 
# Diversity Is Coming

The days of unified culture and singular Great Kingdoms are over. In their place, bold new visions are redefining the world of fantasy. Eight authors tackle stories with a focus on diversity, finding heroism outside the familiar boundaries of farmhands and prince's castles.

Including original fiction from Nicolas Wilson, Carole McDonnell, Michelle Browne, Mags Carr, William Lenoire, Rachel Savage, Kirstin Pullioff, and Gail Villanueva, this collection goes where GRR Martin and Terry Brooks couldn't.

# Table of Contents

World Map

Ayana, by Nicolas Wilson

The Witch's Curse, by Kirstin Pullioff

Seven Weeks, by Gail Villanueva

The Herders of the Roof of the World, by William Lenoire

The Reed-fish Girl of Comara Cove, by Michelle Browne

Vergreva, by Mags Carr

The Girl In The Dim, by Carole McDonnell

Children of Scale, by Rachel Savage

Afterword by Nicolas Wilson

#  Worldmap

# Ayana, by Nicolas Wilson

My mother named me Ayana, which means journey. It's the only thing my father's ever told me about her. His name's Banto- and he hates that I call him that- and for as long as I can remember he's been a playwrite.

He tells me most playwrites can't feed a family, and that we've been very fortunate. One of his characters, the monkey prince Húsūn, has become quite popular locally, enough that he was able to build a small playhouse on the edge of town.

He's written a few other things, but people weren't interested. They like Húsūn. I can't blame them. I remember the first story my father told me about the monkey prince. I had a single female friend, and we were beaten by a group of girls from the center of the city. The deeper into the city you got, the wealthier the inhabitants were.

I wanted him to teach me how to throw a punch, how to fight dirty. Instead, he told me a story.

Húsūn was a renowned warrior, who traveled with several other heroes, including a tikbalang, and his princess bride. They fought many evils across the kingdoms, and while traveling through the area near Folei, he was contacted by a village of tauzak herders. They had trouble with raiders attacking their village, and offered Húsūn's party a bounty to deal with them. That night, Húsūn encountered an elderly woman on the road. She implored Húsūn not to attack the raiders; she knew that such an attack would only cause more bloodshed, that the remaining raiders would swear a blood oath to wipe out the village, until the last of each struck one another down in the rain.

Húsūn asked how she could know this. She explained that she was Kiritru, mother of the tauzak, and she would defend her herders, until the time she could secure a lasting peace for all. Húsūn returned the bounty the next morning, and told them that they had Kiritru's protection, and she would show the raiders the Way. They didn't listen. But the Goddess kept her word for Húsūn's abstinence. Perhaps the raiders would have been defeated, for a time, either way. But their acceptance of the Way guaranteed peace in the Roof of the World.

I was still young enough I didn't have much time for allegory. My father told me the story's point was that there are times when the wisest warrior does not fight. Even at that young age, I didn't believe in Kiritru, or any of the various gods. I think Húsūn simply realized that a war ends in destruction, so he chose not to start one.

The story did teach me that talking could be just as potent as a fist. So when next I saw the girl who attacked us, I spoke with her. At first, she put on a brave face, and tried to menace me. But the facade slowly crumbled, until there was only a crying girl. She didn't know why, exactly, but her father's business was doing poorly, and that made him act angrily. He hurt her.

We told Banto, and he agreed to have a talk with her father. The beatings stopped. I don't know what he said. Back then, I thought he told him a story about the monkey prince; now that I'm grown I'm not so sure.

My father says I've 'blossomed,' though aside from the bloom in my cheeks whenever Chitran smiles at me I don't think I really understand it. I know I'm old enough to ask questions. Like why aren't women allowed on the stage? Father mumbled something about dignity, and decency, before finally stating, "Some folk have got a problem with women." Then he hobbled away on his one foot.

He's told me a dozen different stories about how he lost his other foot. Most were mundane, that it was trampled by a herd of tauzak, crushed working in a mine on Halbazo. On a few rare occasions, when a friend bought him too much ale, he'd tell wilder stories, how it was cursed by Aliashe, cut off by a tikbalang who, having only four hands to walk on, felt feet unnatural. My favorite was when he told me he traded it to the fae for a favor, and when I asked the favor he said, "You," and touched my nose. That answer warmed me the way he said ale warmed him.

Whenever I confronted him over his shifting story, he'd grin. But if I called him a liar, he'd stop smiling and say, "Writing is lying through truth; lying is how a playwrite practices."

I think my father felt badly, that women couldn't be on his stage, so he hired them for anything else that he could. Female carpenters, stagehands, whatever else we needed, he hired women, many of them widows who would otherwise test their fortunes on the street.

I knew how strict the laws were, in that regard. Several times a year, our humble theater was raided by the authorities because someone believed the men on stage were women. My father considered that a point of pride, a testament to his casting and direction. To aid in the illusion, my father hired pretty young boys, with soft features, and red, rosy cheeks. Boys like Chitran.

He had hair like flax, but that shined like the blade of a nobleman's sword, lips as full and fluffy as clouds ready to burst with rain, and eyes bluer and deeper than the Khilei Ocean. My father took me there to swim once, and reminded me that we were fortunate, for many of our neighbors could not take a day from work to swim. Dive though I did, I couldn't reach the bottom.

I found Father scribbling with his quill in the office above the theater. He wanted to be done with Húsūn; he'd said so many times. He had contemplated killing the character off. But every time he tried something else, people refused to come to see it. "And you have to give the people what they want," he concluded. But this time he insisted, "I've reached the end of Húsūn's journey."

"It'll cause a riot if you kill him," I said idly. I was used to his manias, and usually he came to his senses largely on his own.

"He doesn't die, at the end," he said.

"Then how is it an end?"

"It's an end to the adventures," he said. "His princess bride is killed, and he is grievously wounded."

"So it's a tragic ending?" I asked, suddenly perking up.

He smiled. "Not at all," he said, and touched my face. "Their daughter lives. It gives him time to raise her into a woman. It's a sad ending, because he loses his wife, but it's also a happy ending, because he gets to focus on building a life for his daughter."

His description made me tingle, and I knew his work was always stronger when it connected so directly to his own life. But I'd also lived long enough in the theater to recognize that one person's resonance was another's irrelevance. "Do you think it'll play?" I asked.

"I think it connects to death, and renewal," he said. "It will make those who've experienced the former sad, and give those who've known the latter hope; to most everyone, it will give both."

"Can I read it?" I asked. He didn't like to let anyone read his work; it was instructions for actors less so than poetry.

"It isn't finished," he said. That went doubly for a work in progress. "But perhaps it's time I teach you the family business."

"You think I could be a playwrite?"

"You could be whatever your heart desired. But being a playwrite is something I could show you how to do."

"Okay," I said.

He rolled out the parchment. It wasn't the first time I'd seen a play, but every time before it had been with the purpose of coaching the actors, usually reminding them of their lines. This was different, because the page was filled with possibilities. That awkward wording on the twenty-fifth line, I could change. For a moment I felt like a god, only for the weight of those decisions to come smacking down on me.

"Go ahead," he said, and handed me his quill.

I got lost in the words. I made small notes in the margins, but mostly the dialog and action pulled me forward, until I reached the last uncompleted line. I wanted to know- I needed to know- where things proceeded from there. I knew from experience that he wrote as well and as fast as he did, and pestering him only made him move more slowly, with less certainty, so I tried to calm myself. But as that hot urgency faded, I was left with something else. I had always liked the character of Vaidehi, Húsūn's warrior bride. But as I grew into a woman, I felt her flaws more deeply. Too often she was made the subject of fun, but not a pursuer of it. Here she wasn't, and I asked my father why.

"She's never been written for comedy," he said, and he seemed almost sad. "Vaidehi was a warrior, as skilled with a sword as Húsūn, but twice as cunning, and fourfold as comely. The comedic... embellishment has always come from the actors. I fought constantly with her first actor, and threatened to pay him not a dime unless he did the lines as written. The night of that first performance, he didn't. His portrayal proved popular, so much that as I would have loved to fire him, I couldn't. He stayed for five successive plays, by which time the... unflattering mannerisms were considered canon by anyone not privvy to the words on the page."

"Perhaps," I said, "the problem was always that men took the role. That they could not find her strength inside her compassion, or the wisdom beneath her love."

"Perhaps," he said, and smiled. "And I hope the plays will last long enough to be performed again, with a more... faithful presentation."

"What if we weren't to wait?" I asked. He frowned at me. "I could do it."

"And flout the obscenity laws?" he asked with a wry grin.

"She's worth it," I said, and was surprised by the emotion in my own voice.

"Even were I to agree, the part already has a master, promised and paid."

That was true. "I could be his understudy."

"He's never missed a show, and you've never acted before," he said.

"I could try," I said. "What's the harm?"

"Okay," he said. "But a final decision hasn't been made. If Chitran can't go on, then we'll decide whether to put you on? All right?"

I hugged him, and ignored the caveat, because I doubted that if the time ever came, he could deny me.

The next day I did another pass. This time I was less enthralled with the story, so I was able to make more substantive suggestions. He pursed his lips, reading above my shoulder. "Well, this will never do," he said. He held up one of the pages of the manuscript. "I can barely comprehend the direction- and I wrote it. We'll need to write out another copy, incorporating your suggestions so the players can begin rehearsing the first act. And by we..." he handed me the quill.

I wanted to balk at the suggestion; it felt like a punishment for pointing out the flaws in his work. But I also knew he'd rewritten a hundred manuscripts a dozen times each. It was a test, yes, but a test to see if I could stick with the work, even the unglamorous portions. I took the quill from him, and looked into the well. "We'll need more ink," I said.

"I'm going to the market for supplies. Add it to the list, and I'll fetch some."

I wrote and I wrote, until every one of my fingers ached from the scribbling. I wrote until the sun went down, then continued until my candle burnt out. In the morning I woke with the sun, and began writing again. I heard my father wake, and shortly after smelled breakfast cooking. He brought it to me. It smelled heavenly, but I could feel the pressure of finishing the draft; the players began today, and they would need the manuscript.

He looked over my shoulder at the work, and smiled. "You needn't hurry further," he said. "It will be days before they catch up. Now eat. We wouldn't want this to be your last play for starvation."

I set aside the parchment, and took up a wooden plate. I tried to shovel an egg into my mouth, but my fingers refused to close properly around the spoon. I switched hands, and while my weak hand was more clumsy, it still had the strength to grasp enough to get the bite to my mouth, even if it detoured slightly at my cheek.

"That's how you can know a playwrite from his dining- or hers," he said, with a smile, "she eats with her off hand, messily." I put my tongue, still caked in eggy flecks, out at him. His expression turned momentarily serious. "I'm going to need you, today. Fittings."

"Fittings?"

"An understudy has to be able to fit in the costume, too. Lenor will make the necessary adjustments." I didn't like Lenor, or maybe I didn't like the way my father looked at her. With my mother gone, I'd grown accustomed to hoarding his affections for my own.

"When?" I asked.

"Before lunch," he said, "but not too far past breakfast." I frowned at him. "Don't want to let it out too far, or hem it too tightly."

I finished eating, then went back to rewriting. After an hour, my father came in and took the first act for rehearsal.

About midday, Lenor knocked upon the door. "Come in," I said. She had one of Vaidehi's battle dresses folded over her arm.

"Put this on," she said, and handed it to me. She turned around, and closed the door, and kept her eyes averted while I changed.

"Done," I said. But as she looked I became suddenly self-conscious, and examined the dress more critically. "It's much too long," I said, and frowned.

"The dress is an understudy, too," she explained. "It's fit to Chitran, first. We need a few hems to make it fit you- things that can be quickly undone should his dress be torn or stained."

I doubted the idea, one dress fit to two people, especially someone as tall and lanky as Chitran, and someone like me, shorter, stouter. But Lenor worked diligently, and in silence. I imagined being Vaidehi, riding through the plains on tikbalang-back, taming the savage wilds of the Jedroi Plains, fighting beside her beloved prince.

"And what do you think?" Lenor asked. The question tore me from my reverie.

The illusion wasn't quite complete; at the seams you could see that the dress was a replica of the fashionable battlegown the princess wore, but still I felt her power and her beauty for an instant.

"I think you've outdone yourself," my father said. I hadn't heard him come in.

"You're too kind," she muttered shyly, as she scurried away with her kit.

"You make me miss her," he said to me. "Your mother, you look just like her."

I saw the opportunity, and grabbed it. "What was she like?" I asked.

"Wonderful. Like you."

"But where did she come from? What did she do?"

"She came from everywhere; the world was her home, and every person in it her family. And she loved, more completely, wholly and faithfully than any person living before or since."

"I don't want platitudes, or poetry."

"Then you don't want me to tell you about your mother."

"What were her flaws? Everybody has them. Even me." The last part showed my bitterness; I loved my mother, unknown as she was, but some little part of me hated knowing that he held her so far above me.

He was silent, and for a moment I assumed he wouldn't respond, but then he said, "She couldn't hate. No matter how deeply wronged, she couldn't hate. She tried, once or twice. But failed. She wanted so much for the world to be better, that she found ways to sympathize with even the worst of men. It caused her pain, and it pained me, too, to see her injured so." The answer only made me more annoyed, because her 'flaw' was just a different kind of perfection. He smiled, proving he knew he was caught, and he needed to cooperate, at least a little..

"She snored," he said, "any time she'd eaten tauzak. And she loved tauzak, so it happened more often than you'd imagine. She was a complex woman. And I know in her absence I love her far more selflessly than in her presence. But her loss... having her, to lose her, left a mark deeper than a blade ever could. Imagine your happiest day. That was your mother, to me. We fought, at times, and more than once exchanged unkind words. I would mourn my loss every moment of every day, were it not for knowing that most aren't fortunate to love so well, however briefly. But the gods shined on my poor existence; I've loved so twice." He touched my cheek, and I wrapped my arms around his torso.

That made me feel closer to my father than I ever had. So did working with him. I'd always been a theater brat, hanging from the top of the curtains or crawling beneath the stage. And I helped where I could, how I could. But talking with him late into the night about the story as it formed, bending the ideas into a recognizable shape. It was a different part of him I saw, and a different part of myself that it touched.

It also gave me an opportunity to speak to Chitran. We'd shared perhaps a dozen words in the several years he'd worked for my father, and I did feed him lines the previous year, when my father caught ill with the season's change. But now we were working lines together. He was looking soulfully into my eyes and whispering the words I'd written to me.

It was strange, because I was his understudy, so the lines I recited were all the wrong ones, but hearing the words aloud, they took on a life they couldn't hold while existing only on the parchment, or in my mind. They melted on his tongue into a buttery cream that drowned me in velvet warmth.

I'd never been in love, not truly. I frequently failed to understand the plots of my father's plays, because when it came to love, his characters went insane. But for Chitran, I was a madwoman. I would have died for him, murdered for him. The syllables of his name made me tremble.

Then one afternoon, I leaned across the table where the pages of the play were splayed, and I kissed him.

He barely seemed to notice at all; his only response was a wearied sigh. "Do you think," he began, "it proper? Does the incestuousness of it not compel you to shame?" My face became warm, and I couldn't look up from the table. "Your only qualification in your role is as his daughter," he said flatly. The accusation hurt; that he ignored the affection preceding it hurt more.

"I should go," I managed, and walked away, navigating by the slight space before my feet. That is perhaps why I knocked into my father. Had I knocked him onto his good leg, he might have caught the both of us, but instead his weight landed painfully on his ankle, and we both sprawled pitifully across the floor.

Despite his hobble, he was faster getting up, and helped me stand. I was crying, though I couldn't remember when I began. He waited for my explanation patiently, and eventually I was composed enough to tell him, "I kissed Chitran."

"And you didn't like it?" he asked.

"He didn't."

"Ah," he said, and looked in the direction of the stage. "Some boys prefer the company- and the kisses- of other boys."

The idea perplexed me, enough that my tears all but dried in that moment. "Why?" I asked.

"Those feelings you have for Chitran- they have them, too. And he has them for other boys."

"Oh," I said. I wobbled on my feet. The worst of the rejection was over, perhaps, but the fall from those heady heights had left me weak.

He noticed. "You should rest," he said. "A wounded heart will mend with time, but it requires the same care as any other infirmity." He wrapped his thick arm around me, and aimed me towards my room.

Pages from our play were scattered about, all over the covering over my bedding. He smoothed them away, gathering them with care. He kissed my forehead, and eased me down. He laid my blanket over me, then sighed, and touched my cheek. "I hate to see you hurting so," he said, then he smiled.

"There's a story I've never told you, or anyone. But it took place long ago. Húsūn was still alone in the world, without the friends he would later meet. But already he had built a legend enough to attract the attention of the Lady of the Scale. The High Lady was beautiful and wise, and Húsūn fell for her like maidens plucked from tomorrow by the goddess," which was what people from Huraia call falling stars. "To win her, he performed many great feats, to appease her serpent god Kurdal, and his warrior mate Aliashe. He won favor from the female deity, but no matter what he did, he could not convince Kurdal to bless the union. Húsūn eventually realized that Kurdal was protecting his priestess. For all of her appreciation of him, she did not love him, perhaps could not. The realization broke Húsūn's heart; he wondered if he would ever feel the sun's warmth again. But not a cycle of seasons passed before he met Vaidehi, and as much as he loved the High Lady in his youth, at the peaks between valleys of their affections, that was how much he loved the princess at the end of their first day together. And every day he loved her two times more. And as much as he loved her, she loved him still more in return."

His stories always made me sleepy; I suspected he told them in lieu of giving me poppy's milk. But one question lingered to me. "Was my mother your High Lady, or your Vaidehi?"

"Your mother was my queen," he said.

"But how do you know?"

"Because the only other woman who could ever give my life the same fullness was our princess," he said, and kissed my forehead. "Sleep well, Ayana. The sun will rise again on the morrow."

I slept until deep into the night, and woke needing to use the outhouse. My father left a candle burning, and I took it down the hall. I heard a muffled commotion from the stage, and tiptoed down the steps. I recognized Chitran's voice, low, guttural. He groaned. Then I saw his chest, glistening with sweat as he gyrated. I recognized a second voice. It belonged to one of my father's other 'female' actors, a boy named Ruy.

A board creaked underfoot and Chitran's head jerked in my direction. His face contorted, but not in anger or surprise. I gasped. Despite being on the stage, I recognized the display wasn't meant for an audience, and snuck away.

Whatever my father's tolerance, that kind of exhibition might get us shut down for real. I resolved not to tell anyone. I felt better, after that, knowing for certain that his rejection had less to do with me, and more to do with what he wanted.

I woke up with the sun the next morning, and got back to work. There was still a whole act to finish drafting, and my duties as an understudy had cut significantly enough into my work hours that the players were catching up.

And while my father wouldn't have likely admitted it, we were catching up to him, too. I think he liked working with me on the play, but having to hold my hand meant that everything was taking him longer. Even though I was lagging, he was barely a few pages ahead of me.

I don't think he slept, because when I woke up he had finished the last act.

I pored over the pages. It was rougher than even the early drafts I'd seen from the first two acts, including a handful of elements that felt out of place. We'd discussed some of the threads, it's impossible to edit without having at least some idea of the larger tapestry. A few strands seemed to have come from wholly new cloth.

One element in particular irked me, enough that I had to ask. "Father, why'd you make his injury a lost foot?" It felt like the kind of detail that was self-indulgent- a cripple turning his popular main character into one, too, as if to prove his own worth by proxy. It was an unkind thought, but he'd always encouraged in me a critical eye.

"You write what you know," he said, and shrugged.

"But was Húsūn always dark-skinned?" He nodded, and I frowned. I'd never really thought about it; it had never been specified in the plays, though none of the actors wore the darker paints we used to denote other dark-skinned characters.

The hair on my neck stood, as I knew the next change was actually dangerous,and not simply a literary departure. "I thought Húsūn's rivalry with the king was about the monarch's insecurity."

"The king has many insecurities," he said coyly. "Perhaps chiefly, was a feeling of superiority over the other races, one that was fragile and easily threatened. But his central trait is his conviction that he is always under siege, terrified of being outshone or outdone." There was something else in the king, or perhaps something missing; Banto had always embellished the king with fanciful traits relating to prior kings, to lend a satirical deniability to the portrayal. This king was nakedly a parody of the current one, and that idea made me nervous.

I was still grappling with how to broach it with my father, when we heard Ruy yell from downstairs. It brought to mind catching him and Chitran the previous night. I tried to put the thought out of my head. He yelled again. "Come, now!" we made out, even through the door. My father reacted fastest, though he hobbled down he hall. I was right behind him.

Ruy was nearly in tears when we reached him at the stage. My father grabbed him by the shoulders. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

"Chitran," he said, and pointed to the front door.

Father continued outside. As soon as we were in the street we could hear the shouting. A group of men were gathered in a circle.

I heard Chitran's breathing, heavy as it had been on stage, but there was an edge of pain to it. On the ground between the men I saw him, trying to push himself out of the dirt. One of the men kicked him back down.

My father pushed his way between the men. "Enough!" he yelled.

"Beat it, bark-skin," one of them said. Father grabbed him by the collar and hurled him out of the circle.

"Shka!" one of the men said.

"Leave the boy alone," Banto said.

"And we're going to listen to a tweeg-loving bark-skin?" another asked.

"Meva," the man next to him cautioned. Shka was on his feet, sneaking towards Banto, preparing to grab him.

"Father!" I yelled. But he was already in motion. He grabbed Shka, and rolled his weight across his shoulders. He landed feet-first into Meva. The other men in the circle froze.

"Ayana," Banto glanced at me, "get him inside."

He stood watch as I knelt between them, and helped Chitran stand. He was hobbling almost the same as my father. I carried a good deal of Chitran's weight back. I thought I might collapse under the strain. I leaned him against the wall inside the safety of the theater's doors.

I wanted to go back for Banto, but Ruy barred my way. "They'll kill you," he said. "And I need help. With Chitran." I glanced back at the bleeding boy. I didn't trust Ruy's assessment, but I knew that Chitran likely needed me more than my father did.

I stayed. We moistened rags and cleaned Chitran's wounds. He had cuts and bruises all over his beautiful face. His skin was soft to the touch, and despite myself I was preoccupied with how sensual tending to his wounds was.

He grabbed my hand, and held it, and my heart skipped a beat. "Ruy," he whimpered, and I realized he was reaching for the other boy, not me.

After quarter of an hour, my father returned. His mood was dour, and I followed him upstairs. I was prepared to have to dab blood from him, as well, but he was unharmed.

"What happened?" I asked.

"We talked. And they left." I'd heard that tone before. Whatever happened, he wanted to share no further detail of it. I'd learned from experience that pushing usually ended in both of us upset, both from whatever secret he held back, and from the hurt of forcing the issue.

"What's bark-skin?" I asked.

He sighed hotly; clearly he hoped I hadn't heard the word. "It's what stupid men call my flesh, because it's darker, and dryer than theirs. They think it's a word to hurt me; really it's just a badge of their ignorance." He sighed, and some of the steam left him. "As an insult, it fell from favor, because civilized folk felt it beneath them. But rage drives the civility out of people, so there's nought but anger and their deepest intentions."

"Do I have bark-skin?" I asked.

"No," he said, and stroked my cheek. "Your mother was cream-skinned, in both color and texture. And your skin lies somewhere between."

"Might people try to hurt me for my skin?"

"Some might," he said. "Any fool who doesn't love you immediately isn't worthy of knowing you."

"Then why can't I be on stage?"

He recognized the pivot immediately, and a little smile spread across his lips. "The obscenity law was designed by men who are afraid of women, worried what they're capable of, unshackled. It's wrong-headed."

"But you still don't want me on stage? Even after what happened to Chitran? He's in no shape to go on."

"We'll see," he said noncommittally. But I knew I could convince him. I just knew it.

I went to sleep that night excited, imagining how wonderful our play could be with a faithful reading of the female lead.

I dreamed of being on that stage. I recognized my father dressed as Húsūn, in one of the first productions. I remembered him telling the story of how the actor felt the play was beneath him, that playing some local hero, a monkey prince, wasn't up to the weightiness of his usual roles. My father liked to tell how he had to fit into the leaner actor's costume, and hop around on one leg for the entirety of the play. I recognized him immediately from that story, conspicuously younger, perhaps even handsome.

I was in that play, as the first incarnation of Vaidehi. The costuming was at once simpler and more elegant, beautiful enough to be easily confused with the real world article, yet less ostentatious than my own costume.

Húsūn stared into me joyously. He leaned in to kiss me, but it wasn't me any more, though she looked a great deal like me. I realized that she was my mother, that it was me wrapped in cloth to form the hammock wrapped around her neck. I was nearly certain my mother had never acted, let alone in the role of Húsūn's wife.

I felt stupid for my confusion during the dream, because as soon as the cock crowed, I readily understood the meanings.

My father had been more than one of Húsūn's stage stand-ins- he had been the legendary warrior, himself. It seemed so natural, I suspected I'd always known, but hadn't allowed myself to believe it before.

But I'd never focused on his original words, or seen him stand unflinching against encircling men. The previous day had left no doubt in my mind.

I watched him eagerly as he cooked breakfast. Jerky movements I had previously attributed to a clumsiness of a cripple, I understood in a different light. The short, punctuated movements of his arms as he stirred batter wasn't a man unaccustomed to the kitchen making do in the absence of his wife, they were the motions of a man better acquainted with combat, whose warrior bride would have been just as ill-accustomed to homemaking.

And I recognized his cooking palette, too; the recipes he knew were the kind you could cook while traveling, with little more than a morning's gathering and trading- not the food of a farmhand.

Each bite was different, after that, because the flavors filled me of visions of all of the exotic places he'd written of, Vergreva, Leistros, and the Floating Isles of Ang'Gal.

I helped him clean, and only when we were done did I broach what I'd been waiting to say. "When you," I caught myself, "wrote about Húsūn fighting the Marbloom fae in the Vilgat Islands, searching for Vaidehi and his infant daughter. It was dangerous. He could have been killed; his wife and girl, too. And Vaidehi, fighting her way free of the dungeon to get back to him. The world can be a dangerous place. But you have to take risks to protect the things- and people- you care about."

He sighed. "Húsūn wouldn't have been able to leave his family in that dungeon."

"And he also wouldn't have asked Vaidehi to sit in that dungeon, waiting for somebody else to fix everything for her."

"Stupidly, I raised an intelligent daughter," he said, and kissed my forehead. "Though I'm not sure you're of an age yet to fight."

"And how old was Húsūn, when he struck out from his village? When he became the hero of the merfolk, forged those treaties with the fae?"

"Barely a boy. But he's just a story." The twinkle in his eyes told me he was lying.

"He's an example- an ideal. Heroes show us the peak, what we can hope to achieve if we strive; they aren't a ceiling, to keep us safely sheltered from the winds of possibility."

"What if we're raided?" he asked sullenly. "I can't stand the thought that something might happen to you."

"Something will," I said, and took hold of his hand. "There will be a street in my life where I am surrounded and beaten, and you will not be able to protect me when it comes. But we can't cower behind the threat of what might be; it falls to us to live towards what could be."

He sighed. "All right," he said. "You'll perform the part. With a caveat. If we are found out, you will lie for me. You will do your best acting possible, and tell the guards it was my idea, that you were not aware that you were doing something wrong, and that I misled you. You will make me out as vile a tempter as you can. Promise that."

I wasn't sure I could; even on orders, how do you betray your own father so deeply? But he had taught me well how to lie, so I did that, instead. "I promise." I wanted to go still further, to tell him, to let him know that I knew that he was the hero of his stories. But I couldn't imagine a way to tell him where he wouldn't deny it, and I knew that denial would crush me, even if I didn't believe it could be true. For the moment, it would have to be enough that I knew.

We finished the play that night. It was odd, knowing that the words I transcribed had become my own in so short a span.

And finally I recognized why my father had agreed to let me go on. He had never intended for the play to have more than one performance. The subjects that had been veiled over the course of the monkey prince's literary career were now on brazen display, most notably as they centered around our monarch.

Speaking seditiously out loud about our king was different than putting pen to paper to the effect. Because I knew whatever veneer existed of fictionality on the page would disperse the instant the words were spoken aloud on the stage. They chilled me, but I knew that was right; they would have chilled Vaidehi, made her clutch her child to her breast still harder to protect the darling baby- to protect me.

The play also finally made clear that the king was Vaidehi's father. He never approved of her union with the monkey prince- a title I now recognized as the epithet it was. But when his other affairs produced no offspring, the king became terrified. The child was his heir, but also possibly his usurper. The heart of the play was the king's mad desire to tear both child and mother from Húsūn, to safeguard his rotting power.

I thought to my studies, to the gossip of those far older and more worldly than I. In the intervening years, following the moments described in the play, the king's power continued to mold and fester. The king's guard were notoriously corrupt. The law they kept varied upon the quality of bribe you could afford. The villainy was so ingrained, most whispered that the king was likely himself receiving a portion.

I knew upon finishing our first reading that the play would enflame. It exposed and demonized the king through the thinnest of veils, to the point where there was nearly no deniability to be had. That was the reason my father fought me so about taking the role. He knew we were provoking a dragon. But he also knew that the dragon needed poking; he was still too much of a warrior to let such a monster remain unmolested.

He started to plan my escape. After rehearsals, every night we walked the city streets, and discussed the best paths to avoid men in armor. At every step I insisted he adjust his plans. If I had to flee the city, I was certainly not leaving without him. He paid lip service to my request, but always in the least convincing fashion. I began simply overwriting his plans with my own.

His leg was an impediment, we would not be able to flee quickly on foot. So I learned the location of every nearby stable.

And I convinced my father to sell his theater. He found a buyer, a nearby merchant who wanted to put on plays that showed off the goods he sold, and included mentions of his shop in the text. My father convinced him to silently partner for his last play- that it would be better for him to know nothing of the movements of the previous owner.

As our opening neared, I wondered if we would have the chance at performing the play. All of the players and hands understood what we were doing. To their credit, they grumbled less than I might have guessed about being put into danger. A few lines we altered, to give greater cover to the actors involved. Except for Vaidehi. If anything, her lines become more strident, to pick up that slack. Banto argued against the course. I refused to let our play become a paper tiger, removed of even its origami fangs and claws.

To the crews' further credit, their resolve held until opening night. When I spoke the first lines of the play, I expected for the doors to be kicked in, and the room filled with the king's men. Instead, the scene played on. At the end of the first act, when the stage was all set, and the most damning accusations against the king were already in the air, several attendees left. I wanted to club them, to keep them from informing the guards, but also for not recognizing the craft in our production.

My father saw the tension in my shoulders. "Truth is not universal," he said. "Our truth simply was not theirs." He was right about that. People left the theater all of the time. Some simply didn't have the time to devote to an entire play; my father was even willing to sell tickets an act at a time, to accommodate. This was mostly so the poor could watch, as well, a decision that had saved the theater on countless occasions. Because while the merchants could afford to spend a day in leisure, there were a hundred who could not to every one of them, and they loved Húsūn- and my father, too- for giving them a chance at culture, even in such a stunted form.

We made it through the second act, where the king's scheming laid all of the fiction bare. The pieces were set, an ambush by Ushan mercenaries lying in wait outside Húsūn and Vaidehi's encampment. Still, the guards stayed away. For a moment I allowed myself to hope we would escape the night without persecution.

One of the stage hands splashed a cocktail of fruit juices upon my neck. I was rehearsing my death. I loved the character so deeply I was nearly in tears. The arrow that pierced her chest was supposed to be slathered in a paralytic, but the apothecary mixed it incorrectly, and instead it became a deadly poison. Húsūn was likewise struck with an arrow in his foot, and carried his bride across the desert for two days, before she succumbed to the poison.

A tear rolled down my cheek, as I mouthed Húsūn's lines, "I might have died," my father had written, "but for the girl crying from her place wrapped around her mother's neck. My every other instinct was to curl with my love in the dirt, and wait for the poison to take me. But the sliver of her in our child deserved to live as surely as I no longer cared to."

I heard the commotion while I was still waiting in the wings, the clank of armor, and the thunder of a dozen boots, though the sounds were quickly drowned by the excited march of my heartbeat in my ears.

I looked for my father, where he'd been standing through the entire play just to the left of the stage. He was gone.

I chanced a peek at the front of the stage. He was standing there, with his hands held out. "I won't resist," he said. "Just leave my patrons and players be; whatever quarrel you have is with me."

"Father," I gasped, loud enough he heard me.

"Go, girl," he said, with enough force for it to carry, but trying to hide his intent from the guards.

"Not without you," I said, and stepped out onto the stage. The crowd gasped. Seeing me in costume, splashed with staged blood, they immediately assumed it was all a part of the show.

Banto sighed. Guards fanned out in the pit before the stage, and brandished polearms at him. He rolled off his ankle stump, and kicked off the edge of the stage. He landed knee-first against the exposed chin of one of the guards, and as they fell together, he whipped the guard's spear behind him, knocking another guard to the ground.

He used the spear as a crutch to push himself up off the dirty floor, then hopped on his one foot and brought his other ankle into the shoulder of still another guard. His shoulder snapped wetly; we used the crack of wood and vegetables, in an attempt to give his plays texture, but nothing approached the horror of that sound.

One of the guards climbed onto the stage. He walked slowly towards me. Father noticed. "Ayana!" he yelled, and threw his spear to me. Only when I caught it did I remember training with my father to use a stave as a very small child. A spear wasn't entirely the same, but I hoped the principle would carry over.

The guard lunged at me, poking with the head of his spear. I stepped to the side, put the wooden end of my spear against his ankle, then turned. He fell backward, and his helmet made a glorious clang as he fell off the stage.

My father already had another spear, and was fighting two men at once. One lunged at his weak side, hoping the missing foot would prove enough of a liability to catch him. He parried, and the guard's momentum carried into his comrade.

The space was enclosed enough that without murdering the guards, we were only forestalling the inevitable. But the better my father fought, the more the crowd hollered.

I sensed the turn the way my father had taught me to sense a change in an audience. One man stood, and barred the doors. Another shouted that the guards were lackeys, without any respect for the common man. Someone else suggested we get them something to swing by.

The guards sensed the change, too, and circled around each other in the center of the room, cowering. Despite their arms and armor, they were so hopelessly outnumbered that not a man would survive, if the crowd decided to enter the fight. There was no hope of retreat.

I heard the heavy crack of a staff on the wood of the stage. "Hold fast," my father said, his voice projecting like no man I'd ever seen on that stage. "These men are not your foes, nor are they mine. I have spoken against their king, a man few continue to hold in any regard. But they are not the source of our woes- they are oppressed as they are oppressors. I have been honored to know most of you as countrymen for half a lifetime. And when you rule this land, I have faith you will do so with more honor, humility, and grace, than their lord. Let these men leave, to show them we are better than our betters- let them ponder that this night."

The crowd murmured. No one knew which way to fall, or if the guards would try and have everyone in attendance arrested. The man at the door removed the bar, opened the door, and stepped out of the way. The guards filed out, quietly, and quickly.

"My heart breaks," my father continued, "for the kindness I have seen tonight. That is why the king fears you. He has ruled through fear- through hate. The people's reign shall come from hope, and charity- leaving nothing for men like him to control. But I'm afraid we must fly, my friends. The guards will return, in numbers renewed. And no man should seek recompense through violence. I bid you disperse, back to your homes, secure in the knowledge the stand you took tonight is the first of many steps towards justice."

To my surprise, they dispersed. As they trickled out, I realized how naïve I'd been. I felt I'd planned our escape out thoroughly, but so many things I had yet to do.

"We should take clothes," I said.

"I sent away your favorite things this morning, by carriage."

"For you?"

"I was more optimistic then; I have an assortment of cloaks, tunics and pants- more than enough. I have a few things I need before I leave. Secure our horses, and meet me back here."

"But the guards."

"Will wait to gather their strength. I won't be long. But it will take me half the night to make it to the stable on foot," he said, and raised his nub in the air for emphasis. "You could be there and back in a quarter of an hour. When I'm done here, I'll start towards you."

"You're not staying," I told him firmly.

"I'm not."

"You're not leaving me," I said.

"All the king's men couldn't drag me from you," he said, and stroked my cheek.

I didn't like it. But every second I stood there, arguing, was another second closer we were to the guards' return. I ran to the nearest stable. The proprietor was a friend, one my father talked to about maybe needing two rides late tonight. He was waiting up for us, and I paid him and took both steeds.

We had planned to grab our horses on the way out, so it felt backwards riding towards the theater. Every pound of the horse's hooves echoed in my mind, as I imagined guards beating my father. For an instant I allowed myself to hope that I was in time as the theater came into view around the houses. Then I saw guards standing at every entrance, and my heart sank.

I wanted to fight my way inside, and rescue him. But I wasn't my father. I'd been lucky, earlier, with the spear. It was suicide, and while it was perhaps a noble death, I imagined the last thing my father saw being me, still held captive and suffering.

I was crippled. I knew I should flee, or fight, but I could do neither.

I felt a hand light on my knee, and a familiar voice. "It's time to fly," the man said. He was wearing a cloak, and whispering. He looked up at me, and I saw the twinkle in my father's eyes.

"I thought-"

"I know," he said, and squeezed my knee, before letting go. "I slipped away." I noticed blood on his cloak. "One of the guards made it extra slippery."

He took the reigns of his horse, and pulled himself up onto its back.

"What was so important you couldn't leave?" I asked. "The plays?"

"I sent copies with our things, this morning."

"Then what?"

He produced a pendant from his cloak. "It was your mother's. I'd nearly forgotten, but we sewed it into the first dress her actor wore. It was at the bottom of a pile of costumes and bolts of fabric. It wasn't until I saw you in that dress, holding a spear while towering over a fallen enemy that I remembered it. You are every bit her daughter." He dropped the pendant into my hand.

I put the pendant around my neck. "Every bit," he said, smiling at me. Then he called for his horse to run.

We rode until we hit the hills outside the town. There I could finally see him well by the moon's light, unhindered by the city's scape. The red on his cloak was bigger than I remembered- too wet to be the splash of another man's blood. "You're hurt," I said, and touched his shoulder.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice soft. "Legends never die, they simply run out of ink."

# About Nicolas Wilson

Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog.

Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. The second installations in the Sontem Trilogy and the Gambit are due for publication Summer and Fall 2014. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic.

For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

# The Witch's Curse by Kirstin Pulioff

"Wazam ech trembo." Elonia waved her wrinkled hand over the pale girl cowering in the corner. "Is it any better, dear child?" she asked, scrunching her lips, counting the raised welts spreading across the child's forehead.

The poor child trembled and slunk further into the dark corner of Elonia's straw hut.

"The spell should have worked by now," Elonia mumbled, rushing beyond the girl to where a cauldron of tea bubbled above the fire. She closed her eyes and swayed, mixing in pinches of cloves and peppermint until the intoxicating aroma filled her small home. When she was satisfied with the ratios, she filled an oversized seashell with the boiling liquid and handed it to the child.

"Drink this," she ordered.

The child briefly met the old woman's stare, then her eyes drifted down, her gaze as weak as her hands. The shell dropped from the child's grip, breaking into small shards on the hard stone floor.

Elonia frowned. Her spells always worked. The girl's strength should have returned by now. There was no reason. Unless... Dark thoughts raced through her mind.

"Child, tell me, has the evil touched you?" She knelt by the girl's side, cupping her weary face, forcing her to meet her gaze. She didn't have to mention the evil's name for the child to understand who she spoke of. Everyone knew of the Marblooms, the twisted tribe of Fae that roamed the outskirts of shipping villages, skipping from island to island stealing blood of the innocent to enhance their magic. The only trace of their curse—painful, raised welts, was often mistaken for the common plague. She had made that same mistake. Over the years she had seen many children taken by their curse, but none since she came to this island. For the last twelve years, hers had been the only magic here.

Elonia paled and cupped a hand over her mouth, while her other hand pointed at the spreading welts covering the child's face, reaching down her tiny arms. She was too late. The child's skin was ashen like her own, but not from any magical ability. This was the shade of death.

"Oh my dear child," she bemoaned, dropping to her knees, taking the child's hand in hers. The hair on the girl's arms stood on edge like thorns, and her skin puckered up in bumpy waves. "There's not much time left. Are you cold?"

The girl nodded, her chattering teeth echoed in the hut.

"Does it hurt?"

She shook her head until it flopped to the side and dropped limply on her shoulder.

Elonia tightened her lips and smiled. At least her spell had saved her from pain. "You won't feel any more from here on out child. I promise you. It will be over soon." She stood, dropping the girl's limp hands and walked back to the fire. The spicy aroma clung to the straw walls.

"Ermo gingle moon, giddo tut runagre. Bless you child. I pray you are the only one this evil takes. I'm so sorry." She unclasped a small vial charm attached to her bracelet and sprinkled red dust over the flame.

The spicy aroma of her tea sweetened. Black plumes filled the small room, wafting into the tendrils of straw along the wall, towering over the trembling girl. Elonia turned away and refocused on the half empty cauldron, stirring quickly until the red dust dissolved. Elonia brought the child a new cup.

"Drink it all, dear child. Drink it all," she whispered.

Holding it to the child's lips, she tipped the shell until every drop of the overly-sweet liquid disappeared. A shrill scream followed by a soft thud resounded in the room. Elonia wiped a tear from her cheek.

"It had to be done," she mumbled, balling her hands into fists so they didn't shake. "Magic that dark can't be healed." The words felt empty. Death always left her hollow. She had run from that emptiness for years, but not far enough.

"We're getting closer, I know it," a loud voice boomed from outside. "She's just a child, she couldn't have gone far."

"Mainlanders," Elonia whispered, glancing behind her to the door, and then to the ground where the dead child lay. Innocent, quiet, and serene. If not for the tell-tale gray complexion, she looked asleep. Dark curls hid the child's eyes, and next to her chin, a silver snake charm necklace peeked out. Elonia swore under her breath. How had she missed that before? This girl was not an islander.

Hot embers burned her, thick smoke choked as she poured the remaining tea over the flames. Time raced by, her beating heart pounding in rhythm, counting down the moments left.

Not enough.

"Men, this way. She's got to be in here. Find her and bring the abductor to me!"

She recognized the tone of the intruders' voices instantly. It didn't matter how many generations had passed since her tribe's death, the menacing intent came through clearly. She wasn't safe.

Scuffling sounded outside the door, followed by waves of pressure against the soft walls.

Elonia raced to the door and slammed a wooden beam across the threshold to hold the men off, though it would be futile against the mainlander's strength. Loud booms echoed as men pounded on the door. Strands of straw shook down from the ceiling and walls.

Elonia glanced up at the falling straw, and then to the pulsing door behind her. She twisted one of the charms on her bracelet—a half moon.

No. She wasn't that desperate yet. Or that brave. She didn't know which.

The door flew open, slamming into her ribs. Elonia skidded forward across the hard floor, grabbing her side. Cradling her hurt ribs, she pushed herself up with her other arm, and met the gaze of the man standing up front.

Hidden beneath a mop of blond waves, dark eyes glowered. Everything about him spoke of disdain—the narrowed gaze, slight curl to his upper lip, even the way he lingered by the door. An uncomfortable chuckle filled the small hut, followed by thundering footsteps as he walked through the room, carefully avoiding her table of herbs and charms. He waved his first two fingers to the men lurking at the door, urging them forward. They surrounded the room, flanking the fallen woman, who inched closer to the dead child.

"You've cursed the wrong child this time, witch," the man sneered.

Elonia jerked her head toward him, narrowing her gaze. She blew a fallen strand of red hair away from her eyes, and straightened her dress.

"I don't know what you are talking about. The child was sick when she wandered here. I did what I could. It was too late, but I've done no wrong."

The man shuffled in the doorway and lowered his hand to the sword hanging from his hip, tapping its copper hilt.

"Done no wrong," he scoffed. "Witch. You are wrong. Everything you do is wrong. And this time... with this girl. You have gone too far. Men, seize her!" he ordered with another flick of his wrist.

Four men wearing the same copper chain mail and snake emblem of Leistros marched beside her and picked up the small girl, avoiding her gaze. Before she knew what was happening another set of men grabbed her from behind and clamped a set of steel bars around her wrists.

"You think you've done no wrong. I'm going to show you how wrong you are. Take her to the ship."

"Wait! No!" Elonia kicked at the men closest to her, but missed. "You can't do this! Elonium sebum tegir," she said. "Elonium sebum tegir!" she repeated, and flipped her hands over. Her spell wasn't working.

A cruel chuckle made her turn.

"Take a closer look, witch. You're not getting out of these."

Elonia glanced down at the iron shackles around her wrists, binding her magic. Etched copper serpents coiled together with the silver background. She sighed and lowered her hands. He was right. The pure metals bound her magic. She wouldn't be getting out.

***

The long line of men tripped over the thick vines and roots hidden beneath the thick forest underbrush on their way to the shore. Bruises covered her arms and shins, sweat dripped down her cheeks, and matted hair stuck to her forehead. By the time they cleared the treeline and saw the ship swaying with the waves, Elonia was ready to give up. She cupped the moon charm in her palm. If she thought there was any chance of it working through the chains, she would have used it.

"Keep her coming," the man in charge boomed.

A mainlander yanked on her chains, pulling her down onto the hot sand.

"Get up and walk," he ordered.

"Or what?" she asked, flipping over to her back, raising her arms in surrender. "Are you going to kill an old, battered woman here on the beach?"

The man holding her chain looked around, uncertain.

"No, we're going to do no such thing. We're civilized," a voice rang out from further down the shore.

"Civilized," she spat, watching their leader swagger toward her. "That remains to be seen. Civility's more than a symbol sewn into your sleeve."

"And what would you know, child-killer. Tell me, which do you prefer? Witch, murderer, or old hag," he laughed.

"Person," she mumbled, standing back up.

"That as well remains to be seen. Tell me, do you know what awaits you where we're going?"

"A hero's welcome?" she asked, meeting his gaze with a sneer.

He threw his head back and laughed. "For one of us, yes." He leaned over and curled his finger for her to come closer. "I'll let you in on a secret. You see, we came here to hunt. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would catch a witch. Let alone one who killed one of ours. It's almost too easy." He tsked and stood back up, gripping his sword.

"I did not kill her, it was the Marblooms," she said.

"The Marblooms? A fairytale? That's your excuse? I don't believe it and neither will they. Only one type of magic killed that girl, and it was yours."

She bit her tongue.

"Men, load the ship, put the bigger spoils below. She'll stay on top with me."

"Why?" she demanded. "Why not lock me up with your other trophies?"

She frowned as the other men scurried past, carrying arm full of hides and wild carcasses, staining the water and sand red.

He sneered and approached her, taking hold of her shackles. "Because I want to see your face as I present you to my father, General Leon."

Elonia paled. She hadn't heard that name since her youth, yet she could still see his image in her mind. "Your father? General Leon?"

"You've heard of him, that's good. This way you won't be surprised when he orders your death. The only question is will he hang you or use the stake."

"And you spoke of civility," she said.

"We are," he said, pulling her toward the boat. "And the civil world, we're doing a service to by ridding them of your kind. In fact, after the massacre thirty years ago, I'm surprised there are any of your kind left."

"Not nearly enough. You can't do this to me. My magic is good. Give me a chance, I'll prove it," she begged. Water inched up over toes and then her shins the closer they got to the ship.

"You proved it enough with that girl. Her father, the ship's first mate, has been mourning since word got back. Your magic's no good, I doubt it ever was." He climbed up the ladder, pulling her harshly behind him. "You're shady, just like your color."

The men that had helped him with the capture intermixed with the sailors, readjusting ropes and riggings along the outer edge of the ship, while furtively glancing between the two.

"There's only one thing shady here, and it's not me. You say you're civil, but you're nothing more than a rotten child, following in your father's tainted footsteps," Elonia fumed.

"Some would call it being dutiful. I prefer to think of it as adhering to the purity of my blood, and skin," he said smugly, tightening her chains around the main mast of the ship.

"Devoid, not pure," she muttered.

"Nothing a muddled creature says holds any value. We're done." He turned to walk away.

She tightened her fists. Power surged, fighting the binding strength of the shackles. Her skin singed where her magic touched the restrictive chains; blisters popped, coating the metal restraints in acid.

She released her fists and inhaled slowly. Patience was never her strong suit, but she knew she wouldn't have to wait long. They always made a mistake. They had thirty years ago, and they would again.

Elonia shook her arms, the metal clashed together, breaking the soft ebb and flow of the crashing waves.

"General's son," she called.

He turned around slowly. "It's General Leonard," he said stiffly, taking a step closer to her. "What do you need now?"

"General Leonard, it seems we've had a misunderstanding. We can change that. We've lived together for thousands of years. If not in the same communities, then within the same kingdom, the same generation. Don't tell me you can't see beyond our differences. We're the same—"

"We're not the same!" He spat beside her and walked away.

She stared at the puddle of spittle by her foot, trying to keep the edges off of her lips from grinning too widely. Kneeling down, she reached forward and pressed one of her charms into the liquid.

"Storum keeptos infinium," she muttered, and closed her eyes.

The chains might bind her magic for now, but when she was free, she had a plan.

***

Even with her eyes closed, Elonia recognized the approach of the mainland. The salty, fresh sting of ocean spray changed into the murky scent of stagnant water and stale smoke. A smell from her childhood she thought she had escaped. She opened her eyes thinking the current view had to be better than her memories. She was wrong.

Decrepit stone buildings towered over the rapidly approaching shoreline. Battered flags, red fabric designed with the same entwined snake emblem the sailors wore, hung limp atop the damaged structures. Shards of broken glass clung to the edges of the windows like ragged teeth. Time had not been kind to Logarth. Neglect and war had left their mark—a tainted stain where commerce and luxury once shone. She doubted she'd fare any better.

Elonia looked away, only to see General Leonard coming up from the lower cabins.

"Ah, there's nothing quite like the smell of modern living." He breathed deep and ran his hand through the blonde mop atop his head, the boards creaking under his weight as he approached. "I hope this trip hasn't been too tedious for you. You'll find this was the pleasant part of your journey. I cannot vouch for the quarters here in Logarth. While the conditions in Leistros are holistic and unsoiled, these quaint shipping towns have declined over time." He sighed and leaned against the mast.

"I guess it's not as civilized as you thought," she said.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. The facades may be broken, but the people are still forward-thinking. We rely on science, not magic or fairytales."

"You think they're different?" Elonia chuckled. "They're just different names for the same principles."

"You speak lies. Nothing we believe is so barbaric. We know the facts behind our beliefs. We don't live in the woods like some animal."

Elonia opened her mouth to speak, but stopped as the ship lurched to a stop. The mast swayed with the change of momentum, tossing her forward. She glanced around the shore at the broken buildings, rotten docks, and half-starved children hiding in the shadows.

"At least on the island, we recognize the truth. Call it barbaric, but we know who we are. We take care of our people, our children."

"Tell that to the first mate," he snapped.

"That was the Marblooms. I already told you that," she stressed, tightening her palms into fists.

"Another fairytale of little substance. You may want to think of a better response when put on trial. No, on second thought, I don't think it matters." He turned his back to her and motioned to the sailors. "Take her to the village center. She'll stand before my father in the square. I'm done listening to her nonsense."

"It's only nonsense to the one who doesn't understand," she mumbled.

He spun back around. "What would you have me believe, that the bedtime stories of my childhood are real?"

"There's more truth to those than the other gibberish you blindly accept. There are ways, things that simple science and fact cannot explain. They don't even scratch the surface to the true meaning."

"You know nothing, witch."

"I know enough to pity you."

"We'll see who pities who in a moment. Men, take her away."

He snapped his fingers and stomped down the ramp leading into the shipping village. The sailors didn't meet her gaze as they unwound her chains from the mast, handing it over to the general's men.

She followed behind, only stumbling once over the broken cobblestones and rotten decking the led from the shore into town. The buildings deteriorated the closer to the town's center. Stones crumbled along the edges of dark alleys, holes opened where there weren't windows, doorways tilted at threatening angles. Through the fragmented buildings, she saw people, equally as broken, stop and stare at their procession.

A butcher grunted, clever poised overhead, blood dripping down his leather apron. Ladies crowded together hiding behind an array of colorful fans sharing a flurry of whispers. Children mimed a hanging noose and pretended to cut the old woman with their stick swords.

Elonia kept her head high, pretending that none of their stares or shots struck her, but they did. Over the years she had second-guessed her decision to leave and the extreme nature of the isolation she craved. Time had dulled the pain, but now it returned full force. She hadn't swum far enough.

"She'll rest here until my father arrives," General Leonard announced, parading around the raised stage, resting against the gallows. Frayed rope swayed effortlessly back and forth over the stage. Metal restraints rattled when they swung into the post. "It seems they're already prepared for you. Hopefully the beams don't give out. I hear death can be more painful when it's slow. But what do I know? Everyone I've killed falls at the sword. What about you witch? Do you remember when they killed your kind before? Was it quick, or slow? Did they scream or hiss as they melted?" He chuckled and patted the wood appraisingly.

Elonia pursed her lips and swallowed the curse that rested on her tongue. She remembered. And he would know how a slow death felt sooner than he thought.

"Ah, no bother. It's just idle chatter anyway." He waved to the men dragging her forward. "Tie her here, secure the beams, and stand watch. I don't want anyone finishing the job before my father's made judgment."

"As you wish, General," the man securing the ropes replied.

Elonia's face rested against the wooden pole. If she closed her eyes she could pretend it was the trunk of a tree from the forest. She dragged her toes across the dusty ground, almost like the hardened ground in the summer. But she could not ignore the obscenities thrown at her. Those weren't from the islands. She opened her eyes and looked down at her wrists. The mainland shackled her in more ways that just the silver and copper chains.

***

Elonia dreamed of the sea, diving under the cold, powerful waves. Riding the currents to where they bid her go. They had saved her once, and that dream meant they would save her again.

She opened her eyes to a hushed crowd. The square overflowed with people. Villagers she had seen the day before gathered together in one area, while polished guards were positioned equally throughout the area and along the alley edges. Intermixed, the sailors stood, their leather aprons and boots worn and dark, eyes focused beside her.

Twisting to the side, she saw a man dressed in polished silver, red trimmed breastplate, and copper sword, and gasped. General Leon looked the same as he had thirty years ago, with the exception of hardened lines around his eyes, and silver at his temples.

"Ah, she awakens, and just in time to hear the verdict," General Leon announced.

"Verdict?" she asked, shuffling to a standing position. "I just awoke; how could the trial be over already."

"Being unprepared or conscious is not of my concern. My concern is for the people. You have been tried and convicted for murdering a child. Do you disagree?"

Everyone stared at her as she fumbled for words. "I-I do not agree sir. There was no murder, only mercy. The Mar—"

"No need to continue, my son has briefed me on your story. A fairytale curse, no more. No, this act of treachery belongs to you, and you alone. Men, take her!"

"No! You must understand," she wailed, kicking her feet into the ground as men pulled her away from the pole to the scaffolds.

"I do understand. More than you may think. Tell me, witch, Do you remember when I took your family all those years ago?"

"What?" she whispered, paling as he drew closer.

"Oh yes, I remember you. When I tied the rest of your tribe up, you stood out like a flame. Your red hair against your charcoal skin, an odd combination for one of your kind. I watched as you slid out from under the restraints. The anguish in your face as you pulled against the knots holding your mother and sister. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the burning flesh, taste the salty tears, and hear your sobbing cries. I tried then to save you as my trophy, but you slipped my grasp. Today you will not escape."

"I—I don't know what to—you monster," she yelled lunging toward him. The chains held her out of reach.

General Leon reached forward and patted her on the cheek. "You, your kind, are the way of the past. Even saved as a trophy or freak, it's no longer worth the effort. Hang her," he ordered, waving his hands for his men to carry her off.

"When was being different a crime?" she yelled. "My people are not criminals. Our ways have brought us strength. See how this village deteriorated after the massacre. Just wait to see what happens after today."

"The witch curses us again," General Leonard yelled from the crowd. "Kill her."

A swarm of chants rose up from the crowd. "Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!"

"Ah, you see, it is not only my judgment here. The whole town, no, the whole world wants your people gone. Who am I to disagree with the public's demands?"

Elonia closed her eyes. Rough hands grabbed her, twisting around her neck and shoulder pressing her forward. The wooden planks bent under their weight. Splinters dug into her bare feet. And then she felt it, the quick release as they removed her shackles to attach her to the metal device attached to the noose.

Now was her time. Elonia spun and slapped her attacker.

"Beetum Bitu Gherlu," she swore.

The men flew back off the stage with a blast of fiery energy, knocking over the eager crowd. She turned away from the screaming crowd back toward the gallows. Sparks flew from her fingertips, lighting the tangled noose on fire. The attached iron shackles dropped to the stone floor in a resounding heap.

She walked to the back edge of the platform where the stunned generals and their men cowered.

"Do you still think I'm no longer worth the effort, General?" she asked, turning to the older man.

"Please, show me mercy," he begged, lowering his head to the ground, hiding himself from the spray of sparks and fire falling from her fingertips.

"Show you mercy that you never showed me, or my family? I watched them burn at your hand."

"I let you go free," he cried.

"Is that what you think you gave me? Freedom? Then let me give you the same."

Sparks flickered at the edge of her fingers, and then she saw his son hiding in the shadows, creeping down from the stage into the mob of fleeing villagers. She ripped off the silver charm she had dipped into General Leonard's spit and threw it to the ground, crushing it under her weight until it snapped in half.

If he was determined to blame the girl's death from the Marblooms on her, how would he feel when the curse summoned them to this village? Even if they didn't believe in the evil Fae, it didn't mean they weren't real. She would show him. Never underestimate magic, especially from a vexed witch. Elonia laughed, and tossed her head back, opening her arms wide to the heavens.

"Freedlin grumin heedup ko, Marbloom cooomth un tyo!" she yelled.

A wind howled through town, dark clouds darkening the sky. Lightning burst through the clouds striking the ground, leaving craters at impact. Fire spread quickly through the square, devouring the remnants of the buildings, chasing the few remaining villagers out of their hiding spots.

She strode out of the village, through the dusty alleyways, to the rotten boardwalk beside the sea. It was time for her to begin again. She twisted a small vial filled with blue powder off her bracelet and tapped the flakes into her mouth.

"Mermia selcta saval etcha. You provided me freedom once. I ask for it once more," she begged of the summoning potion. "Bring me your emissary to take me farther, to a new island, where mainlanders fear to roam, where people don't condemn what they don't understand. Ezerm beet ghru, take me," she said, walking into the frothy waves.

Icy water pulled her under, the grip of the current tightening around her ankles. She took a deep breath and rode with the current.

# About Kirstin Pullioff

Kirstin Pulioff is a storyteller at heart. Born and raised in Southern California, she moved to the Pacific Northwest to follow her dreams and graduated from Oregon State University with a degree in Forest Management. Happily married and a mother of two, she lives in the foothills of Colorado. When she's not writing an adventure, she's busy living one.

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# Seven Weeks, by Gail Villanueva

Murdered by salt and fire. The perpetrator sprinkled salt over Izkeh's exposed lower body while the rest of him was in Torso Flight, then burned it — a cruel and certain way to kill a Man Ang'Gal.

At eighteen, my brother was only two years older than me. He still had many years ahead of him, at least two hundred more to be of service to the Colony. But dying young was an occupational hazard of being a Watcher.

Perhaps if he had followed the Path of a Crafter like me, Izkeh would still be alive. But he didn't, and death was the price he paid for choosing the most dangerous Obligation in the Colony.

It was Izkeh's fault he died.

"I am so sorry, Doolei," said one of the women clad in golden robes as she flew to my side. I gave her a nod, which she interpreted as an invitation to hug me.

"Thank you," I managed to squeak, stiffening at her touch. If she wasn't careful, she could possibly kill us both. Our leathery wings had thin membranes, and it was only our ability to severe our torso from our lower limbs that kept them intact. If the woman clipped even just one of my organs of flight, my added weight would drag us both down the rocky surface below.

The woman misinterpreted my response once again, hugging me even tighter. I would have preferred no guests at my brother's Coffin Preparation, but Mama Oojeen's Diviner colleagues insisted on being present. "No sister of ours must go through grief alone," they reasoned.

To my relief, the woman finally released me. "When your brother reaches the Kingdom of Teeqoh, he'll be able to watch over you again," she said. "You will help him get there, yes?"

I studied my brother's golden coffin. It was rectangular, and laid on its back while attached to the rocky side of the limestone isle. Flying down to the bottom of the floating island to light a candle for the next seven weeks would be torture for my wings. Besides, I wasn't too happy about leaving behind the lower part of my body so often. Didn't Torso Flight give Izkeh's murderer the opportunity to kill him? I wanted to say. Instead, I gave her a dutiful nod. "Yes, Diviner."

The woman looked as though she was about to hug me again, so I hurriedly flapped my way to Mama Oojeen's side. My aunt placed her hand over Izkeh's coffin. "Good luck, my child. May Teeqoh's servants protect you," she whispered. I almost jumped when Mama Oojeen reached for my hand. "We shall fly back to the cave, Doolei. You can stay, if you want."

Without hesitation, I nodded. I didn't want to, but I couldn't say no. Mama Oojeen's pupils were like black saucers amidst her brown sclera even though it was morning, her bronze cheeks stained with tears. The violet Glow of her veins pulsated as she tried to hold back her grief.

I glanced down at my arms. Had I been experiencing a powerful emotion, my complex network of veins would have glowed bright orange. But the protruding marks remained as brown as my skin.

The flapping of Mama Oojeen and her fellow Diviners' wings grew fainter and fainter, until I could hear them no more.

I was alone.

If Izkeh's spirit was still in the Isle, he would hear me. The other dead Man Ang'Gals in the hanging coffins beside my brother's probably would too, but I didn't care. "Why did you have to leave, Izkeh?" I cried, letting go of the bitterness I had inside. This time, my veins turned to a darker shade of the setting sun. "You could have picked a safer Obligation, but you didn't. You couldn't stay for your one and only sister!"

But the coffin remained silent. I growled, and turned away. I reared up my leathery wings, and shot upward, the wind hissing in my ears. I flew higher and higher, stopping only when the air grew thin and the sound of the water mines dimmed.

From my height, I could see the Floating Isles of Ang'Gal clearly. Twelve isles circled four big ones, which in turn levitated around the most majestic of all, the Royal Isle. Each island resembled those precious acorns our Foragers worked so hard to get — brown like the nut, but barren as the desert below them. Holes pierced the islands, forming the Combs. These clusters of cave dwellings made the isles seem like acorns rotting away.

If I flew higher, I would see beyond the mountain ridge surrounding the Ang'Gal Floating Isles. But the last time I did, the air got so thin I was knocked unconscious, saved only by a passing Forager on his way to the Dock Isle. Izkeh got so mad at me, Mama Oojeen had to intervene.

"Your death means nothing to me, Izkeh." I rarely saw him in the two years since he became a Watcher, and he always scolded me anyway. Come to think of it, I could not recall him smiling when around me. All I could remember was his frown, and the disapproving way he shook his head.

The temptation to fly higher nagged me, but I pushed it away. I would not hurt Mama Oojeen the way Izkeh did by dying.

Selfish. Yes. Izkeh was selfish, I thought as I flew back to the cave. Mama Oojeen was waiting.

***

Three weeks after the preparation ceremony, Izkeh's friends had already visited his coffin. Most reminisced about their days with him, while others simply mourned his passing. I supposed I had gotten used to the unwelcome hugs from strangers who thought invading my personal space would comfort me. I still had the urge to pull away, but at least now I knew how to pretend that I appreciated the physical contact.

Today was a rarity. I could actually sleep late in my hole without Mama Oojeen rattling the bead curtains, insisting I mingle.

"Ah!" I exclaimed in pain. A sliver of sharp Isle-stone pierced my calloused foot. I pulled it out, opening the wound. With a sigh, I used my blanket to stop the bleeding.

I couldn't complain. It was my fault there were sharp slivers on the floor.

"I should have cleaned this up," I muttered. Last night, I once again thought of how Izkeh's bad choices led to his death, the worst being his choice of Obligation. I got so angry I broke an Isle-stone sculpture I made of Izkeh and me in two, then tossed the halves without checking where they landed.

Well, now I knew. If Izkeh had been alive, he would have told me off for leaving the broken statue scattered about.

After applying medicinal herbs and covering my mound with a leaf bandage, I cleaned up the bloody mess. "Are you happy now, Izkeh?" I asked out loud. I imagined my brother nodding in approval, urging me to continue. "Very well. I'll clean the rest of the cave."

And so I did. I scrubbed the eight walls of our cave until the dark stone surface gleamed. I dusted the crystalware, and even folded the pants and tops Mama Oojeen left hanging to dry. When I ran out of chores to do, I headed outside to fulfill my Obligation to Colony by carving pots and pans out of Isle-stone blocks.

When Mama Oojeen returned, I was already cooking lunch. "What happened to your foot?" she demanded.

"Broken Isle-stone. I'm fine, auntie."

Mama Oojeen stuck out her thin, forked tongue. "Smells good. Mountain fern and beetle stew?"

"It's Izkeh's favorite." I removed the pot cover and stirred the soup. The beetles were starting to soften. "Should be done in a few minutes. Just rest. I got this."

Mama Oojeen raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. She walked to her hole to change, then I heard her gasp. "Did you clean the entire cave, Doolei?"

"Yes, auntie." I continued to stir the stew, then gave it a taste. Delicious, I thought. Your stew is waiting, Izkeh.

We used to be a happy family, the five of us together. Father was a Forager, Mother was a Healer. But after Father's fatal accident while hunting in the area just beyond the mountain ridge, Mother was never the same. She blamed herself for not being able to heal him, her guilt driving her mind to the darkest of places. Mother thought the only way to escape her pain was to be with my father, so she clipped her wings and jumped off the Isle onto the rocky surface below.

I hid in my hole for weeks, until Izkeh told me our parents wouldn't have wanted me to turn into a useless Man Ang'Gal. I should work, he said. Do my duty to the Colony. I asked him if being good would bring Mother and Father back. "Maybe," Izkeh had said, shrugging. Soon after, he became a Watcher.

And now he was dead.

I sculpted five more pots above my Obligation quota. I cleaned the house. I cooked lunch. I was being a good Man Ang'Gal.

Will you return to me now, Izkeh?

I didn't notice Mama Oojeen was back in the kitchen with me until she cleared her throat. "Doolei," she began.

"Yes?"

Mama Oojeen was at the dining table, her hands clasped in front her. Before she had forsaken her gender to become a Diviner, Mama Oojeen was my mother's older brother. After her Transition, Mama Oojeen looked so much like Mother that I could have mistaken them for twins. It was as if my mother never left.

"Izkeh is not coming back. He will be in Teeqoh's kingdom soon," said my aunt, her eyes staring into mine. "He's gone, Doolei. You need to start accepting it. Even your parents — they're all gone."

No, they could not be.

I turned away from her and busied myself with cooking. "The stew is done, auntie. We should eat."

Mama Oojeen seemed as though she wanted to say something, but changed her mind. She sighed, then finally nodded. "Very well. Let me have a taste."

***

The Diviners, the priestesses who understood Teeqoh's Word better than any Man Ang'Gal, told us how important the seven-week journey of a recently released spirit. Prayers from the deceased's loved ones would guide the soul to Paradise, while at the same time, ease the pain of those left behind.

They couldn't be more wrong.

Five weeks had passed since Izkeh's death, and yet, I still felt the pain like that dull ache in my foot. The wound throbbed ever so often beneath the medicinal herbs, making it harder for me to walk than it did when the sliver was still lodged in my flesh.

Losing my brother was the same.

When will it become better, Izkeh?

"Doolei," Mama Oojeen called from the kitchen. "We have a visitor."

I faced the wall and covered my head with the blood-stained blanket, pretending not to hear Mama Oojeen as she spoke my name once more. I buried deeper into my pillow, feeling the smooth texture of the Isle worm silk on my cheeks.

"No need to wake her, Diviner," a familiar female voice assured my aunt. "I won't be long."

"My apologies, L'seela. Izkeh's passing had been hard on us. Doolei spent most of her time in her hole for the past few days," Mama Oojeen explained. "We are fortunate the Trader who picks up her stonework turns a blind eye. She had not been meeting quota regularly lately. I am surprised she even manages to light the daily candle for Izkeh."

"Let her grieve," L'seela said. "She pines for her brother, as do the rest of us."

Mama Oojeen sighed. "Yes, she does. Her recovery is taking longer than it did when my sister and her husband passed away, but she's getting there," she said. To my surprise, my aunt let out a small chuckle. "Still the understanding dame, I see. Oh, L'seela. You would have made a great wife for my conservative but well-meaning Izkeh."

I had to agree with Mama Oojeen. L'seela, the pretty Man Ang'Gal who used to live in our Comb, would have been good for my brother. We grew up with her, and I had seen her stand up to Izkeh. L'seela did not allow my brother to order her around, and for that, he respected her. If they had married, I would have had gained a wonderful sister.

I don't even have a brother now, do I?

L'seela laughed, but I could not feel the mirth. "He wasn't that bad," she said. "Izkeh was as straight as an arrow, but he would do everything he could for a friend even if he didn't like it. He would rather lie than get us in trouble."

"The boy was loyal to his family and friends," Mama Oojeen agreed.

Except for me. Izkeh was loyal to everyone but me.

And my brother lying? No, that wasn't him. Izkeh's honesty was more potent than those truth potions the Watchers used for interrogating prisoners.

Izkeh would never lie, even for a friend.

I shifted closer to the mouth of the hole so I could hear them better.

"But his horrible jokes," L'seela recalled fondly. "I must admit I would not miss them!"

It was Mama Oojeen's turn to chuckle. "The boy did have a strange sense of humor."

Izkeh wasn't funny. My brother always laughed at my jokes, but I never recalled him making one himself.

Mama Oojeen and L'seela continued to talk, moving on to business, discussing the plans for the celebration on the last day of Izkeh's seven weeks. I tuned them out.

My brother was boring. He was a no-nonsense soldier, following the Queen's every whim. "Do your duty!" he always ordered. Duty and Obligation above all else, even above his sister. Izkeh might have been a good friend, a dutiful warrior, and a responsible nephew, but he failed miserably as an older brother. He was so distant from me that I could not help but question if he even cared.

They could not be talking about the same Izkeh. Unless... I didn't know my brother as much as I thought I did.

Did you even try to get to know him? I asked myself.

No, I did not.

I felt betrayed when Izkeh left to join the Watchers. He promised he would never leave me like Father and Mother did, but still, he abandoned me. So whenever he came to visit, I shut myself in my hole, avoiding him.

To his credit, he never stopped reaching out. But still, I turned my back on him.

Maybe I should have forgiven Izkeh. Tried to understand. Became the sister I was supposed to be.

It's too late, Doolei. Too late.

Izkeh was now far away, gone to a place I could not follow. I missed my chance, and there was no turning back.

I allowed a small tear to fall on my cheek. Just one, and I shut my eyes to sleep.

***

Every day before the sun rose, I visited my brother's coffin. I lit a candle for him, and prayed to Teeqoh to grant Izkeh a place in Paradise.

I had not changed the leaf covering my wound, but it throbbed less and less. As did my grief. The pain lingered, but it was tolerable. I had not missed a work quota again, so I supposed I must be doing better.

Or maybe I was just beginning to stop caring.

I was numb.

Before long, only three days were left of Izkeh's seven weeks. And that was when Mama Oojeen and I received an unexpected visitor right after dinner.

He looked sixteen like me, and the red glow of his veins told me he was a Watcher. His long hair, as straight and black as any Man Ang'Gal's, framed a strong jaw and a square face. Males usually wore no top, but as a Watcher, the boy had on a warrior's vest.

I tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, and straightened my retracted wings. If I had not been missing my brother dearly, I would have appreciated his handsome features better.

"Good evening, Diviner Oojeen and Crafter Doolei," the boy greeted. "I am Yovehn, Watcher Izkeh's lieutenant. I bring news about the late captain's case."

Mama Oojeen ushered him in, and I stopped rubbing the dishes with the cleaning scrub. "Doolei, please join us. You need to hear this."

I sat beside her at the dining table without protest.

"We have caught the Vagrant who killed the captain," he announced. "He is now awaiting his sentence!"

"That's great news," Mama Oojeen beamed. "Hail Teeqoh!"

"How can you be sure? The murderer could be anyone who didn't like my brother. Izkeh wasn't exactly a friendly Watcher." I narrowed my eyes. "Besides, how could you even know for sure it's a Vagrant you have in custody and not a Colony member?"

"Doolei —" Mama Oojeen started in a warning tone, but the young Watcher waved his hand as though my rudeness didn't matter.

There were only two main differences between us and the Vagrants. They looked like any Man Ang'Gal, from the bat-like wings to the flat nose and forked tongue. However, since the Vagrants had no Obligation to the Colony, they had no distinguishable vein glow. But worse still, was their choice of food.

The Vagrants were cannibals. Horrible, murderous cannibals.

"It is difficult to discern Vagrants," Yovehn admitted. "But the captain had made a mark on this one. Watcher Izkeh gouged its eye when it tried to kidnap one of the Foragers we were protecting."

His explanation made sense, but a question still bothered me. Perhaps the most important one.

"Why did he kill Izkeh?"

Yovehn met my gaze, held it, then answered. "We believe it was out of revenge," he said. "Your brother was a hero, Crafter Doolei. You should be proud of him."

"Indeed we are," Mama Oojeen agreed. "Thank you for taking the time to tell us, Yovehn. But I am afraid I must take my leave. We still have a lot to prepare for the burning of Izkeh's body tomorrow."

"You are most welcome, Diviner," Yovehn said, cocking his head to one side. "Do you mind if I stay with Crafter Doolei? I will not trespass on your hospitality too long, I just have something for her from the captain."

"Take your time," my aunt nodded, taking a bundle of ceremonial silk as she made her way out of the cave.

I stared at Yovehn as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Doolei," he croaked. "May I call you Doolei?"

Without a word, I nodded. I continued to watch him.

"You are as beautiful as the captain described," he said. I could feel my veins glowing orange, but I still didn't speak. Yovehn cleared his throat. "He talked about you all the time."

I nodded again.

"The captain also told me how happy he was when he completed his Watcher training," he continued. "Because then, he would be able to protect you."

I bit my lip, feeling a lump in my throat.

Yovehn reached inside his pocket. "After he failed to kill the Vagrant during the attack, the captain knew his days were numbered," he said, reaching over with a closed fist. "So he told me to keep this, and give it to you in case he couldn't. He said you would need it to remind you of what is important."

In the middle of the Watcher's palm was a small statue. I studied it, and realized it was a detailed sculpture of me and Izkeh. We were both smiling, our arms around each other. Unlike the one I broke in two, this one had been meticulously painted. A feat only a few could do, and one of them I knew to be my brother.

Aside from my radiant smile, the statuette depicted my glowing orange veins. Izkeh painted his markings red. But when I tilted the carving and allowed light to dance on its surface, I could have sworn the vein glow was as orange as mine.

Izkeh was a Crafter at heart, but he chose the path of a Watcher for me. To make sure I was safe.

Yes, Izkeh, I remember.

My brother never made jokes because he preferred listening to mine. I thought I never saw him smile, because he was always tired. He studied hard to become a Watcher, so he could watch over me even when he lived in a different Isle.

I was correct to think my brother did not lie. Because to me, he spoke only the truth, an unwavering honesty he gave to no one but his sister.

Izkeh never said it, but he loved me. And though I pushed him away, he knew I loved him too.

As I blinked back tears, Yovehn put his hand over mine. I jumped, but I didn't pull away. If my brother trusted him, I knew I should to.

Besides, Yovehn made me feel safe. Just like Izkeh did.

"Thank you," I said.

Yovehn smiled. His small eyes turned to narrow slits arching upward, and a dimple appeared on his right cheek.

For the first time since Izkeh's death, I smiled in return.

***

Mama Oojeen and I watched as the Diviners unhinged Izkeh's coffin from the bottom of the Isle, flapping our wings in unison as we kept afloat. We each took a handle on the side of the golden box. With wing power assistance from Izkeh's friends and fellow Watchers, we carried Izkeh to the top of the Isle where he would receive his last rite.

The Diviners removed my brother's body from the box, setting it on the altar as a priestess gave him a final blessing. Another lit the funeral pyre, and gestured for us to say our last goodbyes.

Izkeh was covered from head to toe with bandages in the color of his Obligation, red. Only his closed eyes remained visible. Mama Oojeen leaned down and gave his bandaged forehead a kiss. "Rest well, my child. Be happy in Paradise," she said, touching his head one last time.

"I will miss you, big brother," I whispered, mimicking Mama Oojeen and gave him a peck. I touched his closed eyes. They were cold on my finger tips, but the contact left me with a renewed feeling, like peeling off the worn leaf covering my healed foot wound.

My brother's death would leave a scar on my heart, on my very soul. But this time, I didn't mind.

Because that meant I would remember.

I backed away from Izkeh and allowed the Diviners to take him to the pyre. They covered his bandaged body with gold cloth, then hoisted it into the pit. Sparks flew as the textile touched the burning coals, and white smoke slithered into the sky.

We circled the pyre as the flames slowly turned Izkeh's body to ash. Some sang to keep themselves occupied, while others began hushed conversations. Diviners passed around cricket chips and rain water in cups, keeping the funeral participants full and hydrated.

Man Ang'Gals in all walks of life and in every Obligation — Healers, Diviners, Watchers, Designers, Traders, Crafters and Foragers — came to pay their respects. It warmed my heart to see how many lives my brother had touched.

I saw Yovehn across the pyre, sitting amongst his fellow Watchers. But I caught him looking at me more than once, to which I responded with a smile.

It was easier to smile these days.

"You seem happier," L'seel remarked from my left. There were dark circles beneath her eyes as though she had not been sleeping.

"I am. It had been a hard seven weeks, but I'm healing," I said.

"Good." L'seel nodded, her lips curling upward. Not quite a smile, but near one. "It's what your brother would have wanted."

"He would have wanted you to be happy too."

"Perhaps," she said, turning to look at the burning pyre. "I'm moving back to the Isle. We're going to be neighbors again. I hope you won't mind if I come over some time."

"I won't."

"And maybe then you'll be awake?" L'seel wiggled her eyebrows. "It's more appropriate to actually talk to your guests instead of eavesdropping on them."

A shadow of a laugh escaped me, or what I thought was a laugh. I had forgotten how it felt to laugh. "Of course."

We started at the flames in silence. We didn't need to speak, because words no longer mattered.

***

When the last of Izkeh finally turned to ash, the Man Ang'Gals went back to their caves. Watchers flew to the Isles they sought to protect, as others readied themselves to return to work. Mama Oojeen and I stayed behind, and waited for Izkeh's remains.

"Have you determined where to scatter your brother's ashes?" Mama Oojeen asked.

I nodded. I had the perfect place in mind.

The Diviner handed me a golden pouch. It was light and small, making me wonder how all of Izkeh managed to fit in. "Only a few of your brother remain," the Diviner said, pleased. "Izkeh is now truly in Paradise. You did well, praying for him."

"It was hard," I admitted. "But I managed."

"Good for you, child," the Diviner said, pulling me in a tight hug. I stiffened, but eventually relaxed. Physical contact didn't feel as terrifying as it did before. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mama Oojeen smiling at me proudly.

"I shall go back to the cave," my aunt said. "Fly away, my niece. It is up to you to take your brother to final resting place."

I secured the golden pouch on my belt, and took a deep breath. As I exhaled, my wings expanded and my torso detached from my lower body. A thin film appeared over the exposed flesh, linking me to my severed part, keeping me alive while in Torso Flight. I flapped my wings twice, then launched for the sky.

The wind blew on my ear like a whisper, urging me to fly higher. I heeded its call, but stopped just below the boundary separating the breathable air from the air that could knock me unconscious.

Izkeh would not have wanted me to risk my life for his ashes.

I kept myself afloat, and reached inside the golden pouch, taking a fistful of my brother's remains. "Perfect," I murmured. "Izkeh would love it here."

From this height, I could not see beyond the mountain ridge around the Floating Isles. But it gave a perfect view of the Colony, the best view of the Isle where Mama Oojeen and I lived. I could not see so far down, but I knew the Comb on my line of sight included our family's cave. I smiled.

My brother would be able to continue his Watching from here.

I loosened my fist, allowing the ashes to slip through my fingers. The gentle wind caught each particle, carrying them across the sky.

"Do not worry about me, Izkeh," I whispered. "I will be fine."

I scattered the last of Izkeh's ashes, closing my eyes as I basked under the warm sun.

"Fly, brother. Fly, and be free."

# Dedication

For J.G.A.

Breathe and bask in the sun once more. The wind carry you home. We will miss you.

About Gail Villanueva

Gail Villanueva is a web designer by day, and a writer by night — or by the crack of dawn, if the inspiration strikes. She enjoys sharing her imagined worlds through words and illustrations, and takes delight in entertaining young adults and middle-grade kids with her stories of science fiction and fantasy. Gail lives in the suburbs of Manila, Philippines with her husband and their menagerie of pets.

For updates on her upcoming books and short stories, feel free to follow Gail on Twitter, Like her page on Facebook, or sign up for her mailing listing through her website, http://www.gaildvillanueva.com/.

# Herders of the Roof, by William Lenoire

Their yurt was dim, lit only by the light of a small fire over which a stew cooked, its rich scent filling the chill left by the early evening. Winter was dying late, as it always did in the Roof of the World. Warmth was a precious thing, hoarded like a trader's silver coins, hidden and bundled.

The birthing season for the herds would begin soon, later than that of lowland animals. A soft tension filled the darkness, because at any moment a tauzak's cry could need one of the tribe to come running, ready to make sure the birth went well and help the great beasts. Kanna laid on the edge of her woolen bedroll, left leg below her while her right, which ended at the knee, propped upward, and drank from her bowl. Beside her sat a pair of carefully carved wooden crutches, their dark steel caps gleaming in the firelight, the work of lowland smiths who had one home and did not walk the Roof. The girl's hair was the black of a deep cave, and her eyes the brown of fresh-tilled soil, with skin tanned to nearly the darkness of her leathers by long exposure. A scar crossed her nose, a reminder of a fall when she tried too hard racing the other children.

"Mom," she said, her voice a reedy, high pitched thing. "Can't you stay in tonight? The dri will be fine without you, just this once. Someone else can watch the births."

"You know I can't do that. Your father is out with the guar to keep them from being nervous and causing trouble, as are so many others." The older woman leaned over a small satchel, checking on her bandages and herbs. In the firelight her hair was the night's sky to the absolute darkness of her daughter's, with strands of early silver its gleaming stars. "Only the best of us are here to keep safe the birthing, the most skilled. I need to make sure that the tribe sets aside two of the calves for your keeping."

"But I can barely keep up with the other kids. How am I supposed to outrace two calves and keep them from fighting if they're guar? Or worse, keep the guar from mating too early with the dri if they're different genders?" Kanna crossed her arms and glared across the yurt.

"Such doubt is unworthy of my daughter. If your spirit wasn't up to the task, my Kanna, you would have been born to a lowland family that might have let you sit at home all day, tending nothing but a hearth. You are born to tend the Roof of the World with us and hold Kiritru's sacred trust. You have helped me feed the tauzak since first you could handle your crutches, your arms are strong now, and you never drop yourself, or fall behind."

Kanna opened her mouth to respond, but it was cut off by a soft whistle from outside the yurt's door. Mother and daughter looked over as the flap was pulled back to reveal an older man, warm furs wrapping around him. "Shari, niece, the herds are calm. Will you be ready for your watch?"

"Of course, uncle. Kanna will be coming with me. She needs to be present for the birth of her calves."

"It's good that she is so enthusiastic. Not enough children appreciate Jezhei's lesson before they've learned it for themselves. Just make sure she watches where she waits." A small nod and a swish of fabric sped the man away before another word could leave the youth's mouth.

"Mother!"

"Don't argue Kanna, don't argue at all. Jezhei was not such a complainer, and neither should you be. She tamed tauzak with one leg."

"But she was a saint!"

"No, she was a woman. We remember her as a saint, but first, before anything else, she was a woman. Let me tell you the first part of her story, the part children ignore, but you must understand. She was not always a saint. She was not always a leader. But her story is our story."

***

Jezhei was the daughter of Subandi the Fierce, and her birth has always been surrounded in uncertainty. Her mother did not survive it, and some say that it is because of that she lost her leg; others say that she never had it to begin with. My grandfather claimed that her father cut it off for taking her mother's life to be born. My aunt said she lost her leg to a plague, and Subandi's bandit days were begun as revenge against the world. What no one can argue is that he gathered together the Tribe from the nomads of the Roof, and made us one people from the scattered clans. A whole, the Tribe was an army, but one of many families. They took what they wished, and none of the lowlanders could face them, because the high places were too much for their thin blood. Lowlanders can't handle the cold, or the pure air. They breathe soup and drink with their lungs, as we can when we must. But little grows on the Roof, so Subandi took and raided with Jezhei following in his wake. This was survival, and for many years they knew nothing better.

When the people came from on high, the lowlanders hid and scattered. We burnt their homes when they resisted us. Their tauzak became our tauzak. Their horses became our horses. Their goats became our goats. Their steel became our steel. We were the wind. We passed and they simply tried to weather our storms. Sometimes they died, sometimes part of the tribe did. Only their shrines were safe. Gods have a much longer reach then men, and none wished to have one of the hundred gods follow us with vengeance on its mind. This was the way of things, until Subandi decided to raid Folei.

Their horses were the thunder of a midnight storm, a flood of flesh and metal which fell upon the village of Folei with its stone-born houses and wide fields. This village had learned of Subandi and was prepared for his raid. They gathered their people onto their roofs and filled the flood of man and beast with their own rain of arrows from beyond the reach of our tribe's blades. Many riders were struck by the hail of shafts, and the attack became a retreat as quickly as it has begun. There were many injuries, a few deaths, but only one living raider was left behind: Jezhei, whose horse was slain beneath her. The villagers took her, even as the last of our people fled, and approached her with ropes of thick tauzak hair.

Jezhei looked up at the approaching mob and reached for her sword, attempting to push herself up on her knees. Her scream broke the night and the young woman collapsed on her side. Her leg was bent at an unnatural angle just below the knee. The scream became sobs as Jezhei looked before her, seeing men and women armed with bows, with staves, with rope and scythe. The villagers, heartened, advanced upon the fallen warrior. "Broken, dear thief," said a woman with hair of fresh snow and a deeply lined face. "The gods have given us mercy and justice, for soon we shall make your two legs match. You have none to stand on here. Take her! Let's make an example the raiders will never forget."

"Suki, no! Stop this at once!" Between the mob and Jezhei stood two from the crowd, a man and woman of middle years. Their clothes bore much wear and greater care. Elaborately embroidered sashes cloth hung over warm furs. Of the two, the woman spoke first. "Look at her. This girl, however a threat before, can no longer harm us. Remember the Way. Kiritru tells us to be merciful, to only harm when we need to. You might follow a different Way, but none of us follow a path of murder."

"Are you so blind, Mei, as to ignore that which is before you? This is a killer of men, a taker of herds," Suki scowled, much of the crowd still behind her. "Only one bandit lacks a leg, the daughter of Subandi. We all agreed to use whatever force we needed to protect this town. Are you and your husband without resolve?"

"And are you without heart?" retorted Kai, who stood as a small hill before the villagers with his wife. "We agreed to stop their attack, and it is stopped. Angry as this woman is, she is no threat anymore. She is ignorant, and poor, and full of ferocity. Yet, as you said, she has no leg to stand on. A child could defeat her in this state."

"Death is a mercy to her then, for she will find no charity here, nor will we leave her to be taken back to the mountains, to heal and raid again."

"Wrong again, elder Suki," Mei's voice rose, a firm alto which rang clearly. "You think that Subandi is violent now? How would he be if we were to make a visible example of the girl? He might accept his losses, but not if we taunt him. A father's love is nothing to mock. If we are quiet, we can still give mercy where mercy can be given, and determine whether or not this girl truly is as dangerous as her family. The Way of Kiritru is the Way of Forgiveness. My husband and I will watch her, and if she is truly a danger, than the village can do what it must, but quietly. You speak for yourself, but I speak to everyone, will you let us do this?"

The crowd stared, in awe of Mei's words, a silence unbroken save by the soft gasping sobs of Jezhei, barely conscious, and delirious with pain. Those cries touched the crowd as surely as had Mei and Kai's words. One by one the villagers gave their assent until scowling, Suki said, "I see we are all fools tonight, drunk on our victory. Take your prisoner then. See if you buy us anything but sorrow." The old woman turned her back on the couple and stalked off into the night, followed by the closest of her kin.

Carefully, Mei and Kai approached Jezhei, who grew quiet before them, finally succumbing to her wounds. They bound her leg tight in a splint, setting the bone as one might for an injured calf. The couple carried the unconscious warrior back to their home, a small house of wood and loam, and set her in their second bedroll. For a week they took turns watching over her, as Jezhei faded in and out of consciousness, fevered by the strain of her injury. They fed her thick, fresh tauzak milk when she was awake enough to swallow it without choking. On the seventh day, Jezhei's fever broke and she mutely accepted coarse bread and broth in addition to her milk, the first food she had eaten in days. She did not speak however, though she had uttered broken sentences in her fever dreams. She just listened to Kai as he told her how she had come to them, how they had bound her leg and nursed her through the fever. Jezhei nodded, listening, plotting, and then closed her eyes as if to sleep again. Kai left her and returned to watch over their herd with Mei.

An hour later, Mei returned home to check on their charge, only to find the bedroll empty. She ran from the house, calling out to Kai. "She's gone! Look around! Suki, or one of her children, might have taken her." The two of them began to comb over the grounds around their small house, for they were not in the village center, but rather in the rolling plains near it, the better to tend their herds. As the two of them searched, a tauzak bleated loudly, and Mei quickly ran over, to tend to the beast. However, it was not the tauzak who needed her aid. Jezhei was crawling along the ground, dragging herself with her arms just below the height of the tall summer grass. Her splint was disheveled and her shirt was smudged with dirt, but the gleam in the young woman's eyes was enough that Mei paused a moment before approaching.

"Stay back! Don't come near. I won't suffer a lowlander's charity anymore."

Mei laughed as the ringing of a bell. "Do you truly think that you can make it home with a broken leg? Come back, come back. We will help you heal. Then, if you must go to your tribe, you can."

Jezhei stopped crawling, pushing herself up to her side. "You think my honor is so cheap that you can buy it with kindness?"

"Kindness is a gift we bring to the world. So many would suffer less if we all remembered that! Let me call for Kai, we will bring you back to the house, and let you rest. You are in no shape to leave, even if your leg was healed."

The young woman stared at her host, looked at her leg, and finally returned her gaze to the herder. She gave a single nod and waited the long minutes before Kai arrived. The pair of them was able to carry Jezhei gently back to the house. They left her again and returned to tending the tauzak. "Next time," Jezhei told herself, "I won't try crawling. Their beasts might reveal me again. But I can ride. If I can get one of the herd to trust me, then I can make it home to Father. I will tell them that the village could not hold me, and next time we will be more careful if we return."

***

Each morning, Mei and Kai returned to the pens, and let loose their herds. The tauzak could thrive on the wild grass and wandered with only mild supervision during the day. When herders left their house to tend to their charges, riding on the backs of their tauzak, Jezhei watched them go. They saddled the wide nosed bovines, combing knots from their long, thick fur, and returned again in the evening to repeat the ritual as they removed the tack. She looked carefully as the herders adjusted their bridles, and made sure the rounded brass caps they put over the tips of the beasts' horns were tightly into place. "I can do that," she told herself every day. "I could ride a tauzak home."

Each night, the herd was gently driven back to their pens, and the couple prepared as large a meal as they could manage, attempting to draw Jezhei into their conversations. They met with limited success, but her questions were very focused. "Do you need to clean their hooves, like those of a horse?"

"Of course! Feet are very important, Jezhei. The larger the animal, the more strength their feet need, and the better they can thrive with good care."

"But you said they don't wear shoes."

"There is no need. Unless a hoof is cracked, they are quite thick. We have few rocks here to damage them. Is the Roof of the World rockier than it is down here?"

"Perhaps, in some places," Jezhei said, dodging their questions as she always did. "I've seen so little below the Roof. We never stay for long. Can't you take me riding with you? I need to get out of the house."

"When your leg can hold you again, we can bring you to watch the herd. Your thighs are important on a tauzak just like a horse, and we won't see you hurting yourself," Kai answered. It was never a question, to him, that she would become the daughter they never had.

Mei was no less kind, but shrewder, "How far have you ridden again? Your father has been heard of for hundreds of miles, or so the travelers tell us, for nearly twenty years. You can't be more than fifteen winters even. Such places you must have seen." But Jezhei would fall silent, still unwilling to speak more of herself or her family, giving no heed to the banter that arose between them, and would curl up quietly as the herders maintained their tools, and spun thick thread from the sheared wool of their charges. Instead, she focused with knife, saw, and file, with hammer, drill, and peg upon the long branches Mei and Kai had brought her. The work consumed Jezhei day and night. Every night the herders offered to help her, and every night she refused, instead focusing on the work, and ruining many pieces of wood in the process, until she had a pair of crude but usable crutches, fit to her height.

As the weeks passed, Jezhei's leg pained her less and less. Four days after she had finished the crutches, Jezhei felt ready. She had feigned lethargy through the whole day, and pretended to sleep very early, waiting until the tired herders finally took their rest. She looked at the knives of their kitchen, and let go of her desire to use them. Mei and Kai had shown her too much kindness to be dealt with in her father's way. She left them behind, taking only one of the leather bridles, and used her crutches to get to the pens. "I shall tell my father that we must leave this village alone for the mercy they've shown me. We can hunt anywhere but here," Jezhei promised herself.

It took her several attempts to get a bridle on one of the dri, for she would not attempt a male of a species she had no experience with. They could be as dangerous as a stallion, she was certain. Jezhei led the beast just beyond the edge of the pen and closed the gate behind it, then used the fence to gain purchase on its back. It took several tries, as the tauzak did not want to stay still. Her whole leg had not regained its full strength yet, so she was forced to put too much of her weight on the unpadded crutches, which dug cruelly into her arm pits. Once more Jezhei became covered in dirt, but she reached the tauzak's back and managed to balance precariously there. She found her seat and lost her crutches to the ground.

Jezhei pushed her heel into the tauzak's side, urging it onward, but the animal stayed still, and bent its head to eat a tuft of grass. She kicked it harder, and dug her heel in strongly, only to be rewarded with a grunting snort. She squeezed her thighs, flicked the reins, pulled them, and started to curse but the dri she rode was unmoved. It shook its head as though to clear away the buzzing if a fly.

"Oh come on, what will it take to make you leave? Don't you want to run with me to the high places? To breathe the pure air and touch the sky?"

"You can't make a tauzak leave its herd without earning its trust first," answered Mei.

Shaken as a leaf, and stiff as a branch, Jezhei nearly lost her seat like a child and only kept her place by grabbing the tauzak by its mane. This was enough to end the dri's patience for mistreatment and it shook her off its back. She crashed to the ground with a loud snap. Pain and confusion blinded Jezhei's senses until she realized that it wasn't her leg, but a crutch which had broken. Then she looked up at Mei, who had calmed the dri already and pulled it away from Jezhei where it's stomping wouldn't hit her. Shame deeper than the hurt of her body wracked the young woman, who curled up and began sobbing.

"Dry your tears. As soon as I've brought put the herd together, I'll bring you inside. We'll find more wood, so you can make a new crutch."

"How can you continue being so kind to me when everything I do has been for the sake of leaving you?"

"Vengeance is not part of the Way. Kiritru does not approve of it."

"Kai and you are always talking about the Way, about how to keep it. I don't understand it. You are trying to explain the sky to a mole, the land to a fish." Jezhei threw her hands in the air. "The only Way I've ever known is the Way of the Sword, the way of taking."

Mei shook her head, "The way is family, and you know it deep inside you. You know loyalty to your kin, don't you? To your father and tribe?" Jezhei nodded slowly. "This is part of the Way, but Kiritru helps show us the whole of it, and gives us her children in life and death to show us the rest. She is the mother of all the tauzak, and our inspiration. The Way is Family. The Way is Community. The Way is Forgiveness. The Way is Mercy. The Way is Love and Nurture."

"How do you know her way is the right one?" Jezhei wailed "What makes you so sure?"

"It brings us peace, and we already herd her children. If we were smiths, we might have followed Juntai, the Lord of Iron, or Ansur of the Kind Flame. If we were stone carvers we might have learned the path of Sinta whose bones are the foundation of the world. Even being herders, they would not refuse us. Instead we follow Kiritru, though there are many paths, and they are also good ones. Compassion, more than anything else, inspires us, moves us, and brings us our sense of community."

Jezhei wiped her face with one sleeve, and said with all the confidence she could "Teach me."

***

Months passed and Jezhei joined in the care of the herd. Once Mei and Kai felt she was ready, she learned how to make a tauzak listen to her, how to mount them safely. Jezhei was given padding for her crutches by the herders, who helped the young woman sew it from softly cured hide. But she would not follow them into town, when either of the couple went to trade, or to see their neighbors. One day Kai insisted that she join him in town, to which Jezhei responded, "But I have nothing to trade, even if they were willing to see my face. I have wronged the whole village. How can I right that?"

"Ask them to let you right your mistake. Show them you no longer follow the way of the Sword." Kai's blunt words stuck home and she shook her head again.

"I no longer even have my sword to give up."

"That isn't true. We took it and all your things when we brought you to our home. It's in the rafters of the store house."

Jezhei's eyes opened wide. "Truly? Why?"

"If you had not wanted to stay with us when you were healed, we would have let you find your way back to your people," Kai answered her, the simplicity of his words ringing true. "We are not thieves, even to those who would harm us."

"Please, get my sword and armor. I have a plan." Kai did as she requested. They made a bundle of both, and Jezhei strapped it across her back, refusing to allow Kai to shoulder any of her load. The two of them went to Folei, though slowly, as it was very awkward for her to balance such weight when she lifted her foot and put all her weight on the crutches. Several times she nearly fell, but Kai caught the young woman and offered to carry her pack. She thanked him, but her pride would not allow any other to take a share of the weight.

It was the middle of the day when the two of them reached the road which ran between Folei's buildings. At every corner, through every doorway, a different set of eyes glared at the woman who had once galloped through their streets wielding steel. "How many have you killed?" "Thief!" "How many lives have you ruined?" "Bandit!" "How many families have you broken?" The cries came from young and old, adding their weight to fierce stares. Jezhei nearly wilted under the pressure, but Kai was beside her, a reminder that she was not alone. She feigned to ignore their spite, while being torn by it. Jezhei refused the provocation of even Suki who said "Do you really think you can walk anywhere freely, after the ruin you and your people have spread?"

The two of them went to the forge of the town's smith, a small crowd having come to follow them jeering. At the entrance to the building stood the smith, a short muscular man, drawn forth by the noise louder even than his hammer strokes. Behind him followed three apprentices, twin girls nearly as old as Jezhei and a younger boy. "What is this out here? I'll tolerate no trouble near my forge." Looking between the Jezhei and their smith, the villagers lowered their voices, but did not retreat or fall silent.

"Please sir, I have something to ask of you," Jezhei said, looking into his eyes. "Can you craft anything?"

"I make everything of steel and iron that this town needs. That is my role here. What is yours, brigand's daughter?"

"I don't know, sir, but if I can, it will be to set things right." Shifting both crutches to one arm and leaning upon them, Jezhei swung her pack around dropped the bundle at the smith's feet. Her sword and pieces of armor protruded somewhat from the cloth that held them. "Take these. Make things that help people. I will never use their like again."

The smith broke into a smile, as did Kai, while the villagers fell into stunned silence. She had dropped as much metal on the ground as many of them had in all their tools, outside of the farmers who needed even more. "Yes, I can do that. Please, sit." He gestured to a stool just inside his door. "The lot of you, aren't there more important things in your day than watching one legged women? Get about your business." Some grumbling more than others, the crowd departed.

"That was a good start," said Kai. "Do you want to wait here while I finish our errands?"

"Yes, please," replied Jezhei.

After the herder left, the smith looked over Jezhei's crutches, leaning against the wall beside her. "Not bad craftsmanship, but I wouldn't call them suitable for a woman who just gave me so much good steel, no matter where she got it. Let me see them."

Nervously, Jezhei handed over her crutches and watched as the smith examined them. "I don't have anything else. You really don't need to."

"Oh, but I do," he replied. "The wood on the bottom will split and crack if these aren't better shod. Just sit right there and watch." An apprentice worked the bellows, preparing the flame. The smith took up Jezhei's old sword and brought it to his anvil. With terrifying strength, he broke the unheated blade in two. After arranging a few tools, he took the metal shard to his forge. The steel yielded to experienced hands, and was beaten into a flat sheet, then cut in two. Switching to a smaller hammer, he carefully rounded the metal until two caps were formed, which he fit onto the ends of each crutch.

Kai did not return until after the smith had finished his work on the crutches. Seeing how comfortably Jezhei was using them, hearing the solid clicks they made against the stone tiles of the forge, he could not help but smile. "I'm done for today, let's go home."

The journey back to the house was much easier than the one into town, with Jezhei's burden lightened and her crutches improved. Their new caps had been roughed somewhat by the smith's files and gripped the ground as if they had claws. Jezhei was so excited by them that she forgot to even mention the distrust of the villagers to Mei when telling her about their journey.

"Did no one treat you poorly?" the older woman asked.

"Well, some of them did, but I didn't let that stop me. I went to the smith anyway and he told them all to leave me alone."

"Then you've learned a great lesson today. Hold on to kindness and forget the cruelty of others. You are beginning to understand the Way."

When she slept that night, Jezhei dreamed of a dri bright and golden as the sun with horns that held the moon's silver, and stars in her eyes. It was swollen with pregnancy and bleated softly at her. They stood together in a field of tall grass that held no end beneath a sky without color. The young woman could barely contain herself at the creature's beauty, and walked forward to stroke the fur, to examine the horns. As she reached forward, Jezhei found herself reaching to place her hand within the hand of a beautiful woman, whose face was framed with horns like that of a tauzak, crowning her visage.

"You've done well, young dri," spoke the woman, "and opened your soul to the Way I have given humans." She took Jezhei's hand and a current ran through her mind's body, like a powerful river or wind that would move you, but it neither dislodged nor unbalanced the former warrior.

"Kiritru?" Jezhei gasped.

"I am."

"Why did you come to me? I am no one. I have done terrible things, and harmed people. Shouldn't you speak to someone like Mei or Kai, who are as selfless as any can be?"

"What makes you think that I haven't spoken to them as well, young dri? This dream is your dream, not theirs. Today you showed bravery and the will to commit to my path, whether or not others believe you. These are things I value. I can show you more, much more, if you are willing to do something for me."

"What do I need to do, Goddess?"

"What any who walk my path do, when given a gift: share it with those who can benefit from what you possess." Wordless, Jezhei nodded to the simple request. Kiritru raised one perfect hand to place on the mortal's shoulder, drawing her into a gentle hug. The Goddess touched Her head to Jezhei's own, and our Lady understood.

***

The summer was dying when Jezhei returned from the lowlands. She rode upon the back of a guar whose thick fur was mottled with blacks, browns, whites, and the orange of the setting sun. It had been a year and a moon since she had been thought lost in battle, and Subandi had begun to head north again, having avoided the villages near Folei since the loss of his daughter. Want of the richer plunders and food to last the winter called them to the broad lowlands below the plateau of the Roof, away from the poorer towns and villages which filled the valleys to the east. As the Tribe woke to break camp in the morning, the sentries spotted Jezhei returning to them from the north. Word was spread through the camp like a wildfire. All the women and men, all the children came out to see their chief's daughter returning with awe and bafflement.

Subandi was first those who approached them, and his joy became a scowl when he saw clearly his child. "Who is this wearing my daughter's face? I am the father of a warrior, proud and strong. This woman who approaches us wears no armor and carries no blade larger than an eating knife. She wears furs over soft leather and cloth, and has nothing but crutches at her side that do not match those she left with. She doesn't even ride a highland horse, but mounts is on a wanderer-cow. Who are you? A lowlander-- or a taker of cattle, a master of the high places, and child of the Roof?"

"I am still your daughter," Jezhei's voice rang out loud and clear, her head held high and her back tall. "But the lowlanders know more than we realized, and I have learned much while I healed in their care."

The scorn and bitterness in her father's laughter was echoed by many of the warriors around him. "Healed by lowlanders, and willing to learn from them? Next you'll say you did not even steal the cow to show us you'd kept something of your edge in the thick air."

"It is called a tauzak, and males, like this one, are called guar. It was given to me, by friends who taught me a new Way, one better than that we have known, and one that can still be practiced on the Roof of the World. It is the way of Kiritru, who is the mother of their species."

Subandi laughed again, this time in disbelief. "You want us to give up the way of the sword to follow a cow goddess? Don't insult your ancestors so. Has the thick air drowned your thoughts? My daughter would know better. Now get off that beast and give it to me. The tribe eats meat today."

"I think not," Jezhei shook her head. "He is of my herd, and I will not see him harmed before his time has come."

His jaw set strongly, the bandit lord glared at his daughter. "If you will not dismount on your own, I shall pull you off with these two hands!" Subandi rushed forward to grab his daughter, but the tauzak danced away without a visible sign motion from its rider, leaving the chief sprawled on the ground. Laughter rang out from the assembled crowd, and Subandi knew that he must not fail. He rose and attempted to pull his daughter down twice more. Each time her mount moved aside as the chief rushed in, with an agility unseen in such a large animal before.

"How do you make it move without even using reigns?"

"Chiru moves for me because he chooses to." Jezhei answered him, the solid certainty of her voice in contrast to her father's own bewilderment.

"He may be able to turn and twist when I reach for you, but I would never miss such a large target. One way or another, we shall eat meat." The chief drew out his sword and swung with both hands towards the guar, a strong and fluid motion honed by years of practice. With a loud clang, Jezhei struck his blade from its path with the metal-shod end of her crutch, forcing her father to miss once more.

"Enough!" cried our Lady. "Violence only proves that one person can harm another. But life is not about harming alone, it is about living, and thriving. I have come with a new way, and you use steel because you fear the unknown, but my way is not one of fear. There is another path, and we can all take it together. Kiritru has given it to me, and I will make a gift of it to you all. Let me have but this day to show you, and if the tribe is unconvinced, I shall depart. You can all continue to do as you always have. But if instead you see merit in the new path I have brought, then I can bring a future full of hope and prosperity, one where we need not go hungry, and our children can befriend their neighbors instead of learning to take what they wish by blood and steel. Surely the people of the Roof cannot be scared to follow a woman on a tauzak for a single day?"

Subandi began to object, but his ears were filled with the curiosity of his people. A leader who never listens will not lead for long. "Very well," he replied, spitting his words as if venom coated each one. "I will give you until sunset to show us this lowland Way, but none will care to follow it. Once the Tribe rejects you, flee. If you are on the same side of the horizon as this tribe when the sun passes beneath it, we will ride out in all our force and destroy you. No one mocks the People of the Roof and survives it."

***

Jezhei led our tribe east across the summer grasses which, while growing weaker, still covered the Roof. They followed on horse, with many of the young jogging alongside their mounted elders and the skilled warriors who had won their steeds. The pace was such that none could stop to rest for long. Few lowlanders could handle it, but the Tribe was accustomed to such living. We have always been people who move. There was much grumbling, because they were losing much of the ground covered the previous night, but a deal is a deal, as we well know.

By the time the sun was high and bright, they had come to one of the wide shallow lakes which are scattered here. Its older name is lost, but now it is called the Lake of Reflection. It is wide and would be clear if there were not so many tall reeds filling the whole of it. Jezhei led the whole of the tribe to the shore and her tauzak stepped into the water. The reeds rustled this entire time as though from a wind, though the air was still and warm.

"You bring us to look at a pool of water? What sort of path is that?" Subandi jeered.

Our Lady and Chiru snorted as one being to his contempt. "My day is not yet over, father. Behold the gift of the Goddess!" Jezhei struck the water with one of her crutches as her mount let loose a loud deep bleat and dozens, then hundreds of tauzak heads rose up from the reeds where they had been eating. "She gives us guardianship of her children. We can lead this herd with wisdom, and in life and death they will support the people. No more will we take without giving. No more will steel be our first word to those who dwell beyond the Roof. So long as we follow the Way, they will be our loyal companions."

"You would have us give up our blades and become herders? My former daughter is a madwoman. This is a gift, truly, but one we will harvest now. My Tribe will never bow to a lowland goddess. Surround the shore. We'll have a slaughter to feed us for months." Without pause or thought, Subandi rushed forward to do what he always did: take what he wanted.

"No!" cried Jezhei and rushed forward to get between her father and the herd. This time she was not as graceful as before, and Subandi struck his daughter from Chiru's back, breaking her arm with the strength of his own. The tauzak, startled by the violence and screams did as was their nature as well, and charged. Subandi's horse was gored by the rushing beasts, and he fell from its back to meet his death beneath their hooves. The Tribe scattered and fell to chaos as the herd charged forward, just as so many times villagers had scattered before them.

Then the light died, as the sun covered himself in shame for what the people had done. Nothing was left but a ring of fire in the sky. The Tribe looked up at the eclipse and quailed, fearing that justice had finally found them. But light returned. A bright glow of silver and gold washed over the herd and Tribe, emerging from the center of the lake. Before them stood a tauzak who was woman who was a tauzak. Ever pregnant and beautiful as my words can never describe, Kiritru had revealed Herself. A sense of peace washed over the Tribe and herd, stilling them. Her voice was no louder than that of any mother, but cut through all other sounds leaving room only for itself.

"Is this truly the path the people of the Roof wish? To fight and take until there is no more room for battle, and war claims them as its own? Should father turn upon daughter as neighbor turns on neighbor, until all bonds are lost. Is this the Fate you wish, to wander always, rejected and hunted even as you hunt others? No gods are friends with the people of the Roof, but you have harmed many of their children." With each sentence Kiritru walked towards them, like the sun on the earth, too bright and great to face directly, but unblinding in her glory.

"No!" called out the people, for they saw clearly in the Goddess' light the depth of their folly. The gods were no longer content to sit back as the Raiders of the Roof harmed there people and took what they wished.

"Then follow my Way and prosper," came Her words, as Kiritru reached down into the water and lifted out Jezhei, helping her back onto Chiru's back as a mother raises up a fallen child. "My path is a hard one, but that is what a people in such a hard place need. It requires not merely forgiveness, but also to right the wrongs you commit against others. Your tribe has hurt many, so much shall be demanded of you to correct this.

"You will help my children grow. Each of you will raise from calves at least two tauzak, and one of them must be given to a village beyond the Roof where the Tribe has killed or stolen. For every theft, for every life taken, you must raise one of my children, healthy and strong, and give that child as a gift until more lives have been made than lives lost."

***

"Then the Tribe agreed, Mom?" asked Kanna.

"Well, yes, but probably not as quickly or cleanly as we say the Tribe did. They were awed, but they were also confused, and argued with Jezhei. Even after they initially agreed, they needed to make the pact more solid and clear. Some of them could not change and left. Nearly all chose to place Jezhei as Kiritru's voice until they earned the right to speak to Her again in dreams. But that is why raising two tauzak is so crucial, especially for you. It has been more than seven generations since Jezhei's time, and we have paid off our debts to nearly all the villages."

Kanna nodded quietly as her mother continued, "Kiritru's teaching held more merits than merely earning the friendship of our neighbors however and staving off the wrath of other deities. The young tauzak we don't give away might be sold when someone raises a second or even third pair of them, bringing the Tribe what it needs. Keeping the herd from growing too large lets us stay on the Roof in peace, free from the conflicts that often fill the lowlands now. If the herd or the People grew too numerous, it would be more than the Roof could support."

Silence filled the tent for a moment as Shari finished inspecting the last of her bags, ready to take her shift with the herd. Kanna cocked her head sideways. "Mother, has anyone ever raised three tauzak for their rite of passage, instead of two?"

Shari blanched slightly in the cold. "No. That would be a horrible challenge for an inexperienced herder."

"Then I shall be the first, if there are enough births. If Jezhei could learn to ride and raise tauzak in only a year, then I should be able to do it after learning for my entire childhood. When Kiritru feels I'm ready to speak to her, she will be proud of what I've done." Kanna stood up and rushed to the flap of their yurt.

"I'm sure she will, my Kanna, just as she was with Jezhei the mother of our line, so many years ago."

#  About William Lenoire

William Lenoire is constant reader and occasional know-it-all from southern New Hampshire where he lives with his girlfriend and their two cats. He's been caught on multiple occasions fencing, hiking, and engaging in that most unspeakable of habits: gaming.

William is available by email, and on twitter.

Email: william.lenoire.author@gmail.com

Twitter: @W_Lenoire

# The Reed-fish Girl of Comara Cove, by Michelle Browne

"Taba!" screamed Bone. He rocketed towards her, across the sand. "Look at the purple glass!"

"Well done," said Taba, smiling brightly. "Go show it to Tal."

Bone grinned and sped towards Tal, who patted his head and told him to look for more. Relieved, Taba straightened her head wrap and tucked her dreads back under the scarf. An unravelling tassel from the ends fell on her shoulder, and she slipped it into a pocket to sew on later, dusting off a golden brown shoulder absently. She ran her hands over her equipment and her belts, making sure everything was in place, and squinted as she walked out of the cave. Time for another round of searching and salvaging, picking through whatever washed up from the great glass ships.

The sun was extremely bright today—too bright for her preferences. She preferred the shady days when warm rains blew in, even when they brought storms, as in the winter season. It was easier to find the frosted Glimmerglass when the light wasn't catching on every wet pebble and shell—though the iridescent shells were easier to spot in the sun. A trade-off, she supposed.

She glanced behind her, but the children hadn't worked their way across to her section of the beach yet. If it hadn't been for her ruined arm, she would have been out pearl diving, fishing farther out...no sense fussing about it, though. Better to look for the glass, and the shells, and gather as much as she could. The wrecks from trading voyages each winter were still sending their fragments ashore—bits of polished bone, sometimes, but the broken cargoes of Glimmerglass from the Falachi Islands continued to wash up.

They were expecting a convoy of traders any day now, and Corr kept reminding her of that. "Everyone needs to do their best," said the old matriarch, puffing her pipe and staring Taba down. "Everyone. If we don't get enough trinkets for the northern nobles and their whores, we won't get our spices. We won't get lemfruit."

Taba's cheeks burned. She loved lemfruit. As the sun beat down on her now, she imagined a fresh lemfruit, warmed by the sun, sweet and faintly salty as a woman's...well. Not that she'd know, but as she assumed it would taste. She heard the sailor women talking as they went out on the boats, leaving the men to tend the hearth and salt the fish, and she longed to join them.

The ocean called to her, but her ruined arm kept her on the shore. She was old enough to marry, old enough for the adulthood ceremony, old enough to take to the water and work. But that arm was an excuse—a reason for people to treat her as fragile, even though she wasn't really. Concerns about whether she could pull her weight, muttered behind her back, the elders looking slightly guilty when she walked in on one of their discussions...no. And perhaps they were right. Her arm did slow her down a bit. Loneliness shivered through her as she watched the young children scampering across the shore, screaming at each other and splashing. Some were intent on tidal pools or their tasks, picking up bits of volcano glass as well as the Glimmerglass, shells, and other flotsam and jetsam.

Tal, the minder, pattered after a few of them. He was big and strong, but a quiet man—and after a gish shark had taken a bite out of his right leg, he couldn't dive for oysters without succumbing to panic. He was nice, had even offered to marry her when she'd had her ceremony, but she didn't like men in that way. And then, too, he was broken, like her. She didn't want to be the crippled girl for the rest of her life, a discarded toy—loved, perhaps, but useless. A crippled woman with the status of a girl, holding back everyone else because she had to move more slowly on account of the weak, damaged limb.

Tears prickled her eyes. Too much self-pity. Better to focus on hot sand under her calloused feet. She watched for sharp stones, the occasional crab, and the slightly iridescent, softly frosted Glimmerglass. Her bags clanked—clattering bluegreen and orangepink shells in one; soft lumps of brown, green, and blue glass in another. Bits of red and orange were the hardest to find, and yellow, rarer still, but she watched for it. A few cool, polished lumps of pottery hung in a belt dangling from her waist. Those could get a good price, especially with the faint colours traced on their surface. She hoped for starmetal, but that washed up very, very seldom.

She was so intent on looking for bits of glass—the broken ones as well as the softer, time-frosted ones—that she almost didn't see the girl curled on the rock, shaded by the dune, her skin blending into the sand. At first she thought it was one of the children, resting from the sun. But the girl wore no sling around her chest, nor the rough sackcloth that young children wore. The girl—woman, really—turned, and Taba saw her lithe frame, skin that was light brown and dappled by shadow, the same colour as the sand. Taba met the girl's dark eyes and felt her heart quiver, a strange longing flooding through her. The girl broke her gaze and cried out in alarm—not an animal's howl of fear, but language, Taba felt sure. As she dove for the pool, Taba saw a silvery, scaly flash, a shimmer of fins and a tail.

Her heart pounded. After a hundred years, the seafolk were back.

***

Taba's feet ached from running over sharp rocks, from pounding into the sand. She'd almost dropped her bags of salvage in her eagerness to get back to the caverns. Her ruined right arm, weak enough under normal circumstances, screamed under the strain of the bags as they slid down from her shoulder. She barely cared.

Corr scowled at her as she pounded up the steps and farther into the cave. The elders were sitting around their pots of tea, munching on kelp and fish rolls.

"Honoured grandmother," Taba panted, "the seafolk are back!"

There was an awkward silence. The men working under lamplight in the depths, the women and ur-women cleaning and organizing crates near the front—all were silent as her words echoed through the cave.

"I saw a girl—maybe an ur-girl, if they have ur-girls—on the rocks," panted Taba. "She saw me, cried out, and dove into the water again. I saw her tail flash as she swam away."

There was a long pause. Corr and the other elders glanced at each other disapprovingly, then at her, looking for signs of a sweaty forehead, glazed eyes, the sway of someone about to faint. Children often got heatstroke at this time of year, especially with the long days and relative dryness. But she held firm, looking at them straight-on, her posture as steady and straight as a lighthouse on the shore. The lone male on the council, Ran, cleared his throat timidly. "She might be telling the truth," he offered. "It might not just be heatstroke."

"You're just hoping a merwoman will come and sweep you away, make you a fish-husband," jeered Sol, an ur-woman. "Dream on."

Even if he was a man, crippled by his lack of ties to the moon and sea, Taba felt awfully grateful for his support. Unfortunately, Mila, Nie, and Sol burst into raucous laughter. Ran looked embarrassed, but fell silent. Corr grimaced and sipped her tea.

Mila flicked grey-streaked black hair over her shoulder and glanced at Taba reprovingly. She taught the children, and Taba had been sitting through her classes not long ago. Mila folded her hands together the way she did when she suspected a child was fibbing. "We haven't seen them since the Ice Time a hundred years ago. And with the trade ships passing through here, they've either gone to deeper waters or found better trading partners long ago. If they were real at all."

"Let her speak," said Nie tolerantly. Taba noticed distractedly that Nie hadn't shaved, and had the stubble of a beard showing over the edges of her woven neck wrap.

Taba stared at her feet. "I don't have sunstroke," she muttered. "I know what I saw. She had silver scales, and she was sitting in the dune. Her skin was brown, like ours, but lighter. And she was naked. She yelped and jumped into the water as soon as I saw her. Her fins splashed." A shiver passed through her again as she remembered the girl's eyes, the brief moment of connection.

There was a long pause. "It does match the legends," asked Mila again. "Though a daydream and a nap in the sun could, admittedly, produce the same effect."

"We should weigh the possibility, at least," said Nie. "It's not impossible. And this necklace"—Nie tapped the bone beads around her neck with a withered finger— "is said to have been a gift from their queen. I've even heard that the Ailo Bay people to the North have some merfolk blood. And everyone knows about their webbed hands."

Ran cleared his throat for a moment. "Three generations—or four—have passed since we saw them last, but my grandmother was the last one to see one of them. Her oldest brother, she said, was the last liason, until he disappeared under the waves with his husband, never to return. I, for one, believed her tales."

"You're taking this...child seriously?" demanded Sol. "All we have are tales, legends. That's hardly proof."

"This child has fifteen years. She's almost a woman, but for the ceremony. It's time we treated her as a little more than another weed rat, scampering after legfish on the shore." Corr's eyes fixed on Taba again, and Taba looked back hopefully. It was a backhanded compliment at best—but she'd take it.

Sol cleared her throat. "But she's broken! Ever since the fire—"

Taba's eyes prickled with tears. It always came back to this—a mistake she'd made as a small child. She would always be the broken one.

"The fire marked her skin and gives her enough pain in her arm to remind her for the rest of her life just how dangerous playing with oil can be. It left her mind undamaged," said Corr calmly. "And the pain made her wiser. However, talking to you makes me wish there was such an oil for hearts—burning yours might teach you the sense of thoughtless words, Sol."

Sol lowered her head in shame. "I'm sorry, grandmother. I'm sorry, Taba. That was unkind."

Taba nodded but said nothing.

Mila raised a hand for silence. "We should give her a few pak' rolls and some dried lemfruit. And sea grape wine. It's said the merfolk love those things."

"Do we have enough of them to give away on a frivolous errand?" grumbled Sol quietly.

"We can spare them," murmured Nie, interrupting. "I was taking stock just yesterday."

"And if all goes well, Taba and the merwoman will share their first meal," said Mila. She glanced at Taba again. "But if there are other rituals required of us, they've been lost to time. Still, perhaps goodwill can overcome our ignorance. Failing that, Taba is just fat enough to make a good meal."

Taba blanched, but the elders were chuckling.

"Are you all finished?" said Corr. She waited as Sol, Nie, Mila, and Ran settled down, then looked back at Taba. Taba's ears burned with embarrassment.

"Tomorrow," said Corr, "you will go to the same spot before any of the other children go out for the day, and you will bring the offerings and gifts. If the seawoman stays to speak to you, you will have done us a great service. It has been many years since we saw them last, and they were once close friends and good trading partners. Long ago, yes, but older, stranger things have returned since then."

"I'll do anything," said Taba, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

Corr looked at her seriously. "I cannot send a child out to do anything. It will have to be done quickly and without the celebration we would normally offer you...but first, you must go as a woman, not a child. You were overdue anyway—you've had your blood for three summers now."

Taba nodded. It would be a rushed ceremony—too rushed for her to feel the satisfaction of adulthood. As expected, her adulthood would be as broken and rushed as she was. "Why must I be a woman, grandmother?"

"Because the seafolk, it is said, would take one of our clan with them to seal an alliance." Corr looked grim, and none of the other elders were smiling.

Taba's knees shook. And then, too, there were the absurd tales of horrid sea monsters, who stalked the merpeople—and of hapless mainlanders and islanders who were eaten by the terrors below. But those were the stories of the sailor women who bragged to each other about the size of their catch. The softer stories were little comfort. To live with the seafolk, then, in their strange castles—to be transfigured, perhaps, so she could breathe below water. It was the stuff of tall tales, of nonsense, of legend—of history. "As a wife?" she managed.

Corr laughed at her nervousness. "Sometimes. But first, as an honoured guest and as a friend. But it's only the person they choose to speak to at first that would be permitted to accompany them...home. If the seawoman speaks to you again...you must be prepared to see us only at the turns of each season. You will represent us and the surface in general, a respected ambassador, just like Wui in Makola or Yel in Vergreva."

"What if she doesn't speak to me?" Taba squeaked. She rubbed her damaged arm, touching the scars nervously.

Corr stared at her for a few moments. "You are not broken, granddaughter," she said softly. "If you are rejected, it will be the merwoman's shyness, not your fault."

Taba nodded, her throat dry. The elders looked at her, waiting.

"Will you do this, Taba?" asked Corr gently. "Will you be our emissary to the depths?"

Taba thought for a long time. Even if she agreed and failed, she'd have to undergo the womanhood ceremony. No more running on the sand with the children, probably—she'd be minding them instead. No matter what happened—and what happened, if she was successful, involved seldom tasting lemfruit again, never having kinamon, never seeing Corr or her mother Hai or her father Frek—her life as she knew it was about to end. To change forever.

Taba looked out to the end of the cave, where the light was just visible. She could see the blue and white water lapping against the surf. The tide would come in soon, and she had to be ready. Was it worth giving everything up?

On the other hand, if they sent someone else out, and the notoriously shy merfolk refused to come back, whose fault would it be? The opportunity of a lifetime, of several lifetimes, gone. Just because of her own cowardice. No chance of scavenging fine Glimmerglass from the wrecks herself, or other riches, instead of waiting for them to wash up on the shoreline. No chance of seeing what wonders and terrors lay in the sea, hidden in the depths. No chance of renewing an ancient alliance and friendship. All because the little broken girl, whose name was the same as the reed-fishes', was too frightened of going to the depths. Of leaving Comara Cove behind. Of what she'd seen in the depths of the mer-woman's eyes.

"I'll do it," said Taba softly.

There was silence. Slowly, the elders smiled. Corr stood and shuffled over, setting a hand on Taba's shoulder.

"The sun will set soon and the tide is coming in. Are you ready to swim against the tide, Taba? To be a woman?"

"I will do anything I must," said Taba. "Lead me."

***

They had to rush the preparations, as Taba had been warned. There would only be a small feast, since no other children were going through the ceremony at the moment—normally, they waited until the full moon in Pamolun for the summer festival. But the festival had passed, leaving Taba behind—or so she'd thought.

Nie painted her forehead with the fish blood and kelp paste, then continued the patterns on her back and on the tops of her breasts, as well as on her legs. The clan's writing, indicating who she was, the names of her grandmothers and great grandmothers, and the allegiance of them all to the great mother, the ocean. She would have to swim against the tide, dive for a pearl-oyster, and swim back with the oyster. If it had a pearl, she would be an adult. If not, she would have to do it again until she came back with a pearl. The oysters were usually in deepish waters, and the trick was always a matter of holding one's breath long enough to retrieve one and return with it.

The pearl would be placed in a small pouch embroidered with adulthood symbols, a mark representing one of the three genders—woman, in her case—and her name. The pouch would be put around her neck, and a wreath of saltflowers set on top of her head. Normally, there would be dancing, music, all sorts of courting nonsense—but not tonight.

"Pay attention," said Nie gently. "Beware the riptides. Are you ready to leave your childhood on the shore?"

Taba nodded. "I am, auntie."

"Good luck," said Nie.

Taba looked past her, took a deep breath, and waded into the water. Currents of warm and cold water flowed over her skin, chilling and warming her in turn. The water sparkled like fireglass chips, the kind they chipped into knives back in the old days—the kind that held an edge better than the Northern steel. This was a cut, too. She could still turn back—until she plunged underwater. Then there was only failure.

Taba took a deep breath and dove in.

***

The same arm that made lifting things painful on shore, wouldn't lift heavy things as well, that spasmed in her sleep, was far less of a hindrance in the water. She cut the surf gracefully, reaching the moon-marked expanses. She glanced over her shoulder a few times as she took breaths, seeing the safe caves and the lanterns recede. The moon was almost full, and the autumn storm season was still far off. It was peaceful. Her heart sang, exulting in the smooth motion and the water's currents. It flowed around her easily, soothing and sweet on her skin. Even the sensation of a gish-shark against her leg didn't bother her. It was a baby anyway, and they preferred fat blue sleekfish to bony humans.

When she was at the edge of the moon-touched algae, their phosphorescence gleaming greenly around her, she paused. This was the right depth for the oysters. She'd have to find them by touch, though; there was little light, and even the clear waters wouldn't make finding her prize much easier.

Nothing to do but try, though. Spotting a likely patch of violet-shelled oysters resting on the bed, she took a deep breath and dove.

Fish darted around her, brushing against her naked skin, as Taba moved through the water. Her eyes didn't sting—she was too used to the salt water to be bothered by it. It was deliciously warm-cool, currents brushing against her skin, washing away the carefully applied markings as she paddled around.

Her lungs started to itch, but she ignored them. Wrapping her fingers around the largest shell, she tugged it from the bed and put it in the pouch on the belt around her waist.

She started to rise—but paused. A much larger gish-shark was in front of her, its black eyes surveying her with ancient coolness. Taba's lungs burned as she looked right back at it. This gish-shark was big enough to take a nice bite out of her, if it wanted. She prayed for a moment that she could blend in with the dirt, but there was no point in hoping for that. The clouds of silt in the disturbed water would make it attack for sure. And besides, it had smelled her and seen her. Hiding was impossible.

It swam around her side, its rough yellow skin rasping against her own, and circled again. Taba prayed furiously to Syth, the predator-god, asking him to spare her for today. The shark's golden skin, tinted with green, was sickly against her brown complexion, sun-darkened. The deep, infinite blue waters swallowed her people once in a while, but today, Taba prayed furiously, was not her day to rejoin the mother.

The shark circled again, and her heart pounded. She willed herself to be still, though her lungs were ready to burst.

Then, she saw it—a wounded hexapus wriggling along the bed, dragging a white-fleshed, black-spotted arm.

The shark didn't waste any time. It darted at the hexapus, taking a bite of the creature's rubbery head, and started to shake it.

Taba paddled upwards, breaking the surface, and gasped in relief. "Thank you, Syth," she whispered. Her prize in hand, she slowly swam back to shore, her weak arm shaking a little with each stroke.

As Taba emerged from the water, the elders, her parents, and the other adults and children greeted her with a shout. Taba managed a weak grin.

"There was a gith-shark," she said. "But Syth had a hexapus for it."

"Do you have your oyster?" asked Corr, concerned. Behind her, Taba's parents glanced at each other nervously. Not getting your pearl the first time wasn't unusual, but not getting an oyster at all was very bad luck.

Silently, Taba proffered her oyster. Corr pulled out a large, fine steel knife with elaborate, asymmetric carvings in its hilt and cracked the shell open deftly.

There was a long pause, and fear washed over Taba. The moon had risen fully, and she didn't want to face the gith-shark again. Let me be an adult, she prayed. Let me have passed the test.

Next to her, Ran and Nie gasped. Corr offered Taba a rare smile. "It seems Qija has smiled on you," she said gently.

Glistening between her fingers was a large, iridescent black pearl. It was a little odd in shape, but very large, and with fine orient—it glowed in every colour, reflecting the lamplight on its creamy grey and blue surface. A black pearl. A laughter-tear of Qija, the goddess of luck and love.

Taba raised her hands high and whooped, and an answering call echoed from every adult and child in the village. She had succeeded.

Corr took the empty pouch from around her own neck, where it nestled between her softly sagging breasts next to her own worn amulet, and put the pearl in it. She put the amulet around Taba's neck. The embroidery in red and purple thread rasped against Taba's bare skin.

"You're a woman, Taba. Rise, and make us proud." Corr's eyes glistened with tears. "But first, we'll feed you up!"

***

The other children gathered around Taba, but kept a respectful distance. She was no longer one of them. Whatever happened tomorrow, she was allowed to drink sea-grape wine now. It was more bitter and salty than she'd expected, but she didn't make a face as the jug met her lips. After all, she was a woman.

The new young men came forward shyly, flirting and offering her their congratulations. Tal stepped forward, but excused himself quickly, attending to the children. She tried not to look at the disappointment on his face, or feel bad. At least he had been polite, even though they had both known his suit was pointless.

Some of the young women and ur-women approached, too, bolder and louder than the boys. Taba was polite, but didn't offer them much—after all, marriage and courting were pointless, given that she might be gone tomorrow. She tried not to be disappointed or frightened, or feel even more alone at the strangeness of being the only one in the ceremony. Her arm twinged with the stress, and she let it fall to her side, resting.

Disappointment was foolish. They were here to make her feel special. It might be strange, but it was still a unique day, and her day. The thought of not having to share something was oddly pleasurable.

She picked at the pink flesh of the guldoon idly, munching on the lemfruit and kinamon cake (only a bit stale) and popping kelp crackers into her mouth. It was delicious, but she could barely taste it. She wandered across the sand and tried to get used to her new clothes, the loose white pants and shirt open to the waist. They were so bright and pale that anyone could see her from shore, like another moon.

Her first night as an adult would be spent alone, under the stars, on the special bed. Normally a few other new adults would be with her, laughing and talking before they all went to sleep, but not tonight. Corr and her parents bid her a good night's rest.

She heard people cleaning as she tossed and turned in the soft sheets, and had an impulse to go help them, just for something to do. She reminded herself that this was her night, and that she was supposed to rest as much as possible. She'd have to wake early tomorrow to meet the seawoman.

Taba tossed and turned, the weight of the black pearl heavier than it had seemed at first. It was the size of her thumbnail, no minor find, but its meaning made it a hundred times more weighty. The sky above her gleamed with milk and the eyes of the ancestors, but offered no answers.

Taba woke before she was supposed to. She almost forgot she was an adult at first, feeling wobbly and a little headachy after the night's celebrations. She wasn't even sure where she was. Then she saw her white clothes and the soft sheets on the thick mattress, bamboo holding her up, and she let out a whoop. She jumped out of bed and ran for the caves.

A hungover but smiling Corr waited for her and offered a hug. "Now, you may be waiting a while, Taba," she said. She rubbed bleary eyes and coughed. Taba could smell the remains of the palm wine on her breath, and grinned a little.

"I'll wait all day and all night if I have to."

"Hopefully, you won't have to. Don't be foolish," said Corr. "Here's your packet of offerings and wine, wrapped tight and sealed in a sea-cat's bladder. That'll keep the air and water out until you arrive safely on the merpeople's island, or down in their kingdom, whichever it really is."

"What if she doesn't come today?"

"Then we'll send you out until she does," said Corr. "Or at least, for the next moon cycle. If she doesn't come within that time..." Corr sighed. "Then we won't have lost anything, I suppose."

Taba nodded and held the parcels carefully, trying not to clutch them like a child seeking comfort from a toy. She tried not to clutch them to her chest with her good arm, but her bad arm twitched.

"Get going," said Corr. "It may be a while. Now, if she accepts the offering...you'll have to go immediately."

Taba's voice was small as she replied. "Can I say goodbye to everyone?"

Corr paused, and shook her head. "That's what last night was for. But you'll see us again. Even if she returns and takes you...you'll see us again. You're no prisoner, girl."

Taba set down the parcels and threw her arms around Corr. "Thank you, grandmother. Give everyone my love."

Corr sniffed and hid it by tucking her chin into the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. "We'll see you again. Now go. No time to waste on foolishness."

***

Taba walked slowly over the shore, the pearl in its bag bouncing between her breasts. The parcels were substantial, and even slung over her back, her shoulders ached a little. Hopefully they'd be lighter in the water. The buoyancy would help, at least. But there was a lot more food in them than she'd expected, and the thickly oiled waterproof cloth wrapped around the bundles was weighty stuff.

She came to the spot where she'd seen the merwoman last, and paused next to her own footsteps. "I'm from Comara Cove, and I'm not afraid of gith-sharks, hexapuses, or shadows," she said to herself. "I've already been kissed by fire. There's nothing to be scared of." For a moment, the old bogey-story of gith-shark maids occurred to her. Disguising themselves as pretty youths, the gith-sharks would wait until someone came close, and then—

"No need to be frightened," said a soft voice.

Taba's heart trembled and she almost dropped her packages. In the shadow of the dune, she saw the sea maid's face. Her brown breasts, unencumbered by a sling, were beaded with drops of seawater. The skin looked soft, but perhaps tougher than her own. Taba forced herself to look at the maid's eyes. She really was very pretty, with wide blue-black eyes and trailing blue-black hair. The curls spilled everywhere, water plastering them to her flesh in little curves, like the inky glyphs on a page of reed-paper. Her silver fish-tail coiled around the rocks, and the maid leaned against the dune.

Taba smiled and tried not to faint. "I'm Taba of Comara Cove, daughter of Hai, granddaughter of Corr, and I'm here with offerings," she began. She laid out the bottle of wine and the packets of fish and fruit.

The seawoman hoisted herself up on the sand carefully and patted a spot next to her. "We'll eat," she said, her fine lips pronouncing the words with gusto, "and then we'll talk. Did your Matriarch tell you..."

"She told me...I would join your people and leave my own," said Taba. The seawoman's eyes were far apart, and her features were more delicate than she'd expected. She thought of lemfruit for a moment, the salt-sweet taste.

Taba sat on the sand and pulled things out of the bag. There was more than food—a necklace of land-ivory waited. She offered it to the maid first, before the food.

The woman's cool, webbed fingers wrapped gently around her own, and she smiled. "Soon," she said, her voice a sing-song touched with strange melodies. Taba thought of the greenwhales, their deepsongs heard in spring. "You will see many things in your new life. We will breathe in water together. But first, Taba, new friend of the Pearl people, we will share a meal." She unwrapped the bladder from the dried fruit and offered Taba a slice. "You may call me Yemanja."

Taba accepted it with her right hand, the salt and tartness rich. The lemfruit had never been sweeter. As she slowly chewed, Yemanja traced her fingers over Taba's scarred skin. The blue of the early dawn had given way to the sun's fire, and orange and gold dappled the water.

"You are marked. I have seen these burns before. Welcome, Fire-Kissed Taba." Yemanja looped the ivory around her own neck and offered Taba a piece of the fish roll. "I look forward to many more sunrises with you."

# About Michelle Browne

Michelle Browne is a sci fi/fantasy writer from Calgary, AB. She has a cat and a partner-in-crime. Her days revolve around freelance editing, jewelry, phuquerie, and nightmares. She is currently working on the next books in her series, other people's manuscripts, and drinking as much tea as humanly possible.

She is all over the internet, far too often for anyone's sanity, and can be found in various places.

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# Vergreva, by Mags Carr

It was before dawn, and the sun had not yet knocked the chill off the bones of the city, but the water clock in the forecourt was chiming, and that meant it was time for Grella to get up to make the tea. Most of the guests at the Pools of Delight Resort would not be up for hours, but Grella and the rest of the staff would need to make sure everything was ready when they did. That meant starting the grills and the oven fires, cooking the guests' morning meal and putting the yeast bread dough to rise for luncheon, sweeping and mopping the hallways and cleaning the public privies, and washing away the vomit and other detritus in the forecourt from guests who had reveled too hard the previous night.

Throwing her _tauzak_ -skin wrapper around her shoulders and snuggling her feet into her fur-lined leather slippers, Grella hauled her body out of the sling bed she shared with her husband and went to stoke the little household stove and put a pot of water on for tea. Outside the kitchen's high basement window, she could hear drunken singing: two lady guests still celebrating. It was against the rules for her to look out of her window – guests were not supposed to know the staff existed if they were not on duty – but she peeked past the curtain and caught a glimpse of two pairs of bare feet on the paving stones. Her eyes were drawn to the marks left on them from costly, uncomfortable shoes that had been worn for hours, and the dirtied hems of garments that had cost more to purchase than Grella earned in a year, hiked lewdly up to the women's knees as they danced. She nudged the curtain closed again; it would do her no good to get her blood up this early in the morning.

The tea leaves darkened the water slowly, and Grella warmed her fingers over the stove grate and let her mind wander. It wasn't yet time to prepare for Strka, the holiday week leading up to the winter solstice, but it wouldn't hurt to put the order in early for decorative foliage and garlands. Early was certainly better than late. The closed-off overflow rooms would need to be opened up and aired, in preparation for holiday crowds from the Capitol. Hot springs were a popular place to spend the winter holidays. The temperature never dropped as low in Vergreva as it did in the Capitol, and there was rarely any ice or snow, but wintertime guests still enjoyed drinking their hot falernum toddies beside roaring fires in the grates in their suites, so a large order of firewood would be a good idea. Grella was pretty sure she could get them from the same place as the Strka decorations. She would pay a visit to the greenskeepers today and put the orders in, and perhaps also see her friend who ran the business and have luncheon together.

Grella's husband, Sy, stirred in the bedroom; she could hear him putting his wrapper on, the pained grunt he always gave when he stretched his arm behind him to get it into the sleeve. That shoulder hadn't been the same since he'd dislocated it ten years past. "Is the tea ready, my dear?" he asked, his voice still husky from sleep.

"I was just about to add the butter," she said, and did so, stirring to let the large lump of white fat melt in. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"A nice plump pigeon and some tender young greens," Sy said around a yawn. "Perhaps a plate of noodles, as well. You can roll them out by hand. I'll wait."

"Porridge it is, then," Grella chuckled, putting a second pot on the tiny stove. She poured the last of the water into it, and scooped in broken rice and dried peas from the sack on the shelf. "Be so good as to draw us a little more water?"

"Work, work, work," he pretended to grumble. He gave her a kiss on the side of the neck, scratching her a bit with his snow-flecked beard and mustache, and then took the pitcher out to the pump in the forecourt to refill it. She smiled after him, and added a few shavings off a large lump of golden jaggery to the porridge pot, because she knew he liked it.

Since she was going to the greenskeepers for garlands and firewood, Grella decided she would wear street clothing today instead of her kitchen staff uniform: a privilege of seniority. Assuming today's weather would be like yesterday's, she would wear her green abayeh, which would provide enough coverage for a chilly morning and evening but would not be uncomfortably heavy for what would likely be a sticky afternoon. It was perfectly acceptable for the rich ladies there on holiday to go naked into the hot springs or to ruck their garments up to their knees in the forecourt, but Grella was raised to never let her uncovered body, arms, or legs be seen by anyone but her husband, and her modesty didn't give her the option to bare her skin to cool off. Still, Grella's mother had used to cover her hair and her neck as well, and Grella did not do that – she did not live in the high desert where those who did not shield their skin from the sun could be injured by it.

Sy returned with the clay pitcher of water, and Grella got her first good look at his face. He was breathing rather more deeply than normal, and his golden forehead was shiny with perspiration. Grella hurried to take the pitcher from him, shocked at his appearance. "Your arm is hurting you again," she said.

"I'm just old, my dear," he said, but he was hoarse. He pushed his long dreadlocks back behind his shoulders and sank gratefully into his chair at the board. "Old and decrepit."

Grella made a reproachful face at the words he used to describe himself, but she poured him some tea, making sure it had plenty of melted butter floating on top to strengthen him. He had work today too, cleaning suites, scrubbing floors, and making up beds with his crew of men, but he looked like he could cheerfully go back to bed and sleep until the following morning. Grella pursed her lips. In the sunny islands where Sy was born, it was the lot in life for men, whose arms and backs were strong, to do most of the household work – to chop and haul firewood and tend the hearths, both in the homes and the smokehouses, to butcher the huge fish that the women brought in at the docks and bring the meat home, lug huge bags of salt to preserve the fish, and lift and hang heavy fish fillets over tall frames to smoke and dry, to draw and carry seawater for the evaporation tanks and to draw and carry fresh water for cooking and drinking. He had never wanted that life, and had gladly left it behind. Even so, Grella thought it made him feel bad on some level to be less able to do such tasks due to a sore shoulder that never healed correctly. At the same time, she thought he was unfair to himself. After all, the men where he came from did not also have to scrub floors and make up beds all day.

"I must go to the greenskeepers today at luncheon for the things for Strka," she said, stirring the porridge. "Will you come along?"

"Not today," he said. "But tell Leola I would have liked to be there, even though it is not true."

"You do Leola a disservice."

"Leola has done me many a disservice. How oft did she tell you I was not good enough when we were courting?"

Grella sighed and rolled her eyes. "Almost every time we spoke of you. But never since we wed! It has been many years, if you recall."

"Not enough years to spend with you," he said. "Do give her kind regards from me. They need not be sincere."

"Very well." Grella ladled some porridge into Sy's bowl and set it on the board. She reached up to the overhead shelf and got down his jar of pickled fish, which he liked at breakfast, too. He smiled his thanks to her as she handed him a spoon, and dug in. She served her own bowl and added butter, and joined him at the board. "You won't work too hard today?" she said, stirring to let the porridge cool and the butter melt. "Let some of the others help you."

"I will do as little as possible," he assured her. "My shoulder and I suspect that a rain cloud is coming. The lads will understand."

"As oft as you've covered for them in the past, they had better. Or deal with me."

"Don't be so hard on them. The lads and me, we're a team. We take care of each other. Just like you and me."

Grella snickered. "Not _just_ like you and me, I wager."

Sy grinned, showing where one of his front teeth was broken off short. "Not exactly the same. I never tell my crew they are beautiful, nor do I pinch their bottoms."

"I would hope not!"

"But they do have to smell my pickled fish breath every morning, just like you."

Grella leaned forward and kissed him. "Your pickled fish breath isn't so bad," she said. It was pretty bad, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings.

When Grella went upstairs for the day's work, there was a fuss in the kitchen. Her assistant, Coy, erupted from the kitchen doors just as Grella was approaching to investigate the commotion, and stopped short, nearly dropping the tray he was holding. "You're late today. I was just coming to find you," he said, breathless. "Lady sent her breakfast back. Didn't want it."

Grella looked at the meal as they walked back through the doors into the kitchen: a whole spatchcocked pheasant, with a crackling-hot, crispy skin, speckled with herbs and spices, glistening with grease and rich fragrant juices that would drip down your arm and off your elbow as you raised a carved haunch to take a savory bite, resting on a bed of perfect buttery steamed rice with unbroken grains so long they almost looked like noodles, and an enormous salad of wilted dark greens and ripened black olives with a hot bacon dressing drizzled on top. And, of course, a pitcher of hot buttered falernum wine, redolent of kinamon and mace and lemfruit juice. A feast, for the likes of Grella and the staff. An ordinary breakfast for a guest at the Pools of Delight Resort.

"She sent the whole thing back?" Grella said, knowing it was true.

"Nothing wrong with it, but just didn't feel like breakfast today," Coy said. The rest of the kitchen staff were moving in closer, trying to look busy, but finding the conversation very interesting, indeed. "Lady looked a trifle yellow," Coy continued. "I think she's in the family way, maybe."

_Or hungover._ Grella sighed. "Well, you lot had better eat it then, before it gets cold." The staff were on it like a pack of hyenas before she had the entire sentence out. She considered reaching for a morsel, herself, but then she saw Coy throw an elbow at the line cook's ribcage, and reconsidered. After all, she had had porridge for breakfast that day; some members of the kitchen staff would have eaten nothing at all. Their pay was truly dismal. Grella had started out as kitchen staff, herself, back before she met Sy. She shared a room with another woman, and the two of them had pooled their pay for groceries and were still never able to afford much food: a few stalks of cane here, a jug of milk there, a few fistfuls of dried peas or maize meal or rice so broken it was almost flour. When a guest sent a meal back, it was a godsend.

As there would be no getting them to do any work for the next few minutes, Grella made a quick round in the kitchen to look things over. The yeast breads were rising under a damp towel, and the bake-oven fires were roaring. The stew for luncheon was bubbling away on the stovetop, and the dough was mixed up for the noodles it would be spooned over. A small forest of greens had been relieved of their stems, and were soaking in a vat of chilled water to perk them up; they would be served raw, with fresh herbs and a vinegar sauce. Grella checked the level of the cider vinegar in the ceramic jug, and found that it had been topped off. She smiled; Coy would have her out of a job presently. Perhaps he needed it; he had two wives and four children to support at only twenty-four, since his older brother had died of a fever.

However, as his pay was a fraction higher than the rest of the staff – and especially considering the elbow to the line cook's ribs – she felt little guilt interrupting him in his participation in the feeding frenzy. "Coy, come give me an update."

"Madam?" He said around a mouthful of pheasant. One of the scouring maids accidentally elbowed a clean-gnawed bone onto the flagged floor.

"Yes, now, Coy. And pick up that bone."

Coy left the pheasant reluctantly behind. He picked up the bone and chucked it into the nearest bin. "Grilled fish for breakfast tomorrow, Madam," he began, wiping the grease from his hands on his apron.

"As planned," she replied, "but I think we'll do spinach and potatoes in cream instead of dumplings and a salad. It will be less work for you all. Do we have enough mushrooms?"

"Took delivery an hour ago. There weren't as many this time, but I think they'll stretch."

"And the fish?"

"We won't get them 'til this aftermete," Coy said. "I'll have to stay and wait for them."

"Nonsense. You were up before dawn today. I will wait for the fish. You go home to your wives and get some rest."

Coy chuckled. "I've got a big family. I forget what rest feels like."

Grella spent the remainder of the morning making notes about where in the building holiday decorations would go, and how much foliage would be needed to accomplish the extravagant look the resort required. Garlands of evergreen brush and cones and strings of red bitterberries and orange and yellow azitron fruits were typical. Juniper branches would make a fine backdrop. Grella personally thought that ribbons woven of golden silk were too much, which meant they were probably perfect for the resort. The last time she had tried to be tasteful, she had been admonished for making the resort look severe – had almost lost her position, in fact. It was better, she was given to understand, to err on the side of lavish. And what did she care? All she had to do was put in the order. The greenskeeper and the fruit vendor and the silk merchant and everyone else would send her employer a bill, and he would pay it. In some ways, Grella surmised as she readied to go out for her luncheon errands, this made her similar to the rich people who frequented the resort; she was never fully aware of the cost of the ingredients of the meals or the components of any of the resort's amenities. She, herself, had never bought a chicken, a pheasant, or so much as a pigeon for her own household; nor sifted rice, greens or fiddleheads, or azitron fruits of any color. She suspected the same was true of the wives and mistresses who stayed at the resort, even though they ate them all the time. Luncheon at Leola's house, on the other hand, was likely to be flat bread with butter and cane syrup, a sliver or two of _tauzak_ jerky, a wedge of paneer cheese, and a cup of chilled whey with a trace of cider vinegar; basic, decent foods that Grella could relate to.

The weather had indeed warmed up, and the air was as humid as always, smelling faintly of sulfur. Sometimes the resort guests complained that the smell was like rotten eggs, but to Grella the smell from the hot springs that permeated the atmosphere in town was pleasant: a clean, mineral smell. The walk through the market street was a gauntlet, but Grella was experienced in navigating it. She raised the hem of her abayeh a fingertip-width to keep it off the paved street, and pulled the folds of it in close to her body to keep vendor children from tugging at it to get her attention, and criminals from picking her pocket. Her iron-gray hair was slicked back into a small, tight knot, so it could not be snagged. As she made a few small purchases on the way to Leola's she was nearly run down by a rackshaw only twice; not bad considering how many they were, and how reckless.

Sy had pulled a rackshaw for years in Vergreva, running off the soles of his sandals up and down the city streets, pulling rich people who were too drunk or lazy to walk. It was a rackshaw collision, in fact, that had caused his left shoulder to be dislocated, and his front tooth to be broken. He did not seem to be bitter about it, but Grella frequently was.

Leola greeted Grella with a glad cry and a warm embrace. Knowing Leola was the same age as herself, Grella was surprised at how old she looked. Grella thought Leola must be thinking the same, but nevertheless, Leola said, "You haven't aged a moment!"

"You're a terrible liar," Grella said, kissing her friend on the cheek. "I came to make the order early for the Strka decorations, and to maybe join you for lunch. I brought you a bottle of milk and a bit of sugar cane."

"Darling, you didn't have to do that," Leola said, striking a flint to light the grill. "I would feed you for free."

"We all have to take care of each other," Grella said, setting the groceries on the board. "The tourists aren't going to take care of us."

"That's the truth. Here, make up some dough for flat bread while I get this fire going." Leola pulled a chair out for Grella to sit. "The flour is just there, and the salt, and the whey, and the grease."

"I can't do it the way you do it. I have to mix it up in a bowl."

"Oh, bother!" Leola said, laughing. "I always forget. You start the fire, then." Leola could mix up the dough on a flat surface with no trouble at all; it was the way they did things where she was from. She worked the flour, salt, and grease together, and scooped and mixed in whey a little at a time to turn it gradually from a mound of powder to a round lump of dough. It took her no more time than it took Grella to light the stove and heat the griddle. As they talked, they worked as a team; Grella rolled out the rounds of dough with a marble roller, and Leola browned it on the hot griddle, turning it expertly with only her hands, as Grella could not have done without blistering her fingertips.

"How is Sy these days?" Leola asked, carefully noncommittal.

"He is old and decrepit, or so he says. His shoulder pains him. But he goes to work every day, and does his job."

"He is kind to you?" Leola asked, setting another round of flatbread on top of the growing stack; she was making enough for supper, as well.

"Unfailingly. You know I wouldn't keep a man who was unkind. Sy loves me."

"A man can love you and be unkind," Leola murmured.

Grella sighed. Leola had been married in her own country, and had left a man behind who used to hit her. "Darling, my Sy will never be unkind to me as long as I live. It isn't his way. He's been my man these nearly forty years; doesn't it seem as if it would have come out by now?"

"I suppose," Leola said, tossing Grella a grin. "It does make me wonder if I should have given up so easily."

"Gods know you had reasons of your own."

"Indeed I did." Leola washed her hands and took down some paneer cheese from the shelf next to her. She broke the cheese into wedges with her hands, and gave Grella some hot flatbread. "I have smoked fish, if you want."

"I will, thanks." Grella rarely ate fish at all, a fact that frequently appalled Sy, whose childhood diet had been based on fish. However, Leola's smoked fish were the best Grella had ever tasted. Leola caught the tiny fish in a trap she kept in a hidden place in the reeds at the river, baited with maize meal. She gutted them, salted and sugared them, hung them by the tails threaded on a string over her own household grill, and smoked them using a combination of woods and leaves gleaned from her greenskeeping that she would reveal to no one.

"You should tell someone what you use to smoke those fish," Grella said, as she had done many times before. "You're not likely to pass the secret on to your own children, seeing as we're the same age and my own body stopped keeping track of the moons a decade ago or more."

Leola brought out a small basket of fish and set it on the board, laying aside the gauzecloth that had been covering it. "So what good would it be telling my secret to you? You haven't any children, either."

Grella put her tongue out briefly at Leola and then bit into a fish, crunching the tiny bones between her teeth. She and Leola chatted and ate their luncheon with their fingers, in the tradition of Leola's land. Grella looked into Leola's ugly, earnest face with its square jaw and narrow nose, and took in her enormous pale-blue eyes that made her look as ignorant as an infant. That face was deceptive; Leola was sharp as a knife. She ran the greenskeeper's business virtually all on her own. Like the resort, the business was owned by a rich man who dwelt north of the city and hardly ever came around. She had a crew of men and women who cared for the gardens and trees of most of the nearby businesses that served the tourism industry: inns, restaurants, camping grounds, and even several of the springs, themselves. It had been her idea to turn the waste products from this business to profit, selling cut firewood and decorative foliage in the off-season. The business owner was so grateful that Leola was assured a job until the day she died.

"This is the list of things I'll need to decorate the resort," Grella said finally, offering Leola the list.

Leola checked the list. "Juniper might be a problem; there aren't as many bushes as there once were."

"So charge a little extra. I'm sure the resort will pay it."

Leola nodded and made a note on the list with a charcoal stylus. "Will you take some of this flatbread and smoked fish home with you?"

"I will, and thank you. It will make a nice addition to supper tonight. Sy will be pleased. Soon, you will have to visit me for luncheon; I'll make that porridge you like."

"That sounds pleasant. I hope I won't annoy Sy too much."

Grella laughed. "It will be fine. If Sy is annoyed, he doesn't have to stay for luncheon." Grella kissed Leola's cheek. "We will see each other soon, darling."

"Pleasant journey home," Leola said, an ironic cant to her voice.

Grella groaned.

The walk back to work was worse than the walk out to Leola's; the crowd had gotten a bit denser and the grocery barkers a bit more aggressive as the end of the work day approached. Grella understood, to some extent. Groceries didn't stay fresh forever. But when they snagged her sleeve or shouted at her, "Oy, Madam, Madam! Look here!" it seemed extreme to her. She was an old woman, and she did not consider it permissible to be disrespectful to the elderly, nor to women.

Of course, Grella had been raised here in Vergreva, where disrespect toward women was not generally considered permissible. Her parents had left behind the high desert, where contempt toward women was the natural order of things. Where women were not permitted to speak to men unless and until spoken to; where men had several wives, sometimes girls so young their bodies didn't mark the phases of the moon yet; where newborn daughters were occasionally buried alive in the sand by their mothers, rather than be forced to go through life as women. Grella preferred this life to the one she would have led there, and she would be grateful to her parents her whole life for leaving there very soon after her birth, even though she knew it had nothing to do with her, and almost everything to do with the tribal rift.

Swatting the grasping hand of a particularly persistent vendor, Grella quickened her step and approached the resort. She admired the water clock in the forecourt for a moment; it was a work of art in marble and granite, carved before the resort came to be. It depicted the people of the known world, wearing their different styles of garb, with different faces and bodies; even a graceful, winged Man An'Gal of the Floating Isles, several angular, wispy fae folk, and a merman, garlanded with pearl and seashell necklaces, coiled on a rock. All were assembled in a circle around a pool made to look like the region's largest and most popular hot spring, the weapons typical of their home regions laid down on the ground in front of them. It was a symbol of the city's history as a neutral gathering place for people from all over the world, where they came together to enjoy the volcanic springs and coexist in peace. The pool was growing full, meaning the noontide was almost at its end; soon the valve would trigger, draining the water away to the river, and the chime would ring the aftermete. She was due back in the kitchen, where preparation of the eventide meal would be underway, and Coy's fish order would be delivered. There would doubtless be a few fires to put out, but she admired the clock a little longer, anyway.

The idea of Vergreva gave people hope, she knew. The notion that one did not have to accept the accidents of birth; that one could flee, could come to a new place, taking with them those parts of their own culture they appreciated and valued, and leaving behind those that were cruel or outdated, and find work and a home – however poor the home, however hard the work. Certainly Vergreva had its own problems, but Grella had love for it all the same, because of this.

Grella gathered the hem of her abayeh and went toward the back of the building where the kitchen was located. It was time to return to work.

# About Mags Carr

Mags Carr has enjoyed writing speculative fiction and poetry since 1993. She lives in Florida with her husband and their three pet gerbils.

# The Girl In The Dim, by Carole McDonnell

Oh, she was a dainty thing, and Joongi's heart joined to hers the instant he saw her.

He had walked to a boulder directly beside the lake. He climbed it and sat high, watching tired humans like himself eating their bread or roasted sweet potatoes and occasionally turning to glance at the merfolk and water faes who knew little —and cared even less— of human cares.

The water folk — fae and mer, old and young, male and female— routinely swam in the brackish water which connected the northern river with the Khilei Ocean. Like all the other villagers, Joongi had regularly ignored them. But then one day he saw her...a tiny, solitary mixed-caste fae girl lying on her back lightly sculling and peering up through the water that flowed over her face.

The little fae seemed even more carefree than her fellows as she widened her gills, breathed a long underwater breath, then outbreathed a stream of bubbles that rose around her blue-scaled shoulders.

Joongi watched as she turned this way and that, her gaze on the blue sky. Once, she glanced toward the top of the boulder, smiled at him, then returned to her sculling. It saddened the human boy that she had looked away so quickly. And, when darkness fell, as she swam toward the upper river, he ran along the muddy banks watching her. Then, transfixed, he stood in awe as she disappeared into the sluice gate.

That night, under the pale moon, he wandered the lakeshore slowly coming to the conclusion that he had fallen in love with a lake fae.

The next day, he looked for her again but could not find her. And for many days after, he saw neither scale nor fin of her. But then some fourteen days later, she reappeared, the daintiest, prettiest girl in the whole universe. Joongi watched, silent, emboldening himself to speak, and as the lunch-hour ended, when the other village men returned to their work, Joongi did not retreat to his father's carpenter's shop. He stood near that water's edge and his heart leaped into his throat, as once again he thought that she was the most beautiful, the purest, the most radiant being he had ever seen. If only she were human, he murmured as he followed her along the shore. And yet. . .were she human, would I love her as much as I do? Perhaps I love her for the very difference's sake.

He began to sorrow greatly that such a love had overtaken him. Because there was no way to hold such a girl in human hands. And because —even if he managed to hold her— his family disdained such loves. Whether fae, northerner, sojourner, descendants of former slaves, water-folk, or human folk — his parents always vowed that one should mate with and love one's own kind. He returned home almost beside himself with grief. And day by day his sorrow grew.

Now his brother was kind enough, open-hearted, and astute. He could not help but sense Joongi's discomfort. So one day, he called to their little maidservant, a girl named Onada, a descendant of the slaves formerly brought to that region in ages past, a girl who lived in the dim of their attic.

"Prepare victuals for my brother and me," he said, "and let us picnic with him by the lake. Prepare food to enlighten his heart, for lately he seems to have lost himself."

Now Onada loved Joongi. More than heart or mouth could say. On her dark days, Joongi had been her only light. His kindness toward her had eased the sorrow of her loneliness. And so deep was the love she had for Joongi that her heart rejoiced to do even the littlest thing for him. So she set out to prepare such delicacies that her skill could make. She spent the first part of the morning picking the best berries from the briar patch. At mid-morning she picked and sliced peaches and apples from the orchard. After that, she milked Tevvy the family goat, urging it to give the creamiest of milk.

At lunchtime, her arms tired from making butter, her fingers pricked from berry-picking in the briar patch, she brought all her labor of love — pies, bread, and the smoothest of butters— to the carpenter's shop. Then, together with Joongi and his brother, she journeyed to the lake skipping and dancing along the woods as she went.

They laid the bounty on a blanket and ate. All the while, Joongi praised the little cook for all she had done. Nevertheless a frown never left his face and his gaze repeatedly lingered on the fae swimming in the lake.

When they had finished eating, the brother said to Joongi, "Why so dark lately? You've not been yourself. What ails you?"

"Is it so obvious?" the smitten boy answered. "Alas, I have an impossible love and am enthralled to one who cannot love me."

Joongi's brother smiled because Joongi had at last found the joys of love. But Onada's heart almost burned itself with fiery joy. Who else could it be but me? it told itself. Of course, it is me he loves.

"Ah! Who is the one you love?" the brother asked. "Is it that girl who has now come to sojourn in our village?"

"Not her," Joongi answered. "Although she's pretty enough. But I don't want her."

For a moment, Joongi's brother did not speak. Then he turned to the little maid beside them. "Return home now, for Mother might require help from you."

So the girl stood up and took the blankets, bowls, and utensils. Bidding them farewell, she walked away. But she did not immediately return home. Instead, she returned by a longer way and hid herself behind several thorn-bushes.

She heard the brother ask, "Is it this morose one who lives in the dim of our parents' attic? True, she is a descendant of slaves. But perhaps if you do not aim to marry her, Mother will allow you to have some fun with her."

"No, it's not this girl from the dim either."

"Too bad. That one likes you. Have you not seen it? Then who is it?"

Joongi pointed to the water girl playing in the waves. "It is she! This dainty girl who plays here and lives in the upper lake."

Now Onada was quite often a good and delightsome person, but as Joongi spoke of his love for the water girl, a bitter jealousy took root in her heart. Hitherto, she said to herself, I have loved Joongi with all my heart. And although he has not been unkind to me, he has not returned my love. But he loves this...this water girl! She returned to the cottage, grieving and with a bitter heart.

Meanwhile, Joongi's brother reminded him, "Water faes are not like sky fae who are creatures of feathers and air. Nor are they like woodland sprites whose features are made of wood, grass, and moss. The water folk — whether mortal merfolk or spirit fae— have deadly scales. Even sharper fins. And this one you love. . .she is not like the merfolk who are mortal like us landfolk. She seems a mix of the two clans: both merfolk and fae. What if she has magical powers we mortals do not understand? Wouldn't being with such a girl cause you and your body great harm? Why bring such a girl into your heart or hearth? Truth to tell, I do not know how one could manage such a thing. Even if our parents accept a water girl, surely they would want you to love someone less potentially deadly?"

"Knowing all that should have put some sense into me but it has not," Joongi admitted. "Alas I am horribly enthralled. With a girl I should never have begun loving."

Now, his brother was not as rigid as his parents or like some others in the town. He had lived in other villages, and two of the large coastal cities, and he had spent much of his time traveling across many regions. He'd read books on the different cultures of the islands and had heard the histories of all the inhabitants of their land. He had also studied much about love. So he understood his brother's plight. And while he was not lovesick, he understood the girl's appeal.

"And yet, impossible though the love might be," he agreed, "it has captured you wholly. And I am not one who likes to judge others' loves. Who knows? Water faes are easy-going enough. . .full of joy and free from care. This water lass might be merciful to this love of yours. Give it a try. Call out to her and woo her. Even if she does not love you, she would not mock you. And, perhaps you will become true friends, talking to each other of life and of this and that."

So they returned home and determined that the next day, some overture of love could be made toward the girl. Meanwhile, Onada resolved to follow Joongi to the lake and to acquaint herself with her rival.

The next day, when Joongi saw the water lass, he took a deep breath that seemed to swell his heart to twice its size and called out to her. "Yes! You there under the waves...I've loved you all these days. Would you give your heart to me?"

Several water fae boys and mermen leaping and swimming about nearby heard him. Some called out to her. "Beware these human boys who only aim to steal you. You know you are not well. Such a one could easily overpower you." But others merely gave her warning looks.

The water girl, however, was a curious daydreamy sort — more daydreamy than the average water fae— and somewhat naive. Moreover, in all her daydreaming, she had never dreamed of being loved by a human. She told herself, she could not be so impolite as to leave a human boy without an answer. She swam toward Joongi who stood knee deep in the mud.

"Is there a chance for me?" he asked her, peering down and admiring her green-tinged face and the shiny scales that shimmered brighter than any human strand of hair. "You're a water fae, are you not? And what is your name? And how old are you? And could you love a mortal boy?"

The girl studied the tan-colored human boy in front of her. From what she could see, he was a handsome, kind-hearted boy, although his slanted human eyes had a sad lovelorn look. She did not fear him as she feared other human men who had called out to her in order to steal her scales or beg her to find gold in long-forgotten shipwrecks.

"My name is Yerin and I am no fae," she answered. "My father is of the fae-people but my mother is of the merfolk. Thus, I belong to both clans."

Hearing this, the girl in the dim felt a knee-jerk disgust that the girl should be born of two different clans. And yet, as she considered it, it occurred to her that it was silly indeed to dislike the mixed-caste fae. If I marry Joongi, the girl in the dim said, would not our children be of mixed human caste? No, I shall not dislike her for that.

She listened to —and made a feeble attempt to like— her rival. But the water girl was so dainty, so beautiful, so delicate, and so full of joy...while she herself was plain, and so born and bred for woe that she could not bring herself to like the girl. Why should she continue in happiness? Onada told herself. While I have known so little of happiness all my life?

"I have lived some fifteen years. And I am not immortal," the water girl continued, giggling and chattering away. Her laughter was like the rippling of tiny waves over many round water pebbles. "Indeed, I am perhaps too mortal." She lifted her lower body: a glistening tail, covered in radiant red, blue, and gold scales. "As you can see, I am quite sickly. Have you not seen how over-protective they are of me?"

She said all this not in a sad tone but with the typical lightness and cheeriness of the carefree fae.

Joongi further edged into the water and examined the girl's scales and fins carefully. "I see nothing sickly about you," he said.

But taking care that her sharp side and arm fins did not hurt the boy who stood so near to her, Yerin pointed to her fishy half. "See, there! See how the waters are full of my shedding scales. It is a loathsome disease I contracted when in the Wider Sea. A dangerous place for all merfolk. But even more so for me. For not only do the humans there throw pollutants into the Wider Sea but the friendship from time past that was among our peoples has been fractured for some time."

"Yes, I have heard," Joongi said, "that in the southern lands, those of the different castes avoid each other."

"It is best," she said, as sadly as a chatty fae could. "And yet when I was young I often ventured into the Wider Sea and explored the mountains under it as other healthier merfolk do."

Joongi could hardly contain his admiration. "Oh!" he said. "You were so very brave!"

"Oh, I was!" she said and shook her tail flirtatiously. "I thought I could travel there as all the pure-blooded water fae and pure-blooded merfolk do. But, alas, I could not. My fae-blood did not protect me. Do you see the patches there, where my scales have fallen off? My mother wept to see it. And my father was very angry." She giggled again, and waters rippled around her gills as she whispered, conspiratorially, "He didn't punish me, though."

"Because he is a good and kind father?" Joongi asked, smiling down at her.

"Well, he is that!" the girl answered, laughing. "But he saw no cause for it because the sea had already punished me. The disease will always be with me. So, Father wept, and warned me angrily and sorrowfully not to venture into the Wider Sea."

When Onada heard how Yerin spoke, like one who had been coddled and petted all her life, as if love and patience were her due, she could barely contain her jealousy. The water girl was harmless and without wounded pride and her soul seemed to delight in everything her eyes looked on. But Onada, orphaned and abandoned, had lived bereft of joy and love. She hated the little fish-maid's unchallenged joy. It did not help that the mermaid was of mixed caste and had a loathsome and unsightly skin disease. Onada well knew that Joongi would love the girl's imperfections as if they were precious perfections.

Meanwhile the love between Yerin and Joongi grew. As for Joongi's companions and the other villagers —they did not disclose his forbidden love to his parents. They understood the harsh beliefs of his parents. They also told themselves that it was a love between young folk; surely the boy would grow out of it. In the future, would he not have a story to tell his descendants about the mixed clan water girl he had loved in his youth?

As for the merfolk and the water fae, at first they were wary of the human boy and would not allow the lovers to meet alone. But at last, they allowed the flirtation because it was clear enough that Joongi had a good heart. They only desired that he not keep their little sister out too late and that he be on guard against those who might hurt her. This Joongi promised to do.

So the young lovers would chatter and play every day while the boy lunched. They would talk and laugh and joke about this and that, calling each other Yoongi-ya (the water girl's pronunciation was somewhat limited) and Yerin-ah. At night, they would linger by the sluice gate, hating to part. (And when they parted, how sad those partings were!) And sometimes, when the moon was especially bright, they would leave her companions behind and travel southward —he on land and she in the water— toward the water gate near the Wider Sea. There, they would look out at the vast sea and imagine great adventures together.

All this Onada endured, and her heart could not let go of its love for Joongi.

Early one morning, as Onada stood in the dim of the woodlands near the lake watching Joongi and Yerin playing together by the shore, she resolved to rid herself of her rival.

She began, without quite knowing why, to collect the scales that fell from Yerin's body. Such was the extent of Yerin's illness that her scales fell in great profusion, causing the water around her to glint gold, yellow, red, and blue. Often, the scales would trail along behind her, resting lightly on the waves until a larger wave dispersed or pulled them under the lake.

So it became Onada's habit to wade into the water after dark and gather the glistening scales in her apron. Then she would return home and grind the scales to powder. This she did because she imagined the scales were Yerin herself. But also because in those days it was believed that the scales of the merfolk could strengthen even the weakest man. Thus they were highly prized.

After grinding the scales, she would keep an eighth of their powder but sell the rest to the apothecary's shop. In this way, she began to gain some wealth. All this horde she kept in a little tin box under her bed.

After some while, the thought began to blossom in Onada's heart that Yerin herself would be a valuable prize. For in those days there were scoundrels, certain immoral men of the baser sort, who traveled the seven seas in search of wealth of any kind. Often they frequented the dens and lairs of that region.

So Onada sought them out and finding them she asked, "Tell me. What would you do if you caught a mer-girl? How would you use and keep her?"

"Well, that," one of them replied, slowly drawing out his words. "I suppose we would cut out her throat first." He was a gruff one, and had cut many a human throat in the area's gambling dens. "For if she cannot speak, she cannot call other merfolk to help her. Then we would prepare a water-cage for her where she would live until we had need or use of her. For such folk know the language of the whales and dolphins and all the languages of the deep and she would hear their stories and detail their journeys to us."

"How would she tell you?" the girl in the dim asked, "If you have cut her throat?"

"There are such things as fingers," another answered. "Webbed though they may be, they can point and draw and write."

At first, Onada balked at trapping and enslaving one of her fellow creatures. The Creator has made us all, she reminded herself. And though she be of the mer and fae folk, she is capable of feeling pain. Should I forget that my very own ancestors were also sold and enslaved? she thought.

But the more she saw of Joongi's happiness, she more she hated Yerin. By the time these fishermen returned to the village again, she had forgotten all her misgivings. Because she understood all the habits of the lovers, she met with the fishermen and plotted how she could entrap and steal Yerin from the safety of the lake.

On a night when the moon was full, Joongi and Yerin journeyed together southward to the gate near the Wider Sea as was their habit. Long, long, they dreamed and imagined. Then, through the trees in the quiet solitude of night, the enslavers approached. How stealthily they crept! On that wooded shore, there was no clatter of sandal or booted feet, no human voice except for the sound of Joongi telling his love about her loveliness. Then suddenly, the muddy tramp of human feet and the rustling of leaves as the kidnappers rushed toward the wading lovers.

In an instant, the enslavers were everywhere — before and behind Joongi, to his left and to his right, below the waves and above them. Move he could not. Wherever he made to swim or tread, he could not. For his captors held him tight, their rough hands grasping his arms, their knives at his throat. Cry out he could not. One of the men struck him deep with a rough-hewn blade, piercing his side. Then they loosened their hold. Joongi fell at the water's edge, his blood flowing into the muddy ground.

Meanwhile, other attackers swam toward the girl, a large metal net trailing between them. At first, Yerin was like a leaf trapped in eddying waves, she turned this way and that, leaped upward, sank down. But to no avail. One of the men, whose skin was scarred with the marks of many battles, swam toward her. With a large harpoon, he aimed at her gills, lunged, and pierced her. Not deeply, but deep enough. Blood trickled, not much. And yet, the wound had been so expertly made that Yerin could not breathe or cry out and the net closed over her. A sudden sleep descended on her. Fins, sharp though they were, availed not. She gasped for air and for wakefulness, then collapsed into the iron-strong net that had magic in its weave.

The little mermaid was lifted aloft; her scales falling from her body and lightly tumbling through the air and the river water. When she awoke, she found herself in a wooden tub inside a ship sailing on the Wider Sea. She attempted to lift herself above the sides of her little prison but her body was numb and heavy.

The man who had wounded her stood above her. "It needs to be done," he said. And his voice was so gentle and so musical that if she had not felt the cruelty of his harpoon earlier, she might have trusted him. Then, with the same precision he had used before, he pressed his knife into her throat and dug deep. She felt no pain, only a pushing and a pressure. Then the pressure stopped and there on the edge of the man's knife was a little shiny thing and she knew it was her stolen voice.

Tears fell as she looked about the cabin that would be her new home. Soon, footsteps approached outside her cabin. The door opened and other men entered. Some looked at her with awe, some with pity, some as if she was some strange unnatural thing. And the warrior who had cut her voice away kept his gaze on his handiwork, stopping frequently to put some foul-smelling medicine on her wound.

"You're ours now," he told her. "And I am your owner. Do you understand me?"

She nodded. She did understand, for the language he spoke was one her fae father had taught her.

"Can you smell gold hidden under the sea?" he asked. "Or the decay of human bones in ships five fathoms deep?"

She nodded. But she wanted to tell him that she was young yet, and that he had found himself a useless mermaid who would soon die in the waters of the Wider Sea, that she was not particularly wise, that she had always been a weak and a sickly girl and would die within months of her captivity.

And die she did, and her body was cut up into twelve pieces and cast into the sea and the fish of the sea ate her. The ship's crew became wealthy from her help nevertheless. Perhaps not as rich as they had desired but rich enough to buy land, build farms, and become men of good charitable renown throughout the region.

As for Joongi, when he did not return home, a search was made and at last Onada declared that he was wont to travel along the southernmost shore of the village. When he was found face-down in the mud, clinging to life, Onada grieved greatly.

"It is well," Joongi's brother said, putting his arm about her shoulder. "He is alive. I know how much you love and care for him. He will live."

But she grieved because she knew he lay at the point of death because of her and because the foreign fishermen had promised not to hurt him and they had betrayed her.

He must not die, she told herself. How can I live if the one I love dies? Only the water damsel must die.

For several days, Joongi lay a-dying. But one day, Onada's gaze fell upon the balm she had made from the powder of mermaid scales. This she took and brought to his mother and Joongi was restored. But, though returned to health, he wept continually, crying for the water girl he loved. Only then did his parents discover their son had loved one he should not have.

The water fae and merfolk, likewise, searched for their lost one. Because it was known among them that a human boy had loved her, the elders of both those clans sent Hark, a water fae prince, to the human council of elders to ask permission to question Joongi.

On the day the fae were to meet Joongi, all the villagers came to the Meeting House. For while land fae and sky fae were plentiful enough, it was not at all usual to see the water fae on land, their webbed feet walking into the village like so many sandaled human feet. Moreover, it was even more unusual for common folk to see princes of any sort.

When Joongi appeared before the fae prince, how he wrung his hands and wept! But what helpful answer could the boy give? The night had been dark and he had been wounded. He only knew this: that those who spoke with him spoke with dialects from the southern lands and they had cast his love into a net woven of iron and magic.

"It has been three thousand years," Hark told the elders, "since a truce was signed among our people. And here, unlike the lands in the regions of the north, peace has reigned between all our peoples. Unlike in the southern lands, here there is daily converse and communion between fae folk and merfolk, between human and merfolk, between human and fae. We all remember the years when we all hid from each other, and the years when we ignored and avoided and despised each other. Why, then, have you conspired together with evil-doers of the southern lands to steal one of our people? My friend's daughter was stolen from a local lake! Are you out of your minds? Do you want war?"

"But we have not conspired to break the truce," the Chief Elder shouted and how his voice shook and how his slender, frail dark-brown old body rattled. "If some southerner or foreigner has stolen her, why should we be blamed? Listen to us. Only listen. We will help you find the perpetrators."

Prince Hark retorted, "Is it not clear that one of your own conspired with the kidnappers? We will give you three weeks to find our lost sister. Or the truce will be broken. And although we believe the boy Joongi is innocent of guile and did not deceive her, surely he is at some fault in this, for he could have met her nearer the upper river or in a region inhabited by our people. Therefore if our lost sister is not found, we will require his life as forfeit and as a means of keeping the truce intact. Were these not the conditions your ancestors agreed upon when I wrote the treaty three thousand years ago?"

The elders had to agree that that was indeed so. "But why should the boy be killed?" the Chief Elder asked.

"Then let him be sent away," Hark answered. For by nature the fae are generally not blood-thirsty and neither did that good prince have a desire to see the boy killed. "For if he remains here, one of the merpeople will no doubt remember him. Do you not think they will murder him for their sister's sake?"

"We humans are not like you fae," the Chief Elder replied. "To be parted from each other. . .and at such great distance— you fae cannot understand such separation!"

Those words caused anger to rise in the fae prince's heart. "As usual, you consider us heartless! Beware or I shall show you what heartlessness is. Accept my mercy and send the boy away!" The fae prince turned to leave. "Into the far northern mountains he should go. And do not speak to me of separations or of what we fae do and do not understand. For we have lost one of our people today." Then he threw the Chief Elder's own words back at him. "What do you short-lived mortal humans know of separations?"

Now when all the people heard this, they began to weep and wail that Joongi would be separated from them and would have to travel to the mountains alone. They remembered again why they often considered the fae coldblooded. And yet, what could they do? To challenge the decision of a fae prince was folly. The truce might be endangered. It was easy enough to war with merfolk, but faes were a completely different matter.

They remembered the war. Magical wars. For the faes are not to be lightly treated, and the sea-folk and the faes of many lands had destroyed the human armies and people of the northern region. When the elders taught about that war, they would say, "This war changed the geography and the features of our region." And they spoke the truth, because that western land remained desolate and bereft of people until neighboring countries began to inhabit it.

So word was sent to all the fae castes and to the sea peoples beyond the region to look for Yerin. But she was never found, although years later a man with a body scarred from the sea said on his deathbed that he had killed a little fae in the northern region. A charming, and silly little thing, he had called her. And with his dying breath, he asked the Creator to forgive him for wounding one who was the daintiest and most radiant of all creatures.

So the villagers agreed to send Joongi away. And yet their hearts went out to him, for he would now be a wanderer and far from his home village.

Since the village girls would not leave their home village— not that he wanted any of them, for he still loved Yerin— the girl in the dim sought to comfort him, and vowed to accompany him. Relieved that one from his home village would be with him, his parents allowed him to marry her although she was not of his clan, people, or caste. Together, Joongi and Onada left their village and moved across the land-bridge to the north.

They traveled far. Far into regions where no water fae dwelled, and only the faes of the land and sky knew their paths. They traveled farther, to lands where even faes are loathe to dwell. And farther yet until at last no eye of man or mer or fae would recognize them. And even so, they traveled farther still, farther than they needed to go. Because the girl in the dim was fearful of being found out and continually urged Joongi onward by filling his heart with fear of pursuing faes.

At last they reached a refuge village set in an icy glade, a wintry woodland where outcasts, refugees, and hermits could live without punishment. It is a good place, Onada told herself. True, other cities of refuge abound, but it is safe here. Far from all fae and far from the water. Nearer our home village, the fae would harm us and Joongi might meet fishermen who know I was his betrayer.

She need not have worried. Those who knew the truth died rich with the story closed inside their mouths, and the fae are not generally relentless.

The inhabitants in their new dwelling place had sins and sorrows of their own and understood their common plight, welcoming them as all outcasts welcome each other. Soon the villagers grew to love them, for Joongi and his wife were humble and hard-working. It is said that Joongi and Onada lived happily together, and that he loved her because she had left the village to journey faithfully with him.

Onada lived a long life, longer than Joongi who died young. (It is said by one of the elders that a prince of the sky fae killed him. But some doubt this.) When their children were grown and old enough to tire of the solitariness of the village, Onada showed them the traitor's gold she had sewn into her blanket and carried on her long journey.

She told them how she had stolen Joongi's first and best love and sold the girl to slavers, and how painfully the heart grieves when all its truths are covered up and hidden in the dim. "After we built our little house," she said, "I hid the gold and the blanket inside a wall. For where could I spend it? And how could I use it and Joongi not suspect me? Here, take it! It is yours. There are three things that defend us in this life. Love is a defense, wisdom is a defense, and money is a defense. Your father and I have loved you. Love I did not have. You have lived long in this refugee village and you have heard some of the villager's speak of their lives in the southernlands. And now I have told you about my own life. When I was younger no one lovingly took me on her knee and told me of her life. No, I had no such wisdom. And here, here is gold. Money I did not have. Now, my children, you have had all three. Venture into the world...with your three defenses."

So they took the gold and left the village. Although it grieved them to forsake their mother. Although it grieved them to learn she had conspired to be a murderer. But they knew now how hard and cold the world could be without money and without love and without wisdom. And they took her story with them.

# About Carole McDonnell

Carole McDonnell holds a BA in Literature from SUNY Purchase and is a writer of Christian, supernatural, and ethnic stories. Her writings appear in various anthologies, including So Long Been Dreaming: Postcolonialism in Science Fiction, edited by Nalo Hopkinson and published by Arsenal Pulp Press; Jigsaw Nation, published by Spyre Books; and Life Spices from Seasoned Sistahs: Writings by Mature Women of Color and the Griots series by MVMedia, among others. Her reviews appear in print and at various online sites. She is a columnist for several Christian and African-American magazines. Her novels are the Christian speculative fiction, Wind Follower, the alternative world novel, The Constant Tower, and the Christian chicklit novel, My Life as an Onion. Her Bible studies include: Seeds of Bible Study, Blogging the Psalms, and Great Sufferers of the Bible. She lives in New York's Hudson Valley with her husband, two sons, and their pets.

Carole's Blog: carolemcdonnell.blogspot.com/

Carole's Amazon Author Page:  amazon.com/Carole-McDonnell/e/B0034Q3BWG

# Children of Scale, by Rachel Savage

There was something behind the crisp early harvest chill that made it impossible to concentrate. For a scholar such as Kohau, it was more than just a minor irritation. When the solace he normally found in books was gone, he could usually turn to a moment of silent meditation in the gardens to seek his focus again. Today even that had failed him. No amount of pleading to the great serpent Kurdal or his warrior mate Aliashe brought comfort.

It had been seven years now since he had found his way to the temple. Though the grand library had drawn him more than the great serpent, he had been welcomed with open arms amongst the other children of scale. While Leistros was not as large as her neighbors, she could still boast a decent community of farmers and orchards that stretched from the foothills below the temple proper north to just past Gallane. The southern outpost was stationed in the Sogoth Pass and helped guard the trade route through the mountains for those descending to the plains below or climbing further to the Roof of the World.

His breath left him in an explosive sigh. It had been a long time since he had felt so anxious. Things had settled into a rather comfortable routine once he took his place with the other scholars. The people of Leistros had given him the first place that had truly felt like home. So he had no idea why this morning he felt like he needed to leave.

"I see I'm not the only one unsettled this morning."

Kohau jumped as he spun towards the soft voice. "High Lady I – "

"Sorry, scholar, I didn't mean to startle you." The faint glint of amusement in her green eyes didn't reassure him much. "There is more than just a change of seasons before us."

"Perhaps. Though I'm not sure what exactly."

She nodded, taking a step to bring her beside him. "I must admit that the reports coming in from the north leave me troubled. Have you discovered anything new?"

"Not yet my lady. At least, nothing that is of any use."

Silence fell between them as the sky began to lighten. He studied the head of the temple from the corner of his eye. How so petite a woman could have such a commanding presence was a mystery he might never solve. It was perhaps why she had been elected to the position of High Lady at such a young age. There was also a bit of intrigue surrounding the hasty election that had seen High Lady Asheeni to her current seat of power. A situation that the temple elders were rather tight lipped about whenever anyone asked.

Kohau put the mystery of twenty years ago behind him. It wasn't as if the High Lady was suddenly going to confide in him about what happened that day. As far as anyone in Leistros was concerned it was a bit of dust brushed under a rug. Their current troubles were a more pressing matter anyway.

"I do wish to thank you for your recent assistance, Scholar Tanlar. It's not always easy to leave behind what you wish to do to please someone else."

"Are we not here to serve as we can my lady?"

"Yes, but that doesn't make it any easier when we are called upon. There are some mornings where I wake and wish I was but a simple temple maid again." Her pale hand came to rest atop his arm. "So I understand if you feel frustrated at having to set aside your own research right now."

He brought his other hand up to cover hers, noting how the pale fawn and dark umber seemed to complement each other right then. "The trade routes of Ancient Kalta will still be there when this is over High Lady."

"Oh Kohau, were I a young girl again."

"The great High Lady cannot be past her first few seasons. Smooth of face and dark of hair she is still."

She let out a rather unladylike snort of laughter. "You have a remarkably honeyed tongue for a scholar. Do not waste your efforts on me, young man."

They were dressed in the colors of the southern temple, though their fur lined cloaks hung open as they fluttered behind them. Kohau supposed they were used to colder temperatures in the mountain pass. The shorter, and somewhat rounder, of the two wore a gold trimmed tunic he had seen a few times on visiting council members. He took a guess that the other rider was a guard of some sort, though it was a given considering the blade he could see resting at the rider's side. A quiet grumble from the lady beside him pulled him away from his admiration of the guard's figure as they dismounted.

"What is she doing here?"

"High Lady?"

She sighed, her gaze still on the two newcomers. "There's only one council member that rotund from the southern outpost. Elder Tara seldom leaves her lofty perch between council meetings. And I rather doubt she has come bearing what I would consider good news."

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led the way down the garden path. The two of them were still a few yards away when the guard who had accompanied the elder spotted them.

"Manyol!"

The guard crossed the distance between them in long loping strides. Kohau was pleased to see that some of the light had returned to the High Lady's face. He certainly wasn't expecting what happened next. It wasn't every day that someone picked up the petite head of their order and spun her around much like one would greet an excited child.

"Yelve, you put me down this instant."

"But I have such fun seeing people's faces when I do this, manyol. And I have not seen you in so long. I hope we're in time for food. Hard tack and dried meat isn't very appetizing."

"The kitchens are always open; you know that, you foolish girl."

Kohau felt like someone had knocked the wind from him. This tall, broad shouldered figure was a woman? There was little about Yelve that one could consider soft and womanly. Not that he could see right then at least. What was more interesting was the discovery didn't ease the fluttering of attraction he'd felt earlier. It had been a long while since he'd been interested in a woman.

The guard leaned in to whisper something in the High Lady's ear as she set her back on her feet.

"Why don't you go with Scholar Tanlar here while I see what brings Elder Tara to the temple. I will see you both later."

"Don't let that cranky –"

"Yelve!" The High Lady turned towards him with a slight grimace. "Please don't mind her. Sometimes her mouth doesn't know when to stop itself."

The two of them watched until the High Lady and the Elder had disappeared within the temple. Kohau glanced at the woman standing next to him and suffered another shock. Her expression was carefully blank, the happy fool from earlier having vanished. She turned towards him, revealing a long pale scar that twisted the left corner of her lips into a grimacing grin and disappeared somewhere beyond her hairline.

"I'm off to the kitchens. If you have something else to be doing this morning. I'm sure she'll gather us up when she's ready."

"I'll join you if that's alright. I haven't eaten yet."

Yelve shrugged and turned towards the dining hall. "Suit yourself."

***

Kohau hurried through the temple. He was running late for his meeting with the High Lady. After a rather short and mostly tense meal with Yelve, he had lost himself in a novel to try and ease the knot of tension he could feel burning between his shoulders. It wasn't the best tale of adventure he'd ever read, but it had been entertaining enough to help him forget for a few hours. Perhaps a touch too long, as he hadn't realized the fourth bell had tolled until it was finished. He paused to straighten his robes and take a calming breath before entering the room.

The High Lady gave him a quick nod and gestured towards a chair as she signed a few last documents. Her assistant scurried out after slipping the pages in a leather folder, the door swinging shut with a soft click behind her.

"I apologize for my lateness High Lady."

"Were you late Scholar? I hadn't noticed." Her lips curved into a teasing smile. "You were no doubt lost within the pages of a very interesting book."

"I'm not sure it was that interesting yet."

"This is a misuse of writing implements."

Kohau jumped at the snarling voice coming from his right. He felt rather foolish that he hadn't looked around the room yet to see the other occupant. Yelve stood leaning against the wall near the window when he entered the room. Brown eyes flicked towards him before returning to the stack of parchment in her hands. What light filtered down through the window gave a strange glow to her bronzed tawny skin. A few strands of dark blonde hair had escaped from being tied back and softened the strong angular lines of her face.

A soft cough from his left brought his attention back to the High Lady. Kohau ducked his head in a clumsy attempt to hide the heat rising in his cheeks as he was caught staring. Yelve was either nice enough not to react or she hadn't noticed in the first place. He expected it was the former, no matter how much he hoped it was the later.

"I wasn't expecting anything of great import from Elder Tara. She didn't want me elected in the first place." The High Lady sighed and rubbed her temples. "The fact that she even brought this much to me shows that she and the other elders are worried."

"May I?" Kohau tilted his head towards the papers Yelve had waved about. "The news has reached the pass already?"

"Traders are a great source of rumor. Sometimes they even have useful information." Yelve dropped the stack of reports in his lap before slumping into the chair next to him. "I didn't think the elder had been paying attention."

"Of course she would be paying attention. Anything that would help her drive me from my position here would be of interest. Except the people keep voting for me to stay, so unless she kills me or stages a revolution somehow, I won't be going anywhere until Leistros is done with me." The High Lady shuffled some papers around her desk. "Elder Tara has little support amongst the council. Not after the rumors of her ties to General Leon became more rooted in fact. She has strayed, and some fear she is no longer a friend to the great serpents' speakers."

"The southern guards have been quiet. At least, they're quiet around me. I don't think I'll learn anything new if I go back."

"These reports from Elder Tara don't contain anything new. There's still a group hiding in the shadows making trouble for followers of the scale. Half of the council is off chasing their tails around the Vilgat Isles hunting witches while the others fuss over Logarth's ruins. Meanwhile, Kurdal's true followers are vanishing or having their homes burnt around them." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Guard Reana didn't bring back anything helpful either from her visit north."

Something resembling a muffled growl came from his right. "Reana couldn't find her fupahs if her hands were nailed to her chest. No one is going to volunteer information to some uppity bitch who thinks they're below her."

"Then you won't mind volunteering to do this for me, will you?"

"You should have sent for me when the reports first started coming in, High Lady."

Kohau wasn't sure what he was suddenly in the middle of, but it felt like the times his eldest sister and his mother had gone toe to toe in the sitting room. He had usually slipped out before their voices reached fevered pitches and hidden away with his books in his room.

"If I may make a suggestion?" He swallowed as both women turned their attention to him. "Wouldn't it make sense to send someone to survey the damages caused by the attacks so you can plan how much aid will be needed? The people of Leistros trust the High Lady to care for them, but they also don't like to just show up and ask for help. Not that I've observed anyway. If you send someone, they'll know you haven't forgotten about them."

"I would have to bring the council together before I could do anything. But if I have a plan already put together for them to approve things would go that much smoother." The High Lady nodded, her fingers steepled under her chin. "Thank you Scholar Tanlar, for being more coolheaded than either of us right now."

Yelve simply grunted as she sat back in her chair again, her arms folded across her chest. Kohau turned his attention back to the High Lady.

"Then your mission is thus – Scholar Tanlar, I would like to request of you a thorough report on all damages and missing citizens so I can hit the council over the heads and remind them of their duties to our people. Guard Yelve, you will be his escort and conduct as quiet as investigation as possible into who is behind these attacks." She scrawled her signature on a few bits of parchment. "These will allow you to draw some coins from the vaults for your journey, as well as take whatever supplies you may need."

"When would you like us to leave?" Yelve straightened in her chair.

"In the next few days. If anyone asks, I am simply sending you to double check the harvest reports for the season."

Kohau frowned. "But don't people here already know of the attacks on the outer holdings?"

"Something Elder Tara said tells me things are amiss here at the temple as well. Some know, but others are blissfully unaware of anything past their own noses."

"Then I should stay here. You could be –"

"I will be fine Yelve. Or have you forgotten what happened the last time someone made an attempt on my life?" A warm smile lit the High Lady's face. "I need someone I can trust out there to protect our people. Even if these events cause me to lose their favor and vote me out, I will never stop worrying about them. Besides, Shara returns tomorrow, so I will be more than protected in your absence."

Kohau glanced up as Yelve shifted in her chair again. "Someone tried to kill you, High Lady?"

"Someone was hired, but in the end they refused to do their job." Her gaze flicked towards Yelve before returning to him. "That is a tale for another time."

"They haven't bitched about Shara turning your ear yet?" Yelve's grin frightened him a little.

"I do not talk business in the bedchamber. And as he was chosen by the council to be trade ambassador, I hardly see why they would complain about my current lover. Now, off with the two of you." The High Lady shooed them towards the door. "You've a trip to plan and I have more random reports to slog through before dinner."

Kohau felt like he'd just learned more than he ever expected about things he didn't really need to know. Yelve took the papers the High Lady had handed him earlier from his numb grip after she led him out into the hall.

"I hope you get along better with the tragols down in the vault than I do. I'll see about horses and supplies." She handed him back one of the papers. "You have been on a horse before, or do we need some quick lessons before we leave?"

"I can ride."

"Good. Pack light; we don't need to haul the library around with us."

He scowled at her back as she moved away down the hall. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means leave room for food in your packs between the books. Unless you like the taste of parchment."

***

Three days in a saddle were enough to convince Kohau that he'd never volunteer to leave the library ever again. Or if he did, he'd travel by wagon or coach or something at least that didn't involve being perched on the back of his horse. He preferred something less stubborn and more human between his thighs.

Yelve had told him the night before that he'd get used to it after a few more days. Then she'd been nice enough to toss him a tin of ointment to help with the soreness. To his surprise it had worked better than he expected.

"We might make it to Gallane this evening, if you'd rather sleep in a proper bed."

He turned his attention from the golden leaves overhead. "I'm getting the hang of sleeping under the stars. Though I vote the next time I do this when the weather is warmer."

Yelve's laugh drifted back to him. "The nights are still cold in summer."

"Then I'll have to remember to bring someone to cuddle with." Kohau tried to nudge his horse closer to her. "A fire, someone to cuddle with. I could do with more nights under the stars."

"Just be careful where you go. Your cuddle toy might not enjoy bug bites all over their ass. Or other spots."

"That would put a damper on things."

"The foothills along the eastern range are nice in the spring. You could always go to one of the flower festivals. I've heard they're quite nice."

"You've never been?"

She shrugged. "I go where manyol needs me to be. But I have been at the pass long enough to see the Thaw Bloom Festival."

"Not many people show up for that one I'd bet."

"Depends on how much snow and if they've been able to keep the roadways clear."

Kohau nodded as they drifted back into silence. He had observed that his traveling companion wasn't always one for long conversations about nothing in particular. Not that he needed to fill up the hours of the day with idle chatter, but sometimes it felt strange to not talk at all.

They left the small copse of trees behind as the road turned to travel between empty fields. Smoke twisted skyward in lazy trails from a few distant farmhouse chimneys, and he could pick up the baying of cows and other animals from time to time. He had expected to see more travelers until Yelve announced that she was keeping them to lesser traveled back routes. Unfortunately she hadn't told him why.

Shifting in the saddle, Kohau wished again that their midday stop had been longer. Though he supposed it didn't take long to eat a few slices of cheese and gnaw on a couple hard travel biscuits. Yelve still hadn't explained why she called them hard tack. It wasn't a term he was familiar with. Then he hadn't heard her term of endearment for the High Lady before either. Perhaps he could keep himself occupied in the evenings by compiling a dictionary of Yelve-isms.

"Ho the wagon!"

Her voice pulled him from his meandering thoughts. Before them off the side of the road was a rather lopsided wagon surrounded by a woman and children. One of the children gave them a shy wave before ducking behind her mother. Kohau could see as they drew closer that the wagon sat leaning on a broken wheel.

"Are you in need of assistance?"

"We could probably use a hand when my wife returns with something to prop the wagon with while we change the wheel." The woman gave them a tired smile. "I told her it needed to be fixed before we left."

"We'll be glad to lend a hand." Yelve dismounted with enviable grace. "Do you have much further to travel today?"

"We'll hopefully make it to Gallane for the evening so we can make any other repairs. You folks from the temple?"

Kohau slid to the ground, gripping the saddle until his knees decided to cooperate. "Yes."

"Then you've heard about the attacks at the Dellard Orchard?" The woman's voice took on a hard edge.

"When did this happen?"

"Two, maybe three days ago. We wouldn't have left the farm except my wife's family is from around there and they said there were killings this time."

"How many dead?" Yelve's knuckles turned white from where she gripped the horse's reins.

"No one knows for certain yet. Not that we've heard anyway. One of the reports we heard in the last town was that the raiders came from Usha."

He wasn't certain what Yelve was growling under her breath, but Kohau could tell she wasn't happy with this news. "Usha?"

"Their main export is mercenaries, mainly to trade caravans and the like." Yelve's eyes were hard as her gaze met his. "If I find out they've broken their accords with the council..."

"You'll take on an entire town?"

"I just need to take out one man in particular."

Kohau couldn't stop the shiver that made the skin along his spine crawl. Something in Yelve's voice right then terrified him.

***

Yelve sighed as she draped her cloak over the scholar after another shiver shook his frame, knocking it off him. With the news they had received from the farmers they had stopped to help, she couldn't help but push on through to make up for lost time. Elder Fornoth, one of the council members who had originally supported Asheeni's rise to High Lady, had been visiting his daughter. A daughter who had married the heir to the Dellard Orchard. She prayed that her suspicions were wrong, and had she been alone, she would have ridden the night through to reach their destination sooner.

The scholar was not as used to hard travel. So she stopped for the rest of the night at a traveler's rest that had seen better days. Still, it put some semblance of a roof over their heads and a corner she could sit in to watch the door, even if it hung somewhat askew on a pair of creaky hinges. Kohau stirred in his sleep again, but didn't wake.

She had just enough light from the dying embers of the small fire to study him. He seemed too young to have already devoted himself to spending a lifetime surrounded by old tomes. A strong jaw rested under a mouth that was no doubt quick to smile. Yelve had no doubt if he were around someone other than herself such expressions were a normal sight. It was the case with most people she met in the course of her duties. If the scar didn't put them off, the rest of her did soon enough.

Kohau's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her through a fog of sleep. "Whastime?"

"It is nearing dawn." Heavy lids scrunched shut again, hiding the amber orbs again. Yelve swallowed the urge to laugh. "Go back to sleep scholar. We'll be on the road again soon enough."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Here and there."

Her lips twitched when he groaned and pulled her cloak up over his face. Outside their ramshackle shelter Yelve could hear the first stirrings of early rising birds and other creatures. The sky was slowly shedding the veil of night, though she couldn't see much through the broken shutters attempting to fill the window on the neighboring wall. Perhaps she should mention traveler's rest repairs to manyol when they returned.

The rest of their morning was rather quiet. Each time she glanced over her shoulder had shown Kohau nodding off, his head bobbing in concert with the horse's plodding hooves. Somehow he hadn't fallen off yet. Her amusement faded as the first scent of burning timber drifted their way.

Trees heavy with fruit stood like silent sentinels as they turned onto the lane leading to the holding. A number of soot smudged faces turned towards them, exhaustion and defeat warring in every gaze that chanced to meet hers. Yelve couldn't help the anger that began to bubble beneath the surface. Two somewhat official looking men came forward to meet them.

"What business do you have here?"

"We were sent by the High Lady to see how the harvests fared."

The younger of the two seemed to relax. "We sent a messenger, but we weren't expecting anyone so soon."

"We learned of the attacks here from some farmers we met on the road a few days past." Yelve swung out of the saddle. "How many dead?"

"Just the orchard holder and his family. They even... the children..."

Kohau stepped up beside her. "Was this the only attack?"

"They set fire to a barn on the other side of town first." The older man spoke, his hand resting on the younger's shoulder with a firm grip. "Probably to distract us from this."

"Forgive our earlier manners, I am Scholar Tanlar. I need to assess the damages so I can send a detailed report to the High Lady."

"Daniel. I'm the mayor 'round these parts, this is my deputy, Turner. We put them in the shed for now." The mayor's face paled further beneath the grime as he pointed to a small building not touched by fire. "Not many here will be able to sleep well again after what we saw."

Yelve nodded and let the reins drop to the ground, her mount trained well enough to stay put at such an action. She could hear Kohau scrambling to keep up with her as she crossed the yard with long quick strides. Her jaw gave a painful tinge and she forced her teeth apart. They came to a stop outside the shed, the scholar giving her a small nod before she slid the door open. It seemed to give off a mournful squeal as the wheels traveled along the rails.

Six bodies lay shrouded under tarps. Yelve had to keep her gaze from lingering on the three smaller bundles lest her anger flare to bright right then. Regardless of the actions in her past, she had never taken the life of a child.

"By the gods..." Kohau sucked in a shuddering breath, a hand trembling near his mouth.

"Wait out here."

Yelve had to duck to avoid bundles of drying plants hanging from the ceiling. She hoped that her guess had brought her to the right one as she lifted a corner of the first tarp. Elder Fornoth's lifeless eyes gazed upwards, and she took a moment to whisper a blessing to Kurdal that he would see the man safely to the next life. Pulling the tarp back further revealed something carved into his chest. She would need to get some parchment from the scholar to make note of the bloody symbol. A quick check of the other victims put her mind at rest. The elder was the only body the raiders had defaced.

"What is it?" Kohau's voice was low and trembling when she stepped outside again.

"May I borrow a piece of parchment?"

"Of course. Yelve, what –"

"Let me finish this and we will talk."

The door was silent this time as she closed the shed. "They carved this into the elder's chest."

Kohau took the paper she held out to him. "I've never seen this before, though it looks similar to some symbols I've seen in my studies of Ancient Kalta."

"I think he was the target, they simply made it look like a band of raiders to cover up their true goal."

"But why Elder Fornoth?"

"He is – was – one of manyol's chief supporters."

Yelve knew she didn't need to go into more detail. Kohau was smart enough to put a few pieces together on his own. The two of them returned to the group of villagers still milling around the yard.

"We found this near the house." Daniel handed her a dirty patch of fabric.

"How many raiders?" She let her fist curl around the red and gold embroidery.

"Reckon a party close to ten, twelve maybe. Headed off north as far as we could tell."

She nodded. "I apologize, but we must leave you. I am certain the High Lady will send aid as soon as your message reaches her."

"You goin' after them?" The mayor spat off to the side. "Just you two?"

"First I will find out why men from Usha were here."

***

Kohau was exhausted. Yelve had pushed both their mounts as much as she dared after they left the orchard. With three days ride behind them, they still had another day or so before they reached Usha. As tired as he was, Kohau had to wonder how she didn't appear worse, because he knew she kept watch during the few hours they stopped to rest at night. His rest wasn't all that it should have been either. He suspected that any time they stopped was more for the benefit of the horses than their riders.

Kohau was confused. It was hard to tell which version was her true self. Was she the reserved guard hiding behind the mask of a fool, or something a great deal more troubling? She had remained rather tight lipped since they started their journey to Usha. He didn't fear physical danger from her, but he couldn't ignore the hard angry edges she had wrapped herself in.

It was with this in mind that he brought his horse up beside hers. "Yelve, what can I expect from Usha?"

"Order in the streets for the most part. Don't trust any urchins with pity stories; they all have sticky fingers."

"And the people we're going to see?"

"Let me do most of the talking."

He waved a fly away from his face. "They're that bad?"

"Not always. But we're not going to be there for afternoon tea or to hire them." She snorted. "And Hauber doesn't like me much."

"Is this really a good idea then?"

She turned to look at him for the first time in days. "Hauber always has his ears to the ground. He'll know more than anyone else we're likely to come across. And if he let his men join in any raids where people of Leistros were killed, the rest of them will get the message when I separate his head from his body."

"You would really do that? Kill someone just because they did something foolish?"

"We apparently have different ideas on what foolish actions are." She turned back to the road ahead. "You can wait outside town if that would make you feel better, little scholar."

"Stop calling me that! And that's not what I meant. What if he didn't know what the person who hired them was out to do?"

She snorted. "That patch of fabric is Hauber's guild mark. He has a reputation to uphold. One of his mandates is to not harm the innocent – therefore no man of his is to engage in actions that result in the dead bodies we saw at the orchard. Certainly not the children. Things are quite different away from the safe confines of a library."

"Surely you need permission first to execute someone."

"All I used to need was a bag of coins." She brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear, but it did little to soften her right then. "Hauber's deal with the council was that they would not take up arms against the people of Leistros no matter the money. If they have broken their word, there is little else that needs to be said."

"Yes, but –"

"You're going to excuse the slaughter of innocent villagers?" Her head whipped towards him, a dark fire in her eyes. "Because that is who I serve. Not a group of people who ally themselves with the largest chest of gold dropped at their feet."

Kohau found his anger growing. "You said earlier that you did the same thing."

"I was a paid assassin. I couldn't very well whore myself out for food and board with a face like this. One day I was given the task to kill a young lady. Manyol was different, and instead of killing her I saved her." She finally turned away from him. "I pledged myself to her service to atone for my past. Leistros gave me a home, and I will do anything to protect it. And I never once took the life of a child."

"This is my home too, but I could never kill someone just because."

"People like me exist to keep the ones like you and manyol from getting your hands dirty. Would that I could also spare you having the thoughts in your head – but it is too late to send you back now. If you seek absolute love and tolerance from the great serpents, you've joined the wrong temple."

Silence fell between them again as Kohau let his horse fall in behind Yelve's. The conversation left him feeling dizzy. How did he resolve the image of this woman who had once been a paid killer to the person he had come to know? She had played games in the roadside dust with the children of the two lady farmers, and he could tell that the children killed in the attack on the orchard had affected her more than she let show. And yet she was calm and composed when talking about killing someone for money. Except she hadn't killed the High Lady when she had been paid to do so. Yelve was more confusing than scrolls written in some ancient tongue long out of use.

It didn't help either that he still found himself attracted to her. That was the part that truly made no sense. She hadn't reacted to his initial attempts to flirt and charm so he'd done his best to remain professional in their dealings. But you couldn't spend all your time traveling with another person and not expect something to develop. Yelve, though, appeared no more interested in him than she did in the few tomes he had tucked away in his bags. Except for that one morning before they had reached the orchard when he'd woken to find her staring at him. There had been something in her green flecked eyes that morning that he hadn't seen since.

***

The silence between them was heavier the next morning. Kohau didn't bother to try and talk this time. He was too caught up in his thoughts to make the effort. His mental puzzles kept him busy enough that he barely noticed when they reached the city. Thankfully his horse was trained well enough that it followed Yelve without any direction from him. It came in handy when he started to gawk about at the strange surroundings.

She led them along a few twisting lanes that meandered along the edge of the city. Kohau blinked as they came to a stop outside a rather nondescript building. It looked more like a rundown meeting hall than a mercenary's guild. He was glad at least that Yelve was between him and the small handful of men lounging near the door.

"Careful lads; looks like we've got us a proper guard here."

"I'm here to see Hauber."

The man who had spoken got to his feet with a lazy stretch. "He doesn't speak to just anyone who wanders through town. You can tell me what you want, and I'll see if it's worth passing on."

"Jask, take a walk." An older man stood in the doorway, his grizzled face a carefully composed mask. "You and your friend had best come inside for a drink, child of scale."

Hauber wasn't quite what Kohau had been expecting. The office they followed him to was lined on three sides with floor to ceiling book shelves. He couldn't help but frown when he took in how dusty and disused the various tomes and scrolls appeared. It made him yearn for the library back at the temple and their clean orderly collections. The wall behind the large desk was a mess of maps and other papers – some being held up by a random assortment of knives.

"It's been a long time Yelve. What brings you to Usha?"

"Disturbing reports I hope you'll tell me aren't true. Because I'm sure you know the consequences of Usha turning against the people of Leistros." She tossed the bit of fabric onto his desk. "Six deaths so far, Hauber – three of them children. My blades are hungry, and you're looking somewhat appetizing."

"I can safely say that none of my people were stupid enough to join up with the raiders. And none from the other houses either as far as I know." Hauber held his hands up. "I would be the last person who would ever cross the temple. You know that."

"Do you know who, or where these raiders are from?"

"You know about as much as we do, considering how long it takes a messenger to get to us compared to the temple. Though now that they're attempting to pull us in, I might have to pay more attention."

They were interrupted by a young man bringing a tray of mugs and a pitcher with foam dripping down its sides into the room. "Fasser, you hear anything about these raiders in Leistros?"

"Traveler at the Cabbage last night mentioned seeing lights in some of those old ruins. But that could be just about anyone from treasure hunters to kids out for a bit of fun."

"Ruins?" Kohau sat up, his interest piqued.

"Not much to see really but a few bits of crumbling walls here and there." Fasser pointed to a spot on one of the maps on the wall. "About here or so, southeast of Usha, towards the lake."

Kohau scrawled a few quick notes in the notebook he'd been keeping in his pocket. Flipping through the pages, he stopped at the bits of maps he'd copied from the cartography collection at the library. It was hard to resist the urge to leap from his chair in a victory dance. The ruins fell just about where he suspected Ancient Kalta had once been. Yelve gave him a questioning look over the rim of her mug, but he merely shrugged in reply. He turned back to his notes as she gave Hauber her attention again.

"Their target was Elder Fornoth."

"Damn." Hauber's mask finally fell away, his grim expression only a shade or two less imposing than Yelve's. "And they tried to make it look like my guild was involved. Fasser, go tell Shanel I want to see her. I swear to you we had no part in this Yelve."

"I believe you. I've had long enough for my anger to cool." She set her mug down on the desk. "Good thing Gallane and Usha are a few days' ride apart, or this conversation might have been a great deal messier."

Hauber drained his mug. "You two look like you could use some rest. Head on down to the Dancing Boar. If you tell them I sent you Mathi should give you a decent rate for a room."

"Thank you."

"Anything to keep my head on my shoulders."

Kohau ducked his head as the man winked at him.

***

A full night's sleep in a bed did wonders for a man. At least that's how Kohau felt when he woke the following morning. The warm bath he had indulged in shortly after they arrived at the inn had helped as well. He was also looking forward to something halfway decent for his first meal of the day. There was a slight spring to his step as he made his way downstairs.

The dining hall was mostly empty by the time he arrived. It must have been later than he thought. Yelve was at a table in the corner, a mug sitting ignored in front of her.

"May I join you?"

"If you like."

A young lad in an apron came over to deliver a loaf of dark bread and fruit preserves. "Ale or cider, sir? Squash bake is all we have left if you want something warm."

"Cider and squash would be fine."

He laid a few coppers on the table. They were swept up when the server returned with the cider and the squash dish. The food wasn't spectacular, but it was warm and decently seasoned.

"When do we leave?"

Yelve blinked at him a few times, taking along draw from her mug before speaking. "I had planned on leaving in an hour or so. The ruins are a day or so ride from here."

"I think the site might be Kalta. It fits with where my research has led to it."

"We're not here for scholarly pursuits."

"I know that. But I can still –"

"We don't know what we're headed into, scholar. This isn't some pleasure trip we're on." Her voice had taken on a distinct chill. "If you think otherwise, you're more than welcome to return to the temple from here."

"No, that's not –"

"Finish eating and get your gear ready if you're still coming with me."

Yelve left him to his half-finished meal. He forced himself to eat more despite his appetite leaving the table with her. Was it really so wrong to be excited at the possibility he was headed to an ancient city he'd long been researching, if his suspicions were right? His scholarly enthusiasm didn't mean he'd forgotten about the six bodies lying in a shed with farming tools around them. He hadn't forgotten the other burned out hamlets or the future threats to Leistros.

As a child he hadn't been fond of what his sister called people puzzles. Books were a known quantity. They weren't going to show you more facets than a gem with every turn of the page. The problem was trying to figure out the best way to communicate such with someone who no longer wished to talk.

He was still mulling over the whole mess a few hours later when there was little around them but trees and rocks. Yelve had met him outside the stables with bags of fresh provisions and more cold silence. Scenario after scenario filtered through his mind, only to be brushed away like an errant insect. The High Lady was easy enough to talk to, along with a few other people around the temple he had come to know well. But he had spent time learning them – studying them like he did his books. Kohau glanced at Yelve's back. Perhaps he just needed to learn how her book was organized.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean for it to come across like it did." She didn't look at him as he brought his horse alongside hers, and spoke. "My oldest sister could never understand how I could like puzzles the way I do and not be able to figure people out. People puzzles were never my strongest subject. Because the pieces change, not to mention how they fit together."

"My pieces don't make sense to you."

"No, they don't. I... I don't like things I can't figure out even after I've studied them." He sighed. "You have too many facets and there's lights flashing here and there, not to mention the other ones hiding away from the light and I just don't know."

"So now I'm a fancy cut gem? Are you like this around all the ladies, scholar, or am I just that special?"

"I can't figure you out. You help people you don't even know for nothing in return. You play a child's game on a dusty roadside. You're generally cold and reserved, until you're around the High Lady or hear disturbing news about something that's happened to the people of Leistros. And you used to kill people for money. If that isn't the most confusing gemstone puzzle of a person, I'm a farkel's lovechild."

Her head turned towards him a fraction. "What in Kurdal's name is a farkel?"

"A nasty daemon from ancient times. Scraggly white hair, large bulbous nose, fangs dripping goo and knobby boney fingers to snatch you up with. There are examples of such beings all around the world. There's the eastern fae – though I much prefer the Hadurk fae and its love of tempting travelers away from safe paths to the Marbloom." He couldn't help the grin that stole across his face. "Then there are tales of merpeople from the western coasts, though I haven't studied those tales much. And further north there's a farkel cousin called the Goupal that's even uglier and nastier and eats everything it can get its claws into. They say when it belches it causes rockslides, and avalanches in the winter."

"And these... creatures... are known for begetting offspring with human women?"

He paused, her comment confusing him. "Well, no. Not really, they just like to eat people."

"Then the logical assumption would be that there is no possible way you could be a farkel's lovechild."

Kohau rolled his eyes. "You're trying to change the topic."

"You brought up being the illogical lovechild of a fictional creature." Yelve shrugged. "You make it sound as though you can't figure people out unless they fit neatly between the pages of a book. I am not as complicated as you seem to think I am."

"How can you take money in exchange for a life one moment and play in the dirt with a child the next?"

"When I was the same age as those children, I was scrounging in dank alleys for meager scraps of food. Fighting for very limited resources with other children doing the same. We didn't play games." A muscle in her jaw twitched just beneath her scar. "I earned this a few years later when I refused to please some drunken idiot with my body. That one I killed for free after I started my training. And you scholar? What was your childhood like?"

The question caught him off guard. He had been trying to envision how long he might have survived if he'd been on the streets as a child. "I... I spent as much time as I could hidden behind books. History was more interesting than trading or politics. I wasn't the son my father had hoped for, and my mother had two daughters already. I remember being punished with no dinner one day because I gave my lunch to some old beggar woman at the market. That's probably the only time I've ever gone without food. How did you end up..."

"The guild who took me in didn't just teach me to kill. I learned to read and write, as well as learning my numbers. If I had shown interest, I could have apprenticed out to a weapon smith or apothecary."

"What do assassins need apothecaries for?" He found his curiosity stirring.

"Being able to tend wounds is a good skill to have regardless of profession."

"Oh."

"And having even basic knowledge of poisons is something of a requirement for the job."

Kohau glanced around, even though he knew there were no other people in the area. "Should you be telling me all this?"

"Telling you basic information that anyone with eyes or ears can figure out?" Yelve shook her head with a soft chuckle. "You think too much, my little scholar."

For some reason, he didn't mind being called little so much right then. "Isn't that better than not thinking at all?"

"Perhaps. And I need to apologize for this morning. I... manyol tells me when I focus too much on the task at hand, I don't see all that I should."

"I do admit that the possibility of finding proof of Kalta's location is thrilling, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten why we're out here."

"Wouldn't someone have already searched these ruins for proof of your ancient city?"

Kohau shook his head. "They've always focused on places further north, or west into the Jadroi Plains. From what I've pieced together though looking at old trade routes, and some maps people haven't looked at much, I think they're wrong. Of course, there's no saying I'm right either."

"Perhaps when this is over we can return to test out your theory."

***

They sheltered inside a small copse of trees for the night and Yelve left Kohau behind at their quiet fireless campsite to scout closer to the ruins. A few hours watching the southern perimeter of the camp showed her a few possible points of entry, as well as a closer vantage where Kohau could wait for her when she finally made her move to infiltrate.

The scholar was huddled in a ball of blankets when she returned. She ignored his surprised gasp as she sat next to him and drew both her bedroll and cloak around them.

"Why did Hauber react like that when you told him about Elder Fornoth? I mean, I know the elder supported the High Lady, but why is he so important?"

Yelve had to admit she had expected this question much sooner. "What do you know of manyol becoming High Lady?"

"There's a brief mention of a special election in the history they gave me when I arrived, but otherwise people don't talk about it much."

"It's because they don't like to remember their mistakes." Yelve sighed as she leaned back against the fallen tree behind them. "Manyol took her seat at the head of the temple younger than any other lord or lady of the past. She wouldn't have been forced into such a position had the High Lord before her not... forgotten... his duties."

"How does one forget their duties?"

"Lord Renat felt that Leistros should be greater than it is. Instead of accepting those who come to the serpents of their own will, he felt that the message should be brought to the masses. Forced upon them if they refused to accept the ways of the scale." She glanced at him, not quite able to read his expression in the light of the half-moon filtering through the branches above them. "The council was divided between those that supported Renat in some way or another, and those that outright refused to go along with his madness."

"Why... why does no one know about this? Or talk about it? I've been at the temple over seven years now and not once have I come across anything relating to this Lord Renat."

"Would you want your embarrassing failures talked about years later? Or the fact that Leistros itself was nearly ripped in half because a madman was elected to High Lord? They did their best to keep the actual reason for him being replaced quiet, including imprisoning a good portion of the council and forcing a few temple guards into early retirement."

"Hauber?"

Yelve nodded. "He and a few of his group were paid quite handsomely to keep their mouths shut, along with agreeing to never harm the citizens of Leistros. Which he wouldn't have done regardless, but things were such a mess back then and people were terrified. Fornoth was against Renat, but he also didn't agree with what was done to Hauber and the others. Same as manyol. Such thoughts further divided the council – giving us our current situation with Elder Tara and her group."

"This... this is too much. How can they – how could they hide this from everyone?"

Yelve understood his outrage. She only knew as much as she did from playing the dumb guard people talked in front of, and then confronting the High Lady one evening when there were no other ears around to hear them. If her suspicions were correct, those decisions had come back to haunt the children of scale.

"What happened to the imprisoned council members?"

"They were given the choice of exile or execution. I have no doubt that they found their way to Renat's side."

Kohau pressed closer against her side, his head nearly resting on her shoulder. "Is that who you think is behind this?"

"Renat or one of his supporters. There's no reason to make it look like a raider attack at the orchard otherwise. They didn't take any valuables or food stores. Nor would most bandits take the time to carve a message we haven't figured out yet into a body." She settled her arm around his shoulders. "You should get some sleep."

"How am I supposed to sleep after all that? I can't... How can I return to the temple knowing all this?"

"You're the scholar here. Write your own history."

"I don't think it'll be that easy, not if they've done their best to keep this as buried as possible the past twenty years." He groused before letting his head slip down to rest on her shoulder. "Did you know who sent you to kill the High Lady?"

"No. My former guild master didn't know either."

"You sound rather sure about that."

"I can be very persuasive when the need arises."

"Oh."

Yelve smiled into the darkness as his breathing began to even out. Despite his protests, she knew he was exhausted enough to not resist slumber. The man had challenged her views on many things. Not enough to see her change anything; she was who she was. But it wasn't as hard to think of how someone else might see a certain situation. Manyol hadn't even really done that much for her, as close as the two of them had gotten considering how they met. She let her head rest against his for her first nap of the night.

***

Troubled sleep and a lackluster morning meal didn't make for a great start to the day. Kohau let the horse follow Yelve as it wished, his eyes closed against the sun in hopes it wouldn't make the ache behind his eyes worse. He slowly cracked one eye to a slit when they came to a sudden stop.

"What's wrong?"

"Farrow root."

He blinked in confusion. "What do we need farrow root for?"

"We don't, unless you wish to suffer further from the pain in your head. You fussed and fidgeted all night."

Yelve pulled a scraggly looking weed from between a cluster of rocks. She cut the top of the plant off with one of the many knives kept secreted about her body. A second slice gave her a piece the size of a thumb joint. He watched as she peeled the outer skin from the bit of stem to expose pale green pulp. Kohau tried not to cringe as she held it out to him.

"Chew on this, but don't swallow it. And drink plenty of water."

He gave the pulp a wary sniff before popping it onto his tongue. It tasted of bitter dirt, though it hadn't smelled like much of anything. The bitter tang seemed to fade as he chewed. Kohau still felt like he had a mouthful of dirt, no matter how many swallows he took from his water bottle after he finally spit the lump of pulp out. Yelve offered to fix him another piece, but he decided the pain was lessened enough.

"What are we going to do if we come across the raiders?"

"Prevent any of them from riding off for help. Hopefully leave a few alive and get them to talk." She laughed at what he assumed was a proper look of horror on his face. "In all honesty I would probably hold them at bay long enough for you to get away."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because someone needs to return to the temple and let manyol know what we've come across. And the world needs someone like you more than it needs yet another me."

He scowled. "Don't talk like that."

"Kohau, a gentle, learned man like you adds to the world. All I do is take from it."

"Well, I need you. So no dying yet." He realized he sounded like a spoilt child right then, but he didn't care much.

"You're sweet, little scholar."

It was shortly after midday when Yelve nudged them off the road. Kohau followed her to a cropping of boulders that looked down on part of the ruins. He wished he could go explore to his heart's content, but that would have to wait for another day. Being left behind with the horses wasn't his second choice for right then either. But there was no denying Yelve knew what she was doing in this particular situation.

The sun had nearly set before she returned. She dropped a bundle of dark red fabric at his feet. Kohau knew his sister could have told him more than he ever wanted to know about the weave and possibly even where the wool to make them had come from. He was more interested in the symbols stitched in grey around the bottom of the garment.

"They just leave clean robes lying around?" He glanced up as she sat next to him.

"I may have raided a laundry line or two. You should have smelled the unwashed ones." She shuddered. "I snagged two, so you'll have one to take back with you."

"Alright. Wait – aren't you going to come back with me?"

"Calm yourself; you can return to the temple on your own without me. Talk around the camp down there was that the leader wouldn't be here for another few days. I'd rather not risk you being found between now and then."

"But Yelve –"

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "Tonight I'm going to slip back into the camp and see if I can find anything else useful to send back with you. This group doesn't seem like the most well organized bunch. Which is odd if Renat is in charge. You'll return to the temple while I stay here until I outstay my welcome."

"I don't like this."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Kohau had to admit defeat at that. "No. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I never said you had to. Wake me when it's dark."

He watched as she settled further into a nook between two boulders. Yelve's face didn't look a great deal more relaxed in sleep, but then he supposed he wouldn't either in their current situation. The thought of leaving her behind made him ill. Except there weren't very many arguments he could come up with to stay. Kohau knew it would be easier for her if he was safely out of the way.

Yelve woke with little prompting, making him wonder if she ever did more than nap lightly. She removed a few outer layers and he found himself somewhat surprised at the number of weapons she had hidden around her body.

"You should get both horses ready after I leave. If you switch between them every so often you'll be able to ride farther than if you just stick to one horse. Take the main route back to the temple; shouldn't take long." She pulled a bit of fabric from one of the packs sitting nearby. "Wear this. People won't question why you're in a rush."

"What is it?"

"Official messenger sash. Only an idiot would try and hold you up wearing one of these."

Kohau busied himself with the sash while Yelve redressed herself in the borrowed robes. Without the hard leather armor and the padding underneath, it was easier to see a woman standing there. Even if it was a woman both taller and stronger than he was. She flashed him a grin before securing a grey veil across her face, leaving only her eyes showing.

With the shadow of night around them, and the dark red of the robes, it was hard for him to keep Yelve in sight as she made her way back to the camp. Kohau couldn't say how long he sat waiting for her to return. It probably wasn't as long as it felt, but it certainly wasn't as soon as he would have liked. The breath caught in his throat as he saw a shadow moving towards him, before he could make out her face from beneath the hood.

"We're in luck. I overheard a couple drunken idiots complaining that they'd have to clean up as the head of the order would be arriving in a couple days." Her excitement at that fact felt odd to him. "I found a few messages that might help, but I didn't take the time to read each of them. I also stumbled across this, and thought you might like it."

Kohau took the piece of stone she held out to him. He couldn't tell what was etched into the surface, but he could feel something was there. "What –"

"It could be something they stole from somewhere else, or nothing of any actual importance."

He reached out with his free hand to stop her from putting the veil back in place. There was the softest hint of a smile he could barely make out on her face. It was enough to fuel his actions and he leaned forward to press his lips to hers for the briefest of moments. Kohau felt it hadn't been enough, and Yelve must have felt something similar because she pulled him back into an embrace. Before he knew it she had pushed him towards the horses, vanishing down the hill again without a backwards glance.

***

Yelve didn't want to admit her reasons for feeling impatient. Usually she could wait around for weeks before giving up on a target. Instead she told herself it was being in the company of such lazy idiots as these supposed raiders were. It was hard picturing any of the people she'd come across in the camp being able to pull off the mess at the orchard. Unless these were simply the sacrificial goats and the real muscle was with the head of the order.

They hadn't questioned her suddenly showing up. The most attention she got was an errant grunt or two, or the occasional meandering drunken grope. Yelve took her cue from the other women in camp, most of whom generally laughed as they pushed the other person away. No one had said anything if she pushed back with more force than the others.

It had been easy enough that first night to slip into a few important-looking tents and collect letters for Kohau to take back to the temple. Perhaps too easy as she looked back on it. Had those missives been left out for someone to find? If that had been the case, it wasn't as though they knew she or anyone else was on their way. Either way, she was in the enemy camp and had little time to fret about things outside her control.

"You there! Take this to the ones preparing the master's tent."

Yelve grit her teeth to stay the retort at the tip of her tongue as a basket of linens was shoved into her arms. She hadn't yet decided if the somewhat dismal treatment of women was a factor of the cult or just the idiots currently in the camp. Thankful for the veil that hid her dark expression right then, she tried not to stop her way across the camp.

"Took you long enough. How am – you're not that lay about good fer nothin'." The speaker was a short, portly woman, one of the few people of any gender in the camp who didn't go around in the customary robe and veil. "Shoved his work off on someone else again. Next time I see him I'll tan his hide. Set the basket there by the curtain, the girls can grab it when they're ready. You can be my new assistant."

It was hard to say if she wanted to sigh or scream right then. Instead, Yelve simply nodded her head and followed the woman from the tent. Maybe she could learn something new.

"You must be new. I don't remember seeing you around much before." The woman waved her towards a stool near a cook fire. "Have a seat and I'll get us some food. Great serpent only knows what horrid thing they're trying to serve at the mess tent."

Yelve nearly fell off the stool. "I thought –"

"Don't see me in one of them awful getups now do ya? His high mightiness Lord Renat knows that if he wants a good meal in his belly, he'll let me do as I wish." She spat near the fire, the spittle sizzling as it hit one of the warm rocks at their feet. "This whole rot is utter foolishness if you ask me – which they haven't, mind you – but anyone with eyes in their heads can see this will never work. Not even with this made up god of fire his mightiness has them all bamboozled with."

"Why are you here then?"

The cook studied her a long moment, her voice a harsh whisper when she spoke again. "What would you agree to do if it meant protecting your family?"

"I would do whatever it takes." Yelve hitched up the edge of her robe and the loose trousers underneath enough to show the twined snakes tattooed around her leg. "Renat threatens everyone in Leistros."

"What do you intend to do?"

"What will happen to this twisted lump of snake if I remove its head?" Yelve gestured with her fork towards the rest of the camp.

"Most would scatter back to their former banditry groups. There's a second serpent who might rally some of the troops, but I don't believe his target is Leistros. Not like Renat at least. That one I could easily take care of with some bad wine."

Yelve nodded, setting aside her empty plate. "Your family will be safe if Renat is no more?"

"Yes."

"Then it shall be done."

The cook looked up as Yelve stood. "There's a messenger about your height his mightiness trusts with his personal letters and such. Always coming and going from the camp at odd times. No one would think twice. And I can see to it that his concubines won't be in the way."

"Won't they suspect you?"

"It will just look like the stupid girls drank too much again." The cook reached out and pressed a small round object into Yelve's hand. "May Kurdal guide you."

"May Aliashe see you safe."

Yelve didn't look at what the older woman had given her until she was well away from the cook's tent. It was a carved stone medallion of a coiled snake. She wasn't certain why the woman had given her something so treasured. A part of her wanted to make sure she dragged the old woman along when she left, but knowing what plans she had for Renat made Yelve talk herself out of such actions. If the cook had lasted this long as a somewhat willing hostage, she could probably make it out safely without assistance.

With the stone snake put away in a small pouch she tucked inside her shirt, Yelve did her best to be out in the camp without really being seen. All that was left right then was to wait for her target. So the least she could do was see what other random gossip going around might prove useful.

***

The sun had just begun to touch the top of the temple when a rather tired horse stumbled to a stop near the stables. Kohau looked up as pair of stable hands rushed out to see to the animal as the equally tired rider slid from the saddle. He had just stepped out on his way towards the library when the sounds of hooves stole his attention. It had become something of a habit since his return a few days previous to spend every spare moment watching for a particular rider. His feet were moving before he knew it.

"You're alive."

A head of scraggly blonde hair turned towards him. "You doubted my return, little scholar?"

"No I... I just... " He had the strong urge to wrap his arms around her and never let go. Instead he was rewarded with a leather satchel being tossed his way.

"You weren't expecting me so soon." Yelve hefted a wooden box onto her shoulder from where it had been behind the saddle. "We'd best not keep manyol waiting."

"What's that smell?"

She sighed. "I'd rather only tell this story once."

Kohau nodded and followed her back to the High Lady's office he had left not all that long ago. The High Lady and a handful of others in her office jumped as the door bounced off the wall. He hoped that no one really noticed him peeking out from behind Yelve's shoulder.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Guards, show this woman out!"

Numerous angry voices filled the room, none of them belonging to Yelve or the High Lady. The only elder Kohau could see from where he stood was Elder Tara, and she looked quite pale. He also noticed that the guards had yet to move. They were glancing nervously between Yelve and their mistress.

"If everyone would remain calm, I am certain Guard Yelve has a very good reason for interrupting our meeting." A sullen silence fell about the room as the High Lady stared down the assembled elders. "Time is precious, Guard Yelve."

"My apologies for the interruption, High Lady." Yelve dipped into a slight bow as she brought the box down from her shoulder. "I have ridden through with hardly a stop since I left the camp of raiders at the northern ruins. I thought it would be best if I returned with all possible haste."

Kohau slipped into a corner near the door, shrugging as one of the guards glanced his way. The door snicked shut as the other guard returned to their previous position. Yelve didn't seem phased at all by the nasty looks most of the elders were giving her. Her gaze was on the High Lady and no one else.

"You all know of the fate suffered by Elder Fornoth and his family, correct?"

The High Lady nodded as she took her seat again. "Indeed we do."

"I found those responsible for the attack." Yelve's lips turned up in a near feral grin. "I can assure you that there will be no other such attacks upon the good people of Leistros for some time."

"Preposterous! You alone could not have taken out a group of raiders." Elder Tara jumped up from her chair, wiping at her brow with a trembling hand. "You're just some simple minded lap dog."

Yelve placed the box down in the empty chair. She seemed to enjoy the flinch from Elder Tara as she pulled a dagger from her boot. "It doesn't take a great deal of intelligence to kill people, Elder."

"You need to have proof before you accuse an elder of the council Guard Yelve." The High Lady's voice was a chill blade that sliced through the mounting tension in the room.

"Forgive me High Lady, I have gotten ahead of myself." Yelve seemed to laugh to herself at some private joke as she paused in prying the lid from the box. "Scholar Tanlar here is carrying a bag of assorted letters and other items I was able to gather while I visited our friends up north."

"Yes, we've seen them," Elder Tara sneered through her words.

Kohau fidgeted, knowing the High Lady had withheld some of the ones she deemed most inflammatory.

"And I've returned with their replies." Yelve stepped forward and handed her satchel to the high lady. Kohau scowled, though his target didn't notice as all her attention was on the elder standing frozen a few paces away.

Everyone present seemed to hold their breath as the High Lady pulled out the first bundle of parchment. They watched as her face grew darker and darker with each thing she read.

"You're certain these weren't forgeries, or items planted to place blame?"

"That thought had occurred to me High Lady, but since many of them were so personal in nature I had to wonder why someone would go to that much effort to bring down one of the temple elders when it would be much easier to ruin them through trade. And next to the other letters... it would be much more difficult to forge that conversation than a handful of orphaned missives." Yelve let the lid from the box slide to the floor. "Then, in a rare moment of brilliance, a solution presented itself for me. And so I have returned to the temple with a gift."

"A gift for who?" One of the other elders interrupted.

"Our dear Elder Tara of course."

Kohau had to swallow quickly a few times to keep the bile at bay. A man's severed head dangled from Yelve's fist as she held it out to Elder Tara. The elder lunged forward with a wordless cry of rage only to come to a stop with a dagger pressed to her throat. Next to him the guards shifted, but neither had yet moved to intercept either woman.

"You're vile. You'll go down with her, just you wait. He will return and lay waste to all of you."

"I'm afraid your precious Lord Renat cannot return Elder Tara. Nor will any of the bandits he gathered to him bother Leistros any further."

"Guards, take Elder Tara to the cells below. See that she is not mistreated. We would not wish to sully our hands as she has." There was a tiredness behind the High Lady's command. She looked at Yelve with nothing short of exasperation once the elder, and the head in the box, had been removed from her office. "That is not quite how I would have handled things."

"I do apologize manyol, my judgment is not always the best when I haven't slept in days."

"High Lady, this is a mess we did not need." It seemed the council members had managed to find their voices again. "Elder Tara can't simply –"

"Oh, she can, and she will Elder Mankel. I have here letters by her own hand to former High Lord Renat showing how they were planning to remove me, as well as following Elder Fornoth's death with that of anyone else who had supported me." She glared at the remaining members. "Our sins have come back to haunt us – and I doubt we can keep things quiet this time."

"No thanks to this guard of yours."

Kohau glanced up to see Yelve cleaning her nails with the tip of the dagger that had just moments ago been pressed against Elder Tara's neck. He had to cough to cover the insane urge to laugh that had come upon him.

"Do you have anything to add, scholar?" Mankel turned and sneered at him.

"Only to say that you're all idiots, and I'm sorry the High Lady has to deal with you at all." He turned towards the lady in question. "If you've no further need for us right now my lady..."

"You may leave Scholar Tanlar, and take this ruffian with you. See that she's cleaned and fed at some point."

"Of course High Lady."

He bowed and turned towards the door, dragging Yelve along behind him. She remained silent until they were halfway across the courtyard outside.

"Where's that nervous little scholar I left with not so long ago?"

"He was pressed into service riding around the countryside with this crazy guard."

"That bad?"

"Not all of it. But did you really have to bring back the head in the box?" Kohau couldn't help the shudder that ran down his spine. "You made quite a mess for the High Lady to clean up."

"She'll return the favor, trust me. I'm more interested in a bath and a clean bed right now. Unless you want to join me in the fountain over there."

"Maybe later."

Their laughter earned them a few dirty looks from those gathered in the meditation garden, but Kohau found he didn't care much right then. Not with the warm smile hiding behind the grime on her face. They could wait until tomorrow to worry about what came next.

# About Rachel Savage

Rachel Savage is a crazy lady with too many hobbies. When not plunking away at the keyboard torturing characters (and editors), she can be found with yarn and crochet hook in hand, or surrounded by a pile of fabric. Her husband wonders when she'll stop taking over the house with her various projects, and the dog just waits for a ball of yarn to steal.

# Afterword by Nicolas Wilson

The inspiration for this anthology was a Game of Thrones fan who confronted George R. R. Martin about a lack of diversity in his story, and how much it hurt not to see herself reflected in something she loved. It was a reminder that representation in media isn't about political correctness. It's about belonging, and being accepted in your world.

I'm grateful for those who contributed, and everyone reading this now, and it's my hope that this anthology can speak for and to those who aren't used to being included in fantasy worlds, and that still more authors and readers alike will come, so that it can be truly diverse.

Everyone's got a story to tell, and a right to be heard.

Nicolas Wilson

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