In the rare moments when he was awake, Reade began to see signs of people. Separate fields were defined by fences as high as his head. A clear road stretched beneath the horses’ hooves.
One evening, when the taste of the sweet water had faded from the back of Reade’s throat, he sat up in front of Duke Coren, looking out at the road that snaked before them. They crested one especially long hill and looked down on some whitewashed houses gathered together like eggs from one of Mum’s hens. The cottages were so crowded against each other that there was barely a patch of ground for growing herbs. The village green was striped with footpaths, and a small herd of milk-cows stood in the middle of the grass, chewing their cud.
Reade cried out when he saw an actual smithy on the far edge of the green. He recognized the anvil from Da’s stories. The gigantic metal block stood by the ashes of an open fire. Looking behind him, Reade swallowed audibly. He could not see the first houses they had passed when they entered this village—no, this town . “Please, Your Grace, are we going to your castle now?”
“My castle!” the duke barked in the twilight. “We’re nowhere near any castle, Sun-lord. We’ll be another fortnight on the road before we reach Smithcourt.” The duke laughed again. “Just for you, though, we’ll stay at the King’s Horse for the night.”
The words confused Reade until he looked at the building where Duke Coren had reined to a sudden halt. A great sign blew in the wind—a horse’s head picked out in bright paint, with fiery eyes that flashed at the young boy. A golden crown rested on the magnificent beast’s ears.
Duke Coren snorted at the sign and muttered under his breath as he lifted Reade down from his flesh-and-blood stallion. “Damned fools! Still, this is the best of the lot in this backwater—supposed to have the only drinkable ale in the entire cursed village.” There was more, but Reade could not catch the words as he trotted to keep up with the scowling duke.
Reade quickly forgot Duke Coren’s fascinating curses as he stared at the tavern’s strange patrons. Every face he could see was male; each was half covered with a bushy beard. Clouds of pungent smoke filled the air. Most of the men sucked on intricately carved pipes. Every pipe, though, was removed from brown-stained lips as the men gaped at the soldiers and their two golden-robed charges. Reade drew away from the staring faces, backing up until he felt the strength of Duke Coren’s legs against his spine. His hand crept to the bavin about his neck, his fingers closing tightly about its black points.
A huge, red-faced woman came out of the crowd of awestruck villagers. Her face was puffy, like dough that needed to be punched down. She hesitated for a moment before dropping a rough curtsey to the duke, and then she twisted her chapped hands in an apron that might once have been white. “Good evening, m’lord. I—” She stopped pretending to be polite. “Who are these children?”
Before Reade could answer, Maida broke free from Donal’s grip, darting toward the fat woman with a cry. “Please!” she sobbed as she buried her face in the dirty apron. “I want my mum!”
Reade stared at his sister in awe. How did she dare to run to a stranger, to a woman she’d never seen before?
As Reade watched, he saw that the woman looked afraid, but her hands started to smooth Maida’s tangled hair. The woman whispered something to Maida, and some of the men in the smoky room started to grumble. Two or three climbed to their feet, but they didn’t move any closer to Duke Coren after a dagger flashed into the nobleman’s hand.
Reade saw the firelight glint on the blade, but Maida did not. She kept her face buried in the fat woman’s skirts. Her words were muffled as she sobbed, “We’ve been on the road for days! They took us away, and they put us in these robes, and they made us ride and ride and ride….”
Maida
One evening, when the taste of the sweet water had faded from the back of Reade’s throat, he sat up in front of Duke Coren, looking out at the road that snaked before them. They crested one especially long hill and looked down on some whitewashed houses gathered together like eggs from one of Mum’s hens. The cottages were so crowded against each other that there was barely a patch of ground for growing herbs. The village green was striped with footpaths, and a small herd of milk-cows stood in the middle of the grass, chewing their cud.
Reade cried out when he saw an actual smithy on the far edge of the green. He recognized the anvil from Da’s stories. The gigantic metal block stood by the ashes of an open fire. Looking behind him, Reade swallowed audibly. He could not see the first houses they had passed when they entered this village—no, this town . “Please, Your Grace, are we going to your castle now?”
“My castle!” the duke barked in the twilight. “We’re nowhere near any castle, Sun-lord. We’ll be another fortnight on the road before we reach Smithcourt.” The duke laughed again. “Just for you, though, we’ll stay at the King’s Horse for the night.”
The words confused Reade until he looked at the building where Duke Coren had reined to a sudden halt. A great sign blew in the wind—a horse’s head picked out in bright paint, with fiery eyes that flashed at the young boy. A golden crown rested on the magnificent beast’s ears.
Duke Coren snorted at the sign and muttered under his breath as he lifted Reade down from his flesh-and-blood stallion. “Damned fools! Still, this is the best of the lot in this backwater—supposed to have the only drinkable ale in the entire cursed village.” There was more, but Reade could not catch the words as he trotted to keep up with the scowling duke.
Reade quickly forgot Duke Coren’s fascinating curses as he stared at the tavern’s strange patrons. Every face he could see was male; each was half covered with a bushy beard. Clouds of pungent smoke filled the air. Most of the men sucked on intricately carved pipes. Every pipe, though, was removed from brown-stained lips as the men gaped at the soldiers and their two golden-robed charges. Reade drew away from the staring faces, backing up until he felt the strength of Duke Coren’s legs against his spine. His hand crept to the bavin about his neck, his fingers closing tightly about its black points.
A huge, red-faced woman came out of the crowd of awestruck villagers. Her face was puffy, like dough that needed to be punched down. She hesitated for a moment before dropping a rough curtsey to the duke, and then she twisted her chapped hands in an apron that might once have been white. “Good evening, m’lord. I—” She stopped pretending to be polite. “Who are these children?”
Before Reade could answer, Maida broke free from Donal’s grip, darting toward the fat woman with a cry. “Please!” she sobbed as she buried her face in the dirty apron. “I want my mum!”
Reade stared at his sister in awe. How did she dare to run to a stranger, to a woman she’d never seen before?
As Reade watched, he saw that the woman looked afraid, but her hands started to smooth Maida’s tangled hair. The woman whispered something to Maida, and some of the men in the smoky room started to grumble. Two or three climbed to their feet, but they didn’t move any closer to Duke Coren after a dagger flashed into the nobleman’s hand.
Reade saw the firelight glint on the blade, but Maida did not. She kept her face buried in the fat woman’s skirts. Her words were muffled as she sobbed, “We’ve been on the road for days! They took us away, and they put us in these robes, and they made us ride and ride and ride….”
Maida
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