4 The Dancer at the FeastTYR AND AZHUR WALKED towards the north end of the square, the one opposite the players’ wagon, where a narrow little street led off towards the wooded hillside path that went up through the trees to the healer’s home. Near to the street and lowering over the square was a gnarled, solitary hill crowned by a group of spindly, mournful trees that seemed to keep watch over a shabby, rundown house squatting on the hill’s crest.
“Something special about that?” asked Azhur. He pointed to the rocky hill.
“Oh,” said Tyr. “That’s Gizzard’s house. Y’ don’t want to be goin’ up there.”
“Gizzard?”
“We call him that. Some of us do, anyroad. Not to his face, mind, or he’d go wild. Is right name’s Gizhurthra. He’s our vraakhin.”
“I see,” said Azhur, a little stiffly.
“Oh, for
