“No. My father wanted a beautiful wife instead of a proper one. She was small, though, even shorter than I am. She disappointed him by giving him a daughter, me, and the slight was only made worse when…she failed to have another.”
“On Tempest, we reveled at the birth of a girl.”
I snicker. “Penticar isn’t Tempest.”
“That is too obvious,” he scoffs. “Tell me of your exile.”
“My mother died when I was very young. By then, my father had grown disenchanted with her and wanted to erase the stain of her existence…and mine. So he found a new wife and sent me away to live with childless nobles so they could raise me as their own, telling the world I’d died.”
“Everything about your world sounds…nonsensical.”
“I won’t argue with you on that.”
He looks around the hut, his expression no longer hostile.
“Were you lucky on your hunt?”
“We took down a bruntler, which will feed us well, and for more than a day.”
“Meg brought me some, and it was pleasing.”
“Why did you not get some yourself?” His head tilts to the side, a few strands of silver-gray hair falling over his matching eyes.
“I need to work fast, before the cold season hits.” I lick my lips and swallow, nervous about how he’ll react to what I say next. “And because I’m sure you want me out of your home.”
His jaw tics, like he’s just been reminded of his hatred for me, and I regret not saying something else. Not that it would matter.
As if finding something to latch onto, he barks, “You should not be eating in my hut! You will attract more vaeyarks.”
“Are you suggesting I lose precious work time to eat with the others, extending my stay in your hut?”
He glares askance at me, sighing, muttering something under his breath.
Now that I know civil conversation with him is possible, I ask, “What was Tempest like?”
He exhales a long breath. “It was everything Melgrim is not.”
“I’ve noticed interesting things around your village. Metal worked in ways we could not in Penticar, even on huts such as yours. The way you work water, putting it through things we do not.”
“The true glory of Tempest cannot be described, and I fear I will never see it again, in any form.”
“Surely you have found joy here? Something that gets you through the day.”
“I have not. The only thing that moves me forward is hope of redemption.”
I look down at the pools of thread I’ve been working. “I guess we have another thing in common.”
“We have nothing in common,” he snarls, as though I’ve just slung a great insult at him.
And I suppose I had, however, inadvertently.
With nothing else to say or do, I go back to my weaves, losing myself in the threads as I recall a voice from long ago. One that spoke with kindness and love, telling me of magic and princes that were noble and true.
Though, instead of a handsome knight on a mighty steed racing through my mind to slay a dragon, it’s a giant blue man, spear in hand, hunting for my dinner.
8
RAMSEY
