A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
Was it loyalty, that saw them out here beneath the baleful eye of the winter sun, or was it fear? Abel is not sure whether he fears the lash or trusts the king; perhaps both are possible. Perhaps anything is possible, here in this world of miracles and plagues. After all, once he was only a boy picking up clean shells on the beach; now he is preparing to help starve his people into submission. To provoke war.
It is a long way for an orphan boy to come.
The bay ducks his head at the horned man’s strategy, wordlessly agreeing. Where his gaze searched their faces openly, Abel only watches the dust drift and settle between them, and the sunlight slanting off the rock beyond the mouth of the cave. But he listens, his ears curving to follow the conversation, and his heartbeat is a steady thing between his ribs.
He only glances up when they boy addresses him. For a moment he is struck by his youth, until he realizes that they are of an age - and then Abel only feels weary. But his eyes still shine like river-stones when he nods.
The mare’s eye he does not meet; he does not want to shiver when her gaze catches his. There is something about the color of her markings and the almost blankness that makes him deeply uneasy, a hare beneath a baleful, mad moon. Something hungry but inhuman.
But when she speaks she does not speak madness, and Abel continues to listen mutely, watching their shadows shift and their feet scuff the stone. He learns from who stands easy, and who fidgets; he memorizes their breathing. Abel isn’t sure how these things might help him, but he needs the distraction, a small something to focus on before his thoughts teeter further into the dark.
“I will guide us in,” he says at last. “In winter the gypsy caravans stay near to the city, and many travel through the gates each night. We can blend with them until we’re within the city walls, wait until the shift change and burn the stores. The new moon is in four days - that would be the best time.” Slowly, steadily, he breathes out; the dust stirs below him.
At last his gaze flicks like candelight around the group, never resting on one of them longer than a moth might rest, trembling, on a branch. But he thinks that it is well that the two most noticeable (if the other boy did drop his chains) had devices to make them invisible. He and the bay could blend in easily with the horses of the lower rings of the city, near the markets and the sea.
“Should we meet again outside the city afterward?” he asks, and Abel doesn’t know if the pull at his heart is sorrow or eagerness.
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