Chapter 37

Alston sprinted through the back streets of Andros in the breaking dawn, White at his side, gasping for air as he ran, refusing to stop. He turned down street after street, criss-crossing the sprawling city, his lungs bursting, his legs burning, and not caring. After witnessing those men in that back alley arranging to betray his father, he was more desperate than ever to find him, to warn him before it was too late. But with dawn breaking, Alston’s heart fell as he knew his time was running out. He ran even faster, ignoring the pain.

Alston ran and ran, crossing through small squares, entering alleys, then emerging into squares again. He tried to follow the directions those people had given him, hours before, asking everyone he could. He followed street signs, etched into the stone the walls, illuminated by torchlight, hard to read. The city was so still in the early morning light, so quiet, so peaceful, it was hard to believe that any chaos could be imminent.

Alston stopped and rested as he emerged from an alley, grabbing onto a wall, heaving. He wiped sweat from the back of his hand, unsure if he could go on, unsure if he was even heading in the right direction—when suddenly, he heard it. It was the unmistakable sound of boots, marching. Of armor, clanging. It was an army. His father’s army. And it lay just beyond those walls.

Alston burst across the square, sprinting again, determined, running so fast he could barely breathe, White keeping pace beside him. Finally, after passing through a series of arches, he turned down an alleyway and emerged to see a huge open arch—and the sight on the other side of it dazzled him. There was a great square, the greatest of the capital, and assembling inside it, he saw with a thrill, was his father, standing there proudly, leading hundreds of men.

Alston rushed forward, about to pass through, when something made him stop himself. He stood there, at the edge, in the shadows, as he noticed something else: thousands of other soldiers, dressed in blue and yellow, surrounding his father. Alston’s heart lurched as he realized who they were: Bandranians.

His father, he realized with a shock, had already been betrayed.

Alston watched in horror as he saw his father and his men lay down their weapons; as he saw his father detained; and, most of all, as he watched his two older brothers, standing beside his father, suddenly get stabbed in the heart.

“NO!” Alston cried out.

He began to run, to race out into the square, to help his father, his brothers, to grab whatever sword he could find and kill any Bandranians he could.

But a strong palm suddenly smothered his face, closing his mouth, silencing him. It pulled him back, stopping him in his tracks. The palm was fat, meaty, slick with sweat, the palm of an overweight man, and yet still it had strength, enough strength to detain him. Alston was surprised that White didn’t snarl, didn’t help him—but then he looked over and realized, with a shock, why: it was Motley.

Alston, anguished, desperate to aid his family, struggled to free himself.

“Let me go!” he tried to yell, between Motley’s fingers.

But Motley tightened his grip and shook his head.

“If I do, you’ll end up like them,” he replied firmly, yanking him back into the shadows.

Alston tried to resist with all his might, but Motley was too strong.

“That is not the way,” Motley urged. “Be silent. You’ll get us both killed, and you’ll be of no help to your father or his men.”

Alston tried to resist, but it was no use. Despite himself, he felt tears pour down his cheeks as he relived in his mind’s eye the image of his brothers being murdered.

“There is another way,” Motley urged, his voice earnest for the first time since Alston had met him. “A far wiser way. Don’t die here. Live to fight another day. I will help you.”

But Alston thought of his family out there, on the other side of that wall, needing him, thought of how far he had journeyed, only to be stopped so close, and he writhed to break free, even if he knew, deep down, that Motley spoke the truth.

“I’m sorry,” Motley said. “I don’t want to do this. But if I don’t, it will mean your death.”

Motley stuffed a rag in Alston’s mouth, gagging him, and tossed him over his shoulder. Alston tried to cry out, but it was no use; he kicked and flailed, but Motley was too strong.

Before he knew what was happening, Alston was bouncing up and down, slung like a sack of potatoes over Motley’s shoulder as Motley ran away from the square, through the dark alleyways, White at their side. Motley, badly overweight, heaved from the effort, but to his credit, he never stopped running. He managed to take them far from the square, far from the death of his brothers, the ambush of his father, far from all the misery, from all the events that Alston knew would change his life forever, and off somewhere to another world.