Chapter 8 #2
A flurry of whispers broke out, one word markedly louder than the rest said with hope, surprise, skepticism, or all three. She.
Sorscha put a hand on Thia’s knee.
Pagdan said, “She is among us.”
The whispers grew to murmurs. Somewhere across the fire, someone shouted, “Who?”
Pagdan searched the crowd. This time she was sure he’d found her, as did about fifty others as they sought out the only unfamiliar face.
“Stand up, love,” Sorscha murmured.
Thia absolutely did not want to stand up but felt she had no choice. Her knees wobbled as she pushed herself off the log, and her cheeks burned under the weight of so much attention.
Pagdan’s eyes locked on hers. “Thia Sanbrooke of Kansas,” he said.
Her stomach churned. She could have sworn someone was crying; other looks she felt like daggers.
“How do you know she is the Storm Crow?”
Thia knew that voice. Oskaren. She was a few logs to Thia’s left, staring fixedly at Pagdan.
“I don’t,” Pagdan allowed. “We received a message this morning from the Silver Sorceress.” Murmurs followed this announcement. Thia couldn’t tell if they were more or less convinced.
“Quiet,” Pagdan commanded. “As the leader of your choosing, it is my duty to be honest with you. Thia makes no claim to be the child of this prophecy. She intends to seek the Tyrant to ask for assistance in the creation of a portal, with the purpose of returning to her own realm.”
The murmurs were angry now, Thia was certain. Those closest to her were leaning back when they had been leaning forward, expressions ranging from uncertain to glaring.
“I will not risk your lives on an uncertainty,” Pagdan assured them. “But neither do I feel right sending the girl alone, when she may be our long-awaited hope.”
“Don’t let her leave,” someone said, and Thia’s belly dropped to her feet. “Not until we know for sure.”
But Pagdan shook his head. “Thia is not one of us. I have no right to decide her fate. This is where I come to you for aid. I seek a guide, someone to accompany the girl on her journey to the Lightning Tower. She does not know these lands, or what treachery awaits.”
No one answered immediately. Thia didn’t know if she should be grateful or anxious. Pagdan seemed expectant, like he was waiting for some speech to rally his people. Like he really did believe she was the Storm Crow.
“I—” No sound came out. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You should know,” she started, and someone shouted, “Louder!”
“You should know,” she said again, the quiver in her voice audible, “I don’t plan on attacking. I-I’m not the Storm Crow.”
The same cleric who had been present in the meeting stood. “Your intent matters not. If you are our Storm Crow, Sothis—the Divine Realms—will take care of the rest.”
Silence met these words. Thia had no sense of whether anyone was actually considering it, or if they were too polite to contradict one of their elders.
There was movement behind her. Someone stood. Dess—when had he gotten here?
“I will go with Thia,” he said.
“Dessfar,” Sorscha gasped.
“I’ll go,” he repeated.
Pagdan was quiet for a long time, and Thia sensed he wanted to protest. But then he said, “Very well,” and gave a solemn nod. “We thank you for your bravery, lad.” His mouth flattened. “Thran will go as well.”
Beside him, there was a cry as a man sank to his knees, pleading. It was only when he fell forward that Thia realized his hands were bound. “You can’t. Pagdan, please.” He didn’t have an accent exactly, but his tone was lilting even while begging, almost like he was singing the words.
Pagdan’s face was impassive. “You know our law,” he said, then his expression softened. “Perhaps this way you may recover some of your honor and return home to us again.”
The man continued to plead, though it was quiet enough that Thia couldn’t decipher it.
Pagdan turned back to the crowd. “If I have Haven’s approval in this matter,” he said, “then the three will set off at first light. We will arm them, clothe them, and provide provisions for their journey. Are we in agreement?” He looked around the fire, holding as many gazes as he could.
When no one objected, he nodded. “Then it is done. As you were.” He gave one more nod and sat, indicating the meeting was dismissed.
It took a minute, but slowly the conversation crept back to life. Eyes bore into Thia, some with curiosity, some with pity, and she struggled not to squirm in her seat. The worst was Sorscha, whose face was unreadable when it had previously only been kind.
“I’m going to speak with Pagdan about your provisions,” she said, and stood before Thia could respond.
The minute she was gone, Dess plunked into the vacated space.
“She’s upset,” Thia said, jutting her chin after Sorscha.
“She doesn’t want me to go,” he said. “I told her this afternoon of my intention, and she tried to make me promise I wouldn’t.”
“She loves you,” Thia said.
Color crept onto Dess’s cheeks. “I know.” His voice hardened. “But she isn’t my mother. He took my real mother from me. Or at least…I think he did.” He pulled a face. “Perhaps I’ll ask.”
“If he can send me home, perhaps he can give you your memories back.”
“I doubt he’ll do either.”