Page 29 of Reign

“From?” The registrar didn’t bother asking me; he directed his question straight to Arthur.

Arthur shrugged, looking to me for an answer.

I hesitated, glancing back at the guard, whose cumbersome armor seemed ill-suited for catching nimble runaways. But the cluster of recruits waiting behind us was unregimented, forming a human blockade across the drawbridge. Any hope of escaping was futile.

“The Wetlands,” I muttered under my breath, silently praying that my new companions wouldn’t hear my birthplace and connect me to the wanted Black Shuck.

My guts churned as I anxiously awaited my fate. The registrar flicked through the stack of parchment before jabbing a finger into a page.

“Finn Smith, you’re a liar,” he remarked, shaking his head with contempt. “You’ve been summoned to join the fight. Do you know what happens to men who shirk their duty to Lyonesse?”

I swallowed down the lump lodged in my throat. “No,” I stuttered.

“They’re hung above the King’s palace,” he declared, motioning over his shoulder to where I imagined the traitors were rotting.

Arthur shuddered at the thought, while I lingered uncomfortably at the table, unsure if his words were an empty threat or a sinister promise.

His fists crashed against the wood. “Move, boy!”

With hesitation, I complied, snatching up the nearest packsack and rejoining my companions from the Headlands.

The Walled City was anything but grand. Its narrow streets, paved with ankle-breaking cobblestones, were flanked by looming whitewashed buildings that blocked out the sun.

“Heads!” a voice hollered from above—followed by the contents of a chamber pot splattering from a second-floor window.

Feces soiled a street seller loitering beneath the swinging shutters. With a grimace, he shook the muck from his cloak before resuming hawking his potatoes to the unbothered passersby. A woman carrying bunches of wildflowers swerved in front of us, dashing through an overflowing gutter. Her hurried steps sprayed gray filth into the air, spattering the hem of her beige kirtle with brown stains.

“Watch it, mister!” called a whiny, indignant voice from behind.

I glanced back to spot a boy, barely older than Henry, maneuvering a cart precariously loaded with apples through the bustling crowd. With ease, Fletcher reached out and stole a piece of fresh fruit.

“Want some?” Fletcher asked, already sinking his teeth into the apple.

Bash nodded, taking it from him and biting into its crisp skin before handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I said, nibbling at the core. “Hungry?” I asked Arthur.

He shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “That apple’s had more mouths on it than that whore’s breast,” he quipped, pointing down the slight street.

Following his finger, I spotted harlots hanging out of doorways, trying to coax soldiers in by promising a night to remember while away at war.

“That one looks like the last girl you courted,” Arthur gibed, elbowing Bash.

An elderly woman whistled from a dark archway, flashing us her best gummy smile while pushing together her deflated assets. Had she been a girl half her age, I might have understood the allure. But seeing a woman older than my mother, reduced to such desperation, filled me with dismay.

Bash shook his head. “She looks nothing like your sister,” he retorted, earning a whack around the ear from Arthur.

As we ventured deeper into the city, a faint tremor rippled beneath my feet. Without warning, the cobbles quaked with a force that felt godlike, sending slates flying from rooftops to shatter against the ground. Peddlers clutched their goods with practiced precision, as though well accustomed to the city’s convulsions. Moments later, the tremors ceased, and the streets quickly returned to the bustle of before—the residents seemingly unfazed.

“What was that?” I asked, my voice trembling.

A hard-faced woman strode past, refitting the pin that secured her white bonnet. “No one knows,” she replied. “Some say King James keeps a dragon imprisoned in an underground dungeon, and when the ground shakes, it’s the beast trying to break free of its shackles.”

A tap on my shoulder drew my attention to a man beside me, dressed in a lace-trimmed frock coat. “Don’t listen to her nonsense,” he scoffed, adjusting his grip on a handbell. “The city shakes when the Creplegate drawbridge lowers. Bleak lands lie beyond. Mark my words, you young men will leave from there, following the trail of darkness straight to Cambas.”

He raised the handbell and shook it vigorously. “Hear ye! Hear ye!” he cried. “The King will address his subjects in Regal Square before sunset.”

My ears rang as the man trailed off down a side street, the jangle of his bell fading into the distance.