CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Pile at Perdif

I truly believe that hardship makes better people. Pain—assuming that it does not break us—provides the strength of knowing that such things can be endured and overcome. And I know of no one who suffered more than Gifford.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN

There was no one there; just a pile on a hill.

Didn’t take long for Gifford to figure out why. Cresting the mound, he spied the village of Perdif below, the remains of five charred huts circling a well. He counted the people, too. Wasn’t hard, only twelve—all dead. The bodies lay scattered—men, women, children, and two dogs. They lay twisted and splayed on the dirt, not a weapon visible.

Gifford fell off Naraspur’s lathered back. No other way down. The ground was as hard as it looked, and he lay for a moment waiting for the pain to pass. The horse left him and walked slowly, wearily away. She’d be thirsty after their long morning race. Maybe she could smell water. Climbing to his feet and filling his lungs, Gifford called out. He waited, looked for movement below, listened, then called out again. No one answered.

The only sound was the harsh, dry wind that blew unabated and the flap of vultures’ wings as they landed and fluttered from one body to the next.

The sun was high, and Gifford hoped minutes didn’t count because he had no idea how to light the signal fire. They had sent him out with food, water, magic armor, and an amazing sword but nothing that could produce a flame. In that scorched land, he didn’t think it would take much, but he didn’t have much—he had nothing. No one expected the Fhrey would have visited Perdif first.

Most villages had braziers. Given the trouble and time that went into making fire, they just kept one going. Such a thing, he could see, was a luxury in Dureya. Not a tree visible for miles. There wasn’t even much wood on the pile. Most of it looked to be sheep dung.

How well can that burn?

Persephone had likely ordered a mound of logs built last fall, but who could resist a giant pile of wood just up the hill from a village facing a cold winter?

He hobbled toward the pile as best he could, which wasn’t good at all without his crutch. Giving up, he crawled. Within the ambitiously wide circle of stones, only three logs and a few dried dung patties remained. This wasn’t a signal fire; this was barely a campfire.

Gifford lay on his back and let his body rest. His arms and legs ached, but he was alive. He’d done the impossible. Gifford had broken out of Alon Rhist and raced across Dureya in less than a day on the back of a horse. But now what?

He sat up.

What would Roan do?

She’d manage something ingenious, something that harnessed the power of the hot winds. Looking at the pile, Gifford didn’t even see kindling. I don’t have so much as two sticks to rub together. Crawling around, he found plenty of rocks. Gifford had seen Habet create sparks by striking two stones against each other, and he tried reproducing the process. None of the rocks he found worked.

I shouldn’t have gotten off the horse.

He could have ridden farther. Perhaps there was another village nearby, one with a proper bow and kindling, or an eternal flame he could tap. Searching around, Gifford realized he couldn’t even see Naraspur, who had wandered off.

How long does Alon Rhist have? How long does Roan? What a great hero I am, to come so far to fail because I can’t…

Gifford focused on the little pile of logs and dung.

What was it Arion had said? Something about holding a sunbaked rock, and…

People who are creative are usually that way because they are more attuned to the power and forces of nature. They can hear the whispers of the world, and it helps guide them in the right direction.

Gifford stared at the pile. He had no hope of lighting it, unless…

I want you to do me a favor, Gifford. I want you to move your hands like this.

He’d tried it many times since then, and it never worked. The attempts had always failed, but then he’d never needed it to succeed.

Have you ever wanted something to happen and then it did?

Gifford had never wanted anything more in his life than to light that fire.

Imagine my hands turning black as ash.

He stared at the pile and took a breath. Raising his hands, he made the plucking motions.

Concentrate. Close your eyes if you need to.

He did. He closed his eyes and imagined the pile bursting into flame: a loud woof followed by a burst of heat, the crackle of wood, and flame—lots and lots of flames.

He opened his eyes.

Nothing.

The few logs and the heap of dung remained unchanged. It didn’t even smoke.

She had lied. He didn’t know why but she had. Her and the mystic had—

The armor—it’s covered in runes!

Gifford threw off his helmet, and after finding the buckles, pulled off the rest of Roan’s gift. He concentrated once more, and as he focused, an idea pushed into his mind.

Clap your hands.

The thought came unbidden. Was it a memory? Something the mystic had said? Gifford wasn’t sure. Maybe she had, he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the thought had popped into his head, oddly clear, strangely certain. Fear and excitement gripped him then as he knew it would work. The answer to the puzzle was provided, and as so often was the case, it was obvious.

Oftentimes we hear it as our own thoughts telling us to go left, or just a sense that going right is a bad idea. Some might call it intuition, or a gut feeling, but it is the world speaking in an ancient language that you can almost understand.

The warm wind blew hard across his face.

Roan would use the wind, he thought again.

Gifford scanned the horizon. He knelt in that desolation, on the small knoll in the center of an endless plain.

Rediscovering how to speak our native tongue, how to tap and use that power in meaningful ways, is what we call the Art.

He was alone. No one could see or hear him. He closed his eyes again and this time he hummed. The wind came once more, a soft fluttering kiss that moved his hair. He held up his hands and let the air move through his fingers.

Nothing happened, nothing magical, except…clay.

Like the idea of clapping, this new thought came to him. He didn’t know if it arrived from without or within. The effect, however, was powerful. Another puzzle piece fell into place and he was starting to see the bigger picture. The air—the air was clay. The way it felt passing between his fingers, the way it seeped and spewed. This was how he shaped his cups and pots and vases. This is how he created.

Gifford’s stomach fluttered in excitement. Something was there, something that hadn’t been before, something real; he was making a connection. This wasn’t make-believe. This was a genuine thing. The Fhrey and the mystic hadn’t lied. He’d found something, and it was inside him.

Clay. The wind, the air, the sun, the ground, it was all clay, and he could shape it.

He reached out and felt the wind as a malleable thing. His fingers felt something else, something strong, warm, and deep. He drew it back as he often did with the clay, squeezing, bending it to his will. Dirt and water spinning beneath his fingers became miracles of art. That’s all he had to do—make art.

He formed fists and felt the heat build. The air swirled faster and faster, gusting his hair, pushing side to side, throwing up pebbles in a tiny storm. But when he opened his eyes, the pile was no different. There was no fire, no heat, no smoke.

Failure. Another in a long, long line.

Gifford’s shoulders slumped.

Only this time, this failure…He thought of Roan dying or being made a slave again. He didn’t just cry, he sobbed hard and loud. What difference did the wailing anguish of a cripple matter to the world or to the gods?

Clap.

Gifford’s hands were still bent in two tight fists of rage and sorrow. He hated himself, the world, the gods, the vultures, the village, and most especially that awful pile of dung he knelt before.

“I love you, Woan.” He spoke the words as a prayer, with tears spilling down his cheeks. Then, with all his might, he spread his arms and slapped his palms together.

The pile didn’t catch fire.

Most of Perdif exploded.