Shivering, Brian crouched near a potato farmer's stall with his back up against the soot-covered stone building in search of what warmth it could lend him. Acrid smoke from burning peat settled from chimneys above Paddy's Market, filling the narrow street and swirling around the wooden stalls laden with an odd assortment of vegetables, fabric, and pottery.

It stung Brian's lungs, and he pressed cold fingers to his lips to stifle a cough. He'd coughed too much lately. Couldn't help it.

The potato farmer didn't seem to mind the smoke or the cold. He kept a close eye on the fat potatoes he'd set out on the rickety wooden stand. Potatoes. Brian reached toward the strange brown vegetables that had so newly come to Grey Hollow. Not the ones on the table. He'd positioned himself as close as he could to the sacks of potatoes behind the farmer's stand.

"Pots," a tinker cried. Brian jerked his hand back at the sound of the shrill voice. The ancient tinker hunched so low he could almost be a donkey. His shaggy hair swung back and forth in front of his face as he pulled his cart. "Buy. Freshly mended pots." The cart clacked and squealed over the cobblestones, kicking up a spray of dung onto the potato farmer's wool trousers.

The farmer glared at the tinker. Brian stifled a laugh and wrinkled his nose. It did nothing to relieve the smell that had become a part of every moment of his life since his mother died. The farmer shook the dung from his trousers and lifted a new bag of potatoes onto his stand.

The farmer's muscles bulged as round as the potatoes. Brian rubbed his hands along his own skinny arms and thought about growing potatoes. He promised himself he'd have a potato tree someday all green and tall, and he'd climb to the highest branch, look up at the sun, and pluck the ripe potatoes from the branches to eat all by himself.

He reached again for one of the potatoes in the open sack just to feel its brown skin. He'd never held one before.

"Hey you, get away from there!" the farmer shouted.

Brian snatched his hand back and ran. He doubted the farmer would believe he wasn't trying to steal the potato. He just wanted to hold it, look at it, and imagine what it might be like to be a farmer.

With the farmer still shouting at him, Brian dodged into the crowd of people. He slipped between a pair of old ladies, almost knocking the baskets from their arms.

"Sorry," he cried as he twisted away, dodging through a fistful of men. One of them clouted him on the ear as he went by. He ducked and slid under the rug maker's table, hiding between the thick soot-covered rugs that hung over its edges.

He huddled there for a long time, glad for the warmth of the carpets that shielded him from the freezing air. The rough voices of merchants and shoppers gradually dwindled, and his stomach continued its usual complaint for food.

The rug behind him lifted, and he spun around. Fergus, the rug-maker, peered down at him. Fergus's grey hair stood out in tufts on both sides of his head just above his ears. Soot covered the bald top of his head and made his fat nose look even bigger than usual.

"You can come out now, Brian," Fergus said. "That farmer is gone, and I need to pack up for the night."

Brian slid out from under the table and helped Fergus fold the thick rugs while the last glimmer of what passed for daylight faded from the sky. "That potato farmer is new to the market. I've never seen him before," Brian said. "Wonder where he's from. How do you suppose he grew potatoes in this cold weather?"

"Farmers don't plant potatoes in the fall, Brian. They plant their crops in the spring and harvest them in the fall. They keep them stored in a root cellar until they bring them to market."

Brian tried to picture a whole cellar full of potatoes . . . and turnips . . . and onions.

"That farmer called out the constable," Fergus said as he packed the rugs into a large wicker basket and hefted it onto his back. "You better be careful for a while."

"Constable Marsh knows I don't steal," Brian said, but his heart fluttered. They'd chop off his hand for sure if the farmer insisted. "I didn't take no potatoes."

Fergus nodded. "You and I both know that, but—" The shrill sound of pipes and clatter of drums interrupted Fergus's scolding.

A line of soldiers marched into the market, their kilts swishing in time with the drum beats. The first sight of those kilts struck Brian like a quarterstaff across the stomach. The soldiers wore red and black tartans—Lord Somorled's colors not Duke MacCailein Mor's blue, green, and black. Fergus swore under his breath and pressed against the building, as far from the rival clansmen as possible. Brian pressed up beside him, not daring to breathe.

The advancing men stopped, and a drumroll echoed along the street followed by an uncomfortable silence.

A man in a black velvet coat stepped away from the soldiers, adjusted his silver cufflinks and then spoke. His deep voice rolled through Paddy's Market. "Ailpin, King of Dalriada is dead, killed in battle against the Angli along with Duke MacCailein Mor."

No! Brian stifled a scream of outrage. His own father had died fighting the Angli under MacCailein Mor years before. The Duke had personally arranged work for Brian's widowed mother as a laundress in Grey Hollow after that.

The man in deathly black continued his speech. "Prince Domnall, acting heir to the throne of Dalriada, has returned the Grey Hollow charter to Somorled, Lord of the Isles, to whom it rightfully belongs."

Angry cries shattered the stunned silence. As one, the Somorled soldiers drew their swords.

"Paddy's Market is now closed," the man shouted above the noisy crowd. "Any man wishing to do business in Grey Hollow will need to apply for a permit at the chamberlain's office and must show proof of premises. For the cleanliness and safety of the city, Lord Somorled has declared there shall be no open markets. All commerce must take place in properly licensed buildings."

Turmoil erupted in the street. The people at Paddy's Market had no weapons, but some grabbed sticks and broken cobblestones. They gathered to stand against the soldiers while others fled.

"Here." Fergus shoved a ragged cloth with the remains of his lunch at Brian. It felt a bit heavier than usual.

Brian pulled yesterday's cloth from his pocket and handed it to Fergus. "Thank you." It didn't seem like enough to say to the man who had kept him from starving since his mother's death.

"Run, hide." Fergus squeezed his shoulders and then hurried away, pressing through the crowd.

Brian hesitated only a moment then darted across the street to the alley between two vacant and crumbling buildings. He had to turn sideways to squeeze into the thin space between them. A grown man like Fergus or Constable Marsh would never fit. That big farmer would have to cut himself in quarters to try.

Brian heard the sound of stones whizzing through the air and swords chopping into flesh behind him. No looking back, he told himself. No thinking about nothing except the food in his hand. Brian sucked in his breath and kept sliding along until he reached a spot where a portion of one wall had collapsed inward, creating an alcove just big enough for him to settle down onto a pile of torn rugs, which Fergus had given him. He opened his small packet of food.

Fergus never had much, and it didn't do his health any good to share with Brian, but he'd always shared anyway. Brian shoved the crumbling oatcake into his mouth and chewed slowly, pretending it was the first course of an endless banquet set on MacCailein Mor's table. The banquet soured on his tongue.

The Duke and the King, both dead. Somorled in charge of Grey Hollow.

The feud between the two clans had been long and bitter. With MacCailein Mor’s fighting men away to the south, engaged against the Angli, the people of Grey Hollow would have no help against Somorled’s brutality.

Brian shuddered. The stories of heroes and warriors his father had told him tumbled about in his head. All the great men were dead now. MacCailein Mor dead. And the King. And Brian’s father. And before them all, the unmatched hero, Tearlach of the King’s Guard. But with Prince Domnall favoring Lord Somorled, perhaps even Tearlach, if he were still alive, would not be able save Grey Hollow.

Brian reached back down to the cloth for a bite of cheese he hoped Fergus had left him. His hand rubbed against something large and rough. Not cheese. He picked it up and squinted to see it in the darkness. It filled the palm of his hand. Brown and lumpy with wrinkled skin. It took him a moment before he realized what it was.

A potato. A whole potato just for him.

He brushed off a bit of dirt that still clung to it and took a bite, savoring the bitter skin and crunchy inside. His mouth watered for more, but he stopped himself. He couldn't eat his prize potato all at once. Instead, he licked the last crumbs of oats and cheese from the cloth and wrapped the potato back up. Then he curled into a ball, pulled a rug up over him and set about his nightly battle to survive the bitter cold.

Around him shouts and screams echoed as others fought a losing battle against Lord Somorled’s men.

When Brian woke in the morning, he unwrapped his potato and examined it in the light. It was wrinkled and old and not nearly as big as the potatoes the farmer had spread out on his table. Brian didn't care. Fergus shouldn't have spent the money on it for Brian anyway. He had his own wife and three daughters to feed. Brian hoped the farmer had let Fergus have the potato for a good price.

Better to think about Fergus and potatoes than blood running in the streets and Somorled in charge of Grey Hollow.

Brian took another bite. He figured if he had just one bite each morning and night, the potato would last him a whole week. He smiled at his treasure and twisted it in his hand. Something tickled his fingers. Looking closer, he saw that a green stem had sprouted from a tiny round indent in the potato.

Brian blinked. Green. Growing. Plant. It couldn't be. Not here in Grey Hollow. But it was. Somehow the potato had started to grow. Shaking with excitement, Brian wrapped the potato back up in the cloth and tucked it under his rug to keep warm.

Plants need dirt, he thought. Plants need water. He could grow his own potato tree if he could keep the potato warm and give it what it needed.

"Dirt and water," he murmured, squeezing his way to the end of the alley. Soot he could find everywhere; on the buildings, on the road, on the people. Horse dung, no problem, it filled the streets. But dirt, real dirt like the farmer had out on his farm, would be hard to come by.

Brian glanced out at the market street. Still and empty, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. If people had died, the bodies were gone. The cobbles were damp here and there with puddles of blood, but the smell of the peat smoke and dung covered any lingering scent.

Brian gritted his teeth and slid out of the alley. He choked on the sooty air and coughed until his throat ached. After he'd finished coughing, he hurried to the spot where the farmer had unloaded his potatoes the day before. There had been dirt on Brian's potato. He hoped to find more. Sure enough, scattered about on the ground was a thin sprinkling of dirt. Brian swept it up into a mound. He couldn't help but get soot and dung in his pile as well. He hoped it wouldn't hurt. He held out the lower edge his ragged shirt and scooped the dirt onto it, as much as he could gather, a whole shirt full.

Getting back down the alley proved difficult, and some of the dirt spilled. But he made it to his alcove. At the edge of his space, he fashioned a square box from the fallen stones and put the dirt he'd collected in the bottom.

Oh so carefully, he dug a hole and put his wrinkled potato into it with the little green shoot facing up. He covered the potato and sat back to admire his garden. He could barely see one tip of green in the dirt. Nice.

He put his rug overtop the box to keep it warm and hurried down the streets to the public well that stood in front of the laundry house.

The laundry house loomed over him in spectral silence. From inside should have come the shouts of the foreman and the pounding of clothes on the washboards. But today it stood empty, a testament to Somorled's cruelty. No one dared walk the streets this morning. Not even to gather the laundry.

The laundry house had been Brian's home until his mother grew sick and died. He'd worked there alongside her, carrying water to fill the big wash tubs. He'd been strong then, with food and the exercise of carrying water all day. But they'd chased him away after his mother died.

At the well, Brian pumped water up into a big basin. Usually a line of women and boys stood ready to fill their buckets and hurry back inside. That morning the well stood deserted.

Brian’s heart hardened into icy fear.

He realized with despair, he didn't have a bucket to carry water in. He didn't even own a tin cup. Each day he'd visited the well to drink straight from the basin. He'd been happy at first to no longer have to carry the heavy water buckets. Soon though, he’d wished they had let him stay and work at the laundry house.

Glancing over his shoulder at the silent laundry house and trying not to think what could have happened there during the night, Brian took off his shirt and dipped it in the basin.

Two soldiers in Somorled’s tartan came around the corner and saw him. "Hey!" they shouted, drawing their swords and rushing toward him.

Brian pulled his shirt out and ran, cupping it and the dripping water in his hands. He knew the streets. Knew the alleys. Fear drove him. He outdistanced his pursuers and slid back into his hiding place.

The cold water made him shiver, but he squeezed it out of his shirt onto his little garden, as much as he could get from the thin fabric. All the while gasping silently, asking himself why Somorled’s men would come after him just for using the well.

He hung his shirt up to dry and curled up in the rugs to get warm.

He stayed in the alley with the rugs until his shirt dried. First it froze, then Brian broke the ice off and hung it up again. Every few minutes he peeked in at his baby potato tree. Nothing changed. The town’s unusual silence pressed around him. He thought about what Fergus said about the farmer only planting crops in spring. Brian would wait until spring to see it grow if he had to. He couldn’t do much else now Grey Hollow had become a tomb.

Just before sunset, he heard footsteps and whispered voices in the street. He took his shirt down and put it back on. Cold, Cold, Cold.

He squirmed his way to the front of the alley and peeked out. Fergus and two other men stood in a knot across the street, talking in low voices. After a moment the other two hurried away, and Fergus leaned against the building. A wind ruffled his tufts of hair. He looked straight ahead, his eyes glassy and unblinking. No wicker basket. No rugs.

Brian stepped out of the alley and walked over to him. "Fergus?"

Fergus jumped and blinked his eyes.

"Thanks for the potato," Brian said, not knowing what else he could say. Where will you go? What will you do? came to mind, but Fergus looked too lost to answer.

"The farmer traded me some potatoes for one of my rugs," Fergus said. His ragged voice drifted off across the silent street, and he stared at the ground without looking at Brian. "He was new to the market, like you said. Probably a spy for Lord Somorled. Anyway it was a small potato, too rotten and old for Priscilla to cook."

"Here. It's the last I can give you." He handed Brian his usual meal cloth. Brian gave him back yesterday's cloth, dumped the new oatcake and crumbs of cheese into his hand, and gave back that cloth as well.

"You won't be back tomorrow." Brian knew it in his heart, but needed to say it out loud to be sure.

Fergus shook his head. "New laws. No selling in the streets. Brian, you must be careful. Stay out of sight."

"Maybe you and some of the others could work together to fix up one of these old buildings for a shop." Brian pointed to the building whose broken wall made up his hidden nest.

Fergus blinked and scratched the tuft of hair above his right ear. "Maybe." He said the word slow and drawn out. Then he shuddered and clenched his fist.

Brian stuffed his last meal into his mouth. Fergus walked away without saying another word. Icy fear gripped Brian's heart. Shaking, he crept back into the alley.

Chapter Two

Brian stayed in the alley the next day and night, too cold and scared to go out, thinking he should get more water for the potato, but the ominous silence over Grey Hollow kept him in hiding.

Another day slipped away from him. Then another. His tongue swelled in his dry mouth. He grew so hungry he considered digging up his potato to eat it. No. There had to be another way to survive without Fergus's food. The potato must have a chance to grow.

Sick and weak, coughing, unable to stop, he inched to the opening of the alley. The market lay empty except for the street cleaner with horse and cart. Brian watched him rake the horse droppings and other refuse into a pile and then shovel them into the back of the cart. Then he swept the cobblestones with a broom, sending up a billowing cloud of sooty smoke.

Brian covered his nose and mouth with his shirt and moved away, stricken by the silent street and Lord Somorled's attempts to impose cleanliness on Grey Hollow. Brian's stomach ached, and his legs refused to hold him up on their own, forcing him to lean against the buildings to get about.

He left the empty street and dragged himself to the well. The cold water hurt his tongue and felt like a knife sliding down his throat. He could not bear more than a few swallows. He moved on to other parts of Grey Hollow, searching for scraps on some street that hadn't yet been cleaned. He had to get food. He needed to grow strong again so he could work. He was a year older now. Maybe someone might—

Ahead he saw three skinny street boys like himself huddled against a building for warmth. A carriage rattled down the road and stopped in front of them. The boys scattered as a man in a leather vest and Somorled's tartan stepped out of the carriage. He wore his long brown hair tied against his neck and carried a black riding crop in his hand. He had a cruel dagger called a dirk at his side.

Brian tried to run too, but stumbled and fell. The coughing took him, and he couldn't move.

Two heavy hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

Brian tried to stifle his coughing with a hand over his mouth and kept his head bowed, knowing better than to look the man in the face as an equal would.

"How old are you, boy?" the man asked in a firm voice that reminded Brian of his father.

"Fourteen," Brian wheezed, knowing his size made him look much younger.

"Worthless." The man dropped him.

Brian tried to crawl away, but the man stepped around to block him. Brian bumped into his heavy brown boots. With nowhere to go, Brian curled into a ball and covered his face with his hands, expecting a beating or the bite of steel in his flesh.

"Pathetic," the man said. "But his Lordship's orders are to tell everyone." He paused for a moment, and Brian shuddered. "His Lordship has opened a poorman's kitchen over on Broad Street. Those who have no home or food can go there at his Lordship's expense." The man huffed as if glad to have his duty complete and then strode back to his carriage.

With a crack of the whip and clatter of hooves and wheels, the carriage passed Brian and headed off down the street.

Brian uncurled, crawled to the rough stone building and pulled himself up. It was a dress shop, and a severe-looking lady with a pinched nose glared at him through the window. Brian grimaced back at her and pulled himself a few steps further along the street. The man's dirk and whip had scared him, but the promise of food made him put thoughts of the man aside. Broad Street wasn't that far. He could make it.

"Psst." One of the other boys poked a shaggy head out from a hole beneath the dress shop's wooden steps. "Don't go to Broad Street." The boy had crooked teeth and stinky breath, but friendly eyes.

"I've got to," Brian rasped. "I'll die if I don't. Got to eat. Got to get warm." He started to cough again.

"Listen," the boy said. "No one ever comes back from that poorman's kitchen. People go in, but no one comes out. You'd be better off staying with us. We've got a thing going. We know how to steal food and not get caught."

"But . . . but I don't steal," Brian whispered, more to himself than the other boy.

"What do you mean you don't steal?"

Brian shook his head. "Stealing is wrong."

The boy frowned "Well that explains why you're stick-thin and dying. Everyone steals."

"But Constable Marsh will cut off my hand."

The boy snorted. "Only if you get caught, and we don't get caught."

Brian hesitated then forced his weak legs to walk away. He was glad the boy had asked him, but he knew he was too weak to run, and stealing meant running. He'd rather take his chances on Broad Street. But the boy's words bothered him.

He reached an intersection filled with horses and carriages, all showing Somorled’s colors. Everything stopped while one of his Lordship's messengers galloped around the carriages and sped up the street. Before the other horses started moving again, Brian staggered across the street and slumped against a wall. His lungs burned.

Up ahead he smelled oatcakes frying and it reminded him of long ago times at home with his mother and father. His father's deep voice grunting in laughter as mother kissed his neck. Hot oatcakes with marmalade and clapshot for dinner. The rasp of father sharpening his sword before hanging it up for the night.

Brian hated that sword now. It had gotten his father killed. Brian imagined one like it cutting his father, snuffing out his life like a single slice of frozen wind. A sword killed MacCailein Mor too. And left Grey Hollow in the hands of Lord Somorled who drove away the merchants and then opened a kitchen. A dangerous dark kitchen where street boys feared to go.

The smell of that kitchen made Brian's stomach grumble, something he thought it had forgotten how to do. He staggered onward step by step until he saw a line of ragged men and women, waiting outside the door of a grey stone building squished up between the jail and the chamberlain's office.

Brian hesitated. The men looked hungry and desperate. "Just like me," Brian muttered. "But I'm a lot smaller." He wondered if there would be enough food for all of them, if he'd have to fight to get any. If it came to that, he'd lose.

The building door creaked open, and the line moved forward, each man stepping inside, one by one. Brian moved to the back of the line, shivering with cold and fear. He thought of Fergus and hoped he was all right. He thought about his potato plant and how it hadn't seemed to grow at all. Too cold. Not enough sunlight. He should have eaten the potato, but he so wanted to see something grow. Anything green and living. Just once.

"Out of the way." Two men walked up and pushed Brian out of line, taking his place.

Brian moved around behind them and got back in line.

More people came. Men, women, older boys. Ragged. Hungry, but stronger than him. The sun had set by the time Brian made it to the door. Inside nearly fifty people sat around long rows of tables. Each had a steaming bowl of soup and an oatcake. At the far side of the room, a smoky peat fire burned in a big fireplace.

Right next to the door a lady in a fine green dress with a shawl in Somorled's red and black colors scraped a spoon along the bottom of a big black kettle. "Not much left. All the vegetables and meat already gone. Sorry," she said to Brian.

She dumped a small scoop of the hot broth into a wooden bowl and handed it to Brian along with the last oatcake. She gave him a friendly smile and patted his shoulder. "Go easy on the soup. If you eat too fast when you're so hungry it'll make you sick."

Brian thanked her and carried his food to the closest corner of the room. He shoved the oatcake into his pocket and sunk down with his back to the corner and his knees tight against his chest. He balanced the warm bowl on top, savoring the heat. The broth smelled like chicken and vegetables and something else, something sickly sweet.

A soldier stepped into the room and surveyed the crowd.

Brian stiffened, the broth forgotten in his hands.

"That's the last of them," the soldier said. He ushered the woman out the door and shut it. It thumped closed, and metal snapped together like a lock clicking into place.

Brian lowered his bowl. The rest of the crowd hadn't seemed to notice. They lulled over their empty bowls, eyes drooping. One by one they fell asleep where they sat. Their heads leaning against their overturned bowls.

Brian set his broth aside. His stomach rumbled in protest. It smelled so good and felt so warm.

He shook away the hunger, went to the door, and tried the latch. It refused to open. He pushed against the door. It remained in place. He'd been right. The soldier had locked it.

"Everyone goes in. No one goes out," he muttered. Still leaning against the door, he pulled the oatcake from his pocket and nibbled on it. At least the room is warm, he thought, though he wished for his rugs.

He made his way to the fireplace and sat down on the hearth. The peat logs glowed red hot, small flames flickered silently, filling the room with light and shadow. He stared at the people slumped across tables. It wasn't natural for everyone to fall asleep like that.

A cold shiver rattled his bones. The woman at the door had warned him the soup could make him sick. She must have put some kind of drug or poison in it. Part of him was scared, but another part of him just wanted to savor the heat from the fire and the roof over his head for as long as it lasted. The warmth made his throat feel better, and he stopped coughing as much.

But he knew something bad was bound to happen. The soldiers had lured everyone in here and drugged them to sleep, then locked the door. Brian wondered if they would come back to kill them or just leave them all to die, locked up here in this room.

He thought this over while time passed and the fire burned down to ashy white coals. He didn't want to die. He had to get back to take care of his potato plant.

The lock on the door clicked. Brian dove from the hearth under the closest table.

Boots thumped against the floor. Brian watched them stride along the row of tables. He recognized those brown boots. They belonged to the man who had sent him here. More boots followed. Polished black soldier boots.

"Let's see what we got this time," the man said, his voice flat. "Doesn't look like much."

"This one seems strong enough," a soldier said.

"All right. Let's get this business done then."

The man with the brown boots stepped up to the table, not far from where Brian crouched. Brian kept frozen, breathing softly, trying not to cough.

The man stood next to the first person at the table, a skinny old man who'd been first in line. "Dead."

Brown Boots moved to the next person. A ragged lady who'd wheezed the whole time she'd waited in line. "Dead."

The soldiers hurried over and dragged the first two away. Brian felt exposed without their legs shielding his body.

Brown Boots moved on. "Fine," he said. "Fine. Fine. Dead."

Brian shuddered as he heard chains clank above him. A soldier lifted one man's slack arm, and Brian heard the clack of manacles snapping closed around the wrist.

Brown Boots continued down the tables, making his pronouncements. The poison, it seemed, had killed the oldest, sickest, and weakest of the crowd. The soldiers dragged those bodies away. They clamped chains on everyone left breathing and carried them out as well.

Brian gagged. Lord Somorled’s kitchen was sweeping the streets clean of homeless folk as deftly as the street cleaner had raked up the horse droppings.

Cold wind from the open door blew across the room, swirling under the tables and freezing Brian's face. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth and tried not to breathe it, but the cold sank in, through the shirt, through his skin and bones, into his lungs. A knot built in his throat, keeping the air from going into his lungs. He held his breath for as long as he could while Brown Boots finished his macabre walk down the tables.

Brian's head pounded, and his eyesight grew fuzzy. A cold lick of wind slapped him in the face. He gasped, and the coughing came unstoppable now.

His barking cough echoed around the room.

"What?" Brown Boots said. He pushed the table aside and grabbed Brian as he tried to scramble away.

Chapter Three

"How come you're still alive?" Brown Boots said, hoisting Brian up by the front of his shirt.

Brian looked the man in the eye this time. "You're a murderer," he hissed. "You killed these people."

The man scowled at him. "No. It's just a sleeping potion. Not my fault some are too weak for it. If it killed them, they were already dying. It just gave them a comfortable way out. A happy way. Warm and with full bellies."

Brian grabbed the man's strong arm and tried to wrench himself free. "And the others you've chained up. They've broken no laws. You don't have the right to imprison them."

The man's lips wrenched up in a terrible smile. "No, not prison. Then his Lordship would have to pay to feed them. What use is that? Lord Somorled needs funds to straighten out Grey Hollow. You indigents are to be sold as slaves to restore the coffers. Though I suppose I'll have to pay someone to take you off my hands."

The soldiers carried the last man out and hurried back in to stand around Brown Boots. "Sir, I can't find any manacles that will fit on this one. He's too skinny," their captain said.

"Fine then, just kill him," Brown Boots answered.

Brian fought harder to free himself, but his effort ended with spasms of coughing.

The captain snapped to attention. "No, sir. Lord Somorled ordered no killing. If they don't pass on peacefully, they go as slaves. No exceptions."

"Oh. How kind and generous his Lordship is." Sir Brown Boots sneered. "Is that how he can sleep at night all comfy and feeling good about himself?"

The captain's face went red. "Well I don't suppose you have any trouble sleeping at all." He grabbed Brian and hauled him outside. The bitter cold slapped Brian's face and worsened his coughing.

"Should have drunk the soup, boy," the captain said as he hefted Brian into the back of a wagon with tall sides and a roof that blocked off any view. He tied Brian's hands and feet with a rope, looping it around a steel ring on the wall.

He left for a moment. Brian looked out at a second wagon, more full of dead bodies than the one with the living. The soldiers slammed the doors shut on the death wagon and it rolled away, disappearing into the night, so that no one would know what happened to those who went into the kitchen.

The captain came back and threw a grubby blanket over Brian. "You got brains, boy, not eating the soup," he said. "I hope it helps you now."

Sir Brown Boots appeared at the back of the wagon. "You gave him a blanket. How sweet." He pushed the captain away, slammed the doors shut with a bang, and locked them.

Brian lay back against the two men who had shoved him out of line first. Both snored, unaware of the manacles around their wrists and ankles and the chain that secured them along with everyone else to the wagon.

The ropes rubbed against Brian's wrist, making his skin sore. Brian worked at the knots with his teeth, but that only seemed to make them tighter.

Up front the horses' harnesses creaked, and the wagon jerked forward. The movement flung Brian up against the manacles and bruised his back. He sucked in a breath, coughed, and hunkered down into the blanket. Heat from the crowded bodies filled the wagon, and the walls kept the stinging wind at bay.

As the wagon rattled on through the night, he wondered how the woman could stand to give the poisoned soup to all those people.

The wagon rumbled to a stop.

Brian heard voices. Sir Brown Boots talking to some other man. "Here they are. Twenty strong men. Three women. One worthless scrap of a boy. He'll probably die before you get there."

"They awake yet?"

"Naw. Won't be for some time yet."

The other man grunted. Coins clanked together as money changed hands. Brian wondered how much a load of starving homeless people was worth. It probably didn't matter to Lord Somorled anyway, as long as he had them removed from the streets.

The wagon jerked into motion. Brian leaned his head back and tried to imagine where they might be going. He pictured a bright clean city with warmth and sunshine. Why not? It was his daydream, he could imagine what he wanted. The people in the new city would welcome the suffering folks in the wagon with open arms, take them into their homes, feed them, give them jobs, and let them earn a fair living.

Groans came from the people in the wagon as they started to wake.

"What?"

"Why's it so dark?"

"Where are we?"

Brian shoved his blanket into hiding behind him, pushed up against the back doors, and tried to make himself as small as possible.

"We're moving."

"It's a wagon."

"Chains," a woman howled. "We're in chains."

"Shut up," the man beside Brian shouted. "My head hurts."

"They drugged us," his partner whispered. "Drugged us and have probably sold us off as slaves. I told you we shouldn't go to the kitchen."

"Shut up," the first man said again, this time softer and aimed at his friend. "How was I to know this would happen?"

"Slaves!" the woman shrieked. "Slaves. Slaves." She thrashed around, fighting to get free of the manacles, jerking everyone's chains. Cries of protest filled the wagon.

The wagon stopped.

"Quiet in there." Someone pounded on the roof.

A moment later the back doors opened. Brian fell out and hung suspended down the back of the wagon from the ropes that tied his hands to the metal ring. His blanket fell on the ground below him.

With his hands stretched up over his head, he stared into the face of a filthy man dressed in black leather. He held a heavy whip curled up in his hands. A man in a forest green suit and white silk shirt and warm, hooded cloak stepped up behind him. "Bring 'em out, Tom," he told the man in black. "Let's see what we got."

Tom laughed and drew a dirk, which he used to saw through the rope that held Brian suspended. Brian pulled his legs in as he fell, tucking into a forward roll so he wouldn't get hurt as he hit the ground. He grabbed his blanket as he rolled and came up to a sitting position with it pressed between his bound hands and his chest. He stopped with his face only a fraction from the rich man's legs.

The man stepped back and swirled his cloak around to keep Brian's filthy body from touching his clean suit. "You must be the boy." The man laughed. "More like some wild animal I'd say."

Tom cracked the whip and ordered everyone out of the wagon. The woman's screams subsided to faint sobs, and one by one the prisoners stepped down. A chain connected them all together by the manacles on their feet, and another chain connected all their hands. Tom made them stand in a line. He jerked Brian to his feet and set him next to them. But the captain had tied Brian's ankles together. He wobbled and fell. Tom grunted and left him in the dirt.

Overhead the sun shone in a cold blue sky. Brian stared up at it in surprise. No clouds of soot blocked his view. The air was cold, but fresh and clean. Instead of stone buildings rising around him, tall pine trees lined the road. Brian poked at the dirt he sat on and wondered if his potato would grow better here.

The man in green walked along the line of shaking people. "I am your new master," he said. "And I own you now. Do as I say, and you'll get food and water. Cause any trouble, and you'll feel Tom's whip. Believe me, you don't want to cause any trouble."

The cold air started Brian coughing. He couldn't help himself. The master glared at him in disgust. "Feed them, Tom. Then load them back up. Leave that one. He'll make the others sick, and we'll lose the whole lot."

Tom nodded, got out a bag of rolls and handed one to each person in line. The new slaves took them without comment and ate in silence.

Brian waited for his roll, but Tom closed the bag and put it back in a compartment on the side of the wagon. Then he cracked his whip. The men and women, cold and defeated, climbed back in. Tom closed the door and locked it.

"Please," Brian said, holding out his hands. "Please untie me."

Tom snorted. He and the master went round to the front of the wagon. They climbed aboard, and the wagon rolled away.

Brian stared after it. A feeling of worthlessness rose up in him. He wasn't even fit for slavery, it seemed. An icy wind blew through the trees, and the sun slid down toward the horizon. Brian coughed and coughed until he fell on his side and lay there panting, shivering.

Weak and cold, he forced his unwilling fingers to spread the thin blanket over him and then pick at the knots on his ankles. Twice he gave up when he coughed so hard, he couldn't breathe for a moment. But then he started again. He had nothing else left to do. Just lie there and pick at the ropes as his body grew numb from the cold and the sunlight vanished.

The wind increased to furious gusts, and Brian wished he were back in his alley with walls to shelter him and thick carpets to keep him warm. The oatcake he'd had the night before did nothing to ease the pain in his empty belly now.

He sang to himself as he pulled at the knots that held his feet bound—a fighting song his father used to sing when he came home between battles. A song of strength and courage and victory.

At last the knots came loose in his hands. He pulled the rope away from his ankles and tried to stand. His legs refused to hold him, and no buildings stood close by for him to lean against as he walked.

He growled in frustration. He refused to lie down and die. Should have drunk the soup, boy. The captain’s words whispered back into his mind. A warm easy death with a full stomach.

"Shut up!" Brian screamed into the cold night. "I am not going to die." He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders. On his hands and knees he crawled off the road, a strange lopsided crawl with his wrists still bound together.

He stopped at the closest tree and used the prickly branches to pull himself up. Then he took one step. Two.

Stumbled and fell.

He landed in a pile of pine needles and deadwood. His forehead smacked against a fallen branch. The sharp pain made him nauseous. He picked up the branch to throw it aside in anger, but kept it instead, hefting its weight, feeling its strength. He used it to leverage himself up from the ground, and steady his shaking legs.

One slow step at a time, he limped back to the road. He paused, looking back the way the wagon had come, back toward Grey Hollow. Then forward along the path the wagon had gone. Away from Grey Hollow to who knew where.

My potato tree needs me, he thought. But he knew he couldn't go back. Even if he managed to hide from Sir Brown Boots and the soldiers, there wasn't much he could do for the potato. It would have to grow, or not, without him.

Brian turned away from Grey Hollow and started up the road. His hobbling steps made slow progress through the night. The cold wind howled around him, stealing his breath. He forced himself to keep walking, even with the cough that started and would not stop. If he ceased moving the cold would take him for sure, and he would die.

He followed the road in the darkness, up over a hill and then a second steeper one. He imagined he heard animals rustling about in the trees, but he couldn't really tell with the rush of the wind. He had to focus his energy on his legs and feet. Moving one, then the other, then the branch to hold him up. Repeating the process over and over again until the wind died to a whisper and the sun came up in the east.

His legs gave out, and he slumped to the ground in a pool of cold sunlight. The road stretched out below him, descending into a valley where a cluster of houses butted up against a sparkling blue stream. The road ran through the middle of the houses and crossed over the stream on a wooden bridge. Empty fields lay on the far side.

Smoke rose from the chimneys, bringing the smell of fresh oatcakes with it. Brian smiled and then frowned. No chance they'd share their food with him. Fergus was the only person who ever had. But Brian had to go down there and try, didn't he? No other choice. Nowhere else to go. He'd be lucky if he made it that far.

In the sunlight he examined the knots that held his wrists together. They were tight, but the ones on his ankles had been too, and he'd gotten those off.

Setting his stick aside for the moment, he dug his teeth into the knots. With the sun up, he could see what he was doing. Slowly the knots came loose. One string, then another. At last his hands were free.

Walking came easier now without the rope holding his hands together, though his muscles protested from the long night of use. His bare feet hurt from the cold and uneven ground.

He willed the pain and soreness away and kept moving. Down the road. Down the mountain. Down into the village where a young girl drew water up from a well while her mother hung wet laundry on the line. A boy, younger than Brian, chased chickens around the yard with a bag of seed, trying to feed them from his hands.

The girl saw Brian and hurried into the house with her water. The woman looked at him long and hard with a frown on her face. On the other side of the road a man came out of a house. He stopped when he saw Brian.

"Who are you, boy? What do you want?"

Brian tried to breathe shallowly so he wouldn't start coughing. "My name's Brian, and I'm looking for a job and a place to stay."

The man snorted. "Go back to Grey Hollow, street rat."

"I'm a good worker," Brian said.

Ignoring him, the man grabbed some peat bricks from the stack beside the house and went back inside to light the morning fire.

Brian gritted his teeth and walked toward the bridge, hoping someone else in town would be willing to give him a chance. He passed a quiet house that looked abandoned. To make up for it, the next house had so many children darting around the yard, Brian couldn't count them all.

Seeing him, the older kids stopped their game of tag and pointed. Laughing they picked up pebbles and hurled them at Brian.

Brian staggered away as fast as he could, crossing over the bridge and slumping to the ground on the far side. A clump of brown grass tickled his shaking hands. He touched the long withered leaves. They must have been so lovely in the summer. Brian imagined the empty fields full of green, growing plants not so long before.

A flutter of excitement rose in him. Farmland. Real soil where farmers planted crops and grew food. Brian leaned forward, picked up a dirt clod, and then crumbled it in his hand. He breathed in the scent of the cold damp earth.

He wished his father had been a farmer instead of a soldier.

"Hey." A big man with bulging muscles crossed the bridge and stopped in front of Brian, frowning. "What are you doing, boy?"

Brian wrapped his fingers around the precious dirt. "Just admiring the soil. Good soil. Feels right."

"What do you mean? Right for what?" The man's frown changed to a look of guarded curiosity, and Brian recognized him as the farmer he'd seen in the marketplace.

"Right for growing things," Brian said. "Potato trees probably, with lots of big brown potatoes hanging from the branches come fall."

The farmer laughed. "Potato trees?" He laughed again, long and hard. "Potato trees."

Brian got to his feet, steadying himself with the branch. "Laugh if you want, but someday I'm going to have a field like this and grow all kinds of things."

The farmer stopped laughing and narrowed his eyes at Brian. "You look familiar. Hey, aren't you that boy who tried to steal my potatoes in Grey Hollow?"

"I didn't plan to steal your potatoes," Brian snapped. "I just wanted to touch one to see what it felt like. I just wanted to ask you how you grew them."

The farmer hitched his thumbs in his belt. "You telling me you followed me all the way out here to ask how to grow potatoes?"

Brian shook his head. "Fergus gave me one of his. A little part was growing, so I got some dirt and planted it. He said it wouldn't grow in the cold. Guess he was right. It didn't do nothing but sit there in the ground."

The farmer chuckled, then his face grew serious. "It takes months for potatoes plants to grow. Then, even after they sprout, the new potatoes aren't ready until fall. And by the way, potatoes don't grow on trees. They grow on the plant's roots underground."

"Wow," Brian said. "Wish I could see that."

The farmer wrinkled his brow and stared out across the empty field, then scanned the edge of the stream. His face brightened. "Stay here," he said.

He strode across the bridge to the house where the children had thrown rocks at Brian. He pushed open the door of a stone garden shed and grabbed a shovel. Laying it across his shoulders, he came back. Motioning to Brian, the farmer left the road and hiked up along the edge of the stream to a bunch of wilted brown stems.

Brian tried to follow, but he fell twice crossing the uneven ground, and a fit of coughing kept him incapacitated for a few moments.

The farmer leaned on his shovel and waited wordlessly for Brian to pick himself back up and hobble over. He handed Brian the shovel and pointed at a spot on the ground. "Put the shovel in here and jump on the top edges to push it into the ground. Then pry the dirt up."

Brian nodded, dropped his stick and took hold of the shovel. He put it into the ground and tried to jump on it, but missed and tumbled to the ground. The farmer caught him before he rolled into the freezing stream.

"I could dig these potatoes for you," the farmer said, "but then they'd belong to Lord Somorled, since I'm in his service now." His eyebrows knit together in a dark frown as if he hated the thought of Somorled as his new lord. "This potato plant's growing past the edge of the field, though, and that means by law whoever digs it up gets it." The farmer pressed the shovel into Brian's hands once again. "Put one foot up on the edge there before you jump. Hold it steady so it doesn't twist out of your hands."

Brian tried again and managed it this time. The shovel sank into the soil. When he pried it up, the dirt fell away to reveal a mass of roots, four large brown potatoes, and many more little ones clinging to the roots.

Brian shouted in delight, fell to his knees, and pawed the loose dirt away from the potatoes. "It's magic," Brian cried. "Pure magic."

"Yeah, I guess so," the farmer said. "Growing things does take a certain kind of magic. Good magic, not dark magic. The magic of sun and rain and fertile soil, and time. It takes a lot of time and especially with potatoes you just can't see how they're going to turn out until the harvest."

Brian gathered the potatoes into his shirt. "Can I have these, really?"

"It's the law," the farmer said, hefting his shovel over his shoulder and striding to the road. "There also happen to be laws about vagabonds now. Not nice laws. If I were to see a vagabond here in the village I would have to flog him. I’d hate to have to do that."

"I'm not a vagabond," Brian protested. "I'm looking for work. Please, may I help you with the farming?"

The farmer turned back to stare at Brian. "The harvest is already in. There's nothing to do now until spring. Come back then. Don't let me see you around here before that. I should probably flog you right now."

Brian tensed and looked around for a place to run. In his condition, he'd never escape the farmer. His heart fell, and he clutched the potatoes tight against his chest.

The farmer winked. "But I see you're a man of the soil like myself. Most people from Grey Hollow don't have any love for farmers or the good rich earth. I know you were in the village, but I didn't see it with my own eyes."

He nodded toward the other side of the valley. "In the hills there, about halfway up, off the road to the right, there are two silver birch trees growing twined about each other. A little rivulet runs past their roots. Follow it deep into the forest and you'll find an old underground cabin. Empty. Crumbling. The villagers don't know about it. I built it long ago when I first came here."

He turned his back on Brian and walked toward his house and wild children. "If I see you in the village, I will flog you. If you steal anything, I'll cut off both your hands."

Brian clutched the potatoes to his chest and waited for the farmer to disappear into his house. Then he tightened the blanket around his shoulders and took up his walking stick.

Chapter Four

Even with the sun shining, the air never got warm, but Brian didn't care. He had a shirt-load of potatoes and maybe a place to stay. He took shallow breaths of the cold clean air, it didn't burn his throat and lungs the way the soot-filled air of Grey Hollow did.

It took him much of the day to cross the valley and climb into the hills on the far side. He grew impatient as he hobbled along. If he were stronger, he could have covered the distance in an hour. He nibbled on the baby potatoes to give him the energy to keep going.

Halfway up the hill, a fit of coughing brought him to his knees. His potatoes tumbled out of his shirt, and the biggest one rolled into a muddy trickle of water. Brian grabbed it and looked up at two silver birches that towered over him. They grew with their white trunks twined over and around each other.

His burning cough subsided, and he gathered the potatoes back into his shirt, got to his feet, and followed the trickle of water away from the road.

Leafless trees spread grey branches over the trail, fighting with the pine trees for space and sunlight. Dead leaves and thorny bushes covered the ground.

Exhaustion hounded Brian. His legs shook from the long walk. His stomach begged for more potatoes. He stumbled along the treacherous path. A bush snagged his feet, tripping him.

He fell and got up again. Hobbled forward. Fell and got up. Kept going, pushing his way through the trees and underbrush.

The rivulet ended at a small mossy spring in a thicket of pine trees, some standing, many fallen in a pile at the far edge against some stones. There was no cabin or building of any kind that Brian could see.

He slumped to the ground and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Perhaps he'd followed the wrong stream. The sunlight was already fading from the sky, and his tired body refused to go on.

He crawled forward to the pile of fallen logs and huddled against it. To his left he saw a dark spot up against the deadwood. A shadow? Hard as Brian looked, he couldn't figure out what cast it. Curious, he scooted over and touched the ground where it was. Or tried to, but there was no ground there. His hand went right through the shadow, and he slumped headfirst into a hole.

He let out a cry of surprise, clawed at the edges to keep himself from tumbling farther in, and blinked until his eyes adjusted to darkness. Only a thin stream of light came in around him. The hole, it seemed, led into a square room dug out of the ground. The fallen logs made a thick roof over the top. On the far side stood a stone fireplace.

Brian shouted for joy. Pulling his head back out of the hole, he looked across what he'd taken for a pile of logs and stones. It was a cabin. Underground like the farmer had said. The stones were the top of the fire place and the logs the roof, though no one would guess it looking at it from above.

A hidden cabin. Built by the farmer. Brian realized he didn't even know the farmer's name. But why would the farmer build it? Men who worked for the lords had no need to hide.

"Don't question your good luck," Brian chided himself. Gathering his stick and remaining four big potatoes, he slid his feet into the hole. His toes found the rungs of a wooden ladder, and he climbed down.

In the failing light he couldn't see much, just dirt and cobwebs. At the base of the ladder he saw a log that could be lifted up and out to cover the hole.

One of the cabin walls had caved in a little, making a mound of soil. On the far wall, the farmer had lashed together a rickety set of shelves. Three of the four shelves had fallen apart, but the bottom shelf remained intact. There Brian found a rusted old lantern with a hole in the bottom. Any oil that may have been in it once had long since seeped out the hole. Next to the lantern sat a well-worn flint and steel.

Brian cheered and went to the chimney. He stuck his hand up into the flue, but felt no draft. Over the years it must have filled up with fallen leaves and debris.

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Ebon Blade

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four