The vomit burns up my throat like it has all evening, and I lean farther out the window as the acid explodes outward.

  I’m lucky I’m not sick from both ends, or I’d be squatting over a bucket and emptying my bowels while I puke.

  Master Anarawd wants to call for the village leecher to see if I require healing, but the mistress doesn’t want to spare the expense.

  “Put him in the loft so no one else gets ill,” she says from the hallway, loud enough that I overhear. “We can check on him in the morning.”

  I pant with my cheek pressed into the window sill, my sick filling the soil beneath. My stomach burns and churns, roaring ferociously as the upheaval makes a run for the great outdoors. Though the mistress doesn’t say it, I hear it in her words. I’m of no importance, and it would be easier to deal with a body than to concern herself with a sick hired hand.

  Gar comes and pulls me from the window, a flickering torch in one hand. “You’re to sleep in the stable. In the loft above the horses. The hay generates its own heat. You should be plenty warm.”

  I clutch at my tunic, my hands shaking, convulsing from the violent spasms. I see the concern on his face as he shoots glances my direction and leads me out by the elbow. But he says nothing. I am not his friend. Just another worker living in the same household as him.

  The stable smells of manure, which makes me sick again, and we pause outside the entrance so I can heave all over the grass. Then he takes me to the back, where the ladder we use to ascend and deposit hay bales stands at attention.

  “Can you climb?” he asks me.

  “Must I?” I reply.

  “It’s better for you. The rats will eat at you if you don’t.”

  I don’t fancy being rat food, so I place both hands on the ladder and make my way up.

  His light vanishes as I climb over the ledge. The ceiling is low. I collapse on the hay nearest me and pant from the effort to get up here. Now I can vomit in peace and hopefully keep it far enough away from me that the rats don’t come close.

  “Myrddin?” Gar says.

  “I’m here.” My voice croaks out of me.

  “I’ll check on you in the morning,” he says.

  I don’t answer. It takes too much energy. My eyelids are swollen and heavy, and my mouth tastes of wool and bitter herbs. I long for water.

  I may have killed myself.

  “Myrddin. Myrddin!”

  Myrddin.

  That’s me.

  My eyes creak open, and I stare up at the wooden slats above my head, disoriented. I can’t remember where I am, or why I’m here. Rays of soft morning sunlight filter through the thatch layered across the wood beams.

  The flooring beneath me shakes, and I turn my head as Gar’s red hair pops over the ledge, followed by his pale freckled face. Our eyes meet, and he exhales, his shoulders slumping.

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  “Nice to see you on this side of the grave,” he says.

  I remember now. My self-induced illness so that I—

  I feel a surge of energy. I’m not dead. Not even sick. But if I can feign a while longer—

  “I wasn’t so ill as all that,” I whisper, intentionally lacing my voice with weakness. I close my eyes and breathe deeply like speaking took all my strength.

  “I’ll bring you water. Can you manage porridge?”

  I’m starving. My stomach screams with need. I hold back my desperation and squeak out, “I can manage.”

  “Anarawd won’t expect you to work today. Stay in the loft and rest.”

  I nod and close my eyes, shoving down the guilt I feel for manipulating his generosity.

  The hay glows golden from the streams of sunlight. The temperature is still cool, but it will rise.

  Not that it will matter. I won’t still be here in the loft when it does.

  Gar returns with a bowl of water and a trencher filled with hot boiled grain. He doesn’t stay to watch me eat but plops back down to work.

  He clucks at the horses and leads them from the stable.

  I stay where I am.

  He can’t know my plan. He can’t see me sneak from the loft to stand in line in front of King Wthyr’s court.

  I wait until my racing heart feels it will carve its way out of my chest. Sweat beads on my forehead, soaking my hairline. I need to relieve myself.

  It’s a good excuse. If anyone spots me leaving the stable, I can say I needed to empty my bowels.

  I almost forgot. Master Anarawd’s token.

  I remove the seal from around my neck and leave it on the hay in the loft. The guards won’t recognize me. No one sees a servant.

  I grasp the rungs of the ladder and lower myself to the barn floor. The horses are out, already feeding in the meadow. Somewhere the feet-eating rats are hiding, and I tiptoe to the edge of the stable. A cat streaks past me, racing into the structure.

  “Go get them,” I tell it. I must be lonely if I’m talking to cats.

  It turns back to stare at me, the gray and white striped creature with greenish eyes.

  People are awake, filling the market, cleaning their porches. No one gives me a second glance. I wander unheeded, a filthy peasant. I hope there’s no vomit stuck to my hair. That’s not the look I’m going for.

  The line is forming already outside King Wthyr’s manor. Perhaps twenty people stand in front of me, wearing the same expressions of defeat, defiance, desperation.

  I’m not one of them. I’m different. My need is greater. He will see me.

  The line inches forward. A guard comes by, asking questions of people in front of me, ushering this person or that into the manor. Other people he pulls from the line and sends them away, ignoring their cries to see the king.

  My heart skips a beat. How does he choose? I slide closer to the man in front of me, hiding behind his massive bulk. The guard passes me by without a glance.

  I let out a careful breath and check the sun as it rises. I’ve stood here for at least an hour. Gar will check on me soon in the stable, and he’ll know I’m gone. I squeeze my fists, feeling my sweaty palms, and remind myself this is the reason I’m in Caerleon. Not to work for Master Anarawd. To get the king’s help and evict the raiders from my village. Help us rebuild. Protect us from further attack.

  The guard passes through the line again. This time, when his eyes land on me, his steps falter. Then he slows and comes to a stop.

  “The king won’t see you,” he says. “You can return to your house.”

  “What?”

  The man gestures at the line and squints toward the doors. “Do you see all these people? Their needs are more pressing. There won’t be time for you.”

  “Their needs are more pressing?” I repeat. “How do you know? You haven’t asked my needs!”

  He turns back to me, and his eyes wander from my bare feet to my worn tunic and finally to my face. I resist the urge to check my hair for chunks of vomit.

  “He knows your needs, boy,” the guard says. “They are the same as every other in your situation. The king can’t be bothered with it.”

  “But I’m here.” I lunge for him as he starts to move down the line, catching his sleeve in my grasp. He scowls and shakes me free, his hand flying for the weapon at his hip. I shirk back.

  “Please,” I say, backing away. “I’m willing to wait in line. Just a few minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “The king won’t see you,” he repeats. “It’s not my decision. Get out of line.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to react but grabs me around the forearm.

  And he’s not the guard but Prince Madoc, leering at me as he grips me by the arms and backs me up against the kitchen table, my mother’s body bleeding out on the floor behind me.

  My fingers fist and I clench my teeth together. A scream of fury chokes my throat, and then there they are.

  The black gurek. The du.

  Their kisses burn as they swarm me, landing on my closed hands, fueling my veins. I will cut him open and make him bleed.