Chapter 33

The three-story house at the northeast corner of the midtown district wore green tiles and white window trim like a carefully dressed gentleman. A wooden fence enclosed a surprisingly spacious yard, and above the gate a crooked signboard hung at a rakish angle.

To the left of the yard a patch of cultivated ground grew seasonal vegetables, and yellowing vines crawled up the sidewall. Through the gaps in the vines a child’s graffiti—clumsy, colorful scrawls—peeped out. In the center of the courtyard stood a staghorn tree over forty feet tall, its thick branches throwing shade over half the yard and part of the roof. Long rectangular tables clustered beneath it were weathered smooth by rain and sun, their surfaces pocked and stamped with years of use.

Roy paused under the tree and ran his palm over the rough bark, feeling something tug at him. This tree had been alive for centuries, its trunk carved with odd glyphs and initials, no doubt the work of some mischievous pupil.

He pushed open the ground-floor door and slipped inside. Through the crack came the warm, steady voice of a woman, and his eyes found a ring of children sitting up straight while a spare, middle-aged woman drew on a small blackboard with a stick of charcoal.

“Our homeland Aedirn sits east of the Mahakam Mountains, bordering Temeria to the west, Lyria and Rivia to the south, and Kaedwen to the north. Its eastern border is formed by the Blue Mountains...” “The current king of Aedirn is Demavend the Third, his banner a gold-and-red arrow on a black field, and the capital Vengerberg is located at—” “Aedirn has long been a hotbed of peasant unrest. The rebels formed to fight crushing taxation, and thus they have clashed with the nobles and those in power...”

Roy frowned. Something about the lesson felt off.

“Teacher Cardell, someone’s eavesdropping at the door!” piped a thin blond boy from the back row. Instantly sixty bright, curious eyes turned in unison toward where Roy stood.

The children were a messy half-and-half of boys and girls; some as young as five or six, some up to fourteen. Their clothes were plain and patched. In the back row sat one figure a little out of scale with the rest; when she saw Roy she broke into an open, delighted smile.

“Roy, what are you doing at school?” Ffion waved to him. Today she wore a modest gray dress rather than the bolder outfits Roy had seen; her wine-red hair was pulled into a plain ponytail, and she looked younger somehow.