Father threw the rope over the gallows’ crossbeam. Madoc knotted the noose.
I could hardly bear to look at Dyfed as he was made to stand upon a crate beneath the gallows. He shook with terror.
“Dyfed of Stone,” Aengus called loudly, “you have been found guilty of stealing weapons from your own clan. For this crime, you are sentenced to hang. May the god of death have mercy on your sinful soul.”
“Look away, Lira,” Garreth said.
I didn’t. Madoc kicked the crate out from under Dyfed’s feet. The herdsman thrashed, swinging from the noose. His son cried out, but others cheered.
Rhys and Garreth stood on either side of me, as if their presence could protect me from the sight, the awful consequences of using my gift. I swallowed hard to keep from retching and clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms.
I had done this. I helped kill this man.
I watched until it was over, until Dyfed dangled motionless. The rope creaked in the wind. Only then did I let my brothers lead me away.
When we neared the stables, I pulled free from them. “I want to ride.”
My brothers followed me as I entered the stables, breathing in the scent of straw and manure. Winter stuck her head out, whickering. I scratched between her ears and she pressed her muzzle against my chest. The beautiful white mare had been a gift from Father.
Garreth shook his head. “You’re going home.”
“Don’t you have pig shite to shovel?” I ignored him and looked to my younger brother. “Please, Rhys. I need to get away. Just for a little while.”
“No,” Garreth said again.
Rhys hugged me. “Go on,” he said. “Just be careful.”
“Always.” Through my skirts, I patted the knife sheathed to my thigh. I was on Winter’s back and out of the stables in a flash, leaving Rhys to deal with Garreth’s ire.
Our village was surrounded by the Tangled Forest, where trees warred, trunks and branches coiling together, competing for soil and sun—what appeared at first glance to be single, colossal trees were actually many plants knotted in strangleholds. I rode until the trees ended and the land dropped away in sheer bluffs that loomed over the crashing waters below.
The sea had turned angry, foam coating its surface like sugared icing. Anad, the god of wind, was fighting with his jealous wife, Faerran, goddess of the sea. Their passionate clashes flooded villages and sank ships.
The bluffs were the northernmost part of our island. I’d never left Glasnith, but Father and Garreth had taught me, through maps and stories, about the lands beyond. To the east were the Auk Isles, an archipelago of forests and farmlands, their people similar to my own. Sanddune and Savanna were arid landmasses to the south, ruled by strandlopers and bushmen. The rocky northern isles of Skerrey were populated with hardy fishermen and whalers who kept to themselves. And if you sailed far enough west, you might find the elusive lands of the Frozen Sun.
The legends of the Westlanders were far-fetched: stories about frost giants with hearts of ice and souls of fire. I wondered how it would feel to touch a soul made of fire. Would it hurt? Could it burn me?
I glanced down at my wrist, at the strange, small scar there—slim white lines that curved at the ends and came together into a shape that resembled a small flame. A wound from a long-ago dream. A dream I still didn’t understand.
I looked back at the sea.
Here, in this beloved place, I could let myself imagine a third option for my life. Not to be tied to a husband or a temple, but to explore the world. To cross the oceans spread out before me. To trek across hills of red sand, summit mountains made of blue ice, speak exotic languages, treat with mysterious tribes from other lands. This was the life my heart yearned for. A life I could never have because girls were considered too fragile to be explorers, and a chieftain’s granddaughter—a Daughter of Aillira, no less—was too valuable to set free.
Above, clouds scraped across firmament, torn asunder by Anad’s breath. The water swallowed the sun, and Nesper, god of the heavens, split the sky into flecks of blue, orange, and gold. The stars were Nesper’s children, appearing loyally to flicker and shine.
The scar on my wrist tightened suddenly, a warm flutter inside my skin—a thing it had never done before. I shook my hand and the sensation ceased. It must have been my nerves running riot.
Back in the village, they would cut Dyfed’s body down from the gallows. The priest would read verses from the Immortal Scriptures and set fire to his body. Dyfed’s family would pray and weep as it burned.
Quiet, humble Dyfed. Guilty but not evil.
I pushed the thoughts away. Rhys was right—we were followers, with no say in the laws of our people. I could do nothing for Dyfed now except beseech mighty Gwylor, the god of death, to be merciful and accept the herdsman into his Eternal Palace.
My dreams of adventure were useless, selfish. I should care more about what I could do for the people of my clan and my island. I owed it to my mother to make my life mean something, to make myself worthy of the sacrifice she had made for me.
I kneeled at the edge of the bluffs, head bowed, offering prayers to the gods for Dyfed’s soul, and my own, until my knees and head ached. Please, I begged, fingers digging into the earth, let me use my gift for healing instead of hurting, for helping instead of damning.
A gust of wind tore at my hair, whistled in my ear.
Wait, it promised.
Had I not been burdened by the herdsman’s death, I might not have lain awake that night. I might not have decided to sneak from my family’s cottage to walk along the harbor.
How different my life might have been.
The sky was a black shroud. By the gleam of moon and stars, I crossed the hills of our village, where they sloped down to meet the pebble-strewn shore. Gray water funneled around the massive sea-worn boulders Stony Harbor was named for. The harbor was placid, its waters protected by arms of rocky cliffs stretching out on either side, ragged, like they’d been chiseled haphazardly by a drunken god. Fishing vessels were tied along the wooden pier, buoyed on the swells rolling in. Just beyond the harbor lay the Shattered Sea, full of jagged stone pillars rising like teeth from beneath the wild waves.
Barefoot, I dug my feet into wet sand. Under my breath I sang an old sea ballad my mother had taught me:
When will my love return to me?
Each day, each night, I watch the sea.
A cold wind sighs, a lone gull cries.
My love, my love, return to me.
I lifted my skirt to my knees and edged into the water, letting the waves tug at my ankles. I picked up a thin stone and skipped it across the water’s surface.
Oh has my love forgotten me?