“Where’s my mother!” Brin pleaded. Once again the girl charged for the door. This time Moya assisted Gifford by catching her as well.
“You can’t,” Moya said, her hair a wild mess. “Your house is burning, there’s nothing—”
Outside a roar grew like the angry growl of a colossal beast. Everyone stared out the doorway as the sky grew darker still, and the wind blew with even more force. Then, as everyone watched, the Bakers’ roundhouse was ripped apart. First the thatch was blown away, then the wood beams were ripped free, and finally the walls succumbed. They didn’t fall. The logs were sucked into the air. Then the foundation of mud bricks was sheered and scattered. After that, the entire world outside the storage pit was lost to a whirlwind cloud of dirt and debris.
“Close the door,” Nyphron ordered. Grygor, the giant, started to haul it shut just as Raithe arrived.
“Has anyone seen Persephone?”
“She’s gone. Went to the forest,” Moya shouted as she grabbed and pulled him in.
Grygor slammed the door closed.
“No!” Brin screamed. “My parents are still out there!”
Gifford let go of her then, and the girl fell to her knees, weeping.
Raithe drew close to Moya. “Did Seph really go into the forest?”
Moya nodded. “Her, Suri, and Arion. They went to that oak tree again, to ask it more questions.”
“That’s on top of a big hill, up in the open glade,” he said to nobody in particular. Raithe looked like he might be sick. There had been rumors that the Dureyan was in love with their chieftain, but then a lot of recent rumors had turned out to be untrue. Seeing Raithe’s face, Gifford lacked any doubt. If Roan was still outside, he would have looked the same way.
They all sat or knelt in tearful silence as the roaring grew louder. All around Gifford, people quivered, whimpered, and stared at the dark ceiling, no doubt wondering if it would rip away or cave in and bury them.
He stood beside Roan, the weight of the crowd pressing them together. It was the closest he’d ever been to her. Gifford could feel her warmth, and smell the scents of charcoal, oil, and smoke—the smells he’d come to associate with Roan and all things good. If the roof collapsed and killed everyone, Gifford would have thanked Mari for that final kindness.
The granary was little more than a hole in the ground, but given that it protected the dahl’s food supply, the pit was solidly built to withstand just about anything. The best wood and rock went into its construction. The walls were dirt and stone, the ceiling braced by logs driven into the ground. This was the place where most of Gifford’s work ended up. Harvests of barley, wheat, and rye were poured into huge clay urns he had made. Their tops were sealed with wax to keep out the mice and moisture. The granary also shielded wine, honey, oil, vegetables, and a cache of smoked meats. After the long winter most of the stores were gone, and the pit was little more than a hole, but it was a sturdy one. Still, the ceiling shook, and the door rattled.
The only bit of light that continued to enter the bin was through the narrow slit where the door didn’t precisely meet its frame. This sliver of white flickered violently.
“It’ll be okay,” Gifford told Roan. He said it in a whisper as if it were a secret he’d chosen to share with her alone.
Brin, Viv Baker, and her daughter Hest were crying loudly. And it wasn’t just the women. Cobb, Heath Coswall, Habet, and Filson wept openly as well. But Roan wasn’t like them. She wasn’t like anyone, and that was why he liked her. When she turned to look at him, the light from the door highlighted the contour of her face. She wasn’t crying and didn’t look scared. There was just an intensity in her eyes. If there weren’t a dozen people between Roan and the door, if she were alone in the dark, he had no doubt she would have gone outside. She wanted to see. Roan wanted to see everything.
The clatter of hail stopped, but rain fell in bands, hard at times then lighter, only to pound once more. The howl of the wind faded. Even the cracks of lightning fell silent. Finally, the light from the door became bright and unwavering.
Nyphron shoved the door open and crept out. A moment later, he waved for them to follow.
Everyone squinted against the brightness of the sun, struggling to see. Thatch and logs were scattered everywhere. Branches, leaves, and broken planks of wood littered the yard. One of the lodge’s banners lay on the ground, its ends frayed. Not a single roundhouse had survived. The breadth of the dahl was a vacant field of mangled dirt and debris surrounded by the still-intact wall. All that remained were bare spots where grass hadn’t grown and a score of fire pits that continued to smolder. Overhead, clouds were breaking up, and Gifford already spotted patches of blue.
“Is it over?” Heath Coswall asked from the back.
As if in answer, a loud boom sounded and the dahl’s front gate trembled.
“What is that?” Moya asked, speaking for everyone.
Another bang hit and the gate began to buckle.
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Age of Myth Page 44
