by Amy Green
Demetri turned back to the book of records and continued to write. The Patrol member’s report had given him even more information to record.
“Aren’t you going to do something about the old man?” the Patrol member demanded. “What about the law?”
“The old man is the law in the kingdom of Amarias,” Demetri said shortly. He saw the confusion in the Patrol member’s eyes, but offered no further explanation. “You are dismissed.”
Demetri stayed up until midnight writing, thinking, and planning. As he blew out the candle, he took one last glance out the window. And for the first time, looking into the desert night, he felt fear.
Chapter 2
The empty inn was littered with a graveyard of empty soup bowls, chicken bones, and overturned chairs, creating eerie shadows in the near darkness. Only a little heat came from the dying embers in the fireplace, and curls of smoke escaped from the cracked brickwork. Jesse shivered, trying to finish his chores quickly so he could go to sleep like everyone else.
I hate the Festival, he decided, scrubbing furiously at a soup stain on Aunt Dara’s best tablecloth, the one they had brought out from storage to accommodate the extra guests. All of the travelers coming home from the Festival were louder, sweatier, and more irritable than normal, and that didn’t put Jesse in a good mood.
It’s not really the Festival, Jesse thought, giving the table an especially hard swipe. It’s the fact that Uncle Tristan and Aunt Dara wouldn’t let me go to the Festival.
Terenid, the capital city of Amarias, was only a few hours’ journey away from the village of Mir. Jesse had gone there five years before for the last Festival, when he was ten. But that was when Mother and Father were still here.
Jesse hated busy nights at the inn. There was too much noise, and there always seemed to be a mean-spirited traveler who mocked Jesse’s crippled left leg. “Hey, boy! Hurry that stump of yours along. I’m hungry.” Though he had learned long ago to ignore the taunts, they still stung.
Now, with all the guests asleep upstairs and Uncle Tristan and Aunt Dara away in their room, at least Jesse had a few hours of quiet. That was the only thing he enjoyed about cleaning the inn every night. In the empty room, he was free to let his mind wander, taking him to the better times of the past or the possible adventures of the future.
Tonight, though, he could only think of his aching leg and empty stomach. Just make it through the night, he thought wearily. That’s all that matters.
His mother would tell him to focus on positive thoughts, Jesse knew. But Mother is gone. She’s the one who left me here with Uncle Tristan and Aunt Dara in the first place.
He had heard people talking about how good and kind Tristan and Dara were for taking in their crippled nephew after his parents disappeared—listened as the village priest practically assured them the generous deed would get them into heaven.
That was what Jesse hated most—no one knew what his aunt and uncle were really like. They just saw a fat, jovial innkeeper and his sweet, pale wife who always had a good tale to tell and a warm bowl of soup on the fire.
Jesse’s father had known. That’s why, even though they lived on a farm on the other side of Mir, they rarely visited Uncle Tristan and Aunt Dara. “They’re not bad people, Son,” he had always said when Jesse asked why. “They just have their priorities wrong.”
A sharp knock broke into his thoughts, and Jesse jumped, nearly dropping a plate. Another guest? He started to move toward the door, then stopped. But it’s after curfew!
Once the sun went down, citizens of Amarias were forbidden to leave their homes. No one wandered the streets, not even in the small village of Mir, or they could be arrested, even killed, by the king’s Patrol.
The knock came again, louder this time. Jesse glanced toward his uncle’s room on the far side of the hall, unsure of what to do.
It could be a bandit, or perhaps a member of the Rebellion. Then Jesse shook his head at his foolishness. No lawbreaker would come to an inn for the night. Most likely it’s a traveler from another land who doesn’t know of the law.
Jesse grabbed the lone candle from the fireplace mantle, holding it out like a magic charm against whatever was behind the door. He couldn’t stop his hand from trembling as he eased the door open a crack.
The harsh wind, cold for March, nearly blew out the flame before Jesse shielded it. Two cloaked figures huddled together on the porch of the inn. “We need a place to stay,” the taller one said. His tone of voice left no room for questions.
Jesse opened the door wider and took a closer look. They don’t seem dangerous. One was a tall young man, probably a few years older than Jesse. He stood straight and tall, and the wheat blond hair, nearly white, that stuck out from his hood shone in the moonlight. The other, a slight figure, was little more than a girl, the cold creating two red blotches on her pale cheeks.
“Can you pay?” Jesse asked automatically. That was always Uncle Tristan’s first concern.
“Yes,” the girl said, digging around in the pouch she carried, “and well too.” Her voice had a strange, lilting quality to it, an accent Jesse had heard from travelers from District Three.
Then Jesse noticed something else. The girl’s small hand was holding out a golden sceptre coin. Jesse was used to being paid only in crownes. Even more often, travelers would pay in kind, giving his uncle a chicken or a basket of apples in exchange for a room. Times were hard, and few had enough money for the luxuries of travel. Where did these two get such wealth?
Jesse knew that would not be a proper question to ask a guest. “May I see your papers?” he asked instead.
Every good citizen of Amarias carried their identification papers with them at all times. The papers listed the name, occupation, and legal status of each person, distinguishing them from escaped criminals, street urchins, spies, and other ruffians. All inns in the country registered each person who stayed with them.
So Jesse drew back in surprise when the tall stranger said, “No.”
That was all. Just a simple “no,” without explanation.
Jesse knew he should shut the door immediately, but he was curious. “Are you slaves?” he guessed. “Run away from your master?” The Festival, with its teeming crowds and boisterous parade, would be an ideal time for an escape.
No response, so Jesse continued, “Or lovers, perhaps, running away to marry without your families’ permission?”
That at least got a reaction. The girl scoffed loudly. “Never!” she declared, glaring up at the tall young man.
“Then why are you out after curfew, with no identification?”
“That does not concern you,” the tall stranger said, his tone flat and even. “All we ask is that you allow us to stay at this inn.”
“I can’t. It’s the law.”
“Hang the law!” the girl said, stepping forward and grabbing Jesse’s arm. This close, he could see dark eyes burning in her small, pretty face. “Our friend is hurt!”
Jesse wrenched away in alarm, then realized what the girl had said. “There’s another one of you?”
The girl nodded, then stepped aside. Behind them was the slumped form of a young man. Jesse could hear his soft moaning, even over the bitter wind.
“He might die if he can’t get inside,” the tall stranger said. “Will you let us in?” They stood there, shivering in the cold, waiting for Jesse to answer.
Without meaning to, Jesse remembered a story the village priest had once told. He and his family had never been much for religion—most priests and their followers were hypocrites and liars—but Jesse remembered this story.
It was about a man and a woman, both poor, who stumbled into a crowded town, looking for a place to stay. The woman was about to have a baby, but everyone turned them away.
Jesse remembered asking the priest what the point was to the story. He had coughed, looked away
, and then finally said he didn’t know.
Now Jesse thought he could guess. The story was about the ones who had closed their doors on the couple. Jesse’s father disliked talk of God, but he always said people had a responsibility to help each other when they could. Although Jesse’s parents barely had enough left after taxes to survive on, they always found a way to visit the sick, give some of their rations to a neighbor in need, or let a passing beggar spend the night.
“All right,” Jesse said, pulling the door open. “Bring him in.”
“What’s going on?” a familiar voice bellowed, much too loudly for the quiet night.
Jesse didn’t bother to turn around, knowing who the voice belonged to. “More travelers, Uncle Tristan,” he said instead. How one so large could manage to sneak up on him, Jesse was never sure.
Uncle Tristan lumbered forward, shoving Jesse aside to get to the door. “Why are you out after curfew?” he demanded, loud enough to disturb the guests in the room above them. “Who are you? Where are your papers?”
“We can’t show them to you,” the tall stranger responded, never flinching.
Even in the dim candlelight, Jesse could see the suspicion in his uncle’s eyes. “You mean you don’t have any.”
“No, he means exactly what he said,” the girl put in, crossing her arms in defiance. “We can’t show them to you.”
“Enough, Rae,” the other said, frowning.
“Get away from here,” Uncle Tristan said, shaking his fat fist at them. “We don’t take your kind at this inn.”
“But, Uncle,” Jesse protested, “they have a sick friend with them.”
“Can’t be helped,” Uncle Tristan growled. “If we let in guests without papers, the Patrol will find out, and we get thrown out on the streets.” He shook Jesse by the shoulder. “Is that what you want, boy? To be homeless like you should have been when your parents left you?”
Without realizing it, Jesse’s hands tightened into fists. Don’t say anything, he said, hoping the darkness would hide the expression on his face. Don’t let him know it upsets you.
Jesse didn’t believe what everyone else said, that his parents had left for District Four to find work, and left him because they couldn’t feed a third mouth. What they meant—Jesse knew from the way that they glanced down at his crippled leg—was that his parents hadn’t been able to support a boy who couldn’t do his share of the work.
Nearly a year had passed, and no news had come from his parents. Maybe it would be better if they were dead. At least then I would stop hoping they will come back.
“We have to tell them, Silas,” the girl, Rae, said in a low voice, glancing at Jesse briefly before turning back to him.
“No,” Silas said, shaking his head. “We can’t be sure we can trust them.”
They can’t trust us?
Uncle Tristan started to shut the door, but Jesse stepped over the threshold, blocking it. “I don’t understand,” he said, watching the strangers carefully.
Rae threw her cloak to the side, letting it blow in the wind, and rolled up the loose sleeve of her dress. There, tattooed on her shoulder, was the symbol of Amarias. The familiar A, enclosed in a broken circle, could mean only one thing.
“You’re Youth Guard members,” Jesse said, his eyes wide in awe. The most famous troops of all of the land…here, at our inn!
“Yes,” Rae said, nodding sharply. “We didn’t want to show you our papers because…” She glanced around at the shadows around the inn. “Enemies of the king are everywhere.”
“This is…that is, I….” Uncle Tristan’s round face contorted as he stuttered. “Please, excuse my behavior,” he said, giving a quick bow. “I did not know. That is, you did not say.”
“Please,” Silas said, holding up a hand to stop his blustering. “We just need a place to stay. We already put our horses in your stable.”
Normally, Uncle Tristan would be outraged that strangers broke into one of his buildings, but he didn’t even seem to notice. “I’ll get my best room ready,” he said, hurrying away.
Jesse knew that he would throw out any of his guests to accommodate the Youth Guard members, but Rae stopped him. “No. We don’t want anyone to know we are here. Just give us some food and let us sleep in the hall. We’ll leave at dawn.”
Uncle Tristan bowed again and scurried off to the kitchen, forgetting, in his confusion, to give Jesse any orders.
The two Youth Guard members leaned over their fallen friend. “How bad is the sickness?” Jesse asked, trying to see over Silas’ shoulder. The village hermit, Kayne, had taught him a few things about treating fevers, although he did not have the old man’s natural gift for identifying healing herbs.
“He’s not sick,” Silas said, easing the man up. “He was shot with an arrow.”
“We think it was one of the Rebellion, sent to assassinate us,” Rae added flatly.
Just hearing the name made Jesse shudder. Everyone knew of the secret group that worked to undermine the king, but few dared to speak their name out loud.
Silas and Rae lifted the body with what seemed to be little effort. Jesse opened the door for them, looking on as they laid the man down on the floor by the fireplace.
Jesse brought the candle closer, getting a good look at the sick stranger. He was young, Jesse knew, since Youth Guard members were between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. His dark brown hair was matted to his head with sweat. Even though his burly form reminded Jesse of a mountain bear, his arms hung limply at his side.
“No,” the young man groaned quietly. Jesse jumped. “He never going up me had to there disappear.”
“It’s getting worse,” Rae whispered. She slumped into a chair, still watching her friend.
Silas’ mind appeared to be somewhere else. “You shouldn’t have told them, Rae,” he said, staring into the ashes of the fire.
“I had to!” she protested. “Parvel might have died because of you and your foolish caution.”
“My caution may save all of our lives,” Silas snapped. “There is a reason why only eleven Guard members out of hundreds have come back alive with their mission completed.”
Even though he forced himself not to move, Jesse flinched inwardly. Of course, he knew that most of the Youth Guard died or disappeared. It was the nature of the difficult missions they attempted. This year, though, he had a personal interest in the statistic. His childhood friend, Eli, was in this year’s Youth Guard. Only one hundred were chosen, the best of the kingdom, and he had been one of them.
Perhaps Eli will be the twelfth to live and return to Mir, a hero. Although the thought was comforting, Jesse couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Eli was everything a Youth Guard member should be—tall, strong, and darkly handsome. Jesse hadn’t even attended the muster. As if the Guard would want a cripple like me anyway.
Although he knew he should be helping his uncle prepare food, or perhaps getting a spare blanket for the injured man, Jesse couldn’t force himself to leave. The young man—the others had called him Parvel—twitched and contorted in pain, his eyes still closed.
This was not like any arrow wound Jesse had ever seen. “Is he…” Jesse paused, not wanting to ask it. “Is he going to die?”
“I don’t know,” Rae said, seeming to shrink in the chair, her confident air gone. “It makes no sense. It wasn’t a bad wound. The arrow hit his arm.”
“The archer had poor aim,” Silas added.
“What happened to him?” Jesse asked.
Silas held up a longbow that Jesse had not noticed in the darkness. “I don’t have poor aim.”
Without thinking, Jesse edged away from Silas and toward Parvel. He looked at the young man’s sweaty face. “This is not an ordinary sickness,” Jesse declared, turning to Rae and Silas. “Your friend needs help—and soon.”
“Thank you for that en
lightening information,” Rae shot back. “Maybe we should risk our lives to travel back to the capital on the main roads to get a doctor.”
“I know someone who can help you,” Jesse said, ignoring her rude tone. “He’s close by. It wouldn’t be dangerous.” Kayne lived deep in the thickets of the woods behind the inn, where no Patrol member ever went.
“You are sure?” This from Silas, who was staring intently at Jesse, as if he could read his mind.
“Yes.”
Silas glanced again at Parvel’s limp form. He moaned again, and that seemed to settle the matter for Silas. “All right,” he said, standing. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 3
Even though Rae and Silas were carrying Parvel, Jesse had a hard time keeping up with the two Youth Guard members as they made their way through the dark woods. Jesse leaned heavily on his good leg, trying to ignore the contorted shadows of tree branches that kept the pale moonlight from lighting the path.
Uncle Tristan hadn’t put forth a single objection to Jesse leading the way to Kayne’s cabin, especially not after Rae tossed him a sceptre coin. Jesse guessed Uncle Tristan would have sold him to them as a slave for that amount of money.
Through the trees, Jesse saw the familiar outline of Kayne’s cabin. There was no road to it—hardly anyone came to visit the old man—but Jesse had worn a little path in the moss and grass of the forest. “We’re here,” he announced, pointing.
“That’s it?” Rae said flatly, staring at it.
Jesse knew why. Kayne’s cabin—most called it a shack—looked like it could barely stand up. One side leaned against the twisted brush of the pine tree beside it, and the roof looked like a heap of scrap lumber. Jesse had offered to help Kayne repair it many times, but his offers were always met with gruff refusal. Everyone in Mir gossiped about it, wondering why a gifted carpenter like Kayne would choose to live in such a rundown shack.
Jesse nodded. “A friend of mine lives here. He’ll know how to help Parvel.”