Page 63 of Bannerless (The Bannerless Saga 1)

Enid tore open the sewn top of one of the bags to confirm the barley inside. Counted and recorded the number in her notes.

Philos and his household had been working hard. But they didn’t need this. Well, Philos must have thought they did, quotas or no.

She and Tomas took hold of one of the bags—twenty pounds, she guessed—and hauled it up the steps to display it to the community. To show what Philos had been doing with the town’s resources.

They dropped it at the man’s feet and stepped back. Gave everyone plenty of time to look it over. To make those connections, to see what the bag meant. The whole place went silent, except for chickens clucking around them in the yard.

“It . . . it’s not that much,” Philos said. “We needed it.”

Enid jabbed a finger at him. “If everyone here needed this much, the land around Pasadan would be tapped out in a decade. You know that, right? You understand—”

“We weren’t hurting anything—”

“Gah!” She turned away, unable to look at him anymore. “Stop talking, would you? Just stop! This is why you didn’t want us here from the first! It wasn’t about Sero at all. This is what you’ve been so worried about! Does the rest of the town know? Were you doing this for everyone or just for yourself? And what did you think was going to happen when you were found out? Did you think you’d never be found out?”

“Enid! Enid, stop!” Ariana shouted, the desperate edge so cutting that Enid actually spun to look.

Tomas had doubled over and fallen to kneeling. Face flushed red, he clutched his left arm and seemed to be trying to speak, trying to spit out words while gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come. Bystanders had already backed away from her outburst; now, they watched her partner as if he were the center of some performance.

In a moment she was at his side, holding him up. He grabbed her; his whole body was shaking. His eyes were wide, like he was drowning on dry land. Blue, his skin was turning blue, and his left side clenched up in pain. He kept trying to speak. He angled himself at her ear; his lips worked, but nothing emerged from them. His fingers gripped vise-like on her arm. He was so heavy.

Enid looked up. “Tull. Someone get Tull—bring him now!” Tull, the medic. He had to be around here somewhere. Miran ran off, shawl half flying behind her.

Enid laid him flat, lifted his legs, cushioned his head under a blanket that had suddenly appeared, that someone had given her. She didn’t know who. Tomas’s eyes were glassy; he wasn’t breathing. So she breathed for him, her mouth over his, blowing a deep breath into his lungs. Pumping his heart for him. Another long breath. Tull arrived and took over the CPR for her. Tomas’s body lay clenched in pain, but there was no movement.

She knew before Tull sat back and shook his head that Tomas was gone. Enid held Tomas’s hand and wept.

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No one bothered her for a long time. They left her there, slumped in the grass, holding his hand in both of hers as it lost warmth. She knew she would have to do something soon. Sitting there, she turned that thought back and forth in her mind. Yes, she would have to do something. Make a decision, then another. Move forward. But considering that thought seemed like a great deal of effort all by itself, so she didn’t do anything else.

A hand touched her shoulder. She sensed Dak. Didn’t even have to turn around, and she recognized the shape and presence of him out of the corner of her eye. The weight of his hand anchored her as he knelt.

“Enid, love. We should move him. Get him out of the sun. Can we do that? Is that all right?” He spoke low. The words seemed distant, but his voice was a comfort. She used to love his voice.

She nodded and finally looked up. Two men were there with a stretcher—the same one from Ariana’s cellar, the one that had carried Sero. This horrified Enid. She wanted to scream. But yes, Dak was right. They should move him.

Most everyone else had gone. Ariana stood by. So did Miran—she’d been crying, her hands clasped together. She didn’t even know him, Enid thought. Why should she cry? Her own eyes felt like wrung-out rags.

The men laid the stretcher down; she helped them lift Tomas to it, and he seemed even heavier. The weight of him settling. They walked away with him. She watched them go and couldn’t follow. Dak stood on one side of her; Ariana came to the other and put her arm around her shoulders, and Enid hardly felt it.

She must have spoken at some point. Given some kind of instruction. She couldn’t remember, and she kept thinking she should be better than this. If it had been anyone but Tomas who had died in front of her, she’d be better than this.

Yes, she did remember what she’d said, because they ended up at Tull’s small clinic, not at the cellar at Newhome. The others had wanted to take him there, store him in the chill until Enid decided what to do. But no, they weren’t finished here. She had questions.

The clinic was clean, neat. A single room, diffuse light came in through a wide window. Cabinets lined one wall, a couple of chairs stood against another, and a table occupied the middle of the floor. Like any clinic in any town. When they had Tomas’s body resting on the exam table, she sent them all away. All except Tull. He remained near the door, his arms crossed, his frown deep. The room was quiet, the heat of summer pressing down, humidity making breathing difficult. They should open it, let some air in. But no, not until they were done here.

The

thought had occurred to her: this might have been murder.

Poison, she thought. Something that would kill his heart dead. A dart, a patch, a liquid slipped into his tea. At Haven, the medics might be able to tell what exactly had killed him. They had blood tests for poisons, infections. It had come so quickly and he didn’t have a mark on him, so it must be poison. It seemed such a reasonable possibility.

But no. Why poison him but not her? They’d eaten the same food since arriving in Pasadan, drunk out of all the same pitchers. She wasn’t anything like ill, except for the hole in the middle of her heart, a black space that turned into a knife when she looked at him. His dead body. His terrible still form.

“Can you examine him?” Enid asked evenly. “Look and maybe see what killed him?”

Tull answered, “I told you: if I had to guess—this has all the signs of a heart attack. I’m sorry.”

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