Day 0

I awake, and it is bright.

The body lays flat and blank walls are all around it. Light is all around. We look down and the body is blank and light like the walls. We can see- the skin is smooth, no holes in it. We have two hands- two arms- two legs. Two feet. These are new.

Light flickers.

There is–tilting– and we fall. The– canal– shivers and lifts, like a great–- tentacle. The body slides, no— resistance to stop it. We look up, at something to grasp. Cold blue light deepens ahead. We continue to fall. There is liquid up ahead- black. It fills the tunnel—NO. We fall towards the substance.

There is a–metallic– screech, and we look up. More liquid is coming down. We are trapped. We feel the breath begin to come quickly.

Now. Accept.

The body plummets into the liquid depths. All is black before our eyes. We cannot see beyond it. It burns at us. Making us clean. It would prepare her. They had told her this before. Who?

We see the surface of the black sea. Colorless lights above now– pulsate– into purple. A Voice is heard.

“Bring her up.”

Jets start to push against our footpads, pushing us up toward the surface, which edges away from us. Time passes; I am not yet sure how to measure it. I do know one thing. I will not have to breathe for a very long time.

Air hits the girl’s scalp as we rise out of the water.

The pool of white water spreads far into the distance of a spherical room. She turns on her back, floating, to look up. She knew to do that from-before. The walls- white as well- contrast sharply from the liquid touching her. We continue up towards the apex of the dome. The substance now agitates around my head. My hand feels hair emerging from my head, not like- before- it is- smooth. Voice resounds again, clearer now than before.

“Good Night, Imogen.”

I sleep.

Conclusion of day 0.

Day 0.5

The room is small, hexagonal. There is a metallic rack, like in hospitals. There are innumerable needles hoisted over the table. The room smells like…scented spray and something underneath.

“Good afternoon, Imogen.”

We snap around. The Voice. The one we must always obey. A figure stands to the side. Their features…there are no distinguishable features. I cannot read them.

I cock my head, “It is the afternoon.” It is wrong somehow, but I cannot phrase it correctly—as a question.

Though I cannot see Voice’s mouth clearly, I hear a smile. “She will need a recharge and that upgrade soon. Yet her response…frighteningly human-like wouldn’t you say Senior?” At that Voice turns to address a stooped figure who was hidden behind them.

This stranger, unlike Voice, presents a clear image. His haggard face is decorated with scraps of pale green hair, not quite covering his jaw or speckled head. Pale blotchy skin stretches over a bulbous head. The eyes, which are as blank white as the walls before, distractedly glance over a monitor. The figure is almost humanoid, but-

“I’m sure you’re right, Master.” Senior manages to croak. His almost-mummified lips clench, then he grumbles, “You’re late to your other duties Prenn. Report to Branch Four.”

I notice another figure lurking, almost blending into the wall. This all-grey figure whines back, “Senior, I wanted to watch—”

A sharp look from The Voice silences the one called Prenn, who stiffens and falls silent. I hear doors hiss as he exits. The Senior lifts his head for the first time. He looks Imogen over, though it is difficult to tell with his white eyes. He and The Voice trade a look.

Senior: “You’ve selected a fighter specimen from those-” I don’t quite recognize the word.

Voice: “Yes. That is to the client’s tastes, from what I know.” I smell something in the air then.

Senior: “Perhaps. He’ll be on a longer tour, yes?”

Voice: “It was the only way he would ever take one of ours.”

Senior: “Right. And, if he ever faced real comba…forgive me.” His voice falters, cracking even further.

Voice’s intense attention is now on us, the body.

Waiting for their next action, I scan the room. The six walls are seamlessly joined. Yet, each must have a door opening to another room or hallway.

“Qlare.” The Voice barks.

I pause in my scan. Head turning, I catch sight of a smooth head, evenly golden and perfectly round. My eyes flicker around The Voice, but I cannot penetrate the fog surrounding them. Even their clothes are an uncertain, dull color, with no distinguishable shape.

I speak my default response “I serve.”

“Do you recognize that name? Qlare?” The Voice cocks their head.

I pause. Senior watches on, his mouth pinching ever tighter. Our mouth opens, but there is no answer. Eyes blink, glancing between Senior and The Voice.

“Who is Qlare?!?” Senior’s rumble rises to a screech.

A hand twitches. I withdraw it behind me. I do not know, but our lips separate…

“Dead. Dead”

“Where is Qlare ?” Senior cracks back.

A pause. I scan the body—the girl’s body, shaking now. The girl named-

“Qlare. The body was Qlare’s body.”

Senior nods, waiting.

Voice: “Does Qlare remain within Imogen?”

I whip through a limited database. There is base-level combat protocol, standard measurements of time and distance, the Voice command protocol- to be remo-

Who is speaking? I ping.

…

Who is this? I ping again.

…Say no.

My eyes flick over the two figures in front of her. They are still waiting; no time has passed. I respond, my first uncertainty. “No.”

A light on Senior’s board flashes green.

“All responses deemed accurate. We can proceed to the next phase.”

“Power levels are insufficient. Entering low power mode.” The body’s hand is twitching. Must hide.

Senior’s face contorts, consulting his board. Voice growls, “Already? We’ve hardly done any upgrading.”

Senior: “The replacements were extensive on this one- a lot of underlying scar-tissue. There’s always an adjustment when they’re fresh anyway. We’ll send it below.”

“Hm.” Voice’s figure shifts closer, and my hand is tight and still. “We’ll have to continue the fun- yes?” I can’t look at the face, but I know the eyes are sweeping over us.

“Yes.” Yes.

Conclusion of day 0.5.

First Dream

The wind carries the sweet scent of red plains to my window. The lattice was specially installed for us, to allow air to flow. I am crouched by the light in my room, murmuring my devotional as the wind billows the cloth I’ve wrapped my hair in. A smokestick coils its musk over my bowed head.

I hear my sister-

Black hair- Darkest eyes-

Before she was broken- Before the Visitors-

The plains Were red. And rich with fertile farms and laughter.

Then They came.

The golden people who took away the sun.

The plains ran Red and dried to Brown.

The farms fell silent. After-

Night 0

I am in a cylinder a little bigger than the body, a pod. It has been newly sanitized. My internal clock has been updated and almost all of my internal systems have been synced to this place, The Facility. Some information packets were uploaded as well, including foundational knowledge and one personnel, though minimal on that. There are only a few moments before the commencement of Day 1. Today we will start Defense.

I am not surprised to have had a “Dream.” Some memories continue to linger in the body after conversion. I review defense tactics in the pod until Senior opens the podhatch.

“Follow.”

Day 1

Warning: Blood & gore depiction

His jade wisps trail against his back. A heavy door opens and they enter the same hexagonal room. I note the masked smell’s increase in potency.

“Why did they have to call a Gathering at this time” Senior mutters. “Now I’ll have to record this.” Pressing a button, he demands, “Name your predecessors.”

“Halia: the prior tested meta software designed for at-home care and defense usage. Grosch, the war meta: specializing in strategic offense and long-range defense.”

“Name your assignment.”

“Protection of client from foreseen dangers during an intergalactic diplomatic mission.”

“Client background?”

“Born of a High Order clan. Secondary bloodline. Male. Adheres to a commandment of preserving life due to religious beliefs. Otherwise moderately skilled in close combat.”

“ Extensive preparation will be required.” The excited tone is hard to mistake. “Commence training.” He presses a button.

For a moment, I lose focus when the surface beneath me whirls up off the floor and slopes diagonally. Needles, hidden before, peel into view, bright and merciless. Varying sizes, varying lengths, they all start revolving around me. I observe them, but the girl starts twitching, trembling. Panicked breathing begins, but there are no lungs anymore. Everything has been replaced. Upgraded. I seize control and hold us still as best I can. This must be controlled.

Alfry. Great One…preserve me

The needles continue their cycle. Then one is in her arm, through the skin. I watch it until it withdraws. An almost-black liquid pours forth from the hole. It drips onto the floors below. Now Imogen pinpoints the covered smell of the room. Like blood, but more metallic. Another needle is now sinking back through her torso, and another prick bursts through her ear. They continue, one after another. She struggles to dodge, predict a pattern. The substance continues to pour as she is struck repeatedly. The liquid follows where she goes, re-entering her wounds once spilt.

This is not how it was—

I am present, watching everything; the body twitches occasionally. I try to parse a pattern, but it varies from whatever pattern I do detect. I recognise the acceleration of the test. The body’s wounds are already closing, and I feel nothing. Like all Meta, I can heal from almost anything. I must learn to accept this–to no longer fear what once would have killed this body.

So far, Senior has avoided the head, but that now ends. My liquid clouds my eyes, yet I can sense by other means. My every surface, my very blood, detects what is in this room.

The needles have accelerated. They are striking faster than I can heal. Or move. Needles and knives have pierced me everywhere—I am held still. My liquid pours forth. The dark stains in the upper corners of the ceiling—so that was what that was. The body is moving, but I am gone.

…

Senior is standing by and regarding me, murmuring to himself. “Would have loved to see- the struggle felt real…”

He lurches towards the switchboard; creaking down, he pops open a hidden compartment. A rustling sound follows, and Senior creaks back up to standing position, a sheath of fabric over his arm. He waddles back over and considers the body. Tossing the fabric over her shoulder, he leans over and proceeds to wrap the body, winding around the clingy, light sheets. The rust colored fabric stains black and gray in some places. Senior purses his lips in concentration, and finally leans back.

“Stand.” He rumbles.

I slide to the side, pushing upright. Reaching a foot down. The floor is crisp to the touch. Flattening a foot, the other foot follows. I lift away from the table. Hesitant steps towards the door.

Like an afterthought, Senior rings out with his reedy voice: “Your official training begins from this moment. Your movement capabilities have passed inspection. Recharge until you are sent for.”

The door hisses from behind as I walk to the pod.

Day 2

Warning: body horror

The Voice’s recorded words reach over the sea of metas to us. The white walls arching above them reverberate/echo the message back to them. All us metas face the same way, though the voice seems to come from everywhere, vibrating through legs to ears.

Looking through the crowd, some metas seem more solid than the floor beneath them. Some are thin as– waifs. Most of the variance is ahead. Bodies wear single piece suits, black, an indication of being a Fighter-Grade meta. They are thrown into conflicts repeatedly, typically against each other, until they become too degraded to be easily repaired. They have been found by warring clients to be less expensive in the long run than sending in mortal bodies. F.G. don’t get much adaptation. But the quadrant I stand in– Royal Grade, designed to be a similar size, sourced more carefully than F.G.’s.

The curves of our torsos are clad in flesh-toned suits, with a red seam running through the center. We have been purchased individually rather than in bulk and are unlikely to see the same type of conflict. We do not shake, when some of the F.G. Metas ahead have begun to tremble.

A shriek resounds in the dome.

The Voice drones on.

The sea of black parts to reveal one collapsed figure, doll-like in its immobility. The face wears a mask of– pain. Veins protruded from its suit, swollen and purple, in the chin and cheeks. The eyes are shut from sensation, but they are dry, as eyes with removed tear ducts must be. The mouth…the mouth is open so wide that the jaw must have snapped or—dislocated. A black cave, silent, from which only desperate croaking echoes. The entire body shakes in fitful spasms. Columns of us look on, silent. One shifts; I glance over. Dark eyes rest on the clenching body. Her hair is short, and the skin is white, but-

I snap back as suited guards appear. They have few distinguishable features, but their suits bulge in unlikely places, where seemingly rough-hewn metal jut from a central body. They stride towards the fallen form and kneel over her. Another scream from the body rings out as they grasp her and take her away.

Though no mouths sounded before, at the departure of the girl, a suppressed whispering erupts amongst the F.G. I feel myself tense up. It is part of R.G. protocol to act on F.G. when ordered, if discord is soon to erupt. I feel my senses extending, distinguishing snatches of speech. There are a few different languages and dialects. Though meta cannot convey emotion without programming, I notice a couple whispers have a tone to them, or a shadow of one. These girls had gossiped before in life, and the body remembers the joy of secrets, even when robbed of the ability to laugh. I glance around for the dark-eyed girl again, but a Jrokar voice cuts through the whispering.

“There is protocol for malfunctions. Your only responsibility is to fulfill your path. To do that, you need to be in your proper place.”

As one, all metas return to where they stood. The silence rings.

The recording is continued. When a shriek is next heard–we are unmoved.

Day 2.5

A crowd of paired metas are fighting when the quadrant enters the padded room. A few look to be partly disassembled. Eyes swing towards us –the new additions, drilling our suits with blinkless stares.

The Jrokarian which accompanied the quadrant in oozes out,

“As per protocol, I encourage you all to show our newest members how prepared we expect our Royal Grade metas to be…Yes?”

The last word’s emphasis…my eyes start shifting faster. His words echo through the room like– soft knit over a blade. The paired metas bow, some of their eyes darkening as they settle on each new body, seeming to select one.

Tale of Mora & Isobela I

People of the Sun. Nomads. Roamers. Looters. Criminals. Rapists.Whores. Outcasts. Animals. Darkies. Brownfolk. Hunters. Cannibals. Savages. Untameable. Indomitable. Healers. Seers. Worshippers of the Old Gods. Protectors. Saviors. Beacons of hope. Messiahs. Angels. Saints.

These were among some of the many words used for members of Mora’s family alone.

Mora had been born–like her sister before her—to a crowd of women in the birthing tent—caught readily by her mother’s mother—a stooping and wrinkled woman sure-handed in catching babies from decades of practice in the skill. Mora’s golden brown skin had been blessed, and her cord tied in the traditional way. Her mother had needed quick care–as she was already older and her womb gave out from the birth.

Mora had opened her eyes to see the curious eyes of her sister, Isobela, peering over her. All present remarked forever afterwards on how the sisters had stayed like that, staring at each other–until Isobela had been brought to her cot to sleep. On breaking eye contact with her sister, Mora, who had not cried once while looking at her sister, had immediately started to cry. Only her mother’s milk had gotten her quiet long enough to sleep.

Like grists and honey, Mora & Isobela grew like that, with eyes always seeking each other, bringing their joy and sweetness to any room they shared. Their hearts beat as one.

As Mora grew tall for the second time, and Isobela’s dark hair and eyes began to cast shadows on men’s hearts, they faced the threat of separation for the first time. Though stable, the family needed an alliance. Isobela wept to herself–hiding herself from Mora–who would not understand, young as she still was.

On a quiet and dark night, rare in their lands, Isobela boarded a ship to take her to her marriage partner’s planet.

Day 91

There is the rustling sound of joints, freshly stretched and shifting in inaction. Beige suits, freshly rid of black liquid, have been pulled over the repetitively shaped feminine bodies.

Unlike the first crowd, this crowd is poised, not a twitch seen amongst the rows of heads. Black, gray, golden, red: heads laid out as far as the eye could see. The skins all have a gray hue, long dead but smooth.

“It is now time to retire.” The recording booms. “The scan and review of your trained forms has been finished. We are assigning the commissions now. Some of you have shown exceptional progress.”

Colors gleam out of a red slit appearing in front of our face, morphing into other shades. I see red darken and shift to green.

“These are your assigned loyalties now. A client has purchased each and every one of you from this season. Count yourself saved from Songstress work. Be grateful. Report back to your stations to receive your official assignment. Ah- for those of you with red markings still, stay here.”

At this there is a whisper of movement, but Imogen is already exiting. Looking back, a yellow head snaps back towards the monitor, neck tensed from the movement.

The capsule’s light glows green as Imogen enters. A light humming proceeds from the charge tube.

The light...did it?

Imogen’s display updates about her ward and client, Dakh, the prince and seventh heir to the Morfang Dynasty.

This young male is a recent convert of the Byrakian Order, an anti-war sect with roots in Old Religion. Due to his affiliations, he has started to be targeted in his travels, the last attempt injuring his ear and shoulder, narrowly missing his heart and killing him. He has mild defense training, but requests lessons.

Imogen considers the image before her, committing it to memory. Smooth skin, wide set monolid eyes like all of his bloodline, long dark hair arranged into an elaborate rope stretching down his back, and a tunic of shimmering green running from his neck to the floor, his figure largely hidden by the thick, draping fabric.

Rendezvous with Master Dakh will occur on Caiq, a secondary moon within the fourteenth Star Cluster from the center of the Hoag galaxy.

A zoom across several systems shows a route from an ambiguous location to a built up sphere, labeled Caiq.

Travel from Base will occur over the course of three Sol cycles. A suitable Guisekit has been prepared as per the client’s instructions, and additional downloads will be synced over the course of the trip. Preparations for departures are underway at Launchdeck…

…

“Hello, Imogen.”

This ambiguous face approaches, kind yellow-jade eyes staring. His mouth parts then shuts. Green-ish eyes, light brown hair like…–honey–

“Wren–lay?” I wish to calm the figure towering over me, to help him talk.

?

I extend a hand. “You are a— Builder.” I had heard of a Builder who looked like this. Builders were how I was made. How all metas were made.

“Ah! Yes…right it is–a pleasure.” Wrenlay seems to gain– composure– and grabs the extended hand, failing to shake it after the initial action. “It is good to see you. Ready for your assignment?”

“Yes. I must be.”

Wrenlay studies her face. He then retracts his hand to reach inside his hip pocket.

“Well, if you have a question, plug into this conductor; it should relay the message to me.” Extracting a miniscule dot from his pocket, he takes her wrist to place under the sleeve hem. “Take care.” He turns away as the rest of the group arrives in the shuttle bay.

Hm.

I face the exit, glancing over the faces parallel to her own. None we can recognize.

“Imogen, step onto the gold plate.”

We hear the Voice from above, obviously from a speaker. The ever-present, ever-invisible Voice. Through all her time on this place, we had been unable to glean anything about this being, despite the obvious power they hold over this place.

The plate is cool through Imogen’s foot pads. The gold is fused with green, the disk floor reflecting the green off this suit. This transport tube, magnetizing its cargo and conveying it to the adjacent disk, must have been an investment towards preserving more valuable metas.

“Transporting Imogen 1.”

A gel-like ring rises around our feet, encasing our torso soon after. A spark of fear shoots through the girl.

Breathe. The gel will not drown us.

Silence seeps into our ears with the gel. Then walls come up, and— figures blur as we are torn into space. Out of multiple doors. Away from a globular station, linked and stacked onto other globes, piled like Old Science DNA, stacks and stacks of them, the size of moons, some globes the size of planets. In that blip, we can’t see how it ends, where it went to, why it was. Wrapped around and flagellating outward, it stretches for entire seconds as we are catapulted through space, disappearing behind a star’s rays finally.

The gel, like– thick air, goes in and out of our lungs as we breathe. It is tiring to breathe.

Sleep

Second Dream

When They came.

The golden people who took away the sun.

The plains ran Red and dried to Brown.

The farms fell silent. After-

They came on black wings, wide and shadowy.

They hid the sun behind their wings.

We screamed in fear, but clamped our mouths, lest they hear.

Slowly, slowly, under the shadow, get away. Sneak past.

They are turned away, holding sharp things and making red.

They do not see us. Please Alfry let them not—

red

Red

RED

RED

RED

RED

RED

RED

RED

RED

RED

RED

RE

Day 95

I awake

A thing approaches

All is black

Black pours from my hand where I grip it tightly

Black outside

I still

Release my hand

I try to charge, but ship is low—

Hand eventually closes holes

I sleep

The Tale of Mora and Isobella II

Mora ran outside, the ship’s din drowning out her cries.

“Isobela! Isobela!! Sister mine—sister of my heart—why would you not tell me!

You hide in the night–weeping—I hear it! Why rob me of my just farewell!

I know I am young and foolish

I know I may beat your chest and tell you not to go

But I would bear it and obey your heart’s desire

Oh sister mine

Do not leave without looking at me and knowing I speak truth!!”

Fortunately Isobela saw and heard her sister, and she went out to embrace her. Mora did not beat her chest and plead, but they wept as their hearts broke—their robes twining in the desert wind.

“I must go sister.” Isobela at last whispered.

Mora was silent.

“I must go sister. Won’t you fare me well?” Isobela pleaded.

“Farewell.” The child spoke, then wrapped her arms tighter around the taller to speak what she had decided not to say.

Pained and silent, Isobela pushed away and boarded again.

Day 95 continued

Once we arrived, the transport mechanic on duty was over-occupied and curt at best, shoving us aside to toss a Meta into the podship for the return to The Facility. The by-way outside had been steep- in fact completely vertical.

We had fallen several stories before managing to grapple a wire on a half-finished level. Passing the layer of broken pipes and snapped wires, We pulled ourselves onto a flat stone/asphalt ground level. This level led onto an 20^th century West Earth-style street. The electric lamps glowed with the cheap resource. All these substances would have been plundered from remains of Earth, not directly of course, but from several junk planets down the line. All we needed to know was, this chunk held either Old Life fanaticists or the poor, who would have no choice but to live the Old Way.

Taking hold of one of the lampposts, we lift it to reveal the wiring underneath. This rudimentary energy source will do for now. Making the connection—we started to charge ourselves up. Lights flickered as we pulled what we could.

…

The Caiq moon sports several pleasure ships and Temple Grounds, but it is poor accommodation for a recharge. NAV is still acting up from the magnetization of the flight, As we pass down the “street,” the plastic windows show nothing. No noise emanates from the printed posts, the sponge lawns, the papery bushes, or other structures. The streets themselves are hollow, our footpads silently stepping. We pass silent houses, looking for a connector or elevator or stairs. A hole could even be used.

Impatient now, we start to run. We are meant to meet the heir within a half sol rotation. We dart down an adjacent street. The line of houses continue, much as the first. Uniform, grid-like. The projected sky is pocked with calm clouds. We leap, activating our suit’s adherence. A long distance we cross, but eventually we hear a light thwap upon landing on one of the cloud images.

Lowering our face from the blue surface, we peer around. Houses stretch far into the distance. There must be a barrier around this section. Dropping down, we leap forward, pelting ourselves towards the end. We leap several houses at once, advancing farther. There—that is not a real house. Tensing our knees, we meet the ground crouched and lift off, rippling the ground and jackknifing our body. We meet a wall like a bullet, tearing through to a frightened cluster of faces.

After the guards finally direct us to a lift, we ascend to the marketplace.

Marketplace Description Loading…

The sudden attention and interest of the passersby prompts us to activate the Night Mode on our suit, shifting to black.

We finally arrive at a worn-walled structure with blacklog exterior elements. Walking through a creaking doorgate, the noise ceases as the gate closes behind me. The corridor is lined with black velvet, leading to an archway hung with a curtain, through which voices are heard. It is to this entrance I head.

Day 95.5

(Warning: gore & violence)

A voice rises in greeting from behind the curtain; quiet and low. Another bass-tone voice cadences, rising in question. A scene unfolds as Imogen steps through the curtained archway. Men sit casually on the floor on various cushions, forming an oval, many of their eyes on one figure. A dark head of hair gleams as a pale, powdered visage turns away. Four men turn towards us, eyes sharp and speech paused.

The dark-haired man stands off the floor, unwrapping his appendages from a crouch. His robe unfurls, brushing against the floor as he crosses the room towards us. His face, watchful, considering, with wide set monolid eyes, regards us. The eyes hold a sliver of green. As he approaches, his robe sways around him, hinting at a broad and strong form. Eventually his cautious face hangs above our face, his figure towering over us.

This man, my ward, Prince Dakh of Morfang, recently converted Brother to the Byrakian Order, speaks.

“Are you recently arrived?”

I straighten myself, wanting to portray calm and respect, though uncertain of the meaning behind his question.

“I am. The attendant has been occupied I assume.” Our eyes flick to indicate a bent figure in the shadows, a tray of containers at the ready. It had been understood that an attendant was to meet us upon arrival at Caiq, but it had not been.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Shall I entertain?” I murmur.

The man before me hardens his face, jaw clamping momentarily. He frowns, glancing at an attendant. “He could use some help,” he bites out.

His reaction is surprising, as his father is known to appreciate the pleasures of meta company, particularly in pleasure. Perhaps his religious inclinations are a rebellion against that as well. We nod and head towards the crouched man.

Passing Prince Dakh, we feel the whispers of glances and hear mutters or suppressed chuckles from the crowd. I note a few Anarchists, or rebels to the Clan and other authorities, amongst the men present. Somewhat surprising. The attendant, after eyeing us over, gestures for us to pass through a door, hidden previously by tapestries. Inner chambers.

We re-enter the room decorated in a gown that had been awaiting in the chamber, our suit turned to “skin color” again. Conversation again pauses, this to examine the new “flesh” exposed, as surprisingly little as it is. The fabric pools around the chest, swooping up, joining on the shoulders, joining at the back until it splits into skirts. Most masters are quick to show their meta off in a gown no live woman could wear without blushing. This is a modest choice by comparison. Prince Dakh drinks his beverage, pointedly looking across to another man as I position myself beside his attendant.

The men continue, murmuring between themselves and across the ovular company. Voices rise, chorusing in eventual teasing of my employer, some even rising to tap him on the shoulder and knee, glancing in my direction. The drinks continue to be poured, the other attendant asking a hospitable question once or twice, directed towards the same four people, including my employer, Prince Dakh, the men on either side of him, and the man across from him. With each filled glass, this guest has become more raucous, though he keeps his face turned away from my view. All the other men stare when I approach, darkness pooling in their glassy gazes, smirking and muttering to this or that companion. None dare to touch me, property as I am to a guest, as Prince Dakh must be.. Despite the relaxed appearance of this company, I note the familiar hanging of hands by daggers or sheaths, most being visible, a few hidden behind sleeves.

As the time clocks at 00-00, a few men have poured themselves out of their seats, lying on the floor in a daze. The remaining party is crowding or leaning towards my employer, faces like letters, absurd and loud. With a signal from him, an upright man emerges from the shadows behind a tapestry. This man, with black garb to indicate his alliance with this establishment, carries a preternaturally long quill across his back, as sharp as his eyes. He advances to the middle of the group, his eyes at some point above my employer’s head.

“The evening has ended. Would you like to extend your stay?” Not too insistent, but clear in his question, just as he should be.

“We are done here. The transaction shall be conducted as agreed.” Prince Dakh responds, an edge of significance to his words.

“Acknowledged.” A shiver, near imperceptible, crosses the man’s face.

The figure retreats, catching my eyes as his rove around the room.

With the disappearance of the stranger back into the shadows, the conversations and inebriations pour onward. The attendant gestures for me to follow him. His browned skin and bleary eyes speak to decades of hard labor and sleepless nights in service of his masters, likely of the Morfang clan. He would be of the slave class, perhaps of a favored heritage if he were employed to protect an heir. The man struts out through a door to what must have been a courtyard, with walls and ceilings of curtains and carpets- some silky and soft as skin, some dusty and exuding the scent of smoke. Cries of pleasure emanate from hidden depths; hushed conversations pour from behind other drapes. He veers down a side passage, dark with overhanging fabric. He dips down a sudden staircase to our right- reaching underneath for a chest, clinking it open to reveal glinting daggers and a set of small pistols.

“Grab these small things then follow the way back. I will be along.” The stooped man murmurs.

The room is in chaos as I enter the passage adjacent to the first room. Some men shout in drunken joviality for “the woman” or “more entertainment” as far as I could discern in various languages. They generally seem to understand each other in this heightened state. As I enter, my employer is just mastering a smile his companions have evinced from their joking. He catches my eye as I resume my position, his face smoothing over again. His eyes search the darkness beside me, his eyes tightening at the empty space.

He turns away just as the first man falls. In the excitement, most of the guests don’t notice. I see the quill sticking out of his neck however, the same one that the man before had carried. I draw closer to my employer, watching the party; the men on either side of him do the same. As a few men notice their companion, one man, tall and red-faced, springs toward the four of us. His head meets a sword pulled from the left man’s pocket.

Others spring forward, a few meeting with my grip, cutting off circulation enough to stun or meeting an arched foot placed in a particularly soft spot. Those who break through are felled by my daggers or the guards’ swords. We retreat as the onslaught continues, pushed towards a corner of deep black velvet folds and depths. Pushing me towards the bloody party, my employer yells, “Initiate Omega security protocol.”

The flood of hardness, red and angry, is unfamiliar and unwanted, but my reviews and training have prepared me for this. I am to dispatch, either by serious maiming or death, the entirety of the party who present danger to my employer, and so, I do. Blood pours from the men I touch, in various ways. I do not take particular note of it, but it is done quickly, much more quickly than I would have been able to do before... Afterwards. I straighten, assessing the approaching offenders which had yet to attack.

Three to the right have assumed a triangle, placing the strongest to the right, likely to follow my ward while I would be occupied with the other two. I recognize him from a database of local Anarchists, particularly brutal in his tactics. An unassuming man to the left, peering out from behind a woven wall is likely to take any opportunity to slip behind us when able. He is not visible on my records, but he is present and so must be dispatched or disabled.

The rightmost man falls with the force of my thrown dagger, implanted in his throat. The remaining two fall with a sweeping kick, and I dispatch them swiftly and surely. The man hurrying from behind the tapestry towards us is momentarily distracted enough for us to have time to throw a bottle at him. He staggers; a hand planting its blade into my flesh. I grab onto his wrist with both hands, and a scream rips from him as I detach the limb from its owner.

Having halted all the attackers present, I fling myself after my ward.

Day 96

The courtyard is thrown in uproar as I enter, and items seized in the chaos glint as people run past me. Voices rise as I approach, ceasing upon our entry into the clearing. Master Dakh stands there, face white against the pitch sky, robe billowing with the air currents. He turns to me, face impassive and tight.

“The Wing is approaching.”

The shrouded guards hover by him, hard faces glaring my way. A hum ensues, specks of light pinging across the field. The aircraft hums into sight, silencing as it stops directly above us. The matte gray exterior opens a door down, rather traditional, revealing a slim figure awaiting inside. We crowd around it, Master Dakh stepping forward naturally. As he leads us inside, he commands: “Imogen, begin piloting sequence.” I see the other figures stiffen, but they do not speak.

I looked around for the corridor, but no – fazing is the best option.

My fingers melt through the cold wall as I pour myself into the ship. The hand and blade still attached to my torso hold me up, but I quickly remove the blade, and the foreign blood staining my suit, as well as the dress, fall behind me as I faze into the ship. I hear conversation erupt behind me as I leave. Hm.

The control room is above. Fazing into the room, we join with the awaiting console to initiate departure. We feel the footsteps onto the dock, as if the passengers are dolls along our back. I glance through the ships “eyes” to make sure of our cargo, noticing the extra guard surrounding Master Dakh, which must be the attendant. Assured, I begin the decontamination process and slide into engine warm-up.

The ship creaks together, as if cracking its knuckles and knees before the jump. It rises into the air, hovering as decon closes out. Lines of men and women, mostly men, crowd out of decon, most only wrapped in the standard cloth sarong provided with decon. Many proceed toward the direction of the mess, seeming to settle into activity there. The ship’s “eyes” catch Master Dakh leaving decon, looking noticeably more covered up than the others, only his head and hands exposed. He enters a command just as I take the bend behind another nearby moon to the satellite.

Evasion successful, We remove from the navigation system. As I float out the deck, we look around, seeing a blur of beige and brown as the guards surround me.

Prince Dakh starts upon seeing us emerge, then silently takes his seat. He waves off the guards, some who leave the room.

I turn and stride away from command towards him, as if emerging from the ocean, the warm pool of control mechanisms fading off from our body. A few men twitch, as if tempted to tackle us, but they restrain themselves. Employer Prince Dakh regards us.

“I’m going to have to dismiss a lot of people now that you’re here.” His face betrays displeasure despite his neutral tone.

Glancing through the newly uploaded roster, I reply “Many of them will have no trouble finding positions, even without a recommendation.”

That “start” again. Prince Dakh rejoins, “That was what I was going to do, but I assume you have a profile uploaded about me. It’s a little unnerving, you knowing so much about me when-” He blanches. “Anyway, we have a stop to make for my—crew. I have to send them off at somewhere they can—leave from-” His measured voice stops.

His forehead is creasing, along with his glabella. He seems to be working through a…thought.

He seems to care for…his…crew? He says the word crew the way one says…tribe or family.

“Perhaps we shall go to Patoon, Prince Dakh?”

“Don’t–” He is angry, but he then swallows it. He becomes thoughtful, his jaw muscle rubbing away. Eventually, he peers up at us, seeming confused. He opens his mouth, closes it.

“Are you saying- why would you-” He eyes us in silence. His face softens, a faint smile forming, “Are you trying to-”

The door opens, cutting the softness in his face off with it. He turns toward the young man hovering/synonym at the entrance with the pile of papers grasped in his lengthy hands. Prince Dakh’s face softens and lifts again.

“Ah! Simon. Welcome, welcome.”

Day 96.5

The man Simon, his pockmarked face screwed around his mouth, lopes forward, his eyes staring off into the distance, glancing over me shrewdly as he turns to Employer Prince Dakh.

“Them papers, sir.”

“Right, Simon.” His face turns pale as he glances over the second page. “What-not again!?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. Blew out yesterday. They done ticked and tucked it, but she’s getting up there you know…”

“Very well- I’m afraid,” He turns back to me, “I must utilize your repair services sooner than hoped. There is too much danger in one of ours operating on the ship in motion. There is,” passing the paper to me, “some weakened sinews in the delterior lattice. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” He nods to me handing me some papers.

We nod, scanning the document for other relevant information. “It seems there are a few points of weakness and muscular disrupture which beg my attention. Do you have a spec-”

“Ah yes! That would be in our medic parlor; We altered our— outlay– some.” Simon gives a nervous glance towards my employer. “For no particular reason. That’s on page... As you can see, we prefer to keep such records in purely cellulose format for obv—for other unimportant reasons.” He frowns, keeping himself tightly silent.

“Thank you Simon.” Prince Employer Dakh covers his amusement with sternness, burying it deeper as he turns to me. He likes this man, this Simon, but he does not trust me. “You should follow Simon’s example and simply address me as sir, at all times unless directed otherwise, understood?” The traces of softness from earlier still remain, despite his efforts.

I bow slightly in acknowledgment, a gesture of politeness, amongst his clan. “Sir.”

The faces present betray some amusement despite themselves. “No need for that either. It is important to me to remain inconspicuous as much as possible. Address me as sir unless we have left the ship–then do not address me as anything–agreed?”

“Yes, sir.”

Several emotions are at war over Sir Dakh’s face. “Dismissed.” He chokes out. “And you guards, direct her and assist if necessary, acknowledged?”

A deep murmur echoes, and I leave, the men warily following.

…

The gash in the lattice was even worse than had been reported; so many other tendons being so close to rupturing necessitated significant attention as well. The scanned document had reported another issue, but I was low on charge with the extensive repairs. Pouring out of a wall, I hear a clatter to my left. A young girl had been startled and dropped her burden to the floor.

Knowing I may further alarm her, I advance steadily, introduce myself, and slowly explain what I was doing. She stares at me, particularly my face, with her deep green eyes. She is bigger than me in height and build. She slowly pulled her right hand out from beneath a makeshift apron.

“You had better not emerge that same way again. I would have shot you if I hadn’t fallen.” She aggressively yanks skirts out from underneath her.

“I am sorry. I had thought this hall was empty”

Again, a piercing look at my eyes. Her brown lips slant upwards, “You look like you could use some grub, as my fiancé calls it. What do you eat, you little thing?” She gives a smile. “I could rustle up something in the mess hall.”

Collecting a few pommes and handing them to her, I rejoin, “Thank you, but…rest calls me. I hope to taste some of your food another time.”

“Taste! Well, I…” She glances over my face again, “Oh. Oh!! You’re her-that’s why I didn’t recognize you. I see-well if you’re willing to try my food, I’ll make sure you like the taste.” The girl scrunches up her mahogany face in mischief.

“Thank you…um…”

“My name’s Blu- though the Captain–Dakh– calls me Bluqyris because he’s a washboard.” She chuckles then notes my confusion. “Oh-sorry-he’s a bit…formal-proper. Not a bad thing! I have had much worse to worry about in employers.” A stark anger passes through her face, flashing away in a moment. “But, that’s another story. Well, I’ll let you get rested or whatever. What are you called?”

“Imogen.”

“Imogen.” She smiles softly. “I like it.”

Prologue

The Sea was what the Lovers of Land now called us. They had long forgotten that they had sprung from both Land and I, eons before, from our first union. They had forgotten when their ancestors had played alongside those that had first chosen us and grown the wings to fly through our depths. Those who lived and loved in us had started to forget the Land as well, though it had taken them longer. They slowly changed, from their joyful swinging, swishing, and dancing in the flowing greens near our surface to retreating more and more to our darkness. They started changing in ways that seemed to frighten the Lovers of Land who encountered them.

Conflicts sprung up between our children to “protect and preserve.” For what end they spilled their brother’s and sister’s blood flowed out of my children’s minds as the tides passed. Centuries and generations flew on, with stories of the past changing like the Land I had continued to caress. Still, there were old “places,” as Land would have it called, that I had asked my children to honor and keep sacred. Land must have done the same, for I knew them to remain untouched. I had long avoided the pull of returning back to my old ways, though it pained me. Land had resisted as well, though they would show clear pleasure where I still touched them. But the blood which continued to stain my depths, which must also have flowed on Land, was a frequent reminder, to deny ourselves.

I

Mennelra

The sea-winds had been howling as long as Vinna had been stationed to patrol Gríðr fortress’s perimeter. At times it seemed as if the entire pile of gray stones they called Gríðr castle would pitch into the water headlong, meeting a fate perhaps long awaited, the marriage of land and sea.

Vinna scopes out the far gate from her position- as always, seemingly clear. Checking the near shore, the water beat viciously upon the cliff, but as yet no other forms distinguished themselves from the froth. Sighing and rolling her laden shoulders, Vinna lets herself relax, eyes drifting to the distant horizon, but her periphery trained on the water below. She suppresses a twitch as a pair of reflective orbs emerge from the water, then blink out of sight a moment later. The old trick still works I see…

Vinna remembers, back when she was a youth too solemn and boyish for the men of her village, and her eldmor was in a bad way, so could not do marital negotiations, it was decided for her to come to Gríðr and train to be a watchergirl. She learned from the Keeper designated this very spot- a tall woman with a graying braid and frowning mouth, that trick of seeming ignorance or “not-noticing.” Perhaps she had “not-noticed” too well, as she had died a month later.

Continuing to pretend distraction, Vinna detects four figures that seem to stay constant in the waves. The silhouettes are seemingly masculine, although she is not certain if her fellow people’s considerations of sex apply as strictly to these creatures of the sea, the Mennelra. The four shapes seem to face one another, as if speaking. Perhaps a fight? In her experience, these beings were easy to fight with one another, having witnessed many a brutal slashing of scaly faces. The four seemed to be continuing their congress for some time…perhaps a distraction while others climbed hidden…unlikely as they do hate to get dry. Just to be safe, Vinna glints her signaling mirror at the upper balcony of the next garret, to look out. A few moments later, a hurried glint swings back. Asleep on duty as usual she thinks to herself, lips curling despite herself What am I to do with this lot? Before being able to send back the reprimanding glint, she sees the shower of sparks flit between her upper garrets. It seems that Wittol and his gang had, as per usual, caught what she had already observed, albeit with some delay. As the chain of watchers worked, she was to observe what she did, then send her directions as she so chose, but this lot seemed to take great delight in showering the enemy with clues in the effort to catch her up and, laughingly, surpass her.

Checking the creatures’ position, she found them, to her great surprise, to be much in the same spot. They’ve been there way too long! This has to be some sort of trap or something…Jerking towards the adjacent garrett, she is met with the denial of any sightings. The watcherboy she had placed there, though not fully-trained, had a sharp eye. If he hasn’t seen anything then…what is this??

Snatching her telescope, Vinna peers into the distant waters. Just waves, waves, and then-she saw- Hearing the twang of prepared bows, she whirled to see that Wittol had readied the upper levels to strike the four figures nearby. She rushed to signal. NO. STAND DOWN. NO EARLY SHOTS. A silent darkness descended. She strained to catch any, any glint in the night sky. Perhaps they are fumbling for the mirrors in the night wind She thought desolately. She had seen a mass of shapes out there, she thought. Her pale hair flicked in front of her eyes as she craned out to see. There had been something- a solid where there should be liquid. There- then- there- then…Great Sárr the Wounded. Ranks upon ranks of the Mennelra’s strange shape were within the waves only a league away, her eyes and the shape of the waves told her.

Vinna’s armor wore heavier than before, if possible. She felt something that she did not allow herself to feel most nights. The darkness closed in. The cold ate her. The rushing pounded in her ears. If anyone made a mistake now, they were as good as dead. She was as good as dead. She knew. I pray to the great Reiðr for strength and accuracy, and for Modir and Lov to take care that most of my body will reach my village to be buried. Eldmor will mourn and bury me as she did Mor and For. The sea remains dark and the wet cold creeps into her very bones. Glancing up, a hasty and angry flash glides just across her face before disappearing on her ear, not allowing a speck of light to escape onto the water. He has a sharp signal, I’ll give him that, She thought, allowing a crack of levity in her fear. She turns in time to see the group of four doing a strange dance. A signal of their own perhaps? She glimpses out into the sea, the mass continues its chilling approach, too far away to shoot at. The adjacent watcherboy swipes an apologetic glint, having detected the formation finally. She subtly signals for him to retire to the castle and get the armory ready.

Returning to the dance, Vinna notices a new phase of movements had started…Perhaps a ritual? They gesture down then up with…almost reverence? Side, side, circle,up, down, side, side, flip, spin, side, side…Shaking herself away, she checks her weapon. The upper grade crossbow had been bestowed upon her after achieving her Tenanthood,but had started to become finicky after she had risen to Keeper. The harsh temperatures up here sometimes froze the strings where the coating wore thin. Rubbing along, she let out a slow sigh, so as not to signal her presence with a stream of foggy air. Peeking at the group again, she catches them diving deep, seeming to finish their strange movements. Looking out the ocean, she feels sinking at the disappearance of what she had distinguished of the mass. They had all gone below- to hide And wait us out. She growled.

The waiting is almost worse.

II

Red Water

The Mennelra had yet to surface; and the sun had risen and fallen six times already. All the areas of possible entry had been secured, and all Tenants and Keepers had been wearing full gear and stocked weapons since the Mennelra had disappeared.

“They want us at each other’s throats.” Chief Keeper Breyam rumbles. “They are likely to strike at any time. Their food won’t last forever.”

The other Keepers murmur an assent, some grimacing. All habits of the Mennelra are looked at with disgust, including the consumption of fish and other sea beings. So despite its proximity to said sea beings, local farms supplied the grain, meat, and other supplies for the Gríðr stronghold.

“We should coordinate the arrival from Mitin Farm earlier this time, speaking of food.” Vinna rises to continue. “Also, the incident from this morning scattered much grain. We must replenish tomorrow instead of the planned day.” The idea to receive smaller batches of their food supply- so that unloading needed fewer hands and less time- in case of an attack, had been hers. An idea that had worked fairly well until this morning’s brawl. A watcher had seemingly stood too close to Tenant Wittol, he attempted a blow, another Tenant rose to the watcher’s defense, and a fight had ensued. A couple barrels were damaged, and she had to order Wittol, and the other, Mork, to guard below the castle.

“Now if we have Mitin’s people come in early morning, after daybreak, and right after the shift change- the old shift can unload before-” She pauses, thinking she might have heard something. Nothing. Shaking off her nerves, “-Can unload before they-” The gong resounds through the cracked door of the meeting. A held breath freezes everyone for a moment. Silent prayer. Readiness. Then, everyone grabs what little they had let off themselves to make comfortable for the meeting. It is more silent than one would think, as the men and women walk out to where the alarm had signaled an attack. Buckles are closed. Skirts are secured. Weaponry is checked. Runes are whispered over. Lanterns are seized and lit. All is done quietly and efficiently.

The alarm still echoes from a nearby entry to the undercastle, and Vinna feels a heaviness settle. She had not wanted to order Mork down, but he had intervened in a wrongful manner, as did not befit the Code. She pushes the thought away as they start down.

The stairs, fabricked with worn and patterned material, are wet and steep. They can hear cries from Tenants echoing below them. They were likely supping when the alarm had sounded, and they had gone down. They’ve come to understand our timing more. Vinna thinks grimly. Clenching her gauntlet and knives, she feels every detail. The strange symbols and rusted metal items on the wall. Roars and shouted orders. The familiar symbol which indicates the end is- a woman’s hand rests around the bend, the body obscured.

The Keepers bolt into the first room of the undercastle, sloshing the red watery floors. Then bodies meet their boots, and glowing eyes meet theirs. There are two lanterns teams of Tenants are defending to light the passageway. Light glimmers off of slimy skin and metal.

A part of Vinna disappears when in battle. There is nothing but what is in front of her, the world of blood and water and knives. She charges at the closest pair of eyes she can see.

III

Daybreak

“It is a fortunate thing for the rest of us, that deathwish of yours.” Breyam muses, wiping his axe with his glovecloth next to Vinna.

She stares at the faces of Wittol and Mork, having been turned up from their facedown position. The Mennelra had been, all the time they had been waiting for them to resurface, finishing what must have been a clearly multi-year process of weakening the highest gate by deepening a fissure they had furrowed into the exterior tunnel.

It was Wittol that had rung the alarm, or partly, as he had been struck from behind before giving it the full yank. That was the weak signal Vinna had caught. He had left Mork to fend their ambushers off, though he was definitely the broader of the two. He was a frustrating bastard like that, likely due to being a village head’s son. And Mork, idealist that he was, was an underfed farmer’s son at the end of the day. He could barely read the Code when he first came to Gríðr. Now, here they were, made equal by death. She thought of how their villages would wail for them, once they had gotten their bodies.

“You’re not wise to go down that way, Keeper Vinna.” Breyam had stayed behind after the battle had reached its bloody conclusion to ensure she stopped. Just stopped. She always still had the wildness inside her after battle. She had scratched herself bloody or maimed herself in other ways, to feel pain, other times. She had taken to knocking herself out to force sleep, but Breyam had reprimanded her when he had found out, some years back, threatening to send her home, which he had known would make her listen.

Vinna doesn’t respond. The next round of watchers comes, taking more bodies to be buried, eventually hauling Wittol and Mork too, away from her sight.

*

Breyam keeps Vinna on her trajectory up the stairs. The burly man, once a tall and smiling boy, had started as a watcher around the same time as Vinna, and knows Vinna’s mind well, her tendency to fix on one thing and not let it go, even when she wants to. Reaching her door, he turns, “I took the liberty of asking around for some ‘help’ for you.”

Vinna jerks herself a little out of her mind, letting an eyebrow try to arch, unsure which one as her entire head hurts. “Help? I arrange my own comfort men, you know this.” Tenants and Keepers often need to lay after battle, to calm their body, or to celebrate living another day.

Breyam holds up his hands, “I found out one, more remote, who is said to heal with his hands, from what I hear.” He makes a massaging motion in the air, which Vinna rolls her eyes to.

“Ugh-you-” Vinna’s limbs ache with a sudden fierce surge which knocks her protests back into her throat. Sheepishly Vinna grumbles, “Heals with his hands you say?”

Breyam’s face splits with a mirthful grin. “That’s what they say. And,” He leans in a little bit. “I have another waiting for me who’s said to heal with his mouth. Perhaps they are related.” He winks as Vinna feels her mouth twitch in unwitting amusement. She can’t even chuckle. Not sure how she’s going to enjoy anyone touching her.

“You’re off-duty for a day. Enjoy the man. I’ll certainly be enjoying mine.”

“Gods protect him.”

Breyam’s roaring laugh as he retreats down the hall hurts her ears almost as much as his greatly tamped down strike does her ribs, but Vinna very much does not regret her jest, as she enters her room.

IV

Oddr

“Gods’…blessings…”

“Oddr.” His eyes wander over to her nose at last, with some persuasion. She notices he has trouble meeting gazes, though it hasn’t mattered much up to that moment. “I would not have you cast out when I could do a kindness instead. However, I must have your honesty.” His eyes finally meet hers. “What did Breyam say to you?”

Oddr’s eyes flickered, but then settled, seeming to be defeated. “He said that-if I would please you, if you were ah…am-a-men-able that I would be well-looked after during my time here. I may be able to earn a landright-even.” Something steals across his face then, which he quickly suppresses, but which Vinna thinks she recognizes.

“Oddr…are you- promised to anyone?”

His eyes fall, and a dull “No.” is emitted.

Vinna nods knowingly. So that’s how it was. “You wish to earn a landright for another’s hand?”

Oddr’s eyes still, unsure how to respond. Eventually, a cautious, “Aye.”

Vinna nods. “I cannot help you with the landright- as I myself do not have enough to do so for you and myself, but” She leans back, stretching her sore form out, “I have a thought of how you might bend your lover-to-be toward you, as it were. No- don’t shake your head. I was once a young woman you know.” Vinna’s grin lights the young face ablaze again.

“Y-you are still- M’Lady.” His gaze had heated, though his gaze stays locked to her knees out of shyness.

“Mm. Well- I have ideas as to other shows of gratitude for this guidance, but I will soon need information on your beloved.”

Oddr proves eager on both fronts.

V

Under-Standing

“It is rather annoying to have your employer and confidante sneak a husband onto you when you have determined to remain alone.”

Breyam glances up from his blades, pausing in his sharpening. “Well good evening to you as well. I see you have enjoyed your time with Oddr-” He glances out at the grilled window to the waning light outside.

“I had some matters to discuss with him before sending him home.”

“Home?” Breyam sets his work down on the papers laid before him, alert now. “There will be no sending him home. He is to-”

“He is bound to me, and so he is to obey me, before any contract. He is to barter a deal with a family in the area. Merchants. Lyfier Clan. We are in need of some additional supplies if we are to reinforce the gates below.”

Breyam’s brows furrowed. “I have that already planned out. We will reinforce the upper levels first, then-”

“But what if they were to bring more next time? What if they found another weakness for these structures? We need to seal the undercastle-”

“No.” Breyam drew himself up. “That must not be done.”

“Why not? It never made sense Breyam-the undercastle provides no advantage to us- only to them.”

“It is not something I can explain to you.” Breyam evaded, like he always did when she brought this up. “The laird of this castle was very clear, and the rites bestowed-”

“Rites? Surely you are not speaking of pagan games when we are speaking of lives-”

“I know well what we speak of, Vinna.” Breyam’s firmness is shifting into anger.

“Then why mention rites when there are burial rites still to do? Why speak of superstitions when we live above the blood of so many?” Vinna’s voice echoes on the stone as she becomes more agitated. “Do not speak to me of what a dead man has made law- Why- How can you-”

“This is not -Stop this!” Breyam pauses, stone-faced. “Stop. Do you even know how many were killed in our last three exchanges with the Mennelra?”

“No, but-”

“Then how many in the past three winters? What about in the past thirty? Forty?” Breyam’s hands had started to twitch in anger. “Do you know of those?”

“No.”

“I know them all. I know them well. The numbers are all here.” He brings out a worn pamphlet from his satchel, pausing to hold it, then throwing it at the table in between them. “It is all there.” Vinna takes it up, feeling confused as names she had forgotten about, or tried to forget, show themselves, one after another, carefully noted down in Breyam’s hand. “I have not forgotten, though you might.” Here Breyam’s words make her jolt, ashamed. “There are 469 in all. Maybe not as many other strongholds have given to the Sea, but 469 more than I wish there were.” Here Vinna looks up, surprised. “Yes, I don’t like it. I don’t- I never wished to be responsible for when men and women might die, but- but better I than you.”

“What do you mea- Breyam- tell me you didn’t-” Vinna had always wondered- she could have ascended beyond a Keeper already, but, over the years, that conversation had never happened.

“I did not do anything the Council would disapprove of, but you know-” Breyam holds his breath, becoming careful. “You know-you would break…I mean…”

Vinna bows her head. She knew that years of this should have calloused her. She shouldn’t crumple, like a child, like she had snuck away to do after Oddr had gone to sleep. She had found herself going to the undercastle- thinking of the deaths she had caused and the bloodshed after. She shouldn’t have any soft parts, but she knew she did, and that, eventually, it would kill her.

“Perhaps it was also my willfulness.” Breyam mouth bends, an attempt at mirth. “I would rather my friend not die somewhere far away from me. I would-” He turns away, losing his speech for a moment. Vinna realizes. So that is why she had never been sent away, to be Chief Keeper elsewhere. She is not sure how to feel. He turns back. “I would rather you be- be nearby-when…” Breyam’s eyes overflow.

“As would I.” Vinna’s heart surges, and she goes to rest a hand on his arm. It did not matter now. “As would I, friend. To the end, remember?”

“To-” Breyam’s light flares, but he douses it, becoming grave.

At last, “Do you know how many of the Mennelra have died in the last 40 years?”

Vinna blinks, “I’m not sure- some hundred I imagine. Wh-”

“469”

“Hm?”

“469 Mennelra. Dead.” He looks at Vinna, bracing.

VI

Secrets & Curses

“469-but that- no-” Vinna turns toward the window- “That’s not possible. How can you be sure- I mean- it’s-” She turns back. “Surely you’re mistaken. You’re mistaken. There’s no way to know that anyway. It-” She looks down at the pamphlet, then starts to flip pages. First there were names, new, complete, then half names. Then just numbers. Then. 4M -reported by H. 12M- reported by-It went on like this- M meaning Mennelra with the watchers or others who burned or buried them labeled. Reports. Hundreds. Information Breyam couldn’t have known on his own.

“The other Chief Keepers.” Her voice sounds distant.

“They did not know- they might not have wanted to know. I found some records here and there and…eventually…”

“Eventually.”

They stand together in this impossible secret.

“What- what could this- the rites-”

Breyam shudders. “I do not even wish to speak of it. It is something beyond-” He shudders again. “I am not sure what the Mennelra know either. It is something-” Breyam seems to shake himself back into the present. “Do you know- about twenty years ago, before we came- they tried what you are suggesting.”

Vinna feels a cold prickle. “I had not heard.”

“Yes…Volar- Ah Chief Keeper Vol was- he had closed the door on that.”

“Closed…the door?”

“Yes. There was…an incident.”

“An…Incident.”

“Yes. The-the rites… something happens when the undercastle becomes closed off.”

“Something?” Vinna knows Breyam’s stomach holds when it comes blood and guts, but he looks truly frightened. “Breyam-wh-”

“Something cursed-it-the men who he showed me, that they were able to retrieve, they had-hurt themselves…”

“Hurt themselves?? Why??”

“I have some idea.” He looks sickened. “It-they had thrown themselves into the water to stop- to get away from-” He starts to sweat and goes to sit down.

“To get away? What was there to get away from?”

Breyam will not look at her. “To die, to stop doing whatever the curse made them do.”

Vinna considers this. Under no circumstances would a watcher or Keeper ever ever Ever go into the Sea of their own will. That water had long been considered a source of weakness. Even bathwater was brought in from freshwater nearby- needing to come from the mountains. It had been something she had just had to get used to when coming to the tower. Seawater was cursed- but why? Why was that what I had been told?

“You aren’t being truthful.”

Breyam didn’t respond.

“Breyam.”

“We are not sealing the undercastle.”

“Breyam - if we don’t, more will die.”

“No! More will die if we seal it.”

“Then-” Vinna could not believe what she was about to say. “Then we must show them this. And hold a cease-fire.” She holds up the pamphlet.

Breyam stirs, finally looking up. “What?”

“We must show them this- and leave Gríðr castle. That is the only way to avoid any more death. To stop killing Mennelra.”

Breyam slowly picks his blades up from the table. “Vinna” Rising. “Give me the pamphlet.”

Vinna stares in shock, finally mustering, “No.”

“Vinna.” Breyam looks empty and sad. “Vinna.”

Coldly, Vinna realizes she had not brought her main weapons.

“Vinna-We cannot leave just like that.”

Vinna is slow as she steps back. She can hardly believe that he would threaten her. “Breyam-”

“Don’t-” His blade comes up- sharp but shaking. “Please don’t make me choose.”

“We must stop all this, can’t you see? Breyam- what else are you not telling me?” She finds herself shaking, knowing how quickly Breyam could move despite his size.

“I can’t risk it. I don’t know who has or hasn’t.”

“Who-” She’s committed the shape of the door onto her mind. If she just times it- “Who has-what?”

In that split second where he thinks how to respond- she springs back towards the door, praying her outstretched hand would catch wood. Breyam’s blade- flies through the air- pain, but she has the door.

Breyam’s large form meets the door as she swings it behind her. She is in the corridor, flying past the dining hall. A wall of people is ahead; she swings around a corner. There too- there are people- if they catch her- she might be searched. She must not be.

Vinna turns, looking down- to the undercastle.

VII

Dark Depths

The stairs have dried with the blood, men and Mennelra, and Vinna’s hurried feet find grip in the red coating. They had not even cleaned it off yet. Her stomach turns as her chainmail starts to turn cold.

She descends to that spot that she knows to be halfway- when the strange symbols start- in blood.

Human or otherwise? Vinna thinks, looking closer at them than she had in years. What exactly were these rites? Vinna had avoided hearing about the strange subject, preferring to keep her mind occupied with how to keep alive- how to prepare. What there was to do. Training, eating. A new wave of watchers to look after. Junior Keepers to keep in line. Breyam couldn’t have run after me without it raising too many questions. Won’t be long now. The chill in the air told her she was almost at the end, at the water. First she had to find that passage with tunnels- there was-

Wait- what was that?

She pauses. There had been sound, the sound of someone who was stepping around in the water. Was there anyone else down here? Impossible. The watchers had grabbed all the bodies, and if no one had come to clear the steps then there would be no one.

A sound echoes again- quickly stifled, only slightly louder than the water rippling in the tunnels. Now she could not be mistaken; someone had stepped heavily into the water. The way ahead was blocked.

Vinna remembers some vague tale about vertical passages to the undercastle- as there was no other way they would have been able to get here before her. The party’s eyes would have trouble adjusting if that was how they came, if they even existed. She must move carefully, as she might just be able to see better than whoever was there- torch-free as she had been going.

The way above would be blocked too; she must continue. She edges into the water, letting it rise up over her foot. Staying close to the wall, she looks out to see any shape in the darkness. Nothing at first- then a shadow- just slightly darker. Then two.

There was a whirring sound, getting louder, then, a pause as another shadow falls in behind the two. So there were such passages.

As if hearing her thought, the bigger shadow turns- looking in the direction of the stairs- then starts towards them.

Vinna moves as it moves- trying to match her movements to the ripples it created. The edge of the room was a tunnel, but she knew it only stopped further down. There was one- if she could just get-

“Tenant Shostram-we know you’re there.” Breyam’s voice rings out.

Vinna almost slips. Shostram? The sick one?

“Shostram, you know you can’t keep coming back here.”

Vinna knew Keeper Shostram was in his bed this morning- as he often was after a battle. Breyam. Vinna’s heart sinks. You…

“He’s surely gone back up Chief.” One of the shadows speaks. “He wouldn’t have been able to get down here that quick anyhow.”

“Perhaps. Light a torch and do a search to be sure.”

Vinna tightens her fists, knowing she only had a small opening before she could get out of sight. With the torches they wouldn’t mind how they moved, and her movements would be covered by their sounds. Breyam…

The pamphlet was tucked in her pocket. She could leave it somewhere, before she left. But do the other two know about it? What would it mean if they found it before Breyam did and recognized his hand? What would he do?

She works her way to the tunnel as the men grab the torches on either side of the bottom step. They make quick work with their flamekits. There’s no time-unless- Vinna lowers herself into the water, shuddering as she does so.

VIII

Prison Cage

Vinna is lighter without her weapons, but her arms and legs ache from the weight of her wet clothing and mail, as well as from yesterday. A few times, the searchers had come close to her, but by crouching in the water, they missed her each time. She had made it down a few branches of tunnel, not managing to get down to a lower gate. She had lost track of the hours now- it must be almost morning. She was almost tempted to drink the water she was coated in.

I will not last long.

She had started to simply stay in one spot- in a corner of one of the tunnels she had turned down, submerged in the water and face covered with a cloth. Surely I will die down here.

Through the cloth she sees a small form come towards her with the torch. Distantly she wonders if her cloth would show the outline of her face if the torch came close enough. The shape stops before her, torch turning to each side. It remains silent.

“Chief!” One of them calls. “There’s no trace of him in the usual spots.”

“Very well. He must have gone back up then.”

“You think so? I would have seen him I thought…unless…”

Breyam remains silent.

“Perhaps- do you think…?”

“Better check then.” Breyam grunts.

The two torches, clearly tired, start cursing Shostram for keeping them from their beds. They all pass by Vinna- heading down a dark branch she had not yet reached. Breyam follows behind, slowly. Then he pauses. His torch went up and down one, two, three times. A signal. Vinna feels her strength return with a surge.

Breyam continues on, and when Vinna is sure they wouldn’t hear, she gets up to follow the party.

The way gets colder as she goes, but eventually Vinna feels a breeze. Outside. She got to a gate- left open. Vinna goes through, as silently as she can. This tunnel isn’t one she knew about.

Finally, there were the three figures, standing next to a set of bars, as far as she could see. Vinna sinks down to the side of the tunnel, covering her face again.

“Shostram would not have been able to get through here. Even he’s too large for this.”

“Armor on he couldn’t have.” Breyam.

“Are you saying-” The disgust is palpable. This water was- like all seawater-unclean- “Well- I suppose nothing is off-limits- for him.”

Breyam sighs. “Alright. Well- it doesn’t look like the grime has been shifted. Not unless he crawled through the water.” The two torches shudder. “Still, he must have turned back- up the stairs.”

“They should have sent someone then.”

“Well you two were to be down here for the night anyway- remember? Speaking of- should be change-over soon- let us go back.”

They all pass her again, but Breyam’s torch stays steady as he leaves.

*

The echoes had long died down, but Vinna had stayed still. She knew what she must do, what Breyam had essentially told her to do, but she was tired. She had barely slept or eaten for the past two days.

Long numb, Vinna starts to take off her clothes, putting them through the bars as she goes. Then she squeezes through them herself, below water, like he had said, grimacing as her slippery flesh peels off the grime. Once through- she pauses before redressing. My armor. Should I leave it? What lay ahead-outside- may require it. Resigned, she picks it up, along with the rest of the bundle, deciding to carry it as she does not need to crouch in the water anymore.

“I’ll have to find somewhere to dry this.” She murmurs to herself.

IX

Through Strange Eyes

It holds its skin in its hands. I have never seen one without skin.

It has scars on its underskin , from killing my brothers. I hate It.

It smells different from the other three- wretched creature

It is smaller too- why would they make It fight?

It seems to be running

It is not running from us- but from them- three that are like It

Why?

Vinna- pauses- having the sense that Something else is in the tunnel. But that would be impossible. Shaking her head, she hobbles exhaustedly forth.

The tunnel opens after some distance into an overgrown field, populated with dramatically tall bushes. But nowhere to light a fire and hang my gear. I have to go further. Vinna struggles on, pausing behind a bush to drape her shift over herself. I probably won’t encounter anyone else out here, but, just in case. She straps a shortblade around her waist, keeping the sheath by her free dominant hand. I’ll have to switch sides to carry these things eventually. Ugh- later.

The field stretches far enough that Vinna takes all day to traverse it. She fortunately finds some berries and other greens to eat. Good thing I grew up by a forest. Vinna’s Eldmor had been of the Vol- a woman of mystical talents, and she had used herbs often in her work. She had taught Vinna much of what grew from the Earth. I now wish she had taught me more of men, and perhaps of non-men too.

Vinna carefully withdraws the worn pamphlet from her satchel. I had better dry this. She slowly unsticks the pages. It’s miraculous that the writing hadn’t been entirely destroyed from the water-

Vinna notices the symbols then, lining the book’s cover. Runes. Many of them she recognized, but some she did not. Breyam must have etched these in. She takes a closer look. Protection from elements. Keeping safe from harm. Protect the wearer- what is this? If Breyam knew these symbols- if they worked- why were we not using them on our armor- our gear- With a chill- she remembers: 469 Mennelra dead. 469 of us dead. What could it mean?

With a weary sigh, Vinna lays the book down and finishes the last of the berries she found. She is near the forest edge now. She has to find a place to rest. If she hadn’t been slogging through watery depths some time ago, she would have been able to go further potentially. Breyam must have sent men after me, whichever ones he could spare at least- and likely ones that wouldn’t listen to what I had to say about some book. She shivers, takes a few moments to stare blankly, and gathers herself together for the last slog of the day.

It is touching a skin thing with care- it is like its underskin, but not like

It is tired- going slower than I have ever seen their kind go-

It eats green, not flesh only- like I was told

It chooses well- the green and fruits are good to eat for me as well

It is afraid- but Its smell is not that

What is It? It is not like ones we were taught to hate

It is going into a dark place that smells more of Land

I like dark too

Vinna swears she hears rustling behind her as she scrambles through the forest, but whenever she pauses, she realizes it must be an echo. This hunger will make me fear my own shadow at this rate. She wanders for a long time before she spots dry wood. Breaking off what she can manage- she looks around in a circle for some overhang- Ah- here. She finds a rock jutting over a patch of earth, dry enough to make a fire. Thank you Gods- all of you- for I cannot say I remember all the ones I would need to thank at this moment. Murmuring words of protection- like her Eldmor had taught her- she makes a bed for the fire, then gathers some more wood. This rock face will keep some heat too- hopefully.

Vinna starts the fire, then makes a bed for herself, shivering less and less as the fire warms the air. The light cast makes the shadows of surrounding trees dance, but there is no other movement. Vinna is drifting slowly off, but her eyes meet-for a moment- with a reflective orb- in the distance.

Bolting upright- Vinna disturbs her wrappings as she scrambles in a defensive position. The orb is nowhere to be seen. Gods- in my tiredness I must be imagining the enemy now too!

But are they my enemy anymore? Vinna slowly drops down as she thinks. If there is some hidden reason for our war- perhaps- perhaps they have an even better reason to fight and kill us than we do. Vinna feels wobbly- from more than just the wear of the day. Wrapping herself back up thoughtfully- she lets herself collapse into darkness.

It saw me, but it is too weak to fight, or perhaps- it does not wish to

It is a deserter-? Perhaps that is why it runs

Perhaps it is too weak to fight- and runs to save its life-

I think it is not male- it is soft in the middle- like our women

She- she does not wish to fight with them-

Perhaps she is with child

She speaks blessing over her resting place- as Women do

What of the otherskin thing

It-She- still guards it under her while she sleeps

It is must be precious to Her

What is it?

She sleeps now

I could kill her and take the Otherskin

But she did not try to kill me yet

It would be worse than dishonorable

And I want to know what it is- the Otherskin-

It is a thing not of Land or ours- it is…

She is a restless sleeper-like I have seen in brothers of mine-

Why would they make Her fight-we never make our Women fight

It is like them- the devils with three legs instead of four or two

They do nothing in the right way- unnatural beasts with unnatural desires

Destroying things with all their limbs

Sending in Women to be killed by our hands

She cries in her sleep

I had started a watch-over without thinking

She has fed me- though not with her hands

She is not weak but she is weaker now

I will fight her if she points the blade I know she has at me

Until then- I will watch

It is right

X

Revelations

Vinna awakes with a start. Did I just hear a foot near my head? Why do I feel so- safe right now-as if I was in my own room? Shaking her tired body to awaken- she reignites the fire. Hm- it isn’t as low as I would have thought- I must have gathered more wood than I thought I had.

Stirring slowly, Vinna shudders at the thought of having to get more food. Gods. At this rate I’ll starve before I even come to understand what this book is about. Warming herself up as best she can- she dresses in the dried light gear she had been wearing yesterday morning. It is probably for the best that I didn’t have my main weapons- it would have been so tiring to carry all that.

Wandering dazedly about in a circle, she comes across another clearing not far from hers. Was this here before? Finding the clearing abandoned- with an old firepit hurriedly put out- she takes a few steps and feels her feet fall into a squishy pile. No way. Vinna rapidly uncovers the long abandoned berries and greens- clearly a stash for whoever must have had to leave in a hurry. Most of the berries are passable- some even mostly fresh- and greens are not yet totally wilted. Vinna scarfs down the lucky find with blessings pouring from her tongue. I have not spoken so many prayers since I have left home. It never felt- right to do so at the castle.

“To die, to stop doing whatever the curse made them do.” Vinna remembers Breyam’s word confusedly. Whatever the curse made them do?? Is there a curse over the castle- over us? Why? Vinna draws the long-dried pamphlet out again- It only lists the number of people and Mennelra dead- no other speculations- perhaps he kept those in another book- or didn’t even write those down…

Vinna revisits the intricate runes. Protection- Safety- What’s this? Ease of movement? Unnaturally good health??? IS That how he could move so quickly? Was this how I was even able to escape him?? Vinna feels herself well up. Breyam- you were a brother to me- how could you do this? You were willing to kill me for this? Vinna almost rips the pages as her hands clench in anger. There’s even Protection from Poison- and Insight into other’s thoughts…Breyam! You coward-I’ll kill you!!!

She is in pain

I think she might throw the Otherskin

Why does she cling to what she seems to hate

There are symbols of power on it-

Can She read these symbols?

If She can- She cannot be killed by my hand even if I wish it-

For to do so would curse this place and myself

I am glad now I waited

Vinna starts up. What is with this sense of being watched? I never used to feel this in the forest when I was a girl. But then- it was different-I was different. In any case…I must get further away…perhaps I can find a place to hide out until…until when? What will I do after hiding? How long will I hide for? Will I find a man to keep me company-make a home- all because I ran? What will become of this mystery then? No- I must find another solution…but first- I must hunt. It has been too long since I have had a filling meal, and my best chance will be an animal- not too large, but with enough meat to satisfy me for the time being.

The Woman smells of killing, but She cannot see me

She is making sharp sticks and- it must be a trap- for something small

She does eat flesh, but then so do we- when sanctified

She waits out at a distance

She lies on the earth

She is good at making small and quiet

Her eyes are closed, but She does not sleep

Perhaps that is how She-

Ah- She caught something- it is dark now- She still sees

She is strong and quick with the blade- Good

She…her catch smells good

I must hunt too

1

The Sooty City

Clouds were things that roamed the streets day and night, disappearing carts of food, the very young and very old, even eating the windows of buildings, all the way from the mucky bases to the serrated summits. At least, that was what people who lived here often said.

Roz didn’t much care for such bushwa talk. She knew little of order in her messy corner of the world; what there was of it was offered by the Higher Ones, who helped her understand that her mother would eventually heal if she was patient, that it was of utmost importance to remain pure before a marriage proposal, and Most Importantly, that Magick, or human control over the surrounding world, was Not Real.

At least, that was what Roz would agree to if asked.

The women of this place clung to faith to be deemed sane and chaste. Despite her careful adherence to doctrine, Roz was, in the eyes of almost every townsmen, and consequently their wives and lovers, destined to be a whore as surely as her mother was a witch- it was only a matter of time. Anyone with eyes for the truth would, upon seeing Roz, simply see a girl becoming a woman, a mere laundress of no particular note, perhaps darker, taller, and wider than other laundresses of twenty years.

Said laundress was rounding the corner of her particular bit of slum with her basket of family washing before bashing into- well Bash- on his weekly run to the furthest corner of town he could reach before being forced back into his bath’s frothy water.

Roz seizes him, slippery as he is, hauling his body over her shoulder as he exclaims loudly in protest.

“Mother T is tryin’ tah kill me!!”

“No, Mother Thiieri is trying to kill the lice in your hair and fleas in your-“

“But I don’t want tah get clean! I’d stand out too much on the street! People’d think I was a bug!

“For the last time Bash, they’d more likely think you were a bug wit’ tha_ cut of filth, ya’ve got on ya!”

Roz doesn’t like to use streetspeak, but sometimes he actually listens to her when she slips into it. In this case it silences him for the moment, until he’d been gotten inside.

“I am sorry about this Mother Thiieri. He is still skiddish about water-ow!” Bash has knocked the back of Roz’s head with his elbow. Fortunately her piles of hair protect her slightly.

“I am sorry dear, but I only have a short time here you know, and it isn’t always part of my service to run into the street with my cuffs pushed up an’ all-“

“I understand, and I am sorry Mother Thii-“

“Well alright dear-” Mother T grasps the boy- shoving him into the water- then swinging him onto the waiting beige towel. She dries him roughly too- pinching and rubbing more than strictly necessary-

“All right- I’ll be back in an hour for the tub.- The water’s yours if you want it.”

At this point, Roz can only manage a nod as she sidles into the next room, their drying room with a fireplace, bringing along her washing.

Buttoning her cuffs back around her wrists- Sister T ascends into the street.

Roz silently clears the room of Bash’s dirty clothes,then refreshes the towels, rags, and soap, all theirs before carrying the beaten Bash into the dry room. He folds, burrowing into her neck, and, a moment later, she feels his wet tears on her skin. She mentally curses the Sisters, with their fake generosity and rough hands. After raking through the bathwater with a sieve and reheating it, she put two little ones in the low water. Returning to the dry room, Bash is contemplating his left big toe with a wan face. Roz goes to her basket, beginning to sort the laundry. After a moment:

Bash: “Why do you keep letting Mother- Thiieri come back here? She gives me big bruises, you know.” He showed his left thigh.

“You know they’re the only ones that can get a real bath out here; we have to get clean where we can. Besides, it’s free.”

“Yea, you might say so…”The boy pouted in the chair by the fireplace.

“I can’t fit in the tub so I wash with the river~ when you’re my size and bigger you may not mind the pinching as much as the pinch of the half-frozen water- anyway, being a boy won’t be a burden for long Bastian. You’re looking out for your sisters in your way now, and you’ll get rights attached to such a responsibility soon-rights which you’ll like very much then–”

Bash scowls. The mystery of “male rights” makes his head itch the way the mystery of why the nuns would only offer baths for men-children made his ears and neck itch. Bash’s ponderings make him blind to the way Roz stiffened at her own words, losing herself to a trance of her own, during which she touched her right leg idly.

“Wola, Noma! Dwola’s homa!!” This exclamation springs from a miniscule, wet, and naked child who follows the words with her rocketing, faintly blue body. Roz swung down a strong arm, easily scooping up the tot, balancing her in front of her blank face.

“Yes of course, but you must be at least dry before hugging him aye? Bash- your knackers are in the basket- make sure your hands are dry before you reach in this time dear.” Rubbing his hair as she passes, she sees a shadow of a smile in the flicker of the fire. That’s best- it’s best he think better of his life, given what he is Roz thinks to herself.

Parla, the little one in Roz’s arms, touches her face, trying to push up the corners of her mouth.

2

Dwola and…Mother

Father, whom the children had affectionately named Dwola, is seated by the door, tending to a neglected potted tree which had been stationed by the door long ago to greet guests, and which had fallen into a deep depression as a result of few guests, aside from lost children who did not note its presence, ever having come by. Dwola is a slight man with a kind face, which holds the ghastly white coloring so common to natives of thid perpetually clouded city, his skin appearing all the more colorless for his dark hair.

The children assemble around Dwola, from the pale and talkative Parla and her ebony and hushed sister Orpni to the vibrant and imperious oldest child, Alwey. Ten children pile on stories from their day, as children are eager to do with any adult that listens. His face takes on a naturally patient turn, though he seems occupied, his eyes drifting to Roz, who stayed back. Children don’t always require proof of attention so much as the appearance of it. Roz listens, parsing through the rapid string of words to catch whether they had eaten, or whether they had been maltreated and might need bandages. She rests her feet and assumes a bored and unfriendly expression, which often discourages the children from rushing to her with their stories or asking for help.

Roz and her father hadn’t always lived this way. Children had started appearing at their door, seeking shelter starting from around seven years ago– following some painful events. The first had been Alwey, whose dark hair and skin matched Roz and her mother, but whose similarities had ended there, Alwey having originally hailed from a desert city home, rather than from the nomadic Ojin tribe, as Mother had. Father had not realized at first who or what they were taking in, but they soon realized when Alwey had started setting fires around the home without flint or match in hand.

They were called Taken Ones by all Northern folk. Many children would disappear from their village “by unseen forces,” sometimes taken overnight, sometimes when a watchful eye had been turned away for a moment. They were Taken- many to never return. Those that were “Given” back were changed- many having unnatural agencies- often calamities occurred to those that met them or even helped them on the road. Most of the time the children arrived gaunt from many days without food and smelling of longer without clean water. Though Roz could not so easily put them out, having something unnatural and dangerous in their nature from the moment of being Taken, she also wouldn’t have been able to turn them away so easily without it troubling her.

Aside from the first frantic days with Alwey, Roz would simply feed and clean the children when they first appeared, before they had figured out some means of getting their own food. At first, many were nonverbal and almost looking past her. A few of them- like Alwey and Bash- started out clearly being able to talk but not wanting. Some had clearly been Taken before they had learned to speak and would start after they had came to their door– like Parla. Many of them would vanish in the night after a few months-particularly those that–once they had started speaking–spoke often when no one was near–but hushed when Roz slipped by. There were girl and boy-children, but the boys never stayed long. Bash was the longest to stay so far.

No matter how long they had stuck it out however, there was always one absolute law with the Taken: Never ever take anything they give you- directly. There was only one instance where Roz had come anywhere near to crossing that line. One boy child– a wee thing with freckles– had offered some coin to her with an outstretched little palm. When she had reached for it– she’d chanced a look towards the eyes, and she saw an expression that should not belong to a chil–- but rather a deep and endless hunger– as if he would have bit into her arm, devouring the flesh, then licked her bone clean afterwards.

Still, it was often that Roz had chanced to find several coins in her purse where previously there were but two bits chafing at each other the night before, typically when one of the children had mentioned in passing that they wanted something from the market or apothecary. It was that luck that also had managed to find cushioned corners for all the children- no matter the number- to lay their heads at night. Whether they managed it themselves, or it was Mother’s doing, or the house, or the Higher Ones themselves looking out for some reason, Roz took it in her stride.

Dwola’s bent head was at last released from the torrent of sharing, his hair looking wilder for it, but the tended tree looked decidedly happier. He peered over to Roz, who stiffened, knowing what he was likely to say. She was surprised when he started:

“I’ve heard tell of a strange man around.”

Roz blinked at his carefully questioning eyes. “I heard something of that at Laundry yea.” She well remembered some of the other Launderwomen and cloth-girls, whispering about a man, possibly of some fortune, crossing the thresholds of some families several towns away, all who had daughters of marriageable age. They wondered if he might come to Kraig, where he might stay, if they would see him, or even have the opportunity to deliver his laundry and…at that point their conversation had become more quiet and secretive.

He continued to peer at her, wondering. Then the inevitable: “Has your Mother…?”

The familiar dread sank over Roz. He had worked today, while she had done the errands. So, it was her day after all. She had been hesitating to go up, but she pushed the dread down, pushing herself off the wall and assuming an at least blank expression, if not cheerful. “I was just about to go up. You have supper?” She knew he would say yes, as that was the exchange, but she delayed turning until he responded. Then…it was up the stairs, to Mother.

3

Mother and Eyes

Mother is, as usual, laying enveloped in light layers on her sloping frame. It had been seven years almost to the day since she had retreated from the world into herself. Roz used to need Father’s help to turn her and clean her, but she had gotten stronger over the years, at least on the outside.

As Roz approaches, Mother cracks her eyes open. Roz holds her breath, but, as was always the case, Mother’s eyes hold no recognition for her Rosletta. She merely breathes, looking, and relaxes back into sleep. She slept almost all the time now, though for the first couple years she had been more agitated and restless. Roz tries not to think of those days as she gets Mother changed. The early days had held such frantic hope and tired despair; her younger self wouldn’t have been able to imagine the state of things now.

As she completes Mother’s washing up, Roz looks over her face and hair. She has the same dark features as Mother, but the thick hair which Roz inherited, is kept short to avoid matting. Roz remembers when her mother would brush both of their hair, humming lightly while tugging the painful knots out and plaiting it. Roz had only started to learn how to do her own hair when she had discovered Mother– Roz shakes the memory out of her mind. She often tends to sink into a sticky melancholy when seeing her Mother.

Roz’s Mother is thin- though she’s never been dangerously so. Roz quickly cleans her smooth body and again wraps her in light layers to allow her skin to breathe. Mother’s skin used to be deeper, like mine, but she’s only a bit darker than Father now. Roz takes the bucket of dirty linens and puts it at the bottom of the stairs to get to later. Now to open the window to let the room air out. Roz releases the catch, creaking the window open. She stares out for a moment, then blinks. Her eyes open to darkness without end.

Whipping her head around, Roz fumbles for the window, but feels nothing in front of her. Even the ground beneath her is not solid–

No! You will not fall. Know it.

Roz feels her feet and chest steady as the voice speaks into her.

Good. There is Darkness that is not darkness in front of your eyes. The Eyes. There are Eyes everywhere. Don’t look. They know when you’re looking.

Roz feels passing ice on her back as she keeps her eyes ahead, not knowing whether to walk or stay.

Stay still. There are other eyes. A pair of eyes. Green eyes. We know those eyes. Safe. Come Green-Eyes. Here. A warmth grazes Roz’s skin.

Don’t fear, my child. You must go. It is better that you go- though it is not safer. You will be protected. Then. You will. Protect. You.

Roz blinks. The sun has completely descended. The sky is dark, but it is scattered with clouds and a star or two to break up the blackness. The room is cold. Cursing, Roz slams the window shut, locking it and whipping some blankets onto Mother. Shuddering, she climbs into bed with Mother, to warm her. Laying there, clinging to Mother’s soft narrow form, Roz considers her strange vision. The strange icy gazes had struck fear through her, and she shakes even now thinking of them. But the green eyes she had seen…the warmth had almost felt like when slowly cooking something, a heat that steadily increased before she had noticed.

Roz falls into a troubled sleep.

4

The Laundry

Sunlight stabs into Roz’s closed eye, pulling her from sleep. She becomes aware of her sore body first, then the sweat coating the back of her neck. Cracking an eye open, she stifles a groan to avoid drifting her fusty breath into her mother who- was hanging almost off the bed. Roz jerks up, pulling Mother’s fabrics to bring her back to center. Mother remains undisturbed except for a gentle smile that seems to have wrought into her sleeping face through the night. Roz feels a little lightness from that smile, which carries her downstairs. She looks over the shoddily washed dishes and sighs. Father steps through the front door, starting slightly at Roz’s wild appearance.

“Ah! You’re up. I was about to give your Mother her meal.”

Roz blinks, her eyes still crusted with sleep. “Yes, I have to wash up.” It is her Father’s day to feed and bathe Mother. He would likely do some more washing as well. Roz turns into the largest room of the house, used by almost everyone for sleeping. Pulling back her curtain to expose her corner by the window, Roz is pleased to find fresh water in her basin, some wrapped meat, a refilled bottle of wheatwater, and her mostly dry clothes folded on her cot. Must be Father’s doing. She thinks. Hurriedly undoing her dress and corset, Roz massages the lines the night had marked into her skin. Putting up her fabric to air out, Roz stretches her sore muscles and yanks what knots she has time for out of her hair. She keeps her mind blank as she prepares for the day, considering what the walk to work might show her. It had been a mere chance that the sun had burst through the clouds to wake her, as the sun was almost never unencumbered by clouds in this place. However, there might be some spots of sun scattered throughout her walk or her day.

Finishing her washing and breakfast, Roz shoves her hair into a large and sweaty, but contained, heap at the back of her head while contemplating her filthy work apron. She had forgotten to wash it yesterday. Shrugging, Roz grabs it and her sack, pulls on her cloak, and strikes out the door.

The walk to the River is dry and crisp, not as cold as it could be at least, and its silence brings Roz a silent peace as she trods along. Too soon, the river’s icy bend appears below her. The edge of the outskirts of Kraig reaches to a branch of the Great Fryn River. She can already see the dark dots of the other Launderwomen and cloth-girls. As she approaches she feels cold from the wind, and the anticipated cold of her day. As usual, when she arrives, the others seem to sharpen their eyes her way when she isn’t looking, which is most of the time.

Roz approaches her pile dutifully and, after stowing her cloak in her sack and securing her skirts, she takes up her pot to get riverwater. It sloshes. She glances inside. The acrid yellow residue of pissy water sits in her pot. She doesn’t even growl. She acknowledges the barely muffled chuckles as much as she acknowledged the mutterings from her late arrivals. She prefers the work with washers vats at times such as these-at least then if someone crossed you they’d have to be assured of their quick hands- in case someone happened to press their fingers to a boiler’s scalding steel with a stick.

As Roz tips water into the mixture and throws the mess away from her wash site, she remembers the first burns she had gotten, and how quickly after those she had learned to dole them back out. In all her years working at Laundry, there had been no way to, beyond a little devilry, stop the other girls from punishing her for existing. At least there- the steam often covered her revenges- hiding her “sin” from the Sister’s prying eyes. For they always watched the girls- any job they took-to ensure no male attention and maintain discipline–or so they said– but Roz had seen enough fine linens and lace pilfered by various Sisters when they didn’t believe the Highers or hires saw to believe any of that drivel.

I wonder how they even snuck away the pot- probably under their skirts. Roz grumbled to herself. She made a note to attach a few nails to the pot rim to avoid future such misfortunes. Pot cleaned- she set to work- withdrawing the necessary water to go the first rinse- sprinkling water with a small packet from her sack to kill further bacteria. She knew at least that her wash could not have been tampered with. Many groups had known the lash from when anyone dared to put mess with another’s fabrics. Once of the Sisters had tried to take a kerchief and upon meeting with the musky scent- had raised an alarm and demanded twenty lashes of all within the building-down to the smallest. It was of course never a question of why she should have touched the pile to begin with but–one could never question a Sister’s righteousness. Many others would also trouble the lash and the Sisters for assured pay.

Roz takes and withdraws water several times, lugging it to her wash site, which was further away than most. Roz was at least a third over the size of most of the Launderwomen in her shoulders- so she could do this with little effort. She always did this to keep the tinctures and powders she would sprinkle into the washing to herself. The others would have copied her but with a sneer on their face to show their disdain for the lowly Ojin. In years prior, Roz had had others who could keep up with her and who she got on with, but they had all been hired onto houses privately. The remaining lot were the stragglers, few able to hold a candle to Roz’s standards, and therefore disdainful of her skills as much as her other differences.

As usual, Roz finishes among the first few despite her later arrival. She brings her pile in halves to the Sister’s station- being sure to bring the plainer things first before bringing the rest. If she rested her sack- she could have brought both, but that would be foolish. The Sisters examine each piece intently-one subtly bringing her face a little closer to smell after initially arching back as a show of her prejudice to her colleagues. There it was-despite the Ojin girl being of filthy parentage or whatnot-she made the best damn laundry in town- with dizzyingly high piles of fine cloth always to be found in her lot. Roz could be hired onto a house privately, but Laundry allows more flexible hours. The mistresses and ladies in town specifically request her, though they mostly don’t know which of them she is. For that she gets-

“Three and twenty krojes for you.” A gruff nun holds out a leather satchel in a pinched fist.

Roz bows as she takes it-concealing her surprise with her lowered head. There are ten more than last time, but she had done far more kerchiefs this time than any other. She had even sown a tear that one had come to her with. After receiving her satchel of coins, she bows again- fully well knowing they likely charge double that at least for her services to the women of the town.

Stowing away her pot and ground cloth, Roz takes a secret path home. Too often when she had walked home the others had tried to ambush her before she could put her satchel away- she needed privacy for that beyond any other. After concealing it in her skirts, she slips back into town by an alley. More people were out in the streets around this time, on this errand or another, as their employers preferred to rise later in the day. Roz winds her way home, feeling more watched than usual.

5

The Wound

Alwey is home when Roz steps in. Roz is never sure how she manages to get her work done first for the day, but the fine-featured girl is always first home, cooking her fish, before retiring to her room, adjacent to Mother’s. Alwey stares pointedly at Roz’s stained apron, her distaste for lowly work only lightly concealed. Alwey fancied herself meant for something significant, though she never saw fit to share what exactly. It was this same attitude that allowed her to demand a private room for herself, and that prompted her to rain down punishments on anyone who dared disturb her inner sanctum.

“Be sure to wash your pan this time.” Roz took care not to call Alwey her name out loud, as it was simply a name Father had dubbed her, as Alwey could come to them having forgotten her birth name, like all the Chosen. Always disliked her moniker; she had spoken of choosing another name but had yet to share it.

Alwey simply grunted in assent, setting her chin a bit higher. Her pan was set aside for her own use, as she was only loath to clean what she had to use herself. Roz brushed past her, washing up before preparing dinner. The children trickled in, from bits of whatever work they had found that day- some helping clean houses- most having performed little duties and errands when they were let. Most employers avoided hiring them, but there were a few townsfolk who let them do lowly cleaning and would leave out change or food for them when they finished. Whatever they got they could keep, thanks to their reputation. It was also a secret belief some held that luck would meet those who helped Chosen.

A humble supper is served out, Roz weaving in some berries and healthful herbs which she had foraged on the way home. Some of the children have some plants to offer as well, Orpni in particular having a good eye for safe plants. Supper done, the younger children are put abed. Roz takes to her enclosed corner- sighing as she unlaces herself for the night. She peers into her glass as she sits down for the arduous task of brushing her hair. Her arms are strong and swarthy, flashing moonlight as she works through her long and thick swells. The girl does have vanity about this one aspect of her appearance. The rest of her, as she had learned from the whispers of Kraig natives, was too unsettling or dark or wild or all those things. Roz’s dark hair covers over half of her body, a feat even for the richest girl in Kraig.

Having plaited her hair, Roz leans back onto her cot- sinking into a family quilt, made from scraps of Mother’s dresses. Her body complains as she does so- especially her right leg- as it usually does whenever she lets herself slow down. She rubs it a little, asking it to keep carrying her to work and back. Something has been wrong in it for some time, she knows.

The wound was caused some time ago, when she was fifteen. That year she had started to grow more in certain areas, which almost gave her a corseted shape, though she had yet to wear a corset. The men of town had noticed despite her cloaking and there had been little time, between Mother’s increasing agitation at the time and the stream of incoming children, to tell Father. It had started as some men earnestly skulking by the Laundry and had progressed to men staring and shadowing her at the market.

One day it escalated. A man whose face she’s managed to forget shoved her into an alley. He wanted to lift her skirts in that way, for reasons she sometimes overheard on rare warm days when many threw open their windows to let in the southern breeze. He had succeeded in lifting her skirts to her knees, but her panic had lent her enough strength to kick him away. Then–darkness.

When Roz had come to-she had found herself in a dark cave– with metal scraps partly embedded in her right leg. The pain was almost a dark buzz, until she tried to move. The cobbles beneath her in the alleyway had given way to one of the underground sewage systems below. Roz found she had to move, sharded leg and all, out of the tunnel to the nearest laddered shaft, - a task which had inked out the remainder of the day. A Sister had found her and brought her home- assisting even with the scraps’ removal– or so Father said. He had gone out to find the person responsible. The man, however, was found dead before meeting Father’s wrath. In the whisperings that followed that day– it seemed that person had fallen and struck his head onto a street grate with such force as to crack his skull out of his skin.

No man had dared to follow her after that.

Roz remembers the nun who had tended to her wounds that distant day–the cut of her garb had been a bit strange she’d remembered thinking. As she tries to recall the trim of the fabric and the eyes looking her over, tiredness finally won out.

6

High-Day

A distant church bell chimes, the morning bell, and the Sisters are heard to begin to sing songs. A silent fog is passing over, and the soot from the ever-running mills rests from their blackening of Kraig’s streets into shapeless masses of stone and shit. Roz peers around her, resting for a moment. The few garnishings of her space–relics of her Mother’s presence–shine in the morning light. Today is a day of worship in Kraig. Perhaps I’ll see some old friends from Laundry.

Freshening herself for the day, Roz tucks her hair up into the admissible capote, making her head hot. Roz shambles off to the abbey in her stiffest bodice and a suited skirt, by herself. Her Father would spend this day by her Mother, as he always did. Passing by some neighbors, she hears words exchanged in their doorways, some boisterously, some furtive. One duo she passes by:

“Wayl I say sister! Here’s some news of a note-a duke has come to these here parts! In search of a wife they say!!”

“No-sister, surely you’re mishaten?!”

“I say, by the bosom of our mother long-forgotten-tis the truth I swear ye—”

“Waaayyl now I know you’re tellin’ a farce! For you know our mother is safe and abed in this very house.”

“Sisterrr-everyone knows she’s a-only safe because she’s—” The woman dropped out of hearing.

A duke hm? Fat lot of good that would do here-likely a nobleman who got robbed nearby and the story had gotten tangled out of recognition as it struck the town’s web of gossipers. Roz thinks to herself.

Proceeding through the cobbled streets, Roz forgets about the passing talk, instead fancying what the view out the leadlight windows would show her today. The multi-hued creations seemed to be the only windows to avoid the fog’s claim in the abbey.

Throughout the service, Roz coddles herself with colorful visions which she wraps herself in to forget her troubles. Memories of warmer days. Mother’s deep voice. The old cabin where Mother used to work. Then fantasies of things never to pass, she is sure. Climbing into the distant mountains. Kind and admiring men. Fascinating conversations where the Higher Ones aren’t featured even once. After service, she chats briefly with some old colleagues, but they are all busy and have to head home. One of them whispers conspiratorially, “A mysterious man is said to be approaching town-to sup here this very night!!” Excited whispers confuse the rest of the communication. Roz starts and for some reason, remembers the Green-Eyed gaze from the other day, a heat crossing her frame again. Shaking her head, she takes her leave and hurries home.

7

The Visitor

Dinner goes by with difficulty-the children are restless. They speak excitedly of what they did that day–even some who had not spoken much before. After some sup, Roz sits in a stupor, the talk washing over her like a hum of so many bees, coalescing into a fever of synchronous noise until it abruptly ceases. The distant sound of wheels and hooves on stone is heard, rattling closer. A carriage? Out in the slum? Who could afford that? The click of reins and metal echoes through the street. A horse’s puffing-the sound of leather creaking- then the change from hooves on stone to dirt as horses slow outside.

There are never carriages on this path. Roz strains to hear- the bodice that she had forgotten to change feeling heavy. Silence rings until it must have filled the town through to the river– it had never been so quiet.

A knock from the door rings out. Roz hadn’t even heard someone approach the door. Father takes his eyes off her face and heads to the door, Alwey close behind him.

Roz sets to filling a pot with dishes to start the washing, Bash leaping to assist. Then, Roz turns away from the front doort, feeling dizzy.

“-your daughter?” The voice is deep and fills space.

“No–a ward– my daughter is inside.” Father sounds puzzled but cordial.

Out of the corner of her eye, Roz sees a dark tower fill the entryway as the door is clasped shut. She fears to look at it. It is not her day to go to Mother, but she considers asking Father- she looks to him– and her vision darkens as her eyes catch with the head of the tower. His eyes seem lit by more than just the fire, and an effusion of colors pours into her mind as she looks. She feels as if she is a book being searched through with quick fingers. Her first page is opened and first sentence traced with a cold line down her spine. I almost feel my covers being peeled, my skin being laid bare- I Must look away-

“Would you like a bit of stew sir? We have some bread as well.” Bash’s voice is loud and demanding.

The eyes turn away, and Roz finds herself in a chair, though she does not recall sitting. She keeps her eyes on the floor. Then she starts, as Bash is offering Mother’s portion. The tall figure is examining it, and he then turns towards Father.

“Who- is this- for?” His voice holds something fragile within its roughness. She can see from behind that he has dark hair underneath his hat.

Father hesitates. Then, “My wife.”

“Your wife is ill?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years now.”

The man has become increasingly agitated. He finally says, overcome, “Sir, I must speak with you for a moment. I will await you in my carriage.”

With that he slips out into the dark night. With a resigned look towards Roz, Father follows.

8

Shadows

Dwola sighs–rubbing his throat– “I would go with you, but I couldn’t, what with your mother, and so—” His face hardens. “For however long-you must leave us.”

“What do you know of this man? What could he have said to have convinced you that I am to go?” Roz’s voice shakes. What could this man want of me?

“He means you no harm, child. He–he told me some of your mother’s time before this place– and other- other things.” His eyes avoid hers, and he becomes antsy. “She had said this time would come, long ago. He has sworn to protect you, and you must have a guide in your education.”

“A guide? Father, I could barely be spared for an education when I was of the age to receive it.” Roz’s temper flares. “I will Not Go. There are shadows in this talk. Why could I not go and hear his reasoning myself?”

“He was worried that you might not be ready to hear about-” Father falters. “Magick and the like.”

“Magick? That’s nothing of much consequence up here. Is that what I am to learn? No, for Mother was to teach me and she cannot. I cannot learn from a man- that’s what she said.”

“You cannot learn from just men, is what she once said. Yes, you will learn it.” Suddenly he stands, shoulders rigid.” And you cannot stay. I forbid it.”

Roz stands too “Father-”

“You must leave tonight.”

“Tonight?! No- I”

“I will not have you stay here any longer- it cannot be known that he was here and you are still here. He cannot stay, for the Higher Ones are coming here.”

Roz feels a coldness descend, but she speaks her confusion. “Why would the Higher Ones-Mother showed me the Magick Rites. It is nothing. It’s just a faith!” Even now, she remembered Mothers whispers over the altar, the herbs and chalices and cards and stones. It is a sacred practice child. Mother had given her a gentle smile. All the women of our family keep this practice.

“It is not safe. I know what they will do, and I must be with your Mother. As long as you leave, it will be alright.”

“Father-”

“My dear,” He interrupts, a tear rising in his eye. “Our dear Rosletta.” he comes and rests his hands on her shoulders. “You must know- you cannot-”

Roz felt a pressure burning to rise. “I must speak to Mother. I must see her.”

“Yes.” Choked up, Father squeezes her shoulders before releasing them.

The strange man is by Mother’s bedside, and he seems to be talking to her. Her eyes are intent on his face, and Roz and her father both shudder. Long have they wished to have her eyes on them like that. Is this-Magick? Roz wonders. The man’s hair is impossibly black, and his cloak, of matching obsidian, seems to cover the entire floor of the small room. The man speaks a more distinct word, three times, but Roz cannot quite hear it. Then he draws a vial from his cloak and gently settles it into Mother’s hand, which Roz now sees he had clasped in his. Mother looks at the vial for a moment, then brings it towards her mouth.

It is as if she has come out of some trance. Roz rushes forward, but Father and the stranger block her. She looks to Father, but he seems to be fascinated rather than frightened.

She looks at Mother, and Mother is looking at her. Right at her eyes. Roz feels light, as if someone lifted all her hair with their hands. Mother smiles gently, then turns her head and closes her eyes.

Shaking sense into herself, Roz shoves herself away from the men, glaring, “What did you–”

“Roz— she–” Father falters.

“It is a mixture meant to clear her head a little.” The man waves off her father. “Nothing she would not have given herself if she was able. Something you should already know how to make, at this age.” His brilliant eyes frown.

“I am Not Going with you if you are in the habit of drugging women with strange substances!” Roz tries not to let the strange comment sting. “I was Not Going to go anyway, as I had not received an explanation for what I am going to!!!” Roz would stamp her foot, if she did not already feel like a child pushing away a stone wall.

“I know you are a creature of reason, so I will explain what I can.” They start down the stairs.

9

Ignorance

“I did not give your mother some mixture of unknown origin, but rather a very delicate medicine which I have kept for quite some time in the hopes that my friend and ally was alive.” He turns towards Roz’s quarters, thoughtful. “I am affiliated with a school where you will expand your knowledge of Magick, which is necessary for your safety and survival, as you will kill someone if you have not done so already.”

Roz’s mind involuntarily flashes to the incident when her leg was injured, and she feels sick.

The stranger draws himself through the door, and she follows him, as if pulled. He pauses by his carriage to speak. “You are aware of the City beyond the southernmost border of this region?”

“Yes.”

He waits for her to speak again; when she does not he seems satisfied. “I live there in a big house with a courtyard- this is how many people live there.”

Is he trying to bribe me with a courtyard?! Roz feels momentary disgust until she sees his regard for her answer. Nodding, he continues.

“There are many schools there-where one can learn much in refinement and other accomplishments- whether you decide to pursue Magick or no.” She feels a flash which dwindles over the course of the sentence. His eyes watch her now. “Will you accompany me?”

“Why you?” She whispers.

He seems bemused. “Why not I?”

Roz knows Father now trusts him, but she must ask. “It was rumored that a man of some influence has been traveling to find a wife. What do you have to say?”

His eyes go wide and he speaks haltingly. “While I am flattered by the consideration I hardly need to come this far for that now?” Roz feels herself flush. “I saw a young woman was out here waiting to be brought and taught to master her particular gift. Perhaps I-I stopped at a few other places” He is earnestly abashed in his expression.

Roz is mortified but latches on to one thing- “Gift? What do you mean—”

“Oh for the sake of the gods!” Alwey exclaims in anger. She comes behind and shoves Roz-as much she can- to the side from the gate. “I am your apprentice! You were meant to come here for me!” She bows, glancing disdainfully towards Roz. “I have been refining my arts for just such a moment! Please teach me sir.” She stays bent- a very unusual attitude for the proud girl.

A cloud passes over the moon as well and over the man’s face. His eyes swirl dark and the smell of lightning fills the air. His displeasure radiates off of him in waves as he looks upon Alwey. As the tension sharpens he speaks-

“I am not your teacher. Too long have you parasited here-feeding off this place. This girl” He clearly means Roz though he doesn’t gesture or look, “is the one calling for The Knowing. You may find your Knowing elsewhere.”

He dismisses her without looking as he turns back to the carriage, his large shadow brushing against Roz’s skirts. He looks inside- to Father- and bows. Roz looks to her Father- he considers the Stranger and turns to meet her eye with his sorrowful one. Roz is filled with a deep ache.

She is in his arms in a moment; he whispers some luck into her ear and leads her to her corner to grab her things. She had packed them earlier in my induced daze. He touches the quilt- Mother’s quilt- smiling faintly.

“I will be here waiting-I do not think- we will receive more Taken to care for-watch for them in the City my dear.” He kisses Roz’s temple as she leaves.

Alwey stays rooted in place-trembling-as the Stranger lifts Roz into his carriage.

10

Sunrise

Roz

I remain unnaturally dazed and silent until we reach the countryside outside of Kraig. As we pass a branch of the Fryn, I rise from my stupor, as if from sleep.

“Your things are stowed away. I will bring them out if you have need of them. Do not hesitate to ask.” The Stranger speaks to my panicked face.

I frown at him. Mother had spoken of stunning people with Magick, but I had not expected to have such methods used on me as soon as I had entered the carriage. “Do not use your Influences on me if you please. I do not like it.”

“Very well.” He regards me for a moment.

I instantly feel tired and deeply afraid. Taking a shaky breath, I remember Mother’s voice: Fear is not bad. It is good to listen when it belongs- as well as when it doesn’t.

“It would not have been safe to alert those damned priests to your presence. Even silent, as you know, you give away too much. You must learn to dull your thoughts.” He barely acknowledges me as he flips through a few papers he’s withdrawn from an unreasonably small pocket.

I blink. “Give away too much? Dull my thoughts? What do you speak of?”

He looks at me impatiently. “I know you have lacked an education in certain matters of Magick, but surely you have experimented a little??” I look at him blankly, and he scoffs. “You mean to tell me that you have not noticed the way energy shifts when you enter a room or bring yourself into others’ presence- especially those who mean you ill???”

I regard him with shock. The urge to avoid others- even flee when noticed- the almost animalistic hostility I seemed to trigger in others… “You mean to say-that I- that was because of my-Magick or Gift or…something?” I feel faint.

“Yes? What– did you just assume that it was because there was something wrong with you or because of differences of appearance??” He chuckles- then turns incredulous at my silence. “By _insert deity name_, you did, didn’t you??”

I feel foolish, but my dizzying relief is more present. “It likely didn’t help…that I was…brown.”

“It rarely does serve one to be different- especially when there is a fist closing around everyone’s neck to maintain control. Much easier to keep the grip the same for everyone–utilize the same tactics for everyone– that is…especially when one only has so much force at one’s disposal.” The Stranger turns contemplative.

We ride in silence for some time until I realize. “Who are you anyway? What is your name and how do you know my Mother?” How is it that such questions didn’t occur to me before anyway???

“It is not safe to speak one’s name in certain places or companies- especially one’s true name. I think you at some level know that. I would never lie to you about my name- as I am your Mother’s old disciple and hold your family in high regard.” He nods at my suddenly misty eyes. “However, I may not give you my full name until I can trust you to be able to close your mind to others. For now you will call me Mathund.”

“Mathund.” A combination of two words-but what could be the meaning?

“Yes.” Sighing, he settles deeper into his cloak. “What category of questions would you like answered first?”

“All relevant to me.”

“Ah–” He glances over me. “That may not be in my power to answer.”

“Well all related to where we are going, why, and why you were sent for to fetch me.”

He seems slightly offended but also amused by my last question. “That is not all particularly relevant to you, but perhaps this will lend me some credibility: I am a mage, wizard, warlock, or whatever else you call a Magick-wielding Man—”

“Magician?”

“Mage” He grounds out. “As well as a part-time alchemist thank-you-very-much.” He strokes his mustache to soothe himself before he continues. “We are going to the City, that much you know, but within the City we will make a few stops–including at the castle–all witches must be ordained by the Queen of course—”

“The Queen?!?”

“No need to look so horrified there then. Yes, it will be you and about 758 other girls of varying ages.” He seems to have been returned to good spirits, as well as a slightly younger age- What? “The ordination is really more of a looking over- she rarely expels anyone from qualifying, but who knows- you may catch her notice.” He winks a decidedly smoother eye at me in jest.

“You-you’re getting young—”

“Yes” He glances down at his deflated stomach, “Yes I suppose I have- well then-how do ya like the look of your uncle?” He laughs uproariously and ruffles my hair.

“That’s still not you.”

He chuckles, “It’s not.”

His clothes start to shrink- down to a deep brown set. His whole body seems to shimmer and condense. He coagulates into a neat, compact, handsome young man with brown skin and close cropped hair. His sensible suit clings to his wiry frame. He smiles bright teeth, extending a burgundy-gloved hand, “How do you do?” His voice is melodic- a veritable song.

I am flustered as well as a little stunned at seeing such direct Magick (And such direct interest). However the truth becomes clearer as I examine him, neglecting to take his hand. “That is still not you.”

The silence in the carriage is ringing–he is clearly intrigued as he slowly withdraws his hand. He sets his hat to me as his whole body begins to grow- his clothes managing to catch up with his bulging shoulders and legs just quickly enough. I look away, feeling small and pink. Glancing back, I see his cloak spread far beyond necessary- dropping in deep folds from his enormous neck. His arms and legs swell from beneath his heavy cloak- and gloves struggle to contain his fists. His face is vaguely similar to his original guise- beard and mustache more clipped but still very dark. His eyes- evergreen-pierce me questioningly from beneath his hat.

I am unsure of what to ask or whether to continue asking. He continues to regard me while I avoid his eye. Why do I feel vulnerable? Perhaps it’s coming from him? I glance his way, but his expression is stony. Hesitatingly I speak:

“I am glad to meet you—

“…Mathund.”

“…right.”

The carriage rumbles on in our silence. I gather myself to speak once more. “My name, Roz, It’s…short for Rosletta.” I feel myself withdraw into the cushion behind me. But actually is____, but my true name shall only be spoken in death or…by my true husband.

“Yes. Well, anyway, I think we left off with why…you are being brought.” I try my best to meet Mathund’s eye. He is truly imposing in this form, which I can feel is very close to his true one.

“You are descended from other Magickin- and would likely have encountered a Knowing on your own, but your Mother—” I wince. “Your Mother was valuable to us- and we owed her a great deal-” He swallows. “I owe her a great deal for my family…it is uncommon to have such a claim over Magick as she did…It was requested that at the right time her children be sought out—” I stiffen “or in this case child.”

I relax. Whatever might be said of her-she was faithful to Father I know!

“And so-you are to be ordained and begin your education.” He punctuates.

“Begin?!” I speak before I can stop myself. Take a breath. “I am already too far behind aren’t I?? Al—the other one-stop that-was practicing for many years and she is younger. Do you really think I have any hope of even being allowed into the castle or—” He holds his large hand up.

“I really don’t know how to begin to correct you. Magick is not always an inherent ability, but when it so clearly is-you must be educated-for your own safety to start.” He scowls down at me.

“Oh.” I lose my fight. It’s just as well. Might as well be rebuked for my weakness than for other things I can’t control. It might be years before I can learn anything to help me understand-but perhaps- does he know?

I part my lips to ask, but he shakes his head. “Your Mother’s illness puzzles me. I wish…I could tell you.”

I sigh. Pausing. “Who sent you?”

“The remainder of the League of Magick-wielders. We work with the Queen’s Coven to select or find students to be educated.”

“Queen’s Coven.”

“Yes. The Queen has been in support of Magick since assuming her role. That has not spread as far north as you have been where the—“Higher Ones”—or so they claim to be–have made themselves...” He grits his teeth. “Sovereign.”

This piece of the looking glass was new to me, but it lit up the world in a way I had not known since Mother. I had long felt helpless in our isolation from the world, but to understand the reason—I felt clearer if not better.

“ So the Higher Ones are in direct conflict or disobedience with the Queen?? How is it that they can continue like this without consequences?? And, what reason do we have for not hearing news from the Castle? I don’t see how—”

“There is-ah- a bit of a situation in the City. We have been busy with many matters.” He evades my eyes. “You will see in time. Be patient and vigilant.”

My brows furrow again. “Are the Higher Ones using Magick then? To oppress us? How is it that their hands have become so heavy?”

“Fear. Surely in all your time you had felt it-perhaps been battered by those driven by it?” He glances to a scar on my hand and I withdraw it into my sleeve. “You know of the dark holes animals can dig for themselves—as if life was a cave to move through until the tunnel ends, in a grave.” I shuddered. “You at least have seen the light–there is yet more to see–for you.” He holds my eyes.

I feel faint again. Revelation after revelation. I feel as if my body was, unknown to me, a wet rag which has now been rung dry. I suddenly feel drowsy.

“You will rest now. We have a long journey ahead.” He swipes the air with a finger.

I nod and lean against the pillow that’s appeared beside me.

Dear friends & readers & patrons,

It has been six months, half a year, since I have made the decision to start posting my novel drafts online, and I am so happy and grateful to have over 100 people reading my fiction now ✧｡٩(ˊᗜˋ )و✧*｡.

The cliched but honest truth is: being a writer has been my dream since I was a little girl. I had always hoped to eventually be able to hold my books in my hands, and to be able to share them with my family. I wanted to be able to show my future children that I went for my dream(s)–that it was possible—and that they should do the same. As a child, I had been filled with fantasies; my Imagi-Nation has long been rich with characters, scenes, and stories waiting to be shared. Thank you, dear reader, for joining me on this journey.

I do want to emphasize that the excerpts I will share on here will likely not be grammatically correct, punctuated correctly, nor will they always make sense (having plot holes and the like). I am “drafting publicly,” which means I will be writing the stories and posting them here as I go. I am someone who already has high standards for the material I read, but it does take quite a bit of time to edit literature until it’s “up to snuff” and really ready for publication, as I have found out from my book editing background. However, as this year began, I felt that I could not last another moment without sharing the stories circling in my mind. Roz, Imogen, and Vinna (or R. I. V.) had much to show, share, and say.

I wanted to share a bit more about the stories I have begun to draft publicly, as I do have three (soon to be four) started on this Substack. I will endeavor to present an overview of the three stories more thoroughly below. One of the three is a Sci-Fi Saga called Imogen, the titular main character within her expansive universe. There will be at least two books in her series. I started thinking of the plot for this saga over ten years ago. The second (and newest in my mind) series will be a Romance Fantasy/Romantasy one called the Alliance Series; the first of these will be The Book of Ord, which centers on Vinna, a female knight, and her connection with the Mennelra - creatures of the sea. This book will (Hamingja willing ;) be the first of at least three in a series. The third of my “started” stories is my Epic Witch Fantasy, which centers around Roz, a twenty-year-old witch just coming into her strength and reconnecting with her heritage. Roz has, in various forms, been with me for almost twenty years now. I am imagining there will be at least two books in her series.

I do want to take a moment to shine the spotlight on Yvette, my contemporary romance lead. In case there is any confusion, though I have (now removed) previously shared a sanitized version of the first ten chapters of her book, I will not be sharing her full story on this Substack, as I would like to keep this as the hub for my (to use genre categorizations for a moment) speculative fiction (not based in reality) for “young adults” and “new adults”. Her story is mimetic (based in reality) and for “adults.”

Yvette was, late last year, born into my consciousness from unexpected sources, as well as from my own experiences with love and loss. For now, that is all I will say on the matter, but I am very grateful to have her help in processing some parts of my own life through her story. I have found her adventures into philosophy, human connection, and self-knowledge to also be a fun ride whenever I have needed to process what her three sisters (R. I. V.), have had to show or say to me. This helps substantially in progressing their stories further, so I am quite grateful. I do have her story more or less completed in my mind, but it is a bit difficult to arrange it chronologically. I will occasionally be showing some YA-appropriate excerpts from Yvette’s story here, but just know that she will only be visiting .^_^.

As a major motivator for drafting these books publicly here on Substack: I would love to be able to bind all of my books beautifully. I am weak for an aesthetically pleasing hardcover, but all the specifications I have in mind will For Sure add up. I will have non-hardcover versions too, don’t worry. Still, for the final book product, I want to have works of art that are Not AI-Generated to present to readers.

There is also the matter of adaptations. I Do have much I would wish for R.I.V. and their fellows in that domain, is all I’m finna’ say on that at present (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ I will say that any e-books I put out would preferably have special features which will enhance your reading experience. This Substack, with all the excerpts from my stories, will remain a digital archive of my novel drafts, for anyone interested to peruse, particularly to show (in my fantasies) other aspiring authors, how the drafting and editing process may look and to exemplify the “Magick” of editing and other literary tools.

To start us off, Imogen, our youngest protagonist, has been through a lot already when we join her at the Facility where she is being “manufactured”. She is what I am calling a “meta” which is a bio-based branch of beings in this Sci-Fi saga’s universe. She is quite fast, strong, and capable of healing quickly. She does not strictly feel pain, but “she” remembers what it is. Naturally, due to her physical makeup, Imogen will experience things that would ordinarily kill any living being, and yet our main character’s story will continue as long as Imogen is conscious. The changes in font throughout her story are intentional: will you be able to guess what I am trying to do ;) ? There are mysteries cloaking our main character, metas, and this universe’s conflicts, which I will continue to unveil as we move forward throughout the story. Whether these mysteries are separate or interconnected remains to be seen ;).

The first book of her saga will be Imogen: Mitosis. Sci-fi related themes and genres explored in this book will be: Space Opera/Epic, Dystopia, Alien Invasions, Artificial Intelligence, Colonization, Cyberpunk, Biopunk, Science Fiction Horror, Galactic Empire, Human Development, Nanotechnology, etc. I can’t absolutely say whether it is Hard S/F, Soft S/F, or Science Fantasy. Her story leans more towards some blend of the three categories, if anything. I will elaborate further on her world in future articles ;)

Roz, our second oldest character– at twenty years– and the protagonist of my Epic Witch Fantasy (title pending (╥﹏╥), starts her adventure after growing up isolated in a remote town in the frigid north of this realm’s main continent (name pending). Though Roz’s mother practiced Magick, she fell ill before passing her practice onto Roz. Roz, along with her father, became her mother’s caregiver; their house also became a haven for lost children affected by strange Magick. A stranger, a vision, and an opportunity has entered Roz’s world, and by her tenth chapter, we are about to enter the Capitol, the central city to this continent’s largest country, a hub for Magickal education, and home to The Crown and its Branches. Roz’s journey is only beginning, but it will take her far, in distance, but also deep within herself.

Roz’s adventure does not have a title yet (working on it (ง’̀-’́)ง). The themes and genres explored in this book will be: Coming-of-Age, Epic Fantasy (in scope-sorry to disappoint-there will be no werewolves or vampires–at least in the typical sense), Urban Fantasy (in terms of vibe–to an extent—you’ll see (,,>﹏<,,), Crossover Fantasy (not set in our world at all though), Mystery, Gaslamp/Steampunk, Adventure Fantasy, Political Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Mythic Fantasy, Academy Fantasy (a little in this first book), and Noblebright heroism (a totally new phrase to me, I must admit).

Vinna, a female knight, is our main lead in the first novel of the Romance Fantasy series–Alliance–which will have at least three books. Vinna and her “man”’s story will play out in The Book of Ord. Vinna is a warrior woman in her thirties, very experienced in combat and a leader in her company of fighters. She has defended her fortress, one of many in this world, for many years, from the natural human enemy, the Mennelra, creatures of the sea. After their latest altercation, Vinna finds herself in possession of a secret– one that threatens everything she thought she knew of the world and her moral code. Flashes of this story have been coming to me for over five years, but the full plot really only landed in my mind last year.

The themes and genres explored in this first Alliance book will be: High Fantasy, Epic Fantasy, Political Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, Sword and Sorcery, Mythic Fantasy, Fairytale Fantasy, Nautical Fantasy, Medieval (vibes not actually Earth-based), Occult Horror, and Mystery. The Book of Ord will be a Slow-Burn/Moderate Spice/Fade-to-Black Paranormal Romance.

I will admit I was unfamiliar with a lot of these categories before writing this article, but I hoped this was helpful in figuring out what to look forward to here (੭˃ᴗ˂)੭. Also, I will be reposting slightly improved versions of the first ten chapters of each of the three book drafts described above soon (this weekend hopefully). FYI: The genres associated with each book were not listed in any particular order.

The fourth book on this Substack will be another Epic Fantasy; I will be co-writing it with a very dear friend of mine. More details to come (get excited!! ᕦ(ಥ_ಥ)ᕤ) in future posts.

That’s all for now. To all of you who have decided to join me on this journey - thank you so so SO MUCH. To all of you who have started to fund this journey—I truly have no better words coming to mind aside from—-Thank You— from the depths of my being to yours. (つ╥﹏╥)つ

Day 100

Audio File: 333 by Iniko

Thus far I have settled into a routine of successfully avoiding most of the crew- aside from Blu, Simon, and Master Dakh. The rest of the crew is uneasy around me- if my EQ facial recognition is reading them properly. It seems that their voyage has been a lengthy one, visiting posts for over 300 sols now, and there had not been a need for a Meta expressed, but the clan had still sent one. Allegedly, I have been sent for protection, but in reality- I will be replacing many of their positions. Master does not seem to mind, as there have been many injuries and losses of life over the course of their voyage.

The crew’s mission in visiting each post has not been directly stated to my face, but it does not seem to quite accord with what my information packet had conveyed, from what I have gathered in passing. I have not investigated, as of yet. My review of the ship systems has become necessarily extensive- to be fair.

Many parts of different systems are missing, and the date of their removals cannot be traced. Some of them were removed cleanly- some seemingly yanked from their places in a hurry. There’s malware and traceware evident in the system, and the helm has been messed with. The system was given the name Helma- and it has many gaps in its memory bank. It has been difficult to interface with it- or Her- as Bluqyris…Blu calls the ship.

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Chapter 11

My dreams are woven with tapestry threads-conjoining to meet the sky and sea- I dive into the water and awake panting.

There is a sliver of morning light filtering through window drapes. The Stranger-Mathund -is asleep on his side. His face is still somewhat obscured, but his hair-uncovered-is very dark and goes til his jaw. His beard is thick and dark as well- the shade of his skin is not dark but not light. The triangle of white shirt remains-and his large figure- obscured in the darkness- seems to be remaining on the seat somehow despite our jostlings.

I realize now that I had not heard a man in the front when, and I suddenly wonder if the carriage was being driven by Magick alone. I listen carefully-finally picking up a faint humming snore from behind Mathund-who is now watching me.

I start and flush-not realizing he had silently awakened-and wondered if I should greet him.

He leans partly upright, propping up his boot, the nicest and blackest one I’d ever seen. “Good eve, Miss.” He says with the faintest twinkle in his eye.

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Chapter 9: Ignorance

“I did not give your mother some mixture of unknown origin, but rather a very delicate medicine which I have kept for quite some time in the hopes that my friend and ally was alive.” He turns towards Roz’s quarters, thoughtful. “I am affiliated with a school where you will expand your knowledge of Magick, which is necessary for your safety and survival, as you will kill someone if you have not done so already.”

My mind flashes to the incident when my leg was injured, and I feel sick.

The stranger draws himself through our door, and I follow him as if pulled. He pauses by his carriage to speak. “You are aware of the City beyond the southernmost border of this region?”

“Yes.”

He waits for me to speak again; when I do not he seems satisfied. “I live there in a big house with a courtyard- this is how many people live there.”

Is he…

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Day 91

There is the rustling sound of joints, freshly stretched and shifting in inaction. Beige suits, freshly rid of Rempli staining from Training, have been pulled over the repetitively shaped feminine bodies.

Unlike the first crowd, this crowd is poised, not a twitch seen amongst the rows of heads. Black, gray, golden, red: heads laid out as far as the eye could see. The skins all have a gray hue, long dead but smooth.

“It is now time to retire.” The recording booms. “The scan and review of your trained forms has been finished. We are assigning the commissions now. Some of you have shown exceptional progress.”

Colors gleam out of a red slit appearing in front of our face, morphing into other shades. Imogen sees her red darken and shift to green.

“These are your assigned loyalties now. A client has purchased each and every one of you from this …

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IV Daybreak

“It is a fortunate thing for the rest of us, that deathwish of yours.” Breyam muses, wiping his axe with his glovecloth next to Vinna.

She stares at the faces of Wittol and Mork, having been turned up from their facedown position. The Mennelra had been, all the time they had been waiting for them to resurface, finishing what must have been a clearly multi-year process of weakening the highest gate by deepening a fissure they had furrowed into the exterior tunnel.

It was Wittol that had rung the alarm, or partly, as he had been struck from behind before giving it the full yank. That was the weak signal Vinna had caught. He had left Mork to fend their ambushers off, though he was definitely the broader of the two. He was a frustrating bastard like that, likely due to being a village head’s son. And Mork, idealist that he was, was an underfed farmer’s son at the end of the day. He could barely read the Code when he first came to Gríðr. Now, here they were, made equal by death. She thought of how their villages would wail for them, once they had gotten their bodies.

“You’re not wise to go down that way, Keeper Vinna.” Breyam had stayed behind after the battle had reached its bloody conclusion to ensure she stopped. Just stopped. She always still had the wildness inside her after battle. She had scratched herself bloody or maimed herself in other ways, to feel pain, other times. She had taken to knocking herself out to force sleep, but Breyam had reprimanded her when he had found out, some years back, threatening to send her home, which he had known would make her listen.

Vinna doesn’t respond. The next round of watchers comes, taking more bodies to be buried, eventually hauling Wittol and Mork too, away from her sight.

.

Breyam keeps Vinna on her trajectory up the stairs. The burly man, once a tall and smiling boy, had started as a watcher around the same time as Vinna, and knows Vinna’s mind well, her tendency to fix on one thing and not let it go, even when she wants to. Reaching her door, he turns, “I took the liberty of asking around for some ‘help’ for you.”

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Chapter 8: Shadows

Dwola sighs-rubbing his throat- “I would go with you, but I couldn’t with your mother, and so—” His face hardens. “For however long-you must leave us.”

“What do you know of this man? What could he have said to have convinced you that I am to go?” Roz’s voice shakes. What could this man want of me?

“He means you no harm, child. He-he told me some of your mother’s time before this place- and other- other things.” His eyes avoid hers, and he becomes antsy. “She had said this time would come. He has sworn to protect you, and you must have a guide.”

“A student? Father, I could barely be spared for an education when I was of the age to receive it.” Roz’s temper flares. “I will Not Go. There are shadows in this talk. Why could I not go and hear his reasoning myself?”

“He was worried that you might not be ready to hear about-” Father falters. “Magick and the like.”

“Magick? That’…

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Chapter 7: The Visitor

Dinner went by with difficulty-the children are restless. They spoke excitedly of what they did that day-some who had not spoken much before. After some sup, Roz sits in a stupor, the talk washing over her like a hum of so many bees, coalescing into a fever of synchronous noise until it abruptly ceases. The distant sound of wheels and hooves on stone rattles closer. The click of reins and metal echoes through the street. A horse’s puffing-the sound of leather creaking- then the change from stone to dirt as horses are slowed outside. There are never carriages on this path.

Roz strains to hear- the bodice that she had forgotten to change feeling heavy- the silence rang until it must have filled the town through to the river- it had never been so quiet.

A knock from the door rings out. She hadn’t even heard someone approach the door. Father takes his eyes off her face…

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Chapter 6: High-Day

A distant church bell chimes, the morning bell, and the nuns begin to sing songs. A silent fog is passing over, and the soot from the ever-running mills rests from their blackening of Kraig’s streets into shapeless masses of stone and shit. Roz peers around her, resting for a moment. The few garnishings of her space-relics of her Mother’s presence-shine in the morning light. Today is a day of worship in Kraig. Perhaps she shall see some old friends from Laundry.

Freshening herself for the day, Roz tucks her hair up into the admissible capote, making her head hot. Roz shambles off to the abbey in her stiffest bodice and a suited skirt, by herself. Father would spend the day by Mother, as he always did. Passing by some neighbors, she heard words exchanged in their doorways, some boisterously, some furtive. One trinity she passed by:

“Wayl I say sister! Here’s some news …

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Day 2

The Voice’s recorded words reach over the sea of metas to us. The white walls arching above them reverberate/echo the message back to them. All the metas face the same way, though the voice seems to come from everywhere, vibrating through legs to ears.

I look over the other metas. Some of them seem more solid than the floor beneath them. Some are thin as waifs. Most of the variance is ahead. Those girls are dressed in single piece suits, black. From an additional info packet this morning, I know them to be Fighter-Grade meta, thrown into conflicts repeatedly, typically against each other, until they become too degraded to be economically repaired. They have been found by warring clients to be less expensive in the long run than sending in mortal bodies. F.G. don’t get much adaptation. But this quadrant, Royal Grade, we’ve been designed to be a similar size, the curves of our torso…

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Day 1

His jade wisps trail against his back. A heavy door opens and they enter the same hexagonal room. I note the masked smell’s increase in potency.

“Why did they have to call a Gathering at this time” Senior mutters. “Now I’ll have to record this.” Pressing a button, he demands, “Name your predecessors.”

“Halia: the prior tested meta software designed for at-home care and defense usage. Grosch, the war meta: specializing in strategic offense and long-range defense.”

“Name your assignment.”

“Protection of client from foreseen dangers during an intergalactic diplomatic mission.”

“Name of client?”

“Born Temur of the Nazir clan. Secondary bloodline. Male. Adheres to a commandment of preserving life due to religious beliefs. Otherwise skilled in close combat.”

“Commence training.” He presses a button.

For a moment, I lose focus when the surface beneath me whirls up off the floor and slopes diago…

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First Dream

The wind carries the sweet scent of red plains to my window. The lattice was specially installed for us, to allow air to flow. I am crouched by the light in my room, murmuring my devotional as the wind billows the cloth I’ve wrapped my hair in. A smokestick coils its musk over my bowed head.

I hear my sister-

Black hair- Darkest eyes-

Before she was broken- Before the Visitors-

The plains Were red. And rich with fertile farms and laughter.

Then They came.

The golden people who took away the sun.

The plains ran Red and dried to Brown.

The farms fell silent. After-

Night 0

I am in a cylinder a little bigger than the body, a pod. It has been newly sanitized. My internal clock has been updated and almost all of my internal systems have been synced to this place, the Facility. Some information packets were uploaded as well, including foundational knowledge and one personnel, though minima…

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III Red Water

The Mennelra had yet to surface; and the sun had risen and fallen six times already. All the areas of possible entry had been secured, and all Tenants and Keepers had been wearing full gear and stocked weapons since the Mennelra had disappeared.

“They want us at each other’s throats.” Chief Keeper Breyam rumbles. “They are likely to strike at any time. Their food won’t last forever.”

The other Keepers murmur an assent, some grimacing. All habits of the Mennelra are looked at with disgust, including the consumption of fish and other sea beings. So despite its proximity to said sea beings, local farms supplied the grain, meat, and other supplies for the Gríðr stronghold.

“We should coordinate the arrival from Mitin Farm earlier this time, speaking of food.” Vinna rises to continue. “Also, the incident from this morning scattered much grain. We must replenish tomorrow instead o…

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II Mennelra

The sea-winds had been howling as long as Vinna had been stationed to patrol Gríðr fortress’s perimeter. At times it seemed as if the entire pile of gray stones they called Gríðr castle would pitch into the water headlong, meeting a fate perhaps long awaited, the marriage of land and sea.

Vinna scopes out the far gate from her position- as always, seemingly clear. Checking the near shore, the water beat viciously upon the cliff, but as yet no other forms distinguished themselves from the froth. Sighing and rolling her laden shoulders, Vinna lets herself relax, eyes drifting to the distant horizon, but her periphery trained on the water below. She suppresses a twitch as a pair of reflective orbs emerge from the water, then blink out of sight a moment later. The old trick still works I see…

Vinna remembers, back when she was a youth too solemn and boyish for the men of her vi…

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Chapter 5: Remembering the Wound

Alwey is home when Roz steps in. Roz is never sure how she manages to get her work done first for the day, but the fine-featured girl is always first home, cooking her fish, before retiring to her room, adjacent to Mother’s. Alwey stares pointedly at Roz’s stained apron, her distaste for lowly work only lightly concealed. Alwey fancied herself meant for something significant, though she never saw fit to share what exactly. It was this same attitude that allowed her to demand a private room for herself, and that prompted her to rain down punishments on anyone who dared disturb her inner sanctum.

“Be sure to wash your pan this time.” Roz takes care not to call Alwey her name out loud, as it was simply a name Father had dubbed her, as Alwey could no longer recall her original name. She spoke of choosing another name but had yet to do so.

Alwey simply grunts in assent, setting her…

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Chapter 4: The Laundry

Sunlight stabs into Roz’s closed eye, pulling her from sleep. She becomes aware of her sore body first, then the sweat coating the back of her neck. Cracking an eye open, she stifles a groan to avoid drifting her fusty breath into her mother who- was hanging almost off the bed. Roz jerks up, pulling Mother’s fabrics to bring her back to center. Mother remains undisturbed except for a gentle smile that seems to have wrought into her sleeping face through the night. Roz feels a little lightness from that smile, which carries her downstairs. She looks over the shoddily washed dishes and sighs. Father steps in through the door, starting slightly at Roz’s wild appearance.

“Ah! You’re up. I was about to give your Mother her meal.”

Roz blinks, her eyes still crusted with sleep. “Yes, I have to wash up.” It is her Father’s day to feed and bathe Mother. He would likely do some more washing as we…

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Chapter 3: Mother and Eyes

Mother is, as usual, laying enveloped in light layers on her sloping frame. It had been seven years almost to the day since she had retreated from the world into herself. Roz used to need Father’s help to turn her and clean her, but she had gotten stronger over the years, at least on the outside.

As Roz approaches, Mother cracks her eyes open. Roz holds her breath, but, as was always the case, Mother’s eyes hold no recognition for her Rosletta. She merely breathes, looking, and relaxes back into sleep. She slept almost all the time now, though for the first couple years she had been more agitated and restless. Roz tries not to think of those days as she gets Mother changed. The early days had held such frantic hope and tired despair; her younger self wouldn’t have been able to imagine the state of things now.

As she completes Mother’s washing up, Roz looks over her face and hair. She has the same dark features as Mother, but the thick hair which Roz inherited, is kept short to avoid matting. Roz remembers when her mother would brush both of their hair, humming lightly while tugging the painful knots out and plaiting it. Roz had only started to learn how to do her own hair when she had discovered Mother- Roz shakes the memory out of her mind. She tends to sink into this melancholy when seeing her Mother.

Mother is thin- though not nearly as thin as one would think, but cleaned and again wrapped in light layers to allow her skin to breathe. Roz takes the bucket of dirty linens and puts it at the bottom of the stairs to get to later. Now to open the window to let the room air out. Roz releases the catch, creaking the window open. She stares out for a moment, then blinks. Her eyes open to darkness without end. Whipping her head around, Roz fumbles for the window, but feels nothing in front of her. Even the ground beneath her is not solid-

No! You will not fall. Know it. Roz feels her feet and chest steady as the voice speaks into her. Good. There is Darkness that is not darkness in front of your eyes. The Eyes. There are Eyes everywhere. Don’t look. They know when you’re looking. Roz feels passing ice on her back as she keeps her eyes ahead, not knowing whether to walk or stay. Stay still. There are other eyes. A pair of eyes. Green eyes. We know those eyes. Safe. Come Green-Eyes. Here. A warmth grazes Roz’s skin.

Don’t fear my child. You must go. It is better that you go- though it is not safer. You will be protected. Then. You will. Protect. You.

Roz blinks. The sun has completely descended. The sky is dark, but it is scattered with clouds and a star or two to break up the blackness. The room is cold. Cursing, Roz slams the window shut, locking it and whipping some blankets onto Mother. Shuddering, she climbs into bed with Mother, to warm her. Laying there, clinging to Mother’s soft narrow form, Roz considers her strange vision. The strange icy gazes had struck fear through her, and she shakes even now thinking of them. But the green eyes she had seen…the warmth had almost felt like when slowly cooking something, a heat that steadily increased before she had noticed.

Roz falls into a troubled sleep.