by Gwynn White
“Aversion to sunlight?”
Arwin shrugged. “Probably. Why does it matter? We're never going back there.”
“I don't know, I think it would be nice to—”
“To what?” She stared down at me with her hands on her hips. “Answorth was a fat, worthless pig and you know it.”
I didn't challenge her on her other, unspoken reason for not wanting to return. She didn't have anybody she could consider family. As terrible as Answorth had been, he'd given me food and lodging when everyone else had only seen me as the cursed boy whose family had perished in a freak fire.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“We? I'm following the smell of food and going to Mitbas. I might've gotten pinched for stealing in Pointe, but Mitbas is supposed to be twice as big. If anyone sees me, I'll get lost in the crowd.” Arwin gave me a long look up and down. “You, on the other hand...you'll just slow me down.”
“Hey!”
“What? It's true. You're cold, wet, hungry, and don't have a single drachma to your name. Just because we Walked together and lived doesn't mean we have to be bound at the hip.”
“I know, I know. I just thought that maybe we'd...” I shrugged. “I don't know, that maybe we'd travel together. We don't have anybody else, and I'm definitely the more charismatic one between the two of us.”
Arwin stood completely upright and glared at me. Beneath its veil of hair, the wedge of scarred skin by her right eye gleamed in the morning light. “Don't ever talk to me again,” she spat. “Don't follow me, and don't try to find me later. We completed the Walk; that's all we'll ever share.”
With that, she turned away and half marched, half jogged in the direction of Mitbas.
“Wait!” I called out, but she didn't glance back.
I hadn't meant to call attention to her scar; truthfully, I hadn't even been thinking of it when I'd declared myself to be more charismatic. But maybe criticizing her quick anger and hostile personality wouldn't have been the best plan, either.
“Depths take me, I'm an idiot.”
When the sun was a little higher in the sky, I rose, brushed the dust and dirt and sweat and blood off the torn remains of my clothing, and trudged toward Mitbas. I wasn't following Arwin; it was simply the closest bit of civilization, and I was starving. The scent of bread in the air was soon joined by that of seared meats, and I forced my legs to move faster even as my wounded shoulder and the back of my head pulsed with pain.
The dirt road remained a dirt road, but its borders slowly became more defined, and I saw fresh marks in the dew-covered dirt where Arwin must have walked before me. Once I crested the next hill, the town of Mitbas came into view.
Thatched roofs covered tall, sturdy homes of stone and timber, and I saw smoke rising from a number of buildings toward the center of town. That was where the food was located. I looked down at my soiled clothes and battered body and wondered how I was going to get within ten feet of any food. People would mistake me for a beggar the instant they saw me.
But that's what I am now, isn't it? A beggar, a vagrant. I felt eyes on me, and when I glimpsed toward the windows of the buildings I passed, flashes of color darted out of view. I could only hope they were the curious eyes of small children. Small children would be far less likely to call the guards on me.
Townsfolk were already on the streets, hawking homemade wares or trawling the small market square for food or supplies or petty luxuries.
My gaze was locked on the market stall that I was sure belonged to the baker. It was a wide stall with a red silk canopy overhead to trap the aromas of fresh-baked goods and also protect them from rain. There were no storm clouds in the sky today, though; today, the canopy served only to inflame my hunger.
The baker's stall was backed up against another stone building, and this one had a small metal door in the side, a hinged square no wider than my forearm, behind which I saw the reddish-orange coals of a low fire. It was a two-way oven, I realized, one that could be accessed both inside and outside the house.
I watched with hungry eyes as the baker, a thick man with discolored fingers, retrieved a long loaf of sourdough bread from the confines of the oven. It steamed gently as he carried it on a long spatula from the oven to a plain platter on the wooden shelf at the front of his stall. A deep rumble growled in my empty stomach, and I wiped saliva away from the corner of my mouth.
“I would kill for that loaf of bread,” I muttered under my breath, and then I stopped short, shivering at the thought. Would I really?
Pain raked my insides as I thought of when I had last had something to eat—more than a whole day had passed, at least. I'd entered the Grimwood to hunt for food, and my life had been a downward spiral ever since. In one day, I'd lost my home, my people, my life. Now here I was, shivering despite the sunlight, contemplating what I would or would not do for a taste of bread.
The scent of sourdough hit my nostrils again, and all those doubting thoughts vanished. I was hungry. This man could spare a loaf of bread. It was his duty, really, to provide to those in need. The spirits would look favorably upon him, even.
I couldn't approach looking like this, though; even now, more people were exiting their homes, and soon it would be impossible for me to hide.
A guard was walking my way, and I panicked. He was going to apprehend me, keep me from disturbing the peace, keep me from getting my bread. But even as I shrunk into the shadows between two buildings, making myself as small as possible, the sound of his boots never faltered; his leather-clad form came into view for a moment as he passed my line of sight from the dark alleyway, and then disappeared just as quickly as he kept walking. I breathed out a sigh of relief, but then another thought struck me and I threw myself from the shadows back into the light. I chased after the guard and said, “Excuse me, sir,” and reached out to grab his tunic.
The sandy-haired guard turned to face me, and my hand stopped short of actually touching the red-and-gold fabric of his uniform. “I don't have any coin for you,” he said.
He made to move again, and this time I did grab at him. “No, that's not what I—”
“Unhand me and back away,” the guard said immediately, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword. It remained sheathed, and he didn't even reach for the grip; it was just the faintest of warnings.
I did as he commanded. “Please, I just wanted to know where the well was located.”
“I don't have time for this.”
“Too busy walking the empty streets, are you?” The words flew from my mouth before I could stop them, and I flinched as the guard turned to face me fully.
“What did you say, you little shint?”
“Please, I'm just so tired and thirsty from making the Walk. I need something to drink, and to wash these wounds.”
“Now I know you're lying,” the guard said. “Nobody makes the Walk and lives.”
“We did!” I protested. “The commander of the Brigade there is named Beyland. The magistrate is—”
The guard shook his head. “There is no Brigade outpost in Pointe. There hasn't been one there in years, not since the accident.”
That wasn't possible. Beyland and his men had been appointed by the Empire to protect the citizens of Pointe and to serve as the peacekeeping arm of the Qati Empire. I'd grown up with this knowledge, told to me by...by Beyland himself.
But if they weren't representing the interests of the Empire, then who were they? And how had they gotten themselves installed as Pointe's de facto law enforcers?
“Whatever, I don't have time to deal with crazy,” the guard continued. He lifted a gloved hand and pointed a finger back past the market. “Well's that way. Clean up and get yourself treated.” He pointed in a different direction. “There's a retired war doctor down that road, and an herbalist just beyond that.”
I nodded and backed away. “Thank you very much.”
As I started to run toward the well, I heard him call, “And don't let me catch you sniffing around where you don
't belong!”
The well was a low stone circle in the middle of an open courtyard. It had been torture to walk past the baker's stall again without being able to make a grab for the bread, but I had to be clean to get close, and I wasn't sure now if the guard would send someone to watch what I was doing—or maybe he would follow me himself to make sure I stayed out of trouble.
When I arrived at the well, an elderly woman was working the crank to lower the wooden bucket attached to a rope down to the dark pool below. Her wrinkled hands worked in a jerking, uncertain rhythm, and she had to put her whole weight into it to turn the crank half a rotation.
“Here, can I help with that?” I asked.
She didn't respond, so I repeated the question a little louder and moved into her line of sight. Her rheumy eyes passed over me, barely pausing at the messy patchwork of blood-soaked fabric at my shoulder, and she smiled a crooked grin that revealed several rotted and missing teeth.
“Thank you, young man,” she crooned, moving back one slow step at a time to let me grab hold of the hand crank. “Such a nice boy.”
I thought it strange that she didn't seem to care about the wound on my shoulder, or the fact that I stunk like something that had crawled its way back from the Depths. She just smiled that cheerful, gaping grin as I cranked and cranked, the handle squeaking in protest at my labored movements. The bucket rose rapidly, but smacked against the sides of the well on the way up, its wooden exterior making dull thunk sounds as it collided with stone, closely followed by the sloshing of spilled water finding its way over the rim. Through it all, her smile didn’t falter for a second.
Finally, it reached the top, and I pulled the bucket close so that I could pour the water out into the woman’s pail. It was smaller than the well’s bucket, and it was full before I had finished pouring out all the collected water.
“Keep the rest for yourself,” she said kindly, patting me on my good shoulder. “Gods know you could use a bath.” And then with no effort at all—no hesitation, not even a quiver in the arms—she grasped the thin handle of her metal pail and lifted it to waist height and was on her way without a further word.
I looked down at what was left in the well bucket—it was enough for a long draft to quench my thirst, but certainly not sufficient for bathing. I eyed the well again, and my wounded shoulder twinged at the thought of hauling up another full bucket. Why had I offered to help the old crone? She certainly hadn’t needed the help, it seemed, and she’d said I reeked even after I’d helped her. And now I wouldn’t be able to bathe.
“Hey, you! Stop!”
I dropped the bucket and wheeled around, my legs tensed and ready to run, and I saw the guard from earlier. But he wasn’t looking my way—he was turned toward the baker’s stall, pointing with one arm extended toward whoever he was shouting to.
“Stop!”
The guard shot off at a dead sprint, and I caught a whirl of long hair disappearing around the corner. I almost turned back to the well, but then my eyes fell on an empty spot on the baker’s front counter—my sourdough loaf was missing!
I started running as well, in the direction of the guard and the bread thief. There was no way I’d let them get away with my prize. I needed it to survive—there was no room for compassion now.
Villagers protested as we tore a path across town, the guard shoving some to the side while I ducked and weaved around those who remained. My body hadn’t yet recovered from the Walk, but even so, I realized the sharp pangs I was feeling in my lungs weren’t a result of exertion; they were too sharp, too physical. My legs weren’t feeling any better, and I feared I would soon be forced out of the footrace. Then there would be no hope.
No, I thought, that’s not an option. I urged myself onward, pouring every last ounce of strength into my strained muscles, my tearing tendons.
The guard swerved to one side, and I caught full sight of the bread thief for the first time. It was Arwin! I recognized the hair, discolored from mine dust and fuller on one side to conceal her hideous scar.
She stole the bread? The shock wore off quickly, though. She’d been sentenced to the walk for sneaking into the grain stores of Pointe’s only baker. Once a bread thief, always a bread thief.
“Halt!” the guard shouted up ahead, and I saw why immediately. He had Arwin cornered, her back pressed up against the wall as she gulped in heaving breaths. She clutched the sourdough loaf to her chest, and her eyes darted side to side looking for a way out.
I slowed to a stop a dozen paces behind the blond guard and ducked behind a hodgepodge pile of broken bricks and barrel shards—somebody’s construction refuse pile, it seemed. I peered over a barrel that was miraculously still in one piece and watched Arwin’s imminent arrest.
“It’s over now. Put down the bread and place your hands against the wall.” The guard removed a pair of cuffs from his waistband and approached with casual arrogance. Arwin had a look of utter defeat on her face.
I didn’t like her. Even though we’d Walked together and survived, that apparently didn’t mean much to her; she’d left me at the end of the mine with nothing but a goodbye. And on top of that, I was fearful of what the guard would do to me if I intervened.
But I wanted that bread. I would die without it.
The brick was in my hand before I was even consciously aware of what I was doing. It felt heavy and solid in my grip. A feral yell leapt from my throat as I ran forward, brick raised high in the air, closing the distance between me and the guard in the blink of an eye.
He had just secured Arwin’s first wrist to the wall when he started to turn toward my cry. His eyes widened at the sight of me, but he wasn’t quick enough. I brought the brick down hard enough to hear a crack as it struck his high cheekbone. Blood appeared immediately, and the guard was limp before he hit the ground.
“What are you doing?” Arwin demanded, and I looked up to see her wide eyes staring down at me.
“Saving you, apparently. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“That was a…a guard of the Empire…”
“Yeah, he is not going to be happy when he wakes up.”
The scent of sourdough brought my attention back to the ground, where the loaf had fallen from Arwin’s grasp at the guard’s command.
“Don’t even think about it,” Arwin growled.
I reached down and grabbed the bread.
“That’s mine!” She struggled against the link of tamed iron that held her securely to the wall, but it was no use. The metal wouldn’t budge so long as its master was alive; it was still following the guard’s last intention. “Put it down, Mal, and get me loose.”
A dark, ugly thought wormed its way into my head, accompanied by a slithering feeling in my gut. “Why should I? You would’ve just let me get caught if our roles were switched. You did leave me to starve back at the mine!”
Her eyes softened, but I could tell she was still angry. “Look, I’m sorry about that. I am. But you know what will happen to me if you leave me here. Someone will come along and finish what the baker was calling for in Pointe; they’ll burn me for this, or worse.”
“No officer of the Empire would burn you for needing to eat,” I argued.
“It wouldn’t have stopped Beyland.” Arwin searched me imploringly. “You can’t leave me here.”
“I can’t pull that metal free…you know that.”
A pause.
“There is another way,” she pointed out softly.
“No,” I said. “No, I can’t do that.”
“It’s the only way.”
“What if we—if I—what if I, er…cut your hand—?”
Arwin shook her head so fiercely I thought she might pull something. “You aren’t getting anywhere near my hand. I need both of them to survive, you idiot. Come on, it’s me or him. You’ll be just as responsible for my death as those carrying the torch if you leave me here. You’re going to let them kill me over bread?”
“You’re asking me to kill him over
bread!” I pointed at the unconscious guard on the ground. “I won’t do it, Arwin. I can’t.”
“Well we have to do something.”
I took a step forward and kept my hands raised to show her I meant no harm. When Arwin gave a shallow nod, I continued and moved close to the metal ring that held her wrist to the brick wall behind her.
Small tendrils of metal extended from the main cuff like the hooks some of the lumbermen used when pulling down trees in the Grimwood, their ends burrowed deep into the brick. The tamed iron was malleable to the will of its master—in this case, the brick-beaten guard—and it was still carrying out his last order.
“Can you at least try prying it off?” Arwin asked.
“It’s not going to—”
“Just do it, Mal!”
I wedged my fingers between the metal cuff and the skin of Arwin’s wrist, curling them as best as I could before giving a sharp tug. The edge cut into the middle segments of my fingers, but the cuff refused to budge. I tried again with the same result. In frustration, I picked up the brick again and swung it down hard against the metal cuff.
“No!” Arwin cried at the same time the metal hummed and vibrated. The next noise to come from her was a cry of sharp, intense pain.
All of the energy from the brick hitting the cuff had transferred through metal into the next closest thing—the fragile bones in her slender wrist.
I pulled again at the metal, though, and this time it gave, edging an inch away from the wall.
“You dense, stupid—”
I ignored Arwin’s stream of curses, staring instead at the warped piece of metal. “It moved…”
“You broke my wrist!”
“The handcuff moved!” I exclaimed at her.
“That’s really great. Thrilled for you.”
“I, I don’t understand…it shouldn’t have moved for me!”
Arwin hissed with pain as my fingers moved around beneath the cuff, pressing up against her injury. “Whatever,” she said. “Just take it off so I can go.”
I pulled one last time on the handcuff and it made a shink noise as the metal barbs pulled away from the brick wall behind Arwin. She rubbed at her shoulder as soon as her arm was free, and I felt her tense up as I laid hands on the metal cuff again. “I have to get it off your wrist,” I told her.
