Wild Born
Page 11
“Your next appointment is with the militia,” Mr. Valdez said.
Rollan knew there was no point in arguing. At least Digger would get his remedy.
The city militia kept a line of cells in the basement of their headquarters. Mildew thrived on the damp walls, and ancient straw littered the discolored stone floor. The interior barriers were composed of iron bars, allowing the prisoners to see each other. Rollan sat on a decaying wicker mat. Men occupied three of the other cells. One man was sickly and gaunt, another had slept since Rollan arrived, and the third looked like the sort Rollan had learned to avoid. He was probably in here for something serious.
A guard had informed Rollan that he would go before a judge tomorrow. He was young enough that they might send him back to the orphanage. The thought gave him shivers. There was no worse racket than the orphanage in Concorba. The head guy lived well because he fed the kids the absolute minimum, made them work like slaves, dressed them like beggars, and never wasted resources on things like medicine. Rollan had run off for a reason. He suspected he might actually prefer prison.
A door opened, and boots clomped down the stairs. Were they bringing in a new prisoner? Rollan arose for a better look. No, the jailer was alone. He was portly with a stubbly jaw. Holding a ledger, he came to Rollan’s cell. “How old are you?”
Was this a trick question? Would it benefit him more to seem older or younger? Rollan wasn’t sure, so he answered honestly. “I’m twelve next month.”
The man made a notation. “You’re an orphan.”
“Actually I’m a lost prince. If you take me back to Eura, my father will reward you.”
“When did you run away from the orphanage?”
Rollan considered the question, and found no reason to fib. “I was nine.”
“Have you had your Nectar?”
The question mildly surprised him. “No.”
“You know what happens if you don’t take the Nectar?”
“A bonding could happen naturally.”
“That’s right. It’s against our town statutes not to drink the Nectar within three months of turning eleven.”
“Good thing I’m already behind bars. Want some advice? You guys should make a law against eleven-year-olds dying because they have no medicine!”
The jailer harrumphed. “This is no game, boy.”
“Does it sound like a game?” Rollan said. “Have you ever played dying-alone-of-a-fever-because-willow-bark-costs-too-much? Look, just add my lack of Nectar to my list of charges. For the record, nobody ever offered me any.”
“The militia gives Nectar to any children of age who haven’t received it.”
“You guys deserve more medals,” Rollan said.
The jailer held up a scolding finger. “If you have the potential to summon a spirit animal, it’ll happen on its own by age twelve or thirteen. But do you know what could happen to you without the Nectar? The bond is a gamble. Drives some people mad, others to illness. Some die on the spot. Others are fine.”
“But with the Nectar it’s always stable,” Rollan said.
“The Great Beasts may not have done much for us lately, but we’ll always owe Ninani for the Nectar. But to benefit, you have to use it.”
Rollan huffed. “What are the chances I’d call an animal? Like a hundred to one? Less?”
The jailer ignored him. “I know a Greencloak who tends to orphans. I’ll send her around by and by.”
The jailer turned and climbed the stairs. Rollan stretched, pivoting at the waist, then raising his hands high.
“I didn’t expect a show today,” said the gaunt man in the farthest cell. “What do you think you’ll call?”
“Nothing,” Rollan said.
“I thought the same,” the gaunt man said. “I was wrong. I called a hedgehog.”
“You’re a Greencloak?” Rollan asked, surprised.
The gaunt man snorted. His eyes looked lost, his posture exhausted. “You see any cloak? My animal got killed. The absence left me . . . I wish I’d lost a limb instead.”
An hour later, maybe two, the jailer returned with a couple of uniformed militiamen and a Greencloak. She was in her late teens and of medium height. Her face wasn’t very pretty, but it was kind.
The jailer unlocked the cell gate and beckoned for Rollan to step out. One of the militiamen held a small cage with a rat inside.
Exiting the cell, Rollan nodded at the rat. “Is that a joke?”
“They say folks bond more easily if animals are present,” the miltiaman said with a jeering smile. “We caught him a couple years back. He’s our mascot.”
“Very funny,” Rollan said dryly. “Should we hunt for some spiders? Maybe a cockroach?”
“People don’t bond with insects,” the Greencloak said, “although there is some precedence for summoning arachnids.”
“I’ll bet a copper piece he calls nothing,” said the prisoner who Rollan thought looked like trouble. The man patted his pockets. “Wait, two.” He produced them. “Any takers?”
Nobody agreed to the bet.
“Should we do it?” Rollan suggested, breaking the awkward silence. For some kids the summoning ceremony was a big deal. They got all dressed up with their families, spectators attended, lectures were given, refreshments served. He was in a dirty jail with a rat, his guards, and his fellow prisoners. He just wanted to get it over with.
The Greencloak produced a simple flask. She uncapped it and held it out to him. “Only takes a swallow.”
“That was quite a speech,” Rollan said, accepting the flask. “Your talents are wasted in dank basements. You’re ready to work aboveground.” He took a sip. There was a restaurant that sometimes gave him sweetened cinnamon toast, his favorite treat. The Nectar tasted sort of like that, but liquefied.
Rollan wiped his lips. As the Greencloak reached for her flask, Rollan swayed. Sparks zinged through his body. What was going on? He held out the flask, but his arm felt unsteady. The Greencloak took the flask and Rollan dropped to his knees.
“What’s wrong with me?” Rollan slurred.
The entire jail rumbled and the room grew dark. Or was his vision failing? A blinding light appeared, lingered for a moment, and then vanished.
A falcon had joined them in the room, large and powerful, the feathers a brownish gold with white speckles on the breast. With a flurry of wings, the raptor leaped up to Rollan’s shoulder. When the claws pinched into his skin, the sparking sensation ceased. The others stared, dumbfounded.
Rollan knew there was no point in arguing. At least Digger would get his remedy.
The city militia kept a line of cells in the basement of their headquarters. Mildew thrived on the damp walls, and ancient straw littered the discolored stone floor. The interior barriers were composed of iron bars, allowing the prisoners to see each other. Rollan sat on a decaying wicker mat. Men occupied three of the other cells. One man was sickly and gaunt, another had slept since Rollan arrived, and the third looked like the sort Rollan had learned to avoid. He was probably in here for something serious.
A guard had informed Rollan that he would go before a judge tomorrow. He was young enough that they might send him back to the orphanage. The thought gave him shivers. There was no worse racket than the orphanage in Concorba. The head guy lived well because he fed the kids the absolute minimum, made them work like slaves, dressed them like beggars, and never wasted resources on things like medicine. Rollan had run off for a reason. He suspected he might actually prefer prison.
A door opened, and boots clomped down the stairs. Were they bringing in a new prisoner? Rollan arose for a better look. No, the jailer was alone. He was portly with a stubbly jaw. Holding a ledger, he came to Rollan’s cell. “How old are you?”
Was this a trick question? Would it benefit him more to seem older or younger? Rollan wasn’t sure, so he answered honestly. “I’m twelve next month.”
The man made a notation. “You’re an orphan.”
“Actually I’m a lost prince. If you take me back to Eura, my father will reward you.”
“When did you run away from the orphanage?”
Rollan considered the question, and found no reason to fib. “I was nine.”
“Have you had your Nectar?”
The question mildly surprised him. “No.”
“You know what happens if you don’t take the Nectar?”
“A bonding could happen naturally.”
“That’s right. It’s against our town statutes not to drink the Nectar within three months of turning eleven.”
“Good thing I’m already behind bars. Want some advice? You guys should make a law against eleven-year-olds dying because they have no medicine!”
The jailer harrumphed. “This is no game, boy.”
“Does it sound like a game?” Rollan said. “Have you ever played dying-alone-of-a-fever-because-willow-bark-costs-too-much? Look, just add my lack of Nectar to my list of charges. For the record, nobody ever offered me any.”
“The militia gives Nectar to any children of age who haven’t received it.”
“You guys deserve more medals,” Rollan said.
The jailer held up a scolding finger. “If you have the potential to summon a spirit animal, it’ll happen on its own by age twelve or thirteen. But do you know what could happen to you without the Nectar? The bond is a gamble. Drives some people mad, others to illness. Some die on the spot. Others are fine.”
“But with the Nectar it’s always stable,” Rollan said.
“The Great Beasts may not have done much for us lately, but we’ll always owe Ninani for the Nectar. But to benefit, you have to use it.”
Rollan huffed. “What are the chances I’d call an animal? Like a hundred to one? Less?”
The jailer ignored him. “I know a Greencloak who tends to orphans. I’ll send her around by and by.”
The jailer turned and climbed the stairs. Rollan stretched, pivoting at the waist, then raising his hands high.
“I didn’t expect a show today,” said the gaunt man in the farthest cell. “What do you think you’ll call?”
“Nothing,” Rollan said.
“I thought the same,” the gaunt man said. “I was wrong. I called a hedgehog.”
“You’re a Greencloak?” Rollan asked, surprised.
The gaunt man snorted. His eyes looked lost, his posture exhausted. “You see any cloak? My animal got killed. The absence left me . . . I wish I’d lost a limb instead.”
An hour later, maybe two, the jailer returned with a couple of uniformed militiamen and a Greencloak. She was in her late teens and of medium height. Her face wasn’t very pretty, but it was kind.
The jailer unlocked the cell gate and beckoned for Rollan to step out. One of the militiamen held a small cage with a rat inside.
Exiting the cell, Rollan nodded at the rat. “Is that a joke?”
“They say folks bond more easily if animals are present,” the miltiaman said with a jeering smile. “We caught him a couple years back. He’s our mascot.”
“Very funny,” Rollan said dryly. “Should we hunt for some spiders? Maybe a cockroach?”
“People don’t bond with insects,” the Greencloak said, “although there is some precedence for summoning arachnids.”
“I’ll bet a copper piece he calls nothing,” said the prisoner who Rollan thought looked like trouble. The man patted his pockets. “Wait, two.” He produced them. “Any takers?”
Nobody agreed to the bet.
“Should we do it?” Rollan suggested, breaking the awkward silence. For some kids the summoning ceremony was a big deal. They got all dressed up with their families, spectators attended, lectures were given, refreshments served. He was in a dirty jail with a rat, his guards, and his fellow prisoners. He just wanted to get it over with.
The Greencloak produced a simple flask. She uncapped it and held it out to him. “Only takes a swallow.”
“That was quite a speech,” Rollan said, accepting the flask. “Your talents are wasted in dank basements. You’re ready to work aboveground.” He took a sip. There was a restaurant that sometimes gave him sweetened cinnamon toast, his favorite treat. The Nectar tasted sort of like that, but liquefied.
Rollan wiped his lips. As the Greencloak reached for her flask, Rollan swayed. Sparks zinged through his body. What was going on? He held out the flask, but his arm felt unsteady. The Greencloak took the flask and Rollan dropped to his knees.
“What’s wrong with me?” Rollan slurred.
The entire jail rumbled and the room grew dark. Or was his vision failing? A blinding light appeared, lingered for a moment, and then vanished.
A falcon had joined them in the room, large and powerful, the feathers a brownish gold with white speckles on the breast. With a flurry of wings, the raptor leaped up to Rollan’s shoulder. When the claws pinched into his skin, the sparking sensation ceased. The others stared, dumbfounded.
