The Mothergoat had no concept of inside voices, which was very challenging for those who had to hear her on the inside of their head. Perhaps it was because the creature had no conceptof inside, either — or for that matter, of voices entirely, until Braiden and Augustin had come along.
This didn’t seem like the kind of place other humans would frequent. Most humans, at least. Braiden scratched his cheek as he surveyed the valley’s devastation, picking at a bit of dirt that must have gotten caked on his skin.
“How is it that your home and your herd have survived this long?” Braiden asked. “With apologies — we’ve learned that Yhip Valley offers ideal conditions for breeding air elementals. The big spinning thing that attacked you from before, that is.”
The Mothergoat’s lips drew back with distaste, baring rows of ivory teeth. “The windwalkers, yes. When the seasons turn and the valley grows colder, that is when they come.” She tilted her horns at the cratered patches of earth. “The grass grows back, in time, and the herd recovers, but each season, still, there are losses.”
Her words lingered in the silence, but Braiden understood well enough what she’d meant. He wrung his hands, looking to Augustin for guidance. The wizard nodded. Braiden spoke for them both.
“We can return every year — I mean, when the seasons turn, that is. It isn’t right that you experience these, ah, losses. I’m sorry that they happened, is what I’m trying to say.”
The Mothergoat quirked her head inquisitively. “You would do this for my herd? And you expect nothing in return?”
Braiden shrugged. “My friend spoke truthfully. These windwalkers leave something of value when they’re destroyed, something he uses in his work. That is reward enough.”
The Mothergoat laughed in an unexpectedly melodic way. “I have heard from my mother, and she from her mother, that the upright are a transactional folk. If this is your custom, then consider the othergoats willing participants.”
Discovering a herd of othergoats, learning that their matriarchs communed telepathically, and now receiving a reward from one of said matriarchs? Braiden clutched the side of his head. This was almost too much excitement to handle. Almost.
“You have saved the lives of my children. What do I lose from allowing you to harvest a bit of my fleece — little weaver?”
Chapter
Thirteen
The wind whisperedthrough Yhip Valley, every muscle in Braiden’s body stiff and still as he watched the Mothergoat in stunned silence.
How did she know? And how could she tell what weavers were when she claimed to have barely met humans at all?
Augustin waved his hand gently in front of Braiden’s eyes. “Braiden,” he whispered, “are you quite all right? She knows what you are. Isn’t that remarkable?”
Braiden finally snapped out of his stupor, clamping his jaw shut and rubbing at his hair in disbelief. “Is it because of what I’m wearing?” he asked, feeling like a fool.
How could an othergoat possibly know about knitwear and weaving and looms?
“Is it because of this?” he continued awkwardly, thumbing the scarf he’d imbued with warming magic.
Something resembling a smile twinkled in the Mothergoat’s eyes — all three of them.
“Partly, yes,” the Mothergoat said. “I may have cheated a little. What you wear on your body — is it not made of othergoat wool? I’d recognize it anywhere. It would take someone of specific talents to know how to handle our fleece.”
But that didn’t explain why the Mothergoat would know what a weaver even was. Braiden bit his tongue, knowing there had to be more to her story.
“I met another of your kind, once. Most upright organisms who venture into the valley have unkinder motives and harsher methods of attempting to secure our fleece. It begs the question: why don’t they simply ask?”
Braiden didn’t argue the fact that most people also didn’t know that othergoats — or at least their matriarchs — could speak. But he decided not to interrupt. She had mentioned something curious, after all.
“Was it a woman?” Braiden asked. “The other of my kind that you met, I mean.”
“A woman, you say?” The Mothergoat’s eyes flitted upward, an oddly human expression, as though searching her memories. “Many, many seasons ago, it was. Instead of attempting to capture us with nets and other implements, she simply strolled in and asked, perhaps with no expectation that any of us would answer.”
An ethical harvest, Braiden thought. A kinder touch, a softer hand, things he’d learned from his family early on.Ours is the way of warmth.
“I was younger, then. My own mothergoat still lived. The woman was a weaver like yourself, someone who makes fleece out of nothing, spinning it into great waves and clouds, the way that you did when you fought off the windwalker.” The Mothergoat narrowed her eyes, squinting at Braiden’s face. “If I recall, you have very similar eyes. The color of the sky.”
Braiden held his breath, mouth gone dry. How could that be possible? Did othergoats truly live that long? He’d been taught early on that it was impolite to ask a woman her age. He decided it was only fair to extend the same courtesy to the Mothergoat.He moistened his lips, nearly afraid to voice the question burning on the tip of his tongue.
“Do you remember her name?” he asked.
