Here’s the last batch of book quotes, for those who aren’t on Substack or who missed them previously.

Tomorrow morning the price will increase to only $1.99 for Kindle, and only for 1 week. After that it will be regularly priced at $6.99 for Kindle, $16.99 for paperback.

*Side note, I am working on a regular post for my unpaid subscribers, who’ve been kind of left out as I’ve been focusing so much on content for paid subs. Look for that email to come later this week!

—Danny

12

From Ashes Rise Until Ashes Fall

“You let them wander?”

“I have other tasks to attend to.”

“I thought you said this was most important.”

“Most, yes. But not of only importance. Gintanos needs tending.”

20 Fimman 1320 — Autumn

They had ridden eastward, and further eastward, for weeks. Sometimes it seemed Pan Andros knew where they were going, other times not so much. They never quite doubled back—perhaps that would be too obvious—but if Gillid ever asked, he would only receive an enigmatic smile that could have been forced.

His head hurt, occasionally. Hilay floated just off his line of sight. He made sure of it. After his attempt to caress her hand, and the memory of who she was, he had not spoken to her. Oddly, it seemed like she understood why and left him alone. Probably it was why she hit him so hard. He had wondered, more than once, if she already knew he had forgotten.

Well, been made to forget. However his father and mother had done it, their persistent silence, their near-continuous mentioning of her as someone else’s daughter, had worked. Or maybe they knew something was wrong with his mind, and knew how to exploit it.

The question was: why. He could not recall any other family disowning their taken. Maybe that was part of his lost memory too, though.

Gillid grit his teeth, turned his head northward again. And yet it seemed like Hilay moved just enough to be in the corner of his eye again. Silent, floating, harassing him. Getting back at him, probably.

There had been other Nafeel in the past weeks. Every one so far dead and buried there was no residue left, no memory. Just white bones. Cirrus had not exaggerated their size, at least that. If the rest of their bodies matched their skulls, they would indeed fill the cathedral in Challam. Sometimes he heard voices, but never that chant. Perhaps he needed to be overcome by another impending memory. He nearly wished for that, just to hear the clear ringing of their voices.

Nearly. But not quite—he didn’t want to know what else his head had locked away.

They were in open plain again, the wind cold and the clouds obscuring the sun. Winter was not far off. On the far horizon were mountains, and probably forest at their feet. For some reason Pan Andros avoided those. With Hilay nearby, they shouldn’t need fear the demons.

Well, she had said she held no authority over these far demons. He couldn’t catch himself before glancing her way. She floated sideways, her wings immobile as she stared at him. He glowered, but didn’t divert his gaze.

I tried to tell you.

“No you didn’t. You didn’t say anything to me.”

Pan Andros turned to him grumpily. “Then why are you speaking?” He noticed Gillid looking away and his shoulders lowered. “Oh. She’s returned, has she?”

Gillid snorted a growl. “A fine mess.”

You started it. I told you I was taken and could not come back. What was your plan? To marry the dead?

“Did you know I didn’t know?”

She turned forward again and made a show of flying. I was confused, at first. Then…well, you were always a little weird. I thought you were just being stupid again.

“Until?”

She turned to him. Until you touched my hand. Then I knew there was something terribly wrong with you. She sagged a little lower to the ground. At first I thought it was just deviancy. Once you awoke and wouldn’t look at me for the past weeks, I suddenly thought they had convinced you to forget me.

“Why did they do that?” Gillid asked, unable to keep the plaintive cry from his voice.

Probably to protect father’s reputation.

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11

The Second Memory, Seven Years Ago

“Do you have a plan this time?”

“I cannot plan if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“So you simply try something else? Sounds risky.”

“It always is. Every time.”

31 Halmfurtung 1313 — Autumn

Sound crashed over Gillid, echoed, went in his good ear and turned his insides to mush before coming out his bad ear. He felt like he should shut his eyes, but he couldn’t keep them from goggling wide. They were fixed on the hot steel, bright orange light searing into his mind until he could see it still when he finally blinked. And around him and inside him was the rhythmic gonging of the hammer. ebbing and flowing and piercing like a thorny tide.

The ringing subsided, the glow dimmer. His eyes dragged upward into the face of the blacksmith, who stared at him grumpily.

“Do you see?” he growled.

Gillid nodded mutely. The smith hesitated, then turned and put the steel back into the fire. He pumped the bellows and the fire roared. Gillid watched the flames, felt the heat. He was on the other side of the forge, for now, and it felt little hotter than the Pal Isan sun in summer. But it was uncomfortable even so.

“It can’t be too hot,” the smith said, and Gillid couldn’t help but agree. “But if it is too cold, you wear yourself out for nothing.” He turned finally and held up the length of rod. “You see?”

GIllid saw—red and white and flecks of orange that sparkled. Down it went onto the anvil, down came the hammer, and yet again Gillid’s brains pulsed and sloshed. This time he did blink, slowly as though exhausted. He wouldn’t sleep with such noise, and yet it took so much out of him. As the smith drew out the steel, pressed it thin, Gillid himself felt drawn out and pressed thin. So thin.

“You’re still too thin,” his father had said. “You must work.”

His mother said nothing, though her lip trembled. Gillid’s did too. They both knew there was little work in Challam that Gillid could do. Somehow his father wouldn’t believe it.

The blows stopped, and Gillid swayed in place. “Oi,” said the smith. “I’ll not pick you up. Snag that broom, if you need, and sweep some of this dross.”

Gillid looked blandly at where the smith was pointing, saw bits and flakes all around the anvil. He turned toward the broom, tripped, caught himself, and snatched it from the wall. As he swept, he became aware of the silence except the swishing of the stiff straw. He paused, looked up as the smith stared at him, the metal gone too cool. Well, cooler than the smith had allowed it to get so far.

“Like this?” Gillid asked, brushing again.

“If you mean to just spread the dross around, yes,” said the smith. “Did your mother never have you clean?” Gillid shook his head. The smith sighed, tossed the metal rod into a pile, and took the broom from Gillid. “Push it in one direction, away from the anvil. Make a pile.” His strokes were firm and steady, and the bits and shavings moved smartly to where he directed it.

Gillid took the broom back, and in one stroke accidentally scattered the entire pile across the floor. Firm, but not steady.

“Go home,” the smith said. He did not sound entirely angry—there was too much disbelief in his voice for anger. “Have your mam teach you to clean. And if you want to smith, come back.”

The last part was said with full disbelief—flat, without hope. Gillid recognized that tone, too. But he did not want to smith, and it didn’t surprise him.

Two days later he stood beside the butcher. The knife flashed deftly, and strips of raw flesh came off in long hanks to be slapped down on the table. Gillid’s nose was clogged with the scent as he tried not to sneeze. He glanced at the butcher, who seemed not to care about the smell. Gillid was afraid to draw it in too deeply. So he breathed shallowly, despite his head getting lighter and lighter.

He was outside before long, bent over a bucket. He didn’t go back to that one, either.

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10

The Chaos of A Million Lies

“I’ve spoken to Illmali.”

“Questioning my wisdom?”

“He says to stop. Those words are not for humans.”

“And yet I already knew them.”

30 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

Gillid, Dag, and Pan Andros—and Hilay—watched the man. He had uncurled somewhat, but was unresponsive when they offered food or drink. He spoke no words, barely seemed to breathe. He sucked on the tip of his forefinger as though trying to remove a splinter.

He had no blood on him that they could see, his clothes barely seemed rumpled. There was one bit of straw that clung to his collar, a lock or two was out of place. But for everything, he could have been sitting proudly atop a horse, commands for war on his lips, mantled in all the authority the potentate would have given him.

Except he huddled silently in the grass, eyes open but apparently blind to the world, unhearing, with something on his finger that he couldn’t get off.

“What do we do with him?” Dag whispered. “Should we try to move him?”

Carry him or roll him down a hill, he will be useless, Hilay said.

Gillid cocked an eyebrow. “We’re not near any hills,” he murmured, trying to keep his voice pitched for Hilay to hear only. But Dag and Pan Andros, it seemed, were quickly getting used to him talking to no one they could see.

“Perhaps make camp,” Pan Andros said. “The Nafeel here—” He broke off abruptly as the captain’s eyes flicked suddenly toward them. Nothing else—he still nibbled, still rocked. But now he seemed to be listening. “They’re long dead,” Pan Andros finished. “If I understand Gillid correctly?”

Gillid nodded, trying to ignore the pang of sorrow that lanced through him. “Everything that had life carries it for a long time—a memory of sorts. But not these. Dust has more residue than them.”

The captain’s eyes followed the speaker as they continued. “So we make camp right here,” Pan Andros went on, half an eye on the huddled soldier even as his attention stayed on his comrades. “Maybe with a fire, some food nearby…”

“And the fallen?” Dag asked quietly.

“They are not from Meddrun, and I see no carts to take them home. But we can raise a sepulcher here. I’m sure the farmers will understand.”

Dag grunted. “You make an interesting point,” he said. “Do you suppose the farmers saw anything?”

“They’re dead,” Gillid said sadly. When the other two looked at him, he pointed his chin toward the captain. The man was distant again, his eyes hooded, staring at nothing.

“Then one has to wonder how Meddrun saw nothing,” Pan Andros growled. He gestured angrily. “You can see the walls from here! I would think they would have been able to hear something, close as they are!”

“It is a place of betrayal,” Dag muttered, and spat.

“Vrathen,” the captain whispered. He didn’t seem to realize he had even spoken.

“We could kill him,” Gillid said. “Then use your arts to find out what he knows.”

Pan Andros glared at him. “I hope you are not truly speaking to me.”

Gillid shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”

“Those kinds of suggestions, boy, you keep inside that twisted head of yours!” Pan Andros stared at him, dumbfounded and livid. Dag seemed to wish he was not standing between the two. “Go fetch water or something—tell the men to pay their respects, and start burying those valiant men who died. Gently and with utmost respect. And if I find out you said something different, or made another of your suggestions, I will send you back to your home. Am I clear?”

Gillid looked out from under his eyebrows and smirked, but headed off without further comment. He didn’t want to be around the captain anyway. Hilay floated slowly after him, keeping her silence for a time. You’re changing, she said finally.

“We all are. You just get to see my change; yours happened where I couldn’t see you.”

She flapped hard a few times, coming up closer beside him. Mine was much more sudden, she murmured in his mind. Violent, it might be called. And against my will. Yours, though…

“Not according to my will,” he said quietly. “Much like the captain, my circumstances forced my change as well.”

Nothing forces you to treat that man so cruelly.

Gillid shrugged. “We’ll see. For one thing, I was not wrong; that is one way to get what we want from him.”

It isn’t. The man the necromancer connected to first was much like that—twisted, overly emotional, now that he is dead. He left family that he was worried for before he was taken. That broke him, too. There is not knowing how the captain might have changed in death. He might have given you very bad information.

“Maybe.”

Oh, given your years of experience with the dead? she scoffed.

Gillid paused beside the skull of the Nafeel, gazed upon its glowing beauty for a moment. “Yes.”

She floated into his field of vision, her face troubled. What is happening to you?

“Oh, starting to care are you?”

Starting to fear.

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9

The Bodies At The Woodland Stream

“Did you give him those words?”

“Of course.”

“But what are they? Where did you hear them?”

“Do you mean Illmali doesn’t trust you with them?”

30 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

It seemed odd, to Gillid, the demeanor of the company as they went toward the river. Pan Andros went along swiftly enough, as though out for a brisk stroll. And so the men he had hired had to match his pace—and Gillid too, though his legs were too short for it. And though the men never quite jumped and shadows, it appeared to Gillid as though they would if they weren’t marching at such an even pace. Their fingers flexed on their sword-hilts; their eyes never lingered anywhere. They went along, he realized suddenly, at some bizarre sort of long-legged crouch.

And if he ever thought he should be nervous, too, he would catch a glance of Pan Andros’ face, at the beatific and eager smile plastered there, and he couldn’t help but catch the joy. And so, instead, he would look ahead, waiting to see what it was Pan Andros said he was seeing.

But the sheaves of grain were too tall, or he too short; and so they followed the road under the blue sky and the shadow of Cirrus’ words. What a bizarre man he was, that mystic. And to follow them all the way out here! Gillid wondered what the religious few in Challam were doing without their scarecrow. Probably getting along just fine, actually. Maybe even better.

Suddenly Pan Andros was frowning, and looking up. Gillid followed his gaze, saw vultures circling somewhere near their line of travel. The men, too, stared and swallowed hard as though some difficult memory choked them. Surely the battle—whatever the king had done to betray them had ended in deaths, surely—was too long ago for their to still be carrion? The birds never descended, and only circled, and circled, like the raven crown of some unseen giant.

The grain stirred in the wind, and some broken bits swirled up, and around, and so briefly he thought he imagined it, outlined some haggard head beneath that circling crown. Gillid missed a step as his breath caught.

But no one noticed, too attentive to the vultures, and then on a stone bridge just coming into view on the road ahead of them. Beyond it the forest now grew tall, the wind quieted under its eaves. The field stopped at the river’s edge, and a long line of far-spaced stones.

“The town owns no further than this,” Pan Andros said to Gillid, bending to speak to him alone. The men surely already knew. “And their troops could not be committed to help outside that line.”

Gillid studied the necromancer as the truth dawned on him. “And Dag’s men were closer to the forest.”

Pan Andros nodded sadly. “With the enemy between them and the town. They tried to break through, but could not.”

“Why didn’t they just leave?”

Pan Andros snorted. “They had not been paid to leave.”

“Well, mage,” Dag called from up ahead. “We’re still waiting.”

Pan Andros sighed, but kept his voice pitched for Gillid alone. “He likes to wound me, when he can. What I do—what you do—is far from mere magery. There are schools enough for what mages and wizards do—well, there is a school I suppose,” he said, his lips twisted wryly. “But there is none for us.” He paused to stare down at Gillid. “We have only each other. Do you see the stones you saw before?”

Gillid heard a flap of wings, looked up to see Hilay near the wood-line. The vultures came near, but did not attack like the small birds had earlier. And there was a hump—smooth, bone-white, with a jagged crack here or there. Another, closer to the stream, a little flatter. A third. A fourth. Ten. Tears shoved past his throat and pressed into his eyes.

He went forward, fingers to his lips. He felt he should do something, make some sort of speech. Something grand. And yet he knew any words he had would only profane this sacred ground. He went to the first skull and knelt, bent his head in reverence. Slowly, tenderly, he reached out a hand and placed it on the gigantic head of a fallen Nafeel.

Brother.

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No?

Oh. Well, I did. And now I have three narrators lined up to do it—I just need your vote to choose which one to go with!

I’ve created a landing page with audio samples, and a poll for you to vote for your favorite! This narrator will be used for all The Triumvirs, but not Spirit Wind. But make sure you can listen to that voice for all 8 books!

Check it out here: danieldydek.com/audiobook

This will stay live for two weeks, so make sure to tell all your friends, too!

Once we decide a narrator, we’ll go into recording, then editing. So it’ll still be some time before the whole book goes live.

But, um, paid subscribers will get the individual chapters early, just like they get the first drafts of my works in progress. Just sayin’.

Back to your regularly scheduled programming.

—Danny

Life has been crammed to the gills with editing, writing fiction, writing Bible studies and lessons, and making minute progress toward a sound studio for audio recordings.

And, slowly and quietly, I’ve been ticking off quotes from A Time to Refrain—which is releasing in just over four weeks.

And, since everyone who follows me on Substack has seen all the quotes, and all my newsletter subscribers haven’t, I thought I’d send you all the whole batch of 8 so far, with eight more to go before launch day on September 1.

Don’t have your copy yet? It’s still only $0.99 for the eBook until Sept 1!

Pre-Order Here!

Pre-orders count as Day 1 sales, which can boost my sales rank maybe even up to Top Seller, and put my work in front of even more people—which helps tremendously. So thank you in advance for your support!

I’ll be back around again sometime!

—Danny

8

Road of Shadows, Fire, and Death

“I know Illmali approves of chaos, but…”

“This one goes too far?”

“We still need to guide him. Don’t we?”

“The canniest of flies are still drawn to sugar.”

30 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

By the time Gillid made it to the wall, he had lost the necromancer. But he still heard Hilay’s cries, and followed them. He dashed along the wall, ducking low roofs and signboards and dodging puddles that were not of rainwater. Only those most desperate clung this far to the outskirts of a city like Meddrun, and cleanliness was a low priority. Not that he minded.

He saw her up ahead, searched for some sort of weapon to defend her with. It was only then the thought occurred to him he would need a weapon made of spirit. Perhaps, if she was able to see him, whatever attacked her could as well.

He ran up, yelling and waving his arms as though they were crows he could shoo away. Hilay turned to him in alarm, dropping low as two swooped at her head at once. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Gillid ignored her and waded forward, swinging fists and elbows. The crows darted away, laughing. They did look like crows, even close up, though their beaks were more lip-like.

“Silly boy—so silly!” they called. “Silly boy trying to fly. He’s got no feathers or wings!” One swooped and thunked him on the head. “Must have wing to fly, silly boy.”

Hilay appeared suddenly beside him, a length of oozing black in her hand. She swung it at the crow who mocked him, severing its head. The other crows watched blandly, laughed again at the pair, and departed.

Gillid panted, rubbing his head. It itched where the crow had thumped him, as though its beak were made of nettles. Either his hair or his skull had been thick enough to prevent it burning the way true nettles would, but still. He turned to Hilay as her weapon misted away.

“Why didn’t you have that earlier?” he asked.

“I didn’t have time to make it,” she said. “I don’t just carry it around.”

“Maybe you should.” When she looked away disgustedly, he continued. “Why did they attack you?”

“We’re not in the Oakgum forest anymore. The spirits around here don’t know me.” She cast a glance at the dead crow still on the ground, though it had started to smoke now. “They will from here on.”

“Until we move to another area,” Gillid said.

Her eyes burned into him. “This is not the first city we’ve stopped at,” she reminded him.

“You’ve had to fight the spirits at the other stops?” he asked in alarm.

She scoffed and turned to leave. “They aren’t confined just to towns and villages, little Gilly. I’ve convinced many that I am stronger than they.”

“Then why don’t you carry your stick with you everywhere?” he called after her.

“It’s called a soulflail. And it wounds both ways.”

She slipped sideways and disappeared just as Pan Andros huffed up. Gillid was left staring at a peculiar stone monolith he didn’t remember seeing on their way into town. “What is it, boy?” Pan Andros asked, catching his breath. “Why did you run?”

Gillid wandered slowly toward the monolith. The moon was out, washing the face in its pale light. There was lettering, but not in Rinc Nain. Or Isanden, which he had only seen a few times. No one learned it anymore, but the lettering was distinct. He touched a few characters with his fingers, felt the same itch but lighter still. “What is this?” he asked.

Pan Andros squinted at it, then at Gillid. “Waymarker,” he said. He flicked a finger one way, then another. “There’s a track here for those who care to follow it. Judging by the weeds I would say that few do.”

“What language is this?” Gillid probed the lettering some more until a sharp prick made him pull back with a gasp.

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7

A Difficult Discussion of Normal Things

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Oh, decades. Maybe a century.”

“You still have not said how you knew about us so long ago.”

“No, I haven’t.”

30 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

Much to his surprise, the pack did not weigh so heavily after only a week on the road. It still weighed, and his shoulders only barely recovered each night from the straps. But it was lighter by far than the mere depletion of food.

Over the first few days, more joined the pair. One or two at whatever inn they stopped each night, each with a pack similar to Gillid’s, and every one as if they had been waiting some time for Pan Andros to call on them. Gillid observed it all quietly, heartened actually that the necromancer was more prepared than he had seemed at first.

That quietness hung between Gillid and the rest of the party as though he were Pan Andros’ special pet. While many of the others seemed to know each other—even those gathered from separate inns—the rest were folded in quickly and set about becoming familiar. If they were not all soldiers, Gillid knew enough about those trained to deal death to know they all could slit his throat at a single command. Perhaps it was that commonality that let the rest of them grow comfortable, while Gillid still stayed apart.

But if they could deal death, he was one of the two that could see what happened after. And for that he stuck close to Pan Andros and was otherwise ignored.

As the week began to close they arrived at a proper city—walled in, guards at the inroads and roving the streets, something like a city center and low palace. Pan Andros showed a paper, signed by the king, and the guards let the entire company through with only a small grimace.

Hilay remained outside, this time.

Gillid tried not to notice she did so, though it made him worry. But he had promised not to let on that she was still with them, and so he only gawked about as though he were a country boy in his first city. He was that, and yet he cared very little. Challam, though small, was denser than he preferred and he still put up with that. And, truly, this city—Meddrun, Pan Andros named it—was no more or less disgusting than Challam was. The same scarring, same twisted sculptures, same misshapen structures people called ‘homes’ were here that were in Challam. The roads and alleys were laid out haphazardly, and even if he had been more familiar he would still have had to follow the necromancer and his band of murderers to whatever crusty, dingy inn they had picked out.

They turned a corner, and Gillid nearly stopped in surprise as they entered the nicest part of the city he had seen yet. Finally, here, some builder had some sense. The signs swinging from doorposts were beautifully decorated in vibrant colors. The stonework had been textured, somehow, not left glaringly blank. And by the scents swirling through the air, it was better kept by the neighbors than anywhere else they had walked through. Gillid fairly grinned as they made their way to their accommodations, and stepped inside.

Dozens of glittering eyes turned on them as they entered, some squinting in the harsh afternoon sun that streamed in behind them. The last man finally let the door shut, and Gillid’s eyes could adjust to the gloom. The innkeeper was thrifty, saving lamplight for only the darkest parts of the day. He came toward them now, thumbs hooked into his belt.

“Andros,” he said shortly. He glanced across their band, his eyes lingering on Gillid. He smirked, but made no comment about whatever he thought he saw. “Usually you send a better warning.”

“Are you full?”

The man grunted grumpily. “Of course not.”

Pan Andros smiled. “Very well, then. And you will be emptier when we leave, I’m sorry to say.”

The keeper turned back, and saw nearly every mug raise in salute to the necromancer. “You’re taking all of them?”

“Don’t be silly,” Pan Andros said, as the band began to disperse to various tables. “Those two in the corner, I’ve never met before in my life.”

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Pre-Order A Time to Refrain!

Yes, pre-orders are now live for a September 1 release date. Only $0.99 until launch week.

$1.99 for the week after Launch.

$6.99 after that.

Paperback is always $16.99

Those are the easy bits. I run my launches that way every book. And it’s exciting, and nerve-wracking (always like to exceed last book’s pre-order sales…but will I?)

And, as always, there’s lots I am very excited for you to read, and experience, and see how things land.

But this season, my margins in life are just a wee bit smaller than any other launch season I can remember. And I was just at a writer’s conference, where a very experienced agent/editor/publisher talked about what he called “thump-thumps.” That’s when a writer starts paragraph after paragraph with a “noun verb” opening. And in his mind it starts to jsut go “thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.”

And not in a good, heartbeat kind of way. More of a monotonous, aggravating kind of way.

And I sat there thinking “hmm, I probably do that. I wonder how much? I’ll have to check.”

I shouldn’t have checked. I do it almost all the time. And now I have 8 weeks to launch day, and 16 chapters full of “thump thumps.” And I’m going to pick up editing a client’s book again. And I wanted to start audio versions of my books. And I’m teaching twice a week—and instead of relying on pre-written material for the second lesson, like I thought I’d be able to, God keeps giving me brand new stuff. Which is amazing, and wonderful, and I’m over-the-moon excited for it. But that’s even more time needed for that.

Oh, and I’m supposed to be writing the next book, too. Which I’m also very excited for, and some really cool things are coming out of that. And I have people signed up and paid to receive those early chapters—also ridiculously exciting.

But where, oh where, do I find the time?

I don’t know yet. I’ll take this a day or so at a time. To my paid subscribers: I will still be writing new stuff, to keep you receiving what I promised you. Because you are all awesome, and I’m so very grateful for your support. The chapters may not be coming as fast or thick as they were at first, but I will keep as much consistency as I can.

There will also be quotes from A Time to Refrain here on Substack for those following me on the actual website.

And maybe bi-weekly I’ll do a batch of them for my free subscribers, so you can see the lovely graphics, and read the suspenseful quotes I’ve culled from each chapter, until release day.

And whatever else I can manage. Thank you all for your support, and have a safe and happy 4th of July!

—Danny

I love the brightness of this cover, and how it contrasts especially with the cover for A Sin to Forgive. We return to some of the brighter colors of the first two books, as well as the same model those early designers used.

Big thanks have to go to Getcovers for delivering really cool covers at very affordable prices. Make sure to check them out if you’re looking for covers as well.

So, what’s the book about?

“Sinister shadows. Unknown voices in the wind. Will the pitfalls of the desert shatter her hope in the Fire?

Rae-Anna is running out of time. After disembarking from her perilous voyage, the journey through the desert with her husband and companions should offer a simple respite. But when Thomas falls victim to the viper’s bite of a mysterious obsidian woman, Rae-Anna must find a cure for the poison before it’s too late.

Harassed by the shadows stalking the caravan, Rae-Anna fears that Thomas will perish before a vital oasis can be found. With Thomas’s spiritual connection out of reach, can Rae-Anna interpret The Beloved’s words to her before the caravan is doomed?”

And now, in all its glory:

And how it might look on your shelf—if, you know, you put ONLY THIS BOOK on a shelf…

I’m excited to get the pre-order countdown going, give you some excerpts from the book itself, and get my own copy for my shelf!

Look for those details coming soon!

—Danny

6

The Laying Down, And Picking Up

“I don’t see how this pertains.”

“Everything pertains. Despise him all you want, Elonai made no mistakes in the making.”

“I still don’t see.”

“I knew you didn’t. That is why I’m here. To—how shall I say it—provide you the key to seeing.”

25 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

“Are you all right?” Pan Andros asked, true concern in his voice as he bent over Gillid.

Gillid blinked in a shaft of sunlight that pierced the trees. When had he ended up on his back?

They only slumber in death…

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the throbbing in his head ebb away. The remembered pain always came with the memory, always pumped in time with his veins. He pressed his palm to his ear, took long slow breaths. Finally he looked up again. Pan Andros still hovered over him, scowling but in a friendly way.

“I’m okay.”

Pan Andros studied him a moment longer, then grunted as he straightened. He extended his hand. Gillid took it, and together they pulled him back onto his feet. “Does that happen to you a lot?” the necromancer asked.

“No, but sometimes.” He looked around for Hilay, but all the demons had gone. “What time is it?”

“You were gone for perhaps a shift,” Pan Andros said. He brushed at his robes, though Gillid couldn’t see anything on them. “They got bored, once Hilay returned to her realm.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed. You know she was in some danger, here in our world.”

Gillid closed his eyes, shook his head as the last few drumbeats finally faded away inside his skull. “It sounded more like I was.”

“Hmm. Yes, well, I was perhaps as well. Not too much,” he added quickly to Gillid’s sharp glance. “As I’ve said countless times, I am not powerless.”

Gillid turned and headed toward the edge of the forest. Pan Andros watched him a few moments in growing consternation. “Where are you going?” he demnaded finally.

“Home,” Gillid replied simply.

“We are all in danger from the Nafeel,” Pan Andros said, striding hurriedly to catch up—and quite clearly furious that he had to do so. “The air itself is poisoned by their fumes, you know that, right? And not just here in Challam. All across the Pal Isans people are struggling and often dying—whether from the poison itself, or from the inability to see to their needs. I have to fix it. The King has ordered everyone who can to help fix this. I need you—”

He cut off abruptly as Gillid continued toward town. He wasn’t really listening. The statue had been enough, and the shrine had been more than enough. His curiosity of the lady Nordir was sated. And he didn’t need to go all about the countryside on some errand of the king that didn’t concern him. He could breathe just fine, could take care of himself. Besides, he had found Hilay again, and wanted to be near her for a while longer. Maybe a few months. That curiosity was not yet satisfied.

Thoughts of Hilay distracted him more than he realized, until he nearly ran head-first into Cirrus. Though he didn’t strike him, he bounced back, eyes wary. “Sorry, mystic,” he mumbled. He cowered as Cirrus seemed nearly to strike him. But the mystic’s eyes scanned the crowd, and he withheld himself once again for their sake. His insufferable grin leered at Gillid.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asked.

Why does everyone want to know? And where else would I go? he wondered angrily. “Home,” he said, only barely keeping his voice demure. “I thought mother and father would need me.”

Cirrus’ head cocked sideways. “Why do you think your mother and father are home?”

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** Below is a working title.

5

The First Memory, Ten Years Ago

“Where are you going?”

“Where I told you. Challam.”

“For the boy? Surely he is far too young…”

“He is important somehow. I don’t know how, yet.”

25 Halmfurtung 1310 — Autumn

Gillid stood in the doorway, watching his father’s back disappear into the crowd and down the street. He looked up at his mother, then down at his chubby hand held in her thin, veiny one. They were strong hands, he remembered their grip. His father’s were too, though he didn’t feel that one as much. His father worked, hard and often. And when he wasn’t away working, he was working at home. Sometimes Gillid got to help, but he usually couldn’t do much. Except make his father frustrated.

Maybe one day his hands would be strong enough, too. Like his father’s, and his mother’s. He balled his free hand into a fist, tried to feel the strength of it. It felt strong to him, but somehow he couldn’t pick up the tools his father needed. And wagons didn’t fix themselves—he would always remember that.

Mother was tugging on him, and he went inside with her. They had a nice home. At least, he thought so. He hadn’t seen too many others, but he liked it. He liked being there. Maybe everyone liked being at their home.

Although he didn’t really like the way it looked. Some rooms were too small, others too big. And he was always getting lost, because the rooms weren’t where they should be. When he told his mother that, she would just smile strangely and say “but you’ve lived here all your life!” Which was true, but didn’t help.

He also didn’t like the way his mother put things places. They didn’t have a lot, but she insisted on some flowers and things to put them in. And the dishes were strange—a strange color, if they caught the light wrong. He didn’t know why he thought so, but something deep inside Gillid told him they weren’t the right colors. Not what they could be. Not what they should be.

But he liked being there, in his home. Liked it when his mother and father were both there. Even if they argued. Well, they weren’t arguing they said, but their voices weren’t gentle. Sometimes. Like they would be when Gillid had done something wrong, even if he didn’t know why it was wrong.

His mother had gone to the kitchen, and he wandered over to the corner where he had left some of his toys. Just some pieces of wood his father had left over, and a bit of twisted iron, and a wooden figure his father had carved for him. It was lopsided and hard to tell what it was, but his father had carved it for him and so he kept it safe.

He built a forge, played blacksmith for a while. The bit of iron never actually straightened out, but if he held it just right, angled away from his eye, it looked straight enough. Then he could whack it a few more times, hold it sideways, and it was twisted again. Back and forth, back and forth; straight and twisted, straight and twisted.

“What are you doing, Gilly?” his mother asked behind him.

He shrugged. “Forging something.”

“Silly boy, you’re facing the corner again.”

He looked up. He always sat facing the corner. He forgot she didn’t like it. He shuffled around on his butt to face into the room, then looked at his mother to see if she was happy. She was—at least she smiled, but something seemed wrong with her smile. “What, mommy?”

She shook herself. “Nothing, Gilly. I like to see my beautiful boy’s face, is all. What are you forging?”

He held up the iron, turning it so she could see it go straight, then twisted, then straight. But she looked through it at him, and only nodded. “Very nice, Gilly.”

Well, she had tried. He did too. He bent over the piece again, hammering away with his weak hands. Maybe if they were stronger he could actually bend the metal. One day when he was grown.

Except he wasn’t really growing. His mother would mark his height on the door, except it was always the same mark. Maybe that was why his father left, to go work with boys who grew taller and stronger. Maybe that was why his father grew frustrated, because Gillid couldn’t get better, or help more.

Den facheld legnt gich.

Gillid squeezed his eyes shut and tapped his forehead. Sometimes things went whirling in his head, but that was the first time sounds came out. He stuffed a finger in his ear and wiggled it, hoping to straighten out the sounds.

Jugerd gachlan ergwond?

He stared hard at the bit of iron. Would it make it better, or scramble it worse? He had seen his mother do that with eggs—they never straightened out again. But then she also took tangled yarn and used iron sticks to straighten it. He held up the piece, angled it so it looked straight, and stuck it in his ear.

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15 of those minutes were spent sending the information to GetCovers to start work on the cover for A Time to Refrain, Book 5 of the Spirit Wind series that’ll be coming out in a few months.

Some of the remaining 12 were spent scrolling Substack for inspiration.

(I didn’t find any.)

And some of them were spent saying “I haven’t sent a free email since…May 15???”

That was inspiring, to say the least. Because I remembered why that was—at least in part.

And it was because my schedule went utterly sideways a while ago. And there’s not a lot of margin in my week, right now.

Church lessons. Writing. Editing for a client. All the things I’ve talked about before. And when one falls behind, another one does too, and then another.

And next thing you know, three weeks have gone by and your finally getting your feet under you again.

It’s not pleasant. It’s not ideal. But it does happen. And here’s what I do when it does. My method for re-prioritizing when the schedule is no longer ideal.

1. What has an actual, physical deadline—and when is that deadline? I must have a lesson prepared every Sunday. I can’t ask the pastor for more time, and it would be very disruptive for me to bail, especially within a few days of Sunday. But I also had been pre-paid to finish editing my client’s book by the end of May. So those quickly became top priority.

2. What things can I not avoid? I.e., raising my son. When his mom is at work, I’m with him. Those hours are not negotiable. While there’s no product, no deadline to produce something—it is time in my schedule that I cannot shift. Work, sleep (fight me, I’m not losing sleep over things that I won’t lose the house over), eating—all those things unavoidably take up time. Don’t sweat that.

3. What is God’s primary call on my life? This is what I would call “the good work He prepared in advance for you to do.” Maybe it’s meeting a friend for coffee and encouragement. Maybe there’s a side-hustle. Maybe it’s your family. For me, it’s writing stories. If I have time after answering Questions 1 and 2, it will be spent on this. No excuses, no regrets.

4. What is God’s secondary call on my life? These will be things that support Q 3. This is where Substack articles, for me, fall. Editing my own books. Getting everything set up to start doing audiobooks. Reading. Stuff like that.

5. What is left? Maybe there’s things you do to keep your emotional tank full, maybe there’s other goals you have—getting in shape, learning a language, beating a video game (never let someone shame you because your hobby is virtual instead of physical. We can’t all build model airplanes). Whatever it is, whatever time is left over, do that.

Now here’s the important part: no matter which level you end on, whichever level is where you run out of time—it’s okay. You do not have to do all the things every day, or every week. Other things come up—sometimes the answers to Question 1 will be your entire week. That’s what happened to me a few weeks ago.

Allow yourself to shift, to adapt to fluctuations. It does not mean an entire reset, or an entire restructure. Just deal with the week, keep those other things top of mind, and ease back into them if and when you can.

If it’s running on a month or more, then you should likely re-evaluate everything you’re trying to do. At least for a short-term—maybe six months. Cut out what isn’t coming together, and check again six months later.

Give yourself space, time, and grace. “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?”

So stop worrying about time. Put in what you can, and trust God with the rest.

—Danny

4

To See What Someone Else Sees

“So what did you find?”

“This all leads somewhere…”

“Astounding.”

“You ridicule. But it could be the end of our powers if we don’t act on this.”

25 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

Gillid worried past lunch, forgetting to eat as he tried to convince himself not to go to his scheduled meeting with Pan Andros. Then, once again, he made himself go.

Hilay had been right: he hadn’t liked the answer. Somehow his image of his lady seemed tainted now, even though he only had Cirrus’ word to go on. That was part of what held him back—that he would ask Pan Andros if the mystic was right, and his fears would be confirmed.

But he had promised, and no one else was waiting on him for something he had promised. So he departed the walls of Challam and made his long way up the road. There was a gleam at the shrine, pulling him on, as a breeze swept across the grasses. Some kind of black bird left the branches of the trees not yet turning to autumn and winged away. He watched it, not quite yearning to follow it though he felt like he should.

As he trudged nearer, he saw the gleaming thing was a statue. He frowned, not remembering it from before. There had been some old stones, its how he could tell it was a shrine. Then, nearer, he saw that vines and ivy had been cut away. He stopped: it was lady Nordir, if she was the same as the miniature in Challam, and both of them were her and not lady Kidron.

Again his heart stirred, now he could see her features in fuller-size. Beyond her striking appearance was a pull he couldn’t name. Not that he knew her or recognized her, but that he desperately wanted to. There was—not a mischief, but a vibrancy of life that some would find intrusive.

He had learned long ago to quell that in his own behaviors, for that exact reason. He didn’t mean to be intrusive.

He stepped closer, looked up at her, nearly into her nostrils and stifled a giggle. Someone had been a little too realistic in their carving.

“Few there are who look upon her and laugh,” Pan Andros said, suddenly behind him.

“She’t got something up her nose,” Gillid said, keeping the mirth from his voice.

Pan Andros peered closer. “Why, so she does.” He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped her nose. He peered in the rag for a moment, then removed a small gleaming thing. “Does this mean something to you?” he asked, holding it out.

Gillid looked at it. It looked hard, dark, and faceted. He shook his head.

“Hmm,” was all Pan Andros said before the thing disappeared into his robes somewhere. “What did the mystic say?”

“That the lady Kidron roams the countryside slaying Nafeel.”

Pan Andros blinked, raising his brows. “Is that all?”

“That was most of it. She gave birth to the king, trained him as a knight and a bunch of others, and sent them out to a war they couldn’t win. Then she followed them and won it anyway, even though they all died. So she goes around winning the war by herself.”

Pan Andros’ lips quirked. “Does she indeed?”

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**Sorry for the delay; last week was absolute chaos. Hopefully this is worth the wait!

3

The Wormy Things, The Lady Gods

“What are you doing with him?”

“Just confirming my research.”

“You’ve been here one day.”

“I didn’t research it here.”

24 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

Gillid waited for them to attack, but they didn’t. They shifted around a lot, bumping each other as they clicked in a strange insect-like way that seemed to be communication. A few to his right got especially rough, and teeth were bared. But their eyes never left him.

Finally, when his breathing returned to normal, he went about his business. He kept an occasional wary eye on them, but after he picked a few mushrooms they seemed to grow bored and most of them wandered off. He thought maybe he recognized a few—larger now than when he would have seen them. Like they had been some of the imps flitting around people in Challam, but small enough then to sit on a shoulder.

Now most were the size of hawks, and one or two a large condor. Though their wings moved, they seemed to hover more by levitation than flight. Their teeth were feline, he decided, though most of their faces were canine. He paused when he heard a screech further in the forest, then the tearing of sinews and crunching of bones. Those who had remained kept their eyes fixed on him and licked their chops.

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It’s about our fourth week of mowing, which means I’m getting caught up on all the podcasts I haven’t listened to since we stopped. And that always gives me a ton of things to think through—business, self, theology, literature.

After launching my paid subscriber portion of the Hermitage, I got a fantastic response, and that’s rolling along incredibly well.

But probably the most interesting is moving back into the audio space—podcasting, and audio books.

I had started the podcast a few years ago now, then ran out of time and let it rest. Then last year or so I had the idea to try to do my books in audio, to capture the fair number of people who’ve told me that’s how they consume books the best.

I looked into getting the books onto ACX. How to do the audio myself. Ultimately, I had neither time nor money to feel confident in doing it well, and that idea just went to the back burner.

And that’s happened to me a few times. I have an idea, do all the research into it, realize it’s not quite time, and just shelve it. Or I keep researching, and researching, and researching, and fixing, and tweaking…

Same thing happened to By Ways Unseen. I just kept editing it, revising it, re-plotting it, reading through it to find what wasn’t working or what was. For 16 years.

Then in late 2017-early 2018, I just felt the push to indie-publish it and move on. So I did, and it released in July 2018.

Two more books followed on its heels. Then a little break, and now—8 years later—my tenth book will be published and I’m drafting my eleventh.

God finally said: “Go,” and I just went. No looking back, only forward. What’s the next step? Okay, take it. Do the thing. Do enough research to make sure you won’t totally fail, but not so much you do nothing.

Two, maybe three weeks ago, the same thing happened. That audio-back-burner stuff came forward. And I’ve gotten a lot of highly-positive feedback, and even some unexpected financing.

It wasn’t a distinct command of “go” like it was for BWU, and yet my audio set-up will be arriving this coming Monday—a better one than I have now, for better audio.

Audiobook-quality audio.

A week to get it all connected and work out some bugs. And then I start recording By Ways Unseen.

I’ll figure out the time.

I’ll figure out the steps.

I’ll try, and fail, and learn, and go again.

I don’t know if it will release this year. I have 28 chapters to record, and I’m only anticipating finishing one per week. I still don’t know if I’ll do the editing, or see if I can find someone to do it for me.

But I also have no uncertainty in my mind that I will move forward on the project. Up until a week ago, I couldn’t say that. It was always a “yeah, I wouldn’t mind doing that… It would be cool if…”

Something changed. Something became real. And now I don’t question it.

Can I explain it?

Um, God? I guess?

I think He said: “Go.”

So I’m going.

—Danny

If you want to help out, I’m still running the New Subscriber discount—just click the button below to get the monthly subscription for $1, yearly for $12. You’ll get the first-draft chapters of my WIP (Book 6 of The Triumvirs) and it’ll help me continue to fund all the things to get the audio off the ground, and everything else I do creatively for God.

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2

What Kinds of Things Demons Do

“You are new to this.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“We all start in ignorance.”

“And some of you continue in it. Now leave me alone.”

23 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

“Would you do something for me, GIllid?” Pan Andros asked.

Gillid turned half away, his feet late for the road back to the village. “I don’t know. Will it cause my death?”

“It shouldn’t. Though I suppose it depends on how much the mystic doesn’t care for you.”

The itch dug in deeper. “Can you tell me what it is before I decide?”

“I would like you to ask him how much he knows about the lady Kidron.”

Gillid’s mouth soured, though he didn’t recognize the name. He very much did not want to ask Cirrus about her, and he didn’t know why. Perhaps he had thought too much for one day. “Sir…”

“Listen closely to everything he tells you—he should be very eager. And I’ll want you to report every syllable you can remember back to me. But once he’s done telling you about her, then ask him about the lady Nordir.”

Gillid felt his feet turn back. “Is that…?” His eyes went unconsciously toward the shrine.

Pan Andros smiled. “Yes. So you see, if you satisfy me, you yourself should be satisfied as well. Will you do it?”

Gillid paused miserably. He would rather not spend close time with Cirrus for any reason. But if he should learn about this lady Nordir… He felt himself nod.

Pan Andros smiled. “It will not be so bad as you think. Come back to this shrine in two days, and we will tell each other all we have learned. Acceptable?” Pan Andros held out a hand.

Gillid considered the long fingers, the pale skin stretched along them, the veins pulsing slightly below the surface. He reached out quickly and grasped it. But Pan Andros did not grip tightly, or too long; he simply met the handshake and let Gillid go. Gillid drew his hand back to himself, stared into Pan Andros’ eyes one last time, and turned for home.

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**This is the last full chapter you’ll see for free: take advantage of the paid subscriber discount for future installments!

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1

The Shrine That’s On The Hill

“How did you find him?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can that be?”

“I…don’t know.”

23 Halmfurtung 1320 — Autumn

Gillid stood without seeing, without breathing, before the expanse of shattered glass. How often had he been here? Walked right by it without noticing it? It was small, true enough; but that’s what he always saw—the small things, the overlooked things, the things people forgot.

Now he forgot them, the people. They filled the streets behind him, or so he thought. Yet somehow the lanes and alleys felt empty. Maybe it was just him. Maybe it was just what he wanted, hoped for. Push as he might, though, he had never gotten away. Only moments before, he felt their eyes, their breath, pressing down on him like the loads of grain his father used to make him carry.

But not now. Not with what was before him. Oh, not the shattered glass—everyone saw that. Marveled at it, they said. Came from miles around. He couldn’t stand it. And maybe that was why he hadn’t noticed the little carving on the wall below it, below the stalks and blooms in the garden someone always forgot to tend. Always when he went by that glass he had to turn away, his stomach turning at the destruction it conveyed.

But this time, a bloom had been missing. Someone had finally pruned it, perhaps. And it caught the corner of his eye and pulled it over. And there, on the wall, was the carving. A note, perhaps, from someone long ago as desperate as Gillid was now. A cry for help. A little piece of rebellion against the horrors of this village.

So simple. So clean. Elegant in its stripping away of all extraneous. A figure carved into the stone. Perhaps some lady the artist had admired—it seemed feminine, at least. He had memorized the curve of her mouth, the slant to her nose, the eyes wide and seeing every detail, every sordid thing this village splashed across home and shop. He had seen reflected in her stone gaze the same horror he felt every day.

And then, like a quarterstaff, he’d been struck dumb and blind by some hidden memory. A day spent abroad with his father. A special shipment had come in, but was mired in the mud two miles from town. Mr. Kribman had called all his drovers to go out and help, and the drovers had called in all their sons to go as well.

Gillid hadn’t been prepared for how stuck they were. Spring near Challam was always wet, the clay always sticky and deep and full of iron rot. One drover got stuck just trying to get his old carts the two miles out. And when they’d arrived, Gillid was overwhelmed again by all the mud splashed everywhere as the incoming drovers had tried to get free. The donkeys, mules, and horses were covered, the wagons were covered, the drovers were covered, the grass around the road was covered.

After that was the noise and chaos of his father and the others trying to sort out who would carry what, who would be paid how much—other necessities lost on Gillid who was too young to do more than lift things he was told to lift.

And in the middle of carrying one clay-soaked bag or another, he looked across the field and saw her. Beautiful, striking, powerful, vibrant, deliriously radiant—and he had no idea who or what she was. She stood across that field and Gillid saw the curve of her mouth, the slant to her nose, the eyes wide and seeing every detail. Memorized it.

And then she vanished.

He looked back to call his father, now covered to his armpits in the clay, and when he turned back she was gone. The drovers by then were quiet, stolidly going about their tasks. And Gillid stared at the spot where the woman had stood until it was time to go back to the village.

It was her. Carved into stone beneath the shattered glass, hidden for how long behind long stems and wild blooms until one broke off, or was pruned.

Something brushed across his shoulders like a skitterwing and the sounds of the village returned, his breath filled his lungs. He turned toward the gate. The sun was still above it, there would be enough time to go back out to the road. He felt the call—what call, he didn’t know. But it could not be happenstance. She would be there. Or some sign of her. And she had something important for him.

He strode through the crowd, passing through them easily. Though grown in years, he had not grown enough to be a drover, and slipped through spaces easier than most. Perhaps that’s why they seemed to ignore him. He was in no one’s way.

The voices echoed, clamored, pounded against his skull. It was always this way, and most times he could grit his teeth against it. This evening it hit him like a wall, or a strong wind blowing against him, hindering him like the crowds he had to dance between. His hands balled into fists. He thought to strike his shoulders against their hips, shove through them like the cattle they mimicked. But it wouldn’t matter. Leering over him with their insufferable smiles, they would think he played a game.

He squeezed his eyes shut, going on for a time more by feel. The call beckoned—the draw of empty spaces, of high clear skies, of grass bending in a breeze like waves. In his mind’s eye he saw it, the grasses pocked with little white hummocks. He never knew what they were, some kind of strange stone all hollow and mossy. His father never told him.

He looked up again as the gate loomed up. The columns were made of the same clay, the same dark orange. The gates themselves were always open, anymore. Something about the dangers going away.

Gillid stopped. Not all the dangers. Standing to one side, hands hidden in deep sleeves, his hood just over his eyes, stood Cirrus. As Gillid swallowed, Cirrus’ head notched up just slightly, just enough for his gleaming eyes to pierce Gillid’s.

“Where are you going, my son?” he asked.

Gillid shuddered at the voice. It was far too deep for one so scrawny. Though taller, Cirrus was no wider than Gillid, yet Gillid sounded almost like a young girl. No depth, his father told him. A man needed a broad chest to resonate his voice in, like the pot-bellied lyres or kettle drums the choirs played. And Gillid had never grown that way.

“I think I left something in the fields,” he said.

Cirrus’ lips quirked at Gillid’s voice, and the seed of discomfort in him grew toward hate. Cirrus’ eyes flicked up, scanning the crowd. He always did that just before saying something horrendous. He had to put on a show if anyone was around. Couldn’t make it seem like their mystic had a mean streak. “It’s late, is it not?” he asked.

Gillid looked around, too. Someone must have been watching. “I’ll be faster if I hurry.”

When he turned back, Cirrus was suddenly beside him and he startled. The mystic’s bony hand clamped down painfully on Gillid’s shoulder. Gillid hunched, but brought his eyes up to meet he man’s. He didn’t like the way Cirrus seemed to peer into his soul. “Watch yourself, out there,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “Great evil lurks, and likes to take the souls of young boys.”

“I’ll be back before dark,” Gillid protested, trying to wrench his shoulder away. “I’ll not bring in the—” He broke off as Cirrus thumb dug in, the pain lancing from it. “I’m sorry!” he cried hoarsely.

Cirrus straightened a little, his gaze again going toward the crowds. Something like a smile stretched his face grotesquely, and his hand finally removed from Gillid’s shoulder to pat him on the head. “Be sure you don’t bring anything back,” he said. “And remember—if it burrows into you, don’t bring yourself back either.”

Gillid swallowed again, his head bobbing a nod as Cirrus slid his hands into his sleeves again and walked off. Gillid scrubbed his hands across his eyes, forcing the tears back in, and bolted out through the gate.

No matter where he went, Cirrus always seemed to find him, always seemed to think some demon or terror was bent on worming its way inside his skull and coming back to infect the village. He was Cirrus’ special charge, apparently, the only reason he was in Challam was to save it and the world from Gillid. “Imps are small, too,” he would sometimes say. “They grow no bigger than you. Do you feel all right? All…human?”

As if Gillid would know how to answer that. He had never been anything else, to know the difference.

He walked swiftly up the road, bound now by the promise he had made in haste and desperation. He had hoped to stay as long as it took for the woman to arrive again, if she was not already there, or as long as it took to receive her message. Now he would have just enough time to arrive, turn around, and come back.

He found himself muttering unkind things about Cirrus, and quickly struck himself in the mouth. “Speak no ill,” he was told. “Ill words are the gateway for ill creatures to enter.” Something about the shape of the mouth, they said—had that been his mother’s words?—was just the right gateway for whatever floated around the air, especially in the near-dark of evening or morning. He clamped his lips shut. Maybe he couldn’t speak the things, but he could think them.

The road wound its way around little hills, not at their bottom lest they become a mire, but not so high as to tax the poor beasts of burden that lugged the carts through mud and clay. He was drawing near, saw the clumps of trees that hadn’t been logged yet.

He saw the bog in the road, saw the far hill and the side like an amphitheater of some ancient god. Near the crest were trees in a line, the broken remnants of a watchtower in the middle of them.

And there was a man.

Gillid froze, legs mid-stride, back bent. His fingers wiggled, and he thought to turn and run. But that was where the woman had been. Had it been a man, then? Did he see more clearly now?

The figure up ahead turned. Gillid’s eyes went wide, but before he could turn and run the man raised a hand in greeting. Gillid straightened, frowned, and returned the gesture. The man turned back, his head bent toward whatever he saw in the ruins of the tower. Curious, now, Gillid went forward, climbing the long slope to the trees.

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He stopped near the man and waited. It never did to startle what might be an unfriendly spirit. Instead he studied the man—not as broad as his father, nor as skeletal as Cirrus. His clothes were rich, but not opulent—serviceable, without being poor. His cloak was mostly black, or very dark-hued, except where it folded and glimmered with maroon like an undercoat. There was a hood, but it was thrown back, the man’s glossy black hair pulled back in a tail.

The man turned again to study Gillid as Gillid continued his own inspection. The man’s cheeks were broad, flat planes. His features were not sharp, but there was almost no fat. Dark eyes were what studied Gillid in a way that did not dismiss him, or consider him of no account.

“Who are you?” Gillid asked out of shock of the final realization. No one considered him of account.

The corner of the man’s mouth bent ever so slightly into a smile that held true humor, not condescension. “My name is Pan Andros,” he said. “What is yours?”

“Gillid,” he answered without thinking. Demons liked to know the names of people too.

But it seemed Pan Andros knew this bit of wisdom as well. “Well met, Gillid,” he said. “Can you tell me your light?”

Demons do not ask about light. They can’t. “Stars,” Gillid said.

“Hmm,” Pan Andros rumbled. “And why stars?”

Gillid made to shrug, but stopped—or, Pan Andros’ gaze made him stop. Somehow he knew shrugging this question off was not an option. “My father says because I like the darkness too much.”

Pan Andros straightened just so much. “I did not ask what your father thought.”

Gillid gaped. Everyone else did. Or, they always wanted to double check. But he could see in Pan Andros’ eyes he would not double check. Gillid closed his mouth and tried to think. Pan Andros, apparently giving him room, turned slightly away.

They were not allowed to go out much at night, in Challam. Too many things walked in the darkness. Too many foolish young men tempted the legends and did not return. Sometimes it was said their rebelliousness brought the evil to them. But then little Hilay Pribble got caught out accidentally and she was taken, too. So the only stars Gillid ever saw were through a window screen.

Well, once he had peeked more than that. He could hear his father in the hall, boots stomping away, and knew he wouldn’t be caught. And the young men, and Hilay, had both been fully outside. So he lifted the corner of the screen and looked up.

They found him the next morning stupefied, eyes wide and seeming blind. Cirrus had been called, and some sort of pungent smoke filled the room. Gillid coughed and hacked, but returned to his senses. And once the mystic had gone, Gillid’s father had nailed the screen tight and smacked Gillid so he couldn’t sit straight for a week.

It was the only light that had affected him so. And everyone knew those drawn to starlight would wander too far afield one day and never return. But no one talked about why some were drawn to it.

“Not many come to this shrine,” Pan Andros murmured, his eyes studying the plinth. “Not even those drawn to starlight.”

“There’s a woman here,” Gillid said absently. He missed Pan Andros’ sharp glance, too deep in thought. Despite the beating he’d taken, and how tight the screen had been nailed shut, he had found ways to snatch glances. Coming home late, and just before the door banged shut and was barred behind him. Rising mid-night to use the wastepit and passing by windows not so tightly screened. Sometimes, with his eyes closed, he still saw them.

“A fair woman, with long flowing robes and sandals?” Pan Andros asked.

Gillid blinked. Flowing robes he knew nothing about. “I saw her wide eyes and smile, her long nose.” He stopped, his cheeks growing hot. He paid little attention to women. Something else his father warned him against. Cirrus had too, come to think of it.

But Pan Andros only inspected him. “I see. Do you know who she is?”

Gillid shrugged, but he worried he still seemed too eager.

Pan Andros’ only gave him a tight smile and turned back to the shrine. “I do not, either. Nor do I recognize the description. Do you think she travels?”

Gillid frowned. “I don’t know you, either.”

Pan Andros snorted a chuckle. “True enough, lad. I have kept mostly to the outskirts.” He winked and laid a finger alongside his nose. “I don’t think your mystic Cirrus cares much for me.”

“He doesn’t care for me, either.”

“And why should he not?”

“He thinks I like the darkness too much.”

Pan Andros’ face went grave. “I am sensing a pattern. Are you trying to warn me? Do you like the darkness too much?”

Another thing to think about. In fifteen years no one had asked him so often what he thought. He was unused to it. But at first, at least, he didn’t think about darkness too much. So maybe he was being unfair. “I think mystic Cirrus thinks everyone likes the darkness too much.”

Pan Andros laughed aloud—jarring in the stillness around the shrine. “He may be right,” he said as he subsided. “He may be right, after all. Still, one can be too careful.”

“But there is danger, isn’t there?”

“Oh, to be sure. Death everywhere, and its causes. It has…” He pursed his lips, studying Gillid again. “You might say it has become a study of mine.”

“Death?”

“And its causes.”

“Why?”

Pan Andros drew a deep breath, seemed on the verge of coughing, but he suppressed it. “Something in the air, I guess,” he murmured after swallowing. “It is a universal experience, too, so it is a broad field of study. And yet there are few who do it.”

“Why not?”

“Would you like to do it?”

There he went again, asking Gillid to think. He was too near his limit, though, and so he shrugged again. “I wouldn’t know.”

For a time only the breeze passed between them, Pan Andros’ eyes on Gillid and Gillid’s eyes on the shrine. He had so hoped the lady would show up today. He wanted to meet her, not this strange man who studied death and its causes. Though Pan Andros was a singular person. It itched something along Gillid’s spine, and didn’t seem like it would go away. But death was part of darkness, and everyone thought he liked the darkness too much already. As Pan Andros had said, there was a pattern.

Gillid frowned. The stars—why he liked them. “There’s patterns in the stars,” Gillid said.

Pan Andros’ gaze sharpened. “Patterns?” he asked, his voice calm despite the excitement Gillid could tell radiated from the man.

Gillid nodded. “At first it seems like they’re just sprayed up there,” he went on. “But they’re not. I saw things—shapes of animals and things. I think…” He paused to swallow again, worried this secret should die with him. But as he paused he looked into Pan Andros’ eyes again, and the man’s gaze drew it out before he could stop it. “I think I could find my way through the darkness by the light of those stars.”

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What the chapter outline said:

“Looking for key; looking for grotesque.”

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