To a man with an empty stomach, food is God.- Mahatma Gandhi

  1 - Starving the devil of hunger

  Logale knew the woman. The wife of a carpenter. She'd whipped him once with a switch when she'd caught him trying to take a potato off her. It had been the first and only time Logale had attempted to take a thing without asking. Now, he only begged, as the welts from back then had finally healed, and he wasn't keen on replacing them. Right now, though, Logale thought he might retake a whipping if it got him something to eat.

  "Don't got nothing for you, boy," snarled the carpenter's wife, "Nothing, you hear? Get you gone."

  Logale heard her, but his bare feet did not move. His eyes were fastened on the aged mushrooms in the woman's brambly basket, all dark and wet rot, stinking like fish. He didn't like mushrooms much. They tasted so awful that he usually threw them back up, rotted or not, but he'd had nothing in his belly for two days, so he didn't care too much what to fill it with. His mouth was flooded with spit, and yet his throat was dry, somehow. Staring at those horrid mushrooms made his eyes water. Made his stomach cramp with desperate need. Logale tried to speak but couldn't think of what to say besides please, which he'd said enough times by now that it stopped sounding like a word. Couldn't even spell please. Didn't know how to write. Yet, please was the word he'd used most of his life. Where was the sense in that?

  The carpenter's wife hid the basket behind her, and her mouth twisted in a vicious sneer, face dark as old leather and just as wrinkled, probably from too much scowling rather than old age. "I said get gone now! Or I'll whip you again, boy! I'll whip you raw, you hear me? I've enough mouths to feed without wasting these on you! Get on!"Logale ran before she could swat him, making sure not to turn back around until he was a safe distance away. The woman stumbled into her crooked old house and slammed the door behind her, making the shutters rattle. That left him in the dusty street, stomach croaking like an angry toad. A feeling Logale knew all too well. He wanted to cry. Tried not to. Scrubbed the tears out of his eyes. Sniffled. Then, the tears came back hard, and he gave in.

  It felt almost like a ritual by now. Stood there, head tilted back so he could wail at the sky, as hot tears and warm snot came all out of him. The rest of the world went on like always. The villagers moved about their business and paid him no mind, for a crying and starving orphan was nothing like remarkable. Logale wailed until his throat hurt, then wailed some more, had to stumble out of the way of a donkey pulling a cart, then wailed even more as the driver passed him without a backward glance. Crying had used to work when he was smaller. He could come into the village and scream his head off until someone gave him a morsel of food. Then, when he'd gotten a bit older, people started threatening to beat him until he quieted. A little older, and they'd simply beat him at a peep. Now, at eight years old, few could be bothered with beatings anymore and just ignored him.

  So Logale cried at nothing until his throat began to hurt. Wiped his face, sniffled, then took a moment to calm down. He couldn't say he felt better, but Dog had told him not to waste all his tears in one throw since there'd be worse things to cry about later, and Dog was right about a lot of things.

  Logale stared out at the village he called home. At its miserable denizens, familiar and strange, baking in the heat, all dirty and angry and starving in hopeless harmony. It was busy today. Carts and wagons were going every which way, drawn by horses, mules, and men, packed with things to buy and sell, mostly whatever produce the farmers and fishermen managed to save from their dying soil or pluck from the stingy sea. Folk hurried in every direction, pushing, jostling, shouting at each other in a great noise of confusion as they sought their businesses, turning the whole of the square into a great moat of desperate, hungry, angry people. Of course, all of this was normal on market day.

  Logale's stomach reminded him of why he was out there with ever-increasing urgency, and it was not to be denied even now. So, he mustered up what scrapings of resolve he had left to resume his search for a meal. After all, the alternative was to go without eating for a third day in a row, and that was no choice at all.

  He asked everyone who'd give him attention and pestered a few that didn't. An old woman with a missing finger, the man with a lazy eye that always carried a horseshoe, a group of smelly smiths playing dice. A skulking cut-purse hiding badly in the shadow of a house had said the food he'd recently stolen had hardly filled his belly. Seemed even thieves were going hungry. Logale begged and pleaded and offered to work for a quarter of a meal, but no one was forthcoming. In the end, he moved south of the village square.

  Logale didn't know the name of his village, but then, neither did anyone else. Who'd want to name it, anyway? It was a ramshackle put-together of shacks, cottages, barns, and farms, all varied in size and structure but equal in condition. Many of them were so poor and old and withered that a stiff breeze made their walls tremble and moan like drunks in the cold season. Everything was built to serve a purpose, but the efficacy to which they served those purposes was largely underwhelming. In the center was a well where folk used to get their daily water, but then the river that supplied it dried up, so now it served as a spitting hole for those passing through, which was all kinds of ironic.

  At least the well still had a use, though. The same couldn't be said for the mill, which hadn't been in use since the river died and now just sat abandoned on a distant dead hill. There was a workshop for the carpenters, though Logale wasn't sure how much woodwork they actually did, considering the village's state. Then there was the tavern, which stank of sweat and beer, where the men gathered every night to drink and complain, and where the women of night preyed on the purses and perversity of the lonely. There were fights, too, on occasion, but most of the fighting was generally saved for market day.

  As Logale entered the lane preceding the village entrance, he saw that some violence was already under way. Two men were tugging at a brown head of cabbage, kicking and cursing as they tore the thing apart, while the cabbage merchant screamed pointlessly for them to stop. A cart had been knocked over and a crowd of people were clawing at its spilled contents. Logale might have joined to see what he could get, but the crowd was so choked that people crawled over and under each other. Some broke out into vicious fights. Two women had started yanking each other's hair, while a ragged-looking man tackled a skinny girl to the ground and began punching her, only to draw the attention of several other men, who tore him away and started kicking him into the dirt.

  Logale saw two merchants cursing at each other about prices while onlookers stood by waiting to see who'd end up cheapest. A thief pushed through the crowd and snatched a beet from one of the stands, only to then crash into the other, tumbling legs over head, spraying aged carrots, beans, onions, and squash into the street. It didn't even take a second for folk to dive after the food like it was rarer than gold. Indeed, because it was. Logale avoided the chaos. He was badly hungry, but he'd seen a man get trampled in a crush like that and didn't feel quite that desperate. Yet.

  Further down the street, it grew calmer somewhat. Folk simply tried to get what they could with what little money they had so they could hurry back home. Farming tools, carpets, blankets, clothes, pots, sandals and turnshoes, rods and nets, cheap jewels, cheap mead, straw dolls and leather balls, wolf pelts and cowhide, flour, cheese, even livestock. Whatever was available, all things in the world and more, were bargained, bought, sold, and stolen. Some merchants were already closing their stands for the day. Either because they'd been entirely cleared out or hoped to avoid the crush before it spread. Logale began looking around. This was the best time to look for scraps since people were in a hurry and tended to drop things, but there were plenty of other children hanging around as well, no doubt with the same idea. Many looked older than him, though, and he wasn't keen on getting into a fight. Best to grab what no one was aiming for and get out quickly.So Logale picked up what he could. A carrot the size of his little finger, a lump of cheese, some beans and grapes, dried meat. Each thing he found made his stomach growl, but now with anticipation rather than hope. Perhaps he'd have a full belly tonight. A full belly! That would be a thing worth celebrating. Some children were taking fruits off a cart while the driver wasn't looking, and though Logale was tempted, he decided it best to stay far away. Easy to catch some of the blame if you stood too close to thieves.

  That's when he saw something further off. Right in the middle of the road, struck with a bar of sunlight. An apple. A fresh, bright red, barely dirty apple out in the open for all to see and any to take. Logale nearly made a run for it, but since running could draw attention, he didn't want to risk other people seeing it. So he ambled over slowly, pretending not to see it while trying to keep an eye on it. Closer now. It was a big one. Very big. It could probably last him two days if he stretched it out. Logale licked his lips. Swallowed. It was within arm's reach. Yes, he—

  A hand that wasn't his snatched the apple. Logale looked up, then his heart sank.

  It was Micah. He was one of the older boys at the children's house. The oldest boy, actually, now that Rike was gone. He was much taller than Logale and had a bit of muscle despite how little food was going around. He had a mangy pile of red hair, an odd color amongst the far more common brown and black. It made his head look like it was constantly on fire, which would certainly explain why he was always in a foul mood. His dry lips were always twisted into a surly frown, like he'd shit himself in public and couldn't live with the embarrassment. Angry at the world and making it everyone's problem. His glare immediately made Logale's heart lurch, and he couldn't help taking a step back.

  "Too slow, little shit," he said, eyes falling onto the haul in Logale's arms. Licked his lips. "That cheese looks good."

  Logale could see that he had plenty of food himself. Bread, fruits, vegetables, he even saw a pie. Micah had plenty for himself. He didn't need anyone else's.

  Logale tried to say something. Say that he'd found the cheese, so it belonged to him. That was the rule in the children's house. What you found was yours. Only, Rike wasn't here to enforce that rule anymore, so it was anyone's guess what the rules were now. When Logale opened his mouth, nothing came out but a dry squeak.

  "Gonna share that out?" said Micah, walking right up to him. Loomed over him. Shadow cast and all. He brought his hand up to Logale's chin, curled it into a fist, then rapped on Logale's chin with his knuckles just hard enough to make him whimper. He tried to say something, anything, but all he could do was nod while wishing that Dog was here.

  Micah took more than the cheese, which hardly surprised Logale. He took the grapes, the dried meat, and the carrot, small as it was, and stuffed them in his basket. Micah eyed the beans for a moment, the only food left behind, as if considering whether they were worth the taking. Logale couldn't even close his fingers around them for fear.

  "You're small. That's enough for you," said Micah, glaring down at him. "You gave me these. Don't go telling Dog no lies, you hear?" Logale yelped as Micah snatched him by his shirt and dragged him close. "You tell on me, and I'll beat you fuckin' bloody, boy. I'll break your fuckin' skull. You gave me these. Get it?"

  Logale nodded frantically, whimpered "yes" several times before Micah finally let him go. The older boy ran off, calling out to some other children that made up his little gang, boasting about the cheese he'd found. Logale stared at the beans in his hand. Maybe ten in all. Some were squashed flat and covered in dirt. Not nearly enough for his needs. He trembled where he stood, scared and hungrier than ever, and trying very hard not to cry again.

  There was no point in scavenging anymore. The street had emptied. The merchants had loaded their bags and carts, and the villagers were headed home with their monthly stock. Logale looked around on the off chance but didn't see any food. Not even any measly scraps. Nothing but dirt. Like Dog had said, there'd always be something worse to cry about.

  A merchant was coming his way, drawing his pack horse by the reins, a sour look to him. He had a bloody gash across his forehead and was dabbing it with a rag. Logale was scared to ask but even more scared of going hungry, so he turned and waited for the merchant to pass him. "Please," he said, his voice coming out hoarse.

  The merchant looked down on him. A tired look. Like a farmer who'd spent a hot day in the field and now desperately needed rest. Logale saw now that he looked dirty, all scuffed and ragged, like he'd just been in a fight. "Nothing to give, boy. Stock's all done. Barely made a copper before the thieves came through. Won't be coming back to this town again. If you're smart, you'll do the same." And he carried on toward the village entrance, leaving Logale alone in the street.

  Logale stared into the distance. At the lands far beyond the absent walls of his nameless village. There were no signs that marked the entrance or exit. One could enter or leave from any direction, and no one would stop them. Nothing prevented Logale's escape, but he'd never once considered it. What good would it do? Where would he go, anyway? If the people in this town, who'd known him since he was an infant, didn't care to feed him, why would anyone else?

  When the tears welled up, Logale scrubbed them away. They came back, he scrubbed them away. A few tears escaped, but he didn't have the energy to scream anymore. He was as tired as he was hungry now, and all he wanted to do was go home. He rubbed his stomach. Maybe it was best he went home now, anyway. One of the nicer children could have found some food and might be willing to share. He didn't think it was likely, though. The villagers were already returning to their homes, no doubt to prepare or preserve their latest gains. The tavern was filling up as the owner and some workers loaded barrels of drink into the cellar. Some old men were gambling in the space between two houses, huddled like mice around scraps. The local lunatic was spouting some nonsense no one cared to listen to. Logale didn't bother to ask him for anything since he only ever said that food is an illusion and that truth fills his belly. Looking at his sunken stomach, though, Logale found those claims hard to believe.

  He pushed on through the square and entered the back end of the village. The houses were sparser, the land wider and flatter, giving way to rotting brown pastures, old farms, weather-worn cottages and shacks, weak fences, and roaming livestock. He thought of knocking on doors and asking for goat milk, but he didn't see any goats. He knew some had died recently. Cattle had died, too, a lot of them, and the rest were likely sold. A few chickens were running around, but Logale tried catching one before and got some scratches for his trouble. Besides, he didn't know how to kill them. Let alone cook them.

  There was someone outside. Standing with a hunch in the corner of a dead crop field. An old man that Logale saw on the regular but had never actually talked to. He had a bad back that left him always leaning forward, and wore this badly stitched dirty brown hat. He was standing outside his chicken coop and looked to be carrying something, though Logale couldn't see what. Dog had told him he was some poor-name chicken farmer that sold bad eggs for cheap. Perhaps he was collecting some eggs now. Maybe he'd have some spare. The children's house was beyond the farms, so this would be the last chance for Logale to get food. So he swallowed, sighed, then climbed through the fence and approached the old chicken farmer.

  He decided to stand at a distance, just to be safe, and with his heart pounding, he said, "Please."

  The farmer turned slowly to him. He had a wrinkled face, dark as leather, puckered with black spots, and a beard so thick it concealed his mouth. He appeared bald, but the limp gray strands on the side of his head implied only most of his hair was gone. His eyes were squinted, at first seeming angry, then Logale realized it was more that the man was trying to get a look at him, perhaps to figure out if he was really there. Despite how frail and senile he looked, the old man's voice was scarily deep and heavy as he said, "What do you want, boy?"

  "Please." Logale repeated, "I'm hungry."

  "Aren't we all, but I've nothing to give. All my chickens have run off. No way to catch them. No eggs either. Sold them all."

  Logale heard him but wasn't listening. His eye had caught something. It was set in front of the chicken coop, on a small pedestal on the ground, this tiny wooden effigy of a man. He was dressed in loose robes and sat cross-legged on a dais, and his toes looked to have leaves and thistles between them. His most stand-out feature was his four arms, all spread out, with his two upper hands turned upward like he was holding something heavy. The lower right hand brandished a farming hoe, while the lower left one toted a stalk of corn heads between two fingers. The man had a square, heavy jaw, a grim frown, and a blindfold over his eyes. He had long hair done up in several elaborate, impossible loops, the last of which fell over his shoulders and flowed into the collar of his robes. Logale had never seen anything like it.

  But what had truly seized Logale's attention… was the meat and vegetable stew sitting on the ground before the effigy. He could smell it from where he stood. Could see the steam wafting off it in rippling white wisps. It smelled delicious. Which could only mean the taste was even better.

  "That is not for you, child," said the chicken farmer. He kneeled to set a lid on top of the bowl. The steam still escaped in small trails of vapor, and the smell had barely gone. The old man stayed kneeling. He got to his other knee as well, despite a moan of pain, lowered his head, clasped his hands in front of him, and closed his eyes.

  Logale couldn't help the thought of grabbing the bowl and running off, but quickly thought better of it. It could burn his hands while he was running, and that's if he could get away before being grabbed. He had to come this way to reach the village, so even if he got away this time, the old man would remember him. So instead, he stared at the bowl, then the old man, the bowl again, the old man. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  The chicken farmer cleared his throat. "Praying."

  Logale blinked. He'd never heard the word before. "What's pray-ying?"

  "It is communion with the Gods, boy."

  "What's Gods?" That he'd heard a few times. Some adults said it, especially when angry. The lunatic would shout it while falling to his knees, throwing his hands in the air, and crying a lot. Except he also looked happy doing it. He supposed that was why folk called him a lunatic.

  "No one's taught you about the Gods, boy?" the farmer shook his head, "Suppose I shouldn't wonder. No church or temple for miles. The Gods abandoned this village long ago and took their names with them. What can a land be that the divine has left to squalor?" Logale didn't understand a word of what he said, but the man kept talking before he could ask him to explain. "The air you breathe, the earth you stand on, the water you drink. All these things are the Gods' gift to men and beasts. They are all the things of nature and every force in creation. They are all-seeing, all-knowing, and all-powerful. If the Gods willed it, a stone could be made gold, water made wine. All you can imagine. Everything that is possible and all that exists is dominion of the divine."

  Logale looked at the effigy. It just looked like a carved slab of wood to him, and a strange-looking one, at that. This was the first one he'd ever seen a Gods, though, so perhaps they looked even stranger. He still didn't understand too well, but that was because the smell of the stew was distracting him. "That's for Gods?" he asked, "Are they hungry, too?"

  "In a way. They demand tribute. An offering to display our faith." He nodded at the stew. "The flesh of a beast, the reaps of the soil, the gifts of the river. One or all."

  "When will they eat it?"

  "The Gods do not eat, boy. They are far beyond the needs of savage mortality. Eating is a thing for men and beasts."

  Now, Logale was very confused. This old farmer was making no sense. If the Gods didn't eat, what was the point in giving them food? "Why don't you eat it?"

  "To gain favor with the Gods demands a proper offering. An offering and a sacrifice. A man must give what he is least willing to, and put himself at the mercy of curse and blessing. To win the Gods' attention and approval, to purge your sins against them, and to quell their wrath. When you pray, and you give to the gods something difficult to part with, you invoke divine communion and beg upon them for a prospering future. Now leave me be, boy. I do not pray in company."

  Logale understood even less now, and this time, he was so tired and so bored that even the food was losing its appeal. This stupid old man was like the town lunatic. Saying a lot of words that meant nothing. Despite his pained stomach, Logale turned and stalked home.

  He looked back to see that old idiot kneeling before that small wooden statue. He had lifted his head now and thrown his clasped hands toward the sky. There might have been a tear rolling down his cheek, but Logale wasn't sure. Was pray-ying supposed to be painful?

  Logale put the old man out of his mind and moved on. He hoped Dog had found something to eat. She was usually willing to share. If not, he might have to choke down some grass, provided there was any.

  In this village, even good grass was not plentiful.

  The children's house was a short ways outside the village, in a dry grove preceding miles of dark forest. It was the biggest house in the area, but also in the worst shape, and getting worse every year. The town leader left it for all the unwanted or wandering children since there weren't too many families willing to take up extra mouths. It had used to belong to someone called a "Lord" until he'd abandoned it. They were never brought food or supplies, and the carpenters rarely came to fix anything, but at least they had somewhere to sleep.

  It was turning evening now. The sun was setting red behind the tall black trees, painting the sky with strokes of yellow, pink, orange, blue. Some of the children were playing in the front yard. Three girls were passing around a dirty ball. A couple of boys younger than him were running around a tree in chase of one another, screeching and laughing with rare joy. The older ones, those eleven or older, were play-fighting in the dirt. Micah was among them, sitting by and watching like a master watched his slaves. Micah met his eye, but Logale quickly looked away and hurried toward the house.

  He passed a few of the children his age, all lounged on the porch. Logale simply moved on, and they didn't acknowledge him. He felt he should know their names, maybe had once, but not anymore. Some of them were new by a few weeks, but new children themselves were nothing to comment on. Your names barely mattered, here or in the village. This was simply where you stayed if you had nowhere else to go, and that was nothing you wanted your name attached to, even if it was all you had. One day, these children would be here at the house, starving among peers, and one day, they'd be gone. Sometimes they left the village, sometimes they were taken, sometimes they died, and the older boys would have to bury them or drag the corpse into the forest for wolves or bears to make free with. That was how things had been for as long as Logale could remember and would likely stay that way.

  But Logale managed a smile when he entered the house and saw Dog lying on the nest of patchy blankets, where they often slept together. She was a little older than Micah at thirteen, but stronger by leagues, and far nicer too, at least to Logale. She was very dark-skinned, with short, badly cut dark hair that stuck up in all directions like the quills of a porcupine. It used to be longer, but she'd cut it all off one day and kept it cut and never once explained why. Her eyes were an amber yellow, strangely bright in contrast to the dark circles around her eyes, making her look always on the verge of falling asleep, yet wide, wide awake. She laid there on her side, wearing nothing but a shirt too big for her, just like him, all covered in stains and tears. Logale knew she had some other clothes, like a nightdress she'd gotten from one of the village women, but she never wore them, even when it got cold. When he approached her, she glanced up and gave him a lazy wave.

  "Did the fisher give you food?" Logale asked.

  "Weren't there today," said Dog, her voice rather deep for a girl. Hard and cold like ice.

  Logale found that strange. Far as he knew, that fisher always gave Dog food. Always, whenever she knocked on his door. Once, he'd slaughtered her a pig runt he couldn't sell, and that had been the best meal Logale ever had. He still didn't know why. Logale had asked for food from that fisher, too, and been told no. Many children had. But he always gave food to Dog. He'd heard one of the older boys talk about it once. They said it was because Dog was a girl, but that still didn't make sense to him.

  Logale sat down next to Dog. "Why's he give you food?"

  Dog stared blankly up at the ceiling. "Says he likes my teats."

  Logale looked at her teats, half exposed by her ragged shirt, dark like the rest of her, but small and round, one black nipple poking out. He didn't see the appeal. He knew babies sucked teats for milk, but he couldn't see why a grown man would, or anyone else for that matter. Once, late in the night when he and Dog had been huddled together to sleep, one of the older boys had tried to open Dog's shirt for some reason. Dog had bitten him for it. He didn't understand what he had been looking for.

  "Wish I had teats," said Logale, laying on his back to join Dog in staring at the ceiling. Maybe then someone would feed him.

  They lay there in silence. Only the muffled sounds of the children outside could be heard. The screeching laughter, the angry shouting, the playful teasing. It almost made their little home seem happy and thriving. But they were only making the best of what they had. Even though Logale knew no other way of life than this, even he thought there must be something better, though he had no idea what it could be.

  "Dog, I'm hungry," said Logale.

  Dog scooted closer to him, wrapped her arms around him from behind, and settled her chin on top of his head. Logale stiffened. "Me too."

  "I'm always hungry."

  "And me."

  "You think we'll ever not be hungry?"

  "Maybe."

  A stretch of silence again. He could feel her chest moving against his back with every breath.

  "Where's Rike, do you think?"

  "Somewhere."

  "Dead?"

  "Not dead."

  "How you know?"

  Logale felt her shrug. It wasn't an answer, but he didn't have a retort so he decided to move on to a different topic. One he hadn't been able to get off his mind.

  "Dog, whats 'the Gods?'"

  She was quiet for a long moment. He figured she was thinking. "It's a thing you pray to."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged again.

  "Saw that farmer—that old one with the chickens. He prayed to Gods. He gave them stew."

  "He weren't hungry?"

  "Don't know. But he said the food is for Gods. Even though the Gods don't eat."

  She made a kind hissing sound with her teeth and tongue, the way she always did when something confused her or made her angry or both. That made Logale feel a little better about not understanding. "The fisher," she said, "He prays to Gods too. Gods of the sea, he says. Prays to see him safe at sea. Prays for no storms. Prays to catch lots of fish. Says you pray enough, the Gods grant your wish."

  "A wish." Logale gave that a consternated thought, then an idea came to him. "So, if we pray for food, we get food?"

  "Don't know. Never tried."

  It still didn't make sense to him, but if that farmer and the fisher prayed, then it probably worked. Was it some secret no one else knew about? Why didn't more of the village folk do it? "We can pray," said Logale, turning to look at Dog. "In the night when everyone's sleeping. The farmer has a statue of Gods. We can pray. Then we'll get food!" He lowered his voice, looking around, hoping no one overheard him. "Tonight," he repeated.

  Dog stared at him with those bright eyes, then nodded. "Alright, pray tonight. After…" and she pressed her forehead against his and grinned. "Play with me?"

  Logale swallowed, pressed his legs together, then quickly put up a smile of his own and nodded.

  Once night came and the children were all asleep, Logale and Dog snuck off into the village. Normally, it was a bad idea since it was so dark that it was hard to see where to go, but luck was on their side with the full moon out. Still, they stuck to the shadows so no one could see them. The thieves roamed at night too, looking to rob anyone lingering in the streets, like the drunks or whores. Best to avoid those.

  They crawled through the old man's fence, silent as could be, ready to run the instant they were spotted. Some of the chickens had returned and were pecking around in the dirt for food. One seemed to cluck at the moon, in a manner that reflected it's owner, on his knees and arms raised high in prayer. Was food so scarce that even the chickens had begun to pray? It certainly didn't look like the rest of them were faring well in their search. Logale found the praying place, sitting illuminated by the moonlight, and found himself excited.

  "Is that the food?" asked Dog, approaching the bowl.

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  Logale nodded. "It's for the Gods. We can't eat it."

  "Don't see why. Pray for food? Food is right here!"

  "It makes Gods happy. If they're happy, they give us things. We can't eat it."

  Dog sulked, but she didn't disturb the bowl and instead sat down in front of it. Logale tried to imitate what the old man had done. Got on his knees and clasped his hands. He looked at Dog. She sat with her legs spread, then clasped her hands too, though with a frown. Good enough, Logale figured. Only now, he didn't know what to say. The old man hadn't said anything, but Logale figured he'd spoken the prayer in his head. He wasn't sure if the Gods could hear thoughts, so he chose to ask for what he wanted out loud.

  Logale took in a deep breath, then began with, "Gods," before stopping short. Did the Gods have names? Too late to ask now. "Gods, please. Please give us food." He looked at Dog. She stared back expectantly. It didn't feel like enough, what he'd said. So he tried to make more words and especially tried to sound as nice as possible. "It's hard to find food. Everyone is hungry. Please, give us good food. I'll eat anything. Except mushrooms. And food for Dog, too. She likes pig." He paused, frowned at a new thought, but went with it anyway since it might make him look noble. "And food for Micah, too. He likes cheese. Gods, please don't let us starve. We keep praying if we can eat. Please, Gods." Logale dipped his head low, "Please, Gods."

  Logale unclasped his hands and looked across at Dog. She had closed her eyes now and seemed to be praying, too. Only she wasn't saying anything. Logale didn't want to disturb her, so he waited for her to finish. Once she had, she opened her eyes and sat back with a neutral frown.

  "What you pray for?" asked Logale. "I prayed for food."

  "Food, too," said Dog, "But also to be taken from here."

  Logale stared at her. "Taken? Like Rike?"

  "Maybe. Don't care anymore, long as I'm gone from here."

  That made Logale sad. It was bad enough that Rike had vanished two years ago, but Dog, too? She was the only one left that he liked, and if she left, he'd be all alone. Somehow, that felt worse than starving. "Can I go too?"

  "Not where I go." Dog stared ahead. Her yellow eyes burned through the encroaching dark. "Fisher's wife died. Son died. No family left. Wants me to be his new wife."

  "Wife? Thought only adults can be wifes."

  "Thirteen," Dog tapped her chest. Then she grabbed her teats and squeezed them. "Thirteen means I'm a woman. I can make sons." She lowered her eyes. "I marry him, give him sons, then I can live in a house and eat every day."

  "But we prayed. The Gods will give us food."

  "Maybe."

  "They will!" Logale insisted. "Then you don't need to marry. No making sons. The Gods give us food. Then you can stay."

  The girl looked at him. Held his eye, but softly, like there was something she had to say but didn't think he was ready to hear it. Then she got to her feet, brushed down her back end. "Go home now. Getting cold."

  Logale followed her in silence. Dog didn't even bring up playing her favorite game, and simply went right to their nest.. Dog held him through the night, pressed his cheek against her chest. She held him tighter than normal. It was hard to get comfortable. Logale thought he heard her crying.

  When morning came, Logale could move freely, but only because Dog was gone.

  He looked for her. Searched the house in case she might be hiding nearby. Nothing. He went as deep into the woods as he could until he got scared, calling out to her the whole time. She never answered. He searched the village, asking anyone who listened, which mostly resulted in folk thinking he was talking about an actual dog. They were no help elsewise. Last, he checked the fisher's house, afraid he had taken her in the night, terrified but ready to fight to save her. But the fisher himself was surprised by her disappearance, too. He'd flown into a panic and gone sprinting through the street, calling for Dog perhaps more desperately than Logale had. When Logale returned home, exhausted from the search but still hopeful she was just off exploring somewhere, he found something that crushed that hope to nothing.

  He must have missed it when he'd woken up, but Dog's ragged shirt was lying crumpled on their bedding. He stared at it in total disbelief. Desperate denial. She never parted with that shirt. Never. Once, when it had gotten wet and she'd had to leave it out to dry, she didn't even bother putting on other clothes and went about her daily business entirely naked. That shirt was everything to her… and she'd left it behind.

  That could only mean she'd left on purpose. That could only mean she didn't intend on coming back.

  So Logale curled up with her shirt, cold and stinking of sweat and dirt, and cried alone. None of the other children cared. Least of all, Micah, who said she was probably dragged away by rapers. Logale wanted to hit him but knew he'd only get hurt worse in return. His head was spinning with hundreds of questions, each more painful than the last, all culminating in the long, dreaded horror of being abandoned. He wept well into the night, and sleep was his only sanctuary.

  The next morning, his stomach growled before he could cry again, and like always, the hunger wasn't to be denied or ignored. Logale had thought Rike would always be with him, but then he'd gone away. He thought Dog would always be with him, but now, she was gone. At the end of it all, he still needed to eat. It was the one thing that stayed with him, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

  But Logale remained hopeful. The Gods would send food soon. He was sure of it. Until then, he just had to wait and eat what he could find. So, every morning, Logale would get up and search for food. He begged, and he scraped, and he offered to work. He rarely got more than the scrapings of a pot, maybe a chicken leg or some bad vegetables, but it got him through. In the afternoons, as he returned home, he'd see the old man praying in his field. Sometimes, he'd stay there and watch for a while. Some days, the man would be out there only a few minutes; other times, an hour or more. He'd clean the dust and pests off the bowl and stand the statue upright if it fell. He even saw the old man dump out the old stew and replace it with a new one. He took very good care of it. Logale assumed that this was important to do, too, to please the Gods. So, in the night, he'd go to the statue and pray. He asked for blankets for the cold since he had no one to lie with anymore. He asked for the roof to be fixed so the rain couldn't get in. And, of course, he asked for food, since a simple piece of bread or the last of a stew or a couple of bad eggs weren't enough to fill his belly anymore.

  When a week had passed, Logale began to wonder if the Gods had heard him. Had he been praying wrong? Had he not prayed loud enough? He paid more attention to the chicken farmer and copied him, praying harder and longer. Three days passed, and still no blanket, roof, or food. Sometimes, he'd ask for other things. He'd ask for a knife so that he could kill some animals with it. He asked for a pot so he could cook the meat. He asked the Gods to show him how to cook if they had the time. He asked to see Rike again. It had been so long, and Logale missed him more than ever. Rike always protected him and the others. He'd kept everything under control. He'd worked and brought back food to share, told everyone when it was time for bed, and once, he'd even scared off a boar that wandered near the house. He prayed to see Dog again. He prayed for that all the time. Maybe where she was now, she was eating lots of food, sleeping in a bed, and was safe from the cold. All he could think of was why she didn't take him with her. He started thinking she had never liked him and had run away the first chance she got, relieved that she didn't have to care for him anymore, and that made him cry to sleep.

  Lately, he didn't cry over food anymore. Didn't cry when his stomach was in agony. He cried because he was alone.

  So above all, he prayed to the Gods to send someone to care for him. He didn't even care who it was so long as they fed him and gave him a warm place to sleep. That would be enough. He begged and pleaded to be taken away from the children's house. He prayed to be changed to a girl so he could become someone's wife, just so he could escape his loneliness. One night, at his lowest and hungriest, Logale offered a piece of bread to the Gods. He'd had to do three days of work to get it and hadn't gotten a scrap otherwise. It was painful beyond measure to give it up, but he forced himself to do it. He put it inside the bowl, and he prayed seventeen times before heading back home to sleep. Time passed. Days. Weeks. Months. The season changed from hot to cold. The trees turned red and brown and yellow, and the air was dry and musky. No food had magically appeared, and while Logale had found a blanket, it was a smelly, dirty one that had been thrown out and did not cover him up in the night.

  Logale prayed in the early morning before the old man woke up. He prayed alone in the dead of night. He came out in the heavy rain, the blasting wind, the roaring thunder, and he shielded the food and statue with his body. He kept the statue and bowl clean as best he could while making pleas to the Gods day after day, holding desperately onto hope. The Gods would grant his wishes soon. Very soon.

  One afternoon, as he returned from the village with nothing, he approached the chicken man's farm. He wasn't outside today, which was strange and gave Logale an uncomfortable feeling. He approached the statue, saw that it had some ants crawling on it. It hadn't been cleaned that morning, and the stew was only a day old. Logale wiped the insects away, wondering if the old man had gone to the market. Then, when he looked towards the rickety old house, he saw that the door was open.

  Logale's heart sped up, and he thought for a moment to leave, not knowing what had happened and fearing to know. It couldn't be anything good; that much was plain. As far as he knew, the chicken farmer had no family or friends, nor did he spend any significant time in the village. He was purposefully alone, as if he'd cast aside all other aspects of life in favor of a committed dedication to his farm and the Gods. Logale could not think of any reason the old man would miss a day of prayer. Except one.

  He approached the house slowly. Climbed the steps, bare feet padding loudly on the boards, as the world around him went silent. He entered and for a moment thought he might have to look for him… until he saw someone lying on the floor.

  It was him, no doubt. The old man lay curled up on the floor, legs drawn up, arms hugging his stomach. The way Logale had seen some children do when they were suffering agonizing starvation. The way he did as well. He already knew, but Logale ambled over still and touched the man's arm. His skin was cold, his face was oddly tranquil, appearing like he might have simply been in a deep sleep, but his eyes were only half-closed, his mouth slightly parted, and his body was still as a tree in a land with dead air.

  Logale could only stare. He wasn't shocked, and he wasn't scared. He was hardly even disturbed. He'd seen death before. Seen it, felt it, smelled it, touched it. The corpses of fellow children that perished in the cold of night. The corpses of those who'd tripped and smashed their head against a rock, breathing but unable to wake, only to perish a short time later. The bloody remains of those killed by wild animals, left as mere mounds of meat. Logale stared with an emptiness in his mind and heart. He couldn't think at all. What was there to think about? This happened every day. There was nothing new about it. Nothing worth tears.

  Logale slogged back to the statue of the Gods, now clean and pretty, completely unaware or perhaps uncaring of its worshipper's demise. He gave that statue the same silence.

  The old man had died of hunger, most likely. He always switched out the offering bowl within three days and never saved the old food for himself. Logale figured since the man had no one to take care of, he only had to make meals for the Gods and himself. But it seemed the truth was that there had only been enough food for one.

  Logale stared at the bowl. He went back to wondering why the chicken farmer hadn't just eaten the food if he was hungry. That had to be better than starving while waiting for the blessings of the Gods. The farmer had been praying far longer than Logale had, surely. Longer than he'd been alive, most likely. He only thought of it now, but Logale had never asked him if the prayers worked. Not once.

  Logale frowned at the statue. Then, he sat down and yanked the top off the bowl. The stew inside was nothing like fresh. The soup had thinned, the meat had hardened, the vegetables had softened… but it still smelled good. And if a thing smelled good, it most likely still was good. A full bowl, too. Enough to get him through two days if he spaced it out. Logale didn't bother to save any of it as he began to eat.

  The old man had been a fool, and so had he. The Gods did not care about them. They hadn't even been listening. Getting a thing just because you asked? Begging? That rarely even worked on normal people. How could it possibly work on Gods? These divine things did not need to eat, probably didn't need to sleep, either, or keep warm in winter. How could they give Logale what he needed if they did not know what it was like to need? How could they know what suffering, or pain, or loss was if the worst of their troubles was the death of one of their subjects? It was hardly a loss since other folk were probably begging, giving, and praying. That old farmer, who had sacrificed his own life to please Gods that never noticed him, had died for nothing, had lived for nothing, had been nothing. He'd died because he feared the Gods. Worse, he'd loved them. So much so that he preferred to starve to death rather than eat the food he'd grown, slaughtered, and stewed with with own hands. It had not made sense to Logale back then, yet he had fallen into that same trap. He had given up bread he'd slaved for three days over, and he'd given it away to a being that hadn't even needed to ask for it.

  And the funny thing was, Logale wasn't even angry.

  Instead, his mind was a whirl of new thoughts. A new way of looking at things that he'd never once considered. Gods had perfect lives, didn't they? All the knowledge, all the wisdom, all the power in the world, along with subjects that gave away their most desperate needs willingly just to satisfy them. Subjects that feared and loved them so much that they would die for them. Die happily, even. What did they have to give in return? Not a single thing. They got all the love and praise and credit in the world simply because they existed. Being a God got you everything for absolutely nothing.

  When Logale finished the stew, he sucked his fingers, picked bits out of the bottom, licked the bowl clean, then licked it some more for good measure. His belly was full, at last. Yet, he was still hungry.

  Logale stared at the statue of the God, and he wished he was like him. If he had power like they did, maybe folk would bring him good food, too. Maybe Micah wouldn't pick on him or take his things. He could probably find Rike and save him from whoever had taken him away. He could provide endless food, so Dog wouldn't have had to go away. If Logale had only been a God, he would never have known the mortal torture known as hunger.

  "Well now. That is some terrifying Heka, child."

  Logale jumped to his feet, turned, stumbled, caught himself. Someone was walking toward him. He was an old man but younger than the last by some twenty years. He had a heavy build, especially below the chest, which permitted a large, round belly. That was the first strange thing. No one living in this village could have anything beyond some mild flab, let alone a big gut. He was bald too, and the sun shone off his white pate. He had a thick, gray beard, full and neatly trimmed, unlike the rugged manes of the men in the village. Even his clothes raised questions. First off, they were clean. No one who lived here was ever clean. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, which did not have a hint of dirt on it, the collar open wide enough to reveal his very hairy chest. He wore heavy dark pants and thick brown boots, which, despite scraping through this dusty land, seemed to reject all stain and residue. Whenever he lifted a foot, Logale saw that the sole was unblemished, never picking up any dirt or chicken shit. In one thick hand, he carried a long wooden staff with a small red jewel on top and used it to walk, though it hardly seemed he needed it.

  The stranger came up uncomfortably close to Logale, looking like a great big bear, but with no discernible smell coming off him. He looked down on Logale like so many others, and he was forced to crane his neck back to meet his gaze. A square face with a broad jaw and calm, observant, curious eyes. He noticed they were different colors, too. One brown, one red. He'd never seen a red eye before. It didn't look natural, and as a result was difficult to look away from.

  "Quite a strong Heka, indeed," said the fat man, looking him up and down the way a merchant might weigh the value of something he was thinking about buying. "Oh yes, you will do nicely. Do you have a family, child?"

  Logale stared up at him, stunned, swallowing nervously.

  "Well? You may speak. I am not here to hurt you."

  "No," Logale muttered. Not anymore, now that Dog had gone. But then, if she'd left him so easily, perhaps they'd never been family in her eyes.

  "Excellent," the man said with a smile. "And how old are you?"

  "Eight."

  "Perfect. I suspect you've been alone all your life, eh? No one to care for you?"

  Logale shook his head. Those who used to had all left him. No doubt because they hated him. Hated how weak he was. Hated his crying. It was the only explanation.

  "A tragedy, indeed. But suffering is good for character, my boy. There are few better teachers to learn from than pain." He looked past Logale, over at the statue of the God, and one black eyebrow rose. "What's this? A statue to Hernan, Divine Spirit of Agriculture? You don't see those often this far south. It must have cost a great sum. Do you pray, boy?"

  Logale wasn't sure how to answer, so he looked at the little God, then at the house where the old man lay dead. "No more," he said.

  Again, the fat man grinned, showing a sliver of white teeth. "Good. In my experience, one cannot have too much faith in the divine. They, after all, do not understand mortals. They do not know what it means to struggle, to suffer, to starve. I will tell you the truth, child." and he kneeled to look him right in the face. That red eye cut into him. Logale looked down in fear, but the man seized his cheeks in one hand and made him look. There was no escape. "It is a sorry fact, but power governs this twisted world of ours. It is the axle on which it turns. The foundation on which it is built. Only those that have it, or are capable of taking it may prosper. There is no power in hopes and prayers, my boy. Only your ability to seize what strength you can and manipulate the world to your advantage."

  Logale didn't understand. The fat stranger scared him, yet he couldn't look away. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to.

  The man let him go and stood up. "In six years, a man will come for you. A man who, in his desperation, seeks those with great potential. Warriors to fight for him, to represent his name and bring his house back to prosperity. He will take any child with the gift. If you are worthy, he will take you if you choose to go with him. I suggest you do."

  Logale was speechless as the stranger reached into his shirt, then, somehow, pulled out the longest and thickest slab of bread Logale had ever seen. A whole, unbroken loaf. White steam curled off the bread like it had been pulled fresh from the oven, and whenever the man even lightly squeezed it, the crispy sound was so pleasing to the ear that it made Logale's knees tremble. Even though he had just eaten, it still made his mouth water. He couldn't help but reach out for it with both hands, trembling for a touch, panting for a taste. Regretfully, Logale managed to stop himself.

  The fat man smiled wider, all perfect white teeth, then handed the bread out to him. Logale hesitated, looked at him, then slowly took it. It was so hot that it burned his hands, but he didn't dare let go. He couldn't let anyone take this from him. They'd have to kill him to get it. They'd have to. Logale watched the mysterious old man, wondering if this might be a part of some trick.

  "Don't be afraid, child," he said, "It is yours. You've earned it."

  "Earned?"

  "A reward for your potential. That's quite a power you've got."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means I expect good things from you in the future. Struggle on, child. Survive by whatever means. When the day comes, accept this grand opportunity to elevate yourself to new heights. The opportunity to gain power. For in this world," and that smile returned once again, higher on one side, that devil-red eye seeming to glow through the heavy sunlight, "Only the strong may live deliciously. Good day, Logale."

  Logale could only stare at the man in amazement as he turned and walked away. He clasped his arms behind his back, one hand in the other, hunched a little forward like there was a meeting of great importance he had to be, but was in no great rush to get there. Logale realized he had not asked who the mysterious man was, while the man had somehow known him.

  He took one last look at the statue and the bowl. No need left for them. Nothing but wasted time. Logale kicked the God off his perch, and it fell face-first into a pile of chicken shit. Then, he made his way home.

  When he got there, he saw Micah and the other boys outside climbing trees. He got a spike of nerves. Walking through there with food like this? Someone would certainly notice, and there was no one to protect him. Cautiously, he tried to walk past and pretend not to even see them, hoping they would ignore him.

  It wasn't long before he heard, "What you got there?"

  Logale tried to run, but they were faster than him, so he didn't get far. Someone grabbed his arm, and he managed to pull away, but by then, the rest had surrounded him. Micah pushed through the circle, his face twisted in an ugly snarl. "The hell'd you get bread like that?"

  "A man gave it me," said Logale, seeing no point in lying. "It's mine."

  "You lie," said one boy.

  "I don't," said Logale.

  "Ain't no one right in the head giving that away."

  Another boy grimaced. "Bet he sucked a cock for it."

  "I did not!" Logale shouted, having no idea what that meant.

  "Gonna share it out?" said Micah, phrasing it like a question like before, when it was anything but.

  Logale backed away from him. "It's mine! I earned it!"

  "Share!" Micah growled.

  Again, Logale tried to run, but they got hold of him now. Logale panicked. Multiple hands were ripping pieces off his bread. His earned bread. Micah was too strong for him and snatched the whole thing away in an instant. Logale was pushed to the ground while the other boys frowned or smirked down on him.

  Micah scoffed like he was some insect in his path he didn't want to be bothered to squash. "You ain't got Dog here no more, boy. Now, what I say goes. If I want it, you give it. Or I'll be giving you the beating of your life. Your pick."

  Logale wanted to cry. He scrubbed his eyes. They came back. He scrubbed them away again. They came back harder, and he gave in. Only he felt something new now. Seeing those boys eat the bread, his bread, the bread he'd earned, ignited something in him. That food wasn't theirs. They had no right to it. But he couldn't stop them. Couldn't stop them. Could he?

  Logale got to his feet, hands shaking terribly. The tears made it hard to see clearly. But Micah's red hair could be made out through and it was like a beacon in the night. His face felt hot, and his skin was boiling. He was breathing hard, panting, heaving. He couldn't think. Didn't want to think.

  All he knew at that moment was that he had been stolen from and that he had to take back what belonged to him, whatever the cost. Even if they killed him, he could not let them have one more piece of his bread.

  Before Logale knew it, he'd charged straight at Micah, crying and screaming together. He was off the ground, in the air, flying toward him, now his shadow falling over Micah. He crashed straight into him like a billy goat, fell on top of him, taking him to the ground as screaming and shouting erupted around him.

  He bit the first thing he saw.

  Micah screamed and thrashed as Logale attacked with all his fury, chomping on his ear with all his strength. The way he'd bite into a slab of ice in the cold time just for water. He didn't know what he was doing with his hands, but he clawed and scratched at whatever he could. Digging, ripping, punching, pulling off cloth, slapping at flesh. The other children tried to pull him away, dragging at his clothes, yanking on his hair. It hurt so much, but Logale kept fighting, kept clawing, kept biting.

  Finally, something gave. He was hit in the face, but he hadn't stopped biting in the least, and there was a wet popping sound as he was torn away from Micah. He was thrown aside, tumbling in the dirt, as the children scurried around Micah, who was, for some reason, still screaming.

  Logale got to his knees. He had a headache, his heart was pounding, and he tasted something strange. His mouth was oddly wet. He didn't care. He only wanted to keep hurting Micah. Keep hurting him. He couldn't think about anything else.

  "Give it!" Logale bellowed with all his might, gurgling with sobs and rage. "It's mine! Mine! Give it back!"

  One of the boys had started scraping around on the ground. He found Logale's bread and sent it tumbling over to him, scrambling back in uncharacteristic fear. Hadn't he been among those smirking ones? The bread was half-eaten and was now covered in dirt. Micah was still crying. Only now, he was on his feet and clutching the side of his head. There was a stream of dark blood pouring from there. Splashed across his hand. It was even on his face, and he was screaming and crying at the sky, tears and snot all over his face as the other children tried to help him.

  "It's gone!" He bawled even more loudly than Logale had, "It's gone!"

  The children started shouting something about getting him to the village healer. Arguing amongst each other in a panicked search for a solution. Then, they began to run off toward the village, two of them supporting Micah as he stumbled along, his cries getting softer the further they went until they had completely faded.

  There was something in Logale's mouth. He spit it into his hands. An ear. Micah's ear.

  He'd seen someone lose their ears once last year. Some thief was caught in the village, and they punished him by cutting off both his ears. He'd been there to see it, and he'd been so scared that he ran home to hug Dog. This time, though, he wasn't scared. Not much.

  Always, it was Rike or Dog that protected him. He'd always been afraid to be alone because he didn't think he could protect himself. But now? Now he knew he could.

  He picked up his bread, hugged it close. It was cold, and he'd lost half of it but was able to get back the other half. Next time, he'd make sure no one could take anything he had unless he allowed it. What's his would be his and no one else's. Not the children. Not the adults. Not even the Gods.

  Logale left Micah's ear in the dirt and headed into the children's house. He found a place to hide his bread, then set off to the forest to find a rock. He didn't know if Micah would try to hurt him back, so it was best to be prepared.

  Six years, the strange fat man had said. In six years, someone would come for him. Someone who wanted his potential, whatever that meant. He guessed that meant the person would want him to be strong, like Rike and Dog. No one had messed with them, and if they tried, they quickly learned their mistake. That's what Logale wanted. That's what Logale had to be if he meant to survive.

  By the time Logale was fourteen, there were no other children left. Half had died or gone missing, and the rest had left the children's house for one reason or another. Some of the girls had found husbands in the village or traveling merchants. One had gone with a pimp for whoring in some far off city. The older boys, now men, had parted to walk their own paths. Micah had become a fisherman, last he'd heard. As for Dog and Rike, they never came back. Logale didn't hope for otherwise.

  That left him sitting alone on the porch of the children's house. The last orphan. While the others had sought paths of their own, Logale had to wait for the coming of his, and no clue even now of what that path was to look like.

  It was summer now. It was pretty outside and warm. The trees were green, the animals had come back to the forest, and a new river had sprouted some years ago that the villagers had managed to direct into the well. Things were better for the village these days, but that was hardly anything to celebrate. A bad crop, a dried river, a bandit raid - all of these could flip the conditions of any good thing. Logale learned not to get accustomed to good things.

  Reflecting on the last six years, it was all something of a blur. Hed taken up work wherever he could. Helping herd sheep, slaughtering pigs and chickens, fighting off thieves on market day, anything for food or money to buy food. He wasn't a girl, so marrying wasn't possible, and folk said they didn't like his attitude, so he never kept jobs for long. Scraping by. That had been his life, more or less. Surviving, just as that old bald man had told him to do. Waiting now, day after day, for this fabled person to come.

  Logale couldn't say he was without doubts, however. Especially now that the supposed time had come, and no one had yet arrived. Perhaps they got lost. What if he was still weak? What if he'd lost his potential and they'd decided he was no longer worthy? He wasn't sure what he'd do with himself then. Leave the village? Seemed like all he'd be able to do. Or stay? He could protect future children if they came here. Be what Rike and Dog had been for him.

  He shook his head. No. Rike and Dog had left him, just like everyone else had. They'd never cared about him, not enough to take him with them. Logale supposed his own family hadn't wanted him either, which would explain why he didn't even know what they looked like. He had been abandoned all his life. And who could want anything from an unwanted child?

  Maybe that bald bastard had been lying. Maybe he'd been a lunatic just saying things. Maybe Logale had wasted these six years training himself to be tough for nothing. It was a scary thought and a very real possibility. He tried to push the fear down, but after all this time, it had only gotten easier to act despite fear, rather than growing immune to it.

  Logale took a deep breath. Looked at the sky for answers, found nothing there, then let the breath go. Maybe he ought to give up. He'd given that old man too much credit. He should just make plans to—and Logale saw someone emerge from the grove path.

  He was a gaunt, pale man. That was the first clue that he wasn't from the south. No one in these lands was that light-skinned. He was dressed entirely in black. Long robes that almost scuffed the ground, pants, and knee-length boots. He wore a wide-rimmed black hat too, with a white feather on top that flapped in tune with his every purposeful stride. His face was set in a neutral frown, with a tidy black mustache and a small pointed beard. His eyes were knife-sharp as they settled on him, began judging him right away. Logale learned that a look like that meant a person was testing your resolve. You couldn't look away. To do so would be to admit being weak. Scared as he was, he kept eye contact with the slender man, even while his heart threatened to burst out of his chest.

  The man stopped before him. Looked down on him the way so many others had, then observed the area. "I was told this was a children's house."

  Logale swallowed and nodded. "It is."

  "I don't see any children, besides yourself."

  "They all left. Or died. I'm what's left."

  "Have you killed any of them yourself?"

  That question caught him off guard, but he tried to answer quickly. "Would have. Never had to."

  The man stared at him, and Logale stared back. He had that look like the bald stranger sizing up a horse he was thinking about buying. But the way he gritted his teeth, it was as if there was only one horse left at the stables, a smaller and weaker one that did not suit his needs, and yet that was all on offer.

  "Mother's mercy," he breathed, closing his eyes and tilting his face toward the sky. "Must my luck be always in the shit?" He faced Logale again. "Very well. Since you're all that's left. From now on, you're my son. One of them, in any case. That means you obey my every command, without question, without argument. Do you understand me, boy?"

  Logale frowned. This was hardly the kind of meeting he had expected. He couldn't say he liked this man much at all. But then, he couldn't say he had liked the bald old man either, even though he'd set him down this path. So, if a bit hesitant, he nodded.

  The man continued. "I serve the lord of House Valon. That house which rules these southern lands and every colony, stronghold, trade route, and village within it. From the great Two-forked river to the distant Elven Reach, all the world you know belongs to that great house." He recited the words as if by rote. Lije hed prscticed them so much that they now came out without thought, or effort, or emotion. "Through me, you will serve the Lord of House Valon as an apprentice in the mystic arts. You will be educated and trained to use these skills for prowess in battle, to represent and enhance the house's name. Do you understand?"

  Logale didn't, but he nodded anyway.

  "You've lived a pitiful life; that much is plain to see, but that shall end today. You will be given a place to sleep, a place to train, and one meal a day. You will receive the housing, education, and protection of House Valon for as long as you are useful to his purposes. But these luxuries come with expectations, boy. Though you will be trained in the art, consider yourself naught but a soldier. A tool of war to be used at your master's behest. You will face harsh and merciless training, where failure and laziness cannot be accepted. Fall behind his expectations and you will be disowned, cast back into this miserable life of yours, sentenced to be nothing forevermore. If you wish to eat more than one meal a day, I suggest you learn quickly and aim to earn the lord's praise. Good soldiers are rewarded. Poor soldiers are discarded. Expect no kindnesses or love, for neither serve the lord's ambitions." His hawk eyes hardened. "Do you understand me, son?"

  Sleep, housing, food, safety? Logale couldn't believe he'd heard such words. Not a one of them had been anything but a luxury here in this nameless ass-end of the world. All of that would be given to him? Logale nodded. "Yes."

  "Yes, father."

  Logale nodded. "Yes, Father."

  "What's your name, boy?"

  "Logale."

  "That's a strong and handsome name for a weak, ugly child. We shall see if you can live up to it." The man turned on his heel and began to back toward the village. "Follow me, boy. You've a bright future ahead if you can meet and exceed expectations. We shall have a meal before we ride. It will be a long journey home."

  Home. When Logale heard that word, he instinctively turned to look inside the children's house. The broken door, the wide sleeping room beyond, left over with blankets, trinkets, toys, and all manner of memories. He saw the nest in the far corner, where he'd slept all his life. He remembered Dog, being curled up with her in the night, starving together, feeling safe. This had been his home all his life. Now that it came time, he was scared to leave it behind, for fear it might vanish if he ever came back. For all the bad times, and there were too many to count, those were all the memories he'd ever had. He knew nothing else. They were familiar, and that itself was home to him. Out there, it'd be an entirely new, terrifying world where he'd be lost, confused, scared, and more alone than ever.

  But only the strong may live deliciously, and to get food and shelter and many other things, he needed power. Nothing would be given. He had to earn and take, earn more and take more, earn the most and take the most. That was how he would survive. What other choice was there? He got up, brushed himself down, set his teeth together behind a dogged frown, and caught up with his new father to walk beside him into this frightening, dangerous, and strangely exciting new life.

  Logale's father threw out his arm to stop him short and sent him a sideways glare. "Sons follow," he commanded, then strode on ahead, leaving Logale to stay on his heels.

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  ISA