Critiques for a short story I wrote?

@esther-c @jonas @highscribeofaetherium @savannah_grace2009 @grcr @whalekeeper @rae @kyronthearcanin @trailblazer @anyone-interested

Hi! I wrote this short story… I think last week, and I would love any critiques or advice you guys have. I’m not really sure if the ending is timed right… but anyway, I’m excited to see what you think! The working title is The Mystery King… but that needs work too, I think. Also, is there parts with too much telling and not enough showing?

Thanks in advance!

The bucket tips in my hand, splashing gray water onto the floor of the barn. I step over the wet hay and unlock the latch to the black mare’s pen.
She turns her head as I pour it into her trough, ears flicking. Intelligent brown eyes stare back at me. I pat her nose.
If any of the horses here have a brain, it’s this one. She’s tame with the children, obedient to the master, and I swear she recognizes me every time I enter her pen. The master calls her Swift, but I’ve named her Midnight secretly. Once I met a traveler whose horse was called that, and it just fits this one. She’s dark as night, with bright eyes like brown stars.
“Boy!” The master stands at the entrance to the barn, silhouetted against the setting sun. “What’s all this water on the ground?”
I pick up my bucket and leave the horse’s pen, latching it behind me. “I spilled, sir.”
A stiff rag hits my shoulder. “Clean it up. And next time be more careful.”
The master stays as I brush the wet hay into a pile and dry the floor. I glance up when I’m done. He’s still there.
“Sir?”
“It’s almost sundown.” A hint of fear is smothered in the master’s gruff tone. “Aren’t you done yet?”
I straighten. “That was the last one, sir. But the brown mare needs her hooves–”
He flicks a hand to silence me. “Get home to your family. She can wait for tomorrow.”
Even though I’m sure the mare was limping when I took her out earlier, I don’t argue. The sunlight’s fading, and curfew has cleared the streets already.
I pick up my lunch pail from the back door and leave the barn, casting a nervous glance at the darkening sky. Townspeople are arrested every week for breaking the king’s rules, curfew included. Technically I have until sundown to get home, but would a guard say otherwise?
I pick up my pace, though I don’t dare run. That would draw the attention of the guards in the town, even the undercover ones, if they’re not just rumors.
For eighteen years, our people have lived in fear of a king we’ve never seen, who governs from the North. I’ve heard rumors of a terrible skin disease, a facial disfiguration, an illness that doesn’t permit him to leave the palace. Some say he’s just private. Others, that there’s no king at all—but those are usually the ones who disappear. Taken from their families, possibly to never return.
Pa believes he enjoys the mystery of it; watching us trip over ourselves to follow his rules when we have no idea who he is. I know Ma wonders whether he really exists, though she doesn’t say it. But it’s easier to obey the laws placed on us than to argue and face exile.
I approach the heart of the village, where shop lights are going dark and the streets nearly empty. Those still about are hurrying home, anxious to escape the watchful gazes of the guards loitering near the checkpoint.
I pass these same guards every day on my way to work and back. You’d think a shard of grace would be allowed for a familiar face like mine.
You’d be wrong.
“Boy!” barks the stoutest. I suppress a sigh and move closer to them, prepared to give up my lunch pail to examination.
“It’s almost curfew,” the one with pointed eyebrows says. They resemble tiny snakes pinned to his forehead, and move accordingly. “Where are you going so late?”
“Home, sir,” I say, dutifully handing over my pail to the stout one. He studies it as the other glances me over, left eyebrow twitching.
“I’m assuming you’ve heard the news?”
I stand up straighter. News? “No, sir.”
He flicks the stout one, who hands me back my pail. “The king is coming.”
It takes a moment for my mind to process his words. “Really? Why?”
His hand waves, as if in dismissal, but the flicker in his eyes says he’s just as curious as I am. “News just arrived from the palace. He’ll be traveling through here tomorrow.”
I wrap my fingers tighter around the handle of my pail. Could he be coming to punish the rebels? There are no towns beyond ours for miles. Where could he be traveling to?
The guard glances up at the sky. The crease that appears in his forehead makes his eyebrows wiggle. “Better hurry. You don’t have long until sundown.”
I roll my eyes once his back is turned and continue down the street.
* * *
Gold glinting in the sun catches my eye. A carriage moves slowly down the streets in front of the tavern, drawn by white horses. Passengers don’t bother hiding their stares. Could this be the king?
I stand on my tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the people inside. As I watch, a young boy darts out from the crowd and yanks on the curtains. They fall open, revealing an older couple dressed in regent uniform.
A collective sigh goes out from the crowd as the regents are revealed. The woman glares disapprovingly and whisks the curtains closed again. I turn back to my station near the entrance to the tavern and shift my feet. The master has been inside for maybe half an hour. There’s no telling how much longer he’ll be.
The carriage continues down the streets, and the crowd doesn’t linger now that the riders have been exposed. But the guard said the king would be traveling through here today.
I glance up at the sky. It’s early evening; there should only be a few hours left until curfew. But I guess the king isn’t confined to his own rules.
“It’s quite a procession, isn’t it?”
My gaze snaps back to the ground. The source of the voice stands beside me—a man, maybe in his thirties. From his clothes and his unshaved face, he appears to be a worker of some kind. Maybe even a servant.
“Yes sir,” I say, looking back at the carriage, which is almost out of sight. “But they’re only regents.” Only after the words come out do I realize what I’ve said. “Sorry–I mean, regents are great, it’s just…”
I glance at the man, but he doesn’t look angry. His face is soft, kind even. “The king is supposed to be here today,” I say.
The man smiles. “Do you think kings only come in carriages?”
I blink. “What else would they use?” What kind of question is that? Of course the king of this whole country would ride in a carriage—probably the most expensive one he could find. I study the man. He doesn’t look crazy, but you can’t always tell those things. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I have many names,” the man says, tilting his head. “But you may call me Jesse.”
I nod. “I’m Mason.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mason,” he says. There isn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice. He turns to lean against the side of the tavern. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“My master,” I say, glancing down. “Are you?”
From the corner of my eye I catch the shake of his head. “I’m here on my own. Just passing through on my way home.”
“Were you traveling?” I ask. Something about this man puts me at ease. There’s no judgement in his brown eyes.
He nods slowly. “I’ve been away for a long time.”
Silence lapses between us. I wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t–just stays standing comfortably against the tavern wall, studying the people on the street.
“Tell me, Mason,” he says suddenly. “Who do you think the king is?”
I shake my head uncomfortably. “No one’s ever seen him.”
His eyes meet mine. “But who do you think he is?”
I glance away. This kind of talk could get us arrested, but . . . “He can’t be good, can he?”
At the expression on Jesse’s face, I keep talking, feeling my face grow hot as the words spill out in my effort to explain. “I mean, he takes half of everything we make. We can’t be out after sundown, and the people who don’t obey the rules. . .” My throat catches embarrassingly. I clear it before I keep going. “They disappear.”
Jesse’s smile has faded. He looks away, then down. “Do they ever come back?”
I shrug, brows furrowed. “Not always.”
His lips pull into a tight line. I glance away, somewhat embarrassed. How could he not know? He must have been traveling for years and years.
“How long?” The words are quiet.
I hesitate, shifting my feet. “As long as I can remember. At least ten years.”
Jesse’s still for a moment. Then he reaches up and rubs his forehead.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s almost a whisper. Abruptly he lets go of the tavern wall and straightens. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I have to go.”
I glance up at him. “You’re leaving?” The words slip out before I can stop them. I know it’s ridiculous. Why would he stay here?
Jesse nods. “I have to stop this.” He meets my eyes. “But I’ll be back. I am sorry, Mason.”
Before I can ask what he’s sorry for, he’s gone. Down the streets in a direction that leads out of town. As he hurries away, my gaze lands on the golden crest of his cloak, half-tucked under his shoulder-length hair.
* * *
Almost a month passes before I see Jesse again. It’s October now and the sky is bleeding vibrant sunset as I head home from work.
My hands ache from the hours of practicing on scraps of wood, but a small glow of pleasure warms my insides whenever I think of the beautiful things the carpenter makes. Someday, I’ll be able to make carvings like that.
I tuck my coat tighter around me as the breeze sweeps sunburnt leaves into scattered piles. They remind me of the golden ornaments of the carriage I saw weeks ago. Jesse’s words flash to the front of my mind, not for the first time.
Do you think kings only come in carriages?
Not anymore. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before—who he was. The suspicion has grown inside of me for weeks, strengthening with each day that passed. What I still don’t understand is, why?
As if summoned from my thoughts, a man steps into the street beside me. The movement of the cloak, the boots—they’re foreign, but somehow familiar. I glance up, and there he is.
“Jesse?” I stop walking.
He smiles. “I told you I’d be back.”
I study his face. It’s strange—I’ve tried to recall it over and over, but the memory faded too fast. Nothing about his appearance speaks of a king. He isn’t handsome, or tall, or strong-looking. His clothes aren’t much nicer than mine, and this cloak doesn’t bear the crest I saw before. A tiny thread of doubt folds into my pocket of certainty. How could this be the king?
He starts to walk, and I follow him.
“Tell me, Mason,” he says. His eyes shine. “Who do you think the king is now?”
An unbidden smile tugs at my lips. I study the kindness in his expression, the confidence in his posture. Suddenly the answer feels more certain to me than anything.

• This topic was modified 10 months, 2 weeks ago by hybridlore. Reason: italics