“Who are you?” the woman asks. “What are you doing there?”

  Her dialect is different, the words coming out with strangely clipped endings. I give a shake of my head, and my mother vanishes from before my eyes so only this woman remains in front of me. I look at the unbaked dough and my stomach hollers for it, urging me to grab a handful of the sticky flour and run.

  I clench my hands to keep them still. "Could you spare me some water?"

  She wipes her hands on her apron and retrieves a ladle of water from a bucket near the threshold. I drink as slowly as I can, enjoying the cool liquid. When there are only a few drops left, I dip my fingers into the ladle and run the water over my face.

  My eyes track through the small hut. The single room contains two beds, and a pallet and blanket are shoved into the corner. The fire burns in a contained ring near the table where she plies her dough. A family lives here. But not my family.

  A shiver whispers through me. I can’t escape the images in my mind, and exhaustion mingles with the horror of what I've witnessed, what I've run from. Tears escape my eyes. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the sadness, of the memories, but they cling like leeches to my soul.

  The woman steps closer to me. Flour dots her pale face, wisps of golden hair escaping her headband. "Where's your family, lad?"

  For a moment I’m startled, and I jerk around, looking for a boy behind me before I remember I’m the lad.

  Where’s your family?

  Dead. The word won’t leave my lips. I can barely think of my burning village, my dead family, Brenin forcing me to flee . . . The murder of Prince Madoc. "My village was attacked,” I choke out. “I escaped."

  I know she hears what I don’t say: that no one else from my family escaped with me.

  The woman makes a clicking noise with her tongue. "So you are on your own? What happened to your clothing?”

  I glance down at the jagged edges of my tunic, the soiled shift beneath. I don’t have an answer for her, so I simply look up at her.

  “You can’t walk around like that,” she says. She opens a chest and pulls out a pair of wool breeches. “Wear these before you’re arrested for public indecency.”

  My face burns. I clutch the clothing to my chest but don’t pull it on my legs in front of her. “Thank you.” People don’t keep extra sets of clothes to hand out to strangers. This is from her family’s supply, and I should refuse, but I don’t want to be arrested. “I’ll pay you back somehow.”

  “You can stay here for a night if you need."

  “Thank you, but I’m looking for a place to work for my keep,” I say.

  She looks me up and down. "Have you thirteen summers yet?"

  “Nearly twenty,” I say, before I remember I took on my brother’s younger appearance.

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Twenty?” she says, not hiding the disbelief.

  My face grows hot. “Sixteen?” The word comes out as a question, lacking in confidence or certainty.

  “You are small for your age,” she says and doesn’t question it further. "Mayhaps in the upper city, you could apprentice yourself to a craftsman. Or find a family owing an extra laborer to the king.”

  She looks over my shoulder at the horse.

  “Although, if you’ve experience with horses, you should seek out Master Anarawd, the horse master. He might have a place for you. But you'll need to clean up a bit.”

  I glance down at my tunic and reckon she’s right. “Where can I find him?”

  “If he’s not at the stables near the hill fort, he’ll be at his cottage in the middle village. The stable hands will know." She turns and opens a cupboard pushed up against the wall, then pulls out a loaf of bread. I watch as she slices it into thirds and then wraps it in slabs of salted meat. My mouth salivates, and I jerk my eyes away when she looks up at me.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Here.” She holds out one piece. “It’s not much, but I see from the looks of you you’re hungry.”

  My hand trembles as I reach for it.

  She stops me before I can take it, grabbing my fingers and pulling them back so the flesh of my palm arches outward.

  Exposing the mysterious rune carved into the flesh.

  “What is that?” she asks sharply.

  I try to get my hand back, but she holds tight. “I don’t know,” I say, my voice coming out high pitched with panic. “It means nothing.”

  Her eyes shoot to mine. “Who put it there?”

  “No one,” I stutter. “It’s a—a birthmark.”

  She drops my hand as if it burned her. “It’s a mark of the old religion,” she breathes. “And it will get you killed.” She goes back to her chest and fishes around until she pulls out a scrap of cloth. Coming back to me, she wraps my hand in it, though I notice how she’s careful not to touch the rune. “Get yourself a pair of gloves. Keep this covered, if you value your life.”

  I’m shaken. I nod, grateful beyond words.

  Sighing, she offers me the bread again. “Still hungry?”

  I snatch it before she can pull it away again, and my face heats from shame. But she doesn’t watch me eat. She turns away from me and wraps a second piece in cheesecloth.

  “Take this to Master Anarawd,” she says, holding it out. “Tell him Cadwyn sent you.”

  I take it and tie it to my belt. “It’s very kind of you,” I say, and then I stop.

  Nobody does something for nothing. Especially common folk without much to give.

  I look at her with sudden suspicion. This woman with soft blue eyes and her flour-lined face, hair falling from the headband. “Why are you doing this?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “You’re hungry.”

  I put the bread down and take a step back. “What do you want from me?”

  She sighs and picks up the bread. “Take this. I want nothing from you. We help each other when we can, that’s all.”

  My mam would do the same for a stranger wandering through our village. I take the bread again, still wary. She watches me, and when she says nothing else, I let my guard down.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She doesn’t take her eyes from me as I take a bite, and then another. My reluctance melts away as the salted bread dissolves in my mouth. I manage to stop myself before I consume the entire portion in front of her and slide it into the pouch attached to my tunic.

  “How can I repay you?” I ask.

  “Tell Master Anarawd I sent you,” she says so quickly that I know she was waiting for me to ask.

  I tilt my head. “Why?”

  “Because I want him to the horsemanship he promised my husband.”

  “Your husband knows horses?”

  “My husband is a warrior for the king. The horsemen have more safety than the foot soldiers. Master Anarawd promised to teach him . . . In return for a favor I gave him.”

  Her cheeks flush pink, but I don’t press for more information. I retrieve the bread meant for the master, accepting the terms of our agreement. “I will mention you both to him. What is your husband’s name?”

  “Berwyn. And what is your name, lad, that I may inquire after you later?”

  “Am—” I begin.

  No. I’m not Amrys. But I haven’t thought of a name. My tongue tangles as I say the first thing that comes to mind, nothing except a play on her husband’s name. “Merwyn.”

  Except I trip over the sounds because I’m not committed to it, and it sounds like, “Merthyn.” Which isn’t a name at all.

  “Myrddin?” she says, correcting my slaughtering of the language and naming me in the process.

  I nod, too embarrassed to speak.

  Myrddin works.

  “Diolch,” I say. And then, in case she doesn’t speak the old language, I add, “Thank you.”

  “Creoso,” she answers, and I smile.

  I’ve found a friend.

  I offer a scrap of bread to the horse at my side, but he’s found grasses around the house and munches on them. I turn to leave before remembering something.

  “And the king?” I ask, swiveling back to Cadwyn. “How is he?”

  “King Wthyr?” Her features stiffen, her shoulders tightening. “How do you mean?”

  Wthyr. “What did you say?” My fingers clutch at the whitewashed clay between branches of hazel in the door frame, and suddenly the du are awake, dotting the edges of my peripheral vision.

  “What do you wish—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “The king. Who is the king?”

  “King Wthyr,” she says, her tone hushed. “High king of the land.”

  I close my eyes, my head spinning.

  I’ve gone the wrong way.

  How? How did I end up going south when I intended to go north? Where did I get turned around?

  He is who Brenin told me to avoid.

  “He’s not all terrible, whatever you’ve heard of him,” Cadwyn says, rushing to reassure me. “He keeps us safe. Few dare to attack Caerleon.”

  I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

  I’m here. I’ll do what I can, and then I’ll leave if I need to. “If I plead my case, will he help my village?”

  She looks out the door toward the hill in the distance, and I look also. I know the hill fort lies beyond the gates, but I can’t see it past the tall wall.

  "You could ask him,” she says. “He holds court most days until the noonday meal. But if you come from another kingdom, chances are he will not risk war on your behalf. You would have better luck beseeching the prince, or even the princess. They have some sway over him."

  I don’t know the king’s children.

  But I know princes.

  My blood runs hot as I remember Prince Madoc, flushed with the murder of my mother, his thick fingers grabbing at me, groping, ready to use me before killing me like he did my mam.

  The prince had better steer clear of me.