The boy with wild hair tossed Reuben’s sword to him. Then he and his brother climbed atop their horses and rode after the fleeing princess, who, just as she’d said, left them all in a rising cloud of dust.
In an instant, Reuben was alone. His only consolation was that the princess wasn’t in danger. Arista obviously knew the three, which furthered his humiliation. The only thing worse than being beaten by a younger boy and having them laugh at him in front of the princess was that she had defended him.
Can’t you see he doesn’t know how to use a sword? He doesn’t even know how to ride a horse. He’s a servant. All he’s ever done is split wood and carry water.
Reuben stood there, staring up at the fading light and watching black clouds roll in like curtains across a stage. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He never cried, though he’d been beaten many times. He’d become used to pain, to revilements, but this was different. Reuben had always suspected he was useless; now all doubt had been removed. Whoever they were, he wished they would have killed him—at least then he wouldn’t have to live with the shame.
He wiped his face with dirty hands and looked around. As night approached, mists formed near the river, and lights flickered in the windows of distant farmhouses. Melancholy was gone. She had either chased after the rest or just knew it was time to head for the stable.
Reuben Hilfred dropped the borrowed sword back into its sheath and walked home.
He was tired by the time he returned. Checking in at the stable, he found Melancholy and Tamarisk safely in their stalls. Having his heart broken, taking a beating, putting in a hard day’s work in the stables, then walking miles in the growing dark had left Reuben with little strength. Still, he paused partway across the courtyard to look up at the castle—and the tower.
The beautiful autumn day had turned into a dreadful fall night. A wind had risen along with a full moon, but it was masked by dark clouds. Black witch fingers of tree branches waved against the murky sky, and leaves torn from their limbs fluttered across the yard. The night turned cold, and torches whipped with the gusts. The night had a quality about it at harvest time that Reuben found disturbing. A sense of death pervaded every corner, and soon the snows would come like a blanket to drape over the dead. With that thought on Reuben’s mind, he looked for any telltale sign from the tower’s window. Still no light.
He was struck with the familiar mix of emotion—relief certainly, but also disappointment.
Slipping into the barracks, Reuben was met by a dozen snoring men. Boots worn during the day aired out, their scent joining company with the odor of sweat and stale beer. Reuben and his father shared their own room, but the space wasn’t luxurious. Previously a storage closet, it barely fit their two cots and a table. Before Reuben had arrived, it was a better perk, a reward his father had received in service to the king.
A lamp still burned when he entered.
“Get supper?” his father asked.
Not a word about where he had been. His father never asked such things, and it was only recently that Reuben began to find that odd. The old man was on his cot, his boots off, sword belt, chain-link, and tunic neatly stored on the hooks and shelf. His waist belt and the three leather pouches he always looped through it lay neatly beside his bed—always within arm’s reach. Reuben knew that one pouch held coin and another a whetstone, but he didn’t know what was in the third pouch. Richard Hilfred lay with one arm hooked over his face, covering his eyes. The same way he slept every night. His father had not shaved in the last few days and dark stubble, thick as bristled fur, shadowed his cheeks and chin. His hair, originally black as charcoal, contained a dash of gray frosting. Reuben’s was dirty blond, which got him thinking about what Ellison had said about his mother.
“I’m not hungry.”
His father’s arm came down and the old man squinted at him. “What happened?”
A question? Since when?
“Nothing,” Reuben said. He took a seat on his cot, aware of the irony that the one time his father showed an interest, Reuben didn’t want to share.
“Where’d you get that sword?”
“Huh?” He had forgotten all about it. “Oh—Ian made me take it.”
“Take it where?”
Four questions in a row. Is this interest, concern, or just because my birthday is coming up?
His father’s temper was always short this time of year. Reuben’s birthday was the only day Richard had ever visited him during the years he lived with his aunt—once a year, every year without fail. Never a hug, his father usually yelled at him, with liquor on his breath. When his aunt died and his father brought him to the castle to live, Reuben had cried. He had been eleven going on twelve, and Richard Hilfred thought that was too old for tears. His father beat him. Reuben never cried again—until that evening when he watched the princess ride away, taking his hopes with her.
“The princess insisted on going for a ride,” Reuben explained. “And Ian made me escort her.”
His father sat up, the wood of the cot creaking. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just staring until Reuben felt uncomfortable. “You stay away from her, you hear?”
“I didn’t have a choice. She—”
“I don’t want excuses. You just keep clear, understand?”
Reuben nodded. He learned long ago not to argue with his father. Sergeant Richard Hilfred was used to dealing with unruly men. He gave an order and it was obeyed or teeth were knocked out. That was how discipline was maintained in the ranks, in the barracks, and in their tiny room.
“Nobles are dangerous,” his father went on. “They’re like wild animals and will turn on you. There’s no trusting them. We’re nothing more to them than bugs. Sometimes they might play with us, but when they get bored, they’ll crush us.”
“Why are you one of the king’s bodyguards, then? You’re with them all day.”
His father looked at him oddly, and Reuben wondered if a beating was coming. But his father’s face was twisted in thought, not anger. “ ’Cause I was like you once, I guess. I believed in them, trusted them. Besides, there’s no better job in this castle, except maybe to be assigned as the personal guard to a member of the royal family. Then you get access to everything, and you’re treated with respect. But I’ll never get the nod, so I’ve become a snake charmer. I know how to handle them, how to hold the blue-born behind the head so I can’t be bit.”
“How do you do that?”
“By never giving them a reason to notice me. I’m a shadow. As invisible and silent as a chair or a door. I’m there to guard them, but when there’s no threat, my job is not to exist. You, on the other hand, got noticed, and by the princess no less. Was it fun riding with her? Everyone in the city watching you bounce in the saddle with a man’s weapon on your hip and a beautiful girl at your side? Did you feel like you were one of them?”
Reuben said nothing, just stared at the floor.
“I see the way you look at her. She’s pretty, and she’ll get prettier, but you’d be smarter to cut your own eyes out now. She’ll be married off in another year or two. Amrath won’t wait long. He needs alliances, and he’ll trade her while she’s young and most valuable. She’ll be sent to Alburn or Maranon. Maybe that’s why he got her the horse, to give her good feelings about her new home. Doesn’t matter. She’s not a person—she’s a commodity, like gold or silver, and the king will spend her to buy more power or protect a border. Remember that next time you look at her. Wanting to be with her is like stealing from one of his coffers. They kill people—even nobles—for that.”
Reuben didn’t like the conversation and opted for a new topic. “There’s no light in the tower tonight.”