CHAPTER 15 : TO STEAL A KING (PART 1) - FLASHBACK

"Ichor pollen fields were planted near isolated villages with high birth rates and observed for five years. Local children were told by parents to avoid flowers due to ill effects. However, children were encouraged to run through fields as a demonstration of courage.

Possible Initiate found in the fourth year. He shows promising compatibility with ichor pollen and resistance to deadlier effects. Skyguards will be issued to collect Initiate if results remain stable.

Initiate’s name is Egg Faust." ~ Oracle Vahm, Kingmaker Report, Twelfth Cycle

BAVETNA

The valley air is cool with morning dew, wetting my feet as I carry my catch back home. Spring is upon us, and the land is waking up after a long winter.

I will have to start planting soon, Little Abbey cannot feed itself.

The rooster crows as dawn breaks over the eastern pass, shading the snow caps purple and pink. I cover my eyes to watch as light floods the valley.

Birds and crickets sing good morning, and the tower's chimneys are already puffing up a storm—the cook is always first to wake.

I inhale deeply through my nose, and breathe in the scents of fresh grass and pancakes.

The sharp metallic smell of blood interrupts the others. The deer I caught will need to be cleaned right away.

I heft the animal up on my shoulder and continue to the farm house.

Leaving my quiver and bow hanging on the hook beside the front door, I take the deer around the back. A large chestnut tree grows beside a slow-moving creek. A strong branch bows over the water, already prepped with rope.

I hang the deer by the bottom legs and drain it, then skin off the hide and set it aside for tanning later.

Tiny fish brave the surface to fight for chunks that fall into the water, while ravens wait their turn at the top of the tree.

While I work, the girls wander out of the tower after breakfast. The scholar with the sharp tongue is demonstrating a history lesson by having the girls act out the Carnage of Silver Cliff.

A few of the young witches bring books or scrolls to study and watch the performance from the sidelines.

Moroka makes her way to me, as usual.

She is quiet, and sits on a small stone across the creek, watching me work. The gore does not phase her in the slightest.

After a time, she removes a small sketchbook from her pocket and a shaved chunk of charcoal. I am not sure what she is drawing, or perhaps writing, but it keeps her occupied.

Once I have cleaned the carcass, I untie the deer and place it on a rudimentary skinning table comprised of a waxed board balanced on a pair of stumps. Having more than two hands comes in handy. Honestly, I am unsure how humans cope with so few. It takes me no time at all to dissemble the deer.

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I set the edible meat in a bucket to salt and bury in the cold cellar for later, then turn my attention to the hide. It takes longer to scrape away all the flesh, but I am thorough. I do not want it to rot. I rest it in its own bucket filled with water to soak, and weigh it down with rocks.

In a few days I will dry it out, remove any remaining membrane and rub it with a mixture of egg yolk and brains to tan it.

"What do you think?" I ask Moroka as I wash the blood from my hands in the creek. "Maybe a nice hat?"

She considers it for a moment. "New boots for Bevamy. Hers are falling apart."

"Excellent idea. Will you help me?"

Moroka lights up. "Sure."

"Be back here in two days with a dozen eggs."

A bell rings from the tower. Moroka says goodbye and hurries back for lunch and afternoon lessons.

I almost miss the notebook. She has forgotten it on the rock. Curious, I pick it up and open it.

Inside are sketches of many wildflowers, along with diligent notes of their herbal properties. In between the flowers are various other pictures: a robin's egg that has just hatched, a spider web glistening between two autumn branches, and a mitten forgotten in the snow.

There are also several of the witches.

One shows the cook spelling dishes to clean themselves in mid air above the kitchen sink, her apron fluttering around her as if she's dancing. One is of the scholar balancing precariously on a stool, trying to reach a book on the highest shelf of her study. Another is of the Warden napping beneath a willow tree, a book open on her lap.

I am here too.

I recognize one of me carrying a bundle of firewood on my back this past winter, and another with a small dragonfly that's landed on my nose. The most recent is a diagram of the deer, labeled with all its parts and uses. And beside it is a sketch of me, knife in hand, eyes focused on removing the flank.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

I look up.

Moroka is beside the chestnut tree, palm braced on the trunk. I can tell she is angry. Her eyes are downcast and her teeth are clenched.

I hand the book back to her.

She snatches it from my fingers and shoves it in her skirt pocket.

"You are very talented," I say honestly.

Her anger subsides slightly. She rubs the back of her neck. "It's...just a hobby."

"I have been to the Thirteenth Library, and to the Spire of Scrolls. I have seen many books painted with colors you could not imagine. What you can do with charcoal rivals professional illuminators."

Her eyes widen. "You're just saying that."

"I am not." I pat her head. "Back to class with you."

Moroka nods and turns to leave, then hesitates. She bites her lip, then ruffles through her sketchbook and pulls out a page. "Keep it." She runs away immediately.

I turn the page over. It is the sketch of me and the dragonfly.

I smile.

The rest of my chores for the day go by smoothly. It rains for an hour or so after dinner, and the Warden ventures out to chat with me. A wool shawl is wrapped around her shoulders to beat the cool evening air. We discuss if we need to buy more goats or if they will see us through the year.

We say our goodbyes and I blow out the porch lantern.

That is when I see the bird.

It is a starling.

A little thing. It should already be in its nest, not perched on my porch railing. It risks becoming a meal for the owls by staying out this late. Its chest puffs rapidly, as though it has flown a great distance, and it watches me, waiting patiently.

Dread settles in my stomach like a ball of lead.

It has been trained.

Around its leg is a small, emerald ring tied with a piece of twine. The emerald is shaped like an oak leaf.

The call is clear.

I have been summoned.