The Runaway - Part Four

Hey, digressors! I bet you'd almost forgotten this blog existed, hm? Sorry about that. Between my usual difficulties focusing on things, the ongoing battle with Lyme (in which I've made some progress), and the struggle to rewrite 'The Survivor' (the new version is with beta readers right now -- I'll post an update when I have a better idea of how much more needs to be done), the blog kind of fell through the cracks. 

This past year has been especially difficult because my mom was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer on October 30th, 2018, and lost her battle with it on October 2nd of this year (2019). She was an amazing woman and my biggest fan in all things, and although it's painful to think of writing and publishing new things without being able to show them to her, I know it's what she would want. 

Something else I know is that Part Four of 'The Runaway' (a prequel story to 'The Follower', focusing on how Jorthen Lavahr and Sohrem Terahl met and became friends) has been sitting half-written on my hard drive since 2016. I've finally finished it, and if y'all don't mind, I'd like to continue publishing it here. Eventually I might pull all my Sehret backstory pieces together and publish an anthology on Kindle, but I'm not there yet, so for now, the story will be free-to-read. Since it's been a long time since the previous parts of the story went live, here are the links for your convenience: 

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

And now, without further ado, here's... 

The Runaway

Part Four

Reshan Guard Military Base, Jaern – Reshan Territory

Eight years ago

It had been almost a month since Atrin had rushed Jorthen through registration and deposited him into his shared quarters with five other recruits — all new, and all at least two or three years older than him, just like everyone else who lived, learned, and worked there. It was supposed to be a training facility for people to learn how to fight so they could protect their country should it ever face war, but more likely they would all be assigned guard posts either around Jaern or in their hometowns and never see a clash more intense than a barroom brawl.

As most soldiers over twenty-five had either been promoted to officer status or been assigned to posts elsewhere, the majority of those walking the halls were in their late teens or early twenties and acted every bit the adolescents they were. Thus, the base felt more like a glorified school which happened to include combat training in its curriculum.

He’d always wondered what it would be like to go to an actual school, with a crowd to get lost in so no-one would bother to look at him, make him work through problems aloud, or recite difficult-to-pronounce texts. Now he wished he could go back to learning from a tutor at home, where the drama and immaturity of those who by all rights should have been more mature than him made every day a nightmare.

Not that his days would have been particularly dreamlike otherwise.

More than anything, he wished Amra were there so he could tell her about it. He’d written letters, six of them already, but knew deep down that they probably wouldn’t reach her. Atrin had never been pleased with how much time Jorthen spent with Amra, and although Mother had always been sympathetic and pulled strings to give them opportunities to interact, Atrin made it his life’s goal to do the opposite. Jorthen wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the whole reason he’d been shipped off to the Guard so young was because Atrin feared it would be harder to keep them apart as they approached adulthood. Mother would never have allowed this.

But Mother was dead, so there was no use thinking about it.

The rest of the recruits bustled and chattered around the cafeteria, gathering food and swooping into seats beside their friends to whisper about their instructors and groan about how sore they were from training. Jorthen sat alone at a corner table and observed them all in silence. The food here was lackluster, but at least it filled his stomach. The girls at the table to his left, however, seemed less content with it. Ahead of him was a cluster of boys who huddled together and spoke in what they thought were hushed tones, but not hushed enough to keep their words from drifting to his ears a few yards away. He filtered them out for the most part, until he heard his own name enter the conversation.

“Can you believe they let in that scrawny little waif? What is this, a nursery?”

“Please,” another boy countered. “You know the Lavahrs are richer than half the council combined. Councilman Lavahr probably bribed them with a castle or something.”

Jorthen’s throat and the hand holding his fork both tightened as he kept his gaze trained on the meal he’d barely touched. It was just talk. Talk was stupid. There was no point getting worked up over it.

The fair-weather heart stuttering in his chest had a different opinion.

“Well, he’ll either be kicked out or drop dead soon enough. Haven't you heard him gasp when he spars?”

A boy laughed. “He’s a regular little wheezer.”

“We should call him that!”

“Oh, perfect. Hey, Wheezer!”

Jorthen's shoulders bunched as the boy hollered at him. Just talk. Just names. It wasn't a big deal.

A chorus of mouths shushed the boy and hissed at him to keep his voice down.

“Why? It's not like he'll do anything. He’s a milksop.”

“He’ll tell his father,” one of the others said a little too loudly. “And how much fun d'you think you'll have on a founding family's bad side?”

“Private Lavahr!”

A grown man’s voice from the cafeteria’s entryway made Jorthen jump. He fought to keep his breathing under control as he nudged his plate away from him and rose to face the doorway. “Y-yes, s-s-sir?”

Muffled snickers and exaggeratedly repetitive hissing sounds came from the bullies’ table.

One of the officers whose names Jorthen hadn’t learned yet stood in the doorway and beckoned with a twitch of his head. “Report to the infirmary. Now.”

Oh, no. He didn’t know which was worse — the fact that the officer had announced the summons so publicly, or that it had been given in the first place. Jorthen fought a cringe and muttered, “Yessir.”

“What was that, Lavahr?”

Anxiety twinged his stomach. He raised his voice. “I… said…yes, s-sir.”

The officer glared as if Jorthen’s slowed speech were an attempt at sassing him, but said nothing. Jorthen started for the door, realized his food was still on the table, and turned back to deal with it. Every step drew another eye to him, and he felt like passing out by the time he finally reached the entryway and headed down the hall.

“Other way, Lavahr,” the officer said, exaggerating Jorthen’s surname as he spoke it. “That way’s the women’s quarters.”

Jorthen’s cheeks burned as he turned and headed the other way.

At least the hall to the infirmary was quiet at the moment. Everyone was either training or eating, except for him and a few unfortunate souls assigned to watch the various doors and make sure no-one slipped in or out without approval. He wished they’d take a break, but as he knew that wasn’t happening, he forced himself to approach the infirmary door and knock.

“Come in.”

He drew a shuddering breath and entered. Geram Kellyn’s stooped back and greying hair greeted him. Geram turned briefly and gestured for Jorthen to take a seat on the examination table before he resumed crushing herbs at his workstation. “Didn’t see you for your checkup yesterday.”

Jorthen sat where he was told and fought not to squirm. He swallowed and waited until he felt he had some control over his tongue before answering, “Sorry.”

Geram sighed heavily and left his mortar and pestle to approach Jorthen. “You’ve naught to fear from me, boy. Not unless you’ve done somethin’ wrong. Have you?”

“…No, sir.”

Geram grunted. “Thought not. So stop your shaking — you’re safe here.”

Talking became a little easier as Jorthen’s heartrate slowed. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

Another grunt, and Geram returned to his workstation to stir the newly crushed ingredients into a cup of water before extending the mixture to his patient. “Drink this.”

Jorthen grimaced and pinched his nose as he obeyed. The grainy texture of the herbs swept over his tongue and down his throat. The feeling was familiar, but the taste seemed fouler than usual. He returned the cup to Geram and kept hold of his nose for a few seconds before releasing. When he did, the residual flavor of the drink left his expression pinched. “What’s that?”

“It’s your daily medicine,” Geram said. “But a double dose — it’s what you’ll be taking for the next couple weeks.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve not taken it as prescribed.”

Jorthen cringed. “N-no, I… I’ve been taking it.”

Geram’s lined brown eyes met his. “Have you really?”

He only lasted a few seconds under Geram’s scrutiny before his gaze dropped and he mumbled, “No, s-sir.”

“And why not?”

He swallowed hard and lifted a shoulder, unable to come up with a good answer.

Another sigh whistled from Geram’s nose, and he let the question go. “Take off your shirt.”

Jorthen stiffened and shook his head. Before Geram could insist, he muttered in a rush, “Too cold. Think I’ve got a fever or s-something.”

“You don’t have a fever,” Geram said sternly, “any more’n you did the last time I asked. You’ve got a habit of lying to physicians, boy — mind explaining why?”

The accusation changed his tangled tongue to stone, and he said nothing.

“Look now, lad,” Geram murmured. “I’ve been ‘round long enough to know a few things, and to learn how to keep a secret. I need to know what ails you if I’m to look after your wellbeing. And for that… I need you to remove your shirt.”

“I can’t,” Jorthen whispered, afraid he’d stutter if he tried for more than those two syllables. Why did Geram care, anyway? Physicians never cared. They just did what they were told, and kept telling him the same things he’d been hearing since infancy.

“Boy,” Geram said, tapping Jorthen’s knee with the back of his hand. “Nothing you say here leaves this room. On my life, you can trust me.”

Jorthen’s heart thudded painfully, and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder to see if his father had stepped through the wall to stare at the back of his head. It felt like he was right there. Jorthen’s chest hurt, his hands grew numb and cold, and his throat tightened.

Another tap came at his knee. “Private Lavahr?”

Jorthen swallowed hard as the fatherly tone in Geram’s voice brought tears to his eyes. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded and pulled off his shirt.

———————

Geram fumed silently as he finished examining his youngest patient and sent him back to his quarters with a fresh prescription. It had taken all his willpower not to scream at the poor lad as he questioned him, with the true object of his rage nowhere in sight.

Now he sought the offender out, leaving his post to find Councilman Lavahr’s private quarters and rap sharply on the door.

Watch your mouth, Kellyn, he told himself. No good’ll be accomplished by you getting fired.

When no-one answered the door immediately, Geram banged harder on the portal and called gruffly, “Lavahr, it’s Geram Kellyn — open up.”

At last the mahogany door swung open to reveal Atrin Lavahr’s vaguely exasperated expression. “Should I expect my door to be broken down regularly, or are you here to hand in your resignation?”

It was all Geram could do not to break the man’s face. “You’ll want to invite me inside.”

“And why might I want that?”

“’Cause you don’t want me announcing the results of your boy’s latest physical to the whole base.”

Atrin gripped the doorframe and worked his jaw before taking a step backwards. “Please come in.”

Geram obeyed and waited for the door to close before snapping, “If ever a boy turned out more like his father—”

Atrin barked out a laugh. “You think Jorthen takes after me?”

“I mean you and Theran,” Geram said darkly.

Atrin’s eyes flashed as he sat on the edge of his desk. “Are you accusing me of something, physician?”

“If I thought it’d make any difference, I would, but we both know it wouldn’t.”

Atrin crossed his arms, relaxing smugly. “Then may I ask the purpose of this social call?”

“You’re on track to kill him, Lavahr.”

“My father didn’t kill me.”

Geram’s fists clenched at his sides. “Well, the lad’s not you, and bless him and his mother for that.”

“You imply none of his positive traits are the result of my efforts.”

“He might have a shot at growing into something decent,” Geram said through gritted teeth. “But if you keep up the Lavahr ways with him, he’ll never get the chance. Is that why you brought him here? To finish him off?”

This time Atrin rolled his eyes, and straightened to pour himself a glass of wine from an ornate pitcher on his desk. “I’ve done nothing to or with him that wasn’t for his own good.”

“I doubt that,” Geram growled, but again had to admit to himself his own powerlessness. To challenge a Lavahr was to risk one’s own ruin. He advanced slowly, trying to picture a battered nineteen-year-old before him rather than an indifferent thirty-something. “I’m not simple enough to think we’re friends. I’d not want to be yours after this.”

“Then it’s lucky for you I lost interest in such a friendship fifteen years ago.”

“But I’ll not stand by and do nothing as you force a child into an earlier grave than he’s already destined for. I know if I toss him out of the ranks, you’ll push him back in. Maybe he’s even better off here.”

“His siblings are certainly better off.” Atrin sipped from his glass. “His lack of discipline will trickle down to them if I’m not careful.”

Heat flashed through Geram. Careful, he reminded himself. “So if he’s to stay here, then I’m keeping an eye on him. He’ll keep coming in for regular check-ups and take whatever treatment I prescribe.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

“I’ll also take a detailed account of any and all changes in his condition. Illnesses, cuts, scrapes… bruises.”

Atrin’s grip on his cup tightened as his eyes locked back onto Geram. “What has he told you?”

“Nothing,” Geram answered truthfully. “Thanks to you, he could barely look me in the eye without trembling. But I’m a physician. I know the marks of a beating when I see them.”

Atrin worked his jaw and carefully set his glass back onto his desk. “What do you want? Money? A favor?”

“I want you to leave him be. He’s under my care, and founding family or not, if I find more bruises on him, I will file a report.”

“You’ll be replaced.”

“Maybe. But at least the lad would know there’s someone who cared enough to stand up for him. You should know well how much difference that could make. And you should also recall I don’t make empty threats.”

Boots scraped as Atrin pushed away from the desk and advanced to tower over Geram, eyes narrowed, knuckles white. Geram held his stare, long past being intimidated by any of the Lavahrs. While he knew the power they held and knew to tread lightly around it, he also knew that sometimes even the thinnest ice was worth stomping through.

“It’s only for the sake of our history that I’m relenting, physician. And it’s a one-time deal. If you challenge me again, I'll have your job. And I’ll continue to discipline my son as I see fit.”

“No more bruises.”

“No more,” Atrin agreed. “Not that I’ll admit to causing them in the first place.”

Geram sniffed and wagged his head as he went to the door. “As I said. If ever a boy turned out more like his father…”

As soon as he shut the door behind him, he felt the impact as glass struck and shattered against it. Geram slammed his fist against the wood in retaliation, then returned to his post, muttering pointlessly violent words the whole way.

———————

Present day

"So let me see if I understand this." Boots clomped heavily at Jorthen's right, scraping as they reached one end of the room and reversed course. "An undocumented Shamindo rode in on a stolen horse yesterday, and you were the first to discover him."

"Yes, sir," Jorthen said without looking up. He scrawled his signature on the first page before him and flipped it over to skim the next few paragraphs for the next line and any pertinent information preceding it. He made a show of locking his eyes onto the paper, not daring to let them stray or let himself lean back an inch. Any deviation from the task at hand might signal readiness to break away from it.

"Next you called for the guards, and had them aid you in bringing him to Geram for an examination. I suppose that makes sense — it's difficult to question an unconscious or disabled prisoner."

Jorthen didn’t like the tone being taken so far, nor did he like that the word 'prisoner' had entered the conversation. "Yes, sir."

"But here is where my understanding fails me." The boots stopped, and Jorthen's pen halted in mid-signature as he tensed. "When you checked on the boy this morning and Geram informed you of the proper protocol for this... situation... rather than turn the prisoner over to the proper authorities, you agreed to become his interim guardian. I assume that decision led to the drawing-up of the papers you're currently using as an excuse to avoid eye contact."

Jorthen swallowed a remark about how Atrin had been the only one talking, and instead dragged his pen to the signature's conclusion before setting it aside and straightening to meet his father's stare. "I'm not looking for an excuse, Father — I only want to finish this paperwork before San wakes up."

"San, is it?" Atrin's tone dripped with displeasure. "Is that all the name he has, or have you crafted a pet name for him already?"

"It's what he gave, so it's what I use. He'll give me the rest when he's ready."

The desk shook as Atrin slapped it. Jorthen flinched back instinctively, and Atrin's cold eyes glared down at him, daring him to speak again. "The boy has no rights, Lieutenant. As both a criminal and a trespasser on Reshan soil, he deserves nothing more than a locked cell and enough sustenance to keep him functional until his trial."

Jorthen's fingertips chilled again, and he dragged the papers closer to himself without breaking eye contact with Atrin. With their eyes locked, it was hard to speak, so he formed his words slowly and deliberately. "I'm aware of that. But he's seventeen, and it’s within my rights to help him."

"You would align your reputation with his, simply because he happens to be young? Youth is no excuse for misconduct, especially in the case of... foreigners."

Jorthen's pulse accelerated until his chest ached, and he broke off the staring contest with Atrin he could scrawl out the last two instances of his signature as he answered quietly. "There's more to his story that we don't know yet, and I don't think he's dangerous. If I'm wrong, I'll take responsibility for that."

"And if he harms one of your students? If he steals someone else's property or uses your leniency to take sensitive information back to his people?" Atrin scoffed and leaned over until Jorthen felt hot breath on his forehead. "The Shamindo are not known for being honest or respectable, Lieutenant. They're tricksters and berserkers by nature, and to assume one to be anything else without extensive evidence to the contrary is to invite chaos."

"With all due respect, sir," Jorthen said as he stacked the papers neatly and stood with them in hand, "I think that's my problem, not yours."

Atrin straightened. "And yet I'll be the one left to clean up the mess if you're wrong. But I suppose we'll see how it goes soon enough."

"Yes, sir."

"But Jorthen..."

The words came just as Jorthen had lain his hand on the doorknob to exit. He halted and gripped it without looking back. "Yes, sir?"

The boots scraped again, then halted as Atrin said, "Just remember that if you're wrong, and the Shamindo commits a new crime after you’ve extended asylum to him, the consequences will be dire."

"Like I said, sir, I'll take responsibility if that happens."

"I don't mean for you — I mean for him. Do you think there's a gallows behind the base for no reason?"

The reminder of the structure which had already plagued Jorthen’s thoughts today made him shiver.

“I’m not trying to be cruel, Lieutenant,” Atrin said. “I’m trying to help you.”

“…Thank you, sir,” Jorthen said, and quit the room before the conversation could devolve any further.

He wasn’t hungry, but the day was halfway gone and he’d eaten nothing, so he headed to the mess hall. As usual, it was a bustling echo chamber of laughter, chatter, and egocentricity. The soldiers and students had segregated themselves by rank, and by rapport within those ranks. The youngest recruits were the loudest, and the officers on the far side of the room were the quietest. Once in a while, a young student snuck over to the officers’ section and attempted to flirt with someone there, and every time they were shut down and slunk back to their snickering friends. A few officers glanced Jorthen’s way as he entered, then leaned in and said something that made their companions chuckle and wag their heads.

Jorthen retrieved his lunch — after an uncomfortable two minutes of pretending not to notice how many in line gave him intense once-overs — and retreated to the one empty table across the aisle from the other officers. As usual, they saw him but offered no greeting, and he returned the favor.

The usual whispers drifted past him. All knew there was talk of him being promoted to a full captain soon, given the authority to organize his own missions, to act independently of his superiors in more contexts. Few approved, and most expressed their disapproval through quiet mockery. He ignored them all. Their opinions wouldn’t help him today.

Atrin was right about one thing — taking responsibility for San was risky. Jorthen wasn’t usually one to take risks. However, the idea of fast-tracking a vulnerable youth into prison or to the gallows never sat well with him, and San didn’t seem like a hardened criminal. Damaged, yes, and maybe a bit unhinged, but those weren’t crimes in and of themselves.

The trick would be keeping him on his hinges long enough to learn his story, and remaining patient enough to draw it out of him without incident.

It was with this goal in mind that Jorthen kept his meal brief and was as discreet as possible about returning to his quarters. A few recruits still stopped him along the way, but he brushed them all off in turn. It was a relief to get into the officers’ section where the recruits weren’t meant to follow, and to see that none had chosen to violate that rule at this particular hour. He hoped that meant San had stayed put and been quiet enough not to draw attention.

He knocked on the door before unlocking it, trying to give San as much warning as possible. The image of a trashed, abandoned room flashed through his mind, along with Atrin’s threats regarding what would happen if San caused any more trouble. But when he entered, the room was exactly as he’d left it, except now San was sitting on his cot, baggy uniform all but falling off his skinny shoulders, and a book on zoology in his lap.

Jorthen blinked and shut the door behind him. “You can read?”

“No,” San answered, closing the book. “I just like the pictures.”

“Oh.” Jorthen forced a strained smile. “I see you were right about my uniform. I’m sorry about that.”

San shrugged before setting down the book, then stared at his lap in silence.

Jorthen sighed and plopped down onto his own bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees in an attempt to look less intimidating. “…San, may I be candid with you about something?”

“What does ‘candid’ mean?”

“It means I want to tell you the truth, even if I don’t think you’ll like it.”

San’s eyes flicked to meet his before dropping again. “Sure.”

“Your arrival has drawn quite a bit of… negative attention. More than half the people I’ve met think you’re a spy. While I know that’s unlikely, I’m not familiar enough with you to prove otherwise. So sometime within the next day or two, I’ll need to conduct a formal interrogation.”

San tensed visibly. “You’re gonna torture me?”

“What? No — no, nothing like that, I promise.” Jorthen clasped his hands and tapped his thumbs against each other as his lips pressed themselves flat. “But, um…’formal’ means I’ll need to have one of my superiors present to ensure a thorough and orderly line of questioning.”

“…Which means…?”

“It means that my f-father…” Jorthen cleared his throat and straightened a little. “My father, Councilman Atrin Lavahr, will likely be present at the interrogation. While he’s not on active duty, he still holds rank in the Guard, and he’s my direct supervisor in most affairs.”

Even if he weren’t, with how dramatically Atrin had reacted to San’s arrival, Jorthen couldn’t imagine him passing up the opportunity to inject himself into the situation now. And if Atrin Lavahr wanted something, he could always find a way to get it, whether he was entitled or not.

San fidgeted and looked even more uncomfortable than he had in Geram’s examination room. “So you won’t be the one asking the questions?”

“Technically I will. My father will likely take a turn, and he might ask some tough questions, but…” He hesitated, trying to read San’s anxious expression. “…I promise I’ll be there the whole time. Even if I’m not the one talking,  I won’t leave. You’ll never be alone in the room with him, or with anyone other than me.”

The relief in San’s face flowed down through the rest of him. He didn’t thank Jorthen, but at least he seemed to trust him, if only a little more than he trusted anyone else in the base. It was a start.

Now Jorthen just had to maintain that trust well enough to keep Atrin from destroying it.

“All right, then,” Jorthen said, straightening fully and tapping his knee in a nervous gesture even as he smiled. “I’ll work on scheduling that soon. First, let’s get you something to eat.”

The Runaway - Part Three

Hey again, digressors. How are things going for everyone? Things have been interesting for me. A combination of physical and mental health issues have made getting things done complicated, but at last I appear to be on a bit of an upswing, so I am again getting a few things done. And among those things I'm doing is writing! I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo, as I do twice a year, every year, regardless of whether I have much chance of winning. It gives a distractible person such as me a bit more motivation to be organized and set achievable goals. 

Speaking of distractibility, you probably didn't click on this post to hear me talk about my schedule, did you? Well, if you did, I apologize, because at the moment I don't have much of a schedule to speak of -- just a list of things I need to catch up on doing. So as I run off to do some of that catching up, I shall give you something that is long overdue... 

The Runaway

Part Three

(Part One: http://digressionsofadementedscribe.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-runaway-part-one.html

Part Two: http://digressionsofadementedscribe.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-runaway-part-two.html)

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and practice sessions with some of the more established recruits, and the next morning Jorthen awoke to more of the same. Except by morning, there were also whispers everywhere, and if he listened hard enough, he heard words like “Shamindo”, “spy”, and “horse thief”. 

“I heard,” said a wide-eyed, raven-haired girl who had arrived with last month’s batch of new recruits, “that he set fire to a family’s house so that he could have their horse. That way there were no witnesses, and so he would have gotten away with it if Lieutenant Lavahr hadn't caught him.” 

Caught him, indeed. Jorthen quickened his step to get past the clump of teenagers before they could spot him. Besides the sensitivity of the issue, the fond tone the girl adopted when she said his name unnerved him even more. 

When he arrived at Geram’s quarters — just off of the medical room — he took an extra moment to listen at the door before knocking on it. He heard no yelling or objects smashing, only a less than intelligible grumbling, so he gave himself permission to enter. 

The door creaked as he opened it, and across the room, Geram spoke but didn't turn. “About time you got here.” 

“I’m sorry, I was delayed.” Jorthen walked forward until he could see past Geram and smiled politely to avoid grimacing. “Good morning, San.” 

The boy sat quietly as Geram worked on him, but his eyes flitted just as nervously as ever between Geram and Jorthen. He was upright this time, and his hands fiddled nervously with each other in his lap. They were burned, but not nearly as badly as his back, which was thankfully turned away from Jorthen. 

In lieu of getting an answer, Jorthen cleared his throat and addressed Geram. “Is he fit to be moved yet?” 

“He’d better be, if your recruits are going to keep crowding the area in an attempt to see him.” Geram cut a length of bandages free and flung the roll back into its respective basket. “I’m a physician, not a showman.” 

“I apologize,” Jorthen said. “If you say he’s well enough, I’ll work on finding him a place to stay.” 

“You mean you’ll be taking him to confinement.” 

Jorthen blinked. “Confinement? Why would I do that?” 

Geram sighed heavily and wrapped the new bandage around San’s freshly salved arm. “The boy’s a criminal, Lavahr. He has to face trial.” He hesitated in his work and said more quietly, “Sorry, lad. That’s the way it works around here.” 

San swallowed hard and looked at his still twitching hands without response. 

Something about the reminder of how the system worked awoke a knotting feeling in Jorthen’s stomach. He glanced at the door. “What if I took him?” 

“We’ve just addressed that.” 

“No, I mean if I took him into my custody.” He turned again to look at Geram. “I could do that, couldn’t I? Take responsibility for him until the council decides what to do with him?” 

Geram studied Jorthen and seemed to mull over his question as he secured the bandage. “Aye, I suppose you could. But it would involve paperwork.” 

“I’m used to paperwork.” 

A raspy voice asked, “Would I live with you?” 

Jorthen had nearly forgotten how much the smoke had affected San’s voice. Or was it always like that? He stepped forward cautiously. “It would be safer. But then, it would also mean you’d have to follow me around a fair amount. I’d be your guardian.” 

“I don’t trust guardians.” 

“…An older brother, then. Temporarily. How does that sound?” 

San flinched and coughed a few times but didn’t manage to articulate a response. 

Jorthen chose not to wait for his approval. “Geram, will you help him get cleaned up and ready to go while I clear the way?” 

Geram nodded. “Just so long as he cooperates with me and you don’t try to rush me into releasing him before I’m through with him.” 

“Fair enough,” Jorthen said. “San, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

“Fine,” San managed, then said no more as Jorthen turned and left the room. 

———————

“All right, now you listen well, lad, and know it’s for your own good. For the next week or two, you come back in here once a day so I can check on those burns and make sure everything’s in its place. You can tell Lieutenant Lavahr I said so, and he’ll listen. If you go running off or don’t show up for check-ups, I won’t be able to help you. You understand?” 

San wasn’t sure what part of his silence made him look like an idiot to outsiders, but at least Geram’s lectures weren’t violent. He nodded and bit his cheek hard to distract from the way the motion made his head ache. He didn’t know what kind of air was actually in the room, but it tasted like smoke, and his lungs still burned with every breath. Would the old man be able to fix that in any of these check-ups? 

“You know, we’ll have to do something about this strong, silent act of yours,” Geram said, lightly cuffing one of the few unburned patched on San’s arm. San managed to limit his defensive reflexes to a twitch this time. “I can do my work just fine with your silence, and Lavahr will make do with it, but you won’t fare well at trial if you don’t speak up in your own defense.” 

“Don’t matter,” San croaked. 

“Sure it does. Why wouldn’t it?” 

San looked down at his hands and fiddled with them to avoid looking at Geram. Maybe if he just didn’t speak, the man would give up on talking to him and leave. 

“You know, the council’s feelings for Shamindo illegals are less hard than they used to be. If you can give a good reason for your crime, they might let you off.” 

“Can’t.” 

Geram stepped back and sighed heavily. “And just why’s that?” 

San dragged his gaze up to meet Geram’s. But then the memories he had came flooding back. A pale face turning purple. His hands screaming as they gripped something fleshy and fragile. Claws in his head and the scent of wood burning as beams came crashing down around him. 

His head split again, and he grimaced as he grabbed at it and moaned. 

“Easy there,” Geram said, and patted the pillow that sat on the bed to San’s left. “You lie down yourself — I’m not risking it.” 

San struggled to keep his breathing even as he followed the man’s orders. He pitched to the side and nearly fell off the bed, but Geram caught him and eased him onto his back. So much for not intervening. San wanted to scream, to tell Geram to leave him alone, to weep and to thank the physician for caring all at once, but all that came out was a pathetic whimper. 

“Pathetic little meatbag. Did you really think you could defy me?” 

As soon as the words surfaced in his mind, he panicked, stuffed them back into their box and clamped his eyes shut. It wasn’t real. It was just your imagination. It didn’t happen. 

But what if it did? 

He didn’t know. He just didn’t know anything anymore. 

He could feel Geram’s eyes on him still, could hear the silent question echoing on the air between them. 

“C-can’t tell them,” San wheezed. “’Cause I don’t remember.” 

———————

“Because I said so, that’s why,” Jorthen told the disgruntled crowds as they groaned at him. “San might have broken a few laws, but he’s been through a traumatic experience, and things will work out better for everyone if we can all just give him a little space to recover.” 

“Why are you protecting him?” 

“I’m protecting all of you, not just him. His defensive reflexes are strong, so if you go after him, expect him to fight back.” 

Most of the crowd continued to murmur, but dispersed, except one heckler who called out, “You can’t hide him forever, Lavahr! If he’s a spy, we all have a right to know.” 

“He’s not a spy,” Jorthen said flatly, “and he’ll be in my custody as soon as Geram clears him for release. Now are you going to follow my orders, or do I have to speak to your supervisor about your insubordination?” 

The heckler glared at him, then spun on his heel and strode away, shoving his way through the rest of the crowd. 

Jorthen deflated as soon as the crowd was gone, and without the noise, his head grew a good deal clearer. And with that clarity came the first doubts he’d allowed himself to humor since San had tumbled into his life yesterday evening. Why was he taking responsibility for a criminal? Young or not, injured or otherwise, he’d stolen someone’s horse, and unless the Guard could track them down and obtain their permission to release San, that fact could very well get him executed under Reshan law. That would mean that Jorthen had just agreed to take charge of someone who was one trial short of death row. What sort of damage might that do to his law-abiding reputation? 

But the memory of those haunted green eyes flitting about in terror and the long scars raked across the boy’s back brought back enough determination to send him striding determinedly to the inspector’s office to start the paperwork. 

It took him all of ten minutes to sign the most essential documents and get ahold of the stack which he had left to sort through, and as he walked back through the halls, he checked around every corner to be sure there were no more lurkers about. 

He reached Geram’s door and knocked twice, then entered. The sight of San flat on his back gave him pause. “Do you need more time?” 

San’s eyes opened and Geram moved to help him sit up, but his efforts were denied, and soon the boy sat upright and slid onto his feet beside the bed. He pulled self-consciously at his right sleeve to cover a set of horizontal scars on the inside of his wrist and said nothing to either of the other men. 

Geram approached Jorthen and handed him a satchel containing whatever supplies a physician deemed necessary for a recuperating criminal. “He’ll need this. See to it that he comes to check-ups regularly.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Jorthen said, and slung the satchel over his shoulder. “San, you ready to go?” 

San nodded and shuffled forward, glancing wordlessly at Geram as he passed. 

Jorthen led him out of the room and through the halls, where despite his efforts, a few people still managed to show up and gawk. San made no remark about them, but inched closer to Jorthen until their elbows nearly touched. 

“It’s all right,” Jorthen said. “I won’t let them hurt you.” 

Another nod, followed by more silence. The merest hint that San might have begun to trust him. 

Jorthen only hoped his trust wouldn’t prove to be horribly misplaced. 

They got to Jorthen’s quarters, and Jorthen gestured to the lone bed in the back corner as he set his stack of papers onto his desk. “You can use my bed if you need it. I have a spare bedroll I can lay out when it’s time to sleep.” 

San glanced at the bed, then stared up at the ceiling. 

Jorthen followed his gaze and frowned. “What? Is there a spot I’m not seeing?” 

“There aren’t any cracks.” 

“…Yes, and…?” 

San shrugged and looked at the bed again. “Must be nice.” 

His voice was as scratchy as ever, but something about the different environment seemed to have put San more at ease. Why else would he say more in the first minute here than in the night and day he’d spent in Geram’s quarters? 

Jorthen cleared his throat and nodded. “It is. Anyhow, you should probably be warned that I snore. My first roommate was a light sleeper, so he complained about it.” 

“I scream.” 

“In your sleep?” 

“Halfway.” San made his way to a bedside table and poked at a lantern there so hard that it shifted to the edge of the surface. 

Jorthen lunged, then stopped himself as San righted the lantern on his own. He inhaled deeply. “The cabinet in the far corner should have some spare clothes. You can try on anything you think might fit.” 

San sniffed. “No offense,” he said, “but I don’t think your clothes would even stay on me.” 

More words. Spiteful, perhaps, but they were words, at least. “Some of my old things might. I didn’t join up last week, after all.” 

“I still don’t—” 

“Here,” Jorthen interrupted, then strode to the cabinet and pulled out an old but well-maintained uniform from when he was fifteen or sixteen. This he held out to San. “Try this one. We can worry about boots later.” 

San barely had time to accept the clothes and eye them suspiciously before Jorthen headed for the door. “Where are you going?” 

Jorthen halted and fought a growing itch in his legs. “I have other responsibilities to address. I’ll be back soon.” 

Silence met his words, and San looked back down at the clothes, suspicion fading into blankness. 

“San,” Jorthen said. 

He looked. 

“I will be back. I promise.” 

“…If you say so.” 

“I do say it,” Jorthen affirmed. “So don’t go anywhere. Understood?” 

Another sniff. “Sure.” 

Good enough. Jorthen obeyed his itch and left the room, but locked the door behind him, just in case San should get it into his head to wander. An angry seventeen-year-old would be much easier to face than the possible consequences if the same boy got loose and fell under the scrutiny of those who already resented his presence. All the same, Jorthen hoped the hints of spite that had gleamed through in the room would not prove to become his usual manner. If they did, well… keeping him safe might soon become exponentially more difficult. 

'The Runaway' - Part One

Hello yet again, fellow digressors. How was your weekend? Mine was a little busy, but not too bad. I got a copy of Microsoft Office on my laptop at long last, which should make my life as both a copy-editor and a novelist a lot easier. This makes me happy. However, because the program took time to install, and because I needed time to play with and get used to my new toy, I'm delivering this next short story opening a day or two later than I intended. (The opening for the first story, 'Street Rats', is here, in case you missed it.) 

Anyways, some of you may remember Jorthen Lavahr from 'The Follower'. Despite any mistakes he might have made, he still seems to be well-loved by readers, and it's been quite interesting trying to develop his backstory, especially as he tends to come across as 'Mr. Perfect'. As you are probably aware, no-one is truly perfect, and we all have secrets, some bigger than others. So, without further ado, here is the next short story... 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The Runaway

–––––––

Reshan Territory, North-East of Jaern – Outerlands

Eleven years before the events of ‘The Follower'

There was a time when Jorthen Lavahr would have done anything for his father. If Atrin gave him an order, Jorthen would keep his mouth shut and obey, no matter the consequences. If someone from the outside asked him, he would say that hadn't changed.

But here, with the campfire crackling before him and Atrin plotting a course with their map a few feet away, Jorthen couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer.

“...I don't want to go.”

Atrin looked up briefly from the map, then went back to it without so much as looking Jorthen in the eye. “You'll go. The Council is expecting your arrival.”

“They're all older than me. I'm not supposed to join until I'm sixteen.”

“Ordinary people join at sixteen.” Atrin reached for his canteen of water and took a brief swig before speaking again. “We are not ordinary people.”

Jorthen swallowed. “What's so bad about being ordinary? What about...” He hesitated, but the question escaped him despite his efforts to be quiet. “...What about Amra?”

Atrin threw his prodding stick into the fire. Sparks leapt up from the coals upon impact, and Jorthen cringed to avoid them. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but a hot look from Atrin made him slowly lower it and straighten his posture. 

Atrin ground his teeth and raised his eyebrows slightly. “I believe I remember telling you not to mention her again.” 

The evenness of Atrin’s tone made Jorthen gulp. His tongue felt thick, but he concentrated enough to make it work. “Sh-she…” No. No stammering. Stammering was a sign of weakness. He cleared his throat. “…She’s my friend. I barely got to say goodbye.” 

“You’re lucky you even got a moment with her. I should have made all the preparations myself instead of giving you time to bid goodbye to the local rabble.” 

Jorthen tensed. “Amra isn’t rabble.” 

“Look, I’m going to say this once more, and if you bring it up again, there will be consequences. Are you listening?” 

Jorthen’s muscles quivered, but he managed to nod. 

Atrin’s blue eyes burned into him. “That girl is beneath us. Always has been, always will be. Forget her.” 

All Jorthen could do was stare, unable to even avert his gaze. His mind seemed frozen, and with it every other part of him. Maybe that was why he shivered. 

Silence stretched, and Atrin picked up another stick and fiddled with it in what seemed like a casual manner. He snapped off a deviant twig that had sprouted from it and eyed Jorthen again. “You hear me, boy? No son of mine will run off with an herbalist’s daughter.” 

Jorthen wanted to retort, to ask what was so wrong with caring for an herbalist’s daughter, especially since that herbalist had kept him alive these fourteen years. But he withered under Atrin’s gaze, and he lowered his eyes to stare at the grass and mumbled, “Yes, sir.” 

“And hold your head up.” 

This command Jorthen rejected. Instead, he worked his jaw and glared at the coals of the fire before him. Half of him hoped Atrin would not notice, but the other half knew he would, and relished the rush of adrenaline that came from that knowledge. 

“…Go to the tent and wait for me.” 

The adrenaline faded as blood drained from Jorthen’s face. His mouth went dry, and he swallowed hard as his thoughts scattered. Atrin was taller than him. Even if Jorthen turned out to be the faster runner, his heart would likely betray him and take him to the ground long before Atrin gave up. 

A Lavahr never gave up. Never quit. Never showed weakness. 

“Did you hear me, boy?” 

Numbness overtook Jorthen as he rose to his feet and stumbled towards the tent. If he was lucky, by the time he got there, he would be completely devoid of feeling. He would no longer care. By the time Atrin arrived, he would no longer feel pain, either physical or in that corner of his mind where Amra Sheram’s freckles and glittering brown eyes taunted him. 

But he had never been lucky. So numbness would have to be enough for tonight. 

–––––––

Reshan Guard Military Base, Jaern – Reshan Territory

Eight years later

Lieutenant Cpt. Jorthen Lavahr strode down the hall and ignored the looks his frenzied stride drew from others. Well, perhaps it would not have seemed frenzied had someone else used it, but the uneven rhythm and the way he leaned forward to gain momentum were so unlike him that only a few around him neglected to move out of the way. A young recruit with silky raven hair smiled and stepped forward as if to intercept him, but he ignored her. He barely felt the impact when his shoulder connected with that of a passerby, and it only occurred to him as he entered the echoing stone foyer a few feet ahead to mumble an apology. He spotted a door ahead as it swung open and some officer he couldn’t identify entered. He should have been able to identify him. Perhaps he was from another province? 

What did it matter? Jorthen caught the door before it could swing closed and stepped through it. 

“Lieutenant!” 

Jorthen’s feet halted even as his mind raced forward and tried to plot a course to the nearest solitary place. He took a deep breath and ignored the ache growing in his chest as he turned and smiled at the recruit behind him. “Yes, Haren?” 

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” Ardran Haren’s copper hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it out of the way as he straightened his scrawny shoulders. “Permission to make a request, sir?” 

Ardran’s sudden change in posture reminded Jorthen to square his own broad shoulders, though he didn’t bother with the dark chestnut hair that likely fell over his own forehead. He put his hands behind his back and managed a slight chuckle. “Ardran, if you want to make a request, then make it. An overture isn’t necessary.” 

Ardran’s cheeks flushed red, and he ducked his head briefly. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Um…” He wiped his hands on his tunic, then quickly folded them behind his back as if to copy Jorthen. “…I… would like to file a complaint, sir. A-about my roommate.” 

One of these days, the recruits would learn the difference between a request and a complaint. Jorthen nodded. “Find Inspector Brehn. He should be in the northern training room.” 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Ardran turned and sprinted a few steps before halting. “…Uh, what should I tell him, Lieutenant Lavahr, sir?” 

You can tell him to keep you busy for a few minutes so I can get out of here. 

Jorthen blinked and reined his thoughts in again to form an answer. “Tell him what you just told me – that you want to file a complaint against your roommate. And give him whatever details he asks. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” Ardran nodded again and halfway turned to go, then hesitated again. “You don’t look well, sir. Should I call for a physician?” 

Abomination. Was it that obvious? Jorthen forced another smile that he hoped looked real. “I’m fine, Haren. Now you’d better hurry if you want to catch Brehn. I think he’s scheduled to meet a lady friend in about twenty minutes.” 

Ardran’s blue eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” It took only half a moment for him to forget entirely about Jorthen’s appearance and to sprint off towards the northeast section of the base. 

And people thought women were the only ones with ears for gossip. 

Jorthen glanced around to be sure no-one else was approaching, then turned and walked out of the building, pulling the door closed behind him. 

Outside, the town seemed to be made of all brown materials, and even the grass that sprouted up between cracks in the walkway seemed to have aspirations of turning to match that palette. The military base’s grey stone set it apart, as did the splash of color from the Reshan standard that waved from the battlements. Jorthen set his sights on the green of the grass at the edge of the town square and headed that way. Out here, people still recognized him, but as none had any immediate business with him, he met with no delays. 

He did not know how long we walked before spots crept into the corner of his vision and crouched to lower his head between his knees. From there, he rocked back into a sitting position, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing evenly. His pulse still raced, but with some effort, he made it slow and even out into a less painful rhythm. The adrenaline that had charged his flight drained slowly from his muscles, leaving him fatigued and aching for bed. But it was only midday, and he had two batches of recruits left to wrangle before his scheduled activities ended and the paperwork began. Not to mention any meetings he hadn’t known were coming, or any more impromptu questions from the recruits who already knew him. 

He had a good mind just to sit here for the rest of the day and pretend he’d been in some secret meeting the whole time. 

If only Atrin Lavahr had not been sitting in one of the southern meeting rooms at that very moment, likely prepared to launch a full investigation should Jorthen not return in time to perform every one of his duties. 

Jorthen raised a hand to his right temple and rubbed it, trying to rid himself of the headache growing there. How had his life come to this? When he’d joined up eight years ago, he’d managed to convince himself that the Guard would serve as an escape. True, he’d left some things behind, but at least he would be away from Atrin, except for the inevitable visits here and there. He could be independent. He could make something of himself. 

And he was something now, all right. He was twenty-two years old, easily over six feet tall, and strong. He could put on a brave face in any situation, and there was hardly a woman in Jaern who would not revel in his attentions. Even those who did not particularly like him could not hate him, such was his charm and his skill as a diplomat. 

And in this moment, he hated it. He hated all of it. Because it had all come from Atrin. He orchestrated everything, pulled strings to get Jorthen in before he was technically of age, conditioned him by various methods to push through anything, and constantly reminded him of any shortcomings he still needed to eradicate. There was not an aspect of Jorthen’s life that did not smell of his father’s influence. 

But then, had he ever really expected that to change? 

A rhythmic pounding fell on his ears, and he opened his eyes. His vision was still blurred, but if he squinted, he could see something on the northern horizon, a dark shadow in the distance, growing nearer as the pounding grew louder. A horse and rider? 

He stood and fingered the shakahn at his belt, just in case, but kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the figure in the distance. It could be a scout returning with news from one of the Reshan-Shamindo bordertowns, perhaps, but if so, why did he ride so hard? And as the horse approached, Jorthen could see that it was far from a war steed. It looked to be more of a packhorse, really, its shaggy grey coat littered with dirt and flecked with sweat, stride faltering as if it could not take much more running. 

And the skinny rider’s black hair, pale skin, and ragged clothing sent the word Shamindo ringing in Jorthen’s head. 

His pulse spiked again, and he pulled his blade free of its sheath. “Guards!” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and called out again. Voices from the town behind him proved that someone heard him. If it came to a fight, he would have backup. 

At the disturbance, the grey horse tossed its head, released a shrill whinny, and stumbled to one side, then toppled, throwing its rider into the grass some yards away as if he weighed nothing. Jorthen dropped into a fighting position, but when the rider did not rise, he strode forward and tried to get a better look. The fallen horse paid him no mind as its lungs heaved in an attempt to catch its breath, but he leaned down to pat its neck as he peered at the rider nearby. He had landed facedown, but from here Jorthen could tell that he was small, barely a man if he was one at all, and that he carried no weapon. Jorthen slowly lowered his own weapon and froze as he spotted burns on the arm that was not pinned beneath the rider, and charred holes where fire must have caught his clothing. 

Jorthen kept still for a moment, then sheathed his weapon and knelt next to the boy. He touched his shoulder as lightly as he could and turned him over onto his back, then recoiled slightly at the sight of more burns on his face and neck. If treated, they should heal without leaving scars, but how had they gotten there? How much more of his body was burnt? Jorthen heard footsteps behind him and called over his shoulder, “He’s injured. Find a physician.” 

One of the newcomers repeated the order, and someone else sprinted back towards the base. Yet another person knelt beside the fallen horse to assess its condition. Jorthen stretched out a hand to feel for the Shamindo boy’s pulse. 

The boy gasped and jerked away from Jorthen’s hand as his eyes flew open. Jorthen started, then held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Easy, easy – I’m not going to hurt you.” 

From behind him, someone called out, “Shamindo! He’s a Shamindo spy!” 

“Quiet,” Jorthen snapped. He looked at the boy again and offered a hand. “Come on. We’ll get you some help.” 

The boy shook his head and tried to scramble away from Jorthen, but fell to the ground again, his green eyes wide, emaciated body trembling. The burns covered his hands and arms, and his tunic was singed halfway into oblivion. He could not have been much older than sixteen. 

Jorthen swallowed hard. “…Easy,” he repeated, and extended a hand again. “I’m Jorthen Lavahr. Let me help you.” 

The boy blinked at him, uncomprehending in his panic. All at once his muscles went loose, his eyes glazed over, and Jorthen barely moved forward in time to keep him from hitting his head on a rock as he fell unconscious again. 

Jorthen cursed under his breath and glanced at a Guard recruit as the boy stepped up beside him. “Help me get him to the base.” 

The boy nodded, and with little difficulty they lifted the Shamindo and headed for the military base. Until this point, Jorthen had managed to focus his distractible mind on the matter at hand, but as they walked, he could not help thinking, Won’t Atrin be thrilled when he finds out about this? 

'Street Rats' - Part One

Hey there fellow digressors. Sorry I've been so absent lately -- among other things, copy-editing business has picked up a bit, so I've been busy with that. I had a day off today, though, so I spent it mostly sitting around and browsing Facebook and Pinterest. I saw some other people dealing with prompts and such, and decided to check out my huge board of prompts on Pinterest. I picked one, posted it to a writers' group on Facebook, and followed it myself. A couple of my friends urged me to write more and put it on the blog, or even to write more short stories and do the same with them. 

Well, it just so happens that I'd already considered this idea. And I've decided to give it a go. 

But here's the rub: I have way too many stories dancing about together inside my head. Most take place in the world of Sehret, and most are backstory pieces about my main characters or their families. And I am such an indecisive person that I can't decide which one to use. SO. Here's what I want to do -- over the next couple of days, I'll post the opening scenes for a few of these short stories, and give each a (very temporary) name so you can keep track of them. Then, in a few days (I'll have to figure out how many stories I'm dealing with before I know exactly when), I'll write a summary post with shortened versions of the scenes, and ask y'all to vote on which one most interests you. Whichever story has the most votes will be the one I continue (or try to continue) and post exclusively here on the blog. Let me clarify: These scenes are not in any actual book that I'm writing at the moment. They may become their own novellas or be sorted into an anthology of short stories at a later date, but right now, the only way to read them will be by coming here. Think of it as a serial novella which you get to read as it's written, and on which you can give feedback if you so desire (but please, be kind). 

Another idea I've considered is designating a certain day of the week to check the 'Writing Prompts' widget in the sidebar and follow whatever prompt it gives me, and invite y'all to join in if you want. Thoughts? How many of you would be interested in something like that? 

Anyways, now that I've gotten that intro out of the way, let me introduce you to the first (not fully edited) scene of the first short story... 

--------------

Street Rats

(Temporary Title)

Prequel to 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Merchant's Son'

--------------

Lans, Reshan-Shamindo Border -- Reshan Territory

--------------

All he had to do was take it. The bread sat on the edge of the table, fresh and wafting its yeasty scent towards Tal, making his stomach grumble again. He wouldn't have felt it over the moths fluttering in there, had it not sent such a sharp stab of pain throughout his ribcage. His hands trembled from hunger and fear. How would he ever make them steady enough to steal for his brother's dinner? 

The baker turned away to deal with a customer, and Tal's heart quickened. He tensed, glanced around to be sure no-one was watching, then... 

"You don't want to do that." 

Tal gasped and spun to press his back against the wall between him and the baker's stand. His pulse pounded in his head, and his stomach churned. 

A boy of about his age with straggly black hair and keen blue eyes crouched next to him and grinned. "New to this, are you?" 

"Keep quiet," Tal hissed. His hands shook, so he curled them into fists. "This is risky enough as it is." 

"It's risky because you don't know what you're doing. Me, on the other hand? I could get that bread in less than the amount of time you've spent shaking behind this wall." 

Darr's voice rang through Tal's head. "Quit shaking and get the job done. There'll be time enough to think things through later." 

He swallowed, glanced over his shoulder, then fixed his gaze on the newcomer again. "...Who are you?" 

"Name's Ryst. This is my territory." 

"It's Reshan territory, stupid." 

Ryst snickered, making Tal flinch. "So do you want that bread, or not?" 

Tal worked his jaw. "I've stolen before." 

"Sure, sure you have." Ryst crept to the edge of the wall and peered around it. "All right. The customer is leaving." 

Tal found himself creeping up behind Ryst and trying to peek around him. His heart leapt to his throat again, and he pulled back. "Do we go now?" 

"Back," Ryst hissed, and shoved Tal back far enough to retreat himself. 

Tal barely caught himself before he could fall. Frustration rose within him, and he glared at Ryst. "Why did you distract me? I could have made it." 

Ryst sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "If you're counting on customers to distract him, then you never go during the first sale of the day. He won't let his guard down long enough to let you in until he feels safe looking away that long." 

"I don't have all day. I just need enough time to run in and grab the bread." 

Ryst snorted. "And then he'll spot you and call the guards. You might think you're fast, but you won't get away if you try something like that." 

Tal tried, but he couldn't think of a proper response. He looked away and tried to keep a neutral expression. His eyes stung, and he blinked hard to get any stray flecks of dust out of them. 

He felt eyes on him, and when he looked again, Ryst was watching him. "What's your name, anyhow? I haven't seen you around here." 

Tal swallowed hard, then cleared his throat and tried to sound as grown-up as possible. "Talsyn Lethar. I... didn't used to come here often." 

"Talsyn Lethar?" Ryst wrinkled his nose. "Too long. How's 'Tal' sound?" 

Tal shrugged. "It works." He was actually used to having his name shortened that way, but he felt no need to point it out to a thief he would probably never speak with again. 

"Fine then, Tal. How old are you?" 

"Why?" Tal glared at him again. "I don't even know your full name. Why do I have to give you my whole life story?" 

Ryst rolled his eyes again. "Fine, then. Don't tell me your age." He inched forward on the balls of his feet, then glanced at Tal. "If I snag that bread, I get a share, right?" 

"What kind of share?" 

"Half." 

"One third." 

"Half, or you can grab it yourself." 

"I have a brother to feed, dimwit." Tal tried to make the words sound hard and clipped, but his voice trembled, betraying hi desperation. Could he really get the bread on his own? Ryst was right -- he had no idea what he was doing. He'd only stolen twice, and both time were under Darr's supervision. Both times, Darr had stressed to him how this was not a permanent solution, only a quick fix until they could get on their feet again. 

But Darr wasn't here, was he? Not that he had really been there in life, either. 

It took him a moment of staring to realize that Ryst had vanished from his perch by the wall. 

Tal blinked and scrambled to his feet. Where had the rat gone? Stolen the bread, no doubt, and run off with every bit of it. Well, maybe that was fair, but it wouldn't help Tal fill any stomachs tonight. He glanced nervously about and fought the panic rising in his chest. He had to think. If Ryst's assessment was accurate, an attempt at theft now would more likely earn him a trip to jail than a meal. He couldn't afford that. He also couldn't afford to sit here all day coming up with plans if he wasn't going to follow through on them. 

He groaned and paced away from the edge, ran a hand through his greasy black hair. This whole trip had been a bad idea. It had been hard enough saddling up the old hag's gelding and getting it here. And leaving his brother on that hill outside of town, without supervision? While safer than leaving him at the house, it was still a monumental show of idiocy. He had to get out of here now. He had to grab Siran and-- 

"Hey, Tal-boy." 

Tal started and fumbled at his tattered belt for the sharpened stick that he'd hung there. He jabbed it out ad he whirled around to face the speaker. 

Ryst laughed and tossed a fresh, piping hot loaf of bread from his right hand to his left. "Still working yourself up, I see. Here." And with that, he flung the loaf into the air in Tal's general direction. 

Tal dropped the stick and caught the loaf in mid-flight. He turned it over in his hands, ignoring the way it burned his skin. The smell wafting from it made his knees weak. Upon closer examination, he saw that the loaf was whole. He frowned. 

"Good enough?" 

He looked up to see that Ryst was still watching him. Tal lifted the loaf as if putting it on display. "What about your share?" 

Ryst shrugged. "Break it off if you like. I'll eat something. Unlike you, I'm used to stealing for myself." 

The words stung, but Tal could barely hold back a grin as he stuffed the load into his bag. He had to get back to Siran. They had to get back to the house before the old hag got sober enough to realize that they'd gone. 

"Hey, shaker." 

The words made Tal stop and face Ryst again. His face flamed as he remembered that he hadn't acknowledged the efforts made to get the food now bulging in his pack. "...Thanks." 

"Actually, I was just going to say that my name is Rystar Teln." Ryst shrugged. "Just in case you were still wondering." 

Tal swallowed hard again and nodded. "...Teln. I'll remember." 

"I'd rather you didn't, actually. The name's Rystar." And here Ryst stepped forward and extended his hand. "Think you can remember that much, Lethar?" 

Tal hesitated a long moment, then took Ryst's hand and slapped his palm. He nodded. "Sure. And just call me Tal." 

Ryst returned the slap and grinned faintly. "I guess I probably won't be calling you anything, if you're not sticking around. You really going to feed yourself and that brother of yours with one load of bread?" 

"We've made do with less." Tal stepped backwards and lowered his hand. "I have to go. he's waiting." 

Ryst nodded. "Power to you, Tal. And lots of it." 

Power. Now there was an elusive commodity. Tal shrugged. "Sure." He turned again to leave, then hesitated. "Hey, Ryst--" 

But when he turned again, Ryst was gone, vanished as if he had never been there in the first place. 

Tal looked down at his satchel, then at the ground where Ryst had stood. After a long moment of thought, he turned and sprinted off in the direction of the hill where he'd left his brother. 

When he got there, clouds had just begun to roll in over his head, and the air was pregnant with telltale moisture. Tal shuddered and quickened his step. He spotted the patch of grass where he'd made Siran sit not an hour earlier. 

Nothing. The grass was bare. 

His heart leapt to his throat again. "Siran?" His voice came out hoarse, and he nearly tripped in his haste to get up the hill. He reached the patch of grass in question and patter it as if to be sure that no-one sat there. His eyes had not deceived him. Panic swelled in his chest, stole his breath from him. He whirled around and panted for breath. "S-siran? Siran, where did you go?" 

Could he have wandered into the city? Had Tal passed him in his hurry to get there? What if one of the merchants had nabbed him, declared him a Shamindo street rat and locked him up somewhere? What if-- 

"Tal?" 

Tal nearly cried out from relief when Siran sprinted over the crest of the hill towards him. Tal stumbled up to meet him, grabbed hold of his arm, and dropped to his knees before his little brother. "Siran, I told you not to wander off like that!" 

Siran's green eyes grew wide, and he tried to jerk his arm away from Tal. 

A bit of remorse left a lump in Tal's throat, and he released Siran's arm. "I'm sorry. I was just... I just didn't..." His words trailed off, and he winced, then touched Siran's arm more carefully. "Look, Siran, you know I wouldn't hurt you, right? Not ever." 

It took a long moment, but Siran nodded and wrapped his arms around Tal's neck. 

Tal blinked hard and returned the hug, then took a deep breath. It was time to be the big brother here. No more motherish panic attacks. He reached for his satchel and pulled the flap open. "I got something in the market for us." He reached into the bag and pulled the loaf into view. 

Siran's grin was instantaneous. "You got food?" 

Tal relaxed again and managed to return Siran's grin. "Yeah. I had a little help, but we won't go hungry tonight. Here..." He broke off a piece and offered it to Siran. "Chew it slowly. This will have to last us until I can get some more." 

If his brother heard his warning, he showed few signs of it. Siran stuffed the morsel into his mouth all at once, and seemed to have no intention of chewing it. 

Tal laughed. "Eacy there. Don't choke yourself." 

Siran coughed and ducked his head a little, then made a more obvious effort to chew his food. All the same, it was barely five seconds before he swallowed. 

Fair enough. Tal broke off a piece of the bread or himself and took a bite of it. The succulent, yeasty taste almost made him cry out with pleasure. He could see why Siran's self-control had gone out the window. But this had to last. He finished his piece and stuffed the rest of the loaf back into the satchel. "We'll have the rest at the house." 

Siran's face fell. "But she'll take it." 

"No, she won't. I'll hide it so that she won't ever find it." Tal offered a hand to Siran. "Trust me?" 

A pair of wide eyes met his, then Siran nodded, smiled sheepishly, and slid his grimy hand into Tal's. 

Tal squeezed his hand and led the way back down the hill. Siran's feet slipped enough times that, by the time they reached the bottom of the hill and approached the animal they'd ridden into the city, Tal had hoisted his brother onto his back and had a pair of arms wrapped tightly about his neck. It was all he could do to hold them far enough out to avoid choking. He helped Siran mount and began to fasten their satchel to the saddle. Something bumped his rear, and he swatted without looking. "Settle down, horse." 

The black gelding, Taryk, nickered and nipped again. Siran giggled. Tal grimaced and ignored the animal until he had the bag secure. Taryk bumped him with his nose, and Tal sighed and rubbed it. "You're a real chore, aren't you?" 

This must have been enough, for a moment later, Taryk bobbed his head and began to graze again.
"Oh, no, you don't. You'll eat at home just like us." Tal swung into the saddle and helped Siran center himself on the saddle. "Ready?" 

"Can we make him gallop today?" 

If this nag galloped, he'd fall apart halfway home. "We'll see. Just hang tight, all right? We'll be home soon." 

Siran nodded and took hold of the saddle horn. Taryk seemed none too pleased, but ceased his grazing, and when Tal picked up the reins and kicked, the animal tossed his head slightly and began the eternal ride towards home. 

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Copyright (c) 2015 by C. F. Barrows