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“This is what comes from doing things in the dark,” I mutter as I look over my collection of knives and my bow and arrow.
I can keep most of my knives underneath my clothes, close to my body, but my bow and arrow are too large to hide.
“Unless…”
I look over at the bow and then at the shirt, which fits although it is slightly too large.
I grab one of my carving knives and get to work on the bow.
The day grows old and weary around me as I carve away at the spine of the bow and rip apart the seams of the shirt before I sew it back together.
I’m missing a lot of good hunting doing this. I only hope that this will work out. It has to work out. Because if it doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.
As I adjust the stolen clothes and my bow so that my weapons can fit underneath the shirt, I go over the plan in my head.
In a few days, there will be some kind of special royal anniversary, and the streets will be filled with naga and the human slaves that they take with them everywhere.
In a few days, I’ll leave at dawn and make it into town, where I’ll blend in with the other slaves.
I cringe as a vision of my mother’s face materializes in my head.She would not be happy with me right now. She’d consider this a death wish.
“Maybe it is,” I murmur furiously to myself as I test the spine of the bow, which now has a hinge in the middle that allows it to bend. “But I don’t have a choice. It has to be done.”
She didn’t raise me to sit around and do nothing. I cannot believe that my destiny is to remain in this forest and hunt for the rest of my life.
Once I blend in with the rest of the slaves, I’ll infiltrate the villages that are close to the center of the town, where I’ll figure out what the King’s movements are.
If he plans to leave the castle, I can follow him on the road. When the carriage pulls over, killing him will be as easy as killing a dripir.
“He’s no better than a dripir, either,” I say darkly to myself as I finish up the shirt. The shirt has an extra flap at the back so that when I hang the bow over my shoulder, it will look completely inconspicuous.
I have also adjusted the bow, which can now fold in half, so it is even smaller than it originally was.
* * *
The sun is sobright that it is painful to look at the horizon, where the brilliant light streams out as if someone has tipped over a jar of sunlight and is flooding Yadat with it.
It is a little bit after dawn, and I have just spent about an hour bathing in the river with a piece of soap that has completely dissolved in the water.
My skin is bright red as I pull my stolen clothes on. I hop down into the bunker and grab some of the rubber clips I fashioned to keep my hair at bay. Then I grab the small, broken piece of looking glass off the shelf.
I very rarely look at myself, but I have never been particularly good at braiding my hair, and I need the looking glass to guide my hands. When I have finished braiding my hair back, I stare at myself in the looking glass for just a second before it becomes too painful.
All I see, when I look in the glass, are my parents looking back at me. All I see are my mother’s deep-set eyes and straight dark brows. All I see are my father’s curly baby hairs that refuse to be tamed no matter how much water or taura fat I use to slick it down.
I look around the bunker that I may never return to. I grab my small bag and bow and arrows and secure it underneath the oversized shirt and the jacket that is the only thing I have left of my father.
And then I leave.
I arrive on the outskirts of the village early enough to blend in with a group of farm workers.
We are directed by three naga to carry sacks of grain to the center of the village, where the village’s baker will use it to make baked goods.
Luckily, everything I am carrying beneath my clothes is light enough not to burden me too much, and I lift a bag easily enough onto my shoulders and follow the line into the village.
“What’s all the fuss about?” I ask the woman next to me. She must be close to my age, and she is slightly thinner than me. Her face is gaunt, and her skin is stretched tightly over her face.
She shrugs, struggling underneath the weight of her bag before I reach over to help her.
