About twelve nightmares of enslavement and death later, he did. Isabel and Ramir and Sanson were relaxing against the bridge, fishing. Isabel was bundled against the cold, watching while Sanson tried to tease out rainbow trout and Ram told him how he was doing it wrong. They all looked at Kip as he bent over, puffing. No sight of soldiers anywhere.

“Gotta go,” Kip said in between breaths. “Soldiers coming.”

“Oh, no, oh, no! Not soldiers!” Ram said in mock panic.

Sanson jumped to his feet, thinking Ramir was serious. Sanson was bucktoothed and gullible, good-natured, always the last to get a joke and the most likely to be the butt of it.

“Relax, Sanson. I’m joking,” Ramir said, punching Sanson’s shoulder, too hard.

When they’d first heard about the recruiters demanding levies, it had taken them about a second to conclude that if one of them were pressed into King Garadul’s service, it would be Ram. At sixteen, he was a year older than the rest of them, and the only one who seemed remotely like a soldier.

“I’m not,” Kip said, still bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

Still uncertain, Sanson said, “My ma said the alcaldesa had a big fight with the king’s man. She said the alcaldesa told him to stick those orders in his ear.”

“If I know the alcaldesa, she didn’t say ear,” Isa said. She grinned wickedly, and Sanson and Ram laughed. They just weren’t getting it.

Kip saw Isa look at Ram—just a quick glance, looking for his approval. As she found it, Kip saw her pleasure double, and he felt sick in his stomach. Again.

“What’s going on, Kip?” she asked. Big brown eyes, full lips, full curves, flawless skin. It was impossible to talk to her and not be aware of her beauty. Prettier even than Liv, really, and infinitely more here.

Kip tried to find words. People are coming to kill us, and I’m worried about some girl who doesn’t even like me.

From Green Bridge, it was three or four hundred paces to the nearest orange grove. There was precious little cover between the bridge and the trees.

“There are—” Kip started, but Ram ran right over his words.

“If they conscript me, I’m going to volunteer to become a battle drafter,” Ram said. “It’s dangerous, I know, but if I have to leave everything I love here, I’m going to make something of myself.” He looked into the distance, off to a grand future. Kip wanted to punch him in his handsome, heroic face.

“Why don’t you and Sanson run off?” Ram asked. “You know, hide from the big bad army? Isa and I want to say goodbye.”

“Why can’t you say goodbye with us here?” Sanson asked.

Isa blushed.

Ram’s eyes flashed. “Seriously, you two, don’t be assholes, huh?” he said, pretending to be joking.

“Ram, listen,” Kip said. “The army is coming to make an example of us. We need to leave. Right. Now. Master Danavis said they’d seize the bridge.” In fact, Green Bridge itself was a relic from the last army that came through. It was all green luxin—the most durable luxin: when sealed, it broke down more slowly than any other kind. They said that when Gavin Guile had led his army through here on his way to crush his evil brother Dazen Guile’s army, Gavin Guile, the Prism himself, had drafted this bridge. By himself. In seconds. The army had pushed through without slowing, though its foragers had stolen all the food and livestock still in town. All the men in the town had been pressed into service on one side or the other.

It was why they had all grown up without fathers. No one in Rekton should treat an army passing through as a light matter. Not even the children.

“Do me a favor, Tubby. I’ll make it up to you,” Ram said.

“If you go with the soldiers, you won’t be here to make it up to me,” Kip said. He wanted to kill Ram when he called him Tubby.

An ugly look passed over Ram’s features. They’d fought before, and Ram won every time. But it was never easy. Kip could take a lot of punishment, and sometimes he went crazy. They both knew it. Ram said, “So do me a favor, huh?”

“We have to go!” Kip nearly shouted. He didn’t know why he was surprised. It was no mistake they always called Ramir Ram. He picked a goal and went straight at it, bashing down anything in his path, never veering right or left. His goal today was to take Isabel’s maidenhead. That simple. No mere invading army was going to stop the stupid animal.

“Fine. Come on, Isa, we’ll go to the orange grove,” Ram said. “And don’t think I’ll forget this, Kip.”

Ram took her hand and pulled her into a walk. She went with him but turned, looking over her shoulder at Kip, as if expecting him to do something.

But what could he do? They were actually going the right direction. If he went over there and punched Ram in the face, Ram would beat him bloody—and worse, they’d both be out in the open. If Kip followed on their heels, Ram might assume he was trying to start a fight even if he wasn’t, with the same result.

Isabel was still looking at him. She was so beautiful it hurt.

Kip could stay. Do nothing. Hide under the bridge.

No!

Kip cursed. Isa looked back as he emerged from Green Bridge’s shadow. Her eyes widened, and he thought he saw the shadow of a smile touch her lips. Real joy at seeing Kip pursue her and be a man, or just venal delight in being fought over? Then her gaze shifted up and left, to the opposite bank of the river. Surprised.

There was a man’s yell from above, but over the hiss of the waters Kip couldn’t understand what he said. Ram stumbled as he reached the top of the riverbank. He didn’t catch himself. Instead, he dropped to his knees, tottered, and fell backward.

It was only when Ram’s limp body rolled over that Kip saw the arrow sticking out of his back.

Isa saw it too. She looked at whoever was on the bank, glanced at Kip, and then bolted in the other direction.

“Kill her,” a man commanded in a loud clear voice, on the bridge directly above Kip. His voice was passionless.

Kip felt sick, helpless. He’d wasted too much time. His mind refused what his eyes reported. Isa was running along the bank of the river, fast. She’d always been fast, but there was nowhere to hide, no cover from the arrow Kip knew was coming. His heart hammered in his chest, roared in his ears, and then, suddenly, its rate doubled, tripled.

The barest shadow flicked at the corner of his eye: the arrow. Kip’s arm spasmed as if he himself had been struck. A flash of blue, barely visible, thin and reedy, darted from him into the air.

The arrow splashed into the river, a good fifteen paces away from Isa. The archer cursed. Kip looked down at his hands. They were trembling—and blue. As achingly bright blue as the sky. He was so stunned he froze for a moment.

He looked back to Isa, now more than a hundred paces away. There was the same flicker of a shadow as another arrow passed from the periphery of his vision to the center of it—right into Isa’s back. She pitched face first onto the rough stones of the riverbank, but as Kip watched, she got back up to her knees slowly, the arrow jutting from her lower back, hands and face streaming blood. She was almost to her feet when the next arrow thudded into her back. She dropped face first into the shallows of the river and moved no more.

Kip stood there stupidly, disbelieving. His vision narrowed to the point where crimson life swirled from Isa’s back into the clear water of the river.