Ksana dug her claws into the soft flesh over Kilyan’s ribs, twisting until it wrung out a shocked yelp from his lips. He swatted her hand away, twisting in the saddle to fit her with a glare from his melancholy blue eyes. Doblest whinnied in apprehension beneath them, likely not wanting to play battlefield to the twins’ bickering.

“Saints!” He snapped, “what possesses you?”

“Your gigantic mouse is taking us east!” She hissed back, lifting her slender fingers to the horizon.

Just beyond the crest of the mulso field, a tower crept up into the sky. A round pillar made of glistening white marble. The only defining feature, tall slots ringing the top level of the smooth white walls. Windows, which many seasons ago had harbored archers--and then canons--and now nothing at all.

Guard towers. There were more of them than Kilyan cared to count, spaced a half a day’s ride each in a massive enclosing sphere around the one-hundred plots dedicated to the Sun Fields. The posts, like their silver sisters, had been abandoned--there was no platoon in the world that Kilyan’s family trusted to guard their shameful secret. It was safer to abandon the entire area. Trespassers did not dare stray near the Sun Fields anyway--the risk of being caught came with too much weight, but most especially during mulso season when the architecture was swarmed by the untouchable herds. The towers had fallen into a state of ghostly disrepair. Holding only dust and bitter reminders of their families’ fortune. Or, more accurately, the lack thereof.

The pillar laid before them was glowing in orange, kissed on all sides by the second sun as it lifted into the sky on its delayed course behind the first. Shadow leaked from the structure, washing a strip of land from its base to back down the hill side in gray.

It was from the length and depth of the shadow that Ksana could pick apart their direction. Kilyan lacked those sorts of talents, instead choosing to memorize the route he had first taken--and then only taken, making it stronger than stone with each trip.

“Yes?” Kilyan said nervously, rubbing his flattened palm over the ache in his side from her pinch. “Home is east.”

“Ischeny is southeast.” She huffed.

“We are not going to--ouch! Saints be damned--stop it!” He gripped her wrist, stilling her and her wrath. “We are going to miss the beginning of the council meeting, you said so yourself!”

“We are going to miss it, but they would not dare begin without us. We will simply be deemed spoiled brats--oh, wait, we already are.” Ksana huffed, shaking her head until the braids Kilyan had knitted for her threatened to spill down her slender spine. “Council meeting. Council? Old-Saints, some bitter joke, Dewdrop. It will be you, and I, and some snobby nobles picked by our brother. We will eat teacakes, laughing about how horribly out of season Lady Favolk’s last dress was. I can not stand it.”

Kilyan’s fingers eased from Doblest’s reins, abandoning the smooth black leather to trail thoughtlessly through his silky mane. The muscles in his broad neck flinched, a snort passed his white nose. Kilyan felt momentarily guilty, as if his own fears had been passed through his fingertips to infect the stallion underneath him.

It was likely--no, it was nearly certain--that it would happen again. As it had happened at each council meeting for the last quarter-season. The letter, the order, the execution.

“Spoiled brat.” Kilyan echoed softly.

Is that what they thought of him? Of his outbursts? That he was only lashing out because he could? Because he delighted in hearing their pleas? He squeezed his eyes shut, narrowing his world down to only the sound of Doblest’s soft pants. It did not matter, he knew. If his actions, terrible as sin, was all that stood between his family and their overdue retribution--he would gladly stain the marble halls in their rich blood.

“Kilyan,” Ksana murmured from a breath behind his shoulder. “We had a deal. I would train you, you would take me to Ischeny.”

He sighed, rubbing his fingertips over the bridge of his nose. A deal bargained by their own misfortunes. Kilyan had been forbidden from picking up a sword by his brother, and Ksana did not have a horse fast enough to escape their ever-hovering bodyguards. There was only Doblest--as much as it agonized her to admit--he was better.

So, atop Doblest, they could achieve both of their wishes. Kilyan could get knocked into the dirt over and over, and Ksana could shop the streets of Ischeny without nosy chaperones.

What she needed in secret so badly--she never said. Because Kilyan never asked. If he picked at her shell, she would pick back at his and there was just too much he did not want to answer for.

“Southeast is?”

She lifted her finger, and Kilyan gently guided Doblest to follow it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

They looked anything but noble, crammed together atop Doblest’s wide back. It was an odd feeling to stroll towards the capital, as well disguised as thieves by only their disheveled appearance and skittish steed. Ksana tugged her fingers through her hair, pulling free three silver pins--the last reminder of her true self. Her ice-white hair fell into tangles down the front of her stained summer dress.

Kilyan winced. “The Comb is going to kill you.”

“Us.” Ksana chuckled. “You do not look so well mannered yourself right now, Dewdrop.”

Kilyan shuddered, cajoling a cackle from his sister’s lips. “I bet he skins us.”

“In that case, I would like to be made into a rug.” Ksana shrugged.

Kilyan guided them towards the first edges of town, where roaming hills had been carved away for smoke stacks which rose into the blue sky, blotting out the twin suns. “We should walk the rest of the way.” Kilyan suggested.

Ksana did not hesitate. She gladly swung her legs over the side of Doblest’s polished black saddle and slid to her feet, landing with a graceful thump into the grass. Kilyan followed suit, stumbling only a little over a pocket of soft earth. He pulled his cloak from his shoulders and turned to face Doblest.

The stallion stood mountain tall, so that Kilyan had to arch up on his toes to stroke his ears. He was as dark as night, glossy as ice, except where his fur turned white and thin around his soft snout. He had been outfitted in expensive black leathers, geared with shining golden hardwear. On his bridle and on the latch of his saddle, pressed over his chest, were ornate decorative chunks of golden metal, molding into blazing suns. The crest of the Zaitsev family.

Kilyan threw his worn gray cloak over the horse’s back, smoothing it down and tying it to conceal the richness of his tack. Doblest snorted, tossing his head in protest of the warmth enveloping his sweat-slicked back. Kilyan waited a moment for him to settle before taking his reins in his hand.

Ksana trotted ahead, and Kilyan followed.

Ischeny was large, sprawling much of the Empyrean landmass. It came in chunks, sectors split up by the royal family to control the flow of power along the low streets. Power--the tithe of the Zaitsev clan. The very resource they were quickly draining of. Which was not something Kilyan wanted to waste more time thinking of--but it was all that he could gather in his mind as they eased into the outskirts, heads lowered as they navigated into the city.

Sector fourteen was a tiny village made of dirt, brick, and clay. It was wholly unremarkable, Kilyan could have gone his entire life without thinking of those blackened houses--if not for the fact that it was were he currently stood. Only because sector fourteen served as the easiest route into sectors ten and eleven, where Ksana could find her treasured shops.

He clutched Doblest close, steering his bulky form between the huts and scattering children. His head lowered, a dirty cloak covering him, he seemed a work horse retired from the fields. With the twins accompanying him just as grass-stained they garnered no second glances.

Ksana led by her knowledge of Ischeny, how it looked sprawled down on a map of sectors and power-grids rolled flat across the desk in their oldest brother’s office. She took him on twists, and turns, and many uncountable loops--until finally the packed dirt paths began to harden into pebbles--and then eventually cobblestone. The buildings began to thicken, growing up towards the sky. Crowds formed, tightening down what was walkable in the streets to a slight path which Ksana made by swinging her arms widely, much to Doblest’s protests. Kilyan ran his flat palm down the side of his neck, earning a soft snort in return.

“It is okay, my sweet Lest.” Kilyan murmured to him. “Ksana will buy her fickle new perfumes and we will retire home. I will led you to the old stables myself, and give you the fattest lumps of sugar any horse has ever seen.”

Retiring his own horse was not something uncommon for the many stumbling passerbys of Ischeny, but Kilyan was hardly a man to settle his own affairs. His bed was fluffed by maids, his outfits picked by the elderly assistant he and his sister called The Comb, his breakfast placed on his plate by chefs from the furthest corners of Empyrean country.

His entire life had been placed before him, and the shoes he used to walk that path had been tied by his older brothers. So, maybe the dirty and haggard faces forming a sea around him had become objects of jealousy. A dissatisfactory life did not sound so terrible. Much better than a life spent half-sealed into his coffin, the life Kilyan had been given.

His eyes glazed, his head clouded by his own thoughts, he did not realize how perfect a target it had made him until the hand wrapped around his wrist, yanking so sharply back that pins and needles burst into the muscle of his shoulder.

Kilyan yelped in alarm, his feet stuttered back onto his heels. He spun around, glancing up into the shadowy hood of the man leering down at him. His eyes were sharply narrowed into a glinting gaze full of greed and hazy drunkenness. Kilyan pulled on his arm to no avail, whimpering as the man’s grip tightened in response.

Doblest whinnied, throwing his head and stomping his hooves. Ksana swung herself around, rushing back to her brother’s side through the shuffling tides of townspeople. She forced her small body between Kilyan’s rapidly beating heart and the hooded stranger, shoving his chest with her pummeling fists.

“Drop my brother, degheneraat!" She cursed, slapping the man’s clenched grip with the palm of her hand.

The man blinked lazily down at Ksana’s slew of slaps and punches. He smirked and took one stumbling step backwards, when he laughed his breath washed over the twins. Thick with rums and vodkas. Kilyan winced, pressing his elbow over his nose. The drunkard shook his head, causing hair as gray as smoke to fall into his distant eyes.

“-orse,” he grumbled.

“Kilyan, let us go.” Ksana warned, ushering her brother away with her pressing fingers.

“Thirty ruble.” The man coughed, leaning over from the weight of his drink-addled skull. “For the horse? Thirty ruble.”

“You do not want him, comrade, he is shyer than a naked nun on sunday. Drop a pin and he runs all the way back to his stable.” Then to her brother, “move, Kilyan.”

“Then I’ll take ’im to the butchers for ya,” the man cackled, “horse sausages--twenty ruble?”

Ksana dug her wicked claws into Kilyan’s arm and dragged him along, until the sound of the man’s crazed laughter faded into the streets they passed. Kilyan shuddered, rubbing the red skin of his wrist with his flattened fingers.

Only once they had passed into sector ten, and Doblest’s aggravated snorts had lessened, did Kilyan ask his sister. “What possessed him, Ksana?”

“Drinks.” She snorted. “He thought you were a slime-spine. He was going swindle you, sell your mouse to some whip-man or a pig-hauler for three times as much as he took him from you. It is as common as the flu here, especially so near the market. It would help if you did not walk around with that look, Dewdrop.”

“What look?” Kilyan asked defensively.

“A look that screams, I do not understand the value of bread--please rob me.” She laughed, lightly flicking a strand of his pale yellow hair.

Kilyan huffed--but did not disagree. Was thirty rubles too little for a horse? He frowned down at the tops of his boots. “What is a ruble?” He whispered.

Ksana shook her head and sighed, as if he had exactly proven her point. She eased into the side of Doblest, leaning over his chest to whisper to her brother. “It is the currency of the streets. If you washed one Empyrean coin in water, and patted it dry on a silk cloth, whatever dust come off on that towel would be worth about ten rubles.”

Kilyan’s blue eyes popped from his skull before a sharp nudge from Ksana forced him to still his shock. “Why do they waste their time trading in such small pennies?”

“A penny is valuable to someone who has only pennies, Dewdrop.” She shrugged.

“Do you have. . . ruble?” Kilyan asked.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Of course not! What a waste of time. Besides, how could I get some? There is no bank in Ischeny with enough pennies to trade me for an Empyrean coin. I would have to seek aid from the treasury and they would tell our brothers.”

Kilyan might not have understood much--but amongst her rambling something became very clear to him. “Snowflake,” he hissed, grabbing her thin wrist, “you have no money? What are you thinking? You can not be seriously thinking of steal-”

“Silence!” She snapped, slapping her palm over his lips to still them. “Do not dare say that, Dewdrop. There is no worse crime in the market sectors. If they think us suspicious, we could have our arms chopped off far before the guards come to save us.”

He gulped, his heart plummeted into his boots. She looked at his ghostly expression and giggled, easing a little of his tension with her own lightness. “I am just going to trade my hair pins, stop worrying.”

Kilyan let out a relieved sigh and then made another expression of horror, this one as a jest, “The Comb!”

“Oh, he will be livid!” She agreed, laughing until Kilyan joined in her fits of giggles. Doblest shook his head and stomped his front hooves against the cobblestone streets. She took his hand and pulled him along.

The houses morphed again, turning into bars, businesses, and shop windows. Perhaps for the lack of apartments, but the street crowds had begun to thin again. The few faces Kilyan passed were full of shadows, eyes trained on their shoes as they scurried back towards the common sectors. Kilyan watched them go, a feeling of apprehension blooming in the base of his gut.

Blind to the true weight of the fear consuming the streets, Ksana continued her lead. Kilyan followed. To his left, a door swung abruptly open. It slammed into the front windows of the bar nestled beside it, sending a crack up into the air. Doblest flinched, yanking hard on his reins. Ksana whirled around, grabbing his halter to still him. Kilyan tumbled forward from the force of his struggle. He dug his heels into the road and ran his flat hands down his neck, whispering words of encouragement.

From the opened door, a man flung out into the streets. He tumbled down the front steps, falling and rolling. He landed on his chest, a mere distance from Doblest’s stomping hooves. The black stallion screamed in protest, rearing up onto his hind legs. Ksana was thrown from his halter, stumbling back with lurching steps. The man on the cobblestone street leapt to his feet. He lunged forward, grabbing Kilyan by his shoulders.

“The horse!” He shouted into Kilyan’s face. “Please, give me the hor-”

“Old-Saints! You beggars are relentless.” Kilyan snapped, shoving the man back. He had no fight in him and tumbled roughly onto his back. He slammed into the stone street and went still. From his belt, a leather pouch snapped. It thudded onto the stones beside him, spilling white sand over the street. “Salt?” Kilyan muttered, eyes narrowed in confusion.

The beggar whimpered. He lifted his palms and placed them over his eyes. “Please.”

“Dewdrop,” Ksana shouted, grabbing his wrist. “Calm your mouse, we need to go!”

He looked at her, ice eyes full of alarm, and then at Doblest who still kicked his hooves and screamed with terror from his foaming mouth. Whatever small crowd still remained had gone statue still, staring with eyes equally full of terror. But Kilyan could not move. His bones had crystalized beneath his pounding blood.

“There he is.”

Kilyan whirled back around to face the storefront. From the door that had been slammed open, a large bulking figure emerged. He was robed in sky-deep blues. Garments expertly crafted and worth more than the brick Ischeny had been built from. From his belt, a sword glinted. From his chest, a golden sun emblem caught the light and twinkled. The metal which had been used to craft the sigil shown in a lacquered red, mimicking the fiery second son. In that way, it was different from the medallions decorating Doblest’s tack--which had not been stained and glowed a proud golden yellow.

He stepped leisurely down the steps, pausing at each level to smirk around the frozen streets. Ksana snagged Kilyan’s wrist and yanked. He knew why--this man, the one drunk on his own authority, was a guard. One employed by the royal family. He knew he should run, or risk ruining their fun--but he could not bring his trembling legs to take even one step.

The beggar on the street began to cry, whimpering sounds that filled Kilyan with even greater fear. “Please,” he sobbed, “please.”

“Please,” the guard echoed, his voice high in mockery. “Please, please, please.” Which each taunt, he stepped one dangerous foot closer to the beggar until finally he stood over him, staring down with malevolent eyes. “Your pleas are wasted. If you had not wanted the fate of a criminal, you should not have broken the laws. Illegally trading a registered tithe, well, only the crown can grant you mercy now.”

“I didn’t!” The beggar cried. “I have the papers! I’m a registered trader! I have permission, please, allow me to grab them!”

The guard snarled, throwing out his boot. He slammed his heel into the ribs of the man, causing another startled cry. “You expect me to believe you? Look at you, filthy beggar.”

Kilyan stepped back, knocking Doblest’s sturdy side with his back. The horse pulled hard on his lead, and Kilyan allowed it. He went willingly along with Doblest’s panicked jerking steps. Ksana wrapped her fingers through his halter once more, taking control of his blind rush forward. She dragged them through the writhing crowds, peasants all desperate to escape back towards the housing sectors. Only the twins moved forward, running deeper into the market center.

2 | The Market Begger

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