Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 1 ❯ CHAPTER 9: ALONE ( Chapter 9 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Soren traveled north, following road signs to Melior. He begged and sought work along the way, but for the most part, he subsisted by stealing what he needed. He was not greedy and only took what he thought he could get away with. He moved under the cover of darkness, and his ears and eyes were always peeled for any sign of other people.

More often than not, the ones he needed to watch out for were not the peasants he stole from nor the soldiers who could arrest him, but the thieves and ruffians who shifted about in the same twilit hours. These predators were bigger than him, and far more dangerous. Soren stayed away, for fear of becoming prey himself.

As he neared Melior, the towns grew more populous and the people more literate. Leaflets were passed with news of the kingdom, and criers stood at the steps of townhalls, at the corners of markets, or at the entrances to shrines to clearly annunciate the national goings-on at the top of their lungs. One phrase was repeated constantly: “civil unrest,” and Soren swiftly learned what state the country was in.

Crimea’s oldest families—the nation’s most powerful lords and nobles—resented King Ramon and his outlandish policies. He wished to make an alliance with Gallia and had decreed that killing a subhuman was a crime equal to killing a human. He even expressed a desire to make reparations to Gallia for his nations’ century of slaveholding, back when Crimea had still been part of the Begnion Empire, and the subsequent two hundred years that Crimeans had continued enriching themselves in the slave-catching, -selling, and -brokering business.

Furthermore, Ramon had opened the Royal Knights to commoners, and he had invited peasants to spectate on court hearings for the first time in generations. He had overturned the tax code and funneled money away from the regional lords toward the central crown. It was no wonder they wanted him dethroned (even if they could never call for such a thing aloud). 

These nobles amassed their militias, preened their soldiers, and kept the Royal Knights stationed on their lands busy as a show of force. They kept these blades close to their mansions, their families, and their wealth. They did nothing to combat the rising crime rates in their lands, nor stop the roving gangs of brigands who were gaining confidence as they crisscrossed the countryside, picking on the poor like crows on a meaty carcass.

The rich had their own prerogatives, and Soren knew these things had little to nothing to do with his own survival. And yet he listened closely to the criers, and he read every scrap of news he could get his hands on. If information was being freely distributed, he could not resist feasting his eyes and ears on the words. It gave him something to think about, other than his constant hunger and weariness.

 

When he finally reached Melior, it was midsummer. Soren was instantly overwhelmed by the heat, the sounds, the motion, and the crush of people going this way and that. On instinct, he kept to the buildings’ shadowy eaves and crawled through alleyways instead of walking down the bustling streets. The city was enormous, and Soren tried to make a mental map of its districts while he explored, all the while looking for water, scraps of food, and potential work.

Toward the end of the day, he reached a lush field in the northeastern part of the city, which surrounded Castle Crimea like a vast green moat. Families picnicked, soldiers trained, horsemen exercised their steeds, and young men and women of noble stature walked in circles with their arms intertwined. Above the park stretched the castle’s white stone walls, fitted with pennants that rolled in the gentle breeze. Beyond the walls, Soren could see the roof of the royal library, the tower of the royal temple, and of course the many tiers of the palace itself.

When he had grown tired of staring at the political epicenter of the country, Soren turned away and set out for his true destination: the magic academy where Belm’s friend taught. He was not yet thirteen and he had no letter of introduction, but if there was any chance the school would take him, he had to try. He wanted more from life than merely surviving on the outskirts of civilization; he knew he could be more.

 

“Begone, vagrant,” said a plump older woman wearing the red robes of a fire sage. Her gray curls bounded around her shoulders as she gestured for him to leave with both hands. “Darken someone else’s doorstop. This is a reputable establishment!”

Soren did not retreat, and he straightened his spine even though he knew it did little for his overall stature. He had tried to clean up before presenting himself at the academy, but he knew his clothes were filthy and ragged after weeks of travel. “I know precisely what kind of establishment this is,” he replied calmly. “I have come from Temple Asic at the behest of Father Belmephue. I am a practitioner of wind magic and marked with the Spirit’s Protection. I am to become a student at this school. Retrieve the light sage Edwin Patris who instructs here; he will vouch for me.”

Soren’s eloquent speech clearly took the woman by surprise, and she stared at him uncertainly. “It is not the season for taking new students, and you are clearly too young.” Despite her protestations, she didn’t close the door in his face.

“Due to certain circumstances, I have been forced to make the trip north sooner than was previously planned. However, I assure you I am of-age and prepared to learn. Where is Sage Patris?” Soren didn’t know what Belm had said in his original letter and hoped lying about his age would be enough.

Finally the fire sage pushed the door fully open and stepped out of the way. She glanced around the street as if embarrassed to be letting him inside. But this was one of the city’s more affluent districts, and the avenue was relatively empty. “Hurry in then, but do not touch anything.” Soren stepped into the foyer and let his gaze roam the elegant furnishings and bronze-framed paintings on the wall. “This way.”

They passed through the foyer into what appeared to be a servants’ corridor, and from here she took him to a small, secluded patio with a table and few chairs. The patio was sunny, and the flowers surrounding it buzzed with bees. He knew she was keeping him out of sight in case he truly was a vagrant.

“Stay here,” she instructed hesitantly before returning to the building.

Soren obeyed, sitting in one of the chairs. Even though everything had gone according to plan so far, he was starting to become nervous.

Not long after the fire sage disappeared, a young woman in the simple robes of a servant appeared bearing a tray of water and fruit. She did not say anything, but after placing the tray on the table, she stood beside the door as if on guard.

Soren was not shy about drinking the water and eating the fruit, and only stems, seeds, and rinds were left by the time the fire sage returned with an equally elderly light sage in tow. The man had long white hair tied in a ponytail at the base of his neck and a long beard that lay flat against his chest. He was thin and leaned slightly like a tree growing in the wind. His robes were pure white embroidered with gold, and Soren had to assume this was Belm’s friend: Edwin Patris.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Soren.” He stood respectfully. “The Head Priest of Temple Asic told you I would be coming.”

“Belmephue is dead,” came Patris’s quick retort. “I heard news of the fire.”

The fire sage looked surprised to hear this, and she now glared at Soren with open distrust.

“Yes, he is dead,” Soren agreed, “But I am not, and therefore I am here.”

Patris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “In his letter, Belmephue said you were a Spirit Charmer.”

“I am.” Soren tried his best to sell the lie with a clear, confident voice.

Patris stepped suddenly forward, and Soren had to tense his entire body to stop himself from backing away. Instinct told him the old man was about to strike him, but logic told him he would not.

Sure enough, Patris did not hurt him. He merely raised a hand to Soren’s forehead and used his other to raise his chin, lifting the mark into direct sunlight. Soren remained still, resisting the urge to pull away from the cold hands and analytical touch.

The sage examined the birthmark and whispered a few sentences in the ancient language. Soren didn’t understand any of the words. When this was done, Patris stepped back and released his face. His expression did not inspire hope in Soren, who had the distinct feeling his lie was falling apart.

“Well, is it the Spirit’s Protection?” the fire sage prodded nervously.

“One moment, Deborah,” Patris hushed her. “Conduct a wind a spell, if you have any claim to power.”

Soren pulled out the less pathetic-looking of his two small wind tomes the priests had collected for him months ago. Both were worn with age and neglect, but at least this one still had a semblance of its original binding. Turning to a perfectly pruned shrubbery rising from the garden like a tombstone, Soren prepared to cut it down to half its size. “*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me!*”

The gusts flew toward the egg-shaped hedge and ripped into it in a flurry of leaves and twigs. When they finally settled, a third had been cut off the top. A bit of the gnarled trunk still protruded at the center, and it momentarily reminded Soren of one of the bodies he’d seen after Greil’s massacre. The person had been decapitated, and a bit of their spine had still protruded from the neck. Squashing the memory as he always did when they snuck on him like this, Soren closed his tome, tried not to look nauseous, and turned to Patris for judgement.

He did not seem impressed. In fact, he looked disgusted. “Get that Branded out of here, Deborah!” he said, averting his eyes as if he couldn’t stand to look at him a moment longer. “He is no Spirit Charmer.”

The fire sage—Deborah—gasped as if this were some sort of shock, but at the same time, the corners of her mouth turned up in satisfaction. “I knew it!”

Soren felt his body flush hot in anger and embarrassment. “I am not a filthy Branded!” he returned.

Patris was already leaving, and he gestured that the servant should come with him. He held out one arm as if protecting her from having look at or be seen by Soren. The servant ducked her head and allowed the sage to escort her.

“You heard him. Get out,” Deborah said, pointing toward the servant’s entrance.

“I am a wind mage,” Soren pushed indignantly. “I came to learn.”

“Move!” With a couple words of the ancient language, she cast a small plume of fire at the flagstones next to his feet.

On reflex—much as he had done the first night at Temple Asic—Soren uttered a few words to extinguish the flames. However, this must have insulted Deborah, because not a second later she stepped forward and slapped him full across the face.

Taken by surprise, Soren fell to the side, catching himself on one knee and skinning his palm on the uneven edge of one of the patio stones. “Get. Out.” Deborah hissed, wiping her hand on her robes.

Soren didn’t argue this time. He walked out the way they’d come, with the fire sage close behind. When they reached the front door, Deborah shoved him for good measure. Soren stumbled but didn’t fall because he had expected some sort of final push or kick. He assumed the only reason she was ejecting him at the same entrance she’d accepted him was just in case any neighbors or townspeople were watching. Surely it promoted the exclusivity and therefore prestige of the academy for a dirty child to be tossed into the street every once in a while.

Soren thought about this as he walked away, because it was easier than thinking about the real reason he’d been rejected. Apparently, for those well-educated in the ways of magic, it was a simple task to determine if a person was a Spirit Charmer or not—and Soren was not. Of course, he’d always known, and yet he had been telling the lie for so long he’d almost started to believe it.

 

Having come all the way to the capital, Soren stayed in the city a few more weeks. He did whatever work he could find, and this included running messages. Although Soren was new to the area, he’d developed a much better sense of direction than he’d had back in Gallia. Now it served him well as he quickly learned all the main roads and most of the shortcuts. He was small and quick, and he didn’t ask questions.

Before long, he was delivering messages for members of the city gangs. When he learned it was dangerous to work for more than one gang at a time, he sold his services exclusively to one he judged not too big nor too small (and therefore the safest bet). After a while, one of the cutthroats discovered Soren could read and write, and he began working as a scribe as well as a delivery boy. Then, when he had the audacity to suggest a new way to code the gang’s messages using numbers, he was quizzed on arithmetic until becoming suddenly employed as one of their minor accountants. This meant hiding in a basement with four other accountants under constant guard all day, compiling receipts of the gang’s spoils and reconciling expenses for weapons, armor, booze, prostitutes, bribes, spies, and so on. He was never allowed to see, let alone touch, the actual funds he was supposedly counting.

Of course, Soren knew this was a dangerous occupation he’d fallen into, but he was glad to make a bit of coin and have a place to sleep each night. He did fear he would never be able to leave the gang he suddenly found himself part of, but he tried not to think about that for now. He tried not to think about anything. He simply ran his numbers.

Unfortunately for Soren, his talent for arithmetic was not enough to earn him peace. These thieves, murderers, and generally depraved individuals did not care about Soren’s birthmark or where he’d come from. They were not the kind to judge. However, it seemed their jobs were failing, their profits were shrinking, and they were losing more recruits to their competitors ever since Soren had shown up.

He highly doubted the gang’s misfortune had anything to do with him, but the leader was looking for someone to blame in order to improve morale. “The weird kid’s cursed us,” announced the middle-aged blond woman with an eyepatch and a face full of scars. It was the first time Soren had actually seen the gang’s leader. With a flippant wave of her hand, she ordered her men: “Bleed him a bit to hallow the ground, then turn him loose. Move the rest of the money boys to the new location. I want it done by this afternoon.” Then she left, without even looking at him.

Soren did not call her back or try to argue his case. His new concern were the two guards advancing on him with knives in hand. Two other guards led the rest of the accountants out of the basement. Soren watched them over the shoulders of his assailants, knowing there was no reason to expect any of them to speak in his defense. They had worked alongside each other for a few weeks. That was all.

 

Despite his efforts to fight back with magic, Soren was left cut and bruised in the basement of the abandoned building with the pages of his wind tomes strewn around him. Fighting had been futile, and while he dragged himself into a kneeling position, he wondered if the guards would have gone easier on him if he hadn’t resisted at all.

Collecting his pages, Soren tried to fit them back into their bindings. Then he crawled out of the basement and made himself scarce before a scout from a rival gang could come investigate and perhaps interrogate him about the blond woman’s business.

Once he reasoned he was far enough away from her turf, he cleaned and dressed his wounds with whatever he could find. He spent the night in someone’s coal shed, and when he emerged in the morning, aching from head to toe, he decided it was time to leave Melior.

 

Soren travelled north through the rest of the summer and early autumn, eventually reaching the coast. Moving from one port to the next looking for work, he soon discovered that tattooing was far more common among seafaring folk, and so most people didn’t look twice at his birthmark. Working orphans were also more common here, and people were used to accommodating children and teenagers whose parents had died at sea. It was an odd relief to be treated only as a vagrant rather than a vagrant and a demon, and it was easier to find people who would give him a job.

He did piecemeal work in exchange for a couple coins, a bit of food, or a place to spend the night. Some people couldn’t spare a coin but would give him old clothes instead. One merchant gave him a pair of boots that were not quite water-tight anymore. A shipbuilder gave him a pair of gloves with a hole at the end of one finger. And an elderly fisherwoman gave him a warm, water-wicking cloak that had once belonged to her son. It protected Soren from the cold autumn rains blowing in from the sea, and for that he was grateful. 

 

Winter was coming, but Soren did not think the weather could become much worse than the freezing sleet he’d already learned to survive. He had nowhere else to go, so even while others migrated south, he remained.

“What’re you still doin’ere?” asked a woman bound in shawls. She was using a broom to beat a rug she’d draped out of a window. A week ago she’d given Soren work, so he had come back, looking for more.

“I could do that for you,” Soren offered in reply. “Or any other chores you would prefer not to do today.”

She stopped hitting the dusty rug and leaned on the broom as if it were a walking stick. Contemplating Soren, she said, “You should ‘ead south. Find work where it’s warmer, if you want to survive. Not much longer and the ice’ll set in. No more fishin’ or shippin’ after that. The seal ‘unters will eat well, but not the rest o’us. No work for reg’lar folk, let alone hard little workers like you.”

“Your concern has been noted,” Soren replied evenly. “But I am here today. Do you have work for me or not?” 

The woman shook her head and pulled her weight off the broom. “Finish this for me, and change the ‘ay for the pigs. You rem’ber where it is?”

Soren nodded and accepted the broomstick.

“I’m goin’ to the docks. I can feed you when I get back, but this’ll be the last time.”

Soren nodded.

“You ‘ead south after this, you ‘ear?”

Soren nodded again.

Apparently satisfied, the woman disappeared into her house long enough to pull on yet another shawl and grab her coin purse. Soren resumed the rug’s rhythmic beating, holding his breath against the cloud of dust and dirt.

 

The next day he heeded the woman’s advice and set his feet southward, leaving behind the frosted, salted land that had become an unexpected refuge. After two days begging at inns and waystations and catching rides on the carts of fishermen bringing their catch inland, Soren was stopped at a bridge and forced to turn out his pockets at knifepoint. He obeyed because he did not have a coin left to his name. The would-be thieves were disappointed to find he had nothing, and Soren continued on his way.

That was the first of many times Soren found himself being mugged on the roadside or in the back of buildings where he curled up to find shelter. No matter if his mugger was working alone or serving a larger band, they were always desperate for coin. Many of them looked sick, and some were nursing infected wounds. Some looked scared, other starved, and most held the knife with shaking hands. Sometimes the weapon was a real dagger used for combat, but more often than not, it was a well-worn hunting knife, a kitchen blade, or a butcher’s carving knife.

Soren grew used to these altercations, and he never had anything worth stealing. Whenever he managed to earn a few copper coins, or even a silver piece, he always spent it immediately to fill his stomach or rent a place indoors to weather the next storm. After forcing him to turn out his pockets and open his satchel, the thieves would usually let him go. Sometimes they would try to hit him out of frustration, but Soren would dodge the blow and run away. On a few occasions he had to defend himself with wind magic.

When he was too tired or dizzy from hunger to avoid the initial blow, he would stumble along with a couple new bruises, soon forgetting how he’d gotten them. The days ran together, and Soren did not care what happened as long as he stayed alive.

He could not hold these criminals’ actions against them, because Soren was no law-abiding citizen himself. If he’d had the stature and a suitable weapon, perhaps he would have held up people on the roadside as well. But as things were, he did not, so he merely resorted to trespassing, squatting, and light burglary. His ability to break locks with wind magic served him well, and it was on this skill that he survived.

 

Winter was as harsh as ever, but Soren was not as afraid of losing fingers, toes, or his life to the cold as he’d once been. Rather than keeping himself sequestered in a single city, he kept moving, crossing through forests and snow-covered fields as needed. He could make a fire easily now, and he did not care who saw the smoke. If people chased him away, then he would run. If they set dogs after him, he would climb. If they cornered him, he would fight back with magic. His ability was not so advanced that he could seriously hurt anyone, even if he wanted to. But sometimes it was enough to turn a man, woman, or dog away cursing and howling.

Soren didn’t know if it was overconfidence or apathy that led him to take more chances as the winter months wore on. He began breaking into places in broad daylight as long as he judged there was no one around. He stole clothes and blankets off laundry lines as long as he thought he could escape before the washer noticed. He took eggs from chicken coops in the narrow margin between the hens laying them and the farmers’ children coming to collect them. And sometimes he stayed in a barn, shed, or carriage house past daybreak, risking being found when the owner began their daily chores.

Due to this carelessness, perhaps it was not surprising he was eventually caught by someone who he could not outrun, outsmart, scare with a wind spell, or otherwise evade. Men and women of the militia had begun carrying their standard-issue spears, swords, and axes with them during the day and sleeping with them at their bedsides at night. These precautions were surely meant to protect them from the marauders roaming the countryside, but they worked just as well against a tiny thief like Soren. Finding himself outnumbered and outmatched by adults carrying sharpened blades, he finally raised his arms in surrender.

After roughing him up a bit, they marched him several miles to the nearest army outpost and proudly turned him in. But when they discovered there were no bounties on his head, they were clearly disappointed and trudged through the snow back to their farms and mills.

Soren, meanwhile, was crammed into a cold cell with a dozen dirty adolescents of varying ages. The neighboring cells contained more mature criminals, some of whom jeered at the children. The soldiers did nothing to stop the cruel and lewd words dripping from the bandits’ lips, and Soren did his best to ignore them.

At night the temperature in dipped well below freezing, but the number of bodies around him kept him warm enough. Food was delivered regularly, although Soren had to fight his way to the front if he wanted to eat even a handful of it. At feeding times, the children clawed each other’s faces, pulled each other’s hair, and wrestled each other to the ground. But the rest of the time they were too tired and hungry to bother. Soren’s remaining wind tome had been confiscated, so he had nothing to fight with but his skinny arms and legs. His only advantage was that most of the other children were wary of his birthmark. He was no one’s first choice to touch, and that gave him an advantage in the daily struggle for food.

After a week here, the children were divided into two groups: those old enough to be transported to the city and imprisoned as adults and those young enough to be forgiven of their crimes and sent to an orphanage. For once in his life, Soren was grateful for his diminutive size. He was sent with the latter group despite the fact that another boy and girl his age were sent with the former.

  He and six other children were squeezed into a carriage and sent south. The air was rank within the trundling box, and they were only allowed to stop and stretch their legs for a few minutes each day. His satchel and tome had been returned upon leaving the jail, so Soren used little spells to circulate the air in and out of the carriage windows. For this, most of the other children showed him respect. Or at least, he was allowed to sit nearest the window and benefit most from its paltry freshness.

Sturdy mules hauled their carriage through snow and ice, and the soldiers escorting them were exchanged every couple days. Sometimes they picked up another child or two at these stops, and by the time they arrived at the orphanage, there were ten of them in the cart. There was no longer space for everyone to sit, so they stood instead.

One little boy had been coughing when Soren had first met him in the cell they shared. His cough had grown worse and begun bringing up blood after the first couple days in the carriage. He died less than a week after that and never made it to the orphanage. None of the other children seemed to mourn him, and Soren was just glad there was one less person to share the stale air with. 

 

The orphanage lay in the countryside far to the south, and Soren spent much of his time in the carriage wondering if this was the one Koure had been sent to. The institution was called ‘the Home for the Lost Sons and Daughters of Crimea’—known simply as ‘the Home’ among the children in the carriage. Soren tried to remember if Koure had mentioned the name of the place her aunt had sent her, but he could not recall.

The children whispered to one another, saying this was known as the biggest orphanage in Crimea and debating whether that meant it was the best. The consensus was that, no, size did not correlate to fair treatment or pleasant amenities. Most of the children had been on their own for a while, and they’d heard rumors, both good and bad, about the Home. Soren tried not to give the rumors much heed, knowing that kids tended to let their imaginations run away with them.

 

A trio of severe-looking women led them from the carriage straight to a bathhouse, where the children were scrubbed mercilessly with hot water and soap. Their clothes and belongings were all taken to be cleaned or burned. The women (who reminded Soren of Eliza and Maren with their tightly pulled braids) seemed to be inspecting them for signs of illness or injury while they washed themselves, and Soren’s skin prickled under their gaze.

He hadn’t been able to enjoy the hot water and sweet-smelling lather for long before one of the women pointed to him and whispered to her colleagues. She promptly poured a bucket of cold water over his head to rinse him off. “You, come with me,” she ordered, leading him out of the bathhouse.

He had nothing but a towel to keep him warm in the brittle air. He walked through the snow, his bare feet becoming numb and his hair was quickly freezing. However, he did not have to endure the cold for long. The woman led him to the laundry room of the main building, which was relatively close to the bathhouse.

She pointed to the pile of clothes that had been dumped here. “You can’t stay. Dress yourself and begone.”

Soren glared at her, knowing all too well why he’d been singled out. But he asked anyway: “Why?”

“This facility is for the reconstitution of children. You are no child.”

Soren deepened his glare. “My dozen years on Tellius tell a different story,” he countered.

“You are a monster, and we will not let you spread your affliction to the innocents in our care. Now dress! It is Ashera’s mercy that we allow you that much.” With that, she threw open the door and walked back to the bathhouse.

Releasing the tension in his shoulders, Soren turned his gaze to the pile of clothes, shoes, and cloaks. First he found his satchel and the pages of spells inside. Then he set about dressing in the best clothes he could find. They were not the ones he’d worn here, but that didn’t matter. 

When he was tying up a pair of sturdy boots, he first noticed the eyes watching him from the door leading into the main house. “What do you want?” he asked the curious little faces.

There was a tiny yelp of surprise, following by laughter. The door creaked open, and three children came into view.

“You’re one of the new kids?” asked the one in front. She was probably his age or a year younger, and she had shoulder-length, purple hair that seemed to be covering a burn scar on the left side of her face.

“I’m just passing through,” Soren replied resignedly. He knew there would be no arguing his case or convincing them to let him stay.

The kids seemed disappointed. “Did you come with others?” the leader asked hopefully.

“There are nine in the bathhouse,” Soren answered. “Four girls and five boys.”

This seemed to cheer them up, and they exchanged excited glances. 

“Tell me, is there a girl named Koure who lives here?” he found himself asking. “Age thirteen, yellow hair, gray eyes. She would have arrived a year and a half ago.”

The three children exchanged whispers, apparently not recognizing the name or description. But then the youngest spoke up: “I ‘member her!” the little boy crowed. “She came the week after I got here, but she didn’t stay for long.”

“Why not?” Soren asked, feeling oddly disappointed that she wasn’t here, even if he wouldn’t have been able to stay with her anyway.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t ‘member ‘zactly. She just dis’peared, and none of the mothers would say where she’d gone. I ‘member I asked, ‘cause that girl was real nice to me.”

“You’re right,” the purple-haired one agreed. “I remember her now. You’re right: she was here, but then she wasn’t.”

Soren slung his satchel over his shoulder. “Very informative,” he sighed. “Now what are the odds you can steal me some food before I go?”

The kids exchanged glances. “Sorry,” the leader answered, “but the kitchen’s off-limits this time of day.”

Soren shook his head, knowing it had been a longshot.

Just then, the door opened, and the same woman came in, now steering another of the boys. Soren eyed the nasty, bumpy rash that spread over his chest and arms and assumed this was the reason he’d been separated.

“You’ll stay here until we decide what to do with you,” the woman was saying. But then she saw the three children standing in the doorway. “Out! Out!” she called, waving her arms. “You know better than to be here!” The kids immediately scampered off. “You will be going to bed without supper tonight, you trouble-makers!” she called after them. Soren edged toward the door, but that did not stop the woman from rounding on him next. “And what are you still doing here? You’d better not have done anything to those three!”

“I didn’t touch them,” Soren growled back.

“Out of here!” she said, shooing him more ferociously than she had the other children. “I want you off this property this minute. We will not be so merciful if we see you here again!”

Soren opened the door to let himself out. “It’s not like I came here of my own will,” he snarled. His hair was still wet, but he pulled up the hood of his new cloak and marched through the snow. The carriage that had brought him here was gone, so he stepped onto the road and walked in the wheel tracks. If he remembered correctly, they had passed through a town only an hour or so back. Keeping a steady pace, he could reach it before nightfall.