Chapter 3: A License to Burn

By morning, the rain had found the crack above the kitchen.

Godric woke to the sound of water striking a bowl. For a while, he lay still and counted the drops, hoping someone else would empty it before it overflowed.

“Since you’re awake,” his mother said.

He opened his eyes.

Mira stood beside the hearth with her sleeves rolled up.

“How did you know?”

“You stopped snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Then something under your blanket does.”

He got up.

Outside, the village smelled of wet straw and woodsmoke. Rain clung to the eaves, gathering into drops that fell down the back of his neck as he emptied the bowl. Yesterday’s wagon tracks had filled with water.

His father was already at the table.

The grain figures lay beneath a piece of old sailcloth, protected from the leaking roof. Darin had set the acknowledgment of their appeal on top. Beside it was a folded letter, addressed in his small, cramped hand.

“You’re taking that across the river,” he said.

“To the court?”

“The works yard. Ask for Salem.”

Godric glanced at the acknowledgment.

“Aren’t you going to take the petition?”

“The reeve is putting together the other households’ accounts. We’ll go when he’s finished.”

Darin rubbed his eyes.

“In the meantime, the district wants the lower gates inspected before the autumn rains. Salem has the drawings I need.”

Godric looked toward the bowl.

His father followed his gaze.

“Yes. I noticed.”

He handed Godric a small wooden tally with a hole bored through one end.

“Show this at the ferry. It’s a works crossing.”

“Why can’t I use the bridge?”

“You can, if you want to walk half the morning and arrive at the yard from the wrong side.”

The ferry, then.

Godric tucked the letter inside his shirt.

“Bring back whatever Salem gives you,” Darin said. “Keep it dry.”

Mira put bread and a piece of cheese into a cloth.

“And eat this before you decide to trade it for something.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“You came home with a fishing hook.”

“I caught fish with it.”

“One fish.”

“It was a good fish.”

His mother handed him the bundle.

“Off you go.”

The ferry lay upstream of Willow, where the Osen widened around a bank of reeds.

Godric had crossed there before, but never without his father. He remembered an old man with a red nose who charged extra for pigs and refused to explain why.

The man waiting beside the landing was younger.

He stood with one foot on the ferry and the other on the bank, tightening a rope around the landing post. His trousers were rolled above his knees. A pale, uneven scar ran along the outside of his left leg, disappearing beneath the cloth.

Godric looked away before the man straightened.

Too late.

“If you’re wondering whether it bites,” the ferryman said, “it doesn’t.”

“What?”

“My leg. You were keeping a careful distance.”

Godric held out the wooden tally.

“Works yard.”

The man wiped his hands on his coat before taking it.

“Darin’s?”

“He’s my father.”

“I thought you looked familiar.”

Godric studied him more closely. His hair was dark with gray at the temples, and there was a small notch in the edge of one ear. A metal clasp held his coat shut. Its raised design had been worn or filed almost smooth, though one side still resembled the edge of a wing.

“Do I know you?”

“No. You look like him.”

“Oh.”

“Ilan.”

The man handed back the tally.

“Get aboard.”

The ferry was broad and flat, with a low rail along either side. A cable ran through a wooden guide near the bow. Ilan pulled the last rope free, took up a long pole, and pushed them away from the landing.

Godric stood near the front.

“Sit on the bench.”

“I’m all right.”

“The bench will be pleased.”

He sat.

As the bank slipped away, the current caught the ferry and pressed it against the cable. Ilan adjusted the guide, then worked the pole until they began to move steadily across.

Godric watched his hands.

They were scarred too, though most of the marks looked old. One finger would not straighten completely.

“What happened to the other ferryman?”

“He went to live with his daughter.”

“Does he still charge extra for pigs?”

“I’ve never met his daughter.”

Godric looked up.

Ilan’s expression had not changed.

After a moment, Godric smiled.

The ferryman shifted his weight, taking care with his left leg.

“Your father keeping busy?”

“The collector came yesterday.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“I know.”

Ilan glanced at him, then returned his attention to the far bank.

For a while, the only sounds were the water against the boards and the faint groan of the cable.

Godric looked at the clasp again.

“Were you a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still?”

“Sometimes they remember I am.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll need someone to mind the ferry tomorrow.”

Ilan caught the landing with his pole.

“Stay seated until I’ve tied us up.”

Godric waited, though his next question was already forming.

The ferryman secured the rope and lowered the short boarding plank.

“Works yard is through the market. Past the whitewashed storehouse.”

He had answered enough.

Godric climbed ashore.

The market had gathered beneath awnings that sagged with rain.

People ducked between them, carrying baskets under their coats. A woman selling onions kept striking the underside of her canvas with a stick, sending collected water onto anyone careless enough to pass too close.

Godric followed the smell of broth until he found the works yard.

Inside, men were loading iron fittings onto a cart. Chains lay coiled beside the wall, and a gate hinge longer than his arm rested on wooden blocks.

He asked for Salem.

A broad-faced man emerged from a shed with a measuring cord around his neck.

“Darin’s boy?”

Godric handed him the letter.

Salem read it, turned it over, and read the last lines again.

“Tell him I’ve asked twice about the replacement pins. They can send me six requests for measurements in a week, but apparently iron takes longer.”

He disappeared into the shed.

Godric waited beneath the eaves, examining the hinge. One of its holes had worn oval. He could imagine his father’s irritation at finding it that way.

Salem returned with a roll of drawings tied in waxed cloth.

“He’ll want time to look these over. Bring them back when he’s copied what he needs.”

“Are you going to open the lower gates?”

“Eventually. That’s what gates are for.”

“I meant now.”

“The surveyors are coming through. Your father knows more about those channels than the men drawing them, so make sure he checks their work.”

Salem pressed the roll into his hands.

“And tell him I said that. It’ll improve his temper.”

The rain stopped while Godric was crossing the market.

People emerged from beneath the awnings. A man began unpacking pottery he had kept covered all morning. Somewhere near the road, a horse stamped and snorted.

Godric found a dry place beside a broth stall and took out his lunch.

He was halfway through the bread when a small boy backed into his knees.

The child was crying, though he seemed too tired to put much effort into it. Water dripped from his sleeves.

A girl came after him, carrying a basket and an earthenware cup.

“There you are.”

She caught his wrist.

“I told you to stay where I could see you.”

“He went after the little boats,” the broth seller explained. “Straight into the drain.”

The boy held up one muddy fist. Something folded from a leaf had collapsed inside it.

The girl shut her eyes briefly.

She looked fifteen or sixteen. Her apron was patched along the bottom, and a strand of hair had stuck to her cheek.

“Did he burn himself?” she asked, glancing at the cup.

“Hardly warm enough. The brazier’s been sulking since the rain.”

The girl set down her basket and crouched beside the boy.

“Hold still.”

She squeezed water from his cuffs, rubbed his hands between hers, then gave him the cup.

He refused it.

“It’s cold.”

“It’ll still help.”

He began to cry harder.

The girl took the cup back.

Godric was close enough to see her fingers settle around it. Her shoulders rose with a slow breath.

At first, nothing happened.

Then a faint orange light showed beneath the edge of her thumbnail.

Godric stopped chewing.

The girl drew another careful breath. A thin thread of steam lifted from the broth.

“There,” she whispered.

The boy accepted the cup with both hands.

“Small sips.”

Godric leaned forward.

“How did you—”

A hand closed around the girl’s wrist.

The cup tilted. Broth splashed onto the stones.

“Leave it.”

The man holding her wore a short blue coat and a brass badge. A cudgel hung at his belt. Behind him stood another market officer with a writing board tucked beneath one arm.

The girl looked from the badge to his face.

“He was cold.”

“Your license.”

She said nothing.

The officer turned her hand over, examining the fingers.

“Your license,” he repeated.

“I haven’t got one.”

Godric swallowed the bread that had gone dry in his mouth.

The second officer drew a piece of charcoal from behind his ear.

“Name?”

The girl pulled once against the hand around her wrist.

The grip tightened.

“Maren.”

“Household?”

“East washing steps. My mother works for Mistress Helve.”

The little boy clutched her skirt.

The first officer released her wrist.

“Four pennies. Payable at the market house.”

“I don’t have four pennies.”

“Then it’s three days’ work in default.”

“I can’t leave him.”

The officer looked at the broth seller.

“You know them?”

She hesitated.

“Yes.”

“Keep the boy until the mother comes.”

Maren crouched immediately.

“I’ll be back.”

Her brother shook his head.

“Maren.”

“I will.”

Godric got to his feet.

The second officer looked at him.

“What?”

“She only warmed the cup.”

The man paused with his charcoal above the board.

“Did you see her do it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we agree.”

Godric had expected his words to help her.

Now the officer was writing them down.

“That’s not—”

“Move away from the stall.”

Maren looked at him, frightened and impatient.

“Just get my basket out of the wet.”

He picked it up.

There were three shirts inside, folded beneath a cloth. One had a row of tiny stitches along its cuff.

The officer waited while Maren kissed her brother’s forehead. Then he took her by the elbow and led her toward the market house.

The boy tried to follow.

The broth seller lifted him onto her hip.

“No. Come here.”

He began screaming then.

Godric stood with the basket against his chest until the woman held out her free hand.

“I’ll keep that.”

“I didn’t mean to tell them.”

“I know.”

He gave her the basket.

She set it beneath the stall, well away from the puddles.

“Go on, lad.”

A horseman had stopped near the market entrance, blocking part of the road.

Two servants were tightening the straps on a pack animal behind him. Another man stood at his stirrup, listening while the rider pointed toward the whitewashed storehouse.

The rider wore a dark green cloak fastened with gold. His boots were clean above the ankles.

Godric would have passed without stopping if someone had not said, “Do it again.”

A merchant’s daughter was watching the man beside the horse. She was perhaps Ella’s age, with ribbons braided into her hair.

The man smiled.

“Once.”

He held up his right hand.

There was a silver band around his wrist, engraved with marks Godric could not read.

A light kindled above his forefinger.

It lengthened into a small, clear flame, trembling in the air without touching his skin. The man turned his hand. The flame followed, bending into a bright curve.

The girl laughed.

Godric stared.

He had seen the Glow before: a smith waking coals without flint, a road warden lighting a lantern in the rain. Those had happened at a distance, with other people between him and the light.

This was close enough to see.

The flame sharpened to a point, hovered, then vanished as the man lowered his hand.

No smoke. No glowing wick.

A sword hung at his hip.

Godric noticed it now: the plain dark scabbard, the worn grip, the way the man kept it clear of the horse without looking down.

“Again,” the girl said.

“That was again.”

The rider said something impatiently.

His attendant stepped back.

One of the market officers approached from the road. Godric recognized the man who had written Maren’s name.

For an instant, he expected another demand.

Instead, the officer greeted the rider and helped clear a path for the horses.

The attendant passed within a few feet of Godric.

The silver band caught the light.

Godric almost called after him.

He wanted to know how long it had taken to learn. Whether the flame was hot against his hand. Whether the sword was part of it.

Then he remembered the girl at the broth stall.

The horses moved on.

Godric stood until the road was clear.

Ilan was mending a strap when he reached the ferry.

“You missed the last crossing.”

“I’m here for this one.”

“So you are.”

Godric stepped aboard and sat before he could be told.

The ferryman put away his awl.

Halfway across, Godric asked, “Can anyone learn the Glow?”

Ilan looked at him.

“Some more easily than others.”

“Could I?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you have to be born with something?”

“You have to be taught by someone who knows what they’re doing. After that, you find out what you can manage.”

Godric rubbed a dried spot of broth from his sleeve.

“How much does it cost?”

“For instruction?”

“Yes.”

“More than a ferry crossing.”

“How much more?”

“Enough that most people who can’t afford a tutor learn through a guild. Or the army.”

Godric looked at the worn clasp.

“Is that how you learned?”

Ilan adjusted the guide on the cable.

“Yes.”

“What can you do?”

“Get you across a river. Sit still.”

Godric had leaned forward without noticing.

He settled back.

The ferry rocked gently beneath him.

“A girl in the market warmed her brother’s drink,” he said. “They took her away.”

Ilan’s hands slowed.

“Was the boy hurt?”

“No.”

“Did she have a license?”

“No.”

“There’s your answer.”

“There was a man making fire in the road.”

“Did he have a license?”

“He had a silver band.”

“Then he probably did.”

Godric looked down at his own hands.

“How’s she supposed to get one?”

“Recognized instruction. An examination. Someone willing to put their name to her training.”

“And money.”

“Usually.”

“She already knew how.”

“She knew how to warm a cup. That doesn’t tell you what else she knows.”

Godric looked up sharply.

“So they were right?”

Ilan drew the pole from the water and rested it against the rail.

“No. I wouldn’t take three days’ work from a girl for that.”

“Then why—”

“Knowing why they can do something doesn’t make it right.”

The ferry drifted against the cable.

Ilan watched the bank for a moment before reaching for the pole again.

Godric tried to picture Maren standing beside the green-cloaked rider, a silver band around her wrist. Nobody holding her arm. Nobody taking down her name.

He had admired the flame before he noticed the band.

Now he could not think of one without the other.

Darin was waiting at the landing when they returned.

He had come from the lower channel with a measuring rod over his shoulder. Mud reached nearly to his knees.

Godric lifted the roll.

“Salem said you should check their work.”

“Did he.”

“He said saying so would improve your temper.”

Darin took the drawings.

“Salem has a poor understanding of my temper.”

Ilan secured the ferry while Darin untied the waxed cloth. His father spread the first drawing on the flat top of the landing wall, holding down one corner with his tool bag.

Godric came beside him.

He recognized the millpond immediately.

The rest took longer: the river curving around Willow, the lower channel, the embankment carrying the road toward the crown’s storehouses.

His father traced a line with one finger.

“They’ve included the old relief course.”

Ilan looked over.

“Let me see.”

Darin moved his hand.

The ferryman bent above the drawing. His expression changed, though Godric could not have said exactly how. He stopped looking like a man finishing his day’s work.

“Is this what they sent you?”

“Salem copied it from the district set.”

Ilan checked a small box of writing near the edge.

“Proposed diversion,” he read.

“Pending inspection,” Darin said. “They want the gates serviceable.”

“Did they send an evacuation schedule?”

Darin looked at him.

“No. Only the repair request.”

Ilan straightened.

“Ask for one.”

“They haven’t ordered the diversion.”

“Then there’s time to ask.”

Godric followed the line his father had been tracing. It left the river above the road, passed through the lower channel, and spread into several thin branches.

One ran close to the cottages.

Another crossed Widow Renn’s fields.

“Would they have to leave?” he asked.

Neither man answered immediately.

Darin turned the drawing slightly.

“If the full flow went through here, yes.”

“Where would they go?”

“That should be in the schedule.”

Ilan picked up his mended strap.

“I’ve been called to the review tomorrow. I’ll ask what’s been issued.”

Darin nodded.

“I’ll check with the reeve.”

“And speak to the households,” Ilan said. “Make sure an order’s reached them before anyone moves those gates.”

His father looked down at the drawing again.

“I will.”

On the walk home, Godric told him about the girl in the market.

Darin listened without interrupting.

When Godric finished, his father asked her name.

“Maren. She lives by the east washing steps.”

“I know the laundry there. Your mother may know her family.”

“Can we do anything?”

“We can ask what they need.”

Godric nodded.

At the fork, his father stopped.

The road home climbed toward the village. The other path followed the lower bank, past the mill and toward the cottages.

“Take these to your mother,” Darin said, handing him the drawings. “Tell her I’ll be a little late.”

“You’re going now?”

His father looked along the lower path.

Smoke was rising from the cottage chimneys. Between two houses, someone had hung shirts out to catch the last of the evening light.

“I’d rather ask while they’re still awake.”

Godric watched him go.

Then he tucked the roll beneath his coat, where the rain could not reach it, and started up the hill.