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“That’s because you’re her favorite.”
“Ah, but you’re the one she depends on.” He saunters over and slaps me hard on the back. “Come on. You’ve done plenty. Let’s go have some fun. It’s not every day we get to celebrate because something will die.”
I roll my eyes. He makes it sound so macabre.
By the crook to his smile, I can tell Rhun already knows he’s won me over. I stand and stretch my shoulders. Rhun’s right. I can hardly grip the ax handle, my back aches, and I am in a foul temper. I glance at the pile. The wood already chopped will have to suffice. Maybe my father will be pleased, but the odds are low. Nothing is ever good enough for that man.
Rhun’s grin broadens as he watches me retrieve the ax and sink it into an unobtrusive stump. I snatch up my metal lantern and follow him into the city with only the slightest twinge of remorse.
The festival is even livelier than I had hoped. Valefolk delirious with anticipation burst from every seam of Utsanek. Is the thought of more light so intoxicating, or is it simply the break in the monotony that thrills them? A smile spreads across my face when I catch sight of my group of friends, who have concocted a crazy game involving knocking each other off a precarious balance with one hand held behind the back. In the middle of the crowded square, they’ve cleared a circle wide enough for two combatants.
“Aren’t you going to join in?” asks Rhun as we get closer, and he sees me scanning the market booths.
“Maybe later. I’m going to have a look around.”
He nods and dives into the game with an enthusiasm appropriate for his fifteen years of age.
I laugh under my breath and turn my attention to the extraordinary gathering.
There is much to see. It looks like every person from the farthest reaches of the city has turned up for the occasion. Troubadours battle for the attention and arlum of the masses, spouting poems and songs that collide in cringe-worthy discordance. Various tricksters perform mysterious illusions by sleight of hand that have the young ones gaping and tugging at their mothers’ skirts. Everything around me drips with merriment and indulgence. The square vibrates with the energy of it all.
The merchants are giddy at the uptick in sales. I pass numerous booths so crowded with patrons that I doubt there will be anything left. Though it has been over a dozen years since the last Hunt, it is evident the valefolk have not forgotten the extravagant feasting that will follow. I won’t be surprised if I come across my mother and two youngest brothers caught up in the festive preparations. They have probably been peeling onions and potatoes since before the bell sounded. Grudgingly, I admit chopping firewood might not have been the worst fate for one of the Family Foremost.
Ignoring the hunger pangs that gnaw my insides, I decide to let the excitement brought on by Sola Vinari carry me as far from my troubles as it can.
4. Amyrah
HOW CAN I STAY HERE while a creature of legend meets its end, maybe even at my father’s hands?
The rough planks of the cottage walls eye me with condemnation as my hands struggle to complete tasks which I mastered years ago. Agitation festers within until my stomach churns. I cannot keep my mind from what is happening in the woods, if they have yet found the sola, or if my father is safe. Pain pulses through my temples, and the muscles of my back coil tight. For the hundredth time, I retrace my steps to remind myself what I was doing. But there really is little to be done at the homestead. Yesterday, I made sure to work doubly hard so I could attend the city market today. Washing out my cloak before the goat milk sours is the only job left.
The jarring angles of the washboard rattle my whole body as I throw my weight into scrubbing the fibers. I am drained by the endless waiting, waiting. . . for what? For Father to come home and explain everything to me? He had seventeen years to educate me on the strange custom of Sola Vinari, yet he has never mentioned it. Was my mother’s death, all those years ago, connected? It must have been. The last time a sola appeared was also the last time my mother was seen alive.
No wonder its coming has unhinged my father.
I wring out the cloak with extra vigor. The gray water splashes into the bucket abrasively.
My mother died when I was four years old. The recollections I have of her are more glimpses and impressions than solid memories. A skipping laugh. Swaying, warm hugs and soft hair tickling my cheeks. The scent of sage. Odd melodies hummed while she worked, while she walked, while she tucked me into heavy blankets. A hollow sadness winds around my heart and constricts its function. I’m not sure what I miss more: my mother or all the days I never had with her.
As the hours crawl by, agitation seeps into my bones, compounded by my father’s desire to keep me tucked so conveniently away from the world. I want to know what is happening outside of this claustrophobic homestead, and I no longer trust him to tell me. It has always been difficult living so far out from the city, but today, I find it especially suffocating being in this cabin. Alone.
Marching out of the house with an armload of wet clothes and a basket heavy with eggs, I make up my mind. I fling the garments on the line to dry, then stalk down the trail that will take me to Utsanek.
I reach the outskirts of the city before I realize I left my lantern at home. The stinging cold of guilt threatens to deflate the purpose that drove me here. I have now both disobeyed my father and spurned his efforts to shelter me. But as my eyes dart around wildly, probing the shadows, the blackness does not swallow me. My heart stills. A warmth of satisfaction soon pushes out the ice of regret, and I stand a little straighter. Maybe Father is just overprotective, and I am not as fragile as he imagines. Maybe the ténesomni isn’t what he thinks. Maybe it really does mean me no harm.
But my instinct tells me it’s something else.
The city center swarms with activity. I am accustomed to a busy marketplace, but this is something entirely different. Valefolk pack every inch of the square, spilling into the side streets. A thousand words and shouts and guffaws hum in my bones. I’ve always shied away from crowds, but this one draws me in. Haltingly, I sidle through the shifting throng, resorting to using my elbows and shoulders to make passage. It is exhausting but exhilarating all the same. A new sensation. By the time I make it to the market booths, my cheeks are hot from exertion. I feel alive.
Dozens of movable structures line the edges of the square, each with its own peculiar flavor. There are tanners’ booths piled high with hundreds of animal skins; millers’ tables sagging under the weight of heavy sacks of flour; weavers’ displays draped in luscious linens and wools; produce stands overflowing with the bounty of last Elberu’s harvest. I could spend hours looking at all the Vale has to offer. There has never been such a delicious variety.
The savory aroma of venison stew drifts toward me, making my stomach squeeze with hunger. I wonder if I have brought enough arlum to spend on such a luxury until the smell mingles with the pungent scent of new leather from a cordwainer’s stall. My nose wrinkles at the strange combination.
Through a gap between the bodies, a table glittering with gently glowing jewelry catches my eye. I manage to shove myself through to it. Slipping the handle of my basket so it sits in the crook of an elbow, I free a hand to touch the cool gemstones. What I thought were sola bones are intricately carved shards of a peculiar soapstone. They are all so beautiful, shining in hues of gold, blue, scarlet, and indigo. Some are as big as an egg, others like a drop of rain.
A girl of about my age with rich brown skin sits behind the stall. The corner of her cheek bunches in a shy half-smile when our eyes meet, but it disappears as soon as I return it. One of her hands traces the grain of the counter, and the other pulls absentmindedly at a coil of her dark hair.
“Did you make these?” I ask.
