The Queen of Grass and Tree (Southwind Knights #2)

Chapter One, Part 3

At the foot of the dirt road, Galen called for a rest. The darkness peeled away as violet shades of sunrise emerged in the east. The path ahead of them was empty, with nothing in sight across the flat plains. The boys dropped to the grass, digging through their packs.

“Let’s see,” Finn said. “What’s for breakfast?” He produced a loaf of bread and a brick of cheese—parting thefts from the Grocer.

“Ration that,” Galen said. “Long road ahead.”

Finn snorted at the needless warning. A lifetime of meager meals had prepared the boys well.

“How long?” Asher said, stuffing his cloak into his bag.

“We’ll make the Free Way by nightfall,” Galen said. “From there, it’s four days north to Riverdale.”

While Asher clung to the dream of finding his mother, he wondered what would become of him if that failed. Finn was set on finding a way into the Institute, and it seemed that Galen had his own reasons for returning to the capital. Asher played with the thought of staying with Galen and becoming a Healer. It felt right, in a way.

“What’s it like?” Asher asked.

Galen took a squeeze from his waterskin. “Big,” he said, and shook his head. “Busy. Wait and see. You’ll either love it or hate it.”

“Did you love it or hate it?” Finn asked.

“Hate.”

“But you were a Knight?”

Galen nodded, pulling an apple from his bag and drawing a short knife.

“You studied at the Institute?”

Nod.

“How old were you?” Finn asked.

Galen cut off an apple wedge, bit in, and turned his cold, black eyes on Finn. The Tailor’s son was unfazed by the Healer’s face, despite its grotesque scarring.

“Sixteen,” Galen said. He’d been the youngest Knight in a century.

Finn chomped into his bread, tearing off a mouthful. “I’m sixteen.”

“But,” Asher said, resting back on his hands, “he had skills at sixteen.”

He and Finn locked eyes.

Finn stopped chewing. His freckled cheek twitched.

Before Asher could rise, Finn was on him, hooking his neck and wrestling him to the ground.

Asher was a year younger and smaller. A lifetime of scrapping had taught them that—while Asher’s reach was longer—if Finn found a way to close the gap and lock him up, the fight was over. Still, Asher put up a good struggle before being pinned to the earth. Overpowered and out of breath, he resorted to biting and was rewarded with a heavy punch to the temple, leaving him dazed.

They panted, unable to laugh but grinning euphorically. It was a living a memory of themselves, the way they had been before the salamander and unicorn and dragon.

Finn climbed to his feet, and Asher lay catching his breath until someone kicked dirt over his face. Sputtering and scowling, he jumped up. Finn was frozen, and Galen stood rigid and humorless, looking hard into the distance. Asher followed his gaze.

Three tall shapes emerged from the dark tree line of Southwind’s woods. They were men, clad in gray drab, heading straight for them. As they neared, Asher saw that the men carried swords—broad steel casually shouldered. The one in front let his blade drag through the grass behind him, the heavy metal tip etching a line in his wake.