Ronan spun searching for signs of fire, but the kitchen remained untouched.
Inside the little kitchen, the back door hung off its hinges, and fresh splinters jutted from a mangled door frame.
Ronan dashed through the rear door into the night air’s welcome relief.
A narrow alley led away in opposite directions. The guards had evacuated both houses leaving Ronan’s exit observed by the neighbor’s cat who sat perched on a nearby tree limb.
Tucked in a low crouch, Ronan dashed along the alley past several houses moving away from the fire. Hope blossomed in his mind. He’d earned anonymity from the fire.
A city block away, he stumbled onto the side street used by Master Wilburn a few hours earlier.
Ronan crept along the cobbled street remaining hidden by shadow. At the intersection he paused and gazed toward the burning townhouses he’d escaped.
A small crowd had gathered and formed a makeshift bucket brigade. A tall lanky man grabbed an overflowing bucket and tossed water against the fire-threatened townhouse.
Any sign the city guard had visited burned beneath the damp Meranthian night.
In the opposite direction, dawn’s purple haze gave early warning to the impending sunrise.
Ronan turned his back on the burning wreckage and loped toward Old Town’s entrance and a meeting with Patron Tyrell.
A New Friend
Stretched out in the damp dawn air, hung a line of laundry with no hope of fully drying. The clothing stood unattended as did the other streets and alleys inside the laborers district. Most people remained indoors during the early morning hours, but they’d come outside soon enough.
From his hiding place in the bushes, Ronan surveyed the small yard and dashed for the hanging laundry. He grabbed a pair of linen trousers and a blue cotton tunic. They looked big, but he’d make them work.
With his heart racing, he tore through a shrub line and disappeared. He’d change clothes with minutes to spare before meeting Master Tyrell.
He ran through the district traversing alleys and jumping fences. Five minutes later he slowed to a walk as he entered the alley that took him to the Old Town entrance.
At the alley’s mouth, a thick elderberry bush grew behind an overgrown backyard. Small unripened berries, hung in clumps on its branches.
Ronan’s stomach growled. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. He tore free a few berries and popped them in his mouth. As he sank his teeth into them, a bitter acidic tang spread across his taste buds. He spit out the hard berries and kept spitting until the taste disappeared.
The elderberry bush provided more than unripened fruit. The branches covered a small hollowed out spot inside the bush.
With a quick peek toward the house, he slipped into the bush and peeled off his torn soot-stained clothing. His stomach twisted as he pulled the smoke-filled tunic over his head. Removing the clothing felt like saying good-bye to a part of his life he’d never get back.
Ronan touched the intricately carved gold ring that dangled from a silver chain around his neck. His mother gave him the ring on his eighth birthday. It had belonged in his family for centuries and remained his last treasure from happier times.
He changed into the new clothes and transferred a small coin purse from his old trousers. He carried what most nobles considered a modest amount of coin. The people living inside the Laborer’s District would work a year to earn the equivalent. With his personal business settled, Ronan emerged from the elderberry bush and walked along the alley.
A hundred yards ahead, the alleyway met the street that connected Old Town to the Laborer’s District. That intersection provided the perfect vantage point to hide and wait for Tyrell’s arrival.
He increased his pace eager to meet Master Tyrell. A patrol of city guards would recognize Tyrell on sight, and Ronan didn’t want to put the man’s life in further jeopardy.
The back sides of several modest homes, trade shops, and businesses lined the alleyway. On the right, the Queen’s Heart, home to the finest ale in Freehold, gave way to Lady Holloway’s tailor shop. Near the alley’s exit, an old broken wagon sat behind Master Belmont’s blacksmith shop.
The alleyway itself had trash bins full of discarded boxes, old food, shredded newspaper, and bits of scrap metal.
Ronan ditched his old clothing in a large trash bin behind the Queen’s Heart. The trash wagon came through this district weekly and would remove the final traces of his former life with yesterday’s news.
A breeze stirred and delivered the promise of rain mixed with a healthy dose of rotting half-eaten inn food.
A wave of nausea rolled through Ronan’s stomach that helped curb his hunger pangs. He held his breath as he made his way past the Queen’s Heart.
The wind also brought the tense sound of angry voices.
Ronan’s ears perked up, and he paused. The voices sounded confrontational, and he couldn’t afford any delays.
The conversation originated a short distance ahead behind a large trash bin and the broken-down wagon.
Ronan skirted the trash bin and crouched behind the wagon.
A half-dozen rough looking teenage boys crowded around a younger boy near Ronan’s age. The younger boy had the light caramel complexion common among Ayralens. He wore a simple outfit, and a dark blue hat hid his face. The Ayralen boy stood half as tall as any of the six large teenage brutes towering over him. One boy, taller and fatter than his friends, stood in the middle directing his anger at the Ayralen.
“Go back to the forest and hug a tree,” the fat boy said as he jammed his index finger into the smaller boy’s chest.
The Ayralen took a half step backwards but held his ground.
Sir Alcott had taught Ronan the basics of Ayralen culture. Their country existed in a vast forest, and they didn’t worship Elan the way Meranthians did.
His grandfather, Torr Latimer, had done everything he could to keep Ayralens out of Meranthia. As did the Meranthian kings before him, Torr kept the border sealed and hung any Ayralens that snuck past.
Queen Arianne changed that ancient policy ten years ago. Ayralens could freely travel across Meranthian borders. Although few Meranthians ventured into the giant forest, the ones that did stayed. A handful of brave Ayralens had made homes in Meranthia bringing with them their customs, beliefs, and religion.
Fear of the Ayralen way of life had driven Pride to kill his mother, and these bullies pushing around this boy represented that dark underside of Meranthian society.
Some citizens viewed the Ayralen immigrants as little more than savages praising a false god. They wanted no contact with their children, their culture, or any of their strange customs. From what little Ronan had seen, these racist people represented Meranthia’s minority. Most welcomed the Ayralens and greeted them with warmth, curiosity, and genuine openness.
Ronan’s combined knowledge of Ayralen customs and culture could fit on a single slip of note paper. He took people as they came and formed his opinions based on a person’s actions not general stereotypes. In fact, he welcomed the diversity.
“You’re a rotten little thief is what you are,” the fat boy said.
The monstrous fat boy stood six-feet tall and almost as wide. His stomach strained against a tunic at least three sizes too small, and one button looked ready to pop. Streaks of dingy dirt soiled his white tunic, and large yellow stains appeared under his armpits. His light brown hair stood in odd clumps while portions appeared cemented to his skull.
“He’s probably stealing scrap from Master Belmont’s shop,” another boy said.
“What are you stealing you dirty tree hugger?” Fat boy said.
“I’m not stealing anything. Leave me alone,” the Ayralen boy said.
“Not until we’ve searched you for stolen goods. You come to our city and rob us blind. You and the rest of you dirty tree people,” fat boy said.
Ronan remained motionless hidden behind a pile of broken crates. He wanted to help the Ayralen boy
, but he couldn’t miss his meeting with Tyrell.
Fat boy lunged at the Ayralen. But, his size and bulk made his movements slow and predictable, and the Ayralen boy sidestepped with ease.
Fat boy’s faced twisted with rage. “Grab him!”
Three of fat boy’s crew stepped toward the Ayralen, and he jumped back another step. Behind the Ayralen, a skinny rat-faced boy crept closer and squatted a few feet away.
“I’ve done nothing to you. Leave me alone,” the Ayralen said.
The three boys stepped closer and flanked the Ayralen boy.
The Ayralen looked right and left as if deciding his next move when a shove came from his back and sent him sprawling.
Fat boy stood over the Ayralen. His face contorted with contempt. He spat on the Ayralen boy. “We’ll show you what we do to your kind.” He kicked the Ayralen boy in the ribs.
The Ayralen boy’s body jerked, and he grunted with pain.
Ronan couldn’t stand for this. His mother had taught him to defend those people that couldn’t defend themselves. Tyrell could wait a few minutes. He took a deep breath, stood, and joined the confrontation.
“That’s enough,” Ronan said.
As sprinkles fell from the darkening sky, fat boy’s head snapped toward Ronan his face a mask of shock.
Fat boy’s crew paused and turned to face Ronan.
Fat boy appraised Ronan like a fox caught in the hen house, and his expression morphed into one of disgust. “Are you some kind of hero?” He laughed, and his jowls quivered. “You wanna find a place on the ground next to this stinky tree sloth?”
Ronan’s stomach flip-flopped. Visions of Tyrell leaving him behind swirled through his thoughts. “I’m no hero, but six against one isn’t a fair fight.” He nodded toward the Ayralen boy sprawled in the mud. “Now there’s a witness.” He pointed to his own chest. “Me.” “Leave the boy alone before more witnesses show up and call the city guard.”
Fat boy laughed harder exposing rotten discolored teeth. “City guard? Where do you think you are boy? The merchant district? The city guard don’t care what happens here. We are the guard.”
Cold sweat prickled Ronan’s collar. He hadn’t imagined the confrontation taking such a wrong turn.
The rain fell harder as fat boy lumbered over to Ronan.
“You aren’t from here are you?” Fat boy said. He waddled forward until he stood only a few inches from Ronan.
The waves of body odor rolling off fat boy’s dirty clothes made the rotten food from the trash heap smell appealing, and the pouring rain only heightened the boy’s stench.
“I haven’t seen you before.” He cocked his head to the side. “You look a little bit like that forest freak. Are you his brother? Is that it?” He shoved Ronan’s chest.
Ronan’s neck hair stood on end as he jerked backward. The fat boy meant his skin color. Unlike the pale white skin of most Meranthians, Ronan’s skin tone was a shade toward golden, and his hair color dark and rich. He couldn’t afford to antagonize this boy, but he wouldn’t run either. “Leave now before someone gets hurt, and I won’t mention you were here.”
Rivulets of dirt flowed from fat boy’s scalp exposing blond hair unlike the dirty brown color as first appeared. Dark rage twisted his face into an inhuman mask.
Fat boy’s crew stood frozen watching the exchange and awaiting fat boy’s next move.
A body streaked behind fat boy, and a glint of shiny steel flashed reflecting a mix of morning sun and rain. The knife sank into fat boy’s side, and he howled in pain dropping to his knees.
Behind him the Ayralen boy held the bloody blade as fat boy raged. The knife looked too small to inflict any real damage especially against a person fat boy’s size.
Fat boy’s crew stood in shock watching their leader cry out in agony.
“Get him!” Fat boy said, and his crew descended on the Ayralen.
The Ayralen boy’s blue hat shadowed his face as he backed away from the group.
“Run!” Ronan said.
The Ayralen spun and streaked along the alley as two of fat boy’s friends gave chase.
Rain poured from black thunderheads and lightning crackled somewhere over Old Town. A moment later booming thunder rolled across the city marking the beginning of a summer deluge.
A fist descended on Ronan’s eye and dropped him to his knees.
His vision flashed, and his ears rang. A blur of motion and a hard fist connected with his soft stomach.
Air rushed from Ronan’s lungs as he fell to the ground curling into a tight ball. Sharp pain lit his back as the teenagers kicked and punched without mercy.
Numbness spread across Ronan as his body shutdown. His mind disconnected the pain offering the only protection available.
Ronan’s thoughts drifted toward the disasters that had amassed like a midwinter snow over the past twenty-four hours. His tainted tournament victory, Pride’s lies, the fire, the beating, and the soul-wrenching murder of his beloved mother. He couldn’t bear the weight. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his mind drifted away.
“Whoa! Look at the coin he’s got,” a voice said from a million miles away.
He’d never meet Tyrell now. His former life gone forever. His identity now a secret. Any hope of resuming Prince Ronan Latimer’s life washed away with the summer storm.
***
Consciousness slammed into Ronan, and he jerked his body upright. He gasped, as a torrent of pain burned through every nerve ending in his body.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a strange voice said.
Exquisite pain throbbed in Ronan’s neck when he followed the voice. “I’ve seen you before.” His own voice sounded throaty and alien as if he hadn’t spoken in months. He eased himself higher until he sat up straight.
Ronan lay in a simple small bed with fresh white sheets tucked in at the corners, and a thick red blanket covered him to the waist. His shirtless body showed a patchwork of purple and yellow bruises. Dozens of scrapes and shallow cuts adorned his chest and stomach. He looked every bit as beaten as he felt.
His memory rushed back, and his stomach sank. The tournament, the house fire, and his mother. He remembered his missed meeting with Tyrell and the fat boy that had beaten him near death. And, he remembered the Ayralen boy who sat perched on a worn wooden chair near Ronan. The teenage boy from the alley he’d told to run.
The boy’s room suggested the same simple practicality as the clean white linens. A long oaken table sat in the room’s center where the boy sat carving a small piece of wood. A few cabinets and a simple iron stove sat against the far wall. On a small table next to the bed sat Ronan’s silver necklace and gold ring.
Ronan tipped his head forward. “Thank you for keeping this safe.” He scooped up the necklace and eased it over his head letting the ring rest against his chest.
The Ayralen reclined on a wooden side chair wearing the same blue hat. With his face shadowed, he had his leather boots propped up on the table’s edge.
Resting on the table, a candle’s warm glow cast soft yellow light across the room. The boy whittled at a wood carving using the blade that had punctured fat boy. Beneath him, a fresh pile of wood shavings sat heaped on the smooth floorboards.
Atop a clean iron stove, steam curled from a pot unleashing the tantalizing aroma of beef and vegetables into the cozy room’s warm air.
Ronan’s stomach roared in protest. The aroma of the stew set his mouth watering, and he licked his lips in anticipation.
The boy spoke without turning his head. “It’s about time you woke up. I was beginning to think those boys had beaten you so bad you never would again.”
“I need to be on my way. What time is it?” Ronan moved his legs, but a wave of pain flashed through them causing him to pause.
“It’s dinnertime. Why don’t you stay there and rest. At least have a meal first. You’ve been unconscious for three days. You need to eat.”
Ronan’s chest tightened. H
e couldn’t afford to sleep for three days. He’d never find Tyrell and Sir Alcott now.
“You are hungry. Right?” The lilt of the boy’s voice sounded feminine. Maybe Ayralen boys sounded feminine.
“I’m starving, but I don’t have any coin.”
“What sort of host would I be if I charged my guests for meals?” He kicked his feet off the table. “It’s the least I can do. You saved my life after all. Let me clean up a bit, and I’ll fix us some stew.”
The slender boy stood and glided to a plain oak cabinet near the iron stove. As he removed his hat, a jumble of shiny raven hair spilled over his shoulders. He moved his hands through his thick lustrous locks spreading it wide over his shoulders and back.
Ronan’s throat constricted, and the room felt warmer than a moment ago. He licked his dry lips, and his jaw slackened. The clean tucked-in sheets, the home cooked meal, and the warm cozy room. All signs pointed to a woman’s loving touch.
The girl stood over the hot stove and grabbed a steaming tea kettle simmering behind the stew pot. She poured clear hot water from the kettle into a basin next to the cabinet and rolled up her sleeves. Next to the basin, she picked up a bar of soap and washed her hands.
She dried her hands, opened the cabinet, and bent searching for something on the bottom shelf. As she sat on her knees, her trousers tightened accentuating the perfect curves of her firm rear end where it met the tight lean muscle of her hamstring.
Heat spread through Ronan’s face, and he forced his eyes away. She’d let him into her home, nursed him back to health, and he had the raw nerve to ogle her like a barmaid.
A serving tray appeared in the Ayralen girl’s smooth hands as she stood and placed it on the long wooden table.
Ronan’s eyes flickered to her face, but she moved back to the cabinet before he could see her.
The girl knelt before the dish cabinet and gathered bowls, napkins, and utensils. As she stood, she curled a few loose strands of hair behind her ear revealing smooth skin, high cheekbones, and long dark eyelashes.
Shard Knight (Echoes Across Time Book 1) Page 5
