Chapter One

“Rondren!” my father shouted, and I cringed. From afar, he waved to me, his bow in hand, that ungodly white smile of his glinting in the waning sunlight. Behind him, the Bandymen slipped off their horses, gingerly handling the three or four deer they’d collected on the last hunt.

I stood from my stool in the watchtower and slid down the long, metal ladder—an old relic of the past, made of aluminum and plas-tec, so I didn’t have to worry about getting splinters. Longest ladder I’d ever seen—maybe ten meters tall. We’d dug it up from a pile of scrap and steel cubes in Oldton up north, which only ever showed its aging face when the tide went out. The Archivists spent a lot of time up there, but I’d only ever gone once or twice.

As I hopped off the ladder and onto the palisade, I started cranking the winch, lifting the portcullis in the gatehouse. I didn’t normally keep it down so early, but a pack of Ford-foxes had snuck in and got Mrs. Wilkin’s chickens last week. I wasn’t about to have her holler at me again, so I’d decided to keep the gatehouse closed for evenings. We rarely had passersby anyway. Our little town was so far out of the way that I doubted even the “King” knew we existed. Doddering old fool. Morreton was a proud member of the Rural Guild, out of the control of any governing body, defended by our own militia.

A militia of which I was, technically, a member.

The Bandymen followed my father into the gates, parading through Main Street with merriment and glee. Half split off to take the deer to the butchery, while the other half filed into the Green House for drinks and a smoke.

Highest, I could use a smoke. It’d been too long since I’d gotten properly high. As I lowered the portcullis, my father tromped his way up the gatehouse steps. I tried not to meet his gaze as he bored down on me.

“You should’ve come,” he said, idly swigging his waterskin, which he refused to fill with anything other than ale. “Not that scrawny anymore, Ron, and the lads could use an extra hand. You’re good with ropes—could always make snares like we used to.”

I leaned against one of the wooden crenelations and stared out into the farmland beyond the walls, watching the lasses carry baskets of fresh-sheared wool to the spinners—one final load before supper. Spinning took a long, long time, but I liked tedious work. And yes, it was mostly just lasses who spun, but the Rural Guild didn’t discriminate! We’d learned from the past, and the Archivists always taught us to respect each other, regardless of our sex or who we loved. Still, it... wasn't for me

“I’d rather just stay in the tower, Dad,” I lied. “Honestly, who else likes to just sit and watch everything go by? It’s work I’m suited for, and all work is good work.”

“All work is good work,” Dad repeated, scratching his scruffy beard. “It’s… respectable, I know. I just—eh, well, I always…”

He paused and took a long breath. “Rondren,” he said, putting on the neutral and caring affect he’d learned from the Mind-Healer, “I feel as though I don’t get to spend a lot of time with you anymore, and that makes me feel—oh, bugger it all, it’s just a right shame, seeing you mope up there every day, all alone. Biggest waste I ever laid eyes on. Real men don’t sit back and watch the world go by, they take the bull by the horns and make it beg for mercy. Just sittin’ up here, minding little Ford-foxes and hens and the like. It’s not right!”

We’d gone to the Mind-Healer every week since Mum died, and I’ll admit, it had helped us talk to each other better. But not enough.

“Dad, I’m just—hunting is one of those things that I’m glad other people do, but I just… I mean, you folks snap bunnies’ necks every day. And, well, some of the Bandymen were real arseholes when we were little.”

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“Who, McRinner? I’ll admit, you and he roughhoused a bit when you were wee, but that’s how boys play. You two were thick as thieves back then. If you came with, it’d brighten his day!”

McRinner would love it, yeah, because then he’d get his little punching bag to drag around like he used to. Before I became a watchman—watchperson—he used to bring his gaggle of friends over to my house and drag me out of my room every day, all so they could play their favorite game, “steal-Rondren’s-shoes-and-toss-them-in-a-pile-of-horse-shit.” Every day. For years.

My real friend was Lynn, who’d lived across the street. We used to play in the glade just beyond the walls for years and years. They always said we were liable to marry, and we always sneered and scoffed at that, but I doubt either of us really thought poorly of the idea. After all, we got married just six months ago. Archivist Marianen married us in the henge by the shore that spring, and it was probably the best day of my nineteen-year-old life.

Not much competition—I’d hated every other second of that life.

“Dad, I’m a married man. I do my work, I keep my home clean, I help my wife. I’m not looking for any big changes right now. I’m in a good place.”

Sniffing, Dad turned around and regarded the wooden steps down the palisade.

“Aye, that you say. I’m gonna catch up with the fellas, help Mr. McCletus skin the hunt. But son? This Saturday, we’re gonna see the Mind-Healer again, and you’re gonna tell me what’s been going on. Coz this whole watchman business? It ain’t like you, son. I won’t have it.”

I cringed again, but I kept my face straight. After that, Dad left without a word. I sighed and started the climb up to my perch.

 

Poor Ron! Parental expectations can be such a burden.

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