Page 4 of Rumpelstilzchen

“One for the Queen’s Collection. The others are for distribution, as usual.”

Boy’s heart jumped into his throat and sat there, hot and stubborn. Which one was he? Distribution or the Queen’s Collection? He was pretty sure he knew, and wished he didn’t. At least with distribution he stood a chance at surviving. He swallowed hard.

He’d had to force himself to accept his fate the whole journey here. From the moment the tithe collector had showed up at his family’s flour mill, and his father had surrendered Boy—along with that hideous lie about his capabilities—anxious thoughts had intruded on his mind. The only defence he had against them, was to focus on the things that brought him joy. Like all the truly beautiful places he’d passed through since he left his homestead in the far east. Places he would never have been able to visit had his life not taken this unexpected turn.

Boy hadn’t even known there were mines in Falchovari—had never spared it any thought until they’d stopped near them on the second night. The entrance, although distant to him, had been set lower than Boy thought practical for hauling out wares, and was fronted by a menacing-looking guard who, whenever Boy cast an eye his way, had sent a cold shiver up his spine.

He’d been alone with the tithe collector and his guards until the third day, when they had stopped by a cattle farm. He hadn’t been permitted to leave the carriage, but he had watched through the small, barred window as the tithe collector spoke with a farmer. A woman had stood nearby, clinging tearfully to what Boy guessed had been some of her children. When the discussion became heated, and the guards had physically prised the woman away from her family, Boy had retreated inside the relative safety of the carriage.

His family hadn’t needed the guards’ assistance when the tithe collector had stopped by their mill. Boy was gifted, his father had said. Someone the Queen might like to assess. The tithe collector had eyed them both with clear suspicion, but no cuffs—and no guards—had been presented. Boy had quietly and foolishly walked himself to this fate.

It wasn’t until much later, when the woman had calmed enough to talk in full sentences, that Boy realised there were aspects to this journey he had been entirely naïve about. She was possibly ten winters older than him, if he had to guess—though he wasn’t very good at guessing ages—but she’d been so full of fear of the unknown that it had all bubbled out later that evening when the guards had gone off into a nearby copse of trees hoping to hunt something substantial to eat.

She was afraid of everything Boy hadn’t thought of. Afraid that the tithe collector and his guards would molest her. Afraid that once they were a few miles down the road, they would rape her. Afraid that they would rape Boy—or that they already had. Afraid that if the guards didn’t commit such unspeakable crimes, that when they reached their destination, the gaolers would. Afraid that she would die bloodied and in pain… “And for what?” she had asked. Boy hadn’t had an answer, so he’d said nothing, but it had been at this exact moment when the dread chill of his new reality had settled into his bones.

He’d been listening from the ladder that led to the bedroom he shared with his siblings in the converted attic space of their homestead when the tithe collector had knocked on the door. His father couldn’t pay, and it was the eldest brother that was wanted in lieu of payments. Reluctant to give his best farmhand over, his father had offered up Boy instead.

“Much too skinny to be of any use operating the mill, but he does have an ability the Queen would enjoy more than we can make use of.” His father’s lie had spilled out easily. “He can spin straw into gold.” When the collector had questioned why he would surrender such an asset, the man had simply stated, “That isn’t much use to a simple farming family such as ours.”

So when his father’s head had poked up into the attic space, and he’d promised Boy that his sacrifice would save his much-loved siblings from the agonising death of starvation brought on by the famine… that while the Queen tested his ability, the family would have extra time to flee the kingdom… that by the time their deceit was discovered, they would be long gone… Boy had agreed. All he had to do was keep his head down and his mouth shut.

When the guards had finally returned from their hunting trip, their presence putting a prompt end to his growing list of fears, Boy had been incredibly pleased. And he’d been even more grateful still when they’d slung the carcass of a young muntjac down and prepared it, issuing him the simple task of making a fire. Boy enjoyed having tasks to complete, especially useful ones that took his mind far away from reality.

Having helped run his family’s flour mill from the day he had learned how to walk, Boy was no stranger to manual labour. He could identify all varieties of grasses—and most other plants—which had allowed him to easily select the right tinder for the job. He was much stronger than his slender frame suggested too, which meant he could confidently split the fallen branches he found into kindling. His siblings had always railed against such menial tasks, but Boy had found a deep sense of fulfilment in knowing he’d spent his time in a purposeful and meaningful way.

When his siblings had come together around the hearth late at night to share a meagre supper, he had enjoyed any portion he was awarded all the more for having contributed to it in a way no one else had been prepared to. Recently, he’d even learned how to dry out some of the summer fruits that grew naturally around their homestead—the small but tart field strawberries, whenever he could find them, were his favourite. Boy had had that same sense of pride later that evening when the guards had severed the hooves of the small deer and he’d boiled them in a pot with some foraged herbs. It was possibly the best meal he had eaten. Ever.

From somewhere outside the wagon, the toll of a loud bell preceded the sound of heavy chains clanking, and it pulled Boy from his thoughts. It also disturbed the sleeping woman beside him, who stretched out along their shared bench as if she were in her own bed, before fully waking with a start. Almost instantly, her eyes filled with tears and a fine tremble overtook her.

“We’re here!” Her whispered voice shook as much as her body did, and she pushed past the snoring man and squeezed her face as far through the metal bars as she could. “The Royal District.”

The sudden forward momentum of the wagon caused her to trip and stumble over the larger man’s outstretched legs. His propensity toward rage, which he’d displayed quite thoroughly when the guards had fetched him from a makeshift tent in the woods on the previous eve, surfaced once more. A scratched and swollen fist lashed out before his brain had sense enough to aim it, and had the horses not lurched forward once more, causing the woman to fall backward, it would have collided with the side of her face.

As it was, his shackles gave him just enough reach that he connected smartly with the iron of the barred windows, and his pained roar made Boy swiftly duck. Instinctively, he showed his palms—just like he did whenever his family had picked up an anxious horse at market and he’d wanted to communicate that he wasn’t a threat. The man’s wide eyes darted between Boy and the borderline hysterical woman on the floor, before he shook himself and spun on his heel to face the door at the rear of the carriage.

“This ain’t right!” he yelled out. “Ye cannae steal me from my own home in the middle of the night! I’ve done naething wrong!”

But the Royal Guard could… and they had. In Falchovari, all people were required to be engaged in a job that benefited the Royal Storehouse—like Boy’s family’s flour mill did. When the tithe collector came, if you couldn’t pay, or were found living wild, and not working for the Storehouse at all, then the Royal Guard could imprison you and force you into labour or sentence you to death.

Before the aggrieved man had time to protest his lot any further, the wagon abruptly came to a stop and two guards, different from those whom they had travelled with, turned the key in the heavy lock. Still clutching the barred window when they pulled open the door, the larger man all but fell out into a churned-up patch of wet mud. Hoisting him by the armpits, the guards didn’t wait for him to find his footing before they hauled him off, and the last thing Boy saw before they vanished from view was a guard delivering a swift kick to his exposed flank to encourage his cooperation.

There seemed no shortage of guards, and another grabbed the woman by the ankles and pulled her to a stand. She shrieked before he hefted her up and over his shoulder like she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, and then it was Boy’s turn.

“On yer feet, pretty boy.” The directive was simple enough, but this wasn’t either of the guards he had travelled with, and something about the lecherous sneer on his face made Boy’s stomach churn with unease.

The man clawed at him with impatient hands, and all the horror stories the woman had shared three days prior flooded Boy’s brain. He didn’t protest when he was yanked from the wagon, nor did he complain when the guard grunted and shoved him to walk at a quicker pace. Instead, he once again focused on what was around him.

This was the first time he’d ever been to the Royal District and… it was not at all what he had imagined.

The protective outer wall, made from rough-hewn tree trunks, was two layers thick with a walkway between them. More guards than Boy could count, some with scarred dogs on leashes, patrolled the parapet. He hunched his shoulders in an effort to disappear into himself, tucked his nose into the neck of his linen tunic to ward off the stench of sweat, piss, and despair, and stumbled after the guard.

When they passed by the open door to a large room for gravely injured and sick people, the sound of their suffering became quickly overwhelming. Boy avoided looking too closely. Instead, he focused on the snapping and snarling of the dogs pitted against one another in a fenced-off enclosure to his other side.

The guard caught him looking and laughed out loud. “If you’re lucky, they’ll feed you the loser for your noon meal!”

Sick dread roiled in Boy’s gut. He didn’t like it, not at all, and was almost relieved when the guard stepped through a small entranceway and the heavy door slammed shut behind them.

He was led down a dim and ominous passageway with only narrow slits for windows, but at least they were moving further away from the squalor that existed out there. Boy did his best to keep up in the dark, over an uneven cobbled floor and down narrow steps slippery with damp and moss, until he was shoved into an even smaller space with no window at all.