The Last Humanity: A Dystopian Society in a Post Apocalyptic
Author: Bobby Adair; T. W. Piperbrook
Date: 2015-10-14 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Horror
Description: Fear reigns in the realm of THE LAST SURVIVORS... With death running through the forest on demons' feet and humanity bleeding dry in the hearts of men, does the deadliest evil already live within Brighton's walls?
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Contents

TITLE PAGE

CREDITS

PREFACE

THE LAST SURVIVORS - BOOK 1 & 2 RECAP

Chapter 1 - Oliver

Chapter 2 - Ivory

Chapter 3 - Franklin

Chapter 4 - Ivory

Chapter 5 - Ivory

Chapter 6 - Jeremiah

Chapter 7 - Franklin

Chapter 8 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 9 - Franklin

Chapter 10 - Ella

Chapter 11 - Blackthorn

Chapter 12 - Blackthorn

Chapter 13 - Ella

Chapter 14 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 15 - Melora

Chapter 16 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 17 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 18 - Melora

Chapter 19 - Franklin

Chapter 20 - Beck

Chapter 21 - Winthrop

Chapter 22 - Beck

Chapter 23 - Franklin

Chapter 24 - Beck

Chapter 25 - Bray

Chapter 26 - Oliver

Chapter 27 - Bray

Chapter 28 - Oliver

Chapter 29 - Bray

Chapter 30 - Oliver

Chapter 31 - Bray

Chapter 32 - Oliver

Chapter 33 - Bray

Chapter 34 - Oliver

Chapter 35 - Bray

Chapter 36 - Oliver

Chapter 37 - Beck

Chapter 38 - Oliver

Chapter 39 - Oliver

Chapter 40 - Bray

Chapter 41 - Oliver

Chapter 42 - Evan

Chapter 43 - Ella

Chapter 44 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 45 - Ella

Chapter 46 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 47 - William

Chapter 48 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 49 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 50 - Bray

Chapter 51 - Tenbrook

Chapter 52 - Bray

Chapter 53 - Franklin

Chapter 54 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 55 - Ivory

Chapter 56 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 57 - Ivory

Chapter 58 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 59 - Ivory

Chapter 60 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 61 - Ivory

Chapter 62 - Blackthorn

Chapter 63 - Ivory

Chapter 64 - Franklin

Chapter 65 - Jeremiah

Chapter 66 - Franklin

Chapter 67 - Ella

Chapter 68 - Evan

Chapter 69 - Tenbrook

Chapter 70 - Oliver

Chapter 71 - Tenbrook

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Copyright Info

The Last Humanity

A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

Book 3 of The Last Survivors Series

By

Bobby Adair & T.W. Piperbrook

Find us at

T.W. Piperbrook
www.twpiperbrook.com
www.facebook.com/twpiperbrook

Bobby Adair
http://www.bobbyadair.com
http://www.facebook.com/BobbyAdairAuthor

©2015 Ancient City Publishing

Cover Design and Layout

Alex Saskalidis, a.k.a. 187designz

Editing & Proofreading

Cathy Moeschet & Linda Tooch

Technical Consultant

John Cummings

Preface

Before you read Book 3, we wanted to say thanks for continuing on this journey with us. THE LAST SURVIVORS has been a very different and rewarding experience. Bobby and I agree that writing together has created a unique story that neither of us would've come up with on our own. Right, Bobby? (This is where he agrees, or starts ignoring my calls. One or the other.)

Anyway, if you've enjoyed the series this far, you'll know that Bobby and I like surprises. What we didn't anticipate was that some of the characters would surprise us. In Book 3, some of our "minor" characters literally clawed their way onto the page, begging for more "screen time".

But that extra "screen time" didn't come without its scars. In fact, you'll see some of the characters in this book forced into brutal, trying situations, things that will alter how they view and react to the world around them. A few of these characters became our favorites along the way, and have altered some of our plans for the series. Going forward, they will play a pivotal role in how the story unfolds.

Some readers have asked us how long the series will go. Because of the depth of the world and the story, it's going to take some time to tell. Bobby and I agree that we'd rather tell it the right way than end it abruptly and leave you feeling unfulfilled.

Rest assured, we have a definitive ending in mind for THE LAST SURVIVORS. As excited as we are to get there, we're even more excited for the ride.

We hope you are, too.

Tyler Piperbrook

-July 2015

The Last Survivors – Book 1 Recap

Three hundred years after the fall of society, the last fragments of civilization are clinging to life, living in the ruins of the ancient cities in nearly-medieval conditions. Technology has been reduced to legend, monsters roam the forests, and fear reigns supreme. But that is just the beginning.

The wind-borne spores are spreading, disfiguring men and twisting their minds, turning them into creatures that threaten to destroy the townships. Among the townsfolk—the political and the religious—dissension is spreading.

Ella Barrow has discovered that her son is infected with the spore and has spirited him out of Brighton before he can be burned on the pyre. General Blackthorn's soldiers are in pursuit. She has fallen into the company of an unscrupulous Warden named Bray, who for the moment is helping her and her son on the journey.

Minister Beck and his scholars have discovered that through poor management of town resources a famine is inevitable, but Beck is frustrated by his inability to convince the other ministers to do something about it.

Father Winthrop comes to the realization that a council of three ministers led by a brutal General Blackthorn is a form of government that has outlived its ability to rule. His desire to lead a rebellion is growing. He doesn't understand that his pompous, selfish ways have lost the loyalty of his novices Franklin and Oliver, who are unlikely to follow his lead.

Ivory—the son of a man named Muldoon who was taken to the pyre at the last Cleansing—has traveled to the Ancient City where he has met his teacher, an enigmatic man infected by the spore.

The Last Escape – Book 2 Recap

After the massacre in Davenport, Ella, Bray, and William flee into the forest to escape pursuing soldiers while at the same time trying to find Melora, Ella's daughter who might still be alive. William starts to exhibit aberrant behavior due to the spore growing in his body. After a violent encounter with soldiers, Ella, Bray, and William find a disheveled, frightened Melora, clinging to the body of her dead friend.

Ivory learns that his father Muldoon was burned on the pyre on Cleansing Day. Beck, having discovered books on Ivory's person, offers to take Ivory into the Academy as a Scholar if Ivory provides him with more books. Beck believes Ivory has found them in the Ancient City. Confused and disturbed by his father's death, Ivory flees back to the Ancient City to talk to Jingo. He is pursued by the Warden Jeremiah, who Beck has sent after him.

Franklin struggles under Father Winthrop's growing cruelty while he develops a relationship with a girl from The House of Barren Women named Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald later gets caught stealing a priceless relic from Father Winthrop's personal collection, and Franklin steps in to save her from the pyre.

Blackthorn grooms Tenbrook to take his place as the leader of Brighton. Meanwhile, Blackthorn prepares the army to march to the Ancient City for a battle that seems destined to be the death of them all.

Beck and Evan begin to plot to overthrow the government, or to escape west and start anew with a group of educated settlers. They recruit Oliver as a messenger boy, sending him on several errands.  All goes well until Oliver is stopped by a few guards who eventually report back to Father Winthrop. Fed up with Oliver's antics, Winthrop threatens Oliver's life.

Chapter 1:  Oliver

With Franklin at his side, Oliver stood under Father Winthrop's seething glare.

The two city guardsmen stood side by side at Oliver's left, smelling of unwashed clothes and muddy sheep dung.

Oliver felt the cold seeping off the soldier's thick leather armor and layers of clothing. The chill that had bled into their garments in the long hours they spent outdoors hadn't had time to thaw. The guards hadn't been inside long. That meant Father Winthrop must have sent Franklin for him immediately upon their arrival. Oliver grew anxious as he worked through the logic as to why he'd been dragged away from his room in such a rush.

A beating was coming, and that was the best he could hope for.

Oliver shivered, not because he was cold, but because by the end of the day, he feared he might be on the pyre pole.

Winthrop harrumphed and looked back to the guards. "Show the boy what you have." He settled back into his puffy throne-chair and looked down his nose.

The guard, the simple one, sheepishly stuck an arm out, palm up, and opened his hand. In it lay three shiny coins.

On top of the dread he was feeling, Oliver was confused. He'd been thinking of a lie to explain the note the guard had seen. He'd also been trying to concoct another lie to explain his presence in the street at night. The sight of the coins gave him the briefest moment of hope. Maybe all of this had nothing to do with his nighttime excursion.

The simple guard dashed those hopes into cruddy nothingness when he looked at a guilty faced Oliver. "Novice Oliver, you dropped these when you stopped to talk with us last night." Then, rushing through the words, he said, "I didn't mean to keep 'em. I…I…meant to get 'em back to you."

Oliver couldn't take his eyes off the coins.

Maybe if he stared at them long enough, he'd delay what was to come next.

Maybe he'd think of a plausible fiction to explain the coins, the guards, and why he'd been carousing around at night.

He started hyperventilating.

The simple-minded guard stepped closer to Oliver. "They must have come out of your sack. My apologies."

A tear rolled down Oliver's cheek.

"Take the coins, boy!" Winthrop bellowed. "Take the bloody coins!"

Oliver lifted his hand but didn't want to reach out, didn't want the incriminating evidence to touch his skin.

Misunderstanding Oliver's trepidation, the simple-minded guard said, "They're yours. I found them right in the snow where you were standing."

"Not right away, mind you," the smart guard said. Anybody could tell that was a lie. "No, not then. We saw them later. After you were gone. When we were making our rounds."

"Yes," said the simple guard.

The guards looked at Winthrop, fidgeting and glancing around.

In a wave of flowing robes and belly rolls underneath, Winthrop scooted suddenly forward in his chair. He boomed, "Take the damn coins, Oliver!"

Everyone flinched.

Oliver extended his hand. The simple guard silently dropped the three glittering circles into Oliver's palm before retreating a few shuffled steps. The smart guard, half bowing, said, "Our apologies, Father. We came here to return the coins as soon as our duties allowed."

The simple guard cast a glance toward the door. "We should go."

"To the circle wall," clarified the smart guard. "We have a duty."

"Go," Winthrop commanded, shooing them with a limp-wristed gesture. He looked away from the guards, his angry eyes settling back on Oliver.

Oliver looked at the coins still glistening in his upturned palm. He wanted to clench his fingers over them, maybe stuff them into his pocket, and hide them. He wanted to toss them away. He wanted to hand them over to Winthrop. He wanted to chase after the guards, shove the coins back at them, and insist they were mistaken.

He needed a fantastic masterpiece of a lie to make all of this reality appear to be something that it was not.

The Sanctuary's heavy double doors slammed shut behind the retreating guards, leaving only the sound of Winthrop's clipped breathing through his big, hairy nostrils.

Without looking up, Oliver felt Winthrop's scowl burning into the top of his head. In the mousiest of voices, Oliver started to speak, hoping inspiration would find its way into the syllables as they came out. "I—"

"Torture me not with your lies!" Winthrop shouted. "My weariness of your wicked ways has run its course. My patience for your petulance has been pissed upon for the last time. You're a stupid runt. An incorrigible pig chaser, just as your father was. Demon fodder. Pyre kindling."

Franklin gasped.

Oliver thought he might lose control of his bladder.

"Please," said Franklin. "Please."

Oliver's tears flowed as he bit his lips, trying not to cry out loud. He was a boy, not a baby.

"Please?" Winthrop's scowl fell on Franklin. "Please, what?" He huffed, pushed himself back in his throne, and started pounding on the arm of the chair with a fist, each blow harder than the one before.

Franklin looked over at Oliver, seemingly lost for words. "He's not stupid."

"All evidence points to the contrary," Winthrop groused.

"He was raised with his feet in the mud and the filth of the pig sty on his hands." Franklin took a step forward. "He doesn't know how educated people behave."

"Educated?" Winthrop spat the word to get the taste of it out of his mouth. "You spend too much time in the company of Scholar Evan. All of my novices have fallen into bad habits."

"I'm sorry, Father," said Franklin. "I didn't mean to use the word that way. I simply meant that he was raised in such squalor and ignorance that he has difficulty learning even the most basic behaviors, things that come naturally to eminent men like you."

Winthrop glared at Franklin. "You learned."

"I started at a younger age," Franklin said, nodding emphatically. "I was able to begin before I picked up too many bad habits of the pig chasers and dirt scratchers."

Winthrop shook his head and heaved a great sigh. He leveled a finger at Oliver but looked only at Franklin. "In all my years, I've not had one like him. I'm at my end. My anger boils so strongly that I fear I'll be in a sour mood the whole of the day. Even the thought of the runt turns my stomach to acid and flusters me with frustrations. I cannot fix that boy. I will no longer try."

"We can't give up," said Franklin, sounding more like a woman than a man. "We must try."

"Orphanage or ash." Winthrop's voice found its fire again, echoing through the big empty temple. "All I must decide is which."

Chapter 2:  Ivory

Ivory forged directly down the rocky, snow-covered slope, his feet sliding left and right in his boots as he fought for traction, trying to outrun the bear-man. He looked over his shoulder, but having descended the crest of the hill, he saw no sign of the pursuer that seemed to have been tracking him since Brighton.

The mountains on either side watched him like majestic gods, waiting for him to slip so they could swoop down and devour him. But that was only his imagination.

The real danger was that if he fell and injured himself, the bear-man would overtake him. Either that, or he'd die of starvation, thirst, or cold before making it back to town.

Don't think like that.

Concentrate on your advantages. Do like your uncle taught you.

Although he couldn't see his pursuer, Ivory was pretty sure his pursuer couldn't see him, either. And Ivory had much less weight to carry. If he fled fast enough, he could outrun the bear-man. He'd disappear into the woods, find a way to cover his tracks, and lose the man.

Ivory hastened his footsteps. He studied the ground. Several times he slipped on ice-capped rocks, cursing under his breath as his ankles complained. He walked low and kept his arms at his sides for balance, but he didn't let up, and he didn't look back.

Soon he'd traveled half the slope. The tree limbs in the forest were like arms reaching out for him, offering a blanket of protection. Once he got there, he'd risk a glance backward and see how the bear-man had fared. Maybe the man had given up and turned around.

Maybe he'd never been following him at all.

Ivory still wasn't sure what the man's intentions were. If Ivory hadn't been journeying to the Ancient City—a practice forbidden by law—he might've risked calling out to the bear-man, gauging his intentions.

He wasn't going to wait to find out what the man wanted.

Ivory cursed under his breath. The trip was supposed to give him time away from Brighton, time to reflect and make decisions about his future, about the life as a scholar Beck had offered him. When he got to the Ancient City, he planned to discuss it with Jingo. Instead, he was embroiled in a chase with potentially fatal consequences.

Damn the gods.

A ray of sun pierced through the clouds, creating a white glare over the snow. Ivory cursed and shielded his eyes from the sparkling slope. Suddenly, he was blind to what he was stepping on. His ankles rolled every which way. He tried to slow down, but he'd gained too much momentum. Ivory cried out as he lost his footing.

He toppled down the sharp slope.

Rocks jabbed his back and stomach. His backpack jostled. His body rolled over and over, spiraling down the hill. The contents of his stomach swirled around and around. He could taste the rabbit he'd eaten the night before; the fruit he'd had in the morning. Powerless to stop, he thrust out his elbows, hoping to slow down, biting his lip as he scraped the rocks. A loud crack pierced the air.

And then Ivory came to a rest.

The breath burst from his lungs.

The world went silent.

He remained motionless, certain he'd sustained some mortal injury, certain he'd find the bear-man hovering over him, a sword in his meaty paws. Or worse yet, a demon.

A few minutes passed in silence.

Have I already died?

Ivory's frantic breathing was a clue that he was still living. He stared up into the sky, watching the sun dip behind the clouds, its malevolent purpose served. The birds down in the forest—loquacious a few moments earlier—ceased their chatter.

Ivory blinked once. Then twice.

He'd been wounded before. He knew there could be a delay as the body caught up to what had happened. He just wasn't sure how long that delay would be. The pain hit him at once, and Ivory felt the sting of skinned elbows and knees and a dull ache in his lower back from where he'd struck rocks. He didn't think anything was broken.

But what had that crack been?

He tried sitting upright again, certain some sharp pain would alert him to a debilitating injury. But his joints and bones worked. They ached. But they worked.

He flexed his muscles, assessing the damage. It took him a second to place the noise he'd heard. His bow, which he'd strapped to the outside of his pack, had snapped and broken in pieces all over the slope behind him. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not my bow.

The bear-man would be coming. Without the weapon, Ivory was nearly defenseless. Shielding his eyes, he glanced back over the snow-canvassed path he'd traveled, following his footprints.

The man stood at the crest of the slope, staring down at him.

Fighting the pain, Ivory ran.

Chapter 3:  Franklin

"No," Franklin told Winthrop, feeling a fire in his voice and immediately regretting the commanding tone that slipped off his tongue.

For a moment, Winthrop said nothing. He looked at Franklin, flabbergasted.

"My apologies, Father," pleaded Franklin. "Please understand, I have grown an attachment to Oliver. He has become like a little brother to me."

"Regrettable." Winthrop put his big fleshy face in his hands and groaned. "Are you going to ply me now with girlish protestations? I should beat you both."

"I beg you." Franklin softened his voice and took another step forward. "You've troubled yourself with Oliver's insolence and seeming inability to learn from his mistakes for too long. Allow me to try."

"Have you not been trying?" Winthrop's anger sprang back to full red-faced rage. "Is that not part of your duties, to train the younger Novice behind you?" Winthrop looked up at the ceiling, as though watching a bird of inspiration fly under the Sanctuary's tall roof. "Perhaps that is the essence of this problem." His eyes settled back on Franklin. "Of all my Novices through the years, it is you I saw as most like myself, you I saw as a son. Perhaps by turning a soft heart to you, I've allowed you to take that as a lesson and you do the same with this ignorant runt." He waved his hand at Oliver again.

Franklin was taken aback.

Son?

Did Winthrop really feel that way?

"If I have failed you, Father," said Franklin, "please allow me to make up for it. Please, allow me to correct it. Allow me another chance with Oliver."

"Softness," Winthrop muttered as he let his eyes wander over the ceiling again. Back and forth he watched.

Franklin waited for Winthrop to look back down at him. Soon, his curiosity won out, and he looked to see what Winthrop was staring at in the shadows. Nothing.

Oliver stood petrified with fear.

After some time, Winthrop's gaze settled back on the boys. "Softness. That is the problem. I regret that I am an old man. I no longer have the strength that some tasks require." He drilled Franklin with his eyes.

The silence grew ominous, and it took all Franklin's courage to match Winthrop's stare with one of his own.

Finally, Winthrop raised an arm and pointed. "Franklin, go to my quarters. Leaning by the bed, you'll find a fine leather crop. Fetch it for me."

Franklin hesitated.

"Go!" Winthrop commanded. "Unless you'd prefer to see the runt turned to ash."

Franklin gulped and started walking to Winthrop's chamber.

"Run, boy!"

Franklin did.

He didn't slow until he entered Winthrop's dark bedchamber.

Embers glowed in the hearth; Winthrop's favorite chair sat in front of the fireplace, awaiting his return. The bedspread had been pulled up and stretched flat by the morning girl, probably Fitz now. The chamber pot stank of feces and urine, probably used just prior to the arrival of the guards. Franklin hoped Fitz would come and clean it, or Oliver might not be the only one taking a beating today.

Franklin spotted the riding crop in the corner by the bed, just where Winthrop said it was. He hurried over and picked it up. It was three feet long, with a stiff wooden handle at one end, and some kind of flexible shaft with a weighted leather tassel at the other, all covered in or constructed of black leather.

Franklin imagined the crop hitting skin. Even with Winthrop's flabby old-man arms swinging it, Franklin knew Oliver was in for a painful lesson, one he'd not soon forget. With the crop in hand, Franklin quickly exited Winthrop's chamber, closing the door behind. He spotted Fitzgerald at the far end of the hall. Franklin sprinted toward her.

Seeing Franklin running and the urgency on his face, she froze.

Franklin ran right up to her and said, "Winthrop is in a terrible mood. He's in the Sanctuary getting ready to punish Oliver. You should know, he filled his chamber pot before he came out this morning. It stinks up the whole room. It'd be best for you to see that it is emptied before he returns."

Franklin tore back up the hall, barely hearing Fitz's answer, "I was on my way there."

Franklin took a turn down another hall that led to the front of the Sanctuary. He ran out in front of the stage and came to a stop beside Oliver, panting from the exertion.

Father Winthrop sat silently, staring at Oliver. Franklin guessed that not a word had been spoken between them while the riding crop was being retrieved.

It was time to start. To Oliver, Winthrop said, "You know better than anyone what comes next, runt."

Oliver looked at the riding crop, tears in his eyes. He turned around, placed two hands on the top edge of the pew's wooden back, and leaned over. He recited the words he'd memorized. "I thank you, Father, for the punishment I have earned. Let it help me find forgiveness and wisdom."

It was the first thing Winthrop taught his Novices when they arrived. Punishment was not cruel, according to Winthrop, it was a gift that made Novices strong.

A gift? A boot full of sheep shit was what that was.

Franklin gulped. He'd said those words more times than he'd preferred to remember. Still, the words threatened to turn his bowels to water.

"Don't thank me, young, stupid runt." Winthrop sat back in his chair, half-smirking. "Thank Novice Franklin, for it is he who will bear the whip that teaches you henceforth."

"Me?" Franklin asked, unable to contain his surprise.

The harshness in Winthrop's stare withered Franklin's desire to protest.

Franklin looked down at the crop in his hands. He shuddered to think of the bruises it would leave on Oliver's skin. He cringed at the thought of inflicting that pain himself. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't.

"Speak, boy!" Winthrop shouted. "Thank Novice Franklin."

Oliver glanced at Franklin and said, "I thank you, Novice Franklin, for the punishment I have earned. Let it help me find forgiveness and wisdom."

Franklin didn't move. He was frozen. He thought about offering himself up for the beating. He wondered if throwing himself out as the bearer of all fault for Oliver's sins would save the boy.

"Is your heart too soft?" asked Winthrop. "Is it the case that the stupid runt was not my only mistake?"

Franklin shook his head.

"Your heart is not soft?"

Franklin shook his head again.

"If you wish ever to be anything but a Novice, you will do what is necessary, even when the necessity carries with it a deserved pain."

Franklin didn't move.

"I'll not wait!" Winthrop bellowed. "Begin or leave. I have no use of a Novice with a soft woman's heart."

Franklin stepped up beside Oliver and raised the crop.

Oliver looked over his shoulder, fear on his face.

"Now!" Winthrop commanded.

Franklin slapped the crop across Oliver's back. He raised it for another swing, pausing before he did so.

"I'll accept that as your attempt to get a feel for the device," said Winthrop. "But you'll beat that runt until his backside is nothing but bruises and blood. You'll give him a punishment he'll think about every day for the rest of his useless little life. You'll beat him until I tell you to stop. And if once, only once, the smack of the whip on his back is not louder than the scream that follows, it'll be the orphanage for the runt and the field for you, where you can spend the rest of your days hauling wheat, plowing mud, and mucking through pigsties." Winthrop looked down his nose. "The choice is yours, Franklin."

Franklin gulped and looked down at the riding crop in his hand.

He raised it and swung with all his might.

Chapter 4:  Ivory

Ivory finished trekking the snowy slope and slipped into the welcome shadow of the woods. His body burned from both his wounds and the exertion. The bear-man was no longer in view. Whether the man had taken another path or given up, Ivory couldn't know, but he wasn't going to wait for the answer.

With flatter, less dangerous ground in front of him, Ivory took the opportunity to set a quick pace and pushed on.

He felt like he had to be putting good distance between him and his pursuer. The farther he went, the greater his relief.

But he was still weaponless. All he had were a few knives in his bag—hardly enough to make him feel safe on a journey to the Ancient City.

The bow had been like a third arm to him. He couldn't imagine himself without it. Tears stung his eyes.

He recalled the day his uncle had given him his first bow when he was eight, patiently teaching him to string and care for it. He'd honed his hunting skills for the next few years, practicing in the outskirts of town, shooting small game under his uncle's tutelage. Later, Ivory's uncle had upgraded him to a larger bow. That was the bow he'd carried to this day. The bow was better than the rusted sword Muldoon had given him. Any moments Muldoon hadn't spent hunting were spent gambling in the pubs, pissing away the money he'd earned. He'd never taught his son his trade. If it weren't for Ivory's uncle teaching Ivory to hunt and scavenge metals, they might've been living with the street dwellers on Skinner Row.

Come to think of it, Ivory would miss the bow more than he'd miss Muldoon.

The thought immediately led Ivory to a pang of guilt.

But it almost made sense, in a strange sort of way. He and his uncle had been closer than he and Muldoon ever had been. It hardly seemed fitting that Ivory's uncle had died of a slow disease, one that wore down his body until he was lying in bed, whispering Ivory's name.

Perhaps Ivory didn't miss Muldoon because he hadn't had the proper chance to grieve. He convinced himself of that as he considered going back for the bow's pieces. Maybe he could salvage it.

No.

That hopeful idea might as well have been a child's. The bow was irreparable, covered in snow. All it was now was bait to put a fool into a bear-man's grasp.

Ivory dug out one of his knives. Hopefully, it'd keep him safe until he got to Jingo's.

Chapter 5:  Ivory

As he continued through the woods, alert for the bear-man, Ivory thanked the gods for his luck in avoiding demons. Thanks to the teachings of his uncle, he'd learned to travel a path that was less frequented by the beasts. His mind began to wander.

How should he spend the rest of his life?

Should he become one of Beck's scholars? Or should he leave Brighton behind and stay with Jingo, coming back just enough to avoid suspicion and settle the rest of Muldoon's debts?

He contemplated the words Jingo had spoken before he'd left. Almost as tempting as Beck's offer was Jingo's implied challenge that not one of his students had lived up to his intellectual potential. But Ivory believed he could. To be Jingo's best pupil, he'd need to spend a lot more time with the man.

Ivory didn't have many friends in town. Not many would miss him. Of course, now that Beck knew he could read, could Beck be trusted? Would he keep Ivory's secret, or would he betray him?

Ivory bit his lips.

Maybe he'd live in both worlds. He'd learn with both Jingo and Beck, molding that knowledge into something he could use, something that might help others.

The idea intrigued him.

As wise as Jingo was, he might help Ivory with an answer. Ivory's wandering thoughts almost made him miss the tracks in the snow.

Ivory slowed to a stop, ripped from his mission at the sight of an odd footprint, a large pad with four smaller pads above it. It was bigger than his hand, which meant that whatever made it was large. More tracks led the way ahead. The beast, whatever it was, walked on four legs.

What the hell was it?

His blood froze. He stared at the ground in disbelief, wondering whether his fall down the slope was making him hallucinate. But the tracks were still there. He followed them with his gaze, tracing the impressions with icy dread. The prints cut through the thin snow and into the mud beneath.

It wasn't the tracks that scared him.

It was the beast they belonged to.

Stories from his childhood flooded back to him: tales of large, cat-like creatures with sharp teeth and claws. It was said that these animals were better hunters than man or demon, that they could stalk and kill prey several times their size. They'd even been rumored to kill humans. Their primary method of killing was silently stalking their prey, then pouncing, tearing their victims' necks, and suffocating them.

Ivory wasn't sure they attacked humans. That part seemed exaggerated. So many stories were tales woven to keep kids inside after dark, to keep them quiet, to make them behave—lies told by lazy parents.

Of course, it was easy to dismiss those stories when he was within the protection of the circle wall, never far from the soldiers who guarded the gates. Ivory had never felt as weak-kneed as he did now.

Holding his small, inadequate knife, he followed the tracks as they continued into the forest. He doubted the beast was stalking him. By the looks of it, he'd come up behind it. But what if it sensed him? What if it veered off and crept through the trees to get behind him or somewhere alongside the trail from where it could pounce?

Ivory spun to look over his shoulder, but the forest was empty. All he saw were the tracks he'd made, now intersecting with the creature's paw prints.

His logical brain told him to head in the opposite direction. But the fear that the thing had circled around him made him keep walking. He had to know where it was. He had to ensure that it wasn't sneaking up on him.

Keeping a ten-foot berth from the tracks, he followed them. The prints went in a straight line, some more prominent than others. In some spots the snow was deep, clearly displaying the cat-thing's path. He thanked the gods for the early winter weather that had tipped him off. On a dry forest floor, he wouldn't be aware that he was in the hunting ground of a strange giant cat-thing.

Ivory continued creeping through the forest. He saw feces. Steam emanated from a large, circular pile of dung near the tracks. The creature wasn't far away. The paw prints veered around a nearby tree and into a hilly, rocky section of forest. Then the ground hardened where the trees had blocked the snow. The tracks disappeared.

Beyond them—two hundred yards away—was a rocky outcrop jutting out of a small hill. It looked like a cave. The opening was thin and shadowed, concealing whatever monster might lurk within.

Was the beast inside?

According to the tales he'd heard from drunken soldiers in the pubs, the cat-creatures often napped in the cover of caves, thick brush, or fallen trees. Ivory had always dismissed the tales of the attention-seeking men.

But standing here, looking at the tracks and the den, Ivory believed them.

He glanced over his shoulder, so preoccupied with the beast that he'd forgotten to tread lightly. His tracks were clear and unmistakable. The forest was empty. If the bear-man was still following, he'd be approaching soon.

Ivory had an idea.

With his heart knocking against his ribcage, Ivory walked the remaining few steps in the snow toward drier ground, pushing hard, so his tracks led right toward the cave. He stopped. He felt a mixture of hope and panic: panic that the animal might emerge and grab him, and a hope his hastily conceived plan would work. A rustle from the cave made his blood freeze.

Something was in there.

Ivory remained still, catching sight of a pair of eyes in the cave. The eyes moved as something shifted. Ivory held his breath, certain he was about to be embroiled in a different type of battle, one that was beyond his experience.

The eyes watched him. Readjusted.

And then disappeared.

Ivory waited a full minute, certain the beast would come charging out at him. But it didn't. Sticking to the dry ground, Ivory risked movement, cutting a path around the cave and veering up the hill, treading as quietly as he was able, so as not to disturb whatever was in the cave. Soon he was out of immediate danger. Ivory let out a relieved breath.

With any luck, the man pursuing him would think he'd found the cave and crawled inside to seek refuge.

But the bear-man wouldn't find Ivory.

He'd find something else instead.

Feeling ashamed at the glee he was feeling, Ivory smiled.

Chapter 6:  Jeremiah

Jeremiah's legs were sore and his back hurt. He hacked up a stubborn piece of snot from his throat, spit it in the snow, and cursed Ivory. His initial plan had been to sneak up on the boy, following him without being seen, but the open, snow-covered valley on the other side of the mountain had betrayed his cover. Or at least he was pretty sure it had. If it hadn't, he'd been spotted when he was up on the crest after the boy tumbled down the rocks. It didn't matter, though.

He'd catch Ivory, either way.

Seeing the boy fall on the snowy slope was enough to change his mind about keeping the same course. Jeremiah knew he couldn't keep up with the boy's speed.

Instead, he'd stuck to higher ground, hoping he'd be able to spy on him from the mountain.

Grunting from the exertion of travel, wishing he could take a break, Jeremiah plowed on, grabbing the flask of snowberry he had on his belt, uncapping it and taking long swigs while he carefully traversed the mountain. Thankfully he'd stocked up before the trip. Beck's money was serving him well.

Jeremiah had almost been out of money before he'd received Beck's offer. If he hadn't agreed to tail Ivory to the Ancient City, he might not have afforded his booze.

Planting his sizeable boots between rocks to avoid falling, he made quicker progress than he'd expected. Despite the cold temperature, the alcohol warmed his stomach, giving him motivation. Soon Jeremiah had trekked down the mountain and into the woods. The level ground was a welcome change.

The boy's footsteps were easy to follow. The impressions were clear and widely spaced, indicating that he was moving at a good clip. Jeremiah was surprised at the boy's progress; given the fall Ivory had taken, he imagined the boy couldn't be feeling too good.

Serves him right, for getting noticed. If the boy were smart, he would've done his smuggling more carefully. He wouldn't have gotten himself tailed.

But that wasn't Jeremiah's concern. In fact, he was grateful for the boy's missteps. They'd provided Jeremiah with a well-paying job. And the promise of wealth and books at the Ancient City had him intrigued.

He still wasn't sure what he'd do when he got there.

What was to stop him from skimming a few books from the stash before reporting back to Beck? Hell, maybe he'd kill the boy. Maybe he'd take all of them. He'd sell them in another township, swear the merchant to secrecy, and live off the proceeds for the rest of his days.

He laughed under his breath.

The result would be good. Whatever it was.

His smile was stuck on his face as he trudged through the snow, keeping his eye on the boy's footprints. The tracks might as well be the path to fortune. Jeremiah traveled several more miles, taking celebratory swigs from his flask to keep his blood moving. Life was going well. He'd retire young, surround himself with women, and thumb his nose at the other miserable Wardens.

Plodding along, Jeremiah noticed animal tracks in the snow.

"Is that a woodland cat?" he muttered under his breath.

He studied the large, round pads. He'd seen similar tracks before, but never the beasts that made them. In Jeremiah's experience, creatures in the wild were usually too timid to confront a man. Most were too afraid of the demons to risk getting close. He grunted as he followed Ivory's tracks, which ran alongside the creature's for a while and then veered off.

He kept his sword handy, just in case he needed it.

Soon the animal tracks were out of sight. Jeremiah followed Ivory's trail until the ground became hard, and he lost sight of them. Turning in a circle, he searched for the boy, but saw nothing.

"God Dammit!" he cursed loudly.

Sticking his sword in the ground, he grabbed his flask and took another swig. He studied the area. The lack of snow would make tracking harder. But he'd figure it out. He always did. He swished his drink in his mouth while he studied Ivory's boot prints.

A few hundred yards away, sunken into the side of a hill, was a cave.

The boot prints pointed right toward it.

A wide smile crossed Jeremiah's face. He stared at the dark entrance, envisioning the boy huddled inside. The kid was probably watching him, hoping Jeremiah would keep going. Fat chance, he thought.

The boy was as good as caught. He might even be sharing the den with an animal.

Now that would be a sight to see.

Wielding his sword, creeping over the forest floor, Jeremiah kept quiet, just in case the kid hadn't seen him. He hadn't intended to overtake the boy so soon. He had intended to simply tail him until the boy arrived at his stash. Oh, well. Jeremiah could change his plans. He'd drag Ivory out of the cave, threaten him, and force the boy to lead him to his stash.

One plan was as good as the other.

Jeremiah walked at a crouch until he was ten feet from the cave's entrance. He stared into the dark opening, but shadows obscured a clear view inside. He waited and listened. He held up his sword. At any moment, the boy would start pleading, especially if he was unwittingly keeping the company of an animal.

Jeremiah was greeted by silence.

"Hello?" he called.

At first he heard nothing. Then he heard the scrape of something against the interior wall. The boy was probably trying to hide himself a little deeper in the cave's darkness.

"I know where you are, boy. You'd better come out," Jeremiah growled.

The boy didn't answer. Jeremiah hunkered down and peered into the gloom, annoyed. His sizeable belly ached from bending over. The last thing he wanted was to crawl inside the narrow, shit-ridden hole. He waved his sword.

"If you don't come out, I'm going to start stabbing." His anger rose. "I can't promise what I'll hit. Do you hear me? You can come out whole or in pieces. Up to you."

The boy still didn't answer. Shaking his head, Jeremiah scooted onto his hands and knees, sticking his sword in the opening, beating a warning strike against the wall. He didn't see the cornered animal until the animal roared and charged at him.

Jeremiah cried out and toppled backward, fighting the sudden weight of a beast on top of him. His sword clattered to the ground. The beast was almost his size, but it was impossible to gauge for certain because it was moving and tearing and clawing, filling his body with pain. Jeremiah's muscles strained as he tried to push it off. He held his arms in front of his face.

"Get off!" he screamed.

The beast tore through his jacket and into his arm, trying to get to Jeremiah's neck. All Jeremiah could do was push and writhe to try and fend it off. Somehow he managed to get a hand free, and he pounded the side of the thing's head, aiming for an eye, a snout, anything to make it relent.

He felt something soft cave beneath his knuckles. The beast yelped and leapt off him. Jeremiah rolled away from it, barely catching his wind before he was face-to-face with it again.

The animal snarled from a few feet away, scrunching its nose and revealing four, blade-like fangs. One of its eyes blinked from where Jeremiah had struck it. Jeremiah remained still. He eyed his sword. It was five feet away, far enough that he wouldn't get to it before the thing leapt again. He was determined to defend himself, but he knew better than to move.

He stared at the creature, feeling outwitted. Outmatched.

In that instant, he comprehended what it was to be the hunted, to be the prey. Jeremiah prepared for what might be his last battle. He opened his mouth and screamed.

The thing bounded off, cutting through a thicket with long, graceful strides, vanishing into the forest.

Jeremiah watched it go with a dumbstruck fear. He glanced around the forest, as if someone might've witnessed what had happened, but there were no spectators, save him and the trees.

Jeremiah cursed as he inspected his wounded arm. Though his clothes had shielded him from some of the attacks, his arm had four large puncture wounds from where the beast had clamped onto him. Blood gushed from the injuries. His body was cut and bruised in various places. He unslung his pack, taking out some healing herbs. What he needed was a healer, but he wasn't going to go back to Brighton.

No way in hell. Not after he'd come this far.

His urge to give up and go home was overshadowed by another emotion.

What Jeremiah felt, stronger than the sting of his wounds, was a burning, seething hatred for the boy who had escaped.

He'd find Ivory. He'd find him, and he'd make him pay for the blood that was soaking his clothes.

Chapter 7:  Franklin

Brighton was quieting down for the night. Winthrop was asleep. Franklin finished up all of his and Oliver's chores. He was tired, and he was ashamed. After Oliver's beating, all Franklin could think of through the rest of the day was Oliver's blood, seeping through his pants and shirt. All Franklin could hear were Oliver's cries.

Please, please, stop!

I've learned!

I have!

Please, stop!

But Franklin hadn't stopped. He'd whipped that crop across Oliver's backside until his arm cramped. Then he'd switched to his left arm and beaten him some more, all the while trying to deafen himself to Oliver's pleas. All the while, he tried to imagine it was that sadistic lard, Winthrop, he was beating.

Oliver didn't need to be beaten. Was Oliver precocious? Yes. Too quick to hurt others with his words? Absolutely. Too easily taken by temptation to trouble? Without a doubt.

But Oliver could be taught. At heart, he was a good kid, a smart kid, a friend. Franklin knew all of that beyond repute. Beating Oliver achieved nothing. For a boy like Oliver, who saw through the simple-minded brutal manipulation of it, beatings could never work. Oliver had to be appealed to; he had to understand. His questions had to be answered. He had to choose to do the right thing.

Maybe that was Oliver's biggest problem. He thought he had a choice.

He didn't.

No one in Brighton had a choice in anything that mattered. That was a lesson maturity taught everyone.

Maybe Oliver understood that lesson already, but he was too hardheaded to accept it. And for that choice, he'd paid.

Franklin checked all the doors in the big, empty Sanctuary. He walked through the shadowy darkness and passed into the hall that led to Father Winthrop's quarters. He checked the door at the end of that hall. He passed through the kitchen and checked the door there to be sure it was secure.

With all that done, he made his way to the room he shared with Oliver, a room he'd been avoiding all day because he knew Oliver was in there. Franklin didn't know how he'd face the boy.

He hated himself for what he'd done.

Instead of comforting Oliver, he'd avoided him, choosing to think only of himself, his embarrassment, and the pain in his heart. Franklin had done the worst possible thing.

Oliver was still just a kid. He was injured in body and soul. He needed attention to his wounds and comfort. The only person Oliver could depend on was Franklin, and Franklin had left him on his own to sulk alone in a room and to try to figure out how to tend wounds he couldn't reach.

What a monster I am.

Franklin put a hand on the door, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. Fearing he wouldn't be able to hold his tears in, he turned the handle.

Chapter 8:  Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald sat beside Oliver on his narrow bed, looking at the welts and the places where the riding crop had broken through the skin on his back. She'd cleaned those wounds while Oliver clenched his teeth and cried out. She'd tried to hug him, to hold him, but Oliver had rebuffed her attempts. He wasn't cruel about it. He'd told her with tears flowing from his eyes that he could not let the soft heart of a woman make him weak.

Now he was lightly snoring, a final respite from the day's pain.

Tomorrow will be better. And the next day will be better still.

At least, that's what she'd told him.

Oliver argued that she didn't know, that the worst days were yet to come. He said some of the wounds would swell and turn red, then throb and leak pus. They'd scar. He'd been through this too many times not to know the way of it. Never this bad, of course, but certainly many times.

Seeing the old scars on his skin, Fitzgerald accepted that Oliver knew better than she and did what she could for him. She brought him food at dinnertime, but he didn't eat. She offered to cover him with a blanket to keep him warm, but he refused. The blanket would fuse with the scabs, he'd said, and in the morning it would be impossible to pull down without more pain and more blood.

Oliver chose to suffer the cold on top of all else.

At least the poor boy was finally asleep.

Startled by a noise at the door, Fitz looked up.

The door swung open, and there stood Franklin. Her anger boiled, and she jumped to her feet, stepping up to him. She wanted to hurt him as he'd hurt Oliver, to mash his fuzzy little man parts with her knee.

Son of a bitch.

Earlier, she'd heard Oliver crying out when she was in Winthrop's chamber emptying his pot. Thinking something terrible was happening, she'd raced from the room, dropping the pot in the hallway, stopping only when she reached the doorway into the Sanctuary. The terrible thing she saw was worse than what her imagination had conjured. She'd guessed that Oliver was being beaten at the hands of some ruffians or a pervert with a taste for young boys.

She might have been able to rescue him from that.

What she saw instead was fat Father Winthrop at the edge of his puffy chair looking down from the stage with the most perverse satisfaction on his face. Oliver's hands were braced on the wooden back of the front pew, and Franklin was whipping him with that riding crop that Winthrop sometimes used when he felt like playing rough in bed.

Fitz reached out in a needless gesture, crying at the sight of Oliver's already bloody shirt. Her heart broke at Franklin's solemn face. He looked like he felt none of Oliver's pain. He wasn't wishing he was somewhere else. His face was twisted in the same, sadistic, satisfied expression that Father Winthrop wore when he was beating one of his lessers.

At that moment, Fitzgerald came to a realization: Franklin wasn't any better than Winthrop himself. He was merely younger.

She decided that she hated him.

With all of her hate coming to the surface, as she saw Franklin there, standing in the doorway, Fitz raised her hands and pushed him out into the hall.

"What?" Franklin asked in surprise.

Fitzgerald glared and pushed him again.

Franklin raised his hands to grab her wrists. "Stop!"

"Let go of me," she hissed.

Franklin did as he was told, raising his hands to show her he meant no harm.

Fitzgerald clenched her jaw, wishing she had a weapon with which to beat him.

He started to say something, but she silenced him with a raised hand and a hateful scowl. She wanted to punish him, to hurt him, to make him cry as many tears as she and Oliver had shed together.

She came to a decision. As powerless as she felt, Fitz knew she had a power over men they'd not readily admit. She angrily unbuttoned the top of her dress.

"What are you doing?" Franklin whispered.

She pulled her dress open, exposing both of her breasts.

Franklin's eyes went wide as he stared at them.

She grabbed his hands, shoved them hard against her breasts and spat, "Squeeze them. Feel them. Enjoy them. You better, because this is the last time you'll ever touch them again."

She threw his hands off her and resisted the urge to slap him across his face. "You are a brutal pig." She stepped into the room and slammed the door shut.

Chapter 9:  Franklin

Sitting on a pew in the front row of the Sanctuary, Franklin stared at the far end of the bench, the place where Oliver had leaned while being beaten. Franklin turned the memory over and over in his mind, searching for what he could have done differently. There had to be something. He had to have made a mistake somewhere for it all to have turned out so badly.

Now Oliver hated him. He was sure of that. How could he not?

And Fitz. Franklin felt a lump in his throat again. Beautiful, kind Fitz, she'd seen enough of what happened that now she hated him, too.

He wanted to go back to the door of the room he shared with Oliver and beg both Fitz and Oliver to forgive him, but he feared what a second attempt might bring. He feared a commotion in the middle of the night might wake Father Winthrop.

So he stayed and looked at the pews.

Eventually, his eyes grew heavy enough to overcome his anxiety. He fell asleep.

When Franklin opened his eyes, he fully expected to see more of the night's cold shadows; instead he saw the faintest of morning lights coming in through the windows high up on the Sanctuary walls. He felt a rough, persistent nudge on his arm.

Franklin jerked himself upright in the seat, looking around at an empty Sanctuary, empty except for Oliver standing in front of him, a market basket in his hand.

Franklin looked sheepishly down at his lap. "Are you okay?"

Oliver didn't answer.

Franklin looked at Oliver again. He asked, "Are you okay?"

Oliver didn't turn away. He didn't show any anger. He looked at Franklin with no expression, no words on his lips.

Franklin stared at his lap. "I'm sorry. You know that. I didn't have a choice." He raised his eyes back up to Oliver. "You understand that, don't you?"

Oliver said nothing.

Standing up, Franklin reached over and brushed a wrinkle out of Oliver's shirt as it hung off his shoulder. The shirt was damp. "You cleaned it?"

Oliver raised the basket.

"I washed it for him," said Fitz.

Startled, Franklin looked up to see Fitzgerald leaning against the wall, just inside the doorway at the back of the Sanctuary.

Franklin's mouth fell open as he looked for words that he couldn't find.

"Oliver took the beating, but he still got out of bed in time to tend to his morning duties," she said. "Now he needs you to accompany him to the market. Father Winthrop has requests." She turned and retreated into the hall.

Franklin watched the doorway as though he could will her to come back, to look at him with love in her eyes. He feared he might never see that look again.

Oliver walked away from Franklin, going down the aisle between the pews, headed for the front door. In an emotionless tone, he said, "We have to go."

Chapter 10:  Ella

It had been a cold night in the forest, and none of them had slept well, constantly squirming beneath blankets that were too thin to keep out the chill, always worrying that the sounds in the forest were the demons coming to eat them or soldiers collecting them for the pyre. When the sky gave the first hint that it was changing from spangled indigo to morning gray, Ella, Bray, Melora, and William rose in silent consensus, gathered their things, and started out, following a game trail through an early morning fog.

In most places the trail was muddy. In others, the mud was frozen in ridges squished up from the relatively warm ground by passing animals. At least most of the snow had melted away.

Ella spent a lot of thought on breakfast. But those thoughts always turned to her daughter. After so many days hoping to get to Melora in Davenport, and then in those days after, trekking through the forest on only the thinnest hope that she might be alive, they'd found her. Still just a day after stumbling upon her near that smoldering settler's house, Ella kept glancing to look at Melora, half expecting her to disappear as her mind gave up on the delusion.

But she was always there.

Ella found herself staring at her daughter, tears pooling in her eyes. The fact that Melora was alive—that they'd found her—was a miracle. Ella had last seen Melora as a toddler. Through the years as she imagined what her daughter might be like, she couldn't help but remember Melora as she was on the day they parted, a child with two little white flowers in her hand and a smudge of dirt on her face, trying to understand why Aunt Ella was going away. Now Melora was a beautiful young woman with an inexplicable strength that showed through the bruises and stains.

Trying to reconcile that toddler with the resilient girl beside her, Ella couldn't forget all the years she'd missed in between.

When the forest grew bright enough and the fog grew thin enough that they could see a good distance through the trees, Ella started to talk to Melora, continuing their conversation from the day before. They talked about the Davenport massacre, the death of Melora's friends, and the settlers who had taken Melora in. Then they fell silent, bound together by grief over the countless dead and their sorrow for the ones they loved. Things Ella wondered if they'd ever be able to talk through.

As their morning hunger set in, Melora traveled with her head down, keeping pace with her mother and sibling. She clung to a sword and a bow she'd taken from the dead soldiers. Her face was streaked with soot and tears, but she trekked without complaint, seeming to immerse herself in the journey to distract her from what she'd been through.

In spite of the awful, tragic things that had happened, Ella felt a sense of rightness, a sense of purpose with the three of them together. The reunion of her family was like a potent drug, filling her with strength she hadn't had before.

She vowed to hold them, protect them, and keep them together.

If only Frederick and Jean were alive to see us.

They walked out from under the shadows of the trees and into a meadow of tall grasses poking out from the snow, turning gold and brown with the coming of winter. Melora said, "I always knew Frederick and Jean were hiding something." Her voice wavered. "A few times they started to tell me things, but they always stopped. When I asked for more, they said they'd tell me when I was older."

"They were good people," Ella confirmed.

"They sure were." Melora swallowed.

"I should've been there for you. I should've told you."

"You don't need to explain again." Melora smiled grimly through her cuts and bruises as she stared at the trees across the meadow.

Ella watched her with concern. "I know you miss your friends."

Melora sniffed. "I do, but I understand why we had to run away so fast. I understand why we couldn't bury Rowan. It wouldn't have been safe."

Ella hung her head, wishing there were something they could've done for Rowan. For Cooley. If only she could assume some of her daughter's pain. But all they could do now was move forward.

They followed Bray's lead through the forest, winding up and down several small hills, weaving through trees that looked like they'd been standing forever. Rocks and roots protruded at odd angles from the snow as if they'd fallen from the sky and stuck there.

After awhile, Bray called over his shoulder. "In all this time, I haven't seen any evidence of the settlers you were staying with, Melora."

"I bet they're covering their tracks," Melora suggested. "Either that, or they had an escape path planned. Roger was intent on getting his children to safety. He knew Rowan couldn't run. That's why I wouldn't leave him."

"That was a brave thing you did for that boy, pulling him out of the fire like that," Bray said, bowing his head. "I wish we could've done more for him."

Melora nodded silently.

They walked up a steep, snow-covered hill, their bodies fighting the terrain and gravity. When they'd reached the top, they didn't halt, and they didn't slow. Ella noticed William peeking over his shoulder at Melora as if his sister might disappear.

William smiled sheepishly.

"She's my sister," William said to Ella as he tested out the word. "Saying it sounds strange."

"It sounds strange to me, too," Melora admitted.

"I never thought I'd have one," he said.

"I didn't either. Well, a brother, I mean," Melora said.

William furrowed his brow. "Most of my friends had brothers. One had six. I used to pretend I was the seventh. We played Lord of the Mountain whenever I went to his house."

Ella laughed. She recalled the family William was talking about. The Millers. They'd joined them for dinner a few times while in Brighton. Would Ella and William ever see the Millers again?

She doubted it.

William ran to catch up to the Warden. Ella looked over at Melora. It'd been difficult discussing William's condition while William was around.

In a hushed tone, one she was getting used to using when William was far enough ahead, Ella said, "He's gotten pretty good at tracking while we've been out here."

"He seems so energetic," Melora noted.

"He always has been," Ella said.

"I'd think he was perfectly healthy if you hadn't told me different."

"We've been keeping a close eye on him over the past few days," Ella reiterated. "He's had a rough time. I keep hoping things will get better, but they've been getting worse."

"I've only just met him…" Melora bit her lip and looked away. "I saw the lump on the back of his neck that you were talking about. It caught on his shirt when he was walking." Melora turned her eyes down to the forest floor. "Before that, I could almost imagine it was a mistake. What do you think will happen?"

"I don't know."

"Surely people can live with the disease…" Melora tried. "I've heard people discussing it in town."

"It's progressing quickly. Someday soon, we might have to make a decision."

Melora reached over and took Ella's arm, and in that moment, Ella felt certain that Melora's concern was genuine.

"I'm sorry this happened," Melora said. "No one deserves this."

Ella looked into the distance and bit her lip. "I'm glad you're with us, Melora."

"Me, too…" Melora's voice trailed off.

"I'll admit it's difficult knowing what to say to you, after all this time. I'd rehearsed it so many times when I was alone, figuring out the words."

"I heard stories about you. In some ways, I felt like I've always been with you and William in Brighton." Melora smiled. "I used to imagine what you both looked like when Frederick and Jean spoke about you. Sometimes I thought about running away there to meet you."

"I thought about Davenport every night." Ella dabbed her eyes. "I never forgot you. I need you to know that, Melora."

"I do."

Ella reached over and pulled her daughter close.

"I don't blame you, Aunt Ella…I mean…"

"You don't have to call me Mom if you don't want to."

"I want to," Melora said. "I will. It'll just take some getting used to."

Chapter 11:  Blackthorn

Not usually one to second-guess himself, General Blackthorn was doing just that as he crossed the square with four of his men following behind. All of Winthrop's fearful sniveling about hoisting his blubbery butt onto a horse and riding out with the army was starting to wear at Blackthorn's resolve.

Now, he was wrestling with whether to have Winthrop put on the pyre, leave him in Brighton to be dominated by Tenbrook, or take him along. All choices had their merits and their pitfalls. The only clear drawback in Blackthorn's mind was having to listen to Winthrop bemoan his predicament from astride his horse while riding along with him and Minister Beck all the way to the Ancient City.

Blackthorn's time outside the circle wall had always been spent among the brave and the silent, men who never cried or complained, men who rode to victory or death. Those were Blackthorn's most beloved memories. Those days out on the horse meant something. Those were days of clear purpose, bravery, and glory. Winthrop's vociferous cowardice promised to taint all those memories.

As Blackthorn approached the temple, he saw Winthrop's Novices, Franklin and Oliver, sullenly heading off with their shopping basket in the direction of the market.

Women's work.

Blackthorn liked nothing of the way Winthrop managed his clergy. If Winthrop treated his Novices like women, they'd grow into women, just as weak and useless as Winthrop.

One of the soldiers hurried ahead and opened one of the temple's giant old doors.

"Wait out here," Blackthorn told his men as he stepped into the musty Sanctuary. He walked up the center aisle, but saw no one else in the cavernous space.

He'd only been in the Sanctuary a handful of times in his life, always for formal occasions. The whole building made him uncomfortable, from the sound of the echoes, to the odd overcast feel of the light coming in through the small high windows. And the smell was disgusting. It reeked of musty old crones and sheep dung.

Blackthorn spotted two doorways leading into halls at the back corners of the Sanctuary and realized he had no idea where Winthrop kept himself when he wasn't on the stage, haranguing the peasants with his ancient fictions.

What he did know was that he wasn't going to wander through the warrens behind the Sanctuary in search of Winthrop.

Damn Winthrop. If he didn't intend to preside over his pretentious space, he should at least have left one of his womanly Novices inside to accept visitors.

Blackthorn's anger started to simmer as he reconsidered the purpose of his visit. Perhaps he'd leave and refuse to listen to any more of Winthrop's whining on the matter of going out with the army.

A noise from one of the halls caught his attention. He looked to the right just in time to see a rapturously beautiful young woman walking into the Sanctuary with a load of linens in her arms.

Blackthorn started to speak, but his words caught in his throat, and his breath froze in his chest.

The girl looked exactly like Emma, his first wife, the only one of the three wives he'd loved.

"I beg your pardon," the woman said, immediately looking at the floor and turning to go back the way she'd come.

"Wait," Blackthorn ordered, silently chastising himself for his severe tone of voice.

The woman froze in her steps, still facing away.

Going to great effort to make himself sound kind, he said, "Come here."

The woman turned, fear written on her face.

"Don't be frightened," said Blackthorn, wanting only to get a closer look at her. "I mean you no harm."

The woman walked slowly toward him, skirting the stage and coming up in front of the pews.

He watched her with longing eyes. Each step she took encouraged the ridiculous idea that she might be Emma, reincarnated or magically come back to life.

Maybe by some miracle of ancient Tech Magic. Could it be?

By the time she came to a stop two paces in front of him, he had to wonder if she was a memory turned into a ghost come to haunt him.

He shook his head slowly, denying to himself that the woman was a ghost. "What is that you have there?" he choked.

The woman looked down at the bed sheets. "For Father Winthrop's bed. I was going just now to change them."

Blackthorn pointed at a pew. "Put those down."

The girl hesitated for a moment, stuck between two bad choices. She drew in a deep breath, quickly placed the stack of folded sheets on the front pew, and went back to her spot a few paces in front of the General.

Seeing the full shape of her without the laundry to keep her hidden, Blackthorn dared not attempt to speak. He raised a finger in the air and made a swirling motion.

Nodding her understanding, the girl raised her arms half way up and slowly spun in a circle, coming to a stop and facing the General once again.

"Smile for me," he said.

She did.

Blackthorn shook his head and stared, wishing that he'd found this woman before his manhood had fallen into uselessness. Looking at her brought back old feelings buried so deeply he'd thought they were forgotten.

"Shall I bring you something, General? Water? Wine?"

In the habit of turning down any offer of drink, Blackthorn shook his head. It occurred to him that he didn't know how to address the woman, a thing he seldom thought of. He had little need of names. Nevertheless, he asked, "What do they call you?"

"Fitzgerald," she answered.

Blackthorn nodded as he foundered for something more to say, feeling a kind of nervousness he hadn't felt since he was a young man.

He looked around the vast Sanctuary. The ornate cushioned chair sitting on the stage caught his eye. In all the years over which his few visits were spread, he'd never seen anything in that spot but a lectern behind which the clergyman of the day bemoaned man's plight to the pew-sitters. He pointed at the chair. "I've not seen this before."

Fitzgerald turned toward the chair as though it were first being pointed out to her. "When Father Winthrop receives guests and petitioners, he sits there."

Blackthorn nodded. "Is Father Winthrop in the building?"

"I believe so," she said. "I've yet to see him leave."

Taking great pains again to remember his manners, he asked, "Would you be so kind as to fetch him for me?"

Nodding, Fitzgerald leaned forward to pick the laundry up off the pew.

Blackthorn got a glimpse down her threadbare dress. "Stop."

Fitzgerald froze, looking up at the General.

"Leave those."

She nodded and straightened up again.

"Why does Father Winthrop dress you like a Barren Woman, in what might be the most tattered dress I've ever seen?"

In a voice shaking with nerves, Fitzgerald said, "I don't ask such questions."

Blackthorn nodded as though he understood, but he didn't. The state of the woman's dress devalued his already low opinion of Winthrop. "Go and fetch him."

Fitzgerald hurried off in the direction of the other hall.

Blackthorn walked up to the stage and looked at the ridiculous chair. He thought about having one of his men come in and haul it out for firewood. Only the workmanship that went into the chair's construction at the hands of the Ancients, along with its obvious age, prevented him from doing so.

Instead, he climbed the steps that led up to the stage and stopped in front of the chair. As he looked down on the thing, he decided it wasn't so grand. Blackthorn turned and seated himself.

He waited.

Chapter 12:  Blackthorn

From far down the hall in which Fitzgerald had disappeared, Blackthorn heard a series of knocks. A heavy door creaked on old hinges. The indistinct pomposity of Winthrop's voice berated the girl. When the bellowing fool's voice stifled itself with a sudden pinch, Blackthorn knew Fitzgerald had delivered the news of his presence.

For the first time in more years than he could remember, Blackthorn smiled. The expression felt out of place on his face. But he enjoyed the thought of cowardly Father Winthrop being so afraid of earning his ire that he wouldn't even scold his servants, knowing that Blackthorn could hear the anger in his voice.

A little while after the voices stopped, he heard Father Winthrop's door close. The rotund Bishop shuffled and wheezed his way up the hall. He finally emerged from the doorway, looking at his feet and grumbling rebellious curses. Winthrop turned and planted one foot on the stairs as he prepared to climb. Then his eyes fell on Blackthorn, at home in the ornate old chair.

Winthrop's sturdy bones startled themselves to immobility. His fat flowed forward under the womanly robe until it reached the limit of his stretchy skin, nearly throwing him off balance. He caught himself against the wall.

Winthrop's face settled into an expression of spoiled sadness that Blackthorn had only ever seen on the faces of merchants' fat children.

Winthrop stopped. He didn't move.

Blackthorn watched him stare, happy to leave him stuck between cowardice and indecision.

Fitzgerald made her way through the gap between Winthrop's voluminous butt and the front row of pews, heading across the walkway on the floor in front of the stage. She picked up her linens and cast a quick glance around.

Blackthorn raised a hand to let her know to remain. "Stop," he said. Tired of the game of Winthrop's paralysis, Blackthorn pointed at the pew at the foot of the stage and told Winthrop to sit.

Winthrop choked on words stuck in his throat, and his face reddened. He didn't protest. He huffed and turned away from the stairs. He waddled along in front of the stage and came to a stop, standing on the floor, looking at Blackthorn sitting in the special chair. Blackthorn pointed at the pew again.

Winthrop's face turned to silent anger, and he turned to vent it on Fitzgerald. He hissed, "Go and finish your chores, useless whore."

"No." Blackthorn clenched his jaw as he felt a spark of inexplicable anger. It wasn't Winthrop's repressed insolence that had prodded him. No, that was just a product of Blackthorn's choice to toy with him. It was what Winthrop said to Fitzgerald that tweaked Blackthorn.

Winthrop's mouth opened and closed on nothing, making him look like a gasping fish.

Blackthorn pointed at the pew where he expected Winthrop to plant himself. He asked, "Why do you not provide this woman with a set of clothing befitting her place? If she is a serving woman and maid, dress her as such."

Winthrop looked at Fitzgerald. He rubbed a hand across his mushy jowls and said, "She—" His words left him, and he sat down instead of finishing.

Blackthorn said, "She'll remain here in case I require a drink while I listen to what I'm certain will be a litany of protests." He looked over at Fitzgerald. "Seat yourself and wait."

Silently, she did.

Glaring at Winthrop, Blackthorn said, "Put her in a proper dress. Do it before the sun sets."

Winthrop nodded.

Turning to stare at Fitzgerald, wanting very much to drink the vision of her, Blackthorn said to Winthrop, "When you've composed yourself, you may speak. I've listened to your girlish wails too many times in these past days. Tell me, if I leave you in Brighton instead of taking you with the other men to battle the demons at the Ancient City, how will it benefit Brighton?" Blackthorn turned back to Winthrop, fire in his eyes. "Tell me how your cowardice will go unnoticed by so many in your flock who are willing to put their lives in the jaws of the demon to keep you safe?"

Chapter 13:  Ella

Ella and Melora chatted quietly while they walked, speaking about Melora's childhood. Melora told of her times hunting with her friends, the way she'd helped Frederick and Jean on the farm, and the Davenport festivals. Melora's voice grew excited, as if remembering things distracted her from what had happened.

"That reminds me of myself growing up," Ella said, wishing she were young and carefree again, before life's tragedies had started to stack up against her.

"Did you like Brighton?"

"I always tried to. But when I think about it, I'm not sure it ever felt like home." Ella paused to remember, the days they'd been running suddenly feeling much longer. "The buildings are even taller than in Davenport. There are a lot of people there. So many that I don't even know all their names."

"I can't imagine that. It must be nice to meet people you've never seen. I always liked it when travelers came to Davenport. They had such good stories. I'd listen, even though Frederick and Jean didn't like me to."

"Brighton is a nice place, but it's also dangerous. Things are very strict with the Elders in town. A single misused word or an imagined vendetta can lead to the pyre, even a spiking." Ella shuddered at the memory of several tear-stricken, pleading people being led to their deaths.

"I think I can understand that." Melora fell silent. She looked around. "Where are we going, Mom?"

Ella stared around the forest as if she'd just woken up in it. They'd entered an old section of woods, with thick, gray tree trunks. Gnarled roots sprouted from the ground in patternless directions. Bray and William forged ahead, oblivious to the fact that Ella and Melora had stopped.

"I'm not sure," Ella admitted.

Ella called to Bray, who spun and reached for his sword.

"Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine."

"Do you need a break?" Bray jogged back to where they were standing, venturing a smile. William was at his heels.

"We just want to know where we're going," Ella said.

Bray beckoned at the area around them. "We're in one of the oldest sections of the woods. It'll be harder for the soldiers to track us here with the roots. The ground is dry; it doesn't look like the snow hit here."

"I mean after that. Where are we headed?" Ella stared at him intently.

Before Bray could answer, Melora offered, "The man who owned the dwelling, Roger, told me about the Ancient City. He said it's beautiful there, and that there are many treasures. Rowan and I talked about going there, before the fire."

Ella frowned. During their time tracking the Davenport survivors, Bray had suggested they were heading in that direction.

But that might've been a coincidence.

"The Ancient City is dangerous," Ella said. "I don't know if it'd be a good idea."

"It's dangerous, but if we can find a place to hide and gather enough food, we might be safe from the soldiers," Bray said.

Melora added, "And there are treasures there. Maybe we could salvage some and sell them."

Ella watched Bray. She thought she saw a spark in his eye.

"Forget about your skins and promises of treasures, for once, Bray. The area is infested with demons," Ella protested. "It's not safe for children."

"I'm not a child anymore," William argued. "I'm growing up. You said so yourself."

"The soldiers won't venture near the Ancient City." Bray shrugged and spat on the ground. "So in that regard, Melora's right. It's probably safe for that very reason. There are buildings on the outskirts of the city that might be habitable, at least until Blackthorn chases after some other poor woman foolish enough to break one of his precious rules, and forgets about you."

Melora held up the bow she'd scavenged from the soldiers. "I'm a good hunter. If we find a place on the edge of the City, I can help capture things in the wild. I can bring them back to eat. If things are looking dangerous, we can always retreat into the forest."

"How far is the Ancient City?" Ella asked.

Bray rolled his eyes. "Does it matter? It's not much farther than we've already traveled."

Ella stared at the resolved faces around her. William and Melora seemed excited. As hesitant as she was, Ella couldn't think of a better plan.

"All right, then. Let's go," Ella relented.

She hoped she wasn't making a mistake.

Chapter 14: Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald felt like a leaf on the winter's wind. She tumbled through a range of feelings that grated on nerves frazzled by a long night of crying over Oliver and Franklin. With General Blackthorn gone, Father Winthrop remained on the pew in front of the empty throne-chair, sweating through his robe.

Finally pulling the bits of his embarrassed ego back together, Father Winthrop sucked in a breath, muttered through a long string of garbled syllables that only he seemed understand, hauled his weight up off the pew, and waddled back toward his wing of the temple. When he reached the entrance to the hall, he stopped.

"Find Franklin and send him to my chambers," he called over his shoulder without looking.

He disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

Fitz didn't respond. She was afraid her voice would remind Winthrop that he'd been embarrassed in front of her. She knew she'd pay the price for that. So she hid behind silence, the only camouflage she had, listening to Winthrop make his way slowly down the hall toward his bedchamber.

Franklin and Oliver had returned from the market earlier while General Blackthorn was in the middle of what had turned out to be a lengthy diatribe. They hurried through the Temple Sanctuary and down the hall that led toward the kitchen and the Novice's quarters.

As Blackthorn carried on, Franklin and Oliver came separately into the hall that led from their end of the temple, each peeking and listening momentarily before scampering away.

Fitz saw fright on Oliver's face each time he came into her view. The fright was for her. He knew better than most how quickly powerful men's angry words turned into abrasions and bruises.

Franklin wore worry all over his face every time he came near the end of the hall. Fitz didn't know what to think about that. She was still angry with him over what he'd done to Oliver.

Mostly, she tried to ignore them, because she had listening and thinking to do. Both Blackthorn and Winthrop thought what they were talking about was too convoluted, too high-minded for an ignorant serving girl to understand. Why else would they speak in such a way where she could see and hear?

Unfortunately for them, she understood completely. What's more, she knew that in all those words lived opportunity. To take advantage of that opportunity, Fitzgerald needed to consider her own choices and come to some decisions that could turn her fortunes around.

Hers and Franklin's.

Perhaps.

She was still torn over that.

She felt things for Franklin she never thought she'd feel. She was a Barren Woman, forbidden to marry. It was only by a turn of fortune—or misfortune, she still wasn't sure—that she wasn't still in The House, entertaining stinking men every night.

She'd heard girls whisper of love when she was a young girl herself. She'd had crushes on the older boys and knew other girls who did, as well. At first, she'd even wondered if she would fall in love with the boy her father had arranged for her to marry. That ended soon into the marriage, though. He turned out to be as cruel as he was handsome, and that cruelty found its fury in drink and flowed out through his fists.

Fitzgerald often wondered whether her inability to bear children was not her fault at all, but the fault of a sadistic husband who'd beaten her at the wrong time. She'd heard rumors of other women who'd lost a baby after a drunken husband had punished her too severely. After, the woman became pregnant no more. It was not an uncommon story. The story was often speculated upon among the Barren Women when they had nothing else to do, on nights when the wind blew cold enough to keep the men of the town indoors with their despised wives.

With Franklin, Fitzgerald had taken a stupid chance and had let herself hope that all of that could be put behind her. With the exception of what Franklin had done to Oliver, Franklin was gentle. He was kind. He said things that made her feel beautiful and loved.

Part of what fueled her anger the night before was the belief that she'd invested herself in another pleasant-faced brute who was just like her ex-husband.

That was the primary reason she hadn't slept. Between her heart and her head, she couldn't reconcile what Franklin had done. She couldn't match that sadistic face he wore while beating Oliver with the young man she knew him to be.

Chapter 15:  Melora

Melora battled a slew of emotions as she trekked with her family and the Warden. As appealing as the Ancient City sounded, she'd never lived a life as uncertain as the one she was living now. Like every other young person in town, she'd dreamed of a life in the wild, free of the restraints of family, unbidden by rules.

But not like this.

How could she forget Frederick and Jean? How could she forget Rowan and Cooley? The rest of the villagers?

She couldn't imagine a life without a home to go back to. As grateful as she was to be reunited with her mother and William, nothing could replace the people she'd lost.

They were crossing a large, grassy plain in the sunlight, when William cried, "A rabbit!" He gave chase.

"Wait!" Melora hissed as the rabbit pounced to safety through thick, snow-tipped grass.

She looked at Bray and Ella. For the majority of the day, her stomach had felt sick, filled with the burden of loss. The rabbit had stirred her instincts. It had also incited her hunger. William stopped, looking at her.

"If we're careful, we can shoot it," Melora whispered, grabbing an arrow. "Have you ever hunted a rabbit?" she asked William.

"No," he said.

To Ella, she said, "Do you mind if I take William with me?"

Ella hesitated and looked around. She looked nervous. "Don't go far. Stay within sight of us."

"I will."

Beckoning for William to stay close, Melora crept through the grass in the direction they'd last seen the rabbit. The animal had stopped moving. She stared intently at the field, searching for clues as to its whereabouts. She took several steps at a time, stopping, searching. Soon they were fifty yards from her mother and Bray.

"Where is it?" William whispered.

"Quiet," Melora warned. "Patience is the best way to hunt rabbits. You have to move slowly, a few steps at a time."

"Okay."

The words she'd been taught—Rowan's words—came flooding back to her, as if he were standing over her shoulder. "Watch for parts of the rabbit. Sometimes you might only see the ears, or the eye, or the tail. But once you find it, you can try to get off a shot when it's still."

"All right."

William mimicked her movements as she slunk through the field. The frozen grass whispered against his pants. The wind blew lightly through his hair, ruffling his coat. The field extended for several hundred yards before turning back to forest. Melora hunkered down, keeping close to William. They'd gone another few steps when a rabbit burst from the grass, kicking its furred legs and stirring up snow. Melora grabbed William's arm and pulled him to a stop.

"Wait!" she hissed. "It's almost impossible to shoot a moving target. When it stops moving, we'll creep up on it again."

They watched as the rabbit moved farther away. It stopped.

"Okay," she said, speaking so quietly that she barely moved her lips. "Let's go."

She looked over to find William smiling. The thrill of the hunt coursed through her, reminding her of her earliest hunting days. It made her feel alive again. Soon they'd gotten close enough that she could see the rabbit's puffy, furred tail.

She raised her bow. She aimed.

The rabbit turned sideways, exposing a round, inquisitive eye. She fired. The arrow cut through the air and struck its head, knocking it over and skewering it to the ground. Dead.

"A head shot. How'd you do that?" William asked, mouth stuck open in disbelief.

"Years of practice."

"I want to learn." The words tumbled out of his mouth, accompanying the eager look on his face. It was the same look she'd probably given Rowan and Cooley when she'd first started hunting. She smiled.

"Let's go get that one first. Then I'll teach you. I bet this field is full of them."

William agreed excitedly, and they darted over to grab their kill. Melora removed the arrow and wiped it on the grass. Then she had William store the rabbit in his bag. They continued hunting. This time, she let William hold the bow. She explained how to aim and fire.

"What does 'fire' mean?" William asked.

Melora paused. "I'm not sure. It's just the word we've always used, I guess."

"All I know is the fire that keeps us warm and cooks our food."

"In this case, it means to let go of the arrow."

"Oh. Okay," William said, digesting the information. His brow furrowed.

"Have you ever used a bow before?"

"A few times, at my friend's house, but I was never any good," William admitted.

"The rabbits out here probably haven't seen humans often. So they won't be as hard to hit. They'll likely run for short distances and stop. That'll give us a chance to get them."

His first few shots missed, but William was persistent, crouching and sneaking up on the animals with a tenacity Melora had rarely seen. He didn't get frustrated, and he didn't give up. Soon he'd hit one. His face lit with glee as the animal bucked and kicked. They chased it to the edge of the field, the arrow protruding from its back, until it had tired and fallen. William's smile persisted as they finished off and retrieved the animal.

"I have to tell Mom!" he yelled, holding the rabbit in the air.

Melora followed him as he raced across the field where Ella and Bray waited. It wasn't until she'd crossed half the distance that she realized her smile was wide enough to match William's.

Chapter 16:  Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald followed Franklin toward Merchant Street—not the market where farmers sold their vegetables and hunters traded their skinny birds, but the street where the wealthy merchants sold their wares. Father Winthrop had instructed Franklin to take her there, and following General Blackthorn's instructions, get her properly clothed—and no matter what, to have it done by sundown.

Neither Franklin nor Fitz had spoken a word since leaving the temple. Franklin walked ahead and Fitz behind. As much as Fitz wanted Franklin to suffer in the silence of her anger, she knew the opportunity that she perceived while in the temple was something that might be lost if she dallied over her emotions like a teenage girl.

She reached up and laid a hand on Franklin's shoulder

His body went rigid at her touch. He stopped in the middle of his stride but didn't turn back to look at her.

Unnecessarily, she said, "Wait a moment."

He said nothing in response.

"Look at me," she told him.

He shook his head. "I can't."

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm ashamed."

"For what you did to Oliver?"

"Yes."

She reached up again and pulled his shoulder to spin him around to face her.

Franklin complied, but when he turned, all he seemed to want to do was look at his feet.

"Listen to me," she said, "we need to talk."

He nodded.

"As much as it hurts me to say, something is happening, something more important than what happened with Oliver last night."

Franklin looked up, red-eyed and distressed. "What?"

Fitz looked toward the east. "There's a section of town over there, some ruins."

Franklin turned in that direction. "I know the area you're talking about. What of it?"

"We need to go there now," said Fitz. "We need a private place to talk."

Franklin's face lit up, and he gave himself away when his eyes fell to Fitz's breasts.

"Not that," she snapped. "We need to talk."

The place they went to was called the Crooked Box by the children. It had been called that when Fitz was a girl and had probably been called the same thing when her mother played there as a child. It was a strange structure of thick ancient stone, with six sides of varying length, and a thick roof. Each wall had a doorway, roughly a rectangle the size of a man but worn and crumbling on the edges. The Crooked Box stood in the center of a larger slab of mostly flat ancient stone. The children used the place as a make-believe fort, where the ones playing soldier climbed on top, and the ones playing the demons attempted to claw their way up.

When Fitz and Franklin arrived, Fitz shooed away two young boys doing something mischievous. She pulled Franklin inside, then spun around to look through the open doorways, ensuring no unwanted ears were close enough to hear.

Out of three of the doors, she saw other ruins and the backside of a row of houses, all at a distance too far to hear. Opposite that was a field full of brown crops that looked to have been trampled. She knew they hadn't been. They had withered under the weight of the snow that had fallen and mostly melted away. Far across those fields, only the circle wall stood tall in the distance.

"I don't see anyone," Franklin said as he stepped up close to Fitz.

She flinched, turning her cheek to what she thought was a kiss coming her way. She stepped away from arms that were coming up to embrace her and gave Franklin a serious look.

Franklin deflated back into sullenness.

"I don't know what to feel about what you did to Oliver," she told him, her eyes stinging with tears as she remembered Oliver's cries. "In time, I hope we can figure that out."

"How much time?" Franklin asked. "No, it doesn't matter. I feel awful about what happened last night. I'm sure Oliver hates me, and he has every right to. I just wish I could make him understand it was for his own good."

Fitz laughed bitterly. "His own good?" She'd heard that said too many times when a man raised his hand to a child or a woman.

"No," Franklin said, stealing a half step closer. "I didn't mean it like that. Father Winthrop was going to send him to the orphanage, or maybe even the pyre, if I didn't do it." Franklin looked away, shame clear on his face. "He was going to send me to the field. He would have put us both out into the winter to starve."

"You wouldn't have starved," said Fitz.

Nodding, Franklin's voice grew suddenly anxious. "Yes, we would have. What if Minister Beck and Scholar Evan are right? What if famine is coming this winter?" Franklin walked over to the doorway facing the fields. Gray clouds floated across the sky. "The winter will be bad this year. That's what the old people say."

"I didn't know." Fitz shook her head.

"We've talked about the famine before," Franklin said, meekly.

"No," said Fitz. "I didn't know the part about Father Winthrop putting you two out." She started to feel bad. And the pyre? Would Winthrop really have sent Oliver to the pyre for the sin of sneaking out at night and playing in the streets just as all boys his age did? Was Winthrop that cruel? Was he truly that evil?

Fitz admitted to herself that yes, he was.

She'd seen him sit on the dais on every Cleansing day of her life. She'd heard his pious blathering as he condemned women and children to burn. Worst, she'd seen the look on his face as he closed his eyes and turned toward the sky, savoring each shriek as though it was the singing of an angel. Fitz, as a young girl, had always found Winthrop's behavior odd, a bit creepy. It was when she had the misfortune to bring Father Winthrop to his sexual climax that she saw that same face again. It was his face of orgasmic ecstasy.

That horrified her.

Father Winthrop was no human man. He was no unclean demon. He was something else, worse than both. Something wicked, but without a name. He was the truest of evils. He was the monster that masked itself in the blackness of children's dreams. He hid in the shadows of cold root cellars. He lurked in the forest. He was the icy hand that murdered babies in their beds, stealing their breath and leaving them blue-lipped and cold.

To the question of whether Winthrop would burn Oliver at the pyre, the answer was a resounding affirmative. There was no limit to the malevolence of those two yellowish-red eyes that looked out from behind those bulging fat cheeks.

She hated Winthrop as much as she hated The Word.

Involuntarily she snorted to get the memory of the smell of him out of her nose. She spat to get a sudden taste of him out of her mouth.

"Are you okay?" Franklin asked, concerned.

Nodding, Fitzgerald said, "I hate what you did to Oliver, but I understand." Fitzgerald's tears started to flow as she put a hand to her head. "Up here, it makes sense. I can see why you had to do what you did." She put her hand over her heart. "Here, it hurts me too much. It hurts me to think of what you did to poor Oliver. That look on your face as you beat him frightens me. It's as if you had turned into a younger, leaner version of Father Winthrop." Fitzgerald sobbed. "But maybe what hurts the most," she reached out and put a hand on Franklin's cheek, "is that I thought I'd lost the Franklin I care about; that you'd turned into something else. Now I know what you must have been feeling to have to beat your friend like that. It breaks my heart."

Franklin embraced Fitz, not caring if any passersby, playing children, or farmers in the field saw them in the Crooked Box.

Chapter 17:  Fitzgerald

When enough tears had fallen, Fitz pushed the emotions aside and pulled away from Franklin so she could dry her wet cheeks on the sleeve of her dress. "What do you know of what's happening with Father Winthrop and General Blackthorn?"

Franklin's face showed his confusion. "I know a great many things, I suppose."

"The army?" Fitz asked. "You do know that General Blackthorn is calling up the militia, right?"

"I—" Franklin started, "I knew the militia was drilling. I've heard bits and pieces. I suspected some things."

"Do you know why?" She asked.

"To keep order if the food runs out?" Franklin said, his answer clearly a guess.

"General Blackthorn is taking the militia to exterminate a horde of demons in the Ancient City."

Franklin's eyes showed a childish wonder at the mention of the Ancient City. To all children in the three townships, the Ancient City was the place of fairy tales and nightmares. All manner of heroes in the stories went there to slay demons. All manner of horrors befell them. He said, "I didn't know."

Fitz said, "He's taking—"

"Wait," said Franklin, surprised, and a little bit irritated. "He talked about all of that while you were in the temple this morning?"

Fitz nodded. She took a moment to explain about Blackthorn's fixation on her, how he'd leered at her through the whole meeting with Winthrop. Once he'd seated her in the pew, however, they'd treated her as if she were deaf. She told Franklin the highlights of the meeting, and finished with, "I always knew in my heart that Father Winthrop was a coward."

Looking nervously out through the doorways again, Franklin said, "Take care when you say such things. The pyre awaits all who misspeak."

"Do you disagree?" Fitz asked. "You've known him longer than anyone. You've been in his company more than anybody."

Franklin pursed his lips, looked around, and whispered, "He's a foul man. If there truly is a creator of men, then I think that creator took all the worst parts a person could be, rolled them into one man, and called it Winthrop."

Fitz half smiled at Franklin's agreement.

"Just be very careful when you utter such things," said Franklin. Getting back on topic, he said, "Why is it important that General Blackthorn is leaving with the militia?" Franklin shrugged. "That is the way of things, is it not?"

Fitz shook her head. "This time it's different. Mind you, I haven't heard the previous conversation, so I've had to piece together some of the gaps. I believe General Blackthorn is taking the cavalry and an army of militiamen bigger than any previously seen. He's taking an army so large that he wants both Minister Beck and Father Winthrop to accompany him."

Franklin asked, "How can you be sure?"

"I can't be sure of the count, I don't have my numbers," said Fitz, embarrassed. "I only know that when they talked of the men going, they talked as if it might be nearly all the men in the three townships."

"That's not possible," said Franklin, dismissively. "Just not possible."

"Most of them, then," Fitz said, defending her point. "You must admit, though, that Blackthorn intends to create an army of enormous scale. That only makes sense if he's decided to take the whole council with him to watch over the men. And the militiamen are already coming to Brighton from the townships. You can't deny that."

Nodding, Franklin didn't say anything. He looked out through the doors and into the distance.

"What do you think?" Fitz asked. "Does that make sense?"

Franklin nodded again.

"Of one thing I have no doubt," said Fitz.

Franklin turned back to Fitz, giving her his full attention.

"Father Winthrop is afraid to go out beyond the circle wall. He shivers when he talks of getting on a horse and riding beside General Blackthorn."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Franklin.

"Even when General Blackthorn assured him he'd not have to take part in the battles, that he'd remain in the camp to comfort men's souls when they returned from the day's fighting, still Father Winthrop balked. He begged and cried for General Blackthorn to leave him in Brighton."

Franklin smirked. "Father Winthrop should take care with what he says. If a commoner had spoken in that way to General Blackthorn, he'd likely be in the pyre now."

"The threat of the pyre was mentioned," said Fitz. "In the end, I'm afraid Father Winthrop's protests seemed to sway General Blackthorn."

Letting surprise out in his voice, Franklin asked, "He's going to allow Father Winthrop to stay?"

"General Blackthorn allowed that he was going to take time to decide the matter," said Fitz. "Father Winthrop may ride out with the army, or he may remain the last of the three Ministers in Brighton."

Franklin grimaced.

Nodding, Fitz said, "I thought the same."

"Father Winthrop with absolute power," said Franklin. "That would be bad for us all. General Blackthorn is a tyrant, but he's smart. He keeps order. He's consistent. Father Winthrop cannot lead the townships. What would happen if things went badly and General Blackthorn and Minister Beck were killed?"

That was the question that Fitz was leading Franklin to. With what he was already saying, she hoped he'd see the next steps, or at least find within himself the courage to see them.

"If General Blackthorn and Minister Beck get killed out beyond the circle wall," Fitz said, looking around, making sure no one was within sight, "Father Winthrop must be with them. He must suffer the same fate."

Franklin stared at Fitz. His face showed nothing of what he was thinking.

Fitz grew fearful that maybe she'd gone too far, suggesting not only that Father Winthrop might die, but also that he should.

Finally, Franklin nodded and croaked, "I agree."

Fitz wrapped Franklin in her arms and pressed her breasts against his chest while she turned her head to whisper in his ear. "Thank you, Franklin. I was so afraid you wouldn't."

"More than that," said Franklin, whispering back. "Not only do I hope that Father Winthrop goes out with the army, I pray that he doesn't return."

Fitz rubbed her hands over Franklin's shoulders. In her experience, men liked that, the subtle admiration of their strong muscles. It girded their confidence, especially among the young men visiting The House of Barren Women for the first time, full of nervousness to the point they couldn't get aroused. Despite the bluster and dung about strong men with hearts of stone, Fitz knew that those who weren't cruel, the men who'd one day make good husbands, needed their confidence inflated, and once done, that confidence held them up.

She hoped she was helping Franklin with his confidence.

She leaned away from him, but still close enough that they shared the same breaths. Looking into his eyes, she said, "Do you see what we must do?"

Franklin looked back into her eyes, but had no answer.

"I think," she started, "that you and I must do all that we can to ensure Father Winthrop is on a horse beside General Blackthorn on the day the army leaves Brighton for the Ancient City."

Franklin's gaze slipped away. He leaned back and stepped out of the embrace.

Fitz worried.

Franklin started to pace in circles, his eyes shifting about rapidly, his breath quickening.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, not worried by the sudden change. Franklin was getting excited, but trying hard to tamp it down. She knew him well enough to see that. "Tell me."

Franklin stopped in front of her, took her hands in his, and looked into her eyes. Shaking his head, he said, "I don't know if voicing these thoughts makes me as evil as Winthrop, but do you realize what would likely happen if Father Winthrop were to leave?"

Hoping Franklin had the right answer, Fitz said, "Someone would have to take his place in all matters during his absence."

"Me," Franklin said, nodding. "It would make sense to have one of the more senior Fathers from Coventry or Weymouth come to take Father Winthrop's place, which is what would surely happen if he were suddenly to die. But in going, he would be too fearful that one of them might usurp his power and find some way to push him onto the pyre. He'd leave his position to me while he was gone, someone he sees as being too weak to make a political play to oust him."

"And if you are sitting in his place on the council during his absence and he doesn't return? If he dies?" Fitz asked, again hoping Franklin saw the answer she already knew.

"It's not a clear-cut answer, but if I handle political matters correctly, I might be the Bishop when all the maneuvering ends."

"I could help you with those matters," said Fitz. "I understand men in a way you have not yet learned. Together we could make it happen."

Smiling, Franklin said, "Then we would be together, and no one could take you away from me."

"And Brighton would be the better for it," said Fitz. "The people would not suffer with you on the council."

Franklin nodded. "That is what must be done. We must see that Father Winthrop is on that horse."

Chapter 18:  Melora

"We should probably look for a place to camp soon," Bray suggested. "Then we can cook the rabbits."

Melora and the others agreed. Having left the grassy plain behind, they continued into the dense forest. William whistled softly as he walked, proudly carrying the rabbits he and Melora had killed. Ella and Melora strode next to each other.

"Thanks for showing him that," Ella said. "I haven't seen him this happy in a while."

"No problem," Melora said. "It'll take practice, but he has talent with the bow. I can see it."

Ella sighed. "I've protected him too much. He's asked to learn in the past, but I was always reluctant. I should've taught him sooner."

"You should both learn," said Bray. "You need to know this."

Ella agreed. "Can you show me, Melora, the next chance we have?"

"Of course," Melora said.

The hunt had restored some of Melora's energy. For a second, she was able to forget about the nagging pit in her stomach. She brushed off her pants, realizing how dirt-stained she was. The smell of soot and ash were constant reminders of the friend she'd lost. She needed to rid herself of the stench.

"We should find a place to bathe," Ella suggested, noticing her discomfort.

Hearing the request, Bray called over his shoulder. "There's a stream nearby. The water will be cold. I probably won't jump in, but if you'd like to rinse off quick, I can take us there. We should probably fill up our water flasks before camping for the night, anyway."

Melora sighed gratefully. It was good to have someone who knew where they were. There was nothing worse than running through the forest without aim, praying for a place of refuge, spending nights in the trees or staying with strange settlers. Several days of that was enough.

Soon, Bray led them down a gulley, taking them to a rocky bank flanked with bubbling, clear water. He bent down and dipped his hands in, slicking back his hair. His eyes were dark and shadowed. His face was stubbled. He looked as exhausted as the rest of them.

"Why don't you bathe while I keep watch?" he offered.

Ella gave him a suspicious look.

"Don't worry. I'll wait up the bank. I won't look," he assured them. Without further conversation, Bray smoothed his hair away from his face and walked to the top of the gulley. True to his word, he didn't glance back. When he was gone, Ella spoke to William and Melora.

"We'll take turns," she said. "You go first, Melora. William and I will wait."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. You should get the smell of fire off you."

"It's not a natural smell," William said, prompting both Melora and Ella to look at him with questions on their faces. "If we have to hide from the demons, we won't be able to. They'll smell her if they get close."

Melora glanced around the area, convincing herself it was safe. She unslung her bag and set down her weapons. She walked down to the water, submerging her hands. In spite of the cold temperatures, the water calmed her nerves, reminding her of days spent near the Davenport River. She shed her clothes and waded in. The water was cold. Frigid. She watched as the water sluiced away the dirt that seemed to be ingrained on her skin, scrubbing away the remnants of several long, exhausting days.

When she was finished, she donned her clothes and let Ella and William take a turn.

Chapter 19: Franklin

It was late afternoon when Franklin and Fitz walked out of the Crooked Box on their way to find a dress merchant. Fitz was excited. Just days earlier, her life was on the verge of ending on the pyre, her hopes stolen away by Housemother Mary. Now she had a hope of turning her life into more than she ever dreamed.

"How do we do it?" Franklin asked.

Fitz looked at Franklin. "What are you asking?"

"How do we make Father Winthrop go with the army?"

"Either we find some way to convince General Blackthorn to show him no leniency and make him go," said Fitz, "or we find some way to convince Father Winthrop to change his mind and go of his own accord."

Franklin laughed harshly. "We must do one of two impossible things."

Fitz stopped, grabbed Franklin's shoulder, and spun him to face her. "Yesterday morning, if I'd asked if you'd ever beat Oliver bloody, what would your answer have been?"

"That's not the same thing," Franklin argued, shaking his head.

"You would have told me such a thing would never happen," she said definitively. "You would have told me such a thing was impossible."

Franklin looked away. "I didn't want to hurt him."

Fitz grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her, to answer her question.

"I might have said that," he admitted.

"More important than whether you would have said it," she told him, "is whether in your heart you would have believed it to be a possibility. I know how you feel about Oliver. You'd never have seen yourself doing that."

Franklin's shoulder's sagged, and he nodded.

Fitz ran her hands over Franklin's shoulders again. "Don't be disheartened. It was Father Winthrop's evil that made you do something you thought impossible. But some good can come of that evil. You and I both now know that the impossible can be done. If we choose to accept that, then we can find a way to do anything. Your task will be to find a way to convince Father Winthrop to do that which he would not possibly agree. I'll find a way to convince General Blackthorn to force Winthrop to go. If either of us fails, the other will succeed. Believe in yourself, Franklin."

Looking into her eyes, Franklin said, "I'll do it."

Chapter 20: Beck

Beck looked out over the field, which had once been planted with pumpkins. Though the snow had mostly melted away, all of the pumpkins had been caught in it and were further ruined by the freezing temperatures that had been coming each night. There weren't enough hands to get pumpkins out of the fields fast enough. Now acres and acres of them were stomped into the mud, rotting beneath rows and rows and rows of tents, housing thirteen thousand men, twenty-two cohorts, all camped within the closed arcs of the circle wall. All those men were milling about, sleeping, eating, or chasing women now that they were out of the sight of their wives. At least the ones that weren't too tired from drilling for the better part of the day.

Across the foggy field, far from the rows of tents, the cohorts were grouped as far as Beck could see. Each formation of men was a few hundred paces from its neighboring formation. The men in each cohort lined themselves up in silly military rows as sergeants barked orders. Beck snorted. He wondered if Blackthorn's rows held any military value, or if the rows were manifestations of Blackthorn's need to demonstrate control over his men.

The beat of hooves coming up behind him warned Beck of Blackthorn's arrival. He looked over his shoulder, fearing he might be trampled.

Blackthorn, followed by four riders who Beck guessed were his personal guards, pulled on the reins of his horse and slowed the beast to match Beck's pace.

Beck looked up. "Good Morning, General."

"Beck," said Blackthorn.

"Thank you for calling me out to meet in this muddy field so early in the morning." Beck liked to use his sarcasm. He especially liked to use it on General Blackthorn who was oblivious to it. At least, that's what Beck hoped. Though of late, he wondered. Was Blackthorn too much of a dullard to understand the sarcasm, or was he above the pettiness of it? Perhaps he was silently keeping track of each insolent remark and stacking them into a pyre that would one day burn. Beck gulped at the thought, and in the most sincere tone he could manage, he added, "The army appears to be superbly disciplined."

Shaking his head, Blackthorn said, "If only it were so."

"I've never given any thought to military tactics," said Beck, "but I have to wonder about these formations and this enforcement of doing things in unison. What is the purpose?"

"It makes them soldiers," said Blackthorn.

"It is to create a state of mind then?" Beck looked at the nearest of the cohorts. "It makes them believe they are something other than farmers and tradesmen?"

"No." Blackthorn pointed at the formation that Beck was looking at. "You are an educated man, so you know the demons don't have any magical powers. Neither do they have any debilitating handicaps, save for their looks, their stench, and their stupidity. In every other way, they are just like men. They are strong, and they are fast. They wear down just as easily. They bleed the same red blood."

Beck quashed his desire to respond sarcastically to Blackthorn's list of truisms. "I know."

"Nearly every time we go out to fight them, there are more of them than us."

Beck nodded.

"Why do you think we win?"

Beck knew he was being trapped by the conversation, but couldn't see anything but the most obvious of answers. "Horses and weapons? The demons fight on their feet with their hands and teeth, correct?"

"That is true." Blackthorn nodded. "But they have a disadvantage. Although they mass together in mobs and hordes, they fight as individuals. Soldiers, on the other hand, fight as a unit, a group of men coordinated in action and purpose. A unit will defeat nearly any sized mass of warriors. It is a simple military principle."

Beck wasn't convinced. "And the horses and the swords?"

"Two more advantages, each of which will only take a warrior so far toward victory. The key is the unit of soldiers fighting together."

Beck walked on for several paces, getting closer to a cohort that was going through its drills. "So these men, with no horses, but with discipline and weapons, are just as likely to defeat a horde of demons as a squadron of cavalry?"

"No," Blackthorn shook his head. "In equal numbers, with equal training and experience, the cavalrymen would fare better. Mobility has its advantages, and the horse itself, when used properly, is an extension of the man's lethal abilities. Nevertheless, a group of disciplined foot soldiers should be able to defeat a much larger horde of demons."

"Given your great experience and success in military matters, I accept your answer," said Beck, "though it flies in the face of my intuition. It makes me believe that I should have paid much more attention to military tactics and strategies."

"We all have our roles," said Blackthorn. "Let us now discuss your role in greater detail. It has come to my attention that you have been converting certain high-value goods to coin which you then spend on food stores."

Beck was surprised into silence. He almost tripped over his feet, focusing too much on trying to not look guilty. He hadn't constructed a lie to tell when this moment came because he'd never expected it to arrive. Despite all the times that Beck disagreed with the council, despite all the times he'd expressed his anger with veiled but vicious words, it never occurred to him that Blackthorn was bright enough to suspect anything lay behind Beck's charade of loyalty.

Panic rose in Beck's bowels, threatening to shamefully soil his undergarments. Had he underestimated Blackthorn? Was the purchase of the food stores the only of Beck's plans that Blackthorn was aware of?

Please let this be Blackthorn's uncanny luck.

It had to be luck. Right?

Beck had the urge to look up at Blackthorn, but forced himself not to.

Instead, Beck glanced back at the four horsemen following behind. He wondered if he was being escorted to a pyre, one more in a long line of Blackthorn's adversaries, screaming as his burning flesh glowed through the morning fog.

Chapter 21:  Winthrop

The firewood girl finished piling wood near the hearth. She laid some logs on the fire.

"More," Winthrop croaked.

The girl paused for the barest of moments before complying with averted eyes. She reached in and dropped a log on top of the smoldering ones she'd already placed there. She stood up straight.

"Another."

The woman's expression showed a dash of fright as she knelt down to get another piece of wood.

"Stack it full," Winthrop told her, "until the flames pour out and lick the stone."

"But—" The firewood girl caught herself before she said more. Having uttered that one syllable of protest, she shook.

And shiver she should, Winthrop thought. He'd brook no insolence from a woman whose simple-minded lot in life it was to haul twigs and logs from forest to fire.

She stacked quickly, filling the fireplace with wood, and watched as the fire grew to a roar. She stepped away from the flames.

When the blaze filled the fireplace, pouring out to blacken the stone face, Winthrop shooed the girl with a gesture, and said, "If you delay in your return so long that my fire burns down to embers again, it'll be your flesh that stokes it next time."

The girl nodded, suppressing her sobs and running out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Winthrop sat in his chair, staring at the raging fire, not caring that it was morning. Not caring about a great many things.

He'd been alone in the room since General Blackthorn had left him sitting in a pew in his own temple. In fact, he'd spent nearly the entire time in the chair, catatonic with a fear that seemed to crawl across the shadows on the wall and reach out from beneath the bed to grab at his ankles.

Though he'd originally loved the dark, secure, windowless room, a place where he felt safe deep in the bowels of the temple, now he couldn't help but wonder if he shared the room with spirits of the dead. He envisioned their dirt-seeped ashes reconstituting themselves into shadow wraiths hungry to satisfy their vengeance by digging their bony fingers into his flesh.

Among the creepers on the wall were the dying wails of Jenny.

Her spirit had been coming more and more lately. Sometimes flowing in a sticky shadow across the wall, sometimes only as a baleful, disembodied voice that cried its pain in ear-piercing shrieks followed by gurgles of blood and breath seeping from a severed neck.

Only the brightly blazing fire seemed to do anything to keep the apparitions at bay.

Chapter 22: Beck

"I wish to ensure the preservation of the Academy," Beck blurted out, his words tripping over one another as his freshly-inspired lie rushed out to save his life. "The Academy discovered the coming famine. As much as the council believes it to be a luxury in our society, the Academy proves its worth again and again. This time, it may have proven itself by saving humanity from extinction."

There. Beck had tossed out the lie. He hoped there were enough distracting addendums to turn Blackthorn's mind away from any flames that might be in Beck's immediate future. Of course, the hope that his lie would work was predicated on the assumption that Blackthorn was the stupider of the two.

Beck's faith in that axiom stood on shaky ground at the moment.

Beck scanned across the foggy fields, looking for a pile of wood with a pole standing out of its center.

"If all die of starvation except for your scholars," asked Blackthorn, "how will you survive? There will be no farmers to grow more food. No more hunters to bring animals from the forest. No more gatherers to bring roots and berries. There will be no soldiers to defend the walls. There will only be weak-bodied scholars pretending to learn things from ancient books they do not understand."

"I..." Beck was at a loss for the next lie because, in his mind, he was in agreement with Blackthorn's line of reasoning, but not the conclusion. "The Academy will share what it has if necessity requires it," lied Beck. "We don't intend to make gluttons of ourselves. We intend to eat small rations, enough to keep us alive until plentiful harvests return."

"I see," Blackthorn said.

Beck looked again for the pyre.

"Allow me to ask one more question on this matter," said Blackthorn. "What happens on that day when the starving farmer is at your door, and you have to make that choice between filling your belly and filling his? Will the nobility of your choice remain, or will you then rationalize your way to self-preservation?"

Beck wanted to blurt out the next lie, that indeed the food would be shared, but he knew the truth of it as surely as did Blackthorn. He said nothing in response.

After a moment, Blackthorn, said, "Thank you for not lying about that. I would have lost the last of my respect for you."

The last of my respect?

Beck suspected the next thing Blackthorn said would be an order to bind him and haul him off. He looked around for a place to run. Nothing. He was out in the fields between the town and the circle wall. No place to hide was nearly close enough. With the horsemen behind, he had no hope of winning a race back into town, and the wall was much too far. Even if a miracle floated him magically over the wall and into the forest, what would come next? The same fate.

"Whatever you do with your hoard of food, it matters not to me," said Blackthorn, "until you and I return from our expedition. We shall see what happens at that time. In the meantime, I want to assure you that you will be going with the expedition."

"Yes," Beck squeaked out through a tight throat. Suddenly, the expedition seemed like salvation.

Blackthorn tugged his reins, and his horse stopped. Blackthorn wheeled it around so that he could look at Beck without turning his head. "Father Winthrop is weak. Despite my attempts to coerce him, I believe he lacks the fortitude to put himself onto a horse when the appointed day arrives. I believe he will fall to the ground and cry like a woman in front of the whole of the army and cavalry. As much as I would enjoy having every man, woman, and child see through the façade of his brave piety, I cannot allow him to debilitate the morale of the army. That is the whole purpose of bringing the ministers along."

Beck considered pleading for permission to stay. If Winthrop could cry and act his way out of it, why not Beck?

Blackthorn tilted his head toward the four riders. "Of Winthrop, I expect such behavior. From you, should you have any ideas that don't coincide with mine on this matter, those four men will accompany you in all you do until the day the army marches out of Brighton."

"But…" Beck looked back at the riders. No. He didn't want this at all.

"They will shore up your courage."

"I am a minister on the council," said Beck, puffing himself up with authority. "Am I to lose my privacy? Am I to become a walking prisoner?"

"Call it what you wish," said Blackthorn. "The men will not enter the Academy. They will wait at the door, or when it freezes at night, they will wait inside your dining hall. Surely, they will be of no bother to you there."

Beck wanted to argue. He wanted to win his point with an eloquent protest. Mostly, though, he wanted to keep himself off the pyre pole. He'd have to find a way to work with the problem these four guards represented. He looked up at Blackthorn. "I thank you for the service of providing four guards to protect my courage."

Blackthorn nodded and said nothing else as he wheeled his horse around to gallop toward one of the drilling cohorts.

Chapter 23: Franklin

With a tray in one hand holding a plate of eggs, smoked pork, and bread, Franklin knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect on the other side. Father Winthrop had locked himself in his room. The fire girl said he was distressed and seemed to be mumbling to or looking at other people in the room. "Who?" Franklin had asked her. She explained that the room was empty all night. What's more, it appeared the Father Winthrop had not gone to bed but had stayed in his chair the entire night.

Franklin asked the girl if Father Winthrop had taken ill. She said she'd not seen any evidence of that in his chamber pot. He asked if Winthrop was drunk. She said he'd been drinking wine most of the prior day and through a good part of the night, but not so much that a man of his size would lose his senses.

Franklin knocked again, anxiously waiting for a reply.

Putting his ear to the door's thick wood, he listened, hoping to hear Winthrop's rhythmic snore. He didn't. What he did hear was the sound of something moving inside, not constantly, just occasionally—the sound of the big man shifting in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position in which to settle his plump rolls of flesh.

Winthrop had to be awake.

Franklin knew he needed to go inside.

He steeled his nerves and thought about Fitz, which, of course, made his heart ache with longing, though he'd seen her in the kitchen before leaving there with the tray in hand. He thought about all the things the two of them were planning together. He thought about the goal.

He had to open the door.

Franklin turned the handle and pushed the heavy wood inward.

Humid, hot air laced with Winthrop's unwashed stink engulfed Franklin and flowed up his nostrils and down his throat, leaving a taste of sweat, smoke, and chamber pot residue. Franklin cringed.

Winthrop, without turning away from the fire, said, "Not now, girl. Go."

Franklin reluctantly stepped inside and closed the door behind.

The plate rattled on the tray as Franklin took a step forward.

"I told you to—" Winthrop cut himself off. He looked around with bloodshot eyes and a vicious scowl, ready to berate.

In a placating tone, Franklin said, "I'm worried for you, Father. I brought you breakfast."

Winthrop waved Franklin away and turned back to the fire.

Franklin took another step forward, deciding to risk what might come next, and marched over to plant himself in front of Winthrop's chair.

Winthrop's breathing demonstrated his agitation, but he said nothing.

"The lesson you taught me with Oliver was exactly the lesson I needed to learn," Franklin announced, hoping Winthrop wouldn't see through the obvious lie. "I know I need to be strong enough to suffer through the actions required by correct decisions."

Winthrop eyed Franklin suspiciously.

"You've put yourself under too much stress trying to teach me and foolish Oliver because you care too much about turning us into carriers of The Word." Franklin looked down at the food and sniffed, trying to draw Winthrop's attention away from the lies he was making up. "Now your health is in jeopardy. You must eat something, or you'll fall ill."

Winthrop's eyes fell away from Franklin and settled on the tray.

"Eggs," said Franklin. "Fresh from the market. A big helping of smoked pork, and that bread baked by Widow Stein with that crust you like. It's still warm. I just came from the kitchen."

"It is morning, then?" Winthrop asked.

"Late," said Franklin. "Almost noon."

Winthrop subtly nodded toward his lap, and Franklin understood that as an instruction to set the tray there.

"Careful," said Franklin as he let go the tray. "Would you like a drink, as well?"

Winthrop cocked his head toward a line of wine bottles at the foot of the bed. "Fill my cup."

Franklin did as instructed, filling from a bottle that had been sitting open. He set the cup on Winthrop's tray and stepped back.

"You intend to watch me eat?" Winthrop asked, irritation seething in his voice as he stabbed his food with his fork.

"Some things occurred to me this morning at the market that I don't fully understand, and I was hoping you could enlighten me with your wisdom." Franklin hoped he wasn't overplaying the falsehood and flattery. But with Winthrop, was there any limit to false praise?

Winthrop nodded as he shoveled a mouthful of drippy egg yolks in past his words. "I have my doubts that anyone can appreciate the wisdom of all my years."

"I wish to try," said Franklin.

Winthrop stopped chewing, and his hands stopped manipulating the next bite onto the fork. "I have no desire to waste my morning talking the finer points of market vegetables and rotting rabbits."

"Oh, no," said Franklin, shaking his head vigorously. "I spoke with some people from Coventry at the market. They asked me about Father Nelson and his story of Lady and Bruce."

That caught Winthrop's attention. "People from Coventry? So it has begun. Blackthorn with his folly."

"Folly?" Franklin asked, though he suspected Winthrop was referencing something to do with the expedition.

Winthrop shook his head, gestured vaguely at nothing, and then took a big gulp of his wine. "Put another log on that fire, boy."

Franklin did.

Winthrop heaved a labored sigh. "What did these people say about Father Nelson that has unearthed curiosity in your inbred mind?"

"That story that Father Nelson told us about his adventure into the mountains to find the origins of the Lady and Bruce," said Franklin. "These people from Coventry overheard that I was your Novice and pulled me aside to ask questions."

"What sorts of questions?" Winthrop asked, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

"They admired Father Nelson very much," said Franklin. "They asked me if his story was true, and of course, I said that it was. When I confirmed his story, it was as if his esteem among them grew to godly proportions. They seemed to believe that he was the bravest, most devout of all the clergymen."

"All?" Winthrop asked, clearly baiting Franklin into a scolding.

Franklin didn't take the bait. The trap was of his making. He faked a stammer and said, "Except you, of course. That goes without saying, does it not? No man knows The Word better than you. No clergyman has the devotion of the people as closely to his heart as you."

Nodding, but still irritated, Winthrop crammed a greasy chunk of meat into his mouth. "Of course."

"I can understand why Father Nelson found it necessary to go on the journey," said Franklin.

"Do you?" Winthrop asked skeptically, without looking up from his plate.

"I apologize for saying this, but I think I also understand why he feels the need to tell the story of it so readily to anyone with an ear."

"That he does," Winthrop grumbled.

"Any clergyman," said Franklin, "having to stand in the glow of your devotion to The Word must, like any regular man, feel perhaps jealous, less worthy—"

Winthrop's head snapped up, and his face showed rising anger.

Before opening the door to Winthrop's chamber, Franklin had decided he had to say what he had to say. He wished he were eloquent enough, imaginative enough, to have thought of a better way to say it. "—and might feel the need to make himself less invisible. I think the story helps salve the weakness in Father Nelson that causes him to do so."

Winthrop didn't say anything for a moment. Neither did he look away. Franklin grew nervous. Having gambled on speaking badly of one of the other Fathers, he'd in a way elevated his own status. As Fitz had explained it to him, by devaluing Father Nelson, he'd shove himself one step closer to being seen by Winthrop as a kind of peer Winthrop could confide in.

He hoped.

Finally, Winthrop said, "Yes. You may be right about that."

Shaking his head again, Franklin said, "I don't mean to imply that Father Nelson is a bad man. I say these things because I know he is a man who strives to be as devout as you. All men are subject to the temptations that befall them."

Winthrop nodded.

"All of us must also accept the limitations of who we are," said Franklin.

"Meaning?" Winthrop asked, anger growing in his voice again.

Trying to tamp down that anger, Franklin said, "I speak for myself, mostly. I know I lack in many ways. I suspect the other clergymen feel the same. Perhaps we all cannot help but feel that as we stand in the light of your devotion. What I'm saying is, I wonder if someone as average as myself is to rise to the level of my aspirations, to one day be as devout as you, to one day be loved by the people as you are, I wonder if I should embark on some expedition outside the circle wall."

Winthrop cringed. "Only demons and fools go beyond the circle wall."

Pretending meekness at admitting his own failings, Franklin said, "Or those who wish one day, perhaps far in the future, to follow in your footsteps. How else is the average among us supposed to raise himself closer to divinity?"

Winthrop harrumphed. "None of that matters."

"I don't disagree," said Franklin. "None of it matters to one such as yourself whose staunch devotion is enough for any thinking man to appreciate. For many of the pig chasers and dirt scratchers, the ignorant ones—"

"Most of them are ignorant," Winthrop interjected.

"—are unable to fully appreciate devotion for what it is. For them, the expedition and the bravery of Father Nelson are what they see, what they appreciate. It is regrettable, but in that way, some of them see the two of you as equals."

"Sheep dung!" roared Winthrop.

"My apologies, Father," said Franklin, quickly. "I do not mean to imply that any learned man believes that. Just the ignorant ones."

"I tire of this talk," Winthrop told Franklin. "Is there a question here? Did you not say you had questions?"

"Yes." Franklin shuffled around nervously, not all of it fake. He pretended to gather his courage. "Being average at best—"

Winthrop said, "You are nothing special, that is for sure, but you are so much more than the average, even among the clergy."

"—I ask you if I should embark on such an expedition."

Chapter 24: Beck

"This is the place I was telling you about," said Evan.

Beck looked at the remains of the old structure. The walls were mostly intact. The door and windows were nothing but holes of roughly rectangular shapes. The roof had rotted away a few centuries ago. Even the floor was mostly covered with a layer of dirt and grown in with hundreds of season's worth of weeds and wildflowers.

Beck said, "But it doesn't have a roof. None of these buildings do. What will we do with them?"

"The militia…" said Evan, looking cryptically into the gray sky.

Beck shrugged and wondered why Evan so often assumed others were privy to the conversations going on in his head. "I'm not making the connection between the militia drilling out in the fields and the roofs we don't have."

"General Blackthorn is drilling those men hard, but he doesn't drill them all day," said Evan. "Most have extra time."

"And?" Beck asked, getting impatient. He truly hated when Evan got into one of his less socially tolerable savant modes.

"We can hire those men. They need the coin for drink or to give to their families. The men will build the roofs for us."

Nodding and smiling, Beck said, "Yes, there are plenty of them around without a lot to do when they aren't drilling. How many of these ruined structures on this street can be used?"

"Seven to ten," said Evan, "each facing this alley on one side and backing up to the fields on the other. They'll make perfect barns."

Beck looked up and down the height of the walls. "Tall enough for horses."

"Absolutely," said Evan. "I've measured them all. Even with flat roofs, we'll be fine."

"Flat roofs will be the easiest and quickest to construct, correct?"

"Yes."

"So," said Beck, "We offer to store and care for their animals, especially their horses, while the army is killing demons in the Ancient City. We offer this service at an attractively small price, and we get all the animals we need."

"Yes," Evan agreed.

Beck walked over and laid a hand on one of the walls. "The farmers think these places are haunted because they've all heard stories of them collapsing on somebody's grandparents. They think the ghosts of the Ancients do that." Beck shook his head at the stupidity of it. "It's just that they're old and that eventually happens to all of these old walls."

"Just because they won't live in these places doesn't mean they'll care if their horses do."

Beck nodded and stepped away from the wall as he surveyed the remains of the old building.

"Whichever plan we finalize on," said Evan, "whether it be escaping west with a band of survivors we select, or overthrowing the government here and using these animals to feed ourselves, we'll have the animals we need."

"And the owners of the animals will never return," said Beck.

"You believe that to be true?" Evan asked.

"We've both suspected it from the very beginning," said Beck. "All my doubts are now gone. Blackthorn is smarter than I have long suspected he was. I have no doubt about his ruthlessness. I think he intends to exterminate the excess population while at the same time slaughtering as many demons as possible."

"Will you be able to avoid riding out with the army?" Evan asked. "That doesn't sound like a safe expedition for anyone."

"You've seen my escort," said Beck, referring to Blackthorn's four men waiting out in the alley. "They're to ensure that between now and the moment the army rides out, with me on a horse among them, that I don't have the chance to change my mind."

"What will you do?" Evan asked. "How will you get back here?"

Beck shrugged and smiled. "Blackthorn is a wily one, but he and his blue-shirted dunces are still no intellectual match for me. I'll take along a handful of strong young scholars who can handle themselves outside the wall. When the time presents itself as we're out on Blackthorn's folly, we'll make our escape and return to Brighton. Then we'll execute our plan. We'll take control and rule these towns as they should have been ruled all along. Famine, thanks to Blackthorn, will be a solved problem for us. So, no need for us to head west to avoid it."

"Much danger awaits outside the circle wall," said Evan.

"Every path is fraught with danger," said Beck. "We accepted the risks when we made our choices at the start of this."

Evan nodded.

"How is your recruitment effort going?" Beck asked.

"Aside from Oliver's sudden absence, it goes well."

"Does Oliver worry you?"

Evan rubbed his chin, and he spent a moment thinking about it. "I don't worry as to whether Oliver has given us up. I'm worried about him. I'm afraid something may have happened to him."

"You should stop by the temple to check," said Beck. "What of the recruitment?"

"It goes quickly," said Evan with a confident smile. "Your intuition on the Dunlows was correct. They do despise Blackthorn for all the mistreatment he has heaped upon their family. They also are in contact with a network of the disgruntled. We have tapped into that, and in a flash, we now have nearly fifty men who will raise their swords to overthrow Blackthorn."

"Even with the army gone," said Beck, "fifty will not be enough."

"We have perhaps another hundred that we know of who might join in."

Nodding and getting hopeful, Beck said, "That may be enough to cut the head off the snake that Blackthorn leaves in his place. As for the cavalry and militia that he leaves behind, we may not need to fight with them face-to-face. If we give them enough of the story about Blackthorn's choice to exterminate so many men at the hands of the demons, they will all come over to our side. That way, when Blackthorn returns with what's left of his precious cavalry, we will either be able to repel them or convince them as well to join us. Then we'll see Blackthorn on the pyre, and a new age of intellectual enlightenment will be born in the three townships."

Chapter 25: Bray

Bray studied his dirt-encrusted nails as he warmed his hands near the last embers of the dying morning campfire. His arms were streaked brown. His body had the familiar odor of someone who had been on the move for too long. He was used to the dirt and grime, but he should've jumped into the stream the night before with the others.

He held his nose from the stench of sweat and rabbit innards.

"I stink," he muttered.

He studied Ella's sleeping form by the campfire. Her face seemed to glisten in the emerging sunlight. William and Melora lay asleep next to her. The bath she'd taken seemed to have unpeeled a new woman, one who looked both beautiful and out of place in the overgrown wild. Her devotion to her children seemed to have only deepened through the course of their time together.

Though he'd grown unintentionally fond of her, he was getting the familiar itch of freedom.

Besides, she reminded him of a woman he hadn't seen in too long.

He needed time away. After days of companionship, he was mentally exhausted. His jaw was tired from chatter. His mind tired from the constant explanation of the wild's rules. The bushes and the trees didn't argue with his decisions. They didn't question his every move.

Flexing his fingers and cracking his neck, he stood and looked out over the tops of the trees. Light seeped through the foliage, giving him an early morning greeting. They were on an eastern course for the Ancient City. Coventry was a short trek north. He considered the pile of skins he had in his pack—enough to buy decent food if he received a fair price for them.

Definitely enough to purchase a few cups of ale, before visiting one of the finer women in the local House.

Maybe he'd even bring back supplies if he were feeling charitable. He collected his gear quietly, keeping a watchful eye on his sleeping companions. Melora rested with her bow near her head. Ella's sword was within easy reach. They were learning.

They'd survive just fine without him. He hoped.

The rustle of clothing interrupted his thoughts. Ella sat up, rubbing her eyes. She opened them. Observing Bray's posture, she whispered, "You're leaving."

"I was thinking about it." Bray shifted the pack on his back. He grunted. He wasn't easily guilted, but he felt a pinprick of shame.

"Where are you going?"

"To Coventry. I was thinking about getting some food. Trading in the scalps I have in my bag." He motioned toward the charred bones by the fire. "We could use a break from rabbits."

Ella studied him with an expression of distrust. "How far away is it?"

"Only a few miles."

"Were you going to leave without telling us?" Ella asked, though her face said she already knew the answer.

Bray grinned. "Would you miss me if I did?"

Ella scowled. "If you're going to leave, at least have the decency to tell me now, so we don't wait around for you."

Bray's gaze wandered to the figures beside her. Melora slept peacefully. William also looked peaceful, but Bray hadn't forgotten the violence the boy had engaged in. Bray pictured the boy hovered over Theodore Marks in the forest, stabbing and screaming. Then he pictured him looming over Ella. Bray's mistrust made him hesitant to leave them for too long.

"Don't worry, I'll be back," he said.

Without another word, he trekked into the forest.

Chapter 26: Oliver

Oliver's mind was made up. Now that Franklin had turned on him, he wasn't going to stay in the temple under Father Winthrop's brutish tutelage. He was going over the wall. He'd find one of the unsanctioned villages and live with people who were free from continual abuse. He knew being out in the winter was dangerous. He knew he'd have trouble with food. He knew he'd have trouble getting a weapon. He'd even have trouble getting a cloak warm enough to protect him from those freezing nights when he had no roof over his head.

The solution to those problems, he realized, was coin.

That was something he knew how to get.

That was the focus of his fantasies every night when his thoughts wandered before he went to sleep.

Oliver had a plan.

Franklin was gone. General Blackthorn was in the temple scolding Winthrop, which seemed to have become a daily routine. Oliver laughed at the pointlessness of it all. General Blackthorn was wasting his time trying to find anything but a cowardly bully inside Winthrop's flowing, womanly robe.

Nothing would ever be resolved. General Blackthorn was a stone wall, used to yielding to nothing. Father Winthrop was a spoiled merchant's little fat kid. He'd cry and snivel and beg to get his way. Neither would surrender.

Oliver snuck through the narrow servants' hall behind the Temple Sanctuary, walking slowly in the dim light to keep from making any noise that might be heard through the wall where General Blackthorn scolded Father Winthrop.

Once in the main hall, Oliver ran on light feet. He stopped at Father Winthrop's door, listening to the voices in the Sanctuary.

Still talking.

Oliver thought about the risk he was taking. He thought about the consequences, but he was tired of fearing things he could do nothing to forestall. He'd thought it all through a thousand times. He'd already made his choice. He wasn't going to get whipped again. He was going to risk all to avoid it.

In he went, closing the door quietly behind him.

The smell of the unwashed chamber pot overpowered Winthrop's usual stink. The room was uncomfortably warm. The fire burned vigorously in the hearth.

Oliver already knew what he was after: the box of ancient cross-shaped relics under the bed.

He bounded over to the side of the bed, the place where he'd spotted the box before.

Franklin had told him the story of how Fitz had come to be in the temple. As soon as Oliver heard about the box, he knew exactly the one Franklin was talking about. He knew where it sat. He could describe it in some detail, having seen it on a hundred occasions, and having looked at it with the hungry curiosity of a boy his age. Thanks to Franklin, he now knew the box contained relics, all wrought from expensive metals and jewels.

Getting down to his knees, Oliver looked beneath the bed where the box usually sat.

But the box was gone.

Oh, no.

It didn't take a brilliant man to deduce that after Fitz had attempted to steal one of his priceless trinkets, Winthrop had moved the box.

Oliver jumped to his feet and looked around, knowing that a moment of thought would save him long minutes of searching.

Oliver was smarter than Winthrop. In all the ways that counted, anyway. Sure, Father Winthrop knew plenty of trivial facts about The Word, about life, and about the history of the people. But that was only because he was an old man who'd been around long enough to see lots of things happen. In time, Oliver would learn all that Father Winthrop knew. In Oliver's mind, that was a given.

Anything Winthrop could do, Oliver could do more easily.

The cabinet of old trinkets. That was the obvious place to hide the special box.

The cabinet stood half again taller than Oliver, fashioned by the hands of the Ancients in those peculiarly straight smooth boards. This particular cabinet was plain, except for the places where time had cracked and discolored the wood. It had two shelves open for viewing and another two on the bottom hidden behind two small doors. Given the old trinkets of inexplicable utility on the shelves, the most logically obvious place for Father Winthrop's box of cross relics was on one of the shelves behind the doors.

Oliver rushed over to the cabinet and yanked the door handles. The cabinet wobbled on uneven feet. Some of the trinkets swayed. Some fell over. Others jingled.

Oliver hissed a few swear words as he threw his hand to the edges to hold the old thing steady. He wasn't afraid it would fall, but he did fear that something might tumble off a shelf and break. That'd make enough noise to bring Father Winthrop harrumphing down the hall to protect his useless baubles.

With the cabinet stabilized, Oliver stepped back to look at the old things on the shelves. With some, he couldn't tell whether they'd fallen over or were standing upright. Most were already broken—at least, that was Oliver's guess. One was obviously some kind of cup, made from some odd, lightweight material, but a good portion of it was gone. That one was easy enough. About others, he could only make a wild guess.

Oliver straightened the objects on the shelves, hoping he'd arranged them correctly. He took a moment to listen between nervous breaths for the muffled echo of General Blackthorn's voice out in the Sanctuary.

Satisfied that he was still safe, Oliver gently tugged on both of the cabinet doors. They moved, but didn't open. He immediately realized why. Oliver stood up and slowly shook his head as he appraised the lock. Sure, he'd seen locks on doors before, but just like this cabinet, they were rare. Rarer still were locks that functioned.

He wondered if maybe the lock was just stuck. After all, it was hundreds of years old. Oliver knelt down and tugged at the doors, peeking at the mechanism holding the doors together to see if he could tell how it worked.

Unfortunately, it appeared to be actually locked. That meant there was a key, somewhere.

Would Father Winthrop keep the key on his person?

No, Oliver didn't think so. To do that would be to risk losing it. Even the key had value just for the fact that it was made of metal, the sort of metal that hadn't rusted away to nothingness after all these years.

Oliver looked around the room again.

He hurried over to the bed and looked under the pillows, thinking that he sometimes hid stolen crusts of bread under his own pillow for eating late in the night after Franklin was asleep.

Sadly, no key lay under either pillow.

Oliver looked quickly around as his heart started to race. He'd been in the room too long. He'd planned to be in and out in a flash. Now he was lingering and searching.

He thought about abandoning the plan and coming back later. But when? He was seldom alone. Father Winthrop spent most of his time in his room these days.

Opportunities like this were few.

Oliver took a slow breath to calm himself. He looked around.

The fireplace? Maybe up on the mantle.

Oliver hurried over. The shelf was above the level of his eyes so he dragged his hand along the top edge, feeling for anything that might be a key.

He started on the left end and almost made it to the other, losing hope with each passing stone, when his fingers bumped something small and cold that jingled quietly over the stone. Oliver spread his fingers to capture it and pull it down.

The key.

Oliver's heart raced with excitement instead of panic. He hurried back across the room to the cabinet, kneeling down by the lock.

He slipped the key in, not sure how exactly it operated. He jiggled. Nothing. He pushed, he pulled. Nothing seemed to work. He tried to turn it left, and then right.

The ancient pieces of metal slid across each other, conveying the feel of corroded surfaces rubbing out of the lock and up the length of the small key. The lock clicked.

Oliver swung the doors open. There, sitting by other old pieces of refuse, was the box. Oliver stifled a giggle as he reached in, lifted the lid, and peered inside.

The sparkly little cross relics were more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen, prettier than any description Franklin had provided.

Suddenly aware that he'd stopped breathing, Oliver gulped a big breath.

Oliver reached into the box, wanting to fondle each piece, but knowing time was short. He didn't need to pick a favorite. To him, these were things to be traded for freedom. Any would do. Three would be perfect, or so he guessed as he looked at them. That number wouldn't be missed. One would get him enough coin for things he might need for traveling and surviving, including a weapon. One for bribing any guards he encountered that might stop him. One for bribing his way into his new home, wherever that turned out to be.

He grabbed some crosses, jiggled the others around in the box to make them appear to be evenly spread, closed the lid, and shut the cabinet doors. He jammed the key into the lock, trying to reverse what he'd done to get the thing unlocked, but it seemed to fight him in the attempt. Losing his patience, he yanked and turned, and suddenly the lock seemed to catch.

He jumped back to his feet, hustled across the room, put the key back where he'd found it, and heard Winthrop's heavy wheeze out in the hall. Oliver's brain went white with panic.

The handle on the door to Winthrop's chamber creaked.

Chapter 27: Bray

The bitter air seemed several degrees warmer as Bray journeyed away from the campsite. Or maybe it was just the freedom of being away from the others. Bray adjusted his pack on his shoulders and increased his pace. The feeling of being unburdened—of not having to slow down—was a feeling he could get reacquainted with. He contended with rocks, roots, and stones with ease. He wove around trees and through snow while keeping alert for danger.

The time passed quickly. He barely had time to think about the woman he was going to see before he was within sight of the township.

It had been almost a month since he'd visited Samantha. The image of her red hair and fervent green eyes had kept him company through several cold, rainy nights in the wild. Along with her husband, Conrad, Samantha ran one of the more widely-known pubs in Coventry. But Bray hadn't found that out right away. She'd only recently gotten married, and he'd never laid eyes on her before meeting her in the bar.

After a particularly gruesome encounter with a pack of demons a year ago, Bray had stopped at the pub, intending on having a celebratory drink. While ordering a flagon of snowberry, he'd found himself increasingly enamored by the woman serving him. Her smooth, pale skin and auburn hair had distracted him from his aches and pains.

He'd ended up in the back room with her. It was only later that he'd found out her name was Samantha, and that her husband was one of the wealthiest merchants in town. She'd sworn him to silence, fearing she'd be killed or put to the pyre. Bray had kept his word, on the condition she lay with him whenever he came through.

She reluctantly—or happily, as he boasted to himself later—agreed.

He smiled as he charged through the forest, allowing the memory to inspire him. The forest flattened and thinned. The frequent paths of travelers had worn the ground to dirt. He joined a well-trodden path, grateful that he didn't have to think for once.

The outskirts of town looked the same as always. Crumbling, half-demolished buildings lined the township's edges, creating natural reinforcement for the circle wall. Because it was a secondary township, Coventry wasn't as well-maintained as Brighton. The town leaders often hired workers off the street to reinforce the wall, street dwellers that might otherwise turn to thievery.

And there were plenty of those.

Due to its distance from Brighton, Coventry was less strict than the mother township, and had become a den for those who might otherwise be in the wild, bandits who followed the rules just enough to avoid punishment.

Fear of The Word and The Cleansing held it together.

Outside the town's front gate, several soldiers stood guard, watching Bray approach. One soldier shielded his eyes from the sun. The other tilted his head back, sipping from a flask. Bray eyed them with disdain. When he was younger, he'd given a passing thought to joining them, enjoying the benefits of a stable home and a family. But his disdain for boredom swayed him. Although they were well provided for by General Blackthorn, he couldn't imagine a stationary life, passing time between demon attacks.

The soldiers might as well be chained to the gate.

To the right of the soldiers, several street dwellers lugged rocks from a nearby pile, filling in crevices in the wall. Their faces were sunburnt from constant exposure, their clothes ripped and hanging off them. They watched Bray with interest, hoping he might provide a cure for their boredom.

Bray walked with his hands at his sides, his sword scabbarded. The soldier with the flask greeted him by spitting a wad of phlegm. The snot landed near Bray's boots. He bristled.

"Back already, Warden?"

Biting his tongue, Bray said, "Yep. Here to trade in my take."

"You hear that?" the soldier said to the other, grinning. "He's here on business."

The second soldier laughed. "I doubt that. I think he's here for the woodland squirrel. It must get lonely out in the forest, with no one but your hands to keep you company."

"Better than standing out in the sun, touching each other." Bray grinned back.

The soldiers stopped snickering and glared at him. Bray flexed his fingers, prepared to unsheath his blade. At the same time, he knew better than to start a battle outside the town gates. After a tense moment, the soldier with the flask took a long drink, then walked lazily to the gate. Bray stared at the second soldier until the man looked away, then followed the other.

When the soldier had opened the gate, Bray strolled past him.

"At least you got your day's exercise," he muttered to the scowling soldier.

The soldier stared at him with angry eyes. Bray kept walking.

The street dwellers watched in amusement, holding their stones, and then looked away nervously, propping them in place. Bray kept an eye on the soldiers until he was safely through the gates, walking into the dusty, rubble-strewn road that ran into town.

"Have a great day, gentleman," he called over his shoulder. "Don't strain yourselves keeping watch."

He ignored the string of curses that followed his remark.

Chapter 28: Oliver

Handling three priceless relics that would surely put him on the pyre, Oliver panicked as he thought of what he could do. He went with his first thought—there was time for nothing else—and all but flew across the room to the brimming chamber pot. As the door swung open on its old hinges, Oliver dropped the relics into the urine and runny feces. He grabbed the pot and lifted it all in one motion.

As he turned, he took no care to keep it steady. With the relics lying at the bottom of the pot and a hope floating up out of the stink, a new inspiration sparkled in Oliver's imagination. One foul act might save him. He purposely swung the pot around too quickly, sloshing it out onto his hand and clothes, doing his best to exaggerate his surprise as he looked at Winthrop towering in the door.

Winthrop saw his waste slosh out onto Oliver, and he grimaced.

"Emptying your chamber pot," Oliver said, in too much of a rush.

"Why?" Winthrop barked.

"I'm trying to learn, Father. It is part of my usual punishment. You didn't tell me to do it this time, but I anticipated that you would."

Winthrop nodded, his face painted in a thick layer of skepticism. "Perhaps you are not lost."

A creaking sound off to Oliver's left turned Father Winthrop's head in that direction.

Oliver ignored the sound as his panic started to rise all over again.

Please don't let it be the cabinet door.

Winthrop's face turned to storm clouds. He snorted in rage and ground his teeth.

Still afraid to look, Oliver knew.

It was that damn cabinet door.

Oliver fixed his eyes on Winthrop's bedchamber door, still open.

Think!

Throw the chamber pot on Winthrop and run for your life.

That's the only choice.

Winthrop's giant hand locked on Oliver's arm. "You little thief."

Oliver nearly wet himself with fright.

He looked up, putting his best innocent expression on his face. The pain on his back, butt, and legs was still fresh, still stinging. Tears slid down his cheeks. Stuttering between stifled sobs, Oliver said, "I only have the chamber pot."

"You insolent runt." Winthrop all but flung Oliver farther into the room.

Doing his best to keep the pot in his hands, Oliver fell against the wall. The pot sloshed down his front.

Seemingly oblivious to the stench, Winthrop leaned over, put his big nose just inches from Oliver's and said, "You'll suffer. The fire will be made of smoldering green wood. It'll take you hours to Cleanse. You'll cry and you'll wail."

Oliver shook his head as he tried to mouth some words in his defense.

Winthrop stabbed a finger into Oliver's chest and commanded, "Stay."

Oliver did.

He was too frightened to do anything else at the moment.

Winthrop turned, walked back to the bedchamber door, and slammed it shut. He turned and glared at Oliver for a moment while he thought. He walked over to the fireplace, reached up to the spot where the key lay, and picked it up. He looked at it, perplexed.

Staring at Oliver again, his rage started to build to a new level. His snorting grew loud. "I've dealt with thievery once already. You and that Fitzgerald are the same, too young and stupid, with soft hearts that you'll lose soon enough." Winthrop pointed to a spot in the center of the floor. "Go there."

Shaking with fright, Oliver walked to the spot indicated.

Pointing to a spot beside Oliver, Winthrop said, "Put that there."

Oliver put the chamber pot on the floor, careful that his shaking hands didn't spill any more of it.

"Off with your clothes boy."

"Um…"

"Off!" Winthrop yelled.

Oliver pulled off his sweater. He tossed it on the floor. Next he took off his shirt, peeling away the scabs that had stuck to it while he wore it. He flinched at the pain.

"The pants," Winthrop told him.

Oliver slipped the baggy pants over his boots and put them in the pile of his other garments.

Winthrop, glaring at Oliver, scooped up the pieces of clothing one at a time. Not seeming to care about the damp filth soaking into them, Winthrop ran his fingers over every single stitch, tossing each aside as he satisfied himself that the garment held nothing but the cloth from which it was made.

"Thieves think they can fool me." Winthrop laughed with no mirth. "Off with your boots."

Oliver sat on the rough floor and removed his boots and thick, holey socks, setting each on the floor at Winthrop's feet.

Winthrop scrutinized each piece, picking the stiff parts of the boots with his yellowing fingernails.

When he'd gone through all of the clothing, Winthrop was frustrated. He was angry. His nostrils were flaring again, and he stared at Oliver. "Stay," he ordered, and then walked over to examine the cabinet with the doors swung open.

Winthrop examined the pieces on the upper shelves. He knelt down and looked at the things stored underneath. Finally, he lifted the ornate wooden box and carried it over to his chair in front of the fire. He sat down and flipped the lid open. He started going through the items, clinking the metal together as he lifted and scrutinized each one before placing it back inside the box.

Three different times, he started to count the relics, "One. Two. Three. Four. Six."

Oliver knew he was going to die. He needed to accept that. It would be the end to the pain, cold, hunger, and humiliation. He just hoped the pyre didn't burn too slowly.

Father Winthrop stopped counting. His face showed his frustration as he looked down at his priceless trinkets. He looked at Oliver, seemingly ready to jump out of the chair and punch. But he didn't. He started counting again, stopping once more at six.

Winthrop sighed angrily.

Recalling Franklin's story about Fitz's theft, Oliver knew the number of crosses that should be in the box. He thought of a miraculous way out of his predicament. Meekly, he said, "I can count them for you. Franklin taught me how."

"Franklin taught you," Winthrop laughed, shaking his head. "I should call Franklin in here. I know he can count his numbers. I have no patience to watch you lie."

Nodding his head and smiling under his damp cheeks, Oliver said, "I truly can, Father. I can count."

Thinking for a moment, Winthrop said, "We'll see about that. What is the highest number?"

Oliver wasn't sure how to answer.

"Ha!" Winthrop shouted. "Just as I suspected."

"There is no highest number," said Oliver, talking over Winthrop's new laugh. "They go on forever."

That stopped Winthrop immediately. He glared at Oliver. "Perhaps Franklin did teach you. He says the same senseless thing." Winthrop spun the box around in his lap so that the lid was leaning open against his big round belly. Nodding, and looking down his big nose, he said, "Stand up here then. Count these relics. Mind you, I may be deficient in mathematical aptitude, but I know the name of the number of relics in this box. You'll get it right. Or…" Winthrop tilted his head at the fire roaring in the hearth.

Oliver stood up, hoping to keep hidden the three crosses still in the chamber pot.

Using his finger to touch each cross as Father Winthrop inspected, he started counting. He went through the numbers one through six, skipping five just as Winthrop had done. He made it easily to ten, slow and rhythmic. He counted the number eleven and skipped over twelve to get to thirteen. Similarly, he skipped sixteen on the way to twenty-three where he stopped. "Twenty-three," he repeated for emphasis.

Frowning, Winthrop said, "Count them again."

Careful to skip the same numbers, Oliver went back through, touching each relic as he counted it. When he finished, he announced the number, "Twenty-three."

Winthrop spun the box around in his lap and stared at the pieces for a few minutes while he fumbled through them. Finally, he said, "Clean up this filth. Gather your things and go."

Chapter 29: Bray

After passing through the gate in Coventry's dilapidated circle wall, Bray kept walking until he'd reached the first of the buildings.

He was immediately assaulted with a barrage of odors. It was early morning, and the lingering smell of alcohol and last night's meats hung in the air. Buildings stood in silence, empty blankets draped over the windows. The streets were nearly vacant, save the earliest of merchants pushing out their wares, arranging them for the morning bustle. Having survived another Cleansing, the townsfolk who hadn't been burned were celebrating another season of survival, having passed the prescribed period of grief.

Bray didn't need to live in town to know that.

He approached a portly old man with a rag tied around his head. The man was setting out a pile of knives.

"Morning, Ezekiel," Bray called.

The man looked up. "Morning, Bray. I didn't think I'd have a customer for an hour," the man said, a smile creasing his weathered cheeks.

"The silver was calling."

"It always does." The old man wiped his nose. "What do you have for me?"

Bray pulled off his pack and untied it, liberating the pile of skins he had inside. He shook them off, watching several pieces of crusted blood flake to the ground. He handed them to the merchant. Ezekiel took them and looked them over.

"They never get any prettier, do they?" Ezekiel smiled, revealing his stained, yellowed teeth.

"I never hang onto them long enough to notice," Bray retorted.

Ezekiel laughed, a cracked, bitter sound from deep in his throat.

"What can you give me for them?" Bray asked.

Ezekiel placed the pile of skins on top of the display he was working on. He unbuttoned a large pocket in his tunic, digging a shaky hand inside. "The price has gone down some since the last time you were here," the old man said, his eyes shifting back and forth. "Local policy has changed to match the other townships. We were told yesterday."

"What the hell for?"

"The General is readying the troops. That's the rumor, anyway. The men are preparing to be called in, least ways, the ones that haven't already gone to Brighton. And regular folks, too. All ordered to Brighton. Lots of 'em left already."

"For what? Demons?" Bray blew an angry breath through his nose. He didn't care about the General's battles, but a decrease in silver was a different matter.

"An expedition of some sort. No one knows the full story."

"I wonder if they're heading south."

"I couldn't tell you." Ezekiel shrugged, counting the coins he'd removed from his pocket. "I just do what I'm told. That's why the town is celebrating more than usual. Most of the men are expecting they won't be here much longer."

Ignoring the plight of the townsfolk, Bray asked, "How do they expect the Wardens to eat?" His anger roiled. "If they keep killing my take, there'll be nothing left."

"I just do what I'm told. You want your coin or not?"

Bray rolled his eyes and extended his hand. Ezekiel slapped his palm with the money, and Bray tucked it into his bag. He let his anger subside, distracted by the other reason he was here. He felt an unexpected stab of nerves as he thought of Samantha. He swallowed before he spoke.

"Were there a lot of deaths at The Cleansing?"

Ezekiel furrowed his brow as if he'd already forgotten. "Not many, if I recall. It wasn't as grave as others."

"Do you remember the names of the ones who were burned?"

"Not offhand. Some men." Ezekiel thought on it. He added, "A few women."

Bray felt a cramping pain in his gut when he heard the word 'women.' Ensuring his face remained calm, he said, "I'm glad many were spared."

"You know how it goes. A week after The Cleansing, people forget what happened, and they start drinking. And then the next Cleansing approaches, and the dread hits all over again."

"That's the way of things." Bray stuck his thumb toward the center of town. "How's the ale these days?"

"Same as it always is. Overpriced. Watered down." Ezekiel laughed again.

"I'm going to head to the Watering Alley."

"Don't spend all your silver before you hit The House. If you don't have a coin for a tip, the housemother will give you a toothless ugly one."

Bray gave a sly grin. "You know me. I won't."

Chapter 30: Oliver

A cold wind whipped out of the north, and everybody Oliver passed in town had their cloaks pulled close around their bodies, hats on their heads. Those without the means to buy or trade for warm enough clothes shivered and sniffled as they went about their business.

Militiamen, hiding their foreboding behind boisterous words and quick fists, were standing in groups talking and laughing, or coming to and from merchant's shops and alehouses. In every direction Oliver looked, there they were. The good thing about them, though, was that with so many on the streets, Oliver was largely ignored. All he had to do was avoid getting bumped to the ground and trampled.

When he finally walked into a shop owned by a blacksmith, his skin had gotten used to the cold, and he felt uncomfortable in the warmth of the fire. Oliver opened his coat and loitered, doing his best to stay out of the way while the blacksmith showed a long-handled axe to two interested militiamen.

"Run along, boy," scolded the blacksmith.

Oliver looked up at the smith, then past him at a wall covered with weapons made of steel and wood. Puffing himself up with his false confidence, the cloth of his shirt rubbing across the raw wounds on his back, Oliver said, "I'm Novice Oliver. I'm here on business for Father Winthrop."

The blacksmith's mouth fell open. His two customers glanced over their shoulders. Quick mumbling followed. Coins passed between hands, and the two customers rushed out with the axe, neither daring to look Oliver in the eye.

Oliver smiled and nodded at them. He cocked his head back, another gesture of superiority that he'd learned from watching Father Winthrop. The difference was that Oliver knew he was putting on a disguise. For Winthrop, that oversized maggot in fine clothes, the gesture was a reflection of his squirmy, dark little soul. He believed he was superior to all others.

"What is it Father Winthrop requests of me?" asked the Blacksmith, covering his grudging anger with an obsequious smile.

Oliver quietly looked over the items on the wall again as he walked past the blacksmith, knowing that by keeping silent, he was subtly asserting his control. He reached out and caressed the steel of a big knife with a beautifully carved handle. The blade was as long as his forearm, and could almost be used as a short sword for a boy his size. With a little creativity, it could even be concealed.

"My cousin does the woodwork." The Blacksmith walked over to the wall and pointed at the knife, his face showing his pride in the workmanship. Scooting over to vaguely gesture at much smaller knives, he asked, "Is Father Winthrop interested in a weapon?"

Oliver glanced at the small knives.

The blacksmith said, "With all of the militiamen in town and the army preparing to leave, metals and weapons are in short supply." He looked at the small knives again, laying a hand on one with a particularly ornate handle. "Surely Father Winthrop understands this."

Oliver suppressed a smile, well aware that anything the clergy asked for was provided free of charge. He also understood that the blacksmith had paid for the metals, had worked them into fine blades, and had hoped to gouge high prices out of the militiamen in town, most of whom were going out to face the demon hordes for the first time.

Taking a risk, Oliver copied something he'd seen Franklin do so well. He stepped close to the blacksmith, laid a comforting hand on the man's arm, and smiled as though he truly cared about the man's problems. "Father Winthrop understands your dilemma."

The blacksmith relaxed and smiled. "I'm so pleased to have such a kind Bishop at the head of our church."

"Yes," Oliver agreed. "What is your name?"

"Kilburn."

"I am pleased to meet you, Kilburn." Oliver gently pulled Kilburn's arm and turned his hand over so that his calloused palm was facing up. Holding the strong hand in place, Oliver reached into his pocket, took out what he guessed was more than enough coins. "That long knife I was just looking at, how many coins would you sell that for to one of these militiamen?"

"I, uh..." The blacksmith rubbed his face nervously, smearing black soot that had accumulated on his brow. "Times being what they are…" He paused. "Prices go up. You understand?"

Oliver nodded, though he didn't understand. Prices seemed like arbitrary things to him, but no matter of concern. He'd heard the merchants grumble about prices when he'd been in the market with Franklin. He understood that prices varied from day to day. He never accepted that a rabbit worth one price yesterday should be worth twice that price the next.

Kilburn meekly uttered out a number of coins.

Oliver nodded, took that number of coins, and counted them out into Kilburn's hand. Then he added the same number again as the blacksmith's eyes grew wide.

"Do you have your numbers, young Novice?" Kilburn asked.

"I do," Oliver confirmed.

"That is worth more than the knife," said Kilburn as though he was choking on a gob of phlegm in his throat.

Oliver nodded again and then cocked his head back. "Father Winthrop understands the times as they are, and wants you to be treated fairly. More than fairly."

"Thank you," said Kilburn, closing his hand over the coins and stuffing them into his pocket. "And please, thank Father Winthrop for me personally. No, I shall go and thank him myself."

"Don't," Oliver said, scolding the man. "Father Winthrop is busy these days. I'll pass your thanks and your name to him. He does require something more of you, however."

Nodding vigorously, obviously thinking of more coins, Kilburn said, "Anything."

"He intends to go out with the army when they march. He wants that knife for protection, should it be required. Do you have a belt and a sheath to hold it?"

"Of course," said Kilburn, hurrying over to a wooden storage cabinet. "They all come with a custom sheath."

"Good," said Oliver. "As Father Winthrop will be taking me with him, I'll need something small, perhaps one of these." Oliver looked at the small blades Kilburn had tried to distract him with earlier.

Kilburn spun around, hurried back to his place by the wall, and reached for the small knife with the ornate handle.

Oliver shook his head. "Nothing that special. That's for a merchant's son, I think. Perhaps more for display than use."

"Of course," said Kilburn. "That is what I thought when I was making it."

Oliver pointed at a small blade, as long as his fist, with a handle to match. A weapon that could easily be hidden under his clothes and carried all the time. No one would ever know he had it until he pulled the smooth, sleek thing out and surprised them. "That one."

Nodding, Kilburn smiled and told Oliver the price.

Again, Oliver paid the man twice its worth. "I have one other request of you." Oliver looked around the shop. "It may sound unusual, so please don't laugh."

Chapter 31: Bray

During the time Bray had spent with Ezekiel, the streets of Coventry had started to fill. Doors and windows swung open, revealing hung-over, groggy faces. Men took up their pushcarts and wheeled them unsteadily. Women cradling babies led packs of children on the day's errands.

Bray strolled through the townsfolk, trying to repress the fear he'd felt while talking to Ezekiel. The fact that women were burned wasn't a surprise to him. But he couldn't suppress the fear that Samantha had been one of them.

He tried to enjoy the happy sensation of a man with silver in his pack, a man who had once again provided for himself. But his thoughts kept circling back to Samantha.

He took a few turns, ending up in a particularly foul-smelling alley. The street was narrow and lined with buildings on either side, the stones painted with piss and puke. The Watering Alley. Several men lay propped against the walls, having taken their bed in the streets for the night. Empty flasks lay near them. None stirred as he walked past. If they'd been out in the wild, Bray would've taken the opportunity to sift through their pockets.

He wouldn't do that today. He'd been in enough trouble lately.

He stepped past several closed, beaten doors, inhaling the odor of spilled beer. Men's and women's sweat wafted from a small alleyway. He didn't have to witness the carnal antics to know what went on there. The third door on the right was open. He stepped through. The lighting was dim, and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He maneuvered around several toppled chairs, his boots contending with broken flagons and putrid puddles.

He searched for a familiar face in the gloom, but the tavern was empty. When he reached the long wooden bar at the back of the room, he brushed off a chair, took a seat, and waited.

Outside, a man hacked up a throat full of snot. Most of the patrons had been kicked out into the alley before night's end. Some would wait for sunup so they could sneak another drink before going to the fields or whatever trade earned them coin.

After a minute of waiting, unable to restrain himself, Bray called, "Samantha?"

He swallowed the uneasiness that crept back inside him. If Samantha had been burned, he convinced himself he would've seen something. A sign. A notice on the door. Something. The bar would be closed, right? He pictured Conrad's weasely, coin-lusting face. Conrad wouldn't have cared if his wife died. He'd probably spend the next day searching for another, making sure he had someone to run his business. Conrad's top priorities were sucking off local leaders and flaunting his power, not selling drinks to the farmers.

An uttered curse in the back room tipped Bray off that someone was here. Clearing his throat loudly, he waited for the person to notice. Footsteps clapped the floor. A few seconds later, a woman emerged.

His heart skipped.

"Bray?" Samantha squinted at him in surprise. Her long, red hair flowed over her bare shoulders, barely covering the top of her revealing dress. She looked gorgeous, as always.

Bray concealed his relief. "Am I too late for a drink?"

"No. You're early." Samantha dusted off the counter in front of him, unable to hide her smile. "Shouldn't you be out hunting?"

She reached below the counter and fetched an empty cup.

"I've earned a break," Bray said. "I was hoping you'd still be here."

"Where else would I be?" Samantha smiled, but he could see the effects of another Cleansing buried in her expression.

"Hung-over, like everyone else."

"You know I can't do that. I have to work. This place never closes."

"Except on Sundays," Bray reminded her.

"Of course."

"That's the best day of the week. I hear there's an empty room in the back that the vagrants duck into." Bray grinned widely. "Some of them have been known to shed their pants."

"If I find any, I'll kick them out. What would you like?" she asked.

"Get me the strongest thing you got," Bray said.

"I suppose I already knew that."

He watched as Samantha dipped below the counter to fill his order. Her dress fell further down her arms, and he leaned over to get a better look. Catching him, she swatted at his arm.

"Don't let Conrad catch you doing that," she whispered.

"I wish he would," Bray muttered. "I'd teach the son of a bitch a lesson."

"You'd end up on the pyre before that happened."

Bray shrugged. It was no secret he despised the man. Conrad was not only the owner of the bar, but also the owner of several other buildings. Because his family was in a position of wealth, Conrad had influence in town. He normally used his power to sway town policy, ensuring his businesses benefitted. He was selfish and corrupt, as were most of his kind.

Samantha watched Bray sip his drink. Although she'd never admit it, she was checking him for injuries. Her face darkened as she noticed his leg.

"A flesh wound," he said, setting down his cup.

"From demons?"

"I wish. If it were demons, at least they'd be worth a few silver." He smirked. "I could tell you stories, but I won't."

"I don't want to know about it," Samantha said, smiling.

They locked eyes for several seconds. If Bray had been a different man, he might've considered running off with Samantha. But he knew better than that. A woman and child were burdens he didn't need. The wild was his mistress. He had other obligations.

"How are things?" Bray asked, sipping his drink.

"Busy, as always. No matter how things are in town, the coin never stops flowing here, anyway."

"Thank the gods for that," Bray said, saluting her with another swig. He swished and swallowed. He asked for another. He added, "The same can't be said for the Wardens."

"Oh?"

"The General cut the price of skins again."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Samantha refilled his cup.

"He's raising the troops. As usual, we'll have to pay for it."

"I heard about the reduction in coin."

"When?"

"Last week."

Bray wasn't surprised. A change in policy like that was bound to be gossip for the pub. He assumed other Wardens had been grumbling. He was about to sip his new drink when her words sunk in.

"Last week? I spoke with one of the street merchants, and he wasn't told of the change until yesterday." Bray watched Samantha closely. "How'd you find out?"

She lowered her eyes evasively, fiddling with a few cups behind the bar.  Bray leaned forward, pushing aside his drink.

"Where did you hear about it, Samantha?"

She whispered the word. "Conrad."

"How'd he know?"

"He must've gotten wind of it from Father Nelson."

She picked up one of the cups she was fiddling with and cleaned it with a rag, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Alcohol or not, I know a lie when I hear one." Bray leaned over the counter. "Conrad had a hand in this, didn't he?"

She sighed. "You can't say anything, Bray. You'd get me in trouble. But I think he suggested it to Father Nelson as a means to keep costs down. It'll help defray the funding of the General's army."

"That prick. He's probably trying to save on his own taxes. If the General gets the money elsewhere, he'll be more lenient on the merchants."

Bray balled his fists, fighting the urge to yell. It wasn't Samantha's fault. She had nothing to do with it. He settled back into his chair, swallowing his anger. Between the troubles he'd had with the soldiers, and his involvement with Ella and William, he didn't need to call any more attention to himself. He had enough things to worry about without picking a fight with Conrad.

But if he saw that son of a bitch while he was in town…

Changing the subject, Samantha said, "We're going to hire someone else around here soon."

"Really?"

"Yep. Probably in the next few months."

"Haven't you been telling me that forever?"

"Yes. But it's true this time."

"Conrad's too cheap for that." Bray shook his head. Conrad was always promising reprieve for Samantha. The truth was that the man was too paranoid about his finances to let someone other than family run his businesses. Bray finished his drink and asked for a third. She poured him one. He reached across the bar and batted playfully at her arm.

"I'm serious, Bray," Samantha smiled, big and wide. She retracted her arm. This time her glow wasn't from the Warden, but from something else. "There's something you should know."

Bray tilted back the cup, downing the glass. For some reason, he knew he'd need the rest of the alcohol. "What is it?"

Samantha looked left and right, then stepped back and pointed to her stomach. "I'm pregnant."

Bray studied the small, burgeoning bump in her belly. A surge of dizziness hit him. Or maybe it was the impact of the strong drinks. Either way, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Whose is it?" he asked.

"Conrad's, of course." Samantha smiled. He studied her for signs of deception, but she looked truthful. Happy. Radiant. She tucked her hair behind her eyes, revealing more of the top of her chest, which looked as good as the last time he'd seen it.

But Bray couldn't look at her. Not now.

"When's the baby due?"

"Springtime. I'll go into labor before The Cleansing. It'll be nice to miss that for a change."

Bray understood. The only excuse for a woman not to attend the ceremony was childbirth; the inspectors would do an examination at the residence.

"Would you like another refill?"

He tipped back his cup, forgetting he'd already drained it. He noticed Samantha wasn't watching him as intently as before.

"I'm all right. I should get going," he said.

"Already?"

"I have to get hunting. Especially with the shitty wage I'll be paid. Not all of us have bathtubs filled with coin."

Hurt flashed through Samantha's eyes as she registered the insult. She reached for Bray, but he avoided her grasp. He slid off the chair, stomped the ground with his boots, and spit.

"Remember that promise you made after we first met?"

"Of course," she whispered.

"Consider it settled."

Bray swiveled off the chair and got to his feet, ignoring the wave of alcohol, and staggered for the door.

Chapter 32: Oliver

With his face contorted, trying to squeeze his mind through some difficult thoughts while getting excited, Kilburn said, "So that I understand exactly, what you're saying is that Father Winthrop wants some kind of armor protection?" Kilburn drew a deep breath and looked up to the heavens in silent thanks. "Men don't generally wear such things because of the price, you understand? Metal is always expensive, always in short supply."

Oliver said nothing. Everybody knew that to be true.

"But," said Kilburn, "he wants something he can wear under his garments, so that other men won't know he's wearing it. It is as you said—he wants to inspire bravery in others by appearing to be dressed in the same clothing they are."

Oliver nodded. So far Kilburn understood the lie exactly right.

"Being a skeptical man," said Kilburn, "Father Winthrop wants me to make such a suit of armor for you first, so that he might see for himself how visible it is to others before I proceed with making one for him."

"Exactly," Oliver confirmed.

"And he doesn't want it to be too heavy or too restrictive of his movements."

"He wants to look natural," Oliver nodded. "It's to protect him from demon bite."

Kilburn rubbed his chin again and said, "There is something."

Something? Oliver waited a moment, and then asked, "What?"

Kilburn led Oliver to the wooden cabinet he'd had the sheathes stored in. "Something I've never made before. Well, before this once." Kilburn turned back to Oliver. "Do you know Kreuz?"

"Of course," Oliver told him, cocking his head in that superior way that was starting to feel pretty comfortable. "I saw him just this morning."

That was true. Oliver had managed to convince Kreuz that the two relics he sold him were from Father Winthrop's private collection in order to buy certain special things. Kreuz, whose eyes showed every bit of lust he had for the beautiful crosses, still held the pretense that he was only mildly interested. He paid Oliver less than the crosses were worth, but more than Oliver needed for anything he'd be purchasing before he left town. The only question he asked himself was whether he should have sold all three relics. One was so much easier to transport than the bag of coin he could trade it for, but coins were easier to spend.

It was a decision that nagged in the back of Oliver's mind as he worked through his transactions with Kilburn. Also nagging him were the lies he was spreading. He had no doubt they'd eventually find their way back to Winthrop. He only had to be sure he was over the circle wall and long gone by the time that happened.

Kilburn reached into his cabinet, shuffled some things around, and removed one of the strangest things Oliver had ever seen. It looked like cloth woven from metal.

Oliver reached out to touch it, finding it flexible, just like a piece of cloth. "That's amazing."

Kilburn's face lit up, and he grinned widely. "I saw it in an ancient book that Kreuz was showing off. In a picture, an ancient fighting man wore a long shirt made just like this." Kilburn scratched his head. "In the picture, the man also held a sword and wore a helmet. But the shirt he wore seemed to be protecting him. I wasn't sure if he was using Tech Magic, but I took a chance and made it myself. It seems to work. One of the people looking at the book with us, a man who had his letters, said the shirt was called 'chainmail.'"

Nodding and smiling, Oliver said, "What a grand idea. Teeth can't bite through metal. Blades can't cut through it."

To demonstrate the point, Kilburn picked up one of his knives and pushed it into the chainmail. It didn't pierce. Kilburn grinned and handed the knife to Oliver. "Try."

Oliver took the knife and tried to stick it through the chainmail as Kilburn held it up. At first, Oliver was gentle, but as he realized how tough the chainmail was, he pushed with all his might. The knife wouldn't go through. He tried slicing, to the same effect.

"All you'll get is a bruise," said Kilburn. "You'll never bleed wearing this."

Oliver reached out and took the chainmail in his hands. It was a large piece, like a big square of cloth, enough to cover a man's back and chest if wrapped around him. It was heavy, but as Oliver hefted it, he imagined how much he'd need to cover his body. "You can fashion this into a shirt?"

Nodding, Kilburn said, "For you, I think I'd use less than half."

Oliver threw it over his shoulders to get a feel for the weight. "This could work. How soon could you have it ready?"

"Oh," said Kilburn, worry on his face. "I don't know."

Oliver reached into his pocket and withdrew a good handful of coins. He dropped them onto one of the shelves in the cabinet. "Will that get it done by tomorrow morning?"

"If I work all night," Kilburn weakly protested.

"Is that enough coin to make you work through the night?"

Kilburn took a deep breath and looked at the coins. He looked back at Oliver. He looked at the chainmail. "Father Winthrop is a man of," he paused as he looked for the right word, "proportion. Yes, significant proportion."

Oliver bit his lip to repress a smile. He'd have chosen other words to describe Winthrop's girth.

Shaking his head, Kilburn said, "I don't know that I can get enough metal to make one for Father Winthrop before the army marches. I don't know if I'll have time to work all the metal."

Putting that comforting hand back on Kilburn's forearm, Oliver said, "Let us take the problem one step at a time. Make the shirt for me. Let me wear it for Father Winthrop. If he likes it, then we'll find a way to solve those other problems. Can you have mine ready by tomorrow morning?"

Kilburn nodded.

Chapter 33: Bray

Bray squinted at the sunlight as he stepped out of the tavern. The drunks gandered with disoriented interest as he plowed through the alley, daring them with his eyes. None took the challenge. None ventured a move.

With Samantha out of sight, he no longer needed to contain his anger. He was worn from his travels, fueled by drink, angered by…what? Surely Samantha's pregnancy had been coming. Wives who failed their childbearing duties were shipped off to The House. Samantha had every reason to be joyful. Carrying a child not only secured her position but also ensured she and her child had happy lives. Especially with Conrad as the father.

It also meant the last of Bray's trysts with her was in his past. Samantha hadn't said it, but he knew it.

As much as Bray couldn't commit, he didn't want Conrad to have her either. For a brief moment, he'd wondered whether the child was his. But he'd seen in her eyes that it wasn't. The baby was Conrad's.

It'd be well taken care of, all right.

Another trophy for Conrad's collection of wealth and power.

Bray dodged the outstretched, lazy legs of sleeping men as he stormed down the alley. He scowled as one of them rolled over, almost tripping him with a boot. When he reached the end of the alley, he paused, determining which direction he'd take. The alcohol and the anger were clouding his thinking process. He'd already completed his business, and he had no other reason to stay in Coventry, except to go to The House, if all those women hadn't already been commandeered by Blackthorn's militia and hauled off to Brighton.

The House.

He'd forget all about Samantha there.

Bray smiled as he rounded the next corner. He contemplated the silver in his pocket, no longer concerned with saving it. Not today. Maybe the next batch. He'd spend it and he'd go back and kill more demons, a hundred of them, if he had to, until he had enough money to—

Bray collided with a large man coming around the corner. His shoulder struck Bray's jaw, jarring his teeth. Bray reared back in anger, as if the man had hit him on purpose.

"Watch where you're going, you filthy pig chaser!" the man raged, his words slurred with venom.

Bray barely had a chance to size up his attacker before he'd raised his fists. If he had, he might've noticed the man was a head taller than him and accompanied by friends. The tall man's two companions stepped to the side to flank Bray.

Bray spat curses at them, too riled up to back down.

The man he'd bumped into had a meaty, square jaw. His eyes were round and wide. A thick gut protruded from his shirt, stained from the previous night's celebration. His friends were shorter, with small, scrappy arms—one had a scar across his nose, the other had long, shaggy hair.

"You should've held your tongue, Skin-Seller!" the shaggy-haired man cried.

Too late, Bray recognized them as Conrad's friends, probably heading for a morning drink. He'd talked to them before, though he couldn't remember the conversation. Fighting them wasn't as good as fighting Conrad. But it was close enough.

The shaggy-haired man threw a blow at Bray's head. Bray ducked.

The man's arm whizzed past Bray, and he backed up, trying to find a better place to take a stand. Excited jeers erupted from behind him. Anyone who'd been asleep in the alley had snapped awake. Within seconds, the hung-over locals were scrambling to their feet, placing bets.

Dimwits.

"Kill the Skin-Seller!" someone yelled.

"Take down that fat pig!"

The celebratory mood of the previous evening was gone, replaced by the thrill of a fight. Bray scuffled backward, wishing he hadn't had requested the strongest ale and drank it so fast. The men converged. He wondered if soldiers were around. Even if any were present, they'd just as likely cheer with the locals before hauling the Warden off to be punished.

"We're going to toss you out into the wild when we're done," the meaty man said with a ravenous grin. "Demon food."

"Fuck you," Bray spat.

The meaty man's friends reached for Bray's arms, probably hoping to pin him, but Bray shook them off, knocking the scarred man backward and against the nearby wall, pushing the shaggy-haired man to the ground. His body was filled with misguided fury. He'd kill all of them. He'd cleave their limbs from their bodies and leave them to bleed out in the street. Then he'd find Conrad, and he'd kill him, too.

He grabbed hold of his sword, but before he could pull it, someone stuck a boot out and tripped him. Laughter filled his ears as he hit the ground.

Someone ferreted his sword from his scabbard. Bray spun, watching over his shoulder as one of the drunks ran down the alley.

"Get back here!" he screamed as he fought for his footing.

The man kept running. The noise of the crowd grew louder as more people flowed from open doorways, pulled in by the noise and commotion. Too late, Bray wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

Chapter 34: Oliver

Oliver stood in his bedroom, looking at his bed, thinking how best to conceal his new knives. Once he was outside the wall, it wouldn't be a matter of concern. The big one he'd wear in the sheath hanging from the belt around his waist. The small one….well, he'd need to conceal that one.

He recalled a story he'd heard as a little boy, about a clever Warden's son who kept a small knife sheathed inside his boot. Bad men came to rob the family while the Warden was out in the wild killing demons. The bad men thought the Warden had a stash of coins, but the family didn't. While one of the bad men was searching the house and the other was doing unspeakable things to the woman, the boy pulled out the hidden knife and saved himself and his family. Every child heard that story growing up. That made it almost certainly a bad idea to tuck the knife in his boot. If his intention was to keep it hidden, and guards detained him, he wanted to be able to use the knife to gain his freedom. The first place they'd check for hidden weapons would likely be his boot.

He looked himself up and down. He looked at the new traveling bag he'd purchased. Where to stash the knife? Not in the bag. That would be another obvious place to be searched. Besides, it'd be too hard to pull the knife out when needed.

An idea came to him.

He grabbed the belt and sheath that came with the small knife. He unthreaded the belt from the loops on the sheath. He did the same for the big knife, then slid the small sheath back onto the belt, sliding it all the way to the end by the buckle. He took the big knife's sheath and threaded the belt through its loops.

Next, Oliver wrapped the belt around his waist, adjusting it so that the big knife was hanging at his hip. He adjusted the second knife until the sheath hung down the front of his pants, beside his private parts.

That was exactly what he wanted. If he wore the sheaths inside his pants, the small one would stay completely hidden. The big knife's handle would stick above the waist of his pants, and it would be nearly as easy to pull out as if he wore it on the outside. Only his shirt would be in the way. But that shirt, like the too-big-pants, would keep it all hidden.

To test it all, Oliver took the belt off and pulled his pants down. He wrapped the belt tightly around his waist again, feeling the leather against his bare skin. With his pants still around his knees, he practiced taking each knife out, trying his best to do it quickly, in a smooth motion, like soldiers deploying their swords during their drills. One moment in the scabbard, an eye-blink later, the pointy end at someone's throat.

The door opened behind him, startling Oliver into inaction.

"What are you doing?" Franklin asked.

Oliver, standing with the big knife sheathed on his hip and the little knife in hand in front of him, held it there.

"Oliver," Franklin asked, "why are your pants down?"

Oliver didn't answer. He was making a choice about what to do with the knife.

The door closed.

He heard Franklin's feet on the floor as he walked the length of the small room.

Oliver's breath came in short pants. He thought about all the welts and scabs, those under his shirt and those on his buttocks and legs, the ones he knew Franklin was looking at as he came to a stop. Those sores were evidence of Franklin's guilt.

"Where did you get the giant knife?" Franklin's hand landed on Oliver's shoulder and tugged him to turn around.

Oliver spun, knocking Franklin's hand away as he did. He reached up, grabbed Franklin's collar, and in a lightning-quick move put the blade of the little knife against Franklin's throat.

Franklin's eyes went wide. He gulped. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

Oliver did his best to make his face look hard and mean like those guards that night in the street. He wanted his eyes to say, "I don't care if you die."

Chapter 35: Bray

Bray whipped around as the meaty man advanced. Before Bray could stand, the man hoisted him by the shirt and flung him backward. Bray's insides shook as his tailbone cracked the ground. Several spectators scurried back, far enough away to be out of danger, but close enough to leer.

They screamed curses.

"Back to the wild, Skin-Seller!"

"You filthy boozehound!"

Fighting the alcohol-induced buzz, Bray reached for the knife he had tucked in his boot, but the two other men were already grabbing his arms. Encouraged by the shouting, they pinned Bray against the wall of a building.

The meaty man stood in front of Bray.

"What did you say to me before? You called me a name." The meaty man smiled, revealing blackened, chipped teeth. His open mouth unleashed the foul odor of an unsavory meal. The crowd's roars settled to a murmur as they awaited Bray's response.

"Well?" the man insisted again. "Speak up so I can hear you!"

"You're a goddamn…pig chaser…" Bray spat.

The meaty man leaned closer, folding his ear toward Bray as if he couldn't hear. "What was that?" He laughed and punched Bray in the stomach. "I couldn't hear you. Speak up!"

Sucking in a winded breath, Bray yelled, "Fucking pig chaser!"

The audience hooted and hollered. Bray heard the cackle of a woman mixed in with the hearty jeers of men. For a split second, he pictured Samantha rooting against him, excitedly waiting for his blood to spill.

"So you think we chase pigs in town all day, huh?" the meaty man asked.

"That's exactly what I think." Bray exaggerated his nod.

"Better to chase pigs than demons. At least you can eat pigs. What do you do with the demons? Huh? Fuck 'em?"

The audience erupted in laughter. Before Bray could retort, the man socked him in the stomach again, blowing the rest of his wind from his lungs. Bray choked and gagged. The remains of the rabbits he'd eaten crept up his throat. He struggled against the men who had him pinned. The meaty man turned to face the crowd as if he were an orator at some hosted event, a preacher at a sermon.

"What are we going to do with this one, huh?"

"You should skin him!"

"Yeah! Skin the Skin-Seller!" someone screamed. "Maybe you'll get five coin for it!"

"Four, now!"

The audience laughed again. A few more suggestions flew from the crowd, but Bray wasn't listening. He let his head sag to his chest and closed his eyes. The men on either side of him leaned in to check on him, concerned their fun might be over. He felt their hot, stale breath in his face. He opened his eyes to slits, watching them.

Without warning, he rammed his head sideways into the closer of the two. The shaggy-haired man cried out in pain, his nose split open and spilling blood. Bray pulled his right arm free and socked the scarred man in the face, feeling the slice of teeth as he sent several of them into the man's mouth. He ignored the burning pain in his knuckles.

And then he was free, scooting sideways, trying to gain distance from the scene.

Hands tugged his clothes. Blurred faces spit and sneered. He felt the drip of well-placed snot on his forehead. Bray bounced back and forth between pairs of pushing hands. He swung at the people pushing him, but there were too many targets to aim at. Before he could brace himself, the spectators thrust him into the center of the alley, directly in front of the meaty man.

The man grabbed hold of his collar and threw him backward. Bray skidded backward in the dirt. He kept his balance. His boots kicked up dust, clouding the air. Several people scattered out of his way as he raised his fists. Blood dripped from his right hand.

"Come on, you dirt-scratcher!" Bray yelled at the man. He took a precautionary glance around him, but the crowd had consumed the other two wounded men. "You don't chase pigs; you are one!"

The meaty man roared and charged.

His tall, massive frame blurred as he closed in. Swallowing his nausea, Bray stepped to the side and avoided him. The man's momentum carried him into the wall of a building. He grunted from the impact.

And then Bray was on him.

Bray's mind veered from reality. Instead of seeing the man in front of him, he saw Samantha's smiling face, Conrad sneering, and the shrugging shoulders of Ezekiel as he told him about the reduced rate of skins. He pictured the meager earnings sitting in his bag. Anger flooded Bray's body.

Ignoring the sharp pain of split knuckles, Bray pummeled the man in the back of the head repeatedly, slamming the meaty man's face into the wall. Teeth cracked. Bones caved. The man flailed and reached behind him, searching frantically for Bray, but Bray kept him pressed against the building, switching his jabs to the meaty man's side, listening to the man expel his breath from his ribcage. The crowd continued screaming, but their tune had changed.

"Get that fat fuck!"

"String him up for a roasting!"

"Take his scalp, Skin-Seller!"

They'd swayed to the winning side, as they always did, wanting only to see somebody bleed. Bray punched over and over, consumed by drunken anger. The meaty man choked on his blood. It wasn't until Bray realized the man had ceased resisting that he stopped. The man slid down the wall and into the dirt, eyes fluttering.

He groaned, but didn't get up.

Bray spun to face the crowd. They immediately backed away, holding up dirt-stained hands to placate him. A few cheered.

"Who else has something to say to me?" Bray shouted, his voice strained and ragged. He scanned the faces of the spectators, but none of them stepped forward. Somewhere over the din, he heard the wounded wails of the meaty man's accomplices fleeing the scene. The soldiers would be here soon.

He stared at the fallen man, then patted his empty scabbard. He felt a tinge of panic.

"Where the fuck's my sword?" he demanded of the audience.

He took a step toward several of the closest spectators, whose eyes had switched from mirth to fear. They shook their heads as they backed away. A few others scattered, disappearing into empty doorways.

"I'm going to search every building until I find the man who took it! Do you hear me? I'll kill any motherfucker who knows where it is!"

His threats were idle, but he didn't care. The truth was, he'd probably never find it. Bray continued ranting and raving, promising death to anyone who'd seen the thief. He was surprised when a man sheepishly emerged from a doorway, carrying the blade. He walked slowly up to Bray, begging for mercy. His small, sinewy arms trembled as he handed it over.

"Good fight, Warden," the man said. "One of my friends took your sword. I convinced him to give it up."

Without a word, Bray yanked it from the man's hands, watching the man scoot away into the distance. A new set of noises arose from a nearby alley. Bray recognized the authoritative commands of soldiers. Even in his drunken, angered haze, he knew he had to leave. Wiping the snot from his forehead, he bent down and smeared it on the meaty man's shirt.

Then he kicked the man in the ribs.

"Tell Conrad he can go fuck himself," Bray announced. "That one was for the Wardens."

He turned and snuck off down the alley.

Chapter 36: Oliver

It was Franklin who found his voice first. "Why?"

"Why?" Oliver laughed, in the meanest series of ugly sounds he could string together. He kept the knife firm against Franklin's neck. "You would ask me that?"

Franklin bit his lip. He looked down at Oliver's arm, sucking in a breath. "I'm sorry."

Oliver shrugged.

"I'm not going to try to defend myself." Franklin's eyes welled with tears. "If you need to make this right, I accept that. If you need to make me suffer, I accept that too. I only ask that when you're done and I'm bleeding to death on the floor, you forgive me. I don't deserve it, but please, do it before I die." Franklin closed his eyes.

Through all the hate that had been roiling in Oliver's heart, through all the open wounds and bruises that tormented him, he hadn't expected to feel anything for Franklin ever again, except hate. But now, looking at his only friend, who was willing to trade his life for forgiveness, Oliver's own heart softened, and his tears came again. He pulled the knife away from Franklin's throat, turned toward the wall and said, "I hate you, Franklin."

Franklin exhaled a breath he'd been holding. "You may never believe it, but I hate myself for what I did. I was saving your life when I was whipping you."

"I don't care," Oliver said, as he cried.

"Winthrop said he was going to put you on the pyre."

"He wouldn't have," said Oliver. "You did it so you wouldn't lose your place in line. You want to be the Bishop one day so you can beat little boys whenever you're angry because your pecker doesn't work anymore."

"I think of you like a brother," said Franklin.

"I know how some fathers treat their sons," said Oliver. "I know how some brothers treat their little brothers. You think I'm a stupid little kid, but I see things. I understand things." Oliver sheathed his knife, spun around, and shook his fist in Franklin's face. "I know the fist is the only way stupid people think they can communicate. I don't need the fist. I don't need the belt. I don't need the switch. I don't need the whip. I understand all that I do, and I have my reasons. I'm not a stupid animal that needs to be beaten into obedience. So love me like a brother if you want. I wanted a friend. I thought you were that." Oliver turned back toward the wall.

"I am your friend," said Franklin. "Tell me what I can do to make this right."

"It doesn't matter anymore." Oliver reached down and pulled his pants up. "I have to leave."

"Where are you going?" Franklin stepped over to Oliver's bed and picked up the new backpack. "Where did you get this?"

"I've lied. I've stolen," Oliver told him. "And now you know. You've seen my knives, both of them. You've seen that I have things packed in my bag. You're smart enough to guess what people put in there. I was going to wait until tomorrow evening after I'd made all my arrangements. Now that you know, I have to leave. You'll squeal to Winthrop, and then I'll suffer." Oliver nodded his head deliberately. "I won't do that again."

"You can't," Franklin said, weakly. "You can't leave."

"I can," Oliver told him, turning and putting a hand on the hilt of the big knife, "and I will. I don't trust you anymore. I don't know what you'll do."

"I don't want you to go," said Franklin.

"Want?" Oliver laughed again. "You don't get beaten like I do."

"Every novice gets beaten at first."

"Really?" Oliver asked. "I know that's a lie. You've told me before that Winthrop was never this mean to you. I've seen you naked when Father Winthrop Cleanses us. You don't have scars. I do."

Franklin looked at the floor. "I don't understand why he hates you so much."

"Yes, you do," argued Oliver. "Father Winthrop is a stupid, pompous man. I hate him. I tease him, and I make him feel stupid. That's why he hates me. It's no secret. Because of that, he beats me. He always will. One day, he'll beat me to death. Or he'll make you do it. Or he'll give up and put me on the pyre."

"It doesn't have to be that way," said Franklin. "Can't you just keep your thoughts to yourself and stop saying things that embarrass and anger him? It won't go on forever. You can do it for a while, can't you?"

Shaking his head, Oliver said, "You're a fool, Franklin. You say you're my friend, but every time you advise me or help me, you treat me like a little version of you. You think if you explain to me how to behave as you behave, I'll understand, and I'll do it. That's the problem. I'm not you. I can't be you. Something in me says I can't accept Winthrop's derision and stupidity. I have to fight back with the only weapon I have, my words. That is who I am. That is part of me as surely as my skin and my mouth and my hands and arms. I can't live without those parts just like I can't live without telling the pompous maggot what I think of him. That is why I can't wait for a while, a short time, or a long time. I will always act like me. Winthrop will act like himself, and he'll kill me. That is the only outcome."

Franklin sat down on the bed he hadn't slept in since the night before he'd beaten Oliver. "You might be the smartest boy I've ever met. If you believe all of that to be true, I can't argue. You're probably right." Franklin leaned over on his knees and stared at the floor. For a while, he didn't say anything.

Oliver opened his backpack and looked over the things inside, taking note of what he had, making a mental list of the things he needed to get before he went over the wall.

Franklin said, "If you want to leave right now, I'll help you. I'll walk you to one of the gates in the circle wall, and I'll make sure they let you go through. I'll make up some lie."

Oliver stopped what he was doing. That would take some risk out of his escape. "You'd do that? Really?"

"Yes," said Franklin. "If for whatever reason, you think that you'd be safer leaving tomorrow night or the day after, I'll help you at that time. Make whatever arrangements you need to make. You'll have to trust me when I tell you I won't give you up. All I can do is assure you of that. I know you hate me for beating you, but you know I've never lied to you."

Oliver knew that was true, though he didn't admit it.

"I want you to be safe, Oliver. It's dangerous outside the circle wall. I'd prefer you stay. But I'll do whatever you want me to do."

Oliver sat down on his bed and looked at Franklin. He didn't know what to do, either. He had to get away. He knew that. He wanted the chainmail he was going to pick up in the morning. That might make the difference between life and death outside the circle wall, especially for a boy Oliver's size. "You're my friend, Franklin. Until you raised Father Winthrop's whip, I never doubted that."

"Don't doubt it now," said Franklin.

"I'll trust you." Oliver heaved a deep breath. He put a hand on his knife and thought about threatening Franklin again, but he knew he couldn't back up the threat. He'd never be able to stick his blade into Franklin's flesh.

But Oliver knew one thing. He wouldn't take another beating, and he wouldn't take the pyre.

If it came to it, he'd use the small knife on his own throat. "Please don't betray me," Oliver whispered.

"When do you want to leave?" Franklin asked.

Oliver looked around at the walls he'd seen a million times as he ratcheted up his courage to make the choice he wasn't sure he should make. "As early as tomorrow or the next day."

Chapter 37: Beck

"Grain," said Beck as he and Evan turned onto to Market Street. "That's what we need more of."

"The crowds here have become unbearable, with the residents of villages and other towns coming into Brighton to join Blackthorn's army."

"Yes," Beck agreed, jostled by a pair of women hurrying out of the market carrying a full basket between them.

Up ahead, several dozen soldiers took sides, facing each other and yelling over some dispute.

"If stored properly and kept free of vermin, grain will keep forever in practical terms," Beck mused. "It'll last longer than you or me." Beck looked over his shoulder to see that his escorts were still behind. The four soldiers were falling back in the mass of people crowded into the street, but they were coming.

"The question I ask myself," said Evan, "is whether these people left behind significant food stores in their towns and villages before coming here. Surely they couldn't have carried everything. They just harvested. Some were still harvesting when General Blackthorn called them in. I understand why they brought their animals; those couldn't be left untended. But the grains? The vegetables? What of those?"

Beck stopped and turned to Evan. "This was all part of my plan. I suspected the peasants would have no way to transport so much to Brighton. What's more, they all believe they'll be returning to their homes soon, so why bring it? No reason. I did want to wait for the confirmation of seeing what they brought before I chose which path in my plan to take next."

"Which is?" asked Evan.

Beck leaned in close so that only Evan would be able to hear him amidst the cacophony of bickering, bargaining, and yelling. "If we concentrate our coin on things besides food, we may very well be able to get what we need on the way west, if we leave at the right time. We'd simply need to stop by the empty towns on the way, and pick up what we want from unguarded stores."

"I agree," said Evan. "If we choose to stay here and fight, that changes, though."

"If we stay and fight," said Beck, "the food stores will not be the decisive factor. In terms of resources, it will be men and weapons that make the difference."

The argument ahead escalated into a rush of fists and shoves. Other men were pulled into the fight when they were pushed or punched by mistake. The fight spread though the street.

Beck stopped and turned around. "We'll not be getting through that way."

"We should get out of here," said Evan.

"Conditions in the city worsen by the day," said Beck as he hurried his pace. "Brighton simply cannot hold so many."

"When does General Blackthorn intend to march the army out?" asked Evan.

"Soon."

Chapter 38: Oliver

Oliver walked along with Franklin, market basket in hand, knives hanging in their sheaths inside his pants. It was an overcast, cold day. At least the wind had died down from freezing gales to chilly breezes. The streets were mostly mud where they hadn't frozen the night before. In a way, the weather was much like the state of the relationship between him and Franklin. Despite their seeming truce, too much animosity lay under the surface, stoked each time Oliver took a step and the rough cloth of his shirt slid across the sores on his back.

"With Father Winthrop sick in his room, maybe we can—" Franklin started.

"He's not sick," Oliver interrupted. "He's hiding out from General Blackthorn."

"Yeah," Franklin accepted. "You're right. I was going to say, maybe you should eat some extra food and fatten up before you go. Father Winthrop won't notice."

Shaking his head without looking at Franklin, knowing he had enough coin to keep himself well fed for some time, Oliver said, "Soon, Father Winthrop will realize that everyone thinks he's a coward. He'll come out and try to redeem himself. He's too vain to let others see what he really is."

"Or he may sit in there and starve," said Franklin. "Or die of fright. I've never seen any man in such a state."

Oliver smiled at the thought of Winthrop starving himself to death as he quaked in his room, looking over his shoulders at the shadows.

Once on Market Street, they passed several vendors already packing their things, sold out of what little they had. Others with sparsely covered tables had lines of people queued up to take the last of what was left.

Franklin said, "We'll have to come earlier tomorrow."

Oliver lost interest in what Franklin had to say. He had other business to tend to. "I have to go somewhere now."

"To the latrine?" Franklin asked, his tone suggesting loudly that he knew Oliver wasn't going to the latrine.

"It doesn't matter." Oliver glanced at Franklin, daring him to say something more on the matter. "I can meet you back here or at the temple. You choose."

"How long will you be?" Franklin asked.

"Not long."

"I'll wait in the market," said Franklin.

Without another word on the matter, Oliver strode off into the crowd. In case Franklin followed him, he decided to take precautions. Scurrying between enough big bodies of adults until they could no longer see one another, he looked over his shoulder. Franklin wasn't behind him. At the first chance, he turned down an alley and hid behind a pushcart left by one of the vegetable vendors. He looked back toward the market and watched.

When enough time had passed, Oliver hurried down to the end of the alley and made his way over to the house in the row of ruins where he'd first met Evan in secret.

He tentatively peeked in through the doorless entryway. He was surprised to see Evan standing there, reading something in his hands.

"Oliver?"

Oliver half-smiled and waded in through the knee-deep dry grass that covered much of the ruined house's floor. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"I've waited here several times when it was reported to me that you left the temple," said Evan, "but you never came. And now Father Winthrop seems to have disappeared. What is happening?"

"There's much to tell," said Oliver, proceeding to fill Evan in on the details about Father Winthrop.

Chapter 39: Oliver

Oliver finished his story by dropping his cloak to the ground, pulling his shirt up over his head, and turning around to show Evan his back. He said, "The marks go down to my knees."

Evan remained quiet. Oliver pulled his shirt back on and turned to look at Evan, picking his cloak up off the ground.

"I'm sorry," Evan said.

Oliver looked Evan up and down, trying to find any indication of sincerity or empathy. "Yeah." Oliver looked back at the open doorway. Maybe it was time to go.

"I see you have knives hidden in your clothes."

Oliver shrugged.

"Are those new, or have you always had them?"

Oliver pursed his lips emphatically. "It's not the knives that concern you. What is your true question?"

"Has our relationship changed?"

"I didn't give away any of our secrets, if that's what you're worried about," said Oliver.

Shaking his head, Evan said, "I wasn't worried."

"Because you aren't on a pyre already?" Oliver asked, a little more harshly than he intended.

Evan got a pained look on his face. "I'm not good at expressing empathy. Please understand that I'm truly sorry that you were whipped."

Oliver looked away. He'd known that Evan was a little bit odd, but he still didn't believe him.

"Were you beaten because of what you were doing for me?"

"In a way," said Oliver. "I was beaten for something that happened on the way to the Dunlow's house with a message, but I was asked no questions. Father Winthrop hates me. He thinks everything I say is a lie. So he had me beaten until I cried. I'm still ashamed of it."

"There's no shame in it," said Evan. "The idea that men should feel no pain is a ridiculous fantasy that perverts men's minds."

"I came here today to thank you for asking me to join in your subversions. I don't know what your goal is, and I don't care. I learned enough about myself that now I have the confidence to do what I must do. I will no longer be able to assist you."

"Why?" Evan asked.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," said Evan. "Do you despise me because of what happened?"

Oliver laughed, but not because he was happy. Regretting that he might sound insulting, he said, "What happened was not your fault. It was Father Winthrop and Franklin who did this. I don't despise you. I thank you for the hope you gave me that one day I might leave the temple and become a scholar. That was worth something to me. Now, I'm choosing never to get beaten again. I'm leaving Brighton, and I'm never coming back."

Chapter 40: Bray

Bray wove through the Coventry alleys, letting his familiarity with the town guide him. He took an indirect path to the town center. He kept an eye out for soldiers. Though it was doubtful any of the townsfolk would give him up—they hated the soldiers more than anyone else—he knew it was wise to vacate the scene of a brawl. Using his clothes to sop up the blood of his wounded hand, he nursed his sick, beaten stomach. The blows he'd received had rattled him, more than anything else. He didn't think anything was broken. His ribs were bruised, maybe. That was all. Any wounds he'd received would be ascribed to injuries from battles in the wild.

A Warden's appearance was rarely subject to scrutiny.

Thank the gods for that, at least.

At the same time, he'd have to watch his back while in town. Cutting over to the main street, he stopped at one of the local merchants' and bought an apple. Townspeople were in the streets, going about their business, but the crowds were thin. Most folks had already followed Blackthorn's orders and gone on to Brighton. Still, children's cries rang in the air. Women laughed and gossiped. He took a bite of the savory fruit, letting the juices flow in his mouth. The food was refreshing. Delicious. He admired several young girls, watching their skirts ruffle as they carried their purchases.

A few streets later he was looking at the smooth, gray walls of The House. Like most of the Houses in the townships, the building was situated at the edge of town, away from the bustle. A girl with long, dark hair hung at the entrance, waving pleasantries to entice the passersby. Bray recognized the girl from a previous visit. He couldn't recall her name.

"Was the hunt successful?" she asked, smiling.

"Always." Bray glanced over his shoulder, ensuring he wasn't being followed. When he was satisfied, he accompanied her inside.

The sleek, clean walls of The House were filled with drawings and decorations. The air smelled of fragrances and flowers. The garments and bedding in The House were washed daily; better than any other place in town that he'd seen. He'd be given a clean room and plenty of water.

A welcome reprieve from the dank alley he'd found himself in.

Besides, it was much better than sitting in the bar, reflecting on the past with a woman who no longer needed his company.

The girl offered him a bath, which he gratefully accepted, and then dismissed herself to get ready. He stared at her backside as she walked into the other room. A girl laughed. Another giggled. By the sounds of it, he was The House's only occupant. He didn't mind that.

Not at all.

As he soaked in the water, he thought of Samantha—the end of their time together, her pregnancy, and her bastard husband, Conrad. Not only had the man put an end to Bray's fun, but he'd also robbed the Wardens of their bounty. Bray tried to conjure a memory of his and Samantha's last time together, the one he'd have to carry with him for the rest of his days. But for some reason, his thoughts drifted to the companions he'd left in the woods.

To Ella.

Instead of Samantha's naked body, he pictured Ella's glistening, pale skin. Her look of determination as they'd trekked to Davenport. Her smile as she'd reunited with her children. She was as brave as she was foolhardy.

He shook the thoughts away as the dark-haired beauty returned. She was wearing a more revealing dress than the one she'd worn outside, and she let it slip from her shoulders while he watched. Her skin was unmarked, young, flawless. She was gorgeous by anyone's standards.

"You must be tired from the wild," she guessed.

"No more than usual." He grinned. "Don't worry, I still have plenty of strength left."

"I sure hope so."

As she teased the garment to the ground, Bray tried to envision the night he'd have with her, but his thoughts inexplicably returned to the woman he'd left behind in the woods.

Chapter 41: Oliver

"Stay," said Evan to Oliver. Oliver looked out through one of the empty windows, noticing it was getting dark. He had to go soon.

Oliver looked at Evan, trying not to show how sorry he felt for Evan's inability to see the world through anybody's eyes but his own. Oliver said, "I'm as insignificant to your plans as I'm small in stature. I'm nothing. A little throwaway boy who exists for use in others' schemes and whims. Father Winthrop beats me to feed his perverse need. You send me off on dangerous errands that you're afraid to do yourself. If someone gets put on the pyre, it'll be me, not you. I no longer wish to accept the tiny value that Brighton places on my life. My life is important enough to me that I'll go where I need to in order to keep it safe."

"You'll die outside the circle wall," said Evan. "You're too small to protect yourself, even with those knives."

"We'll see."

Evan sighed and looked at the ground. "I did not put you in danger because I—"

"Don't lie," Oliver commanded, putting on one of the mannerisms he'd picked up from the powerful men he'd watched while in Father Winthrop's company.

Evan shrank. "I put you in danger to protect myself. And before you call me a liar, believe me when I say that we are both tiny game pieces in a larger plan. In that plan, I am less expendable. Any strategist playing the game would choose my life over yours. For us, though, the game is important."

"Not to me," Oliver argued.

Evan walked over to the doorway and peeked out into the street. He came back to stand by Oliver, and in a hushed tone, said, "We—"

"Who are we?" Oliver demanded.

"We shall go unnamed for the moment," said Evan. "We are attempting to make a change in Brighton on such a grand scale that life will change for all of us."

"How?"

"The government, the council, is corrupt," said Evan. "It must be removed so that educated men can make decisions about what laws are to be made. People should not be slaughtered on the whims of the powerful."

"You're saying this plot I've been a part of is to oust The General and Father Winthrop?" asked Oliver. "You want Minister Beck and men like yourself to rule the townships?"

Nodding, Evan said, "Wouldn't you rather have men in charge who know how to think, men who are educated, and not pointlessly cruel?"

"All men are pointlessly cruel," argued Oliver.

"Not all men." Evan shook his head, hurt by Oliver's words.

"Goodbye, Evan." Oliver turned and started toward the door. "I wish you well, but I doubt I'll ever see you again."

"If you had a younger brother," tried Evan, "would you abandon him to the kind of cruelty that you suffer?"

Oliver shook his head and laughed at the feeble attempt. "I have no brother."

"Of course you don't," said Evan. "But imagine for a moment that you did."

Oliver heaved a sigh and turned back to the persistent Evan. "Okay, I will."

"If you had a younger brother, would you abandon him to this?"

"No."

"What if he was too small to travel with you? Would you stay?"

"I suppose," Oliver admitted.

"I'm not going to tell you that we will fail or succeed. I will only say that for each of us who stay and make the hard choice to fight, our chances of success increase. If those chances increase enough, we might succeed. If we succeed, then all the sons and daughters, all the little brothers and sisters, will have better lives. They might not have to suffer the same cruelties that you suffer. By going, you do your small part to condemn them all to your fate."

Shaking his head emphatically, Oliver said, "When such things happen, it's not my fault. I'm a victim in this."

"You are a young man who can choose to do something, or you can choose to run and protect yourself. It is a man's choice you make." Evan crossed his arms and set his face in a stern expression. "Choose what you must."

"I'll think about it." Oliver walked out of the ruined house and headed back to the market to find Franklin.

Chapter 42: Evan

The plan to come to the Dunlows' house through the alley had been a good idea before the population of Brighton doubled, leaving people and soldiers overflowing from every structure with a roof. Now it wasn't. Those who could find no solid roof had built themselves lean-tos, especially in the alley that ran behind the Dunlows' house.

With small fires burning to keep them warm, refugees huddled, shivered, and grumbled as Evan made his way through the night behind the houses. He pulled his hood over his head so that it hung in such a way as to block the view of his face from the side.

Evan told himself that farmers who weren't smart enough to get a solid roof to shelter their families were probably not smart enough to be suspicious about a Scholar from the Academy slinking through an alley in the middle of the night. But one could never be too careful.

Evan knocked lightly on the back door. A loud pound wasn't necessary. He was expected.

"Who is it?" a voice asked from inside.

"You know who it is."

The door slowly opened. Tommy Dunlow peeked out.

Evan nodded and half smiled a greeting.

The door swung open and Evan stepped out of the cold.

"Any trouble?" Tommy Dunlow asked.

Evan shook his head and followed Tommy deeper into the house. Evan was impressed. He'd seen plenty of merchant's houses; many were opulent, and left him speechless with wonder. So many farmers and poorer merchants lived in hovels of a room or two. Those that did well had a main communal room with a few bedrooms. It was only the wealthy merchants and ministers that had anything more.

Most houses were utilitarian and plain. Few had anything decorating the walls. The materials to make useless, pretty things were as scarce as the time it took to construct them. Ancient artifacts were the choice of the wealthy. Normally, they were found by a farmer in a field, or a hunter who came across something in the forest. It was the reason so many children spent a good deal of their time staring at the ground, looking for treasures from the past. Lucky finders of such items rarely kept them. The wealthy merchants, and the ones trying to appear wealthier than they were, competed with one another to accumulate the grandest collection of ancient oddities. They bought anything people found, making it a profitable proposition for a farmer who might be able to trade an old trinket for enough coin to purchase a blanket, a pig, or even enough meat to keep his family fed through the winter. The prices varied by each item's condition and rarity.

Tommy Dunlow opened a pair of interior doors. Interior doors on a room not even used for sleeping, Evan thought. The splendor staggers the imagination.

Evan followed inside to see three walls layered in shelves containing the largest collection of ancient trinkets he'd ever seen. Evan marveled at them, inadvertently ignoring Timmy Dunlow, who had been sitting in a chair inside the room.

"Everyone does that when they first come here," said Tommy.

Realizing he was rudely gawking, Evan said, "I apologize."

"Don't," said Tommy. "You can look all you want."

Nodding as he turned his attention back to a row of particularly shiny, intricately crafted things, Evan said, "I would like that, but let us take care of necessary matters first."

Timmy waved Evan toward one of the chairs. "Let's all sit down and talk. We may be seditious rebels, but we can be comfortable, can't we?"

Tommy laughed and seated himself beside his brother.

Evan didn't see the humor in Timmy's comment, but he chuckled to be polite. He sat across from the two. "The army will be marching soon."

"We haven't been told a date yet," said Tommy.

"No one has," said Evan.

"Not even Minister Beck?" asked Timmy.

"Not that he's told me," said Evan.

"And he would tell you, wouldn't he?" asked Timmy.

Evan nodded. "Minister Beck tells me everything."

Tommy leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Do you tell Minister Beck everything?"

Evan said nothing.

"That's the thing of it," said Timmy, nodding at his brother. "We've been talking to people. We've encouraged them to join this thing, whatever it is. We've talked men into taking up arms against General Blackthorn, but we don't know the source of all this. The only people we've been approached by are you and that officious pipsqueak, Oliver."

Evan figured it was best not to say anything until a question was asked.

"You see our dilemma, right?" asked Tommy.

Evan nodded.

Tommy and Timmy watched him with unasked questions on their faces.

Evan was going to make them speak that which they apparently feared to say.

Tommy looked over at his brother, gathering his courage. "Is this you putting this together? Are we talking of revolution for Evan's benefit, or is there more?"

"More," said Evan.

Tommy huffed and crossed his arms. "You know what I'm asking."

"What are you asking?"

"Is Minister Beck behind this?"

"Would it make a difference?" asked Evan.

Timmy leaned forward, pointing at Evan as he looked at his brother, "He won't answer the question. I told you."

Tommy calmed his brother. "No need to get upset." He looked back at Evan. "We need a direct answer, or we won't continue. It's that simple."

Evan asked, "And those whom you've recruited into our group of rebels, what names have you given them? Mine? Oliver's?"

Timmy looked at the floor.

Evan saw it and asked, "Timmy?"

Tommy looked over at his brother. He looked back at Evan, nervousness on his face. "Timmy told them Minister Beck was behind it."

"I never said he was," said Evan.

"Doesn't matter," said Timmy, immediately. "If he is, then good for us. If we don't have at least one Minister on our side, nobody will join. Nobody wants to go to the pyre for no reason at all."

"Then you have your answer," said Evan.

"No, we don't," said Tommy. "I need to know, is he with us?"

"If I asked you whether your father was involved," asked Evan, "what would you tell me?"

"That it's none of your business." Timmy jumped to his feet, ready to throw a punch.

Tommy stood up and calmed Timmy, guiding him back into the chair.

"You understand how I feel, then," said Evan. "I would no sooner endanger Minister Beck than you would your father. As the situation stands, all whom you've recruited for our endeavor believe Minister Beck is involved. Only you two don't know. If you've believed in the goal all this while, considering all that we've done, what difference would an admission of Minister Beck's involvement make now?"

"These men trust us," said Tommy. "We've known them all for most of our lives. We have contact with them. Without us, there is no plan. Without Minister Beck, what are you bringing except whispers and rumors?"

Evan looked at both of them for a minute before choosing to answer. "Swords. I have two hundred of them in a secret place. Without me, what will the men you've recruited fight with? Surely, some of them have swords. What of the others? Will they fight with sickles and rakes? Shields. I have two hundred of those. Should we need horses, I can provide mounts for all. Besides rumors and whispers, I bring the tools to make a rabble into an army."

"Where did you get two hundred swords?" asked Tommy.

"Where and how is not important," said Evan. "I have them. That is what is important. If Minister Beck is involved in this, I will tell you when the time comes. That is my final answer on that matter. Whether you accept that is up to you. If you do not, you need to accept another truth. If you ride or march out of those gates when General Blackthorn leads the army to the Ancient City, you will die. Every man, woman, and beast that leaves the city will die except for Blackthorn and his precious cavalry. You know who I am, and you know I am privy to many secrets that you are not. I will not tell you how I know these things beyond that explanation. If you choose not to believe me, know that what you forfeit is your life."

"We risk our lives either way then?" said Tommy.

"No," said Evan. "To stay and fight is to risk your life. To march out with the army is to accept death."

Timmy rubbed his hands over his face.

Tommy wasn't happy. He said, "I believe him."

"I know," said Timmy. "I guess I do, too. I wish we had a better choice, is all."

"You do," said Evan. "You may do nothing. Stay here, desert. You'll be burned by Blackthorn when he returns or by his replacement while he is away. That is the sum of your choices."

"I'd rather die with a sword in my hand," said Tommy. "If you take us to see this cache of weapons, I'll doubt you no more."

Evan rose from his chair. "Let's go. The place is not far from here."

Chapter 43: Ella

When her children had awakened, Ella collected them and led them into the forest.

"Where are we going?" William asked.

"To get breakfast," Ella replied. The remnants of the previous night's rabbits hung in the air. Although she'd gone to sleep with a full stomach, Ella's appetite had already returned. Days of meager portions had caught up with her.

"Bray's not back yet?"

"Nope. He must still be in town getting supplies."

She watched William's reaction, but like her, he no longer seemed surprised. The Warden's unreliable behavior had become the norm, like it or not.

"When will he be back, do you think?" William asked.

"I expected him yesterday evening. So, I'd say any time now."

Melora furrowed her brow. "I've never talked to a Warden before," she noted. "He's nicer than I thought."

"Don't let him fool you. We need to be careful," Ella warned. With Bray constantly in their presence, she hadn't delved into much detail.

"What do you mean?"

Before Ella could elaborate, William piped up, "He stole our things. He took Zander."

"Who's Zander?"

Ella shook her head. She launched into her story, filling in the gaps that Melora hadn't heard. When they were finished, Melora furrowed her brow.

"Are you sure we should travel with him?"

"I keep asking myself that. But he's the best guide we have, for now," Ella said.

"You said yourself that he's unreliable."

"He is. But he's done a lot of things to help us, as well."

"Why do you think he stays with you and William, with us?"

Not having spent any significant thought on the question from Bray's perspective, Ella said, "I'm not sure."

She chewed on the question while they kept walking. Surely, he'd become attached to William. That much was clear. Beyond that, she wasn't certain. His lewd passes at her could easily be dismissed as typical Warden behavior.

He'd alluded to the fact that he needed to earn a living, and that he couldn't stay with them forever. She expected him to leave at any time. The sight of a familiar berry bush distracted her. She bent down and studied it.

"Look at that." She smiled.

She sifted through the branches, plucking one of the small, plum-colored fruits. She held up the berry, popping it into her mouth while her children looked on.

"They almost taste better than the ones in Brighton," she said with a laugh. "Try one!"

Melora and William bent down to pick berries of their own. They popped fruits into their mouths, examining them before they ate them.

"Look at this one!" William cried, a squirt of juice dribbling down his chin.

"Here's another one! Look how ripe it is!" Melora announced.

Before Ella knew it, they were scrambling for the ripest picks, pushing past each other as if it were a game. William collected berries in the palm of one hand, mashing them into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in days. Melora popped them in her mouth almost sooner than she could pick them. She shoved William aside, and he laughed. In no time, they'd eaten a large section of the berries on the tree. They stood back and stared at each other.

"Your hands, William," Melora said.

William held up his hands, showing off the red stains from the gushy insides of the fruit. He smiled and cleaned them in the grass.

Ella laughed.

They were disrupted by crackling in the brush.

Melora was the first to jump. She hoisted her sword in the air, spinning and yelling a warning to the others. Ella readied herself, instructing William to stay behind them. Four demons appeared from a nearby patch of bramble, fighting their way through the forest. Their screeches grew louder as they got close. They were on a direct path for Ella, William, and Melora. There was nowhere to go.

The first creature was minus an arm. The remainder was a ragged stump. It looked like it'd been involved in a recent encounter, and had somehow gotten away. It shrieked, clawing the air with its remaining hand, running on spindly legs.

Ella took a step forward, protecting her children.

The beast swung its good arm at her, and she sliced the blade through the air, cleaving off its hand. The creature stared at its bloodied wrist, trying to decipher what had happened. She stabbed it in the chest.

There was no time for reprieve. Another creature was right behind it.

Melora jumped into the fray. She swung her sword at the next creature, creasing its abdomen with a deep wound. It staggered backward and leaked blood.

Screaming erupted from the tree behind them. Ella kicked out a defensive boot long enough to look back, noting William had climbed the oak directly behind them. He was perched on a branch twenty feet off the ground, screaming at the creatures.

"Get away from them! I know you can hear me!" He waved his hands, barely keeping his balance.

William's face was wild. Manic. He'd dropped his sword and pack at the bottom of the tree. Before Ella could shout a warning, her attention was ripped back to the scene on the ground.

"Mom! Look out!" Melora screamed.

Ella spun to see a creature directly in front of her. A large, mushroom-shaped growth covered half of its face. Strands of misplaced flesh protruded from its neck. It stared at her with its one good, bloodshot eye. It reached for her. She kicked the thing back and raised her sword. She cut off half of its fungal-covered face.

The thing collapsed in a hardly-human heap.

Melora was battling another—a monster with a body so covered in warts that its body had swollen to twice its size. She hacked away at it until she found its neck, slicing the thing open. It fell, writhing in its death throes.

A fifth, previously unseen creature plowed through the forest.

From the tree, William screamed at the thing. "They aren't the ones you want! Leave them alone!"

The creature clacked its jaws in hunger. It kept coming until it was several feet from Ella.

"Get back! Get back, I told you!" William shrieked.

The creature looked up at William, meeting his eyes. Its face registered confusion.

Ella speared it through the heart.

The demon crumpled.

**

"Get out of the tree, William!" Ella stuck her sword in the dirt. She peered up at him, raising her hands as if to catch him. "What are you doing?"

William had stopped screaming. He stared at the dead demons in disbelief, as if they might spring to life and converse with him. He stopped waving his hands. He clung to the branch above him, as if suddenly afraid he might fall.

"I said get down!" Ella yelled again.

She couldn't help but picture William tumbling from the tree branch, breaking a leg. What would they do then? For a second, she considered climbing the tree and retrieving him, but thankfully, he obeyed her and descended, finding shaky handholds on the branches. She didn't relax until his feet were on the ground.

"Why'd you go up there? Were you scared?" she asked.

"No." He shook his head definitively. "I wasn't scared."

She watched him carefully, keeping a tight grip on her sword. William seemed to have relaxed, but she envisioned the manic boy in the tree, screaming at the demons. The image scared her almost as much as the beasts on the ground.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" Melora asked him.

William walked away from them, studying the bodies. One of the creatures had fallen over the berry bush they'd been picking. The fruits were mangled and mixed with its blood. He furrowed his brow.

"You dropped your things," Ella said, pointing to the discarded pack and sword at the base of the tree. "You're going to need those, William."

William strode over and reclaimed them. His expression turned to shame. "I'm sorry I climbed the tree. I'm sorry I left my things," he said.

"That's all right."

"I guess I must've been scared," he admitted.

Ella traded a look of concern with Melora when William wasn't looking.

"It's okay," Melora said.

Before they could comfort him further, William put on his backpack, tucked his sword in his scabbard, and walked away.

Chapter 44: Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald moved with short, fearful steps as she approached General Blackthorn's front entrance, a pair of thick wooden doors on big iron hinges. The hinges alone were worth a month's wages to the day laborers, men who had no fields to tend and no products to sell.

Blue-shirted soldiers stood on each side of the door, bored, but seemingly itching for something to happen that would give them an excuse to unsheathe their swords and lop off some heads.

Fitz had seen their kind plenty of times when she worked nights in The House. Such men were uncaring and brutal. To them, she might as well have been a piece of furniture or a convenient pillow with the right-shaped curve. They didn't seem to care for her any more or less. They did their business with busy hands and few words, leaving her without a thank you or the gift of a coin.

Fitz pushed her cloak open so that the men would be able to see the fine dress of a merchant's wife she wore underneath. It was dyed in the deepest red, with cream-colored lace trim nearly as pale as her skin. She shuddered when Franklin had selected it for her. It was expensive enough that the dressmaker balked and argued. The dressmaker knew who Franklin was, and that he was there on Father Winthrop's business. The dressmaker was obligated to provide the dress free of charge. It wasn't until General Blackthorn's name was mentioned that the dressmaker's reluctance disappeared completely. Nobody wanted to be crossways with the General.

Fitz stopped in front of the two guards.

"Yes, ma'am?" one of them asked.

Yes, ma'am? Fitz bit back a laugh. If either of them recognized her for whom she was, she would have gotten a curse rather than a greeting. "I'm here to see General Blackthorn."

"Who sent you?" the guard asked.

Thinking back to the lesson she'd learned while shopping for the dress, Fitz said, "I'm here at General Blackthorn's request."

The guards stiffened and looked at each other. Neither spoke, but some silent message passed between them. One of them stepped over and pulled the handle on one of the heavy doors. "Wait inside by the fire. One of the girls will take care of you."

Fitz nodded and gave the guard a smile as she passed into a room with the largest, most ornate table she'd ever seen. The door closed behind her, making enough of a boom that she knew everyone in the house had to have been startled.

Opposite the pair of giant doors stood a great stone fireplace that looked as though it might have been carved from a single piece of stone. A mantle ran along the top at shoulder height. On it sat three boxes of the most interestingly decorative wood she'd ever seen. A large fire blazed inside the hearth.

From somewhere in the house, the smell of salted pork and baked bread caught her curiosity. Her stomach rumbled. She'd been nervous about her plan since the night before, unable to eat.

From a doorway that opened up to the right of the fireplace, an elderly woman came out, dressed in the plain, sack-shaped dress of a servant. "Yes, ma'am?"

Fitzgerald looked down her nose at the woman, establishing the social order just in case the clothing didn't convey the message. "General Blackthorn requested that I come and see him."

The woman looked puzzled and stuck for words. She glanced over her left shoulder toward a staircase, then back at Fitz. "The General is sleeping."

It was late enough in the morning that Fitz hadn't expected the General to be asleep. She didn't know anyone else who slept that long. Well, except for the other girls in The House, who often slept all through the morning, but with a reason. Their customers preferred to come and relieve their frustrations at night.

"Ma'am?"

Fitz thought for a moment longer. "I smell breakfast cooking. Do you expect him to come down soon?"

"The General comes down when he pleases."

Irritated, Fitz asked, "Does it usually please him to come down early?"

"I'm sorry. I've angered you." The serving girl looked at the floor.

Fitz softened her expression. She felt terrible. Besides the fine clothes that she had the good fortune to be wearing, she wasn't any better than this woman. They both occupied the lowest rungs of the Brighton social scale. Fitz walked over and put a hand on the servant's shoulder, using her other hand to pull the woman's chin up. "I'm not angry. I only wish to know whether I should stay and wait, or whether I should come back another time. Does the General usually come down for his morning meal early or late?"

The serving woman stepped back and looked Fitz up and down. "I've been cooking his meals since before you were born." She looked back at the stairs. "For almost all of those years, the General was up before the sun. He's got the heart of a horse. He never stopped moving. But now…"

"What?" Fitz asked.

"We all get old." The serving woman looked at the floor again. "If we're lucky."

"Why don't you go back to your work?" said Fitz. "I'll wait here if that's okay."

Nodding, the serving woman pulled one of the chairs out from the table and waved for Fitz to sit. "Would you like me to bring you something? Food? Drink?"

As much as Fitz wanted a few bites of what smelled so good in the kitchen, it wouldn't do to have a mouth full of bread and greasy pork when General Blackthorn came down the stairs, grouchy from having stayed in bed too long. "No. Thank you for offering."

The maid nodded and went back to her work while Fitz waited.

Chapter 45: Ella

Ella scrunched her face as she looked at the dead demons. William had walked over to a cluster of trees, quietly examining a bit of snow that clung to the bark. Convinced the demon attack was over, Ella turned to Melora.

"What do we do with the bodies?" Melora asked, her face ashen.

"Leave them," Ella said simply.

"So close to camp? Won't they draw others?"

"I'm not sure…"

"When I was staying with the settlers, they dragged the bodies into the woods to get them away from the house. Maybe we should do that," Melora said.

"You're probably right. Who knows when Bray will return?"

"Are you sure he's coming back?"

"Yes," Ella lied. The truth was, she wasn't sure, but she'd prepared for what to do if he didn't. Before bedding down, she'd made a mental note of the direction they were traveling. They'd continue to the Ancient City by themselves, if they had to.

She'd wait a few more hours. Then they'd leave. Her kids' safety came first.

Melora took a few steps toward the closest creature, but Ella stopped her. "Wait a moment. I'm still leery about touching them. I don't think anything will happen, but—"

"I'll move them," a voice called.

Ella spun in time to see William emerging from the tree he'd been hiding behind. He seemed to have recovered from whatever mood had possessed him during the battle. He walked toward her with a strangely composed gait.

"It won't matter if I touch them. I've already got the sickness. Let me move them."

Ella swallowed. "I don't think you'll be able to do it on your own. I'll help."

Ella and William grabbed one of the monsters and dragged it in the opposite direction. Its wart-covered arms flailed against the ground, as if it still possessed an ounce of fight, even though it was obviously dead. When they'd dragged away one, they came back for each of the others. William maintained his calm demeanor as they dragged the bodies over the forest floor, leaving a sticky trail of blood behind them.

When they'd finished moving the bodies, William walked back and stood next to them. He wiped his hands on his pants. He cleared his throat.

And then he strode off again, ducking through the trees and heading toward the remains of the campfire.

Ella watched him with worry. She listened for sounds of other creatures but heard nothing. The attack felt over, but that didn't make her feel any less uneasy.

"Did you see how he acted?" Melora whispered, after he was out of earshot.

Ella nodded. William's behavior was getting odder and odder. But what could they do? She shook her head sadly. "I saw it," she answered. "He thinks he can control them, somehow. I'm worried we won't have much time left with him."

"He seemed so…normal up until now. I hadn't seen it," Melora reinforced, as if the comments might reverse what she'd seen him do.

"He's been good for the past day. I held out the hope that he was in some way cured." Ella lowered her head in shame. "I realize how foolish that sounds now."

"Have you ever been around someone who was infected?" Melora asked.

"Not until they were revealed at The Cleansing," said Ella as she shook her head in answer. It went without saying that those people were promptly burned on the pyre.

"Me, neither," Melora said.

"I expected he'd be fine for a while, but it's only been days. If there was a healer, we could take him to…" Ella knew her hopes were useless.

"I've only just met him." Melora wiped her eyes, filled with the anticipation of another loss. "I'm not sure how I can go through this…"

"When the time comes, we'll do what we have to do," Ella whispered.

They fell silent, and Ella pulled her daughter in for a hug, holding her while the cool wind swayed through the trees.

Chapter 46: Fitzgerald

Fitz was mature enough that patience came easily to her. In fact, much of her life had been centered around waiting and enduring. Sitting at the most opulent table she'd ever imagined, in the largest room she'd ever seen, patience was easy. The giant, warm fire staved off the cold wind outside. The smell of breakfast hung lazily in the air.

As she sat there, taking her mind off the smell of the food, she mulled over how she was going to deal with General Blackthorn. Though the three ministers were supposed to share power equally, everyone in the townships knew General Blackthorn ruled at his whim. The other two ministers, while having all the power over the citizenry that Blackthorn had, didn't have an army of Blue Shirts to enforce their will. The other ministers were General Blackthorn's subordinates in all but name.

If Fitz had any doubts about that, she saw it as she sat through that meeting in Father Winthrop's temple. She recalled how Blackthorn sat up on the stage, occupying Winthrop's precious throne, while Winthrop groveled and bemoaned his fears from the pew at Blackthorn's feet.

Blackthorn was power.

The only thing that didn't make sense to Fitz that day was the look on General Blackthorn's face when he saw her.

She'd seen that look a thousand times on other men's faces. It wasn't lust. It was another look. Normally the men had lust on their faces, and she forced herself to turn her head away and stare at the wall while they fondled and grunted. They treated her like a body without a soul, a thing whose only purpose was to serve their physical need. She treated them like beasts pulling a plow. She moved as was required, voiced the right sounds, and sweated through her chore.

And truly, when she put herself in the right frame of mind, it was no worse than working a stupid animal at the plow or wallowing in a stinking sty with the pigs. She'd wash when she was finished and put the night's labors out of her mind.

Of course, sometimes her patrons left her with bruises, but Housemother Mary was always good in that situation. Men who felt the need to raise a hand to the girls were not welcome to return. Mary had an arrangement with several of the city guards to enforce it.

The men that Fitz had difficulty with tended to be young. They were either unwed, and looking for something more than physical pleasure, or wed and dissatisfied with their brides. For those men, the satisfaction of their physical need was bound inextricably to the infatuated love that lived in their simple, immature hearts. It always showed on their faces when they looked at her with longing eyes and lightly pained pleasure on their faces.

General Blackthorn, even with his time-grizzled, battle-scarred face, had that look.

It had frightened Fitz at first. How would she handle General Blackthorn? The pups of men who came to her at The House of Barren Women were easy enough. It didn't trouble her one bit to take advantage of the wealthiest ones, saying enough of the right things, showing extra enthusiasm during the fondling and grunting, laying entwined under the sheets for a while after the act was finished.

In the men's minds, she was reciprocating love. It was one pretense on top of another, creating an illusion of mutual pleasure.

The ones who could afford it left her with the gift of a coin. A fair trade. They had more coin than they needed. She provided a service that cost her nothing to give. She only had to be good at pretending, at pushing her thoughts away through the vileness of it, and being patient for the day when her efforts bought her freedom.

Unfortunately, with some young men, the fiction of love ended in possessive jealousy and raised fists.

General Blackthorn was the one man in town with the power to do anything, to grant her anything. He was also the one man in town who feared no repercussions should his feelings for her turn to jealousy or worse.

If the stories were true, he'd put all of his old lovers on the pyre.

Fitz shuddered at the thought.

Still, she understood the stakes in the game she was planning to play.

She looked around the room, her eye settling on those three enigmatic boxes on the mantle. Her curiosity urged her to peek inside, but her situation was precarious enough. By sitting there in General Blackthorn's dining hall, she was already playing a game that could cost her life.

Chapter 47: William

William heard them. They didn't think he did, but he did. Every word. He kicked at the burnt embers around the campfire, staring at the bloodstains on his boots. He tried to look busy while he listened through the trees to Ella and Melora.

They continued talking, speaking about him with worried gestures. They were afraid. Afraid of what he was becoming. While they grew closer together, they pushed him away.

He could see what they were asking each other. The real question wasn't how fast the spore was growing, or how it was affecting him, but how soon they'd kill him.

A part of William wanted to run into the forest, to join the ranks of the demons, but he knew he couldn't take care of himself. He'd been learning from Bray, Ella, and Melora, but he wasn't ready yet. He needed more practice. More time. Time to figure things out. Time to learn to hunt, to build his own shelter, and to survive.

The wind blew, temporarily drowning out Ella's and Melora's conversation. William stopped moving and strained his ears. When the gust had passed, he heard them talking about people at The Cleansing, people they'd known that were afflicted.

Even though he'd seen the unclean for brief periods of time, William knew he was different than them. He wasn't crazed and delusional. He knew what he was seeing, what he was experiencing.

What he saw was real.

He smiled as he ground ashes into the dirt, smearing them from side to side, pretending to be preoccupied. He thought about how the demons had reacted when he'd spoken to them. Mom and Melora might not have noticed, but he'd seen them hesitate. That was the real reason the demons were dead. They'd heard William's words, and they'd listened, and that's why they'd fallen to Mom's and Melora's swords.

He knew he couldn't hold the demons back for long. They had a vendetta against humanity, and he couldn't blame them. But he had a feeling he could control them, even more than he just had. He'd test that later. Maybe when he reached the Ancient City.

William was looking forward to it.

He moved so he could see Mom and Melora through the trees. They embraced, and he felt a sting of jealousy. For years, he'd been the one looking after his mother, helping her with everything she needed. Especially after Ethan died. And here was Melora, solidifying her position, planning his demise, while Mom plotted with her. He bit his lip in anger. A spurt of blood flowed over William's tongue, warm and salty in his mouth.

You're not going to kill me, he thought. No way.

Chapter 48: Fitzgerald

Sounds had stopped coming from Blackthorn's kitchen as the morning wore on. Fitzgerald wondered if noon had yet arrived. The great house felt empty. Only vague sounds from the outside made their way through the thick walls to keep her company.

Prior to arriving, she'd decided she was going to tell the lie that she was there to display the dress that Father Winthrop had acquired at General Blackthorn's behest. She wanted to ensure it was acceptable. If Blackthorn still had that forlorn infatuation in his eyes, she'd leverage that into a commitment by him to put Father Winthrop's enormous ass on a horse and ride him out of Brighton with the army.

It was a plan that called for reading a man's heart through his eyes and manipulating him. A game she was used to. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was riding on a handful of hope.

The longer she sat in the dining room, the more Fitzgerald realized her opportunity lay upstairs. Many men were awkward in that transition from eye contact to bed sheets. Even in The House of Barren Women, a place where everyone understood exactly what was going to happen, that was true.

Perhaps Blackthorn had grown uncomfortable in his relations with women. He hadn't had a wife in many years, after all.

Maybe she could use that discomfort to her advantage.

Fitz stood up, her nerves making her hands tremble.

She cast one last, pointless look around the room, then headed for the stairs.

**

At the top of the stairs, a long hall ran the length of Blackthorn's mansion. The doors on both sides of the hall were closed. Which one was Blackthorn's? For a brief moment, Fitz considered abandoning her mission and going back downstairs to wait. The thought of checking each door for General Blackthorn seemed like a plan that would surely end in disaster. Then she noticed a pair of doors with shiny metal handles at the end of the hall. That had to be the room in which the General slept.

On light, soundless steps, Fitz glided up the hall.

She stopped at the double doors and listened, discerning the snoring of a man sleeping within.

It had to be the General. The serving woman wasn't lying. He really was sleeping.

Fitz steeled her nerves. No point in second guessing now. She'd already thought things through a hundred times. She was committed to the hope that it would all work out.

She put a hand on one of the door handles and opened it up.

In the center of a room that put Father Winthrop's chamber to shame sat the largest bed she'd ever seen. Sleeping on his back in that bed lay General Blackthorn.

Fitz walked into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She shivered at the cold, noticing that the fire had died down during the night. No maid had come in to put fresh logs in the fireplace.

Fitz walked over to the bed and looked down on General Blackthorn. Even in sleep, he looked regal and determined. Perhaps his face was so used to holding that look that it remained that way, even in relaxation.

She sat on the bed beside General Blackthorn's sleeping form. Her heart beat maddeningly. She thought about Franklin. How would he feel about what she was about to do?

The question surprised her. Franklin harbored no illusions about Fitz's role in Brighton. He'd even been forced to stand outside Father Winthrop's door on numerous occasions while Winthrop fumbled through his business, bellowing like a wounded pig at climax. How could Franklin possibly not know? Still, this one seemed different to her. It was as if the moment that Fitz had been taken out of The House and put into service as a cleaning woman in the temple, she'd decided that she belonged to Franklin.

The physical act she was planning seemed like a betrayal.

Fitz took a deep breath and put those thoughts out of her mind. Just as Franklin had sacrificed something of his soul to beat Oliver, Fitz was going to sacrifice whatever ambivalence she was feeling for the good of her and Franklin.

She reached over and caressed General Blackthorns face.

With eyes closed, he flinched, and then accepted her touch. He seemed pleased, almost comforted.

Fitz placed her palm fully against his face, and his eyes half-opened, looking up at her.

Fitz held her breath. This was the moment when her plan would fork toward success, or spiral down to an end on the pyre pole. It took all her control to keep her hand steady on General Blackthorn's face, conveying love instead of nerves.

General Blackthorn's hard features softened, and he smiled, muttering something Fitz didn't understand, but she knew the tone of his utterance. He was pleased.

Fitz breathed.

With the General still half asleep, Fitz knew she could get away with anything.

She slid a hand under the blankets and put it on his chest. Even old, his body was as hard as a young man's, not fat and soft like the older merchants that sometimes visited her in The House.

She caressed the rippled muscles on his belly as she passed his bellybutton and felt some kind of thick undergarment over his private parts. She pushed her hand beneath, trying to find his manhood, realizing as she did that the garment was soaking wet.

General Blackthorn's eyes snapped full open.

Fitz half-smiled and leaned close to kiss him.

She felt an iron grip clamping her shoulder, pushing her away.

"Emma?"

Fitz didn't know whether to respond with words or touch.

Her hand found what it was looking for in the wet undergarment.

Blackthorn roughly shoved Fitz. She tumbled off the bed and onto the floor.

In a flash, Blackthorn was on his feet, the wet cloth wrapped into that undergarment falling to the floor, leaving his lean body naked. "What—?"

Shying away from a flaming rage burning in Blackthorn's eyes, Fitz was at a loss. She hadn't expected this reaction, hadn't guessed anything like it might happen. She tried to put on a smile. She gestured at her dress, mostly at her breasts beneath the fine cloth. She knew how men loved those. "I thought—"

"Out!" Blackthorn shouted.

Fitz scrambled backward.

Blackthorn came at her, fists balled, a scowl on his face. "Out!"

Fitz tried to get to her feet. Blackthorn kicked her. She tumbled over.

He yelled at her again.

She tried to stand. He grabbed her upper arm, dragging her up with the strength of a man lifting a child.

Fitz cried at the pain of his grip.

Blackthorn flung his door open, and with one hand, tossed her onto the floor in the hall. He slammed the door behind her.

Fitz cried as the humiliation and physical pain sunk in. Her crying turned desperate as she heard feet on the stairs. The game she'd been betting her life on was lost.

Chapter 49: Fitzgerald

Shuffling sounds in Blackthorn's room told her nothing about what was going on in there. Was he getting dressed? Was he having a tantrum?

That didn't matter.

Fitz stared at the darks spots on the floor where her tears were discoloring the wooden floor planks.

Footsteps marched deliberately up the hall.

The footsteps were terror and the promise of a pyre pole.

She dared not look.

They were coming to get her, and she could do nothing except cry and start to miss all she was about to lose. She'd had a chance to be happy with Franklin despite Brighton's cruelty. All she'd had to do was endure and forget, just as she'd always done. But she'd become a greedy whore for happiness. She wanted more than she'd deserved. Now her future was on a path to a moment in which she'd see Franklin standing in the dirt at the edge of the fire's heat, as the flames burned away her fine, expensive dress and crusted her dark eyes in burned skin.

She'd sob and scream once that flame wrapped its first blazing tendril around her thigh. She knew she would.

She shuddered at the thought.

A pair of boots came to a stop on the floor in front of her.

She sniffled, trying to stop her tears.

"Stand, woman."

Hanging her head, Fitz got to her knees, but fear of what she knew was coming froze her muscles in place.

A hand reached under one of her arms. The voice, gentle this time, said, "Please, stand up."

Fitz gulped down her sobs and got to her feet. Strands of her black hair pasted themselves to the tears across her face. As she blinked to clear her eyes, she hoped she would die at that moment to avoid the pain that was to come.

Before her stood Captain Tenbrook, a man with a reputation like no other.

Without a doubt, he was handsome to the point of beauty. He was tall, with strong but gentle hands, a man molded from the dreams of young girls. But the whisper among the girls old enough to have salacious fantasies was that this beauty of a man had no soul. He'd been born empty.

Cruelties beyond imagination were mentioned in the quietest of voices, always with a look over the shoulder as though they were talking about an evil demon that could materialize out of ash in the wind. Always, though, the cruelties had happened to someone who knew someone, or whose cousin or niece had witnessed it. No name ever came with the rumor, as though the names themselves had run away from the stories in fear. Or the empty soul of Tenbrook himself ate them.

And his men, wild-eyed and loyal, seemed to long for death at only the chance of one favorable word from Tenbrook's lips. All other in the cavalry hated him, or so it was said.

Fitz wondered, as she looked through her mussed hair at that perfect face, if Tenbrook was an ancient demon-god, haunting Brighton for his pleasure.

He reached a hand up to her face, and she flinched.

"It's okay," he said, as gently as a father to a daughter. He brushed her hair from her face with three or four strokes. He pulled a cloth from a pocket and dabbed at her tears. "What are you doing here?"

Fitz looked at Tenbrook, confused, unable to reconcile all that she'd heard with the kindness in the touch of his fingers, the softness in that rumbling voice.

"Do you speak?" Tenbrook asked, concern on his face.

Fitz nodded.

Tenbrook tilted his head toward Blackthorn's still closed doors. "Did you have business with General Blackthorn?"

Suddenly ashamed for what she'd intended, Fitz found the strength to say, "I was sent to ask General Blackthorn a favor."

Tenbrook nodded, as though he had some information on the details of Fitz's request, though she knew he couldn't possibly be aware of her intentions.

"For your husband?" he asked.

Fitz didn't know how to answer that question, so she said nothing.

Tenbrook stepped back and looked her up and down. "That is a lovely dress. Your husband must do very well. And he must keep you very well hidden. I don't recall seeing you before."

Fitz thanked her stars that Tenbrook had never visited The House of Barren Women. If so, he'd have recognized her instantly.

Tenbrook turned and took a few steps down the hall.

Fitz stayed in her place.

He looked back at her. "Come downstairs with me."

Chapter 50: Bray

Bray immersed himself in the forest. His trip to Coventry had done him good, though he could've done without the beating. His foray with the locals only deepened his appreciation for the wild. He soaked in the peacefulness and familiarity of the woods, allowing the isolation to wash over him as he thought of Ella.

Whether it was his absence for the past day and night or some misguided nostalgia, Bray wasn't sure, but he hoped to make sense of it when he got back.

Hopefully Ella, William, and Melora had survived without incident.

Cutting a path similar to the one he'd taken before, he studied the ground for evidence that he'd been followed, but didn't see any. It was a precautionary habit that had saved his life on many occasions. One time in particular, a Warden had followed him to the outskirts of town and watched him enter Coventry, hoping to ambush him when he returned. If Bray's guard hadn't been up, he might've fallen victim to the man's perceived grudge.

When he was fairly confident he hadn't been followed, Bray picked up his pace, tallying his coin. Despite his relaxation at The House and his spending on ale, he'd managed to save a bit of the money he'd been paid. Old habits, he supposed. His plan was to take it back to the Ancient City and keep a few coins on his person, should the scalps dry up.

His nose ran from the cold. It was a bitter day—colder in the woods than in the township. He wiped his face with his sleeve.

A few miles past town, he encountered several demons meandering in the trees, and he made quick work of them, tucking their skins in his bag. Although he wasn't fond of the weather, the early temperature made the demons lethargic, easier to kill.

"At least I'll eat this week," he grumbled. Leaving the bodies behind, he thought of the rodents that would be appreciative of a quick, easy meal.

A while later he approached the place where he'd left Ella, William, and Melora. He slowed. He saw nothing alarming, no proof that anyone else had traveled this way. Demon smell was in the air.

Worry crept inside him.

He felt an inexplicable concern for the people he'd left behind. If something had happened to them…

He hastened his pace, drawing his sword. The chirps and chatter of the birds floated through the air, deepening his unease. If something had occurred, it wasn't recently. That meant he couldn't affect the outcome. He'd be too late. He'd gone a few hundred more feet when he heard voices. He smiled, picking out Ella's feminine lilt. Patches of clothing appeared through the trees. Three forms sat in the distance, talking in conversational tones. Grinning, he slowed down to sneak up on them. He dampened his footsteps and smiled mischievously.

Within twenty feet of his companions, he saw the travelers sitting in a circle, facing the remains of a fire. They held their swords in their laps. He moved sideways until he saw Ella.

She brushed her hair behind her ears, giving a genuine but cautious smile.

He crept a few paces forward until he reached an open patch of dirt about ten feet from them. Then he stepped quietly into the open. He remained silent for a minute before speaking. He stroked his beardless face, shaven from his time in town.

"Miss me?"

Chapter 51: Tenbrook

Tenbrook sat in Blackthorn's chair at the head of the table, with the fire at his back. He imagined how he'd look when this long, ancient table was his, bequeathed to him at the passing of the General on his folly into the Ancient City.

Folly?

No, Tenbrook only called it folly because despite the General's reasons, the mission didn't make sense. Sure, there was the stated justification, to thin the population and avoid the famine. The thing that didn't make any sense was why General Blackthorn had decided he had to die. Why not lead the pig chasers and dirt scratchers to their deaths and ride to safety with a few squadrons, or all the squadrons of his cavalry?

Upon hearing the General's plan, Tenbrook's first thought was that the General was in the early stages of losing his senses as some of the old people in town did. He thought Blackthorn's plan was the idiotic product of a diminished mind. Tenbrook, of course, said nothing. After all, by some wholly unexpected miracle, General Blackthorn had chosen him as his successor.

After coming to an eventual acceptance, and getting past the stifled giddiness of it, Tenbrook started to think about the problem rationally. What he concluded was that General Blackthorn was not suffering from an age weakened mind. Indeed, he seemed just as sharp as ever. He was a little weaker than normal, but each passing year had to be paid for.

Tenbrook typically measured other men in terms of how quickly he thought he could slay them. The thought of one-on-one combat with the General still gave him pause. Not many other men did.

He wondered if the General was playing a complex game that Tenbrook had yet to see. He wondered if finding the answers to unspoken questions was part of the education that General Blackthorn was providing. He wondered whether the General was simultaneously grooming one or two of his other captains to succeed him, perhaps letting Tenbrook and the others proceed through some competitive vetting process, at the end of which, one would become the new general. The other two would have to die. That would be the politically expedient solution. The General would know that.

With those stakes now stark in his mind—success or death—Tenbrook's excitement grew. These were the sorts of things that made life worth suffering the tortuously boring times for; these made the irritation of having to deal with dunces worth it.

"How long do you require me to stand here?" Fitzgerald asked.

Tenbrook looked up at the woman, knowing that he'd lost himself in other thoughts, even though he'd intended to get her expensive dress off and see those tempting curves.

Tenbrook listened to the sounds inside the house for a moment. No noise came from upstairs. Tired old Blackthorn must have gone back to bed.

Perhaps that was it. The General was getting old. Perhaps he'd rather die feeling the exhilaration of fighting for his life while swinging his sword, than lying toothless in a bed laboring for breath. That was something Tenbrook understood. If he lived as long as the General, perhaps he'd one day make a similar decision.

He set all thoughts of Blackthorn aside, concentrating on the raven-haired beauty before him.

"When I found you on the floor upstairs, you were holding your upper arm."

Fitz nodded.

"Did the General hurt you?"

Fitz reached a hand over to touch her arm. "I'll be okay."

Standing up from Blackthorn's chair so that he could look down on the woman, Tenbrook pulled his face into an expression to which he knew young ladies responded well. He made it appear as if he truly cared. "I have a man who tends to my wounded. He knows all there is to know about injuries and how to heal them. I could have him look after you."

Fitz shook her head and said, "I don't think—"

A raised hand from Tenbrook silenced her.

"In moments of stress, people often don't know the extent of their injuries." Tenbrook tried his best to sound casual. "I had a man with me once. We were ambushed by a band of demons as we rode through the forest."

Fitz's confusion showed on her face.

"I tell you this story only because it is germane. I saw this man, Alvin was his name, fall from his horse." Tenbrook stuck his left arm out to his side. "He tried to catch himself. It's a stupid thing to stick an arm out when you fall from a horse. But instinct trumps training in some men." With his other hand, Tenbrook drew a line across his forearm. "I saw Alvin's arm snap right across there, like a twig."

Fitz cringed.

"In all the excitement of raising his sword and fighting for his life, he didn't realize he'd broken his arm. He never felt it. He didn't even know until the skirmish had ended, and all the demons were dead. I pointed it out to him then. He looked at it, completely surprised."

"What…" Fitz started, and then gulped. "What happened to him?"

Tenbrook shrugged as though it made no difference whatsoever. "Died of fever within a week."

Fitz touched her arm again. It hurt quite a lot. Knowing it wasn't more than a bruise, she looked down without catching herself just to be sure her arm wasn't bent at an unforgiving angle.

Tenbrook stood up and walked over to Fitz. Putting a comforting hand on her shoulder, he said, "What is your name?"

"They call me Fitz."

"Fitz," said Tenbrook, "I would be so pained to see you leave here with an injured arm. Allow me to check it, please."

Fitz looked down at her dress, seemingly unable to decide how to proceed.

Tenbrook looked at the deep red dress, buttoned from navel to neck, wrapped around her tightly enough to show every curve of her shape before spreading out into flowing folds the color of late summer roses. There was no way she could pull her arm out of it to show Tenbrook without peeling the dress down over her shoulders and half exposing herself.

Something on the girl's face changed, as though she suddenly saw through his sophomoric plan to peel away her dress. Nevertheless, she thanked him for his kindness and started to undo the buttons, slower than was necessary and certainly slower than nimble fingers were capable of moving.

The way her fingers touched the buttons, the way her hands lingered between her breasts, aroused Tenbrook, and he found himself unable to look away. He wanted at that moment more than anything else to see this woman naked, to feel her skin against his, to do what strong men do with such lovely creatures.

The unbuttoning stopped when Tenbrook saw her navel, but his eyes could hardly turn away from the roundness of her breasts as they pushed out to spread the unbuttoned seam apart.

In the same sensuous way Fitz had handled the buttons, she reached up to the left side of her neck and tugged the garment over her shoulder, wriggling her arm up as she went. When the movement was finished, the dress hung from her right shoulder, exposing part of one breast along with the injured arm.

Tenbrook gave only the barest of glances at the bluing, finger-shaped bruise marks on the arm and found himself cocking his head ever so slightly to see the nipple hidden just under the button lined edge of fabric. His breathing quickened.

"What do you think of the injury on my arm?" Fitz asked.

Tenbrook looked up at Fitz's face. He could tell she knew what she was doing. He walked behind her, capturing her with one arm around her waist. With his free hand, he caressed the skin over the bruise as he looked down, seeing everything from his new angle.

He pushed his pelvis against her from behind.

"You're right," he said. "It's just a bruise."

"Thank you," said Fitz as she spun away from Tenbrook's arm. In one swift motion, she pulled her dress up over her shoulder and turned to face him.

Tenbrook looked at her eyes. He looked at her lips. He looked at her breasts, partially hidden by the open dress.

Fitz said, "I'm afraid I disturbed General Blackthorn while he was sleeping and that caused him to do what he did. Unfortunately, in his mood, he was unable to hear my request."

Tenbrook stepped forward, raising his hands to wrap the woman up and pull her close, but she stepped back, glancing at his hands. Tenbrook understood immediately. They were negotiating. He glanced up, as though to see through the ceiling to where Blackthorn lay in his bed on the second floor. "What was your request of him?"

Fitz turned slowly, displaying all the curves of her backside. She finished the move and came back to face Tenbrook from another step farther away. "I'd prefer not to trouble you with something you can do nothing about."

"I think you might find yourself greatly surprised by what I can do." Tenbrook smiled confidently.

"Really?" Fitz laughed like a young girl hearing the braggadocio of a lovesick boy.

"Yes," Tenbrook said, his face turning deadly serious. "There is little in the realm of the townships and all the unnamed villages that is beyond my purview." Tenbrook's coy smile returned. "Ask and let us see what I can and cannot do for you."

Fitz shrugged, as if to indicate she might be thinking about Tenbrook's request. The dress slipped off her shoulder again. Fitz deftly caught it before too much of her private skin was exposed. "That sounds like it might be an exaggeration."

Tenbrook reached quickly and grabbed Fitz's hand, holding her in a grip not tight enough to hurt, but powerful enough that she knew she wouldn't be getting away. "Perhaps we both promise too much. I will deliver on any promise I make. Will you? Or must you be forced?"

Fitz's face showed a spark of panic, but she caught her composure as she slowly nodded. "I know what you want. I'm not a foolish virgin girl. I trust you, and I accept that you'll be truthful."

"What is it you'll have?" Tenbrook asked.

"Father Winthrop," said Fitz. "General Blackthorn came to see him in the temple."

Tenbrook tried to suppress a laugh at the things he'd heard lately about Father Winthrop. "I've been told he's locked himself in his chamber, wetting himself with fear, and that he refuses to come out."

Nodding, Fitz said, "That is true and not."

"How not?" asked Tenbrook.

"Father Winthrop is gathering his courage to embark on the kind of quest that strong men such as yourself take for granted. He wants to go out with the army when they leave, but he can't force himself to do it."

Tenbrook was confused. "What are you asking of me?"

"Can you force Father Winthrop to go? Or, more accurately, can you ensure that General Blackthorn, despite his recent ambivalence, ignores Father Winthrop's pleas to persuade him otherwise, and force him, instead, to ride out with the army?"

Tenbrook worked to suppress his laugh. This stupid woman was bargaining for something that General Blackthorn had already decided to do. Still, she seemed to have information about Blackthorn's thoughts on the matter that Tenbrook was not aware of. That was not a matter of concern for Tenbrook. It would be a simple matter to sway the General to do as the woman was asking.

And in the end, did it matter one way or the other?

Tenbrook had already decided he was going to tell her whatever she wanted to hear to make her a willing participant for what he had in mind. Of course, none of them stayed willing through all of it. "No need to worry on that count. The General and I discuss the matter of Father Winthrop with some regularity. I can see that the General will do what you ask." Tenbrook smiled and looked down from Fitz's captivating eyes to those two partially hidden breasts. "And now to your part of the bargain."

Fitz pulled at her dress, slid it off her shoulders, and let it fall to the ground.

Chapter 52: Bray

Bray grinned. Ella shot upright, stifling a scream. She stumbled backward. She raised her sword. When she recognized Bray, she yelled, "You bastard!"

Melora and William rose to their feet, looking startled and confused. When they saw Bray, their faces lit up.

"You shaved!" Melora observed.

Bray stroked his chin. "I almost forgot what I looked like underneath." To Ella, he asked, "What do you think?"

She pursed her lips but didn't answer.

"How was the trip to Coventry?" William asked. "I wish you'd told me. I would've come."

Bray strolled up to the group, grinning as Ella composed herself. He unslung his pack and put it on the ground. From inside, he pulled out several stuffed pouches of dried pork, a bunch of carrots, and some apples.

"Is that for us?" Melora asked, unable to contain her surprise.

"Yep. Eat what you want."

William gratefully snagged an apple, and Melora did the same. Ella watched her children eat for a minute without taking anything. An irritated expression started to form on her face.

"Have some, Ella," Bray said. "You need to keep up your strength."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're not having any?"

"I got my fill in town."

"I bet you did." Ella frowned as she took an apple, crunching into it.

"I even bathed for you."

"It's nice to bathe once in a while," Ella said. A slight smile crossed her face. "How was it in town? Did you see any soldiers?" Her smile morphed to concern as she noticed the cuts. "What happened to your face?"

Bray took his time answering. He grabbed a strip of pork and munched on it while he tucked the rest of the food back in his bag. Then he settled down and rested on his haunches.

"A little tiff. Nothing to worry about."

"I wasn't worried," Ella said, looking away.

"To answer the question you asked before that, I did see a few soldiers, but they didn't seem to know anything about you. Or at least, not that I heard. I didn't linger, though." Bray bit off a piece of pork. "I did hear something else. It sounds like General Blackthorn is raising the troops for an expedition."

"What kind of expedition?"

"No one knew. But they took the opportunity to screw the Wardens on skins."

"What do you mean?"

"The prices went down again. As if they weren't low enough already."

"Oh." Ella looked at the ground. She took another bite of apple.

"I smell demons. Did you run into them?" Bray looked around the forest.

"Yes. Five of them," Ella said.

"Where are they?"

She pointed in the opposite direction, but Bray didn't see anything moving. "Did they run off?"

"No. We took care of them," Ella said simply.

Bray smiled. Her dress, which had been clean before he left, was stained with demon blood. "You're learning. You're almost a Skin-Seller. All I need to do is teach you to cut scalps."

"I left the scalps for you," she replied without looking.

"We can trade them in town when we come back through. Maybe we can split the coin among us."

"Consider it payment for the food." Ella finished her apple before wiping her hands on her skirt.

William stared at Bray and Ella, amused by the conversation. He had finished his food. "Are we leaving soon?" he asked. "I'm bored of this place."

"Yep." Bray stroked his chin as he peered toward the east. "I'm going to skin those demons, then we'll head to the Ancient City. If you'd like, I can show you how to cut off the scalps."

"I'd like that," William said. "I'd like that very much."

Chapter 53: Franklin

"I don't want another girl from The House of Barren Women!" Winthrop's bark made him sound like an oversized merchant's son, complaining for another meal he didn't need. "Fitzgerald belongs to me. I earned her. I want her."

Franklin glanced over his shoulder at Winthrop's bedchamber door, wishing he'd closed it all the way. The girl he'd brought from The House stood outside in the hall, hearing every word of Father Winthrop's tantrum. He'd said no ugly whore from that House was as beautiful as Fitzgerald. He'd said all the rest of them were dusty-crotched, toothless hags with coarse horsehair and calloused man-hands.

He wanted Fitzgerald.

Winthrop whined that he didn't want to give his manly gift to another strange woman, who knew not how to please him and was too stupid to learn. He was tired of talking and telling. He wanted to lie on his back and revel in pleasure. He wanted to hear the voice he'd become accustomed to in his ear. He liked a particular taste on his tongue and a special smell in his nose. A new girl meant new smells and new tastes.

He wanted Fitzgerald.

"I tried to wake her, Father." Franklin had told the lie so many times now it sounded true. "She's been delirious with the fever."

"I've waited all day," Winthrop shouted.

"She's puking," said Franklin. "She's covered in it. She smells foul. And she can't get to the outhouse on time."

"Wash her and bring her here."

"And if she dies?" Franklin asked, very much afraid that Fitzgerald might be dead. He hadn't seen her since he left the temple to go to the market a few days ago. When he returned, she was gone. He'd assumed she was somewhere in the temple doing her chores. As the day wore on, and he hadn't seen her, he became worried. He searched the whole of the building and didn't find her. He asked the working girls. No one had seen her since that morning. None had seen her leave. She'd just disappeared.

Franklin had even gone out into the town square in front of the temple and asked if anyone had seen her. No one had.

He concluded finally that Fitzgerald was in Winthrop's bedchamber, so he'd made up an excuse to knock and quickly let himself in. As much as it irked Franklin to find Fitzgerald in Winthrop's company, he panicked when he saw only Winthrop inside, still in his chair, reeking from days without a bath, in a hot room with a big fire.

Before Franklin could escape, Winthrop had demanded that he bring Fitzgerald to him.

That's when Franklin knew he had a problem. He'd concocted the story about Fitzgerald being ill, and told Father Winthrop that he'd have to go to The House of Barren Women for a substitute. He all but ran out the door with Winthrop hollering after him that he didn't want anybody but Fitz.

Franklin's hope as he'd come up with the idea of going to The House was that he might find Fitz there, her having chosen to escape back to a less unpleasant place than the temple.

Sadly, she wasn't at The House of Barren Women. Franklin had asked the Housemother, Mary, several times, even going as far as to threaten the woman. At the end, she'd offered to let him search The House for as long as he liked. Then she'd cackled a lot, and reminded Franklin what a fool he'd been to defend the thieving whore.

Franklin ignored most of it as his temper burned. When he finished his search, he grabbed the first young-looking woman he saw and dragged her out with him. Father Winthrop needed something. If he was in the mood and Franklin couldn't produce Fitzgerald, then he damn well better have a substitute.

"Boy!" Winthrop yelled. "Boy, listen to me!"

"Sorry, Father."

"Spend your time daydreaming when you're in your room, not when you're with me," Winthrop told Franklin. "Do what I say. Do it now."

Franklin looked at the riding crop with which he'd been forced to beat Oliver. He thought about picking it up from where it leaned on the wall next to the bed and beating Winthrop. He was tired of listening. He should be spending his time in search of Fitzgerald, though he was out of guesses on where to look and what to do.

He was sick with worry that something terrible had happened to her. He was heartbroken at the possibility that she'd given up on Brighton, him, and their plan, that she'd gone over the wall, that she was free, and that she was happy.

Franklin spun around and went into the hall, slamming Winthrop's door closed behind him.

Panting from exertion and anger, Franklin looked at the Barren Woman standing there waiting, a girl not much older than him. Her face conveyed her fright. Franklin felt bad for her, but she wasn't his problem. "He's in a foul mood, but you've no need to fear. He won't hurt you. He's not that kind of man."

Mostly true.

The girl looked at the closed door. She didn't believe Franklin.

Franklin looked at his feet and huffed, feeling the urgent need to rush off and find Fitz.

He looked back up at the girl and took on an authoritative tone. "Take off your dress and anything you might be wearing underneath. Do it now."

The girl didn't hesitate. She'd been told by men to do that too many times in her young life.

Once her clothes were on the floor, Franklin picked them up and folded and stacked them outside the door. "You'll go inside. Don't say anything, not at first. He likes to do all the talking. Go over by the fire, stand there, and let him see you." Franklin looked her up and down. She was young, and she was pretty. She was exactly the kind of girl Winthrop would ask for. "He'll like you. Believe me on that. When he sees you…" Franklin nodded. "He just needs a minute."

Franklin put a hand on the girl's shoulder and steered her toward the door. "He may ask you to start talking once he decides that he likes you, and he will decide it. Trust me. When you start talking, don't say anything of any importance. He doesn't want to think. He just wants to hear your voice. He likes the sound of a girl's voice before he beds her. He's odd that way. When he's ready, he'll put you on top, so you don't need to worry about being squeezed to death under his fat belly." Franklin smiled and cocked his head, hoping to lighten the girl's mood with the smallest of silver linings. "He usually finishes quick, though sometimes he goes twice."

The girl nodded her understanding.

"When he's done," said Franklin, "he may ask you to stay. As often as not, he does that." Franklin shook his head emphatically. "The girls almost never stay the night. Wait until you hear him snore, and then let yourself out. Your clothes will be here, just as they are now. Come and find me here in the temple. I'll walk you back to The House. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded.

Franklin opened the door.

Winthrop bellowed.

The naked girl walked in, and Franklin closed the door behind her. He looked up and down the gloomy hall, wondering what he was going to do next.

Where was Fitz?

Chapter 54: Fitzgerald

Sobbing, Fitz sat on the floor beside the fireplace, leaning against the warm stones. Her dress lay on the floor beneath the table. She wanted to pull it over her head, bind all those buttons to cover her shame, and run from Blackthorn's dining room. She wanted to feel the cold stones of the town square under her bare feet, and she wanted the cold wind to sting her skin. She felt shame for what she'd done, though she couldn't explain to herself why her heart hurt so much over it.

Tenbrook's fists had bruised her, and his teeth had bitten her through the most brutal sexual encounter of her life. None of the rumors she'd heard about Tenbrook were exaggerated. Once his pants fell to the floor, he behaved as if he'd transformed into one of the demons, intent on satisfying his need, hurting her as a means to do so.

Now, it seemed as though everything hurt. She bled where she shouldn't be bleeding, where Tenbrook's animal bites had broken the skin and made her scream. Each scream had only seemed to give him more pleasure.

Fitz told herself that the pain she was enduring was no worse than what Winthrop had forced Franklin to do to Oliver, not just once, but a hundred times.

What she'd done was the right thing.

Crawling across the floor to retrieve her dress, the pain made her wonder if she might die, right there in General Blackthorn's dining hall.

Chapter 55: Ivory

The thought that Jingo might be in danger hit Ivory a few miles from the Ancient City. He hadn't spotted the bear-man since he'd led him to the animal's lair, but he had a sudden, irrational concern that something had happened to his teacher during his absence.

Because of his fear for Jingo's safety, he barely noticed his surroundings as he exited the forest and entered the city outskirts. He climbed among cracked, uprooted Ancient stones and patches of ice where the snow had melted and refrozen, traveling on muscle memory, hardly looking up at the massive, looming buildings above him. In several areas, the street had caved into dangerous pits, and he traveled the outskirts, slowing his steps just enough to avoid falling into one of them. Demon cries pierced the air in the distance, reminding him of the renewed dangers that accompanied his arrival.

Even without the threat of the bear-man, he worried about his teacher, sitting alone in the Ancient City. Although the demons didn't pay much attention to Jingo, he seemed frail, and he often complained about the pain in his joints. What if Jingo fell off of one of the collapsed buildings?

Who would check on Jingo besides Ivory?

In spite of Ivory's worry, the old teacher had never given him cause for concern. Jingo rarely seemed afraid for his safety. In fact, Jingo was more worried about the people of Brighton than himself. Ivory didn't understand why the man wasn't bitter about his condition. As jaded as Ivory was with Brighton, at least he could walk the streets free from swinging swords and women's terrified screams.

Soon Ivory was scrambling up the cracked, broken steps of Jingo's tower, sucking winded breaths as he ascended the floors. He navigated the damaged staircases until he reached the top layer, searching for his teacher.

Ivory was relieved to find Jingo perched on a flat piece of Ancient stone. He looked contemplative, rather than surprised, at Ivory's quick return. Sometimes Ivory thought his teacher could sense him coming miles away. Perhaps his teacher had been tracking his progress through the city, preparing for his arrival.

"Hello, Ivory," Jingo said. "You seem nervous. And you're all scraped up. What happened?"

Ivory bent over, fighting for breath. "I—I…"

"You lost your bow…" Jingo noticed, concerned.

Ivory stood up straight. He looked at the knife in his hand, then glanced over his shoulder at his backpack, which was missing the weapon he normally had strapped to it.

"I took a fall, and it shattered," Ivory said. "I couldn't save it."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm okay. Just some scrapes and bruises." Ivory lowered his eyes.

"What happened? How did you fall? You are normally very careful."

"A man was after me. He picked up my trail after I left Brighton. I'm not sure who he is, but I set a trap for him in the woods. I don't think he followed me here."

Jingo furrowed his brow. He peered across the horizon and into the Ancient City. Aside from a few circling birds, nothing moved, but Ivory heard the distant wail of what could only be a demon.

"You're sure you lost him?"

"I think so. I heard him fall into my trap."

"A trap?" Jingo asked.

"I saw tracks in the woods. There was some kind of animal out there, waiting in a cave, and I led the man to it."

"What kind of animal?"

Ivory paused, afraid his teacher might not believe him. "A woodland cat, I think. The ones I've heard about, but have never seen."

"Ahhh." Jingo stroked his beardless chin. He tilted his wart-covered head. "A puma."

"A puma? I've never heard that word before."

"That's because the people of today don't know it." Jingo took a deep breath before speaking. Ivory took a seat, knowing he was about to receive a lesson. "A few hundred years ago, the wild was much different. Many of the animals you rarely see today were plentiful back then."

"The puma was one of them?"

"Sort of. A few hundred years ago, the puma was rarely seen in these parts. But over time, some of them migrated from other areas and came here."

"I see," Ivory said.

"That's not how all of them got here. Some of them escaped."

"Escaped from what?"

Jingo lowered his head. "The Ancients."

"You mean the Ancients kept them captive?"

Jingo nodded slowly. "Yes, the way we might keep a chicken or goat before the slaughter. Back then, the Ancients kept animals in metal boxes with holes in the side so that they could admire them. Some of these animals came from across the sea. Some were from parts of the Earth that we no longer travel to."

"I can't believe that. How did they get loose?"

"When the spores spread, some of the Ancients took pity on the creatures and set them free. Others escaped through means of their own. It was a trying time for both beast and man. Some of the creatures survived in the wild. Others didn't."

"I wish I could see some of these creatures."

"I can show you a book, if I can find it." Jingo frowned as if he was trying to determine its location. "The truth is, I'm not sure which creatures exist out in the wild anymore. Some you might never see. Others, like the puma you came across, might still be out there. And still others have bred together, making some new hybrid species of animal."

"Species? I'm not familiar with that word."

"It's a way that the Ancients created to classify animals."

"Ah. Thinking about all those creatures both fascinates me and makes me nervous," Ivory admitted.

Jingo stared at him long and hard. "It should." Bringing back the subject at hand, Jingo asked, "So how do you know the bear-man fell into your trap?"

Ivory described the tracks, the cave he'd found, and the eyes he'd seen peering back at him. Then he described the way he'd led the man to the cave. "After I set the trap, I waited in the woods until I heard the man screaming. That's when I hurried away. I didn't see him the rest of the trip. I think I lost him." Ivory lowered his eyes, feeling ashamed. "Either that, or he was badly injured."

Jingo nodded. "The puma can be deadly, especially if it is cornered. If the man's intentions were truly bad, it was smart of you to do that." Jingo sighed. "You are best to steer clear of those types of animals in the future."

"I plan on it." Ivory blew a relieved breath as he looked across the expanse of sky in front of them. Jingo always had a way of making things better.

He wanted to broach other topics—the things he'd learned in Brighton, Beck's offer—but in truth, he was exhausted. His bones ached from the fall he'd taken. His eyelids were heavy.

Sensing his fatigue, Jingo stood from his perch. "You must be hungry. Without your bow, you probably didn't catch any rabbits on the way in."

Ivory shook his head. "I didn't."

"I have some things we can eat. It won't take me long to cook them. Why don't you relax a while, and we can talk in a bit?"

Nodding, Ivory lay on the stone. He propped his head up with his elbow, keeping watch over the city, and contemplated all the things that might be lurking out in the wild.

Chapter 56: Fitzgerald

Fitz woke up feeling stiff and groggy. She looked at a ceiling she'd never seen before. Her head rested on a giant soft pillow, and the sheets on the bed were as smooth as a young girl's skin. The smell was odd, though, and as she turned to her right, she saw General Blackthorn in a chair beside the bed, looking at her. She gasped. She was in his bed.

How did she get here?

"The girl found you downstairs," Blackthorn explained. His voice wasn't commanding. It wasn't angry.

Fitz didn't know what to say. She guessed she must have lost consciousness after her… She realized she didn't have a word in her vocabulary to describe what Tenbrook had done to her. Attack was the closest thing she could summon.

"The girl told me it was Tenbrook that did this to you."

Fitz nodded and felt stiffness in her bruised muscles, felt the skin around her scabs tear.

"I had the women clean you and put you here."

Fitz opened her mouth with a question, a thousand questions. Was this the same brute that had manhandled her into the hallway and thrown her on the floor?

"You've been since here yesterday," Blackthorn said.

"Asleep?" Fitz asked.

"On and off."

"Why?"

Blackthorn cocked his head as if he didn't understand. "Why what?"

Fitz closed her eyes and wiggled her toes. She moved her fingers, feeling a sudden need to evaluate whether all of her parts worked anymore. "I don't understand."

"Tenbrook." Blackthorn said the name with a sadness that bordered on desperation. "The things the women say." He shook his head. "You learn through the years to discount rumor as exaggeration." He frowned. "To be pointlessly cruel." Blackthorn shook his head again.

Pointlessly cruel?

Fitz looked toward a window, not wanting to betray her thoughts at the irony that Blackthorn was seemingly disappointed at Tenbrook's cruelty.

Tenbrook.

The sound of that name in her thoughts made her shiver. Her lip quivered as violent memories, raw and depraved, came back to make her cry.

She sniffled and blinked.

"Are you in pain?" Blackthorn seemed genuinely concerned.

She'd never heard that tone in his voice. She'd have been willing to bet he wasn't capable of expressing it. This was the man who had spiked all those people in the square, even her friend Jenny. Fitzgerald wondered if all the pain in her head had caused her brain to cease functioning properly. She wondered if she was still asleep and falling into a twisted nightmare.

"I have a man who can see to your wounds." Blackthorn leaned over to a small cabinet beside the bed and came back up with a bottle of ale in his hand. "Enough of this might do as much. I have little faith in healers who seem seldom to make anyone better."

The idea of Blackthorn soothing his pains like a regular man seemed funny for reasons she couldn't explain. Fitz wanted to laugh, but everything hurt so much.

Blackthorn almost smiled. He held the bottle out to Fitz.

She painfully propped herself up on an elbow, accepted the bottle, and choked down several long gulps. "Thank you."

With a nod, he took the bottle back, keeping it in his hands should she require more. He looked away from her. "I'm not used to saying such things, but I feel I must tell you that I apologize for what I did."

"No," Fitz said. "I shouldn't have let myself into your room."

Blackthorn looked at his bed and his face transitioned through anger and embarrassment before returning to shame. "I'm afraid I've lived long enough that I've succumbed to an old man's disease."

Fitz didn't react. She didn't know whether to nod or deny. She understood what Blackthorn was talking about. Some of the very old men lost their ability to control when they pissed. It was a sad thing to see when it happened. For half a second, she felt empathy for the old general.

"It shames me." Blackthorn looked over at the door out of which he'd tossed Fitzgerald. "It was my shame that caused my anger. It was not your presence. Please accept my apology."

"Of course," said Fitz. What other choice did she have?

With that out of the way, the two remained in silence for a while. Fitz tried to come up with something else to say. Her discomfort grew the longer the General stared.

Finally, he broke the silence. "My healer didn't look at you, but he told me that if you awoke, you'd probably recover."

That surprised Fitz. And it frightened her. Had Tenbrook's cruelty almost killed her? "Could I have died?"

Nodding, Blackthorn said, "It was a possibility, I suppose."

She thought of Franklin and Oliver. What were they thinking had happened to her? She'd told no one where she was going when she left.

"I sent word to the temple a short while ago," said Blackthorn, seeming to read her thoughts. "I should have done so sooner."

"Thank you."

He nodded.

"Why are you being kind to me?" Fitz immediately chastised herself for asking the question. She'd been thinking it since the moment her eyes opened, but hadn't intended to verbalize it.

Blackthorn's eyebrows pulled together, and he wrinkled his forehead. "I understand why you ask that." He heaved a sigh. "People fear me."

Fitz opened her mouth to contradict him, but couldn't force herself into that stark of a lie.

"It's okay. I know they do. I make them fear me."

Fitz nodded. She knew that was true, from the bottom of her heart. She'd feared General Blackthorn from the moment she was old enough to understand who he was and what he did. He had the power of life and death in his hands, and no qualms about wielding that power.

"The difference between Tenbrook and me," said Blackthorn, "is that Tenbrook seems to pleasure himself in cruelty. I don't use fear because I enjoy it. It is a detestable thing. For me, it is an effective tool for governance, nothing more. I'll see that he doesn't harm you again."

Chapter 57:  Ivory

Ivory threw his hands in front of his face, defending himself from a snarling animal. Teeth snapped; claws dug for his throat. Yellow, caustic eyes burned into his. It took him a second to realize he wasn't being attacked, but that he was at Jingo's, and he'd fallen asleep.

Remembering the bear-man, Ivory peered out of the tower and over the city. He hadn't slept long. He'd only napped. Emerging daylight splashed over his face, indicating it was still morning. His brow was covered in sweat, which had bled through the cold due to the intensity of his nightmare.

He squinted into the sunlight, but didn't see anything menacing amongst the rubble. Tall rows of buildings sat one behind another, arranged in stolid pattern, their once-smooth edges cracked with decay. The thick green growth that once traveled up the sides and out the windows was brown due to the onset of winter. Ivory thought again how the buildings looked like they'd dropped from the sky and been planted into the ground. If Jingo hadn't told him that the city was built by the Ancients, he might've believed it to be built by the gods. Past the rows of seemingly never-ending buildings, he saw the ocean, silently creeping against the shore.

Movement behind Ivory startled him. Spinning, he saw Jingo sitting on a rock.

"I didn't see any kind of bear-man below in the streets while you were asleep. I think we're safe." Ivory's expression must've showed he wasn't convinced. Jingo continued. "Even if someone was following you, it's rare for people to venture into the Ancient City."

"I know."

Heart thudding, Ivory sat up and surveyed the bowl of soup Jingo had prepared for him. "I figured you'd be awake soon," Jingo said. "So I heated this up."

The smell of spices made Ivory's stomach rumble.

"What is it?" he asked, rubbing his bleary eyes.

"Pigeon and herb soup," Jingo replied.

Wiping the remaining sweat from his brow, Ivory leaned over and picked up the bowl. He inhaled the aroma, letting it calm his nerves. He didn't say anything to Jingo about his nightmare. He was embarrassed.

"How did you catch the pigeon?"

"It had a broken wing." Jingo pursed his lips. "I found it on one of the lower levels. It wouldn't have survived long."

Ivory nodded. He knew that was true.

"Something else is wrong," Jingo announced, after watching him for some time.

"Yes." Ivory paused a moment. He took another sip of soup. Suddenly, he wanted to hold in the news as long as he could, as if saying the words would make them true. Or he'd have to accept them.

Finally, he told Jingo about Muldoon. His voice cracked as he spoke of The Cleansing. He looked away.

"I'm sorry to hear about your father," Jingo said.

Ivory was surprised to find his anger had faded. In its place was a dull sadness. "I didn't expect it to happen this way. I mean, I knew it would happen sometime, but…"

"There's no way to prepare for these things," Jingo said solemnly.

"I spent so much time hating him, I forgot what he looked like." Ivory sighed. "I don't even remember the last conversation we had, or the last time I looked him in the eyes. I don't have a last memory."

Jingo remained silent, watching Ivory eat his soup. His presence was comforting. When Ivory had finished, he set the bowl aside and they stared out over the Ancient City together.

"I have similar regrets," Jingo said. "Some of the people I lost hundreds of years ago, but I still remember the fights we had. The differences we had seem so insignificant now."

Ivory looked over at Jingo, surprised. In the time he'd known him, he'd always thought of the man as a loner. He still had trouble believing the man was as old as he said he was. "Did you have a family, Jingo?"

"Yes," Jingo confirmed.

"A wife? Kids?"

"Yes. Both of those." Jingo lowered his head.

"I can't imagine that. Where did you live?"

"We lived here, at one time," Jingo said, beckoning to the city.

"Out there? In one of the tall buildings?" Ivory's eyes widened with awe.

"Yes."

"I'd like to see where you lived, sometime."

"The building is so caved that you can hardly get inside anymore. I used to visit, but there's nothing left to see. All that's left of my family is in here." Jingo lowered his head and tapped one wart-covered temple. "Sometime I might tell you about them. But not today." Ivory saw a flicker of sadness in the man's eyes, but before he could apologize, Jingo stood and cleared his bowl.

"I'm taking you somewhere else today," Jingo said, changing the subject.

"Where?" Ivory asked, grateful the conversation had taken a turn.

"It's a surprise." Jingo smiled.

Ivory nodded, his sadness melding into curiosity. "What is it you have to show me? A lesson? Something I've never seen?"

"I guess it could be both," Jingo mused. "But it's something you'll like, I think. You'll see when we get there."

Unable to hide his eagerness, Ivory stood and stretched. His body was sore, but he didn't complain. He wanted Jingo to take him. It'd be better to learn than to spend the day nursing his wounds. After wiping his face, Ivory stood and waited for Jingo to lead the way.

"I have something else for you," Jingo said.

"What is it?"

"Something you'll need." Ducking behind a piece of Ancient stone, Jingo reemerged with a smooth, gray bow.

Ivory's jaw dropped.

The bow was made of Ancient metal. The limbs were carved with markings he didn't understand, bent at angles he'd never seen. On the top were wheels, connected by several strings. Ivory's bow had only had a single string.

He'd never seen anything like it. He studied the unique object in disbelief.

"What's it made of?" he asked in a half-whisper.

"Aluminum," Jingo said. "It's a type of Ancient metal, preserved over time. I don't believe this bow has ever been used, though I could be wrong. The strings were decayed, so I restrung it."

"Where'd you find it?"

"In the city," Jingo said, with a shrug. "I've been saving it for you. Here, have it."

Ivory stared at the weapon, afraid to take hold of it. Finally he allowed Jingo to pass it to him. He ran his fingers along the edges, trying to envision the Ancients creating it. The image gave him chills.

"How does it work?" he asked, his eyes wide.

Jingo held up a shaky finger and ran it across one of the strange metal wheels. "The wheels make the bow more efficient. The Ancients call this a cable and pulley system. When you pull an arrow back to its holding position, it takes less force to keep it there. The bow shoots faster and farther than the one you had before."

"I can't imagine that. Even faster than my uncle's…?"

"It's called a compound bow." Jingo smiled. "Try it. You'll see. Do you have arrows?"

"Yes, left over in my bag. And here," Ivory said, pointing to the quiver on his belt. He was still in disbelief. "Is this the surprise you wanted to show me?"

"No. It's something else. Come with me, and we can try out your new bow. Then I'll take you to the surprise." Jingo pulled on a hooded cloak.

Ivory smiled, his anticipation of the next surprise as great as his joy at the new gift. He slung the bow over his shoulder, unable to stop turning his head to look at it. All he could think about was shooting it as they made their way down the stairs that led from the center of the roof.

Despite Jingo's age and joint pain, he maneuvered down the steps and over the rubble as if he was a much younger man. After traveling down a few flights, Jingo stopped, motioning toward one of the more stable layers of the tower. They stepped off the stairs and onto the floor. Brown plants snuck through the cracks, providing contrast to the stone. Sunlight splashed in through one of the missing walls.

"Why have we stopped?" Ivory asked, confused.

Jingo pointed across the room. Propped against one of the intact walls were several bundles of grass.

"I made them from the streets below," Jingo explained. He smiled and pointed at Ivory's back. "I did it so we can practice safely. Why don't we try out your bow?"

Swallowing, Ivory retrieved an arrow from his quiver and held up his bow. He fiddled with the arrow as he nocked it, struggling to make sense of the foreign device. Jingo leaned in and helped.

Ivory was surprised to find how lightly he had to hold the arrow, after the initial pull.

"This will save your strength," Jingo explained.

"I barely have to hold it," Ivory agreed, in amazement.

He aimed at one of the sacks and let go of the arrow. The arrow thunked into one of the grass bundles. Ivory watched incredulously.

"I can't believe how fast it flies, and on a much flatter arc," he observed. "So much faster than my other bow…"

"It'll take some getting used to, but you'll do well with it."

After Ivory practiced a while, Jingo announced they should get going. Ivory accompanied Jingo down the remaining layers of the tower, gripping his bow with the excitement of a child holding his first silver coin.

Chapter 58: Fitzgerald

"The look on your face is what I'd expect." Blackthorn was clearly disappointed.

Seeing the disappointment along with all the other emotions that crossed that face, Fitzgerald was confused. She'd always pictured Blackthorn as chiseled from emotionless stone, but now he almost seemed human.

"I've never sought understanding or approval for what I've done," he said. "I accepted the responsibility of my place in this world, along with the limitations of my abilities."

Fitz shook her head slowly. "I don't understand."

"Perhaps a smarter man would know how to keep order without the barbarity that I use. Perhaps a man with more charisma could have made people want to work the fields, march in the army, and suffer The Cleansing without the threat of pain and death. Sadly, I was not that man. I never was. I was born for the saddle. I was reared to be a fighting man. The rules I learned served me well when swords were raised, and the demons were gnashing their teeth."

Fitz nodded, though she still didn't accept any of what Blackthorn was saying. Surely there had to be other ways to rule the people.

Blackthorn adjusted his position in his chair as he changed the subject. "You've heard the tale of Lady and Bruce?"

"Yes," said Fitz. "Every child knows it was those two who founded Brighton after the demons conquered the world and killed the Ancients."

"There is an obscure part of the story that is not known by all," said Blackthorn. "The clergy tell it among themselves. Some of the more learned men in town pass it down to their children. The simple folk tell the simple version."

Fitz watched Blackthorn with the question on her face.

"It was after the town was established, right here within the circle wall. It was before the first fifty-seven lived here. There were more people then, seventy-eight I think. Lady, being a barren woman, had her authority challenged by a group of survivors, twenty-one of them. The story goes that with little more than the power of her fists, she cast those men out. Afterward, the first fifty-seven laid the foundations of Brighton and became the ancestors of all people alive today."

Nodding, Fitz said, "I've heard that version of the story."

Blackthorn half smiled. "People see Lady as a hero, correct?"

"Yes," Fitz agreed.

"In her way, she was the mother of the first fifty-seven," said Blackthorn. "The part about the story that never gets talked about, though, is the stark reality. Lady was a cruel murderess."

Fitz gasped. To call Lady, a person as near to godly status as anyone in history had ever been, a murderess was the kind of blasphemy for which Winthrop would tie a person to the pyre pole.

"Is there another way to think of it?" Blackthorn asked. "Lady put those twenty-one outside the circle wall. Logic tells us they all died."

Fitz wanted to disagree, but was afraid to voice it.

"I can see it in your face," said Blackthorn. "You don't believe that is the truth. You don't want to accept that Lady was a murderess. Let me ask you this. In those days, Brighton consisted of fifty-seven people. Look what it has grown into—a large town with two smaller towns as sisters, along with twenty-seven named villages. If those twenty-one and their children had thrived, as we did, there would be another town, maybe several close by. We'd know of them. Logic leads us to the alternative outcome. They all died. Lady, upon evicting them, effectively murdered them."

Fitz couldn't argue.

"We don't see her that way though," said Blackthorn. "We choose to see what we want to see, even though the truth is right in front of us. In many ways, I see myself in the same predicament when I govern. I do things that must be done for the good of the community. Whether I like what I do is of no consequence. It doesn't enter my decision-making. I do only that which is necessary for the good of all. That is the burden I carry. I don't believe I will be remembered with the fondness that people have for Lady. People will remember me as the most bloodthirsty of tyrants." Blackthorn drew a long breath, and his face turned sad.

Steeling her nerves, Fitz asked, "Why are you telling me these things?"

"I am a diseased old man," he said. "I will die soon. Perhaps I only wish someone to know the truth of me. Perhaps your beauty has softened my heart with remembered infatuations for a woman that lived before you were born."

"I don't understand," said Fitz, recalling how Blackthorn had watched her all the time he'd been in the temple that day, haranguing Winthrop.

"You no doubt have heard the stories of my first wife."

"Of course," said Fitz. "Everyone in Brighton knows those stories."

"She looked like you," said Blackthorn. "When I first saw you, I believed you were her ghost."

"I'm real," she assured him.

"I know." Blackthorn sighed and sounded like a man tired from carrying his burdens for too many years. "I loved her. I'd say that I loved her more than any man ever loved a woman, but I'm sure every man who loves thinks the same thing. I still think of her nearly every day. It hurts my heart, though I never show it, and I never talk about it."

"Yet she burned," said Fitz, purposefully avoiding saying that it was Blackthorn himself who dragged her to the pyre pole.

He looked down at his lap. "A cruel choice I made, not for me, certainly not for her. I needed an heir, a boy to take over when I died. I needed a man who could keep the town orderly and protect our kind from the demons. I thought she was barren, and I couldn't bear the jealousy of her being in The House of Barren Women. I'm not a strong enough man for that. That is why I killed her on the pyre."

Seeing all the pain tied up in knots under the skin of Blackthorn's face, Fitz thought she might cry.

"That was a choice I made for Brighton and the three townships." Blackthorn's own eyes seemed to glaze with the faintest of tears. "It is hard to look back as an old man and see the cost of your mistakes. I married twice more and still have no heir. It was Emma that burned on the pyre that day, but it was also a lifetime of my happiness that burned with her."

Blackthorn's face turned into a hard piece of stone again, and Fitz started to fear that he was changing back into that brute that threw her out as a scrap for Tenbrook's brutality.

"Now, I've taken the only choice that is available to me," said Blackthorn. "I fear for what will come in the days ahead for the people that survive the coming war."

"What is that?" Fitz asked.

"Tenbrook will take my place when I go."

Fitz cried.

Chapter 59: Ivory

"I should warn you, there have been more demons in the city lately, mostly in the outskirts," Jingo said.

"Why do you think that is?"

"I'm not sure. I've been keeping watch," Jingo furrowed his brow. "We'll have to stay alert."

"Okay."

Soon, they were creeping onto the street outside, surrounded by the remarkable rubble and ruin of the Ancients. No matter how many times Ivory saw the city, he was always impressed. Several tall towers flanked the one in which Jingo made his home. A few others were across the worn street, sporting decaying trees and bushes on rooftops. Cracks in the buildings' exteriors gave way to browning foliage. The fusion of plant and stone always amazed Ivory. He had trouble imagining when the buildings were completely solid, repelling the hands of nature, and housing mystical people he'd never know. What had the Ancients done in those buildings? With all the Tech Magic they possessed, he couldn't imagine they worried about anything.

But Jingo had taught him better. He still couldn't digest that his teacher was one of the Ancients.

They hung close to the buildings as they walked, keeping an eye out for demons. Ivory kept his bow in his hand. Despite the placid nature of the streets, he knew that danger could spring from anywhere. In several places, snow clung to the ground, but for the most part, nature had melted it.

"You knew the snows were coming," Ivory said.

"After so many years, you get a sense for these things," Jingo answered. "You look for changes in the sky or the animals. Like the blue northern I mentioned last time you were here."

"I think the farmers in Brighton are worried," Ivory noted. "They were trying to salvage their crops when I left. Some of them were destroyed."

"The leaders in Brighton don't think about food until they have to." Jingo shook his head sadly. "They're too far removed. That's the way of things."

Recalling his conversation with Beck, Ivory said, "I had a visit from one of the Elders. I didn't tell you before, but he was the one who told me about Muldoon."

"Oh?" Jingo seemed concerned.

"Minister Beck. He was at my house." Ivory paused, watching Jingo while he spoke. "He knows I can read. He found some of the books I had."

"So that's why you're here. You're running?"

"Not exactly. He offered me a position as a Scholar. In exchange, he wants me to bring back books for the Academy. I told him my uncle gave the books to me, but he didn't believe me. He said I should think about it. He let me go."

Jingo looked pensive. "I wonder if there is any connection to the man following you."

Ivory stopped dead in the street. He looked over his shoulder. He hadn't put the two things together. "Do you think Beck had me followed?"

"Men in pursuit of wealth will do anything."

Ivory's heart sank as he thought about the situation. If he'd put himself in danger, if he'd endangered Jingo…

"I'm sorry," Ivory said, and his apology was sincere. "I'm sorry he knows where the books came from. I didn't mean to put you in jeopardy."

"Peace only lasts so long." Jingo sighed. "Eventually, man's thirst for coin outweighs his fear. It's been a while since I was disturbed here. I'll hide, as I always do."

"Do you think we should go back to the tower? What if the bear-man is nearby?"

Jingo shook his head. "We should be fine. The surprise I want to show you is only a dozen blocks away."

"Blocks?"

Jingo couldn't suppress his grin. "Another system used by the Ancients. It doesn't matter anymore. Follow me."

Chapter 60: Fitzgerald

Through her crying, Blackthorn assured Fitzgerald that she was safe.

"Why?" Fitz asked. "How can you assure me of that? You are leaving with the army."

"Tomorrow," he said.

"I'll be here with Tenbrook."

"Will you be well enough to leave this house?" Blackthorn asked. "If not, I can have you carried back to the temple."

Fitz thought about how she felt. "I'll be able."

Blackthorn nodded. "As far as Tenbrook goes, he'll forget you if you're not here in this house. His habit, or so I have learned through the rumors, is to ravage a woman with his perversions, then forget her. Once he has conquered a woman, all his interest in her disappears."

"Why are you leaving him in your place?"

"Despite his flaws," said Blackthorn, "I believe he is the only man who can stand in my stead and protect Brighton from itself."

Fitz wanted to argue, but knew before she uttered even a single syllable that she didn't have the first clue as to what it took to govern.

"For all you have suffered," said Blackthorn, "I feel as though I should at least ask you what favor it was you sought when you came to me."

Fitz found herself afraid to speak it.

"Don't fear," said Blackthorn. "I have little doubt I could grant whatever you ask. And I will, if I don't believe it will harm this city."

"The day you came to the temple," said Fitz. "You seemed indecisive as to whether to take Father Winthrop along."

Nodding, Blackthorn said, "The man is falling apart. His presence would do the army no good."

"I won't say that he is as cruel as Tenbrook," said Fitz, "but in his way he is. What he does to his Novices is shameful."

"He is a coward and a bully," said Blackthorn. "I'll grant you that."

"Will you take him out of Brighton with you when you go?"

"You know that he would install Franklin as temporary leader of the church during his absence?"

Fitz nodded and tried to cover her smile.

"That is what you hoped," Blackthorn guessed.

"Yes," Fitz admitted.

"Are you and Franklin lovers?"

Fitz nodded.

"I understand," said Blackthorn. "Franklin seems like a bright young man. He seems to have a level head. Does he indulge in the cruelties that so many men in this town seem to love?"

Fitz shook her head and told herself that Franklin's beating of Oliver was a fluke, something done by Winthrop through his goading.

"I will do what you ask. I will take Winthrop with me," said Blackthorn. He stood up, towering over the bed. "Take care of your young man. He'll find himself on the council with Tenbrook. He'll need all the help he can get."

Chapter 61: Ivory

Ivory followed Jingo down several more debris-ridden streets, dodging gaping cracks in the Ancient stone. Jagged, upheaved pieces of buildings blocked their way. Brown, wilted brush ran in all directions. Ivory hadn't been this way before. As always, Jingo seemed to know the best route. He let his teacher lead him.

A gusty wind blew from the east, and Ivory found himself thinking it was getting colder the farther they walked. He shivered.

"The ocean is that way," Jingo said, as if answering Ivory's unspoken question.

Feeling unresolved about their previous conversation, Ivory said, "I'm not sure what to do about Beck's offer. I don't trust him. But at the same time, the offer is tempting."

"If he's sincere, it might be worth exploring. The life of a Scholar is one of the better ones a man can have in Brighton."

"He did say I could go back and forth between here and there. I know I have a lot to learn from you. But I'm not sure I want to settle in town, to make my home among the rest of them."

"That's a decision only you can make. I won't sway you one way or the other." Jingo's face betrayed no emotion.

Despite Jingo's words, Ivory couldn't help but feel he was being tested. He recalled the hundreds of other pupils Jingo had told him about. What path had they chosen? Obviously they'd disappointed Jingo, according to what he'd told Ivory last time. Jingo had said he wanted them to bring his knowledge back to Brighton, but for what?

Before he could question Jingo further, a screech echoed from the bowels of a nearby building. Ivory prepared his bow, his thoughts ripped back to his surroundings. He watched the streets with concern.

"Keep going," Jingo whispered, pulling him toward a smaller, intersecting street.

They hurried forward. Ivory followed, watching the direction from which he'd heard the noise. Another shriek echoed from somewhere in front of them. This time Jingo stopped. His misshaped head cocked sideways as he listened. Ivory noticed he'd produced a knife.

It wasn't often that his teacher did that.

Ivory spun in all directions. The fact that Jingo was nervous made him nervous, too. He prepared his bow with an arrow. He waited. He watched.

A beast burst from the interior of a building next to them, wart-covered arms flapping. Its mouth hung agape, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth. Ivory swiveled, pulled back his bow, and aimed. His arms wobbled as he adjusted to the reduced force needed. He fired. The arrow struck the creature in the head, sending it tumbling backward.

Another ran out from a neighboring building. Faster than the last one.

Ivory nocked another arrow. His hands shook as he battled the discomfort of a new weapon. The arrow slipped off the cable. Ivory cursed. The beast wailed as it closed the gap, sensing weakness. If Ivory couldn't load the weapon in time…

Jingo took a step in front of Ivory, protecting him. The creature's massive, cauliflower head wagged as it ran toward them. Its eyes stared right past Jingo and at Ivory.

"Stay back!" Jingo yelled. His words were loud, authoritative, unlike Ivory had ever heard him speak.

To Ivory's shock, the creature halted, confused. It stared at Jingo, then at Ivory. For a second, the creature's eyes sparked recognition, and it opened its mouth, as if it wanted to speak. It belched instead.

Ivory situated the arrow. He drew. He shot.

The tip of the arrow silenced the demon as it thudded through the creature's mouth and out the back of its head, sending it reeling to the ground. The demon didn't get up. Somewhere far in the distance, a monster groaned, as if mourning the death of its brethren.

Ivory looked at Jingo, his heart ramming in his chest. Jingo lowered his knife. The buildings around them were lifeless. The attack seemed over.

"What was that?" Ivory asked, beckoning to the creature.

"What do you mean?"

"It listened to you. I saw it stop, right before I killed it."

Jingo shrugged. "Most of the time they ignore me. Occasionally, they listen."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't tested it much. I prefer to keep far away from my kind." Jingo watched the thing with curiosity. "Especially with you around. It's not safe to be near them."

Ivory frowned as he thought about what Jingo had said. Even though his teacher was one of the demons, Ivory rarely saw him as such. He tried to pinpoint the reason. Clearly Jingo didn't have the violent, bloodthirsty intentions of the demons. Clearly his intellect was higher. But why?

It never made any sense to Ivory.

In appearance, Jingo was much the same. His bumpy, wart-covered arms and contorted head might as well have belonged to any other creature.

Ivory thought he saw a look of sadness cross Jingo's face as they walked away from the dead demon. Ivory wondered if Jingo saw himself in the creature's red, sightless eyes.

Chapter 62: Blackthorn

Blackthorn marched across the square with twenty of his personal squadron of cavalrymen marching behind.

On the steps to the temple, just as instructed, were Minister Beck, his assigned guards, and Scholar Evan, along with four others from the Academy whose names Blackthorn had never bothered to learn. In fact, he barely recognized their faces. They were the bookish, nearly useless types, the kind of men that, according to Scholar Evan's intellectual deductions, Brighton had too many of. Half of the men in the Academy would be better suited as farmers. Nearly all the clergy would be more useful in the field. And the lazy sons of wealthy merchants would do well to dirty their hands in the pigsties. There were too many idle men and too many barren women. All mouths to be fed by laborers who were too stupid to realize they were feeding more than just their children. Ignorance breeding ignorance.

Such was the structure of society. And meanwhile, other men, brave men, protected them and their children from the demons in the woods.

Blackthorn shook his head.

He saw no use for any others—not the merchants or the clergy. Certainly he'd listened to years and years of yammerings from Beck about the necessity of the Academy, but what progress ever came from that? Better swords or better bows? More plentiful crops? Certainly not. What then? Blackthorn couldn't think of a single thing.

Then there were the merchants, a necessary host of parasites. Or were they? Blackthorn could never quite understand their importance. Certainly, they seemed to control all the coin, and the coin seemed to be the root of power in Brighton. But coin was only a means to value trade. A man who grew grain could convert his crop into this third-party medium called coin, so that he could then trade it for shoes, coats, or meat. After all, it didn't make sense that a cobbler or tailor would need grain at the same time that the farmer needed shoes. Hence, coin was used. But what did the merchants add to that equation? Nothing that Blackthorn could see, except to sit in the middle of transactions and skim off the coin, making themselves rich without sweating to create anything.

Though Blackthorn had long felt this way, he'd never done anything to alter the monetary system in the townships. If he were going to change it, what would he change it to? How would he convince the stupid farmers, seemingly satisfied to be on the losing end of every transaction, to accept something different? He certainly couldn't put them all on the pyre to convince them. So the unsatisfactory status quo had stayed, slowly turning Brighton into an unsustainable fat cow of a city that now needed nineteen thousand culled in order to avert a famine that might end with all of them dead.

For that, Blackthorn accepted full responsibility. It was under his leadership that corruption and sloth had flourished.  And now here he was, walking up to the temple, the acme of indolence, a collection of men who seemed to do nothing but whisper incantations and comforts into the ears of those who'd be better suited to clench their jaws and face hardship.

Blackthorn marched up the steps until he was standing in front of Minister Beck. "I trust I won't have to babysit you on this matter. Tell me, is the Academy in order for your departure?"

Beck nodded.

Blackthorn pointed at Scholar Evan. "He will fill your role as Minister of Learning during your absence?"

"He will," said Beck.

"All of your Scholars are aware?"

"They are," Beck answered. "And in your stead, General? With whom shall Scholar Evan sit on the council?

Blackthorn looked at Beck and spent a moment deciding whether to answer at all. Blackthorn was in a bad mood. His joints ached. He hadn't slept. In his head, he silently cursed himself for his choice to put Tenbrook in his place. Everything about it felt like a mistake. But each time he thought through the steps in the decision process that led him to Tenbrook, each time he looked at the other men who might serve as alternatives, they were all so lacking that only Tenbrook's name rose to the top, the most buoyant turd in the chamber pot. "Are you going to pretend you haven't guessed?"

Beck smirked but hid it well. "Tenbrook."

Blackthorn nodded.

"Your captains have accepted him?" Beck asked. "I understand he is not popular."

"Popularity?" Blackthorn hissed, stepping up to lean in close. He realized then that Beck, having sensed his mood, was likely taunting him. "Tenbrook will do the job. The captains will follow his orders. Popularity is an overrated virtue of weak men. Now go back to your Academy." Blackthorn glanced up at the temple's great doors. "And allow me to deal with these clergy imbeciles without your pubescent embellishments."

Chapter 63: Ivory

Ivory couldn't handle the anticipation any longer. His heart was still pounding from the encounter with the demons, but having shot his bow successfully, he felt more assured.

"How far away is this surprise you wanted to show me?"

"Only a few blocks farther."

Ivory smiled. The word 'blocks' was like a secret they shared. Certainly no one in Brighton knew its other meaning. He held up his new bow.

"Is it a bigger surprise than this?"

"Much bigger," Jingo said.

"I wish I knew what it was."

"You'll see soon enough. We're almost there."

Chapter 64: Franklin

Each of the clergymen from the townships and villages, along with their Novices, sat in the first several rows of pews, the anointed Fathers in front, the Novices behind. Franklin turned from where he sat in the pews among the Novices to look when the giant old doors at the back of the temple swung open. In strode General Blackthorn, as regal and stern as ever. Behind him, dressed for battle with swords in their scabbards, daggers in their sheaths, were two lines of Blackthorn's cavalrymen.

When the last of the cavalrymen had marched into the Temple Sanctuary, they closed the two doors with a booming finality that challenged anyone inside to dare even a whisper.

Half of Blackthorn's men stood across the width of the Sanctuary in the empty floor space between the pews behind the seated clergy. A quarter of the soldiers took up positions at each of the front corners, all standing at attention, all hard-faced, all looking like copies of one another, ready to stand there all day long, or pull out their swords and start lopping off heads, depending on General Blackthorn's whim.

That was one thing on a list of likes and hates that Franklin grudgingly admired about Blackthorn. His soldiers, those in the cavalry anyway, seemed to be extensions of Blackthorn himself. Their obedience to his will was unquestioned. It was a depth of loyalty that Franklin envied.

How does a man get other men to be so wholly devoted?

Blackthorn climbed the stairs to the stage, crossing in front of the silent clergy. He seated himself on Father Winthrop's empty throne. But he didn't lounge as Winthrop did. Blackthorn sat up stiff and straight, ready to lay down decrees. He asked, "Where is Bishop Winthrop?"

Murmurs tumbled through the seated Fathers on the first two rows. The Novices on the row behind the Fathers remained quiet, though they all looked around, as though Father Winthrop might somehow have found a way to seat himself among them unnoticed.

Father Nelson, the most senior of the clergy behind Father Winthrop, stood and said, "He's not here."

Blackthorn looked at Father Nelson blankly. That blankness conveyed just how pointless Father Nelson's announcement was.

Blackthorn turned to settle his stern gaze on Franklin.

Franklin caught his breath. Nobody liked falling to the center of General Blackthorn's attention. Mostly, Franklin hoped he wasn't going to be questioned about Oliver's absence. Franklin didn't know where the younger novice was.

Blackthorn said, "Father Franklin, you are the only one who seems to have any worthwhile knowledge."

Father?

Franklin didn't know what to think.

A few Fathers cast sniping glances at Franklin. Most of the Novices looked surprised.

Franklin stood. "I believe Father Winthrop is in his chamber."

Blackthorn looked over at the soldiers positioned near the hall that led down toward Winthrop's sleeping chamber. "Escort him here."

The soldiers turned as one and filed down the hall.

Blackthorn looked back at Franklin and pointed to a spot on the floor to the left of Winthrop's throne. "You belong up here."

Without hesitating, though he was embarrassed by the attention among his peers and the Fathers who all had years of tenure ahead of him, Franklin walked out into the aisle as solemnly as he could carry himself. He crossed over to the stairs, climbed them, and walked to a spot on the stage to Blackthorn's left.

Looking down on the seated Fathers, he saw questions on some of their faces, a poorly masked hate on the others. Most of the Novices, who were younger than Franklin, looked on in wonder. They knew they were witnessing something novel and important.

They are, thought Franklin. He was sure of that. Like them, though, he wasn't entirely sure what. Though he had nothing to show but failure for his part in the plan that he and Fitz had conceived, he started to wonder if she had succeeded.

Standing up again, apparently the only Father with the courage to raise his voice in front of General Blackthorn, Father Nelson said, "Father Franklin?" He glared at Franklin. "I am the senior member of the clergy after Bishop Winthrop, who has the sole authority to promote a Novice to the position of Father. I was not made aware of such a promotion."

"Is Bishop Winthrop required to consult with you before he makes the decision?" asked Blackthorn.

Father Nelson stammered and said, "He has always made—"

"Is he required?" Blackthorn demanded.

Father Nelson froze, unable to pull words out of his throat.

"Speak, man."

Meekly, Father Nelson shook his head, "No. It is done at his discretion."

"Do you doubt that he has promoted Franklin from Novice to Father? Is that what you ask? Do you suspect that it is I who am lying?"

Father Nelson suddenly seemed to have lost his will to stand, but was too afraid to sit. "I…I do not doubt."

"Seat yourself, then."

After that, there was nothing but silence in the temple, broken only by a few coughs.

Franklin felt uncomfortable standing under the gaze of men who had been his superiors, who now were suddenly his equals, at least according to General Blackthorn. Instead of looking at them, he looked out over their heads at the cavalrymen, who didn't seem like people at all, toy soldiers made life-sized. Their expressions betrayed none of what they felt or thought.

Father Winthrop's doddering up the long hall away from his chamber grew louder the closer he came. He was speaking in soft and sometimes animated tones, though it was unclear to Franklin what he was saying, or to whom. None of his escorting cavalrymen answered.

When the soldiers came into the Sanctuary, they escorted Father Winthrop onto the stage and stood him on General Blackthorn's right. They retreated from the stage and took their place at the corner of the room. Franklin turned his attention to the faces of the clergymen. They weren't prepared for the sight of Father Winthrop. His hair was disheveled. His eyes darted from side to side. His mouth seemed never to stop moving, though words were no longer coming out.

Franklin had gotten used to Father Winthrop's odd quirks as they developed during his self-imposed confinement. For the others, though, the change was astounding.

"Bishop Winthrop," Blackthorn said loudly, pausing to make sure that he had the attention of everyone in the room, "thank you for joining us." He cast his gaze across the clergymen. "Tell your ministers that you have promoted Novice Franklin to Father Franklin."

Winthrop looked around as his eyes widened. He nodded.

Or at least Franklin thought he nodded.

"Say the words," General Blackthorn commanded.

"I have," said Winthrop, looking over at Franklin and then looking on past. "Father Franklin."

Franklin was taken aback. He'd thought all of his and Fitz's plans had come to naught. He'd feared for how sick or injured she must be, still imprisoned in General Blackthorn's house. He'd almost accepted that his attempts to convince Father Winthrop to do anything were a failure. Yet, here he was, being named to the clergy.

General Blackthorn looked out at the clergymen. "As you are aware, the entire militia has been called. The citizens from all the townships and villages have been summoned to stay behind the protection of the circle wall. The army and the cavalry are marching out tomorrow to meet the greatest horde of demons in our people's history. Because there are so many of us, it is incumbent that the council go out to offer our support in what ways we can. I, Minister Beck, and Father Winthrop will all go. During our time away, others will govern Brighton. Minister Beck has appointed Scholar Evan to temporarily serve in his absence. Captain Tenbrook will serve in my place while I am gone. Only Father Winthrop has not yet named the Father who will act as Bishop during his absence." Blackthorn turned toward Winthrop.

Winthrop, through the course of Blackthorn's announcement, seemed to find clarity in his thoughts and looked at Blackthorn, shock on his face. His eyes darted around. He fidgeted his fingers. He leaned in close, and in a whisper that could only be heard by Blackthorn and Franklin, said, "Did you not consider my petition to stay? I thought you were on the side of leniency toward me in this matter."

Blackthorn announced to the audience, "Father Winthrop wishes it to be said that he fears riding in the army and facing the demons. But he will affirm his choice and bravely mount a horse and sally forth."

Winthrop gulped.

Franklin resisted the urge to look down at the sound of liquid sprinkling the stage at Father Winthrop's feet.

"Tell them the name of your successor and let us be done with this formality." Blackthorn caught Winthrop's gaze, and with a harsh eyes, drew Winthrop's attention to Franklin.

"Franklin?" Winthrop mumbled.

"Franklin," Blackthorn repeated.

"Father Franklin?" Winthrop asked.

"What?" Father Nelson jumped to his feet so fast he seemed to be trying to contain all the angry blood that was exploding red into his skin. "I don't believe I understood that."

"Shout it out!" Blackthorn ordered.

Winthrop shuddered at Blackthorn's jarring command. He gulped again. His piss stopped flowing. He looked at the rows of clergy in the pews, "Father Franklin will serve in my stead."

"I am the senior Father," Nelson snarled. "I am in line to succeed you as Bishop. It is I who should act as Bishop during your absence, not this jumped-up Novice without a hair on his chest."

Blackthorn sprang to his feet, stiff and strong, intimidating. He nodded at his soldiers in the back and then drilled Father Nelson with a steely stare. "You dare speak seditiously at a time when the army is marching off to fight for the existence of humanity? You dare raise your voice and question your Bishop?" Blackthorn looked to one of the cavalrymen who had walked up the center aisle. "Take him out to the square." Looking back at Father Nelson, he said, "You may select on which pyre you'll stand, if you wish." He looked over at Franklin. "Father Franklin will decide whether to light it."

Franklin gasped.

Father Nelson took off at a run. It was a pointless effort. Soldiers surrounded him and all the other clergymen. No exit from the Sanctuary was open. The soldiers quickly tackled Father Nelson as he cursed and howled.

Blackthorn looked over at Franklin and in a soft voice said, "You'll be tempted not to burn him, but hear me well when I tell you this: burn one today or burn a dozen tomorrow. As you weigh your thoughts of mercy, leniency, and kindness, please know that by letting this man live, you will solidify people's disrespect for you, and your weakness will lead to countless dead in the future."

Franklin watched the soldiers drag Father Nelson out through the main doors, listening to them close with a shuddering boom.

Chapter 65: Jeremiah

Jeremiah studied the dead demon's skull, grimacing at the exposed brain matter from where the arrow had pierced its head. He held his breath at the smell. In the distance, two silhouettes made their way down the sloping street of the Ancient City. One of them he recognized as Ivory. The boy's limber gait was unmistakable. The bow he was carrying, however, looked different than any Jeremiah had seen.

Jeremiah grunted with confusion.

The other figure was smaller, wearing a hood. Small, pale arms protruded from a draping coat. From a distance, it almost looked like a demon. But that didn't make sense. A demon wouldn't be walking next to the boy; it'd be devouring him. Scratching his head, Jeremiah reached for his snowberry flask with his uninjured hand and continued following them.

Whoever the fuck it was, he'd take care of the man, too.

His left arm burned with pain. Though Jeremiah had treated the wildcat bite, he still felt blood leaking from the wound, gumming up the bandage. Thank God it hadn't been his right arm. He could still wield his sword without issue.

Which he'd need to, now that he was in the Ancient City.

It'd been several years since Jeremiah had walked the cracked streets. The last time he'd trekked to the Ancient City, he'd hoisted some metal from underneath a pile of rubble on the city's outskirts, lugging it back to Brighton for some coin. When the trip was over, he'd sworn he wouldn't do it again. It wasn't worth the exertion. Demons scalps were much lighter, and required much less travel.

But books? Those were worth it.

Spurred on by the thought of his prize, Jeremiah continued after Ivory and the strange man. Maybe when he caught up to the boy, he'd use one of the boy's arrows to carve out his eyes.

**

Jeremiah kept to the shadows as he followed the two figures. Several times, he heard the distant screech of a demon, probably foraging an animal's dead guts or playing with its own defecation on the street. It seemed like the creatures behaved even worse in the Ancient City, if that were possible.

The streets and buildings were a foul-smelling nest for the beasts. Judging by the stench, the demons were even more prevalent now than when he'd last been here. Without Wardens like himself to kill them, the things ran rampant. Maybe after he dealt with the boy, Jeremiah would whack a few on the way back to Brighton, just for kicks.

He wouldn't need skins, once he had books.

The boy and his hooded companion led him down several debris-ridden streets. Jeremiah stepped over the ruins of ancient buildings with no great concern. Jeremiah couldn't understand how people were so enamored with the Ancient City. To him it was a shithole, a place he'd avoid if he had his preference. If it weren't for the treasures hidden inside it, the place wouldn't be worth squat. All Jeremiah cared about was his coin and his drink, with a few loose women thrown in the mix. He let those things drive him as he kept up with the people he was following.

Soon he'd have plenty of all of them.

Ivory and the hooded man took another turn, leading him down a steep slope. Fearing they might get away, Jeremiah picked up his pace. He recalled how quickly Ivory had been traveling earlier, even after the spill he'd taken. Jeremiah knew his bulk prevented him from traveling fast.

He had to decrease the gap.

As he jogged farther, the smell of demons dissipated, replaced by a damp, salty odor. Jeremiah crinkled his nose as he tried to place it. It wasn't until he saw the enormous body of water at the end of the street that he realized where he was. Rusty blue waves lapped at a sandy shore, leading up to the building at the end of the road.

He hadn't seen the ocean in a while. Like the Ancient City itself, he had no love for it. Jeremiah never understood how people could float in the calmer parts of the Davenport River, enjoying the lull of the current. He was too worried about demons to risk that.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't swim.

Ivory and the hooded man were heading down the street and toward the ocean. Maybe he'd catch up to them, find out what he needed to know, and chuck them in. He laughed as he barreled down the cracked street.

He closed the gap, swinging his sword at his side.

He was only a few hundred yards away when he saw Ivory look over his shoulder. His mouth fell open as he saw Jeremiah. Dammit.

The pain in Jeremiah's arm blazed. It was as if his body were demanding retribution for what he'd endured. Only a little farther, and he'd have his revenge. He'd make up for that goddamned encounter in the woods.

He'd make sure the boy paid.

Finished with caution, Jeremiah snarled and ran. He plowed down the alley, his thunderous frame grinding pebbles into dust. He pushed past wilting, browning bushes and thistle that grew through the cracks in the street. One of them smacked him in the face, and he cried out and batted it away.

When he cleared his vision, Ivory and the hooded man were gone.

Where were they?

The area was a maze of empty doorways. Jeremiah kept running until he reached the place where he'd lost them. He glanced into several empty doorways, discerning only shadows and plants and stone. In the last one, he heard the lap of the water, as if the ocean had made its way inside. It was impossible to see through the gloom. Jeremiah pounded on the wall with his good hand.

He considered roaring a warning. Instead he listened for scared, weak voices. Nothing stood out above the sound of the water. Frustrated, he stepped back into the road and spun in all directions, certain he'd missed something, certain that some trick was being played. The ocean at the end of the street lapped lazy waves against the shore, taunting him.

And then he saw it.

Jeremiah held a hand above his eyes. Certainly, he'd had too much snowberry.

Something was moving out of the building next to which he was standing.

A thirty-foot, crescent moon-shaped piece of metal floated out into the water. Sheets of fabric flapped off a metal bar in the center, ruffling with the wind. Sitting aboard it were Ivory and the hooded man.

"Tech Magic," Jeremiah murmured.

Jeremiah watched as the strange object glided away, over the ocean and away from the Ancient City. His jaw fell open in disbelief. He'd tell Beck about this. He had to.

Chapter 66: Franklin

Blackthorn marched out of the temple with some of his cavalrymen marching in formation behind him.

Franklin stood on the stage watching him go. He glanced over at Father Winthrop who seemed to have lost himself in staring at nothing. Looking at the pews, Franklin noticed all eyes, the clergy's, the Novices, and the remaining cavalrymen's, were on him. He'd just been appointed acting Bishop in a fulfillment of his dreams that was too rapid to assimilate.

Winthrop said something, a string of unintelligible syllables that rose and fell on the tune of a crazy man's music.

One of the cavalrymen, an officer, walked to the front of the stage and stood in front of Franklin. "Minister Franklin," he said as though he were talking to Father Winthrop, "General Blackthorn expects us to follow him to the pyres."

Nodding at the man, as he'd watched General Blackthorn do a thousand times, Franklin opened his mouth, not knowing what might come out. "Let us go together." He pointed at the large doors through which Blackthorn had disappeared moments before. He looked over at Father Winthrop with his attendants. Franklin addressed the one nearest. "Help him, as necessary."

Avoiding eye contact with anyone else, Franklin settled his gaze on the open doors. He crossed the stage, descended the stairs, and stepped authoritatively through the jealous stares of the older clergymen on the front row of pews. Measuring his pace to keep it steady, he strode purposefully toward the doors hoping the others would follow. He dared not look back to make sure that they were.

He'd told them once. Franklin knew enough about leadership from watching General Blackthorn that you only told them once.

But General Blackthorn had earned that degree of authority through the respect of men who'd fought with him, through the gratitude of the townsfolk he'd saved from the bottomless appetites of the demons, and from the deep fear they all had of the pyre, the spike, and the sword.

What would Franklin do if none of the clergy followed? Would the cavalrymen draw their blades and herd them all out into the square? Would they wait for Franklin to order it?

Was General Blackthorn's advice truly the only choice he had? Burn one today or twelve tomorrow? If the clergy didn't follow, would Blackthorn burn all the dissenters one at a time?

Franklin felt sick to his stomach. Through all the years he sat on the periphery, dreaming of the day he'd be called Bishop, yearning for the day when he would sit in the Minister's chair and dictate the law, he believed that he'd be just and merciful. He dreamed he'd rule a happy people who sang and danced amidst the flowers on never-ending spring days.

Such is the nature of fantasies.

Instead, he walked out of the temple under a gray sky, with a cold wind blowing, all the while praying a disgruntled band of clergymen would follow him to watch a priest burn, or not, solely on his order.

Franklin realized at that moment that dreams don't come true. They only lose their pretty facades and expose themselves as the nightmares beneath.

Franklin descended the steps outside the temple door. He heard feet shuffling on the stone behind him.

The clergymen were following.

Franklin looked up at the sky and thanked the clouds, the sun, and The Word.

Now he only had one mortal decision to make. Whether or not to burn Father Nelson, a man who'd told him old stories and shared his meals.

As Franklin crossed the square toward the line of poles, it occurred to him that each pole always had a fresh pile of wood. The next Cleansing was months away, but each pyre stood ready to burn. It had always been that way. But it was something that never seemed worthy of a question before. Sure, Franklin knew people were burned for their transgressions, but as Blackthorn's words sank in—burn one today or twelve tomorrow—he wondered what purpose the pyres served aside from burning. Were they a deterrent to bad behavior? Were they the threat of authority that would punish so swiftly that there wasn't even time to stack wood?

Was the swiftness of brutality such an important component?

With the wind gusting in his face, Franklin made a show of pretending to turn away for a second to rub something out of his eyes. In truth, he wanted to make sure the clergy were still coming. Indeed, they were all filing out in a single line, following Franklin, sheep-like, with heads bowed.

At the edge of the square, Franklin spotted Fitz in the open door of General Blackthorn's house, standing like a statue of ancient marble, defying the wind as her black hair flowed out around her.

Word had come to the temple from General Blackthorn that Fitz had taken ill and was under his care. Franklin, after worrying over the worst possibilities since her disappearance, was initially relieved, and then afraid. He feared for what condition Fitz might be in and fretted that the message might be a lie. To what end, he couldn't even guess. But there she was, alive.

Franklin's emotion spun in a cyclone of contradictions. How was he to feel happy seeing Fitz's face, while he was being forced to burn a man? And why burn Father Nelson? Just so he'd have the respect of others in the clergy, so he might not one day have to burn more of them?

What did Fitz think of the goings-on in the square? He wished he could talk to her and ask her advice.

Franklin turned back in the direction his feet were moving, feeling guilt over what had happened to Oliver, equating in his mind that punishment with the one that he was being forced to decide on now.

Forced?

If he was the acting Bishop, the sitting Minister for Father Winthrop, could he be forced to do anything?

No.

But he wasn't made to do anything. General Blackthorn had simply dropped a situation at his feet, a situation Franklin never would have created on his own.

Franklin stopped in front of the first pyre in the row, instinctively knowing how far back to stand. Every child in Brighton learned how the heat of a fire reached out to singe any fool who stood too close.

General Blackthorn stood in front of Franklin as the clergy spread out in a line, facing the pile of wood atop of which Father Nelson was already being tied.

"My father was a hard man," Blackthorn said. "He taught me lessons only once. I had to learn at those moments when the knowledge was free. The times I squandered those lessons, I paid dearly. Learning things the hard way often comes at the expense of a man's life." Blackthorn looked over at Winthrop, who was just arriving to take up a spot in front of the row of clergymen. "Your teacher is a doddering coward." Blackthorn put a hand on Franklin's shoulder. "It's too bad. You're a bright boy. Many of your lessons will cost more than you'll think you can bear. This one, I'll tell you a second time, as a favor, because of the fool you've been Novice to." Blackthorn caught Franklin in his stare and told him, "Burn this man, today. It is cruel, overly so, as I see from your eyes. You don't accept that a dozen deaths of your clergy will be the cost of the mistake to let him live. You don't see that, because you are young and idealistic. Those two qualities in a man only lead to bad choices and tears."

Franklin looked over General Blackthorn's shoulder. Up on top of the pyre Father Nelson was crying, straining at the ropes that held his hands behind the pole at his back. He was begging and apologizing for his impudence.

"That's all I'll say," said Blackthorn. "Choose to learn from the wisdom and missteps of others, or pay the higher cost of making your own mistakes." Blackthorn stepped to the side and tilted his head toward one of the cavalrymen.

The man with a burning torch in his hand acknowledged the General and walked solemnly up to Franklin, extending the torch.

Feeling the heat of the torch's small fire on his face, Franklin reached out and took it. He watched the flame dance in the stiff wind as it clung desperately to the layers of oil-soaked cloth wrapped around the wood. He half hoped the flame would die and buy him some time for his decision, but the longer he stared at the flickering red and yellow, the more certain he became that it wouldn't.

Franklin thought of Fitz's alabaster face staring at him from Blackthorn's doors. What was in those eyes? Was it judgment? Was it hate? Was it possible she had an understanding of what his choice here really was?

No.

She was just a woman. What could she know?

Franklin felt a lump in his throat, tears in his eyes, and a pit in his stomach. He bit his lip until he tasted a gush of warm blood in his mouth.

He stepped forward and cast the torch onto the pile of wood at Father Nelson's feet.

Chapter 67: Ella

Ella stared through the forest, watching leaves spiral down. The ground held a thin layer of green and brown foliage that mixed with the snow, as if autumn had resumed its proceedings after winter's initial, early touch. The travelers crunched debris into the ground as they walked.

"It feels like it's getting colder," she said, clutching her arms to her chest.

"It'll get even worse in the Ancient City," Bray said. "It's by the water."

"The never-ending river, right?"

"Yes. Or the Ocean. That's what others call it. No one knows how far it goes. Some say it goes forever."

"I can't imagine that. Have you seen it?"

"Of course. One can't set foot in the Ancient City without seeing it. You'll see soon enough."

"Does it go forever?"

"I've never seen anything past it." Bray shrugged. "And I tried. It's a beautiful sight, for certain."

"I can't wait." She shivered, still clutching her chest.

"How about some alcohol to warm you up?" Bray suggested. "I have some extra snowberry, if you'd like." He tapped the flask on his waist, but Ella wasn't listening. She'd switched focus to Melora and William, who were scouting the forest a short distance in front of them. They chatted in eager voices.

Bray and Ella continued walking toward them.

"They seem to be getting along," Bray said.

"I didn't know what to expect," Ella admitted. "If it had been planned, I'm not sure it would've gone as well."

"Sometimes the best things happen like that," Bray said. "Not all bad comes from unfortunate circumstances."

Ella readjusted the bag on her shoulder. "Getting to know Melora has been like a gift. Hearing about her childhood in Davenport… It's brought back memories."

"I'm sure it has."

"In spite of what happened, it seemed like she was happy there." Ella paused. "At least nobody can take away her memories."

"You're right about that." Bray unscrewed his flask and took a sip. He sighed as he returned it to his belt.

Ella's attention turned to William, who was telling a story about the biggest pig he'd ever seen. His eyes were wide, and he was using his hands to describe it while Melora laughed.

"This is the happiest I've seen William in a while," Ella said.

"He seems to be enjoying the companionship of his sister."

"He is," Ella agreed. "But there was an incident…while you were gone."

"Another one?" Bray's tone mirrored her concern.

"When we were attacked, he was speaking with the demons again. I think he believes he can communicate with them." Ella lowered her eyes. "Have you ever seen that happen?"

"A few times." Bray watched her gravely but didn't elaborate. Ella couldn't bring herself to ask any further questions. She noticed the Warden was staring ahead of them, where Melora and William had stopped. Their heads tilted as they looked at the tops of the trees.

"What is it?" she called out to them.

But she'd already seen it. Poking out from the tips of the trees, barely visible, were several soaring towers, the crumbled tops covered in foliage. Birds circled the ruins as if they'd been tasked to keep guard. Deep in the distance, an inhuman wail sounded, giving either a greeting or an ominous warning.

Ella's mouth stuck open.

She didn't need an announcement to know where they were.

They'd reached the Ancient City.

Chapter 68: Evan

Evan was impressed. At least there was that. Six hundred militiamen lined the road between the edge of town and the circle wall. It ran past The House of Barren Women, which stood out in the field alone. The men lined up at intervals on both sides of the road all the way to the western gate. Out in the fields, twenty cohorts of six hundred militiamen were putting themselves into square formations. Such a large force would not be self-sustaining. They'd need the support of regular townsfolk, doing the mundane things that townsfolk did. A disorganized mass of men and women, tradesmen, shepherds, pig herders, cooks, tailors, barren women, blacksmiths, cobblers, and laborers spread out over a vast area near the circle wall. They'd all be going along with the army, as General Blackthorn had commanded.

In the square, sitting in crisp uniforms with stiff backs, atop six hundred horses, sat the cavalry, either at attention in rows or guiding horses to their places. All were spoiling to get moving, to get to the Ancient City, and to end the demon menace once and for all.

Stopping at the back of the square to catch his breath, Evan saw it all. He'd been out all morning watching the men gather, watching the townsfolk say their goodbyes. There'd been plenty of tears, plenty of good luck kisses and hugs from lover to lover, from mother to son.

Up on the dais stood General Blackthorn, Minister Beck, and Father Winthrop. Neither Captain Tenbrook, nor newly anointed Bishop Franklin was yet there. Evan would need to be there soon, along with the other two, to make the transition of power formal and visible. But Evan had other tasks to tend to.

Of all the last minute arrangements and checks he'd had to make that morning, the most important was that of stopping by the Dunlow's house. There, nearly fifty of the soon-to-be deserters were hiding from sergeants who were searching their homes, trying to find them prior to the army's march.

The rebels were stashed in seven locations around Brighton, all in groups that Evan hoped would help them steel their nerves for the fateful action each was taking. As soon as the army marched through the western gate, each of those men would officially be deserters. When the counts and the names were finally gathered somewhere at a campsite up the road, those men would each be condemned to the pyre. Riders would likely bring the news back from the army to Tenbrook. Evan guessed that Tenbrook would take a ruthless approach to dealing with would-be rebels.

What Evan hoped, though, was that the list of deserters sent back would contain more names than just those of the men he'd co-opted. Evan knew others would desert, too. Once those men realized the magnitude of their crimes, they'd have to choose between fleeing Brighton or facing the pyre. Evan hoped to recruit them to add to his force of rebels. Why not join? They'd have nothing to lose in doing so. He'd only have to find them before Tenbrook did.

He hurried off around the edge of the square, making his way to the dais to lay claim to his share of Brighton's government, such as it was.

Chapter 69: Tenbrook

Impatience was the least of Tenbrook's feelings at the moment. He wasn't an emotional man, by any means. He hadn't expected to be emotional today, the morning he was to accept the reins of the government, to become the most powerful man in Brighton.

He'd dreamed of a day like this since he was a child. What boy didn't?

However, until Blackthorn had called him in for the private meeting and the burning of the first of those desiccated tongues, Tenbrook never dared think such a childish dream would materialize.

Now, instead of standing on the dais with the departing ministers while the cavalry formed up in the square, Tenbrook was lurking in an alley behind General Blackthorn's residence, looking at a piece of paper that implored him to meet here at this late hour for a matter of the utmost urgency. Tenbrook told the boy who'd delivered the message to tell the sender that he'd be there. Tenbrook added the extra instruction that if the meeting made him tardy or disappointed, he'd settle his anger with a pyre pole.

The boy ran off in a fright.

Now Tenbrook was waiting, not used to emotions he couldn't repress under his boot. That made him hate the man for whom he waited. Few things irked Tenbrook more than being out of control of his emotions.

Cocking his head and listening, he heard the stomping of hooves and the rustle of men in their saddles. Orders were still being shouted. The cavalry wasn't yet formed. The militia waiting past the edge of town was not yet prepared. People were still rushing through the streets to get to some favored place where they could watch their loved ones leave, or just to see the spectacle of so many armed men, marching in formation to some glorious purpose.

If only they knew.

"Captain Tenbrook?"

Startled by the voice, Tenbrook looked up and silently chastised himself. He'd been lost in his thoughts and had stopped paying attention. Tenbrook looked the man up and down.

"I am Tommy Dunlow. I sent you the message."

"You received my return message then," said Tenbrook. "I know who you are, and I might ask already, why you aren't with the militia."

"I am here to explain that."

Tenbrook laughed. "This isn't a matter for explanations. Your choices are duty or flame."

Tommy Dunlow gulped, gathered his nerve, and proceeded. "You know that my father and my family have long been in General Blackthorn's disfavor."

"I'm already thinking of which pyre pole to put you on," said Tenbrook. "I came here to listen to an urgent message."

"Please," said Tommy Dunlow, "I only mention that because I wish to restore my family to favor. We wish to stand shoulder to shoulder with the General and show our loyalty."

"Most men would actually stand shoulder to shoulder to show their loyalty," said Tenbrook, "rather than hide in alleyways and talk about it. Why aren't you with your cohort? Are you a deserter, here to beg forgiveness for your cowardice?"

Shaking his head, Tommy Dunlow said, "I've been invited into a plot to overthrow the government during General Blackthorn's absence. I've been assured that the General will not return. I think he will be murdered."

Tommy Dunlow had Tenbrook's attention now. "How many people are involved in this plot?"

"Two hundred."

"All deserters?" Tenbrook asked.

Tommy Dunlow nodded as he said, "All but one."

"And who is this one?" asked Tenbrook.

"The ringleader."

"Does this ringleader have a name?"

"He does," said Tommy Dunlow. "It is Scholar Evan."

Chapter 70: Oliver

Oliver stood in the temple, watching Franklin pace the stage with an ashen face. Franklin didn't notice Oliver for almost a full minute. When he finally did, he said to Oliver, "I didn't see you at the ceremony."

"When you burned Father Nelson?" Oliver spat the words as a challenge. He hadn't intended to confront Franklin about it, but his anger won out. "Just because I didn't let Blackthorn march me out into the square with the rest of you doesn't mean I missed it. I saw what you did."

"I had to." Franklin's voice trembled.

"You have to do a lot of things you subsequently say you'd prefer not to."

Franklin turned away and paced to the end of the stage before turning back toward Oliver. The threadbare Bishop's robe hanging on his shoulders dragged the floor as he paced. In a despondent voice, he said, "I thought you'd left."

"Soon." Oliver stepped up the stairs onto the stage, looking Franklin up and down as he did. "Where'd you get that?"

Franklin looked down at himself as he came to a stop in front of Oliver. "I found it in a closet in Father Winthrop's chamber. It belonged to Bishop Garrett."

"The Bishop before Father Winthrop?" Oliver asked as he leaned close to sniff.

"He died long before you were born," said Franklin.

With a sour look on his face, Oliver said, "It smells like Winthrop."

"Everything in there does." Normally Franklin might've harbored a smile, but not today. Oliver watched him tug the robe to adjust it on his shoulders.

"Are you going to have a new one made?" Oliver asked.

Franklin didn't answer. He looked toward the temple doors. Oliver followed his gaze. Out in the square, the cavalry was forming up. The ministers were waiting. His face showed his nervousness. Finally Franklin said, "I don't know that I should."

"Why?" asked Oliver.

"What if Father Winthrop returns?" Franklin grimaced. "I'm afraid to take the risk. If he thinks I had a robe made for myself because I want to remain Bishop, it'll go badly."

Oliver put a hand on the dagger now hanging in its sheath outside his pants. His small knife and his chainmail lay hidden under his garments. "I don't think Father Winthrop will return."

"Why do you say that?" His attention roamed to Oliver's hand resting on the hilt of the dagger. "What are you planning, Oliver?"

"You were always my friend, Franklin. Don't speak to me like I'm a child."

Franklin inched closer. "I'm not. I'm speaking to you as your friend. You've had hate in your eyes since—"

Franklin couldn't say it, and Oliver didn't mind. He didn't want to hear the words. The memory of Franklin's betrayal hurt more than the sores still oozing pus down his back. It hurt almost as much as watching what Franklin had done to Father Nelson out on the pyre.

Stoking his courage, Oliver stood up straight. "I'm not running away, not yet. I'm marching out with the militia. And I need you to help me. Remember what you promised me? You said you'd assist me in any way I needed."

Franklin mouth stuck open in disbelief as he formulated a protest.

Before he could voice an argument, Oliver said, "I need you to send me out with the soldiers. If anyone asks why, say that you sent me with Father Winthrop so I could tend to his needs. No one will question it."

"They won't, I don't think. But why would you want to do that?" Franklin's eyes turned from worry to pleading. "If you go out with them, there's a good chance you'll die."

"I know that," said Oliver. "If I was a full grown man, it might make what I have to do easier. But I'll get it done. I'll do what I have planned. All I'll tell you is to make your new robe."

Oliver turned and walked down the stairs.

"Wait!" Franklin cried, leaving the stage and following after him. " What does that mean? I have to get out to the dais. The other ministers are already waiting. You can't leave without explaining."

"There's nothing more to be said." Oliver looked over his shoulder. When he was sure no one was listening, he pulled Franklin close. In a cold, determined voice, one with enough harshness to let Franklin know he was serious, he said, "Out there in the wilds with the militia, I'll find the right time, and I'm killing Father Winthrop."

Chapter 71: Tenbrook

Tenbrook stood on the dais between Franklin in his laughable old frock and Evan under his transparent disguise of loyalty. The formalities were all completed. The announcements all made. The cheers that had once echoed off the walls of the square had dampened, giving way to the sobs of crying women and the clomping of hooves.

General Blackthorn rode tall in his saddle toward the road out of town. Just to his right, but definitely behind, rode Minister Beck, looking awkward and pretentious at the same time. Father Winthrop balanced precariously atop the sturdiest horse in town. Tenbrook suspected the horse would not live to see the Ancient City. What horse could bear such a burden for long?

The cavalry lined themselves behind the ministers in double-file, following them out. People up the street cheered anew. Tenbrook felt a surge of elation. He ached for the anticipation of glory that he always felt when he led his squadron out to battle the demons. But he'd have to set those pleasures aside. He was in a new role now, one with exceedingly more complex problems to solve and more devious enemies to fight. He glanced over at Evan. The scholar watched the procession with a placid face. Who else was involved in his seditious scheme? Was Franklin? Were others in the Academy? Tommy Dunlow had said nothing of the clergy, but Tenbrook had already decided he wouldn't leave that question to chance. He'd find out exactly who the traitors were. He had plenty of ways to convince men to divulge their secrets.

In the coming days, he'd use all of them.

LOOK OUT FOR THE LAST SURVIVORS BOOK 4 COMING SOON!

A Tiny Story About Reviews

"But daddy, why do you need eleventy-zillion reviews for your book?"

"My sweet little lima bean, daddy doesn't need quite that many, maybe a few hundred or a thousand would do the trick?"

"What trick, daddy?"

"Silly sweetie pie, daddy wants to buy you a vintage Cabbage Patch Kid for your birthday but because Stephen King is cornering the market on reviews, daddy can't afford one."

"I don't understand why Stephen King put all the reviews in the corner and won't share them?"

"He's mean to his reviews and smashes their feet with a sledgehammer so they can't ever go to another author."

Sniffle. Sniffle.

"Don't cry, pumpkin. Don't be frightened. Some of those poor, disabled, five-star reviews might drag their mangled, bloody legs out of Stephen King's torture chamber and find their way to daddy's new novel."

"That's okay, daddy. I don't need a vintage Cabbage Patch Kid. You can buy me a box full of nothing like you did on my last birthday."

"But I still need to buy my new prosthetic feet. Without lots of reviews, I can't do that either and if I can't do that, I'll never be able to dance at your wedding when you grow up."

"If only there was another way, daddy. If only somehow readers could just go out to the site where they purchased the book and click on a star rating. That way, it wouldn't matter how many little golden stars Stephen King smashed with his sledgehammer."

"That's what I love about you, sweetie pie. You're a dreamer."

MAKE OUR DREAMS COME TRUE AND LEAVE A REVIEW

...it only takes a minute and helps more than you can imagine. Thanks!

-Bobby and T.W.

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Other Things To Read

Since Book 4 in The Last Survivors series isn't out yet…

If you'd like to read something else by T.W. Piperbrook, the CONTAMINATION series might be your thing. It's a fast-paced, action-oriented zombie series with a twist. Check out the CONTAMINATION BOXED SET (BOOKS 0-3) to start.

If you'd like to read something else by Bobby Adair, the Slow Burn series has racked up over 3,700 five-star reviews and has been topping the charts for nearly two years. If you're interested in an edge-of-your-seat page-turner to cleanse your reading palette after The Last Humanity, this could be a good choice. Check out the SLOW BURN BOXED SET (BOOKS 1-3) to start.

Text copyright © 2015, Bobby Adair & T.W. Piperbrook

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.