Free Under the Stars by Rebecca A. Rogers Page B

though, it’s cracked and scaly.
    A middle-aged man—with a heavy gut and a faded blue cap—operates a booth inside the station. The stall area is large enough to hold three, maybe four, ticket vendors. At one time, this must’ve been a hub for travelers. People in and out to visit family. Maybe some were on vacation, taking in the local sites.
    The guards don’t waste any time sending me off. When the train screeches to a halt in front of the post, they hand me my potato sack without speaking. I guess I’ll get off at the next stop…
    I hesitate on the steps leading up into the box on wheels. More than anything, I want to jump on my horse and ride back to Legora to be with Mama and Mattie. But these people need me.
    Flimsy is how I’d describe the inside of the train. Most of the booth seats are worn like my couch back home. Holes picked and chewed to the point of being unfixable. Window frames cling to spider-webbed glass and some of the floorboards are missing. I can see directly to the tracks below. Is this safe?
    Guess I’m about to find out.
    Before I have a chance to find a seat, the train jerks, and I fumble for support, almost diving face-first into the leaky floorboards. I slide into the nearest booth—no matter that its sliced leather sticks through my pants and into my skin.
    I sit by the window, a breeze catching my rebellious curls as the train picks up speed. Nothing but desert stretches as far as my eyes can see. No notable landmarks or an oasis. The view is, needless to say, boring .
    It’s then I realize I have no idea how long this trip is or how far away from home I’ll be.
    Doesn’t matter, really. I shouldn’t worry about such trivial problems. My mind needs to stay focused on what I’ll say when I meet the King. With no idea how I’m going to act, I guess I should concentrate on that too. I’ll try to remember behavior Mama taught me growing up. She used to say, “Having good manners shows you have dignity, and are a spot above the rest.” Yeah, we’ll see how that works out.
    Staying up the night before has taken its toll on my body. I notice this when I have nothing to stare at but dead land. Although I’d love to fall asleep and dream until we arrive, I must stay awake. Keeping my eyes open might help in my adventure to the New World Kingdom. If I can devise a plan along the way, then my trip might be quicker than I expected.
    But as more minutes pass, my eyes are weighed down. I’m soon enveloped in a fog of black and green dots. They linger for several seconds, then vanish as I’m drawn—no, pulled —away to another world.
    And as swiftly as they fluttered shut, my eyes spring open when the train’s wheels grind to a halt. I squint against the devilish sun, giving time for my dreamlike vision to adjust.
    Four men—dressed in black from head to toe—wait beside a platform that is a complete one-eighty from the station I departed from. For starters, this place holds scores of people layered in lavish garments. All of which are clean, modest. They chat as if the world we live in doesn’t have tired travelers searching for new homes so they can provide a better life for their families. The suits and dresses of these men and women standing just outside my window could be sold, and the money used to enhance other towns. Like, Legora.
    An operator sticks his head through the cart door, his body only halfway in. “You coming, miss?”
    I nod and grab my pitiful sack.
    As soon as I place one foot onto a wooden board outside, I’m met with whispers and exploratory glares.
    “Andrina Stevens?” one of the men on a stallion asks.
    “Yes, that’s me.”
    “We’re the King’s footmen. Some call us Black Riders.” He gauges my reaction to this. Why? I don’t know.
    “Oh, that’s…uh…that’s good?” What else am I supposed to say? Please don’t kill me? They look menacing enough, with their masks and weapons. The knife handle glimmers from the edge of his boot, and