Page 25 of The Amber Owl (Heartwood #1)

25

Lukas

He was telling himself a story. In his mind, they were sitting on the grass, he and Stasya side by side, looking down toward the settlement. Late afternoon light; the goats enjoying their freedom but edging closer to the gate, knowing that soon he would return them to the safety of the home field. The story was of a hero on a quest, a man for whom a swooping dragon or a lurking mud monster was not a thing of terror, but an opportunity to use his skills, whether with the sword or with clever words. Everyone knew dragons loved riddles.

In this place he did not tell stories out loud, though he could imagine Stasya doing it and holding an audience of rough prisoners spellbound. For Lukas, storytelling was a private thing. Apart from Stasya, the only people to whom he told them were his younger sisters, who loved a thrilling tale before bedtime. Oh, where were they, those sweet girls? Was Heartwood still suffering under the iron fist of the Commander? Had his father survived, and how were his mother and Kristina coping? They needed him. He should be there, shouldering his share of the work. But … he had to be here. Had to. For Stasya.

‘Hey, Goat Boy!’ It was the man opposite him, incarcerated for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, according to his own account. The details were fuzzy, but Lukas suspected many of these men owed their imprisonment to quite minor offences. If they seemed half-mad, or foul-mouthed, or prone to inappropriate remarks, that was probably down to being locked up in this place and fed on the nameless grey substance that passed for food. It was enough to turn anyone a bit crazy.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Heard they’ve got something special lined up for you. Guards were whispering about it.’

Lukas did not ask the obvious question. This could not be anything good; he was not sure he wanted to know.

‘Go on, then,’ said someone else. ‘What is it?’

‘Fifty of the best, to be delivered at dawn tomorrow, that’s what they said.’

Nobody said a word for some while. The profound silence spoke for them. Then one man said, ‘Fifty? For Goat Boy? Great saints and sinners, what did he do to deserve that?’ His voice was choked.

‘Sounds like we won’t be seeing you after tomorrow, lad.’ That voice belonged to a man Lukas could not see. When the prisoners talked among themselves, which happened if there were no guards within earshot, that man was always the one to calm the storm, to quiet the often-turbulent waters. The one to settle the restless herd. ‘Seems like your sweetheart wouldn’t speak up to save your life. That’s if the guards got it right. We’ll say a prayer for you.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ someone muttered, but the others were quiet. The ready quips and insults that were part of their everyday conversation were absent now.

It felt as if he were in a dream: some dark tale where the hero was powerless to defeat the dragon or outwit the mud monster. They were saying he would die in the morning. They were talking about fifty lashes.

Your sweetheart. Stasya, they meant. The authorities had told her they’d whip him to death, and she’d still refused to do what they wanted. It felt like his heart had been ripped out and stamped on. But what else could he have expected? She was never going to change her mind. For her, the forest came first, always. She was strong, brave, true to her beliefs. So why did this hurt so much?

‘What did I do?’ He spoke more to himself than to the others. ‘I did what I thought was right.’ A breath. ‘I did my best.’