KAMILLA REID

Copyright © 2015 by Kamilla Reid All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America First Printing, 2015

ISBN 978-0-9866741-7-4 www.bonegrits.com

For You, who stayed inside

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1

The Junke Lot was far enough away from Shade

Howl that Root thought she’d be safe. No one would think to look for her here, among the rusted heaps of scrap and metal. She wheeled her wagon under the iron arch and peered around. It was another cold night. A dim lamp showed her breath and the frost that had already bit along old pipes and siding.

It would have to do. She was dead tired. Tired of hiding, tired of hurting. She just wanted to settle somewhere now, somewhere far away from the Guardian and his Badges. No matter the monstrous consequence. It had not been an easy migration. Foremost was the hand itself, withering as it was. Decaying from the inside out. At first, when rebellion was fresh and screaming, Root had attempted to repel the Marrow Bind. She had ransacked Fledger’s books and poured over the Secondhand Stamps. Of the thousands lining the pages only two offered deflection Heat.

By the time she finished them the Copper Quill, having already sustained the Guardian’s venomous attack, now suffered the loss of part of its ceiling and several holes in the walls. Worse – the tips of her blue-boned fingers were now black and the nails curling away.

It would be another solid week of hysterics before Root would resign to the idea of fleeing the Copper Quill.

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And several more days of burdensome collection, sorting through the broken bones of the shop, packing a mixture of practical and wistful. Of the practical came a pot, a pan, utensils, an axe, a lantern and other such survivalings. Root also packed one of Fledger’s bows and a quiver of arrows, planning to forage memory for the casual lessons he had once given her when she was still stubbing tender toes.

Of the wistful, Root carefully pocketed Fledger’s stylus, an actual quill of copper, the one she’d seen him ink and scrape across countless moonlit pages. His favourite.

A great many of Fledger’s books also made it into Root’s little wagon, most of them on the topic of Heat. If she couldn’t get some Perse mileage out of them they would at least make good kindling. So far, she’d managed one Stamp, a sleeping balm, for she’d found herself endlessly without rest. She knew it was due mostly to the dark wanderings of her mind; one minute Fledger in a lifeless heap, the next minute the gangrene mess of her hand detaching itself. And in between this the haunting fear of becoming another casualty of Shade Howl’s unforgiving winters. Another dead Bone Grit unclaimed. Unloved.

These thoughts were bad enough. But what was also keeping her beyond sleep was the onslaught of foreign voices, unfamiliar tresspassings that had pushed their way in her mind since her Wits Pyre had heated. She thought she would go mad from their constant intrusion. She needed sleep desperately.

Perhaps it was this desperation, the same of which fed her first Stamp that night so long ago when she faced Popky’s Simp, that brought her sleeping dictum so effortlessly to life.

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She’d focussed down to the sharpness of a nail, letting the intent sail along her blood lines and eventually off the tongue, a concise matching of unexpected words. Silentum Lun. She awoke the next morning, having slept as if her soul had surrendered her to the sea. Its great blue waves had cradled her endlessly and then she realized that it had been the ribbon of blue that looped in her mother’s long ebony hair. She lay in that reverie for a long peaceful time.

After that she needed the words a few more times to help focus and heat the Stamp, but soon her mere intention brought about the result.

Wingbit on the other hand seemed to have no problem sleeping. Root discovered her in the backyard of the Copper Quill, her little black and orange body wrapped and hanging along the handle of the abandoned wagon like the icicles along a roof. She didn’t seem to mind Root wheeling the wagon indoors and heaping it. Nor was she bothered when Root steered it from the beloved shop into Shade Howl’s alleys. Having already lost track of her Fledger, she was not about to do the same with Root. And so the two of them spent the dark wintering days in sleeted shadow wondering if time would eventually render them forgotten.

It would be the fresh evergreen leaves and berries of a door wreath that would suddenly snap Root back to life.

Birthday. Had it been a whole year already? A whole year come

and gone? That would make her eleven in Fledge years, when they began counting. Eleven years since he caught her barefoot in his garden and warmed her little belly with tea. Surely she’d’ve forgotten entirely, but Lanlynne doesn’t forget its birthdays. Or rather its Birthday. One day, set aside and faithfully observed. Birthday was a

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celebration for all those born. Everyone. Young and old and in between.

It was a splendid affair with its gatherings and song and feasting. Fire Blossoms were always strung between shops. Swags festooned along halls and on the fronts of doors. Beautiful sparkling centerpieces were placed upon tables. Happy Birthday was put to every greeting. And from the neighbouring forest greens, the deep rich aroma of bark and maple drifted heavily, as if Théall’s special spice. It was a joyous occasion and Root was thrilled when she and Fledger had shared it together last year. A party indeed, complete with treats, games and a capper of Chorm around the fire. And when Fledger had pulled out a replica of his favourite copper quill and given it to Root, nothing could have topped it.

A late winter frost had spilled a crystal veneer across the shop window and Root scraped the words ‘Best Birthday ever’ across it with her fingernail.

They toasted themselves well into the evening and fell asleep on warm fat chairs while Jinter Twostep’s warbled recording got stuck on the same line over and over.

Be not ye careworn Be glad ye were born Be not ye careworn Be glad ye were born Root would have sunk to her knees in the unbearable

sorrow of this year’s Birthday but there was no time for such things. Birthday meant winter had peaked. The streets of Shade Howl would not shelter her much longer.

In the end, the Junke Lot was her last resort. There would be no long scrutinizing gawks. Even the Aunts

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wouldn’t think to find her here, where rock and iron choke out the living.

By now, Root’s hand was a mess of rotting flesh. It hung at the wrist like a dead thing. She wondered how much time she had left. And what would happen at the end, when the Marrow Bind reached its deadline. Would she lose it altogether and drain away like the stories she’d heard?

Or would she survive? Would the Junke Lot pity her and salvage her as it had the rest of its cold, mangled orphans?

Root spied a large metal box turned upside down. Shelter. For now, at least. She dragged the wagon closer and, after a brief rest attempted to lift up one end of the box with the intention of bracing it and slipping underneath. It was much heavier than expected and its iced surface made gripping nearly impossible. With the last of her strength she eventually had the box tilted. But now she could feel herself about to give under its weight. Just as her footing slipped she felt a sudden boost and looked beside her. Under the edge of the box a creature of some sort was helping her. She looked closer. It was a dog, a mechanical dog with little dented silver spoon ears. When its fieldglass eyes met hers a curly spring on its rear end lifted and wagged. Root felt a rush of warmth and pushed harder. A set of four wheels extended from the dog, upward under the box until together they managed to push the side high enough to slip in a brace.

Just as Root was wondering who would do just that, another sound, something of a whirring was heard on her other side. She looked to see another mechanical creature, this one resembling a fat bumblebee. Its little legs had magnetically grasped a long iron bar and it was now lengthening a pair of pewter wings to accommodate a

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move to the box. Once the bar was securely under, Root and the dog released with a sigh.

“Thank you,” Root smiled and stood up to formally greet her helpmates.

“Eeb! What’re you two up to?” came a gruff voice. Root turned and was surprised to see a woman

approaching. She was dressed in her own scrap metals and leathers with a long coat studded in brass knobs and countless pockets. Her head was topped with a tall, rumpled hat that housed a clock, a keyhole and all manner of gadgetry.

“Oh!” the woman said when she saw Root. A large magnifying glass unfolded from her hat and placed itself in front of her eye, which now looked disturbingly huge as it scrutinized Root from top to bottom. “Didn’t know we had guests,” the woman said at last, her magnified eye blinking and swiveling to meet Root’s.

“I’m sorry…” Root said nervously. “I didn’t know…I mean…is this private property?”

The eye was now peering curiously at Root’s sickly hand. Root slipped it away with a grimace and put it in her pocket. The woman stiffened and allowed the glass to return to its slot on her hat. “That it is not, m’dear. This here’s the Junke Lot. A common rejectamenta to some, but t’others, myself I’m speaking of now…and Eeb, o’course and…” she pet the mechanical dog now at her legs, “good ol’ God.” God barked and licked the woman’s hand. “This is what we call home.”

“Mew.” A robotic cat sprung out from behind Root’s wagon.

“Yes, and you too, Tac!” the woman laughed. Root heard a tiny machine-like sound as the cat

turned to look at Root and adjust its brass ears. Its neon eyes turned from blue to green and soon it was purring

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and rubbing its dull copper body up against her legs. “Well now, looks like Tac’s taken a liking to ya,” the

woman said. “What’s your name, girl?” “Root.” “The woman threw out a hand bound in leather save

for the fingers. It was offered to Root’s bad hand but Root kept it in her pocket. She awkwardly offered her other instead and was relieved when the woman received it heartily.

“Root, eh? Well, I’m Sussim. And well, you’ve met the gang.”

Root nodded. “You plan on stayin’?” Sussim asked. “If…I mean, if it’s alright.” “Well, you’ll need a good fire if y’wanna last the night.

Gets more’n cold here. Frost’ll have ya b’fore morning.” “Okay…thanks.” Root said. Sussim spent another few seconds eyeballing Root,

who could see her leadened teeth now and a curious stiffness in one of her eyes. A movement inside Root’s wagon broke the moment. Root looked to see another mechanical creature peering out from her supplies. The creature turned an eye toward Root and she recognized it to be a frog of fine silver.

“Gorf!” the woman yelled. “Get on outta there! That doesn’t belong t’you!”

The frog puffed up its marbled chin and let out a croak before leaping onto Sussim’s shoulder where it slipped under her hat.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” “It’s okay.” Root smiled. She was actually rather

smitten with these Junke Lot inhabitants. “Right then, c’mon Eeb, God, Tac…let’s let our new

neighbour get ‘erself all settled.” She nodded to Root.

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“We’ll be over there, if y’need anything.” She pointed at a giant duct halfway up a cliff of debris. A fire in its middle made it look like a blazing eye hovering over the whole of the Junke Lot.

Root watched the woman leave with her trail of creatures in tow. She had half expected to come across at least a few Jiggers, being that she was moving into a Junke Lot, but she hadn’t expected a woman to be living among them, claiming them as pets no less.

The Jiggers she’d heard about were shapeless scurrying scraps of hardware and bolts that had somehow found life in Junke Lots, though no one knows how. There are some theories. Chronicler, Irma Bentshoe claimed they drew life from ancient underground graves, while a few mystics thought it more the effects of rusting. According to them, rust was to Jiggers what blood was to humans. The metalsmiths chocked it up to the randomness of sparks over time. To them all life sprang from a spark.

At any rate Jiggers were known as pests, certainly not pets. At least that’s what Root had thought until now. Now when she thought of them she felt a little less lonely in the world.

She peered into the night sky, wondering if she’d spy Wingbit, but her little friend had taken to hunting down some dinner and would most likely not return until morning. Root smiled and turned to tend her new Lodge. She would surprise Wingbit with a warm homecoming. Several woolen blankets were placed along the flooring under the box. A small pile of books went against a wall and a fire was assembled before Root went back to the wagon for a fresh bandage.

As she rifled through her supplies she noticed an opened canister. Her heart stopped. She snatched the

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canister and looked inside. Empty. Her entire pouch of junos, gone! A wave of sickness swept through her and she had to lean against the wagon’s side.

Panic took over as she reached into memory for clues, carefully establishing every step leading to the Junke Lot. A thought struck her. That frog. That Jigger frog!

She replayed the recollection over and over until one image came into clear focus. The frog’s mouth. There had been an unnatural shine inside it just before it croaked. And after it croaked the size of its mouth remained the same. It must have had the junos in its mouth! That little tin brute!

Root looked way up to the Jiggers’ fire in the duct. Her eyes narrowed into deadly slits.

*****

By the time she climbed halfway up the junke pile, her

good hand was as bashed and cut up as the other. The sky had spilled its ink across the moon and stars making Sussim’s fire a burning banner to hold target. Goaded by anger and shame at her naivete, Root gingerly made her way over a fence of iron slats and arrived at the duct. It was now much bigger than what it had looked from the ground, a massive throat of echoing steel. Sussim was there with her creatures, sitting at the fire and humming a tune. She was tearing up strips of paper and adding them to the flames.

God saw Root and barked. Before she could react Tac came up from behind and twined around her legs. Sussim looked up. “Ah, decided to join us, didjya?”

“Your frog took my money.” Sussim paused and then went back to tearing up her

kindling. “Gorf, didjya hear that? She says you stole her

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money.” Gorf peered out from under Sussim’s hat, bloated its

chin (now noticeably smaller, thought Root) and swiveled its mechanical eyes toward her before shaking its head.

“Yes, you did! I can feel it all around you! This whole place stinks of my Lost!” Root stepped inside the duct, accidentally tripping on Tac, who hissed and swiped a brass paw across her leg. Root bent over in pain. A clean gash was already streaming blood.

“Tac!” Sussim cried, “That’s enough now. You too God!” She snapped her finger. At once the dog dipped its tail and sat. Sussim turned back to Root who felt her stomach drop from the sudden nastiness of the woman’s smile. “Now why would he do a thing like that? Why would he take a few measly junos from you…” Sussim held up the paper in her hand. “…when we can get two thousand from the Guardian.”

Root’s cheeks drained. A picture of her own face looked back at her from the paper’s folds. The word Reward loomed above the image in large black letters. Below this she read of her Dodging status and two thousand junos to the person who would lead to her whereabouts.

Sussim laughed and casually tossed the page into the fire. Root watched the poster burn away before looking back at the woman in horror. Sussim’s smile now spread across her whole face.

Root heard a noise. She ran to the mouth of the duct. From here she could see beams of light flashing around the Junke Lot. Badges! Looking for her!

She heard a bellowing laugh and turned back to Sussim now flanked by her loyal pets. “Sic ‘er,” the woman said with chilling calm. The Jiggers erupted in pursuit.

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Without thinking Root leapt from the duct’s mouth onto the landslide of ore and cast iron. She toppled most of the way down, slicing her skin while trying to avoid the glaring searchlights. She reached the ground and was about to set off running when one of the light shafts found her.

“There she is!” she heard a Badge yell. She darted from the white glare into a maze of lead shackles. There was no light here save for the grainy attempts of a lot lamp. She took to shadows and when she reached a particularly dark corner paused to get her bearings.

Pain suddenly struck her heel with an intensity that drew her to her knees. When a second stab took her shoulder she turned to see Eeb’s shining metal stinger slip away before rounding back toward her head. Root swatted the bee but wound up with another stab in her palm. She stifled a scream. It was her bad hand and the pain was unbearable. She crouched and held it while Eeb came in yet again for another sting.

Something swooped. There was the sound of jarring circuitry and a moment later, in the dim slant of the lot lamp Wingbit flapped over to a jagged perch and spit out what was left of the jigger.

Root thought she would cry in relief. She lifted herself up and, with a nod to her companion, set for escape. As the calls of Badges grew louder she limped around a stack of pipe and scanned the lot. Aha! A hole in the fence! She ran.

A moment later Gorf landed in front of her with a non-chalent croak. Root grabbed a large iron pipe and wielded it threateningly despite the searing pain in her hands.

Suddenly Gorf’s two mechanical friends landed with ease on each side of the frog. Tac hissed with glowing red

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eyes while God bared a set of metal teeth. “No offense er anything, love. But two thousand

junos is two thousand junos.” Sussim said, appearing like a ghost out of the soot. “So, if y’don’t mind, how ‘bout you be a good girl and…” Sussim’s hat extended a robotic arm toward Root. As it reached her it formed into a cage of metal bars. “…step into this here receptacle.”

Root swung her iron pipe with all her might. The cage splintered off the arm and landed at Sussim’s feet.

Sussim grit her teeth. “Shouldn’ta done that, love.” She clicked her tongue. At once God and Tac flew

together like magnet to steel. Root watched as their parts began to meld. Then, to her shock pieces of random junk metal also flew from surrounding piles toward them and connected. Soon the machinery was churning and growing into a massive unit right before her eyes. A furnace erupted within its clunking pistons and a platform loaded Sussim onto a brass nest at its top. She looked down at Root from her towering perch and smiled as the final scraps of iron morphed into a new, much larger mechanical arm. And this one did not have a little cage at its end. This one had contorted into a life-size mouth of steel. Its long, corroded teeth seemed to be learing.

Root turned and ran as the teeth snapped at her heels and the metal monster stomped after her. Now too the Badges were on their way. She dodged around a corner and was about to duck into an overtipped bin when Wingbit caught her attention flapping about a tangle of accordion tubing of varying sizes.

“Are you sure?” Root asked. Wingbit squeaked emphatically. As the snapping jaws

of the steel trap appeared once more, Root dove. She heard Sussim laugh as the monstrous Jigger

lunged into the twisting labyrinth of tunneling hoses.

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Root had found her way into one large enough to fit her and was now desperately wriggling farther and farther from Sussim’s grasp.

She could feel the claustrophobic weight around her but crawled on while Sussim, joined now by the Badges, shreiked and tore at the heap. Just when Root thought the pile might collapse over her she caught a whiff of fresh air. The hose was leading back out onto a different side of the lot! She wriggled faster now, making her way toward the end of the tubing. She could see some light now, the dim glow of another lot lamp. And Wingbit!

She paused at the end, exhausted, making sure no one was around before allowing herself to fall out of the hose.

She hadn’t expected the Badge waiting quietly in the dark, nor the rough fabric of the bag over her head.

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2

Root was lifted to a carriage and laid down in the box.

She heard the sound of approaching steps. “You found ‘er? The Dodger?” a Badge asked. “Caught ‘er comin’ outta the ducts!” Root heard a whistle and a host of voices running

toward her. “Where’re y’takin’ ‘er?” another Badge asked. “Where d’y’think? Death Flat, of course!” “Good! Teach ‘er a lesson! ” Root felt her heart thumping in her throat. “How now, dear sir. About that there reward.”

Sussim’s voice raised over the others. Root could hear the rumble of her enormous Jigger gathering into the centre of the crowd.

“I think you’ve received more than enough compensation, madam.” said the Badge who had caught Root.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I’ve not received one lowly juno.”

“Oh?” the Badge said. “And what of those you’ve gathered from the pockets of my comrades here?”

Root heard a collective gasp and the rustling of hands in pockets.

“Empty!” a Badge cried out. “Mine too!” “She stole from us, the Junke witch!”

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“I did no such thing! How’s that possible when I was with you lot the whole time!”

Root could feel a tense pause as the Badges tried to reconcile Sussim’s words with their suspicions.

“It’s her frog!” Root cried out. “She has it raid when you’re not looking! It hides under her hat!”

A sudden commotion broke out. Root could hear Sussim trying to fight off the Badges who seemed to be literally climbing her giant Jigger to reach her.

“The Dodger’s right!” A Badge snapped at last. “Look here! Can’t even croak for the weight in its bloated chin!”

“Why you!” another Badge growled. There was now a greater clash of metal and man, as

Sussim and her pets met with the Badges’ anger. With the attention off her, Root jostled for escape. She found the wagon’s edge and dropped, but was caught by a pair of strong arms.

“Oh no y’don’t.” Root was placed back in and the ledge drawn up. A

moment later the carriage started moving away from the fight and even further, out of the lot itself.

An image of Death Flat overcame her. There were so many rumours surrounding its horrors, most of which she laid down to myth, but remaining truths of it made her hair stand on end: an endless wall of bones rising up around a lake of fog and fire; a sky with no sun; a single, flimsy raft of twigs upon which the prisoner would be thrust into the waters and left alone to fend for him or herself; shores of quicksand; and makeshift raft islands where the cruelest prisoners gathered to break the others.

Root’s heart thumped and fear rose to choke her. She began to squirm, feeling the loss of fresh air as she laboured against the scratching fibers of the suffocating

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bag. After a while the carriage came to a stop. Root heard

the Badge dismount his Hover and walk toward her. When she felt his hand on hers she revolted with all her strength.

“Root. It’s okay. Stop fighting.” It took a minute before she realized what she’d heard

and paused in disbelief. The bag came off. She looked into familiar eyes. “I’m sorry. It was the only way I could get you safely

out of there,” Jorab said. Root felt tears erupt from her eyes. She threw herself

into his chest as he lifted her from the carriage.

***** A blanket and fire warmed them. Jorab had filled

Root with a meal and now he sat quietly beside her, both of them awaiting the fire’s promptings.

“I still can’t believe you found me by using Wits,” Root said at length.

“And not an easy task, I might add. You have quite a busy set of marbles in there.”

“It’s not me!” Root protested. “It’s all the others with Wits. I keep hearing them, so many voices, day and night. I didn’t realize one was yours.”

“Yes, it takes a great amount of focus to begin tuning. The good thing is that I was able to gather your surroundings and when I saw the Jiggers I knew where you were.”

“Just in time.” “Indeed. Which leads me to wonder what drove you

to such dire circumstances.” Root poured her heart into the flames, sharing

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everything of her last few weeks with Jorab; the cruel ending with Studaben Picklepug, the cheating out of her money, the destruction of the Copper Quill and Fledger’s disappearance, the resulting weeks in hiding, desperately trying to repel the Marrow Bind, the scrimping survival and the last straw in the Junke Lot. When she was emptied, there was a long pause.

“May I see your hand?” Jorab asked at last. She nodded and offered it to him. He gently took it

into the firelight. It was a grotesque thing and Root herself was hardly able to look at it. “I think my Stamp attempts may have made it even worse,” she said.

“Yes, Dodging is pretty advanced Heat, Root.” “I know.” She looked down. “How much time do I

have?” “For your hand? Very little.” She nodded again and bit her lip. “You are certain this is the answer?” Jorab asked. “I can’t work for him, if that’s what you mean. He’s

evil, Jorab. Worse than a Tall…and I hate him.” “I suspect your hatred is justified, little Root. Indeed,

I too find these acts most concerning and grievous.” Root looked at him surprised. She hadn’t expected

agreement. Jorab held her in his eyes. “But how much more

grievous are the consequences of hate than the causes of it.”

Root flinched. At once her pain swelled around her. She looked at her dying hand and knew its torture had come by the actions of her own revolt. And that her grudge would only spur a long journey into further suffering. But how could she resign herself to a life under the Guardian’s cruelty?

She looked at Jorab. “I…don’t know what to do.”

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Again, to her embarrassment, a torrent of tears streamed down her cheeks.

“My dear, a primary lesson in the living, and not just those with Wits – Being solitary does not mean you are alone. If you want peace you must silence the chatter inside.”

“Right,” Root scoffed. “And whose chatter would that be? There’s only a hundred voices to choose from.”

“Yours. The loudest one, the one that has declared war on the world.”

“Wha’d’y’mean? I haven’t declared war!” Jorab leaned in with a kindly expression. “Do you

accept that you’re a Bone Grit?” Root went silent. He let the words sink in before continuing. “Until you

can respect who you are, you can’t expect anyone else to.” “How can I respect this?” Root gestured to herself. “I

became the one thing I set out not to become! I’m nothing but a pathetic pouch biter!”

“Don’t flog yourself for a decision that was the best you could do. If there was a lesson gained then there was no misdeed.”

“Right. Tell that to Fledger. My best dragged him into this and now he’s probably…” she stopped, choking on the thought.

“Dead,” Jorab said. Root looked at him, horrified. “Or alive. The probably is up to you.” Root let out a frustrated sigh, resigned once again to

Jorab’s sagacity. Without further prodding she closed her eyes and naturally took in a deep breath. She focused inward and became instantly bombarded with transmissions.

“Ignore the others,” Jorab encouraged. “It’s the one

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sneaking behind them.” Root felt like she was physically casting away the

foreign voices that were vying for her attention. She zeroed in on the one that stood out above them all. It startled her at first, a ragged bark that snapped and frothed like a wounded animal. Her heart instantly claimed its rage and fear.

“Don’t identify with it,” Jorab warned calmly. “Just notice it.”

With difficulty Root pulled away from being the voice and simply observed it. And as she did she suddenly wondered who she was that was observing. In that moment a flood of light swooped in and peace overtook her.

“Good,” she heard Jorab say and then realized he was using Witspeak. “Very good. This is the true space of a Wits master, where thought gives way to silence.”

As her voice receded into the overwhelming stillness, Root’s hand occurred to her as a precious thing, a beloved note in the orchestral hush.

An outside noise brought her back to her immediate surroundings. She opened her eyes to see Wingbit fussing along the gate of the carriage. The peace promptly faded. But it had managed to leave a tiny fissure in its exit, a hope. It was enough for Root to realize there might be another way. She looked at Jorab both uncertain and certain…and moreover willing. “You will help me?” she asked.

“I will.”

***** The moment they arrived on Dominion land, Root’s

hand, hanging by a thread, drew itself up. She watched in

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amazement as the flesh merged anew and a pink layer of skin wrapped over it. Strength coursed back and she happily exercised it by organizing her belongings, grateful that Jorab had placed them in the carriage before retrieving her.

She came across the two books Fledger had given her for the first Marrow Bind so long ago. Magical Firsts was still torn where the Bulk had mangled it and Opus of Wits had been read so often now the dog-eared corners were splitting off. Jorab recognized Opus with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not sure you want to flaunt a banned text in Dominion lands.”

Root drew the book to her chest protectively. “It is? I didn’t know. You won’t tell, will you?”

Jorab smiled. “And risk them finding my copy, too? I think not.”

Root released her breath. “Why is it banned?” Before Jorab could reply, she clued in. “There’s

mention of a Dodging Stamp.” She immediately turned to the page. “Right here. It says that a Dodging Stamp is best served by a Wits Master…for they dwell in Crossroads. What’s a Crossroad?”

“A meeting place. An intersection of sorts where most Wits Pyrists Touch.”

“You mean communicate?” “Yes. However, a Master meets not only another

kindred but the minds of much more, including the body, its cells.”

Root leapt to understanding. “So, it’s possible to Witspeak with the body and convince it to repel a Marrow Bind on its own!”

Jorab smiled. There was a long pause before he added. “Yes, I will teach you.”

Root’s face began to glow. It had been so long since

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she’d felt warmth in her cheeks. Then a thought occurred to her. “Why, Jorab?”

“Because though the Guardian is convinced of some noble purpose, I cannot deny the warnings in my heart. Especially in light of recent events, the Copper Quill inclusive. A Marrow Bind was never meant to be used in such a way. I fear a very slippery slope indeed.”

Root nodded. She remembered once overhearing Jorab speaking to Sir Heart of the Guardian’s recklessness. And she knew that others in Jorab’s company, namely Mordge and SmitherWeed also harboured deep concern. Moreover she could not deny the same warnings in her heart.

“It will take some time, you understand.” Somehow Root knew that Jorab was speaking of both

the Dodging Stamp and the deeper attainment, truth, where Fledger hung in the balance. She nodded in agreement.

Spring wasted no time claiming her throne. Jorab dragged the wheels over her new wet grasses, forming a fresh rut of slush and mud. The smell of drying rain lightened their hearts. When she caught sight of Mammoth Rock, Root’s heart began an anxious thump that came with memories of her friends, Lian and Dwyn, Elgart, Mordge. But also the Guardian of Lanlynne, Studaben Picklepug. She stowed the nerves away and set her jaw. “Jorab, you had mentioned certain…reinstatements…”

“Ah yes. I believe a private Parley has been installed in your room.”

“And the rune number is available if…if Fledger calls?”

“It is.” Root nodded approvingly. “And--”

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“--Waiting rather impatiently in the stable.” Root nearly bounced out of the carriage, her heart

swelling with anticipation. Jorab winked and drew the carriage airborne to the top of Mammoth Rock where Mirror Lake greeted them in grand sparkle and blossoming gardens hemmed the cliffside all the way to the once-proud citadel and its lurking Krux.

“I’m afraid this is where we part. I have an engagement with Madam Mordidika who’s a rather demanding barber.”

“Mordge cuts your hair?” “Indeed, and I’m afraid she’s bent on removing the

braids this time.” Jorab wistfully stroked the short totem of beads at his chin.

Root laughed and threw her arms around him. “Thank you so much, Jorab! For everything!”

“Farewell for now, little Root. I’ll ensure Elgart has your things taken to your room.”

Root leapt from the carriage and waved before racing through Guardian’s Gate, past the glancing statues to the old stone bridge, which gladly welcomed her.

*****

There was never a more heartsick howl than that

which came from stable stall number sixty-seven. Stogie nearly broke down the gate to quicken the embrace. The cries and coos of both he and Root continued well out into the crisp air where nature could begin to heal their losses at last.

A glorious sun basted leaves into tender witness while Root inspected every inch of her beloved Hovermutt. The neglect was impossible to ignore. Stogie’s inner ears were caked in black and his coat was weighed down with

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burs, dirt and mats as thick as her thumbs. Benoline Crabbit would have been appalled to see one of his fine beasts suffering so.

But whereas Root found his condition heart breaking, Stogie, now rid of grief, filled to complete by their happy reunion decided a nice romp in fresh Bulk poo would be the perfect celebratory capper.

Let it be known there is nothing…no thing in the entire universe worse than the smell of a wet Hovermutt freshly rolled in Bulk poo.

“Hold still, Stogie!” Root now pulled her shaggy companion closer to the spouting mouth of a water pump. But Stogie was much, much bigger than her and according to Stogie there was nothing worse than a bath.

“Aw, c’mon, Stogie! You stink!” Root sighed. How could she be upset watching that

joy? He was whizzing about the courtyard, sniffing grass, licking bark. There was so much to see in this new Spring awakening where the last bits of snow slushed. The spired leaves of tulips were nudging into the air. Everything dripped and dropped in a warm breath. Mud glistened. Puddles grew. A million smells woke from great sleep. All finding their way to Stogie’s wet, black, happy nose.

Hmmmmm, thought Root. This calls for extreme measures. When it came to harnessing Stogie, there had been one thing she could always count on. Thank goodness she had picked some up along the way. A limited supply, but this was a matter of life and death. For her nostrils at least. “Stogaloo!” she chirped and reached in her pocket.

Squeak! Stogie’s ears shot up. “You want your squeaky, Stogers?” The stiff grass flattened under the beating of his tail. Squeak!

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He did a stand sit stand sit stand kind of dance and looked like he would surely die if he didn’t have that squeaky toy in his chompers right this second.

Root eased him toward the water. Squeakity, squeak, squeak. Once there, with the poor toy in his jaws she knew he wouldn’t move. But she also knew he’d have it destroyed in mere minutes. She’d have to act fast.

Water, soap, spray, scrub, rinse. All in record time. As the last squeaky remains spit out into a bright

yellow pile and a fluffy blanket darted about drying the contented Hovermutt, Root spied another little friend.

Wingbit joined them on a homecoming tour of the grounds, whisking around the Shack’s turrets, swooping the shoreline of Mirror Lake and darting on and off the great Rock’s plateau, until Root was filled once more with the bright breaths of hope.

From the gardens, Root noticed the first signs of human life, a gathering of some kind. She encouraged Stogie onward to investigate.

By the time she realized its dark purpose, it was too late.

Blood had already been spilled.

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3

Krism wiped the blood from his nose. It was spilling

into his mouth, making him feel nauseous. He looked around for a familiar face among the crowd. How’d they all get here so fast? Had they known he was going to be ambushed by these boys?

Certainly Krism had been used to this sort of thing. Growing up in service to the Murk Lord was not without its share of beatings. But wasn’t that supposed to be all behind him now? He swerved around to face his attackers. Though there were four of them and they had caught him by surprise, he was still standing. His time at the Shack had served him well. His strength was coming back.

Peripherally, he could see a shuffling exchange of money. Bets were being placed, odds against him. And now that cute blond girl in pink had arrived and pushed her way to the front. Krism smiled. She was as golden as the sun he’d longed for his whole life. Even more so.

“What’s so funny, Tint?” one of the boys pushed him. Krism swung his fist. And missed. The crowd

laughed. Some hissed. Some even spit. What was it about this that hurt so much? How could this be worse than his suffering under Kakos?

“Filthy Tint!” called someone from the sidelines. Krism turned his head and – Bam! – a fist caught his ear and clanged its hatred down the canal. Cheers sprang

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from the pack. But what these kids didn’t know was that a volcano of rage had been gurgling and spitting and holding back long, long before. Krism could feel its acid inside his stomach.

An inky, bloody eruption set his eyes red. He lunged.

***** Krism was grabbed by his shoulders and pulled away.

His knuckles were raw. He had been pounding a boy with his fists over and over without even knowing it.

“Enough!” The words brought Krism swimming back and looking into the dark, hot eyes of a boy. A boy with a crude scar on his forehead. Three serpentine heads eating their own tails.

The mark of the Murk Lord. The boy helped Krism to his feet where the growling

horde of spectators was being held back by a band of rivals, at least twenty of them, armed and lethal. He could see in this silent hold, the invisible lines of hate. His lungs rasped against the taut air. In front of him, his brothers and sisters, leftovers of the Murk Lord stood against the mob, poised to fight. For him.

The dark-eyed boy held Krism’s shoulders and faced him. He was tall and angry. He and all his clan were clad in strips of foraged leather that hung like limp shadows. And on all of their foreheads the same remnants of a cold ouroboros scarred them inside and out.

“You shouldn’t be there, in that castle. You should be with your kind,” the boy said to Krism.

“Yeah, y’filthy Tint!” someone spewed from the sideline, checked by a grey leather elbow.

Krism ran his tongue over the warm blood on his lip,

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tasting its iron. His eyes wandered back to the scene and scanned for answers. Maybe this boy was right, this brother. Maybe Krism shouldn’t be here where he clearly didn’t belong. Where he was despised.

In the sea of faces, he spied the blond girl. Her eyes were wide and dark, locked on him. She was flanked by two sneering friends, but nothing came from her. And her eyes…they were so beautiful.

Krism pulled away from the clan leader. He walked slowly and purposefully until he stood right in front of Hilly Punyun. Hilly straightened and he could see her try to catch her breath. His own breath was fast and broken. He said nothing.

In the next instant he was kissing her and nothing else existed.

*****

Hyvis Punyun had seen the crowd from a distance

and never being one to miss a beat of gossip she approached with her authority firmly intact.

She would never in her life forget what she saw. She screamed. A pitch fully loaded in poison. Krism turned. The woman was already almost upon him, her eyes black as tar. “You monster. You will step away from her or so help me…”

Krism stepped back. “Hilly, baby doll. Are you okay?” Hyvis wrapped

herself around her daughter. As Hilly buried her face into her mother’s folds, Hyvis’ eyes landed on Krism and narrowed viciously. “You will pay for this…back away…now…all of you!” She threw all her weight upon the crowd. As she maneuvered her daughter away she paused at the leader of the dark clan. “The gall to show

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your kind here.” The boy held her eyes. “We have as much right as you

to Dominion council.” Her voice reduced to a deadly whisper. “As long as

that evil sits on your forehead, you have no rights here.” Most of the crowd dispersed with Hyvis and Hilly and

when Krism made no attempt to join him, the tall dark-eyed boy led his clan back to their Hovers where they avalanched like hornets into the low-set forest.

No one remained but Root. She stood beside Stogie, her mouth open. Krism turned and froze when he saw her. “Root Karbunkulus,” he said at last.

“Krism.” She smiled weakly, then acknowledging his ordeal. “I’m so sorry.”

He took a long time before allowing a shrug and stepping toward her in friendship. She sighed in relief and moved to embrace him, but a most revolting splat of stinking mucus exploded on his head, sending him to his knees.

Root nearly doubled over from the smell. And the sudden burning in his eyes blinded Krism.

“What is it?” Root cried. “I don’t know…” Krism groaned. “Are you alright? Can you walk?” “I…think so.” “Here.” Root took his arm and carefully led him.

“Let’s get you to Curatives.” As they slowly made their way to the Shack and

turned a corner into the courtyard, they were met with an unexpected greeting.

“Why happy days! It’s Miss Root Karbunkulus!” Elgart drew up with a genuine smile.

Root ran past his outstretched hand and slipped her arms around his waist instead. He laughed and lifted her

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off her feet! When he set her back down, she was covered in the same chalky dust that epitomized Elgart.

“Uh oh…” He looked at Krism. “Another Widow Squash bomb?”

“You know it?” Root asked. “Ya, we’ve been seeing a lot lately. Whoever’s doing

‘em’s gotten away with at least a dozen attacks so far.” Krism tried to stand up, but the smell caught in his

throat and forced him to stagger away, heaving. “Will he be okay?” Root asked Elgart. “Oh yes, yes. They’re more disgusting ‘n anything

else. Just needs a good cleaning and he’ll be right back t’normal.”

Root patted the dust off her clothes. “Still battling that nasty Krux by yourself?”

“Yup. Seems Master Gubelyn’s gotten ‘imself a little short-staffed.”

“Still?” Elgart laughed. “Ya, I guess so. Well, can’t say that I

blame the quitters. Hard t’tolerate the queen’s curse for very long.”

Root wondered how it was that Elgart remained cheerful when, despite his best efforts, it seemed, by the looks of the courtyard alone that the Shack was getting worse.

As owner of the citadel, Master Hillywur Gubelyn had promised to renovate it to the height of its glory days but it seemed its dark history surrounding the murder of King Validyn would cast its cold shadow forever.

“But ‘nuff o’ me. Look at you, missy! I thought you weren’t coming back and I can’t lie, I was a little broken in the heart.”

Root smiled bashfully. “Thanks, Elgart.” Krism returned wiping his mouth. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

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“Not at all.” Elgart gently rubbed his back. “Now, let’s see about gettin’ you cleaned up, kiddo.”

Krism looked at Root nervously. “Uh, I don’t recommend girls in the boys’ room…”

Elgart said. “But if y’must, maybe I can arrange…” “That’s okay!” Root blushed. “I’ll see you later,” she

said to Krism. “Promise.” He nodded and allowed Elgart to lead him away. “Not sure if y’seen yer Bondmates yet,” Elgart called

out. “But I can guess they’d be most ecstatic t’see you!” Root’s heart leapt. “Where are they?” “I see ‘em mostly hangin’ in the Wheel these days.” “The Wheel?” “Ya. New Brédin arena. Can’t miss it. On the east

shore o’ the lake!” “I was wondering what that was! C’mon, Stogie!”

Root mounted her Hovermutt and was gone.

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4

The first Find, it was acknowledged, had taken a fair

amount of time to complete. Thus, any successional Finds would most likely follow suit. With this in mind, Lord Blick set to establishing a proper facility for the Brédin that were to stay at the House of Gubelyn. Continued maintenance of their training was essential, though the rumour amongst the majority was that they were to protect the Miists of Kalliope. All six of the invaluable artifacts had been collected and hidden somewhere on the premises, their exact location known only to a very select few, most assuredly the Guardian of Lanlynne.

The Brédin’s training arena was erected just off the citadel premises, along Mirror Lake where it hoped to avoid the more sinister reaches of the Krux. It was an incredible architectural achievement that gained immediate attention and praise. Especially since it had been built, quite literally overnight.

Most everyone had gone to bed with a view of Mirror Lake’s bronzed shoreline, quiet and recumbent, glazed under the light of a white moon. When all woke in the morning, the shoreline was gone. Where the thick, wet dunes had been, there now lay an enormous rupture, as if the moon had sucked its own reflection unto itself, leaving a gaping crater. The belly of this crater was swept up like a tsunami, curving a seismic wave and then

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freezing it mid-air. A towering sand wave. And there, posted atop like a Great White riding the sea, was the magnificent Brédin arena.

Harmos Weol. The Wheel of Harmony. A rounded white-stone coliseum of arches and pillars

two stories high, the Wheel most assuredly dazzled. The only way it could be reached was by a hidden staircase along the curve of the giant wave. Unless of course you were a Brédin, in which case you could spread your silver wings and arrive in two fluttering motions.

At the top of the wave, a staircase of coral and cream tiles led to the main entrance, where the entire floor was a mosaic-ed history of the Brédin, here – a masterful tribute to their athletics, there – a portrayal of musical prowess. Brédin poetry weaved throughout like a ribbon in the wind…words like artem and pacem. Art and Peace.

The grand archway was marked by the commanding presence of two statues. The first statue was of a Brédin Prince, Aalistus The Sworn, who had taken the first Oath of Preservation those many generations ago when the welfare of the Brédin was in grave danger.

Opposite him was the impressive monument of Watilda Blick, the nose and ears prominent. Clad in the hard-bitten garments of war, she claimed a fierce impression. But the artisan who had crafted her made certain to capture the distinct softness in her eyes, a twinkle perhaps. Or the trace of a warm baked cookie.

Faced with the task of protecting her immortal, peace-loving companions, Watilda Blick fused Brédin philosophy with the unique form of defensive arts she had developed as Doyen of Lanlynne Defense. This powerful union did indeed gain the Brédin their freedom and alongside this, a might unsurpassed in all of recorded history. It also made Watilda Blick the first Brédin Master

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of Lanlynne, an honour that has been passed down from generation to generation along the Blick bloodline ever since.

Ironically, its continued preservation now fell upon the shoulders of one who had no interest whatsoever of taking up its torch. Watilda’s great, great, great, great, great grandson, Lian Blick.

Lian, routinely resistant when it came to the demands of his father, Lord Blick, had grudgingly agreed to regular observational visits to the Wheel. It was something that didn’t appeal to him in the least, sitting around watching the Brédin train. But even less appealing was the critical tirade of his father, should he refuse.

And so he would go and for the allotted time keep his nose in a book or his scrutinizing eyes on an exquisite sample from his increasing collection of the natural world. It wasn’t that he disliked the Brédin; he admired them greatly. It’s just that, to the very core of his being, Lian was a Natruid. His mind lay wholly in matters of nature, its living, breathing processes and feats. There was simply no room in this obsession for warrior arts.

When Dwyn asked if he could join Lian, it was at first received with a cringe. It meant conversation, something that Lian chose to avoid as much as possible, being one to prefer the silent communications of earth, air, fire, water and most precious of these, Aether, the Invisible Breath.

But, as Lian gave it more thought, he realized Dwyn could be of benefit by serving as a warning post to Lord Blick’s surprise checkups. Enough time to slip out of his books and pretend to be engaged in his so-called future. In the end he agreed to Dwyn’s offer, on this condition and one of minimal talking. Dwyn of course heaved a contracting high-five at him. Ever since his first

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encounter with a Brédin on Loz of the Squawnch Isles, Dwyn was mad for them, determined to sponge what he could of their magnificence.

And so while Dwyn swooned, Lian attended to the many other more pressing tasks at hand, this latest being the review of Find competition.

In a well-worn notebook he turned to a page labeled Opponents and underlined each Bond name. The six successful Bonds of the last Find had all been brought back, including the Valadors. Of these six, Lian had a pretty good indication of where Hilly Punyun and The Pinks stood in the playing field:

The Pinks (Hilly, Pidge, Sharmay) BIG FAT LYING CHEATERS NOT TO BE TRUSTED ENEMY NUMBER ONE Then there was Kor’s Kings, consisting of the puny-

eyed jerk Kor Bludgitt, his jut-jawed goon, Flinkus and…what was her name again? The one everyone felt sorry for because she was stuck with them. Though from what Lian could tell, she hardly seemed to care. More often than not she was seen rolling her eyes at Kor and walking away. She was funny, that one. At any rate…

Kor’s Kings (Kor, Flinkus and ??) Annoying Favouritism from the Guardian Enemy number two Then there was Mekruzela, Milden’s Bond. This was

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the kind of Bond that always made one wonder. Especially with Tompy Fibler on board. Was there ever a time when he didn’t have a cold? And then of course there was Milden’s recent mild Heat allergy diagnosis, which explained why he could never manage to avoid the Krux’s cold spots. Poor Milden. Clearly their third Bond member, Jake Turner, an accomplished Stealthlete before the Finds, helped tip the scales more in their favour. A lot more. At any rate, Lian marked Mekruzela as fairly innocuous and trustworthy. And moreover, friends.

The Blue Knights were interesting indeed. As an all-girl Bond made up of Brittany Goss, Ashley Edye and Alexandra Thorburn they showed considerable skill and strength. Now, if only Dwyn could stop flirting with them. The Finder’s Book of Propriety clearly advised against interrelations!

The last Bond was in no way the last Bond, especially since it had been the first Bond to bring home the Miist of Kalliope. Its mates were Sebastian Roberge, Olympia Kolakis and Rory Dumelie. Lian remembered them from the Scholarly. They were good then. At everything. And it seemed they had continued this trend as many a gasp was often heard surrounding their first Find adventures. The problem was they were, all of them really nice, which made hating them difficult.

“Woah!” Dwyn stood to take in a pair of Brédin poised mid-air, mere feet from him, in a sparring deadlock. He had to shield his eyes as the sun shattered off their silvery wings, now spread wide and dangerous. Then, in the split of a moment, they were entwined and cleaving the air in an ascent toward the highest clouds. It was spectacular.

“Didjya see that!” Dwyn tried to imitate the move with what Lian considered to be lame sound effects that

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were very close to breaking the ‘no speaking’ rule. “Mmpph.” Lian often mmpphed in an attempt to stem

conversation and get back to business. With the second Find briefing only days away, they had to ensure utmost preparedness. He turned to another page of his notebook, this one entitled Assets.

He caught Root’s name… Root Agile, fast, bona fide Reliable He pushed away the pang of loss. She was gone,

obviously with no intention of returning. There was nothing more to it.

Reliable He continued. Dwyn Fearless, strong Lian paused. So far, in ten weeks at the Shack,

accomplishments were…well frankly, Dwyn’s mind was almost never on Heat, filled as it was with the retention of girls’ names, the particulars of soft, powdery scents and sounds. His Swaps suffered. Particularly his Aquas. Surprising considering his fishtail success on his very first try those many months ago. An amazing rookie feat that was! But since then, nearly everything remained merely a half Swap. Half fish, even half mouse. All in line with the

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half effort. Lian sighed. Dwyn had a way of pumping fun

through Lian’s rigid arteries, and for this he really was grateful. But he just could not comprehend why Dwyn wouldn’t take advantage of all the perks laid before them. The Guardian had spared no expense in offering ample training and study for his new Finding branch.

Lian himself had leeched up all he could. He’d even Heated a secondary Pyre, Ingenium, though it would never be as powerful as Natruism. He enjoyed gadgetry, certainly. But he loved nature best. And, of course the hotter the passion, the hotter the Heat.

His room had become his macrocosm with every drop of time placed on creation. He had even impressed himself with a few of his latest feats, including Skim Sandals made of an extremely lightweight water lily…handy for walking across water, and Cooling Beads for the Hovers on hot days. Both were now neatly packed away in the truss pack, awaiting the glory of application. At least to Lian it would be a glory. Nothing, in fact was better.

Lian’s father, Lord Blick had no idea that Lian’s room had become its own breeding ground. Lian made sure all visits were anywhere else. The last thing he wanted was his father’s disapproving look and the swift cleaning up of “such nonsense!”

His mother, Estrella Fuffleteez was much more open to Lian’s tinkering. As long as he was getting healthy social interaction too. And so she was frequently urging him into the ick and awk of social events, pouncing on his hair and face with saliva-smeared fingers. It was really, really annoying. He loved his mother…he just wished she’d…

Lian’s quill froze on the paper. He elbowed Dwyn

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who reluctantly pulled himself from the Brédin. “What?” Dwyn looked where Lian’s eyes were trained. He too froze.

Root offered a nervous smile and braced herself for the onslaught of interrogation. It would not come, at least not from Dwyn, who was practically mid-air now with open arms. He picked her off the floor and spun her like a top. When he set her down, Wingbit flapped over, taking to him as if Fledger himself had returned.

“Dwyn, Wingbit. Wingbit, Dwyn,” Root said as the little bat settled on Dwyn’s shoulder.

“Hey there!” Dwyn gently scratched under Wingbit’s chin.

“I think she likes you!” Ahem. Root turned and found the glare of Lian’s eyes. They

were deep with questions and concern, even hurt traced along their edges. But he blinked them away into future conversations and crossed his arms facetiously. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

*****

It would be a rapid fire next few days as Dwyn and

Lian updated Root on everything she’d missed. The Guardian had named the new Dominion branch the Clade of Acquisitions but already it had found itself informally called the Finders Clade. Within its parameters the Bonds were given free range to immerse in whatever means they found necessary to improve their odds for success.

Before doing anything Root took her contract to Jorab for inspection.

“I have good news and challenging news,” he said.

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“The good news is that this is a Dominion contract, thereby a document of thorough Heat rigor. It is legitimate, public and free from subterfuge.”

“So he can’t rip me off again?” “Correct. But, as I said there is a challenge. Payment

is by commission, only to those who actually succeed in their Find.”

“Pffft. You don’t have to worry about that, Jorab.” Root said coolly. “I’ll Find his toy. And then…oh then! The look on his face when I walk away, this time for good.” She looked at Jorab. “Anything about Fledger?”

“Master Fledger has remained rather an enigma, I’m afraid. Unsurprising. But I, and those in my closest confidence, are aware of his disappearance and have lit the grapevine, so to speak. And you?”

“It’s weird. I can’t pick up anything, Jorab. Not even a direction.” It was the same with her parents. Her blood was always silent on them too. She shuddered as she remembered the cruel words of Aunt Octavia: “A Bone Grit, even one with blood as torched as yers is limited t’only them that breathes. So how ‘bout givin’ up on that there pipe dream and Findin’ me another brew!”

Jorab, having gathered her fear, pat Root on the shoulder. “Do not give up hope. There have always been exceptions.”

*****

Root threw herself into the final days of basic Perse

training and though she was unable to create any Stamps, she had more fully grasped the subtle art of making one, something she would continually work on while on the next Find.

She also garnered further Wits momentum with

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Jorab, who beamed at her natural ability. And of course nothing would do without evening cappers in the chambers of Madam Mordgidika Keen, who welcomed Root back with piping Chorm and refuge under her warm wing.

It was amazing how fast her life in Shade Howl receded in the upheaval. Though sleep was still occupied with broken dreams of those she loved, she was grateful for the daily distraction, knowing it was preparing her, not only for the Find, nor even her independence but for the day of delivery, when she would see her lost ones once more.

She tried to talk to Dwyn about his lost ones, his parents in particular, but Dwyn didn’t talk about his parents.

“Don’t you want to at least know a bit about them?” “Nope.” “Why not?” “Miss Pramly was my mum as far as I’m concerned.

She raised me. Genes don’t matter. She was the one who was there. Besides you’re never gonna find out, Root.”

“Wha’dya mean?” “I mean the war. Kakos’ attack was so swift and

powerful, people died by the thousands. They couldn’t keep up with the dead bodies and ended up throwing them in mass graves. It’ll be years before Dominion can tally names, if they can at all. And even longer to piece together any families. I’d bet a zillion junos that the reason Picklepug keeps putting off Matches is because there are none. Why don’t you just let it go?”

That was too much to ask of Root. She’d already let enough go, thank you very much. But not that too. Not the embrace. She knew its shape, its infinite yield. A circle of arms. Warm, hearth-smelling, arms. She had seen it in

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slow motion, under the stars, in the morning dew, in any way it came to her. The embrace. The arms of her parents wrapped around her. She would never let it go.

“Oh my goodness!” Lian cried. “Speaking of parents…my mum! I forgot she’s visiting today!”

“But the Brédin!” Dwyn whined. “Suit yourself. But then you won’t get any treats.” “Treats?” Root perked up. “Best treats in all of Lanlynne,” Lian boasted. “And

she’s bringing something new this time. Something she said will boggle the mind.”

Dwyn forced himself to deny another visit to the Wheel. But one could hardly ignore the wonders and delights of an Estrella Fuffleteez visit. “D’y’think she brought more of those chocolate toes?”

“Probably.” “And maybe more socks?” “Didn’t you just get some?” “Well yeah, but I left them at Chanéa Tweeger’s. She

had a trade party and…” Lian shook his head. “Hey, at least I got gloves out of it.” Dwyn held up

small, delicate, feather-trimmed gloves. “Nice, huh?” Root blinked. “Sure. On a girl.” “Hey, good thinking. I’ll give them to Laronette.” “But what about Chanéa?” Lian said. “She got my socks! C’mon!” Lian rolled his eyes and pulled Root after Dwyn who

was already striding toward the door.

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5

Estrella Fuffleteez had entered her son’s room and

got right to business. Lian, she could see was in dire need of pizzazz. From a pocket of her apron she withdrew a favourite Glong-hair brush. This she dipped in a small clay pot labeled Picaroon Blue of her mobile unit of paints and swept it across her son’s blanket. What had looked like a tattered rain cloud now seemed a bright swatch of ocean billowing over his mattress. Estrella Fuffleteez was pleased.

She drew back, gleefully assessing further prospects and found target with a table and chair. These she fringed in red. Valador Red. And thus the Picaroon Blue-Valador Red motif continued, finding its way into curtain panels and tiles and bathtub ceramics and dresser drawers, and into the skins and furs of things, and along the surfaces of vials and parchments and husks and other such oddities that cluttered her son’s counters and shelves. She was just zeroing in on a few live things, the same of which drew back into corners horrified, when she was stopped by--

Gasp! Lian scanned what looked to him like the exploded remains of Candy Clowns and turned his gawping eyes upon his mother.

“Ta da!” she struck a pose that accidentally splat paint onto Lian’s Klok, a toy-sized sheep. Now a Picaroon Blue toy-sized sheep.

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Root and Dwyn stood nodding, like satisfied patrons of the arts.

“Mum!” Lian instantly decimated her joy. “What have you done?”

“What? I just gave it a little oomph. And by the way, dear, you shouldn’t leave your underwear lying out in the open. It’s not very attractive.” She caught sight of Root and ran over with outstretched arms. “Rootie Pie!”

Lian snatched his briefs from his mother, the nubs of his ears instantly red. “Just never mind! And…and undo all this.”

“You don’t like it?” “No I don’t like it. In fact I hate it and want you to

put it back exactly how you found it!” “Oh, you. You’re worse than beige.” Estrella pulled

out another brush; one with short thick bristles and slapped it sulkily across her masterpieces. As Lian’s room slowly returned to its Jungle-Laboratory theme, his guests attempted to be seated. Unfortunately there were many more occupants to Lian’s room than could readily be seen and more than one groaned under the weight of a trespassing butt. At least until the butt leaped up, thereby allowing escape into more suitable corners and/or nests and/or webs and/or tiny caves.

Estrella Fuffleteez preferred to stand. Her news was far too exciting to be told any other way. “Alright!” She took a prominent position in front of her audience. She was an attractive woman, bright and gingery, with carbonation in her every move. “A-a-a—a—hem!” She squeaked, immediately kindling excitement. Even Lian had to extinguish his annoyance with a long, affectionate sigh. After he kicked his undies under the bed.

Estrella began. “Well, as you know the second Find is poised to begin, with its inevitable dangerous…

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harebrained, shady--” “Mum,” Lian checked her. “--challenges.” Estrella cleared her throat. “And as

begging, sulking and even chocolate toes can’t make you stay, I at least wanted to make sure you were taken care of rightly this time. You will need much more in the way of comforts if this Find takes even half the time of the last,” Estrella continued. “And so, in consideration of this, I am pleased to present to you…ta da!”

With this, her second ‘ta da’ of the day, Estrella stood to the side and revealed something hidden underneath a sheaf of silky green material. Estrella smiled with dramatic eyebrows and pinched the top of the sheaf.

A third ‘ta da’ was rather a bit overdone considering what it now referred to: a large painting of a very, very, fat, fat family. A royal family it would seem, as thin gold circlets pressed firmly into all twelve of their pudgy foreheads. The presumed mother and father took the top peak of the pose. Ten children heaped around them like juicy, plump jujubes. They were all fairly dark skinned save for almost clown like rosy cheeks and the lighter sheen of twelve bald heads. Despite the sedate tones of their togas, they looked quite jovial as chubby lips curved up into chubbier cheeks, which heaped up under black sparkling eyes.

Root blinked. And tried to discreetly meet the eyes of her Bondmates without actually turning her neck. She wondered if they too felt they had somehow missed something here. How exactly was this picture supposed to help them?

“These!…” Estrella Fuffleteez proceeded, “are the Royal Arklempts!”

Her audience responded with nods. Politely not getting it at all.

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“The famously reclusive Arklempts of N-ye!” “Oh,” said Lian finally catching on. “How’djya

manage that, mum?” “They called me! The Royal Arklempts, secluded from

society, never seen, let alone heard for fifteen decades, called me to do their family portrait!”

“Well, congratulations Madam Fuffleteez.” “Thank you, Dwyn but it doesn’t end here. There’s

more! Ta da!” This ‘ta da’ at least had something interesting to back

it up, though what it was no one in her audience could quite gather, not even Lian. The structure resembled Bamboo with its long jointed length but its cast was rich, seeping, endless black. Purple black and haunted with spirit. Its sleek glossed finish gleamed in a ray of sun that had snuck in through a hole in Lian’s curtain.

Finally Estrella had fetched the reaction she had been seeking: wide eyes and open mouths. Lian even reached for the object but…

“Uh uh uh uh uh…” Estrella pulled back the instrument.

“But what is it?” Lian remained standing, his fingers twitching in curiosity, his brain hungry.

“This! This, my darling son is a Hemostylus.” Estrella turned its long black length in her hands. She clearly loved how weighty it felt, so full and thick. “This, my dearest boy, was the gift I received from the Royal Arklempts, in honour of my… ‘exemplary eye for detail and ability to capture the very philosophy of the royal family.’”

“Which is…?” “Well, as you can see from the eyes, this is a family of

survivors. Indeed after their hasty departure from Sloxington, they claimed a pioneer attitude that not only

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helped them survive but thrive in what is now one of the top ten Shires according to Snuddles’ Almanac.

“But what is most remarkable is that the Arklempts have done this without the use of money. Their entire kingdom flourishes on a trading system, which would include a grand export of textile, agriculture, culinary, some precious metal, glass, stone and of course, their most prized possession,” Estrella held up the lustrous instrument again, “Heartwood…the result of which you see before you. Only my Heartwood Hemostylus has been given a wholly unique ability, a custom made royal Arklempt endowment. Allow me to demonstrate.”

“Wait a second,” Lian interrupted. “You say it’s a Hemostylus?”

“Yes.” Estrella’s eyes twinkled. She loved to see the wheels turning in her son’s head, the joy of his leaping mind as it sifted and concluded.

“So, if stylus means writing instrument, and hemo means blood…then…?”

“Yes,” his mother smiled. “May I continue now? Lian opened a mental file and sat back down in

earnest anticipation. Estrella Fuffleteez snapped her fingers. At once the

Royal Arklempts began to shuffle off the page. It was a rather lumbering affair with excessive stretching and squeezing, bowing and curtsying. When the page was finally clear, Estrella stood before it, careful not to put the Hemostylus in her mouth like she usually did with her brushes and charcoals.

She turned to Root with a long, hard stare. “Hmmmm…” When her eyes showed that an idea had flickered on, she went back to the page and swept the Hemostylus in determined strokes across its pulpy texture. Lian, Dwyn and most eagerly Root craned to see

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past her lean smocked body as it danced to the tune she was humming.

When she finished, she faced the Bond. She did not ‘ta da’ as was expected but she definitely had ‘ta da’ in her eyes. She moved to the side of the page and watched with the others.

The blank sheet was no longer blank. Within its loose edges now sat an inky purple-black sketch of a blouse. It was a lovely blouse with long billowy sleeves and a bodice that laced up. Root thought it would be lovely in a green as deep as moss, with delicate silver rope zigzagging up the front from silver hook to silver hook.

The boys, on the other hand glazed over entirely. It was a shirt. Wasn’t it? They squinted. Were they missing something? Were they wrong or was it just a sketch of a plain old shirt. Lian was about to complain when all of a sudden the gauzy soft sheet seemed to shudder. His eyes popped at the next thing he saw. That they all saw.

The shirt was lifting away from the page. The sleeves began to ripple and then the waist and the elegant neckline. The entire blouse was expanding in billows and waves, like water in a gumsack. Then, as if someone stretched the gumsack and let go, the shirt tore from the page, whizzed around the room and plunked on the floor in front of Estrella. She bent down and picked it up, a silky white blouse with black lacing up its front. In exactly Root’s size.

“Do you prefer a colour, Rootie-pie?” Root squirmed in delight. She loved where this was

going and loved even more being called ‘Rootie-pie’. “Uh…moss green?” she stuttered.

“Nice.” Estrella went to her paint pots, grabbed a brush and dunked it in to a thick earthy green pigment. She sailed it across the blouse. Root watched giddily as

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the white silk changed into glorious, glorious green! “I think…oh, yes!” Estrella grabbed a thinner brush

of Duckhair and dabbed it on the hooks. She slithered its silver tint up over the black lace. When she held up the final result, it was exactly, no word of a lie, exactly as Root had imagined. “Here you are, dear!” Estrella handed over the prettiest blouse Root had ever seen. Ever. In her entire life.

“I am not sure whose Heated blood the Royal Arklempts used to ink the Hemostylus, I didn’t even ask. But at any rate, it should garner the Valadors with an impressive supply of necessities, y’think?” Estrella ended with a squeal so contagiously happy that they were all ignited into leaping delight.

She drew pants and shorts and shirts and camp pots and leavening-mattresses and Chorm and foodstuffs and…

“Junos?” Lian asked. “Actually, that it can’t do,” said Estrella. “As I

explained, the Royal Arklempts run a kingdom based on trade. They have no money system and unfortunately this is reflected in the Hemostylus. Basically, it can only make what the Arklempts have to give. Do you think I’d be here printing off sweaters if I could print off bronzies?”

Clutching her brand spanking new wardrobe of fresh pullovers and tees, thick, warm tweedy pants and shorts and socks, the first new clothes she had ever owned, Root felt this windfall was much better than mere junos.

And this was only the beginning. Hours later Estrella Fuffleteez was still drawing up a storm of supplies.

“Hold still now.” She dobbed a flat edged brush of yolk yellow across the border of the pajamas that Root was now modeling. She’d drawn them exactly to Root’s spec, with flouncy ruffles at the ends of the sleeves and a

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collar like a daisy. And now Estrella was adding the finishing touches of colour. Here they were both a bit stumped. Stripes or polka dots?

They asked the boys. And regretted it immediately. For one thing the boys were too engrossed in their

new top-of-the-line gadget game thingies. And for another, they had no taste.

Lian simply glanced up and said “Hey, you’re already down to half ink y’know. Do y’think it should be wasted anymore on patterny colour stuff or whatever that is?”

“Uh…what’re those frilly hanging things for?” was Dwyn’s dopier yet kinder remark.

“Nothing. They’re just…nice,” Root snapped. Over the past week, she’d become rather exasperated by the tipping scales of testosterone and here was yet another example.

She humphed and turned back to her design. While she and Estrella bounced between ideas, a knock arrived at the door. Lian’s Knocker had gone for a break and so could not identify the caller. As he had not been expecting visitors, Lian strode over rather cautiously to answer.

What he saw left him speechless, for how does one greet a caller made of solid wood? Yet there it was, towering over Lian, Snakeburr pine and not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

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6

“Good day! The Clade of Acquisitions Grand Pageant

Committee is currently seeking last minute donations for the upcoming festivities,” the gumptious timber box said. “So, if you could find some…”

“I don’t think so. But thanks.” Lian was about to close the door, but the box had other plans.

“You don’t have one thing to donate? I find that hard to believe. Especially you who collects everything that exists in the entire universe with no storage system in sight.”

“What?” “You heard me!” “Who is it, love?” Estrella Fuffleteez called, still

hovering over Root with a dripping brush. “It’s a box.” Lian snapped, ready to take an axe to it. “Oh brother.” Had the box had eyes they would

surely be rolling. But instead it dropped to the floor revealing a taller than average girl. Her name didn’t stand out but her demeanour did. She was the reluctant member of Kor’s Kings, the maverick girl who was often found balking at Kor and skipping away despite his demands that she return. Up close Lian nearly fell into a pair of malachite eyes. Her satiny ponytail looked like a spill of blue-black ink.

“Oh. You’re…” Lian squirmed for the name. “Tamik Chillenly.”

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“Right. Hi. I’m…” “Lian Blick, the mad scientist. Just kiddin’. Glad

t’meetchya.” The girl grabbed Lian’s hand and nodded at the others. Then she spied something. “You really shouldn’t leave your underwear lying out in the open. It’s not very attractive.”

Lian burned. Who did this girl think she was, trespassing and insulting all in one fell swoop? He grit his teeth and kicked his second pair of briefs under a chair. “What can I do for you?”

Tamik Chillenly grabbed a bright smile from the air. “The Clade of Acquisitions Grand Pageant Committee is currently seeking last minute donations for the upcoming festivities.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that? I mean, aren’t the festivities tomorrow?”

The girl eyeballed Lian. “Thus the words ‘last minute.’”

Lian got all dithered. Twice she’d upped him now. Twice! “Well, like I said, I don’t think I have anything that would…”

“Woah!” the girl had found target. She dodged past Lian toward something he was sure was off limits. “Those are awesome! Where’djya get ‘em?”

Lian dropped his annoyance and felt a slight nudge in the direction of pride. He saw that the girl was facing his Trunkaptre, a look of complete awe on her face. He sidled over, thrilled to launch into a detailed explanation. “This is my--”

“I have never seen such nifty pajamas!” the girl gushed.

Lian’s entire ego crashed. His face now rivalled the red of his underwear.

Then…a most alarming sound. A sound that utterly

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confounded Lian as it pitched into the realms of surreal. It was the unmistakable din of – egads! – girl bonding!

“Oh, you like them?” Root’s eyes were buoyant. “They’re awesome! Is that Oinkitty shedding?” “Yes!” Root and Estrella both cried at once. And then it began. The racing squeals and giggles and

chatter of full-blown Girl Talk. Lian and Dwyn stepped back in horror as their friend’s PJ’s bounced between stripes and polka dots, to the beat of a body language altogether foreign. Seriously, how many times did they have to hug? It was just…wrong.

In the end, the PJ’s became both, the top being stripes. This finality led to a group hug the likes of which made the boys tilt their heads like confused canines.

And then Root retrieved The Hat. The controversial hat that had created quite a rift between her and the boys, who couldn’t stop laughing at it. She placed it on her head. Tamik looked it over carefully. But in the end her nose wrinkled and her head shook like a true pro. Root nodded bravely and tossed the hat as if it were a banana peel. The boys were stunned. She’d never reacted like that to them. In fact she’d lambasted a few not very nice words their way if they remembered correctly.

Well, Lian had had it. He gathered up a gulp of Guy Air and marched toward the gaggle, a quick pat of encouragement coming from his Guy Friend. With chest heaved, Lian advanced.

It was the box that stopped him mid-march, cuffing the doorframe impatiently. It had many more rooms to tend. Indeed, they’d only gotten to three so far. Hupcha, hupcha!

“Yeah, yeah!” Tamik looked sharply at her four-sided accomplice then turned back to Lian. “So, you’re saying you don’t have anything that might be good on a float,

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then?” “There is nothing that…” “Oh, I’m sure there’s something you can give her,

dear.” Estrella piped in. “In all this…stuff, there’s got to be…How ‘bout this?” She held up something spiky and bright orange.

“Fine,” Lian sighed. It had been an experiment gone wrong anyhow.

His mother threw it in the box and began a heads-down hunt through Lian’s room. The box followed her as she held up various things of wild design.

Lian fell in line with his mother. “No. Nope. Uh uh. Fine. Not on your life. Oh, alright.”

An ear-piercing roar froze everyone in their tracks. Everyone except Lian who went to a corner of his room to turn off a recording device. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’m studying various calls of forest animals. That was a Spotted Glutch.”

“No, it wasn’t. That was a Wayfaring Keyop.” Lian was stunned. He stared at the girl, anxious to

yank her ponytail right out of its stupid spout. “No,” he said patronizingly, “it’s not. It’s a Spotted Glutch from the…”

“I know where a Glutch comes from, but that was not a Glutch. It was a Wayfaring Keyop, which I might add can only be found…”

“I know where a Keyop can be found! And it’s not on that recording!”

“Wanna bet?” “Fine! I’ll bet you a zillion junos!” “You can’t bet zillions!” “It’s a Zombany!” said Dwyn, reading from the

recording’s cover with its collage of animal pictures and the words Native Beasts and Fowl. “…of the lower east tip

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of the Skinly peninsula.” Lian and Tamik blinked. And humphed. Then Tamik

playfully thunked him on the shoulder and laughed. “Nifty! Can I have that when you’re done with it?”

Lian got all dithered again. His mouth came up blank. He rubbed his shoulder where she’d thunked him. Estrella Fuffleteez held up a worn, albeit ornate purple mask, returning him to his senses and a look of shock.

“But it’s just an old toy!” his mother reasoned. Lian snatched the mask. “This toy is a bona fide

replica of a Ring Rider’s mask. See that symbol?” He pointed to a laddered looping of swirls beneath one of the eyes. “Ring Riders. Do you have any idea what this is worth?”

“Not much without the others?” Tamik said. Lian turned to her, scowling. “What others?” “The rest of the set. All six. Pink, orange, green, blue,

red and purple. There were six Riders, you know.” “I know how many Riders there were! Doesn’t mean

there was a mask set!” Lian scoffed. “Wanna bet?” Lian fumed, guessing the girl was probably right and

simultaneously wondering how he hadn’t been in the know of such a commodity. He looked at Dwyn. “Did you…”

“…have the set? Yeah. Sorry, man.” “Okay, fine,” Estrella sighed and picked up

something else. “What about this?” It was a large silver ring.

Lian gasped. “That’s my Forger’s Ring!” “Woah! Trade ya my Koronade’s Ring for it?” Tamik

said. “I’ve got two!” “No way!” “C’mon! The Koronade’s way better than the

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Forger.” “What? You’re mad! The Forger’s substantially

superior in every way.” “As if. The Koronade trained all the Ring Riders!” “Ya, but the Forger made their Rings!” There was a long pause. “Your ears go all red when you’re threatened.” That was it. Lian grit his teeth and launch into

another angry march, this one intent on escorting anything Girl off the premises.

But, for the second time that day, poor Lian was stopped mid-stomp. This time it was by an ugly loud splat that landed on his window.

All heads turned to see a big, juicy, exploded Widow Squash bomb slop steadily down the glass pane.

That was all it took. The scale tipped back into testosterone territory as Lian and Dwyn tore for the window and sprung it open.

“Whoever did that, you’re gonna pay!” “Show yourself, you coward so I can kick your butt!” “It’s Kor,” said a matter of fact voice. They all turned

to Tamik. “How do you know?” Lian asked suspiciously. “He got hold of a pack of Invisibility Gum.” Jaws dropped. Lights went on in brains. Kor.

Invisibility Gum. Of course. Another Widow Squash bomb splatted, just missing

them. But the pungent, sour smell of its insides quickly clogged the room.

The boys seemed to have forgotten their company, amongst them Lian’s mother, for they fell at the window with an intensity of curses that would make the most liberal of ears blush.

And, for the third time that day, poor Lian was

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stopped. Or perhaps, a more telling description would be squelched…as the guts of a new Widow Squash bomb dripped in gagging clots down his face. This time there were no gender gaps as Root and, to her surprise Tamik, Kor’s own Bondmate ran to the window and heaved out an even more colourful assortment of xxx-rated language.

Estrella Fuffleteez shook her head. It’s not like she hadn’t heard it all before. Or done it all before. She looked at the box and winked, returning to the matter of donations. The box happily accepted the odds ‘n ends of things she deemed suitable and soon felt a nice fullness in its belly. When the window and the four teens finally clapped shut, Estrella’s donation work was done and the box was waiting at the door.

Tamik walked over to it, content in her participation and smiled. Dwyn, Estrella and especially Root smiled back. Lian was still huffing and puffing and dripping.

“By the way, I like your Trunkaptre, but you might want to add a little Glungwart to the tips, keeps ‘em oiled,” Tamik boldly suggested to Lian.

“My…what? You knew what it was?” Lian said astonished as his eyes landed on the pile of intricate wires on his bed.

“Well, thanks for the stuff. See you guys at the gala tonight! That is, if there is one…!”

“What!” But she was already gone. The same way she’d come.

Like a whirlwind. Like love at first sight.

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7 How does one explain to three hundred and fifty

guests that there is nothing to be a guest at? Master Hillywur Gubelyn was on the verge of total panic. The Find Gala was hours away, as was his serving staff by now. Most of which had taken their uniforms with them. Certainly he could understand their frustrations. No one likes to work within the confines of a Krux. Anything done is undone and things go missing or never quite turn out as planned in the first place. But surely, if everyone just learned to accept this minor limitation, work around it, then things could run a lot smoother. Yes, the cold spots moved around, but it’s not like the staff couldn’t sense them and compensate. They had legs, didn’t they?

It was all so maddening. Hillywur Gubelyn had really felt that they’d been making headway; that they’d become proactive with the Krux to the point that it seemed less evident. But this morning all that headway came to a crashing halt. This morning the entire garden court had gone cold and all the servers lost their hair.

Master Gubelyn had prudently suggested they just step away and wait for the cold to dissipate. But, oh no. This apparently was the last straw. While the staff did step away, they did not come back. In fact they kept right on stepping…outside, past the citadel boundaries toward any job that was “better ‘n this crap!”

Master Hillywur Gubelyn stood, stiff as his over-

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starched dungarees, desperate, left on his own with nothing but a breeze to cool his newly bald head.

So it was pure luck or even fate if you will that The Lord Sclerous Players showed up at his door.

“Ah, good sir!” the leader had said. “We are the Lord Sclerous Players and we would like to perform our play Bartimus Flat and other Fanciful Tales for the pleasure of you and your guests!”

Master Gubelyn gawked at the speaker and then at the rest of the troupe. He’d actually heard of the Lord Sclerous Players but had no idea they were Skullks. Not that there was anything wrong with Skullks. So they were skeletons, so what? They had a right to live like anyone else. Only Hillywur Gubelyn was always curious about how they ate. As he thought this, his eyes strolled to the speaker’s belly, but a bright red tunic with a yellow sash covered it. This of course furthered his curiosity over the necessity of Skullk attire at all. Clearly they had no…erm…bits to keep private.

The Skullk shifted. He hated curiosity. Why did he have to explain himself all the time? He was a Skullk, that’s all. He’d chosen to abandon his skin and flesh for the airier, freer life of simple bones. Why was that such a novelty to people still? It’s not like there haven’t been Skullks around. Indeed, they’ve been here even longer than Nodmins, at least in this particular area. And yet, here again, the despised eyeballing from an ignorant stranger.

“You like our costumes?” he said at last, anxious to keep the hand that could potentially feed them tonight.

This brought Hillywur Gubelyn back to attention and his list of more important things to do than becoming a theatrical producer. He had the door halfway slammed when a leg stopped him. Or rather a femur.

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“We are most assuredly the finest actors this side of Lanlynne.”

“I’m sure you are.” With Gubelyn’s next attempt at rejection, an entire meta-carpal intervened.

“Are you certain, sir? We are those that live to perform, certain of our destiny in this. It would serve us well, if we could serve you.”

Serve? Hillywur Gubelyn got an idea, a wonderfully clever

idea. He stared into the cavernous sockets of the troupe and smiled.

*****

Not every one of the Lord Sclerous Players liked the

idea of interactive dinner theatre, especially the added duties of setting up and serving a garden court full of guests. But as the director had reminded, they would at least have a full house for which to perform, not to mention free room and board for the night.

“But what if someone asks me something. What are my lines?” asked one nervous Skullk in a Curative costume. The director told her to simply say “I am not at liberty to answer” and with that she set off to the process of memorization.

It had not been so easy to convince the lead player, who had determined that his character, the Silken Oxback, Bartimus Flat would not resort to such denigration. “Alas!” he cried out melodramatically, taking his theatrical speech into his own daily life and thereby losing much in the way of friends. “The Silken Oxback twas king of the forest! He hath not endure-ed such a fate as serving cadre. T’would be an abomination.”

“He would if it was the only means to feed himself,”

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said the director through clenched teeth. “Neigh! He shall rather choose death.” “So be it,” said the director. “But I’ll have my

costume back first.” It wasn’t even a great costume, fairly cheap and the

fur in no way resembled the lustrous strands of a real Silken Oxback. But needless to say the fake Silken Oxback shut up and set plates.

Hillywur Gubelyn watched the tables and chairs and arrangements of his garden court slowly assemble. It was starting to look presentable again, lovely even. All except the giant Fire Blossom Tree, of which he would attend to himself, ensuring the honour of its esteemed guests.

*****

Ernest Skubblenob squinted over the gold and green

invitation, still enjoying his name beside the words ‘Esteemed Guest’. Secondly, enjoying the word ‘Gala’ and best of all ‘Feast’. His stomach rumbled as he lovingly put the invitation back down.

He had been looking for something. He dug deep into his pants pockets and pulled out the

liners. Nothing. Holding a chair, he leaned down, his rickety old knees

gasping in the effort, and scanned under the table again. Nothing.

Hmmm. He could have sworn… His long bony fingers drummed and then the

Tempometre caught his eye. He had polished it to the lustre of a baby sun. A Sunling, he fancied and picked it up for the eleventh time that morning. The slim brick of platinum fit with perfection in his palm and his thumb delighted in the smooth glide across its face. With

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nothing of circuitry or knobbery or other such bells and whistles, the Tempometre fell squarely within Ernest Skubblenob’s well-preserved opinion that less is more.

But the Tempometre was not what Ernest Skubblenob had been looking for. As he remembered this, he set it down and returned to his original search. Perhaps the luggage?

He rose from his worn out chair and aimed for an even more worn out suitcase. It lay like a big bruised sandwich on his bed, only a few paces away. Ernest Skubblenob’s old body took to these paces with great care. Great, cautious, leaden, slower than molasses care. The kind of care that would have been painful to watch.

When at last he arrived, he bent over his suitcase and found it locked. A bit of confusion set in between his ears. Where was the key? Ernest Skubblenob began to pat himself down. He dug deep into his pants pockets and pulled out the liners. Nothing.

Tsk, tsk. Now two things were lost. Ernest Skubblenob shuffled and patted and

rummaged around for a good length of an hour until he entirely forgot what he was shuffling and patting and rummaging around for. He sat down. And spied his Tempometre on the table. It found its way into his palm once more. This time Ernest Skubblenob brought along a tune. He didn’t know the name of the tune, only the melody; a cheery hum that strengthened and weakened with the rhythm of his aged breathing.

He decided that he should probably pack the Tempometre for the journey. But where was his suitcase? He looked in the fridge. Hmmmm…There was no suitcase, but a lovely pudding smiled up at him. His shaky hands cupped it and pulled it out, this too accompanied with a hum. The bowl was set on the table and now all he

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needed was a…Where was a spoon? The melody paused. The cogs of his ancient brain

creaked into gear. Perhaps too fast, for they shifted the old man far past tasty pudding into more practical lobes, like getting dressed. Yes, a grand idea. The pudding was abandoned while the efforts of finding his suit were soon put to another breathy hum. He eventually found his closet, right where he had last left it and opened the door. The suit hung on a hanger. It was the only thing in this closet and it looked grateful to be visited.

The black jacket covered Ernest Skubblenob like a tarp over a Skullk. The width sagged past his shoulders and his hands drowned in the long sleeves. He looked for his mirror and found it quite by accident, having thought he suddenly had a guest. A twin no less! He laughed at the silly mistake and posed for inspection. Here he discovered the slackened red bow tie. Can’t have that. He tangled it to further humming, the odd lyric venturing out and about.

Twist and tie, tie and twist, Flick of the...flick of the…flick of the wrist.

Once completed, the reflection was admired. Ernest

Skubblenob’s long pointed nose rounded out at the tip with a blush of pink. He rubbed his hand over his bald forehead and across a ring of white hair. A couple burps of white fluff occupied his eyebrows and further down he realized he was missing his…where the heck did he put them?

He didn’t find his glasses until he stepped on them. Now they rested on the end of his nose magnifying the brown eyes. The new crack in the glass was hardly noticeable. Ernest Skubblenob smiled.

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And noticed…Dag nabbit! Where were his… He was still looking for his teeth when a knock

arrived at his door. When there was no answer, the caller rapped again. And then three more times. Finally, the handle turned.

“Ernest?” Jorab peeked his head in and upon spying his friend spoke louder. “Ernest?”

Ernest Skubblenob turned mid-hum and spotted the familiar warm eyes of his dear friend. His teeth fell from memory.

“Jorab!” he shuffled forward with extended hands. A lengthy embrace was soon followed by Jorab’s swift portering skills. Within moments, he had the bow tie amended, the checklist checked and the suitcase opened, paving the way for any last minute items.

The one thing that Ernest Skubblenob did not seem to ever forget was his Tempometre. He scooped it up gingerly and paused to decide its best keepsake locale, the suitcase or his pocket. He leaned most comfortably in the direction of his pocket, hating the idea of the distant suitcase. But, if he wasn’t careful it could fall out…

“What’s that you got there, Ernest?” Jorab asked after the silver object.

The eyes of Ernest Skubblenob lit like stars. “This, my friend, this is a Tempometre!”

Ernest Skubblenob was not a bona fide inventor by industry standards. Not that he hadn’t spent the greater portion of his life trying. It was just that most of his inventions hadn’t quite succeeded in their intents. And if one were to be really frank one would admit that in actuality none had quite succeeded. But that didn’t stop Ernest Skubblenob, nor had the many complaints and arrests. He was determined to invent. That’s what he did. After work and on holidays and often in the wee hours of

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the morning. “I see.” Jorab was truly curious. “What does it do?”

He sat down on his friend’s tiny little sofa and immediately jumped back up. A pair of teeth had attached themselves to his back end. “Yours?” he asked.

“Oh! Pardon me, Jorab!” Ernest unclamped his teeth and slid them fitfully into his mouth. Much better. He smiled at Jorab who took to his seat again, waiting expectantly for the demonstration.

Ernest Skubblenob’s spine immediately denied its crook while his beaming eyes and mouth took centre stage. “It’s a Tempometre!”

“Mmm. Would you mind refreshing my memory?” “Not at all!” The inventor turned his back to Jorab

and reached for a large wired-up metal object on the only other chair around the table. It was a helmet. Or the closest thing to it. And it was plopped on the old man’s head, destroying any semblance of credibility in its rent. Rather a bulky large metal garbage can head came to mind.

The black straps were adjusted tightly under the chin and once a balance of the neck was struck, the inventor ahemed. “Hmmm, I wonder where my friend, Jorab is? I wonder where he could be. Jorab! Oh, Jorab!”

“I’m right here, Ernest, just behind--” “I know that!” the inventor snapped. “I’m role

playing.” “Aaaah. Do carry on.” The inventor huffed a bit and tried to pick up the trail

where he had left off. He ended up back at the beginning. “Hmmm, I wonder where my friend, Jorab is? I wonder where he could be. Jorab! Oh, Jorab! Hmm, he seems to be missing. That’s quite all right, Ernest. You don’t have to worry, old boy. Why you ask? Because you have your

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handy dandy Tempometre. It will come to your aid!” With that, Ernest Skubblenob brought the

Tempometre to his lips. “Jorab!” he declared and his hand struck a rather melodramatic pose. The garbage can came to life. Hundreds of lights at the ends of pins ignited. A high-pitched hum hit the air. The lights blinked randomly on and off, on and off and a few belches of smoke coughed their way outward.

Ernest pointed the slim platinum device now purring softly in his hand and walked in the exact opposite direction of Jorab. The Tempometre got right to work getting colder and colder and colder until a slight frost caked over and Ernest had to use his sleeve to hold it. Meanwhile his helmet was shaking his head so much that his words were coming out agitated. Unfortunately his teeth did, too. But the inventor carried on bravely.

“Gee, it’s g-g-g-getting awfully c-c-c-cold. I guess he’s n-n-n-n-not here!” Skubblenob said with excitement growing in him. He moved toward Jorab, which was a bit unnerving for his lone audience member. But, at once the Tempometre began to warm up. The frost slid off in drips and Skubblenob no longer needed his sleeve.

“Hmmm, getting warmer! Jorab must be closer!” The inventor whispered and chuckled. He pointed the instrument directly at Jorab and walked toward him. Now, the Tempometre became so hot he needed both sleeves to hold it. “Getting hotter! Getting hotter! He must be right…Aaaaaaaeeeeggghhh!” He dropped the scalding Tempometre some distance yet from Jorab. The garbage can fell forward over his face.

“Well done!” Jorab applauded. Ernest Skubblenob adjusted his helmet, took a deep,

theatrical bow. And got stuck. This was neither the first nor the last time that Jorab

would rush to his chiropractic aid. Once the inventor’s

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posterior was restored Jorab picked up the Tempometre and handed it hot potato to his friend.

Ernest Skubblenob beamed. His teeth were less impressed and made it known in a chattering commotion beneath the sofa. Jorab pointed his finger and Moved them through the air back to Skubblenob who once again clunked them into his mouth.

“And what, pray are we to be looking for, Jorab?” the inventor was freshly polishing his prize possession.

“You shall find out soon enough, my friend,” Jorab answered.

As the suitcase was crammed to seam-busting capacity and last minute things went forgotten in the wild garden of Skubblenob’s wits, Jorab waited patiently, eventually helping himself to a stranded bowl of pudding.

At length, the old inventor was saddled up with a grin and facing his companion. “Ready,” he said, suitcase in hand.

“You’re sure?” Jorab replied, slightly concerned. “’Course I’m sure!” “Absolutely…positively…?” “I’m more ready than I was for my own wedding,

Jorab and even then I forgot my pants!” Skubblenob winked.

“Right then.” Jorab smiled and stood up. He clutched his friend’s suitcase and together they headed for the door.

At the threshold, Ernest Skubblenob paused. He was ready indeed. And grateful that at least someone, Jorab, still believed in him.

He stepped forward, wearing an over-sized suit jacket, a strangled red bow tie…

…and striped boxer shorts.

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8

Root spied her reflection again, still unable to

recognize the creature that gazed back. A rich moss-green blouse sprinkled like powder over her frame, now delicate and feminine, far from the tramp routine of weeks past. Silken sleeves trailed from Root’s shoulders, which were brought up and back with fresh esteem. A swingy, layered skirt of green and silver rippled in the slightest movement, sweeping her knees with pleasure. She just could not believe the shimmer. Any way she turned, there it was. She twirled and it spiralled like the blossom of a Bluebell in the wind.

A new barrette of pink topaz held fringes of hair from her face. It was impossibly beautiful. Root had nearly died when it fell from Estrella’s page. And now, cast in her hair like a star in a tinseled pink web, she just had to stop the entire world and catch her breath.

Root’s shoes crisscrossed over her feet like streams of fallen meteors, immediately begging for the gloss and polish of toes and fingers.

Another glance in the mirror. Another swoon of surprise and enchantment. Root could not remember ever feeling so…pretty.

“You’re gonna be late,” gruffed Horologe. “Oh blah blah,” she turned to her Klok and scratched

his tiny pig snout as he shifted position on her night table.

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“You like my new outfit?” She spun in a sparkling pinwheel for the zillionth time. Horologe lifted one eyelid and shrugged. Root humphed and sashayed for the door.

She didn’t take the railing this time, even as Dwyn slid along beside her. A lady didn’t take the railing. And tonight Root was doing her very best Lady.

They met Lian at the garden court foyer where there seemed to be a hold up of sorts. Apparently Master Gubelyn and his staff were not quite ready to receive them. Root swished and sighed and exaggerated her posture in an attempt to be noticed. Her friends however were blinded by the uproar in their stomachs. Or perhaps they were always so oblivious. Either way, they weren’t even cognizant of the fact that Root had washed her hair let alone fussed over it for hours and hours and hours. And her outfit didn’t even garner a blink.

No matter. Root was certainly noticed seconds later when Milden Ibbbs entered the lobby.

“Oh my!” he gasped way, way too loud from way, way too far away.

The entire room seemed to snap to his pink, cherub-ed face, awash in ardour. His bow tie positively pulsed with rapture. “You…Root…you look so beautiful!”

Of course the entire room then snapped to the sight of Root’s red-faced cheeks drowning in embarrassment.

“Uh…thanks,” squeaked from her throat. “No! Thank you,” Milden doted from afar. Fortunately he was not able to squeeze through the

crowd toward her, but still Root needed to somehow deflect his gawk. It felt like a bloody heat lamp. Krism sprung to her mind. She peered around for her friend but came up empty.

“Have you seen Krism?” she asked Lian. She was answered not by Lian, but by the

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excruciatingly coifed tag team of Pinks who seemed to be waiting their whole life for this opportunity.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Your Tint friend won’t be coming to the Gala,” gushed Sharmay.

“The Guardian confiscated his ticket after discovering he’d been uttering threats, inciting lecherous behaviour and interacting with known Tint offenders,” added Pidge.

“Hilly’s mother presented the evidence this afternoon,” both girls ended with delight.

Hilly simply smiled like a demon at Root and walked away.

Root threw herself at her Pink enemy. She did not take kindly to her friends holding her back and thought she’d go insane as the distance between her and Hilly widened.

But then, when she heard the ripping sound… If looks could kill… The boys let go and stood back. Right along the shoulder. A flash of ivory skin

between torn pieces of moss green. Root looked at her damaged blouse, then at her friends. Fury spread like wildfire into her eyes.

The boys panicked, total mice in cat-grip; their comfort zone speeding away, leaving skid marks.

“It’s okay,” tried Lian. “It’s just a little rip.” “Yeah, I mean, you still look…great. Your hair looks

real nice, Root. Did you wash it?” Dwyn was already sweating.

They watched in horror as her lips trembled, helplessly fumbling with the seam, pinching it together as if that would somehow fix it.

“Here,” Tamik Chillenly appeared with cool poise. Intervention, thank Théall! The boys were bustled to the sidelines, grateful to

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stand back and witness a most complicated and awe-inspiring move of defense. When Tamik was done, she removed her spool of thread and put it in her purse. Root’s blouse looked as good as new.

“Even better,” added Tamik. “That’s Raven floss. It’ll never break.”

Root captured her new friend in an embrace that would leave thankfulness all over her for days. Dwyn high-fived the girl-wonder, cementing a true and permanent welcome into their fold.

Lian gaped at Tamik. He said nothing. He couldn’t. His heart had shifted. And he didn’t like it one bit.

The stained glass doors to the garden flew open and there, like so many times before was the affable, if somewhat sweaty face of Master Hillywur Gubelyn. He was breathing heavy and couldn’t properly announce his greetings. But no matter, the mob was already heaving past him.

*****

Root had expected a rather smaller affair. But as the

exploding applause indicated, this was not the case. In fact it seemed there were even more guests than the first Find briefing. Definitely more drama, she thought as the teams were whisked behind a heavy curtain by a creepy man that looked a lot like a skeleton…that looked a lot like a Silken Oxback.

“Waiteth here or die like scoundrels!” he said and Root was sure he even bucked before departing.

Well, he didn’t say anything about not peeking so Root took a gander through a gap in the curtain. Her heart stopped. Caught in her view was none other than the Guardian himself, Studaben Picklepug. She knew

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seeing him would trigger a reaction, but she hadn’t expected a full out attack. Even her knees felt like they would buckle.

He stood in the Grand Fire Blossom, his belly brimming over electric blue trousers. A square hat he removed and set on the podium. His teeth flashed the crowd. There were so many secrets, so many carnival tricks behind the two-ring circus of his eyes. Root hated him more than ever. She ducked back and tried to steady her breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen! The time has come! Please help me welcome…” he paused for effect, “…the distinguished Bonds of Lanlynne’s new Clade of Acquisitions!”

Music flared up like fireworks as the Bonds were paraded, indeed flaunted past hundreds of smiling, cheering strangers. Who were all these people? Root’s name was called. Lian’s was called. Hilly’s. Milden’s. Bond names were proclaimed, even chanted. Hands were shoved out for high-fives. Root scanned for familiar faces, but not one could be found.

The Bond tables were lined up, six across the front of the garden court, where the gawking could be continued indefinitely.

“Who are these people?” Dwyn finally asked for everyone.

“No idea,” said Lian, shifting awkwardly in his chair while a blur of smiles and winks zeroed in on them.

“They’re honourable guests,” whispered a voice beside Root. She looked to see Milden’s very bright eyes at the table next to her. “My dad told me the Guardian invited them for this special occasion.”

“But who are they?” “Potential investors. Mostly high enders, y’know

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money trees and butt kissers.” Milden snickered at his own words. “So my dad says…”

Studaben Picklepug cued the music to stop. His eyes were ravaging the room. He was seriously licking his chops. “And now before we begin, let me take this time to thank our honoured guests for sharing this very special evening with us. I’m sure each and every Bond is grateful for your support.”

Conflicted applause emerged from the Bond tables, most of it stemming from Hilly and Kor. Yet, it was enough to satisfy the burgeoning purses that were doting upon them.

“And let us not forget one of our greatest supporters, the illustrious Master Grotius Vulcherk…”

Grotius Vulcherk stood from his position in the Fire Blossom. A gangrene ghost. His cold detestation of Root still fresh in her mind. She lost her appetite.

“…whose generous donation brought you this spectacular evening!” Studaben Picklepug’s tongue looked like it might actually hang to the side and pant, like a dog’s.

And yet, as Root looked around, she couldn’t disagree with him. The garden was as glorious as ever. A glittering, golden feast befitting its lordly guests. With only one exception: What was with the serving staff?

“Skullks,” Lian explained with his usual encyclopaedic flare, which included the appropriate mix of historical references. He seemed to admire Skullks and by all accounts Root could find nothing to debate other than how to address them. Master Skullk? Madam? How could you tell?

“Excuse me, Miss?” she had finally ventured. Wrong. “I am no Miss!” the Skullk lambasted her. “I am

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Bartimus Flat, Silken Oxback of the Regal Seven! And thou shalt hath the head of ye cut from its body for suchlike slander!”

Root’s admiration became rather less at that point. Another Skullk, this one thankfully more polite,

arrived with piping bowls of Springtide Stew. At once the thick spicy smell brought Root’s appetite back full force. Soon she and all were in gluttonous delight.

*****

When the last mouthful of his neighbour’s maple

cherry tart was stolen into his mouth, Studaben Picklepug stood, loosened his pants waist and moved toward the podium once more. He loved, loved, loved the silence this brought about the room and milked it to its last expended drop. He didn’t have to ahem as he arrived, he just chose to, for effect. “Ahem.”

Root’s eyes met Picklepug with open disdain, but she pushed it away for more pressing matters. Her blood slowed and carefully sensed every inch of him, from the lashes of his eye to the tented fingers to the shine of his shoe. Aha! There it was, a Lost, squirming along his spine. Trapped beneath the ribs. Fledger.

Root drew in a breath and sunk deeper. Where are you hiding him?

Nothing. She narrowed her eyes and stoked her blood. Where.

Is. Fledger? Nothing. Damn it! “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Studaben Picklepug.”

The Guardian held for the usual response. Root took up the stupid cue with the rest of the crowd. “Thank you.

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Thank you so much. You are too kind. Ahem! I am honoured to once again share with you, the good people of Lanlynne the results of your loyalty. Standing before us are no longer measly Bone Grits, but worthy Finders, trained in the finest facilities, groomed for a cause larger than their own lives. Before you are the young men and ladies who will bring the buried back to the light! I tell you the game has changed! And these fine players, whom I have painstakingly handpicked myself will not only recover our lost heritage, I believe they will bring Lanlynne to a new era of discovery, not just about our past but toward a future where evil will never be hidden from us again!”

His audience broke out in ardent applause while Root felt her gut twist. She knew this feeling. It was like the smell of bad blood. A knife lingered in the spaces between the Guardian’s words, along his tongue. This man may have called them players. But he meant pawns. And his game was deadly.

“And so now, we are here to support and honour these six as they embark on their second great adventure. And to what pray, will that adventure lead?” Again Picklepug paused as the air crackled with intrigue. Root found herself leaning in as if that would somehow make him reveal the Find sooner. But the Guardian would not be so generous. Instead his lips detoured and flapped on about courage and loyalty and perseverance, of which he knew nothing about.

From this they were introduced to more of the echelons of the Guardian’s society. Mostly fat, old people with suspicious grins. Root spied Lian’s dad, Lord Blick whom she was sure had come to respectfully dislike her. Or maybe it was simple distrust, the same distrust he seemed to be right this minute projecting onto the whole

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of the garden court. Root didn’t blame him. Nothing here felt safe. She

recalled Picklepug’s speech: “…toward a future where evil will never be hidden from us again…” What was that supposed to mean? To what evil was he referring exactly? Kakos? In which case, Root would rather Find a rock to hide under!

Though thankful that she had never seen him face to face, Kakos still managed to elicit cold suffocation. He was a terror that lingered in the scar on Krism’s forehead and in the whispers along trees where war still lived.

“Milwart Ibbbs!” Root blinked to attention. Who? “My dad!” Milden Ibbbs poked her and pointed to his

father now rising and walking awkwardly toward the podium.

Unfortunately the mentioning of Milwart Ibbbs was a time when most would invariably feel a yawn coming on. Not that he was dead dull, but because he was…well, yeah he was dead dull. There was no getting around it. Milwart Ibbbs was dull. His hair, his clothes, his eyes – all watery. Even his voice. He spoke so mummified one wanted to kick him alive at times. And now here he was approaching the podium? Root looked at Milden who was on his knees in his chair practically fizzing with excitement. She smiled and briefly wished she were he…a beloved child, a bloodline.

But then Milwart Ibbbs began his address. And Root couldn’t help but cringe. He was just such

a…a mess. Everything seemed to fall from him, papers, quills, glasses. He was too short for the podium and needed a box. Gunk seemed to breed in his throat. The swell-shell wouldn’t work for him. Studaben Picklepug had to yell twice for him to speak up. Finally Mordge approached with a glass of Booster Tongue. Milwart took

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a grateful swig and cleared his throat. For like an hour. At last the Booster Tongue kicked in and the mousely

sputtering of Milwart Ibbbs expanded. His words seemed to liquefy and pour out into the room now, then rise like a cool mist across sleeping lands, waking all the nodding heads and finally giving him favour to continue. Root could feel the relief in Milden as his father unfolded into the largeness of his new sound.

“Hello. My name is Milwart Ibbbs. Juror of Mystic Beings. I am here to announce the first Find for the new Clade of Acquisitions.”

Well, if the Booster Tongue hadn’t done it, the word ‘Find’ certainly got their attention now. Every eyeball swivelled in his direction. It startled him and there was a wavering moment where he could have retreated back into his tiny cave. But to his son’s delight, he didn’t. He carried on, touched with newfound fluidity and gestured toward the middle of the room where a giant Imitari appeared, hovering in a dramatic glow of light.

“As Juror of Mystic Beings, I have had the thrill and pleasure of studying many of Lanlynne’s finest beasts. Amongst them, the HaloEm.”

At this, the Imitari roused and from its centre, as if approaching from a far off distance, the full dimensional image of a creature grew before them, swelling larger and larger until at last its magnificence filled the entire periphery of the Imitari.

Not even a devil of urban dwelling could dismiss the beauty and majesty of this natural creature. Root lost her breath.

What was it?

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9

Inside the Imitari, the creature stood still, its

breathing sure and strong. Root took in the whole of it, a regal white stag with an infinite spread of iridescent wings. Its silver eyes held within them a fury of power.

“Yes, a beauty beyond fathoming,” Milwart Ibbbs said at last. “Sadly the HaloEm are now extinct, the last having been exterminated by the Murk Lord.”

Root’s heart caught fire at his words. Kakos had slaughtered these? She could hardly breathe for the dizziness of incomprehension. How? How could anyone do such a thing? She gazed at the beast. Its wings shimmered prismatically, glinting pinks and blues and yellows…casting light and innocence.

“The HaloEm in their time, were highly revered, but only a most fortunate and select few had the honour of their friendship. And an honour it truly was.” Milwart Ibbbs had taken his audience into his passion. His every word was embraced and he, for the first in a very long time, felt a spool of pride unwind and thread through his veins. He looked at his son and recognized the same fledgling joy. The Juror of Mystic Beings smiled and set his jaw.

“And now, the Find!” The Imitari swirled, folding the HaloEm into its cloud

and replacing it with a new image. A gasp took Root, Lian

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and Dwyn simultaneously. They recognized the object immediately: a silver spine with sparkling iridescent feathers that seemed to have captured an entire light spectrum in their soft firm plume.

The Valadors were shocked. Stunned. Stuttering in the revelation of the image before them. It was their very own Pasting Quill! The same of which was used to heal Root’s Naskaw wound those many months ago. A gift of Martika and Alabis, the Keepers of the Eidolon.

This could not be happening! The mysterious artifact to be Found was already theirs!

“The Quill of the HaloEm,” Milwart Ibbbs impassioned, “is rare indeed. Not simply due to the HaloEm’s extinction, but because, during their living years the HaloEm rarely molted with the exception of puberty. Any release would have been a single Quill offered to a favoured individual with whom they deemed worthy.

“The acquiring of a HaloEm Quill was a blessed achievement indeed for the new owner would receive benefit of the Quill’s unsurpassed power in incredible strength and agility.”

The Imitari swirled again revealing a beautiful young woman in a long dress made of the greens of the earth: mossy, emerald, hunter, jade. Her hair flew back in a wind of leaves and the ocean was surging in her eyes.

“Queen Shalayna,” Milwart continued “was one of the rare few who sowed a deep friendship with the HaloEm. She was the last to receive the gift of a Quill and though a potent Pyrist in her own right, this is the power that one drop of the Quill’s spinal serum added to her strength.” Once again Milwart referred his audience to the rolling offerings of the Imitari. “Where she could run, she could now outdistance a King Inx in the zenith

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of its strength and vigour.” The clouds of light sifted again, this time capturing

the impossible speed of Queen Shalayna along a vast shoreline of the sea. She moved as if a wind god had anointed her feet. An Inx, muscled, lean and throbbing in power held far, far behind her.

“Where she could leap, she could overtake even Dynasty Trees. And her strength was to become fathomless.”

The eyes of Milwart’s audience widened as the queen sailed, weightless as an angel from treetop to treetop. In the next image, her fingers closed around a single IceRock and opened again to a sparkling handful.

“Yet, perhaps greatest of all. Queen Shalayna could soar.”

The woman leapt atop the luminous stag and soon they were entering the Blue like welcome inhabitants, the HaloEm’s sparkling wings beating a long, rhythmic pulse as the sun moved to greet them and the world went silent. Root’s heart leapt and her ears rang with the rushing of wind. She could feel the lightness of her being, the spirit freed of its flesh. How she longed to be that woman.

Milwart’s Imitari shifted again. “The HaloEm were worthy allies in the defeat of

Vor.” Now the great beasts were seen armoured in ice-skin

and battling scorched monsters, as the terror and hell of war pounced upon the audience. Root found herself leaning back, trying to escape the blood. She was well relieved when Milwart brought the Imitari back to the single feather, floating and glittering, peaceful in a dazzling light.

This prompted the memory of the Keepers’ gift. As Root caught the gleaming, knowing eyes of her

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Bondmates, she could not believe their luck. They would have this Find done the same morning it started. She stirred, giddy in her seat as she pictured the looks on the faces of her opponents.

The last parcel of Milwart’s speech was a brief, yet intriguing study of the HaloEm; where they had lived, what they had eaten. Root learned that the HaloEm were partial to the native vegetation of their land and the frequent treat of insects, in particular aphids. They preferred to sleep and mate in cooler, well-protected areas that could not be easily penetrated, such as caves.

Barring the acts of men, most notably Kakos, who had hunted the HaloEm in a lust for power, the premature death of a HaloEm was rare and only found in the acidic saliva of a long haired Silver fox. Though the Silver fox kept mainly to feathered prey along its modest size and stature, the unique venom of its saliva could readily annihilate the wings of a HaloEm and therefore its very existence.

Lian’s quill scurried furiously across the pages of his journal, anxious to get in every syllable that sprung from Milwart’s lips.

“But we don’t need it,” Root whispered. “So,” Lian breathed back, still writing. He was a

Natruid to the core, giving anything that lived careful scrutiny and with so little known about the HaloEm, this was an educational bonanza.

Lian had many times tried to find books on the extraordinary creatures, but as they were such reclusive beings, very little had been written about them. And then, of course, once they had been declared extinct, one was pretty hard pressed to find anything substantial outside of myth and legend.

A hand went up. This was unexpected. It startled

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Milwart, whose mouth went dry as flour, tipping him dangerously close to geekdom again. He shuffled his papers “Uh…yes?”

It was Kor Bludgitt. With a big fat wide stupid grin on his face. “I’m just wondering, sir …how’re we supposed to find something that’s extinct?”

The way he said it, all loaded with snotted up little blades, it made Milwart fumble and drop his papers. The crowd snickered.

Milden clenched his fists. His father had been doing so well. But now he looked as if he would wilt and spin down a drain any second.

Milwart Ibbbs had collected and was now excessively shuffling his papers. “That’s a…that’s a good …a good question…uh Mr. Bludgitt. The HaloEm are extinct indeed, but…as was noted earlier, their Quills can still be found…if one…uh…if one knows where to look.”

“And…” Kor continued. “How many exist?” Milwart Ibbbs stopped shuffling. He glanced at the

Guardian. Studaben Picklepug ground his teeth and nodded, allowing the Juror of Mystic Beings to grant an answer. “Uh…well, according to the Book of Ages…um…only five HaloEm Quills are recorded to exist.”

The courtyard burst into debate. Root shook her head, unsurprised. Six Bonds, but only five Finds. Eliminate the losers, just like the last time. She sat up in revelation. An elite Bond, that’s what he wants. Talls. For the real Finds he seeks. The evil ones. Well, lucky for her, she’ll be long gone by then.

Her Bondmates looked at her with swaggering smiles. “This is gonna be fun to watch!” Dwyn whispered. “Will there be anything else, Master Bludgitt?” It was

the deep, brusque voice of Lord Blick. He stood from his

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table high up in the Grand Fire Blossom and hurled a dangerous glare at Kor whose back instantly snapped erect.

No one messed with Lord Blick. He had a daunting way of ensuring that. And though most times his own son detested this about him, in this moment Lian was rather pleased that his father had the same effect on bullies like Kor whose shoulders now hunched. “No, sir.”

“Grand!” Studaben Picklepug had decided that it was getting late and he had yet to speak with Baron Valteez who had recently come into a substantial inheritance by way of his mother, estate tycoon Empranza Valteez. The Guardian was eager to offer condolences, which had an uncanny resemblance to tax incentives. He shook Milwart’s hand and resumed his position at the podium.

“And now we have a very special treat for you this evening…all the way from…”

A whisper from behind the curtain said, “Edmonville!”

“From Edmonville…here for your entertaining pleasure, I am pleased to introduce the talented Lord Sclerous Players!”

*****

When the last line was uttered and the Silken Oxback

crowned, the audience blinked, then applauded. It was over, thank goodness!

“Actually it wasn’t that bad,” said Dwyn. “It was just the Oxback. He stunk. The rest were okay.”

The Oxback took his bows longer than anyone else. Even as the lights were dimming, and the applause had been spent he held out for an encore. Master Hillywur Gubelyn finally forced him off.

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“Well now,” the Guardian reclaimed his spotlight. “It seems we have come to the end of our festivities this evening. Thank you, fellow supporters and friends. Thank you all for sharing this momentous occasion. I will be on hand for your inquiries for the remainder of the evening. And to the Bonds, if you have any questions, your new Rovers will be happy to…”

Suddenly the massive stained glass doors swung open and there he was, as if by some special arrangement with the stars, arriving perfectly on cue.

Ernest Skubblenob was muttering to himself. A huge blinking contraption was on top of his head, practically burying it, and his fingers were spidering over some sort of control pod.

The old inventor, quite familiar to most in the room, held out his pod and fumbled along, walking into chairs, knocking off hats and unknowingly inciting a chorus of amused laughter. He stopped at Kor’s table.

“Don’t look at me, old man,” Kor scoffed. He butted Skubblenob away, adding, “You looking for your pants?”

Snorts of laughter. Ernest Skubblenob, completely oblivious to the remark didn’t look up. He was too focused on the Tempometre’s readings and thus continued an abstract meandering that seemed to have no end in sight.

At last the inventor seemed to find target with his mark. Too late it would seem, for his instrument was now red hot and smoking, forcing him to fling it from his burning hands.

No one, not even Root, could find pleasure in what happened next.

Hyvis Punyun leapt from her seat. Her throat opened with such fury that the deadly shriek of a Pistol Crab lay humbled. Upon her glittering, lavender haute couture

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gown there now lay a searing burn mark the shape of a rectangle. Smoke was still rising along its edges.

Ernest Skubblenob had retrieved his Tempometre using the folds of his jacket and was apologizing with great heaps of panic when the grand garden doors opened again.

Jorab strolled through the tables, a pair of pants swung over his arms.

“Ah, you’re here. Splendid. Valadors, may I present Ernest Skubblenob, your new Rover.”

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10 Root went straight for her closet while her friends

collapsed, Dwyn on her bed, Lian on her new chair, a spongy red thing, compliments of Estrella Fuffleteez.

“I think I can safely say that my social life is over,” said Dwyn.

Lian mmpphed and tried to deny the whole ordeal. No easy task. Not when half of them got third degree burns from playing a reluctant game of hot potato with a scorching control pod! He was certain, if they listened carefully enough they could probably still hear the sizzling sparking death of the Imitari, which was nothing compared to the ensuing exodus. He clung to a single token of redemption. “Thank Théall we won’t have to use him.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Root said, coming up from the closet floor for the third time empty.

“Oh no,” Dwyn panicked. “Oh please, no,” added Lian.

***** In Dwyn’s room all three dashed about in a mad

search: tossing clothes, dumping drawers, checking and rechecking corners, piles, under the bed…all to no avail. Dwyn’s Klok, a beaver with excessively long, underused

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teeth yawned. “It’th way path-t your thleepytime, m’boy.” Everyone ignored it. “Are you sure I had the Pasting Quill last?” said

Dwyn crouched behind his dresser. “Well, you were the last one to use it on Root.” Lian

pointed out. “Wait a minute! That was when we were still with the

Keepers. When we left, you packed it in the truss pack, Lian!” Dwyn obviously didn’t like being held responsible for losing the one thing they wanted more than anything in the world.

*****

But then neither did Lian as they ransacked his room,

which was a much more difficult undertaking considering many things were alive and not at all pleased about being frisked.

When nothing was recovered the probable loss of the Pasting Quill aka HaloEm Quill became a suffocating reality.

“It could’ve got lost anywhere during the last Find.” Root said. “It’s not like the truss pack was kept in a nice, safe bubble after we left the Keepers. If you remember an Albino Gorilla even had it for awhile.”

True. But the horror of being so close and now so far was a

sickening pill to swallow. Especially when it meant a crowded future with Ernest Skubblenob. They clung to a weak hope that maybe, if they were really lucky, in the morning the old inventor would be too embarrassed to return.

Fingers were crossed. Sleep was sought. Root’s walk through the corridors back to her room

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was burdened by the need to visit Krism whose room light was still on. She paused, on the cusp of utter burnout. Nope. Her drooping eyelids simply wouldn’t allow it. She would have to see him in the morning, after a comatose few hours in bed.

That night her dreams were fraught with images of the HaloEm Quill floating on a vast seascape, only to be chomped and dragged under by an old man’s pair of false teeth.

*****

A Dead Treader is nocturnal. But that doesn’t mean it

dances under the moon or anything wasteful like that. No, no a Dead Treader is not one to socialize. It comes out just long enough to find its prey and eat it. A fast food kinda thing. Nothing too fussy in the diet. Unfortunately for the prey this usually means anything ‘warm and breathing’, which regrettably means being eaten alive. However, if one could reach for a brighter side to such an ordeal, at least the prey is paralyzed first and can’t feel that it’s being eaten. But that doesn’t really help the fact that it knows it’s being eaten, which, in the end may be a far worse way to go.

Most victims of a Dead Treader find a nice place to sleep after an active evening of foraging and by the time they realize that they are now being foraged, it’s too late; the Dead Treader’s many-segmented body had scurried over them with hundreds of tiny poison tipped legs, paralyzing them instantly.

It’s a quiet meal. As was stated and is worth repeating, a Dead Treader is not one for socializing. It lives a rather solitary existence under rocks and rotting trees, emerging only for this brief digestive encounter, usually with a small

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rodent, of which a forest has plenty. But this particular Dead Treader has not been

released into a forest. No. This very large, abnormally large in fact, Dead Treader has been released into a bed. After having spent many days in a large clay box without food.

This Dead Treader is hungry. It doesn’t particularly care for the crisp, clean sheets

of its landing, but eventually it finds something resembling a meal, albeit a hairless meal. The Dead Treader scurries over the skin, marvelling in its smoothness. Salivating. And lookie here!…this hairless rodent is huge! The Dead Treader sweeps up and down its victim, discharging hundreds of paralytic stings from hundreds of eager legs.

Never in its life has the Dead Treader come upon such a large rodent. The Dead Treader can’t believe its good fortune. In fact, it’s so happy, it doesn’t even seem to mind the other three Dead Treaders that have been released into the same bed to share. There’s more than enough!

*****

Hilly Punyun woke up to find that she couldn’t move

anything but her head. She thought she’d been sleeping in a position that had put her arms to sleep, but when she couldn’t move her legs either, she figured it was more serious. It was only when she saw several abnormally large Dead Treaders slowly making their way toward her face that she realized just how serious it was.

Hilly passed out. It was as the original Dead Treader was making its

way toward an ear that Hilly woke again. This time she

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saw the shiny brown shell and hungry clipping mouth. Hilly screamed. She screamed louder than she’d ever

screamed in her life. Lucky for Hilly Punyun she had screamed a scream so shrill, so resonant, so perfectly pitched, it caught the attention of a Shrieking Shrub. The Shrieking Shrub thought Hilly was its long lost mother and shrieked back.

Unfortunately for Lian the Shrieking Shrub was in his room. He woke clutching his heart, just in time to see his Shrieking Shrub uproot and race out the door. Well, under the door.

As the shrub tore down the halls toward its ‘mother’, Lian in tow, it managed to wake a good number of residents. Soon Lian heard the thunder of many a footstep racing behind him. Root had caught the terrifying shrieks many floors up and had joined the amassing crowd of pajamas, nighties and slippers.

When they arrived at Hilly’s room, most of the horror had already been dealt with. Jorab was putting something monstrously creepy looking into a bag that was squirming with legs. Countless, nasty, writhing legs.

Hilly was lying in bed, every inch of her looking stone cold stiff. The Shrieking Shrub was nestled up under her chin, practically strangling her with affection. Though she wanted to swat the thing away, she couldn’t for the only things mobile were her eyes and mouth. Beside her, Hyvis Punyun was patting her arm and seething.

“It was him!” Hyvis screamed in a voice deranged by distress, not certain her daughter wasn’t partially eaten already.

The growing swarm of kids rubbernecked toward the corner where Hyvis’s glare had landed. Root went instantly pale. There, in the shadows of Hilly’s room, the whites of his eyes aglow, stood Krism. He looked small

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and fatal, any innocence effectively ambushed. “He was trying to kill her, Jorab!” Hyvis exploded. Hilly’s eyes rolled back to Jorab while her face

remained stone stuck. It was rather disturbing to watch. “Are they…are they gone!” she squealed as much as one can squeal with no jaw to back it up.

“Yes, they’re all gone. Now settle down, Miss Punyun. Let’s take care of your paralysis first.” Jorab applied slight pressure to Hilly’s hand. “Can you feel this?”

“No! Why, is there nothing there? Is my hand gone?” Her eyes swivelled wildly again. She tried to move her head to look, but absolutely nothing came of it.

“Your hand is still attached. It’s been numbed and so…”

“Has it been chewed? Do I still have all five fingers?” “No, it has not been chewed. Yes, you have all five

fingers. Consider yourself lucky.” A huge glob of a tear formed in the corner of Hilly

Punyun’s eye. In perfect measure, an identical droplet, soppy and ready to burst claimed the other eye. She blinked, sending two rivulets down her cheeks. It was masterful. Even Root felt a pang of sympathy.

But in her stupendously, notoriously obnoxious way, Hilly would put a direct halt to that. “Did it…sniff…gnaw off my nail polish?” she whimpered. “I spent so much on that design. I don’t know what I’d do if it was ruined.”

Master Hillywur Gubelyn arrived in a flurry of panic, putting a swift cork in Hilly’s performance. Much to Jorab’s relief.

“What’s going on?” He pushed his way through the gawking crowd, unconscious of the fact that he was wearing a one-piece pajama ensemble and a bath cap. He

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saw Jorab’s squirming bag of Dead Treaders and yelped. “Oh good,” Jorab smiled. “Would you mind

disposing of these, Master Gubelyn?” He handed the bag over.

Hillywur Gubelyn took the bag. Slowly. With a hand clapped over his mouth. He looked fit to outdo Hilly’s tears.

“Thank you,” Jorab turned back to his task. “Now then…Lian…”

Lian approached warily. “I believe she is yours,” Jorab gestured toward Hilly. Lian’s face flushed amidst a wave of snickers. The

nubs of his ears went scarlet. “She’s not mine…I mean…Find rules…no interrelations and besides--”

“Eew! As if!” Hilly added to his embarrassment. “I’m referring to your Shrieking Shrub,” Jorab

clarified. “Yours I assume?” “Oh. Yeah. She’s mine.” Lian cautiously leaned in and

tried to pry the leaves of his shrub from their grip around Hilly’s neck. It was utterly impossible. That weed was clutching so tight, Hilly’s neck looked like the link part of a sausage, all gathered and squeezed. It was a good thing Hilly had no feeling or there would be just desserts. And Lian wanted no part of just desserts, especially coming from the likes of Hilly and Hyvis Punyun. He bore down on the vegetation.

“What’re you doing to her?” Hyvis cried. “Get off me, you thing!” Hilly added, “And take your

stupid plant with you!” “Wha’dya think I’m trying to do!” Lian yelled. The

nubs of his ears looked practically in flames. Especially with his audience laughing full out now. He took hold of his stupid shrub and yanked. It shrieked louder than ever, clutching its ‘mother’s’ long lost cheeks.

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“I said get it off me!” It was a good thing Hilly had no idea how odd she looked with her face stretched like that. She looked like she had entered warp speed. With a plant stuck to her head.

“I’m…” Yank. “…trying…” Yank… “…to…” Super yank. Nothing. This shrub was not going anywhere. “You’re gonna have to pretend it’s your baby,” Lian

advised at last. “What? Have you gone mad?” “It’s the only way. Just tell it you need to sleep and

that it can come back soon.” “But it can’t!” “Just say it!” “I’m not telling a stupid, dumb weed that I’m its

mother, Blick. So, you better…” The Shrieking Shrub stretched its leaves contentedly,

nuzzling them further in and around Hilly’s head. A purr began.

“I’m telling you, it won’t leave otherwise,” Lian haggled.

“Very funny…hardy har har. Spare me the stupid puns.”

Lian shook his head. “Whatever. Keep it for all I care, then.” He turned to walk away.

“Hilly!” Hyvis gave her daughter the ‘just do it’ look. “Fine! Fine, I’ll do it!” Hilly’s lips were pursed tighter

than the shrub’s grip. She took a deep, very unamused breath. Her eyes rolled down toward the plant. It seemed to look back at her. “Oh, hi…uh…little…uh…tyke. Boy,

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you sure are…cute. Hey, look, it’s your bedtime, but I promise you can come back. Real soon.”

The plant stopped purring. “Mummy just needs a…a rest is all. But mummy

still…loves you...” “And so does grandma,” added Hyvis. The plant nodded a reluctant leaf. Lian took his cue

and gingerly attempted to remove it from Hilly’s nose, which looked like it might come off in the extraction. Eventually the Shrieking Shrub let go with a sigh.

At the exact same time, the reach of the Dead Treader’s poison spread further, seizing Hilly’s lips. She was now stuck stiff like a corpse. A crab faced corpse, Root thought staring down at her.

Master Gubelyn had somehow regained his composure. “What in the blazes of chaos is going on here?”

A muffled whine came from Hilly and the only thing left to move, her eyes, darted toward the corner where Krism still cowered. The mood of the room shifted. Root could feel it, as if winter had returned with unfinished business. Krism would not step out from the shadows. It was just like that day at the Soot Market, where Root had found him with a broken spirit in a filthy holding cell. The exact same look on his face.

Hilly’s eyes finally succumbed to the poison. They froze glaring at Krism, amplifying the room’s hostility.

“Well?” Master Gubelyn spun around to face the crowd. His Bag ‘o Treaders forced the onlookers back in a frightened crush. Directly in front of him, Milden Ibbbs started hopping on one foot. His other had just been trampled.

“I don’t know, sir,” Milden limped back farther from the writhing bag. “When we got here, all we saw was Hilly

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lying in bed and…and him.” He pointed at Krism who flinched and pulled further into the corner, hoping the shadows would swallow him whole. “Then more people came and then Jorab who found…those things.” Milden pointed at the twisting bag. Master Gubelyn suddenly became aware of the Dead Treaders again and jumped. He held them arm’s length, forcing those closest to back tighter into the crowd.

Jorab had been administering a sticky, clear balm over Hilly’s face and now the bottom half of her lip had ‘thawed’. “Those things nearly killed me!” came flying from her mouth. It had actually come out as “Toes tings eerly pilled be!” but everyone got the gist of it.

Hyvis turned to the corner of Hilly’s room with a fierce growl. Her top lip curled. “Like I always say: ‘Where there is depravity, there is a Tint!’ And I was right!”

A fury unleashed with her words. The gawking, confused faces of the onlookers now grew angry and frightened. Hatred sprung forth with a malice Root had only scratched the surface of in her encounters. Even Hillywur Gubelyn could not function with fairness. He stared at Krism in disdain and allowed the circle to form around the boy.

“You don’t know that he did it for sure!” Root jumped in front of Krism. Even if it was true, which she was sure it wasn’t, this was no way to handle it.

“Yeah, it could’ve been anyone!” Milden scrambled awkwardly beside Root.

“But you yourself said he did it!” someone yelled at Milden.

“No, I didn’t. I said he was here when we got here. But that doesn’t mean anything.” It was a flimsy excuse and Root flushed with embarrassment for she sensed, like everyone else, that it came out of his…erm…fondness

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for Root, not Krism. Thankfully, Dwyn entered the fray and gave Root

some balance. But hatred had swiftly ripened in Hyvis’s words. A tall boy took a step toward Krism.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dwyn warned him. Root searched for Lian. Though he was not a part of

the lynch mob, he had chosen to stand back, away from his friends. She could see him teetering, his eyes wide and confused. Where was Jorab? She looked at the bed and found him calmly watching the unfolding. His eyes were scanning, as if searching for deeper truths amongst the faces. Why wasn’t he stopping this?

“Is that so?” the tall boy straightened. “Most assuredly,” Dwyn smiled and leaned in. Root braced herself. The air positively crackled. This

was it. All it would take was one swing of a fist and the floodgates would burst.

“I would think these things would be handled with the innocence preserved for all until proven otherwise.”

A wave of heads snapped to Jorab’s attention, like hyenas revived of the true King of the Jungle. Root breathed. Finally.

In perfect timing, Mordge arrived with, of all things, bubble gauze. She stopped to assess the room, spied Hilly and went to her bedside.

Though everyone was dying to know what she was going to do with that bubble gauze, there would be no such public demonstration that night. And unfortunately, it would be the one thing that Hilly Punyun would not gossip about in the morning.

Instead Hilly Punyun met her day refreshed and with a wider grin than anyone thought possible. For she knew something. She knew what happened to the silent boy with the scar on his forehead.

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11 Krism looked around his room, now stripped of

everything. The beginnings of his nest, Spring clippings, tokens of recent months, bits ‘n pieces of the smile he was leaning into, had been stuffed into a canvas bag and the weary boy was now sitting silently on the end of his bed. Wilma, his camouflaging chameleon who had grown quite a bit over the weeks could not fit in the bag anymore but rather often carried it on her back.

Now on his lap, she purred while Krism smoothed his hand over her blue skin. Blue for the colour of his trousers.

The only consolation, though meagre in its tender, was that Jorab had arranged a safe-house in which Krism could stay until a proper trial was given. By tomorrow afternoon he would be gone from the Shack.

Thus Root, in her sweet heresy, was now on her way over, about to take him to a last-minute-makeshift-covert-going-away-party. He had told her that he was only in Hilly’s room because he had sensed danger and had gone to investigate.

“I believe you,” she had said. “You’re my friend.” The word ‘friend’ had cracked in her voice, but in that fault line between grief and hope, Krism tuned out. He had allowed Root to lay her hand over his and wrap her warm fingers like a mitten. But as to the strange and

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sweet feeling making its way into his heart…that he would not allow. Never again. He’d rather die than feel exposed again.

Now, sitting on his bed, his breath pinched tight, he was nothing but a cold, angry Tint. “One day,” he whispered. “One day, they’ll regret everything they ever did to me.”

As he spoke, letting the dark angry words engrave him, he looked down, startled. His loyal chameleon Wilma had turned black. As black as his vengeful heart.

There was a knock at the door. He smeared on a fake smile and opened it. All colour drained from his face.

*****

In spite of crucial preparations for the Find, party

plans were underway. Dwyn held court onsite, ushering in guests including Tamik, whose arrival, in the face of impossible pageant deadlines impressed everyone. She had come loaded to the hilt, party central, with stream-lights, candy blimps, fire cracklers, blowers and hats, all left over from floats and costumes. Lian arrived with a promised assortment of chocolate toes. He knew his father would surely kill him if he found out, but how can one say no to Root when she looks at you like that?

Milden came with a glass of milk. Um…okay. While Root had gone to get Krism, Tamik put her

homemade cake on display. It was hideous. But she insisted the outside in no way resembled the tasty goodness of the inside. And besides, considering the time constraint, they should be lucky to have a cake at all.

When he thought she wasn’t looking, Lian, who had been pretty good at Baking in the Scholary, propped the cake up with a Rising Stamp. But Tamik had noticed. He

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realized this when he turned and saw her staring right at him. With a big, huge toothy grin. Why was she smiling at him like that? What, did she think he was doing her a favour…that he wanted to impress her or something? As if. He only did it ’cause the cake looked like it might fall over any second. It wasn’t to try and please her, if that’s what she was getting at. Lian felt his ears going red. He looked away. His heart was fluttering out of control again. Man, that girl irritated him.

Everyone was on standby with the Jolly Farewell song locked in short-term memory when Root’s Knocker announced her arrival. Upon Dwyn’s cue, they launched into the rowdy, off-pitch melody.

But the look on Root’s face was not jolly. It was stricken. The song drained in her friends’ throats. All except Milden who had really gotten into it and had to be ribbed quiet.

“He’s gone,” Root said so faintly they could hardly hear her. “They took him away early. ‘Before he could cause anymore problems.’”

*****

On the day of the Find, there was much distraction

and for the time being, Root’s thoughts of Krism clung only peripherally. The good news…well sort of good news…was that Krism had apparently escaped his guards. Using Wilma most likely. Root was happy about that, but now there was the worry of where he’d end up.

Jorab had not been informed of Krism’s premature removal until it was too late and, for now all he could do was file a complaint. However, Root knew from the flare in his eyes that this scandal was filed in more than just the paisley office of Studaben Picklepug. It had been filed in

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Jorab’s conscience, right alongside Fledger and sometime, somewhere the Guardian would account for such wrongdoings.

*****

Tamik had laid claim to a swell-shell and now her

bellows echoed well beyond the bailey where people now gathered in cheery bouquets for the Grand Find Pageant.

For a brief moment, as she looked around at the other Bonds, Root entertained the regret of losing their HaloEm Quill but reminded herself of the folly in that. She was now a torched Bone Grit with a heating Pyre and a solid foundation of Perse to back her up. The Valadors would return victorious.

Only this time she would be rewarded well. And she and Fledger would go where the Guardian would never be able to find them again.

“And you, too.” She scratched the furry neck of Stogie. With admiration in her eyes she glanced over her Bondmates, proudly wearing the red Valador cloaks. Lian was closing up the truss pack. It was quite a miraculous thing, that new and improved truss pack. Weather- and Forget-proof, not to mention a million more pockets, most of which were unseen as Lian had somehow placed them in twin realms for lighter weight.

Twin realms? Root didn’t even ask, which kind of disappointed Lian.

Until Tamik mentioned her curiosity. Then he beamed in his report. Until she made a suggestion. Then he scowled. Until he actually applied her suggestion and saw that,

indeed it did work better.

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Then he was blown away. What was with this girl? She was…he stopped

himself. No. No interrelations, the guide clearly stated. Right. Absolutely not. Not that he’d want to anyhow. ’Cause he didn’t. As if.

After seeing the new and improved truss pack, Tamik asked Lian to make one for her so she could organize her Finders Clade social committee duties. He agreed only on the condition that it not be used for Kor’s Kings. The funny thing about Tamik was that this was a given. She had no love for her Bondmates, Kor and Flinkus and everyone knew it. It wasn’t that she betrayed them; she just simply couldn’t bring herself to cooperating with them was all. And this suited her just fine. Tamik didn’t harbour dreams of Find champion, like most. She was here for the ride, which was pretty nifty so far.

Commanding her pageant from a makeshift lookout post, she once again pulled the swell-shell from her mouth. “Number five sixty eight, you’re too soon! Get back behind sixty seven!” She watched a man on a float edge his way back to the proper destination where sixteen dancing Figgoobbers popped like corn. “Alright people! In ten…nine…eight…” The last three numbers were done with the silent count of her fingers. “Go!”

*****

Root had found her Bondmates and, along with the

rest of the crowd enjoyed the best pageant ever, as they later told Tamik. They could hardly believe she had pulled something like that off. The floats were dazzling (though banners of Picklepug’s face were much too big). The acrobats were amazing, particularly, according to Dwyn, the scarcely clad Water Damsels. The traveling band was

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incredible in its pyramid formation. And on and on. It was truly a wonder.

As the last dancer took his bow, the audience erupted in a roar. When Tamik came out, even this was outdone. She took a humble bow, gestured to the host of players and walked off the stage, not to join her Bond but to stand beside her friend, Root Karbunkulus. It made Root feel, well very grand indeed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Amazing how fast one’s joy can deflate. Picklepug’s

voice no longer brought about a flinch; now it made Root’s blood boil. She turned her eyes to him, hoping he would feel her rage, that it would burn him to the ground somehow.

“Thank you! Thank you! Wow! What a crowd! I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here, officially launching Lanlynne’s Clade of Acquisitions…yes, thank you…where six Bonds are off to find the powerful HaloEm Quills of which only five exist! Indeed! Thank you…wow, what supporters we have in the crowd today…well, this is bound to be another adventurous journey for…”

As Picklepug launched once more into his lame exaltations, Root suddenly saw it. How could anyone miss it? It towered over the crowd like a floating, twinkling mini planet. And it was orbiting right for the Valadors.

Ernest Skubblenob. In long, red shorts, socks with clips and a winter fur.

His flashing block of a helmet tottered on his head and from his shrivelled lips was heard ‘warmer… warmer… getting warmer.”

Could there have possibly been anything more embarrassing?

Oh yes.

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Ernest Skubblenob, like everyone else, had a Hovermutt. But, unlike everyone else, Ernest Skubblenob’s Hovermutt was older than a corpse. It was a gaunt, ribbed attempt to live one last day. It wheezed and gasped and peed in the middle of the courtyard. As it brought the absent-minded inventor closer, Root saw that it had one tooth. Sort of. The rest were missing in action…centuries of action. And its eyes were, well, frankly they were not working. They seemed as surprised as the rest of their body every time they led head on into a wall or tree or, in other instances, the ladies’ room.

When Ernest Skubblenob finally took his place beside the Valadors, it was to the laughter of onlookers and groaning horror of his charges. Root wanted to die immediately and even sooner if possible. Dwyn rolled his eyes and threw his arms up in disbelief. Lian simply scowled with bright red ear nubs.

Skubblenob’s Hovermutt drew up to Lian and licked him. It was a friendly enough gesture aside from the fact that every single person in proximity nearly passed out from the stinking, stinking, stinking, stinking stink of its breath. Lian ran screaming for a nearby fountain.

Picklepug’s speech finally ended. But Root hadn’t even noticed. All that existed in her being was the ghastly idea that there would be no Jorab on this trip, that they were trapped with a deluded old man who would annoy them to the brink of homicide. Skubblenob smiled and pet his beloved Hovermutt along its bony, patchwork back. “This,” he crinkled a smile, “is Chesterly!”

Picklepug lowered his finger. The bar of light that reached across Guardian’s Gate – the border between challenge and victory – flicked from red to green.

“Go now! May the Light keep you evermore brave to the bone!”

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“Aha! East! We go East, my stalwart companions!” the old inventor cried, his shining pod firmly in hand.

*****

“We were thinking of going along Twig Valley,” Lian

said long after the Valadors had filtered from Mammoth Rock and now shuffled along Pleasant Pine’s forest floor.

“You don’t need to yell, son. I’m not deaf!” Skubblenob over-enunciated as if Lian were deaf.

“Fine. I was just saying that we have given it some thought and decided that the best way would be along the valley where…”

“What? Speak up, boy!” the old man yelled. Lian stomped off.

***** They had deviated way too far from their original

plans. Seasons had surely changed and still they were Hovering. Just Hovering. Hovering along like turtles…that Hover.

Ernest Skubblenob, still helmet-bound, was humming the same song. For the last time, if Lian had his way.

Something had to be done. It just had to. Before brains hemorrhaged and someone got…lost… Someone old…two old someones, in fact. Really lost. As in, permanently.

Dwyn averted his eyes and encouraged Hana to speed up, leaving Root to deal with the situation. She cringed and reluctantly moved Stogie up beside the old man. Chesterly was practically blowing out both lungs in effort. And the fallout was toxic. Root was sure birds would stiffen mid-sniff and literally plummet.

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“Uh…Mr. Skubblenob, sir…” she said, trying to hold her breath.

“Alrightio, my little friendlies. Let’s get a move on it. We’ve got ourselves a Quill to Find!” Skubblenob said and smacked his helmet. When nothing happened, he smacked it again. And once more. And, yes, again.

Teeth grit and eyes rolled and several ideas for ‘an accident’ were entertained.

Finally the helmet lit up with a series of pings and pops. The old man carefully brought the gleaming silver pod to his lips as he’d already done too many times to count. “HaloEm Quill.”

At once the helmet blinked itself into a lather and squeezed Skubblenob’s head with such gusto that his eyes looked like they were getting too big for their sockets. Root thought it best to intervene.

Or…perhaps not…? But even as she paused for the musing, the helmet

relaxed and the pod began to throb from silver to blue. “It’s very cold. We’re not close at all,” Skubblenob

said, setting the pod down on the fossilized mounds that were Chesterly’s shoulder blades. He fussed with a pair of black gloves that had to have come from a Bulk they were so ridiculously big. By the time he picked the pod back up, it was chilled white. He pointed it East. The pod balked with a splinter of frost. He aimed west. The pod coughed up an icicle. North? A flurry of snowflakes swirled. South? The snow turned to rain. Warmer.

“South! The HaloEm Quill is south! Let us be off! Come Chesterly!”

Chesterly gasped and hovered straight into a tree. When Skubblenob returned with a few minor

scratches and an assortment of leaves all over his helmet, he was absolutely oblivious to the desperate looks on the

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faces of his Bond.

***** The days were looooooooooooooooooooooooooong.

Uncountable long. The kind of long that was evidenced in moans and clenched fists and silent inner tantrums. Sun up. Sun down. Sun up. Sun down. Really. Just. Long.

And there was no opportunity for secret discussions on how to best rid themselves of their Rover. As if they could anyhow. For one thing the old man would be utterly heart broken. Seriously, his heart would surely snap. Even though the rules were clear: they were the ones to make any and all decisions and the Rover was merely there as support; no one could bare to actually tell him.

Only once, when Dwyn could no longer stand the slamming attack of Chesterly’s breath, was the subject of Skubblenob’s intrusion actually broached.

“Get your stupid mutt outta my face!” Dwyn had yelled. “And speaking of stupid, your so-called Tempowhatever has got to be the most stupidest thing to have ever come into existence!”

The Inventor looked at Dwyn with eyes so, so, so pathetically injured that even Root and Lian turned to Dwyn demanding an apology. It wasn’t necessary. Dwyn had instantly regretted it. When the single burgeoning tear in the old man’s eyes finally fell with a great big loud pitying splash Dwyn was already back-pedaling.

“I mean. Did I say stupid? I meant…ga...lu...pid. Galupid. It’s a special word. It means awesome! And your helmet? Why, it’s the…it’s the Galupidest…ever!”

The old man paused. He lifted his chin to let the word slide in. And then his trembling lips formed into a grateful smile that gave the sun a run for its money.

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Before anyone knew what had happened a group hug came into effect and there was no turning back.

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12 Even when reality returned with its sinking feeling in

the guts, the Bond couldn’t bear to face the dreaded tear again. They were now stuck with the crazy, old inventor and his decaying Hovermutt and worse! – he was now calling everything Galupid! Looking at them with that private joke kind of bonding (“Hey kidlets! Look at that galupid sunset!”). They were seriously doomed.

Their only consolation was Lian’s truss pack. Truly it was one of the new wonders of the world. Of its most beloved accoutrements the Fire Bombs totally rocked. All that was necessary was pulling one out, striking it on something rough (i.e., Skubblenob’s helmet) and dropping it, at which point a roaring blaze would take over. It was the perfect antidote to the chilly, wet nights that were lingering in the early days of summer.

During these restful sitting-by-the-fire pit-stops, Skubblenob would make adjustments on his Tempometre. It hadn’t really changed much aside from ‘The Detour’ when Skubblenob had taken them west. They’d ended up at a wall. Literally. A big, stone wall clumped in miles of Virginia Creeper. They blinked and looked at Skubblenob unamused while Chesterly coughed up his vital organs. Skubblenob lifted the pod higher and repeated “HaloEm Quill” several times. He pointed it directly at the wall. The pod went blue cold and it was not

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until he pointed it east that it returned to normal. “East! Our Quill is east! Come Chesterly!” he gently

ribbed his Hover awake. So, once again they were going east. This time the Tempometre led them up along a rough

and much disliked mountain trail. Warmer and warmer the pod seemed to be getting as they climbed the mountainside. Even the Valadors began to wonder if perhaps the old man’s invention was accurate after all. When they reached a secluded cave off the trail, the pod was a soft orange colour and warm enough for Skubblenob to remove his mitts.

Chesterly looked like this was indeed it for him. His tongue hung like meat, even collecting the occasional fly. The intensity and interminable length of his hacking made everyone nervous. Not just because of the horrendous sound it made but because they were standing at the mouth of a cave, a notably large cave. And no one had yet determined if it was unoccupied. Surely a hacking, blind, half dead Hovermutt would be like home delivery to a cavern dwelling carnivore.

Once Chesterly was finished…and passed out…the Valadors set to inspect the property.

“I’ll go with you,” Skubblenob said. “No!” all three of them cried out, far too readily.

They paused in the wake of the obvious rejection, certain to hear the cracking of the old man’s heart.

Instead, his deafness clearly intact, he smiled “Galupid!” and plodded along ahead of them.

The Hovers (the ones that were awake) were not pleased about being left behind but were appeased by the arrival of three chunky bones fresh from the truss pack’s refrigeration pocket. Root and Dwyn smiled. Lian never ceased to amaze them.

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The Bond entered slowly, Dwyn resuming his preference for the lead with Lian clutching Root behind him. Skubblenob tripped up the rear. The cave was dry and dusty and seemed to be lit by soft glowing pinkish rocks all along the walls. It was also very, very quiet.

“Here Quill, Quill, Quill…” Dwyn sang. “Shshhshsh!” Root said. “What if there’s something

in here!” “Well, isn’t that the best way to find out?” “He’s right,” Lian agreed. “It’s best to be loud so that

we might scare a beast away.” At that moment a roar detonated from farther in the

cave and came at them like a speeding commons boxcar. “Duck!” They hit the dirt just as a wave of flying bodies

swooped and dove and tore out the mouth of the cave. Skimming Worms, thousands of them, blasting toward the sky, temporarily eclipsing the sun.

The ensuing silence was broken by the familiar warble of Ernest Skubblenob. “You kidlets okay? A swarm of Skimming Worms just flew out of the cave.”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Are you?” “Well, I’ve got a bit of arthritis in my left ankle and a

small bout of hemorrhoids, but aside from that I’m quite fine.”

“Great,” Dwyn groaned as he got to his feet. The Bond went deeper into the cave where more

glowing pink rocks aided them with light. Lian, his curiosity always getting the best of him, ventured for a closer inspection. He touched the surface of one of the pink rocks. It was hard as was expected. He took a swipe with his finger and licked it. Kind of salty. He lightly tapped and put his ear to the rock.

The rock tapped back.

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Strange. He tapped again. Another tap returned. Uh oh. “Guys.” Before Lian could say anything else Ernest

Skubblenob came up from behind, wrapped his bony fingers around the rock and yanked it from the wall.

“No!” Lian cried. Skweeee? Skweeeeeeeeeeeeee! “What’s that?” Root said. “I think it’s this rock,” Skubblenob said shaking it up

to his ear. Lian snatched the rock away praying it had gone

unnoticed. “That’s no rock, you lunatic!” Panic crossed his face. “It’s an egg!”

And then they heard it. A piercing shriek that made the hair raise and the heart stop.

“What the…? What’s that?” Dwyn backed up. Lian quickly put the egg back. It skwee’d more

urgently. The shriek responded with terrifying force. “Lian! Isn’t that one of the sounds from your

recordings?” Root whispered nervously. “Yes,” Lian said, feeling a cold sweat come upon him.

“And I’d say we’ve got about twenty seconds to get outta here before the Quog arrives and tears us into shreds.”

They yanked Skubblenob away from the second egg he was about to pull and ran.

The shrieks became deafening and this time the eggs joined in, hundreds of them, skweeing and tapping. The Valadors ran as fast as they could, but the mouth of the cave seemed to be worlds away. The Quog was gaining on them.

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SKWEEEEE! TAP! TAP! TAP! SKWEEEEEEEEEE! Skubblenob had no idea why he was being carried

along by his charges. And it didn’t really matter because he toppled and fell and wasn’t being carried along anymore. The Bond ran back for him and the truss pack that he’d managed to grab on his descent. The same truss pack that was now tangled in his feet. The same truss pack that was now spilling with supplies and putting a quick end to any immediate escape.

“Skubblenob, let’s go!” Dwyn grabbed him while Lian snatched the truss pack, reluctantly leaving much of its precious contents behind.

The Quog arrived much sooner than expected. And much fiercer. Its babies were now frenzied with cries. It faced the Bond, a wispy, phantasmal creature with features sliding in and out of focus, black eyes here, then gone, red eyes, then gone. A mouthful of fangs, a fleshy, split tongue. All pulsing in and out from shapeless skin the colour of old, dead blood. It rose in the air to prepare for its first attack, an old man scrambling away. Easy prey.

As the creature moved to strike, it suddenly scuffed something that burst into flames and sent it clambering back in fear. It screeched at a pitch that nearly shattered the brain. But it did not move.

“It’s a Fire Bomb! They fell from the Travel bag!” Dwyn yelled. He found another and struck it. A new fire blazed. The Quog inched back further.

Within moments the Bond was lighting every Fire Bomb they could find and when enough were keeping the monster at bay they ran for the light of the cave onto the expectant backs of their Hovers. Even Chesterly had

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awoken and was at the ready.

***** The Quog’s shrieks seemed to tail the Bond for miles.

It was a long time before someone said anything. Naturally, it was Ernest Skubblenob, “East! The HaloEm Quill is east! Come, Chesterly!”

*****

Though Root and Dwyn had enough Perse to start

their own fire, neither had developed a Stamp. It was left to Lian and not nearly as efficient as the Fire Bombs had been. While he scowled over the flickering coals, their arms nearly gave out from the heavy hauling of kindling and logs.

“Remind me to make a good levitation Stamp when we get back,” Dwyn groaned.

“Levitation’s hard.” Lian said. “Even I can’t Move big things, yet. Besides, your Swaps are more important.”

Skubblenob, conveniently asleep, rolled over with a length of drool across his chin.

“Ya,” Dwyn said with a menacing glare. “Too bad I can’t Swap into a Choking Grub!” He yelled the last words right into the old man’s ear, garnering not even a sniff of reaction. “We’ve gotta get rid of him!” He fumed, taking an axe to the wood.

“And how do you propose we do that without killing the guy?” Root knew Dwyn was right, but visions of Skubblenob clutching his chest kept her hesitant.

“I don’t know. I’m just saying we gotta ditch him or kiss our Quill goodbye.”

“Maybe we can leave him a nice letter saying we’ve

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gone for groceries and would be back soon,” Lian suggested sarcastically.

They looked around gloomily. Skubblenob had taken them deep into a sludgy stew of slime-covered trees and scummy, green mud for miles.

The Swamps of Ko-ik, according to Road who’d been conspicuously unused so far. The landscape and sounds had become so foreign even Lian couldn’t recognize half the inhabitants, although he did label a very loud and ugly Wartlug, a type of bald bird that seemed to yell at them for sport. When Dwyn had thrown a stick at it, it merely caught it and threw seventeen back.

They sat on wet, spongy stumps that sunk alarmingly deep into the muddied ground. Everything felt damp and smelled like old sewer water. Lian opened a pocket of the truss pack and allowed a string of Globes to fly up into the surrounding black branches. He tied the ends and at least enjoyment was found in their soft yellow lights. Sleep was another thing altogether. The best word to describe it would be non-existent. Seriously, who can sleep in a swamp?

Besides Skubblenob. And Chesterly. Morning was a guess. The sky wouldn’t even give

hints. So, they rose when they rose and once again followed Skubblenob’s flashing, vine-infested helmet along the sloshing muddy trail. Walking became necessary because the wilted black branches were tangled so closely they were knocked off their Hovers every few seconds.

To this Lian proudly distributed his Skim Sandals. These were welcome indeed, somehow managing to keep everyone above the watery depths, skimming the surface like lily-boats.

Skubblenob’s pod had returned to a warm orange tinge, but this, the Bond had agreed, was never to be

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trusted again. That is until it suddenly became so hot Skubblenob

had to drop it. When he recovered it, the sleek platinum shell was red as a hot coal and vibrating in his mitts.

“It’s here!” the old man yelped and thrust the smoking thing forward, taking quick, deliberate steps toward its lead.

The Bond looked at each other. Could it be? They looked at Skubblenob. He was squealing in delight, certain his prized Tempometre was piloting him to a glorified fate. They looked at each other again.

Dwyn was the first to run, but Root and Lian were hot on his heels. They raced after the inventor, hearts pounding, once more putting the whole of their faith into a flickering garbage can.

Slipping, sloshing, gooping along…falling, hoping, even laughing, they followed Skubblenob as he led them atop a mush of pond straight into…

…a horror they couldn’t even grasp until it was too late.

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13 It took a brave amount of observation before the

Bond realized they were not looking at wax sculptures but real live bodies forever entombed in the solidified amber of trees. Thick, black, oozing trees. The same of which had encased animals and insects and – gasp! – Hilly Punyun and the Pinks.

Through the orange-y tinge Hilly Punyun could be seen permanently petrified in a crouch. A perfect ‘o’ shaped her mouth. Her hands were set stiff, held out in vain protection. To her left and right were Pidge and Sharmay. Fear mapped their faces.

Surrounding the Pinks were insects so large the Bond was grateful they’d been captured, and other strange creatures, mostly rodents and a sickeningly large snake that was entombed in the amber of sixteen trees (Lian counted).

Skubblenob dropped his pod, not because it was burning right through to his palms but because he realized, for the first time that he’d put his charges in danger. Serious danger.

“Kidlets, I think it’s time to go,” he whispered without moving.

A whimper brought their attention to a large black tree nearby.

Poor Chesterly…didn’t even see it coming. The thick

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resin was already halfway up his legs. Not even the desperate pulling, yanking and pushing of three teens, three Hovers and one old man could help him escape. The amber had caught him in its gluey’d trap. And now it was slurping down the tree, sticking his hair and ears and poor Chesterly’s short tail, no matter that it had sunk between his legs.

The thing with swamp amber is that it is everywhere. It leaks from trunks and branches, rises up from roots, leaving nothing unstuck in its path. And so it was that sixteen more legs were efficiently caught in its warm, thick syrupy trap.

After Chesterly, Skubblenob was the next to be entirely encased. Within mere seconds he became a permanent fixture, forever reaching for his beloved Hover, a look of desperate apology and regret etched in the lines of his face.

Dwyn was the last. He’d managed to get a fair distance away before his legs could no longer push through the amber. He turned to look for his friends and as the last golden liquid gooped over his head he spied Root. Frozen. Her arms were spread over her dear Stogie, vainly trying to keep him protected. As Dwyn felt his own body seize up, his eyes caught the suspended image of Lian, desperately digging in the truss pack. Dwyn did not see his beloved Hana behind him, frozen in her attempt to get him on her back.

*****

Now what many people do not know is that swamp

amber does not kill you. At least not right away. Lian concluded early on that the amber put its victims into a sort of stasis where bodily functions slow down to the

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point of near death, not Death death. But exactly how long this would last, he had no idea. Digestion was already stalled and days later he was still not hungry. He surmised that breathing had also slowed and came about most likely through the thousands of tiny air bubbles that had seeped in with the amber.

He was encouraged by the story of Inavere Cracklin, who’d been rescued from amber after many months in its belly. And yet, there was something about her that had changed. Her body had swiftly returned to health but her mind…well, months of petrified isolation seemed to have taken a toll. She was never the same. And so, with this in mind, Lian spent his eternal hours in a strict regime of study. To him it was his best mode of defense against the games his mind would soon play.

Dwyn too had come to this conclusion, but in the way that is Dwyn, he’d decided not to waste all this free time in study but in adventure. He sent his mind on spectacular missions and journeys…an actual Valador, a Sea Carver, a Bulk, facing a myriad of dangers, romances and buffets. If he couldn’t actually do it live, his mind was the next best thing. Either way he would eventually die feeling the same way.

Over the next few days Root relaxed her body into its eternal mold, resigned to her doom, at least no longer fighting it with the kind of tension that made her joints ache. She did not slip so easily into ‘positive thinking’ as her Bondmates had. Instead she spent many hours thinking the worst. Eventually, she felt herself drift into desperation. Into limbo, the mind’s playground. Here she came face to face with many foes, amongst them the great shadows, Doubt and Fear who taunted her with delight.

See where your arrogance has got you…Taaaalll…?

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Wretched, wretched Bone Grit, is all. And now you’re going to die. Like Fledger. “Fledger?” Root could feel him. She could sense him

along her veins. “Fledger!” Like your parents. The voices taunted. Like your friends. “No!” Root cried, but it came out like a feeble retch. While her body panicked and struggled in its trap, her

mind ran toward hysteria. She could feel madness slinking in, trying to sway her into a doughy surrender.

That’s when Jorab’s Wits lessons wafted up, like the healing mists of a hot spring. “The mind is mighty for it houses belief, which is everything. And belief in one’s Self is mightiest of all. Hold fast, little Root.”

With that, Root’s mind, heaving a great push of strength, turned and staggered away from its bleak and warped playground. She found herself present once more, still encased in amber and looking at the world through a copper tinge. With all of time before her she would at the very least enjoy her own company. And the company of anything else within eyeshot. In this case, the startled body of a giant guinea pig or marmot of some kind. Great. The entire rest of her life would be spent staring at a rodent. It was an ugly thing with wiry hair clumped here and there along its fat, sausage of a body and blotchy grey face. She had no idea what it was. So with nothing better to do she spent her hours pondering it. And the more she did, the more she realized it was less a rodent and more a pig…or a cow. Yes, even the nose, fat and wide was a

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cowish nose. Plus the legs had hooves…definitely of the bovine family. But so small…Wait! Maybe it was a thumb horse? No, too big. And too ugly. A thumb cow? Does a thumb cow even exist? When it dawned on her that perhaps this cow-pig-rodent was a baby cow-pig-rodent, her heart seized in the kind of way one’s does when one sees a puppy. Poor baby! No matter that this was probably the ugliest cow-pig-rodent-puppy she’d ever seen. A baby is a still baby and well, this posed all sorts of maternal feelings. And moral outrage! Poor thing. It just wasn’t fair.

“Fairness is subjective,” came a deep, low, earthy voice in Root’s head. If she hadn’t been stone stiff she’d’ve surely jumped. But instead she endured the thumping attack of her heart. Was this Fear returned?

“I will not fight you,” she thought and once again turned her focus away into the vast silence that Jorab had shown her.

“You cannot fight us. You’ve been disabled.” “In body, perhaps but not mind,” she responded. “Clearly yes, but it is not your mind we are

immediately concerned with.” Root wondered what ‘we’ meant. Had madness come

as well? Was she losing this game after all? “Who is this?” she demanded. “We are the Glawering.” “Who?” “We who have so captured you into tombs of our

blood.” Root paused. Tombs of blood? Okay, this was just

weird…She would have liked to have simply nodded off about then, but an idea suddenly occurred to her… “Wait! You mean the amber?”

“We do.”

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“You’re the trees?” “Not mere trees. We are the Glawering, the Watchers

of Life.” “Well, it looks like you’re doing a little more than

watching, if you ask me!” “Perhaps, from your perspective.” “Not just me. Look at all the other innocent creatures

you’ve captured. What did they do to deserve this?” “Once many and proud, the Glawering spread from

sea to sea. But now, at the hands of your nations we are all that remain. Thus all life that housed in our branches, that took breath and ease in our hollows, ate of our nourishing leaves are gone.”

Before Root could make sense of the Glawering’s words she had to make sense of herself. Had she gone mad? Or was she actually somehow conversing with swamp trees?

“Wits has given you much of itself, Root Karbunkulus. You would be wise to heed it.”

So she was conversing with them. With real trees, albeit trees that were clearly feeling justified in keeping her hostage.

“So, what happened?” she asked. “You tell us.” “I…I don’t know. You said there were many of you?

And now there are few? Were you…chopped down?” There was no reply and she knew it was true. They’d been somehow destroyed. “But, can’t you…y’know…grow somewhere else?”

“In this we are barren.” “Why?” “The last of our seed is fallen. It lies dormant in this

black place, where the soil is poisoned from battle. We do not bear fruit. We do not bear leaves, we do not bear the

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sweet blossoms of life.” “There was a battle here?” “War and war again.” Root went silent. And then she had an idea. “I know

someone who can nurse your last seed and give you back your life. He’s my friend, captured here in your amber.”

The Glawering tumbled out a long, bottomless laugh that sounded like distant thunder. “You think us fools!”

“No! No, I don’t. It’s true! He’s a Natruid!” A deep rolling hum returned from the trees. “The

Natruids are gone the way of death. They seek to dominate nature, not harmonize with it.”

“That’s not true! Lian loves and respects nature more than anything. He’s gifted…truly! And I know beyond any doubt that he can help you.”

The Glawering whispered and strummed with a sunken boom that made Root’s amber cocoon vibrate. “And then what, Root Karbunkulus? Who shall take our seed from this land of decay? Who shall spread it back into the corners of Lanlynne?”

“I will!” Root shouted. “I’d be glad to.” “We have heard these words before,” the Glawering

thrummed. “You are no different, Root Karbunkulus.” Root felt them leaving her. Her heart fell. “In this girl’s words you may trust,” came a new

voice. It was not the Glawering and yet its round and mellow tones had a familiarity Root could not place. It continued. “I have seen this child. She acts in heart and you will do well by her offering.”

Who is that? Root thought. She flipped through her files of memories, trying to put a face to this voice that she knew she knew. It wasn’t Jorab. He came in more clear. This voice felt more like a flickering pulse.

“And why should we trust you, Tagit?” the Glawering

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said. The Tagit! The Tagit! Oh my goodness! Root’s mind

leapt as she reconciled the voice with the double-headed snake. Her friend! The Tagit, who had taken her and hundreds more on his back to help them escape slavery. Who had stripped himself into two and sacrificed one for her freedom. Then she made the connection. This was the other half that had escaped and was now encased in the amber of sixteen trees.

“Tagit?” she said. “Greetings friend,” the snake replied. “I’m so sorry that this is what became of you.” “There is no need. You gave me many months of

freedom and more, a union and a hatchling. I could never be more grateful.”

Root felt a shiver try to shimmy its way underneath the skin of her back. She smiled inside. A shiver, in this tomb. Imagine that.

“If the girl lies, she will not get far. What do you have to lose?” the Tagit answered the Glawering. “If she speaks truth, how much greater is your gain?”

Silence answered him, long and patient. Then a tremor rose up from the earth. The sky seemed to greet it in voltaic waves. Root could hear something…whispers and rustling of thought. She felt like she was eavesdropping on gods, too far away to hear actual words but close enough to sense enormous power.

When the sky folded back and the earth buried its tongue once more, the Glawering raised their deep, haunting voices. “Root Karbunkulus. In this we shall release you.”

“No!” she cried, “I offered Lian, not me. He’s the one who can help you. I don’t know anything about…”

There was a low, stirring hum again. Root felt warmth

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spread from the crown of her head, down her back and along the length of her legs and with this a slow softening of her copper shell as it slowly slid away.

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14 When the last of the amber drooled off Lian’s ankles,

he looked around with blinking, startled eyes. Root was standing in front of him, goopy and gunked with, of all things a smile on her face. She gave him no time to savour relief or even ask questions before thrusting him into his duty. A duty way, way, way beyond his ability.

“How’m I supposed to do that?” he spewed in a whisper, hoping not to be overheard.

“I don’t know. You’re the amazing Natruid.” “In training, Root. In training.” “Oh pfffft,” she said. “You can do this, Lian! Easy!” Lian looked at her, his expression a flat-out contrast

to the faith in her eyes. She backed it up with another unconquerable smile and he was dashed. He heaved a great sigh, turned away and began pacing. When, at length his steps took on the familiar shape of a figure eight, Root relaxed. It would not be long now.

He came to her shortly thereafter with an idea, “Ask the Glawering where their last seed landed.”

She did and was told it lay in the bottom of the swamp, a syrupy mass of coffee-coloured water covered in a thick skin of green.

Great. Another hour passed with things coming together

under the direction of the ‘young Natruid in training’.

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Sloshvine was attached between himself and Root. She was to brace behind a large tree bordering the swamp, on standby in the event that Lian needed to be pulled ashore.

Though Lian had somehow transformed his shirtsleeve into a comfortable breathing apparatus and put ClearView drops in his eyes to see underwater, Root knew he dreaded the very idea of his task. She would’ve done it in a second, but with no idea what a Glawering seed looked like nor what it was capable of, it was best held for Lian’s expertise.

As he slowly lowered himself into the cold and slime of the swamp Root tightened her grip, determined to keep him firmly attached to dry…well, dryer ground. She watched him now, sinking beneath the nasty sludge, the last of his head disappearing from view.

Minutes went by. All Root could see was the Sloshvine pulling away from her, sagging into the swamp. There was no tugging, just a slow unraveling from shore. As Lian progressed, Root could sometimes hear his breath through the reed-sleeve, a heavy, uncomfortable panting that made her feel really sorry for him.

And then, in the twitch of an eye the reed was gone. Just. Gone. Before she could even react, Root was yanked so hard

she lost her footing and went flying into the water. Amidst hysterical splashing and the choking inhalation of slime, Root fumbled to keep a hold of the Sloshvine and drag it back to shore. But something very strong had other plans. Again she was yanked from her bearings, even deeper into the murky depths. Millions of slimy green algae eggs clotted up her nose and throat, making her gag and spit up. Before she could recover, the Sloshvine was once more yanked with such force that it nearly disappeared. Only the very last bit of the end

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remained. Root clung to it desperately, her only lifeline to Lian.

It was a battle of strength that Root was clearly losing as she found herself getting pulled lower and lower into the water. Her fingers were clenched so tightly around the Sloshvine they were now locked in a numb curl. All the while her feet skidded, desperately hoping the muddied floor of the swamp would eventually present a brace. Soon her chin reached the green surface and once again she was fighting to keep algae from invading her nose and mouth.

Whatever this thing was, it was strong and it was not giving up easily. It dragged Root further and further into the cold depths of its home until only the pumpkin-orange of her hair could be seen in a wet fan along the surface. When this too disappeared and her lungs were forced into a last, hoarded breath, Root knew she had to let go.

Her heart nearly collapsed at the thought of leaving her friend alone in this cold, deathly under-water place. No. She couldn’t do it. She could not let go and leave Lian here, to this monster. And yet even as she debated this, the thick waters began to take their toll. Her grip of the Sloshvine grew weaker and her brain swooped into a meandering world of surrender.

She did not feel the arms grip her waist, nor the slur of water pushing past. It was only once the glorious force of air hit her lungs that she was brought back to awareness.

“Quick! We’ve gotta get away from the shore! It’s a Swamp Pig!”

It was Lian! Root looked to see that her fingers were still wrapped around the Sloshvine. She hadn’t let go! And now Lian was here and alive and…

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Wait – did he say Swamp Pig? Indeed. Imagine, if you will a pair of barbed tusks. And a

mountain range of teeth firmly attached to your friend’s ankle, should your friend be Lian Blick.

Even as Root saw this, the tides abruptly turned and Lian, god only knows how, managed to break free. On the polar side to this, the Swamp Pig now turned to Root.

Imagine a mountain range of teeth firmly attached to your own ankle, should you be Root Karbunkulus.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” The Swamp Pig began to retreat. Taking Root with it.

Root’s fingernails clumped with mud as she scraped for grip. Lian took hold of her hands. Then he too was sliding swamp-ward, both of them once again edging closer and closer to the monster’s sludgy underwater den.

Smack! Bam! Bam! The Swamp Pig stopped tugging and paused, a look

of complete shock on its face. Whack! Bam! Smack! The pig stooped back with a loosened grip that

allowed Root’s leg to squirm for escape. Smack! Bam! Whack! Whack! Whump! The pig all but fell to its knees, its eyes dazed and

batting. Root scrambled to safer ground. Lian’s reed-sleeve

was left behind, hanging mangled from one of the Swamp Pig’s tusks.

With nothing short of awe, Root and Lian watched the Glawering’s lightning quick branch execute two more blows to the Swamp Pig’s enormous head. Then the beast was gone, staggering back into its cesspool. A whimpering, snorting stew of air bubbles lingered in its

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descent. It was a long time before the tremble of their breath

settled and they could be certain the monster would not return. Root looked at Lian. Like her, he was coated in mire. Even his eyelashes were green with it. He didn’t smile, but he did hold something up. Something phosphoric and bloated, about the size of a thumb with a tiny furrow of fluorescent fibers all along its seam.

The Glawering’s seed!

***** A tree had moved over to allow Lian some sunlight

with which to perform his operation. It was intricate stuff he was dealing with. Root leaned over as he poised the Quantifier to insert the exact amount of something bright red into the seed.

He stopped and looked at Root. “Oh,” she stepped back, allowing the light to

reappear over his patient. Lian resumed his position. Root couldn’t help but

lean in again to see what would happen as the needle slipped ever so gently into the Seed’s end. And while Root was actually wondering if it was the seed’s butt, something quite extraordinary happened. The Seed coughed. And then it spluttered and sneezed and went on like this for a few seconds before it finally stopped and shook itself like a wet dog. When it had finished, it had fluffed itself into a phosphorescent ball that reminded Root of the tops of seeded dandelions. It had also managed to attract half the Glawering who now bent and stooped and goggled and cooed and practically fell over each other for a peek.

“I’m just gonna put it into this for protection,” Lian

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held up a large whitish sphere that looked to Root exactly like an eyeball. It even had a spread of blood-shot arteries across it. Lian gently put the seed into its pupil. It was like crossing into a black hole. “This is the eye of a Squalabee,” he said. “Your seed will be completely protected in there, won’t even scratch.”

The Glawering hummed in admiration and approval. “When we reach a clearing in a good patch of soil,

Root can release it.” Lian tapped a pocket of the truss pack. A big, hairy hand with black nails came out, took the eye from him and slid back in.

The earth seemed to throb again, sending a tremor of energy up from its core. Root’s skin and blood tingled. She wondered if this was what a tree felt like as it pulled the essence of life into its roots and up through its branches. The Glawering arched their topmost branches. “Powerful Natruid, for this we are eternally grateful. We offer you anything within our power.”

*****

When all the amber had slid slowly down the heads

and faces and backs and legs and hair and paws and scales of its victims, and when hugs were had and licks reached the point of no return and the animals of the wild had leapt to farther reaches and one ginormous Tagit had tickled Root with its flickering tongue and three Pink jaws had dropped, and the old inventor had recovered his Tempometre, it was time to say farewell to the Glawering.

“Thank you so much!” Root hugged a tree and allowed its crooked branch to wrap around her. She introduced Dwyn who happily shook the Glawering’s branch.

Root laughed.

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“What’s so funny?” he asked mid-shake. “It’s wondering why you’re waggling its nose,” she

said. “Oh,” Dwyn stopped. As he awkwardly stood back,

the swamp trembled with a deep, eternal moan. “It’s okay,’ Root said. “They’re laughing!” When Root pointed out their actual ‘hands’ Dwyn

and Skubblenob took to them like guests greeting a bridal party, filling each handshake with ‘glad to meet you, thank you for saving us after you very nearly killed us, do you have relations in Perderly? And my, what lovely bark you have.’

Lian had simply bowed in quiet. He knew he’d done nothing alone but with the surging might of Creation itself. And he was honoured.

Hilly Punyun, on the other hand, was held back from kicking the tree that had held her hostage. “I oughtta…”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were…” Too late. With a swift swoosh of a branch Hilly

Punyun was dangling. When she screamed it was to be another fiasco as the

truss pack erupted with Lian’s Shrieking Shrub. It landed with a splat around Hilly’s neck. Sharmay and Pidge tried a desperate means of extraction, but the thing simply would not abandon its ‘mother’. Not this time. No way.

When Hilly finally accepted defeat, telling the shrub she would love it forever (singing it, actually), the Shrub reluctantly accepted ‘Uncle Lian’. Thereon she was quickly dropped to the ground and led away by the other two-thirds of her Bond.

Her Rover, a very, very short gnome of a woman with a severe fringe of black hair across her forehead and glasses the size of plates sighed and grudgingly followed. This is not at all what the brochure had said, she thought.

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There’d been no mention of swamps and snotty, rotten brats…only a chance for travel, to see the world. No experience needed, all you had to do was squeeze the Bean Bug if you were in need.

She was not pleased, especially having given up Canonballing for this! She’d been on the verge of Canon Champion with only one Baller to usurp, Charlebois McMissile, who’d been shot nearly ten miles, straight across Lake Bigum. But oh no, she had to listen to her sister. Well, there would be hell to pay now.

Lian snatched his Shrieking Shrub and quickly banished it with a ‘mumsy visitation’ bribe into a much deeper pocket of the truss pack.

“You can ride with us if you like, Hilly,” Root offered unenthusiastically from atop the giant head of the Tagit. Lining up behind her, along the great snake’s torso were the rest of the Valadors and their rather uncomfortable Hovers, anxiously looking forward to flight in the very near future. Chesterly was already panting.

“I’m not riding that Thing! It’s disgusting!” Hilly marched away stubbornly, colour-coded disciples in tow. Her Rover paused, torn between the two. On the one hand she could ride a real life Tagit! Not every day you get an opportunity like that. On the other hand were three snotty, rotten princesses whose very voices made her head grind, the ones who had led her into the glue of these black trees in the first place.

She blinked back at her charges from the Tagit’s back, a can-you-blame-me-shrug filling in the blanks.

Hilly humphed and kept marching, even as her glittering ankle boots gooped heavy with mud.

“Suit yourself,’ Root smiled as the Tagit began a slithering departure.

“Oh and by the way, you’re welcome!’ Lian added. Hilly snorted into a crossed-arm snit with her nose in

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the air. Funny how the roaring snap of a vengeful Swamp Pig

along with a torrent of slimy green-black swamp water can change one’s mind.

The Pinks were placed at the very back of the Tagit, where they could be heard the least.

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15 A clearing! A clearing! A beautiful, sun-drenched,

perfectly golden clearing! This could not have come soon enough. Even the

Tagit was relieved beyond joy for now he could dump off the three pink carpers that had annoyed him since first departing the Swamps.

Root leapt off and stretched. Her legs, her back, her neck, even her hair was sore. She’d been clinging to the Tagit for so long she was sure she had stiffened into a permanent stoop.

They were, all of them a stark contrast to the fresh ease of the meadow. Still sticky with amber, they hadn’t eaten and from them came a sweaty stench easily eclipsing Chesterly’s breath.

Skubblenob had vexed them with his constant attention to the Tempometre pod. It had remained scalding hot, though they were nowhere near the Swamps now.

Twice he’d dropped it on the poor Tagit’s back. Twice! The great head had swung around in contempt the first time. Wrong thing to do since it made Skubblenob panic and drop it again. Dwyn had finally grabbed the thing and hot potatoe’d it over to Lian who put it in the refrigeration pocket of the truss pack.

The inventor eventually fell asleep with the helmet

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fallen over his brow and a host of squeezebox riffs spilling from his throat.

Now eight Hovers rose into the air with long deep breaths of freedom. They romped from one end of the blossomed meadow to the other, stretching their long unused bodies with glee.

Hilly Punyun skidded from the Tagit’s back and threw her Road onto the ground. It swiftly gathered and mingled with the soil before forming a perfect map of their surroundings. A face etched in the top right corner. “Greetings and thank you for choosing Roads R Us, the most reliable…”

“Shut up and tell me where we are!” The Road gaped momentarily then heeded the

question with a loaded clearing of its throat. “We are in a cleared passage called Pomean’s Steppe. This brief, yet abundant meadow intersects the Swamps of Ko-ik with The Maline Mountains. Yonder, edging its land is a hedge of juicy wild raspberries and an orchard of Ernut trees awaiting harvest. A clear mountain brook, currently untitled resides exactly fifty paces north. Six fair jaunts to the east is the town of Bansper with full amenities. To the west you will find…”

“Yeah, yeah. Upsy daisy!” Hilly rolled her eyes and sucked the Road up in a cyclonic spin, back into its velvet pouch.

There was no conversing, no democratic debate amongst her Bondmates. Hilly Punyun’s mind was made up and that was clearly all that mattered. She whistled, jumped atop her Hover (an overly groomed canine in a flashy pink collar) and headed eastward. Nothing of a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘thank you’ was considered, let alone actually uttered.

Sharmay, Pidge and their very displeased Rover

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mounted and ranked in behind her, though from their pained looks those juicy wild raspberries were hard to leave behind.

*****

After the ice-cold, refreshing waters of Untitled plus

mittfuls and mittfuls of raspberries and Ernuts, sleep came fast, indeed. At least for Skubblenob, who dozed over the hypnotic dance of a fire.

If only Root, Lian and Dwyn could join him. But, no. Not yet. Not until a decision was made. One that should have been made ages ago.

“I just think ‘mutiny’ is a bit of a harsh word is all,” Root whispered.

“Well, call it what you want, the fact is we’ve gotta get rid of him once and for all! Or we may as well just kiss this Find goodbye.” Dwyn’s eyes were seriously serious.

Lian kept his attention on the fire, “He’s right, Root.” “Fine. How?”

***** Skubblenob woke with a note beside his head.

Gone for groceries. Be back soon.

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16 The old woman closed her eyes. Her head trembled.

In her hand a paintbrush began an urgent sweep across the canvas.

“What is it, Sage Mother?” asked Fawn, the young girl at her side.

As the Sage Mother’s apprentice, Fawn had been practicing Sight for some time now. But she was nowhere near full power and could make out nothing of the old woman’s vision as it came in furious brush strokes of colour and light.

Fawn sighed. Over the weeks she had grown weary of her training. If she had her way she’d be dancing through the mists in High Basin where the cool refreshing water fell from the cliffs. But the old woman had seen a gift in her and as Diviner of the Tribe, the Sage Mother was not to be denied.

Outside a window Fawn could hear the breezy laughter of her friends. But all she could see was her own impatient reflection. Her hair fell in long ebony crinkles that seemed to have lost their lustre from so many sunless days. Her olive skin too looked hungry for the nourishing drink of outdoors. And when she spied her eyes looking back, she wanted to cry for in them she saw a trapped animal longing for freedom.

It wasn’t that the old woman was unkind. To be sure,

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she was as sweet as the syrup that spilled from the maples into the tribe’s empty jars. Her wizened eyes were always seen twinkling merrily and her laughter filled the corners of her caravan.

The Sage Mother was given second caravan, a deep purple structure with whispering visions that came and went along its facing. Gold seemed to have fallen from the sky and rolled down its corners. And in the centre, a great eye was painted with such conviction, the viewer felt known to the bone. The first caravan, a pageant of blue and gold with a jewelled mosaic in its centre, was given to the caravan leader, Festa the Bright. Fawn’s father.

Fawn always found it ironic that neither of them in their power and wisdom could see that she wasn’t cut out for Tribal Queen or Diviner. All she wanted to do was dance.

The old woman’s paintbrush moved wildly upon the canvas until at last the hand found peace and fell to her side. The brush dropped to the floor. Her vision was over. The painting was complete.

Fawn queried her again. “What is it, Sage Mother?” “Glam ash puray,” the Sage Mother spoke in the

ancient tongue of her tribe. Someone comes. Fawn looked at the old woman’s painting. A pumpkin haired girl her own age looked out at her with amethyst eyes. One boy, a Natruid and another whose lineage was unclear flanked the girl. Fawn found herself dizzy in the intensity of colour and strokes. A thrill of bumps covered her skin. Spirit talk.

“Who is this?” she asked, surprised that three common youths would arouse such reaction in the woman. And in herself. Her people were nomads. Visitors came and went all the time and rarely had Fawn seen the Sage Mother offer more than a nod or a clicking

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of her tongue. Obviously, these three were of some importance not yet manifest in Fawn’s range of Vision. “Praporem aven duvinat?” What is their purpose?

The Sage Mother opened her eyes and took Fawn into them, an ocean swallowing a drop of water. She smiled then, with an artful curl of lips and said, “Va.”

Go.

***** Unlike his Bondmates, Dwyn’s energy had not even

dipped let alone sunk. While Root and Lian staggered along in exhaustion he seemed to walk on air. The same potholes and roots and branches that had clipped them seemed to avoid him entirely. His steps were light and sure and before the sun was down, he had led his friends to a canopied spot overhanging a summer-kissed valley rolling in flowers. Here the Bond finally rested and set up camp.

“What’s with you?” Root asked tending a hot cup of Chorm.

“What?” Dwyn said. “You’re like super guy or something. It’s like you but

an improved version. You haven’t even stumbled. Not even once. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Yeah, actually I have.” And for the rest of that evening Dwyn’s friends heard detailed accounts of his travels, the ones he took while set like a statue in amber, that didn’t exist anywhere but in his mind. The ones that had literally trained him intensely for weeks.

“What you experienced was your Heat. Which, having no actual outlet, grounded in your physical apparatus. A lot of Stealthletes use the same kind of intense focus.”

“Nifty.” Dwyn said with satisfaction.

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“It won’t last,” Lian smiled knowingly. “What? Why not?” “Um…Chanéa Tweeger. Laronette Smitheen…” Dwyn felt a warm dawn of recognition. Girls. Right.

He stretched like a creature waking from hibernation, ready to get back into an old familiar groove. A goofy smile lit his face. Root rolled her eyes.

After hearing all about Dwyn’s ‘adventures’, Root now wished she’d done the same thing. But, oh no, she had to spend her precious hours and hours and hours staring at an ugly cow-pig-rodent thing, pondering its family tree.

Well, the universe must have a sense of humour or at least perfect timing for, just as Root thought this, a crack was heard from the hovering darkness beyond their fire and a slapdash of activity ensued: Lian said, “What the…” and then Dwyn moved like lightning and caught the thing that had made the cracking sound and dragged it fireside and Root said, “Oh my goodness! It’s the cow-pig-rodent thingy!” at which point the cow-pig-rodent thingy cried out with a kind of throaty bray that freaked Dwyn out and made him drop it and that was when they all saw that it was just a baby…an ugly one at that and as they kind of blinked in confusion it ran into Root’s arms after tripping over logs and trampling Stogie’s tail.

It was all rather haphazard. In a run-on sentence kind of way.

But haphazard or not, Root recognized destiny when it came around and this destiny was licking her ears and staring at her with huge, precious Please Love Me eyes. In the manner of a true den mother, she had the creature fed, watered and wrapped in blankets fireside before the stars were out. It slept silent and deep, completely oblivious to the comments that batted over its head.

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“I just can’t believe how homely it is. I mean, what exactly is it?” Dwyn said. He and Root looked to Lian for the usual encyclopedic explanation.

“I think it’s a Frey, definitely from the Frey family.” Lian tilted in closer to the thing’s head. Always eager to ingest more from the pie of knowledge, he brought out a volume of books dedicated to mountain inhabitants (this from the library pocket of the truss pack). He scanned through the pages, happily sidetracked here and there by the particulars of similar inhabitants.

“Or quite possibly a Porgabott,” he said at last, pausing his finger over a picture. Root leaned in. The Porgabott was ugly indeed. Two distant eyeballs bugged out from grey skin that was patched in wiry tufts. Its ears were not unlike phonograph horns. But the thing was tiny. It barely fit over the model’s fingers. Nothing like her creature, which was at least the size of a small mule. She made a point of mentioning this.

“Well,” Lian patronized. “Maybe yours is full grown after all.”

“But it says Porgabotts only grow up to the height of an average ankle.”

Lian’s ears went red. He scanned the page for proof. “Well, whatever,” Dwyn piped up. “Maybe it’s an

exception to the size rule. It still looks like it.” “Not really. It’s ugly but not the same ugly.” “Ugly is ugly, Root.” Root looked at the picture again. Maybe…maybe there

was some similarity in the eyes, but that’s where it ended. “I just don’t think it’s a Porgabutt,” she said with an air of finality.

“Porgabott.” Lian corrected and flipped the page. He knew Root was right, of course, but she didn’t have to be so…so right about it.

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They went through a few more pictures. And a few more debates.

When it was agreed that the animal could be any of these or none of these, but that it was definitely not dangerous, Root spent the next hour trying to convince her Bondmates to let it stay with them, at least until it was old enough to care for itself. And though she was made fully aware of the fact that that could be many long interminable weeks, she held fast.

The creature slept on with gurgling sounds and enough gaseous grunts to seriously damage her case, but in the end, they agreed to let Root keep the ugly thing. As long as it stayed out of trouble and didn’t drag them down, especially now that they were Skubblenob-free and determined to catch up.

They had decided to visit the port town of Divit. It was close to the White Woods, where Milwart had said the HaloEm had herded at one time and Root’s Bone Grit blood seemed to approve with a quickening boil. With this in mind, the next hour or so was spent in preparation: cleaning up, filling up, planning, prepping. Skubblenob’s dumb pod had melted everything in the refrigerator pocket of the truss pack, which was what Lian was reorganizing when they heard a faint sound.

“Shhshshshshsh!” Dwyn said and pointed from their plateau far down into the valley where a sprinkle of golden lights began to glow. There must have been hundreds of them or more, lanterns and in larger areas, fires.

The sound came fuller now. Singing. And not just singing. Entrancing, smoky music that pulsed and rolled and danced in the mountains like fireflies.

“Are they…Woods folk?” Root asked. “I don’t think so,” Lian said. “The music is too rustic.

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I think it’s a tribe of some kind. It sounds Eastern. Probably Ekladians.”

“What’re they?” “Nomads. And they usually have really nifty stuff to

sell. Like, super excellent quality. Might be worth checking out.”

“So, they’re friendly then?” “Generally.” “Well, they sound pretty friendly to me. C’mon!”

Dwyn yelped and was gone. “Wait, Dwyn…you can’t just…” Too late. Root and Lian ran about trying to decide

what to bring or leave behind before yet again chasing after Dwyn. The Hovers were spread out in bundles around the fire and told to keep an eye on things. Root pointed out the sleeping CowPigRodent in the blankets to Stogie and told him to watch over it. Stogie was still staring at it as Root set out, as if he too had never seen anything uglier.

“Just leave it!” Root said to Lian who was hastily trying to repack the truss pack. “The Hovers’ll watch it.”

Lian was utterly aghast at the idea but had no choice. It needed to re-refrigerate before he could place anything back in. He grabbed what he could from the slew of objects strewn about and hastily tucked the rest beneath blankets.

As they ran after Dwyn, Lian gave Root a breathless lesson in Ekladian. “They are renowned. They create and collect some of the finest wares in the land. An Ekladian’s stamp is a valuable commodity. Because, though they are open market, it’s rare that one can offer something of equal value to them. Even Grotius Vulcherk has a hard time getting Ekladian goods. And don’t offend them in any way. They are proud and demanding of proper

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respect. They claim to come from a powerful line of gifted Seers, but it is extremely rare that you would get the opportunity to meet one. Generally, they are peaceful and simple nomads, living with the land and quick to find reason to celebrate, which is what we are about to…”

He stopped at the sight of Dwyn crouched low and spying, his eyes entranced. As they approached they too could see the wonder of colour and music and dance that mesmerized him. A mammoth fire blazed in the middle. At its head a band of musicians flavoured the air thick with song. And all along the fireside came the skipping of bare feet and clapping of happy hands.

The three friends drew in, content to take it all in from the secluded leaves of their hideout. The music flew faster and the feet followed devotedly. Some of the elderly pulled themselves away allowing the youth to break into the best of themselves. Here Root and Dwyn and Lian delighted in the colourful, vibrant skirts that pinwheeled into the air. And the bright open shirts of young men rising and falling in stag-like leaps.

Faster music. Faster hands. Faster feet. The Bond was so mesmerized they didn’t even notice

the old man who’d seen them and toddled over. His face simply popped up before them with a toothless grin. The next thing they knew he was pulling them into the dancing ring, not taking any of their panicked ‘no’s’ for an answer. It was here Root realized that she and her Bondmates were all still in their pajamas. They must’ve looked ridiculous. She expected the festivities to come to a screeching halt right then and there. But the music didn’t so much as skip a beat. Nor did the dancing. No one even yelled at them for trespassing. Or showing up in sleepwear.

Instead the night upheld its passionate pace drawing

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the three of them as kindred flesh and blood into its marrow. Partners were given each and though the Valadors were nothing of the coordination of these skillful dancers, they were smiled upon, patted on the back and carried away into the breathless, fevered flight of dance.

Dwyn could not believe his good fortune. The same girl he’d not been able to take his eyes from was now placed in front of him. She smiled a smile that knocked the wind out of him, but he stood straight and accepted her hand.

Root, on the other hand had been snatched up by a bulldozer of an Ekladian boy who literally did knock the wind out of her with the force of his embrace. Lian was suddenly dry mouthed and sick with nerves at the pretty maiden who fell into his arms.

They danced as best as non-dancing strangers could, hoping to dignify the leading cues of their partners. Or at the very least, not fall down. But as the music licked into even greater urgency, the Valadors graciously (and most relievedly) bowed out to allow the unhindered feet of true mastery.

Well, two did. Dwyn, in full swaggering form, decided to go another round.

The girl at his side looked at him with interest. And pity. For there was no way this boy would be able to keep up with her. Of course her expression did nothing to shift him. If anything it made his eyes bluer. Peacock blue, one would say. He launched a loaded grin and held out his hand.

Well, she thought, such arrogance deserves a fall now and again.

The girl accepted and led Dwyn centre, fully aware of the eyes that envied her, those whom Dwyn had already

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managed to impress. The music stoked. The girl moved in it with the spirit of a wild thing, one just woken from hibernation. Indeed, it had been months in the sleepy ashes of the Sage Mother’s caravan. Tonight she was Fawn, Dancer of the Earth.

And as if he’d been Ekladian-born himself, Dwyn fulfilled each move and breath with the same untamed spirit. Fawn felt heightened by the mere tracing of his finger along her back. Her chest fluttered for air, hot and dusty as it was. They danced, she and he as coiling, feathering smoke. One by one the other couples fell in their wake. In the suspension of space and time, Dwyn rose with such sinew that the girl was shocked to find the hair of her skin raised in his touch.

She was also annoyed. For he was looking at her now like he had her.

As if. She turned from the intensity of his eyes into the

finale where all the young women soared airborne and fell triumphantly back into the arms of the earth. The feet of their partners replied with ferocity, weaving from flesh to embers to flesh again.

And still the music played, leading the breathless youth into a unified building, building, building. Drums thundered the heart. Skin heated…eyes fired…ta da rum…ta da rum…building, building, building…

“EIY!” Silence, save for an echo that tore into the sky and

bounced among its infinite stars. Then a great, hearty roar of laughter. And a return to the world. Fawn and Dwyn bowed deeply and parted…with heat

still in them. Unsettled. Displaced. Longing for release. As the wild and the tame mingled once more, the

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sounds of the night found a gradual pitch of conversation. Root and Dwyn followed Lian’s lead toward a vortex of activity where men and women of the tribe were courting an elderly couple with bows and curtsies and nods and handclasps. Trays with goblets of foaming drink floated about in offering. The elderly man grabbed two goblets, one for the woman at his side; the other he held up. “Alastiss!”

His people replied in happy echo and drained their goblets. The man sent the trays back for more.

“That’ll be the leader,” Lian said. “C’mon.” Root and Dwyn followed him all the way up to the

riser where the man and woman sat in wooden thrones with a circlet of candles above them, mid-air.

The woman smiled when she saw them and winked. Her seasoned beauty instantly took them. “Please come forward,” she said.

The Valadors entered into the light where she could see them better. “You dance well, young man,” she said to Dwyn with approval. Her eyes were dark and kind. A thick braid of raven hair trailed well past her shoulders. Inlaid were hundreds of emeralds, their faces sparkling in the flicker of candles. Her dress was of the same jewelled green. Root remembered it pinwheeling past her during the dance.

“Thank you…uh…your highness?” Dwyn said nervously.

The woman laughed, “Please call me Wintra. Wintra of Sunhaven, in your service. And this is Festa, the Bright.”

“Welcome, friends! What deserves us such grace?” Festa was a lean, dark man with glistening skin and muscle from the dance. He wore an open silk shirt of royal blue that, even in this dim light, pulled from the

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same jewel blue of his eyes. Root’s and Dwyn’s awkward shuffle indicated that it

would be best for Lian to speak on their behalf. Little did they know his speech would sound like he’d sliced his tongue. In fact it was a long, mortifying minute before it occurred to them that their friend was actually speaking Ekladian. Ekladian! The words spilled from him like a fountain…not that they should be surprised but they were…and then, then he interpreted for their benefit.

“We were led to you by the passion of your music but were preceded by your reputation.”

Root and Dwyn blinked. Nice. “And what reputation is that?” Wintra asked

amusedly. Again the language fell with ease from Lian’s tongue.

“Why, the legendary Ekladian bar upon which all true artistry and mastery are measured. It is no secret the beauty and innovation of your wares.”

Festa nodded. He was pleased. “And do you come of curiosity or business?”

“Both sir. If you will humour us.” The man laughed and gestured the musicians. “At

sunup I shall humour you, clever boy. In the meantime, you and your friends are welcome guests of my people.”

And with that the table beside them was loaded up for serious culinary action: plates of fresh-herbed meats steaming and sizzling, bowls of morning-picked vegetables chopped into mountains of colour and capped with maple juice, breads still warm enough to melt cheese, platters of blushed fruit, and mugs of bubbling Willow Wine.

Guests indeed! They were downright royalty!

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17 In the blink of a festival-soaked-eye morning boosted

the sun over the horizon. The Valadors were drenched in mirth and more relaxed than they’d been in weeks.

And now Festa was going to take them on a tour through the legendary Ekladian caravan. Root’s curiosity had grown over the night as stories of its unsurpassed treasures fell upon her ears. She and Lian hurriedly met Festa at the end car, where dew was still glistening on its round windows. Dwyn was missing in action. But the way he’d been strutting around those girls, his Bondmates could safely assume he had absolutely no inclination to be found. Indeed Lian had no inclination to look for him. Lian was practically drooling and would hardly allow the recklessness of Dwyn’s ego to tear him away from an opportunity like this.

A short distance away from the end car, in a quiet settlement of morning sun, Hovermutts, livestock and other Ekladian domestics grazed. Festa gave Dwyn exactly one minute before shrugging him off with a fatherly grin, “That boy’s got a rascal on his heels.” He shook his head and directed the other two to the door. It was an arched frame with no handles. Festa leaned forward and whispered into the grains of its wood. A moment later the door opened like a drawbridge and two silent doormen greeted them. With very large swords.

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“You see those blades?” Festa asked. Root and Lian nodded; couldn’t really miss them, unnaturally blue and sharp as they were. “They are made from the bones of a Brine Demon. Validyn himself slayed the demon. He then buried the bones as an offering to the land while the great patriarch, Plenilune, Lord of Eventide merged them in the purity of moonlight.

“Validyn later gifted the Brine Demon’s bones to my father,” continued Festa, “the great swordsmith, Guandav. And this is what became of them. As venomous and undefeated today as then.” The tribe leader straightened and cleared his throat. “Festa the Bright!” he said in a clear, authoritative voice.

Immediately the blades uncrossed, catching the sun in their motion and sending a threatening blue flare to the eyes, as if the spirit of the Brine Demon still lay in the reforged bones, awaiting a chance for revenge.

“Please, after you,” Festa said and gestured toward the opening. Lian stepped forward, cast a fleeting glance at the swords and entered. Festa held out his hand for Root. She was not one foot in when a voice called, “Hold!”

A young girl strode toward them. Immediately Root recognized her, Dwyn’s dancing partner of last night. She was even more beautiful than the flattering spill of firelight had made her and Root felt a pang of self-consciousness. She tried to brush back her messy, tangled excuse for hair. Still in her pajamas she couldn’t help but notice the fresh bright colours that fluttered like feathers in the girl’s skirt.

“Fawn!” Festa cried and captured the girl in a strong embrace. “You danced last night as I’ve never seen.”

The girl blushed. “Perhaps the Sage Mother was right in giving you a

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break from your studies,” Festa turned to Root. “This is Fawn, my daughter.”

“Hi,” Root said. The girl smiled, “You have the most beautiful hair I

have ever seen.” And she meant it. The grass is always greener. This time Root blushed. “And what brings you here, daughter?” “The Sage Mother sends for our friend, Root

Karbunkulus.” Festa’s eyes widened. But he knew better than to

question. “This is an honour indeed. The Sage Mother is a rare host. You are a most fortunate girl.”

“I am?” “She has obviously seen something in you that has

captured her. Do you accept?” “Uh…” The girl helped her out. “The Sage Mother is a Seer.

She comes from Proslin, where the land has birthed the greatest Seers of all time. She is kind. You needn’t be afraid.”

“Oh. Um…okay.” Lian stuck his head out from the door. It was

unnerving to see it so close to the flashing blue blades. “My daughter sends message that the Sage Mother

wishes to see your friend.” “Really? Nifty!” Lian smiled. Root looked at Lian awkwardly. She wasn’t

comfortable with the idea of leaving him and hoped he would read her expression but…

“’Kay, we’ll meet up later!”…is what came from his oblivious lips.

Fawn smiled and took Root’s hand, “Come.” Root gave a last spin of her head to see Festa stepping

in and the swords crossing behind him.