It takes a moment for Dyeawan to respond. Her mind is momentarily preoccupied with all those memories she can’t quite bring into focus, and an image of Edger, telling her again and again how special and unique she is and asking her about her origins.

“It may not matter at all,” Dyeawan admits. “It may also be very important. In either case, I want to know.”

“Even if I could find out what you want to know, aren’t you concerned I’d use such information against you?”

Dyeawan has weighed that very concern against her need to learn the answer, just as she’s sized up Oisin as an adversary.

“You don’t concern me, Oisin,” she says with finality. “Now you may go.”

For a moment she thinks he has a retort in him, but it never comes.

Dyeawan listens to the final chorus of his fading footfalls, and when she’s certain that he’s left the chamber her body involuntarily slumps against the litter of her tender. Rationally she knew that their conversation would proceed and end precisely as it unfolded, but the part of her that will never truly leave the alleys of the Bottoms remained terrified that this entire illusion would shatter.

Just don’t lie to yourself, Dyeawan entreats like a silent mantra. You’re pretending you know what’s going to happen next, but you don’t.

She doesn’t. Dyeawan has no idea what will happen next. She has no plan beyond the actions she’s taken thus far. She only knows there must be change. There must be a way to make room in this world for all people, especially the weakest among them. She cannot accept that people like her are a burden at their worst, and a cheap and expendable resource at their best.

FINAL SELECTION

DOORS OF ROTTED WOOD ARE flung open and Taru and the rest are prodded from inside the darkened tunnel out into the harsh light of day. Taru limps across an expansive field of dead grass surrounded by tall walls beginning to crumble from age and neglect. The retainer has been divested of armor and short sword and hook-end, left in the simple street tunic and trousers they’ve always worn beneath. Taru has never felt so naked and vulnerable as an adult. The retainer’s hands physically ache to cradle the well-worn handle of a weapon.

There are perhaps fifty of them, gathered from three separate cities, including the Capitol. Taru has only been able to surmise this by interrogating several of them in the tunnels. It’s whispered that there are a few hardened murderers and criminals among them, but most of these people seem to be petty thieves or simply vagrants. The only quality they all seem to share is that no one in Crache who matters will miss them.