The Choosing (The Arcadia Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

to weed. "Can you just tell me? Because you are awful at the – whatever it is you're doing. Innuendo? Codes?"
    "Being discreet," Tarah said, but though her tone was light, she didn't smile. "There are riders on the road."
    Livy went completely cold. "Centurions?" Her own voice was barely above silent.
    "Big as life and twice as ugly. Red coats, brass buttons. But." She stopped, frowning.
    Livy was coming close to the end of her row. That would probably signal the end of her shift. She paused and made a show of digging a rock out of the way of one of the plants. "But what? Come on, Tare. There's not much time."
    "Okay," her friend said in a hiss. "There are Centurions on the road. They're coming this way. I got this from Dean. He saw them. Not a friend of his or anything else. My brother himself."
    Which explained some of Tarah's unusual subtly. Dean was often where he wasn't supposed to be. Probably he had been again.
    "They're coming slow. But they're coming. It's not just riders. They're pulling chariots and they're armed. And – " She paused, as if uncertain how to continue.
    "And?"
    "There's one with them. Another Centurion? Only – he's wearing a purple sash."
    Livy swallowed hard. He was wearing the Plutarch's colors and being brought in a chariot the day after all the mysteries with her parents and grandfather. Her heart began to pound. "A Magistrate," she breathed, and saw Tarah's sudden understanding just before the other girl dropped back a little, separating them so they didn't appear to be talking too much.
    A Magistrate. Terror and guilt tried to leap up in her. It had only been an old book, of stories, not history, but what if what she'd done had brought a Magistrate to them?
    Just as quickly as the panicky guilt came, it fled. If that were the case, the riders wouldn't be so close to Pastoreum that news of their presence could be reported. They would only just be setting out.
    Which meant they were coming for some other reason.
    Centurions or not, it was something different. Something new.
    Livy felt her heartbeat change, pounding now with curiosity. Trying to catch up with Tarah again, she whispered urgently, "How long?" Because if they were coming, when would they come? She wanted time to talk with her grandfather and maybe her father, and –
    And the civil defense alarm began to sound.

    T he chaotic response was instant . The second the clarion call of the alarm split the springtime air, everyone in the fields dropped their farming implements and stared at each other, then began to run.
    The mounted overseers conversed only briefly before forming into columns, creating an honor guard of sorts to escort the running villagers.
    Tarah grabbed Livy's arm, dragging her from her shocked incomprehension. Only seconds ago she'd wanted change, wanted something to happen, and now terror filled her at the thought that something was changing: The Plutarch had sent messengers.
    But why?
    And when Tarah tugged her, Livy fell into step with her, racing with everyone else toward the village center.
    Only to stop short at the sight that met them there. The citizens of Agara all crowded into the square. At first glance it looked like everyone in the town was there. Livy felt a wave of disorientation sweep over her. The square was familiar, from the dais and podium where local selectmen and selectwomen ran for governmental posts that made them figureheads at best, puppets at worst. There were the scales, where barters were enacted and the paperwork, such as it was for their largely illiterate village, was signed and recorded. The usual buildings surrounded the square – the bakers where everyone bought bread, where they pooled their hoarded sugar for special events. The constable's office, where Tom Robbins, who passed for law in the village, did his work. The pump station, centrally located in order to respond fast in the event of fire. The communal baths, the communal brick ovens, the communal laundry – everything