Or if I can.
“Are you here for the Gathering?”
The question shatters the bracing air. Someone’s behind me and I spin to face him, shrouding myself with my long dark hair. But I’m wrong. There are two. One’s tall and strapping. The other is smaller in every way. As they chance another step, I notice that they’re young—about my age, seventeen.
“Why I’m here is not your concern,” I say.
“We do beg your pardon,” the smaller boy says. He has a scar on his brow like a cutlass. And another on his forearm, dark as molasses. He gestures to the vacant street behind him. “Have you ever visited Yahres before?”
“Yes,” I say, though my words are false. It’s safer to make them believe I’m a local.
“And your name?” asks the boy, but I shake my head at the same time his companion lets out a grunt.
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “We leave tomorrow.”
The smaller boy nods, looking slightly embarrassed.
“We watched you for a bit,” he tells me.
“And what did you see?” I ask.
He smiles. One of his teeth is chipped. “We assumed you’d turn back many times.”
My pulse quickens at their presumption, especially since it’s mostly true. The slums of Yahres are outside the walls. My home lies inside in the village of Maytown. In Maytown we’re warned to always tread wisely in places like Yahres, Florian, and Sledloe. Perhaps that’s why I’d appeared so unsure. Yet neither of the pair looks remarkably dangerous.
“You proved us wrong,” the boy continues.
“No hard feelings,” I say.
He laughs. “Come inside with us.”
He holds out a hand, but I back away.
“Forgive me,” he says, withdrawing swiftly, color blotching his cheeks. “We lodge with the man who hosts these gatherings . . . and I noticed you had a parchment to read.”
“You saw?” I jolt, clutching it tightly, blood surging through my legs and arms. Since Mother’s passing, it happens quite often. My heart beats fast, and I need to run.
“You don’t have to read it,” he says.
I swallow.
“Although you can if you want to, of course. Unless you didn’t come here for the Gathering?”
“I doubt she’s here for anything else.”
It’s much too hard to read his expression, but the taller boy speaks with a dash of disdain. He sidesteps his friend with two no-nonsense strides.
“You don’t know my business,” I say.
“Oh, please.” He comes in close, reaching past me, and the scent of leather and steel is intense. It reminds me of sitting in my father’s workroom when he’s mending quivers for the elder archers. The boy raps on the door with his knuckles. Three times, then nothing. The way we’re supposed to. “Of course you’re here for the Gathering,” he says, as metal grinds and a peephole opens.
My need to bolt escalates.
“Get in. You’re the last,” says the face inside. The cumbersome timber shifts outward before us. It breaks the leaves and they flutter in spirals.
“After you,” the tall boy says.
The parchment feels like a stone in my hand. It dawns on me how stifled this is—this narrow black corridor, deep in the kingdom.
I brush the still-dangling leaves to one side. The passageway stretches a good twenty paces. I could perish in there and no one would find me.
“Are you waiting for something?”
“No,” I say.
Ignoring the boy, I stoop to enter, trying to focus my thoughts on the brickwork. The blocks have eroded from years of scuffing. They smell like lichen and tarnished copper. Light spills through the distant doorframe, and our guide clears his throat to urge us on. I double my pace, though the boys hang back. The weight of their presence behind me is strong.
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