Valiant

T
he city lay
against the far horizon, dark as a lump of coal in the morning light.

I wanted nothing more than to turn around, right there in the middle of the road, with frost-twisted fields stretching away in every direction. If I had my way, I would have left Father and the merchant caravan taking us to Reggen.

I would have walked the full month back to Danavir. I’d go back to Mama’s grave and sit beside it. I’d tell her that Father had found a city without a tailors’ guild and that he could sew any way he wished—and that I’d never sew for him again. And then I’d sing to her: silly ditties or the lullabies she’d taught me.

It was only right. She’d sung me to sleep as a child.

But I kept walking toward Reggen, while the wagons, all seventeen of them, groaned and creaked as if they were men too old to be out in the morning frost.

When Father joined me, he didn’t say anything; just nodded toward the city. I was glad for his silence. I’d heard his complaints, like a chorus, every day of this trip. Even the sight
of Reggen hadn’t cheered him. I’d only walked the stiffness out of my legs when he began:

“It’s a new beginning, Saville. You’ll see.
They
will see,” he said, the bitterness in his voice sharp as shears. “How dare they tell me that I have to sew their way, or not at all? I’ll make a name for myself in Reggen. I’ll sew for the king himself!” Father laid his hand against the wagon, the one that held his bolts of cloth. He would have stroked the wood but for the splinters.

“I’d have liked to sew for his brother, Torren. He wouldn’t have needed me to sew him clothes that gave him a figure worthy of the throne!” Father rubbed his hands together. “But I like a challenge. And Reggen’s new runt of a king … 
He
will be a challenge. They say even his sister, the princess, would make a better king.”

I looked down, concentrating on the sounds of the wagon—one wheel groaning with every revolution—a creaking, wooden pulse. Even so, Father’s voice rose above it.

I had sewn for Father after his apprentices left him, sewn late into the night so that he would fulfill his orders. I had watched my betrothed walk away because he wouldn’t ally himself with a tailor who defied the guild. I had been dragged to Reggen, a city free of guilds.

But I would not listen to Father this entire trip.

When he paused to draw breath, I began to sing. It was an old traveling song, the kind that has more verses than a rich widow has suitors. Before Father could complain, the merchants near me picked up the song. Our voices rolled
out into the silent fields around us. I pulled the sharp morning air deep inside me and sang till my blood danced to the rhythm; till my throat grew hoarse; till Father walked away.

After two hours, Reggen grew larger, its walls distinct. The sight wore against me, like a stone in my boot. We were traveling through tilled fields, dark and stubbly, with black, frostbitten stalks. A half mile ahead, a road joined ours, and another merchant caravan with it. Gregor, our caravan’s leader, called out, and one of their dark, cloaked figures called back. They were friends, then.

I jumped when Father appeared and fiercely gripped my elbow. “Don’t tell them, Saville,” he hissed. “Don’t breathe a word of it, you hear me?”

I yanked my arm away from him. “Tell them what?”

“Tell them about …” His eyes flicked to the wagon.

The fabric. The silks and brocades in colors so rich and rare that Father could name any price for them. I couldn’t look at the bolts without remembering how Father had set himself against the guild and lost everything in his fight. Even when the fabric was all we had left, when we were preparing to join the caravan, he refused to sell even a few yards to buy extra food. He’d guarded it during the journey, convinced our fellow travelers would steal it if they could. Never mind that they were wealthy merchants in their own right.

I’d heard of farmers who burned old fields to prepare for
the new planting. These bolts of fabric were Father’s seeds for the future—and he had burned our life in Danavir to make way for them.

“I won’t tell them, Father.” It was an easy promise to make. I didn’t think his cloth was worth homespun compared to what I had packed beside it.

And then the other caravan was upon us. I listened to the snatches of news, the stories they told of thieves and favorite inns, and when they thought the mountain passes would be free of snow.

I walked behind two men from the new group. They were young, a few years older than me. Amid the shouting, they almost whispered.

“Soren says two villages were wiped away,” said one. His coat was of finespun wool—dark gray—and cut to fit him. His tailor was a good one. I noticed the grim set of the man’s mouth when he turned to speak to his companion.

“It was just a raiding party,” replied the other, whose clothes were more weather-beaten. He smiled indulgently, as if used to humoring his friend.

“Not the usual type,” said Fine Coat. “Soren said trees were torn out of the ground, the homesteads trampled, all livestock gone.”

“As I said—a raiding party.”

“With houses crushed as though they’d been stepped on? With human bones scattered among the wreckage?”

Smiling One laughed at his friend. “You’re exaggerating
again. Houses can’t be stepped on! And wild animals scavenging after the raiding party would explain the bones.”

“Soren says the bones were cooked.”

“Charred?”

“I mean cooked. They were boiled.”

A prickle of fear rose up my back and I put a hand on the jolting wagon beside me. I’d heard my share of tales over the past month—stories meant to coax a shudder from an eager audience. But Fine Coat didn’t look as if he enjoyed his tale. His distaste made the story seem as real as the road we traveled.

I didn’t want to hear any more. But before I could walk away, something seized my hand, tugging me to the wagon.

Too frightened to shriek, I looked down.

Sky above. A man lay inside the wagon on a bed of straw. Cuts covered his face, and he wore terror like a mask. His grip on my hand grew tighter.

“I knew it was you,” he whispered.

Who did he think I was?

I glanced at Fine Coat and his smiling friend a few paces ahead. They hadn’t heard anything over the creaking of the wagon.

“They didn’t hurt you?” he asked. He was such a young man—and his fear made him look even younger. “I saw it pick you up, just like you were a doll and … and … how would I tell Ma? I promised to keep you safe. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

I longed to pull away but he reminded me so much of Mama in those last days.

“I’m—” I licked my lips, not sure what to say. Then I did what I’d done with Mama—I told him what he needed to hear. “I’m safe, I promise. You don’t have to tell Ma anything.”

He stared away over my shoulder, watching things I couldn’t see. “Didn’t think there were monsters like that, didn’t believe.… I’d have taken us away—”

“Shhhhh.” I put my free hand over his. “There aren’t any monsters. We’re safe.”

But he didn’t hear me. “We weren’t cowards! We tried to stop the man, the one man. But … swords didn’t do anything. That’s why I rode for help. I didn’t want to leave you!”

“What are you
doing
?” demanded Fine Coat. When had he come so close?

I’d have stepped back if the young man in the wagon hadn’t clutched my hand so tightly. “He took my hand,” I whispered. “He thinks I’m his sister.”

Fine Coat peered down at the man, who’d closed his eyes. His grip on my hand loosened and his arm fell limp by his side.