After the reading, we stay under the healing tree, waiting for people to stop talking to Fremid. Long golden chains of flowers weigh down the thin branches. They have a sweet, spicy scent.

  "This is our year! I feel it." Petro said the same exact thing when we turned ten. That year, he tried out to be a merchant and a tailor. Trombert and I would have tried out, if our parents had let us.

  When the lector sees us, he runs his fingers through his long, thinning hair. "I suppose you boys are interested in one of the competitions?"

  We all nod.

  "Are you old enough?"

  Petro jumps up. "I'm almost thirteen." He turned twelve this moon cycle.

  "Me too," says Trombert. That was closer to true; he'd turned twelve nearly three moons ago.

  I don't look Fremid in the eyes when I say, "I'm about there too." That's the biggest stretch. I won't turn twelve for a while.

  "Boys, I think you're a year off in your ages, but either way, you're plenty old. Before I know it, you'll be saying you're younger than you are. Now, which contest are you interested in? Wait, let me guess." He rubs his chin thoughtfully while studying our skin and bone frames. "Judging by size, I'm guessing you all want to train as blacksmiths."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  We may be skinny, but we're strong. I bet we could do it.

  "No, that's too much work. We want to be scribes like you." Trombert smiles at Fremid.

  "Becoming a scribe takes a lot of hard work, but of course, it is the best choice. The first competition will be in the village of Selna during the next half moons."

  I glance at the scroll. The drawings are interesting, but I have no idea how anyone can make the marks into words. I doubt I'm smart enough to learn something like that. Petro can probably figure it out, but not me, and certainly not Trombert.

  Fremid turns the scroll to give us a better view. "These are letters. The letters make up words." He names some of them.

  It's all lines, squiggles, and circles, but for some reason, I can't stop studying them. Something draws me to them. I reach out to touch them, then pull my dirty fingers away.

  He rolls the scroll up and puts it behind his back. "After the festival, I'll give you a few pointers on how to train." He shoos us away.

  We head toward our houses. Petro shares his big plans for our future. "We can be scribes for a merchant and travel, or maybe work for Lord Dennison, who knows maybe—"

  I don't hear much of what he says. Instead, I keep thinking about the designs and the words on the scroll. Every year, people from the village complain about the Yesiphaa and how everyone should be happy with their lot in life. That's because they weren't born a peasant farmer. I look at my upper right arm. In the moonlight, I can make out the boar's head tattoo I got when I was two. When I turn twelve, a circle of rice plants will surround the boar. I've earned it. Next year, when my brother Ansel turns sixteen, he'll get a ring of fruit blossoms around his rice plant ring. Before today, I would've said that things couldn't change. You're born on a path, and that's it. I rub the tattoo. Maybe I don't want rice; what would happen if I wanted something else?