Ronin's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Morningstead smelled of damp grain near the mill, bread and onions near the market, and manure near the stables. Ronin smelled mostly of manure. He stood outside Marisol Penwhethers’s cottage with wildflowers clutched in one broad hand. At eighteen, Ronin was large as an ox and built with the grace of a barn door. His round face had gone red with nerves, and his sun-bleached hair hung untidily across his forehead. All he had to do was knock. He raised his fist, lowered it, then raised it again. The door opened before he could manage either. Robert Morgan stood there, tall, handsome, and irritatingly clean. Marisol appeared behind him, resting one hand upon his arm. “Oh,” she said when she saw Ronin. “It’s you.” Robert noticed the flowers and grinned. Ronin considered lying. Unfortunately, he had never been good at it. “I brought these for you,” he admitted. “I wondered if you’d go with me to the Spring Festival.” Robert burst out laughing. Marisol accepted the flowers between two careful fingers, as though they might stain her. “You’re sweet, Ronin,” she said, “but I’m not going to the festival with a stable boy. Robert is joining the Legioneers this summer. When he returns, we’re going to be married. He can give me a future.” The words hurt more because she spoke them kindly. Something large and foolish rose inside Ronin. “I could join the Legioneers.” Robert laughed harder. Marisol covered a giggle with her hand. Ronin’s face burned, but he forced himself to look at them. “I’ll show you,” he said quietly. He found Hembro beneath the oak tree across the lane, lying in the grass with both hands covering his face. “That was bloody awful, mate,” Hembro groaned. Ronin dropped beside him. Hembro was everything Ronin was not—thin, sharp-faced, quick-witted, and made almost entirely of elbows. Grass clung to his untidy brown hair. “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself,” Hembro said. “I know.” “Take Emily to the festival.” “The baker’s daughter?” “She’s a lady.” “She threw a roll at you.” “A soft roll. I’m wearing her down.” Ronin glanced at him. “You’re more likely to have a phoenix fly out of your arse cheeks.” Hembro smiled. “There he is.” The humor faded as Ronin looked back toward Marisol’s cottage. “What future do I have?” he asked. “I muck stalls, haul feed, and sleep above pigs that smell better than me.” “You smell like work.” “I’m dumb.” “You’re slow.” “That ain’t better.” “It is when fast men run the wrong way.” Ronin studied his thick, dirt-stained hands. They were not clever hands, but they were strong. Useful. Good for lifting, carrying, and holding on. “I meant what I said,” he told Hembro. “Maybe I could join the Legioneers.” Hembro’s expression changed, the laughter briefly leaving his eyes. “Don’t build your entire life around something Marisol said while Robert Morgan stood there looking like a painted spoon.” “A painted spoon?” “All shine. No use.” Ronin looked toward the road leading out of Morningstead. “I don’t want to be this forever.” Hembro was quiet for a moment. “Then I suppose I’ll have to come with you,” he said at last. Ronin blinked. “What?” “Someone has to stop you from joining the wrong army, marrying a goat, or challenging a tree to a duel.” “I wouldn’t marry a goat.” “You say that now.” Ronin shoved him, sending Hembro sprawling dramatically into the grass. “Betrayed!” Hembro cried. “Tell Emily I died handsome.” “You didn’t.” “I died charming, then.” “Closer.” That night, Ronin walked home beneath a pale moon. At the top of the hill, he stopped and looked back. In daylight, Morningstead seemed like the entire world. Now it was only a handful of lights beneath a dark and endless sky. A place a person could leave. The thought frightened him. It also didn’t.