roof, bright with glowglobes and loud with skull-smiting noise.
Sponge watched Inda covertly, but said nothing. At twelve—older than most of these boys—he was very experienced in the silent, deadly riptide of power politics, and had learned the still patience of prey.
Inda carried his tray, received the doled out fishcakes into the worn, shallow wooden bowl that looked exactly like the bowls at home. Boiled cabbage. Rice. At the end of the serving table sat a dish of round wooden spoons, also like those at home. He picked one up and followed Sponge, glad to have the decisions made by someone else.
The others sat at the end of a long wooden table, apparently for the scrubs, at the far end of the room. Images, unconnected, caught Inda’s attention: Sponge, sitting down, looking somber. Dogpiss, at the end of Inda’s bench, taking a bite.
The riding boot that caught Dogpiss in the ribs and shoved. A boot belonging to a brawny boy with long, butter-colored hair.
The world narrowed to dreamlike slowness as Dogpiss’ blue eyes teared from surprise and pain, his food went flying, and he landed backward, his head knocking the edge of the bench behind theirs. Bright blood spotted his yellow hair.
Inda was too stunned to feel anything. He was only aware of his hands moving as if someone else moved them, and his mind was somewhere else, watching. That someone used his hands to thump his food on the table and smash the wooden tray across the laughing face of the brawny boy, who squawked in pain.
Reality jolted Inda back into his body when another hand gripped his braid hard and yanked.
Inda squirmed and managed to strike something meaty. The world narrowed to heat and yells and the struggle of arms and legs, until strong hands seized the scruff of his neck, ripped him free, and thrust him with a skull-rocking smack onto the bench.
“Sit down and eat,” an older boy snapped in an urgent whisper. “You want to bring King Willow down on us all?”
Inda tried to protest, but he saw another older boy fling the yellow-haired bully onto a bench. And there was Sponge lifting Dogpiss, who winced and touched his head, and Noddy picking up their cups and settling their trays. So Inda sank back onto the bench, his head and heart drumming, his breathing shaky.
“Eat.”
Inda didn’t even look up to see who spoke. He sat without moving, aware of everyone staring. Except Noddy, who glared at the yellow-haired boy and said loudly, “Already laying claim to tables and we haven’t even been sheared yet? What frost.”
Frost. Frost. The eyes turned away pair by pair, and talk resumed, leaving only a last glare from that yellow-haired bully. Dogpiss and Inda picked up their spoons in trembling fingers.
Chapter Five
UP in the royal wing Hadand sat with Queen Wisthia, who insisted on the Sartoran word for queen, Sarias , which was put before her name, the way it was done in civilized kingdoms. Twice a year she endured the Marlovan word for queen, Gunvaer, the bloodthirsty connotations of which she detested. Her rooms were arranged in the Sartoran style of her youth, and she kept Sartoran customs. Music played during evening study. No war drums were ever permitted. Some of her women were trained in wind and string instruments, and these four sat with steel-stringed lutes and lap harps, plinking soft melodies that chased like butterflies up and down the scales.
Hadand saw her own Runner, Tesar, drift across the open doorway. She forced her attention back to the scroll she was translating. The shearing songs calm the animals, and in turn the children are calm, and glad to see the lambs dash off into the fields, free, light, and dancing in the sun . . .
Shearing. How odd, these coincidences. Tomorrow would be the infamous scrub shearing. Inda. Tesar’s being here meant something had happened, to either Inda or Sponge or both. Hadand could have groaned with impatience, but like Sponge she had long ago schooled herself to stay still.
Sponge watched Inda covertly, but said nothing. At twelve—older than most of these boys—he was very experienced in the silent, deadly riptide of power politics, and had learned the still patience of prey.
Inda carried his tray, received the doled out fishcakes into the worn, shallow wooden bowl that looked exactly like the bowls at home. Boiled cabbage. Rice. At the end of the serving table sat a dish of round wooden spoons, also like those at home. He picked one up and followed Sponge, glad to have the decisions made by someone else.
The others sat at the end of a long wooden table, apparently for the scrubs, at the far end of the room. Images, unconnected, caught Inda’s attention: Sponge, sitting down, looking somber. Dogpiss, at the end of Inda’s bench, taking a bite.
The riding boot that caught Dogpiss in the ribs and shoved. A boot belonging to a brawny boy with long, butter-colored hair.
The world narrowed to dreamlike slowness as Dogpiss’ blue eyes teared from surprise and pain, his food went flying, and he landed backward, his head knocking the edge of the bench behind theirs. Bright blood spotted his yellow hair.
Inda was too stunned to feel anything. He was only aware of his hands moving as if someone else moved them, and his mind was somewhere else, watching. That someone used his hands to thump his food on the table and smash the wooden tray across the laughing face of the brawny boy, who squawked in pain.
Reality jolted Inda back into his body when another hand gripped his braid hard and yanked.
Inda squirmed and managed to strike something meaty. The world narrowed to heat and yells and the struggle of arms and legs, until strong hands seized the scruff of his neck, ripped him free, and thrust him with a skull-rocking smack onto the bench.
“Sit down and eat,” an older boy snapped in an urgent whisper. “You want to bring King Willow down on us all?”
Inda tried to protest, but he saw another older boy fling the yellow-haired bully onto a bench. And there was Sponge lifting Dogpiss, who winced and touched his head, and Noddy picking up their cups and settling their trays. So Inda sank back onto the bench, his head and heart drumming, his breathing shaky.
“Eat.”
Inda didn’t even look up to see who spoke. He sat without moving, aware of everyone staring. Except Noddy, who glared at the yellow-haired boy and said loudly, “Already laying claim to tables and we haven’t even been sheared yet? What frost.”
Frost. Frost. The eyes turned away pair by pair, and talk resumed, leaving only a last glare from that yellow-haired bully. Dogpiss and Inda picked up their spoons in trembling fingers.
Chapter Five
UP in the royal wing Hadand sat with Queen Wisthia, who insisted on the Sartoran word for queen, Sarias , which was put before her name, the way it was done in civilized kingdoms. Twice a year she endured the Marlovan word for queen, Gunvaer, the bloodthirsty connotations of which she detested. Her rooms were arranged in the Sartoran style of her youth, and she kept Sartoran customs. Music played during evening study. No war drums were ever permitted. Some of her women were trained in wind and string instruments, and these four sat with steel-stringed lutes and lap harps, plinking soft melodies that chased like butterflies up and down the scales.
Hadand saw her own Runner, Tesar, drift across the open doorway. She forced her attention back to the scroll she was translating. The shearing songs calm the animals, and in turn the children are calm, and glad to see the lambs dash off into the fields, free, light, and dancing in the sun . . .
Shearing. How odd, these coincidences. Tomorrow would be the infamous scrub shearing. Inda. Tesar’s being here meant something had happened, to either Inda or Sponge or both. Hadand could have groaned with impatience, but like Sponge she had long ago schooled herself to stay still.
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