Peter laughs and steps away from the pews, then comes to stand at my side and say, “Admit it: we’re all scared.”

  Again—silence.

  I glance at Peter out my peripheral and try my hardest to communicate my understanding without saying anything. It seems to work, because as he sets his hand on my shoulder, he nods and says, “So few people were willing to do what she did. Why are you questioning her now?”

  “Because she’s just a girl!” a man calls. “Why should she be the one to wield it?”

  “Because she was the only one brave enough to enter Kira’s tomb,” Peter replies. “Because out of all of us, ground or Sky People, she took it upon herself to be blessed and cursed at the same time.”

  I swallow.

  Blessed and cursed.

  It is as if Peter has plucked the thoughts, and my feelings surrounding them, straight from my mind.

  Sir Jonathan Rothbard clears his throat above us and says, “The Lance will be wielded by none other than Bryce Song, if she so chooses to make this her legacy. That is my final decision.”

  “And ours as the Seven,” Grand Sage Archimus adds from behind Sir Rothbard.

  No one replies in kind.

  With a nod, and with determination I feel is born from strength rather than fear, I clear my throat and say, “I will do everything in my power to ensure that our people—Eulan or otherwise—are safe.”

  A chorus of whispers go up in the crowd.

  Jonathan Rothbard says, “I would ask all those willing and capable of defending our people to stand and make themselves known.”

  It takes a moment for the shock to set in, for the finality of it all to come into stable fruition.

  When finally it does, the people begin to rise.

  Soon, most of the worshipers are standing.

  And I, the last bastion of these people’s hopes, can only close my eyes.

  In nine days, our lives will either truly begin, or come to an unfortunate end.

  I can only hope that our God has blessed me. Otherwise…

  I swallow.

  Otherwise, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  My decision to leave the temple is not made lightly, nor is it deemed appropriate by those Sages within the church.

  “Are you really sure you should leave?” High Sage Hera asks from her place at the Grand Sage’s doorway.

  “Yes,” I reply, slipping into my shoes. “I do.”

  There is a moment of hesitation between the two of us. Gluttonous in its declaration, and discomforting to say the least, I try to ignore it as I stoop to lace my boots, but find myself unable to do so despite the fact that I am confident with what I have decided.

  You don’t know what might happen, my conscience offers. You don’t know what you’ll see, what you’ll face.

  Regardless, I know that I cannot spend the last of my days on Earthwalker Eula within the temple. I have to do what is right, and contribute in whatever way I can.

  Nodding, High Sage Hera reaches up to pull her brown hair back beneath her hood and says, “I understand.”

  “You understand what?” I ask, lifting my eyes to face her.

  “That you’re lost. That you’re confused. That you’re scared. You don’t have to do this, Bryce. No one’s asking you to be a hero.”

  “I know,” I reply. “But I’m the only one who can be.”

  “You’re no warrior.”

  “It doesn’t take a sword to rule the world.”

  At this, the High Sage says nothing. Rather, she frowns, and watches as I lift the Lance into my hands. “Who will keep it?” she asks. “Surely you don’t plan on taking it with you.”

  “No, High Sage. I don’t.”

  It is a decision I have not come to lightly, nor one that I am particularly comfortable with. However, I realize that removing it from the temple to usher it into the public world would not be appropriate, for me or anyone else. I have no way to protect it should someone come wanting it, nor any way to defend myself if that someone becomes aggressive. For that reason, I feel, it is best left in the temple—where it can be guarded behind closed doors.

  “You know some will come looking for you,” High Sage Hera says.

  “I know,” I reply.

  “You’ll be safer if you stay here.”

  “I know.”

  “So why won’t you?”

  “Because it’s not my place to stand around helpless. I need to contribute in whatever way I can.”

  The High Sage nods. “I understand.”

  I step forward, Lance in hand, and extend it forward—hesitantly, carefully, with trepidation I know comes from abandoning what would have otherwise been my responsibility. “Keep it safe,” I say.

  High Sage Hera takes hold of the holy weapon and says, “I will.”

  Then I am exiting the temple, and making my way due south.

  I take the long way home to avoid attracting attention, and do my best to remain as discreet as possible. Keeping my hands in my pockets, my head down, my step even, I walk along the side of the dirt road that borders the swath of farmland upon which our crops are grown, hoping with all my heart that no one will see or stop me. Most of the people atop Eula have gone to assist in the war efforts, but me? I just want to go home—to rest and recover in a bed of my own and to reflect on what exactly I can do.

  I can sew, I think. I could gather water from the wells, help make food for the workers.

  My lack of an actual trade beyond the sewing my mother and grandmother taught me leaves me in an unfortunate position. I had, in the past, learned so-called ‘womanly’ duties due to my belief that I would never need to raise a sword. But now?

  I shake my head.

  Now, I think, I am in a position where it is ride or die—where I can go left and save myself or right and save my people. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. But myself?

  I laugh.

  Disappointing myself would be easy in this situation, especially if I decided to lock myself in my home and never come out.

  “Bryce?” a voice asks. “Is that you?”

  I lift my head, stunned.

  Katelyn Hero is standing at the edge of her parents’ property, looking out at me from the small wire fence that divides her home from the road. She is waiting for me to respond, and casually leaning forward to ensure that it is, in fact, me.

  “Yes,” I say, matter-of-factly. “It’s me.”

  “I was wondering when I’d see you again.” She opens the wooden gate and steps out, careful not to free the chickens with the clipped wings in the process. “How are you holding up?”

  “As well as anyone could I suppose,” I say.

  “I heard from Father that you’re going to be wielding the Lance in the upcoming battle.”

  “I think I am, yes.”

  “Are you sure you want to do it?”

  Want to do it? No. Have to? Maybe. Either way, I can’t lie to my best friend, so I simply say, “I’ll do what I must.”

  “A bunch of cowards we are,” she replies, turning her head to look down the road, where distantly the sounds of hammers striking metal can be heard. “Letting a fifteen-year-old girl do what is considered impossible.”

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “I know. You don’t explain anything to me, Bryce.”

  Do I, though? Am I not seen as weak? As immature? As inappropriate for what is to come? There was never a need for any great warriors atop Eula, for with no infighting between us there was never any need to become a master swordsman. For that reason, it seems odd that a fifteen-year-old girl would be so forthcoming in her declaration to protect her people.

  Either way, it doesn’t particularly matter. Only the Elves were not afraid to step into Kira’s tomb, the Elves unafraid to touch the sarcophagus.

  Sighing, I lift my eyes to face Katelyn and find that her eyes are lost in my own.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m just… scared. More for you than anything.”

  “Have you figured out what you’re going to do to help?”

  “I’m going to bring food to the volunteers,” Katelyn says. “There’s more than enough eggs to go around, and enough herbs in our cellar to make meals for weeks. Why? What do you plan on doing?”

  “I need to rest,” I say, “in my own bed. Clear my head. That sort of thing.”

  “Do you need me to go with you?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, then frown. “Why would you?”

  “I think… I think the Elves are still there. Aren’t they?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I feel like I’m safer with them than I am my own people.”

  “What a sad thing to think,” Katelyn says.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I turn my head to look down the road and say, “I guess I’ll see you later?”

  “You will,” Katelyn replies. “Oh. And Bryce?”

  I turn to face her. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t let fear get the best of you. If we are going to die… make every moment count. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I walk away wondering just what she meant.

  Home is a welcoming sight after troubling days. Sanctuary incarnate, it offers warm memories, four walls, shelter. It also summons thoughts both good and bad, which cause me to simultaneously feel relief and sadness.

  Well, I think, expelling a cautious breath. This is it.

  “Home,” I whisper.

  The apprehension I feel over entering the one place I know should comfort me is bone-deep. Chilling, ever so suddenly, the blood in my veins, it roots me to the very ground I stand upon and prevents me from moving forward. A part of me is comfortable with this, as without movement I will not have to face the past within. The other part, however, knows that I cannot dawdle forever, and for that reason, I inhale several deep breaths of air before physically forcing myself forward.

  Movement appears out my peripheral.

  I stopped, stunned.

  What— I start to think, then am stopped by the sight of the curtains shifting.

  I sigh, mostly in relief, but also unease.

  The Elves have returned to my homestead.

  Rather than wait for them to greet me, I step up to the front door and turn the doorknob, which twists easily under my grasp.

  “Hello?” I ask as I enter. “Who’s here?”

  No response follows.

  “Hello?” I ask, trying to ignore the shiver that travels the length of my spine. “Kaelan? Neverwind? Delvin? Who’s here?”

  Again: no one responds.

  If it’s not them, I think, then who…

  I gasp.

  Fear unlike any I have felt before assaults me. Strangling my conscience, wrapping tight around my chest, it spurs me to draw the sword from the sheath at my belt.

  I have just pulled the weapon free when something crashes in the other room.

  “Whoever’s here needs to get the hell out of here!” I call, trying to fight the urge to keep from trembling in complete and utter terror. “Come out now and I won’t turn you in to the guards.”

  Footsteps echo through the hall.

  I tremble, swallow, prepare myself for what is to come.

  And watch as a complete stranger appears from around the corner.

  Adrenaline compels my heart to beat faster as he reveals himself in full. Knife drawn, hair disheveled, he huffs and puffs likely from the fear of getting caught and offers me a wide-eyed look that is both desperate and crazed at the same time. I have never seen this man before. He is not my neighbor, my friend, or likely a member of southern Eula’s community. However, the determination in his gaze is without fault, and his step toward me unhindered by any hesitation, societal or not.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

  “Whatever you took,” I say, “drop it.”

  He smiles, revealing a patchwork of untended teeth. “I’m not dropping anything, girlie.”

  “I’m warning you,” I say as he approaches, “put whatever you took on the table now.”

  “Or what?” he asks. “Are you going to kill me? Or are your bastard sky friends going to save you?”

  “I—” I start, then narrow my eyes. “It was you… You poisoned the Elves.”

  “Good for nothing Sky people,” the intruder says. “Always involving themselves in our business. Never helping. Never hoping.”

  “Get out,” I say. “Now.”

  “And risk you telling?” he replies. “I don’t think so.”

  He lunges—quicker than I could expect.

  I duck just in time to avoid a knife in my throat.

  “Stupid girl,” he says, slashing at the empty air as he spins to face me. “You think I’m going to let you out of here alive?”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way,” I warn, brandishing my mother’s sword before me. “Turn back now… before I kill you.”

  He laughs. “You? Kill me?”

  I lunge.

  He dodges.

  I duck away from the blade before he has a chance to cut my throat.

  I’m torn between running out the front door to get help or remaining inside. On one hand, running would earn me the help of others. On another, it could also endanger whoever may come out to investigate the commotion. At least inside I can fight on known ground, and protect anyone else who would otherwise get involved.

  I spin to face the wall that holds my grandmother’s spices, and with speed I could only imagine having, grab one and toss it directly at his face.

  Glass shatters.

  The man screams.

  He is engulfed in a cloud of paprika.

  Temporarily blinded, he swipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving me just enough time to dart toward him.

  I slam the blade into his gut.

  He grunts.

  I scream, twist the blade about his abdomen, and snap it free before he can counteract.

  Blood sprays everywhere, coating both me and the floor.

  He offers me only one look before collapsing into a heap on the floor.

  The door bursts open.

  “Bryce!” Peter cries. “What’s going…” He looks down. “On?”

  I shiver—not from fear, or pain, or guilt, but rage.

  Peter only has to take one look at me to know what has happened. “We need to get my father,” he says. “Now.”

  17

  The Lamb of War

  The aftermath of my grisly encounter with the deranged man quickly draws a crowd, and becomes a scene faster than I could’ve ever imagined. Covered in blood, and still trembling due to the adrenaline dying in my system, I sit with my back to the wall and watch as the intruder is dragged from my home.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Peter asks, kneeling to look me in the eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He narrows his eyes, as if ready to question my statement. Thankfully, his father steps in before he can do so, and says, “I knew there would be problems sooner rather than later.”

  “How so?” I ask. I lift my eyes to face him and try to ignore the smell of blood on me.

  “This man was known for his anti-Linduan propaganda. He’s been going around proclaiming his hatred of them for years. The fact that he was in your home wasn’t surprising, considering that you have been housing Elves.”

  “But so have other people,” I say. “Why break into my house?”

  “Other homes have been vandalized today as well.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “I’m not.”

  It takes a moment for the gravity of the situation to settle in—for the pieces to fall together as if they were ceremoniously placed and then knocked into motion. When finally it does, I turn to look down the street and say, “Was anyone hurt?”

  “You’re the only one who’s had an encounter with this man. Most of the Eulan people are assisting with the war efforts.”

  “Great,” I say, bowing my face into my hands. “Just great.”

  Peter presses a palm against my upper back and begins to massage it in circular motions.

  “Peter,” his father says. “Will you stay here with Bryce while I check in with the owners of the vandalized homes?”

  “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll stay with Bryce.”

  “Maybe fetch some water while you’re at it. You’ve got quite a mess on your hands.”

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from responding.

  As the sound of the guardsmen’s footsteps fade away, I struggle to lift my eyes to face Peter, and find myself reliving the event all over again.

  The curtains parting—

  The footsteps coming—

  My voice, calling—

  Then he’d appeared, brandishing that knife.

  If I hadn’t have had my mother’s sword… I’d probably be—

  “Dead,” I whisper.

  Peter stops massaging my back. “You’re lucky,” he says. “Not many people survive a break-in like this.”

  “I’m not like most people,” I reply.

  “No,” Peter offers. “You’re not.”

  I clench my fists and watch the blood run red through them before pushing myself to my feet and saying, “I should clean up.”

  “Why don’t you do it at my place?” Peter asks, glancing back at the open doorway, through which the guardsmen have already tracked blood. “It’ll be safer.”

  “I—” I start to say, then shake my head. I realize there’s no point in arguing with him, and for that reason, nod and say, “Okay.”

  He turns and, with prominence I know comes from being brought up as a guardsman’s son, leads me the few short feet that separate his home and mine.

  At the doorway, I pause to remove my bloodied boots.

  Inside, I follow him through the house.

  And in the bathing chamber, I consider the single tub and the door that opens to the yard out back before turning to face him.

  “I’ll fetch the water,” he says. “Just give me a few moments.”

  As he opens and then departs out the door, I consider the wooden tub and water that will soon fill it.

 

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