A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

something only one in one thousand might ever achieve. I considered the notoriety I would earn, the wealth. Few could claim to have risen so high. Eventually, I would be required to report to the muster captain for a commission and assignment, but that was a day I would delay as long as I could. If I had my way, I would remain independent as long as possible. The thought of freedom gnawed at me. Despite my triumph, I felt unsatisfied.

I touched the stars on my collar.

I didn’t feel any different, not that I expected two pieces of copper to change my world in a day. Still, I expected to feel something. If this was it, a measure of joy so brief, consider me unfulfilled.

So what now? Did I just head back to the shop and carve out a few more hinges? Did I head to Turns and try and pull down another contract? My goal was so singularly focused that I hadn’t spent much time considering what to do once I earned my stars. My true purpose smoldered then, a reminder of something else unfulfilled. I thought of Lira instead, and I felt those coals cool once more. Perhaps she wasn’t a beautiful lie.

As I walked towards the exit, I heard crying to my left. It was not a wail, not the gaudy cry of the distressed. It was reserved, the quiet sobbing of despair. I looked toward the source, a woman, in her early twenties, flanked on either side by two young boys. The younger boy was four, maybe five. He ignored the cries of his mother as he rocked a wooden toy horse back and forth on the floor. The elder boy looked only a few years older, but he held a harder expression, one not often found on a boy so young. In him, I saw a familiar pain.

Both boys wore shirts of linen home weave; they were ill-fitting and hung on them loosely. The older boy wore a shirt of blue, a shirt that had all the signs of belonging to a much larger man. On his right arm, his mark was dark and vibrant. It resembled that of a fishhook with the northern end curling back on itself. The younger boy wore a shirt that, at one time, may have been white. Where he should have had a mark was a patch of naked skin from his elbow to his wrist.

I felt the pull then, the same gnawing for freedom as before. We Ruks were already broken. What was one more broken family? What was one more broken boy? One family would not tip that balance. We all dreamed of a better life.

I looked at the youngest boy. He was no concern of mine. I couldn’t help; I needed every coin I had. I should have walked away, but as I stepped, my feet carried me closer to the family.

“Stars!” the younger boy shouted as I approached. “Look Mommy, stars!”

The woman looked up from her hands and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“I see that,” she said numbly. “Keep playing, my sweet. Don’t bother the officer.”

I knelt in front of the boy. He had deep blue eyes, still full of wonder, unaware of the cruelty that awaited him.

“Are you a Ruk?” he asked. “Your eyes look like a Ruk, but not all the way.”

I tapped him on the chest. “I’m just like you.”

He giggled.

“I’ve never seen a Ruk with stars before,” he declared, then his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you sure you’re a Ruk?”

“You don’t believe me?” I laughed. “Look here.”

I pulled up the sleeve of my jacket to reveal my mark. It reflected as I moved it in the light. He took my wrist in both hands, then began to trace the black lines with his finger.

“It looks like a cup,” he stated.

I cocked my head. “You’re right; it does. I guess I never looked at it upside down before.” I traced the mark with my finger. “My ada always said it looked like a bull. See here is the body, and this line that curves make the horns.”

He smiled. “I can see it!” He turned back to his mother. “Mommy, look, he has a bull! I get my mark today. My brother has his already; it looks like a fishing pole!”

The older boy did not move; he kept his expression blank. He stood with a gallows silence. He knew. He knew at seven that he would not be seeing his brother again.

The mother placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder then and managed a weak smile. “Come sit with me for a bit. Let’s say goodbye to the nice—”

“Thirty and one,” the usher called. An older Ruk stood and shuffled towards the door.

Etched into the wooden tile the mother held was the number thirty and three.

“I can have stars someday,” the boy said, reaching for the copper pieces on my collar. He turned back to his mother. “Then maybe Daddy will come home and see?”

She winced. Her eyes were red and swollen, but not just from crying. There was black discoloration under her left eye and a deep gash on her lip. Despite the abuse, I could see that she was beautiful with high cheekbones and soft pouting lips. More than one brothel in Forhd would give her work, but in her current state, she wouldn’t earn a bent copper. I wasn’t sure of her occupation, but I knew there were few options for a Rukish woman without a husband, especially one with assets in demand.

I looked back down at the boy. The same voice from deep within my mind spoke again. He was there warning me to leave the assessor’s office. He warned me now. “Leave,” it said. “Leave them to their fate.”

I took the boy’s hand. The mother was on her feet in an instant, grabbing him by the shoulders, protecting him from whatever perceived threat I posed. I reached for my purse with the other hand. “Can you do me