Ravenous (11 page)

I STEAL AWAY EARLY THIS MORNING WITH AN EYE TO CATCHING REN AS
soon as he enters the city. But first, I sneak toward the section of Belladoma where they sell food. I don't enjoy stealing, but our meager supplies dwindle every day.

We must keep up our strength to save Hans.

So as dawn breaks, with my cloak pulled close, I slip into an alley behind the first store I see—a bakery—and pick the lock of the back door. It is loose anyway, as though it needs repair, and the door creaks open, making me wince. If anyone is inside, they do not stir. I step cautiously into the entryway, letting my eyes adjust to the burgeoning light coming in through the windows.

I stand in a narrow hall, and I tiptoe across it, past a small pantry that contains only a few staples for baking and
a half-filled bag of potatoes. But the smell of bread and pastries swallows me up. My stomach rumbles. When I reach the edge of what must be the kitchen, a faint noise stops me in my tracks. Slowly, I crane my neck around the corner.

The baker is awake, with his back to me, kneading bread on a long counter next to an oven and a stove. Several pans nearby await the dough. Hunger besieges me, but then I spy something along the far side of the kitchen wall that is completely unexpected. Three straw pallets, one empty and the other two occupied by a woman and a boy a few years older than me.

The baker hums, oblivious, while he kneads, every note striking a chord in my heart that is all too familiar.

His family lives in the bakery. Their pantry is almost empty. They have no real beds with feather mattresses. They have no house, just the shop, all that remains of their livelihood. And yet, the baker still sings.

Sadness slides over my skin, leaving me clammy and cold. I can't steal from this family. Even if they are Belladoman. It wouldn't be right.

As quietly as possible I creep back down the hall and out the door. Only when I'm again standing before the dawning sun do I stop, filled with a hunger for all the things I've lost.

Remaining out from under the watchful eyes of the roving mercenary bands, I sneak through the slick alleys of Belladoma while keeping my target in sight.

Ren.

After I told Dalen about what the mercenaries have
planned for the Bryrians, we agreed warning them is a must, as is determining what else the Bryrians might be after in Belladoma. Since I left Bryre so suddenly, I'm not sure how much they'd let me into their confidence now.

I've followed Ren all over the city and already know something doesn't add up. They arrived yesterday but, as far as I can tell, didn't bring anywhere near enough supplies to sustain Belladoma for more than a couple of weeks. There are too many mouths to feed in this rotten city.

King Oliver and Ren must have a different plan. I intend to find out what it is.

All night I debated whether I should follow Ren. It's been weeks since we've spoken; I'm not ready to say hello, nor explain why I left. They didn't trust me. Why should I trust them? Maybe I could wear them down and convince them to help me with Hans, but I fear the price would be my help with Belladoma.

But the truth of the matter is I miss my Bryrian friends terribly. I must satisfy my curiosity. Most important, I must be sure that they'll stay out of my way, or at the least that I stay out of theirs. The best way to do that is to uncover all I can about their plans.

I waited near the entrance to the north gate for half the morning before Ren appeared. The early-morning sun soon gave way to pouring rain. I trailed him through the town—he is not half so careful about the mercenaries as I am, but he's learning fast—and now I follow him back to where the Bryrian army made camp. I'm soaked through, but I don't care.

He takes the road, accompanied by a couple of soldiers, while I shadow them from the trees. The sound of the rain pounding the branches aids me. The camp is about a mile up the road, spread out in a muddy field. Tents and pennants from my home city twist in the rain, making my heart sour. I'm sneaking into my own people's encampment.

The guards escorting Ren take up posts and he heads for the main tent. Now that I have to dodge and weave between tents instead of trees, the going is trickier, but my luck holds and the rain continues, even throwing thunder and lightning down to spice up the otherwise dreary afternoon. Guards huddle beneath tent overhangs while other sodden soldiers hurry between them. I pull my hooded cloak tighter around me and do my best to blend in, carefully noting which tents are living quarters and which ones hold supplies.

Ren ducks through the flap opening of the largest tent. It must be King Oliver's. The fire pit inside throws shadows on the sides of the tent. Soldiers guard the opening, but I work my way around until I find a tear in a seam where I can peek through. Ren and the king huddle over a table in the center of the room near the fire. I can't see what they examine but I hear them fine. My curiosity increases by the second.

“Do you think it's real?” Ren asks.

“Oh yes. That prisoner was prepared to use it to barter for his life.”

“You mean you let him go?” The king nods, and Ren
scowls. “But he was one of Ensel's guards. What if he's lying?”

“What if he is? What if this is only a legend?” King Oliver paces. “We have no way of knowing, and holding that man would not change the facts.”

“It is real, I'm sure of it. The guards knew of it. I heard them myself when they held me in the dungeons.” Ren sighs. “Still, I wish we had him here to question if we needed to.”

My ears perk. What in the realm are they talking about?

“We made a deal; we had to honor it.”

They return to examining the parchment on the table. I'm dying to know what it is. A book? A map? A spell?

“This is useless,” Ren says. “We can't make heads or tails of this. We'll never find the cornucopia.”

No.
No
. They can't be seeking the same thing I am. I shake, but it's not from the cold.

It makes a horrible sort of sense. This is their master plan to aid Belladoma. It's how they hope to feed all those people.

They'd feed all of Belladoma forever in spite of the monster in the deep—at the expense of my brother. Though I suppose I'm planning to do the reverse—let all of them starve to save one boy.

“There must be some kind of key,” King Oliver muses. “I am not clear what these symbols mean, but Ensel knew and must have had some way of explaining them.”

“I bet that guard knew where the key is,” Ren grumbles.

“He didn't. We tried to get that information from him too.”

No question remains. They have what I need to find the cornucopia. I hate stealing, and especially from them. But what else can I do?

Unbidden, the image of the baker, humming and rolling dough while his hungry family slept nearby, comes to the front of my mind. I choke on the memory but shove it down.

I know Ren and the king. I know their kindness, and that they want to do the most good possible.

But that means they'd never let me give the cornucopia to a greedy witch.

Certainty accompanied by sickly guilt fills every inch of my limbs as surely as the rain pouring over me. If only they'd believed me back in Bryre, maybe we could have found a way to work together. Maybe we still might. But I need that parchment if I want any hope of finding the cornucopia first. Having that in hand is the only way they'd really listen to me.

And I need to act now.

The clouds gather in an ominous thunderclap, and a horse whinnies from the makeshift stables not far from where I hide. An idea springs into my brain. I slip away from the tents, weaving behind one, then the other, making my way to the stables. I'm more careful than ever not to get caught.

Ren and King Oliver will never forgive me if they find out I'm willing to let an entire city starve. I may never
forgive myself, but it doesn't change what I have to do.

The guards near the stables are already drinking ale liberally from their flasks, probably the only way they can keep warm on a day like this, when a fire won't stay lit outside.

Needless to say, I sneak by the guards effortlessly.

The tricky part is unlatching the gates holding the horses inside. The “stables” are a partially open pen with an area canopied off to provide shelter and dry hay for the horses. Most of them lie in the hay for warmth. I'm chilled to the core myself, but I can't spare the time to notice. Too much is at stake.

Finally, with raw hands, I pry the iron mechanism open. The horses' ears perk up, but they don't approach. Why would they? Who'd want to be out in this weather? A wayward laugh bubbles in my chest; I feel slightly unhinged.

If they won't come out willingly, I'll have to find another way. An awful yet perfect idea sends me off to find the nearest empty tent. Not far from the stables, a handful of guards leave one of the large barrack tents and head for the perimeter. Changing of the guard. Perfect. I slip inside, relieved to see the fire's coals still burning. I can't help noticing the food left out on the table—bread and cheese and a few apples—and I hurriedly shove that in my bag. Their leftovers will feed Dalen and me for a few days. Then I grab the pot hanging over the fire pit and fill it with hot coals.

Holding it as far from my body as I can so I won't get burned, but also won't draw suspicion, I scurry back to the stables. One or two horses have wandered out of the covered area to inspect the gate, but they show no signs of taking
off. I grimace. I don't relish putting anyone or anything in danger.

More guards turn out for the shift change. More people to notice me, but there's also more commotion to distract from what I'm doing. I sneak around the fence toward the dry overhang. I hope the hay isn't too wet. And that the horses can run fast. The ones in the stable area glance my way but don't make a sound.

They will soon.

I glance behind to be sure I haven't been spotted. The guards mill around but pay me no attention. Once I do this, I must flee fast. There's no turning back. A heavy weight descends, like gravity dragging me down.

I toss the pot into the stable and it lands with a clang on the dry hay. Hot coals pour out of it and the hay lights up before I even have time to take a breath. The horses scream and stomp and tear out of the stable—heading directly for the gate.

I dash behind a tent as the horses stampede into the camp, crushing tents in their way and causing an uproar among the guards. As I run, my mother's necklace slips out from under my dress. If I believed in ghosts, I might think I was being scolded. Mama would be furious if she could see me now. Or would she? If she knew it was for Hans . . .

Moving quickly, I sneak back to Ren and King Oliver's tent in time to see them run outside to find out what all the commotion is about. Within seconds, the entrance to their tent is out of their line of sight, allowing me to slip inside. The parchment lies on the table half unrolled. I
puzzle at the markings, but even more at the fact that some look familiar to me, then stuff the parchment in my pack. Hurriedly, I scribble a note on a stray piece of paper:
Mind the woods. You're being watched. Vincali is not to be trusted. He suspects you're here for more than to offer help.
That will have to be warning enough. I don't have time to explain more. I just hope they heed it.

I swallow my guilt and run back out into the rain.

MY HANDS STILL QUAKE WHEN I REACH THE HOVEL OF A BARN WHERE
Dalen hides. My actions follow me close behind, waiting to pounce and swallow me up.

Ren and the king won't find the cornucopia without that map. It rests heavily in my pack. It's one thing for me to not help my friends aid the Belladomans or for them to refuse to believe me about a missing boy; it's another to actively pit myself against them. It does not sit well with me.

The room is warm and welcoming, a relief from my thoughts. Dalen peels out of the shadows to greet me, a smile dying on his lips.

“What's wrong?”

I frown. Am I so transparent? “Nothing. Everything is right, in fact. I have a map.”

His eyes widen with amazement as I pull the piece of worn parchment from my pocket and hand it to him. My hands are shaking, though I don't feel afraid. I just feel sick. “Can you make sense of it? It isn't like other maps I've seen. I'm not sure what it says.”

He moves to the makeshift table by the window and spreads the parchment wide. On the top right hand corner is an embossed mark—a horn shape with a basket weave. No doubt it is the cornucopia.

“Curious. It may take me a few days, but I have an idea or two.” Dalen grins. “Well done, Greta. Where in the realm did you find this?”

My breath catches. He hears everything I don't say compressed into the single moment of guilty hesitation. His face falls. “What did you do?” he whispers. “Please, tell me you didn't have to . . . do anything terrible for this.”

I open my mouth, certain I'm about to crush all the hope in his gaze. “I found it. That's all you need to know.” I start toward the back stall, but Dalen catches my arm. For a horse-boy, he's alarmingly fast.

“Tell me.”

I try to shake him off, but to no avail. He's also very strong. I forgot about that since we've been traveling together. He never threw his weight around in the hybrid village like many of the others did.

“It's not important,” I say. “The only important thing is finding that stupid cornucopia and getting my brother away from that witch. It's what will keep your family and species safe too. Or have you forgotten the witch's threat?”

He turns his eyes upward, as though he's praying. “Please, tell me you didn't kill anyone.”

“Kill someone? For a blasted map? Do you think that little of me?” First Ren and King Oliver think I'm a liar, and now Dalen suspects I'm a murderer? He releases my arm like he's been burned.

“No. But since you refuse to tell me, I have no choice but to draw my own conclusions.”

I step closer to Dalen. “I'd never take a life unless there was a direct threat to my own or to someone I love.” Anger shivers over me. Dalen reaches out to steady me, but I evade his touch.

“Then why won't you tell me?”

I stare at the floor. Dalen's hoofprints cover it. He's been pacing, waiting for me to return. He worries.

He should.

“I stole it,” I whisper. Heat stings my cheeks. Yes, I stole it from those who would use it for good, so I can give the cornucopia to a selfish, evil witch. I am no hero.

“From who?”

“No one you know.” I examine the map again, praying it's worth all this trouble.

“But
you
do.” He places his hands on my shoulders. I can only nod in response. Tears slide over my cheeks, but I won't meet his gaze.

“Were you close to them?”

“It was King Oliver of Bryre and his messenger, Ren. I was friendly with them back in the city.” I throw up my hands. “But I had to do it. Hans will die if we don't find
this. And then—” My words choke off. I can't bring myself to say it, but we both know the witch will come for me next. And then what's left of Dalen's village. Her reign of terror will never end unless she gets that cornucopia.

Dalen backs away. “You've mentioned them before. Next to Hans they sounded like they were practically family to you. You turned on them? Couldn't they have helped us?”

I hesitate before answering. If King Oliver knew of something to stop the witch, would he help?

“No.” My face hardens and I wipe away my tears. He wouldn't believe me, and he certainly wouldn't just give me anything powerful enough to thwart a witch. “They turned on me long ago. Why would they help me now? They didn't believe me when I came to them, begging their help to search for Hans. They didn't know I had a brother and thought I was making him up. They couldn't spare the manpower because it was needed to help Belladoma. The same city filled with people ready to throw me and the other Bryre girls off the cliff to appease the Sonzeeki. They were going to save the people who tried to kill me, and if they were successful, then Hans and I are dead anyway. I couldn't let that happen.” Though I hold no love for the Belladomans, the understanding of what this could mean for them, what I've taken away, is a burden I wish I didn't have to bear.

Dalen's face is unreadable. “How did you get it away from them?”

I sigh. “I scared away their horses, set them loose in the
woods. It will take them days to round them all up. When Ren and the king left the tent, I took the map.”

Dalen is quiet for a long moment. My heart hammers in my chest, punctuating the silence.

“Would you turn on me if you thought I stood in your way?” he says at last.

Dalen disappears into the shadows.

“No, wait! I'd never—”

“Don't,” he says from the darkness. The door to his stall creaks open, then closes sharply.

I'm left with my guilty shame and a map out of which I can make no sense.