Roses (14 page)

“It’ll tempt us!”

“It’ll poison us all!”

“No!” cried Owaine. “No, Beauty ain’t like—”

But tears of shame and rage were prickling Beauty’s eyes. Through a watery gaze, she saw Isole smiling triumphantly as the preacher tried to control his crowd. Then Beauty jumped to her feet and fled.

“See how it runs!” someone yelled as Beauty burst through the doors of the temple. “See how it flees from the good of the gods!”

Beauty ran down the hillside, away from the temple, away from the valley of Imwane, and away from the accusing faces of the villagers. Winter was almost upon the hills and she slid and tripped in the muddy ground. The drizzle that forever fell mingled with the tears on her cheeks and wilted her anth so that it lost its folds. She continued running blindly through the green growth until she heard a familiar rumble. She followed it to a waterfall, panting for breath as she skidded to a halt in front of its splashing pool.

There she knelt, sobbing. It was not fair that wherever she went people were afraid of her. They thought her evil and wicked before they had even asked her name. She was tired of persecution and abuse. It just was not fair.

She buried her fists into the muddy ground and cried harder. Sniffing, she caught sight of her reflection in the pool—silvery and pale—and it made her angry. She grabbed handfuls of mud and slathered it across her face and hair. Before long, she was completely covered and she looked in the pool again, seeing a dark shadow.

But that did not please her, either.

Dried of tears, she sat on the cold ground. She wondered why she had come here. Why had her mother left her in the care of Ma Dane? Why did she look different from everyone else? And why at night did she dream of a man with a scar over his eye?

She caught sight of her anth lying in the mud beside her and she snatched at it, suddenly angry. She tore it in half and then in half again, deliberately savoring the feeling. Then she threw it back in the mud.

She leaned over the pool and took a palm full of water, splashing it across her face. And then another and then another. It was deathly cold and her teeth chattered, but she did not stop until she had completely washed the mud away. Then she stared at herself, silvery once again, and she knew that she was not evil.

She closed her eyes and, listening to the sound of the waterfall, she began to sing softly.

The gods did build the hills for those,
That does good deeds for one they chose.

They shelter with old spells and might,
For one who comes to them to fight.

They know not what—

She heard a sound and jumped.

The preacher was standing before her, smiling.

“What is yur name, child?” he asked over the roar of the waterfall.

“Beauty.”

“That’s a fine name.”

The water rippled before her.

“What made yur sing that song, Beauty?”

She shrugged. “The sound of the waterfall.”

“Did yur know that’s scripture?”

“No.”

“All Hilland songs be scripture. We transfers some of it into songs to remember it easier. Better than carrying this thing around.” He patted his pack of scrolls. “And we preach in temples because it’s easier to gather people, but it’d be better to sing to waterfalls.”

Beauty frowned.

“I ain’t making fun of yur, child. For yur understand what it means when all them others don’t.”

“I was just singing. It does not mean that I understand anything.”

He smiled.

“But it does, child. Everyone does something for a reason, even the gods.”

Beauty glanced at her reflection in the pool.

“Yur are different for a reason.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve faith.”

The preacher glanced at the anth in the mud and tried to hide a smile.

“I see that yur are strong willed too,” he said. “That is good, for I wish to see yur in the temple tomorrow evening. We’ve postponed service tonight till them lot calm down.”

“I suppose I am strong willed for a reason too?”

He laughed. “See,” he said. “Yur do understand.”

He turned from her and began walking away. “I’d say may the gods be with yur, but I know that they are. Instead, I’ll say that I’ll see yur tomorrow, child.”

Beauty watched him disappear.

When she entered the cottage that night, Beauty was worried that Owaine would be angry, but instead he wrapped her in a tight hug.

“My chi—Beauty, where have yur been?”

“I am sorry,” she muttered.

“Don’t be sorry. The villagers don’t mean it, yur mustn’t be put off by them, yur—”

“I will go to the temple tomorrow.”

Owaine released her in surprise.

“Yur will?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Beauty. So glad. But come and let us give yur dinner. Yur soaked and cold.”

Owaine hurriedly spooned broth into a bowl and set it at the table. Meanwhile, Isole moved to Beauty’s side.

“Where be that anth?”

“Gone!” Beauty hissed, her violet eyes flashing, and Isole jumped back in surprise.

She kept away from Beauty for the rest of the evening as they sat by the fire, and the next day also as they carried out household chores together. When evening came, Beauty walked to the temple with the rest of the villagers and wore one of her old peasant dresses with her hair loose.

The villagers muttered and whispered, but when the preacher came, Beauty marched into the temple straight after him and knelt
right at the front before his feet. Owaine took the place beside her, but the others kept a distance.

“Hello, child,” said the preacher, and he touched her head.

The villagers watched, mouths open.

“We’ll begin with a song,” he added. “It’s a prophecy, but we know not for who.”

The gods did build the hills for those,
That does good deeds for one they chose.

They shelter with old spells and might,
For one who comes to them to fight.

The villagers sang and their voices charged the air with a hum that made the temple walls shake. It echoed around the hills and was carried to the mountains by the wind.

Beauty shivered, suddenly cold, for she saw a gray shadow and then a castle in the forest.
They will find me here
, she thought.
He will trace me here
.

Her vision disappeared and she gasped, Owaine grabbing her arm in support. Those around them thankfully did not notice, but Beauty looked up and saw the preacher smiling.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

The Winter

C
omrade died and Beauty cried for days. It was winter and bitterly cold, and she awoke in the night knowing that he was almost gone. She ran out of the cottage to be with him in his last moments, as the dull light spread over the hills. Owaine found her later, sobbing with Comrade’s large, dark head cradled in her lap.

“Oh, Beauty,” he whispered, stroking her shoulder.

But she would not be consoled and continued to weep.

“She’s fit for nothing,” Isole complained. “Ain’t no chores getting done unless I do them myself with her sniveling. That horse were a drain on us and we couldn’t afford it anyways.”

“It were her friend,” said Owaine, but his daughter was not listening.

Snow came, coating the hills in a thick slather of white and hardening the waterfalls into icy fingers. Though it was the first time that she had ever seen snow, Beauty was not interested in what winter had to bring.

“The other children be playing in the snow, Beauty,” said Owaine. “Do yur want to go out and play too?”

She was seated in front of the fire, sewing badly. She now stoutly refused to wear the Hilland dress and instead was endeavoring to make her own clothes.

“I wish to stay in here,” she said quietly.

“Yur sure?”

“Yes.”

Beauty’s first Hilland winter was long and cold. She awoke with frost upon her pillow each dark morning and spent the day shivering despite the heavy furs she fastened over her uneven homemade dresses. Trudging through snow, she would collect firewood and then argue with Isole over the chores to be done in the cottage.

They would sweep, scrub, and clean, muttering curses at each other all the while, and Beauty’s fingers would ache. Her hands were calloused and blistered now—her knuckles split and peeling. She did not much mind the appearance of them, for she was not vain, but they throbbed incessantly. She dared not mention it to Isole who would delight in the fact, and so she suffered silently all day long until Owaine came home and she could stop her work for dinner.

Hally had appointed Owaine the first Imwane horse trainer. Owiane had been worried that they would send him to work the fields in the next valley or to herd livestock on the hillside, but it was decided that his skills honed from his seasons in Sago were to be put to good use instead. He could no longer hunt and catch wild mares and stallions, but he could breed the right sire and dame to make the perfect filly and turn a skittish colt into a dignified riding horse in a matter of moon-cycles. The villagers were hopeful that he could bring much needed prosperity to Imwane, for among all the Hill villages, they were one of the poorest.

Finally, the Hilland winter came to an end and the snow melted and the rivers flowed freely once more. Beauty had forgotten what it was like to be warm, but flashes of sunshine began to fall on the hills between bouts of rain, and the villagers grew more cheerful with each passing day.

Beauty was still regarded as an oddity by the people of Imwane, but after the incident at the temple, they were wary not to treat her too unkindly. They were suspicious but obedient folk, and if the preacher felt that Beauty was to be trusted, they would not go against him. There were still whispers and frowns wherever she went, so mostly Beauty preferred to be alone.

Beauty still mourned the loss of her friend. Owaine had burned Comrade’s body on a hillside, as was the Hilland custom, and she walked to the spot daily to sit on the ground and murmur to him. He had taught her to ride, helped her forage a friendship with Owaine, carried her from Sago—and she missed him dearly.

One afternoon, as he rode Sable back from a day spent training a young mare, Owaine found her on the hillside.

“Beauty, would yur ride home with me?”

She was in the middle of telling Comrade how Isole had given her the hardest house chores again today. She did not want to be disturbed, but Owaine’s expression was pleading, so she let him hoist her into the saddle and they trotted to the cottage.

“Why don’t yur ever play with the other village children, Beauty?”

“They have all been told not to speak to me.”

Owaine grunted. If he were not so aware of how precarious their position was in the hierarchy of Imwane, he would have taken the village to task for their treatment of Beauty long ago.

“It is all right. I do not want to play with them either.”

“I feel . . . I feel that yur ain’t happy here, Beauty.”

She bowed her head but could not find a suitable reply.

The coming of spring altered the daily routine in Imwane. Villagers left their doors open in order to step out into the sunshine between chores. The penned animals were moved outside the homes. Families ate their dinners on grassy banks, and cottages were turned inside out as they were aired after the long winter.