“I’ll just have to think of something,” she said while unbuckling the brace. “Some way to strengthen the metal. There’s always a better way. That’s what Padera says, and she’s always right.”
Roan had good cause to think so highly of Padera’s opinion. The oldest resident of Dahl Rhen, she’d seen it all. She also had no trouble expressing her thoughts, regardless of whether people wanted to hear her opinion or not. For reasons beyond understanding, Padera had always been particularly harsh with Gifford.
As Roan struggled with the buckle, the wind gusted and blew his cloths from the crafting table. Two cups fell over, making a delicate clink. Thick, voluminous clouds rolled in, blotting out the blue and blanketing the sun. Around the dahl, people urgently trotted toward their homes.
“Get the wash in! Get the wash in!” Viv Baker yelled to her daughter.
The Killian boys raced after chickens, and Bergin rushed to shut down his new batch of beer. “A perfectly blessed day just a minute ago,” he grumbled, peering up at the sky as if it could hear him.
Another gust made Gifford’s entire set of cups collide and ring. Two more toppled, rolling on their sides and making half circles on the tabletop. He had been having a productive day before Roan had stopped by, but she was always a welcome distraction.
“We need to get your pottery inside.” Roan redoubled her effort to remove the brace but was having trouble with one of the buckles. “Made it too tight.”
The wind grew stronger. The banners on the lodge cracked with a sharp report. The fire braziers near the well struggled to stay lit but lost their battle, both snuffed out.
“That’s not good,” Gifford said. “Only time they’ve blown out was when the lodge’s woof came off.”
The thatch of his little house rustled, and dirt and grass pelted his face and arms.
Frustrated with the buckle, Roan reached into one of her pockets and pulled out another of her inventions: two knives bound in leather so they could both cut at once. She used them to release the brace’s straps, freeing him. “There, now we can—”
Lightning struck the lodge. Splinters, sparks, and a plume of white smoke preceded a clap so loud that Gifford felt it pass through him. Giant logs exploded and thatch ignited.
“Did you see—” Gifford started to say when another bolt of lightning struck on the other side of the lodge. “Whoa!”
He and Roan stared in shock as a third and then a fourth bolt hit the log building. Cobb, the pig wrangler and part-time gate guard, was the first to react. He and Bergin ran toward the well, picking up water gourds on their way. Then another bolt of lightning exploded the well’s windlass into a cloud of splinters, and both of them dived for the ground.
More lightning bolts rained, both inside and outside the dahl. With each shaft came screams, fire, and smoke. All around Roan and Gifford, people ran to their homes. The Galantians, Fhrey warriors who had been welcomed to the dahl when exiled, rushed out of their tents and stared up at the sky. They looked just as frightened as everyone else, which was as disturbing as the cataclysmic storm. Until recently, the Fhrey had been thought to be gods.
Gelston the shepherd ran past. Lightning hit while he made his way between the woodpile and a patch of near-ripe beans in the Killians’ garden. Gifford didn’t see much, just a snaking, blinding brilliance. When his sight returned, Gelston was on the ground, his hair on fire. Bergin rushed to the man’s side and doused his head.
Gifford shouted to Roan, “We need to get to the sto’age pit. Wight now!”
He grabbed his crutch and pushed himself up.
“Roan! Gifford!” Raithe yelled as he and Malcolm hurried toward them. Raithe still carried two swords: the broken copper one slung on his back and the intricately decorated Fhrey blade hanging naked from his belt. Malcolm held a spear with both hands. “Do you know where Persephone is?”
Gifford shook his head. “No, but we need to get to the pit!”
Raithe nodded. “I’ll spread the word. Malcolm, help them.”
The ex-slave moved to Gifford’s side, put his shoulder under the potter’s arm, and practically carried him to the big storage pit while Roan followed close behind. With the first harvest still more than a month away, the pit was nearly empty. Lined with mud bricks, the hole retained the smell of musty vegetables, grain, and straw. Other members of the dahl were already there. The Bakers huddled with their daughter and two boys against the back wall, their eyes wide. Engleton and Farmer Wedon peered out the open door at the violence of the storm.
Brin, the dahl’s newly appointed Keeper of Ways, was there as well. “Have you seen my parents? They’re not here,” she said in an unsteady voice.
“No,” Roan replied.
Outside, thunder cracked and rolled continuously. Gifford could only imagine the lightning strikes that accompanied them. Being down in the pit, he couldn’t see the yard, just a small square of sky.
“I need to find them.” Brin bolted toward the exit, springing like a fawn. Unlike the crippled potter, Brin could win a footrace, and she was easily the fastest person in the dahl. The fifteen-year-old regularly won every sprint during the Summerule festivals, but Gifford had anticipated her dash and caught her wrist.
“Let me go!” She pulled and jerked.
“It’s too dangewous.”
“I don’t care!” Brin yanked hard, so hard she fell, but Gifford still hung on. “Let me go!”
Gifford’s legs, even his good one, were mostly useless, and his lips slid down the side of his face because he didn’t have the muscles to support them. But reliance on his arms and hands turned them into vises. Gavin and Krier, who always picked on him, had once made the mistake of challenging Gifford to a hand-squeezing contest. He humiliated Krier, making him weep—his name magnifying the boy’s embarrassment. Gavin was determined not to suffer a similar fate and cheated by using both hands. Gifford had held back with the first boy but didn’t see the need to do likewise with a cheater. He broke Gavin’s little finger and the tiny bone that ran from the second knuckle to his wrist.
Brin had no possibility of breaking free.
Autumn, Fig, the Killians, and Tressa stumbled through the door, all of them exhausted and out of breath. Heath Coswall and Bergin came along just after. They dragged Gelston, who remained unconscious. His hair was mostly gone, the scalp red and black. Bergin was covered in dirt and grass and reported that the lodge was burning like a harvest-moon bonfire.
“Has anyone seen my parents?” Brin asked the newcomers.
No one had.
As if the wind and lightning weren’t enough, hail began to fall. Apple-sized chunks of ice clattered, leaving craters in the turf on impact.
More people raced into the shelter of the pit, running with arms and baskets over their heads. They filed to the back, crying and hugging one another. Brin watched each come in, always looking for but not finding the faces she sought. Finally, Nyphron and his Galantians charged in with shields protecting their heads. Moya, Cobb, and Habet were with them.
“Let me go!” Brin pleaded, struggling against Gifford’s unrelenting grip.
“You can’t leave,” Moya said, her hair a wild mess. “Your house is burning. There’s nothing—”