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 |  Grieving 11-year-old Sigrun must find someone to answer the needs of the innocent. |
Reject this world of glass: destroy all; trust only what endures. Rules-changer-King Kroleth of the urga: the driving philosophy of his people. Their armies swell, not with soldiers, but mad throngs of cursed gamblers. The average urgan doesn't want to hurt—they just have to know. Are you going to survive meeting them? Lady Sigrun, Knight Champion More than the stars in the sky, campfires dotted the landscape, as if Ker's eleven men had summoned a horde for Korog. The evil smoke on the wind stank of disaster. Surrounded by the shadows of enemies real and imagined,I–like some half-dead rat–scrambled in the shadows. The burning ruins of the world reminded me that a little girl belongs inside strong doors, behind kin, away from the hungry expanse of night. Knowing that tiny cleaver carried the final surviving hint of home or family, my fingers gripped it for dear life. Craving whatever trace Myrrha left on her blade, my mind squeezed it, rubbing every curve. Soon, I felt myself turn monstrous; not big and clumsy like an urgan, but unseelie: small and pointed like a wicked-clever pixie. In that nightmare of dizzy stars and ghost-camp fires, that desperate game became my porchlight beacon: wisdom and madness bound into a single tool. Craving whatever I could of Myrrha, my silly, shaking fingers clung to the handle of that tiny cleaver as I ran barefoot into the empty shelter of the wilderness. As I could not see the ground or feel my feet beyond the burning chill of an early frost, my game bent reality until I wondered, did I run or fly low. And then my feet slid from under me. I rolled under the bush. Covered half in shadow and half in leaves, I cringed, hands over my head, waiting for Korog to jump out and skewer me on a pitchfork. As I lay, gathering my strength, the crickets' chirps slowly rose to taunt me over the ragged sound of my breath. The scent of pine needles and frozen soil almost covered the bitter smoke in the distance, as if trying to comfort me in my final hour. In time, I tried to push away the ground and resume my run, but the earth kept coming at me, slipping out of my hands and refusing to let me get my distance. Unable to stand, or even care, I accepted the bush as my inn and the roots as my pillow. With a sigh that came out more as a moan, I invited the night into my sleep-starved skull. *** Hours had passed and the dawn had chased sleep away with the stars. Along with the birds, the beat of hooves and the rattle of wagon wheels made a sweet song of hope. Only about half inside my brittle, aching body, I looked down on my grubby suit, at the tears in cloth and skin. Hoping to find help, I smoothed up my shirt and snatched my cleaver. A strange voice in my thoughts mocked me, "Yes, Sigrun. People so love to help ax-wielding maniacs." Trapped inside my fuzzy head, I watched as Sigrun slipped Myrrha's cleaver into the folds of her shirt. To survive, I needed to be a monster, but passing Sigrun off as still some harmless little girl after watching her family die? That made my stomach hurt. Surely one of Korog's outsider friends hitched a ride. Wanting nothing to do with the ominous stranger that pulled Sigrun's strings, I screamed in thought, Don't let them hurt my new friends, Sigrun! The effort made my head throb like I was beating on the inside of my skull. The wagon carried two strange people. The driver had a thorga head, a bit too large, with too many whiskers to be a boy, and too short to be a man–shorter than me by the height of his stovepipe hat. The saber-thin woman beside him had ears as sharp as thorns and a grace never seen in the noblest of thorga. For all their strangeness, though, I felt safe near them–and dared to hope they would be safe around me. I faked a smile and waved. "Hail, little girl. What madness are you after?" He looked more storybook than real. I held my ground and shrugged. He scolded me, "This is no place for traveling alone. Get on back to your family." My chin dropped, and I looked back toward the ruins of Mack's home. Sweating and trying not to shiver, I shook my head. He waved me off. "Go on. Your family will worry their death." From behind me, a snorting swearing noise arose, saying "Sweep the glass from your helmet!" A ghost of Ker, like an outraged lawyer, blustered on behind me. The woman's eyes followed mine to rest upon the imaginary ghost of Ker. The urgan ghost raved on, "No huma piglet here roam about without guard! Insane no take her in hand—" The woman's emerald-green eyes looked right at my daydream of Ker and laid a hand on the driver's shoulder. "Ben, I don't rightly think she can. Let us take her." "You and your ideas, Corielle!" Ben shuddered sarcastically. "Ya know how the constabulary feels about—what do they call it, kind-napping?" "We can find her parents later. If the urgans find us, you will wish they were lawmen." "I don't know. I sleep better after slaying urga men than dusting up constables. Besides, how many raiders have you even seen in these parts?" She eyed Ker's pacing. "I've a feeling, if we but wait too long, we shall tonight." The little man scratched the bald spot beneath his hat and sighed. "Can't leave her, I'll warrant. Little girl, why do you travel alone?" As I shook, my cleaver slipped further down my shirt. I opened my mouth to speak, but even the whine wouldn't come. Ben stared at me. My face burned; an eleven-summers-old freeman should be able to answer a simple question. I looked at my feet. "That settles it, then." Ben reached out his hand. "If she'd anywhere to go, suren she would be there. Get up here, little one." Eager for the warm softness of his spirit and his touch, I took his hand and climbed up. He laid a blanket on me and brushed the hair out of my eyes. "We'll be going nowhere until you tell us why you travel alone." Please, Ben! Don't… I can't. If he knew what I had done–how I had betrayed my family for my own safety? My heel beat against the seat of the wagon. "She will answer your questions later." Corielle grabbed her shirt and shook it like it meant something. "For now, she's under my aegis." "You canna grant sanctuary here, Corielle." Ben shook his head. "Nay, the human's donna count your God's home among the rightful churches." "Perhaps not, but my word will turn the lawmen away from you." "Eh, that it will. Till I try to help ya." With a smirk, he shook his finger at her. "This will be trouble, you know." She matched his smile and tugged the reins in his hand. "That's what we come for, is it not?" The horses jerked us forward. "That we do. And she's a sweet little human." He winked at me and ruffled my hair. "Sure and she'll be no trouble at all." *** Finding our way between the paths, we drove as long as the sun hung overhead. When the sky burned orange, Ben pulled the horses to a stop beneath the violet leaves of the fey elm. He grabbed a block of wood, placed a steel drum on it, and poured wood chips into that. He took a twig of wood with a red tip and scraped it against the edge of the fire drum until it lit up like a candle. Not really belonging, I crouched back and hid among their things. "Going to sit up there all night?" Corielle held out her hand. I took Corielle's willowy hand and jumped down, then tried to warm myself against the barrel as she grabbed a few more things. The fire rose only halfway up the black-oiled barrel. I frowned. The metal would hide the fire from the eyes of bandits, useful in human lands, but monsters could see the heat. I considered dashing their fire into the dirt, and reached out to touch the rim of the barrel. Cold as Wilt's Creek in the harvest festival. With a hopeful grin I palmed the metal and lowered my hand to the level of the fire, then to the base. Every inch as cold as the first. I laughed and sighed in relief. Some magic held the heat of the fire away from the hungry eyes of the night. My new friends prepared better than I dared imagine. Looking back at them watching me, I wondered if they had met Mom and Dad. Corielle took a bag that opened with a whoosh and poured its contents into a cone of metal. Gripping the pan by a spot of black paint. she held it over the fire, looking at me intently. As we shared that moment, I felt myself desiring to know her story. Ben grabbed a stringed instrument from the side of the wagon. He strummed it a few times before settling against some mushrooms growing under the tree. The lyre rested against his knee as the music massaged the aching bits of the world. Corielle brushed my shoulder. "At ease, little warrior. Sit. Enjoy the music." Her healing touch soothed me more than the contact of a friend, but, wanting to stay by the fire, I shook my head. At last, when everything felt normal, Ben sang the story of Erinos in the afterlife. He had fled to the Great Maze Beyond, where wicked men go to hide. He wandered for many years, fleeing each time he saw a face he recognized. The painted walls spoke to Erinos of his life, of kindness and thievery, bravery and betrayal. Each day he grew more tired, but cowardice and hope drove him deeper into the dank, disheartening maze. One day he met with Medregor, who had known him best in life. "I can run no longer," Erinos confessed. The heaviness in his heart spilled out over his arms and legs, and he fell to his knees. "Of all who I wronged, you above all deserve your vengeance. Should be you who captures me." Medregor smiled and opened his arms. "Thoughts of vengeance belong in the world of the living. I have come to take you home." Finally free, Medregor and Erinos clasped hands and took to the sky. With that final line, Ben raised his eyebrows. It had been a question he meant for me to answer. I heard his question as clearly as if he had yelled it. "Why don't you want to go home?" Kneeling before me, Corielle brushed strands of straw-white hair out of my eyes and waited. In that moment, I stood in the kitchen, looking back into Ker's dead eyes; watching Ker slaughter my Aunt and Uncle. I stood silently screaming at Myrrha to take out Korog. I screamed at myself to ignore that cursed note Myrrha wrote and deliver my message. All of that came out at once, in a babbling whine. Her eyes smiled at me, even as her lips trembled in pain. She touched my shoulder and whispered, "Ayashi Cayun." With that prayer, a cool white fog blurred the daymares and grew with each breath until all I could remember was the emerald depths of Corielle's eyes. I looked deep into her eyes, wanting terribly to hug her–to soothe away all her pain. She broke eye contact, looking down at my tapping toe. "All wounds heal, little warrior." Time yielded for us. At last, Corielle looked back to Ben. "This closes the matter. She comes with us." "You do love trouble, do you not?" "I am trouble." She turned and grinned at him. "You that aim to marry it." Just then, the clacking and howling began. Not Ker's or Korog's men, but another band. They roared at everything they feared, daring it to test them. Hoping to hide, I scrambled into the back of the wagon. Ben stowed his instrument and drew a small sword strong enough to punch through the rusted armor of an urgan. Corielle grabbed a sinewy staff. Strong to deflect a blade and thin to whip through flesh, it would snap at the first strike of an urgan ax and bounce off all but ruined iron. Thus armed, my two rescuers held their heads high as they scanned the night for their enemies. In that ruined world, their courage told me they hoped to join people lost in battle. Old enough, I too saw no reason left to live. Facing death with friends seemed better. I gritted my teeth and nodded at the falling darkness. To my surprise, one of the urga yelled in Krolesh, "Hail Thorga! Shatter well tonight. Resist, and we roast your cores!" Ben, his blade raised high, scoffed. "I would love to see you try!" "Thorga not love this!" The speaker lowered his spear and charged at Ben. Ben stood like a scarecrow, tabard flapping in the wind. At the last instant, he slipped to the side, the point of the spear dulling itself at his breastplate. Then he pulled the sword down, hacking the upper arm plate on the downstroke, striking the other side on the upstroke, and slashing under the armpit as the spearman stumbled by. As he went by, Ben kicked him in the ankle, sending him stumbling. Corielle joined in with a stroke to his nose and then to the back of his knee, knocking him to the ground. He planted his spear with his off hand and struggled up by pulling on it. Green blood running down his arm, he limped back into the fight. Corielle knocked his spear aside and bashed his head with a swing of the quarterstaff, breaking his neck even before Ben slashed his throat. "Bet you can't do that again," chuckled the two urgan revelers a line back, as the next three marched up to fight. Corielle ducked the ax. Spinning her staff, she struck two urgan helmets. Ben struck the nearest in the bare ribs with his sword as they fell. Ben nodded behind Corielle, indicating a wounded spearman trying to sneak up on her. She glanced back. A swift kick to the spearman's knee bent it backward and laid him out in time for her to catch an ax headed for her head. She didn't try to stop it but raised the staff up to catch it under the blade. The ax handle struck her shoulder. Corielle yanked the ax head, slipping it in his grip. He still had one hand on the tip of the handle, but not enough to raise it. She crushed his toes and knocked his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling away from his ax. A few more strokes ended his interest in breath and battle alike. A large dark urgan snorted, "I'd no idea they were so thorgabent. I'd have killed them myself." "TeeHa," a pale one laughed, smacking the first and beating his blade against a rock to prove it. "You'd have died trying." "Save the piglet for last," another barked. "Make the best stew." "If you're not too scared to end up in their pot. Thorga make good show. Hope they keep going long enough for me to test them." "You'll end up in my pot if you don't shake the glass out of your helmet." Fierce and disciplined, Ben and Corielle didn't miss a beat. I took comfort in the idea that they did not speak urgan. I liked to think the sound of foreign babble covered over the foulness of thought in the urgan raving. Hope flared like mad, warring against the sight of the urgans marching in ever-increasing numbers as I watched my heroes. Ben and Corielle fought like badgers. Their weapons struck deep twice for every wild swing they dodged or glancing blow they deflected. The urgans huddled round for the show, for the taste of danger in this sick arena they had formed; they had no use for a sure victory. Even if they had, the urgans in front would cover Ben and Corielle from the larger mass of battle. That number would hardly push an elite pair of gladiators to their breaking point.. The night might not hold so many that Ben and Corielle would be outnumbered, I guessed; but the morning? Or the afternoon? Where one pig-face could be seen, the night hinted at a hundred more. If luck did not turn against my friends, their own weight would drag them down. As each dead urgan got kicked aside, the bright star of hope flickered and petered out. As it did, a new fire flared beneath my ribs. This hiding, like a rat in the rafters, grew thin. These hard men did not know us; they would soon search the camp for loot to destroy. Hiding among pots and blankets made little sense. I needed to make my voice heard, to howl at the dying of the light. My legs and arms, quivering rags, would be useless. As I crawled forward, I accepted the loss of my body. When all is shattered, and you can imagine no further harm, you can do anything–no matter how insane. A mood came into my throat like burning smoke, white in the chill air. Into my mind and breast came Ker, king among beast-men, entitled to a voice that made men tremble—even inside my delicate frame. I raised my hands, open, to get their attention. I wanted them to hear my disgust as only he could say it. I spoke from the heart, but a heart turned urgan, and the depths of my lungs, "Tho! Mek medkek. Ha mek thorgabent!" Roughly, I taunted them thus: "Fools, listen like steel on the forge. I will make you thorgabent!" I could hold the stance no longer. The boldness of my words threatened to cut me in half, and I cackled like a homeless preacher ranting in the city streets. Pig mouths agape, the urgans stared in silence. Ben and Corielle seized the moment to drop several more of our assailants before any of them moved. "Mad piglet," an urgan swordsman grunted at me. "I'll not–" Ben punched his throat with the butt of his sword. "Rule-changer!" another cried, assuming that only as a sorcerer could I dare threaten them, before running in terror. "She'll burn us all!" Ben's sword slashed two more. Corielle broke another's neck. When Ben's latest victim hit the sand, another Urgan dropped his ax and ran. The battle inside me grew and swallowed my mind. Laughter like a giant snake squeezed my chest until, gasping for breath, I fell. Arms reached under my ribs and grabbed me, the last thing I remember. ** ** ** Next thing I knew, my head rested in a lap as the wagon gently rocked me awake. I looked up to see Corielle smile as we rode toward the sunrise. The marble walls of Balthispeare rose to greet us, even as we looked upon the far distant, glistening-glass towers of the ruined Amerik city in the urgan mountains. A crystal statue of Medusa, Sorcerer-queen of Balthispeare, gazed down upon us, hair dancing like serpents. As her judging shadow fell over us, the nightmare echoed in my memory. The wedge I had driven between Old Man Wolf and my aunt and uncle. The curse that fell over them because of my missions. The warnings I had failed to deliver. The justice I had refused to deliver. I covered my eyes, but the images wouldn't stop. Further back, to the last days I had seen mother and father. I had fallen ill, and Father Highly's prayer had been able to do nothing but comfort me, to lift my spirit from my body. The illness had gotten so bad I had not been able to comfort Mother, to answer Father–to talk, or even move–when finally the Old Man Wolf had come to drag me from the sky gates. The thought of my broken and dying six-summers-old body on the bed showed me that little Sigrun had deserved all she needed from Mother, had deserved more than any mother had to give. That's what had made Mother and Father flee my sick bed and run to the mountains, to choose war over parenthood. Crazy-brave my family was, but nobody should ever be that brave. Death comes for everybody; as warriors, that knowing sets us free. But as parents, knowing that their daughter could die–that perhaps, their Sigrun had already died–cut into Mother and Father like a bedsheet of thorns, forcing them to desert. They had that right. Given the choice, I would charge down the stairs and face Korog and Ker empty-handed. If they meant to destroy life then, out of sheer, pig-headed selfishness, I would demand they destroy me first. How fervently I begged for that chance. With that prayer denied, to prevent a torture greater than my eleven-summers-old heart had ever before imagined, I planned the only thing I could: to desert my new friends. When the shadows of the statue and the arches passed, and our wheels skittered over the cobblestones of Balthispeare, I squirmed and stole myself from their possession. Like a purse in a crowded alley, I fell to the street where the crowd hid me away. In two hoofbeats, I heard Ben calling for the little girl that had faced destiny's test with them only the night before. In two more, Corielle cried out for me as well. So long as the monsters of the pixie world sought to avenge themselves on me, this is how it had to be. I must walk alone so the destruction that followed in my shadow could pass over my friends. Let them rip my body to shreds. Let them feast upon my soaring spirit. I could feel safe in the jaws of a rabid wolf, for my heart traveled with Ben and Corielle. I pulled at my collar, as if I could hide my hair beneath it, and slunk into whatever shadows I could find, moving as far away from their open arms as I could. *** Dust and mildew ruled the hungry alleys of Balthispeare. The barrenness burned at my stomach, and the shadows swallowed me whole. In one deserted alley crawling with rats and the ratspiders that ate them, I found a broken crate where a girl could hide. When I could not bear to keep my head away from the cobblestones for much longer, I curled up in the box and buried my eyes in my elbows. When I awoke, rain had washed away the tears and the green blood on my feet. My soaked clothes clung to my chilled frame as the wind cut through my defenses. Feeling vulnerable and lonely, I pulled my cleaver from my shirt, nicking myself. A tiny orb of blood blessed the blade. That was the edge that Myrrha buried in Ker's shoulder. Suppose that makes me blood-sister to Ker. If the things Korog did to our minds had not bound us already. I stared at this kitchen tool. My stomach rumbled. The smoldering gloom beneath my ribs had outgrown my body when at long last, I began to look at the ratspiders as food. Black, fuzzy, and as large as Ker's right hand, the violet ratspiders in the country had been a good meal, sweet and slightly intoxicating. Here, the violets had been hunted almost to extinction. These smaller reds that hunted my alley would leave a bitter aftertaste and a pain in the gut, or so I'd been taught. For the determined survivalist, however, the smallest portions would maintain strength. I checked the alley from end to end in hopes that I might find a stubborn surviving violet. Aching for better prey, glowering in frustration, I crouched at the edge of the shadows. "Don't hurt me!" A plump young man in a light blue coat carried a fat chicken leg. His eyes stared at my cleaver, and his hand shook. I simply looked at him, with a question in my eyes. He threw his chicken to me. "I'm sorry. It's okay. You can—you know—you can have it." My heart leaped with joy as I lunged to catch the food, then I met his eyes. He gave me a sad look, and blushed. My heart fell. The boy saw the bloodsister of Ker, a monster who would take whatever she wanted. I couldn't do anything about the beast inside, but her actions, I could control. My face burned and I glowered in frustration. "Hey, no! That's not right." He jumped at my outburst, turned and ran. Even as I gave chase, my throat clenched against the words I needed to say. The stitching in Oliver's suit probably took a month. The fabric was smoother than the Duke of Westwood wore when passing through to visit court. The glass things on his eyes would fetch quite a price as well. Oliver hadn't missed any meals–he could afford to share–but still. "This, it's yours." He slowed down. "Really? Why do you have your kitchen ax out?" "Hungry. Hunting spiders." I held out his chicken. He stared at my cleaver. "Why give it back?" "It isn't right, robbing." He reached from as far away as he could stand. "Oh, um. Yes, that makes sense." He snatched his treat and ran as fast as he could. I whined as I licked my fingers. Really wouldn't hurt him. I put my cleaver under my belt. Trying to make myself look small, I walked toward my rotten wooden crate. "Heard what you told Oliver. Noble." This fat bully strutted at me, leather armor flopping loose, useless. His club had been ripped from a table. He licked his lips as he eyed my cleaver. "But if robbing ain't right, kid, you won't be needing that ax." I stifled my amusement at these boys' use of language. I faced many dilemmas in life, and this was not one of them. Sure, he stood a head taller than me and weighed twice as much, but his gaze barely met me. Instead, he worked at keeping his chin up and puffing out his chest. His hands had scars from when he had tried to train himself, but his face and shoulders remained smooth as the rich boy's: this boy had no experience with people who fight back. Since warriors don't cut up peasants, and I had run out of table legs, I patted him as I ran past, saying, "Oh, yes, I will!" He watched me run out of chasing range before he even twitched. His stubby legs churned after me for a stone's throw, but useless muscle strained to move ill-gotten fat. "Yeah, well! Take your precious ax. Better not see you round here. Thump you one for running!" ****** Having escaped battle and found my way back to my alley, I hunted the ratspiders. For the twentieth time at least, I struck at the ratspider. The thing leaped out of my way. The attack pulled my arm only to dull my blade on the sandy material of the wall. Tired and achy, I preferred to starve on my back than die of a broken skull from my collapse on the cobblestones. Fatigue and hunger drove me to sit down, then lay back against the wall. The rats came nearer, crawled on my toes, unafraid. One black and white one reminded me of a puppy, the orphan puppy the pixies had led me to rescue from the side of the road. We looked at one another for a long moment. Then I saw my quarry: a huge ratspider, two hands across, crawled above me, intending to have my new friend for lunch. Vog's oath of vengeance flashed through my mind as my eyes opened wide as my eyebrows clenched together. That spider carried a bit of Korog. Despite my failure, I knew how to wield a blade. I changed Vog's oath in form, though not in spirit. I will stop you, by any means, no matter the cost. My blade flew true, sliced off three of the spider's legs. As the three legs fell, the thing scurried up out of reach. I frowned after it. Had it been doing anything different from me? Had I been any better than the Wolf, or Ker, even Korog? More than anything, it hurt that there seemed to be no authority, not even a lackluster watchman, to hear my grievance. I put my head in my hands for a moment before resolving to cook my meal. The three legs rolled out beside me. With a disgusted sigh, I balanced the cleaver like a skillet over the fire. The ratspider meat shrank inside the shell. When it changed from red to a revolting gray, I swallowed all of the pieces, even the shell. Pain in my stomach made me want to spit it up, but the hunger kept it down. "Stupid kid! Can't be starting fires." A man in dark blue dress clothes stood over me and stamped the fire out, smiling at me by force of will. I'd seen his uniform before, clearly a watchman. I left as fast as I could. The more I tried to skitter away, the heavier became the eerie calm, slowing me like a ball and chain. Fortunately, he didn't chase. "Right, get on out of here, varmint." ** ** ** I spied an abandoned wood-and-stone balcony overlooking the seedy market square. When I scrambled up the wall, I could see dust and leaves. Only birds had been there. I swept together pebbles on which to cook my latest kill, the foulest ratspider meat I could find. As I started the fire and sweated the meal down, it seemed fitting that a castoff deserter like me should eat like that. In truth, the meals weren't the only thing sickening me. Every time I relaxed, the question of Mack and Ker's battle nagged at me. So, I trained my mind to watch and listen to the street. Everyone moved too fast, and their faces scowled too much, for me to dare approach. I guessed they didn't even realize that things should be any different and took to the business of looking after themselves. Either way, they had no time for the likes of me. As my meal cut into me, I watched the flow of people like growling sheep running to and fro. Oliver walked past, squinting at one of his scrolls and muttering under his breath. Across the way, the sad blond boy they called Dust watched Oliver and muttered, looking on occasion to a spot beside him, as though speaking to the ghosts of his own tragedy. Too far away, neither the sound nor the shape of his words reached me, but I felt the cold sense of satisfaction in his plans. People would get what they deserved, and they would not enjoy that. A fire-haired elf haunted him. No more real than the ghost of Mack, she ranted, shaking her head, waving her finger. Nobody seemed to notice that we lived in a broken world, except Dust. I couldn't account for my feeling that, if anybody understood my anguish, Dust not only knew: he planned to do something, too. When at last, the fat, rich boy returned, he carried a large stick of perfectly-roasted meat in sauces that would make even the worst ratspider taste good. He kept mumbling at his stupid scroll and never looked up. Dust walked out of the crowd, slowly stalking him. I fumbled in my mind; what had been his name? "Hey, dumb kid, with the scroll! You're making it too easy. Run, Oliver. Run!" The fool boy dropped his scroll and looked up. Dust grabbed the kebab like a falcon gliding by. "Thanks, dumb girl!" The taint of robbery stunk. I had done it again, in reverse; spoke up when the time called for silence. I didn't want the blame for this, but who else? It no longer mattered if they could help or not; somebody had to be at fault for these things going wrong, for Mack and for Oliver. I ducked down, banged the back of my head against the wall. "Thanks," the sly, velvet voice of Dust called from the street below. Not long after, Dust peeked over the wall behind me. "Great assist, but I already had him." "Didn't have to steal, you know. It ain't right, robbing." "Collen told me all about that, dumb girl. Says you owe him a meat cleaver." I looked at him, hanging over my wall with both hands, and shrugged. "Tell you what ain't right." Dust's eyes sparkled. "Rich boys walking about like they own everything." I looked about his head; no black smoke halo. The hate belonged to him. "He didn't need that," Dust complained. "I did." "There's ways to survive, Dust. You didn't have to." "Didn't have to butt in where you don't belong. That's what ain't right." Didn't I have the right to speak up? I cringed and swallowed my answer. He smiled down on me. "That's my place out there, but there's room for you." As a chess piece in your sick game? I shrugged "Need kids like you. I could cut you in." "I take care of myself." Despite hanging there, he managed to shrug. "My plans are bigger than a few street grabs." Life already made me too much like Ker. "I said, 'no.'" "No problem, dumb girl. Stay out of my business." I shrugged, leaning back again. "No promises." "Promises might be all you have." He slid down, then released. "So, watch yourself." I had let him steal my voice, then failed even to complain. Sadness and despair bled the life from me. I felt my eyelids droop and let my chin roll to my shoulder. *** *** *** Ker and Mack's heads stood on separate tines of the pitchfork outside Korog's camp. The dreamworld jumbled it, but I didn't care: I seized my chance. "What happened? Why didn't anybody come? Whose job was it to make sure things went right?" Ker huffed. "It did. When man is foolish and weak, he die. Life meant for those who can survive." "No, that's not right!" Stamping my feet like a right-spoiled noble girl, I asked the men again: "When something's important, you protect it. Whose job is that? Who do I blame for you dying? You couldn't stop it; neither could Ker. So, who?" "Oh, Sigrun." Mack looked at me with that fatherly look men get when they want to lie to their precious children. "Don't you see? You should not ask that." "It's all I have, this quest, this question. I have to know before it eats me alive." "Like your friend, Dust?" He shook his head. "I know it's hurting you. Don't you see, that's why you have to stop." He sounded more like my pixies than like Mack. Had he really been with them, been training in the clouds beyond the white gate? "I don't understand. What can I do?" As if in answer, stones bounced onto my face. The first one erased the dream. Each one hit harder. "Hey, Watch Girl, wake up." "What?!" I banged my head against the wall as I woke. Dust clung to the side of my balcony, looking down at me from behind my left shoulder. Like the red, horned man in mother's books–an outsider?–I think he meant to be unassuming, with only a little bit of the creepy. I finished, "-is your problem?" "If I read you right, I've got the cure for what ails you." He paused. What nonsense did Dust have in mind? I rolled my eyes and shook my head. "If you really want to protect Oliver–protect us all–follow me." Find out what Dust had planned for me: "Section 3: The Change You Wish to See"  |
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