Page 2 of Heart of Defiance

There are worse fates, I remind myself. I might as well go tend to those.

I set off on a route that skirts the edge of town, but once I reach the hill at the northern end, I have to veer onto the outer streets to make the climb. Sweat beads on my forehead with the lingering mid-day heat. I keep my gaze fixed on the polished limestone structure perched up at the top of the road, which is coming more clearly into view with every step.

A murmur catches in my ears regardless. “There goes that useless Signy.”

I just keep walking.

For the last several paces of the climb, tufts of grass creep onto the packed dirt road. Really, it’s more of a path at this point. I’ve left all the houses behind, nothing remaining but the memorial building ahead of me.

Somehow it looks less grand when standing right in front of it than it does from the bottom of the hill. I could touch the edge of the stone-tiled roof if I lifted my hands. The whole structure is barely larger than my decrepit cabin.

But no one needs to live in this building. It’s a symbolic home to honor those no longer living at all.

Row upon row of names are carved into the outer walls, the earliest etchings from centuries ago worn down with age. I pick up one of the rags I keep in a bucket near the corner and start wiping away the grit and bits of moss that’ve attached themselves to the surface, obscuring some of the letters. Here and there, I need to take out my pocket knife to scour off the worst bits.

The names continue all the way around the back of the building and onto the other side, where the newest additions reach about halfway across. Still plenty of room for more, and no doubt there will be more to come.

I give the last couple of rows an especially thorough wipe, my gaze lingering on two names that were added sixteen and thirteen years ago respectively, when I was five and then eight.

Greta Emadaut. Faro Hendiksson.

I rest my fingertips against the carved letters, my tan skin dark compared to the pale stone.

My memories of my parents have fragmented with time, gone hazy and disjointed. But Mom’s smile still beams through my recollections, alongside Dad’s buoyant laugh. The way she’d cuddle me on her lap when I scraped my knee, weaving flowers and ribbons into my hair. The way he’d toss me up in the air like I weighed nothing at all and then swing us in a giddy circle.

No markings on the building say what the memorial is for. We’re too afraid to openly state it.

Our conquerors don’t like any hint of discontentment with their rule. If we gave away that we’re bearing witness specifically to our family members, friends, and neighbors who the Darium empire’s soldiers have struck down, this structure would be rubble by sundown.

It’s hard to imagine what this town—what all of our country—might have been like before Dariu invaded theentire continent. The last people who experienced the old Velduny are long dead. But I have to think life was better when our kings and dukes and countesses weren’t worrying more about keeping favor with their overseers than serving their own people.

I put away the rag and grab the broom to sweep off the tiles around the memorial. My gaze wanders over the landscape around the hill, and some of my earlier restlessness subsides.

It’s a stunning view. The domed marble roof of our temple of the All-Giver glints under the sun, ornate patterns carved across it. Next to it, the ancient town hall looms with a subtle grandeur. Its burnished pinkish-gray stones were cut from the local hillsides.

On either side of town, winding crags rise up amid the forest like islands in a sea of green leaves. One curves right over to meet the ground again, forming the arch visitors ride through to enter town along that road.

Straight ahead to the south, our river winds through grassy plains before feeding into a sparkling lake at the foot of jagged mountains. A temple of Inganne, my chosen godlen for all she dismissed me, stands a couple of miles to the west of the lake, shining so vibrantly orange it immediately draws the eye.

Looking at it, I tap my fingers down my front in the gesture of the divinities: forehead for the three godlen of air, heart for the three of the sea, gut for the three of the earth, then fisting my hand between my breasts where I have Inganne’s sigil burned into my skin. I can’t not pay my respects to our gods when faced with this vista, even if they don’t care much for me.

I’m still not totally sure why Inganne rejected my sacrifice. The shame of it has never stopped burning. But I am blessed to live in a place surrounded by such beauty.

I don’t need to have magic to one day honor that beauty with something I’ve created, like I’ve always dreamed.

Something like the fountain burbling in our town’s central square. When my attention drops to it, a couple of kids are swaying along the outer edge of the basin. The girl slips and jumps into the water with a burst of giggles. On the other side, one of the town cats darts over to lap up a little water.

My mother left her mark on this town, even though she was stolen from my life far too soon. She carved every curve of the elegant figure standing on the fountain’s platform, pouring the water from a jug. Every petal on the flowers that dapple the ground around the woman’s feet. Every symbol on the Veldunian crest that binds her rippling cloak.

Adelheid is an old Veldunian folk hero. It’s said she gave up her home and traveled the country in a time of drought, helping those she met find ways to keep their crops and gardens alive, and Prospira, the godlen of fertility and abundance, blessed her with a jug that would never totally empty.

The corner of my lips curves up in a wry smile. I once imagined contributing a work of artistry that was even more breathtaking. Now that idea seems ridiculous. But I’m glad that Mom’s creation keeps nurturing the town even after her death.

I’ve put the broom away and am taking one last look over the landscape when I spot a cluster of dark figures on horseback riding along the road to our natural stone archway.

There’s no doubting what they are the second my eyes catch on their uniforms. Only Darium soldiers wear those outfits that are black from helm to boots—other than the white skull and bones painted onto the material.

They make themselves up to look like living skeletons. Ican’t deny it’s effective. A shiver travels down my back as I watch the five of them.

---