Then, a precious drop of water, gleaming like a jewel, falls on the village of Aster. In the span of a breath, the drop is followed by another, and another, and another.
Rain.
3
The crowd erupts into joyful cheers. We stare up into the sky, letting the blessed rain pour down on our cheeks. I feel as if I am weeping—perhaps I am. I’ve known the greatness of the Bards’ powers all my life, yet I have never seen it like this. So pure, so life-bringing.
The townspeople start to dance, their skin glistening with new rainfall, and I exhale an awed breath, hope flooding me. With the crowd distracted by the rain, I may have a chance at an audience with the Bards once the Telling is complete.
Suddenly, a hand yanks away my covering. “You.”
The heat of being recognized moves through me in a wave of nausea.
My old neighbor—a kind man who once pressed a basket of strawberries into my hand—glares at me. Heads turn, mouths falling open as the villagers register who I am. The girl touched by the Blot. “How dare you show your face here? Just when we’ve finally earned a Telling?”
A younger man glares at me venomously. “They ought to drag you off with Grandfather Quinn!”
“Scourge,” a woman hisses.
Someone shoves me hard onto my knees in the wet dirt. Another spits at me. Before I can fully pick myself up, a storm of limbs, hisses, and taunts pushes me back, away from the Bards. It’s all I can do to scramble over the street and out of the way.
Despite my trembling, I manage to stumble to my feet, pull the shawl over my head, and flee, trying hard not to release my tears.
I want to run home, curl up beside my mother, and dream of her singing me a lullaby. Dream, even, of Gondal, that beautiful toxic lie. The myth my brother and I lived by, and the one that, in the end, might have killed him …
That cost Grandfather Quinn his tongue.
But there is no going back—not when the darkness is waiting for me every night, the ever-growing certainty that something is consuming me: the curse, the Blot, the mark of one who is doomed, or doomed to hurt others.
Finally, I emerge at the edge of the crowd, panting. In the chaos, no one has followed. They are too distracted by the rain. I grit my teeth and brush the mud from my clothes. My heart is pounding, and the lump in my throat feels as if it’s choking me.
Breathe. Breathe, I remind myself. There has to be something I can do to get the Bards’ attention.
I cast my gaze toward the wall of people, still cheering and celebrating, mercifully oblivious to me now.
A flash of light down a small path between houses catches my eye. Then another. Squinting in the direction of the distraction, I see it: a grand horse tossing its head, causing light to glint off its golden bridle.
My breath catches. Suddenly, I’m eleven years old again, weaving Kieran’s death ribbons into tree branches.
The Bards’ horses paw the ground impatiently, like they’ve just stepped out of my memory.
I slink away as quickly as possible until I reach the edge of the square where I can skirt the side of the building toward the horses. Their owners will have to come back to them at some point.
The three elegant creatures are not even tied to a hitching post; they simply wait for their masters obediently where they were left. They are black mares, almost fearsome in their beauty, nothing like the old nags I’ve seen in town or on the farms. Their dark, intelligent eyes watch me as I approach, almost as if they are assessing me.
The closest one even cocks her head, curious.
“Hello there,” I whisper, and the horse bobs her head, as though in greeting. A wave of calm washes over me, and for the first time since leaving the pasture—since lying to Fiona—I can breathe evenly. The light catches the mare’s golden bridle, and the motion tosses her mane from her forehead, revealing a small white star.
I place the basket of wool I’ve been clutching tightly the whole time between my feet and slowly hold out my hand. After a curious sniff, the mare lets me run my fingers over the marking on her forehead and down her ebony face to her soft muzzle. She whinnies, lowering her head to allow me to scratch behind her ear.
Up close, the incredible detail in her bridle is striking; it shimmers in the rainfall. The gold brow band and nose strap are engraved with a delicate filigree of shapes that I don’t recognize, and set with small, white gems of some kind. I don’t need to know what they’re called to understand that just one of those sparkling stones is worth more than the entire town of Aster twice over. My free hand runs its fingers over the engraving and jewels, half-expecting such finery to vanish at my touch.
A firm, gloved hand suddenly circles my wrist and pulls me back. Spinning around, I choke on my breath as a storm of black and gold takes over my vision. Shaking, I find myself face-to-face with a Bard of High House.
He is no longer expressionless—fire seems to dance against the dark of his eyes, making them flash beneath his hood. His voice is low and dangerous when he whispers, “Hands off, thief.”
When feeling returns to my limbs after my initial shock, there is a dull pain in my wrist from the Bard’s grip. Not enough to leave a mark, but enough to remind me that it could get worse if I try anything foolish. My gaze falls automatically to the wet cobblestones.
He releases me. “Well? Nothing to say for yourself?”
His voice leaves a charge in the air between us. It’s deep and resonant, but there is a strange, otherworldly reverberation that carries beneath the surface, a separate sound woven into his words, that keeps me rooted to the spot. I remember clinging to Ma’s skirts as Claire, the baker, sang in the market at dusk, her husband playing a stringed instrument I never learned the name of. Now, it’s as if the Bard’s voice creates its own accompaniment. With each word, I can feel prickling heat on the skin of my face and neck, the air around us tightening and growing heavy like a storm is about to break.
The sensation dissipates as soon as he stops speaking, and I am left cold and wanting more.
I try not to wince as my gaze trails up from the finely polished leather boots standing in front of me. The gold trim on his uniform leads from elegant pants beneath his black cloak to a pristine jacket of the same color, adorned with two rows of shining golden buttons on either side of his chest. He stands unnaturally still, staring into my eyes without blinking, even as the rain sprinkles his face. Up close, he seems even more powerful, more extraordinary—and far more dangerous—than I imagined.
“I…” Now that an actual Bard is in front of me, I seem to have forgotten my senses. I swallow hard and try once more. “S-Sir…” Is he a sir? Sir Bard? Or do I say lord? In my haste, I never even accounted for how to properly address a Bard. Humiliation washes over me.
The Bard makes a noise that is half groan, half sigh of annoyance. He pulls me out of his way easily, as if drawing back a curtain—as if I were invisible— fixing his attention on the mare.
“And what have I told you about letting strangers near?” He strokes the creature’s neck. “You are far too trusting.” A softness has crept into his stern voice.
I feel my face flush as a flurry of mixed emotions tangle up in my chest—first mortification at my own clumsiness, then outrage that he would value an animal over the human beside him, and finally fury at myself for lacking the words to say what I need to.