anyway. That way, she would have money for a few days at least until she could come up with a better plan.
She would also pick up the sword her father had given her and that she had hidden beneath the floorboards in the shed. But she wouldn’t sell that, no. Not until she was staring death in the face would she give up her father’s gift.
She jogged home, carefully watching for any familiar faces or for the slaver’s wagon as she went. When she reached the last hill, she slunk behind the row of houses and into the field, tiptoeing across the parched earth, her eyes scanning for her mother.
A pang of guilt arose when she remembered how she had beaten her mother. She never wanted to hurt her, not even after how cruel her mother had been. Not even with her heart broken and unmendable.
Arriving at the back of their shed, she peeked in through a crack in the wall. Seeing it was empty, she stepped inside the dim shack and gathered the swords. But just as she was about to lift the floorboard where she had hidden the sword, she heard voices coming from outside.
When she stood up and glanced through a small hole in the wall, to her horror, she saw her mother and Sartes walking toward the shed. Her mother had a black eye and a bruise on her cheek, and now seeing her mother alive and well, it almost made Ceres smile knowing she had put it there. All the anger welled up again as she thought about how her mother wanted to sell her.
“If I catch you sneaking any food out to Ceres, I will flog you, do you understand?” her mother snapped as she and Sartes strode by her grandmother’s tree.
When Sartes didn’t answer, her mother slapped him across the face.
“Do you understand, boy?” she said.
“Yes,” Sartes said, looking down, a tear in his eye.
“And if you ever see her, bring her home so I can give her a licking she will never forget.”
They began walking toward the shed again, and Ceres’s heart was suddenly thumping wildly. She gripped the swords and darted toward the back door as quickly and as quietly as she could. Just as she exited, the front door swung open, and she leaned against the outer wall and listened, the wounds from the omnicat’s claws stinging her back.
“Who goes there?” her mother said.
Ceres held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.
“I know you’re there,” her mother said and waited. “Sartes, go check the back door. It’s ajar.”
Ceres clenched the swords to her chest. She heard Sartes’s footsteps as he walked toward her, and then the door opened with a creak.
Sartes’s eyes widened when he saw her, and he gasped.
“Is there anyone there?” her mother asked.
“Um… no,” Sartes said, his eyes filling with tears as they connected with Ceres’s.
Ceres mouthed a “thank you,” and Sartes gestured with his hand for her to leave.
She nodded, and with a heavy heart, she stole toward the field as the back door to the shed slammed shut. She would come back for her sword later.
Ceres stopped at the palace gates sweating, famished, and exhausted, swords in hand. The Empire soldiers standing guard, clearly recognizing her as the girl who delivered her father’s swords, let her pass without questioning her.
She hurried through the cobblestone courtyard and then turned for the blacksmith’s stone cottage behind one of the four towers. She entered.
Standing by the anvil in front of the crackling furnace, the blacksmith hammered away at a glowing blade, the leather apron protecting his clothing from the flying sparks. The concerned expression on his face made Ceres wonder what was wrong. A jovial middle-aged man full of energy, he was rarely worried.
His bald, sweaty head greeted her before he noticed she had entered.
“Good morrow,” he said when he saw her, nodding for her to place the swords on the worktable.
She strode across the hot smoky room and set them down, the metal rattling against a surface of burnt, tattered wood.
He shook his head, clearly troubled.
“What is it?” she asked.
He looked up, concern in his eyes.
“Of all the days to fall ill,” he murmured.
“Bartholomew?” she asked, seeing that the young weapon-keeper of the combatlords wasn’t here as he usually was, frantically preparing the last few weapons before sparring practice.
The blacksmith stopped hammering and looked up with a vexed expression, his bushy eyebrows crinkling.
He shook his head.
“And on sparring day, of all days,” he said. “And not just any sparring day.” He stuffed the blade into the glowing coals in the furnace and wiped his dripping brow with the sleeve of his tunic. “Today, the royals will spar with the combatlords. The king has hand-picked twelve royals to train for the Killings. Three will go on to participate.”
She understood his worry. It was his responsibility to provide the weapon-keepers, and if he didn’t, his job was on the line. Hundreds of blacksmiths would be eager to take his position.
“The king won’t be happy if we are one weapon-keeper short,” she said.
He leaned his hands on his thick thighs and shook his head. Just then, two Empire soldiers entered.
“We are here to retrieve the weapons,” one said, scowling toward Ceres.
Even though it wasn’t forbidden, she knew it was frowned upon for girls to work in weaponry – a man’s field. Yet she had grown accustomed to snide remarks and hateful glares most every time she made deliveries to the palace.
The blacksmith stood up and walked over to three wooden buckets filled with weapons, all ready for the sparring match.
“You will find here the remainder of the weapons the king requested for today,” the blacksmith said to the Empire soldiers.
“And the weapon-keeper?” the Empire soldier demanded.
Just as the blacksmith opened his mouth to speak, Ceres had an idea.
“It is me,” she said, excitement rising in her chest. “I am the stand-in today and until Bartholomew returns.”
The Empire soldiers looked at her for a moment, startled.
Ceres pinched her lips together and took a step forward.
“I have been working with my father and with the palace my entire life, crafting swords, shields, and all manner of weapons,” she said.
She didn’t know where her courage came from, but she stood tall and stared the soldiers in the eye.
“Ceres…” the blacksmith said, giving her a look of pity.
“Try me,” she said, strengthening her resolve, wanting them to test her abilities. “There isn’t anyone who can take Bartholomew’s
