me letters when he can. I haven’t heard from my other brothers, Bree and
Tramy, in over a year. But no news is good news. Families can go years
without hearing a thing, only to find their sons and daughters waiting on the
front doorstep, home on leave or sometimes blissfully discharged. But
usually you receive a letter made of heavy paper, stamped with the king’s
crown seal below a short thank-you for your child’s life. Maybe you even
get a few buttons from their torn, obliterated uniforms.
I was thirteen when Bree left. He kissed me on the cheek and gave me a
single pair of earrings for my little sister, Gisa, and me to split. They were
dangling glass beads, the hazy pink color of sunset. We pierced our ears
ourselves that night. Tramy and Shade kept up the tradition when they went.
Now Gisa and I have one ear each set with three tiny stones to remind us of
our brothers fighting somewhere. I didn’t really believe they’d have to go,
not until the legionnaire in his polished armor showed up and took them
away one after another. And this fall, they’ll come for me. I’ve already
started saving—and stealing—to buy Gisa some earrings when I go.
Don’t think about it. That’s what Mom always says, about the army,
about my brothers, about everything. Great advice, Mom.
Down the street, at the crossing of Mill and Marcher roads, the crowd
thickens and more villagers join the current. A gang of kids, little thieves in
training, flutters through the fray with sticky, searching fingers. They’re too
young to be good at it, and Security officers are quick to intervene. Usually
the kids would be sent to the stocks, or the jail at the outpost, but the
officers want to see First Friday. They settle for giving the ringleaders a few
harsh knocks before letting them go. Small mercies.
The tiniest pressure at my waist makes me spin, acting on instinct. I
grab at the hand foolish enough to pickpocket me, squeezing tight so the
little imp won’t be able to run away. But instead of a scrawny kid, I find
myself staring up at a smirking face.
Kilorn Warren. A fisherman’s apprentice, a war orphan, and probably
my only real friend. We used to beat each other up as children, but now that
we’re older—and he’s a foot taller than me—I try to avoid scuffles. He has
his uses, I suppose. Reaching high shelves, for example.
“You’re getting faster.” He chuckles, shaking off my grip.
“Or you’re getting slower.”
He rolls his eyes and snatches the apple out of my hand.
