“For obvious reasons,” I say, gesturing broadly at everything.
“And then someone said you killed the God-King, and we all ran. I thought the war was going to happen that very night. My parents did too. They wanted to take all of us back home, but as we were packing up in the inn, someone came running in to tell us King Ronan was alive!” Her eyes crinkle at the corners as her smile fills her whole face. “We didn’t know until the next day that you saved him. Papa said it was all part of your plan, but Mama said it was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen, and that shut him right up.”
We don’t talk about what happened the night before when we found her. I gently nudge the conversation in that direction, offering her a chance to talk about it with me, but she quickly changes the subject to our clothes and how unbelievable it is to be traveling with the God-King himself.
Later, when we’re hiding from a Nithyrian patrol in a stable, Larus tells me that the men we fought had already robbed her and beaten her by the time we found her. Ronan had healed her injuries before I could see them.
My stomach sinks like it’s filled with lead as I think of this girl out there on her own, another victim of this terrible war. We talk of strategy and numbers, defensive weaknesses and supply lines, the logistics of fighting, but at the end of the day, it’s people like this who live and die at the hands of every decision we make.
It’s an impossible burden. I watch from my seat on a haystack as Ronan approaches Prima, cheering her and charming her like he does with everyone. Her life is in his hands.
And I thank the gods for it. If anyone can see us out of this mess, it’s him.
It’s long past noon by the time we reach our destination. We watch from an abandoned house one hundred feet back, Taran peeking through a window to watch as people come and go, making sure the passage hasn’t been compromised.
“How many ways like that are there into the city?” I ask Ronan while we wait. “If Adria finds out about them, couldn’t she use them to attack from within?”
“There are many of them, but most are like this one. A narrow passage through a cellar that can only accommodate a few people at a time. This one exits in the Temple of Vayla. If they were to enter that way, the priests there would have something to say about it.” The temples are better guarded than many people realize. Everyone knows of the armed acolytes of Sai, the God of War and Vahlo, the God of Death, but few know that even the Goddess of Life herself sees the value in a holy smiting or two. Ronan explains that the Farosian Temple of Vayla is home to the Royal Order of the Sun, a group of paladins sworn to uphold the faith and protect the crown.
“And I’m their leader,” he adds casually. “Not that I do much with them. It’s more of an honorary title. In practice, the temples don’t give much of a fuck about what I think.”
He says it with the bitterness of an old grudge, but before I can ask more, Taran gives us the signal that we should make our move into the passage.
We file out into the dusty streets of the southern outskirts of Faros, the afternoon sun on our backs and an eerie quiet in the air. The last of the Nithyrian gear has been shed, leaving us looking like nothing more than a group of Selaran refugees.
And we’re far from the only ones of those around.
Just as we approach the shack, a pair of young boys rounds the corner, beating us to it. Taran holds his hand up as a signal to wait out of sight. We duck into the nearest alley, my shadows concealing us as Taran watches the exchange.
The older of the two boys knocks firmly on the shack’s door. The windows are boarded, but we hear movement from within, and then a gruff voice greets him through a crack.
“Toll?” says the voice, its tone uncompromising.
“Toll?” repeats the older boy.
The younger boy drops something shiny on the ground. A coin, I think at first, but no. Just a rock.
“Toll,” repeats the voice at the door. “Pay the toll, or no passage. Ten gold.”
“Ten?” says the older boy, his voice incredulous. “I’ve never seen ten gold in my life.”
I’m not surprised by that. Even with as much gold as Selara produces, most of the commoners live on very little. Ten gold is enough to keep the average family fed for several months. And these two are children. Few children have any gold of their own.
Fewer still during wartime.
“No gold, no passage,” says the man at the door, slamming it in the boys’ faces.
“Please!” says the older boy. The younger boy, sensing his panic, starts crying. “We need to find our mother.”
Taran looks back at Ronan, who is listening to every word. “What do you think, sir?”
“I think it’s time to teach someone a lesson about war profiteering.”
These people are Selaran, both the children and the man inside. It’s been so easy for me to see the good in the Selaran people lately, to hear about their courage and strength in defending their city from the onslaught of my own people. And it’s been easy to vilify Nithyria, to look at what Adria and Seth have done and see only the evil in it. The greed, the lust for power and revenge. To look at Nithyria as the enemy.
But reality isn’t that simple. There are good Nithyrians out on the battlefields fighting because their lives have been exploited in the name of gold. And while there may be little choice in the matter with both Selara and Nithyria dependent on it to keep our country fed, it’s cold comfort for someone who toils day and night in the phoenix cypress fields, sweeping up hot ash and earning little but life-changing burns and spoiled grain for their efforts.
And, as the man in the shack guarding the passage reminds me, there are bad Selarans too. There are people who care nothing about the plight of Faros, who only see it as a way to turn a profit off of those too desperate to have anywhere else to turn.
