City of reckoning, p.7
City of Reckoning, page 7
Kindy and Jensen stayed for one game. Then another. And another. Soon the afternoon flew by in a blur of competitive sports with the other peasant children.
She wasn’t very good at most of the games, but she only grinned when she slid in the mud, ruining her dress further, or when she took an elbow to the stomach while scrambling for a leather ball. By the end of the day, she was neck-deep in dirt and aching with bruises, and her muscles protested with every movement.
When she decided to take a much-needed break, Jensen, Carinna, and Lukis joined her. The four of them climbed a tree to watch the festivities below them. The river meandered to their right, its white caps glinting with amber sunlight.
“This was a good day.” Carinna sighed, leaning back against the trunk. “I miss this.”
“I know.” Jensen looked at her, saying more with his eyes than his words. “Our ama doesn’t want us here.”
There was a long silence. Above them, Lukis plucked a leaf and slowly picked it apart, dropping the pieces one by one.
A glint of red caught in the corner of Kindy’s eye, and she bolted upright, as if woken from a long sleep. She stared at the sky. “Oh no.” The sun was lower than she expected. Way lower. Ekra, the ringed giant, was already rising high in the east, its red-and-gold swirls peeking through a gap of clouds. “I have to go.” Her pulse quickened as she clambered down the tree, half-tripping on her annoyingly loose dress. “I should have been watching the sky…”
Jensen’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time too.” But instead of following her right away, he stopped to whisper something in Lukis’s ear. Lukis nodded, mouth parted in that typical, blank expression he had whenever he was listening or thinking.
Kindy landed at the base of the tree and glared up at her brother. “I’m leaving without you!”
Jensen slipped down a few branches, hopped out of the tree, and landed next to her. She caught the glint of mischief in his eyes and raised an eyebrow at him. Jensen just grinned.
“Bye!” Carinna called. “Come back soon!”
“I’ll try,” Kindy said, forcing a smile.
Jensen waved as they broke into a run, and Lukis waved back, some unspoken understanding in the gesture.
“What was that all about?” Kindy said between pants. They hopped over a stone wall, and a cramp split her side. She pushed through it, wincing, as they jogged for the bridge.
“Nothing.”
She shot him a sideways glance. The river gurgled beneath them now. “So, I assume you’ll be doing nothing while we’re at the dance tonight.” She held up a hand. “Don’t answer that.”
Jensen complied without argument. They slowed to an amble as they entered the crowded city street. The sun had sunk behind all the buildings, casting long shadows on the slow-moving swarm of elt-drawn wagons, each packed with nobles on their way to the evening dances. All taxis, it seemed, were in use.
“Taxi!” Kindy cried anyway, flailing her arm. “Taxi!”
Jensen grabbed her wrist. “Better if we run.”
She huffed, half-mortified. “I can’t run all the way across town!” Her lungs were already sore, and the cramp in her side had only just started to ease up. She was fairly certain such exertion now would kill her.
“You’re going to have to try.” He tugged her into the mass. “Come on!”
Unfortunately, he was right. A taxi would take too long. With a low growl, she stumbled after him, their hands interlocked. Her breath grew heavy as they darted around obstacles, weaving through traffic like thieves on the run.
Her muddy dress flapped at her ankles, and her tangled hair whipped about her shoulders, stinging her eyes. While she didn’t normally care for other people’s opinions, her cheeks grew warm under the many strange, disapproving stares. She kept her gaze ahead, trying to ignore the unwelcome attention. Her headache flared back to life, twisting its knife behind her eyes.
“Ama is going to kill us,” she said between gasps. And she believed it.
5
When Kastan realized he was no longer alone, his first reaction was annoyance.
His walk had been wonderfully peaceful until now. Gentle sunlight filtered through the towering evergreens that flanked the soggy dirt road. Birds chirped above him, and insects buzzed through the humid, yet cool air. He’d been strolling through the woods for about an hour, something he rarely had the chance to do, and had just turned toward town again when he heard rowdy voices and laughter up ahead.
Kastan stepped over a puddle and sighed through his nose. Of course, it was Skyoren’s Day, when many people his age went about drinking in broad daylight, taking on stupid dares, and otherwise making fools of themselves. He shouldn’t have thought he could escape the revelers forever, but he had hoped as much.
The noisy passersby appeared around a bend in the road, coming into Kastan’s view for the first time, and his blood went cold.
He knew these people. They were fellow kuchore—young trainees from the military. He’d seen the three of them at practices before.
Heart racing, Kastan dropped his gaze and gave the approaching youths a wide girth. He became painfully aware of every pebble that crunched and every patch of mud that sloshed under his boots.
Hopefully the soldiers weren’t paying enough attention to recognize him. Staying as unnoticeable as possible was a survival tactic he’d been using since he joined the military as a physician’s apprentice several years ago. It hadn’t taken long for his peers to figure out he was half-Sabani and, technically speaking, a slave. He had also quickly discovered just how cruel they could be when officers turned their backs, and just how much the higher-ups didn’t care when he reported the bullying.
When it came to protecting himself, he learned, he was on his own.
As the three kuchore drew closer, he didn’t dare make eye contact, but he couldn’t help eavesdropping.
“… and at that point,” one of the girls was saying, “she’d just had enough. So she barges into the room—”
“—And we were all there with him,” interrupted another girl.
“Yes, and she doesn’t say anything; she marches right up to him and slugs him in the jaw.”
The one boy in the group laughed. “I wish I could have been there.”
“You should have seen the look on his face! He was just…” She paused, probably to impersonate him, and the others guffawed.
Their laughter died off, and Kastan heard them shuffle to a stop, whispering. His heart skipped a beat.
Just keep walking. Just keep—
“Shø, Kastan!” the boy called.
Kastan’s stomach tightened. Don’t stop. Pretend you can’t hear them. Don’t acknowledge them.
“Shø, wait! Stop!”
Kastan’s legs locked into place, as if an invisible leash had jerked him back. It was too late to ignore them now. He licked sweat from his upper lip, and checked the road. It was still empty of witnesses, as if that’d make a difference. He shifted his stance, just slightly, to make the knife in his boot easier to reach. If he needed to make a run for it, he could probably lose them in the woods…
The three kuchore were already in front of him. The boy flashed him a glowing, confident grin. “It is Kastan, right?”
Kastan gave the boy a second take. He was about his age, sixteen or seventeen, but a couple inches taller. Smooth, umber hair curled lazily against chestnut-brown skin, extra dark from years of training in the sun. He had that particular frame that always caught Kastan’s eyes: Slender, but broad-shouldered, and angular in all the right places.
Kastan flicked his eyes away, face flushing as he remembered the time this boy caught him staring during sparring practice.
Nasit. That was his name. Was this about that time he stared at him? Was this going to be a punishment?
“Yes, ote,” he said, using the general term of respect. He spoke with toneless calm, keeping both fear and submission from his voice.
“We train together.”
“I know.” He glanced, confused, at the girls behind Nasit. One of them was a stranger, although he’d seen her face before. The other he had sparred a couple times. Her name was Jesti or Jassen or something like that. She was wicked with a sword, and had bested him once. Honestly, he’d always found her pretty attractive, too, even if he hated her most days. Right now, her thick hair tumbled loosely around sculpted arms. She arched an eyebrow and smiled.
Kastan blinked. None of the kuchore’s expressions or body language indicated aggression. What was going on?
“What are you doing for Skyoren’s Day?” Nasit asked.
“I… I don’t go out.”
The stranger snorted. “That’s obvious.”
Kastan tensed, but her smile didn’t seem mean-spirited. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe these three had no ill intentions. None of them had bothered him personally before, although they certainly had never stepped in when Sallo and his followers dished out their abuse.
“It’s Skyoren’s Day!” Nasit said, thrusting out his arms in emphasis, and Kastan decided that Nasit was even more attractive when he expressed enthusiasm. He was practically glowing. “Everyone goes out! Look: Lyrsa, Jasho and I are going to the Hearth and Dagger tonight. Why don’t you come join us?”
Kastan’s eyes widened. “I…”
“Good, it’ll be fun! We’ll see you there.” He winked, which did a funny, embarrassing thing to Kastan’s heartbeat. “Hearth and Dagger, don’t forget!” he called over his shoulder as the three of them walked around him.
Kastan watched them disappear down the road, dumbfounded. He tried to make sense of what just happened. No, yes, he definitely just had three people—free soldiers, no less—invite him to a tavern celebration.
He continued home in a daze. A cool drizzle spattered against his shaved head, but he barely noticed. His mind kept returning to Nasit’s quirked smile and soft brown eyes, then turning up blank. Completely blank.
Had he imagined the exchange? That was certainly more plausible than accepting it had actually happened.
The road led him out of the woods, and his hometown, Edron, appeared like a silent sentinel in the middle of a vast clearing. Edron was the primary home for the local military base, and everything in its design reflected that: from its no-nonsense walls, fashioned from perfectly shaped blocks of stone, to its utilitarian buildings, standing shoulder-to-shoulder without a foot of space wasted.
Maroon light leaked through a gash in the low-hanging clouds, washing the portcullis in a gruesome glow as Kastan stepped underneath. The guards gave him a disinterested nod. Above, more marched atop the wall, their red uniforms flashing between rows of rigid spikes and undulating flags.
Inside, vendors were closing up their shops, but tavern keepers were lighting lanterns. City guards roamed, setting fire to the torches that glowed along major streets.
Like everything else in this town, the roads were rigid and even, their smooth stones packed down with hard concrete. Kastan weaved down side streets, past the reach of torches, habitually checking the shadows and alleys around him. It wasn’t as if he had anything someone would want to steal, but awareness of his surroundings was a habit the military had drilled into him.
He ducked under a clothes line and climbed a rickety wood staircase, the steps creaking underfoot, to the second story in a stack of miniature apartments. He gave a soft double-rap, his signature knock, and slipped inside.
His home was not much more than a bare room. His mother’s cot lay in a dusty corner, and a pile of pots and pans sat in another. Across the room, a wooden ladder led to Kastan’s loft, partitioned from the rest of the room with an old patchwork curtain.
His mother had her back to him as she stirred something over the fireplace. “Was wondering when you’d get back. This is almost ready.”
She turned around. Her curly black hair framed a face creased with wrinkles, more than she should have had for her age. The worry lines were prominent on her forehead, and they darkened as she looked at him.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
Kastan sank onto a cushion in front of the fire, cross-legged, and poked the embers with an iron. He watched the sparks rise up, bright specks against the black cauldron and soot-stained stone.
“A few kuchore invited me to a tavern tonight,” he said.
She gave a low laugh, clearly relieved. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I’m not one of them. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Why should you be one of them? You’re you. Isn’t that enough?”
He paused, considering the question. He wasn’t sure what she meant, but didn’t feel like pursuing it. He poked the embers again, eyes on the fire, unwilling to look at her for this question. “Will you be all right on your own?”
She hesitated, and he imagined her smile faltering, just slightly, before she recovered it again, if a little forced. He’d seen her do that too many times before. “Don’t worry about me, son.”
A bit of anger leaked into his voice. “I always worry about you.”
The fabrics of her dress rustled as she sat next to him, sighing. “He hasn’t sent for me in a long time, Kastan. I doubt he will start again tonight.”
Kastan stared into the fire. It crackled and popped, the heat toasty against his face. A night like this sixteen years ago, when the master sent for his mother, was the reason Kastan had been conceived. The fact that he was now a slave was yet another reminder of the empire’s cruelty. Dorins could become slaves too, usually as punishment for crimes or payment for debts, but they couldn’t be born into slavery. The rules were always different, though, if you were Sabani or Mosori.
But his mother was right. Since Commander Arjis allowed the two of them to begin working, both in order to make money for him and to pay for their eventual freedom, he hadn’t called on her. It wouldn’t surprise him if the commander had newer, younger toys now.
He drove the iron into a pocket in the stone, wishing he could stab it deeper, wishing the rock would crack from the force of his hand. But it was too strong.
“Kastan.”
Reluctantly, he turned to face her. She cupped his cheek with her hand. “You are young. You should go and be young.”
He looked away. All the love and meaning in her face was too much for him to handle. But he put his hand over hers, letting her know the affection was mutual. “I’ll go,” he said, meeting her gaze again. “But I won’t be long.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be in a rush. Have fun.” She didn’t say “Be smart” or “Be careful” as many parents might in such a situation, because she knew he always was those things. In fact, she often chided him for being too uptight and serious to have fun, although he didn’t think that accusation was fair at all. There were plenty of ways he had fun. Just because the things he enjoyed most were quiet, solitary activities didn’t mean his life was boring. Honestly, it really irritated him when she said that.
“Oh, it’s ready.” She scooped a few spoonfuls of a yellowish, chunky substance from the cauldron into a bowl and handed it to him. Kastan slurped down the familiar dish: starchy, creamy, and a little sweet. She once told him it was an adaptation of tobu, a Sabani dish—something she had learned how to make as a child, back when she was still free.
To make it properly, she had said, it needed salt to balance out the sweetness of the fruits and vegetables. But salt was too expensive this far from the coast, so she made do with what she had.
One day, Kastan would like to have proper tobu. Maybe one day, when he and his mother were free, they would go to southern Sabán together—mother and son—and eat tobu near her birthplace along the sea. He’d never even seen the ocean himself. It was hard to imagine, all that water stretching forever and ever, further than any human could go.
When he was being honest with himself, though, Kastan knew that such dreams were not a matter of “when,” but “if.” If Commander Arjis ever declared their debts paid. If his mother lived long enough. If Kastan didn’t die in battle first—though he wasn’t too worried about that, since the empire was not at war.
If that day of freedom arrived, it could be decades away.
He wasn’t holding his breath.
When he finished eating, he climbed the ladder to his little loft. He had to crawl on his hands and knees these days so he didn’t bump his head on the ceiling. His Uncle Chetro—not a biological uncle, but a neighbor who’d been like a father to him when he was younger—built the loft a little too small, not accounting for how much he’d grow.
In here were all his belongings, except for the clothes on his back and the knife in his boot, something he never went anywhere without. Beside his cot, pillow, and blanket with the pattern of his mother’s clan, sat a stack of clothes and his army-issue sword and belt. Inside a leather side bag, old and stretched out from use, he kept a few bandages and medical supplies, though his full stash was at the military base.
The curtain hanging from the ceiling next to him was his only privacy. He needed that privacy like he needed food and water. He couldn’t find his center, or feel like himself, without a bit of time every day all to himself, without anyone watching him.
Kastan frowned at his clothes. It occurred to him that he had nothing nice to wear. It wasn’t something he had ever cared about before, but he felt suddenly self-conscious, afraid he might be singled out at the tavern. He wanted to look… respectable.
The feeling hit him so hard, it ached.
It would be weird to bring his military uniform. Technically, he wasn’t even allowed to wear it off-duty. But it was either that or his one tunic, faded and stained from constant wear.
He picked up his military tunic. It was bright red, like fresh blood, with the golden-yellow sun symbol on the chest. The sun symbol represented the Dorish religious principle of sacred balance, with its eight points standing for the opposites of death and life, destruction and creation, and… something, something. He’d never paid much attention.
