bibliovoreorc

[bibliovoreorc]

“Stillness” (a Chandra #fanfic)

She sat – legs folded, palms open, eyes closed – in the pose Mother Luti had taught her, atop a tree stump which was exactly too small to be comfortable. Chandra’s backside hurt where the edge of the stump dug into her. She shifted her weight forward, but that only transferred the discomfort to the underside of her thighs. Her back ached from the strain of trying to sit still. Every muscle in her body was tense, which she rather supposed was opposite the point of the exercise.

 Chandra managed to hold her balance for another minute, before the pain digging into her legs was too much, and – with a muffled curse – she broke pose. Rocking unglamorously from side to side, she stuck her hands beneath her backside, and sat on those for a while. It had the effect of relieving some pressure, which was nice enough while it lasted, but – within a minute or two – she began to feel the dull, aching throb in her fingers which presaged lack of circulation, and, as the pain progressed from throbbing to burning and then back to pins-and-needles, Chandra swore again and – with another ungainly fidget – she got her hands back out from beneath her, and restored them atop her crossed legs.

 From across the courtyard, she heard a familiar laugh.

 “If I haven’t succeeded in expanding your mind,” Mother Luti said, “then at least I’ve expanded your vocabulary.”

 Chandra had to admit this was true. Regathan profanity was spoiled for choice, and Mother Luti was unmatched in its employment – especially when an adept disappointed her, which Chandra frequently did. In fact, Chandra had been cursed at so frequently and so eloquently since her arrival at Keral Keep that the student had become a master in her own right when it came to the local idiom. Still, she rolled her eyes at the Mother’s comment.

 “I saw that,” Mother Luti said.

 Chandra opened her eyes, and was unsurprised to find that the Mother was not even looking. Instead, the Abbess of Keral Keep stood with her back to Chandra, some twenty paces away, where she was tending her roses with a pair of tiny shears.

 The Abbess, Chandra had long since discovered, seemed to have eyes in the back of her head – and everywhere else, besides.

 “If I bet you couldn’t go half a bell without fidgeting,” the Mother said, bending down to snip a branch, “do you think I’d win my bet?”

 “Very funny,” Chandra said, squirming atop the too-small stump. Her nose itched, but she didn’t dare scratch it. “You know,” the planeswalker said, “I think you make up half these ‘rituals,’ just to punish me for not following rules.”

 Mother Luti laughed again – a low, dry laugh.

 “If that’s the case, then it’s clearly not working,” she said.

 They were in the walled garden behind the dispensary, where the apothecary grew herbs for her poultices, and the Abbess tended to her roses. Chandra had never seen the point in that – Mother Luti’s roses were ungainly, brambly things – all thorn and no blossom – which flowered at most twice a year. Their petals – when they did bloom – were a dull, ochre red, and served mainly as forage for aphids. Still, Mother Luti tended to her trellises with all the patience of a gardener, which she very decidedly was not.

 The other adepts were all at their exercises, either training up the mountain with their tutors, or sparring in pairs in the yard. Chandra – who had overslept, and been late for morningsong – had been pulled aside by the Abbess, who had shooed the apothecary out of her garden, and then planted Chandra on the stump. The ash that had once stood there had been cut straight across, as if by an ax, yet its stump was all blackened and burned.

 “Lava ax?” Chandra said, shifting her weight on the stump, so that her legs got a reprieve, at the expense of her back.

 “Uh-huh,” Mother Luti said, pruning a branch.

 “Will I ever learn how to do that?” Chandra said.

 “Uh-huh,” Mother Luti said. Standing on tiptoe, she deadheaded a rose. “Assuming you can be bothered to get out of bed on the morning I decide to teach you.”

 Chandra rolled her eyes again. “I was barely even late,” she said.

 “Morningsong starts at sunrise,” Mother Luti said.

 “I know,” Chandra said.

 “Exactly at sunrise,” Mother Luti said.

 “I know,” Chandra said.

 “And what time did you come down for vespers?” Mother Luti said.

 “Maybe not exactly at sunrise,” Chandra admitted. A light breeze swept through the courtyard, and she wobbled on her perch. “But Anaxa was late for morningsong, too,” Chandra hastened to add, “and she still got to go training.”

 “Yes,” Mother Luti said. “I know. And should I be asking you why Anaxa was late, too?”

 “…maybe not,” Chandra said, trying and failing to keep the rising inflection from her voice.

 “No. I thought not,” Mother Luti said. Slipping the pinking shears into her cassock, she took out a bulb mister, and started spraying the aphids. “So maybe now you’ve answered your own question, as to why Anaxa is out with the trainers, whereas you’re keeping me company here.”

 Chandra scooched forward on the stump, so that the pain shifted back to her legs. “And what am I supposed to learn from this exercise, exactly?” she said.

 “Stillness,” Mother Luti said.

 “Stillness?” Chandra said, feeling anything but.

 Mother Luti nodded. The courtyard smelled faintly of tobacco, from the pesticide sprayed on the trellis.

 “Is stillness important?” Chandra said.

 “Stillness of body leads to stillness of mind,” Luti said.

 Chandra rolled her eyes, then said, “I know, I know, you saw that,” without waiting for Mother Luti’s reply.

 “You see?” Mother Luti said. “You’re becoming more observant already.”

 Chandra’s legs were going numb. She scooted backwards, transferring the worst of the pain to her butt. “If sitting on this stump is supposed to teach me stillness,” Chandra said, “then I don’t think it’s working. I could balance on one leg easier than I could sit on this thing.”

 The bulb mister stopped puffing, and Chandra saw Luti grin. “Who told you you had to sit?” was all the Abbess said.

 “You did,” Chandra said, reddening.

 “Did I?” Luti said, and went back to spraying. “Tell me, what exactly did I say?”

 In her head, Chandra replayed the events of the morning. Mother Luti had brought her to the garden, and then, pointing to the burnt-out stump, had said simply: “Please take the lotus position.”

 Chandra groaned inwardly.

 Then, hoisting herself to her feet, she transferred from the seated lotus to the standing lotus.

 “That does seem more practical,” Mother Luti said, as Chandra folded her arms and reclosed her eyes.

 Under her breath, Chandra swore.

 “There’s that vocabulary again,” the Abbess said, and Chandra resisted the urge to comment. Instead, she exhaled deeply, and tried to focus her mind.

 For a moment, she was acutely aware of all her surroundings, and the sensations they caused in her body. She felt the warm winter sun on her face, smelled the tobacco in the thin, mountain air, heard the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Her legs and backside both smarted, and her muscles felt tied-up in knots. Somewhere a bee was buzzing, and Chandra silently willed it back to the apiary, and away from the puffing bulb mister, which wheezed and coughed every couple of heartbeats.

 Then – slowly, silently – those sensations all faded away, and Chandra focused on one single, solitary stimulus: the puffing sound of the Abbess’s mister. Chandra focused all her mind on the mister’s rhythmic inhale and exhale, and, without consciously meaning to do so, she soon found that her own breathing had grown slower and deeper, and fallen into sync with the bulb mister’s pace. Now her heartbeat, too, slowed to match, until the only movement in Chandra’s whole world was the slow rising and falling of her own chest, and the only sound was the soft, steady thump of her heart.

 And, for that one moment in time – standing atop the old, burnt-out stump, in the garden amidst Luti’s roses – Chandra felt perfectly present, and still.

 * * *

Later, after what felt like a long time – Chandra couldn’t tell how long – Luti’s voice cut through the stillness. “You can get down now,” it said.

 Chandra started, and blinked, and the sudden rush of sensation back into her body was so overwhelming that she nearly toppled off the stump. Her eyes shot wide open, and she put out her arms to steady herself, only to feel strong hands grip her by the back of her shoulders, and help her to maintain her balance.

 “Woah, there,” Mother Luti’s voice said, as she held Chandra steady. “Take a moment to breathe. Count to three, find your center, and breathe.”

Heart racing, Chandra did as she was told. She counted slowly to three, and took the same number of deep, matching breaths.

 “Coming back from the stillness can be more startling than going in,” Mother Luti said, calmingly. “But you get used to it over time.”

 Chandra’s legs felt ropey beneath her, and Luti had to help hold her weight as she stepped down off of the stump.

 “How long was I out?” Chandra said dully, as she sank to the ground. Without really meaning to, she sat and crossed her legs, assuming the seated lotus position. The worn stones of the garden path felt cool beneath her skin, and her voice sounded strange in her ears, as though it had come from someplace far away.

 “You’ve been standing all day,” Luti said. “They just rang for evensong – from which you’re excused, by the way.”

 Chandra blinked her eyes again as – slowly, groggily – the world around her resolved and took form. She was startled to find that the sun had indeed gone down, and to hearing the evening bell ring from the cloister.

 Chandra opened her mouth to speak, only no words came out. Behind her, she heard Luti’s chuckle.

 “Yes, I know,” was all the Abbess said.

 “Could I do that again?” Chandra eventually managed to stammer. “Could I do that any time I want?”

 “I don’t see why not,” Luti said, “now that you’ve learnt how.”

 Chandra shivered, but not from the chill.

 The Abbess offered her hand, and Chandra stood up.

 “Alright,” Luti said. “Ask me your question.”

 It took Chandra a second, but she soon got Luti’s meaning – it was an agreement she and the Abbess had. For reasons Luti had never made clear – and about which Chandra never openly asked – the Abbess had taken a peculiar interest in her newest student. She seemed to hold Chandra to a different standard than the rest of the adepts – a regimen of special attention at which Chandra openly bridled, even while she inwardly thrilled – and, in exchange for this exacting treatment – which had made Chandra new few friends among her peers – the Mother had afforded Chandra one accommodation: for each extra task which Luti set, and which Chandra completed, the young planeswalker was allowed to ask the Abbess a question about the one subject on which she was notably reticent.

 “Jaya Ballard,” Chandra said, still breathing heavy. “Was it Jaya Ballard who taught you about stillness?”

 At that, Mother Luti laughed.

 “No,” the Abbess said. “That was not one of Jaya’s lessons.” She laughed again, which made Chandra feel just a little bit piqued.

 “What’s so funny?” Chandra said. “It’s a fair question.”

 “It is a fair question,” the Abbess agreed. “But anyone who knew Jaya Ballard would know that stillness was not one of her strengths.” And something about the Mother’s remark made Chandra bristle, without knowing why.

 “Then that’s a bit hypocritical of you,” Chandra said. “Isn’t it?”

 “Maybe so,” Luti said, and smiled her most infuriating smile. “But then you’re young, and I ought to make some allowance.” The Abbess shrugged her shoulders. “Hypocrisy rankles the young – they think it the worst of all sins. But, as you get older?” She shrugged her shoulders again. “Well, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll come to realize that we’re all of us hypocrites, in one shape or another, and that the real vice is not saying the right thing and doing the wrong thing, but giving up on right and wrong altogether.” Mother Luti smiled again. “After all,” she said, “in order to be a hypocrite, you have to at least know what’s right in the first place, even if you fail to live up to that standard. Such as – for example – if one were to, say, talk Anaxa into breaking curfew, and then to keep her up all night drinking cider, when you know that you both have morningsong the next day.”

 Alright, mom, was what Chandra thought.

 “Point taken,” was what Chandra said.

 “Good,” Mother Luti said, and patted Chandra on the back – a gesture of pseudo-maternal affection which Chandra made a show of trying to dodge, but not really. “So I trust you’ll get some sleep tonight? And that you’ll let Anaxa do the same?”

 “Yes, Mother Luti,” Chandra said.

 “And what time does morningsong start tomorrow?”

 “At sunrise,” Chandra said.

 “Exactly at sunrise?”

 “Yes,” Chandra said. “Exactly at sunrise.”

 The Abbess raised an eyebrow. “And when will I see you at vespers?”

 “Exactly at sunrise,” Chandra said.

 “Good,” the Abbess said. “Now run along.”

 Chandra didn’t wait to be told twice. After a perfunctory bow – which the Abbess returned – she hurried out of the garden back to the cloister, hoping to get to the mess before evensong had finished, and all the good tables were gone.

[bibliovoreorc]

The Gift of the Guild-Magi

One zino and eighty-seven zibs. That was all. Zibs saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the greengrocer and the fungus man until even the Golgari thought her skint. Three times Della counted it. One zino and eighty-seven zibs. And the next day would be solstice.

 They should have moved to Keyhole long ago, Della reflected bitterly, as she pocketed the coins with cold-numbed fingers. But pride had stayed her hand. She had loved their little flat in the Tenth, with the respectable address, and the balcony where they could sit out at nights, and watch the sun set over New Prahv. But the rent was too dear, and they needed every zib. Now their moldering apartment in the Keyhole stank of other people’s cooking, and the air itself made her eyes sting. But there was no cheaper place in the city. Not above ground, anyway.

 One zino and eighty-seven zibs. Even that sum was a stolen indulgence. Every spare zib was owed to the Obzedat, who held her father’s spirit in thrall. His debts were substantial – they couldn’t be worked off in one lifetime. Even with Della and her two brothers making quarterly payments, they could barely keep pace with the interest.

 Their father had been a good man – kind, and strong. His love for gambling was his only real weakness. But from that one weakness were born infinite sorrows, and, when the pontiff had appeared at his funeral, to enumerate the full extent of his liabilities, the balance had struck Della dumb. She’d made her way home in a daze, and, when Jem had come home from her rounds, Della had sunk to the ground at her feet, and – with tears in her eyes – had begged Jem to never lay a bet on the indriks. Jem had agreed, which was no small thing, and it was at her suggestion that Della and her brothers had taken it upon themselves to try to pay down the debt. Thus had begun their descent into poverty.

 One zino and eighty-seven zibs. And the next day would be solstice.

 Della snuffed out the candle, and descended the stairs.

 On the street below it was dark – the night came early this time of year, and earlier still in the Keyhole. The air was bitter cold, and Della pulled her blue-and-white cloak tight around her for warmth. It was unwise to show Azorius colors at night – particularly in their neighborhood – but the only alternative was frostbite. Della had no gloves, and her overcoat had long since gone to the findbrokers. Her guildcloak was the last good cloth she possessed. She would take her chance with the Rakdos.

 Della wove her way down to the docks, and from there on down to the Downs, where the merchants were closing-up shop. The crowds were thin, and the streets almost deserted – even the Dimir, it seemed, had gone home for solstice eve. In an out-of-the-way alley, reeking of stale fish and tallow grease, Della found the trader she’d come to seek. There the braided-chain girl – and she was just a girl, for her head barely rose past Della’s shoulder – had put up her shutters, but a lamplight still burned from inside.

 Hesitantly, Della rapped her knuckles against the closed shutter. Then, cupping her hands together, she blew into them for warmth. Her fingers were numb with the cold.

 The chainmaker pulled up her wooden shutter, then frowned when she saw Della’s cloak. “We don’t want no law-guildies here,” the girl said. “I’m paid-up with the locals. And everything I sell, I own.” And she would have rolled the shutter back down again, except that Della stuck her hand through the gap.

 “Please,” Della said, “I’m not an arrester, and this isn’t a bust. I just want to buy something for solstice.”

 “Oh, yeah?” the girl said, raising her eyebrow a fraction, and the shutter just a fraction more. “What is it then that you want?”

 “A chain,” Della said. “A fine locket chain.”

 “Oh, yeah?” the girl said. “Silver, or gold?”

 “Neither,” Della said. “I need a red ribbon chain. A fine red ribbon, for a fine Boros locket.”

 Again, the shopkeeper’s gaze drifted to Della’s blue-and-white cloak, and, again, the girl’s eyes narrowed.

 “What makes you think I’d have something like that?” the girl said. “You want Boros kit, go to Gnat Alley.”

 “Please,” Della said, “I know that you have one.”

 The shopkeep paused then, for a very long time, until Della was sure she’d refuse. But then, with a sigh, the girl made up her mind, and produced a small box from beneath the counter.

 “You’ll not ask me how I came by this,” the girl said, as she opened the lid, which bore a clenched fist, painted gold. And inside the box, on a white, satin pillow, lay a ribbon of darkest, pure red.

 Della reached out, and her fingers touched silk – the exact ruby red of Jem’s lips. In Della’s mind’s eye, she pictured Jem’s locket, and saw it hanging proudly from this chain.

 “You’ll not ask how I came by this,” the girl said again, as she pulled the box back, ever-so-slightly.

 With a shake of her head, Della reached for her purse. “How much?” was what she asked instead.

 “Ten zinos,” the girl said, with a glint in her eye. “I’ll do you a deal, on account of it’s solstice.”

 Standing there in the cold, Della’s heart nearly froze, her fingers numb around her paltry few zibs. “Ten zinos?” was all she could stammer.

 The girl nodded her head. “It’s worth twice as much. Like I said, I’ll do you a discount.”

 “But I haven’t got ten zinos,” Della said. “I haven’t got two!”

 “Then I’m afraid you also don’t have a deal.”

 “That’s too much,” Della said, the wind burning her cheeks. “For a ribbon? That’s just much too much.”

 “This is angel’s hair silk,” the girl said, her voice turning cross. “The genuine thing. Agrus Kos himself never had better.”

 “But that’s still much too much,” Della said. “I’ve got one zino, eighty-seven zibs.” And she pulled up her cloak against the wind.

 The girl was replacing the ribbon beneath her counter when Della’s motion gave her pause. “I tell you what – I’ll trade you,” she said.

 “You’ll trade me?” Della said. “Trade me for what?”

 “For that,” the girl said, and pointed to the cloak.

 “But I can’t!” Della said, and clutched protectively at her silks. “I’m a third-level law scribe – I wear this to work!”

 The girl shook her head. “All that’s as may be, but if you want this ribbon, then I want your cloak.”

 “But what would you do with it?” Della said. “What use is it to you?”

 “To me?” the girl said. “None at all. But I know plenty of folk as would pay good money for genuine, law-guildie silk.”

 Now it was Della who paused. Even with her cloak, she was cold. And what she had said about her work was all true. But it was the image of Jem – of Jem wearing her locket, with a fine, silken ribbon – that won Della over in the end.

 “You’ll not tell anyone how you came by this,” Della said, as she shrugged off her cloak – an easy enough gesture, even with frozen hands, since the silver brooch that once kept the cloak fastened had long since been sold.

 “If anyone asks,” the girl said, “I’ll say an angel gave it to me,” and, taking the offered cloak, she handed Della the fine, silk ribbon.

 Della put the ribbon in her pocket, then took it back out again, not daring to let it out of her grasp.

 “Happy solstice,” she said, her teeth chattering.

 “Happy solstice,” the girl said, putting the bartered cloak away, and, with a smirk, she slammed her shutter shut.

 It was near-enough freezing as Della walked home – she had no cloak, and night air had got even chiller. Still, Della practically flew the whole way. She stopped in at the greengrocer, where she bought two fresh chops – although, chops from what, the Golgari butcher did not say. Then she stopped in at the mushroom man, where she bought some mold wine, and – in so doing – she parted with the last of her zibs. Della’s pockets were empty, as she climbed the streets home, but her heart and her hands were both filled.

 That night in the Keyhole was black – not a hint of a moon – and a putrid scent wafted in from the docks. But Della hardly noticed, as she turned onto their block, and took the stairs to their garret two at a time. Once through the door, she placed her parcels on the table, and set to heating a pan for the chops. Della barely had the cookfire lit, when a key turned in the lock, and Jem came inside, her helmeted head bent low so as to not scrape the lintel.

 “I’m home,” Jem said, and she sniffed the air as she took off her armor. “I didn’t know we had chops – did you go shopping? And is that mold wine? And where is your cloak – it’s freezing in here.”

 The wojek looked confused, and doubtless would have said more, had Della not silenced her with a kiss.

 “I have something for you,” Della said, presenting her treasure. “A new chain, to replace the one you lost.” Jem was standing stone-still, so Della placed the ribbon round her neck, and fastened the clasp in the back. “Where’s your locket?” Della said.

 Jem’s mouth opened, then closed, only no sound came out. She did this once, and then twice, like a fish.

 “Where’s your locket?” Della said. “I want to see it on you.” She looped her finger through the red ribbon, and gave a coy tug. “I want to see it hanging from this.”

 Without a word in reply, the wojek reached in her pocket, and fished out a fine silver brooch.

 “I sold it,” Jem said. “I sold the locket. I sold it to buy you this brooch for your cloak.”

 For a long time, then, all Della could do was laugh. And, then, at long last, after the fit had finally passed, and after Jem had asked her for the fifth time what was so funny, Della just shook her head, and smiled a wan, threadbare smile, and motioned for Jem to sit down at the table.

 “Jem,” Della said, “let’s put our presents away, and maybe just keep ‘em a while. Maybe they’re too nice for us just at present. Because – you see – I traded my cloak to buy you your chain.”

 “Oh,” said Jem. “Oh, no.”

 “Oh, yes,” said Della, and laughed again.

 After a long, long time, Jem said: “The chops – where did you get those from?”

 “I bought them with our last zino,” Della said.

 “And the mold wine?”

 “I bought that, too,” Della said. “With our last zib.”

 From atop the stove, the fat in the frying pan sizzled.

 “I suppose I’ll put the chops on,” Della said. “Anyway, finery is for guild-magi. People like us, we have each other, and I suppose that’s enough.”

 “It is,” Jem said, and kissed her. “Happy solstice.”

[bibliovoreorc]

Werewolves to Tailors: Give Us Transformation-Friendly Autumn Looks

The werewolves of Kessig have delivered an autumn ultimatum to their tailors: give us fall fashions which are transformation-friendly while remaining en flic.

“It’s a real problem,” said Arlinn Kord, leader of the spokespack. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said, ‘well, I should probably transform and save those orphans from the gitrog monster, but I’m wearing my favorite skinny jeans, and I don’t know if I can find another pair.’”

Kord said that flashy-yet-flexible waistlines could save lives.

“In the time that it takes me to undress, there’s another orphan gone,” she said. “But what am I going to do, wear mom jeans? This isn’t just about looking fabulous over 40. It’s a public safety issue.”

The problem doesn’t just impact fashion, said Melena Marl, a denmother of 12. It also harms family finances.

“I have a whole litter to clothe and feed,” Marl said, “let alone saving for college. I can’t afford to buy 12 new sets of britches every time there’s a full moon. It’s not fair to working packmoms.” Her haberdasher’s bill, Marl said, is “murder on the budget.”

“We’re living in a new, enlightened age,” Kord said. “One where modern werewolves should be able to slay on the catwalk as well as in the forest. I shouldn’t have to choose between saving Innistrad or shopping at Lands’ End. I should be able to have it all.”

“I worked too hard to become the alpha,” Kord told the Guardian, “to have to dress like a basic bitch.”

(Ripped from the headlines of “The Felidar Guardian” - check out the real issue here: https://blog.cardkingdom.com/the-felidar-guardian-october-2018/) 

[bibliovoreorc]

#MTG #fanfic: “Plea Deal”

“Is there a telepath here?”

 Ceilia Levont looked up from her cups to see one of the first-years – a worried-looking man called Dryden – standing in the door to the lawmage’s canteen. At least, Ceilia thought it was Dryden. She’d gone off her shift several hours ago, and since then had been playing citations. Citations was a game the lawmages devised, in which they were challenged to recite obscure statutes – the penalty for failure was drink.

 Ceilia – who had had a long day – had been playing to lose. She had emptied a half bottle of brandy, and was feeling pleasantly warm.

 Frustrated by the non-response, the man in the doorway – she was now fairly sure it was Dryden – repeated his question.

 “Kaska’s a telepath,” Ceilia said, and was pleasantly surprised to hear the words come out unslurred. “But she’s already gone home for the night.”

 “No good,” Dryden said. “I need someone here.”

 “So send a bailiff to get her,” Ceilia said. “It won’t take more than an hour.”

 “No, you don’t understand,” Dryden said. “I need a telepath now.” To emphasize the last word, his hand chopped the air in frustration.

 Ceilia shook her head – a gesture she immediately regretted. “What’s the rush?” she said.

 “Rush is, I’ve got a squad of arresters just busted a riot over in Parha, and now the docket’s backed-up worse than a Rix Maadi privy,” Dryden said. “There’s more Rakdos down in holding than a diversion club – it’ll be a miracle if we get them all processed tonight. And now I’ve got this gorgon mute jamming up the works.”

 “Gorgon?”

 “Yeah, gorgon,” Dryden said, kneading his temples in frustration. “Just a kid, really – came in before all the Rakdos. Now she’s in the dock, and refusing to plead to the charges. At first, well, we thought she was just being obstinate, but now…?” Dryden shrugged his shoulders. “Now we figure that maybe she’s deaf.” He sighed. “So I need a telepath, now. The whole docket’s stuck unless someone gets the gorgon to plead.”

 “Ceilia can sign,” another of the citation players said, drunkenly. “That good enough?” In reply, Ceilia aimed a kick under the table, but missed.

 “Yeah, should be,” Dryden said, and he motioned for Ceilia to follow. “Come on.”

 “Hold on,” Ceilia said. It was true she could sign – her best friends in school had been twin homunculi – but it was also true she was drunk. “I can barely stand. And, unless there’s two of you, I’m seeing double.”

 “So what?” Dryden said. “I’m not asking you to prosecute. All you have to do is translate the charges, and plead the gorgon out. It’ll take all of a minute.”

 “Fine, fine,” Ceilia said, deciding it would be quicker not to argue – and less painful, too. She got unsteadily to her feet. “But you’re going to have to help me,” she said.

 Dryden took her arm, and helped her to the assizors.

 “Don’t throw up on my boots,” Dryden said.

* * *

 The three judges looked up as Ceilia entered the courtroom, their hooded faces showing varied degrees of impatience. The procureur – a bespectacled vedalken, who Ceilia knew, but did not like – was shuffling scrolls at her table. The prisoner sat stooped in the dock.

 When Dryden had called the accused gorgon a “kid,” Ceilia had pictured a sullen-eyed teen. But the girl cowering in the dock couldn’t have been more than ten, and something about her made Ceilia’s heart bleed. She just looked so small, against the scale of the courtroom, and she visibly shivered from fright. Her hands and ankles were both bound with glowing injunctions, and an opaque hood was pulled over her head.

 “Your honors, I object,” Ceilia said, taking her place next to the client. “The girl is deaf, and can’t see. Without the chance to read lips, how can she possibly plead to the charges?”

 The procureur cleared her throat. “And – for the record – you are?”

 Ceilia silently cursed the brandy, which was making her forget procedure.

 “Ceilia Levont, appearing for the defense,” she said, and then hastily added, “if it please the court?”

 “So recognized,” the procureur said, and noted as much in the record.

 Ceilia looked up at the three judges – two humans, one sphinx – seated high up above on the dais. The judges’ marbled elevation, combined with their gold and azure robes, leant them an air of graven authority.

 “Your honors, I renew my objection,” Ceilia said. “My client must see the proceedings.”

 “Overruled,” the sphinx said, who was the chief of the three. “The hood is for the court’s safety – lawmage Levont, you know better.” The judge nodded to the procureur. “Officer, reread the charges.”

 The vedalken cleared her throat, and consulted a scroll. “The prisoner,” she said, “an undercity resident – name unknown – is hereby accused of the following charges,” and she held up three fingers, before counting them off. “One, on the charge of unlawful trespass. Two, on the charge of resisting arrest. And, three,” the last finger dropped, “on the charge of willful murder.”

 Ceilia felt her blood run cold – why the hell hadn’t Dryden told her the charges? Just plead it out – like hell, Ceilia thought to herself. This was a murder, and she was half drunk.

 She turned around to look for Dryden, but the first-year was already gone – which was probably a good thing, Ceilia thought. Otherwise, there might have been a second murder.

 “How does the accused plead?” asked the gravel-voiced sphinx.

 Ceilia squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to will herself sober. Standing next to her, the gorgon shook and shivered.

 Since the hooded gorgon could neither hear nor see, there was only one thing for Ceilia to do. Kneeling down, so that she was roughly the gorgon’s own height, Ceilia reached out, and tried to take the gorgon’s left hand.

 At the first brush of contact, the gorgon jumped back, and instinctively tried to pull away. But the injunction spells bound her, and Ceilia held firm, and – working as calmly and as gently as she could, given the circumstances – Ceilia wrapped her own hands around the gorgon’s, and softly molded the girl’s thin fingers into the sign for the word “safe.”

 Once again, the girl started, though less violently this time. Ceilia herself shivered – the girl’s fingers were cold.

 The gorgon’s hand relaxed, and – again – Ceilia formed the word: safe.

 Then Ceilia let go, so the gorgon could sign back.

 After a moment’s hesitation, the gorgon repeated the word: safe? Ceilia took the gorgon’s hand, and this time the girl did not resist.

 Yes, Ceilia signed. Safe.

 Who are you? the gorgon signed.

 I am a lawmage, Ceilia signed back. My name is Ceilia. She spelled the word out. I am here to help you.

 Slowly, the gorgon nodded.

 Do you know where you are? Ceilia signed. Do you know why you’re here?

 No, the gorgon signed, twice.

 Ceilia’s signing was rusty, and she didn’t know words like “assizors,” but she did her best to explain.

 As the silence wore on, the procureur cleared her throat. Ceilia could sense the judges growing restless.

 “How does the accused plead?” the sphinx asked again, its wings beating one impatient beat.

 The gorgon was signing rapidly, telling her side of the story. Her knees shook as she spoke – Ceilia wanted to hold her. Although she could feel the judges’ collective glare, the lawmage refused to be rushed.

 When the gorgon had finished signing, Ceilia stood up, and put resonance into her voice. The spell was a simple one – and old lawmage’s trick – but it worked. And, as an added bonus, it helped her to steady her nerves.

 “Your honors,” Ceilia said, “my client contests all the charges.”

 Ceilia caught the quick flash of annoyance which flickered across the three judges’ faces. The procureur – less covert – sighed aloud, and glanced openly up at the clock. The four of them had clearly expected Ceilia to plead the case out, as lawmages routinely did. Virtually no prisoners brought before the assizors chose to contest the charges. Azorius justice – while by no means predetermined – placed a premium on order, and the procureur’s charges were accorded great deference.

 Arresters, it was understood, were not in the habit of detaining the innocent, and procureurs, it was equally understood, would bring no charges if there were no crime. Thus any prisoner appearing in the dock did so with the overwhelming presumption of guilt. Still, the accused were entitled to representation – on that, the law was quite clear – and were entitled to make their own case.

 And that was just what they would do.

 “Very well,” the procureur said, rearranging her papers. “We will assize the charges in order. On the first count – that of unlawful trespass – what is the prisoner’s defense?” Speaking to the judges, the procureur said: “I will remind the court that the accused was arrested in Ovitzia Market, which – after dark – is strictly off-limits. She was inside an upholsterer’s storeroom.”

 Is that true? Ceilia signed to the gorgon, after repeating the charges.

 Yes, the gorgon signed back.

 Why were you there? Ceilia asked her.

 The gorgon’s shoulders drooped. I wanted to feel the silks, she said.

 “Your honors, my client was unfamiliar with that district,” Ceilia said, which was likely enough. “She had no idea that the area was under curfew.”

 That, Ceilia suspected, was likely not true. But she hadn’t asked, and therefore didn’t know, and therefore could not knowingly perjure. That’s the ghost of the brandy talking, she thought. It was making her reckless.

 “For the record, the court does not stipulate to the prisoner’s defense,” the procureur said. “But it is immaterial either way. Ignorance of the law is no excuse; the statute on trespass is quite clear. Your honors, I call for the verdict.”

 Ceilia and the procureur both looked up at the judges, who shifted in their seats on the dais. In front of each judge, there was a small, silver box, divided in two equal halves. On the half on the right, a white rune was etched. The rune on the left was dark red.

 After a perfunctory moment’s deliberation, each of the judges raised their left hand, and the three left-side runes lit up red.

 “Guilty on the first count,” the procureur said, and noted as much in the record. In the dock, the gorgon gave no reaction – Ceilia hadn’t the heart to tell her.

 “Moving on,” the procureur said, “we come to the final two counts, which we shall assize jointly, as the two are related.” The vedalken glanced up from her notes. “I enter into the record the sworn statement of the arresters, and – as your honors will see – it is quite clear.” The vedalken waved two of her arms, and duplicate copies appeared before Ceilia and each of the judges.

 Ceilia read the statement.

 “Your honors, this is ludicrous,” she said. “My client was attacked from behind.”

 “It is learned counsel who is being ludicrous,” the procureur said, pushing her spectacles up the brim of her nose. “What counsel calls ‘assault’ was a lawful arrest – which the prisoner violently resisted.”

 “According to the statement, the arresters were off-duty,” Ceilia said. “They were not in uniform.”

 “They identified themselves,” the vedalken said.

 “My client is deaf!” Ceilia shouted in reply. She was losing her cool, which she knew was a mistake – histrionics were counterproductive in an Azorius courtroom. But Ceilia was mad, and the brandy wasn’t helping. “She was scared – she’s only a child.”

 “Only a child?” The procureur scoffed, and looked down her nose. “A child who petrified an arrester.”

 Ceilia squeezed her eyes shut, and she took a deep breath. The room spun unhelpfully, but she counted to ten. Then, opening her eyes and again kneeling down, she took the gorgon’s small hand, and summarized as best she could what had been said.

 As Ceilia signed, the gorgon’s body shifted. She became tense, and her demeanor changed. As soon as Ceilia let go of her hand, the hooded gorgon started signing so fast that Ceilia could barely keep pace.

 “My client says that three men grabbed her from behind,” Ceilia narrated, fighting to keep her voice level. “They were strangers to her – she did not know their faces. Whatever they said, she could not hear it.”

 The gorgon’s hands flew, signing faster than before. And, as Ceilia listened, she felt her heart sink.

 I thought they would hurt me, the little gorgon signed. People have hurt me before.

 And then she stopped signing, and a great shudder racked her body, and, even through the barrier of the opaque black hood, Ceilia could tell that the gorgon was crying.

 Ceilia put her hand on the gorgon’s shoulder, in what she hoped was a gesture of comfort. A second, heaving shudder racked the small body, followed quick by a third, and then the gorgon signed five final words.

 I had to protect myself, she said, before her head dropped, and her hands fell silent.

 “Your honors,” Ceilia said, “my client was attacked from behind by three men she did not recognize. She defended herself, as any reasonable person would.”

 “Petrifying an arrester hardly constitutes reasonable self-defense,” the procureur said.

 “With all due respect to the court,” Ceilia said, trying – and failing – to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, “learned counsel is not a three-foot-tall girl.”

 “A gorgon does not have to be tall to be a menace,” the procureur said, and in that moment, it was all that Ceilia Levont could do to keep from throwing her copy of the statutes.

 Ceilia Levont was a New Prahv lawmage. She believed in order. She believed in the law. But this was neither of those.

 “Your honors,” she said, feeling horribly resigned, “the defense has made its case clearly. The accused has committed no crime.”

 “An arrester is dead at the prisoner’s hand,” the procureur rebutted. “The facts of this are not in question.” She addressed the bench, her voice almost disinterested: “Your honors, I call for the verdict.”

 As the judges’ heads bowed, Ceilia shifted her body, positioning herself between the gorgon and the bench. But the gesture was meaningless, and there was nothing Ceilia could do to shield the small, sobbing gorgon from the three runes which all lit up red.

 * * *

 The bailiffs had come for the gorgon before Ceilia could explain what had happened.

 The docket – Ceilia thought bitterly – was full, and the assizors were already behind schedule.

 They frogmarched the gorgon out of the courtroom – no fewer than six bailiffs, in full armor. The gorgon – clearly terrified – thrashed and screamed. She had no idea what was happening to her, who was dragging her, where they were taking her. No one had bothered to explain. Her black hood was still pulled tight.

 Before she even knew what she was doing, Ceilia was running after them. She elbowed her way past the rearmost pair of bailiffs, and squeezed herself between the two massive guards dragging the gorgon by the arms. Then, before, the bailiffs could object, Ceilia helped the gorgon so that she was at least standing on her own feet. Ceilia held the gorgon’s hand, and she felt the little girl’s shaking subside – not a lot, but at least a little.

 Safe? the gorgon frantically signed.

 No. Not safe, Ceilia signed back, pointedly ignoring the bailiff’s stares. Stay calm. I will help.

 The lead bailiff drew his sword. “Get away,” he said. “The lawmages have no jurisdiction now.”

 “Do you want to have to drag her – kicking and screaming – all the way down to detention?” Ceilia said. “Or would you rather she walked?”

 For a minute, the bailiff just stared at her, stone-faced, and Ceilia thought he was going to argue. But, at last, he sheathed his sword, and motioned for her to follow.

 “Fine,” he said. “But keep pace. We’re running behind already.”

 “Very sensible of you,” Ceilia said, as she fell into step with the knot of armed men. She put one hand on the tiny gorgon’s back to help guide her. With the other, she squeezed the gorgon’s hand tight.

 “Where are you taking her?” Ceilia asked, as they descended down stairs into the network of tunnels which linked the assizors at New Prahv to the massive detention compound which sprawled beneath the Tenth District.

 “Detention sphere,” the lead bailiff grunted. “Solitary.”

 “That’s madness!” Ceilia said. “She’s a kid!”

 “She killed an arrester,” the bailiff said.

 “And that’s all that matters,” Ceilia said bitterly. “Isn’t it?”

 The bailiff said nothing.

 Safe? the gorgon signed. Ceilia did not know how to reply.

 Ceilia’s mind raced. She had to do something – but what? She was mostly sober, now, but that hardly mattered. She couldn’t attack the bailiffs. They were armed, and she was not. They were soldiers, and she was not. It would be six on one – suicide.

 That didn’t matter. She had to do something.

 Her repertoire as a lawmage was of painfully limited utility, and Ceilia cursed herself for not going into the justiciars. They had more martial spells. Still, she gathered in her mana, thinking.

 They were coming to a bend in the corridor. Ceilia made up her mind. When the first two bailiffs turned the corner, she would dispel the gorgon’s bonds. Then she would try to get the lead guard’s sword. Hopefully, that would buy the gorgon some time.

 Not much time, Ceilia thought ruefully. But it would have to be enough.

 The lead pair of bailiffs were approaching the corner. Ceilia felt her muscles grow tense. Get ready, she signed to the gorgon.

 Then – before Ceilia knew what was happening – all hell broke loose.

 Arrows whistled around the corner, along with a blast of dark magic. The first volley of arrows bounced ineffectually off of thick, Azorius plate, but the darkblast staggered the man that it hit, and, as he dropped to one knee, a cloud of living shadow seemed to envelop him, and, with a flash of steel beneath the unlight, some unseen hand cut his throat. Blood splashed briefly across the figure of a shadow-shrouded woman, before the outline vanished, and the air grew cold.

 “Arms, arms!” the bailiff captain was shouting, and he went to draw his sword.

 Ceilia forgot all about her spell. Instead, she dove at the captain, hitting the back of his knees with all her weight. Her attack was clumsy – amateurish – but she caught the man unprepared, and he toppled, losing his balance. Ceilia went down, too, and the bailiff landed on top of her, crushing her beneath fifteen stone of solid muscle, and half as much again of hardened steel. All the air exited Ceilia’s lungs in a single, explosive gasp. Her head hit the stone, and her vision swam red. The captain tried to roll off her, but he was on his back, now, and the plate made it hard for him to move. He was still fighting to work his sword free, but on his opposite hip was a small, double-edged dagger, and Ceilia grabbed it from his belt.

 Ceilia heard the captain shout, but the throbbing in her head muddled the words. Giving up momentarily on his sword, the captain lashed out, kicking at her with steel-capped boots. But the tangled state of their bodies restricted his range of motion, and he couldn’t put real force behind the blow.

 Just inches away from her face, Ceilia saw the narrow slit between the captain’s helm and armored shoulder. She could hear his curses echoing inside the helmet.

 Ceilia levered the point of the double-edged dagger into that narrow gap between the armor. Then she pushed it as far as it would go.

 Ceilia heard the captain scream. It was a terrible, animal scream, that started out as a bellow of rage, but soon became a wet, gurgling choke. The bailiff’s whole body convulsed, and he rolled off her, onto the ground. Ceilia scrambled to her feet, wincing as she tried to suck air through crushed ribs. The bailiff was flopping on the stone floor, like a dying fish. The hilt of the dagger was sticking out from the gap in his armor, along with several inches of blade. The man’s hand was scrabbling for it.

 Ceilia kicked the exposed end of the dagger. The blade slid all the way in, with a final cry of steel scraping steel, and the bailiff stopped moving.

 Frantically, Ceilia looked around, trying to get her bearings. The two bailiffs in front lay motionless – the one face-down with his throat cut, the other on his back, his arms and legs splayed at horrible angles. Behind her, Ceilia heard the sounds of fighting. The little gorgon stood pressed against the wall, her back to the cold marble, her chest heaving with fright. She was trying to pull off her hood, but the knot was pulled tight, and the gorgon’s wrists were still bound. Blood was splashed across the front of the gorgon’s shirt. Ceilia hoped that the blood was not hers.

 “Stand still – let me help you,” Ceilia said, before shaking her head in frustration as she remembered the gorgon couldn’t hear. So she scrambled over to where the little girl stood, and, taking the gorgon’s hand in hers, she signed, stand still! Then she set to work on the knot.

 The fighting noises had stopped, and Ceilia had almost gotten the hood loose, when she heard the sound of a sword being drawn behind her. Ceilia spun round to see that the bailiff who had been lying on his back earlier was less dead than she had assumed, and was now looming over her and the gorgon, with his sword in his hand, and murder in his eyes.

 Ceilia went to raise her dagger, then realized she’d left it in the dead captain’s neck. She swore.

 The bailiff took a step forward.

 “First, I’m going to kill the sewer snake,” he said, levelling the point of his sword at the quivering gorgon. His eyes moved to Ceilia. “Then I’m going to kill you.”

 Ceilia pulled the little gorgon down, and covered her with her body. She doubted it would make much difference, but it was all she could think to do.

 Her hand found the gorgon’s, as she shielded her with her body. Be brave, Ceilia signed, be brave, as she waited for the flash of pain that would be the last thing she ever felt.

 Ceilia waited, and waited, and waited. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears, could feel her heart beating in her throat, could feel the gorgon clinging to her.

 Still Ceilia waited, but still the blow did not come.

 “Get up,” said a hard voice. Not the guard’s.

 Slowly, warily, Ceilia got to her feet. Slowly – warily – she turned round.

 The bailiff was still standing behind her, his face frozen in anger, the point of his sword barely an inch from her chest. Only he did not move. He did not speak. He did not even breathe.

 The bailiff had turned into stone.

 Ceilia glanced back at the little gorgon. The heavy hood still covered her head.

 “Turn around,” the hard voice said. Ceilia did as she was told.

 The corridor was empty. Just a maze of bodies and shadows.

 Then, as Ceilia watched, one of the shadows started to move. It detached itself from the wall, and slithered slowly towards her. And, as it moved, the shadow took form. It became shimmery and translucent, like a pane of smoked glass, and its shape grew distinct and more clear, taking on the outline of a woman. Then, as though some unseen curtain had been parted, the shadows drew aside, and the woman herself appeared.

 She was a tall, powerful gorgon. The claws on her right hand were like razors; in her left, she held a bloody knife. Writhing snakes wreathed her head like a profane halo; her eyes glowed yellow in the halflight. She was clad in soft, leathery armor, which tapered to many sharp points, and gave an aggressive silhouette. Her skirt hung in artful green tatters, which swayed like windblown reeds as she walked.

 Everything about the gorgon looked both deadly and regal. She moved silently, like a predator, but carried herself like a queen.

 Ceilia’s mouth went dry. She knew who the gorgon was.

 “Get away,” Vraska said, and motioned for Ceilia to step back from the kid.

 Without hardly daring to breathe, Ceilia did as she was told.

 Vraska moved to stand next to the girl, who was now struggling to work herself free. Vraska waved her hand, and the detention spells around the girl shattered.

 Then, in a gesture of supreme contempt, the assassin turned her back on the lawmage, and – with a single, deft swipe of her claw – she cut the drawstring and pulled the hood free.

 For the first time, Ceilia Levont saw the face of the gorgon she’d tried to save. Her snake hair was matted and tangled. Her eyes were puffy and red. Tear tracks stained the scales on her cheeks. She looked small, and exhausted, and scared.

 She looked like a kid, Ceilia thought. She looked like a regular kid.

 Human, gorgon, Azorius, Golgari – none of it mattered. Ceilia saw that now. She saw it all in the face of that kid.

 Just a kid, like any other, who deserved to live, who deserved to be free.

 Are you alright? Vraska signed to the gorgon.

 Yes, the little gorgon signed back.

 Did they hurt you? Vraska signed, glancing back at the lawmage.

 No, the little gorgon said.

 Good, Vraska signed. We’re leaving. And she took the little gorgon by the hand.

 Then, to Ceilia, Vraska gave a withering stare. “Don’t try to follow,” she said.

 “Wait,” Ceilia said, and moved to go after the gorgons, before Vraska froze her with a yellow-eyed glare. “I want to help.”

 “You’ve helped enough,” Vraska said, her voice cold and hard. “Now leave before I change my mind.”

 The little gorgon tugged on a strand of Vraska’s skirt. The assassin looked down, and a stream of sign language passed between the two gorgons more quickly than Ceilia could follow.

 When the assassin looked up, she fixed Ceilia again with her unblinking eyes, and Ceilia saw the same intensity there as before. But, this time, some of the hard edge was gone.

 “Eesha says you tried to help her,” Vraska said. “For that, you have my thanks.”

 The little gorgon – whose name must have been Eesha – looked up at Ceilia, and waved. Ceilia smiled and waved back.

 “So, thanks,” Vraska said. “Now leave.” And, putting her hand on the little gorgon’s back, she moved to shoo her away.

 “Wait,” Ceilia said again. “I want to do more.”

 Vraska turned around, and then – faster than Ceilia could blink – the assassin was standing right before her, so close that Ceilia could smell the scent of death.

 “If you really want to help,” Vraska said, holding Ceilia transfixed in her gaze, “then go back to New Prahv. Go back to your job. Keep your head down. Forget about Eesha. Forget about me.” Her hard, yellow eyes didn’t blink. They stared straight through the back Ceilia’s skull. “When the day comes that I need you, that you can be of use to me?” Vraska said. ��Then you’ll see me. Not a moment before.”

 “But I can’t go back,” Ceilia said. “I killed a bailiff. I’m a traitor.” She pointed down at the captain below, lying in motionless in a pool of blood. “If I go back to New Prahv, I’ll end up back down here – in a very small detention sphere.”

 Vraska glanced down at the dead body, then back up at Ceilia. Then, faster than Ceilia could react, she punched the lawmage – hard – in the jaw.

 Ceilia went down, head reeling. As she lay stunned on her back on the cold marble floor, feeling the dead guard’s blood soaking into her robes, the assassin knelt down over her, and, with all the precision of a surgeon, she raked two sharp sets of claw marks diagonally down Ceilia’s torso. The slashes cut cotton and silk, and went deep enough to draw blood, so that Ceilia gritted her teeth with the pain. But the gorgon placed her wounds carefully – they did not sever anything vital.

 Then Vraska snapped her own dagger in half, and dropped the blade next to Ceilia’s head.

 “Now you’re no traitor,” the assassin whispered in the lawmage’s ear. “Now you’re an Azorius hero. So wait to be rescued, and do what I say.”

 Ceilia nodded. Her jaw hurt like hell.

 Vraska stood up and left. Her feet made no sound as she went.

 Through the haze of pain, Ceilia propped herself on her elbow, and raised her head far enough to see Vraska and the little gorgon walking off down the hall, stepping over corpses as they went. Then, just before they disappeared around the corner, the little gorgon – Eesha – looked back, and make the sign for goodbye.

 Goodbye, Ceilia signed back.

 Then lawmage Ceilia Levont lay back on the floor, in a puddle of cooling blood. She picked up the assassin’s broken dagger, clutching it tightly in one hand.

 “Not guilty, your honors,” she said, for no one to hear but the dead. And, when she passed out, she passed out with a smile.

[bibliovoreorc]

Life, and Death, and the Stars

I live in the city, and I love the city.

 Cities seem to attract interesting people, and my city – Boston – seems to attract more than its share. I love that it feels big and small at the same time. I love that our most beautiful building is a library. Walking through the Public Garden at night – when it’s January, and the snow is falling, and the Christmas lights are still up – is close to my idea of heaven.

 This city is my home.

 But there are things that you miss, living in the city. There are no chipmunks to chirp at you. There are no woodpeckers, no goldfinches, no red-winged blackbirds, perched just outside your window. There are no bats to flit by at sunset. At night, the skies grow dark.

 In the city, there are no stars.

 * * *

 I haven’t always lived in the city. I was born in a town.

 The house I grew up in had trees, and a yard. It was a place to see stars.

 There was a tree in our yard I loved particularly. For the first foot, it grew upward, like any other tree. Then – for reasons which were never known, and which, now, will never be known – its trunk made a hard right turn, and grew parallel to the ground. In defiance of all logic and physics, it went on like that for three or four feet, growing sideways instead of up, sending only subsidiary branches skyward. Then it made a hard turn up, and grew like normal.

 It was a strange and beautiful tree.

 The sideways section of trunk made a sort of natural bench, and, as a kid, I loved it. It was perfect for climbing on, or for sitting. It could be a fortress or a pirate ship, as the demands of imagination called for. It was made to be played upon.

 But, like most strange and beautiful things, it was not made to last. Gravity and physics proved inevitable in the end. The first blow was struck when I was ten, and a tornado ripped through our town. It toppled trees in our yard, and, while the strange, sideways tree survived, its biggest trunk snapped off at the base, where it made its upright angle.

 We cut off the broken part, and put pitch across the scar, but the damage was done. The tree rotted from within. Squirrels dug their homes inside. Woodpeckers – infrequent visitors, until then – became a familiar sight. They haunted the tree like ghosts, digging for grubs in the soft, rotting wood.

 They knew before the rest of us did.

 The tree held on another twenty years, languishing in a state of gentle decay. Its leaves grew spotted and thin. One by one, branches rotted away. One year, the tree surgeon came, and bound the last two trunks together with chain. All that did was delay the inevitable. Palliative care for the terminal patient. Extraordinary measures, to prolong the end of life.

 This year, we cut the tree down. My brother took it hardest. The fact the tree was dying carries no weight. Even the devout atheist maintains some belief in resurrection, when it’s a loved one on the gallows. Nor did he care that the tree was threatening to fall on the house. He would have taken an ax to the home we grew up in before he would have laid a finger on that tree.

 But now the tree is gone. And there is one fewer strange and beautiful thing in this world.

 * * *

 I am back in the house I grew up in. I have come back for a funeral.

 In this life, all things must pass.

 The things we love become pole stars in our lives, such that – no matter how much foreknowledge we have of their mortality – it is strange to find them gone. Whether it’s a person you love, or a tree, the principle remains the same. Their presence is missed. They leave a hole behind.

The view from my old room is strange, and foreign to me. This is my first time back without the tree. It used to frame the view through my window. In my memories, the world outside is leafy, and green. Now the horizon seems barren, and empty. It is like seeing an old friend, and not recognizing their face.  

 The night after the funeral, I was lying awake in bed. It was the twilight time – that strange, in-between hour, after sunset and before night, when the sky is dark blue, but not black. There was a single star on the horizon – so low, and impossibly bright, that I thought, at first, that it might be a plane. But, as I sat, transfixed, and watched the light move across the sky, I could see it was moving too slow.

 Just seeing it at all took me by surprise. In the city, we have no stars. Go long enough without seeing a thing – even the most basic, most cosmic of things – and you begin to forget what it looks like. The mundane comes as a shock.

 I watched the light move, past the shadows of trees, past the stripes of the blinds. It started in the top center pane, then drifted down to the right. It was moving too slow for a plane, but it was moving too fast for a star. I realized it must be a planet.

 I got out of bed, and found my glasses. I’d never seen a planet before. Grabbing my phone, I demanded from Google: “Which planets are visible tonight?” I am no astronomer, and it took me a while to find a link I could make sense of. Eventually, I figured it out.

 Venus. The light in the sky was Venus.

 The excitement I felt was elemental. I woke up my wife, so that she could see it, too. “Look,” I said, pointing out the window, as she sat upright, groggy-eyed. “Venus!” She must have thought I was crazy.

 Then we watched through the window together, as Venus dipped below the horizon, out of sight.

 The next night, I looked again, and, again, there it was. A single, bright light, the only thing in the sky, moving too fast to be a star, too slow to be a plane. I watched Venus make its low arc across the night, from the top middle pane to the bottom right, and I wondered how it was that I was seeing it for the first time. A whole planet, just outside my window, and I’d never noticed it before. More than twenty years of looking, and I’d never spotted it once. It must have been there. It was so singular, so bright. How come I’d never seen it?

 And then I knew the answer. Venus had always been there. But the tree had blocked it before.

 My favorite tree is gone, but now I can see Venus.

 I can’t help but think there is something poetic and cosmic about that.

 Something strange, and beautiful.

[bibliovoreorc]

#MTGBattle FanFic 1: “The Scout”

The azra, Griss thought, was in trouble. There were two cyclopses bearing down on her – one on either side – and she was backing herself into a corner.

 The cyclops on her right was holding his club over his head, as though it were an ax, and he meant to cleave the azra in two. The cyclops to her left, meanwhile, had dropped into a low, wary crouch, and was keeping her club close to the ground, threatening to sweep the azra’s legs if she tried to escape.

 The cyclopses were advancing – slowly, carefully – keeping the much smaller azra between them. The azra, meanwhile, was giving ground. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking from one cyclops to the other, and she kept out of reach of their swings. But she was running out of room – just a few more steps, and she’d find her back against the arrow-pocked wall. And then, Griss thought, it would be over.

 The game of catfolk-and-mouse played itself out for a few more tense seconds – the cyclopses advancing, the azra retreating – until the azra’s back foot crunched against powdered stone, and the wooden balustrade. The cyclopses seemed almost to relax, sensing that their quarry was at hand. The azra, meanwhile, flexed slightly at the knees, held her twin falxes at the ready, and dropped into the combat stance.

 Griss licked the tip of his pencil, and he waited to see what the azra would do.

 The cyclops on the left bit first, lunging with her club in a low, sweeping arc designed to take the azra out at the knees. But, just as soon as the cyclops had committed to that attack, the azra was up and moving. She jumped up, leaping easily over the strike, and then – kicking off against the wall – launched herself into the air. The lunging cyclops was caught off-guard, and tried desperately to redirect her swing, but it was too late, and the momentum of her club carried her forward. The azra, meanwhile, executed a textbook somersault midair, and, with a piercing battle cry which echoed from the retractable rafters, brought both of her falxes slashing down across the back of the cyclops’s exposed neck.

 The twin blades deflected off the lethality barrier which crackled into being just before their metal bit skin, and the cyclops kept its head. But the protective spell did nothing to lessen the blunt force of the blow, and the cyclops grunted in pain as she toppled over forwards, landing face-flat in the dust and dirt. From the hovering scoreboard overhead, a harsh buzzer sounded, and a red “X” appeared next to the cyclops’s jersey number.

 On the open sheet in his notebook, Griss found the word “speed,” and, next to it, made a plus.

 The azra wasn’t done yet, though – there was still the other cyclops to deal with. Bellowing with rage, he brought his club down in a mighty, two-handed chop. But, again, the cyclops had telegraphed his strike, and the azra tucked and rolled, so that, by the time the blow landed, the only thing in the path of the cyclops’s swing was the sprawling body of his dazed teammate. Again, the lethality barrier crackled, and a kind of banshee moan escaped from the prone cyclops as the wayward strike crushed the wind from her body.

 Griss saw the azra grin. With his pencil, he found “awareness” in his notebook, and next to it scribbled plus-plus.

 The azra, meanwhile, had jumped on the cyclops’s outstretched club and was sprinting up, like a gymnast taking the balance beam. There was just enough time for the cyclops’s great eye to go wide before the azra was on him, delivering a flying kick to the solar plexus. That doubled the cyclops over, and next to “strength” Griss made a plus. Staggering backwards, the cyclops lost hold of his club. But that was no matter to the azra, who pushed off from the cyclops’s body as he tumbled, and – making a fine pirouette as she leapt – threw one of her falxes in an arc at the cyclops’s bulging eye. The blue barrier crackled, and the glittering falx bounced away, but the cyclops cried out in pain, and fell backwards like a sawn-off tree, clutching his watery eye. Above him, the scoreboard shrilled, and another red “X” appeared in the elimination column. The azra, meanwhile, landed softly on the balls of her feet, and, without moving an inch from where she stood, reached one hand up for the spinning falx, which she caught neatly by the handle.

 On the sand of the training ground, both cyclopses writhed and moaned. Griss found the line on his sheet for “agility,” and next to it marked a plus-plus.

 From his seat near the back of the bleachers, Griss smiled inwardly to himself. He was beginning to like this azra. He really, really was.

 As the azra charged back to the center of the arena, where a general melee prevailed, Griss took a second to review all his notes. He’d had his eye on a few different combatants at the start of the bout, but, since the first intermission, the azra had been the sole focus of his attention. He’d graded her a minus for size; she was young, still – very young – and her horns were still just barely out. But she would grow into her body, Griss reckoned, as teenagers tended to do, and, with the right conditioning, there was no reason she couldn’t make weight. Even now, she was strong, and quick, and she saw the battlefield well. In fact, that was what had first impressed Griss, had drawn his eye to her. Most of the fighters her age he had scouted suffered from varying degrees of tunnel vision – they picked out one opponent to target, and became so fixated on their quarry that they missed other, better chances to score. The battlefield was dynamic, and chaotic – windows of opportunity appeared in the blink of an eye, and slammed shut just as quick. The best fighters knew how to spot them, and took maximum advantage. They had almost a sixth sense for it. They could see the play coming before it developed, and, when the gap opened up, they were through it, surprising the other team from unexpected angles of attack. It took years of live fighting to develop that instinct – sharp eyes and quick wits were no substitute for experience – but the azra already had it – or at least the seed of it, anyway. More than once in the opening period, Griss had seen her slip out of a trap which would’ve snared most young fighters, or find a way to turn her opponent’s strengths to her own advantage. Her kick off the wall had been just one such example. More importantly, she was always looking, always watching. She kept her head on a swivel, as the scouts liked to say, and was aware of what went on all around. She saw the whole battlefield, this azra, not just the thin slice in front of her. Even if she never made it as a pro, Griss thought, she’d be a hell of a coach, or a sportscaster.

 Feeling swayed by this further reflection, Griss found the “awareness” column on his scouting report, and added a third plus. From him, this was high praise. Griss was not liberal in his use of the triple-plus.

 Her spellcasting was the wildcard – Griss still had a question mark penciled-in next to “magic.” The azra hadn’t done much casting since the match had begun, but, then, she hadn’t needed to. Between her wits and her twin falxes, she’d been doing just fine. But any doubt about her magical aptitude was removed seconds later, when – sprinting across the arena to the aid of a mind-controlled teammate – the azra had cast a firebolt at the opposing mage. It was an anemic spell, barely scorching the air, which the mind mage swatted contemptuously aside.

 The azra would probably never be a plus-spellcaster, Griss thought resignedly to himself. But with the right training she might at least become average, and, even against more skilled mages, she was hardly incapable of defending herself.

 This point was illustrated vividly over the next few moments, after the azra had closed the distance to the mind mage. The mind mage had commanded his enthralled homunculus to step between himself and the charging azra, and the homunculus swung its spear at the azra’s head.  But the azra ducked under the strike, and, hooking the homunculus’s leg with the dull edge of her blade, she gave a quick pull, sweeping his legs out from beneath him. This sent the homunculus to the ground, where he rolled awkwardly on his rounded back. The azra kicked the spear from his hand as she shot past, taking him momentarily out of the fight, but stopping short of an elimination. The mind mage, meanwhile, finding himself deprived of his erstwhile meat shield, had conjured a psionic blast, and sent the energy rippling in waves towards the azra’s head.

 The azra – without breaking stride – dropped to the ground and slid. As she passed beneath the psionic blast, she slashed up with one falx, catching the mind mage beneath the chin. The lethality field sparked, and the scoreboard buzzer sounded. The liberated homunculus blinked, and the mind mage angrily swore.

 The mind mage stopped swearing a second later, when the azra’s second falx flashed up between his legs, catching him solidly in a place where – even with the protection of the lethality field – the impact made the mage’s eyes bulge, before he sank – wordlessly – to the ground.

 All the way up in the bleachers, Griss crossed his legs, and muttered uncomfortably.

 The scoreboard buzzed again, a red “X” appearing over the mind mage’s number, and a yellow penalty card next to the azra’s.

 Ignoring the wardens who came running to escort her off the field, the azra stepped over the mind mage’s prone body, and helped the dazed homunculus to his feet.

 In his notebook, Griss made a minus in the azra’s column next to “magic,” and a plus-plus next to “teamwork.”

 Then he sharpened his pencil, and settled in for rest of the bout.

 * * *

 The final horn had already blown, and the crowd was headed for the exits, but Griss had stayed behind to put the finishing touches on his report. He was still sitting in his bleacher seat, and had just assigned final grades, when he felt a hand clap him twice on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw Tommothy – another goblin, and a fellow scout, who always dressed as though he were headed to the opera, with his shiny brass binoculars, and his ridiculous hat.

 Having gotten Griss’s attention, Tommothy clapped his rival on the shoulder again.

 “Griss, it is you,” Tommothy said, smiling a smile that was just slightly too wide for sincerity. “I thought I recognized those ears. I said to myself, ‘either I’m going blind, or that’s old Can’t-Miss Griss.’”

 “Tommothy,” Griss said, not returning the goblin’s grin.

 Griss’s fellow scouts called him Can’t-Miss, and it was an appellation he detested. He had once made the mistake of giving an overall plus-plus rating to an up-and-coming spider, who had subsequently turned out to be blind in six eyes. A plus-plus overall was the best rating a scout could give – the mark of a can’t-miss prospect – and Griss’s defensive protestations that most non-spiders only had two working eyes, and they got by just fine, had fallen on deaf ears. The spider had been a bust, and the nickname – Can’t-Miss Griss – had stuck. The other scouts thought it was a joke. Griss never laughed.

 “And how are you, you old Can’t-Miss?” Tommothy said, undeterred by the frosty reception. “Still up to your old tricks?”

 Griss shrugged. “I get by,” he said. “I get by.” Then, purely out of form, he added, “I trust you’re well, Tommothy,” and immediately regretted it.

 “Can’t complain,” Tommothy said. “Can’t complain.” The goblin’s grin widened, revealing a flash of gold teeth. “Three of my prospects just signed with Swiftfoot, and my cup, it runneth over. It’s good to have that sneaker money coming in, I don’t mind telling you, what with the cost of education these days.” The goblin shook his head, which made his ears flop. “That Swiftfoot deal is putting six of the little Tommothys through the Academy, if you catch my meaning.”

 “Glad to hear it,” Griss said, which wasn’t true. He had met several of Tommothy’s kids, and thought they were all little shits. The youngest had once pulled Griss’s ears at a party.

 “Still,” Tommothy said, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, “I know you don’t like to talk shop, but what did you make of the giant?”

 Griss didn’t bother to consult his notes. The giant – a veritable mountain of muscle, by the name of K’Thook – was the prospect all the scouts had come to see. His size was the stuff of legend, and he’d so dominated the junior leagues that they’d had to add an extra column to the stat books. The training bout had been billed as K’Thook’s coming-out party, and the stands had been lousy with scouts, all craning their necks up to see him. But, just minutes into the match, Griss had stopped taking notes on the giant, and penciled a minus next to his name.

 “He’s big enough, that’s for sure,” Griss said, not bothering to reserve his judgment, since he wasn’t telling Tommothy anything the other goblin couldn’t see for himself. “Looks like he could snap a treefolk in half – it’s no wonder he tore through the juniors. But he’s sloppy,” Griss said, “and he’s slow. No fundamentals, no technique. You saw what I saw. Sure, he scored some big hits, but those other kids ran circles around him. Against good competition – not just pro-level talent, mind you, but even a good, D-1 squad? He’ll get his clock cleaned.”

 “Yes,” Tommothy said. “Yes.” The goblin nodded his head, and made affirmatory noises. “Still, you know what they say: you can teach technique, but you can’t teach big!” Tommothy chuckled at this tired old aphorism. “And that kid’s got big!”

 “Sure does,” Griss said, declining the invitation to argue. “Well, give my best to Missus Tommothy, will you?”

 “I will,” Tommothy said, bobbing his head. “I will. It was good seeing you again, Can’t-Miss. You oughta come by sometime.”

 The other goblin made to depart, but, as he was leaving, Griss called out after him, “say, Tommothy, you didn’t happen to catch the name of that azra, did you? The one in the number-ten jersey?” He kept his voice casual, trying to sound disinterested. “I was taking a powder when they made the announcements, and I didn’t quite catch her name.”

 Tommothy paused, and, flipping open his own scouting report, he consulted his notes. “The azra in jersey ten?” he said, running his finger down the page. “I’m sure I must have. Ah – here she is.” He tapped the paper. “Yes, here she is. Name of Hex. Alexa Hex.”

 “Alexa Hex,” Griss said, committing the name to memory. “Thanks, Tommothy. You’re a real pal.”

 Tommothy shrugged. “It’s no skin off my nose,” he said, scratching a protuberant nostril as he did. “Still, can’t see why you’re interested in her. Some flashy moves, for sure, but did you see that firebolt? Couldn’t magic her way out of a paper bag if you gave her a mox and a jug of kerosene. She’s reckless – and tiny, too! So tiny! And no intangibles. She got lucky today, sure, but, once the book’s out on her?” Tommothy grimaced, and clicked his tongue. “Well, they’ll be taking her off on a stretcher one day, mark my words.”

 “I’m sure that you’re right,” Griss said, and nodded. “It’s like you always say: you can teach technique, but you can’t teach big.”

 “Just so,” Tommothy said. “Just so.” And he waved goodbye. “Well, it was good seeing you, Griss.”

 “Good seeing you too, Tommothy,” Griss said, but did not look up to watch his fellow scout depart. Instead he was looking down at his notebook, where he had written “Alexa Hex” next to the grade that said: “Jersey 10. Azra. Overall: plus-plus.” Then, beneath, the scout added: “Can’t miss.”

 Alexa Hex, Griss thought to himself, as he closed his notebook, and made his way up through the stands. Now that’s a name that will look good on a jersey.

[bibliovoreorc]

#SNA4W Story 4: Soldier of Fortune

“There’s going to be trouble.”

 Hiss narrowed one eye and spat. She looked down at the deputy – a mousey-looking noggle in an oversized hat, who was gripping his six-shooter so tight it’d be a miracle if he could draw. Then she looked over at the goods store, where the deputy was looking, and where the jostling crowd was getting increasingly agitated.

 Hiss took a bitterroot seed from her pocket and chewed it, then adjusted her hat.

 “There’s going to be trouble,” the deputy said again.

 “I heard you the first time,” Hiss said, and spat. She fixed her hat again, blocking the worst of the sun.

 “But there is going to be trouble,” the nog insisted.

 “Yep,” Hiss said.

 “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

 “Nope,” Hiss said.

 The noggle looked gobsmacked. “Why not?” he said.

 Hiss spat out the seed husk, and just missed the small pile on the dusty ground. The rattler took another seed from her pocket and sucked on it.

 “Two reasons,” the rattler said. “First off, I’m paid to protect railroad property, not the goods store. And second?” The rattler spat. “It’s too damn hot.”

 Up above, the Jakkard sun was broiling. Even with the brim of her hat, and the shade of the station awning, Hiss was baking in her scales. And, as she watched the scene developing in town, she could figure that the heat wasn’t improving the mood of the prospectors, either. The 12:15 from Dayko had arrived bang on time, disgorging its load of antsy prospectors onto Fortune’s only street just at the peak of the midday sun. The smart prospectors had collected their gear from the luggage car, and set off into the hills, looking to stake their claims before the rest of the mob caught up. Those prospectors less gifted with foresight had made a beeline for the goods store, where the fox proprietor – a real gray-furred dandy, in suspenders and spats – was selling shovels and picks for twenty boks a piece. Those prices had gotten the crowd sour – a shovel and pick could’ve been had in Dayko for hardly a tenth of what the fox charged – and it hadn’t taken long for the murmurs to start. Then the fox had run out of shovels and picks, and the murmur had turned to a rumble. The fox was on top of his counter, now, trying to shoo the unsatisfied customers out with broad sweeps of his arms. Meanwhile, in the crowd that had gathered outside, Hiss caught a glimpse of iron appearing in prospectors’ hands – and not in the form of shovels or picks.

 “You have to do something,” the deputy said.

 “Nope,” Hiss said. “Not my business.”

 “I thought you Bowlertons were supposed to be tough.”

 “We are,” Hiss said. “Tough, and expensive. And, last I checked, you weren’t paying my bills.” She spat her seed husk at the pile, and missed. “Not unless the sheriff bought the railroad when I wasn’t paying attention.”

 The deputy made to draw his pistol, which stuck in its holster as he tried to pull it out. The hammer was caught on a belt loop. As he fumbled for the gun, Hiss had half a mind to take it away, before he hurt himself – or someone else.

 “How long you been with the company?” the noggle said.

 “With the Bowlertons?” Hiss flicked her tongue in the air. “About six years.”

 “And were you in Verkell, what, five years back?” the nog said. “For the bread riots?”

 “Nope,” Hiss said.

 “Well, I was,” the noggle said, still trying to free his pistol. “And I’ve seen what happens when a mob like this gets going. Once the looting starts, you think they’ll stop with the goods store? These people want shovels, and picks. You know what’s inside that depot, just two blocks from here? Shovels, and picks. That’s railroad property, ain’t it?”

 The pistol hammer was still caught in the noggle’s belt. Hiss swatted his hand aside, and pulled the gun out herself. The noggle held out his hand, but Hiss didn’t offer him the pistol. Instead, the rattler pointed the gun straight up in the air, and pulled the trigger, six times.

 The sound of the shots froze the crowd like a basilisk. The angry rumble – which had been building to a violent crescendo – died away to nothing, leaving the street eerily quiet. From inside the goods store, the fox in suspenders and spats – who had covered his eyes when the gun went off – peeked out from behind his fingers.

 “Store’s closed,” Hiss said, not having to shout to be heard through the silence. She dropped the deputy’s empty revolver to the ground, before unslinging her rifle. “So get.”

 “Get?” The voice belonged to a one-horned minotaur, who elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, a pistol hanging loosely in his hand. “Get where?”

 “The saloon,” Hiss said, shouldering her rifle. “The hotel. The whorehouse. Get back on the train, I don’t care.” She racked the lever, putting a round in the chamber. “You all came here to prospect, didn’t you? So get prospecting. The hills are out that way.” She cocked her head at the jagged horizon. “You won’t find any mana in town.”

 “And what’re we supposed to dig with,” the minotaur said, taking another step forward. “Our bare hands?”

 “You look like the resourceful type,” Hiss said. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Now get. I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.”

 “Suppose I don’t feel like going,” the minotaur said, lowering his single horn. “Suppose I feel like—”

 Hiss pulled the trigger.

 The crack of the rifle echoed down the dusty street. There was a sound of metal striking metal as the pistol jumped out of the minotaur’s hand, bent almost in half by the force of the bullet. The minotaur, meanwhile, made a kind of bellowing roar, more out of shock than pain. Then, as the shock wore off, he glanced down at his hand, bleeding from a dozen splinters, and, swearing a streak that would’ve shocked the angels up in all seven heavens – if the angels were still listening, which Hiss suspected they weren’t – the minotaur stuck his hand in his mouth, and sucked on a bloody finger.

 “Sorry,” Hiss said, as she racked the lever again, putting a fresh bullet in the chamber. “For a minute there I was worried I was losing your attention.”

 She looked over the minotaur’s shoulder, at the dumbstruck crowd. Few sets of eyes met hers – the prospectors were mostly looking at the ground. The flashes of iron she’d seen in hands only moments before had conspicuously disappeared.

 “As I was saying,” Hiss said, “store’s closed. Now get.”

 And, with that, the tension in the air broke, and the mob broke with it. The prospectors diffused from a single crowd into scores of small, chattering knots, which streamed off in all directions. Some headed towards the saloon – the only one in Fortune – where the off-tune strains of a player piano beckoned from the dark and cool interior, where the barkeep fox – a cousin of the one who owned the goods store – would relieve the newcomers of their boks just as surely as his kinsman had. Others climbed the steps up to the platform, where the train would take them back to Dayko. They’d be waiting some hours still, but at least they’d wait in the shade. A few prospectors actually trudged off in the direction of the hills, and Hiss wondered idly if they actually would try to dig up the Waste with their bare hands. Prospecting without kit was crazy, but, then, there was crystal mana in the hills, and mana did crazy things to people.

 More likely, Hiss decided, these stragglers would head out on the trail of the better-prepared prospectors, and, if they caught up with them, out of sight of the town – and the law – would relieve them of their kit. After all, that was what Hiss would’ve done, if she were in their place. Lead was cheaper than gold.

 Next to Hiss, the deputy noggle – who’d been stunned silent the whole time – had picked up his gun from the ground, and was trying to reload the cylinder. He was finding it tough going. His fingers were shaking.

 “You didn’t have to do that,” the noggle said.

 Hiss laughed. “You’re the one who wanted me to do something,” she said.

 “Something,” the noggle said. “Not that.”

 Hiss laughed again.

 “What’d you have in mind?” she said. “A lot of ‘please’ and ‘thanks?’” She let the rifle drop, and popped another seed in her mouth. “I don’t go in for that stuff.”

 “No,” the deputy said. “I can see not.”

 “You’re welcome,” Hiss said.

 “Fine, fine,” the deputy said, shaking his head. “But, take my advice—”

 “Do I have to?” Hiss said.

 “You’re a real sumbitch, aren’t you?” the deputy said. “That why they sent you all the way out here?”

 “I am not without my charms,” Hiss said.

 “Alright, then, Miss Charms,” the nog said. “What do you propose to do about that?” He pointed at the one-horned minotaur, who was still nursing his splintered hand. “You do realize you just made us both an enemy for life, right? Those bulls nurse their blood feuds. As soon as he can hold a pistol again, he’ll be coming for us.”

 “Point taken,” Hiss said, and, snapping the rifle back to her shoulder, she shot the minotaur dead.

 “Seven hells!” the noggle said, his fingers stuck belatedly in his ears. “He was unarmed!”

 “I know,” Hiss said. She racked a bullet into the chamber.

 “That’s murder!” the deputy said, much too loudly.

 “Then charge me,” Hiss said. She spat out the seed husk, missing the pile. “The company’ll bail me, I’ll be on the next train back to Verkell, and you’ll be stuck here with this lot.” Her tongue flicked the air. “And you know those bulls and their blood feuds. Bad business, that. If anything, I’d say you need me around these parts, now more than ever.” The rattler grinned. “Wouldn’t you?”

 The deputy shook his head. “You’re a mean sumbitch, too, aren’t you?”

 Hiss adjusted her hat.

 “Mean,” she said. “And expensive.”

[bibliovoreorc]

#SNA4W Story 3: Blade in Hand

“It’s not balanced,” Kett said.

 I glanced up from stropping my ax. “What’s that?” I said.

 Kett – the new squire – was holding my seax in one hand, her brows scrunched-up as she shifted her palm on the grip. “It’s not balanced,” she said again.

 “No,” I said. “It’s not. The handle’s at an angle to the blade.”

 Kett bounced the seax in one hand, trying to get a feel for it. Then she made three quick strokes, cleaving pantomime goblins in two.

 That was a severe breach of protocol, for a squire to swing her captain’s blade, and I made a note to address it later.

 “It pulls right,” Kett said, her strokes cutting the air.

 “Yes,” I said. “On the downcut. It pulls to the right.”

 “Who would forge an unbalanced blade?” Kett said.

 “A bad smith,” I said.

 “But why would you own such a blade?” Kett said, and I laughed.

 “Because I wasn’t always a captain,” I said. “You may find this hard to believe, but those fine bladesmiths on Armorer’s Row haven’t always been happy to take my commission.”

 “Who made it then?”

 “Haven’t the faintest,” I said. “I got it from a Drakeston pawner. Traded a horse for it when I was nine.”

 “You traded a whole horse?” Kett said, looking skeptical. “For this?” She held up the seax.

 “I did,” I said. “It was a good horse, too.”

 “Then you got fleeced.”

 I shrugged, and said: “The horse wasn’t mine.”

 Kett looked aghast. I waved it off.

 “Like I said, I wasn’t always a captain.”

 “Still,” Kett said.

 “Don’t worry,” I said. “My morals have improved since then. On the margins, at least.” And I smiled.

 “Seems a bit plain for a captain,” Kett said, eyeing the crudely-wrought pommel.

 “They don’t give out ribbons on the battlefield to the one with the fanciest kit,” I said. “The winner’s the woman left standing, and she gets her pick of the gear.”

 “But you didn’t,” Kett said. “Have your pick, I mean. You kept this old thing. You kept it all these years.”

 “Yes,” I said. “I did.”

 And I motioned for Kett to hand me the seax, which she did, blade-end first. Another faux pas.

 “I know this blade,” I said, feeling the familiar sharkskin beneath my grip. “I know it, and it knows me. We’ve shed blood together.” So much blood, I could’ve said, but didn’t. “I learned to fight with this sword in my hand. Learned to kill, to survive. I’m used to it. I know what it does, and it does what I want.”

 “But you could get a new one,” Kett said. “Have an exact copy made, only straight. Or have a smith pound the angle out.”

 I laughed.

 “I could,” I said, “but I wouldn’t know what to do with it then. Put a balanced seax in my hand, and I’ll pull it left on the downcut.”

 “What am I to do, then?” Kett said, the frustration plain on her face. “I’m your squire, now, aren’t I? I’m supposed to see to your kit.”

 I handed the seax to Kett – handle first.

 “Keep it sharp,” I said. “Keep it sharp, and we’ll do just fine.”

 “Yes, captain,” Kett said, and set to whetting the seax with commendable pluck.

 I watched her work, and said to myself: I’ll make a veteran out of you, squire. I’ll make a veteran of you yet.

[bibliovoreorc]

#SNA4W Story 1: “Mousetrap”

Mouse knew that she must have had a name, once, but there was no one left alive who could have told her what it was, and, anyway, for as long as she could remember, everyone had just called her Mouse, so Mouse was who she was.

 That moniker had been bestowed on her by the wardens of the charity home, and, from the tones in which they had uttered it – usually while dragging her out by the ear from some place in which they had found her, and where she was not meant to be – it was not a term of endearment. “She’s like a bloody mouse,” the sister supreme had once said, as one of her wardens had beaten Mouse with a strap. “I don’t know how she gets into these places.”

 Mouse had spent the next fortnight sleeping on her belly, and the name had stuck.

 She couldn’t explain how she did it, but Mouse had always had a knack for getting into tight spaces. It didn’t matter how small the gap was – just a keyhole, or a crack, or the strip of light beneath the locked pantry door – as long as she could see the opening, she could pass through it, and find herself on the other side. It was a good trick, and she had used it to good effect. On the nights when the wardens sent her to bed without supper – and there were many such nights, because, in Mouse’s recollection, she was always being punished for something – she would sneak out of bed after dark, and let herself into the biscuit larder, even though the sister supreme kept the only key. Mouse had performed that trick so many times that the wardens actually began to wonder just how a growing girl deprived of so many meals could look as well-fed as she did, and that suspicion was what had gotten her caught in the first place. From then on in, Mouse had learned to be more careful – to only eat as much as she needed to survive, and to clean up the crumbs after. Another time, one of the boys had stolen Mouse’s hairbrush, and refused to give it back. He didn’t have any use for it, either – he was just stealing it because he could. So, the next day, while the boys were busy working the treadmill, Mouse had let herself into the boys bunkroom – which was strictly forbidden – and had stolen the brush back. She had also left a trapdoor spider – which she had found living in one of the privies – beneath the boy’s bedsheet. His screaming that night had woken the whole house, and he’d lost three of his toes to the venom.

 After that, Mouse didn’t mind so much being called Mouse.

 Nowadays, Mouse understood that what she did was magic, although it wasn’t conscious magic – it wasn’t like she ever spoke a charm, or cast a spell. She just saw a space between two things, decided to pass herself through it, and did. It was no more effortful than breathing, or throwing a ball, and, just as she couldn’t have described in any detail the way her muscles moved to let her climb a staircase, she couldn’t articulate the precise way by which her mouseomancy allowed her to pass her whole body through a keyhole too small to fit the tip of her little finger into. It was natural, and instinctive – it was just something she did. The fact that it was something other people didn’t do – couldn’t do – had come as a surprise to her at first. When she had told another of the girls at the charity home about it – a girl she had trusted, had thought was her friend – the girl hadn’t known it was magic, either. She had simply screamed “witch!” at the top of her lungs, and gone to tell the wardens.

 The wardens hadn’t believed the girl’s story, but they still gave both Mouse and the girl an almighty beating.

 Mouse learned two lessons that day. First, that she was not normal. Second, that there was no one she could trust.

 After she had grown older, and aged out of the charity house, Mouse had discovered that the same skill which had kept her fed in the institution could keep her fed in the outside world as well. At first, she lived hand-to-mouth, stealing food when she needed to eat, warmer clothes when the weather grew cold, and the occasional silver or gold trinket, when something she saw caught her eye. At night, she would let herself into disused buildings to sleep, and, by day, she mostly kept to the shadows. The Boros guards got onto her a few times, when the disused buildings she let herself into turned out to be less disused than they had looked from the outside, but the guards were big, and slow, and Mouse was small, and quick, and impossible to catch. Even if one of the wojeks had managed to put her in irons, she would have slipped right out again. Either way, she never was caught.

 Over time, Mouse came to realize that there were other people in the city who also wanted things stolen, too, but who had far less capacity to act on those urges than she. Some people wanted jewelry, others wanted gold. But the most valuable things of all were secrets. And, unlike gold or jewelry, you could steal a secret, and the owner would never even know it was gone.

 Stealing secrets was a good business. A very good business. And Mouse was very good at it.

 Once she had cottoned on to this trade, it didn’t take Mouse long to realize that she could live more comfortably – and less precariously – than sleeping in condemned hovels, and stealing from the sweets-sellers when their backs were turned. There was the small problem of her name, which did not set quite the right tone, but that was soon enough dealt with. And thus did the girl from the charity home – who the wardens called Mouse – become known to all the very best black marketeers as the Stealer of Secrets, even if she remained forever Mouse within the privacy of her own mind.

 Mouse took her time, established her reputation, and made it a point to never betray a customer’s interests. She built a network of contacts, and filled her black book with brokers, but she never let anyone close. It didn’t take long for the guilds to make themselves known to her, whether through shadowy intermediaries or public denunciations. Some of the guilds put bounties on her head. Some of them offered her jobs. She turned them all down. She was doing just fine on her own. Ravnica was a city that ran on secrets, and Mouse knew how to get them.

 Besides, Mouse knew she was not normal, and there was no one she could trust.

 * * *

 The job had been going well, so far, but not too well, and Mouse usually had a sense for when a job was going too well. Security was tight this far into New Prahv, but security in New Prahv mostly meant a lot of locked doors, and locked doors were no problem for Mouse. There were pressure plates, too, concealed beneath the marble floors, and rigged to spring gods-only-knew what sorts of traps if triggered, but those were no problem, either – Mouse simply watched the guards, made a note of the tiles on the floor where they conspicuously did not step, and made sure that those were the tiles where she did not step, too.

 There were quite a lot of guards, but, in Mouse’s book, that was no bad thing. A lot of guards in a place meant that most people weren’t stupid enough to try to break in, and guards in a place where no one was stupid enough to try to break in tended to get bored, and complacent. Mouse had once been told that the Azorius punishment for dereliction was a fortnight in the stockade, but the guards in the copyists’ archive chatted idly among themselves, and talked about diversion clubs and the griffon races, and it was not hard for Mouse to escape their notice. She could make herself hard to see when it suited her not to be seen, and she could move as quietly as her namesake. Her leather armor was soft and supple, with what few buckles there were kept conscientiously greased, and there were felt pads on the soles of her feet. Years of breaking curfew had taught Mouse the art of moving unnoticed, and the New Prahv arresters were no match for the charity house wardens. The sister supreme had had sharper eyes than any guild guard Mouse had yet seen.

 The scroll Mouse was after was in a stone and steel vault, but the vaults had to be kept open during the day, so that the copyists could get in and out. And, sure enough, when Mouse peered around the final corner, to where she knew the most valuable codices were kept, she found the door standing wide open, and the guard picking lint from his tabard. Something about that did raise a hackle – there was easy, and then there was too easy – but the guard’s nonchalance seemed born of genuine boredom, not feigned, and the copyists who periodically went in and out of the vault were brusque and officious, as copyists tended to be. They went about their business as though Mouse were not there, and, as Mouse waited patiently for her opening, she felt the danger signs recede. Hidden behind a statue in a little sconce in the wall, she kept careful count of how many scribes went in, versus how many came back out, and, when her arithmetic at last zeroed, indicating that the vault was empty, Mouse slipped past the guard as though he weren’t there, and let herself in.

 The interior of the chamber was dark – the last copyist out must have doused the magelight – and Mouse was prepared to wait a second for her eyes to adjust. Before she could, though, the runes on the stone ceiling suddenly flared blue-white, and Mouse had to put a hand up before her eyes to keep from being blinded. When her blinking stopped, and her sight came back to her, she saw that the vault had been emptied of its copying tables, and its racks of scrolls. Instead, a score of hooded figures stood in neat ranks around the room’s perimeter, clothed in the heavy robes of Azorius scribes. Only the members of this silent jury looked taller than most scribes Mouse had seen – and conspicuously broad-shouldered, too. The reason for this became clear a moment later, when, in response to some unspoken command, the figures all drew their hoods back, and let their robes fall to the floor, revealing the shining Azorius plate beneath their oversized disguises.

 Leave it to the Azorius, Mouse thought to herself. Polished to a spit-shine, even for an ambush.

 The front rank of arresters took a step towards her, then, while Mouse took a matching step back. She didn’t dare turn around to see, but she could sense that armored bodies now stood between her and the door.

 “Sorry if I spoiled your surprise party,” she said, offering her most impish smile to the guard in sergeant’s stripes. “I seem to have missed the invitation.”

 Mouse took careful note of her footing, and did her best to gauge distances, although she did not look down.

 “So,” she said, “who are we waiting for?”

 The guard in the sergeant’s stripes said, “seize her!” And the first rank of arresters all charged.

 Mouse took a step backwards, only to have gauntleted hands grab her arms from behind. The arrester’s grip was like iron, as the guard tried to wrench Mouse’s arms around behind her back, but Mouse almost laughed as she simply slipped free from the vise-like hold, as though she had never been there at all. The ease of her escape seemed to startle the arrester so much that he didn’t even react as Mouse spun on the balls of her feet and hit him square in the solar plexus.

 It was not a fair fight – twenty on one – but Mouse was nimble, and she was quick, and the arresters struggled to grasp that they couldn’t hold her. Furthermore, there were a lot of bodies jockeying for space in a small, echoing room, and Azorius plate was designed more for imposing good looks than for practicality in combat. The arresters could barely turn their heads side to side, let alone reach around behind themselves, and so Mouse darted between them, weaving right and left, trying to keep to the nearest guard’s blindside, getting in the occasional blow when the opportunity presented itself. The guard in the sergeant’s stripes took off his helmet, to try to widen his field of vision, and Mouse caught him with an open palm across the bridge of his nose. He went down, cursing angrily and holding his face, yelling through clenched teeth at his men to get their hands on her. Another arrester went low, trying to sweep Mouse’s legs, but Mouse vaulted over her like a pommel horse, and caught her with a hard kick to the backside, which sent her sprawling to the floor with a clatter of invective and metal.

 The arresters had not drawn their weapons. That was good news, at least, Mouse reckoned. Their orders didn’t seem to be to kill her.

 However, even advantaged though she was, twenty on one was not winning arithmetic, and, having collected herself after the shock of being ambushed, Mouse’s thoughts turned from fight, to flight. If she could get through the vault door, and out into the warren of corridors beyond, even all the guards in New Prahv would have a devil of a time catching her. She just needed to get out.

 In the initial rush of the fight, Mouse had lost her bearings. It took her a second to reorient herself, and to find the door, during which time a gauntleted fist caught her a glancing blow across the temple, and for a second, Mouse’s head swam, and she saw stars. But then there was the door, straight in front of her – standing as wide open as before – and, without pausing to say her goodbyes, Mouse set off for it at a dead sprint, and threw herself at the opening.

 The impact was like hitting a brick wall.

 At the moment when Mouse’s body would have flown across the threshold, bright blue energy crackled across the doorframe, and arcane sigils flashed in the air. Mouse hit the barrier going full force, and it stopped her like a hammer blow. She bounced off the magic barrier, tumbled backwards, and went down hard. Her head hit the marble with a sickening crack, and then the whole room was spinning, and her mouth was filled with blood. She was choking on it, drowning in the stuff, and, at first she thought she was dying, until, through the red haze that clouded her mind, she realized dimly that she wasn’t run through, but had bit her own tongue.

 In the space between the open doorway, the detention barrier crackled and hissed.

 Mouse felt rough hands picking her up, dragging her to her feet. Again, someone with a vice-like grip was twisting her arms around behind her, only, this time, Mouse’s head was too muddled to resist. She waited for the kiss of cold iron around her wrists – that was no big deal, she could escape later easily enough – but instead what she felt was a strange, coiling energy, which wrapped itself around her arms, then pulled itself tight, like an electric serpent. And that was when, for the first time, Mouse noticed the pair of lawmages standing above her, one on each side, who were weaving their detention magic around her. They must have been waiting out in the hallway, Mouse realized with a start. Waiting for her to break for the door, so that they could raise the energy barrier, and trap her inside. Now they had joined the arresters inside the vault, and were doing the heavy work of bringing her to heel.

 With a sense of panic rising in her stomach, Mouse trashed against the hands that were holding her, and, with every ounce of fight she had left, she tried to mouse her way out of the magical bonds. But chains of mana were not like chains of metal, and, just as the detention barrier had stopped her when no door ever could, the lawmage’s arcane manacles held her fast, and would not let her slip through.

 “No, no, no!” Mouse started to scream, spitting blood from her mouth as she fought to get free. “What do you want from me? What did I ever do to you?”

 The arrester with the sergeant’s stripe – with a cold-looking grin on his face, even as blood dripped from his broken nose – stepped forward from the ranks, and, producing a warrant from his satchel, he unfurled the long, carefully-lettered scroll, and read out the charges against her.

 Mouse heard the indictments as though through a haze. Some of the crimes the man listed she definitely did commit. Some of the others Mouse had never even heard of, but it seemed useless to protest. She was too overwhelmed by anger, too blinded by rage, and, at any rate, the verdict had already been rendered. The Azorius did not send twenty arresters and two lawmages to deliver a suspect for trial. What was happening now was a sentencing, and all that remained was the execution.

 Mouse was determined to struggle to the last. She lashed out at the guards trying to hold her with every trick she had. With her legs, she kicked; with her hands, she scratched – she even snapped her head backwards, hoping to headbutt the man behind her. But it was all useless. Even if she could have somehow gotten purchase, the detention spells around her wrists held fast, and the bright blue barrier across the doorway crackled and hummed.

 The sergeant had stopped speaking. He had come to the end of his list. He looked Mouse in the eyes. “Does the prisoner have anything to say for herself?” he asked.

 “I do,” Mouse said, and she spat the mouthful of blood she had been saving-up straight into the sergeant’s face.

 She had time for one, good, cathartic laugh, before something hit her across the back of the head, hard, and she slumped down to the ground.

 The last thing Mouse remembered before darkness closed in around her was the sound of metal footsteps marching out of the vault, followed by a whoosh of air as the door swung closed, and the roar of a konstructor’s torch. Mouse listened to the hiss of metal fusing metal from the other side of the door, and she barely had time to register the sound’s ominous portent, before she felt herself sink down into oblivion, and then she didn’t feel anything at all.

 * * *

 The human eye adjusts remarkably to partial darkness. Given enough time to acclimate, and even the faintest glimmer to see by, the eye’s surroundings will reveal themselves over time, and resolve into recognizable shapes.

 But Mouse did not awaken to partial darkness. When Mouse came to, and found her way unsteadily to her feet, she found herself engulfed by complete and total darkness. This darkness was not the kind that comes with insufficient light – this darkness was the kind of darkness only comes from the total absence of light, and, no matter how long Mouse gave her senses to adjust, no matter how desperately she rubbed her eyes and blinked, the darkness that surrounded her was inky, and complete. She held a hand just in front of her face, and saw nothing – not a shape, not a glimpse, not a glimmer. Darkness was something she normally associated with quiet, but, somehow, this darkness felt loud. It seemed to ring in her ears, it seemed to cloud all her senses. It felt heavy, and claustrophobic, until she was afraid she would suffocate, or go mad from the sheer terror of it.

 Mouse screamed as loud as she could possibly scream, and the sounds of her screaming echoed from the marble walls, until she felt as though the voices she heard were not her own. So she screamed again, and again, and again, until there was no breath left in her lungs, and then, as the echoes died down, and she lay panting on the floor, she felt strangely better. Screaming had not accomplished anything, but it had least proved to her that she was still alive, that she had not disappeared into the inky, black nothing which was now her whole world.

 Mouse screamed one more time, for reassurance. Then she got back up on her hands and knees, and she started to crawl.

 She couldn’t see where she was going, so she didn’t bother to worry about direction. She just crawled. Her wrists were free – that was a positive development, at least – although Mouse suspected she had been released from her magical restraints solely because Azorius detention spells gave off light, and so their removal was less an act of mercy than of malice. Still, Mouse crawled, feeling carefully in front of her with her hands until she got to the wall, and, having gotten there, she turned to her right and crawled parallel with the cold, stone wall, following the angle where it met the floor, and probing with her fingers for gaps or cracks as she went along.

 Eventually, she got to the door, where, as soon as her fingertips brushed against the join between the door and the frame, she felt her worst fears coming true. The sound she had heard before passing out had been a konstructor’s torch, welding the vault door closed from the outside. While there was still a gap between door and doorframe on her side of the vault, the metal had been fused together on the outside, and the gap did not go all the way through. There was no way that Mouse could slip through the door, because there was no crack left for her to slip through.

 The Azorius had shut her inside. That was her sentence.

 The punishment for her crimes was death, and this vault was to be her tomb.

 Eventually, Mouse thought grimly, the hieromancers would unseal the vault, and reclaim the space within. New Prahv was a busy place, and real estate was too valuable to abandon in perpetuity. Mouse wondered what whoever reopened the vault would find when they did. She imagined herself as a withered, emaciated corpse, curled into a ball in one corner, dead from starvation.

 No, Mouse corrected herself. Not starvation. Suffocation. The vault was airtight. She would suffocate long before she starved.

 Mouse was not sure whether that was better, or worse.

 How much air did she have? How large was the room? How long before she breathed it all in? For a minute, Mouse tried to do the math, before she realized the absurdity of the problem. She didn’t know half the information she needed to know to make anything remotely beyond a wild guess, and, anyway, what did it all matter? Whether she lived for another three hours, or another three days, when the end came, the end came, and she would find herself equally dead, unless she found some way to escape. And escaping was what Mouse was best at.

 So that was all there was to it. She had to think. She had to keep calm.

 She had to find a way out.

 Nothing else mattered. There was nothing else.

 Escape was all that existed.

 Carefully – painstakingly – Mouse felt her war around all four sides of the door. Her expert fingers probed every millimeter, every crack – testing, feeling, sensing, searching for any spot between the door and the frame where the weld was not true, where even a hair’s breadth of a gap remained. That was all she needed – a hair’s breadth of a gap. If the konstructor had made even the slightest mistake, had cut even the smallest corner, Mouse could mouse through.

 But there was no mistake. There was no crack to be found. All the way around the door, the weld had been solid and true. The metal was fused shut. There was no opening for her to escape through.

 Mouse felt her way along the door again. She double-checked her feelings, triple-checked them, but it was the same thing each time. She ran her fingers along the inside of the door until she found the spot where the keyhole should have been, but that was welded shut, too. She double-checked the keyhole, then triple-checked, but nothing changed. The situation was still as hopeless as ever.

 The konstructors had done their job. Mouse swore at the top of her voice, and thought murderous thoughts about Azorius officiousness, in all its box-checking pedantry.

 She was going to die – in the dark, alone – because some konstructor was afraid of a negative review from his superiors, and had double-checked his welds.

 Mouse swore again. It made her feel better, but it did no good.

 Silently, quietly, Mouse let herself sink down to the ground, and lay with her back against the door. She held her head in her hands, and allowed herself to wonder what the end would be like, when it came. Would it hurt? Would she even realize it was happening? Or would she pass out long before, as her lungs ran out of good air, so that, when her final breath came, she would draw it blissfully unaware.

 Mouse thought about the scare stories she’d been told in the home, about people who the Golgari had buried alive, and how they’d worn their fingers down to bloody stumps, trying to scratch their way out of their coffins. Idly – almost academically – Mouse wondered if she would go mad, if the hieromancers would find her with bloody stumps for fingers when they cut open the vault. Mouse didn’t think so. She resolved she would kill herself before it came to that, and, anyway, the walls of the vault were smooth, polished stone, and would be very hard to scratch.

 Mouse closed her eyes, and sighed.

 The darkness was doing strange things to her. She had almost gotten used to it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you got used to. It was deeply strange, to close your eyes, and to not see any less well than you had before. It made Mouse feel suddenly very small, and very alone, like a tiny, infinitesimal spark, floating alone through the infinite blackness of space, without even the starlight to guide her, or the city sounds and smells to beckon her home. She felt, for a moment, as though the floor were dissolving beneath her, as though the vault were melting all around her, until it was just her, alone, in the empty vastness of eternity, carried along by the twin tides of fate, and misfortune.

 And that was when she felt it.

 Not felt, really, so much as sensed, or knew. She felt it the same way she had first felt that she could go where others could not, that she could fit through spaces that others could not fit through. She knew what she had to do, and how she had to do it, the same way that she knew how to walk, or to breathe, which was to say that she knew it without knowing it at all.

 Sitting there, alone, in the close and lonely darkness, Mouse felt herself battered by the twin shocks of successive revelations: first, that there was not just one world, but worlds upon worlds – a vast, infinite multiverse of worlds – and, second, that there was space in between those worlds – a gap in the very fabric of existence, like the strip of light beneath the closed pantry door. She didn’t know how she knew these things, but she knew them, and Mouse realized with a start that she had always known them, had always sensed them, but had just never been able to put that knowing into words before now.

 With her eyes closed, and her fists squeezed tight, Mouse reached out with her senses. She reached out for that space between worlds, felt for it with the ends of her mind the same way she had felt for the gap beneath the door with the tips of her fingers. And – suddenly – there it was: that strip of light beneath the door, that place between worlds, at once both completely dark, and impossibly bright. The Blind Eternities – that was what they were called. She knew that now, without knowing why. Impossible to see, but possible to feel, to sense.

 Mouse could feel it. Mouse could sense it. She ran her aethereal fingertips across the gap between worlds, and, as she had done all her life, she put her mind on the gap, and she squeezed herself through.

 * * *

 The world on the other side of the crack was warm, and dry, and impossibly bright. After the darkness of the vault, the sun dazzled Mouse’s eyes, and there was so much of it. It beat down from above, oppressive and hot, and it beat up from below as well. There was sand beneath her feet – sand as far as her eyes could see – sand that shimmered like glass beneath the alien sun, reflecting its light and heat back up to the sky, so that Mouse felt cooked from both above and below.

 Mouse felt hot, and dry, and practically blind, and she had never felt better in her life.

 Mouse had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she was not in the vault. All she knew was that she was not going to die. At least not yet.

 She had moused through the gap between planes. She was on an entirely different world from the one she had been born on, the one had lived her whole life on, the one had taken for granted was the only world in all existence.

 Mouse didn’t understand what she had done, but she knew it was not normal. Normal people did not fit through the gaps between worlds.

 Mouse knew was that she was not normal, and that – wherever she was – there was no one that she could trust.

 That was just fine. She would deal with those problems in time.

 For now, she focused on putting one foot in front of another, as she made her way across shimmering sand, to the distant, flickering horizon.

[bibliovoreorc]

#SNA4W Prequel Sample - “Faithful” (prompted by Faith’s Fetters)

He made his way slowly to the center of the graveyard, where he knelt down in front of her stone. He knelt on two arthritic knees, closed his eyes, and he prayed.

 “Please,” he said to the close, holy darkness. “I’m tired, more tired than I’ve ever been. I’ve lived too long, and I’m ready.”

 And then he waited to see if she would come. He did not open his eyes; he simply listened for the fluttering of feathers which would announce her arrival.

 He waited for what felt like hours, his breathing labored, his eyes shut tight, his knees stiff from year upon year of hard living. She hadn’t come in years, and he had started to wonder if she would ever come again, if she had ever really been there, or if was possible – just possible – that he had imagined her from the start.

 But then, just as he was beginning to waver, he felt a rustle in the air around him, and heard the soft flutter of wings which he could still remember from years long past, followed by what sounded almost like the chiming of tiny bells as she alighted on the peaty earth.

 He was silent, but so was she. She waited for him to speak.

 So he said it again: “I’m ready.”

 “Few men truly are,” she said. Her voice sounded the way he remembered it, like a vibrating crystal – tonal, and light, but with a reverberation in its depths.

 “I am,” he said. “Is it my time?”

 After a moment, she said: “Yes.”

 Without meaning to, he heard himself sigh. He felt regret, but it was a regret largely stripped bare of trepidation. What it really felt like was relief.

 He had followed her this far, in spite of his doubts, in spite of the cost. He could follow her just a little further, if she would help him.

 “Sadness clings to you,” she said. “I would not have you do this with sadness in your heart.”

 Eyes still closed, he shook his head. “I’m not sad,” he said. “I’m just sorry. I’m sorry that you didn’t come to me sooner.” His voice started to crack as he spoke. “I’m sorry about the people I killed, thinking that I did so in your name, and for all the pain I caused before you showed me the way.”

 His throat was scratchy; he swallowed to wet it. Then he hesitated for a moment before speaking the next words, even though he knew that she could sense them on his mind.

 “And I’m sorry about what happened after that, too. I used to think that fighting was hard, that killing was hard. I didn’t know then that the only thing harder than fighting is not fighting.” A warm tear stained his cheek, and he did not try to fight the others which followed it. “Seeing evil all around me and not raising my sword against it, being left alive to live out my life after everyone I once loved was dead, that was hardest of all. I listened to you, and I held back, and I never asked why, but it was so hard.”

 He sighed again. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying all this, but I don’t want to die with a lie on my lips.”

 “You need not fear,” she said, her tone unchanged. “You will be judged not only on that which you did or did not do, but on the strength of your faith.”

 Deep down, that was the one thing he was still just a little bit afraid of, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he nodded his head.

 “I have been faithful,” he said. “I have obeyed, and I have waited. Now I am ready.”

 “You are ready,” she affirmed.

 He felt her place her hand on his head, felt the warmth which radiated out from her touch to fill his whole body. He felt the warmth in his soul, and he felt something else, too. Something which he didn’t quite know the word for. Not comfort, or rest, but something close to it.

 He did not open his eyes, but the darkness filled with light.

 He had followed her this far. He would follow her now.

[bibliovoreorc]

The Heretic: A Liliana #FanFic

     “So it has been some time, then, since you last saw your aunt?” the head nurse said, sounding a bit confused.

     “My great aunt, and yes,” Liliana said, smiling as she lied. “It has been some time. I’ve been away for many years, you see, and I only just heard of her decline.” Liliana’s smile broadened. “Naturally, when I did, I came straight away.”

     “Ah, I see, I see,” the nurse said, sounding somewhat mollified. “You will have to forgive my surprise, my dear. It’s just that we were unaware that the revered mother had any family left.”

     “She does not,” Liliana said, “save for me.”

     A white-robed orderly was pushing a cart laden with strong-smelling medicaments down the hallway, so the head nurse and Liliana stepped to one side to make way.

     “My ties to the revered mother may be distant,” Liliana said, “but they remain very important to me.”

     “It gladdens me to hear that,” the head nurse said.

     They paused then beside a heavy curtain, drawn across an open doorway, and the nurse held up a hand in warning.

     “Before you enter,” she said, “I wish to steel you for what you may find. If it has been many years since you last saw your aunt—”

     “—Great aunt,” Liliana said.

     “Great aunt, yes,” the nurse said, before bowing in apology. “But, as I was saying, if it has been many years since you last saw your great aunt, then you may be in for a bit of a shock.” The head nurse paused, and appeared to choose her next words carefully. “Her mind is still clear, and her tongue remains sharp – or at least it does when she’s able to speak. But her health is in rapid decline. This latest stroke, in particular, has frozen much of her body.” The nurse shook her head, and sighed. “She tires easily, I fear, and she has little time left.”

     “That being the case, I will keep my remembrances brief,” Liliana said.

     “It would be for the best,” the nurse said, and nodded. “Still, I am sure it will do her a power of good to see you.”

     “Yes,” Liliana said, “I am sure that it will.”

     “Just ring the bell when you are done,” the nurse said, “and I will come and collect you.” Then she drew the curtain aside, and bid Liliana to enter.

     The room behind the curtain was small, and sparse. There was a window facing the courtyard, with the shutters drawn wide, to admit the fresh air from outside. There was a long, wooden chest – for bedlinens, most likely – and a half-moon table, fixed with screws to the wall. The on top of the table lay a pair of glass vases, filled with stems of red roses – one bunch a bit wilted, the other still fresh – which gave the room a splash of color and fragrance. The only other furniture was a three-legged stool, and the low, wooden bed.

     With her foot, Liliana drew the stool up next to the bed, but she did not sit. Instead, she stood, staring down at withered, wretched form of the revered mother, who lay helpless before her. The woman’s once-powerful face – which Liliana still saw in her dreams – had been split down the middle, so that, while the left side retained some ghost of its former authority, the right side lay sunken, and drooped, with a thin trail of spittle dangling from the corner of its downturned lip. The woman’s hair – which had once been black as nightshade – was wispy, and more yellow than white, like the color of old parchment, where it curls up at the edges.

     Liliana could sense the old woman staring up at her, from behind cloudy-white cataracts, and the revered mother tried to raise her head to get a better look at her visitor, but could not summon the strength.

     “You’ve aged terribly,” Liliana said, taking little pain to hide her delight.

     For a while, then, she fell silent, as she waited for the revered mother to speak. But the woman said nothing, and Liliana frowned.

     “You don’t recognize me, do you?” the planeswalker said, feeling a bit put out, before shaking her head. “But then, of course, you wouldn’t, would you? Not when you’re lying there like that, all shriveled up like a prune, and here I am, standing before you, as fresh as the day we met.” She again shook her head. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

     Liliana walked over to the half-moon table, where she drew one of the fresh cut roses from its vase.

     “Maybe this will refresh your memory,” she said, and, with a sharp flick of her wrist, she lashed long, woody stem across her open palm, so that it cracked like a whip. “Recant, young Vess,” she said, in a parody of the revered mother’s once-fearsome voice. “Recant!” And she lashed herself again.

     From somewhere behind the old woman’s cataracts, a glint of recognition flickered, where Liliana saw it, and smiled.

     “Ah,” the planeswalker said, “and now you remember.” She paused to suck at the sting on her palm, where a thorn from the rose had drawn blood. Then she slid the dying bloom back into the vase, where it stood out from the rest of the flowers – a patch of black among red.

     The revered mother opened her mouth to speak, but Liliana silenced her forever with a spell, and all that came out from her mouth was a low, lopsided rattle.

     “You had your chance to speak, long ago,” Liliana said. “Now it’s my turn.” And she sat down on the stool, leaning in close, so that the old woman had no choice but to look at her.

     Liliana’s palm was still bleeding, and she glanced down at the wound with a laugh.

     “Here I am, after all these years,” she said. “Sister Liliana, the little heretic – only not so little anymore.” She sucked at the cut, and smiled. “If heresy could be beaten out of a girl with stern words and a salted lash, then, my dearest mother, you would have done it. But I think we both know it’s not quite so simple as that, now don’t we?”

     Another unintelligible rattle came from the withered woman’s mouth, and Liliana patted the woman’s patchy hair in a facsimile of care.

     “You know what I remember,” she said, “when I think back to those days? I remember how terrified you were, by the darkness you saw inside me. And I remember how excited I was, about what I knew I could become, if only I could escape your strictures.” Liliana’s smile widened. “Well, it turns out we were both of us right. And there’s something poetical about that, I think.”

     Liliana sensed movement out of the corner of her eye, and she glanced down to see the revered mother’s functioning arm scrabbling for the bell pull. But Liliana brushed the old woman’s arm aside, and, gathering the bell rope in her own hand, she tucked it safely out of reach.

     “If only you knew the number of times I’ve thought about coming back to this world, just to kill you,” Liliana said, her tone of voice still friendly – for the sake of anyone who might be passing outside – even as her words grew cold, and sharp, like a razor glinting through silk. “You ought to be flattered, really, by the amount of thought I’ve given you in my dreams.”

     Liliana leaned in close, so that she whispered in the old woman’s ear.

     “But then I thought to myself: ‘No, Liliana, that would be to quick, and too easy. She doesn’t deserve as much kindness as that. How much better to let old age take her, instead? To let her wither away, to see her dignities stripped from her, one-by-one, until her last days are passed in pain and decrepitude, so that she will know the same terror and helplessness that you once felt?’” Then Liliana drew back, so that she faced the old woman, and smiled. “And, you know something, revered mother? I was right. This is so much better.”

     Liliana stood from the stool, and she smoothed-out her dress.

     “I’ll leave you to reflect upon that, revered mother,” she said. “And you will have rather a long time to reflect. I shall have a word with the nurse, on my way out, and I have several potions which I shall prescribe, with which she may keep you alive for some time.”

     Then Liliana shrugged, and pursed her lips in faux concern.

     “Of course, you can’t live forever,” she said. “That privilege, revered mother, is reserved for we few, and you are not among our number. But do not think that you will be free of me, when your time inevitably comes. For, you see, as the last of your living kin, I have made arrangements with the head nurse to collect your body from these halls, after you pass.” Liliana smiled. “And death, my dear revered mother, is only the beginning of your repayment to me.”

     Then she knelt down one more time, to whisper once more into the withered woman’s ear.

     “Which of us is God now, dear mother?” she said. “And which of us the heretic?”

     Then Liliana kissed the old woman’s forehead, and pulled the bell to call the nurse.

     “Think upon that,” she said, “as you dream.”

[bibliovoreorc]

The Question: A Chandra Fic, Because Why Not?

     Every night, she was asked the same question.

     The test – for what else could it be, other than a test? – always began with the moon at its apex. That was when the two silent monks – their cassocks blue-black in the halflight, their hoods always up – would rouse her from her bed. Their coming was inevitable as death, and – since the rooms in the abbey had no doors – there was nothing she could do to keep them out. The first night, when she had woken to the unexpected sound of their breathing in the room, and seen their shadow-lined faces staring down at her, she had started so violently that she had struck one across the mouth, and she might have turned her fire on them, too, had the heavy auras they bore not smothered her flame. Neither one of them spoke a word – not on that first night, nor on any other night since – they merely motioned for her to follow, and, through the cobwebs of sleep, she obeyed.

     They took her to the same place, always – up the seven flights of stairs to the abbess’s chamber, at the top of the western tower. But there, at the door, they waited, and motioned for her to go in alone. She always went in alone.

     And there – every night – the scene was the same. There was the abbess, sitting alone in the center of the room, cross-legged on the stone floor, and straight-backed, with her eyes closed, her head slightly bowed. The room had high, open windows, with taffeta curtains like ghosts in the nighttime air, and black basalt flagstones which glowed almost white in the moonlight, except where the abbess’s robes pooled like blood.

     Every night, the silence in the high-ceilinged room was so close, so complete, that – even though Chandra walked on bare feet – her footsteps seemed loud as thunder. And, every night, as she bowed before the abbess, and sat, she could feel herself being watched, even though the abbess’s eyes never opened.

     Then – every night – the abbess would ask the question, and – every night – the question was the same.

     “What do you see,” she would ask, “on the table before you?”

     There could be no question as to which table the abbess meant, for there was but one table in the room. There was no other furniture at all, save for the single, low table at the abbess’s side. A low, wooden table, made from polished black oak, and completely bare save for the one thing placed on its surface: a single, red candle, upon which danced a single, flickering flame.

     The first time she’d been asked the question, Chandra had felt sure that the answer was so obvious, that the whole thing must be a trick. Still, she found herself at a loss for what else to say, so, despite her conviction that she was being ill-used, she had told the abbess: “A candle.”

     The abbess had not opened her eyes, had not spoken a word – had not even seemed to move a muscle. But, somehow, she had made it known that Chandra’s answer was wrong, because the door had opened behind them, and the hooded monks had come in, and, taking Chandra by her elbows, they had led her back to her cell, where she had been left to ponder the meaning of the abbess’s question, until the next night, when the monks had come again.

     And since then – night after night – the ritual had repeated itself: the midnight visitation; the audience with the abbess; the little wood table with its single, lit candle; and the abbess’s singular question.

     Every night, it was the same question, and – every night – Chandra answered wrong.

     It didn’t seem to matter what she said, and she had said everything it had occurred to her to say: “A candle,” “a lit candle,” or “a flame.” She had tried every one of these – and many other variations, besides – and every single one of them was wrong. She had tried at first to keep track of the number of different answers she had tried, and found wanting, but she had long since lost count.

     That was one of the tricky things about her new life: time seemed to pass differently in the abbey, when it even seemed to pass at all. Monastery life had a regular, ceaseless rhythm to it – she worked, and she ate, and she slept – such that each day was much like any other, until they began to flow together into a single, undifferentiated haze. There were none of the variations of her old life, by which she used to mark the progress of time – no feast days or fast days, no fairs or festivals. There seemed to be no celebrations of any kind, such that, even if her name day had come and gone – and she no way of knowing if it had – no one would have said a word. And that was another thing which seemed to her to enhance her sense of the abbey as a place untethered from time, a place unmoored from the world outside: the heavy and pervasive silence. The monks never spoke, for they had sworn a vow of silence, and initiates like her were not to speak unless spoken to by an abbot, and the abbots seldom deigned to speak. Shorn even of the routine pleasantries of “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “good night” – pleasantries which she had once found vacuous, and empty, never realizing the subtle part they played in tracking the passage of the day – she found herself feeling more adrift than ever before. And the work which filled her days was monotonous, and hard, only serving to heighten her sense of living in a dream. It was not that she was afraid of hard work – she had worked hard all her life – but it was the ceaseless, mindless drudgery of abbey labor that left her mind a tired blank at the end of each day. The monastery had been built high on the slopes of Mount Keralia – higher than anyone but goats had been meant to live – and the simple task of continued survival required concentrated and arduous labor from sunup to sundown. Plants struggled to grow at that height, water had to be carried up – even catching a breath was a challenge, from the thin air. The sun was bright in the day, and hot, but the nights turned bitter cold, and no fires were permitted for warmth, so that every night Chandra lay on the cold, stone slab which masqueraded as her bed, her fingers raw and bleeding, her bare feet freezing, her whole body aching, head to toe. Her body had grown lean and hard from labor, and she was stronger than ever before, which was some consolation. On the first night she had been asked the question, she’d had to pause twice on the seven flights of steps, just to catch her breath in the thin air. Now, when the monks brought her up to the abbess, and then back down again, she kept pace with them, stride for stride.

     But she was tired – perpetually tired – which made it hard to keep track of the days. And having each of her nights interrupted was not helping matters at all.

     Which was why Chandra felt at the end of her tether when she was brought before the abbess yet again, and when yet again she was asked: “What do you see on the table before you?”

     Chandra stared at the candle, where it flickered in the moonlight, until she was staring into the very center of its tiny, dancing flame. The heart of the flame was black, she was surprised to notice – a tiny sliver of shadow, at the center of a halo of light – and she found herself wondering how it could be that she had never noticed this before, after staring at that selfsame candle night after night after night.

     Still, as pleased as she was by this discovery – and she was pleased, for reasons which she could not fully articulate – her newfound sense of pleasure would not seem to help her with the task at hand, which was to answer the abbess’s question. And no matter how hard she tried to think of a new answer – a right answer – she could not think of a one, for she had already given every answer there was to give.

     Her mind, at last, was a blank. A perfect, formless blank. As empty as the little black shadow at the heart of the flame.

     She must have been silent for some time, then, because the abbess repeated her question: “What do you see on the table before you?”

     Feeling devoid not just of answers, but of everything, Chandra said to the abbess: “What am I supposed to see?”

     With the silence then having been broken, and the emptiness of her thoughts laid bare, Chandra felt herself relax, and exhale a breath she had not realized she had been holding, and she waited for the door behind her to open, and for the monks to take her away.

     But the door did not open, and the monks did not come. Instead, something happened which had never happened before: the abbess opened her eyes, and smiled.

     “And now, at last, you begin to understand,” she said.

     The unexpected sound of the abbess’s voice echoed round the high-ceilinged room, and Chandra realized with a start that she had never before seen the abbess’s eyes. They were deep, and brown, like dark pools, except that, from somewhere in their very center, a red spark seemed to flicker, like the ghost of a distant flame.

     “Understand what?” Chandra said, without really meaning to say it. She had no conscious awareness of having chosen those words, or having summoned them to her tongue. Instead, she heard them echo around her, as thought they had been spoken by someone else. But it must have been she who said them, for the abbess’s lips did not move.

     The abbess’s smile widened, then, and, with the merest nod of her head, she summoned the flame from the candle, and held it cupped between her two hands, where it pulsed and it glowed, growing brighter and brighter, until Chandra had to stare into the little black void at its center, just to keep from being blinded.

     “Now you understand that wisdom comes not from answering questions,” the abbess said, “but from asking them.” The abbess nodded, and the flame in her hands flared white. “Now you are ready,” she said.

     Chandra stared straight into the heart of the roaring flame, and – for the first time in a long time – she felt completely and totally at peace.

     “Where do we begin?” she said.

     The abbess just smiled.

(Well, I had my NaNoWriMo moment of reckoning today. The "novel" -- and I use that word loosely -- has gotten to a point where I feel completely stymied. But the whole point of NaNoWriMo is to *write*, so, instead of throwing in the towel, or waiting aimlessly for the muse to return my calls, I still did my daily writing. I just wrote something else instead...)