Free Odds Are Good by Bruce Coville Page A

roof of my mouth. “He has visions,” I said at last. “Visions that guide the people.”
    â€œAnd do you know how he does it?” asked the Pyong Myar.
    I shook my head, relieved to be able to answer without words.
    He closed his eyes and sighed. But he said nothing more on the matter. A moment later two women came to the door, and I sensed that it was with some relief that he gave me into their care. They washed my wounds and smeared them with an ointment that burned like fire. Then they tucked me into a strange bed, and sang me to sleep with songs I had never heard before.
    This was my entrance into the Red Temple.
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    My life in the temple soon fell into a pattern. The women who had taken me from the Pyong Myar’s rooms, Lala and Ariki, became my guardians, and—more important—my teachers. They began by teaching me the history of our city, the stories of our wars and our victories, and the tales of our enemies, the terrible enemies that are always waiting, lurking, ready to overwhelm us. They told me stories of those who speak the language of blood, and how their words have ever and again saved us from surprise, helped us avert disaster, led us to salvation.
    They told me that I was to be the next Speaker. But they did not tell me what that meant, nor how I was to make this transition. That knowledge was kept from me for the time being.
    My only dissatisfaction was that I was kept within the temple walls, a prisoner in a golden cage. I did have other children to play with, children of the guards and the temple women. One, especially, became a friend. His name was Mam, and he was Ariki’s nephew, an arrogant scamp who somehow managed to sneak out of the temple and roam the city on a regular basis. Mam loved to tell me what was going on outside our walls, and after a time I begged him to look in on my family, and on my friend Shula.
    He, in turn, tried to convince me to sneak out with him. The night I agreed to try we were caught, of course. He was severely beaten. I was not, and while my escape from punishment was a great relief, it also left me feeling extremely guilty.
    Mam was far too much the scapegrace to hold this against me, but he no longer suggested that I accompany him on his adventures. It was clear to me that whoever ruled our lives did not care if Mam entered the city, and cared a great deal whether I even attempted such a thing.
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    The night before my eleventh birthday Lala took me aside and said, “Tomorrow you will be initiated into the next level of the temple. A man will come to take you away. Go bravely, and do not shame your second mothers, Lala and Ariki.” She closed her eyes and drew me to her. “It is possible we will not see you again, my little one, my Banang,” she whispered. The tremor in her voice frightened me, and I threw my arms around her and wept.
    The next day the two women dressed me in my finest clothes. The rest of my things were packed in a wooden chest. Late in the afternoon the chest and my trembling self were set outside the doors of our apartments. Lala and Ariki each embraced me and told me to be good, wise, and brave. Then they closed the door. I could hear two things. The snick of the metal as they slipped the bolt and locked me out, and their cry of lamentation as they mourned my loss.
    I stood and waited, trying to be brave.
    It was not easy.
    After a long time, or at least what seemed like a long time, the Pyong Myar came to me. I had not seen him since the night he delivered me to Lala and Ariki. He was naked, save for a black cloth tied around his waist and a red cape that flowed from his shoulders.
    â€œAre you ready, Banang?” he asked. His terrible voice was gentle, almost worried.
    When I nodded he reached down and took my hand. “Someone will come later to get your things,” he said. Side by side we walked along the corridor. Because I had a feeling it might be a long time before I came here