Song of Blood & Stone (Earthsinger Chronicles #1)(2)
“As long as I can make it,” she said, smiling sadly. She gave him her order, and he gathered the supplies she needed: nails, an axe head, shotgun shells, door hinges.
“Haven’t seen a winter this mild in a little while. Think it’ll last?” he asked.
She relaxed a fraction at his kind manner. “Bad storm’s hitting the mountain tonight. Don’t think it’ll reach town, but best be careful.”
“How bad d’ya reckon it’ll be?” He avoided her eyes as he spoke.
“As bad as two years ago.” She kept her voice steady but clenched her hands into fists. Forced back the memory of searching the mountain paths for Papa and her brothers. Of never finding any trace of them.
Bindeen pursed his lips and packaged her purchases.
“That’ll be fifty pieces.”
Jasminda frowned. She was used to being cheated by the other merchants and avoided them whenever she could, preferring to order through the catalogs what she couldn’t make herself. That way she just had to pick up the packages from Mineeve. But she’d always trusted Bindeen.
“I’m not tryin’ to cheat ya, young miss. The price of everything’s gone up. Taxes, too, especially on what comes imported in. It’s the best price I can give.”
She searched the man’s face and found him sincere. Using Earthsong would have confirmed his intentions, letting her feel the truth in his heart, but she didn’t bother, instead counting out the money and placing it in his hand.
“If ya have any of that magic cream of yours, ya can make some of this back, eh?” He flexed his empty hand, gnarled with arthritis.
“It’s not magic—just goat’s milk and herbs.” She fished around in her bag and dug out a jar, handing it to him and pocketing the money he gave back to her.
“Works like that magic of yours is all I know.”
“You’re not afraid of Earthsong like everyone else. Why?”
Bindeen shrugged. “I fought in the Sixth Breach. I’ve seen the power of those grol witches.” Jasminda flinched at the epithet, but Bindeen didn’t notice. “I been in sandstorms in the middle of a wheat field, pelted with rocks and hail and fire. It’s a blessed mercy it can’t be used to kill directly. Even so, that Earthsong of yours . . . There’s plenty of reason to fear it. But I’ve also seen your father put a man’s bone back in its socket and heal it up good as new without ever touching him.”
He smiled and patted his hip. “This joint he fixed is the only one on me that doesn’t ache.” He sobered and looked down. “Most folks hate easy and love hard. Should be the other way around, I reckon.”
“Maybe so,” she said, placing her newest packages into her overstuffed bag. “Thank you. May She bless your dreams.”
“And yours, as well.” He bowed his head with the farewell as Jasminda left the shop.
The sun was hours away from setting, though the journey home would take her much of the night. Even leaving now she’d have to cross the steep mountain paths in the dark. When she was younger and her family would go into town to trade, they would break up the long walk by camping in a little grassy area halfway up the mountain. These days, she opted for a faster turnaround. The entire trip from door slam to door slam was almost twenty-four hours. It left her sore and tired but kept the time she spent away from home to a minimum. Had the bit of her axe not been worn to a nub, she wouldn’t have risked a trip so close to the storm at all.
The skies remained deceptively clear as she hurried along the street. Not so much as a cloud marred the blue overhead. Horses and carts rumbled down the tightly packed dirt road, just like any other day, except today, right in front of the city hall sat a sparkling, hulking automobile.
Dazzling chrome and black steel glinted in the sunlight, and a throng of townsfolk gathered around it, speaking in hushed voices. Jasminda tried not to stare. These autos were common in the cities from what she’d read, and she’d seen pictures, but way out here on the edge of nowhere, a real, live automobile had never graced the streets before. The mayor stood next to it, pride of ownership coming off him like steam.
A small boy and girl were among those stroking the metal, their mouths open in awe. A tall man had even set up a camera on a wooden tripod in the middle of the street.
“Photographs! Two pieces!” he shouted, and the crowd tittered with excitement. The two children pulled at their mother’s skirt, begging for a photograph.
Jasminda paused, her gaze glued to the family. Farmers, by the looks of them. The young mother held a baby and smiled lovingly down at her other two children. The father kept an arm around his wife protectively. They were the first to take their photo with the vehicle, and the anticipation in the air was thick as butter as the flash popped and crackled.
Jasminda had a photo of her own family at home on the mantle. It was taken at the traveling carnival that had set up a few kilometres outside of town the summer her brothers had turned six. She had been eight and witnessed the intense negotiation by her mother to get the photographer to even allow “a pair of grols”—Jasminda and her father—to sit for the photo.
At the time, Jasminda had still thought of having a family of her own someday. She’d noticed the stares and whispers that followed them whenever they left their home, of course. She and Papa looked different than everyone else and could use Earthsong, while Mama and the twins looked Elsiran and had no magic. Two parents from two different lands. But the long war between Elsira and Lagrimar had still been an abstract concept back then. The hatred was something she'd learned later. She had still dreamed of meeting her fairy-tale prince who would take her away from the goats and the chickens of her valley to somewhere new and spectacular. Not until she’d become a teenager had that dream died forever and she’d accepted she would always be alone.