“I’m surprised you waited so long.”
“Why are you doing this for me?”
Nola smiled. “Because you needed it.”
“But what’s in it for you? Please don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful. I really am. But this all seems so…surreal.”
“I am a healer of sorts. Or maybe a teacher. Or both. It’s simply what I do. It’s why I am here.”
“Where is this village? How did I get here?”
“The Gift brought you here. You already know that. As to where it is…who knows? It reveals itself to those who need it.” With that, Nola turned and left.
Alina watched her go, not feeling particularly wiser but content to let it go. She felt it in her bones that this place was nothing but good. A pocket in the world where the essence of the Gift healed troubled souls. She didn’t ask what the task would be. She trusted in herself and in the world that everything would be right in the end.
22
In Every Way Possible
By sunset, the entire village was alive with the kind of energy that could only form when nothing was required and everything was possible. Alina stood on the edge of the commons, watching the bonfire leap up in sudden, joyful bursts. Someone had arranged the logs in a clever lattice so that new air rushed up through the cracks as they burned, each breath of wind sending a bouquet of sparks spinning into the indigo sky. A hand drum thumped somewhere in the crowd, the rhythm weaving in and out of the song of crickets and frogs in the grass beyond. The air was sharp with the tang of woodsmoke, sweet with the smell of freshly mowed grass and savory with something roasted—she couldn't yet name it, but her stomach rumbled at the promise.
Alina had spent the day relaxing, meandering through the hours. She went to the bathhouse and soaked for a long time in the warm, soapy water. She strolled through the fields and meadows and lay in the shadow of a tree, napping, thinking, dreaming. She didn’t speak much to anyone other than the occasionalgreeting, but that was okay. She hadn’t really formed any kind of relationship with the villagers in the time she had been here, just the odd introduction here and there, and that was okay, too. She was happy just to drift through her day.
Now she watched the children dart through the crowd, wearing crowns of woven flowers and scraps of ribbon, their faces smudged with ash and laughter. At the fire’s far side, a group of old men traded stories, their voices rising and falling like a tide. Women with strong arms and open faces set out platters of food and pitchers of cold cider, their laughter rising even higher than the men’s. The entire scene was saturated with a sense of belonging, so foreign to Alina that all she could do was stand there, observing and drinking it all in.
One of the villagers noticed her. A man with a beard the color of pale wheat—Merric Oakbranch, she remembered from an introduction—shouted across the fire, “Tell us a tale, traveler!” His voice was as big as the flame, and the people around him smiled and nodded in approval. Alina tried to hide her startle in a smile, but he had already looked away, content to have made his mark on the evening.
Before she could think about it further, a woman materialized at her elbow with a wooden bowl. “You must be starving,” she said, pressing the bowl into Alina’s hands. “Try these—they’re from the south grove.” Her name was Elen Riverwind, and her eyes were so blue that they reflected the flames in odd flashes as she smiled. She wore a necklace of tiny shells, each one strung on a different color thread, and her sleeves were rolled high, revealing wrists dusted with flour.
Alina looked down at the bowl. Inside, glossy brown nuts glistened with salt and oil. She picked one up and bit into it. Theflavor was rich, smoky and sweet, with a hint of something she couldn’t name but loved instantly. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth melt across her tongue.
Elen grinned, pleased with herself. “See? They’re worth the climb. If you wait till the first frost, they pop right out of the shell.”
“I’ve never tasted anything so rich,” Alina said, surprised to find herself speaking honestly.
“You say that now,” Elen replied with a laugh, “but wait until someone brings out Dorin’s honey cake!” She patted Alina on the shoulder, her touch almost motherly, and moved on, carrying another bowl to the next guest. Alina watched her go, then took another nut and savored it, wishing she could share the flavor with someone who would appreciate it. Finn, maybe, or even Kael.
She felt a pinch of longing, and it shocked her. In the dreamlike state of the past few days she had almost forgotten that she was all alone. Well, she would manage that, too.
Before she could dwell on it, a burst of laughter erupted to her left, near the edge of the fire’s light. A group of woodcutters had collapsed onto a pair of logs, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Their faces were red with heat and drink. One of them, a burly woman with a crooked nose, caught Alina’s gaze and beckoned with a mug.
“Come here, you!” she called. “Don’t think we haven’t seen you lurking. The new girl has to drink, or the fire gods will chase us out of the valley.” The others hooted in agreement, their voices warm and rough.
Alina hesitated, but her feet carried her forward, the pull of the crowd stronger than her doubts. She accepted the mug—cider, not too strong—and sat at the end of the log. For a moment, the group looked at her expectantly, as if waiting for a trick or a punchline.When neither came, they turned back to their joking, folding her into the conversation as easily as an extra branch in a bundle of kindling.
“So,” said the crooked-nosed woman, “how does a girl like you end up here?”
Alina shrugged. “Luck, I guess. Good or bad depends on the direction you look from.”
Another woodcutter—short, round, with a laugh that sounded like a saw biting through green wood—nodded. “You’ll find the difference doesn’t matter much after a few weeks here. The valley sorts us all the same in the end.”
As Alina sat among the woodcutters, feeling a sense of camaraderie she hadn't expected, she couldn't help but notice the woman's mug was almost as crooked as her nose. It seemed to have seen its fair share of lively gatherings, judging by the dents and scratches covering its surface.
When the short, round woodcutter with the saw-like laugh shared his tale of trying to outdrink a goat and failing spectacularly, Alina couldn't resist chiming in, “Well, at least I haven't had any drinking contests with livestock...yet. But who knows what the valley has in store for me!”
The woodcutters erupted into laughter at the image of a drunk goat challenging them to a drinking competition, their mugs clinking together merrily. Alina couldn't help but feel grateful for their easy acceptance and the shared laughter that filled the night air, making her once again forget that she was on her own. Or was she?
The logs snapped in the fire, sending up a cloud of sparks. Someone had started the drum again, and now a fiddler joined in, the notes sharp and bright as shooting stars. Across the fire,children danced, their bare feet stamping out a rhythm that was picked up by the adults, who clapped and shouted in time. She caught herself smiling so widely that her cheeks hurt.
