Page 1 of Lich's Mate

1

MEERA

Just another day, I guess.

My throat’s dry.

My limbs hurt.

Worst of all, the hunger pangs from last night still linger as I wake up.

The gruesome chill of the morning breeze still sweeps through my bedroom.

It was all worth it though, I think, feeling my empty stomach still distracting me.

Last night, we didn’t have enough food for everybody at dinner time. Because he was going to do without otherwise, I offered my meal to my little brother, Kai.

He needs it. He’s a growing boy.

Sighing, I rub the sleep out of my eyes and get out of bed. Someone needs to tend to the crops outside. And if I’m nice to Miss Umelda when I pass her house, maybe she’ll spare some eggs for breakfast.

“Meera?” My mother’s voice calls out for me outside my bedroom door. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Yeah,” I reply softly.

She enters my bedroom before I’m finished with my sentence, then looks at me discouragingly as I prepare my bags.

“I’m heading out to the field. Then I’m going to talk with the neighbors to see if they have any spare grain.”

My mother’s shoulders droop as her eyes pass over my form. She shrinks the distance between us to place her hand on my cheek.

She’s warm, and her presence is always a comfort. She smells like our small bakery.

“I’m worried about you,” she says, halfway trying to block my exit. “You’re eating less and less these days. And your eyes are glazed over.”

I shake my head.

“I’m okay,” I say.

She sighs.

“Okay. Just keep your head down.”

She steps aside to allow me to leave, but I can tell she immediately regrets it.

“The xaphans are getting restless,” she adds, following me gingerly on my way out. “And I don’t want you getting hurt. I can’t lose you too.”

But she needs to let me grow up. It’s been years since I came of age.

I politely brush aside her concerns, sticking a piece of stale bread into my mouth and doing my best to chew it without breaking my jaw.

I push open the door. It’s darker and drearier than most days.

“Hey, Meera!”

I turn.

On the makeshift porch of the next-door hovel, Rosalyn and Natalie sit and study me. In their hands are chipped tea cups, stained slightly from neglect.

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