And their lives would soon be in his hands.
3: Letter
THE FIRST THING CONOR DID TO GET READY FOR THE journey was head to the kitchen. He didn’t have a problem existing in dirty clothing or without weapons as long as he had enough food to last the trip. The cool basement kitchen was dug right into the rock foundation of the fortress, and it was very full. Greenhaven required quite a lot of cooks — not only were there a lot of Greencloaks, there were more than a few spirit animals with very strange diets. So Conor tried to grab jerky, crackers, and dehydrated fruit from under elbows and over shoulders and around hips. He had to keep saying, “Excuse me,” and “I’m sorry,” and “Oh, was that your eye?!”
“Oh, love,” said one of the cooks, a woman who looked a lot like a decorative pillow, “we will do that for you. You are too good to be in the kitchen!”
“Oh, no,” Conor protested fervently. The kitchen was one of the only places in Greenhaven where he felt remotely comfortable. He came from a shepherd family and, until the last year or so, had grown up in fields. It wasn’t the easiest life, but it was simple, and he’d been good at it. He knew his place, and it wasn’t this magnificent fortress. This kitchen was closer.
“Oh, yes,” the cook replied with a laugh. “You’ve bonded with a Great Beast! You’re destined for greatness!”
With a hint of panic, Conor shoved some more jerky into his pack. The idea that he was destined for greatness was not a cozy one. His former noble employer, Devin Trunswick, would certainly have argued against it.
“Look, the messenger boat’s come in!” called an older, bearded cook. Peering out of the small window, he beckoned for Conor to join him. The fortress sat up high above the shore, and though the beach was not close, the building’s lofty vantage point let Conor see all the way down to where a small boat had scuffed onto the rocky sand. In the afternoon light, two messengers climbed out. One walked purposefully toward the castle, but the other began to run, heading for the main entrance of the fortress.
Why run? Conor wondered with a frown. What is the hurry?
As Conor watched the two messengers, the cooks took advantage of his distraction to pack his bag full of food, including a large bone for Briggan. A few minutes later, the running messenger disappeared around the side of the fortress, and the other, to his surprise, came right to the kitchen. She had a mailbag. And one of the letters was for Conor.
Conor accepted the letter, trying to keep the shock off his face. He knew very few people who would write to him. Although he was close to his family and their small farming community, none of the peasantry could read or write very well. In all the time he’d served the Trunswicks, he’d only received a single letter from his family. They’d paid a week’s earnings to hire the Finley girl, who was training to be a scribe, to scratch it all down. The younger Trunswick brother, Dawson, had read it aloud to him — when he wasn’t too busy laughing at the penmanship.
Devin Trunswick was very capable of writing a letter, but it was impossible to imagine him writing one to his former servant. Conor could still remember the open hatred in Devin’s gaze as Tarik led Conor away from the crowd during their Nectar Ceremony.
Which was why Conor was surprised to see what looked like Devin’s handwriting. It was a little more jiggly and uneven, but the capital letters looked the same.
“Letter from home?” asked the pillow cook. Somehow figuring out from his hopeless expression that he couldn’t read it, she added kindly, “Shall I read it to you?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, the cook took the letter and scanned to the bottom. “It’s from your mother!”
Conor’s heart soared for just a moment before crashing back to the earth. It couldn’t be true. Conor’s mother couldn’t read or write.
Dear Conor,
I have wanted to send you a letter for a long time, but as you know, I could not write. Devin Trunswick’s little brother, Dawson, has kindly agreed to write it for me. He says he needs the practice with his handwriting anyway. He is a fine boy!
I do not have much time before my evening duties, but I wanted to let you know that we are proud of you. Sadly, things have gotten worse since you left. I have had to take your place as Devin’s servant, as our debt to Lord Trunswick was still large when you left. Also, a very cold spring killed many of our lambs and the wolves have been getting desperate. We lost two of our dogs to them this season. Food is scarce. We must hand over almost everything we earn to the Trunswicks to pay our debt. I do not mean to scare you, but it is hard to make ends meet without your labor. Please ask the Greencloaks if they could send food for us this winter. Surely it is the least they can do for us as you work with them now. I would not ask if it was not dire.
With all of my love, Your mother
P.S. This is Dawson. I am sorry that your family is so hungry. My father will not forgive their debt. I asked him.
Conor didn’t say anything. It was bad enough to imagine his mother as Devin’s servant, but also to imagine his family starving? He didn’t want to picture it, but he couldn’t help seeing disaster striking. They had been close enough to it when his father had asked him to go work for Devin. Even as he’d hated leaving for Trunswick, even as he’d wondered why he was the sibling who had to go, he’d known that otherwise they would have starved. Suddenly the bag of food he’d packed felt like a luxury.
“I’m sure they’ll be all right,” said the pillow cook, draping her arm over Conor’s shoulders and giving him back the letter. “Giving you up to Briggan is just their sacrifice to save Erdas. You heard what she said! She’s proud of you!”
One of the other cooks handed Conor his bag. “As are we,” she added. “Now, off with you. Briggan’s lad doesn’t belong in a kitchen, no matter where he came from.”
But if I don’t belong in a field or kitchen anymore, Conor thought, and I don’t feel like I belong in a castle, then where do I belong?
4: Moon Tower
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FORTRESS, MEILIN PACED IN THE map room. As she moved around the room, her hands behind her back, she did her absolute best to avoid looking at the three-hundred-pound panda in the room with her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Jhi. It was just that looking at her reminded Meilin of precisely everything that was angering her at the moment.
In front of Meilin was a map of Erdas. All the continents were neatly drawn in burgundy ink: Amaya, Nilo, Eura, and Zhong. Someone had lightly drawn in another continent, Stetriol, near the bottom of the map. Meilin put her finger on it. This was where the Conquerors were coming from. Where the Devourer was coming from.