The Rogue Queen by Emily R. King

Author:Emily R. King [King, Emily R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781542048347
Publisher: Skyscape
Published: 2018-02-12T16:00:00+00:00

16

DEVEN

Late into the afternoon, the plodding wagons spread out. The weariness of the day strings us apart and heavies our steps. Long trails of men wind from the woods and descend into the lowlands, where the air thickens with the dank scent of wet land. The sky opens to unstoppable stretches of blue over verdant grasslands. Men toil in the rice fields and the higher wheat fields, both crops recently planted for the coming winter.

Though I scrutinize every wagon and group of soldiers we pass, I have not seen or heard anything about Brac or Opal. The farther we walk, the more my premonition festers that they are in danger.

Ahead, our troops trudge through a village. Our catapult is one of the last to pass through the roadways lined with ramshackle huts. Yatin was raised not far from this area. His widowed mother and two eldest sisters worked long days in the fields while he and his other siblings kept house.

Women and children watch us roll through from their worn doorways. About a hundred strides in front of us, Manas, riding on horseback, stops at a hut. He and another soldier speak to the woman. All four members of my unit conceal our faces as we march toward them.

“Where’s your husband?” Manas demands.

The middle-aged woman props a child on her hip, an older boy beside them. “The gods took him to the Beyond three years past.” Her burr is rich and throaty, much like Yatin’s accent.

“Any older children?”

“A fifteen-year-old son. He’s in the rice fields.”

“Send your son here to fetch him,” Manas says and then calls to the other women shying away from the soldiers in their huts. “Rajah Tarek requires all able-bodied men ages fourteen and older to take up arms and join us.”

Though Manas states no punishment for noncompliance, his talwar hangs off his hip. Most women shut their doors. Widows are common in the empire, and the life span of field workers is short. The young son of the woman Manas first addressed starts out for the fields, but Manas bends down from his saddle and snags him by the back of his tunic.

“How old are you?” Manas asks as we steadily march nearer.

“Twelve,” he squeaks.

“I served the rajah as his boot-shine boy at your age. Fetch your older brother and return here to bid your mother good-bye. You’ll work as a water servant.”

My lip curls and I fist my sword.

The woman yanks her son from Manas’s hold. “Please. I need my sons. Someone has to work in the fields and earn our keep.”

We come up to them, the wagon nearly in line with Manas’s horse. Every other door on the road is closed.

Manas regards the woman without a single yarn of compassion. “Send them both.” He posts the soldier with him to stay and enforce his orders and then rides to the next road.

The woman sets her younger child down, a girl, and grabs her son to her chest in a double-arm hug. Her daughter cries at her knees.

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