bed to the side and a rough wooden box containing a few clothes and a blanket. March took the blanket. Then he went to the kitchen—the other side of the room—which had a fireplace, table, and two small cupboards. There was a small pitcher full of milk in one. March licked his lips and his stomach growled. The milk hardly touched the sides of his mouth, yet its flavor was fatty and full. The cupboard also contained some cheese and apples. March grabbed a sack to put the food in, and then found some cabbages and rutabagas. He took one of each and put them in the sack too.
He was leaving the house, closing the door carefully be-hind him, when he heard a shout. “Hey there, boy. What you doing?”
March turned. An old man was approaching. March had to choose: confess and beg for forgiveness, or run.
He looked at the man, who was wiry with a short gray beard. “Well, what you after?” the man shouted, scowling and moving surprisingly fast toward March, who backed away. “Is that my sack you got there? You stealing off me?”
“I’m just hungry.”
“And what’s with your eyes?”
“I didn’t steal them.”
“You’re Abask! I thought your kind were dead. They were all thieves and lowlifes.” The man snatched at the sack, but March jerked it out of his reach, so the man grabbed at March instead.
March pushed the man away.
“That’s my sack.” The man snatched at it again, but March pulled it away and ran a few steps, turning to plead, “I’m just hungry. I just need some food.”
The man bent down and picked up some stones from the path, throwing them with fierce accuracy, while shouting, “Thief! Abask thief!”
The stones struck March twice on the back of the head as he ran off, and the man shouted, his voice carrying surprisingly well in the still air: “I’ll have your eyes out for stealing, you Abask bastard.”
March slowed at the top of a rise before he looked back. The man was far behind, staring at him. March took out the eggs from his pocket, cracked them open, and sucked their contents down. He threw the shells on the ground and shouted at the man, “I should have taken a chicken too.”
* * *
• • •
That night March managed to make a fire. He wrapped himself in the blanket and ate some of the food, saving what he hoped would be enough for the rest of his journey. He didn’t know how long he’d be walking, and he couldn’t risk stealing too often. He needed to get to a town or city. He needed money, work, something. But, as the night wore on, his thoughts fell from those things and returned, as always, to Edyon.
* * *
• • •
The next morning, he set off at first light, not sure where he was going and not sure he wanted to get there. To make things perfect, it started to rain. March put the sack over his head and trudged toward a line of small trees, away from the road, to find some shelter. As he neared, he saw that the trees were growing in a small, narrow valley. He slid down the slope of wet grass and mud, landing on his backside, which elicited a snigger above him. March looked up to see a boy leaning against a tree trunk.
The boy was smaller than March, painfully thin, with a swollen black eye, straggly red-blond hair, and boots that looked way too big for him. By way of greeting, the boy opened his tattered jacket to reveal that his trousers, which were also too big, were held up by a leather belt that was thick and worn, and into which was tucked a long knife.
The boy said, “I don’t want trouble.”
“Me neither,” March replied. “I just want to get out of the rain.”
“Same here.” The boy nodded to the next tree along. “There’s room there.”
March went to the tree, laid his sack out, and sat on it. He looked at the boy, who was watching him intently.
“My name’s Sam.”
“March.”
“Rain doesn’t look like stopping soon.”
March wasn’t in the mood for a conversation about the weather, but it would do no harm to be friendly. “No, probably not.”
“You got any food?”
“A bit.”
Sam wrapped his jacket close to hide his knife and pulled a smile wide across his face. “What you got?”