---RYNE---

The sheep hopped around the meadow, trying to sniff out the flower. I noticed it walked awkwardly; a clear sign it had a limp or malformation. Her fleece disappeared in parts of the meadow where there were tall blades of grass and reappeared where it was shorter. It hopped frantically like dogs sniffing scraps of meat. Then on a patch of grass near us, she stooped low and considered. Then, she called for her master.

The boy ran towards her and patted her head, slowly circling around the area, parting the short grass with his staff, and knelt. He shot up, whooping, holding the sheep up in the air, and cradling the animal close to his chest.

“Good work, Belle! Good work!”

For some strange reason, I was glad for the boy. It was such a rare sight to see true happiness in someone’s face. As he twirled the sheep in the air, laughing, I heard relief mixed in with his joy. It was the way his breath caught after each laugh. Once he was done, the boy bent down again and carefully picked a flower. I saw in the dying light the familiar yellow-orange color, the purple-red sky giving it a cool hue.

The sheep, Belle, having been praised, leaped around the boy and started searching for more in the meadow. She came closer to the mound.

“I should have brought a torch,” the boy said as she followed Belle.

My eyes darted to the bottom of the mound. Since we traveled at night and my brothers were occupied with carrying their coffins behind their backs, we did not see the surrounding areas of the slope.

There was a decent growth of feverflukes on one spot directly below the tree.

“This might be a problem,” Woodrow said, knowing he can’t charm him.

The sheep bleated for her master again, and with her teeth, plucked one from the ground. It was a decent size. A strong gust of wind snatched it from her mouth and blew that freshly picked flower towards us. Without thinking, I stepped on it to keep it from getting blown further. We were caught, anyway. The boy and sheep stopped a few distances from the feverflukes, his staff raised awkwardly in the air. Our robes flapped behind us.

We revealed ourselves fully, me first, and then Wilbur. The boy whistled to the sheep and she scuttled back to his side. We were just thankful his companion wasn’t a dog. Dogs hated us. Which was a shame, because I liked them. I valued their loyalty. It was a wish of mine to touch one.

We regarded each other, eyes wide and wary. He might have run then or questioned us or fought. But he looked at our monastic robes and his brows met. Wilbur wanted to meet him down the mound, but I tugged on his sleeve. I shook my head. Wilbur was lanky and the boy might be scared. Woodrow was still hidden in the leaves, the darkness concealing his bright features. His red hair was hidden under his hood.

I showed the flower to him, my hand raised high, as a sign of good gesture before I made my way down. I made sure that my hood hid my appearance as I walked slowly towards him, not speaking a word. When I was close enough, I offered him the flower. I was afraid of what he might do, but the arm that gripped the staff relaxed and with his other free hand, made to grab it. I thought to drop it onto his open palm so that we would not touch, but two fingers closed around the stem of the flower, one warm finger on mine.

I tried not to startle. Then he let go, hand empty of the flower.

“Keep it,” he said. “It might come in handy.”

The strong voice did not suit the small boy. The grass rustled all around us, waiting for my response. He did not call his friends hiding in the nearby landscape like my mind told me. He simply stood and stared right back. At least, I think he did. His thick, curly dark hair hid his face like my cloak concealed my veins. The staff, I now saw clearly, was almost his size. He struck the soft ground with it, causing the sheep to hide, peering cautiously between the gaps of his legs.

A confirmation. A shepherd boy. A farmer.

A softer breeze passed through the branches of the apple tree, knocking a single apple, which thudded from up on the mound and rolled close to my feet. The sheep sprung from her position. She moved through the boy’s legs and sniffed the air. I picked the fruit, showed the red skin to the curious animal, and kneeled down. Belle was not shy. She bit hard into its core. The sound was delicious in the air. I almost tasted its juice.

“That would be your supper,” he told the sheep. Back to me, he asked, “Do you need help?”

We must be a strange sight. The wind had made his curls fall over his face. From behind those dark locks must be eyes that darted quickly, confused as to why two grown monks appeared out of nowhere with their young acolyte. I shook my head and did not reply, only insisting that he take the flower. My voice was soft, my palms had begun to sweat. “It was you who found it.”

Stolen novel; please report.

He did not know that we carried a more potent version of the flower as a syrup in Wilbur’s satchel. We needed to extract plenty of them to get the nectar and powderize the petals for one bottle. By themselves, five to fifteen feverfluke flowers may reduce fever for a few hours. But using alchemy, Wilbur can cure it in a night or two.

I motioned the flower back to him again. “You’re very brave to wander alone on these paths this late when danger could be anywhere.”

“I could say the same to you lot. Pardon me, but–”

The wind once more picked up; a powerful gust that lifted the dark locks covering his eyes. His eyes were as dark as his hair, like the color of rich earth. Long lashes framed them and upwards still were thick brows. Those eyes widened in surprise. I saw his lips part. I felt my own hair free in the breeze; the one that blew away my cowl.

The boy saw my veined face.

“Ryne,” Wilbur caught my shoulder. Woodrow dropped from the tree and hurried to me, stopping a few steps behind Wilbur. The boy blinked at him before returning his gaze to me. He composed himself; closed the parted lips, turned around, and ran to retrieve the hood lying pathetically on the ground some distance away. His reaction was to be expected. Still, I felt light-headed.

In all my years of protecting my identity, I never thought that a stray wind would reveal our well-kept secret in front of the first villager we met on the road. Wilbur’s hand shook. I can feel them look at each other, then at the boy. I was thankful that he had the good sense to walk away. Wilbur’s hand was already rummaging in his satchel.

He had seen my face. My face. My hands flew to my cheeks when the boy returned. I closed my eyes. “It’s not a sickness. You are fine, you won’t ever catch it.” I repeated the lines that I hoped would reassure him.

“My name is Claude,” the boy said, handing me back my hood.

I immediately wore it and tied the string to the rest of my robes so that it wouldn’t fly off. His eyes were staring at the ground, but as I fixed the knots, I saw them dart towards me. His mind must definitely be racing now. For a fraction of a moment, he was surprised, but he kept it from growing into terror, which is much more than I can say for most grown men and women. I realized then that his gestures afterward were not unlike my own. He was trying to be polite.

As I secured the last knot, I thought, would he have been kinder even if I wasn’t a disguised monk? Would he treat me the same if I were nothing but a commoner?

He placed his hand on his chest. “I won’t do you any harm.” How odd and how comforting that he said it. “May I say the same thing for you three? You won’t hurt me?” His long lashes swept us all.

It was Wilbur who spoke, almost like an oath. “We are but traveling monks, off to find their next home. We will leave these premises without taking anything.” I thought to myself: and without harming anyone. I did not notice that I was still holding onto the flower when Wilbur took it from my hand and turned it around in the purple light. He said to Claude, “You would venture in the middle of the rain to collect so few?”

“I would,” Claude said firmly. He picked the remaining flowers on the mound and tucked them into his tunic. He looked at me. “It’s for my sister. She’s sick.”

Wilbur looked down. “I’m sorry to hear that. How bad is it?”

Claude shook his head. “Worse than it was four days ago. She was playing just outside the fields, then that very same night she had no appetite for food, and then the next morning we couldn’t rouse her from bed. Her fever rose. She lost most of her strength. She does nothing but sleep.”

Wilbur and I grimaced, though we were careful not to show Claude that. We knew the symptoms of a death-chill. And this sounded like it was in its most critical condition. I saw in Wilbur’s face that he was conflicted; torn between being discreet and curing an innocent child, especially when the miraculous bottle was just on his person.

“You came in just the right time, by the way." Claude gestured behind him. "Rothfield has signs of closing itself. Times being as they are, people seem to shut themselves inside.” Wilbur sighed softly. If the town was closing down, we might as well heal the child. He looked thankful that the circumstance made his choice for him. “Where are you all headed? The road isn’t safe out there,” he asked.

It was Woodrow who spoke next. He had come down to join us when Claude went to retrieve my cowl. “We were attacked and forced out of our monastery. Rogues or bandits we do not know for certain. But we managed to escape, us three.” Our clothes matched his story. Torn on the edges with loose dirt. For effect, Woodrow came close to me and patted my hair. “We would never forgive ourselves if they caught little Ryne here. He was born this way, you see," Woodrow gestured to the markings on my face, "but the crazed men would sooner end him than listen to us explain.”

Claude winced. “I am sorry to hear that. To attack monks in their own homes.. was there no protection? No lord you can seek sanctuary with?”

Woodrow shook his head. “Sadly, no one knows our brotherhood. We were just starting to settle in a deep forest far in the south. It was our mistake, to let them inside our walls. They pretended to seek aid. During the night, when we were praying, they attacked us.”

Claude frowned. “I am sorry that your kindness has been your undoing.”

“We would still do it,” I said. Even though it was just a story, I couldn’t resist sharing what I felt about certain things. “We just have to be more careful.”

Claude looked at me, and I thought a smile hinted on his lips. He patted Belle’s head, unsure of what to say and do next. “So you ended up here,” he finally said. “Maybe you can talk to Lord Bahram about your plight. He’s the lord reigning over Rothfield. Though seeking him would be difficult. He seems to be locked up in his manor house these recent days.” He smiled humorlessly. “But if not him, maybe the other lords far ahead. I heard there are still lords who want the clergy within the walls. They seem to want the Saint’s protection from the people who preach their stories.”

There was an edge to his tone, I noticed. He twirled his staff, his brows motioned to the sky. “As of now, maybe you could come with me, brothers. It’s getting dark. Let me take you to our humble house for the night.” When he saw my surprise, he added, “My mother would never forgive me if I set you on your way alone in a new place.”