a good man?”
The Duke patted her hand. “Darling Yeva,” he said. “Do you think I am so foolish or so cruel? Did you not see the Prince standing in the square this past week, waiting patiently each day for a glimpse of you? He has gold enough to hire a thousand men to wield their axes for him. He will win this contest easily and you will live in the capital and wear only silk for the rest of your days. What do you think of that?”
Yeva doubted that her father had answered her question, but she kissed his cheek and told him that he was very wise indeed.
What neither Yeva nor her father knew was that deep in the shadows of the clock tower, Semyon the Ragged was listening. Semyon was a Tidemaker, and though he was powerful, he was poor. This was in the days before the Second Army, when Grisha were welcome in few places and greeted with suspicion everywhere. Semyon made his living traveling from town to town, diverting rivers when there were droughts, keeping rains at bay when the winter storms came too soon, or finding the right places to sink wells. It was simple to Semyon. “Water only wants direction,” he would say on the rare occasion he was asked. “It wants to be told what to do.”
He was usually paid in barley or trade and as soon as he was done with a task the villagers would ask him to move on. It was no kind of life. Semyon longed for a home and a wife. He wanted new boots and a fine coat so that when he walked down the street people would look on him with respect. And as soon as he saw Yeva Luchova, he wanted her too.
Semyon made his way through town to the edge of the southern wood where the suitors were already hacking away at the trees and building their piles of timber. Semyon had no axe and no money to buy one. He was clever and even desperate enough to steal, but he’d seen the Prince loitering beneath Yeva’s window and he thought he understood the Duke’s plan well enough. His heart sank as he watched teams of men building the Prince’s pile while the Prince himself looked on, golden haired and smiling, twirling an ivory-handled axe with an edge that glinted the dull gray of Grisha steel.
Semyon went down to the river to the sorry camp he had made, where he kept his bundle of rags and his few belongings. He sat on the banks and listened to the steady thump and splash of the waterwheel beside the great mill. Around people, Semyon was tongue-tied and sullen, but on the sloping riverbank, amid the soft rustle of reeds, Semyon spoke freely, unburdening his heart to the water, confiding all his secret aspirations. The river laughed at his jokes, listened and murmured assent, roared in shared anger and indignation when he’d been wronged.
But as the sun set and the axes fell silent in the distance, Semyon knew the men would go home with the last of the daylight. The contest was as good as over.
“What am I to do?” he said to the river. “Tomorrow Yeva will have a prince for a husband and I will still have nothing. Always you have done my bidding, but what good are you to me now?”
To his surprise, the river burbled a high sweet sound, almost like a woman singing. It splashed left then right, breaking up against the rocks, frothing and foaming, as if troubled by a storm. Semyon stumbled backward, his boots sinking in the mud as the water rose.
“River, what do you do?” he cried.
The river swelled in a great, curling wave and roared toward him, breaching its banks. Semyon covered his head with his arms, sure he would be drowned, but just as the water was about to strike him, the river split and raced around his shaking body.
Through the woods the river tumbled, tearing ancient trees from the soil, stripping away branches. The river cut a path through the forest under the cover of night, all the way to the fallow field at the edge of the southern wood. There it swirled and eddied, and tree upon tree, branch upon branch, a structure began to take form. All night the river worked, and
The Duke patted her hand. “Darling Yeva,” he said. “Do you think I am so foolish or so cruel? Did you not see the Prince standing in the square this past week, waiting patiently each day for a glimpse of you? He has gold enough to hire a thousand men to wield their axes for him. He will win this contest easily and you will live in the capital and wear only silk for the rest of your days. What do you think of that?”
Yeva doubted that her father had answered her question, but she kissed his cheek and told him that he was very wise indeed.
What neither Yeva nor her father knew was that deep in the shadows of the clock tower, Semyon the Ragged was listening. Semyon was a Tidemaker, and though he was powerful, he was poor. This was in the days before the Second Army, when Grisha were welcome in few places and greeted with suspicion everywhere. Semyon made his living traveling from town to town, diverting rivers when there were droughts, keeping rains at bay when the winter storms came too soon, or finding the right places to sink wells. It was simple to Semyon. “Water only wants direction,” he would say on the rare occasion he was asked. “It wants to be told what to do.”
He was usually paid in barley or trade and as soon as he was done with a task the villagers would ask him to move on. It was no kind of life. Semyon longed for a home and a wife. He wanted new boots and a fine coat so that when he walked down the street people would look on him with respect. And as soon as he saw Yeva Luchova, he wanted her too.
Semyon made his way through town to the edge of the southern wood where the suitors were already hacking away at the trees and building their piles of timber. Semyon had no axe and no money to buy one. He was clever and even desperate enough to steal, but he’d seen the Prince loitering beneath Yeva’s window and he thought he understood the Duke’s plan well enough. His heart sank as he watched teams of men building the Prince’s pile while the Prince himself looked on, golden haired and smiling, twirling an ivory-handled axe with an edge that glinted the dull gray of Grisha steel.
Semyon went down to the river to the sorry camp he had made, where he kept his bundle of rags and his few belongings. He sat on the banks and listened to the steady thump and splash of the waterwheel beside the great mill. Around people, Semyon was tongue-tied and sullen, but on the sloping riverbank, amid the soft rustle of reeds, Semyon spoke freely, unburdening his heart to the water, confiding all his secret aspirations. The river laughed at his jokes, listened and murmured assent, roared in shared anger and indignation when he’d been wronged.
But as the sun set and the axes fell silent in the distance, Semyon knew the men would go home with the last of the daylight. The contest was as good as over.
“What am I to do?” he said to the river. “Tomorrow Yeva will have a prince for a husband and I will still have nothing. Always you have done my bidding, but what good are you to me now?”
To his surprise, the river burbled a high sweet sound, almost like a woman singing. It splashed left then right, breaking up against the rocks, frothing and foaming, as if troubled by a storm. Semyon stumbled backward, his boots sinking in the mud as the water rose.
“River, what do you do?” he cried.
The river swelled in a great, curling wave and roared toward him, breaching its banks. Semyon covered his head with his arms, sure he would be drowned, but just as the water was about to strike him, the river split and raced around his shaking body.
Through the woods the river tumbled, tearing ancient trees from the soil, stripping away branches. The river cut a path through the forest under the cover of night, all the way to the fallow field at the edge of the southern wood. There it swirled and eddied, and tree upon tree, branch upon branch, a structure began to take form. All night the river worked, and
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