“Holliman is only a huntsman,” Persephone said. “Konniger has been Reglan’s Shield for years.”
“He’s big.”
“Konniger is bigger.”
“Not by much. And there’s more to combat than size. There’s speed and—”
“Experience?” Persephone stared at Sarah as she let the door close. “I guess it’s good that the matchup is so one-sided, Konniger won’t have to kill Holliman. He’ll yield quickly. We can’t afford to lose such a talented hunter.”
The door jerked open, and Sarah’s daughter entered. “Sorry I’m late.”
Brin was tall for her age, most of the height in her legs, and in many ways she was a ganglier version of her mother. Sarah possessed a tiny nose and an easy smile, and although not particularly beautiful, she’d always been remarkably cute. Both braided their hair, or more likely Sarah braided both, the obvious choice in style given that Sarah was the dahl’s most talented weaver.
The girl flopped on the bed and sighed heavily.
“Something wrong?” Sarah asked.
“It’s Maeve. She’s crazy and being stupid.”
“Brin!” her mother scolded.
“I mean, I don’t know how she expects me to learn everything down to the emphasis on words and the order of lists of names.”
“Maeve is an extremely talented and capable Keeper.”
“But she’s old,” Brin said.
“So am I. So is Seph, and I can assure you we aren’t crazy.”
“Okay, but if you’re old, she’s ancient, and definitely losing her mind.” Brin bounced up to a sitting position and crossed her legs. “It’s insane to think a person can remember that much detail. Who cares if Hagen comes after Doden in the list of men slain at the Battle of Glenmoor?”
“I know it must be difficult keeping everything straight,” Sarah told her. “But you shouldn’t blame your failures on others. You won’t be Keeper that way. You need to pay better attention.”
“But…” Brin frowned and folded her arms.
“Your mother is right,” Persephone said. “Being a Keeper isn’t only about remembering the stories; it’s an important responsibility. It’s crucial that you know the customs and laws. I realize you find details such as when to plant which crops boring, but those are the kinds of things that determine whether everyone lives or dies. That’s why Keepers are so revered.”
“I know, but…” Brin looked hurt and turned away.
Persephone sighed. “Brin, I’m sorry. I’m just…listen, you’ll make a fine Keeper, but you’re still young. You’re only fifteen and have plenty of time to learn. You need to listen to Maeve, do as she says, and don’t argue. If she gets frustrated, she’ll pick someone else.”
“Which wouldn’t be so awful,” Sarah said. “You could get back to learning the loom.”
“Mother, please!” Brin rolled her eyes, then got up and reached for the empty water gourd.
“Well, you were the one pointing out how old I am. I’m going to need someone to take over when I’m too feeble.”
“I didn’t say you are old. I said Maeve is old—then I clarified that she is ancient. You were the one who brought up your age.”
“Pretty good memory,” Persephone said.
Brin flashed her a mischievous grin.
“You’re supposed to be on my side, Seph,” Sarah told her, then turned to her daughter. “Your grandmother, Brinhilda, taught me her secrets to making Rhen cloth, and—”
“And you hated it,” Brin said. “You despised how Dad’s mother forced you to work at it for hours at a time.”
“Of course I did. I was a stubborn young lady like you, but I did it. I learned, and it’s a good thing, too. Otherwise, you and half the dahl would be standing here naked, and what would we do with the wool your father shears?”
“Being a Keeper is important, as well. Persephone just said so, and she’s the Second Cha—” Brin stopped herself and covered her mouth, looking as if she’d accidentally stepped on a newborn chick.
“It’s okay,” Persephone told her. She rubbed the empty place where the ring used to be. “We all have changes to get used to.”
The clangs of battle erupted outside as the fight commenced. A curse was followed by a grunt. Then came the gasp of spectators followed by cheers, boos, and the thud of ax on shield. Brin rushed toward the door, but her mother caught her by the wrist. “You don’t need to see.”
“I’m getting water. You need water, right?”
“Brin…” Sarah spoke the name dressed in a heavy coat of disappointment.
“But I—”
More grunts could be heard and the sound of shuffling feet, then a crack was followed by a scream. Another collective gasp was heard, but this time there wasn’t a cheer.
—
The fight for chieftain had ended, and another battle began—this one waged by a team of women trying to save a man’s life.
“Move!” Padera shouted.
The little woman was the first to react. With a round head, full bosom, and ample hips, she looked much like a skirted snowman as she bustled forward, shoving aside men twice her size. Ancient when Persephone was born, Padera was the oldest living member of Clan Rhen. She’d been a farmer’s wife and had successfully raised six children and countless cows, pigs, chickens, and goats. Padera also regularly won the fall harvest contest for biggest vegetables and best pies. There wasn’t anyone more respected on the dahl.
The ring of onlookers broke on Padera’s approach, giving Persephone a clear view of the common where the two men had fought. The sight made her gasp. From the knee down, Holliman’s leg was covered in blood. Glistening with sweat, Konniger backed away, his ax dangling from loose fingers, the sharpened stone edge dark and dripping. He stared at Holliman with an expression Persephone struggled to place. If anything, Konniger looked guilty.
Holliman rose up on elbows that he jabbed into the grass. Arching his back and wailing in pain, he dragged his body to…well, to nowhere Persephone could discern. She didn’t think Holliman knew, either. He probably didn’t realize that he was moving or that he was pumping a stream of blood, which soaked a wide swath of spring grass in a thick coat of brilliant red.
“Hold him down!” Padera called out. “And get me a rope!”
At her command, several people grabbed Holliman’s arms, pinning him, while others ran off in search of twine.
Roan, who had been in the ring of spectators, rushed to Padera’s side and stripped off Holliman’s thin rawhide belt. She held it out to Padera.
“Around the thigh, girl.” The old woman held up the bleeding leg. “Loop it above the knee.”
Roan executed the instructions as if she’d been asked to tie closed a bag of apples. Padera’s indifference in the face of so much carnage was understandable. The old woman regularly set bones, even those that had broken through skin. She also sewed up deep wounds and delivered breech babies from both women and livestock. But Roan taking the initiative, and with such stoicism, was surprising. The young woman, who until recently had been the slave of Iver the Carver, was normally timid as a field mouse. She rarely spoke and was seldom seen outside the carver’s home, which she had inherited upon his death. But there she was, acting with precision and clarity, undaunted by Holliman’s screams, and either unconcerned or unaware that her dress was soaking up blood.