The Thieves of Otar

New Home

Zia woke the next morning with no headache, and her cuts had healed into new rosy skin, much like a baby's. Her bruises were fading slowly but surely, and she felt stronger and more rested than she could ever remember feeling.

The sun streamed in from the open window above her and a cold breeze came in. She shivered as she thought of the on-coming winter.

Link was sitting at his desk, writing something on a piece of parchment. His shiny bald head leaned in close to the desk, and his short legs dangled in the air when he sat in the chair.

"Good morning, Link," Zia said. Her throat felt better, too. It no longer hurt to speak, and her voice didn't sound so ragged.

Link turned in his chair, but she wasn't greeted with his friendly smile. "Oh, hello, miss. Breakfast will be ready shortly."

Zia threw the covers off her body and walked over to Link, surprised at how well her legs held her weight. "What are you writing?" she asked when she got to the wooden desk.

"Just a little patient analysis," he said dismissively.

"A patient what?" she asked.

"Just a report to the King and Queen on what injuries you had, how you're healing, and things like that. It will be evidence in your father's trial," he added. "Speaking of your father's trial, it will be taking place this afternoon."

"He's not my father," Zia said.

"Of course not," Link said. "Pardon me. Why don't you go get yourself some breakfast. It should be ready outside over the fire."

Zia wanted to ask more about his analysis, but she did as she was told and stepped out into the cool autumn air.

Hanging over a fire between two large metal poles was a small pot filled with porridge. There was a stack of clean wooden bowls and spoons by the fire, and Zia picked up one of each and filled up her bowl with the warm, gooey food.

As she ate, she thought about what she had said the night before. When Link had told her that Daxtor would most likely be hanged, she had replied, "Good." Did it make her a monster to find pleasure in the fact that the foul man would be getting what he deserved? Was it wrong of her to be happy that she would no longer have to see or hear him again?

"What does it matter?" Zia said aloud. "The fact is I'm free of him, and that's all the matters."

Then a thought hit her. Where would she live now that he would be gone? She could still go to castle an petition for a job there as a serving girl, but Daxtor, like all the other prisoners awaiting trial, would be kept there, and she didn't like the thought of being under the same roof as him again, even if that roof was hundreds of feet off the ground.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of leather boots on dead leaves, and Zia looked up to see Arch standing there. "Mind if I join you?" he asked.

She shrugged and he joined her around the blazing fire. He sighed and said, "I've been thinking..." He lost trail of his words, as if he were thinking so hard he forgot where he was.

"Well, that's dangerous," Zia said, reminding him of where he was and what he was doing.

The lost look in his eyes cleared and the air was pierced with his loud laugh. "Indeed it is," he agreed. Then his tone turned somber and he asked, "Zia, what would you think about living with me?"

"What?" she asked, flabbergasted. "Live with you and your son?"

Arch nodded.

Zia looked into the fire. Arch and his son were the only people that she had ever become close to being friends with. They were both loving and kind, nothing like Daxtor. She wanted with all her heart to say yes, that she would love to live with them, but something held her back