they’d become most adept at using the boxes as shields.
“Retreat!”
The thieves backed away, still firing as they melted into the trees.
Asher slid to the deck and ran towards the cart. The thief he’d hit in the chest lay dead and any other injured men had already been helped back to the forest. Only blood-stained sand remained. He studied the cart and swore profusely. They’d managed quite a haul. Who knew what all they took? He hoped it was the silks—let them try to eat those.
Auriella hadn’t been at lunch or dinner, which was odd. Tybolt leaned against the wall of the stable, looking up at the tower. He knew which window was hers. Although a light flickered inside, he’d yet to catch a glimpse of her.
He reluctantly abandoned his watch and picked up the sack he’d snatched from the kitchens. After some innocent flirting with the kitchen staff, he left the confines of the castle walls. He made his way through the streets of the village, stopping by several houses on the way to the tavern to hand out dinner—leftover fruit and bread, chicken bones for broth, and other odds and ends.
He reserved a large portion for a certain house he knew well. He knocked on its door. It opened a crack, and huge brown eyes peeked up at him.
“Hi,” he whispered. “Is your mother home?”
The head nodded and vanished from sight. A moment later a woman opened the door. She wasn’t much older than Tybolt, but the stress of trying to feed her two children and the lack of food for herself had aged her. Mary’s hair, hastily pulled back, was thin and stringy. Her eyes set atop circles so dark they looked like bruises, and her cheekbones jutted out with an unnatural sharpness.
Mary’s eyes glistened with tears. “Tybolt, I can’t, I…” She swallowed. “If you get caught stealing food for me, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I just borrowed a little after lunch.” He held out the sack. “They don’t even miss it.”
She took the food with one hand and wiped her eyes with the other. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. I should be able to support my own children—”
“Hey,” Tybolt put his hand on her arm. “You were never meant to support this family by yourself. Your husband isn’t here to help, so I will. Go, feed your family, and make sure you eat too—you can’t support them if you die of starvation.” He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and stepped back. “Good night.”
He started to turn but stopped at Mary’s whisper. “I don’t know what this village would do without you, Tybolt.”
“Someone would take care of you if I didn’t.”
Mary looked at him quizzically and slowly shook her head. “No. They wouldn’t.”
His heart clenched. “Good night.”
Her words rolled through his head on the way to the tavern. He wanted to say she was wrong, that someone would step up and take his place, but he worried she was right.
The tavern was small and dimly lit by a handful of twisted, dripping candles. The tables were mismatched and constructed from old pieces of wood the owner, Griffon, had collected after the Fracture. The shapes were odd and the wood was a hodgepodge of colors and finishes, but they stood well enough and the chairs were sturdy.
The bar was a simple, lopsided ‘L’ shape and was lined with chipped mugs and glasses. Behind the bar was a door that led to Griffon’s sleeping quarters. The building was meant to be a home, but with no wife or children, he’d converted the space into a tavern. It could’ve been a place for those who mourned to come together and lift each other up. Instead it had slowly morphed into a refuge for the scabs of society.
Today it was filled with the usual patrons—the ones who never had food but somehow managed to find enough money to pay Griffon. His liquor was crap, but it was all that was available. Despite the sour taste, it still managed to fulfill its purpose—lulling the patrons into a blissful state
“Retreat!”
The thieves backed away, still firing as they melted into the trees.
Asher slid to the deck and ran towards the cart. The thief he’d hit in the chest lay dead and any other injured men had already been helped back to the forest. Only blood-stained sand remained. He studied the cart and swore profusely. They’d managed quite a haul. Who knew what all they took? He hoped it was the silks—let them try to eat those.
Auriella hadn’t been at lunch or dinner, which was odd. Tybolt leaned against the wall of the stable, looking up at the tower. He knew which window was hers. Although a light flickered inside, he’d yet to catch a glimpse of her.
He reluctantly abandoned his watch and picked up the sack he’d snatched from the kitchens. After some innocent flirting with the kitchen staff, he left the confines of the castle walls. He made his way through the streets of the village, stopping by several houses on the way to the tavern to hand out dinner—leftover fruit and bread, chicken bones for broth, and other odds and ends.
He reserved a large portion for a certain house he knew well. He knocked on its door. It opened a crack, and huge brown eyes peeked up at him.
“Hi,” he whispered. “Is your mother home?”
The head nodded and vanished from sight. A moment later a woman opened the door. She wasn’t much older than Tybolt, but the stress of trying to feed her two children and the lack of food for herself had aged her. Mary’s hair, hastily pulled back, was thin and stringy. Her eyes set atop circles so dark they looked like bruises, and her cheekbones jutted out with an unnatural sharpness.
Mary’s eyes glistened with tears. “Tybolt, I can’t, I…” She swallowed. “If you get caught stealing food for me, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“I just borrowed a little after lunch.” He held out the sack. “They don’t even miss it.”
She took the food with one hand and wiped her eyes with the other. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. I should be able to support my own children—”
“Hey,” Tybolt put his hand on her arm. “You were never meant to support this family by yourself. Your husband isn’t here to help, so I will. Go, feed your family, and make sure you eat too—you can’t support them if you die of starvation.” He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and stepped back. “Good night.”
He started to turn but stopped at Mary’s whisper. “I don’t know what this village would do without you, Tybolt.”
“Someone would take care of you if I didn’t.”
Mary looked at him quizzically and slowly shook her head. “No. They wouldn’t.”
His heart clenched. “Good night.”
Her words rolled through his head on the way to the tavern. He wanted to say she was wrong, that someone would step up and take his place, but he worried she was right.
The tavern was small and dimly lit by a handful of twisted, dripping candles. The tables were mismatched and constructed from old pieces of wood the owner, Griffon, had collected after the Fracture. The shapes were odd and the wood was a hodgepodge of colors and finishes, but they stood well enough and the chairs were sturdy.
The bar was a simple, lopsided ‘L’ shape and was lined with chipped mugs and glasses. Behind the bar was a door that led to Griffon’s sleeping quarters. The building was meant to be a home, but with no wife or children, he’d converted the space into a tavern. It could’ve been a place for those who mourned to come together and lift each other up. Instead it had slowly morphed into a refuge for the scabs of society.
Today it was filled with the usual patrons—the ones who never had food but somehow managed to find enough money to pay Griffon. His liquor was crap, but it was all that was available. Despite the sour taste, it still managed to fulfill its purpose—lulling the patrons into a blissful state
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