Chapter 3

On the rutted lane through the village, two children—one big, one small—made their way north toward the butcher Grok’s yard.

Roy remembered hearing that the butcher was some distant relative of Susan’s; the families visited each other now and then, so maybe, just maybe, his plan had a chance.

“Hmph, Rooster-Slayer,” Balen sneered, blowing a wet strand of snot up onto his upper lip before wiping it away with utter contempt, “look at you, scrawny as a stick and thinking you can be my father’s apprentice? Go home and stare at the sky some more.”

Roy fell into step behind the shorter boy. Balen stood barely four feet tall; Roy was almost five foot four and could look down at the kid’s bowl-cut. He couldn’t help reaching out to flatten the tuft of hair that stubbornly stuck up on Balen’s head, then pulled his hand back as if nothing had happened before the other boy even turned.

There—much better.

Eighteen years in his prior life had taught Roy not to squabble with a kid. He shrugged, put on an air of indifference, and said, “I’m thirteen, not a child. So what if I killed a chicken? Only someone who’s never seen the world would make a fuss. Rooster-slayer? That’s a terrible name; nice imagination you’ve got.”

“You can’t even plow a field, fool, and you have the nerve to kill a chicken yourself. There’s a strong chance you’re possessed by a demon, that much I can tell,” Balen shot back, smearing the corner of his mouth with his grubby little hand, then using his clean white shirt to dab at it more properly.

As the butcher’s son, Balen’s family was better off than most in the village. They weren’t short of meat, and their clothes were neater. Even at his age the boy was used to being fawned over by others; he carried a quiet superiority. How could he stand being mocked?

“My father once met Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia at the Winter Solstice feast,” Balen boasted, chest puffing up. “He tells me the stories every night. You’ve never left Kagen, you country bumpkin, and you dare say I haven’t been out and about?”

“Oh, every night you hear Grok brag, do you? Has he taught you any magic tricks?” Roy asked casually, watching Balen’s face. The moment he mentioned “magic tricks,” Balen’s eyes lit up; his words came in a gush of spit and awe.

That settled Roy a little. He stopped walking, stood up straight and struck a pose, “If you help me persuade Uncle Grok to take me on as an apprentice, the great Lord Roy will perform a miracle for you.”

“Rooster-slayer—save your lies for Donnel’s baby, I’m not falling for—” Balen sputtered and then stopped dead, his mouth hanging open wide enough to fit an egg. A string of snot slid, wormlike, from his nose.

“Hiss ... how did you do that?” Right in front of him, in the bright sunlight, a pebble that lay in Roy’s palm vanished without warning as if shifted into some invisible pocket.

He closed his hand, opened it, and the pebble was back.