3. Crying is a Luxury
3
CRYING IS A LUXURY
WREN
T hree crescent moons shine their brilliant light through my bedroom window as I hurriedly move through the space that I’ve always called my own.
My dresser drawers are open, and clothes hang haphazardly out of them. I’m pointedly ignoring the lace ceremonial gown I’m supposed to wear tomorrow, furiously grabbing everything I can think of and shoving it into the satchel I pulled from the hall closet before the twins went to bed.
The house is silent. My brothers left an hour ago, and the rest of the family promptly went to sleep. Not me.
Now that my numb shell has been shattered, anger is burning in my veins. Not only because of all the lies but because I’m leaving my dreams behind. I will never get to learn the healing arts now. Never get to live the life I’d dreamed of. Never see Amelia or my family again.
Tears born of rage and grief gather in my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Crying is a luxury people are afforded when there isn’t a ticking clock on their lives.
My Mark is hot, and I groan as its blue glow rivals that of the moons. Both the burning and the glow are new developments. I was born with the swirl on my forehead, but it only started shining last winter, on my twentieth birthday.
A sign from the gods that it would soon be time for my Giving.
At the reminder of the fucking farce that has been my entire life, I shake my head and continue stuffing everything I care about into my bag. I don’t have a lot since Marked Ones aren’t allowed much in the way of worldly possessions. We were always told that the gods would take care of our needs after our ceremonies.
Like fools, we believed that meant we’d get to live good lives serving the gods. Healing. Working in temples. Being scribes, teachers, or even temple workers. Obviously, that isn’t the case, but since dead people don’t need anything, it’s a very dark, twisted truth.
I’m bringing my notebook, the feather quill James gifted me when I turned fifteen, and the necklace of two golden suns my parents gave me tonight before they went to bed. On a whim, I throw in the romance novel I found at the back of the school library a few years ago. The pages are yellowed and falling out, and the cover is so worn that the title is barely legible. Still, I don’t want to part with it.
One of the few blessings I had as a Marked child was that I was taught to read and write. Not many girls in villages like mine are afforded the chance, but Amelia and I learned alongside the boys since there was the possibility we’d have to work as scribes once we were Given.
Another fucking lie.
There are no jobs, no positions for the Given, no blessings at all. I don’t understand why they’d put so much work into us just to kill us on the day of our Givings. Why let us live at all? Why nurture us and give us even the semblance of a life before sacrificing us? Wouldn’t it be easier, in some twisted way, to kill us before we drew our first breaths?
All questions that don’t seem to have any answers.
Furiously blinking away frustrated tears, I turn and glance at the door. My heart aches at the thought of leaving without saying goodbye, but I can’t risk drawing targets on my family’s backs.
I’m keeping them in the dark for a good reason.
The twins, especially, are young and innocent. They’re adored by my entire family, and I want them to get the chance to live a normal life. If they don’t know why I’m leaving, hopefully, they’ll avoid the gods’ wrath.
The gods do not tolerate criminals.
It’s one of the first things children in Myreth learn. Everyone knows that the gods detest those who work outside the law, which is why the king employs Watchers and Enforcers to keep the kingdom safe.
I’m not sure if my family would be killed for helping me escape my Giving, but I’m not willing to risk their lives. Bile rises in my throat at the very thought of seeing my parents or siblings hanging from the gallows in the village square. It doesn’t require much imagination to picture their bodies swinging from a noose because I’m no stranger to death.
No one in Myreth is.
Thirteen years ago, the harvest had been particularly bad. To make matters worse, a bitter winter had followed. At seven, I was too young to fully understand what was happening, but even at a young age, an empty belly spoke volumes.
The Giving Allowance my family received did little to alleviate the hunger pangs that winter. All we ate for months was watery broth with potatoes and grisly bits of meat.
What I didn’t understand at the time was that we were better off than most of the other families in Grenbloom. Most people didn’t have a father who hunted and worked as a butcher, nor did they receive anything extra from the temple.
That winter, there had been a lot of hunger, and there had been many deaths. Four branded bodies had hung from the gallows in the frigid months following the giving season, all convicted of theft.
Leniency doesn’t exist in Myreth, especially for criminals. Everyone knows that theft is bad, but missing a Giving? That’s much worse. It’s the law, codified in The Giving Agreement. I was forced to memorize the legislature as soon as I learned to read.
Being Given is a blessing. Every gods-blessed person is required by law to attend their Giving Ceremony during their twentieth year.
Failure to attend will incur the immediate wrath of the king and the gods.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. What kind of punishment is worse than death? I never really paid much attention to the laws because I never thought I’d have to worry about them. After all, my entire life has been building up to this.
My fingers tighten around the satchel, and my knuckles turn white as Amelia’s screams reverberate in my ears. The pool of crimson blood flashes through my mind, and my knees knock together.
Oh, gods.
My best friend is dead .
I frantically search within myself for the numbness from before, but it’s vanished.
No, no, no. I can’t give in to the panic. Not now.
I shake my head, gritting my teeth. The tears have to stay put. I can’t cry now, no matter how much I want to. I’ll mourn Amelia when I’m safe.
If I can get to safety.
I need to hurry because when the suns crest the horizon, Mother will come to prepare me for the temple. I’m due to be Given at noon, and we’d set aside the entire morning to get ready.
After all, it takes a lot of work to prepare a lamb for the slaughter.
That thought rekindles my anger, and my tears dry up. I’m not the only one who has been lied to. Every gods-blessed who has ever entered the temple expecting their life to continue, only to be murdered, deserves to have someone know what happened to them.
I’m leaving for me, for Amelia, and for all the others like us. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’ll figure it out on the way. At least this way, I’ll have a chance at escaping my fate.
Tying the top of my satchel, I place the bag on the bed. My fingers find the laces of my dress, and a few tugs later, the garment is a green puddle on the ground. I reach for the dress I smuggled from Mother’s things earlier, knowing she’ll realize her second-best dress is missing soon enough.
I’ll be long gone before that happens.
I trail my hand over the blue fabric, my heart catching in my throat. Wearing this color wouldn’t be an issue for most people, but Marked Ones only wear green. It’s our color, designated by the gods.
It is blessed, as we are blessed…
And now, I’ll never wear it again. It’s a dead giveaway that I’m a Given, and it’ll draw too many eyes. Just like the suns-damned glowing Mark on my forehead. I can’t do much about that, but there’s no way I can ignore it. The shining blue swirl is a great way to attract questions I have no intention of answering. It’s a problem that I’m not entirely sure how to solve, but I’ll have to think of something.
Thank the suns, Mother and I are nearly the same size. The dress is a little tight around the bust and arms, since I’m curvier than she is, but it’s not nearly bad enough for people to notice. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I lace up the top of the dress. It falls an inch above my ankles, but there’s nothing I can do about that right now.
I sling my satchel over my shoulder, adjusting it so it rests on my opposite hip. Grabbing my dark brown cloak from where it’s hanging on the back of the door, I pull it on. Next, I grab my walking boots and slide my feet into them, doing up the laces.
I don’t look around my room one last time, nor do I slow down to think about what I’m doing. The moment I step outside, I’ll be an outlaw. Able to be hunted for bounty, anyone who feels so inclined will be allowed to turn me into the king’s soldiers for a reward.
Gods, that’s going to make my life so damned difficult. I’ll have to come up with a real plan that’s more than just “not dying,” but for now, my primary objective is surviving the next twenty-four hours. Once I make it past my Giving Day, I can think about what comes next.
I nudge open the door, thanking all the gods that Father always insisted we keep the hinges well-oiled. It opens without a sound, and I tip-toe down the hall, careful to avoid creaky floorboards.
My bedroom is at the back of the house, and I need to pass the twins’ room and then the one belonging to my parents on my way out. All of them are fast asleep, their snores rising in a symphony, reminding me that everyone who isn’t Marked gets to live a quiet, peaceful life. Jealousy burns in my belly at the thought.
The sound of their slumber accompanies me down the stairs and into the living room. A meow pulls me from my thoughts as I creep along the main floor.
Truffle is sitting on the kitchen table, her long tail hanging off the edge and swinging back and forth. She stares at me with her left eye, the other one white and glassy from an injury she sustained in a fight before I saved her from a life on the streets.
“Oh, Truffle.” My lip quivers as she rises and arches her back, begging for pets. The tears I’ve been suppressing threaten to spill, and keeping them back is harder than ever.
I should get going. That knowledge is sharp at the back of my mind, urging me towards the door. Time waits for no one, and the suns will rise no matter what.
But before I can stop myself, I move towards Truffle, picking her up and snuggling my nose into her coarse brown fur. She purrs, licking the back of my hand with her rough pink tongue.
“I have to go,” I whisper, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay. “I’m so sorry, Truff.”
She looks up at me and meows.
“The twins will feed you,” I say, answering her question. “They promised they’d look after you after I was Given. I’m sure they’ll still take care of you even though I’m running away.”
I whisper the last words, the hushed confession our secret even though she can’t understand what I’m saying.
Truffle meows again, nipping the pad of my finger.
“Ow.” Putting my finger in my mouth, I suck on the bead of crimson before bopping her on the nose. “Bad kitty. You know the girls will be nice to you, even if they aren’t me.”
Another meow, this one louder than the last. Her displeasure is clear, and it’s making my heart ache.
“We’ve talked about this,” I remind her, snuggling her closer. “We always knew I’d be leaving.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and remaining calm is a struggle. Even when I thought being Given was a good thing, I’d mentally prepared to leave Truffle. She’s the latest in a long line of injured strays I’ve taken in over the years, but our bond is one of the strongest I’ve ever had.
I love her, and pain fills me at the thought of leaving her. I give myself one more minute to hold her. “I wish I didn’t have to go,” I confess into her fur, my voice barely audible. “I wish I wasn’t Marked. I wish I could stay here and live a boring, happy life.”
This time, Truffle doesn’t meow. She lifts her head from my chest and stares up at me, her left eye unblinking, before rubbing her head under my chin.
“I’ll miss you, too,” I whisper, a tear slipping past my defenses. “So, so much.”
When my minute is up, I kiss Truffle’s fluffy head and place her back on the table. Her tail curls as she prowls to the end of the table and hops to the top of the cabinet. Her favorite spot in the house, she sleeps there more often than not. She turns three times and settles into her perch, her gaze locked on me.
I can’t linger here, and there’s still one more thing I need to do. Drawing my hood over my head so the material rests above my eyebrows and covers my Mark, I hurry to the cabinet above the sink.
Running water is a luxury not many in Grenbloom have, but a few years ago, Father installed a tap that brings fresh water in from a small cistern on the roof.
The cabinet door swings open, and I scan the contents. On the top shelf, high enough so that tiny prying fingers can’t get into them, are several bottles of salves and ointments. I sift through them until I find the two ceramic jars I’m looking for. The lids are sealed, which will hopefully keep them from spilling. Knowing my luck, they’ll make a huge mess of my things, but I don’t want to leave without them.
The salve they contain is enchanted, created to help the healing process. Something tells me I might need them in the future. After all, Myreth’s forests are notoriously dangerous. Three years ago, Father encountered a feral wolf while hunting. He barely got away with his life, and the six-inch scar on his chest is a reminder that if Mother hadn’t had any blessed salve on hand, he would’ve died.
Placing the jars in my bag, I grab a roll of bandages and a canteen. Filling the canteen, I clip it onto my belt. I’m about to shut the cupboard when one of Father’s sheathed hunting knives sitting on the middle shelf catches my eye.
Before I can reconsider—or remind myself that I don’t have any weapons training—I grab the blade and sheath, sliding them both into my satchel. Then I take a small bag of dried meat that Father brings hunting.
That’s it. I don’t have room for anything else.
Truffle’s judgmental eyes drill into my back as I slide the cupboard door shut, but I don’t look over at her. She doesn’t understand. I need to do this so I can live.
One more door stands between me and freedom.
Dancing my way out of the kitchen and avoiding creaky floorboards, I creep towards the back door. I can’t risk using the front entrance. If someone sees me wearing this dress, it’ll attract too many questions. Grenbloom isn’t a large village, and everyone knows who I am. What I am.
Gods-blessed.
I scoff. Gods-cursed is more like it.
This is their fate.
A shiver runs down my spine, and my fingers shake as I grasp the metal lock on the back door. It’s cold, and the sudden change in temperature sends a jolt of awareness through me. I’m really doing this. I’m running away.
There’s no time to second-guess myself. I turn the lock slowly, wincing at the loud tumbling sound that comes as I flip it upwards. Did anyone hear that?
My heart is a booming drum as I pause, waiting for the tell-tale sounds of people waking up. I hold my breath, seconds passing in agonizing slowness, but the house remains silent.
I release the lock and turn the knob.
This door isn’t as well-oiled as the others, and part of me wonders if Father did that on purpose to make it harder to sneak out. Easing it open far enough so that I can slip through the gap takes precious seconds, and I release a low breath as I step outside.
The night air is cold as it slams into me. It’s a reminder that the giving season will end in a few weeks, and winter will take its place. That’s usually my favorite season. Not only is my birthday on the first day of winter, but I’ve always loved the first snow. There’s little that brings me more joy than taking long walks the day after a blizzard, when the untouched snow glistens beneath the light of the suns.
None of that matters now. I don’t even know if I’ll survive the giving season, let alone celebrate my twenty-first birthday.
With one final glance at my childhood home, I slide the door shut and draw my cloak tighter around myself. The moons are high, and the stars twinkle as I draw in a deep breath, pray for strength, and bolt toward the trees.