“Okay, then, here—let me see.” Raithe bent over the ox and pried the big man’s hands away.
Blood ran from Donny’s nose, which was skewed to one side.
“You’re all right. You only broke your nose,” Raithe lied. The last two fingers on Donny’s right hand were unnaturally twisted, but Raithe didn’t see any point bringing that up. Donny probably wasn’t feeling them…not yet. His whole hand was probably numb.
Raithe got on his knees next to Donny. “I can fix your nose, but you have to trust me.”
Donny looked nervous. “We’re done fighting, right?”
Raithe nodded. “Didn’t want to in the first place, remember? Now relax. I know how to do this. Done it to myself once—but don’t try this yourself without lying down first or you might have to do it twice.”
Raithe gently placed his fingers on the fractured bridge. “I won’t lie to you. This will—”
Raithe snapped Donny’s nose back in place with a practiced wrench. His father had taught them the importance of distraction, and one of the best ways was to act in midsentence, assuming the opponent was willing to talk. But it was his sister, Kaylin, who had applied the technique for medical purposes when she pulled out one of Raithe’s baby teeth.
Donny screamed, then cringed in the dirt. He lay panting, as his uninjured fingers gingerly explored what his eyes couldn’t see.
“All better,” Raithe declared. “Well, it will be after you go through the black-eyed-raccoon stage, but you’ll keep your handsome profile.”
Several of the men approached, led by Justen. “Hingus!” he shouted to the proprietor. “Bring as much food as these two can eat and take it from my balance. It’s not every day a man gets to dine with a hero.”
“Bring mead,” a man in a red cap said. “I’ll give you another bundle of wool.”
The young man with a blanket over his shoulders declared, “I’ll give another pot of honey to have Raithe and his servant share the best spot near the fire with me.”
Malcolm offered Raithe a wide smile.
Raithe nodded and replied, “You are a good storyteller.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The New Chieftain
Strict laws governed the succession of power within the clan, traditions passed down through the generations by the Keeper of Ways. Nearly all involved men fighting, and it was the strongest among us who ruled.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Persephone winced and pulled, but the ring refused to come off. Little wonder, given that Reglan had slipped it on her finger twenty years before, when she was seventeen and he forty-one. She hadn’t removed it since.
Twenty years.
It didn’t seem so long ago, yet Persephone felt as if they’d always been together. The day he’d put the ring on, it had been too large. She’d wrapped string around the little silver band to hold it snug. The ring was a sacred relic handed down since the time of Gath, and she was terrified she’d lose it. She never did. The need for the string had disappeared during her first pregnancy. Staring at her hand, she realized how much she had changed over the years.
We changed each other.
“I’ll get some chicken fat.” Sarah moved toward the door.
“Hang on,” Persephone said, stopping her. She wet her finger in her mouth. Then, with a firm grasp and clenched teeth, she painfully wrenched the metal band over her knuckle.
“Ow,” Sarah said with a sympathetic grimace. “That looked painful.” Her wise, motherly tone spoke about more than the pain of a finger.
With a curious sort of mental hiccup, Persephone remembered that Sarah had been there when the ring was placed on her hand. Most marriages were informal and gradually built over time. The only public declaration came when a couple began sharing the same roof or a child was born. But Persephone had married a chieftain, which required a formal ceremony, and Sarah, her closest friend, had stood beside her. The ring and the torc were the badges of the Second Chair’s office. But in Persephone’s mind, the silver band had always been the symbol of Reglan’s love.
Persephone nodded and tried not to cry. She’d done enough of that already, and her eyes and nose throbbed from rubbing.
After the death of her husband and with no son to inherit his father’s position, Persephone was expected to leave the lodge to make way for the new chieftain and his family. More than a hundred years had passed since a chieftain’s wife had failed in her most important responsibility: bearing a child who lived to assume the First Chair. Maeve, the Keeper of Ways, had been consulted, and she decreed that Konniger, Reglan’s Shield, would assume the position. There might be challengers, so the matter wasn’t officially settled. But no matter who prevailed, Persephone’s fate would be the same; she had nowhere to go.
Sarah had been there for her twenty years before, and she once again stood by Persephone’s side, offering a place to live. From the outside, all roundhouses were as identical as the materials and land allowed. On the inside, Sarah’s was by far the most welcoming. Filled with animal-hide rugs, baskets, a spinning wheel, a sophisticated loom, and a huge bed covered in furs, it offered a comforting respite. An open-hearth fire in the center of the floor kept the space warm. Without a chimney, a thick layer of smoke hovered at the peak of the cone-shaped thatched roof. Its slow escape dried herbs and cured meat and fish hanging from the rafters.
Part of the coziness came from the piles of wool, thread, yarn, and the stacks of folded cloth that provided softness. But what made this roundhouse special were the walls—or wall—as roundhouses had only one. The interior was plastered in daub, and designs of great beauty had been painted by Sarah’s daughter, Brin. Some were as simple as charcoal outlines of little hands; others were circles and swirls of yellow and orange paint. A few were complex illustrations of people and events. Even the logs framing the entryway, not to mention the door itself, displayed celestial swirls and stars. The circular wall of Sarah’s home was a marvel of artistic wonder.
“I can’t believe I forgot to take it off.” Persephone held out the ring. “Would you mind returning this to the lodge?”
Sarah took it and nodded, offering pitying eyes. Persephone didn’t want to be pitied. She’d always seen her role as an example to her people and found herself ill suited to the role of woeful widow.
“No, wait.” Persephone stopped her. “I should be the one to give it to Tressa. It will look like I disapprove if I don’t.”
“Might not be Tressa,” Sarah said. She walked to the door and peered out. “Holliman has challenged Konniger. They’re getting ready to fight now.”
“Holliman?” Persephone said, confused. “Are you serious?”
Persephone joined her friend at the door. The front of Sarah’s home faced the little grassy patch of open space before the lodge steps, which the dahl’s residents used for outdoor gatherings. Between the burning braziers in front of the stone statue of Mari, the two men checked the straps on their wooden shields, each armed with an ax.
“It’s not like he doesn’t stand any chance.” Sarah held the door open as the two looked out.