I can’t allow this to happen. I have to do something to save myself. If I’m going to face the consequences of a man, of a criminal, then let me act like one.
I’m aware that I’m slowing Uncle down, my short legs unable to keep up, but the man never abandons me, though he could. It’s almost expected.Kindness is weakness, andno one will watch out for you but yourself, he taught me.If you hesitate, you’ve made a decision.
This is my only chance. Any moment, the Blackcoats will come around that corner and catch up to me. I do not want to die in this alleyway, or worse, much worse, go to the gallows like those other boys, some crying, others numb and silent.
I slow down and draw my blade and hold it up. I am crying, I forgot that.
Uncle shakes his head. “No time to fight,” he says, yanking on my arm, pulling me forward.
But I’m not going to fight the Blackcoats.
There’s only one way to survive. I dig in my heels, pulling him to a stop.
Uncle stops and turns to me, suddenly understanding. He glances behind us and back to me. “Do it,” he says, lifting his chin, almost defiantly. “Save yourself.”
I hesitate.
“Do it!” he shouts. “Now!”
I hear the guards coming. There’s no more thought, only fear, and the overwhelming desire to survive. To keep my enemies at bay. To live.
I can’t look at this, I can’t… It’s a memory I’ve tried to suppress, I can’t face it… I don’t want to…
I’m sorry, Uncle, I think, though to my lifelong regret, I don’t actually speak the words aloud. My blade slices through the air. Except instead of meeting his throat, I swing down, and slash his Achilles tendon instead. It might appear to be a mistake, though both of us know it is not.
Uncle cries out in pain and drops to the ground, unable to run, or even walk. He starts to crawl, in vain. Blood seeps down his foot onto the ground.
Pounding boots approach.
I run. Behind me, Uncle gives up, lying face down on the ground.
I hear the Blackcoats rush up to him. They stop running, but I never do.
Later, as penance, as tribute, I adopt Uncle’s name as my own. Eban Sadreal.
-No!
-No!
-I’m not this cruel, this selfish. No. I refuse to believe I did this.
You must accept your past, the voice of the king says in my head.You must accept who you are, and only then can you become who you are meant to be.
-No!
But the vision returns, and there I am again, nine years old, running with Uncle, the Blackcoats at our heels.
I pull away from the memory. I don’t want to see it again, nor do I want to face the Blackcoats, so much larger than me, their hideous faces full of gleeful hate.
I need to get out. I try to speak, but like in my nightmares, my voice is empty. I can’t scream. I strain against it, until my throat burns from the effort.
Finally, I manage to make a sound, and then all at once, I break through the silent barrier.
“Stop!” I cry out. “Please! I want to end the trial!”
There’s a sickening lurch through time and space, where I’m thrown back through everything I’ve seen, from the alley to the throne room to the glory of ancient Ophir, all in a single instant, a screeching blur.
When my vision comes back into focus, I’m lying face down on the slick marble floor of the temple.
