Wordweaver

Chapter Three

"Tell me your name."

I look at the tenant, who stands a full head taller than me. Our feet crunch through the hardened snow as we make our way from the village, following the footprints Bronhold and I made this morning. I let my gaze fall back to the snow and squint against a sudden wind. "You may call me Fraela Solln."

"Fraela," he echoes. "Then you are unmarried?"

"I don't see why that matters," I say stiffly.

He smiles. "It comforts me to know that I will not be depriving you of your husband."

I look away, having nothing polite to add to the conversation. After a few steps, the tenant says, "Solln. That's a mountain name."

"I'm a mountain girl."

"I mean an old mountain name. From the Saani, isn't it?"

Grudging interest draws my gaze back to him—to the black roots anchoring his white hair. "Do you have Saani ancestors?"

"Possibly," he answers, pulling at a strand of his hair. It curls around his finger and falls back against his ear. He wears it longer than the other soldiers, leaving it loose and wind-blown. Most of the men I know favor shorter styles, or else pull their longer hair back out of their faces. When he looks down at me, his hair almost covers his eyes. "My mother was from the foothills, though she said her family came from the mountains. I never met any of them."

He waits, his easy silence inviting me to offer my background in return. I study the bare trees beside the road instead.

"I suppose many in Vallegat can claim Saani heritage," he continues when I don't speak. "I'll admit that I was a little disappointed to find no reindeer herds in the valley."

I roll my eyes at him. "The Saani were forced to give up nomadic herding when the Awnians settled the lowlands," I say. "There are few traditional Saani tribes left. Most intermarried with the Awnians generations ago. We raise sheep now."

"So you're a shepherd?" the tenant asks.

"I'm an apprentice."

Tenant Gryfalkr gives me a patient smile. "Your father is a shepherd? Or that brother you haven't mentioned?"

I shoot him a suspicious look, and he shrugs. "There must be someone helping your father if you spend your days with the fryrs. Let me guess. A younger brother? One you feel you must protect?"

"I want to protect all the villagers," I say, a scarlet edge gleaming around my words.

His smile twists into something I can't read—amused, dismissive, possibly even pitying. "How old is he?"

An anxious burst of something that could easily turn into panic flares up my spine. "He's seventeen," I say, the words rushing out of me. "But he's also half Ielic. If you hate them so much, you wouldn't want him in your army, anyway."

"But you and your brother were born here in Vallegat?"

I hesitate. "Yes."

"Then you're Awnian. Plenty of border and coastal citizens claim Ielic ancestry. If we banned Ielic blood, we'd not have half our northern forces."

The tenant's gaze returns to me. I try to glare his attention away, but his expression remains pleasant and patient. "What?" I demand finally.

"Addressing you as fraela seems too formal when I am to be a guest in your house," he says. "I thought the mountain people valued hospitality above formality and titles."