Scion of the Wood (Southwind Knights #3) *SAMPLE*

Chapter Two, Part 2

After much pleading—and not without Sir Willem’s endorsement—the Clerk allowed Farmer to remain in Asher’s custody until they received word from the Tower, on the condition that they remain within the Institute, under pain of both their deaths.

“What if I need to piss?” Farmer had said, but Asher led him away before the Clerk could change his mind. They withdrew to the balcony that encircled the Institute training yard.

Smith wandered through the lawn below, two heads taller than any of the pages, squires, or Knights sparring around him. He made for the forge alongside the outer track. Across the yard, Finn stood at a weapons rack, pulling on a pair of leather gloves. He’d retreated downstairs without another word. It must have been painful to see Asher reunited with his father after Finn had lost his own.

Farmer leaned over the rail. Conversation had never come easy for them.

“Let me see your leg,” Asher said, kneeling.

Farmer bore a heavy hobble. His feet were caked with earth, and the slightest touch made him flinch. There were no wounds or breaks, however. Just the price of walking for days on end with little sustenance.

Farmer watched Asher probe his joints, cracked lips curling in amusement. “You can’t cure old,” he said, “whatever you been learning. The Queen’s likely to cut them off, anyhow, for running away.”

Asher stood and leaned alongside him on the rail. The Queen knew all too well why Farmer had left the capital. When she found out who he was, she would absolve him, Asher was sure. “You just need rest. And don’t worry about the Queen. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

“You promise,” Farmer said, looking at his son. “All of a sudden a man. Maybe my boy did die that day.”

Asher had let his hair grow to his shoulders in order to hide the bulbous scar that began at the base of his neck, but otherwise he thought he looked the same. Galen had assured him that even though he felt different—what with his evolving skin—he hadn’t changed outwardly, though the Healer had taken to calling Asher Little Dragon. Each day when Asher woke, he studied his face in the mirror, searching for signs of the inevitably hideous transformation.

“I’m sorry—” Asher began.

“Dream come true, eh?” Farmer said, cutting him off. It was his way of telling Asher not to worry about it. “Not a crop in sight.”

“Actually,” Asher said, “I have a garden.” Farmer had been joking, but a glint of pride appeared in his eyes. “But I’m an apprentice Healer, now. We live west of the city, in the Wood there.”

The glint faded. “Healer? The same coward? Of Southwind?”

“Yes.”

“Thought he’d died as well.” Farmer ran a hand over his mouth. “Ever since that Healer came around, things have gone bad.”

Farmer was a true Southwinder in that respect: he knew only the vile, loathsome Healer. He had no reason to think otherwise.

Asher told his story, then. He glossed over the events in the Cove and began with his return home, how he’d had to leave but hadn’t been able to say goodbye. The road north, the assault by the gray men, his search for his mother and delusions surrounding the Queen. How he’d learned the truth. How his true mother had died.

Farmer’s face went red, and for a while they watched the swordplay below. Finn had strapped on a full set of practice armor, and he swiped a blade through the air.

“Maggie was my life,” Farmer said at last. His voice was heavy with regret. “I’ve been angry this whole time. Spent every day trying to forget her.”