Page 20 of Veiled Flames
I climb onto the back of the cart to help the woman, handing down baskets so she can arrange them. “Do you sell your fruit in this market often?” I ask.
She nods in response and then points to a bushel of green apples. I pick it up and carefully pass it down. It’s very heavy, but she handles it easily.
“What varietal of apples are these?” I ask, though I recognize them as verdant snaps.
She shrugs, not even turning her face toward me. She clearly doesn’t like to talk while she works. As I hand her the last basket, the man climbs back up to the seat of the cart.
“Best be getting off now, boy,” he says. “I’ll be moving this cart.”
I jump down. “Thank you again. Both of you.”
The man slaps the reins on his oxen, and the cart pulls away.
I turn toward the woman, and she holds an apple toward me, one of the verdant greens.
“Oh, thank you.” I retrieve Olifer’s purse from the rucksack. “How much do I owe you?” I hold out a small piece of silver.
Her eyes open wide. “Put that away, lad!” she says in a harsh whisper. Then she looks side to side as if in fear.
My cheeks heating, I tuck the coin back into the purse and then stash it in one of the pouches sewn onto my breeches. What have I done wrong now?
“I don’t know where ye hail from, lad,” she says, “but around here, simple folk are not called sir, and two coppers buys ye a bushel of apples. I don’t think ye’d find a farmer or even a baker in this village who’d make ye change for a piece of silver.”
“Oh, I see.” A major mistake.
She hands me the apple, and my stomach growls in anticipation. Clearly hearing it, she hands me another one, plus a pear. She takes a roughly sewn apron from one of the baskets and wraps it around her thick waist. “Go on now. Eat yer breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
“And lad.” She leans closer toward me. “If I were ye, I’d make myself scarce around the village today.”
“Why?”
“Dragon riders,” she whispers even lower than before. “Word says they be about, stealing young men and taking them off to the slaughter.”
I shiver. “They feed young men to the dragons?”
She chuckles. “Not what I meant. Same result.”
“I don’t understand.”
She puts her hands on her ample hips. “The dragon masters, they’ll be taking boys off to their death camp.”
“Boys are taken against their will?”
“I’m told some go willingly, seeking adventure.” She shakes her head. “Fools. None return. Gettin’ aboard those wagons is as much a death sentence as the noose.”
Prince Tynan claimed he rode dragons. If this woman is right, his days are numbered. Good riddance.
Eight
Rosomon
One of the apples and a pear in my belly, I explore the market as it fills with villagers, bargaining over prices, listening to minstrels and swapping stories. The mood is festive and friendly, but I resist the urge to speak to anyone, lest I say something else wrong. My belly grumbles at the sights and scents of the market, and it’s a struggle not to make another attempt to use my silver coins to buy some bread or sausage or cheese.
But I heed the kind woman’s warnings. Doing so would either reveal my noble birth or make me a target of thieves. Perhaps both. I consider eating my remaining apple but decide to keep it in reserve until I’m desperate for food.
Surveying the villagers at the market, I note the absence of young men and wonder if this confirms the fruit vendor’s story. Last eve, Prince Tynan claimed to be a dragon rider, but based on what that woman said, he was likely making false claims to impress my young brothers.
