Vincent had worn a line in the sand outside of The Hollow Heart. It was a couple of inches deep now, the grains beneath darker and more compact than the loose, light dusting on top. What was taking Jorge so long? He should have returned from the capital hours ago.

The queen's men had already been and gone, sweeping through Whistledawn with a ruthlessness which left no doubt in Vincent's mind as to what the queen's verdict on the tithe had been. The town would have to pay, even if doing so cost them their lives.

The sun was strong, but the air cold, the first hint of the dead season creeping over the sleepy streets. A few windows, cracked and broken with age, had been patched up with bits of charred wood in place of glass. Rotten doorframes were being left to wear away. By the end of the lunar cycle, frost would be appearing on broken thatch, sharp drafts echoing through bare, fireless homes.

A few metres away from Vincent, tucked into a small patch of shade provided by the tavern's dusty bay window, two children were playing dice on the floor. The image was common enough, but stark changes had been wrought on it over the past few months: the children bare footed, their toes blistered by the cold, unforgiving ground. Their skin hung from their bones, streaked with mud, their faces large and hollow with hunger. Even the dice had changed, an etched piece of bark in place of the carved ash wood that would have gone on the fire when the fuel ran out.

It had become all too familiar a scene over the past few months, when the taxes had been partially paid and the grain had first dwindled. But familiarity did not bring ease, or acceptance, and his stomach still turned at the purple skin of their finger tips, the slight pinkness of their eyes, which showed they had recently resorted to eating poisoned currants from the woods.

The children of Whistledawn were dying and there was nothing the adults could do to help them with one foot in the Scyther's Grave themselves.

No. Relief if it came, could only be brought by the Queen.

Vincent could still remember the day she took the throne, the parades in the street which lasted until dawn, with wine shared and neighbours speaking without fear for the first time in a generation, insults aimed at the late king bubbling out from them, unbidden, in a heady rush of freedom.

The exhilaration had not lasted long. Oh, Queen Maya spoke pretty words and waved at the crowds from her golden carriage as she toured the kingdom. But she believed help had to be earned, relief taken by force, as she had taken the crown and freed them. She didn't understand that starving children hadn't chosen hunger, that the parents who couldn't feed them could no more magic food from flooded farmland than they could sprout wings and fly. Wanting change and being able to seize it were two very different things.

Vincent's only hope had been that Jorge would help her to see.

There. On the horizon. Was it? Could it be?

A lone figure approached, a small, wraith like speck in place of the lively young man who had left on horseback, promising relief for their small town.

As Vincent watched, the figure staggered and dropped to the ground.

"Jorge!" He cried out, rushing towards his brother.

The man who had fallen on the path leading to the village gates was unrecognisable from the one who had left them. Sunken cheeks had replaced glowing optimism. His clothing was soiled and feted, and Vincent fought not the retch as he lifted his brother into his arms.

"Jorge, by the stars! What happened to you? Where is your horse?"

"She took it," his brother rasped, eyes flickering between open and closed.

"Who?" Vincent's thoughts flew to raiders, to mercenaries, to villagers as desperate for fresh meat as they were.

"The queen..." Jorge's words were barely above a whisper, and Vincent thought at fist he must have misheard him. "She said if I could afford to keep a horse, our situation couldn't be as bad as I suggested. She kept it..." he broke off for a hacking cough. Small specks of blood landed on Vincent's top. "Said it was a downpayment on what we owe."

"What we owe? But you told her we couldn't pay! How could she demand a downpayment?" Vincent spoke the words even though he had already know, deep down, that his brother had been unsuccessful. The soldiers would not have come otherwise.

Jorge didn't respond, and Vincent wondered if his brother had passed out from exhaustion, but when he looked down, he found Jorge's eyes on the children playing in the dust.

"We must pay the full tithe. Or they will die. All of them."

Jorge lost consciousness as they stepped over the threshold of The Hollow Heart and it was not until many hours later that the small band of villagers assembled there had been able to revive him enough for him to sustain a conversations beyond mindless babble.

Dirt coated the once gleaming wooden floor. What little of the sun made it through the dust and grime coloured windows was weak and grey as it illuminated the scene. Jorge had been lain out across two tables - there was no one drinking at them anyway, the ale had been one of the first things to run out.

When he had been brought in, ten or so villagers had surrounded Jorge, offering small sips of water and crumbs of week old bread. As news had spread, the number at Jorge's beside had swelled and, as he spoke his first words, almost forty were there to hear them.

"One lunar cycle," he rasped.

"Quick, someone get him some more water," the aged barman cried out. A grimy tankard was filled with water from the well and Jorge was lifted into a semi-seated position.

"One lunar cycle for what?" Vincent asked as Jorge gulped down the liquid.

"To..." Jorge grimmaced and Vincent wondered if he was going to be sick. He took the tankard away, to stop Jorge from downing any more.

"To pay what we owe."

A stoney silence met Jorge's words. To pay what they owed? But that was impossible. Even in the life season, nothing edible grew within a month. At this time of year they would be lucky to see the first sprouts of germination by the end of a lunar cycle. The ground outside was already hardening, seeds hibernating until warmer cycles returned. And what workforce could function without food? The people of Whistledawn could barely put one foot after the other, let alone take up tools and toil in the fields. Did the queen expect them to find gold beneath the first particles of soil? Did she think coins would rain down form the stars under the next full moon?

"But... We can't," Vincent said at last. Jorge had to see that it wasn't possible. The queen had to realise her demands were empty.

"We have to. The queen..." He broke off again. Closed his eyes.

When he opened them once more, his expression was vacant, emotionless. "She said only a village half the size of Whistledawn could pay half the amount of taxes. Soldiers are being sent on the morning of the new moon. They will have orders to receive our outstanding taxes and tithe."

"And if we don't give it to them?" It was a question that might once have been delivered with bravado by the landlord, a call to arms for all those who could wield a weapon to face the soldiers in the street. Today, it was whispered and laced in fear.

"Then they have orders to line up the townspeople in the square. If only half of our taxes have been paid, only half of us will be allowed to survive."

Behind Vincent, someone retched, the sour stench of vomit filling the musty air.

"Stars have mercy!" someone else gasped.

Vincent frowned, his eyes meeting his brother's. It was the stars who had gotten them into this mess. If mercy was not forthcoming from the queen herself, they would need to take matters into their own hands.