"What is it? You're hiding something."

"No, Rill. I'm not."

"You soooooo are!"

"What could I possibly be hiding? A chest of food in my pocket? A canid under my bed?"

The little girl put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. But even as Brand laughed at her and leaned back on his bed, she got down on her knees to inspect the space beneath the bed. She rose just as suddenly as she had crouched, and frowned at him even further.

"Come oooonnnnn!"

"Shut up, girl!" shouted a boy from across the aisle.

"You shut up!"

Brand had to concede her that. The girl didn't fear boys twice her size, and she was the only one that dared to walk around their large, half-lit room. The girls' dormitory was down another hall, and they were locked up more tightly than the boys. But Rill always volunteered to help in the kitchens even after a hard day's work, so she could always sneak around for a while longer through the hallways and spy on the guards and visit Brand whenever the lock on the door didn't quite close, which was often given the rusty iron the Chainkeepers used. The girls' learning was different from that of the boys, dull and extenuating rather than a lesson in physical punishment. Somewhere around Brand's skull circled his mentor's teachings. Something about the different natures of boys and girls, and how they had to be taught about the world at large. Boys received one end of the broomstick repeatedly, but the girls only had to be taught to sweep with it. In those ways, their young spirits, naturally fickle and formless, became sharper and more robust. Brand saw it another way. He had seen it in Rill. For all her spunk, she had been slowly drained the last times she had shown up, as if her spirit was dimming. He realized then that was why he had avoided her lately. It was painful to see that and to know the same thing had to be happening to him as well. Could she see it yet? Could she tell?

She sat on his bed and looked at him with those eyes that could melt iron.

"Please, Brand, tell me. A secret is such a small and petty thing, but to me, it would mean so much."

He saw the tears starting to form in her eyes, and knew she had had a bad day. A very bad one. She didn't talk about them, but she hinted at some things every once in a while, and he could complete the picture. Girls were mean to her, and their torture was worse than anything the boys did to each other. The physical punishment the boys received made it so that very few scuffles occurred. No one wanted to be punished further, and the Chainkeepers did so when they broke up a fight, just for the principle of it. The girls didn't fear that kind of punishment, for the Chainkeepers left them to exact their punishments on the offenders, and they did so with more zeal and enthusiasm than the greenest Chainkeeper. Only their wounds and scars didn't show.

"Sshh... don't do that, Rill. That only makes it worse, you know that."

She did know and sobbed her tears away. Crying was worse than showing weakness. Every child had moments of weakness, it couldn't be avoided. Their flesh and their spirits weren't solid enough, said the mentors. But crying showed self-pity, and wallowing in it meant that you were opposed to learning. It meant you were trying to break down the dam that kept things contained inside. If you did, you became useless, a bare haft in a world of hammers.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Come, dry those in my towel. You don't want to be seen like that."

She held the cloth he gave her as if she didn't know what to do with it. She blushed.

"Keep it," said Brand, blushing in turn. The girl made him feel awkward. It was strange to be around her, unnerving in a different way than how the other kids made him feel. It was as if he feared her even more than a Chainkeeper. He was used to threats and punishment, but not to the closeness and absence she made him feel. He had caught himself more than once looking wistfully at the small trapdoor amid the great door of the room. She always came through there, picking the lock and sliding through it like a canid. He had to hide his smile as she came in with her smuggled wares. The kids surrounded her every time she came in, hoping to get a piece of the treasure: a slice of cake or another dessert the elder Chainkeepers enjoyed. She brought them as offerings, and chose whom she would bestow it upon; the miraculous thing was that none of the kids fought each other for it, rather, they liked seeing who was her choice, and speculate as to why she did so. And afterward, the losers would frown but go back to their bunks, and the winner wouldn't even smile, running to one of the room's corners to eat safely, and that left her free to sit with Brand and talk.

He didn't know why she had chosen to talk to him that first time, and even though other kids tried to join in once in a while, hoping to earn her favor, they soon tired of it when they saw she never brought anything for Brand, and so being friendly didn't earn them anything. Brand saw those things but never asked her why she acted as she did. She was an apparition like he had heard the old servants tell in hushed stories meant to frighten him. But only that little girl managed to frighten him, out of all the ghosts in his mind. Specters seemed benign next to the Chainkeepers' towering presence, and the dread felt in the corridors owed nothing to fades but much to the living inhabitants of the fortress.

He feared not seeing her again more than he feared the whip. Else, he would have pushed her out of the room long ago, so no one could trace her visits to him and punish him for who knew what offense. None of them would, though. He knew them as well as he knew himself. They all hoped to be the winner every day, and they all liked her intrusion, even if they didn't say so. Girls were almost mythical to them, like trees, and not even the vilest of them would attempt to hurt her. He also knew that, for he sometimes thought he was the worst of them. He dreamt once of hitting her with a whip until he made her cry. He didn't know why he dreamt that and sat on his hands the next time he saw her, lest he acted unconsciously to enact his dreams. She had seen something strange in his eyes that time, and he had feared she wouldn't show up again. But she did, and now that he was seeing her cry, he realized he couldn't stand it. He would never be able to lift a hand against her, and if a Chainkeeper had been the one holding the whip, he would have somehow killed him. The very thought made his blood boil.

"What is it, Brand? Stop it," she said, holding his reddening knuckles between her hands. "Stop it. You can't hurt them. That would make it worse."

She thought he was angry at the other girls. But he wasn't. He couldn't blame them, not more than he could blame himself for not being stronger, for not standing up when another boy was being hit. They were all cowards, but that was the way to stay safe. Except he didn't want to be like that forever. He sighed and unclenched his hands. He looked down at them. Stupid boy. What can you do with your small hands?

She was looking into his eyes, and he looked up at her when he noticed it. She looked away but kept her hands on his.

"Do you think there are real trees, somewhere out there?" she asked. "Things that grow and are not burnt by the sun? And give out sweet food for free?"

He smiled a wan smile.

"No," he said. "Nothing's free in this world. No one gives you anything for nothing. Why would plants do otherwise?"

"Rice grows on paddies... and..."

"They are worked by people. Nothing would grow without getting something back."

She seemed taken aback by the bluntness of his answers, but regained her posture quickly, like a wind-blown stalk.

"I think there have to be trees."

"Why is that?" he asked.

"Because if the whole world is like that, no one could have even dreamt of those things."

Brand pondered her words long after she had left by the trapdoor, but he could find no answer.