CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Sister

Owaine would not explain where Beauty had come from, which did not help matters. He had known that his hill folk would be suspicious, but he had ambitiously thought that they would accept her. Besides, to him, Beauty was as sweet as she was silvery, and he thought her shimmering looks pretty. How could anyone see malice in her clear, violet eyes?

As the villagers welcomed him home that first evening in Imwane, they asked questions about the strange girl.

“Where did you find it?”

“Is it sent from the gods?”

“Will it hurt us?”

But he would only answer that her name was Beauty and that she was his child. The more questions they asked, the angrier Owaine grew, and it was Isole who had to settle things.

“My papa is hungry,” she said. “We mustn’t hassle him.”

There were murmurs of agreement before the travelers were told that there was a feast planned in their honor and they were then led to a barn at the bottom of the valley.

“Yur must tell us yur tales someday, Owaine,” said the man who had first met them, who was named Hally. “But first, let us put a belly on yur!”

The barn doors were pulled back to reveal a long trestle table waiting to be filled, and women disappeared in a buzzing cloud of chatter to fetch the food.

“We been keeping it ready for when yur came,” added Hally.

Villagers began to carry out plates of meat, bread, and cheese, all the while keeping a wide berth of Beauty. The travelers’ bags were taken from them, and Comrade and Sable were untacked and allowed to wander about the hillside like the other animals.

“Are yur all right?” Owaine whispered to Beauty, but Isole ran over and pulled him away.

“Papa, I made this pie for yur.”

They were ushered to their seats and Beauty found herself alone at one end of the table, open space on either side of her. A young boy sat opposite and stared with half terrified, half fascinated eyes.

“Thanks be to the gods,” called out Hally, pressing his thumb and index finger together and raising his hand to the ceiling. “Thanks be to the gods for returning our Owaine to us.”

“Thanks be to the gods,” the other villagers muttered, doing the same.

Beauty caught Owaine’s eye and she copied their gestures.

“Thanks be to the gods,” she whispered, and those around her flinched for it was the first thing that they had heard her say.

The meal began with much chattering and shouting. It was nothing like the dinners at Rose Herm, which were stately, regimented affairs. Instead, hands grabbed at chicken legs and slices of bread. Broth was sloshed into bowls and ale and cider were passed around the table. There were no omelets to be seen and everyone spoke at once. Beauty had thought Owaine’s accent strong, but she could barely understand the talk at the table, which was lilting and deep. She was relieved when they began to sing songs.

Winds of blight that tear the earth,

Rain that spills the rights of birth.

Gods that weave our spells divine,

Protect these ancient hills of mine.

Keep your people safe and strong,

Save us from the tempt of wrong.

Use us to defend your lore,

When we must fight for you once more.

She joined in, her voice mingling with the lulling harmony that seeped through the walls of the barn and into the oncoming dusk. They sang until their voices grew hoarse, a sleepy enchantment having fallen over all.

“I thank yur for this feast, Cousin,” said Owaine after they had sung one more song. “And I thank yur also for caring for my Isole in my absence. Yur’ve made her a fine daughter for me.”

Isole beamed.

“Say nothing of it,” replied Hally, slapping him on the back. “I’ve become prosperous with the generous sticks yur sent from the capital. I owe yur this meal. Besides, it is time to fatten up before the winters—yur have not forgot our white winters here, have yur, Cousin?”

Owaine laughed and Beauty wondered what Hally meant.

“Thank the gods!” cried Hally, signing with his fingers.

“Yes, thank them for bringing me and my child home,” added Owaine, and everyone turned to look at Beauty, having forgotten that the silvery creature was among them.

“Thank the gods,” they all murmured.

When the last drop of the ale was gone, the villagers took the travelers to see their new home. A long procession of women in white headdresses and men in jerkins wound their way across the valley in the fading light. The travelers’ scanty possessions were carried by the lads and the children scampered all about, silly from their first sips of cider at the table. Beauty followed in the shadows.

“It’s not much, Papa,” Isole was saying. “At such short notice, we did what we could.”

They made their way to a cottage apart from all the others, perched on the hillside nearest the forest.

“It were that widower’s cottage, do yur remember, Papa? I cleaned it all myself, scrubbing it from top to bottom.” She wrung her hands in the white apron about her waist.

“It’s perfect,” said Owaine. “Thank yur, my child.”

But his eyes wandered to the forest—a black block in the evening light—and Beauty noticed him shiver.

“Go and look inside!” said one woman, her tall lace headdress bobbing on her head as she spoke. “Isole’s done it all up real nice.”

Taking her father’s arm, Isole led him into the cottage, and Beauty meekly followed. It had only two rooms: the downstairs and the attic. On the far wall were three pens with various livestock in them and a wooden table set before a fireplace in the corner. A ladder near the door led to the attic and there were two large chests with fasten doors.

“I been saving the sticks yur sent me,” said Isole. “And I bought them animals myself. I hoped yur’d come home.”

Owaine clumsily embraced her.

“Thank yur, my child. I can’t thank yur enough.”

Beauty stared at the goat, calf, and chickens in horror. Owaine noticed and hid a wry smile.

“Winters are hard here, Beauty,” he said quietly. “And we live simple lives. Yur’ll learn to love Imwane, yur will.”

Isole frowned. “These be the best animals about. I got Hally to buy them from town.”

“They’re just right, my child. But this’s a different life for Beauty. . . . And speaking of, there’s only two sleeping chests.”

“Well I didn’t know yur were bringing a . . . child.”

“Mayhap I could buy another? But I scarce have sticks left after the journey.”

Beauty did not like the idea of sleeping locked in such a thing.

“No, I can sleep on a bedroll.” She glanced at the pens. “In the attic,” she added.

“I’ll do that, child. Yur can sleep in my closet.”

“No. I insist.”

“Yur sure?”

Beauty nodded and Isole fixed her with a hard stare.

After they were sure that the travelers were settled, the villagers of Imwane brought in the luggage and then left for the evening.

“We’ll give yur a few days to straighten out before we speak of work,” said Hally, shaking Owaine’s hand as they left. “It’s good to have yur back among us, Cousin. I know Isole has prayed to the gods for yur return.”

Owaine glanced over his shoulder at his daughter, already sewing before the fire, and he smiled.

“I thank yur, Cousin.”

When they were finally alone, Owaine began unpacking the saddlebags and setting things to rights.

“What yur doing?” he asked Beauty, noticing her lingering by the door. “Yur should be resting, gods know yur deserve a rest after that journey.”

“I am worried for Comrade,” she muttered.

“All Hilland animals roam around the village. He’ll be safe, Beauty, don’t fret.”

“But he is not a Hilland animal.”

Owaine sighed. “I’ll check him for yur, but yur stay here. Isole? Why not measure Beauty for an anth and dress? Then she’ll look like a proper Hill girl.”

Owaine left and Isole motioned Beauty to her side.

“Get here, then.”

Up close, Beauty noticed Isole’s ruddy cheeks and thick jaw. The lines about the edges of her eyes gave away her age, for she was older than she acted.

“Don’t stare at me so!”

Beauty squeaked as Isole pinched her hard on the arm. A deep, plum bruise rose to her silvery skin.

“Let’s measure yur then!”

She shoved Beauty to the side and roughly pulled a tape measure around her.

“Yur might wear the clothes, but yur’ll never be a Hillander,” she snarled. “Remember that.”

Beauty stumbled away from Isole in surprise.

“I said don’t stare so!”

Isole jumped up, looking as if she might slap her, and Beauty quickly grabbed her bedroll and climbed the attic ladder to safety.

“Yur stay up there! Yur beast!”

Owaine entered some moments later and looked about the room.

“Where be Beauty?”

Isole glanced up from her sewing. “She went to the attic. She were tired.”

“I don’t doubt it. Beauty?”

She peered over the edge of the ladder and Owaine smiled at her.

“Comrade be fine, I checked him myself. Thought I should tell yur before yur went to sleep.”

Beauty nodded.

“Papa, come and sit by the fire. I want to tell yur stories.”

Owaine obeyed his daughter and Beauty went about laying down her bedroll. She had thought that in the Hillands she would at least have a real bed. She had not realized how different it would be among these people.

Downstairs she could hear Isole chattering away and she tried to block the noise. Beauty did not understand why Owaine’s daughter hated her so—she did not understand why anyone hated her so.

She pulled her cover over her, trying not to notice the uneven floorboards or the sacks of grain in the corner that saturated the air with the scent of maize. The thatched roof above her had cobwebs in it and she thought that she could hear a mouse scuffling, not to mention the various sounds of the animals in the room below.

Beauty shivered. It was the first night that she had spent under cover in a long time, but she was still cold and she could not get comfortable on the hard floor. Wriggling around, she decided to take off her amulet, for it was pressing into the skin of her chest. As she pulled it over her head, she looked at its glinting disk and touched its engraved surface. She realized that she was a long way from Houses and ballrooms and syrupy tea. There was a beam above her head with a loose nail and she hung the amulet on it. There would be no point wearing it any longer, for it meant nothing in a place like this.