Prologue - Swordbrother

              “Daddy?” My little sister, Sarah, looks up at our father as he puts the finishing touches on a clay pot for the baker. “I wanna play with my friend Emily. How come I gotta stay ‘way from her?” Father stays quiet for a minute as he puts the pot on a shelf, then turns back, wiping his hands on his apron. I watch him. I know the truth – the awful, yet wonderful truth. Father had told me when I was eight.
         “David. Close the curtains, check to make certain that nobody is outside.” I hurry to do as he says. To be discovered and captured, maybe tortured or sold as slaves, that would be the price of stupidity or pride. My breath catches in my throat as I see a figure moving through the mist. Probably just one of the neighbors, but it never hurts to be safe.
         “Daddy! Tell me! Please!” Sarah’s shrill voice goes up an octave as she grows impatient. She tosses her long red hair over her shoulder and smiles sweetly up at Father in the way that always gets her treats and answers.
         “I see someone out there, Father. It’s probably just a neighbor.” Father’s face creases in a frown, and he ignores Sarah for once as he checks the window.
         “You’re probably right, David. Still, after all these years, I would hate to slip…” He stares moodily into space, and then sits down in the middle of the room. “Come here, Sarah.” Father beckons her to sit on his lap, and my heart aches. Why don’t I ever get to sit on his lap, I think. Why doesn’t he ever smile at me like that, why doesn’t he ever let me know if he’s proud of me or loves me? Why does perfect little Sarah always get the attention, always get her way? Angry at myself for my jealous thoughts, I look away from them. They’re my family, and I love them, I tell myself. I know this, even if I don’t always feel like it.
         “Sarah… You know that Griven took the throne of our kingdom, Ravemar, thirteen years ago, right?” She nods. Everyone knows this, but few people talk about it. Because if they did, well… They just wouldn’t want to. Father continues, “And you know that there was a war around then, too?” Sarah nods again. “Well, after Griven took the throne, he spread the story that he was the rightful king, and the former king, King Robert, had seized the throne while Griven was a baby.” He looks at Sarah, checking to see if she understood.
         “What’s this gotta do with Emily, Daddy?” She bounces on his lap.
         “Patience, my little one, patience. Well, the truth is, this was all lies. King Robert was the rightful king. He had known that Griven, his bastard brother, was trying to stir up trouble in the kingdom. So, he started calling up people to form a resistance. Unfortunately, Griven had already been poisoning the kingdom with lies for many years before Robert had noticed. Many of Robert’s former allies had been turned against him during the peaceful years. I was still with him, but… One man cannot stop a tide of evil. There was a civil war, and Griven won. King Robert was killed. That’s why you can’t play with Emily.”
         Sarah looks up at Father, confusion filling her face. “Father, you didn’t finish,” I tell him gently. He starts, the faraway look on his face being replaced by one filled with sadness.
         “Could you finish, son? I’m just so tired.” A look of relief flits across his face as I nod yes and sit down next to him and Sarah. I draw in a breath, trying to remember everything I can of what he had told me that day four long years ago.
         “Sarah, Father was the King’s cousin, Jude, and he was the head of the resistance.” My voice raises some as I tell her this life-changing information. She stares at me, trying to absorb it.
         “Is.” My father’s voice interrupts me, harsh with… Pain? Anger? Grief? “I am still Robert’s cousin, although that place holds no honor or respect or prestige anymore. Remember that, son.” I flinch, staring at the ground. Of course I had screwed up, and on the first sentence, too, I think bitterly.
         “Yes, Father. I’m sorry. Sarah, you know the rewards out for anyone who turns in somebody connected to the resistance movement, past or present. And you know the punishment too.” I stare at her, trying to get her to understand the seriousness of what we had just told her, although I do wonder – was it such a good idea to tell a six-year-old this secret? “Do you understand?”
         “No. What’s that gotta do with Emily?” I groan. I really do not want to tell her this, but Father obviously isn’t paying any attention, leaving it up to me.
         “See, Emily’s family is connected to King Griven, her un-“
         “Griven, son! That man is no King, nor will he ever be. Don’t you give him more power than he already has! It’s people like you, people who are weak and give in without a fight that let him have the throne! Don’t let me ever hear you calling him King again, you hear me?” I fight back tears, knowing that they would make Father even madder, ashamed of my weakness. “Understand?” I nod, my throat thick.
         “Sarah,” I say, pausing a minute to compose my voice, “Emily’s uncle is fairly high-ranking in the Guard, and we need to avoid anybody even slightly related to anybody in the Guard. Stay away from Emily, alright? Do this for Father, please.” Sarah nods, but I can tell she isn’t happy with it. Father can too, for he gathers her back onto his lap and asks her if she wishes to have him tell her a story. A story? I’ve never heard a story from Father, so I push away my envy and sit down to listen.
         Crack! Our door bursts open, and four leering men, including Emily’s uncle, burst into the room. “King Griven will be so pleased to meet you, Jabez, formerly known as Jude, Robert’s cousin. I’m sure that you’ll just love talking him.” Father scrambles to his feet, eyes blazing. I see the rage in his eyes, but behind the carefully held mask I can tell that he’s afraid.
         “How did you-” my father starts to say. He moves in front of us. I pull Sarah back against me, and move to the back of the room. She whimpers with fear as the men advance on us.
         “You should teach your son to keep his voice down,” says one of the men smoothly. Father glances at me cowering behind him, and I see fury there. I know that it is directed at me. I hunch my shoulders with shame and stare at the floor as horrible guilt crashes down on me. It’s my fault that this is happening. It’s my fault if any of us are hurt or killed or imprisoned or sold as slaves. A sob rises in my throat. Sarah would have been quieter, I’m sure. One of the men laughs cruelly at me.
         Three of the men lunge for Father, catching him before he has a chance to fight, and pinning him against the wall. He struggles to get to Sarah and me, but he’s overpowered. They bind him tightly, one of them always watching Sarah and me. We can’t escape. I move us back against a wall, even though I know it’s hopeless trying to escape. Terrified, I grab a knife off of the table and hold it in front of me, trying to keep the men back. “St-st-stay b-back!” I stutter. Sarah and I are cut off from the rest of the room now. Two of the men who attacked Father advance menacingly toward us. None of this seems real, I think desperately. Maybe I’ll wake up and this will just be a bad dream.
         “Put that knife down, boy, you’ll just hurt yourself with it,” sneers Emily’s uncle. His lip curls up when I shake my head. “Be a fool, then. Just one more fool to add to the captured.” Fear sweat rolls down my cheek, and I hurry to brush it off with my arm. While I’m distracted, one man jumps me from the left. Sarah screams. I spin to block him, realizing too late that this was a feint. The real attack comes from the right, now behind me. A thickly muscled arm wraps around my torso and arms, preventing me from using my knife. I feel something cold against my neck, and I realize with a rush of pure terror that a knife is pressing into my throat.
         “Drop the pig-sticker,” growls a deep voice next to me. Petrified, I drop the knife from my shaking hand. It clatters loudly as it hits the ground, suddenly making everything come into focus and seem real. “Good boy. Next time, before grabbing a knife, learn how to use it.” I swallow convulsively. The man who holds me marches me over to the side, where he shoves me against the wall, keeping the knife at my throat the entire time. I hear a soft sound in the background, and I realize that Sarah is crying. I try to turn to see what they’re doing to her, but he shoves me viciously back, and I feel a trickle of blood run down my throat.
         Father screams, “No! Don’t take her! Take me, take David, just don’t take her!” He moans with anguish, and I realize what they’re doing. They’re carrying out the first part of the punishment: they’re taking what he loves most from him. But that’s just a dim realization. In my head, all I can hear is his last words over and over. “Take me, take David, just don’t take her!”
         So, I think, what I always thought is true. He loves Sarah more than me; he’d rather have me dead than her. I’m not worth as much as her. I’m not good enough for him. Sarah’s better than me. Everything goes numb, and I drop limp into my guard’s arms. I don’t even feel if he catches me or not. Pain wracks me as I try not to think, try to believe that he didn’t really say that last line. Father, I think in agony, what did I ever do wrong? Why wasn’t I as good as her?
         My mind starts to shut down the pain, just for a while, and I realize that I’m now bound hand and foot in a farm cart. Father is next to me, and I can hear the guards talking in loud happy voices, rejoicing over their fine catch and speculating on how they would be rewarded. I close my eyes and listen to them rather than looking at Father. Finally, sickened with what they’re talking about, I open my eyes and look at Father. He’s curled up in a ball next to me, tears running down his cheek.
         “Father?” I ask tentatively, afraid of what he’ll say. I watch his eyes snap open, and see them fill with hatred.
         “You are no son of mine.” I flinch. “A son of mine would have been brave and fought to protect his family until he could fight no more – regardless of his life. A son of mine wouldn’t have dropped his knife. A son of mine wouldn’t have let his sister go without a fight! You are no son of mine!” He stares furiously at me. “This is all your fault. It is your fault that Sarah was taken and killed! It is your fault we were discovered! This entire situation is your fault!”
         Shame and a sense of worthlessness fill me. Father is right. Everything is my fault. Then his other words hit me. “Sarah… You saw her killed?” I ask faintly, horror washing over me.
         “No, but what else would they do with her?!? She’s not here now, and all I saw was her being taken out of the house.” I close my eyes, fighting against the hopelessness and self-hatred that I can feel coming on. Then my heart hardens. If Father represents the good side, then the good side said that they didn’t care about me – I wasn’t worth caring about. The bad side oppresses people. Neither is good, so why should I care what happens to either, or the people involved with either? Nothing really matters now. Satisfied with my conclusion, the pain about my father and what he said recedes for a while. Sarah, though, was an innocent – so I weep for her as we are taken away to a bleak future.