The Record of the Saints Caliber Read Free Page A

spikes—“bolts” his father had called them—fired by the gun.
    The guards shoved them aside but paid them no further attention as they charged into the church. Rook’s mother did not wait to find out what would happen, and grabbed Rook solidly by the wrist and exited the church, along with some other people.
    The fog had cleared by now, but the walk back home was as silent and somber as the gray skies. Ursula had begun crying again and Rook’s mother tried to comfort her as best she could until they got home. Like the others in the town, they lived in a modest sized house of brick, timber and plaster. Rook’s father had always told him that before the Great Falling these houses were for the wealthy and great feasts would have been had within them. The fireplace would have been alive and the walls decorated with art. Today most of the walls had cracks that had undergone makeshift repairs and been stuffed with mud and straw. Some of the interior walls had even been stripped bare for firewood. The roof had too many holes to be properly fixed, and the gray light of day shown through in numerous spots. There was no art on any of the walls, and the bedrooms had nothing more than straw piles for beds. There was wood for the fireplace and stove, but certainly nothing to cook.
    Rook’s mother sat down on the floor in the corner by the fireplace. They had long ago sold all their furniture for food. She tried to ease the crying baby. She looked exhausted and had that blank stare again. Rook placed some logs into the fireplace and soon had a nice, warm fire crackling. They sat there silent, staring into the fire for many long moments before Ursula began screaming again.
    “Shh, shh,” said Rook’s mother, rocking the child. “There, there, now.”
    “Momma,” said Rook, looking at his screaming little sister. “Can I make her some barley water?”
    “There’s no more barley,” said his mother softly, not looking away from Ursula as she rocked her in her lap.
    “Momma,” said Rook. “Do you think they’ll have any food tomorrow?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t know.” rasped his mother, and then suddenly she too began bawling.
    Rook wrapped his arms around his mother and patted her on her back. “It’ll be ok. Maybe one of the Saints Caliber will come soon,” said Rook. “Maybe like in the legends of Saint Bryant he’ll come and bring us food and save us from all this.”
    Rook’s mom looked up at him, tears streaming down her sunken eyes and cheeks. She touched his face and said through her tears, “There’s nobody coming, honey. It’s all lies. Everything they tell us are lies.”
    “No,” said Rook, pulling away and shaking his head frantically. “No! No, they’re not! They can’t be!”
    “I’m sorry, Rook.” said his mother, wiping tears from her eyes. She rocked Ursula in her arms, but the baby was inconsolable. “I’m so sorry I brought you and your sister into this world.”
    “No,” said Rook, unable to hold back his own tears. “No! Don’t say that! The Saints Caliber will come one day! They will! They’ll destroy all of the Unbound and restore prosperity to the lands! They will, momma! They will! They say the wars are almost over, and then they’ll come! They will!”
    Rook’s mother hugged him but he could feel she had too little strength to do it with any firmness. Ursula screamed out. Rook’s mother looked down at her with a tender smile. “Rook, honey. The knife in the kitchen. Bring it to me.”
    Rook stared wide-eyed at his mother.
    “Please honey,” she said. “I don’t think I have much time.”
    Rook could feel his heart racing. Something wasn’t right. Something about the way his mother was acting. She was breathing heavier too. Ursula screamed out again, and again his mother urged him to get the knife, saying she didn’t have the strength to get it herself. Hesitantly, Rook ran to the kitchen. Upon their table, barren of all but dust, sat a lone knife that