first guard was reaching the top of the wall, he swung his leg over the parapet and lowered himself down. He felt for footholds in the stone and found small gaps that could just hold the toes of his boots. He grabbed at the rough stone, scraping his knees but somehow clinging on, and moved down. But then his hand slipped and he had no energy left, and so he half jumped and half fell the final stretch, landing on the branches and brambles. Above him the guards hooted with laughter. March shouted in pain and despair but discovered he hadn’t broken any bones, and, though the brambles tangled him, ripped his shirt, and scratched his arms, he was intact. He struggled across a pile of broken branches and realized the ditch below him was deep, and he could smell pitch. The wood had been put there for a reason. This whole area between Calidor’s outer wall and Brigant’s wall, this no-man’s-land, was a huge fire pit waiting to be lit.
He scrambled to the next wall, again finding steps built into it, and again knowing there’d be none on the other side. He made it to the top, lowered himself over the parapet, and clambered down as best he could to stand on Brigantine land, though thankfully there were no Brigantines around. He wasn’t sure how he’d be treated by Brigantines, but they didn’t have a reputation for being kind and generous. Though could they be worse than the Calidorian soldiers he was leaving behind?
March set off walking, looking back only once to see the wall in the distance and the soldiers silhouetted on the top. He followed a gradual slope down, reasoning that’d be the most likely way to find a road and possibly people and hopefully food. He was relieved when he found a stream. He drank and washed, cleaning his dusty skin and hair, and cooling his feet. After he’d rested, he followed the stream down, eventually coming to a stony road. He had nothing to carry water in, so he took a last drink and followed the road east.
March plodded on. He saw no sign of human life, apart from the road. When evening came, he couldn’t manage to start a fire. He had nothing, not even a blanket to keep him warm. He lay down to sleep. At least he could rest whenever he wanted now. At least he wasn’t being cursed or kicked. But he woke during the night, alert and fearful—this was Brigant after all, enemy territory. March crouched close to the ground, listening to the noises of the night, but there were no human sounds here. And it was at this point the tears came. He was truly alone, without friends, family, a home, or even a country.
He remembered being in the cell with Edyon that last time. Edyon had said that March had been “a true friend. And a true love,” but March had betrayed him. And, even when Edyon had confronted him, March hadn’t been able to tell Edyon how he really felt. He had never been sure, until it was too late, that he loved Edyon enough. The tears rolled down March’s cheeks, and he closed his eyes and imagined Edyon standing before him, imagined telling Edyon he loved him, imagined kissing him and begging his forgiveness. And in his dreams, Edyon kissed March’s tears away.
* * *
• • •
The next morning March trudged on until he spotted a small farmhouse not far from the road. He staggered toward it to beg for food. There were chickens in the yard, as well as goats and a pig. It was a small, poor place, and yet it seemed like heaven. March banged on the farmhouse door, but there was no answer. He had to eat, had to have something. An egg and some milk from the goats would keep him going for the rest of the day. Surely the farmer could spare him that.
March went to the henhouse and slipped inside. He ran his hands over the shelves, finding two eggs, which he gently placed into his pocket. He left feeling guilty, but he still needed to take more. To survive, he needed a blanket and a skin for water. The house was standing quiet and empty—dare he go in?
“It’s that or die,” he muttered to himself as he opened the door and stepped inside.
The house was tiny and almost bare of possessions. There was one room with a single