Watersmeet

Long before the founding of Seldara—long even before the birth of the outcast Abisina—Vran, the Paragon of Man, led the people over the Mountains Eternal and into the land we now call the Southern Kingdom. His followers carved out an existence: building villages behind thick walls; clearing forest to plant grains and vegetables; battling the centaurs and the fauns and the dwarves who had already claimed the land for their own. Slowly, the settlements spread west until there were six—Vranham, Vranlyn, Vranberg, Vrandun, Vranhurst, and finally, Vranille. The settling of villages took generations and cost many lives, and still the Vranians had not realized Vran’s vision of Men ruling the land. . . .

Abisina scanned the crowd through the tangle of her dark hair.
So many!
The widows and their children had all come, brought by the same rumor that brought her: the village Elders would be sharing out portions of cheese.

Abisina’s empty stomach clenched.
Cheese!
She could feel its creaminess on her tongue, taste its sharpness. When was the last time she had tasted cheese?

I will be last
, she thought, looking again at the crowd huddled against the thick-logged wall surrounding the village. That summer’s centaur raids had swelled the number of widows more than the long drought and waves of disease. The gaunt faces, stooped shoulders, and swollen bellies told the story. Dirty, worn tunics hung on children like tents. Bony elbows poked through woolen under-shirts. Pockmarked faces. Chilblains. Open sores. All the women looked old. With their large eyes in wizened faces, even the children looked old.

A tiny child in front of Abisina clung to her mother’s hand, whimpering.
She’s never tasted cheese at all,
Abisina thought.
But no pity. They’ve never pitied you, And they’ll get all the cheese before you get a morsel.
Abisina pulled her cloak around her tightly. The sun in the brilliant, late-autumn sky laughed down at the village, offering no warmth and no chance of rain.

“Move, Outcast!” Shoved aside, Abisina landed hard on the frozen ground. Footsteps circled her.

“Get up, demon!” a voice whispered close to her ear.

Lilas. Always Lilas.

“Get up, I said!”

Through her curtain of hair, Abisina could see Lilas’s blonde braid dangling before her. That was all that saved Lilas. As an orphan and a girl, Lilas was worth little to the people of Vranille. But she was blonde, blue-eyed, and fair—too close to Vran’s Paragon of Beauty to be an outcast.

“Dwarf-dirty!” Lilas taunted her.

Abisina bit her tongue and tasted blood.
Let it go
, she told herself, anger rising.

Lilas moved in closer. “Charach’s coming,” she mocked. “Coming to get rid of you and your freakish mother!”

Abisina fought the urge to throw herself at the girl. When would she learn how useless it was to fight back?

Then Lilas came in for the final blow.

“Bastard!” she hissed, and a fleck of spit fell on Abisina’s hand.

In one motion, Abisina threw back her head and stared at Lilas—a direct affront. An outcast could not meet the eyes of a villager.

A look of triumph came over Lilas’s face, but as she opened her mouth to shout, a cry came from the widows. “Here he comes! Elder Theckis!”—and the scramble to be the first to get cheese drowned out Lilas’s accusation.

“I’ll get you for that!” Lilas threatened before cuffing Abisina on the head and disappearing among the widows.

Abisina was shaking as she got to her feet, the hate still bitter in her mouth. She tossed her hair forward to shroud her face again and turned to the crowd, an unbroken line of leather tunics and blonde braids.

Saved by Elder Theckis.
She watched grimly as the Elder made his way to the storehouse. Like the rest of the vil-lagers, he wore leather leggings and a tunic over an under-shirt, but the red sash tied across his chest, the iron pendant around his neck, and his full cheeks told his rank.
How disappointed he would be to know that he saved me from a good beating!

A young man with a vacant stare and slight smile limped behind the Elder, shadowing his every step. He, too, wore a sash across his chest, but his was made of dirty rags; and the chain around his neck was made of bones. His name was Jorno, and like Abisina, he was outcast.

As the pair approached the crowd, the Elder called out—“Make way! Let me through!”—and Jorno mimicked his accent and tone exactly: “Make way!”

As the widows parted, Jorno’s absent gaze rested on Abisina. For no more than an instant, recognition registered on his face. He
saw
her. But just as quickly, he resumed his empty stare.

Abisina gasped.
Did I imagine it?
Jorno had sixteen or seventeen winters, a few more than Abisina, but he had not grown up in Vranille as she had. Last summer, he had wandered into the village, his right foot toeless and half-severed, a sure sign he had been captured by centaurs. Abisina’s mother, the village healer, had taken him into their hut. She brought down his fever, cured the infection in his foot, and repaired his wound as best she could. After his fever and delirium subsided, the Elders tried to find out where he came from, but he only repeated their questions back to them. His face remained blank. They let him stay in Vranille and Jorno had become a fixture in the village, wandering around, dragging his lame foot behind him, following the Elders, repeating the words and conversations he heard.