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MORNING IN SPICY’S house allowed little in the way of reading time. His routine of washing up in the basin and eating breakfast hadn’t given him the opportunity to even check the title of his borrowed book, now tucked under his bedroll. But just like every morning, even now when his father was missing, his mother had prepared breakfast and the house was spotless.
His sister, Thistle, wore her brown locks up in ribbons of blue. Her fingers were stained from using the charcoal pencils for her apprentice work. She handed Spicy a bowl of rice and red beans.
“You didn’t have those ribbons yesterday,” Spicy said.
“They were a present. Rime gave them to me yesterday evening at the fire.”
Mother was already out front washing out her own breakfast bowl in a bucket of dishwater. She peered in through the open door periodically as Spicy and Thistle ate.
“You know what Rime wants,” Spicy said in a low voice.
“I think he’s sweet.”
“He just wants to nail you.”
Thistle made a face. “You’re a pig. He tells me you missed yesterday. And that One Stone and the others were picking on you.”
“Among his other faults, Rime has a big mouth. So I hear Sage Somni is going somewhere.”
“Oh? And who told you that?”
Spicy set down a spoonful of rice and leaned close. “He did. I was by last night.”
“You’re not supposed to go over and bother him,” Thistle hissed. “If Mother finds out—”
“She won’t. And you’re not going to say anything.”
Thistle’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “And what if I do? Mother. Oh, Mother,” she mock-called. “Spicy’s been a naughty little goblin. No, he hasn’t gotten into the sweets. It’s not even him sneaking a peek in through the Grundles’ bedroom shutters while they’re making babies. He visited the old sage again and was reading. Maybe even stole another book. Such a naughty, naughty little brother.”
“Quit it.”
“Don’t worry. I probably won’t say anything. For now. I guess it depends on what my silence is worth.”
Their mother entered and pointed outside. “Go wash your dishes, both of you. I have to get to the fields.”
As Spicy and Thistle ate their last mouthfuls and cleaned their bowls, he said, “I was thinking I’d stay home today. My stomach is unsettled. Perhaps the deer meat wasn’t cooked enough.”
His mother was lacing her sandals. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll be with Huntmaster Sorrel this morning, and you’ll continue working on your skills with the other boys. We’ve been over this.”
Spicy was silent and his jaw clenched.
“Or,” his mother continued, “you come with me to the paddies. Your choice.”
Bowl washed, he gathered his bow and arrows and pulled on his shoes. Rime was waiting for him at the end of the row of homes and they went down to the hunting lodge together.
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INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE group of young hunters had been brief. Huntmaster Sorrel was old and easily distracted. Rime had a game of asking Sorrel about events of the Old War or any number of raids or great hunts or feats of bravery from the prior huntmasters. The lesson would become a meandering story. As the huntmaster was half-blind, it meant they could slip away. And they did.
The whitetail from the day before had been consumed. Its bones would be in the day’s soup. The village needed to eat again, and the young hunters were charged with catching small game to complement the food stores.
Spicy and Rime paired off as the other boys all vied to work alongside One Stone.
As they were heading off down the trail, Preemie and a younger boy just old enough to string his bow blocked Spicy’s path.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Preemie said. “The Bark Trail is for hunters. You can take the upper ridge.”
Spicy tried to step past but Preemie shoved him.
“I don’t want the upper ridge,” Spicy said, avoiding eye contact. “There’s never anything there.”
“It’s not like you’re going to catch anything anyway. You’re blind from all the time you spend trying to read. You can’t track and you can’t shoot worth a damn.”
Rime elbowed past the younger boy and squared off with Preemie. “We’re going down to the mud pond. If you don’t want to hunt near us, you go somewhere else.”
Preemie put a hand on Rime but Rime knocked it away. They pushed each other. A few other young hunters gathered. One snickered. “Get him, Preemie,” someone hissed. One Stone was now watching. And Huntmaster Sorrel was nowhere in sight.
Preemie and Rime were about equal in height. They exchanged punches and tried to kick each other. Soon their arms were locked and each was trying to throw the other to the ground.
“Stop it!” Spicy said. He pulled Rime back. Both he and Preemie were breathing hard and staring daggers. “The Bark Trail is yours. It looked dead, anyway. We’ll be up on the ridge.”
The boys dispersed. Spicy helped gather Rime’s equipment and pulled him along to the trailhead near the north rice field.
“You can’t let them tell you what to do,” Rime said. “You shouldn’t have left the fire. One Stone noticed.”
“What difference does it make what they think?”
Rime sighed. “It’s clear you don’t want to be a hunter. That’s something you’ll have to work out with your mom and dad. But you don’t have to be so obvious about it is all I’m saying. Where are you going?”
Spicy pointed up the trail.
“There’s nothing on the ridge. We won’t catch anything.”
“You can go with the others then.”
Rime shrugged. “And run the risk of you telling your sister I didn’t protect you? No thanks. Now walk quieter. You’ll spook the squirrels.”
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AFTER THREE HOURS ALONG the ridge that crested the northwestern hills, they hadn’t caught anything. By then Spicy was almost dragging his bow. Rime shuffled his feet.
“We should go down to the mud pond,” Rime said. “At least we can try to catch some cray.”
“That’s what the others will be doing if they’ve come up empty.”
“So? You going to stay up here forever? Spicy, you won’t become an apprentice sage. Unless you take on a skill with one of the artisans, you’re going to have to learn to hunt. And like it or not, you’ll be living with Preemie and One Stone and the others for a long time. Why not get it over with and face them down? I’ll have your back. You know I will.”
Spicy plucked some grass seeds and flung them. Rime had always had his back. Ever since the day Spicy had noticed Rime was afraid of swimming and had taken the time to teach him when the other boys weren’t around, Rime had stood up for him, even though it was the last thing Spicy wanted.
“Not today,” Spicy said.
The morning haze had burned off. While it wasn’t a hot day, the humidity and exertion made both boys sweat. The grass on the top of the ridge buzzed with grasshoppers and clicked with beetles. The shrieking jay birds had been complaining ever since the goblins had reached the crest.
Rime stopped to work a stone from his moccasin. Spicy continued along the trail and then paused. The screech of an owl pierced the air. The sound silenced the jays. Even the insects grew quiet.
“Did you hear that?” Spicy asked.
Rime slipped his shoe back on his foot. “Hear what?”
“The owl.”
“It’s the middle of the day. There’s no owls.”
“I didn’t say owls, I said owl, and it was loud.”
The trail led straight up to a copse of oak that made a pool of black shadows. The sun burned down bright on Spicy. He shielded his eyes. Strained his ears. Smelled the air as he had seen his father do when engaging his senses while hunting. He was certain there had been other sounds just beyond his range of hearing.
In the hard dirt he tried to read the signs of what had passed. Was that a partial hoof track of a horse or was it his imagination? Goblins didn’t usually use horses. Humans did. And except for the odd traveling merchant, humans hadn’t been seen among the hills of Athra since the Old War.
Rime clicked his tongue. “Well, dumbass? Are we hunting owls now? No? Then let’s go down and maybe we’ll get an hour of fishing in before supper.”
