Caspian followed them out of town onto a well traveled country lane, thinking to himself that they must be day laborers for one of the local farms. The road was still muddy from the night before, and soon his thinning boots were soaked through. Warren stopped them all before a particularly muddy patch, likely trying to figure a way around it as even the grass at the sides of the road was flooded.
“This’ll do,” Warren said finally.
Caspian was just thinking what a strange thing that was to say when they all heard a cart coming up the way towards them. Just like that, they all fled from the path, Roland tugging him to follow. They ducked down into a dell beside the road. It was very muddy, but still they all lay flat on their bellies. Caspian followedsuit, though his stomach was twisting itself in a terrible knot as he realized the situation in which he had found himself.
From where he was lying, Caspian saw them as they approached the muddy pool. It was an old farmer and a boy about their age, probably his son. They shared a long and gangly build, not much muscle between them. Their cart was pulled by a blonde farm nag, but from where he lay, he couldn’t see the load within.
“Easy,” Warren whispered with a chuckle.
“We can’t,” Caspian hissed to Roland, who shushed him, not taking his eyes off the road.
The last night’s stew turned sour in his gut as he realized what had been done to provide it. He couldn’t stomach it, stealing from innocent people, even if it was for what he needed. There had to be another way, an honest way.
The cart rolled to a stop before the flooded stretch. Warren put on a grim face and began to climb the slippery grass to the road. The others remained behind, waiting for something. Caspian wasn’t going to sit in the mud waiting to find out.
Caspian sprang from the ditch, dashing after Warren. A hand flew out to stop him, but he was too fast.
“Go!” Caspian yelled.
The farmer, who had just laid eyes on Warren, gave Caspian a moment’s glance before setting the horse into motion with a crack of his whip. This was a mere second before Caspian and Warren collided. Though Warren was likely several years his senior, Caspian was only slightly smaller, and the countless hours spent playing at swords or exploring the abbey had made him strong. So as they both fell hard into the mud, Warren had the wind well knocked out of him.
Caspian got to his feet, slipping twice in the mud, which now covered nearly every part of him and had totally filled his shoes. The others were scrambling up the hill after him. Thefarmer’s horse was having difficulty urging the wheels through the clinging mire. He planted his feet the best he could and gave the back of the wagon a shove. The farmer cracked his whip again, and that was enough. The old horse took off down the road as Caspian stood, panting.
Two hands grabbed him from behind, whirling him around. A second later, a fist connected with his gut. They beat him, Warren and two of the others. Caspian sent one down with a broken nose, another got a black eye, but it was three against one and soon he was lying in the mud, getting kicked from every direction as he tried to shield his already bruised face.
“Warren, that’s enough. You’ll kill him,” Roland said over him.
Caspian heard the terrible sound of a fist connecting with his friend’s jaw, but the beating stopped. They spoke amongst themselves for a short time, but his mind was too scrambled to really listen. He just lay there until he was sure they had moved on, and then a while longer still.
When he finally summoned the courage to stand, every bit of him ached. He was so covered in mud he couldn’t even tell if he was bleeding. And as if only to add insult, the sky was growing dark, the telltale scent of an incoming storm heavy in the air.
Without direction or destination in mind, he started to walk down the sodden path, but not back to town. There was shelter there to be sure, but he was also sure that Warren wouldn’t spare him a second time. It wasn’t as if he were a coward. It was simply clear that there was no work for him there, and now no goodwill either. So he set off farther into the hill country, thinking to himself that at least if it were going to rain, he would get clean from it. All too soon, he got his bitter wish. Instead of mud caked, he was drenched and shivering as the rain came down in heavy splatters. His shoes had swollen uselessly with water as he trudged on. After a time, there came a flash of lightning, and byit, Caspian saw a single tower resting at the top of a hill. Beside it was a small barn.
There was no thought behind his next steps, the steps that led him up the hill, eyes never leaving the tower. He was shivering and bruised, starving and utterly exhausted. It seemed a cruel irony that he had been seated by a warm hearth, laughing over a hot meal only the night before.
Caspian unlatched the barn door with trembling hands. He nearly fell inside. It was warmer, though not by much, and blessedly dry. There were three horses. One peered out at him from its stall as he passed. Hanging on the opposite wall, among saddles and pitchforks, was a bag of apples. Caspian was no thief. His actions that day certainly proved it, but a cart and horse were one thing and a few apples another. He took three and devoured them, sharing the cores with the curious horse. At last, when he could barely stand, Caspian mustered the last of his strength as he climbed the ladder to the hayloft. There he made a bed of straw and fell instantly to sleep.
Days Past
Ignatius was aware of the young man from the moment he stumbled into his barn, as one might be alerted to the presence of an insect crawling over their leg. Through the magics he had laid when first settling the tower, very little happened within the confines of his home without his knowledge. At that time, it was evident that the boy was in no condition to be a horse thief and seemed only interested in finding shelter. As such, Ignatius allowed him to stay for the remainder of the day and through the night. He was careful to ensure that Keira went nowhere near the barn, sending her off on an errand for herbs. She’d likely have the chore done in an hour, but she liked him to think these things took an afternoon.
However, the next morning was another matter. He could not predict what the young man would do once equipped with a full night’s sleep. Just after sunrise, Ignatius appeared in the hayloft and, for the first time, caught a proper glimpse of the intruder. The boy was in a sorry state. His clothes were wretched, and his fair skin was stained with mud. Worse, he was covered in bruises from a recent beating.
His first thought was that this must be a local farmer’s boy who was set upon on the road. The matter, while troubling indeed, was altogether mundane for his interest. His mind was much more intrigued by the boy’s curious features. Stark white hair was certainly not a common sight, especially for a youngboy. Often such features suggested a touch of magic… Though he was certain that if one of the local boys was displaying a propensity for the arcane, he would have heard about it by now. These matters always seemed to reach him eventually, despite his relative solitude. It was by such machinations that he had come to acquire his ward seven years prior. Ignatius drew himself from his musings and kicked the boy’s shoe.
Caspian woke suddenly, wincing at the pain accompanying even the subtlest of movements. Still, he straightened himself at once to take in the stranger who had woken him. Though he was clearly deep into his years, he did not appear frail nor hunched with age. He looked down at him from beneath untamed brows, a mixture of black and grey which matched his wiry beard. His coat was deep red, finer than anything a common farmer might afford.
“Why were you sleeping in my stables?” he asked, voice coarse and low.
“I’m sorry,” Caspian said, pulling himself to his feet, his full height only slightly taller than the old man. “I was only seeking shelter from the storm.”
“Storm’s well over,” Ignatius said. “Best get home.”
A flicker of uncertainty passed over Caspian’s face, and Ignatius understood it well enough.
“I see. Where are you from, boy?”
“The abbey, sir.”
