The Runaway King by Jennifer A. Nielsen Page A

“What matters with a name anyway? Perhaps you wish to hear a little about me first.” I glanced up and Harlowe said, “My family has lived in Libeth for generations. We take care of the people in this village, and they take care of us.”
    “Are you a noble?”
    He shrugged. “I suppose, but it’s only a title. Titles don’t matter here.”
    “They matter in Drylliad. I thought all the nobles were there for King Eckbert’s funeral.”
    “And what is that but a parade of egos?” His smile fell. “I keep myself as far from the king’s politics as possible. Besides, we have our own troubles here.”
    “With the Avenians?”
    “Many of them are very dangerous. I hope that wherever your travels lead, you will not meet them, son.”
    Our eyes locked on that last word, though I quickly had to turn away. Nobody had called me “son” in years. My father might have at one time, but it was meaningless to me then. Now, the word had far more value.
    I filled the awkward silence that followed by eating more of the supper. It was simpler than the food at either Drylliad or Farthenwood, and I liked it. Now that I had an appetite again, I felt ravenous.
    Seated across from me, Nila barely touched her food, which wasn’t surprising considering the trauma she had endured. She had changed into a pastel yellow dress and had her hair tied back into braids. It was an odd contrast for how miserable she must be feeling inside. Although mourners in most surrounding countries wore dark colors, Carthyans rarely did. It was felt the life of the deceased could be better remembered through wearing colors that honored them. While I watched Nila, I became aware of Harlowe’s eyes on me. I let more of my hair spill over my face and made every effort not to betray my identity, by either my words or my manners.
    “Will you stay the night?” Harlowe asked.
    “I can’t.” Although for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I wished that I could. I suspected if I did, he’d convince me to stay yet another night, and then to finish out the week, and pretty soon the spare room would be offered as mine. Harlowe struck me as a man with that kind of persuasive ability. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that the thought of staying was so tempting.
    “Of course you can stay,” he insisted. “That cut on your stomach needs to heal, and I’m told there’s another bandage around your arm too.” He hesitated, then gently said, “What’s happened to you? You’re just a boy, too young to bear such wounds.”
    And for the first time in weeks, I felt my age. Other boys my age were choosing apprenticeships for their careers and teasing pretty girls on their way to the market. They could still be found enjoying a game of Queen’s Cross in the streets or working an extra job to earn money for their first horse. Suddenly, I felt heartsick for a life I’d never known.
    Harlowe frowned. “Son, where are your parents? Have you no family?”
    I stood so quickly my chair nearly tipped over. “Will you call someone to get my horse? I need to leave. Now.”
    “Did I say something wrong?” Harlowe stood as well. “Please, at least finish your meal. I owe you that, for what you did for Nila.”
    “I’m glad I could help, but I really can’t stay a minute longer.”
    Harlowe tenderly brushed a hand over Nila’s hair, then called a servant into the room. When he entered, Harlowe directed him to fetch my horse and to have a satchel packed with food for me.
    “You’ve already given me enough,” I protested.
    “It’s nothing compared to what you have given me,” Harlowe said.
    When Nila stood, I crouched down to put myself at eye level with her. Like me, she was an orphan now, though I dared not explain that to her, not with her grandfather listening. All I could do was whisper, “This pain you feel inside, it will get better in time.”
    Wordlessly, she patted my cheek with her small hand, then kissed my other cheek. I had to turn away for a