A Boy, Alone

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 30th December 2019

Characters: A'ten
Description: Hidden in the tithe wagon, Arten travels away from the Weyr
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 1, day 4 of Turn 10
Notes: Mentioned: Yanley

Arten awoke with a start, cold and aching, to the sounds of shouts,
footsteps and hooves on the road. Morning light leaked through cracks in
the wooden frame of the cart and the eyelets where cords tied down the
tarpaulin. Someone laughed and he could smell the odours of draft beasts
and beneath that, the faint scent of hot klah and rolls. He huddled into
his dusty nest of sacks, not daring to move enough to stretch his limbs
or blow on his numbed fingers.

But there was no outcry, no sounds of searching for a missing boy.
Instead, after a while, there was a sudden lurch and a jolt as the cart
he was hiding in began to roll forward.

They were on their way.

At first he lay still, holding his breath, fearing that he'd be
discovered. But after a short time, curiosity and the growing discomfort
of his cramped position got the better of him and he cautiously pushed
aside the cloth that was covering him and inched his way over to the
side of the cart. Pressing his eye against a gap between the canvas
cover and the wooden frame, he saw grasslands on either side of the
road, and woolly beasts grazing, and further, beyond them, the peaks of
the Weyr. Still close enough, if he'd jumped out now, to walk back, but
the tithe train rumbled on, and every moment took them further away.

Guilty thoughts - of his sister, and his foster mother - rose up and
mingled with the cold fear when he thought of what lay ahead of him.
Arten knew no-one in the Holds. The Headwoman herself had told him it
wasn't safe.

**I won't go back,** he thought, fiercely, thinking of the times when
he'd heard people laughing about what his father had done. He wouldn't
be humiliated like that again.

From now on, he didn't have a father, or a family.

Instead, he watched as the landscape slowly changed in front of him, the
familiar pastures that surrounded the Weyr giving way to fields of
crops, with the occasional stand of trees. The sun rose high in the sky,
trapping heat beneath the tarpaulin, until Arten grew uncomfortable and
had to wriggle out of his coat, though he was still cautious enough to
remain under the sacks,

A new difficulty came when Winter awoke from his sleep, hungry and
curious about his new surroundings. Arten crumbled up one of the rolls
for him, but he could feel the little blue's reproach. He could only
urge caution as Winter poked his head out from under the canvas, then
squeezed his way out completely and took wing. There weren't any shouts
of surprise, though. Maybe the holders weren't as worried about
firelizards being around the wagons when they were empty.

Shortly afterwards, Winter returned with a full belly and curled up to
sleep again. Arten thought he made out images of the Weyr kitchens in
the little blue's drowsing thoughts. Clearly he'd been back there to
feed, which would be a worry if the queens caught him, though it
suggested he hadn't been missed yet. Worse, if he didn't feed Winter
himself, the bond between them might weaken. What if his little blue
went back to the wild? He'd have to leave the tithe train to hunt, and soon.

The day dragged on towards afternoon. Arten nibbled a little more of his
roll, tried to ignore the gnawing pain in his belly and eventually fell
asleep again, despite the jolting pace of the cart.

When he woke again, the daylight had faded and he could make out the
faint light of glowbaskets hanging from the wagons. They'd be stopping
soon, and he'd need to get out. His bladder was bursting and his mouth
was dry; he had to find somewhere to refill his water bottle.

Then he saw what had woken him. Winter was nudging him with his small
wedge-shaped head, his eyes whirling yellowy-orange. Arten blinked,
seeing images in his mind of the sky, shapes overhead. Dragons.

Sweepriders. They were looking for him!

His first instinct was to burrow deeper into the sacks, but reason
told him they'd search there first. He had to get away from the tithe
train. Kicking the coarse material aside and wincing at the pins and
needles in his legs, he crawled across the wagon bed to the loose corner
where he'd entered. It was still rolling forward, slowly.

**Winter?** He closed his eyes, opened himself to the firelizard's mind.
A blurry image came to him; another cart, following behind, two beasts
pulling it. The driver, half-asleep from boredom, turning his head to
the sky to watch the dragons overhead, a brown and a green. Fields of
tall wheat waved gently in the breeze on either side of the road, ready
for the coming harvest.

**Now,** he thought, and Winter flew up towards the man and perched on
the seat beside the driver, chirping, causing enough of a distraction
that Arten could push his way out from under the cover, bag clutched in
one hand, over the crumbly soil and into the crops, his heart thumping.
He was sure he must have been seen, but when he dared look, the last of
the tithe wagons was trundling placidly away along the road.

He still wasn't safe; the dragons might have seen him. Panting for
breath, he began to crawl through the field, not daring to think about
whether he could be seen from overhead. The earth was damp from the
previous day's rain, and his hands and knees were soon filthy. The field
seemed to go on forever, and at any moment he expected the dragons to
land before him, cutting off his escape.

But they didn't, and suddenly he came to the edge of the field. Ahead of
him was a narrow path, deeply lined with wheel-tracks and the prints of
beasts, and beyond, a hedge. And, rising above the hedge, a tree, with
familiar fruit hanging from its boughs.

Arten's mouth watered. He rolled over onto his back and risked a glance
up at the sky, but the dragons were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they
were questioning the wagoners.

Muddy and dishevelled, he emerged from the corn, crossed the path and
made his way along the hedge, constantly alert for any sign of life
so that he could dart back into the field. This late in the evening,
though, the farmers had returned to their cothold and he was alone.
Eventually, as the light faded, he came to a gap in the hedge large
enough for him to push his way through.

The redfruit were not quite ripe and tasted sour but wonderful, the
juices soothing his dry throat. Winter chirped and clung to his neck,
his eyes glowing in the gathering dark. Somewhere, not too far off, he
could hear canines barking.

He couldn't stay here; he needed to find water, and somewhere to sleep
for the night. Maybe he could get back into that wagon, once the holders
were asleep and the dragonriders had gone.

For one panicked moment he wasn't sure which direction he'd come from.
Among the trees, every way looked the same. Which way was the road?

Arten closed his eyes, forcing down the fear. **I'm not a child. I can
survive on my own.** His fingers dug into the tree bark and he pushed
himself upwards, brushing the leaves aside. From this height he could
see lights, probably the farming cot. Could he go there for shelter?
Swiftly, he dismissed that idea. They were still only a day's travel
from the Weyr; they'd tell the sweepriders. Clinging to a branch, he
turned and narrowed his eyes, recognising the crop fields through which
he'd come and the dark line of the road beyond. In the far distance, he
thought he could make out a faint glow. The tithers' camp?

"Let's go," he whispered to Winter. "They'll have food."

It only occurred to him now to wonder where these holders were bound.
Arten paused at the edge of the road to look up at the sky. The star
patterns weren't the same as those he'd learned in other Weyrs, but he'd
paid enough attention in his last classes to recognise the brightest.

They were travelling north. Their destination could have been any Hold,
but by the number of wagons it was a large one. Perhaps even the major
Hold at Amber Hills. Somewhere a boy, alone, could lose himself and
begin a new life away from the Weyr.

Last updated on the January 4th 2020

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A Boy, Alone