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Elliott Dunstan

  • Home
  • Contact
  • About Me
  • Bell, Clock and Candle (Elessa)
    • The Nowhere Bird (Bell, Clock and Candle #1)
  • ALKIMIA FABLES
  • Chapter 24: Melting Point

    August 15th, 2022
    CWs: opioid and stimulant drug use (+discussion of), guns, implied human trafficking, subtle/microaggressive racism, racial profiling, self-harm scars

    And bitter waes the breath and braying on Brunhilde’s soul
    Whyn all she had waes lost or loathed or reveled as common cole
    her crowne she’d kep for good or ill, no kept courtisane she’d be
    so the fisher-childe’s blood she spilt into the midden greene
    and from the bones she call’d the Torre, wicked and divine
    she sold what vertue left she haed to be of Grendele’s kind

    Demon-bound and demon-borne, paid for in children’s breath
    And the Thistle Quene died in the Torre – with only hatrede left.

    Brunhilde and the Bony Torre, by John Anselsohn Partridge

    The radio chimed in one at a time, with coded responses from each of the teams that added up to much the same thing; none of them had seen Mary-Ann Daniels, and Jacob had long since stopped worrying about his career and moved onto a much more immediate fear that Coben Garrow was going to show up as a corpse and it’d be his fault. Before now, he’d still kind of wondered how much danger Coben was in. A manor family might have killed him, but he couldn’t see them going to all the trouble of an abduction if he was just going to die anyway.

    But Advolk —

    “Jacob, calm down,” Sylvia demanded, which at least got him to stop pacing. And he’d already punched the wall once. “At least you identified her.”

    “Aye, late. I had her cornered, I knew something was up, and I let her go—”

    “We’ll find her.”

    Advolk. Fucking Advolk. He’d given her so much benefit of the doubt, because —

    — sieben vervloekte, because he was trying not to repeat the same mistakes again. He didn’t need any more blood on his hands. But he’d overdone it. Ignored all of the things that were suspicious, that were an issue, because of his own stupid guilt, and besides, besides, what was he doing, trying to opt out of assumptions that worked?

    Because they don’t, some small voice reminded him. And then — Fuck, why did she have to be Advolk? Because he’d liked her. She had the same kind of sharpness about her that Rook did, an apparent need to show off just a little paired with the confidence that she was just as good as she thought it was. He just forgot, sometimes, that his enemies could be just as likable as his friends. He’d been in the 214th for a decade. He knew Advolk. He knew the signs of their attacks, their influence. And he’d still fallen for it. Why?

    “Police has a full perimeter set up around the city, and our teams are still in place to observe.”

    That was true. He just… could have avoided this. He leaned his hands on one of the desks, hanging his head and trying to stop kicking himself.

    Sylvia bent over the desk and lifted his chin with an air of command. “We have not lost him. We know she’s Advolk now. And we have her name.”

    “I doubt ‘s her real name,” Jacob replied sourly. Then he glared over at Wolfie. “Ye kent—” He closed his eyes for a moment. “You knew about Coben seeing someone and you didn’t so much as run a background check?”

    Wolfie pulled off his mask with a groan of frustration. “What do you take me for? I’ve been dodging assassination attempts since I was seven. Of course I ran a background check. Of course it’s a fake name. She’s Kanetan, they do that all the time when leaving Etamara.”

    “So she is from Etamara.”

    “Far as I could tell. Some town called Tenton.”

    Sylvia wrinkled her nose. “Just likely as to be made up as the rest of her, really. You should have kept a closer eye on her.”

    “Coben isn’t actually useless,” Wolfie protested. “It’s just safer to let people think so.”

    “I’ve met the lid,” Jacob grumbled. “He ain’t exactly blessed wi’ ‘n overabundance of wit.”

    “If she got past me, you, and the Richteran Guard,” Wolfie shot back, more than a hint of anger in his voice now, “she’s not exactly small potatoes, is she?”

    “Enough!” Sylvia raised her voice. “We—”

    The radio flickered to life again. Jacob expected to hear from one of the teams — instead, a low contralto came through the static, a voice he recognized but couldn’t quite place. “NatSec! NatSec, do you read? Major Scheffen?”

    Sylvia picked up the radio with a frown. “This is Major Scheffen. Identify yourself. Ov—”

    “It’s Djaneki!”

    Sylvia’s eyes darted up to Jacob in sudden silent fear. The Rivieres, she mouthed.

    The—

    Oh, bloody fucking hell.

    “We’re at—”

    “I know perfectly well where you are, Djaneki, stay quiet.” Sylvia interrupted her before she could say anything. “Hold your position. Are you hurt?”

    “Not really, but Rook…”

    Sylvia’s face paled. Not because Rook was hurt; that alone wouldn’t have worried her beyond the normal. But Csindra hadn’t said that. She’d paused, scared. “Hold your position, Sergeant.” She flicked off the radio. “Jacob—”

    She didn’t need to say anything else. He was already halfway out of the door, cursing everything about today. Mary-Ann would have to wait, because — because, shit, Jacob knew more than he was supposed to.

    “Hold on, I’m coming with you!” Wolfie ran after him, panting slightly. “The Major says she’ll man the teams.”

    Which also meant she could keep things quiet where she could. Jacob just nodded, too breathless to think too much about Wolfie being there. Djaneki didn’t rattle easy. He’d only met her a handful of times, but she was tough. What the hell had scared her so badly?

    “Where are we going?”

    “Den Riviere. They were staking out that killer.”

    “Oh, damn. Okay. So—”

    “Shut your gob and get in the damn car before I run you over.” Mean, maybe, but he was still sore about Mary-Ann. And…

    You from Etamara, little one?

    Yeah, Tenton.

    He wasn’t going to think about that yet. One thing at a time.

    To his credit, Wolfie actually complied, even pulling out his service pistol and loading it while Jacob slid behind the wheel, engine already vibrating. Wolfie had three guns, at least that Jacob knew about — the Browning 1910 that served as the military standard, an old modified R&G Model 1898, and the one in his hands – a Mauser C96, with a Smokework symbol already engraved into its wooden grip. “What do you know?”

    “Not much. Not my case.”

    “You make it your business to know everything.”

    “You’re thinking of the Major,” Jacob mumbled distractedly. Den Riviere was farther than he would have liked — not that far, but it was still a bit of a world unto its own. He tried to focus just on driving, but he found himself swearing under his breath. Was Odette at Den Riviere? She probably was. She kept talking about actually moving in with her husband, but she’d been doing that for months. He couldn’t be worried about Rook and Odette. Do I say anything?

    “She’s there. Sorry.”

    “Who?” Jacob tried to brush off —

    “You keep forgetting we all know each other,” Wolfie murmured with a small grin. He was doing more than inspecting his guns, Jacob realized; he was checking over his Smokework wicks. Some were pre-tied bundles of plant matter — others were clusters of incense sticks, all with small, handwritten labels and a heady, lingering medley of smells that didn’t quite make his eyes sting but was enough to be noticeable. “I haven’t talked to her in a while, but last I heard she keeps putting off Aloysius by askin’ him to make changes to Den Weiss. Which he’ll never do.”

    Jacob couldn’t follow most of what Wolfie was saying, but that was fine. He could only drive so fast. Some of him wanted desperately to ask Wolfie if he knew that Rook was something else, something special — but the truth was, Jacob didn’t even know more than that. Just that Rook was something. And explaining to Wolfie how he knew meant explaining his relationship with magic, which was more thinking than he could handle right at this moment.

    “Lambert, check in.” Sylvia. She was getting worried.

    Wolfie picked up the radio for him as they pulled down the long driveway towards Den Riviere. “Approaching now. No s…”

    The two of them fell equally silent at the same time. Jacob got as close as he dared, until the tires started to slide on the ground, then came to a stop.

    The wrought-iron gates had been entirely blown off their hinges. That was bad enough. Jacob had never seen them so carelessly left before; he’d been to Den Riviere plenty of times, whether to see Mr. Riviere himself or to spend time with Odette.

    The tires —

    He felt the cold the moment he opened the car door If they hadn’t taken one of the covered ones, they would have noticed right away. The wheels hadn’t been sliding in water or mud; the gravel was covered with a thin, nearly-clear layer of ice. The tires had slid only half an inch before cracking through what of it there was, and when Jacob and Wolfie’s boots hit the surface, more cracks radiated out from underneath them.

    “It wasn’t this cold when we left the Centrum, was it?” Wolfie asked uncertainly.

    “Maybe,” Jacob said noncommittally. Then — “I don’t think so. It’s not cold enough now.”

    Wolfie nodded, jaw set, then silently handed Jacob the gas mask he’d been wearing at the office and pulled his own mask over his head. When Wolfie got quiet, that said plenty. That was when you needed to worry.

    Jacob checked his gun, then tucked it back into his holster. He held the mask — but didn’t put it on, as he walked through the gates with the ice cracking under his boots. There was something strange in the air, almost a static hum; he wasn’t sure, actually, if Wolfie could hear it. Usually his sensory oddities were visual. Usually.

    The high gates were held up by two stone columns, the rest of the stone walls circling the estate out from them. As Jacob crossed between them, he felt the temperature drop a little more, but not enough to do more than make him shiver in his uniform jacket. Den Elessa got cold — but not this cold. Not in the summer. The front field was covered in frost that glittered in the low afternoon sun. The hedges, the grass, the orchard leaves…. Even the marble fountain was frozen, the water still determinedly piping from the top but breaking through the verglas on the basin’s surface with a quiet, steady crackle.

    The good news, he supposed, was that it was melting. The icicles hanging from the stone Proteus’s nose on the fountain were scary to look at, but icicles were a symptom of meltwater, not killing frost. Whatever had come through here was gone. This was just the wake of its passing.

    Jacob glanced back at Wolfie, who was silent behind his wolf’s-eyes. Wolfie hadn’t hesitated to put the mask on, because, like most people, like most thaumatists who weren’t looking for it, or casting anything — he couldn’t see or hear magic. You had to try, which meant you had to know what to look for, and even then magic liked to hide. That was how it was supposed to work.

    “Lambert, just put the damn thing on,” Wolfie sighed through the mask —

    “Hold on.” He didn’t know how he was going to explain it to Wolfie, or if he’d even have to bother coming up with an excuse. Something was gone; the big thing, at least. Something was still here, though. He pulled the radio out from Wolfie’s side holster. “Djaneki, this is Lambert. Where are you?”

    “Third floor with Miss Odette. Is it safe?”

    Safe? Did Djaneki not know? Or — he thought grimly — she was being circumspect on purpose. The truth was, the whole ‘feral magic killer’ thing had been bothering him from the beginning. He only knew the outlines of it anyway; it needed a thaumatist, and he was as far from one as it got. But he hadn’t voiced to Sylvia his concern that throwing Rook up against feral magic that seemed to have real, malicious intelligence was a bad idea, and now he was wishing he had. Don’t jump to conclusions. You’re not a thaumatist, and you and ferals are a bad combination at the best of times.

    He chewed on his lip. “We’ll be up in a moment once we’ve cleared the outside. Stay put.”

    “How’s Rook?”

    “I’ll update you when I can.”

    She hadn’t looked outside. And Rook wasn’t with her. Jacob tried to still the sudden thrumming in his chest, but was interrupted by Wolfie’s hand on his arm, squeezing in nearly as much panic as he was feeling.

    “Where the hell is he?” Wolfie asked, voice muffled through the mask.

    Jacob pushed Wolfie’s hand down, gesturing to him to relax. “Cool it, Achielsohn. Don’t freak out on me now.” Like he wasn’t freaking out just as much. Neither of them could help it — Rook might complain about how he was an adult now, but he was still the baby, the one who could take care of himself just fine, but shouldn’t have to.

    The two of them advanced towards the house. Wolfie had already pulled out one of his wicks, although Jacob couldn’t identify it — for himself, Jacob had his hand on his gun. He had a Browning, too, but he preferred Vera for his everyday work. She was theoretically a Mauser like Wolfie’s — a gwēi-chúo, although Wolfie probably had never even heard the word — but his was a Schnellfeuer Red 9, which meant that if he wanted to turn someone to dust in a few seconds flat, he could. If he had to.

    It wasn’t helping, he thought, that he’d been dwelling on the past. Everything was so quiet. Deathly still. Knowing that Djaneki and Odette were alive somewhere in the house helped; it didn’t quite shake the feeling that he was walking towards a house of corpses—

    He paused. The colonnade of the front porch was in front of them. The half-circle of steps was running with rivulets of meltwater, the entire porch covered with thick, crumbling ice —

    —and in the center of it all, a small body, almost floating in the steadily-melting frost.

    “Rook!” The name tore itself from his lips before he could think it through, and his feet nearly slid out from under him as he crossed the ice — but most of it was slush, now. He was more worried about how long Rook might have been out here. How long had it taken for them to get here from the Centrum? Ten, twenty minutes? He wasn’t good at gaging time. One of his major flaws — no matter what he did, he couldn’t fix his internal clock.

    He dropped down next to Rook, fingers fumbling to put away his gun and hands sliding into the cold water to try lift Rook out. His fingers brushed against something unexpected — he started back, then realized that there was a small serpentine head resting at Rook’s neck, the rest of the snake’s body underneath Rook’s head. In the freezing water.

    “Leshin shar, you’re cold-blooded,” he muttered, and eased the snake carefully onto Rook’s chest before lifting them both out of the water. The fact that Rook’s familiar was alive was incredible — and hopefully a good sign. There was no real reason to assume the two were linked, but he’d always kind of assumed so.

    He looked around, trying to figure out where to put Rook down that wasn’t ice or water, but Wolfie beat him to it; he pulled off his longcoat and lay it on one of the few places of the porch that was showing actual stone-and-tile. It was soaked almost immediately, but it was still better than putting him down straight on ice or cold stone.

    “Thanks,” Jacob mumbled.

    Wolfie pulled off the mask, dirty-blond hair falling free and eyes wide as he looked over Rook. “What happened? I’ve never seen him like this.”

    “Hypothermia, I think,” Jacob said distractedly. More than that — he was bleeding, although the cold had kept it under control. Injury on his leg, another on his hand — Whatever he’d been fighting, it’d been nasty.

    “The window’s broken.”

    “What?” Then Jacob caught up. “The main window?”

    “Yeah. There’s a fireplace in there.”

    “Thanks.” Jacob pushed his arms under both Rook and the coat, still looking around and trying to calculate how far the frost had gone. Then he realized Wolfie was looking at him. “Spit it out, Achielsohn.”

    “…Frost wraiths don’t do this.”

    “Mountain wraiths? No. Not normally.”

    Wolfie rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Besides, not all mountain wraiths are cold. Even the ones that are, though, they don’t… explode.”

    That was exactly what it was, Jacob realized. Especially now that he’d stepped off the porch. It looked like an explosion. The ice was thinnest out by the gate, but it also had only just started to melt when they arrived. The fountain was getting there — the icicles. And the place with the most ice, that had already melted the most —

    His eyes landed on the center of the colonnade where Rook had been lying.

    “We don’t exactly understand feral magic yet,” he said instead, hoping Wolfie hadn’t followed his eyes too much and turning to the window. He didn’t want to brave the inside of the house right off the bat — and besides, this way, he could get a sense of what had happened. Who’d broken the window? All the glass was on the inside, not the outside.

    “Maybe you don’t,” Wolfie replied, with a little more snark than Jacob would have liked, “but Phania’s one of the only non-state researchers there is. Mountain magic doesn’t work on this kind of scale outside of the mountains. It can’t sustain the energy. That’s why we have so many forest and freshwater wraiths here.”

    Jacob ignored — or pretended to ignore — Wolfie, stepping through the window. Then he froze. There wasn’t any sign of struggle, no. Except Odette’s chair was in front of him. His heart leapt into his throat for a moment, before he realized what had probably happened. Djaneki didn’t know about the lift. He sighed, suppressing a small smile. “You’ll have to gab my ear off about feral magic later. Go check on Djaneki and Odette.”

    “Me? Why?”

    “She’s going to be embarrassed as it is.”

    “She—?” Then Wolfie caught a glimpse of the chair. “Ah.” He narrowed his eyes at Jacob. “Are you sure you’re not—”

    “I’m not having this discussion with you, Achielsohn.”

    “Whatever you say, boss.”

    Then Wolfie vanished up the stairs, and Jacob exhaled, setting Rook down on the small sofa and seeing what he could do about the fire. There was always a firestarter somewhere around here; before long, he had a small flame smoldering in the hearth, and could focus on Rook and his familiar. The snake, at least, seemed fine, if sluggish — it crawled off of Rook and onto the floor near the fire.

    “Glad to see you’re happy,” Jacob mumbled. The familiar was another of Rook’s badly-kept secrets; in theory, he’d never actually been told that all of Rook’s odd pets were the same animal, but even if he hadn’t spent enough time around him to pick up on it, the tawny-gold aura the familiar usually had around it gave it away. Desert magic, he thought. The warm colours were usually desert or flatland, and the aura was the same no matter what form it took. There was more variation in the spells than the usual eight categorizations would suggest, but he usually couldn’t get close enough to learn much else.

    The snake gave Jacob’s thigh a little pat with its tail, and Jacob smiled despite himself. That was the main reason he’d never said anything. Demons didn’t like him; feral magic lashed out at him twice as hard as it did anybody else. He was like a flashing neon light where others were muted, a beacon if he did so much as try to use thaumaturgy. But Rook’s familiar liked him just fine — which meant it wasn’t a demon, whatever it did turn out to be.

    Rook’s breaths were coming a little easier already. Jacob sighed, kneeling down next to him and brushing his hair out of his face to get a better look. It was hard to say whether or not colour was coming back to his face, exactly — but he looked, well, better. Still, he needed a bit more warmth to get back to normal.

    Jacob managed to slide the leather jacket off of Rook’s shoulders without too much trouble, and got a slurred, half-awake mumble for his trouble. He tried not to feel too pleased about that, but it meant Rook was a bit more conscious than he seemed. “Don’t worry,” he said with a small chuckle, rubbing his thumb over Rook’s cheek. “I’m not stealing it.”

    “Mm.” Rook drifted back into stillness, and Jacob felt that twinge of concern again. Rook seemed small, sure. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever actually seen Rook down for the count. Especially because, he was noticing with a frown, he was injured, but—

    Don’t trick yourself. It’s still some nasty stuff. That, plus the cold—

    He tested the dampness of Rook’s shirt, and pulled a face. Cotton poplin dried faster than most, but it was still clammy to the touch. Jacob shrugged off his uniform jacket, then gently eased the shirt over Rook’s head. “Sorry, kid,” he murmured. “You’re not even shivering yet. Once you are, then we’re getting somewh—”

    The word faded in his mouth. He dropped the shirt on the ground and managed to finish pulling his uniform jacket around Rook’s shoulders, but his eyes returned to Rook’s arms and stomach nonetheless; and the thin scars riddling his skin. If they were white, Jacob probably wouldn’t have minded so much. White scars were healed. These ones weren’t.

    Jacob sighed, and avoided touching the healing reddish-pink scars on Rook’s abdomen, instead cupping Rook’s chin in his hand and checking his neck and face. At least none of the cuts were open. He hadn’t been using that kind of Bloodwork today. Which… He wished that made him feel better. He tried to pretend not to know about it, to look away from Rook’s cutting just as much as he did the familiar and the strange, haunting magic that danced around him — but that didn’t mean seeing the actual scars hit any better.

    The fire was catching properly now. Jacob shook himself a little, snapped the jacket buttons closed around Rook’s chest, and checked his leggings before pulling one of the sofa blankets over his legs. “There we go.” Wolfie had taken the radio, but Rook was supposed to have one, so he could update Sylvia from here. He propped himself up on the floor with his back to the sofa, grabbing Rook’s jacket and fishing into the pockets —

    Whatever he was touching wasn’t the radio, but it was a little too familiar for comfort. Jacob pulled it out. A hip flask. For water?

    He cast an uneasy look back at Rook.

    Jacob unscrewed the top of the flask — and the smell hit him so fast it was like being punched in the face. Wine, he thought, and something else sickly sweet.

    He closed the flask, heart plunging into the pit of his stomach. There wasn’t any reason to think Rook had been drinking. Hell, he didn’t even know Rook drank at all. He’d never seen Rook so much as have a glass of wine.

    And carrying around a hip flask of it?

    Djaneki hadn’t said what was wrong with Rook over the radio. He’d just assumed. He’d just —

    He resisted the temptation to throw the flask, and instead set it aside. He wasn’t going to be able to think straight, not until Rook woke up and the chill lingering in the room had finally cleared.


    The radio had been quiet for a while, and Csindra had almost fallen asleep with her head on Odette’s shoulder when the Thaumatist-Lieutenant turned the corner of the desk. He looked down at the two of them through his lupine mask, then pulled it upwards, letting it rest on top of his head with the hood falling behind him. “…Well, this should be good.”

    “Save it, Theolykos,” Odette snapped. She was fully awake, still shivering, although Csindra suspected it was out of more fear than cold.

    Csindra lifted her head, pressing the heel of her palm into her eye with a wince. “Oh, lovely. You two know each other.” Then she watched with rising annoyance as Odette… steadied herself against the desk and slowly started to get to her feet. “You’re kidding me. You can walk?”

    “Yes,” Odette snarled.

    Wolfie just sighed — and stepped forward before Odette managed more than to get shakily upright, catching her against his chest. “No, she can’t. Don’t be stubborn.”

    “I’ll be stubborn as much as I like, Theolykos, now take your hands off me—”

    “That might work on a prole, Odette, but I’d like to think I have some familial privileges. How’d she get you up here?”

    Odette just seethed quietly, and Csindra actually felt a little embarrassed. “I, uh — I picked her up. I was panicking.”

    “For good reason, I suppose.”

    “Of course it—” Then Csindra realized that hadn’t been a question. “Odjon’nez, what’s outside?”

    Wolfie practically winced. “A lot of ice.”

    “How much is a lot?”

    He didn’t answer that directly, just letting Odette lean on him. “You were right to come up here.”

    Odette paled. Csindra wasn’t expecting a thank you, but she did seem to relax a little. Besides, Csindra couldn’t blame her. It didn’t really matter how rich or powerful you were, or how much noble blood you had, when you were in a wheelchair in a house full of stairs. It didn’t mean Csindra liked her any better, but lashing out because of fear was a lot easier to handle than nasty, petty underhandedness. “I suppose under those circumstances, I can manage some grace. But put your hands on me again and I’ll have them chopped off.”

    Csindra raised her eyebrows, but the Lieutenant just sighed. “Will you at least let me carry you down?”

    Odette glanced up at him, then averted her eyes. “…Only if you let me walk the last bit.”

    Wolfie hid his small smile, and Csindra only barely concealed her expression. Odette had heard Lambert on the radio, it seemed. It was oddly sweet; she had to wonder if it was mutual, but she was pretty sure Lambert’s interests lay elsewhere. Wolfie picked Odette up in his arms, with a lot more care that Csindra had managed, and Csindra strapped her axe onto her back, noticing the way her hands were trembling. Adrenaline leaving her body. It was okay. They had backup now, and nobody sounded panicked, nobody was firing guns, so everything was… fine.

    A lot of ice. Yeah, no. Everything was not fine. She didn’t know if Rook was alive or dead—

    He’s not dead. The thought came with such disturbing clarity that she stopped, hand on the desk. She scanned the room — the blown-open books, the scattered papers that had flown about in whatever wind had passed through, but there was nothing to give her that certainty. Desperate hope, maybe, but she wasn’t the type. Why was she so certain?

    Then another thing occurred to her. A house this big had staff. Even the manors out in the Zweispars had staff, and this was in the middle of the capital. She walked carefully through the study, past the porcelain cup that had fallen and broken on the ground, and out onto the landing. Most of the other doors were open. The one to the left and across — That one was closed.

    She tried the handle, and the door opened easily. The room was filled with people, all of them quiet as the grave, all of them turning their faces to her with a mix of relief and alarm.

    “So that’s where you all vanished to,” came Odette’s voice from behind her. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling, before she turned back to look at Odette in the Lieutenant’s arms. Wolfie, to his credit, was rolling his eyes a bit — but not doing much else, while Odette was glaring at the room of people. “Really. I expected—”

    “Miss Odette,” Csindra interrupted, managing to keep some respect in her voice. It took effort. A lot of effort, and reminding herself that Odette wasn’t being bridal-carried for shits and giggles, and that she had just had the living daylights scared out of her. “I’ll talk to you downstairs.”

    “But—” Then Odette fell silent, glaring now at Csindra. Csindra just returned the glare with an even stare. “Fine.”

    The Lieutenant adjusted his grip on Odette with a small snicker, and headed down the stairs. Csindra heard him say something to her about ‘Rook’s new partner’. She wasn’t sure if it was entirely complimentary or not — but it kept them both out of her way. And it didn’t matter what else she thought or wanted to think about Odette or the Lieutenant; the rich got a certain expression when it came to their staff. Like talking about misbehaving pets. There’s a reason I would rather starve then work for you, she grumbled internally. And she hadn’t exactly agreed lightly to…whatever it was she was doing.

    She turned back to the room packed full with what she now realized was Den Riviere’s entire domestic staff. Close to it, anyway. They ranged from barely teenagers to in their fifties or sixties, all of them in working clothes of some sort of another, most of them obviously clan or foreigner of some sort. High cheekbones, thick hair, skin that ranged from just faintly dusky to deep shimmering Fuletcha black… She let them look at her for a moment, let them take in the deerskin jacket and dark skin and flag her as One Of Them, before she leant against the doorjamb.

    “So,” she said with a drawl she couldn’t quite help, “I take it it’s not just my clan with that story.”

    Everybody started looking at each other. Nobody wanted to be the one to talk, it seemed. Not that she blamed them. Just because she looked like them didn’t mean anything, not when it came to stuff like this. Csindra wasn’t sure if it’d ever actually been agreed on that they didn’t tell Elessans about these stories; probably some people tried and got brushed off, anyway. It was just an unspoken agreement.

    “I’m not actually military,” she added, to see if it’d help. “I mean — not, not really. I’m a contractor. Technically. Which just means they pay me while I do something else entirely.”

    “Doing what?” someone burst out. Csindra couldn’t see who it was, which was probably for the best given how tempted she was to throw something at them or tell them it was none of their fucking business.

    “I heard that,” she said instead. God. What was it gonna take? She rubbed her forehead in between her eyebrows, then closed the door behind her. She wasn’t doing anything bad, but she wasn’t in the mood to deal with Elessan questions. And — just in case — the radio was still on her hip. “Nak’ma Csindra Djaneki Shelash-Kekash aŋat-Morną aŋat-Tenton sho-shą, nevéne keb-Navòne Kesh’lashe. Nadab, vol’ròz ŋet shé. Shur’la.”

    Definitely some recognition there, which meant she was right, and plenty of the people in here were Zurkanet’. She’d figured. Including, as she’d suspected, the shortstack kid sitting on the ground near the back, whose shoulders sank in relief even as she chewed on her lip in clear annoyance. And a little bit of guilt. How old are you, ten?

    “Come on,” she added. “Work with me a bit here.” It didn’t help that nobody else was talking.

    The folks in the room slowly started to turn their eyes to one corner — Kanetaz, Fuletcha, Tosaka, even a few Shufennese and Nguan mixed in, all slowly giving away the real leader in the group. Csindra followed their eyes to where the kid was sitting, then to the two tall, dark-skinned coachmen behind her. Even if the man of the two hadn’t still had his flared black box coat on, the tight jodhpurs and riding boots would probably have given away their station. The woman was the one catching Csindra’s attention, though; she was the most obviously restless in the room, only the more now that everyone else was putting her on the spot. She had one hand protectively on the wall just above the girl’s head, white shirt-sleeves rolled up to her elbows and short-cropped curls showing off glinting blue studs in her ears. Not just any servant, then. Especially not with the way she was taking glances out the window.

    Then the woman raised her eyes and met Csindra’s gaze with a steady, even glare and Csindra tried — hard — not to blush. Finding women more butch than her didn’t happen often, especially not ones with shaved heads and silver earrings. “Do you want something, Djaneki?” she said.

    Csindra swallowed, trying to focus. “Ah — what happened?”

    “I’m hoping you can tell me that, actually,” she replied, voice smooth as silk.

    She couldn’t quite help the wry, frustrated look she cast the woman’s way — and the Tosaka woman laughed in response, throwing her head back. “So you’re not just a soldier, you’re a new soldier.”

    “I’m not a soldier at all, thank you very much. I’m—”

    “A contractor, yes, I hear you the first time.”

    Csindra switched into Tosaka, in the hope she’d have fewer people making fun of her. “A mercenary, when I’m not getting blackmailed.”

    The woman’s eyebrows flew up a little at that — probably both at the language switch and the statement. “Blackmail? I always wondered what the army did to the túzàzhúánsēpya. I’d thought they executed them.”

    Csindra tried not to rankle at the assumption that she was Advolk. Great. She got it from Elessans and other clanfolk. Túzàzhúánsēp meant freedom fighter. But she didn’t really have the patience to get into an argument with someone about the Advolk right now, especially not when she had ‘the Advolk are devils’ to deal with on the other end. “Trust me, if I was túzàzhúánsēp I’d have gotten something much worse. And I’m not selling out anybody else. Just fuckin’ myself over, really. So can you help me out or not?”

    The woman gave her a steady, appraising gaze… then nodded in what Csindra took to be agreement and switched briefly back to Elessan. “Back to work. And keep your mouths shut.”

    “But—” the man next to her tried to argue, but she cut him off with a gesture of her hand.

    “Kaune, mèmsáiṉahù.”

    He subsided into slightly-embarrassed silence, and Csindra managed to keep a straight face as he headed out of the room with everyone else. She’d learned Tosaka as a kid, basically side-by-side with Kanet’valan and Elessan — later, Dani’i Feilim and Ze’an Feilim for Kestrel, which meant she knew more languages than even most other clanfolk. It was the one thing she had going for her when it came to book smarts, and it meant she knew when someone was being told to shut the hell up. More or less, anyway. Tosaka didn’t really have rudeness built into it beyond tone of voice, but it was amazing how well that worked when you knew how to use it.

    Csindra stepped aside and leant against the wall, observing each of the servants as they moved past her — and logging how each of them looked at her. Mostly neutral, with a few more intrigued glances — and one or two dirty looks, but she expected that. Military was bad enough. A clanswoman working for the military in any capacity? Whoof. She’d thought about trying to explain that to Jacob, back when they’d been discussing it, but it felt silly to care that much — and she was half-blooded anyway, so doomed to be getting some variety of dirty looks one way or another.

    Once the room was empty, she could see what it was more clearly; another study, smaller, this one probably for the steward or someone of similar rank. Certainly it wasn’t her study; if it was, the woman would have sat behind the desk or somewhere more comfortable than the windowsill. The girl had stayed behind, although why, Csindra couldn’t be sure.

    “Zecka, it’s alright,” the woman tried to soothe her.

    “I na leavin you with her,” the girl grumbled. “You say—”

    “I know what I say. This is different.”

    Zecka cast a dirty, distrusting look at Csindra, who was now struggling not to take it a little personally. At this rate, it seemed just as likely to be about being halfblooded as it was anything else. Zecka was clearly Zurkanet’ of some variety, although pinning down specific tribe on appearance alone was difficult, if not impossible; still, Csindra was pretty sure they didn’t share any actual tribal connection, not with Zecka’s hair like a thick cloud of dust twined into a ball at the base of her neck or the little tinge of Alkmeri accent lurking at the edges of her consonants. Shelash-Kekash had mostly gone along with the Etamara relocation, or managed to stay in Den Elessa before that; as far as Csindra knew, all of her kin out by Alkmer were distant cousins at best.

    The woman, at least, seemed to be detecting some of the animosity. She folded one long leg over the other. “I am Angtaiki Kauti. Call me Zulang.”

    Shit. She hadn’t mistaken the name Kaune earlier, then. She was going to kill Odette Riviere with her bare fucking hands. “Angtaiki. So Kaullo—”

    “Kaullo my older brother, dòsāltúvòihò.” There wasn’t as much respect in her voice as I would have expected, rest in peace or not. “I suppose whatever vuh outside is the same thing that killed him.”

    There were, Csindra thought with a suppressed shiver, a lot of ways to interpret that particular question. “Looks it.” It was a relief to feel herself falling back into the speech patterns of Nadjat slang instead of the ‘proper’ Elessan she had to use around Rook, she had to admit. “Not a lot of those around. You knew about her before I did.”

    Zulang raised an eyebrow at she. Zecka, Csindra noted with a suppressed reaction of alarm, didn’t. “I notice the weather changing. At first I think, just a freak storm or something, but then…” She hesitated, then sighed. “Before Kaullo died, he tell me he feels like he’s being followed. He say he keep seeing mushrooms where they shouldn’t be. Brackets on alleyway walls. So when I start seeing them, I bring everybody up here.”

    “And they listen to you.”

    “Much to Jonathan’s displeasure, yes,” Zulang conceded with a small laugh.

    “The steward?”

    “Jonathan Becker. He likes me fine even if he get sourpuss about it. And he know what he don’t know.”

    Csindra nodded, taking that in. So the steward was a Becker, too — and one who bowed to clan knowledge when he needed to. She wondered if Odette knew about any of this, but she doubted it. It was probably just as important to Mr. Becker as it was to Zulang that everybody believe that Mr. Becker was unquestionably in charge. “…Odette — Miss Odette,” she corrected with a steam of silent hatred, “say she don’t know Kaullo. Know why?”

    The reaction was immediate. Zulang’s smile faded, and her hand drifted — clearly almost by instinct — to Zecka’s head, stroking her hair with the same protective instinct as before. “No,” she said, in Tosaka again. From the annoyed look on Zecka’s face, Zecka didn’t know Tosaka; that worked just fine. “Kaullo worked here, with me and Kaune. We’ve been Riviere bondsmen since we were young.”

    Csindra tried to swallow away the taste of disgust in her mouth. Bondsmen. Slavery with extra steps. Of course that had been mysteriously missing from the file. “Lovely. I suppose she was lying about the mob, too.”

    “No. No, that’s — that much is true.” Zulang’s thumb brushed some dirt off of Zecka’s temple; Zecka was watching her face, clearly trying to intuit some of the meaning without asking. “National Security should keep their distance,” she said after a moment.

    “I’m sorry?”

    “I’m asking you from one clanswoman from another. Nothing good can come from the military sticking their noses into what the Rivieres are doing.”

    Csindra was ready to ask what exactly Zulang wanted her to do about it — then caught the steely look in Zulang’s eyes. “You’ve got your own plans, I see. Can you handle an odjaken on your own?”

    “Ah, well, no. But there must be a way for you to lead it away from here.”

    Csindra closed her eyes, trying to suppress the migraine she was starting to feel. “You’re taking the whole odjaken thing rather lightly, don’t you think?”

    “I know how to avoid their fury. And besides, I wouldn’t call this lightly.” She was keeping her face very still — but it occurred to Csindra just how much of it was to keep Zecka from panicking. Zecka had clearly caught the word odjaken — but that was all. “I don’t want her hurt.”

    Csindra paused for a moment… then glanced at Zecka with dawning fury. Zecka, who she’d initially taken for nine or ten before revising that, assuming that she must be a little older. Scheffen had been circumspect, sure, but with that information, she was starting to suspect that Zecka wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

    “Don’t do anything,” Zulang said after a moment. “Just… don’t correct Odette.”

    Don’t correct Odette. Let Kaullo seem like a random casualty or a hire from the depths of the swamp somewhere. All to cover up the Riviere family’s crimes.

    “Alright,” Csindra said, and felt the scars on her arms start stinging again. Apparently these days, just the memory of pain was enough.

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    I rewrote the Zulang/Csindra scene *so much*, christ. I’ll be posting some of the other versions if I still have them – this is one of the first chapters in a while that had a number of rewrites. The big thing, obviously, was how exactly to go about Zecka’s situation. The other one was navigating the – four? different languages at play in the scene!

    Keep an eye out for the bonus Patreon post going more into the Tosaka used in this bit, but for everyone else: Tosaka is not related to the other clan languages (even distantly) even though there’s obviously loanwords and influence! The Sigaros language is closely related, but that’s all. As a result, it looks very different and functions as an agglutinative language; that is, all the grammar particles are stuck together, so you end up with almost whole sentences in words. “dòsāltúvòihò” is a great example of this – the tones show where the separate syllables/participles are for the most part (…yes, it’s tonal too.) and it breaks down into “dò-sāl-tú-vòi-h-ò”. Directly translated, this looks like “”he (previous statement)-sāl (rest)-tú (intransitive)-vòi (subjunctive – may/might)-h (present) -ò (third person)” or “May he rest). This is a set phrase in Tosaka, said after the name of a deceased relative or friend.

    In terms of the dialect, I’m actually nervous about that. I’ve tried to strike a balance between understandability and non-caricature, and doing respect to the fact that pidgin languages and dialect are unfairly mocked and should be depicted as real, full languages. For that reason, the clan pidgin used here is explicitly inspired by several dialects worldwide, just like with a lot of my languages and dialects – it’s Elessan (transcribed, obviously, into English) but influenced by the grammar of the clan languages. For example, Kanet’valan (and Tosaka!) indicate tense after the verb itself, so clan pidgin often flattens tense and indicates it with separate words (“I know what I say” above – in context, it’s obvious that ‘say’ is past tense!) and Kanet’valan’s negative indicators (shev’ and kheb’/khib’/khibi) while having multiple forms, also function just fine thrown into a phrase at the appropriate place, so ‘na’ replaces it where necessary rather than struggling for the right version of ‘not/no/none/neither/etc.’

    Song: Jakyl by True Widow

  • Chapter 23: The Quiet Oak

    August 8th, 2022
    CWs: bullying, exclusion trauma, loneliness

    I’ll admit — the first time I saw the kid, I got a bit nervous. Not because of the albino thing. I’ve met albino kids before, you know? It’s a medical condition, not that you’d think that with how some people go on about it. It’s that, well, you expect amnesiacs to be lost, a little helpless. Even if it’s temporary. Rook, well. The first time I met him, his voice wasn’t working properly just yet, and he still looked me up and down and asked me if I was friends with ‘the other one’. And I didn’t think much of it. Amnesiac, right? He’d probably asked everyone that.

    It wasn’t til I left that I realized I was wearing that necklace Jacob gave me. You know the one, Syl. When I was teaching him how to make jewellery and he turned that old set of buttons into charms. I know he wears one of them too, but — but, Sylvia, they don’t look like anything. Most people wouldn’t notice them, let alone associate them with each other. So, you know.

    Tread carefully.

    Captain Thomas Karella in a letter to Sylvia Christadocht Scheffen, 1915

    PARC DER RUSSIGNOLS, DEN ELESSA, 1917

    In some of the few books Rook had that were stories for children – or at least he suspected they were – characters talked about a point of realizing they were different, understanding being different from other kids or other people. He couldn’t relate. He’d never had any choice or illusion that he was anything but different – but that was alright. He wasn’t sure he was even made of the same stuff as the other people at the school. So, he kept to himself — all the more now that he had his brief but cherished moments with the Vandemeers — and he cherished the times that Jacob met him at school all the more.

    Jacob found him that day in the park about a block away from the school, one leg hanging off the tree branch he was lying on, book on his face as he contemplated whether or not he wanted to actually finish it. “You skived off again.”

    Rook sighed, pulling the book off his face. “I thought I’d have longer than five minutes after last bell.” He sat up, elbow on the tree branch as he looked down at Jacob. “How’d you find me?”

    “You can’t actually forge my or Sylvia’s signature for shit. Nice try, though. They called me at lunchtime once someone actually looked at your ‘doctor’s note’.” The older man folded his arms and leaned against the tree, looking up at Rook with a mix of frustration and amusement. “For someone who’s technically two, you have the rebellious teenager thing down. I didn’t think Wolfie would be that bad of an influence on you.”

    Rook chucked an acorn at him. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. “If I’m two, then you’re a civilian.” It was all the more annoying, he decided, that Jacob had caught the damn thing out of the air. “I wish you were,” he groaned, flopping back down on the tree branch.

    “Why, so you’d actually get away with some of this?”

    “…Yes. Civvies are dumb.”

    “You are aware, la,” Jacob couldn’t quite suppress the laugh, “that you’re a civilian.” He tossed the acorn back at Rook, and Rook snatched it before it hit him with another suffering groan. “Although you’re a quick study.”

    “You’re the one who drills me on this stuff.”

    “It’ll do you good one day.” There was a quiet huff, and then Rook startled upwards as Jacob joined him on the branch. Like usual, Jacob wasn’t in uniform; he always changed into more normal clothes before picking up Rook, although Rook had no idea why he bothered. This time, he had a black t-shirt on below a leather vest that didn’t really look any more ‘civvie’ than his uniform did. Rook suspected, actually, that Jacob had no idea how to look normal — but that suited him just fine, because he was never going to, so he might as well keep equally strange company.

    “If this branch breaks,” Rook threatened, “I’m blaming you.”

    “I know you don’t weigh owt, but trust, la, it can handle me. You’re not the only one who comes here.”

    Rook sat up properly, gazing at Jacob for a moment. “Did you skip school too?”

    Jacob laughed at that, too, although there was a hint of something wistful in it too. “Ah, I didn’t really have school. And skippin’ the academy would have just f- screwed my chances, so I was a decent enough student once I got there. Nah, I come here sometimes to clear my head. Not so much now that I live over by Parkland — What?”

    Rook stifled his smile. “You can swear in front of me, Jacob.”

    “Now, you say that, and then you learn new words and get me in hot water with Syl.” At the mention of Scheffen, though, Rook’s smile soured. Jacob noticed, too. “You two still not getting along?”

    Rook shrugged. “It’s usually fine. Just…” He didn’t want to bother explaining it, in part because he wasn’t sure if he could. Scheffen just transparently didn’t know what to do with him. The jokes Phania and Wolfie made just underlined how bizarre their relationship was; the Vandemeers kept assuming a motherly or at least parental relationship, and he found himself undecided on whether he wanted that instead, or if he just wanted… someone else. “Please don’t tell her I skipped again.”

    “I’ll do my best.” Which, from Jacob, usually meant yes.

    He couldn’t help the small smile of gratitude, and looked away, suddenly embarrassed. When he looked back, though, Jacob was leaning against the trunk, watching him with a curious expression. “What are you looking at?” Rook grumbled.

    “Why do you keep skipping, anyway?”

    “I dunno. I pick up the lessons fast enough with just the textbook anyway. And there’s all this stupid stuff I don’t know.”

    “Like what?”

    Oh, like Jacob didn’t know. Still, Rook decided to indulge him. “Apparently the ocean’s — well, cursed. I didn’t know it was that bad. I just said something about sharks and asked if they were real and got laughed at.”

    “Hell, that ain’t your fault. Besides, they were real. Most of them died out centuries ago.”

    That did make him feel better, although it didn’t take away the real stinger of that conversation; the idea that everything that came from the ocean was tainted, or poisonous. Including him. He couldn’t get away from it, either. The name Zeesohn hadn’t been intended to be cruel, but it followed him around anyway, a constant reminder that he was something that was alive when he wasn’t supposed to be. Then he caught on to what Jacob had said. “Wait, most of them?”

    Jacob grinned at that, clearly enjoying the thrill in Rook’s voice. “I grew up down in Alkmer. There are river sharks in some of the deeper parts of the Az’ around there. Not as big as the ones in stories, but still sharks.”

    “Bullshit.”

    “Now who’s swearing? And bis Grendelszahn, I will take you there and show you one just to give you the joy of vindication.”

    “Forget that, I just wanna see the sharks now!”

    “You know they eat people?”

    “Which makes them icons in my opinion. More sharks in government, fewer dumbasses with more money than sense.”

    “I really need to hold my tongue around you more,” Jacob muttered, although he was clearly too amused to mean it. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

    “Don’t worry, I’m smarter than that. I’ll only get you in trouble if I’m trying to.”

    “Again, for someone who’s technically two—”

    Rook kicked at Jacob’s leg with another scowl. “I’m thirteen. I just… have some more catching up to do.”

    Jacob reached forward and ruffled Rook’s hair, which he still couldn’t decide if he liked or not. “Oi, don’t let my jokes bug you. You’re doing great.”

    Rook bit his tongue, trying not to think about Pieter Janssen. “You think so?”

    “I’ve been training you with a bloody BB gun, la, and you’re a better marksman than any of the snots in your class. You with live ammo is going to be scary. Let alone what Tommy’s been teaching you with those knives.”

    “I like the knives better.”

    “I was worried you’d say that. There goes my bet with Tom.”

    “You bet on it?”

    “Old habits die hard. And sue me, I want another gun nut to talk shop with.”

    Rook couldn’t help his grin at that one. “Are you sure I’m a civvie? Cause you don’t train me like I’m one.”

    Jacob went a little quiet at that, and Rook tried to figure out what he’d said wrong. Nothing too terrible, he decided, because Jacob looked more thoughtful than upset, but there was definitely conflict going on. Faces were hard for him, but Jacob was someone he spent enough time with to start picking up on how his body language worked. If he spent enough time studying faces, bodies, people, he’d probably manage being a real person eventually.

    Jacob exhaled after a little bit. “You’re right, I don’t.”

    “Why? Just — curious.”

    Jacob chewed on the inside of his cheek, and Rook added, “You know I don’t care if you smoke around me—”

    “Dammit I hate that you know when I want one.”

    “You have a tell!”

    Jacob snorted, and he did pull out a cigarette, but he didn’t light it – just rolled it between his fingers. “You are different,” he sighed. “Shouldn’t matter, I know. But you’re special. You’ve been trying to hide how fast you’re learning thaumaturgy, too. Which I’m guessin’ is the other reason you’ve been skipping school so much.”

    Rook cast his eyes down, unwilling to admit to it out loud, but Jacob was right. It wasn’t just that he was bored in class. It was more troubling than that. Thaumaturgy wasn’t something that was supposed to come quite so easily to anybody; and when it did, it wasn’t supposed to be all of it. He didn’t find Mirrorwork any more difficult than Smokework or Songwork, and he read his textbook in the five minutes before class instead of at night when he was supposed to, because he just… read so quickly, and took in all the information fast enough that he didn’t need to do it any other way. He supposed if he’d been a Miller or a Pont or a Weiss or whatever it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe he’d even be praised for it; but he wasn’t one of them. He was the stranger, the foundling, the one who didn’t quite look human — which meant he had to try harder to fit in. Excelling wasn’t an option, but that was the problem; he didn’t even have enough memory to know when he was doing something impressive. So he just… avoided school entirely, when he could, and let the anger curl up in his stomach over how much he wanted to show off. He wanted to enjoy being the best. “You’re teaching me to defend myself because you think I’ll need it,” he said after a moment, trying not to sound so miserable about it.

    “Ey, ey, chin up. You’ve got me and Syl and Tom on your side. And, look, I know trying to get along with the other kids isn’t really working, but stick out the school for a little while longer.”

    “Until what?” Rook grumbled.

    “Until the end of the year. Which is soon. And if it’s still not working out, maybe we can figure something else out. But give it one more shot. For me.”

    Rook rolled his eyes at that. “For you,” he taunted, then stuck out his tongue. Mostly to hide that he was genuinely happy to be heard. He’d wanted to tell Scheffen for a while now, that he couldn’t bear the thought of going back, but the words kept getting trapped in his throat, going turncoat at him at the thought of her disappointment, her judgment.

    “Atta boy. Now come ahead. Tommy’s insisting on feeding you.”

    “What? Why?”

    “You’re too skinny. I happen to agree.”

    “Ughhhh fine. It’s rude to say no to food.”

    Jacob hopped down from the tree, and Rook readied himself to jump down — but first, he reached inside of the folds of his jacket, giving his familiar a stroke. He was in the shape of a squirrel this month, which meant he’d mostly burrowed into Rook’s inside pockets and stayed there quite happily — but he still nuzzled his head into Rook’s hand, tail poking up and out of the pocket. Then Rook jumped down from the tree, landing next to Jacob with hardly a stumble, and decided that if Jacob really wanted him to give school another try, he would. And maybe he’d just let himself be the best, for once. For a little while.

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    Phew, schedule slip, sorry! This chapter coincides with Ghosts in Quicksilver Book 3 starting to post, which means I’m now technically on a WEEKLY schedule (biweekly, two serials — I did this to myself.)

    This is a nice quiet chapter, and one where Jacob’s regionalisms are a lot more obvious than they usually are. I think I’ve mentioned it in comments before, but Jacob’s accent is based on primarily Scouse accents, mixed in with some New Orleans! Most of his terminology is pretty easy to guess from context (…for now, anyway) but full Alkmeri slang gets pretty wild.

    Song: River Flows in You – HAUSER

    Bell, Clock and Candle is free to read online and I don’t plan on changing that; however, if you like it and want to support its author, please consider supporting me with a Patreon pledge or a Ko-fi donation! For bonus goodies, Patreon readers get every chapter a week early, and pledging to the Elementals tier ($5+) gets you access to deleted scenes and conlang progress posts.

  • Ghosts in Quicksilver – 3.1 – Fractured Shadows

    August 8th, 2022
    TWs: transphobia (mild, unspoken, complicated), obsession/stalkerishness (INTENSE), paranoid delusions/psychosis, imprisonment

    A long time ago, in a land that had not yet lost its magic or its gods, there was a witch who lived in the woods; this might be a story you know, I never really know with you, but her house wasn’t made of candy, because that’s a horrible idea, and just asking for ants. I did have an ant problem, but that’s unavoidable in woodlands, and – and that’s not the point.

    You’re getting sidetracked.

    Right. Forest, house, not candy. Whether or not she was a witch is also, strictly speaking, up to interpretation. There are two kinds of women in fairytales, really; maidens and crones. Mothers are supposed to be in there, too, but they become irrelevant, part of the background. And I’m no maiden. So crone it is. The maidens – well, they came later, after the witch had built her palace far away from every other living soul, a work of art for her eyes alone. There were two of them; an elder and a younger sister, lost and searching in the woods, abandoned by their parents.

    Er, but more about them later.

    Coward.

    No, not cowardice, just – you know, maybe you should do this part. No, that’s a bad idea. Shit, it’s bad enough that I ended up talking to myself. Although I think anybody would.

    [ᚉᚐᚖᚃᚓ]

    Less long ago, after the world forgets most of its gods, leaves them forgotten but not faded in textbooks and shrines and literary memory and the love-languages of songs and symbols – that, that is when we meet you. We do not know your face, not right away. We know you, instead, by the signs. The steadiness of your gaze. The caution in your stance. The way your fear and your curiosity do not so much do war with each other but egg each other on; it is because you fear me that you wish to know more. From the first moment you lay your eyes on us, you know that we are a puzzle, and you know that you want to solve it.

    We have no answers for you, save the one you do not want to – should not – hear. We will end up telling you anyway. We will be careless, reckless, hope that honesty will inspire kindness (perhaps pity) from you. We never should have done it. And in our carelessness, you heard your old name and now – now – now – yes, it’s true, we will have to confess to the blood on our hands and the chains on our wrists. Perhaps this was inevitable. Perhaps fate has spoken. Perhaps this is part of our punishment.

    But fate also shows me recognition in your eyes. And fate winds me ever closer to you – fate, or obsession, or love.

    I asked you – ask you – asked you – “what do you see” and you tell me about broken glass and kaleidoscopes. I take you at your word, and I suppose you could be lying, but I also suppose there’s no reason for you to. We could lie to each other. But I know, and I think you know, that instead we are more truthful to each other than we are with any other – mortal or immortal, human or sidhe, man or woman.

    [ᚉᚐᚆᚔᚏ]

    She is still screaming.

    It never stops. It never stops. She can taste blood in her mouth – a hunter’s kill, a blood moon, a price for vengeance. And yet.

    And yet.

    She can smell the changeling on the wind. Old scent. Gone into the Medium where she cannot (dare not) follow. But in time – in time the changeling will re-emerge. A proving ground. A chance.

    Call her human.

    I dare you.

    [ᚉᚐᚖᚃᚓ]

    I can see you through the trees. I don’t know if you’ll believe me, if I tell you that I didn’t mean to bring you here. That this was the last thing I wanted. Because now that you’re here, there’s no hiding it from you, is there?

    But you’re not the only one here.

    I can hear her. Calling your name. Calling for help. Innocent in her stupidity.

    I try not to care. I try. I do. But-

    [ᚃᚕᚙᚏᚐ]

    THEY WILL NEVER SEE YOU.

    [ᚉᚐᚖᚃᚓ]

    My love. My soulmate. Yes. This is the proof. I could have killed you. I could have. I would have-

    I couldn’t.

    My soul itself will not allow it. Do you see it? That I will tear myself apart to prove myself to you? That I would kill a hundred, a thousand men to prove that this is truth? The signs are all there. Read the stars or the entrails, the fortunes written in cards or bones or entrails – they will all say the same thing.

    Only allow me to show you. The patterns alone will redeem me. What are a few lives to the cruelty of decades and centuries alone-?

    [ᚂᚑᚙᚂᚐᚅ]

    No, I think – I think I should care.

    I mean, I don’t. They weren’t very helpful. Or very nice.

    [ᚃᚕᚙᚏᚐ]

    SHE WILL NEVER SEE YOU.

    [ᚉᚐᚖᚃᚓ]

    Time reveals all secrets.

    So tell me, Jamal – am I the witch in the woods, or the princess in the tower? Which story would you like to hear? Which would you like to tell? Truth is malleable; truth is everywhere. And I, for one, would love to know how it ends.

    [&&&]

              So, here’s the thing about me and fairy tales. Foster parents? Not super great about reading them to children they’re mostly taking on as a charity project. Sure, not all of them were that bad. Some tried. But a lot of the kind ones were the later ones, and by then, I was already hard enough to work with that I don’t blame ‘em for not reading me cutesy bedtime stories. I never thought it was a problem before. If I really needed to know, I could just ask Jo if she’d read anything about whatever was coming up. That’d helped me so far with all of this faerie shit.

              But now I was really starting to wish I’d had a slightly more normal childhood. I mean, what else is new? Pros: I knew how to pick locks and that adults were long on promises and short on follow-through. Cons: I had no fucking idea where I was. Neverland? Narnia? Heaven? No, the little I did know about Christianity meant I definitely wasn’t getting anywhere near there.

              “You’re in the Medium,” Jo offered with a sigh after watching me look around for a moment. “Er, I think.”

              “Doesn’t look anything like it did last time.”

              “That’s where I’m a bit lost, too. I think this is one of the sub-worlds.”

              “Sub-worlds. I’m starting to think you guys are just making this shit up as you go along.”

              “You,” Jo retorted, voice more acid than I’d expected, “are the one who threw herself in front of a sword. You have no ground to talk about ‘making shit up as she goes along’. What were you thinking?”

              I tried not to be irritated. I did. It wasn’t like I’d done it because I was aching to know what a sword in the stomach felt like. In fact…

              Before answering Jo, I prodded at my stomach. I hadn’t actually gotten stabbed – maybe. Then I turned around. “I pushed someone out of the way. That’s diff—”

              Oh.

              Somewhere in my brain, I hadn’t quite put together what it meant that I was in the Medium and that Jo was with me. To be fair, I’d been dealing with a lot all of five minutes ago, or however much time had actually passed. But it was more than that. I’d forgotten just how much Jo had faded. It had happened so slowly. Piece by piece. Eyes that didn’t quite sparkle the same way. A dress that had looked fine on a twelve-year-old, a bit dated on thirteen, immature on fourteen –

              And something else was different, too.

              Jo stood up, feet bracing on – actually touching – the grass, not hovering a few inches above or slipping right through. Her long hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, instead of around her head in a halo of flyaway curls. Her skin was brown, actually brown, instead of a memory of it lost in shades of grey. No dress. A button-up shirt and a black vest, which kind of reminded me of what both Avery and Isaiah wore, a cross between both of them. It wasn’t the flat chest that tipped me off; she’d been twelve when she died, for chrissakes, and besides, it wasn’t like I was flaunting a hell of a lot in the tits department anyway.

              It was how much happier he looked. Happy, and nervous, and chewing on his lip as he waited for me to say something.

              I bit back my first response. My second, too. This is what you’ve been avoiding fucking telling me? And the obvious, instinctual reaction that I couldn’t see the point given that Jo was a ghost – especially since by that logic, you could talk yourself out of anything, really.

              “So, uh,” I managed to say, before I looked like even more of an idiot. “Is this a butch lesbian thing or–?”

              “Definitely not a lesbian. That’s your thing.” Jo dug the tip of his boot into the ground. “I didn’t even know ghosts could, uh, change how we looked. Isaiah told me.”

              “Isaiah helped you with a lot, huh?” I tried to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

              “Yeah. Yeah, I – turns out I’m a guy. Would have liked to have put that together a little sooner, but…” Jo shrugged. I could see him kind of sinking, though. There was some reaction, some response I wasn’t giving. “It’s kind of awkward timing. I kept meaning to tell you, but.”

              “I kept throwing myself into trouble?”

              “Pretty much!”

              I’d had trans friends before. I had trans friends. Jesus, the girl I was pretty sure I was falling for was trans. Why was I so…

              …angry?

              It wasn’t at Jo. I knew at least that much was true.

              “I wish you’d told me anyway,” I said, then managed to smile. “You look good, though.”

              “You think so?” There it was. He lit up, just a bit, and I realized with a suppressed snort that there were probably a few reasons Jo had been spending so much time with Isaiah.

              And right on cue.

              “I hate to break up this tender little moment,” came the snarl from the treeline, “but you aren’t supposed to be here.”

              I bit down on the inside of my cheek so I didn’t say something I’d regret, and before I even turned to look at her, Kiera had hopped down from whatever branch she’d been skulking on, doing her usual skeletal Loom over the two of us. It wasn’t as successful as usual over Jo, because Jo was easily the same height as Kiera now. That and –

              “I suppose you’re the ghost,” Kiera said with a wrinkle of her nose.

              “Jo. Nice to meet you,” Jo replied with a smile so sharp it could have cut through steel.

              “You look different than I expected.”

              “I think you expected a girl.”

              “I expected someone shorter. Whatever you dress up as is besides the point.”

              I felt the back of my neck prickle with heat, fist curling by my side – but Jo grabbed my shoulders before I could do anything stupid. “Funnily enough, I don’t think that’s what she meant,” he said with a small laugh.

              I was barely listening. I felt so stupid, but I’d forgotten how much I missed Jo. I put one of my hands up over to he—his. It’d take me a bit, but he felt the same.

              “Very cute. Now if the two of you could get about leaving.”

              I squinted at Kiera. She looked… well, surprisingly on edge. “You’re here.”

              “Usually your observations aren’t quite so obvious. Yes, amazing. Right in front of—”

              “What happened?”

              Kiera closed her mouth, seething for some reason I couldn’t understand. “You’re in the Medium. You destabilized. I assume the changeling showed you how to get back out.”

              “And you’re here because?”

              “I can navigate the Medium as I—” She sighed, something rankling at her. “I can—” Again, she cut her sentence off. “I just am. Faeries can navigate the Medium as they choose.”

              Right. She was a faerie, which meant the Medium was easy enough to navigate. What was that? I thought anyway. And immediately following it up – She didn’t follow me in last time. She couldn’t find Jaylie. Why’s she here now?

              I didn’t have any particular reason to stick around, though. Especially given that she’d just come way too close to skewering me. So I shook out my hands and tried to do what Jaylie had mentioned, about visualizing an exit.

              Nothing happened.

              I closed my eyes, and tried to think of the Civic Hospital doors. Opening and closing, with the little girl trapped between them –

              Nothing. Just the blackness behind my eyes, stretching out like it did in the world-as-I-knew-it.

              My heart began to pound against my ribs. I opened my eyes again. Kiera didn’t look smug, exactly. There was a glitter in her eyes I didn’t like – but still the same edginess as well.

              “Why can’t I leave?”

              Kiera didn’t say a word.

              I turned to speak to Jo – and he was gone. “Jo. Jo—”

              “He thought you’d be right behind him, I imagine,” Kiera said in an almost bored voice, leaning back against a tree and inspecting her fingernails. “For what it’s worth, he can get back in no problem. It just might take longer than usual.”

              “Longer? You—” The angry headrush came back, and this time I didn’t have anybody to stop me. I threw myself at Kiera, my fists curling in the lapels of her coat as I shoved her back against the tree. She didn’t even try to stop me, her face a nearly-blank mask of… god, something. Sadness, almost? But the dull sadness I was so used to on myself. Resignation, really. The face you get when you’re tired right down to the center of everything you are. “What did you do?”

              “I didn’t do anything,” she said after a moment. “You did. You put yourself in the way.”

              “Oh, so it’s my fault now?”

              “Yes.”

              “Jesus christ, Kiera—”

              “You destabilized, and so did I. And it dragged both of us back to the Medium. And when I’m in the Medium, I end up here.”

              “And where is here, exactly? If it’s not the Medium?”

              She laughed at that, finally breaking the dull shell she’d had on. “Oh, it’s the Medium alright. A special little spot of it made just for me. I really should have guessed where the bitch was hiding, you know. The changeling? Whether she knows it or not, this is the same thing.”

              “The same thing. So you should be able to leave.”

              “Oh, no.” Kiera yanked my hands away from her lapel. She was, I realized, in the state that I only sometimes saw her; gaunt and white-faced, eyes glinting with internal, unnatural light, teeth edged with shark-points, her proportions ever so slightly off. I wondered if that meant this was her true form, and the other was a mask. “One small difference, Jamal, sweetheart. I didn’t make it. And I don’t own it.”

              Made just for me.

              It slowly started to dawn on me that it might not just have been a coincidence that Kiera hadn’t been around any other faeries.

              “Where are we, Kiera?” I asked, starting – finally – to get scared.

              “Prison, dear. This is prison. Prison with a lovely blue sky and birches and spruce needles, and even a few very pretty frolicking geese, but prison regardless, with only one prisoner.” Kiera’s cheerless smile dropped. “You should have let me run the bitch through.”

    Previous (End of Book Two)
    Next

  • Chapter 22: A Note of Concern

    July 15th, 2022
    CWs: hyperdevotion/cultlike thought patterns, kidnapping, threatened murder

    ABRAMS: How does it feel, being an adult?

    COBEN GARROW: Oh, um, I’m not sure. I haven’t been one for very long yet.

    ABRAMS: [laughs] That’s fair! I’m sure the tabloids have been on you about betrothals and engagements already.

    GARROW: Yes, although I’m afraid to say that’s still a ways in the future.

    ABRAMS: But you’re not spoken for.

    GARROW: You’re a political commentator. Why are you asking me about girlfriends?

    ABRAMS: The truth is, everybody’s very curious about the next three years. You’re eighteen now, but it’s another three years before you can officially take your seat in Parliament. What does the future hold for you?

    GARROW: I’m… not sure, actually. I’m not very good at politics, so I guess I have to work on that. Honestly I’m not even sure I’ll do much more than be there and do my best to keep up.

    ABRAMS: You’d rather not?

    GARROW: Of course I wouldn’t. But every other family gets a choice, right? I don’t know why it surprises anybody that I’m not particularly eager to jump into politics. I’m only the choice because everybody else is dead. I’m needed, so I’ll do it, and I’ll do the best that I can, because my family deserves better than what they got. But if you’re looking for a hotshot you’ll have to ask… I don’t know, are the Vandemeer children looking at politics? [beat] Actually, maybe I should ask for their help.

    ABRAMS: [obviously disappointed] So you don’t have any causes you want to support.

    GARROW: Oh, I do.

    ABRAMS: Ah! Like what?

    GARROW: Well, for starters, I think all female soldiers should wear tiny miniskirts —
    ABRAMS: This interview is over.

    Toltberg Citizen interview with Mick Abrams and Coben Heathsohn Garrow, 1918

    It is a bizarre and somewhat troubling fact of history that some of the most well-planned and manipulative schemes are the ones that peter out with hardly a mark on the record of memory, and others — the ones that are seen by others as nefarious conspiracies with no bottom — are simply the results of all-too-human error. In other words, sometimes idiocy makes more impact than malice ever could.

    The girl who had been calling herself Mary-Ann Daniels was considering this in a mood bordering on hysterics. It had all seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time. “Come on,” she whispered desperately to the sky, “get back to me.” Five days now, and no word. They were cutting it really close.

    She’d ditched both of her uniforms at this point. She knew it wouldn’t be long before Lambert caught on; she’d managed to get out of the conversation with her cover nearly intact, but he wasn’t stupid. Plus, they would find her eventually, if she didn’t do something. So, here she was, hiding in an alleyway, waiting for Kestrel and hoping she’d come up with something good along the way. Exactly how anybody wanted to pull off heavily-politicized kidnappings, really.

    A few moments later, a figure approached the alleyway, looking casual as he strolled down among the garbage cans. She exhaled in relief, especially once he lifted his head, face visible under the rim of his cap. Kestrel didn’t look happy with her, but that was fine. Kestrel was only involved with this because she’d begged for help.

    “I—”

    Kestrel shushed her. Then he lifted his hands. <You’re an idiot.>

    <Tell me something I don’t know.>

    <The guy at the Centrum just put out a call for a teenage clan girl.>

    Oh, great. She thought she’d have a little more time. She tried to still the panicked rush of her heart, but Kestrel grabbed her wrist, yanking her after him and still signing with one hand. <Just let him go, for fuck’s sake. Maybe you’ll get some mercy.>

    <I can’t do that now. Not after all of this—>

    <You know Abner’s not sending any help.>

    <You can’t be sure of that.>

    Kestrel rolled his eyes, but Mari ignored him. Kestrel wasn’t Advolk; his opinion of Abner was low at best, which was pretty rich considering that the Advolks were fighting for him just as much as everyone else from the clans. But he seemed to let it lie; he scanned the rooftops, then handed Mari the radio he’d been holding. <You’re lucky I’m not completely deaf.>

    <I appreciate it.>

    <You’d better. Csindra is going to kill me.>

    <Csindra isn’t going to find out.>

    <Trust me, if you wind up dead, she’s gonna know why, and it’s gonna be my head on the block.>

    Mari scoffed at that, only barely trying to hide her derision. Yeah, right. That would imply that Csindra actually cared enough. Csindra would probably spend the entire funeral complaining about how it was Mari’s own fault for actually wanting to accomplish something. Maybe that was mean, but it was hard to care about the judgment of someone who had all the ambition and drive of a teaspoon.

    Mari’s apartment building was a beaten-up, grimy old thing, a building constantly at threat of falling apart in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Den Elessa. The tram didn’t even go through here — it stopped a good fifteen minutes away, which was fine by her, because it meant nobody really thought to check here. It helped that she had a contact in NatSec, although his usefulness was limited; he’d nudged his team closer to the tram and away from here. She had a plan; it just wasn’t quite working out the way she wanted it to. Mostly because she kept having to change it.

    At the very least, she hadn’t been stupid enough to keep him in her apartment. With another glance around to make sure they weren’t being followed, she and Kestrel went around to one of the side doors, and she unlocked it, descending down into the darkness until the dim light of the basement greeted her.

    Coben gave her an irritated, and very exhausted look from behind the bolt of cloth stuffed into his mouth, the bare lightbulb above him covered in cobwebs.

    Mari glanced at Kestrel, who shrugged. <If you want to take the gag out, be my guest, but if he starts yelling I can’t help you.>

    <He’s been good so far.>

    <Let’s see if that lasts up to him figuring out you’re planning on killing him.>

    Mari glared at Kestrel, who was looking just as displeased as ever. <I don’t — I’m sure there’s another way.>

    <Whatever you say. You’re claiming you can’t let him go, and you’re the one who joined up with the terrorists.>

    <Bootlicker.>

    <Kidnapper.>

    Maybe Kestrel had been a bad choice. Then again, she’d been short on options, and at least Kestrel was slightly less likely to panic. Bryd would have freaked out and let Coben go on the first day. And doing this on her own… Well, she probably could have managed something, but not well. She knew she probably did have to kill him, but…

    Mari sighed and approached Coben where he was tied to the chair, taking the cloth out of his mouth. He blew out his cheeks, rotating his jaw, then glanced up at her, bright blue eyes throwing her off-balance as usual. “I’m starting to take this personally,” he said after a moment, voice raspy.

    Don’t laugh, she lectured herself, as she felt her mouth twitch. “Are you thirsty?” she asked instead.

    “A little. Mostly I’m hoping I could, ah, prevail upon you to think this through a little more.”

    Oh, lovely. Now Coben was starting in on her. “Please don’t,” she mumbled, reaching down to the water flask she’d been carrying. There was a sink down here, but she hadn’t boiled any more of it, and the water filtration in this part of the city was awful. She lifted it to his lips and watched him drink, and despite herself, brushed a few stray hairs out of his face. “There. And I’ll get you some food as well, once I can.”

    “That would be nice,” he said so nonchalantly she almost wanted to laugh again, but then his face turned a little more serious. “So who are you working for?”

    “Coben—”

    “Five days later, I’d like a little bit of a clue. You’re rather good at keeping mum, I’ll give you that. And a whole year without giving it away was… impressive.” He couldn’t quite hide the hurt in his voice, and she managed to steel herself against the way it lanced through her ribcage, the reminder that she’d betrayed him.

    “I’m not going to tell you that.”

    “So at least I know you’re working for someone. Lovely. And here I was still holding out for the insane lover theory,” he joked, or half-joked. It was hard to tell with him sometimes.

    Kestrel rolled his eyes again. Mari silently prayed for Khamlita to intervene and give Kestrel something else to worry about. Frostbite, maybe. The flu. Leprosy, if he kept being this much of an unhelpful prick. “Coben, I… it’s not that simple.”

    Coben still didn’t look convinced — but then, he shrugged, as much as the ropes tying him to the wooden chair would allow him to. “It never is, is it?” And he gave her a soft smile, which was the worst thing he could have done, because now she really did want to cry.

    <Kestrel, can you watch him for a minute?>

    <Sure.> No snark this time.

    Mari walked carefully up the stairs — and once she’d gotten outside, she collapsed against the door, hands over her face. God. What was she going to do?

    She took a deep breath. It was easier to think straight now that she wasn’t looking Coben in the eye. Being in love was fine. Being in love didn’t change anything. There were more important things. It was easier to remember that when she wasn’t looking at him and thinking about having to kill him.

    Breathe, she told herself again. Máfáchá Shézhíwe. Loyalty. Not the one she wanted to think about. Máfáchá Chyeféngázhíwe. Respect. Máfáchá Náfâye. Honor. …Too many questions. What was honor and dishonor in Den Elessa, far from any place that cared for it? Fucking invaders didn’t give one whit for honor. Máfáchá Lékhufâye. Ethics. The mouse.

    Mari exhaled. She hadn’t been raised with the Máfáchángâ, but they were more help than the Navónez. Related, sure. But she didn’t have much patience for gods — which, she reflected sourly, was probably the one thing she did have in common with Elessans. Oh, sure, she respected the Shuyengê gods, and she still respected the Navonez. She wasn’t stupid. Whether in the end it was Ozhî or Kesh’lashe she faced, she would do it with a bowed head and a prayer on her lips. But the Máfáchángâ — the precepts — there was nothing like that in Kanet’ culture. Kantanavat’ didn’t deal in heresies or shame, which she was only glad for until it came to the flip side; that there was no duty to each other encoded in stone. Stone was easier to follow. Stone didn’t lie. Stone didn’t flare in rage or make stupid mistakes. Stone was stone.

    Stone is stone. That helped. And what else was there? There wasn’t any version of the future where she and Coben had one. Even if she’d been telling the truth about who she was, at best all she would have ever been able to hope for was a position as a concubine or mistress, watching some Elessan manor girl on his arm as he joined the ranks of every other noble. Nothing would change. He was a good one, but his father was supposed to be a good one, too, and where had that gotten them?

    Nearly involuntarily, she found herself running through the rest of the precepts. Abner himself had — not taught them to her, but made them laws instead of vague ideas. Máfáchá Kuzhíwe. Generosity. Máfáchá Angzhéyiwe. Bravery. She liked that one. “Only the Lady knows the day of your death,” she whispered. Even in Elessan, it had weight to it. Máfáchá Ongázhíwe. Nobility. Máfáchá Hérézhíwe. Humility. “You are a single piece of the world.” Well, she’d never be one of the Shuyeda’s Pledged, not really, but she could at least try to be one. It was probably her only way out of here alive.

    Only the Lady knows the day of your death.

    She glanced at the sky again. Plenty of pigeons, plenty of ravens, and none of them with messages. Nothing by Smokework either, and she’d kept her marker. Nothing at all.

    ——

    Coben knew that the appropriate thing to do would have been to cleverly plan or plot his way out of trouble, but to tell the truth, he was too busy being depressed. He’d been trained on how to deal with kidnappings, sure. He’d been working on the ropes for a while, not that either Mari or the other one had noticed, but it was a little hard to keep up the energy for it when his girlfriend had been the one to kidnap him.

    He leant his head back on the chair, chewing on his cheek in rueful annoyance as he gazed at the spiderweb cracks on the stone ceiling. Dasta had warned him, a very long time ago, about trusting people too easily; but one would hope that after a year-odd of flirtation and – he’d thought – genuine friendship, one had passed that stage. Being tongue-in-cheek about it was helping it not hit too badly, but that had been part of his training, too. Not explicitly, but this was what worked for him.

    Well, at least she wasn’t torturing him. Unless this part was the torture.

    He lifted his head, looking at the other figure who’d been helping keep him captive. He hadn’t quite managed to puzzle out whether the man in front of him was deaf or not; he used sign language, and sometimes he seemed to react to sound, while other times he missed things that seemed obvious. At least Mari had decided against the gag.

    “Can you hear me?” Coben decided on the direct approach. It made him his share of enemies, but it cut through a lot of ridiculous tiptoeing.

    The man glanced at him, then sighed, making a gesture with his hands – one finger around the other. Oh, that one was clear. Repeat.

    “Can you hear me?” Coben said again, then — “Well, I guess you sort of answered that.”

    “Sometimes,” the man said, and Coben started a little at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t known the man could speak. The voice that came out was a little hoarse, blunted at the edges and muffled, but perfectly understandable. He didn’t seem to enjoy doing it though; he returned to his hands, although Coben couldn’t understand a word, so he imagined the man was mostly doing it for his own benefit.

    “Could you explain what’s happening?” Coben asked — slowly, in case that helped.

    The man paused, scratching his chin, then sighed again. He shook his head. Then he pressed his palm to his forehead with a look of such pain that it communicated a lot more than words possibly could.

    That was interesting. Coben had always imagined that if something did happen to him, it’d be part of some political plot. Maybe it still was, but the man in front of him was — well, not very old, actually. Maybe his age, if not younger. The hooded coat made him look older. “Ah – if it helps —” Coben said hesitantly, “I don’t particularly like getting people executed.”

    The man gave him a long-suffering look. “Good for you.”

    Oh, lovely, so he spoke when he wanted to be sassy. “Just because I’m upset doesn’t mean I want her dead,” he bristled slightly, although once he’d said it he remembered that men didn’t, largely speaking, have a particularly excellent record on that front. He’d never understood the point of that, but then again, he didn’t understand most things. He was deeply glad that his mother had managed to spin him as aloof and a loner, rather than likely to trip over his own feet or offend someone because he didn’t see the point in some particular ritual of manners that someone had declared Essential. Some Judge’s son he made.

    Assuming he didn’t die, though, how was he going to explain this one? If he did get free, he’d have to come up with something. Maybe he’d claim he hit his head and lost his memory for a week. Or an attempted elopement — oh, no, that would probably still end up with someone dead or in jail. He loved his father, but he didn’t entirely trust him to remember that Coben was an adult, not twelve.

    Then again, which one of them had followed someone home with the best of intentions, and instead of pretending not to see the stash of knives, ropes and other very scary implements he’d walked in on, had asked, out loud, “Blimey, are you trying to kidnap someone?”

    Don’t laugh, he sternly told himself. It’s not funny when you’re the one being kidnapped. Abducted. Whatever. Well, it is a bit. It will be if you don’t die.

    “Does talking hurt you?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

    The man looked annoyed at that question, too, albeit less so. Then after a moment, he wiggled his hand in a sort of gesture.

    “Okay. Okay, that’s — well, not cool. Maybe it’d be better if I couldn’t talk,” Coben added in a low mumble.

    There was the ghost of a smile on the other man’s mouth at that, and Coben had the distinct feeling that he was being laughed at, but despite the situation, there didn’t seem to be a lot of malice in it. Besides, talking was stopping Coben’s brain from going anywhere really bad. Surface level silliness was a lot better than anything that would actually make him panic.

    Before he kept rambling, though, the man stopped him with a gesture. Mari was coming back down. She probably thought that Coben didn’t notice all the small things that gave her away; the hint of redness around her eyes that said she’d been crying, or the fact that the blue ribbon he’d given her was knotted around her wrist, only slightly hidden by the dark-brown jumper she was wearing.

    She signed something to the hooded man, and Coben watched his reaction carefully. He was taken aback — then almost angry when he responded, gestures sharp and stiff. But Mari stood her ground. You could get a lot from a language you didn’t understand, if you paid attention. Then the hooded man disappeared up the stairs, leaving the two of them alone.

    Mari reached for the gag, but Coben interrupted her. “So what happened?”

    “What do you mean?” She kept her voice level.

    “Come on. You’ve got me tied to a chair, and I don’t…” He cocked his head, trying to get a better view of her face. “I don’t get the sense you planned this out particularly well, although I have to say, I don’t have the best view from over here.”

    A small smile. At least it was still her. “Aren’t you scared? Even a little bit?”

    “Obviously. Just not of you.”

    “And why on earth not?” she burst out, wheeling on him with a spark in her eyes that he hadn’t seen since he’d been trapped in this basement. Before he even had time to react, there was a knife in her hand, with the same deftness she’d surprised him with before, and she pointed it at him. “I’m worth being a little scared of, don’t you think?”

    “I mean, sure. I just don’t think you’re going to hurt me.”

    “I’ve had you as my prisoner for five days.”

    “Everybody’s got their flaws—”

    “Oh, you think you’re so fucking funny.”

    Coben couldn’t help the grin. “Hearing you swear is bizarre, I’ve got to say.”

    “That’s what you find bizarre?” She buried her hands in her hair, knife still in her hand. “Does nothing get to you? Maybe I’ll send you back to your father in pieces, how about that?”

    He did flinch, when she touched the flat of the blade to his cheek — but it meant they were making eye contact. Never mind that his heart was vibrating in his chest, feeling like it was going to give out on him at any moment. He was doing a marvelous job of playing it off, but truth be told, he wasn’t entirely convinced that Mari wasn’t going to stab him through the chest; it was just… well… One could hope.

    “You kept the ribbon,” he said quietly.

    And there it was. The flush across her smoky-brown skin, the freckles that normally were too hard to see popping out against the slight red hue. And he wasn’t tied that tightly. He leaned forward and kissed her — not hard, but enough to feel her heartbeat echoing through her lips.

    She broke the kiss after a few seconds. “You really can’t handle the word ‘no’, can you?”

    “I would if you had once sounded like you weren’t twisting your arm into saying it,” he replied cheerfully.

    “You’re the one who followed me home.”

    “When you put it that way, I sound awfully creepy.”

    “It was,” Mari complained. “Although you’re so dense you probably didn’t think past your next five steps.”

    “I’d be insulted, but that’s about true,” he admitted. “I figured you were hiding something. I just thought it was, you know, something guileless and charming.”

    “Proving you don’t know me at all.”

    “Oh alright, maybe the secret spy skills aren’t that shocking. I just didn’t think you were out to get me.”

    Mari was still very close to him. It was one of the joys of being taller than her; even tied up like this, their faces weren’t that far apart while she was standing. “How have you survived this long?” she asked, nearly wondrous.

    “…You’ve asked me that before.”

    “Yes, and I’m still shocked.”

    “That question carries a little more weight when you’re the one with the knife, you know.” Although, to his great pleasure, she had lowered it and seemed to have mostly forgotten it was there. “Er, Dasta helped, when he was around. After that I think my father just stopped letting me have pointy things and hoped natural selection didn’t notice me.”

    Mari bit her lip, clearly suppressing another laugh. That did help, actually. He’d been worried that everything had been a put-on, a disguise; but if he could still make her laugh then that clearly wasn’t completely true. It didn’t mean he was in the clear — but it gave him some options.

    He just wished he knew what Mari and her friend had been saying to each other — and why the other man had looked so unhappy about it.

    ——

    PALACE VAN DE SAULEN, 1920

    If he’d been asked — that is, by anybody other than nosy reporters and other people he had no interest in giving any information to — Coben Garrow would probably have admitted that he didn’t particularly enjoy being the oldest son. He suspected, actually, that most older siblings didn’t take a lot of pleasure in the position. Sure, there was that saying about the grass being greener on the other side. Deirdre hated being the only girl, and Rue — oh, well, he wasn’t sure what Rue thought. Rue probably got annoyed about being too young for everything, but admittedly Coben’s conversations with Rue tended towards adventure novels and games of hopscotch. An eleven-year age difference didn’t leave much room for common interests.

    He also suspected that most older siblings didn’t have to go to such extremes to avoid their jobs.

    Also, this closet was cramped.

    “Note to self,” he muttered to himself. “Next time, acquire an escape plan with a route to the library. And possibly, snacks.” How nightmarish was this? He was turning twenty years old in approximately… He marked out an estimate in his head. Half an hour? And he had managed to trap himself into a storage closet after a single glass of wine because nobody would leave him alone.

    It wasn’t his fault. Mama had told him to make an appearance, and he had. He just hadn’t realized that ‘make an appearance’ didn’t mean show up at the top of the stairs and promptly vanish. No, apparently he was expected to dance with people. And that would have been bearable, too, if the girls in question hadn’t then started fluttering their eyelashes in very awkward ways that he… well, bloody hell, he was sure somewhere in the mental map he had of social niceties he had a reasonable response other than asking if there was something in their eyes, but he’d panicked, hadn’t he? And it was come off like a blockhead or make some patchwork, terrible effort to flirt back, which would have been fine if he’d had the remotest interest in getting married, and even if he’d been interested in that, he had to check every single family tree and political vote and allegiance for the last twenty or thirty years to be sure he wasn’t marrying either a second cousin (thankfully unlikely) or a sworn enemy (an unfortunately high risk). And…

    And he wanted to go to bed.

    The worst part, Coben thought morosely, was that he couldn’t exactly shove it off on somebody else. Deirdre was — well, a girl, which apparently mattered. Not that he understood why. Deirdre was out there having a grand old time doing the foxtrot with the boys from the Bard College and showing off her admittedly-very-pretty dress, and none of them had the faintest clue that she was scoping out the competition for when she finally got around to taking the test. And there was the small matter of any extended family he’d once had being bumped off long before he was born. He only knew his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins from portraits and old letters. It was a lot to think about, even without the pressure of his father trying not to loom while Definitely, Intensely Looming over his shoulder.

    Coben was startled out of his grumpy monologuing — he was self-aware to know when he was grumpily monologuing, at least — by… oh, drat. Someone was opening the door. He looked around, scrambled —

    The lantern in the doorway brightened a little, flame turning up. “I can see you in there, you know.”

    Coben glanced between the shelves he was hiding behind. It was one of the domestic servants — probably one of the laundry girls, since this was one of the linen closets off the main dining hall — but that didn’t mean he was safe. Technically, Miss Damask didn’t have any say over him anymore, but in practice, all of the maids still reported back to her when he was misbehaving, the wretched traitors. It probably didn’t help that Mama encouraged them. Well, maybe she couldn’t see his face. “Yes, just… uh…” He tried to look at what was on the shelf, squinting in the low light. “Counting… threads. Thread count.”

    The maid was quiet for a moment. “I see. How’s that going?”

    “Careful work. There’s hundreds of the things, you know. And then I have to sort them.”

    “Sort them.”

    “By thread count. After I’m done counting them.”

    The girl stepped into the closet, half-closing the door behind her. Coben could see her a little more clearly now, although still not entirely. She was one of the younger ones, and one he didn’t recognize, although that didn’t mean much. There were hundreds of staff at the Palace, and he had a hard enough time keeping his teachers straight without trying to remember every servant he caught a passing glimpse of. “Hm,” she said thoughtfully. “And here I thought they came with the thread counts already labelled.”

    Did they? Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure what a thread count was. “Oh, the, uh… labels got misplaced.”

    “That’s a shame. Well, try not to mix them up. For the high thread count ones, we have to kill twice as many sheep—”

    “What?” he burst out, sticking his head out from behind the shelves despite himself. “That’s barbaric!”

    A moment later, when she burst into helpless giggles, Coben felt his ears going red. Well, at least he could see her now, illuminated in the lamplight. She was covering her grin, but she was a bit younger than him, with flyaway black curls badly contained under her white bonnet and chestnut-brown skin that was only visible at her hands and face. She had an armful of sheets, and he realized with faint embarrassment that she wasn’t picking anything up — she was putting laundry away. In fact, he could see the cart just outside the cracked door.

    “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “That was mean. I can help you back to your room, if you want.”

    Oh, Coben thought with another flush. She was really new. The reason he didn’t recognize her wasn’t stupidity on his part — it was because she was new enough that she’d never actually met him. She thought — very reasonably, actually — that he was some new arrival or visiting dignitary’s child, hiding because everything was so new. Or, simply, lost.

    Because, obviously, who would be hiding from their own birthday party?

    “I knew you didn’t actually kill sheep for yarn,” he offered lamely. He did. Usually. He just had a bad habit of taking people at face value. “Or, well, I certainly assume you don’t. You don’t strike me as a sheep murderer.”

    “Oh? What makes you say that?”

    “Well, for starters, if you were a sheep murderer, I imagine you’d be out looking for sheep. I’m given to believe that there’s not a great amount of sheep wandering the halls of the Palace. At least, I’ve never seen any.”

    She was grinning again, shaking her head and stifling another chuckle. “I certainly doubt you’d find them in a linen closet, sir. Why would they be here?”

    “By your logic, mourning their fallen brethren. Perhaps stealing them back home for appropriate burials. I don’t know how sheep think.”

    That seemed to do it; she nearly collapsed giggling. He felt inordinately proud of himself. Usually he got annoyed looks when his mouth got ahead of him. “Do you spend a lot of time considering these things?”

    “More than I should. It’s a good deal more interesting than keeping track of who wants me dead.” A second later he realized what he’d said. Oops.

    The girl frowned, then got a little closer to him, lifting the lamp to his face — and more importantly, to the Garrow silver-and-blue waistcoat he had on, their crest design all over it, although he apparently did look an unfortunate amount like his father. Then she blinked, nearly quailing. “Oh, f— goodness.”

    “You were going to swear.”

    “I was not.”

    “I don’t care, I just thought it was funny.”

    “Master Coben?”

    “Don’t call me that,” he said weakly. “I thought you were new. No, please. You can call Rue that. Master Coben makes me sound like I’m either hideously old or hideously pretentious.”

    “What are you doing in a linen closet?”

    “I’ll tell you what I’m not doing. I’m not murdering any sheep.”

    She looked over her shoulder, then back at him. “Does your father know where you are?”

    “Oh, it’s not particularly important. He probably thinks I’m either off stargazing or in the library. Which is where I intended to be, but then one of those Schmidt harridans blocked my exit. Are they gone, by the way?”

    “Schmi—” Then she stared up at him with a look of consternation. “Are you hiding?”

    “Look, if you’d like to go dance the foxtrot with women who keep making loaded suggestions about their child-bearing hips, be my guest. Actually, do you? I could use a diversion. No, you’d never pass for me, never mind.”

    She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and Coben tried — and failed — not to be charmed. Not only was she new, he suspected she was actually rather new to the whole domestic servant business. Most of the servants were very no-nonsense or, too far the other way, capitulated to whatever he said or did. He’d gotten better about not abusing that over the years, especially with influence from the former group, but it was refreshing to run into someone who seemed to know how to act like, well… A person.

    And if she doesn’t get fired, he sighed, Miss Damask will train it out of her within the next month. Depressing.

    There was a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth that she was clearly valiantly trying to suppress. “Coben. Sir. I…” Then she paused, smile fading a little more as she looked confused.

    Coben tried not to smirk at her.

    “Uh…” she hesitated.

    “Let me guess,” he offered. “This wasn’t covered in orientation.”

    “What, having to gently urge the Judge’s son back to his own birthday celebration? Of course it wasn’t!” Then she grimaced a little, cocking her head. “…You really don’t want to be there?”

    Coben shrugged, feeling a little helpless. “I — well. It’s not really for me. It’s for everybody else and an excuse to get all the eligible bachelorettes into one room. Thankfully Father’s not jumping that hard to marry me off just yet. Probably because he doesn’t entirely trust me not to trip over my own feet yet.”

    “I can see why,” she mumbled — then covered her mouth in horror when she realized she’d just insulted him. “I — I mean —” Then she scowled at him. “Stop smiling at me.”

    “I can’t help it. You’re so bad at your job.”

    “I am not. My job is putting away laundry, not — not herding socially awkward young men back where they’re supposed to be!”

    “Exactly.” He took the sheets out of her hands. “Where do these go?”

    She looked ready to crack the lantern over his head. It was probably the best thing he’d seen all night. “…Right at the top,” she mumbled.

    “Oh, I see, so you were going to need the steps anyway.”

    “Not everybody gets to be six feet tall.”

    “I’m not six feet tall,” he shot back, carefully peering at the top of the shelf and trying to assess which pile they belonged on. “I’m five feet and ten inches. The shoes add an extra inch. Is this the right place?”

    “Is it to the left near the wall?”

    “Yyyy — yes.”

    “Then it’s in the right place. Why are you helping me with laundry?”

    “I’m hoping to trick you into telling me your name.”

    She rolled her eyes. “You could just ask.”

    “Okay. What’s your name?”

    “Mary-Ann —.” She grimaced slightly. “Well, Mariana. Gilbertadocht Daniels.”

    “Mariana,” he repeated, and felt — to his embarrassment — a bit of a blush coming to his face. Thank god for the low light. “Uh — nice to meet you.” He made a quick escape before she could ask why he’d changed his mind, slipping out of the closet door and putting his back against the wall a few doors down. He touched his face. Oh, lord. He actually was blushing. It wasn’t that he’d never blushed before. It was a perfectly normal experience. It was just that, well…

    Oh, hell. He’d never actually been attracted to anybody before.

    Option one, pretend it never happened. Reasonable enough. That would save him a lot of headaches, and it wasn’t like it’d never happen again. Although… Coben chewed on his lip, reminding himself that it still probably would, but what did it say when he’d never actually gotten a crush before? He was twenty years old once the clock started striking, and this was the first time. Ever. Sure, he’d made up a few when Wolfie had jostled him about it, and he’d thought maybe his friendship with ‘Phania was what other people were talking about, but it hadn’t felt any different than his other friendships. This was different.

    Option two, take it as a data point. Like that was any help. What was he supposed to do with a single data point? All he knew now was that he was perfectly capable of getting idiotic and red-faced around a woman, and that he just had the bad luck to be choosy about it. Besides, it was the exact opposite of helpful that he’d discovered that he wasn’t, in fact, made of stone… about one of the help, instead of the manor family ladies he was supposed to be so enthralled with. Certainly it didn’t solve any of his problems.

    Option three…

    …was not an option, even though just thinking about it had his heart leaping into his throat. He wanted… something. Perhaps not even a relationship or a courtship or whatever it was that he was supposed to want here. He just…

    Coben stared at his feet, feeling almost as miserable as he was elated to realize that he hadn’t had to double-check or smooth over anything he’d said. Normally he had to pick his statements over at least three or four times. It was what had gotten him the reputation for being quiet; it was that or, well, saying whatever stray thought popped into his head. But he hadn’t even thought to do it. Maybe it was just that little bit of wine he’d had. Maybe it was just one moment, a perfect intersection that wouldn’t happen again.

    Option three, act like an adult for the first time in your life and take a chance.

    It couldn’t hurt. Could it?

    Mariana was exiting the linen closet; she glanced up, realized he was standing just a little bit down the hall, and stared for a moment before shaking her head with a small sigh. Coben straightened his waistcoat, and joined her on her way back down the hallway — away from the ballroom.

    “Do you want something, sir?” she asked, but she was happy to see him; she couldn’t hide that, and Coben wasn’t sure she was trying to.

    “One, stop calling me sir. Two…”

    She raised an eyebrow at him.

    “Do you like chess?”

    Previous
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    Comments

    And thus the full truth comes out! Also, I’m intensely proud of the dialogue in the flashback part of this – I was cackling while writing it. Fully blame Mercedes Lackey and Tamora Pierce for that dynamic. Coben is, btw, absolutely autistic. I don’t have any interest in leaving that vague, the term just – again – literally doesn’t exist.

    I couldn’t resist the reference in the chapter quote either. It was just… right there. How could I possibly say no?

    Kestrel is me bein self-indulgent – which certainly isn’t a bad thing by any means! But one of the things I’ve been trying to let myself do more is write deaf characters. It’s probably struck people as strange before how I don’t have that many, considering I’m deaf, but it’s one of the places where the lack of representation has really had an effect. I have a WIP on the backburner with a deaf main character, but for now Kestrel is my first little foray into it. He’s partially deaf and can speak, but it really is not his preferred way of communicating. (I find it odd that when there are signing characters in fiction, they tend to be mute and not deaf.)

    Song: Bigger Than Us – White Lies

    Bell, Clock and Candle is free to read online and I don’t plan on changing that; however, if you like it and want to support its author, please consider supporting me with a Patreon pledge or a Ko-fi donation! For bonus goodies, Patreon readers get every chapter a week early, and pledging to the Elementals tier ($5+) gets you access to deleted scenes and conlang progress posts.

  • Chapter 21: Malachite Rising

    July 5th, 2022
    CWs: drug use (opiates), violence, body/eye horror, psychosis, manhandling of a disabled person (reasonable in context), self-harm, injury to hands

    …but the wicked sorceror could find no purchase, for every blow he landed upon the princess’s form left her untouched. “What is this trickery?” he howled, unable to leave so much as a bruise upon her. And then at last he turned to look upon the man he’d taken for a servant, and the smoke that hissed from the incense burner, and found that every bruise and every blow had landed on him instead.

    “Identify yourself,” demanded the sorceror. “For thou art no servant.”

    “No,” Perceval admitted. “But even in a leper’s rags, I have more nobility than thee, and more claim to the glory that you have stolen…”

    The Ragged Knight, version by Charles Perresohn Janssen, 1863

    The only warning Csindra got was the smell of something burning before the door burst open with a burst of eye-searing, bright light.

    Csindra ducked her head, hoping she’d gotten her eyes away in time; the odjaken wasn’t so lucky, it seemed, with a rattling shriek. Rook…? She lifted her head, wincing as her next breath sent spores flooding uncomfortably down her throat. Did fly agaric spores affect the mind? She couldn’t remember.

    The light started to clear, and the figure behind the door stepped forward, tossing aside the burnt candlewick leaf and already lighting another wrapped wick of leaf and twig as smoke surged up around his face. What of it there was, anyway; instead of the thin, ghostly boy she’d expected, two dark-glass eyes stared out at her from underneath a black cloth hood, set into the face of a bird-of-prey. The sable leather jutted out into a short, hooked beak, and only the jacket and skirt were familiar – the same inky colour against the spray of wildflowers and red-and-white that was crawling across the marble facade.

    Rook.

    She thought.

    “Another of you?” the odjaken snarled, eyes still closed. Eyelids were only so much protection from that kind of glare, and she was visibly thrown off, two spots of colour appearing high on her cheekbones.

    “You’re our killer, huh?” Rook replied, amusement audible even through the muffling of the mask. “I expected someone a little taller.”

    The odjaken’s lip lifted a little at that. “And you’re another thaumatist.”

    “Another?” Rook kept his voice still at that, even though it said plenty. They’d even asked Olive, hadn’t they? None of the dead Rivieres were thaumatists. Maybe she meant Csindra. But–

    Csindra suddenly felt her heart flip in her chest. Nine bodies. That didn’t mean only nine murders.

    The odjaken’s nose flared. “And what are you burning, little bird?”

    Rook shrugged, the casual gestures looking all the more odd on the bird-headed form. “You want it? Catch.” And before he’d even finished speaking, he threw the smouldering wick at the odjaken — and a handful of powder into the air from his other hand.

    Powd—

    Csindra put her face to the ground, arms over her head, as the lycopodium powder caught alight. She could feel the fire rushing overhead, a sudden and brief inferno that was gone almost as soon as it came. When she lifted her gaze carefully, just enough to try see what was happening, the smoke left behind — a mix of the lycopodium and whatever else Rook had been burning — was twisting and turning, convulsing in the familiar throes of thaumaturgy.

    Rook twisted his hand around in another gesture, and the odjaken’s arms followed the movement, folding behind her and held by invisible restraints. “Who are you?”

    “Let go of me!” The odjaken thrashed against the binding spell, her voice sounding younger, more frantic. “What are you doing?”

    “I asked first.” Rook approached the odjaken, his goggles reflecting the afternoon light in a white gleam. “Under the authority of Her Lady Elessa’s National Security and Defense Division, I’m taking you into the custody of Regiment 214, Akelei Company, and placing you under arrest.”

    “For what?” she snapped. She didn’t show much recognition of anything Rook had said, but that was fair enough. Most people still knew the 214th as the Dievelhunters.

    “Suspicion of murder. Use of feral magic. Pissing me off. Really, I’ve got forty-eight hours to decide what to charge you with, so you pick.”

    Csindra realized that the ivy had long since stilled; the odjaken’s attention was on Rook. Even better, she’d dropped Raivita after the binding spell. Still, she wasn’t going to move just yet — not until she figured out why the odjaken didn’t look nearly as concerned as her voice made it sound.

    Rook took another step towards the odjaken, and Csindra caught a brief glimpse of his eyes through the goggles, the paleness making them easy to spot. He was scanning the odjaken. “Who are you?” he asked again.

    The odjaken pouted, arms still bound. “None of your business, kalba.”

    Rook was too close to her. Why on earth was he putting himself in danger? She was bound, but that meant nothing.

    “Open your eyes,” Rook ordered.

    She hadn’t been able to see, from where she was. The girl’s eyes were still closed? After all this time? Csindra wasn’t even sure the idea of her being blind was much comfort, with the speed she appeared to move.

    But for the first time, the odjaken seemed thrown by the question. “My eyes?” Then she laughed. “I’d say over my dead body. How about over yours?”

    The binding spell snapped in a flash of blue sparks, and Rook — barely — dodged the fist thrown at his face. Shit.

    Csindra threw out her hand, and this time, Raivita came back to her without the odjaken interfering. “Hey, asshole!”

    The odjaken barely seemed to acknowledge her, black hair coming undone as she struck at Rook — Rook, who wasn’t fighting back, who wasn’t doing anything but blocking the blows as they came, falling further and further backwards. Something cracked — Csindra thought it must be a stone or a twig, but then Rook fell down to one knee, and she realized in horror that the sound had come from him. Had he broken something? No, it would be visible if he had–

    Then the girl turned towards Csindra, something in her changing. She had already looked wrong somehow, too thin, a jumble of pieces, not quite fitting together right — but now her neck was getting longer, the teeth barely visible between her lips lengthening. The nails on her hands were getting longer, too, turning into claws, talons, something birdlike.

    Csindra backed away, gripping Raivita in both hands, trying not to be afraid. But she’d never —

    “What’s the matter? Scared?” The voice that came out of the odjaken’s mouth was warped, too, the mutations of her teeth and tongue showing in her words. “You should be.”

    More mushrooms, more vines —

    Csindra lashed out with Raivita, but she could already tell it was too slow. The claws found her shoulder, raking deep into her skin, and with a kick in the back, she staggered forward. Pain. Pain is good. You can use that.

    If she could just focus for a second —

    Another kick, and when Csindra hit the ground this time, the flagstones had completely grown over with moss, tepid water leaking out from underneath them. The water stung when it touched her hands, and she got back to her feet, but not in time to avoid another hit that threw her back against the pillar. The blows were strong, that was the problem. The type of strong she kept not bracing for, because this girl was tiny, she was starving —

    But when Csindra met her face again, six black eyes were staring back at her, and she couldn’t think of anything at all, anything except a few rattled lines from prayers she’d forgotten long ago. Monsters from the deep, she remembered those stories, monsters with too many eyes and teeth like needles — the poisoned ocean —

    “Leave her alone!”

    The voice cut through the dense humidity and the fog drowning out her own thoughts like a breath of fresh air, and in the split second she had, Csindra realized the odjaken’s own eyes were still closed, nestled below the six new ones. The other six turned to Rook, who had gotten back to his feet, even though he was still staggering a little — and the new spell-wick he was burning.

    “Another pretty spell? How nice.”

    Rook didn’t do any gestures with this one, just glared the odjaken in the eyes as the smoke twisted up and around Csindra. It caught the light and shimmered like a mirror — and when the odjaken’s taloned hand struck at Csindra again, it was Rook who staggered slightly. Csindra hadn’t even felt it—

    The Knight.

    He’d cast The Knight.

    “No, you idiot,” Csindra whispered in horror. He was protecting her. She didn’t need his fucking protection — if anything, from the way he was standing, he needed hers. But when she threw herself forward, Rook’s voice snapped at her.

    “Stay where you are, Sergeant.”

    Sergeant. Asshole.

    “How cute,” the odjaken mocked. “Protecting your girlfriend.”

    “I’m pretty sick of that joke,” Rook replied, a strange new quality in his voice. “Sorry, but she’s not my type. Neither are you. Too many pointy bits.”

    The odjaken raised her hand, then closed it into a fist; a moment later the water rose again, and Csindra moved away from the pillar, trying to escape it before it reached above her boots. It was dirty water, like it’d been piped in from a swamp or a sewer, but that didn’t explain why her palms could still feel the sting of it — Quickwater. She recognized it now, especially since she had the Elessan word for it in her head, not just whatever word they’d used at home–

    Rook ignored it. And when the odjaken came at him again, claws slashing out, he threw himself backwards, gloved hands bracing against the stone before he sprang back at her feet first. His boots met her chest, and Csindra heard another crack, this time probably a rib or two from the odjaken — but her hand lashed out, grabbing his ankle and jerking him down with her. She was going for something specific, Csindra realized—

    His mask.

    With a victorious shout, the odjaken tore the mask off his face, ripping it free of the hood, and Rook’s white hair fell free, eyes and mouth exposed to whatever else he decided to burn. But the odjaken froze. Csindra could see it too. Different faces, sure. Different hair. But they were just as ghostly-pale as each other, skin thin enough to show the veins underneath.

    Rook was still for maybe half a second, not a moment longer. Long enough for Csindra to see something else, too — the way his pupils were pinpricks in his pale eyes, the flush on his cheekbones that was from more than just exertion. He was high. He’d taken something.

    Half a second later, the air that had been humid and hot and sticky plunged into freezing cold.

    ———

    Rook liked his job. When he’d started dealing with pain he wasn’t sure how to handle, the first thing he’d been worried about was being able to keep doing missions. That was the most important thing; it was why he wouldn’t tell anybody. The second anybody caught on that he was weak, he’d be dead or discharged within the week.

    But much to his satisfaction, he’d found out that adrenaline made it easy. He could do everything that he could manage before, as long as he got the adrenaline pumping, and as long as he kept some helpers on hand. And now that the laudanum and everything else was surging through his veins, he was fine. He had it —

    (who is she)

    —handled. He had it handled.

    (who is she)

    And then his mask came off. He hadn’t even thought — but with nails as sharp as hers, it wasn’t so difficult, was it—?

    (WHO IS SHE)

    (can you hear them)

    (I shall steal the breath from her lungs and the warmth from her bones and—)

    (izhya)

    (WHO IS SHE)

    (—then we shall be free—)

    (ethya)

    I told you to be careful–

    Everything had gotten so loud.

    The temperature was going down. He barely noticed it, though, getting to his feet and watching the odjaken’s face change.

    (IT HURTS)

    He pulled his knife free of the sheath tied to his leg, and the odjaken just snarled back, but the cold was affecting her. More than that; Rook could see her struggling to breathe. Funny. He could breathe fine.

    (—strength of beasts and the teeth of hunters—)

    “You’re like me,” she said from between panted breaths.

    (NO)

    (ongye)

    And he wasn’t sure who was actually speaking when he lifted the knife, twirling it in his hand — “There’s nobody like me.”

    (NO STOP)

    (achye)

    (ROOK YOU HAVE TO STOP)

    Too late. He couldn’t hear them, and the knife slid along the side of the odjaken’s throat, crimson blood spilling down over her ghast-white skin before she pulled away, throwing herself into the air and her legs knocking Rook off balance again —

    The ivy vines lashed at him, given a sudden burst of speed, but he managed to knock them aside, blade slicing through them faster than they could make themselves grow. He could feel the water stinging at him, now, too; he hadn’t felt it at first. But then he felt her hand in his hair, and he jerked backwards, back suddenly pressed against her front.

    “Who made you?” she hissed.

    No one, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. He drove the knife backwards, but her hand closed around his fist, decay crawling up her skin in a tattoo of withered skin —

    Easy enough. He slammed his other hand against hers, the claws that had grown without him noticing punching through her palm. The shriek of pain he got in response was worth it, even as he yanked the claw out and tried to ignore the punctures in his own hand. He’d gone right through. There was blood mixing into the water below them now, and he could use that, it was faster than Smokework —

    Except something was faster still, and the water began to freeze over. The odjaken noticed, pulling herself out of the water and onto the thin ice before it trapped her — and threw another blow at him. Another — he was having a harder and harder time dodging, his eyesight getting fuzzy, limbs not responding as quickly as they were supposed to —

    A little longer. Please.

    (LET GO)

    Rook stopped in horror. No. No, no, whatever he let go of was — no, he wasn’t that far gone.

    The next blow caught him square across the face, and as his head spun, he felt the throb in his nose that meant she’d either broken it or given it a pretty good bruising. Binding. I need to bind you, I need to know, I need to—

    (KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER)

    (THREAT THREAT THREAT)

    “Until next time, pretty boy,” she snarled. Another bit of misdirection, he realized too late — before something sharp stabbed into his leg. He looked down, eyesight blurring in and out, and gazed almost idly at the spike pulling free of his thigh. Like a cactus spine, he thought, but larger, and wielded with intent by a vine it had no business being on.

    The odjaken walked away from him. Rook tried to reach for his knife again, somewhere in the freezing water. “We’re not done—”

    “Yes, we are,” she said over her shoulder. Then she was gone, and the world was trying to turn on him, and he couldn’t be mad about any of that, not now — not when the pain was finally, finally starting to lessen, and leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

    (izhya, ethya, ongye, achye)

    His vision flickered one last time, before giving up entirely.

    ——

    The door was blocked. And Csindra knew what was coming. Not for sure, no — but she had an idea. She had listened, maybe not as closely as she should have, but she had listened–

    The window.

    Csindra steadied her grip, closed her eyes and smashed Raivita through the window. There was a scream from inside — she couldn’t blame Odette for the reaction, and she only made time to clear away some of the broken glass from the edges before diving through.

    “What on earth—”

    Csindra shook her head. “We gotta go. Now.”

    Odette stared at her in fear. “But — Where?” She gripped the arms of her chair. Shit, no wonder she was scared. The wheelchair would move fine on the hardwood, but it couldn’t do stairs, really, and she couldn’t exactly move fast, either.

    The temperature was still dropping.

    Just leave her, Csindra tried to convince herself. Yeah, not happening. She leant over and hoisted Odette into her arms, one arm under her legs, the other steadying her back, and immediately fled up the carpeted stairs.

    “Put me down! What’s going on?”

    Csindra ignored her for the moment — she could only do one thing at a time right at the moment. She went to the farthest room away from where the fight was happening, shouldering it open with a flurry of papers from the other side. Someone’s study. There was a heavy oak desk in the middle, and she ducked down behind it, steadying Odette next to her. Far enough away from the epicenter, and up. “A’keni revatu nav’, ąkra shevatu kanav’.” she murmured. Hotter above, colder below.

    Odette glared back at her, but couldn’t quite hide the fear. “What’s wrong? Tell me, now.”

    “No time. Listen, Odette. You have to listen to me. Close your eyes. Cover your head. And do not open them.”

    “What? Is this a game—?”

    “I swear by Kesh’lashe herself.”

    Odette clearly didn’t know who that was, but she nodded, shutting her eyes tight and putting her shawl over her head. Instinctively, Csindra reached out and pulled Odette close as the temperature continued to drop.

    Drądązen shoi-nget-Odjon’nez kish nur’ne þar’n suba tashera.

    Stories. Just stories. But still, with her eyes closed tight against the urge to look, Csindra found herself mouthing words in barely a whisper. “Nav-aléçatza, nav-aléçatza, nav-aléçatza…” Pass over us.

    The temperature was still dropping. She couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers. The radio was on her belt, and she put her hand around it. She had to wait. If she didn’t, she was putting both her and Odette in danger.

    And finally, the oppressive cold lifted. Csindra felt herself go almost dizzy with relief. She fumbled with the radio, but it slid out of her fingers, the cold making them stiff and numb. She opened her eyes, carefully, slowly; it was almost a normal temperature in here now, but her fingers —

    Odette had hairpins in. With another silent apology that she’d maybe say out loud later, she pulled one of the pins from Odette’s hair. The woman whimpered, and Csindra quickly reassured her. “It’s me. You can open your eyes now – well, wait two seconds.”

    Thank god for hairpins being sharp. Cause she still didn’t have a knife. She drove it into the fleshy part of her thigh with a stifled noise, and the fire leapt up near her fingers almost without her asking for it. Not on her palms, this time — when she thought of it, she had more control than that — but her fingers warmed up quickly.

    Belatedly, she realized that Odette had not kept her eyes closed. Well, she’d worry about that later. She grabbed the radio. Channel…

    She’d forgotten again.

    “First for everyone, second for cops, third for Investigations…” she recited, but panic had driven it from her head.

    “NatSec is four,” Odette said quickly.

    Thank god. “Thank you,” she replied. She didn’t miss the fearful-but-curious gleam in Odette’s eyes; but for now, she just hoped she wasn’t too late.

    Rook, you had better be alive. So I can kill you myself.

    ———

    There is someone with you, down here in the cold. You are too deep in the darkness to hear him, to see him, to know he is there beyond the beating of his heart against yours, cold blood giving whatever heat it has to keep you alive. You will not let him die from it, even unconscious —

    You have that power. Do you understand it, yet?

    Your lips barely move in the cold, shaping words you do not know, a tongue you do not speak.

    Pass over us.

    Nav-aléçatza.

    And so you shall.

    (Izhya, Ethya, Ongye, Achye.)

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    Comments

    ….Okay, fine, my Jewish is showing. But also there are plenty of stories of this kind. At the time I was writing this, actually, I’d just finished watching the incredible movie Finding Ohana which has a similar device in its folklore about not raising your head/looking up out of respect.

    This is one of my absolute FAVOURITE chapters in the whole book, especially with how the extent of Rook’s problems starts showing. For the curious, ,there’s a big dose of supernatural involved, but plenty of it is also mental illness on its own – running theme in my work is how the two can collide, rather than just explaining away one with the other. The visuals for the odjaken here are very strongly influenced by the Doomspell trilogy by Cliff McNish – both the witches and the Griddas.

    Song: She Is Young, She Is Beautiful, She Is Next by Alex Yarmak

    Bell, Clock and Candle is free to read online and I don’t plan on changing that; however, if you like it and want to support its author, please consider supporting me with a Patreon pledge or a Ko-fi donation! For bonus goodies, Patreon readers get every chapter a week early, and pledging to the Elementals tier ($5+) gets you access to deleted scenes and conlang progress posts.

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