From the pass, I can just make out the cluster of rooftops below on the windswept plains. Here, feral horses run in packs, attacking anything foolish enough to draw close. Before the Blot, this barren stretch of countryside was some of the best farmland in the region. Now, the flat, dusty earth stretches for miles, dotted sparsely with long-dead trees. To the west, a dried-up river cuts a jagged line through the ground like a raw, gaping wound. The bridge across was stripped for firewood during a particularly cruel winter, leaving behind a skeletal path of cracked stone and mortar.
The village of Aster is a huddled group of small houses, shrinking every time another band of highwaymen find it. It sits alone on the dusty plains, shadowed from behind by the unforgiving peaks of the mountains. In recent decades, a wall and watchtower were erected, looming over the houses. The investment was sound; Aster became much safer when it stopped being such an easy target.
The simple wood and stone houses were whitewashed after the Blot ended to give the appearance of cleanliness. The paint is graying, peeling off to reveal the dirty material beneath in a drab patchwork. Little bursts of color try valiantly to peek through: a line of shutters once painted a bright red but now ruddy and worn, a wall covered in withered ivy, and window boxes full of dead weeds. You can see how Aster was a beautiful town once, before poverty and plague raced through its narrow dirt streets.
A hundred years ago, when the Blot first ravaged Montane, bloated, blue bodies littered the streets. But the family of High House cured Montane of the worst of it, and for a few decades, the Indigo Death disappeared entirely. Yet people did not heed their rules. They smuggled ink into their towns, invited the Blot inside their homes. And so the sickness returned in waves.
It still could, if we are not careful.
The Bards keep us safe and blessed. Despite the harsh punishments, we owe them our lives. Their Tellings can pull the breath from your lungs if you speak words that might conjure the Indigo Death. But they can also breathe life back into those on the edge of death, if the people are virtuous enough.
Kieran was not so lucky. Many others were not either. There are some things that even High House cannot do. But I would never dare to say it aloud.
The outskirts of town are nearly deserted. As I walk between rows of worn clapboard houses, all I hear is the sound of a howling cat nearby. Everyone must already be gathered in the market.
Music drifts from the center of town, but the lively tune sends a ghostly echo through the empty streets. I follow the hollow sound, wrapping a shawl around my face to hide my features. My teeth clench at the thought of the crowd recognizing me—the glaring eyes, the muttered curses—but still, I pick up my pace toward the market square.
Turning a corner around the abandoned blacksmith’s shop, I see the first signs of the crowd preparing for the Bards’ arrival—their inspection, though no one dares call it that. Grandfather Quinn is playing his rusted flute, his wife conducting. The town’s children sing along to the music. Directions are shouted over the melody as a group of young men hang thin banners from the windows. The colors are dull with age and the cloths threadbare, looking likely to blow away at the first sign of a stiff breeze.
Beneath the banners, Aster’s most prosperous families have arranged various stalls and booths to showcase the best of their wares. Fiona’s father is among them, tall and fair like his daughter, hastily erecting a weathered canopy over a cluster of modest vegetables, which have been propped upright against an overturned basket to give the appearance of bountifulness. My heart twists with pity—and fear. Even Fiona’s father, the most blessed among us, is struggling to produce food. Soon, all will be loaded onto a cart and sent to High House.
Unless the Bards are displeased.
On the other side of the street, girls my age are hurrying toward the square in their finest clothes, each bearing platters of fruit and pitchers of precious water. My throat aches for it. I recognize a few of them, though I hope they won’t know me. The elders escorting them fuss over their hair and dresses, barking, “stand up straight!” and “be sure to smile!” The prettiest are pushed to the front of the crowd—where they are more likely to catch the Bards’ attention. One of the elders comments loudly about Fiona’s absence, sending a cold shiver up my spine.
The town’s excitement barely masks its desperation. It’s only a shroud to conceal the drought, our lack of offerings for High House. I wonder if it will be enough to fool the Bards.
Keeping my head low, I use my elbows to break through the crowd and inch closer to the square. I pull the shawl tighter around my face, but most of the townspeople are too transfixed by what’s happening to notice me.
The air is tense, people’s faces tight beneath forced smiles. Aster has had a bad run, even before the current drought, but Constable Dunne told us things were looking better this year. According to Fiona, he assured us that this season we’d be granted a Telling. Our woes would be over. The starvation would end.
I dare a glance at my fellow villagers, many in rags, their faces as gaunt and carved-out as my own. The knot in my gut cinches tighter. From the edges of the town square, people are packed so densely that I can’t even see the center.
I frown and try to elbow my way farther in. The crowd is hard to maneuver through; I remain trapped far from where I wish to be. I lurch onto the tips of my toes, barely making out the scene over the shoulders of the man in front of me.
Constable Dunne stands alone at the bottom of the town hall steps, his lean figure stiff with worry. Shingles and oak panels—once fine—have been stripped from the building. Dunne directs his gaze toward the square. Dunne has been Aster’s leader as long as I can remember. He’s tall and strong for a man of his years, but there is a tinge of weariness behind his eyes as he keeps a lookout for the Bards. A few minutes pass before he hurriedly squares his shoulders, smoothing his worn coat and lifting a hand in the air.
The music grows louder and the people in the street grow utterly silent. On the other side of the square, the crowd parts.
The Bards have arrived.
My heart leaps, and it takes me a moment to find the word for the feeling that floods my chest. Hope.
Three imposing figures enter as a hush falls over the crowd. Their long black coats are accented with gold, the colors of High House, and are tailored perfectly, accenting sharp lines and perfect posture. Upon each of their right upper arms is the crest of High House, a shield and three swords. The finery of their uniforms stands in stark contrast to the rabble surrounding them. From what I can see under their dark hoods, their expressions are fixed and impassive.
Constable Dunne greets them with a deep, reverent bow that the Bards ignore. He rights himself awkwardly and signals again, this time for the procession of girls with their baskets.
The music picks up: shaky at first, but growing steady. A light, festive melody fills the air as the procession files in around the Bards. First the girls, dancing joyfully and tossing pieces of painted fabric that mimic flower petals into the air. They smile tightly at the Bards and fan out, each taking a spot that tactfully conceals anything that might look less than perfect. One moves her thinly slippered foot over a dark stain on the ground. Blood, I realize, spilled during the Bards’ last visit. My stomach lurches.
Next, the merchants and tradespeople push their carefully prepared goods through the square. They form a line, each bowing to the Bards before stepping back. The three figures in black share a look before walking to inspect the town’s offering. The whole town seems to go silent, holding its breath, as the Bards make their way from cart to cart.