Free The Star Shard by Frederic S. Durbin

rope. Loric was not human, to be sure—he was of the Wild and perhaps dangerous. But even so, to see him in the heavy collar made her angry.
    She couldn't have said why she took herself to the Fey boy, or why she wanted to see him up close again, or what she had intended to say. Rombol stood at a distance, talking with the commander of the Rake's soldiers. As Cymbril stopped just behind Loric's bench, a woman in a checkered headscarf was tugging her two children away. They went reluctantly, stretching their arms for a last touch of his hair, a final pull on his hand.
    Cymbril fingered her sleeve, suddenly nervous. How should she announce her presence? And, for that matter,
why
should she? What was she doing here?
    Loric turned half toward her. "I would ask you to come and sit," he said, "but I'm sure our master would not approve."
    He'd spoken so casually that Cymbril searched in all directions to be certain he was talking to her. So he'd seen her stalking closer. Wonderful. What a fool she must seem.
    "I hope you will forgive me for misspeaking last night," he said.
    He was apologizing!
    Cymbril thought carefully and said, "I get angry too easily."
    "No. It was wrong of me. If I had thought my suspicions through—"
    "How old are you?" Cymbril blurted.
    He smiled, perhaps surprised. "Thirteen. And yes, we count the years just as you do. Summer, autumn, winter, spring: nature will not be misunderstood, in your world or in mine."
    Cymbril could not suppress a grin. He spoke like someone much older. But then again, because she spent so much time with the Armfolk and inside her own head, so did she.
    "They are magical, you know." He glanced back at her before looking away again, across the sparse crowd.
    "What do you mean? What is?"
    "What you have in your pocket."
    Startled, Cymbril dropped her hand to her pocket to feel the bulk of her two treasures. "How can you possibly know what I have in my pocket?"
    He chuckled. "An ability my people have. I see two beautiful lights shining in your pocket."
    Cymbril drew an astonished breath, but just then Rombol noticed her and scowled. "I have to go," she muttered, and hurried on her way.
    Â 
    The cooks and bakers at the markets took turns giving Cymbril her lunch, for such were Master Rombol's orders. Most did so gladly, since her singing helped to draw the crowds, and the crowds brought their appetites. But a few, such as Ubelard, complained to her every single time. "The smiths don't give you horseshoes, I'll warrant." He pinched a roll between his thumb and finger before slapping it onto a tray. Cymbril was sure he always used her as a chance to clear out whatever was going stale.
    "Thank you, Master Ubelard," she said cautiously. She carried the tray out through the back of the stall, avoiding the benches in front where the villagers sat to eat. Settling herself on the floor out of sight, she balanced the lunch on her lap. Ubelard had been unusually generous: two rolls, a biscuit, and a pastry with nuts.
    The baker leaned out and handed her a tin cup of water. "The silk dyers don't keep you supplied with handkerchiefs, I'll warrant."
    "Thank you, Master Ubelard."
    No sooner had she taken a bite of the first roll—which was indeed well on its way to becoming a rock—than something heavy landed in her lap with a crash, sending bread and water flying. Cymbril shrieked and flung her arms over her face.
    It was a stout chunk of firewood that had struck her. Catching her breath, Cymbril looked up to see Gerta Curdlebree standing over her, cackling and bouncing on her toes. "Oops!" Gerta said. "One got away from me!" In her arms, she held the rest of a bundle of wood. There were still faint, bluish streaks on her face from the Moonpine dye.
    Anger flared in Cymbril, and she sprang to her feet.
    Berta appeared on her other side, waggling a finger. "Leave my sister alone, you chicken arms!" She shoved Cymbril back against the wall of the baker's booth.
    "Chicken arms!" Gerta