Chapter 2: Morning
The sea was a blue mirror. Matthew sat in a little boat, a white sailor’s jacket over his burial linens, his face turned toward the horizon. There was no wind, not a ripple on the water, but the boat drifted away, drifted toward the sun.
Sylvie wished she could see his face. She wanted to look into his solemn black eyes one more time. But she was like a person fallen into a painting, voiceless, unable to move. Unable to do anything, but watch as the little boat faded into a gleaming drop of sunlight.
She woke. Warm tears poured down her face.
Why did she have to dream of Matthew? It had been three months since his death. She shouldn’t still feel this way. This pain clawing underneath her chest, this heavy swollen sobbing. It had to end.
Sylvie dug her face into her pillow. Stop crying. Lumps of breath retched from her lungs. Stop crying!
She no longer had the luxury of privacy. Soon she’d leave for the refugee camp. By afternoon Sylvie would live in a cloth tent so thin that any stranger could hear her cry. Rumors would link her tears to Matthew. They’d figure it out. They always did.
Footsteps thumped in the common room.
“Sylvie?” her father called. “Are you awake?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good. Hurry and get dressed. Nicolas and Fenton are waiting outside.”
Nicolas and Fenton were both garrison men, here to escort them to the governor’s field. Nicolas she knew fairly well, as he came from a religious family, but Fenton moved here from the mining town of Brockton. He had red hair and was good at fighting. Neither would care about her and Matthew. Even so, she didn’t want them to know she was crying.
Sylvie pulled a towel off the headboard of her bed and carefully wiped her eyes. She got out of bed and groped for her clothes chest. As she lifted the lid, something rattled and rolled down the wood.
Sylvie caught the string of smooth beads.
Her engagement necklace.
For seven years, she wore it every day without thought. And now suddenly she kept forgetting to put it on. Sylvie wrapped the expensive turquoise beads around her neck and knotted the string tight. Warden would notice if she left them off. He’d take it the wrong way.
By the time she dressed, flickering light trickled in from the common room. Sylvie ducked under the flap. A lantern illuminated her father in his off-white robes, kneeling on the floor with his head bowed.
“God, I wait for you like a child waits for morning. Come and take my fears. Fill me with your radiance and shine your path before me.”
Head low, Sylvie crept toward her travel basket and picked up the two canteens on top. Empty. She’d forgotten to fill them. Better do that now.
Sylvie stepped outside. Clouds drowned the starlight of the black October sky.
“Morning.”
She jumped. She hadn’t seen the two men standing by the door in their midnight blue jackets.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello… Nicolas?”
He nodded, so she’d gotten his name right. Nicolas had a tall halberd tilted in his hand, while his companion, Fenton, flipped an axe one-handed in the air.
“Going somewhere?”
“To the well, to fill up the canteens.”
“You shouldn’t go by yourself,” Nicolas said. “Ku Rokai scouts roam at dawn and kidnap farmers. The moat’s no protection against them.”
“I can take her,” Fenton said.
“We’re not supposed to split up.”
“I can handle a Ku Rokai scout by myself.”
“Well, I can’t.” Nicolas sounded irritated. “What if they strike the house?”
“It’s fine,” Sylvie said, hoping to avoid conflict. “We’ll pass the well on the way to the field. I’ll fill up then. Less effort that way.”
It took several minutes for her father to finish his prayers. Sylvie waited until he was done before strapping the travel basket onto her back. It was heavy. Her father carried only the old inventory book, a battered leather portfolio wrapped in a red ribbon.
The plan was for Sylvie to leave with the rest of the town and set up camp. Her father would stay behind to do inventory, supervise the breakdown of the church, and move the heavy furniture from the house. They’d eat breakfast in Fay’s garden and go their separate ways.
The four of them walked in a line down the road, Nicolas in the front and Fenton at the end. Sylvie’s feet fell in and out of the wagon ruts. Her throat tightened to think that Matthew would never come down the road again.
So much had changed in three months. The Ku Rokai took Roxane’s Point. Brenton began evacuation to the refugee camp near Stilted Rocks. Matthew’s store was torn down. As Sylvie walked into town, she saw four dents in the earth where the foundation once stood.
Only the well remained unchanged.
The party halted while Sylvie pushed on the pumps and caught the drizzle in her canteens. She remembered how, two days after Matthew told her the prophecy, dragging herself to the well felt like yanking out the minutes of her life. And still it wasn’t as horrible hearing Gayle’s wail rip through the crowd, seeing the linen-wrapped body carried down the stairs.
“Sylvie,” Nicolas said.
She started. “Yes?”
“Ready to go?”
She nodded and plugged the canteen.
The clouds were graying when they came to the governor’s field. The first rays of dawn gleamed on the slick mud runs of Brenton’s small lake. To the west sat the warehouses, windowless square boxes perched on top of three hill-like clumps of white rocks. Two large empty carts blocked off the road, waiting for supplies.
Past the carts there was chaos. Red-jacketed garrison men on guard duty shared the field with the last wave of evacuees, easily two hundred townspeople packing and bickering and complaining. Over the din rose the sharp cries of flutes, some sort of garrison code that Sylvie didn’t understand.
“No scouts,” Fenton commented.
“Seems that way,” Nicolas said.
“Too bad. I was hoping we’d get to kill a few.”
Her father frowned. “You oughtn’t be so eager for violence, young man. It’s displeasing to God.”
Fenton scoffed.
A member of the garrison ran through their line, cutting in front of Sylvie. Dark hair blew over his eyes, a flute smacked against his chest. His blue jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a brown shirt underneath.
“What’s your hurry, Len?” Nicolas asked.
“My sister’s here.”
“Brooke?”
“Of course Brooke. You think Iris would bother us in the middle of the morning?”
“There’s Marshall,” her father interrupted. “Thank you both for escorting us, but I think we’ll be safe on our own.”
Marshall stood between the two wagons like a tall statue, arms crossed, unmoving. His scarred, leathery face showed no expression, but he did manage a curt nod when her father stepped in front of him.
“Marshall, you’re in charge of the farmhands,” her father said. “I have concerns about one of the men scheduled to move the warehouse supplies. Would it be possible to replace him?”
“Perhaps.”
Her father seemed to notice her for the first time. “Sylvie, go talk to the governor. This is private business.”
Sylvie’s mouth twitched, but she did as she was told. As always.
She squeezed through the ruckus, trying not to hit anyone with her basket. The crowd was dense by the road but petered out by the governor’s house. By the time she got to the garden, it was quiet enough to hear birds chirp. She opened the gate.
Governor Eamon crouched under a silk tree at the far end of the garden, stirring a pot of porridge left-handed. His sleeve flapped where his right hand had once been, a loss from the Second Ku Rokai War. He had black hair and a long serious face. Warden sat next to him on an old blanket. His back was toward Sylvie, his blue traveling cloak fell like a waterfall over his hunched shoulders, and his head drooped low.
“What if he’s serious?” Warden whispered.
“Let me worry about your brother,” Eamon said.
Suddenly he looked up.
Sylvie’s ears heated. “My father’s coming,” she said, as though that explained her intrusion. “He stopped to talk to Marshall.”
“Ah.”
“Good morning, Sylvie,” Warden said, turning around.
“Good morning, Warden.”
She smiled for him. For a moment, his gray-blue eyes brightened.
He looked exhausted. His complexion was gray and the skin around his eyes sagged. More insomnia? Sylvie took off the basket. Was it the same general worries or something new?
“Breakfast is ready.” The governor indicated the porridge. “We need bowls and spoons.”
“I’ll get them.” Warden rose.
“I’ll tag along,” Sylvie offered.
It’d give her a chance to find out what was bothering him.
Warden was lean and tall, like his father, but he had the bad habit of slouching. It made him look shorter than he was.
“My mother left yesterday, along with most of our things. What’s left is scattered all over the common room.” Warden opened the front door. “I’m afraid the house will be messy.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
The common room was filled with bags, baskets, and jars, neatly stacked and arranged over the swept wooden floor. Not messy at all. Warden stepped onto some unseen path and began to root through the bowls. One, two, three, four.
When he came to the fifth bowl, he stopped.
“Is Kendrick having breakfast with us?” Sylvie asked.
Warden’s jaw became slack. “I don’t know.”
“Is something going on?”
“They were fighting last night.”
“Kendrick and your father?”
He nodded.
“What about?”
The muscles in his shoulders tightened.
“Maybe it’s none of my business,” she said.
“No, it’s not that,” Warden said. “You’re family… to me, to my father… and I trust you. Only… I don’t want to burden you with this.”
Sylvie tried to ignore the clenched feeling in her stomach when Warden called her family, the way her legs bunched up as if to run.
“It’s no burden. I’d rather listen and try to help than watch you worry about it.” She folded her hands over her skirt. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Sylvie wished she could see his face. She wanted to look into his solemn black eyes one more time. But she was like a person fallen into a painting, voiceless, unable to move. Unable to do anything, but watch as the little boat faded into a gleaming drop of sunlight.
She woke. Warm tears poured down her face.
Why did she have to dream of Matthew? It had been three months since his death. She shouldn’t still feel this way. This pain clawing underneath her chest, this heavy swollen sobbing. It had to end.
Sylvie dug her face into her pillow. Stop crying. Lumps of breath retched from her lungs. Stop crying!
She no longer had the luxury of privacy. Soon she’d leave for the refugee camp. By afternoon Sylvie would live in a cloth tent so thin that any stranger could hear her cry. Rumors would link her tears to Matthew. They’d figure it out. They always did.
Footsteps thumped in the common room.
“Sylvie?” her father called. “Are you awake?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good. Hurry and get dressed. Nicolas and Fenton are waiting outside.”
Nicolas and Fenton were both garrison men, here to escort them to the governor’s field. Nicolas she knew fairly well, as he came from a religious family, but Fenton moved here from the mining town of Brockton. He had red hair and was good at fighting. Neither would care about her and Matthew. Even so, she didn’t want them to know she was crying.
Sylvie pulled a towel off the headboard of her bed and carefully wiped her eyes. She got out of bed and groped for her clothes chest. As she lifted the lid, something rattled and rolled down the wood.
Sylvie caught the string of smooth beads.
Her engagement necklace.
For seven years, she wore it every day without thought. And now suddenly she kept forgetting to put it on. Sylvie wrapped the expensive turquoise beads around her neck and knotted the string tight. Warden would notice if she left them off. He’d take it the wrong way.
By the time she dressed, flickering light trickled in from the common room. Sylvie ducked under the flap. A lantern illuminated her father in his off-white robes, kneeling on the floor with his head bowed.
“God, I wait for you like a child waits for morning. Come and take my fears. Fill me with your radiance and shine your path before me.”
Head low, Sylvie crept toward her travel basket and picked up the two canteens on top. Empty. She’d forgotten to fill them. Better do that now.
Sylvie stepped outside. Clouds drowned the starlight of the black October sky.
“Morning.”
She jumped. She hadn’t seen the two men standing by the door in their midnight blue jackets.
“Oh,” she said. “Hello… Nicolas?”
He nodded, so she’d gotten his name right. Nicolas had a tall halberd tilted in his hand, while his companion, Fenton, flipped an axe one-handed in the air.
“Going somewhere?”
“To the well, to fill up the canteens.”
“You shouldn’t go by yourself,” Nicolas said. “Ku Rokai scouts roam at dawn and kidnap farmers. The moat’s no protection against them.”
“I can take her,” Fenton said.
“We’re not supposed to split up.”
“I can handle a Ku Rokai scout by myself.”
“Well, I can’t.” Nicolas sounded irritated. “What if they strike the house?”
“It’s fine,” Sylvie said, hoping to avoid conflict. “We’ll pass the well on the way to the field. I’ll fill up then. Less effort that way.”
It took several minutes for her father to finish his prayers. Sylvie waited until he was done before strapping the travel basket onto her back. It was heavy. Her father carried only the old inventory book, a battered leather portfolio wrapped in a red ribbon.
The plan was for Sylvie to leave with the rest of the town and set up camp. Her father would stay behind to do inventory, supervise the breakdown of the church, and move the heavy furniture from the house. They’d eat breakfast in Fay’s garden and go their separate ways.
The four of them walked in a line down the road, Nicolas in the front and Fenton at the end. Sylvie’s feet fell in and out of the wagon ruts. Her throat tightened to think that Matthew would never come down the road again.
So much had changed in three months. The Ku Rokai took Roxane’s Point. Brenton began evacuation to the refugee camp near Stilted Rocks. Matthew’s store was torn down. As Sylvie walked into town, she saw four dents in the earth where the foundation once stood.
Only the well remained unchanged.
The party halted while Sylvie pushed on the pumps and caught the drizzle in her canteens. She remembered how, two days after Matthew told her the prophecy, dragging herself to the well felt like yanking out the minutes of her life. And still it wasn’t as horrible hearing Gayle’s wail rip through the crowd, seeing the linen-wrapped body carried down the stairs.
“Sylvie,” Nicolas said.
She started. “Yes?”
“Ready to go?”
She nodded and plugged the canteen.
The clouds were graying when they came to the governor’s field. The first rays of dawn gleamed on the slick mud runs of Brenton’s small lake. To the west sat the warehouses, windowless square boxes perched on top of three hill-like clumps of white rocks. Two large empty carts blocked off the road, waiting for supplies.
Past the carts there was chaos. Red-jacketed garrison men on guard duty shared the field with the last wave of evacuees, easily two hundred townspeople packing and bickering and complaining. Over the din rose the sharp cries of flutes, some sort of garrison code that Sylvie didn’t understand.
“No scouts,” Fenton commented.
“Seems that way,” Nicolas said.
“Too bad. I was hoping we’d get to kill a few.”
Her father frowned. “You oughtn’t be so eager for violence, young man. It’s displeasing to God.”
Fenton scoffed.
A member of the garrison ran through their line, cutting in front of Sylvie. Dark hair blew over his eyes, a flute smacked against his chest. His blue jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a brown shirt underneath.
“What’s your hurry, Len?” Nicolas asked.
“My sister’s here.”
“Brooke?”
“Of course Brooke. You think Iris would bother us in the middle of the morning?”
“There’s Marshall,” her father interrupted. “Thank you both for escorting us, but I think we’ll be safe on our own.”
Marshall stood between the two wagons like a tall statue, arms crossed, unmoving. His scarred, leathery face showed no expression, but he did manage a curt nod when her father stepped in front of him.
“Marshall, you’re in charge of the farmhands,” her father said. “I have concerns about one of the men scheduled to move the warehouse supplies. Would it be possible to replace him?”
“Perhaps.”
Her father seemed to notice her for the first time. “Sylvie, go talk to the governor. This is private business.”
Sylvie’s mouth twitched, but she did as she was told. As always.
She squeezed through the ruckus, trying not to hit anyone with her basket. The crowd was dense by the road but petered out by the governor’s house. By the time she got to the garden, it was quiet enough to hear birds chirp. She opened the gate.
Governor Eamon crouched under a silk tree at the far end of the garden, stirring a pot of porridge left-handed. His sleeve flapped where his right hand had once been, a loss from the Second Ku Rokai War. He had black hair and a long serious face. Warden sat next to him on an old blanket. His back was toward Sylvie, his blue traveling cloak fell like a waterfall over his hunched shoulders, and his head drooped low.
“What if he’s serious?” Warden whispered.
“Let me worry about your brother,” Eamon said.
Suddenly he looked up.
Sylvie’s ears heated. “My father’s coming,” she said, as though that explained her intrusion. “He stopped to talk to Marshall.”
“Ah.”
“Good morning, Sylvie,” Warden said, turning around.
“Good morning, Warden.”
She smiled for him. For a moment, his gray-blue eyes brightened.
He looked exhausted. His complexion was gray and the skin around his eyes sagged. More insomnia? Sylvie took off the basket. Was it the same general worries or something new?
“Breakfast is ready.” The governor indicated the porridge. “We need bowls and spoons.”
“I’ll get them.” Warden rose.
“I’ll tag along,” Sylvie offered.
It’d give her a chance to find out what was bothering him.
Warden was lean and tall, like his father, but he had the bad habit of slouching. It made him look shorter than he was.
“My mother left yesterday, along with most of our things. What’s left is scattered all over the common room.” Warden opened the front door. “I’m afraid the house will be messy.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
The common room was filled with bags, baskets, and jars, neatly stacked and arranged over the swept wooden floor. Not messy at all. Warden stepped onto some unseen path and began to root through the bowls. One, two, three, four.
When he came to the fifth bowl, he stopped.
“Is Kendrick having breakfast with us?” Sylvie asked.
Warden’s jaw became slack. “I don’t know.”
“Is something going on?”
“They were fighting last night.”
“Kendrick and your father?”
He nodded.
“What about?”
The muscles in his shoulders tightened.
“Maybe it’s none of my business,” she said.
“No, it’s not that,” Warden said. “You’re family… to me, to my father… and I trust you. Only… I don’t want to burden you with this.”
Sylvie tried to ignore the clenched feeling in her stomach when Warden called her family, the way her legs bunched up as if to run.
“It’s no burden. I’d rather listen and try to help than watch you worry about it.” She folded her hands over her skirt. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
* * *
In the shade, Sylvie’s eyes were honey brown, and her lips formed into a small, lopsided smile. Warden felt the anxious patter of his heart ease. Sometimes looking at her, just hearing the concern in her voice was enough to make him forget about the violent situation. For a moment he almost believed he could be at peace. Then reality kicked back in.
“My father’s been in talks with the Ku Rokai,” Warden said.
Sylvie blinked. “What sort of talks?”
“They’ve offered him a deal. The Ku Rokai will hand back Thistle Down, Hermit’s Flat, and Roxane’s Point and give us food and supplies for the winter. In exchange, they want the Men of the Desert dead.”
The Men of the Desert were a group of arsonists, led by Jer, who was little more than a bandit. They claimed to help the people, but only succeeded in provoking the Ku Rokai. Like in Thistle Down. Because of Jer, the Ku Rokai had set the town on fire.
“Can your father really do it?” Sylvie asked. “Kill Jer, I mean?”
“He has the garrison,” Warden said. “Two hundred men. Jer’s followers are down to a handful. It’s a matter of finding him and…”
Bringing the axe down on his neck. The chop of bone, the spatter of blood, and the severed head rolling in the dirt. Warden stared at the floor. He didn’t approve of Jer, but he couldn’t condone murdering him.
Sylvie seemed to sense his conflict. “It would be no different than any other execution. It could save us all… so long as the Ku Rokai keep their end of the bargain.”
“Kendrick says they won’t. He thinks betraying Jer will only exacerbate the damage. Without the Men of the Desert fighting for our freedom, nothing will stop the Ku Rokai from oppressing us.” Warden’s fingers wrapped the clay bowl. “Kendrick says he’ll join Jer first.”
“What?”
“Those were his exact words.”
Kendrick hadn’t even sounded angry when he’d said it. More like he was stating a simple, boring fact. Warden’s stomach churned.
“It’s bad enough to think of my father killing Jer. But to picture him killing my brother…”
He shut his eyes.
“It won’t come to that,” Sylvie said.
“It might.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Your father loves you both. He would never turn his sword against your brother, no matter what the Ku Rokai offer.”
Warden hoped not. In his heart, he wasn’t afraid of the Ku Rokai or food shortages or droughts, but rather what these things might do to the people he loved. Would he soon see father turn against son, neighbor fight neighbor, members of his congregation murder each other for a bite of food or a chance of safety? It terrified him.
Sylvie put her hand on his shoulder. “I know that right now it feels like everything is falling apart. But we’re still alive. We can mend whatever is broken. Kendrick and your father will work out their differences. You’ll see.”
Warden nodded.
The touch of her hand was light, like a hummingbird, but it burned through the fabric of his shirt and tingled at his skin. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was to have her, how much she meant to him. But his mouth wouldn’t open. All too soon, her hand fell away.
Warden put Kendrick’s bowl with the others. “I suppose we’d better get to breakfast.”
Outside the sun drifted in through the crumbly clouds. Priest Acton had come by while he and Sylvie were talking in the house. He sat next to Warden’s father on an old blanket, gesturing as he spoke.
“The church should be torn down first,” Acton said. “I want the stained glass handled with care.”
“Understood,” his father said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll break down the church. But today we focus on the warehouses.”
Warden sat down on a patch of dirt. Sylvie took the bowls and began ladling porridge.
“I worry about our oxen walking back and forth from the refugee camp,” Acton said. “What if one breaks its leg? Any set back and the Ku Rokai will be upon us.”
“That’s why we have the garrison. To deter them from attacks.”
As Sylvie handed Warden his bowl, her fingers brushed against his. She leaned toward him, and rays of sun caught her brown hair, spinning it to gold. She was close now, close enough for him to see her eyes, yellow-green in the sunlight.
“Your brother’s here,” she said quietly.
Warden looked up.
Kendrick unlatched the wooden gate and held it open for a girl with a sweaty face and loose wavy hair down her shoulders. Brooke. Warden frowned. That girl had been hanging around the garrison ever since Kendrick had founded it. What did she want now?
“Good morning,” Brooke sang in a clear, high voice.
Kendrick shut the gate behind them. “I hope you don’t mind but Brooke wanted breakfast. She ran here from the refugee camp.”
“Alone?”
“No. I asked Shaw and Tim to protect me from scouts. But they fell behind.”
“Well, you’re welcome to sit down and join us.” His father motioned toward the pot. “There’s plenty of food.”
Brooke plopped down next to Warden, jingling. Little bells were knotted into her thick tangled hair.
Sylvie scooped porridge. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Brooke said.
“I’ll go get another bowl for you, Kendrick,” Sylvie said, half-rising.
“That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I ate breakfast with my garrison. I’m here because I need to talk to you, Father, as soon as possible.”
He fixed his unblinking blue eyes on their father. Such a gaze would have withered Warden, but their father simply brushed it off.
“In time.” He turned to Brooke. “So what brings you here? I thought you were staying with your uncle Makya, at his farm.”
“No. I’m at the refugee camp.” Brooke swallowed a spoonful of porridge. “I’m here to visit my brother and get out of my chores. Also, there was a break-in at the warehouses last night.”
Warden stiffened.
“What?” Acton thundered.
“What was stolen?” their father asked calmly.
“About thirty pounds of grain and vegetables, some blankets and things.” Brooke shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“How did this happen?” Eamon looked at Kendrick.
“From what I understand, a false alarm was raised. The guards thought scouts were attacking and left their post. That’s when the theft occurred.”
“Do you think Jer caused this?” Acton said.
“He has been known to steal.”
“From the Ku Rokai,” Kendrick pointed out.
“Perhaps he’s moved on to stealing from other humans,” their father said.
“It’s not Jer,” Brooke interrupted. “He wasn’t at the refugee camp.”
“You’re sure?”
“He was staying at my uncle’s farm until last night, and then he went north to kill some Ku Rokai. I don’t think Jer was lying. People don’t tend to lie to my uncle.”
She spoke so cheerfully--what was wrong with her? Warden’s mouth hardened. Never mind how casually she spoke of killing, if he had a brother in the garrison and an uncle who supported Jer, he wouldn’t go back and forth, gossiping between them.
“North…” his father mused. “So Jer will be around Brenton.”
Brooke glanced at Kendrick.
He squared his shoulders and took a step forward. “I have something to say, Father. I have been considering our discussion from last night--the rights, the wrongs, and the moral implications--and I have come to a decision.”
Warden’s heart began to buzz. The speech was formal, even by his brother’s standards. That couldn’t be good.
“If you have something to say, it can wait until after evacuation.”
“It will only take a moment--”
“Kendrick,” their father snapped, “we will talk in private.”
Kendrick opened his mouth, as if to blurt it out anyway, as if to defy their father. Eamon seemed to sense it. His one good hand was splayed on the grass, ready to spring, and his gray eyes were hard.
Kendrick paused. “As you say, Father. After evacuation then.”
“My father’s been in talks with the Ku Rokai,” Warden said.
Sylvie blinked. “What sort of talks?”
“They’ve offered him a deal. The Ku Rokai will hand back Thistle Down, Hermit’s Flat, and Roxane’s Point and give us food and supplies for the winter. In exchange, they want the Men of the Desert dead.”
The Men of the Desert were a group of arsonists, led by Jer, who was little more than a bandit. They claimed to help the people, but only succeeded in provoking the Ku Rokai. Like in Thistle Down. Because of Jer, the Ku Rokai had set the town on fire.
“Can your father really do it?” Sylvie asked. “Kill Jer, I mean?”
“He has the garrison,” Warden said. “Two hundred men. Jer’s followers are down to a handful. It’s a matter of finding him and…”
Bringing the axe down on his neck. The chop of bone, the spatter of blood, and the severed head rolling in the dirt. Warden stared at the floor. He didn’t approve of Jer, but he couldn’t condone murdering him.
Sylvie seemed to sense his conflict. “It would be no different than any other execution. It could save us all… so long as the Ku Rokai keep their end of the bargain.”
“Kendrick says they won’t. He thinks betraying Jer will only exacerbate the damage. Without the Men of the Desert fighting for our freedom, nothing will stop the Ku Rokai from oppressing us.” Warden’s fingers wrapped the clay bowl. “Kendrick says he’ll join Jer first.”
“What?”
“Those were his exact words.”
Kendrick hadn’t even sounded angry when he’d said it. More like he was stating a simple, boring fact. Warden’s stomach churned.
“It’s bad enough to think of my father killing Jer. But to picture him killing my brother…”
He shut his eyes.
“It won’t come to that,” Sylvie said.
“It might.”
“No,” she said firmly. “Your father loves you both. He would never turn his sword against your brother, no matter what the Ku Rokai offer.”
Warden hoped not. In his heart, he wasn’t afraid of the Ku Rokai or food shortages or droughts, but rather what these things might do to the people he loved. Would he soon see father turn against son, neighbor fight neighbor, members of his congregation murder each other for a bite of food or a chance of safety? It terrified him.
Sylvie put her hand on his shoulder. “I know that right now it feels like everything is falling apart. But we’re still alive. We can mend whatever is broken. Kendrick and your father will work out their differences. You’ll see.”
Warden nodded.
The touch of her hand was light, like a hummingbird, but it burned through the fabric of his shirt and tingled at his skin. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was to have her, how much she meant to him. But his mouth wouldn’t open. All too soon, her hand fell away.
Warden put Kendrick’s bowl with the others. “I suppose we’d better get to breakfast.”
Outside the sun drifted in through the crumbly clouds. Priest Acton had come by while he and Sylvie were talking in the house. He sat next to Warden’s father on an old blanket, gesturing as he spoke.
“The church should be torn down first,” Acton said. “I want the stained glass handled with care.”
“Understood,” his father said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll break down the church. But today we focus on the warehouses.”
Warden sat down on a patch of dirt. Sylvie took the bowls and began ladling porridge.
“I worry about our oxen walking back and forth from the refugee camp,” Acton said. “What if one breaks its leg? Any set back and the Ku Rokai will be upon us.”
“That’s why we have the garrison. To deter them from attacks.”
As Sylvie handed Warden his bowl, her fingers brushed against his. She leaned toward him, and rays of sun caught her brown hair, spinning it to gold. She was close now, close enough for him to see her eyes, yellow-green in the sunlight.
“Your brother’s here,” she said quietly.
Warden looked up.
Kendrick unlatched the wooden gate and held it open for a girl with a sweaty face and loose wavy hair down her shoulders. Brooke. Warden frowned. That girl had been hanging around the garrison ever since Kendrick had founded it. What did she want now?
“Good morning,” Brooke sang in a clear, high voice.
Kendrick shut the gate behind them. “I hope you don’t mind but Brooke wanted breakfast. She ran here from the refugee camp.”
“Alone?”
“No. I asked Shaw and Tim to protect me from scouts. But they fell behind.”
“Well, you’re welcome to sit down and join us.” His father motioned toward the pot. “There’s plenty of food.”
Brooke plopped down next to Warden, jingling. Little bells were knotted into her thick tangled hair.
Sylvie scooped porridge. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” Brooke said.
“I’ll go get another bowl for you, Kendrick,” Sylvie said, half-rising.
“That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I ate breakfast with my garrison. I’m here because I need to talk to you, Father, as soon as possible.”
He fixed his unblinking blue eyes on their father. Such a gaze would have withered Warden, but their father simply brushed it off.
“In time.” He turned to Brooke. “So what brings you here? I thought you were staying with your uncle Makya, at his farm.”
“No. I’m at the refugee camp.” Brooke swallowed a spoonful of porridge. “I’m here to visit my brother and get out of my chores. Also, there was a break-in at the warehouses last night.”
Warden stiffened.
“What?” Acton thundered.
“What was stolen?” their father asked calmly.
“About thirty pounds of grain and vegetables, some blankets and things.” Brooke shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“How did this happen?” Eamon looked at Kendrick.
“From what I understand, a false alarm was raised. The guards thought scouts were attacking and left their post. That’s when the theft occurred.”
“Do you think Jer caused this?” Acton said.
“He has been known to steal.”
“From the Ku Rokai,” Kendrick pointed out.
“Perhaps he’s moved on to stealing from other humans,” their father said.
“It’s not Jer,” Brooke interrupted. “He wasn’t at the refugee camp.”
“You’re sure?”
“He was staying at my uncle’s farm until last night, and then he went north to kill some Ku Rokai. I don’t think Jer was lying. People don’t tend to lie to my uncle.”
She spoke so cheerfully--what was wrong with her? Warden’s mouth hardened. Never mind how casually she spoke of killing, if he had a brother in the garrison and an uncle who supported Jer, he wouldn’t go back and forth, gossiping between them.
“North…” his father mused. “So Jer will be around Brenton.”
Brooke glanced at Kendrick.
He squared his shoulders and took a step forward. “I have something to say, Father. I have been considering our discussion from last night--the rights, the wrongs, and the moral implications--and I have come to a decision.”
Warden’s heart began to buzz. The speech was formal, even by his brother’s standards. That couldn’t be good.
“If you have something to say, it can wait until after evacuation.”
“It will only take a moment--”
“Kendrick,” their father snapped, “we will talk in private.”
Kendrick opened his mouth, as if to blurt it out anyway, as if to defy their father. Eamon seemed to sense it. His one good hand was splayed on the grass, ready to spring, and his gray eyes were hard.
Kendrick paused. “As you say, Father. After evacuation then.”
* * *
All this time Sylvie sat and listened, bowl in lap, quite forgetting to eat. It was odd the way Kendrick’s shoulders relaxed and his hands fell to his sides, as though he were relieved to let the issue drop. Why? Kendrick didn’t usually hesitate about speaking his mind.
Beside her, Warden let out a soundless breath. He must have thought his father won. But had he? If Kendrick had bothered to rehearse his words--as Sylvie suspected he had-- it meant his decision was set. Things between Kendrick and the governor might not be as cozy as she’d painted them.
“Let’s get back to the real problem,” Eamon said. “The theft in the refugee camp.”
“I agree,” Sylvie’s father said. “The moral fiber of this community must be preserved. As priest, I feel it is my duty to encourage the men and women of town to resist evil and turn their hearts back toward God.”
“But it should be done quickly.”
“I will leave this morning. Warden will do inventory in my place. He did well in Roxane’s Point.”
“By myself?” Warden asked.
“No, Sylvie can stay and help.”
“Me?” She blinked.
“I’d actually prefer to evacuate all women today,” Kendrick said. “Including Brooke. She, however, rarely listens to common sense.”
“True.” Brooke smiled.
“I don’t see the danger,” Eamon said. “We have guards, and the work will be done in the daylight. Of course, it’s really up to you, Sylvie. Do you mind staying in town a little longer?”
All eyes fell on her.
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“Then it’s settled.” Her father dipped his spoon into his porridge.
The rest of breakfast passed pleasantly enough.
Soon flutes began to cry out impatiently. Roll call, Brooke announced. She darted off. Kendrick and his father also left to organize the chaos. Sylvie’s father decided to give Warden last-minute instructions. That left Sylvie with the dishes. She sighed inwardly and poked around the house for a rag.
When she came back, her father and Warden were speaking seriously under the silk tree.
“I understand there are difficulties between your father and your brother. But you must not be drawn into their fights. When I am gone, you are acting priest. Your first duty is to God and his will. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Warden bowed his head low. “I’ll do my best.”
Her father picked up the inventory book and undid the red ribbon.
The so-called inventory book was really more of a leather case, housing several lists of supplies. Her father shuffled through the lists, plucked out three or four, and folded them into the pocket of his robe. Inventory for the refugee camp’s warehouses, she guessed.
“Do not lose the inventory book,” her father told Warden. “Without these lists, we have no records, and without records, items are apt to go missing. We cannot afford that.”
Warden wiped his palms twice before accepting the case.
“Here are the keys to the warehouses.” Her father pulled them out of his pocket. “Be sure to lock the doors. Remember to say prayers at noon. And take care of my daughter.”
“I will,” Warden said.
“Sylvie, I don’t need to tell you to support Warden and obey his commands.”
“I’ll help him as best I can,” she said.
It was her job after all, her role. It had been for the last seven years. So why then did Sylvie feel her chest tighten? As though she were looking straight at her father and lying. Not because she wouldn’t help Warden. It was who she was that was the lie. She wasn’t her father’s obedient little girl.
She was a Changeling.
Her father strapped the travel basket to his back. Sylvie and Warden saw him off to the governor’s field and said their goodbyes.
The motley crowd had migrated to the road. Some were dressed in layers of clothes, bundled so tight they could hardly move. Others used wheelbarrows to carry their goods. A few of the richer men had mules. All the while the two empty carts looked on and laughed.
Her father stepped into the chaos, right as the red-jacketed guard began to surround the evacuees. The soldiers carried halberds or long pikes--practical weapons for dislodging an armored Ku Rokai. Funny to think that Kendrick had originally ordered swords.
That was back three years ago, when the garrison functioned more as Kendrick’s private social club. No one, including the governor, took them seriously. Kendrick had to scrimp, wheedle, and beg for enough funds to buy thirty short swords. He placed the order with Matthew. Matthew, in turn, dumped five hundred weapons on the governor’s field: halberds, pikes, axes, crossbows, and even some heavy Alethean shields--but not one sword among them.
Naturally, Kendrick was furious. Who was going to pay for these? Where were they going to store them? What on earth possessed Matthew to buy so many random weapons?
Two days later, the Ku Rokai launched their surprise invasion of Avensley.
“Are you all right?” Warden asked.
“What?” Sylvie said.
“You look sad all of a sudden.”
She’d been thinking about Matthew again. I have to stop that.
“Well--” she began.
A shriek of flutes tore through the air. “Roll call!”
Warden motioned with the side of his head. “Let’s go over by the moat. It’s quieter.”
The moat was actually a ditch four feet wide and four feet deep that circled Brenton. There was no water in it, except when it rained. Kendrick claimed it would keep out the armored Ku Rokai--or at least their horses, which amounted to the same thing. The moat broke off at two “bridges” where the road intersected it. The bridges weren’t a constructed platform so much as a lack of ditch.
Sylvie and Warden walked as far as the south bridge and stepped to the side, where they wouldn’t be in the way. Roll call was still going on, but the distance had muffled the shouts.
“So what’s bothering you?” Warden said.
It was everything. Matthew’s death. The prophecy. The Changelings. Not that she knew who the other three were. Matthew hadn’t told her. It might have helped to know who else was a fraud. Sylvie stared at the still-green tumbleweeds filling the moat.
“It’s nothing really,” she said. “There are so many changes, so many problems. We were never supposed to be in this predicament. Sometimes I think about how things were supposed to happen, and I feel sad.”
“I feel the same way,” Warden said.
Another burst of flutes.
Evacuation began. The red-jackets led the slow march, still in formation surrounding the town people. Sylvie’s father walked among them, head up and eyes straight ahead. He’d be fine. Even if scouts attacked, the garrison would be there to fend them off. Everyone would arrive at the foothills of Stilted Rocks safe and sound.
Brenton seemed empty in comparison. Like a ghost town. Beside her and Warden, there were six farmhands to help load supplies. Everyone else was connected to the garrison. Well, maybe not Brooke, but then, Sylvie didn’t know where to categorize her.
Kendrick and the governor strolled back to the garden, Kendrick’s red traveling cloak billowing as he walked. Off to have their private chat. Marshall gathered the remaining soldiers onto the field, splitting them between guard duty and practice. There were twenty-five garrison members left in town and, strangely, all but Fenton had been with Kendrick from the beginning. Coincidence?
Maybe it was nothing.
“I guess we’d better get to work.” Warden stared at the warehouses, fingers clamped rigid around the inventory book. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
Beside her, Warden let out a soundless breath. He must have thought his father won. But had he? If Kendrick had bothered to rehearse his words--as Sylvie suspected he had-- it meant his decision was set. Things between Kendrick and the governor might not be as cozy as she’d painted them.
“Let’s get back to the real problem,” Eamon said. “The theft in the refugee camp.”
“I agree,” Sylvie’s father said. “The moral fiber of this community must be preserved. As priest, I feel it is my duty to encourage the men and women of town to resist evil and turn their hearts back toward God.”
“But it should be done quickly.”
“I will leave this morning. Warden will do inventory in my place. He did well in Roxane’s Point.”
“By myself?” Warden asked.
“No, Sylvie can stay and help.”
“Me?” She blinked.
“I’d actually prefer to evacuate all women today,” Kendrick said. “Including Brooke. She, however, rarely listens to common sense.”
“True.” Brooke smiled.
“I don’t see the danger,” Eamon said. “We have guards, and the work will be done in the daylight. Of course, it’s really up to you, Sylvie. Do you mind staying in town a little longer?”
All eyes fell on her.
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“Then it’s settled.” Her father dipped his spoon into his porridge.
The rest of breakfast passed pleasantly enough.
Soon flutes began to cry out impatiently. Roll call, Brooke announced. She darted off. Kendrick and his father also left to organize the chaos. Sylvie’s father decided to give Warden last-minute instructions. That left Sylvie with the dishes. She sighed inwardly and poked around the house for a rag.
When she came back, her father and Warden were speaking seriously under the silk tree.
“I understand there are difficulties between your father and your brother. But you must not be drawn into their fights. When I am gone, you are acting priest. Your first duty is to God and his will. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Warden bowed his head low. “I’ll do my best.”
Her father picked up the inventory book and undid the red ribbon.
The so-called inventory book was really more of a leather case, housing several lists of supplies. Her father shuffled through the lists, plucked out three or four, and folded them into the pocket of his robe. Inventory for the refugee camp’s warehouses, she guessed.
“Do not lose the inventory book,” her father told Warden. “Without these lists, we have no records, and without records, items are apt to go missing. We cannot afford that.”
Warden wiped his palms twice before accepting the case.
“Here are the keys to the warehouses.” Her father pulled them out of his pocket. “Be sure to lock the doors. Remember to say prayers at noon. And take care of my daughter.”
“I will,” Warden said.
“Sylvie, I don’t need to tell you to support Warden and obey his commands.”
“I’ll help him as best I can,” she said.
It was her job after all, her role. It had been for the last seven years. So why then did Sylvie feel her chest tighten? As though she were looking straight at her father and lying. Not because she wouldn’t help Warden. It was who she was that was the lie. She wasn’t her father’s obedient little girl.
She was a Changeling.
Her father strapped the travel basket to his back. Sylvie and Warden saw him off to the governor’s field and said their goodbyes.
The motley crowd had migrated to the road. Some were dressed in layers of clothes, bundled so tight they could hardly move. Others used wheelbarrows to carry their goods. A few of the richer men had mules. All the while the two empty carts looked on and laughed.
Her father stepped into the chaos, right as the red-jacketed guard began to surround the evacuees. The soldiers carried halberds or long pikes--practical weapons for dislodging an armored Ku Rokai. Funny to think that Kendrick had originally ordered swords.
That was back three years ago, when the garrison functioned more as Kendrick’s private social club. No one, including the governor, took them seriously. Kendrick had to scrimp, wheedle, and beg for enough funds to buy thirty short swords. He placed the order with Matthew. Matthew, in turn, dumped five hundred weapons on the governor’s field: halberds, pikes, axes, crossbows, and even some heavy Alethean shields--but not one sword among them.
Naturally, Kendrick was furious. Who was going to pay for these? Where were they going to store them? What on earth possessed Matthew to buy so many random weapons?
Two days later, the Ku Rokai launched their surprise invasion of Avensley.
“Are you all right?” Warden asked.
“What?” Sylvie said.
“You look sad all of a sudden.”
She’d been thinking about Matthew again. I have to stop that.
“Well--” she began.
A shriek of flutes tore through the air. “Roll call!”
Warden motioned with the side of his head. “Let’s go over by the moat. It’s quieter.”
The moat was actually a ditch four feet wide and four feet deep that circled Brenton. There was no water in it, except when it rained. Kendrick claimed it would keep out the armored Ku Rokai--or at least their horses, which amounted to the same thing. The moat broke off at two “bridges” where the road intersected it. The bridges weren’t a constructed platform so much as a lack of ditch.
Sylvie and Warden walked as far as the south bridge and stepped to the side, where they wouldn’t be in the way. Roll call was still going on, but the distance had muffled the shouts.
“So what’s bothering you?” Warden said.
It was everything. Matthew’s death. The prophecy. The Changelings. Not that she knew who the other three were. Matthew hadn’t told her. It might have helped to know who else was a fraud. Sylvie stared at the still-green tumbleweeds filling the moat.
“It’s nothing really,” she said. “There are so many changes, so many problems. We were never supposed to be in this predicament. Sometimes I think about how things were supposed to happen, and I feel sad.”
“I feel the same way,” Warden said.
Another burst of flutes.
Evacuation began. The red-jackets led the slow march, still in formation surrounding the town people. Sylvie’s father walked among them, head up and eyes straight ahead. He’d be fine. Even if scouts attacked, the garrison would be there to fend them off. Everyone would arrive at the foothills of Stilted Rocks safe and sound.
Brenton seemed empty in comparison. Like a ghost town. Beside her and Warden, there were six farmhands to help load supplies. Everyone else was connected to the garrison. Well, maybe not Brooke, but then, Sylvie didn’t know where to categorize her.
Kendrick and the governor strolled back to the garden, Kendrick’s red traveling cloak billowing as he walked. Off to have their private chat. Marshall gathered the remaining soldiers onto the field, splitting them between guard duty and practice. There were twenty-five garrison members left in town and, strangely, all but Fenton had been with Kendrick from the beginning. Coincidence?
Maybe it was nothing.
“I guess we’d better get to work.” Warden stared at the warehouses, fingers clamped rigid around the inventory book. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
