Shinko's Medieval Fics

[Shinko]

Collab between myself, Celestial and Tiger. Woob-dad meets erryone's favorite blank that fell in love with an archmage! But that archmage and the one featured in this fic are not the same person. Because I think Kirin would object.

A Better Future

SPOILER: Click to show

Autumn had begun to creep into Medieville when Ambrose knocked on the door of Kirin and Leif’s home. Though he remembered the location well, it was not because he visited the place often; he rarely had a reason to come here when Stallion Manor or the Keep or any other place around Medieville usually served the purpose of a venue to meet either of them. Not this time, however.

He stepped away from the entrance, checking the leather toolkit was securely fastened to his belt beneath his cloak and waited for somebody to open the door.

The interruption was a welcome one; Leif was about a third of the way through writing a report for House Jade - Lord Everett more specifically - that explained what he’d been up to this past year, what he’d done on behalf of his House, any pertinent events that had happened in the city, and generally how things were, politically and socially, in Medieville. Political and social were two of Leif’s worst areas, and he’d already covered the magic-related events, so it was both tedious and difficult. The archmage sighed in relief at the knock that signaled Ambrose’s arrival, and quickly got up, stretched, and left his study to answer the door.

A bit of a chill came into the house as Leif opened the door for the Stallion inventor. Just a touch of cold, though, and Leif knew he ought to be grateful it was still early enough in the year that it would probably warm up as the day went on. “Good afternoon, Lord Ambrose; thank you for coming.” He’d picked up that addition to a greeting very recently; Leif was glad to have increased his social abilities by at least a sentence more, but couldn’t help being a little embarrassed that it was such a small thing and yet had still taken him close to forty years to figure out.

Stepping aside so Ambrose could enter - and checking that there was a hook available for the Stallion’s cloak, which there was - he added in a more somber tone, “I’m sorry to hear about Lady Margot, by the way. I hope you and your brother are...doing as well as can be expected?”

Ambrose froze in place at the threshold, his hand frozen over the clasp of the silver horse that was keeping his cloak in place. He gave off a deep sigh. “Alain... will be alright, he’s strong and he has coped with loss before,” he said in a tone that sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. Almost immediately, however, he shook his head and worked the pin of his brooch out of the red cloth, taking his cloak off and turning to smile at Leif. “But by all accounts you’ve had an interesting year, Master Leif. I’ve heard a few details from Kirin, and perhaps more rumours than I should have around town about the runaways. From...Meltaim, wasn’t it?”

“Meltaim, yes.”

The Stallion hung his cloak up on to the hook and once he was sure it was securely in place, turned back to the archmage. “Thank you for inviting me to meet him. I admit, I am more than a little curious,” he gestured from the door to Leif. “Could you lead the way then, and introduce me?”

“Of course. Well,” Leif amended as he began leading the way into the house, “I can introduce you to Phyllo and Silvia. Zuzanna is out helping one of the shopkeepers in the marketplace with some magical books he picked up; apparently they’re enchanted to stay together as a set, and that makes them difficult to sell individually, as you can imagine.” By this point, they had reached the opening to the living room, where Leif had last seen and heard his houseguests.

However, it seemed that in the interim since Leif had last been in the room, said houseguests had not bided the wait for Ambrose’s arrival quite so well. Sitting on an armchair by the fire was a tall, dark skinned teenager with long hair held in multiple minute braids, with a sash of some sort tied over his forehead. The man was slumped sideways in the chair, eyes closed and chest rising in the steady, even pattern of sleep. In his arms the young man was holding an infant, her mouth latched to one of his fingers and her lips moving in a rhythmic sucking motion despite the fact that she too was clearly fast asleep.

“Ah,” Leif said, smirking. “Silvia’s been keeping her parents very busy, regardless of the hour.” He stepped into the room, calling out, “Phyllo?” in what he hoped was a tone soft enough to not wake the baby but loud enough to rouse her father.

Phyllo’s eyelids twitched briefly, and he gave voice to a soft, confused moan. He lifted his head a few seconds later, blinking silvery-grey eyes owlishly. “Leif? What’s- oh!”

His eyes landed on the elderly man standing with Leif, and Phyllo hurriedly dipped his head in as close as he could get to a bow without jostling the infant in his arms. “Ah, my sorries, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He glanced at the archmage again, “This is Stallion friend?”

“Yes; Phyllo, this is Lord Ambrose; Lord Ambrose, this is Phyllo and Silvia Panem.” He eased aside so Ambrose could more easily step forward.

“Just Ambrose is fine, I don’t like to stand on formalities,” the Stallion said, carefully walking out from behind Leif and then past him, towards Phyllo. As he did, Ambrose’s gaze swept over him, taking in the image of the young man in front of him. When it fell on Silvia, a soft smile formed on his face, but his eyes did not linger on her long before turning to Phyllo once again. “Has Master Leif told you much about me?”

Phyllo shook his head, his eyes training downwards out of instinctive habit around the unfamiliar nobleman. “I know you work for the king, and you are from not-magic-region in the north, and you are friend of Xavier. But this is all.” He bowed his head again, “It is good to be meeting you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you too, Phyllo,” Ambrose replied, his expression momentarily shifting into a slight frown as he took in the mannerisms the young man showed. They seemed oddly familiar and it took him almost no time to realise why: he had seen them before, except on Xavier, back when they first met. Hardly surprising though, given what he had managed to find out about Meltaim and their treatment of non-mages.

“You don’t have to be so nervous around me, Phyllo. As I said, I don’t like standing on formalities, and I mean you no harm,” the Stallion spoke in as gentle a voice as he could muster. There was a chair near where Phyllo was with his daughter and Ambrose sat down on it, both to take the weight off his legs and to not feel as though he was looming over the younger man. “I know I was born a noble but, please, don’t feel like you have to treat me as a superior.”

Phyllo gave a wan smile, stroking Silvia’s hair with the hand she was not presently using as a makeshift pacifier. “I am sorry, is just… Habit. Nobles in the country where I lived are not kind. Not to… people like me.”

“So I have heard, and I understand; habits that are so ingrained into you are not easy to break. You do not have to apologise to me either,” Ambrose looked up at Phyllo, his eyes full of sympathy. “But you’re no longer in your country. Kyth is different,” he smiled. “My House have been major lords for five hundred years and every single one of us has been a person like you, as you put it. Magic is not everything.”

“When… we were told of Kyth at first, people said that… Bern? That Bern does not like magic,” Phyllo said, the puzzlement in his voice making the statement half-query. “We were afraid it would be like Meltaim, but backwards. My wife Zuzia is a mage; my daughter, we don’t know yet. But… Kirin is from Bern, and he is married to archmage. You are friends with Leif and Xavier, and they are both mages.”

The Stallion raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why shouldn’t I be? They’re both good people, that’s all that really matters,” he sighed, shaking his head slightly. “I can see why that would be a misconception; Bern has no magic of which to speak of, and most Bernians would never meet a mage in their life, but that does not mean it is intolerant of magic,” his hand drifted to the leather toolkit on his belt, bringing it around to rest on his knees. “We simply have our own way of tackling problems which would otherwise be solved with magic. I must admit though, the people of Bern, and my House in particular, are very proud of this way of life.”

This actually got a sincere smile out of Phyllo, and he gave Leif a knowing look. “Like how Morgaine got the collar off, hm? With patience and tools instead of fancy magics.”

Leif, who had pulled up another chair and quietly taken a seat, nodded. “Rather like. Though she’s as Corvid as I am.”

“Is good thing about Kyth,” Phyllo mused. “If you can be something no matter where you go, even if you are a mage or are not a mage.”

“Yes...” Ambrose said with a wistful sigh before shaking his head and turning his gaze back to Phyllo. “Would...would you like to see? I brought some of my things with me, so I can show you...some of the non-magical ways of doing things?”

“Sure, that would be good,” he replied. “Even in the country where I was born- not Meltaim, they ah… stole?” He glanced at Leif.

“Kidnapped, I think is the word you’re wanting,” the Kythian archmage supplied.

“Kidnapped,” Phyllo echoed, nodding. “When I was a child. But even the country where I was born, magic was… a big part of things. Most things.” He gave an unpleasant curl of his lips. “King is more interested in fighting Tengiz for jungles than protecting nonmage children from raiders. But when mage children are taken, then he switch to caring.”

“I...I’m sorry,” Ambrose said quietly, lowering his eyes. Absently, his hand gripped the clasp of his toolkit. “It’s usually the ordinary people who suffer when a monarch decides to expand his territories. But that was no excuse for you to be taken from your home.”

He shook his head. “That’s in the past, however. It does not serve to dwell on something you can no longer change. That only leads to misery” the Stallion spoke before proceeding to fiddle with the clasp, opening up the toolkit and unrolling a part of it, exposing some of the gleaming tools inside it. “Instead, it’s better to focus on what you have now.”

Phyllo looked down at the toolkit with interest, shifting Silvia a bit so that he could move closer to the edge of the seat. She squirmed in his arms, stubbornly nestling closer to his chest and biting down on his finger for a second, but quieted again when he stroked her. With fondness in his voice and eyes he murmured, “Good things we have now are… good.” He chuckled, shaking his head at his own inexpert Kythian. Then with a gesture in Ambrose’s direction he said, “Please, show.”

The Stallion gave an obliging nod and stood up from his chair, immediately kneeling on the floor in order to give the toolkit room to open up fully. “These are the tools I most commonly use. I have more, as well as blueprints, parts and incomplete inventions back at my workshop in my Manor but this is what I can carry with me,” he reached over to the right hand side of the kit, towards a flat, rectangular compartment. “I did bring a few blueprints with me though, if you want to see.”

“What is ‘blueprints’? Blue is like color, yes?” Phyllo asked, tilting his head at the unfamiliar Kythian word. “And… inventions?”

“Ah, forgive me; I should be clearer,” Ambrose exclaimed before clearing his throat. “An invention is, well, it’s something that is created, I suppose? It’s a thing put together and it usually does something useful. And a blueprint…” he shook his head. “It’s nothing to do with the colour blue, no. Rather it’s...it’s best if I show you.”

He undid a button that was sewn into the leather and took out several pieces of parchment from the folio, separating them from each other. Picking one at random, he folded it out to reveal a fine ink drawing of a leg. Or rather, it was shaped like a leg but where there were joints, there were fine gears, springs and cogs.

“This is a blueprint: a map of an invention to guide how something should be built,” Ambrose held it out to Phyllo. “That particular one is of a prosthetic leg- if somebody loses their real one for whatever reason, the idea is that they can get it replaced with something like this.”

Phyllo’s eyes widened, and he stared at the object in disbelief. “Replace… a leg? You can do that?”

“In a way,” the Stallion said with a nod. “It won’t be able to feel anything and moving would be harder than with a real leg, but it’s more natural than using a stick and certainly better than nothing.”

“What it made of?” Phyllo asked. “It not look like normal skin from the drawing.”

“Woo, no,” an amused smile briefly crossed Ambrose’s face. “This would be made from wood, leather and metal. The materials to make it look and act like skin don’t exist yet.”

Oh Woo, he shouldn’t have said that. The Stallion bit down heavily on his tongue, praying that Phyllo would not notice his strange turn of phrase.

“Yet?” Phyllo asked. “Is this more inventions? Different ah… materials?” His tongue tripped over the word a bit, as if it were the first time he’d heard or said it.

“...Something like that,” Ambrose lowered his eyes, pulling the blueprint closer to himself. He remained silent for a while, ruminating over his thoughts before he sighed deeply. “The thing is, Phyllo...I’m afraid I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

Confused by the old man’s sudden change of mood, Phyllo frowned a bit. “About… what?”

“About...magic and me,” the Stallion swallowed, his fingers curling in around the parchment. He bit his lip, his face shifting between determination and uncertainty. He risked a glance at Leif, trying to gauge what the archmage thought before turning back to Phyllo. looking guilty. “It’s best I tell you before you get the misfortune of seeing it for yourself and drawing the wrong conclusion.”

Ambrose closed his eyes, lowering his head. “No member of House Stallion ever had magic, but there is an exception,” his shoulders slumped. “That’s me. I have a form of magic that lets me see the future, and sometimes, I try to recreate what I see there. It’s the only way I can do anything with my otherwise uncontrollable powers.”

“You… Ah… Oh.” Phyllo seemed to absorb that about as well as water absorbed oil. “Um, you have… have magic that let’s… you see the future and... What?”

The Stallion winced. “You are probably familiar with incantational magic. It can be channeled through wands and be called upon at will by the caster. My magic does not do that. It comes in bursts at any time, beyond my control, and when it does, I...I see some random point in the future. It can be quite literally anything. Some of those things I see are inventions, and what that happens I…” he tapped the blueprint with his finger. “Try to translate it into something I can make. It’s the only way I could really cope with this power disrupting my life.”

Well. This was not entirely what Phyllo had expected to come out of this conversation. Leif had explained to him that Ambrose would talk about how to live without magic… apparently that wasn’t the case.

“I see,” Phyllo said softly, looking down at Silvia. The teenager gave a thin, sad sort of smile. “Well by now I guess I am not surprised. But thank you anyways. For the truth.”

Leif sighed and leaned forward a little, resting his arms across his knees. “I didn’t think this would come up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you ahead of time, Phyllo; I didn’t think it was my place to share Lord Ambrose’s powers, especially since as I understand it, they don’t much affect the way House Stallion or Bern at large runs - so I didn’t think it would be particularly important.” He gave the younger man a concerned look. “I know it’s...a big thing to absorb - er, to wrap your head around at first. When Lord Ambrose first told me about it...well, at this point, I’m sure you can imagine the rambling I did.”

“Is alright,” Phyllo replied, his gaze turned inwards. “I’m used to it. And I do not… hate magic, you know that. Just… wish sometimes I was less a pebble in the river.” He bit his lip, glancing back an Ambrose. “But you… you see the future? Things that have not happened yet? How? If it… has not happened yet, what is there to see?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Something has to happen, Phyllo. That’s all I really see,” he said quietly before looking up. “What do you mean, though, when you say you’re a pebble in the river?”

Phyllo frowned at the abrupt change of subject. He was still confused, and now he was starting to become frustrated. Why bring up his power at all if he was going to evade questions about it?

“Not matter,” he said softly. “I know what everyone says. That it is not true.” He shrugged, kissing his daughter on her forehead as she started to stir a bit in his arms. “Just old thinking habits.”

“Old thinking which still bothers you, Phyllo. I know how hard it is to change something you’ve thought for a long time,” Ambrose continued to speak in that same gentle voice. “I am sorry if I upset you by bringing this up. I was hoping I could avoid it but have an awful habit of blurting things out before I can think about them. Besides, it really is better that I tell you about this power before it overcomes- that is, takes over me me and you end up seeing it, end up being horrified by it.”

He brought up a hand to rub his eyes. “When the magic takes me, I freeze suddenly and stare into space. I’ve never seen it myself but I’ve seen enough people react to it,” the Stallion winced. “It’s always better if I tell people...but given your past, perhaps I should have stayed silent and hoped it would not pick this time to appear.”

Phyllo’s frown deepened. “I am not asking that you lie to me or hide things. Just… it is personal, these problems I have. My pebbles in rivers. I try to understand the things you tell me about you, but you do not answer my questions and change the subject. Why should I talk of personal things if you will not?” He sighed. “I do not mean to be rude. But it is habit, not to talk of myself or my troubles. It was very hard to trust, in the world that I lived in for most of my childhood.”

“I’m sorry, but given what you went through, it’s understandable,” a small, shaky smile spread across Ambrose’s face and he rested his hands by his sides, palms up. “I’ll tell you everything I can. In return...perhaps you could consider trusting me? Despite...what I told you about myself.”

Silvia stirred more, her tiny arms and legs flailing as she started to fuss. Phyllo shushed her, bouncing the infant a little in his arms. Once she’d quieted, he looked up at Ambrose. “In Meltaim, there is religion that says people who are not mages do not have souls. They are animals. Objects. Worth nothing. This is how they are treated- as nothing. Mages who care for blanks are heathens and blood traitors- they are also nothing. But Zuzia, my wife, did not see it this way. She loved me, and ran away with me. We walked across all of Avani, running away from Meltaiman chasers, talking our way out of an army prison in Macarinth, and joining up with Lyellian traders to get passage this far- in Kyth, we fought Courdonian slavers.” He nuzzled his daughter as she blinked groggily up at him. “For this, we have our freedom. Happiness. But you say you can look into the future. That what you see has to happen. If things that have not yet happened are already set, and you can look at them like a painting, then… what worth is there? In our efforts. In all we accomplished. All of the pain and fear and all the times we would not give up. All of it… was to be already. So where is the point?”

Ambrose blinked, startled by the sudden question. Soon, however, he began to smile again “Master Leif also asked me something along those lines, back when I told him about this,” he shot a brief glance at the archmage. “At the time, I had not thought about it. It’s hard to think about the implications when you’re...processing the horrors I saw on a daily basis,” a shudder ran down his spine, which the Stallion suppressed. “But, Phyllo, you’re wrong when you say there is no point. Like I said, something has to happen and that’s all I see, nothing more. A painting can be imagined- thought up- down to the fine details of what it is going to be but it doesn’t exist until somebody takes the effort to paint it,” he smiled. “By running away with your wife, by doing all those things, you created some kind of future.”

His smile grew a little broader. “You should be proud of it too. Not everyone can make something like that for themselves.”

Leif hesitated, but then added, “It seems to me that Lord Ambrose’s powers are like seeing the path of a river; at certain points, things like the strength of the soil, the height of the land around it, and how much rainfall there is, all mean that the water can only go one direction.” He tented his fingers and let his chin rest atop them. “But when you’re talking about futures involving people, it would be the decisions those people have made and how determined they are to stick by those choices that decide what way the river goes. As Lord Ambrose said, you created that future - this present, rather. It exists because you chose not to give up, even through all that pain and fear. ...Not to mention, I just can’t see a reason a god like the ‘Woo would judge us based on how we lived our lives if we didn’t have any choice in it. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Phyllo seemed to consider this, his expression pensive. He still wasn't sure he liked the idea of any future being carved in stone, but on some level it made sense that at a certain point events would line up in such a way that an outcome was inevitable. Like when he and Zuzanna had helped the villagers in Harmonfield fight the Courdonians, then stayed in the city despite using illegal blood magic to do it. At that point they were doomed to be taken into custody by the Kythian soldiers, no matter what they did.

Silvia chose that moment to interrupt her father's brooding by giving a loud squeal, her small hands reaching towards the sound of Leif's voice. Phyllo couldn't help but smile, and he set her down on the floor on her belly facing the archmage. She pushed herself up with her arms, beaming at Leif- then rolled over onto her back. Then onto her stomach again. Then back onto her back, moving progressively closer to Leif with each flip.

"She figured that trick out last week," Phyllo remarked. "We are in trouble when she gets the hang of crawling."


“Are we ever,” Leif agreed, rising from his chair and carefully picking Silvia up. “Though crawling would at least be less dizzying for her, I imagine.” He sat back down with Silvia in the crook of his arm and asked her with a grin, “You’ll be fledging before we know it, won’t you?”

“She will be good Birdy, and make Grandpa proud,” the young man agreed with a smile. Phyllo turned to Ambrose, sighing. "Sorry for... Getting irritated. You just confused me. We were speaking of simple things, of pleasant things, and then suddenly you spill your secrets to me, though we have only just met. It felt... Fast. And it was idea that disturbed me, which was not help."

Ambrose had been watching Silvia, a small fond smile playing on his face when Phyllo suddenly spoke to him, snapping him to attention. Still smiling, he shook his head. “It’s alright. I know it’s a lot, and I am sorry it slipped out. You’re not the first to find the idea of the future terrifying either. It’s probably a good thing your daughter chose that moment to interrupt us. Although...”

He turned his gaze to the archmage. “How does your new title feel, Master Leif?” the Stallion asked, unable to hide the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “I hope it was not a surprise that was suddenly conferred upon you?”

Leif snorted, though he was still smiling. “It was a bit of a surprise - I assumed I’d be an uncle, if anything, to her, too. But apparently several hours of labor didn’t dampen Zuzanna’s sense of humor or her ability to catch that if she was my ward, then the most accurate adoptive relation was grandfather.”

“Grandpa sounds closer,” Phyllo put in lightly. “Uncle is very… I think ‘unpersonal’ is word? Leif does much for us. And Silvia clearly likes him.” Silvia, as if to back this up, was making a grab for the shiny “toy” that was Leif’s silver feather pendant.

“She certainly does seem to,” Ambrose said, laughing softly under his breath at the child’s carefree play. “Grandpa is a far better term than uncle, without a doubt. I still remember how wonderful it felt when Xavier’s children called me that…” he smiled wistfully before shaking his head, clearing the memories before he could get lost in them. “She’s still quite young, isn’t she? Though she seems to have plenty of energy.”

“Uncle’s a perfectly fine relation - I’m ‘Uncle Leif’ to Xavier and Elin’s children, after all. ...But I do like ‘Grandpa’ a great deal more than I thought I would,” Leif admitted. He rolled the cord of his pendant a few more times around his halfcloak’s clasp to keep it out of Silvia’s reach, but drew his wand and muttered the incantation for a magical-construct. A small songbird hopped into Silvia’s tiny lap, and with another flick of Leif’s wand, turned the same silvery, reflective tone as Leif’s necklace. Silvia giggled, clapping as she watched the bird flutter and hop around.

“Silvia turns six months old in a few weeks,” Phyllo remarked. “She is already three times as big as when she was born, and does not sleep as much. We are trying to teach her to sleep all through the night. But is slow going, like you saw.” He gave a rueful smile, his demeanor relaxing significantly. It was evident that for all his earlier tension, he was not at all loath to talk about his daughter.

“I never had children of my own so I don’t know for sure, but I am lead to understand raising them is not an easy task.. However, you seem to be managing just fine, given how happy and healthy she seems,” Ambrose stretched out his hand to Silvia, wondering if she would try to take it. The little girl, distracted from Leif’s bird construct, looked towards Ambrose’s hand. The infant seemed wary, or as wary as a baby could look, though not afraid precisely. She looked back up at Leif, who smiled encouragingly and said, “It’s okay, Silvia; Lord Ambrose is nice.”

Silvia wasn’t old enough to understand Leif’s words, but she smiled in reply to his smile. Then she leaned towards Ambrose’s hand and patted hers against it, not clamping hold but rather gently thumping against it as if the Stallion were some sort of drum. Ambrose grinned widely, remaining as still as he could so as to not disturb the infant in her play.

“It occurs to me I should have brought something to keep her entertained,” he said followed by a quiet laugh as a thought occurred to him. “But I’m afraid I did not have the foresight for that.”

Phyllo chuckled as well. “I brought her because Zuzia is working. I had hoped you would not mind- is easier and cheaper for me to keep her when I can than to find a sitter. Besides she is my little one. I want to be with her, when I can.”

“I don’t mind at all; I quite like children,” Ambrose replied, still holding his hand out and watching Silvia playing with it. “And she certainly is sweet. You as a new father must be very keen to show her off too.”

“She does not need me to show her off- she does it all by herself,” Phyllo said with a laugh. “She will be very outgoing when she is older, I think.”

Silvia sneezed, briefly interrupting her game. Then she started gurgling happily, making bubbles from her mouth with her own saliva. Dryly, her father added, “Though not everything she does completely cute or pleasant. Here, Leif-” he reached into a pocket and pulled out a rather stained looking rag, offering it to the archmage.

Leif took the rag and carefully wiped the baby’s face. “Well, she’ll grow out of playing spit-bubbles sooner or later. Or so we hope,” he added with mock gravity.

“If Grandpa has his way, she will trade spit bubbles for feathers and molt everywhere,” Phyllo returned. Then he grinned. “Though if she anything like Mama, she will do whatever she want and not care what other people think. Zuzia is much happier now with being not a noble.”

“I’m sure. Being nobility has its upsides but it comes with its own set of expectations. And if you don’t live up to those, well…” Ambrose shook his head sadly. “Given what you say of the society there, it must be even worse in Meltaim.”

He smiled broadly and once again offered his hand to Silvia, waiting to see was going to continue her game. “Nevertheless, you’re both here now, free and safe with your daughter. Whether she remains this sociable or not, with parents like hers, she’ll have a good future in Kyth,” the Stallion cast a glance at Leif. “And grandparents, Master Leif. I cannot forget you.”

“Leif is good grandpa,” Phyllo said cheerily. “Silvia will never get away with being lazy or cutting corners if he is there. Zuzia still joke-complains about drawing runes. I just nod along even if I do not know what tok-reshim-dov chains are because it is fun to hear her be exasperated by someone as strong of spirit as she is. If Silvs is mage, maybe one day she will whine about it too, and make for tradition. I will laugh in her face like traitor I am while I make bread and cookies and do not worry about ayr runes.”

Grinning, Leif said, “Well, maybe she’ll decide to train with her father instead. Far fewer runes involved, and at the end of all the work, there’s something to eat.”

“I don’t see why she cannot do both; I’m sure it’s possible to learning runes and baking. Or she can do something else entirely,” Ambrose leaned a little closer to Silvia, smiling at her. “You’re lucky to be getting that choice, aren’t you, little one? Or perhaps you’ll take a third option, to the shock of both your parents?”

Silvia giggled, grasping at the end of Ambrose’s shirt sleeve and tugging it. Phyllo shrugged. “She may do whatever she want. In Meltaim neither of us had choices- I was slave, and Zuzia was to be margrave. These were not choices, but paths set for us by others. I am happy that we run, because not only do we have choices for our life, our little ones will too.”

Leif chuckled dryly. “Thank ‘Woo for that - trapped on a path is no place any grandchild of mine is going to be.”

“Then she is on the way to leading a very happy life indeed,” Ambrose brought his arm closer, letting Silvia get a firmer grasp on his sleeve, since it was what had caught her attention at the moment. “Except choice has an interesting way of making the future very unpredictable. It means you have to find your own path, or wait and see what paths open up.”

He grinned widely at the baby playing with his arm. “So let’s hope that she decides to not be a terror to you both. I know Muriel- my own granddaughter- constantly gives her parents headaches these days.”

“Her dear uncles as well,” Leif said dryly. “Muriel has a lot of spirit, I’ll give her that.”

Phyllo laughed. “I meet Muriel. Xavier little one, yes? She was handful.” Mischievously he added, “I promise her that next time, I give her some baked desserts. Make Xavier’s time even harder.”

“She’ll certainly like that but be careful; if you give her too many, there’s no telling what she’ll do,” Ambrose said, chuckling softly. “And you never know, Silvia might end up just like that: a mischievous bundle of energy with too much of a sense of adventure. Woo help you.”

“Will be like old times then, for Zuzia,” Phyllo joked. “She grow up with margrave’s natural children- three, same age, born same time. She say they always have ‘good ideas’ and like to work together on mischief.”

This earned a warm grin from the Stallion. “Even in Meltaim, children are still children,” he laughed before sighing, his eyes momentarily glazing over with the mist of nostalgia. “As nice as it would be for the children to have playmates, it creates a host of problems for the parents if they get into trouble. I doubt either Xavier and Elin or you and your wife will like the ‘good ideas’ those two could come up with.”

“Count Uncle-Grandpa Leif in on not liking it, either,” Leif said. “You hear that, Silvia? No making friends with Muriel - it would be far too dangerous to your poor parents and...however we’re going to say Xavier and Elin are related to you.” Shaking his head slightly at Ambrose, Leif remarked, “This adoptive family tree is getting nicely confusing already. It reminds me of Corvus.”

“I do not mind that,” Phyllo said, watching his daughter with a slight smirk as she moved to draw Ambrose’s shirt sleeve into her mouth. “Was not so long ago I had no family. Now I am having too much family. Much better, I think.”

Ambrose laughed softly, moving his arm away from the baby’s mouth. “Silvia, no,” he said quietly, offering her his hand instead. Once he was sure his clothes were not in any danger of being dribbled on, he looked up at Phyllo, smiling and nodding. “I could not agree more. Once, the only family I had was my brother, but he had his own family and I envied him for that,” the Stallion sighed for a moment before shaking his head. “Now I have people who I consider my family: sons, a daughter, grandchildren...and I am happy.”

Carefully, he reached out and gently patted Silvia’s hair. “Life is difficult, but it’s always so much better when you’re surrounded by people you love, whether they’re related to you or not,” Ambrose glanced between Leif and Phyllo. “But I don’t need to tell either of you that; you know already.”

“Even if those people are former prison guards,” Phyllo joked.

“Even them,” Leif agreed. “We have hearts somewhere, they’re just hidden under a lot of feathers and scowling.”

“And those hearts are big hearts, no matter how grumpy the exterior,” the Stallion remarked with a soft chuckle and a knowing glance at Leif. “Although…” he turned back to Phyllo, the humour in his eyes being slowly replaced by a sadder look. “If I may ask what could be a personal question..?”

“I suppose?” Phyllo said warily.

Ambrose clasped his hands together in his lap. “Your blood family...being so far away, you must miss them, even a little?”

The young man frowned, his gaze turned inwards. “I have no blood family. The Meltaimans came and took me. My mother and father fight them for me. The Meltaimans hit them with wstążka zaklęcie...” He gnawed on his lip, glancing up at Leif. “I do not know Kythian word but… Maybe is Kythian version of spell? In Valzaim, is used to make for peel apples. Like…” he mimed a swift, spiral motion with one finger.

Leif frowned, watching the gesture. “Hmm - well, we don’t have a spell specifically for peeling fruit...but it sounds like a Sectwoosempra-like situation. It’s supposed to be used for cutting through enchanted objects - ropes, bindings, magical vines conjured by Courdonians at coronations, that sort of thing,” he explained, both for Phyllo and Ambrose’s benefit. “It makes several dozen slices in anything you could cut with a blade, and when you use it on people - it makes them bleed a little faster, and it’s resistant to healing spells. Obviously some people use it for...less than noble reasons.”

His frown deepening, Leif said a little more slowly, “But a version that twisted...” He cringed. “‘Woo, the trauma would be… ’Pit.. He made the sign of the Woo, tapping his fingers from shoulder to shoulder to chest. “I’m sorry, Phyllo.”

The young man’s expression darkened. “Is Meltaiman army favorite. Use it on a fruit, peel flies off. Use it on a man? It skin them alive. Most do not survive the blood loss. Not… not a fun thing to watch, especially when you are eight years old.”

“Far from it,” Leif agreed. While the archmage had never seen the effects of a spell like that before, he had just enough understanding of anatomy and general injury from his days at Our Woo of Charity to grasp, if not exactly the sight itself, how gruesome it must have been.

Ambrose had listened to the conversation, the pit of his stomach slowly dropping out from under him as unrestrained horror spread out across his face. “Woo…” he murmured, covering his mouth with his hand. “I should not have asked. I’m so sorry. To have to see that at such a young age…”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t have to imagine how awful it was for you to witness it. I remember how it was when I was that age and saw...such things in my visions. I should have known, given everything, that something bad had happened,” the Stallion glanced up at the young man. “Please forgive me if I made you remember something you’d much rather not have done.”

“Is not your fault,” Phyllo replied softly. “You did not kill them. I… I loved my parents, while they were alive. My father, Stephanos, and my mother, Amynta. Mother was… stern, but fair and loving. Papa, he did not speak much, but when he talk you listen, because it is worth hearing. And he was very gentle. Patient.”

Ambrose nodded as Phyllo spoke, though he was silent for a short while as he thought about his words. “They sound like they were good people,” he finally said, his voice quiet and hesitant, afraid to stumble upon an unpleasant topic again. “And it is good that you remember them. Memory is...all we really have left of those who have passed on. It’s the only way to keep them alive, so to speak,” a hesitant smile crept across his face. “And...I think they would be proud of you here, now. Wouldn’t you say so, Phyllo?”

Phyllo laughed softly, “Ah, but I am married to Meltaiman- is great enemy of Valzaim. I am blood traitor.” He shrugged, “I think they be… surprised. At where I am now. They were simple folk. My life the exact opposite of simple. But they glad I am happy, and I think they would love Silvie.”

“Well, of course,” Leif said, twitching his fingers to summon the little songbird he had conjured into his hand and holding it in Silvia’s lap. “Spit bubbles aside, she’s a little charmer - and their granddaughter besides.”

Ambrose nodded in agreement before turning his attention back to Phyllo. “As long as you are happy, they could probably forgive you. After all, what happened it isn’t your wife’s fault . She’s not to blame, and you love her; she’s part of the reason you’re happy,” he spoke before smiling sagely, his shoulders relaxing. “Life has a strange way of taking you where you don’t expect to be. Ten years ago, had anybody told me I’d be advisor to the king, I’d have dismissed them outright. And yet…” he tugged at the deep purple sleeve which marked him as a servant of House Ascension. “Here I am.”

The Valzick man tilted his head, watching out of the corner of his eye as Silvia squealed, batting at the bird construct. “I would not have guessed I be married to Meltaiman highlord’s archmage daughter. Or that we would run away to Kyth. To speak true? Before Lyellian traders tell of it, had never even heard of Kyth. Or… Lyell either. My world small. Zuzia make it big. But wherever in whole of wide world we can be together, this is where I am happy, no matter what others think. Sometimes I do miss them, though. Papa and Mama. Even if I remember them only a little.”

“They were your parents, of course you would miss them,” Ambrose replied quietly. “But you have a new family; your wife, your child, and even Master Leif. They are no replacements for what you have lost, but I’m sure you’ll agree that they are still good.”

The Stallion met his gaze. “And of course, you have friends to boost the ranks of those who care for you,” he removed his hand from his sleeve and reached out to Phyllo. “And I hope that, perhaps, you might see to count me among them?”

Phyllo blinked for a moment, then smiled. “Is long I lived in a place where trust was hard to give. But you seem a nice person, and Silvie likes you. I would not mind to be friends, if you can give me time.”

Ambrose nodded. “I am patient, and a lifetime of being alone has taught me to value any friend I can make. You can have all the time you need, Phyllo. I understand why it would take a while for you to trust me, and you’re not the first person who I’ve had to work to earn the trust of,” he smiled back. “But you seem like a good man, one who could use all the friends you can make. I don’t mind putting in that work.”

Phyllo gave a small smile. “Thank you Ambrose.” He glanced towards Leif “and thank you for introducing us.”

“Of course,” Leif said, glancing up from showing Silvia how to pet the bird instead of swat at it. “I’m sorry this got all tangled up in magic again - maybe someday the two of you can actually have the nonmagic conversation I’d been thinking would happen, hm?” he added with a wry half-smile.

Phyllo chuckled. “Maybe. We shall have to see, hm?” He winked. “For now, changing Silvie’s napkins give me all the not-magic I need.”

At this, Ambrose gave off a soft laugh. “A necessary and noble task,” he bent down, carefully picking up his blueprint from where he had put it on the floor and rolling it up. “But if you need something else, Phyllo, you are welcome to come see what I make. I was not able to show you everything before I got sidetracked, but perhaps another time? If we are going to be seeing each other.”

“Sure,” Phyllo agreed. As he watched Silvia coo over the silver bird, he added, “I look forward to it.”

[Shinko]

Collab with Avery. This takes place early in the year 1338.

Painful Understanding

SPOILER: Click to show

To most eyes the kitchen of Sallertown’s bakery was a disaster area. There was flour, uncooked dough, unfrosted treats, utensils, and finished bread and pastries littering every scrap of free space on the countertops, and the proprietor had even put a table in the middle of the room to provide yet more space upon which to set things. However, a closer inspection would have revealed an immaculately clean floor beneath, and a certain careful precision of where in the kitchen everything was placed. It was, in fact, an organized chaos, the three occupants of the room moving about with the efficiency of worker bees.

The dark skinned man jumped a little as the small time-stone that his wife had bespelled chimed, signalling that the batch of egg-tarts he had going in the oven was finished. He snatched up one of the thick rags he used for pulling hot things out of the oven, calling over his shoulder, “Alex, can you douse the fire for me, please?”

“Uh-huh!” piped a small voice, as a young boy of perhaps eleven or twelve scurried from where he’d been frosting scones toward one of the kitchen’s larger ovens. Hefting up the pail of water that sat beside it, he gingerly poured the liquid over the crackling coals, hands practised and steady. Light blue eyes-- a stark, bright contrast to his ebony complexion-- narrowed in concentration, he added, “Want me to take them out, Papa? I won’t burn myself-- promise.”

“No, I’ve got it,” the boy’s father, Phyllo, replied, coming up beside his son. The man opened the oven, feeling a blast of hot air hit his face as he reached inside it and pulled out first one, then a second tray of egg tarts. “Thank Woo, not burned. These things are so finicky, I really need to thank your mother for the timer in some way.”

“Oh, that won’t be hard,” put in a young girl nearby, who looked to be about thirteen or fourteen. “Just give her snuggles and kisses, right Alex?” The girl made an exaggerated kissy face, and Alex smirked, letting out a small cackle as he set the water bucket back down.

“Don’t give Papa ideas, Silvia,” the boy scolded his elder sister. Gaze trailing after Phyllo as the man set the pans atop a small clearing on one of the counters so that the tarts could set, he added sagely, “I really can take ‘em out of the oven next time, Papa. I’ll be careful, you know. Promise.”

“I don’t doubt you, Alex,” Phyllo replied, turning to his son with an affectionate smile. “But I did already have the pot holders so I figured I may as well. The pumpkin bread that’s on order for Missus Flanders goes in first thing tomorrow, you can take it out of the oven when it’s finished if you like. Make the kitchen smell like pumpkin instead of eggs, though I may have to put a rag over my face. The cinnamon smell drives me-”

Phyllo cut himself off as the sound of a bell jingling sounded from beyond the door that led out into the shop front. At once Alex’s eyes whipped toward the noise, a smile cracking between the boy’s lips as he chirped, “I’ll go see! Maybe it’s Master Ross come to pick up his cake order. He owes us… four runestones, right, Papa?”

“That’s right,” Phyllo agreed. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you need some help, though, I’ll be right in here.”

“Ah, he’ll be fine, Papa,” Silvia said with a grin. “You go kick butt out there, baby brother.”

“It’s just Master Ross, we’ve known him our whole lives,” Alex replied, sparing his sister an eye roll as he pushed open the door and shimmied out into the storefront. The door had barely thumped shut behind him, however, before the boy’s voice carried back into the kitchen, bright as he called out, “Papa, come here! It’s not Master Ross!”

Phyllo obediently followed his son out into the shop, Silvia following close at his heel with a curious expression on her face. When the Sallertown baker saw the person who was waiting for him beyond the kitchen, his eyebrows shot up towards the bandana he always wore on his forehead.

“Briar?” he said, smiling crookedly. “Woo, I haven’t seen you in ages, what brings you all this way?”

Briar Finnegan, standing in front of the counter with her silvering blond hair peeking out from beneath a cloak hood and a plump-cheeked baby pasted to her hip, returned the grin. “Aw, I need an excuse to visit you, Phyllo?” Chuckling, she bounced the infant, cooing to her, “Look, Ailis, it’s Master Panem. You remember him from your baptism, hmm?” The baby giggled in reply, and Briar kissed her milky pale forehead. “Can you believe she’s already six months old, Phyllo? Feels like just yesterday Posy was telling me she was pregnant.”

He came around the counter, reaching towards the baby and giving her a tickle. “She’s getting big. Just wait until she masters the whole walking thing, then you and Posy are both in trouble.” He tilted his head. “Speaking of, she with you or are you just babysitting today and felt like a brisk walk out to the boondocks?”

“Posy will be here in a few minutes,” Briar replied. “Her and Sarah-- you ah, met Sarah at the baptism, right? The girl Arthur and I took in. Aunt Lydia’s friend’s girl.”

“She had yellow hair, right?” Alex asked, the boy mindlessly straightening the display of individually-wrapped cookies on the counter. “And she was… quiet. Real quiet.”

“Yes,” Briar said, her smile softening some. “That’s Sarah.”

“I remember yes,” Phyllo replied, leaning back against the counter. “Didn’t get the chance to talk to her much, but she seemed a polite girl. She’s around Silv’s age, right?” He smiled crookedly at his daughter. “Maybe you two can make friends.”

“If she wants, that’d be fun,” Silvia chirped.

“That could be nice,” Briar said, but her suddenly-wistful-- nearly sad-- tone didn’t wholly meet her words. Planting another kiss on the baby’s forehead, the woman hesitated for a moment, then murmured, “Say, I hear you two are very good with little ones, Alex and Silvia-- all those baby siblings. Would you two mind entertaining Ailis for a few minutes while I talk with your papa?”

Alex blinked, surprise blooming across his face. Reluctantly, he nodded. “All right. If… if it’s okay with Papa.”

Sensing that Briar had something she wanted to say that she didn’t want the kids privy to, Phyllo nodded. “I’m sure it won’t be long, kids. And hey, you like babies, Alex. I bet you get Ailis to love in in two minutes, flat.”

“Give him thirty seconds,” Silvia retorted, elbowing her brother, though her brow was slightly furrowed as she held out her arms to take the six-month-old.

“Thank you, kids,” Briar said, depositing Ailis into Silvia’s grasp. The baby responded with a brief squawk of surprise, but quieted quickly when Silvia rubbed her nose against Ailis’, cooing at the baby. Phyllo gestured for Briar to follow him into the kitchen, absently reaching for a rag to wipe some flour off of one of the countertops.

“So what’s up?” he asked softly, wiping down the counter with one hand as he tilted his head in Briar’s direction. “Much though I like seeing old friends, Sallertown is a bit of a hike to make from Medieville on a whim.”

Briar sighed, creasing her forehead. “It’s… it’s Sarah,” she said very softly, as though she was afraid of her voice traveling. “You, ah-- know her past, right? How she… ended up in mine and Arthur’s custody?”

“Lydia and the others rescued her out of Courdon, right?” Phyllo replied, his hand holding the wash rag stilling as he frowned. “During their first big campaign down there, when the rebellion kicked off properly.”

Briar nodded. “Sarah was taken from Kyth when she was a child and given to a Courdonian highlord as a slave. Her father, Evander, was paramount to helping Lydia and Xavier get the rebellion underway… but he was killed in the same incursion where Sarah was rescued.” The woman swallowed hard, leaning back against the flour-dusted wall. “Sarah’s lived about half of her life in fetters. In… in misery. And-- I… can’t even begin to imagine the things she’s been through. What she’s suffered. I’ve been trying so hard since she came to live with us last year to… to get her to open up to me. To get her to feel safe. But she’s like a puzzle I can’t even start to understand. And everything I do, everything I try-- I feel like I get nowhere. And I’m afraid I’m just making everything worse.”

“Ah, I see.” The baker tapped his forehead. “And with all of our former Courdonian slave friends absconded off to the south, you thought I might be able to relate to her best.”

“I thought that… that maybe she’d feel more comfortable talking with someone who really understands,” Briar confirmed. “And… I know you’re religious. So is Sarah-- that’s where she is right now, actually; she wanted to see the village church.” A beat. “She… spends a lot of her time at churches. In general. I’ve asked her before if she wants me to come with, and she always says no. I’m not quite sure what she does when she’s there-- prays, I suppose-- but…” The woman sighed. “I don’t know, Phyllo. I can tell so plainly that she’s suffering. That she’s traumatised, and skittish, and miserable. But she won’t let me in. Won’t let any of us in. It’s like she’s drowning, and I don’t know how to save her because I can’t even understand what type of life raft to try to throw her. I just have no idea.”

“It’s hard to open up about your vulnerabilities after you’ve been through slavery,” Phyllo replied sadly. “You’re not really treated as human. Having opinions, voicing unhappiness or discomfort, those are things you can be punished for. Eventually, you become so accustomed to associating an attempt to open up to people with being hurt that it’s easier to keep it all in. Doesn’t help that a lot of the time, even opening up to the other slaves is hard to do, because most of the time they’ll abandon you in a heartbeat if they think sticking with you will get them hurt. It makes it… very hard to trust. It took me months back in Meltaim after meeting Zuzia before I started opening up to her, and I only really came to trust her when she risked her own neck to save my life.”

“I don’t think it helps that no matter how many times we tell her that we want her at our house, that she’s family now, that she’s not an imposition… she doesn’t seem to believe us,” Briar said, sighing heavily. “I… I think she feels like she got rescued only to become a burden on everyone else. Like she’s not worth what it cost to get her out of Courdon.” Blue eyes gleaming with anguish on the teenager’s behalf, Briar added, “I didn’t tell her why I wanted her to come here today, exactly. Just… that a walk would be nice, and your bakery had delicious treats, and I wanted to catch up with you. And I don’t expect you to get through to her immediately. But… I think you could be valuable to her, Phyllo. As someone who doesn’t just broadly understand what she’s went through, what she’s feeling, but who’s felt the same things himself. I’m hoping that maybe-- just maybe-- she might open up to you. In a way she hasn’t with anybody else.”

The Valzick man nodded slowly. “I can certainly try. It won’t happen right away, but I’ll do my best, Briar. I remember how untrusting and afraid I was with anyone but Zuzanna at first, and it was miserable. I don’t want anyone else to have to go through that.”

“Thank you, Phyllo.” Briar smiled. “Maybe once she and Posy get here, I could pop by your house with Posy and Ailis to catch up with Zuzia? And… you and Sarah could talk some.” She gave a watery chuckle. “You can soften her up with some cookies-- just let me know the bill when I get back, all right?”

Phyllo laughed, “You mistake me for Ilsa. I’m always willing to share my baking with friends. Maybe you could take Silvs and Alex with you when you go, so they aren’t being nosey. I love them to death but they were born in Kyth and they don’t have any concept. Which isn’t a bad thing, not at all, but it also means they’re not liable to be the most helpful in this conversation.”

“They can keep entertaining Ailis,” Briar agreed. “Give poor Posy a break-- and let the two of us catch up with Zuzia without having a grabby, squawking six-month-old taking half our attention.”

***

Some twenty minutes later, with little Ailis indeed now clinging to Alex just as Silvia had predicted, Posy and Sarah finally slipped into the bakery, their cheeks ruddy from the cold. After Briar had held reintroductions between her ward and the three Panems, the group chattered for a few minutes before the woman sprung her plan, brightly suggesting that Sarah could stay back at the bakery to sample Phyllo’s “famous treats” while she, Posy, and the baby headed to the Panem house to see Zuzia.

“Perhaps we can all meet back at the house in a bit?” the woman said lightly. “I mean, it’s nearly closing time for the bakery, right, Phyllo? We could even stay for supper at your place, if it’s all right with Zuzia. If I know her as well as I think I do, I can’t imagine she’ll turn down the chance to spend more time fawning over the little munchkin baby.”

“That’s fine with me,” Phyllo agreed. “It’s been awhile since you’ve been to Sallertown, hasn’t it? Silvia, Alex, how about you two help Miss Briar and Miss Posy get there so they don’t get lost in the rolling hills. I can clean up the kitchen today.”

Alex grinned, patting the baby’s back as she played with a tuft of his kinky hair. “Okay.” He turned toward the front door. “C’mon, we’ll show you the way. It’s not that far, really. It’s just hard ‘cos the streets are all dirt and sometimes it’s hard to tell where to turn.”

“Perfect.” Starting after Alex, Briar glanced back over her shoulder at Sarah. “You can come home with Phyllo, all right? And experience Zuzia’s… delightful cooking.”

Sarah, who was hovering in the corner with her arms crossed at her chest, and her white-blonde hair hanging as a curtain in front of her face, gave a short nod. “Okay. That’s fine.”

“Make sure you try the lemon cookies,” Alex chirped, pushing the door open and a gust of nippy late winter air roiling into the warm storefront. “They’re Papa’s best-- they’re so good.”

“If you want some milk to wash it down, he can get some for you, too,” Silvia put in as she filed out after her brother. “We have goats at home so it’s no trouble.”

Phyllo chuckled softly, watching as his family and friends bustled out of the bakery while he piled a platter with a varied sample selection of cookies. He set it down on one of the small tables near the window, remarking, “You can sit if you like, Miss Sarah. And let me know if there are any of these you’d like more of- I’m putting two of each on for now, but don’t feel obligated to eat them all if you find one you really like.”

“Okay,” Sarah murmured, padding obediently toward the table. “And… I’m sure it’s all delicious, Master Panem. I like anything sweet.” The teenager gulped, taking a seat. “You… you’re the one who brought the cake to Ailis’s baptism, right? The one with the butterscotch swirl?”

“That was me, yes,” Phyllo agreed with a smile. “I’m not from Kyth originally- you probably guessed by my accent- but my wife and I have been friends with Briar’s family since not long after we came here. We actually lived in Medieville proper for the first two years or so, but came to Sallertown because it was cheaper to live.”

“She said your older kids were friends with her sisters’ kids when they were little,” Sarah replied. Her eyes cast resolutely on her lap rather than on Phyllo, she tentatively reached out and plucked a cookie from the tray, commenting of the dollop of white frosting that was swirled atop it, “This is pretty. Did you design it?”

“It was Alex, actually,” Phyllo replied, sitting across from the girl. “I manage alright with decorative stuff, but he’s always been better at it. I’m sure you’ve met Briar’s sister, Daria? I actually worked at the greengrocery she owned while my wife was pregnant with Alex. I think you know their friend Lydia? She actually helped me get the job.”

“Yes,” Sarah murmured, stiffening slightly. “I… I know Lydia. Sh-she’s the one who sent me to live with the Finnegans. Who… asked if they’d take me in.” She took a bite of the cookie, chewing the mouthful very slowly. Once she’d finally swallowed it down, she added, “It’s… it’s good, Master Panem. Sweet, but not too sweet. I like the nuts in it.”

“I’m glad,” Phyllo replied. “They’re almonds. Harder to get, where I was born. Can you believe that before I came to Kyth I’d actually never had some things at all? Oranges for example. The first time someone offered me orange juice I literally had no idea what they were talking about.”

Sarah nodded, taking another bite to polish off the cookie. “Miss Finnegan says you’re from… um…” She paused, tilting her head. “Sorry. I can’t remember the name. Just… that I hadn’t ever heard of it before. She said it was very far.”

“Valzaim,” Phyllo supplied. “I was born in a country called Valzaim. Complete opposite end of Avani, it’s on the southwest coast while Kyth is the northeast. I came here with Zuzanna when I was seventeen and she was fifteen- took us about, oh, nine months? Thereabouts.”

“Wow.” Sarah finally dared dredge her gaze up, so that her blue eyes met his steel gray ones. “How’d you get here-- a ship?”

“Considering we were both fugitives at the time, no,” Phyllo replied, shaking his head. “We walked part of the way, then hired on with some Lyellian merchants, than split from them and walked the rest of the way.”

“... Fugitives?” Sarah’s hand froze above a raspberry swirl cookie, her brow snapping up. “Why were you fugitives? What did you do?” Just as quickly as she’d asked it, though, the girl faltered, scrambling to add, “N-not that you have to tell me, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I--”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Phyllo replied gently, putting a hand on the table between them placatingly- though he didn’t actually touch her, knowing such a gesture was more likely to harm than help. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t willing to talk about it. See, Miss Sarah, I said I was born in Valzaim, but I never said that’s where I travelled to Kyth from. Just north of Valzaim, there’s a country called Meltaim. Meltaim is… twisted. The people there think that mages are superior to nonmages. That nonmages have no soul, are less than animals. So anyone born there who doesn’t have magic is made a slave- and they’re regularly in the habit of raiding the countries they border and stealing young nonmage children from there to enslave.”

“A slave?” she echoed. Then, as the gravity of what Phyllo had just said settled over her, seizing her like an iron claw, she bit down on her lip, hard. “Y-you were a slave?”

“I understand that places like Courdon and Mzia brand on the collarbone and the shoulder, depending on gender,” Phyllo said by way of reply. Reaching up to his headband, he went on, “Meltaim goes for a more direct approach.”

He pulled off the length of white cloth, revealing a white mark that stood out starkly against his coffee colored skin. It was a circle, marked through with a slash. The one stamp of ownership Meltaim had forced upon him that he’d never been able to shed- his blank brand.

Sarah gaped at it for a few moments, silent, before she managed to cobble any words together. “They brand foreheads?” she whispered, horror coursing through her like a rushing stream. “That’s… Woo.” Jaw suddenly trembling, she noted hesitantly, “It’s… not a burn, is it? It’s white. H-how did they even put that on you?”

“They apply it with a spell,” Phyllo explained. “It’s not a burn no, but it still hurts like the ‘Pit. And the forehead is just for the nonmage mark- what marks you as being a slave at all. Ownership marks go on the left cheek, and on the right cheek are marks of privilege- if you’re allowed to be in public without your master and whatnot. Fortunately the cheek marks can be removed, albeit with some difficulty, but the nonmage brand is permanent.”

“So… your face was just covered in brands?” Sarah looked horrified. Gaze falling reflexively to her collarbone, which was hidden beneath the high neckline of her dress, she said softly, “I c-can’t imagine what it felt like, having to see all that every time you saw your reflection. At least I can hide mine. And… pretend it’s not there, sometimes.”

Phyllo gave the young girl a sad smile. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean your own marks are any less horrific.” He looked down, his hand tightening slightly. “I was eight or so when they took me. I’d never been more terrified in my life- surrounded by men speaking coldly in a language I didn’t understand, having someone stamp me like you’d stamp a cow, and beating me when I cried out…”

For a long moment, Sarah said and did nothing, her face tight, inscrutable. Then, abruptly, her jaw crumpled. She blinked hard. Slumping back in her chair as though she could no longer support her own weight, she whispered, “N-no one here understands. What it’s like. W-why I can’t just… get over it and move on, accept that I’m free a-again and be happy about it. But I can’t. I just… I can’t. After being his for so long, I just… I don’t even know who I was before that. What I’m supposed to be now. Not anymore.”

“That’s a large part of why I didn’t go back to Valzaim,” Phyllo replied softly. “It didn’t feel like home to me; not anymore. It was a barely remembered dream by the time I decided to run away.” He sighed, tracing the wood grain of the table. “And admittedly, I was also bitter. It’s hard, knowing there’s an entire country out there that’s supposed to protect you, that you are a citizen of by right of birth, and knowing that they’re… doing nothing. That your life is of so little value to them that they barely know you’re gone. You don’t just get over that.”

“I th-thought my father was dead,” Sarah said miserably. “The wh-whole time I was there, I thought he was dead. But he wasn’t, you know. He wasn’t.” She shut her eyes, her entire body pulsing with long-repressed pain: her jaw was trembling, her breaths were jagged, her chest shook. “Except, then he was. H-he died trying to rescue me. He n-never even got to learn if I was okay.”

Horror flashed in Phyllo’s eyes at those words. He’d known the entire time he was in Meltaim that his own father, Stephanos, was dead. Phyllo had watched as a ribboning spell tore apart his father’s head, leaving no possible doubt as to his survival. But the notion of discovering that his father had been alive all that time, only to die again before they could ever see one another…

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” the man said, his voice etched with raw anguish. “I’m so, so sorry.” He hesitated, then reached into the pile of cookies. “I lost my father and mother both when I was taken. It’s not the same- I knew all along they were dead, beyond any doubt- and so I know that nothing anyone can say will make it better.”

He found what he was looking for, withdrawing one cookie in particular out of the pile- it was one of the lemon cookies Alex had mentioned, covered in a liberal coating of powdered sugar. However, unlike the rest of the circular cookies, this one had a very, very distinctive shape to it…

“But I also know that he did get to see that you were okay,” Phyllo said softly, holding out a powdery white cookie in the shape of a woocifix to Sarah. “He never forgot about you. Not ever. And he’ll be with you, always.”

Sarah’s eyes fluttered open again, and she tentatively accepted the cookie into her palm. “He died trying to save me,” she murmured. “A-and Lydia, and the Finnegans, and everyone-- th-they all say that he loved me, that he would have thought it worth it so I could be safe. But sometimes I don’t think that’s true.” Tears trailed down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother wiping them away. “He wanted back the little girl he’d lost. But I’m n-not her. I can’t be her. And the girl he died trying to rescue… the girl I am now-- I was already broken. R-ruined. I wasn’t worth his life. Worth all those lives.” She set the cookie down, shakily tracing her fingers along the curves of the woocifix shape. “Y-you escaped, Master Panem. But I didn’t. I was j-just… there. Resigned. Broken. I’d accepted my fate a l-long time ago. That I would always be a slave. Always be… his.”

“You have the wrong idea about me,” Phyllo admitted, his hand impulsively lifting towards his neck, where there were a thin ring of pinkish scars. “I never conceived of running away. I never would have on my own. It was my wife’s idea- she was a free citizen of Meltaim, and we fell in love. So she wanted us to run away so we could be together. But I was afraid. My master had put an enchanted collar around my neck- a metal ring that was designed to strangle the life out of me if I left the city boundaries.” His voice low, and shaking, the Valzick murmured, “That was what he told me, anyway. But come to find out? He’d lied. He was too cheap to pay to have that enchantment put on the collar like he said he did. But I was so terrified, so resigned, that I believed him without question. For three years I’d had the right to wander the city entirely unsupervised. I could’ve jumped into a wagon, left the gates, and been free at any time I wanted. The only thing holding me back, literally the only thing, was my own fear.”

“Oh, Woo,” Sarah sniffled. “That’s…” She heaved a fractured breath. “I d-did try to escape. Once. He b-beat me so badly after I got caught that I thought I was going to die. And after that, I just…” She raked an anxious hand through her long, straight buttercream locks. “Even the idea t-terrified me. Knowing what he’d do if I got caught again. He… he had a lot of slaves. But I was… I was…” Her voice fell very, very low. “I was his.”

Phyllo’s eyes narrowed slightly. In Meltaim, blanks were not used as bedroom slaves- such a thing was anathema to the Meltaiman sensibilities, which viewed nonmages as less than animals. But he could see how Courdon would have no such qualms. Yet this girl was so young, she’d been younger even than Zuzia had been when they were married, and Phyllo knew that in the east the marriage age was higher than it was in the west. This girl was and had been by both the Meltaiman metric and the Kythian and Courdonian one, a child.

“It’s not quite the same thing,” Phyllo said softly. “But… I think on some level, I can understand that too. I know in Courdon, they practice blood sacrifice, right? Of birds or goats or what-have-you.” He very slowly pulled back the sleeve of his left arm. “I told you I was a slave, but I didn’t say what I did. Who I belonged to. My owner? He essentially ran a brothel. Except instead of renting people for… that, he rented them to Meltaiman mages and priests. For ritual bloodletting.”

Phyllo showed the girl his left arm- and the seven, evenly spaced, meticulously carved scars in his flesh. The already heavy coat of horror and disgust that coated her expression thickened, her light eyes trailing up and down the baker’s mutilated limb. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. Merely absorbing. Understanding.

“Th-they… bled you? ‘Pit,” she said finally. “Th-that had to h-hurt so much. I can’t even imagine it.”

“I had to be conditioned for two years so that I wouldn’t scream when they did it,” Phyllo confirmed grimly. “And even now, I still impulsively go stock still and quiet when I accidentally cut myself with a bread knife or whatever the case may be.” He put a hand to his face, rubbing it wearily. “I hated it. It made me sick. Spending nearly eight years having my body offered up to their heathen gods. Not being able to stop them. Having to cooperate and play nice while it was done. Presumably it came with privilege, because they wanted their ritual bleeders to be pretty- more food, better health care, frequent baths- but I’d have traded those comforts away in a heartbeat.”

“I know what you mean,” Sarah murmured. “I… I got things other slaves didn’t, b-because he was… fond of me. And s-sometimes they were nice, and I liked them, even though h-his focus on me made the other slaves all avoid me like I was some… sickness they could catch. But… despite the p-perks I sometimes got, I would have traded everything away if it meant being j-just any other slave. Not being his.” She finally reached up to wipe at her teary eyes. “But then again, no matter how much I think that… it’s w-what saved me. In the end. B-being his, instead of just another slave. B-because… because when the r-rebels came…”

Phyllo looked towards Sarah, his expression one of concern. Gently, he prompted, “What happened, Sarah?”

“I was in his chambers,” she said, her voice strangled. “And when his guards woke us up out of a dead sleep, in the middle of the night…” Sarah averted her gaze from Phyllo, as though she couldn’t bear to look at another person right now. “Lord Rylan ordered his men to burn them. The s-slave barracks. With all of the slaves locked inside. And… once we were alone together again, he told me how l-lucky I was. Th-that he’d called for me. He told me to get my cloak. I… th-think he planned on fleeing into the n-night. And bringing his favourite slave with him.”

Phyllo gaped in open horror. When the rebels had come, this lord had ordered the slave barracks burned? Killing all of slaves inside, just to prevent the rebels from liberating them? “Woo… of all the petty…” Phyllo shook his head. This wasn’t the time for that. “I see. So… you hated it. Being his toy. But you also feel guilty, because you know that favoritism is the only reason you survived.”

“I j-just… don’t know how I’m supposed to move on from all of it,” Sarah said by way of an answer. “I spent half my life being his… his pet. His bloody favourite pet. And yet somehow I’m s-supposed to just… go back to life as if none of that matters. As if everything he ever told me was wrong and terrible, and I shouldn’t let it affect me.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “But it does affect me. It affects me every day. I kn-know he’s dead-- I saw him die. But I still hear his voice in my head. Echoing in my ears. Telling me that I’m w-worthless without him, that I’m a nobody, that a-all I’m good for is… is…”

The girl’s voice fell away as she let out a wracking, agonized sob and slumped forward, burying her face into her sleeves atop the table, the back of her pale hair catching in the sunlight that streamed in through the bakery’s front window. Phyllo reacted on impulse, lurching to his feet and coming around the table to kneel beside Sarah’s chair. Though he didn’t precisely hug her- he didn’t want to force himself on someone who’d been abused physically like that- he did put an arm around her back, letting one hand rest gently on her shoulder, while he placed the other hand against her opposite arm.

“Shhh, it’s alright, Sarah,” he murmured gently, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. “It’s okay that it hurts. It’s okay if you need to cry. I understand. I’m here.”

“S-sometimes,” she whimpered, voice muffled by the fabric of her dress, “I th-think it would have been easier if I… I had just been in the barracks that night. W-with all the others. Wh-what did I do to deserve living when they all burned to death?” The girl hiccupped. “I h-hated some of them, too. Gods, how I hated them. B-because they ignored me. Disliked me. Refused t-to have anything to do with me. I d-didn’t understand why. Not really. But… but looking back it… I th-think if I’d been them, I w-would have hated me, too. I was… I was his. He tr-treated me like a prized dog. Let me sleep inside the castle, under silk sheets. And g-got me healers when I was sick, a-and… sometimes f-fed me nice food, and I… I…”

Phyllo gave the young girl’s shoulder a very gentle squeeze. “It takes a lot of courage to admit something like that- that people you dislike are at the end of the day not so different than you are, and to feel over their deaths instead of just dismissing them as unfriendly faces you passed in a hallway. I know a lot of people have said this to you- I know from painful personal experience that it feels impossible to believe. But none of what happened was your fault. You’re not a bad person for having survived when other people didn't. That you grieve for those people at all is proof of that. It’s okay it hurts, Sarah. It’s okay to let that pain out.”

“Y-you don’t get it,” Sarah moaned, her entire body shaking as though wracked by an earthquake. “Th-the rebels came there because of me. Ivy and me. And all those people died because of it. Because of me. A person wh-who’d given up. Who was s-sometimes relieved when Rylan called for her, b-because at least it meant getting off the cold, hard floor. Who… who had done nothing to earn it. Nothing. They all died, and I lived, and I’m worth nothing.”

Phyllo was quiet for a time. Then, softly, he said, “What about the other slaves down in Courdon? The ones who are also afraid, and resigned, and cling to any small crumb of comfort they can get. Do they not deserve to be saved? Should the rebellion leave them in slavery?”

“N-no,” Sarah stammered. “Of c-course not. But I was… I was different, I w-was… used to it, a-and… I got people killed, I got people burned alive. I wasn’t worth that.” Then, very softly: “I’m not worth that.”

“Sarah,” Phyllo said softly, “it’s horrific that so many people had to die that way. But your master would still have done it even if it wasn't you the rebels were trying to save. He is the only one that is without worth. You are a good girl, with a good heart. Maybe you feel worthless now. I know I did, after I escaped. Zuzanna risked her life so many times for me, and I didn't think I deserved it. I felt like nothing. But you were worth something to your father- if he thought that, and thought it strongly enough to start a revolution in Courdon just to save you, you have far more worth than you think. Maybe you aren't the same girl who left. Maybe you don't know who you are now. But you can find out. It won't be easy, not at all, but you can.”

“But w-what if I don’t like what I find there?” Sarah choked out, finally lifting her face from its nest in her sleeves. “What if I try, and there’s n-nothing left of me? What if all I am is w-what Rylan made me into? What if I’m br-broken beyond fixing?”

“Then you ask for help,” Phyllo replied, giving her another gentle squeeze. “I didn't get as far as I have on my own. When I first got away I was bitter, and broken, and I didn't trust anybody except for my wife. But I had a lot of people who reached out a hand to help me. They didn't all really understand- most of them didn't- but the fact that they cared enough to try helped. That so many people wanted to help me meant I couldn't possibly have been as worthless as I felt. Not being alone… it was like a sip of cold water after years in a desert. There’s no shame in needing someone else to help you pick up the pieces of yourself.”

“I just… I just feel like an intruder,” Sarah sniveled. “On everyone else’s lives. Th-they don’t know me, I’m not their family, and yet I’m… living in their house and… visiting their friends, and…” She rubbed her eyes, looking toward the platter of cookies, still mostly full. “E-eating their food. Everyone’s being s-so nice. And I just… I kn-know they say they want me, that I’m not a burden, that th-they’re happy to have me. B-but after s-so many years of Rylan, I… I guess there’s a big part of me that just-- doesn’t believe it. That doesn’t think I c-could possibly be anything to anyone. Not like that.”

“It seems strange, doesn't it?” Phyllo mused. “That there could be so much kindness and generosity in the same world as the kinds of hate and cruelty we’ve seen. Like some sort of innocent child’s fairy tale. One a person can't possibly feel right being part of after seeing and experiencing everything we have.”

“The w-worst part is that eventually, it… it started feeling normal to me,” Sarah said. “Like… that was just how things w-were supposed to be. I stopped questioning it. Stopped f-fighting it.”

“That’s a big part of why Meltaimans only take children,” Phyllo said sadly. “When you’re trapped in a horrible situation from a young age, after a while you start to accept it. It becomes the only life you’ve ever known. Anything else that came before doesn't even feel real, not anymore.”

“Half the time when I w-wake up in the morning, I still startle when I realise where I am,” Sarah whispered. “L-like my head just… can’t fully accept the fact that I’m not in Jisam anymore. That I got away.”

Phyllo wanted so badly to hug the poor girl- it was everything in him to keep from doing it. “Do you have nightmares? I imagine that probably wouldn’t help.”

“Sometimes,” Sarah admitted. “M-mostly I remember the smell of the smoke. The burning. And… and what he looked like when fell. W-when Xavier stabbed him, and he fell.”

“It might help if you kept something with a strong smell in your bedroom while you slept,” Phyllo suggested. “A vapor of some kind, with a smell of mint or flowers. So your mind doesn’t think about the fire and the smoke smell.” He sighed softly. “And it’s awful to watch someone die. Even if you hated them, most good people will be terrified watching another living person die. Especially if that person held as much power over you as your master did- part of you has a hard time processing that he’s… just gone.”

“For half my life, Rylan was… was…” Her voice caught, and she sniffled again. “He was l-like a god. A cruel, horrible god-- but… still a god. W-watching him just… die like that, right in front of me…” The girl wrung an anxious hand through her hair. “D-do you really think it could get better? Eventually?”

He gave her a soft smile. “I’m living proof that it can. It wasn’t easy, Sarah. Not by a long shot. And it didn’t happen overnight. But if you can have courage and faith, and if you’re willing to set aside how much you genuinely don’t feel worthy and let other people help you… it will get better. Take your time. Go slow. Only do as much as you feel comfortable doing. But once you make that first step, break that ice and start moving forwards, the momentum makes each successive step a little bit easier.”

“I-I guess.” She sighed deeply, her tears finally slowing. “Y-you’ve known the Finnegans for a long time, right?”

“Some fourteen or fifteen years, yes,” Phyllo agreed- Silvia’s birth coinciding with their arrival in Medieville always made it easy to keep track of how long it had been since they moved to Kyth.

“D-do you think it’s true, then?” Sarah asked. “W-when they tell me they want me, that I’m not a burden on them? Or… or are they just-- h-humouring me? Because Lydia told them to?”

“If Briar doesn’t like you and doesn’t want you around, she lets you know it,” Phyllo replied with wry humor. “She’s a great friend but a bad actor, and she has a very short temper. I don’t know Arthur quite as well but I do know he’s a sweet man who just wants the people around him to be happy. Their kids are all good people too. If they say they want you around, and that you’re not a burden, they mean it.”

The girl nodded shakily. “O-okay. If… if you say so.” She faltered for a moment, silent. “A-and… thank you. For listening to me. E-even if I sound… whiny and pathetic.”

“You don’t,” Phyllo assured her. With a crooked grin he added, “Or if you do, only as much as I did in your same situation, so I’m hardly going to judge. I know Sallertown’s a ways out from Medieville, but if you ever want to talk, you can come by again- or send a pigeon and I’ll try to set some time aside to come to you.” He grinned, indicating the plate of cookies, and the woocifix cookie still lying on the table, “And if you let me know what sorts of flavors are your favorite, I can whip something up for you.”

“It really is all tasty,” Sarah said, picking up a ginger snap and taking a small bite. “I’m n-not just saying that to flatter you. You’re a good baker, Master Panem.”

Phyllo brightened a bit. “Thank you. My father and grandfather were both bakers, and it was always my dream to follow after them. When I got away this was what I wanted to do, more than anything- learn to be a baker, and have my own bakery. And my son Alex seems set to continue the tradition, if the fact that he willingly gets up before dawn with me to start the oven is any indication.” Easing back into his own chair, the Valzick added, “And you can just call me Phyllo if you like.”

“Okay. Phyllo, then,” Sarah said. “Th-thank you again, Phyllo.”

“You’re welcome, Sarah,” Phyllo replied. “And I know it’s a bit past due but- welcome home.”

[Shinko]

Who wants a new collab between myself, Avery and Tiger? =D This takes place about 1341.


Bark and Bite: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

Blue-grey eyes drilled into the opening in the walls around Medieville that represented the city’s east gate. The watcher leaned against the outside of a nearby building, as she had been doing for some time. Occasionally someone stopped to speak to her, and she would engage them cheerily, before turning her attention back to the gate as they wandered off again.

The teenager rather stood out amidst the citizens of the Kythian capital. Where most of them had skin some shade between northern ivory and Courdonian bronze, her complexion brought to mind nothing moreso than warm caramel, darker than most native Courdonians ever got. Hair a shade of brown so dark it was almost back was restrained in cornrows along her scalp, but those cornrows ended at the base of her skull and the rest of her hair was fanned out in a tight, woolen clump restrained by a horse tail.

At length, she brightened, eyes fixing on a distant point outside the gate- a dot, small but growing with each passing minute. Then, the dot solidified into a recognizable shape, and her face split in a wide grin.

“Mama!” she called in Valzick, waving excitedly. “I’m over here!”

At once, a middle-aged woman with chocolate-brown hair snapped her eyes in the girl’s direction, smiling broadly as their pupils met. On either side of her stood a young child-- one a boy of perhaps nine, with wavy brown hair and a pale complexion that looked rather as if he was coated in a thin layer of brown-gray dust, the other a girl a few years younger, her kinky jet black hair twisted into a bun atop her head-- and without missing a beat the woman reached for their hands and strode forward with them, making a beeline for the teenager.

“Silvia!” Her voice practically oozed with warmth as a pair of sentries waved her and the children through the gate. “It’s so good to see you, sweetheart.”

“We walked all morning,” the young girl put in, her slate gray eyes glimmering. “And Tim kept complaining his feet hurt but I didn’t complain none!” She beamed, donning a gap-toothed smile. “And look!” she prattled on. “I lost both top teeth, Silvie. On the same day!”

Silvia laughed, hugging her mother and looking down at the children over the older woman’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Laura. You’re growing up fast, huh?” Impishly she added, “Why, soon I bet you’ll be tending Mama and Papa in their old age, hm?”

The boy, Tim, fought back a smirk as the children’s mother, Zuzia, only rolled her clear blue eyes. “Don’t wound your poor mother now, Silv,” she chided lightly. “Remember, I had you very young-- I’m not nearly as ancient as you think I am.”

Laura giggled. “You’re just a little ancient, Mama,” she agreed, before her tilting her chin toward Silvia. “So-- so-- Mama says we get to stay over at your flat while we’re here! And meet your fiance. Is he nice? Is he excited to meet us? Is--”

“One question at a time, Laura,” Zuzia cut in with a bemused sigh. “At this rate, Silvia is going to punt us off to some inn by tomorrow morning, let alone by week’s end if we stay as long as we’re planning to.”

“But Mama, we haven't even met this guy and soon he’s gonna be family,” Tim objected. “We gotta make sure he’s good enough. For Silvie.”

“Are you sure you brought my baby brother?” Silvia demanded with a smirk. “This fellow sounds an awful lot more like Papa.”

“Papa stayed home with Alex and Mogie,” Tim retorted. “And you didn't answer Silvia.”

“Timothy.” Letting go of her son’s hand, Zuzia lightly cuffed the side of the boy’s head. “Don’t be bossy. And watch your tone, all right?”

Tim winced, rubbing the spot where he’d been smacked. “Sorry Mama.”

Silvia folded her arms. “Yes, you all get to stay in my flat, and my fiancé Zander will be having dinner with us tonight, then he’ll go into town with us on his days off. Buuut, he’s in the city guard, so you need to behave if you want to impress him.”

“I’ll be real good,” Laura promised as the four family members started forward, heading away from the city gates and toward Silvia’s apartment near the main merchants’ market. “Ooh, and Mama can show him neat magic, maybe! To impress him.”

Zuzia chuckled. “Let’s not come on too strong, honey,” she said, squeezing the girl’s hand. “We don’t want to scare Zander away, right?”

“He’s a simple, salt of the earth kind of guy,” Silvia said cheerily. “Didn't even know what an archmage was the first time I told him.

“Whaaaat?” Tim gaped. “B-but hasn't he heard stories about Grandpa?”

“He says he doesn't care for gossip,” Silvia replied. “Which should have been my first clue he wasn't coming to the inn and then the tavern where I worked to listen to stories.”

Laura grinned. “He was comin’ to see you!” the girl chirped. She added, “Can we see the tavern, Silvie? And-- and you could serve us food and drinks like we’re real customers! It’d be fun!”

“I don’t think making Silvia work would be very much fun,” Zuzia replied dryly. “At least, not for her. And you and Tim are a bit young to be going to taverns anyway, hm?”

“The crowds can get a bit rowdy for kids as young as you two,” Silvia agreed. “ But when you’re older, maybe. I did, however, manage to get one of these from the old miser who runs the place for us.”

The young woman held up a bottle from inside her coat, making Tim’s eyes go wide. “Is that wine?”

Silvia, however, snorted. “You think I want my fiancé to see me get my hide tanned by Mum for giving my little sibs alcohol? Nah, this is cider. A very good quality cider, but entirely nonalcoholic. As amusing as it would be to get Mama plastered.”

“Wouldn’t want that now,” Zuzia agreed. “I’d hardly want your city guardsman fiancee to have to arrest me for public drunkenness, after all.” She paused abruptly in her tracks as a small, scruffy dog darted in front of the group’s path, loping as though it were a fox after a hare as it disappeared quickly down a side alley. “Woo. You’d think a city stray would have more street sense-- what if we’d been a carriage?”

“Maybe it was only recently abandoned?” Silvia suggested, frowning after the mongrel before shrugging. “Last I heard your newest pup isn't going to win any awards for intelligence.”

“She’s so dumb,” Tim agreed. “The other day Laura put a treat under a bucket while she was watching, and ‘stead of knocking the bucket over she just looked at us. And cried. For five minutes.”

“At least she’s pretty,” Zuzia said. “That’s why Laura picked her out from all the pups in the litter-- I don’t think brains played into it.”

“She’s got a spotty coat.” Laura nodded sagely. “With so many colours! Black, brown, white… and she’s so fluffy. Like a cloud!”

Silvia laughed. “I look forward to meeting her when I come home for Woomas. In the meantime, let’s get going- I want to get started preparing dinner before Zander gets off work. Mama, you up for giving me a hand? I promise not to give you anything you will inevitably ruin.”

Before Zuzia could respond, however, Laura grinned up at her older sister. “Let me help, Silv! I’m real good at helpin’, Papa lets me knead dough for him sometimes. And I can frost stuff, too!”

“I don't think the meat pies I was planning to make will require any frosting,” Silvia replied with amusement. “But sure, you can help me make the crusts. It’ll be fun.”

***

“Laura, sweetheart,” Zuzia called several hours later, as the fragrant aroma of cooking meat filled Silvia’s modest two-room flat, “stop fidgeting with the curtains, please. Pressing your nose to the window won’t make Zander show up any sooner, all right?”

Indeed adhered to the main room’s window as a tick might leech to skin, Laura flicked a sidelong glance toward her mother. “I just wanna know when he gets here,” the little girl replied. “And you and Silvie won’t let me help cut the bread anyway, so what else am I gonna do?”

Tim, who was sitting on the sofa and absently practicing hovering pillows around the room, gave a small smirk. “Watch out Silvs, Laura wants to steal your boyfriend.”

“Nuh-uh!” Laura rounded on her brother, scowling. “Why would I want a boyfriend? That’s gross!”

As she continued slicing the loaf of bread they’d picked up at a bakery down the street from Silvia’s flat, Zuzia snorted under her breath. “Boys are very gross, yep,” she agreed. “And Tim, stop with the pillows, yes? Put them back on the couch where they belong so the apartment doesn’t look like someone was pillow-fighting when Zander shows up.”

“Ooh, I can hover them back into place!” Laura chirped, hand dancing toward the wand that was holstered at her hip; the seven-year-old was so petite that the rod was nearly the length of her arm. “Here, let me--”

“Laura Joy Panem, no,” Zuzia interrupted. “You know much better than drawing your wand without Mama’s direct permission, yes?” Blue eyes turning toward Tim, she added, “And while we’re at it, put yours away, please. You can put the pillows back into their proper place the old-fashioned way, Timothy.”

Tim scowled slightly, but nodded, allowing the pillows to drop to the floor and holstering his wand. “Okay, Mama.”

Silvia came in from the bedroom, smirking. “Poor abused baby brother. At least you have your wand, hm? I was always in and out of trouble so much in the name of adventure that I wasn't allowed mine outside of lessons until I was ten.”

“I would be so-”

Tim’s words were cut off by the sound of someone knocking on the front door-- a noise that immediately sent Laura grinning like a hyena and bouncing on her heel, the girl taking a preemptive step toward the door as though to fling it open.

Zuzia chuckled, beckoning her daughter toward her. “Let’s have Silvia answer it, all right? So we don’t overwhelm poor Zander straight from the get-go.”

Silvia smiled broadly, striding towards the door. Opening it, she revealed a man perhaps in his early twenties, with a milky pale complexion and spiraling strawberry-blond locks that fell down to his shoulders, and which he had secured in a ponytail with a slim leather band. Silvia smiled warmly, her blue-grey eyes glimmering as she leaned up to give her fiance a peck on the cheek. Transitioning to Kythian, she chirped, “Hello, love, you have a good day?”

Zander smiled, returning the kiss. “Of course,” he said. “And you, Silv?”

“Having fun with the family- half of it anyway,” she replied with a broad grin. Ushering her fiance inside, she pointed to each relative in turn. “You know my mother, Zuzanna. This is my littlest sister, Laura. And the grumpface with the pillows in his arms is my brother Tim.”

“I’m not a grumpface,” Tim objected as he dumped the pillows back in their proper places. He nodded politely to Zander, adding, “Hello, it’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“And you, as well, young man,” Zander replied. He crooked two fingers toward Laura in a wave, and the young girl-- seeming to face a sudden burst of shyness-- returned it with a coy smile, half-hidden behind her mother’s skirts. “I’ve heard a lot about you kids-- it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Laura’s very excited about getting to know you,” Zuzanna said, coaxing her daughter forward. “She’s been chattering about it for days.” Patting the girl’s shoulder, she added, “Don’t be shy now, love. Say hello.”

“Hi,” Laura said softly. After a moment spent studying Zander’s outfit-- a plain beige tunic over gray breeches-- the little girl flicked her gaze toward Silvia. “I thought you said he was a city guard. Where’s his pretty uniform? With all the badges?”

Silvia chortled. “He’s off duty, so he’s just wearing normal clothes like everyone else.” Gently elbowing her fiance with a teasing smirk she added, “Besides, he’s not high ranked enough yet for many badges. We’re working on that.”

“I can show you my badges later this week, though,” Zander promised. “Before you head home.”

Laura nodded. “Okay. That’d be neat. Thank you.”

The man chuckled, draping an arm over his fiancee’s shoulder and drawing her close. “You’re welcome,” he said. Then, taking a whiff of the spicy, herby aroma that filled the air, he asked, “What’d you cook, Silvs? It smells great.”

“A nice meat pie,” she replied as she leaned against her fiance’s side. “Lamb, carrots, potatoes- Laura helped me make the crust,” she added with a wink towards her sister. “Also got some cider to go with it.”

Tim actually cracked a grin. “You look cozy, Silvie.”

“I am cozy,” Silvia confirmed.

“I hate to break up the romance,” Zuzia said, “but if it’s all right with you lovebirds, we had a very long walk today, and I’d love to dig into that pie before it gets cold.”

Laura giggled. “You just don’t want them snogging, Mama.”

Zander quirked a brow, amused. “Well, I’d hardly want to keep my fiancee's family famished. And Silvia will be the first to tell you-- I’m always ready to wolf down her delicious cooking.”

“Flatterer,” Silvia teased. “But sure, let’s go get some food.”

Once the pie, thick and oozing gravy, had been cut into slices and divvied out, along with a warm mug of cider for everyone, the family sat down to eat, chattering away about various topics. Once Silvia had finished a rousing yarn about a time that a pickpocket had tried to target her while she was with Zander in plainclothes- a big mistake- Tim turned to the man eagerly. “So, um… didja catch any bad guys today?”

“Not unless you count belligerent drunks as bad guys,” Zander said, taking a sip of his cider. “To be honest, most of my shift today was spent in a wild goose chase of sorts.”

“Oh?” Zuzia asked. “Over what?”

“I barely even know,” Zander admitted. “Over the past few weeks, we’ve been getting a flurry of reports from agitated citizens about animals acting oddly-- friendly neighbourhood stray dogs suddenly biting, cats seemingly chasing after nothing, birds flying in circles and squawking outside the same window for hours on end. The commanders ignored most of it at first-- if a dog is aggressive we can deal with that, but… we can hardly stop say, a wild squirrel from tapping against your window glass, or a pigeon from, I quote, ‘stalking’ you as you walk to the market. But then so many of these reports started piling up that we couldn’t just keep on dismissing them.” He sighed. “Right now, the commanders think perhaps it’s some sort of… sickness? Vermin-born, maybe. So my job today was to wander the city and see if I could find either one of the weird-acting animals to catch and examine them-- I couldn’t-- or at least, clues that might explain why so many have suddenly gone barmy.”

Silvia frowned, absently clinking her fork against the plate. “That does sound odd. And not really like any illness I’ve heard of.”

“Sounds like Grandpa Leif’s story,” Tim put in sagely. Silvia raised an eyebrow.

“Which one?” She asked. “He has so many interesting stories.”

“The one ‘bout when him and Sir Markus and Sir Sieg got into a fight with skinwalkers,” Tim replied. “Remember? There was a bunch of wolves and panthers and a bear and birds and stuff all together where they shouldn’t a been. And they were acting weird and stealing people away into the forest.”

Zander furrowed his brow, exchanging a bemused look with Silvia. “That sounds, ah… pretty intense,” he said. “But don’t worry any, Timothy-- I doubt that’s what’s happening here. No one’s gotten stolen, and we haven’t had any weird assemblies of animals. Just lone ones acting funny here and there.”

“I bet it’s magic,” Laura said, slathering a slice of bread with copious amounts of thick honey. “Mama says when stuff goes bad in Medieville, it’s always magic.”

“That’s… not quite I said.” Zuzia chuckled. “Only that Medieville does have a tendency of attracting strange magic. Comes with the territory of being a mixing pot of all sorts of people, I suppose.”

Silvia chuckled. “Like the time Grandpa told us about when some mage sold a bunch of magically spiked juice and got almost literally the entire town drunk. Maybe the animals just found a stash of some of the juice leftover from twenty years ago.”

“I think Laura’s right,” Tim insisted. “It is magic!”

“Not everything is magic, kids,” Zuzanna said. “It could well just be a sickness, like Zander’s commanders think. Some bug making the animals act funny. It happens.”

Laura huffed a histrionic sigh. “Well, I think it’s magic,” the girl said.

“It was a good suggestion,” Zander soothed. “You’re a very sharp little girl, aren’t you, Laura?” He glanced toward Tim. “And you seem like a smart young man, as well.”

Tim pouted. “But you don’t believe me,” he groused.

“Tim, be nice,” Silvia chided the boy.

“You don’t have to get sullen and passive aggressive over someone disagreeing with you, Timothy,” Zuzia added firmly. “No more brooding like a spoiled brat. Understood?”

“Okay, Mama,” he replied with an overdramatic sigh. He smiled towards Zander tentatively. “Could I at least tell Zander the story? ‘Bout the skinwalker? It’s a good story.”

“I’d love to hear the story,” Zander said. “Take it away, Timothy.”

Bark and Bite: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

The Panems spent the next several days wandering the city together, visiting old friends while Zander was at work, then bonding with Silvia’s fiance when he came over after his shift had ended. Three days after their arrival, Zander finally had a day off, and he agreed to take Silvia and the kids out for the day while Zuzia paid a visit to the Panems’ long-time family friend and surrogate grandfather to the children, Leif Jade.

“So Mr. Zander,” Tim wheedled as they were hiking through town on their way to see Lake Plume- it was far too cold this time of year for swimming but sightseeing wouldn’t hurt. “How’d you fall in love with Silvie? She was working at the King’s Arms as a waitress when ya met her right? She says you were doing an inspection or something?”

“The first day we met was an inspection, yep,” Zander agreed. “The other dozen times I came back before I had the courage to talk to her, though…” He grinned sheepishly, shooting his fiancee a sidelong glance. “The first time I laid eyes on her, I thought she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. And she wasn’t just a beauty-- she was so friendly, too. And bright. The whole package. I was just afraid there was no way she would ever like me back, so it took me ages to take the leap.”

“Didn’t help probably that I was cheerily oblivious to how much he liked me,” Silvia admitted. “I probably should’ve caught on around the time I got roaring drunk and he helped me limp home afterwards, I admit. I thought he was just being a very chivalrous friend.”

“Oooh, you got drunk?” Laura asked. “Mama would be so mad--”

“So it can be our little secret.” Zander winked. “And it’s all right-- as Silvia said, I helped her home. So she was never in any danger. The next day, she found me on my patrol and apologised for being such an imposition. And of course, I stammered out that she wasn’t at all an imposition, that I was always happy to help her. And then…” He smiled softly.

Silvia gave her fiance a peck on the cheek. “And then he copped to liking me. And we agreed to have dinner after his shift ended, provided I promised to go easy on any alcohol.” She chuckled. “I liked to joke he tamed the savage beast. He insists that my wild side is part of what makes me fun to be around.”

“Silvie is good at being fun,” Tim noted. “She’ll try anything once.”

“Aw, then why does she keep rejecting my idea to go rappelling off the side of the Keep?” Zander teased, nudging his fiancee with his elbow. “You’re not living up to your reputation, Silvs.”

“‘Cos that’s real dangerous,” Laura said solemnly, the little girl seemingly not at all picking up her future brother-in-law’s facetious tone. Her freckled nose wrinkled, the child brightened as the main swath of the merchants’ market came into view up ahead, bringing it with the cacophony of vendors’ voices as sellers worked to hawk their various wares. “Oooh!” Laura exclaimed, gaze swiftly falling on a cart that sold roasted nuts. “Could we stop and get a treat ‘fore we go to the lake? Pleeeease?”

Silvia shrugged. “Alright, sure- though if we’re getting roasted nuts we should probably find some water or something too, those are salty as anything and they’re bound to make you thirsty.”

The woman started to lead the way towards the line that had formed in front of the nut stand, but she stopped dead in surprise as the seller gave a yowl of indignation. A thin, scruffy dog with wiry, dirty white fur and two spots of pale brown- one on an ear and one near the tail- darted around him before he had time to react. The mongrel snagged a sachet of nuts daintily in his teeth, and then darted off down the sidewalk.

“Hey!” the nut seller bellowed. “Get back here with those, you mutt!”

“Oooh!” Laura squealed, spinning on her heel as the pup bobbed and weaved through the crowd. “Puppy! He’s cute! I bet I could catch him, I’m real good with doggies--”

“Laura, no,” Zander cut in, reaching sharply for the child’s hand-- but before he could wrap his fingers around hers, the child had pranced forward in pursuit of the rangy mutt, cutting a straight path for a few moments before banking off after the dog when it veered from the main road into a narrow side alley.

“Laura, come back!” Silvia yelped, taking off after her younger sister. Zander hurried forward at his fiancee’s side, and Tim trotted at their heels, looking torn between not wanting to get in trouble and a glimmer of excitement at the sight of the dog himself. Once they turned into the alley, they could see that someone had put a picket fence halfway down it, effectively leaving the dog cornered by Laura. It bashed against the wooden barricade once, as if testing it, then with a frustrated huff it turned towards the humans.

“Here, puppy,” Laura crooned, crouching and patting her knee in an attempt to draw the mutt forward. “C’mon, stealin’ isn’t nice!”

“Laura,” Zander snapped. Not wasting another moment, he marched forward and grabbed the child’s bicep, hauling her bodily to her feet and then positioning himself in between her and the dog. “He is not friendly-- look at how he’s bracing himself. And his lip is curled.” The city guardsman clenched his jaw. Glancing behind his shoulder at Silvia, he added, “And ‘Pit, he’s growling, too-- you hear that, Silvs?”

The dog looked up at Zander, its mouth curling back and upwards in an expression that was… decidedly undoglike. If it had been on a human face, Silvia might have almost called it a smirk. The mongrel’s head gave an awkward twitch, and it took a menacing, deliberate step forwards.

“What the ‘Pit,” Silvia hissed, reaching for her wand. Noticing the movement, the dog’s head whipped back, and it looked towards Silvia with a sound that could only have been described as an irrate shriek.

“Siiilvs, what’s wrong with it?” Tim bleated, ducking behind his sister’s skirt.

“Kids, stay back,” Zander said, slowly pulling his dagger from his belt. “Let’s back off slowly, all right? Don’t run-- that’ll just make him chase.”

Laura whimpered. “I j-j-just wanted to g-get back the nuts he stole!” she sniffled. “I thought he seemed nice, I--”

Laura’s voice fell away as the dog abruptly ducked its head, snagging the pack of nuts in its teeth. Then, its entire body giving a violent shudder, it swung its head and pitched the bag towards the sound of Laura’s voice, so that it bounced off of Zander’s chest. Silvia yanked her wand out of the holster, snapping a spell that sent the dog tumbling backwards into the fence. It yelped, gagging for a moment and writhing on the ground… and then the mutt blinked, all aggression in its demeanour abruptly falling away. Instead it tucked its ears back, tail clenched between its legs as it look around towards the humans. The dog gave a single plaintive whine, wagging its tucked tail and showing its belly.

“What the…” Zander’s brow snapped down, his forehead creased. Dagger still in his hand, he took a cautious step forward, adding, “What did you cast on it, Silvia?”

“That was the incantation for the knockback jinx, right?” Tim blubbered. Silvia grunted in agreement.

“Flipendo. It’s a force-spell. The magic equivalent of a hard shove.” She kept her wand trained on the dog, who was continuing to whimper with all four paws held in the air. “All it was supposed to do was hurt him a little so he’d let us leave.”

“It’s magic,” Laura sniveled, tears pricking in her iron-coloured eyes. “S-s-someone cursed him or something! And the spell broke it!”

“No, honey, that’s… that’s not it,” Zander said, but his tone was hardly convincing. Very slowly, he crouched down in front of the dog, offering it his free hand; in response, the mutt thumped its tail and nuzzled the guard’s palm, its honey-brown eyes gleaming with what might have been confusion. “Silvia,” he called back to his fiancee. “Can you conjure a rope? I’d like to leash him. Take him over to command.”

“One of your weird-acting animals?” Silvia guessed, pointing to the dog and muttering, “Incarcerous!”

A rope shot out of her wand, wending around the dog’s neck and torso like a harness. Though the dog started a little, there was no further aggression, and when Silvia tugged the rope it rolled over and stood up, crouched with fearful submission.

“Here.” Silvia handed the rope off to Zander. “You want me to come with? In case he gets aggressive again.”

Zander shook his head, turning to look at Laura. Tears were now falling steadily from the little girl’s eyes, and her arms were hugged at her chest as she seemingly tried to comfort herself. The guard sighed. “No, I should be all right. And knowing my commanders, they’ll have fifty questions to ask me, anyway. It might take a while, and it’s not exactly going to be a fun excursion for a seven- and nine-year-old.”

“I want Mama,” Laura whispered, chin wobbling. “Pl-please, can we go to Mama?”

Silvia sighed, drawing her sister into a comforting hug. “Alright. We’ll head over to Grandpa’s place. Zander, when you finish up with your commander, will you meet us there? It’s north of the Cathedral, between that and Stallion Manor.”

“Of course,” Zander said. “We’ve walked by it before, right? I think I know where it is.”

Silvia gave her fiance a grateful smile before turning away, holding Tim’s hand with her left hand and hugging the still whimpering Laura with her right arm. They walked in silence for a time, before Silvia finally sighed.

“Laura, why did you chase after that dog?” she asked. “You know better than to try to touch strange animals.”

“He was cute,” the little girl whispered, her eyes cast firmly on the cobblestones below. She’d stopped crying, at least, but her face remained tear-streaked, her cheeks damp. “And I-I thought if I got the nuts back, m-m-maybe the merchant would give us extra or somethin’. For helping him.”

“What if he’d bitten you, Laura?” Silvia demanded. “You can’t just trust any animal you see because they’re cute. I know you wanted to help, but that’s not a reason to do something reckless.”

Tim fidgeted at Silvia’s side. “That dog wasn’t normal.”

“Uh-huh,” Laura agreed fervently. “‘Cos after you hit him with the spell, he was all nice. Just all of a sudden.” She pursed her lips, almost petulantly. “Maybe now Mama and everyone will agree it’s magic. And I bet Grandpa will agree, too!”

“But the Flipendo knockback jinx doesn’t break curses,” Silvia pointed out, though she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps the kids were more right than she wanted to admit. She sighed. “We’ll ask Mama and Grandpa what they think, alright? But I’m serious, Laura- no more running off after animals you don’t know.”

“I won’t,” the girl said. “Promise.”

The siblings fell into silence then, none of them speaking again until they strode up to Leif Jade’s cottage about ten minutes later. Starting through the gate and up the front walk, Laura’s eyes were still cast down and her face was written with a thoroughly sullen expression as Silvia reached up and rapped her knuckles against the front door, the little girl fidgeting as the trio waited to be received. Finally, after perhaps a minute or two, they could hear the sounds of shuffling from inside, and moments later the lock clicked and the hinges creaked as the door swung open.

A blond man in gloves and a green half-cloak stood on the other side of the threshold, turning back to the door as the last of a chuckle left his throat. “Silvia! We thought you’d be…” The man’s blue eyes flicked over the three people on his porch and his smile faded. “Something happened, I take it? Is there time to come in and talk about it, or do I just need to draw my wand and start firing spells on the run?”

Silvia gave a dry chuckle. “It’s nothing urgent, just… something happened that spooked us, is all. Let’s just say Laura needs to learn better how common sense works.”

“It was magic, Grandpa!” Tim burbled, looking up at the archmage pleadingly. “I keep telling them it’s magic like, like the time with you and Sir Markus and Sir Sieg and the skinwalker, but they won’t believe me!”

“Skinwalker?” Leif looked sharply at Silvia. “What in ‘Woo’s name did you see that’s bringing the skinwalker to mind? ...You know what, it’s probably not an explanation for the porch, is it? And your mother will want to hear this, too.” He stepped back from the door and motioned the three inside.

Once Leif had led them into the living room, Laura pulled out of her older sister’s grip and made an immediate beeline toward her mother, who was seated on one of the sofas. Vaulting into Zuzia’s lap, Laura sniffled and stared down at the tops of her shoes as Silvia explained what had happened-- and the little girl perhaps regretted putting herself into such close proximity to her mother when, at hearing what Laura had done, Zuzanna responded by giving the child’s ear a sharp, swift yank, the archmage’s expression a muddle of concern and anger.

“We are going to have a long chat about your behaviour once we get back to Silvia’s, Laura Joy,” the woman said tartly once the story had all been hashed out. Wrapping an arm around each of the child’s shoulders, she pulled Laura in snug against her chest. “But Woo, I’m glad you’re all right. That-- that does sound very odd. Aggression is one thing, but that the dog just… snapped out of it afterward…”

“It wasn’t just bein’ aggressive though,” Tim objected. “It was being weird. Like it could understand us, and like it knew what Silvie’s wand was and… it was creepy.”

“It is strange,” Leif agreed, before giving Zuzia a look with a raised eyebrow. “I seem to recall one of my students hating her ear being pulled so much that she specifically asked me not to do it when we started lessons. Not that Laura should take the lack of it to chase down stray animals,” Leif added, “but it sounds like the dog took care of discouraging that.”

Tapping his fingers to his silver feather pendant, Leif continued, “On the subject of the dog - that is all very strange. It sounds like the opposite of what happened with the transfigured elves - they acted like animals until we broke the skinwalker’s hold on them, and then they seemed to start going back to normal.”

“The doggie looked confused,” Laura murmured, rubbing at her stinging ear. “Like he didn’t know what was happening. Or… or what he’d just done.”

Zuzanna creased her chocolate brow. “And you’re sure all you hit him with was a knockback jinx, Silv?”

“Positive,” Silvia agreed. “And when I did he had some kind of weird fit, then just started acting like a normal dog. Didn’t even fight it when I cast incarcerous on him.”

“Also not like the elves,” Leif said. “Once they were fully-snapped out of it, they acted like what they were; elves in animal bodies. Although...there was Gavin’s case. He was able to resist Conri’s mental take-over because he was a mage. Incantational magic is Wooist - it repels things that are anathema to the ‘Woo, including some kinds of magic.”

“It’s magic, right?” Laura wheedled. “J-just like me and Tim said a few days ago.”

Zuzia sighed, clearly hesitant. “I don’t know, sweetie,” she said. “It… does sound funny, yes, and like it might be magical. But we don’t know enough to be sure.” She turned her gaze toward Leif. “Have you ever heard of anything like this, Leif? Beyond the skinwalkers? Because it’s… strange. And it’s not consistent, either-- Zander said the ‘odd-acting’ animals display a variety of different behaviours. All of them strange, but beyond that…” She shook her head. “No particular theme.”

Leif frowned. “It’s hard to say without knowing what those behaviors are - until then, I can’t say for certain it’s magic. I can’t think of anything I’ve seen that’s exactly like what you’ve told me so far. But, the change being so sudden, and this being Medieville…” He gave Silvia a wry grin. “Hopefully your fiancee doesn’t mind some nosy mages asking questions?”

“I think he’ll survive it,” Silvia said with a crooked smile. “He should be coming along after us sooner or later, once his boss lets him off after dropping off the dog.”

When Zander arrived about an hour later, however-- by which point Laura had been soothed by several generous slices of raisin bread-- it was with the mutt still in tow, the strawberry-blond guardsman wearing an exasperated expression after he knocked on the front door and Leif swung it open. As the dog immediately strained against its rope lead in an attempt to merrily sniff the archmage’s trousers, tail wagging at lightning speed, Zander let out a heavy sigh and tugged the animal back.

“No, don’t lick him,” he chided-- to which the dog only wagged his tail harder. Then, to Leif: “Ah, sorry. He’s… friendly, or so I’ve come to learn from walking him through the city.” The city guard smiled awkwardly. “Um. You’re… Lord Jade, I take it? My name’s Zander Berry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Jade.”

“Leif Jade, yes - but just Leif is fine,” Leif said, stepping aside to let the man and dog in. “Good to finally meet you; I’ll try not to scare you off in whatever inventive ways Silvia might have told you.” He studied the dog for a moment - then abruptly drew his wand and pointed it at the animal. The dog’s ears perked, and it dropped into a play-bow, tail still wagging madly. “...Hmm. Just curious. Sorry, boy; no fetching.”

“I’m already half-regretting agreeing to take him,” Zander said dryly as he stepped into the foyer, the pup prancing in beside him. “The commander wants us to keep eyes on him for a few days, to see if the strange behaviour crops up again. And since I’m the one who brought him in, and Woo forbid a scruffy street mutt were to be kept at the pristine city guard headquarters, of course all eyes fell to me as the natural guardian.” Staring down at the cheerful dog as the animal sniffed, then tentatively licked, a potted plant by the front door, the man added, “So far, I haven’t seen even a flicker of… whatever it was that happened in the market. He’s just happy. Stupidly happy.”

“He’s no raptor,” Leif agreed.

Once the two men returned to the living room, Tim immediately cowered against his mother, bleating, “Why’d you bring it here, what if it goes crazy again?”

“It’s all right, Tim,” Zander said quickly, giving the dog a pat. “I’ll keep him by me, and if anything happens, we’ve got three mages in the room who can take care of it, okay?”

“He looks happy now,” Laura whispered, studying the tail-wagging beast with a tilted head. “Just like our dogs.” A beat. “He’s real skinny, though. Lookit, you can see all his ribs.”

“The commander thinks he’s a street dog,” Zander said as he took a seat beside Silvia, and the dog immediately nosed up to his fiancee with the canine version of a grin. “No collar, half-starved. We doused him with a flea killer, at least, but I don’t think he’s ever had much of a home. He probably gets by filching scraps from merchants.”

Silvia frowned slightly. “So whatever it was that was wrong with him seems to have gone, at least for the moment. It’s so strange, though. The knockback jinx shouldn’t change his behavior, and if he’s cursed it won’t break a curse.” She turned to Leif. “Grandpa, do you have any notion? Or you, Mama?”

Leif tried to lean forward to study the dog, only to draw back as it turned toward him with a rush of hot dog breath. “Well - if the spell knocked some other kind of magic off him, it must have been more general than a curse. Maybe some kind of glamour? ...Though a jinx shouldn’t really have thrown that off, unless it was weak. And glamours take a lot of training and skill to cast, so more likely than not you’d be a powerful mage - why cast a weak glamour if you have enough power to strengthen it?”

“It also seems strange that someone would be casting then breaking dozens of glamours on a practical menagerie of animals,” Zuzia added. “I mean, what species did you say have been affected again, Zander?”

The man shrugged, considering for a moment as he mindlessly scratched behind the blithe dog’s ears. “Dogs and cats. Birds of several varieties-- pigeons, crows, and I think we got a report about a robin that was flying in circles around a merchant’s cart last week, like it was stuck on a loop, and attacking any customers who dared come near. A few squirrels… and hm… oh! Can’t forget about the livestock. A couple horses who stampeded off for no discernible reason, a chicken that flew the coop and was terrorizing a pair of kids. And then we had a farmer near the city gates whose docile ewe suddenly turned into a frothing maniac and was basically holding him hostage in the pen. The neighbours appealed to us for help-- but by the time we got there, the old girl was back to her usual calm self. Farmer was a stammering mess, I think he thought that we thought he was a lying loon.”

“Hmm - so it seems like aggression is a common factor...but behavior changes like that generally come from potions...except, those wouldn’t be knocked out by a jinx. Or...whatever broke them in those incidents you mentioned.” Leif raked a hand through his hair. “I should have had Sieg translate those books on animal-magics while we were in Nid’aigle - I just didn’t think studying animal-related spells was a good idea, considering we’d just been fighting enchanted wolves and pumas.”

Silvia gnawed her lip. “Could Sir Sieg possibly send for the books? Or would that take too long? I admit I don't have much of a practical idea of how far Nid’aigle is.”

“It’s not too far - closer than Solis by a few days. It would still probably take a little over a week to get them, but that might be worth it. And certainly it can’t hurt to ask Sieg if he knows about any animal magics offhand; he did spend most of his life in Nid’aigle, and the elves live more closely to animals than we do. ...Sieg would probably want to know this is all going on, anyway.”

“Can't hurt.” Grinning to Zander, Silvia added, “Assuming your ‘salt of the earth’ guardsmen are willing to take advice from elves.”

Tim looked towards Leif, a slightly triumphant look on his face. “So it is magic, Grandpa?” He wheedled.

“Tell you what, Tim - I’ll put my lot in with you and say it’s probably magic. At least if we’re wrong, we’ll both be wrong together.”

Tim grinned broadly, and Laura cracked a smile of her own-- while Zuzia merely let out a long-suffering sigh. “If it is magic, though,” she said, “then we have a problem. I have no idea what on the Woo’s green earth would make someone decide to glamour a bunch of animals mad, but… it can’t be good. It’s only a matter of time before someone gets seriously hurt.”

Silvia nodded grimly, her lips pursed. Then, unexpectedly, she grinned and elbowed her fiancé. “Just don't arrest your blushing bride for vigilantism, hm? That’d put a damper on our wedding plans.”

“Hmm, but it’d make for a good story to our future children, wouldn’t it?” Zander teased. Looking toward the dog, who had settled himself with his chin in the guard’s lap, the man cooed, “Whaddya say, Bandit? Should we arrest Silvs?”

“Bandit?” Zuzia queried, a brow raised.

“Since he’s a thief,” Zander said, a bit of colour rising to his cheeks. “You know-- the nuts he stole. A proper criminal, this one.”

“And now he’s being held in the custody of the city guard,” Silvia noted with a smirk. She kissed Zander on the cheek. “I think it's a good name. We need something to call him, if he’s going to be crashing at your place.”

Tim grinned. “Bet ya never had to bring a thief you arrested home before.”

Leif said with amusement, “Hopefully you like him; I’ve seen house arrests lead to some very permanent relationships. I wonder how long it would take him to escape Marson Manor.”

“Escape?” Zander chuckled. “I’m pretty sure at this point I could set him free in the middle of the city, and he’d still find a way to follow me home.” The man sighed, though not without amusement. “Why do I have a feeling this babysitting assignment is going to last the next, oh… five or ten years, Silvs? So long as he doesn’t blink back into a growling devil again, anyway. Although at this point… my gut feeling says it was a one-off. We’ve had no reports of repeat offenders so far, and I don’t see why this little rascal would be the first.”

“Even so,” Leif said, sobering, “if he’s going to be around people, maybe some enchantments on a collar are in order. If he starts acting up again, you could have a trigger object that releases...maybe a stunning spell? And if it’s the presence of Wooist magic itself that knocked the fit away, then the latent magic in an enchantment should keep him safe if whatever happened is triggered again.”

Zander nodded. “That sounds fair.” Grinning toward his fiancee, he added, “We can pick up a strip of leather on the way home. But say… you wouldn’t happen to know any mages who could enchant it for me? So hard, finding mages in this city. I might have to spend all night searching.”

Laura giggled. “You’re silly, Mister Zander,” she informed him. “I bet Silvs could do real cool enchantments-- she’s a good mage! Or Mama could.”

“I’m not touching that dog until he’s been drenched in floral perfume and soap,” Zuzia said dryly. “So I think Silvia can handle it.”

Silvia chortled. “Well if you do end up keeping him, that means he’ll be living with me, so I may as well resign myself to him, hm? I’ll help with the collar, no sweat. If I’m putting a trigger- activated stunner on it anyway, I can also add some passive spells to keep him from getting any parasites again.” She tapped her wand with a smile, then reached for the dog and gave him a scratch, earning a rapidly thumped tail. “I’m still not sure what that was, but I hope we find out soon. Both for the sake of this happy doofus and all the rest of the animals in the city it seems to be affecting- not to mention their hapless owners.”

Leif tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “You were saying if affected some birds earlier, too, right? I’ll put some enchantments on my birds’ jesses - I don’t particularly fancy another raptor-mauling, and I certainly don’t want anyone else hurt by them.”

“Birds have been affected, yes,” Zander confirmed. “And that sounds like a good idea.” He smirked toward Silvia. “Maybe we should ward my parents’ cats, too. Though Woo knows those brats don’t exactly need a reason to get surly.”

“Good notion,” Silvia agreed, leaning against his shoulder. “If your parents can refrain from giving me stink-eye the entire time I’m over, I’ll see about warding their precious babies.”

“Why would they give you a stink eye?” Laura asked, her lips pursed. “They don’t like magic?”

“I think ol’ Mum and Dad just, ah-- did not expect their buttoned-up city guard son to fall for a free-spirited tavern waitress,” Zander replied. “Fortunately, I don’t particularly care what they think.” He winked at Silvia. “And fawning over their monsters can only win you points with them, love. Just don’t get mauled in the process, all right? Maybe I’ll have to send Bandit with you as a bodyguard.”

“He can protect Silvie by licking their faces,” Tim joked. To Leif he added, “Can I come with you while you spell the raptors? I want to see your new one. Please?” Tim had always loved Leif’s falcons and hawks, fawning over them (from a healthy distance) at every opportunity.

“Of course!” Leif agreed, his eyes brightening. “You’ll love Tamsin - have I told you, she’s a fully-grown ferruginous hawk - probably the biggest hawk I’ve had, even bigger than the red-tails! And she’s a light-morph, so you can really see the red…”

Bark and Bite: Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

Silvia clinked her spoon absently against the bowl of lentil pottage sitting on front of her. It was rapidly cooling, but as of yet the young woman hadn’t touched it. Her attention was riveted on the door to the King’s Arms Inn, her brow creased with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

“Are you gonna eat, or what, Silvs?” Tim demanded, making her jump. She sighed.

“I’m just a little worried is all. Zander’s late sometimes if he gets held up at work, but given everything that’s been going on…”

“I’m sure he’s fine, honey,” Zuzia soothed. “Things must be a bit of a madhouse with the guard right now-- especially since they finally snagged Bandit yesterday, and he didn’t provide them with any solid answers as to what’s causing the odd behaviour.” Smiling thinly, she took a sip of her ale. “Mmph. Glad to see the King’s Arms hasn’t lost their way with watered down booze. Ah, the memories.”

“Ilsa would have nothing less,” Leif said from his place at the table. “...Or nothing more, is perhaps how I should phrase it?” Setting down his own spoon, Leif asked, “Should we take a walk to the guardhouse, Silvia? We might even run into him on the way.”

Silvia sighed and shook her head. “If he got caught up working Woo only knows where exactly he is. They could’ve roped him into some raid on the clear opposite end of the city.” She smiled towards her adoptive grandfather sadly. “When we first started dating he made it a point only to ask me out on days he knew he had the whole day off, to avoid exactly this. He didn’t want to get things off on a bad foot by making me think he was repeatedly standing me up.”

“Maybe he’ll bring us treats to ‘pologise,” Laura suggested brightly. “Like toffee! Or ginger candy.”

Zuzia smiled, bemused. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you, Laura.” Glancing toward the girl’s barely-touched bowl of pottage, she added, “And no sweets for you until you eat your dinner, anyhow.”

“But I don’t like lentils,” Laura said. “They’re mushy.”

“Mama and Papa once spent months surviving on burdocks and dandelions, sweetheart,” Zuzia retorted. “I think you can choke down a bowl of lentils.”

“I think someone is a little spoiled by Papa bringing home cookies and cakes so much,” Silvia noted with amusement.

“You’re not eating the lentils neither, Silvs!” Tim objected, earning an eye roll from his sister. She prodded the bowl with her wand to heat it back up, then proceeded to make a dramatic show of shoveling the lentils into her mouth, complete with a flourish after each mouthful.

“All right, I think you’ve made your point, Silv,” Zuzia said wryly. “But seriously, Laura-- eat your supper. I won’t have you whining later tonight that you’re starving, young lady.”

“Fine.” Laura scowled. “If I have to.”

“You do,” Zuzia confirmed. “And no more whining about it, either.”

Acting as though each mouthful of pottage was a singular act of torture, Laura had only managed to make it about a quarter of the way through her bowl by the time Zander finally arrived to the inn about fifteen minutes later, the man’s hazel eyes underscored by heavy bags and his guard’s uniform rumpled. Sparing Silvia a peck on the cheek, the man then let out a heavy sigh as he plunked down next to his fiancee and immediately reached for the pitcher of ale at the center of the table.

“Sorry I’m so late,” he said as he began to pour himself a glass. “Woo, today was…” He shook his head. “A debacle, frankly.”

Silvia frowned, her face lit with concern. “What happened? You look they’ve been running you all over the city for hours.”

“Mmph,” Zander agreed, taking a hearty sip of the ale. “I was just on my way out when a rookie staggered into the guardhouse looking like he’d seen a ghost. Took him ten minutes just to calm down enough to stammer out his story.”

“Oh?” Zuzia raised a concerned brow, stiffening in her seat. “What happened to him? Another aggressive animal?”

“No,” Zander said. “Or-- it was an animal. Animals, in fact. But they were in no state to be aggressive.” He swallowed hard, lowering his voice a notch as he continued, “It was a group of crows-- half a dozen of them. And they were, ah… no longer living. Slaughtered, by the looks of it. Then laid in a perfect circle in some dingy alley in the Lake District. It was a… gruesome scene, to say the least. Bloody.”

Leif set down his spoon sharply. “Wha - crows? Someone - who would kill birds?” Apparently catching his lapse in logic, the archmage added, “Not for food, that is - and they can’t have been, if they were…arranged somewhere! That’s - that’s horrible, and especially on Wooist ground...” He made the sign of the triple-feather. “Any luck catching who did it?”

“Unfortunately not,” Zander said. “Whoever did it was long gone by the time we found the birds-- and even longer gone by the time the blubbering greenhorn had the wherewithal to lead me to the scene.” He sighed, raking a hand through his tousled strawberry-blond hair, then flagged down one of the inn’s waitresses as she strode past. “Sarah,” he called. “Could I get a bowl of pottage, please? And some mashed potatoes, if you’ve got them.”

The waitress paused, giving the guard a smile and nod. “Sure thing, Master Berry,” she said. Creasing her pale blonde brow, she added after a beat, “You all right? You look stressed. Or-- more stressed than usual, anyway.”

“Mister Zander had to looked at dead birdies,” Laura announced solemnly. “All slaughtered!”

Silvia sighed. “Apparently someone killed a bunch of crows and arranged them in a circle in an alleyway. The city guard had no idea what to make of it, aside from thinking that it was gruesome.” She smiled up at the waitress whom she had once been employed alongside thinly. “But it’s nothing you… need to… Sarah?”

“Sorry, I’m all right,” Sarah murmured, blinking sharply. But it was clear from the look of shock and pain that now simmered in her sky blue eyes that something had jarred her-- and badly. “It’s just-- um.” She gulped. “Y-you said there were… h-how many birds?”

Tim tilted his head. “I think Mister Zander said half a dozen? A dozen’s twelve right? So half of that is um…” He seemed to be trying to calculate it in his head, and a few seconds later he brightened. “Six! Half of twelve is six, right Mama?”

“Yes,” Zuzia confirmed. “Why, Sarah? What’s the number matter?”

“It just… it just…” Sarah forced a deep breath. “H-how were they killed, Master Berry? Any particular way, or…?”

“Their throats were cut,” Zander replied, looking thoroughly unsettled as the waitress seemed close to tears. Gently, he prodded, “What’s the matter, Sarah? Did you see the person responsible, or…?”

“No,” Sarah said quickly. “It’s just… it sounds an awful l-lot like… like-- I know it’s going to sound a bit mad, but-- Carriconic sacrifice. It… sounds a whole lot like a ritual Carriconic sacrifice.”

Leif started to swear but hastily turned the first syllable into a more child-friendly version, before Zuzia could do something like whack him with her spoon. “That’s right - sacrifice rituals. Some involving birds - probably a jab at the ‘Woo, otherwise I can’t think why they’d do that when one of the forms of Carricon is a bird…” Leif shook his head as if to physically dislodge the tangent. “...Why is someone performing Carriconic rituals in Medieville? And what for? I thought that was mostly a ceremonial thing these days - no less barbaric for that, but...not used for anything specific.” He looked up at Sarah, who would almost certainly have more up-to-date - and more realistic - knowledge than a Kythian nobleman.

“It… probably wasn’t meant as an offence to the Woo,” Sarah said tentatively. “They sacrifice birds a lot. As a… a tribute to Carricon. In times of great need, in times of gratitude-- basically… whenever they want to show the gods they’re pious and devout.” She clenched her jaw, her entire body trembling now. “O-only the person who made the sacrifices would know why. It’s n-not exactly like there’s a… manual. But… just from my experiences… if they sacrificed that many animals, it’s because of s-something big. People don’t slaughter six crows on a lark.”

“It wouldn’t be something to do with the rebellion, you don’t think?” Silvia asked, her brow pinched. “I mean I can’t think what else a Carriconist is even doing in Medieville when Courdon is embroiled in war-- unless it’s a Mzian, but the only Mzians who come this far north are diplomats and traders, who have a vested interest in not annoying the locals by desecrating our city with their religious rituals.”

“Do we think it might be related to the animals being aggressive?” Zuzia asked softly. “Because both are so strange, and both have to do with animals. But… then again, while yes, crows are animals and have been involved in both instances… this still is a huge departure from live, tame animals suddenly going mad, isn’t it?”

“It’s...hmm.” Leif scowled at the table. “I’m not sure what to think. On the one hand, I don’t see why one would lead to the other - mad animals don’t know Carriconic rituals, and I don’t know why someone would use a ritual to make animals act aggressive here and there. But it’s...an awfully odd coincidence. ” He looked up and asked Zander, “How, ah...how recently did the ritual seem like it was performed?”

“Very,” Zander said. “The blood was still, ah-- forgive me for being crass, but fresh. The bodies hadn’t even gone stiff yet.”

Leif grimaced. “Poor things. ...But if they were fresh, then... maybe the guard scared them off and they had just finished - so who knows if this has been going on long enough to explain the animals and whoever is doing this usually cleans up, or if this is something completely new and we’re going to find ourselves with an even bigger mess tomorrow? ...If the ritual even works on Wooist land, which, I admit...I’m not sure about. We didn’t really cover ritualistic sacrifice in my theology classes, except to say that it would be nonsensical to kill the ‘Woo’s creations to try and curry favor with him.”

“I have no idea how it would or wouldn’t work in a Wooist land,” Zuzia admitted. “Hardly like I’ve ever tried any Meltaiman sacrificial rites since I’ve been here.” She sighed. “And admittedly, I always rather tuned out religious lessons in Meltaim while I was there. They weren’t exactly my… forte, to put it lightly.”

“True, you barely even count as a heathen for converting to Wooism,” Leif teased with a faint smile. “But if we don’t have personal experience...I’ll have to go through my library tomorrow. Maybe there’s something there that could point us to a connection.”

“Mamaaaaa,” Tim whimpered. “Is the bird killer gonna come to Sallertown? What if he kills our chickens? And, and does Carriconic stuff with them and-”

“Shh, it’s all right, Timothy,” Zuzia interrupted. “No one’s going to hurt our chickens.”

“The city guard is going to catch the people who hurt the crows, okay?” Zander added, the man seeming to badly regret his bluntness from a few moments ago. Woo, he was going to have to get used to filtering himself around children. “You have nothing to worry about, I promise.”

Laura, however, did not look convinced. “But what if they do?” the little girl needled. “And… and what if they make our doggies act like Bandit was, and--”

“It’ll be fine, Laura,” Silvia insisted, reaching towards her sister and squeezing the young girl’s hand. “We’re not going to let anybody hurt our animals. Whoever is doing this, they’ll get caught before that happens. We have two archmages and the best man in the city guard on the case; with all that, how could anything bad happen?”

“It doesn’t always mean bad things, either,” Sarah added softly. “I know it seems very strange, but in Carriconism, sacrifices aren’t always meant as a warning. Sometimes they’re done in celebration. For good things as well as bad.” She sighed, clearly still unnerved as she added, “Shall I get you that food, Master Berry? Pottage and potatoes, right?”

Zander nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. And… thanks for the information, as well. I know it must be upsetting to you, but it does help us. You have the city guard’s gratitude.”

Sarah didn’t reply aloud-- only nodded before she turned on her heel and strode off, headed back toward the kitchen to fetch Zander’s food. Once she was gone, the guard pressed a beleaguered hand to his forehead, looking even more exhausted than he had upon strolling through the door a few minutes ago. Not that anyone else was doing much better: both Laura and Tim were shifting in their seats, clearly unassuaged by the adults’ reassurances; Leif picked up his mug of cider but only swirled the contents around, his expression distant and troubled; and Zuzia was just barely managing to feign interest at her bowl of lukewarm pottage as a few seats down, Silvia pressed her arm against Zander’s, her blue-grey eyes clouded. Silence filled the air for nearly a minute, thick as molasses.

“Say, kids,” Zander said finally. “What if we went by my place after this? I bet Bandit would love to say hello. And you can see where Silvs will be living once we get married.”

Tim brightened slightly. “We really could?” he asked. “It’s okay? It… it’d be nice to check on Bandit. Make sure he’s still okay.”

“Of course it's okay,” Zander said. “Hey-- if it's all right with your mum, maybe you kids could even sleep over. Have a slumber party with the ol’ mutt.”

“Ooooh, a sleepover?” Tim brightened, nudging Laura. “That’d be fun, huh? Mama, can we? Please?”

“Sure,” Zuzia agreed with a smile. “But-- only if Laura finishes her pottage.” She winked at the little girl, playfully. “The whole thing, yes, before you ask.”

The little girl gave a gusty sigh. “Okay, Mama.”

“Lentils are good for growing muscles, you know,” Leif informed Laura. “I bet if you finish up that bowl, if any Carriconists came to bother you , you wouldn’t even need Bandit - you could just do as Aunt Elin would do and punch them in the face.”

Silvia chuckled, leaning her head against Zander’s. “We’ll all be safe and sound then. Between lentil-strength Laura and Bandit, nobody will touch us.”

***

Silvia flicked a page on the notes that Leif had procured during his conversation with Sieg- not very long, though the half-elf had promised to send for the books from the Nid’aigle library to supplement his own knowledge and recall. At length, however, she sighed. “Sorry, Grandpa, but I don’t see anything you didn’t see- and nothing that really seems to fit the situation.”

She set the sheafs of paper aside, glancing around the spacious living area of Leif’s house. Tim and Laura were sitting on the rug nearby, playing some game with a pair of stuffies, though both children looked noticeably sluggish after their sleepover at Zander’s the night before (Zuzia, sitting on a sofa nearby, quite suspected that neither child had done very much of the sleeping part of things).

Leif looked up from the book he was studying, taking a moment to slip a treat to a small, orange-breasted falcon on the nearby perch. “I was afraid of that. Nothing really in this one, either.” He pushed the book he had been working through aside. “‘Expansive section on non-Wooist Avani religions’, indeed.”

The blond archmage leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “There must be something here that has more information...I swear I remember seeing something about Carriconic rituals in a book here once.” He frowned, but after a moment, looked up. “No - no, it wasn’t here. It was before Kirin and I moved here - I remember hearing one of the Marsons coming to the door in my old office there, and I decided not to be on the page with the heading about ritualistic sacrifice. It must have been from while I was working on Xavier’s deconditioning…”

Leif got up and rumaged through one of the book stacks he’d brought in, but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “I think it’s in here somewhere - something to do with Courdonian runes, I’ll know it when I see it. Or, well - it’s written in my journal. Tim, Laura? Would one - or both - of you mind going to my study and getting the small black journal out of the big desk drawer?”

“Okay!” Laura chirped, springing to her feet. Smirking at her brother, she added, “I bet I can beat you there, Tim.”

“No running in Grandpa’s house, please,” Zuzia chided.

“We can do a slow race,” her daughter replied cheerily. “And I bet I’ll still beat him!”

And with that, the girl turned on her heel and strolled off at an exaggeratedly slow pace, grinning all the while. Tim lurched after her, smirking as he made dramatic, slow windmilling motions with his arms.

“Today, please,” Silvia chided her siblings, though she was grinning. “You know better than to be fresh with Mum.”

Once the children had gone, Zuzia let out a long-suffering chuckle and raked a hand through her curly mahogany hair. “They’re not nearly half as clever as they think they are,” she said. “Though at least they’re being helpful imps for once.” The woman sighed. “I do hope we find something soon, though. If not, I suppose we can discard the idea of the sacrifices being related to the animals acting oddly, but-- I dunno, maybe it’s just me, but it’d be sort of nice to be assured that we don’t have multiple loons running around this city. One performing only Woo-knows-what-kind dark magic on anything that breathes, another sacrificing crows in alleys… ‘Pit, we’ve only been visiting for five days and I already miss the bucolic boredom of Sallertown.”

Silvia grinned impishly. “Nah, you just miss having Papa around to cuddle. I’m onto you- I’m not nearly as alluring as your charming Valzick baker.” She mock pouted, as her mother snorted beneath her breath.

“Zander had better be careful,” the Meltaiman archmage said dryly, “or you might supplant him as the city’s best investigator, Silvs.”

“Oh, it hardly takes an expert to deduce that, Zuzia,” Leif said with a smirk. “Silvia, you should have seen them when they lived here - and people think Kirin and I are overfond of displays of affection.”

“What are you talking about?” Zuzia said lightly. “Phyllo and I would never be cuddly, we--”

The woman’s voice fell abruptly away as an ear-splitting shriek rent the air, so shrill and panicked it could have shattered glass. Zuzia was on her feet in an instant, eyes rocketing toward the direction of the noise-- it had come from across the house, down the hall, which meant…

“Laura!” she shouted, flinging herself toward Leif’s study. “Tim!”

Leif turned, swore, and drew his wand all at once. Ambre, who had started and flared her wings at the sound, managed to leap from her perch and onto Leif’s shoulder with a number of high, sharp cries as the blond archmage darted after Zuzia. Silvia was hot on her adoptive grandfather’s heels, her wand also drawn and clenched tight in her palm as a second scream tore across the house.

When they came to the door of Leif’s study, they found a scene of chaos. A thick book tied up with amulets and ward charms had fallen out of one of Leif’s shelves onto the floor, and numerous curios from the shelf and atop his desk had been scattered across the room. Laura crouched by the window, trembling like a leaf, the front of her oatmeal-coloured dress spattered with blood and a monstrous gash opened on her forehead. The source of her wounds was immediately apparent- a huge raptor, fluttering back and forth with talons lashing as it made a bizarre rasping noise akin to a cackle, had backed Tim into the corner, and was flailing her talons in his direction. The young boy too was slashed across his cheek and shoulder, and was desperately firing off sparking spells at the bird tormenting him.

At first, Zuzia could scarcely register what she was seeing, panic lancing through her like a blade. But the archmage quickly snapped out of it, the moment she’d reconciled the sight before her launching herself across the room toward her daughter’s cowering form. “Leif!” she shrieked, scooping the bloodied child up into her arms. “Get the bird!”

“Tamsin!” Leif shouted, hoping to divert the ferruginous hawk’s attention even as he brandished his wand, green light already flooding out of it - a semi-translucent dome swooped upward from the ground and back over the bird’s over side like a wave, but one leaving a solid barrier in its wake. He cursed again as he hurried over to Tim, keeping an eye on the hawk in case she did or tried to do anything. “Here, come here, just in case - I’m so sorry - how badly did she get you? Zuzia - how’s Laura?”

“I-- I can’t tell-- Laura, stop squirming, please,” Zuzia stammered, tightening her hold on the still-screeching girl. The wound on the child’s face was obvious, but a swath of shredded fabric on the girl’s dress, coupled with a second bloom of blood around it, made it seem rather likely that the forehead gash was not Laura’s only injury. “Honey, please,” the archmage pleaded, her voice cracking. Blue eyes whipping toward Silvia, she added, “Silv, help me. Pl-please.”

Silvia made a beeline for her mother and sister, skirting around the trapped Tamsin- who was busying herself by body-slamming the shield. Tim, meanwhile, flung himself at Leif, throwing both arms around his adoptive grandfather and sobbing. Leif froze for a moment, tensing at the unexpected contact - but he took a deep breath and slowly put his left arm around Tim’s shoulders, careful to avoid the slash. “It’s all right, Tim. You’re safe now,” he told the boy as he hugged him back.

Tim only whimpered, burrowing his forehead in Leif’s shirt as Silvia knelt beside her mother. “Laura, it’ll be okay. Please, let Mama see your cuts so she can heal them?”

“Th-they hurt,” Laura sobbed, breathing jaggedly. “Don’t t-touch them, please!”

Zuzia gulped, her heart humming in her ears. “If you let me see them, I can make them feel better, honey,” she said. “Here, can you let Silvs unbutton the front of your dress so we can see what’s the matter? We won’t make it hurt any worse-- I promise, baby.” As she gently turned the hysterical little girl out toward Silvia, the woman added, “Go ahead, Silv. And… if you want to heal them while I hold her, maybe that’d be easiest.”

“Right,” Silvia said, her voice shaky. “I’m not as good at it as you are, but…” The young woman carefully pried open the front of her sister’s dress, trying not to rub the fabric against her open cuts. The shirt peeled aside to reveal three horizontal gouges from where Tamsin had seemingly raked her claws against the child’s chest. The wounds were bleeding heavily, and it was instantly apparent that the hawk had cut deep, the skin slashed down to the muscle; Silvia swallowed hard.

“Terwoogio,” she whispered, flicking her wand to clear away the blood from the wounds. Then, calling upon the healing spell she had learned from her mother, rather than the one practiced in most of Kyth, she said, “Blinza leczyć.”

As ribbons of green energy flowed from Silvia’s wand into Laura’s chest, the gashes slowly began to seal shut, starting from deep inside and working towards the surface. Zuzia could have cast this spell far more quickly, but Silvia was a mediocre mage at best and had nowhere near the strength or raw talent of her archmage mother.

“G-grandpa,” Tim burbled. “I th-though you were g-g-gonna shield the birds, I th-thought they would be ok-k-kay! B-but Tamsin was b-being all weird, she kept clawing at your b-book and then jumping away from it and wh-when we came in she just attacked us!”

“She wasn’t even supposed to be in here,” Leif said, looking at the hawk in bewilderment, and wincing as she threw herself against the dome wall again. “She should have been in the mews, I don’t - “ He caught hold of himself. “Nevermind - we’ll - we’ll figure it out in a minute. Can I see where she scratched you so I can heal it?”

“Uh-h-huh,” He stammered, straightening and peeling back his shirt collar. His face was slashed to the bone at his jaw, and there were multiple cross-hatched slashes on the front and back of his shoulder as if Tamsin had been flailing at him with her claws as he tried to run away.

Taking in her son’s injuries from afar as Silvia continued to work on the sobbing, writhing Laura, Zuzia let out an agonized hiss, as if she could physically feel her children’s pain. “What in the ‘Pit happened here?” she asked. “I-- I don’t understand, I--” She flicked her gaze to the heavily warded book the floor, too far from the shelf to have been merely knocked askew in the chaos. “Did you try to throw that at her, or...?”

“N-nuh-uh,” Laura sniffled. “S-she was tr-trying to pick it up, Mama. W-with her talons.”

Leif, guiding his wand and the green ribbons of healing magic twining from it around the wound in Tim’s jaw, said, “That was my spellbook, wasn’t it? What the ’Pit would she be attracted to that for, I don’t understand - and how did she get out of - “ Leif almost froze, only stopped by needing to continue moving the healing spell. “What if - what if someone let her out? Something’s going on with animals in the city, and there’re Carriconist rituals - if anyone overheard us at the Inn yesterday, and had something to do with it -”

“And sent her to grab a book?” Zuzia asked, her brow furrowing. Kissing the crown of Laura’s kinky black hair as Silvia moved to healing the girl’s facial gouge, the archmage said hesitantly, “We should see if she’s acting normally now. Because if this is related to the animals acting oddly-- well, with Bandit it was like… a fire being doused. He was aggressive as all hells one moment, and calm as a newborn babe the next.”

“I’ll check,” Leif said, finishing the healing spell and checking that the injury was indeed gone. “Tim, stay behind me, all right? Just in case.” He glanced at Ambre on his shoulder; the falcon’s attention was focused on Tamsin and the dome. Leif sighed, and raised his wand again to cast a sleeping spell. Ambre bobbed on his shoulder, blinking heavily, and she let Leif pick her up off his shoulder and hold her. Hopefully whatever magic was going on here couldn’t also wake the animals up.

Tamsin was flaring her wings, emitting a shrill, lingering shriek and twitching her head in an unnatural fashion. Leif glared, raising his wand. “Leave my hawk alone!” he snapped, knowing it wasn’t likely to do any good, but unable to help himself.

Hoping he was right, and bracing himself for a second bird mauling if he was wrong, Leif flicked his wand to dispel the shield, and as he realigned his wand at the bird, snapped the incantation for the sleeping spell he had just used on Ambre. Tamsin shuddered violently, falling like a stone to the floor and thrashing hard. She gagged, her motions growing weaker as her eyelids drooped. Then, with a tremendous wretch, the hawk coughed up a shadowy blob that evaporated into mist before it hit the floor, and went limp with unconsciousness.

“Woo, what… what was that?” Silvia asked, her shoulders tensed.

Leif darted forward, crouching next to the unconscious hawk - the blob was long gone, and casting a spell to show the runes of a curse or shield or other such magic simply created a light that sparked and died against the floor. “I don’t know - did this happen with Bandit?” Leif gently put two fingers on Tamsin’s chest to check her pulse; after setting Ambre on his lap, he muttered the incantations for a diagnosis spell. He felt a few spikes as he passed over her wings - cracked or broken bones, most likely. But he would have to wait to heal those until he was sure Timothy and Laura were all right.

“He did thrash and gag,” Silvia confirmed. “But his back was to us when he stopped heaving, so I didn’t see if he actually coughed anything up. At the time I just sort of assumed he’d choked on saliva when I knocked him backwards.”

“I’m going to guess not,” Leif said with a scowl. He picked Ambre up again and got to his feet, hating to leave Tamsin on the ground, but also not wanting to jostle broken bones by moving her. “How’s Laura?” he asked as he returned to Tim, adding to the boy, “Here - let me take care of your shoulder, too.”

Tim sniffed, nodding, and Zuzia shifted Laura in her arms. With her wounds healed, the girl’s sobs had softened considerably, though tears still trickled from her eyes in a steady stream, and she was coated in a not-insignificant amount of blood-- which had dripped onto Zuzia, too, so that the archmage was nearly just as saturated.

“She’ll be all right,” the woman murmured, fondly stroking the little girl’s hair. “Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“I’unno,” she hiccupped. “Th-that was scary.”

“I can imagine,” Leif said. At least when he had been attacked by a large bird, she had constrained herself to one attack and then backed off. “I’m so sorry, you two - I would never have sent you in here if I’d known.”

Tim snuffled, looking up at Leif. “G-g-grandpa, can… I kn-know you don’t like it but…”

It took Leif a moment to realize what Tim was asking for, but then - “Oh - you need a hug? Of course you can have one, after all that.”

Tim didn’t need a second invitation, crumpling against Leif’s chest and hugging the Jade with a soft whimper. Leif hugged him back, feeling like he was probably doing the gesture wrong somehow, but also suspecting the execution didn’t matter quite so much to his adoptive grandson right now.

Silvia sighed, rubbing her face. “Grandpa, since the spell is likely to keep Ambre and Tamsin out for a while, do you mind if I move them out to the mews? At least until we get Tim and Laura calmed down- I imagine getting raptors out of the room will get us a big step in that direction.”

“Ambre you can move - Tamsin has a few bone injuries I want to heal before we move her,” Leif said. “...Whatever happened to her isn’t her fault, and she isn’t normally aggressive - not even like Hadrian was.”

“I’d like to send a pigeon to Phyllo, as well, if it’s all right,” Zuzia added. “In light of what’s going on here, I… I think I’d feel better if he took the little ones home. But I don’t want to leave until we have everything figured out. I have a sinking feeling it’s just going to keep getting worse until we have, and it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt in a way that can’t be fixed by a few healing spells.”

Leif nodded. “I think you’re right - we need to figure this out, but the kids don’t need to be in danger while we’re doing that.”

“Don’t leave me,” Laura whimpered, her voice hitching. “Pl-please--”

“No one’s leaving you, baby,” Zuzia promised. “You can stay with Mama and Silvs and Grandpa until Papa gets here, all right? And…” She swallowed hard. “Maybe Grandpa can make us all some tea-- and hey, once Uncle Kirin gets home from the market, I bet he could be talked into making you kids something sweet. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Tim inhaled jaggedly, then whispered, “M-maybe he’ll let us use his paints? If we ask nice?”

“I’m sure he would,” Leif agreed. “In the meantime, I can definitely make tea, and see if we have anything extra-special for you two to snack on. I think I have some cheese tucked away, and there should be a few cookies left. ...Probably you don’t want cheese and cookies together, but…”

“M-maybe it’d be tasty, though,” Laura sniffled, wiping at her eyes. “Like… like cheese with jam. It sounds bad, but it’s real good, Grandpa.”

“Oh? Well, in that case - we have blackberry jam and camembert cheese, if you think that would go well together?”

“Sounds good,” Silvia remarked with a relieved smile. “I’ll get Ambre put away, and you guys can see to Tamsin, Tim and Laura. Then when Kirin gets back, Mum you head out to the couriers to send that pigeon to Sallertown. Papa is… not going to be happy about this.”

Bark and Bite: Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

Once Zuzia returned from the courier, she and Silvia brought the significantly calmer (albeit still jittery) Tim and Laura back to Silvia’s flat. The four of them slept together camped out on the living room floor, the children unwilling to part from Zuzia’s side. Tim woke up several times in the night whimpering and sobbing, wrenching Zuzia awake each time as the woman hurried to draw him close and soothe him back to sleep.

The following morning Zuzia took the children to Leif’s place again while Silvia went to find Zander. He had the day off again, and once his fiance brought him up to speed on what had happened the previous day, the city guardsman was duly horrified. He said that he felt it was his duty to immediately report what had happened to his superiors-- but promised that he wouldn’t loiter long, and suggested that afterward he could bring Bandit by to entertain and distract the little ones until their father showed up to fetch them.

“We will catch whoever’s doing this, Silvs,” he promised, pecking the young woman on the cheek. “The city guard isn’t going to rest until this monster is safely in irons.”

Silvia smiled, kissing him back. “I know, love. See you soon.”

Zander did eventually arrive with Bandit, and the dog was met with tremendous enthusiasm by Tim and Laura. The kids were in the process of trying to teach the mutt to sit- with limited progress- when a knock came at the door. Leif went to answer it, and returned a moment later with a man whose skin was even darker than Silvia’s, like coffee without cream or sugar. Stormy gray eyes surveyed the room from under a white headband that covered his forehead, and his long black hair was tied back in cornrows. As soon as he walked into the room, Tim brightened, bolting towards the man with a cry of “Papa! Papa!”

Phyllo automatically opened his arms to receive his son, hugging the young boy as Tim buried his face in his father’s tunic, and Laura was not far behind on her brother’s heel, bursting into tears as she reached for Phyllo’s sleeve.

“Papa,” she whimpered. “Me and Tim got hurt. It was scary.”

Phyllo knelt down, drawing both of his young children tight to his chest. “I know kids, I know. Your mama told me about it. I’m so sorry that happened to you. It’s okay though, you’ll be okay, I promise. I’m going to take you both home in just a little while.”

“I bet Papa will even let you help him at the bakery once you get home,” Zuzia put in, smiling warmly at her husband. “Wouldn’t it be fun if you got to frost some cookies? You can be his little helpers until Mama gets home.”

Laura sniffled. “I don’t want you to stay here, Mama. What if you get hurt? Or… or Silvia. Or Grandpa, or--”

“We’ll be all right,” Leif assured her. “We’re bigger than most of the animals here - and remember, I fought wolves and pumas, your mother’s trekked through the wild for months at a time, and Silvia already stopped Bandit when he was...acting up.”

“And the city guard’s got all their best men on the investigation,” Zander added. “No one’s going to get hurt, honey, okay?”

The child’s chin wobbled, and she stayed silent for a moment as though in deliberation. Then, she slowly turned her gaze so that her slate gray eyes met with Phyllo’s. “C-can I hold your hand when we walk home?” she whispered. “The wh-whole time, even though it’s real long?”

“Of course, love,” Phyllo agreed, kissing her forehead. “And when we get home we can bring the dogs inside and camp out with them on the couch, hm? Does that sound good?”

Tim gave a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Even if Tiny snores.”

“First though,” the man sat cross legged on the floor, drawing both of his children to sit beside him (and inadvertently enabling Bandit to crawl into his lap so that the dog could nose Laura’s hand for more pets), “Maybe you all should tell me in more detail what’s been going on. Zuzu your letter was… a bit frantic.”

Leif shook his head slightly. “Well...there’ve been spates of animals acting oddly and aggressively over the past few weeks - Silvia and Laura and Tim ran into one.” He motioned to Bandit. “And a tiny Flipendo was all it took to get him back to normal. What we thought did it was the magic itself, but…” With input from the others, Leif explained what all they had learned, tried to figure out, and been forced to deal with.

“So, as best we can figure,” the Kythian archmage summarized, “there are Carriconists performing rituals, someone doing something to various animals - and someone, maybe the same someones, maybe not, want my spellbook.” He withdrew the volume from under his arm; Leif had been keeping the spellbook on him at all times since the previous day’s attack. If anyone wanted the spells inside, they were going to have to come after Leif and deal with him directly.

Phyllo had listened to all of this with a pensive expression, his grey eyes clouded. At first, he let the silence after Leif finished talking hang, biting his lip. Then, Tim looked up at his father strangely, murmuring, “Papa? Why are you shaking?”

“Phyllo?” Zuzia echoed, taking a step forward. “Are you all right, love?”

He took a slow, deep breath, murmuring, “Zuzia. You know what I did in Meltaim. What I was… used for.” To Zander, he clarified, “I used to be a slave in the country where my wife was born, and I was… bled for religious rituals and arcane magic, just like those birds you saw.”

Zander creased his brow, his face etched with worry. “I-- I’m sorry, Master Panem, that’s… that’s horrible.”

“You… don’t think this is Meltaiman magic, do you?” Zuzia asked, tilting her head. “Sarah Lynn recognised it as Courdonian, Phyllo. It’s… it’s not from Meltaim.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Phyllo replied. “But you and I both know that there are spells that are similar and have variants across the continent. Like, say, that truth spell that landed us in Leif’s custody in the first place. It’s in the same family as the one you and I managed to wriggle around in Macarinth, but not identical.”

“So… you’re saying you think whatever is happening here is related to a spell that exists in Meltaim?” Silvia asked. “But why wouldn’t Mama have noticed that? No offense, Papa, but wouldn’t a noble-trained archmage have had access to more information than a non-mage slave?”

“To be fair,” Zuzia said reluctantly, “the religion I was raised in-- back in Meltaim-- did have a lot of ah, rituals that were… similar to what Sarah was talking about. Sacrifices. Bloodletting.” Gulping hard as something seemed to dawn on her, she added, “And… while, yes, these rituals were religious at their bases, they… they were used for more than just paying tribute to the gods. They were used as conduits for magic, as well. So it… wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility that Carriconic religious rites could be used similarly. That… whoever sacrificed those birds did it both to appease their gods and utilize the blood they produced for… for dark magic. The same sort of dark magic that might beget whatever it is that’s been going on with the aggressive animals.”

Leif scowled. “Courdonians do use blood as part of the conditioning process - so blood being used in their magic is definitely not unheard of. ’Pit - so we might have blood-magic-using Courdonians manipulating animals...to do what? It can’t just be for my spellbook, or why random dogs in the street, and robins at the marketplace, or sheep on farms I’ve never been to?”

“And,” Zuzia said, “it… it would have to be strange dark magic, as well. Just… inasmuch as if the mage is directing these animals over a wide swath of space-- and after what happened with Tamsin, I think there’s no question the animals aren’t just acting randomly; they’re being deliberately controlled-- how are they doing it? I think we would have noticed a random Courdonain bloodmage hiding behind the bookshelves in your study, Leif.”

“Neither of you are letting me finish saying what I was trying to say,” Phyllo said, sounding rather annoyed. “I didn’t bring up Meltaiman magic and my experience with it just for jollies, you two. I brought it up because I’ve seen a spell that does what you’re describing, at least some of it.”

“Why didn’t you lead with - nevermind.” Leif shook his head as if to clear it. “What spell? What did it do?”

“I didn’t lead with that because it’s not something I like talking about,” Phyllo retorted. “You know how much I as a Wooist hate what they did to me. This incident was probably an absolute low for me up until I had to watch a ten year old girl die.” He swallowed hard. “When I was twelve, I was rented out to mages who were doing research at the behest of the clergy and the margrave. On summoning and coercing demons.”

Leif practically choked. “Demons?”

Phyllo nodded grimly, his arms tightening around his children’s shoulders. “Of course the Meltaimans didn’t call them that- they called them pustych, which roughly translates to ‘empty ones’ along the same vein as półwyrób for non-mages. Because you know, non-mages are evil soulless monsters.” Phyllo made a dismissive gesture as if to brush this fact off as unimportant. “But the creatures that they called… they could speak, but they had no real visible form. They ‘only existed on the magical plane’ as the mages put it, and had to be placed into a body with a true soul in order to manifest fully in the real world. When the vessel fought back against the demon, the body twitched and thrashed. And when the demon left the host, that host would throw up a congealed pile of what the mages called ‘essence’- which from where I was standing looked like black sludge.”

“The animals did the same thing - throw up some kind of black goop. That’s - that’s compelling evidence.” Leif raked his free hand through his hair. “But - but all right, if it’s a demon we’re dealing with...then we at least know what to fight it with - holy water, talismans, maybe silver…”

“What would a Courdonian bloodmage want a demon for, though?” Zuzia mused, looking severely discomfited. “I mean-- summoning it so that it can possess animals that gallivant about and torment the city? And then maintaining its presence for an extended period of time-- something that I’m pretty sure requires feeding it regularly, hence the crow sacrifice? What could that possibly achieve?” She rubbed her temple, a headache suddenly throbbing beneath it. “For Woo’s sake, they’ve a war going on down there. If I were a Courdonian bloodmage, I wouldn’t waste my time and energy tending demons and sending them to possess Kythian squirrels and stray dogs.”

“Tamsin came after Grandpa’s spellbook, right?” Silvia put in. “Grandpa, what all spells do you have in there, exactly? That a foreign mage might be willing to go through the ‘Pit pretty much literally for.”

Leif frowned, absently running his fingers along the cord of one of the talismans secured around it. “Well, the only spell I imagine people resorting to demons for, I tore out and burned a long time ago. Mostly I just use it for complex spells, ones with incantations you can’t just memorize…” He hesitated, fingers freezing on the cord. “But - but, there’s also - well...this is where the dragon-summoning spell is.”

“Dragon-summoning?” Zander asked, hazel eyes widening. “Like, a real dragon?”

“Gr-grandpa summoned one once,” Laura offered, the little girl still clinging to her father’s sleeve. “T-to scare Courdonians away. He was real brave.”

“Courdonians,” Phyllo hissed softly. “You used the spell to scare away the Courdonians at the coronation. I don’t suppose the soldiers who survived that day forgot about it- and I wouldn’t be surprised if stories about a mage in Medieville who can command dragons spread to our southern neighbors.” He looked up towards Zander bleakly. “So your Carriconists and the demon might indeed be the same people- question is, what do they want with a dragon? And why go to the trouble of calling a demon to get the book?”

“The war,” Zuzia said softly. Miserably. “‘Pit, the war. If you were a Carriconist bloodmage, and your kingdom was embroiled in a bitter war…” She physically winced, thoughts churning at lightning speed. “If Phyllo is right and this is a demon, it’s been controlling animals-- a lot of animals, in a variety of arcane and random ways. Almost as though it’s trying on different tunics for size. Meanwhile, its master seemingly sent it to acquire a how-to guide on how to summon a dragon. Which is also an animal. A powerful, aggressive animal that could wreak absolute havoc in any situation-- let alone under the control of a demon.”

“That is not happening,” Leif seethed. “They are not getting a blighted dragon, even if I have to stand in the spell-circle and pour holy water on the bloody demon myself! We need to find them - Courdonians wouldn’t be too hard to spot around here, the closest you’d get is someone who looks Corvid.” He motioned to himself to indicate his own somewhat tanned skintone, somewhere between northern pale and full Courdonian bronze. “And that would be a tell enough. Someone must have seen them.”

“We can start at all the inns,” Zuzia agreed. “Ask about any Courdonian mage guests who’ve been around since the incidences started-- I can’t imagine that’s a burgeoning demographic.”

“A-and then you can stop the bad things, Mama?” Laura asked, her cheek leaned against Phyllo’s arm.

“Mama and Grandpa and everybody will stop the bad things, for sure,” Phyllo replied firmly. “But for the meantime, I’m going to take you both home and away from the city. No dragons in Sallertown to tempt the bad mages, hm?”

“And once we’ve gotten the bad mages taken care of, Mama will come right home, okay?” Zuzia added. “So don’t spend too much energy missing me, you two-- I’ll be back before you know it.”

***

Once Phyllo had taken Laura and Tim home, Leif, Silvia, and Zuzanna set about investigating the city in earnest. Having lived in the city for most of his life, there weren’t very many places in it that Leif didn’t know about, and Silvia as a tavern waitress had to be aware of her competition, so between them they quickly compiled a list of all of the likely inns and taverns where a visitor was likely to set up shop.

They didn’t even bother with the King’s Arms- Sarah would have mentioned something already if someone likely to be their culprit was staying there. They also crossed off the tavern where Silvia worked, as it didn’t take boarders. There were a few others they deemed unlikely because of where they were in town or because of expense. Once they had narrowed their list, the trio began the daunting task of pounding the pavement, alongside Zander, who working as the group’s city guard representative; Zander’s superiors had-- following a brief chat with Leif, Zuzia, and Silvia-- agreed that potential blood mages were best left to “more specialized” hands, though they promised their full assistance with the endeavour should the group at any point require it.

At least for the moment, though, the search proved to be nothing exciting or worthy of interference-- only a time consuming, exhausting, and singularly fruitless affair. Each place they went, the response was the same- there were no Courdonians, generally no foreigners at all, and hadn’t been in some time. No surprises there, considering the war down south had effectively sealed the border, but it did make the search feel like a cross between a wild goose chase and a needle in a haystack.

After two days they’d managed to cross off most of the names on their list, leaving only one to go- and Silvia was not enthusiastic about the one they still had to check.

“Juan is a pompous prat,” she hissed, arms crossed. “He thinks that just because his family has owned their place for ‘generations’ - yeah two of ‘em- that he somehow has superiority of everyone else in the business.”

“A prat he may be,” Leif said, “but if he’s a prat with our Courdonian in his inn…” The blond mage shrugged.

“Be nice, love,” Zuzia added, sparing her daughter a smile that was halfway a reassurance and halfway a warning. “If our Courdonian mage is here, we won’t win any information if you’re being huffish with the proprietor.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go in at all,” Silvia muttered. “He knows me. And he’s going to be evasive and smug if he thinks he’s helping me.”

“Nonsense, love,” Zander put in, reaching out to squeeze his fiancee’s hand. “And if he’s being a cad, I’ll level him my best city guard glare, all right?” As they reached the exterior of the ramshackle inn-- it had never been particularly nice, and time had done nothing to help its appearance-- he smiled thinly. “And just remember, Silvs,” he said as Zuzia reached out to open the door, “no matter how much of a prat Juan is, he only wishes he could be half as beautiful, kind, and funny as you are.”

Silvia spared her fiance a warm smile, then nodded to the others to indicate that they should proceed. As they passed into the inn’s claustrophobic lobby, Zuzia had to fight not to wrinkle her nose, the air smelling strongly of stale ale and something… riper. Blinking a few times to adjust her eyes to the dim lighting-- there were only a few stray candles burning, and no windows she could see-- the dark-haired archmage forced an even, pleasant look onto her face as she scanned the room before her. There was no proper front desk that she could see, nor any other semblance of structure: battered dining tables were littered about like fleas on a dog, some with chairs or stools, most without; the wooden floor below was sticky and covered with an array of disheveled, hideous rugs; a serving cart sat askew in the far back corner, overloaded with dirty, empty mugs and plates. There was not a single customer in sight. Nor Juan, for that matter.

“Oh, this place is a pit,” Zuzia murmured beneath her breath. “Is Juan even here?”

“He must be,” Leif said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Or someone in charge of taking lodgers must be, anyway. ...I know this place has more of a night crowd than a daytime one, but...”

“Here, lemme help,” Silvia said dryly. She reached towards her belt where she kept her purse, and lifted the small pouch to give it a shake. Runestones rattled and precious gems clinked against each other, loud in the silence of the room, and as if on cue there was a thump from somewhere else in the building, followed by rapid footfalls. From a back door, a man emerged, his hair scruffy and his clothes ill-kempt and spotted with beer stains.

“Welcome, welcome to Juan’s…” His eyes fell on Silvia, and the man frowned slightly. “Oh, you. Having a go, are we?”

“Not at all, good sir,” Zander said stiffly, the man suddenly standing very straight, as though to make himself look larger than he was. “We’re here in a perfectly civil capacity-- no doubt you’ve heard titters of the city’s ah, recent animal problem?”

Juan stiffened, shrugging. “I hear a lot of things. What’s it t’you?”

“We believe there’s foul play afoot,” Zander replied. “And we have reason to believe the perpetrators are foreigners. Travelers.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t happen to have had any Courdonian guests recently, would you have, sir?”

“I got a business to run,” Juan replied cooly. “I ain’t got no need to show my ledgerbooks to anyone who struts in here.”

“Maybe not,” Leif said with a frown. “But it would be in your best interest - or do you want lodgers who might be causing the animals in the city to act aggressively?”

The man rolled his shoulders, “And who’s t’say it’s my lodgers? Just ‘cause this is a rough part of town? That’s discrimination that is.”

“Yours is the last tavern we’ve checked, Juan,” Silvia put in tartly.

“And,” Zander added, “you know, Juan-- the city guard’s gotten so bogged down by all these animal incidents that I don’t think we ever followed up with you about that five-runestone fine, did we? The one you got slapped with for refusing to comply with orders to make the crowd disperse after it got far too rowdy in here two Fridays ago?” He smiled serenely, but the look in his eyes was lethal. “And oh! I think that fine was due last week, which means it would be well within my right to levy a late fee--”

Juan’s jaw clenched, and he gave Zander a look that was outright poisonous. “There might be a couple o’ boarders here with funny accents and that Courdon look. Might be. But whatever they are or aren’t doing, I got no part in it. Their runestones is good, so why should I think to look for anything?”

“A couple of boarders?” Zuzanna asked. “So-- two, then?” She exchanged a grim look with the others. “Do you happen to know if they’re magicians?”

“Well three technically, but the third ain’t on the ledger on account of they told me she’s luggage and not a guest,” he replied, scratching his chin. “But yeah- two of ‘em got wands on ‘em so I assume they’re mages.”

Silvia bristled at the mention of a person being “luggage,” but before she could say anything, Zander snapped, “Luggage? You mean-- a slave?” He looked about ready to deck the innkeeper. “Did you… not think of reporting this to the city guard, Juan? Since when has it been okay to have slaves in Medieville?”

“Probably why he didn’t report it,” Leif snarled, glaring at the innkeeper. “‘Their runestones were good’ - give me one reason not to just summon your ledgebook out of this filth, and maybe set fire to a few things on our way out!”

“Oy, I don’t judge people on account of their culture is different from mine!” Juan whined. “They ain’t settling here with the slave, just stayin’ a few weeks. I was being diplomatic!”

“You were being a greedy idiot,” Silvia retorted bluntly.

“The ‘slave’ comes and goes as she pleases,” Juan objected. “Bright as a daisy, and always making bad puns when she thinks her masters ain’t around t’hear. She scarpered off just an hour ago even!”

Zuzia could have screamed. This was starting to making less and less sense, and given how befuddling things had already been… “All right. So the slave left. What about the Courdonians? Where are they?”

“Y’just missed ‘em,” Juan replied. “Left not ten minutes ‘fore you came in, grumbling that the ‘idiot’ was supposed to be back by now.”

“Ten minutes?” Leif glanced toward the door. “Maybe we can find them - or…” His gaze travelled to the stairs. “Should we check their room, while they’re not around to stop us?”

“H-hey,” Juan bleated. “My clients trust that my rooms are private-”

“I could arrest you right now,” Zander cut in tersely. “Knowingly harbouring slave lords-- with their chattel--” He let out a hiss of disgust. “Either give us the key to their room, Juan, or I’ll break down the bloody door… and haul you back to the guardhouse in irons.”

Juan wilted, and turned back towards the back room. He emerged a moment later with a small, rusted key, holding it out to Zander with obvious reluctance. The guardsman accepted it brusquely, asked for the Courdonians’ room number, and upon receiving his answer started toward the stairs, nodding for Zuzia, Silvia, and Leif to follow him.

“I feel like I’m going to catch fleas just being in here,” Zuzia muttered as they reached the second storey landing. “Though ’Pit-- a pair of blood mages? If this is who we’ve been looking for-- and I think it is-- then it’s even worse than we thought.”

“Two is definitely a problem,” Leif agreed. “It takes at least two mages to summon a dragon, so that’s one hurdle they’ve already crossed.” He squeezed the strap of his satchel, where he was currently storing the spellbook. “Speaking of hurdles - when we get to the door, let me check it for spells first. We don’t want to set off any wards or traps.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Silvia murmured. “If they’re sharp, chances are they already anticipated someone might come looking for them and have planned for that.” She squeezed Zander’s shoulder. “Careful love- you’re not a mage, so you need to be especially on guard.”

“Good thing that’s literally my job title,” Zander said wryly-- before all traces of humour vanished from his expression as they reached the right room, a wobbly-lettered 207 painted on the door’s cracked wooden surface. “Should I stand back while Leif checks, or…?”

“Some distance can’t hurt,” Leif said, stepping forward and drawing his wand. He muttered an incantation and a green mist drifted from his wand. It settled on the air just before the door, as if it were condensating on an invisible surface. Leif hrmphed in met but annoyed expectation - there was definitely spellwork on the door. Runes appeared a moment later, and to Leif’s mingled relief and annoyance, several were familiar as Courdonian runes and rune-chains.

“All right, let’s see what we have here…” With his wand and his free hand, Leif pulled some parts of the spellwork closer to examine them more clearly. “Looks like a ward, about what I expected...hrm, where is...ah, there it is - this is sloppy chaining, they cast this in a hurry, and with no regard for using Pyet-centering. Look at all this wasted space…” He fell silent for a moment, parsing through other parts of the spell. “...Ah, there’s a hook, I was wondering if they hadn’t put any triggers on this at all. Back along this horrible mess of a chain…Ah. All right - it looks like they’ve tied this to other objects. It activates when someone makes physical contact with the ward, or if someone destroys the ward entirely; I would guess it alerts them that it’s been breached.”

Letting that part of the spell drift away and drawing another piece to him, Leif said, “But I think I can put the ward into a sort of stasis - warp the runes enough that we can pass through, but leave them and the wad intact. It looks like they tied the trigger the usual way - it’s just latched it to the framework falling apart. That should be easy enough to avoid.”

“You say so, but I feel like I missed that class when mum was teaching me magic,” Silvia mused, glancing at her mother with a smirk. “Holding out on your poor, non-archmage child, Mummy? I thought you loved me.”

“Ask Grandpa,” Zuzia said with the hint of a smile. “Runes were never my strong point, love. Your education may have been a bit lacking.”

“And any time I tried to intervene, Silvia, ” Leif said as he began searching for a spot to start his manipulations of the runes, “your mother said ‘no daughter of mine is being forced to spend hours drawing the perfect Ayr rune!’ She acts as if I were completely unreasonable…” He paused at a spot, and after a moment’s consideration, began adding runes, marking them with a thin gold outline so that he could easily identify them again later.

“Oh come now, I would have been the best at that,” Silvia objected. “Zander, tell them! I’m clearly the best candidate for sitting still for hours on end, right?”

“Oh yes, certainly, my love,” he replied, smirking. Glancing at the door, the guardsman took a deep breath. “Shall we, then? I promise not to touch anything inside until you’ve determined there aren’t any more booby traps.”

“Good idea. Give me just another moment…” Leif connected two rune chains, snipped a third, and after a moment, attached the broken chain to part of the original spell. “All right. We can get in.”

Silvia wordlessly put a hand to the doorknob and turned it. Inside, it appeared that a modest effort had been made on the part of the mages to somewhat tidy up the filthy room. The floor was free of the dust, grease, and grime that was present everywhere else in the inn, the rafters cleared of cobwebs, and the vermin that had occasionally been visible scuttling to and fro were nowhere to be found. Though nothing could be done about the human-shaped imprint in the cheap mattress or the sweat stains in the pillow and sheets, it was clear that they had been rigorously cleaned as well. In fact, the air in the room smelled pleasantly of lilacs.

“Heh- seems our friends don’t care for Juan’s decorative aesthetic,” Silvia commented. “They’re good at cleaning spells, I’ll give them that.”

Zuzia pursed her lips. “They probably had their slave do it,” she muttered, turning to slowly survey the room. As her eyes fell on the ratty desk in the corner, its surface strewn with sheafs of loose parchment, she tilted her head. “Well, what do we have here-- have our blood mages been keeping records, perhaps?”

“Hopefully,” Leif said, approaching the desk. “And hopefully my Courdonian’s still halfway decent, it’s been years...” He cast the same spell he’d cast on the door at the desk; this time, the mist simply dissipated. “Not even trapped, wonderful.”

“Cocky idiots probably assumed we wouldn’t get past the wards,” Silvia said dryly. “So what do we have?”

“Let’s see…” Leif picked up one of the pages. “This one’s some sort of list. I don’t recognize most of these words...oh, wait - this one is ‘horse’. There’s some other words after that - something about ‘good’... ‘He can’...” Leif squinted at the word, as if it might reveal itself if glared at enough - but finally he was forced to admit, “I don’t know what ‘he can’. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen this word before.”

Shaking his head, Leif looked at the other items on the list. “Okay, here’s a better line - ‘Dog - easy to’...something, different word than before. Then it says... this is either ‘forced out’ or ‘pushed’. ...The thing that took over Bandit, maybe?”

Zander nodded, rocking on the balls of his feet in anxious anticipation as Leif continued skimming down the list, muttering the names of animals he recognized. “‘Bird’, obviously - I’m guessing this one is ‘mouse’ - ‘rabbit’ - ‘chicken’ - ...is that ‘spider’? It says that one was hard - but…’fun?’”

“A list of animals and then ‘easy’ and ‘hard’? Easy and hard what?” Silvia asked. Then she winced, “Wait, maybe it’s a list of the animals that the demon was possessing? And if it was ‘easy’ or ‘hard’ to do it. What, is the monster just… taking all of these animals for a joy ride to see if it can? I guess you were right about the trying on different tunics comment, Mum.”

“Oh, dear gods.” Zuzia cringed. “I was hoping I was wrong for once.” The archmage gritted her teeth, blue eyes sharp as daggers. “What else does it say, Leif? I think at this point we can safely say we found our culprits for the animal aggression, but… anything that definitively points to these idiots being the ones who sacrificed the birds as well? Or tells us for sure why they wanted your spellbook?”

“Not on this sheet, I don’t…” Leif’s glare hardened. “Well, it doesn’t imply why, but these ‘Pit-spawn must be the ones who are after the book - the second-to-last entry on this list is ‘hawk’.” He slapped the paper back down on the desk. “The last animal was bats, but it doesn't look like they’ve tried that yet. Let me check the other pages.” Leif spread the remaining papers out a little, and one caught his attention right away.

“This one has runes, I can read that better than the Courdonian. ...This is part of a larger spell - here’s a structure for binding. Very basic, this is just a template - but I think this is just a portion of it, maybe the other pieces are more complex. And if I’m guessing correctly...yes, there they are. Runes for blood magic.” The Kythian archmage’s eyes flicked to the text surrounding the scratchy spellwork. “These look like instructions around it. ‘Preparations for…I’m guessing ‘possession’, given everything. ‘Get...at least? At least seven’...er, I think that’s ‘holy’...” He continued on, a finger tracing under the words to keep his position. “It does mention a circle here.... All right, here’s ‘if birds’, and…” Leif grimaced. “Something about their throats. I keep seeing ‘blood’. I assume this is a guide to the bird-sacrifice ritual.”

“Definitely the same people then,” Silvia said grimly. “‘Pit, this is bad. But at least it’s evidence, right? Zander could use these papers to arrest them.”

Her fiance nodded. “Yes, this is more than enough to take them into custody.” He swallowed hard. “The problem is, I don’t exactly feel comfortable just… lying in wait for them to return. Not after all the havoc they’ve wreaked. And what did Juan say, again? That they left grumbling that the ‘idiot’ should have already been back? That worries me. What if their slave’s trying to escape, and they’re off hunting her down? She could get hurt while we dally.”

“But we don’t have any idea where she or they went,” Silvia pointed out. Glancing at Leif she added, “Unless Grandpa knows a spell to scry people we’ve never met at a distance or something.”

“Pity Lady Jeniver’s not here,” Leif said, quickly glancing through the other pages. “I could send a construct to try and find the Courdonians, but it wouldn’t exactly be subtle. If Juan was spying enough to hear them grumbling about idiots, though, maybe he’d have an idea where they headed?”

“He’d better,” Zander grumbled. “And you know, I’ve half a mind to arrest the idiot, anyway. I don’t care if he’s grudgingly cooperating now-- he’s still broken so many bloody laws with this, and put so many innocents at risk.”

“I won’t stop you,” Leif promised, gathering the papers into a stack and tucking them into his satchel.

“No time like the present,” Silvia muttered. “Let’s go see what else my dear ‘friend’ knows that he isn’t saying.”

“And if he’s not cooperative,” Zuzia said glibly, “you can always arrest him before he talks, Zander. Then we put a bloody truth spell on the git.”

Zander let out a small, grim laugh, starting back toward the door. “Ah, and here Silvia’s been, trying to convince me not to fear her archmage mum.”

“Okay, you can fear her a little,” Silvia replied as they descended the stairs. “But Juan should fear her more.”

Once they reached the bottom, the proprietor's eyes narrowed. “All done? Can I have my keys back?”

“Not yet,” Zander said flatly. “We have a few more questions for you, Juan. And might I highly advise your immediate cooperation? I haven’t much patience left for your insufferable whining.”

Juan scowled but grunted. “What do you want to know?”

“Where they might have gone,” Leif said curtly. “You heard them enough to know they were looking for someone - did they say where they were going to look for them?”

“The waterfall, I think,” Juan replied, his gaze averted. “They asked me for directions to the waterfall.”

Zuzanna blinked. “The waterfall?” What in the ’Pit could a pair of blood mages want with the waterfall? “Are you sure, Juan?”

“Their accents were thick, but not that thick,” he retorted irritably. “And even if they didn’t actually ask for directions to the waterfall, those are the directions I gave them so that’s where they’ll be.”

“Dial back the attitude, Juan, we’re not in the mood,” Silvia snapped.

“What do they look like, anyway?” Zander asked through gritted teeth. “And give us their full names, too, please. Anything to make this wild goose chase slightly less of a mess.”

“There was a woman. Black hair, kinda dark like Courdonians go,” he said with a shrug. “Other one was a man, brown hair, looked a lot like the girl, though Courdonians all look the same, aye? Names were Bob and Mary Smith.”

… A female? This Zuzia hadn’t quite expected, especially given what she knew of Courdon’s hyper-paternalistic culture. But the fact that one of their blood mages was a young woman was abruptly supplanted by Juan’s other nugget of information. “Bob and Mary Smith?” the archmage demanded. “Are you… are you bloody serious, you blithering moron?”

“Thems the names they gave me, what do you want from me?” he demanded, still not meeting their eyes.

Sounding very much like he was having trouble quite believing all this, Leif said, “So - so they had a slave - they were obviously from a country that’s never too happy with us - they were also obviously lying to you - it - it really never occurred to you that you ought to have done something?” Leif’s hands clenched tightly around the strap of his satchel and his wand. “People - children - have gotten hurt because you let them loiter here uncontested!”

“Hey, don’t blame me for something my boarders were doing!” Juan yelped. “I got this place from my father, who got it from his father, and we haven’t kept it by antagonizing and cross-examining our patrons!”

“Do you even understand how much danger you’ve put people into?” Zander growled. With snake-like quickness, the guardsman shot a hand forward, clamping it over Juan’s arm. “Come on, Juan. Let’s close up shop. I think my commanders would like to have a few words with you down at the guardhouse.”

“You can’t do this!” Juan bleated, flailing against Zander’s iron grip. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“You’re late paying your fine,” Zander snapped in return, his grasp tightening. “You harboured slave lords and abetted them as they terrorized the city. Don’t play with me, Juan-- I’m not in the mood. If you cooperate with me, we can leave quietly, without drawing attention; if you fight, I’m going to slap you in cuffs and drag you down the street, parading you in front of all your nosey neighbours. Loudly. Conspicuously. Your choice.”

Juan froze, the expression on his face murderous, but wisely he allowed Zander to tow him out of the inn. As the mages followed Silvia sighed softly. “The waterfall… what in Woo’s name could they want with the waterfall?”

“For some reason, I doubt they’re going swimming,” Zuzia muttered dourly. “But whatever it is-- we shouldn’t waste any more time, I think. We can go hunt down our friendly blood mage slave lords while Zander’s processing the insufferable idiot. Personally, I hope he stews in a dark, damp cell for a very long time.”

“Agreed - to both,” Leif said. “Though what was their slave supposed to be doing at the waterfall? The only thing there is water, and they can get that from the well just fine. ...Maybe they were checking if the caves around there were a more comfortable place to stay than this place?”

“There are caves near the waterfall?” Silvia asked, tilting her head. “I admit I don’t go that way much- I generally don’t go much beyond where Lake Plume intersects with the Merchant’s Market.”

Zander nodded, hand still curled over Juan’s arm, as though he half-expected the morally bankrupt innkeeper to make a run for it. “A whole warren of them, behind the falls-- every year the city guard gets a few calls from the concerned families of idiotic teenagers who thought exploring ‘em would be a good idea and then never came back. They’re dangerous as all ‘Pit-- lots of dead end passageways and slippery rocks and all that good stuff. Not to mention the rather unfriendly wildlife.”

Leif stiffened. “The wildlife - ’Pit! That should’ve been the first thing we thought of - bats are next on their list!”

Silvia clenched her teeth. “Wait, so the slave was going to the waterfall… for the demon to test its power on bats? But does that mean the slave has some connection to the-” She hissed. “Of course. Juan said the slave wasn’t acting like a slave, didn’t he? That she comes and goes as she likes.”

Leif cursed. “The demon’s using her - blighted slave lords probably didn’t consider it anything more than another animal test. ...If they’re after bats in the cave, maybe we can corner them, take them out of commission now.”

“We should hurry,” Zuzia murmured. “If this poor slave’s already had a demon possessing her on and off for weeks, at least, possibly longer…” She glanced toward Zander. “Let the city guard know where we are? If we aren’t back by nightfall-- send back-up.”

Zander nodded, though his face was suddenly etched with reluctance. Gaze settling on Silvia, he said, “Be careful, please? I don’t like this one bit, Silvs.”

She leaned towards her fiance, giving him a quick peck on the lips before she backed away again with a smile. “It’ll be fine, I promise. I have Grandpa Leif and Mum with me. Two experienced archmages who know a lot about blood magic and how to counter it- I’ll be fine. Make sure Juan gets put away for a long time, hm?” To Leif she added, “Grandpa, you should give Zander those papers.”

“Oh - right.” The blond archmage paused to rummage through his satchel, retrieving the stack of papers. “Here; obviously you’ll want someone who can read Courdonian to have a look at them. ...And I’ll make sure Silvia gets back safely.”

Zander nodded, accepting the proffered documents. “Come straight to the main guardhouse once you’re back safe-- hopefully with the Courdonians in tow. Otherwise, I’ll be on standby to send out reinforcements, all right?”

“Will do, sir,” Silvia replied. Turning to her mother and adoptive grandfather, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

Bark and Bite: Part Five

SPOILER: Click to show

“When we find that idiot,” Linette Mercier announced, her bronze nose wrinkled as she stood at the base of the rushing waterfall and gazed at it in dismay, “I am going to give it a piece of my mind.” Taking a tentative step forward-- and scowling when a gust of wind sent the cascading water suddenly misting in her direction, soaking her in an instant-- the teenage girl glanced over her shoulder, steel gray eyes settling on the dark-haired man who stood nearby. “Do we think it already went inside, Martel? Gods, tracking it through a bloody cave system is going to be a treat.”

“Which means that’s probably exactly where it went,” an older teenage boy growled. “Why it can’t just wait, ever, I don’t understand.” Squinting through the waterfall at one of the cavern openings, he said, “All the same - we’d better get in after it. Hopefully it’s not gotten itself lost.”

“Awww, you two were worried about me?” a female voice cooed from nearby, making both of the teens start. “I’m touched, guys.”

There was a rustle, and a woman who looked to be in her mid to late twenties leapt down out of a tree nearby. She had skin rather like the Courdonians, but slightly darker, with black hair and glimmering hazel eyes.

“Didja know Noir-y is deathly afraid of heights?” the woman sang. “She was terrified when I got close to the cliff by how high it looked. And well, you know- flooding is the best way to conquer an irrational fear, so I just had to help the dear girl.” She held up her hands, which were abraded and bleeding in a few places. “Rock climbing is fun!”

“Oh my gods.” Linette gawped. “You went rock climbing up the side of a waterfall? What if you’d fallen-- you could have killed our slave, you idiot!” She stamped her foot, like a child throwing a tantrum. “We let you borrow her body on the condition that she’d have a body to get back at the end of things, remember?”

“Reeeelax, I was careful!” the demon insisted, grinning nonchalantly. “You trust me, right Marty?”

“Martel,” the young man corrected for what felt like the hundredth time. “No rock-climbing; we’re not here to have fun.” It was at least the hundredth time he’d said that, too. “Now come on, it’s time we got back to that rat’s nest of an inn and - “

“Wait,” the demon objected, looking crestfallen. “I was so busy helping Noir I still haven’t got to play with the batties. Y’said it would be good right? ‘Cause they got wings like a dragon.” The demon gave a near savage grin with the slave’s mouth at this. “I gotta practice. For the dragon. Oh my gods, that is going to be so bleeding cool.”

“You… you haven’t even gone into the caves yet?” Linette asked sharply. She exchanged a thoroughly exasperated look with her brother. “This isn’t a joke-- you know Martel and I want to make another go at the spellbook soon, and we need you ready. Not just possessing vapid slaves and slobbering dogs, but a dragon. Do you not understand that?”

“No respect, I tell ya,” the demon groused cheerfully. “I’ll be ready, I promise. No need to go all batty on me just because I’m having a dogone good time while you get the logistics sorted out.”

“Not this again,” Martel complained, rubbing his temples. “Can we test the bats now? Quickly? Then we’ll have the bats done and we won’t have to risk the wrong person noticing us because we’re making a second trip.”

“And please, no running off ahead of us?” Linette added pointedly. “It’s going to be slippery in there, and dark even if we use our wands for light. I don’t need you prancing Noir off a cliff.”

The demon flapped a hand. “I won’t hurt her, I promise. Remember I feel the same pain she does. S’why I bailed on the mutt when the mages started flinging spells around. Fences are not fun to crash into.”

Noir’s body turned towards the waterfall, whistling a merry tune as she led the way towards the cavern nearby. Martel sighed, but he and his sister drew their wands and headed after the possessed slave, Linette wincing as they passed too close to the cascade of water for comfort and earned themselves another dousing. The Courdonian was already badly regretting coming up with the idea of having the demon test its possession on bats at all. While yes, bats-- like dragons-- were winged creatures that weren’t birds, earning them a unique parallel no other species held… for some reason Linette was beginning to think nothing they learned here today would quite be worth this.

“We’re going to stay only in wide passages,” she announced firmly as they descended into the musty maw of the cave. “And please, stay where we can see you, you cursed idiot.”

“Strictly speaking, that’s not really possible,” he retorted with cheer. “Seeing as I’m incorporeal when I leave your slavey’s body. You won’t be able to see me between then and when I yoink the bat.”

“You know what she means,” Martel snapped. “Don’t wander off and out of the light. We have work to do; there isn’t time to chase you down like you’re a child playing hide-and-seek.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” the slave woman looked around a bit, blinking into the gloom as she looked for bats. “You wanna smite the rebels before their movement gains too much traction and all that. Wreak divine justice, etc, etc.” He glanced around. “Really though, I’m sure Carricon’s takin’ good care of your bro. Nice silken sheets, a few mai tais-”

Not bothering to ask what mai tais were supposed to be - Martel was convinced the demon just made up words, either to substitute for concepts the Courdonian tongue didn’t have a word for, or just to entertain itself - the now-oldest Mercier brother snapped, “But it wasn’t his time! He should still be here!”

Linette reached out with the hand that wasn’t gripped over her wand, settling it delicately on her brother’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to it,” she said softly. “It’s just trying to rile us.” Swallowing the knot that strangling her throat, she added, “Aubin wouldn’t want us to get distracted when we’re so close to the prize, Martel. Once we get that spellbook… we’re going to get justice for our brother. Put those rebel swine in their place. That’s what we need to focus on. Not the demon’s taunting.”

Martel took a deep, audible breath in through his nose. “Right - you’re right, Linny. And we’re close, it won’t be long now.” Clearing his throat, he asked, “How deep in the cave do we think these bats are?”

“If you two are scared of the dark, you can always take Noir home without me,” the demon replied. “Seriously, I don’t need a babysitter, I’m a big boy. Well, I don’t actually have a gender as you humans understand the concept but. Figure of speech.” As the demon rounded a corner, suddenly Noir’s body gagged. “Phew! What is that stench?”

Linette wrinkled her nose, pausing in place. “Gods, it’s like rotten eggs mixed with… with… corpses.” She glanced reluctantly toward her brother, then leaned in very, very close to murmur into his ear, “You don’t think it’s leading us into a trap, do you? Some-- lair of… dessicated bodies it’s half-eaten, or… or…”

Martel frowned, and whispered back, “I don’t think so - why point out the smell? And - it has to keep us around if it wants to take that dragon. No Carriconists around here; they’d try to exorcise it, most likely.”

“Mmph.” Linette gnawed on her lip, warily casting her eyes again toward the demon-possessed slave. “Well, whatever that smell is, it’s ripe.” She called ahead, “You see a source for it?”

“You humans don’t see very well in the dark, and Noir’s eyes are all I got to work with,” Noir’s voice called back. “I don’t know- ah.” There was a scampering of feet against stone, and the demon returned with a nervous smile. “Maybe let’s don’t go that way. And maybe let’s keep our voices down. Didn’t see it clearly buuut there’s something alive in that tunnel, and it’s biggish. Like, rip a goat in half with its bare hands biggish.”

Martel blinked, looking between the demon and the hallway it had started down. What in the world could be in that offshoot? Some strange Kythian animal? Whatever it was - he didn’t like the thought of facing something that was making a demon nervous, or of trying to continue down the hall and past its chambers. “...Let’s,” he agreed in a low voice. “There was another passageway back the way we came.”

The trio made their way back down the tunnel, keeping an eye out behind them for any sign that the creature had noticed them - but they didn’t seem to have attracted its attention, and soon enough, they had to focus more on the path ahead to avoid stepping in taller and taller piles of droppings. At last, near a quarter-hour after entering the caves, they heard the sound of high-pitched chittering and leathery flapping noises up ahead.

The cave system was not especially large - but the room they stepped into had an appreciably high ceiling, out of reach of any of the three humans - well, two humans, one demon-possessed slave. Not that either Courdonian would have been eager to try to touch it, covered as it was in furry, large-eared bats.

“Ooooh, yay!” the demon crooned. Abruptly pointing to the two Courdonians, it declared, “While I am in bat form, my name will be Wingy!”

This had been a regular thing with the creature- the demon had no real name of its own, so every time it possessed a new form, it insisted on naming itself something pertinent. When it was a squirrel, it was Squigger; when it was a horse, it was Thunderhooves; when it was a dog, it was Snuffles.

“I am not calling you that,” Linette said tartly, peering over the glow of her wand. “Now get on with it, all right? This cave makes me uncomfortable-- I want to get back to fresh air as soon as we can.”

The demon sighed, turning towards the bats again. Abruptly the slave’s head gave a sharp jerk to the side, her entire body twitching violently. She gagged, falling to her knees and making an awful retching noise- then froze mid-gag, head spinning back towards the tunnel. Martel turned sharply, raising his wand high - the red light didn’t reveal anything - but he had never seen the demon abandon the opportunity to possess some new creature halfway through.

“What is it?” he snapped, intending the question for the demon. “Not that thing you found?” The air didn’t smell like eggs and corpses, anyway.

“Dunno,” the creature replied, staring into the murky darkness. “I thought I heard something…”

“Is this another one of your mind games?” Linette grumbled. “Because I’m really not in the mood.”

“Heard something like what? Animal? Person? The wind?” Martel was clearly not in the mood for games, either.

After a moment more of peering into the gloom, the demon shrugged. “Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear I heard something.” Glancing up at the humans with a slight smirk, he added, “What, you don’t trust me? I’m wounded. After everything I’ve done for you.”

Martel retorted, “It’s not that - but you get distracted even when there’s important work to do, like with the rock-climbing earlier!”

“Can you just possess one of the godsdamned bats so we can get out of here?” Linette snapped. “Seriously, not everything has to be an argument--”

The teenager’s voice abruptly fell away-- not because she’d thought better of her reproach, but because she had the wind knocked clear out of her as Martel suddenly vaulted forward, the boy bearing the entirety of his bodyweight down on his sister as he tackled her to the hard ground below. Linette let out a squawk of surprise and pain, flailing against her brother as they slammed into the stone together… just a split second before an arc of light lanced through the space she’d occupied only moments before. Magic.

“Get down!” Martel shouted to the demon-possessed slave, but it was far too late. At the last second, Noir’s body vomited up the demon, and the black pool of its essence vanished from sight. For a fraction of a breath the slave’s entire demeanor shifted from glib unconcern to fearful submission, before the light hit her and she fell limp to the ground.

Martel scrambled to his feet, whirling to see the source of the light that had almost struck his sister, and had then struck their slave. He didn’t see anyone, but it was clear there was at least one person there. “We’re under attack!”

Struggling to regain her breath, Linette forced herself to her knees, which were aching from the force of her fall. Hands in a vise-grip around her wand, she hissed to her brother, “Fight or run?”

“We don’t know where that way leads - we need to fight!” Martel insisted, trying to ignore how fast his heart was pounding. How many were they up against, and how powerful were they? There was a rush of wind by Martel’s ear as a small, fuzzy brown bat zipped past, fluttering in front of him and chittering rapidly. It came to a rest on top of the man’s head, tiny wing-claws gripped tight to his hair. Martel instinctively almost swatted it, but forced back his hand - it must be the demon. “You could make yourself useful and find a way out!” he snapped.

Linette gritted her teeth and painfully staggered back to her feet. Pointing her wand in the general direction from which the stunner had come, she growled a knock-out spell of her own, the dark cavern temporarily brightened as a burst of red light seared forward-- and rather than taking out the mysterious aggressors, instead crashed into a nearby stalagmite, shearing off its top and causing an impressive clatter as the stone chunks tumbled toward the uneven ground beneath.

One of the stone pieces was caught by a streak of green light, and tossed a short distance toward the Courdonians; barely a second later, there was a flicker of movement from someone leaning around the edge of the stalagmite, a flash of green - and then a loud, brilliantly-emerald ball of flashing, popping, crackling sparks and lights appeared right next to Martel’s ear. Linette swore, loudly, reaching out with her free hand to wrench her brother away from the bulb and resisting the urge to shove the demon-bat off his head in the meanwhile.

“They’ve got cover,” she hissed hurriedly, using the light orb to her advantage to closer study the illuminated cavern beyond. While she, her brother, and the demon were standing in a clearing of sorts, the cave walls rising high with relatively few obstacles around, the unknown attackers had strategically picked a spot that was rife with jutting stone columns and humps; the stalagmite Linette had hit with her stunner was only one of many, any one of which might have acted to shield their foes. “We’re sitting ducks, Martel. They can get us, but we can’t get them. Not unless we’re stupidly lucky.”

The demon bat squeaked, launching itself off of Martel’s head and fluttering up into the darkness high above. A moment later, there was a squeal of pain, followed by the sound of somebody swearing like a drunken sailor. Another flare of light burst to brighten the cavern, this one directed not toward the Courdonians, but instead presumably the possessed bat; from the sounds of the clamor, Linette guessed it was using its new host’s sharp teeths and claws-- or some combination of the two-- to its havoc-wreaking advantage. More alarmingly, as the ruckus continued, Linette could distinctly hear several different voices and see numerous simultaneous incantations attempting to ward the demon off. Which meant their attacker wasn’t singular. Which meant…

“Hells, we might be outnumbered,” she snapped to Martel. “We should run. While the idiot’s distracting them.”

Martel didn’t like it - but his sister was right. Maybe they could find a place with better cover for them, and less for their new enemies. “All right - back to the tunnel, stay on my left so their spells don’t hit you!” Even as he said this, Martel cast a shield and held it at the tip of his wand; he could hold it long enough to keep it between the mages attacking them and himself and his sister as they made a run for the way they had come.

Linette didn’t have to be told twice, only forcing a deep breath as she and Martel started forward. A death grip on her wand, she desperately hoped their assailants would be too caught up with the bat to try anything as she and her brother rocketed past, but to no such avail; as they nipped close to the stalagmite that she’d inadvertently remodeled, she heard a firm, feminine voice snap from behind it, “Razić”

Martel gritted his teeth as the spell - neither Kythian green nor Courdonian red, what in the hells? - struck the edge of his shield. The force of the conflicting energies rattled up what felt like every bone of his arm, but he forced himself to keep going; the Kythians would attack again -

There was a flash of green, but this time, it didn’t fade into obscurity. Martel dared a glance back, and saw one of the large stones, surrounded by green light, being lifted off the ground, and hovered toward the mouth of the tunnel they were trying to escape into. Martel’s stomach plummeted along with the stone, while Linette reacted considerably more proactively: equal parts panic and aggravation searing through her, she jerked her wand forward, crying out a spell that sent the boulder fracturing into countless tiny, ash-like shards that clattered down harmlessly.

“Godsdarn it!” the girl howled as she and her brother sprinted through the cloud of stone and dust, and she heard the distinctive sound of footsteps bolting after them. “They’re chasing us!” Daring a glance over her shoulder, she scowled murderously at the sight of not one, not two, but three individuals, one of them still wearing a hat of demon-bat as the trio pounded after Linette and Martel.

“Surrender, and we won’t hurt you!” one of them-- a middle-aged woman with curly brown hair-- called. “But run, and I won’t make any promises!”

The demon released its hold on one of their pursuers, fluttering towards the duo and making high pitched shrieks. It zipped back in the direction where they had aborted going earlier, clearly meaning the Courdonians to follow. The siblings, however, were not so quick to oblige, Linette’s slate gray eyes instead skipping toward Martel again.

“Do we trust it?” she panted as they neared the split in the passageway.

“We have to - it doesn’t want to get caught, either!” A spell shot just over Martel’s head - the demon had better know what it was doing!

“If it’s playing games, I’m going to murder it!” Linette growled in reply-- before heaving a winded breath as she and Martel turned down the fork in the cavern after the bat. Only steps in, the rotten odour assailed her once again, and her stomach pinched as she realised the walls around them were abruptly tapering in width. Hells, it was a good things she wasn’t claustrophobic. “Mmph, it’s so dark, but I don’t bloody dare light it up, that’d be like painting a target on us.”

There was another shout from behind them, and a green glowing lasso of energy just barely missed Linette’s leg. The bat abruptly turned off the main corridor, fluttering in the entrance to the smelly beast’s cave and zipping back and forth into and out of it before flying right at Martel’s wand and kicking it with a small claw.

Martel thought for a second that the bat was trying to take it - but then realized the demon was only indicating it, and that must mean Martel should cast a spell, and just ahead of them he could hear the sound of something dragging and caught the waft of the eggs-and-bodies smell -

As he and Linette ran past the tunnel opening, Martel pointed his wand down the corridor and snapped the incantation for a stinging hex. In the light, he caught a brief glimpse of something huge, vaguely man-like - the thing howled, and snarled, and Martel only hoped he and his sister - and the demon - made it out of its sight before it reached the end of the the small passage.

Bark and Bite: Part Six

SPOILER: Click to show

Zuzia had hoped the cave would not be nearly as dark and confusing as Zander had said it would be (it was). She had further hoped they’d find the Courdonians quickly (they hadn’t) and then take them out without any particular strife or struggle (of course not). But none of the archmage’s hopes-- or fears-- had quite prepared her for what she, Silvia, and Leif came upon a few minutes after they’d finally discovered the blood mages and their demon pet.

“What the hell,” Zuzanna panted, jutting her chin sharply forward as she and the others pursued the Courdonians down a narrow, low-ceilinged side cavern that smelled worse than rotting garbage on a summer’s day, “is that?”

Leif drew back a step, gagging on the stench and staring up at the creature that had lunged out of the corridor. “Ogre!” he managed. “It’s an ogre!” He had no idea how one had gotten into a Medievillian cave system, but it was definitely an ogre, a huge, humanoid creature with pale, scarred skin with an almost ridge-like pattern to parts of it, sharp claws on its fingertips, a wide head with small eyes and a huge mouth - two of its lower teeth were actually tusks. The ogre’s tiny eyes fixed on the trio of Kythians - the Courdonians must have been long-gone by now - and it roared, brandishing a large, roughly-hewn stone club.

“Pit,” Leif growled as he pointed his wand at the ogre. “Stupefy!” The spell hit the ogre square in the chest. The ogre stumbled back a step, but it did not drop to the ground. It didn’t fall unconscious. It might have blinked, but only once.

Leif cursed again - of course it was spell-resistant, why wouldn’t it be? That would just make things the usual level of difficult - He shook off his internal rant and shouted, “Try tactile spells - it’s - “

Before Leif could finish, the ogre raised its club and howled again. Silvia sharply cried, “Watch out, Grandpa!” as the monster swung its weapon towards them. She screeched the incantation for a shield spell, only managing to create a small disc between the Kythians and the club before it impacted. With the spell still linked to her power, Silvia flinched hard at the impact, tears of pain pricking in her eyes.

“You okay, Silvia?” Zuzia asked, rapidly firing a spell of her own-- a stunner aimed not toward the beast’s chest, but his hand that was curled around the club. It just barely missed, nipping by only inches from the ogre and slamming into a stalactite behind him. “’Pit. I hate aiming in the bloody dark!”

“It’s strong,” Zuzia’s daughter gasped. “I don’t think I can keep holding it like that.”

“Here -” Leif pointed his wand toward the ceiling, and a green orb of light shot into the air - the light wasn’t perfect, casting some things into even deeper shadow, but hopefully it was better than fighting blind. Aiming to give Silvia some breathing room, the archmage drew his arm back, and thrust it forward again to shove more power into the force spell he sent at the ogre’s face. The monster’s head snapped back as if it had been punched - though it was quick to shake its head and try to refocus on its adversaries.

“Enough with this,” Zuzanna growled, steeling herself. “Leif, let’s hit it simultaneously. You aim left, I aim right, and hopefully between us we blitz the wretched thing.” Glaring at the ogre, she added tartly, “And then we can get back to chasing down our idiots and their cursed bat-demon-whatever-it-is.”

“Be careful,” Silvia cautioned, “or you’ll bring the whole tunnel down on our heads.”

“Right - er, correct. Ready?” Leif flicked his wand, summoning split chips of stone from the cave floor and hurling them at the ogre’s arm, followed it with a stinging hex, Glacius, a blast of fire - anything he could think of that didn’t threaten the cave’s integrity - while Zuzanna echoed his moves with her own damaging repertoire, her face creased in grim determination.

The ogre, incensed as various incantations stung into him in some places and bounced off his armour-hard skin in others, took a belligerent step forward, swinging his club down again against Silvia’s shield charm. The young woman gasped in pain as the impact hit home, voicing a few choice words she’d learned waitressing at taverns.

Leif darted forward, crouching as he fired another force spell at the ogre, this time aiming for the elbow of its club-wielding arm. He’d put enough force in it to at least crack a human elbow, but the ogre’s ridged skin absorbed enough of the damage that it only jerked its arm in pain. Its club slid down Silvia’s shield and briefly struck the ground as the ogre’s eyes swept over to Leif, who was hastily ducking back. “Zuzia, break the club!” Leif shouted.

The other archmage obliged in an instant, lofting a quick curse in the weapon’s direction and shattering it into dozens of useless pieces. At once the ogre wailed, as though in mourning of his fallen club, and attempted to lumber forward yet again-- but before he could bring his fists down on the trio, Silvia slashed her wand to dismiss the shield spell, and flung a spell not at the ogre’s chest or arms, but at his face- specifically, at its open, wailing mouth. The glowing light of the stunning spell shot straight into the ogre’s gaping maw, past its tough hide, and barreling down its throat. Had she not been so adrenaline-filled-- and thoroughly aggravated-- Zuzia might have laughed as the beast blinked once in utter bewilderment before dropping heavily to the ground beneath, landing atop the ruins of his broken club.

“Well, that was fun,” the archmage muttered, shooting Leif and Silvia a beleaguered look. “Shall we let the princess rest while we catch up with the blood mages again?”

“Never thought having to cherry pick drunk belligerents out of a crowd in a bar would come in handy for something like this,” Silvia remarked as the trio headed off into the cavern again. She grinned wanly at her mother and adoptive grandfather. “I never thought it’d be the non-archmage who took down the raging monster.”

“Well, like you said,” Leif replied, shaking his head as if that might get rid of the odor, “you have more experience with raging monsters, running a tavern and all.”

“At least the wretched demon didn’t think to possess it,” Zuzia said, gradually picking her pace back up into a jog. “Gods, this is a work-out I was not planning on today. Can we please hope the morons pranced themselves into a dead-end corner?”

“Don’t jinx it,” Silvia muttered, trailing her mother. As they continued down the tunnel, her eyes narrowed, “Do you guys hear water running?”

Leif tilted his head. “Yes - the waterfall must break through into the caves at some point.”

“Oh ‘Pit. I am not going swimming,” Zuzia grumbled. “I have no interest in that cursed demon enchanting some-- some cave shark and pulling me into a watery grave.”

“If we have to swim, I’ll try blessing the water first,” Leif offered.

“Tim would be happy if you did that,” Silvia mused. “Just like in your story about the skinwalker.”

The group of mages left the ogre behind, and continued on in silence, listening for the Courdonians and the demon. Leif had enchanted their footsteps to be silent, but the lights from their wands, though dim, would still be noticeable if anyone was watching for it. Leif listened hard for any slightest sound that suggested a person or bat was up ahead, ready to cast a shield at a moment’s notice.

Before that happened, however, the one-way tunnel opened onto a wide chamber with a low ceiling. The right wall of this new cavern was higher than its left wall, and an underground stream plummeted from what Leif supposed he had to call a cliff; no doubt this was the source of the water Silvia had heard earlier. There were a lot of shadows, especially across the water.

Leif, his jaw tight and his grip on his satchel strap even tighter, slowly swept his wandpoint from one side of the cavern to the other. Well, this wasn’t ideal… He glanced downstream to see if there was enough room to slip out that way, alongside the river, but before he could do more than gauge that it was a narrow opening, he saw a flash of red light from the corner of his eye. “Protegwoo!” A green shield sprang to life in front of Leif; there was a burst of sparks as part of the Courdonian’s spell scraped along the edge of Leif’s shield and skimmed his arm - a violent burst of heat followed the light’s path, like a bar of hot metal had been drawn against his skin. Leif drew in a hiss of pained breath but stood his ground.

“Grandpa!” Silvia bleated. “Are you alright?”

“Silvia, quiet,” Zuzia hissed, using her free arm to seize a hold of her daughter’s arm. As another arc of red sizzled by the trio, missing them by a fraction of an inch, the archmage shoved the teenager behind her. “Stay back. I don’t want you getting hit.”

“I’m fine,” Leif said quickly, expanding his shield and edging back. A bolt of red struck the shield, hard, but Leif had already completed the spell and separated himself from its magic. Leif poked around the edge of the semi-opaque disc to fire a stunning spell in the direction of the Courdonians’ blasts, but judging by the lack of any noise or cessation of the spells, he guessed he’d missed. Reflections of jade and ruby blasts of light danced crazily atop the underground river.

That gave Leif an idea - he pointed his wand toward the cave ceiling and snapped, “Agwootempet!” A torrent of water, more than should have been able to emerge from the wandtip, rushed toward the top of the cavern, before falling forward in an arc.

“Zuzia - hit that with some heat!” he shouted, hoping the Courdonians couldn’t hear him over the crashing water.

Understanding at once where Leif was going with this, Zuzia snapped an incantation beneath her breath. Light bulbed from her wandtip, and as it met with the magically-borne burst of water, it turned the cascade into heavy steam, the sudden warmth feeling like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy winter’s day as the cavern fell into a haze, an opaque, fog-like veil now separating the Kythians from their adversaries.

“Now they can’t see us, but we can’t see them either,” Silvia hissed. “What do we do?”

Dispelling his shield, Leif whispered back, “Find better cover!” He jerked his head toward the little cliff turning the river into a waterfall; part of the rock continued outward, and though it would be a tight fit and they would need to crouch, it would certainly be better than a gaping tunnel mouth.

Silvia followed her adoptive grandfather’s gaze, then nodded. The three Kythians darted over to the rock face, just in time, because across the cavern the fog suddenly lifted, one of the Courdonians clearly having cast a vanishing spell. Both Linette and her brother wore decidedly exasperated expressions, the girl’s jaw clenched and her wand pointed straight out, as Martel drew his wand into a defensive position, like he would slash someone with it if they came too close. Their backs were to the cavern wall: they had nowhere to go, and they seemed to know it.

“Surrender, and we won’t hurt you!” Zuzia called over the rock, forcing as much command into her tone as she could. This was her future margrave’s voice, the one she’d cultivated as a child and largely dispensed with since; after all these years, it came out sounding awkward. Leaden. “Wands down!” she added. “Now!”

Another red stunner shot toward her - it struck the rock face, but that was likely just an accident. Zuzia swore as several rock shards exploded toward her, Leif, and Silvia’s faces, one of them leaving a jagged scrape along her forehead that quickly began to drip blood.

“I’m done playing games with them,” she murmured starkly. “Silv, stay down— you can be backup. And Leif…” She pressed a hand to her bloodied temple. “Shall we show them why it’s a very bad idea to take on two archmages?”

Silvia shot her mother an exasperated glance at the blatant attempts to keep her out of the fight so she wouldn’t get hurt, but didn’t argue. Leif nodded sharply, shifting the strap of his satchel so he had more room to move his free hand, and muttered an incantation that started gathering the shards of stone from the freshly-scored rock, as well as the ground nearby - when he’d amassed a small cloud of them, Leif hurled the tiny, hovering projectiles in the direction of their enemies. There was a quickly-stifled cry of pain, and then a burst of red light expanding into a shield, revealing the two Courdonians again as the boy blocked the last few chunks of debris.

The shield quickly fell again - Leif ducked as a jet of fire shot toward him, but pointed his wand skyward and summoned more water to put out the worst of it before it could fall onto his head; some of the sparks landed on his neck, and he hurriedly brushed them away. What was this fascination with burns? he wondered furiously.

Zuzia, meanwhile, considered for a moment before lancing several stunners in a row toward the Courdonians— ostensibly to mitigate any chances they might have at dancing out of the way. Indeed, while Martel just barely shimmied out of the danger zone, his sister was not quite so lucky. One of the curses hit her squarely in the chest, the girl falling to the stone ground beneath like a deadweight doll. Zuzanna, however, had no time to feel more than the smallest bud of relief before Martel, with a shout of anger, made a wide, fast sweeping motion with his wand. Several of the stone shards Leif had thrown at the Courdonians flew back across the river, each one moving fast enough to be a blur. The Courdonian staggered as a binding spell from Leif struck his arm and jade-colored light began to try pinning Martel’s arms to his sides - but almost simultaneously, Leif cursed and dropped back as one of the shards plunged into his shoulder.

Before either of the archmages could think of another spell to fire, however, Silvia abruptly fell to all fours, a hand flying to her throat as if she were having trouble breathing. Her head jerked sharply sideways on her neck, and her eyes were bugging out as tears of pain welled within them.

“Silvia!” Zuzia screeched, whirling to face her daughter. “What’s wrong? Did you get hit— but no, you couldn’t have, you were behind cover, you…”

The younger archmage froze, her voice falling away, as she caught a flash of movement through the corner of her eye: a bat, soaring up toward the craggy stalactites above. No, not just a bat, but the bat, the demon-bat. But why would the demon remove itself from the skirmish, especially when its side was losing, why—

“Oh, Woo!” The realisation hit Zuzia like a stab to the heart. “Leif, the demon, it’s, it’s—”

“It’s okay, Mummy,” Silvia’s voice emerged harsh, strangled sounding, as she lowered her hand from her throat and looked towards Zuzia with a wide, spastic looking grin. “I’m juuuuuust fine.” Her head jerked, and she giggled. “Here, lemme give you a nice warm hug.”

Silvia- the demon- lunged forwards, wrapping her arms around Zuzia and pinning the archmage’s arms to her sides. “Lots more fire than their little slavey, this one,” the demon purred. “She’s fighting me; won’t be able to hold her long. S’okay though, right Mummy? There’s still plenty of time to play.”

“Woolashio!” A coil of green light swept around Silvia’s shoulders, looping back around toward the blond archmage who had cast it briefly before pulling tight. With his other hand, Leif struggled to reach into his satchel, his face twisted into a grimace as he fought through the pain of moving his shoulder around the stone shard. Silvia jerked as the coil pulled against her, turning to Leif with a snarl.

“That isn’t very nice, Gramps,” she jeered.

“Go to the ‘Pit!” Leif snapped back.

Zuzia, meanwhile, gritted her teeth, clearly warring with herself as to how much to fight back. On the one hand, this was a demon-- now was hardly the time for the conservative tack. On the other hand, if she hurt it, that pain would eventually transfer to Silvia. Her daughter. Her child.

“Leif,” she hissed, her stomach pitching, still providing no resistance to the demon’s pinning hold. “Can you get it off me without hurting Silvs?”

“Not if it’s to the ‘Pit he’s trying to send me,” the demon cheered. “It’s an adorable sentiment but I’m not of your Wooist ‘Pit, sorry guys. I’m a Carriconic demon.” He cuddled against Zuzia’s shoulder, making Silvia’s dark hair brush her mother’s chin. “Read me a bedtime story, Mommy?”

“Shut up!” Zuzia’s voice could have shattered bone— and the blink of an eye later, the female archmage seemed to make a decision, forcing a sharp breath before she put her noble upbringing to use and elbowed— hard— against the demon’s grasp. Silvia gave a small yip of pain, recoiling slightly, and Leif yanked at the coil to dislodge his demon-possessed granddaughter.

From the corner of his eye, however, Leif saw a flicker of red light, and glanced over to see the Courdonian boy leaning over the girl, who was starting to stir. They didn’t have much time, maybe seconds, before the Courdonians were back in the fight. Pit -

“A demon is a demon!” Leif said in retort to the creature’s earlier comment. His fingers finally closed around the neck of one of the bottles in his satchel. The demon rounded on him, neck spasming wildly as Silvia’s blue-grey eyes glowered.

“You humans are all the same, no sense of humor. How about you take that wand and stick it up-”

There was a flash of crimson, and the demon’s vulgarity was drowned out by the sound of the rocky cliff behind Leif starting to crumble apart. Leif glanced back, cursed, and gave the coil of magic a hard yank before cutting it off and turning to shield himself and the others from the falling rocks and the sudden change-of-course in the waterfall. He pulled his left hand out of the satchel automatically to raise it along with his wand hand, an instinctive - if ineffectual - effort to brace the shield more thoroughly. The pain made his stomach lurch and his vision blur, but he managed to keep focused on the shield - and not to drop the bottle of clear liquid in his hand.

The demon was finally pried loose, falling on its back with a yelp of pain. “Took you bleedin’ long enough! C’mon Lin, Marty, I’m a sittin’ duck over here!”

Linette, however, was in no state to fight yet, the girl blinking like a bewildered cat as she slowly came to. “Martel?” she murmured, reaching up to the rub the back of her skull where it had hit against the stone during her fall. “Martel—”

“Just stay behind me, Linette!” Martel ordered, motioning for her to move to said position. To the demon, he shouted, “Can’t you use her wand?” as he aimed a stunning spell at the mage holding the water and rocks. It hit - but there must have been some kind of protective enchantments; the man’s jaw clenched and he shot Martel a murderous look, but obviously he wasn’t actually stunned by the spell.

More out of frustration than because he thought it would work, Martel shouted, “Leave us alone! You - you have no idea what you’re dealing with!”

“Ah yes, we’ve chased you all the way into this cave just to leave you alone!” Zuzia growled. “Wand down, you idiot— now! And call off your pet!”

“Hey, I’m gonna be a motha-fudgin’-dragon, lady!” the demon called out. “And is that any way to talk about your precious babbu? Here I thought you loved me.” Glancing towards Martel the creature called back, “Ah yes, let this creature born of the shadows of the Carricon use Woo-blessed magic, that’ll go over well. Use yer noggin’ why don’tcha?”

Leif rounded on the demon, ready to pop the vial’s cork. “You are not going to be a dragon!” he snapped, prowling forward.

Across the river, Martel did not like where this seemed to be going - he didn’t know for sure what was in the bottle, and while part of him was a little tempted to let the demon suffer at least a little bit of pain, this was all for nothing if they lost it now. Unsure what other protections the Kythian mages might have put on themselves, Martel aimed his wand at the bottle and with a flick of his wrist and a sharp incantation, sent a bright red shattering spell streaking across the rapidly-slowing river.

Zuzia felt as if the world had fallen into slow motion as she watched the curse zip forward. ’Pit. If it shattered the vial and sent the holy water splashing harmlessly to the ground—

She didn’t think, only acted, her heart hammering in her throat as she flicked her wrist, wordlessly, to cast a summoning spell. It met the bottle in the nick of time, reeling it in toward her just moments before Martel’s curse flashed across the space it once had occupied, just barely missing Leif as the blond archmage cringed, his wand hand flying to the bloodied shoulder of his freshly-yanked arm. Still, the archmage’s expression was one of relief as he trailed the potion to Zuzanna’s hand.

Watching this, the demon gritted Silvia’s teeth, and with the holy water in one hand and her wand in the other, Zuzia didn’t have the time or the arms to react before her daughter’s body wound back, and delivered a hard sock to the archmage’s jaw. Zuzia, however, knew she had no time to seethe in agony— that she had to act fast, before things got even worse than they already were. Steeling herself, she popped the vial’s cork one-handed, equal parts rage and pain searing through her.

“Be gone, you wretched thing!” she growled.

And with that, she splashed the water over the demon who was occupying her daughter’s body. The effect was instantaneous- Silvia’s voice gave a bloodcurdling shriek of agony, recoiling from Zuzia and spasming violently.

“What did you do to me?” the demon howled, Silvia’s nails digging into her skin where the water had touched her to form bloody furrows. Then, she went to her knees, heaving and retching, until a black globule of something fell from her mouth to the ground below. It was pulsating slightly, as if in pain, but quickly began to gather itself up as if to fade from view as it had done in Leif’s office when leaving the hawk’s body.

“No!” Leif snarled, lunging for the slimy black puddle, hastily yanking his spellbook from his satchel, and slamming it down on the demon. The book itself mere leather and parchment - the talismans wrapped around it, however, had been freshly blessed by the priest at the Cathedral when the Kythians had gone there to fetch holy water. The black mass spasmed as it was crushed under the weight of the book and the talismans protecting it, giving off a soundless screech that split the ears of everyone in the vicinity and a scorched smell like old ash. It writhed, trying to get out from under the book, but Leif, shoulders hunched at the silent sensation of noise, pushed the book down harder, leaning all his weight onto the tome and trying to put the most pressure on the spot where the talisman was tied. After another few seconds of flailing, the demon’s essence gave a final shudder before going limp and watery, steam rising slowly from the creature’s remains.

“Is it… gone?” Zuzia asked, her eyes lingering on the book for only a moment before they leapt back toward the crouching, quivering Silvia. “Silv?” she murmured. “Are you okay?”

Before Silvia could reply, however, across the water Linette Mercier let out an ear-splitting howl. One hand still clutched to her concussed temple, she sputtered to her brother in not Kythian, but Courdonian, “They— they killed it! Martel, they killed it, they—”

Leif shifted a foot to the book just to be safe, but straightened and pointed his wand at the Courdonians. “Wands down - now!”

Martel pointed his wand back - but he seemed unsure what to do, his eyes darting from Leif to the stationary book as if hoping the demon might start to stir again. Linette, on the other hand, remained so dazed it didn’t even seem to occur to her to echo her brother’s move, the girl merely letting out a moan of pain as she abruptly wrenched her eyes shut.

“Dizzy,” she murmured, hunching over. She was still carrying on in her mother tongue, clearly too out of sorts to scrabble for Kythian words. “M-Martel, my head, I think I’m… I’m gonna be sick, I…”

“Linette - “ Martel put a hand on her back, before scowling at Leif, then Zuzanna and Silvia. His gritted teeth loosened a little as he seemed to realize he was outnumbered.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Leif snapped.

Silvia, who was still leaning on all fours and shaking her head as if to shake off a lingering disorientation, turned to the Courdonians with a hard glower. “You’ve lost,” she rasped, her voice emerging as a high croak. “Your demon is dead and you’ll never be able to get around us with your friend in that state.”

Martel’s jaw tightened again, but only momentarily. His wand arm lowered slightly. “...We’ll surrender - but - only if she gets medical treatment,” he nodded at his sister, “and you don’t turn us in!”

Leif practically choked on his astonished, “What? You - you idiot! You don’t have bargaining power here! You. Lost!”

Silvia tried to push herself into a standing position, but staggered; immediately Zuzia shot her hand out, fingers clasping over her daughter’s wrist. “It’s okay, hon, take it slow,” she soothed, before leveling a venomous glare toward Linette and Martel. “You are beat,” the archmage snarled. “Throw your wands into the river. And turn away from us— hands over your heads. Now.”

There was fury in Martel’s eyes, but with none of the Kythians showing any sign of backing down, he seemed to eventually reach the conclusion that there was nothing he could do. The Courdonian glanced briefly upward, at the cave ceiling...but then he looked back down at his sister, his shoulders drooping. With a strangled snarl, he tossed his wand toward the river. When Linette didn’t throw hers, Martel gently pried it out of her hand, and threw it as well.

He raised his hands, and called across the river, “There - happy? My sister is hurt; she can’t attack you.”

“I said turn away,” Zuzia snarled. “So you can’t charge us as we come near.”

“Here Mum, let me,” Silvia said, her voice still raspy. She took her wand from the sheath, pointing it at Martel and hissing, “Uwięzić!”

Martel flinched back, but it was no use - the spell struck him and coils of rope-like light pinned his arms and hands to his sides and his legs together. The Courdonian just barely managed to stay on his knees rather than face-planting into the ground. “You godscursed -”

“Shut up!” Leif ordered, casting the Kythian version of the spell Silvia had used on Linette. “‘Pit, do you not know when to stop talking?”

“Martel,” Linette whimpered. “This is… th-this…” She dry heaved, then shuddered violently against the magical bindings. “We can’t lose. We can’t! Aubin needs—”

“Aubin?” Leif repeated sharply. “Who’s Aubin?” The demon? Another Courdonian? The slave they’d had with them? The boy, who had apparently been unable to shut up just moments ago, pressed his lips together and glared at Leif.

“He’s an archmage,” Linette snuffled, her voice gone shrill. “And he’s just outside! And he’s going to… he’s going to get you— you’d better run and leave us be, you’d… you’d…”

“My mother and grandpa are both archmages,” Silvia cut in curtly, finally managing to haul herself upright. “And if he was right outside, why didn’t he stop us coming in, hm?”

“He’s probably just outside now,” Martel hastily corrected. “He let us go on ahead - we had the demon with us.” Glaring at Silvia, he added, “And he’s strong enough to summon demons - I’ll bet he’s stronger than both of your archmages!”

Silvia blinked once, then covered her face. “Oh Woo, are we really playing ‘my dad is better than your dad?’ How old are you, fourteen?”

“I’m - ” Martel seemed to struggle for words for a moment before finally spitting, “Just - you just wait and see!”

“I’m riveted,” Zuzanna drawled. She heaved a sigh. “So, we should probably transport the idiots out of the cavern for the city guard to deal with— and one of us should probably go back to where we knocked out that poor slave. She has to be confused as all hell if she’s come to.”

“And terrified,” Silvia agreed. “But we can probably get more straightforward answers from her than we can from our friends over there, if we can get her calmed down… and if we can talk to her, hopefully she speaks something besides Courdonian.”

“In case she doesn’t… Leif, do you want to go find her while Silvs and I drag out the idiots?” Zuzia suggested. “We can meet back up at the mouth of the cave.” She glowered again toward Linette and Martel. “And you are both going to be cooperative prisoners, yes?”

“You can always stun them again if they’re not,” Leif said. Martel glowered, but for once didn’t protest. To Zuzanna, Leif said, “I’ll go find her, yes. Just as soon as…” Leif raised his wand to his shoulder, casting two spells in quick succession - one turned the chip of stone embedded in his shoulder into a thin stream of water, and the other pulled the water out. “There.” The relief was obvious in his tone. “I’ll be right out once I find her.”

Bark and Bite: Part Seven

SPOILER: Click to show

The Kythians, captive Courdonian mages, and the newly-freed slave met at the cave entrance; it was quickly determined that they would head to the guardhouse, to turn the demon-summoning mages in to the authorities, and hopefully get the full story from the slave - or former slave, as none of them had any intentions of turning her back over to Courdon, and it was unlikely Martel or Linette Mercier were going to be in any position to put a claim on her. The woman didn’t seem to have suffered bruising or other physical injury from the fall or the stunner that had caused it, but she seemed uncoordinated, as if she was having trouble remembering how her own limbs worked after so long of being on-and-off controlled by the demon.

At the guardhouse, the teens were placed into a cell, after their magical bonds had been replaced with iron manacles. Zander took the still shaken Silvia aside to comfort her while Leif and Zuzia sat with the slave girl to get her story. The Mercier’s cell was, unfortunately, close enough that the occupants would likely hear the conversation going on at the head of the room, where the Kythians and the Merciers’ former slave had taken seats around a small table.

“She says her name is Noir,” Leif told the others, before turning to the woman in question. “But, ah...I don’t want to be rude, but...that’s a type of wine, isn’t it? Is it used as a name, too, or...is that just what those idiots -” Leif nodded in the general direction of the Courdonians’ cell - “call you?”

“My masters gave me that name, enki,” she warbled, her eyes fixed firmly on her lap and her entire body trembling. “Because I’m from Lyell, and wine is very popular in Lyell. M-master Aubin thought it was funny.”

Though she didn’t speak Courdonian, at catching the word ‘Lyell’— which was the same, or at least extremely similar, in most languages— Zuzia’s brow shot up to her hairline. Woo, after all these years her grasp of the tongue was tenuous at best, and she’d never been exactly fluent in the first place, but… “You’re Lyellian?” she asked slowly. “That means… you were stolen?”

The girl startled to hear her mother tongue, looking at Zuzia with her mouth hanging agape. “Y… y-yes, ten y-y-years ago. I was-”

“What are you doing, Noir?” Martel snapped. “They’re the enemy, and you’re still -”

Leif, scowling in the direction of the cells, snapped, “Will you shut up already, for the thousandth time! You’re in chains and in a jail cell! You are not in charge here!”

“I - we - are in charge of her!”

“Martel.” Linette’s voice— hardly audible— was shaking like a thin branch in the wind. “Pl-please stop yelling… my head...”

Zuzanna gritted her teeth. “Listen to your baby sister, idiot,” she huffed. “Another word from you out of line, and you’ll very much regret it.” Tartly, she added, “Guess your alleged archmage isn’t showing up to save you, huh?”

Martel snorted - but did fall quiet, speaking softly to his sister. Noir, however, was still very much cowed, her shoulders hunched and her eyes again fixed on her own clenched, trembling hands as they rested in her lap. Zuzanna sighed.

“It’s all right,” she said, segueing back into heavily accented, choppy Lyellian. “They cannot hurt you. I promise, Noir.”

“They’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.” She whimpered, clearly afraid to lapse into Lyellian again.

“They won’t,” Leif promised. “They can’t - they’re locked up, and their wands are in the river. And after everything they did - they are not getting back out.” Remembering something else, Leif added, “And their...what’s the word in Courdonian - uh, monster? Spirit? It’s...dead. Or whatever happens when you splash one with holy water and rub its face in holy things.”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she looked up in surprise- though still didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s dead? The…” Her eyes flicked to Zuzia desperately, as if to get confirmation. “Th-the demon is dead?”

“It is,” Zuzia confirmed gently. “Gone. I promise. It’ll never hurt you again.” Her blue eyes swimming with sympathy, she added, “Noir… who’s Aubin?”

The girl shrugged limply. “Aubin is… was one of my masters. Master Martel and Master Linette’s eldest brother, who ran their business. He died four months ago.”

Zuzanna blinked, the information taking a moment to settle in her head. Of course she’d always suspected that the concussed Linette was merely sputtering fables, but it didn’t hurt to double-check. “So… he’s— not an archmage? And ah, not with the two of them now?”

Noir frowned slightly. “No, of course not. If he was with them they’d still be in Courdon. They only came here because they wanted to find the truth of stories their uncle- a Courdonian solider- told them of a magic spell that could summon a dragon. To avenge Master Aubin’s murder by the rebels.”

Oh, Woo. Wincing slightly, Zuzia glanced toward Leif again. “Aubin’s dead,” she said, in Kythian. “He was their brother. Who the rebels murdered.” She didn’t know the Lyellian word for dragon, but given the context of the rest of what Noir had said— suddenly, the pieces snapped together in Zuzia’s head, and she added to Noir, “They were going to use the dragon against the rebellion?”

“Yes,” Noir confirmed softly. “The demon was to control the dragon once they summoned it, and destroy and scatter the rebel army.”

Zuzia translated this quickly for Leif, then clenched her jaw. Leif nodded slightly, his fingers tightening around the spellbook on his lap. “The demon said as much - that it was going to be a dragon.”

In a low voice, Martel said, “Those rebel pigs deserve it - our brother wasn’t even a soldier, those cowardly - “

“Didn’t we tell you to be quiet!?” Zuzia snapped. “And yes, I’m sure your brother was just a lovely person who was doing nothing wrong, given the most esteemed morals of his siblings, who think it’s okay to use a demon to possess human beings and commandeer a bloody dragon!”

Martel sneered, “You stupid Kythians, getting all worked up over a bunch of slaves! We didn’t let it possess random people on the street - Noir’s our property!”

Leif tucked his spellbook under his arm. “I’m done listening to his rambling - are you done, Zuzia?” The blond archmage got to his feet, reaching for his wand. “I mean, I’m done enough for the both of us, but getting assent is always nice.”

“I don’t think he’s adding anything valuable to this exchange, no,” Zuzia said dryly. She looked to Noir. “You won’t ever have to listen to these things yell again. You’re free, Noir. To do whatever you’d like— if you want to stay here, or go back to Lyell— whatever it is, we’ll make it happen for you, all right?”

Heading toward the cell, Leif called back, “Zuzia, you keep calling her ‘Noir’ - before this idiot interrupted us, she was telling me that these morons called her that instead of her real name. Because Pinot Noir is a type of wine. They thought they were being funny.”

The blond archmage disappeared from sight; there was a sudden scuffle and a clinking of chains, followed by Martel demanding, “What are you doing, you can’t - “

“Silencio!” Leif’s incantation, and the jade flash that went with it, cut the teenager off before he could continue rambling.

As Leif returned, Zuzia swallowed hard, feeling silly for not realising sooner that Noir was merely a slave name. Of course it would be— the Merciers were certainly petty enough, and what kind of Lyellian walked about from birth with such a puerile moniker? It was nearly as bad as Ciro Lynn’s wife, Sarah, whose Courdonian master had called her Alyx as a cheeky perversion of her home province, Elacs. Reducing her down to nothing but a novelty, an object, a foreign-born toy.

“I’m sorry,” Zuzanna said to the girl, very softly. “Is there another name you’d want us to call you? Instead of Noir?”

The girl hugged herself, rocking side to side. “Y-you’re really sure? That they won’t hurt me when they get me back?”

“They’re not getting you back,” Zuzia said firmly. “Not ever. They’ll be punished for what they did— for everything they did.”

“B-but… I belong to them,” Noir whimpered timidly. “E-even if they’re punished, they can appeal to get me back, a-and I’m their property so… so…” she leaned forwards, her face on the table as her shoulders shook, and she lapsed back into Low Courdonian as she sobbed. “I w-was so, so s-s-scared with, with the demon in me all the t-time and I b-b-begged them not to let him take me again b-b-but Master Martel just slapped me a-and I can’t, can’t fight them, I can’t-”

Leif sat down next to her, quietly insisting, “They’re not getting out of this - they - I don’t know Courdonian for ‘summoned’... Brought? They brought a demon here, they’re not going to be in any position to be appealing for anything but their own blighted hides. And even if by some miracle they did - you’re not their property, and if push comes to shove, Kyth will stand by that. And we’ll stand by that, too - and Zuzia and I are archmages; they can try to get around us, but they won’t get far.”

The young woman continued to cry softly for several more minutes; Leif eventually, very hesitantly, put a hand lightly on her shoulder, ready to remove it if touch would only make things worse. Though Noir flinched a little, she didn’t pull away. After a while she whimpered, “V-Vittoria. Vittoria Issel.”

Zuzia smiled gently. “That’s your name? Well, then— it’s nice to meet you, Vittoria.”

Leif said, “Welcome to Kyth, Miss Issel.” His smile turning into a more troubled expression, he added, “I’m sorry you had to come here the exact way you did.”

“Wh-what now?” She whimpered, finally lifting her head and revealing eyes that were puffy and bloodshot. Repeating the question for Leif she added, “What happens to me now?”

“Whatever you want, Vittoria,” Zuzia said. “If you want to get back to Lyell, we’ll help you do that. And if you don’t? We’ll help you get started here, too.” She added emphatically, “And you’ll never have to see the Merciers again.”

The girl swallowed hard. “B-but… I have nobody in Lyell. M-mama was a caravaner and she didn’t want me. B-because I made it so she couldn’t travel. And my father was just somebody in a tavern in Mzia she met once. And… and they killed m-my Grandma. The Courdonains. Sh-she was all I had, and they killed her.”

It was all achingly familiar— no matter where they came from, slave raiders were not so different in the ways that mattered. In how they shattered lives and families with hardly a thought. “You can stay here, then,” Zuzia said with a nod. “Leif and I will help you, all right?” She looked to the other archmage. “She has no family left in Lyell. But I think we could help get her on her feet, right? Teach her Kythian, get her someplace to live and started in a job.” Zuzanna smiled a little crookedly. “Nothing you haven’t done before for former slaves, eh?”

Leif gave a half-smile in reply, and agreed, “It wouldn’t be the first time, no. We’ll help her make a fresh start.” He asked Vittoria, “Would you be comfortable staying in Kyth, then?”

“Th-they’ll hate me,” she objected. “I… I have a mark on my b-back. From the demon. A-and Kyth is Wooist, like Lyell. They’ll hate me- I hate me.”

“A mark?” Leif repeated in confusion, but quickly shook his head. “That doesn’t matter - it wasn’t your fault. Those…” Leif didn’t know the Courdonian translation for the word he wanted, as Courdonian obscenities weren’t exactly part of the Accipiter-approved curriculum. He settled for the Kythian version, assuming the venom in his tone would get the general meaning across the language barrier, then continued, “They were the ones letting it possess you, and there was nothing you could have done to keep it out. Any proper Wooist would want to help the victim of a demon-possession.”

Vittoria rubbed her eyes, her expression thoughtful. Finally she whimpered, “I’ll do anything you want. Cooking, cleaning, lifting, anything. And I won’t complain. J-just as long as you don’t let them touch me again.”

“They won’t get anywhere even close to you again,” Leif promised. “But we’re not going to make you work for us, definitely not the way they did. You’re free now - you’ll need a job, eventually, so you can make money, but it’ll be one you chose, and you’ll be free to do whatever you want outside of that time. And even while you’re working, you’ll be treated properly, like a person. Until then...we’ll find somewhere for you to stay. As a lodger, not a servant.”

The young woman hugged herself, looking like she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Like she didn’t quite believe it. Then, she bowed her head, and whispered, “Th-thank you. Thank you so much.”

Leif nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry you were trapped with them for so long. And at all.”

The young woman gave a nervous, tentative smile. Leif returned the expression before summarizing to Zuzanna, “It sounds like she’ll be staying in Kyth. Like you said, we can help her find her footing.” He was already running through a mental checklist of things they would need to arrange for Vittoria - and quite suddenly, he hit on something that reminded him of something else, something Vittoria had said…

“Vittoria? You said you had a mark from being possessed? Where - where is it? You don’t have to show me, just...we might need to look for it on someone else.”

“S-someone else?” she asked. “The… the demon possessed someone else? Oh Woo, I…” Vittoria swallowed hard. “It’s. It’s on my back. J-jus under the bone in my shoulder I got scratched there, and when it healed it left the demon’s mark.”

Leif nodded grimly. “Zuzia - you aren’t going to like this, but - Vittoria has a mark from the demon possessing her. I don’t know if it’s related to how long she was being possessed or how recently or if it goes away, but...the demon had Silvia for a minute...she might have something like it, too. Check anywhere she was scraped or slashed, it might appear there.”

Zuzia let out a hiss of air, fury blistering across her face. “‘Pit,” she swore. “If the city guard doesn’t execute those godsdamned monsters, then I’ll wring their bloody necks myself, I swear—”

“I don’t think there's any way they're getting out of this,” Leif said, his voice quiet so as not to rouse the Courdonians. “Demon-summoners who forced another person - an abducted, enslaved person, no less - to hold it, and who were trying to summon a blighted dragon for the Courdonian army? Somehow I don’t think Kyth will be sending them to King Oliver.”

“They could have gotten Tim and Laura killed, too,” Zuzia murmured simply. “That’s got to add another few charges at least, right? I hope the guard throws the book at them. Hell, I hope they throw the entire bloody library.” She glanced to Noir again. “The Merciers will be punished,” she promised. “For what they did to you.”

Vittoria bowed her head. “Th-thank you, ma’am. I hope for the best for your friend.”

“My friend?” Against all frustrations, a small smile cracked between Zuzia’s lips. “She’s my daughter, actually. My oldest— I’ve got five kids, my littlest is only seven.”

Vittoria blinked. “O-oh. S-sorry, I didn’t realize. She’s so dark and…”

Zuzanna laughed. “You’ll have to meet my husband,” she said. “He’s from Valzaim— and even darker than Silvie is.” Sobering, she added, “He used to be like you, Vittoria. A slave, stolen from his homeland. And now he’s free— happy and free.”

She gave a nervous smile, nodding slowly. “I d-don’t really… know how to be free anymore. Or how to do anything. But I… I-I’ll try.” To Leif she added, “I promise, I’ll try.”

***

There was one last matter Leif and Zuzanna wanted to settle before they left the guardhouse. After assuring Vittoria they would be only a room over and that she would be safe with one of the guardsmen, the archmages went in search of Silvia and Zander. The two hadn’t gone far, simply ducked into a small side office. Silvia was leaning against her fiance, head pillowed on his shoulder, and shoulders quivering visibly. It was clear from the dampness of her cheeks and the red, puffy rings around her eyes that she’d been crying, but when Leif and Zuzia walked in she immediately sat up and tried to wipe her eyes.

“M-Mum, Grandpa,” she croaked. “Is e-everything alright?”

“Of course, love,” Zuzia said, though her voice was thin, and her expression unconvincing. “I just— we just…” She glanced toward Leif, beseeching.

Leif stepped forward a little. “We were speaking to Vittoria - the Courdonians’ slave - and…” He fidgeted with his necklace pendant. “She told us that after the demon possessed her, it - it left a mark, of some kind.”

Silvia’s dark skin paled, and she squeezed Zander’s hand hard. “A. A mark?”

“Vittoria said it might be anywhere that you had skin broken,” Zuzia replied, swallowing hard. “Hopefully there isn’t one, but…” Her blue eyes raked her daughter’s trembling form. “We need to check, sweetheart.”

Silvia instinctively flinched against Zander’s side, and he immediately drew his arm around her, protectively. “I’m sure you don’t have one,” he soothed. “But your mum’s right. We should check. Just in case.”

The girl swallowed hard. “P-Papa’s gonna freak.”

“Out of concern, maybe,” Leif said, but added firmly, “He would never blame you for it; what happened isn’t your fault. And your father more than anyone can sympathize with your body being used for something you don’t believe in against your will.”

Silvia bit her lip, but she seemed to recognize the justice in Leif’s statement. After a moment, she admitted, “I s-scratched my neck. When it was going in. And I slashed my hands and knees on s-some rocks.”

“Well, I don’t see any marks on your hands or neck,” Zuzia murmured. “But…” Very gingerly, she reached toward the hem of her daughter’s dress, fingers lingering over the worn fabric. “May I, sweetheart?”

Silvia squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her face into Zander’s neck and nodding; after hesitating for only one more moment, Zuzia slowly pulled up the skirt of her daughter’s dress, baring the woman’s legs— and revealing a coin-sized, pitch black blotch in a shape that was roughly like a bird wearing a crown. The mark was iridescent, like the feathers on a raven. There was a very sluggish trickle of blood from the bottom of the mark, as if the scratch that had originally created it wasn’t yet scabbed over.

Zuzia let out a soft, furious hiss. “I’m going to hang those monsters myself, I swear, I—”

“They’ll get what’s coming to them,” Leif interrupted, though his tone was far from passive. “We can try healing spells, and I still have some holy water from the Cathedral - we’ll want to use it carefully, but if the healing spells don’t work, it’s worth a try.”

“P-please?” Silvia whimpered. “I… I wouldn’t mind a scar, but this…” she burbled a near hysterical laugh. “G-good think we already know Zander has a fondness f-for former possession victims, hm?”

Zander squeezed her arm. “It doesn’t change who you are,” he said firmly. “It’s just a scar, Silvia. Nothing more.”

Leif nodded in agreement. “It doesn’t mean anything except that you fought and survived.” He drew his wand, and looked to Zuzia. “Would you like to try first, or should I?”

“You can go,” Zuzia said softly. “I think you have more experience with things of this… type, I suppose.”

With another nod, Leif focused his attention on the bird-shaped mark. “Vulnera Sanwootur,” he murmured, tracing his wand around the wound. Thick ribbons of magic fell from the wand’s tip, but they faded where they touched Silvia’s skin, rather than winding torn skin together as usual. Leif scowled.

“No good?” Silvia murmured softly. She bit her lip. “‘Pit.”

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Zuzia assured. “Let me try something… I’m sure there’s some spell that has to work…” But she couldn’t think of what that spell would be, each incantation she thought of quickly discarded as unworkable. “Leif.” She gulped, glancing toward her mentor. “What else do you think might work? If not that, then… then…”

“Let’s try the holy water,” Leif said, rummaging through his satchel. “Sometimes Wooist magic isn’t enough, or it’s being warded against.” He withdrew a second flask of holy water, and a cloth from an inner pocket. “It might hurt, though - like a burn,” he warned. “If it leaves any injuries behind, I should be able to heal those - or, actually, either one of us could follow the other with healing spells.”

He wet just a touch of the rag with the holy water, and carefully brought it toward Silvia’s leg. “I’m going to try just a little corner to start with - to see if it works and if it’s going to leave any damage behind. ...When you’re ready.”

The young woman took a deep breath, then nodded, her expression grim. “Go ahead, Grandpa.”

Very carefully, Leif brushed the holy water-dampened cloth against the edge of the crow’s tail feathers. He glanced up at Silvia’s face, but the woman gave no sign she was in pain. Looking back down, however, Leif saw no change in the iridescent mark. “Hmm.” He tried a wider swath - still, nothing. Just to be certain, he dampened the cloth with a little more holy water, and ran it over the one of the bird’s wings.

“...This isn’t working, either!” Leif’s fist clenched around the rag as he remembered the demon sneering about not being a ‘Pit creature - which seemed like something that shouldn’t matter, especially considering the holy water had certainly affected the Carriconic demon itself in the end…

“I’ll find something,” he insisted. “There must be information somewhere about the effects of possessions - or the combination of Wooist and Carriconic magic - or other healing spells that might work on something like this…” Leif sighed, and looked up at Silvia, actually meeting her eyes. “...I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean anything, or make you anything bad - but I know you don’t want it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Zander soothed. “It’ll be under your skirts most of the time anyway, right? It’s not ideal, but— it doesn’t mean anything, Silvia. If anything, it’s a mark of how brave you were— chasing after the Courdonians like you did.”

Silvia looked down angrily at the mark on her knee. Her hand danced towards her own wand, as if she were going to attempt to spell it off herself, but Zuzia abruptly shook her head. The archmage’s hand snapped toward her daughter’s wrist, catching it.

“No,” she said. “Honey, don’t. You’re in pain, you’re exhausted, now isn’t the time to be casting spells on yourself, okay? Zander’s right. It’s… it’s not a big deal. And I’m sure it’ll go away in time.”

“I… I…” Silvia clenched her jaw. “I don’t want this. To… to be a victim. A hostage, a pawn that was used against you both! I wanted t-to help, but instead I got in the way and now I’m marked by an unholy monster-”

“Silvia,” Leif interrupted. “You weren’t in the way - the demon itself said you were fighting it, and if it hadn’t been nearby us, we couldn’t have splashed it with holy water. Not to mention that we might not have made it there at all.” With a half-smile, he elaborated, “Neither of us supposedly-clever archmages thought to throw a spell down that bloody ogre’s throat.”

At this, Silvia actually, briefly, cracked a small smile. “We need to send someone to get it out of there at some point. The ogre.” She slumped against Zander again. “It’s a public safety hazard, hm?”

Her fiance sighed. “Right. Probably. But that’s not anything you have to deal with, love.” He stroked her hair. “I think you have a nice date with a comfy bed, hm? And a pile of blankets, and warm cider, and maybe even a cuddly dog who most certainly doesn’t hog the covers.”

She sighed softly. “That does sound nice.” She looked up at the archmages again. “Th-thank you for letting me know before I saw on my own. And for trying. I know you won’t give up so easy.”

“Absolutely we won’t,” Leif agreed. “Mark or no mark, you’re my granddaughter - you’re not getting out of that particular nest that easily.”

She actually chuckled at that. “I love you too, Grandpa. Thank you.” She hugged Zander. “It’ll all work out. The demon is gone, and the Courdonians are in jail. It’ll all work out.”

Bark and Bite: Epilogue

SPOILER: Click to show

Silvia, her dark brown hair for once not in it’s normal cornrows ending in a poofy pom at her neck, but braided into a thick knot at the back of her skull, was trembling in the showy white satin dress. Though her dark skin didn’t show a flush much, she could feel her cheeks very warm as she looked into Zander’s hazel eyes.

“I, Silvia Isabella Panem, take you to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part,” she said, her voice ringing loud and clear across the chapel.

His throat wobbling, Zander repeated back the vows, squeezing Silvia’s hands— which were nested in his— as he did. Once he was done, the priest who stood between the pair smiled broadly, his dark eyes twinkling as he brightly pronounced the young man and woman to be husband and wife. Cheeks cherry-red, Zander leaned in toward his bride. Knowing what was next, and true to her usual form, Silvia opted to put the kibosh on his attempts at decorous chapel behavior, throwing her arms around Zander’s neck and crushing her lips against his. He stiffened for a moment, ostensibly in shock, before his shoulders slackened and he melted against her— earning several sets of widened eyes from his family members in the pews… and a small cackle from Zuzanna across the centre aisle.

“Ah, poor thing,” she whispered into Phyllo’s ear. “Doesn’t know what he got himself into with our little imp, does he?”

“She is going to make his life very interesting from now on,” Phyllo agreed with a smirk. “I still don’t quite believe the little girl who was born in Leif’s guest room is getting married.” He glanced down the aisle where the older archmage was keeping the Panem kids sandwiched between adults with a smile. “How old does that make you feel, Grandpa?”

“A number far too high for your young mind to truly grasp,” Leif said loftily, before asking with a smirk, “But just think - in just over ten years, little Laura will be old enough that she could be the one up there - how old does that make you feel?”

“Laura? She’s my little sister, not my daughter— I’m a spry twenty-five still,” Zuzia joked. As the guests began to rise from their seats to filter into the reception hall that adjoined the chapel, she added, “And if the idea of your ah, advanced age is too hard for you to handle, Leif, don’t worry— we’ve got ample wine coming up at the reception. Drink that sorrow away.”

“And embarass myself instead of letting Silvia and Zander have all the fun? Nonsense!”

“Mummy’s funny when she has wine,” Laura put in brightly, reaching for Leif’s hand as they followed after the other attendees. “She gets real giggly and cuddly and tells really dumb jokes.”

“Is that so?” Leif said, letting Laura take his gloved hand and helping lead her through the crowd. “Well, all the more reason to avoid it, then - such a silly drink. I’ll bet they have some good juices instead.”

Tim nodded emphatically, walking alongside his grandfather and parents with one hand gripping the leash of an overly excited mongrel dog as it tried to pull away from him and towards the newlyweds. “Papa let me have a sip of some wine once and it was nasty. All bitter.” He patted the dog, adding, “We don’t need any gross wine, do we Bandit?”

“No wine for you or the dog,” Zuzia agreed. “‘Pit, I still can’t believe Zander talked us into bringing Bandit with to the wedding.” She rolled her eyes. “And to think he was only supposed to watch over the mutt ‘temporarily’.” Glancing down at the tail-wagging pup, she added in a singsong voice, “You definitely don’t nuzzle up in Zan-Zan’s bed, right? And he totally doesn’t buy you bones from the butcher’s to chew, and your collar certainly isn’t made of leather nicer than my shoes, right?”

“Mum, if you want Papa to buy you new shoes, you should just say so,” Zuzia and Phyllo’s daughter Morgan joked. Glancing over her shoulder, she added, “Well lookie who’s coming over to say hello. Sarah, it’s been ages, hi!”

“Hi, Morgan,” said Sarah Lynn, the blonde wearing a broad smile as she nodded toward the assorted Panems and Leif. “It has been age, hasn’t it? Have you even met this little bugger?” She adjusted the infant who was glued to her hip, cooing, “He turned six months old yesterday, didn’t you, buddy? And growing like a weed.”

Laura giggled. “He’s cute. His cheeks is all chubby.”

“Are all chubby,” corrected her older brother, Alex, as he drifted a few steps behind the rest of the group. As they passed into the reception hall, he added, “I’m going to go check on the cakes, all right? Make sure none of the decorations have fallen off or anything.”

“Sure, go ahead,” his father agreed. “You’ve got the icing in your bag still, right? And your mum’s cooling spells still in working order?”

Alex nodded. “Of course. I’ll meet you back at our seats in a bit.”

While father and son were discussing cakes, the remainder of the Panems were still fawning over Sarah’s new baby, Morgan giving the little one a tickle on the bottom of his foot as Leif studied the infant with a critical eye. “Growing like a weed is right - I swear he was smaller when I came to the inn last, and that just just last week!”

“Hey!” Tim yelped, digging his heels into the floor of the reception hall as Bandit strained against his leash, sniffing eagerly at the pudgy human puppy and wagging his tail so fast it was practically a blur.

“I’ll take that,” Phyllo said with amusement, plucking the mutt’s leash from his son’s hands. “I don’t think Sarah wants dog drool all over her baby’s face- and I don’t think he’d appreciate that either.”

Sarah laughed. “He might like it, honestly, but yes— Mummy does not.” As they reached the maze of tables, her pale blue eyes skipped toward the buffets that were set along the opposite wall, stacked high with bread, fruit, and an assortment of cheeses. “Oh, good. If he gets fussy I can distract him with grapes— little monster loves ‘em.”

“Hopefully Zander wanders over to claim his dog soon,” Phyllo said with amusement. “Then it’s on his head if Bandit licks anybody to death.”

“Sarah?” a slightly panicked voice called. “Ciro? Where is you go?”

A moment later a young woman with burnt-cinnamon skin and black hair squirmed through the crowd to stop by Sarah’s side; as she stilled, the infant reached out toward her with a chirrup of delight, his stubby fingers grasping at the plain wool of her dress.

“No, baby, no grabbing,” Sarah chided, lightly sweeping his hand away. She smiled to the newcomer. “Vittoria. Sorry— I didn’t mean to lose track of you.”

“Is my sorries,” she said, though she had a hand to her chest as if her heart had been hammering in fear during her momentary separation. “Was looking at the pretty… color windows?”

“The stained glass windows?” Leif asked brightly. “They are spectacular - you should see them when the first snow falls! If the sun shines through the church just right, it casts the colors onto the snow on the other side. It’s one of the few things I’ll say is nice about winter!”

“Snow is pretties,” Vittoria agreed. “But is cold. Lyell does not has, Courdon does not has.” She sheepishly grinned at Sarah. “Lynns was had to drag out of covers for Woomas celebrations. Is thanks they patient with me hiding at inn room from cold.”

Zuzia laughed. “Ah, you southerners and your dislike of the cold— it still confuses me, even after all these years.” Finally taking a seat at one of the large banquet-style tables, she smirked at Phyllo. “Remember when we first got here? When we were in Kine, and all the natives were huddled up as if they were about to freeze to death… and we wanted to sleep with the windows open because we were boiling.”

Phyllo laughed. “And our prison warden cocooned himself like a grumpy, fluffed up sparrow whilst you and I flung snowballs at each other once we got to Medieville- though you had to do it while sitting, considering you were pregnant with Silvia at the time.”

“I came out and threw snowballs with you two the next winter,” Leif retorted. “Besides, you northerners wilt like sad plants when it gets the slightest bit toasty. I think I had two puddles vaguely resembling humans to ward over that summer.”

“Mama still can’t handle heat,” Laura chirped. “She hides inside all summer. Castin’ ice spells.”

“The real excitement this summer will be Vittoria handling her first busy season,” Sarah said, nestling her son in her lap. “Suddenly every room will be full, and everyone wants their stew at once, and Woo forbid we run out of ale for more than twenty seconds.” She chuckled. “But we make a lot more money, so that’s the light at the end of the tunnel. Thinking of those coins that’ll soon be in hand.”

Phyllo snorted, “Ilsa corrupted you and Ciro both, I swear. Vittoria, don’t let yourself fall to the same fate! Soon you too will be sobbing over a snapped table leg!”

“Ooooh, are we mocking the King’s Arms staff again?” Silvia chirped, coming up to the table with her arm hooked on Zander’s. “That’s my favorite game. And I can do it with impunity since I used to work there.”

“Silvia.” Zander chuckled. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about work today.” He kissed his wife’s cheek, eyes alight with joy. “We’re saying hi to the lot of you first,” the man added then. “Because I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to explain the kiss at the ceremony to my mum and dad. I’m pretty sure they’re probably glaring daggers into my back right now. Absolutely scandalized by my beautiful bride’s… zeal.”

“Poor thing,” Leif said with a grin. “After all, anyone could see you clearly weren’t enjoying that scandalous kiss at all. I’m sure you were only hugging her so tightly to urge her away, right?”

Zander went red as an apple. “It’s a good thing you’re now my grandfather, too,” he said. “Or else I’d be tempted to be a prat right now.” As Bandit ambled up to him, pulling against his lead, the city guardsman grinned. “‘Lo there. Were you a good boy for everyone at the ceremony, Bandit? Were ya?”

“He was good,” Tim assured his new brother-in-law. “But he started pulling when you and Silvie kissed, he wanted to go over to you.”

“Jealous, no doubt,” Silvia said with amusement. Poking Zander in the ribs she added, “You can always reassure your folks of that- if you’ve recently let Bandit lick your face, you will be getting no kisses until you wash up.”

Vittoria giggled, then covered her mouth with a squeak and looked down at the table. Sarah raised a brow, concern flooding her face as she asked, “You all right, Vittoria?”

“I… I not mean to laugh,” she stammered. “M-my sorries, Mister Zander.”

“Don’t apologise,” Zander said. “We’re at a happy event, Vittoria— laughing is perfectly all right.”

“Especially around this family,” Leif agreed. “Trying to stifle laughter is a lost cause, so you might as well enjoy it and let it out.” Though his tone was teasing toward the Panems, Leif’s smile was genuine.

“I… I just not used to,” Vittoria admitted. “It is many months, and even d-demon’s mark go away after just weeks but… still sometimes, things happen, and I know that Master Martel and Mistress Linnete would hit me for. They no liking if slaves laugh at them.”

Zuzia smiled softly. Sadly. It had been over six months since Vittoria’s rescue— and the Merciers’ arrest and subsequent execution by the city guard— but still it was obvious how much of a mark the siblings had left on her, far deeper than only the physical scars she wore.

“I like it when you laugh,” Zuzanna said to the former slave. “You have a nice laugh, Vittoria. I’d like to hear it more often.” She winked. “Though don’t worry— that doesn’t mean you need to humour Leif’s terrible jokes, I promise.”

“I don’t joke, I make sarcastic observations,” Leif corrected. “Which others - you included, Vittoria - are welcome to laugh at, or quip back, or try to counter it with their own sarcasm. ...Or roll their eyes and ignore it, that’s an option, too.”

“Grandpa is funny,” Morgan said with a grin. “He’s good at making people laugh. Silvia is funny too. I bet she gets her stuffy guard husband to laugh lots.”

“She’s helped me realise not everything is dead serious,” Zander agreed, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “And I’d like to think I’ve helped her realise some things are serious. It’s a good balance.”

“Let’s just hope your parents eventually agree with that, too,” Zuzia quipped. “Instead of seeing Silvs as the free spirit who corrupted their buttoned-up son.” She grinned devilishly. “Maybe their first grandbaby will soften them, eh?”

Now Silvia blushed. “We’re going to wait a bit on that, Mum. Enjoy being irresponsible, exuberant newlyweds, hm?” She tweaked her husband on the nose as he let out a squeak of surprise— then chuckled loudly.

“I think someone’s just eager to be a grandmother,” the man teased.

“Me? A grandmother?” Zuzia’s blue eyes glimmered. “Impossible. I’m only twenty-five— we established this earlier.”

“Ah, yes, forgive me,” Zander said, placing out a hand in placation.

Leif shook his head and said, “Well, after you’re done with us, Zander, I imagine dealing with your parents will be a walk in the park, if nothing else.”

“Yes, at least they only scowl at me,” Zander agreed lightly. “Far less thinking involved than this banter.”

“Give it time,” Phyllo said with a crooked smile. “I promise it’ll come naturally to you before too long.” He turned his gaze to his eldest daughter, adding, “Seriously, though, Silvie, congratulations you… You deserve every bit of your happiness.”

Silvia smiled warmly at her father, but any reply she might have offered was cut off by Tim hissing, “Papa, are you crying?”

Sure enough, there was an unmistakable glimmer in the Panem patriarch’s eyes. Leif smiled a little and said quietly, “It’s okay, Tim - sometimes people cry or tear up at weddings. There are lots of emotions flying around, lots of memories...”

Phyllo chuckled softly. “Sorry, Tim. I was just… Remembering a a little girl I used to know. A long, long time ago. And hoping that wherever she is, she’s as proud of Silvie as I am.”

Zuzia smiled, her own eyes going glossy. “She’d be so happy, Phyllo,” she murmured, reaching out to squeeze her husband’s hand. Switching to the language of their past, Valzick, she added softly, “And can you imagine what our teenage selves would’ve thought, to see us now?”

Phyllo squeezed Zuzia’s hand back, replying in the same language, “I would’ve scarcely dared to believe that this is where I’d find myself. Thank you for never giving up on me. On us.” He leaned over, kissing his wife on the forehead, and earning a giggle from Morgan.

“See Zander, if you don’t watch out, this is what you’ll turn into- a mushy ball of… mush.”

“Excellent metaphor, Mogs,” Silvia said dryly.

“Don’t worry,” Zander said breezily. “I’ll never be so sappy.” He winked at his bride. “Will I, my sweetest, dearest love?”

As if jealous, Bandit finally jerked his lead out of Phyllo’s hand, leaping up and planting his front legs on Zander’s torso and frantically attempting to lick the guardsman’s face. Vittoria giggled softly again, and the Panems all chuckled as well. Leif remarked, “I did tell you back when you took him in - relationships that begin with arrests end up like this!”

“If only more of my criminals were so lovable,” Zander joked.

“If they were, I might have to get jealous,” Silvia quipped. Then she gave an exaggerated sight. “I suppose we had better go talk to your parents so that we can sit down and everyone can eat. It’s not like this is the last time I’ll be scandalizing them, hm?”

“Probably a good idea,” Zander agreed. “And hey, at least after that kiss, nothing else we do at the ceremony will seem so egregious, right? Such as…” He leaned forward and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek, then whispered into her ear: “They staring, love?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured back. “I’m too busy being captivated by that handsome face.”

“Ah, to be young and madly in love,” Phyllo said with a chuckle. “You two go dispense with your obligations so that we can all have fun; and welcome to the family Zander.”

“Thank you,” Zander replied, starting away with his bride. “Now… let’s go face the beasts, eh, Silvie?’

She grinned towards her mother and grandfather. “After a demon and a pair of Courdonian mages, the in-laws can’t possibly be so bad, right?”

“Probably not,” Leif agreed. “Of course, you can’t use spells on them if they’re troublesome, but...you should be fine.” The blond archmage grinned.

Once the newlyweds were gone, Zuzia let out a contented sigh, relaxing a bit in her chair. “Now, I don’t know about you guys,” she said, “but I think now’s a good time to start with that wine, eh?”

“Juice for me and Grandpa!” Tim called out firmly. “And Laura too.”

“And cake,” Leif added. “Don’t forget cake; that’s very important for preventing ornery archmages from summoning dragons.”

“No dragons,” Vittoria said firmly. “Not now, not ever. But cake and wine… I would like. Very much.”

[Shinko]

Takes place after "Rising Storm" in the spring of 1329. Collabfic with Avery

The Jungle Book

SPOILER: Click to show

“But I don’t want you to leave, Mama,” the young girl said, her lips pursed as she sat upon the sand with her knees hugged up to her chest. Staring absently out at the gentle waves that swelled at the shoreline a few dozen feet ahead, clear turquoise against the pale morning sky, she added to the woman who sat beside her: “Couldn’t you just stay a little longer? ‘Til… springtime. Or summer. At least ‘til after my birthday. When I turn eight. Then you can go back and be a soldier.”

Selene Argyris sighed softly, reaching both hands around the little girl at her side to draw her into a hug. “I’m sorry, baby. I really am. But I can’t stay longer. I don’t get to chose when I go back, my commanders pick, and they want me back now.”

The child sniffed, petulant. “But why? We’ve only been here together for a couple months, Mama.” Squirming in Selene’s arms, she thought for a moment, then pointed out, “Auntie Chryssa will miss you, too. And all her kids. And everyone in the village! ‘Cos - you’re away so much, and people like you here ‘cos it’s where you growed up, and…”

“Chryssa Dana Argyris,” Selene said sternly. “We’ve had this conversation already. I know everyone will miss me. I’ll miss them too. But what about all the kids in villages like where you grew up?” Her voice now very, very soft so as to avoid it carrying, she added, “The kids who have to be afraid because of the Meltaimans who might come to steal them away? They are in danger right now.”

Chryssa— who’d largely gone by her middle name, Dana, since her and Selene’s arrival to the latter’s home village two and a half months ago so as to avoid confusion with Selene’s elder sister— slumped miserably. “You’re just gonna be so far away, Mama,” the child murmured. “And I don’t wanna be apart from you.”

“I know,” Selene said gently. “I know, baby. I wish things could be different. But as long as Meltaim is still doing bad things, someone has to be there to stop them.” She cupped her hand on the little girl’s cheek, adding, “If I’d stayed home with my sister and my friends here, I couldn’t have saved you. And I’m very, very glad I was able to save you.”

“Are… are you sure Auntie Chryssa and Uncle Adrian aren’t mad they hafta take care of me while you’re gone?” the girl asked. “‘Cos they’ve already got the twins, and… the other kids, and the house is small, and…” She gulped. “Maybe I could just come with you, Mama? To the north. L-like when we were in Meltaim. As spies. I’d be good, I promise, and—”

“No, Dana,” Selene said, gently but firmly. “I don’t want to put you that close to danger every again.” She kissed the little girl’s kinky hair. “I love you. I love you so much. Meltaim will never get the chance to get you back, not ever. And I promise your auntie and uncle don’t mind at all. Given time I know they’ll love you as much as I love you.”

“It’s not fair,” Dana said simply.

“Well you have to get used to things that aren’t fair,” Selene said. She stood, dusting the sand off of her trousers. “Come on, do you want to spend all the time we have left together sulking, or do you want to give Mama a proper send off so she can remember her sweet little girl while she’s away?”

Dana seemed to debate with herself for several moments before the girl sighed and, too, rose. “You’ll come back and see me again, though, right?” she needled as she began to trail Selene back toward the quaint, one-storey cottage that stood behind them, its broad windows looking out over the beach and the aquamarine sea. “Not… not like my papa. When he went to Tengiz on his missionary work and then— then he never came back.”

Selene felt a pang of regret that she could not rightly make this promise. She was a soldier- her work was not without risk, especially with an adversary as wiley and remorseless as Meltaim. She might well leave home one day and never return. But the woman didn’t say this, instead she said, “I’ll come home as often as I can. And even when I’m not here, you still have your pretty bracelet to remember me by, right?”

The soldier indicated a small bracelet on Dana’s wrist, which had wooden beads around a minute seaglass woocifix, and instinctively the girl brought her opposite hand over it, gingerly stroking the ornate design.

“You won’t forget me, right?” she asked as she and Selene reached the back door that led into the cozy cottage. Stamping the sand off her leather sandals, Dana whispered, “I won’t forget you, Mama.”

“I’ll never forget you,” Selene said firmly, pushing the door open and leading her adoptive daughter inside. “You’ll be in my prayers every night, until we can be together again. And I expect you to remember to do all of your prayers too.”

“Don’t worry,” a cool, friendly male voice called, and Selene’s brother-in-law came around the corner of the hall to greet them. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t forget. And we’ll take very good care of her while you’re gone.”

“Hi, Uncle Adrian,” Dana murmured, gnawing shyly on her lip. Daring the ghost of a smile as a massive bear of a brown-and-white dog lumbered up behind the man, tail wagging low, the girl added, “Does Auntie Chryssa know he’s in the house ‘gain? She got real cross last week when he brought in that hermit crab he found on the beach. The one that was still wrigglin’.”

“Your Auntie is in the kitchen, making up a farewell breakfast for your Mama,” Adrian replied. Winking, he added. “Shhh- she doesn’t need to know Ox is inside just yet. He deserves to be part of the party, right?”

“He keeps trying to climb up on the counter, though,” a young, brown-haired boy of perhaps six or seven announced as he skipped up behind Adrian and the dog. Grinning like a cat, he announced, “He’s taller than I am! Like a horse!”

“Nuh-uh,” Dana replied. “Horses are way bigger, Calix. You can ride ‘em, you couldn’t ride Ox.”

“Well, you sort of could,” Calix objected, studying the pup as though he were seriously considering such a notion. “His back’s real broad. And he’d let you, ‘cos he’s real nice, and—”

“And we don’t want to abuse his good nature to hurt his back,” Selene interrupted with a crooked smile. “How will he chase off jaguars and tigers that wander into the village then?”

“There hasn’t been a jaguar in the village since last July,” chirped Calix’s older sister Kareena as she came into the room as well. “I think they all swam out to the islands ‘cause they’re scared of the doggies we got.”

“They’re probably just eatin’ all the animals out in the deep jungle,” Calix retorted. He smirked at his older sister, gray-brown eyes twinkling mischievously. “All the cute little birdies and monkeys and—”

Adrian gave his son a gentle cuff over the head. “Alright, behave. I don’t want to force you to spend the rest of Aunt Selene’s going away party sulking in your room.”

“That would be a shame,” Selene agreed. “And I imagine your mummy would be very cross with you.”

“I was just joking,” Calix chirped.

“It wasn’t funny, though,” Dana said solemnly. “Jokes are s’posed to be funny.”

Adrian ruffled Dana’s hair. “You and me can teach Cal how to tell a good joke, how’s that? In the meantime, let’s go see what Aunt Chryssa has cooking, I bet you and your mama are starving.”

***

“So… you’re really going right now, Mama?” Dana asked a few hours later, eyes shining with moisture.

She and Selene— along with Chryssa, Adrian, and their five children— were lingering in front of the cottage as a pair of military horses loitered on the lane up ahead, one of them riderless, the other featuring a short, dreadlocked man in the uniform of the Valzick king’s army. This was to be Selene’s escort back to the nearest military base, Fort Kósmima, whereupon she’d receive the details for her next assignment and— more than likely— be shipped back north to the Galfras Mountains fringing Meltaim.

“He looks like he’s been travelin’ a long time,” Dana added, nodding toward the soldier. “We… we could invite him in before you go, Mama. So he can eat. And rest. And…”

“I’m sorry, Dana, but we have a very strict schedule we have to keep,” Selene cut in gently. She knelt down, drawing the small girl into a hug. “I have to go now, but I love you. I’ll always love you, and I’ll come back just as soon as I can. Be good, okay?”

“J-just a little longer?” Dana needled, clinging to Selene’s hand. She whimpered. “Another hour, Mama? Just an hour, and— then you can go—”

Selene shook her head, swallowing thickly as she stood up. “I can’t, love. I have to go now.” She gently pulled her hand away, backing towards the horses. “Goodbye, honey.”

“Wait,” Dana bleated. “I’m not ready yet, Mama, I’m not—”

Adrian winced, kneeling down and picking Dana up. He was missing three of the fingers on his left hand, which made gripping the heavy child slightly awkward, but he managed to prop her on his hip where he could cuddle her close. As Selene winced, regretfully mounting her horse, he whispered, “Shhhhh, it’s okay honey, it’s okay, she’ll be back before you know it.”

“Put me down,” Dana whimpered, squirming slightly, as Adrian and Chryssa’s children awkwardly tried to avert their gazes from their hysterical ‘cousin’.

Selene’s older sister, however, was not so avoidant. Sighing softly, Chryssa adjusted the chubby-cheeked toddler in her arms to one hip, then with her free hand gently touched Dana’s shoulder. “Hush now, sweetie,” she murmured. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“I don’t want her to leave,” Dana choked out. “Pl-please, I wanna go with her, I—”

“Shhhh,” Adrian soothed, running a hand through Dana’s frizzy black hair. “It’s okay, baby, I know. I know you don’t want her to leave. None of us do. But she has important work to do on the border. C’mon, can’t you say goodbye before she goes? Pretty please, Dana?”

“I d-d-don’t wanna say goodbye,” Dana hiccupped. Craning her neck to watch as Selene adjusted her horse’s reins, the girl breathed, “I d-don’t want it to be goodbye.”

“She’ll come back, love,” Chryssa soothed. “I know you’ll miss her when she’s gone, but she’ll be back before you know it, okay? And in the meantime, me and Adrian are going to take such good care of you.”

“She always brings neat gifts when she comes back, too,” Calix added, sheepishly looking back toward the hysterical girl. “Souvenirs. From far away places. I bet she’ll bring you something real awesome.” He pointed toward the toddler who stood in front of him, the girl virtually a mirror image of the child in Chryssa’s arms— the child’s identical twin. “When she showed up with you, Auntie Selene brought Acacia a doll. With real horsie hair for hair!”

“Uh-huh,” Kareena added. “And, and she’ll write us letters while she’s away. Tellin stories ‘bout all the cool places she goes. I bet Papa would help you write back.”

“I would,” Adrian agreed. “You can talk to your Mama even if she can’t be here with you.”

“Dana, baby,” Selene cut in, her voice hitching. “I have to go now. I love you, sweetie. Very much.”

Dana only whimpered in reply, gaze lingering on Selene for a moment more before she turned to bury her face in Adrian’s shoulder. Selene bit her lip, locking eyes briefly with her older sister, anguish written all over the soldier’s face; Chryssa returned the look with a small, sad smile. Sympathy etched every facet of her expression.

“Be safe, Selene,” she called, shifting the toddler in her arms again. “And write us once you get your orders, all right? So we know what fort you’re off to this time.”

“And send us souvenirs if you can!” Calix added, beaming. “I like the northern sea-glass, Auntie Selene, it’s more clearer than the southern, and—”

“Don’t be greedy, Cal,” Adrian cut in sternly. Selene, however, only offered a wobbly smile in reply to the boy’s wheedling.

“I’ll be sure to send all of you something nice,” she assured them. “I love you- goodbye everyone.”

Selene’s assorted nieces and nephews chorused their farewells, the twin toddlers waving enthusiastically if clumsily, and Adrian and Chryssa echoed the children. Dana, however, merely kept her eyes pressed against the fabric of her uncle’s shirt, small sobs still escaping her chest.

“Why’s she cryin’, Papa?” asked the last of Chryssa and Adrian’s five children— a rangy boy of perhaps four or five, his hair shaved close to his scalp and his skin dark as coal. “Is she okay?”

“She’s just sad, Tycho,” Adrian said softly, bouncing the little girl in his arms as Selene regretfully turned her horse away and started off down the road. “She doesn’t want her mama to leave her so soon.”

“At least this time Auntie Selene’ll be back in a few months,” Kareena put in. “Stead of years like last time. I missed her lots while she was gone.”

“Me, too,” Chryssa agreed, turning back toward the door that led back into the house and pushing it ajar. “But you’re right— she’ll be back before we know it. And we’ll have lots of fun while she’s gone, right?”

“Winter’s almost done!” Calix agreed, shambling after his mother. “Which means the spring festival, right? So we’ll get to eat lots of good food!”

“Mm,” Adrian agreed as he carried the still hysterical Dana into the house. “Haddock and anchovy season is starting soon, too. So more work for me and the other fishers. We’ll be spending lots of time…” he blinked once, then a crooked smile ticked at his lips. “Lots of time at the islands. Chryssie I just had a crazy idea.”

“Oh?” she asked, as she deposited the toddler on the living room floor— and the girl immediately made a beeline toward her twin sister, giggling as she tackled the second child into a hug. “Careful, Clea, you’re going to knock her over,” Chryssa chided, though she couldn’t wholly fight back a small chuckle. To Adrian, she added: “Please tell me your idea isn’t to let Ox inside again to snuggle with Dana. I still haven’t forgiven him for stealing the biscuits off the counter this morning. I swear, that dog cares about only one thing in this world.”

“That would be a good temporary solution, but no that isn’t what I was going to suggestion,” the man replied, sitting down on the family’s worn sofa and shifting Dana gently so she was sitting in his lap. “I was thinking- what if she came with me when I go to the islands next week? I could bring Kareena and Calix along, make a nice big family camping excursion of it. Drag ol’ Ox along too to get him out of your hair.”

“You sure Jedrick and Leandre won’t mind?” Chryssa asked; these were two other fisherman from town, and the duo with whom Adrian usually joined up when he went on excursions to the sprinkling of heavily forested and uninhabited— but excellent for fishing— barrier islands that abutted their main-shore village. The three had co-ownership of a respectable, if not elaborate, wooden canoe they used for such purposes. “I wouldn’t want the kids to be an imposition on them.”

“Nah, it should be fine,” he replied, flapping his unmutilated hand dismissively. “Last year Jedrick brought along his nephew for a bit, when the boy’s parents took sick. I don’t think either of them would mind. I can ask of course, but I doubt it’ll be an issue.”

“They like us,” Calix declared. “Mister Jedrick gave me a pair of jacks at Woomas, y’know.”

“And I suppose the islands are all roomy enough where you can always camp out separate from them if the kids are being too much of pains,” Chryssa admitted with a sigh. “All right. Fine. That sounds like it’ll be fun. Doesn’t it sound fun, Dana, honey?”

“I dunno.” Dana, finally daring to peek out from Adrian’s sleeve, sniffled loudly. “A-are Tycho and the twins g-gonna come?”

“I think they’re a bit too little,” Adrian mused. “It’s mostly jungle out there on the islands, and I wouldn’t trust the littler ones to mind themselves while I’m working. Besides I think six kids is a lot to ask of my buddies to tolerate, even if they do like you all.”

“Camping is so fun, though!” Kareena trilled. “We getta eat snacks cooked over the fire, and swim in the creek in the jungle, and see all the cool animals!” She giggled. “You just gotta be careful no big animals come out and eat’cha!”

“No animals are going to eat anyone,” Chryssa said quickly, leveling her eldest child a withering stare. “You’ll all be safe with Papa and Ox. No silly animal would try to take on Ox, would they?”

“Not if they had any sense,” Adrian said firmly, as Kareena wilted under her mother’s reproach. “And hey, since it’s spring that means all the flowers will be starting to come out. You like flowers, right Dana?”

“I guess.” Dana reached up to wipe her bloodshot eyes. “D-do they smell good?”

“Yep,” Chryssa confirmed. “And they’re colourful, too. Kareena can show you how to make them into pretty necklaces and crowns— right, Reena?”

“Mm-hm,” the older girl agreed. “Hibiscuses are my favorite. ‘Cause they’re big and pretty. And they got lots of colors.” She grinned. “Aunt Selene said you wasn’t from the jungle, right? So you can see ‘em for the first time.”

“And if you find any extra pretty ones, you can bring them home for me and the little ones,” Chryssa added softly. “I bet the twins would appreciate crowns, hm?”

“Cown!” one of the toddlers echoed in exuberant agreement, beaming. “Mama, cown? Get cown?”

“Papa will make sure that you get brought a crown,” Adrian said with a smile, winking to the toddler. “Dana can pick out the prettiest hibiscuses for yours. Be a good older cousin.”

“And I can help weave them all pretty,” Calix suggested enthusiastically. “Especially if I get to bring my wand— ‘cos then I can use spells to do it!” The boy batted his eyelashes at his father: the seven-year-old, a mage like both of his parents and his aunt Selene, was usually prohibited access to his wand outside of lessons, and Woo-cursed if he didn’t know it. “To make people happy,” he added quickly. “Not to… to do nothin’ bad, Papa.”

“And deprive you of the practice doing it by hand?” Adrian asked, his expression deadpan. “I think not. Besides we both know you’d just rub your magic in Reena and Dana’s faces, which isn’t what this trip is about.” He kissed Dana on the forehead, adding, “It’s about helping our newest family member feel loved and at home.”

“C-can I bring my own blanket?” Dana whispered. “T-to the camping?”

“Sure, sweety,” Adrian agreed. “Between your fluffy blanket, fluffy dog cuddles, and the singing of the night bugs, you’ll sleep nice and cozy the whole time. We’ll all dogpile together under the stars.”

***

“Papa!” Kareena whined, “It’s hot out! Can I get out and swim?”

“No, you may not,” Adrian admonished gently as he continued to paddle from the back of the long, dugout canoe. His two fellow fisherman, Jedrick and Leandre, were spaced in the middle and front of the vessel with their own paddles, and the children and supplies were between the adults.

“But why not?” Kareena asked. “I’m a good swimmer!”

“Not as good as me,” Calix bragged, leaning over the edge of the canoe to drag a hand along the surface of the water. Small ripples formed in his wake. “I bet I could beat you. If— if we both got out and raced to the island!” The boy nodded toward the craggy knot of land that rose a few hundred feet ahead of the group, a single bud of land amidst a sprawl of wide open sea around it. “And then we could meet everyone at the beach!”

“Now, I’m not your papa,” mused Leandre from his position at the head of the canoe, “but for some reason, Cal, I’m going to say that’s probably not the best idea.”

“The canoe would leave you behind in a minute,” Adrian agreed. “And I’m not having you both floundering in the middle of the deep ocean.”

Kareena sighed gustily. “Can we at least swim when we get there? It’s so hot, Papa.” Turning to Dana she added, “Right?”

“The air’s all thick,” Dana agreed, hands gripped like manacles over the edges of the canoe as it rocked steadily back and forth. The waves were small today, but so was the boat, and the girl could feel every swell that passed beneath. “But maybe it’ll rain. Didn’t you say some fishies bite better when it’s rainin’, Uncle Adrian?”

“They do,” Adrian agreed with a small smile. “Although if we end up going for that particular kind of fishy, Leandre will probably outdo you kids in griping.”

Calix giggled. “I bet we’ll catch lotsa fishies,” he announced. “And— and then can we play in the trees behind the beach? We can do hide-and-seek! And chase!”

Leandre quirked a brow, once ebony but long since gone silver. “I think that depends on if your papa trusts you to go off spelunking into unfamiliar jungle, bud. You don’t want to get lost, now, do you?”

“There’s a creek not far into the woods where we get fresh water when we camp here,” Adrian put in. “You can go that far, but no further, got it?”

“Okay, Papa,” Kareena agreed chirpily. “After all, we don’t wanna get ate by a tiger! Didja know tigers can swim? I bet one could go from the mainland aaaall the way to the island for easy food.” She made a growling noise and curled her fingers like claws.

“Th-there are tigers on the island?” Dana murmured, gnawing on her lip. “And… and we’re gonna sleep outside with ‘em…?”

Jedrick, always a somber, quiet man, finally spoke up, his voice gentle. “There are no tigers, little one. I promise you- nothing much bigger than a cat. Well, saving this gentleman.”

He reached forward to where Ox was nestled in front of him, patting the mutt with one hand. Ox smiled a wide dog smile and thumped his tail.

“Ox would protect us from a tiger, anyway,” Calix said with a sage nod. “He’s real fierce when he wants to be.”

“Yup,” Adrian agreed. “He’s fought off big predators before, and he’ll do it again- but I promise you, kids, the island is perfectly safe.”

The truth of Adrian’s words would soon be put to the test- within another fifteen minutes, Jedrick and Adrian were tugging the canoe up into the sand of the beach as Ox romped in the shallow water and Leandre helped the kids to climb out. Kareena beamed, eyeing the playful dog eagerly.

“Can we swim now, Papa?”

Adrian smiled thinly. “Alright, alright. Just stay where I can see you, okay?”

“We will!” Calix was already tugging off his shoes and tunic, dumping them unceremoniously in the sand. “I bet I could catch fish with my bare hands if I tried!”

Leandre snorted. “Maybe, but you’re not going deep enough for that, aye? The current can get strong on the islands, Calix, and there are sharp drop-offs. No more than… hm...” He exchanged an apprising look with Adrian. “Ten paces out for the kids, you think? Water there should hit their knees, maybe their thighs. It’s what Viona and I always did for our kids when they were small— and with our grandkids now.”

Kareena made a noise of displeasure. “But that’s not really swimming! Most of me will still be hot! Dana, Calix, tell them!”

“It’s not swimming at all,” Calix agreed dourly, as Dana fidgeted beside him, clearly loath to join the argument. Her adoptive cousin went on: “We never getta go to the islands, it’s not fair if we don’t get to really swim while we’re here—”

“Calix, Kareena, enough,” Adrian cut in sharply. “You promised to behave and mind me while we were here. Am I going to have to paddle you for sassing within five minutes of hauling ashore?”

“No, Papa,” Kareena said, drooping. After a moment’s hesitation she said, “But you said there was a stream in the woods, right? Could we swim there?”

“We could set up our rods there to start, anyway,” Leandre suggested. “Less labour-intensive than sea fishing. Keep the kids in our sight, but far enough away where their splashing doesn’t scare off the fish.”

“Aren’t there crocodiles in the rivers?” Dana whispered, the girl’s arms crossed tightly at her chest. “That’s why we’re not ‘lowed to swim in the river near the cottage, isn’t it?”

“I can handle that, honey,” Adrian replied, patting his wand holster. “Set up a nice ward screen and shield to give you all a safe zone to swim in- just don’t go past where the water glows and you’ll be fine.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Jedrick agreed. “Let the kids get their energy out and us get some work done, then we can set up camp before the heat of the afternoon and let them swim more after. That sound fair, kids?”

“Uh-huh,” Calix said. “And I can still race Kareena an’ show her I’m a better swimmer.” He beamed toward Dana. “You can judge!”

“Only if you don’t get cross with her if you lose, Cal,” Leandre teased.

Adrian chuckled. “Come on then, let’s get going. Ox, come!”

The dog lifted his head, barking once before romping towards his master. As the party of six and the dog headed into the jungle with the fishing supplies, Calix and Kareena chattered excitedly about their plans for the rest of the trip. Dana, on the other hand, stayed largely silent, the girl clearly out of her element as she trailed the others through the dense foliage. Where the others’ steps were sure— light-footed— hers were leaden, almost plodding. Fallen leaves and branches cracked under the soles of her sandals, while brambles scraped at the sleeves of her dress.

“You okay, hon?” Leandre queried eventually, as he gently pulled aside a low-hanging vine so that it didn’t hit her as she moved by it.

“Uh-huh,” Dana said, tentatively. “I just… I’unno. The jungle’s real different than stuff is where I’m from.”

“Where are you from?” Jedrick asked curiously, but Kareena cut in before Dana could reply.

“She’s not allowed to tell,” the girl sang. “‘Cause of Auntie Selene’s top secret mission! She was gone for two years on it!”

“We do know you were from somewhere cold though, isn’t that right, Dana?” Adrian asked gently, trying to draw the younger child out of her shell.

“Yeah,” Dana said, jumping a bit as a small blur of brown— a paca, Calix gleefully announced— skittered by in front of them before disappearing into the rotting hull of a fallen tree. “It snows there. A lot. And… there’s mountains. Everything’s mountains. Not… not jungle.”

Adrian frowned slightly. Mountains. That could mean the girl was from either the Galfras or the Synzaim regions. That would make sense with knowing she was from somewhere cold, but it just raised even more questions about how Selene had found her and what the woman had been up to during her mission.

Dismissing this, Adrian replied, “I’m sorry we don’t have much snow. But there is a lot here that is fun, right?”

“Like swimming!” Kareena said eagerly, as the sounds of water from the stream came within earshot.

“Uh-huh,” Dana agreed. “It’s too cold to swim there a lot. And the river freezes over in winter. I-I used to go skatin’ sometimes. My… my uncle made me and my cousins skates.” The girl swallowed hard. “It was f-fun.”

Adrian paused, looking down at the young girl sadly. There was no mistaking the grief in her voice, and for a moment he considered trying to draw her out further. Any efforts to that effect were forestalled, however, when Kareena suddenly grasped Dana’s hand and darted into the brush.

“C’mon, I can hear it, we’re almost there!” she squealed.

Dana blinked, surprised, but let Kareena tow her, the girl finally letting a small smile through as the stream came into view up ahead. The water was clear as glass, and surrounded on both banks by vivid green mangrove trees— and as Calix tumbled up behind his sister and adoptive cousin, it was evident in spades that it was taking all of his self-control to keep from immediately plunging into the cool, flowing water.

“Papa!” he chirped. “Papa, it’s so nice, can we go in!?”

“Not yet, kiddo,” Adrian said with a smile as he emerged from the trees and set his tools down. “Let papa check for crocs and set the wards first, okay?”

Once he’d found a spot sufficiently free of sharp stones the children might cut their feet on, Adrian cast a spell on the water that made the entire surface glow yellow-orange. After giving an approving nod- apparently having found no hidden crocodiles- he set a second spell which put a glowing shield ward on either side of the zone he’d decreed safe.

“There you are,” he said cheerily. “Just stay inside the places I’ve marked, and you’re all set. We’ll be upriver a ways where your splashing won’t scare the fish, but where we can still see and hear you.”

“And we’re not ‘lowed to go outside the glowing parts at all?” Calix queried as he barrelled into the water with gleeful abandon. “What if we wanna race past that, Papa, y’know, to show how good we are at long swimming—”

“You can spend the rest of the afternoon showing off how good you are at sitting on the shore watching your cousin and sister play,” Adrian cut in, his voice sharp. Kareena gave Dana’s arm another beckoning tug before dashing into the stream herself with a squeal of joy, and after taking a moment to consider, Dana pulled off her shoes and dress and trailed after her cousin.

“It’s cold,” the northern girl announced as she edged a toe into the water. Her dark eyes glinted, and she set in her other foot. “I like it.”

“It’s real nice when it’s hot out,” Kareena said cheerfully, watching sidelong as the three adults headed upstream. “I think- hey!” She giggled as Ox dashed into the water, sending a cascade of it over her and Calix’s heads.

“Ox!” Calix cackled. “Ox, come back here, you’re gonna swim past the shield!” As the dog, excited by the boy’s voice, dutifully turned and began furiously paddling toward him, the child glanced to his sister and declared, “Reena, we should show Dana all the swimmin’ tricks we know! Hand-stands and - and backstrokes and all the cool things!”

“Yeah!” Kareena agreed, grinning widely. “It’d be so much fun! And we can try to catch minnows too! They’re really little and fast, like, like… Woosh! I bet not even a jaguar could catch a minnow and jaguars are so fast!”

“But how’re we catch ‘em when the grown-ups have the fishin’ stuff?” Dana asked, tilting her head.

“With our hands!” Calix beamed. “It’s fun. They’re slippery. And tiny!”

“You know what else?” Kareena said with a smirk. “I found a river rock with bones in it once! Fish bones!”

“A fish rock?” Dana quirked a brow, wading deeper (the water was now up to her knees). “But rocks aren’t made of fish!”

“It was, I saw it,” Calix said brightly. “She keeps it at home in her drawer, she can show you.”

“Uh-huh,” Kareena agreed brightly. “Just remind me when we go home. But right now…” she darted towards her brother, splashing a huge wave of water at him. “Gotcha!”

“That’s cheating, you can’t start a game of tag without announcin’ its start!” Calix splashed her back, grinning ear to ear. “You’re it!”

Kareena cackled, gesturing with one arm to Dana as the girl continued to waffle in the shallow water. “Come on, Dana, hurry up!”

“Slow down, though, I’m not as good a swimmer as you!” Dana called.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you!” Calix sang. “We can team up ‘gainst Reena together!”

Ox, as if in solidarity, gave a resounding bark, licking Calix on the face and paddling into the shallows towards Dana. As Kareena giggled, Dana finally let out a laugh of her own, daring to edge into the water deeper than she could stand.

“Ox and Cal and me are gonna get you!” she chirped. “Even with your head start!”

“Nuh-uhhhh!” Kareena crowed, turning to swim away. “I’ll never lose!”

***

The stars winked in the sky high overhead as the fishermen and children sat around a roaring bonfire on the beach, all six of them tucking into a meal of sausage and nut bread.

“Spell should keep the fish cold so they don’t go bad before we head back later,” Adrian was saying to his two companions. “Though we need to do some fishing in the ocean tomorrow as long as the good weather holds. Might be worthwhile to take out the pikes and see if we can’t get a good sized shark too.”

“Sharks!” Calix breathed. “If we get a big one, can we keep its teeth?”

Leandre laughed. “Why would you want its teeth, Cal?”

“‘Cos they’re pointy and big and awesome,” Calix replied. He grinned toward Dana. “Have you ever seen a shark?”

“Nuh-uh,” she replied, gnawing on a heel of bread. “Are they fish?”

“They are yes,” Jedrick replied. “Meat eating fish. Like the jaguars of the ocean, more or less. But very tasty, too.”

“They have lots of teeth,” Kareena put in. “So many that you can find some that fell out on the beach sometimes!”

Dana gawped. “That’s scary,” she said. “So— so if you’re just swimming, they can launch up from underwater?”

“They mostly stay away from people,” Leandre said quickly. “They like fishies, not humans.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine, Dana love,” Adrian put in with a reassuring smile. “Crocs are aggressive, but sharks usually leave you alone. There haven’t been any shark attacks in our village in living memory, and we all swim in the ocean all the time.”

“There’s lots of scary animals here,” Dana said solemnly. “We didn’t have so much scary animals where I’m from.”

“What’ve you got there?” Calix asked eagerly. “Do you got bears?”

“Uh-huh,” Dana confirmed. “And… and wolves. But otherwise it’s mostly just… moose and deers and stuff.”

“Well you don’t have to worry about the scary animals, honey,” Adrian assured the girl. “That’s what you have Ox for.”

The dog lifted his head, swishing his plumed tail in the beach sand at the sound of his name. Kareena giggled, then brightened. “Hey, can we go play with Ox in the sand for a while? Before bed.”

“Hm,” Adrian looked pensive. “Alright, but only if you stay where I can see you, and don’t go into the water in your dry clothes.”

“What if we just go in a little?” Calix needled, polishing off the last of his sausage and then leaping eagerly to his feet. “Up to just our ankles.” A beat. “Or knees! Knees are good, Papa.”

“Neither knees nor ankles are good, behave Cal,”Adrian said sternly.

“Wet feet are no fun in the sand anyway,” Jedrick put in with a wink. “Makes it all sticky.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t go in the water, Uncle Adrian,” Dana said softly, wiping the sand off her skirt as she, too, rose. Ox loped over to the girl, bumping his head against her arm, and she smiled, reaching automatically scratch behind his fluffy ears. Adrian chuckled, winking at the girl.

“I know you will, Dana. Now you three go have fun, okay? Watch out for any nesting sea turtles, it’s that season!”

“Ooooh,” Kareena cooed as she lead the children and their dog away from the fire. “That’d be so cool! Next time there’s a big hatching we gotta show you, Dana!”

“Turtles?” Dana asked, falling into step beside Kareena. “Like… like we have in turtle soup?”

“Uh-huh,” Calix agreed. “But the babies are real tiny. And cute. Like puppies, ‘cept turtles!”

“In the fall, at night, they all dig out of eggs in the sand,” Kareena explained. “Loads of ‘em. So many you can’t even see the sand ‘cause of the turtles. And they all try to crawl down to the water. Before they get ate.”

“Ate?” Dana’s brows snapped up to her hairline. “What eats ‘em?”

“Everything!” Calix said, a bit too brightly. “S’why they lay so much eggs, so there’s a couple that don’t get ate.”

“That’s awful,” Dana said. “But— what’s stoppin’ the animals from eating us, then? While we’re camping?”


“That’s Ox’s job,” Kareena explained. “If any leopards or tigers come he’ll growl and bite and scare ‘em away. And he’ll bark really loud too, so we know. ‘Sides, you’ll know if a tiger or a leopard comes.” She made a face like a cat baring it’s fangs. “‘Cause it’ll roar. Roooooooooowwwwwgggg!”

The older girl jumped at her brother, snarling playfully, and in turn he barked laugh, showing off his incisors. Dana, however, only shrunk a little, abruptly hugging her arms to her chest.

“What if it’s more’n one, though?” she murmured. “‘Cos Ox couldn’t take on a whole pack of ‘em. And… and…”

“Jaguars and tigers don’t got packs,” Kareena replied, as if this were obvious. “They’re… they’re… I think Mama said ‘terry-tory-ul?’ They need to eat a lot, and they don’t like to share.”

Seeming to sense Dana’s unease, Ox woofed softly, licking the small girl’s hand. If this comforted her, however, she didn’t show it, her shoulders still drawn in tight as she slowly turned her gaze toward the jungle that rose behind the beach, its dense foliage silhouetted against the inky black night sky.

“We wouldn’t even be able to see ‘em, though,” Dana said. “If… if they was in the trees. Huntin’ us.”

“They can see in the dark, y’know!” Calix added enthusiastically, as if this helped matters any. Kareena thumped him on the head.

“Dana, c’mon, it’s fine,” Kareena said cheerfully. “Don’t you wanna play?”

“I… I dunno.” Dana paused in place, toeing anxiously at the dirt— before suddenly going ramrod straight as an loud, booming bellow cut through the night air, emerging from somewhere within the jungle. The noise was gutteral and resonant, and seemed to go on and on without stop. The little girl’s heart leapt into her throat, her palms turning to ice, and her stomach felt like it was going to explode straight through her skin as the first roar was quickly punctuated by a second— then a third, then a cacophony beyond it.

Kareena jumped a little at the noise, her head snapping towards the forest in surprise. Ox followed the direction of Kareena’s stare for a moment, but just as quickly lowered his head again, unconcerned, and began to sniff at the beach sand. Calix, after startling for a moment, seemed just as nonplussed. As the din continued to radiate out from within the trees, the boy actually grinned, glancing for a moment at his sister before he turned his gaze toward Dana.

… Or at least, where Dana had been: Apparently recovered from her initial shock, the girl was no longer frozen in place in the sand. Instead, she’d taken off clear down the beach, bare feet thumping manically against the ground as she high-tailed it back toward the camp and its blazing bonfire.

“Dana!” Calix called after her, gawping. “Dana, come back!”

But there was no use— the girl didn’t even turn toward him, not breaking her frantic run until she neared the campsite several minutes later. Immediately upon her arrival, Adrian startled to his feet, coming around the blaze to intercept the child.

“Dana, what-”

“Animals,” she whimpered, as a winded Kareena, Calix, and Ox lumbered into the camp behind her, looking thoroughly befuddled. The noise rode the air behind them like a kite, more distant here than it was further down the beach, but still reverberating. Menacing. It mingled with Dana’s frantic voice as she added: “In the trees! That noise! It— it’s— t-t-tigers or j-j-jaguars and they’re gonna eat us and—”

“Tigers? Jaguars?” Adrian repeated, kneeling and drawing the clearly terrified child into a hug. “Honey, what are you talking about?”

“You mean the noises in the trees?” Jedrick asked, standing and coming up beside them. “Hun, those are just monkeys."

“Nuh-uh!” Dana bleated, her voice shaking like a blade of grass in heavy wind. “M-m-monkeys chirp and— and make… h-hootin’ noises, but this… this...”

“Different monkeys make different sounds, sweetheart,” Leandre said. “But that’s all it is— I promise.”

Adrian looked down at the clearly terrified child and gave a soft sigh. He very gently plucked Dana up into his arms. “Kareena, Calix, I want you two to stay with Leandre and Jedrick okay?”

“Are you goin’ somewhere?” Kareena demanded

“Just for a little bit,” he replied, stroking Dana’s hair. “Ox, heel.”

“Where’re we g-g-goin?” Dana whimpered, fidgeting in her uncle’s arms. “I d-don’t wanna go closer to the sound— th-the jaguars are gonna h-hurt us, they’re—”

“It’s not jaguars, baby,” Adrian said soothingly, as he took off at a casual walk back in the direction the children had come from, the dog trailing obediently at his heels. “Those are a kind of monkey- a loud and scary sounding kind, but still just monkeys. Because of the noise they make, we call them howler monkeys. I’m going to show them to you- and you don’t need to be scared, because Ox is with us and I have my wand too. I was in the army like your mama, remember?”

Dana sniffled, burying her face into Adrian’s shoulder as he continued down the beach, the noise growing louder the closer they drew to it. “D-d-do you know spells i-in case it is a jaguar?” She hiccupped. “M-Mama knows lotsa spells. From a-a-all places.”

“Mm-hm,” he said, stroking her back and leaning his cheek against the side of her head. “I know stunning spells, and force spells, and lightning spells, and fireball spells, and all kinds. You’re completely safe with me, love, I promise.”

Adrian finally reached the treeline, walking into the dense jungle foliage. As he did so, the guttural roaring seemed to be echoing all around them, drowning out any other ambient noises. A slight smile ticking at his lips, Adrian tickled Dana’s cheek and said, “Look up, honey. Into the trees.”

Reluctantly, she obliged, her eyes glossy with tears as she turned them toward the jungle canopy above— and, through the dimness, immediately spied dozens of figures silhouetted amidst the tangle of branches and leaves. As they seemed to spy the humans in turn, the troop quickly scurried away, the branches cracking in their wake and the night air buzzing with the receding sound of their calls.

“M-monkeys,” Dana stammered, sniffling.

“Monkeys,” Adrian agreed. “Very loud monkeys- you can hear them calling from three miles away- but just monkeys. And seeing how fast they’re running, more scared of you than you are of them, huh?”

“Th-they sound scary,” Dana sniveled simply, reaching up to wipe at her tear-filled eyes. “I th-thought they was… they was…” Her jaw chattered. “I’m s-s-sorry, Uncle Adrian.”

“No need to be sorry, baby,” he soothed, giving the child a cuddle. “I should’ve warned you about the howler monkeys. It’s my fault. And I need to give Kareena and Cal a thumping for telling you so many scary stories about the jungle. There’s lots of pretty and cute animals here too, especially since it’s the spring and the animals are having babies.” He grinned suddenly. “You haven’t seen a kinkajou yet, have you? They’re only out at nighttime when you kids are usually in bed.”

“A-are they a monkey?” Dana asked. She chewed her lip. “Do they make scary noises?”

“They look kind of like if you mixed a monkey with a weasel,” Adrian explained, once again setting off, deeper into the jungle. “And no, they’re very quiet. During the day they sleep in tree hollows, and I happened to see a kinkajou nest while we were fishing earlier.”

“R-really?” Dana said. “W-was there kink-jous in it?”

“I didn’t look because I didn’t want to wake them up if they were asleep,” Adrian replied, as he stepped once more out into the clearing where the stream was, Ox still trailing faithfully at his heel. “But we can find out right now- look!”

He pointed up into a nearby tree, where a raccoon sized tan animal was presently burying its nose in a large white flower, a long tongue lapping at the flower’s nectar. It held the flower in place with two monkey like hands, and balanced itself with a long prehensile tail.

“Ooh,” Dana breathed, as Ox cocked his head, apprising the small, strange creature. “I-it’s little. Cute.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Adrian agreed. “They mostly eat fruits, but in the springtime they lick the flowers up. It makes their faces turn all yellow and dusty from the pollen, so they look like they have golden beards.”

“And… a-and the tigers and jaguars d-don’t eat them?” Dana asked.

“Dana, sweetie, jaguars and tigers are very rare,” Adrian said, cupping the little girl’s cheek with one hand and turning her face towards his. “We have the dogs and the bells to protect against them just in case, but we don’t see any hardly ever. Know what kinds of animals see mostly? Monkeys. Macaws. Lizards.” He tickled her neck. “Like that one magic lizard you saw with the funny headsail that ran across the river back in town.”

“B-but… Kareena and Calix said th-that—”

“Kareena and Calix were being dramatic,” the child’s uncle said, rolling his eyes. “They didn’t act like they were all that scared of their own stories, did they?”

“Nuh-uh,” Dana admitted. “But I j-just… thought they was brave ‘cos th-they grew up here, and… th-they’re used to all the animals.” She exhaled softly. “I’m s-s-sorry,” the girl said again. “For… for p-panicking. ‘Bout nothing.”

“You’re just a little girl, Dana, and you’re new,” Adrian replied. “I’m not mad that you were scared of something you’ve never heard before that was loud and probably sounded an awful lot like a bear roaring. You can come to me when you’re scared. That’s what I’m here for.”

“I f-feel bad, though,” Dana whispered. “‘Cos… ‘cos you and Aunt Chryssa d-didn’t a-ask to have me, Mama j-just… left me with you, and… and you’re already s-so busy and—”

“Shhhh,” Adrian sat down in the leaf litter on the jungle floor, settling Dana in his lap and putting a finger over her lips. “I know we didn’t ask for you, Dana. And yes, it was a little strange at first when your Mama came home after two years with a new adopted daughter. But you know what? None of that matters. You see Selene Argyris as your mama, right? And you’re proud to have her last name?”

“Uh-huh,” Dana agreed. “Sh-she saved me. And… and she loves me. E-even when n-no one else did.”

“Then that’s enough for us to want to take care of you,” Adrian replied. “Because Selene is my wife’s baby sister, and if she’s your mama that makes you our family.”

“Y-you’re nice,” Dana said, resting her cheek against Adrian’s chest. “L-like my uncle was. A-and my papa.”

“I’m glad you think so, honey,” Adrian replied, wrapping his arms around the little girl. “Calix seems to think I’m a cruel monster.”

The child let a wobbly smile furl between her lips. “H-he likes to do naughty things,” she said. “Even when he knows he’s not s’posed to.”

“That he does,” her uncle agreed dryly. “And then he likes to act like he had no idea what he was doing was bad when he gets the paddle.” He watched in silence for a time as Ox sniffed around the clearing, cuddling Dana to his chest. After a moment he said, “Hey, I have an idea for something that could be fun tomorrow, when we’re done fishing.”

“W-what?” she asked, stifling a yawn, as her adrenaline finally began to ebb and the long day started to catch up with her.

Adrian stood, whistling for Ox and starting back towards the beach. “I showed you the kinkajou because your cousins were scaring you with silly stories about tigers and jaguars, so I should show you something cute in the ocean since they were also scaring you with silly stories about sharks. Tell me Dana, has anybody told you what a dolphin is yet?”

“Ummm.” Dana gnawed on her lip, mulling. “I’unno. A-are they fishes, too?”

“Sort of,” Adrian replied. “But they’re like… like doggies in the water kind of. Very friendly. They’ll swim right up to a boat and take treats from you, and let you touch them. And they can do flips! They’ll jump out over the water and dive back in. And you know the coolest thing about dolphins? They sometimes save people who fell in the water. There’s a girl in the village who fell off a boat and almost drowned, but then dolphins came up and pushed her back to the surface.”

“R-really?” Dana asked. “That’s neat. Th-they sound fun. A-and cuter’n most fishes.” She swallowed hard. “I-in Valla, a-at the palace, they’ve got fishes in tanks. At the m-menagerie. I got to p-pet sea stars. And stingrays. They weren’t as slippery as I thought they’d be. Mama e-even got to hold a baby one.”

“O-oh, did you?” Adrian asked, his steps faltering momentarily at what the girl had just told him. “That. That must’ve been exciting. I’ve never been t-to the palace before.”

“I didn’t like it much,” Dana said, yawning again. “I-it was too big. And… the king was sc-scary. Even though Mama said I sh-shouldn’t be scared.”

“Y-you… you met the king?” Adrian asked, his voice emerging as a squeak.

“... Uh-huh,” Dana confirmed, though there was a hitch to her voice now, as if it had occurred to her suddenly that she might be saying too much. Very hesitantly, she added, “J-just for a little. Mostly Mama t-talked to him. Not me.”

“I s-see. “ Adrian swallowed hard, then forced cheer back into his voice. “That must have been scary. After that I don’t think you should be afraid of anything in the jungle. Especially not silly monkeys.”

“And… and you and Ox’ll protect me anyway,” she murmured in agreement. “C-can I sleep between you and him, Uncle Adrian? J-just… just in case.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me,” Adrian agreed, relieved that Dana had gone along with the ungraceful change of topic so easily. “You can be all nice and cozy between us.” More softly he added, “I love you, Dana. And I’m glad you’re part of our family now.”

“Y-you are?” Dana asked. Then: “I… I love you, too, Uncle Adrian. Th-thank you for bein’ so nice to me. ‘Bout… e-everything.”

“I am,” he confirmed, kissing the girl on top of her head. “And you’re very welcome, baby. Now let’s go see if there’s any sugared almonds left for you to snack on before we all turn in for the night.”

“Okay,” Dana agreed. “Th-that sounds good. Thank you.”

“No problem at all.”

[Shinko]

My first solo fic in a long while! This one is short and silly, taking place somewhere in eastern Macarinth in 1322.

Lessons in Normal Teenage-ness

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a full moon night in the Macarinthian city of Swansea, along the border with Synedon. Local people chattered with each other as they went about their business, militiamen patrolled the streets, and merchants were either closing up shop for the day or, in a few optimistic cases, putting torches out front to provide light to draw in any latecoming patrons.

The late night quiet was somewhat disturbed when the local citizens noticed two strangers walking in their midst- young men, new to the town. One had pale, white-blonde hair, a cheerful expression, and a slight flounce in his step as he walked, clearly leading his more subdued companion. The second man was much darker, his skin like coffee grounds, and he was wearing a turban around his head and neck.

“Ah, why everyone is look much?” the darker man asked, speaking not in Macarinthian but instead in very choppy, heavily accented Lyellian. “I not… good.”

“You mean you don’t like,” the blonde corrected with a reassuring smile. “And they’re all looking because we’re strangers and they’re curious, that’s all. Don’t worry about it, Phyllo, they won’t bother us.”

Phyllo made a vague, frustrated noise, picking up his pace so that he was standing closer to his companion. “Still don’t like, Fons. In Meltaim, looks from crowd bad. Was… was good, no notice. There, but nobody see.”

“That’s understandable,” Fons- Alfonso Alesci- replied soothingly. “But you aren’t a slave anymore. You don’t have to be afraid of people paying attention to you. Besides, Ezio is with us, as Uncle insisted when he approved my night off. He’ll protect us.”

Fons gestured to a tall, burly Lyellian man standing several paces behind the duo. He had a sword strapped to his waist, and he was wearing thin, flexible leather armor to match a no-nonsense scowl as his gaze swept the crowd. However, when he realized that Alfonso and Phyllo were looking in his direction, Ezio spared the both of them a thin, reassuring smile. He was one of the many mercenaries hired out by the Alesci family to protect their trade caravans as they travelled across Avani. Having been a guard for the caravan of Alfonso’s uncle, Sansone Alesci, for nearly eight years, Ezio was by this point very experienced and very loyal.

“Besides,” Fons went on, “You left Meltaim; you are free. You should enjoy being free.”

At this, Phyllo actually managed a dry laugh. “Enjoy? You say now, when morning will be no joy. No joy at all. See master when drink much, very bad kac.”

“The word you want is ‘hangover,’” Alfonso said cheerily. “And don’t worry, we won’t be drinking that much. I promised Uncle that we would be responsible after all. Just enough to get tipsy, then Ezio will cut us off if we try to go further in our stupors. Phyllo, really; you are seventeen. A teenager. You should get the chance to see what it is like to really be a teenager. I promise, it’s fun if you’ll give it a chance.”

“I already say yes,” Phyllo pointed out. “Let you take from Zuzia.”

“I personally think you and your wife could both benefit from a little time apart anyway,” Fons said with a smirk, turning to continue down the street as Phyllo and Ezio dutifully trailed after him. “It’s great that you love each other so much, but you can have other friends and pursue separate pastimes.”

Phyllo rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond to that comment. At length they arrived at what appeared to be Alfonso’s destination- a small but noisy pub. The sign out front had a stylized water fowl wearing a crown.

“The Royal Swan,” Fons said. “Some of the old hands who’ve run this route before recommended it to me. Bit of a hole in the wall, but well kept up, and they don’t tolerate rabble rousers.”

“Rabb… what?” Phyllo queried, following the Lyellian into the pub.

“Ah, it means people that make trouble,” Fons clarified. “Get drunk and get into fights.”

Phyllo tensed instinctively as the noise inside the building hit him like a wall. Dozens of people chattering, laughing, and singing all at once. He swallowed hard, feeling his adam's apple catch on the bronze slave collar hidden under his turban.

Relax, he admonished himself sternly. Fons is right, you’re free now. Nobody is going to punish you for sitting in a bar and drinking. Just enjoy yourself for once in your life.

Fons chose a table close to the rear wall, allowing Ezio to take up a watchful position leaning against the wall in case there was trouble. The teenage Lyellian gestured for Phyllo to sit, which the dark boy did nervously- but under the nervousness, there was a growing undercurrent of excitement as well. It startled Phyllo to realize, but in a way it was a relief as well. His training in Meltaim was still very much with him, and it probably would be to some degree for the rest of his life, but there was part of him that was still capable of being a kid, excited to do something fun and a little bit reckless just because he could.

“You’ve sipped wine with us at the caravan before,” Alfonso said as he watched the waitress making her rounds, “but that was always in small amounts. Now we’re drinking to get drunk, so you’ll want something else. Not anything too strong, though, not for your first time. Probably we should stick to beer.”

“You know, not me,” Phyllo replied, deferring to the Lyellian’s judgement.

Fons put in the order once the waitress had reached their table, and a few minutes later each of the men had a tankard of beer plunked down in front of them. The Lyellian experimentally sniffed at the beer, then grinned. “Good, not the cheap goat urine that passes for alcohol in some places.” Taking an experimental sip, he grinned even more broadly. “And not watered down either. My friends were right about this place.”

Phyllo mirrored his companion, taking a sip of the drink. He immediately flinched, forcing himself to swallow it down but immediately thereafter making a face that prompted a loud peal of laughter from Fons. “It’s a bit of an acquired taste,” the blonde admitted cheerily. “That unpleasant flavor you’re tasting is the hops- it’s a plant mixed in with the beer during brewing to make it less overwhelmingly sweet, and to keep it from going bad longer. But it is rather bitter, especially if you’re not ready for it.”

“You don’t say?” Phyllo retorted sarcastically, making Fons chuckle again, the Lyellian’s expression unapologetic. The darker man took another sip, gave another wince, and quickly groped for a change of subject so that Alfonso wouldn’t keep laughing at him.

“So… you mother is Kythian?” he ventured, knowing this was the case because Fons had been using that fact to help teach Phyllo and his wife the Kythian language. “Where from, and how to Lyell came?”

“Mother is from Corvus,” Alfonso replied, absently continuing to sip his beer. “She was a minor noble- minor means ‘less important.’ Anyway, she was born to a family called ‘Cressida’ who married her to my father as part of a trade deal.”

“Ah,” Phyllo nodded shrewdly. “Was set up marriage? Not love?”

“Not love,” Fons agreed. “But Mother and Father get on well anyway. Papa is very protective of her, even if she doesn’t really need it, and she finds it sweet.”

“You is to be head of family after Father?” Phyllo ventured. “Also set up marriage?”

“Eventually, yes,” Fons agreed. “Not yet, but probably not too long after this trek. I’m of-age now, and travelling this route with Uncle Sansone is the last rite of passage for me, so I can’t see it being put off too much longer.”

Phyllo took another sip of the beer, his expression distant. “Is sad. Would be lost with no Zuzia.”

“Ah, you have such a one track mind,” Fons said, giving the Valzick a light punch on the arm. “Not everybody needs a passionate romance to feel complete you know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for you, but I’d be just as well with a close friend. You know, with benefits.”

The blonde waggled his eyebrows, and Phyllo felt his face heating up. He hurriedly applied himself to the mug of beer, taking a much bigger gulp in his haste and consequently almost gagging on it. Alfonso snorted, shaking his head in amusement. “Oh don’t pretend you’re some innocent chaste youngster, you and Zuzanna are cozy enough I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Not talk about it,” Phyllo said firmly, his cheeks feeling like someone was running a forgefire under them. “Much more beer first.”

“Fair enough,” Fons agreed with a crooked smile. “Poor Phyllo, never really had someone to talk about this kind of thing with did you?”

“Learn what I know from talk of other slaves,” he confirmed. “They talk, I listen, I learn.” Blushing harder he added, “Not fun learn at first.”

“At least you have a better instructor for drunkenness, hm?” Fons lifted his mug, taking a swift swig of it. The Valzick man rolled his eyes, mirroring the Lyellian.

“How long?” he asked. Alfonso shrugged.

“This being your first time, I’d say two, three at most before it hits you. Don’t worry about it too much, it’ll come when it comes. Just relax and have fun, hm?”

Phyllo took Alfonso’s word for it, continuing to drink his beer and focusing more on the conversation with the Lyellian than on waiting for the alcohol to hit him. Halfway into his second mug, he started to feel very warm, and had to sternly remind himself not to take off the turban that was hiding his slave collar and blank brand. It was partway into his third drink, however, when his eyes started to blur and he impulsively blinked in a futile effort to clear them that Fons smiled.

“Ah, there we go, you’re definitely feeling it now.”

“Mm,” Phyllo agreed, grinning sheepishly. “Eyes funny.”

“That’s normal,” the Lyellian soothed. “I bet you feel dizzy too. Like your head is lurching?”

Phyllo considered this for a moment. He felt fine, really. Experimentally he tried to stand, but almost immediately the room around him started to spin, and with a yelp and a laugh he let himself fall back into the chair. Fons smirked, a patent “told you so” expression before taking another sip of his own drink.

“Is… is like on water. Up and down,” Phyllo said, trying and failing to come up with what he wanted to say in Lyellian.

“Floating, I think you mean,” Alfonso supplied. “Like you’re floating.” He demonstratively moved his arm like it was bobbing on the surface of a body of water, and Phyllo nodded emphatically.

“Yes. Floating. Head is floating. Light.” He laughed. “Is good.”

“It does feel nice, doesn’t it?” Fons winked. “Of course you don’t want to go overboard, because then you go from nice floating to unpleasant lurching and start getting sick everywhere. But I think if we stop you at this third drink we’ll keep you in the pleasant level of drunkenness when it starts affecting you more.”

Phyllo chuckled. “You is boss.”

“Not tonight I’m not,” Fons chided. “I’m off duty. Tonight I’m just a friend.”

“A friend,” Phyllo agreed. Sniggering he added, “with deep pockets for buy much beer.”

“You slander me,” Fons cried, putting his hand to his heart as if he were wounded. “Making me out like some drunkard. We are going to get happily drunk, not stupidly drunk. Even if I could probably afford the later.”

“Zuzia and Sansone is be not happy if we were stupid drunk,” Phyllo agreed. Lifting his mug again, he chirped, “Cheers!”

Alfonso was quite amused by how cheery the former slave was already, with the alcohol barely starting to affect him. It was a good sign- pleasant drunks made for much better company than sad or angry ones.

“Woo, you are such a lightweight,” he teased. At the blank’s confused expression upon hearing the unfamiliar term, Fons clarified, “It means you do not take much to become drunk.”

“Bah,” Phyllo waved a hand dismissively. “Is point anyway, yes? So not so bad is lightweight. We has fun tonight.”

“Yes,” Alfonso agreed with a smile. “We will have fun tonight. Maybe if I get you to swill enough of this you’ll sing a song with me.”

Phyllo sniggered, shaking his head. “Will not.”

“That sounded like a challenge- c’mon Phyllo let’s see how long a pious Valzick boy takes before he surrenders to the allure of bawdy bar songs.”

Phyllo grinned, a small giggle emerging from his mouth. "You on."

[Shinko]

Okay so! Finally trying to force brain to cooperate on a solo-fic after like... over a year now. 8'D This is a plot thread I've been wanting to touch on for a long while, but with some encouragement from Tiger I'm finally getting going on it. Hope you all enjoy!

Eyes of the Heart: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

The summer song of the cicadas was a near constant drone in the air as four tired, dusty riders came into view along the road through the pine forest. They were astride huge muscular horses (two of which were leading pack mules) and all of them were armed and armored, marking them out to anyone who saw them as not just any group heading up the road; knights.

These were not knights on any particular alert, however. Their pace was gentle, their posture relaxed, and their helms hooked over the pommels of their saddles in a clear indication that wherever they were, they felt completely safe. Two of their number, in the rear guard position that should have had them keeping an eye on their surroundings, were even engaged in a cheery conversation that made it plain they weren’t paying much mind to keeping watch.

“Ophelia should be back from her parlay with House Andesine by now,” remarked the smaller of the two, a man with hair as black as jet and eyes like chips of amber. He had slightly tapered ears that peeked out behind his hair, marking him as a half-elf. “With luck she’ll have liberty that we can find some enjoyable diversion when we get back to the city.”

“You visit with your sister, Sieg,” the taller man replied, brushing dark blonde bangs away from his face. “I’ll be fielding a six year old’s proclamations about the unfairness of the world.”

Though his ears were much longer than Sieg’s, and to most people he would have appeared no different from his pureblood elf squadmates, he too had a feature that identified him as having human ancestry- though several generations removed. The man’s eyes were the talebearers- dark, chocolatey brown, a color never seen in pureblood elves.

“Don’t speak so ill of a thing you know you enjoy” Sieg admonished with a smirk. “A blind man could see the affection you bear for Haydn, Estienne.”

“Only because he looks so like Colombe,” Estienne retorted, a very small smile ticking at his lips. “It is a thing of injustice, for our boy to so resemble the woman who plucks the harpstrings of my heart with the ease of a bard. I could not but love Haydn given that.”

“Oh of course,” Sieg retorted. “And it has naught to do with the way he grins up at your and burbles ‘Papa, Papa! You comed hoooome!’ and tackles your legs out from under you.”

“Such slander,” Estienne said mournfully. Hand drifting to the wand at his hip, he added, “Perhaps if I were to spell your flapping jaw closed I would know peace.”

“No,” the half-elf replied. “Because then I would look at you beseechingly and with utmost patheticness until you surrendered and unglued my mouth.”

“A cheater as well as a slanderer!” Estienne hissed. “Such ill-fitting behavior for a knight, I ought-”

“If thou art done jabbering, Sirs Braham and Vaillancourt,” came an exaggeratedly haughty voice, “then perhaps you would like to move your butts? If your swords were as fast as your mouths we’d have been done and home days ago!”

“Aye, Captain,” the rearguard duo chorused sheepishly. The platinum-blonde elf woman who was riding at the head of the pack shot them one last aggrieved look before returning her focus to the road in front of them. Estienne shook his head.

“Captain Senta is in a most foul temper today,” he observed in an undertone.

“You say that as if t’were a strange thing,” Sieg retorted with a crooked grin. “That’s how you can tell we’re at the end of a successful mission- all seeming of dignity and chivalry is done away with and the captain becomes as a petulant child denied a candy bar.”

The mage chuckled. “Perhaps I misspoke- the real wonder is that she presents so energetic a front t’is not yet even noon. Were it any other day she would be yet in a half-asleep stupor.”

“I heard that,” Senta called back. “You two want to spend the rest of today cleaning latrines while I soak up to my chin in a cool spring? It can be arranged.”

“I think the boys are as eager to get home as you are, Captain,” piped up the fourth member of the squad, a woman with dark brown hair restrained in a tail at the base of her skull. Glancing back towards the men with sparkling amber eyes, she added, “They’re getting a head-start on being off duty is all.”

“Gisila has the right of it,” Sieg chirped, his shoulders held up so that he looked rather like a turtle trying to hid in its shell. “We’re just glad to be yet close to home, is all.”

Senta sighed, “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s hot out and I have a headache, so could you and Brownie keep it down, at least? And not talk about me like I’m not here I’d appreciate that too.”

“Yes ma’am,” Estienne replied. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“We should be close to Kolanth, shouldn’t we?” Gisila put in. “We could stop at the tavern there to cool off for a bit before carrying on to Nid’aigle.”

“I’d as soon get home as quickly as possible,” Senta said, shaking her head. “We still have to go to our debriefing once we get back to the city, and I’d like to handle that before it gets so hot out that I don’t want to leave the barracks building to walk home.”

There was a round of “Aye, Captain” before the group fell silent.

It was late March of 1310, the bare beginning of spring, but as Senta indicated it was already starting to heat up significantly despite the early season. For the past two or three years Kyth had been laboring under an ever-intensifying drought, and low rainfall meant the normally temperate months of spring and autumn were spiking uncomfortably hot. Senta was far from the only one to get a headache from the heat- all of them had suffered a bit from it during the course of their most recent mission to stop a group of racketeers from hoarding a freshwater spring and charging the nearby villagers to drink from it.

“If it’s any consolation,” Gisila said after a time, “I’m as eager to see my sister as you are your wife and son, Estienne. That mission took far longer than it really should have.”

“Maybe if the ‘Pit spawn hadn’t vanished like mist in the sun every time we got close,” Sieg grumbled, his formal speech momentarily lapsing in his irritation at the memory.

“It is ever thus,” Estienne replied. “At least we did bring the fiends to justice when all was said and done. Even if-”

The mage broke off as the sound of rapid hoofbeats sounded further up the road. The knights all tensed instinctively, but relaxed a moment later when the approaching person turned out to be yet a fifth elf in armor astride his warhorse. He had hair like a firebrand, bright orange in color, and eyes the pale green of peridots.

“Sir Alarie reporting in,” he called to them. “We’re all clear for at least half a mile in all directions- I was scouting ahead and Kolanth is coming up fast.”

“Good,” Senta replied, jerking her head towards the four knights behind her. “Take your place in formation then, we’ve no need for a scout this close to friendly territory. We’ll stop in Kolanth to water our mounts before moving on.”

“Water our mounts and ourselves, I hope?” asked the newcomer, one Gaurin Alarie. Estienne made a noise of sorrow.

“Nah, the captain hath already declined us that request. We yet ride past Kolanth, unwatered and unrested.”

Gaurin frowned slightly as he took his place slightly behind Senta in formation. “Is that wise, Captain? It’s still three hours beyond Kolanth to Nid’aigle. One if we push the warhorses, but in this weather that seems like a poor idea.”

“Who’s the captain here, Buttercup,” Senta demanded, pursing her lips. “Me or you?”

Gaurin scowled slightly, a flush crawling across his nose. “Please stop calling me that, Captain.”

Sieg rolled his eyes. “Methinks there will be no captain at all, nor a squad left to be captained, if all of us dost perish from this abominable heat,” He noted to Estienne dryly prompting another exasperated sigh from Senta.

“I heard that. Woo, what are you all, knights or daffodils?”

“Technically,” Gisila put in cheerfully, “Gaurin’s a buttercup.”

Senta rubbed her face. “Alright, fine. You want to ride on through the hottest part of the day? We’ll stop for a pint in Kolanth. But no longer than an hour, you hear me?”

The excited, relieved grins the squad traded- with the exception of Gaurin who never smiled anyway- made it clear they had every intention of making the most of that hour.

As Gaurin had indicated, the group arrived at the human town of Kolanth about twenty minutes later, the people there nodding their heads respectfully as the group of knights passed, a few younger children pointing and chattering excitedly. Sieg smiled towards a pair of little girls, waving and making them giggle and chatter amongst each other. Estienne followed his gaze, the elf’s eyes softening as he caught sight of the children.

“What sayst the little ones?” he inquired- none of the squad except for Sieg spoke Kythian.

“Oh, just excited the elf knight noticed them,” Sieg replied with a chuckle. “The littler one said she’s ‘like a real live princess.’”

Estienne laughed, shaking his head. “Ah to be a child and see the world so simply. I envy them.”

“You want to be a princess too, Estienne?” Gisila quipped. At this both Sieg and Estienne laughed, and even Senta snorted. Gaurin rolled his eyes, but at least he kept his derision to himself otherwise.

They tied up their horses at the trough in front of the local tavern, and the five knights entered. Sieg quickly figured out what all of his companions wanted to order, and translated for them when the waitress stopped by their table. Once she’d returned with the squad’s drinks, they eagerly settled in to make the most of their rest stop, continuing the conversation on princesses that had started outside.

“I keep telling you,” Gisila insisted, “mark my words, King Starmey isn’t going to be able to keep battening off marriage proposals for Princess Destiney much longer. She is his defacto heir, in the absence of any sons- she has to wed.”

“Probably he’ll marry her to one of the Rindfell Ascensions,” Gaurin noted dourly. “To keep her family name the same and keep his house in power. I can’t imagine any of the other major houses consenting to a male of their family giving up his surname.”

“Lord Joffery turns sixteen soon,” Gisila noted. “I wonder if Lord Everett will try to convince the king to marry Destiney to her. He’d have to give up Joffery as his own heir, but he has other sons.”

Senta rolled her eyes. “Leave it to humans to see their own children as pretty baubles to trade for power. I’ve never understood the idea of having so little regard for the happiness and wellbeing of your own offspring.”

“Hey, not all humans care for their children so little,” Sieg objected.

“Nah, tis but the nobles who think so narrowly,” Estienne agreed. “Poor little girls would not truly like to be princesses- it is oft less pleasant than wondertales would play it up.”

“It’s a shame the royals would never consider a political arrangement with the elves,” Gisila mused. “Not a marriage, of course, but just… a voice. In their court.”

“We are a minority so small we are not worth having representation,” Gaurin noted, his mouth twisted. “At least not by human estimation.”

“Which is a shame, since numbers aren’t everything,” Senta observed. “And it’s the fault of the ancient humans we’re so diminished in the first place.”

Sieg frowned, looking down at the drink on the table before him, but didn’t comment. Noticing his dour look, Estienne clapped the younger knight on the shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, my friend. They mean not to deride you, human blood or no. It is in broad strokes they speak.”

“Still,” Sieg murmured. “What says it, that the broad stroke would paint humans so dour?”

“It says that we hold a well deserved grudge,” Gaurin growled, his hands tightening on his own drink. “Maybe the humans of today are not the ones who drove us out all those centuries ago, but they are still as haughty as their forebears, thinking themselves above our race and more worthy simply by virtue of their numbers.”

“Hackles down, Buttercup,” Senta cut in sternly. Gaurin started a bit, then looked away, muttering. The captain sighed, addressing Sieg. “Don’t take him personally, Songbird. Nothing the humans do or have done is your fault, regardless of what the conservatives think.”

“I know,” Sieg agreed, forcing a smile. “Don’t mind me, I’m fine. My unhappy thoughts need not sour our celebration of a mission will won. Gissy, what was that about Lord Joffery?”

Gisela frowned, her brows furrowed with concern. She knew Sieg’s smile of old, and did not in the least like it. But now wasn’t the time to press. Instead she adopted a strained smile of her own. “Oh, just that he is of an age with Princess Destiney, so seems a likely candidate. And we all know Jade were the original ruling house of what is today Kyth, before the rise of House Ascension, so-”

The conversation drifted from that point, until Sieg’s brooding seemed to have been forgotten. The elves talked, and laughed, and relaxed as they had not been able to since leaving Nid’aigle a few weeks before. It was a relief, to finally be able to unwind. To simply enjoy one another’s company, with no strings attached.

Finally, Senta clapped her hands, pushing herself into a standing position. “Alright kids, enough lollygagging. The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we can really relax. At home. With all our dear little families.”

There was some good natured griping from Estienne, Gisila and Sieg, but the knights all rose obediently, eager as their captain to finally be home.

Eyes of the Heart: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

“Come from the forest and sit 'round the fire
Come from the fields and enter our hall
Come drink from the guest-cup
Come join in our circle
Come and be welcome ye bards one and all.”

Sieg grinned toothily as Gisila and Estienne both chimed in on the song’s chorus. Though the lyrics where in Kythian, it was the young half-elf’s favorite song, and he’d song it often enough while the squad was on the road, or camped, or sharing a pint at an inn, that they could sing along with the chorus even if they didn’t know precisely what the words meant. Which was fortunate, since most of the songs in their native Elvish were a lot less bouncy and fun for passing time on a long road trip.

With the next verse starting, Sieg again took up the thread alone, making the truth of Senta’s “songbird” nickname for him.

“Come and be welcome, oh noble court poet,
The treasure of knowledge is kept in your words,
So unlock the riches of rhyme and of-”

“Ware!”

Gaurin’s voice cut sharply over Sieg’s singing, and all of the knight’s immediately snapped to attention as their outrider pounded towards them from further up the road. Unlike the previous time, his expression and posture were decidedly tense, and it was clear that he wasn’t just rejoining the rest of the group out of boredom.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Buttercup,” Senta noted dryly, though her expression was deadly serious.. “I trust you have something to report, since you’re coming at us like you have a demon on your tail?”

He clenched his jaw, nodding. “I saw Commander Hasek. She’s riding out in the forest. With two squads fanned out every which way about her.”

That certainly got everyone’s attention, the knights trading concerned glances. “Gaurin,” Sieg ventured, “the commander is out in the forest? What is she doing out in the forest? And with two squads, she’s clearly not on a lark, but if she were going out on a mission they wouldn’t be fanned out in the trees, they’d be in formation on the road-”

“Yes,” Gaurin snapped impatiently. “I know that. I asked, but she said it was better we all heard it at once. She’s waiting for us further up the road.”

“With another assignment, no doubt,” Senta remarked, sounding aggrieved. “If it’s so serious she’s out personally. We just finished and now she’s going to send us off to court the swords of barbarians and confirm our own mortality. Again.”

***

Soon enough, the squad caught up with where Gaurin had been scouting ahead of them. They could indeed see a small cluster of their fellow elven knights gathered about. At the head of the pack was a tall elf woman with short-cropped golden blonde hair and bright scarlet eyes; Anri Hasek, their commander.

“Captain Fresnel,” she said formally, as Senta gestured for the squad to halt behind her. “Forgive me for the suddenness of this, but I’m afraid I must ask you and your knights to ride out again.”

“Why?” Senta asked bluntly.

Anri massaged her forehead, impatience flickering across her expression. The knights in Senta’s squad averted their gazes, embarrassed, as the commander said in a very controlled tone, “I would hope by now you would have a little more faith in me, Captain. I don’t make my decisions on a whim, you know.”

“That doesn’t make me redact my question,” Senta retorted. “Why must my men and I turn right back around in this Wooforsaken heat and sweat our way right back up the road when we can clearly see that you have two squads worth of bodyguards with you that you could chose from for whatever this mission is.”

“Watch your tone, Captain Fresnel,” Anri snarled waspishly. With a sigh, she added more calmly, “Look, I know you’re all tired. I understand that. But I’m sending out your squad because I believe Sir Vaillancourt’s abilities will be of tremendous use in this mission.”

Estienne tensed, frowning. “M-my abilities, Commander? Why, what’s happened?

“Courdonians,” Anri hissed. “It never ends- they hit several of the outbuildings beyond the orchards last night. We think they had a mage with them- managed to slip right by our sentries without being seen. We took down three of the raiders, but by our estimate they managed to make off with at least five of our citizens under the cover of whatever foul magic they were using. You can help us track them”

“But C-commander,” Estienne objected, “the talent that my bloodline affords me is weakened by the dilution of Elvish generations. I need a focus-”

“That you are strongly tied to, yes I’m aware,” Anri cut in, her expression now almost apologetic. “And you’ll have one.” She rubbed her face. “Colombe, Sir Vaillancourt. Your son Haydn was spending the night with his grandmother at the time, but the raiders have Colombe.”

“No,” the elf mage snarled immediately, his back going ramrod straight. Sieg glanced towards his friend with a wince at the agony in the elf’s voice. “You… no that’s not- we don’t live past the orchards, what would she have been doing out there?”

“From what I understand, she was visiting her elder brother and helping him with some work he was behind on” Anri replied, her gaze turned downwards. “That’s why Haydn wasn’t with her. I’m sorry, Sir Vaillancourt. I truly am. But you do stand the best chance of being able to track these men in spite of their magic.”

Senta’s anger had visibly deflated, and she was raking a hand through her hair resignedly. Gisila and Gaurin traded expressions that mingled concern with simmering fury- but fury at the Courdonians, not at Anri.

“Wh-wherefore do we tary, then?” Estienne demanded, his brown eyes going wide with panic as he yanked his horse around. “We must move, and quickly, before-”

“Estienne, no!” Sieg snapped, his hand snaking out to grab the elf’s arm. “I know you wish to save your wife, but think first with your head, not your heart! If we ride unprepared we will be of ill service to her.”

“The Courdonians have yet a half day’s headstart!” Estienne hissed. “We must go after them, now, before they get fully out of my range!”

“Stand down, Sir Vaillaincourt,” Senta cut in, her voice like ice. “That’s an order.”

“B-but-”

“I said,” she hissed, yellow eyes hooking to his brown ones as she turned in her saddle, “stand down.”

Estienne recoiled from that expression, but his eyes shot down differentially. His shoulders slumped. Submission, at least for now. The captain’s expression softened, and she sighed before turning back to Anri.

“Come on then,” Senta said, her voice formally polite. “I suppose you at least have a resupply for us?”

“That’s part of why I brought these men along,” Anri agreed, gesturing to the two squads behind her. “They’ll give your men everything you’ll need why I debrief you on the details. Then it’s up to you.”

The knights quickly accepted the supplies offered to them by Anri’s group, in particular the precious water from the ever shrinking Silver River. They were quiet as they did so, Estienne in particular looking rather like a ghost, his already pale skin taking on a sickly pallor and his jaw tight. Sieg could see the man’s hands trembling as he took parcels of food from Anri’s squads, and felt a pang of empathy for the elf.

Once they had taken everything they needed, all eyes turned towards Estienne. The elf swallowed hard, drawing his wand from the holster at his hip. He closed his eyes, holding the rod out in front of him. When he opened them again, the small oval of onyx at the wand’s tip was glowing from within, and his eyes appeared to be staring at something no one else could see. His face, already white, went nearly gray, and the light died from his wand as he blinked hard.

“The swamps,” he burbled, his shoulders visibly shaking. “They’re travelling through the swamps. South of here. Staying off road. But we need to hurry, sh-she’s hurt. Badly hurt. Please.”

“Right,” Senta agreed. She yanked her horse’s head around, kicking it into a trot as she called, “Let’s move out!”

[Shinko]

So um... dis oooooooold 8D Like, it was written and finished in January 2015 old. It's a collab between myself and Omni that we originally didn't post because it had spoilers for Knight Adventures, then I proceeded to forget it existed completely. I found it again today and got Omni's permission to go ahead and post it. Hope you guys enjoy!

Silvertongue, Ironbeard

SPOILER: Click to show

It was close to noon, and Morgaine left Rosalie in charge of the lock shop while she went out to meet Aira for lunch. They’d arranged this a while back, before Morgaine’s daughter Ophelia unexpectedly arrived in Medieville. The upheaval of the half-elf’s visit had almost driven Aira from Morgaine’s mind, but once things calmed down it occurred to her that perhaps getting to meet the formidable dwarven woman would help Ophelia feel more at ease- as Sieg and Orrin had observed, Morgaine and Aira were similar in a lot of ways.

Ophelia agreed, though she was privately a little uneasy about playing the third wheel to her mother’s new life in the city. Though she’d agreed to forgive her mother and try to start over fresh, the old frustrations where very much still there.

Eventually the two women arrived at the place where Morgaine and Aira had arranged to meet, a small but very good hole-in-the-wall place that specialized in soups, stews, and specialty baked goods. It seemed that Aira hadn’t arrived yet, so Morgaine and Ophelia sat down at a table set up just in front of the place to wait for her.

“I dunno, Mama, are you sure about this?” Ophee asked. “What if she doesn’t want a plus-one? She’s your friend, she probably wants to spend time with you.”

“Stop fussing, Ophee,” Morgaine chided gently. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Oh, look, I think that’s her now!”

Sure enough, a little ways down the street was a short, stout, red-haired woman, walking with a cane that thumped on the road as she went along her way. Once she made her way to the little restaurant, she started searching the tables. Once she spotted Morgane, she headed directly to where the human woman and the half-elf were sitting.

“Hello, Morgaine,” Aira greeted, her accent apparent, before looking up at the youngest of the three women. “Is this the daughter ya mentioned?”

Morgaine smiled. “Hello Aira. And yes, this is my daughter, Sieg’s younger sister Ophelia. Ophee, this is Aira Ironbeard- her son is the one Sieg is with in Bern right now.”

Ophelia smiled at Aira, though it was clear she was a bit uneasy. “Ah, Guten tag, Frau Ironbeard. Es ist eine Freude, Sie zu treffen… I hope that was right, my lessons have been a bit incomplete.”

Aira quickly brought a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said, the sound of a laugh still present in her words. “I just never expected the language of the mighty dwarves to sound so… prissy!” She continued trying to stifle her laughter.

Ophelia sighed, a much aggrieved expression on her face. “Yes, the traders who I asked to help me learn it said much similar. I have heard many things of the Elvish accent, but only from dwarves was the description ‘prissy’ or… well the word they used was ‘foppish’ actually.”

“I didn’t know you could speak Dwarven,” Morgaine remarked, looking surprised. “When did you pick that up?”

“I can’t, not really,” Ophelia admitted. “I managed to flag down some traders in Kine, and paid them to help me learn some while they were at their business, but they didn’t stay long enough to give me more than a very basic skeleton.”

Aira managed to calm down enough to speak again. “If ya don’t mind me askin’, why did ya try to learn Dwarven?”

“I’m a linguist,” Ophelia explained. “Because of Mama I grew up speaking both Kythian and Elvish so I decided to work as a translator between the elves and the humans. Then I decided to go a step further and taught myself Courdonian, since we occasionally get runaway slaves coming through the city… and from there it snowballed.”

“Well if ya’re goin’ to be a translator, yer gonna have to know things about the culture as well as the language.” The Dwarven woman paused, leaning back and switching to her first language. “Mein Name ist Aira Eisenbart,” she said, putting emphasis on the surname, her accent thicker. She gave the half-elf a smirk. “Ya didn’t really think I had a name with Kythian words, did ya? Family names have meanin’, so we translate ‘em for other people.”

Morgaine blinked at Aira as she switched to Dwarven, a somewhat bemused expression on her face. “This reminds me of when I first met Belial, and he would speak to his fellow knights in Elvish, before I learned the tongue.”

Ophelia flushed a little, though when she replied it was still in Kythian. “Ah, well, I had wondered, but to be fair I didn’t know how to say either of those words in Dwarven anyway… I’ll be sure to attend to that distinction in the future.”

“Ah, it’s okay. Though if yer ever in doubt, ya can just use the first name.” Aira paused, a thoughtful look on her face. “Say, if ya like, I can help teach ya. I can make sure ya get what ya need to know besides just the words.”

Ophelia looked a little startled at this offer, but then she brightened. “If you’re really willing, I would be tremendously grateful. I know there aren’t many of your people in Kyth but you never know when knowing something can be of use-”

“And you’re just as greedy as you’ve always been when it comes to knowledge,” Morgaine put in with a smirk. Ophelia sighed, shaking her head.

“You wouldn’t understand Maman,” she said loftily, letting her Elvish accent become noticeably thicker. “I am an academic, and as such it is my business to know as much as I can.”

“And I’m your mother, and it’s my business to deflate that ego of yours when it gets overbloated,” the locksmith retorted with amusement. Turning to the dwarf Morgaine added, “Thank you though, Aira. That is a very kind offer.”

“Hey, it gives me somethin’ to do,” Aira said with a slight joking tone and a smirk as she sat down at the table. “And there’s nothin’ wrong with knowin’ things… though on the flipside, it can suck learnin’ things and then not usin’ them.”

The Dwarven woman paused again. “Would ya like to start now, or would ya like to wait until we don’t have to worry about yer mama feelin’ left out?”

“I think it might be nicer not to turn Mama into a third wheel,” Ophelia said, glancing sideways at her mother with a wan smile. “After all it was her you were coming to meet.”

Morgaine gave a nonchalant flip of the wrist. “I’m a big girl, I can manage. But thank you all the same.” She chuckled. “No offense or anything Aira, but I think I’m fine with just knowing two languages.”

“Eh, maybe I can find somethin’ that works both ways…” Aira said.

After the three women placed their orders, Aira turned back to Ophelia. “So, what else do ya know so far?”

The half-elf looked down, thinking. “Well I know how to introduce myself, and ask for someone else’s name. How to say the numbers as high as about thirty. I learned basic sentence structure and how to say various things… though I never did quite master conjugating verbs, the gendering of objects and what is feminine or masculine kept eluding me. Apparently a skirt is conjugated in the masculine?”

Morgaine chuckled a bit at that. “Someone should tell Lawrence Kidde that.”

The half-elf coughed. “I also learned ah… well they got impatient sometimes and erm…” She said a few words, which had no meaning for Morgaine, but Aira would definitely recognize- rather colorful words at that.

Aira made a face that seemed like a cross between a flinch and an amused smile. “Yeah, those are definitely some of the meaner words.”

Morgaine quirked an eyebrow, glancing sideways at her daughter. “I can’t believe you went with the old ‘the first thing I learn in another language is how to swear’ standby.”

“Hey, that was completely not my fault,” Ophelia protested indignantly. “They guy had a short temper and I think the people he was trading with were trying to underpay him or something. I didn’t ask, I just… got to hear.”

Morgaine looked at Aira, her eyebrows rising further. “Do I want to know what my daughter just said?”

“Probably not,” Aira replied. “I don’t think they’d all make sense in Kythian, anyway.”

Ophelia coughed, opting to change the subject. “So how did you learn Kythian, if you dont’ mind me asking? You speak it quite fluently- from the traders?”

The Dwarven woman paused, recoiling slightly. “Ah… not really. Mostly through time. I’ve lived in Kyth for over three decades now.”

The half-elf frowned, “Ah, sorry, was that a bad question to ask? If I pry into something personal, you can tell me. I just didn’t think… Still, that’s impressive, though I imagine it was a trial to have to learn the language just by living among speakers.”

Aira nodded. “At least I got somethin’ to start with before I got here… but yeah, it was… Well, actually, I think learnin’ from speakers was the best; no one knows it better, after all. Though it would have been nice to understand better at times, until I really got the hang of it.”

“That was ultimately how I finally mastered Elvish,” Morgaine put in. “Just living among the elves and having to listen to it and speak it all the time- until then my knowledge was always rather patchy.”

“Mastered? You ‘mastered’ Elvish?” Ophelia asked, looking much amused. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“I can make myself understood just fine, thank you,” Morgaine retorted in Elvish. “Even if my accent is thick and makes me sound like an uncultured barbarian.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Ophelia said. Switching back to Kythian she turned to Aira with a smile. “You should have seen our home growing up. It was such a mess of languages, random words being interjected into sentences in an entirely different tongue and grammar being mangled…”

“For the longest time both she and Sieg spoke a very confusing pidgin that wasn’t quite Elvish or Kythian,” Morgaine said ruefully. “Took a while to get the two languages unknotted so that they could have a decent conversation with people without blabbering words and phrases they didn’t understand.”

Aira chuckled. “I remember Orrin bein’ like that for awhile. Sure earned him some more confused looks. Well, and some other kinds of looks… Actually I’m not sure which was for what. It was hard to tell sometimes.”

Morgaine smiled sympathetically. “I can imagine.”

Ophelia glanced sideways, tugging on one of her ears meaningfully. Before she could say anything, however, the waiter arrived again with their food. Once he’d left, she said, “Speaking of Sir Orrin, have either of you any news of them? I’ve been running around on diplomatic errands for weeks, so I’ve not had the chance to check my mail any time recently.”

“Well, let’s see… Did ya hear about Haflinger yet?” asked Aira.

“Last I heard was when they arrived there,” Ophelia replied. “Sieg told me they were there to kill some sort of ghostly dog, but then he rambled off on a tangent about Bern and the people and his and Orrin’s reception by said people. Ergo, I didn’t get much actual information out of it.”

Morgaine chuckled. “Yeah, my letter from him was similar.”

Aira let out a chuckle. “Orrin talked more about what they did with the villagers. He did talk about how they solved the dog thing, if just shortly. Apparently yer brother is quite the singer.”

The half-elf blinked, her face set with confusion. “I, uh… well he is, but what does that have to do with…”

“Apparently the hound wasn’t the real enemy,” Morgaine elaborated. “It was some sort of death spirit that was taking the murder victims’ ghosts to the afterlife by singing a particular song to them. The real killer, according to one of Sieg’s more recent letters, was a ghost of a young girl that had turned into a giant killer owl- don’t ask, I don't really understand either. At any rate, Sieg and Orrin were able to beat the owl by having Sieg sing the dog’s song to it.”

“Oh,” Ophelia smiled crookedly. “I never imagined his singing voice would be useful to him as a knight. Goes to show how much I know.”

“After that was… the lake monster, right?” Morgaine asked, glancing at Aira.

“I think Orrin said it was a kel-pie? A water horse. He said it could control the lake. Quite a… interesting fight, apparently.”

“And last I heard, they were on their way from Destrier to somewhere called Tarpan,” Morgaine finished. “Though come to think, that was a while back… Sieg’s actually not written me in a few weeks. Aira have you heard from Orrin?”

“Ah… Sort of. Seems there was a bit of a mix-up in the mail. It looks like I got someone else’s letter. Way more brief and less personal. Not to mention it was in Kythian. Seemed like an official report.”

Ophelia tilted her head. “He works for House Stallion, right? I suppose he’s been keeping the Grand Duke up to date with what they’re up to, so…”

Morgaine made a valiant effort not to laugh- and failed utterly. “Orrin sent you a report intended for Alain Stallion? Oh Woo, you don’t think he sent his grace your letter, do you?”

Aira paused, then bust out laughing. “If so, that should be interestin’. Good luck to ‘im readin’ it, I guess.” She laughed some more. “Hope he has a good translator.” She paused, uncertain. “...Not that that was meant to have anythin’ to do with ya, Ophelia.”

The half-elf smiled. “I didn’t think it did, don’t worry.”

“Though knowing his grace,” Morgaine put in, “he will find a way to translate the letter if he really wants to. One way or another.” She shook her head. “First telling us to find each other without giving us so much as a name to go on, now this- maybe we should fetch those two back from Bern, clearly they left their cribs far too early.”

Ophelia snorted. “You say that like it comes as a surprise. I’ve known Sieg is an idiot my entire life.” She shrugged. “I can’t speak for Sir Orrin, but… if he’s someone who my dunderhead of a brother likes…”

Aira tilted her head, unsure of what Ophelia meant by that exactly, but continued anyway. “Well, Orrin’s a nice kid. Tries to help people when he can… which I guess is why knightin’ worked out for him.” The dwarf gave a smile. “Since we’re meetin’ everyone anyway, maybe ya should meet him sometime. Best to learn such things yerself than through another, I figure, even if that ‘other’ is his mom.”

“I probably will, if Sieg has anything to say about it,” Ophelia replied. “Though not for some months still- I’ve no idea how long they intend to stay in Bern, but it’s a pretty long trip for a short stay. Probably for the better that they don’t get back right away, since it gives me and Mama more time to deal with our issues after all the years of… Er, I mean...”

She looked sideways at Morgaine with a wince. The old woman looked down at her own lap sadly. “Yes, o-of course. I know you need some time. It’s only natural, after such a long time of us not seeing each other.”

Aira blinked at this, but decided not to pry. “Er… Sorry, should I let ya two talk for awhile? Or I guess we’re in public…” She looked at Ophelia. “Do ya think stoppin’ by Stallion Manor for lessons will be a problem, or…” Aira turned to Morgaine. “Do ya think ya’d be busy enough that it wouldn’t be a problem? Er...”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Morgaine said with a smile, though it was a slightly strained one. “I’ve things to do and Ophelia probably wouldn’t mind having somewhere to go so she isn’t waiting on me to finish at the shop all day.”

The half-elf coughed. “Of course I can come, just so long as it’s alright with the Stallions. That shouldn’t be a problem at all.” She shook her head. “And don’t worry about us, it’s nothing.”

“Well, if ya’re sure,” Aira replied. “It should be okay with the Stallions. If nothin’ else, I can probably tell them ya’re my guest.”

Ophelia smiled. “Thank you again, Ms. Aira. It is very kind of you to help me with this.”

Aira gave a smile in return. “Ya’re welcome. When can I expect ya?”

The girl glanced at her mother, who shrugged. “I work most days from a few hours after sunup until about four past noon, so anywhere in that timeframe I’ll be busy.”

“Well then, whenever in that timeframe is most convenient for you,” Ophelia replied, turning back to Aira.

The Dwarven woman also shrugged. “I don’t care much. Maybe we can start after lunch?”

“That sounds fine to me,” Ophelia said.

“Alright. Guess we’ll just hang out until then.” Aira stretched a little and ate a bit of her food. “So what’s the elf home like?”

-----

After Morgaine had left, and Aira was leading Ophelia back to Stallion Manor, the half-elf coughed, looking abashed. “I should apologize Ms. Aira, I hadn’t meant to make things awkward back there. I should have expected Mama to react the way she did, but I thought she’d take it with more grace…” the young girl shook her head. “It’s a long story, but the short version is that two years after my father died, Mama left the elflands and came here to escape all of the memories- but I didn’t approve of her leaving us, so she and I have been estranged for some time. I’ve been trying to reconnect, that’s why I’m here, but it’s… hard after it’s been so long.”

The young woman bowed her head apologetically. “But I shouldn’t have brought it up to her in the middle of our conversation like that, it was thoughtless. I hope you can forgive me.”

Aira shook her head. “It’s not that bad, Ophelia. Sometimes words escape. And… I know bein’ away can be hard. If anythin’ I think the one ya should probably be apologisin’ to is yer mama.” She looked at the half-elf and gave her a smirk. “But ya don’t have to worry about that right now. Would ya like to come inside?”

Ophelia nodded ruefully when Aira pointed out she should apologize to Morgaine, and gave a wan smile at the woman’s request. “Certainly, Miss Aira. Thank you again for helping me with this.”

“Again, it’s no problem! Do ya mind if we practice in my room?”

“That’s alright with me if it doesn’t bother you,” the half-elf agreed, looking around curiously as the two of them walked into the manor. It wasn’t as big as the manors of the Corvid nobility in their respective home cities, but she expected wherever the main Stallion home was, it was probably far bigger than this. “How long have you lived here again?”

“Since the coronation, so about a year,” Aira said as she made her way toward the staircase.

Ophelia nodded, following Aira up the stairs. “The Stallions treat you well? I can’t imagine what it must be like to suddenly be living among the nobility.”

“Ach, ya might say they treat me a little too well,” the Dwarven woman said as she started to make her way up the stairs. “Took me awhile to get ‘em to let me do some things myself. I offered to help with the gardenin’ a little while ago, but they said they had that covered. Haven’t found much else I can do around here, yet. Honestly, I’ve found it rather borin’. Ya’ll be doin’ me a bit of a favor with the lessons.”

Ophelia laughed, shaking her head. “I can understand that- there’s only so much sitting around being pampered someone can take, I suppose. I like to feel as if I’m accomplishing something- that’s why I learned Low Courdonian, and why I want to master as many languages as I can. I’m glad that we can both benefit from this- though I will have to ask for your patience, since I imagine the nuances of Dwarven culture will take time for me to fully master.” She cracked her neck, grinning impishly. “But I do love a good challenge, so we’ll just have to see how things proceed.”

“Ah! Sounds like we can have some fun then,” Aira said, smiling somewhat mischievously. She got to the top of the stairs and headed straight for a door in front of them, pulling out a key. “Ya know, Morgaine and I actually met when I was havin’ some trouble with this lock. Got me out of a bit of a bind.”

“Really?” the girl asked curiously. “So it wasn’t Sieg or Orrin who introduced you two?”

“Nah. They tried to get us to meet, but forgot to tell us what we looked like. Or most anythin’ else we could use to find each-other…” The dwarf unlocked the door, showing the half-elf inside. “Go ahead. Find a seat.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “That sounds like Sieg. Suppose it’s a good thing the door lock broke then. I helped Mama with the locksmithing a little when I was younger- nothing crafty, but I did some accounting and such for her.”

The half-elf sat down in a small armchair, glancing around the room. It was rather sparsely decorated, looking more like a standard guest room than one which someone had been living in for a year. Though there were a few personal belongings, most of it seemed pretty generic. An aspect of Dwarven culture perhaps? Where they just very utilitarian? Or was it something else?

Dismissing the thought, she turned back to Aira. “So then- where to begin?”

“How about ya tell me some more of what ya know? In Dwarven, so I can get a better idea of what to start with.”

“Oh, yes,” Ophelia replied, switching to the language in question. “You are correct. My…” she paused, trying to figure out how to frame what she wanted to say with her limited grasp of Dwarven. “I know not much. I can say a little. I am called Ophelia. What are you called? How’s the weather? Good morning, good day, good evening-”

“Hold on,” Aira interrupted. “’How’s the weather’? There isn’t much weather in Steinheim, underground. I only heard that once I came to the surface.”

“Oh, er,” the half-elf hesitated, looking confused. “I didn’t really think anything of it. I mean it seemed a polite enough phrase to learn to say. Though come to think, the dwarf who was teaching me did look rather amused about the phrase when I asked about it…”

Aira gave a soft chuckle. “It’s sorta like a joke that only surface-workin’ dwarves know. I don’t think askin’ would hurt, but ya might want to save it for when ya’ can joke comfortably with someone. Anyway,” she waved a hand out briefly, “go on.”

Ophelia rubbed the back of her neck and nodded, grinning sheepishly. She rattled off a string of other basic, neutral Dwarven pleasantries in a learned-by-heart kind of way. Then she added, “And since I kept running into the complication of trying to explain I was half elf and not a pureblood, they taught me to explain that ‘Ich bin ein unwissender Mischling.’”

Aira blinked. “Ah… Ya might want to leave out the ‘unwissender.’”

Ophelia frowned, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why?”

“It means ‘dumb.’”

The half-elf groaned, slapping a hand to her face and leaning forwards on her knees. “Mature. Very mature. What did I do? Is it something I said, do I come off as insulting in some way?”

“Well…” Aira paused. “It might have just been a joke, but… There’s sort of a Dwarven pride, though some take it to lookin’ down on other kinds of people. Ya probably won’t find many of those outside of Steinheim, but some dwarves still don’t like the idea of mixin’. It might have been from a dwarf that doesn’t mind others but thinks different peoples should be separate. Or it could’ve just been that impatience ya mentioned earlier. Or maybe more than one of those…”

Ophelia looked away, her mouth tightening and her blue eyes flashing with anger. “I’d be lying if I said it was the first time I’d encountered someone who had that attitude but…” She clenched her teeth, hissing a soft exhale before turning back to Aira. “Thank you for setting it straight before I embarrassed myself. Though I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I’m not the right person to act in the facility of a translator with the dwarves. Evidently there is much I don’t understand.”

Aira had glanced away for a moment, but looked back at Ophelia the half-elf turned toward her. “I think ya’ll be fine,” she commented. “Just introduce yerself as something besides a half-elf. Say yer a translator, or yer there for the elves. Whatever ya think is best. Besides, if ya ask me, it shouldn’t matter for translatin’,” the dwarf said with a wink.

The younger girl smiled wanly. “I generally like to be up-front about what I am- I don’t like seeming to be ashamed of it, you know? My father was a kind, brave man and my mother is an intelligent and compassionate woman. That he was an elf and she is a human shouldn’t matter. But,” she shook her head, “if that’s how it must be, that’s how it must be. Part of being a representative and translator is respecting the culture you’re communicating with. I’ll keep your advice in mind.”

Aira gave a sigh. “Looks like we agree that shouldn’t matter… And even if there were something wrong with it, it’s not like it was yer fault it happened. I wish I could do somethin’ more, but…” She shook her head. “Well, might as well do what we can. Is there anythin’ else ya learned?”

“Not much,” Ophelia replied. “Counting to thirty, like I said at the cafe, and they also taught me the names of a few rocks and minerals, though I’m not sure if that was intended as a joke or not. Beyond that it was mostly grammar stuff- how to organize the parts of a sentence and what pronouns to use where.”

“Rock names might not be a joke: we spend enough time with them that most of us know ‘em pretty well, and I’m sure traders will tell ya what somethin’ is made from,” Aira explained. “It sounds like ya’ve got a good start. I think now ya mostly need more words, and practice."

“Glad to hear it,” the half-elf said with a smile. “And I suppose I’ll also need to know those cultural things you mentioned as well, to avoid embarrassing myself further.” She spread her arms wide and bowed at the waist from her chair, a good humored glint in her eyes. “I am at your disposal, Ms. Aira. Do what with me you will.”

Aira gave an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a smirk. “Alright. Let’s start talkin’ in Dwarven. I’ll start with what ya told me and explain things along the way. Ask any questions ya like. Ready?”

So the two women started practicing Dwarven through what conversation they could. One of the first things Aira made sure Ophelia knew was how to turn a statement into a question - the dwarf’s explanations weren’t very academic, but she did what she could. At this point, they mostly talked by asking and answering questions. Aira mostly emphasised vocabulary for the time being, often offering new words when they could be used for a question or answer, and trying to gently enforce the gender of each noun.

“...and more than one child would be children.”

“Children,” Ophelia parrotted, taking care with the pronunciation. She repeated it a few more times, letting the word roll off her tongue. Then she nodded, indicating Aira could continue.

The dwarf gave the half-elf a teasing smirk. “Do you want children?”

The half-elf blinked, not quite processing the question at first. Then her cheeks flushed, and she laughed awkwardly. “M-maybe one day I would like children. I don’t…”

She averted her gaze, struggling to find a way to frame what she wanted to say with her limited Dwarven. “I am not certain it would be good for me though. Being what I am.”

Aira had initially started laughing softly when Ophelia showed embarrassment. However, when she explained further, she grew quiet, an eyebrow lowered in confusion. “What d’ya mean?” she asked in Kythian.

Ophelia shifted slightly. “I guess Mama never told you… Sieg and I aren’t her only children. When Sieg was first born, he had a twin brother. But being half-blood, there were things inside him that weren’t formed right. Mama never told me the details- she doesn’t like talking about it. But he died when he was still an infant.”

Aira pulled back slightly. “Ach… Sorry. I didn’t realize. I guess it never occurred to me. I mean, Orrin turned out healthy enough…” She paused briefly, a thoughtful look on her face. “Why don’t we move on? Let’s see… More than one mushroom would be mushrooms...”

As the conversation proceeded, the sun shining through the window crawled across the floor and up the wall of the room. Aira called for a break in the proceedings, and Ophelia gratefully agreed.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, “You said that when I was speaking I sounded ‘prissy.’ And the other dwarves called it ‘foppish.’ What exactly is it I’m doing that’s causing it to come across that way?”

“Well, it’s a couple of things,” Aira replied. “Part of it is yer accent. It just doesn’t sound ‘Dwarven’ to me and it… mixes funny. Especially that ‘rr’-sound. But mostly, it’s the way ya talk. All soft and tryin’ to be nice… From what I’ve heard of the elves, I’m guessin’ it’s an elf thing, and I’ve heard humans do it, too, but it’s not really part of the Dwarven culture. Sure, ya usually don’t want to be mean to someone - unless yer up for a fight - but we like to get to the point. Say things the way they are.”

She gave the half-elf an assuring smile. “So if ya’ve got somethin’ to say, go ahead! Just don’t be so nice all the time. Maybe a little more if yer right there translatin’, but even then not so much. Be confident in what ya say! The dwarves will respect it, I promise.”

Ophelia was a little caught off guard by this, but she laughed. “Oh, so be unabashedly frank, is that it? Well if that’s what’s called for I can certainly oblige. You’re right in that the elves are usually very polite. They don’t say anything directly if they can help it, preferring to hint and imply. And they like to use as much elevated vocabulary as they can.” The half-elf smirked. “Does that mean I’m allowed to call someone out if they’re being none-too-subtly condescending?”

“I say go for it!”

Ophelia laughed again, shaking her head. “Well, I can’t complain about that. Elves are all about passive-aggressive responses. Generally an ‘argument’ among them is roughly comparable to a very long, civil discourse on the whatever they disagree about, interjected with roundabout implications on the intelligence of whoever they’re arguing with. All carried out with extreme formality and politeness, of course. It can be extremely wearying.”

“Ach, I don’t envy ya,” the dwarf replied. “I’ll make sure ya get some practice with the Dwarven way. Are ya up for it?” Aira said with a challenging smirk.

Ophelia laughed, “You’ve met my mother; I’m told I take after her. I’m ready whenever you are.”

Aira give a soft chuckle. “Well, I think we’ve had enough for the day. Ya know yer way back, right?”

“I’m pretty sure I do, and I can figure it out if not; I’m used to finding my way around unfamiliar cities,” she replied, standing. “Thank you again for your help. I’m glad to have a teacher who isn’t making fun of me behind my back- I’d prefer it done to my face, as is apparently the dwarven way. Then at least I can respond with some snark.”

The Dwarven woman sniggered. “My pleasure. Ya have a good day now, ya hear?”

“Thanks, you too,” Ophelia said, waving to Aira and turning to head out.

[Shinko]

Alrighty, so this is a collab between myself and Avery , the concept of which was basically to explore what life is like in Meltaim for an average blank family. No forbidden romances with noble archmages, no recruitment by Macarinthian spies. Which is certainly not to say their lives are simple or boring... but you'll have to read the story to see where things go. ;3

Two of Thousands

Prologue

SPOILER: Click to show

It was the girl’s fourth time being sold.

Only four months she’d been in Meltaim and already she’d had just as many masters, the child being volleyed from broker to broker— magician to magician— like a rock being dragged along by the current of a stream. She didn't even know the names of some of the cities she’d passed through, nor those of her past masters. Such things had begun to seem superfluous; what did it matter if she learned, when in another blink she’d just be sold off again?

The past sales had all been at auction houses. This one, however, was being held in the bustling central marketplace of Jezgród, a sprawling city located in southeastern Scahie province. The girl was up for sale along with about a dozen other blanks, all of the rest of them native Meltaimans; she couldn't decide whether the change of venue made things much better or much worse. On the one hand, there were less eyes on her at once, and she didn't feel quite so… naked, she supposed. So vulnerable. On the other hand, the potential buyers could get a whole lot closer here. Could touch her, even, if the broker gave permission. It took everything in her to keep from fighting when they did— when their insistent fingers prodded at her pale skin, or combed through her gnarled white-blonde hair, as if she were merely an object for sale and not a living, breathing human being. She wished that she could spit at them. Bite them. Pound against them with curled fists, beating until they no longer dared.

But four months were well long enough to learn what such an act would earn her. The girl’s skin stung at the mere thought of it. She hadn’t pushed any of her masters quite so far yet, nothing beyond a backhanded cheek here or birching there, but she’d seen the scars on the other slaves. The mazes of glossy, puckered skin where there once had been only smooth flesh— stark testaments to how far the mages would go if you pushed them. Warnings to her about why she must not rebel, even as every bone in her body screamed out otherwise.

“Tell me about this one, Mistress Bondar.” A hand grabbed roughly to her arm, fingers like iron as they cinched around her bicep.

The girl’s heart froze, her eyes snapping up from where they’d planted on the cobbled ground beneath. In front of her she found the broker, Mistress Bondar, standing beside a well-heeled man with eyes like coal and hair just as dark. He was the one who was holding her arm, even though the girl hadn’t heard him ask permission. Normally, Mistress Bondar would have reproached him for this (she’d done so with several gawkers earlier that day), but after several moments of waiting, the chiding didn’t come.

Which, the girl knew, could only mean one thing: this was not just a window shopper, meandering through the market on a balmy July day, but a serious buyer. Potential master number five.

She stiffened.

“She’s foreign, this little pet,” Mistress Bondar said; the girl’s brain had to work very fast to keep up with the Meltaiman words— her grip on the language still remained spotty, although she was getting smacked around less and less every day over such egregious slights as failing to understand commands or mispronouncing words. “Only nine. Unbroken, but docile enough. Like a little puppy— look at her wrong and she’s got her tail tucked, rolling over to please you.”

“Hmm.” The man tilted the child’s jaw up a little, so that the child’s honey-brown eyes were pointed at the mages. This went against every instinct that had been instilled in the girl since her arrival to Meltaim, and she fought against the urge to squeeze her eyelids shut. “She learned much of the holy tongue yet?”

“She understands more than she speaks,” Bondar replied. “But like I said, she’s very docile. Has settled right into her natural place. Won’t give you any troubles, not like some other imports.”

The buyer pursed his lips. “Might I inspect her?”

“Go ahead.” Bondar waved a hand; the girl’s heart leapt into her throat. Here came the poking fingers. The brusquely searching hands and crudely rustled hair. She wanted to back away. Knew that still she couldn’t.

“She’s a pretty thing,” the buyer said absently, adjusting his grip on the little girl’s jaw to prise her mouth open and look at her teeth. “Healthy too, it would seem- still has all her teeth, or at least none look like they didn’t fall out in the normal course that baby teeth do. These foreign peasants come in such decrepit condition sometimes.”

“Mmm.” Bondar shrugged. “Still has some of her milk teeth, even— in the back. As I told you, she’s rather wee.” The woman tilted her head, pale lips thinned into a flat line. “You thinking of making an offer then? If so, I’d advise you not to hem and haw long. She’s attracted a lot of interest, this little thing. I think it’s the hair.” She gestured to the child’s long mane of bone-straight buttercream locks. “Not all that common, even among our foreign imports.”

He grunted. “It would be a very nice look for my customers. I run a tavern uptown- though I worry as small as she is that she’d be useless for much besides cleaning until she was older. Tankards aren’t light.” He looked up. “Twenty crowns?”

“For a pretty little dear like this?” Bondar’s eyes glimmered, the broker clearly eager to get the upper hand in the negotiations ahead. “No, no, that won’t do. I want at least fifty, sir. Not a crown below.”

“Pretty yes, but very young,” the buyer pointed out. “And as you said earlier, unbroken. Docility only goes so far when you push the will of these wild caught blanks. Thirty.”

The girl didn’t know how much thirty crowns was worth, really. But she did know that at the last auction she’d sold for thirty-five (and twenty-seven at the one before that); if this buyer didn’t offer at least forty or so, there was very little chance that Bondar would agree. These brokers were in the trade to make money, after all. Not to lose it or break even.

“Forty-five,” the broker said, crossing her arms now. Putting on a show of annoyance, but the girl didn’t miss the excited twinkle that still shone in the woman’s dark eyes. “You can do at least do forty-five, aye, sir? A successful businessman like yourself? She’ll have it back to you in tips in an evening, I’d bet.”

“A businessman, aye, but one with a family to feed as well as all these blanks,” he shot back, though there was a lightness to his tone that suggested he was enjoying this. “Not to mention I still have to pay the city brander to see to her. Forty.”

“All right, all right.” Bondar smiled. “Forty it is. Shall you have to leave a deposit, sir, or do you have the coinage on hand? If the latter…” She turned toward a lightweight wooden table she’d set up at the rear of the stall, which was loaded down with a disorganized jumble of parchment scrolls. “Should have her paperwork over there. For you to bring to the city brander. It’s all pre-drafted— just your mark needed and she’s all yours.” The broker beamed. “I always strive, after all, to cater to my clients’ utmost convenience.”

“I should have the money on me,” he replied, reaching to his side for a pouch. To the girl he added, “I am Master Amadei- you are going to work for me from now on, you understand, girl?”

She nodded slowly, her heart buzzing as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings as Bondar sashayed toward the table to rummage through the papers. “Y-yes, sir,” she squeaked out in choppy Meltaiman. “Understand.”

“What’s your name then?” Amadei demanded. “Can’t be calling you ‘girl’ forever.”

“It’s… it’s…” the girl started.

But before she could give her new master her name, her voice fell away as—a few feet over at the table— Bondar suddenly swore. The girl’s gaze whipped toward the broker, and so did Amadei’s.

Bondar blushed. “Sorry, sir. I, ah— it just…” The broker waved a hand. “Seem to have misplaced the little one’s paperwork. It’s no worry, though; I’ve blank parchment on hand, I can draft you something new.”

The man hefted a weary eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Mistakes happen. Though I hope this won’t take too long, I do have to get back soon.”

“No, no, not long at all,” Bondar assured. Plucking a blank scroll from amid the warren, the broker unholstered her wand, muttering an incantation beneath her breath to transform its tip into a makeshift pen. “Nine-years-old,” she read aloud as she scribbled furiously. “Macarinthian. No known defects…” She paused, eyes lifting from the paper once again. “And… name, your name was…”

It took the child a moment to realise that Bondar was talking to her. And a moment more to realise quite what the broker’s words meant.

Her name. Bondar had forgotten her name. The piece of herself the Meltaimans had dragged out of her four months ago, under a truth spell to make sure she wasn’t lying (even though she’d been too scared then to think of lying, anyway). Since then, part of the girl had grown to hate her name: hated how it sounded leaden with a Meltaiman accent; hated the way her second master had snarled it like a swear whenever he was cross, or how her third master had crooned it in the sort of tone one usually reserved for infants— or pets— when he wanted something; and hated most of all the fact that after all these mages had stolen from her, they’d managed to take that scrap of her, too. Claiming it, owning it, just as they had every other part of her.

“Your name,” Bondar said again, voice acid.

The girl swallowed hard. For a moment— a brief, skittish moment— she considered merely blurting the truth. Telling Bondar what she’d told her interrogator four months ago… and consequently giving Amadei that final, intangible part of her. It would have been easiest, certainly. And safest, too (what if Bondar found her actual paperwork later, and realised that she’d lied?).

And yet the girl couldn’t make her tongue say it.

Didn’t want to say it.

Felt a strange, dizzying flutter of exhilaration over the prospect of keeping it all to herself.

She thought of her life before Meltaim. Her family, her friends, her house, her village. The sweet scent of the lilies that grew outside her bedroom window. The sound of her mother’s voice as the woman sang her to sleep when she was sick. The high peal of her little brother’s laugh. The feeling of safety. Of home.

“Dorean,” she said. The girl knew they wouldn’t know what it meant. That, to their Meltaiman ears, it’d sound like just any other Macarinthian name— foreign, heathen, wrong.

“Yes, yes, that was it,” Bondar said. She quickly scribbled it down on the scroll. “Dorean.”

The girl couldn’t help it, then— she smiled, the tiniest ghost of a smile, as she felt as close as she had to happiness in months.

Because Bondar and her new master might not know what it meant, but the girl always would. And each time the name fell from Amadei’s lips, she would be able to laugh inside at what he was calling her. What he was saying to her.

Dorean: free.

Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

Unlike Dorean’s past four masters, Amadei was not a broker— he’d bought the girl to keep.

At first, until he decided that he could trust her, he kept her strictly at his tavern in Jezgród’s spacious waterfront district, the main boulevard of which overlooked a large, placid lake that was popular with the city’s well-off residents. At night she slept in the pub’s drafty loft, listening to the water birds call and squabble from the surf, wishing desperately that she had more than a flimsy pallet to support her aching bones. In October, Amadei at least thought to give her a blanket. It was a single crumb of comfort amid what seemed to otherwise be a bottomless pit of loneliness and despair.

Just after the season’s first snows, a little less than midway through November, Amadei finally decided that Dorean was trustworthy enough to live elsewhere. After a long shift of serving drunken, demanding customers he marched her through Jezgród’s stock-straight streets, trodding away from the well-tended lakefront quarter to the very, very south side of the city. The further they walked, the more apparent signs of disrepair became: the magelights grew scarcer, the streets more rutted, the buildings’ exteriors weathered and their windows occasionally boarded shut. By the time they formally crossed into Retpla, Jezgród’s blank ghetto, the dishevelment had grown to almost overwhelming—the gutters were overrun, trash was strewn about indiscriminately, and there were so few magelights that Amadei had to light his wandtip to illuminate their path.

He dropped Dorean off at a sagging three-storey tenement at the fringe of the ghetto. He entered with a key, gestured for her to follow him into the claustrophobic foyer, and then departed again before he’d even bothered to introduce her to anyone inside, let alone given her a tour. Dorean could only blink as he shut the door back behind him. As a rush of panic spiked through her, she fought the urge to chase back after the familiar man into the night.

“Who’s there?” snarled a low male voice, as footsteps rapidly sounded against the battered hardwood floor from deeper within the tenement. “If you’re tryin’ to break in here, let me tell you now to scram ‘cos I’ve got a shovel and godsdamned if I won’t use it—”

Dorean spun, heart leapfrogging into her throat. “I-I’m new!” she cut in shrilly. “Pl-please don’t hurt me, please—”

The angry man paused, his voice still suspicious but markedly less hostile as he muttered, “Who’re you, kid? Who’s your master?”

“Master A-Amadei,” Dorean squeaked, pressing herself flat against the closed door. She squinted against the darkness as the speaker came into view— an imposing middle-aged man, silhouetted by shadows. “H-he dropped me off here, he… he…”

The man calmed considerably, coming further into the light. He was muscular and heavily scarred, and like Dorean he, too, had a white blank brand on his forehead. “You’re one of the inn workers, hm? Got a name, New Girl?”

“Dorean,” she whispered, still flattened against the door. “I-I’m Dorean.”

“Well, Dorean,” the man said, a light of sympathy crossing his face as he took in the trembling scrap before him, “this is Retpla, and this building is where Master Amadei’s blanks live; you’ll be bunking with us from now on.” He turned making a beckoning gesture. “C’mon, I’ll show you to a place you can get some grub and sleep.”

Dorean said nothing, only hesitating a moment before she obediently trailed after the man, her arms crossed tightly at her chest as he led her out of the foyer, through a shabby living room (there were two threadbare couches and a blank asleep atop each), and into an equally as rundown kitchen. The final embers of a fire flickered in the hearth, and soiled bowls were scattered about the cluttered countertops; the air smelled faintly of burnt bread and stale herbs. In the back corner there was a large cast iron pot— the sort her mother had often used to cook their meals back in Macarinth— that someone had pulled off the coals, a wooden ladle peeking out from within it. Dorean couldn’t tell if there was any food left inside. If there was, it had undoubtedly gone cold.

What most caught Dorean’s attention, however, was not the meager decor, but rather, the boy. Sitting with his legs crossed on the bare wood floor, he was perhaps a year or two older than her, with brown hair buzzed so close to his head as to almost be shaved entirely. He was skinny, his face hollow and gaunt, but there was a shy curiosity in the way he glanced up at Dorean and her escort that spoke to a good nature in spite of the obvious toll his life had taken on him.

“Are you new?” he asked, setting down a bowl of thick, mealy porridge in his lap. Belatedly, looking bashful at his misstep, he added, “Hi. I’m Cibor.”

“H-hi,” Dorean stammered, swallowing the knot in her throat. “It’s g-good to meet you.” She worried with her heel at the splintered floor, before she realised she hadn’t quite answered his question. “I’m… a b-bit new. Master Amadei’s b-been keeping me at the tavern. He bought me in… in…” She racked her brain for the correct Meltaiman word. “In summer.”


“Oh, that makes sense.” the boy nodded, and the older man chuckled.

“This is Dorean- help her get some food, eh Ceebs?”

“Yessir,” Cibor said automatically. He stood, beckoning. “C’mon, you gotta dig with the ladle to get the nuts sometimes cause we can’t afford so many, but I’ll help.”

“O-okay. Thank you,” Dorean said, shuffling reluctantly after Cibor. “I-I haven’t had anything to eat tonight. Or drink. The tavern was crowded and…” She shrugged limply. “I don’t get a break when there are mages who need food.”

Cibor winced, digging a wooden bowl out of a drawer as the large man left the room. After digging around in the pot to scoop a generous ladleful of porridge into the bowl, the boy proffered the food to Dorean, replying, “I know. ‘Cause we don't deserve to eat ‘fore our betters, that’s what the mages say. I been cleaning since a little before lunchtime and I didn't get to eat ‘till I got back. The people who borrow me from Master Amadei say he charges too much for my work for ‘em to waste food on me too.”

As he held out the bowl, his ill fitted sleeves slipped back, revealing a purple bruise on his wrist in the unmistakable imprinted shape of a human hand. Dorean winced.

“Why th-they’d do that?” she murmured, accepting the bowl.

He glanced down at the mark and winced. “I was supposed to scrub the floors, but I slipped in the water and sloshed a little of the water on the mage’s good shoes.”

“Oh.” Dorean gulped. She’d earned a belting once from Amadei for dripping a few splashes of ale on a customer. Padding toward the corner where Cibor had been sitting when she’d arrived— the kitchen had no proper table— Dorean sat tepidly, crossing her legs. “So… so Master Amadei just… lets other mages borrow you? I haven’t ever seen you a-at the tavern.” The girl took a timid bite of the watery stew. “There’s other blanks who work there. Two of ‘em. But Master Amadei says they’ve got their own flats in the ghetto. ‘Cos they’re married. With kids. I… never knew slaves could get married. But Master Amadei only l-laughed when I asked him ‘bout it. H-he said he’s gonna sell the kids once they’re old ‘nough to get branded.”

Cibor sat down beside Dorean, taking up his half-finished bowl of porridge but not eating it. He looked down at the food, eyes so dark brown they were nearly black pooling with tears.

“My first master did that too,” he murmured. “Once I was seven and he knew I wasn’t a mage. He sold me. My Mama and Papa begged for him to not, b-b-but he whipped ‘em.” The child hunched his shoulders. “I haven’t seen ‘em in a-almost three years.”

Three years. Dorean’s heart pinched as it occurred to her that one day she might share this bleak reality. “D-did you have siblings?” she whispered. “I did. They got taken with me. I miss them.”

Cibor bit his lip, hesitantly scooting a little closer to Dorean and putting his hand on hers. “I’m sorry. Y-you’re not from Meltaim, right? So you used to be free.” He snuffled. “I had two brothers. I don’t know where they are now. I miss them too.” He blinked hard. “And my M-Mommy. And D-Daddy.”

“It's not fair,” Dorean murmured. Beneath his touch she froze, stiffened, as if during her nine months in Meltaim she’d forgotten what non-violent human contact felt like. “I just wanna g-go home.”

“I’m sorry, Dorean,” Cibor said, his voice trembling as the tears started to slip down his face. “I’m sorry. I wish… I wish I could go h-home too. But we can’t. Not never.” He hiccuped. “B-but… Mommy told me something. Before I got sold. Sh-she said the blanks who belong to the same person, they’re kinda like a family. And they gotta look out for each other. S-so… so it’s okay if you’re sad. ‘Cause we can both be sad. Together. If you want.”

“O-okay,” Dorean stammered. “That’d be nice.” And better than she’d had so far in Meltaim. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Cibor replied. Hesitantly, with the air of a boy who’d been rebuffed before, he murmured, “So… y-you wanna be friends?”

She nodded, timidly. “Uh-huh. It's be n-nice. To have a friend.”

He smiled then, a bright, relieved smile that cleared away some of the weary, despairing weight from his face. “Y-yeah. It think so too. A-and I’ll be a good friend. Promise.”

***

Dorean’s first winter in Meltaim was a frigid one, filled with stinging winds and burying snows; it didn’t cede way to a nippy spring until almost May. The former Macarinthian and her new friend, Cibor, spent most of their nights curled up beside each other on a creaking wooden pallet in one of the tenement’s sorry excuses for a bedroom. They only had a single blanket between them, and both were always careful to ensure the other had a proper share of it. As if a single scrap of holey wool would do much of anything to ward against the ghastly chill.

They didn’t see much of each other during the day, or even the evening— Dorean was inevitably at the tavern serving, while Cibor was doing odd jobs for whatever resident of Jezgród to whom Amadei had rented him out. Nevertheless, when both children were at the tenement, they soon became close to inseparable. Amadei’s other blanks joked that they might as well be each other’s shadows— that if you wanted to find Dorean you merely had to look for Cibor, and if it was Cibor you wanted, then you needed only to find Dorean.

By the beginning of June, the city had solidly entered the temperate months. This also meant more hours of daylight— which in turn meant longer stretches of time at work for both Dorean and Cibor. It was thus a rare occasion— the first either of them could remember, in fact— when both children found themselves home from work with still a few hours of sunshine to spare (it was Amadei’s son’s birthday and so he’d closed the tavern early, and the man for whom Cibor was supposed to be working that day had finished his task early after inadvertently renting more blanks than he needed). And so the children sat together on the floor of their cramped, shared bedroom, sharing a stale slice of bread between them. They had no butter to put on it, but at least it was slightly less burnt than their usual fare. The older tenement-dwelling blank who’d cooked it had even snuck in a few stray nuts.

“I bet we could cook better if they’d let us,” Dorean declared as she nibbled at her piece. “But Mikolaj” — this was the burly man who’d terrified her on her first night in the ghetto— “gets cross whenever I ask. ‘Cos he thinks we’re too young. He says if I go near the hearth he’ll birch me.”

“It’s ‘cause he’s worried we’ll ruin the food,” Cibor said dourly. “And we can’t afford to waste.” Indicating the slight crust of black on the bottom of the bread he added, “Cause y’know, this isn’t ruined at all.”

“I wish the blanks who work with me at the tavern lived here,” Dorean said. “‘Stead of on their own. They’re both real good cooks— they make stuff for the guests. It always smells great. And the guests are always happy.”

Cibor puffed his cheeks out. “Maaaan, that’s not fair. Mages get everything.” He pursed his lips. “We should do something. Something… good. Fun. And that the mages can't get mad ‘bout.”

Dorean tilted her head. “Like… like what?” she asked.

“Um…” Cibor bit his lip, seeming to think it over. Then his eyes lit. “The lake! We can go to the lake and go swimming! We just gotta go to the part of the beach where no mages go so we’re not in their way, and it’s allowed since we both got the right marks.”

Cibor indicated his cheek, where he had a five pointed star- the local mark which indicated freedom to wander the city. A diamond would mean freedom of the blank ghetto, but not beyond it, while an upside down triangle meant the blank couldn't leave their master’s home or business. Dorean had only recently acquired a matching star of her own, to replace her former diamond, with Amadei seeming to regard her now rather like one might view an arthritic lump of an old dog— no threat to him, no flight risk. Nothing to worry about. Benign.

“The lake?” the girl asked, finishing off her bread with one final bite. “But…” Her honey-brown eyes fell to her lap. “I… I don’t know how to swim.”

“You don't?” Cibor asked, perplexed. The he grinned. “I’ll teach you, then! We can stay where it’s shallow enough your feet touch, but just deep enough you can float too if you kick off the bottom. It’s easy!”

“... And… and you’re sure the mages won’t mind?” Dorean replied— a question that seemed to be the root of most of her decisions these past fifteen months. She gnawed her lip. “Or Mikolaj, neither? ‘Cos he gets worried when we’re out in the city alone, sometimes. Though I guess if we got back before he does…” The burly blank usually didn’t return from his rented jobs until well after dark, only having enough time to eat and sleep before he had to head out again with the arrival of the new dawn.

“We just have to get back to the ghetto by sunset,” Cibor said with a dismissive hand wave. “Mikolaj won't know we were gone. And, and the mages won't even pay attention to us. It’s beneath them to notice what a bunch of blanks is up to.”

“Okay,” Dorean said. “If you’re sure.” She dared a wavering smile. “We… we could make believe like we’re just… normal kids. Havin’ a fun day in the city. Like b-back at home, when Papa took me and my siblings once to the big town. And we went to the market and the church and had sweet rolls and…” The girl shook her head. “Sorry. I-I talk too much. That’s what Master says sometimes.”

Cibor shook his head, standing up and offering Dorean a hand up. “N-no, it’s okay. I like hearing about it, if you wanna tell. I never knew what it’s like to be n-normal. It’s always been like this. But when you tell stories, then I can imagine and pretend.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to pretend,” Dorean said, accepting her friend’s hand. As the pair began toward their bedroom door, she added softly, “I’m gl-glad you’re here to pretend with. Otherwise I’d b-be so alone. Again.”

Cibor turned to his friend with a sad smile, and pulled her into a hug. “I’m glad you’re here too. Since I got sold I had nobody. The grownups are nice, and they took care of me, b-but it’s not the same. I’m glad you’re my friend, Dorean.”

The two children stayed shoulder-to-shoulder, as though they were afraid to put even inches between them, as they slipped out the tenement and into the ghetto. With most blanks still out on jobs the streets were sparsely filled, but this changed as they crossed over from Retpla’s limits into the city proper. On a nice day like this, with the sun shining and the sky a cloudless blue, Jezgród was practically vibrating with activity: shops were swarmed, street artists and performers peppered most corners, and— most concerningly to Dorean and Cibor— the city guard was out in force to ensure the peace. Every time the blank children passed by one of the red-coated men and women, all of whom were armed with at least a wand and a dagger each, Dorean’s heart fluttered a little. A lump would knot in her throat.

“You’re… sure we won’t get in trouble if we swim?” the child murmured as she and Cibor finally neared the lake. Even without seeing the beaches yet, she could hear them. Could imagine the clamor, the pulsating mass of mages who loitered there. “‘Cos… ‘cos…”

“We just gotta go to the part where none of the mages go,” the boy soothed, though he was certainly not making any effort to pull his shoulder away from hers and his eyes were darting around nervously. “We’re allowed. We are. And if any mages tell us off we’ll just listen and get out of the water. Long as you obey the worst we’d get is a smack, but we won’t ‘cause we’re allowed.”

“Okay,” Dorean said. “If you’re sure.” She made herself smile. Shakily. “Sorry if I’m slow at l-learning how to swim. I’ve never even really been in water. Not since I was real little. And my papa held me then.”

“It’s okay if you don’t get it right away,” he said cheerily. “We don’t gotta learn it for a job, so nobody’ll get mad if it takes a while.” He elbowed her gently, grinning. “We’re gonna have so much fun!”

It took the children a fair bit of time— and perseverance— to find a place where they could put this confident declaration to the test. The first few stretches of beaches they came across were, as Dorean had predicted, rife with relaxing mages, and the kids didn’t even dare set a foot on the sand, let alone into the water. Instead, they drifted west, following the craggy, uneven lines of the shore as it meandered further away from Jezgród’s bustling main boulevard. Slowly but surely, the crowds dampened. The noise abated, from a roar into a murmur. And then…

“That’s a blank!” Dorean breathed a few miles away from their shoreside starting place. “Look, there— by the water.” She pointed with her chin, toward a short, svelte woman who was reclined in the sand a few dozen feet ahead of them, lying on her back as she soaked up the sun’s rays. A white blank brand glimmered prominently from her forehead, unmistakable in its presence. Dorean grinned. “So— we’re good here, right?”

Cibor smiled broadly. “Uh-huh. This is is a good place for us to swim.”

“Good place” was a relative term. It wasn’t hard to see why the mages were avoiding this stretch of lakeshore, which was rocky in several places and surrounded by numerous thin pine trees that littered the sand with their sharp needles. But Cibor cast a grin at Dorean that made it plain he didn’t realize there was anything wrong or strange about this.

“Let’s go!” he squealed.

If Cibor was unabashedly enthusiastic, however, once Dorean reached the waterline the girl quailed, hesitation etching her face. While Cibor immediately waded in up to his shins, grinning like a stroked cat, his companion paused with only a few toes edged into the cool waves. She raked nervous fingers through her thin, frizzy blond hair.

“Hold my hand?” she murmured. “Just ‘til… ‘til I’m better in the water…?”

He nodded, holding out his hand to her. “Uh-huh. You can hold ‘round my shoulders when we get in up to our chests, that’ll be deep enough to practice but still stand up.”

“I wonder how deep it gets,” Dorean said, gingerly lacing her fingers through his. “Prolly real deep. Out in the center.” She squinted against the sunlit horizon. “I can barely even see the other shore. That’s all the way out by the city wall, isn’t it?”

Cibor nodded, slowly drawing Dorean out into the deeper water. “It’s supposed to be so deep that nobody has seen the bottom in the center. Fishermen shoot mage lights down and the light gets lost in the water. But-” he added hurriedly, “we won't go so far out. We can have lots of fun here where it's shallow.”

His eyes were drawn by a small brown bird emerging from the reeds nearby, and he gave an appreciative gasp. “Look! It’s a duck! And her babies!”

“Oooh.” Dorean dared smile. “They’re cute.” She exhaled softly as the water reached her hips. “Can we stop here? Just for now. It’s nice just… standin’. The water feels good.”

Cibor looked a little disappointed not to be allowed to go deeper, but nodded, “Okay.” He knelt a little, hand still clasped around Dorean’s, and gave a contented sigh. “I haven’t come swimmin’ since I was still with Mama and Papa. I didn’t wanna come here ‘cause I had nobody to swim with.”

“We could spend all the rest of the afternoon here if we wanted,” Dorean mused. “‘Long as we get home before Mikolaj does.” Her smile grew. “It’s almost like… like being on a holiday. A real holiday. Like Master Amadei takes.”

Cibor tugged on the small, leather collar around his neck - his containment collar. “I never been on a real holiday before. What’s it like?”

“Fun,” Dorean replied. “My family never went nowhere far ‘cos that’s expensive, but…” The little girl shrugged, resisting the urge to fidget with her own collar. “It’s still nice. You get to spend time with each other. And see new stuff.”

“That does sound nice,” he agreed, almost reverently. “Sometimes I wish I could see the stuff you saw. Before.” He sighed dismally. “But I’m not a real person, and I never was, so I can’t.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dorean said, her smile evaporating. “You are a real person. And so am I. And so is everyone. It’s not true, what the mages say. It’s not. They… they just say stuff like that so they can feel okay treating us like they do. But that doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“B-but…” Cibor bit his lip. “We don’t got magic. And the gods say if you don’t got magic, that means you have no soul.”

“That’s just their gods,” Dorean insisted. “But… I don’t believe in their gods. And I know what they say isn’t true.” She met Cibor’s gaze squarely, her honey-brown eyes intent. “At home mages and blanks all live together. And they’re all treated the same. And our god loves ‘em all.”

He looked bewildered. “There’s different gods? Really?”

“Uh-huh,” Dorean said. “And the Meltaim gods aren’t true. They just aren’t.”

Cibor gnawed on his lip. He seemed unconvinced, like he wanted to ask more, but his eyes kept flitting to the blank woman on the beach. If she overheard, and reported them to the mages for talking like this, it could get them in big trouble.

“C-C’mon,” he said, gently tugging on her hand. “I was gonna show you how to swim, right? We gotta go a little bit deeper for that.”

“Okay,” Dorean agreed. “Lead the way. I tr-trust you.”

Soon enough, as Cibor began to guide his friend through the basics of floating on her back in the water and breathing deep to inflate her lungs for more buoyancy, their moods improved once more. The two children giggled as they played in the water, splashing one another and competing to see who could float the longest and watching fish swim past their feet. After an hour or two, Dorean was getting the hang of dog-paddling in a circle around Cibor, to both of their delights.

“See, I told you it wasn’t so hard!” he chirped. “You just gotta-”

“Well, well, look what we have here,” a snide voice called. “Dogs learning to dog-paddle.”

The children frozen as if they’d been slapped, eyes whipping toward the shore— and Dorean’s heart immediately plunging into her stomach as she found there a pair of dark-haired mages— siblings, by the looks of it. Both of them were boys, the younger perhaps thirteen and the elder maybe fourteen or fifteen, and the light linen tunics and breeches they wore were impeccably tailored to skim their muscled forms. Wealthy. There was no mistaking it. Nor was there any missing the bemused glints in their eyes, or the matching smirks they wore.

“You having fun out there?” crooned the second boy (the older of the two), kicking off his leather sandals as he stepped a foot into the water. As she watched on in utter terror, Dorean noted that the blank who’d been sunbathing in the sand when she and Cibor had arrived was gone now— when she’d left was anyone’s guess, but in any case, this left the children utterly alone with these mages. “Aww, don’t be shy now,” the teenager sang on. “Tomek and I are just poking fun, little pups. A family day on the beach gets boring, you know? And Mum said we could wander so long as we met her and Dad and the little kids back on the main beach by dusk. Wasn’t that nice of her?”

Cibor swallowed hard, instinctively flinching towards Dorean so that their shoulders were touching. “I-if you want the beach, you can have it, masters,” he burbled. “We’ll go somewhere else.”

“Now, now, we never said we wanted you to leave, did we Krzys?” the first speaker said in a falsely comforting voice.

“Nope,” Krzys agreed. “If we wanted to swim, we could’ve done it at the main beach.” He laughed, rolling up his breeches and wading deeper. “You little pups out here all by yourselves? That’s so brave! Mum and Dad don’t give our blanks star-marks until they’re at least thirteen. Little ones can get lost or led astray so easily, you know?”

“We… we’re okay on our own,” Dorean murmured. Every instinct in her body screamed out for her to get away from this pair using any means possible, but she knew that this would probably only escalate the situation. Like a dog getting more excited when its possible preything tries to run. “Our m-master trusts us.”

“Does he now? But surely you should have at least one grown-up with you.” Tomek smirked. “Even if that grown-up is just another blank.”

“Th-the grown-ups is workin’,” Cibor sputtered. “We didn’t wanna bother ‘em.

“And why aren’t you working then, little pups?” Tomek asked.

“I-I have a day off,” Dorean stammered. “And he got off early. S-so we… we wanted to come swim.”

“So nervous, pup,” Krzys tutted. “Don’t be so skittish, hmm? My brother and I are just concerned— that’s all. Blanks your age aren’t often out in the city all on their own. Not outside Retpla, anyway.”

“B-b-but we’re allowed!” Cibor bleated, clearly losing his hold on his terror. “Please, w-we’re not doin’ nothing wrong, p-please-”

“Quiet,” Tomek snapped, his lip curling in distaste. “Hasn’t your master taught you not to wail like a banshe? Good gods!”

“We’ll— we’ll get out,” Dorean sniffled, fighting back the tears that were threatening in her eyes. “You can have the b-beach all to yourselves, we’ll get out—”

“Gods, calm down,” Krzys huffed. He rolled his eyes, then glanced toward his brother— before he promptly stiffened at a flicker of movement from further down the beach, back toward the more populated stretches. “Oh, gods.” As his brother— and Cibor and Dorean— automatically followed his gaze, the teenaged hissed under his breath, “That’s Dad, isn’t it? Over there, near the rocks? Walking our way?”

Tomek cursed softly. “Get out of the water- get out now before he sees or he’s gonna-”

“What the hell-” the adult mage snarled, glaring daggers at the teenagers, “are you two doing? I said you could wander, but I didn’t mean for you to flounce all the way to the blank beach! What if you’re seen out here?”

“We’re… we’re just having fun, Father,” Krzys replied, though all traces of humour had abruptly vanished from his face as he scrambled out of the water, sand clinging to his damp feet. “You and Mum didn’t say we couldn’t come this far, just that we had to be back by dusk—”

“For all the gods sake, what would people say if they saw my sons swimming with blanks?” he snapped, striding towards them. “I didn’t say you couldn’t come this far because I assumed that was just common sense!” To the children he snarled, “You saw nothing. You will speak of this to no one.”

“N-n-n-no master,” Cibor warbled, his eyes firmly on his toes.

“O-of course not, master,” Dorean said. This man was carrying on as though he and his sons were people of importance— people the blanks ought recognise— and Dorean swallowed back the temptation to tell him that she didn’t know who they were at all. “We w-won’t tell,” she said instead. “Promise.”

“It’s not a big deal anyway, Father,” Krzys muttered grumpily as he slapped his sandals back on. “Like you said, it’s a blank beach. If anyone we do know saw us here… well, they’d be doing something improper, too, wouldn’t they?”

“That,” the man cuffed Krzys over the head, making Tomek wince, “is no excuse! Now come on, or it’ll be both your wands and both your freedom of the city for a week!”

Though neither teenager looked particularly pleased with this pronouncement, they also seemed to know better than arguing, the two merely sulking like kicked dogs as they dutifully followed their father back toward the main beach. Dorean and Cibor stayed silent as the trio retreated, only daring to let out their breaths once the mages had disappeared out of sight. Dorean swallowed hard, paddling slowly toward the shallows.

“We… we should go back home, m-maybe,” she said. “To the ghetto. I-it’s gettin’ late anyway. And… what if Mikolaj comes home early and finds we’re gone? He’ll punish us.”

Cibor bit his lip. “B-but we were havin’ fun… A-and the mages is gone now.”

Dorean blinked hard. “I know. B-but… what if they come back, or— or someone else does, or—”

Cibor came up to where Dorean was, and pulled her into a hug. “The mages are always there, Dory. Always. B-but if we’re afraid of them all the time, we’ll never get to do anything. A-and we’d go crazy. Sometimes we just gotta do fun things, even if we’re scared. A-and that was scary, but nothing bad happened. They’re gone now.”

She snuffled, sagging into his hold. “I hate it here” she whimpered. “I hate it!”

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I… I would send you home if I could. T-to your country. So you could be happy again. You should be happy, Dorean. You’re my best friend, a-and you got a real soul and you deserve it.”

“Y-you have a soul, too,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Both of us do. I w-wish we could b-both go there. To Macarinth. T-together.” Her jaw chattered. “Y-you’d like it there. My mama and papa. E-everyone. And they’d like you, too.”

“C-could we stay here?” Cibor asked. “Just a little longer? We can sit on the beach and let the sun dry off our clothes. So Mikolaj doesn’t wonder why we’re all wet. A-and I… I wanna hear stories. ‘Bout your home and your god. If that’s okay.”

“O-okay,” Dorean agreed. “We can talk quiet. So even i-if someone else comes near, they don’t hear us.”

Cibor took Dorean’s hand in his, and the two little blanks climbed up onto the beach, where they sat in the sand together. As the sun started to stain the sky bright orange, they traded stories until their clothes were dry and the frightening encounter with the mages forgotten.

Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

Just as quickly as summer had come it was gone again, replaced by a biting autumn that swiftly turned into a bitter winter. Once again Cibor and Dorean found themselves cuddling close at night out of sheer necessity— and mutually dreading the call of dawn, when they’d have to emerge from the shelter of the tenement and face the brutal winds and snows outside. At least the tavern was unfailingly warm when Dorean finally reached it; Cibor, however, was not always quite so lucky. Sometimes he was rented by mages who wanted him to work only inside, but this was hardly a rule of thumb. Just as often he found himself doing menial labour out on the frigid streets, his reprieve only coming at the end of his shift when he could slink back to the tenement and curl up in front of the hearth in the rundown kitchen, nursing a bowl of mealy stew. Without fail, Dorean— who usually worked later than he did— would join him when she arrived home from the tavern. He always saved her a bowl of food.

One evening in late January, however, it was nearly midnight and still Dorean had not shown. Mikolaj tried to tell Cibor not to worry— that perhaps Amadei had just kept the girl overnight at the tavern for some reason or another— but he was not assuaged. In spite of the cold, he took up a post on the front stoop, going inside only briefly every so often to keep from freezing to death before resuming his vigil.

It seemed as though Mikolaj was close to bodily hauling the child inside when, finally, a small, limping form appeared toward the end of the derelict street. There were no magelights to illuminate the ghetto, but a full moon was gleaming brightly overhead, and so it didn’t take long for the person’s features to become apparent: a waif-like frame, bedraggled clothes, long straight hair the colour of buttercream…

“Dorean!” Cibor cried, jolting to his feet and dashing through the snowy streets towards his friend. “Where were you, it’s so late I was worr- eep!”

“C-Cibor,” Dorean stuttered, her teeth chattering. Her gaze was unfocused— cloudy— as she took another staggering step, the girl barely seeming to notice as Mikolaj quickly came up behind her and Cibor— and promptly swore under his breath. “W-why are you awake?” the little girl stammered on. “It’s late… it’s late…”

“Easy does it, Dorean,” Mikolaj soothed, kneeling beside the girl and gently hooking one hand under her knees while the other he slipped behind her shoulders. He hefted her before she had time to realize what he was up to, leaving Cibor to stare, horrified, at the droplets of crimson that were left behind in the white snow in Dorean’s wake. They glinted beneath the moonlight like tiny, macabre rubies, steaming the ice and snow beneath.

Up in the older blank’s arms, Dorean whimpered, thrashing suddenly. “It hurts,” she moaned, her breaths laboured. “P-put me down, it hurts when you touch, it hurts—”

“Hush, little one,” he said, though his voice sounded more tired and resigned than soothing. “Cibor, come on, you’ll catch your death out here.”

The boy started, tearing his gaze away from the blood on the snow and trotting after Mikolaj. Once the man had gotten the duo inside, he laid Dorean down on her stomach in front of the hearth and threw a log on the fire, stoking it to get it going again. Cibor vanished up the stairs, returning a moment later with his and Dorean’s blanket.

“H-here, it’s, it’s cold you need to wrap up,” he said, draping it over her shoulders. “Stay on your belly, it helps it hurt less.”

“Th-the floor’s splintery,” she murmured, somewhat absently. Disjointedly. “I f-feel sick.”

“That’s the blood loss,” Mikolaj said, having finally gotten the fire going again. He turned back to the girl, sighing. “Cibor take the blanket back off, I need to have a look at-”

“No,” Dorean whimpered, attempting to lurch upright. But Mikolaj promptly pushed her back down— gently, if firmly— and she was in no state to resist him. “D-don’t look. It’s f-f-fine, you don’t have to look. I j-just need to… to sleep or… or…”

“Dorean, you’re bleeding lots, you s-should let Mikolaj look,” Cibor stammered, his small body trembling as he obediently removed the blanket. In spite of Dorean’s protests, Mikolaj slowly drew back her dress, revealing a grotesque warren of welts, stripes, and massive bruises, trailing from her tailbone all the way down her legs before finally ending just above her ankles.

“Ah, hell,” Mikolaj hissed. “What did he hit you with? A belt?”

“W-w-we should, should get her some medicine, those look bad-” Cibor burbled, but the older blank cut him off.

“It’s past midnight, the herbalists will all be closed.” He sighed, “We… can see about it in the morning. It won’t be cheap, but we can try.”

“I’ll be okay,” Dorean said hazily— though she looked (and sounded) anything but. “H-he j-just hit me with… with a belt. And buckle. N-not a whip. N-not like Adeladja l-last month.” This was another of Amadei’s blank slaves, albeit a much, much older one than Dorean. “A-and… and sh-she didn’t get medicine.”

“Adeladja is a lot bigger and stronger than you,” Mikolaj chided gently, taking some thin, near threadbare gauze out of one of the cabinets. He slowly, gently began to wrap it around Dorean’s wounds to stem the bleeding.

The girl whimpered. “He j-just kept hitting. Even after I started bl-bleeding, he… he wouldn’t stop.” She sniffled, tears rolling down her milk-pale cheeks. “I’ve n-never been hit with a b-b-buckle before, it hurts.”

Cibor sat by his friend’s side, tentatively brushing his hand against hers. “I know it hurts. It hurts bad- I’ve got th-the belt buckle before, it’s awful.”

Dorean whimpered, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing tight. “It was an accident,” she mewled as Mikolaj continued bandaging her wounds. “I w-wasn’t bad on purpose, it was an accident! B-but he didn’t care.”

“What happened?” Cibor asked, rubbing his thumb across the top of Dorean’s hand and using his other hand to dust the snow off of her trembling form.

“I sl-slipped,” the girl sniveled. “The floor w-was wet ‘cos— ‘cos Rahel didn’t m-mop good ‘nough, and I slipped, and…” She shuddered. “I spilled the soup I was holding. O-on a customer. I-it burned him. And Master Amadei was… was…” Dorean reached up to wipe at her teary eyes. “He w-whipped Rahel first. R-real bad. And m-made me wait ‘til he was done with her. And then…”

Mikolaj hissed softly. “So Rahel is nursing lashes tonight too. I wondered why those two didn’t help you get home.”

“I-it’s not fair,” Cibor burbled. “She didn’t mean to, it was an accident that she spilled the soup! A-and the mages can fix a burn real fast anyway!”

“Doesn’t matter to them,” Mikolaj said sadly, tying off the last of the bandages. “If we screw up, we bleed for it. End of story.” He sighed, rubbing his face as he stood. “You two stay out here by the fire. Warm up. And try to get some sleep.”

“I d-don’t hafta go in tomorrow, at least,” Dorean whispered. “H-he said I had t-to focus on getting better. ‘Cos he… he won’t be takin’ no excuses once I’m back.”

“Th-that’s good,” Cibor said, throwing the blanket over her again and settling on the wood beside her- but not covering himself. “I wish I could stay here with you. I’m sorry you got hit.”

“I-it’s okay. It’s not your fault.” The girl squeezed her eyes shut, shuddering. “You can g-go upstairs if you want. The p-pallet’s more comfortable than the floor, and… y-you have to work tomorrow, and...”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m stayin’ right here next to you. You’re hurt and sick, and I wanna help.” He squirmed closer, cuddling up to the girl as best he could without jostling her wounds. “Sides I gotta keep you warm.”

“Th-thank you.” Dorean sighed. “W-walking home by myself was scary. It’s s-so late. And it h-hurt to walk.”

“I’d have come to get you,” he said dismally. “If I knew. Even though it’s really cold outside.”

Indeed, after his vigil out by the stoop Cibor was white skinned and trembling. But he only burrowed his face against Dorean’s shoulder, adding, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dorean said. “Y-you didn’t do anything wrong.” A beat. “I-I’m sorry if I sc-scared you. When I didn’t come home.”

“It’s okay, Dorean,” he murmured, hugging her. “I’m just glad you’re home now.”

“D-Dorean,” she echoed, wondering over the name like a cat pawing at a beam of light. Another name flashed in her mind, then— one she hadn’t dared think of in ages. The one she’d kept so fiercely hidden, that she’d refused to hand over to Amadei all that time ago. “C-can I tell you a secret?” she whispered, voice light as down. “And d-do you promise not to tell?”

Cibor seemed surprised, but he nodded. “S-sure, if you wanna. I won’t tell anybody.”

She gulped. “Dorean,” she said. “I-it’s not my name. Not r-really.”

He turned his head so he was looking straight at her face, his expression confused. “It isn’t? Wh-why’d you say it was then? And… what is?”

“I d-didn’t want them to have it,” Dorean said. “Th-that… part of me. It probably sounds st-stupid, but…”

“O-oh,” he swallowed hard. “N-no that makes sense. The mages have everything. They own it all, even us. S-so… so your name’s just yours. Nobody else gets it.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. Her entire body was shaking— whether it was from pain, anxiety, or a combination thereof was not altogether clear. “D-do you wanna know it, Cibor?”

Cibor tilted his head, seeming confused. “Y-you’d tell me? But… I’m Meltaiman. A-and then your name wouldn’t be just yours.”

“You’re my friend,” Dorean said. “M-my only friend. I want my name to be yours, too. Both of ours.”

He blinked hard, cuddling his head against hers partially in a gesture of affection, and partially to get close enough that he could whisper, “O-okay. What is it?”

“Jessamine,” she breathed. “B-but most people used to call me Jess. Or Jessie.” She sniffled again. “And I h-had a last name, too. Like mages have.”

“J-Jess,” he nodded, very slightly so as not to jostle his friend. “It’s a pretty name. A-and your last name?”

“Thorsten,” she whispered. “I was J-Jessamine Thorsten. And I had siblings, t-too. I d-don’t think I ever told you their names.” She pressed her cheek to his. “Ceely and Nathan. They’re C-Ceely and Nathan.”

“C-Ceely Thorsten… and Nathan Thorsten. A-and you’re Jessamine Thorsten.” He bit his lip. “I still gotta call you Dorean when people can hear, b-but… can I use your real name? When it’s just us?”

“O-okay,” Dorean— Jess— agreed. “I’d like that, Cibor. I’d l-like that a lot.” She let out a shallow, shaky breath. “I love you,” she said. “A-and I’m glad you know my name.”

“I love you too, Jess,” he replied, nestling against her and letting his eyes slide shut. “And I promise, we’ll be best friends forever. No matter what.”

***

Years passed, and Cibor kept that promise he’d made to Jess the frigid winter night she’d first told him her real name. Though like any pair of children the duo had their share of spats- usually broken up by Mikolaj- most of the time they were nigh inseparable. They would sleep cuddled together, lulled into slumber by each other’s slow breathing. When one was sick, or flogged, the other did everything they could to care for them. On those rare, bright days both of them were lucky enough to have off, they would slip away from Retpla together for a romp in the lake, or to play in the snow (Jess taught Cibor how to make snowmen, something the slavery raised child had never tried prior).

When Cibor hit age thirteen, he abruptly started shooting up like a weed, the child constantly ravenous in a way the tenement’s meager rations couldn’t keep up with. By the time he was fourteen to Jessamine’s thirteen- and stamped with an of-age brand- he was fully a head taller than her, adding muscle to his lean frame from constant hard labor, and was starting to look rather more like a man than a boy.

Jess wasn't quite sure when she noticed it— the flutter in her stomach when she looked at him. The way her palms would start to sweat when their eyes met, or how when he smiled a certain way, or laughed at one of her stupid jokes, her heart would leapfrog into her throat. She didn't know what it was. Not at first. Didn't know what it meant, exactly, let alone what to do about it.

And then one evening in the middle of a surprisingly mild autumn, the two of them were sitting on the stoop of the tenement, sharing a burnt, stale piece of sweetbread that Amadei had let Jess bring home from the tavern. A silver moon— nearly full— shone overhead, flanked by a sparkling swath of stars. In between chews Cibor was telling a story about a pair of squabbling mage children whom he’d witnessed calling each other amusingly colorful names, and Jess was watching him, quietly. There was a grain of sugar stuck to the corner of his lip, and impulsively— thoughtlessly—she reached a hand toward it, fingers gently grazing his skin.

“A crumb,” she said as he startled. Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”

“Oh,” he reached a hand up to the spot in surprise, then gave a sheepish grin. “My bad.” He gently swiped it away, the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose acquiring a slightly pink tinge. “Everyone says I eat like a starving wolf, but that’s no excuse to be sloppy, hm?”

He winked at her. Her face went from pink to blazing scarlet.

“It's all right,” Jess said. Her heart hummed. “You've got some more on your lips. Sugar.”

“A-are you okay?” he asked, seeming to notice the heat in his friend’s face. As he wiped at his lips to brush off the granules of sugar in question, he added, “You aren’t coming down with something, are you?”

“I'm fine,” she squeaked. “Just. Um.” She forced a wobbly smile. Even as her rational side screamed at her to stop, she started to scoot toward the boy, slowly. Hesitantly. “You… look nice tonight. Your um.” Jess considered, silent for a moment before she settled on: “... Smile.”

Now it was Cibor’s turn to flush, the pink sheen across his nose spreading to his cheeks. “O-oh. Thank you. Y-you too.” Averting his gaze, he muttered, “Y-your hair looks nice in the moonlight. Almost silver.”

“Thanks.” Jess took a deep breath, and then— as an awkward silence began to percolate between the pair— she once again edged closer. Their elbows bumped. “No more sugar,” she murmured, placing a delicate finger against his bottom lip.

A shudder went up Cibor’s spine, and his eyes riveted towards hers. “Ah, um… g-good. That’s- that’s good,” he said, not seeming able to quite look away.

“Yes. Good.” She angled her face toward him, a small smile tugging at her lips… before, with a hard swallow, she let her eyelids flutter shut. “Very good,” Jess whispered, leaning her face toward him. Desperately hoping she wasn't making a mistake as— tenderly— she brushed her lips against his.

Cibor’s face bloomed a deep crimson, a jolt of something he could not name shooting through him. But acting on some barely understood instinct, he too closed his eyes, pressing his lips closer to hers and bringing up a hand to cup her chin.

For a long, lovely moment the pair lingered like that, before at long last Jess pulled delicately away, her eyelids springing back open. Though it wasn’t warm, sweat beaded her brow, and her heart was pounding as if she’d just run clear across the city.

“Did you… did you like that?” she whispered, her voice cracking. Fearing the answer was no. Praying that it wasn’t.

Cibor’s head was tucked against his neck, rather like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell, but when he met her eyes, he was smiling. A bashful smile, but still a smile.

“I… I did,” he stammered, sounding out of breath and slightly hoarse. “If you… if you want to do it again sometime, I wouldn’t mind. It was nice.”

Jess laughed, anxiously, her stomach pitching like a stormy sea. “I’d like to,” she said. “I’d… really like to. I…” She forced as deep a breath as she could manage. “I… liked how it felt. Being that close to you, being…”

Hesitantly, Cibor reached towards Jess and brushed his fingers across her cheek, drawing them through her butter-blonde hair. “You’re… you’re beautiful, you know,” he murmured. “I’d been thinking it for a while. I just… I worried it was awkward. To say it out loud.”

“It’s hard to say,” Jess agreed, goosebumps rising on her arms. “Suddenly feeling…” She shook her head, managing a wobbly smile again. “It’s like being friends. Only… different. Better, somehow.” She leaned her forehead against his neck, so that her hair brushed against his chin. “At least, I think it’s better. If… if you do, too.”

He shivered, but put an arm around her shoulder and slowly nodded. “I… I do.” Jokingly he added, “Even if it’s sort of making my heart speed up like I just ran a mile. But even though we’ve… sat together and hugged and everything hundreds of times, this does feel better.”

“It’s… different,” Jess said again. “Good. And different.” She gulped for what felt like the umpteenth time. “When I’m with you, I feel safe. H-happy and safe. I don’t feel that way anywhere else. With anyone else.”

“Well, I’m glad I make you feel safe,” he teased lightly. “It’s what I was going for.” More seriously he added, “I’ll be by your side, Jess. Always. You make me feel safe and happy too. Like the family I haven’t really had since I was small.”

“You are my family,” Jess said softly. “N-now. Without you, I’d have... “ She shook her head, drawing back from his chest so that she could look him in the eye again. “I’d have nothing.”

He met her honeyed eyes with his dark chocolate ones, shivering a little. Wanly he joked, “And here I thought you just hung around on account of I’m warm in winter.”

Here, Jess rolled her eyes, and reached a hand to whack him lightly on the cheek. “Shush. You’re ruining the moment.” And then, with far less hesitation than before, she leaned forward again, pressing her lips against his. “I love you, Cibor.”

It was something she’d said dozens of times before, but now, in the crisp autumn wind, it felt… different, somehow. Set loose a wave of furious butterflies in her stomach— or maybe bees. For a moment she wondered if she shouldn’t have said it— if somehow this was just going to make things awkward once more— but Cibor only pulled her gently to his chest in a hug.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

Soon, saying ‘I love you’ no longer felt quite so awkward. Nor did kissing, and caressing each other, and gazing into one another’s eyes. By the time Jessamine’s fourteenth birthday was just around the corner— when she’d officially come of age by Meltaiman law— it seemed hard for her to believe that she and Cibor ever had been less than this. That there was a time when she hadn’t known the softness of his lips against hers, or felt an excited tug in her stomach whenever her skin met his.

Cibor, for his part, was happier than he’d ever been in his life. The teenager made it through his long days of irregular rental work with Jessie always in his mind’s eye, knowing that as soon as he saw her again that night that any weariness and muscle pain would be soothed away by her warmth. Her closeness. The glow in her eyes when they met his.

Of course this development hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other blanks in the tenement. Awkwardness had abounded when Mikolaj pulled Cibor aside for A Talk, and one of the women who lived there did the same to Jess. It was no dearth of embarrassing- but at least it was preferable to something unfortunate happening because of either of them being careless in their mostly hormone-driven, instructionless overtures with one another.

One afternoon, however, much later than was usual, Cibor returned to the tenement not with an expression of excitement to see the love of his life, but one that was dazed and not a little bit panicked. The young man stumbled up to the front steps of the building, looking like a puppy who had been left in a box by the roadside to die and didn’t understand what was happening to it.

When Jess arrived home a few hours later, covered in stale beer from a tankard that a drunkard had spilled on her, she found him sitting cross-legged on the floor in their bedroom. She needed only the briefest glance at his expression to know that something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

“What happened?” she asked, dispatching with any preamble. “Are you hurt?”

He looked up at her, his eyes awash with anguish. “I wish it was something that simple. Master Amadei asked to talk to me after I’d finished work today. He… he said business has been slow at the tavern. And I’m so y-young that I’m… I’m desirable. Easy to train still. Moldable.” He inhaled sharply, clenching his fingers on his threadbare sleeves. “He said he’s planning to sell me. At auction this weekend.”

Jess wanted to dispute this. Wanted to scream at Cibor that Amadei had been at the tavern all day— that what Cibor was saying didn't happen, couldn't have happened, that this joke wasn’t funny—

But then she remembered. How Amadei had left his eldest daughter in charge for a few hours that afternoon as he’d stepped out to “run errands”. This wasn't anything unusual; Jess had thought nothing of it at the time.

Still, she whimpered: “No. No. That's not true. No!”

Cibor groaned, slumping back against the wall and covering his face. “I t-tried to say the same thing.” He tilted his head to the side, revealing just inside his hairline a fist-sized bruise. “This was my reply. J-Jess I…” He swallowed hard. “I can’t lose you. I can’t. Last time I was sold, I never saw my family again. A-and I know being sold out of the city doesn’t happen much but if it did…” he choked. “If it did...”

She fell to her knees in front of him, tears springing to her amber eyes. “It won't happen,” she insisted. “It c-can't!”

Cibor swallowed hard, reaching towards Jess and gently drawing her towards his chest. She collapsed into his embrace, squeezing her eyelids shut. Her entire body shook. She felt like she might vomit.

“We could run away,” she whimpered. “T-to Macarinth. Together.”

“Our collars, Jess,” Cibor admonished her though it was clear he was fighting back a sob as he said it. “We’d be dead before we got past the city walls, much less all the way to Macarinth. Besides, they’d kill me there. A native born Meltaiman? I’m against everything they care about from what you’ve told me of them.”

“No, they wouldn't,” Jess insisted. But that did nothing to invalidate his point about the collars. “You h-have to be sold inside the city. You have to. I-I can't lose you, Cibor, I can't!”

Cibor kissed her, on the forehead, then on her cheek, then on her lips. It felt… desperate. Like he was trying to cling to her with everything in him, before he was invariably ripped away.

“Pray, Jessie,” he whispered, so softly that it was audible only to her and only because her face was inches away from his. “You’ve told me your god is a kind one. Pray for us when Master takes me to the auction block. That we don’t have to be separated. That we-” his voice cracked, “that w-we don’t have to be alone again.”

“You pray, too,” she choked out, still nestled against him. Practically clinging to him. “B-because I can't do it, Cibor— be alone again. I can't, I just can't. You're all I have. Th-the only thing that keeps me s-sane.”

“Your god won’t hear me,” he said, shaking his head. “But you’re real. You’re good, kind, beautiful, and you have the soul I can only ever dream of having. When I’m with you I… I feel like a person too, for a little while. Instead of just a blank.”

“We are people,” Jess breathed. “Both of us are.” She reached up a shaky hand and rubbed her knuckles against her damp eyes. “I love you, Cibor. So much. And… and…” She forced a jagged breath. “When you get sold, you w-won’t be able to live here anymore, n-not with Amadei’s blanks, you’ll have to move to y-your new master’s tenement i-if he gives you ghetto privileges, and…” Jess gulped, trying to slow her talking before she grew frantic. “We sh-should start saving up. I have c-coin privileges, you know. And… we could use those coins. T-to get our own flat. Once I’m of age. R-rent wouldn’t be that much, not if we got just a room, and we could… we could…”

Cibor breath hitched, and his grip around her shoulders tightened, “You… you’d really…” he swallowed hard. “You’re my family, Jess. The only family I have. S-so… so if I’m sold inside the city, if you’re sure you want to, th-then… we could save up. Move into our own place, together.”

His voice barely above a whisper, he added, “Get m-married.”

Jess let a wobbly smile bloom between her lips. “We’d h-have to get permission,” she said. All owned blanks did. “But… I c-can’t see why Amadei would say no, it hardly matters to him if I’m m-married or not. And… I doubt whoever buys you would c-care either.” Gesturing to his muscled form, she added, “Y-you’ll probably go to someone who wants a labourer. All that’ll matter is your ability to work.”

“Mm,” he agreed. “You come of age in… two months? S-so that gives us some time. To scrape the money together. Between living separately and working for coin we won’t be able to see each other much in the interim but it’ll be worth it.”

“C-come see me after the auction,” Jess said— almost pleaded. “As soon a-as you can. The moment your n-new master lets you. Please? Just so I know that you’re okay. That you’re still here. In Jezgród.”

“I’ll come,” he promised. “Even if it’s three in the morning, I’ll come just as soon as I’m allowed. I promise.”

Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

The morning of the auction, Jess and Cibor bade each other tearful goodbyes, and thereafter commenced a waiting game for the young blonde teen. She barely ate, and slept even less, and during her tavern shifts her mind was often elsewhere. After three spilled tankards of ale in as many days, Amadei kept her after the tavern closed for the night and whipped her with the buckle end of his belt, stippling her bare thighs with ugly welts. The next day, when her attention lapsed as she was supposed to be tending an oven full of bread, and the entire batch burnt to black, he upgraded to a lash proper and laced her back with stripes. They stung like all hells and bled through the fabric of her dress as she walked home.

But she barely cared. Not while she didn’t know. Was Cibor still in the city, or was he far, far away? Who had bought him? What had happened?

Nearly a month passed with no word. She was starting to grow very hopeless. She’d forced herself to focus enough at the tavern to at least avoid any more beatings, but otherwise she felt… hollow. Empty. For years now Cibor had been her anchor. The only beam of light in an otherwise bleak and black life. And now that he was gone— and she didn’t know if she’d ever get him back again— she didn’t know what to do. It was just like those first few months in Meltaim all over again, when she’d been separated from her siblings and sent to the auction block, then punted from broker to broker like a piece of unwanted meat.

Then one night, she was wrenched awake from a fretful sleep by the sound of someone knocking on her bedroom door. She blinked, wild-eyed, and called out: “Yes? Who is it?”

Desperately, she hoped that it was him— Cibor— and she couldn’t hide her disappointment when it wasn’t. When instead the door swung open and revealed only Mikolaj, the older blank’s expression inscrutable against the darkness.

“What do you want?” Jess murmured, not even bothering to sit. Knees drawn up to her chest, she added, “I scrubbed the pot after dinner like you told me. I did, okay?”

The man quirked an eyebrow. “If you’re going to be surly maybe I should go downstairs and tell your guest to scarper back home- he looks wretched enough without being snarled at.”

“Guest?” Jess sat bolt upright, her heart leapfrogging into her throat. “What— what guest?”

“I think you know who,” Mikolaj said with a smile. “Looks like after an overlong breaking in period Cibor’s new owners have finally given him privilege marks. He’s downstairs in the kitchen.”

Jess was on her feet in the blink of an eye, and vaulting past Mikolaj out of the room in another. She took the steps to the first floor two at a time, her heart hammering in her throat as she reached the bottom and banked a hard right. She was through the living room in a moment, into a small hall, and then—

“Oh, gods,” she whimpered as she laid eyes on Cibor. Skidding to a halt, Jessamine’s stomach abruptly flipped. The girl wanted to enfold the boy into a crushing hug, but she didn’t dare— not when, as she surveyed him, she found herself barely able to count all of his injuries: two black eyes, a bruise on his jaw, chain blisters on his wrists, welts stippling his bare arms, and bruises all the way around his neck from a brand new steel collar. And that was only what she could see; Jess hardly dared imagine what lay beneath his clothing. “Cibor,” she stammered. “What did they do to you?”

The teenage boy looked up when he saw her, attempting to lurch to his feet from where he seemed to have collapsed on the floor, but sliding back down with a whimper of pain. “Gods, I’ve missed you,” he burbled, reaching a shaking hand out to her. He gave a very wobbly smile, using the other hand to point to his left cheek. Where for as long as Jess had known him the boy had sported Amadei’s mark- a silhouetted stag rearing on its hind legs, for his tavern The Dancing Stag- he now bore an entirely different mark. An image of a lakeshore surrounded by double rings of blue; the seal of the city. Behind the seal were a crossed shovel and pickaxe. It was a mark Jess had seen dozens of times over; the mark of a city-owned labor blank.

“When the city officials first bought me, they lashed me so badly I was sick for a week,” he explained, still holding out his hand entreatingly. “As a w-warning, they said. Of what I’d get for defiance. They haven’t let me leave the barracks except to work once unt-til last night. Wh-when they finally gave my privilege marks. I w-wanted to come then, I did love, I tried, b-but they beat me again as a warning against trying to run. I’m sorry, I-I-”

Jess swore. Loudly. “Those monsters,” she hissed. “That's barbaric, that's—” Gulping, she delicately reached out and laced her arms around his neck, easing him close. “You'll stay here tonight,” she whispered. “With me. N-no one will care— and if they do, they can go f—”

He cut her off with a finger delicately placed over her lip. Cibor’s entire body was trembling , and he murmured, “I think I’d pass out in the street if I tried to leave tonight. J-Jess I… I…” a sob burbled out of his throat, and he pressed his forehead against the side of her neck. “I m-missed you so much, every minute, I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner, p-please can you forgive me? I know y-you must’ve been so worried, so angry when I never c-came-”

“Cibor, no,” she said, drawing him away to an arm’s length so that their eyes met. “You have nothing to apologize for. If they beat you just as a warning, what would they have done if you'd run off?”

“K-killed me, probably,” he whispered. “As an example. That’s what I was terrified of. That they’d catch me a-and kill me. There’s a scar on my chin where th-they lashed me on the face just because I stopped hauling bricks for a few seconds to wipe sweat from my forehead. It was never like this with Amadei, o-or with my parents’ masters. I was wary b-but never afraid of breathing in the wrong direction.”

“You'll have to be careful,” she whispered, taking his hand and gently leading him back toward the stairs. “But… it’ll be okay. Because— we’re together, right? You're still in the city. A-and as long as you're a good worker, they won't sell you again. We won't have to worry.”

“Y-yeah,” he agreed, gratefully following her. “The city blanks are almost never sold- they don’t make enough profit to the city for that to be worthwhile. So… s-so we can get our own place, once we have the money. And be together.” He slumped a bit, so that his cheek was nestled against Jessamine’s butter-blonde hair. “I love you. S-so much.”

“I love you, too,” Jess said. “And… I’ll start taking odd jobs, okay? Whenever I can. So we can get our own place as s-soon as possible. And… I'll ask Amadei, too. For permission for us to m-marry as soon as my birthday comes.”

Cibor nodded. “I’ll ask the overseer. I doubt he’ll care any, as long as I make it to work on time in the morning.” He hugged her. “Thank you, Jessie. For staying by my side all these years. For waiting for me. It k-kept me going.”

“Of course.” As they reached the stairs, Jess slung an arm around his shoulder to help him limp up. “You're my best friend. And soon— hopefully— you'll be my husband, too. I’ll always be there to you, Cibor. No matter what.”

“And I’ll always be there for you,” he promised as he began the laborious climb up the staircase. “Always.”

***

“Master?” Jess murmured a few days later, her hands clasped behind her back and her stomach doing gymnastics as she stood in the kitchen of the tavern at the beginning of her shift. She was the first worker to arrive for the day, and it was only her and Amadei in the room, Jess sweeping the floor as her master scored loaves of bread that were about to be set in the oven. “May… may I ask you something, Master?” Jessamine went on tentatively. “If you're not b-busy.”

The mage looked up from the bread, his eyes narrowed slightly. Jess didn’t usually dare address him unless spoken to first. After a moment’s deliberation he growled, “What’s that? Sickening with something? If it’s about staying home because of your womanly woes the answer is the same as it was when Rahel asked last month; no.”

“No, it's n-not that,” Jess said quickly. “It's just— well…” She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying desperately to slow her speech so that it did not come off as frenzied. “M-my birthday is coming up soon. I… I turn fourteen.”

Amadei grunted. “I’ll have to set up an appointment with the city brander to get you an of-age mark.” He tapped a finger on the counter. “So you bring this up because?”

“Well, I… I…” She swallowed hard— schooled herself— before blurting: “I'll be old enough to get married.” A beat. “I… I’d like your permission. To get married.”

That seemed to catch Amadei’s interest. “Married? Heh, not wasting any time, are you? Like deers in rut, you blanks are.” He drummed his fingers, seeming to think about it. “Who owns the slave you want to marry? Or’s it a free blank?”

It was possible- albeit rare- for a blank to buy their freedom, if their master was agreeable to it. Such “free” blanks were slaves to no one, and thus didn’t have to fear the lash and were free to come and go places as they pleased so long as they didn’t bother any mages. However it was much harder for them to support themselves without a master providing their food.

In any case, Cibor was far from free. “He's owned by the city,” Jess murmured, her heart humming in her ears. “A laborer.”

Understanding flitted across the mage’s face. “Ah- Cibor. You two are still seeing each other, then?”

“Y-yes, Master,” she stammered. “We are.”

Amadei smirked. “Hmf. Well he’ll have to get permission from the city overseers, but if they don’t care neither do I. I own you after all- any kids you have are legally property of the mother’s owner.” His expression was almost a leer, greed glinting in his eyes. “Just see to it that you still work the hours I need you here, and you can marry whoever you want.”

His mention of her and Cibor’s potential children eclipsed much of the joy she’d have otherwise felt over gaining the man’s permission. The idea of her kids suffering the same sort of life she and Cibor had— being branded and becoming the legal property of Amadei the day they turned seven and hadn't shown any signs of magic—

“What’s that face for?” Amadei demanded, noticing the way Jess had deflated. “You have something you want to say to me, Dorean? I gave you your permission didn’t I?”

“Sorry, Master,” she said quickly, forcing a neutral face. “Th-thank you, Master. For giving permission. I'm truly grateful.”

He snorted, then flapped a hand dismissively. “If that’s all, you’d best get back to work. We’re opening in an hour and I want this place in top form, as always.”

Jess nodded, falling silent as she turned back to sweeping the kitchen. The more time Amadei’s thoughtless comment about her potential children to sink in, the more the girl tried to disregard it— tried to tell herself that she ought not fret about things that hadn’t happened yet. That she should instead revel in this moment. In the idea that once her birthday hit, so long as Cibor gained permission, the two of them could marry and officially make a family of themselves.

Cibor had only been able to spend that initial night at Amadei’s tenement— mages generally frowned upon blanks they didn’t own effectively squatting in their properties— and so after her shift ended, Jess headed not back to the building she called home, but rather to the massive city-owned boarding house where Cibor was now staying. It made Amadei’s dilapidated accommodations look nearly luxurious: the windows were all boarded, the front door didn’t lock, and inside it smelled strongly of sweat, mold, and waste. Jess held a hand over her nose as she hurried through the tangle of hallways toward the room Cibor had been assigned— a claustrophobic, closet-sized space that he was sharing with two other teenagers who’d been bought at the same auction he had.

“Cibor?” she called out softly as she rapped against the door. “Are you home?”

There was a soft rustling, and a moment later the door creaked open and Cibor- his face still raccoon ringed with two black eyes- peered out. He smiled when he recognized Jess’ face, stepping out into the hallway with her rather than inviting her into the already cramped room.

“Dorean,” he said, using her false name given the presence of so many potential eavesdroppers. He hugged her, though gingerly as his arms and wrists were still injured. “It’s good to see you. You talked to Master Amadei?”

“I did,” she replied, planting a brief kiss on his lips. “He… he said yes. I can marry you.”

Cibor’s eyes lit, and he smiled- but it was a very tired smile, and the joy in his eyes was tempered by an equal helping of fear. Jess’s stomach flipped. She swallowed hard.

“That’s great, Dorean,” he murmured, nuzzling his face against hers. “The overseer gave me permission as well- barely even looked up at me when I asked, much less questioned it.” He laughed somewhat bitterly. “I think I registered as more of a fly buzzing in his ear than anything.”

“So… so… we can do it then,” Jess said. She threaded her fingers through his, squeezing his hand. “I’m g-going to work as much as I can, okay? And— and start asking around, seeing if there are any small rooms for rent. Maybe we won’t be able to afford one by my birthday exactly, but… hopefully not too long after, right?” Grimly surveying the shadowy, fetid hallway they stood in, she added, “And anything will be better than this place.”

“No joke,” Cibor agreed, glancing around himself. He hissed with frustration. “I’d help, but I don’t think I can. They keep me working from dawn to dusk, and by the time the work is done for the day it’s everything I can do most nights to crawl in here instead of passing out in the street. I guess I’ll build more endurance after a time, but…”

“Don’t worry,” Jess said. “I know you’d help if you could. It’s not your fault the city works its blank to the bone.” She forced a wavering smile. “I’ll just need to be sure to keep my money somewhere safe— and that Amadei doesn’t get wind of it. I wouldn’t put it past him to skim my pockets if he knew. He can hypothetically be all right with my having money, sure. But if he actually saw the coins and realised all he had to do was ask and they’d be his…”

Cibor rolled his eyes, looking momentarily more like his old self. “Yeah, the ol’ skinflint would take them off you in a heartbeat. I think there’s a floorboard by the wall near the window that’s a bit loose? If you jiggled the nail you could probably pull it up and hide your coins under it.”

He bit his lip a little, the light seeming to ebb from his eyes. “J- er, Dorean- I’m glad. That we’ll be able to live together. I don’t know what it is, but lately I’m just so exhausted. I feel like… like a shovel that just gets used to dig holes and stays in the shed when it isn’t being used. Like even less of a person. Does… does that make sense?”

She nodded. “It’s because they’re monsters,” she said, letting go of his hand so that she could wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Even worse than Amadei. He only hurts his blanks if we’ve done something. But the city? They beat you just to show they could. Like you were… garbage. Worse than garbage.”

Cibor hugged Jess back, his body quivering. “It makes me feel like I’m nine again. Nine and tiny and powerless. I hate it. I want to be able to sit together with you, and make jokes and eat burnt sweets and…” he trailed off, squeezing her tighter. “I want to be able to protect you. But now I’m the one who’s the most helpless.”

“I’m sorry, Cibor,” Jess said, her throat hitching. “I wish I could ch-change things. Make it better for you.”

“You already are,” he pointed out. “You’re doing so much for me. A-and when I’m your husband, I swear I’ll do everything in my power to help you too. Okay? No matter what, no matter if it gets me hurt, just ask and I’ll do it. I promise.”

“I never want you getting hurt over me,” Jess said. “But…” She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “Thank you, Cibor. I love you more than anything.”

Part Five

SPOILER: Click to show

The young lovebirds married on Jessamine’s birthday in the middle of July— an unremarkable ceremony that was mainly comprised of a curmudgeonly city bureaucrat scrutinizing the permission writs each blank had obtained, then having each teenager mark a secondary writ with their inked thumbs— and by September, Jess had worked enough odd jobs for the pair to afford a living space of their own.

It was a rundown room by anyone’s standards: a low-ceilinged, irregularly shaped attic over a rickety house owned by a free blank family, that smelled strongly of dust and mold, and which alternated between frigid and sweltering depending on the weather outside but never once seemed to strike a proper, temperate medium between the two. Jess and Cibor couldn't afford any furniture, nor even candles to burn some nights, but even still… it was nice. Having space all their own. No Mikolaj— or other nosy blanks— hovering over them. A place they could call home, even if it wasn't a very posh one.

They’d been settled in their new place for a little over two months when Jessamine abruptly came down with an ague she couldn’t shake. Since Amadei wasn’t one to accept illness as an excuse not to work unless his blanks were at death’s door— which Jess wasn’t— the girl didn’t even try, instead pressing miserably through it with nary a complaint to her master. Still, while her magician owner remained blissfully oblivious to her state, the same could not be said for Amadei’s other blanks who worked the tavern.

“You all right there, Dorean?” Rahel asked her one morning a few weeks into her misery, trailing behind Jess after she’d scrambled out into the alley behind the pub to heave up her breakfast. “This is the third time you’ve gotten sick this week.”

“Just a bug,” Jess murmured, using her sleeve to wipe at her sweat-glossed brow. “It’s almost winter— things are going around.”

“Winter’s a time for illnesses of the ilk that make you feverish or coughy,” Rahel replied, putting the back of her hand against Jess’ forehead. “You don’t feel warm to me. Have you been eating properly since you moved out with Cibor? You know if foods aren’t completely cooked through they can make you ill.”

“I’m not stupid,” Jess replied, shuddering against a gust of chilly November wind. “I’ve been at this tavern since I was tiny, Rahel. I know how to cook.”

The older woman looked amused. “Well you’re certainly grumpy enough to make me believe you’re sick. ...Or…” Her eyes narrowed scrutinizingly. “You’ve become a woman, yes? I know some girls bloom late, but Amadei’s mentioned you talking about it…”

Jess furrowed her brow. “Yes, but I know what my symptoms are for that. I’ve never gotten sick before, not like this. Just tired. And I get headaches.”

Rahel folded her arms. “And when is the last time you got tired and headachy? How long ago?”

The blonde girl bristled. “I don’t know,” she said. It had still been warm, then, she thought— or at least, warmer than it was now— but given how quickly and ferociously Meltaiman winters came on, that wasn’t saying overmuch, although… “I think it was right before I moved out of Amadei’s tenement. The week before, maybe?”

Rahel buried her face in the palms of her hands. “Dear gods, you and Cibor don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Waste any time…?” Jess said— before her honeyed eyes suddenly flashed with something between anger and stark terror. “No,” she snapped, taking a step back from Rahel. “That’s not it, Rahel. I’m not. No way. Nope.”

“I’m fairly sure you are,” the woman replied, though not without sympathy. “I’ve four of my own- I’d say I know the signs. You’re rather young, admittedly, but… well you are married, and all that goes along with that. I highly doubt your fifteen year old husband is entirely shy.”

“But…” All Jess could think about was Amadei’s comment, the one he’d made back when she’d asked his permission to marry. How blithely he’d mentioned that all of her future children would be his. The piercing needle of fear that had spiked through her veins at the thought of it. “I don’t want to be pregnant,” she said, as if this changed anything.

Rahel winced, her gaze drifting away. “You could always put the little one up for adoption once they’re born, I suppose,” she said distantly. “If you don’t want to be a mother.”

“No.” Jess shook her head, emphatically. She felt like vomiting— again— at the idea of it. “That’s— that’s not it. It’s not that I don’t want to be a mother, I just… just…” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying vainly to ward back the tears she could feel pricking. “If my child’s a blank,” she murmured. “What that m-means.”

Understanding lit in the woman’s eyes, and she winced. “O-oh. Yes. That’s…” she sighed, looking miserable. “It’s no better if they’re a mage. It’s almost worse. At least if they’re a blank, you can hold them close to you for at least seven years. You at least know they’re not… going to be ruined. Made like them.” She shot a poisonous look towards the tavern and its patrons.

“He… he hasn’t sold any of your kids,” Jess said softly, her voice cracking. “E-even though the oldest two are both over seven now, aren’t they? So… so maybe he wouldn’t sell mine, maybe he…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t make herself say it. Sharply, she turned away from Rahel, her eyes springing back open as what little remained of her breakfast came spewing back up. “I hate this,” she whimpered. “I bloody hate this!”

Rahel put a hand on Jess’ back and the other on her shoulder to steady her. “I understand, Dorean. Believe me, I understand. And I’m so sorry. I know this can’t be easy. But… you have to try and focus on the present. On the seven years you at least are promised. Love your and Cibor’s little one. Give them the best start you possibly can- it’s all any of us can do.”

“I can’t,” Jess moaned, unable to hold the tears back anymore. “I can’t do it, I… I can’t, I don’t want to. I d-don’t want to have a baby just to lose it— I don’t want it to be tr-treated like it’s nothing, like it’s ch-chattel, I…”

“What,” a male voice snarled, making both of the blanks jump, “are you two doing out here? There are hungry customers to feed, and unless you want a hiding you will get back inside right now.”

Jess spun to face him, ashen, her cheeks slicked with moisture. “S-s-sorry,” she warbled, fighting back the urge to vomit for a third time. “I’m j-just… sick. And… Rahel was m-making sure I was okay, sh-she was just making sure I was… was…”

“Sh-she threw up, Master,” Rahel said quickly, stepping between the younger girl and the bristling mage. “Twice. I was worried.”

Amadei scrutinized Jess, his lip curling somewhat at the mess she’d left in the snow. “You throwing up twice in ten minutes? Really?”

“I’m s-sorry.” Jess winced, half-bracing for Amadai to stalk forward— around Rahel— to strike her. “It’s just th-this… this ague, and I…” She made herself swallow hard, her stomach lurching violently. “I’m s-sorry, Master. So s-s-sorry.”

He scowled, rubbing his face. “Stop blubbering in my ear, girl. Gods, I hate having to run the tavern on a short staff, it makes things so much more stressful than they need to be. But I can’t have customers getting sick from foods I serve them either.” He jerked his chin towards the street at the end of the alley. “Go home, Dorean. Don’t come back until you’ve shaken whatever this is.”

“H-home?” Jess stammered, as if in her haze she couldn’t understand it. She took a step back, hugging her arms to her chest. “Y-you want me to go home?”

“I believe I spoke clearly,” he retorted. “Now get going before I give you a smack to help you along. You’ve wasted enough of my time today.”

Her head still reeling, Jess nodded— then spun on her heel and scampered toward the street, not daring to glance back over her shoulder in case Amadei for some reason changed his mind. The walk from the tavern to Retpla was a lengthy one, but Jess walked as fast as she could without drawing undue attention, not pausing once for rest or breath despite the fact that her stomach continued to pitch, and her head was feeling very light. Back at the dingy room she called home, she kicked off her shoes and then sat heavily down upon the pile of blankets she and Cibor called a bed, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Pregnant. Dear Woo, could she really be pregnant? Throat quavering, she set a tentative hand over her flat belly, trying to imagine the prospect of a baby growing inside. Her baby. Cibor’s baby. Something they’d made together. A pure and innocent life created amidst so much misery and ruin.

It was nearly dark by the time Cibor returned home from work, and Jess had only moved from the nest of blankets in order to drink some water; she hadn’t eaten, and her head was throbbing. When she heard his footsteps against the stairs she stiffened, rubbing at her bloodshot eyes. She’d been crying on and off all day. The girl hoped Cibor wouldn’t notice— but knew that he would.

Indeed, when Cibor strolled through the door moments later, his eyes instantly fixed on her face and alarm flared in them. “Jessie? What’s the matter?” He strode towards his wife, kneeling beside her and putting a gentle heavily calloused hand on her cheek. “You’re home awfully early, are you alright? A-and have you been crying?”

“I’m okay,” Jess lied. “Amadei sent me h-home. Because I threw up a few times.” She couldn’t bring herself to meet her husband’s gaze. “But I’m all r-right. Just this ague I’ve been fighting.”

He sat down beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder and drawing her close. “Why are you lying to me?” he asked bluntly. “I know you wouldn’t get this upset over just getting sick.”

Jess sniffled, shutting her eyes. “I-it’s nothing,” she said again, but her voice was very, very quiet now, her resolve clearly chipping away. “Pr-promise.”

“P-please tell me the truth, Jess,” Cibor warbled, his voice becoming high with distress. “I already have to stand back and watch you do… do everything for us. And I can’t help. I can’t help at all. Please let me help you. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

She gulped. “Rahel,” the blonde girl said simply. “Sh-she… doesn’t think it’s an ague. She seemed pr-pretty sure it’s not.”

“If not an ague, what?” the teenage boy asked. Alarm flared in his brown eyes, and he bleated, “Y-y-y-you’re not dying are you, please tell me you’re not dying, I can’t lose you Jess, I-”

“I’m not dying.” Her eyes flew back open, her chin jerking toward him. “I’m n-not dying, okay?” She exhaled softly. “I’m pregnant. Rahel… th-thinks that I’m pregnant.”

Cibor stared, his mouth hanging open in surprise. “You… you’re pregnant? With… with a child?”

“I d-didn’t think it was true, either,” Jess replied. “Not at first. But…” She bit down on her lip. “I’ve b-been so nauseous lately. And I’ve not h-had my monthly bleeding in... w-well, m-much more than a month. And we’ve been… well…”

Cibor swallowed hard. “Gods. This is- ahaha…” the boy laughed, burying his face in Jessie’s butter blonde hair. “A baby. Our baby. I never dreamed it would happen so soon.”

“Our baby,” Jess agreed, but she didn’t quite match her husband’s enthusiasm. Instead, her voice was very low— bitter— as she added, “Until… until it’s seven. And then wh-who knows what will happen. And… Rahel s-said even sooner, if it’s a mage, and— I mean, there are mages in my family, there are, my brother was, and…”

Cibor looked down at his lap, wincing. “I… I’m sorry, Jessie. I guess I’m just so used to it. I haven’t seen my own parents since I was sold at seven. I barely remember them. Family here is… what you make of it.” He cupped Jessamine’s cheek in his. “But even if we have to say goodbye eventually, I-I still want to have this child with you Jess. If you’re willing. I want to give back some of the love my parents taught me. That you taught me. I want my life to be worth something.”

“I w-won’t let anyone take it,” Jess whimpered. “I won’t. And— and we’re going to raise it knowing it’s valuable. That it has a soul. Th-that it’s… it’s not all the things the mages say.”

Cibor bit his lip. “J-Jess that’s… that’s not safe. A child that young, they won’t understand how to keep their mouth shut about certain things around the mages. It’ll get them hurt.”

A lump knotted in her throat, one that she couldn’t swallow away. “I wish i-it could be our secret,” she sniffled. “That n-no one but us even had to know we had a baby. Not Amadei, not a-anybody.” She leaned her head against Cibor’s shoulder, her stomach in tangles. “I have to tell him, don’t I? A-as soon as I’m sure. ‘Pit, I don’t want to tell him.”

“But you have to,” Cibor agreed, wrapping his arms around his wife. “Because he’s going to work you to the bone, and not feed you enough to support you and the child. And once you start really showing he’ll be furious if you haven’t told him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know. I just… wish it could be different. Th-that this was just— something for us to be happy over instead of…” Jessamine shut her eyes again. “It ruins everything, doesn’t it?” she asked after a moment. “M-Meltaim. It turns e-even the happiest occasions black.”

“Only if you let it,” Cibor insisted. “Only if you let yourself be so blinded by the horrible things you lose sight of the good.” He kissed the Macarinthian girl on the lips, holding her cheek so that they remained like that for a solid minute before he finally pulled away. “I refuse. You make me happy, Jess. And I know our baby will too.”

“I w-want our baby to know it’s l-loved, at least,” Jess murmured. “E-even if other stuff is too dangerous… I… I want it to know it’s loved. V-valued and important and loved.”

“Of course,” Cibor agreed, nuzzling his wife’s cheek with his. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

***

Though the very thought of it chilled her to the core, Jess knew Cibor was right: she couldn’t keep her suspicions from Amadei for very long. It took her about a week to work up the courage, the girl nearly starting a conversation with her master several times but then losing her wits at the last moment, before she finally forced herself to knock on the door to Amadei’s office just after she arrived to work in the morning. The moment her fist rapped against the wood Jess regretted it, but as Amadei gruffly called out for her to enter, she knew there was no going back now. Taking a deep breath, she gently edged the door open.

“M-master?” she said as she stepped inside, chin tucked, eyes on the floor. “M-may I have a word?”

The mage, who appeared to be tallying accounts in his ledger book, looked up from his writing and quirked a brow. “What is it, Dorean? Make it fast, you have to get the fire going for the stew.”

“Right. Of… of course.” Jess gulped, very slowly daring to bring her gaze up toward her master’s. “It’s just, um…” Here goes nothing. “I’ve got something I… need to talk with you about. S-something… important.”

“I’d gathered,” he retorted, clearly unamused. “I’ve trained you not to address me unless it’s important. So out with it.”

“R-right.” She swallowed again, harder this time. “It’s, well… I… I think I’m… pr-pregnant.” Then, less shakily: “I think I’m pregnant, Master.”

That got Amadei’s attention. The man looked at Jess in total astonishment, his eyebrows lifting. “What- already? Gods you blanks really do have the restraint of wild animals, don’t you?” He chuckled, smirking. “That would explain why you’ve been so ill then, hm?”

Her cheeks burned, a sour taste rising in the back of her throat. “Yes, Master,” she said, far too well conditioned after all this time to even think of offering the mage a surly response. “I th-think that’s why. Because it’s still e-early in the pregnancy.”

“That would stand to reason,” he agreed. “We’ll have to keep an eye on it, of course. No sense having you take seriously ill or become too weak for your work. Once you’re a little further along I’ll double your meal budget- and you had better spend the money on food for yourself. You’re practically a child still, and these things can take a harder toll on someone so young.” He leered at the girl, reaching out to pet her head like one might pet a dog.

Jess struggled not to flinch; even after all these years, Woo, how it churned her stomach when he laid his hands on her— even when it was not in violence. “I’ll spend it only on f-food,” she murmured. “I promise, Master. Th-thank you, Master.”

“Very good,” he said amiably. Giving her head one last pat, he then waved a hand to shoo her. “Now you’d best be at your work. We have customers to attend who will start arriving very soon.”

“Yes, Master. Of course.” Without wasting a moment, Jess turned back toward the door— but before she could make it through, Amadei’s voice rang out again.

“Oh, and Dorean- one more thing,” he waved his quill in the air in a dismissive gesture. “I trust you’ve heard the gossip in the tavern in recent months? About the ridiculous war your home country started against Mighty Meltaim.”

Jess froze, turning slowly back toward her master. Of course she’d heard— it was all the drunken patrons of the pub had been talking about as of late. How Macarinth had declared war. How, in rather short order, Valzaim and Lange had joined them in the plight. How the east of the empire was presently a bloody battle zone… and how the emperor’s fierce army was sure to obliterate the heathenous blank armies very, very soon.

“I’ve… heard,” Jess said, carefully. “But… everyone says it’s still east. V-very far east.”

“Aye, it is,” he agreed. “And I’ve no doubt it will be crushed there. But I wanted to warn you not to take any rumors the patrons murmur too much to heart. For example, one particular one that claims the Macarinthians are liberating any blanks who were born of their soil.”

Jess blinked— once, then twice, then a third time. Liberating blanks who were born of their soil, that meant… Woo, that meant… “Th-they’re… freeing slaves?”

“Macarinthian-born slaves yes,” Amadei replied, looking down at this quill and twirling it between his fingers. “But not-” he added stridently, “slaves born in Meltaim. They are left with their masters, as is right.”

“So if… if the war did reach here, I’d be… I could be…”

Amadei’s eyes narrowed and he looked Jess square in the eye. “You could, Dorean. But not Cibor- he is Meltaiman born. And not-” the mage pointed his quill towards Jessie’s navel, “your and Cibor’s mutt. It will be born long before the war comes this far east, if it even does. Meltaiman, and custody of Cibor and the city should you chose to flee.”

And just like that, Jessamine’s brief moment of hope vanished, like a candle snuffed. She could be free. She could be free. But not Cibor. Not her child.

She could feel tears pricking, and she blinked them back. She didn’t dare cry. Not now. Not in front of Amadei, where he’d lap up her misery— her weakness— like a starving dog devouring a bone in the street.

The man gazed towards her, his expression impassive. Then he gave the faintest hint of a smile and waved her away. “That’s all I wanted to talk about. You may go Dorean. I’ll have the midwife who sees to Rahel in sometime next week or the week after to confirm your pregnancy. In the meantime I still expect as much work out of you as ever- you’re early yet.”

Part Six

SPOILER: Click to show

Jess and Cibor’s baby— a girl— was born rosy-cheeked and healthy during the second week of June. The pair of blanks named her Sara, and from the moment they set eyes on her, both of the teenagers were madly, hopelessly, desperately in love. The notion that one day the infant could be taken away from her— never to be seen again— made Jessamine’s head spin whenever she thought about it, and her heart lurch, and her stomach pitch. But while at times during her pregnancy Jess had feared she’d have a hard time bonding with the baby because of this possibility, she was immensely relieved when this wasn’t the case… when, as Sara grew, she found herself only growing closer to the girl. Loving her more fiercely. Even on the bleakest days she could find happiness in the baby’s warmth, her smile, her honey-brown eyes— the same shade as Jessamine’s own— and cherubic sand-blonde curls.

Shortly before Sara’s first birthday, Jess found herself pregnant again.

This time, she was not nearly so dour as she’d been with Sara— though telling Amadei still was not easy, and at night she sometimes lay awake with her hand over her belly, gut twisting at the idea that one day this baby might be taken away from her, too.

However, as the pregnancy progressed, these late night broodings were oft overshadowed by fears of another ilk: the war. While nearly a year and a half ago Amadei had confidently declared that Meltaim would beat back the foreign aggressors with barely a sweat broken, and that the invading Langeans, Valzicks, and Macarinthians would surely not make it nearly so far west as Jezgród lay, as Jess neared her third trimester, these declarations began to seem less and less absolute. Nearly all of the east had steadily fallen under foreign control, and still the campaign marched on. The city of Włocławek, located but a week’s ride east of Jezgród, was the latest to fall— and as far as the increasingly frantic rumours went, Jezgród was the next target in sight.

The powers-at-be tried to allay such concerns, of course. Reinforcements from the imperial army were sent ahead of the advancing front, descending on Jezgród in a swarm of silver. The city gates were kept closed at all times, and travel was banned. And while the day-to-day effects on Jessamine were minimal— there would always be citizens wanting a bite to eat and a tankard of ale no matter what was going on— the same could not be said for Cibor, as the city-owned blanks had been put to a near endless battery of work fortifying the city in preparation for the coming siege. Reinforcing the city walls, hauling carts of supplies to key locations, and then of course… the traps.

“They extended the boundary spell on our collars for this week,” Cibor mumbled blearily by way of explanation, when he came home from his day’s work shivering badly from chill after working all day in the mid-February snow, and sporting telltale bruises across his back from a club. This Jess knew by now to be the city overseer’s favored winter discipline method when layers of clothing might cushion the blow of a lash. “We’re outside the walls for the next few days. Digging ditches to fill with spikes, putting heavy things in the trees to fall down on the enemy soldier’s heads, setting snares, you name it. Overseers are… twitchy. They feel too exposed out there, and they’re terrified we’ll try to make a break.”

“Right,” Jess said dryly, as she nursed a very sleepy Sara, “because blanks are clearly so dumb as to flee into the frigid wilderness with no supplies and an active warzone raging only days away. That makes so much sense.”

“Yeah well, blanks being dumb is exactly one of the things they think, remember?” he asked with a weary grin. Then he moaned, curling in on himself as he continued to shiver in spite of having changed out of his wet clothes. “They’re desperate though, Jess. If they’re setting actual, physical traps instead of just magical ones? They’re afraid. I think they know this is a battle they’re going to lose.”

“I feel like they've half the imperial army camping in the city,” Jess said. “If a battle does happen… it's not going to be pretty.” She smoothed Sara’s thick blonde curls. “Amadei is anxious as a spooked cat. And his customers, too.”

Cibor bit his lip. “He’s… he’s not taking it out on Sara is he? He scared her enough last week when he shouted at her for asking to be fed during the busy hour.”

“Rahel’s youngest has been entertaining her most of the time, thankfully,” Jess replied. “They've been playing together. Amadei snapped at both of them yesterday for being in the way during the lunch rush but— beyond that, he hasn't been taking it out on the little ones. Thankfully.” She sighed. “Though the worse the whispers get, the tenser he gets. And I can't imagine he'll get any better until, well…” Jess shrugged, the rest able to go unsaid.

Cibor started to reach out to stroke Sara’s head, but hesitated. His hand was still nearly white from cold, and he didn’t want to touch the soft warm skin of his little daughter. He pulled his hand back, looking down at it in pensive silence.

“Jessie… I want to talk to you about something. Something important.”

“Oh?” Jess tilted her head. “What's wrong, love?”

“If… if Meltaim loses Jezgród, and the enemy soldiers occupy the city, it’ll be a mess,” he replied. “And I don’t doubt Amadei will be lashing out. At you, at Sara, and at our newest little family member. I couldn’t stand for anything to happen to any of you.” He looked up, meeting Jessie’s honey brown eyes with his own darker ones. “If the enemy takes the city… please, please go to the Macarinthians. Beg them for sanctuary, for yourself and the kids. They-”

“Cibor,” Jess cut in, taken completely unaware. As Sara let out a small whimper at her mother’s abrupt change in tone, the blank went on, “No. I can't. Amadei told me— Sara was born here, and the new baby will be, too. The Macarinthians wouldn't take them. Me, yes, but not the babies. Or you.”

He shook his head. “They won’t take me, no. Because I was born Meltaiman, to Meltaiman parents. But our children are half Macarinthian. After everything you’ve told me about your Woo, about your people, I refuse to believe they wouldn’t accept our children if you pleaded your case to them. And if you and they can have a life of safety, free from suffering… I could live with the loneliness.”

“No,” Jess said again, sharply. “I'm not leaving you. And— and I'm not risking that. Because what if I asked, and they won't take the kids, and Amadei finds out? What then? He'd gut me, Cibor, he would—”

“Jessie, please!” Cibor cut in, his eyes pooling over with tears. “I’m nothing. I have no future as anything except a dog of the city. Less than a dog- a shovel. One they’ll use until the handle snaps, then throw away. I d-don’t want to drag you down with me. Your or our babies. I c-couldn’t live with myself if you had the chance to be free and happy and you turned it down for me.”

“And how do you think I'd be able to live with myself if I abandoned you?” she snapped, some of her surprise at his request being rapidly overtaken by something far different: aggravation. Indignance. Fury. “You're my husband, and the children's father, not some— some inconvenience to be thrown aside. I am not going to leave you. Do not ask me to leave you!”

Cibor flinched in on himself, his shoulders hitching up and an involuntary whimper escaping his throat. “I… I just wish there was something I could do. For you. For our children. Look at me, Jess. I’m empty. Whatever I was when we were kids, I’m not that anymore. The city overseers saw to that.” He lost his hold on the threatening tears, and his already quivering shoulders began to shake with sobs. “I love you. I need you. But it used to be different. I used to prop you up when you were scared. To protect you. What good am I even anymore?”

“You're my best friend,” Jess said. “My life partner. The father of my children. You're not empty, you're not useless, you're not whatever the mages say you are. And I'm not leaving you.” Sara was outright crying now, feeding Jessamine’s whirlpool of emotions. “Don't ask again. Please— don't ask again.”

Cibor looked up at his wife, blinking hard. “I want to hold you. To hold her. To make it better. But I’m so cold, Jess.”

“Then we’ll all cuddle up together,” she said. “Under every blanket we've got. And Sara and I will get you warm.” She suspected he was talking about more than just feeling physically cold in this moment, but she also knew she couldn't fix whatever else plagued him. No matter how much she wanted to. “And… we can talk names,” she continued. “For Sara’s baby sibling. We’ve only a few months left to decide, you know.”

“R-right,” he nodded, giving Jess a wobbly smile, though there was still pain evident in his eyes. “I know you wanted names that were simple and worked in both your language and Meltaiman, so you wouldn’t be tripping over pronouncing our own baby’s name. I had a few ideas…”

***

The war came to Jezgród just around when the baby did, the joint Valzick, Macarinthian, and Langean troops beating at the city gates only days after Jess gave birth to a healthy little boy, whom she and Cibor named Adam. For weeks afterward, Jezgród was in chaos, imperial troops skirmishing with the invaders as the cobbled streets ran slick with blood.

To make matters even worse, as the battle for the city grew more and more strained, the paranoid Amadei recalled all of his most prized blanks— including Jess and her two babies— to his tavern day and night, refusing them permission to leave at all as he forced them to sleep in the drafty attic above the kitchens. With nearly a dozen men, women, and children shoved into the dusty space, it was unbearably close quarters, and it served to make an already nerve-wracking situation nearly intolerable. Everyone was addled and anxious, but for Jess especially, there was the added misery of being separated from Cibor. Not knowing where he was. If he was okay. The city government, after all, had given her little reason to put faith in how they treated their blanks. For all she knew, they were using their chattel as human shields against the invading troops. Or forcing them to be spies, or sitting duck look-outs, or— or—

Jess could barely keep her head straight amongst all the horrifying possibilities. She slept very little, ate even less, and as the siege continued on, she could scarcely recall a time when her head hadn’t been pounding, and her stomach churning, and her entire body pulsing with fear.

But then, when the siege finally drew to an end after a month and a half— to a resounding Meltaiman defeat, the powers-at-be forced to hand over the reins of the city over to the foreign aggressors in exchange for their lives—and Amadei begrudgingly let his favoured blanks return to the ghetto… there he was. Cibor. Sitting with his back against the wall in his and Jessamine’s familiar rented room, looking just as worried about her as she’d been about him.

“Jess!” he called, lurching to his feet and striding towards her. He wrapped her into as tight a hug as he could manage, before turning his attention to their nearly two year old daughter and pulling her to his chest as well. “Gods, Papa’s missed you so much baby, he’s missed all of you so much!”

Jess said nothing, only collapsing into her husband’s embrace, while Sara smiled broadly. “Papa!” she exclaimed, settling into Cibor’s muscled arms. “Papa, hi!”

“Have you and Adam been good for Mama?” he asked, kissing her so many times on the crown of her head that one might’ve thought it had been years and not merely a month since he’d seen the girl. To Jess he asked, “I hope you all were alright? Amadei wasn’t… wasn’t too awful, was he?”

“Honestly?” Jess said. “He was hardly there. The tavern’s been closed for weeks— no one wants beer when they might get murdered on the way to the pub. And his wife apparently was not happy about him being out and about, either, so he only came by to drop off food every so often. Spent the rest of the siege holed up in his house.”

“That’s good at least,” he said, pulling away and brushing a hand through the dark blonde locks of the slumbering infant in his wife’s arms. “It’s been nonstop chaos for the city blanks- running supplies everywhere, for the most part, but hauling wagon after wagon after wagon of food and blast powder across the city is no joke, especially when you’re half-afraid a fireball is going to fall on you out of the sky. Come on, sit, I’ve got some mashed potatoes and bread that’s still warm for everyone.”

“Bread?” Sara chirped, her amber eyes going wide. Food had been tightly rationed in the attic, and still young enough to nurse for at least some of her sustenance, the toddler had often gotten only the dregs of the solid provisions. “Papa, me have bread?”

Jess couldn’t help but laugh, softly, as she lowered herself onto the floor. “And potatoes, my love,” she said. “Isn’t that exciting?”

Cibor chuckled, moving to fetch the food before he settled down next to his wife. “Plenty of both for all three of us. For the all-time low price of you sitting on Papa’s lap. Since he’s missed you lots.”

The child beamed, plopping into her father’s lap. “‘Kay,” she agreed. “‘Tatoes first?”

Cibor indulged the little girl, scooping her out a small ladle of mashed potatoes and helping her to devour the meal while he and Jess caught up on each other’s doings. Adam dozed in his mother’s arms throughout the conversation, prompting Sara to playfully spoon food into her mother’s mouth at Cibor’s prompting. Eventually, once her belly was full, she too dozed off, head lolled against her father’s chest.

“It’s strange,” he murmured, stroking her head. “To think the city is now in the hands of Meltaim’s enemies. I heard from one of the imperial soldiers that the Macarinthian forces are going to stay to occupy us while the Valzicks and Langeans press on. I wonder what will change with them in charge.”

“Beyond the mages being sullen and jittery?” Jess mused. “I have no idea. Admittedly, until my walk here today I haven’t seen anything but the inside of the tavern in six weeks, but…” The girl shrugged. “I can’t imagine they mean to raze the city or anything like that, or they’d have already done it. So… maybe they just plan on— sitting on it, so to speak. Using it to house their troops and provide them with supplies. As leverage. A leg up on the imperial army.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Cibor conceded. After a moment of looking down at Sara wistfully, he added slowly, "It's rather fortuitous, isn't it? That of all the nations warring with Meltaim, your countrymen were the ones chosen to babysit us here."

“Fortuitous?” Jess echoed, furrowing her pale brow. “What’s that supposed to mean, Cibor? How’s that fortuitous?”

He winced a little. “They… they won the battle, but they’re playing nice with the mages anyway. I saw one of their soldiers glaring at a Meltaiman officer as he backhanded one of the other city blanks, but even though he was clearly angry he didn’t say anything. I don’t know what’s going to change, but I don’t think it’s our lives.”

“Well, I doubt the imperial forces would've folded if the terms of surrender had included suddenly being made to treat blanks like people,” Jess said dryly. “Not to mention, imperial soldiers aside, I think there'd have been a civilian uprising in that case. So I suppose the invading troops had to pick their battles. Rank their priorities. And blanks weren't it.”

“They never are,” Cibor said bitterly. “And they never will be. Sara and Adam… even if Meltaim loses the entire war, they’re still going to grow up in fetters. In fear. Beaten and terrorized and made to think they’re worth nothing.”

His eyes flickered towards Jess. “Unless… th-these are your people, if anybody would listen-”

“Cibor.” Jess didn’t let her husband finish. “No. Not this again. Please, not this. Because my answer remains the same, okay? It remains the same.”

He wilted. “At least promise me you’ll be careful? If Amadei is twitchy and sullen, he’ll be taking it out on you. On the kids. It was bad enough when he pulled Sara by her hair that one time she had a tantrum in the tavern common room, she was inconsolable around mages for a week.”

“I will be,” Jess assured him. “Careful as always, okay?” Glancing at her slumbering children, she added softly, “I don’t want them being hurt any more than you do, Cibor. I’ll do my best to keep them safe. Promise.”

As little Sarah shifted, still dozing, in her father’s hold, Cibor could only hope it would be enough.

Part Seven

SPOILER: Click to show

As things settled in the Macarinthian occupied Jezgród, it became clear that the Meltaimans were not taking their defeat gracefully. Forced to suffer the presence of the foreign soldiers squatting in their city- the vast majority of whom were not mages- the Meltaimans were left feeling frustrated and seethingly helpless.

And so they took it out on a target who was helpless to stop them.

It got to the point where there were few days that Amadei didn’t at least shout at Jess, Sara, or both. The little girl was a sobbing wreck by the time she and her mother returned home more often than not, collapsing into the comforting- but very often badly bruised- arms of her father.

Because the city laborers were having the hammer brought down upon them hard. Fearful of an uprising of the strong burly men who served the local government, the lash was often whistling through the air during work hours, fists flew, and not an iota of deviance was tolerated.

As the summer months grew hotter, the martial law enforced upon the city and the general unease of the foreign soldiers that kept most Meltaimans in their homes started to show itself in an unseasonable outbreak of flu. First Rahel had to beg for a stay from work at the tavern to care for her three youngest when they fell so ill they were entirely bedridden… and then, just days after, Jess and Cibor awakened in the middle of the night to young Adam, still not even six months old, hacking up a lung as his forehead blazed with fever. By dawn’s breaking, Sara was snuffling, too— and though Jess was stubbornly pretending otherwise, she could feel a tickle in the back of her throat as well.

“I have no idea how I'm going to make it through a shift,” she murmured to Cibor as he tried in vain to comfort the squalling Adam, and she sought to soothe the nearly-as-grouchy Sara. “I don't even want to know how high Adam’s fever is running.”

Cibor bit his lip as he bounced his infant son. “I’d rather you didn’t try. I’m not expected in to work until this afternoon- the rain last night made everything too wet for digging ditches. I can go up to the tavern and talk to Amadei. Try to get him to give you the day off.” Kissing Adam’s forehead Cibor added, “If I bring Adam along I can give him proof I’m not lying, and get this little man out of your hair for a while. See if I can’t pick up some medicine from the apothecary on the way home.”

Jess wanted to protest, but as Sara let out a bone-rattling cough followed by a squeal of pain, the teenager couldn't muster the words. “All right,” she said instead. “Gods, have you even seen Amadei since he sold you? He's going to be confused as all hells to see you.”

“Not once,” Cibor admitted. “But I daresay I can still find my way to the tavern. And even if it’s awkward as all hells, it’ll be worth it for you and the kids.” Standing up, and trying to ignore the way Adam’s breath was rattling in his throat as he sobbed, Cibor cooed, “C’mon little man, let’s go say hi to Master Amadei.”

As early as it was in the morning, the tavern was mostly empty when Cibor got there. Amadei’s third tavern worker opened the door to admit him, giving the young man a confused double-take before fleeing inside to fetch the place’s owner. Moments later, the magician strode out from the kitchen, brow furrowed, looking thoroughly disgruntled.

“You're not Dorean,” he said flatly. “Where is she?”

Cibor bowed as low as he could with Adam in his arms, trying to shush the baby’s pained squawking by stroking his head. In a slightly trembling voice the teenager replied, “Sh-she’s ill, Master Amadei. And Sara and Adam as well.” Rising, he hefted the baby just a little, so his red flushed cheeks and sweat matted hair were visible for Amadei’s inspection- to say nothing of the impeccably timed wracking coughs that shook the infant at that moment, making Cibor wince.

Rather than show even an iota of concern, Amadei scowled. “They seemed fine yesterday,” he said— it almost seemed to be an accusation. “You darned blanks, spreading sickness like rats. And I doubt the fact that the city’s festering with all those foreign blank troops helps matters any.” He waved a hand, sharply. “Tell her to stay away from here until she and the kids are no longer catching. I shan't have them infecting my customers. Although—” He glowered. “I'd have liked to assess her for myself. I don't like her sending a lackey to me— I believe I've trained her, and you when you were mine, better than that, hm?”

Cibor winced. “Sh-she’s ill, Master. I didn’t want her to get worse travelling in the heat if she grew feverish. It m-might slow her recovery and return to her proper work.”

“Do I look like I'm in the mood for arguing with a blank?” Amadei snapped. Crossing his arms, the mage nodded toward the door. “See yourself out. And let Dorean know that I'll be having a word with her once she's recovered enough to grace me with her presence again.”

The teenager blanched. “P-please Master, it was my idea, h-have mercy-”

“Are you back talking me?” Amadei snapped, seeming genuinely surprised— and aghast. “Dear gods, do I have to I have to report you to the city overseers, boy? I can't imagine they'd be pleased.” He gritted his teeth. “Now get out or so help you gods!”

Flinching, Cibor spun on his heel and fled, fury and anguish pulsing through his body. Only when he was out of sight of the tavern did he finally slow and stop, cuddling Adam close to his body as he tried to bite back sobs of frustration. Amadei was going to punish Jess? Because she and their babies were ill? That was ludicrous, even by Meltaiman standards!

He was distracted from his stewing as Adam gave a pained shriek, one that was cut off by a fit of coughing. Knowing the infant needed sleep badly if he was going to fight off this bug, but also that he wasn’t going to get it unless the coughing was stopped, Cibor decided to make good on his promise to stop at the apothecary- hoping at least there he’d find some good news.

But it wasn’t to be. With the flu raging through Jezgród, and the Macarinthian occupation cutting the city off from outside trade, medicine was going for an all time premium. Even a bit of honey or tea to soothe Adam’s abraded throat was well outside Cibor’s price range. After trying four different shops of herbs and remedies to no avail, the young man found himself stumbling down the street back towards Retpla, helpless tears streaming down his face as Adam moaned miserably in his arms. The infant was hotter even than he’d been that morning, and was growing lethargic in a way that terrified his father. The baby was so small still… so fragile… and there was nothing Cibor could do!

Not for him, not for Sara, and not for Jess… what good am I?!

Cibor’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of booted heels clicking against the cobble streets. He looked up dully to see a small squad of foreign soldiers striding down the path- not an unusual sight these days, and he turned away again just as quickly. However, he hadn’t gone two steps when he heard a deep, slightly accented voice address one of the guardsmen further down the way. Address the man in Meltaiman.

Cibor looked around, gawking. In all the time the city had been occupied, he could count on one hand the number of Macarinthian soldiers he’d witnessed who’d spoken even a lick of Meltaiman. Yet this soldier- very tall, with dark brown hair and a uniform practically jangling with medals and pins- spoke with every bit as much fluency as a native. He seemed to be addressing the guardsman about some issue to do with the man hitting one of the Macarinthian blank soldiers. When the guardsman objected, a second foreign officer- this one shorter than the first, with blond hair but just as many pins and medals- retorted acidly.

Wonderingly, Cibor slowly began to skulk in their direction. An idea bloomed forth in his head, a desperate, crazy, wild idea that he knew Jess would have gutted him for if she’d known about. But at this stage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It didn’t matter if he took her anger upon himself. All that mattered was his wife and children.

As the duo of officers seemed to finish their conversation with the guardsman- he’d turned his tail and scampered off, looking thoroughly intimidated- Cibor clenched his arms tightly around Adam. Now or never. His entire body trembling hard from abject terror- both men had wands, he saw, which in his life never boded well- and with tears still trickling steadily down his cheeks, he approached the two men as close as he dared. Once he was within earshot, he whimpered, “E-excuse me?”

The blonde soldier whirled toward him, posture rigid, hand hovering— as though reflexively— over his holstered wand. When he saw the blank brand on Cibor’s forehead, and the softly whimpering Adam in the teenager’s arms, his demeanor became slightly less defensive, though not by much. “Yes? How can I help you?”

Cibor winced hard, ducking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, Master, I-”

“Hush.” That was the taller man. His voice was gentle, though there was wariness in his eyes as he looked Cibor up and down. “You needn’t be afraid so long as you don’t mean us any harm. What do you need, young man?”

“Y-you… you’re soldiers?” Cibor asked, not daring to lift his head, though his earlier yelps of panic had roused Adam and set the infant weakly sobbing again. As he desperately rocked the baby Cibor added, “From Macarinth?”

“We are.” The blonde tilted his head, apprisingly, as he studied the warren of rainbow marks that stippled Cibor’s face. “You're a city-owned blank, hm? Your masters tell you to come talk to us?”

“N-n-no, Masters,” Cibor whimpered, shaking his head frantically. “I… I come to you on my own. Because I…” his voice faltered, his nerve eroding in the face of the Macarinthian’s impassive suspicion.

“Because you what?” the tall man prompted.

Kissing Adam on the forehead, Cibor whispered, “I need your help.”

The blonde’s face softened in what could have only been described at pity. “I'm sorry, son,” he said, seeming to genuinely mean it. “But we've very strict terms with the Meltaimans. We can't interfere with their blanks, regrettable as that may be.”

“I know,” Cibor said, his voice cracking. “I know. I don’t need help for me. It’s f-for my wife. Here she goes by Dorean- but it’s not her real name. Sh-she told me it is a word in the language of the land where she was born. A word that means-”

“Free.” The dark haired man’s eyes narrowed. “It means ‘free.’ In Macarinthian.”

Cibor nodded emphatically, his throat bobbing and his body trembling harder. “She is Macarinthian. Stolen from your country when she was nine. B-b-but she refuses to come forward. She won’t leave me and our babies behind.” His voice spiraling up in pitch and frenzy, the teenager couldn’t fight back outright sobs. “Sh-she could be free. But instead she’s here, and sick, and our babies are s-sick and, and I know you can’t help me, I understand that, but please if you’ve any compassion, please let her take our children and leave this cursed place! I know they are born of Meltaim, but th-their mother is one of yours, please grant them your protection, please!”

The blonde mage blinked, exchanging a bewildered glance with the other decorated soldier. “Of course we would grant them protection,” he said, slowly. “If their mother is Macarinthian… That well falls under our agreement with the Meltaiman authorities. Especially as young as this one is.” He gestured toward Adam, who was still screaming. “You said babies, plural— you've more? Where are they? And your wife?”

“One more,” Cibor confirmed, looking very much taken aback. “Sara- she’s two. Sh-she and her mother are back in the ghetto, I went out to get medicine but I couldn’t find any and…” he smoothed Adam’s hair, nuzzling the screeching baby. “Y-you’ll really take them? My wife and our children? Her master said you wouldn’t. S-said they would be left in my custody here bec-cause they were born in Meltaim.”

The blonde scowled. “Lying prats,” he commented, seemingly more to his comrades than Cibor. He went on, “We’re permitted to take any and all foreign-born blanks, and their minor children. Whatever her master told her…” The soldier shook his head. “I'm sorry, but it's just not true, son.”

Cibor gaped at the soldier, unable to formulate the words to coherently express his thoughts. Then, with a short, sharp sob, he fell to his knees on the cobbles, hugging Adam close to his chest. “Oh gods, oh thank gods, I’ve b-b-been so afraid, so afraid! My wife, my babies, they’re all I have, I just want them to be s-safe.”

The taller man looked towards his companion sadly. “We didn’t have anything immediately pressing we needed to do right now- we could go ahead and at least meet with the girl? Though I imagine we’ll need to be wary, this could just as easily be a trap. The boy seems genuine, but…”

“But this is war,” his comrade finished for him, sighing. He deliberated with himself for a few moments, before murmuring briefly with one of the heretofore silent soldiers who flanked him and the other decorated officer— presumably in Macarinthian, for Cibor didn’t understand a word of it. When the lower-ranked man gave a quick nod in response, the blonde looked back to Cibor… then Adam. “The baby,” he said, softly. “Would you mind handing the baby over to Sergeant Pryall here, son?”

Cibor looked up sharply, going pale as a sheet. “H-he’s sick,” the man warbled. “A-and he’s… he’s only four months old, h-he’s fragile. And you’re all so b-big…”

“You’re no scrawny scribe yourself,” the taller officer noted with dry amusement, his eyes sweeping up and down Cibor’s thickly muscled form. “I assure you, the sergeant will be gentle. But if we’re to trust you, you must trust us. We need some sign you’re not leading us into a trap set by your Meltaiman masters.”

“Meltaimans see all infants as possible mages,” the blonde added, spelling it out for the anxious Cibor. “No Meltaiman would risk setting a trap that might hurt one. You would know about any trap ahead of time— so you could move to protect the baby. But if you put him into our control…” He gave Cibor a smile that was at once grim and oddly reassuring. “He’ll be fine, son. Just as long as you’re being genuine, and there’s no trap you’ll have to act to protect him from. All right?”

The teen looked down at his son, the baby’s screams having subsided to a pained, dehydrated rasping. Gods, for all he knew Adam could be dying as he deliberated. He was so tiny, an illness like this could make him go south terrifyingly fast. Clenching his eyes shut, the teenager swallowed hard and nodded. “A-all right. He… he needs help. I can’t give it to him. S-so I’ll trust you.” As he proffered the infant to the sergeant he added, “H-his name is Adam. Please, when you take my wife and children, please get him a healer. That’s all I ask. Please.”

The sergeant didn’t seem to speak a lick of Meltaiman, and so the blonde quickly translated for him, at which the lower soldier gave a small smile and nod. As Adam fidgeted in his arms, squalling louder at his close proximity to the stranger, the two officers exchanged a series of looks with each other— almost as though they were having a conversation with their gazes alone.

Then, definitively, the blonde, “All right. Lead the way, son. And…” He stuck out his hand, offering it to Cibor. “I’m Deacon, by the way. General Deacon Azrael. And this—” He nodded at the dark-haired man. “This is my bonded partner, General Ludwig Benigno— believe it or not, we’re the ones in charge of the Jezgród occupation. And you were…?”

Generals. Cibor swallowed hard, putting out a quivering hand to shake General Azrael’s. “C-Cibor. My name is Cibor, General sir. And thank you.”

The group fell into a silence (save for Adam’s continuing cries) as Cibor led them from the well-heeled market district all the way to seamy streets of Retpla. They attracted no shortage of odd looks along the way, but no one— mage or otherwise— dared to interfere with the group of occupying soldiers and their rangy blank member. A small mercy, it seemed, in a life that had seldom provided Cibor with any.

By the time they reached the building that housed the ramshackle attic Jess and Cibor called home, Adam had at least cried himself to sleep in the sergeant’s arms; Azrael, after debating with Benigno for a few moments in Macarinthian, ordered half the squad to remain on watch outside while the other soldiers went in— himself, Benigno, and Sergeant Pryall included. As Cibor led the unit up the steep staircase toward the attic, it was impossible to miss how tense all of the soldiers were, their postures stiff, their jaws clenched, their hands poised over their weapons (wands for the generals, intimidating scimitars for the others). Still, no one talked. Adam, stirring again, let out a small whimper.

Taking a deep breath- knowing he was soon going to be shouted at by a furious wife- Cibor gently pushed the door open, calling out, “Jess? Jessie love, are you awake?”

“Mmm?” Jess, buried beneath a practical explosion of blankets, sat sleepily up, blinking in bewildered. Shifting Sara— who was asleep against her chest— the teenager said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to nod off, how did it go with Amadei, how—”

Her voice abruptly froze as her honeyed eyes fell past Cibor, to the platoon of soldiers who flanked him, lurking in the shadows like wraiths. Immediately, the girl’s jaw dropped open. Her skin, always pale, went white as snow. She let out a strangled noise that was halfway a yelp and halfway a scream.

“Cibor,” she hissed, rocketing to her feet, grip on Sara gone almost crushing. The little girl startled awake, letting out a small squawk of surprise as her mother went on: “Cibor, what have you done, what have you—”

“No need for alarm, miss,” Azrael cut in gently over her, slipping around Cibor to take a step into the shadowy room. Moving slowly toward Jess as one might approach a spooked, feral dog, he went on levelly, “Your husband just wanted us to help you.” Slipping into Macarinthian, he finished, “I understand that you’re one of our countrymen, no?”

Jess squared her jaw. “Maybe,” she said, in Meltaiman. “But I don’t need your help. Whatever Cibor told you, I don’t need your help, okay? You can go. Just— just go—”

“We understand your master told you that your children would have to remain here,” Benigno put in with a coaxing smile. “He lied. They can come him with you. Free, as they should be. And we can get them treatment- the little boy in particular seems to be very sick.”

For a moment, as the revelation sunk in, Jess said nothing. Then, sharply, she shook her head. “I’m not leaving my husband,” she said, still refusing to match the soldiers’ language. “He’s Meltaiman, and I’m not leaving him. I won’t.”

“Please,” Cibor said softly. “Amadei is going to make your life a misery. Our children might die for lack of medicine. And even if they live, we’ll eventually lose them to slavery or w-worse. Don't consign yourself and them to that. Not for me.”

“Cibor--” Jess started, but before she could continue hysterically on, Azrael spoke over her again.

“Jess,” he said. “Can I— can I call you Jess?” When the girl only tersely nodded in reply, he went on, “It’s… not so black-and-white, honey. Who we can and cannot take. There are clear cases, of course— like you and your babies. Or on the flip side, a random Meltaiman blank we spy on the streets with absolutely no connections to Macarinth, Valzaim, or Lange. But then there are, well, I suppose you could call them cases of grey. Cracks we can slip people through, possibly. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Jess quailed. She understood his words, of course, in the broad sense of things. But the implications of those words… Gods, could it be this easy? It couldn’t be this easy! Not after all these years in fetters— years spent suffering beside Cibor, loving him, needing him— refusing to seek help months ago because of him, and their children— months spent believing in, drowning in, all the lies Amadei had fed her—

“Jess?” Azrael said, interrupting her frenzied train of thoughts. The blonde-haired mage looked very, very concerned, his green eyes teeming with a mixture of pity and worry. “Jess, are you all right?”

“Fine,” she squeaked, finally daring to use her native tongue. Her chest felt heavy; in her arms, Sara had begun to squall, feeding on her mother’s anxiety like cotton soaking in water. “I’m fine.” Then, shifting back to Meltaiman so that Cibor could understand, she stammered, “You c-could take him, too? You’ll— you’ll take him, too?”

Cibor jerked in surprise, his gaze whipping up to the Macarinthians in disbelief. Benigno smiled crookedly. “Come now, dear, do you think soldiers of Macarinth would take a man from his wife and children? Especially one so bent on protecting them to his own detriment.” To Azrael he added, “He may be born of Meltaim, but I’d say young Cibor has the heart of a Macarinthian man, wouldn't you?”

Azrael nodded thoughtfully. “I’d say so,” he agreed. “But,” he added, “we’re going to need to be careful with this, okay? Areas of grey mean areas for possible pushback, if the Meltaimans get wind of what’s going on. Even if they caught us arm-in-arm with young Jess here, they couldn’t argue with us— as I said, she’s a clear cut case. But Cibor…” Azrael shook his head. “It’ll be in your best interest, Cibor, if we don’t leave room for the Meltaimans to discover what’s going on. Not that we’ll be smuggling you out of the city like thieves in the night— far from it— but there’s wiggle room with procedure. Certain paperwork needs to be filed, your master informed… but we’ve up to three days after making contact with an extraction to do that. Usually, the person will still be in close proximity to the city at that time, housed in one of our camps, as we only run civilian convoys east every so often— which the Meltaimans knew well when they agreed to such terms. However…”

Here, a crooked smile quirked between Azrael’s lips. He shared a bemused look with Benigno, his voice brightening as he continued, “There’s nothing saying we can’t transport before the paperwork is filed and your master appraised of the situation, so long as we’re within that three-day window. The city could still kick up a fuss, of course, once they’re alerted, and try to make a case to get you back, but…” Azrael shrugged. “If you’re halfway to the Macarinthian border by then, I highly doubt they’ll pursue it. Not over one labourer blank. They know they don’t have the bite to back up the bark—given the state of the war, particularly in the far east, they’d have no feasible way of getting you back. Not unless they want to risk far more than what you’re worth to them.”

Cibor’s head was spinning. He looked back and forth between the Macarinthians and Jess, seeming at a loss for words. Finally, his voice wobbling, he said, “You’d do all that? F-for me? But I’m nothing to you. I’m nobody.”

“You’re not nobody, Cibor,” Benigno replied, his voice soft but firm. “You have just as much right to a free, happy life as Jess and your children. No matter what your mage masters told you.”

Cibor shook his head, looking overwhelmed— while Jessamine’s face was nearly expressionless for a moment, as she simply stood there, dumbfounded. Then, abruptly, she burst into a sob, her chest heaving, her throat trembling.

“W-when can we go?” she managed to choke out. “W-when…?”

Azrael looked to Benigno, contemplative. “We could take them to the camp now,” he brooked in tentative Macarinthian, referring to the massive, Meltaiman-reviled encampment of Macarinthian personnel that was located just outside city walls. “Once we disable their collars, anyway. Stabilize the infant, then ship them out with the supply convoy tomorrow morning. Tassett won’t be pleased to babysit four civilians, but— he’s hardly going to dare lip off, either, not if the order’s coming directly from you and me.” To Jess, he added with a wry smile, “Being a general has its perks.”

“The powers at be that promoted you must wonder every day what in Woo’s name they were thinking,” Benigno deadpanned. “But yes, that sounds feasible.” He quickly explained the plan in Meltaiman of Cibor’s benefit.

Cibor was silent for a moment. Then he walked over to his wife, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and delicately kissing her on the cheek. “Lead the way, Generals. My family and I are in your hands.”

Benigno nodded. “Gather up any of your belongings you want to bring with you. We’ll disable the boundary spells on your collars once you’re ready, then we can be off. The sooner we get back, the sooner we can get a healer to look at your son.”

“R-right,” Jess said, turning to sweep the dusty attic space. Woo, it was almost sad how little she and Cibor owned— just blankets, and a flimsy wooden pallet to sleep on, and a few pots and pans for cooking. She supposed they could take their clothes, at least, so they wouldn’t be stuck wearing the same clothes day in and day out on the road, but beside that…

It didn’t take long to pack up, shoving their scant assortment of clothing into a tattered knapsack Amadei had given Jess long ago. Once the two blanks had settled everything they needed to inside the tenement and allowed the foreign mages to deactivate their collars, they followed Azrael and Benigno out of the dingy attic for the last time. No sooner had the group stepped out into the bright midday sunlight, however, then did Benigno freeze in his tracks. Breathing in sharply as he stared at Jess.

“Deacon,” he breathed to his partner. “Look at her- do you see what I see?”

As Azrael only nodded in reply, his green eyes going wide, Jessamine’s heart leapfrogged into her throat. “See… see what?” she asked. Oh ’Pit, was something going wrong? Had she done something, were they reconsidering, what was happening, what was—

“Your name,” Benigno said, his voice urgent. “It’s ‘Jess’ right? That… that wouldn’t be Jess Thorsten would it? With an elder sister named Ceely?”

Jess blinked. “How did you…” Her gaze whipped toward Cibor. “Did you tell them those names, did you…?”

Cibor shook his head quickly. “No, of course not, that’s your business, Jess! I wouldn’t talk about your family to complete strangers!”

Benigno held up his hands in a defensive posture. “Jess, please don’t lash out at Cibor. The reason we know those names is because we know Ceely. We met her years ago, and personally helped her to escape from Meltaim and be reunited with her parents. Deek, didn’t you just get a letter from her the week before last?”

Azrael nodded, while Jess let out a small choking noise, for several moments unable to articulate any cogent response. Then, voice wavering like a leaf, she said, “You know Ceely…? Sh-she’s… free, she's okay?”

“She is,” Azrael confirmed. “Happy and safe. Back in Macarinth.” He smiled, blinking hard, as though the mighty general was fighting back tears. “You can see her soon. And your parents. I know they'll all be thrilled to see you, Jess. And—” He looked to Cibor. “I know they'll be overjoyed to meet you, son. And the babies.”

Cibor swallowed hard. Up until now, Jessie’s Macarinthian family had always been an abstract. Jess told him stories, but they were just that- stories. The idea that he would be meeting the real, living people behind the tales was overwhelming. He realized that he didn’t really have any idea what he was being led into. What freedom really meant. What this world that had belonged to his Jess was, the world he’d never known.

But in that moment he heard his wife give another sputter, and he instinctively moved to cuddle her close. “I’m glad, Jess. Th-that your sister’s okay. That she’s free.”

“Since she speaks fluent Meltaiman, she’ll give you someone else to talk to until you pick up Macarinthian,” Benigno mused as he made a beckoning gesture and got the group walking again. “She’s married, you know, Jess. To a young woman who was stationed in your village to work as a medicine brewer for the troops on the front. Very happy.”

“It's… strange,” Jess murmured, falling into step behind the soldier. “I mean, I know I'm married and have kids— so she must be old enough to marry, too, but…” The girl laughed softly. Sadly. “In my head, she— and Nat and Traherne, too— still remains… a kid. Like I saw her last.”

Benigno looked at Jess sadly. “I know it doesn’t begin to make up for what you’ve been through, honey but… I am truly, deeply sorry for how you and your family suffered. It never should have happened. My partner and I have met and personally extracted quite a few stolen citizens of Valzaim and Macarinth, and…” He looked towards his partner, sad but resolute.

“We’re going to get you— and your kids and husband— to safety soon,” Azrael said. “I promise, honey. I promise.”

Part Eight

SPOILER: Click to show

Cibor was surprised by the ease with which the Macarinthians were able to take the small family of blanks out of the city. No one stopped them. No one interfered with them. Most people barely glanced their way before hurriedly looking away again, as if afraid to invoke the wrath of the foreign generals. The teen automatically tensed up as he and his wife passed the city gates, but it seemed whatever Benigno and Azrael had done to their collars had worked. There was no choking. No heating up. And- hopefully- no alarm back with their masters.

The children were fussy throughout the journey, no doubt caused by a combination of their illnesses and the emotional upheaval their parents were dealing with. Once they had been brought within the Macarinthian encampment outside the city, the two blanks and their children were immediately turned over to the camp healers. Cibor was given an all-clear; he had a few bruises and lacerations from various beatings, but nothing that warranted a healing of any sort. Jess was declared to have the faint beginnings of the flu that was shooting around the city, and given a posset for her sore throat and head. The healer was hopeful that with proper treatment, she would be able to avoid getting too ill.

The children, however were another story. Sara was as hot as a furnace, her breath rattling in her chest and misery writ plain on her face. Adam, if anything, was worse. The tiny infant was badly dehydrated from his fever, and the healer set about working to get his fluid levels up before she did anything else.

As they watched the mages swarm around their children like bees- Cibor having to fight hard against the gut-check instinct to expect these people to hit the children for being fussy- Cibor and Jess sat together off to one side. After a long, tense silence as Adam and Sara were tended, Cibor finally spoke.

“You can tell me off, you know,” he said softly, looking down at his hands. “I went against your wishes. I acted without consulting you. I wouldn’t blame you if you were mad.”

Jess looked toward him, furrowing her brow. “Mad?” she echoed. “Cibor, we’re sitting in a Macarinthian camp with professional healers fussing over our children. We’re being taken home. Why… why do you think I'd be mad?”

He winced, fidgeting with his hands. “You didn’t want to talk to the Macarinthians. It turned out better than we could have ever dreamed, but… but it might not have. I was going against your wishes and fully expecting I’d be left behind. I was begging you to save yourself and the kids and leave me behind before we realized these people would get me out of Meltaim too.”

“But… it didn't turn out that way,” Jess said simply. “So— no reason for me to be mad.” She reached her hand toward him, palm up in offering. “We’re going to need to start teaching you Macarinthian,” she told him. “So you can at least dabble in it by the time we get home.” Home. It was still so strange and surreal to think of it— that she and Cibor and their kids were going home.

Cibor hesitantly took her hand in his, twining his fingers through hers. “I love you,” he said softly. Then he whimpered, slumping against her and burying his face in her shoulder. “I love you, s-so much, and, and it would have gutted me to lose you forever, to watch you and Sara and Adam taken away and know I was going to be alone for the rest of my life. It would’ve been agony, but I accepted it. I was psyching myself up for it, the whole time I was bringing the generals to our tenement. Th-then, then when you snapped, I thought you were going to hate me forever. That you’d leave Meltaim hating me. B-but, but now we’re leaving, we’re both leaving, together and, and-”

She silenced him with a plaintive kiss, her lips brushing against his. “Hush,” she breathed. “Let's be happy, okay? Not panicked over what didn't happen. What won't ever happen.”

Cibor started when she kissed him, but then he shivered, kissing her back. After a moment he whispered, “I’m sorry. Y-you’re right. I just… I feel like I’m in a dream. Everything’s changed so fast. Nothing in my life ever goes right. Nothing except you. You’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me. So I keep feeling like there must be some mistake. Some catch.”

“No catch,” Jess said to him, firmly. “Just freedom. All four of us, together.”

He gave a wobbly smile. “You’ll have to help me. I don’t really know how freedom works. It’ll be a brand new experience.

“We’ll learn together,” Jessamine said. “Remember— I haven't been free since I was little, Cibor. I barely remember how it works, either.”

“I guess your family will show us the ropes, hm?” he mused. Tentatively he asked, “Do you really think they’ll like me?”

“Of course,” Jess said. “They'll love you. You're my husband, so… that makes you their son, by the Macarinthian way of looking at things. They'll adore you. And our kids.”

“Gods, I hope so.” He glanced over to the children, sighed softly with amusement. “If we can get Sara to stop trembling whenever the healers point a wand at her anyway.”

“At least whatever potions they forced down her throat seem to have calmed her some,” Jess murmured; laid down upon a cot with a blanket over her, and a healer still hovering very nearby, the drowsy little girl looked but moments away from drifting to sleep. “And Adam, too— look.” She nodded toward the infant, who’d finally stopped crying and coughing for long enough to slumber again in the crook of a healer’s arms; his skin was no longer quite so ruddy, his forehead dry rather than slicked with sweat.

“I was so scared this morning,” he admitted. “I couldn’t find any medicine I could even begin to afford anywhere. And Adam was getting worse so fast it scared me. But… but you’re right. They’re both looking so much better. Maybe by the time we arrive in Macarinth, they’ll be completely well again.”

“And they'll never know the sting of a whip against their skin,” Jess said. “Or have their foreheads stamped with a brand. They'll never have to feel like they're nothing. Empty. Not ever.”

He hugged his wife, kissing her on the cheek. “You did want to be able to tell our children that they have souls. Now you can.” A thought seemed to occur to him, and he laughed. “I just realized- I’ll have to convert to your religion won’t I? The Woo-religion.

“You don't have to,” Jess replied softly. “I wouldn't want to make you. But…” Her cheeks warmed. Nearly glowed. “You'd like church, I think. And our kids getting baptized— you getting baptized… It makes me happy. To think about.”

“If it would make you happy, it would make me happy,” Cibor replied firmly. Cuddling close to her he added. “We’re going to be so happy. All four of us. Together and… And free.”

***

It was amazing what a turn-around Sara and Adam made just by receiving proper medical attention— by the next morning they were still clearly sick, but Adam’s fever had broken, and he was no longer squalling in abject misery. Sara felt well enough to accept a small breakfast, and with a good night’s sleep in her, Jess could tell that she herself was on the mend, too.

Both generals seemed almost sad to see the blank family go, but Azrael told Jess that they would be sure to check up on her to make sure she, Cibor, and the kids arrived home safely— and with a smile, told her to be sure to mention their names to Ceely once she reunited with the older girl. “She’ll get a kick out of it, I think,” Azrael said.

And with that, the generals turned the four over to the officer in charge of the supply convoy that would serve as their escort east. A russet-haired man in his late twenties, Lieutenant Tassett was— true to Azrael’s prediction the day before— clearly not enthused to be playing babysitter on what he’d thought would be a purely routine supply run, but he was also personable enough not to hold this against Jess, Cibor, and their children. He proved a friendly if formal chaperone over the next few weeks, and he seemed to take his duty to protect the civilians in his charge seriously; whenever the caravan ran into even the mildest threat along the road, Tassett— before anything else— made sure the family was safe, even if it meant putting his own men closer to harm’s way. For Cibor, this was— strange, in a sense; after a lifetime of being treated like a mere piece of chattel, the idea that anyone— let alone foreign soldiers— ought to feel a sense of duty toward him… It just didn’t make sense. Didn’t feel real. It was like being told the sky was orange, flying in the face of everything he’d always known to be true.

The young blank often tried to offer his help with physical work to the caravaners, as recompense for their kindness and protection, openly protesting that he was not worth the risks they were going to and felt the need to make it up to them, somehow. These requests, however, were roundly refused, with Tassett— speaking in Macarinthian and having Jess translate for him— insisting that Cibor was here as a guest, not to work.

“Relax, all right?” he said frequently. “We’re soldiers— it’s our job to protect civilians. You don’t need to repay us for that. Not at all.”

Cibor didn’t know how to feel about this. It wasn’t a bad feeling, not at all, but it was unsettling in the way anything new and strange would be. Not working in particular left the young man not knowing entirely what to do with himself. Granted, Adam and Sara, rapidly recovering from their respective illnesses, were certainly demanding enough to keep him and Jess both occupied, but Cibor was used to that. Used to having to work regardless of the squalling of a fussy baby and the impatient demands of a needy toddler.

He did have one thing to occupy him at least- trying to learn Macarinthian. Though he and Sara were both undergoing a rigorous crash-course on the language, to Cibor’s consternation the toddler was picking it up far more efficiently than was her father. As they neared the border, after fully a month and a half of travel, Sara could babble in it nearly as well as any toddler could be expected to. Cibor, on the other hand, could barely string three words together into something that vaguely resembled a sentence, and that only if he knew the words he wanted.

Jess, of course, tried to reassure him. “It’s only been six weeks,” she insisted as they made camp one night only a few short days west of the border. “Of course you can’t be expected to know much of it, Cibor— you’re being too hard of herself.” Chiding Sara as the toddler, seated upon their bedroll, attempted to wrest off the socks Jess had just spent ten minutes wrangling her into, the teenager added, “You’ll learn, Cibor, you will. It’s just going to take time.”

He sighed, fidgeting. “The soldiers say a messenger was sent ahead? And your Father will be meeting us at the border. I will seem to him a very stupid man.”

“Cibor.” Jess scowled. “You’re not stupid, and he’s not going to think that. You’ve lived your whole life in Meltaim— of course you don’t speak fluent Macarinthian. He’ll understand that.” As Sara once again reached toward her sock, the teenager scooped the toddler toward her and settled the girl in her lap. “He’s going to love you,” she said firmly. “I know it.”

Cibor smiled wanly, then turned towards Sara. “Sara happy, meet Grandpa?”

Sara nodded, wistfully eyeing her sock-clad foot as Jess gently pinned her arms so she couldn’t make another go at removing the article. “He play?” the toddler chirped.

“I’m sure he’ll play with you a lot,” Jess agreed. “And Grandma will, too— and Auntie Ceely, and Mama’s whole family. They’re all going to love you to bits.”

Cibor barely followed his wife’s words, catching just enough to guess the context of what she was saying. He smiled, reaching over to his daughter and ruffling her hair. “Papa love you, too. Happy if baby happy, meet family.”

A few short days later, they reached Fort Thamar on the border— and as they crossed through its gates, Jess almost had to pinch herself as the realisation that she was in Macarinth again. After all these years stolen away, forced to live as a slave in Meltaim… she was in her home kingdom. Home. And her husband and children were, too. And… if what the soldiers had told her was true… her father was waiting just inside the fort. Her father. Live and in the flesh. Jess could barely wrap her brain about it, not after so long. It seemed like a strange and wonderful dream.

Tassett and his group peeled away to deliver what little remained of their cargo- mostly letters from the front lines- and rest before carrying supplies from Macarinth back to the soldiers embroiled in conflict. Jess and her family were directed to follow a young private, who would, so Tassett claimed, take them to where the Thorsten patriarch was waiting.

As the young soldier, barely fourteen, guided her family deep into the base, Jess couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. At her side, Cibor was trembling hard, employing every scrap of his training in Meltaim to keep his face straight and not bolt for a place to hide.

They were led into a large official building that the private explained was where meetings were usually held. He guided them up to the second floor, and stopped in front of one door in particular, gesturing to it with a reassuring smile. Jess took a deep breath, shifting Sara to her other hip— Cibor was holding Adam— as she murmured to the soldier:

“He's… inside, then?”

“Yes, Mistress Thorsten,” the private replied. “Inside and waiting for you.”

Cibor gave his wife a reassuring brush on her arm, smiling wanly in spite of his own nerves. She returned the smile with one of her own, but feigning at calmness did little to stop her heart from humming in her throat, beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

“You ready, Cibor?” Jess said to him, softly.

“As ready as I’ll ever be to meet my father-in-law,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “We go in. All good.”

In reply Jess only nodded, anxiety coursing through her as she tentatively pushed open the door. The person she found inside, however, was not nearly so hesitant— only one look at Jess and he’d leapt to his feet from where he sat at a small table, his dark eyes brimming with tears as he rushed forward toward the family of blanks.

“Oh Woo, it is you,” he breathed. “Jess…”

“Papa,” she murmured. “I… I…”

Jess’ father didn’t say another word, instead throwing his arms around his youngest daughter. “Oh, Jess, sweetie, baby-”

As Sara let out a small squawk of surprise at the stranger’s closeness, Jess found herself unable to fight back a volley of tears. “Papa,” she whimpered. “I c-can't believe it's you, it's really you.”

“It’s me, honey,” he murmured back, his voice choked. “I’m here, and I’m taking you home.” Pulling away slightly, he smiled gently at Sara and added, “You and your babies. Woo, you really are all grown up now, aren’t you Jessie? A husband, babies of your own… I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry I missed so much of your life, that you had to spend so long in that Wooforsaken country!”

“It’s not your fault, Papa,” Jess snuffled, burying her face against his shoulder. “It’s not your fault at all.” Forcing in a shaky breath, she added, “Is it… is it true, Papa? W-what the soldiers told us? Ceely’s…?”

“Free,” he agreed, smoothing his daughter’s hair. “She’s back in Henning. And she’s so excited to see you again. I don’t think she ever dared to dream we’d get so lucky to have another of our babies back, and she’s felt so guilty being free and knowing what you’ve been going through.”

“I can’t wait to see her,” Jess breathed, still unable to hold back the gushing tears. “And… and Mama, and— oh Woo, everyone.” She swallowed hard, only after long pause daring to brook, “H-he’s not back though, is he? Nathan. And… Traherne. They didn’t get to come back.”

Her father flinched. “No… no, Nathan and Traherne aren’t back. And from what little I’ve seen of the children who were stolen as part of the Meltaiman Gods Campaigns that’s…” he hissed, his voice thick. “Probably for the best. I don’t think they’d be our little boys. Not anymore.”

Jess winced, wanting her father’s words to be untrue— but after so long spent in Meltaim, knowing they probably were not. “I've missed you,” she sniveled simply. “S-so much.”

In her arms, Sara squirmed. “Sad?” she demanded, flirting with tears of her own. “Mama sad?”

“I think she’s sad and happy too, little one,” the girl’s grandfather murmured with a smile. He offered a hand- his left- to the child, adding, “Hi baby. I’m your Grandpa Clem. What’s your name?”

The child quailed, burying her cheek against her mother’s neck. “Sara,” she whispered. As her honeyed eyes drifted toward her grandfather’s forehead— unblemished by any brands— the little girl murmured to her parents: “Mage? Mama, Papa, mage?”

Cibor, who had been standing off to one side and scarcely able to catch three words at a time of the conversation, did at least recognize what his daughter was asking and smiled reassuringly. “No mage,” he replied. Shifting to Meltaiman he added, “Look baby- no wand. He’s not a mage.”

“Nope,” Clem agreed, smiling gently towards the child. “I’m not a mage at all, Sara. Where I live nobody has to have brands.”

The toddler didn't seem convinced, still clinging to Jess like a falling man to the edge of a cliff. “No mage?” she repeated tentatively.

“No mage,” he said firmly, still holding up his hand palm up. “I’m your Mama’s Papa. I’m taking you somewhere you don’t have to be afraid of mages every again. Promise.”

“He's very nice,” Jessamine assured her daughter, smoothing the girl’s rumpled hair. “You're going to love him, baby. And Grammy, too.”

“I don’t blame her for being shy,” Clem noted sadly, finally letting his hand fall. “She’s a beautiful little girl though, Jess.” Glancing towards the slumbering infant in Cibor’s arms he added, “And the soldiers who brought me here told me you… you have a son too? Is that him?”

“Adam,” Jess said. “His name is Adam. And…” Gaze trailing to the baby, she smiled at the blank who was holding him. “This is my husband,” she murmured. “Their father. Cibor.”

Clem looked up towards the Meltaiman, smiling warmly. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Cibor. So you’re the one who’s been taking care of my little girl all these years, hm?”

“Ah-” Cibor’s face lit with panic, and his eyes flicked towards his wife.

Jess gave him a reassuring smile, translating her father’s words into Meltaiman— and adding softly, “See? I told you he'd be happy to meet you, love.”

Cibor gave his wife a tremulous smile in reply, turning back to his father in law. “A-ah, yes. Th-thank you, sir. Though really, she’s been looking after me just as much, if not more.”

As Jess quickly translated for her father, Clem beamed. “That's my Jessie— always a strong girl. Resilient.” He reached up to wipe at his still-damp eyes. “You… you've known each other a while, then? You've… had each other's company?”

Cibor nodded, his eyes turned downwards instinctively away from the other man’s unbranded face. His posture submissive, his voice soft and utterly respectful. “Yes, sir. We met when she was nine, and I was ten. We belonged to the same master for several years, a-and she was my best friend. We’d play together. Keep each other warm in the tenement in winter. We’ve been each other’s family since even before we married.” He swallowed hard. “I’m glad. S-so glad she can finally have her real family back. She deserves it.”

Clem raised a brow, head tilting. “You are real family,” he said firmly, as Jess continued to translate the conversation on both ends. “Her husband, the father of her children— you're family of hers, and family of mine.”

“Papa,” Sara supplied, stifling a yawn as her gaze flitted between her father and grandfather.

“I-I…” Cibor swallowed hard, forcing a smile in his daughter’s direction before he addressed Clem again. “That’s very kind of you to say, sir. B-but you don’t have to feel obligated. I know how much you must have missed Jess. How excited you must be to get to know your grandchildren. I’m a stranger to you. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.”

“Nonsense,” Clem insisted. His voice softening, and tears pricking in his dark eyes again, he murmured, “Do you know what my biggest fear was all these years? Especially after we got Jessie’s sister back and— well—” He shook his head, rather grimly. “At first when Jessie and the others were taken, her mother and I consoled ourselves by telling ourselves that at least they might have each other. Then we got Ceely back, and learned they'd been separated almost immediately— and that Ceely had been virtually on her own all those years. And…” His voice cracked, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “We were so afraid. That Jessie was alone. Hurt and scared and alone. But she wasn't, Cibor, was she? Because she had you.” His voice had fallen to nearly a whisper as he finished: “She had you, son. You… you can't even begin to understand how much that means to me.”

Cibor was clearly taken aback, his mouth falling open with surprise. “I… I never thought…” he closed his eyes. “I barely remember my parents. I was sold away from the city where I was born the week I turned seven years old. To a broker who brought me to the man who would own both Jess and I for a while. For three years, I was… alone. There were other blanks with me, but none of them really talked to me. Cared about me. But Jess did. She became my friend. She saved me. And she was going to refuse to go home for my sake. I don’t deserve your gratitude.”

“Cibor,” Jess cut in, without translating the last part of what he'd said, as if she couldn't bring herself to voice the self-deprecating comment aloud. “That's not true. You know it isn't true.”

Her husband bit his lip, flinching in on himself. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to bring down the mood, Jess. I don’t want to ruin your reunion with your father.”

“Don't apologise,” Jessamine said, a touch more gently. “You're not ruining anything. But— this is your moment, too, okay? We are free. All four of us. Plural, together.”

He swallowed hard, smiling gently towards his wife. “Right. You’re right, my love.” He glanced towards Clem again, his eyes pricking with tears. “I’m not… not used to thinking of myself as having much worth. In Meltaim, from birth I was always told I was an animal. A thing. Jess tells me it isn’t true, but sometimes it’s still hard not to think that way. And it’s very strange when people express… gratitude. Tell me that I’m important to them.” He clutched his son tighter to his chest. “Th-thank you. I know I’m not exactly the Macarinthian ideal of what a man should be, but thank you for calling me your family anyway.”

“You’re there for your family, aren’t you?” Clem replied simply.

“Of course,” Cibor agreed, titling his head. Glancing towards Sara fondly, he ruffled the little girl’s hair, prompting her to smile broadly at her father. “I love them- why wouldn’t I be?”

“Exactly,” Clem agreed. “And that’s the most important duty for any man in Macarinth— to support his family. To be there for them.”

“And you’re doing that great,” Jess added. “You always have, Cibor.”

The Meltaiman gave his wife a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks.” To Clem he added, “And I’ll keep doing my best. I was born into slavery, so I don’t know much about how the real world works, but I’ll do my best for Jess and our children.” Timidly he added, “And anything you can tell me, anything you want me to know or think I could be doing better- just say it. I want to get this right.”

Part Nine

SPOILER: Click to show

The family of newly freed blanks stayed at the fort overnight before they set out with Clem for his and Jessamine’s home village a few days’ ride— or week and a half walk— away. After so much time on the road already Jess was exhausted, but strangely she found herself enjoying the tedious travel, if only because she got to use it catching up with her father. If she'd been at all worried that things would be strained between them after so many years apart, her fears were quickly put to rest; after a few initial bumps it was as if the father and daughter had never been apart, their conversation flowing effortlessly, their rapport as strong as it had ever been.

Adam was too small to form much of an opinion either way, but his elder sister— after receiving several more assurances that Grandpa was not a mage, nor anyone to be feared— soon took to Jessamine’s father, as well. After just a few days on the road she willingly allowed Clem to hold her when Jess and Cibor’s arms grew tired, and when the group made camp at night she sat rapt as he told her an eclectic array of stories about all the family she was soon to meet back in Macarinth. Seeing the pair of them interact… to Jess, it was like a dream come true. Something she'd always pined for but had never dared hope would actually come true. Her happy ending real and unfolding right before her.

Cibor, however, remained reticent, not wanting to intrude on his wife’s time with the father she had not seen in so long. Not only that, but he, like his daughter, felt an instinctive tremor at the sight of an unbranded forehead, and unlike Sara this fear had been built up over nineteen years of physical and mental abuse. Even if rationally he knew Clem was not going to hurt him, he still instinctively kept his eyes fixed downwards around the man, obeying without question or comment when asked to do something and for the most part speaking only when directly spoken to. Though Clem was clearly eager to show his son-in-law that he was nothing to fear, the man was also wise enough to understand that, in the end, he could not force things; it would take time and time alone to thaw through Cibor’s glacier-thick wall of defenses and insecurities, and there was no expediting that or short-cutting it.

It didn't help that the closer the party grew to Henning, the more the blank had to face the prospect that very soon, he'd be meeting a whole slew of other Thorsten relatives and people from Jessamine’s past. The teenage blank could feel his stomach knotting from nerves, to the point where he had to be coaxed to eat properly because he felt so nauseous. Would they like him? Would they see him as an interloper? Worse yet, would Jess realize, once she was with her family again and no longer dependant on Cibor and Cibor alone, that she could do so much better than the timid Meltaiman blank?

He knew such thoughts were irrational. But for exactly that reason his attempts to rationalize them within himself amounted to very little.

In spite of his nervous anticipation, which led him to almost wishing that the inevitable arrival at Henning would never occur, occur it did. The group finally reached the village where Jess had been born around midmorning a week and a half later, and out of the corner of his eye Cibor watched as his wife struggled to keep her emotions in check. As they roamed down the rambling dirt roads that led through the village center to the Thorsten family’s quaint cottage in Henning’s fringes, practically everyone they passed bade the group a warm hello, pausing from their daily hustle and bustle to let Jessamine know how pleased they were to hear about her rescue and to see her again— and to fawn over her babies.

While Jess took all these encounters in grace and stride, seeming legitimately happy to reunite with most of the familiar faces as well, Cibor shrunk further and further into himself. He was wholly out of his element, barely understood what the villagers of Henning were even saying, and his long conditioned brain was swamping him with fear at the ocean of unbranded faces. He let the villagers approach him to meet Sara, whom he was carrying when they arrived in the village, but an idiot could have read the unease in his eyes and the patently forced quality of his polite smile.

“You all right, love?” Jess murmured in Meltaiman after they finally shook the last of the well-wishers and began down the shaded lane that led to the Thorsten cottage. “It's okay if you're overwhelmed, you know— I don't even remember half those people.”

He glanced towards his wife, biting his lip. “I don’t know how to feel,” he admitted. “Everyone being so… nice. Even with the other blanks, back in Meltaim we watched out for one another out of necessity. Kindness, true kindness… my mind keeps telling me it’s too good to be true. That it’s a trap of some kind. Or that these people will become disillusioned with me somehow.

“They won't,” Jess said firmly. “People here are just… like that, Cibor. Friendly. Looking out for each other. I imagine the war’s only strengthened that bond. The sense of community. And you're part of that now. You're my husband— you belong here just as I do.”

Cibor kissed Sara’s forehead and sighed softly. Sadly. “I don’t really feel like I belong.”

“Cibor.” Reaching out, Jess squeezed his hand. “You do. And in time, I know you'll start to feel that way. You will.”

The young man’s expression softened, and he smiled back at Jess, squeezing her hand in reply. “I love you,” he murmured softly. “And I’m happy for you. I really am.”

“I’m happy for us,” Jess said simply. “All of us. And that includes you, Cibor.”

***

At the cottage, the reunions were all just as emotional and tear-filled as Jess could have imagined, with practically the entire sides of both her mother and father’s families there to welcome the long-lost girl home. While Jess could barely even decide which relative to hug next, her little daughter was far more reserved, seemingly unconvinced by her mother’s assurances that all these people were nice— and that they weren’t mages, despite the fact that all of their foreheads were unbranded.

All, that was, save for Jessamine’s older sister Ceely, who was near identical to Jess save for having darker eyes. The nineteen year old woman had the same white-blonde hair, the same arch to her eyebrows, the same build- and like her sister, she too had a white blank brand stamped on her forehead. After a tearful reunion with her sister, Ceely had turned to Sara- still gripped in the comfort of her father’s arms- and addressed the little girl in Meltaiman. The child’s eyes went wide, flicking for several moments between Ceely’s face and her mother’s… before she promptly held out her chubby arms, and demanded in the way only a two-year-old could: “Hold? You hold?”

And for the rest of the night, Ceely and young Sara were inseparable.

By the end of the evening, everyone was well and thoroughly exhausted. Jessamine’s extended family slowly filtered out the cottage to return to their own homes, including Ceely who explained that she was living in a separate cottage with her wife these days. Jessie’s mother, Rhetta, showed the young couple and their children to the tiny bedroom that had once upon a time belonged to Jess’s younger brother, Nathan.

“I know it’s not big,” Rhetta said, as she absently smoothed the wool blanket dressing the hay-stuffed mattress that took up nearly three-quarters of the space. “But… hopefully it’s all right…”

“Of course, Mama,” Jess replied. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“I’m glad. And…” Rhetta swallowed hard. “If you need anything— anything at all— let me or your father know, okay?” Her eyes fell to Cibor, who was standing behind his wife with a dead-asleep Sara in his arms (the child had dozed off on Ceely’s lap nearly two hours before). “That goes for you, too,” she said slowly, carefully enunciating her words. “Our home is yours, honey, okay?”

His eyes flicked briefly to Jess as she translated, then Cibor bowed his head, speaking in slow, hesitant Macarinthian as he replied, “Thank you. Very nice, you all. Th-thank you.”

The small family spent the following day mostly resting and recuperating from their long trip in and around the Thorsten cottage. Their third day after arriving, Ceely invited them to come to visit her at her home- and meet her wife, who had opted not to attend the initial reunion out of a desire not to intrude on such an emotional time for the family.

Though General Benigno had mentioned in passing that Ceely had married a medicine brewer, given everything else that had been happening at the time it was perhaps unsurprising that the group would fail to realize the implications of that until they actually met the young woman- a dark skinned, blue eyed woman of clear Valzick descent… with a wand holstered at her hip.

“Papa.” In her father’s arms, young Sara let out a small whimper. “Papa, mage.”

Cibor swallowed hard, nuzzling the little girl reassuringly. “Shhh, it’s okay honey.”

“You don’t have to be scared, Sara,” Ceely added, matching the Meltaiman that Cibor was still speaking in. Switching to Macarinthian, she added, “This is my wife- my friend. Beryl. She’s very nice, I bet she would let you call her ‘Berry’ even.”

Beryl elbowed her wife gently, but her expression was gentle as she addressed Sara. “I’ve been very excited to meet you, little lady.”

“Mage,” Sara repeated, burrowing her face in Cibor’s neck.

“I know, baby,” Jess said, in Meltaiman for Cibor’s benefit, “but remember, some mages are nice, right? Like the nice soldiers who helped us get out of Jezgrod— weren't they nice?” To Beryl she added back in Macarinthian, “Sorry, she's just…”

“Don’t worry, I understand,” the mage replied with a patient smile. “Even Ceely took a while before she stopped flinching when I reached towards her or drew my wand. I won her trust, and I’m sure I can win little Sara’s.”

“Say Sara,” Ceely added in a conspiratorial whisper, “What if I took Berry’s wand away? And put it somewhere waaaaay up high where she can’t get it?”

Sara sniffled, face still nested against her father’s skin. “No,” she whimpered. “No get in trouble!”

“I won’t get in trouble,” Ceely assured the child. “Watch- I’m going to take the wand, and I’m not going to give it back until Berry gives me a big, romantic kiss.”

Making good on her threat, Jessamine’s elder sister nimbly reached around Beryl’s hip and pulled the wand free of its holster. Cibor was unable to fully fight back an automatic tensing up of his muscles- to touch a mage’s wand was a capital crime for a blank in Meltaim- but of course Beryl’s only reaction was an amused quirk of her eyebrow as Ceely pointed the wand towards the ceiling and made, “Fwoosh, fwoosh!” sound-effects.

Slowly Sara unearthed her face, amber eyes wide with trepidation as Ceely continued fidgeting with her wife’s wand. “No trouble?” the toddler whispered, as if she still didn't wholly buy it.

“No trouble,” Jessamine agreed firmly. “As long as it's okay with the mage, it's perfectly all right to touch their wand.” She smiled softly toward her sister-in-law— they were still virtually strangers, but already Jess could see why Ceely had gravitated toward the woman; the energy she exuded was warm, glowing, practically radiant. Magnetic. “Right, Beryl?” she added. “Nothing wrong with it at all.”

“Nope,” Beryl agreed. “But I do want it back at some point so I suppose I should humor this rascal, hm?” She winked in Sara’s direction, then pulled Ceely towards her chest and kissed her. The elder of the Thorsten girls immediately let the wand clatter from her fingers to the floor, and sniggered as Beryl added several more kisses all over her face for good measure- whether to amuse the toddler or because the woman was just that affectionate wasn’t clear, but in either case Sara seemed thoroughly perplexed. A mage kissing a blank— to the little girl, it was like watching the sky shift from blue to bright orange.

Jess, however, only gave a soft laugh— the slumbering Adam shifted slightly in her arms, roused by the sound. “Now, now, be careful,” she chided lightly. “If you wake the baby and he starts screaming, I'm going to make you bounce him ‘til he calms back down.”

Ceely grinned in her sister’s direction, leaning her head against Beryl’s shoulder. “I would expect nothing less- how else can I corrupt your children into thinking they have souls and that their aunties are nice and love them?”

“Even the one with the scary wand,” Beryl added, nudging the instrument in question with her toe- it still lay on the floor where Ceely had dropped it. “Seriously- bring them over as often as you want. Ceely’s usually around the house if she isn’t visiting one of your relatives, and my partner and I aren’t kept so busy by potion brewing for the army that we can’t tell fairy tales to a two year old while chopping roots.”

Indeed, over the following two weeks as Jess reacclimated to life in Henning the family of blanks spent almost as much time with Ceely and her wife as they did with Clem and Rhetta Thorsten. Aloof with Beryl at first, over time Sara began to warm to the magician— without a doubt in part because true to her word, the woman was always willing to tell her a captivating fairytale… and with Jess and Cibor’s permission, she soon began to add small illustrations and illuminations to the stories, using her wand to do so. At first, Sara was— unsurprisingly— quite reluctant about this development, shrinking back as Beryl drew the wand and murmured incantations beneath her breath. But then, as it seemed to click with the little girl that Beryl drawing her wand meant pretty dancing pictures rather than anything frightening or painful, her flinching began to abate. Her breath didn't freeze in her throat, nor did her amber eyes go wide with trepidation. Instead, the little girl would smile. Sheepishly. Hopefully.

“Make horsie?” she'd brook. Or: “Make rainbow?”

And Beryl would do so, a tiny blue horse construct galloping in circles around Sara, or an arc of multicolored like forming over the little girl’s head. Not being a soldier, and using her magic for little professionally aside from activating potions, Beryl had no reservations about using her powers for inane purposes that others might have considered a waste of the magic. On one occasion, when Sara tripped and skinned her knee, Beryl reacted before anyone else in the room had time to, scooping the sobbing child up and casting a healing spell on the scrape in question. While initially Sara squawked in surprise and protest at the wand being directed at her, as she seemed to realise the arc of light was helping her, not hurting her, the toddler’s jaw fell open, wonderingly.

“Boo-boo bye!” she marveled, watching as her skin knit cleanly together. She'd seen Amadei cast similar spells before— on his young granddaughter, who was around her age— but of course the Meltaiman had never bothered on her bumps and bruises. “You make boo-boo bye!”

“Sure did!” Beryl agreed, giving Sara a hug. “All gone. Does it hurt anywhere else, hon?”

“Nuh-uh.” Smiling broadly, Sara craned her neck to look toward Cibor, who was seated on a sofa across the living room, in between Ceely and Jess as the three shared a pot of tea. “Papa!” the toddler squealed. “Look, boo-boo bye!”

Cibor gave the child a warm smile, nodding. “I see, Sara,” he replied in his still heavily broken Macarinthian- he’d been making an effort to engage his wife’s family in their native language as much as he could, with limited degrees of success. “Aunt Beryl good, hm? Nice, make boo-boo bye.”

“What do we say, sweetie?” Jess prompted, chuckling as she bounced Adam on her knee.

Sara mulled, glancing back toward her aunt. Finally, she settled on a bright: “T’ank you!”

“You’re welcome, Sara,” Beryl replied, ruffling the child’s hair before setting her back down again. “No more running in the house, hm? So we don’t get more boo-boos.”

“‘Kay,” Sara agreed. “No more run.”

As he watched his daughter cheerfully interacting with her aunt, Cibor bit his lip, looking down pensively into his cup of tea. It took Jess only a fraction of a second to notice his demeanor, her pale brow snapping into a flattened line.

“What's wrong?” she murmured to him in Meltaiman. “You okay?”

He shrugged limply. “I guess I… I feel bad,” he admitted softly, in the same language. “When Beryl pointed her wand at Sara, I thought for a moment I was going to faint. I just… panicked. Even though I know rationally nobody here will hurt her.”

“That’s understandable, Cibor,” Ceely put in, also speaking in Meltaiman. “Honestly I was beyond lucky escaping Meltaim after only three years, and I’m still jumpy sometimes around mages I don’t know. You spent your entire life there- of course you would take a while to open up.”

“But Sara is a baby,” Cibor objected. “Toddlers aren’t the definition of rational and yet she’s adjusting faster than I am.”

“She's two,” Jess agreed. “Her memory is…” The woman waved a hand, watching as Sara attempted to feed invisible ‘cookies’ to a battered rag doll that had belonged to her mother long ago. “She can't remember not to tug her cloak off when it's cold outside even if we told her five minutes before. And five minutes before that. Of course she'll adjust more quickly, Cibor. She's a child. I love her to death but her thoughts— they're not exactly complex.”

Cibor’s eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched on the teacup. “But everyone here… they’re so nice. To us, to our kids…”

“And yet you can’t completely trust them,” Ceely said, more of a statement than a question. “Part of you keeps waiting for the ax to fall. For the masks to falter. Am I right?”

The Meltaiman winced. “I hate it. It’s ungrateful. But I...”

Ceely shook her head. “Hey, it’s okay. I knew a fellow once who was the same- a Meltaiman-born blank named Martyn. He took a long time to trust mages and freedmen as well. ...It probably doesn’t help that most everybody’s been focused more on Jessie and the babies than on you,” she admitted. “It’s not nice and it’s not fair, but you have sort of been something of an afterthought, given everybody’s excitement at seeing Jess again after eight years. So sort of… people being nice, but largely leaving you to your own devices, which isn’t that different from what it’s like for us in Meltaim. Blanks are ignored if we aren’t explicitly needed for something.”

“But people do want you here,” Jess added. “And… I know it’s hard, love, I do. But… if you just— just try to start opening up to them…” She swallowed hard. “You belong here. Just like I do. My family is yours— and they’re happy to be yours. So happy.”

Cibor swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Right. You're... you're right, and I do want to get to know them. But... what do I do? I don't really know what sort of things freed people do for fun, and I can barely communicate without yours or Ceely's help."

“For now, we can translate,” Jess said. “Both me and Ceely, whenever you’re around. And… your Macarinthian will get better, it just will. So soon you’ll be able to talk to people on your own.” She tilted her head, thinking. “And there are… are lots of things we could do for fun, Cibor. Either just the two of us, or… with the kids, or— whatever you’d like. Whenever you’d like.”

“And,” Ceely added, “You don't need to be afraid to ask if you want something, or to engage a conversation without being addressed first. Nobody here is going to punish you for speaking up- I think you’ll find they reward you instead, by giving you the friendship you badly need, if you're anything like I was.”

Cibor looked up to where Beryl was tickling a cackling Sara, his eyes thoughtful. “I’ve never had friends. Except for Jess.”

“Ceely and Beryl can be a good start,” Jess mused. “And my mum and dad, too. And then from there…” She crooked a smile, her honeyed eyes glinting somewhat mischievously. “You’ll be the most popular man in town, Cibor. The dashing knight in shining armour who helped poor Rhetta and Clem’s little girl find her way home.”

“You look the part, too,” Ceely teased, prodding the blank’s well built torso. “If I wasn't married I might be inclined to be jealous of my dear sister and her muscular hunk of man meat.”

Cibor turned bright scarlet, laughing sheepishly. “Ah, thank you. Though I should prefer to be a friend and a father to a big scary knight.”

“Nah, you’re in Macarinth now, not Meltaim,” Ceely said breezily. “Granted we don't have knights here, but soldiers are afforded more respect than anybody else in the country. They’re a good thing to be.”

“And being so handsome doesn't hurt,” Jess added dryly, smirking.

Cibor’s face went even redder, and from her place entertaining Sara, Beryl glanced up, quirking an eyebrow. “What are you two saying to that poor man?”

“They speak good,” Cibor assured the woman, smiling lopsidedly. He leaned towards Jess, pressing his lips against hers and prompting another cackle from Ceely.

“Got this one wrapped around your finger, don’t you, baby sister?”

“Ewww, no kiss!” Sara protested before her mother could extricate herself from Cibor’s embrace to reply. Beryl laughed.

“What’s the matter, Sara?” she asked teasingly. “It’s good that Mama and Papa love each other so much, isn’t it? Maybe Auntie Beryl and Auntie Ceely should kiss too.”

“No!” the toddler protested, looking thoroughly disgusted. “No kiss!”

Jess laughed, pulling back from Cibor. “So bossy, aren't we? And here I thought we'd gotten over the ‘no’ stage.”

“Aaaah, but you never really get over the ‘no’ stage,” Ceely replied sagely. “It just shapeshifts into other forms of being contradictory. I understand six-year-olds are smart alecks and teenagers are unholy terrors.”

“Now, now, don't try to scare us,” Jess shot back. “Our Sara’s going to be a sweet little angel, I just know it— right, Cibor?”

“Mm,” he agreed. “She is perfect. Aren’t you, baby?”

Sara giggled. “Good girl!” she exclaimed. “Me good girl!”

“You certainly are, baby,” Beryl agreed, smiling warmly down at the child. “A very good girl. And I think our good girl should get some nice warm cookies...”

Part Ten

SPOILER: Click to show

As she had done with her friend Martyn many years before, Ceely seemed to take it upon herself to help draw Cibor out of his shell. She engaged him and Jess whenever she could, showing the man around the town where the sisters had grown up and helping him work on- slowly- improving his Macarinthian.

About a week and a half after the day Beryl had healed Sara’s scraped knee, Ceely hit upon an idea that saw her conspiring quietly with her father Clem- and the two of them running their idea by Jess, who gave an immediate nod of approval.

With her sister’s cooperation secured, Ceely immediately set out in search of Cibor while her father got himself ready. She eventually found the man outside in the fields near the Thorsten cottage with Rhetta and Sara, watching as grandmother and granddaughter played in the tall grass. Though it took some cajoling- Cibor was reluctant to leave his daughter- Ceely eventually convinced him that Sara would be fine with Rhetta and got him to follow her into town. There, just off Henning’s quaint Main Street, they found Clem, the man smiling broadly as he waved hello to his daughter and son-in-law.

“Hope you're wearing your walking shoes,” he said brightly (as Ceely translated). “Thought we might take a bit of a trip, son.”

“Ah, alright,” Cibor replied, his head tilted in confusion. “Wh-where to, sir?”

“You ever been shopping?” Clem asked, starting down the road and gesturing for Ceely and Cibor to follow. “Not just for things you need but— for fun. Little extras. Things you don't need, per se, but that might be nice to have.”

The young Meltaiman shook his head. “No. We’ve never really had the money for that sort of thing. And besides, the merchants of luxury goods would have chased me off if I did manage to come by the money.”

“Blanks are believed to be inherently given towards crime,” Ceely elaborated, knowing these facts were just common knowledge for Cibor but would likely confuse Clem. “Storekeepers are always suspicious of them, thinking they’ll steal if you don’t watch them like a hawk, and if they have more than a very small amount of money it’s almost immediately assumed they stole it.”

Clem let out a noise that would've registered as disgust in any language. “Monsters,” he huffed. “Everything I learn about them is even worse than the last thing, I swear.” He waved a hand, as if to chase the unpleasant issue away. “Here,” he said firmly, “we judge people on things that matter. And I think you're well overdue for a nice shopping trip— don't you think so, CeeCee?”

Ceely grinned, giving Cibor a wink. “You can get yourself something nice. Have fun. And Papa used to take night leave in this town when he was a soldier, before his arm was crippled in the war, so I can promise you won’t get lost.”

Cibor impulsively reached up to rub his branded forehead, looking hesitant. “Y-you don’t have to go to so much trouble. You’ve already done so much for me…”

“You're my son-in-law, Cibor,” Clem replied. “I'm allowed to treat you now and then, hm?” He winked. “Plus, I haven't been to Marcellet in ages. Their market is much nicer than the little batch of shops we've got here in Henning. Good pubs, too— can get us a nice bite to eat before we head home tonight.”

At this Cibor actually raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Oh? Admittedly, the food I’ve been eating since we arrived in Henning has… probably been better than anything I’d ever eaten before that. In Meltaim we mostly had pottage or potatoes, or the burnt leftovers from Jess’ master’s tavern, and on the road it was military rations.”

“We’ll find somewhere with a good stew,” Clem suggested. “And good ol’ fashioned Macarinthian party bread.” He grinned, crooking a brow. “You haven't had party bread yet, have you? Since Rhetta isn't partial to it and never bakes it.”

“I don’t think so, no,” the Meltaiman replied, glancing at Ceely quizzically. She laughed.

“It’s good, I promise,” the young woman assured him. “A favorite treat in this part of Macarinth. Berry’d never had it before she was stationed here but now she’s addicted to the stuff.”

“I’ll have to try it then,” Cibor consented, giving Clem a timid smile. “You’re… sure nobody will mind that I’m Meltaiman? Your country is at war with them.”

“We're at war with Meltaim,” Clem agreed. “We're not at war with you. And anyone who sees your brand will immediately know that whatever Meltaim does, it's not your doing. You're a victim of them as much as anyone else they hurt, Cibor. That you were born there doesn't mean you're responsible for the horrors they inflict.”

Cibor nodded slowly, still looking a bit nervous. It was perhaps unsurprising- this was a whole new world for him, and his life hadn’t precisely been overflowing with positive experiences. Still, he put up no further protests, following Clem and Ceely down the road that would lead to the neighboring town of Marcellet. Though shy initially he gradually came out of his shell as the two coaxed him into conversation on the walk, occasionally offering his slow, timid smile. Ceely couldn’t help but be a bit sad. Jess had explained to her that once, Cibor had been bright and bubbly, eager to do things that were fun even if there was the potential of getting into trouble. But his time as a slave to the city of Jezgród had beaten down much of that side of him, leaving him terrified to even breathe in the wrong direction.

Ceely was determined that she and her father would begin the work of drawing his happy, confident side back out of hiding.

Eventually the woods on either side of the path began to clear, revealing a much bigger and more bustling settlement than Henning. Cibor impulsively drew closer to the Thorstens, his head ducked and his eyes fixed on his feet in the presence of the crowd of unbranded strangers.

“Relax, son,” Clem soothed, reaching out to give the teenager’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “No one bites, I promise.” He smiled warmly. “So— you're in the lead today. What sort of shop shall we visit first, Cibor?”

Cibor looked a little bit lost. He looked to Ceely for help, but she only smiled and made a coaxing gesture, clearly telling the young man to pick for himself. After a moment’s mulling he hesitantly said, “Maybe… maybe a toy store? To look at things Sara might like.”

“Ah, naturally.” Clem chuckled. “I swear if that girl collects any more dollies they're going to need to start paying room and board.”

The teenager blushed, looking down. “We’ve never been able to give her toys before. It’s… nice to see her so happy. Playing, laughing, and not having to hide behind Jessie’s skirts from Master Amadei for most of the afternoon and evening.”

“She's certainly happy,” Clem agreed, as they started into the town’s quaint but bustling market district. The streets here— cobblestone, the only paved road they'd come across during their journey so far— were filled with homey shopfronts and colorful stalls, the air scented the the fragrant aroma of cooking meat and spices. “There's a toy store a bit up the road, if I'm remembering right,” Clem commented cheerily. “Cute little place. Lots of wooden figurines and the like. Thinking about it, some of Sara’s hand-me-down dollies might have come from there, long ago.”

“Oh, right, they used to belong to Ceely and Jess, didn’t they?” Cibor mused.

“The one with the red yarn hair in particular was fun, right Papa?” Ceely asked with a smirk. Pitching her voice higher, she whined, “Jeeeeeeeeeessie, that one’s miiiiiiiiiine!”

“You're lucky your mum and I didn't chuck it in the trash,” Clem teased. A wistful note to his tone, he added softly, “Not as bad as Nat and Traherne were with those army-men figurines, though. Woo forbid Traherne put so much as a cadet out of place during their games, or I swear it was an all-out brawl.”

Ceely’s smile faltered, and Cibor bit his lip. The young Meltaiman said, “I… I’m sorry. About your son and his partner. When I was still a slave, I was always terrified for my own little ones. Scared they would be taken from me as soon as they turned seven and were branded. Or sooner, if either of them turned out to have magic. And that was just… hypothetical.”

Clem only shrugged, sadly. “I miss them,” he said. “I always will— just like I missed Jess and Ceely when they were gone. But… and even Rhetta still has a hard time understanding why sometimes… I like to remember them. Talk about them. Carrying on as if they were never here at all would only make things worse for me. Nat was my only son, and Traherne nearly as good as one. Meltaim took them from me, but they can't steal my memories, too. Or the good times I had with them. Not unless I let them, by smothering it all away.”

Cibor seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I… I think I understand what you mean. Did Jess ever tell you how the soldiers in Meltaim found and freed her?”

Clem shook his head. “Only that the babies were sick. And it was only through the Macarinthian healers that they recovered.”

“They were sick yes,” Cibor agreed softly. “So I approached the soldiers. For her and… and for them. Because I was terrified of losing them, but I loved them enough that I was willing to lose them if it meant I could save them.”

“Better to have loved them in the first place.” Clem nodded, blinking hard. “I wouldn’t trade those memories of Nathan and Traherne for anything. Even if hurts me to think about them now. Even if missing them makes me miserable, it’s still worth it. To have known them.”

Cibor swallowed. “I still don’t quite believe it sometimes. That the Macarinthians let me come along too. I was… so convinced I was giving them up forever. Them and Jess. Yet here I am. Surrounded by people who are… f-far kinder than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“You deserve it,” Clem said simply, smiling at his son-in-law as the reached the toy shop. “You’re a kind person, Cibor. It’s about time you received what you give in turn.”

The teenager smiled sheepishly, following his father-in-law into the shop. As promised, the building was teeming with wooden figurines, dolls in cloth, velvet, and every other fabric imaginable, balls, little board game sets, pins and sticks for sports games, play scimitars, play wands, dress up clothes for small children…

“Gods,” Cibor squeaked. “Th-there’s so much.”

“We’re not rich,” Clem said, as the shopkeeper greeted the trio with a polite smile and hello, “but I’ve got enough money for us to buy a couple baubles, all right? So if you see anything you like, Cibor…”

The young man tentatively approached a display of wooden animal figures, his eyes listing towards one that was carved and painted in the likeness of a horse. “Maybe this?” He said tentatively. “Sara loves horses. B-but if it's too much… Gods, something this well made-”

“Cibor, easy,” Ceely soothed.

“I’m sure we can afford it,” Clem added. “It’s a figurine, not a diamond, Cibor, all right?” He gave his son-in-law a reassuring look. “And you’re right— Sara will love it.”

Cibor smiled, a little less tentatively, and delicately picked up the horse to look at it more closely. “I hope so. Gods she cooed over the soldier’s horses while we were traveling, and cried when Jess told her she couldn't pet them.”

“Like a properly rational two year old,” Ceely sniggered.

Cibor laughed, the sound clear and oddly easy coming from the normally skittish man. “Naturally. I barely remember my parents so half the time I can't tell if she's just being petulant or if we’re doing something wrong, so earnest are the histrionics.”

“Two-year-olds are like mules,” Clem replied, gesturing for Cibor to hand him the horse figurine so that he could bring it to the shopkeeper to pay. “I swear, Ceely at that age was monstrous. Would throw tantrums over the stupidest little things— having to wear her cloak, or take a nap, or Woo forbid Mama and Papa scold her for throwing bread scraps on the floor during supper.”

Cibor obligingly handed over the toy. “Oh, is that right?” he asked the young woman, who grinned innocently.

“I'll have you know I am a sweet, placid little angel,” she retorted. “I certainly didn't get all these scars on my face spitting in the eye of one of my overseers in Meltaim. Perfect darling, that's me.”

Here, Clem only winced, and Ceely wrapped her father in a hug. “It's okay, Papa. I wear the marks proudly- they’re the proof I survived. That Meltaim didn't break me, no matter how hard they tried.”

“I know, hon,” Clem murmured. “I just… I wish I could have been there to protect you, that’s all. You and Jessie both.” Swallowing hard, he drew his daughter away, before sparing the shopkeeper a wavering smile (the man was suddenly very invested in straightening up a shelf of wooden play blocks, clearly not wanting to interrupt the very-personal exchange). “That’s a father’s duty,” Clem went on. “To protect his children. And I… I couldn’t. Not you. Not Jess. N-not Nat.”

Ceely bit her lip, not translating her father's words for Cibor. “You were away with the army, Papa. You didn't know.” She rested her head on her father’s shoulder. “And we’re home. Me and Jess. You got two of us back. And Jessie’s babies.” She nodded to the horse. “We’ll make even more happy times for you to remember.”

“Um,” Cibor whispered, not sure what they were saying but reading the misery in their voices readily enough. His shoulders were hitched up timidly again. “I’m sorry. If I brought up a sore topic.”

“It’s all right,” Clem said. “Just… long lingering insecurities, I suppose you could say.”

Cibor bit his lip, looking down at his shoes. He said not a word as Clem paid the shopkeeper for the horse toy, and his silence lingered as the trio stepped out into the bright sunlight outside once more. Ceely, seeming determined to salvage the situation, cleared her throat rather pointedly loudly.

“So,” she said. “Where do you want to go next, Cibor?”

He shrugged limply, his gaze averted. “I… I don’t want to force you to stay out with me if you’d rather just go-”

“Hey,” she cut him off, gently but firmly. “It was my fault, okay? Don’t let it ruin your day.”

“Maybe we could just… look around?” he ventured tepidly, clearly still feeling ill at ease.

“I know,” Clem murmured, seeming somewhat sheepish about having handily obliterated the light mood. “You got Sara a gift— why don't you get something for Jessie? If you want. I bet you know what she'd like better than anyone else.”

Cibor seemed to consider this, a slow smile ticking at his lips again. “I could… I’ve never been able to get her gifts before, unless it was little flowers I picked from between cracks in the pavement when we first started dating. My fourteen year old self thought he was being very romantic, tucking dandelions behind her ear.”

Clem managed a laugh. “I bet they matched her hair, huh? So—” He gave his son-in-law a small smile. “What do you think she'd like, son?”

The teenager seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then his dark eyes lit, and he tentatively brooked, “Is there a way I could get her one of those charms? Like the one the priest wears. I’ve seen others with them.”

“Charms?” Clem tilted his head. “Do you mean… a Woocifix?” He crooked three fingers to mime the symbol of the triple feather. “Like this?”

Cibor nodded emphatically. “Yes. When we were together in Meltaim, she told me often of her religion, even though it would have seen us both punished. She wanted our children raised to believe they have souls, even though the Meltaimans believe otherwise. And she is very happy that now she can bring Sara and Adam up in your religion.”

“I think she'd like that,” Clem agreed. He exchanged a brief look with Ceely, before adding: “You know, a small Woocifix isn't that much. We could probably spring to get you one, too— if you'd like.”

“Me?” Cibor seemed startled by the suggestion. “B-but I… I don’t… I shouldn’t… I wouldn’t want to offend your god.”

“Why would that offend the Woo?” Clem asked, seeming genuinely puzzled. “You're as much His child as anyone else, son. Even if you haven't formally converted— He loves you all the same.”

Cibor looked down at his hands, seeming to be trying to put into words what he wanted to say. Finally, he said, “I… I’ve wanted to believe it. When Jess tells me that the Meltaimans are wrong. That I have a soul, and I’m a real person. I believe she is- she’s so vibrant, and full of life, and she makes my existence better just by being there. But I just… I don’t know. My entire life I’ve been told by everybody else that I’m nothing. An empty shell. And there are times I feel like one. Like a broken, worn out tool trying desperately to figure out how to be human.”

“Cibor,” Clem said softly, as the group threaded through the tangle of stalls in the center of the market district, the older man keeping watch through the corner of his eye in case they came upon a jewelry vendor. “I want you to think of Sara. And the way she looks at you— the way she adores you. And you adore her, right?”

Cibor seemed confused by the question, but nonetheless he nodded. “Of course I do- I’d give everything for her. Adam and Jessie too.”

“Of course you would,” Clem agreed. “So I want you to picture the way that little girl looks at you, Cibor. Her papa. She adores you. Loves you to bits. What do you think she would say, about this idea you might not have a soul?”

Cibor resisted the impulse to point out that Sara was probably too little to understand the concept of a soul, and instead tried to envision an older version of his daughter and how she might react.

“Well,” he admitted slowly, “she gets upset enough when I come home with any sort of bruise or cut. Cries ‘Papa owie’ and asks for Jess to ‘kiss it better.’ So… I suppose she would probably get upset at that too.”

“Now think of how you would feel,” Clem said, “if someone ever said the same thing about Sara. Or Adam. Would you think it's true, Cibor? That they haven't got souls?”

Here, Cibor swallowed hard. “I… I w-want to believe they do. They’re so bright, and happy, and full of life a-and… they’re not empty. They’re not.”

“And neither are you, Cibor,” Ceely said softly. He shook his head.

“B-but I… I feel empty so much of the time. Helpless and useless.”

“You're not useless,” Clem said firmly. “And you're not helpless either, Cibor. Not any more.” He paused, thinking carefully for a moment. “You know,” he said, “Brooker Tarhill’s been looking for a new hand. To help out with the cattle on his land— all three of his boys are off in the west, and he's been struggling on his own. Not as spry as he used to be. Got a bad knee on the front right around when I roughed up my arm.”

The teenager blinked, looking confused at the abrupt change of topic. Tentatively he asked, “You mean… he’s looking to hire someone to help him? For… for money?”

Clem blinked. “Of course. I can't pretend it'll pay the king’s jewels but… enough for you to help provide, at least. For Jess and the kids. Put food on their table.” He chuckled softly. “Buy Sara dollies from time to time.”

Cibor looked a little overwhelmed at the idea. “I… I wasn’t able to earn money for us in Meltaim. The city officials kept me working from sunup to sundown most days, unless the weather was too bad. Jess… Jess had to do it all.” He swallowed hard, trembling a little. “She had to do it all. And I always felt so useless.”

“You don’t have to feel that way anymore,” Ceely said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You can work. Earn money. Support her, not the other way around.”

“I can talk to Brooker,” Clem offered. “I'm sure he'd hire you on. Could probably start as soon as you'd like, son. It'll be dirty work, and physical— but as long as you work hard, Brooker will adore you. He's a good man. Farm’s been in his family for a century.”

Cibor finally, slowly smiled. “I’ve spent the last three years of my life building walls, pulling carts, digging ditches, and shovelling snow. And before that I scrubbed floors and hauled buckets, among other things. I’m used to hard work. I admit I don’t know a lot about cows, but I’m willing to learn, if you think he’d have me.”

“Oh I’m sure he would,” Ceely mused. Lifting one of Cibor’s arms by the wrist and gesturing at his thick, burly arm muscles, she added, “What do you say, Papa, do you think this figure would make someone looking to hire a farmhand drool? Yes or yes?”

“He’ll think it’s Woomas morning.” As a jeweler’s stand finally came into view ahead of them, Clem laughed. “I’ll go out there tomorrow morning, all right?” He tilted his head. “You could even come with, really. Like Ceely said, he’ll take one look at you and be head over heels.”

“And I think it’ll be good for your learning Macarinthian,” Ceely mused. “Having someone to talk to and take direction from who can only speak that one language. Throw the baby in the river and make ‘em learn to swim quickly, as the saying goes.”

Cibor laughed softly, but he nodded all the same. “Alright. I think I’d like that. Having work to do. Good work, th-that helps.” He looked up at the jeweler’s stall, adding, “And if you think Jess would like it… I can get one too. A… what did you call it?”

“Woocifix,” Clem said. “And I do think she’d like it. She’d like it a lot, son.”

Cibor smiled the expression much lighter now, and started to look at the different designs for the woocifixes on sale, to choose one for himself and his wife. The rest of the afternoon passed in a breeze, the trio stopping to eat at a quaint little pub— and Clem plying Cibor with copious amounts of party bread, which turned out to be a sort of rye bread with a bit of beer baked into the batter, and a copious amount of nuts— before they headed home. It was past dark by the time they dropped Ceely off at her and Beryl’s house, but back at the Thorsten cottage Cibor and Clem were surprised to find little Sara still awake, the little girl proudly informing them she’d kept herself up so she could “say hi to Papa and Grampapa!”.

Cibor rewarded her persistence by gifting her the wooden pony, which she fell in love with at first sight, soon dozing off in her father’s lap with her new toy tucked against her chest. Jess was just as smitten with the woocifix necklace Cibor had picked out for her— especially when she noticed its identical twin hanging around her husband’s neck.

“Oooh, that looks nice on you,” she breathed as she clasped on her own chain. “But,” she teased on, “not as nice as I’m sure mine looks on me.”

He chuckled, pecking her on the cheek. “Implying I could ever look nearly as wonderful as you, Jess.”

Part Eleven

SPOILER: Click to show

The next day, as promised Clem brought Cibor along to meet Brooker Tarhill, the owner of a local cattle ranch. As Ceely and Clem had predicted, Brooker took one look at Cibor and practically fell over himself to offer the well-muscled former laborer a job. It wasn’t easy work by a long shot- he had to bale hay, muck the barn, haul heavy loads to and fro, mend the fence when it was damaged, tend to the occasionally restive cattle, and all under the beating of the sun- but Cibor was no stranger to long hours of hard labor. What was more, Brooker didn’t mind if the young man occasionally sat down for five or ten minutes if he got overheated, he kept a barrel of water nearby both to drink and to splash over their heads, and unlike the overseers he was pleasant company.

At first Cibor’s limited Macarinthian meant that any conversations between the two were confined to Brooker giving Cibor instructions- usually with a significant amount of pantomime- or asking simple questions. However, as he grew more comfortable with the man, Cibor began to engage him timidly, using his tiny vocabulary to have very simple conversations to help pass the time. As Ceely had guessed would happen, the more Cibor forced himself to use his Macarinthian, the better he got at it, expanding his dictionary and getting a much better handle on the unfamiliar grammar.

Having a friend in his employer and slowly improving his ability to communicate with the people in his adopted country helped to boost Cibor’s self-confidence, but more than anything else the money he was making went a long way towards making the young man feel more useful. He could pay for food for his family, new clothes for the ever growing Sara and Adam, and even help provide for the aging Rhetta and Clem. Though Clem was still able to take odd jobs around Henning, his crippled arm kept him from doing a lot of better paying jobs, and it was a distinct relief to him to have a second young, strong man helping out. Feeling like he was useful, like he was contributing something positive, gradually began to bring about a profound change in Cibor. He stood straighter when he walked. He spoke without a stutter. He met people’s eyes when he was talking to them. And, the cheerful young boy he’d once been began to rise to the surface once more. He joked, and laughed, and engaged in silly games and activities just for the joy of it.

Jess was— naturally— thrilled by this development. In a way, she felt like she had the old Cibor back— the one she’d known when they were both small, before the realities of life in Meltaim had served to cow him and sever his spirit. Rhetta and Clem, too, were overjoyed as they watched their son-in-law emerge from his shell, and the better the teenager’s Macarinthian became, the more the husband and wife began simply talking with him. Joking with him. Treating him as they did Beryl, or would have any spouse of their child.

Summer eventually turned to autumn, and with the change in season came the time for the local farmers to bring in the returns to their investments over the year. Cibor’s employer was among these, and Cibor found himself helping Brooker to drive the cattle to a city about half a day away- in the opposite direction from the town where the teenager had gone shopping with his father-in-law- for a livestock faire.

It was an interesting, if hectic, experience. Cibor was at the faire for about four days before he and Brooker returned home, their purses a good bit fatter and the herd somewhat leaner. He arrived home, however, with the air of a man who had a secret. Around midmorning a few days later, he swept up his wife in a hug, picking her clear up off the floor and spinning her in a circle, his eyes glimmering impishly.

“Say Jessie,” he said cheerfully. “How would you like to go on an adventure. Just you, me and the kids.”

“Oh?” Jess tilted her head, pale brow raised. “And what kind of adventure might that be?”

“Well it’s no fun if I just tell you,” he retorted, smirking. “But a little bird in the city told me about something amazing. Something I think you and the kids will love.”

“Is that so?” She laughed, her cheeks flushing. “Well… if a little bird told you, it must be true.” She reached up to touch the tip of his nose, gently. “Do I get a hint at least?”

He chuckled. “It will involve a lot of things neither the children nor I have experienced before- and some things I imagine you haven’t in a very, very long time. But more than that I can’t say.”

“All right then.” Jess pulled back from him, a crooked smile between her lips. “You’re helping me get Sara’s shoes and cloak on, though. We already had that battle this morning when she came out to ‘help’ me get the laundry off the line, and I am not commencing round two.”

He laughed. “Sounds fair. Maybe I can bribe her to keep them on by letting her bring Lulu-” the child’s favorite of her hand-me-down dolls- “along on our little adventure.”

Alas, Sara proved quite difficult to wrest into the aforementioned shoes and cloak, the little girl only eventually yielding with the promise that Papa would carry her on his shoulders if she was good. At least Adam, still not even walking, was much easier to suit up for the road, and within the hour— after Jess packed them a satchel with snacks and water inside— the family of four was out on the road, Cibor taking the lead.

It was an uneventful but at least not boring trip, with Cibor keeping Sara entertained first with a game of I Spy, then making shapes in the clouds, then practicing her as-yet unmastered colors. Eventually she wore herself out, and ended up lolling off into a nap in her father’s arms for a good two hours.

The child was just rousing again around midafternoon when the small family arrived at their destination- the city where the livestock faire had been held the week before. Cibor grinned hugely as he led them to an inn for the night, still refusing to explain what was going on but swearing they would find out in the morning. Jess clearly wanted to pry, but she could also tell how much fun Cibor was having with this— and seeing him so light-hearted, so excited... She didn’t dare prod and ruin the mood.

The following morning, they rose early. Cibor led his family out to the market district of the city- and it became immediately obvious what was going on. The streets were decked with banners and streamers in fall colors of red, orange and yellow. Small awnings had been set up over game booths, merchants were hawking various small knick-knacks in autumn themes, and minstrels played songs of the season. Freshly harvested vegetables were being sold at stalls down every avenue, as well as spiced cider and beer.

“It’s…” As Jess— with Sara balanced on her hip— surveyed the scene ahead, the woman let out a small, wondering laugh. “Oh, Woo. A harvest festival, Cibor! I haven’t been to one of these since I was—” She shook her head. “Honestly? Probably not much older than Sara’s age. I barely even remember it!”

“Mama, Papa!” Sara trilled, grinning like a cat. Pointing wildly down the road, the toddler chirped on, “Horsie! Look, horsie!”

“It is a horsie, isn’t it, Sara?” Cibor agreed, looking to where a man had set up a small, fenced off area with a placid, fat white pony. His grin broadened and he winked at Jessie as he added to his daughter, “And wouldn't you know, I think that man will let you ride the horsie. See, look, that little boy’s climbing down from the horsie’s back.”

“Ooooh,” Sara breathed. “Papa, me ride? Please?”

“Hmm,” he mused. “What do you think, Jess? Should we let this little lady ride the pony?”

“I don’t know.” Jess chuckled. “Do we think she’s been a good enough girl to go pony riding?”

“Real good,” Sara supplied with a sage nod. “Me real good, Mama!”

“Hmm, okay,” Cibor said with exaggerated reluctance. “But only if you promise to be good about getting back down when your turn is done, okay?”

“Promise.” Sara wiggled in Jessamine’s arms, impatiently. “Ride horsie now?”

Cibor and Jess did indeed let Sara ride the pony, and then they let her oogle over a glassblower’s display, and then Jess and her daughter danced together in front of a minstrel’s stage while Cibor held Adam on the sidelines. Eventually Jess took a turn holding the baby, insisting that Cibor take part in some of the fun as well. He did so, taking Sara to a field where locals had raked up a giant pile of dried leaves and were all playing in them, letting his daughter bury him under the pile and jumping out to make monster noises at her while she giggled madly. He then took her to a display that had hollowed out pumpkins and gourds, and allowed her to paint on them with mashed up berry juice and other cheap painting materials the person running the stand provided.

Eventually Sara’s energy began to flag, and so Cibor bought some spiced cider for himself and Jess, and pumpkin juice for the toddler, and sat down in a quiet part of the festival under some streamer-laden trees to let his daughter get her nap in. Although initially the toddler protested that she wasn’t tired, this fact was quickly shown to be false; as Cibor adjusted his cloak so that it covered her like a blanket, the girl yawned once, blinked a few times… and then was out like a spent flame, her chest rising and falling steadily.

Jess laughed. “I think she’s had enough excitement for the day, eh?”

“We’ll have to find a quieter part of the festival to explore once she wakes up,” Cibor agreed with a grin. “I’m glad she’s had a good time, though. I think she’s already forgotten about… before. It’s like a having a different child.”

“She’s so much livelier,” Jess said with a nod. “She doesn’t stop to think or— or brood before laughing, or smiling, or acting like, well… a kid. She’s not terrified constantly. She’s happy. Like any toddler should be.”

He looked sidelong at his wife. “And you? I hoped you might have fun today as well, even if we had to corral and entertain two demanding kids all day.”

“Of course,” Jess said, shifting the slumbering Adam into one arm so that she could reach out and squeeze Cibor’s hand. “This has been nice, Cibor. The four of us spending time together. Acting like… like a family. Any old family. Happy and free.”

He smiled, squeezing her hand back. “Today was… easily one of the most unabashedly happy days of my life. In a lot of ways I felt like a kid again myself, even if I was playing Papa.”

“I like it,” Jess admitted. “Seeing you like… like this Cibor.” Swallowing hard, she added softly, “It reminds me of— Woo, it was so long ago, but… remember that day we went to the beach? When we were little kids? Pretended on like we weren’t slaves? Just had fun, baggage be darned?”

Cibor’s expression softened, and he leaned in closer so that his shoulder was pressed against Jessie’s. “I remember. I seem to recall that was my crazy idea too. When did I forget how to have fun?”

“You didn’t forget,” Jess murmured, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Meltaim just… just locked it away for a while. It was still inside of you. Just waiting until it was safe to come out.” She smiled at him, wistfully. “You’re getting used to it,” she said. “Being free. Having your life belong to you instead of a master. Being able to… to provide for your wife and children and not having to worry about being separated from them. Not ever.”

Cibor blinked hard, tears starting to pool up in his eyes. “It’s… it’s nice. Just living. Being able to be happy, without constantly having to look over my shoulder. For the marks on our foreheads to just be scars, meaning nothing except that we’ve suffered but escaped that suffering. I understand now why you were so miserable. And I’m so sorry for trying to stifle that with my caution and brainwashing all these years.”

“You didn’t know any different,” Jessamine said firmly. “You don’t need to apologise, Cibor. The Meltaimans were the ones in the wrong— they always have been and always will be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He laughed softly. Wonderingly. “I am so glad I made the impulse decision to talk to the Macarinthian generals that day. Even though I knew you would gut me for it.”

“I’m glad, too,” Jess said. “So glad, Cibor.” Glancing between their slumbering children, she added at a murmur, “They’re growing up like they should grow up now. Loved and valued. Free. Never having to worry about being torn away from us. Or… or hurt, with Mama and Papa unable to do anything to help them or stop it.”

The young man stroked Sara’s dark blonde hair, pulling his cloak a little tighter around her slim shoulders. “You know, speaking of the kids… I’ve been thinking about something recently.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well… you have a surname,” he said, meeting his wife’s eyes. “But I don’t. I never have- blanks aren’t allowed them. And our kids weren’t allowed surnames in Meltaim either.”

Jess blinked, as if she hadn’t ever considered this, before murmuring, “I see. Did you… did you have something in mind, then…?”

He shrugged. “No- that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I mean… I know that women in Macarinth are supposed to take their husband’s surname, it isn’t like in Meltaim where it can go either way. But I also don’t want to… take yours from you. It’s yours, it always has been. If you wanted, the kids and I could take the Thorsten name.”

“I’d like that,” Jess agreed. “And… I think my parents would, too, honestly. My father has only sisters, you know. And… Nat, well…” She shook her head. “Nat was his only son. The one who was supposed to pass on the Thorsten name. Without him, there’s… there’s…” Her voice fell as she finished sadly, “There’s no one.”

Cibor kissed his wife on the cheek, smiling comfortingly. “I’ll do it then. Cibor Thorsten- and little Sara Thorsten and Adam Thorsten.” He elbowed her playfully. “You get to carry on your family name. I hope you’re very proud.”

“Of course,” Jess said. “And… I’m proud of you, Cibor. I know this can’t have been easy— adjusting to Macarinth. All the new people, the new culture, the new language. Everything. But you’re doing so well. And honestly? I’ve never been happier, love.”

[Shinko]

Now that I've semi-cured my writer's block that I was laboring under for over a year, I'm going through google docs and trying to finish solo-fics I started and abandoned during that time. Here's a pretty short slice of life scenario I was apparently working on last December, then forgot about and never finished. It's helpful to understanding this one if you've read A Rose Among the Weeds. Enjoy!

The Wheel of Time

SPOILER: Click to show

The summer sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the earth of Belial Braham’s front yard. It was hot, as always it was in Corvus during this season, but at least the shade the temperature was more tolerable. Certainly the four year old boy trundling around in Belial’s yard seemed not to mind it.

“Papa!” The boy squealed, pointing to a flash of bright scarlet high above, “lookit the birdie!”

Belial followed the direction of his son’s gaze with an indulgent smile. “I see it, Sieg. Do you know what kind of bird that is?”

“Car-nol!” Sieg chirped in reply. His father laughed.

“Yes, that is a cardinal. Good job.”

Belial tucked an errant strand of blonde hair behind his long, tapered ears. With his wife completing a commission, the elf was alone with his children today; not just Sieg, but also Sieg’s two year old sister Ophelia. The smaller child was presently dozing inside the house, but a surplus of energy from Sieg had prompted his father to bring him outside to play so he didn't wake Ophelia.

As his son was gazing up at the bird, Belial became aware of movement in his peripheral vision, and turned towards it. Then he blinked, certain for a moment his eyes were deceiving him.

“...Rollo?” he called, eyes widening. For sure enough, the familiar form of a brown haired, red eyed elf was walking down the narrow lane towards Belial’s home. When Rollo grinned in confirmation, Belial found himself smiling back, pushing himself to his feet. “Woo above, it has to have been at least... thirty years? How’ve you been?”

“I have been well,” Rollo replied- though not with words. Instead the brunette elf spoke with a series of rapid hand gestures. Few in Nid’aigle knew Rollo’s sign language, which he had invented alongside his adoptive daughter nearly two centuries before, but Belial was fluent in at least reading it, if rather clumsy at mimicking the signs himself. “I came to see Mother- she is getting quite demanding in her old age, insisting that letters every other week are insufficient and I do not visit often enough.”

Belial laughed, prompting a curious look from his son. “What’s funny, Papa? What’s that man doin’ with his hands?”

“Oh!” Belial smiled towards the little boy, gesturing for Sieg to follow him as he approached the edge of the yard to intercept his old friend. “Sieg, honey, I want you to meet somebody. This is Papa’s friend, Rollo Jaubert. Rollo, this is my son; Sieg.”

The brunette elf came to a stop at the edge of the Braham’s yard, kneeling to meet Sieg’s eye level. “Hiiii,” he said- verbally, using the Kythian word rather than the Elvish “bonjour” that would have taken more dexterity of the mouth to produce. Even the singular syllable came out somewhat slurred, and Sieg giggled.

“You sound silly!” he announced, prompting a gently rap on the top of his head from Belial.

“Be nice, Sieg,” the blonde elf admonished. “Rollo doesn’t talk well- he can’t help it. That’s what he was doing with his hands before; he uses those motions to talk.”

The child beamed. “But hands can’t talk, Papa! Just mouths!”

Rollo chuckled, gesturing towards Belial. “The small ones have no filter, neh? How many has the little man insulted without meaning to?”

“Too many,” Belial replied with a rueful smile. “Sieg, how about you go play while I talk to Mister Rollo about some grown-up stuff?”

“Aww, okay,” Sieg agreed, lower lip protruding in a slight pout. As he returned to his aborted game, the mute elf raised an eyebrow.

“Mother mentioned in her letters you’d married. My congratulations, old friend.”

“Thank you,” Belial replied warmly, gesturing for Rollo to follow him as he returned to the spot in the grass where he had been sitting to supervise Sieg. “It isn’t a place I ever imagined I’d find myself in life, but… I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“You deserve it,” Rollo said. “Where is your wife, anyway? Do I get to meet her?”

“She’s off working, I’m afraid,” Belial explained. “I can introduce you later this evening though, if you like. Just don’t be put off- she’s a bit ah. Blunt. Good woman, but she does not spare her opinions.”

At this the brunette elf actually guffawed. “Oh? How does she manage in this city, if she is so forward?”

There was warmth in Belial’s face as he returned, “By scandalizing everyone she meets.”

“You always had eccentric taste in your friends,” Rollo replied. “I remember a time you were close to a crazy runaway slave and an enki’s daughter. As my great-grandchildren would declare ‘what a weirdo.’”

Belial laughed as his friend spelled out the term in gestured letters. “That isn’t a word I expected to see from you. The Kythians are rubbing off on you.”

“Tamar’s descendants take after their Courdonian roots; they have many, many children.” Rollo winked. “Lots of people to pick up slang from.”

“Do they still think of you as their grandfather?” Belial asked curiously. “I imagine you still tell them the story.”

“I do,” Rollo confirmed. “But it is… distant by now. They never knew Tamar. To them the story is just that; a story. Most of them just call me their uncle.”

The knight sighed, looking out across the yard at his toddler son. “I see. It stands to reason, I suppose. Humans have a hard time knowing how to feel about our kind, who live so very long.”

Rollo blinked slowly. Tapping Belial’s shoulder to recapture the knight’s attention, he signed, “You worry for your own children, don’t you? And their descendants.”

“I try not to,” Belial said. “I try to focus on the present. After all, what I have now is good. It really is; I’ve never been happier, not in my entire life. Just… yes. Sometimes I worry.”

“Even if we are not as close as I was with Tamar, her descendants still love me, and I love them,” Rollo signed back. “Family is family- time need not be the antithesis of that.”

Belial chuckled softly. “I suppose if anyone would know, you would.”

“Aye- I’ve had a lot of time to think about all of these things,” Rollo agreed. “I’m not going to lie to you, Belial, it hurts to lose them. It is an agony to think back on all of those whom I have loved and lost. But I would not trade a day of my life.”

The blonde elf frowned, looking skeptical. “Even the time in Courdon?”

“Well I won’t pretend I look back on that time with any fondness,” the wry set to Rollo’s expression made the emphasis on the word clear even if he couldn’t verbalize it. “But no, not even that. Courdon is what led me to Tamar, after all.”

Rollo huffed then, cracking his neck. “But really- there’s no merit to dwelling on such things now. Your son is but a babe, he has plenty of time left to make you wish to tear your hair in frustration.”

As if on cue, there was a creak from the direction of the house, and Belial turned to see a black haired toddler in a woolen nightgown clinging to the door latch.

“Papa?” Ophelia murmurred, yawning hugely. “Who’re you talkin’ to?”

“Ophee, you should be taking a nap,” he admonished the little girl gently, on his feet and striding towards her before he fully realized what he was up to. He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Rollo, but the other elf only winked and made a shooing gesture. Relieved, Belial turned his attention back to the erstwhile two year old, who flailed in his grasp as he scooped her up and insisted she didn’t need a nap. He carried her out into the yard with him, plunking down in the grass and pinning her against his chest.

“Wanna play!” she insisted. Belial shook his head, brow quirking.

“You are going to sit with Papa and go back to your nap, Little Raven, like it or not,” he admonished sternly. The child sulked, and Rollo sniggered.

“See?” he gestured. “Plenty of fire yet in this one, so no call to brood over her distant future.”

“If you think she has fire, you will see her mother as a young sun,” Belial returned, though he was smiling too. “But yes, I do see. Thank you, Rollo.”

“You’re happy,” the mute elf observed. “Happier than I’ve known you to be since we were children. It glows all about you, even when you lecture the little ones. Hold to that happiness, Belial, and do not overthink what is yet to be. There will be a time for grieving- for now, there are your children, your wife, and an old friend who has, according to his mother, not been around for a visit in far too long.”

Belial laughed again, ignoring Ophelia as she, like Sieg, asked who her father was talking to. He kissed his daughter on the top of the head, and nodded. “Very well- tell me of your doings in Elacs then. It will pass the time until Morgaine returns from her work.”

[Shinko]

Here's another fic I started and forgot about while I was wrestling with that writer's block. This one focuses on a character I haven't given any attention in far too long- Anders! It's mostly a solo work, though there's a brief cameo from Tiger.

Kindling

SPOILER: Click to show

With the training sessions done for the day, the fireknight cadets lined up to put away their practice equipment. Several of them talked excitedly about their plans for the afternoon- some were going swimming, others visiting family, and the older ones were discussing taking their phoenixes out for a joy ride. However, one amongst their number was not engaged in conversation. The quiet man was middling height, with light brown hair, grey eyes, and the unmistakable dark bronze skin that marked someone with Courdonian blood.

As the other trainees chattered away, this young man, Anders Escalus by name, seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. His expression was impassive, his grey eyes distant, and he carried himself with the confident air of calm authority that only came of being born into nobility.

However, his solitary brooding didn’t last long. As he put away his practice weapons and turned from the rack, one of the final-year cadets approached him.

“Um, Cadet Escalus? Anders, can I call you that?” the older teen asked. Anders gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Whatever you prefer.”

Undaunted by this impassive response, the other cadet said, “I’m Terry. Some of my friends and I were wondering if you’d like to play cards with us in the barracks? You always seem to be by yourself, so we-”

“No,” Anders interrupted curtly. Then, almost as an afterthought. “Thank you. I’ll be fine. I prefer to spend the time getting some extra practice in.”

“Oh,” Terry said, frowning. “I j-just thought…”

“Ah, leave him alone, Terry,” one of the other cadets called. “The Princling never hangs out with us mere peasants, we’re not good enough for his illustrious company.”

Anders tensed, his jaw tightening. Princling. The other cadets had started calling him that a month ago, and he hated it. He glared hard at the speaker, who only snorted.

“Aw, is his royal ornery-ness offended?” The boy asked cheekily.

“Don’t call me that,” Anders snarled softly.

“If you don’t like hearing the truth, the solution is obvious- change it,” his antagonist retorted. “You aren’t just antisocial, Princling, you’re rude. If you want respect you have to earn it.”

Anders opened his mouth, ready to give a sharp retort, but he was cut off by a much older, more authoritative voice calling over the din.

“Cadet Anders Escalus! Report to the mews in five!”

The sixteen year old cadet glanced around in surprise to see that one of his training masters, Sir Farrell Peck, had come upon them while he was preoccupied. The brown haired, hazel eyed man was tall for being commonborn, and was noteworthy for having only scarred stumps where the pinkie and ring finger of his right hand should have been. Anders quickly saluted to make it clear he’d hear the command and would follow it. Behind him he heard some of the other trainees snigger- they knew that the hot-headed former nobleman was in for a lecture now.

When Anders arrived at the mews, he was met by a very stern faced Sir Peck. Training the new recruits wasn’t normally Sir Peck’s job, but he’d had to take a turn at it when his phoenix reincarnated after contracting some sort of bizarre illness that made him chronically weak and dehydrated. The now two year old, waist tall bird trailed Sir Peck everywhere, like a puppy hoping for a treat, and glanced at Anders curiously when the trainee approached.

“This is becoming a serious problem, Escalus,” Sir Peck said, his voice weary. “You do realize that, right? You’ve got resentments going already and you’ve only been here, what, three months? You need to get that temper of yours in check.”

Anders bowed his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

The training master folded his arms, brow pinched. “Is there any particular reason you feel the need to rebuff the others every time one of them tries to reach out to you? You’re nothing but respectful to your superiors so I can’t imagine it’s disdain for common blood as some of them seem to think.”

“I am aware that my personality is abrasive, sir,” Anders said simply, his voice very soft. “It is easier not to subject people to my company. For their good as much as mine.”

“Maybe that works for an ordinary field knight, Escalus, but you are no such thing,” the older man pointed out. “You are a fireknight, and fireknights have no choice but to work in groups. Your entire career you’ll be working together with at least ten other men, so you need to figure out how to get along with people or you’re not going to cut it.”

Anders bowed his head. “I understand, sir.”

There really wasn’t much else he could say. The young man knew that his superior was right. And the truth was, he really did wish that he could make friends with some of the other trainees. Even before coming to Solis the young man had been lonely far more often than not. Born a nonmage heir in a noble house famed for producing fantastic war mages for the defense of Kyth, Anders had been disinherited at nine years old in favor of his mage-gifted brother Filipe. Before this incident the young man had worshiped the very ground upon which his father walked, and wanted nothing more out of life than to make his father proud. But the profound betrayal of his disinheriting had soured the boy. All through the rest of his childhood Anders had fought bitterly with his father over the issue, resented Filipe, and on some level had also resented his mother for not doing more to sway his father’s decision. His only real “friend” had been his youngest brother Dimitri, and the seven year age gap between them had seen to it that they had few common interests.

Coming to Solis had been an act of desperation. A move to escape the toxic environment he’d grown up in and start over fresh in a place where no one knew him, and where he could make something of himself even though he was not a mage. However, it seemed that leaving his family behind did not mean he’d left behind the damage wrought by a childhood steeped in resentment and jealousy. The fact of the matter was, for Anders talking to people was hard. He was constantly on edge, waiting for someone to pass judgement on him, to realize he was in some way not good enough. Innocently teasing comments made him bristle defensively. Being questioned casually about his family shut him down entirely.

Trusting people, opening up to them, making friends… Anders wanted to, he really did. But it was just so hard…

“At any rate,” Sir Peck went on, “I didn’t call you over here just to give you a lecture. We’ve finally finished the observation period, and today you’re going to be assigned your partner phoenix.”

At this, Anders felt his mood lift a little. He wasn’t really sure what the point of having an “observation period” before partnering a trainee to a phoenix was. After all, you didn’t watch a young squire like a hawk to judge his temperament before assigning him a horse. But that he was finally going to get a mount was a huge step forward, and Anders was certain it would help him to feel like this entire process was more “real.”

“Because of your extensive skill with weaponry from your conventional knight training, we’ll be putting you through the accelerated regimen of two years. Your primary lessons will be on the mechanics of flight and how to command your phoenix. To that end we needed to choose a partner from among the older birds that hadn’t been paired off yet. Also, given your… surly disposition, we needed a bird patient enough to put up with you.”

Anders winced internally, the brief feeling of happiness that he’d felt a moment before smothered under the dismay of such a blatant chiding of his behavior.

I’ll do better, he thought determinedly. I’m getting a phoenix now. This is the turning point. I’m going to get my temper under control and prove I can be a good fireknight.

Sir Peck turned, beckoning to Anders. The cadet followed the training master through the mews of the underaged phoenixes, until the man stopped before one stall in particular. The bird within turned to look at them, tilting its head quizzically and giving voice to a high fluting noise. Like all of the Jade phoenixes it was deep forest green, with gold tipping on its wings and gold barring on its tail. It looked much bigger that the two year old phoenix trailing after Peck, but not quite yet as big as the adults that flew patrols.

“Cadet Anders, this girl is called Mirja,” Peck said with deep gravity. “Her last rider is an old, retired veteran, and after she reincarnated four years ago he moved away to live in the countryside. From now until you either pass on to ‘Woo’s domain or retire, she will be partnered to you.” He folded his arms. “Hold out your hand to her. If she touches it with her beak, you can stroke her.”

As Anders complied, presenting his palm to the bird, Peck continued. “A phoenix is more than just a partner in battle- it’s a friend for life. They need regular socializing and bonding time with their handlers, or they become lonely and depressed. To that end, from now on Mirja’s care will be your responsibility exclusively. You will feed her, clean her stall, help her preen her feathers, and look after her equipment here, while sitting with her to keep her company.”

Anders nodded to show he understood, though internally he had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He understood perfectly well that phoenixes were sacred birds, gifted to the ancient protectors of Corvus by the ‘Woo. For that reason alone they were due a certain amount of respect. But all this talk about them being friends for life and needing to bond with their rider seemed… a little excessive.

All the while, Mirja had been inspecting Anders’ hand, and Anders himself. She looked curious, but not aggressive, and after a time she bumped her beak against the cadet’s hand. Anders reached up, running his hand along her beak, and then up into her feathers. She let him, giving a soft chitter and leaning into his hand. In spite of himself Anders found a small smile quirking at his mouth. He remembered stroking his father’s horses as a boy, and the way they’d savored those caresses. This wasn’t so different, though Mirja’s feathers were oddly cool to the touch and much softer than horsehide.

Satisfied that the young female had accepted Anders’ presence, Peck produced a handful of grapes from his pocket, earning Mirja’s instant attention. “They eat meat mostly, as I’m sure you’ve been told, but fruit is a bit of a treat. Feed her some of this, to help her get better acquainted.”

The fastest way to an animal’s heart, as they say, Anders thought, accepting the grapes and offering them to Mirja with one hand as he continued to stroke her neck with the other. Mirja quickly, but delicately, plucked the grapes from his hand, crushing them between the mandibles of her beak. She gave another series of flute-like noises, and pressed her head against the cadet’s chest. Anders was caught somewhat by surprise by this exuberant affection, but smiled crookedly and reached his fingers down between the feathers to scratch her chin. She responded by rubbing her head against his chest as if to burry her crest feathers in his shirt, trilling softly.

“Looks like she’s taken to you,” Peck remarked with a satisfied tone. “Good. Once you’re finished getting acquainted, I want you to preen her. Run your fingers through the feathers to shake loose any dander, and to pull out any that’ve come loose. Preening helps to build the bond between you and your phoenix- don’t be surprised if she tries to return the favor with your hair. Once that’s done, head to the slaughterhouse behind the mess to fetch some food for her. After that, you’re at liberty for the day, though bear in mind that even when you’re at liberty I fully expect you to check on her periodically, feed her and groom her.”

“I understand, Sir Peck,” Anders replied, nodding his head even as he continued to stroke the contentedly muttering phoenix. Anders saluted to the training master, who returned the gesture before turning to leave the mews, his baby bird trailing after him. Turning his full attention to Mirja, Anders smiled.

“Well looks like it’s just you and me now,” he remarked softly. “You’re rather big and have a lot of feathers, so I guess I should get started on that preening sooner rather than later.”

He gently pushed her face away from his chest, and began to run his fingers through the feathers of her face. As he gently shook his hands to loosen up any dirt or dander, Mirja cooed.

She is rather sweet… Still just an animal, but at least not an unpleasant one to be around.

***

As one of the more experienced students when it came to combat, there was little that his instructors had to offer him during the times that the cadets trained in these skills. Instead, Anders was often put to helping give one-on-one attention to some of the less experienced recruits who needed some extra attention.

The former nobleman looked down at the young man standing before him. He wasn’t really sure how old the boy was- he looked to be a teenager, but stood only about as tall as the bottom of Anders’ ear. The boy, whom Sir Peck had said was named Cai, was something of an enigma. He was very dark skinned, wore long sleeves no matter the weather, and his face around the left side of his jaw was speckled with what were unmistakably burn scars. If Anders spoke little, it seemed this boy spoke even less.

But Anders was hardly going to judge him for that. Instead he was focused on the task at hand- teaching the young man one of the most basic skills any warrior needed to know.

How to fall.

“You want to make sure that your head never hits the ground if you can help it,” Anders said. “If you’re falling backwards, tuck your chin to your chest and put your arms up around your ears.”

Anders demonstrated this, deliberately falling backwards and protecting his head as he did so. When he impacted the ground, he rolled slightly, slapping the dirt with his hand. “You want to roll a little when you land, which’ll take some of the momentum of the fall,” he explained. “That way you are less likely to bruise yourself.”

Cai, who had watched the maneuver carefully but now let his gaze flick away from Anders’ face, nodded slightly. “Like this?” He didn’t fall, but mimicked putting his arms up to shield his head and pressing his chin to his chest.

“Yes, exactly like,” Anders replied, nodding as he pushed himself up into a standing position again. “Why don’t you give it a go?”

With another small nod, Cai leaned back and let himself fall. One of his elbows hit the ground rather hard, though perhaps not as hard as it looked as the trainee didn’t show any sign of pain, and his attempt at a roll didn’t carry him very far. Cai shook his head as he got back to his feet, frowning. “I’ll try again.”

“That wasn’t bad for a first effort,” Anders replied, his voice and face neutral as ever. Something about the timbre of Cai’s speech felt vaguely familiar, but the young nobleman couldn’t put his finger on why. “It helps if you twist your ankle just a little as you’re falling. Not too much, you don’t want to pull your joint, but it’ll give you a head start.”

“Aye.” Cai looked down at his boots, turning his ankle a few times as he stepped back, presumably to test how far he ought to bend it. He finally let himself fall again, and though the roll hadn’t improved much if at all, Cai managed at least not to strike the ground quite as hard.

“That was better,” Anders said with a brisk nod. “Keep practicing it. I know it’s not very much fun, but knowing how to properly fall will save you unnecessary injury later on. You should-”

“Finally in your element, are you Princeling?” drawled a new voice, making Anders’ shoulders hitch up and his jaw tense. “I’ve never heard you talk this much, that noble blood in you must love giving orders!”

Cai froze, his expression going completely blank - though the speed at which his gaze flicked toward the newcomer suggested whatever emotions he was hiding were not comfortable ones. The speaker was another one of the cadets, much older than Anders. He strode over to the duo, gaze flicking between Cai and Anders. Finally focusing on Cai, he asked, “Is he giving you trouble?”

“I’m giving him help,” Anders snapped crossly.

“He can speak for himself,” the newcomer retorted.

Not quite meeting the cadet’s eyes, Cai said quietly, “He was assigned to help my combat training. That’s all we’re doing. There’s no trouble.”

The older trainee frowned, bristling a little, “Are you sure? You don’t look it.” He glowered at Anders. “What’d you do to him Princeling, he’s acting like a whipped puppy.”

“He’s just shy, leave him alone,” Anders retorted. “Leave us alone. Don’t you have practice of your own to be doing?”

“Oh, so now you’re trying to order me around?” the older cadet snarled.

“He’s saying there’s no trouble,” Cai repeated, a bit of nervous tension edging into his voice, though he raised his gaze a little. The aggressive cadet, however, wasn’t listening, and the argument was starting to draw stares from other nearby trainees.

“Ever since you got here you’ve been ignoring everyone and putting on airs,” he snarled at Anders. “And now you’re bullying your fellows? Trying or order around other cadets who have seniority? I hate to break it to you, but you’re not better than us just because of your bloodlines, Escalus! You need to get that attitude of yours in check, and quick, or you’re going to wash out!”

“For Woo’s sake, are you deaf?” Anders demanded, his voice rising. “I’m not doing anything! We were doing just fine until you came over here and started making a ‘Pit-cursed scene!”

“And I say that you’re lying!” The cadet snarled. Anders threw up his hands.

“You know what? I don’t care. Believe what you want. But do it somewhere else, because I’m going to keep trying to do what I was assigned to do by Sir Peck.”

He turned back towards Cai, putting a hand on the aggressive cadet as if to push him away. However, the instant Anders’ hand touched him, the older boy bristled and gave the Escalus a hard shove. Caught by surprise, Anders was sent toppling to the ground, just barely avoiding slamming into Cai by a last minute wrench of his heel.

Cai retreated a pace, just a second or two later than he ought to have, and looked rapidly between Anders and the cadet. His whole body had gone tense, but he seemed to have no idea what to do with all that preparation for action. Anders, however, immediately lurched back to his feet, his grey eyes flashing like a Corvid thunderhead.

“The ‘Pit is your flipping problem?” he demanded, his fists clenched, advancing on his antagonist.

“You!” the other cadet snarled. “You are so thrice cursed arrogant, it makes me sick!”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!”

Anders and the other cadet jumped. The trainees who’d been watching with growing excitement hurriedly refocused on their assigned tasks. Cai clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention; a quick sigh of what might have been relief darted out of him. From across the field, Sir Peck strode towards the trio of cadets, his face like thunder.

“What the ‘Pit is going on here?” he demanded sharply. “Two of my cadets, squabbling like schoolchildren? Is this the discipline of the fireknights? Because it sure as fire doesn’t look like it!”

Fortunately, neither of the combatants were foolish enough to try to defend themselves. They stood at attention in an identical pose to Cai’s, their faces blank. With a snort of disgust, Sir Peck turned to Cai. “Shahar! Care to explain what these two featherbrains were doing bringing a fight onto my training field?”

Cai’s shoulders twitched, but otherwise he managed not to move. “I...I’m not sure, Sir. Cadet Escalus was giving me instruction. Then this Cadet,” Cai nodded toward the aggressor, “came over and asked if I was all right. They argued. ...But I think the pushing was a… a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Peck sand brusquely, “I will not tolerate violence between trainees that is not an authorized part of their training regiment. Both of you will run twenty laps around the barracks, then when you are finished you will report to me for punishment duty.” His eyes flashing, he said, “On the double, cadets!”

Anders and his antagonist saluted, then both of them bolted. Nausea roiled in the former nobleman’s stomach. Woo, he was in for it now...

***

“...Absolutely unacceptable!” Peck snapped. “I don’t care if you were minding your own business and he antagonized you. You never rise to goading like that!” The training master jabbed a finger into Anders’ chest, and it was everything the young man could do to stand firm and not flinch.

“Do you not understand how much trouble this can cause if you don’t get it in hand?” the fireknight demanded. “A soldier with a temper that he will not control is a liability. You’re going to get yourself, your phoenix, and maybe other members of your wing killed if you let yourself act in anger.”

His scowl deepened. “What’s more, you are becoming a serious discipline problem! Trainees I had thoroughly at heel are causing problems out of resentment towards you. You’re self-absorbed, moody, and so caught up in your own ‘Pit-cursed self-pity that you don’t care to even try and improve yourself.”

The young man’s jaw clenched. That last accusation in particular stung. Self-pity. Was Anders’ frustration with his circumstances and his resentment about them… really just self-pity? Had he been wrong all this time?

His mind wasn’t really on the rest of the lecture. Instead he found himself thinking dismally of how little his situation had changed since he’d left Heleos. He was still getting into fights constantly, he was still entirely alone, still constantly being judged… Was all of that really his fault?

Peck finally dismissed him, with the assigned punishment that he would have cleaning duty in the barracks on his days off for the next month. Anders fled as soon as he was permitted, emotions jumbled in his chest. What if the problem had never been Olander? What if it was him? What if he was just what his father had always accused him of being, an unreasonable brat too fixated on his own pain to understand or prioritize the greater good?

But would Lord Jade have agreed to help me if I was? he thought desperately. He didn’t believe so- the Jade patriarch had seemed to feel the situation did truely warrant Anders disavowing his bloodlines. If he hadn’t, surely he wouldn’t have agreed to give Anders legal freedom from his obligations to his birth house.

And yet.

Becoming a normal knight of House Jade was out of the question. He’d already been training as a squire under House Escalus, and it would reflect poorly on him to disavow his loyalties to one house for another, even if technically he hadn’t sworn any fealty to the Escaluses yet. But Fireknights were something of a class unto themselves, and as such were afforded a little more leeway. But could he even become a fireknight, damaged as he was?

The boy went through the remainders of his duties for the day in a distracted, dejected fug. Those among the cadets who didn’t like him seemed to silently gloat over his despair, smirks playing at their mouths when they thought the training masters weren’t watching. Anders paid them barely any attention, too wrapped in his own broody thoughts to rise to their unspoken jeers.

Once their chores and tasks were finished for the day, Anders supposed he should have headed for the barracks. That was where he was meant to go, after all. But he couldn’t bear the thought of being surrounded by the leers of people who hated him. The gnawing guilt of his own bottomless self-pity- for that must have been what it was. He’d just been too stubborn to see it.

He tried to settle in the shade of a tree at the edge of the fireknight’s compound. To watch the sunset and gather his thoughts. The cool, rough bark felt good against his skin. It was a fir tree- common in these parts, though much rarer in Heleos where Anders had grown up. He liked the scent of the northern wood, soothing and unmarred by the sour reek of the swamps.

Had he been kidding himself, when he thought he could find a place to belong here? Had it only ever been a self-delusion? To lose his old self in the throng of the fireknight trainees, and emerge not as the reject son of Olander Escalus, but as a proud warrior of House Jade. But he’d been here scarcely a few months, and already he had sunk back into the same old patterns. He was just so tired.

His fretful thoughts would not leave him. At length, he gave up on sitting, and retreated to the training fields again. This late in the afternoon, with the sun rapidly westering, they were long since deserted. Picking up a wooden replica of the fireknight’s signature halux blade, he approached one of the practice dummies and started the complex maneuvers of one of his practice patterns on it. He needed to burn off some of this frustration. He needed to calm down. If he didn’t, he knew he’d end up doing something rash, then regretting it later.

Just being aware of his own weakness, his own inability to control his temper, made his frustration redouble. His drilling picked up speed, and Anders put more energy and force into his blows. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he would always be a failure. A disappointment. The reject shafted away into a box to be forgotten about.

No! He’d show them! He’d do better!

But isn’t that what he’d told himself when he was assigned his partner phoenix? He’d insisted then that it would be his turning point. The resolution had lasted him about two days, and then he’d lost his temper again.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you,” his father had always growled. “I give you all the opportunities you could ask for, an outlet for your talents, and you throw them back away. When did you become such a spoiled brat?”

“You made me like this!” Anders snarled, as he had back then. “You never cared how hard I worked to be the equal of your expectations! You never wanted me, just a perfect magical pet!”

“You are well old enough to be able to handle this maturely by now! You rage and snarl like a jilted child, instead of the young nobleman you were trained to be.”

“You didn’t want me as a nobleman! You wanted to kick me out and let me work as a knight where I wouldn’t be seen so that I couldn’t be an embarrassment to you! And you didn’t even follow custom and have me knighted in another house because you were too ashamed of what you’d done!”

“You refuse to understand the grander tapestry, thinking only of yourself-”

“Well if I didn’t think about me, who would?” Anders cut in, aware dimly that he was crying. The training dummy was gone, and instead he could see his father’s face in the wood, leering, disapproving, looking down his nose at his disappointment of a son. “Certainly not you! You never cared about me, you never wanted me-”

The wooden figure barked a harsh laugh. “And you’d believe that no matter what I said. You just keep coming back to that.” The face on the manequin was his own now, crying in a high, simpering tone, “You didn’t want me, you didn’t want me-”

“Shut up!” Anders roared, swinging the wooden halux with all of his might. To his astonishment, the dummy melted into mist under his blade, vanishing utterly. In its place, a thousand fingers began to form around him- his father, his brother, his mother, Sir Peck, the other cadets-

“Spoiled-”

“Princling-”

“Ingrate-”

“Cocky-”

“Self-pitying-”

“Useless-”

“Cowardly-”

“No!” Anders howled, the word more than half sob. “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shutupshutupshutupshutupSHUTUP!”

He spun, slashing his halux at each of the specters, but they faded before he could even touch them, laughing at him mockingly before reappearing somewhere else. Slowly, gradually, he realized the faces were changing, until it wasn’t any of his family or his tormentors who he was fighting, but himself. A thousand leering, jeering copies of himself, that flitted from reality when he tried to strike them, but with each blow a wound appeared on his own flesh. Frantic now, sobbing and helpless, he gave a final, desperate swing-

And yelped in pain as he slid sideways from where he’d been leaning against the tree, his elbow impacting the ground sharply. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, waiting for the pain to ebb, dazed and unsure of where he was. Then, slowly, his sense came back, and he realized he must’ve fallen asleep. Must’ve been having a dream. A nightmare.

But one that was painfully real.

Anders moaned, covering his face with his hands. For a moment he was disinclined to move from the spot. Disinclined to do anything at all. What was the point? Nothing he ever did or tried amounted to anything. He was just a useless wretch wallowing in his own self-pity, wasn’t he? Sir Peck was right, his father was right, all of them were right. He’d systematically isolated himself from everyone who’d ever tried to help him.

Gradually, however, he became aware of a sound in the distance- a music that had grown familiar over the past few months he’d spent here in Solis. The calls of the phoenixes as they greeted the rising moon. Was it really that late? How long had he been asleep?

A jolt hit him, as he realized very suddenly he had missed the phoenix feeding time. Mirja. He needed to feed Mirja, or he’d really be in for it.

Finally staggering to his feet, Anders hurriedly scrubbed his face with his sleeve as he trotted towards the slaughterhouse. This late in the day there wasn’t likely to be much left but the sort of chilled, shredded cuts of meat they kept onhand for phoenixes who were too ill to eat more solid food, but it was better than nothing. He just hoped the phoenix didn’t take a chunk out of his hand when he arrived hours late with it.

Fortunately the workers in the slaughterhouse had long since gone for the day, so Anders was able to slip inside and grab several buckets of mince without incident. By the time he finally trotted into the juvenile phoenix mews they had stopped singing, and many of them were curling up to sleep for the night. He slipped through the winding building, finally catching sight of the nearly grown female that was his charge lapping greedily at the water in her stall’s traught- no doubt to try in futility to staunch her hunger.

“Hey,” he called warily, closing the last of the distance between them. Mirja looked up, her feathers puffing with… anger? Excitement? Anders couldn’t really tell, but there was no mistaking the demanding note in the whistle she directed at him, nor the way she was eyeing up the pails of mince. He gave a tired laugh and obediently lifted the first pail to pour the meat into the second traught in her stall.

“I wish my life was as simple as yours,” he said. “Eating and sleeping and doing as I’m told. None of this business of disappointment or expectations. Woo what I wouldn’t give for that.”

He dumped the first load of the meat, then lifted the second pail to dump the second. To his surprise, however, Mirja did not immediately dive forwards to eat the offerings. Instead, her slitted golden eyes were fixed on Anders, head cocked sideways. He frowned, tapping the bucket against the side of the meat traught. “C’mon ya big chicken, eat. I have to clean you up after, so the sooner we get this over with the sooner I can go to bed.”

Mirja, however, made no move towards the food. She whistled again, clacking her beak and puffing her crest. The great bird took a step forwards, moving not in the direction of the meant but towards her rider. She brought her head around so that her beak was inches from Anders’ nose, and he backpedalling sharply.

“Woah, no, no no, stop, I’m sorry for being so late, I am, but biting me isn’t going to make me any faster next time I promise!”

Mirja paid him no heed, continuing towards him, and Anders crossed his arms in front of his face defensively, bracing for the pain he knew was coming, for her to nip him with her beak or gouge him with her talons. Great, this was just great, the icing on the cake of a lousy day that never seemed to end. He trembled, hot tears of helpless frustration growing behind his clenched eyelids. He felt something hard and curved bump his palm, and flinched hard. But after a moment, he realized there was no pain. Only the gentle pressure of her beak tip against his hand.

Warily, Anders let his arms fall, and found Mirja regarding him with her head held low, almost submissively. Then, gently, she ran the top of her beak across his chin.

“Wha-” Anders blinked, taken very much aback. “What are you doing, you big dumb bird?”

The phoenix, of course, gave no answer. Instead she took another step forwards, bringing her head close enough that she could press its side against the side of Anders’ head. A low coo sounded from almost inside his ear, a mournful, painful sound that made Anders flinch.

“Stop that,” he demanded, trying to shove the bird away. He was trembling all over now, his voice cracking. “G-go eat, okay, I brought your food, now go eat.”

Mirja did not go, and even adolescent she was far stronger than Anders, so his attempts to shift her were in vain. She cooed again, a sound that seemed to pry something raw and painful and long repressed from deep within Anders’ core. He tried to lurch away again, balking against the emotions he didn’t want to feel and giving a furious snarl.

“I said stop!” he shouted. “What is your problem, you crazy bird, what are you playing at? You’re just an animal, you eat and sleep and get petted and that’s it! That’s it, by Woo!”

Mirja sidestepped, bringing herself around so that she was now standing behind Anders instead of beside him. He almost tripped in his haste to change the direction of his retreat, but she caught him with her long, slender neck, bracing her head under his arm. Then, with surprising strength, she pushed him against her side, pinning him between her head and her broad, cool feathered back. She gave a soft, mournful coo, and Anders felt that strange feeling again. Something about the note in the phoenix’s voice was familiar, achingly so. A feeling that wasn’t for Mirja, he somehow knew, but for him. A bone deep, painful… loneliness.

With that realization, the strength went out of his knees, and Anders fell limp against Mirja’s side. He clenched his fingers in her silky feathers, pressing his face against her wing as his shoulders shook with sobs. Alone. He had always, for his entire life, felt so completely alone. Even before he was disinherited, he’d labored under the knowledge that where there should have been paternal love there was only thinly repressed disappointment. He’d been separate from his parents by what he could never be for them, from his brothers by age and Filipe’s gift in magic, and from the other cadets here by his fear. Letting someone in, letting them get close to him… that was terrifying. He’d let himself get his hopes up about his father after all, hadn’t he? And look what had come of it.

It was better to be alone. At least that way nobody could hurt him but himself. He did a pretty good job of it without the help, didn’t he?

Mirja continued to make that low, sad coo, her cheek rubbing against his back and her beak occasionally running through his hair. Her feathers smelt of spices and smoke, like someone was cooking something with cinnamon over a campfire, and they were cool against a face that felt like it was being scalded off by the heat of his tears. The way she was curled around him felt almost like a hug- a gesture Anders had not been on the receiving end of in so long he almost didn’t recognize the sensation.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, crying against his phoenix’s back. As his tears began to subside and he passed from misery into the dull sort of lethargy that comes after a good long cry, he couldn’t help but feel a little silly. Here he was, arms and face nestled in the feathers of a bird, crying his eyes out into her side. He was a grown man for Woo’s sake, he should have more composure than this.

Yet, when he slowly lifted his head from Mirja’s spiced-smoke feathers and looked towards her face, for the first time he could see a sort of… thoughtfulness behind her fierce avian glare. Those golden eyes had an intelligence in them he hadn’t noticed before. Hesitantly, he reached towards her, slipping a hand under the feathers of her face to scratch her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch with a gentle, soothing call that made him smile, just a little.

“You… knew I was upset, didn’t you?” he asked softly. She opened one eye, looking straight at him. Then, pulling her head away from his hand, she leaned forwards and gently pressed her crest against his chest. Blinking hard against a renewed sting in his eyes, Anders wrapped his arms around his phoenix’s neck, burying his face in her soft feathers once more.

* * * *

“Mirja, left wing,” Anders said, backing up the command with the hand gesture that Sir Peck had taught him earlier. The phoenix, old enough to have memories of her past lives and to have been given at least basic training before she came into his care, extended the designated wing obligingly, holding it open until Anders gave her the signal to let it drop to her side again. “Good girl!” He called, earning a happy twitter from the phoenix.

Anders approached the bird more closely, standing at her side and tapping one leg. “Foot, please.”

The bird leaned slightly so that she was balancing on only one of her feet, holding up the other for Anders to grasp in his hand. This command was useful for if he needed to manicure her talons, or if she had an injury on her foot that needed tending- and it was distinct from the “talons” command that would tell her to score an enemy with her claws, or the “kick” command that would let her know to try and kick an obstruction out of her path.

“Good girl, very good girl, Mirja!” Anders praised the bird, letting her drop her foot again and offering her a grape from his pocket. She accepted the treat eagerly, crushing it in her beak as she let Anders scratch her shoulder. It had been about a month since he was partnered to the bird, and it had been decreed that they were getting along well enough- and Anders had memorized enough of the hand signals- for them to begin properly training together as a unit.

Unfortunately, it seemed this development was not going to go missed by his tormentors among the cadets.

“Surprised the bird doesn’t take a notch out of him,” came a deliberately loud voice, making Anders’ shoulders tense. “They can tell you know- if somebody is a good person or not. And they don’t like those who aren’t.”

Anders glanced around, teeth clenched. Apparently noticing his attention, the speaker drawled, “Who knows though- maybe we should save the bird from having to be stuck with such a jerk for a master.”

The Escalus breathed slowly out of his nose, fists balling as he heard multiple sniggers and disapproving sniffs behind him. Before he could do anything else, though, he was startled by a soft pressure against his arm. Looking down, he saw Mirja had left her attention position to rub her cheek against his arm. He laughed softly, pushing her gently away.

“Not right now, you goof,” he said with gentle teasing in his voice. “We’re working, remember? I’ll give you pets later.”

She trilled, running her beak once through his hair before settling back into the “stand” position at attention.

“Good girl- now let’s try those drills again. Right wing?”

It wasn’t until a few moments later, as he was gently guiding her through the motions of the command “down for mount”- where she was meant to crouch to allow an injured rider to climb aboard- that he realized he’d forgotten entirely to be angry with the other cadets. Startled, he looked down at Mirja with confusion… then a dawning sense of understanding.

“You little minx,” he said to her, earning a quizzical glance from the phoenix. “You knew, didn’t you? That I was getting angry.”

She whistled cheerily, bumping her beak against his shoulder, and Anders laughed. “I think Sir Peck was right, Mirja. I think you and I will work well together”

[Shinko]

Lookie lookie- collaboration between myself and Avery . This is a sequel to Echoes of the Past, and takes place... a year or two? After the conclusion of the great war between Meltaim, Valzaim, Macarinth and Lange.

Transfiguration

Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

No one in the throne room of the Shadowed Palace in Taika spoke. They barely dared to breathe. Every one of the Meltaiman Empire’s margraves was present, as well as no few of the counts and barons. There were few occasions that could draw this many of the most powerful men and women in Meltaim together in one place- but the crowning of a new emperor was one such occasion.

The previous emperor, the long-reigning Sebellius Srebro, best known for his spearheading of the Gods’ Campaigns and the ensuing war in which Meltaim had suffered a humiliating defeat, had been beloved by no one. Controlling, ruthless, manipulative, and more concerned with instilling fear than respect, the end of his reign had prompted little true grief from the general population. Now, as his sixteen year old heir trembled on the dais before them, his face set grimly as he parrotted oaths back at the priest, the nobles couldn’t help but wonder: just what sort of emperor would this young upstart be?

The lengthy ceremony, which had involved a blank tribute from each of the present margraves to accompany their oath of fealty to the rising ruler, was nearly at its end. His green eyes bright with anxiety as he tried to keep his voice from shaking, Macaius Srebro intoned the last of his vows to the priest who held the formal silver crown of Meltaim in his hands. It was an impressive thing, bordering on gaudy, and usually worn only for formal ceremonies like this one-- a huge, pure silver confection, with onyx stones and black opals inlaid in it. All told it weighed about five pounds, making it highly impractical to wear on a day-to-day basis- usually the emperor wore a much smaller one, silver with only a single black opal inlaid on the front of it. Macaius had seen his father wear the formal crown only twice in his life; now it was about to be set on his head. Up until now the crown prince had only ever worn a simple silver diadem, unadorned with any gems at all. It didn’t feel quite real.

“Imperial Prince Macaius Srebro,” the priest drawled, hovering the ceremonial crown just over the boy’s dark, sweat-slicked curls, “son of the late Emperor Sebellius Srebro and his wife Julissa; heir apparent to the royal holdings of Taika; successor to the holy, powerful, and gods-blessed Srebro line; and crown prince of all of Meltaim-- with these rites, I endow upon you the privileges and responsibilities of the imperial throne of Meltaim; the fealty and submission of all of the imperiality’s inhabitants; and the unbroken favour of the gods above.” The man paused for a moment, deliberately, the air within the large, silver-walled throne room settling into a silence so thick it was nearly suffocating. “Are you prepared to accept the burdens and rights of this holy stewardship?”

Macaius swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain steady as he formally intoned, “I accept; the weight of the crown upon my head and the weight of the empire upon my shoulders. My wand and all my holy powers I give unto my people, to defend them in times of strife and shepherd them in times of peace. In return I take their fealty, and claim my birthright as High Emperor of all Meltaim, sovereign of the gods’ true children- by right of the blood of my father, by right of the magic that thrums in my veins, and by right of will of the divine.”

“With this promise made, I thus bequeath this crown upon your head,” the priest replied levelly, delicately lowering the hefty piece; it settled crookedly into the newly minted emperor’s locks, looking as though it weighed nearly as much as he did. “And so it is anointed. Long live Emperor Macaius!”

At once the watching masses-- who were seated upon a cluster of heavy wooden benches that had been dragged into the throne room specifically for the ceremony-- echoed the cheer, their voices blending together into a stark, echoing cacophony. Macaius rose from his knees to face the crowd, jaw tight as he tried to look… he didn’t even know. Strong? Regal? Commanding? Something other than terrified out of his mind.

As his eyes skimmed the crowded throne room, passing over dozens of the most powerful people in all of Meltaim, they settled on one face in particular- that of a petite teenage girl who sat in the first row of seats, clad in a tumbling gown of pure silver silk, her long, wheat-blonde hair secured in an intricate bun atop her head. As their gazes locked, the girl smiled encouragingly, her expression laden with none of the stiff, formal reverence the rest of the onlookers wore. You did great, Mac, she mouthed-- earning her a sharp elbow in the ribs from the older woman who sat beside her, face inscrutable, silver dress washing out an already-pale complexion. Macaius fought back a smile as his mother, Julissa, straightened to face him again. Technically until he married she would not formally adopt the title of Empress Dowager, but it was still strange to think that he now outranked her. That in fact, any power she wielded was largely ceremonial, and if he liked he could strip it all away. But for now, he was content to let it be. His cousin, best friend, and adopted sister Emilie knew he had seen her message, and wouldn’t be bothered too much by being chastised.

He took a deep breath, then slowly backed away from the crowd, towards the throne situated behind him. It was an imposing, high-backed beast of a seat, dark mahogany wood at its center but its edges plated in alternating iron, steel, and silver, and nearly every inch of its surface was covered in intricate engravings: of wands, of crowns, of elegant emperors and empresses standing ramrod straight as though to peer down at the lowly masses. Emilie had once dared him to try and sit on the throne when they were children, but they’d been caught by Sebellius before Macaius had managed to put bottom to seat and been severely punished. Only the emperor was allowed to sit on the high throne- not even the crown prince could be exempt from that rule.

And so, when Macaius settled into the seat, his silver cape spreading out around him, it really was for the very first time.

“Margraves, Counts, and Barons all,” he called to the assembly, willing his adolescent voice to please not crack, “My father’s passing was a tragedy, but I give you my word that I will bear his mantle well. Meltaim has endured much suffering in recent years, but together we can restore it. A united empire, in which the beacon of our united souls shines bright enough to pierce any darkness. I will not just rebuild our shattered empire; I will see that it thrives. Will you help me?”

The chorus of assent from the assembled nobility was almost instantaneous, the throne room once again filling with a thrum of strident voices. As the noise died down, the priest who’d crowned Macaius took a practised step forward, his dark eyes hooked on the crowd like a snake’s fangs into its prey.

“With these promises,” the cleric boomed, “we herald in a new era of peace, grandeur, and glory-- for which we will give our thanks to Emperor Macaius, and our thanks to the gods above. So before we indulge ourselves in the food, wine, and riches the gods and our emperor have blessed us with today, let us show that gratitude.” Very slowly, as if to make sure no one in the audience missed it, the man began to lower himself to his knees at Macaius’s feet, his ceremonial robes pooling around his ankles. Chin tucked, eyes on the floor, he said, “My gratitude, loyalty, and obedience are yours, your imperial majesty.”

Following the priest’s lead, the rest of the room echoed in his gesture of submission. They went down like wheat in the breeze, even Julissa and Emilie. Seeing the entire room genuflecting before him, Macaius felt his throat catch, terror a living thing inside of his chest. Oh gods. This was real. He was the emperor, the most powerful, feared man in all of Meltaim.

After what he hoped was an appropriate time- long enough to make the point, but not so long as to be uncomfortable or seem to be parading his authority- Macaius rose from the throne.

“I thank you, my people,” he said softly, trying to hide his trembling hands behind his ceremonial pure silver robes. “Now rise- there is no need to be somber . I wish for my reign to be an era of joy, and change for the better. Let’s get things started on the right foot, hm?”

The crowd came slowly to its feet, and after a few more closing words from the priest, blank servants scurried to heave open the imposing iron doors that separated the throne room from a grandiloquent banquet hall beyond. Always impressive to the point of imposing, the cavernous space had been thoroughly bedecked for the coronation feast at hand. Magelights, all bespelled to glow silver, winked from the soaring ceiling like stars in a night sky, bathing the room in an icy wash of light. The marble floor beneath had been shined to a polish, and all of the tables were set with a practical garden of floral decorations, which served the additional purpose of creating a wordless seating chart: each table’s flowers represented the hues of the various Houses present, ending with the high table festooned with vases of lilies with their petals spelled to a gossamer silver.

Macaius walked through the throne room, the crowd parting in his wake, until he reached the banquet hall. The other nobles filed in behind him, each heading to their respective tables, though they waited until Macaius sat down at the head of the high table before any of them dared to actually sit. Julissa, still technically the empress with her son unmarried, sat at his right hand. Her son spared her a wan smile, trying not to tremble with relief as a low buzz of conversation started up, and Emilie took her place at her cousin’s left.

“You did awesome, Mac,” she whispered into his ear, trying her best-- and failing-- to hold back an outright grin. “I thought you were going to faint at times, but you didn’t.” The girl’s smile vanished at a sharp look from Julissa. “Um. Anyway-- all you have left is your speech to start off the banquet, and you’re all done with orating for the night. And we can eat-- I’m starving.”

“My stomach, meanwhile, is in knots,” he murmured back to her. Taking a glass of wine offered to him from a tray by a passing blank, he swallowed hard and stood again, hoisting it into the air.

“My loyal subjects,” he called, causing the conversations to immediately hush. “For tonight, eat, drink, and be merry- tomorrow, we begin our work towards a brighter future for Meltaim. A toast to our most glorious empire. Long live Meltaim!”

“Long live Meltaim!” the nobles echoed, and with that, the hall fell into a clamor as blanks burst out from the wings, bearing steaming platters of fragrant, heavily seasoned sweet potato wedges-- the first, but certainly not the last, course of the evening.

“Gods, this food had better be divine,” Emilie said as a slave, her head tightly bowed, placed dishes in front of the emperor, his mother, and his cousin. “I think you spent more time planning this menu, Mac, than most people spend planning their lives.”

“Emilie,” Julissa said crisply, “Macaius is your emperor now as well as your cousin; mind your tongue in the presence of onlookers.”

“It’s fine, Mother,” the newly minted emperor put in tiredly. “I’d rather the nobles respect me for my deeds than fear me as a figurehead of the Srebro line- I haven’t got any deeds to my name yet, so even if I tried to playact as the big tough scary emperor, I’d just look like a kid playing pretend in his father’s clothes.” His voice low he added, “Not that I don’t already…”

“You look fine, Mac,” Emilie soothed, cutting into her sweet potato with zeal. “And you sounded good, too-- remembered all the lines, said them at the right time…” She smiled. “All our practising paid off, right? And now you get a break before all the nobles start coming to the high table to pay homage.” The girl leaned in toward him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she added, “If you don’t forget any of their names, I won’t nag you about anything for a whole week.”

Macaius actually managed a smirk at that. “Oooh, that’d be a treat. I’ll hold you to that then.”

The meal proceeded mostly without incident, everyone eating and talking cheerily. Throughout the banquet, one or two representatives from the various noble guests in attendance would drift to the high table to have a brief conversation with Macaius, congratulating him on his ascension. His cousin and much older adopted brother of sorts, Henryk, lingered for quite a while chattering with Julissa before his wife dragged him back to their table. A minor count from Erlea spoke to them not long after, making a point to compliment the floral arrangements as well as the gardens the Shadowed Palace boasted-- and, much to Emilie’s amusement, making Macaius lose their bet as the new emperor blundered the man’s name, calling him Count Zieny instead of Zielony (a blunder that the venerable Julissa, fortunately, smoothly corrected before the lord could take offence).

For the next twenty minutes or so the imperials were left to their meal in peace, but then another guest approached from a table decked in deep purple violets- a man Macaius recognized immediately.

“Margrave Gorski,” he said, offering a polite smile as the dark haired man bowed- and the dove blonde shadow behind him-- his teenage son, Czeslaw-- echoed the movement, tucking his chin so deeply it touched his chest. “You honor us with your presence tonight.”

“The honor is all mine,” Izydor replied, a chuckle rumbling out of him. “Though why so formal, my liege? I suppose you are far too important now to keep calling me ‘Uncle Izydor.’”

Macaius laughed softly. “Well I’ve never been entirely certain how much of that informality was sincerely not minding and how much was humoring my imperial father- I hadn’t wanted to overstep. But if you prefer, Uncle Izydor it is then.” He glanced towards Czeslaw. “Though here is a face I’ve not seen since I was quite a bit younger- Lord Czes, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, my liege,” the boy replied, dark eyes slowly drifting up from where they’d settled on the floor. “My eldest sister and father’s heir, Gabrijela, sends her regrets that she couldn’t attend the festivities-- she’s heavy with child.” He smiled languidly. “And hoping for a boy this time, I think, after three girls in a row. You’ve never heard so many fights over dollies and hair ribbons.”

Macaius grinned. “I can imagine. Please pass along my congratulations, and rest assured I am not offended for Lady Gorski’s absence.” His green eyes hooked on Czeslaw’s brown, he added, “My father always spoke very highly of you, my lord. Said you were one of the brightest up-and-coming mages of our generation, and couldn’t rave enough about how your experimental spells helped the war effort.”

Izydor cast his son a fond glance, and the boy’s expression turned somewhere between proud and sheepish. “Ah, thank you, Emperor Macaius,” he said. “I do my best to assist the empire in whatever ways I can. And I certainly hope the strides in blood magic I made during the war are not my last-- I’m always looking for improvements and innovations.”

Julissa gave the teenager a thin smile. “Of course, young man- I would expect nothing less of a lad raised by my late husband’s old friend.”

“You flatter me, Empress,” Izydor replied. “Though you have my condolences- all three of you.” His eyes swept the table. “Losing your patriarch could not have been easy, let alone in so… abrupt a manner.”

“It was a surprise to us all,” Emilie confirmed, swallowing the lump that had instantly knotted in her throat at the mention of her uncle’s death. It had been nearly four months since the emperor’s demise in January, the coronation held off until the snows had melted and the roads across the empire became traversable yet again, but time had not yet wholly dulled the ache of the loss. “The… the good thing is, the healers say he didn’t feel any pain. I won’t say slipping and falling on ice is a peaceful way to go, but… it was very quick, at least. A small mercy.”

The margrave of Daire gave a slow nod, his expression distant and sad. “We take our mercies where we can get them these days. Sebellius was indeed a friend to me, and I see no reason to withdraw the hand of friendship with his passing.” Fixing his gaze on Macaius, he added, “If you ever have need of help or advice, my liege, you need not hesitate to call upon the Gorskis.”

“Of course not,” Macaius replied, though privately he knew this was mostly his “uncle” waggling a baited hook of political manipulation in his face and relying on youth and inexperience to goad Macaius into biting. “I have been meaning to expand my father’s pre-existing web of advisors to accommodate my vision for a better Meltaim; I will be certain to let you know if there is any help you can give me in that venture.”

“Your vision?” Izydor echoed curiously.

“Emperor Macaius endeavours to bring improvements to all facets of life within our beloved empire,” Emilie said lightly. “And if there’s any way that House Gorski can contribute to these efforts, he won’t hesitate to ask your assistance, your lordship.”

Izydor’s eyes were shadowed with uncertainty, but he recognized the dismissal in Emilie’s voice. His lips thinned a little at the young woman’s attitude- in theory he outranked her- but didn’t comment, only bowing his head again. “Czes and I will take our leave then. May you live long and may your reign be blessed, my emperor.”

“And shall we meet again soon,” Czeslaw added, dipping his head before he turned on his heel, striding even with his father as the pair started back toward their table.

Once they were gone, Emilie slumped in relief, letting out a soft sigh-- the banquet wasn’t even half over, and already the steady stream of small talk was beginning to exhaust her, all the succulent food beginning to blur together on her palate. She could tell Macaius wasn’t doing much better, her cousin looking positively exhausted as he speared a razor-thin slice of broiled catfish from his plate.

“Hang in there, Mac,” she murmured to him… before abruptly stiffening again in her seat as yet another pair of nobles stood from their seats and started forward, weaving and wending toward the high table. Emilie’s heart skipped several beats, her blood turning cold. “Mac,” she whispered. “Look.”

The young emperor glanced in the direction his cousin was facing, tilting his head slightly in confusion before recognition hit and he winced. “Your… your mother, isn’t it. ...And your father, too.”

“Yes,” Emilie whispered, her stomach lurching. Given that her mother was the margrave of Lyse province and her father was the younger brother of the late Sebellius, of course she’d known that her parents would be in town for the coronation, and she’d seen them from afar several times since their arrival a few days ago. But she hadn’t yet spoken to them one-on-one-- something she couldn’t pretend wasn’t deliberate. “Gods, what do I say to them, Mac? I haven’t exchanged more than stray letters with them in years. And I don’t think I’ve seen them in person since… since-- before the war, really. When I was tiny. Only a year or two after your father brought me to live at court.”

“It’ll be fine, Emmy,” Macaius assured his cousin in an undertone. “I promise, it’ll be fine. I’m right here, okay? And they’ll have to talk to me mostly anyway, it would be rude of them not to.”

“I know.” She swallowed hard as her parents neared the table. “I j-just hope they don’t loiter for long.”

Moments later, the pair arrived, the margrave curtseying and her husband bowing deeply as Emilie tried her best to mask the anxiety that was flaring like a beacon inside of her. Resisting the urge to reach out and squeeze Macaius’s hand-- she knew how such a thing would look in a formal situation like this-- the girl stayed silent as Macaius inclined his head in return. “Margrave Lodowaty. Uncle,” he said, his voice cool and authoritative in a way that it hadn’t been in any of his previous conversations. “It’s been some time since we last saw you at court.”

“The war made things quite difficult for a while, my liege,” the margrave replied, smiling serenely at the young emperor-- but her gaze clearly listing toward Emilie. “It’s so good to be here again-- you did a wonderful job at the ceremony, your imperial majesty.”

“Though naturally,” added her husband, Eligiusz, “I was incredibly distraught to hear about my brother’s passing. I wish I could have made it for the funeral, but of course, travel between Lyse and Marjan is neigh impossible in the wintertime.”

“Of course, that’s completely understandable,” Macaius replied. “Though it was a travesty that I could not give my father the sendoff that an emperor deserves, in a way it was something of a relief to be able to mourn without all of the…” He glanced around the room. “Ceremony.”

“Perfectly understandable, my liege,” Emilie’s mother said. Pausing for a moment, as though to pay her respects to the late emperor, the woman then turned her focus fully toward her daughter. “It’s so nice to see you, sweetheart,” she murmured. “I can’t believe how long it’s been. My gods, you’ve grown up entirely, haven’t you?”

“I’m sixteen now.” It was all Emilie could think-- or bring herself-- to say.

“I know, love,” said the margrave. Her dark eyes-- the same shade as Emilie’s-- raking up and down the girl’s waifish form, she added, “What a nice gown you’re wearing, Emmy. All silver, hm? It goes so nicely with your hair.” A beat. “Although… I had always been under the impression that all-silver was reserved for the imperial family, particularly at formal events. Did you… did you not have anything in the rose and black of House Lodowaty, Emilie? I’d have brought you something.”

Macaius tapped his fork against the glass plate, making an impossible to ignore clinking noise. “Emilie has been like a sister to me since I was quite young. I saw no reason to deny her the imperial dress when she has been a member of the imperial family for as long as either of us can remember.”

“Right. Of course, your imperial majesty,” said Eligiusz-- but his wife was still frowning, her blonde brow furrowed, her face written with obvious surprise and unease.

“Well,” she said softly, “your father and I will be here in Taika for the next week or two, Emilie. I know that right now”-- she gestured broadly to the crowded, noisy room around them-- “is hardly the time to catch up, but our guest apartment can’t be all that far from your quarters, right? You could take tea with us, dear. Tomorrow morning?”

Though she’d phrased it as a question, even after more than half her life spent apart, Emilie knew her mother well enough to tell that the margrave’s pronouncement was anything but. A sour taste rose in her throat, and almost subconsciously, she edged closer to Julissa. While the empress had hardly been the mother of the year to either Emilie or Macaius, even so Emilie realised with a start that she now found the woman far more comforting-- more familiar-- than she did Margrave Lodowaty, who by all reasonable measures felt more now like a stranger than she did Emilie’s parent.

Julissa, who had been observing the conversation but not speaking, spared the young girl a thin smile. She’d gone through a similar thing with Henryk when he came of age, but he’d been assertive enough of a personality not to care particularly about his parents attempting to reconnect with him. Admittedly, the empress had always been closer to Henryk than to Macaius or Emilie- Sebellius had adopted him before the deaths of Tamsin and the true Macaius had broken Julissa’s willingness to bond fully with her children- but she still felt guilty over her role in all of this.

“I… I don’t know if I have time to take tea with you tomorrow,” Emilie murmured, her heart humming in her ears. “Things are busy here right now.”

“No time for tea with your own mother?” The margrave’s voice had gone fraught, almost shrill, and it was obvious that the woman was attempting to school herself back into composure as she added, “I’m sure his imperial majesty can manage with you for an hour or two, love. Come, please-- it’ll be nice.”

“With all due respect, Margrave,” Macaius said, his voice chilly, “the princess said no. Please respect her decision- as you noted, she is an adult and entitled to her own choices.”

Princess? Emilie’s eyes whipped toward Macaius, a burst of confusion muddling with the anxiety that was already permeating her. After all, though she’d been raised an imperial in nearly every facet ever since the emperor had taken her in at the age of six, Sebellius had never had his niece formally titled as such-- Lady Emilie Lodowaty she’d arrived to court, and Lady Emilie Lodowaty she’d remained.

The margrave and her husband didn’t miss this, either. “Princess…?” Eligiusz tilted his head. “Forgive me, my liege, but… have I missed something? My brother never wrote to me that he’d done anything to officially adopt Emilie into the imperial family. I was under the impression that she’s remained, by rights, a member of and subject to House Lodowaty.”

“An oversight, I’m sure,” Macaius replied, levelling a thin smile at his aunt and uncle. “But one that, now that I am emperor and patriarch of House Srebro, I fully intend to see corrected. After all this time, there is really no reason Emilie should not reap the full benefits of an imperial title and the imperial name.” Glancing at his cousin, he added, “If you wish it, of course.”

Emilie nodded, dumbfounded, and it took her several moments to find her voice. “O-of course, Mac,” she whispered. “Er, Emperor Macaius. I… I would be honoured, I…”

Her mother blinked, looking even more shocked than her daughter was. “Well,” she said, her voice unsteady, “I… suppose that… does make sense, yes. After all this time you’ve lived here, enmeshed in the imperial life…” The woman gulped, something akin to anguish flashing briefly in her dark eyes before she forced it away. “My congratulations.” She shifted her focus back toward Macaius, adding shakily, “I see that you reign will be a… bold one, my liege. I had still rather hoped that Emilie might… might return home to her family eventually, but…”

Julissa was equally surprised by her son’s declaration. She knew exactly why Sebellius had never titled Emilie- or Henryk for that matter. It was because, at the end of the day, if he didn’t title them he could keep his hands clean when it came to admitting his ‘adoption’ of them was just that- an adoption, and not a temporary change of custody. She knew Macaius was just formalizing something that had been the case anyway for years… and yet, after losing two of her own children to Sebellius’ ruthless callousness, her heart went out to Margrave Lodowaty.

“My lady,” she said softly, her voice and expression gentle. “I know that losing a child is hard- and I know that it never really stops hurting. For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what was done to you. But I assure you, Emilie is very much loved and cared for- and Macaius is not his father. This is not a history that will repeat itself.”

She shot Emilie a slightly stern look. “And I think the margrave is right, young miss. Princess or not, you can spare an hour or two for tea with the woman who carried you in her womb and nursed you when you were an infant.”

The margrave blinked hard, tears visibly welling in her dark eyes-- of sadness, of gratitude, of pain over the child whom Sebellius had taken from her a decade ago as if Emilie were merely a piece of fruit he’d plucked from a tree. Emilie, on the other hand, far from overwhelmed with emotion, stiffened in her seat and snapped her head toward Julissa, incredulous.

“But I don’t want--” the girl started.

“If you think I will not still scrub your mouth when you sass me, you are mistaken, Emilie,” Julissa interrupted, her hazel eyes narrowed. More softly she added, “You’re getting what you want. At least let your mother have this.”

Macaius seemed a little taken aback by his mother’s words, but also too cowed to object, and although she was clearly at first considering retorting, eventually all Emilie managed to do was nod. After all, even once she’d officially been made a princess, Julissa would still outrank her-- and imperial titles aside, it would have taken a girl far more courageous than Emilie to dare argue much with the stern woman who had, as Emilie had just admitted to herself a few moments ago, been the foremost maternal figure in her life.

“All right,” Emilie whispered. “I’ll come to your guest flat for tea tomorrow.”

Eligiusz gave his daughter a watery smile. “Thank you, Emilie. Your mother and I appreciate it.” He bowed his head to Julissa. “And thank you, your imperial majesty. What you’ve said, it… it means a lot to us. A-after all these years of missing our girl.”

“I understand, Eligiusz,” Julissa replied gently, addressing him not as a lord but as the man she had known when he was a young boy living at the palace, the kid brother of her newlywed husband. “You deserve at least this much, after what you’ve been through.”

Macaius bit his lip, glancing towards Emilie with an uncomfortable expression. She returned the look, hesitantly, a sudden thread of guilt creeping into her. Though her memories of her birth family were not particularly positive ones-- she’d been an excessively energetic child, and their patience had often worn thin with her-- seeing her parents like this now made Emilie realise that even if Julissa and Sebellius had been more of parents to her in the scheme of things than the margrave and her husband had, that wasn’t her birth family’s choice. Her parents hadn’t given her away; Sebellius had taken her. And the fact that she’d barely seen them since… that they’d grown to be veritable strangers to her, people who spurred within her feelings of anxiety and avoidance, not solidarity…

That was something Sebellius had done, too.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she murmured, feeling very selfish now for how she’d acted a few moments ago, and for the way she’d been filled with such dread and annoyance when she’d first seen her parents approaching the table. “I… I d-didn’t mean to make you feel like I’m… I’m…” Emilie shook her head. “I’ll sp-spend time with you until you go home,” the girl whispered. “More than just tea, if… if you want.”

“And Mother is right,” Macaius put in softly. “I don’t mean to do as my father did with Henryk or Emmy, and pluck away child relatives on a whim. I want to give Emmy the imperial name and title because after all this time she deserves to have it- to have what my father denied her even though she has been like a sister to me. I can’t change what already is- but this won’t be happening again, I assure you of that.”

“You’re right-- it… doesn’t change how things are, but…” The margrave took a deep breath. “It’s nice to hear nevertheless, my liege.” She curtsied again as she had at the outset, eyes still glossy with repressed tears. “May your reign be a long and storied one, your imperial majesty.”

He inclined his head in reply. “Thank you, Margrave Lodowaty. I hope that it will be.”

Nodding once, the margrave turned back toward the rest of the tables, hooking her arm through Eligiusz’s as they started away from the imperials. Emilie sat ramrod straight as she watched them go, her gut slick, her palms sweating. Only once they’d made it far out of earshot did she dare breathe again, the air escaping her lungs in a slow, soft exhale that came out half-sounding like a whimper.

“Th-that didn’t go how I thought it would,” she whispered, to neither Julissa nor Macaius in particular. “I feel… I feel…”

“Conflicted?” Julissa guessed shrewdly. “It’s understandable. You were very young when you and your mother were separated; she may as well be a stranger to you. But take it from me- a child may forget, but a mother never does.”

“He did it because of me,” Macaius put in miserably. “Because I told him I was lonely.”

“You were five, Macaius,” Julissa pointed out. “There was nothing stopping your father from, say, inviting some cadet count of his own with children to stay at court. The decision was my husband’s, not yours.”

“Maybe,” Macaius said doubtfully. “But still. He… he wasn’t a very popular emperor, was he? Not with the nobles or the common folk.”

“All the commoners ever saw of him was the heads,” Emilie whispered, sagging down in her seat as though she wished she could disappear clear into the floor below. “That, and… and the war. That’s all they had to go by.” She swallowed hard, then slowly turned her dark eyes toward Julissa. “H-he did it on purpose, didn’t he, Auntie?” she whispered, her voice fragile as glass. “I mean… the war was p-part of it, but-- he kept my mum and dad from seeing me on purpose. So I would gr-grow up to view them as… others. Outsiders. Unimportant. And h-he would be the one I saw as… as…” An involuntary shudder wracked her body. “Well, he would be m-my papa. Where it counted.”

“It worked with Henryk,” Julissa said, confirming indirectly. “He knew it would work again. It was one thing he was always very good at- getting people to do and think what he wanted. Don’t get me wrong, you two- he did love you both, in his way. Henryk too. But…”

“But he didn’t care who else he hurt,” Macaius finished bitterly. He closed his eyes. “No wonder They came to me. Meltaim… it’s so broken.”

“They?” Julissa repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

Emilie shut her eyes, letting out another wobbly breath. “I don’t know if… if right now is the best time, Macaius. To… share it.”

“Perhaps not,” he said softly, his eyes flickering towards Emilie with a vague sort of sad resignation. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t act on it, Em.” He looked around the room. “Just… take a minute. Look around. What don’t you see in this room?”

Emilie opened her eyes again, looking reluctantly out toward the thrumming crowd of revelers. “I… I don’t know, Mac. What?”

“Peasants. Merchants. The soldiers who risked their gods-cursed lives for this empire during the war,” he replied, his hands clenching into fists. “Not even all of Meltaim’s nobility is here. Most of the counts and barons present are only here because they’re from Taika and they have to swear fealty to me. The others? Most of them don’t feel important enough in the grand scheme of things to bother.” He turned to his mother and cousin again. “Meltaim is just… so segmented. When we’re all supposed to be united by the light of our magic.”

Emilie knew well where this line of thought originated, but she knew just as well that it was not her place to spill the emperor’s deepest convictions and beliefs-- not her place to tell Julissa about her cousin’s lifelong visions he believed were gods-instilled, meant to spur him into creating a unified, stronger Meltaim once he was in a position to do so. A Meltaim that cared not about noble blood, but only the gods’ most important virtue: magic. Power. The thing that united all of the empire’s citizens beneath the eyes of the almighties.

For years Macaius had told Emilie that once he was emperor, he was going to change things-- fix his father’s broken legacy, the fractured Meltaim that Sebellius had created through a reign of manipulation, pain, and terror. But up until this moment, as she gazed out at the empire’s creme de la creme of nobility, did it quite hit Emilie what this meant. No longer would Macaius’s lofty words have to remain only that. No longer was there anyone standing in the boy-emperor’s way, the only roadblock to his vision gone in a flash of gravity and ice. The path was clear. The future open.

“You’re… you’re really going to do it, aren’t you, Mac?” the girl whispered, turning toward her cousin again. “Just like you’ve always said.”

Julissa looked befuddled, and not a little alarmed, but Macaius only smiled. “I am. This has been my destiny since I was a child. I…” he faltered, blinking sharply. “I never wanted it to happen this way. This soon. But now that it has, I don’t plan to let my youth or anyone’s expectations stop me.”

“Macaius, Emilie, what’s going on?” Julissa demanded. “What are you two plotting?”

“Nothing dangerous, Mother,” Macaius soothed. “And nothing that I expect to happen overnight. But Meltaim is in dire need of change- and I plan to give it what it needs.” He turned to his cousin, his green eyes entreating. “Emmy, I meant what I said about making you a princess. I need you. Your help, your support, your friendship… can I count on that?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Always, Macaius. Everything you do-- I’m behind you every step. I promise.”

Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

After two weeks, the last of the noble guests departed from the capital, leaving only the imperials to inhabit the Shadowed Palace. Though Macaius had been acting emperor for several months by this point, now that he had the title formally he had a great deal more power and authority than he’d had simply as crown prince- and he set about putting it to use.

Almost immediately he began to set aside small portions of time- no more than two hours every few days- to slip away from the palace. He would go out of the gates, dressed in peasant’s clothes, and mingle with the commoners. Usually he made these trips unescorted, over the objections of his guard captain, but from time to time Emilie accompanied him. On these trips he began to gain a better idea for how the common people of Meltaim lived, what their thoughts and opinions where, how they felt about their overlords, and more.

Macaius started to get some ideas for changes that he could make to the empire, gradually, in order to make it a better place to live for the common folk. He knew he would need to mull over them more, refine them, and plan them before he started putting any into action. However, about six months after his coronation, he started to get some rather… pointed suggestions from his advisors that had nothing to do with his agenda for reforming Meltaim.

“Oh. My. Gods!” he snapped one evening, three weeks after the hinting had started. He shoved the door open so hard it banged against the opposite wall, making Emilie jump from her place on one of the couches in the imperial family’s private quarters.

“What’s wrong, Mac?” she asked, shutting the heavily annotated spellbook that had been open in her lap (homework on advanced rune structure, much to her chagrin). “What happened?”

“They had a list today, Emmy,” he seethed. “A list of ‘considerations’ as they put it. And they were fobbing it in my face and demanding my input on what felt like each and every eligible noblewoman in the empire.”

Emilie winced in sympathy, knowing well how much the topic of his bachelorhood had come to plague her cousin since his ascension to the throne. Macaius was only sixteen, but crown princes tended to marry young-- he’d only been spared such a fate before Sebellius’s death because the emperor had been distracted by the war and then its aftermath. And now that the boy was not just the heir to Meltaim, but its leader in full, well-- suffice to say, the court was tittering, the emperor’s marital status an item of both utmost concern and gossip.

“You don’t like any of the candidates at all, Mac?” Emilie asked softly, sparing him a thin smile. “They can’t all be awful, right?”

“It’s just… they’re margrave’s kids mostly,” he said, collapsing down into the couch beside her so that his crown slipped askew. “Or kids of margrave’s cadet siblings. Everyone keeps blithering about how they selected ‘only the best bloodlines’ for me and…” He put his head in his hands with a sigh. “And that’s just the opposite of everything I want.”

“Do you… do you not want a wife, then?” Emilie asked, worrying at her lip. “I mean… you’ve always known you would have to marry, Mac. That it’s your duty. Your obligation.”

“I know, I know,” he said, not lifting his head, so that his voice emerged as a muffled mumble from between his hands. “It’s just… it’s so soon. I’ve barely settled into being emperor and no one really knows me yet. This isn’t the sort of first impression I was hoping I would get to make on Meltaim.” He shook his head. “I’ll… I’ll have to do it. I know that. But I guess it’s just not what I was expecting. Being badgered and bullied constantly to do what my advisors want, practically right out of the gate. I don’t remember this being an issue when Father was the emperor.”

“Then show them you won’t be bullied, Mac.” Emilie shrugged as though this were obvious. “They didn’t dare try that with your father because he made it very clear he was in charge, not them-- and now they’ve got a nervous boy in his place. They’re testing you. Seeing how much they can control you. What they can get away with, how much influence they can curry.” She narrowed her dark eyes, contemplating. “I’m not saying to be like your father in most aspects, Mac-- I can’t see you being the type to rule by fear and manipulation, and I don’t think that’ll help with your visions of a changed Meltaim, anyway. But that doesn’t mean you can’t assert yourself sometimes as you forge ahead. It doesn’t mean you can’t make choices all your own, no matter what your advisors suggest. You’ll have to get used to doing that eventually-- you think that once you start imposing the changes you’ve been brewing about, you won’t meet some dissent and resistance from the court? Because you will, Macaius. No doubt about it. People don’t like change.”

He lifted his face, nodding reluctantly. “I know that. I do. It’s just so hard to argue with them about this because I really don’t have a leg to stand on. I am going to have to get married sooner or later, and everyone in the court is jumpy as all hells about my having a legitimate heir after Father had such a hard time. B-but I… I just know whatever highlord’s kid I end up strapped to is going to be a mouthpiece for her family’s whims. Trying to persuade me against this. Trying to manipulate my heirs into thinking I’m a fool and a dreamer so that all of my work is immediately undone with my death.” He choked, clenching his fingers in his hair. “I don’t want that- a wife who is also my enemy. Who resents me. I want a partner and a friend, someone I can count on to be on my side.” He glanced up at his cousin with a wobbly smile. “Even if they do think I’m crazy.”

“You’re not crazy, Macaius,” Emilie said gently, reaching out and setting a comforting hand on his knee. For a long moment, neither of the teenagers said anything more, a deafening silence taking a hold of the air and percolating with the weight of all of Macaius’s frustrations-- until finally Emilie dared murmur, “What if you didn’t marry a highlord’s kid?”

Macaius pursed his lips. “Well historically there’s precedent for the emperor or empress marrying a count from Taika if one of particular power is born, but no such person exists who’s of an age for me to marry right n-”

The young emperor cut himself off, looking into his cousin’s eyes incredulously. “Wait you… you don’t mean a minor lord either, do you?”

“No,” Emilie agreed. “I don’t.” She shrugged. “You mean to reform things, don’t you? Unite the imperiality, nobility, and commonfolk all, paying less heed to who one’s parents are and much more attention to people’s magical talents?” The girl tilted her head, the look on her face turned thoughtful. “If you want to show the people that their magic is what matters most, then… show them, Macaius. Prove that you mean it. That there is no us versus them, but that we’re all blessed and valued children of the gods.”

Macaius leaned back on the sofa, his gaze turned inward. “It would take some doing. I can’t just put out an open casting call, or I’d get every greedy, selfish power grubber in the kingdom. It will have to be someone who has the power to contribute to the imperial line, but who also has the disposition to be a good empress. And someone I can tolerate on a personal level,” he added wryly. “It might be best to do this quietly. To sort of… scout around while I’m out incognito.”

“You’d have to be careful, though,” Emilie said. “You use an alias out in the city, right? Which is good for safety, but…” The girl shook her head. “I know you’re a nice, non-terrifying person, Macaius. But if you introduced yourself to a commoner girl as a fellow commoner, and then suddenly sprung on her down the line that actually, no, you’re the emperor…”

He rubbed his face. “I’d have to face that no matter what- unless, again, I took up one of the manipulative power-grubbers who saw me as a money pouch and chess piece. But well… that’s the whole point of this venture. To humanize the emperor in the eyes of the people. To show them I’m not a monster, but a man no different from them. I’d take it gently. Be as reassuring as I can be. Whoever I chose would have to have a strong will and courage in plenty to even get that far anyway- and if this path really is what the gods intended for me, they won’t let it fall apart before it gets out of the starting gate.”

Emilie nodded slowly. “I… I suppose that’s true,” she said. “Just-- be prudent, Macaius, all right? And… I wouldn’t tell anybody else in the court about this if I were you. Not yet. You don’t want gossip spreading prematurely-- particularly since if rumours got out of hand and spread out into the city at large…” She smiled grimly. “It’s going to ruffle feathers amidst the nobility no matter when you spring it. So wait for the right moment. Until after you’ve found an actual candidate, instead of just the idea of one.”

“Naturally,” he agreed. Abruptly he reached towards his cousin, pulling her into a hug. “I love you, Emmy. Thank you. For always being on my side, even when it feels like nobody else is.”

“Of course,” she said. “I love you, too, Macaius. And I’m sure whatever girl you pick will, as well.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled away. “Nah. I know better. I want a friend and a good empress- I’m not so stupid as to expect a love match. And that’s fine, as long as my wife is someone I can rely on to support me in my reforms. After all this time, I’m used to being mostly alone.”

***

With his new goal in mind, Macaius felt somewhat reinvigorated. Now he had a more direct purpose to his wanderings of the city than just talking to the merchants over nothing in particular. However, finding a potential wife proved easier said than done- the people in the city were largely strangers to him, and it was just… awkward for him to walk up to someone and try to engage them in that way. For all his training in oration and diplomacy, when it came to casual interactions Macaius had very, very poor social skills. The sad consequences of having grown up with only one real friend to learn them from.

And it wasn’t like he could devote excessive amounts of time to his search either. He was also getting his plans organized for the first phase of the social reforms he wanted to put into place- a privy council, composed of high lords, low lords, and yes, also of peasants from all around Meltaim. It was proving to be a logistical mess to sort through, and he wanted a solid plan going in before he presented anything to his advisors.

Needless to say, Macaius had a lot on his mind. So perhaps it was unsurprising that he was so lost in his thoughts that didn’t even realize a commotion was brewing one day in the market until sharply raised voices startled him out of his absentminded inspection of the contents of a fruit stall. Whipping his gaze toward the din, he found himself peering at what on its surface appeared to be an ordinary exchange between a vegetable peddler and his customer, but upon a more thorough inspection proved to be anything but. The merchant-- a balding, fifty-odd man with several gaps in his lecherous smile-- was staring down at a short but athletically built teenage girl, a lumpy potato held just out of her reach as she tried desperately to snatch it away from him. Every time she grew close he zagged aside, the breathy laughter that dripped from his lips a stark contrast to the string of curses that was ratcheting from hers.

“Come on, just give it to me!” she snapped, making another grab for it. “I gave you the money, it’s mine.”

“Aww,” the merchant sang back, his dark eyes glimmering devilishly. “But you only gave me a crown, love. I want my other half of payment.” He winked at her, puckering his lips.

“No bloody way,” she growled, clenching her jaw. “Either give me the godforsaken potato, or give me my money back, you lout.”

The disguised emperor’s eyes darkened. The first time he’d witnessed a scene like this, some months ago, had come as an enormous shock to the sheltered young man. However, by now the only emotion the display inspired in him was repulsion towards the leering merchant. He realized, after a few seconds, that he vaguely recognized the teenager- she worked at a bookbinder a few blocks away where Macaius occasionally went on his strolls to buy new books for himself, his childhood love of reading not at all abated by becoming emperor. He couldn’t pretend to know this woman well, but from what he did know of her she was sharp as a tack and honest to a fault- not someone who deserved to be toyed with in such a way.

Before he quite knew what he was doing, he found himself striding over to the stall. Reality set in a fraction of a second too late as the merchant caught sight of his glowering approach, and Macaius realized that he was in trouble. If he made a scene now, he risked being exposed- he couldn’t exactly just order this man about, and if he tried to he’d be laughed at. Thinking quickly, he looked down towards the young woman, quirking an eyebrow at her.

“What’s the matter, Sis?” he asked nonchalantly, hand drifting idly towards his sheathed wand. “I thought we were just picking up some groceries before heading home to Mum- something held you up?”

The girl blinked, clearly startled, and for a moment confusion danced across her face. Then, as she seemed to realise what Macaius was doing, she smiled tentatively at him. “I was just getting the potato Mum wanted for the stew tonight,” she said, her mist blue eyes narrowed. “Paid for it and everything. But then this lovely chap here decided to play games.”

“Did he, now?” Macaius gave the merchant a very toothy grin. “Well that’s no good. Our mother’s not a patient woman, good sir; doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Boring though it may be sitting at your stall all day, I really think you should just give us the potato.” He tapped a finger against his wand handle meaningfully. “Mother is a force to be reckoned with when she’s cross. Everyone says I take after her a lot.”

The merchant quailed. “I… I was just teasing,” he stammered. “All in good fun, right, love?”

“No,” the girl snapped. “It wasn’t all in good fun.” She reached one last time for the potato, yanking it from his grip. “You have a lovely day, sir. Hope no runaway horse tramples you to death.”

And with that, she whirled and stomped away, nodding for Macaius to follow her. He did so, allowing the woman to guide him fully a block away from the vegetable merchant before he dared to speak.

“Ah, sorry if that was presumptuous of me,” he said with a wry grin. “I sort of acted on impulse there.”

“No, it’s all right.” Pausing in her tracks, she turned to face him, pale eyes raking the older teenager up and down. “I am, sadly, cursed with being insufferably short. And cads think they can take advantage of me because of it.” She returned his smile with a slight smirk of her own. “If you hadn’t come up, I was going to show him why he was very much mistaken in his assessment of me. A nice stinging hex between the eyes would have handled that pretty nicely, I think. Although then Mum would have been disappointed in me-- she’s one of those ‘don’t stoop to their level’ sort of people.”

Macaius chuckled. “Ah, well you’d have been proving yourself his better rather than stooping to his level, no?” He tilted his head slightly. “You work at the bookbinders right? I imagine you’ve no small vocabulary of obscure, painful hexes.”

She nodded. “I thought I recognised you. Sorry, I don’t remember your name, but-- you’ve come in to browse a few times, right? And we talked about why Brygida Jabłko’s earlier dramas are much more finely tuned than her later efforts.” Shifting the potato into the canvas satchel she wore over one shoulder, the girl added, “We finally got in a copy of The Squall. Mum says it’s a second rate transcription, but it’s got the bulk of the story down, at least. I hope I can finish reading it before it sells.”

Macaius brightened. “Did you now? Is it the first edition or the revised version from after the church tried to censor it for a while?” He laughed ruefully in realization, and added, “Oh, and ah, Bodhan. My name’s Bodhan.”

Macaius wasn’t entirely sure where this pseudonym had come from- he couldn’t recall ever having met anyone by that name in his life- but when he’d been trying to come up with a false identity for himself in peasant guise, it had just felt… right.

“Revised, alas,” the girl said. “But better than nothing, eh?” She reached her hand out toward him in an offering. “And it’s nice to meet you formally, Bodhan. I’m Krystyna, but you can call me Krysia-- everyone else does.”

Macaius accepted the young woman’s hand. “Krysia- a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well. And once you finish with The Squall, if no one buys it first maybe you can let me… I don’t know, touch the binding or something.” He winked, inviting Krysia to share the joke. “Once in a lifetime experience.”

Krysia laughed, raising her fire red brow. “Oh, I don’t know, you ask an awful lot of me, Bodhan.” She let go of his hand. “Though I suppose after you saved me from having to lob a stinging hex at that prat, I do owe you. All right. It’s a deal.”

Macaius ended up being permitted not only to touch the book in question, but also to skim its contents, prompting a spirited conversation between himself and Krysia as the two tried to work out where, exactly, the revisions had probably been made to the narrative. A few days later Macaius again ran into Krysia in the market, and they bantered cheerfully for a bit before going their separate ways. Before long, Macaius began to go into the book shop regularly, not just when he heard word of a shipment as he had previously, and spent at least an hour during each visit talking animatedly with Krysia about various books… and eventually, about other things as well. Her life, her family, her hobbies outside of reading, her thoughts on current issues…

“I swear sometimes I can’t tell if she’s a merchant taught by her parents or a noble educated by expensive tutors,” he mused to Emilie over a platter of cookies and tea one night after a visit to the city. “She’s got to be one of the most intelligent, insightful people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t just complain about the things that are wrong with the market, or the city, or Meltaim as a whole. She actually suggests solutions, and good ones too.”

“She sounds smart,” Emilie agreed, dumping a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Probably a whole lot more intellectually stimulating to talk to than I am, huh?” The emperor’s cousin grinned self-deprecatingly. “What did your father used to say, Mac? That my talents rested outside of academia?”

“You’re plenty intelligent, Em,” he retorted. “You just get bored and distracted easily. Don’t take me to mean anything against you; you’re an excellent political advisor and I would trust your opinion in a heartbeat. It’s just… nice. Having someone who shares my interest in reading and literature. And she’s… nice. Our tutors were intellectual but they were snooty about it. Condescending. When Krysia and I disagree on something she doesn’t talk down to me, she makes jokes. Laughs. And even if I think she’s dead wrong, when she laughs I can’t help laughing too.”

“Just admit it, Macaius,” Emilie said brightly. “You’re in love.”

The emperor blinked. Then he blinked again, staring at his cousin in bewilderment. “I… I’m what?”

The girl cackled. “Oh, Macaius, you sweet little boy-emperor.” Setting down her teacup, Emilie leaned forward in her seat, ticking off fingers as she listed, “You visit her every chance you can get. You spend hours with her when you do. When you get home, all you can talk about is what you and her discussed that day. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure you find her, ah, attractive, shall we say? Or at least, that’s the only reason I can think of that you’d randomly rattle off facts like-- oh, I don’t know, how her nose wrinkles when she laughs or how vibrant her hair looks in the sunlight or--”

“Sh-she’s a friend,” Macaius objected, his face turning a delicate shade of pink. “I mean, I spend hours with you, don’t I? And I, ah… well…”

“Well, yes,” Emilie said. “But we’re basically siblings, Macaius. On the other hand, you met Krysia while you were out in the city searching for a spouse.” She reached out to whack him, lightly. “I want to meet this girl who’s turned you into a gibbering, gushing mess. Put a face to all the lovelorn stories.”

The emperor swallowed hard. “I… I just… Of course you can meet her Emmy, but… d’you really think I like her that way? I mean I honestly… I’m not sure? You know I didn’t really get much socialization growing up, what if I’m reading everything wrong-”

“I don’t think you’re interpreting it all wrong, Mac,” Emilie assured him. “And look-- I’ll come with you next time you see her, all right? Assess things for myself. As a certified teenage girl, I think I can tell if she’s as smitten with you as you are with her.” She beamed. “I hope you’ve told her about your darling sister ‘Emma’. So my existence doesn’t come as a confusing surprise to her.”

He laughed, grinning sheepishly. “Of course I have. She talks about her family, it’s only fair I reciprocate.” The young emperor winked. “So many embarrassing childhood stories to share, so little time.”

Macaius managed to dodge the first throw pillow Emilie chucked at him, but the second bopped him square on the ear.

Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

It was a few days later, and Macaius had called a meeting of his advisors- he was finally going to bite the bullet. He was going to put into motion the first stages of the plan that would eventually reshape all of Meltaim.

And he was scared out of his mind.

Up until now, he’d mostly kept his visible actions to commonplace issues. The sorts of things his father had handled on a day-to-day basis. But now, he was going to put himself forward, and start actually using the power that was his as emperor. And he had a feeling nobody was particularly going to like it.

Once all of his advisors- of which there were five- were present, Macaius stood, smiling serenely.

“Thank you for coming today, all of you,” he said with cool formality. “I called you because I’ve been doing a very great deal of thinking over the past several years about the current state of Meltaim. It’s been in disarray since the end of the war, and popular opinion is swayed very much against the imperiality. The people have lost faith after my father’s misguided Campaigns. Am I wrong?”

For a moment, none of the advisors spoke, the men and women merely exchanging uneasy glances with another. Then, very hesitantly, one said, “The empire has seen happier days, your imperial majesty. But your reign thus far has been a reasonable and positive one.”

“I’m certainly glad you think so,” Macaius said with a wan smile. “I have no wish to rule by fear and intimidation as my father did. At the same time, I don’t want to just… coast, and hope for things to even out on their own. That would be highly irresponsible of me. I don’t want to just take away the tools of pain that have been hurting our empire; I want to take steps to heal it, and make it great again.”

“Of course, my liege,” said another of the advisors, though her tepid tone little matched her words. “Have you… any particular steps in mind?” A beat. “Perhaps you’ve given more thought to your own personal future? Since, of course, the strength of the empire as a whole relies largely on the strength of the imperiality. And as discussed last week, Margrave Bogaty’s youngest daughter’s betrothal to one of their count’s sons fell through--”

“And as I have assured you multiple times, I am giving the matter of my legacy all due consideration,” Macaius interrupted, somewhat exasperated by the advisor’s attempt to hijack the discussion by once again bringing up marriage suggestions. They really weren’t going to let him keep putting it off much longer, were they? Not unless he gave them some sort of imperial mandate to back off, but he hardly wanted to alienate his advisors that way. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he tried to focus once more on the issue at hand.

“Today’s meeting is not about my eventual marriage,” he said firmly, with what he hoped was finality. “I have given much thought to the errors of the past, and it has come to my mind that, though Meltaim is an empire founded upon the principle that nothing in this world is more valuable than the magic of our souls, we have come over time to favor bloodlines and self-serving political alliances over this all important truth. All of the power in Meltaim is in the hands of the nobility- the margraves, the counts, the barons. When the people of Meltaim cried out that the Gods’ Campaigns were a mistake, when the border guard reported increased tensions from Valzaim and Macarinth, no one listened. Because these truths did not serve the ends the nobles were after.” He swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing. “We cannot continue to turn a blind eye to the will of the people, who are as blessed with the gods’ gifts as are their overlords, just because the truth is inconvenient.”

“The truth, my liege?” said the first advisor who’d spoken. “Forgive me, but what do you mean by that?”

“Many truths,” Macaius said simply. “The things that the people of Meltaim see, on the ground and in the middle of these events, that are easy to ignore for us in the safety of our castles. As I already said, things like the fact that Valzaim and Macarinth would not stand idly by in the face of the Gods’ Campaigns for long. My father prepared for some military backlash, but the fact that he was provoking a war still came as a surprise to him when the enemy finally made their move. We the nobility think ourselves invulnerable, and by extension we tend to think Meltaim is invulnerable- but we have seen firsthand that is not the case.”

“Do you mean to increase the size of our standing armies then, your imperial majesty?” asked another of the councillors, his voice laden with confusion. “I mean, we could issue levies, but… the people might be wary--”

“No, I think further militarization is the last thing we need,” Macaius interrupted again. “Our neighbors are watching us very closely, and anything that looked like preparation for aggression would come back to bite us.” He smiled thinly. “I was thinking that, for the time being, we need to be more inward focused. The war was just an example meant to illustrate my point- the peasantry often sees things the nobility does not. They are the people of Meltaim, the majority that has, until now, had no voice.”

Here it went. Forcing his breathe to stay even, Macaius said, “I want to give them the voice they so sorely lack. I want to unite the nobility and the peasantry, so that we may all work together towards a better future for Meltaim, by pooling our knowledge and resources.” He stood, passing around sheaves of papers to his advisors. “I have with me a proposal for the creation of a council- a council that would be comprised of equal parts noble and commoner, each with an equal voice and vote. The nobles of each region would send one cadet member of their major house and one cadet member of one of their minor houses, and two peasants would be chosen based on a universally agreed upon system of merit and a testing of intelligence and problem-solving skills. The representatives, saving the margrave’s relative, would be cycled out every three years to keep them from growing too comfortable in their power. The people of their region would have the right to communicate directly with these representatives on matters that they believe should come before the crown to be addressed.”

A clamor almost immediately broke out amidst the advisors, their voices mingling together into a disbelieving cacophony as they skimmed over the documents. It was nearly a minute before one of the courtiers composed himself enough to speak out over the rest, sounding anxious as a startled cat as he dared brook, “Is this… is this a serious proposal, my liege? Because it’s… it’s…”

“A proposal only in the sense that if anyone has any input as to how the idea may be improved upon, now is the time to speak up,” Macaius replied, trying to put as much authority into his voice as he could. They were not going to head him off now, not at the very first testing. “But regardless of if it seems like a joke to you, I assure you it is going to happen. This is the future of Meltaim, and attitudes like this are exactly the sort of thing that I’m talking about; why shouldn’t it be a serious proposal?”

“It’s… unheard of, your imperial majesty,” sputtered another councillor. “Expanding your council by such a wide margin? Including commoners amongst it?” As the woman seemed to realise what this meant for her own job security, she added a bit shrilly, “Would they have the same level of power as we do, my liege? Our own years of experience and expertise made null, and--”

“I’m not completely arrogant, I assure you, Advisor Wojda,” Macaius said gently. “I know what I am- seventeen, inexperienced, and with my training tragically abbreviated by my father’s passing. I still need your help and guidance. You are not being replaced, none of you. I will still need your help, now more than ever, because this council will be full of an endlessly rotating batch of new minds. Any experience they gain will be lost, which is good because it means we get fresh ideas in every few years and no one gets too comfortable and abusive with their power, but bad in that I will for several months every three years have people around me with little political skill aside from their own good sense. It will be upon you all to help keep things on track, and guide the inexperienced councillors until they grow into their positions.”

“How soon do you mean to enact these changes, Emperor Macaius?” Wojda asked. “I caution you against acting too quickly. If… if do you mean to make such sweeping reforms, it’s best to take a cautious path. Lest things get too chaotic. Too overwhelming.”

The young emperor quirked a brow. “And what would you suggest, then?”

“Do it piecemeal, my liege,” said another advisor. “Bring in the new nobles first, then the commoners. That way, the court isn’t flooded by dozens of new, inexperienced faces at once. And the nobles can help guide the commoner selection process-- so they don’t feel as if they’re having their status… supplanted.”

“I certainly have no wish to alienate my nobles,” Macaius agreed. “I just worry if they are too heavily involved in the selection directly, they will contrive a way to chose individuals with a vested interest in supporting their own political ends rather than being a voice of the people- city officials in their own house seats, for example, or high ranking military generals.”

Wojda shrugged, a small smile ticking between her lips. “What matters isn’t how much power they have, my liege,” she said. “It’s how much power they think they have.”

The young emperor chuckled softly. “I suppose you have a point. Very well then- we’ll send off to the nobles to nominate their candidates, and select the best two from among the candidates for each region. From there, discussions can proceed further in adding the peasant representatives.” He tapped a forefinger against the table. “Does anyone else have any suggestions?”

When the advisors responded to the negative, Macaius smiled. “Then for now, this meeting is adjourned. I shall have my scribes draft letters to be sent out to the regional margraves, and we may begin discussion once they are approved and sent out for the appointment of the representatives from Taika.”

The advisors all stood, filing out of the room and muttering amongst themselves as they went. Macaius wasn’t entirely sure what they were saying, but didn’t especially care- he’d done it! He’d finally done it! He was making the first steps towards his gods-given mission of reforms for Meltaim!

The young emperor managed to keep himself cool and composed as he walked through the halls of the Shadowed Palace, but once he made it fully back to the private chambers, he couldn’t help but break into an excited jog, almost barreling into his mother before she told him Emilie was in the sitting room. Thanking his mother and trying not to run again, he power-walked the rest of the way to his adoptive sister, all but flinging the door open in his excitement.

“I did it!” he crowed as the door banged against the opposite wall. “I actually did it Emmy!”

“Oh?” She quirked a blonde brow. “Did what, Mac?”

“I proposed my council to the advisors, and got them to approve it!” he enthused, his face glowing like a small child in a candy shop. He began pacing the room, gesturing animatedly as he went on, “They weren’t totally on board at first, but when I explained that I wasn’t replacing them they actually started making suggestions to try and help get it off the ground- starting with the noble councillors so they don’t feel supplanted, then adding in the peasants after getting the nobles in on the selection process, and-”

“Mac, calm down-- you’re going to pass out, I don’t think you’ve breathed once.” Emilie laughed. “But congratulations. I know how nervous you’ve been about bringing up any of your reform ideas.” Standing, she straightened her skirts. “I think we should celebrate.”

Macaius turned towards his cousin, tilting his head. “Oh? I’m all for it, but I imagine you had something in particular in mind?”

“It’s been three whole days since you promised me I could meet Krysia,” the girl returned cheerily. “Leading me on, were you?” She winked, dark eyes glimmering mischievously. “And I’m sure she’s missing you tons, Bodhan.”

Macaius turned beet red, but after a moment’s thought he nodded. “Alright. Sure. We’ll go into town and see Krysia. The advisors were getting on me about marriage again, so… I guess I really should start thinking about that… her... more seriously.”

Emilie beamed. “Meet you in the front courtyard in thirty minutes?” she said. Gesturing to her simple but ornately tailored dress, she added, “I probably should change first. And so should you.”

Soon enough the cousins had indeed changed into peasant dress, and were walking briskly through the streets of the city towards Krysia’s book shop. As they entered, Macaius couldn’t help but notice the way that Krysia’s ginger locks seemed to glow like a warm fire in the light coming in out of the window, and he felt his face heating somewhat as if in response to this thought. Gods, was Emilie right?

“Hello Krysia,” he called out cheerily to her. “I have someone who I’d like to introduce to you- I think I’ve mentioned my sister, Emma?”

Krysia, who’d been sitting behind the counter with a book spread in front of her, leapt to her feet. “Bodhan!” Her cheeks flushed. “I was hoping you’d come in-- you won’t believe what we got in today, it’s a copy of the unrevised edition of The Squall, and--” She cut herself off, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m being rude, aren’t I? Of course-- Emma. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Emilie replied. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Tilting her head, she added lightly, “I have to thank you-- I’ve had to listen to so much less of Bodhan rambling about archaic plays and books since he’s met you.”

Macaius laughed, swatting Emilie lightly on the back of her head. “My sister is a philistine and a prat, you’ll have to forgive her,” he said cheerfully. His face brightened as he glanced at the book in front of Krysia. “You’ll have to hide that from the customers until we get a chance to skim it, or it’ll be snatched up in no time. Though it’d be quite the windfall for you, wouldn’t it?”

“Mmhm,” Krysia confirmed. “Mum would have my hide if she knew I was even reading it-- she’s afraid some collector will come in and refuse to buy it because the spine shows wear, and there may be specks of oil on the pages from my touching them.” The girl’s eyes twinkled. “But I won’t tell her if you won’t, Bodhan.”

“Oh, Bodhan’s a very good secret-keeper,” Emilie said blithely. “Especially in the name of literature.”

“My lips are sealed,” the young man promised, grinning back at the bookbinder. There was no missing the fact that his expression bore not only excitement about the rare book, but also a large degree of warmth as he looked at Krysia’s face.

Emilie smirked. “So,” she said, “you two have been friends for a while now, huh?”

Krysia laughed, sweeping the book shut. “I guess you could say that,” she confirmed, her already-flushed cheeks reddening. “Bodhan is my best customer who never buys anything. Isn’t that right, Bodhan?”

Macaius grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish I could say a cloth merchant’s pocketbook lent itself to financing a love of books, but I’d be lying through my teeth. But I appreciate that Krysia humors me anyway and doesn’t chase me out for loitering.” Feeling tremendously daring, but knowing he needed to test the waters at some point, he added, “I could only wish half of the literary enthusiasts I’ve spoken with had as much patience and kindness to go with their intelligence.”

“It’s nice talking to someone who’s just as knowledgeable and interested in all these books as I am,” Krysia replied. “And I know they’re our lifeblood, but honestly? Most of the collectors who come in are prats. They want the books as showpieces, not to read them. It drives me mad, thinking of a first edition Lotka comedy or a mint Beckza poetry anthology just… sitting on some shelf like a shiny trophy.”

“I know, right?” Macaius gave an aggrieved sigh. “Those books were written to be read. If I wrote a book I would do it so that my words could live on after I died, not so they would sit in someone’s private library never being touched so the binding doesn’t get creased.”

“Exactly,” Krysia said emphatically. “Maybe I’m just a hopeless optimist, but sometimes I’d rather refuse a sale and take the monetary hit if I knew it could save some lovely gem from going off to live a miserable life on a coffee table.” She laughed softly. “Alas, Mum doesn’t feel the same way.”

“It’s good to be passionate, at least,” Emilie said, exchanging a knowing look with Macaius. “And to place value in things that are important to you beyond just how much they cost.”

“Mm-hm,” Macaius agreed, his expression turned oddly bashful all of the sudden. “Krysia, I um… I was wondering…”

“Hmm?” Krysia tilted her head, bright locks brushing against her lips. “Everything all right, Bodhan?”

“We… we talk about written transcripts of plays a lot,” he stammered. “I was wondering if, m-maybe you… you’d like to got to the theater sometime? Just us? See it as it was meant to be seen, as it were.” His courage flagging, he hurriedly added, “I mean, if you don’t want to that’s fine, I know you want to finish with the book before it sells but I… well I thought I’d ask.”

“Are you inviting me on a date, Bodhan?” Krysia asked, taking a step toward him, her brows raised nearly to her hairline.

Macaius’ face had taken on the seeming of an apple, bright red against his dark hair. “If… if you want?” he stammered. Gods, he’d thought proposing his council to his advisors had made him nervous! This was even worse. “You don’t have to feel pressured or… or…”

Krysia, though, only laughed again, airily. “You know I’ve been waiting for you to ask me since like, the day you helped me out with that idiot vegetable vendor, right?” she said. “I only didn’t do it myself because I wasn’t sure if you were coming to see me, or the books. And I didn’t want to scare you away.”

Now Macaius felt an odd mixture of extremely stupid and inexplicably elated. He gave a rueful smile, glancing towards Emilie. “Just ask my sister- I’m really, really bad at this kind of thing. S-sorry.”

“Aw, don’t be sorry,” Krysia said. “It’s sweet, Bodhan. A nice change from most of the cads in this city.”

“You should go tonight!” Emilie added brightly, just barely refraining a hyena-like grin. “There’s some drama playing at the Gods’ Eye Theater, isn’t there? Something by, um, what’s their name-- Jabbery--”

“Jabłko?” Krysia guessed.

Macaius laughed. “Sure- I’ll have to see if I can snag some last-minute tickets but… if you’re not busy?” Suddenly feeling inspired, he added, “We could… meet somewhere for dinner beforehand. H-have a picnic maybe. And smuggle the leftover wine with us into the theater.”

“That sounds lovely,” Krysia agreed, cheeks now glowing as brightly as her hair. “I close up shop at sunset-- if you wanted to swing by then…? I’ll just have to let Mum know that I won’t be home for supper.”

Macaius nodded enthusiastically. “Sure. I’ll be here. It’ll be… lots of fun. I know it.”

Part Four

SPOILER: Click to show

Macaius’ first date with Krysia went over far better than he’d dared to hope, and he stumbled back to the Shadowed Palace in a haze of excitement and a lingering buzz from the wine he’d imbibed. Emilie, waiting outside his chamber door like a wraith, immediately demanded the whole story— and teased him mercilessly as the young emperor recounted the events of the night. “You’re in love,” she declared, grinning like a cat. “No denying it anymore, Mac.”

Encouraged by his initial success, the young man invited Krysia out several times more over the next several weeks, and before long one thing was abundantly clear- just as Emilie teased, the young emperor was head over heels for his peasant bookbinder. Though he forced himself to focus when he was engaged in meetings over his new council or business as the emperor, during his downtime his conversation range had slimmed noticeably, to the point where Julissa even asked him a few times if he was taking sick.

And in a manner of speaking he was- lovesick.

When the first of the nobles began to show up from around the kingdom, however, he had to swallow back his teenage hormones, difficult as that was. He couldn’t afford to make a poor impression; after all, these next few months would be paramount in determining the long-term success of his first reform. Things had to go well with the extended noble council, or else the rest of the plan would fall apart, too— gods knew, if the nobles proved a disaster, things would never reach the peasant phase.

Fortunately, the noble council hit off far better than Macaius had dared to dream it might- it seemed that the families who the elected councilors represented were ecstatic to have the chance to directly influence their emperor’s decision-making process, instead of being helpless against his whimsies as they’d been with Sebellius. Though there had been some initial friction in trying to get the group to work together as a cohesive unit, that hadn’t taken too long to resolve, particularly since several of the group were accustomed to teamwork from time spent in command positions during the war. In fact one of the group, the son of Izydor Gorski, Felicks, was missing his entire leg from the knee down after a skirmish in that war, though his disability had done nothing to dampen his enthusiasm and energy. Macaius found himself quite liking the crippled ex-soldier.

And thus he was mildly frustrated when it was Felicks who broached that one particular topic Macaius had thus far managed to table in the wake of announcing— and thereafter assembling— new the council.

“My liege,” Felicks said, once they’d finished with all of the council’s official items on chilly winter morning, “before we adjourn, there was one matter than some of us wanted to broach with you, if we may be so bold.”

Macaius quirked an eyebrow, looking up from the notes he was jotting. “Oh?”

“A rather… long-standing matter, shall we say?” added Matylda Lodowaty, the representative from Lyse province— and Emilie’s older sister (the woman’s presence at court had provided no dearth of awkward encounters over the past few months). Matylda went on evenly, “And an important one, too, my liege. One that cannot be ignored for much longer.”

A trickling of exasperation threaded through Macaius as he realized what the two must be talking about, but nonetheless he only smiled pleasantly. “And which matter would that be?”

“The matter of your wife, my liege,” Felicks said bluntly.

Macaius chuckled. “Wife? I wasn’t even aware I had a betrothed, much less that I was already married,” he said, a light of humor in his voice that didn’t reach his eyes. Gods, they were at this again?

“And therein rests the problem,” said Matylda, fostering a very nervous smiling. “You’re already seventeen, your imperial majesty. And given the, ah, difficulties your father had producing heirs…” She shook her head. “We don’t want the kingdom to worry, my liege.”

Macaius had the feeling he couldn’t simply dismiss the subject- not this time. This room was full of men and women who, if given the slightest provocation, could easily topple all of his plans for reform. He had to keep them on his side, one way or another. But he also didn’t want to kowtow to them, meekly submitting to whatever plans they had in store.

“We prepared a formal list, imperial majesty,” put in another man, this one a count from Inbar. “We think we have compiled a suitable offering of candidates who would make for excellent empresses-”

“Thoughtful of you,” Macaius interrupted with a serene smile. “But wholly unnecessary. I have not been as idle on the matter as you might think, my friends and subjects. I take my responsibilities to the Srebro legacy very seriously.”

“Oh?” The representative from Erlea cocked his head. “Do you mean to say you’ve already made a decision as to your bride, your imperial majesty?”

“I have,” the teenage emperor replied, his heart thudding in his ears. Gods, this was going to go poorly, he just knew it. There was no way this would go anything but poorly. Forcing himself to answer calmly, he went on, “I have decided to act in such a way as to not breed dissension amidst the council by showing favor to one region’s House in particular- and in such a way as to reassure the people that, for all the wrongs that have been exacted upon them, the imperiality has not forgotten to whom it owes its protection. For too long has the nobility has held itself apart from Meltaim as a whole, when it should be one’s power and intelligence that determines their worth rather than bloodlines.” He smiled, though inside all he felt was terrified. “I have decided to offer my hand to a peasant woman, right here in Taika, to unite all of Meltaim in a new age of prosperity and cooperation.”

The room fell so silent one could have heard their own heartbeat, the panel of councillors gawping openly at their emperor. Either they weren’t courageous enough to speak or merely knew not what to say, nearly a minute passing before any of the men or women managed to find a voice again.

“A… a peasant?” murmured Matylda Lodowaty. “You… mean to marry a peasant, my emperor?”

“I do,” Macaius replied, forcing himself not to tremble. “I have been scouting the city for some months now, and I believe I have found a worthy candidate; a young woman who is very well educated, wise, and with power sufficient to revitalize the imperial line that has been seeing so much difficulty in recent times.”

“M-my lord,” Felicks stammered, his expression uncomfortable. “Such a thing is not unheard of for younger, cadet line siblings, but for the emperor... I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. Peasants are…”

“Are what, exactly?” Macaius asked, a prickle of irritation overcoming his nervousness.

“You’re the emperor,” sputtered the lord from Abital. “It’s— it’s never been done, it’s improper—”

“If it’s never been done, who’s to say it’s improper?” Macaius asked, his voice acquiring an edge. “I for one think rather differently- it’s never been done, and therefore it’s long past due. Peasants make up some ninety percent of the population of Meltaim- do they not deserve the same respect that our small majority sees?”

“The nobility marries only within our own ranks in order to keep us cooperative with one another, so that no one House derives too much power,” the lord from Inbar retorted. “It serves a very important, very practical, and very necessary function.”

Macaius frowned. “Do you mean to say that I may only demand the loyalty of my nobility if I seal it with a marriage alliance? That I should, in fact, fear for the sanctity of my rule if I do not?”

“Of course not,” Matylda said hurriedly. “We are all your loyal subjects, my liege.” She hesitated. “This… peasant girl— she… knows who you are? You’ve outed yourself whilst afoot in the city in plainclothes?”

“Not yet,” Macaius admitted. “I wanted to be certain of her. I’m no fool, I know that many people would jump at the chance to marry the emperor for the prestige and power, and playact at being something they are not. As of yet she knows me only as a merchant boy with an interest in politics and a passion for old dramas.”

The advisor let out a soft sigh of what might have been relief. “At least you’ve not been… excessively reckless,” she said.

“But if you’re serious with this, my liege,” said the lord from Erlea, “then I must insist we meet this girl at once. Vet her ourselves. Make sure she’s not a wholly inappropriate fit for the seat of empress of Meltaim.”

“What would you have me do, send knights to drag her up to the Shadowed Palace?” Macaius asked rhetorically. “That will only succeed in frightening her half to death. And if I troop all of you down to the market in plainclothes with me, it will look extremely suspicious.”

“Perhaps not right this second, sire,” Felicks put in, glancing at the lord from Erlea with a quirked eyebrow. “But this also isn’t something you can really dawdle on. If you are serious about this woman, you will have to tell her who you really are sooner than later. Just because you wish to marry a peasant, that does not afford you the luxury of doing things as peasants do them, with a long courtship. You need heirs first and foremost, and if your peasant is fit to be empress, she will understand that.”

Macaius felt the blood draining from his face, and he wanted badly to protest that it was too soon, but he was given little time to seethe as Matylda smoothly added, “If you are serious about this, my liege, then show us. You’ve dallied long enough in this avenue, and I fear any more time wasted will only hurt the empire.”

You would never have talked to father like that, Macaius thought with savage frustration. Bossed him around like he was a petulant child asking for a treat. And while it some ways it was a sign of positive improvement that the nobles felt comfortable being frank with him, it also exasperated him when they addressed him like he was a toddler instead of their emperor. A particularly dense toddler.

“Very well,” he said stiffly, his aggravation plain. “I don’t wish to rush the poor woman- this is going to come as a shock to her- so shall we say two weeks time? Then I shall present her to you.”

“Two weeks,” agreed the councillor from Abital. “So it shall be, my liege.”

The meeting adjourned then, the councillors going their separate ways with no small amount of gossiping amongst them. Macaius did his best to ignore it, power-walking through the public areas of the palace in such a blistering rage that he almost plowed right into Emilie as he was passing the door to the gardens- she just coming inside out of the late winter snow. Startled, Macaius backpedaled several steps before he caught himself, and opened his mouth to deliver a blistering lecture before he realized that it was his cousin and not some careless servant or blank.

“...Emmy,” he said, sounding surprised. After a moment, he forced a smile. “You’re not too chilled are you? Because I for one could use a nip outside. The gardens are so lovely and quiet. And with the snow muffling voices, no one hears if you scream in frustration.”

Emilie tilted her head, confusion unfurling across her face. “What’s wrong, Mac?” she asked. “You look upset.”

The teenage emperor gestured with one hand for Emilie to follow him before heading out into the garden. His breath puffing in the air like smoke, he plowed a path through the snow until he reached a secluded enough area to vent his spleen unheard. Then, he spun towards his cousin and buried his face in his hands.

“It’s the council,” he said bitterly. “They apparently conspired with each other to try and ambush me on the whole marriage issue. Had a list of names compiled and everything. I… finally had to tell them that I don’t plan to marry a noble”

“Oh.” Emilie creased her brow, studying Macaius for a moment before she reached out and set a hand on his shoulder. “So… they know about Krystyna, then?”

“Yes,” he replied. “They didn’t take it well. When I assured them that I hadn’t told her who I was because that was asking for a golddigger to seduce me, Matylda’s only comment was ‘at least you haven’t been excessively reckless.’”

Emilie winced. “Gods, I could throttle her. I’m sorry, Macaius.” A beat. “What… what are you going to do, then? Next?”

“They demanded to meet Krysia,” he said dully. “The advisor from Erlea was insisting that I bring her ‘at once’ but I managed to talk them down from that… but I only have two weeks. To tell her the truth and… bring her before he council.” He buried his face in his hands. “Gods, she’s going to run screaming in the other direction. I’d hoped to ease her in, not force her to jump into this all at once…”

“I don’t think she’ll run, Macaius,” Emilie said softly. “She loves you. I can tell. Just as much as you love her. And she’ll understand why you couldn’t tell her the truth. I know she will.”

“I’m just… so afraid,” Macaius admitted in a whimper. “Except for you I’ve always been… so alone. So cursed alone. And I’d made my peace with that. B-but for once, I have someone else who… who shares my interests and who I can have an intelligent conversation with and gods, actually be myself and not have to wear the cool, mature mask of a ruler twice my age a-and I can’t lose that now, I won’t let them destroy what little happiness I’ve managed to scrape up for myself!”

“Macaius.” Emilie squeezed his shoulder. “Take a deep breath, all right? Look… I know you. I know how you’re going to stew, and work yourself up, and…” She smiled thinly. “I think you should just get it over with, Mac. Before you can fret yourself into a tizzy.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” the teenage emperor asked, his brow furrowed.

“Telling Krysia,” Emilie said. “Don’t spend the next two weeks until you have to produce her stressing out, and playing all the worst case scenarios over and over again in your head. If you do that, all you’ll succeed in is making yourself sick.” Her dark eyes met his light ones, resolute. “Go tonight, Macaius. Tell her tonight.”

He bit his lip. “She’s going to be so terrified of me. If she even believes me.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” Emilie agreed. “But… if she loves you as much as I think she does, Macaius, she’ll come around. Once the shock wears off, she will come around.” Hesitating for a moment, she added very softly, “The gods wouldn’t have led you to her so this would all fall apart, right?”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I guess not. And I’ve always tried to have faith in Them, even if it was hard.” He sighed softly. “Thank you, Emilie. For listening.”

“Of course,” she said. “I love you, Macaius. And I know you’re nervous as all hells, but… I’m happy for you. That you’ll finally get to be open with Krysia. Embrace her as you are, instead of having to mislead her.”

He reached for his cousin, pulling her into a hug. “Just do me one more favor? Knock your interfering sister upside the head for me.”

Emilie gave a watery chuckle. “All right. But if I get a sternly worded letter from my mum down the road after Matylda goes whining to her, I’m blaming you.”

***

It was five minutes to closing time at the bookshop when Macaius arrived, trying valiantly to reign in his nervousness. All he wanted was to turn tail and bolt back for the palace, but instead he forced himself to push open the door and walk inside.

“Krysia?” he called, looking around. The young woman was nowhere in immediate view; however after a moment she hurried out the stockroom, arms loaded down with a haphazard stack of books.

“Bodhan,” she said, an automatic grin curling between her lips as she shifted the books so they didn’t fall. “I didn’t know you were coming by tonight.”

He laughed, though it was a wavering sound. “It was an impulse decision. I was wondering if you had some free time? We could go for a walk.”

“Sure, of course.” She set the weighty pile atop the payment counter, then nodded toward the tomes.“We just got in a new batch of antique church books— some of them are straight writ, some of them are embellished or annotated, but pretty neat in general. And the calligraphy is gorgeous. Mum wanted me to set them on the floor before I left for the night.” Her smile turned crooked. “Want to help me stock shelves so we can get out of here?”

“S-sure,” he agreed. “I’d be happy to. I have… a rather personal interest in religion, honestly, though I don’t usually talk about it with other people.” He gave Krysia a tired smile. “They’d think I was crazy.”

Krysia shrugged, picking up the book on top of the mound. “Nothing crazy about religion,” she said, moving to shelve it. “Admittedly, I’m not the most observant— I can’t even remember the last time I went to church not on a holiday— but I still think it’s important. And I have a lot of respect for people who take the time and energy to be devout.”

“I had… I guess you could call it an odd experience when I was a kid. It gave me a really unique perspective that I’ve really only shared with Emma before, and sometimes I’m not sure if even she believes me or if she’s just humoring me,” the emperor admitted, taking two books himself and heading for the shelf. “But it kind of inspired me to try and… be a better person than a lot of the people around me are.”

“Well, I’d say you’re succeeding,” Krysia said. “I mean, even the day we met properly— there were dozens, maybe hundreds, of people around who could have helped me. No one did. Except you.” She turned to face him, cheeks flushing. “You were better than all of them. And I didn’t even know you.”

Macaius blushed, a bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Krysia. It means a lot that you think so.” He swallowed hard. “I… I had wondered. Would you like to see where Emma and I live? Tonight. You’ve brought me to meet your family before, but I’ve never shown you my place and... well I think it’s overdue.”

“Sure.” Krysia’s pale eyes glimmered. “I’d love to see it.” Smirking, she added, “You sure you don’t want to tidy up for me first, Bodhan? You only have one chance to make a first impression, you know.”

I won’t need to tidy up to make an impression, he thought dourly, but only shrugged and replied, “I trust you not to judge me too harshly. So, shall we get these books put away?”

Krysia nodded, and in short order they’d finished the task, the redhead girl then locking up the shop behind them as they stepped out into the chilly night. The sun had set while they were inside, and the streets were now illuminated by a mixture of moonlight and magelights, the latter casting white-yellow beams across the cobbled roads as Krysia and Macaius wended away from the bookshop.

It took a while for Macaius to work up his nerve, for a time just walking down the cobbled road and holding Krysia’s hand in silence. Finally, he murmured, “It’s mostly just me, Emma, our mum and the servants at home now. Since my… my father died last year.”

Krysia nodded gently; he’d told her that his father had passed away, just not who his father was. “I know how hard that is,” the girl said. Her own father had died during the war. “A parent suddenly being just… gone. The house feels a lot emptier.”

“It was… very sudden,” Macaius admitted. “And it left me in the position of taking up a lot of responsibility he’d left behind.” He smiled awkwardly in Krysia’s direction. “Nobody really expects that their perfectly healthy father is going to just slip on a patch of ice and hit his head.”

For a moment, Krysia’s face froze, as though suspended in time and space. Then, very hesitantly, she said, “That’s a bit of serendipity, isn’t it? Given what happened to the emperor. I mean— not in a good way, just…” Her voice fell away, her eyes plunging toward the ground. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply it’s… funny at all, of course it’s not, it’s—”

“I didn’t think you did,” Macaius assured her gently. He turned a direction that the two of them had never gone before, up the black marble road that led through town towards the Shadowed Palace. “But it’s not really a coincidence so much as…” His voice caught, and he went on in a high warble, “th-the same event, told without context.”

“The same event?” Krystyna furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand, Bodhan. Your… your father died during the same storm as the emperor, you mean? Gods, that must have been awful— the whole empire in formal mourning and no one paying mind to your tragedy. As if it… didn’t matter.”

“Oh, the empire paid it mind,” Macaius replied. Lowering his voice, he added, “My father didn’t die in the same storm as the emperor, Krysia. My father was the emperor.” He looked up, to the distant facade of the Shadowed Palace as it loomed silhouetted against the moon. “I was taking you to mine and Emma’s house- there it is.”

Krysia laughed— until she seemed to realise there was no trace of humour on her beau’s face, upon which she abruptly fell silent. “Bodhan,” she said. “Are you… are you playing a practical joke on me? Because it’s an amusing one, I’ll give you that, but—”

“I’m not.” The young emperor’s voice was barely a whisper. He looked towards Krysia, cupping her cheek in his hand. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but I had to be sure of what was between us first. Krystyna… my name isn’t really Bodhan. It’s Macaius. Emperor Macaius Srebro.”

“No, it’s not,” Krysia replied, so plainly she might have been responding to an assertion that the sky was green. “I mean… it can’t be.” The girl pursed her lips. “And the joke’s not funny anymore, Bodhan. You can let up now.”

He sighed softly. “I didn’t think you would believe me,” he said, his voice mournful. “That’s why I’m taking you this way- it’s really the only means I have to prove my identity, short of showing up to the bookshop in full regalia. I’m going to take you into the palace. Walk right up to the gates, and the knights will stand aside because they know exactly who I am.”

For an uncomfortably long moment, Krysia said nothing, her expression written with something in between unease and aggravation. Then, she gave Macaius a short nod. “All right, fine,” she murmured, as though she were a parent humouring a disquietingly imaginative child. “Let’s go to the palace then. And um… see what they say.” Krystyna gulped. “Just— promise me you won’t react badly if they turn you away? I’d… rather not end up in legal trouble, Bodhan. Mum would gut me.”

“They won’t and you won’t,” Macaius said, though his voice was trembling and his eyes badly stung at the way Krysia was looking at him and talking to him. Like he was insane, dangerous even. “Trust me, okay? P-please?”

“O-okay.” She squeezed his hand, blinking hard. “I trust you.” The girl turned her eyes toward the palace, which was coming into closer and closer view up ahead, only a few short switchbacks away. “I… pr-presume you want to do the talking at the gate?”

“That would be best,” he agreed. “Don’t worry, you’re with me, no one will dare bother you.”

Soon enough the duo reached the palace gate, and both of the knights posted there took only one look at Macaius before they snapped into low bows. “Imperial majesty, welcome back.”

“All well, I trust?” Macaius asked, doing his best to keep his voice cool and formal in spite of the yawning void of terror in his chest at how Krystyna was going to react to all of this.

“Yes, my liege,” one of the knights murmured. “It has been very quiet.”

“Good,” the emperor replied coolly. “As you were then- I’ll be heading inside with my visitor.”

Both knights nodded sharply before returning to their previous posts, and at a signal from one of them the gate slowly started to clank open. Her hand still clutched in Macaius’s, Krysia stood ramrod straight, her jaw agape, her blue eyes wide as dinner plates. She didn’t move. She hardly breathed.

“I-I don’t understand how you rigged this up,” she whispered hoarsely. “I… I…” Her gaze, suddenly glossy as though she were fighting back tears, danced between the guards and her beau, something akin to panic rising in her. “Bodhan, pl-please. This isn’t f-funny anymore, this…”

Macaius sighed, clenching his eyes against tears of his own. “It isn’t a joke, Krysia. I didn’t rig anything, and funny is th-the last thing I’m trying to be.” His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m so, so sorry. B-but I had to be certain you loved me for me, and not because I was rich or powerful or anything else that an emperor can get someone.” His voice barely audible he added, “And I was… I was afraid. Of scaring you away, because of who I am. I don’t want to lose you. But I can’t change who I am, the life I was born into.”

“You’re… you’re the emperor,” she said— not fully a statement, but it was hardly a question, either. Her voice quavered, and sharply, she wrenched her hand out of his. “You’re the emperor. Of Meltaim. Th-the emperor.”

Macaius looked stricken, and helplessly he nodded. “I am. But I’m still me. Just a seventeen-year-old who was thrust into something he was barely ready for by the untimely death of his father. A kid wearing the crown and trying desperately to be its equal.” He swallowed hard. “A kid whose only friend in the world is the cousin who was raised as his sister. Everyone is afraid of me. Everyone. And I’m not my father- I don’t revel in that. I just… I just want to be able to be human sometimes. To love and be loved. That’s why- at least partially- I didn’t want to take a noble as my partner. A noble would be a political noose around my neck from some house or another. But you… I love you, Krysia. More than anything.”

“I d-don’t understand,” she warbled. “You… y-you’re the emperor, and you want me as a… a partner? You m-mean as… as a wife? As… your wife?” The girl shuddered, raking a trembling hand through her fire-red locks. “But I’m a n-nobody. I’m… I’m nobody.”

“No, you aren’t,” Macaius said gently, tentatively reaching a hand towards her, though after the way she had yanked away from him he didn’t seem to quite have the courage to actually touch her. “You’re beautiful, and clever, and funny- you’re a brilliant woman. And my whole life I’ve wanted to tear down the stigma that separates the peasant and noble class. Peasants aren’t nobody. They’re the lifeblood of Meltaim. They deserve success in their lives and a say in what happens in the empire as much as the nobility.”

Shaking like a blade of grass in the wind, Krysia reluctantly accepted the boy’s hand. “I-if we walk through the gates right now… n-no one would stop us?” She sniffled. “They’d just… let us in? Wherever we want to go?”

“Mm-hm,” Macaius nodded. “As long as you’re with me, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

“Because… because you’re the emperor,” she said again, as if the more times she declared it, the more logical— the truer-- it would somehow become. She shivered. “A-all right. F-fine then, my… my emperor. Show me in. T-to your home. That’s what this date was a-about, right?”

He smiled tentatively, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Right. Let’s go.”

And so they did- Macaius led Krysia through the snow laden gardens, up into the palace proper. They passed the elaborately decorated entrance hall and several lavish public areas, before finally Macaius pushed open the door to what he explained was the private wing: the living quarters of the imperial family. Everywhere they went, knights, servants and blanks alike bowed low, murmuring things like “my liege,” and “imperial majesty” under their breath.

Krysia moved as though swept along by an invisible current, her grip on Macaius’s hand iron, her pale eyes remaining impossibly wide. For the longest time she didn’t speak, simply drinking in each successive room, until finally— as she and Macaius stepped into the imperial family’s private foyer— she dared whisper, “It’s… it’s true. Oh, gods, it’s true.” She bit her lip and bowed her head. “M-my emperor. I’m… I’m so, so sorry if I’ve… ever been— improper or… disrespectful o-or—”

“Krysia, no,” Macaius interjected, his voice hitching. He pulled the woman into a hug, warbling, “I d-d-don’t want you to… to start treating me differently now. To be afraid of me, l-like everyone else. Please, please don’t do that to me. I love you, I need you, and that’s for who you are and what’s between us- even the way you tease me and bring me down a peg when I need it.”

In the emperor’s embrace, Krysia stiffened for a moment— before collapsing tremulously into his hold, her teary eyes pressed against the stiff fabric of his tunic. “I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered. “I c-can’t be. Not when… not when…” The girl whimpered. “You’ve m-made me so happy. These past months. F-first coming to visit, then… taking me out, and— meeting my family and… all of it. L-like a dream come true.”

“I never really, completely grasped how lonely I was until I found you, and suddenly I wasn’t anymore,” Macaius murmured, pressing his face into her fiery locks. “I love Emilie dearly, and I would never trade her for anything, but she doesn’t like to talk at length about dusty old books with me, or stand in the back of a crowded theater and make cracks about how the actors can’t fake an Inbar accent for beans, or…” he laughed softly. “Or stand close to me, just for the joy of feeling each other’s warmth. I love you, Krysia. I love you with every fiber of my being. I want you to be my wife. My… my empress.”

“Your empress,” Krysia echoed wonderingly. “Oh gods, the idea of me as the empress of Meltaim...” She shuddered again. “I-I’m a peasant, Bodhan. I-it wouldn’t… it wouldn't be allowed, would it—”

“It’s… complicated,” Macaius admitted. “My council is pressuring me to marry so that I can produce heirs. I was able to hold them at bay for a while, but they’ve been impatient recently and I finally told them about you- not your name or anything that would lead them to you, just that I was courting a peasant woman. They were… less than enthused. They are at least considering it, but they want to meet you for themselves in two weeks to see your mettle.”

Krysia’s breath hitched in her chest. “Y-your council wants to meet me? But I… I know nothing about politics, and I— I don’t think I’ve ever even met a noble, not really, and I’ll just m-make a fool of myself. They’ll laugh me right out of the room.”

“You don’t have to be a politician,” Macaius said gently. “You just have to be intelligent, and respectful, and show them that you have the courage not to kowtow to them- and I know you have all of those things.” He sighed softly. “Krysia, I… I won’t force you into this. If you… d-don’t feel up to it. You don’t have to decide right this second either. Go home, get some sleep, think about it. It’ll cut me to the bone, but if you decide all of this is too much for you, I’ll respect that. I want you to be happy.”

She nodded, drawing away from him. “I-I love you, Bodhan,” she said. “O-or… or— Emperor Macaius, I suppose. But I… need time to think, I….” Krystyna’s teeth chattered, though the room was far from cold. “I n-need to tell my mother— she needs to know— and I… I have to think, I…”

The teenage emperor nodded sadly, hugging himself fretfully. “I’ll walk you home. And I’ll… let you alone for a few days. So you have some space to think. The gate guards will know to let you in when you’ve made your decision.”

“O-okay,” she murmured. “Th-thank you, my liege. I… appreciate it, I…” She forced her eyes up toward his, their pupils latching. “I do love you. I do. But the i-idea of just… walking up to the palace gates and… b-being let in and…” Krysia swallowed hard. “Come by the shop? The… the day after next, l-let’s say. I’ll be waiting. F-for you, your imperial majesty.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” he said softly. “Just Macaius is fine. And sure, if that’s what you’d prefer. I’ll be there around closing time.”

Part Five

SPOILER: Click to show

True to his word, a few days later Macaius returned to the bookbinders, close to closing time. When he got there, dressed as always in plainclothes, he found Krysia haggling with a last minute customer. As she watched her newly-revealed-as-emperor beau slip through the door, she froze, her pale eyes going wide— and causing the client with whom she was negotiating to turn and glance over his shoulder, seemingly in concern.

“Everything all right?” the man asked.

Krysia forced a nod. “Yes, sorry.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll… I’ll be with you in a moment, erm…” She seemed to grapple with a moment for what to call him, finally settling on a hesitant: “Bodhan. If… if that’s all right, if you’re… o-okay waiting, if—”

He swallowed hard, giving her a shaky smile. “Hey, don’t mind me, Krysia. Far be it for me to deny you any valuable business, hm? Your mum would hide me.”

“Right. Th-thanks.”

Gulping again, Krysia turned back to the bartering at hand, exchanging a few more offers with the customer before finally they settled on a price; a few minutes later, after she’d carefully wrapped his purchase of a leather-bound religious text in several layers of cloth to protect its gold-embossed cover from any damage in transport, the man bade her a thank you and goodbye, then strode back out into the dying light of the chilly dusk. Krysia called out a farewell after him, her voice very soft as the door thumped closed in his wake.

She and Macaius were alone.

“... Sorry,” she murmured to him. “For keeping you waiting. Y-your imperial majesty.”

Hearing the woman he loved address him so formally made Macaius’ face fall a mile, and he looked down at his shoes. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice thin and fragile as spider’s silk. “I-I don’t mind.”

“I… I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Krystyna admitted, moving out from behind the counter. She took several steps toward him before she seemed to reconsider, hesitating as she fell to a halt. “I… thought you might… r-realise you’d made a mistake. T-telling me about who you were. Offering what you did to… to someone like me. M-my liege.”

“I could never regret offering you a place as my wife,” he replied, blinking hard. “And the only way I would regret telling you who I am is if it scared you away forever. I love you, Krysia. Your status and mine are irrelevant to that.”

“Right,” she murmured, gaze drifting between the emperor and the floor, as though she wasn’t sure if it breached some sort of etiquette to look him straight on. “I… I still haven’t told my mother,” she went on. “I keep meaning to, I just…” The girl shook her head, her fire-red locks falling to half conceal her face. “I half-thought sh-she’d just… think I’d gone mad. I mean, if I were her, I’d think I’d gone mad, you know?”

Macaius opened and closed his mouth, seeming to be searching for something to say, but his throat felt like it was stuck. His lungs hurt with the effort it took to draw proper breath. Finally, dismally, he settled on, “I’m sorry. I’m… I’m sorry. That I lied to you. That I put you in such an awkward position. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Krysia murmured. “I mean… you c-could hardly have just… waltzed in and told me who you were from the get-go, that would’ve just been… been…” The girl shook her head again, tucking her chin so tightly that it touched the top of her chest. “I’ve been thinking,” she went on unsteadily. “A lot. I mean… honestly, all I’ve been doing the past few days is thinking. Constantly. I’ve b-barely slept. I’ve had to remind myself just to… eat or drink or…” She shrugged. “But… I th-think it’s been productive, at least. A-all this thinking. I… I think I’ve m-made a choice. Or at least, something close to one. M-maybe.”

Macaius swallowed hard, forcing himself to look up and meet Krysia’s eyes. “O-oh? And what have you decided?”

Her lip wobbled, and she bit down on it— hard— to stop its shaking. “First,” she stammered, “I’m… I’m s-sorry if this is… improper. W-what I’m about to say. I’m sorry if it… it offends you, your imperial majesty, because I m-mean… here you’ve gone and m-made me an offer most girls in this empire would pinch themselves over, and I’m— I’m— not falling to your feet in joy, I’m n-not—”

“Krystyna, please,” Mac said, his voice cracking as he cut her off. “I don’t want things to change between us. I don’t want you to constantly be afraid of me, or worried about offending me, or any of that. I want you to be happy. To speak your mind. Your mind is one of the things I love most about you. Tell me what you’re really thinking. I promise I won’t get mad.”

“R-right. Sorry, I just…” She stopped, forcing a deep breath to steel herself. Then, very slowly, she made herself drag her gaze from the floor, the tremble to her form unmistakable as she settled her eyes straight on the emperor across the shop. “I love you,” Krystyna said— nearly blurted. “I love you so much. But I… I h-have a life here, your imperial majesty. In the c-city. My mother, and my sisters, and this shop, and—” She cut herself off again, before her voice could grow too shrill. “I want to do it. M-marry you. But… but… only if— y-you agree to some… some conditions. I h-have some conditions, my liege.”

His heart lifted considerably, a light of hope kindling in his face. He’d been expecting her to reject him outright- anything resembling a chance was welcome at this point.

“What conditions?” he asked.

“J-just a few,” Krysia said, her resolve clearly flickering in and out like a flame being threatened by occasional gusts of wind. “There’s… there’s only a few. But…” She took another shaky breath. “First, if… if we get married, I-I’d be expected to live at the palace, right? With you?”

He nodded. “Yes- you would. As my empress.”

“R-right. As… empress.” Krystyna seemed as if she might faint at the very thought. “So… well. My first condition is th-that… if we marry, my mum and sisters. I can’t leave them, okay? I won’t leave them. So… they come with. To live a-at the palace. Mum and all three of the girls.”

Macaius nodded, his green eyes thoughtful. “That sounds reasonable to me. I can give them gloss titles to keep the court from tittering. Make your sisters princesses, and your mother a baroness or something.”

Krystyna blinked, as if she hadn’t expected Macaius to agree to her term— let alone so swiftly. Voice still wobbling, she gave a short nod, continuing, “S-so I… I also… well.” She took a moment to regather her composure. “This shop. It’s been in my family for generations. I-I couldn’t ask Mum to just… give it up. So I… I want some sort of arrangement. So she can still run the shop, while living at the palace. I don’t know what that’d involve— security for her, or… transportation, but… whatever it is… I want that. F-for her. And my sisters, too, if they ever want to come and help her. And… me, too, for th-that matter. Even if I’m your wife, they’re still my family. This shop is still important to me. It’ll always be important to me.”

At this, Macaius actually laughed. “Krysia, as much time as we’ve spent here together talking about books, do you really think I’d make you get rid of your family’s shop?”

“I-I don’t know,” Krysia admitted. “I mean… I don’t know anything a-about being imperial. The expectations at court, what’s proper and improper— any of it. Or… w-what you’re expect from me. As your empress. I… I wasn’t raised with training on how to be an empress, my liege.”

Macaius sighed softly, hugging himself. “First? Stop calling me that. Please? I’m just Macaius. Mac with family. Hell, you can keep calling me Bodhan if that’s easiest. Just… don’t defer to me. Please.” His voice cracked again on this last word.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Krysia murmured. “I just… you’re the emperor. The most powerful man in this empire. And I’m… I’m…” The girl raked a nervous hand through her tumbling ginger locks. “I’m a bookbinder’s daughter. A n-nobody. I… I always thought I’d marry some— I don’t know, grocer’s son or… cooper or—” She exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m saying everything all wrong, aren’t I? Doing this all wrong.”

Krysia took a deep breath. And then, very abruptly, the girl strode forward, straight toward Macaius. Bracing herself as she neared him, as if she expected him to draw back from her. Turn away. Ward her off. Instead, however, he gave her a tremulous smile, opening his arms invitingly and taking a step towards her. Krystyna didn’t hesitate, then— she folded herself into his embrace, tucking her cheek against shoulder as he closed his arms back around her short, sturdy form.

“Macaius.” Her voice was very, very soft. “A-ask me again. What you did the other night.”

He swallowed hard, hugging her tight to his chest. “Krystyna- I love you. More than anything else in the world. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I’ll marry you, Macaius. I love you so much, and I’d… I’d be thrilled to marry you.”

Macaius felt like his chest was about to explode. He actually burst into tears, his shoulders quivering and low whimpers of relieve emerging from his throat. “Th-thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ve been afraid, I’ve b-been so afraid-”

“Macaius,” Krystyna cut in gently. “Th-there’s no need to thank me, okay? I mean… r-really I should be thanking you— f-for… agreeing to my terms and… everything. For everything.”

He laughed softly. “Krys, you have no idea what my life has been like. I’m royal yes, b-but… I have no friends. I’ve always been utterly alone, except for Emilie. I love you, so much, and the thought of losing you forever… I wouldn’t have blamed you, but it would’ve killed me.”

“But you’re not losing me,” Krysia said. “You w-won’t ever have to lose me. I… I c-can’t pretend I’m not still scared out of my mind… and that th-there won’t be bumps along the road, but…” Head lowered, she burrowed her face into his chest. “I love you. And I w-want to marry you. Of th-that at least, I’m certain.”

He smoothed her hair, kissing the top of her head. “We’ll have to break the news to your mom,” he noted, bemused. “And… gods, there’s still my council to get this by. But I’ll get it past them, Krys. I promise, if I have to bully and bluster my way through their conservative stonewalling I will. You just… be yourself. Don’t let them intimidate you. Remember, you have me in your corner. And I’m no small thing.”

“R-right. Of course.” She gulped. “C-could… could I ask you something, Macaius? A f-favour? If… if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Anything.”

“I want to tell my mum,” Krystyna said. “B-before I spook myself out of it again. But… i-it’s like I said before: I’m afraid if I just… go up to her spouting off about you being the emperor, well… she’ll think I-I’ve gone mad.”

“So you want me to be there?” he asked. Teasingly he added, “So I can take the credit for being insane, I see how it is.”

Krysia flushed, drawing back slightly so that she could glance up at him. “It just… m-might be easier,” she said. “If Mum wants proof. And, well… a-at least she’ll think the two of us are mad together. At first. Instead of me just h-having… lost it. Or whatever else she’d think if I approached her alone.”

“Should I take her to the palace as well?” Macaius asked, his eyes sparkling like emeralds. “Though I might need to hold off on telling your siblings until we get everything squared away- little kids aren’t the best secret keepers.”

“Once they know, practically e-everyone we know will know,” Krystyna agreed. “But… y-yes. The palace. If… if she thinks we’re mad… i-it might be best to take her to the palace. Like you did with me. I-if that’s okay.”

“I think it should be fine,” Macaius agreed. His mood was considerably buoyed, and with a crooked grin he added, “You can both have tea. At the palace. And whatever snacks you’d like.”

“Tea,” Krysia echoed, as if Macaius had begun speaking in some indecipherable foreign tongue. “We could… h-have tea. At the palace. Tea at the palace. The imperial palace.”

“Imperials drink tea like anybody else does,” Macaius pointed out. “I’m partial to fried sugar pillows with mine, but we can have just about any snack you’d like prepared.”

“It just… it seems a little incredible to me still,” Krysia said softly. “The idea of the palace. Just— going to the palace, casually, and… not being laughed away at the gates.”

“While you’re with me, nobody would dare,” Macaius said simply. “And soon… soon I hope you won’t see the palace as someplace alien and scary anymore. Soon I hope you’ll see it as home.”

***

Macaius had indeed given Krysia’s mother the shock of her life by bringing her and his fiancee- he buzzed inside with excitement at being about to think of Krysia with that term- to the Shadowed palace for tea and snacks. The woman was, understandably, seemingly somewhere between incredulous and awed— that her daughter's friendly beau was the emperor? She alternated between nearly manic deference and giddy conversation, which Macaius reacted to by doing his best to be as friendly and encouraging as possible.

He spent the next week and a half after that, whenever he had time away from his imperial duties, trying to reassure Krysia that his status did not mean he had become a different person. That he still loved her, and he was still the same person he’d always been- just with a crown he wore sometimes. He visited her at the bookshop, and chattered about inanities - and although for the first few visits she remained somewhat nervous, with Macaius not infrequently having to remind her that she didn't need to grovel at his feet, over time the girl began to relax again. Viewing Macaius not as somebody to fear, but her familiar friend. The same boy she'd gotten to know over the last months. Undoubtedly different in some ways now that she knew the truth of his identity, but the same where it counted. Where it mattered.

About a week out from the meeting with his council, Macaius offered to have Krysia fitted for a dress to wear- nothing near so intimidating as imperial dress, but something that might hopefully help her to feel less vulnerable and inadequate when she appeared before the lords. Even still, the girl was nervous— she'd never worn anything beyond plain wool or cotton, usually in neutral hues since as far as she was concerned, her fiery hair was colour— and attention— enough.

“I'll look ridiculous,” she insisted to her fiancé. “Your council will laugh me out of the room.”

“You’ll look beautiful,” Macaius countered. “You already do, of course, but a well designed, well fitted dress is meant to make you look better, not worse.”

“I've never even had a dress made for me,” Krystyna said. “Not by a professional. Mum’s always made them. As cheaply as she could swing.”

“Just because you’ve never done something before doesn’t mean you never should,” Macaius replied, frowning slightly. “I’m hardly going to make you or your mother pay for it, Krysia. It’s partially my fault you have to do this at all, and I… I want to help make it as easy for you as I can. Help you feel more confident and less out of place.”

“Okay.” Krysia swallowed hard. “If… if you think it'll help.” She tilted her head, mulling. “Not red, though. I'll look like a walking sunburn.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Macaius teased, winking. “I daresay my dressmakers can manage something that will flatter you.”

The dress that was prepared for Krystyna ended up being a bottle green and teal number, flowing and luxurious- though as Macaius promised, fashioned of less high-brow materials to help his fiance feel less overwhelmed wearing it.

Macaius made sure to bring Krystyna with him early to the council chamber, before any of the others could arrive, so that the meetings would start off on terms set by him and not his politically manipulative councilors. Of course, as they filtered in all eyes fixed on the young woman seated at their emperor’s right hand, and Krystyna went pale as snow— her nerves would've been evident even to a blind man.

Macaius reached towards her, squeezing her hand under the table. Facing his councilors, and adopting his best air of cool authority, he immediately opened the floor by announcing his fiancee to the council. The reactions were, unsurprisingly, rather mixed. Some, like Felicks Gorski, were cautiously optimistic, asking questions of Krystyna in a manner that, while probing, was also encouraging and friendly enough. Others, like Matylda Lodowaty, were clearly more skeptical, frowning throughout the meeting as they stared at Krysia as though she were a muddy shoe the dog had dragged in from a rainstorm. Krysia, to her benefit, stayed calm if not as poised as a noble-bred girl might've been; she was anxious, but still managed to answer most of the questions flung her way.

Once they’d exhausted their well of questions for Krysia, the council turned their attention to the young emperor. And, for the first time in his rule, Macaius fought them tooth and nail. Any objections they raised were summarily squashed, and he refused to rise to any baiting. There were few forces in the world stronger than the obstinance of a seventeen year old with everything to lose.

Eventually the group seemed to realize they were fighting a losing battle. The questions began to ebb in pointedness— and frequency. Faces went inscrutable. Postures slumped. Even Matylda looked thoroughly run ragged, sitting with a pout and her arms crossed at her chest… but no longer lobbing sharp arrows of questions in either Mac or Krysia’s directions.

Deciding it was best to quit while he was ahead, Macaius adjourned the meeting at that point- not pressing for an immediate approval- such things were never rushed into- but ending on a high note for his own cause. Once he’d ushered the poor, mentally and emotionally exhausted Krysia back to his own chambers, she exhaled heavily, as if she'd been holding her breath all this while.

“Well, that was…” The girl shook her head. “I think some of them hate me. That blond one? The woman?”

“Matylda Lodowaty,” Macaius supplied. The young emperor rolled his eyes. “And don’t mind her, she always has a pinecone stuck up somewhere. She thinks I’m an idiot and hates anything I’m in favor of by extension, unless it benefits her in some way.”

Krysia managed a wobbly laugh. “I didn't faint, at least,” she said. “So that's good, right?” She gulped, glancing around the opulent chamber they stood in— decorated lavishly, with a glittering silver-and-white colour scheme and no expense spared in the furnishings. “Gods, I can't believe this is your bedroom. It's bigger than my whole flat.” A beat. “Are you sure I'm even allowed to be in here…?”

“As long as we keep the door open into the rest of the flat,” he replied. “You know, decorum. Wouldn’t want anyone to assume anything scandalous. But past that I can bring anyone I want into my own apartment.” He smoothed her hair, smiling reassuringly. “You did great, Krysia. I couldn’t have dreamed of better.”

“You think?” she murmured, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “You're not just saying that?”

“Of course I do,” he replied, pulling her into a one-armed hug. “This was your first time speaking in front of a large group of nobles, and you held yourself together admirably. My first time talking before a large group of nobles was mind-numbingly terrifying and I’d been raised in the court all my life.”

“Do you… do you think they're going to allow it, then?” Krystyna whispered. “This? U-us?”

“I don’t think they’re completely sold yet,” Macaius admitted. “But give me time- today was a morale victory for us. If I can keep this momentum going, I can get them them to cave.”

Sure enough, after another few weeks of deliberation and heavy debate, the council finally caved- Macaius Srebro would become the first Emperor in living memory to wed a peasant. The young man was so elated that he ran straight from the council chamber to Emilie’s apartment, where he picked her up and spun her in a circle, laughing and crying like a madman before he finally explained himself. Once he had, Emilie grinned nearly as wide, brown eyes glimmering as she clapped her cousin on the back.

“So,” she chirped, “how you plan on telling the bride?”

“Oh Gods,” he breathed. “Should I arrange something? Make a show of it? I don’t know, I had thought I’d just… just go down and tell her but if you think I should go in with a fanfare I can… can try to think of something-”

“No, you'll scare her half to death, Mac,” Emilie cut in, quirking her pale brow. “Just tell her calmly, all right?” She laughed. “As calmly as you can manage, anyway.”

He laughed softly, pressing his face into Emilie’s shoulder. “I still can’t believe it. Gods, I can’t believe it.” He hugged his cousin as tightly as he could manage. “Thank you. For helping me see what I couldn’t. For not letting me give in to despair when things weren’t easy.”

“Of course,” Emilie said. “I love you, Macaius. And seeing you happy makes me happy. It's… nice. A change, and it's nice.”

True to Emilie’s suggestion, Macaius went into the city that evening to break the good news to Krysia. He felt that his wide, beaming smile was probably a dead giveaway to the news that he had for her, but he enthusiastically burbled it as soon as the last customer had left the shop nonetheless. For a moment, the girl said nothing— only stood there, blinking, as if she couldn't quite absorb what the emperor had just said. Couldn't wholly believe it.

Then, she laughed. Warmth and colour seeped into her cheeks. She practically vaulted herself forward, arms outstretched toward Macaius, and the emperor threw his arms open to receive her, pulling the young woman into a crushing hug. The two of them stayed like that for some time, revelling in each other’s warmth and the fact that they were going to be married.

Part Six

SPOILER: Click to show

It still being midwinter in Taika, however, there was a slight snag to the plans for Macaius and Krysia’s nuptials. None of the kingdom’s nobility could travel with the weather as it was, but to have the wedding without allowing the nobles to attend would shatter what meager support Macaius had managed to dredge up for his plot. There would have to be a formal ceremony- but it would have to wait until at least spring.

When Krysia was informed of this news, however, the girl was clearly not happy. “What of the meantime?” she asked him, as they shared a warm jug of cider in the bookshop after it had closed for the evening. “I just keep… carrying on? As if everything's normal?”

He sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t know. I don’t like this either, but if I try to throw away every jot of tradition and ceremony I’ll have an uprising on my hands. It’s a very delicate balance, keeping my nobles happy. Contrary to popular belief I’m not all-powerful, and if my power base decides they don’t trust me or think I’m fit to rule...” He let the implications hang.

“I don't want to undermine you to your nobility,” Krysytna said quickly. “I just…” The girl shrugged, blinking hard. “I don't like it, Mac. Now that we're engaged… and my mum knows everything, and my sisters, and—” she shook her head. “It feels strange. Carrying on like this. You visiting me in plainclothes. Us acting like you're not the emperor, and I'm not soon going to be your wife. Your empress.”

Macaius set his chin in his palm. “If I could marry you now, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But it would incense the nobles that they’d been effectively stripped of any and all involvement in their own empresses’ rise.” He moaned softly, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “Politics are complicated.”

“What do they even care?” Krysia murmured. “I imagine all they truly want is a party, Macaius. To pretend like they're important. They don't really care about our marriage. About us.”

“No,” he agreed. “They don’t. Balls and feasts are where deals are made. Where all the most important people in the empire get together to jockey for influence and discuss things they’d been putting off. It is important for the emperor inasmuch as it lets me get a feel for how the nobles are really feeling towards me, which I can’t necessarily get when they’re flung hither and yon across the empire. But our wedding itself? None of them will care because it isn’t their daughters or nieces or what have you in front of the altar.”

“Then why do we have to wait for them?” Krysia asked. “Our marriage itself is between us and the gods, isn't it? And so long as the nobles get their party…” She swallowed hard, adding somewhat clumsily: “I'm not trying to… to defy you, or… or be insubordinate— or anything like that— I just…” She bit her lip. Rather hard. “It's been a lot to take in, okay? All of this. And knowing about it all… but still having to wait months and months for any of it to be realized— and masquerading at life as it was before in the meantime…”

Macaius furrowed his brow. “So… we marry twice? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“It sounds mad, doesn't it?” Krysia looked away. “S-sorry, I probably sound… crazy, and selfish, and… greedy—”

“Krysia, love, I wish you’d stop doing that,” Macaius said, scooting closer to her and putting a hand over hers. “Launching into apologies for speaking your mind. I love you, and I want your opinion. This is your relationship too, you know. And… I don’t disagree. About wanting to be married now, and to hell with the nobles.”

Her chin wobbled, as she dared tilt her chin back toward him. “You… you want to do it, then?” she whispered. “M-marry me soon? Sooner than spring?”

“I’ll have to make some excuse,” he cautioned. “The council lives in the palace and they’re all beholden to their families, so I’ll need to buy them off somehow so they don’t rat us out.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose I could say it’s… for security. After all, your sisters know who I am now and if they in their youthful wisdom told anybody who I am, and that we’re to marry, it would paint a target on your back and that of your family. They can’t argue with that.” He smirked slightly. “And I can of course swear them all to secrecy as well- make it clear it’s in their best interests not to blab.”

Krysia gave a watery laugh. “Being the fearsome emperor has its perks, huh?” She exhaled softly. “When could we do it, you think? And… I’d g-get to move in with you, right? After? No more of these incognito meetings and pretenses?”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “I’d set your mother and sisters up in an apartment in the family quarters, and you would move into mine with me.” He smiled giddily, his green eyes aglow. “I’ll need to talk to the council about it, but once I secure their silence on the issue we can proceed as soon as you’re ready.” He leaned forwards, kissing her cheek. “Just say the word.”

“So… hypothetically…” She dared a small, wavering smile. “Once you talk to them, we can… we can marry whenever we want? As soon as we want?”

“We can,” he agreed, smiling gently back at her. “As soon as we want.”

Krysia had expected the council’s decision to take at least a few weeks— just as their initial approval had. Thus it was much to her surprise when Macaius arrived not to the bookshop, but her family’s flat, only two days later, just as her mother was tucking her little sisters in for the night. He rapped on the front door with such urgency that she half-thought something was on fire; when she glanced out the peephole to find him standing in the hall, her heart leapfrogged into her throat. He’d been to her apartment before on a few occasions, but never had he arrived quite like this— so late at night, and without first having received a direct invitation.

“Macaius?” she murmured as she undid the security chain and pulled the door open. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, grinning sheepishly. “No, no, not at all. I got overexcited and didn’t realize how late it would be by the time I got here until I was halfway out, is all- sorry, ah, can I come in?” He nodded his head to the hallway beyond. “Evesdroppers, you know.”

“Of course.” Krysia stepped aside to let him through. “Mum’s just in the girls’ bedroom— Kaja is harassing her for stories again. Drawing out the ‘go to bed’ process for as long as is humanly possible.” The girl laughed softly. “All the stories have to include princesses now. She is one very excited six-year-old, Mac.”

He chortled, sidling around his fiance and winking. “I don’t blame her. You’ll be happy to know I’ve not been idle on that score.” As Krysia slid the door shut, Mac abruptly drew her up into a tight, almost crushing hug. “I got the approval. I was mewed up in that council chamber with them all afternoon and that was after spending several hours with my personal advisors cajoling them, but it’s finally settled. We can marry, Krysia. We can marry whenever we want.”

Krysia blinked. “Oh, gods.” A smile lit her face, bright as a full moon. “Already? They already approved it? That was… that was fast.”

He grinned, kissing her. “I wore them down. It wasn’t easy, but I think after five hours had passed they finally realized I wasn’t going to back down and stopped stonewalling.” The young emperor tweaked his fiance’s nose. “Besides, if I was going to get this done, I had to get it done today. Otherwise I ran the risk of one of those busybodies reporting what I was trying to do back to their families.”

“So… they did it, then?” Krystyna’s cheeks went red, her pale eyes gleaming. “Agreed to secrecy?”

“They did,” Macaius confirmed, his eyes equally as luminous. “They agreed not to breathe a word of this to their families, provided we take steps to ah…” He coughed. “To ensure that no heirs are born before nine months after our formal wedding in the spring.”

Krysia practically guffawed— before whirling abruptly on her heel as, across the foyer, the door that led into her sisters’ small bedroom creaked open, and a slim, blond-haired girl slipped out. Clad only in a nightdress and long wool socks, she couldn't have been more than five or six; when she spied the plainclothes emperor, she grinned like a cat, prancing forward.

“I thought I heared you!” she exclaimed, pausing before the embracing couple (and roundly ignoring the short, stout woman who strode out of the bedroom after her, a bemused expression etched across her tan face). “You've never comed over so late b’fore!”

“Hello there, Kaja,” Macaius said with a crooked grin, ruffling the hair of Krysia’s youngest sister. “Have you made an escape from bedtime, Miss Missy?”

“Uh-huh, she did,” added the voice of an older girl. They looked up to see a child of perhaps eight, with rumpled hair the same shade of fiery red as Krysia’s. “You never listen, Kaj.”

“And it's not your job to scold her, Ruta,” chided the woman— the girls’ mother. To Macaius, she bowed her chin. “Good evening,” she said to the emperor, as a final child—a slightly chubby blonde girl who looked to be a few years younger than Krysia— shuffled out behind her mum and sisters. “I hope you've been faring well, Majesty?”

He smiled widely. “Very well, yes. I’m sorry for dropping in so late, I just wanted to share some good news as soon as possible.”

“What good news?” Ruta asked, tilting her head. The eldest of Krysia’s sisters pursed her lips.

“Is it that we all get our own rooms when we move into the palace?” she asked rhetorically, glowering at her chirpy, too-awake siblings.

“Ay, be nice,” the girls’ mother said with a wince. Then, to Macaius: “Sorry— she thinks she's much cleverer than she really is these days. Getting her out of bed in the morning to get her over to the shop is like waging a battle with the gods themselves.”

“I’m nice when people let me sleep,” the girl, Beatrycze, objected. She sighed, then bowed her head to Macaius. “Sorry, sir. Erm. Sire.”

“It’s alright,” Mac said with an amused glance towards Krysia. “But hey, do you girls want to hear the real good news or not?”

“Uh-huh!” Kaja chirped, blue-green eyes wide with anticipation. The little girl considered for a moment, before adding, “Are - are we gonna get a puppy? ‘Cos Mama always says we can’t ‘cos there isn’t room and we haven’t a yard, but the palace’ll have lotsa room, won’t it, so—”

“Kaja!” Krysia interrupted, leveling her sister a withering look. “No one’s getting a puppy.”

Macaius snorted softly. “No puppies I’m afraid,” he replied. “But I do have good news to do with you moving into the palace with me. I’ve talked to my council, and they say that you don't have to wait until spring anymore- spring will just be for the big party, but Krysia and I can get married anytime we want.”

Ruta beamed, turning to Kaja. “We can be princesses even faster now!”

“Ooh!” The youngest of the sisters squealed in delight. “When do we getta go to the palace?” A pause. “Can we go now?”

Krysia snorted, while her mother cringed. “Absolutely not,” the older woman said, pointing sharply into the children’s bedroom. “It's time to sleep, girls. Stop pestering the emperor.” She added to Macaius, “Sorry, Majesty. They're not normally so… greedy, I promise.”

He laughed, watching as Bea vanished back into the bedroom and Kaja sulked after her. “It’s alright. Kids are as they are, hm? I don’t blame them for being excited.” He kissed Krysia on the cheek. “I know that I am.”

***

“I can’t do this!” Macaius cried with despair, slumping backwards against one of the sofas in the family quarters of the Shadowed Palace. From where she was sitting at a table nearby, Julissa looked up from her teacup and frowned.

“Don’t flop down onto the furniture, Mac,” she said sternly. “It’ll leave scratch marks on the floor if you nudge it. Can’t do what?”

He winced, rubbing his face. “I want it to be perfect. My wedding with Krysia. A wonderful and magical experience worthy of her. But I can’t make it a gala because it has to be low-profile. But she deserves something better! Something worthy of a future empress!”

“Mac, you're acting like a cranky toddler.” Seated beside her aunt at the table, Emilie lifted a brow. “She'll have her gala in April, when the nobles come. For now, all that matters is that you read your vows and have a priest officiate, right? Nothing elaborate needed.”

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” Julissa agreed, her eyes narrowed. “You’re bullying your way past every jot of tradition and ceremony, you have to make concessions.”

“I know that,” Macaius sputtered, his face falling. “I just… I want it to be perfect. She deserves for it to be perfect. Romantic. Not… bureaucratic.”

“Something doesn't have to be fancy and huge to be romantic, stupid,” Emilie retorted with a dry, almost impish smile (Julissa rolled her eyes but did not comment). “You told her the other night”-- it had been three days since Macaius had gotten the go-ahead from his council and informed his bride— “that you would arrange things and let her know the solid date within a few weeks, right?”

He nodded slowly. “I did, yes.”

“So.” Emilie’s grin turned lopsided. “Know what the most romantic thing ever is? Surprises.”

Macaius blinked, taken off guard. Julissa snorted, a smirk ticking at the corner of her lips. “Oh, so you have been paying attention while Macaius read all those old books to you. Could have fooled your tutors.”

Emilie scowled. “My tutors were always just prats,” she informed the empress. She looked back toward Macaius. “She won't be expecting anything for a couple weeks at least. So— set up something simple. Just her family, and me and your mum, and— I guess the councillors, too, so they feel special. Pop a priest into the palace chapel and voila.” She gestured grandly.

“Yes, I… I suppose that could work,” he said slowly. “Could make her sisters feel special, if I loan them some of our spare dresses to wear and make them feel included.”

“Little children love to feel included in things,” Julissa agreed. “And if you get her mother in on it she can ensure whatever date you set isn’t a day this woman already has plans.”

“It'll be fun,” Emilie said brightly. “And romantic. Tell her you're whisking her away for just a nice tea, and then…” She laughed. “Her reaction should be great.”

“And… you don’t think she’ll be upset?” he asked cautiously. “That I’m springing it on her so suddenly? I mean I’m already upending so much about her life…”

“Macaius.” Emilie sighed as though she were dealing with a broody, capricious child. “She's the one who wanted to move the wedding up, right? Why on earth would she be upset?”

The young man winced. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You’ve been right about everything so far.” He sighed. “I wish Father had spent more time training me. Instead of hiding me from everything.”

“Your father was rather distracted by the war,” Julissa pointed out. “And need we forget, he was not a source to go to for romantic tips. He never would have allowed you to involve yourself romantically with someone to whom you weren’t already politically engaged.”

“Her mum usually opens the shop and Krysia closes, right?” Emilie asked. “So— pop by tomorrow morning and hatch a plan.” The blonde’s lopsided grin was back. “Let's just hope if her little sisters are there eavesdropping they don't spoil anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to bribe their silence,” Macaius said confidently, to which Julissa actually snorted.

“Oh, you two are in for a surprise when Mac and Krystyna start having children,” she mused. “You really have no idea.”

“We shall have to hold the wedding quickly, then,” Emilie declared. “They can't ruin the surprise if they haven't got time to blab, right?”

Macaius laughed, then reached towards his cousin and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ve only made it this far with your help, Emilie. Thank you so much. For everything. I know I’ve been fretting like a madman, but truly I’ve never been happier.”

“Of course,” the girl replied. “And can I be the first to say that I just can’t wait for the wedding? It’s all so sweet. And the secrecy makes it…” She beamed. “I don’t know. But something, that’s for sure. Something fun.”

“You’re both incorrigible,” Julissa remarked.

“As long as we have fun in the process,” Macaius said cheerily.

Macaius didn’t waste any time, arriving to the book-binding shop just as it opened the next morning and brokering a quick deal with Krysia’s mother— who seemed rather touched by the whole idea, tears pricking in her eyes as she told the emperor that he could pick any night that he wanted. “We’ll make it work, Majesty,” she promised with a bow. “And Krysia will be so, so happy.

His fiancée’s mother’s cooperation secured, Mac set about preparing with a vengeance. Being the emperor allowed him to set things up far more swiftly than a lesser man might have, and within a day and a half he had secured the following Sunday night for everything to take place. Using her previous measurements, Macaius bought a dress for his bride- something pretty but in a simple cut not unfitting for a well to do merchant. He remembered how the last dress had discomfited her, and wanted nothing but smiles on their special day.

The morning of, he'd arranged with Krysia’s mother to take the young girls out to buy their own dresses, an activity which they met with tremendous zeal- though Macaius had to emphasize that they were each buying one dress, and they could not spend all day at it.

Finally, dropping the girls off with their mother at the gates to the Shadowed Palace around dusk, Macaius headed out into the city towards the bookbinders. As had seemed to become their custom, he arrived just as Krysia was closing up for the evening, her eyes lighting as the emperor strode the door.

“Hello there,” she greeted, turning from the shelf that she’d been mindlessly straightening (there were no more customers left for the day). “It’s been a few days, hasn’t it? Been busy at the palace, love?”

“Aye,” Macaius agreed pulling Krysia into a hug. “There’s been no dearth of things to do, but I finally got some time away. I wondered if you would come with me to the palace for a while? I’ve been meaning to show you around the library but we’ve had so many other things to think about that it kept slipping me.”

“Of course,” Krysia said. She laughed, gently brushing her lips against his. “Though I don’t know if it ever won’t be strange for me to think you can just waltz into the palace. The imperial palace.” A beat. “I bet the library’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“A bookworm’s dream come true,” Macaius confirmed, steering her towards the door. “Granted- a large portion of the collection is dry texts on economics and magic theory and the like. But there’s plenty of far more palatable reading material for us to browse.”

“I think my mum will faint the first time she sees it all,” Krystyna said, threading her arm through the emperor’s. “All the pretty bindings, and the leather, and the embossing…” As the pair ducked out into the chilly night, Krysia briefly unholstering her wand to spell the door shut behind them, the girl chuckled. “At least we’ll know where to find her if she ever turns up missing.”

Macaius chortled. “My mother used to say the same thing about me- if I wasn't with Emi I was usually in the library.”

The young emperor led his bride-to-be through the evening streets, trying to keep his nervousness in check as he chattered with her about books. For once, his ability to concentrate on the subject was strained, and he had to fight hard not to show it.

Once they arrived at the palace, however, it was not to the library that he led his fiancee. Instead, he opened the door to a small but luxurious sitting room, where a parcel tied up with a pretty ribbon was sitting on the table.

“Hm,” he said impishly. “I don’t think this is the library, and I don’t think that box is usually sitting there.”

“Ooh.” Krysia drew apart from the emperor, padding forward. “A gift, is it? How sneaky.”

“Sneaky, me?” he said innocently, unable to fight back a huge grin. “How could you, love. I’d never!”

She laughed, carefully untying the gauzy ribbon. “I hope you didn't blow your budget on me,” she teased, before the girl lifted the box’s lid— and her jaw promptly fell wide open as a cavern. “Oh my gods,” she breathed, studying— but not daring to touch— the delicate dress that lay inside. “It's so pretty, Mac.” She turned back toward him. “The occasion…?”

He shrugged innocently. “Who said anything about an occasion? Maybe I just saw the dress and thought you’d like it.” He smiled lopsidedly. “I remembered you were uncomfortable with the dress I commissioned for your meeting with the council, so I wanted to go with something closer to what you were used to.” With a wink he added, “But it’s also a premade, not a custom, so I’m not quite sure if it’ll fit entirely- why don’t you try it on?”

“All right.” Krystyna gestured vaguely toward her fiance, grinning. “Turn around, mister. No peeking yet. We're only engaged, you know.”

Biting his lip to keep from making a response to that which would give the game away, Macaius did as he was bid, stepping outside of the small room and pulling the door most of the way closed. After a few minutes Krysia emerged, a dazzling smile between her lips as she gave the emperor a theatrical curtesy.

“How do I look?” she asked, swishing the gossamer skirts. “Gods, this dress is so light— like spider’s silk, almost.”

He grinned broadly, trailing his fingers through her hair. “You look lovely. You always do, of course, but I think that dress is very flattering on you. Hmmm… but it wouldn’t do for such a fair maiden to be seen with a mere cloth merchant.”

The emperor slid off the heavy winter cloak he’d worn out into the city, revealing a simple but elegant silk robe he’d been wearing underneath. It was a mixture of the imperial silver, as well as shades of maroon, pink, and red. Krysia let out a wondering laugh.

“Oh, your emperor clothes, are those?” she chirped. “You look nice in silver, Mac. It complements your eyes.” She reached for his hand, adding glibly, “Though I think we may be a tad overdressed for the library now.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he agreed. As he led her down the hallway again, he noted cheerfully, “Fortunately I do have a backup plan. And disappointing thought putting off the library yet again must be, I think you’ll like this alternative very much.”

Before Krysia could press her fiance further, Macaius led her out a set of doors that opened into a wide, beautifully maintained garden- and off in the corner of the garden, there was a small but gorgeous building that was unmistakable for anything but a church.

“The palace chapel?” Krysia asked quizzically, shuddering against a sudden gale of frosty wind. It was dark out now, the gardens lit only by small, glimmering magelights that winked and shimmered like stars, and Krystyna squeezed tight to the emperor’s hand as she added, “There a service going on, Mac?”

“Not yet,” he replied cryptically. He led her across the snowy gardens, keeping an arm around her to shield her from the icy cold outside. “But there will be a kind of one, soon.”

The emperor pushed open the door to the chapel, letting a wash of warmth and light hit the two of them from inside. As Krysia peered in, at first her expression remained light. Almost airy. But then she began to survey the room. The first thing she noticed was the priest who stood at the pulpit, ceremonial incense sticks and candles lit in a throng around him, and a bald-headed bleeder standing ready at his side. But quickly her gaze skipped from the altar to the pews, as she realised that although they were only sparsely filled, they were nevertheless populated by people she mostly knew: the members of Mac’s council whom she’d been interrogated by; Emilie and Macaius’s mother, the empress; her own mother— gods, there was her own mother, and her little sisters beside her…

“Macaius,” Krystyna murmured, gaze whipping toward her fiance as something between disbelief and utter elation unfurled across her face. “Is this… is this…?”

He smiled reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Krysia’s ear. “Surprise,” he said, his green eyes ablaze with joy.

“Oh, my gods.” Krysia blinked sharply, but she was unable to chase away the tears that were suddenly pricking in her eyes. Her voice low so only Macaius would hear it, she asked, “So… th-this is the r-real deal, then? After tonight, we’ll be…?”

“Married,” Macaius agreed, his voice equally low. “Krystyna Srebro. Nothing will be able to stand between us and our happiness ever again.”

For a moment, Krysia said nothing— as if she couldn’t find the breath for the words. Then, very softly, she told the emperor: “Th-thank you, Macaius. I love you.”

“I love you too, Krysia. Now and forever,” he replied. Nodding to the altar, he added, “Shall we?”

[Shinko]

The saga of Synedon continues! Collab'd with Avery .

Shining One: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

It was autumn, and the leaves were changing, but they still weren’t supposed to be bright turquoise.

As the pale-haired woman called Geriel stood just outside her family’s tent under the earliest rays of dawn, and stared at the fallen pile of neon leaves clumped nearby, she had to blink twice to convince herself of what she was seeing. Then, for good measure, she blinked again— and when the mound was still there, thought to herself: What trick of the gods is this?

“Mama.”

Geriel turned as a small voice spoke from within the tent. A small boy stood at its maw, suspiciously bright-eyed for the early morning hour, although his ash blond hair was still mussed from sleep. She frowned as she noticed what was clutched in one of his hands: a cracking, drying leaf, coloured just as brightly— unnaturally— as the pile nearby.

“Isn’t it pretty, Mama?” he asked as he noticed her staring. He held the leaf in his hand out to her, invitingly. “It’s my favourite colour, y’know.”

“Evren!” Geriel barked sharply, hauling him up by his armpits. “Don’t touch those, they might not be safe!”

The boy yelped, in surprise more so than pain. “They’re just leafs,” he sputtered in reply. Tears pricked in his ice blue eyes, but he stubbornly blinked them back. “I maked them pretty for you!”

“You make- what do you mean by that?” the woman asked, struggling to support the weight of the four-going-on-five-year-old. “You did this?”

“Uh-huh.” He snuffled, burying his face in her shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep. Because you was snoring, and so was Sonam and Kerem.” His older brothers. “And there was so many leafs. And...”

“Mercy…” Geriel took a shaky breath, then asked, “Can you show me? Show me how you change the color of the leaves?” Children were, after all, given to wild feats of imagination.

“Okay. Put me down and I’ll show you, Mama.”

Half-expecting to see the child grab a fistful of the leaves already displaying the odd coloration and making faces of imagined concentration, Evren’s mother set him back down gingerly amidst the autumn leaves. And while indeed the boy did beeline toward the pile, when he reached out and scooped them into his hands… Geriel let out a small choking noise as she watched the turquoise rapidly morph into a bright, peachy-gold hue that nearly matched that of the dawn sky above.

“See?” said Evren, with a small, stubborn hint of pride. “I can make leafs pretty, Mama. They’s safe.”

“G-great gods…” she squeaked. “Evren, will you come with me to show your trick to the khan and khatun? I think they will be very impressed.”

The boy blanched. “The khan and khatun?” he parrotted back. “But why, Mama? It’s just… just…”

“Magic, love,” his mother said, stroking her hand through his hair. Even as she was trying to sound reassuring, her voice was underscored with awe… and something like fear. “It’s magic.”

* * *

The Sparrowhawks were, by anyone’s account, a raggedy scrap of a tribe: two dozen strong at the best of times, and with a territory that was nebulous, harsh, and resource-deprived. They subsisted mostly by the grace of the gods, and by expertly avoiding interaction with other tribes when at all possible. After all, they knew well that to any stronger group— which was, to be frank, nearly any other group at all— they would’ve appeared ripe for the taking. They weren’t big enough, or strong enough, to mount any kind of protracted defense.

While they’d existed in some form or another for decades now, their history and bloodline had always been a story of grit. Of tenacity and persistence and and luck: always luck.

But not, notably, of magic.

Never of magic.

In generations— in memories both living and passed down by the ancestors— the Sparrowhawks had not seen magic. This was, the khans and khatuns of the tribe had long ago decreed, a sign from the gods that their strengths lay elsewhere. That they did not need shining ones, let alone painstakingly bonded and trained shamans, in order to survive.

And so instead they’d spent their spiritual energies elsewhere. Worshipping the god of rain, and the good hunt, and fertility and health and cleverness. Every adult member of the tribe inked the god of luck’s symbol into their skin, and when they built totems and prayed to the heavens, it was to implore bountiful forage or safe childbirth or a mild winter. Never magic.

Other tribes may have relied on it, sought it out, needed it, but not the Sparrowhawks.

Never the Sparrowhawks.

And then Geriel had shown up at the khatun’s tent one morning with her sniffling son and a bundle of turquoise-and-peach leaves.

“It’s true, Qara-khatun,” Geriel had whispered, lest anyone else overhear and start rumors circulating the camp. “I wasn’t dreaming- Evren turned the leaves colors. Just by touching them!”

At first, the khatun had not believed her— just as Geriel hadn’t initially believed it, either. But then with some coaxing, Evren had once more demonstrated his gift, and in another few minutes Qara, the mother, and the child had gone to awaken the tribe’s khan, Nazar, to convey the news on. Both in their fifties, Nazar and Qara had helmed the Sparrowhawks for nearly two decades each at this point. They’d wethered the tribe through famines, sicknesses, and even in-fighting that had threatened to tear the group apart back around the time of the boy’s birth four and a half years ago.

But this was something else altogether. Something new and oh so very unexpected.

On the one hand, it was a blessing. A gift from the heavens. After all, even if the Sparrowhawks had never paid a moment’s attention to magic, it was hardly as though they had anything against shining ones. And they knew, too, that magic could be a boon when trained properly— for healing, for fighting, for communing with the gods.

On the other hand, that was a very big conditional: It was useful when trained properly. And the gods best of all knew, the Sparrowhawks hadn’t even the faintest idea how to remotely begin as such, nor could they turn outward to remedy this. They were loners in every sense of the word, and with few resources to barter away. They couldn’t exactly hire on the services of another tribe’s shamans to tutor the boy, and even if they could, they didn’t have any means of acquiring a second shining one to whom to bond him and thus truly maximize his powers.

Evren’s magic was a gift, but it was a gift they could not use. If nothing else, after much impassioned discussion over the next few weeks, this was a conclusion to which the khan and khatun jointly agreed.

… Which was not to say either Qara or Nazar knew what to do about their conclusion. Their agreement about the state of things was not the same thing as agreeing on a course of action in response— something that soon became abundantly clear.

“The gods would not have sent the light into Evren for no reason,” Nazar pointed out over an as-yet-untouched meal of assorted nuts, roots, and autumn berries on the ankle-high table between himself and Qara. He was sitting cross-legged, but jiggling his knee up and down distractedly. “We have to do something.”

“Certainly there’s a reason,” Qara agreed. This had to be the dozenth discussion she and Nazar had held about this very topic since Geriel had shown up at her tent three weeks ago, but for how far apart her and Nazar’s views still rested, it might as well have been the first time they’d ever brooked the subject. She went on: “But that reason can’t rest with us, Nazar, there’s just no way. It’s like… like…” Her sky blue eyes settle on the spread of food before them. “Like giving a berry to a lynx. They have no use for it.”

“And yet it was given to us,” the khan retorted. “The gods don’t make mistakes. Their will isn’t always obvious for us to know, but they wouldn’t place a shining one among the Sparrowhawks for no reason.”

“How will we even begin to train him?” Qara said tersely. “We know nothing.” She clenched her jaw, frustration a living beast inside of her as she added, “And Geriel will not stay patient forever, Nazar. She knows that we’ve been talking. Debating.” Arguing, although she knew pointing this out now would accomplish nothing. “She wants to know our view. Our choice. You’ve seen how close she holds the boy lately. Like he’ll disappear into the fog if she lets him out of her sight.”

“You say that as if I’m not advocating to prevent such a thing,” Nazar growled, his eyes narrowing a trifle. “Evren’s father was one of the hunters we lost in that landslide two years ago. He and his brothers are all Geriel has left in this world.”

Qara let out a long, slow exhale. “It just seems like such a waste, Nazar,” she said after a moment. “For him. For us.”

Nazar forced his knee to still, looking directly towards Qara. “He’s so young, yet. Perhaps his destiny will only become clear to us with time. But I can’t condone hasty action just because we’re confused and uncertain.”

Qara met her counterpart’s gaze, and for the first time in their discussions, a hint of reluctance crept across her face. “He’s barely a year weaned,” she conceded. “Scarcely more than a babe. His path hardly started, let alone written.”

The khan nodded, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. “The Sparrowhawks have survived this long on resourcefulness. There’s no telling what circumstances the future will bring. And in the meantime, that shining one is still one of us.”

* * *

The problem with relying heavily on luck is that eventually, inevitably, that luck will run out.

For the Sparrowhawks, the misfortune came two winters after Evren’s magic came to light, when the boy was six going on seven. A pair of back-to-back blizzards at the start of the season saw the tribe essentially stranded in a measly cave in an inhospitable pass for over six weeks, and by the time they were finally able to safely depart, they were cold and weak and hungry. Unfortunately, this went for the other tribes in the area, too— something the Sparrowhawks only learned when they inadvertently stumbled too close to the cave system where another group had hunkered down, and which the much-larger tribe was apparently willing to defend at any cost.

At the start of winter, the Sparrowhawks had numbered twenty-one. By the time a chilly spring arrived, they’d lost two men, two women, and a babe. And then— just when the earth began to thaw, and they saw the first pricks of light at the end of the black tunnel— the sickness broke out. Quick and virulent and devastating, like a river overflowing its banks. In a week’s time it had claimed two souls, and infected several more, and even those who seemed like they’d survive were sapped of all their colour and stamina and light.

Including Evren. For a boy they all called the shining one, in the blink of an eye he’d lost almost all of his glow.

His mother was, of course, despondent. Geriel had escaped the brutal winter without losing any of her boys, and neither Sonam nor Kerem had caught the illness. Evren, however, had gotten it bad, and even once he’d made it through the worst of the symptoms and she dared believe he would survive, she still refused to let him out of her sight for more than a moment lest he suffer a relapse.

“Why have the gods forsaken us?” she murmured quietly to herself, smoothing his sweat-matted locks. “That our children must die before they’ve had the chance to live?”

As Evren finally settled into a deeper, more restful slumber, Geriel rose from the seclusion of her family tent and out into the thin midmorning sunlight. Of their already small tribe, the number of people strong enough to be gathered around the communal fire was extremely disheartening; three grown men, two women— including Qara— and two very young adolescents who were just barely old enough to be numbered among the adults- one of whom was Geriel’s own Sonam.

“Mother,” he said, giving her a wan smile. “How’s Ev?”

“Coming around,” Geriel said tiredly, sitting at her son’s side. “But he’s still very weak.”

“He’ll take broth, at least?” said Qara, rubbing her age-leathered forehead. The stress of the past few months had seen her already-copious wrinkles seemingly double in number. It didn't help matters any that Nazar was one of the tribe members fighting off the illness; while he'd gotten a milder case than most of the other sick ones, it had still knocked him off his feet, leaving Qara more or less singularly in charge. She added, “If he’ll take broth, that means he’s on the mend.”

“Aye,” Geriel agreed tiredly. “It was everything I could do not to scream before, him sweating himself to a pallor and refusing to eat or drink anything. But he’s starting to get an appetite back, even if he’d still rather sleep than eat.”

“He’s lucky.” Qara sighed. “Blessed boy.” She shook her head, wearily. “I only hope no one else catches it. As is we’re already…” Her voice trailed off for a moment before she finished: “We are weak.”

Everyone gathered around the fire looked towards the khatun bleakly. They’d all been thinking it, of course; even those who were fighting the sickness off were still too weak to move. Bedridden, unable to provide for the tribe. But to hear one of their leaders say the words out loud…

“It might not have gotten so bad,” growled one of the men, “but for the thrice-cursed Windchasers running us off that wood that was absolutely lousy with aguewort. Maybe we don’t have a shaman, but any idiot who knows how to boil water can make an aguewort tea to sweat out a fever.”

“We accomplish nothing by blaming our misfortune on others,” said Qara. Nevertheless, she sighed again, and raked a frustrated hand through her thin silver hair. “We must spend our energies tending to the sick. Getting them back on their feet as quickly as possible.”

There was a general, reluctant chorus of, “Yes, Qara-Khatun” around the fire. Then, timidly, one of the women brooked, “But he is right about one thing, ma’am. We’re in mortal bad need of resources. Medicine, furs, food. The winter and the sickness cleaned us out.”

“I know,” Qara said simply. “We’re running on bones, so to speak.” She was silent for a moment as she mulled. “Even once everyone recovers, we remain weak. Hollowed. Fragile enough that one more bad turn of luck might shatter us outright.”

“We can’t just hope things turn out for the best this time,” the man who’d spoken of the Windchasers said. “We need to do something. Something to weigh our odds of survival.” More sullenly, he added, “Which will probably involve outside help.”

“I know,” Qara said again. “We cannot simply rely on the gods to see us through. We have to act.” She shut her eyes for a moment, clearly steeling herself. “I’ll speak with Nazar— once he’s a little more cogent. We’ll figure something out. I promise that, as your khatun. We won't sit idly by as the fates destroy us.”

The Sparrowhawks gave a general murmur of assent; all they really could do now was trust their leaders to come up with a miracle. Geriel swallowed hard, her gaze drifting towards the tent where Evren yet dozed. She hoped to the gods that Qara and Nazar would find one. For the sake of her little boy, and all of their tribe.

Shining One: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

Nazar was finally strong enough to rise from his sickbed, but it was clear the disease had taken a hefty toll on him. He was gaunt, his eyes deeply sunken, and his gaze had lost that sharp, confident air. Now he just looked… tired.

Nonetheless, he submitted to a long, multi-session closed-door conference with Qara on the fate of the tribe. For several days few saw the khan and khatun except at meals, where they were determinedly closed-mouthed about the nature of their discussions. They would speak before the Sparrowhawks when they had come to an accord, they insisted. There was little point in giving news of plans that may well change in the next few hours.

Finally, after five days,the khan and khatun sent word out among the Sparrowhawks- Geriel was to meet with them in Nazar’s tent. Trepidation making her throat tight, the mother of three trudged through the disorderly encampment until she reached one of the duo of tents that was somewhat larger than all the others. Nazar’s chosen successor, a freckle-faced man in his late twenties, nodded to her as she reached the tent. He gently pulled the tarp aside to admit her, and let it fall again as she passed through.

“Ah, Geriel, welcome. Don’t worry, Serhan is keeping watch for anyone trying to creep up and snoop on our conversations,” Nazar said from his place sitting cross-legged on his bedroll. As Geriel sat, bowing her head respectfully, he added, “I’ve told him not to listen in while we speak.”

“And… he won’t?” Geriel asked doubtfully, glancing back at the shadow on the tarp.

“Oh, of course he will,” Nazar said in an undertone, his tired eyes twinkling. “This is my way of testing how well the boy can keep his mouth shut; a vital skill if he is to succeed me.” The khan held up one arm, barely more than bone, and added ruefully, “Which he will do sooner rather than later, by the look of things.”

“And I need to pick my successor soon, as well,” Qara said dourly. Her previous designated heir had been one of the winter deaths, and in the chaos of the past few months, the khatun had not yet caught her breath enough to sit down and mull over a replacement. It was slim pickings, in any case. “As you know well, Geriel, we are in a desperate state. The worst we’ve ever been. Unless we take swift and drastic action, I’ll be honest with you: I don't think we’ll recover.”

Geriel sucked in a breath sharply, but after a moment gave a sad nod. “The tribe… had figured as much. In our current state it wouldn’t even take a bad winter- just a winter.”

“And we lack the means to finance repairs for our current deficits… of which there are many,” Nazar noted grimly. “We need help.”

“Help which we won't be able to get if we continue our usual patterns,” Qara added. “We cannot simply lay low in the wilds. Not this time.”

Geriel frowned, looking uncertain. “We can’t very well talk to our neighbors; they’d love to snuff us out for good so they can take what little land we have claim to.”

“No, and we’re well aware of that,” Nazar said grimly. “For what we have in mind, the Sparrowhawks will have to make something of a pilgrimage. West, to Hyreme.”

“Hyreme?” Geriel sputtered. “The Lyellians’ trade hub? The stronghold of the Sky Hounds?”

“It's neutral ground,” said Qara. “Heavily enforced neutral ground. Anyone who tried to prey on us there would face the Hounds’ full might and wrath.”

“And because of that, it’s where you can find a lot of tribeless drifters,” Nazar put in. “Those who left for personal reasons, or were cast out during a bad year to preserve resources. Any number of those poor sods would sell their souls to be part of a tribe again.”

Geriel digested this, then shook her head. “But why call me here privately to tell me this?”

“Because numbers are only a portion of our problem, Geriel,” Qara said softly. “We also need resources. Material resources. Our food supplies are dangerously low, we lost half our furs hiking out of that pass after the blizzard, we have no herbs or medicines left to treat our sick…” She gave Geriel a small, mournful half-smile. “We need to acquire resources, and quickly. But they won't come for free, Geriel. And foraging alone won't even begin to cover it, not in time.”

She shook her head. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Tribes with the resources we need aren’t going to give them up freely, and the Sparrowhawks don’t have anything worth their time,” Nazar replied, his eyes averted. “Anything, that is… except a young shining one to bond to their-”

“No!” Geriel bleated, immediately lurching to her feet.

“Geriel.” Qara rose to match the woman’s stance. “Please, give us time to explain, alright? Before you scream at us and rage.”

“Y-you said-” the woman sputtered, her face gone ashen. “Back when he first showed his power, you said-”

“We said that we did not wish to commit hasty action,” Nazar replied, the regret heavy in his voice. “To make a decision in the heat of the moment, with Evren so young and his destiny uncertain. And… Qara and I believe this may be the destiny the gods have been preparing him for.”

“B-but…”

“When we agreed to sit and do nothing many moons ago, it was because we were unsure of the boy’s intended path,” said Qara. “But now…” She sat again, and beckoned for Geriel to follow suit; the woman remained stubbornly upright. “The tribe needs this, Geriel. And… in a large way, it'll be best for him, too.”

“How?” Geriel demanded. “Tearing him away from the only family he’s ever known?”

“Sending him away from a tribe on the brink of collapse,” Nazar fired back, finally forcing himself to meet Geriel’s eyes. “He will become part of a much stronger tribe; one that actually stands a fighting chance of seeing him grown.”

Geriel opened her mouth to object, but whatever protestation she was about to voice died in her throat. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but to this point she seemed to be able to summon no argument, and the realization of this made her clench her eyes against tears of helpless fury. Qara hesitated for a moment, then reached beckoned again for Geriel to sit. This time the woman sharply, furiously, despondently complied.

“He’s a blessing. Gifted,” Qara said gently. “And right now he lives with a tribe who can't even scrap together enough herbs to calm a fever, or dull his pain. Let alone train him and help him reach his true potential.”

“He’s my baby,” Geriel moaned despondently. “He and his brothers are all I have left of my husband.”

“Look at me, Geriel,” Nazar said, gently but firmly. When she reluctantly obeyed, he went on, “You know me. You know I would not agree to this if I didn’t think it was in the boy’s best interest. He will be a shaman- bonded to a friend who he will love for all his life, and cared for like the most precious of treasures.”

“And we must be realistic,” Qara said. “Even if we were to somehow recover from the loss of nearly half our numbers without trading Evren away… Our tribe’s continued survival is far from guaranteed, Geriel. I hate to say it. Gods, I hate to say it. But we cannot close our eyes to the truth just because it’s easier.” She shook her head. “His best chance is not with us. If it ever was at all, then certainly not anymore.”

Geriel was silent for a long time, tears tracking down her cheeks, shoulders shaking. Finally, her voice a croak, she said, “Make this count. By all the gods, if you’re giving my boy away you had better make it count.”

Qara’s throat quavered, as the khatun struggled to conceal her own emotions. This wasn't easy for her or Nazar, either, after all: With a tribe as small as the Sparrowhawks, relationships were intimate and everyone was essentially family, blood relation but a fraction of the picture. Of course in the past members had filtered in and out from time to time— isolationist preferences or not, such ebb and flow was occasionally necessary in order to diversify the tribe’s bloodline and ensure its continued survival— but rarely, if ever, did the Sparrowhawks partake in the wholesale trade of small children for monetary gain. In Qara’s long memory, and her decades in charge of the tribe, they hadn't stooped to such a measure once. And they’d always viewed such tribes who did commit such acts as morally lesser. Almost perverse.

But this was an exceptional time and circumstance.

And Evren was an exceptional boy.

“He’ll thrive, Geriel,” Qara said to Evren’s mother. “The opportunities he’ll have… and the benefits it’ll bring to the rest of us, as well— to you, to Sonam and Kerem, to all of us…”

“Don’t try to make me happy about this,” Geriel retorted, glaring angrily at the khan and khatun. “You won’t make me happy about this. Just make sure my baby gets what he deserves.”

“We will,” Qara said, her stomach turning.

Part of Qara— the desperate, empathetic part of her— wanted to take it all back. Wanted to tell Geriel that she and Nazar had changed their minds, that they wouldn’t do this, that they’d find some alternate solution. All the same, she knew she couldn’t. Knew that that she and Nazar had already spent far too long agonizing, and trying to puzzle together some other way, and that they’d come up empty every time.

“I’m sorry, Geriel,” Qara murmured after a moment. “I wish there was another solution. But the past few months have beaten us into the ground. We’re so weak. So very, very weak.”

“I know,” she said dully. After a moment’s awkward silence, she added stridently, “Take me with you. When you. Go into Hyreme. I want to be there.”

“That sounds… reasonable,” Nazar said reluctantly. “It will be hard though, having to say goodbye.”

“It will be hard no matter,” she hissed. “At least this way I can know who he’s going with. Be certain.”

“Alright,” Qara agreed, sharing a grim, resigned look with Nazar. “You can be there, Geriel. If it will give you peace of mind.”

* * *

The Sparrowhawks were far too small for it to make sense to separate and send a designated party into Hyreme, and so instead the whole group of them went. It was a not-insignificant journey from where they were presently camped even if they took the easiest, straightest path— which they didn’t, because a commonly used trail meant a higher chance of running into another tribe. While it was true what Qara and Nazar had said about Hyreme being heavily enforced neutral ground, the same hardly went for the road thereto. The Sparrowhawks were vulnerable in their travel, and gods if they knew it.

By the time they arrived to the stronghold of the venerable Sky Hounds, the nippy start to spring had given way to a spell of warm, drizzly weather. The air in the meandering settlement of Hyreme— one of the country’s few permanent cities, and its second largest only to Sindri in th far south— smelled of blooming flowers and misty rains. Its streets were rife with tribespeople from from all peaks and corners of the nation, set apart from one another by the dizzying variety of tattoos and piercings they sported, and all putting on a great show of politeness and amity lest they otherwise draw the ire of the Hounds. At this part of the season, foreign traders, too, had begun to trickle in, weary from their journey through the untamed mountains, and uniformly looking quite glad to finally have a stable place to offload their wares and rest their aching feet.

After a day spent learning the lay of the land, Qara and Nazar returned to where the Sparrowhawks were camped in the city’s outskirts to explain their plan. In the morning, Qara would take Nazar’s successor, Serhan, and go into the city to set up a place where they might recruit new members into the tribe. Meanwhile Geriel would accompany Nazar and Evren into Hyreme, and look for any tribes that were interested in taking on a boy partner for their own girl shining one. They would appraise carefully to ensure Evren was going to a tribe that would care for him well, and that said tribe could make good on whatever it offered in trade.

For Geriel, it all seemed to be happening so fast; the morning? That was far too soon! Surely they needed more time to… to…

But no. The tribe needed this to happen as soon as possible; putting it off would serve nothing save Geriel’s own reservations.

So, her heart heavy, she pulled the young boy into her lap in their tent that night, very possibly for the last time.

“S-soon you’ll get to have so much fun, my love,” she said with forced cheer. “A bonded partner is your best friend for life, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” Evren yawned, the boy still roadworn from their long journey to the settlement. “And there’ll be kids my age. To play with.”

“That’s right,” Geriel agreed, forcing her voice to stay even. This was going to be traumatic enough for her own part- she wanted it to be as painless for Evren as she could manage. “So many more kids for you to play with. Instead of just me and your big brothers. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Uh-huh.” He gnawed on his lip, contemplating. “But I won't get to see you or Sonam or Kerem or anybody no more.”

“No,” Geriel agreed, hugging him around the shoulders. “B-but things are… they’re h-hard here. With us. When sickness comes, we can’t stop it. And I don’t want my little man to have to be sick anymore. I want you to learn to do more with the light inside of you than turn colors. I w-want you to be h-happy.”

Evren buried his face into her neck. “They'll be nice?” he prompted. “The new people?”

“They will,” his mother said, her voice filled with iron determination. “Mama will make sure they’re nice people. You won’t go with anybody mean, I promise.”

“I'm gonna miss you.” He snuggled, clearly forcing back tears. “And everyone else.”

Geriel’s breath caught, and she blinked hard against the sting of her own tears. “I know, baby,” she whispered hoarsely, kissing him on the crown of his head. “Mama’s going to miss you too.”

She ruffled in her pocket for a moment, then gently tapped the back of Evren’s shoulder. “But I have a present for you, Ev. Something very special, that I was going to give you when you were older, but…”

“A gift?” Evren withdrew his face from her neck and drew his gaze toward hers. “What kinda gift?”

She held it up for him to see- a small wooden totem, wide as the palm of the little boy’s hand, in the shape of a lynx’s head, with twine threaded throw hoops on both of its ears. “This belonged to your papa, before he died,” she explained with a sad smile. “The lynx is wisdom, and insight, and good counsel. A fitting patron for a future shaman, don’t you think?”

She slipped the token over Evren’s head, and as the necklace settled against his chest, he reached up to stroke an almost reverent hand over it. “It's heavy,” the boy said. He tilted his head, craning to get a proper look at it. “I like it, Mama.”

“I’m glad,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even. “I liked it too. Your papa carved it himself- he was good at woodworking. Always keep it with you, and I bet your papa and the lynx will watch over you, even if you’re far away.”

The boy nodded, somewhat solemnly. “Will… will we ever getta see each other again, Mama…?”

Geriel bit her lip, her eyes clouding. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “That… probably depends on the tribe that you go with. How far away they are.” The woman forced herself to give a long, slow exhale before she murmured, “But p-probably not.”

“In… in our dreams, then?” he asked her. “When we’re asleep at night.”

She chuckled, pressing her nose against his. “Sure- I think that could work. You try really hard to dream of me, and I’ll try really hard to dream of you, and the gods might just let us walk together in dreams.” Letting her forehead rest against his, she added, “I love you. So much. Never forget that, okay Evren? Mama loves you.”

“I love you, too,” he said. “Forever and ever and more.”

* * *

The Hyreme Market was a chaotic place— a tangling maze of makeshift tents and stalls set with arrays of wares from foreign traders and domestic tribes both. The Sky Hounds had a rule that all stands be stricken at sunset each night and then set up again the following morning, which naturally led to a scramble each sunrise as those with goods to trade jockeyed for the best spot. The Hounds’ sentries made sure no violence erupted in the process— and summarily booted anyone who stepped a toe out of line from the settlement altogether— but it was nevertheless a loud and crowded and frenzied process. Accordingly, by the time Nazar, Geriel, and Evren had staked out their slice of the market the morning following Geriel’s final heart-to-heart with Evren, they were all thoroughly exhausted already.

And then the waiting began.

Theirs was hardly a flashy exhibition, no match for the expertly arranged displays by the larger tribes and the Lyellian traders, and attention was slow to come. Even those who did meander by and inquire seemed to quickly lose interest once they heard that all the Sparrowhawks had to offer was a single boy, who’d only be brokered away under strict conditions. It was, after all, somewhat of a niche: They wanted a tribe with a shining one of his own age to whom to bond him, and who’d treat him right per Geriel’s insistence, and who’d offer them enough material goods to make the whole unpleasant gambit worthwhile in the first place.

After more than half a day beneath the beating sun, they’d garnered only two serious inquiries— one of which they immediately turned down because the offering tribe didn’t have nearly enough to give in trade, and the second which they rejected after its khan breezily announced his tribe was on a pilgrimage to Sindri, where they believed they could “turn a profit” off the boy since it was even more of a bustling trade hub than was Hyreme.

By the time dusk approached, and the Hounds’ roving sentries issued a warning that all stalls would need to be stricken within the hour, Nazar was despairing that they would never find someone to trade for Evren. Granted, it had only been one day, but the Sparrowhawks weren’t exactly blessed with a surplus of leisure to linger in Hyreme.

He was starting to take down the small tarp on four tent poles- what had passed for a “stall” for them during the course of the day- when Geriel abruptly reached out and touched his arm.

“Look,” she said, and Nazar followed her gaze to find a heavily tattooed man and woman, with a small girl of perhaps seven- or eight-year-olds between them, strolling straight toward their half-disassembled booth. “Gods, that’s a lot of ink on them. And vivid, too, not just ash. To be able to afford such resources…”

“No poor smaller tribe,” Nazar agreed in an undertone. He straightened as the strangers drew within earshot, smiling nervously. “Ah, hello friends. I am Nazar-Khan of the Sparrowhawks. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

As the trio drew to a halt before the Sparrowhawks’ measly stall, the heavily tattooed man gave a small nod toward Evren. After a day spent beneath the sun, the boy was visibly drowsy; he struggled to keep his eyes open as he sat cross-legged on the ground, his chin rested in his hands.

“We’ve heard rumours in the market,” said the stranger. He was perhaps Geriel’s age, so in his early- to mid-thirties, but where she was thin and haggard, the man was vibrant. Practically glowing. He went on: “About a young shining one being traded. I’d imagine that’s him?” When his adult companion shot him a withering look, and the little girl fidgeted where she stood, the man smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Ah, forgive me. I suppose we should… introduce ourselves, yes?”

Nazar gave a nervous chuckle in reply, and Geriel quirked a suspicious brow. “That would be agreeable, sir.” Nodding her head slightly, she added, “I am Geriel of the Sparrowhawks. The boy, Evren, is my son.”

“Well met,” said the man. “We’re of a tribe called the Standing Stones.” He waited here, as if he half-expected Nazar and Geriel to recognize the name; when they didn’t, he quickly continued: “I am Aram-Khan. And this is one of my shamans, Tara, and her daughter, Likha.” Setting a hand on the little girl’s shoulder, he added, “We’ve come to Hyreme to find a partner for Likha.”

“‘Cept it’s been takin’ forever ‘cause the khan and Mama are both real picky, and-” Likha piped up, earning a light cuff across the ear from the woman, Tara.

“My apologies,” said Tara, her dark blue eyes glinting with something between amusement and aggravation. She looked about the khan’s age, or perhaps a little older, with hair the colour of buttermilk and her skin pale beneath her veritable warren of intricate tattoos. “Likha hasn’t yet reached the age where her head runs before her mouth.”

“She’s just turned eight,” added the khan, Aram. Watching Evren as the boy yawned, clearly struggling to stay awake, Aram’s voice went soft. “Hello there, little one. An awfully long day you’ve been having, hm?”

Evren nodded in drowsy agreement. “It’s been hot,” he said.

“We’re usually further up the slopes,” Geriel said by way of explanation, relaxing just a touch at the way Aram seemed to address her son not as a commodity but as a human child. “He’s not used to the weather in the valleys.” To Likha, the woman added with a crooked smile, “Though he’d wake right up if you wanted to play ball.”

Likha’s eyes lit with obvious interest, and Evren sat a little straighter. “Can we…?” he asked.

Tara laughed. “Well, probably not right here,” said the shaman. “It’s a little crowded.” Meeting Geriel’s gaze, she told the woman, “Likha has the energy of a jackrabbit. Her twin brother, Shyam, is… calm. Quiet. Older than his years. Likha, however…”

“You gotta twin?” asked Evren, perking up further. “That’s neat. Our tribe hasn’t got none right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Likha agreed. “Great-Grandpa Shamil said he’s gotta better dis… diss…”

“Disposition,” Aram offered, quirking a brow.

“Yeah, that,” Likha agreed. “Shyam’s got a better dis-po-shish-un for bein’ a shaman.”

“Great-grandpa?” Nazar raised a brow. “My, my… and your brother is already bonded as well? It seems your tribe is… very well off.”

The comment was addressed towards Likha, but the Sparrowhawks’ khan shot a questioning glance at Aram. The other khan, however, simply shrugged, his expression impassive. Holding a hand out toward the little girl to preempt her from speaking, he said simply: “We are fortunate.”

“The gods have been kind to us,” Tara added. “My grandfather— her great-grandfather— went to the heavens a few years ago, but he lived quite the blessed life. He’d lost count of his age when he finally passed. And he was so pleased in his final days to see our magic flourishing as it is, with both of the twins blessed.”

“Blessed, indeed,” said Nazar— needling, yet trying not to show it. Only large and very powerful tribes could even begin to think of pouring in the resources to bond and train multiple pairs of future-shaman children. After all, given that magic passed through families, bonding even one child usually meant looking outward for a match in order to keep the bloodline diverse… and as this exchange well-showed, acquiring said match was not necessarily a simple thing in and of itself. It oft required traveling. Bartering. Luck. So if these Standing Stones were attempting to bond a second pair... Nazar’s heart was humming a little faster as he added tentatively: “How large do you number, Aram-Khan? If I am not too forward to ask.”

“We’ve only brought a small group into the city,” said Aram. “But back home…” He shrugged, clearly trying to keep his voice casual as he went on: “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps a hundred? More or less.”

Both Nazar and Geriel exchanged wide-eyed looks. In spite of Aram’s breezy tone, they knew for a fact this was no small tribe. Even the larger groups that frequently harried them seldom exceeded fifty or sixty members, and yet these Standing Stones apparently had at least double that.

“And my mama and papa are the shamans for all the tribe!” Likha put in, oblivious. Curiously she added, “What’s your mama and papa do, Evren?”

“I haven’t got a papa,” Evren said solemnly. “Not for a long time.”

“My husband passed when Evren was only two,” Geriel put in softly, but with steel in her voice. “He and his brothers are my treasures. It isn’t easily or to just anyone I intend to give him up.”

Nazar openly cringed, clearly taken aback by his subordinate’s comment and preparing to run damage control— but there was no need, for Aram kept a surprisingly level expression. Without skipping a beat, the stranger khan said to Geriel, “Of course. He’s your son. It’s only natural.” He tapped his chest, near his heart. “I have a child, too. Just about his age. She brings out in me feelings I never knew existed within me. The ardent urge to protect her, to do the best I can by her, to make sure she’s safe and loved no matter the cost or sacrifice.”

Geriel was trembling now, her lower lip quivering. She swallowed hard, gave a single sharp nod, then stepped back. Nazar gave a soft sigh of relief, then stepped forward.

“Though it pains me to admit, our tribe has fallen on hard times,” he began slowly. “We offer the boy, if you believe he is suitable- in exchange, we would have certain vital supplies.”

Aram looked to Tara. “What do you think?” he asked.

Tara tilted her head, studying Evren as though with a piercing enough gaze she could read him like a map. As if through this short encounter she could truly determine if he’d be a good match for Likha. If they should take him on, and in turn uproot him from the only life he’d ever known.

It was a big decision. A huge decision. And Tara seemed to know it as she said, “When did he first show his gift?”

“Two and a half years ago,” Nazar replied. “He was four- he started turning leaves colors. We’ve not had shining ones in the Sparrowhawks in memory, so it was… a surprise to say the least.”

“You haven’t shamans, then?” said Tara.

“Wha- no?” Nazar frowned. “We’ve no shining ones, save Evren, so certainly we wouldn’t be so crass as to appoint someone to the role just for the sake of a religious authority. That is not the gods’ design.”

“Indeed, it’s not,” Tara agreed. “Forgive me for implying, but as I’m sure you know, some tribes do try such a thing. Shoving an average man or woman into the role when they lack a pair of shining ones, and pretending the titles applies to them, and perverting what it means—”

“Tara,” Aram cut in. “Not the time to prosthelytize, neh?”

Her cheeks flushing, she shook her head, as if to snap herself out of the sudden wave of indignation. “Right. Sorry.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “So, he changed colours. That was the same with Likha.” For everyone else’s sake, she clarified, “That’s a good sign. It means their magic matches, in a rudimentary sense of the word. That it’s been instilled in both of them by the god of colours, not the god of light.”

Nazar and Geriel exchanged a baffled glance- this meant nothing to them- but Nazar brooked, “That… is good to hear. I can’t speak to much wisdom on the subject, for obvious reasons, but I am grateful for your insight on the matter. I wouldn’t want Evren in an unsuitable match, and I suspect you want the same for your little one.”

“It’s a tricky business, bonding,” Tara said by way of answer. Taking a tentative step toward Evren, she narrowed her eyes, still studying him. “He’s… how old, you said? Seven?” When Geriel and Nazar nodded, she continued, “That’s also good, then. He’s close to Likha’s age. It makes things… simpler. Not for the magic bonding itself, necessarily, but in them forging a natural bond. Becoming friends, to put it plainly.”

“What were you looking for, exactly?” Aram said to Nazar. “From what Tara says, this may be a good match. But the terms must be… palatable.”

“We’re looking to supplement our larders for this coming winter, and the months leading thereto,” Nazar replied, cocking his head as if in thought, despite the fact that he and Qara had rehearsed the list many times. “I need supplies of medicinal herbs, furs, and non-perishable food for a group of twenty.”


Aram’s face remained inscrutable, though there was a sudden, irritated edge to his voice. “A hefty list,” he said. “What sort of winter are you expecting this year, anyway?”

“One cannot prepare overmuch,” Nazar said. His voice stayed level, even if his stomach was turning. Gods, he hoped he hadn't started too high. Hadn't immediately soured the only legitimate contender of the day right from the get-go, and thus risked upending the entire deal.

Aram, at least, didn't seem offended to the point where he was going to walk. Instead, he pursed his lips, contemplative for a moment, and then said, “Whittle your list some. Pick two of the three you've cited.”

Nazar winced internally. “The food,” he said. “And… the furs. But… if we're nulling the herbs altogether, I need more of both.”

“No,” Aram said. Before Nazar could protest, however, he held up a hand and went on, “However, is the rest of your tribe local, Nazar-Khan? Camped out nearby?” When Nazar reluctantly nodded, Aram continued, “Good. Then I’ll give you another sort of deal. If you’re asking for herbs, and you haven’t shamans, I imagine you presently may have some… ah, let’s call them medical concerns. Is this correct?”

Nazar couldn’t exactly pretend otherwise- he himself was still extremely underweight after his illness earlier in the year. “We had a difficult winter. Very difficult,” he said by way of reply.

“Then Tara can come to your camp,” Aram said. “She’ll take a look at your members. Heal what she can.”

Tara raised a brow— clearly she had not been consulted on this offer, although she seemed to know she was in no position to object— while Nazar’s eyes widened with surprise. Such would still leave the Sparrowhawks vulnerable to illness and injury in the coming months, but if they were restored to full or close to full strength… that would go a long way towards enabling them to see to their own foraging.

“That is… a generous offer,” Nazar replied, nodding his head. “One that, I think, would be an amenable compromise.”

“The market is near to closing for the night,” Aram said. “So let’s do this: We’ll come with you now to where your tribe is camped. Tara will spend the night examining your members and treating what she can. Then, in the morning, we shall take you shopping. Acquire the agreed-on furs and food.”

“Very well,” Nazar agreed, with just a touch of reluctance- it was a matter of great trust to bring a stranger into one’s camp, but if they were going to give Evren to these people they would have to get used to trusting them. “Is there anything you need to retrieve, or messages you need to send along?”

“And-” Geriel put in, her face making it clear she was bracing for disappointment. “If your shaman will be spending the night among us in any case, might I… have one more night with Evren?”

Aram, though, only shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Not if we’re already slated to spend much of the night at your camp, anyway.”

The shining one’s mother gave a sigh that was more than half whimper, smoothing a hand over Evren’s hair. “Th-thank you.”

“And then tomorrow he can come with us all shopping!” Likha put in, cheerfully oblivious to the weight of the conversation going on around her. “Maybe Aram-Khan will get us candies from the Ly-len traders!”

Tara glowered at her daughter, but Aram only snorted. “Expensive tastes, this one,” he said dryly.

“Well Evren’s never had it before!” Likha said with a cheeky grin. “We’s gotta give him a good welcome!”

“We wouldn’t want to impose on anyone’s hospitality, Miss Likha,” Nazar said with a thin smile.

“Indeed,” Aram agreed. He tilted Likha’s chin up so that her eyes met his. “Be good, yes? We’re to have a busy night. You need to mind.”

“I will,” Likha insisted, pursing her lips. “I’m just ‘cited. I’ve wanted a partner for a long time.”

“I know you have, sweetheart,” Tara said, as Aram let go of the girl. Smiling toward Evren, the shaman added, “We’re all very excited to have you join us, little one. And I promise— we’re going to take very good care of you.”

Evren gave a small, shy nod. “Thank you,” he said. Then, to Geriel: “They’re nice, Mama. Like… like you said.”

She forced a smile, though the aching pain in her eyes was readily obvious. “You’re going to be so happy, love. And make so many new friends, and learn so much wonderful magic.”

“We’ll take good care of him,” Tara reiterated, this time speaking straight to Geriel. “I promise you. We’ll treat him like our own.”