Rise (The Order of the Krigers #1)(2)
“I’d rather train so that when the time comes, if it ever does, I can defend myself and make the right choice. If there’s another way to escape, why should I murder the person?” It was difficult to argue with my father since he always insisted he was right. As much as I loved him, I didn’t necessarily agree with him.
“Your mother would be proud of the woman you’ve become,” he said, changing the subject.
“Why don’t you ever talk about her?” I asked. “Do we look alike? How’d she spend her time?” If only he would tell me something, anything, so I could feel a connection to her.
“Not right now,” Papa said, staring at his feet. “You’re not done with your lesson.”
Of course. Training always came first—it was the most important aspect of my life. Since my mother had died delivering me, my father felt it was his duty to make sure I could take care of myself. Inconsequential things such as knowing anything about my own mother would have to wait. Survival was the one, and only, goal in this desolate kingdom.
Even though my arms shook from hunger, I smiled. “What do you want to work on now?”
“Let’s practice what to do if someone comes up behind you.”
Turning my back to my father, I patiently waited for him to attack. When he didn’t, I glanced behind me. Papa bent over clutching his chest. Running to where he kept his medicine, I grabbed the bottle off the moldy shelf and uncorked it. It was empty, and my heart sank. There should be at least another week’s worth. Papa had to be taking more than he should, which could only mean one thing: he wasn’t getting any better.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wheezing. “I didn’t want to worry you.” He coughed, and little droplets of blood spattered on the floor.
Tears filled my eyes, and I hastily blinked them away. “I’ll go to the apothecary’s and get more medicine.” I wrapped my arm around his torso and helped him hobble to the wooden chair at the table.
“It’s almost curfew,” he said, sitting down. “It’s too dangerous for you to be out at this hour.”
Without the medicine, my father’s condition would only worsen. “Let me do this for you.” It was nothing I couldn’t handle. He worked hard to ensure I was taken care of—it was my turn to see to his needs.
Papa pulled out his handkerchief and wiped off the blood covering is lips. “There’s no money left.”
He started coughing again, and I struggled to hold back my rage. He was forced to work as a soldat in the mines for the king, yet he wasn’t paid nearly enough to feed us, let alone to have extra money for expensive items such as medicine. It wasn’t fair.
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “There’s a little bit of money left over from my job.” Reaching under my mattress, my fingers fumbled around until they came across my one and only coin. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was better than nothing.
“Kaia,” my father said. “Go tomorrow instead. It’ll be safer.” The handkerchief clutched in his hand was moist with blood, and a foul, metallic smell permeated the air.
“You might not be alive come morning. I’m going—and there’s nothing you can say to stop me.” I leaned down and kissed his cheek.
“Remember everything I’ve taught you, everything we’ve practiced.” He patted my shoulder. “And when you return, we need to talk. There’s something I must tell you.”
With curfew going into effect in a few short hours, I needed to leave instead of dwelling on what Papa had to say. Wrapping a knit scarf around my neck, I closed the door to our apartment and ran down the rickety, wooden steps to the first floor. The repulsive smell of body odor and waste hung heavy in the stale air. Holding my breath, I hurried along the dark corridor and shoved the door open, stepping outside and inhaling the fresh air.
The chilly wind whipped around my body. Thankfully, I had on sturdy pants, a plain shirt, and a thick leather vest instead of a dress. For as long as I could remember, Papa insisted I wear trousers because they were easier to move and fight in. Pulling the scarf around my mouth, I made sure my long, brown hair was tucked under my shirt. The key to making it through the capital without attracting the soldats’ attention was to keep my head down and walk quickly.
Since most people hurried home from work at this hour, I easily vanished into the crowd. Soldats stood posted at each street corner watching everyone. Across the way, a young man joked with his friend—he should have known better. In less than a minute, half a dozen men dressed in red uniforms descended upon him.
“I didn’t do anything!” the young man screamed. A soldat punched him in the stomach, yanked his hands back, and tied his wrists together. He dragged the young man down the street, presumably to the dungeon. It took all my willpower to keep walking the other way. Papa had drilled it in me to pick my battles. Unless my life was in danger, I had to stand down, regardless of the injustice of the situation. Curling my fingers, I made two fists, keeping my anger under control. This was no way to live.
Passing between the tall, gray, windowless buildings lining the street, an oppressive feeling overwhelmed me. Each structure was jam-packed with apartments housing multiple families similar to the one I lived in. The sound of people speaking, children crying, and soldiers yelling was constant. The smell of decaying rats, trash, and vomit coated the air like a wool blanket.