Chapter One

Thread was his name, no better description could be found of him. From patched, threadbare clothing, to a ragged hair cut, and no shoes, he obviously fit nowhere else than the slums of Lintoug. He was only one of the millions of poor in the war-torn Ascov.

He leaned against the central fountain, which no longer had water in it and was decaying and in disrepair due to the lack of taxes. His shrewd eyes followed people at random, and any observer would find no pattern in their shifting blue depths and would soon pass over his unobtrusive figure as just another slum.

He wore an un-dyed shirt that had begun to thread at the cuffs and worn breeches of some dark reddish brown color. His lower legs and bare feet were pale with dust from the brokenly cobbled street, another result of the lax taxation. The natural color of his skin was that of a light skinned Ascov native, but it was tanned and hard from his homeless life.

He was an adult at seventeen years, and in more ways than one. His blue eyes held more than just a need for food; he had seen things that most people in their life never even thought about. He had seen death - more than a couple of times. His own mother had died when he was only four from starvation, her emaciated body scaring his young mind so badly as it stiffened in death that he had run away and never returned to the small hovel � he didn�t even know where it was anymore. He had seen his best friend taken away after being caught in the act of stealing, and then later seen him hanging in the grip of a rope, face bloated and once more had left another town behind. He had seen the whores on the street begging for a night from somebody, caught them in their shameful acts as he jumped alley fences. He had seen people get angry and hurt for the littlest reasons, he had seen people shunned merely because of their class. He had been shunned more than one, if only because his feet were dusty.

His hair was a light brown unruly mop that had never been cut properly, and most of those �cuts� had him been struggling in the grip of somebody holding onto his hair as he tried to escape them. His nose, at first glance, seemed too big for his face, but then on second glance, fit him exactly perfect. Underneath that, were emotionless lips that didn�t smile except in silent laughter when his victims cursed at the loss he had inflicted upon them.

His slim fingers twitched expectantly at the sight of a man on a horse. Not many horses were ridden anymore, it was too expensive to keep them shoed properly, and house them at a stable in town and feed them for anything more than field work these days. The horse was a bedraggled dun, probably far past its prime in life, and nobody would have bid on it in an auction anyway. His eyes followed the man and shook his head at the beasts� fate as he man led him into the slaughter house entrance.

Thread soon picked his fully grown lean frame up off the crumbling fountain to follow a man on his way down the street. He stopped in random places to look at things, or other people, never letting the man out of his sight, and neither letting the man know he was being followed.

Closer and closer Thread grew to the man before he found himself beside him, looking at a daily supply of hard bread at the baker�s stand. Thread reached out to touch a piece and was rewarded with a smart whack from a particularly painful wooden spoon.

�Git outta th� way thief! Move on fer th� payin� cust�mers!� The gruff man spat at him, turning to the other man, his demeanor and voice making a one hundred and eighty degree rotation. �Now good master, what kin I git for ya?� He asked, sidelining a glare at Thread again.

The man, who wore a navy shirt over his leathery breeches also glanced at Thread his clear gaze making Thread uncomfortable for one of the first times in his life. His eyes didn�t let Thread look away as he said, his voice clearly having been educated at one point in time. �How about two of those croissants, and another for the boy?�

Thread looked down, then up, his eyes a mixture of anger and embarrassment. �Nobody needs�t care fer me. I�m fine, I don�t wan� your pity. � He retorted to the man, crossing his arms across his chest defiantly, but made sure not to leave until the warm bread was in his dirty hands.

The man shook his head, smiling. �Even a Ruler would accept a meal from an enemy. They�d just check it for poison first. It�s the only way of politics. � He gave a last look to the grown teenager before walking way, stuffing his loaf into a pack Thread hadn�t noticed before.

Thread shook his head and slowly turned the other way, his desire to follow the man gone.

A Ruler was one of the people chosen from the Book of Blood, the book of prophetic words written by people before time had been invented, and were the rulers of Ascov. They came from all walks of life, but all had been competent and constructive Rulers, until now, when a group of dignitaries and nobles had formed a committee to preside over the country. Three pages of the Book of Blood had been torn out and lost, ten years ago, and since the last Ruler has died, nobody had taken their place. The country had fallen into civil war and savage terrorism, all the high ranking nobles wanting the throne for their own, but the small committee had held firm and nobody had gained the throne � yet.

In Thread�s opinion, he wished somebody would take over, if only to fix all the damage that was going on, and end it for good. Whatever the committee thought it was doing right, wasn�t working at all, and neither an army nor a law had gone out to stop the terrorism and war.

He hopped an alley backing and settled on a few molding crates, pondering what the man had told him. Was that what politics really were? Giving somebody something first, so they wouldn�t take something from you later? He always thought that they were more complicated than that. What else had the man said? �They�d just check for poison first. �

Thread glanced at the golden bread in his hands suddenly suspicious. He tore off a tiny tidbit and threw it on the ground, watching insects swarm over it instantly. None of them died, and soon the piece was gone. Thread shrugged, and began to ravenously eat the bread. What wouldn�t kill insects wouldn�t kill him.

His quick eyes followed a man at the end of the short alley, leaving the slaughter house with only a rope bridle in his hands. He stuffed the rest of the bread into his mouth, and brushed his hands off on his breeches, easing his way out into the crowd.

No horse meant full pockets, and there was a day�s work to be done if he wanted to eat tonight.





A few days, and many thefts later, Thread found himself at dusk with an empty stomach and cold feet. It would soon the coldest season of the year in Eastern Ascov, and already the nights found him shivering in his hole.

Once more he wandered the dusty streets, the tang of booze and bad food leaking into the streets, conversation and laughter falling on his ears. He roamed the town square around the crumbling fountain, watching prospective victims. It took almost an hour to find an appropriate one, and when he began to follow him, he almost lost him in a crowd moving into an inn�s common room.

Harsh yellow light spilled into the streets, and the sound of a fiddle erupted from its interior. The smoke made him want to retch, tobacco had become hard and cheap, and the smell as well had gotten worse, but the addicts still didn�t stop smoking and chewing it. Thread took shallow breaths instead, and kept his appearance casual as he met the man at the bar about fifteen minutes later.

The man sat at the bar for a few rounds before noticing him. Thread offered him a drink and the greedy man readily accepted, clapping Thread on the shoulder, calling him a �good man�. He gulped down the stale booze, oblivious to Thread�s loose fingers.

A half-second later, a small pouch had been extracted from his pockets, the round metal in it promising Thread�s belly food. Thread was on his way to the door in seconds, leaving the half-drunk man to pay. He paused, leaning nonchalantly on the doorway as the man downed another tankard of booze and suddenly roared a challenge that could be heard across the room to the man that he had been talking to.

�I bet you three gold I�m a better shot�n you!� He swayed as he stood up, his finger trying to pinpoint the man and failing miserably � he was drunker than Thread had thought.

The other, a burly man with little neck, maybe in his fifties cursed back at the drunk, calling him a folly and a fake, and rolling his eyes went back to his beer.

The drunk protested this quite viciously, proclaiming in his drunken slur, �I�ll meet you at the yards tomorrow then, ya fool! I�ll prove it to ya then!�

The burly man just waved his hand and rolled his eyes again, but was forced to acquiesce when the crowd began cheering, calling for the match, saying they would all be there. The man�s wife was a vendor, and he couldn�t pass up the opportunity of a crowd, if only for the sake of earning a few coppers.

The drunk shouted his delight, and reached in his pocket to pay for a round on him, but his fingers met nothing but lint. His unfocused eyes swirled around the room but Thread was already on his way down the street.

His feet carried him a ways away before he found another bar, one much more inconspicuous, one where nobody asked how or where he had gotten the money to pay for a meal and mead, and most importantly, one where nobody would spit at him for his dusty bare feet.

Midnight found him curled up in his hole, a small refuge he had found a year ago. It was his shelter against the elements; he had filled in the area where bricks had been knocked out with his too-small clothes and rags and anything he could find to make it snug. It was there he had slept for the past few months, and always, with one eye open, but tonight, both of his blue eyes stayed open. One watching the world outside and the other watching a newly pulled brick behind which was a small pouch still with coin in its depths.





The next morning, Thread was spooked awake as a rat scrambled over his arm and out into the alley way. He cursed at the rodent, rubbing the spot on his head where he had hit the top of his hole. He squinted out into the early light as it flooded the small alley way, and lay there not wanting to move. He had somehow found a comfortable position in his cramped little hole, which was rare, and he sighed, yawning.

Minutes later, he found the urge to get up, as a group of people swarmed past the alley entrance casting a momentary shadow over his hole. Stretching, he yawned again, rubbing a hand through his messy hair, and followed them. Obviously by their conversation they were headed to the field where archery butts were being set up for the two men, and a few others who had decided to join in on the bet.

Thread wound his way through the growing throng of people, filching random things from the unsuspecting spectators. He finally found a spot quite near the archery butts, and he settled his lean frame in the yellowing grass munching on a hard cracker stolen from some person�s pouch. His clear eyes studied the men at the other end of the field.

There was the drunk from last night, still probably hung over, and the burly man with little neck, each stringing a good-sized bow. There were two other men, a small wiry man with a short bow, and a tall lean man wearing a brimmed hat with a long bow. Thread judged them, finally settling his mind that the small man would win. He wasn�t that great a judge of archery, but the other three men seemed more incompetent than the smaller man.

He didn�t pay attention as they set up the rules, knowing they would be something along the lines of so many arrows each, and each set at a different distance. Instead he let his eyes wander over the crowd, spying many faces he had stolen things from, some looking a little disgruntled, others hadn�t even noticed. A small twinge made him turn and look behind him, and he frowned. The man with the clear steady gaze met his eyes again, giving him a short nod before moving off into the crowd elsewhere.

Thread decided the man was a new comer to this town, and hadn�t realized yet what it meant to be even an acquaintance with a homeless kid like himself. He�d soon learn the right of his ways, and Thread could go about stealing from him as every other person he stole from. However, his eyes followed the man until he was out of sight behind many other people.

The archery contest began, and Thread didn�t join in with the crowd as they cheered on the men. The first arrow was shot from thirty yards out; needless to say, all men hit the bulls-eye. The second arrow was set at sixty yards, and the tall lean man strung his arrow and made a clean shot, hitting the bare edges of the bulls-eye. The drunk whom Thread had stolen from the night before just touched the fletching on the lean man�s arrow. The small and wiry man hit it almost dead center, and the crowd sent up a cheer for him. He had become the favorite. The burly man�s arrow didn�t even hit the edge of the bulls-eye. It landed somewhere about an inch wide of it. The crowd laughed at him, and he gave a good-natured smile to them, knowing he hadn�t a chance the moment he entered the competition.

The last shot was at ninety yards. The men backed up the appropriate paces, and the burly man went first. His arrow didn�t even hit the backing, it went wide, getting lost somewhere within the bushes on the side. He laughed, shaking his head and clapped for the next man to go. The drunk�s arrow hit the edge of the target and bounced off in front, evidently his bow wasn�t strong enough to go that distance. The tall lean man with the long bow went next, and his arrow hit the bulls-eye, but not dead center. He just shrugged, and moved so the next man could go. The small wiry man pulled out his last arrow and aimed down it, letting the string go with a twang, and the arrow hit the target dead center as the crowd erupted in cheers for him. He just grinned, holding out his hand for the other men to pay up their part of the winnings.

They had settled on two silvers earlier, none of the men wanted to take too much from each other, knowing there wasn�t that much money to go around anymore. After paying, the three men collected their arrows and left. The small man tucked the money somewhere in the front of the vest he wore and shouldered his bow and quiver, walking down the butts to reclaim his arrows. After sharpening the tips again, they�d be good as new.

Thread pulled himself to his feet silently, following the man to the archery butts, to search for the arrow that had gone wild. He could pull it apart and sell the fletching and the head for something if he tried. He wasn�t against a little manual work of sharpening and cleaning them. Anything to give him a day�s rest of thievery would be nice.

The arrow was easy to find, considering that instead of the usual dark wood, it was a lighter color. He easily picked it out of the brambles, running his hand down the length of it. Maybe he could sell the shaft too, it seemed nicer than most. He held onto as he made his way back into the town, finding his way to an alley. He settled down by the wall, and began to pick dirt out of the cracks in the arrow head, and then the shaft. He attempted this for a few moments, before finding it futile and standing back up.

A few minutes later he was at the riverside, dunking the arrow in the water, making sure he didn�t get the fletching wet. He rubbed his hand along the edge of the shaft, and the brown markings came off it, leaving the arrow and almost pure white. Frowning, he held it up to the light, examining it. He wasn�t sure, but he doubted that it was wood. Neither did he know what it could be.

A sudden shadow crossed over him and into the water, and he pivoted on a foot, immediately in a defensive position, with his fists up to guard his face.

He gulped eyes going wide as he stared down the tip of a surprisingly sharp arrow that was mere inches from the bridge of his nose. Thread�s blue eyes went up to the face of the archer, angry and wide.

�Drop the arrow, thief. � The man growled. He wore a soft gray shirt with a scattering of stars on the right breast and dark breeches, the color of the few law enforcing men that were part of the town. Thread had usually only seen them around to break up fights, or catch thieves such as himself. He gulped again. The man�s face was hard, and he looked very capable of doing his job. His dark eyes regarded Thread again. �Drop the arrow kid. � He spat out.

Thread didn�t see much of a choice; any move he made would send that arrow deep inside his head. He let the arrow fall to the ground with a soft sound, holding his hands up beside him, showing he had no weapons. The guard didn�t move though.

�Where�d ya get it, who�d ya steal it from?� He asked him, none too lightly. His dark eyes scrutinized Thread until Thread felt like he was naked or something; the man seemed to see right through him.

�The archery contest, th� man left it�n I took it�mebbe to sell some of it�r sumthin. � He tried to keep his voice level. �I didn� steal it, promise. Th� man left it there, he didn� wan� it.�

�Liar. � The man spat in the dirt at Thread�s feet, showering them with little spittle droplets.

�I�m not lyin�!� Thread protested, getting a little angrier than he probably should have. He shifted, and suddenly found the arrow pressed against his throat almost to the point of breaking the skin.

�You little thief. We�ve been trying to catch you for years, you�re not gettin� out of this now. Move. � He motioned with his arrow away from the stream, and Thread complied for a few steps until the man�s gruff bark told him to halt. �Now, turn.�

Thread didn�t move, giving the man a scorning look. He wasn�t stupid; nobody turned their back on an enemy. He stared at the man silently his legs locked in place.

�Move kid, now�re this arrow�ll be in ya in stead of out here. � He touched Thread with the arrow, and Thread made his move, grabbing the shaft at the same moment the man released the string, pulling forward on it and tossing it into the stream. His hands found the bow, and he pulled that toward him as well, bringing the man toward him. One hand reached out to punch the man�s face, the other twisting his arm and turning his body around.

He must have over estimated the man�s strength. Obviously the man was made of muscle, and not fat despite his bulk. The man took a hold of Thread�s arm with his free hand, jerking his other arm free. Thread found himself face down in the dirt in less than a second, the man�s knee in the middle of his back with all his weight behind it, and his arms twisted painfully up behind him almost to the point of breaking.

Thread�s breath came in short painful huffs as the man leaned on him. There was no doubt he would have bruises along his back, and more on his arms. The man held both his arms with one hand, and with the other, dug in his belt pouch for a length of rope with which he proceeded to tie Thread�s arms and wrists together.

�Arrogant little jackass. � The man shot out at him, spitting beside his face and jerking on his arms until spots swam before Thread�s eyes from the pain. He pulled Thread to his feet by his arms, shoving him forward toward the road that ran beside the river, Thread took the chance to break into a stumbling run, but the man caught up to him in two strides, his leg reaching out and hooking Thread�s, making him fall face first down the steep incline of the roadside, filled with brambles and stickers. He felt his arm wrench out of socket as the weeds cut into him, and he passed out from the pain this time. He didn�t even remember hitting the bottom of the slope.

He woke in the dark, blinking as he tried to sit up, and almost passed out again as he moved his arms. He had been untied, and somehow his arm was back in place, but even the barest touch on it made it throb and stars pass before his eyes. He turned his head, the movement allowing him to feel the bruises on his back, but it wasn�t bad enough that he couldn�t move. He tried to take stock of his surroundings.

He was in a jail cell face down on slightly moldy straw, a draft coming from the bars in the door. There was a small window about ten feet high in the wall, and he probably would have attempted escape by it, but not with the state his arms were in. It smelt of damp, unsanitary water and rotted wood, making his nose wrinkle when the smell actually hit his brain. He closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the floor and breathing as shallow as he could. Even breathing hurt. He felt reality leaving him again and he didn�t wake until around noon of the next day.

There was a pounding on the wooden door that finally beat through his fuzzy brain to consciousness. He made some slurred mumbled reply and the door was pushed open, and the jail guard stood there.

He was a tall sinewy man with sparse graying hair and a bored look in his gray eyes, but he still looked strong. He motioned to Thread to stand up, and tapped his foot impatiently when he didn�t move.

�Git up!� He said sharply, his bored eyes growing angry when Thread just sighed.

�I can�t. � Thread spat out at him, the dull pain making him agitated and irritable. He managed to turn his head sideways enough to glare at the man. Any movement at all using his back or shoulders made him want to scream with pain, and so he only lay there motionless while the guard looked on at him disgusted. Finally, the guard gave a resigned sigh, seeing as Thread wasn�t going to get up, and shut the door again leaving Thread alone in the half light that filtered through the high window.

He once more took inventory of his injuries. His shoulder still wouldn�t move, and any motion that moved his arm out of its position in the slightest, even bending his elbow, sent darts of pain through him. His other arm, though infinitely sore was moveable. His back burned with pain at anything other than leaving it straight, and he was sure he had bruised his spine in more than one place. Every part of his not covered by clothing was covered in angry red scratches, and smeared and dotted with dried blood from when he had tumbled down the hill. He didn�t doubt that there were stickers in his clothing as it was. He also gathered he might have a black eye, judging by the way his eye didn�t seem to want to open the whole way. He tasted blood in his mouth, and guessed he might have a busted lip, or maybe even lost a tooth in the process of falling.

Eyes shut, he pulled his sore arm under him, and levered himself up, painful inch by painful inch until he could pull a leg under him, already tasting the coppery blood in his mouth from where he bit his lip to keep the scream in. A jerking lurch and he got to one knee, and then the other, and then to his feet, where he stood, slightly shaking, blinking back the pain-tears.

There was a pounding on the door and he managed to get out a spiteful, �What,� before it was pulled open and the guard stood there again, this time with the law enforcement man from the day before.

The guard at least looked surprised to see him on his feet, but the dark-eyed man only spat at him, �Get out, your trial�s next. � He gave Thread a small shove before he could get all the way out into the aisle and Thread fell to his knees, gasping as his back muscles lit on fire at the movement. The man laughed at him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet, making him almost pass out from the agony of his injured arm being jerked again almost out of socket.

The guard laughed, �You thieves get what�s comin� to ya. Move it kid. �

Thread bristled at the tone of the guard�s voice but wasn�t stupid enough to retaliate. If he tried anything else, the man would most likely break his arm again.

The taller of the men led him into a pale room at which a man sat in a chair at one end of a table, his elbow resting on the table and his head on his hand. He sighed when Thread came in and gave the air of complete boredom. �Name,� He said monotonously. He didn�t even bother to look up.

�Thread. � Thread replied. The man made a jot on the paper before him.

�Age,� he said in the same uncaring voice.

�Sixteen. � Thread said, playing down his age. If he was lucky, maybe they would just send him to work somewhere, instead of hanging him.

�Crime,� the bored voice continued.

�Theft,� The man behind Thread broke in, �multiple accounts of theft.�

Thread turned and glared at him, and the man raised a threatening hand and made the motion to hit him across the face.

Thread rolled his eyes at the man, and turned back to the other before he could see the man�s reaction to his impudence.

�Punishment,� the voice droned on.

�Hang him.�

�Sure?�

�Yep.�

�He could be good in the mines��

�Nope, send him to the gallows. � The guard said mercilessly, grinning evilly at Thread.

Thread swallowed unconsciously, a shiver going down his back, sending pain back to his brain. He shifted over a step, turning so he could keep an eye on both men, nervously.

�Date,� the man didn�t seem to notice his movement, as he continued.

The man was about to reply when another person pushed his way through the door, instantly walking over to the man behind the table and taking the quill from him. For the first time since Thread had been in there, the man showed emotion, sitting up in his chair and demanding to know what the other was doing.

The voice seemed familiar as he replied, �Taking a prisoner off of your hands. � He crossed out the information regarding Thread being there at all, before dropping the quill and looking up.

Thread�s eyes widened. It was the same man who had given him the bread, and then later seen him at the archery competition. He still had a steady gaze, but his eyebrows widened a little at the state of Thread�s condition. Thread didn�t blame him. It wasn�t everyday somebody got to see a kid covered in dried blood and scratches, with one blackening eye and a busted lip. The man motioned for him to come over, eyeing him again when he saw how hard it was for Thread to walk.

He turned to the guard, passed a small pouch into his hand, and said severely, �This boy was never here. � It wasn�t really a statement, it was more of a threat, and he beckoned for Thread to follow him out the door. Thread did so eagerly, nearly falling when his back decided he couldn�t move that fast.

The two men in the doorway seemed a bit dumbfounded as he pushed past them, and he couldn�t help but give the dark-eyed man a sarcastic grin. He didn�t really care where he was going now, he only knew he wasn�t going to die and that was enough for him.





The man led Thread into the afternoon light outside the building, where two horses were waiting. Surprisingly, both horses were in good condition, unlike almost every single other burden beast alive. Thread swallowed when he realized the man meant him to ride one of the horses. He had never been on a horse in his life, and knew precious little about them other than that they cost a lot.

The man stopped beside on of the horses, and turned back to Thread, scrutinizing him with his steady gaze. Then, unexpectedly, he held out a hand for Thread to shake. �I�m Prost. � He said simply.

Thread eyed the man, not taking his hand. Despite the fact the man had rescued him from death; he still wasn�t ready to trust anybody yet. If he could have, he would have taken off running right then and there, but that seemed a bit of an impossible feat with his injuries. He only nodded, giving a short, slightly hoarse, �Thread,� in response to the exchange, before looking back at the horses behind the man.

Prost shrugged, and then gave a small chuckle that made Thread feel a bit like a sullen child who hadn�t gotten his way. �I don�t bite. � He said, �I�m not going to hurt you either. After you get cleaned up, I�ve got a proposition for you. � He continued.

Thread�s blue eyes found the man�s face again, levelly meeting his gaze. He was silent, finding nothing to say. He had never been treated so equally in his life, especially by a man who had never seen him before a few days ago. �I tol� you, I don� need no pity. � He mumbled around his busted lip.

Prost only shrugged again, motioning to the horses. �Walk or ride? You�re coming with me either way. I don�t pay guards off for just anyone. � He began to untie one of the horses, glancing up at Thread as he moved on to the second.

�Walk. � Thread said, taking the reins of one horse as the man pushed them at him. Considering he already knew nothing about horses, and the fact he couldn�t bend his back at all or move his shoulder, he found it much safer on the ground.

�Alright,� The man agreed amiably, starting off down the road, pausing to wait for Thread to catch up, and then walking slow enough he could keep up without mentioning a word of the pace to him. Thread was thankful, and the first point at which he began to see the man as a friend, and not another person out to get him arrested.

They didn�t speak or stop until sundown except once to water the horses and themselves. Thread wasn�t about to ask when they were going to stop either, His pride made him grit his teeth and keep moving in spite of the jarring pain that shot up his back with each step. The shadows were stretched out along the ground and the sun almost completely past the horizon when Prost stopped before a beaten drive and started up it, letting a sigh escape his lungs.

Thread supposed this was their destination, and he let his eyes wander the trees on either side, seeing absolutely nothing familiar. A feeling of loneliness crept into him, but was soon lost to astonishment when the house the drive led to came into view.

It was made of light gray stone, well masoned and bigger than any building Thread had seen in his lifetime except maybe one of the three story inns in town. There were small well-tended gardens in the front, and a wooden bench on the porch, which was covered and stretched the width of the house. There were a few windows, paned with expensive glass, and glowed warmly with soft golden light that made small patches on the grass before the house. The glass wasn�t smudged with soot, or charred like most windows Thread had seen before, instead they were clear, and he figured that it must be oil lamps of some type that gave off light - another high-spending element of the house. The door was a great heavy wooden structure, but Prost didn�t lead him there, instead Thread followed him around to the back of the house where a small well-kept stable had been constructed.

A young boy of about thirteen came out of the stables, wearing plain breeches and a pale shirt and no shoes. He had the palest skin Thread had ever seen, with blue eyes and nearly white-blond hair. He was surprisingly almost as tall as Thread and Prost. He held out a hand, and Prost handed him the reins of his horse, and he held out a hand for Thread�s, but Thread just watched him for a moment, before he realized he was staring, and quickly stammered an apology and a thank-you. The other had been staring too, but he hid it well, just ducking a nod and turning to lead the horses into the stable.

�Well, into the house, and dinner, and then a bath?� Prost turned to Thread, and put out a hand to touch his shoulder, but Thread jerked back with a bitten back gasp at the sudden motion. The man frowned, and turned to go into the house with an oath. Not at Thread, but at the people who had done that to him.

Thread followed him up three steps, and into the biggest kitchen he had ever seen or even heard of. A giant stove seemed to generate all the warmth into the room, making Thread realize he had been shivering in the half-light outside. There were oil lamps, about two on each wall, giving the room a cheery look. A great scrubbed wooden table was in the center of the room, with benches on either side of it for eating. A small door led into what Thread guessed was the cold room, for cheese and milk. Counters ran along most of the walls, some utensils on them, but everything was clean � cleaner than Thread had ever seen in a place.

�Hungry?� The man asked, walking over to the stove and looking at the plates that sat beside it as a scent made Thread�s head turn, and he completely forgot about the kitchen or food.

She had wavy light brown � dark blonde hair that had been pulled back by two twisted strands, but wisps still escaped around her face. She had a fair complexion, with intelligent green eyes that reflected the light like fire on jade. Her smile revealed well cared for almost even teeth. She was perhaps six inches shorter than Thread, but thin, with graceful movements. She must have been near the same age as him. She wore a softly colored green dress, and practical short leather boots. She started with surprise when she noticed Thread, but quickly covered it up. �That�s dinner, Papa. � She motioned toward the plates he had been poking that were covered with cloth napkins.

�Smells good, I�m starving. Oh, Aerine, this is Thread. Thread, this is my daughter, Aerine. He�s going to stay with us for a little while. � He nodded his head toward Thread, who suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable, a little too shabby, and a little too poor. He swallowed, ducking his head and looked at the floor.

He didn�t see her careful study of his features, the torn and bloody scabs, the blackening eye and busted lip; neither did he see the look of pity she gave him, and in doing so, couldn�t resent it.

�Let�s eat. � Prost managed to carry three plates over along with the food, and pushed them onto the table as Aerine went to help him. As he uncovered them, Thread looked up at the smell that rose with the steam. There was a roasted half-ham, and two kinds of vegetables. As Prost sat down Aerine brought over mugs for all of them, and a pitcher of water from the cold room.

�Come�on Thread. We�re not going to start without you. � Aerine�s voice rang in his ears like silver chimes, as she beckoned him over to the table. He stiffly walked over, standing beside the wooden bench without sitting.

�Oh,� Prost seemed to guess the problem, and was gone in a second from the room.

Aerine looked at him, curious. �What�s wrong?� She didn�t seem to be accusing, or trying to make polite conversation, but genuinely interested.

He attempted a shrug, and succeeded into sending a shot of pain through his shoulder. Wincing, he said, �I�m hurt�my back and my shoulder. � He didn�t look at her face, again feeling out of place. The thought to leave danced through his head invitingly, but he knew he couldn�t turn down a meal, or a place to stay for a night, it just wasn�t feasible.

She gave him a sympathetic look, �You look hurt a lot more than that��

Prost re-entered the room, this time carrying two pillows. They weren�t the flat, dirty, beaten kind either, but fully feathered and clean. He offered them to Thread, who put them on the bench and sat on them, waiting for the jolt of pain that would run up his spine, but it didn�t come, and he relaxed a little, sighing. He hadn�t realized how tired he actually was.

�Alright, now, let�s eat. Prost sat at the head of the table, and Aerine across from Thread. They each began taking food, and Thread bit the inside of his cheek as he attempted to take his one handed, the sore muscles in his arm shaking with the effort of lifting his arm so high, but he managed.

He constricted himself to taking smaller bites, as they were, but his stomach demanded he eat faster. He quelled it, savoring the flavor in his mouth. Food had never come so good before. Prost motioned for him to take seconds when he had finished the first, and he did, with a quick smile before putting more of the good food in his mouth.

Finally, Prost and his daughter had eaten their fill, and Thread reluctantly put down his fork as well, knowing he could have eaten more.

�Are you full?� Prost asked him, and he nodded his head in a quick lie. He wasn�t going to be a pig, no matter how hungry he was. He could always come back and steal food later tonight.

�Time for clean-up then, Aerine, you�ll take care of it?� He asked her, and she nodded, standing up and taking a few plates with her to the counter. �Thread, if you�ll come with me then, I�ll see what we can do about cleaning you up. � He pushed back his chair and motioned for Thread to follow him through the doorway.

Thread was immediately lost in the rooms as he was led through them. He had stopped wondering how he was ever going to get back to the kitchen later that night, when Prost led him into a steamy room.

The air was moist and warm, in the center of it, a great basin had been put in the floor, big enough for a horse to get in if it would have liked to. It was filled nearly to the brim with water, water that steamed, and seemed ready to boil. The stones were dark with damp and Thread could feel the dust on his feet sliding off as beads of sweat gathered on them.

�Well then, here you are, there are towels and soap by the pool, make sure you�re clean before you get out. I�ll bring you some of Hux�s clothes to put on before you get out. � Prost turned then, and upon reaching the door paused, �And don�t worry, nobody will come in, it�s only me and Aerine here, and she knows you�ll be in here. � The door shut, and Thread found himself alone in the great room.

Slowly, and painstakingly, he got his shirt off, first one arm, then the other, and then his pants which were easier. He eyed the pool of steaming water, and walked around it, searching for steps of some kind, and luckily found some. There was no railing, and so he gingerly set one foot in the water on the first step, biting the inside of his cheek at the heat. He continued in until he reached the bottom, and the water was almost covering his shoulders. A heady sigh escaped him and he just stood there for minutes on end, letting the heat sink into him with his eyes shut.

It was nearly fifteen minutes later when he opened his eyes, stepping back to balance himself. He slowly bent his legs, ducking himself down in the water, and surprisingly, didn�t feel anything other than a grudging strain on his spine. He closed his eyes and let himself float in a half-reality under the water, until he had to resurface to get his breath.

Prost had said to make sure he was clean, so he searched along the poolside for the soap he had been told he would find. The lump he found was brown in color, but smelt fairly good, and so he picked it up, along with the sponge beside it to settled down to the serious business of de-dirtying himself.

Ten minutes later he was satisfied he had done as well as he could, even dunking his head again for good measure. He unwillingly got out of the pool, and toweled himself off with the soft towels, leaving them in a heap beside the pool before hunting out the clothes Prost had said he would bring in. They were neatly folded alongside the door, a mercifully button down shirt and dark breeches. He found it easier to put them on after the bath, with his shoulder and back not giving him as many problems.

Finally, he opened the door, a slowly looked out into the softly lit hallway. The cool draft felt good on his hot face and still damp hair. Prost had never said where to go afterwards, and so he gingerly made his way down the hallway, hoping he was going in the right direction. He hadn�t gone more than two steps, when a light voice stopped him.

�Thread,� Aerine�s voice made him turned around. �Papa said that you�re to come with me.� She waited for him to reach her before setting off again, slowing her pace to his as her father had done. She led him through another multiple number of rooms, before they reached a well-lit room with pale walls and a fireplace at one end providing warmth. There was a poster bed in one corner adorned with quilts and numerous pillows, and a wardrobe next to it, both of high-quality wood.

Thread stopped in amazement, when his feet sank into soft carpet in the room � he had never been in one before. Aerine led him to a table that had been set up in one corner. It had many little jars and bottles on the top, each neatly labeled with thin hand writing.

�Here, sit down. Papa told me to clean up your cuts before you go to sleep. � She pulled out a chair that already had a cushion on it, but Thread shook his head.

�I�d rather stand�� He stopped when she put her hands on her hips with a determined look in her green eyes. �Sit, I wouldn�t mind if you stood except for the fact you�re just a little too tall.� She pursed her lips, before giving a half smile of apology at her sharpness and sarcasm.

Thread flushed, he should have known. He cautiously sat on the cushion, while she busied herself with all the jars. She opened a pale blue one, and dabbed her finger in it. He watched her face as she gently applied it to the many scratches and cuts scrambled across his features, her soft touch barely registering with him.

�So where did you live?� Her voice made him jump, and she frowned when her finger jerked to a place other than the spot she was supposed to be putting the salve on. �Be still,� She admonished him mechanically.

He frowned, unsure how to answer before finally settling on the town. �Lintoug,� He replied, watching her she picked up a different jar.

Her eyes flickered over to his and then back to her work. �You have pretty eyes.� She told him, glancing back at him again.

Thread was lost for words, as once again he was being treated civilly as an equal � and then again, he couldn�t even remember the last time he had been complimented. He closed his eyes thankfully as she began gently patting the solution on his blackened eye.

He blinked, realizing she was done. She smiled, laughing softly. �You really look like a convict now, all clean and shiny.� She teased him, returning the jars to the table. �Now, this one is for the cuts, put it on the ones on your arms and legs,� She put a dark purple jar on the edge of the table, �Don�t use more than you have to, I really hate making more of these. � She gave him a look with her green eyes, and he swallowed uncertainly as she picked up another jar. �Rub this into bruises, and it�ll help them go away.� The jar she set down was black.

Black is for bruises, he told himself mentally. He hoped she wouldn�t expect him to be able to read the labels, he didn�t know how.

�Well, that�s all I suppose�I�d make you some tea, for the pain, but I think you�d fall asleep before it got done.� He looked up at her, surprised she realized that, but then, he had been yawning for the past half hour. �This is your room of course,� She told him, her gaze leaving him and glancing around the room. �I guess I�ll say good-night then,� She said, smiling and walking to the door.

�Uh-Ae-Aerine?� He got out, before she left.

She turned back at the door, �Yes?�

�Tomorrow�how do I git t� th� kitchen?� He stumbled over his choice of words, but she seemed to understand him.

�I�ll come get you for breakfast, you�ll learn the way through the house soon enough, don�t worry. Good-night Thread. � She turned and softly shut the door behind her.

Thread sighed, and almost leaned back in his chair, before his back started protesting. He groaned, at his back, at his state, at his tiredness, at everything. Slowly, he began unbuttoning his shirt, wincing at the bruises on his chest. He stood up, letting his shirt slide onto the carpeted floor and picked up the black jar.

His nose wrinkled as he opened it, but he dutifully took a small swipe of it and gently began massaging it into his shoulder. If that didn�t qualify as bruised, he didn�t know what would. He kept at it for a few minutes until his other arm got sore from the motion.

Replacing the jar on the table, he gave the dark purple jar a long thoughtful look before turning away. He could do it in the morning; one night wouldn�t make a difference.

He made his way awkwardly over to the bed, and gently sat on it, sighing with relief as it caved in with his weight. He didn�t bother to move the covers back; he just pulled his legs up with him, and closed his eyes. Images flashed on the inside of his eyelids, the clear-eyed gaze of Prost, the dark haired constable, the bored look of the man in the prison, and then the beautiful Aerine. Slowly he slid into sleep, both eyes shut, his mind blissfully sinking into blackness.



Chapter Two



Slowly, he stumbled through the haze of sleep, consciousness suddenly hitting him like a club. He knew he was in Prost�s house, but something heavy covered him and half his face, pinning him down. He could feel his heart pump faster, and he jerked upright, his blue eyes darting, and almost doubled over from the pain that shot up his back, his lip again clenched between his teeth. The thing that had been over him slid down, and he only managed to catch it before it fell completely to the floor. He glanced at it long enough to realize it was a quilt � a thick and good quality quilt � before pushing it back onto the bed.

The pain from his back quelled to a dull throb, and he gingerly stood up, eyeing the room he was in. Sunlight poured in through the glass-paned windows, and a small fire crackled in the fireplace. He figured it must have been past midday, judging by the light. Thread grimaced, tasting blood in his mouth. Wiping his good hand across his lip, he found it smeared with blood. He must have bitten through it again. He gently pressed his hand against his lip until it stopped bleeding, dropping his hand as somebody knocked at his door.

. �Yeah?� He called, his blue eyes going to the door as it opened. Aerine�s green eyes met his, smiling when she saw he was up. She didn�t seem conscious of the fact he wasn�t wearing a shirt, or she had just chosen not to notice.

�You�re finally up,� she said, stepping into the room. Thread noticed she left the door open.

�Wha� time is it?� He asked her, squinting at the bright window again. He haltingly made his way over to the table. Despite how soft the bed had been, he was still sore.

�Its two hours past midday,� She informed him. Her eyes watched him as he attempted to reach down and get the shirt he had left there the night before. He couldn�t do it His muscles were stiff from the nearly motionless night, and refused to stretch. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to bend farther down before a swish of skirt was heard, and soft hands on his good shoulder pulled him gently back upright.

�Let me do it, you�re just going to hurt yourself more.�

Aerine�s voice held a touch of pity he couldn�t ignore. He grudgingly obeyed, falling into the cushioned chair while she picked up the shirt and handed it to him. He straightened it out, about to put it on when she stopped him again.

�Here, let me put some of this on it before you put your shirt on, it�ll help numb it.� She opened the black jar and pulled out a smear took some of the salve out of it. He tensed, waiting for the throbbing to begin as she touched his shoulder, and then silently let his breath out. Her touch didn�t hurt as much as he thought it would.

She frowned at him when he looked up at her, �You didn�t use the other one.� She continued to gently massage his shoulder, and even more gently, the bruises that were black along his spine, eyeing the back of his.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. �One night wouldn�a hurt�n I was tired,� he excused himself. He jumped and yelped when she gripped his shoulder tighter than necessary. �Wha� was that for?� He looked up, glaring at her.

She gave him a satisfied look, �For not putting the medicine on, and being rude.� She added. Aerine stopped rubbing the salve into his shoulder and back and cleaned her hand on a rag. �Now, I expect you to put this on the rest of your scratches � and then a shirt. I�ll come back with water for you to wash with, and then you can put it on your face when you�re done.� She watched him thoughtfully for a moment, and then left.

Thread grumbled to himself, eyeing the jar and the mirror set up in the washstand that he was to use. Resignedly he got up, and attempted to open the jar, but the seal wouldn�t break. He ended up sitting back down and holding it between his legs and popping it open with his good hand.

The smell almost gagged him and he wrinkled his nose as he slowly dabbed some on his finger and began rubbing it into the multiple scratches and cuts that dotted his arms and legs. By the time he was finished, Aerine was back with a white basin of steaming water.

�I thought I told you to put a shirt on?� She set the bowl in the washstand and pushed her hair away from her face, turning to look at him.

�You did,� He replied, his tone of voice matching hers, but he glared at her, where she simply looked down her nose at him. Who did she think she was to order him around anyway?

�Well?� She crossed her arms impatiently.

�Well?� He mimicked her, making a face. He reached for the shirt and stared at her while he put it on, slowly one arm at a time. She finally looked away, and he had a moment�s satisfaction of knowing he had bothered her.

Rolling his eyes, he asked, �Do�I get t� eat now?� His stomach reminded him as well. He was hungry, and she had said she would feed him.

She raised her eyebrows, �Not until you wash. Always wash before you eat.� She directed him toward the bowl of water, and he obligingly washed off in it, managing to only get a few drops on his shirt. Aerine then took the jar of salve and touched up his face with it.

Thread bit the inside of his cheek impatiently, rolling his eyes when she began to screw the lid of the jar back on. �Now kin I eat?� He asked again, resisting the urge to tap his foot.

She sighed, and walked to the door. �Follow me,� she said.

She led him throughout the multiple rooms into the dim kitchen, and he stood by the table while she pulled a piece of bread out of the cold box. It had meat and cheese stuffed inside. �Here,� She thrust it at him. �Don�t get into any trouble, and don�t go anywhere until I get back,� She told him, and then left in a swirl of light brown hair and blue dress.

Thread grimaced and immediately turned and limped out the back door. The fresh air seemed to revive him more than her healing salves were supposed to do. He hadn�t been in country air for about a year, and he had forgotten how heady it could be. It filled him with more than just a healing agent could. In a deep breath, he could smell the pines in the nearby forests, and the dry scent of the dying grass from where he stood by the back door. He slowly made his way down the few stairs and crossed the short lawn. Bypassing the stables without a glance, he pushed on through the tress on a small game path.

He tore off pieces of the sandwich as he went, and suddenly, he swallowed, standing stock-still. Before him, the tree line ended and he found himself at the beginning of a huge valley. The grass dropped in an immediate decline into the green vale. He felt as if he had stumbled into a completely different land. One not torn by war, without the dilemma of the Book of Blood, and one without law � it was complete peace.

He slowly made his way down the slope, until he was about halfway down, where he painstakingly sat, and lay on his back, propping his legs up for a more comfortable position. Swallowing the rest of the sandwich, he lay there on the hillside staring at the sky, thinking of absolutely nothing, unconsciously letting the sun lull him into a stupor. Anywhere but here, and he wouldn�t have even sat down, much less wander somewhere he wasn�t sure of. Something about the place left him there on this hillside, eyes half-shut, and thoughts lazily drifting in and out of his mind.



�Thought I�d find you out here,� Prost�s voice cut into the stillness of the valley as his shadow fell over Thread.

Thread squinted up at him from where he lay against the hillside and just gave a one-shouldered shrug. Letting his breath out, he stared out again at the sunlit valley, realizing he must have lain there for at least a couple hours. The sun touched the western tree line, its rays dousing everything in the valley with gold. �Is this your land?� He asked.

Prost nodded, easing his frame down on the grass beside Thread. He propped his elbows on his knees and stared off across the valley before turning to Thread, one eye squinting a little as the sun poured its light into it. �I come out here sometimes too, just to sit and think. I can tell you�ve been thinking.� He guessed correctly, eyeing Thread, who just shrugged again, not looking at the man. �Do you want to stay here? At least until you�ve healed. I might even have that proposition for you by then.� Prost glanced at him before his eyes sought out the far side of the valley.

Thread turned his head slightly, his blue eyes searching the man�s face, looking for something that told more than his words did, but his features were blandly innocent. The only lines that showed on his face were natural, and his blue-gray eyes were unreadable as always. Blinking, Thread quickly looked away as the man glanced at him, and then away again.

�I�m not going to make you stay, you know. If you want to leave, nobody will stop you.� Prost commented, watching him from the corner of his eye.

There was a moment of silence between them before Thread bit his lip and nodded. �I guess so�� He knew he had no other place to go, and maybe the fact that somebody actually cared made him want to stay� at least while he recovered; and as the man had said, he could always leave. He still didn�t fully trust the man, or his daughter. His harsh life had taught him the dangers of that, and he didn�t need a lesson taught twice.

Prost sighed heavily, and leaned back on his elbows. �Don�t be too hard on Aerine,� he said after a stretch of silence. He didn�t look over at Thread, �She�s used to getting what she wants, it was hard not to spoil her. When Ellenia died, I didn�t know what to do; I didn�t know how to raise a kid, much less a girl. She�s got a good heart, she really does. She�s just a little�proud, sometimes. I make her go to the healer�s once in awhile to help out, just to humble her. She doesn�t realize that�s why, she thinks she�s learning how to be a healer � I think she wants to be one anyway. All her concoctions seem to work at any rate.� There was silence, then, �Maybe when your shoulder gets better, she can teach you how to ride, she�s better than most people. And shoot. Surprisingly she knows that too.�

Thread listened to the speech in silence, not knowing how to react to it. His plan was to heal, and then get out as quickly as he could. He didn�t want anybody to miss him, much less be his friend. He�d gotten hurt by a friend once before, and he wasn�t in a hurry to get hurt again. He listened to the silence between them, frowning when Prost continued to talk.

�Do you know what the Book of Blood is?�

He turned to look, catching himself before he tried to sit up. �Who doesn�?� He replied, curious as to why the subject was being brought up. It wasn�t a thing people talked about, too many differences in what was supposed to be done, too many opinions, and those opinions usually led to more than fights.

Prost shrugged, �Do you know why they arrested you?�

Thread grimaced, ��Cause I was stupid�n didn� look out fer myself.� It was the honest truth. He had been cleaning the arrow and not paying attention to anything around him, even an infant knew that was dangerous. Thread was certain he�d never do it again.

Prost shook his head, �No, actually. That arrow you had, that�s why.� His steady gaze rested on Thread.

�Th� arrow? Why? It was only one of th� ones from th� contest. I was jus� gunna sell it.� Thread defended himself, frowning. Why was he telling him this?

�That arrow was one Ruler Trad�s personal arrows. He had fifteen of them: each made with ivory, with white fletching and perfectly shaped head.� Prost explained. �Trad was a vain Ruler, even if he was a good one, and when he went hunting, he wouldn�t have anything but the perfect arrows. When Trad left the throne � which everyone knew he didn�t want to do � he took them with him to his house.�

�Why�d he leave if he didn� wan� to?� Thread interjected. He had never heard any of the stories about the Ruler�s before.

�He had to. The Book told him, �When your heart breaks; the throne will fall to pieces-�

�So how di� he break �is heart?� Thread cut in again, making Prost chuckle. Prost had never known somebody so curious about the Book. In fact, he had never known somebody who didn�t know about the stories.

�I�ll tell you, hold on. When Trad first read his prophecy, he believed he could change it. He did everything in his power to make everything perfect. That was one of the reason�s he was such a good Ruler. But the Book is never wrong, and his wife fell ill � very ill, and he began to neglect his country, to take care of her, until somebody reminded him what the prophecy said, and he knew it was time for him to step down. His neglect already proved that the prophecy was coming true. Then his wife died, and he resigned. He fled the Palace and never returned, taking only his bow and arrows to survive with.�

�But what about the arrows? Why is it so wrong to have them?� Thread asked, not making the connection that Prost obviously saw.

�Because, Trad was never heard from again, except in the return of twelve of his fifteen arrows to the Palace. Anybody who has an arrow is immediately suspected of murder.� Prost explained.

Thread was silent, staring at across the valley not seeing the scenery. He turned to Prost, �But how do they know he didn�t just give them back himself?� He asked.

Prost chuckled; he hadn�t had a pupil for a long time. �Those arrows were Trad�s pride and joy, even if he did give them back, people would have thought an imposter was doing it. They just showed up in a bag one night, with no message. That was the same night that the three pages went missing from the Book.�

Thread had begun to wonder where the Book came into this, and he listened even harder, intrigued by the plot. �So wha� happened then?� He asked quickly, wanting to know the rest of the story.

Prost shrugged, and an undefined look crossed his face. �Nobody knows. The pages were never returned or found, and the country just...went downhill. The three arrows were seen every now and then, since they�re white, they�re easy to pick out. But nobody knows who shot them, and they always disappeared before anything could be found out. As to the pages in the Book, everybody thinks it�s their own description written on those pages and so they fight for the throne whether it is or not.� He gave a heavy, troubled sigh, and Thread bit his lip.

�You know more than tha� don� you?� Thread voiced uncertainly. He was a good judge of faces and Prost frowned, confirming his suspicions.

�I think I do-� A voice called them from the direction of the house, Aerine�s voice. Prost shrugged, easing himself to his feet. �That�d be the dinner call. Remind me later, and I�ll tell you the rest.�

Thread attempted to get up, and grunted in frustration when he found it was harder than it looked.

Prost turned, �Need help?� He asked, holding out a hand.

Thread shook his head stubbornly and leaning on his shaking good arm, pushed himself to his feet despite the echoes of pain resounding in his mind. He almost tumbled forward down the hill, but Prost caught his arm, steadying him enough to where he could turn around. He glanced quickly at the man, surprised at the concern in his eyes. �Thanks,� He mumbled, making his way up the hill.

They were silent on their way back to the house, the only sound coming from either of them being when Prost stopped at the barn to call to the boy in there to come to dinner.

Thread could smell the kitchen even before they went up the steps. He couldn�t help himself from breathing deeply as they entered the kitchen. Aerine had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, had her hair tied back at the nape of her neck, and was kneading a doughy substance on the counter. When she noticed them, she gave a quick smile and brushed off her hands.

�Just let me wash this flour off�is Hux coming?� She asked, walking over to a sink filled with water.

�I told him he was welcome to.� Prost said, following her over and dousing his own hands with soap and water. �Thread?� He looked over at him. �Are you going to wash your hands?�

Thread blinked, glancing down at them. They didn�t seem that dirty�

�Yes, he is,� Aerine eyed him, and toweled her own hands off.

Thread gave her a dirty look and took his own sweet time washing the dust from his hands. As he was wiping them off, Hux entered, going to the sink without a word and washing his own hands.

Thread sat on his pillowed bench, as Aerine brought the food over, and was joined by Hux when he finished. Tonight, they were having some kind of rice, with meat and vegetables mixed in with it. Aerine put some on all their plates before sitting down.

Prost was the one to start the conversation. �Hux, this is Thread. He�s going to be staying with us.� Prost said looking at the boy.

Hux�s pale blue eyes traveled to Thread�s face and he nodded and then looked away again. His eyes were intelligent, but something wasn�t right. His pale hair shone in the lamp light as he ducked his head and began eating again.

Thread watched him for a moment, before he resumed his own dinner, his mind on the boy. He caught Aerine looking at him, and he frowned when she looked away after meeting his eyes.

They finished dinner in an uncomfortable silence, and Thread followed Prost when it was over. Hux went back to the stables, and Aerine stayed to clean up.

Thread stared at the room Prost led him into. Every wall was filled with books: fat, skinny, old, and new. No two were the same. There was a leather sofa and a wing chair, both filled with pillows. A book rested over the back of the couch, marking a page.

Prost smiled when he saw Thread had followed him.

The question Thread had meant to ask died on his lips as another replaced it. �What�s wrong with Hux?� His mouth snapped shut at the end of the question and his eyes flickered downward.

Prost only nodded. �I was wondering when you would ask that, you seemed curious enough at dinner, always staring at him. Hux can�t speak � well, he can, but very, very little, and it�s hard to understand. He chooses not to. Nobody knows why, maybe there�s something wrong with his throat.� Prost shrugged.

Thread, still standing awkwardly in the doorway, spoke again after an uncomfortable pause. �You said you�d tell me the rest�?�

�Ah, yes. Come in, come in. Here, you can sit in the chair; it would probably be more comfortable for you.� He motioned for Thread to take the chair, and he himself disappeared behind the couch, rummaging in a cabinet that backed the couch.

Thread started when he realized what the man held when he sat on the couch. His eyes flickered between the doorway and the object in Prost�s hands. �How�d you get tha�?� He almost whispered, eyes captivated like a cornered animal at arrow-point.

Prost ran his fingers through the white fletching at the arrow�s end. Prost shrugged, �Doesn�t matter. Here�s what I wanted to show you � Oh, and I took the liberty of cleaning it for you since you didn�t get to finish.� He smiled, and handed it to Thread.

Thread took it fervently in his hands. It was indeed the same arrow he had held not four days ago. He looked back up at Prost. �Its jus� an arrow though. Couldn� they�ve made more?� He asked, his eyes returning to the arrow.

Prost shook his head, his finger pointing to an insignia made near the back.

�Trad�s sign. It was on all his arrows. But here,� he pulled the arrow back, his fingers fumbling with the head of it. �Look.� Suddenly, the metal pulled off.

Prost tapped the ivory shaft on his hand sharply, and a small pale cylinder fell out of the shaft.

Thread�s mouth parted in silent surprise. �Wha�?� He voiced, confused. �How did you...?�

Prost shrugged, �When I first got this in my possession, I was putting it in that cabinet, and the metal hit the top, and popped off. I looked inside to see what there was, and well, this came out.� He explained.

�Wha� is it?� Thread asked him, reaching for the scroll. Prost didn�t stop him, so he took it, realizing it was paper, anything else surely wouldn�t have fit inside the tiny cylinder. He gently unrolled it, staring uncomprehending at the scribble before his eyes

Prost watched him impatiently. �Well? What does it say?�

Thread flushed, silently handing the paper back to him. �I can�t read it.� He said bitterly, embarrassed at his own illiteracy.

Prost frowned, but took the paper, his face going white, and then slowly returning its normal color. �How�?�

Thread immediately forgot his earlier embarrassment. �What does it say?� He asked eagerly, straining to see the paper again.

�It�s one of the pages�I think. From the Book of Blood.� His eyes flickered over the words again and again, his eyebrows creasing in concentration. Forgetting his earlier embarrassment, Thread dearly wished he knew how to read, if only so he could read the paper.

Thread didn�t ask him how he knew. �What�re we goin� t� do with it?� He picked the arrow up from where it had fallen onto the floor and examined it again.

Prost looked at him and frowned. �I don�t know�,� he said, and then softer, and to himself he repeated it, �I just don�t know��

Thread watched the older man thoughtfully. Before, he had always had the answers, a way to give him food, a way to help him escape from jail, the reason behind his daughter�s pride, but now he didn�t have an answer. If anything, Thread was chilled, and he felt a shiver run down his back though the room was far from cold.



Nearly two weeks later, quite early in the morning Thread woke up to thudding on his door and Prost�s voice yelling at him to get up. He groaned, and opened his eyes sleepily. Pale sunlight just touched the treetops outside his window, barely enough to penetrate the glass to light the room with weak light. Thread doubted the sun was even over the horizon.

Confused as to why he was being awoken so early, he sat up and pushed the quilts away. His back had slowly become better and now all that was left were streaks of black bruises across his spine and sore only to the touch and extreme motion. His shoulder was another matter, and though he could move his arm a little, he was forced to keep it in the sling Aerine had made for him.

He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, eyeing it just above his eyebrows. It had grown a little since last time he had cared to notice anything about it. He himself had grown as well. Instead of looking completely made of bone and sparse muscles, he now had a smoother appearance, the hollows in his cheeks filled a little, and the gaunt look of hungriness in his eyes gone.

Bare-chested, he made his way down the hall to Prost�s room, squinting at the bright light that spilled into the shadowy hallway. �Wha�s goin� on?� He asked, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand. He leaned on the doorway, watching Prost quickly fill a few bags before repeating his question.

�Huh? Oh, Hux just informed me that there is a band of Rebels in Lintoug - a big band of them. The bad thing about this place, is that anybody who sees it, especially renegades, they immediately want inside to steal, plunder, do whatever it is they do. Therefore, we have to leave and board everything up.� He looked up from his mechanical packing and motioned to the corner. � Grab a pack and fill it with the necessities you need from your room. Aerine�ll get us food and Hux will pack for the horses.�

Thread swallowed at the news, grabbing a pack out of the corner before retreating back to his own room. He remembered the renegades. They�d been in Lintoug before, twice. The most recent was around four years ago. Thread had remembered hiding in his hole, piling crates and boxes and whatever he could find in front of it to hide from their jeering faces. He hadn�t eaten for four days while he hid away from them, and when he came out after that, they laughed at him, called him poor and good-for-nothing-horseshit.

Grinding his teeth together, he shoved a few shirts in the bag, the memories still coming on strong. They had worn gaudy, tawdry clothes, with cheap jewelry and their women heavy dark makeup and low cut dresses. The men were all brown-skinned southerners, the women only a little lighter. The woman had always lured him to come in their rooms with them, sometimes even chasing him, and a few times only his successful get-away skills had kept him safe. He remembered hiding out in the forest for a week after a particularly painful escape that had ended in his falling off a rooftop. He had come back to find the town in disrepair, women sobbing over their raped daughters, men shouting about their ruined stores and inventory.

If not for the Rebels, the war might not have been so bad. The Rebels considered themselves people looking for a new Ruler, but in reality, they were only the people who didn�t have enough to keep themselves alive but by plunder. They were literal land-pirates.

Thread shut the pack and with it, the memories from his mind. He grabbed the last shirt he had and put it on as quickly as he could, and then slung the pack over his good shoulder, stopping at Prost�s voice.

�Stay there. We have to board the window.� He appeared seconds later, and pulled the chair to the window. Thread watched him as he masterfully popped out the glass window, reached outside, and pulled shut the heavy iron-enforced wooden shutter-like coverings. Prost locked them together, and put the glass under a pillow on the bed.

Prost turned to him and settled his own packs on his shoulders. �Put out any lamp or fire you see, and make sure it won�t rekindle. We don�t want a fire. I�m going to lock the rest of the windows, come down to the barn when you�re done.� Prost left the room with a few short strides.

Thread turned to his fireplace, scuffed ashes over the smoldering coals, and then threw the remaining contents of his washbasin over that. Satisfied, he left the room in almost complete darkness. He went from room to room, turning off the oil lamps, and spitting on the wicks to keep them from reigniting, and putting out all the fireplaces. The house became darker and darker.

Finally, he made it to the kitchen, and through the last open window, he saw Hux at the barn, closing its lone window, and then the heavy doors. He locked them with a key that he stuck in his pocket, and then leaned on the side of the barn.

Aerine swept into the kitchen behind him, her own pack she left on the table and she shut the windows in the kitchen, until the only morning sun shining through the doorway illuminated the house, as if it was unaware of the danger that presented itself in the nearby town. She was more subdued than normal, and jumped when Thread scuffed his foot on the floor before glaring at him accusingly.

Prost suddenly appeared no more than a shadow in the doorway, �Everyone ready?� He looked around the kitchen, checking everything and then pulled the door wide. �Let�s go.�

Thread followed Aerine out the doorway, blinking in the brighter light. Prost followed him, pulled shut the back door and locked it. Stringing the key on a chain around his neck, he tucked it within his clothes. He led them down toward the barn, where Hux was waiting with four horses. Each horse already had a small pack connected to the back of its saddle, filled with what looked like camping gear.

Thread bit his lip, and hung back. He didn�t know how to ride, surely Prost wouldn�t make him- The moment the thought entered his mind, he scorned it, and himself. Was he getting soft? Was he afraid of falling? He gave a disgusted sigh to himself at his reluctance, but didn�t move forward.

Prost buckled his packs onto his horse�s saddle as Aerine did the same, and then she came over to Thread and took his pack from him. �Here, I�ll show you how�� Her voice surprisingly wasn�t demanding or airy. Thread gave her a worried look, not sure whether he liked this change in her. She led him to the side of the light chestnut, which craned his head around and snorted at them. �Ok, this strap hooks here, and buckles, this one goes through here.� She made the appropriate adjustments, glancing at him to make sure he was paying attention. �Make sure it�s tight so it won�t fall.� She pulled at the pack, demonstrating the tightness of it, before turning to her own horse, a gray mare.

Thread nodded to himself, and stood there, feeling dumb. He had an idea of how to get on a horse, but it involved using his left arm to lever himself into the saddle, and he still couldn�t use his left arm. Prost noticed his predicament however, and offered him the use of a box that was sitting beside the barn. Thread flushed, and mounted his horse feeling like a small child on their first pony.

He grabbed at the pommel as the horse shifted, immediately biting his lip at the stupid action and letting it go. Instead, he kept his grip on the reins as Prost and Hux mounted.

Prost�s steady gaze found them all, and he turned his dark brown horse down the road, the clopping of the horse�s hooves hollow sounding on the packed dirt. Thread�s horse obediently followed them, and they continued at a brisk walk down the way, the sun barely over the tree tops in the distance.

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LaurenBlewett

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