Dead man Walking: The Price of Tommorow

Chapter 2: A Cracked Wheel

The morning bells hadn't finished their toll when the shouting started. Kyres, following his father down the packed dirt path toward Carpenter Owen's house, nearly dropped the toolbox at the sudden commotion.

"Move those crates before the whole lot spills!" Trader Benn's voice carried across the village square, sharp with panic. His cart listed dangerously to one side, the broken axle giving it the appearance of a wounded animal. Clay pots and sacks of grain teetered precariously with each attempt to stabilize it.

His father paused, watching the scene unfold. The smith's apprentice, Tam, was already examining the break, his face smudged with soot from the morning's work. A small crowd had gathered, offering more advice than help.

"Come on," his father said quietly, steering Kyres toward a side path that would take them around the commotion. "Not our problem today."

Kyres hesitated, surprised. His father usually jumped at any chance to help. As if reading his thoughts, his father added, "Sometimes people need to learn to help themselves, son."

They skirted the edge of the square, tools clinking softly in the box Kyres carried. The morning air was crisp with the promise of autumn, and fallen leaves crunched beneath their boots.

"But you fixed his cart twice already," Kyres said, shifting the heavy toolbox to his other arm. A thought struck him. "Is this like when you make me figure out the sword forms by myself, even when I keep getting them wrong?"

His father's eyes crinkled at the corners, but he kept walking. "What do you think?"

"I think..." Kyres frowned, choosing his words carefully like his father had taught him. "I think it's harder to learn if someone always shows you the answer."

"Harder, yes. But?"

"But better." Kyres dodged a puddle from yesterday's rain. "Because then you really know it. Not just in your head, but in your-" he struggled for the word.

"Bones," his father finished. "You know it in your bones." He stepped over a fallen branch, then reached back to steady Kyres as he did the same. "Though sometimes I wonder if you know me too well, son."

"Shalia says I'm getting better at figuring you out." Kyres grinned. "She says you're not as mysterious as you think you are."

His father's laugh was soft but genuine. "Your sister sees more than most." He paused, considering. "Sometimes I think she sees too much."

"Like Mother did?"

The question slipped out before Kyres could stop it. He rarely asked about his mother directly - it was usually Shalia who drew out those stories. His father's stride hitched for just a moment, barely noticeable if Kyres hadn't been watching for it.

His father was quiet for several steps, and Kyres worried he'd broken their morning's easy mood. But when his father spoke, his voice was warm with memory.

"Like your mother? Yes and no." He ran a hand through his graying beard. "Your mother... she didn't just see things. She understood them. People would come to her with their troubles - not just for her herbs, but for her counsel."

They passed the baker's house, the morning bread smell mixing with his father's words. "I remember once, right after we settled here, there was a dispute between two farmers about a shared well. The village elder had tried to solve it, but both men were stubborn as mules."

"What did Mother do?"

"Nothing, at first. She just listened. Invited them both for tea, on different days. Let them talk while she worked in her garden." His father smiled at the memory. "A week later, both men were helping each other repair the well's stone wall. When I asked her what she'd said to them, she just smiled and told me sometimes people need to find their own way to the right answer."

Kyres adjusted the toolbox again, thinking. "Like Trader Benn and his cart?"

His father reached over and ruffled his hair, calloused fingers gentle. "Sharp as your mother, too. Though she was quieter about it." He glanced at Kyres with mock severity. "She never dropped practice swords in the mud."

"That was one time!" Kyres protested, but his chest felt warm. He rarely heard his father make easy jokes about Mother. Usually, the memories came out careful and solemn, like precious things wrapped in silk.

The warmth of the moment carried them the rest of the way to Carpenter Owen's workshop. The building looked more awake now, smoke curling from its stone chimney. The familiar smell of sawdust and wood shavings grew stronger as they approached.

They found Owen already outside, his massive frame bent over a half-finished rocking chair. Each stroke of his plane sent curls of pale wood spinning to join the sawdust at his feet. He worked with the fluid precision of someone who'd done the same motion thousands of times, his weathered hands sure despite their size.

"Steady hands for such a big man," Kyres' father had once said. "That's what twenty years at sea teaches you."

Owen looked up at their approach, his thick beard parting in a grin. "Ah, if it isn't the early birds!" He straightened with a grunt, brushing sawdust from his leather apron. "Though I hear there's quite a show in the square this morning. Surprised you didn't stay to watch the excitement."

"Some shows are better without an audience," Kyres' father replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Owen's laugh was as solid as the rest of him. "Wisdom!" He turned his attention to Kyres, eyeing the toolbox. "And you've brought your shadow, I see. Good lad. Might need those young eyes for this job."

"Young eyes?" Kyres asked, setting down the toolbox with a grateful thump. His arms ached, though he tried not to show it.

"Aye," Owen nodded, gesturing toward the fence with his plane. "That break isn't where you'd expect. Saw it this morning when I was opening up shop. Might be those temple cats, might be something else." He scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Either way, young eyes see small problems better than old ones."

"Temple cats don't dig," Kyres said without thinking, then felt his face heat as both men turned to look at him. "I mean... I've watched them sometimes. When Sister Mira feeds them. They just sleep in the sun mostly."

Owen's eyes crinkled. "That so? And I suppose you've never snuck them bits of dried fish when the Sister wasn't looking?"

"I-" Kyres started, then caught the knowing look in Owen's eye. "How did you...?"

"Who do you think built their feeding shelter?" Owen winked. "And who do you think sees everything that happens from this workshop window?"

Kyres' father chuckled. "Should've known you'd have an eye on the whole street, Owen. Old habits from the crow's nest?"

"Ha! More like old habits from watching my own boys." Owen's expression softened slightly. "They were just about your age when we settled here, Kyres. Just as quick to find mischief too."

"Speaking of mischief," Owen said, leading them toward the damaged fence, "take a look at this."

The fence ran along the eastern edge of Owen's property, separating his workshop yard from the slope that led down to the stream. At first glance, the break looked simple enough - just a few loose boards. But as they drew closer, Kyres noticed something odd about the way the wood had splintered.

"See it?" Owen asked, crouching down despite his size. His thick fingers traced the grain of the wood. "The break's clean on top, but underneath..."

Kyres knelt beside him, peering at where Owen pointed. In the shadows beneath the lowest board, the wood hadn't just broken - it had been... changed somehow. The grain was warped, twisted in a way that made his eyes hurt if he looked too long.

His father crouched on his other side, and Kyres felt him go very still.

"Never seen wood rot quite like that," Owen said carefully, his voice neutral. "Almost like it's been..."

"Burned," Kyres' father finished quietly. "From the inside out."

Something in his father's tone made Kyres look up. For just a moment, he caught an expression he'd never seen before crossing his father's face - not quite fear, but something close to it. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual calm.