’s edge, Grace stopped and swayed. She put a fist to her mouth, her nightgown flowing about her reed-slender body, and pointed back up the river. She threw a desperate look as Nutmeg caught up, panting.

“What is it?”

Grace pointed upriver.

“The river.” Nutmeg lay down on her stomach and reached to the water, and patted it. “River. It’s water. It’s water in the River Silverwing.”

Grace stared at her. She pointed upstream. Nutmeg jabbed a finger at her, and then swam her hand through the air, as if floating down that river. An expression flitted across Rivergrace’s face and she nodded quickly, emphatically. She put her thumb to her chest, and made the same motions.

“I found you,” Nutmeg said. “Floating down the river.” She got to her knees.

Rivergrace inhaled sharply. Then she pointed at herself and held her hand in the air. One taller. One even taller than that. And she held out her hand beseechingly to Nutmeg.

Nutmeg chewed her lip uncertainly. She put her hand on Rivergrace’s shoulder. The other took her hand and held it in the air, Lily’s height, then Tolby’s height, then cupped the top of her head.

“Ohhh.”

Rivergrace stared keenly into her face. Slowly Nutmeg shook her head. She put up one finger. “Only you,” she said, and then floated her hand down the river again. She pointed at Rivergrace and held up the single finger again.

Rivergrace covered her face with her hands, and began to weep again, nearly silently, as if she’d spent her whole life without speaking, and feared to make any noise. Nutmeg embraced her, thinking that being a slave must have been even worse than she could imagine. Afraid to eat. Afraid to cry no matter how bad things were that happened.

A sound clattered down the mere that neither the wind in the orchard nor the river in its bed didn’t make. Nutmeg turned Rivergrace about, listening. Without any idea what it could be, a chill ran down her spine. Rivergrace rubbed her nose on her gown’s sleeve, and listened as well. Her glance darted to Nutmeg in worry. Nutmeg beckoned.

Downriver, dark as it was, she found the cave in the bank she remembered, the one that river otters had abandoned for the coming winter. She dove into it, and pulled Rivergrace after, as hoofbeats and the jingle of leather and metal and the grunts of riders drew closer. In the mud they huddled and Nutmeg’s first worry was what Mom would say in the morning when she saw the girls. Then she began to worry that the riders might find them.

The horses stopped at the river’s edge. She could hear the splash as the animals milled around. She could smell the stink of the Bolgers riding them, and Rivergrace’s hand dug into hers.

“Stinker,” Rivergrace muttered softly, and Nutmeg understood her in faint surprise. She leaned into Nutmeg, as far away from the den’s mouth as she could, but they were far bigger than otters and the hole held little room.

Nutmeg held her hand over her mouth, to keep the smell out, and to keep from coughing or breathing too hard. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she could feel Rivergrace’s doing the same in her thin body. They ought to have run. Run and then climbed. Now they were trapped.

Nutmeg squeezed her eyes shut.

The Bolgers grunted and shouted among themselves, as if fighting. A heavy thud was followed by another, and then the sound of the creatures walking slowly along the riverbank. The reeds and brush that covered the banks crackled as something pawed through them, searching. The Bolger snuffled as if he could scent them over his own stench.

Maybe he could.

Nutmeg and Rivergrace huddled closer.

Grunting, the Bolger leaned down and looked in. For a long moment, the three stared at each other. The creature did not move, except to curl one lip back, and the moonlight gleamed off his ivory tusk. His arm hung down, relaxed, his knuckles brushing the soft, muddy ground. He flexed his hand, broken talons clicking on each other. His eyes fixed on them for what seemed forever, staring intently at Rivergrace. He looked as if waiting for Rivergrace to speak, but she shook against Nutmeg and not a sound came out of her but a smothered squeak. He’d been branded, a bunching of scarred skin. He rubbed his arm.

“Rufussss,” he hissed quietly, so quietly that only the three of them could have heard him. “Owe.” Then he grunted and stood back up, bellowing out something to the others and striding away. His bellows followed sharp slaps and grunts, but seemed to be obeyed.

Rivergrace and Nutmeg clung together, listening. With much jostling and splashing, the Bolgers forded the river and rode away. Nutmeg could think of no reason why the Bolger had not shared his discovery of them. When the sounds had faded completely away, they crept out and ran home. Nutmeg made her wash before they tumbled back into bed, in fresh nightgowns, although Nutmeg’s other gown only came to Grace’s knees, and she curled tightly against Nutmeg’s plump body to stay warm, and they fell asleep. Both slept soundly through the sudden, drenching rain that hit and soaked the grounds, washing away the troubles of the day and early night, and stopped just before dawn.

In the morning, Lily found the discarded gowns, all muddied and damp. She waited for Nutmeg to crawl out of bed with a yawn, and raised the garments in her hand as she sat on the top step of the loft, for Nutmeg to comment upon.

“Rivergrace,” Nutmeg said in wonder, “has never seen a convenience before. But now she knows just how it works.”

Lily smiled. She put the gowns down. “Then, later today, you can show her how a laundry tub works.”

They did not discuss the night further.