Grim stared at the walls of his cell, watching the sunlight shining through the bars of his window slowly creep across the far wall. He sighed, wincing as pain spread from where the Greencloak had punched him. He turned his gaze to the new cellmate they had deposited with him early in the morning. The young boy was splayed across the bed of straw where the Venaran’s had thrown his limp body. The guards had deposited him earlier this morning and Grim wondered what somebody so young could have done to end up here.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Across the room, the boy began to stir. Grim blinked as the kid’s eyes flickered and he released a groan. Grim said nothing as the boy levered himself to a sitting position with shaky arms, taking in his surroundings. After a moment, he locked eyes with Grim. “Greencloak fort?” he asked.
Grim nodded.
The boy cursed beneath his breath. “Any idea what they’re going to do with us?”
“Nothing good,” Grim answered.
The boy narrowed his eyes at him, looking him up and down. “You look too rich to be in here.”
Grim chuckled. “You look too young to be in here.”
“A symptom of not being rich,” the boy answered.
Grim chuckled darkly. “I’m a Thorne soldier. Got caught letting Greencloaks die.”
“A worthy cause,” the boy said, his eyes flickering about the cell as if a way out would magically appear. A moment of silence passed between them before the boy spoke again. “Why?” he asked.
“Why, what?”
The boy flexed his fingers around his wrist, as if protecting something there. “Why did you let them die?”
Grim scratched at a small tear in the leather of his gloves, considering. “Sons got them. I didn’t want to join them. Simple as that.”
The boy rubbed his hands together as if trying to will warmth into them. “Hardly seems like a good reason to be in here.”
Grim pulled the leather gloves from his hands and tossed them to the boy without a word. The boy stared for a minute before grabbing them and pulling them over his fingers. The gloves were comically oversized, but Grim took solace in the slight smile that crossed the kid’s face.
It was the least he could do before they killed the boy.
In the distance, Grim heard a muffled clank. He sighed. Guards coming. He soon heard the gentle padding of boots from beyond his cell door. The lock clicked a moment later, and the door swung open.
Grim locked eyes with Harren. His lip curled with distaste at the sight. Harren mirrored his expression, making it clear that the distaste was mutual. “Get up, bastard. The Marshal wants to see you.”
Grim snorted, not moving. “What’ll it be? Labor camp? A hanging? Maybe I’ll get my wings?”
“One can hope,” Harren answered, “and the longer you keep Longreen waiting, the more likely you’ll spend the next few days on a cross.”
Grim grunted, then rose to his feet, his desire to be obstinate less than his desire to live. “After you,” Grim said, gesturing to the hall beyond the cell.
Harren just stared at him, hand on his sword.
Grim shrugged and walked out of the cell, sparing the boy a final glance. Another pair of guards waited in the hall. They held a pair of bronze manacles and clamped them around Grim’s wrists before they fell in behind Harren. Together, the Venarans herded Grim through the halls.
They needn’t have bothered. Grim clearly remembered the way from when they’d first dragged him here. He didn’t really believe they’d give him a chance to escape, but he held on to the memory regardless. It never hurt to be prepared.
He was surprised when they passed the door leading outside. He’d assumed they were headed to the Marshal’s estate. Instead, they lead him to a hallway lined with more cells. These had iron bars for doors and Grim could see dozens of Rillmen rotting beyond the doors. They eyed him like wolves as he passed. Grim swallowed as he caught sight of the Marshal at the far end of the hall. The man stared into one of the cells, flanked by another two Venaran Regulars.
As Grim neared, the Marshal turned toward him. “Thank you Harren. That will be all here. Gather the prisoners we will be dispensing of in the yard. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Grim could sense Harren’s nod as the nobleman strode away back down the hall. The Marshal turned his attention to Grim. “Come,” he beckoned.
Grim drew closer, fantasizing about wrapping his manacles around the man’s throat. He let out a quiet sigh. He knew the guards would kill him before he could so much as touch the man.
Grim stood a pace from the Marshal and followed his gaze into the cell. Five men and women were packed like sardines in the tight space. The stench was- unpleasant. Grim’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Edgar beyond the bars.
“What is this?” Grim asked.
The Marshal ignored him. “When I heard of your transgression, my initial reaction was to give you your wings to make an example of you.” The Marshal let that statement linger in the air a moment as the hairs on the back of Grim’s neck stood on end.
“However,” Longreen continued, “your father convinced me to show mercy.”
Grim felt the tension in his shoulders lessen. He wondered what this mercy had cost.
Longreen turned from Grim and looked into the cell. “For the foreseeable future, you will be my ward and receive a proper Venaran education. Part of that education is going through this year’s competition.” He turned to meet Grim’s gaze. “I trust you are aware of the rules?”
Grim thought he was going to be sick. “Partially. I never paid much attention.” he said, eyes drifting to Edgar.
The Marshal grunted. “Then let me educate you. There will be four rounds, testing your worth as a Venaran noble. The first trial is on Venaran history. The second is a dueling tourney. Third is a race testing horsemanship which will culminate in the final, being the grand hunt.”
Grim frowned. “I don’t know anything about these.”
Longreen gave him a level look. “Then you’d best learn. The tools to do so will be made available to you.” He looked from Grim to the prisoners. “To assist in your motivation, I’ve collected your squadmate from your father.
Grim followed his gaze, meeting Edgar’s eyes.
The Marshal continued. “He will serve as your second for the competition, being released from captivity as needed.” He gestured to the cell and a pair of guards opened the door, pulling Edgar from its confines.
The Marshal pulled a knife from his belt, walking to Edgar. He turned his head to Grim. “Every time you displease me. I will take a finger from your man. Every time your showing in a trial disappoints me, I take one. Every time you offend one of my guests, I will take one. Should he run out of fingers, I will take his head, and should you displease me after that, it will be your head.” He took a deep breath. “Any questions?”
Grim gritted his teeth, longing to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat. “When does it start?”
“Hands,” Longreen said. A guard pulled Edgar’s arm forward. Longreen gripped Edgar’s index finger and hacked at it with the blade. The digit was cleanly severed along with half the man’s middle finger. Blood flowed freely onto the stone floor as Edgar screamed.
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“That is for your transgressions thus far. The competion begins at the thaw,” Longreen answered, “Shouldn’t be long now.”
Grim was quiet, a dark silence hanging in the air as Edgar managed to stifle his scream through gritted teeth. Grim couldn’t meet his eyes.
Longreen broke the newfound quiet. “This is all part of your education, and through it, we will mold you into a proper Venaran noble.”
“Education?” Grim snarled, turning toward the Marshal. One of the guards leveled his spear at Grim’s chest. Grim didn’t even look at it.
The Marshal met his gaze. “Let me be clear. The only reason you’re alive now is because your father promised your sister’s hand to my son in exchange for your head.”
Grim felt a disgusted scowl spread across his lips.
The Marshal ignored it. “I will teach you your place and why you should learn the proper respect for your betters. You belong to me now, boy. If you step out of line, I will make your life hell until you learn.” Longreen turned to the guards. “Take the bastard to his room and see to the other’s wound. I have other business to attend to.”
With that, the Marshal turned on his heel and walked away. Grim forced himself to unclench his fists as the guards grabbed him and Edgar, pulling them away. He met the haunted eyes of the dozens of Rillmen within the cells on either side. Their eyes were hungry.
***
Hilda took a deep breath as her tavern, the Dancing Bear, finally came into sight. Calling it a tavern was being a little generous. Like the majority of the Outwalls, it was formed from a collection of ramshackle, scrap wood. The nails holding it all together were more rust than iron these days, but it was hers. Hers and James’.
She shivered as another cold gust of wind blew down the roadway, sending up a spray of icy snow. Lissia winced next to her. Without their cloaks, the walk had been unbearable. Hilda sighed. She hadn't quite figured out how she was going to explain that to her husband. She could say they were robbed, but why would the thief have left her coin purse? She couldn’t bear the thought of throwing it away. They needed every copper bear.
Beside her, Lissa shivered. Hilda increased their pace, drawing closer to the door and the chipped sign hanging above it, depicting the bear that gave the establishment its name. She’d painted it herself- long ago.
As Hilda pushed the door open, she breathed a sigh of relief as the warmth from inside washed over her. She ushered Lissa inside and pulled the door open, making the hinges squeal in her haste. She was already feeling pins and needles in her extremities as they came back to life. The pain was a good one. It meant nothing would fall off.
She turned to face the common room of the tavern and took in the dozen tables and the bar at far side of the room. They were a finer quality than they had any right to be, resting atop a dirt floor. James was nowhere to be seen, so he must be whittling in the back rooms.
Hilda looked to her daughter. “Lissa, warm yourself by the hearth a moment. I’ll get started on warming the oven. Once you feel up to it, start cleaning the tables.”
The girl looked up to her with big brown eyes and nodded. Hilda could tell she wanted to talk more about what had happened but, before Hilda said anything to her, she needed to talk to James. “We can talk more about it tonight,” she promised.
Lissa nodded, then scampered toward the hearth. Hilda clenched her hands, willing warmth into them as she crossed the common room toward the bar and the two doors behind it. One was storage. The other doubled as their kitchen and living space.
As Hilda reached the door, she paused a moment, listening to the steady scrape of iron on wood from the other side. The sound brought a smile unbidden to her lips. She pushed the door open, revealing her husband atop a stool in the far corner of the room, running a small knife along a long length of wood. The scars across his face and body still hurt to look at- a constant reminder of the pain he endured in captivity. They criss-crossed every inch of his once handsome face, highlighting the dent in his skull where a mace had nearly taken him from her in the last war.
He paused in his carving as he noticed her enter, a lopsided grin appearing on his face. Hilda winked at him and waggled her eyebrows. James snorted in amusement, shook his head, then cut another sliver of wood with his knife.
Hilda left him to his woodwork for the moment as she saw to the stove. The tavern would be opening at midday, and they would need some stew to go along with the piss they passed off as beer. She grabbed wood from the small pile in the room and began loading it into the nook under the kettle.
As she arranged the wood, she heard a scuff behind her, then yelped as a pair of arms wrapped around her waist. James’s beard prickled her skin as he kissed her cheek. Hilda couldn’t help but smile.
“Now why is my wife doing my daughter’s chores? Surely it can’t be out of the kindness of her own heart,” he said.
Hilda looked up at him over her shoulder. “What heart? I sold that for a barrel of ale weeks ago.”
“You did? And here I thought I’d stolen it. Suppose I must’ve missed,” He squeezed her a little tighter.
“Mayhaps you took a lung because I’m finding it awfully hard to breathe,” she said, tugging at his arms.
James smirked and released her from his embrace. “Are you sure my charm didn’t just take your breath away?”
Hilda snorted, not giving that line the dignity of a response. James let out an ear shattering laugh, utterly amused with himself. His laugh was strong enough to be infectious and Hilda found herself chuckling along, much to her chagrin.
James released her and leaned against the stove. “What’s the damage?” he asked.
Hilda cocked her head. “Damage?”
“From the Market,” James clarified.
Hilda turned from him, returning her attention to the stove. She couldn’t meet his gaze. He really needed to know about Lissa. This wasn’t something she could hide forever, and to try would be selfish. She took a deep breath.
“We didn’t go to the market,” she admitted.
James’ brow furrowed. “Then where did you go?” he asked.
Hilda forced herself to look James in the eyes. “I took her to see a priestess.”
James’ jaw fell open a hair. “You what? How the hell could you be-”
Hilda cut him off. “Let me finish,” she demanded.
James’ jaw hardened, but he stopped his tirade. His every limb was stiff, and his knuckles were white. She’d rarely seen him so upset. “A Keeper approached her, and she fed him.”
James shrugged. “So?”
Hilda leaned closer to her husband. “James, she fed him.”
Recognition blossomed in his eyes and Hilda could see the anger seep from him, replaced by worry. “No,” he said, as if that could change things.
“She has the aptitude, and she’s asking questions that I can’t answer,” Hilda said.
James ran a scarred hand over his face. “She doesn’t know what happened, we can keep it from her.”
Hilda shook her head. “People saw. Marc’s people saw,” she said quietly.
James scowled. If they kept it from her, Marc would tell her everything. Family bonds only went so far in the man’s crusade. “I can’t let her become one of them. The Venaran’s will kill her if they find out.”
Hilda bit her lip, glancing over her shoulder to the closed door behind them. “I don’t think we have a choice. This is beyond you or me. She was picked.”
James barred his teeth. “Picked to die?”
“We all die, James.”
“Not at fourteen,” he yelled, his voice echoing in the room.
Hilda’s eyes widened. James’ hands were shaking, and his breath came in gasps. He leaned against the wall, trying to calm himself.
Hilda rushed to him and held him by the arm, stroking his back. There were tears in the corners of his. He rubbed them away, taking a deep breath. “Sorry,” he whispered, looking past her to the door. “We need to talk to her. There’s no point in us arguing behind closed doors.”
Hilda frowned as he walked past her and pushed the wooden door open. James hesitated as he looked into the common room, a look of surprise crossing his face. Hilda followed in his wake, catching sight of a dozen men lounging at the tables, dressed in iron chain with axes dangling from their hips and longbows near at hand. A lance of fear shot through her that settled into a mild uneasiness once she caught sight of Marc sitting next to Lissa, a flagon of cheap beer in his hands. He looked much like James had before the scars, handsome with sharp features and piercing eyes that always seemed to hint at violence. Hilda bit her lip. He wouldn’t hurt his niece, or take her against her will, would he?
“Marc,” James greeted.
“James,” Marc acknowledged, just as tonelessly.
They had the same build and though you couldn’t see it through James’ scars, the two were often mistaken for twins in their youth, before the war. That time had long since passed. James crossed his arms. “I see you brought your dogs for a walk.”
Cold stares from around the room burrowed into James, but he didn’t so much as flinch. Marc smiled, his brown eyes flickering in the firelight. “Relax James.” Marc patted the table. “Both of you, come join us. I was just telling Lissa about how she could very well be god-touched.”
Hilda winced as James balled his hands into fists. She grabbed him by the arm. “James, let’s sit and talk about this.”
James woodenly moved to the table and took a seat across from Marc. Hilda squeezed in between Marc and Lissa, holding her daughter’s hand beneath the table. Lissa looked between the adults at the table, confusion evident in her eyes. Hilda squeezed her hand.
James leaned forward across the table. “You need to get out of my house, now. This is a family matter.”
The men around the room bristled while Marc leaned back in his chair. “And am I not family, brother?”
James didn’t answer as he met Marc’s gaze.
Hilda cleared her throat. “Marc, why don’t you tell us what you came here for?”
Marc looked to Lissa. “You know it’s not safe for her here. Not anymore. People saw.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It might not be today or tomorrow, but someday someone will tell them where and what she is. Whether that secret be pried through gold or blood is irrelevant. This is a fact. I can keep her safe.”
“You mean that you can use her,” James growled.
A scowl crossed Marc’s face. “I mean that I have somebody who can train her, so her ignorance doesn’t kill anybody.”
James opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated, looking down at the wood grain of the table. Hilda could almost see the gears turning in his mind. A frown crossed her lips. She hadn't considered the implications of what Lissa might do without the ability to control it. There were horrific stories from before the war, before the Venaran’s purged those touched by the Reaper with fire and bronze.
Hilda looked to her husband. “James, he’s right.”
The wounded look in his eyes almost made her regret speaking up. A deep sigh escaped his lips. He returned his gaze to Marc. “So, what do you propose?”