Her brother gazed at her with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. A tall man of twenty-five years, he sported a head of shaggy brown hair. He had inherited his father's bearlike hair, while she had the smooth, golden hair of their late mother. His eyes, like hers, were gray tinged with blue.

"By the stars," Tanin said. "Your face is as swollen and ugly as a troll's swollen arse." He winked. "Getting it beaten up doesn't help either."

She grunted and pulled out her medallion. "A troll's swollen arse with a silver prize." She pushed past him. He was taller but Maev knew she was stronger. "Now don't come between me and ale, or you'll look the same."

She reached the tables. Men moved aside, patting her on the back, and she thumped into a seat. Ignoring the villagers, she reached across the table, grabbed a leg of mutton, and took a huge bite. The hot meat melted in her mouth, and juices dripped down her chin, stinging her cuts. Somebody handed her a tankard, and she drank deeply. The frothy ale was cold in her throat but warmed her belly.

A drunkard who sat beside her—his droopy red mustache floated in his ale—yelped as Tanin yanked him aside. Her brother, that oaf of a juggler, replaced him on the bench. He pointed at Maev and glared.

"How much longer do you think you can do this?" he said. "This is . . . what, your one hundredth fight by now? Over a hundred for sure."

"Not counting." She stared at the table, chewing her meat.

"And how many more fists can you take to the face?" Tanin leaned forward, forcing himself into her field of vision. "You can't keep doing this."

She shoved his face away and gulped down more ale. Blood dripped from her forehead into the drink. "Somebody's got to support this family. If it's not smith work, it'll be fist work." She thrust out her bottom lip, chin raised in defiance. "I was a good smith when Grizzly still had his shop. But I'm a better fighter."

His voice softened. "There are other ways. My juggling earns us some food."

She snorted. "Your juggling does nothing but land you on your arse to the sound of jeers. Other ways, brother? Not for us. Not for our kind. Not for people with our curs—"

"Hush!" He paled. "Not here."

She looked around but nobody seemed to be listening. The villagers were too drunk, too busy eating, or too busy comforting the sour Gorn; the brute was sitting across the table, his face puffy and lacerated.

"Nobody's listening. Nobody cares." Maev reached for a turnip and chewed lustily. "This is how we survive, dear brother. Let Grizzly lead us. Let Grandpapa heal our wounds. And let me pound faces and earn us a living."

The truth she kept to herself. Because fighting like this eases the pain, she thought, her eyes stinging. Because fists and kicks drown the memories . . . the memories of banishment, of a lost younger sister, of who I am. And so she fought, soaking up the bruises and cuts, hiding the wounds inside her.