The keening of the hovel dwellers for Mara was short-lived, quickly replaced by the familiar silence of enduring hardship. Her body, thin and lifeless, was wrapped in the only clean linen available and carried out, not to a proper burial, but to a shallow, unmarked grave on the outskirts of the village. Another mouth gone, another burden lifted from the struggling community, even as sorrow etched deeper lines on their faces. For me, it was simply the next stage. My last tenuous tie to this desperate, forgotten corner of the world had been severed. My opportunity for change had arrived.
I was now a child without a guardian, a stark anomaly in a society where every life was bound by family or servitude. The other hovel dwellers, burdened by their own survival, could offer little more than a bowl of thin gruel and a corner on their straw pallet. I was passed from one tired hand to another, an inconvenient charge. They tried to soothe my occasional "cries" – carefully manufactured wails for hunger or discomfort – but their eyes held no true connection, only a desperate hope that I wouldn't become a permanent drain on their meager resources. I observed them, a strategist assessing variables: their compassion was limited by their own suffering, their fear of the Crown absolute.
Two days after Mara's passing, the Montala priests returned. Not just the portly man from before, but two others, even grander in their pristine white robes, accompanied by a lean, sharp-eyed clerk with a heavy ledger. They had come, ostensibly, to perform a blessing for Mara's spirit and to record the hovel's compliance with recent directives. In truth, they were here to ensure no resources were being hoarded, and that the Crown's claim on this wretched piece of land remained undisputed.
The lead priest, a man with a booming voice and eyes that missed nothing, surveyed the hovel. His gaze, calculating and cold, swept over each individual, assessing their piety and their poverty. It lingered on me, where I sat quietly by the cold hearth, deliberately trying to appear as an average, albeit unusually placid, toddler. My small hands were clasped loosely in my lap, my gaze fixed on a distant patch of sunlight on the floor. I breathed slowly, calmly, forcing my body into stillness.
"And this orphan," the lead priest intoned, pointing a long, manicured finger at me. "The child of the deceased, Mara. Is it not so?"
A gaunt woman, one who had offered me a corner of her pallet, stammered, "Yes, Holiness. Elias. He is... quiet."
The fat priest from before stepped forward, his eyes narrowed. "Ah, yes. The remarkably still child. I recall him. He possesses... an unusual composure for one so young." He walked towards me, his clean robes rustling, a scent of incense clashing with the hovel's stale air. He knelt, his face closer than I preferred, his eyes boring into mine. "Tell me, little one," he said, his voice deceptively soft, "do you understand the sacred words?"
My mind raced. A simple "no" or a blank stare was the expected response. But this was the moment. This was the crack. I could play the part of the dumb infant for only so long before I simply became a permanent burden, doomed to a life of destitution or worse. This was my chance to be noticed in a different way, to be seen as a puzzle rather than a liability.
I looked at him, my eyes steady. I didn't speak. Instead, I slowly, deliberately, pointed a small, trembling finger towards the corner where Mara's loom stood, still and silent. Then, I pointed to the heavy ledger the clerk held. Finally, I tapped my own chest. Work. Numbers. Me. The connection was subtle, not a child's random gesture, but a deliberate, rudimentary communication of "I understand work, I understand numbers, I can be useful."
A flicker of surprise, then something akin to awe, crossed the fat priest's face. The lean clerk stepped forward, his sharp eyes widening. The lead priest straightened, his booming voice silenced by a sudden, profound curiosity.
"He... he understands," the fat priest whispered, a rare note of genuine astonishment in his voice. "He communicates. This is no ordinary child."
The lead priest exchanged a look with the clerk. The clerk, already scribbling furiously in his ledger, nodded. "A prodigy, perhaps, Holiness. Or... something more. This is beyond the common child. Such a mind could be... useful to the Crown. Or a danger, if left untamed."
The word "danger" hung in the air, a chilling possibility. But it was also recognition. I was no longer merely a burden. I was an anomaly.
"He will come with us," the lead priest declared, his voice regaining its authority, but tinged with a new, excited undertone. "He shall be presented before the Duke. Such a curious spirit cannot be left to languish in the common hovels. The Lord Montala, perhaps, has a greater purpose for him."
A strong, unfamiliar hand, not gentle, but surprisingly careful, lifted me from the rough floor. I offered no resistance, no cry. I merely fixed my gaze forward, my small face impassive, as I was carried out of the hovel for the second time in this new life. The door swung shut behind me, sealing off the world of damp straw and whispered despair. I was a pawn, moved by forces beyond my control, but now, I was being moved onto a different square on the board. The Duke. My chance connection, my glimpse of that young, intelligent face in the carriage, was closer than ever. My journey into the gilded cage had begun.