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.)

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.

CWs: violence, racism/anti-indigeneity, starvation (referenced/implied), drug use (opiates this time, whew), body horror

And O, I have seen the lotus-eaters
drinking laudanum and wine
with voices loud and hollow
with nothing left inside—
O, thy tempting nature rails
against the strength of every soul
do not eat the fruits of Lethe
keep your virtue whole.

Prohibitionist and anti-alcohol activist Andrew Matthesohn Wilkes, 1919, from “Against the Degeneracies of Youth”, a pamphlet of polemic and rhetoric poetry.

The cruelest thing about being a bastard child to two cultures, Csindra thought with the taste of bile in her mouth, was that you never knew who was abusing you because of the stranger in you, and who was abusing you because of the familiar. Maybe she was overreacting.

Maybe, but still.

She’d been angry with Odette for the comment about Kaullo. But when Odette had gotten that little smirk, and barefacedly admitted to the manipulation, she’d gone cold. She could still feel it, the stiff ache. Temper, temper. It didn’t really matter where she was – someone found a way to push her buttons and make her look ridiculous.

God. She kept finding new reasons to hate it here. She pushed through the doors back outside, and took a deep breath, hoping the fresh air would help. Then she leaned against one of the carved marble pillars holding up the portico and tried not to cry, or be furious with herself for how much she wanted to. She’d tried to warn both Scheffen and Rook about her and manor families, but that was their problem for not listening.

And the fact that this is why you left home, too?

Let them blame it on her being primitive, or whatever other word they bit back or replaced with something nicer. Backwards, uncouth, feral — they found all sorts of ways to disguise their disgust in pretty words. She got crap for being Kanet’ or “tribal” in the first place, even before anybody put together that she had an Elessan father. Until now, nobody in Den Elessa had run their mouth about it — but Den Arden, Haberjasse, Avolara, people had always put it together eventually, and the white assholes started making comments about mixing and the clansfolk who were supposed to have her back suddenly got distant and nervous, if they weren’t implying that she was a traitor in the first place.

No point in getting hung up on it now. It wasn’t like she’d expected anything different. She adjusted the radio that sat uncomfortably on her belt, trying to get the crawling feeling off of her spine. Rook had given it to her in the car, and she understood how radios worked, but she wasn’t used to having to carry one around like this. “First station for military-wide, second for cops, third for Investigations, fourth for NatSec, fifth for… uh…” She’d forgotten. Whatever. “Oh, right. Fifth for medical, sixth for bomb squad.” At least she could remember that much, and as she calmed down, it helped to remind herself that Rook… well, it seemed like he was on her side. It felt like he was, which she couldn’t take to the bank, but if it meant she could focus now, it was worth it. On her side, even if he was inconsistent in what he believed about himself.

Csindra closed her eyes, still rankling a little over Odette. She could already hear the accusations her anxiety was spinning out of nothing. That she’d attacked Odette, or tried to, or that she’d overreacted, or been bullying the poor little white girl. That she’d insulted her — well, she had called her a bitch. There was even the small, quiet part of her asking if she should consider apologizing – the part of her which was long overdue for a good hard stabbing, but you couldn’t stab all your problems, apparently.

If she’d been less preoccupied, she might have noticed the change in the air sooner. It didn’t bother her, either; it wasn’t until she found herself shrugging off her jacket that she froze. The air had gotten thick with humidity, hot and damp, sending trails of sweat dripping down her back.

Den Elessa was cold. Not freezing; but north enough of Etamara and far enough from the desert that she shouldn’t have found herself feeling at home.

The back of her neck prickled, and she reached for her knife – before realizing she still didn’t have one. Axe or nothing.

“Show yourself,” she said, feeling a little stupid as her voice hit the empty air. The humidity was the only part she didn’t like; humid heat was completely different. Maybe it was a heat wave.

Yeah, and maybe all of the murders they were investigating were suicides.

She glanced around at the trimmed and shaped hedges, and the fountain in the front field, gripping the handle of her axe. Nothing yet, but the heat was rising. Why here? Why now? All the other murders had been at night.

Csindra took a step back — and her boot trod on something. She looked back over her shoulder, and swallowed, her mouth dry. The broad flagstones had previously been neat and well-groomed, at worst a little worn; now three of them were being pushed aside by something growing beneath them. Toadstools; red and white, with small but expanding heads. Nothing grew that fast naturally, which meant —

Something breathed.

Csindra whipped her head back around, and found herself face to face with… something. Someone. She looked human enough, but lingering on the edge of it; ghostly pale, with her eyes closed, and unnaturally-black hair falling down her back, strands framing her sharp cheekbones. The odjaken. She could tell, even if she hadn’t shown up out of nowhere. The twinge of her healing wounds illuminated the silver threads of édjan’na hanging off of her like cobwebs — just like they had off of Rook.

Csindra’s breath caught in her throat, even though they weren’t making eye contact – and the odjaken’s lips twisted up into a smile as razor-edged as the rest of her. She was too thin. Not slender, the way the women on billboards and in newspaper ads tried to sell as desirable now; she looked like someone who hadn’t eaten properly in months. A famine victim, on her feet out of some miracle, with jutting bones at her shoulderline and wrists.

“And who are you?” the odjaken asked. Her eyes were still closed. “You aren’t on the list.”

List. What list? Csindra took another step backwards — and onto one of the toadstools. This time, the crushed fly agaric sent up a cloud of spores, and in sudden horror, Csindra lifted the neck of her shirt over her mouth and nose.

The odjaken didn’t move or avoid the spores, which confirmed what Csindra had already known. They were her weapons. “I’m not here for you,” she said with a small frown. “Step aside.” And even before Csindra had the time to think about it, she shoved Csindra aside and strode for the door, black braid swinging down her back.

Csindra had been almost paralyzed at the girl’s appearance, but the shove — and the touch of skin on her bare arm — brought her down to earth. Skin. Warm, human skin. Normal skin. Odjaken or not, this was just another person to fight. And she didn’t care for the Rivieres — but a job was a job.

She hoisted Raivita out of its sheath and threw it at the wooden door, blade thudding into the heavy oak with a splintering noise. The odjaken, Csindra noticed, didn’t flinch as the axe passed over her shoulder… only when it hit the door. Sound. She was tracking sound, at least in part. Was she blind, or just odd?

The girl scowled, glancing back over her shoulder. An odd gesture for someone not using her eyes, but maybe a learned one. “You’re wasting my time.”

She wanted to say something in response, spores or no — but something yanked on her ankle before she could decide, and she instinctively let go of her shirt, palms slamming into the flagstone. She kicked back at whatever it was, but her boot only landed on what felt like leaves. And when she caught her breath, this time she did feel it – spores flooding down her throat.

Csindra threw out her hand, and Raivita started to pull itself out of the wood. She glanced back. Ivy vines, moving of their own accord, coiling like snakes around her legs —

That’s it. I’m sick of feral magic.

Raivita finally tore out of the wood. Csindra waited for it to come back through the air —

A pale, black-nailed hand closed around its handle in mid-air.

Csindra froze, staring at the odjaken in horror, and at her still-closed eyes. At the feeling of the handle in her fingers, the odjaken just smiled again, cocking her head. “Isn’t this pretty,” she said, with a voice poison-sweet, drawing her fingers across the blade.

The enchantment. Raivita was supposed to come back to her. Nobody else.

“Give it back,” Csindra seethed.

The odjaken frowned — then lifted Raivita with obvious effort, resting it on her thin shoulders. “No.”

A thin whip of ivy found Csindra’s neck, and tightened.

——

“Major?” Odette said nervously, the bravado fading fast as the light did. Rook dove for his bag. He hadn’t planned on this until sundown —

Why?

Fuck.

He hadn’t even questioned the assumption. T.O.D. for the other corpses had been roughly sunset, sure. That said nothing about how long they’d been stalked before then.

Gun. Hated the damn things, but it was a back-up. He clipped the holster around his waist, and the radio to it. Flute on his back. Smokework pouch across his chest, with his lighter. He preferred to keep Mirrorwork out of his battles, so he left that one in the bag —  but he did grab his butterfly knife, and the bottle he’d kept aside just in case.

“What’s that?” Odette asked abruptly as he uncorked it. At first he thought she was just being nosy, but then he remembered someone like Odette would recognize the lingering smell of liquor and honey for what it was.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a small smile. “It’s mixed in with other stuff.”

“Like?” she challenged.

“Like stuff that won’t kill me. It’s a drink. I know what I’m doing.” He took a swig, pulling a face at the odd mix of tastes and the burning trail the alcohol left down his throat. “Stay here – and stay quiet.”

Odette just glared at him, her fingers gripping the wheels of her chair — but she nodded tersely, face tight with fear.

The last thing he needed was his mask, and he gripped it in his hand, flipping his butterfly knife in the other and trying to get a glance at what he was dealing with through the thin margin between the ivy and the window-pane. He couldn’t see the attacker through the vines coming down over the glass, and the red-and-purple staining wasn’t helping either. But he could make out someone moving on the ground, fighting against the tendrils—

Csindra.

He yanked off his boots, bare feet quieter against the dark wooden floors, and crept as quickly as he dared towards the front door. Bitey crawled off of his shoulders, curling onto the ground and Rook waved him away, trying to keep him out of trouble. He was useful from time to time, but this didn’t seem like someone who’d hesitate to snap him in two.

Don’t panic, come on. You’re good at this. He had twenty minutes before the drugs started working. Fifteen, if his metabolism was nice to him and worked as fast as it usually did. Csindra didn’t have twenty minutes, so he was going to have to make it work. What did he have? He’d been smart enough to restock, except —

—Except he hadn’t restocked what he’d used in the Pawn spell. He’d forgotten about it.

Fuck.

Rook swallowed, mouth dry. It wasn’t that he never made mistakes. Well, he didn’t. Not when it came to this. Not when it came to what he’d been doing for three years, training for on and off for six. What he’d been doing with his entire remembered life. And when he miscalculated, they weren’t mistakes this stupid.

Keep it together, he told himself, already feeling the wood floor slip away from him. He could panic about losing his mind again later. He pulled his mask on, gripping dried plants and incense sticks alike in his hand.

Showtime.

——

You remember, and forget, and remember, that this is not the first time you’ve seen your own blood, and you forget it again, push it to the back of your mind, where the rest of your cast-offs live, and we hoard them and collect them like pieces of glinting gold here below the waves. You will never come back to the ocean. You throw so much here and let it sink beneath the foam, down to where you believe something of you must remain. You have forgotten, and sometimes remember, and forget again that you have looked beneath the black already and found only flotsam.

And yet, like driftwood washing up to shore, something has come back to you.

I don’t know who she is, either.

Please be careful, Rook.

Comments

Oh, I have been looking forward to these chapters. Folks, meet the character officially pushing this into the ‘horror’ section. You’ll learn her name later.

Also, Rook is making really bad choices, and I need to be really clear: laudanum is administered in drops. For a reason. When I say Rook is making bad choices, I mean ‘it’s a literal miracle he’s not dead’. Don’t do laudanum. Even if for some reason or another you’re doing opiates, prescribed or otherwise, don’t do laudanum. Certainly don’t go mixing it like it’s Red Bull. Normally I like to let ‘don’t do this at home’ speak for itself but I cannot even begin to emphasize the level of ‘don’t do this at home’ involved here when I have a character just straight up fuckin’ swigging this shit.

This and the next chapter mark the official mid-point for The Nowhere Bird! I’m still cleaning up the end, but I’m very excited with how the first book’s been coming together. No guarantees on when (or if, frankly) a print copy will become available, but I do want to make one – it’s just a matter of figuring out how bloody expensive it’s going to be at how big this is clocking in.

Song: Moondance by Nightwish

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.

CW: suicide attempt (implied), self-injury/cuts (aftermath of), anti-sex worker sentiment discussed, child trafficking (implied/discussed)

It’s said that whorin’ is the oldest profession. If it is, then by golly, you’d think us bats n’ cats ‘ud git more respect. Least some thanks.

Sally Tinker, 1602

Historian’s note: ‘thanks’ at this time was also slang for oral sex.

John Leandrosohn Anders, 1872

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SILVERED BACK

It’s said that whorin’ is the oldest profession. If it is, then by golly, you’d think us bats n’ cats ‘ud git more respect. Least some thanks.

-Sally Tinker, 1602

Historian’s note: ‘thanks’ at this time was also slang for oral sex.

-John Leandrosohn Anders, 1872

When Csindra woke up on the spare bed that was still a little dusty, but ultimately comfortable enough, she was tempted to believe that the previous night had been a dream. The cuts on her arms told her differently; so did the burns that were still aching, although Rook had done a good job with helping them heal a little faster. Still, it would have been easier.

She stared at the burn on her palm for a while, then closed her fingers, drowsy thoughts slowly becoming more alert. She’d told him about odjakenez. That — might have been a mistake.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

The problem was, she didn’t actually know anything about odjakenez. Elessans had this silly myth about demonbounds, people who sold their souls to demons or to feral magic in exchange for power and became monsters; but nothing was ever that simple. The word had once just meant someone who used any magic, and while Elessans took plenty of credit for ‘inventing’ structured magic, things like Smokework, Songwork, Bloodwork — those predated Elessan colonization by longer than she could even wrap her head around. Sure, Elessans had systematized it, found different uses for it, made it into a science of sorts, but they hadn’t actually invented it. But before them, before the distinction had mattered, all magic had been considered equally dangerous; something for times of crisis only. Blood, music, herbs, even animal sacrifices; they were offerings to the gods, not ways to control them.

So odjaken hardly meant anything at all.

Ugh.

Csindra rolled onto her back. She knew humans could use feral magic, because she trusted the oral histories she’d grown up with more than whatever Elessans claimed was possible or impossible, but it was hard not to start second-guessing it. And, well, Rook was proof, wasn’t he? Either Rook was the best-disguised odjanin she’d ever seen or he was human with feral magic written into his bones.

Ah, and he’d been asking about the Odjon’nadja too. Hah. That one was just a bad idea all around. The less they got brought up the better, because that was a case of her knowing far too much and not wanting to explain why.

She sighed, getting to her feet. She needed new clothes — once she figured out how exactly she was getting paid, she’d get a new pair of slacks, definitely some new chest wrappings. The ones she had were… well, improvised was the best word she had. She wrapped them around her chest, grimacing a little as her hands complained at her, but at least her ribs weren’t whining at her anymore. Maybe she’d actually have money for jumps or something instead of what was basically the same thing Kestrel wore, except she wasn’t trying to hide anything; there wasn’t a whole lot to hide anyway. Maybe I’ll try a pair of stays, she thought with a wry giggle. Like she wasn’t liable to break the damn things. Plus, you couldn’t fight in stays. One of those iron bones went into your chest and you were dead.

New clothes. New boots, probably, or at least a second pair. A new sheath for Raivita. A new small knife, because she’d lost hers, and cutting herself with an axe blade was not ideal. She’d lost it somewhere in Den Arden.

She hated being poor.

Csindra pulled her shirt over her head, eyed the hardly-visible scruff under her chin in the mirror with a worried noise, and then sighed, brushing it off. Tonight. She’d find a razor and — find some way to take care of it without Rook seeing. Which was another fucking thing she had to buy, unless she wanted to try doing it with an axe, and that seemed like a great way to decapitate herself.

Well, probably nobody would notice. They were too busy goggling at the battleaxe, or the red hair, or the dark skin, or quite literally anything else. She opened the door of the spare room —

And saw, with a soft jolt in her chest, Rook asleep on the loveseat.

He still wasn’t sleeping in his room.

She closed her eyes, reminding herself – again – that they weren’t friends, and Rook seemed to want quite the opposite. Well, when he wasn’t tending to her wounds for her or protecting her from wraiths. Navóne. She couldn’t afford to see him as a friend. She worked for him; she wasn’t under any illusions about the power differential at play, even if she had enough pure spite to bail if and when she had to. At the same time, it was like trying to make herself not see something as obvious as the sun in the sky or her own hand in front of her face. She’d been wrong, sort of.

She glanced at him, but he was pretty firmly asleep — then taking a deep breath, put her hand against the door of the other room again, pushing the door open. Clean enough. White sheets. Almost too clean, actually; compared to the jumble of magpie-hoarded objects outside, this room seemed nearly catalogue-pristine, like… Well, like someone else had cleaned it.

Csindra steeled her nerves – pain was pain — and pressed her thumb into the cut on her arm.

—what are you doing—

—leave me alone leave me ALONE— why did you stop me why did you save me stop it stop it stop it —

—you should have just let it HAPPEN—

She’d suspected, but—

Her hands fell down by her sides anyway, the sounds and flashes (a hint of navy blue here, raven hair, silver buttons, and red blood here and here and here) fading slowly as the ache in her arm did. It was another thing to be sure.

She left the room, closing the door behind her, just like she’d done before. This time, she just shrugged on her jacket and went over to shake Rook awake. She wasn’t going to say anything — not out loud, not yet. It wasn’t like she didn’t understand.

——

Frankly, it was a wonder they weren’t later for work; as it was, Csindra’d never had a job that cared about being on time every day, and she had the sense that Rook wasn’t exactly fussed about it. As it was, Scheffen gave them a glare that shifted to a look of concern when she caught the bandage on Rook’s hand and on her palms and arm.

“Any luck tracking down our killer?” she asked instead, conspicuously not asking.

“Uh… progress,” Rook mumbled non-committally. “Where is everyone?”

That was true. The office had significantly fewer people in it than it had the other day. Personally, she liked the quiet, but from the look on Scheffen’s face, it meant something bad.

The moment Scheffen finished closing the inner office door, Csindra’s suspicions were confirmed. The older woman carried her nerves well, and it hadn’t shown too badly outside, but she was showing it on purpose now. “There’s been a turn in the Coben Garrow case.”

“What kind of turn?” Rook asked.

“This.” Scheffen picked up a stone that was sitting on her desk. “Bloodstone. It came with Coben’s handkerchief wrapped around it — monogrammed and everything, so we’d be certain.”

“At the Palace?”

“No.” Scheffen sat down, clenching and unclenching her jaw. “It would appear someone snuck it into Lieutenant Lambert’s pocket when he fell asleep on the tram.”

Oh.

That explained why Scheffen looked ready to kill someone. Whether it was Lambert or whoever had gotten the drop on him, Csindra didn’t know, and didn’t care to find out. Although she did like Lambert, so the second was a nicer idea.

Rook blinked, then picked up the bloodstone, bouncing it in his hand. “It’s not enchanted or anything. Just your standard issue threat, and a severed ear or something would be much more efficient, don’t you think—?”

“Sometimes I worry about you,” Scheffen murmured with a frown.

“Hey, you were thinking it.”

“…Maybe. But it’s still worrying that they managed to sneak up on the Lieutenant. Anybody else, I’d still be worried — but Lambert?”

Rook raised an eyebrow at Scheffen. “This got anything to do with the mysterious past you won’t tell me anything about?”

“The point of a mysterious past is that I don’t tell you about it, Rook. Besides, you’ve tried sneaking up on Lambert.”

Rook pulled a face, and Csindra resolved not to take Lambert lightly. “I wanted my cigarettes back.”

“He stole your cigarettes?” she asked.

“He confiscated them,” Scheffen corrected. “Because for some reason, my ward—”

“Ex-ward.”

“Ex-ward decided to pick up a smoking habit at thirteen.”

“And you still haven’t quit, either.”

“I’m thirty. I’m allowed to acquire a full complement of vices.”

Something was bugging Csindra, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. She scratched at her temple, listening to Rook and Scheffen squabble.

“So this is a message to Jacob, then. What’s the message, that Coben’s alive?”

“I presume so,” Scheffen sighed. “I’ve asked Lambert not to say anything to the Judge, to see if any other clues show—”

“How’d they know?” Csindra asked suddenly.

“Hm?” Scheffen looked over at her, with an obvious look of frustration at being interrupted that made her want to break Scheffen’s nose. Cool it, Csin. Anger issues on the back burner.

“Well, you’re National Security. I’m guessin’ you don’t advertise who works on each case. And isn’t this supposed to be a different regiment’s case?” She glanced at Rook for confirmation that she’d remembered right, then back to Scheffen.

Scheffen gazed at her — then frowned. “No. No, we don’t. You’re right. If they’d gone after Alastorsohn or Islington in the 215th that’d be one thing, but…”

“So we’re not just talking someone sneaky enough to catch Lambert off guard. They’ve been keeping up.”

“Shit,” Scheffen hissed under her breath.

“Where is Lambert, anyway?”

“Lambert, Baer and Heinkel are at the Palace, interviewing some more of the staff and guard. The rest are canvassing a wider area, setting up perimeters at train stations — basically trying to make sure our perp or perps don’t leave if we can help it.”

Csindra nodded, taking that in. She had a funny feeling the Advolks were involved, but if she said that, she knew what it would turn into. First it would just be ‘asking questions’, then it’d be interrogation on suspicion that she was secretly an Advolk, and all sorts of bullshit. She wasn’t in the mood, and besides, she doubted what she knew was particularly helpful or news to Scheffen. If it’d been Heath Garrow and not his kid in danger, she would have quite happily let the Advolks kill him, anyway. Besides, she doubted she was saying anything they didn’t already know. Why would the 214th be on the case if they didn’t think it was the Advolks?

Yeah, right. And you don’t care about Rook, either, do you? Face it, you’re not the asshole you want to be.

“What about your murderer?” Scheffen asked, a note of hope in her voice.

Rook instantly began to look nervous.

Idiot.

“No luck just yet,” Csindra intervened, sounding bored, “but he does seem to have it out for the Rivieres. Any idea why?” That should get her eyes off of Rook.

Scheffen winced. “Tread carefully.”

Rook brightened in curiosity. “That sounds like a thing.”

“I’m not sure what you think a thing sounds like, but the Rivieres are — well, unofficially, they’re involved with more shady dealings than I’ll ever be comfortable with.”

“What kind of shady dealings?”

Scheffen sighed in response to Csindra’s question, with a look of vague disgust. “Remember, this is unofficial. As far as anyone in the military is concerned, this isn’t true.”

“Ah, good old nepotism,” Rook cracked, but Scheffen didn’t smile. “Oh, that’s not a good look.”

“Gun running, mob ties, demon trafficking — nasty stuff. And there’s been whispers for years that they traffic in more than just demons.”

Csindra frowned for a moment — then her stomach soured as she picked up on the subtext. “And you haven’t done anything?”

“I can’t. Trust me, I’d love to. I do more than you think,” Scheffen added.

“Why the hell not?” Csindra could feel her cuts tingling, which was a bad sign — but she knew what Scheffen meant when she said trafficking, and she knew who got targeted for it —

Rook was giving Scheffen the same look, mixed with a cautious plea, Csindra realized.

Scheffen looked between the two of them, then rubbed a gloved hand over her face. “For one, unfortunately, the Rivieres are Lambert’s sponsor family. So I have to tread carefully.”

“What, for his career?”

“A little more than just his career, unfortunately,” Scheffen mumbled, but didn’t see fit to elaborate. Csindra had a few guesses, but it was hard to tell with Scheffen. One moment she seemed practically untouchable — the next she dropped hints that sounded like the exact opposite. “And everything I do reflects on him because I’m his commanding officer.”

“…Right,” Rook murmured. He clearly hadn’t thought about that aspect of his new rank. Probably a good thing nobody had actually given him a command yet.

“Two, while trafficking is nasty business, there’s too many people happy to use it as a weapon against other vulnerable people.”

Hold up.

Csindra shifted in her seat, wondering if she’d read that right.

“Not following,” Rook replied, arms still crossed. Truthfully, Csindra hadn’t expected him to get that upset about it. She kept misjudging him. From a morbid joke about a kidnapping victim’s severed ear, to this.

“The vast majority of human trafficking as defined by the current laws isn’t human trafficking at all — it’s sex work. Prostitution,” she added, although Rook hadn’t seemed to need the clarification. A second later, Csindra realized it might have been for her benefit, which she couldn’t decide whether it was condescending or thoughtful. Somewhere in the middle. “And the laws also stipulate an approach that, even if the sex worker in question is being victimized, ends up punishing her far more than the actual perpetrator.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Afraid not.”

“But we’re NatSec. That’s cop stuff, isn’t it?”

“Police and Border Control,” Scheffen said with barely-concealed disdain. “Hence why I technically have no business with it. But pushing the Rivieres on something that I can’t confirm is happening is risky because the usual response is a police crackdown on sex workers. Who have a tough enough time as it is.”

“I know you better than that.” Rook narrowed his eyes. “What’s your actual motive?”

“Do you really need one?”

“I don’t trust your altruism.”

“Fine,” Scheffen said with a smile. “Sex workers make the best spies and a crackdown would disturb my network rather dramatically. Is that underhanded enough for you?”

“It’s actually convincing.”

Csindra suppressed her small smile. First she had to pretend Rook wasn’t queer as a three-mark bill, and now this unexpected bit of insight. She’d expected a lot more goose-stepping and bad haircuts, and a lot less of this. Maybe Jacob had been right. “So the Rivieres are bad news. That means they’ve got lots of enemies.”

“Too many to count.”

“Any of the families particularly known for magic?” She refused to make herself use the word thaum.

“Not particularly. It’s pretty spread out. The Vandemeers are well known for Bard magic — Achielsohn’s an exception — as well as the Habers, and the Niemens, Dennens and Jansens are all families who do a lot of Smokework, but that’s nearly a third of them already.”

Damn it. That had been a pretty good theory. She groaned as the next bit hit. “And with the Coben case there’s no way you have extra men or anything to guard Riviere residences.”

“Normally that shouldn’t be the case given that it’s not supposed to be our jurisdiction in the first place, but Baziel Company is out in Toltberg right now, and Candlewick is light on experienced men, so I don’t think they can handle this case any better than the two of you would.” At Csindra’s apparently-obvious consternation, Scheffen added, “You must have wondered why Akelei One’s so heavy on commissioned officers.”

Actually, she hadn’t, but now it was starting to make sense. “You’re training people.”

“Correct. Including Rook.”

Rook clearly hadn’t expected that — his ears started turning red. Clearly it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any reason other than spite that he hadn’t been given a command yet. Scheffen just watched for a moment, smug, then continued, “The good news is that there’s only one official Riviere residence in Den Elessa.”

“Really?”

Rook shook off his embarrassment the best he could, jumping to clarify. “That’s how they all work. They’ve got estates all over the country, but you can only have one official estate within Den Elessa.”

“That’s… surprisingly reasonable,” Csindra conceded.

“Only until you see the size of it.” Scheffen opened her desk drawer, shuffling through some papers. “Djaneki, here’s your badge. I’m glad it came through today, otherwise the Rivieres would — well, they’ll throw a fit anyway, but now you can ignore them.”

Wait. Fuck.

“We’re going there?” Csindra asked weakly, catching the badge and trying to resist the urge to throw it right back.

“You’re the one who suggested it,” Rook shot back. “Who did you think was gonna do it, the Tooth Fairy?”

“But…” Rook’s instability was one thing to worry about. On top of that, though… “I really don’t think I should be anywhere near a manor family,” she said hesitantly. Was there any way out of this without explaining what her last encounter with them had been like?

“If you’re worried about how they’ll treat you, Rook’s well practiced at deflecting barbed commentary.” Scheffen’s eyes flicked to Rook’s skirt with a twinkle of humor, and Rook rolled his eyes, but he did look pleased. It was interesting, she thought, how Rook claimed to hate Scheffen and still seemed to hang onto her every word for approval, even subtly. It was natural, she supposed, although she wasn’t sure Scheffen realized it. Or worse, she did, and ignored it.

“It’s not that,” Csindra tried to explain. “I’m not—” But if Scheffen didn’t know what she meant from the blatantly obvious, she didn’t know how to explain it. “I’m not good with people.” And, she added internally, I’m kind of a walking insult. But nobody’d brought her mixed heritage up yet, so maybe she was safe.

“I love the implication that you think Rook is.”

“Hey!”

“No, I mean—” Csindra gave up, throwing her hands in the air. “Never mind.” If she caused a political incident, she couldn’t say she hadn’t tried to warn them. She’d try to hold her tongue.

“It’ll be fine,” Scheffen reassured her. Then she gave Rook a crooked grin. “Still think I shouldn’t have kept you two here?”

Rook’s smile vanished, replaced with a glare — and he turned and left, without another word.

Scheffen closed her eyes, and Csindra wondered suddenly why she was really keeping Rook in the city. The first time, she’d taken it at face value. A commanding officer making a power play. It could still be that, paired with a woman trying to connect with someone who’d outgrown her — or, Csindra amended, was trying very hard to prove that he had. And then there was the training thing, which she wasn’t sure she fully believed, but it certainly fit.

“You’re dismissed,” Scheffen murmured after a moment. She hadn’t actually been waiting for permission — but she left once Scheffen said it, because it was clear she wasn’t going to get anything out of her now.

Rook was just outside, grumbling to himself as he did up his bootlaces on one of the chairs. He had on a different skirt today than before – it was still black, but there was a bit of silver edging around the bottom and top. With a little twinge of sadness, Csindra realized he might’ve been hoping Scheffen would notice. Like all of his (or at least the ones she’d seen) it was slit up the sides, with leggings or something similar underneath; the long-sleeved black shirt was bizarrely plain in comparison, but the leather jacket helped. Especially with his silvery-grey hair, she could imagine Rook with earrings or make-up surprisingly easily; something more delicate on his feet than combat boots, and some easier way of trying to get people’s attention.

“What?” he growled after a moment. Scheffen had clearly gotten to him more than he’d let on.

“Nothing,” she said with a smile, pushing the thoughts away for another time. “So, when was Scheffen a hooker?”

Rook blinked at her, a few times. Then, slowly, his white face began to turn pinker and pinker. “What?”

She adjusted the strap of her axe over her shoulder, chuckling and nudging him towards the door. “Why do you think she knows all that?”

“It’s her job—”

“It’s not. She even said so.”

“Well — I — people can know things!” Rook scratched his cheek, grimacing. Clearly the thought had never occurred to him. “I — Well —”

“And what was that mysterious past stuff about?”

“I might genuinely hate you right now. You’re making me think about Scheffen having sex.”

Csindra came to a dead halt at the top of the stairs, gaping at him as he continued down them — then rushed to catch up. “And that’s a bad thing?” You could say what you wanted about Scheffen. Navónez knew she did. Bitch, yes. Elessan bitch, half-yes. Military Elessan bitch, mostly yes. That didn’t change the fact that she was nearly six feet tall, had hair that looked like ink in a glass, and the terrible military jacket couldn’t completely hide her bust. Not that Csindra’s mind went there first, but… third, or fourth. Maybe second, depending on the person.

“She’s old, for one.”

“She and Lambert are the same age—”

And that was when Rook’s pink cheeks turned red. “I mean. That’s different.”

They were outside now, so Csindra could enjoy her smugness a little more than inside the Centrum with the risk of soldiers overhearing. “That’s what I thought.”

“It is. It’s way different.”

“Yeah, I can tell you exactly why—”

“Finish that sentence and you won’t finish the day.”

Csindra lowered her voice, unable to help herself. “If you don’t want to screw her, maybe I—”

“Djaneki—” Rook growled, dragging a hand down his face… obviously in part to hide his somewhat-amazed grin. “You wouldn’t.”

“Probably not,” she admitted. “I don’t really do sex.”

“What, really? So you’re not…” He trailed off, clearly not wanting to say anything too incriminating. Which was funny considering what had just left her mouth.

“I am, just, you know, a well-behaved one.”

“That seems like an oxymoron.”

“Only because your imagination is limited.”

Rook hummed in consideration. “Not that limited. So you what, seduce women into buying comfortable shoes instead of the bedroom?”

That one gave her the giggles so badly she needed to stop for a moment. She hadn’t thought Rook knew enough about queerness to make those jokes. Maybe she’d underestimated him. His stubborn ignorance seemed to be focused exclusively on him rather than the topic as a whole. Which, she thought with renewed curiosity, begged the question of whether or not he knew Jacob was gay. “I’m not the only one you know, right?” she asked instead.

“Oh, hardly.” he snorted. She finally realized he was actually leading her somewhere — one of the warehouses on the Centrum grounds.

“We’re not going to the quartermaster?”

Rook hesitated, looking a little guilty. “…He’ll make me sign things.”

“Rook.”

“It takes forever to sign out big stuff! It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” he said sagely.

“As long as it’s your ass and not mine.”

“I’ve done it before, don’t worry about it. And since you asked, not that many. Just Scheffen and Jacob, really.”

It took a sec for her brain to catch up. “—Wait, Scheffen?”

“I know, right? You’d think she’d be more fun.”

Csindra pinched the bridge of her nose, although she was enjoying this. “On topic for a moment. What are we actually doing at the Riviere’s?”

“Hopefully? Catching a demon.” Rook flashed her a very, very bright grin.

Oh, this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. “Rook—” What on earth had happened to ‘it’s probably an odjaken’?

“Hey, do you trust me or not?”

“I have never once claimed to trust you. But nice try.”

“Fine, be that way. Wait here. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Csindra opened her mouth to complain, then changed her mind. If Rook got caught going behind the quartermaster’s back, he’d probably get away with it. She’d get less mercy. “Suit yourself.” Maybe he was just bundling ‘odjaken’ under ‘demon’ for some strange reason. Or maybe, she groaned to herself, he was right back in the cheery land of denial and she was going to have to work around him again.

He disappeared into the warehouse, and she leaned against the corrugated iron, trying to shake the nerves that were creeping up her back. She’d passed someone in the Centrum, and for a second, she’d almost recognized them, but she hadn’t really been paying attention. It was only now that it was even registering in her mind — and she hadn’t gotten enough of a good look to go off of anything except the vague feeling of unease.

Comments

Whoof, a couple tricky topics in this chapter that I HOPE I handled well. I’ve been trying to acquire an intersex sensitivity reader for ages now without much luck (if this chapter publishes with this comment still intact, then I am still looking!) so I’ve had to lean a little more on informal discussions paired with my own experiences of transitioning on testosterone. With that said, I am absolutely open to constructive criticism both on this and my handling of sex work, within reason, and I don’t think I can state enough that Csindra is a Single Person and can’t possibly reflect all intersex experiences, especially when written by a (as far as I know) perisex person. Sylvia is a similar deal, although I’m actually quite happy about how I threaded the needle here between “child trafficking, unfortunately, does happen” and “ok but the authorities are not actually interested in cracking down on that“. (And yes, Sylvia’s past comes up more, promise.)

Edited July 4th!

SONG: Fear by OneRepublic

CW: war, death (incl. parental death), injury

shé-l-atìrin’, eth’drital’ba, sha-dæl’ʤibez ì’hum sho-kélis’
ziþunuz meleǩ’ shua-zhenadjaz, benadjez bą^ sheǩ^tesætézen
uval’rązot, avol’rązot, vel’rąz^ – isha suǩa sharal?
æʤa en’djaǩajot, eshną nedbą tek en’djeǩ’ djukal’.

The candle and the picture-frame, the shoes upon the floor
The empty eyes of our boys, the girls who cry no more
We sing, we play, we tell our stories — what else is there to say?
When we disappear, you’ll perform your regrets too late.

Excerpt from The Inferno, by Savire Zarija Avolana Valana angat-Karita angat-Anselm, 1912;
translated by Asivera Zarije Shelash’ Kekash’ angat-Savira angat-Chevris, 1915.

TENTON, ETAMARA, 1911

There were, decided Csindra, three different kinds of refugees. She didn’t mind any of them much, although she was getting really tired of all the people. Couldn’t they go somewhere else for once? Of course, she’d asked Benna that and Benna had just said there wasn’t anywhere else, so she guessed that wasn’t their fault.

The first kind were the people who were mostly okay, maybe a bit bruised and torn up, but really, really tired. Keinan and Benna didn’t have to do too much for them at first, so they’d just pull out a mat or a sleeping bag, and let them sleep in safety for a few days. The longest was the man who’d slept for three days straight, risen to eat, go make water and drink, and then slept for another three. He’d made up for the space he took afterwards, and besides, if it helped, it helped. The tired ones were probably the simplest, too. Csindra had conversations with them once they were woken up properly and they ended up being almost normal pretty quickly.

The second were the people who were really badly hurt. They were harder to deal with, especially because sometimes they didn’t make it. Csindra knew when that happened because Benna would quietly come to her and tell her to take Mari over to the market or the well for a little while. She would’ve liked to help, but at the same time, she had no real talent for medicine and she knew it. She couldn’t be a healer, because sometimes the injuries alone made her queasy to look at or even think about. One woman had shown up with a missing eye, eyepatch desperately trying to cover the wound, and it hadn’t healed because there were still shards of metal inside. Another had been a kid, who’d lost half his leg in an explosion and the journey down to Etamara had rotted his flesh so badly that it fell off of him at the touch while he rambled in a delirium.

He’d been one of the ones who didn’t make it.

Csindra tried not to think about the other kids too much.

The third were the ones who bothered her. Not because she was scared of them; quite the opposite. The third were the ones who looked fine, until you looked into their eyes. They just weren’t there. Sometimes they’d come back, here and there, for little stretches; sometimes there was just no one there at all.

That was how she met Kestrel Nomur.

At first, she thought Kestrel was a girl. He kind of looked like one, although really, who was she to comment? But then she overheard Benna talking in low notes about “the boy with her”, about the woman she was treating. Dani’it were kind of weird about the gender thing, anyway. She’d asked Benna about that, too, but Benna’s explanation hadn’t really helped.

“…Hi,” she said after a moment, sitting down next to him. “What’s your name?”

It was then that she caught the eerieness of his gaze. He wasn’t looking at anything. Just — lost, somewhere in the air. He pulled his knees close to his chest, looking impossibly small, especially in the dirty, blood-streaked clothes he was in. Had he come all the way from Anselm in those?

“Do you want some new clothes?”

He didn’t respond to that, either. Maybe he was deaf, too. It wouldn’t surprise her; apparently some of the bombs had been so loud you could hear them from Baerelen. She couldn’t imagine anything that loud. It was a shame she didn’t know any Fuletcha. There were some Fuletch here, but mostly on the other side of the train tracks, and that was too close to the military base for her liking.

She thought it through, then shifted around so she was in front of him. He might not even know he was talking. “Hi,” she said again. “I’m Csindra.” She tried drawing the letters in the air, then fumbled after the DR. Did Dani’it use the same letters? It’d never come up. Maybe she should have used vertalingen.

She was so lost in thought that it took her a moment to realize that his eyes had… changed. Not a lot. She could have been making it up. It was the difference between being looked past, and looked at.

“Uh — Csindra,” she tried again. Vertalingen. She could do that. “CS-I-N-R-” Damn it. “Wait, no.” “N-D-R-A.” Then she pulled a face.

He still didn’t respond, at least openly. But she still got the feeling that she was being watched, not just a presence.

“That’s my Benna over there. Her name’s Mornai. M-R-N, O, AI.” She managed that one in Kanet’valan, whether he knew it or not, and then in vertalingen, although drawing letters in the air wasn’t the most reliable. “M-O-R-N-A-I.” More Elessan weirdness. “I don’t know if you can hear me,” she admitted, “but don’t you hate having to use two letters for ai? It’s silly. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Was that a smile? She couldn’t be sure.

“Do you use the same letters?” she asked. No answer, so she shrugged. “I dunno if you do. But csiyu is this one —” she did it in the air — “And in vertalingen I have to use two letters. But then in Elessan sometimes they make the same sound anyway. Which has got to be the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

She kept rambling about whatever came to mind, and after a while, Benna came out from the back room with the somber look on her face as usual. Csindra knew what that meant. Mari was due home from the schoolhouse any minute now, too.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Wanna meet my sister? She’s kind of annoying, but she’s fun. And there’s Brydan, too. He’s neat if you can get past how much garlic he eats.”

The boy kept looking at her — but when she took his hand, he followed her lead. It wasn’t until they were outside that he took her hand, still resolutely mute, and traced three letters – Kanet’valan letters — onto her palm. She was elated for a split second — he did use the same letters — and then she recognized the letters. M-L-T. Death.

He looked up at her, face blank and unreadable.

“…I’m sorry,” she said quietly. It had been his mother; she could tell that now, even though nothing about him had conspicuously changed; maybe it was just the sixth sense that adults seemed to lose when they got older, or maybe it was just that he had clearly held her together all the way here and sons didn’t do that for just anybody. If you did that for someone, she reasoned, it didn’t matter what they’d been before; they were your mother by the end.

She wrapped her arms around him. Not for long; not enough to make him feel pitied. She could see Brydan and Mari up the street — but first, she asked, “It’s okay if you don’t talk. You can hear, right?”

He frowned, still glazed over, then wiggled his hand. She’d have to make sure to speak clearly, at least.

“Can you tell me your name?”

He frowned a little deeper, then took her hand again. Vertalingen, this time; why, she didn’t know. K-E-S-T-R-E-L.

“K-es-tr-el. Kestrel! Like the bird!”

For the first time, he looked pleased; not a strong expression, but enough to tell her that it might all work out. And tonight, they’d sing for his mother, and light a candle for her and all the others they’d lost so they’d find their way home.

Comments

This is our first direct glimpse into Csindra’s childhood, and as such, it’s also our introduction to the myriad cultures that sit next to each other in Etamara. Under Elessan law, Etamara is marked ‘clan land’ in general, so you’ll find Kanet’, Fule, Tosaka and Dani’it people all living together; the Shuyeda don’t have much of a presence in Etamara, though (which will come up later) and Zurkanet’ and Tosaka folks are the majority by a wide margin.

The opening poem is written entirely in Kanet’valan! Which I’m extremely proud of, given that it’s a metered poem and everything. If I manage it before this chapter is due to go up, I want to attach an audio recording of me reciting this small piece, which will also give people an idea what Kanet’valan sounds like. The poem itself is heavily inspired by both Jewish Holocaust poetry and the song ‘Hide and Seek’ by Imogen Heap (which many people interpret to be about the Holocaust, although I’m not sure if that was the artist’s intention). There’s a definite Jewish underpinning to the clans and particularly the Kanet’, which I didn’t entirely intend, but it makes sense given that that’s my own background.

The Dani’it “do” gender differently than the Kanet’ – so while Kestrel is “trans” to Western eyes, he doesn’t really fit the criteria in that Dani’it culture actively encourages genderfluidity and personal choice in presentation. I have no personal issues with people calling him a trans man/transmasc as a quick referential tool, but it’s worth nothing that he likely wouldn’t identify as the term. (While the word – for obvious appropriation reasons – won’t show up in BCAC, the closest modern term is actually “two-spirit”, used by many Indigenous Canadian/American queer folks who have lost the terms for their own cultural genders due to colonialism.) He is Deaf; while he has some vestigial hearing, he’s pretty heavily reliant on lip-reading and sign language(s).

Finally, (sorry, this is my nerd corner!) there’s the term ‘vertalingen’ vs. the Kanet’ alphabet. I’m quite happy with how this comes through in context, but for anybody still confused, the Kanet’valan writing system places consonants on top, vowels below, making every word two “storeys” tall. It’s for that reason that when signing to Kestrel, Csindra’s first instinct is to do consonants first and then vowels, instead of what we’re used to, which is consonant-vowel-etc. Vertalingen is the term for one of the two transcription systems for Kanet’valan into Elessan; the other is Nadjat’valan (compare pinyin vs. Wade-Giles, for Mandarin!). Vertalingen is in wider usage and predates Nadjat’valan by a lot, but has its issues since it was created by Elessans who had Elessan as a mother tongue and only learned Kanet’valan later out of interest or for communication. Still, due to the limits of Elessan bureaucracy, proper names are still usually done in Vertalingen; Nadjat’valan, by contrast, gets across the distinctions between sounds better, but is harder to read if you don’t know the special characters being used. The quoted author, for example, has the name Savire Zarija, which in Nadjat’valan would be Sævira Zarijæ to distinguish the short ‘a’ from long ‘a’ more clearly; and Csindra Djaneki would be Çindræ Djaneki. The Kanet’valan pieces quoted so far have been given in Nadjat’valan and English, with proper names in Vertalingen. (Confused? It’s okay, now you know how a lot of people encountering transcriptions of their names into English feel.)

Edited (very slightly) on July 4th, 2022.

Song: A’Chuthag by Natalie McMaster

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