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STRENGTHEN THE POOR and they’ll supplant you.
—Archmaster Dok, leader of the Zjhon church
* * *
WHILE THE MONKS ATE breakfast in silence, Gwen nibbled on the hard bread smeared with a tangy jam and thought of Gilly, of how much lighter and more tasty her bread was than the crusty, dry rolls the monks baked. She ate halfheartedly, knowing she might never see her friend again. After the meal ended, Gwen retrieved her shoulder bags, put on Mignon’s shawl, and met Brother Vaughn in the outer courtyard. He slung the bags over the saddle horn and offered to help Gwen onto the tan mule’s back.
“Thank you, but I can do it,” she said as she slipped her shoe into the stirrup and pulled herself up.
“From up there, you’ll have a better view for finding your friends.” He took the reins and led the mule out of the passageway and into the alley, stopping to close the iron gate leading into the courtyard.
As the pair exited into the street, the chant of morning prayers swelled behind them. Already the streets were filled with people dressed in their Rest Day finest. Families walked together, children laughing and mothers scolding them for straying too far or too near puddles. Before long, Gwen and Brother Vaughn arrived in the square and stopped in the looming shadow of the cathedral, the steps to which were lined with soldiers who stood watch while groups of the devout sputtered up the steps and into the cathedral.
“Which direction is the guild?” the monk asked.
Gwen looked around and gained her bearings. “That street,” she said, pointing to the one she remembered.
“Good. Then we’ll wait there and watch for your friends.” He led the mule against the traffic pouring into the square and stopped in the first alleyway.
Her stomach tightened and Gwen mildly regretted eating breakfast, so she concentrated on searching for Rolf and Thomlin in the passing crowds. Her search ended when a column of soldiers approached and streamed past. She spotted Thomlin first. Dressed in a dark uniform with a stiff collar tight enough to choke him, Gilly’s love marched with eyes forward. His eyes had lost their sparkle. Gwen scrambled off the mule. “That’s him,” she said to Brother Vaughn before rushing to catch up with Thomlin.
When she was next to him, she took up his pace. “What a fine day for a stroll,” she said.
Thomlin looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard her.
“Thomlin?”
The boy continued staring at the back of the head of the boy in front of him, but Gwen could see tears welling in his eyes.
“I have to talk with you,” she said.
A voice nearby called out. “Hey, you! Leave the boy alone. He’s got no coin to give you.”
Gwen stopped walking, and the soldier who’d yelled at her gave her a gruff look as he stepped around her and continued to walk beside the column.
“Keep moving. No talking!” he yelled at the side of Thomlin’s face.
As the column continued to file past a stunned Gwen, Rolf’s voice croaked in a mock cough, “On the way back.”
Thomlin’s demeanor and his tears didn’t allay her fears for her friends. If anything, seeing him made her more certain than ever he and Rolf were in danger. She returned to Brother Vaughn, who still stood in the alleyway with the mule, and she told him what had happened.
“They aren’t wearing Zjhon uniforms,” he said.
She hadn’t noticed it, but now that the monk mentioned it, she remembered the uniforms of the soldiers on the steps at the cathedral and the ones Rolf and Thomlin wore. “You’re right! Thank heavens. But if they’re not Zjhon uniforms, then whose uniforms are they?”
“I don’t know much about the guilds or soldiers. Armies are always political, and we Cathurans avoid politics, but I’d guess your friends’ guild trains soldiers for hire.”
Gwen’s eyes widened in horror at the thought of Thomlin actually fighting with anyone, much less in an army. He’d be nothing more than fodder on the front line. “Master Gabaldi told Thomlin’s father they would train so they could defend the Westland if need be, not become mercenaries.”
“Some soldiers merely escort caravans and important travelers. Not all fight in wars.”
She knew he’d meant to alleviate her fear, but Gwen thought Brother Vaughn naive for thinking Master Gabaldi had any intention other than recruiting the boys to fight other people’s wars.
“At any rate,” he continued, “we will wait for your friends to return.”
Time ticked away sluggishly, but eventually Gwen spotted the column approaching from the opposite direction. One by one, the trainees passed by the alleyway, and with each passing uniform, she became more anxious. When the last one filed past, she turned to Brother Vaughn in sheer panic. “Where are they? They aren’t with the others.”
“Perhaps your friends are waiting at the cathedral?”
“I have to find them.” She rushed into the street and stopped, staring at the back of the last uniform in the column.
“Psst. Over here,” a voice called out.
From the other side of the street in another alleyway, Rolf motioned for Gwen to come to him.
When she reached him, she threw her arms around his waist and squeezed hard, closing her eyes. In a flash, she saw a young man tossing a giggling little girl into the air, and she heard Rolf’s distinctive voice laugh as he said, “Bonita, my beauty.” Then the image was gone.
“All right, all right,” Rolf said. “You’re gonna break something. Come on. Back here. Thomlin’s with me. We can’t stay long, though. We’re already gonna get latrine duty for lagging behind the others.”
The alleyway turned out to be a widening dead end, at the butt end of which rested a tall stack of crates. On an empty crate turned upside down in front of the pile sat Thomlin, who had unbuttoned the tight collar. He broke into a wide grin when he saw Gwen.
“It’s good to see you, Gwen. I couldn’t talk to you. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to get into any more trouble.”
“I understand,” she said. “I had to find you, though. I can’t explain, so please don’t ask me to, but you’re in terrible danger. You need to go home . . . now.”
“The only way we’re going home is in a wooden box or on a litter,” Rolf said. “At least not until they send us home . . . if they ever do.”
Thomlin had dark lines under his eyes, as if he’d not slept in the few days since they’d arrived. Sighing at Rolf’s words, he dropped his chin to his chest, making him look even more exhausted and depressed.
“You can’t wait for them to send you home,” she said, insistence and urgency in her tone.
“What do you propose we do, Gwen? Just walk out of here and all the way back to Vasterberg?”
“I don’t know, but—” Her words were cut off by a sudden round of shouting and noise in the street.
Rolf ran to the edge of the alleyway and peeked around the corner. He ran back toward her and Thomlin. “It’s a Zjhon officer. He’s talking with Captain Browning.”
Thomlin groaned. “Great. Now we won’t just have latrine duty. We’ll end up in prison for being deserters. Or they’ll just hang us to scare the others. They might as well. I don’t care anymore.”
“Nobody’s hanging anybody, least of all us. Come on! Think, man! There must be some way out of this mess.” Rolf drew an arrow out of the quiver on his back.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Gwen asked, alarmed by the ease with which her friend seemed willing to shoot the soldiers.
“Didn’t you hear me? Pine box or litter. That’s the only way we’re gettin’ out.” He positioned the arrow for quick nocking.
She wrapped her fingers around the shaft of his arrow. “Wait. You said ‘litter.’ Does the guild send home those who are sick?”
Rolf shook his head. “Nope. Only the injured.”
“That’s it,” she said, looking around. She spotted a long piece of wood, which she guessed might be a sliver off a rotted beam. She picked it up and came back to Thomlin. “Do you trust me?” she asked him.
Thomlin crinkled up his face. “Well, I suppose so.”
“Good,” she said. She stared at Thomlin’s leg and then looked up at his questioning expression. What had seemed a way out of the mess they were in just a second before now felt wrong. How could she do this to him? And what if she missed or couldn’t swing hard enough? His pain would be for naught. He’d been her good-luck charm and a good friend to Rolf during the journey. He was gentle and kind, and most important, he loved Gilly the way she deserved to be loved. Gilly would never forgive her. But if she didn’t do it, Gilly would never see him alive again, and that was what mattered. Gwen steeled her nerves and took a deep breath. She wasn’t hurting Thomlin. She was giving him and Gilly the future they deserved. Without giving him a warning, she drew her arms back and swung the beam at Thomlin’s shin, letting every dram of hatred she felt for Gabaldi and the Zjhon and the injustice of their situation flow from her shoulders to her arms and into the force of her swing.
The crack of breaking bone echoed in the alleyway, and the boy folded over onto the ground with a scream. Gwen hurled the wood at the stack of crates. Several toppled over, barely missing her and Rolf, who stood with his mouth gaping.
“Litter it is,” she said.
The noise from the street grew to a roar as someone shouted, “Hey, watch out! You’re gonna trample somebody!”
Rolf grabbed Gwen’s hand and dragged her to the stack of crates, shoving her behind the edge of the pile. “Stay put!”
“What the hell is going on here?” the deep voice of a male yelled from the entrance to the alleyway.
From behind the slats of wood, she could see the legs of a horse. Its rider wore black boots with a high shine on them. She didn’t recognize the voice, and she was relieved it wasn’t Master Gabaldi’s baritone sternness. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with your troop?”
“Yeah, but my friend tripped and broke his leg,” said Rolf.
The boots thudded in the dirt. “You sure it’s broken?”
“Yep. I heard it when he fell.”
Thomlin writhed on the ground, trying to drag himself back up onto the crate.
“We need to get word to our commander,” Rolf said.
“That won’t be necessary, soldier.”
“We’re not soldiers. We just came here to train.”
Gwen shuddered at the edge of irritation in Rolf’s tone.
The man laughed, and Gwen heard the scuffle of boots and Thomlin crying out, “He’s got a knife!” The scuffle died down into panting.
Her heart thumping against her breastbone, she stretched and strained as quietly as she could to get a glimpse of anything to clarify what had just happened.
“Well, you’re gonna be a soldier now,” the man said and laughed again.
Rolf spewed out an angry stream of grunts. “I told you already. He’s got a broken leg. He can’t fight!”
“I’m not interested in him.”
“Our commander will be looking for us,” said Thomlin.
The man laughed again, and this time he came into focus. No more than a step away from the crates, with his back to her, he had his arm around Rolf’s neck. “You mean Gabaldi? That commander?”
“Yes,” said Thomlin. “Master Gabaldi will look for us until he finds us.”
The man replied, “We are in agreement, then. He will find you.” He laughed and jerked his arm to move Rolf one step to the side. “When this one’s settled, I’ll come back for you, and I’ll be sure your commander can identify the body. Not to worry.”
“What’s going on here?” Brother Vaughn’s voice rang out from the opening to the alleyway.
It was the distraction she needed. Gwen squeezed out from behind the crates and removed the shawl. Holding it with one end in each hand, she took off in a full run and leaped onto a crate, propelling herself up and forward toward the man. At the arc of her leap, she raised the shawl up and swung it down in front of the man’s face. And then she collided with his back, her face smashing into the hard bone on the back of his head. Gwen crumpled to the ground, and the man lurched forward, letting go of Rolf as he clawed at the shawl obstructing his vision.
Rolf spun around, his fist connecting with the shawl and the man’s jaw beneath it. The soldier went down with a thud, sending a cloud of dirt into the area. The hunter’s son wasted no time retrieving the rope looped over the horn of the man’s saddle.
“Wait,” said Brother Vaughn, who had now approached the three friends. “Get his uniform off first.”
The monk’s words took her by surprise, and for an instant, Gwen forgot about how badly her cheek and nose hurt.
“Good idea,” said Rolf, who helped Brother Vaughn peel off the man’s jacket, shirt, pants, belt, and boots. The belt that had held up his pants became a gag, and Rolf used the rope to tie the man’s hands and feet together. When he was finished, the man lay curled up on his side like a sleeping baby. The two dragged him behind the edge of the crates.
Throughout the whole procedure, Gwen watched from the corner of her eye, too embarrassed by the soldier’s nakedness to look directly at what Rolf and Brother Vaughn were doing.
“Now you switch clothes with me,” said the monk.
“My clothes’ll fall off you,” replied Thomlin.
“It doesn’t matter. We have to get you out of here,” scolded Rolf.
“I don’t think I can stand to take off my pants.”
Gwen didn’t see what happened because she turned away and faced the opening to the alleyway. Seeing a monk and plump Thomlin Frank naked was more than she could handle. Her face hurt, drops of blood from her busted lip soiled her dress, and one eye was swollen almost shut.
Restrained cries of pain slipped out of Thomlin, and Gwen imagined the other two men had reached the stage of pulling the pants off his broken leg. The rustle of cloth and thud of boots sounded from behind her, but Gwen kept her eyes forward.
When she heard Brother Vaughn say, “Good enough. Now strap this plank to his leg and help me get him onto the saddle,” she turned around in time to see Thomlin placing a sandaled foot into the stirrup of the man’s horse: a tall, black- and white-speckled gelding. From behind the crates came muffled yells.
The monk, who now wore the soldier’s uniform, looked up at Thomlin, who grimaced. Gwen couldn’t imagine how much pain he must have been in. “Say good-bye to your friends,” said Brother Vaughn.
“Come with me,” Thomlin said to Rolf, who had walked over to check on the prisoner.
“Naw. Nothin’ for me there. You go take care of our girl.”
“Gwen?” asked Thomlin, the word pitiful and filled with fear.
Her heart raced at the thought of going home, of feeling safe again, but she remembered the vision of Thomlin. He’d been alone when he galloped up to the Bastwick cottage. “You have to do this alone, but I promise you are going to make it home to Gilly. You have to believe that.”
At the sound of his love’s name, the fire in Thomlin’s eyes reignited so visibly it inflamed Gwen’s resolve. She wasn’t giving up. She’d be damned if she would give up now.
“You truly must be going,” said Brother Vaughn.
Gwen knew she could sway Thomlin to put his fear aside, and she gave him a confident smile. “I just want to know one thing,” she said.
His attention fixed on her, she looked into his eyes and asked, “Did you pay the gypsy to tell Gilly you were going to marry her someday?”
Confusion washed over Thomlin’s face, and an expression of concern for her quickly replaced it. “Huh?”
The man’s muffled cries increased, and Rolf said, “Go now, Thomlin, before it’s too late.”
Gwen persisted. “The gypsy at the carnival in Vasterberg. Did you pay her to say that?”
Thomlin turned the horse around, and Brother Vaughn slapped its rump. As her friend passed her, he shook his head. “I didn’t talk to any gypsy, but I’m darned sure gonna marry Gilly.”
Gwen smiled. Brother Vaughn slapped the horse’s rump harder, sending it and a robed, wincing Thomlin off into the street.
Gwen turned to Rolf. “We have to get you out of here too.”
He held up a finger, picked up the man’s boot, then stepped behind the crates. Gwen heard a thud before the soldier’s muffled noises stopped. When Rolf reappeared, he tossed her shawl to her and shook his head as if answering some unasked question. “I didn’t kill him.”
“You have to go too. They’ll be looking for you when they find him,” said Brother Vaughn.
Rolf directed his response to Gwen, as if he knew she would be the one to protest his answer. “I’m stayin’ here.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I met this girl. She’s . . . got the most beautiful eyes.”
“Your life is in danger, and you’re thinking about a girl?”
“She’s special.”
Gwen couldn’t believe her ears. The practical, crafty son of the hunter had lost his mind. “Rolf, you have to go. They’ll hang you for this. Think of Thomlin. If they catch you, they’ll find out about Thomlin heading back to Vasterberg.”
“You go on, Gwen. Get outta here. I’m staying for Zaffira. I’ll figure out something. Just go!”
“But,” she sputtered before Rolf cut off her protest.
“Just go! Get outta here.”
Brother Vaughn tugged at her. “He’s right, Sister Gwendolin. We must go now.” He offered a hand to help her onto the mule again, and this time she accepted.
Wordless, she climbed up and settled onto the saddle. As the monk turned and led the mule toward the spot where the alleyway met the street, Gwen looked back at Rolf, who had nocked an arrow and was aiming behind the crates. She spun around, rearranging her shawl to hide the bloody spots on her dress, and she dabbed at her lip with her sleeve. With tear-filled eyes looking forward, she let the sounds of the busy street drown out what she knew would be the whiz of an arrow that wouldn’t miss its mark.
As she and Brother Vaughn waited for a cart to pass so they could blend into the flow of townspeople in the middle of the street, Gwen heard a booming voice from the alleyway. “What’s going on here? What’s your name, soldier?”
She twisted around but couldn’t see who had entered the dead end. It hadn’t been a voice she recognized.
Rolf’s voice responded, loud and confident. “Borga Jahn, sir. I caught this fella trying to desert. He was trading clothes with some pauper, who ran away when he saw me. I thought it best to stay here with him, sir.”
“You finished him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good job, son. No mercy for a traitor. I know a unit that could use someone just like you.”
The voices faded as Brother Vaughn tugged on the mule’s lead and it plodded down the street.