He untied the scroll. “These words,” he spoke slowly, watching for my reaction, “are plans of attack, laid out in English letters. The details of a plot against me!”

The bandits buzzed, shaking their heads, hands tight on their weapons.

“No!” I said. “You can’t be serious.”

“Did you write these letters, English?” the leader said, his eye narrowed.

“Yes, but it’s not a battle plan. It’s only a story. I’m a student, a Record Keeper.”

The leader’s face stiffened with dislike. His eye strained left and right as a new hum sounded among the bandits. “A student.” He spat red. “If you are a student, then you should know who I am.” He reached into his frock and removed a tattered piece of paper. He held it out for my inspection, nearly touching my nose.

It was the title page of a book. I calmed my trembling enough to read out loud. “Candide, or, The Optimist, by—” My heart shriveled as I read the last word. “—by Voltaire,” I whispered.

The leader dropped his arm. His eyes brimmed with contempt.

I didn’t see what happened next. A flash of light exploded in my head. Something hit me from behind, knocking me to the ground. A war cry from William, a clattering skirmish. I tried to roll over to see what was happening but something, a foot or knee, pressed against my back. I shook my head, throwing the heavy drape of my hair from my eyes. Just then, William escaped his captors. The boy, Fly Man, was beneath his arm.

Voltaire screamed, “Haaaalt!”

Everyone stopped.

The Rebel leader was behind me, his foot was on my back, his spear pointed across the clearing—at William. His sneer was gone but, with his red teeth bared, he looked more dangerous than ever. “Put him down,” he hissed. His eye bulged from its socket to fix on the boy, clutched to William’s chest. Suddenly, he remembered my presence. He repositioned his weapon against my neck. “You have three seconds before she dies.”

“No hurt Arika!” William shouted.

“One!”

“Arika!”

“Two. Now!” Voltaire shouted.

I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting the Rebel’s face to be my last vision. His spear was so close, the slightest movement would end me.

“William, let the boy go,” Hosea commanded.

I opened my eyes. William’s stony gaze was on me. Everyone else stared at Hosea.

“Let him go,” Hosea repeated.

Reluctantly, William set the boy on his feet. The child scampered into the woods. William raised his arms in surrender.

I let out my breath.

“You are wise, English,” Voltaire sneered. “A second longer and your warrior would have your woman dead.”

“I am not English,” Hosea repeated, calmly. “He is not my warrior and it is you, Voltaire, who must consider your options before you and your men are dead.”

The bandit leaned on my back. The poisoned spear slipped down my sweaty neck.