I was a plant killer. A poisoner of growth. A farming fool. I liked to do it; I just sucked at it. Big time.
Most women in Verald learned the skills of their mothers to prepare them to run their household when their husbands left to join the war—and most likely die. Serving ale and stew was respectable enough, I thought, and it would be the only way for me to provide for a family, if my future husband and I had a child before he was sent to the lines. Ugh, that sounded so . . . planned and boring. But that future was drawing closer and closer. In three months, I’d be eighteen.
I held a huge pot over my head and let the pot drop into the sudsy water below, laughing and lunging away when water exploded everywhere. A cheap thrill, I had to admit, but a thrill nevertheless.
All I really wanted at seventeen years old was something different, something more, some interruption to the path of this mundane life.
My sleeves were soaked, my fingers pruny, and as I got down to the few remaining dishes, I rushed to finish so I could go back into the tavern room and eavesdrop on the meeting. The rebel gathering was Dyter’s real reason for sending me back here. Miserable coot.
“Clear out!” Dyter boomed from the tavern room. His deep voice carried over the din of male voices, and I rushed out of the kitchen, tightening the ties of my apron over my green aketon and brown ankle-length skirt.
Dyter bellowed, “Curfew is in ten minutes and the king’s Drae has been spotted in the skies the last few nights, so don’t any of ya get caught. And if you do, don’t squeal.”
I shivered and saw several men exchange nervous looks. Everyone had to work to conceal their fear at the mention of Lord Irrik, the sole Drae in the kingdom of Verald. He was the horror story mothers told their children. A dragon shifter, sworn to be the king’s muscle—brutal, terrifying, and invincible.
And he was hunting in Zone Seven.
2
The men spilled out of the doorway, disappearing into the inky darkness of night. The muggy air rushed in, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the smell of heat and night—much better than sweaty man bodies.
“Want me to walk you home?” Arnik asked, joining me at the end of the bar.
His familiar voice brushed over me, making me smile, as he drew closer. Arnik and I had been friends forever. Best friends. Our histories were so enmeshed I couldn’t imagine life without him. We’d grown up next door to each other, played together, and confided in each other. Everyone in Harvest Zone Seven knew everyone, but I didn’t have any close friends other than Arnik. Most people found me a bit useless, I think. Or maybe I’d killed their potato plants at some point. People were fiercely protective of their potato crops in Verald.
“Sorry, Son. Ryn is staying on. I need her help,” Dyter said, sliding a long bench on top of a table using his sole arm and a bump of his hip. “This place is a mess thanks to your revolutionary puppies.”
I did my best not to smirk at the owner’s jab at Arnik’s new friends. I tended to keep to myself, but this was no reflection on Arnik’s abundant social life. Of late, he’d gravitated toward young males full of indignant rage at the king and those who declared a burning need for glory.
Lips twitching, I turned to Arnik. “You’re on your own for the walk. I’ll see you tomorrow, though. Mum said there are deliveries to make, and I know your ma’s been asking for soap.”
I could make soap, a skill I was quite proud of, actually. Unfortunately, nearly everyone could make it, so I probably wouldn’t be the soap queen of Harvest Zone Seven when I married.
“I’m pruning the pinot gris vines in the southern fields tomorrow,” Arnik reminded me. “For all the good it’ll do. Half of them are withered and black. The roses at the end of the rows haven’t bloomed in years.”
Arnik’s gentle reminder made me sigh. At eighteen, he had adult responsibilities. Two weeks had passed, but I still tended to forget our schedules didn’t match anymore. I’d been hoping he’d help me let the Tals’ donkey out of its stall.
“Maybe you could come by for my supper break?” he asked in a rush.
He accompanied the question with an intense look, and I gave him a blank one in return. Why would I come to see him in the southern fields? We’d never . . . That would mean . . . I flushed.
“Aye, now, lad. I told you to clear out.” Dyter bustled over, his presence pushing Arnik out the back door. “And no more telling those upstart laddies ’bout the meetings here. If you think the houses of Ers, Ets, and Als are interested in joining, you let me know and I’ll decide if they can come, but you had the third son of Tal here.” Dyter’s voice showed exactly what he thought of the third son of Tal. The serious undercurrents to his words were unmistakable. The tavern owner rarely laid down the law, but when he did, he expected us to fall in line. I supposed that was why Dyter was so high up in the rebellion. He had a natural air of command.
“I thought you were recruiting,” Arnik said, turning his frown on Dyter. “If Cal is really, truly coming, everyone will want to meet him. We could recruit a heap more to the cause if we told people. My friends want to help.”
Dyter wiped the sheen from his shaved head. “Aye. We’re recruiting, but only those willing to fight with their hands and weapons, not their ruddy mouths. The Tals won’t fight. They’re toadies of the king, boy. No sense in having young Talrit come spy for his father and uncles. You’ll earn us a one-way ticket to the king’s dungeons. Know how many people survive his dungeons?” He walked away, shouting over his shoulder, “None!”
Arnik inhaled at the cutting words. Now that he was eighteen, just like the other young men, he hated being treated like he was seventeen.
Dyter was right, though. Everyone knew which houses were in the king’s pocket, and the House of Tal was one of them. The Tals had a constant supply of food and goods, which in the depths of the hunger meant they were obscenely rich and, as such, disconnected with the plight of the likes of peasants. Why would the House of Tal ever revolt against King Irdeldon?
“Talrit is not a spy.” Arnik’s pale skin blotched as his temper rose.
Pretty soon he’d be yelling, and the argument would go nowhere. Besides, Arnik needed to leave or he’d run the risk of breaking curfew.
Arnik clenched his fists and leaned forward, gearing up to fight. “We’ve been friends—”
For two weeks. I grabbed his arm and said, “You’d better go. You’re cutting curfew too close.” I raised my eyebrows at Dyter, a pointed look meant to tell him to stop. Thankfully, he understood and turned toward the kitchen, mumbling something about grabbing a mop.
“Come on,” I said, leading Arnik to the door. “You know how Dyter gets when new people come. You can’t keep bringing everyone who says they’re unhappy.”