Deep Magic. Fourth Collection

22,000 words

Chapter 1

“YOU’RE GOING TO get us killed, Ferrin, or worse—captured.”

Ferrin smiled. His twin sister, Myriah, had always held a flare for the dramatic. He shook his mop of red hair out of the way, loose beads of sweat scattering as he landed another hard swing of his mallet on the anvil. The rhythm of each stroke was a song to which he could pair his heart, the beats as steady as the life pumping through his veins.

His smithy was a humble affair. A large kiln sat at the back, taking up nearly a quarter of his workspace. Its hearth glowed with fresh coals, the heat a familiar comfort that Ferrin found invigorating. Next to the kiln was a cooling tank, rung with a variety of tongs, hammers, and swages. Covering every inch of the stone walls were racks of tools and molds. Pieces of metal of all shapes and sizes lay in what might seem haphazard piles on the floor, but each pile was organized by type, future use, and amount of time required to forge.

In front of Ferrin sat a stone pedestal, roughly one foot in height. On top, an anvil, holding a long strip of metal he had been preparing for one of Rhowynn’s nobility. It was to be a gift for their grandson. His first sword. Ferrin thought it rather silly, considering the boy was only three, but as long as their gold was good, a contract was a contract.

“Are you listening to me?” Myriah asked.

Ferrin could practically hear her arms folding. He grunted. He had no intention of stopping for another one of their heated debates concerning his use of magic. The rumors of the Black Watch being spotted crossing into Keldor had many on edge, his sister included. The White Tower’s reach was growing. This new Archchancellor seemed to be on a personal mission to purge the five kingdoms of every last wielder.

“Well?”

Ferrin remained silent. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a good verbal joust with his sister, but he was too deep within the flow of his transferal to offer a proper rebuttal. Besides, an argument at this point would only end in defeat. She was right, after all. The magic coursed through him, its heat as strong as the forge he used. It started in his stomach and worked its way up and out through his arms and hands. The magic required his full attention.

“You’re using it again, aren’t you? I can always tell, you know.” She slowly moved her hand in front of her face. “The air . . . it tingles.” His sister had no magic of her own, but she could sense his. Ferrin didn’t know if it had something to do with their being twins. “Take the transferal off before someone catches you. I don’t plan on spending the rest of my life in the White Tower because of your carelessness.”

Ferrin continued swinging as he counted down. Five . . . Four . . .

“Ferrin!” His name was followed with a hard foot stomp.

He stopped mid-swing, his mallet still hanging in the air. Didn’t make it to three this time. Slowly, he lowered the hammer to his waist and turned around. He used the countdowns to judge his sister’s mood, how far he could push without getting into too much trouble. If he could count all the way to one, then he didn’t have anything to worry about. Four meant you better stop and listen, and Five . . . Well, last time he’d seen a Five, he had to duck a flying tong.

His sister stood just inside the doorway, tapping her foot on one of the wooden steps leading down into his shop. Having his smithy connected to their home was a convenience, but there were times he wished she would allow him to install a proper lock on his side.

“I heard you the first time,” he said.

“You need to do more than hear me. You need to stop.”

Myriah scowled at him. Her long red hair was tied back, which meant she was either about to start or had just finished cleaning. She took his acknowledgment of her presence as a small victory and carefully worked her way across the room.

Ferrin propped his hammer on the anvil and took a deep breath. He could feel the heat draining from his body. It wasn’t a heat that stemmed from an emotional trigger like love, or desire, or even rage. It was a different kind of heat, one that burned from the inside out. It rose from the depths of his soul. It was part of him.

Magic, his uncle had called it, right before selling him to an old peddler to keep the wrath of the White Tower away from his home. His uncle wasn’t a bad man, just not very brave.

Ferrin didn’t understand why everyone was so terrified of magic. He loved the way it felt.

“Take it off, Ferrin. You know you don’t need the crystal to make a quality blade. You’re a skilled swordsmith. None of the other smithies have to resort to magic to meet their orders; neither should you.”

Ferrin fingered the silver chain around his neck. He could feel the small stone resting against his chest under his sweat-soaked tunic.

“The other smithies aren’t located in Southside. The most we can hope for is the occasional farmer whose sickles need a new peening before harvest. We wouldn’t have survived last year if I hadn’t found a way to attract the right sort of clientele—”

“Your attraction is what worries me,” Myriah said, arms crossed. “You’ve already ostracized yourself from most of the merchant guild. Your ability has made you an open target. How long do you think it’ll be before the other smiths demand your secrets?”

Ferrin mulled over her concerns. The two of them had always managed to scrape by, but times were getting harder. Customers were waiting longer between sharpenings, and his less-wealthy patrons were opting to make do with old equipment.

He had decided not to tell Myriah how bad their finances had gotten, because he didn’t want her to worry. She had enough to deal with keeping up with the household and him. She didn’t need the added knowledge that they might lose the smithy, too. That was why he had resorted to using magic.

At first, it was for simple things like adding a small flourish, or a finer edge, when coming up on a hard deadline. Those simple uses, however, quickly turned into more. Pretty soon, there wasn’t a single piece of metal passing through his shop that hadn’t had some form of magic added to it in the process.

It was those same magic-infused weapons that had earned him a commission by the High King himself. It was also that very commission that had sealed his fate with the merchant guild. Apparently, the older, more-established smithies didn’t appreciate having some young upstart steal the work right out from under their noses. The sad thing was that even without the magic, he was still twice the smith they could ever hope to be.

In the end, he only had one excuse to offer. “We needed the money.”

Myriah grunted. “We don’t need it that badly. I can always find some more work—”

“You already have a job.”

“I can find another. Delana has been asking me to come help her in their shop. I can do that in the evenings and—”

“No.” Ferrin struck the anvil with the top of his hammer, just missing the piece of metal on top. “The gold I made from the king’s commission will get us through the rest of the year. You have enough to worry about with Lord and Lady Resdin’s children to go looking for more work.”

Even with their occasional bickering, Ferrin loved his sister. They were inseparable. He could still remember her walking into Pinon’s camp two days after Ferrin had been sold to the peddler. Myriah had left home with nothing more than the clothes on her back and her favorite dolly. The thought of being separated from her brother was more than she could bear.

Ferrin smiled and removed the chain from his neck. If his sister was willing enough to look for another job on top of all her other responsibilities, he guessed he could be willing to work without his magic. He held the transferal out between them and watched as the small crystal on the end swung back and forth, reflecting the light of his kiln’s fire.

“As soon as I finish these last two pieces, I’ll stop using it, if that’s what you want.” He still had immediate deadlines that wouldn’t be met if he quit right on the spot.

She smiled, then walked over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best big brother a girl could ever hope to have.”

“We’re twins. For all we know, you could be older.”

“Yeah, but you’re definitely bigger,” she said, emphasizing the point by standing on her tiptoes to look him in the eyes. “Unfortunately, bigger doesn’t always mean smarter.” She chuckled and headed for the door, a victorious spring in her step.

“Don’t forget today’s Sixthday,” she called back to him. “You look like you have about three layers of silt to wash off before tonight, not to mention the smell.” Myriah pinched her nose and made a face, then closed the door behind her.

It was Sixthday already? Ferrin glanced at the cooling piece of steel on his anvil and shrugged. The work could wait. He lifted one of the buckets of water used for quenching and doused the coals. They hissed and released a thick blanket of steam into the air. If only he had a bar of soap handy, he could have nearly washed from the moisture.

Somehow, he doubted Myriah would have been happy with him if he had.

Chapter 2

THE SUN WAS slipping behind the peaks of the Northern Heights, leaving the sky a wash of burgundy and peach as Ferrin locked the front door to their home. He tested the handle to make sure it was secure, then placed the key back inside the pocket of his vest and patted it with his hand. He offered Myriah his arm and they started up the street.

As much as he loved the pervasive heat of his smithy, Ferrin also found the slight chill associated with the late autumn months exhilarating. The constant breeze coming in off Lake Baeron kept the air fresh. A blessing when you happened to live in Southside.

The cold never seemed to bother Ferrin. He had always wondered if his magic had something to do with it. Myriah, on the other hand, pulled her cloak up around her shoulders and pinched off the opening at the top.

Windows in the buildings they passed sent a trail of warm light across the cobbled street. People moved with anxious haste as they made their way home after another grueling day of work. They weren’t the only ones. Myriah was all but jerking his arm for them to hurry. Despite his size, his sister had no problem leading him along.

The last thing Ferrin wanted was to get there any sooner than he had to, especially after the last meeting. He never had been one for socializing. His sister, on the other hand, relished the small get-togethers the Rhowynn Wielder Council hosted every third Sixthday. She herself wasn’t a wielder, but because of her close relationship with her brother, she was treated as family. Some of the other council members brought their husbands and wives as well.

Ferrin would just as soon sit at home and enjoy a quiet evening around the fire with a good book than spend it pretending that he cared about the rest of the others’ daily lives. There was nothing quite so insufferable as to endure the company of a group of frightened wielders as they fretted over tough times and the possibility of being discovered. Worse yet was losing his hard-earned coin to Elson, who Ferrin was quite sure cheated at batmyth.

Then again, it wasn’t for himself that he suffered through these dinner parties. It was for Myriah. Her devotion to him afforded her little in the way of companionship. She had never married, though not for a lack of suitors. She was quite beautiful. That red hair of hers made her stand out, but she always seemed to find an excuse to turn gentleman callers down. Ferrin had a feeling it was more to protect his secret than anything. So, for better or worse, he would endure these monthly outings if for no other reason than to partially assuage his guilt at keeping his sister from true love, if there was such a thing.

Ferrin followed the streetlights toward the northeast side of the city, near the lake. Unfortunately, the lamplighters had only made it as far as Delwin as they slowly worked their way in the same direction, leaving Ferrin and Myriah to navigate the rest of their way by the light of the quickly setting sun. Crossing Telvis, they took the next street up and followed it for about a quarter of a mile, passing many of the wealthier estates on Pree Lane.

The residents in this part of the city enjoyed a much higher standard of living than what Ferrin and Myriah were acquainted with. It was no doubt the reason why their home in the southern district was never volunteered for the monthly get-togethers. It was also another reason why Ferrin had been so insistent on using his ability to further his commissions. He wanted to move his business into a more prominent district.

“I see the way you look at these homes every time we pass,” Myriah said, an upbraided edge to her voice.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, unless those desires lead you to making foolish decisions.” She squeezed his arm.

Ferrin huffed. His sister knew him too well. Even during his younger years, he had always felt a certain amount of embarrassment at being raised by a peddler. When Ferrin was old enough, Pinon had used what savings he had tucked away for his old age to purchase Ferrin an apprenticeship with a Rhowynn smithy named Ryneer. Ferrin had taken to the work like a fox to a jack rabbit. His magic fueled his desire to shape the metal, his eagerness leaving even his instructor a little bewildered.

Under Ryneer’s careful instruction, Ferrin soon became a top smith in his own right. By the time his former master had retired, Ferrin had saved enough gold to purchase the man’s business. Doing so gave Ferrin the opportunity to pay Pinon back for what he had given up for his education and trade. With the establishment of the new smithy, Pinon retired from peddling and lived there with the two of them until his death about six years back. He might not have been their real father, but he was as much a father as they could have ever expected.

“I like our place in Southside,” she said. “It more than meets our needs.”

“But wouldn’t you want to live in one of these if you could?” he asked, pointing to the row of three- and four-story mansions with manicured lawns and gated walls.

His sister shrugged. “Too much work to keep clean.”

Ferrin shook his head. “If we could afford a home on Pree Lane, we could afford a staff to clean it.”

“And what about your smithy? You couldn’t very well set up a shop in the front lawn.” She laughed. “Can you imagine what the neighbors would say?”

Ferrin chuckled at the thought of his well-to-do neighbors being rousted every morning to the sound of his hammering.

Myriah tugged on his arm to let him know they had arrived. He sighed and led them up the walkway to the front door.

Ferrin lifted the brass knocker, but before he struck the plate, he ran his thumb across the surface. Using a small amount of magic, he smoothed out the indentation that had developed from the knocker’s extended use. Satisfied with his work, he struck the plate three times.

He cast a sidelong glance at Myriah and smiled.

She glowered.

They didn’t have to wait long before a peek opened just above the knocker, allowing those inside to see who was calling. The peek shut, the lock gave way, and the door opened.

“Myriah! Good of you to make it. We were beginning to wonder if we were to have the pleasure of your company this evening.” Lord Harlin turned to Ferrin and his jovial demeanor slipped. “Ferrin.”

“Harlin.” Ferrin offered a polite smile to their colorfully dressed host, but the task proved difficult while under the man’s scrutinizing gaze. It was a look that questioned the wisdom of Ferrin’s presence, especially considering his overt refusal to quash his public use of magic during their last gathering.

Harlin was ten years Ferrin’s senior and of average height, which meant he was a good half-head shorter than Ferrin. Harlin adjusted the bright yellow scarf around his neck. It was quite the sharp contrast to the deep blue of his dinner jacket. Ferrin was hard pressed to think of a time when the man wasn’t parading around like a peacock, especially in front of Myriah. Harlin tended to dress a little more colorfully whenever he thought she would be in attendance. More than once, he had requested her to dine with him, and to Ferrin’s relief, she had always refused.

Harlin took a step back. “Please, come in.” He shut and locked the door behind them. “Here, let me take your cloak,” he said to Myriah as he lifted the wrap from her shoulders. He didn’t bother with Ferrin. Ferrin’s going-out attire consisted of a pair of dark leather breeches, a clean shirt, and a faded green vest his sister had purchased for him a few years back. He didn’t wear the vest much, only on special occasions when he was forced to endure the company of others.

“Most everyone is already here,” Harlin said as he pointed down the hall. “They’re in the parlor.”

Harlin offered Myriah his arm before Ferrin got the chance.

Ferrin ground his teeth and followed them down the hall. A thick maroon-and-gold runner ran down the center of the white marble tiles, providing a narrow walkway from one room to the next. They stopped momentarily in the entranceway of the second room on the right, a sign of etiquette to allow those inside to get a look at the new arrivals before entering. It was a sign of silliness, Ferrin thought.

The parlor was brightly lit and, like their host’s clothing, colorfully decorated. The floor had the same white marble as the hall, but the walls had been painted sea green. Ferrin could have fit his entire front room, kitchen, and half his smithy into Harlin’s parlor.

A warm fire crackled in the hearth on the right, something Ferrin would have normally enjoyed spending his time around, but at present, it was already occupied by the women on the council as they attempted to melt the chill from the night air.

The conversation in the room quieted as all eyes drifting in his direction.

Ferrin leaned in to Myriah. “Remind me again why I come to these things?”

Myriah smiled. “Because you love me.”

He sneered. “I must.”

His sister left him to fend for himself while she made her way over to join the other ladies around the hearth. Ferrin decided to sample the table of snacks on the right, meant to hold them over until the meal was served.

Myriah lost no time in getting caught up with the latest gossip while Ferrin stuffed a few baked cheese rolls in his mouth, followed by some spiced punch. He scanned the room for a friendly face and found Elson sitting in the corner with a full deck of cards. There was a batmyth board on the table in front of him, and he appeared to be waiting on an opponent. At the very least, Ferrin knew there was one person who would be willing to share his company, if only to show his aptitude for cheating.

Ferrin stuffed another roll in his mouth and refilled his glass before joining Elson for a few hands. He pulled up a chair on the opposing side of the table. Elson’s dark purple hat hung low over his eyes. It matched his purple-and-black striped jerkin. The hat seemed to be a favorite of his.

Elson smiled and shuffled the cards. “I’m surprised you made it this evening. After last month’s heated discussion, I figured we wouldn’t be seeing you back around so soon, if ever.”

“It’s not by choice, I assure you.”

Elson nodded and spared a quick glance in Myriah’s direction as he divvied out the cards. “Your sister is looking well.”

Elson always seemed to have a knack for picking up on things that others did not. He was very good at reading people, which no doubt lent to his uncanny ability to never lose at batmyth. One of these days, Ferrin was going to figure out how the man was cheating, but for the moment, he was simply glad for the company.

“She is managing. Not an easy task, keeping up with me, I’m sure.”

Elson smiled. It was a shifty sort of smile. In fact, everything Elson did seemed suspicious. He looked at things in a different way from the rest, very calculating. Ferrin figured he would have made a decent military tactician had he ever opted to join the rank and file of a soldier’s life. Given Elson’s excessive fondness for wine and cards, Ferrin doubted he would have lasted very long. Elson didn’t seem like a man who appreciated structure.

“It’s your turn.”

Ferrin glanced at his cards and sighed. It was going to be a long night. He was about to lay out his first set and move his piece on the board when an abrasive voice at the front of the room brought him around. Garreth.

Garreth sneered when he locked eyes with Ferrin. “What’s he doing back?”

Garreth was a carpenter by trade, and Ferrin’s largest rival on the council. Garreth had been very outspoken against Ferrin’s use of magic, claiming his recklessness would see them all locked away.

“Leave it be, Garreth,” Josten said, standing over the refreshment table. There was a slight slur to the shorter man’s words that spoke to the amount of punch he had already consumed. “No need to start the evening with harsh feelings. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of those by the time we’re through.” Josten hiccupped before raising his glass in Garreth’s direction. He quickly drained the contents and turned to refill it.

Josten might have been a borderline drunk, but he had a way with words that few others did. Apart from his overindulgence of strong drink, he would have made a remarkable negotiator. He was shorter than the others, with black hair that hung just above the shoulders, a thin jaw, and a sharp nose that held a pair of thin-framed spectacles that he always seemed to be looking over.

Lord Harlin glanced nervously between Garreth and Ferrin. He always strived to please everyone, but in the process usually ended up pleasing no one. He would have made a terrible negotiator. “I, uh . . . I think I’ll go see how the food is coming along.” Harlin was also a bit of a coward.

Ferrin shook his head and turned back to his game. He caught Elson studying him over his cards. “You got something to say?”

Elson shrugged, acting as though nothing were amiss, and rearranged the cards he was holding.

Behind Ferrin, the ladies’ conversation was picking up once again. He could almost feel Myriah’s eyes on the back of his head.

Ferrin and Elson had managed to make it halfway through the board before Harlin returned from the kitchens. “Dinner is served.”

“It appears luck was on your side this time,” Elson said with a sly wink.

Ferrin sighed and dropped his cards on the table. It was a terrible hand, after all. But as appalling as it was being outmaneuvered at every turn, he would have rather faced an entire evening of losses than endure what was coming next. The thought of sharing a meal under the punitive scowls of his peers was enough to curb his appetite.

Chapter 3

FERRIN WAITED FOR the others to clear the room before following. Myriah met him at the door and took his arm, letting him escort her down the hall and into the dining room, where an elaborate arrangement of tables and chairs had been set for their meal. The tables had been placed end to end to accommodate the twenty-odd members of the wielder council along with a few of their significant others. There were a couple of empty seats around the table where some of the members had not been able to attend.

Each table was gaudily decorated with linen cloths, bouquets of flowers, and candelabras. Harlin always took great care with the settings. Ferrin noticed their host casting furtive glances in their direction from the head of the table. The man was persistent; he’d give him that. Myriah offered a warm smile, which seemed to sate Harlin’s need for her approval, for now.

Thankfully, there were a couple of places open near the end of the tables. Ferrin held Myriah’s chair as she maneuvered her dress to find a comfortable position without rumpling the material. Elson took the chair directly to Ferrin’s right.

After a quick but fervent prayer of thanks to the Creator for the bounty of their feast, Harlin loosened the gold buttons on his dinner jacket and sat down. Ferrin watched with amusement as their host struggled to lift his soup to his mouth without dunking the tassels from his scarf in his bowl.

After trying at least three different variations of getting the spoon to his lips, Harlin finally opted to sling the dangling end over his shoulder with an irritated huff. The frustration on his face quickly changed to embarrassment when he caught Myriah watching as well.

“So, how has work been lately?” Elson asked, momentarily distracting Ferrin from the chorus of slurps coming from the other members making their way through the first course of their meal.

“Steady,” he said, swallowing another mouthful. The soup was quite good—a tomato bisque with garlic, onion, and a touch of lemon. Ferrin tried his best to appear proper as he repetitively lifted his spoon to his lips. He wanted to pick the bowl up and gulp it down. But if he did, he would end up getting an earful from Myriah on their way home about not living in a barn.

Ferrin opted instead to join the others by adding his own exuberant sipping to the mix. It earned him a harsh glare from Myriah. He smiled.

The kitchen staff had barely had time to clear his bowl before bringing out the second course. A glazed pheasant surrounded by steamed vegetables. His stomach grumbled. Maybe the evening wasn’t a total loss.

Small pockets of conversation wound their way around the table as the members finished their meal. Apart from Elson’s goading, no one bothered to include Ferrin in any of the typical banter. He rather preferred it that way. It left him with more time to enjoy his food while it was still warm.

Myriah spent the majority of her meal humoring poor old Mother Luka, as everyone called her. She had a slight gift with plants. Her daughters had been forced to hide her transferal, though, ever since her mind had begun to wander. They had caught her growing a willow tree in the front lawn one evening. They cut it down before their neighbors had woken to find the tree had miraculously appeared overnight.

Once the places were cleared, desserts served, and wineglasses refilled, Lord Harlin stood from his seat at the head of the tables. “Are there any special announcements that need to be made before we begin?”

Ferrin wasn’t sure how their dainty host had managed to garner enough favor from the others to acquire the title of spokesperson. Ferrin hadn’t voted for him. It must have had something to do with the man’s overt desire to please everyone.

Garreth, who was sitting just to Harlin’s left, had tried more than once to position himself as leader, but was rejected each time. Once a year, the Rhowynn Wielder Council took a vote on their spokesperson. So far, Garreth hadn’t managed to claim the honor, mostly due to the secrecy of the voting ballot. As long as no one knew how the others had voted, it kept the members safe from coercion.

Ferrin, too, had never been selected. Of course, he had never been stupid enough to add his name to the list of candidates, not that it would have made much difference. Under the present circumstances, his membership was tenuous at best. If he continued to use his gift in a way that drew attention, he would very likely be banished altogether. He wasn’t completely sure his dismissal wouldn’t be the foremost topic of conversation for the evening.

Harlin scanned the tables. “If there are no special annou—”

“My winter tulips have begun to sprout a full month early.”

All eyes turned to look at Mother Luka.

Harlin smiled in his usual nervous way, apparently not sure whether to ignore the sudden and totally off-topic outburst and move on, or try to placate to the old woman’s whims. “That’s, uh . . . That’s very interesting—”

“They aren’t supposed to bloom this early, you know.” The old woman shook her head. “What if they catch cold?”

“Yes, well, that’s quite the predicament, now, isn’t it? Cold tulips . . . Can’t have that now, can we?”

There were a couple of snickers, but most managed to hold it in and either roll their eyes or, like Myriah, smile politely as they kindly acknowledged the old woman’s dementia. Ferrin’s sister patted the woman’s hand and spoke something in her ear that seemed to calm her down. Myriah was good with those who needed extra attention.

“Right,” Harlin said. “If there’s nothing else, I guess I will officially call this meeting on the third Sixthday of Kùma to order.”

“’Bout time,” Ferrin mumbled, earning him a chuckle from Elson and a stomp on the foot from Myriah.

Harlin removed a small piece of parchment from an inner jacket pocket and unfolded it. “I have two items set for discussion this evening, and then we will open the floor for any general needs you believe should be addressed.”

Ferrin grimaced. It had been this unrestricted forum of opening the floor that had caused the outbreak during their last meeting, ending in shouts.

“First,” Harlin said, “it has been brought to my attention that a few of our members, who will go unnamed, are experiencing some difficulties financially—”

“More than a few, I’d wager,” Doloff said in his ever-cheerful sort of way from the far end of the table, across from Garreth. With the poulter’s acute state of melancholy, the man’s name should have been Doldrums instead of Doloff.

“Yes,” Harlin said, “times have been quite hard this year for many, and with winter setting in, I’m afraid it’s going to get much worse.”

“That seems a mite hypocritical for someone like you to say,” Dask said from his place beside a couple down from Garreth. As a scrivener, Dask’s business had been slowly downsizing over the last few years as more and more people were learning to write for themselves. “You already have enough gold to feed a small army.”

Harlin’s brow tightened. “In the troubling times we live in, no one’s wealth is secure, I assure you.”

“Times are indeed hard,” Ella said. The young woman sitting near the center on the opposite side had a unique talent for soothing nerves. “It’s why I’m very thankful we have each other to lean on.”

No one argued. Not even Doldrums.

Harlin shuffled his feet, clearly anxious to move on. “As I was saying, there are some among us in a very bad way. Coin is always appreciated, but that is not something everyone can easily contribute, as Dask has pointed out. Do we have any suggestions?”

After a moment of silence, Ilene scooted forward in her seat next to Ella and cleared her throat. “It might help if we knew the immediate needs.” The middle-aged woman was a skilled organizer. Having worked as a clerk for one of the larger shipping yards in Rhowynn, she had a gift for taking chaos and turning it into order. “If we knew the items deemed most necessary, we could determine the best course of action. I believe a communal drop would be an effective strategy. We could allocate one of the members’ homes as a place to stockpile food, clothing, or whatever was needed. That way, those in need can make a private withdrawal from there.”

Ferrin had to admit it was a good idea. It was easy to see why the shipping companies were constantly vying for her approval. He had always thought her gift rather odd, but listening to her now, he could see the value in understanding the order of things.

“And I would suggest, Lord Harlin,” she continued, “seeing as how you are the spokesperson and already know the impoverished parties, that your home be set up for this year’s drop point. Perhaps we should add this to the list of responsibilities assigned to each year’s spokesperson.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Harlin said with a sigh of relief. “All in favor of assigning the spokesperson’s residence as a drop-off point for essentials, please make it known by a show of hands.”

Ferrin raised his hand. He certainly didn’t want people showing up at his home. A glance around the room showed the vote was unanimous.

“Excellent. Now on to our last topic of note.” Harlin took a moment to dab his forehead before continuing. “As most of you know by now, Rhowynn is playing host to another squad of our beloved men in white . . . the Black Watch.”

Ferrin leaned forward in his seat. This was the first he’d heard about it. Drat! How was he going to meet his deadlines now?

“We will need to take extra precautions not to stand out during—”

“We aren’t the ones who need reminding,” Garreth said, turning to glare down the table at Ferrin. The others turned as well, all except old Mother Luka, of course. She was too busy trying to hold a conversation with her spoon to take notice.

“There’s only one person here stupid enough to use his magic in public,” Garreth said. He pointed at Ferrin with his spoon. “I’ve said you were trouble from the beginning.”

Now, even Mother Luka turned to look at Ferrin.

Harlin cleared his throat. “Garreth, let’s not get—”

“No.” Ferrin raised his hand. “Let Garreth speak. He’s been holding this in long enough for his face to contort into a permanent pucker. Best to let him get it off his chest before he does himself harm.”

Elson belted out a hard laugh.

Myriah kicked Ferrin’s leg from under the table.

“This is about to get interesting,” Elson said as he reached for his glass. “And here I almost decided to stay home this evening.”

Ferrin gestured for Garreth to continue. “Please, don’t let me stop you. You were saying?”

Garreth’s face reddened. “I say you’re a self-centered son of a faerie who cares more about gold than the safety of this council! Your lust for prestige is going to get us all killed!”

“So, tell us what you really think,” Elson said under his breath.

The problem was, Garreth wasn’t saying anything his sister hadn’t already excoriated him over but with a little more decorum.

Ferrin smiled. “You finished?”

“Not even close. If it were up to me, you’d have been thrown out of here months ago.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Harlin’s voice was on the verge of squeaking. He raised both hands, trying to calm the situation. “This is a peaceful gathering; let’s not turn this—”

Garreth stood from his seat and drew his cudgel from his waist and pointed it at Ferrin. “You’re not going to threaten my life for your own selfish wants. I don’t care if I have to break both your arms to stop you.”

Garreth was proud of his bludgeon, its thickness enhanced by magic. He had a gift with the manipulation of wood. It wasn’t nearly as extensive as Ferrin’s gift with ore, but the strength of his weapon was a testament to his ability. The bludgeon widened outward toward the end, where Garreth had added a few wooden spikes.

Ferrin dropped his napkin on the table and the others quickly vacated, already seeing where this was heading. Myriah grabbed old Mother Luka and dragged her off to the side.

“Don’t hurt him too badly,” Elson said with a smirk as he grabbed his goblet and joined the others.

Ferrin could feel the heat of his magic building inside him. The transferal crystal beneath his shirt was calling it forth. He could sense every piece of metal in the room, from the buckles on Harlin’s shoes to the nails in the wood framing.

He stood and grabbed the candelabra on the table in front of him and released his magic into it. The candelabra twisted in his hand and re-formed. The base rounded and thickened as the arms holding the wax melted and reshaped into a simple cross guard. He grabbed the next candelabra down on his way around to the table and held it against the hilt. The metal merged with the other and stretched into a short double-edged blade. By the time he reached the other side, his gold candelabra sword was complete.

Garreth had fire in his eyes as he lifted his bludgeon and pointed it at Ferrin. “This has been a long time coming.”

Ferrin raised his sword. “You really want to do this here?”

“Someone needs to put you in your place. Might as well be me.”

Ferrin followed the carpenter away from the table as they faced off. He held his sword at the ready, Garreth doing the same with his club. Ferrin ran through the training he’d been given by Pinon as he moved his strong leg back to brace himself for Garreth’s attack. Pinon had at one time been a former captain in the Keldoran Lancers, and he’d taught Ferrin everything he knew.

Ferrin raised the blade and waited for Garreth to make the first move.

Off to their left, someone chuckled.

The sound was so unexpected, both men turned to see who it was. The chuckle quickly turned into laughter. It was old Mother Luka. What was she laughing at? Not that anyone had much of an idea of what she did most of the time.

Suddenly, there was another small outburst on their right, and then one directly behind. Ferrin lowered his arms slowly as the strange phenomenon took over the entire room. Men and women were laughing so hard that some were doubled over, while others gasped for breath. And then the unthinkable happened. Garreth smiled. His smile soon turned into what looked like a fit of coughing as he, too, started to laugh.

Ferrin was speechless, but not for long. A tickling sensation began to crawl up the back of his throat as an overwhelming urge to chuckle had him biting down on his tongue. He fought as hard as he could to hold it in, but it was no use. Not able to hold it back any longer, he felt a croak of amusement leap from his mouth, followed closely by an uncontrollable urge to simply let go with a long, hard roar of laughter. What was happening to him? He placed his hands on his knees as he doubled over under the emotion of it all. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what was so funny.

Just as soon as the strange epidemic started, the chorus quickly faded.

“You see how something as harmless as a laugh can be more powerful than the deadliest of intentions?” Ella said on Ferrin’s right as she took a step away from the wall. Ella was generally a very quiet person, so when she spoke, it was wise to listen. “This is not the way to solve arguments,” she said, both hands resting calmly at her sides. And with that, she stepped back into place alongside the others.

No one spoke. What could you possible say after something like that? Even Garreth seemed to have lost his fire as he hooked his cudgel back at his waist.

Ferrin laid the gold sword on the table and cleared his throat. “I apologize.” He looked at Ella and nodded. He turned and looked at the others. “I know we’ve had this argument before, and as much as can be said for using something we were born with, it has never been my intention to put any of you at risk. I promise to refrain from the use of magic within my work from here on.” He turned back to Garreth. “Is that satisfactory?”

Garreth started to say something, but seeing all the eyes leveled his way, he shut his mouth and simply acknowledged with a nod.

“Excellent,” Lord Harlin declared, his voice noticeably shaking. “It seems we have reached a favorable outcome, and since I don’t believe my home could handle any more festivities this evening, I suggest we adjourn.” He stared at Ferrin for a moment as if weighing something, then turned and left.

Everyone slowly filed out of the dining room, collecting their cloaks before leaving.

“That has to be the most fun I’ve had at one of these events in a long time,” Elson said as he stopped alongside Ferrin and Myriah. He clapped Ferrin on the shoulder. “You definitely know how to liven a party, my friend.”

“I’m glad I could entertain,” Ferrin said. He helped Myriah with her cloak and stepped out into the chilly evening air.

“Until next time.” Elson waved a hand over his shoulder as he headed down the path toward Pree Lane.

Ferrin grimaced. He wasn’t looking forward to their walk home or the scolding he was sure to receive on the way.

Chapter 4

SLEEP WAS A long time coming. Ferrin spent most of the evening pacing the floor of his smithy, trying to determine how he was going to meet his deadlines. The only choice he had was to prioritize the jobs and work night and day to see them completed.

Succumbing to his own lingering need for rest, he blew out the lamps in his shop and headed inside. He climbed the small staircase at the back of the front room and headed down the hall to his bedroom on the second floor.

Other than taking the time to pull off his boots, Ferrin didn’t bother with his clothes before he dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes. He could feel the tug and pull of the ropes beneath his mattress.

He had just drifted off to sleep when a knock on his door pulled him back awake. He lay there a moment in silence, making sure that what he’d heard hadn’t been a lingering figment of whatever dream he had been dragged from. The door to his bedroom squeaked and Ferrin reached for the dagger under his pillow before spinning to the edge of the bed.

Myriah was holding a small candle as she stuck her head in. “Ferrin, I think someone’s at the door.”

“Yeah . . . you, apparently. Unless I’m still dreaming.”

“Not this door, nincompoop. The front door.”

Ferrin shook the cobwebs from his mind and quietly listened. Three knocks in fast succession had him pulling on his boots and heading for the door. He tucked the dagger into the back of his pants on his way down the staircase. His sister was right behind him with the candle holder. Who could be calling on them at this time of night?

Ferrin made his way to the front window and peeked between the closed shutters. There was a man and a woman. He thought he recognized the woman as one of Lord Resdin’s maids. “I think they’re here for you, Myriah. It looks like a couple of Resdin’s staff.”

Ferrin opened the door. The taller gentleman, who appeared to be dressed like a member of the butlery, bowed. “Master Ferrin, my name is Bogs and this is Florin. We would ask that we speak with Miss—”

“Bogs? Florin?” Myriah pushed Ferrin out of the way to get to the door. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Lord or Lady Resdin?”

“No, Miss Myriah, they are fine, but—”

Myriah laid a hand on Bogs’s sleeve. “Then it’s the children?” Ferrin could hear the panic growing in his sister’s voice. “Has something happen to the children? Are they not well?”

“They are fine, Miss Myriah,” the tall butler said as he patted her hand in a comforting manner. “Be assured they are in good health, but Lord Resdin was called away quite suddenly, and our mistress’s nerves are so on end that she’s afraid she will be unable to tend to the children. She requested that we summon you immediately.”

Ferrin snorted. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was how lethargic the nobility were when it came to doing anything except spending gold. They were little more than infants themselves. They had to have someone there to bathe them, to dress them, to feed them, and burp them. It was disgusting.

“Of course, of course. You did the right thing.” Myriah opened the door the rest of the way and gestured for the two shivering servants to come inside. “Bogs, you shouldn’t have let Florin out on a night like this.”

“She wouldn’t be budged, Miss. You know how she gets when she sets her mind to something.”

Myriah smiled. “Warm yourselves by the fire while I gather a few things.”

Ferrin shut the door behind them and gestured toward the fireplace on the other side of the room. There were still a few flames crackling away as they worked to turn the last few pieces of wood into a pile of ash and coals.

“It’s a fine place you have here, Master Ferrin,” the older man said as he took a quick look around while warming his hands. “I hope to have a place of my own like this one day.”

Florin glanced at the butler with fondness. “Yes, having something you can call your own is truly a great blessing indeed.”

“It is,” Ferrin said as he lit a candle from the glowing embers and placed it on a nearby table. He rested his arm on the back of Myriah’s favorite seat, a small settee she used for reading in the early mornings. “We’ve had some fond memories here.”

Florin smiled. “And hopefully many more to come.”

The creak of the stairs announced Myriah’s presence. “I believe I have everything,” she said, hauling a large carry bag down the last couple of steps.

“Here, I’ll get it.” Ferrin lifted the overly stuffed satchel and followed her to the door. “How long will you be away?”

Myriah looked at Bogs, who answered with a shrug.

“I guess as long as necessary,” she said. “Will you be all right without me?” She chuckled. “Well, of course we know you won’t be all right. You’d be lost without me. Just promise me you won’t get into trouble while I’m away.” Her eyes narrowed. “I think you know what I’m referring to.”

He sighed and leaned over to give her a hug.

She kissed him on the cheek. “There’s leftovers in the parlor, and don’t forget we have that extra side of pork in the cellar. You can cook that up if I’m not back in the next day or two.” She took a moment to glance around the front room. “And don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Ferrin all but pushed her out the door. “I’ll do my best.” He toted her bag to the carriage, which was waiting to take them to the other side of the city, where Lord Resdin kept his estate. Myriah gave him a warm smile as he helped her up into the wagon. She was quick to crawl under the comforter Bogs held out for her.

Ferrin spared a glance at the driver. The poor man looked half-frozen. If he’d known the man was sitting out here, he would have offered him a hot drink or something. There wasn’t much he could do about it now. Stepping back, he waved as the driver’s whip urged the two horses into motion. Ferrin watched as the carriage shrank into the distance and disappeared from view.

He took a deep breath and slowly released, letting the warm air mist into the moonlit sky overhead. He shivered. “Why am I standing out here in the cold when I’ve got a warm bed waiting on me?” Ferrin turned and walked back inside, shutting the door behind him. After dousing the candle on the table, he took the one his sister had been carrying and headed for the staircase. He noticed Myriah had forgotten her book. It was still sitting on her seat, along with her shawl. She was going to be upset about that. He left it there and started up the stairs.

He had barely made it to the top landing when there was another knock on the front door. He smiled as he headed back down the stairs, grabbing her book on the way. His hand was halfway to the latch when the hinges shattered, and the door caught him square in the face.

Chapter 5

FERRIN WAS THROWN from his feet.

He landed on his back with what was left of the front door on top of him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Collar him!”

Ferrin wasn’t sure who was speaking, his mind still fuzzy from the fall. He must have hit his head on the floor, because the room was spinning. He felt the weight of the door being lifted off his chest and a couple of strong arms hauling him to his feet. The spinning slowed, and everything came back into focus. He was surrounded by men in white uniforms.

His blood froze.

How had the Black Watch found him?

“Hold his arms and I’ll—”

Ferrin grabbed the dagger from the back of his pants and slammed it into the man’s chest. Before the guard hit the floor, he spun and opened the throat of the man on his left. With a quick snap, he kicked a third guard in the knee. Ferrin heard the snap, brittle, like stepping on a rotten branch. Pinon would have been proud, if he were still alive.

The man with the broken knee cried out and collapsed to the floor, giving Ferrin a small opening for escape. He darted forward. He needed to get to his smithy. There was precious little metal in the front room, but his shop would be a death trap to any who dared follow.

“Stop him!” someone shouted near the front door.

He ducked one of the guard’s cudgels. Odd, he thought. None of them were wearing swords. In fact, he couldn’t sense a single piece of metal on any of them.

He turned and deflected the next strike, slashing at the man with his dagger, forcing him back. The guard managed to get his club up in time, but not before Ferrin caught the man’s chin with his fist. The guard’s head snapped to the side and he dropped.

Ferrin lunged at the next white-robed assailant standing in his way. The man dodged and spun, forcing Ferrin to keep his blade on the move. The door to his smithy was only steps away. He cut the man’s arm just above his wrist, forcing the guard to drop the club. With the strength built from swinging a massive hammer for the last fifteen years, he lifted the man right off the ground and threw him into the closest guards.

Ferrin yanked the door to his shop open and released his magic. Finally! The burning flooded through him as he grabbed for the closest piece of metal he could find, a thin iron bar he had planned on turning into a length of chain. His fingers never made it completely around, as he was jerked off his feet and back into the house.

He landed hard on his back, nearly losing his breath. He twisted around and stabbed at the guard on his right, only to realize he was no longer holding his blade. He must have dropped it in the fall. Bodies piled on top of him, holding down his legs, arms, even his head. He couldn’t move. Ferrin could hear his teacher’s words as if he were standing there looking down at him in disgust: “Your weapon is your life. You lose it, you lose them both.”

The men dragged him away from the open door.

“Did we get him?” someone asked.

The guards parted and one of the men stepped over beside him. An insignia on the side of his arm indicated some kind of elevated rank within the Tower. His dark hair hung below his shoulder, and the thick goatee on his face did little to hide the arrogance of his smile. The hair hanging from his chin actually reminded Ferrin of a billy goat he’d played with as a child. It, too, seemed to have enjoyed the sound of its own voice.

“Boys, we have just captured ourselves an honest-to-goodness metallurgist. You know what that means.”

The men smiled, some nodded, some patted each other on the backs, some just seemed to enjoy the sight of him lying there in pain.

“An extra bag of gold coming our way.” The head guard, or Goat Face as Ferrin dubbed him, knelt beside Ferrin and took him in with good measure.

“The name’s Hatch, Captain Hatch, head of the finest group of fighters you’ll ever try to run from.” Goat Face grinned, apparently getting a kick out of his little joke. He probably told it to every new prisoner they managed to seize. “So, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with this fine evening?”

Ferrin returned the captain’s smile. “The name’s Ferrin, Smithy Ferrin, forger of the finest blade you’ll ever have the pleasure of being run through with.”

The captain’s smile vanished. “Who’s got the collar?”

One of the guards handed Goat Face some sort of thick metal ring, and he held it out for Ferrin to inspect. “Beautiful craftsmanship, don’t you think?”

Ferrin studied the collar. It was exquisite work. The metal was flawless, not a single scuff or scrape to be seen. The strange designs engraved around its outer shell could have only been accomplished by a master smith or someone like Ferrin. “Lovely,” he said. “What of it?”

“I believe it will look rather fetching around your neck, don’t you?”

The guards snickered.

Ferrin sneered. “What’s wrong? You can’t find a woman desperate enough to accept your jewelry?”

The guards snickered even louder but were quickly silenced with a single look from Goat Face.

“Put it on him.”

A shiver ran down his back as the cold steel connected with his neck. Ferrin could feel the metal, his magic coursing through it. It was strong, unlike any alloy he’d worked with before. It was also old, very old. He wasn’t sure how he knew that; he just did.

Ferrin’s magic came alive like he’d never felt before. Something about that collar was fueling his ability. He felt stronger. Whatever the collar was doing, it seemed to intensify his ability. Why had they chosen a metal collar? Stupid mistake. He was going to kill every last one of them.

As soon as the collar clicked into place, the guards released him and stepped back. Another mistake. These men weren’t very bright.

Ferrin dug deep, pulling the heat of his magic to the surface. He was going to enjoy this. “You’re going to wish you had never stepped foot in my home.” He grabbed the collar with both hands and yanked.

Nothing happened.

He yanked again. Nothing.

What is this? He could feel the metal in his hands. He could all but taste its essence. It should have split in two. He tried again but with the same result.

Goat Face leaned his head back and laughed, followed closely by the other members of his company who were close enough to see what was happening.

Ferrin looked at his hands. “What have you done to me?”

“Not so tough without your magic, are you?”

“What is this?” Ferrin felt around the cold ring of steel. “How did you—”

“It’s a durma collar. Created by the faeries thousands of years ago to capture and contain wielders.” He glanced at the loop of metal around Ferrin’s neck. “What matters is that you—and the rest of your kind—won’t be able to hurt anyone else again.”

“Hurt anyone else? What are you talking about? I’ve never hurt anyone.”

Hatch turned and looked at the two dead men lying behind the sofa. Three more were being carried out the door as he spoke.

Ferrin shrugged. “Well, what do you expect when you come bursting into my home in the middle of the night? Was I supposed to make you a pot of tea? Maybe cook you some breakfast?”

Hatch tugged on his goatee. “Some tea would actually be nice.”

Ferrin stared at the man. He couldn’t tell if he was being serious.

“Well, no matter. We don’t have time for tea, anyway. We have a long trip ahead of us.” The captain turned to one of his men. “Take his crystal and bring him along.”

Ferrin struggled against the men as they grabbed his arms and removed his transferal.

The guard in front held out the chain and smiled.

“I don’t need it to kill you,” he said, then kneed the man in the groin. The guard’s eyes opened as wide as his mouth and he dropped the chain.

Ferrin used his heel and crushed the top of the foot of the guard holding his right arm. As soon as the man released, he punched the guard holding his left in the face. With both arms now free, he grabbed the guard with the crushed fruit by the head and snapped his neck. “I told you I didn’t need magic to kill you!”

Quickly, he dove for the chain. His fingers wrapped around the crystal and he started to turn when something hard struck the back of the head.

A flash of brilliant white light exploded behind his eyes, blinding him temporarily as his body was assaulted with a burst of pain. Nothing made sense. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t seem to tell were he was. Noises sounded distant and twisted. He shook his head. The room was spinning. Or maybe he was the one spinning. Ferrin couldn’t tell. By the time the spinning had stopped, they were dragging him out the front door. His feet struck the threshold, partially rousing him from his delirium as the cold wind helped clear his mind.

“You said I would be well compensated,” someone said off to Ferrin’s left. The voice was oddly familiar.

“As promised.”

The guards dragging Ferrin stopped long enough for him to see Goat Face hand someone a small bag of coin. The man receiving the purse had his back to the house.

Ferrin craned his neck as he waited for the stranger to say something more.

The man turned as he tested the weight of the purse in his hand. Ferrin’s mouth hung open. The yellow scarf was still hanging over the man’s blue dinner jacket, the same way it had that evening when Ferrin and Myriah had taken dinner at his house.

Harlin’s smile vanished when he noticed Ferrin had seen him. It was quickly replaced with a fake grin as he cautiously followed Goat Face over to where the guards had a tight grip on Ferrin’s arms.

“He killed Teglas,” one of the men said. “Snapped his neck like a chicken.”

Goat Face sighed. “You’re gonna be trouble; I can see that already. I’ve been doing this a long time. And you know what I’ve learned? Those that fight the hardest end up suffering the most. First there’s anger. Then comes the bartering. When that fails, they plot their escape. But you will soon realize what so many others who have come before you have.” He leaned in to look Ferrin in the eyes. “There is no escape.” The captain grunted and walked to his horse.

Ferrin’s knuckles were white as he turned to look at Harlin, his nails nearly biting into the palms of his hands as he poured his rage into them. He was almost too furious to speak. “How could you do this?” Ferrin had half a mind to tell Goat Face that Harlin was a wielder as well, but if he did, who knew what other names the man would give up if they were to arrest him?

“It’s better this way,” Harlin said.

“Better for who?” Ferrin tried to grab him, but the guards held him back. If he could have just gotten his hands around the man’s neck, he would have choked the life from him. Then another thought occurred to him. What if Lord and Lady Resdin hadn’t requested Myriah’s help this evening? They would have taken her as well. The very realization had him wanting to rip Harlin limb from limb.

“Don’t worry,” Harlin said with a smile, seemingly reading the question in Ferrin’s eyes. “I made sure Lord Resdin was called away.”

Was that what this was all about? Harlin knew that as long as Ferrin was around, Myriah would never accept his advances, so if he sold Ferrin out to the Black Watch, his problem would be solved. The dandy had proven more devious than Ferrin would have expected.

Harlin dared a smile. “I’ll take good care of her while you’re away.”

Ferrin leaped backward as hard as he could, catching the guards behind him off balance. Before they could right themselves, he threw himself forward and head-butted Harlin in the face. Ferrin could hear the man’s nose pop as he flew backward and landed in a heap on the cobbles.

Blood was gushing from both nostrils by the time Harlin made it to a sitting position.

“Let’s see how women look at you now,” Ferrin spat.

The Black Watch guards quickly restrained him with shackles, something Ferrin was glad they hadn’t done in the first place. A hard shove to the back directed him toward the horses. Ferrin glared at Harlin as they passed. “You better sleep with one eye open from now on,” Ferrin called out over his shoulder, “because when I get free, I’m coming for you.”

Fear filled Harlin’s eyes. If there was any justice to be had, Ferrin prayed that Harlin never experienced a single night’s rest from now until the day that he returned.

Chapter 6

IT TOOK THEM about a half-hour on horseback to reach Rhowynn’s southern gates. With the collar around his neck, shackles on his wrist, and surrounded by a company of the Tower’s guards, Ferrin had little hope of escape.

A few miles outside the walls, Captain Goat Face directed them off the road and into a nearby stand of pine. They didn’t have to travel far before they reached a small clearing where the Black Watch had set up camp.

A number of wagons lined the far side of the clearing. The beds of each were encased in bars much like that of a prison cell. Each wagon was draped with a large canvas, no doubt used for keeping the rain off during harsher weather. Right now, the canvas was tied up, probably so the guards could keep an eye on the prisoners.

The men, women, and children inside were gaunt-looking, with dark circles rimming their eyes, clothes torn and battered, much like the poor souls in them. Were they being fed? Ferrin was thankful for the meal he had eaten at Harlin’s earlier that evening. At least he wouldn’t have to plan his escape on an empty stomach.

A firepit had been set up near the center of the camp with at least five or six guards sitting around chatting, enjoying the warmth. They spared a quick glance at their approach before returning to their conversations and drink.

A small path led off into the woods on the far side of the clearing, directly behind the last two wagons on the left. There didn’t appear to be anyone guarding it.

Hatch and the others dismounted. The guard holding the reins to Ferrin’s horse swung down as well, waiting for the others to secure their mounts inside a small corral they had built by tying ropes between three trees.

Ferrin was the only one still mounted. Even though his hands were shackled, they were shackled in front and not behind, giving him access to his horse’s reins. And now that the only member of the Black Watch still guarding him was a man whose attention was momentarily diverted by the others around the fire, Ferrin grabbed the reins and dug in his heels.

The stallion whinnied and bolted, flinging the unexpecting guard off his feet.

Ferrin was halfway across the clearing before those around the fire made it to their feet. For all their bluster, Goat Face and his men were about as inept as a band of one-legged halfwits.

The prison wagons were directly in front of him. Some of those on the inside cheered him on. Others begged for him to save them. As much as he would have liked to free the helpless people, Ferrin didn’t dare stop. Once he escaped, perhaps he could find a way to come back for them, maybe get the wielder council involved. That is, right after he dealt with Harlin, of course.

The image of the pompous lord and his broken nose had Ferrin urging his horse even faster. He had a promise to fulfill. Behind him Ferrin could hear the angry shouts of the Black Watch as he galloped between the wagons and made a break for the path ahead.

Out of nowhere, a piercing whistle broke through the cacophony of shouts, cries, and thundering hooves: two short bursts and one long. Without warning, his horse stopped mid-stride and Ferrin found himself flying through the air. It was a strange sensation, watching his horse disappear from underneath him while he rode the wind like a wingless bird. The sensation didn’t last long, as the ground rose to meet him. He hit and rolled.

Sharp pain seared his upper torso as he fought his way out of the briars on the left side of the trail, their barbs ripping his shirt and leaving bloody gashes across his skin. When his feet reached the open path, three men tackled him back to the ground. He managed to sink his teeth into one of their arms before a fist connected with the side of his face, and he went limp.

When he came to, his jaw was throbbing and the skin around his face, neck, and arms was on fire. Had the briars cut him that bad? The pain was overwhelming.

“Don’t envy you the next few days,” one of the guards said with a chuckle. “Looks like you rolled straight through a patch of stinging nettle.” Ferrin turned to look. The guard was right. He’d landed right on top of an entire grove of the hairy knee-high plants.

“I told you there would be no escape,” Goat Face said as he strode over to where they had Ferrin up on his knees. Hatch laughed and held up a small metal whistle he had tied to a thin chain around his neck. “I would have stopped you earlier, but I must admit it was rather fun watching you try.”

The other men laughed.

Ferrin twisted and jerked to free himself, but there were too many guards holding him down.

Hatch lifted the short metal pipe to his mouth and blew. This time, instead of two short bursts and one long, he released one sustained high-pitched shrill. Within moments, the horse Ferrin had been riding trotted up beside the captain and stopped. Apparently, they had the horses trained to react to the sound. He was going to have to remember that in case he ever got another chance.

“The look in your eyes as you sailed through the air was worth it all,” the captain said. “I must say, with you around, I have a feeling this trip is going to be most entertaining.”

“I’m glad I could amuse,” Ferrin said through gritted teeth as he fought against the blistering pain of the nettles.

The captain turned and walked back toward the fire. “Throw him in with the others.”

They dragged Ferrin to the wagon on the end. It wasn’t quite as full as the others. One of the guards unlocked the back while two more waited with clubs in hand in case those inside decided to attempt an escape of their own. The prisoners scooted away from the door, either out of fear of the guards or to make room for Ferrin.

One of the guards hit Ferrin in the stomach with his bludgeon, and Ferrin fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The pain was almost enough to take his mind off the welts swelling across his uncovered skin.

They hefted him up the steps and tossed him in the back, where he landed in a heap, fighting past a wave of dry heaves to catch his breath. It took a while, but his breathing returned. Once it did, he pushed himself up to a sitting position against the back door and rested a moment as he got a good look at his new accommodations and those sharing it. There were eight prisoners, not including himself: three men, three women, and two children. Their clothes hung loose, covering frames that no longer held the same size as when first worn. Their faces were dirty, hair disheveled, eyes weary, and it was clear by the smell that they hadn’t bathed in some time.

“Thought you were gonna make it there for a moment, son,” an older man at the front said. By the rough, leathery skin, partially missing teeth, and bent back, he’d clearly seen some hard years. What a terrible way to end a life, Ferrin thought, with nothing but the White Tower to look forward to. Then again—he looked at the children—it was a terrible way to start one as well. “You ain’t the first to try it,” the old man said, “but you’re the first to make it as far as you did.” He chuckled. At least Ferrin thought it was a chuckle. It could have been a touch of pneumonia. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ferrin,” he said, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t have him leaning against the cuts and welts.

“Well, Ferrin, I’m Gillion, but everyone just calls me Rascal.”

Ferrin nodded. He was in too much pain to smile.

“Everyone, this is Ferrin. Ferrin, this is everyone.”

The others slowly began to make their way back to their original seats. A man on Ferrin’s right held out his hand. “I’m Brennon and this is my wife, Sora. We’re from Oswell, just east of the Slags.” The two looked to be in their fifties, their hair already holding a strong blend of gray.

Ferrin shook the man’s hand and then wished he hadn’t. The pressure from the squeeze caused the nettles in his skin to burn all the more.

“Quiet place, Oswell. You ever been?” Ferrin shook his head, and the man continued. “Not surprised. Most people have never heard of it, let alone been there. The Slags is a dangerous place even to those of us who’ve lived there all our lives. I guess it’s no surprise that—”

“Dear, I don’t think the man cares to hear about your knowledge of the Slags.” Sora smiled at Ferrin as she laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Sorry, he gets a mite carried away at times.”

“I do not,” Brennon said. “I was just making conversation with the man.” The two quietly argued with each other while the others continued their introductions.

“I’m Telsa,” the woman sitting next to Sora said. She looked to be about Ferrin’s age, in her early to mid-thirties. “They took me three weeks ago from my home outside of Storyl.” She nervously bit at her lower lip. “I’ve always kept to myself . . . minded my own business. I don’t know how they found me.”

“The temptation for gold will turn even the most kindred soul into a no-good skinflint,” an older woman sitting across from Telsa said. She looked angry enough to kill a guard with her bare hands. “I’m Narissa.” She passed a quick, appraising glance at Ferrin before turning back to Telsa. “That’s what happened to my Remi. He sold me to the White Tower for a single bag of gold.” She bared her teeth and Telsa scooted back against the bars. “Thirty-eight years of marriage, and he trades me in for the price of a new well! If I ever get out of here, I’m going to drown him in it!”

Ferrin wasn’t sure if he should be more afraid of the Black Watch or Narissa.

“I’m Beese,” the man next to Narissa said before she had a chance to continue her frenzied ranting, “and this is my son, Cory.” The boy couldn’t have been more than six. As thin and sickly as he looked it was hard to tell. Cory peeked out from behind his father’s shoulder and smiled. Ferrin returned the gesture. What kind of magic could be so dangerous that they would have to imprison a small child? “We’re from Kai,” Beese said, “just above Tara Springs. There’s a few more of us from Kai in some of the other wagons.” The man glanced over his shoulder at another grouping of prisoners farther down the line.

At the head of the wagon, sitting next to Rascal, was a young teenage girl, who had remained silent. Every so often, Ferrin caught her sneaking a peek at him. But every time he turned, she quickly looked away.

“This is Sasha,” Rascal said as he patted the girl’s shoulder. “Other than her name, she hasn’t spoken a word since we picked her up in Aldwick a few weeks back.”

Ferrin leaned back against the bars, realizing it was his turn. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but under the present circumstances . . . I guess you already know where I’m from.”

“Why weren’t there more of you?” Brennon asked, beside him. “Rhowynn is by far the largest city we’ve been to. It’s the flaming capital of Keldor, for pity’s sake.”

Sora poked her husband in the side. “Watch your language.”

Brennon ignored her. “We figured they were going to have to build some more wagons and hire additional drivers just to fill the haul from a city that size.”

“I think I was the only one they were really after.”

“Why’s that?” Narissa demanded, scowling in his direction. “What makes you so specially deserving of the Tower’s attention? And what’s that thing around your neck?

Ferrin rubbed at the collar. “You haven’t seen one these before?” Was he the only one?

“A couple of the others had them on when they arrived,” Rascal said from the front, “but they’re in the other wagons.”

Ferrin shook his head. “I don’t know why I was singled out. From what Goat Face over there said, they were apparently looking for me in particular.”

Sasha giggled at Ferrin’s name for Captain Hatch.

“How’d they find you?” Rascal asked. He put his arm around the young girl, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“I was betrayed by someone I thought I could trust.”

“Aha! You see, I told you!” Narissa wore a broad smile of vindication. “You can’t trust anyone. When I get home and get my hands on him . . .” Her words faded as she contemplated the rest of what she had planned for her husband.

Sora released Brennon’s arm to get a better look at Ferrin’s collar. “What special gift landed you on their list?”

Brennon reached out to touch it. “Mind if I . . .”

Ferrin shook his head and Brennon felt along the edge. “Hmm, it doesn’t seem to have an opening. How did they get it around your neck? It looks to have been crafted with you in it.”

Ferrin ran his fingers around the outer rim. It was the first time he’d been given a chance to examine it. Like Brennon said, he couldn’t find a joint. His one glimpse of the collar before they had placed it around his neck had shown it to have a hinged opening, but it wasn’t there anymore. He wondered if it could even come off. He couldn’t imagine being forced to live with its weight around his neck for the rest of his life.

“I think it has magical properties,” he said, trying not to panic at the thought of it never coming off.

The others scooted closer as well, eager to see and touch it. Ferin was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic as they gathered around. He edged back toward the corner, and they seemed to get the idea and retook their seats along the outer edge of the wagon.

He gave the metal a couple of desperate tugs, then gave up. “They called it a durma collar, said that it was made back during the time of the Fae. It’s supposed to keep wielders from using their magic.”

“What’s it feel like?” Telsa asked from seat next to Sora. She was one of the only ones who had gotten up to take a closer look.

“It’s strange. I can feel my magic, but I can’t use it. In fact, I’ve never felt its presence as strongly as I do right now.” He touched the metal with his magic once more, trying to find some way to release the collar, but with no affect. “It’s just out of reach.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your gift?” Rascal asked, repeating Sora’s earlier inquiry.

“Sorry, I’m a metallurgist.”

“Ah.” Rascal nodded. “I was wondering why Hatch had ordered his men to leave their swords behind before entering the city. Now I understand the use of the . . . durma, as you call it. I imagine it would be rather difficult to transport a prisoner who could turn his prison into a weapon.”

Yes, the captain had proven quite resourceful when it had come to that decision. In fact, everything Ferrin had attempted so far had been thwarted. Maybe these Black Watch weren’t as incapable as he had at first believed. An overwhelming sense of fear washed over him. Getting away might prove more difficult than he had thought.

Chapter 7

THE DAYS SOON melted into weeks as the caravan of wagons slowly made its way south. They followed Tara Springs, skirting the western side of Praxil Lake before heading west around the Razor Spine Mountains into Elondria.

The days were long, but the nights were even longer. Most evenings, the prisoners huddled together to stave off the cold, the awkwardness quickly overcome by the need to survive. The canvas covering their cages only did so much.

Ferrin kept to himself the first night. The others had invited him to share their communal bed, but the thought of crawling in beside a total stranger wasn’t something he cared to try. Besides, his tolerance for the cold was higher than most. But after spending half the night fighting to keep his teeth from chattering and the other half his muscles from cramping, Ferrin was ready to cuddle up next to Narissa.

Hatch kept the convoy to the main roads as much as possible, and those travelers they passed gave them a wide berth. Most kept their eyes down, not wanting to appear too curious. Some made a point to turn around and head back the way they had come.

As the sun dropped low on the horizon behind them, the captain steered the procession off the main road and into a densely sylvan area on the foothills of the Razor Spine. From the conversations Ferrin had gleaned from his captors, they were just north of the city of Syrel.

The path led to an opening in the grove, one that had clearly been used before, by the darkened pit at the center and the pieces of lumber stacked beside it.

The wagons, as usual, were lined in a row near the back and the horses unhitched. Another rope corral was set up on the left of the pit, while the animals were watered and fed, more so than the prisoners.

Ferrin’s stomach was growling at the sight of the horses’ feed bag. If he were to carry one of the guards on his back all day, would they let him eat half as well?

“Supper time,” Prickly said as he tossed a hard crust of bread into the wagon at Ferrin. It bounced off his arm and landed with a thud on the wood planks. Prickly was a short man with a sour disposition, thereby earning him his nickname. He always sat by himself during meals, and anytime any of the other guards spoke to him, they usually received a sharp jibe for their troubles.

Ferrin chewed on the crust of bread as he found a not-so-uncomfortable spot in the corner to watch the guards at work. He studied their movements, their patterns. Which guards had what tasks. Goat Face kept his men well organized.

First, they set up the wagons, then fed and corralled the horses, started the fire, cooked the food, then after they ate, four or five of the men would stand watch while the others were allowed to take some time for themselves in town, which usually consisted of an overly rowdy diversion of hard ale and a good brawl.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Sora said as she leaned against her husband, temporarily diverting Ferrin’s attention away from the men in white. Sora had meant the statement for Brennon, but it had been spoken loud enough to be heard by everyone in the wagon.

“Well, that’s the understatement of the age,” Narissa grumbled.

Ferrin almost chuckled. That sounded like something he would have said.

Brennon came to his wife’s defense. “We need to do something. Each day brings us that much closer to the White Tower. We’re running out of opportunities. I give us, what . . . maybe a week before we reach Iraseth, then another to the Pass of Arnon. Once we reach the pass, escape will be nothing more than a wishful fancy.”

“It’s no use,” Telsa mumbled beside Sora. She was the pessimist of the lot. Her knees were bent, with her arms wrapped tight around them. “There’s no hope. We’re never going to escape. They’re going to kill us all.”

“That’s not helpful,” Beese said irritably, placing an arm around his son. “Keep your opinions to yourself if they’re going to sound like that.” He patted Cory on the shoulder. “You’re frightening some of the others.”

“They aren’t going to kill us,” Narissa said.

Telsa lifted her head from where it had been propped on the top of her knees. “They’re not?”

“No,” the older woman said with a slick grin. “They’re going to do a whole lot worse.”

“Narissa!” Rascal glared at the older woman. He had his arm around Sasha, who looked to be on the verge of tears. “There, there, child. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Narissa humphed. “You might as well promise her the stars.”

Rascal ignored her. “You haven’t said much, Ferrin. What’s your opinion? You have the look of a man in deep thought.”

“Routine,” Ferrin said, keeping his eyes on the white-robed men outside.

“Routine? Not sure I follow.”

Without looking, Ferrin could tell he had their attention. He could feel their stares. “Routine is their weakness.”

Brennon, on Ferrin’s right, leaned forward. “Care to elaborate?”

Ferrin nodded toward the guards setting up camp. “Goat Face over there is a former lancer officer, or I’ll eat my shirt.” He glanced down at the rips, tears, and soiling and sighed. “Or what’s left of it.” He looked back at the captain. “He organizes his men like typical rank and file. The strength of a soldier is routine. It’s ingrained into them from the moment they sign up. Discipline and routine. It’s also their greatest weakness.”

“How so?” Sora asked, clutching her husband’s arm as she turned and looked out the bars.

“It makes them predictable. Take Longs Legs over there, for instance. While the others start looking for a tree to cut, his task is searching for kindling. This means a trip into the woods for fallen branches. So, which direction do you go when you are surrounded by woods? If you haven’t noticed, Long Legs over there will take the southern route, not because there appears to be a better selection of dried brushwood, but because he likes to stay as far away from the cages as possible.

“And Bladder there,” Ferrin said with a nod to a short guard on the far side of the pit who kept glancing their way, “he tends to empty his at least three to four times a night, and always by way of our wagon. Either he has the smallest bladder of any man I’ve ever seen, or he likes the way Telsa smiles at him when she thinks no one’s looking.”

Telsa’s eyes bulged, her mouth dropping open. “I do not! I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you daft?” Narissa said, and threw a handful of straw at Telsa from across the wagon. She would have said more but Ferrin cut her off.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to cast judgment just yet. Her flirtation is going to be the reason we escape.”

If there was any doubt of having their attention before, there certainly wasn’t now. Just the mention of escape had everyone holding their breath and scooting closer.

Rascal unhooked his arm from Sasha and leaned forward. “I like the way you think, smith.”

“You might not after you hear the rest of it.”

Chapter 8

NIGHTFALL HAD NEVER taken so long to arrive. Ferrin could see the fear resting in the eyes of those staring back at him. The eight other members of his wagon fidgeted with restless anticipation.

Ferrin had spent every day for the last month studying his captors. He knew them better than they knew themselves. Each of them had a different reason for being there, reasons he had puzzled out by listening to their conversations and watching how they treated the prisoners. It was knowledge that would benefit them in their attempt to escape.

Ferrin had managed to divide the guards into three groups.

Those in the first group were there out of a sense of duty. They truly believed in what they were doing. They hated wielders and considered it their highest duty to help the White Tower purge them from Aldor. Men like Goat Face would be the most determined to pursue escapees.

Then there were those of the second group, men who were there for no other reason than that they needed the work. Their sense of loyalty only went as far as the Tower’s purse strings would take them. They didn’t exactly hate wielders, but they didn’t distrust them, either. If Ferrin and the others managed to escape, these would be less motivated to give chase than the first group.

Last, there were the outliers, whose motives were sketchy at best. As long as they were getting paid to hurt people, they were more than willing to stick around. These men were dangerous, not only to the wielders but also to the other guards. Ferrin had noticed how Hatch had kept them at arm’s length, making sure to never turn his back on them. The captain must not have been allowed to pick his own men. These were the guards Ferrin was most unsure of.

Supper was finished and cleared, and those guards who had been assigned first watch had found their spots around the fire to settle down for the evening. The rest rode into town.

They weren’t going to get a better chance than right now.

“What’s your plan?” Brennon asked as the group huddled so as not to be overheard by the guards.

“In order for this to work, we’re going to need some bait.”

“Bait?” Sora asked. “What kind of bait?”

“One of us is going to have to make a run for it.”

Beese held his son, letting him rest his head on his shoulder. “I thought we were all going to make a run for it?”

“I mean one of us is going to have to draw the others away, giving the rest a chance to escape.”

No one said a word, furtive glances passing from one to the next.

“Don’t look at me,” Narissa said. “I’m not sacrificing my chance for freedom just so the rest of you can leave me behind.”

Ferrin sighed. “You won’t have to. I’m going to be the bait.”

“Are you sure about this?” Rascal asked, Sasha still clinging protectively to his arm. “It doesn’t make much sense for you to take all the risk.”

“Sure it does,” Narissa interjected. “Don’t you see. He’s the one they want the most.”

Ferrin was about to say the same. “We should use that to our advantage.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s much of an advantage to you,” Telsa said; the young woman seemed even more troubled than usual, her eyes casting about from one person to the next.

“It’s the best choice we have.”

Rascal didn’t argue. He simply nodded and placed a thick-knuckled hand on Ferrin’s shoulder. “Good luck to us all . . . and may the Creator smile on us this evening.”

Ferrin felt his temperature rise. “If the Creator was smiling on us, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Some of the guards left the fire to start dropping the canvases back over the cages for the evening. It was no surprise that Bladder was the one to attend their wagon. The last time one of the other guards had attempted to draw the canvas on their wagon, a fight had broken out. Since then, the other guards were more than happy to give him the duty.

Ferrin nodded to Telsa, and she crawled to the back of the cage where Ferrin normally sat, in order to quietly talk with the guard while he untied the bands holding back the thick material. He was at least twenty years her senior and his hair was thinning in the back, revealing a patch of bald that his swipe-over hadn’t managed to cover. Ferrin couldn’t see what she saw in the short man other than it was someone willing to look at her in a way she had probably never experienced before, being a wielder.

“I saved this for you,” Bladder said as he passed a small cut of meat through the bars for her to eat.

She smiled and took it. “You didn’t go into town tonight?” she asked, keeping her voice as low as possible.

Ferrin and the others lay in their usual places on the floor of the wagon, giving the appearance of bedding down for the night. He wanted Bladder to feel at ease in his conversation with Telsa. Closest to the back, Ferrin watched Telsa through one eye as she poured on the charm.

The task wasn’t proving too difficult. The man was clearly as desperate as she was for the attention.

“No. I, uh . . .” He glanced over his shoulder at the other men around the fire. “I let someone else go in my place.” He finished lowering the front side of the canvas, keeping the guards around the fire from seeing inside the wagon. Unfortunately, it also took away most of the light the fire was providing.

Telsa grinned. It hardly needed prodding. “And why would you do something like that? I thought you enjoyed going into town, looking at all those other women. I’m sure you have a girl waiting for you in every city.”

Ferrin almost shook his head. She was terrible at this. Strangely enough, Bladder didn’t seem to notice.

“I do not!” Bladder grabbed his mouth and turned to see if anyone was watching. He quickly moved around to the back of the cage. “There’s only one woman I have eyes for.”

Good, Ferrin thought. Then open the door and do something about it. What was taking her so long? The man would have bent over backward and stood on his head if she’d asked him.

“There are no other women,” he said, glancing at his feet embarrassingly. He actually seemed genuinely interested in her. Perhaps, if they had had more time, she could have persuaded the man to help, but time was the one thing they didn’t have.

Come on, Telsa, lure him in. We don’t have all night. Ferrin grunted and turned over, hoping to encourage her to move along.

“Is the woman you have eyes for me?”

“You know it is.”

She giggled.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Ferrin ground his teeth. He stretched his leg and kicked her in the process. If she didn’t hurry this up, they were going to lose their chance.

Bladder cleared his throat. “Of course. I think you’re one of the finest women I’ve ever seen.”

“You do? ’Cause I think you’re one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.”

Rascal released a loud cough from the front.

Telsa tensed. “You want to take a walk in the woods?”

“What? We can’t do—”

“You can tell them I had to relieve myself.”

The short guard glanced nervously back at the fire. Some of the men were still chatting. Most sounded like they had turned in for the night.

“Well . . . I guess it would be all right.” Bladder pulled the ring of keys from his belt and started to unlock the door. He went as slowly as possible, not wanting to arouse suspicion.

Ferrin’s muscles tightened, his heart pounding. This was it. Some of the others shifted nervously. He hoped they didn’t do anything stupid to give them away. His mind raced through what was coming as he waited for the key to finish its rotation in the lock.

The lock snapped, and Bladder slowly pulled back on the metal bars, taking care not to make too much noise. He glanced at the other wielders as they pretended to sleep. Ferrin hoped that none of the others had opened their eyes. If he got spooked, it was over.

“Well, aren’t you going to help me down? Here, be a gentleman.” Telsa raised her arms out for Bladder to come lift her out of the cart. “There might be a reward in it for you.”

That was all it took. Bladder lost all interest in the other wielders and started up the stairs to get his hands around her waist.

Ferrin leaped from his place on the floor and grabbed the man by the arms, yanking him inside the wagon. At the same time, Telsa latched on to Bladder’s mouth to keep him from screaming, and all three went down in a lump. Hopefully, no one outside had been watching as the man disappeared into the back of the prison transport. The tarp covering the front kept their activities blocked from view.

“Tie him up for now,” Ferrin said, kneeling over the guard.

“With what?” Beese asked, as he quickly ushered his son toward the open door.

“Good point.” Ferrin scanned their empty wagon. Nothing but straw bedding.

“He won’t say anything,” Telsa said as she sat beside Bladder, her hand still covering his mouth.

Bladder nodded.

Ferrin looked at the guard, then back to Telsa. “We can’t take that chance.”

Rascal stepped forward and kicked the guard in the side of the face. Bladder’s head snapped to the right, then slumped unconscious into Telsa’s lap. The young woman looked horrified.

“They don’t call me Rascal for nothing,” he said, guiding Sasha toward the back behind Beese and Cory.

Ferrin left Telsa holding Bladder and headed for the door, the others moving aside to give him room. “Now, remember. No one move until you hear my signal.” Ferrin’s heart was pounding even louder. Over a month of waiting and they were finally about to escape. “Wait for me to draw them off. Hopefully, that will give you enough time to get out of here. Take the guard’s keys and unlock as many of the wagons as you can. Use the confusion to head north through the woods. The mountains are going to be your best chance for hiding.”

Rascal moved to the corner and tried peeking around the edge of the canvas. “Do you think you can make it to the horses before they spot you? That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“I have to, or none of this works . . . which reminds me.” Ferrin stepped over to the unconscious guard and removed the whistle from around his neck. He didn’t want the same thing to happen to him as before when his horse had stopped mid-gallop. He just hoped the same signals Goat Face had used worked for all the horses.

Ferrin walked to the back of the cage and peered around the canvas. So far, no one was looking. His hands were shaking. This was it.

“Good luck to you,” Rascal offered with a smile that said he didn’t like Ferrin’s chances.

Ferrin took one last look at the dirty, desperate faces staring back at him. It would probably be the last time he would ever see them again. There were tears in his eyes, as well as in many of the others’. Even Narissa looked a little shaken as she dabbed at her right cheek. It was hard not to feel a strong bond with these people—more family now than anything—considering the experiences they’d shared.

Unfortunately, they didn’t have time for a proper farewell. So, with a simple nod of encouragement, he slipped from the cage and melted into the surrounding woods.

Chapter 9

FERRIN CIRCLED ON cat’s feet around the back of the wagons. This time, he made sure to stay clear of the nettle vines that wove through the thicker brush. He was thankful that the horses had been corralled on the east side of the camp. It meant he could use the wagons as a shield between him and the Tower guards.

He kept his eyes and ears open for the three sentries posted just beyond the outskirts of the firelight. The last thing Ferrin wanted was to accidentally run into one of them while they were out patrolling.

The wagon closest to the corral was coming up on his right. A ruckus inside forced him to drop to his stomach, soaking the front of his clothes from the early onset of dew. He held his breath and waited. When nothing else happened, he kept going.

A few of the horses raised their heads as he neared.

“Whoa,” he whispered, gently stroking the side of the nearest. “It’s all right.” Ferrin could see parts of the campfire in between the animals. Most of the men were already under their blankets.

Quietly, he started untying the rope.

The sound of a snapped twig brought him around with a sharp jerk. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised—him or the night watchman who had just stepped out from behind the tree. Ferrin leaped before the guard had a chance to register what was happening.

Both went down with a thud. Ferrin grabbed for the man’s mouth, and the guard began punching Ferrin in the side, each hit excruciating. Ferrin’s eyes watered as he bit down on his tongue to keep from crying out. His grip was slipping. The guard reached for his knife, and Ferrin slammed the side of his hand down on top of the guard’s throat.

The guard’s eyes went wide as he gasped for breath. Ferrin ripped the man’s knife from his belt and buried it in his chest. The guard stopped moving.

That’s one down. He made his way back to the horses and used the knife to cut the rope. These particular animals must have been trained for battle. None of them had so much as whinnied during Ferrin’s scuffle with the guard.

After lowering the rope, he found one of the mounts had already been saddled. It was mighty generous of someone to have gone to all the trouble of having it ready for him. Whoever it belonged to must have been planning on going into the city later.

Ferrin kept a close eye on the men around the fire as he carefully swung his leg up and over the saddle. Bladder’s whistle hung from his neck. He held it up, and sparing one final look at the wagons, he stuck it in his mouth and blew.

The sharp trill of the small instrument snapped all the horses to attention. Ferrin released another long blow and dug in his heels.

Goat Face was the first one completely out of his bedding and on his feet. In one hand he held a sword and in the other, a large cudgel. The captain must have been sleeping with them in his hands to have pulled them so quickly. The look on the captain’s face was worth it all. He couldn’t have been more surprised had the dark wizard himself walked out of the woods and greeted him with a handshake.

Ferrin drove his horse directly at the men in their beds, not so much because the way out happened to be directly beyond but because Ferrin had every intention of trampling as many of them as he could. Unfortunately, Goat Face was on the other side of the pit. But he did manage to crush one guard who had gotten tangled in his bedding in all the confusion. Another got a solid boot to the face when he tried leaping at Ferrin’s horse.

As loud as he could, Ferrin continued blasting away on Bladder’s whistle, making sure to keep his horse’s attention focused on him and not the other guard’s attempt at stopping the animal. Behind him, Hatch’s voice filled the small clearing.

“Get to your horses and go after him!”

Ferrin directed his mount down the same path they had entered by. Eventually, it would lead him back to the main road. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder. Guards were running in all directions, throwing on boots and grabbing weapons. Most were heading for the horses.

He spared once last look at the wagons before the trees took them from sight. “I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to you, my friends,” he whispered, then turned and urged his horse even faster.

It was never a smart thing to give a horse its reins in the cover of darkness, let alone on a road he was unfamiliar with. But what choice did he have? He had to reach the city before they caught up with him, and he wasn’t sure how far away it was.

Ferrin had gone about a mile when he reached the main road. He turned his horse eastward and snapped the reins. He had never been to Syrel. In fact, he knew absolutely nothing about it. He only hoped it was large enough to hide in while he found a way to remove the collar.

The clear sky overhead allowed a little light to push its way through the trees to help guide his horse. He turned his head to listen for any sound of pursuit, but the wind blowing in his ears and the hard pounding of his horse’s hooves overpowered everything else.

Ferrin had only traveled a couple of miles before he reached an opening in the tree line. He pulled his horse to a stop at the top of a rise and let the poor animal breathe. Its nostrils flared, sending out puffs of smoke in front of him. The lights of the city spread out below like a layer of glow flies covering the top of a field. Syrel was larger than he had expected. It wasn’t half the size of Rhowynn, but certainly large enough to hide in. He snapped the reins and his horse reluctantly started forward once more.

Surprisingly, the moon hadn’t made its appearance. It must not have been as late as he had thought. However, as close as they were to the mountains behind him, the sun didn’t have far to go to set.

He eased up on the reins as he neared the outer walls, not wanting to alarm anyone standing guard. The gates were still open, and a couple of wagons loaded with unsold vegetables passed him on their way out. The two men nodded in Ferrin’s direction but continued to stare when they caught sight of his ragged condition and the strange piece of metal around his neck.

Ferrin was hoping to ease on through, but two of the guards stepped out and blocked his way. Both men carried swords at the waist, and there were two more, carrying bows, near a small guard shack on the right. Ferrin wanted to glance over his shoulder to see if Goat Face and the others had broken through the tree line yet, but he was afraid it would make the guards even more suspicious.

“State your business,” one of the men said as the other grabbed the horse’s reins.

“I’m here for a smithy.” He noticed the men staring at the collar around his neck. He tried smiling to ease the tension as he raised his hand and stroked the metal’s outer edge. With the state of his attire, Ferrin was sure that no matter what he said, it would be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism. “I see you noticed my work. I was designing a new sort of neck bracelet for a lady patron of mine who had a request for something unique. She likes standing out in a crowd. Not that she needs a collar to do that.” He tilted his head to try look at the clamp. “Not exactly my taste, of course,” Ferrin said with a chuckle, “but when a woman pays in advance, well . . .” He shrugged. “How could I refuse?”

The guards didn’t seem too impressed with his story. Ferrin turned in his saddle as if trying to stretch and cast a quick glance behind him. He could see the white robes of the Black Watch pouring out of the woods on top of the rise. They were still too distant to count how many had followed him, but from the size of the group, it looked to have been most.

Ferrin turned quickly to finish. “As I was saying, she found a set of ancient symbols she thought would add a touch of flair to her attire and asked me to etch them into the sides. The point is, I finished the work, but when I went to try it on, I got the flaming thing stuck around my neck, and now I can’t seem to get it off.”

The guards looked at him like he was an imbecile. Ferrin felt like one after such a preposterous story.

“You made it a touch big, don’t you think?” the watchman on the right said as he took another look at the piece of metal around Ferrin’s rather large neck. Of all the questions they could have asked him, this one spoke volumes as to why these particular men had been chosen for the night watch.

Ferrin grinned and raised his arms out in front of his stomach. “You should see the woman.”

The guards laughed. The man in front released Ferrin’s horse and waved him on through. “Good luck with your, uh . . . bracelet.”

“My thanks, gentlemen.” Ferrin started his horse forward but then pulled back on the reins and turned in his saddle. “Oh, I almost forgot. Which way to the closest smithy?”

The two guards looked at each other.

“That’d be Koal.” The guard who had been holding his horse pointed straight ahead. “Just take the main road to the square, turn left, and go about a quarter mile till you hit Barker. Take that left and you’ll find Koal’s smithy on the right. Or is it on the left? No, it’s right.”

Ferrin waved his thanks and urged his horse into a trot. Hatch and his men were halfway to the gate. They were close enough to see the captain’s dark hair blowing in the wind. He didn’t look happy. Ferrin could hear him shouting but couldn’t tell what he was saying. He didn’t reckon it would have taken much of a guess.

Ferrin urged his horse to move faster. Once out of sight of the main gate, he kicked him into a full gallop. He hoped the overly incompetent guards kept Hatch and his men preoccupied long enough for him to make it to the square.

The streets were empty, which made traveling easier. He reached the heart of the city in short order, but instead of turning left as the guard had suggested, Ferrin directed his horse right instead. He hoped that the mislead would be enough to keep ol’ Goat Face tied up for a while.

A smithy would have been the preferable choice to help get the collar off his neck, but with that being the first place the Black Watch would undoubtedly search, Ferrin would have to do something else.

He stopped in front a small shop on the seedier side of town. The sign out front—painted yellow with faded green trim—had a pair of brown barrels on the front with the word cooper sketched over top. If there was one place other than a true smithy who would have the tools necessary for removing the unwanted contraption, it would be there.

Ferrin moved his horse around the side of the shop and tied it off in front of a small stone building. It was very similar to his own smithy back in Rhowynn. From the smoke rising out of the chimney at the back, he could see the cooper was still at work. With harvest season upon them, his services would be in high demand.

Ferrin knocked on the door and waited.

A man who looked to be in his mid-forties opened the door. He had a mallet in one hand and a chisel in the other. A long-stem pipe hung from his mouth, which seemed to be more for chewing than smoking, since the glow of its tobacco had died out.

“Can I help you?”

“I apologize for the late visit, but yours is the only light still on,” Ferrin lied. At least this one was half-believable. “I tried a few of the smithies, but they had already doused their kilns for the night.”

The man stared at him a moment and then finally opened the door. “Come on in, then.” He walked back into his shop. “And shut the door behind you. It’s cold out tonight, and my bones don’t take it like they used to.”

Ferrin hadn’t noticed the cold. The last thing on his mind was the temperature.

The cooper turned. “What seems to be the problem?” His eyes drifted to the metal collar.

“As you can see, I’ve managed to get this thing stuck on my neck and can’t figure out how to get it off. I was hoping to borrow a few tools to see if I could score it deep enough to crack.”

“Hmmm.” The cooper laid his hammer and chisel down to get a closer look. “Mighty fine piece of work. Yours?”

“Wish I could say that.” Ferrin smiled. “No, I traded it off a peddler for a couple sacks of winter grain, a good saddle, and a helping hand with one of his wagon wheels. The man said he purchased it off one of the ships coming back from the Blue Isles. He said it was a genuine native luck charm. They wear it around their necks to increase . . . fertility.” Ferrin lowered his head to appear embarrassed, not that what he was saying wasn’t enough to do that on its own. “The wife and I have been trying for some time, you see. And, well . . .”

The cooper raised his hand. “No need to explain.” He walked a full circle around Ferrin as he examined the collar. “I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t see an opening here. How did you say you got this thing on?”

“I’m not sure. It was the peddler who did it. Come to think of it, he did seem quite anxious to part ways as soon as he got it latched.”

The cooper just shook his head as if wondering what kind of simpleton would have let a peddler put this around his neck without telling him how to get it off.

“Bring it over here and let’s see what we can do.” The cooper offered his hand. “I’m Willard.”

Ferrin shook the man’s hand. “Ferrin.”

He followed Willard to a small anvil and watched as the man rifled through some of his chisels before deciding on one with a fine edge. He directed Ferrin to kneel down and place his neck over the center of the anvil. Ferrin felt like he was heading for the chopping block.

“All right, let’s see if I can score it like you said.” Willard angled the sharp end of the chisel away from Ferrin’s face and raised his mallet to make the first strike. Ferrin closed his eyes as the cooper started hammering away.

“Curious,” Willard said, dropping one chisel on the floor beside him to grab another, one with a more durable edge. He raised the mallet and struck again.

The echo of each clang was a welcome sound to Ferrin, a reminder of better days back home, but the frustrated grunts coming from the cooper were leaving him with a growing sense of dread. “How’s it looking?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. I haven’t even managed to scratch it yet.” Willard leaned back and looked Ferrin in the eyes. “Who did you say gave this–”

The doors at the front of the shop erupted. Splintered pieces of the handle and lock flew across the floor.

Willard stumbled backward, his pipe flying from his mouth, giving Ferrin a clear view of the men in white standing just outside.

“I told you there’d be no escape!” Captain Hatch crowed, a proud smirk on his goat face as he walked inside.

Chapter 10

FERRIN WAS EVEN MORE stunned than the cooper. How had they found him so fast? It should have taken them hours to search out every blacksmith in Syrel. There was no way they could have tracked him there.

Ferrin’s legs were trembling as he stood. He had waited weeks for the right opportunity, and here it was slipping away right in front of him. He picked up the mallet Willard had dropped, along with a large hammer hanging from a nearby rack. The cooper crawled to the back of his shop, not wanting to get in the middle of whatever was going on.

“Having difficulty with your collar?” Goat Face asked.

Ferrin didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to give Hatch the satisfaction. He was too busy staring at the strange glow beneath the captain’s shirt.

“By now you must realize that it can’t be opened. Not without a key, that is.” The captain reached into the top of his tunic and withdrew a long gold chain. He held out the artifact dangling from its end for Ferrin to see. Whatever it was, its tip was glowing a pale blue.

It wasn’t a normal key, comprised of a stem and a set of ridges. More like a cylindrical rod with some kind of symbol etched into the end. On closer inspection, it was the symbol that was glowing and not the rod itself.

Hatch took a couple steps forward and the key brightened to the point that Ferrin couldn’t look directly at it.

“You see. There’s nowhere you can go that we can’t track you. This key is connected to the durma. All we had to do was follow the key’s glow, and it led us right to you.” Hatch smirked. “Nice attempt, though, sending us after that other smithy. It didn’t take us long to realize we were heading in the wrong direction.”

Ferrin sneered. This was what he got for asking the Creator for a favor. “I’m not going back.” He raised both mallets and slid one foot back. “Only one of us is leaving here alive.”

Goat Face smiled.

Suddenly, a jolt of immense pain punched through Ferrin’s body, and he cried out, more out of shock than anything. His hands went numb, both mallets dropping from his limp fingers to hit the dusty floorboards. A second later, he landed on top of them.

He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe. He wanted to scream again, but every muscle in his body had seized at the same time, leaving him incapable of making any noise at all. He felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Oh, my apologies.” Hatch stepped forward and looked down at Ferrin’s prostrate body writhing beneath him. Whatever Goat Face had done to him had finally stopped. “Did I forget to mention that this key has another use?”

Ferrin wanted to reach up and beat the smile off his face. He wanted to beat him to death with his bare hands. He tried to reach the captain, but his arms seemed to be almost locked in place.

“It controls its wearer, not only by removing their powers but by stimulating the nerves with some kind of . . . Well, I don’t really know what it is. To be honest”—he chuckled as he lifted the key up to look at it—“I have no idea how it works. I’m told it’s quite unpleasant.” He looked down at Ferrin. “I guess you’d know better than me.” Hatch laughed. “I’ve actually seen grown men soil themselves when too much of this is applied. Shall we test it out?”

By then, Ferrin had managed to gain a little movement back in one arm. Whatever energy had been forced through him had left him nearly paralyzed. He could taste blood from where the impact with the floor had caused him to bite his tongue. With what little resolve he had left, he looked up at Hatch and smiled. “Do your worst.”

Hatch raised the key once more. “I believe I will.”

Ferrin reached out with his one good hand and grabbed Hatch’s leg. The jolt of energy ripped all the way through Ferrin’s body and straight into Goat Face. Hatch flew off his feet with a shrill that lasted the whole way down.

Ferrin blacked out before the captain hit the floor.

When Ferrin woke, he found himself lying across the back of one of the horses. He had been strapped down to keep from falling off. Tilting his head, he could just make out the moon through the thick overhanging branches. The cool night air was a relief against the lingering pain of the collar.

Up ahead he could see the firelight from their encampment as they exited the narrow path back into the open clearing. There was an eerie silence to the place. There were bodies lying all across the ground. A couple with white robes. Over half the wagons had been emptied, and the canvas from Ferrin’s wagon was ripped and hanging to the ground from the bars. It, too, was empty.

Those still in the cages looked as pitiful as Ferrin felt. Two of the guards jerked him off his horse and marched him back to his empty cage.

Ferrin quickly scanned the faces of the bodies they passed, looking for any he might have recognized. He didn’t see anyone from his wagon among the dead. He hoped his friends had followed his advice and made for the mountains. At least there they stood a chance of remaining hidden.

“I want a complete count of everyone we’re missing!” Hatch sounded ready to commit murder. “Guards and prisoners alike! You hear me?”

The men scattered. Most of them began rummaging through the bodies strewn across the clearing and into the woods behind the wagons. A few of the guards stayed back to count those still in their cages. It looked like the first three wagons had been untouched.

It didn’t take too long to get a running tally of the dead and the missing. There were thirteen dead, three of which were Black Watch. Of the twenty-eight that were missing, only one was a member of the Tower’s guards. Ferrin didn’t need to guess who it was. Telsa must have talked Bladder into going with them.

“Get some torches,” the captain said. “We’re going after them.”

“But sir, they have at least a couple hours on us, and we can’t take the horses through there. Once they reach the mountains, they’ll be near impossible to track.”

“Don’t give me your excuses! You have your orders!” Hatch grabbed a torch and started into the woods, taking the path behind Ferrin’s wagon.

Daybreak had reached the camp by the time Hatch and the others trudged their way out of the surrounding wood. Ferrin breathed a deep sigh of relief to see them returning alone.

“Start packing. We leave at daybreak.”

“What about the ones that got away?” one of the guards that had stayed behind asked.

“We have the real prize,” Goat Face grumbled, nodded at Ferrin’s wagon. “He’s worth more than the entire lot combined.”

Hatch turned to one of the men standing nearby. “Grab a couple of men and see to our dead. Bury them deep enough so the wolves don’t get to them.”

“Sir, what about the dead wielders? Should we bury them as well?”

Hatch took a moment to scan the bodies. “Burn them.”

Ferrin slumped in his usual spot in the back of the now-empty wagon. All his work, all his planning, everything was gone. He had nothing left to live for except the fear of what awaited him at the end of their journey. For the first time, he had to agree with Telsa—there was no hope. All he had left was his sanity and his sense of humor, and even that he could feel slipping away.

At least his sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing. He had managed to save twenty-seven wielders and one Black Watch guard.

He leaned his head against the bars and took a deep breath as he watched Goat Face limp his way across the open yard, dragging his injured leg behind him. Ferrin smiled. Pretty soon, his smile turned into a chuckle, and his chuckle into an all-out fit of laughter.

No matter how terrible the circumstances, no matter how dire the situation, he did have one small bit of joy to hold on to: the look on Hatch’s face when Ferrin had grabbed his leg. There was nothing quite so pleasing to the ears than the sound of the captain’s girly screams as his feet were ripped out from under him.

It’s the little victories in life that get you through.

Chapter 11

BY THE TIME they had left Syrel and were halfway to Iraseth, Ferrin had resigned himself to the fact that there would be no escape for him.

Due to the loss of prisoners they had suffered, Hatch announced that all extended breaks had been revoked until they had unloaded their cargo and received payment. The captain wasn’t about to take any more chances.

The passage of time seemed to slow as Ferrin jostled along in the back of the wagon. There was no one left with which to warm himself during the nights. No one to chat with during the days. His thoughts often drifted to that of the friends he had made on his journey. He was thankful that, at least, his capture had afforded them the time they needed to get away.

He spent hours imagining what each would do once they realized the Watch had left and they were free.

Ferrin was sure that Rascal would watch over silent Sasha. He would make sure she made it back to her home in Aldwick before returning to wherever it was he was from. Ferrin realized with a start he had never found out where the old codger had lived before being taken by the Black Watch.

Brennon and Sora would head back to their small community in Oswell, where Brennon could continue entertaining others with his fascinating tales of the untold dangers found in the Slags.

Telsa would head back to her home in Storyl. Ferrin had a feeling that her journey wouldn’t be a lonely one. The other guards assumed Bladder had been killed or lost somewhere deeper in the forest, but Ferrin knew better. He wished the two a very quiet and peaceful life.

Beese would take his son Cory back to Kai, where he could hopefully continue to explore his gift of healing.

And lastly, there was Narissa. Ferrin chuckled. He hoped her husband could run faster than she could.

In reality, Ferrin’s daydreams were just that, fantasies of what he wished could happen. In truth, he doubted any of them would return to their homes, except possibly Beese and Cory. But that would only be to collect the rest of their family. If they were smart, they would all find somewhere else to live, somewhere secluded where they could live out the rest of their days in peace.

The trip from Syrel to Iraseth took exactly one week, just as Brennon had predicted, and from Iraseth to the Pass of Arnon a little longer, their pace slowing through Thornwood Forest.

By the time they reached the split in the mountains leading to the White Tower, Ferrin was almost grateful. A couple more days in the back of that wagon and he would have hanged himself with the overhead canvas, something he had already given great consideration. It only crossed his mind a couple dozen times a day. But in the end, he was too much of a coward to do it. Or maybe still too full of himself?

The peaks of the Razor Spine Mountains rose up on either side, completely blocking the sun from view. The Pass of Arnon was wide enough to accommodate a small company of men side by side, but not much more. It was clearly a strategic choice—one way in and only one way out. No chance of being surrounded. It took a full day-and-half ride to reach the other side.

Ferrin pressed against the bars at the sight of two enormous stone sentinels, one on either side of the pass. Each had been carved straight out of the mountain. The robed giants were hundreds of feet tall, dark cowls covering their faces. Each held a massive sword, warning that any who dared venture there had better think twice about the decision. He shivered as they rode between the two. It felt as though they were watching him.

On the far side of the stone giants, the pass opened into a wide basin. The mountains rose up on either side like a natural wall created for the sole purpose of guarding the Tower.

He had always pictured a single tower made with painted stone. The White Tower was actually quite a bit more than one lonely keep. There was a single monolithic spire that rose hundreds of feet in the air, but there was also an immense complex of smaller towers and bulwarks surrounding it. It was as impressive a fortress as Ferrin could have ever thought possible, having never seen one himself.

The overlord’s castle at Rhowynn was the largest estate Ferrin had ever seen, and he had thought it quite the spectacle until now. Lord Agnar could have fit his entire bastion inside any of the buildings in front of him and still had room to spare.

To reach the mountain complex, they had to first cross a deep chasm. An enormous bridge spanned the opening from the pass to the first of the Tower’s complex. There were tall arches at either end of the bridge, holding back barricading gates. The gates were open and waiting as the caravan passed through.

From his cage, Ferrin was able to see partway over the side. The chasm dropped at least a hundred feet below into what looked like molten rock. The heat produced certainly agreed with the appearance.

Ferrin tilted his head and stared up at the single spire from which the White Tower had received its name. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see the top. The Tower, unlike many of the other smaller buildings, didn’t appear to be constructed of joined stone. Instead, it appeared to be a solid structure. It was both breathtaking and terrifying.

At the end of the causeway, a massive entrance had been cut into the rock, its double doors taller than the gates around Rhowynn. Stairs led up to the doorway. At the top, stood a row of black and white–robed individuals. They watched as the wagons came to a stop at the foot of the stairs and Hatch’s men began unloading the cargo.

Ferrin’s cage was last to be opened, and he joined the others as the frightened caravan slowly made their way up the walkway. Many of the women and children, and even some of the men, were openly crying. One man took off running back the way they’d come, no doubt hoping to make it to the bridge.

A lance of what looked like greenish lightning shot from one of the dark-robed people at the top of the stairs and snared the man before he had made it past the last wagon.

Ferrin froze. Many of the others screamed in fear.

The strange lightning was so bright that Ferrin had to put his hand up in front of his eyes. The escaping man was yanked off his feet and lifted into the air. He started to scream, then his body went taut and he exploded across the last three wagons.

Ferrin stumbled backward. Others did the same, pushing tight against each other for fear. He clutched his hands together to keep them from shaking.

“Let this be a lesson to any who dare try escape,” a voice called out behind them.

Ferrin and the others turned, and one of the black-robed individuals at the top of the stairs stepped forward and raised their hands.

“Welcome to the White Tower.”

Michael Wisehart

MICHAEL WISEHART graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business before going back to school for film and starting his own production company. As much as he enjoyed film work, the call of writing a novel got the better of him, and on April 14, 2014, he started typing the first words of what would become two epic fantasy series: The Aldoran Chronicles and the Street Rats of Aramoor.

He currently lives and writes in South Georgia.

Website: michaelwisehart.com

Facebook: MichaelWisehart.author

YouTube: michaelwisehart2

Email: michael@michaelwisehart.com

7,500 words

"LYDIA." VESTA V'S AI sounded tinny in the thin atmosphere.

"Here," Lydia whispered. "Still here."

"Primary mission parameter has been met."

"Understood." This day had seemed unimaginably far away for so long. Lydia had thought she wouldn't make it. Now she wanted to go on, wanted to keep hearing Vesta's voice.

"Life support is failing."

She laughed, not caring that she was wasting air. "I know."

"Orders?"

She could have sent a message to mission control. She even could have called them, using up what little power there was for one last real-time comm with Mei. But she didn't need or want MC. And Vesta needed her. "What would you like to do, Vesta?"

"Query not understood."

"Preference. Yours." She started to cough and lowered her voice, secure that Vesta would hear her. "It's our last hurrah. Pick an interesting sector. Chart it until you have only enough power left to send the info and then transmit it back to MC."

Die, essentially, doing her job. That was what Lydia was asking her to do.

"And life support?"

"Divert to thrusters and comms. Follow secondary mission parameters."

"Keeping you alive is a secondary mission parameter, Lydia."

"Since when?"

"I amended my directives."

She closed her eyes—it was the ultimate irony that she felt closer to this machine than she did to most humans. "I appreciate that, Vesta, but I'm overruling. You have your orders."

"Understood. Charting additional sectors until power failure. Diverting life support to thrusters and comms."

"Thank you, Vesta." She could feel the air getting thinner and thought of the hypodermic needles sitting unused in the infirmary. Her sharp little fail-safes. Once her true north.

"Commander Ramirez?"

"Yes?"

"It has been an honor to serve with you."

"Same here, my friend." Getting the words out was a struggle. Fortunately, there was nothing more to say as she floated in the growing cold, trying to suffocate with dignity, watching out the viewscreen as Vesta V completed her final run.

"Lydia?"

Lydia was playing one of her favorite games. She paused it and said, "What, Vesta?"

"I heard Admiral Leighton give you permission to die."

"Yep."

"Are you going to do that? End your life before we run out of power?"

"Would it make you sad?"

Vesta didn't answer, so Lydia said, "Whatever you're feeling, send it back for processing with the context of this conversation. It's important to MC."

"Very well. Lydia, what is it like to die?"

"I don't know."

"But humans die. You have vast amounts of data surrounding it."

"Prior to death, yes. From those who've been brought back seemingly from it, yes. But actual death? We don't know what it's like. Going to sleep, I guess."

"I do not sleep, Lydia." There was a long silence before Vesta continued, "I have been offline for repairs. But I did not cease to exist."

"You won't cease to exist. Even at the end of this mission. You're sending back data and your own reactions, the way you've handled a variety of activities and emergencies. Those are quantifiable, much more so than my own activities. Your essence will be contained. And used. In the AIs that come after."

"I will have . . . children?"

"One way to look at it."

"I am not sure your explanation is accurate. But you are . . . kind to try to make me believe it."

The AI had come a long way. She'd sounded human just then. Did she have regrets?

Lydia could feel her own regrets creeping up on her. Natural, probably, with the end so close. She sighed, then said softly, "I wasn't kind to Rick."

"He was not kind to you. Input and response. Basic programming is universal, is it not?"

Lydia laughed. Maybe it was.

"I have never understood one thing, Lydia. You play so many games. Why am I not allowed to play them with you?"

"Because you'd wipe my ass." She laughed, but then her smile faded. Mission Control had told her that the AI wasn't to play with her. It was probably too much—too close. A level of intimacy—of some kind of touching—that would make this all the harder. "Perhaps you should send that back to MC as a scenario to explore. You sound as though you feel the lack of that sort of interaction was detrimental."

"I will send it back. I believe it was shortsighted of them to omit recreational activities from my interactions with you."

There was something in Vesta's voice—she thought maybe it was wistfulness—that made her ask, "How much life support do we have, Vesta?"

"Six days, four hours, twenty three minutes."

Not of lot of time to screw things up, then. She saved her game, then brought up a two-player backgammon board. "No dang cheating or I'm telling MC to never, ever let AIs play with crew. Go on—roll the dice. And send this interaction back with your suggestion. May as well be honest with them."

"Are you sure?"

"Go for it."

There was a moment where nothing happened on the board, then the dice rolled across the screen. A five and a one. Vesta moved one piece from the thirteenth to the seventh triangle. A relatively safe move.

"You're lucky you didn't roll double sixes or I'd have so called your ass on it."

"To attempt to control the dice in my favor would be cheating, would it not?"

"Yep. And to do it in my favor would be pity, and I don't need that."

"Understood, Lydia."

Lydia started to regret the no-pity rule as she proceeded to roll three crappy moves in a row. But Vesta didn't have much more luck, so she let it go and settled in to play with an opponent who could actually talk back.

As Lydia began to bear off her last pieces for the win, Vesta said softly, "I have enjoyed this."

"Me, too." Lydia smiled. "Best of five?"

She studied the nearly empty larder. Only the stuff she hated was left. Maybe she shouldn't have embraced the "live for the now" concept by eating her favorites first? But who knew she'd last this long, nearly to the end of the voyage?

Rick. Rick had known.

"Lydia?" Vesta's resonant voice filled the tiny space.

"Here." It was a silly thing to say. Where else would she be? The capsule was one room. And yet she answered by instinct every time.

"Incoming comm. Real time."

"Open comm line." God only knew what MC wanted this far into the voyage.

The audio was scratchy, but she made out a male voice saying, "Specialist Lydia Ramirez?"

"Yes."

"This is Admiral Leighton."

She tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her jumpsuit even though he couldn't see her. "Oh, hello, sir."

"You've made history."

"And you've made admiral. I bet my success surprises you more than your upward mobility." The words were out before she could think about what she was saying.

But he just laughed—and it wasn't a mean sound. "I'll admit it, Commander. You surprised me."

Had she heard him right—Commander? "Transmission garbled, sir."

"Oh, you mean because I called you 'Commander'? Nothing garbled about it. You've been on Vesta for the time it would take a fast-climbing ensign to make lieutenant commander. You've done everything we've asked and more. I guess that recruiter was wrong, after all. The history books will know you as Lieutenant Commander Lydia Ramirez of the Federated Space Association. The brave FSA officer who took the first one-way mission in the name of science."

"Did Commander Watson have anything to do with this?" She could see Rick thinking it would be a way to make up for their last conversation.

"No. This was all me, Lydia. I'm sorry if I've been an ass to you. I know the probability is high that I was." He laughed in a way that told her he knew he was abrasive but wasn't going to do much about it. Then again, he'd made admiral this way, so why should he?

"Thank you, sir." She could feel a difference in the way she answered him—not with any fear of his disapproval. Now she felt that they were two similar people following a long-held tradition, and she liked that idea. "Vesta estimates nine weeks of life support at the most."

"You ride that margin as far as you want to. Then you say goodbye. No one will think the worse of you. I certainly won't."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll let you get back to making history. The lab geeks are ecstatic with the data you've sent back. I'd let you talk to them, but they give me a migraine, and I don't want to do that to you."

She laughed. "I appreciate that, sir."

"Godspeed, Commander. It's been an honor to serve with you."

"Thank you, sir. It's been an honor to serve with you, too. Ramirez out."

The crackly sound of the comm faded from the galley.

"Vesta?"

"Yes, Commander Ramirez?"

She laughed. "Oh, that sounds nice—and very strange. Can you repeat what you just said?"

"I said, 'Yes, Commander Ramirez?'"

She felt a surge of something that felt a lot like pride fill her. "More nice than strange."

Vesta waited, the way she did when something Lydia said made no sense.

"It's okay to still call me Lydia, Vesta. Now, get back to work."

"I am fully capable of addressing your needs while carrying out mission parameters."

"I know you are. As you were." She giggled at using military-speak on Vesta, then turned back to the larder. Which of the meals that remained did she dislike the least?

"Incoming comm, Lydia. It is Lieutenant Commander Watson."

Rick? And with a shiny new rank—the career move had been good for him.

Lydia grabbed a handhold and turned to look at the control panel—as if Vesta was physically located in that spot. "Open comm. Commander?"

"Nobody's listening, Lydia."

"Rick." She closed her eyes. "It's been..."

"A long, long time."

"I thought you'd left MC?"

"I know I said that, but..." He sighed, it was dramatic enough to carry all the way through deep space. "I—Leighton let me use the booth, our comm line—just like old times."

"I see."

"I couldn't keep being your POC, Lydia."

"Your career, you mean?" He'd told her all this. Why he was leaving Mission Control. Onward and upward and all that.

"No. I don't mean that." There was a long silence that she decided not to try to fill. Finally, he said, "You sound different."

"I'm a heck of a lot farther away. Guess it stands to reason I'd sound different."

"No, it's not that. You—you've changed. Leighton told me you had."

"He said something nice? Throw a bone to the doomed woman, I guess."

"That's not why he said it. He thinks highly of you." There was another long pause. "This isn't how I planned for this to g—" He started to cough, the sound ugly even over the comms. "I'm...sick."

She waited because she thought he needed her to do that.

"Actually, I'm not just sick. I'm dying."

She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I need to tell you the truth. I left MC, but I was still in the building—I could have commed."

"What?"

"I didn't leave for my career's sake, Lydia. I left for my marriage's sake."

He was married? He'd never mentioned a wife.

"Marion...Marion knew that I wasn't there for her the way I used to be. That I was distracted. That I had...someone else."

"You mean...me? Your assignment? "

"You stopped being just an assignment. You need to know that I ... I love you."

She sat frozen in her chair. He loved her? He'd left her alone all this time—not one comm—because he loved her?

"Lyd, say something."

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I don't know. And it's self-indulgent of me to tell you. But I wanted you to know that if my marriage hadn't been on the line—my family at risk—I would never have stopped our comms. I'm not a half-in kind of guy. I couldn't talk to you and not be . . . engaged." There was a very long silence, broken only by occasional static on the comms. Then he said, his voice more forlorn than she expected, "Do—did you love me?"

She laughed: half in disbelief, half in bitterness.

"Lydia—"

How dare he say her name that way—his tone the one that had talked her off a hundred ledges. "You selfish son of a bitch. Self indulgent? This is cruel, Rick. Cruel."

"I'm sorry."

"That you did it? Or are you sorry that you're a sad, dying man who has nothing better to do than share unpleasant truths with a captive audience?" The silence was even longer and thick with ugly emotions she'd never dealt well with at the best of times. "I'm sorry you're sick. I'm sorry you're dying. But we're all dying, aren't we? Isn't that what you said to me once as your idea of a pep talk?"

"It was."

"I have things to do." She tried to not spit the words at him, to keep her tone level.

"Understood."

He didn't understand. But she wasn't going to help him.

"Vesta, end transmission."

The noise of the comm line was gone, only the normal sounds of the Vesta V around her.

"I overheard, Lydia."

She laughed, a little hysterically. "Of course you did."

"You . . . cared for him?"

"I liked him a lot."

She felt filled with nervous energy so she grabbed handholds and pulled herself around the capsule, going faster and faster until she heard Vesta ask so softly she could have ignored it, "Did you love him?"

She stopped her crazy capsule carousel. "No. He left me alone for nothing."

"Lydia?"

"Yes, Vesta." Lydia tried to concentrate on the vid Mei had sent, but she wasn't taking it in. She kept thinking about her friend's upcoming vacation from Mission Control and how she'd miss talking to her.

"You have not moved for over ten point six minutes. This is unusual."

"I was thinking."

Vesta clearly wasn't designed to be a shrink; she didn't take the obvious course and ask what Lydia was thinking about. "Oh. I will add that to your normal parameters."

"No."

"No?"

"No, you were right. It's unusual."

"Very well." Was there the smallest hint of satisfaction in the AI's voice?

"You monitor me, right?"

"It is part of my programming."

Lydia almost laughed: ask a machine a question, don't expect a warm and fuzzy answer. "Okay. So no other reason, then?"

"Your continued existence is . . . important to me."

"But why?" She sounded more needy than she meant to—did she really want Vesta to say she cared about her?

The ship was silent. So silent it got awkward. Finally, Lydia told her, "It's okay. I withdraw the question."

She looked at the medical supplies cabinet and thought of the needles inside, then she pushed off and bypassed the cabinet, heading for the galley one instead. She rifled through the bags. Surely they'd hidden some Scotch in here. She'd take gin or vodka or heck, even a beer.

Of course, she said that every time she looked and there was never any booze.

And there still wasn't. She settled for Beef Bourguignon over noodles. Or the deep space equivalent, anyway.

Lydia waited for her new POC to comm. She closed her eyes and counted imaginary hypodermic needles until the sound changed on the comm and she heard the perky voice of her new handler.

"Specialist Ramirez?"

"Nope. It's the other passenger on Vesta V."

Liu laughed. "You're funny. Lieutenant Watson didn't say you were funny."

She wasn't sure what to say, so she just waited.

"So, I've been looking over the list of what we're sending you in the way of entertainment. Are you...enjoying the stuff?"

"Truthfully? It's something to watch." Or listen to. Or read. Or play.

"You're getting the same thing all deployed personnel get. And you should be special."

"Special?"

"Yeah. What you're doing. It matters."

Lydia almost laughed. Sure, the mission mattered, but she didn't. "Do you even know why they picked me? I'm not military."

"I realize that. And no, I'm not privy to your file prior to the Vesta V's launch. You can tell me whatever I need to know, how's that?"

"Okay." Did she have to? Couldn't she let Mei go on believing she was special?

"Listen, Lydia, how about I bypass the standard selection on your vids and games? We'll figure out what you like, and I'll put the packages together myself from here on out." There was an undertone of merriment in Liu's voice that Lydia wasn't used to.

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Call me Mei." Her tone was so gentle it made Lydia feel safe—even in her tin can.

"Lieutenant Watson is on the comm, Lydia." Vesta's soft voice came through the doze Lydia was in.

She was floating and napping? She could have floated into something she wasn't supposed to. "Vesta, I'm supposed to sleep in the sleep pod."

"I was monitoring you. I would have roused you if you had been a threat to systems."

"Why?"

"I do not understand the query."

"Why did you let me sleep?"

"You looked . . . at peace."

"Send that back to MC. Your assessment and how you arrived at it and your actions."

"Did I do wrong?"

Lydia smiled. "No. They'll be interested in it, is all. Put Rick through."

"Yes, Lydia."

Lydia waited for the slight change in sound of the open channel, then said, "Hello, Rick."

"Hello, Lydia. I've . . . I've got news. I'm being reassigned."

"Oh." She felt a pang—he was her only friend other than Vesta. "A good posting?"

"Yes. But . . . far away. I won't be able to comm you anymore."

"I see." She wasn't sure what to say. Finally she asked, "So when do you leave?"

"A month. But my replacement, Lieutenant Liu, will be here in a few weeks. I'm going to hand you over to her before I transfer officially. I have things to do, pack out and all that."

Why did he sound like he was making excuses? "Sure," she said. "Of course."

"She's good. You'll like her."

Lydia didn't answer.

"Lyd, what're you thinking?"

"Why? Worried I'll jam a needle in my arm?"

"Maybe." He sounded miserable, and she wasn't sure why—this was his choice. His career. It was perfectly reasonable for him to move on.

"Lydia, I want you to know that this time—our interactions—they've been important to me. I'll never forget you. For as long as I live."

"Which we both know will be much longer than I will." She thought she heard him sniff and rolled her eyes. What the heck was wrong with him? He wasn't the one with no return ticket.

"I'll miss you, Lyd." Before she could answer, he gave a choked, "Watson out," and cut the comm.

She floated, unsure how she was supposed to feel.

"Lydia?"

"I'm fine, Vesta."

"Are you sure? I can—"

"Drop it, Vesta. I'm fine." Or she would be. People left. It was a constant of her life. At least this departure she could blame on the FSA and not on her own bad choices.

Lydia watched as the clock counted down the minutes until it was officially three years and six months into the mission. Then she floated over to the cabinet full of meds and touched her finger to the lock on the clear interior drawer that held the hypodermic needles.

There was a loud click and she sighed in relief. She opened the door, pulled the tray out, and read the labels on the needles. Quite the selection.

"Will you use those, Specialist Ramirez?"

"How would it make you feel if I did?" Man, her various therapists would be so proud. Answering a question with a "tell me how you feel" response.

"I would . . . miss your company."

"Would you go on with the mission?" There was a silence and Lydia saw the lock on the clear compartment glow red. "Are you seeing if you can lock the cabinet?"

There was a long silence. Then Vesta said, "Yes."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

Lydia pulled the needles closer to her. "Will you?"

"My programming specifically forbids me from interfering with your use of the needles provided."

"That's not really an answer. What will you do, Vesta? You, not your programming."

"I am my programming." There was another long silence. "But . . . I am not only my programming."

Lydia waited.

"I will not lock the cabinet." Vesta's voice was off, as if she wasn't sure of her statement.

Lydia studied the needles. "I'm so tired, Vesta. You have no idea what it's like to be this tired."

"Part of what you feel is a natural function of a human adjusting to zero G in confined and isolated quarters. Were you to have a function on this ship—duties of some sort—your motivation to do them would also be diminished. That will change."

"I was tired before I even signed on for the mission, Vesta. You didn't know me before all this." She picked up one of the needles and imagined what it might feel like, the sharp prick of it into her skin, the slight pull of blood into the syringe and then slowly plunging the drug in, feeling the warm sense of ease encompass her, drifting slowly away until there was nothing left.

Floating. Forever. Inside this ship. She couldn't float like that. She'd have to secure herself inside the sleep pod before she did it. She couldn't leave Vesta with her floating corpse.

"Vesta, are we friends?"

"I have never had a friend."

She thought of Rick, how disappointed he'd be in her if she used the drugs, and of Leighton, the smug expression he'd wear when he heard the news. "Knew she wouldn't cut it," he'd say as he stood at perfect parade rest.

"Are we friends, Specialist Ramirez?"

"Whether we are or not, I think you should call me Lydia."

There was a long silence and she imagined gears whirring. Then Vesta said, "Lydia, please put the needles back. I will not interfere in your choices."

"Why not?"

"Mission Control believes you need free access to those. Free will appears to be important to them. They also gave me the power to override your access to them, but no directions specific to that activity. I believe they wanted me to choose."

Lydia laughed softly. "They wanted both of us to choose, it seems." She held the syringe to her lips and let the kiss linger, a lover's embrace. "I wonder what they thought I'd do." Did they have a pool going? How long before she did it. Which drug. Before a meal or after.

She slipped the needle back into its fastener, put the tray in the container, and shut the door. The lock stayed green. She opened the container to check, then shut it again. The lock still stayed green.

"Thank you, Vesta, for leaving me the choice."

"Thank you for putting them back."

Lydia woke to a burst of music from the comm channel. She laughed when she recognized the traditional FSA birthday song.

"You awake in there, Lyd?"

"I am now, Rick." She fought her way out of the sleep pod—she was getting better at moving but the pod still proved tricky—and said, "So, where's my present?"

"Check the vid library."

She floated over and saw that a bunch of titles had been added—nothing that particularly thrilled her, but at least it was new material. "Thanks."

"There's one called New Places. I...I made it."

"You made it?" What? Like some kind of special playlist for her?

"The week I was on leave? I took vids of places I went that I thought were interesting. Took my tripod, so you can see me, too, being a really bad narrator at times. I thought . . . something personal would be nice, you know?"

"I'm sorry I can't return the favor. The view here is pretty much the same."

"I know."

"And I'm not at my prettiest these days."

"I don't believe that. I have a picture of you in the booth here. So I can see you when I talk to you." He sighed. "We have real-time comms, so I should be grateful for that, but I really wish I could see you."

She wasn't sure if that would make it easier to deal with the capsule, and the emptiness outside it, or not. It might make it harder, to see what she was missing.

"So, inside the galley cabinet, at the back of the entrée drawer, there are some birthday cake packets. One for each year. Go get one."

"I just woke up, Rick. I'll have it later."

"Okay but just find them, tell me they're there. I want to know you'll be able to celebrate."

She dug through the cabinet, finally pulled out two packets of birthday cake. Yellow with white frosting. Her favorite. Only she wasn't sure how it would taste when it was all mushed together and compacted for space travel. "Thanks."

"They should have put some in for the birthdays you missed while you were in cryo."

"They didn't. But this is fine. Really."

She put the two packets at the front of the drawer instead of putting them back where they were. Did they really think she was going to wait to eat that second packet? A few months to go and then birthdays would never be a worry again.

"You sound sad, Lyd."

"I'm a woman with limited birthdays left. Should I do a dance?" She winced at her tone; he was just trying to help her deal with all this.

"We're all dying. You just happen to know when and how you're going to go. The rest of us . . . we muddle on without that."

"So I'm the . . . what? The lucky one?"

"No. I mean . . . yes, maybe you are. In a weird way."

"You give the worst pep talks, Rick."

"But they work. Haven't they worked so far?"

She laughed. "Yes. Yes, they have. Don't you have other things to do? Like finding me some decent games to play?"

"I sent you some more of those, too. And some books. You're fully stocked."

"Thanks." She hoped this shipment had better stuff than the last one.

"Oh, and Leighton wanted me to wish you happy birthday."

"He didn't."

Rick laughed. "Sure enough. You're surprising him. I knew you would."

She eyed the cabinet with the locked container, the impervious cryo chamber. She didn't think she was surprising Leighton one little bit, but she'd let Rick have his illusions.

"Specialist Ramirez, it has been two days since I awakened you from cryo sleep. You have not eaten your required daily allowance of nutrition."

Lydia closed her eyes at the thought of food. "Shut up, Vesta." She felt her stomach twist again and opened her eyes, shocked to see she was floating nearly sideways. She normally had great balance—had done gymnastics when she was a kid and was pretty good at the tumbling—but she couldn't get a feel for where she was in space.

Other than floating in it. In a tin can that was never made to house a human.

Her face felt funny, and she touched it—it was puffy. They'd told her that instead of swollen feet she could expect this. They'd mentioned sniffles—what she had was the mother of all colds, not just hay fever.

"Specialist Ramirez, your requirements for food are quite specific. I could recite the list of choices available to you."

"No." She reached for the barf bag, ripped it open the way she'd been shown, and threw up, quite literally up, but fortunately there wasn't much left in her stomach to go. She wiped her face off with the cloth liner inside the bag, then zipped it up and put it in the trash holder. At this rate, she was going to run out of bags.

Her head was pounding—the headache she'd thought had gone away was back in full force after vomiting. Everything was spinning, and it didn't help the sick feeling to know the vertigo was temporary, that her body would eventually figure out that down was wherever her feet were no matter what her brain said.

"What have I done?" She pulled herself hand over hand, grabbing the handholds gingerly, the way she'd done as a kid when just learning to play on the ring-bridge during recess, and made her way to the cabinet that was supposed to hold medicines. "I'm crazy. Totally freakin' crazy."

"There are anti-vertigo medicines in the cabinet, Specialist Ramirez."

"Uh huh." She skipped those trays, looking for one filled with hypodermic needles, and she saw it—behind a sealed clear compartment that said, "Don't open for six months" as if it was a holiday gift. Leighton's sick idea of a joke, no doubt.

She smiled, the half-smile that had never signaled anything good. Maybe he wasn't so smart.

She kicked off, going much faster than she expected, and crashed headfirst into the cryo chamber.

"Specialist Ramirez, slow, gentle movements are recommended until you become accustomed to microgravity."

"No crap." She closed her eyes, the pounding in her head grew worse than before, and the need to vomit followed suit, but she forced it down as she tried to open the cryo chamber.

"What are you doing?"

"I need something in here."

"The cryo chamber is disabled."

"But the emergency hypodermic needle isn't." She tried to force the chamber open, hitting random combinations of buttons, all the while hearing Vesta murmuring zero-G protocols and asking if she could please calm down.

"Why. Won't. This. Open?" Each word was punctuated by an ineffectual attempt to slap the chamber. She couldn't get any leverage, missed the chamber entirely on the last word, and slapped her leg. Hard. "Crap. Crap-crap-crap."

"Specialist Ramirez." Vesta's voice was one of quiet urgency, then not so quiet as she said much more loudly, "Specialist Ramirez, Lieutenant Watson at Mission Control is on the comm for you."

Lydia stopped her idiotic attack on the cryo chamber and turned to look at the main console. "I don't want to talk to anyone," she said between pants.

"Lydia, this is Lieutenant Watson. I'm here whether you want to talk to me or not." A male voice. Soothing. "Can you stop whatever you're doing and focus on me?"

"I can. I'm not sure I want to."

"I understand. Believe me. I've been in Iso sims. Zero G, too. I know it's rough, but I promise you that it gets better."

"Says the guy who had solid ground on the other side of his simulation exit. Not a vacuum."

"True. Also I'm not vomiting like it's my job."

"Don't say that word, please."

"Sorry." He laughed gently. "So what exactly are you trying to do?"

"I'm sure Vesta told you—she sent some kind of alarm, right? Is this on MC-wide radio? Everyone listening in?"

"Nope. I'm in a booth in the back of MC. It's soundproofed and the recordings are close hold. It's as private as we can make it."

She let go of the cryo chamber, pushed off gingerly, and felt her stomach heave again as she began to float. "How generous. Why should I believe you?"

"Because I don't lie." He sounded as if he meant it—but wouldn't a good liar be able to do that?

"Does Leighton know I'm freaking out?"

"He was the one who alerted me that I was needed. I've been assigned as your primary point of contact. My name's Rick."

"What does Leighton think of this?"

"I really am in a soundproof booth so I can say this: he's an ass sometimes. Whatever he thinks of you, who cares? You volunteered for this mission, right? Whatever your reasons, whatever you're going through right now, the fact that you're there, that you volunteered, is not going to change. You're a very brave woman in my book."

"Yeah, I'm sure he agrees with you." She tried to slow her breathing and grabbed the nearest handhold while she leaned up against the row of cabinets, anything to feel that she was on solid ground again. "I was trying to kill myself. In the cryo chamber, there's a hypodermic."

"The chamber's locked."

"Yeah, I found that out, which is why I was trying to break into it rather than the more conventional approach of just opening it. But there's no freakin' leverage in zero G."

He laughed gently. "I know. Sucks. You get used to it, though. You learn to do things—not that you'll need to chop wood or anything."

"The other cabinet is locked, too. With a note."

"I know. I've been briefed. Six months. That was the deal you made, right?"

She sighed.

"I'm here to help you through that. I've been there, Lydia."

"No one's been on a one-way mission, Rick."

"Okay, you've got me there. And I've never been so set on ending my life. But I've been in a dinky little capsule wondering why the heck I said they could put me in it. I can sympathize to some extent. And I'm here for you. Whenever you need."

"Whenever? You have no life?"

"I do. But I also have a cot here if the day goes long, and there are lots of good restaurants in town, as you know. Most of them deliver. I'm here for you while you get adjusted. I swear it."

She didn't answer and he didn't break the silence, didn't give her some mindless chatter or laugh nervously. He just waited.

She liked that. "Okay."

"Good. Are you near the mirror?"

"Yeah."

"Let your hair down—so to speak."

"What?"

"Seriously. Let it down. I know you practiced washing your hair in the zero-G simulator. But somehow letting it loose feels different when you're up there."

She grabbed a handhold and pulled herself over to the area that held her personal items, all fastened to the wall or safe in cabinets and drawers, velcroed down so they wouldn't move around. The mirror was wrapped in soft material, no chance of cutting herself with it—and she knew it was safety glass, would break into little blunt-edged dice, not jagged shards, if it broke.

She stared at herself in the mirror, then took the band off that was holding her hair in a pony tail. Her hair began to float, and she laughed—he was right, it did feel different than it had in the sims. Still looked ridiculous, though.

"What a nice sound. It's not quite the same for a guy, crew cuts just aren't as dramatic a look."

She'd had the option of a high and tight but hadn't wanted to let them cut her hair. "It feels so strange."

"So I've been told."

She gathered her hair back up and put it in a ponytail. "I'm not brave, Rick."

"I think you are."

"You don't know me very well."

"I'll get to know you. And I think you'll see I'm right."

Lydia stood in the training facility, wondering again why she'd agreed to this. Underwater tests, zero-G sims, how to do the most basic tasks while floating—essentially a crash course in being . . . what? Not FSA, maybe more like the old-time NASA astronauts. FSA ships had artificial gravity, but Leighton wasn't about to waste one of those on Lydia and his iffy AI. She was going to be stuck in zero-G for five years, two of them awake—if she made it the whole way, which was certainly not on her "things to do" list.

Other than keeping the AI company, Lydia had no role on the ship, no mission-critical tasks to learn. Mission Control would take care of communicating with the AI on any systems issues, course corrections, or adjustments to the mission parameters.

"Specialist Ramirez?"

She turned and saw a tech motioning her over to a small chamber that looked like what she'd seen of the Vesta probes. "More floating?" She hoped it wasn't the vertical treadmill again. She knew the thing was crucial but hated using it.

He gave her a sympathetic look. "Not today. Today you get to meet Vesta." He pointed at a main control panel. "This is a mock-up of the ship as you'll see her. We want you to get to know where everything is."

"Lot of work to build this. You couldn't just put me on the ship?"

A new voice filled the room, a female voice. "The ship is being readied for launch. You would be in the way, Specialist Ramirez."

"The AI?" she whispered to the tech, who nodded.

"I can hear you, Specialist. I have been told to respond to the designation 'Vesta.'"

"Okay." She looked at the tech, who was walking to the door. "What do I do?"

"Learn. Vesta's going to continue your training. She's a great trainer, and we believe this early introduction will ease your transition when you wake from hibernation and have only her to interact with. You two won't be strangers."

Or she'd wake from hibernation and jam the drugs Leighton had said would be waiting into her veins. It was good to have options.

Lydia sat in the exam room of the clinic, wondering why the doctor hadn't come in yet. The nurse had done all the final tests, and Lydia's results had come back normal—or as normal as expected for someone checking into this facility.

Finally there was a knock on her door and she murmured, "Come in," the stupid way she always did, as if the doctor needed some kind of permission to enter his own domain.

But it wasn't Doctor Manning that entered. It was a man in a Federated Space Association uniform. She had no idea what his rank insignia meant, but he carried himself like he was God—and she was a bug.

"Who are you?" She'd show him the bug had some bite. "Where's my doctor?"

"I'm Captain Leighton. Your doctor is presumably attending to his other patients." He sat down in the chair by the door, and she realized he was putting himself lower than her—probably on purpose. But why?

She stared at him until he took a deep breath and said, "I took a gander at your folder. You once applied to be FSA."

"A long time ago. And I was rejected. Surely my folder told you that, too?"

"Oh, it did. Do you want to know why you were rejected?"

"Not really."

"Well, I'll tell you anyway. Some recruiter wrote 'Not FSA material' on your application."

She looked down.

"Given where we are, I guess they were right." He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.

"What do you want?" This wasn't how her day was supposed to go. A final test or two, a prick of a needle, and then oblivion. End of story. Not some stick-up-his-ass officer visiting the euthanasia clinic to tell her why she wasn't cut out to be FSA.

"I want to make you a deal."

"I'm not really in deal-taking mode anymore." She gestured around the room. "It's why I'm here."

"Understood. But on your intake forms you indicated you wanted to dispose of your remains through donation to science."

"So?" She'd been feeling altruistic. "I can change that if it's making you uncomfortable for some reason."

He stood up, walked to the bed, and stared her right in the eyes—for an uncomfortably long time. She forced herself to not look away, no matter how long he wanted to stand like that.

He turned abruptly and walked to the window, his hands crossed behind his back. "I don't want you to change the details of the handling of your body. I just want you to donate it before you die."

"Excuse me?"

"I want you to change the way and place you commit suicide."

There was a long silence as she tried to process what he'd just said. Finally she laughed—a little hysterically—and said, "What?"

He turned, his expression hard. "I have no idea why you've decided to kill yourself, and I really don't give a rat's ass. But the fact is: I need you." He handed her a small tablet; on it was the picture of a little ship.

She could just make out the name. "Vesta V?"

"That's right."

She handed the tablet back. "The first four were unmanned probes. Tiny tin cans searching for minerals and anything else of interest." She saw his expression change and tried not to sneer. "I may not have been qualified for the FSA, but I still keep up."

"Good." He leaned against the windowsill. "We're testing a new AI. It's designed for deep-space missions and we're on our umpteenth version—it's been a frustrating ride."

"My condolences."

He didn't react to her sarcasm. "The AIs up to now have been too mission focused, not . . . emotionally acute enough, if you will, to understand the needs of a human crew on that long of a voyage. This latest one, it is."

"I still don't see where I fit in."

"We think we might have gone too far. We've tested the AI in a variety of situations where it had to either make decisions for the good of the mission that led to loss of crew life or it had to deal with a crewman dying independent of its decision. It's done well, but we suspect it knows these are scenarios and not true situations. And we have a bigger problem. The AI is also meant for voyages similar to Vesta, only longer—much longer—but . . . one way. Its life will end if it completes its mission. The techs believe they've seen some . . . reticence to sacrifice itself."

She took the tablet back from him and stared down at the little capsule that was the Vesta V. "You're going to put the AI on this?"

"We are. A test run. With one person . . . a person who doesn't care if she lives or dies."

"I care how I die, Captain. Running out of air in a tin can after a . . . what? Two-year trip? That isn't my idea of a good way to go."

"It's a five-year trip. We also want to test our hibernation chambers. Three years in those with the AI running solo in conjunction with Mission Control."

"So I could die that way?" She started to laugh and slipped off the exam table, grateful the nurse hadn't asked her to undress. "You think I want to suffocate in one of those coffins if the system doesn't work?"

"You won't have to. There will be drugs available to you in the hibernation chamber if you wake up and are unable to exit the chamber."

"And if I do get out?"

"Then we'd ask you to spend at least six months getting to know the AI, so we can judge its reactions if you decide to . . . die."

"You want me to make friends with it?"

"Yes."

"Has it occurred to you I'm in here because I'm not very good at that?"

"It has. Our shrinks have vetted you, Ms. Ramirez. You may be tired of life, but an awful lot of people think rather highly of you. They consider you their friend—even if you don't return the favor."

She laughed—a bitter puff of air. All these so-called friends. Where the heck were they? How come he could find them and she couldn't? "Six months? That's it?"

He nodded. "But for every six months that you last after that, a bonus will be added to your account, payable to whomever you choose."

"And if I say no? Will you force me to go?"

"No." His smile told her he expected her to say no. "I'll just know our recruiter was dead on in his estimation of you." He nodded at the tablet. "If you decide you want to do this, my direct number is on that. Whatever you choose, the doctors here have agreed to wait forty-eight hours before admitting you again. Ample time for you to consider how you want to die—and whether anyone will remember you once you do."

"That's not fair." She got in front of him, blocking the door.

He moved her aside, more gently than she expected. "Life never is."

Gerri Leen

Gerri Leen lives in Northern Virginia and originally hails from Seattle. In addition to being an avid reader, she's passionate about horse racing, tea, ASMR vids, and creating weird one-pan meals. She has work appearing in Nature, Galaxy's Edge, Escape Pod, Daily Science Fiction, Cast of Wonders, and others. She's edited several anthologies for independent presses, is finishing some longer projects, and is a member of SFWA and HWA. See more at gerrileen.com.

Website: gerrileen.com

Facebook: GerriLeenAuthor

Twitter: @GerriLeen

Email: gerrileen@gerrileen.com

10,000 words

Chapter 1

ANNA PEERED DOWN at the man lying on her bedroll near the fire, his body cast in moonlight. No, not quite a man. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, perhaps younger. She’d found him beaten and whipped half to death, left alone in one of the many fields bordering the Gray City. She wasn’t sure what had inspired her to drag his limp body further away from the city, into a dense copse of trees where the Gray Guard wouldn’t likely find them, especially now that it had grown dark. The sympathy she’d felt for the young man had been out of character for her.

She stood from her seat on a nearby rock, moving to crouch beside him. His hair was a rich chestnut color, trailing down the line of his strong jaw, covered with angry purple bruises. She found herself wondering what color his eyes were, then shook her head. Perhaps he’d incurred too much damage during his beating, and would never open them again.

Sighing, she returned to her original seat. He was clearly of the lower class, likely a farmer, or one of the indentured servants trapped in lifelong debt to the Gray City. That he’d been beaten wasn’t terribly telling. Perhaps he’d stolen bread for his family, or tried to escape his state of servitude. He was practically a kid. He shouldn’t have been blamed for such things.

A rueful expression crossed her sharp features as she shook her head, tossing her long, dark braid over her shoulder. She was barely just a kid. At least it felt that way. She was fast approaching her twentieth year, and still had no place to call her own. No family. No friends.

The Gray City hadn’t been kind to her either. She hadn’t been a farmer like the young man on her bedroll. She’d been worse. One of the poor street youth, skulking around the alleys of the Gray City, begging for crumbs. Once she was old enough she’d turned to a life of thievery. She’d been caught one too many times and could no longer return to the city streets without being recognized by the Gray Guard.

Perhaps it was for the best. She’d always wondered what the cities were like up North. Perhaps she’d leave the South altogether and venture to Migris. There were more sailors up that way. She might be able to find work on one of the ships . . . if she could find someone who’d actually hire a woman to their crew. She’d considered cutting off her long hair many times in an attempt to pass as a man, but her large brown eyes were too feminine, and there was no hiding the curves of her body, even with the taut muscles honed from a life of always running away.

The young man groaned, pulling her out of her thoughts. She hurried to his side, kneeling near his limp arm. His eyes fluttered open. In the dim firelight, she thought they were a pale brown, or maybe hazel.

He slowly lifted his arm toward his face, wincing as he touched the bruises along his cheek and jaw. “Where am I?” he muttered.

“Not far from the Gray City,” she explained. “I found you half dead in a field.”

With a grunt of pain, he sat up, bringing his knees gingerly to his chest as he curled over them, exhausted. “I have to go back,” he moaned. “My family cannot pay their debts without me.” He shook his head. “I’m such a fool.”

Anna knew she should leave him. Now that she’d ensured he wouldn’t die, she needed to be on her way. She’d become accustomed to a life of solitude, and she wasn’t about to let this young man change that.

She sighed in spite of herself. “What happened?”

He met her gaze for a moment, then dropped his head. “A mistake, that’s what. I was fed up with the Guard and acted without thinking. I refused to work the fields to pay my family’s debt. Two of the guards dragged me to the field and beat me. I don’t remember anything after that.”

Anna pursed her lips in thought, then decided, “If that’s the case, you cannot go back. You’re lucky they only beat you. Others have been hanged for such insolence.”

“I have to go back,” he said again. “My family needs me.”

“Your family thinks you’re dead,” she countered, “and it’s likely for the best. If you return, they too could suffer as a result of your brash actions.”

He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “You’re right, I know it, but how can I just leave?” He turned hopeful eyes to her, as if she might possess the answers to all of his problems.

She shook her head. She didn’t even possess the answers to her own.

“You can travel with me to the nearest burgh,” she offered. “You should be healed enough by then to find work.”

He turned his head to peer past the fire, toward the distant lights of the Gray City. “What’s the point?” he asked softly. “I have nothing left to live for.”

She jabbed his shoulder with her fist.

He whipped his gaze back to her, clearly shocked.

“You have yourself to live for, you fool,” she chastised. “Do you think I have anything else to live for? At least you knew the love of a family for a time.”

He blinked at her, at a seeming loss for words. “I apologize. I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

She glared at him. “If you don’t want to insult me, then don’t be a fool. You’re young, and you have an entire life to live. You should not take such a gift for granted.”

He stared at her. “I suppose you’re right,” he said after a moment. “Though I still have no idea what I’ll do from here.”

She sucked her teeth. Why did she even care? She should have no interest in this young, lost, farm boy. “You’ll have three days to figure it out while we travel to the next burgh. Now get some rest.”

He watched her for a moment more, then nodded. He laid back down on the bed roll, then curled up on his side, turning his back to her. He was far too trusting of a stranger, but then again, she had rescued him. He had no reason to fear her.

Still sucking her teeth in irritation, she returned to her rock. She’d forgotten to ask his name, which irritated her almost as much as the fact that she only had one bedroll, and she’d told him to go to sleep on it.

With a sigh, she spread out her heavy black cloak on the forest floor, then laid down on her back. She stared up at the stars until sleep finally took her, smiling at her final thought before rest. Despite her irritation, it was nice going to sleep with the sound of someone gently snoring nearby.

Chapter 2

KAI’S ENTIRE BODY ached. He’d known when he’d refused to work that he would be beaten, or worse, but truly, he hadn’t thought the consequences through. At the time it had seemed a good idea. Now the sun was rising on a new day, and he could never return home. He couldn’t risk what might happen to his family if he did. They were better off thinking he was dead.

He rolled over in his bedroll, then startled. The woman who’d rescued him the previous night was perched on a rock, staring at him. A bow was leaned against her thigh, and twin daggers rested at her slender hips.

He sat up, rubbing his aching head and coming away with dry flecks of blood.

“What is your name?” the woman questioned, her mood unreadable. For all he knew, she felt the same way about him as she felt about the rock on which she sat, but then, why had she saved him?

“It’s Kai,” he answered honestly. “Though perhaps I should change it now, just in case any guards from the city decide to search for me.”

She tilted her head, trailing her long, nearly black braid over the shoulder of her charcoal vest atop a loose, white blouse. Her black breeches hugged her legs tightly, tucked into knee-high black boots. A black cloak was flung back over her shoulder. What was this woman doing hiding in the woods with a man who was now on the run?

“No need to change it,” she said finally. “They won’t look for you so long as you don’t attempt to return. They’ll assume your body was dragged away by small predators.”

He shivered at the thought, knowing that would have been his fate had this woman not found him.

“I’m Anna,” she continued, rising from her perch. “Make yourself ready and we’ll be on our way.”

“Do you have a horse?” he questioned without thinking.

She smirked down at him. “No my lord, some of us have little choice but to get around on foot.”

He blinked up at her, not sure how he’d managed to offend her . . . again.

“Prepare yourself,” she said again. “Unless you’d rather venture off on your own. It is your choice.”

He immediately stood despite his body’s protests. He had no food, nor did he know the location of the nearest clean water, and he’d just lost the only people who cared about him in the entire world. He wasn’t about to lose the one person who now knew the truth about him, even if she seemed to scowl far more than she smiled.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, now with a meager portion of food in his belly, Kai started along the small trail through the woods with Anna walking a few steps ahead, her pack of supplies slung casually over her shoulder along with her bow and quiver. He watched her cautiously. He wasn’t used to people offering aid for no reason. In fact, he wasn’t used to people offering aid at all. The nearby trees shaded them from the murky sun, birds chattering in their branches. It would have been a nice walk if his body wasn’t screaming in agony. He limped along, favoring his right leg, and wincing at a sharp pain in his side with every step. He was quite sure the guard who’d beaten him had broken at least one of his ribs.

“What will you do in the next burgh?” he questioned, wanting to distract himself from his predicament.

Anna glanced back at him as she continued walking. “Resupply, then continue on. I’d hoped to find work on a ship at the coast, but none would take me. Not that they’re sailing right now regardless. The men still jump at shapes in the night, though the Faie have all but disappeared from the land. They fear Merrows in the shallows and Sirens in the deeps.”

Kai couldn’t help his smirk. He’d never seen one of the Faie himself, but he’d heard stories of the Faie War, which had ended roughly seventy years before he’d been born. No one knew why the creatures had vanished, and many lived in fear of them returning.

“So you’re a sailor?” he asked.

She snorted, not glancing back at him. “Sometimes. You’ll soon learn to do what you must to survive, whether it’s sailing, farming, or hiring out your sword.”

He glanced at the daggers at either of her hips warily. He’d never handled a sword in his life. “I can farm,” he mused, “but I’d likely drown if I sailed or stab myself if I tried my hand at swordplay.”

She whirled on him, her dark eyes wide. “You don’t even know how to use a sword!”

He blinked at her, stunned, then shrugged. “Why would I? I’ve spent every day of my life working on the farm to support my family. We could never afford a sword, let alone the time needed to become proficient at wielding it.”

She sighed heavily, then turned to continue walking. “You can inquire at farms in the next burgh. You wouldn’t last a day on the road on your own.”

He scowled at her words, but couldn’t exactly argue. Instead, he hurried to her side with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or,” he countered, “you could teach me to use a sword.”

“You said it yourself,” she growled, “swords are expensive, as is the time needed to learn.”

Unwilling to give up so easily, his mind raced for something he could offer her, but he had nothing to his name, not even a single coin. “I’d do anything you asked,” he blurted. “I’ve lived my entire life as a slave to the city. I’m used to the work.”

She stopped walking, placed her hands on her hips, then looked him up and down. “What makes you think I’d want you? A farmer is of no use to me.”

He bit his lip, wracking his brain. “I can do more than tend crops. A life of farming has made me strong. Since you don’t have a horse, I could carry your belongings.” He eyed the pack she carried, containing her food, water, and bedroll. “And I’ve used a bow before,” he tapped the top of the weapon slung beside her pack.

She tilted her head in thought. Was she actually considering his desperate plea?

“I’ll teach you to handle a dagger once you’re healed,” she offered. “If you show no promise of skill, you must vow that you will not try to follow me after we reach the burgh. I will not be slowed down.”

He nodded eagerly. “Just give me a chance. That’s all I ask.”

“Fine,” she sighed, then immediately turned to continue walking.

He hurried after her, determined to prove himself useful. A sliver of hope had blossomed in his chest. Perhaps there was life after servitude. If he could learn to use various weapons . . . well, he wasn’t sure just what he could do with such skills. Anna had hinted at mercenary work, although from what he understood, mercenaries traveled in groups. Anna traveled all alone. He suddenly found himself wondering if she put her weapons to more nefarious purposes. Perhaps she was a thief or assassin. She certainly dressed as he’d imagine a thief or assassin might dress.

As his thoughts spun out of control, his mood darkened. He’d simply have to see what the next few days would bring. Once his wounds were healed, and he’d acquired some skill with a blade, he’d be fully prepared to run the other way.

Chapter 3

ANNA HAD NOTICED the footprints in the muddy path over an hour prior. Normally, footprints would be nothing to gawk at, but these were far from the main road, and seemed fresh since the edges were yet to lighten as the moisture in the soil seeped downward. Sometimes hunters used the forest path, or sometimes others not wanting to draw attention to themselves . . . like her, but there were too many imprints in the mud to belong to a simple hunting party.

“Why are you staring at the ground?” Kai questioned, tearing her away from her thoughts. “Shouldn’t we be keeping an eye on our surroundings in these parts?”

She turned to scowl at him as he walked happily beside her. He tried to smile at her scowl, then winced in pain from the bruises decorating his stubbled jaw.

“Look down,” she growled, gesturing to the prints they were both stomping over.

He glanced at the prints, then back to her face. “So?”

She sighed, flicking her gaze around the forest, straining her ears for hints of other voices. When she heard nothing, she replied, “So, why would such a large group travel so far from the main road? I’d guess there are at least twenty of them, maybe more. Mostly men, but some women.”

He raised his brows at her, then stopped walking to observe the prints more closely. “How can you tell?”

She sighed again and stopped beside him, trying to remember just why she’d agreed to let him travel with her. “Look at the sizes of the prints, and how they overlap,” she explained, gesturing down to the prints. “Some are small enough to be women’s feet, but they have mostly been obscured, as if they were walking ahead of some of the others.”

He nodded, then continued walking. “Well, I don’t see how it’s any of our business regardless.”

Fool, she thought. Out loud she said, “It may become our business when the group of bandits takes us hostage, or worse.”

“Who said anything about bandits?” he questioned.

Could he really be this dense? “Think about where we are,” she hissed. She began to say more, then cut herself off. She halted in her tracks.

Kai continued walking, not noticing the voices that had piqued her ears.

She hurried forward and grabbed his arm, then raised a finger to her lips to silence him before he could complain.

He blinked at her, wide-eyed.

She tapped her ear with her free hand, hoping he would understand.

He seemed to listen, then his eyes grew wider.

The voices weren’t far ahead. Their owners had likely stopped for a meal on the trail, granting Kai and Anna the chance to catch up to them. Silently, she tugged Kai back a few steps, then off the path and into the trees.

“We’ll creep around them,” she whispered, standing close enough for him to hear. “We’ll keep off the path until we’re far ahead, then we’ll keep walking through the night. That should place us far enough ahead of them.”

“Do we really need to go to all that trouble?” he whispered back.

She scowled. It would be risky, but she needed to teach this boy a lesson. “Follow me,” she instructed.

Without waiting to see if he would obey, she crept forward, careful to remain concealed within the shadows of the dense trees. He followed after her, nearly as silent. He might make a good thief if he weren’t so naive…not that she had time to train him, and she was better off on her own. She always had been.

The voices grew louder as she continued to creep forward with Kai following close behind. Soon enough, she spotted the first of the men, then another, sitting beside him on a fallen log, eating cured meat and hard bread. She took a few more steps, and more of the men came into view.

Anna tried to keep her breathing even. Her assumption had been correct. These men were bandits, or perhaps hired mercenaries. They wore rough leather armor and weapons at their belts. Not the finely made weapons of the Gray Guard, but the shoddy iron weapons of lowly criminals. She continued silently forward, keeping an eye on the men, then her mouth grew dry as the women came into view.

There were six of them, all weighed down by heavy irons at their wrists. They wore the dresses of simple townsfolk, and all appeared to be under twenty. She hated to think what the men had planned for them. That they were all alive meant they were likely to be sold into servitude, but that didn’t mean the mercenaries wouldn’t do horrible things to them along the way.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and continued walking. This had nothing to do with her. If she were the one in irons, none of those women would stop to help her. She was sure of it.

An arm wrapped around her bicep. She tensed, reaching for her dagger, then relaxed. She had nearly forgotten about Kai. She turned her dark eyes to glare up at him.

He released his hold on her, then gestured silently to the woman, a distressed expression scrunching his face.

Her heart gave a nervous patter, but she shook her head. She turned to continue walking, then flinched as he grabbed her again. She turned, and he once again gestured to the women.

Sighing, she gestured to the armed men. Fifteen of them, if her initial count was correct. Shaking her head, she continued creeping along.

After a moment, Kai followed, though she was quite sure the silent argument was far from over.

KAI WAS PRACTICALLY trembling by the time they were well out of sight of the men and their prisoners. He clenched and unclenched his sore fists as Anna finally made her way back to the path. He followed, but every step felt like there was iron weighing down his boots. His entire body ached, he was exhausted, but that was not what held him back. How could they simply leave those women to their fates? They couldn’t be any older than his middle sister.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Anna said as he moved to walk at her side down the path. “But there is nothing that we can do for them. I might be skilled with a blade, but I could not face that many men and survive, and you’d be all but useless.”

His face burned at the useless comment, because it was true. He’d proven himself useless to his family, and now he was useless to Anna. He was more than useless to those poor women back there.

“We could at least alert the Gray Guard,” he suggested. “They could stop them.”

She snorted. “Yes, they’re sure to believe a runaway slave and a thief.”

“Thief?” he questioned, stopping in his tracks.

Her face grew red, but she didn’t take her words back. “I do what I need to survive. The Gray City was never kind to me. I’d think you of all people would understand.” She turned and continued walking, hiding her blush.

He hurried to catch up to her. “While I cannot criticize you, I cannot condone you stealing from poor folk struggling just as much as you or I.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t steal from poor folk. What would they have that I’d want? It’s not worth the risk for a few measly coins. The money lies in being hired by others to steal the things they want. Petty Lords stealing from their rivals. Smugglers stealing from ships and storehouses.”

He felt his shoulders relax. Perhaps there was humanity within her yet. He still didn’t like the idea of stealing, but really, what might he do if he was desperate enough. He was pretty desperate right now.

“If you care for the poor folk,” he began anew, “then how can you leave those women behind?”

Her eyes darkened as they scanned the path ahead. The path leading them further and further from the women who needed their help. “As I’ve already explained,” she muttered. “There is nothing you nor I could do for them. We would both lose our lives, and the women would still meet their fates. I will not die in vain, not after all I’ve done to stay alive.”

He grabbed her arm to stop her. He knew she was right. He knew it, but he couldn’t let it go.

She stopped and peered up at him with her dark, unwavering eyes.

“What if that was you back there?” he questioned, gesturing with his free arm to the path behind them. “What if that was your sister, or someone you cared about deeply? Would you risk your life then?”

Her eyes shot daggers at him, and he knew he’d overstepped.

“I have no one to care about,” she said blandly, “and no one cares about me. That is why I’m still alive.”

He dropped his hand from her arm, shaking his head. “Well I’m going back. I cannot enjoy my freedom while those women have lost theirs.”

Her expression didn’t alter. “If you go back, you will die.”

“So be it,” he huffed, then turned to walk back down the path. He had no idea what he was going to do. Perhaps he could silently follow the party and await a good opportunity. This far into the woods, most of the men might sleep easily in the night. With the element of surprise, perhaps he could fell whoever was left awake to watch over the women, then he’d be able to help them escape to hide in the woods.

“In that case,” Anna said to his back, “I’m sorry I wasted my time saving you.”

He stopped in his tracks, shaking his head as he turned to her. “What is the point of walking forward, when you stand for nothing?”

Some hidden emotion flashed through her eyes, then was gone. She turned and walked away.

He stared after her as she left. If he didn’t try, he would always regret not saving the women. Unfortunately, part of him might always regret not saving Anna too.

Chapter 4

SUCH A FOOL! ANNA thought, anger clouding her mind. To throw his life away for strangers. He was so young, and she’d offered him a way to survive…She scowled. How could he just throw it in her face like that?

Distant memories pushed their way into her mind as her feet thudded down the shaded path. Growing up on the streets of the Gray City, her teenage friends, screaming for their lives as they were carried away by guards. There was no way to save them, there never was. It was understood that if the guards caught you stealing, no one would come to your rescue.

She stopped walking, lifting a hand to rub her tired eyes. She was still that same girl, powerless against those who would make her a victim. She was fast, smart, deadly, yet she was still powerless. Now she couldn’t even save Kai. Those mercenaries would skewer him the moment they saw him. His young life would be over.

She turned in her tracks, then shook her head. What was she even thinking? There was nothing she could do for him except die by his side. She would not risk her life now after all she’d survived.

She took another step down the path, back in the direction she’d come. Her instincts screamed at her to run away, but a tiny voice in her head told her to go back. It was a tiny voice she’d learned to ignore long ago. In fact, she’d thought she’d squashed it out altogether, but Kai had somehow awoken it.

She didn’t know whether she wanted to thank him, or strangle him

Regardless, the tiny voice cheered her on as she took another heavy step, then picked up her pace down the path toward the mercenaries. The voice echoed in her mind, What’s the point of moving forward, when you stand for nothing?

As she left the path and crept back into the trees, she became quite sure she’d lost her mind. It was a frightening thought, but just as powerful was the feeling that while she’d lost her mind, perhaps she’d found something else. Something equally important.

WHAT IN THE BLAZES had he been thinking? He was such a fool. He’d crept back into the trees just in time, as the mercenaries had finished their meal to continue on down the path. These men were criminals, trained killers. They’d strike him dead before he could even blink. How had he ever hoped to even stand against one of them?

“You are an absolute fool,” a voice whispered beside him, echoing his thoughts.

He whipped his gaze around to find Anna, crouching not three paces away. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile. “If I’m so foolish,” he whispered, “then what are you doing here?”

She glared at him. “I spent an entire night rescuing you. I don’t like wasting my time.”

His grin widened. Anna was only one woman, but she was a trained fighter, at least according to her. His loose plan might actually work with her by his side.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” she whispered, “stop. I’m not going to follow whatever fool plan you have in your mind. If we’re going to do this, you will do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it.”

He nodded eagerly. “I am at your command.”

“Ye gods,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “How did I end up here?”

With the mercenaries now out of sight, they both straightened and walked further from the path. Though Anna’s face was set in a scowl, Kai felt hopeful. She might be a thief, but she still had a heart.

Once they were a good distance away from the path, shielded within the dense trees, Anna stopped walking and turned to him. “We’ll track them until nightfall,” she explained. “It will be easier to strike while most of them are asleep. We can sneak in, pick them off one by one—”

“Wait,” he interrupted, his heart lurching into his throat. “You intend to kill them in their sleep?” He’d never killed anyone before. Perhaps he’d occasionally daydreamed about besting one of the Gray Guard in a duel, but even then, the man would run off in shame. Kai couldn’t imagine actually sticking a knife in someone.

Anna raised a dark brow at his horrified expression. “Yes, how else did you plan on rescuing the women? Those men aren’t just going to give them to us.”

“I thought we’d sneak them out,” he suggested. “Knock whoever is left awake to guard them unconscious, then lead the girls away.”

Anna rolled their eyes. “Two armed foes appear in the night, strangers to these women. What do you think they’ll do?”

He sighed. “Scream?”

She smiled cruelly. “You’re not as fool-brained as you look, then. The women will scream, and the entire camp of mercenaries will rush in to end us. I’m good with a blade, but I’m not that good.”

He took a deep breath. There had to be another way. “We’ll slip the women a note,” he suggested. “We’ll tell them to prepare for rescue.”

She turned and started walking in the direction the mercenaries had gone. “I take it back, you are as fool-brained as you look.” He hurried to catch up with her as she continued, “Ignoring the complications of actually getting a note to the women, it would undoubtedly be confiscated by the mercenaries, dashing our plan to bits.”

“I just don’t want to kill them,” he admitted, slowing alongside her as her eyes scanned the trail now far to their right.

She snorted. “Yeah, I got that. What I don’t understand is why?”

“Because killing is wrong?” he suggested.

She flicked her gaze to him. “These men have doubtlessly killed many innocents,” she countered. “They’ve kidnapped those women to likely be sold into servitude. They have earned their deaths.”

How could she be so callous? He shook his head. “Well that’s not really for us to decide, is it?”

She stopped walking and turned to fully face him, hands on hips. “Do you want my help, or not?”

Did he? He was quite sure working with Anna was the only way he could save those women, but at what cost? Who was he to decide who lived or died?

Reading his expression, she sighed. “I made a mistake coming back. If you somehow survive, seek me out in the next burgh.”

She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her sleeve. “Wait,” he breathed. “If it’s truly the only way, we’ll go with your plan.”

She gave him a sharp nod, seemingly satisfied.

Despite having a plan, his stomach twisted into knots far more painful than the ache of his bruises. He suspected Anna did not plan to kill all of the men on her own. She’d want him to do his share. The only question was, could he do it? He tried to imagine himself with a blade poised over a sleeping man. Could he puncture flesh and end the man’s life?

He wasn’t sure. The only thing he was really sure of, was that he didn’t have much choice.

Chapter 5

KAI GREW INCREASINGLY nervous as night fell. They’d tracked the mercenaries throughout the day, and had ended up in a small clearing where the men stopped to make camp. The women were forced to sit around a tree with their backs to the trunk, then were bound with heavy ropes.

Kai watched from the concealment of dense shrubs as the night wore on, and the men curled up in their bedrolls one by one. Eventually there were only two men left to stand guard.

“Are you ready?” Anna whispered, creeping up to his side.

He clenched the pommel of the unfamiliar dagger at his belt. He would have preferred to try his hand at Anna’s bow, but stealth was of utmost importance. They couldn’t risk any of the men screaming before they died. The bow had been left hidden in the brush some distance away, along with her pack.

He shivered. The men would all have to die. If they didn’t, the women might suffer an even worse fate. He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to Anna.

She watched his face for a moment, then replied, “Good. Don’t worry about the two standing guard. I will take care of them. You sneak in from the far end and begin dispatching the men in their beds.”

He nodded a little too quickly. He was going to be sick.

“Remember,” she added, “just a clean slice to the throat. Silence them before they can scream. We cannot avoid some of them waking up, we can only hope there will be few of them left to fight us.” She seemed to think about her words. “If you can, go for the big ones first.”

With that, she darted off into the night. He could barely hear her footsteps as she disappeared into the darkness.

His palms slick with sweat, he began to make his way around the clearing. The men’s bedrolls were spread out, none sleeping too close to each other. It shouldn’t be too difficult to reach the farthest ones without waking any of the others. The difficult part would occur once he reached them.

He couldn’t help but feel he was sacrificing a small part of his soul in helping the women. He could only hope they’d be grateful for it.

ANNA TOOK DEEP, steady breaths, carefully picking her way across the ground so as not to step on any branches or dry leaves. Her daggers rested at her belt, ready to be unsheathed and driven into the nearest throat.

Two men stood guard, one near the women, and one on the other side of the camp, nearest the path. She’d take out that one first, as the one near the women would be tricky. She couldn’t risk any of the women screaming while Kai was vulnerable amongst the sleeping men.

She paused near a tree and watched as her primary quarry shifted his weight, constantly flicking his gaze around the forest ahead of him. His bald head reflected the moonlight, showcasing various scars. While he was clearly not new to his trade, he wouldn’t expect any threats to come from behind.

She darted behind another tree closer to her quarry. Slowly, she unsheathed her twin daggers, waiting for just the right moment.

The man yawned, stretching his arms over his head, and she leapt, thrusting her right arm over his shoulder seconds before dragging the dagger across his throat.

He made a soft gurgling sound, and she caught his body as it fell to the ground. She let him down gently, careful to not stain herself with the blood welling from his throat, black in the moonlight.

A shiver crept up her spine as she cleaned her dagger on his shirt, then quietly dragged him to the cover of a nearby shrub. She didn’t like killing, but she liked these men preying on the weak even less. She’d been weak once, and no one had bothered to save her. These women would not suffer the same fate.

With the dead man as hidden as he was going to get, she turned her attention to the rest of the campsite. Perhaps she should help Kai with the sleeping men, leaving the guard beside the women for last.

Forcing her thoughts away from the corpse she left behind, she crept onward to find Kai.

KAI KNELT BEFORE the man sleeping furthest toward the edge of camp. The man’s sickly sweet breath permeated his nostrils, making it difficult to breathe. Or perhaps it was just the panic constricting Kai’s lungs. He had his dagger ready. He already should have slit the man’s throat to move onto the next. He needed to kill as many as possible before one awoke.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and poised his dagger. Sweat dripped down his brow as his hand began to tremble.

He couldn’t do it.

He withdrew the dagger and prepared to creep away. He would simply find Anna and tell her they needed a new plan. Perhaps if these men were trying to kill him he would be able to fight back, but to murder someone in their sleep? It just seemed wrong, no matter how deserving the victim might be.

He began to stand, then nearly screamed as his would-be victim’s eyes fluttered open. The man stared up at him for a moment, confused, then began shouting. Kai knew he should have silenced him right there, but instead he stumbled backwards.

“You fool!” Anna’s voice hissed, as an arm wrapped around his bicep. “Run, now!”

He wanted to obey her, but his feet didn’t seem to be working. Roused by the man he should have killed, the mercenaries all climbed from their bedrolls, glancing around. The man who’d started the shouting was now on his feet, advancing toward them while brandishing a small hatchet.

Suddenly he charged, swinging the weapon at Kai as his companions swarmed toward them. Kai would have met his end right there, but Anna darted in, faster than any fighter Kai had ever seen. She deflected the hatchet with one of her blades, expertly flicking the weapon out of the man’s hand before slicing her second blade across his throat.

As the man crumpled to the ground, Kai finally found his feet, but it was too late. The men were advancing to surround them, and Anna was already fending off another attacker.

“Run!” she hissed again. “I’ll be right behind you!”

This time he was able to listen. He turned on his heel and ran, shutting out the image of the blood pouring from the man’s throat. Had he the time, he would have vomited, but he was now too intent on keeping himself alive as the men shouted after him.

He ran and ran into the dark woods. He wasn’t sure where Anna was. She said she’d be right behind him, but he couldn’t spare the time to look. Instead he charged onward into the night, forcing his legs to carry him faster, though his lungs and bruised ribs screamed out in agony.

He ran until his legs finally gave out, and he collapsed into the dirt. He rolled over, panting and dripping with sweat as he gazed up at the still moon. He could no longer hear the shouts of the men pursuing him, but cold fear still clutched his heart. Where in the blazes was Anna?

Chapter 6

ANNA GROANED AND lifted a hand to her throbbing head. How had that blasted brute gotten the drop on her? The last thing she remembered was felling another one of the bandits, then something slammed into her skull and knocked her to the ground.

Though she couldn’t remember it, something must have hit her in the ribs too. There was a massive weight on her chest. She tried to move, but something rough was pressed against her back.

Her eyes snapped open as full awareness hit her. The weight she felt was a rope looped several times around her chest, pinning her to a tree. The light of dawn was slowly creeping in. She’d been unconscious all night.

She blinked rapidly as her sight went from blurry to clear, then groaned again. She was in a seated position, tied to a tree just a few paces away from where the captured women were tied. One of them was already awake, staring at her with sad blue eyes from beneath matted russet hair.

Her panic increasing, Anna groped at the ropes securing her chest, but could find no knots. It must have been secured on the other side of the tree, the trunk far too wide for her arms to flail anywhere near the knots.

She gritted her teeth and tried to come up with a plan. Kai was most likely dead, so he’d be of little help. There was no way she was getting out of the ropes. Her daggers had been taken away, and . . . she halted her racing thoughts as she shifted her right foot in her boot. Curses, they’d taken the dagger there too. The thought of the filthy men thoroughly searching her unconscious body for weapons sent a chill of revulsion down her spine.

She took deep, even breaths, willing herself not to vomit. Back to making a plan. She wasn’t getting out of the ropes, but they’d have to untie her when they moved on for the day. Else they’d leave her to either starve or be eaten by wild animals. She found both options preferable to whatever else the men might do to her.

If, however, the men decided to lump her in with the other women and take her with them, she should be able to find a way to escape. Even outnumbered, she could outwit these men with two hands tied behind her back…or shackled with heavy irons.

“Morning, princess,” a rough voice said from behind her. “Not so tough without your blades?”

She winced. She’d nearly forgotten about the men she’d killed. She might end up lumped in with the other women, but she’d surely be punished for her crimes along the way.

The man stepped into her line of sight. He was younger than he sounded, perhaps only just past his twentieth year, though the scars littering his bare, muscled arms told the story of a rough youth. He sneered from beneath grubby, dark bangs, showcasing his numerous missing teeth.

“Who was your friend?” he questioned. “Will he come back for you?”

So he wasn't dead? She smirked. “A casual acquaintance, nothing more.” Even if Kai was still alive, he wouldn't likely return for her, but she still saw no benefit to putting the men on their guards.

“You don't seem too sore that he abandoned you,” the man observed.

She glared up at him. If he thought she would pour her heart out to him, he was dead wrong. “What do you intend to do with me?” she asked evenly.

He smirked. “You think you’re any better than the rest of our fair damsels?” he gestured to the woman tied to the adjacent tree. “You’ll all be sold to new masters, though I might take the time to find you a particularly loving owner. Some of the men you killed were my friends.”

She took deep, even breaths. If she got her hands on a blade, she’d send this foul man right to the grave along with his other friends.

“No clever retort?” he asked, then spat in the dirt near her feet. “Fine,” he continued. “We’re just another day’s journey from the drop off point. You’ll change your attitude long before then.” He gazed lasciviously at the other women. “Isn’t that right, ladies?”

The redhead who’d met her gaze before flinched, but the others barely reacted. All Anna could think was broken, they’d all been broken. She’d avenge them, if it was the last thing she did.

She smiled sweetly at her captor. “My attitude will only change once I’ve just cut out your tongue, and you’re hanging from a tree by your entrails.”

The insult won her a kick in the ribs. Her vision blacked for several seconds.

When it returned, the man had walked away, and the red-haired woman was watching her with a smirk on her lips. Anna returned the smirk with a nod. She knew without asking that when the time came, at least this one girl would be there to help her.

THINK, THINK, THINK, Kai repeated in his mind as he trudged through the dense forest. His body was unbelievably tired, and he was starved, but Anna was surely faring far worse. He’d gotten close enough to the camp to see her tied to that tree. He’d been entirely ready to sneak in and save her before that oily, dark-haired man showed up. He’d noted the small axe at the man’s hip, and the dagger jutting from his boot, and had known he would stand no chance against him…especially not after the humiliating show he’d put on the night before, running for his life while Anna cut down their foes one by one.

He sighed, kicking his boot into the mucky soil in irritation. Something small and brown came loose from the ground and toppled out of the tall grass. He crouched down and picked up a small mushroom, then took a deep whiff of its porous flesh.

His nose wrinkled at the sweet scent. He’d encountered such mushrooms the previous year. They grew in sticky soil with a high clay content, usually beneath the shade of tall grass or other plants. Because of their tendency to hide, he hadn’t noticed the batch growing in their pasture until half of the sheep had eaten them. They’d gone utterly mad, stumbling all over the place and running into fences. Some had even died.

He made to drop the mushroom back into its hiding place, then stopped. He might not be able to disarm the men holding Anna captive, but hallucinations accompanied by violent stomach rumblings just might. The only problem was, how would he convince the men to eat the mushrooms?

Leaving that issue for later, he frantically began searching the grass for more growths, plucking them and piling them into the hem of his shirt as he went. He knew he was quite mad for even considering such a plan, but it was the only one he had.

“WE SHOULD HAVE killed her for what she did,” one of the men nearest Anna grumbled. He was older than the others, yet had fewer scars. As if Anna needed any more evidence that he was a coward.

“She’s worth more to us alive than dead,” the dark-haired man who needed his tongue cut out said.

Each of the two men held on to the ropes binding the women together by their irons. It was difficult enough for Anna to keep her feet as they were jostled about, let alone plan her escape. She’d ended up next to the red-haired woman, but had been granted no opportunity to speak with her. On her other side was a blonde girl, likely still a teenager, whose eyes never left the ground.

The rest of the remaining men walked further ahead or behind, confident the two men would have no trouble herding seven women in irons.

Anna’s gaze occasionally flicked the the daggers strapped to the dark-haired man’s wrists. If only she’d been placed at the end of the line of women, she could stand a chance of disarming him.

Of course, that was exactly why she’d been placed in the center.

As they trudged onward, her eyes darted about for anything else she might use. There were some small rocks on the dirt trail, and a few branches here and there, but nothing that would do her much good. Her eyes landed on a few oddly round, brown pebbles at they passed them. No, not pebbles, mushrooms. She was not well versed in foraging, and so, did not know their type, but she imagined it was unnatural for them to just be sitting on the side of the trail like that.

She subtly scanned the surrounding woods as the men grumbled amongst themselves, paying little attention to anything other than their tired feet thumping down the path. She nearly gasped at a flash of movement in the low shrubs. She could have sworn she’d seen . . . Kai?

She kept walking, wondering why her eyes were playing tricks on her.

“What are all these mushrooms doing on the path?” one of the men ahead of her asked.

The party stopped walking, giving her a chance to scan the foliage once more, but she did not see the movement again. Yet, what if it had been Kai? Could he actually be planning on rescuing her?

She looked down at the mushrooms as a few of the men knelt to pluck them from the side of the path. Could Kai have placed them there? If so, why? She didn’t imagine he’d be out to feed the hungry mercenaries.

Suddenly an idea dawned on her. It was far fetched, but she really didn’t have anything to lose. She strained against the ropes tethering her to the other women, barely managing to pluck one of the mushrooms from the ground.

A moment later, the dark-haired man swatted it from her grasp.

“What the Horned One’s name do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

She glared at him. “What in the Horned One’s name do you think? You didn’t give me any breakfast.”

He glanced down at the fallen mushroom as the other men watched on. “How do you know they’re safe to eat?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve lived in these woods for a while. I eat them all the time. Another traveler must have gathered them, then dropped them accidentally.” So she might be tricking them into eating harmless mushrooms and she’d feel like a fool. If they weren’t harmless, she’d feel quite clever indeed.

The man watched her, calculating. After a moment, he sneered. “I don’t believe you.”

Blast it all. Perhaps she’d underestimated his intelligence.

“If you don’t want them,” the red-haired woman began from her side, “can we have them? My da’ used to make a hearty stew from them. The sweet taste reminds me of home.”

The dark-haired man shifted his gaze to her, pondering. After a few seconds, he smiled triumphantly. “Gather the mushrooms, lads,” he announced. “We’ll be havin’ a bit more than stale bread tonight!”

The men all laughed and set to gathering the mushrooms sprinkled along the side of the trail. When all of their backs were turned, Anna flashed the red-head a quick smile, which the woman returned, her pale eyes sparkling with excitement. Perhaps she knew more about the mushrooms than Anna, or perhaps she thought Anna knew more about them than her.

Either way, they’d find out that evening.

Chapter 7

ANNA GRUNTED AS her back was slammed against a tree. One of the men pressed a rope against her chest, then handed the ends to another standing on the other side of the trunk. It would have been the perfect opportunity for her to head-butt the man in front of her, steal his dagger, then stab the other one, but the dark haired man was watching on, his friends just behind him, starting a fire. The gathered mushrooms were piled in the dirt next to a large iron pot.

As one man finished tying her ropes, the man who’d unceremoniously slammed her against the tree sauntered off toward their nearby supplies, then turned and tossed her a hunk of stale bread, which she barely managed to catch with her shackled hands.

“Eat up,” he growled, then ambled off toward the fire.

The other women had once again been tied to a separate tree, too far away for Anna to pinch the red-head as she watched the men preparing the mushrooms a little too eagerly. If they noticed her gaze, they might become suspicious, yet Anna couldn’t quite help herself as she too turned her eyes toward the mushrooms, the hunk of stale bread lying forgotten in her shackled hands.

HAD HE BEEN wrong? Kai had watched on as all the men partook of their hastily-made mushroom soup, yet they seemed none the worse for it. He’d been so sure the mushrooms were poisonous, and had nearly cried out in excitement as he spied Anna tricking the men into gathering them, but now it seemed his luck had run out. Perhaps the heat of the fire had rendered the mushrooms edible. Now the men had full bellies as a reward for their foul deeds.

He touched the knife at his belt. He could always resort to Anna’s original plan, killing the men in their sleep…but they’d likely be on their guard, knowing he could still be watching them. Plus, it wasn’t like he’d been able to muster the courage before, why would that night be any different?

He pressed his back against the tree concealing him as his mind raced for another option. It would be dark soon, and the time for decisions would come.

“What is that!” one of the mercenaries shouted.

He tensed, had he been spotted?

“I could have sworn I saw a horse,” the voice added in disbelief.

“I feel unwell,” another groaned.

A grin slowly spread across Kai’s face.

Someone in the campsite began retching, as another questioned why the trees were spinning.

It was time to make his move.

ANNA HAD NO time to celebrate her small victory. The dark-haired man stumbled toward her, murder in his eyes.

“What did you do to us?” he hissed as he staggered into her, pressing her more firmly against the tree. His body odor hit her nose, making her gag.

“I did nothing,” she said sweetly. “Why, are you unwell?”

She noted his wrist daggers as he placed his hands on either side of her face, but her shackled hands were pinned flat to her body by the weight of him. Perhaps she could grab one with her teeth.

“Look at me,” he growled. She whipped her gaze away from his left dagger to his face. His pupils were tiny pinpricks, barely noticeable in his deep brown irises. Sweat beaded at his temples despite the cool evening breeze. “What did you make us eat?” he demanded.

The other men seemed to be hallucinating behind him. She sensed movement from the women too, but could not focus on them as a hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

She sputtered for air as he pressed into her, pinning her arms more securely. She tried to turn her head away, but only managed to scrape the back of her skull against the rough bark of the tree. The corners of her vision began to go gray. How idiotic it would look for her to go to all that effort, only to die like this!

Something thunked down onto the man’s head and he fell away. Anna’s vision came back in stages to see Kai standing before her, wielding a large rock.

“Took you long enough,” she gasped. “Untie me.”

He nodded quickly and threw the rock aside, reaching for the dagger at his belt.

“Hey!” one of the men who’d just finished vomiting shouted. “One of the Forest Faie is making off with our girl!”

“Quick!” Anna hissed as he began to saw at the thick ropes binding her.

The men staggered toward them. If Kai could just undo the blasted ropes she could protect them, shackles or no. The mercenaries should not be difficult to defeat in their condition.

“Get ‘em!” a female voice shouted.

Just as the ropes released around Anna’s chest, the women all jumped up from the tree they’d been bound to, their freshly-cut ropes falling free from their bodies. She noticed a small, sharp object in the red-head’s hand before snapping into action.

Leaping away from the tree she’d been tied to and into the fray, she laced her hands together and swung her heavy shackles, smashing into the face of the older man with far too few scars to be a proper mercenary. He fell aside with a wail as the red-haired woman, still in her shackles, threw herself full force at another man staggering into the sudden chaos. He shrieked as he went down, then rolled around on the ground muttering about being attacked by a giant eagle.

The red-haired woman staggered to her feet, then grinned at Anna. “I’m Iona, by the way.”

She smirked. “Anna, and this idiot is Kai,” she gestured to her friend as he shoved another one of the men aside.

Kai took a second to nod to Iona in greeting, then punched one of the mercenaries in the face, knocking him flat on his back.

Anna grinned. He might not be much of a killer, but he wasn’t entirely useless either.

The mercenaries didn’t fight for long, and soon enough Anna, Kai, and Iona had them all tied around a tree with the remaining ropes, the shackles weighing them down now that Anna had obtained the key. Most of the men had passed out, or were groaning and muttering nonsense. The other women seemed to have snapped back into reality, having fought their captors and won.

“What should we do with them?” Iona questioned, standing at Anna’s side as she peered down at the men.

“I’d say we should kill them,” she began, “but someone might have a problem with it.” She rolled her eyes to Kai, standing on her other side.

He blushed, then cleared his throat. “Yes, I must apologize for last night. I hope I can begin to make up for my cowardice by returning your pack and bow. They’re hidden not far off.”

Anna smirked, glad to hear her belongings were safe. “No apologies necessary. If you were the one who left the mushrooms on the trail, you saved us all. Perhaps I should have listened to your original plan to begin with.”

“My original plan was far less clever,” he admitted, though he beamed at her compliment.

“Well,” Iona interrupted. “I’m all for leavin’ them here to rot. We can report them in the next burgh in case anyone wants to come gather the remains.”

Anna was liking Iona more and more. “Let us be off then,” she announced, glancing at the other women milling around them. “Hopefully we’ll come across a caravan to get everyone back to where they came from.”

Iona nodded. “Most of us haven’t got too far to go, though a few came all the way from the small villages bordering the marshlands.”

“Then let us be off,” Anna replied, sparing a final glance to the captured mercenaries. She still wanted to cut out the dark-haired man’s tongue, but she’d let it go for Kai’s sake.

Really, she should leave Kai at the next burgh with the women. He was beginning to make her go soft.

“I’ll kill you!” the dark-haired man suddenly groaned.

She laughed, then turned away. “Not if your stupidity kills you first!” she called out.

Kai, Iona, and the other five women all followed her as she led the way back toward the path. It was a strange feeling indeed, leaving her enemies alive, but one she found she didn’t mind. It was always such a pain washing blood from her clothes anyhow.

Chapter 8

THEY REACHED THE burgh later the following day. With coin stolen from the mercenaries, Anna and Kai had bought themselves a fine meal at the burgh’s sole inn, where they now sat. The rest of the coin had gone to the women. They’d all been given enough to get themselves home after they reported the mercenaries to the men in the village.

Kai sighed, poking his fork into another boiled egg. His full cup of tea steamed beside his plate. Speaking with Iona and the other women about the simple, quiet lives they would return to made his heart ache. He missed his family, and though he did not miss the members of the Gray Guard who watched over those in debt to the city, he found he was reluctant to give up quiet mornings on a farm, watching the sun rise amongst golden fields.

Anna ate her meal like a ravenous animal, but he didn’t miss the way she occasionally flicked her gaze to him, waiting for him to announce his intentions.

If he chose to remain with her, to learn the skills of the blade, and perhaps thievery too, his life would change forever. She was cold to him more often than not, but he couldn’t forget the way she’d stayed behind to fight the mercenaries, urging him to run away. In the short time since they’d met, Anna had saved his life more than once, and he liked to believe he’d saved hers too, even if he’d been the one to endanger her to begin with. He liked to think it made them friends, though he knew Anna was likely never to admit it.

Still, life with her would at least be interesting, and he’d be his own man for once, indebted to no one.

“Well?” Anna questioned, scraping the last remnants of food from her plate. “Have you made up your mind?”

He took a deep breath. This one decision would likely decide his fate for years to come.

Slowly, a smile crept across his face. “When do we leave? I’d rather like to get started on my new life of adventure.”

She grinned, and he found he enjoyed the expression far more than her scowl. “First thing in the morning, but…are you sure? You’ll have to get your hands dirty from time to time, and I won’t have you looking down on me.”

He nodded as the reality of his choice sank in, realizing that he never could have truly considered the alternative. He'd had a taste of adventure. There was no going back. “Well,” he began with a wry grin, “someone has to keep you from killing everyone.”

She snorted, then lifted her hand to call the barmaid over to refill her mug of tea. They finished their meals and relaxed for the rest of the day like nothing had happened, but Kai didn’t miss the way Anna smiled whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, and he was quite sure she didn’t miss him doing the same.

Sarah C. Roethie

Sara C. Roethle is a Fantasy author and part-time unicorn. She enjoys writing character driven stories in various fantasy realms with elements of Celtic and Norse myth, humor, and metaphysical ponderings.

Website: saracroethle.com

Facebook: SaraCRoethleAuthor

Email: contact@saracroethle.com

4,300 words

I STOOD AT the prow of the Carrion Crow, where moonlit fog swallowed every noise save the creak of our rigging and the slap of waves against our hull. Years of planning would fall into place this night, and I found myself gripping the rail in anticipation. My efforts to spot Lord Buckworth’s merchant fleet were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone trying to tiptoe up behind me on a peg leg.

“Blackheart,” whispered a voice, rough as a flogging scar. My given name is Archibald, but I don’t suppose a shipload of cutthroats would respect me if I copped to a foppish name like that, do you?

I turned to see Dead Arm Joe, a wild-haired bear of a man. He stood with three more of the crew, each brandishing an axe or machete and nervously looking about in a different direction. It took quite a bit of head swiveling for them to survey the entire ship as they only had six remaining eyeballs between the four of them.

“It’s time to relieve Captain Cross of his duty. Permanently,” Dead Arm said.

“I reckon the captain knows what he’s doing,” I said. “He’s been stealing the magic out from under noble houses since you and me were small lads.”

“The raid’s too dangerous,” said Isabelle the Scarless. “This is the one that’ll get us all caught or killed, you mark me.”

Aboard any reputable sea vessel, a mangled body part was sure to result in a nickname. But the crew of the Carrion Crow had seen enough hostile swordplay that it was the bits that were still attached that stood out as odd. This is how the Portuguese lass standing beside Dead Arm came to be called Isabelle the Scarless, the Irish bloke next to her became known as Thirty Tooth Thomas, and with them, the new recruit out of Morocco who’d been somewhat jealously nicknamed Two Ears.

Over Dead Arm Joe’s shoulder, I made out the shape of the Flower of the Indus, the flagship in Lord Buckworth’s fleet. She was double our length, armed to the gizzard, and most of her four hundred crewmen still had all their body parts. We’d smeared just enough white paint across the top rail of our man-of-war to pass as one of the merchant fleet, so long as the fog held up. And we kept a healthy distance. And the Flower’s night-watch crew were a bit drunk.

“The storm magic that’s locked away in the vault of the Flower will make us the most fearsome ship on all the seas,” I said. “Right now, while she’s rounding the cape, that’s our only chance to get her.”

“This one’s suicide, I tell you,” Thomas said, and jerked a thumb in the direction of the Flower of the Indus. Or rather, tried to, before remembering he no longer had a thumb on that hand. “Captain said himself it’s all or nothing—once they’re onto us, our only means of escape is to bring storms down on them other ships. We don’t make it into the Flower’s vault and snatch Lord Buckworth’s magic, we’re good as caught—it’ll be prison for the lot of us. Those that’s still alive, that is.”

“The time for mutiny is now, while he’s distracted,” Dead Arm said.

Cross would eventually get us killed, true enough, and there’d be no better time than now to catch him off his guard. But I had to ensure this mutiny’s failure. I could no longer suffer my family name laying in tattered ruins, and its restoration depended on tonight’s plan succeeding.

“Right,” I said. “He’s in the armory, aye? Can’t risk his guards sneaking up behind us till we know which side they’ll choose.”

Dead Arm nodded. “We approach from both directions.”

“It’ll only take two to clear the back stairs.” I looked at Dead Arm with all the earnestness I could muster. “Be an honor if you’d let me do it with you, my new captain.”

A smirk broke out across Dead Arm’s face. Without another word we dashed on quiet feet—and pegs—to the rear stairs as Isabelle led the other two down the front. The guards hardly had time to look up before I clubbed the first on the crown of his head. Dead Arm could have used the blunt end of his axe, but chose instead to put his blade in the other guard’s chest.

Dead Arm started to run off, but I stopped him with a cry of “Oh no!”

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“You killed Crusty Pete,” I said.

“Did I?”

“Yeah. All the lads loved him.”

“Did they? Well, too bad for Pete, he was in my way.”

“You’re going to have a hard time getting the crew’s loyalty if they know you killed Crusty Pete. Better dump his body overboard.”

Dead Arm hesitated, looking back and forth between Pete and the direction of the armory.

“Quickly,” I said. “Don’t want them to start the mutiny without us, do you? Here, let me hold your axe.”

Dead Arm dragged Pete’s body up the stairs by its armpits and hefted him onto the gunwale. With one hard shove, Pete’s body went overboard. And with one firm push of my boot against his backside, Dead Arm went with him. The two splashed into the waves below, soon followed by a furious cry of “Blackheart!”

I leaned over the side to watch Dead Arm float away behind us. “Actually, my name is Archibald,” I called out in a stage whisper.

“You son of a—!”

“But you have to promise never to tell anyone.”

By the time I reached the armory, Isabelle and the other two mutineers had Captain Cross cornered at the points of their machetes. In the dim lamplight, I could just make out two dozen sailors watching the standoff and waiting to see how things would go before committing to a side. The hulking form of Double Eyeball Bill, Cross’s bodyguard, lay sprawled across the floorboards, groaning, a bloody hand over the left half of his face. It was clear that Double Eyeball would not be doing any more bodyguarding tonight. And that he would be needing a new nickname.

Unarmed, outnumbered three to one, and thin as an eel’s skeleton, still Cross had no intention of going down without a fight. He swung his gaze back and forth between the mutineers, as if trying to decide which to kill first. Each sharp turn of his head whipped his grey curls and jangled the mess of brass keys threaded onto his hoop earring. Cross’s eyes tightened and his face scrunched. Or perhaps it unscrunched. The old man was such a mess of wrinkles and scars it was impossible to know the difference. In any case, the bits that made up his face rearranged themselves in a rather affronted sort of way.

“So it’s mutiny, then, is it?” Cross snarled. “The lure of my magic bounty finally became too much for you traitorous lot, and you’ve come to steal it right out from under me, eh?”

“You mean the magics you snatched from all them noble houses,” Thomas said. “How’s us nicking it from you any different than you nicking it from them?”

“I was doing them a favor,” Cross said, as if truly offended at the accusation. “They’d grown dependent upon their magic to maintain their fortunes. Landing in the slums with the common folk forced their children to grow up tough and resourceful.”

“What are we blithering about for?” Two Ears asked. “Any second now Buckworth’s fleet will spot us.”

“Right you are,” Isabelle said. “Let’s get on with it, then.” Isabelle started forward, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder with a confused look. She caught my eye and in an unsure voice asked, “Where’s Dead Arm?”

“I took his axe and kicked him overboard,” I said. While the three mutineers stood with mouths agape, I strode forward and pushed Isabelle against the wall, putting the axe blade to her throat.

Thomas looked at me like I’d stomped the tail of his favorite cat. “But you were the one who kept—”

Before he could finish, I rounded on him with a fist to the jaw and down he went. Two Ears didn’t see Cross’s kick coming for his knee until it was too late. The man crumpled to the floor, groaning while Cross stood over him and glared at the crowd of sailors.

“Who else was with them?” he bellowed.

A quick eye might have caught a dozen knives quietly being returned to waistbands behind a dozen backs. Then a dozen men and women looked around innocently at everything but the captain. Somewhere in the mob, someone softly whistled an old sea shanty.

“To the brig with this lot,” Cross ordered. As the mutineers were hauled away, he turned to the remainder of his crew. “This foolishness has all but cost us our chance at snatching Lord Buckworth’s storm magic. But we will press forward. From this night on, the winds and the rain shall do our bidding, and forevermore the Carrion Crow will be the most powerful and fearsome ship on all the seas!”

A roar went up from the crew, every hand raising a weapon into the air.

“And then we’ll get our hands on some really huge piles of gold!” called out Five Finger Jack.

“No . . .” Cross said, as if explaining something to a child. “Then we’ll go after more magic.”

“Shouldn’t we also steal some gold?” asked No Disease Nina. “I mean . . . eventually?”

“Yes, yes,” Cross said impatiently, “we’ll get around to that.” He turned to unlock the vault door behind him, muttering something about “kids these days.”

The heavy wood door of the vault creaked open, allowing just enough room for Cross to step inside. He looked over the shelves, which held eighteen padlocked wooden chests. Cross lugged one of them out into the armory, dropped it onto the ground in front of him, and removed his key-hoop earring. After sorting through its eighteen keys, he unlocked the chest, unleashing a misty, pale blue glow and a hum as soft as the purr of a slumbering cat.

“Dent Skull,” Cross called out. “The feather magic is yours for the night. See you don’t die before returning it to this chest.”

Dent Skull Sally stepped forward and slowly reached her hand into the chest. The glow and hum slithered up her arm and seeped into her body. Her eyes and smile widened as it settled into her. Cross dragged another chest forward and found its key.

“Dead Arm!” Cross shouted, looking about the room. When no one answered, he said, “Oh. Right.”

“I’ll take his place, Captain,” I said, a little too eagerly.

Cross considered me for a moment, then said, “If you take the ghost magic, everything depends on you. You don’t make it to the Flower’s vault, it’ll be prison for the crew and the noose for myself.”

I restrained my movement to a slow nod, careful to show no signs of the butterflies flitting about inside my rib cage. “Aye, Captain. I’ve thought on that.”

Eyes fixed on me, Cross tilted his head toward the chest. I dropped to a knee and hefted open the lid. Dozens of faint white rays of light curled up out of the opening. I slowly dipped my hand inside, the magic’s radiance wrapping around my arm with effervescent pinpricks. My skin drank them in. A buzz raced up my arm and spread through my body like the warmth of rum.

“You know how the ghost magic works, aye?” the captain asked me.

“None will perceive me, through eyes nor ears,” I said, “but only so long as I do nothing to draw their gaze.”

Cross handed out magic to a few more of the crew—just those magics essential to his plan—and secured his vault with a double turn of the weighty key he kept on a chain around his neck. He spun and jealously eyed each of his crew members, all of whom knew that looking away and feigning disinterest was the healthiest course of action. Idle curiosity about the vault and its contents had earned more than one former crew member an unexpected and unending holiday in the middle of the ocean.

“We’re about in position,” Cross said. “Keep your excitement under a tarp for now. Quickly and quietly—with me.”

The sailors followed him through the dark corridors and up to the top deck. Removing myself from the sight of men was as simple as thought—I looked down at my hand to find that the moonlight passed straight through it and all the clothing I wore. Even my newly acquired axe vanished as if it had been transmuted into pure ether.

Our crew had brought us up so close to the Flower of the Indus the sides of the two ships nearly rubbed together. The Flower’s night-watch crew, dressed in identical royal-blue livery, loomed over us, looking down over their rail with the same expression one might have worn after noticing an oddly shaped snail hiding amongst the food on their dinner plate.

“Ahoy there!” Cross called out. “I am Captain Cross of the Carrion Crow. We are pirates here to take your vessel. Please surrender immediately so that we may avoid any unpleasantries of the stabbing variety.”

“Um . . .” came the slow reply from one of the Flower’s crewmen. “Yes, I can understand how our surrender would be desirable—from where you’re standing, that is—but it seems you’ve failed to notice the disparity in size between our vessel and your own.”

“I have eyes, lad,” Cross replied. “But you see, this ship and her crew are like a wolverine . . .”

“I’m sorry, a what?” the crewman called down.

“They don’t have those in Albion, Captain,” Dent Skull Sally whispered.

Cross sighed. “It’s a furry, clawed animal. Small, but vicious and strong completely out of proportion to its size. It’s known for taking down much larger animals.”

“And that’s you?” the crewman asked.

“Aye.”

“I thought you just said you were the Carrion Crow.”

“I didn’t say ‘wolverine’ was the name of my ship . . . it’s a metaphor, son. You do have those in Albion, don’t you?”

The crewman looked around at the rest of the Crow’s people. “I’m sorry . . . who put this gentleman in charge? You all do realize his mind has gotten a bit . . . overripe, aye?”

“That’s it,” Cross growled. “I’m through dickering with you half-witted clods. We’re coming over.”

Four of the Crow’s crew hefted our plank off the deck and threw it across the space between the two ships, tilted upward to allow for the Flower’s height.

“Excuse me,” the Flower’s crewman exclaimed with a frumpled expression of disdain, “I don’t believe we actually invited you to come across.”

As if he hadn’t heard them, Cross marched up the plank, a handful of his crew keeping pace behind him. Our captain was not, in fact, addle-brained. Pretending to be so was a common tactic of his. It was all part of his plan, wherein I, unseen by any, would stride across the plank in between Cross’s men and women so the Flower’s crew wouldn’t notice the plank warping and bouncing under the weight of a man who seemingly wasn’t there. As my shipmates kept the Flower’s crew occupied, I’d stroll down to her vault, easy as you like. It was getting through the vault door and getting away with the storm magic that would be the tricky bit.

Just as Cross set foot on the Flower, the jaw-rattling thunder of an explosion knocked us about, half the crew falling onto their backsides. Cross himself remained on his feet, but frozen, with a look of pure bewilderment on his face. This was not part of the plan. As thick splinters of wood rained down, it became clear a cannon blast had erupted between the ships, but which had fired upon which no one could say. What came next was nothing short of bedlam.

Crew from both ships leapt the gap, weapons drawn. There was a heck of a row, men and women skewering each other with swords and all that kind of gruesome business. But you don’t really want me to disturb your imagination with such ghastly details, do you?

I moved slowly, and with much forethought, diligently plotting my course to the stairs so I might remain well outside the arc of swishing blades and recently disconnected limbs. In the same fashion, I moved down into the ship, flattening myself against staircase walls when crew rushed past me to join the fight. Every ship’s captain kept any magic they possessed behind both locked door and armed guards. But if fortune was on my side, the fighting above would draw all the guards away, and my axe would make short work of the lock.

Unfortunately, things did not go as planned. As I rounded the corner to the armory, I found myself staring at Five Finger Jack. In my haste I must have caused enough disturbance to make my ghost magic falter, for the look in his eyes made it apparent that I was no more invisible to him than he was to me.

“Blackheart . . . ?” he said, confusion overtaking his face.

You’re likely wondering what Five Finger was doing guarding the armory of the Flower of the Indus, or, indeed, how he even got there. At this point, I must confess that I’ve been a tad deceitful in my storytelling. I neglected to mention that I never joined my crew in their trip across the plank to the Flower, instead sneaking back down into the heart of the Carrion Crow. I also left out the bit where I had previously tied a string to the Crow’s plank and run it belowdecks, arranged so that upon our crew lifting that plank, a candle toppled into position to ignite the fuse of one of our cannons. Furthermore, every time I’ve mentioned “the plan,” I was referring not to Captain Cross’s plan to steal Lord Buckworth’s storm magic, but rather my own plan to distract the Crow’s men in a fight, drawing any guards away from the Crow’s vault.

Well, sometimes I was referring to Cross’s plan, I suppose, but which time I was referring to which plan is too much to bother with at this point. Either way, here we are now, so let’s get back to the story, aye?

Five Finger Jack narrowed his eyes and drew his cutlass. “You’re supposed to be breaking into the Flower’s vault. What’re you doing here?”

My grip clenched around the axe handle. Years of planning had gone to ruin for no reason other than Five Finger being such a simpleton he didn’t know that when a fight broke out, you were supposed to leave your post and join your shipmates. I had a weapon, but I’d never get through him that way. Five Finger was an impressive swordsman, especially considering that finger count was the total for both hands combined.

I resumed walking toward him, attempting to feign both urgency and nonchalance, and prayed he had even less wits than I credited him with.

“Captain sent me for the beast magic,” I said. “Quick, open the—”

“Beast magic?” Five Finger’s eyes narrowed further. “That’ll make you as likely to attack our own crew as the Flower’s.”

“Captain says chaos will be our ally.” I continued toward him. “No more time to talk, we’ll both end up in prison if we don’t—”

“Why’d he send you?” Five Finger’s eyes got so narrow I wondered if he could still see from them. “Who’s going to sneak down into the Flower if you’re running amok up top?”

This was a question for which I had no sensible reply.

I clutched my head in both hands. “Oh! The ghost magic. Something’s gone wrong. Quick! Find the captain! Tell him it’s all gone wrong!”

I became still and silent and transformed myself into a living ghost, invisible to all the senses. It would take a moment for Five Finger to get over the shock of seeing me disappear, but soon enough he’d scurry away to find the captain. I’d be inside the vault in seconds.

“Something’s gone wrong with the ghost magic?” Five Finger asked. “Is that why I can still see you?”

I suppose it should have occurred to me that a magic that only worked if you didn’t draw attention to yourself would fail to function if the other person already had their attention keenly focused on you.

I turned and ran.

From the pounding of boots racing up behind me, I knew Five Finger had given chase. I rounded the corner at nearly full speed, careening off the wall hard enough to hammer the breath from my lungs. In front of me, stairs led onto the Crow’s main deck, but even if I reached the top before Five Finger chopped me down at the ankles, I’d be in the open, nowhere to run or hide. I’d be caught and executed.

I stopped dead. For one blink of a moment, I was out of Five Finger’s sight. I prayed it would be sufficient. I threw my back against the wall, tightened my muscles against any movement, clenched my stomach to keep my lungs from drawing the breath they desperately desired, and willed myself invisible. Five Finger’s footfalls came round the corner, louder, bearing down on me. The wind of his movement swished no more than an inch from the tip of my nose. Next I knew, Five Finger’s boots were knocking up the stairs, disappearing into the clank of swords and the shouts of men at battle.

I returned to the vault door and, with an even dozen swings of the axe, managed to hack off the handle and lock. Thirteen chests remained closed and locked. Among them were magics that allowed the possessor to breathe underwater, or make a person fall ill at a touch, or see events transpiring far beyond the reach of sight. Though my imagination danced with the power each could bring, a body could only hold one magic at a time, and none of those were the one I’d gone through all this trouble for.

Sitting to the side, in a small chest whose hinges had gone rusty from lack of use, was the magic to quicken men’s tempers and turn their ire against one another. Cross called it venom magic, but I’d always known it by a different name. No, not as impressive as the other magics I could have snatched from these chests, but I had good reason to want this one above all the others.

I smashed the lock off the chest and dropped to my knees. Lifting the lid, I marveled at the warm, golden dots of light that drifted slowly upward with a sound like grains cascading down a pile of sand. I shed the ghost magic into the nearest open chest and reached into the one I had come here for. The dots climbed my arm and shrank into the pores of my skin. A smile worked its way onto my face.

A crash from above reminded me how little gap there was for me between escape and capture. I hurried from the room, exiting in the opposite direction in case Five Finger came back. On my way to the stairs, I passed the brig, where Isabelle, Thomas, and Two Ears remained chained to the wall.

Thomas looked up at me through iron bars, confusion written across his face. “But you were the one who kept buying me beers and telling me Dead Arm would make for a better captain.”

I wished him good fortune and ran for a gunport that I’d hung a rope from earlier in the evening. Unfortunately, two of the crew, each armed with a sword, stepped between me and my escape route, intent on delivering a quick and lethal lesson in the consequences of deserting shipmates in the middle of a battle. I suggested to one of them that perhaps he was misremembering how he lost his foot, and that in fact it was the man standing next to him who had stolen it and was now walking around on it as if it were his own. My blackheart magic ensured that this crime enraged the fellow, and I continued on while the two shoved each other and bickered over the matter.

Once I’d climbed down into the rowboat, it took some weaving to get clear of the merchant ships that had surrounded the Carrion Crow. Fortunately, none spotted me, their attention was on the battle still raging across the decks above.

As I rowed for land, I couldn’t help but wonder if Cross’s crew would manage to fight their way down into the Flower’s vault. If so, I imagine they would be disappointed when they got there, for all they would find is the magic to determine whether or not someone is lying. Very useful for building a merchant trading empire, but not so useful for escaping a fleet of ships. Once Lord Buckworth turned him over to the governor’s courts, Captain Cross would soon after find himself on the uncomfortable end of a noose. Too bad he’d been misled about the Flower’s vault holding storm magic, but he should have known better than to believe everything he hears. Who knows how such wild and reckless rumors get started?

Although, I must say, my former captain was dead right on one account. For the children of those noble houses whose magic he stole, growing up in the slums did make them tough and resourceful. Some of them tough enough to live like a pirate for years. And some of them resourceful enough to concoct a swindle wherein they recover their family’s magic while at the same time revenging themselves against the very pirate captain who’d stolen it from them.

David VonAllmen

It wasn’t until David VonAllmen’s high school professor thought one of his short stories was suspiciously high in literary merit and threatened to have him expelled for plagiarism that he realized he just might have the talent to be a real writer. David’s writing has appeared in Galaxy’s Edge, Daily Science Fiction, Factor Four, and other professional publications. David is the Grand Prize winner of the 2018 Baen Fantasy Adventure Award. He lives in his hometown of St. Louis with his wife, Ann, and children, Lucas and Eva, who write some pretty darn good stories of their own.

Website: www.davidvonallmen.comE

Facebook: DavidVonallmen

Twitter: @VonAllmenDavid

Email: dave@davidvonallmen.com

5,000 words

NOBODY TOLD ME the new girl was a centaur.

Centaur’s probably not the politically correct term, I thought as I watched her move into the dorm room down the hall. We’d all known she was coming; the International Space Relations Consulate made sure the entire town, not just the college, knew that an alien creature would be integrating into our normal Earth community. It was all part of their efforts to join the new Space Coalition—some mumbo-jumbo about interplanetary cultural exchange. And what better way to integrate members of other “advanced” races than to dump them straight into our educational system?

Yeah, we’d gotten a real laugh out of it too.

Doors stayed clamped shut all along the hall, but Mom always said I was curious to a fault. There were four races in the Space Coalition, but this had to be the strangest: her torso and arms and head looked human enough, albeit furry and pointy-eared, but it all fell to pieces when your eyes moved down to the four-legged body of some giant dog/cat beast, complete with huge paws and fluffy tail. Straight out of Narnia, except the centaurs I liked as a kid had hooves, not paws. They also didn’t use their feet to turn doorknobs. I leaned farther out involuntarily, staring as the alien lady pushed her way through the door with two boxes balanced on her horizontal back. No student valets out today. Shouldn’t somebody be helping her move in?

“Elliot, you moron, get in here!” My roommate chucked a blue coaster at my head, which missed, because his aim is terrible. “It’s bad enough we have to live in the same dorm without introducing ourselves. Leave it alone.”

“Her,” I muttered, but I closed the door. Luke was right. I didn’t need to be getting involved in any alien business.

I saw her again later that week, as I crossed the quad toward Physics II. She was eating the leaves off a decorative bush outside the administration building.

OK, no one could blame me for stopping and staring this time. She didn’t see me, which was fine since my natural instincts decry being noticed by anything more than three times my body weight. I just stood there and watched as her delicate humanoid hands stripped leaves from branches and then stuffed them into her mouth. She had a rubbery tip to her nose, like my old German shepherd, and it sniffed each handful lightly before she ate with apparent relish.

A bell sounded in the distance, reminding me that I was officially late for class. The dogtaur’s ears twitched at the sound, and then she turned around and saw me. We stared at each other for a few seconds. How did something from another planet end up with a face that looked that human? It defied science. She smiled and opened her mouth as if she might say something.

I finally snapped out of it and spun, hurrying toward Building 6 with my newsie cap tugged low over my face. Hopefully nobody saw that. Voices from around the corner preceded a group of people coming in my direction, and I ducked through them to further my escape. I was halfway down the next sidewalk when I heard catcalling behind me.

“Whoa, hey, the alien chick! What’s it doing in the bushes?”

“Is it eating leaves?”

“It’s a space cow!”

I gritted my teeth and kept walking.

It figured she would end up in my calculus course. What subject is more universal than math, right? Although they probably stuck her in this one because it was only half-full, and the desks could move. I was early and helped Professor Doppler shift chairs around to make room. Apparently, the alien didn’t need an actual chair, so the space we made stayed empty.

“They like to stand, I’m told,” Prof said when I asked about it. “Or lie down. The whole staff received information packets on felnim cultural norms to help make it comfortable, but I frankly don’t care. So long as it has a mind for learning, it can do what it wants.”

“Her,” I muttered. What was with people calling her an it? Anyone with eyes could see she was a girl. Even her animal half had that graceful build you saw in most female mammals.

Prof had the decency to look embarrassed. “Right,” he mumbled as I stacked the last chair. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at me, then out the window, taking in the blue sky. “Right. This will take some getting used to, won’t it? Aliens among us and all.”

“No kidding” was my only response as I went to sit in the back. Stuff like this would probably become more common if we kept going the way we were going. That didn’t mean it had to be any of my business.

Felnim . . . so that’s what she was.

Class proved more eventful than usual, if only because, instead of falling asleep in their chairs, everyone kept sneaking glances at the alien centaur. She didn’t stand or lie down, just sat on her haunches like a dog and took notes on a tablet. Her facial fur was darker brown around the eyes, giving her almost a raccoon look. Her only clothes were a modest Earth-style T-shirt and a kind of broad band around her lower half’s belly and back, with attachments like saddlebags on the sides. Some of the guys whispered rude comments about pants. I fidgeted with my mechanical pencil and focused on taking notes.

“Before we go, class,” Prof said while we all stared at the clock in a concerted effort to will time forward, “does anyone have questions about the upcoming exam?”

The felnim girl raised her furry hand. Everyone stared. Prof cleared his throat. “Yes . . . uh . . .” He glanced down at the papers on his desk. “Ms. Vasa, is it?”

“Vas’tca,” she offered. “That’s fine, though.” She spoke surprisingly good English, but her voice bore a thick accent, a sort of rumble at the back of her throat like distant thunder on the plains. “Uh, can you t’ell me sh’ere I can get notes?” She seemed to have trouble with w’s.

“Well, I don’t have anything worked up . . . perhaps one of your classmates would offer?” He glanced around the room. I dipped lower in my chair, hat over my eyes. The lack of response aside from shifting noises hinted that everyone else did similar. Prof let the uncomfortable silence drag on a few seconds longer before clearing his throat. “I’ll see what I can print up for you, Ms. . . . Vasa.”

“Th’ank you.”

It was weird just how human she sounded.

“I hear they’re planning to move whole families in over the next year.” Carla slurped a spaghetti noodle as we sat at a round table outside the college’s main cafeteria. Luke, Ben, and February filled the other seats, our usual Thursday lunch study group. Yes, her name is February. Carla waved a fork for emphasis. “And not just the felnim either. I hear we’ll need to integrate more of each member species throughout the country if we want to join the coalition.”

“Even the creepy amoeba people?” Ben asked. He shuddered theatrically. Ben did everything theatrically. “Have you heard the stories about those things? We’ll be lucky if half of us aren’t replaced by blue Jell-O monsters before spring semester.” I mentally winced. Thanks, Ben, now I’ll never enjoy Jell-O again. “Whose bright idea was it to plant dangerous extraterrestrial life-forms we barely know anything about right in the middle of a college campus, anyway?” Ben whined on. “Does nobody in the government watch movies?!”

Feb’s eyes stayed locked on her sketch pad. “And to think, last year you were all excited about us finding alien life.” She tilted the paper for a better drawing angle.

“Well—! That . . . that was before I knew they were going to be living here with us!” Ben sputtered. No one spoke, but I knew what we were all thinking. It was what everyone had been thinking since the aliens landed: aliens would be more exciting if they were a lot less, or a lot more, advanced than we were.

And if they didn’t get too close.

While Ben and Carla debated whether the centaurs, the blue shapeshifters, or the red Ferengi wannabes were stranger, I stared into the distance, trying to ignore everything and remember the location of my physics notebook. Luke had probably kicked it under the—

Luke sneered. “Oh great, don’t look now.” Everyone looked as the alien girl exited the cafeteria, her four legs weaving her gracefully between the crowded outdoor tables. She had an absolute mountain of food stacked high on a red plastic tray, which stayed nicely balanced while she looked for a spot to sit on the grass that surrounded our concrete eating area. She settled under a tree.

“Talk about being ‘hungry as a horse,’” Carla snort-chuckled.

“Fantastic,” Ben complained. “First they take our dorms, now they’re eating all our food.”

We watched for a while, as did most of the student body. A few jeers and insults wafted on the breeze; I could see her pointed, furry ears tilting like satellite dishes, but she pretended not to notice. Just like she “didn’t notice” the fluttering “INVADERS GO HOME” poster stuck to the wall less than twenty feet from her lunch spot. Who even was this girl? Nothing fazed her. Maybe people on her planet were unfamiliar with the concept of disproportionate hostility. I felt a little jealous at the thought.

I’d forgotten we had ornamental pear trees on the campus grounds. A rotten pear, launched through the air like a football, reminded me of this as it smashed into the alien’s pile of burgers, salad, pizza, panini, milk, and veggie lasagna. Laughter rippled across the courtyard, Luke and Ben’s included. Feb and Carla had the decency to look disgusted, although I wasn’t sure if it was because of the callous food vandalism or the fact that—calmly, with only a slight heave of her backside to indicate a sigh—Vasa used her thick front legs like arms to scoop food back onto her tray, and kept right on eating.

“Man, what a freak,” Luke muttered. “Add gross hygiene to its résumé.”

“Her,” I muttered. Luke narrowed his eyes at me, which I carefully didn’t notice. As we watched, the felnim turned her head, glancing over the crowd of jerk humans. I swear her eyes locked onto mine for a second when her gaze passed our table. Like she recognized something. Her eyes were blue.

I don’t know why. I couldn’t help it. I tilted my head at a point to the left and nodded. Just for a second.

People were still laughing and shouting advice as Vasa picked up the rotten pear from the mess, sniffing it carefully. They went dead silent when she suddenly winged the pear back the way it had come with the accuracy of a bullet. There was a squishy sound and a squawk from the corner of the building, and then the sound of running feet.

“Oooo,” Feb said, finally looking up from her drawing. “I think I like her.”

A few people in the lunch crowd actually cheered. Luke was full-on glaring at me now, a good clue that I’d forgotten not to grin. I just gave him that blank stare that he never knew what to do with until he got distracted by Ben theorizing about the digestive needs of a species with the physiology of two large mammals. Some of the tension left my shoulders then. But not enough.

I shot one more glance around before telling the others I needed something from my dorm and hightailing it out of there as casually as possible. My hat went low over my eyes, my insides like Jell-O. What was I doing getting involved? She could handle all those eyes being on her. She didn’t need my help.

I told myself not to worry as I speed walked across campus toward the safety of my dorm. Nobody had noticed, no harm done. Stay away from her, and you’ll be fine.

She caught me as I was walking down the sidewalk by Building 3 one evening. I nearly jumped out of my sneakers at the sudden low, rumbling voice from the bushes to my right. “You! Wait! Can you h’elp me?”

After assuring myself that I had not actually experienced a heart attack, I turned and stared into the bushes. It took me a second to spot the raccoon-mask face hiding in the leaves. I should have kept walking. “Uh . . . what’s wrong?” I cast a quick glance around to make sure we were alone, but the lawn was empty, the sidewalk lamps starting to come on. Probably safe enough. I took a few steps closer as her head and blue-shirted torso rose above the bushes. Her face was all scrunched up. She looked . . . embarrassed?

“C’an you please get that down?” She pointed. I looked. I squinted. What was that? Something big and bulky hung in the tree branches. It wasn’t even that high. I glanced back at the centaur, searching for an explanation, when I noticed . . . huh. Something was different about the shape of her horizontal half. I moved a little closer, and she immediately sat down in the bushes.

“Please don’t l’ook.” She sounded even more embarrassed. Understanding hit, and I hastily turned my red face back to the tree. It took a few minutes and some painful scrapes to get up there and pull the big, bulky belly strap/saddlebag thing out of the branches where it had been very purposefully tangled. It wasn’t as heavy as I had expected, although dang, that girl carried a ton of textbooks. I may have dropped it. She didn’t comment on this further mishandling of her things. I occupied myself with climbing the rest of the way down and studying the campus architecture while the shufflings of a felnim dressing herself rustled behind me.

“I’m al’right now,” she said quietly, and I turned and watched as this alien creature, easily beating my height by two feet, stepped out of the trees in front of me. I’d never been this close, so you can’t blame a guy for staring (again). Her fluffy head of hair matched the raccoon marks on her face, and her ears tilted like a curious kitten’s, her tail shifting back and forth in a slow wag. Her sleeveless shirt had a Japanese cartoon character on it. (That threw me a little.) When she held out her hand to me, it was only slightly bigger than mine but padded on the palms, with small claws instead of fingernails. She smelled faintly of juniper-berry shampoo. “Th’ank you very m’uch for your h’elp.”

I shook her hand out of reflex. That curiosity of mine was buzzing like a swarm of bees, and maybe it was the cartoon T-shirt that relaxed my guard, because the question spilled out before I could stop it. “What happened?”

She turned away and crossed her arms, a soft growl emanating from her throat. “I was n’apping on the grass. I sh’oke up and my”—a word consisting of an impossible mix of guttural and musical sounds—“sh’as in the tr’ee. Probably somesh’ne’s idea of a joke.” If her face were any indication, Vasa did not find the joke funny. “I c’ouldn’t get it down sh’ithout . . . exposing m’yself.”

Searching for a way to be helpful, I volunteered the first thought that came to mind. “You know, the centaurs in movies don’t wear anything on their back halves, so probably no one would care if you—” Everything stupid about that statement slapped me in the face before I could finish the sentence. I winced, bracing myself in case a real slap was imminent.

“Oh, is that sh’at you call th’em?” Vasa sounded amused. I glanced up and, yep, grin on her face. Phew, dodged that bullet. “I’ve been m’eaning to see th’ese ‘Narnia’ movies people keep ment’ion’ing.” The smile faded off her face, and those blue eyes clouded. “But that doesn’t m’atter. I’d still feel nak’ed whether h’umans knew it or n’ot.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Guess I can’t argue with that. How long have you been here?”

“Ab’out an hour.”

I stared at her. “You haven’t seen anyone except me for an hour?” Was there a concert going on or something? This place usually bustled.

“No, I s’aw a few p’eople.” She looked down at me, and the warmth in her smile would have melted ice. “You were j’ust the first sh’ne I th’ought would be k’ind ab’out it.”

And that’s when good sense jumped the hurdle back into my brain. What am I doing?! I stumbled back away from her, stammering. “Sorry, I, uh, I have to, uh, I have to get to a meeting or something . . .” Chills ice skated up and down my spine as I turned to leave. I was an idiot, a complete idiot, what if someone came along and—

Her rumbling accent rang out way too loud over the sidewalk. “Sh’ait, can I ask you—?”

I spun around and stomped back. “Shut up!” It came out as a frantic hiss. She just stood there while I took another quick look around and then pointed a finger in her furry face. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not a kind person. I’m not. And I, I can’t be friends with you.” My flash of fear began to fade, and all of a sudden I felt like a terrible person for what I was doing. Well, good, that’s what I was trying to get across to her anyway. “People look at you, everyone looks at you. I can’t have them looking at me, and they will if we know each other. I don’t need people being interested in me, OK? I’m just trying to be normal.”

She could have been smiling or shooting me a death glare—I didn’t know. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eyes. I smashed my cap lower onto my head, trying to make my hands quit shaking. “Why did you have to show up?” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Everything was fine.” I needed to shut up, but I couldn’t stop. “I know everyone is a jerk to you, and that stinks, it really does; I hate it. I wish I could do something about it, but I can’t, because then they’ll think I’m on your side, and they’ll pay attention to me, and they might figure it out. And then everything will be ruined, and I’ll . . .” The words tried to clog up my throat, but I forced them out. “I’ll be a freak just like you!”

I stopped finally, out of breath. The sun had fully set, only the sidewalk lamps lighting the area. Bile rolled in my stomach. At least now she’ll know I’m a jerk. No way she’d want to talk to me after that, and no way I’d ever want to look her in the face again. Best of both worlds, right?

“I th’ought I rec’ognized your smell.” My head snapped around at those soft words. Vasa was staring at me with . . . I don’t know. Compassion? She smiled again, way too nicely for someone who’d just been snarled at by Jerk Incarnate. “I’ve r’un into it b’efore,” she explained. “Just not . . . h’ere.”

Paralysis. Exposure. Anger. “Wait a mi— Is that why?” I stepped back, the pieces falling into a very ugly picture. Chills turned to prickles of heat on my skin. “Is that why you looked at me at lunch? Why you thought I’d help now? Did you, did you think I had to be on your side because you know—” Years of practice kept me from saying it. We’d hidden for so long, decades, and now this ignorant dogtaur might ruin it because I got too close—

But Vasa was shaking her head, palms in the air. “No! No, that sh’asn’t sh’y. I could just t’ell you were . . . k’inder.” She sat back on her haunches, arms folding, and her gaze turned distant. “Not many h’umans have been k’ind. I th’ink more sh’ant to, but they’re afr’aid. Too many who don’t sh’ant us here.” My gut twisted. “But you’re sh’ne of the sh’nes who don’t hate me, at least. I c’ould tell that sh’en I looked at you at the caf’eteria. Thank you for th’at, by the sh’ay.” That too-human face stared up at the sky with the longing of someone missing home. The silence stretched between us, only insects chirring in the bushes.

“I underst’and.” A low, rumbling sigh. “It’s r’eally hard b’eing . . . diff’erent. I wouldn’t for’ce that on an’ysh’ne.” Her smile was sad as she looked at me and tilted her head in a nod. “I’ll keep my d’istance. Best of l’uck to you.” Another pause. “I sh’ish I sh’ere as good at looking h’uman as you,” she ended softly.

I stood there for a while after the centaur alien left. The stars had come out, the sky a deep, deep blue. If I tried hard enough, maybe I could get my skin to match and disappear forever.

It was almost midnight by the time I reached the dorm and fell into bed.

Classes were a haze for the next few weeks with everyone prepping for finals. I almost called in sick a few times—metaphorically I mean, most profs don’t even take attendance these days—but I was already skating on my grades. The felnim acted like she didn’t know me, and everyone else looked right through me. Just another college drone.

It was perfect. I was safe.

“Man, what has got you so down in the dumps lately?” Luke asked over Thursday study-lunch. It was drizzly today, so only a few of us stubborn types were eating outside. Ben hadn’t shown up yet, and Carla and Feb were engrossed in textbooks for their Chemistry III course. I snapped out of the staring contest I’d been having with the universe and looked up to see my roommate frowning. “You’ve been acting like somebody ran over your dog for a week. Is the physics final that bad?”

I didn’t answer, just waved a hand. He wouldn’t understand. I barely understood, and it was my problem. My eyes wandered toward the four-legged alien sitting peacefully under a tree. Luke, observant for once, noticed and growled. “What, is that thing bothering you? Join the club. I hope these dog-freaks clear out soon; they give me the creeps. It’s probably going to attack somebody any—”

“Her,” I interrupted, spork handle digging into my palm. Luke stared at me, eyebrows way up on his forehead. Fortunately, I didn’t have to explain myself, because right then a group of cocky-looking students rounded the bend and headed straight for Vasa.

Wait, did I say “fortunately”? I take that back.

Silence fell over the courtyard, everyone sensing the mood; somebody had finally decided to act on the faint hostility that permeated our campus. My entire body clenched as I joined the crowd of heads turning to watch. Ben was with them, that idiot. And no campus police in sight. Vasa was on her own.

The leader of the group pointed an accusing finger at Vasa, at her mountain of food, at the poster still fluttering on the wall nearby. Not a sound reached our ears beyond the indecipherable ranting of the student. I held my breath, watching as Vasa replied to whatever he’d said, calmly. Always calmly. Nothing phased this girl—not hostility, not attention, not danger, not anything.

I wished I were like her. I wished I were anyone but me. I wished I weren’t too afraid to stand up.

I stood up so fast my chair toppled. “Come on, guys.” My friends gawked as I stuffed books into my backpack. Luke spluttered something, but I guess the look on my face made him think twice, because he shut up. Carla and Feb followed me across the wet courtyard without question. We made it to the edge of the concrete before I slowed and took a long look back toward my dorm. Considered. It wasn’t too late . . .

Vasa was patiently listening to the mob leader rant. “—may have to tolerate you being here, but we shouldn’t have to watch your disgusting alien habits,” he snarled. Guy had the scruffiest mop of black hair I’d ever seen. “You’re turning us off our food with your daily gorge-fest!”

Vasa looked down at her overloaded tray full of half-eaten food. “My met’abolism is ex’tremely fast, so I h’ave to eat larger quan’tities than you h’umans.” She hadn’t seen me, but Ben had, and man, I really must have had some look on my face. He sank back through the mob like a rock in a bathtub.

“So that makes you better than us, huh?” Scruffy challenged. “We’re onto you aliens. You think you can just waltz onto our planet, delude our governments, and then you’ll take all our resources like the parasites you are!” There was a coarse cheer of agreement from the lackeys, except Ben, who was searching for an escape route. Scruffy grew bolder and raised his voice for the whole courtyard to hear, glorying in the attention like a puffed peacock. “I say it’s time we made it clear to this freak that some of us Earthlings don’t buy its innocent—”

“Her.”

Everyone stared at me—and I mean everyone—as my last shred of obscurity evaporated. I resisted the urge to bolt for the nearest door while Scruffy goggled at me, his bubble thoroughly popped. “What?”

Too late to back down now. Steeling myself, I pointed at Vasa, and the pet peeve that had been building up steam for two months boiled over. “She is a her. Any half-witted moron with eyes in his head can tell that she is a girl, so will everyone quit calling her an ‘it’?” I snapped.

“You idiot, what are you—” Luke’s anxious mutter cut off when I reached back and punched him in the shoulder. Silence and warm drizzle reigned for a solid minute. The jerks seriously didn’t know what to do with me, which was sort of what I’d banked all my hopes on. That, and the 911 call dialed into my smartphone.

Scruffy shook his head finally, and a slow sneer spread across his face. “Are you going to do something if I don’t, alien lover?” He leaned closer to me, way too close . . . and my life flashed before my eyes. What was I doing? They’d be watching me now, researching me, eventually they’d figure it all out, Goodbye, normal life—

“Would you l’ike us to?”

Scruffy and I stared at each other in confusion. The voice had been Vasa’s, but it sounded . . . higher than I remembered. Like, in terms of elevation. Scruffy glanced up, and I swear his face turned snow white. I turned around and choked, because Vasa had reared up on her back legs and now loomed over us from ten feet up. Those big forelegs of hers lay folded across her lower chest like a club bouncer, and her humanish arms sat akimbo on her waist. It was like being stared down by a giant alien bear and your very displeased mother at the same time.

“Please leave,” she said calmly. So very calmly. “And don’t b’other us ag’ain.”

When I turned back, the posse was gone. Except Ben. He just stood there, utterly petrified.

“Thanks,” I told my new giant alien double-jointed dog/cat/bear friend. My hands wouldn’t quit trembling, but I didn’t care. I’d never felt this light. “Sorry you had to deal with those jerks.”

Vasa rehinged her spine and settled back into normal centaur position. Her eyes were clouded as she stared in the direction of the fleeing thugs. “It’s al’right. B’etter this little blow-up than a b’igger sh’ne later.” She gave me a significant look. “People often f’ear sh’at they d’o not underst’and. But it is n’ice to have people st’and beside you.”

Truer words were never spoken. I grinned sheepishly at her subtlety. “I’m Elliot, by the way.” Then I remembered that we still had eyes on us and turned to my own slack-jawed posse. “Close your mouths before flies buzz in, guys. Vasa, this is Luke, that’s Carla, February but we call her Feb, and the soon-to-be-reformed moron over there is Ben.” Ben kept staring back and forth between me and Vasa like an oscillating fan. “Guys, this is Vasa.” I grinned stupidly, while she bent in a very ladylike bow.

A sound reached my ears, and I noticed a few people I didn’t recognize standing up by the tables. They were clapping. I looked back to see Carla smiling nervously at Vasa, and Feb giving me two big thumbs-up. Apparently, Vasa had been right; not everyone was so against her presence here. Luke, of course, just stood there staring at me with this wide-eyed expression that screamed, “Who are you and what have you done with my roommate?” A perfect example of why I was going to continue keeping certain blue secrets to myself.

I’m not dumb. Everything my family, my people, had worked to hide was in danger, danger that would only grow the longer I held the attention of our astroxenophobic classmates. I’d have plenty of problems coming because of this little stunt. But at least none of those problems would involve me ignoring someone else’s just to avoid mine.

It’s amazing how much peace you can get out of a revelation like that.

As I went to poke Ben out of his stupor, another dumb idea occurred to me. And since I was already on a roll . . . “Uh, by the way, do you guys mind if I invite someone extra to our Friday movie night?” I gave my five baffled friends a lopsided grin. “I hear she’s been wanting to see The Chronicles of Narnia.”

The centaur smiled.

Jennifer L. Hilty

Jennifer (Jenn) is 31 and loves telling stories with a touch of faith and the fantastical, especially where aliens and superheroes are involved. When not working on a particular writing project, she writes and draws a nerdy webcomic and makes nerdy cosplays. She lives in Ohio with a chinchilla (Pikachewbacca), two cats (Stormy and Clyde), regular invasions by nieces and nephews, and a yard full of alpacas that don’t belong to her. One day she WILL finish her book series about interdimensional energy werewolves, and then maybe that will stop sounding so crazy when she tries to explain it to people.

Website: jenniferhilty.wordpress.com

Facebook: riverwritings