his voice. “Did King Micah tell you that?” he said.
Magnus went very still. “No…” He turned slightly and opened one eye to look at Oland. “Ha!” he said. “A spy from The Craven Lodge!”
“I’m not a spy,” said Oland. “And I’m not from The Craven Lodge.”
“I know you live up there with them.” He laughed. “What fool mans my mill now?”
“Pardon me?” said Oland.
“Pardon you?” Again, Magnus snorted. “Twenty-eight years,” he said. “For twenty-eight years, I was the king’s miller. Along with my sons, long dead now. And my wife, long dead now. My beautiful Hester Rose.” He paused. “And I no different,” said Magnus. “Long dead now. Dead of heart.”
Oland had no words of reply.
“And my beloved was guardian of the king and queen’s one hundred beautiful acres. Every morning, safe from the winds and the biting rain, she would fill the throne room while all were sleeping. Flowers and plants and all manner of fruits and vegetables from our very own garden in the grounds.” He paused. “And then came the craven…”
“I’m sorry—” said Oland.
“At night I lie here and I watch the blades of my mill go round and round up on that screaming hill and I wonder what fool mans my mill,” said Magnus.
“It was a tragedy what happened to King Micah,” said Oland.
“Not for you it wasn’t,” said Magnus.
Oland knew that his association with The Craven Lodge would forever taint him. The fact that they had imprisoned him did not matter to a man who had lost his family, his livelihood, his home.
“Curse your souls,” spat Magnus. “A thousand times, curse your souls.” He closed his eyes again.
“Please,” said Oland.
He waited, but the miller said nothing more… until Oland walked away. Then he shouted after him, “She’s one of the souls! She’s one of the souls! My love lies with the seeds she sowed! And you! You all trample the ground!”
When Oland glanced back, Magnus had his hands over his ears and his face was twisted in grief. Oland was sickened, but he knew he had no words to soothe this broken man. Instead, he walked back and set down beside him the small parcel of food he had brought from the castle, and he left.
There was no end to the poisonous reach of The Craven Lodge and Villius Ren’s capacity for rage. Now that Oland was his master’s focus, more than he had ever been before, the idea that he could perform the miracle of restoring Decresian made him laugh out loud.
I am no one, thought Oland. I am fourteen years old, I achieved nothing by my tenth birthday and I will no doubt achieve nothing by my twentieth.
But Oland Born had already achieved more than he would ever know. For somewhere in the filthy, dark and rowdy hallways of Castle Derrington, he had raised himself – a boy with a kind heart, a gentle soul. And, as he had only begun to discover… a fighting soul.
Oland Born, Oland bred.
“Malben,” said Oland, holding the medal to the moonlight. “Hello.”
The monkey blinked and opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he threw his arms around Oland one more time. Then he disappeared.
There was no more rustling in the trees. Oland looked around the square to see if the monkey would reappear. But he soon realised that he was alone. As for human company, Oland knew that everyone in Decresian was afraid of The Craven Lodge and that, from midnight, they locked their doors and hid away, terrified to draw attention to themselves.
As Oland stood up to leave, he sensed a strange vibration underfoot. He could hear the faint sound of metal on stone, and the steady blows of a hammer. It was his only sign that there was life in Derrington. He followed the dull noise through a maze of streets that brought him to a short row of ten cottages. He went around to the back and walked along the ragged laneway.
A red-haired boy burst out of a gate at the end of the lane and ran towards Oland, struggling on his chubby, turned-in legs. It was only as he passed that Oland recognised Daniel Graham, the butcher’s son. The boy’s eyes were filled with panic.
Oland walked down to the swinging gate and looked into a small backyard filled with a sombre crowd. More people were emerging from inside the house. The noise of the hammers had stopped and the only sound was the urgent whispers of the men in the doorway. Oland couldn’t make out what they were saying, and the crowd was too thick to push through. Whatever was happening in this yard, Oland knew it was important enough that any fear of The Craven Lodge arriving had dissolved.
Intrigued, Oland left the yard and went into the neighbouring one. Like all the houses along the lane, it had a small room on each side of the back door. One was lit by the moon, the other by candle. Oland crouched down by the wall that divided the two yards. Through the candlelit window beside him, he noticed a huge shadow stretching up the wall inside. It was cast by a tall, blocky man with a bald, oval head. A row of shiny pins was gripped between his pursed lips. A line of heavy black garments hung on a rack in front of him. The floor was strewn with paper patterns. Oland’s heart pounded. It was the Tailor Rynish. Villius Ren’s private tailor.
“In a different world, it’s a job of which my brother would be proud,” came a voice behind him.
Oland jumped. He turned around and saw a man standing over him. He looked to be in his sixties, and was heavyset with a small round belly. He had thick sand-coloured hair that fell across his full face and bright hazel eyes. He grabbed Oland by the arm and pulled him into the shadow of the doorway.
“You’re the boy from the arena!” said the man. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I… followed the sounds…” said Oland. “The Tailor Rynish… is he your brother?”
The man pushed open the back door and held it for Oland to walk through. “Come,” he said. “You’re not safe outside.” He led Oland into a small darkened parlour and lit a candle.
“My name is Jerome Rynish,” said the man. “What are you doing, risking coming to Derrington at this time of night? Oland Born, isn’t that your name?”
Oland nodded.
