"No," his mother, Selene replied. "Every person who knows is one more person who can betray you. This is our secret, and we'll take it to our graves."
Silas knew Selene and Calum. She was a waitress at the Old Oak, a tavern on the other side of town from the Sleepy Hollow. He had spent plenty of hours over there, losing himself in his cups. Calum had been there sometimes, helping his mother wait on the guests. Now it turned out the boy was Cursed.
He ducked back behind the tree, crouching down and hurrying back to where he left his clothes. As quiet as he could, he picked them up and rung them out, then slipped them on still damp. He'd have to go barefoot until he could make his way back to where he left his sandals, but that was fine. He'd be able to afford a new pair of sandals soon, and keep himself from remembering for a long, long time.
Chapter 4
"This has to be the best duck I've ever tasted," Eryn's father said, taking a huge bite of a small wing. It should have come as no surprise to anyone that Jaerl Albion was a large man, with a barrel chest and plenty of muscle to help him swing the blacksmith's hammer. He was also a man without hair, most of it having been burned away in the heat of the forge, the rest shaved off by Pash Albion to keep her husband "neat and tidy".
"You always say it's the best duck you've ever tasted," Roddin said.
Her older brother was perched on the back of his chair, his grey cloak hanging off the back, all the way down to the floor. A hunting knife hung from his hip, and his bow was lying in the corner near the door.
When he had turned sixteen, Roddin had taken an apprenticeship under Master Lewyn to become a woodsman, one of the only other jobs in their small village besides merchant or farmer. As it was, Master Lewyn had given him the knife and the bow, and took him out daily to teach him the secrets of the Whistling Wood. Secrets like how to trap a hare, how to tell poisonous berries from delicious berries, and how to hunt a stag.
Eryn sometimes wished that she could be a hunter too, but between the smithy and the household, she had little enough free time.
"True enough," Papa agreed. "On second thought, it could use a little more salt." He laughed then, his booming voice that was made to shout out over the clang of steel filling their small home.
Mother swatted him on the shoulder with a smile on her face, and Eryn forced her most sincere grin. She was still feeling guilty for having used her Curse to shift the bag, just a little.
"So, Eryn," Roddin said, his voice both light and mischievous. "I hear that Robar Dunn's eldest has taken a liking to you."
Eryn looked at her brother, feeling her face begin to flush at the mention of Edwyn Dunn. He was known to all of the unwed girls in the village as the most comely future husband, though she did have some doubts about his overall intelligence. While he could cause her face to melt with flames of visionary delight, she had her heart set on finding someone more like her brother, someone with charm and looks, but a mind to match them.
"Are you starting with me?" she asked, her smile turning true.
"What if I am?"
"If you are, I'll have to stop you," she replied. It was a common game they were playing, one that usually ended with one of them bruised in the playful melee. They had a pair of sticks they had whittled out in the yard, sticks that had a vague resemblance to swords.
"Children," Mother said. "That's enough."
"We're just having some fun," Roddin said. "Anyway, I really did hear that."
The kitchen fell silent. He hadn't meant to cause it, but he had a tendency to forget that Eryn was Cursed. All he ever saw was his sister.
"Right. I'm sorry, Eryn," he said.
"It's okay," Eryn replied. "I know you didn't mean anything by it."
Someone more like her brother, she thought. If only a Cursed could marry. Even if her husband never saw through to her secret, it was said that the Cursed could never bear children of their own, and if a wife never bore her husband children, he would know that it meant she was Cursed. That didn't stop her from dreaming about it, or wishing for it, or living her life as though it was something that could be. As unlikely as it may seem, letting go was just too hard.
"Is there any more porridge?" Papa asked, breaking the silence.
"Of course, my love," Mother said. She reached over him to take his bowl, and he grabbed her hands and kissed them on the way by.
"You are the star that always guides me home," he said, his voice turning softer than you would imagine a blacksmith's could.
"And you are the hero in the night that I long for," she replied.
"Can you spare us?" Roddin asked, faking that he was choking. It led them to another round of laughter.
The laughter was broken by a heavy pounding at the kitchen door. It was forceful enough that it kicked up dust from around the hinges.
"Jaerl, Roddin, are you home?" It was the voice of Constable Yarrow, the head of Watertown.
Roddin bounced off his chair, taking three steps to the door and pulling it open. As soon as he did, the Constable made his way in.
"Jaerl, there you are." Constable Yarrow was an older man, but still lean as if he were a youth. He had a thick mop of white hair on top of his head, and Eryn could see that it was slick with sweat. She knew he must have run to their home, the entire mile from the village center.
"What is it, Gideon?" Jaerl asked, pushing himself away from the table and rising to his feet.
"Soldiers," he replied. "His soldiers."
Jaerl looked first at Eryn, and then at Pash. She could see the worry cross his eyes, though he hid it in an instant. "What are they doing here?" he asked. "His soldiers haven't come to Watertown since I was a boy."
Eryn felt her heart jump up into her throat, and start leaping around there like she had swallowed a frog. Had they come for her? Had someone seen what she had done to the salt?
"I don't know," the Constable said. "They only just arrived, and I ran out here to the farms and to your house to tell you. To tell everyone. His soldiers don't come unless they're hunting a Cursed."
Jaerl walked over, past the Constable to the door. "I'll go and get my hammer," he said. "We should find out what they're doing here. Roddin, you come with me. My dears, wait here."
He ushered the Constable out the door. Roddin followed behind, grabbing his bow and quiver on the way out. Before he closed the door, he looked at Eryn. "It'll be okay," he whispered. "I won't let anything happen to you."
Eryn smiled, but it didn't quell the beating of her chest. As soon as the door closed, Mother came over and wrapped her up in a tight hug.
"Don't worry, my love," she said. "Papa will take care of everything."
"I don't want them to take me away," Eryn said into her mother's shoulder. "I didn't do anything wrong. It's not my fault. I don't want to die."
Pash held her daughter and tried to fight back her tears. She squeezed her tighter. She would do anything for her daughter, and would give anything to see her safe.
Time passed. After a while, Eryn and her mother broke their embrace. "Go up into the attic," Mother said. She was getting worried that Papa and Roddin had yet to return. "I'll tell you when you can come down."
Eryn was scared, but she nodded and scooted up the ladder into the attic. Just because Mother had sent her up there, that didn't mean they were coming for her. She was just being cautious.
More time passed. Eryn could tell the moon had risen high into the night by the glow of light filtering through the tightly woven thatch of the roof. She had begun to calm a short while ago, and now she rested almost peacefully.
Her peace was disturbed by the sound of horses and shouting. Her heart rising to her throat once more, Eryn jumped to her feet, ready to descend the ladder to find out what was going on.
"Eryn, stay hidden," Pash cried from below.
She backed away from the ladder, moving to the rear corner and crushing herself into a ball, as tight as she could be. She heard the shouting more clearly now, Papa calling out to Mother.
<
br /> "Pash, run, please. For the love of Amman, run." Her father was desperate. The words frightened her more than anything ever had before. More than Roddin almost being trodden over by Maxin had.
"Jaerl," Pash shouted. "Jaerl!"
The pounding of hooves was getting louder. Eryn knew they were getting close. She tried to stay tucked in tight, but she had to know what was happening. She had to check on her father and Roddin. Getting to her feet, she ran over to the lowest part of the thatch and clawed at it frantically until she had cleared away just enough to see.
She was looking out too far. The first thing she saw were the horses, giant black horses unlike any she had ever seen. They were ridden by men in metal helms and armor, six in all. Two were carrying torches, and two were holding bows. The bows had arrows already notched to them.
It was then she saw Papa and Roddin, running up ahead of the horses but losing ground fast. Roddin was lighter and faster, and he paced way ahead of their father, desperate to reach the house.
"Pash, take Eryn. Take Maxin and run!" Her father's voice was so loud. She would never forget how loud it was.
Eryn watched her brother. She saw an arrow land in the ground near his feet. They were shooting at him!
"Eryn," Pash cried. "Come on, my love, we have to go!"
Eryn's eyes filled with tears. How had they discovered her secret? She hadn't told anyone! The last thing she saw before she started for the ladder was her father turning to face the riders, raising his hammer up over his head.
"How dare you try to harm my child," he screamed.
She jumped down without using the ladder, landing in her mother's arms. At the same time, the door opened and her brother stumbled in. He dropped to the ground exhausted, his tiredness saving his life as an arrow followed him through the door and struck the cupboard behind them.
"Roddin," Mother said. "Take Eryn. You have to get out of here!"
He looked up at them. His eyes were bloodshot, and he could barely breathe. Still, he got to his feet. "Father," he said, turning around.
They saw it. All of them saw it. The soldiers had caught up to Jaerl Albion. The two with the bows had put arrows into his chest. The two with the torches had circled him, and the other two had dismounted. They approached him with swords in hand.
"Roddin," Mother grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Take Eryn. Go!"
He looked at her, the pain clearly written on his face, but he nodded. "I love you," he said to her. He never questioned that she would go out to try to defend their father, to defend the object of her undying love.
"I love both of you, more than you'll ever know. More than death can ever take away. We'll meet again in the fields of Amman." She took Eryn by the shoulders then, and knelt down. "This was not your fault, my love. He is a cruel and unjust man, and his laws are cruel and unjust. Escape his soldiers and live on. Promise me you will."
Eryn's eyes were blurry with tears. She leaned forward and kissed her mother on the cheek. "I will," she said. "I promise." Roddin grabbed her hand, and started pulling her towards the other side of the house, where Maxin was stabled.
"I'll hold them as long as I can," Pash Albion said. "I love you both, forever." With that, she grabbed her heaviest pan and stormed out the door.
Just before Roddin pulled her out of view, Eryn could see that her father was on the ground, the soldiers over him with their swords stuck into his body.
"We don't have time for the saddle," her brother shouted, throwing open the stable door and tugging Eryn along. He pushed open Maxin's pen. The horse shifted and whined, able to sense that something was wrong.
"I'm sorry," Eryn sobbed, her tears running freely. Her brother's hands wrapped around her hips and lifted her up enough for her to slide onto the horse's back. A moment later he slid on behind her, reaching past and taking hold of the horse's mane.
"Ho, Maxin," he cried, pulling on the hair. The horse cried and went straight into a gallop, pounding out of stables and into the empty fields around their home.
"Roddin, look," Eryn said. Even through bleary eyes, she could see down the hill that led into the village. The entire center was engulfed in flame.
"Bastards," he said between gulps of air. "They insisted the village was hiding a Cursed. They started lighting up the buildings one by one until somebody said it was you. We started running, to warn you. They didn't hurry after us, they just started setting the rest on fire anyway, and then they killed Constable Yarrow. For complicity, they said, whatever that means."
"I'm sorry," Eryn said again. "This is all my fault."
"No," Roddin shouted. "This is his fault."
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Into the Whistling Wood. I hope we can lose them there. Maxin is a fine cart-horse, but she can't outrun those giant stallions of theirs."
Chapter 5
It was midday when Silas got back to Root, and the town was coming alive with the day's activity. Enough so that Silas had to wait in a line of travelers coming into the town through the north gate, under the watchful eyes of his soldiers. He had been without a hard drink for nearly six hours already, and he was finding he didn't like it.
When he finally reached the front of the line, he was stopped by one of the soldiers, who looked him up and down. He hadn't been looking forward to this part. They didn't care when you left the town, but they always cared when you came back.
"Name and business," the soldier said, his voice gruff and autonomous from repeating the same words hundreds of times each day.
"Silas Morningstar," he replied. "I live here." He took a breath in through his congested nose, and then began to cough.
The soldier didn't react to his coughing. He just turned and passed the information on to a man in a black cotton shirt and pants. The man was sitting on a stool, and had a large book laid out on a simple wooden table. He ran his finger along the spine until he found the spot he wanted, and then lifted all of the pages before it out of the way. He then flipped through one by one, his finger tracing down the center.
"There we are," he said. "He is current on his residency tax."
The soldier waved him through.
Every man, woman, child, merchant, cart, and horse had to pay some kind of tax in order to live in, or visit, the larger towns and cities of his domain, which as far as Silas knew was the entirety of the world. He didn't know what he did with all of the coin that was collected, though reconsidering the number of soldiers just in Root, he supposed it was used to keep them fed, clothed, armed, trained, and paid.
"What for?" he wondered again.
Silas made his way back south, headed for the Constable's office. Now that he was more clean, he wandered closer to the iron fence that surrounded the building, trying to see through the dense, brightly-colored foliage to the soldiers he knew were behind it. He could hear the faint clang of swords connecting, and the twang of arrows being loosed to targets. He didn't know why, but the sounds stirred something in him. He needed to make this quick, so he could go and find a good ale.
"What are you doing here, old man?" the guard asked, incredulous, when Silas approached him at the gate.
Silas felt like he should have recognized the man, but he couldn't put him in any specific time or place. "I've come to speak with the Constable," Silas said. "I have some information."
The officer squinted his eyes. "You have information? Let me guess, there are imps in your pants."
Silas didn't remember ever having made that claim. He shook his head. "I have real information. About a Cursed."
The guard stopped squinting, his eyes going wide. It was forbidden to provide false information about a Cursed. The punishment for doing so was death by hanging.
The guard turned and brought out a ring of keys. He stuck one into a lock forged into the gate, turned it, and swung it open. "Amman help you if you're speaking from the bottle," he said. "Go straight up to the Constable's office and tell the steward what you told me."
&nbs
p; Silas bowed slightly and walked in. He marveled at the gardens on either side of the wide stone path, but he also didn't linger. He passed under the heavy stone columns surrounding the office, reaching a pair of thick wooden doors. As he approached, another guard barked an order, and two wiry men in grey, burlap prison clothes pulled the heavy doors open. When he was through, they pushed them closed.
The doors opened into a foyer manned by the Constable's steward, a short, thin man with a beaked nose and no hair. His dress matched the man who had taken his name at the town gates, and he too sat on a stool behind a wooden table, writing something down.
Silas walked over to him, his heart beginning to beat faster in anxious anticipation of what he was about to do.
"State your name and business," the steward said, without looking up.
"Uh. I'm here to see Constable Penticott. Um. It's. Um. My name is..."
The steward looked up, and saw who was speaking. "Silas Morningstar," he said. "I know you. What's your business with the Constable?"
Silas didn't know if he should be impressed or afraid that the steward knew his name. His body began to tremble as he spoke. "A Cursed," he said. "I have information about a Cursed." He smiled then, a nervous, hopeful smile.
The steward eyed him for a moment, deciding whether or not he was serious. Silas looked back at him, and tried to quell his fidgeting. Satisfied, the steward stood up and went to the inner door. "Wait here a moment, Silas," he said, and he vanished through it.
Silas stood in the foyer. His heart was pounding, his body was trembling, and he could barely contain his nerves. Some people spent their whole lives hoping to learn the identity of a Cursed. There was even a guild whose sole purpose was to track down Cursed and report them. That was because there was a reward for turning in a Cursed. A large reward. Enough coin to live like a noble for a year or more. All he had to do was name the afflicted, and once they captured or killed them, the coin was his.
The steward returned with Constable Penticott. They were nearly the same age, he and Silas, though the Constable was clean and tidy, with a smoothly shaven face and his white hair cropped close to his head. He had a rough, grizzled look to him, made even more so by the fine black leathers he wore. A red, bleeding eye was dyed onto his jerkin, over his heart.
Bound (The Divine, Book Four) Page 32
