Free Odds Are Good by Bruce Coville

utterly unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I did not even know the word for it until my third year in the temple when I was given some ice from the top of the mountain. His grip was
cold.
    My mother pushed me forward. The crowd was silent, save for Shula, who whispered, “Good-bye, Banang!” as the Pyong Myar led me away from my parents and my childhood, up the stairs of the temple.
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    I was hard put to keep up with the Pyong Myar, for the steps were too large for my childish legs. It was a terrifying climb. With no warning I had been pulled from the crowd by this fearsome stranger and taken from my family, who I was quite sure I would never see again. Something dark and mysterious had reached out and chosen me to be part of it; something that was only whispered about in the city. Yet such was the awe in which we held the temple ceremonies, and the power that emanated from the Pyong Myar, that I did not cry out, did not resist, only did as I was expected. I tried to do this with some dignity, but it was not easy when I could barely negotiate the steps, and I was crying out inside with loss and terror, as well as the pain of the cuts on my jaw.
    The guards, already on their knees, bowed their heads to the ground as we crossed the broad terrace on which they stood. Despite my terror, part of me wondered if this display of respect was for the Pyong Myar, or for me. For little as I knew what was in store, I knew that children chosen in this fashion were considered rare and precious.
    As we mounted the next level of steps, I turned to glance behind me. I could still see my parents in the crowd below. A fierce tug from the Pyong Myar brought me face forward again.
    The maidens bowed in the same way the guards had, though I noticed at least one of them secretly glancing up to get a better look at me. The priests, too, touched their heads to the ground as we passed. Only the watchers in their blue robes did not move but stared intently, as if burning my image into their brains.
    At the top level of the temple, the level where the Pyong Myar had stood alone, he turned me to face the mob below. Carefully, almost tenderly, he set the huge knives on a stone table. Then he put his hands around my waist, which was wet with my own blood, and lifted me above his head.
    The crowd roared its approval.
    The Pyong Myar turned and carried me through a dark door.
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    As you know, it is ten strides from that door to the Pyong Myar’s private apartments. Were you as astonished as I at the luxury of them? I had not known what to expect, but the lavish tapestries, pillows, rugs, fountains, polished woods, and silky curtains were a surprise.
    My new master placed me upon a table, and though he did not tell me to stay, I knew better than to attempt to move.
    It was a relief when he removed that terrifying headdress and I saw that beneath it he was only a man after all. A remarkable man, but a man nonetheless.
    â€œDo you know why I have brought you here?” he asked.
    I shook my head. I had some vague idea, but no certainty, and no voice with which to say so.
    He smiled, which did nothing to make his face any less frightening. “Carna and Sangua spoke to me. ‘We have sent the next Speaker,’ they whispered in my mind. ‘Go and find him, and train him, so that he may serve the people.’” He paused, and for an instant—I will never forget it, for I never saw it again—a look of weariness passed over his features, and they seemed to sag with age. “It has been too long since a Speaker appeared,” he said. “I have been worried for the people. It is good that you are here.”
    I nodded, feeling a little bit better. I wanted to be good.
    He looked at me, and I saw the second thing that I have never seen in him again. It was pity, and it terrified me.
    â€œDo you know what the Speaker does?” he asked.
    It took me a moment to answer, for my tongue seemed to be sealed to the