The Heartless

Travelling with Knife Boy was something of a fever dream; I would wake up every morning of the journey a little unsure of how I got there, trekking eastward with a near stranger who had for months prior been appearing in my nightmares as the faceless specter of everything bad that had ever happened to me. In the light of day, he was strikingly ordinary, albeit a little peculiar, but with all due respect to myself, I had little room to talk about peculiarities. My very existence was an anomaly, born out of something incomprehensible and bordering on evil, a fact of which Knife Boy liked to remind me any chance he got but which seemed to bother him very little. For all he did to hold me at arm’s length, he never threatened to expose me, and I started to be convinced that he really didn’t wish me any ill will. But Carita had had ulterior motives for helping me, so I kept one proverbial eye over my shoulder and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Why I agreed to the plan in the first place was beyond me, and I often went to bed expecting Knife Boy to either kill me in my sleep or be long gone by morning. Nevertheless, he was always there when I woke up, sprawled on the ground examining the maps or scattering the remains of the burnt-out fire to hide the evidence of the previous night’s camp. (While Knife Boy typically slept on the ground, I still took to the trees every night, fearing what would happen to me should anyone discover us and realize who—or what—I was. For all the things we had in common, that was the key difference between us, I came to realize.)

Knife Boy beckoned me out of my tree one morning a few days into our journey by pelting me with acorns from the ground below. I nearly tumbled to the forest floor as I bolted awake, but managed to right myself in time, hanging upside-down with my arms wrapped firmly around the tree limb.

“Do you mind?” I snapped.

“Come down here,” demanded Knife Boy’s upside-down likeness rather impolitely as he tossed another acorn that hit me square in the forehead.

In my still half-asleep delirium, I had half a mind to stay like that just to laugh inwardly at his inverted figure, but it occurred to me that if Knife Boy wasn’t in on the joke then it wasn’t as funny—so I scrambled to find purchase and dropped down to the dirt, Knife Boy’s disgruntled form flipping right-side-up. He waved me over to where he had multiple maps spread out and knelt before them, huffing exasperatedly as he waited for me to join him. I noticed that the remains of last night’s fire had already been scattered and Knife Boy’s usual leaf pile dismantled; I wondered if I’d overslept, which would explain his somehow worse-than-usual bad attitude.

“While you were sleeping away precious daylight, I came up with a plan,” he explained tersely, smoothing his hand across the maps. He pointed out our current approximate location, in the northeastern woods just a stone’s throw from the nearest town. Then he traced his finger along the perimeter until he reached the castle grounds at Amistadia’s eastern edge.

“We should probably stick to traveling through the woods as much as possible. The towns close to the castle grounds are crawling with royal guard,” Knife Boy explained, tapping the parchment for emphasis. “Then,” he switched to a map of the castle grounds, “we’ll approach the castle from the north by night. There, we can hide and wait for the best time to make our move. It’ll take us a few days to get there, but if we ration the rest of our food, we should be able to make it without making a supply run.”

I nodded, but there was a question nagging at the back of my mind. “Where did you even get maps this detailed?”

“They were my mother’s,” Knife Boy replied simply. “She was a historian.”

His tone welcomed no further interrogation, given the No Personal Questions Clause of our unwritten contract, so I kept my mouth shut and went to gather my things for the next leg of our journey.

Knife Boy was a perplexing mix of pensive and disagreeable as we traipsed through the woods, picking at our meager rations from the alley in complete silence. As the lingering fog of sleep cleared from my brain, my mind began to race with thoughts that what we were doing was a spectacularly stupid idea, conjured up by a younger boy with unclear motives and something to prove. However, given that saying as such while Knife Boy was in a mood would likely get me nowhere, I opted to apologize for my own shortcomings instead in an effort to wipe the glower from his face.

“I want to apologize if I overslept this morning,” I said. “I had some trouble sleeping last night.”

Unfortunately, Knife Boy’s expression softened only into a grimace (if that could be called a softening of any kind).

“I did not ask, and I do not care,” he shot back. Then, more neutrally, he added, “If it were that much of a problem, I would have woken you sooner.”

“Ah,” I mused, “so you were being nice.”

Predictably, Knife Boy puffed up like a defensive cat and growled, “I was not.”

I smirked, satisfied to have gotten a rise out of him since my olive branch had been rejected.

“So, why’d you let me sleep in, then?”

“So I didn’t have to listen to you run your stupid mouth.”

“Sure,” I snorted.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Knife Boy prodded indignantly. “I’ll have you know I— Do you hear something?”

I stopped in my tracks, listening. My ears pricked at a rustling in the bushes, and the distant sound of voices. I knew Knife Boy heard it too when his eyes widened in surprise.

He hissed, “Someone’s coming! Could be guards, hide!”

I dove into the brush, thorns and branches snagging my clothes, and lay flat on my stomach in the dirt, blood rushing in my ears. Belatedly, I noticed Knife Boy had not followed me and peered through a small gap in the bushes to see him standing where I had left him. I nearly called out to him to move, but before I could open my mouth, two men appeared from the right in the unmistakable opulent uniform of the royal guard.

“What are you doing out here in these woods, boy?” the taller of the two asked darkly, eyeing Knife Boy suspiciously. Slowly and silently, I drew an arrow and lay as still as possible, barely breathing.

“I’m homeless, sir,” Knife Boy responded, taking a measured step backward. “An orphan.”

The shorter guardsman laughed. “A street rat like you, all the way out here in the east? You must be joking.”

“It’s no joke, sir.”

The taller guardsman closed the distance and towered over Knife Boy, but the latter stood his ground.

“What’s in the bag?” Tall questioned, gesturing at the sack of food clutched in Knife Boy’s hands. Even at this distance, I could see his grip tighten. For a brief moment, he reminded me of Petra, small and vulnerable and doing what was needed to survive. It was crystal clear, then, who our common enemy truly was.

“Food scraps, sir,” Knife Boy answered honestly, earning a hearty chuckle from Short.

Tall, however, was not laughing. “Looks like it’s time for you to pay your taxes, boy.”

Short stepped around from behind and kicked Knife Boy’s legs out from under him. When he hit the ground with a thump, the bag flew from his grasp, and Tall quickly snatched it up. Before Knife Boy could regain his footing, the two royal guards were already passing him by.

“Stay out of trouble, kid,” Tall called over his shoulder. “You’re not going to like what happens if you don’t.”

Knife Boy and I both stayed on the ground as they disappeared into the woods, lying in wait like two wounded animals playing dead. Eventually, the sound of the guards’ heavy footfalls faded from earshot—Knife Boy sat up and looked in the direction of the bushes where I was hiding. I took that as a cue that the coast was clear and scrambled out, shaking the dirt and leaves from my limbs. I put my bow away and reached down to help Knife Boy to his feet, but he pushed himself to his feet on his own, pointedly ignoring my offered hand.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

Knife Boy wiped the dirt from his pants.

“I’m fine,” he responded, voice a bit clipped.

I was quiet, unsure of how to address what had just transpired.

“Well, now we’re going to have to go into town for supplies after all,” Knife Boy lamented.

“Why didn’t you hide?” I blurted. Whoops.

“I thought we agreed on no personal questions,” Knife Boy grumbled.

I couldn’t resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“I hardly think that counts as a personal question.”

Knife Boy huffed, “My legs just wouldn’t move, okay? I wasn’t fast enough.”

“A practiced thief not fast enough to move on instinct? I find that hard to believe, if a certain encounter a few days ago is anything to go by.”

“That was different.”

“Why is it any different?”

Knife Boy whirled around, and I immediately regretted prying.

“Because I’m scared of the royal guard, you asshole!” he shouted, fists clenching at his sides and face contorting in rage just inches from mine, though he was a bit shorter than me. The dagger on his belt caught the rays of sunlight peeking through the treetops like a deadly kaleidoscope, and I was suddenly reminded that this kid could kill me if he wanted to.

Knife Boy must have seen this in my eyes, as his expression softened and he took a step back, looking a bit shameful.

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking away. He started walking ahead. “No more questions, please.”

I followed tacitly behind, too stunned to say anything more. Any rapport we had established in our fragile partnership seemed to have crumbled beneath our feet, leaving us both to scramble for higher ground.

“Okay, here is our mission.”

Knife Boy peeked out over the top of the stone fence surrounding the market square, where vendors were closing up shop for the night as the sun dipped below the horizon. The place was mostly empty, save for a few lingering shopkeepers and a young woman who was lighting the streetlamps in a battle with the dwindling daylight of autumn. Knife Boy scanned the area for a moment before ducking back down, crouching beside me.

“You see that man on the far side of the square?” he whispered conspiratorially. “The one with the baskets of apples?”

I spared a quick glance into the market and nodded.

“I’ll go distract him. You sneak around the other side, and when his back is turned, take the goods, got it?”

“Got it.” I nodded resolutely. We’d already swiped some scraps from a nearby tavern like before and filled our canteens at the town’s well without incident, so this was going to be easy as raspberry pie.

Knife Boy copied the gesture. “Good. Let’s go.” He stood and waltzed into the market, shoulders held high with undue confidence as he approached the fruit stand. I slipped around the outskirts of the square behind the wall, more or less crawling along the perimeter.

“Good sir! May I ask you some questions?” Knife Boy was saying to the man when I arrived on the other side, voice dripping with faux reverence.

“Why, sure, what for?” the fruit vendor replied, voice firm but not unkind. Briefly, I felt bad about what we were about to do, but if the elegant wool coat draped over his shoulders was any indication, he wasn’t going to miss a few apples.

“Well, as you can see, I am very poor,” Knife Boy lamented sweetly, and I had to suppress a chuckle. “I noticed you were selling such wonderful looking fruit, and I was hoping you could tell me about it. You see, I am hoping to grow my own food.”

The man’s voice softened as he said, “Ah, I see,” before launching into an animated explanation of best growing practices and the proper time to plant and harvest. As he spoke, I reached silently over the wall and grabbed a few apples from the large basket behind the man.

“Uh huh, that’s real interesting,” Knife Boy said with obvious disinterest, eyes wandering to watch my movements.

The man paused. “Kid, what are you looking at?” he asked, and started to turn around.

“Wait!” Knife Boy shouted, drawing the attention of both the fruit vendor and the lamp lighter, who was passing by. The latter looked up and spotted me, still half-splayed over the wall, apples in hand. For a moment, her eyes lit up and I held my breath, but then she merely shook her head with a smile and kept walking.

“What now?” The man was starting to sound exasperated. Seeing an opening, I hoisted myself back down onto the far side of the wall and scrambled back around to the other end of the market.

“Um, uh,” Knife Boy was floundering, and I stood just in time to see him upturn a basket on top of the display stand, turn heel, and run off toward me. As he approached, he waved a hand at me frantically, and I took off in a sprint down the street.

“Hey, get back here, you brats!” the fruit vendor shouted after us, scrambling to chase down the rogue apples rolling through the market square in Knife Boy’s wake. Somewhere behind me, I could hear the young lamp lighter laughing.

Knife Boy and I kept running until we had left the marketplace in our dust, and skidded to a stop in a quiet neighborhood on the edge of town, both of us doubled over and panting.

“What was that?” I teased between ragged breaths.

“Look, I panicked!” Knife Boy responded defensively, equally out of breath. “It’s been a long day, I’m off my game.”

We stared at each other for a moment before we both burst out laughing, our ugly cackles echoing through the empty streets like discordant church bells.

“You should have seen his face when you started running!” I snorted.

Between peals of laughter, Knife Boy mused, “You know, we actually make a pretty good team.”

I could not believe my ears.

“Yeah?”

Knife Boy nodded.

“I still think there’s something messed up about you, and you still kind of freak me out,” he began, which did not set a high bar for the second half of his statement. “But you know what? You’re not so bad.”

The honest smile on Knife Boy’s face belied his seemingly harsh words. In a different life, it occurred to me that maybe we could have even been friends—but an enemy-turned-ally, even if only for a short time, was more than I’d ever expected to find, and more than enough for me. I returned Knife Boy’s smile with one of my own.

I couldn’t help but laugh again.

“You know, I’ll take it.”