Roses (12 page)

The first time she saw the hills, they emerged from the mist like ships. It was noon and Beauty’s bones ached with chill as a light drizzle began to fall. Owaine said that they were lucky they would reach their destination before the harsh Hilland winter, but she could not imagine it being any colder. She never thought that she would long for the dry, hot Sago summers.

Dark shadows loomed from the silver haze and the ground jerked sharply upward. Faint outlines towered over the horizon like bruises in the sky, and the air tasted moist and dense. Comrade snorted at the sudden incline and Beauty leaned forward in the saddle to help him climb.

The mist swirled, leaking into the hood of her cloak and biting the back of her neck. Her clothes felt damp and heavy and she could barely see Sable and Owaine in front of her. The ground rose forever upward and the path turned rocky. Suddenly, she heard a shrill neigh that echoed all around them.

Both Sable and Comrade answered and Beauty peered into the milky mist, but she could see nothing.

“That were a wild stallion,” said Owaine. “I used to chase them as a lad.”

They continued upward, the horses’ flanks dark with sweat and rain. Beauty’s legs throbbed from leaning forward in the saddle, her head was dizzy, and she was out of breath. She clung to Comrade’s mane and closed her eyes, trusting him to carry her onward.

Suddenly, he halted and she felt a hand gently pat her back.

“The altitude is getting me too, Beauty,” said Owaine, panting. “It’ll give yur headache and sickness for a while, but yur’ll get used to it in the end.”

Beauty sat up, her head spinning.

The mist was gone and before her were miles and miles of hills and valleys. The hills were tall, stout, and green. Some dipped below where they stood and some stretched higher, their peaks clouded in white fog. There were bundles of forests and sheets of lakes and wave upon wave of hills.

“How long before I feel better?” Beauty murmured.

“A few days at least.”

Owaine glanced at the horses.

“We’ll need to take it a bit slower for the animals.”

Comrade’s sides were heaving and Sable was snorting into the cool air.

“My hills,” he muttered, taking deep, moist breaths.

They moved on, picking their way down the other side of the hill and heading for a deep valley that would lead them toward Owaine’s home. They traveled through the Hillands for two more days, passing no one along the way.

“Are there not other villages around?” asked Beauty on the second day, as they stopped to drink from a surging river.

“Yes, but they ain’t on this main track.”

Beauty scooped a palm full of water into her mouth. She felt a long way from the grand dining table of Rose Herm now.

“But could we not stop at a village?”

They had run out of meat and only had a small piece of cheese and a hunk of stale bread left.

“Hill folk don’t . . . mix. We have our villages and we stay in them.”

Beauty gulped down the chilling, clear water that made her teeth sting.

“How did you come to Sago, then?”

The muscles around Owaine’s jaw clenched.

“That were unusual,” was all he said, and they mounted the horses and moved on.

Beauty saw her first waterfall later that day. She heard its swishing crash before she saw it spouting from a boulder high above them. It splashed against rocks, tumbled down in a thread of blue glitter, then gushed into a pool at the bottom, spraying her with flecks of foamy white as she passed.

She giggled, brushing the lather from her cheek, and felt sad when the waterfall’s rumble faded to silence as they moved on. Seeing her forlorn look, Owaine assured her that waterfalls were plentiful in the hills.

Later that afternoon they came upon the village of Imwane.

“What is that?” she asked, noticing a golden structure ahead.

They were scaling a broad, steep hill, and peeking over the edge of its crest, Beauty could see a golden wall. This was the highest that they had climbed yet and the horses were puffing and snorting.

“That’s Imwane’s temple,” said Owaine, the joy bursting from his voice. “That’s my temple.”

As they reached the peak of the hill, Owaine reined Sable in and pressed his thumb and index finger together, lifting his arm and holding his hand up to the sky. Beauty had always known that Owaine went to the temples in Sago, but she had never understood why.

“All Imwane Hill folk go to this temple,” he explained, seeing her expression. “In Sago they are mostly forgotten, and that’s why the preachers there build them bells that ring across the city to try to remind the peoples. Ain’t no bells needed in the Hillands—we go to the temples for as long as we remembers. My great-grandfather helped build this one when the last fell down in a storm.”

Beauty looked at the golden barn with its peeling paint. It would be another new thing for her to get used to.

“Why is it here alone?” she asked. “Where is the village?”

Owaine nodded at a deep valley below them.

“All our temples are as close to the gods as we can make them. We build them from the biggest, strongest trees.”

“Like those?”

Beauty pointed across the gulf to a dark, tangled forest that smothered the opposite hill in a carpet of dark green all the way to its peak.

“That’s the mountain. We don’t go there.”

The valley below them was deep and lush. Pale, square cottages with flaxen thatched roofs climbed its sides and huddled in a pack at the base. Animals were left to roam the hillside freely and the land looked wild and untouched.

“Do yur like it?” asked Owaine, trying unsuccessfully to keep the hopefulness from his voice.

“Yes,” said Beauty, but her eyes slid to the forest—she could not help but feel its heavy presence.

“Why do you not go to the forest?” she asked, as Comrade and Sable picked their way down the hillside.

She thought that she noticed Owaine’s shoulders stiffen.

“No one ever goes there. I have heard strange things.”

“But—”

“Yur will love Imwane, Beauty. I know yur will.”

She nodded and fell silent, hoping that he was right.

They were only halfway down the track when someone spotted them. A man with gray, unruly hair who had been leaning against a rock sat up as he caught sight of them. He was wearing a crushed leather hat and a jerkin.

“Owaine!” he cried. “Owaine, is that yur?”

The sheep that he had been tending scattered at his shout.

Owaine jumped down from Sable and ran to his side. They embraced and slapped each other heartily on the back.

“Cousin!” Owaine laughed. “I don’t know how long it’s been since I saw yur face.”

“Too long! We thought we’d lost yur to them cities. Isole didn’t believe it when yur message came—none of us could have guessed after all this time.”

“There’s trouble in Pervorocco and we fled the city, but I’m more than happy to return to my hills.”

“We’ve heard of no peril here. You are always safe in these hills, Owaine. But just listen to that city twang of yurs! Yur have been away too long!”

Owaine turned back to where Beauty sat on Comrade, her head bowed shyly.

“Papa!” a screech echoed through the valley.

In the cottages below, a crowd was gathering, led by a tall figure who began to run toward them.

“Papa!” she cried.

Beauty was the only one who saw the shock on Owaine’s face upon seeing his daughter, who was now a young woman.

“Isole?”

She charged him, persistent despite the awkwardness portrayed in her brown eyes. Like Owaine, she was stocky with rough, olive skin and straggly brown hair, which was stuffed under a white headdress.

Behind her, men, women, and children rushed up the hill to greet their returned friend. Beauty noticed that the women of the village were all wearing tall, lace headdress and the men donned crushed leather hats and jerkins.

“Papa! I can’t believe yur home!”

Isole wrapped her arms around Owaine’s neck, and he carefully patted her shoulder.

“We’ve a house ready, all like yur asked,” she went on, reluctant to release her father. “It ain’t the best of houses, but it was what we could do at short notice.”

“Thank yur, my child,” said Owaine. “I’ll be happy to see it, but first I should like yur to meet a sister. This is Beauty.”

Heads turned her way and Beauty pushed her hood back from her face. She was roughened and scrawny from living on the road for so long, but she was silvery nonetheless. There were gasps and mutterings and cries of surprise.

“A sister?” whispered Isole, her hands falling by her sides.

“Yes, she were entrusted to me, and she’s now my child.”

There was an awed silence and the villagers pressed their thumbs and index fingers together in turn.

“What is it?” whispered Isole, and Beauty understood that things would not be any different here than back in Sago.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

The Sister

O
waine 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.