Praetorian Rising, стр. 9
"Grenswald," Camille nodded curtly, scanning the wagon he'd filled to the brim with cartons of meats, bread, and vegetables: the best Sierra Village had to offer.
Before she could get around the behemoth, Grenswald grabbed her upper arm with his grubby sausage fingers. "What do you have for the Moon Tax today? It's two cartons this month, and you better not be hidin' goods from the High Court again."
"You're here two days early," Camille said, breathing through her mouth as wave upon wave of his stench assaulted her nose. As politely as she could manage, Camille removed his grotesque hand and looked up into his beady brown eyes, making sure to keep the hatred writhing in her body under control. Neeko sidled in front of her and hissed, and Grenswald took a few clumsy steps away.
"If you pardon me, sir, I'll go collect a hearty payment for you right now," Camille said through clenched teeth.
His eyes roved her body crudely, before landing just below the cavity of her neckline. "That's a pretty trinket you got there," Grenswald said, reaching for the slim silver amulet hanging from her neck.
There was no thought to her motion as Camille's flat palm surged up into Grenswald's nose, the flat expanse of her hand connecting with a sickening crunch of cartilage. He stumbled back a few steps away from her, his eyes now streaming with tears of pain.
"Yow bw-ok muh noh," Grenswald mumbled through a gurgle of blood and mucus.
"You've been warned," Camille roared with fierce intent. An explosion of anger burst out of her throat as she watched the man's pathetic retreat. Her entire body tingled with power, her muscles coiled and primed for attack.
"Don't ever touch my necklace. Don't even look at it." She grabbed the amulet with one hand as the warm rush of blood pooled behind her eyes, her gaze becoming sharper and ready for any unexpected movement. He would not be allowed to lay a hand on her again, consequences be damned.
Grenswald's eyes widened, a mixture of fear and surprise spreading like wildfire across his features. "You're a...a..." he said, stumbling back to slam into his wagon with a loud thump.
"Keep your distance from me, understand?" Camille snapped at him as he clutched at his nose with one hand. He nodded slightly, wincing at the pain of movement, but he didn't advance on her.
"Oh dear," Peter said just behind Camille's shoulder. She tensed at the sound of his voice, uncertain how he would react to what had just happened. There weren't a lot of bystanders, but enough for Grenswald to have witnesses of her attack. The sharp surge of anger that had taken over eased slightly as a fissure of worry crept through the barrier of her walled-in emotion. “Did you slip and fall Grenswald?"
Camille eyed the bleeding oaf through squinted lashes. The hefty weight of his body pressed against his cart as though his legs no longer worked. She silently dared him to speak. Staring Camille straight in the eye, he nodded his head, the jowls of his neck shaking with the effort of movement.
"Well that won't do, so sorry to have kept you waiting! I have a hearty payment for you, nothing so inconsequential as a trinket of little value," Peter said, his chin angling toward Camille still gripping her necklace with stern ferocity. "It's just a piece of tin and painted glass, anyways—no worthy value to you or the High King." The old butcher shoved two cartons filled with bread, vegetables, and a bag of fresh meat into Grenswald's cart before handing him a slightly tattered handkerchief from his pocket.
"For the mishap," Peter said with a heartwarming smile, as though offering a token of good will to a man in need. He then took Camille by the shirtsleeve and steered her home.
Camille fingered the amulet as they walked, tracing her thumb over the single red ruby it held. Soldered into the metal were branches bent to create a perfect circle, while the back of amulet was stamped with undefined ancient symbols. She kept anticipating Peter's reprimand for losing her temper with the king's henchman, but it never came. Instead, Peter silently ushered Camille and Lunci inside his cabin and set a pot of water boiling as Camille slumped into a chair.
"Camille!" Lunci shouted, dancing in front of the hearth. "Guess what?"
Camille quirked a brow at him, dropping the amulet back beneath her shirt front. "What?"
"Papa said we get to celebrate Fόmhair!"
"What's 'Fόmhair?'" Camille asked, massaging her aching temples. It had been an eventful afternoon, more than she'd anticipated, and her body was paying for it.
"It's the best holiday ever!" Lunci exclaimed, practically swooning. "So much food!"
"And when was this decided?" Camille asked, peering at Peter.
"After all these years, the only thing you remember is the food," Peter chuckled, disregarding Camille's question. "That isn't all there is to Fόmhair, my dear boy."
Peter disappeared down the short hall to the adjoining butchery, no doubt to grab whatever little options he'd set aside for them that evening.
"It's truly the best holiday," Lunci continued. "There's mountains of food, as well as dancing and singing."
"In truth, it's a heathen's celebration," Peter said from the kitchen. "But we allow the Katolites their interpretation of our holiday. For true Daeites and followers of Ma'Nada, Fόmhair is a day of celebration of the end. The end of long days and warm nights, the end of our harvesting season, and the celebration of those we've lost. It is a day of dancing, drinking, singing, and eating; but all together, it is to be a day of reflection and honoring of what is now past."
"Oh," Camille said in wonder. "That does sound delightful."
"Tomorrow marks the thirtieth day of Deireadh Fόmhair, which will end the harvesting season before the