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 978-0-9866741-6-7 www.bonegrits.com

For My Shrimpkin

Bone Grit (n): of old Lanlynne origin, meaning: ‘brave

to the bone’

There was a time when Bone Grits held a noble calling. Theirs was a necessary trade used even by the monarchs of old in the search of Icerock. Bone Grits were the brave Finders who scoured villages for rats and strange moulds. They Found water when the rains stopped.

But after the notorious Bone Grit Grayshank found the monarch’s wife and never gave her back, the trade plunged into dishonour. Finders became a cursed and distrusted lot. Lanlynne’s people, loyal to their monarch, crusaded against Bone Grits. They were driven from beds into cold and stench.

Over time, the words themselves became slang: If you could find a bottle of brew but not your sock, you were called a Bone Grit. If you had a bad temper, you were said to have a Grit Streak.

Modern usage likens a Bone Grit to shoelessness and dirt-smeared greed. One clutches one’s purse and crosses streets to avoid a Bone Grit.

Present-day meaning: ‘a faithless core’.

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1

Root wiped the blood from her eye and squinted into the thick hedge of corn stalk. It had to be here somewhere. Her skin had told her so. Even now, the hairs were still raised on her arms. She pushed through, keeping her eyes on the ground, hoping for a glimpse of the Siren’s red glow.

The sky lost sight of her beneath the deep green tassels, but she knew its plan. Any minute now, its tumbling black would find her and soak her to the bone.

She took another soft swipe of blood and shook her head. This job had been nothing but trouble from the beginning. From the sprained wrist a week past, to the raven attack not a half hour ago. And now the swollen sky.

She reached out, forgetting about the shooting pain that still clung in her wrist, and winced. It was not getting any better.

The Aunts had assured her it was nothing to worry about, and she never thought they’d lie to her. Other, less skilled traders, sure, all the time. But not Root. Not their best Finder.

She should have known when they took the time to wrap her hand. Something the Aunts did not do. Ever. Affection, nurture? Not their strong suits. She thought

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they’d seen the agony in her eyes and actually pitied her. For it was agony. In all her young years Root could not remember an ache such as this.

But Root was wrong. The Aunts had only bluffed concern. And when the bandage was firmly in place they sent her off, oblivious to the horrible truth that lay beneath it.

Now a week later, Root, still unsuspecting, even as the gauze lay cold and blue, breathed the pain away and brought herself back to task. The Siren was near. She could feel its pulse, smothered and faint. She skewed her eyes, taking in each reedy stalk of corn, looking for the Leak, the signal. A spidering of realization took her spine. She drew in a breath. The ears. Yes, of course.

With her good hand, she awkwardly detached a cob and tore it open. The sweet mellow rows were hard to resist. Just one bite. No, there’s no time. She tossed it. Another one, another toss. She reached past the first row and pulled a third ear from its hold. The silk peeled downward with ease. There was no yellow, no rows. Instead, a red flare. Her heart leapt.

At the same time, the sky erupted. Root dropped the Siren as the first bolt struck, its crack trembling the earth. A moment later, the clouds opened wide. A pool was already forming around her as she fumbled for the dropped treasure. By the time it was in her hand again, mud was caking it.

Her thumbs, now cold and slippery, pulled the last of the cradling leaves away. She caught her breath. The blaze of the jewel mesmerized, throwing raindrops into ruby prisms. The Siren. Kept from the reaches of entire search squads. Fifty Badges, at least. Now sitting in the palm of a lowly Bone Grit.

Root bit her lip. Surely the Aunts would pay her

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handsomely for this one. Her stomach growled, long weary of this hope.

A sheet of white lightning crackled across the sky. And there he was, lit up, spiring and crooked, staring at her down the muddied row. Longeye. And he was not happy. “That belongs t’me, Bone Grit.”

“Well now…” Root took a careful step back, “…the Proof of Ownership in my pocket would beg to differ with ya, Longeye. Says it belongs to someone else. Someone whose been lookin’ for it for a long time.”

“Finders keepers,” Longeye sneered, then lunged. The Siren slipped into Root’s pocket and she was

gone. Mud and rain clung to her, weighing down her bare feet and sending them amuck. She could hear Longeye behind her. She turned right, then wove back left and dove. A thicket swallowed her whole. She held her breath and waited. Soon the man’s drowned figure tromped the garden row toward her.

The storm was thrashing and bending the corn stalks to the ground, parting the way for his towering rack. He seemed unfazed by the downpour. His growl was heard over it all. “I know who you are, you snot-nosed krip and I promise you this, you will die before you leave here with my Siren!”

Root held her breath and tucked in further. She’d become an accomplished stealthlete over the years, able to contort into the most ornery folds, outrun the giant hare, even flutter along branch like the leaves themselves. But this night, with the sky and her wrist so resoundingly against her, she had to yield muscle memory to the swiftness of wits.

Longeye actually began to whistle. This while the rain pounced and the wind ran like Devil’s Breath. It was the stuff of nightmares. And now it was capped by the

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cleaver suddenly produced from under his rain cloak. Root peeked out from her thicket. She could see

Longeye’s legs now. And the dripping blade. The only thing that could have possibly saved her, the one thing in the entire world that had the power to do so, most unexpectedly did.

“Horace Ichabod Fronstachio! You get on back in here!” Mistress Longeye’s voice landed like a sweet hymn in Root’s ears.

“Hold your horses, Angina! I done spied a little thief here and I’m gonna…”

“I am quite certain not even a water beetle would be out in this downpour. So, you get on back in here and finish up them dishes like y’promised!”

Longeye kept his eyeball fixed. He thought he saw something in that basil thicket. He inched in closer.

“Horace! I will give you to the count of three…” Root put her fingers to her lips and released a shrill

whistle. At once the screen door flew open, smacking the mistress in the shoulder. “Oh, for the love of gravy! Bugle! Bugle, you get back in here you bone-headed mutt! There now, see what you’ve done, Horace! Bugle’s got out!”

Longeye turned to see his hound sliding across the porch and leaping off in the direction of the chicken coop. “My prize hens!” he yelled. His great muddied boots were gone in two great muddied strides. That was, until he saw the blur of his thief making for escape.

“Oh no y’don’t!” He pivoted and lunged. But now Bugle was under him, tangling up his rangy legs and sending him butt-ward into a sodden patch of thistles.

Root ran. Her ears throbbed with the sound of Longeye’s waterlogged curses. She did not look back, but she knew, any second now he would…

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“Get ‘er, Bugle! Hunt that Grayshank and bring ‘er back bleedin’!”

Root’s legs doubled their effort, making straight for Shade Howl, where she could take to the rooftops. Bugle was sharp, but even his keen nose wouldn’t be able to handle a vertical chase. Hopefully.

The storm was already moving on. Not good. A drizzling mist would hold her scent, making Bugle a very happy mutt indeed. She concentrated on Nottley Hill. There would surely be run-off water at the base. It was a muddied slide down, but Root landed upright and was happy to see a newly formed brooklet. Its current was slow, but enough. She stepped in and held for a scent trail to form then stepped opposite the water flow toward the dark wet gates of Shade Howl. She had to hurry. Bugle would notice the ploy soon enough and return.

She skidded into Shade Howl. Its blue-black cobblestone was dappled in puddles that looked like bruised glass. The booming howl of Bugle took her by surprise. She turned. He was right behind her.

“You’re better than I thought,” she said and ran, immediately rummaging her mind for a decoy.

She remembered something she’d spied when she was shadowing past Longeye’s chicken coop. Bloodied stool. RushGut, by the look of it. Root swerved and headed for the Silver Kettle, a late night café. Its roof was easily climbed and moreover, she knew the menu.

Bugle cornered her in its back alley as Root hoped he would. In the dim light, while his were teeth bared, she scanned the slop mound of flies and feathers. Aha! She leapt and tossed the meaty bones at Bugle’s feet. The hound stopped barking. Root counted aloud. By the time she reached number seven, the bones stopped snapping in Bugle’s jaws. By ten he was whimpering.

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Root sighed. “I’m sorry, boy.” She patted his head. “I don’t expect the customers of the Silver Kettle feel much better than you. Nor will Longeye when the cooks come after him for selling them sick hens.” She covered Bugle with a crate to keep him dry, promising him full recovery in a few hours, then stepped out into the street.

She caught sight of something, a lump of bread, still semi-dry. She was so hungry.

It was under the front wheel of a carriage far too luxurious to be from Shade Howl. Before she could reach the bread, the owner of the carriage, an opulent man spied her. The scream was certainly enough to scare Root off; there was no need for violence. But the man’s attendant had been cued and now Root was being dragged out of the way by her hair.

The man then strode to his carriage, covering his mouth as if afraid of contamination. He kicked the morsel through the sewage grate before leaping inside. It was his eyes that left the cut inside Root. His eyes hated her.

She watched the carriage leave. She wondered if Bugle’s merciless attack would have

been better.

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2 At another alley’s dead end behind a looming wet pile

of rock, Root found her entrance and slipped under like a beaver to its lodge.

Home. She fell on her bed, a fumbling of hay and burlap and

let the rise and fall of her chest find its normal rhythm. She wiped her eyes, still shaken by the bread and the man.

After a time, she lit a candle and held the Siren up to the flame. It was beautiful, truly. And probably worth a pretty piece. Could no doubt buy her a plot far away from the likes of Shade Howl with junos to spare.

But Root knew better than to linger in such fantasies. If she were to keep it, there’d be another Bone Grit hired to Find her. Most likely a Tall.

She herself was a Small, preferring the petty treasures, the common Losts, like marriage bonds and luck teeth. The Talls, they were the ones who Found the big things. Soot Market things. And more than that, the Bone Grit Talls Found secrets. The kind of secrets that led to more Losts, like missing bodies. They were the true Grayshanks, the ones who made people close their shutters.

The Aunts, with their stumpy hearts, were Tall. And though Root was grateful they had plucked her from a

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baby’s death and given her a bed of chicken feathers, she was never going to end up like them. Talls chase money the way autumn leaves chase decay. Their eyes grow ugly. She was never going to end up like them. Ever.

Root’s stomach growled again as if to say, we’ll see about that. She got up and reached for the makeshift shelf. The wrist spasmed. Not good. She couldn’t afford a burden like this. She cradled the injury in her good hand and craned to see. A spud. It would have to do. At least until morning when she could deliver the Siren to the Aunts and collect her fee.

The taste of the raw potato was aided by a sprinkling of salt. When Root finished, she took over the burlap again. Normally she would empty the buckets of rain water, but not tonight. Not with this wrist.

As she would do every night, when her feet throbbed and her eyelids scratched, she hoped this would be her last Find. That somehow in the wishing minutes before sleep her Heat would spill from her, a sweet fever that would change everything.

Most Bloomed by age twelve, sometimes sooner. She was well beyond that. She wondered if she’d end up one of those doomed ones that were whispered about, whose Heat never came. It was a barrenness that was once unheard of, its mere notion laughed upon. But these days more and more witnessed it in their bloodlines.

“Forsaken us,” some would say, as if Théall might also one day take back the air and sky and sea as well. Root used to laugh when they touched their foreheads superstitiously. But as time lingered, she began doing it herself.

She’d already given up on a Pyre, the hot Heat that sprung from a talent. She’d be happy with just Perse, the common Heat. A nice and easy warmth that could light a

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candle with the wave of her hand. Maybe levitate a bucket or two. Perse could get her a decent job. Put the Bone Grit noose behind her.

She’d already memorized at least a dozen Perse Stamps, from closing a door to stirring a spoon. All she needed was the Heat to ignite them. Of course being Secondhander Stamps they wouldn’t last. But they’d lay the training groundwork until she could craft her own.

Fledger promised he’d help her just as soon as she Bloomed. He didn’t make enough at the Copper Quill to employ Root (not that a Bloomless Bone Grit could be much help!). But he seemed to appreciate her laboured efforts, and maybe her company too, for he repaid her with reading lessons and freedom to ransack his books. She initially decided upon an alphabetical attack but when a customer came in one day and nearly bought out the whole Stamping section, she changed her mind.

The lady had stacked Fledger’s counter with books, mostly Secondhanders with short shelf lives but still, Root couldn’t hide her envy.

“A Bloom in the house, Madam Timbers?” Fledger had asked.

Madam Timbers beamed with pride. “Yes, my little Willow surprised us all. She’s only seven, you know. Certainly, we always knew she was gifted. But seven!”

“Well, congratulations!” “Thank you, Fledger! I doubt she’ll be needing these

Secondhanders long. She’ll probably be crafting her own by the end of the week!”

“Ah, and among them a curse on that brother of hers, I suspect!” Fledger smiled.

Madam Timbers laughed. “Indeed, I never thought of that! Perhaps I’ll take this one too!” The lady added a new book to the pile, Sibling Sortilege.

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“And may I also recommend?” Fledger reached up and pulled another book from the shelf, Stitch Craft - A Parent’s Guide to Patching up the Home in the Wake of a Bloom.

Madam Timbers laughed again. “Oh, I doubt my Willow will have any such problems. But thank you all the same, Fledger.”

When she left, Fledger told Root that she’d be back for the book in a week. And indeed, the lady returned for the book the next day…with her arm in a sling.

After that, Root spent all her time in the Stamp section, rummaging and savouring instruction, noting easy Secondhanders she could use right away, and filing them to memory so she’d be ready when her Heat came.

That was two years ago. Root closed her eyes and tried to sleep her frustration

away. But outside she could feel something. Something Lost out there in the rain. Something bigger than the Siren. Bigger than Shade Howl itself.

She tried to push it away. A moment later she cried out in pain. The bones of her wrist had felt it too.

***** The rain hadn’t completely stopped, but Root didn’t

care. Sitting in a flooded dam of rock, starving and writhing in pain was a far worse fate. Anyway, the Aunts would be up. Cackling and clinking mugs, a song ringing from their throats as raw and ragged as the brew they were surely polishing off. Root knew it well:

Some go to pieces, some they go blind Me I go crazy fer the ol’ moonshine Call it white lightning or the pearl’s turpentine Call it for breakfast, the ol’ moonshine

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The Aunts named their house the Jobbery. It was where work was doled out. It stood, squashed-looking and rebellious, at the end of Cork’s Prowl. Closer inspection gave the impression that two house halfs had been scrunched together. And indeed, after a notorious dispute between the two sisters over décor, that’s exactly what had happened. One half was to Octavia’s liking, a sampling of brick. The other to Carblotta’s fancy: wood. As to colour, the brick stood grey. The wood went a hue Carblotta called puce. The neighbours called it bile.

Root walked the crooked path of quackgrass and thistles to its front door. She did not miss living here. The oil and water.

It had begun in the mirror. In the mirror Root could see that her long pumpkin-gold hair was nothing at all like the Aunts’ wiry nests. And she had a rather pleasing complexion that gave way to a light spattering of freckles. The Aunts had big, fat moles, not freckles. And, just to be clear, their eyes were black with not an iota of resemblance to the indigo hue that had settled into Root’s eyes.

Dismally no emulsion was felt in the work, either. The Aunts wanted her to Find bigger things, Tall things. “Just one,” they’d say, licking their lips, snubbing the dangers.

Over and again, Root refused. She kept her Finds cautious, awaiting the hour of escape. If anything she’d go Find her copper strands in her father’s whiskers and her fair skin on her mother’s cheeks. But the Bounding Main, a sea both depthless and endless had found her parents first. Finders keepers.

Now, given the choice, she’d spend her hours Finding more customers for the Copper Quill. She’d devote even her sleep to unearthing some elixir that might ease

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Fledger’s debt worries. Or better yet, she’d Find Théall’s throne and plead the case of her missing Heat, how it would be virtuously used to aid the shop, even carry its torch when the time came.

Fledger always laughed when Root said she would gladly take over when he retired. He said it was more a curse than a blessing. But Root knew. A little Perse in her seams could change everything.

Standing outside the Jobbery, Root was cradling the thing at the end of her arm, now a withering of fingers and knuckles. Mist was still hanging around, dripping and leaking over everything. A spider web was globbed of it. Root reached for the knocker. Pain shot through her hand. Her eyes watered.

And suddenly she knew it wasn’t just the hand pain, it was the pain of her whole. For with the watering eyes came a sob. It fell out of her throat without warning.

She’d been here so many times before, at this cage, with this ache. She wished she could just empty the cursed veins that ran through her and fill them anew, with a Heat that would smolder the grappling life within.

She laid her head against the door. But instead of barring her way, as usual, insisting on a good slug of the knocker, the door cracked open with an ominous creak. Even the rain seemed to pause at this oddity. The Aunts never left the door unlocked. Root immediately switched gears, all senses now piqued. She took hold of the handle and walked cautiously into the dimly lit house. “Hello!”

No answer. Not even a grunt. In fact, everything was unusually quiet. No arguing No cursing. No counting of coins. And there, a pair of brew mugs, still full. Something was definitely not right.

The Aunts’ Parley chimed, catching Root by surprise. She recovered and peered around the room. There was

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no Parley in sight. Nothing of its purple blaze. No surprise, considering the mess that stared back at her. The Parley could be under a pile of mildew for all she knew.

No, she did not miss it here at all. She did not miss the half eaten bones. She did not miss the flies. She did not miss the way everything was filmed in greed. She wondered if she should come back later. But her stomach revolted.

Maybe the Aunts were in the Shop Room. Root had never been allowed in the Shop Room. The Aunts never explained why. Only a consistent, “Stay outta there. If we catches ya in there consider yerself loster ‘n anything you done Found!”

Root stepped over Aunt Carblotta’s puce ottoman. The door to the stairs was open, another surprise. She could see the unwelcoming staircase below and feel the cool air that rose from it. The Parley chimed again. It was down there. Why was it in the Shop Room?

Curiosity stabbed at Root. She slowly pushed the door wide and started to say ‘hello’ but stopped herself, afraid of what might jump out. The fifth chime of the Parley took her curiosity over the edge. With held breath, she descended the shallow steps of stone and disappeared from view into musty smelling darkness.

Her toes landed on flat earthy ground. The odour was pungent now and she was sure there was a drop in temperature to that of tombs. The Shop Room was, much to her expectation, a grimy den of tin and wax and rags and brew. A Grayshank cesspool. Her steps were taken with great fear of what lay beneath them.

She followed a faint light and came upon a second, even shoddier room and a very strange scene indeed. There was the Parley, with its rune panel and receiving latch. With each chime, its violet hue lit up the cave. In its

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glow, like two purple haunts were the Aunts themselves, hovering over it, wracked with concern yet doing nothing.

“I said you answer!” Octavia pushed her sister. She was the eldest of the two, squat and pudged with nostrils the size of barrel lids. Her teeth pushed out like wild fungi and she slapped her fat lips when she laughed, which wasn’t very often.

“Fer the last time, I ain’t answerin’. You do it!” Carblotta squealed, bracing her feet. Unlike her sister, Carblotta was a starved and scrawny thing whose long bones looked fit to pop out of their ends. Her nose was impossibly thin, as were her lips, both more like twists and knots of wire.

The Parley screamed again. “Fine! Both of us, then! ” Octavia grabbed her sister.

“On the count a three. One…two…three.” They pressed the receiving latch. The opening across

the top of the Parley animated and in an instant the caller was towering before them, a hooded rider, shadowed under the midnight sky. His beast rose up onto its haunches with a roar and the Aunts leapt back.

Root could tell the rider was in Shade Howl. She recognized the name of the shabby tavern behind him: The Broken Bottle Grog Hall. Though its windows were alive with light and silhouette, the rider had settled into a dark quiet alley, unseen to patrons and passersby.

“A fair night to you, madam,” he said. “A fair night, good master. What brings a Dominion

Badge callin’ at this late hour?” “As you are aware, the Guardian has invoked a

Marrow Bind.” “Who isn’t aware?” Carblotta stepped into the light,

triggered into anger. “It’s his third one this year. What’s he doin’ so important as to take the hard working people

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outta their own homes?” “Now now, sister.” Octavia shot Carblotta a look that

meant to shut her up. “The deeds of the Guardian’s much more important than all that. Protectin’ us this land, running us the laws.” She turned to the hooded rider. “Indeed, your good master, we’ve heard of this latest Marrow Bind. And how does it be effectin’ the likes of us?”

“It is well known your keeping of the youth of Shade Howl.”

“Oh?” Octavia perked up. “Why we’re famous, eh, sister!”

“What’s he want with our youth?” Carblotta blurted. Root was wondering the same thing. Though the war

had gone cold and now duty fell from combat to shadowing, blood was still heard to be spilled. That’s when the Guardian would call it a small gallant loss to try and offset the mass graves that once littered Lanlynne. At any rate, a Marrow Bind has always been for adults, not youth.

“The means of the Guardian are no concern of yours,” the Badge said.

“It is when it cuts into our livelihood.” “The call of a Marrow Bind is not negotiable. Any

who receive it must enlist. It is law.” “I’m afraid…” Octavia stepped in front of her sister.

“…we ain’t seen the Bind in any of our traders. But if we do, we’ll be sure t’send ‘em your way, good master.”

The Badge paused and chose his words carefully while his beast pawed the mud-caked cobblestone. “The penalty of housing dodgers is steep, madam.”

“We’re aware of that, yer kindliness.” “This night is the deadline for reply. By tomorrow,

the last collection begins.”

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“Like I said, if we sees, we’ll do our lawful obligations.”

The Badge gave his beast a pat. “Should your memory change, I shall remain in Shade Howl ‘til dawn.”

“O’ course.” Aunt Octavia reached for disconnection. The Badge put his arm out to stop her. “Remember,

mistress, the hand can’t lie. If a moon doesn’t give it away, its cold remains will.” At this, the hooded rider took toward them with the speed of his threat. The Aunts ducked as the beast leapt over them and faded away into nothing.

Octavia waddled up and pressed the Parley’s disconnect. While the light folded back, she and her sister looked at each other and snorted.

Unseen behind them, Root was shaking. The Badge’s words had caught in her throat…the hand can’t lie…a moon will give it away.

She ran up the stairs, quiet as a shadow. As she made for the door, her eyes were on the sky. Her heart quickened at the sight of the white crescent, now free of cloud and beaming.

In the weed-infested, rot-smelling yard she began tearing at the strips that wrapped her hand while croaking frogs silenced and watched.

It hurt. Every pull and yank seemed to kill nerves. The last layer ripped away and Root thrust her hand into the air. The moon came to it like a mother. Its beams licked the tender skin and sunk in toward the blood. Root gasped. The bones! They were glowing! She spread her fingers wide. The moon held firm, sending her hand into a blaze of blue.

The Marrow Bind! She’d been Called!

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3

Root ran back into the Jobbery. She had to tell the Aunts. All this time they’d thought she’d sprained her wrist and here it was a Marrow Bind!

The Aunts were just closing the Shop Room door when she arrived in the parlour. They started at the sight of her.

“What’re you doing here?” Octavia barked. Suddenly Root was silenced by the strangeness in

their eyes. They had exchanged a look that had a secret in it.

The hair on Root’s arms lifted. They know. They knew the whole time. Instinctively she put her Called hand into a pocket and pushed the bones down deep.

“I was…I…I Found it.” Her other hand held up the Siren. The Aunts pounced into familiar gluttony. Carblotta snatched the jewel from Root and held it up for inspection. Its light made her eyes red. “And what a beauty she is, ain’t she!”

Octavia grabbed it from her sister and put it through another lingering leer. “Indeed. The Wolf will be pleased.”

The Wolf was a well-heeled frequenter of the Jobbery. Root had never seen him, but then neither had the Aunts, which was not unusual. Dealing with Bone Grits was not

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deemed savoury among the civil crowd, not to mention licit. Thus the need for obscurity and Proxies sent in one’s stead. The Aunts cared not, as long as a purse came with the Proxy.

When Aunt Octavia was done salivating she looked at Root. “Guess we be owin’ our li’l Bone Grit some junos, eh?”

Root smiled, hoping she didn’t look as awkward as she felt. While Carblotta went to the stash, Octavia slumped into a chair. She took a drink of something long gone flat and noticed Root’s pocketed hand. “Still hurtin’?”

“What? Oh…yeah!” Root said, not pulling it out. “It’ll get better. Betcha by t’morrow even.” “Y’think?” Root said. Octavia nodded. She was the smarter of the two

Aunts. And right now she was using that smartness to track down what was going on in Root’s face. Root averted her eyes.

Thankfully, Carblotta returned with brew and coins and a mouthful of celebratory distraction. “Here y’go, my little wart.” She plunked a handful of junos into Root’s free palm.

Root looked at the fee. It was smaller than even she’d expected. Carblotta seemed to notice her dismay. “We…uh…we had some extra expenses this month.”

“Oh.” The silence was filled with things unsaid. Root’s eyes

stilled and Octavia panicked. “Ah, what the heck! How’s about a bonus fer our best trader, eh?”

Carblotta got her gist. A few more coins were dropped into Root’s palm. Root went with it even though she knew these coins were just cheap diversions. There was something else going on.

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She’d already gathered that they’d known all along she’d been called by the Marrow Bind. She realized the wrap was just to cover it up. To keep her to themselves, their best trader.

But there was more. She waited. Her blood would tell her soon enough. Carblotta nervously scratched her elbow. Octavia

rubbed her nose. Aha! There it was! Crawling all over their skin like a shiver. A Lost. The Aunts had hidden something from her. Yes, she could smell its freshness now. The whole room crackled with it. Well, well, well.

Root straightened. “Is Grog’s still open? I’m starved.” Octavia nodded. “Best be goin’ now. Afore the

kitchen’s empty.” Root left with a stiff goodbye. The Aunts bolted the

door and snuffed out the lights. But locks and shadow won’t stop a Bone Grit. Especially the best Bone Grit in Shade Howl.

The Aunts had hidden something from Root. And tonight she was going to Find it.

***** The skills of a Finder aren’t limited to the blood’s

prodding, but also the tuning of muscle and tendons and breath, so that the very air does not notice when it has been parted.

In the eking of dawn, when a battle of snores fought from behind the Aunts’ bedroom doors, Root glided undetected down cold stairs toward the Shop Room. Once inside, she slid back a dust-filled curtain, allowing a shaft of moonlight to fall inside and spread along the dirt floor. In its pale beam she searched until pulled toward an old wooden table. It was laden with rusted things, candle

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nubs, dead bluebottles, and an old watering can. A wall of crates stacked up on its end.

Root began to move the crates, pushing them, pulling them, and when her blood nodded its approval, she took to dismantling some altogether. Such was normally done with practised ease, but tonight the wasted hand dragged a beat too slow. The ceramic watering can fell, breaking off its spout. Root froze and, against the thumping pulse in her ears, waited for noise above. When safety seemed returned, she was brought back to the watering can where a mysterious crystal chain had spilled out.

Root’s skin bumped. She picked up the chain and found an amber gemstone dangling from it, clutched in crystal fingers. It was beautiful, like a Corn Moon. She pocketed it and carefully tipped the can over for more. A handful of junos slid onto the table. She recognized the blue of the fivers and the purple of the tens. But never in her life had she seen the green, red, and bronze of the other coins’ denominations.

There was more. Root reached in and scraped the tips of her fingers into the farthest reaches of the watering can. This time, she pulled out a long silver object. On one end of it there was a shining globe with deep lines criss-crossing around it. On the other end was perched a sparkling silver bumblebee. Root knew instantly what it was. She’d seen something like it in Fledger’s teacup, though not nearly as fanciful. It was a honey dipper.

There was more. She could tell. She peered into the watering can one last time. And there she spied it. A piece of paper. Root’s blood leapt.

Found. It was very old and yellowed, with deep lines along

the folds, but the writing was still legible.

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Please help me. Take the child to the Robin’s Wing Nest.

A bolt of energy shot through Root’s veins. Rage filled her. All these years. She hadn’t been abandoned at all. She’d been protected.

A moment later, the Aunts’ Parley was fumbling in Root’s hands. She was shaking so much her finger missed the rune panel the first time. She tried again and this time the hooded rider leapt up to meet her. His beast roared and Root fell back.

“Who are you?” the Badge asked curtly. Root was stricken. Years of grief ran up her throat.

The words leapt out in a rattled fury. “My name’s Root Karbunkulus! I’m not a dodger! Honest! They tried to keep me! I didn’t know it was a Marrow Bind! They’re not even my real Aunts and…I was supposed to be sent to a Nest! But they kept me and…and…they didn’t care about me!” Tears sprang from her eyes. “They…they lied to me…all this time! My hand!” She held up the swollen fingers. The moonlight lit the bones like blue coals. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Where are you?” the Badge asked. “I’m…” Something had reached out. Root heard a click. In a whoosh of motion, the rider was gone and a

scabby voice came from the shadows. “Whatchya think yer gonna do with that now y’got it? Hmmm…”

Octavia waved her hand to rouse the surrounding candle stubs to life. Now in a good wash of light, she and her sister looked alarmingly awake and menacing.

Root flinched. “I was…I was…” “You was stealin’ is what I’m thinkin’,” Carblotta very

nearly bared her teeth. She had a grey facemask on and the clay was cracking around her lips.

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“You best be returnin’ that there stuff…” Octavia added, “…afore anyone gets real hurt. Hmmm?”

Root clutched her belongings closer to her, “But they’re mine.”

“Now, now,” Octavia gurgled, “What would makes y’think that?”

“They were with me when you found me so that makes them…”

“Ours. Just like you’re ours,” Octavia purred. “Finders keepers,” added Carblotta with a wicked

smile. “You knew it was a Marrow Bind. And said nothing.

You tried to cover it up!” “We was tryin’ t’protect ya. Dominion duty’s worse

than any o’ the baddest Finds y’done here.” “Worse than losing my hand?” Root challenged. “Now, now. We wouldn’ta let it get that far.” “And how exactly were you planning to counter a

Dominion Stamp?” Octavia decided to end the niceties. “Use that tone

again and I’ll force it back down with a wire brush.” The Aunts barred the stairs. Octavia held out her

hand expecting Root to surrender her effects when something startling happened that made the Aunts’ mouths drop open.

“No.” Only two letters, yes, but oh the implication. “What did you say?” Carblotta asked. “I said…” Root swallowed, “I said ‘no’.” The sisters looked at each other and then back to

Root. Octavia’s lips curled, but she smoothed them and tried a different approach. “Ain’t nothin’ fer ya in the Dominion, Root. They’ll just use ya and toss yeh out t’die like yer own mama done!”

“Yeah,” Carblotta cut in. “Jest tossed yeh under a tree

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and left y’t’die while she saved her own skin! And yer better off, if y’asks me! What with yer mama’s queer clothes and that streak a blue in ‘er nighthag hair.”

“What?” Root snatched the image to her chest. “Carblotta!” Octavia growled through gritted teeth. But Carblotta was on a roll, “Looked more like a japer

than a…Ouch!” Octavia had pressed all her weight onto Carblotta’s pinky toe.

“I’m sure that’s all we need t’ shares fer now,” Octavia glared then returned to Root. “The point is we saved you from--”

“You saved me?” Root held up the note. “My mum saved me! At least she tried. And you! You were supposed to take me to the Robin’s Wing Nest! That’s where she wanted me to go!” Root felt her throat knotting. “And it would’ve been a lot better than here!”

The Aunts stalled again. This time a bit of oomph slipped off their bones and drained into the packed dirt beneath them. Root, on the other hand had straightened. And bunched her fists.

The sisters cringed. Their Bone Grit! How could they survive? They looked at each other in unspoken agreement and turned once again to face Root. But the usual ugly gawks were missing. What appeared was even more horrid as they tried to smear actual smiles across their faces.

“Well, my deary dear,” came Octavia. “You’ve found us out. We kept ya fer ourselves, that’s true. But who else woulda taken in a Bone Grit, fed ‘er and paid ‘er? Yer alive on accounta us.”

Root wanted to say the opposite – that they were alive on account of her, but her mind was now flooding with the ominous image Carblotta had conjured. A woman with a long blue streak through her black hair, hiding her

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baby with a pleading note. Her mother hadn’t abandoned Root at all. She had tried to save her! She’d loved her.

Deep in her revelations, Root had not noticed the sneaky advance of the Aunts. They had, in fact corralled her right into a corner and were dangerously within pouncing range.

“Don’t come any closer!” Root held up the honey dipper. It wasn’t as good as say, a lump hammer, but it could probably do a fair bit of damage between the eyes.

Undaunted, the Aunts moved in closer. Root scanned the Shop Room. Her eyes landed on a heaping stack of thin tablets. Contracts. She could tell by the red waxen pages. Without those, the Jobbery would perish. She flew at the nearest candle and tossed it into the pile. The Aunts shrieked and lunged. While they desperately tried to douse the emerging flames Root was already halfway up the stairs.

She reached the end of the yard in record time. But a slick mud-drift caught her off guard. Her feet lifted off. She landed with the wind knocked out of her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The Aunts reached the door and spotted her. They moved faster than Root had ever seen.

The Badge seemed to come from nowhere. He scooped Root up like a dish rag. The Aunts shrieked as the hooded rider cantered away with their Bone Grit in his arms.

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4 Drace Marlowe Fledger came downstairs from his

bedroom in the attic of the Copper Quill and made straight for a book on an upper shelf. As was his habit, he checked that no one was watching. Satisfied, he tipped the book forward from a hinge, reached into the dark gap behind it and pulled out another book. This, he took to the table. Finding a blank page, he grabbed his favoured quill and began to hurriedly empty the epiphany that was cramming his mind. After a few fits and starts, when he was finally purged he closed the book and headed for the kettle. While it filled, he took a good long scratch to his new growth of whiskers and watched the slate sky drain down his window.

The garden will appreciate this rain, he thought, admiring the shoots of carrots and kale and peas and…feet?

Fledger grabbed his book and quickly returned it to its secret cleft before turning and running out the door.

*****

“Root. Root.” Root pulled herself from sleep and looked into the

relieved eyes of Fledger.

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“What in blazes’re y’doin’ with yer bare feet stickin’ outta my Mulberry?”

“I didn’t wanna wake you.” She rubbed her eyes. “Now, how many times have I told you not to bother

with that corn muck? My door’s open, you know that.” Root nodded. “Look at you. You look like death’s door.” Root looked at him with swollen eyes.

“They’re…they’re not my real Aunts.” Fledger’s face softened. “Oh, Wuddlelump.” He

reached for her. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He caught sight of her hand and stopped short. It was engorged, the skin nearly curdled. “Oh, dear. Come on, then.”

*****

With her hand soothing in an herbal broth, Root

jogged the night’s events while Fledger moved around the tiny kitchen. She’d grown accustomed to the slight limp of his left leg, lost years ago to the war. Along with his wife and twin boys. He didn’t really talk about it. Nobody did. It was a terrible time. The worst of it when Root was just a baby, but still there were cries in the night and taverns filled with sorrowful song.

If Fledger had given voice to these songs it was never in front of Root, nor the folk of Shade Howl who looked to him for news, not to mention the women habitué who looked to him for marriage vows. He was a private man. Though, by the amount of handshakes he was served, one would never have thought so. Certainly Root wouldn’t have had she not seen for herself the many nights that he spent alone, writing, reading, fixing the old printing press.

Beside her soaking hand, Root saw he’d finished his

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letters and already sealed them. She never tired of the black wax design, a swirling of lines that etched out a chiropter with spread wings. Root had once asked Fledger why he had chosen a bat as his seal. “Because they see in darkness,” he had answered cryptically. But she knew there was more to it. And that ‘more’ would be along any minute now.

As if having heard her thoughts, a bright orange visitor now appeared in a small opening high in the wall.

“Good morning, Wingbit,” Fledger said without looking up.

The bat leapt from the opening and flapped about the room in high-pitched greeting.

“I believe Root’s got something for you, my friend.” Root straightened eagerly and held up a grape.

Wingbit flapped over to her and dropped into her open palm, barely fitting across the whole of it. Her big dark eyes looked up at Root expectantly.

The grape was the first of six, gobbled with delight, and soon the wee one was dangling upside down from Root’s finger, her wings wrapped round her, rocking to and fro as if adrift in a lullaby.

Root transferred Wingbit to her makeshift bed - a branch that Fledger had placed across a corner of the room - while Fledger gathered a collection of tea leaves, cinnamon bark, and orange peel, Root’s favourites.

On her way back to her chair, Root noticed a new crack in the floor tile. The Copper Quill was old. The wrinkles and rusting, the coughing from pipes were all showing up more often now. But Root still loved it like she would a grandfather. An eccentric grandfather, for the Copper Quill was filled with oddity and wonder.

Indeed, anything lettered that one was willing to part with, Drace Marlowe Fledger was likely willing to buy.

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There were books bound in sable fur and bone. Some were mounted in stained glass, others yoked in fine chainery. There was even one believed to be haunted by a Hagtooth of old. Of course, there were also the works of Fledger himself; sonnets, tales, and a growing collection of opinion as to the sorry state of the country.

The kettle called out and Fledger set it beside two mugs.

“Oh!” Root leapt up eagerly. “Here! Use this!” She pulled the silver honey dipper out and handed it to him.

Fledger took the instrument and admired it. “Where did you get this?”

“It was with the note.” He went to a drawer and pulled out a tiered brass

monocle for closer inspection. “This, my little Poofietwit, is not what you think it is. Take a look.” Fledger brought the honey dipper over and pointed at the detailing along its length. He handed Root the monocle.

Now magnified, Root could see words embossed along the silver shaft. She read them aloud:

Identify for all to see The who and when and where of me

She looked up at Fledger, confused. “It’s your Identikey, Root! This honey dipper holds

the code of your birth. Your family!” Root leapt from her seat. “Alright, hold on, Wuddlelump,” Fledger said

carefully. “That doesn’t mean they are…alive.” “But they might be!” she smiled. He could never check the hope that came from

Root’s eyes. Nor did he want to. “Yes, they might be,” he smiled back. “And you shall soon find out.”

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He took a pestle and mortar to the tea leaves. “Which Nest, by the way?” he asked, as the muddled aromas lifted.

“The Robin’s Wing,” Root answered. “I hate the Aunts for not taking me.”

Fledger paused. “No, Wuddlelump, you don’t. If they had, you would not be here talking to me.”

Root laughed. “Sure, I would! I’d have Found you!” “No. You’d be dead.” Root looked at him. Though he’d continued grinding

the mix, his hand was now forceful and rough. “Fledger?” He did not look up. “The Nests were created by the

Guardian after Kakos extended his war to the babes of Lanlynne. They were supposed to have been highly protected shelters and parents, those who could afford to, privately paid a lot of junos to ensure their child was placed into one. I’m not proud that I leapt to this advantage while I had the means. But desperation ruled back then. And it didn’t matter in the end. The builds were hasty and…the Robin’s Wing hadn’t been given a veil.” He swallowed hard. “Kakos found it with ease.”

Root looked at Fledger. “Your boys?” He nodded. “Five Nests were lost before the

Guardian finally stopped taking money.” Root had heard whispers of this before, people often

spit after speaking of the Guardian. She herself had never seen him, but his repeated dismissal of Shade Howl and its glaring need over the years was enough to believe he could be capable of such things.

She shivered and reached for comprehension. “Why would a monarch seek profits? He must have enough…I mean, from what people say taxes alone are…”

“He’s not the monarch,” Fledger said bitterly. “He

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loop-holed his way in when the throne fell and has conveniently failed to invoke another Trial for the crown. His teeth are hidden in sheep’s wool Root, and you best be wary in his service.”

Root felt fearful. Up until now the Guardian was a story, everyone’s bitter anecdote. Now, suddenly he was real. “I don’t wanna go.”

“A Marrow Bind does not give you a choice, as your hand attests.”

“But they’re supposed to be for adults!” “Not anymore. They’ve been Calling youth for quite

some time now.” “I’ll Dodge it!” “How would you craft a Dodging Stamp? And even if

you could, then what? You go back to the Aunts? Try your luck with the Seamstress again? Finding is not a Heat, Root. Face it, you’re--”

“Cursed!” Root broke in. At least that’s how the seamstress had put it. In so

many words. “Not Bloomed?” the woman had said when Root

approached for work. “You’d be so slow ‘n burdensome you’d cost me more’n yer worth.”

Root had begged then, “Please, I’ll do anything. I know you’re missing a few thimbles, I can Find them.”

At this, the seamstress’s face fell into a scowl. She straightened and pulled her skirt outward as if to keep the whole shop away from Root’s prying eyes. “A Cold Bone Grit! What fool d’you take me for? Who’d insure my shop with the likes a you! You’d go ‘n Find m’stash, y’would and take it t’them two spinsters! Now get out Grayshank, afore I get y’out m’self!”

Fledger caught Root biting her lip and realized what he’d done. He loosened his shoulders and sighed. “I’m

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sorry, Wuddlelump. There is a saying, ‘politics do not belong on the tongues of friends’. ” He walked over, set their mugs down, and slid onto a stool beside her. “What time is Collection?”

“The Badge said it starts at nine hours.” They both looked at his clock. It was half past eight. Fledger slipped his hand over hers and looked at her

in earnest. “If I could work a Dodging Stamp, I would. As it stands, I will have all eyes and ears upon you while you’re there. But even so, there is no way you will be endangered. The Guardian is a fool, but not so much a fool to ignite Lanlynne’s wrath again. You will receive meals and a bed to fit your legs. Can you say the same for the two in the Jobbery?”

Root looked at him with the same fury that was reserved for the hunted. “As if I have a choice.”

*****

By the time Root arrived with Fledger at the

Collection Plate, there was already a great line of Called twisting into the foggy, dewy morning. All Root could see was the handful of bodies nearest her. The rest were swallowed into the mist. Root pulled her hood up around her neck where her hair had scooped up into a loose bun and left it bare. She and Fledger took their place and instinctively reduced themselves to a whisper.

Conversations around them were sparse. Root caught a few phrases, some mentionings of duty and further off a mother praising this ‘much-needed respite’. Most spread their arms like goose wings over their loved ones while Badges barked orders from the shrouded pillars further up.

Fledger stayed with Root as they slowly moved

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toward the loudest Badge, a tall man with a crooked nose, looking to strike anyone who disobeyed. Root grabbed Fledger’s arm. She’d been trying to slough off the mounting fear in her but this Badge was not making it easy.

As the fog lifted in the scattered rays of morning, Root, and indeed the whole of the queue, realized they were not headed toward pillars. The grey pillars in mind were actually a pair of Bulks. And now the conversations rose to heights of panic.

“Bulks?” Root stuttered under her breath, not aware of the step she had taken back.

“It’s okay,” Fledger squeezed her hand. “They’ve been tamed. They won’t do anything unless they have to.”

Thankfully Root was distracted by the conversation ahead of her. A tall boy with dark hair had turned to a smaller boy behind him, “Hi, I’m Dwyn Puffler."

The smaller boy only nodded, for he too had spied the Bulks up ahead and was trying not to speak for fear of crying.

Dwyn Puffler seemed utterly unfazed by the creatures. “Didjya have any problems with your hand? I was pretty worried for a bit but once I realized it was a Marrow Bind I was fine! Can’t wait to start duty, can you?! Wonder what we’ll do. I heard we might be moles. Or even scouts! That’d be nifty, eh! You’re pretty puny. Think they’ll even let you in? Just kiddin’. But y’might wanna stand up a little straighter. Y’look like yer gonna pee your pants.” He smiled and gave the boy a friendly punch on the arm.

Root would have liked to punch him back, on behalf of the boy but she was too startled by his words. It hadn’t occurred to her that there would be some who were honoured to be Called. And yet, it made sense. Not

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everyone felt the same way about the Dominion. Not everyone had suffered the ostracism of its leader. Not everyone was cursed with Bone Grit blood.

The queue was moving far too quickly for her liking, revealing one of the Bulks in careful detail now. It stood easily the size of the Elder cedars, with hair matted in Bloodrot. Its lower lip hung like a wet, meaty drawbridge. Root fully grasped what it would be like to be mauled by it.

As for the Badges, they all looked the same, with neat beards shaven into grids along the cheeks. Their eyebrows fanned up and out so that even if they weren’t angry, they looked it. The Badge uniform was thermal, grey, and buckled, with the Dominion crest well displayed along the shoulders.

The tall one was yelling for the front of the line to move into position while the other Badges stood off to the sides, as if to ensure no one bolted.

At the gate between the two Bulks, on a raised platform, stood a girl, trembling. After some sort of inspection, the taller of the two Bulks lifted her from the platform onto the other side of the gate, where she disappeared from Root’s view.

One by one, the Called endured inspections and one by one they disappeared from Root’s view, until it was…

“My turn!” The tall boy, Dwyn Puffler glided forward, far too cheerful for Root’s liking. This wasn’t a ride at the carnival, for crying out loud! Root watched the Bulks frisk him and then he too was lifted away onto the other side. Not without a cocky wave.

The smaller boy survived the same formality and then it was Root’s turn. She felt her knees weaken. “Please, Fledger, can’t we just…”

“Shshsh, Wuddlelump, you’re gonna be just fine.

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Now, listen, I don’t have a Parley so you won’t be able to reach me.”

“Next!” the tall Badge snapped. Root began to panic. “Look at me, Root. I will be here when you get out. I

promise. In the meantime, I need you to look after these for me.” Fledger pulled out two books from his satchel. Root lost her breath. They were her favourites: The Old Hat’s Fanciful Firsts and Opus of Wits. Endlessly read, dog-eared, and read again. Fledger had bound them anew for her when he’d noticed her devotion. And now they landed in her hands strung with a twine bow.

Root’s eyes filled. “But…” “You’ll want them when your Bloom comes.” “You there!” the Badge yelled and pointed at Root.

“I’m not gonna tell you again.” “Root, listen to me.” Fledger took her by the

shoulders. “You are loved. Got that?” “Now!” the Badge yelled. Root wrapped her arms around Fledger’s waist and

squeezed. She could hear steps coming toward her. She broke away just as the Badge stepped between them, barring Fledger from going any farther.

“Farewell, my little Wuddlelump! Remember, Brave to the Bone!”

Root stumbled onto the platform and met the eyes of a Bulk. It looked at her and barked, “Hand!”

She held up her hand, hardly able to stand the pain. The Bulk leaned in for inspection. She could see her whole body reflected in its black eyes.

The second Bulk spied her books. Root pulled them close and turned away. The Bulk growled and opened its palm. Root shook her head and frantically looked for Fledger. The Bulk yanked the books from her, tearing the

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twine and one of the covers. Root cried out and was about to lunge for them but

caught sight of Fledger. He met her frightened eyes and calmly shook his head. She reluctantly backed off and watched, preparing to scale the giant if need be. Unexpectedly the Bulk licked the books. Root cringed and looked at Fledger. He gave her a soothing nod. A moment later the Bulk dropped the books back into Root’s grasping arms and let out a long groan. “Pass.”

Root was lifted to the other side of the platform where those before her bunched and waited. She kept her eyes on Fledger the entire time while he craned to be seen.

When she landed, the pain of her hand instantly vanished. She held it up for Fledger to see. But the Badges had moved in. He was gone.

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5 On the other side, Dominion land, where Badges

perched like crows, Root noticed a man weaving among the amassing Called, doing a nose count. Though he was clearly frazzled by the sheer numbers, he looked nothing of the stern grimness of a Badge. He in fact reminded Root of a tidy little scarecrow.

“Oh, now how did I miss you?” he said to her. “Ah never mind, just join the counted over there, if you will.” And then he was off to break up a handful of boys, including that Dwyn Puffler, who had decided to play hot potato with a hat.

Root took her place and waited quietly, not wanting to speak with anyone. Once the last of the Called made it through, the frazzled man took an authoritative stance and raised his voice. “May I have your attention, please?” Every mouth went quiet. This surprised and pleased him. He continued. “My name is Hickard LarDrumpe…Lar-Droo-mp, the emphasis on the ‘oo’. I am your guide this day. We are to make our way to the House of Gubelyn, an inn where food and lodging awaits. The journey is rather long, so we’d best get a move on.” He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. At once, a large animal came bounding from the shadows toward him.

“This is Footloaf,” he announced, giving his furry

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companion a generous pat. “As you know, most all citizens of Lanlynne travel by Hovermutt. Indeed, those of you who are of age shall be given such an honour in the days to follow.”

The whole of the gathering burst into cheers as Footloaf accepted Hickard onto his back and lifted off the ground.

Dwyn Puffler gave Root a friendly punch that felt entirely too friendly. “Didjya hear that? We’re each gonna get our own Hovermutt!”

“Silence, please! We’ve no time for chatter.” Hickard glided over to the front of the crowd. “Right then. Follow me. One after another. No dawdling. Gubelyn is expecting us.”

He led them from the open field along a path that entered forest. Here they travelled all morning while Badges pressed in thicker than the oaks.

Late afternoon brought about a small, toothsome meal of cakes and melon. Root savoured her bites alone on a tree log while friendships formed around her.

“I don’t believe it.” She could hear Dwyn whispering to a girl.

“It’s true. I heard talk.” “Two hundred kids? How?” The girl lowered her voice and pulled him closer.

Root had to strain to hear. “A Marrow Bind, just like this. The Guardian put them in the underfoot Crawlways, hoping to run secret messages. But the enemy found them and cut off the tails. None in, none out. They were left to starve or get eaten by the buried things. And the Guardian did nothing.”

While Root shuddered, Dwyn Puffler scoffed. “Pfff, then how come no one else knows about it?”

“Shshsh! Pipe down, will you!” the girl said, then

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whispered grimly, “a wolf doesn’t kill a counted sheep.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dwyn asked. Root knew what it meant. “The kids were all homeless,” the girl said. “The

Guardian had plucked them from the streets. No witnesses. And covered it up.”

Root felt a surge of unease. But, no, something like that Fledger would have known about for certain. He always had one ear to the ground. Everyone circled Fledger for news.

Hickard LarDrumpe rounded up his charges again. “Come on, now. Off we go! Nearly there!”

Now deep in the seam of maple and birch, with Shade Howl far behind, they at last came upon a clearing. Here, Hickard pointed above the tops of the trees. “That is where we are headed. The House of Gubelyn.”

Root had been expecting something of a rustic affair. But that was not what Hickard LarDrumpe was pointing at. He was pointing at a well-known landmark, a rock formation bigger than the width of whole towns. It grew out of the trees like some earthen beast. Mammoth Rock. Root recognized it instantly. From Shade Howl’s rooftops on clear days, she had been able to spy its granite layers over the great forest. From a distance it looked spectacular. But everyone knew better.

“That’s no hotel!” someone said. “It’s the Shack.” The Shack. The old, sick citadel of the monarchs.

Technically, none of them could actually see its walls for it lay along Mammoth Rock’s flat surface, too high to view. But its tragedy foretold. Once a stunning architectural feat, the hope of Lanlynne, now a tale told with tongue clicks and the shake of a head. As Root heard it from Fledger, a Krux plagued it.

“The Aunts said it housed a specter that liked to play

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tricks on its guests.” Root had mentioned over a nightly sip.

“Specter indeed,” Fledger had scoffed. His tone became solemn as he turned to the dreaming cup in his hands. “When the king was murdered there…”

“It’s true then?” Fledger nodded. “Many years ago. King Validyn. A

good and noble monarch. Favoured one of the sacred line of Plenilune, Lord of Eventide.”

“And the queen? Was she murdered too?” “No. But she never fully recovered from her grief.

She was the beloved one of Celstyria, the Lady of the Daystar, and it is said that the Daystar has not shone as bright since the tragedy. The queen was stricken with such despair that a Krux was issued forth, a cold invisible menace intent on decaying the citadel and driving away anyone who dared enter. Anyone who stayed suffered dearly.”

Root swallowed as she now stood in the cursed thing’s great shadow, preparing to ascend a staircase that carved along Mammoth Rock’s cliff face all the way to the top. It didn’t help that many steps were either missing or broken.

“Alright now. Last stretch,” Hickard LarDrumpe said. “One at a time. Pace yourselves.”

The Badges remained on the lower ground, ensuring everyone climbed while Hickard hovered in the lead. Root’s legs were burning by the time she arrived on Mammoth Rock’s top level. She must have trudged a thousand stairs. Her heart and lungs were entering mutiny. Several in her party hurled themselves onto the ground gulping for air.

Just as they caught their breath, it seemed to leave them once more as the grandeur of their setting opened

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vast and magnificent before them. A hyaline lake took centre stage, surrounded by gardens and stone walls, with the twilight sky in glorious background. The distant bailey was a village of grand buildings, but none so grand as what stood centre at the other end of the lake. A marvel, to be sure. Root could not believe this magnificent architectural creature was the afflicted house of monarchs.

“And this…this my friends is Guardian’s Gate.” Hickard gestured to an impressive archway above them, wrought in marble and iron. Within it were carved many extraordinary beasts and birds and along its crown was a celestial homage to sun, moon, and stars.

From Guardian’s Gate, they trailed a short overrun path of slate flanked by statues, some of them olden heroes carved in epic glory, some wondrous creatures.

One statue in particular caught Root’s eye. It was a woman. She was atop a beast that was raised onto its hind legs. Her long hair mingled with the beast’s windswept mane and in her hand was a delicately carved flask. Root was taken aback not by the statue’s beauty but by its desecration. Bold, angry letters defaced the statue and all along the length of the beast’s body were abrupt slashes and the exploded remains of attack. And yet, at the foot of the statue were the words Kalliope. Brave and Beloved.

Hickard drew up to the shoreline of the lake. “Now then, please stick together. The bridge is very slippery.”

Root, like all the others, gawked around, confused. There was no bridge. There was only the incredibly long and incredibly wide lake.

Unshaken, their guide raised his voice. “Hickard LarDrumpe, first scout, Marrow Bind Bagnio Galitus,” he declared to no one in particular.

At least they thought no one was there. But when a

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deep, bottomless voice rose up around them, they realized very fast that they were not alone.

“Identify yourself!” the voice boomed. Hickard LarDrumpe inched his way closer to the lake

and bent over. He saw his whole face in the water’s reflection.

“What’s he doing?” someone asked. “Awaiting recognition,” another answered in a

whisper. A breeze drifted through the trees and Root shivered.

Not because it was cold, but because, instead of rippling in its breath, the entire lake went perfectly, impossibly still. Hickard remained stooped over like a statue about to topple.

The water spoke again. “Welcome, Hickard Lard Rump, first scout, Marrow Bind Bagnio Galitus.”

Hickard’s cheeks flushed deep red. “Actually it’s LarDrumpe, the emphasis is on the…”

“Bring forth your charges, Hickard Lard Rump,” the voice commanded.

Hickard spun around and glared, putting a quick stop to the first inkling of snickers that had begun. “Alright, come on then.” He pulled in those closest to him.

It began as a low rumble; a deep, waterlogged groan that grew louder as the lake churned. Root was sure she was the first to see it, for she was the only one who gasped at its slow eruption out of the water. Then others saw it, a long, thick slab of stone, rising like a salvaged shipwreck. Great falls of water poured from it and Root was sure she even saw a few trout leaping to safety.

It was a bridge! A masterly crafted work of stone, the breadth of a house at least, rising and connecting from the Shack all the way across the lake to their shore. The lights of its lampposts popped on one by one until the

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last one blinked to life right in front of them. Little streams of water were still spurting and draining

here and there when they reached the bridge’s halfway point. Hickard allowed them a moment to stop and look. It was something he’d never been able to resist himself; the forest vast and green below, villages mushroomed among it, craggy layers of purple mountain, a once proud kingdom on all sides, and a breeze that gave one wings.

Root felt like the soul of an artist’s canvas. She could have soared there eternal, but for the pull in her veins. A pull downward, along some spiral, trailed by the bridge, the citadel, the great rock, and Lanlynne all.

She remembered a poem Fledger had written.

Woe be the man who finds his shoes Upon a hill he did not choose Its slippery slope grows ever worse Its downward slide cannot reverse

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6 “You stand now on the bailey’s artisan grounds where

once gathered the greatest crafters and poets of our time. To my left, down that path, are the stables and boathouses. Further along the western cliff we have -- Master Danderly, please keep up -- we have Théall’s temple…yes, awe-inspiring, isn’t it!”

Root looked at the temple. She had not been a frequenter of them in Shade Howl where they spoke of Théall’s unconditional love while making her stand at the back. She more comprehended the force that Fledger quoted from his ancient books, the one that shared every bone and pebble and insisted upon the Mind’s study. Mostly though, she gathered a semblance of Théall in the wild accords…the way a tree and cloud and beast rubbed. And once when she’d prayed for relief and received a bird dropping on her head, she was pretty sure Théall was in on that, for it certainly made her laugh.

“Come,” Hickard said. “Master Gubelyn is expecting us.”

*****

Hillywur Gubelyn was beyond annoyed. He had been

watching a Plod attempt to paint the storehouse. In the

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entire time he had been there, which was a good fourteen minutes, the Plod had managed two strokes. Even now the second stroke was just finishing.

He had initially thought it dead. And yet the paw… Gubelyn moved in closer. The paw was actually moving, pasting colour along the plank so slowly that the paint was drying before it reached its destination. It was entirely painful to watch. He simply could not believe something so futile existed and that he was actually paying it!

“Why is it so hard to get good workers these days?” he mumbled “Bottomless money pit…should’ve listened to mother…”

“Master Gubelyn!” A voice cuffed the silence. Gubelyn looked to see a man marching toward him,

so angry that smoke seemed to waft from his ears. Wait a minute! Smoke was wafting from his ears. In fact, as the man drew in closer, Gubelyn saw that the whole top of his head seemed to be scorched and his hair singed right off. Oh no.

“You said the Krux was manageable!” the man roared. “I hardly see this as manageable!”

“My good sir!” Gubelyn jumped into conciliation. “I am beyond grief! Please allow me to rectify the remainder of your stay by…”

“Remainder? Hardly! You can rectify me by returning my money!”

“But sir…” “Do not ‘but sir’ me! Now get out of my way or I will

report this to the Dominion!” Gubelyn almost laughed at the irony. Most of his

rooms were filled with Dominion green-collars. The Guardian concerned himself not with their well-being against the devilry of the Krux. Indeed, he used the Krux to levy a deep discount from Gubelyn, who could hardly

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refuse. Even if it meant financial ruin. But, of course, he said no such thing to the charred,

hairless man. Rather he heaved a weary sigh and told him he could collect his refund at the Registry.

The man stormed off, flakes of ash flitting off his scalp. Hillywur Gubelyn returned to the Plod as it began its third stroke. He was about to snatch the paintbrush himself when he caught sight of someone shuffling hundreds of Called into the courtyard. The Plod instantly fell from his mind. Relief set in.

“Lard Rump’s here!”

***** Hickard LarDrumpe swept his charges into the inner

bailey. From a distance, the Shack had tricked them to look like a majestic vision, but now, upon closer observation, it was clearly no such thing. Perhaps in its day, but not in this day. In fact, it looked severely overrun and dilapidated. Huge clay pots were cracked open, lying in heaps. Statues were limbless. Greenery was gnarled and monopolizing the flagstone while the wall of the Shack itself looked as if it might crumble away.

Root saw a man bustle over in a shocking pink button-up. “Aaaaah, my friends. Welcome! Welcome to the House of Gubelyn, home of the finest hospitality and plumpiest beds!” His guests looked around, hard pressed to believe him. “I am your proprietor, Master Hillywur Gubelyn at your service!” He bowed down low. Once returned, he called out. “Elgart!” and smiled at his guests. “Your usher, Elgart will be along any moment to help you register.”

No one came. He cleared his throat and called again. Again nothing. He forced another smiled and then screamed as professionally as screaming could allow,

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“Elgart!” At this, a spry old man came barrelling out from

around a corner. He wore pale coverings and his face and hands were pasted in a chalky substance. On his head sat a thick protective hat of leather, and to the surprise of all, he was followed by a rather eager-seeming pail and mop.

“Animata Heat,” someone whispered and backed away from the spirited tools.

“Yes, sir!” Elgart grinned innocently at Master Gubelyn.

The proprietor regained his politeness, “We have guests, Elgart.”

“Oh, yes!” Elgart came to attention. “Well, uh…your presence is welcome here at the House of Gubelyn…uh…”

“I’ve already done that,” Master Gubelyn said through clenched teeth. “Perhaps you’d like to show them to the registry.”

Elgart was quite happy to do so. “Of course! Come along then and follow me, dear guests!”

Gubelyn relaxed his shoulders and smiled “Elgart will take care of you if you’d like to just follow him.”

The big-mouth, Dwyn Puffler, not surprisingly, ran to the front of the line, vaulting others as he did. In light of his unwelcome arm punches and general arrogance, Root made a point of avoiding him entirely and resolved that it would be a permanent decision.

A path was cleared by Elgart’s mop and pail. He’d also gestured a few shovels and a dustpan into the effort, offering ‘watch your step’, ‘under construction’, and ‘careful there’ as he went. The Called were ushered to the Shack’s massive double doors, each overlaid with a stately H and G. Once becoming unstuck, they were led indoors to a great hall.

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Root was astounded. Despite its weary underlay, it was clear this had been a hub of immense power and beauty at one time. In front of her, a grand lobby spread wide and inviting along a marble floor. Ornate sofas and chairs were clustered in social corners, which were dominated by stone fireplaces.

Past the lobby was the registry hall where two rows of tall desks lined up, facing each other. Elgart directed his charges into a queue in front of the registry desks. They waited until the candle of one of the desks changed its golden flame to green.

“There y’go,” Elgart tugged at the first in line. “That’s your cue.”

And so it went. Root’s green cue was way down at the end of the registry hall. She walked past the desks, noticing their tottering heights and the whipped mounds of white hair that sprang from the clerk sitting behind each one. Her clerk was short and really, really plump. Meatball plump. He gestured for her to take a seat.

“Welcome, my name is Slawlum.” He tapped the candle, returning its flame to a golden glow.

After a few pertinent details were secured, Slawlum extended his hand. “Now then, your key, if you please, Miss Karbunkulus.”

“My…oh, right.” Root dug into her pocket and pulled out her honey dipper.

“Excellent. Please follow me.” Slawlum stood up and walked down the stairs of his stool to a door. Along one side of its frame were many golden buttons of differing shapes. The clerk pressed one that looked like a skull and then pulled a lever below it. The door behind the frame swiftly spun upwards out of view and Root could see many other doors spinning past like the betting belts at the carnival. At last a heavy double door with large golden

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skull handles slid into frame. “Watch your step!” Slawlum smiled and pushed

through. Root followed. Her eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Surely this

was a dream. She was looking into a massive chamber. She’d never seen a room so big. Or so lavish. It seemed the entire thing was awash in gold with crystal ceiling candelabras bigger than garden gazebos. She felt like she’d entered the house of Théall’s lords.

Across the expansive tile was an entire wall of solid gold hexagonal vaults way up to the ceiling. On the floor below these was a row of sentinels, head to toe in IceRock. And though Root could see no bodies inside the clear crystal armour, she knew these guards breathed. They stood eerily silent, with their hands folded over long, gleaming broad swords.

A cautious glance to her right revealed she was not alone. From another door had come Dwyn Puffler. He was clutching a wooden spatula. Her eyes followed past him. Another, this one with a hairbrush. Root looked to her left. More. All standing with hanging jaws and household items in their hands.

“When you’re ready, you may release your key,” Slawlum said.

Even as he said it, there in mid air floating past Root’s nose was the wooden spatula. It had taken on an orange glow. She looked at Dwyn Puffler whose hand was empty. He waved.

Another key, a glowing yellow feather went floating out into the chasm. And another. And another. Root took a deep breath and opened her fingers. Her precious honey dipper seemed to sense its purpose, as it too alighted in a lavender glow. It lifted from her palm and, as the others had, began a slow meandering through the air toward the

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golden vaults. Blue, red, orange, green…It was like the coloured

lanterns of Winterset rising over Frozen Falls. There were so many glimmering keys that Root actually lost sight of hers for a while. Instead, she honed in on a red glove hovering about one of the vaults. It lingered for a moment then moved on, unsatisfied to another vault, this one with a blue pocketwatch drifting over it. The pocketwatch departed and the red glove moved in for closer inspection. Then…recognition! It suddenly morphed into an actual key, slid into the lock and clicked. The hatch swung open. Inside Root could see a golden box. It rose from its sleep and floated out into the open. Root watched the two, key and box then glide back across the chasm and into the hands of an ecstatic girl.

This, of course sent the rest into mad anticipation. With each key’s success came the elated jump for joy. One by one keys found and bestowed shining golden boxes upon their delighted owners.

All except Root. Her honey dipper seemed totally adrift. It went from

vault to vault like a lost puppy looking for its home. Slawlum was getting impatient. He sighed well over ten times. Then he looked altogether mystified when he saw the key slowly making its way back toward Root. There was no golden box in its wake.

Root ran to grab it before Slawlum could stop her. In a flash the sentinels moved and a dozen crystal broadswords gathered into a point at her chest. Slowly, very slowly she backed up to her gasping clerk.

She was trembling when the key finally landed in her palm and the sentinels returned to formation.

“I’ll take that!” Slawlum snatched the honey dipper and marched back through the door to his desk.

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Root followed him, stricken with fear. By the time she sat down, he was already beckoning another clerk over. “Her key came back empty,” he whispered.

“What?” The other clerk, a woman with the same white cottony hair gave Root a sideways glance. “A forger?”

“I don’t know, Sherbit, that’s why I’m asking you!” His whisper had become rather intense so Sherbit ‘ahem-ed’ to remind him of Root’s company. Root watched them move into a corner and shake their heads some more. By the time they returned, her nails were chewed ragged.

“We just need to step away for a moment,” Slawlum said. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We shan’t be long.”

She watched them slip back into the vault chamber. Her tongue dried up. What did this mean? Was it not her Identikey after all? If they thought she was a Forger, would she be arrested? Fledger had said Forgers were punished as bad as the Dodgers who had paid them to take their place. Worse, would she never be able to know her family?

Her stomach began to ache. “Ahem.” Root spun around to see her clerk standing at the

door. With a golden box in his hand! “You found it!” She clutched her heart in relief. “Of course I did,” Slawlum sniffed proudly and took

to the stairs of his stool. “Your vault had not been Baited properly, so your key couldn’t sense it.” He sat down, unhinged the golden box and began pulling papers from it, stamping things, initialling here and there, and periodically glancing back at Root before finally closing the box. “Well, it all looks in order.”

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“And?” “And?” “And…my family?” “Oh.” The clerk clasped his hands together on his

desk. “I’m afraid law dictates that we may not release any information whatsoever until the occasion that a Match is made.”

“But…the who and when and where of me?” Slawlum’s officialdom fell from him. He’d been here

before, with these losses. He looked at Root with compassion. “It is for your own good, Miss Karbunkulus. There have been far too many complications, terrible errors of identity and mistaken vitals. You are better off waiting for official verification.” He sighed. “Trust me, I’ve seen the snapping of a heart when what they thought was true, wasn’t. It is unrecoverable.”

Root understood this. She nodded, though her heart hurt in its contraction.

“Good girl. Now then, you’ll find everything you need of supplies and necessities in your room.” He handed back her Identikey.

“Thank you,” she turned to leave as he called after her. “Room nineteen forty-two. In the eastern wing with the other Marrow Binds. Good luck to you, Miss Karbunkulus.”

*****

“All righty, then,” Elgart said when he saw Root

walking toward him from the registry. “Follow me, lovely young ladies and dapper young gents.”

Flanking the Registry hall, two staircases of rich mahogany met at a mezzanine landing and wound upwards into endless floors. A broken spindle here and

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there could not hide their majesty. Elgart led the ascension, uttering more ‘watch your steps’ and ‘careful now’s’.

A few floors up, Root felt a sudden onset of cold air and just managed to skirt a stair with a gaping hole that she could have sworn was not there before. Once past the hole, the coldness went away. The boy behind her was not so lucky. Elgart had to rescue his engulfed leg.

“Forgot to mention. Careful of the cold spots,” Elgart announced not just to the boy, but the whole group. “These here walls’ve got a mind of their own sometimes…like t’play tricks on unsuspecting guests. Just so long as you avoid the cold spots you’ll be just fine.”

Root heard the word Krux whispered among the crowd, something that had crossed her own mind. Before she could give it further thought, the arrival of the next floor brought about distraction. From here, Elgart read from a long list, assigning rooms and advising the new tenants to wash up and prepare for dinner. Root’s room was located on the highest floor. As she approached, the Knocker, a plain Brute with bulbous eyes, woke and extended a clawed hand from the doorknob.

“Welcome to the House of Gubelyn!” It gripped her palm and shook. “Home of the finest hospitality and the plumpiest beds!” The little Brute’s head followed her into the room. “You have one message.” It held up a folio and dropped it just before she arrived to take it. “Oops!”

She shot it a glare and scooped the message off the floor.

Dear Guest, Please note that due to unfortunate circumstances in the

dining hall, the Briefing shall be convened in the south garden. Our apologies for this inconvenience. We hope to have the

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furniture removed from the ceiling by morning. Your grateful host, Master Hillywur Gubelyn

Root laughed and turned to notice a bed. An actual bed! She plopped herself onto it and closed her eyes. Despite a few rebellious springs, it most definitely was the plumpiest, as promised. And it came with a pillow! She sighed. An actual bed.

Her books had not left her arms and even now remained hugged to her chest. With her eyes still closed she traced her fingers over the letters and binding. The first book, The Old Hat’s Book of Fanciful Firsts was a simple text in beginner Stamping, most of which she had already memorized.

The second book, The Opus of Wits was her favourite. She loved the feel of its weight and the way Fledger had embossed the letters in gold. In truth, she could barely understand this book. It was highly advanced, as Fledger had said, its contents at the level of a Wits master. Even so, Root surprised him with a mild translation. She had combed through it enough times to understand that Wits was a Pyre with great Heat and that the master of such a Heat could enter the mind of another.

She had loved this idea instantly and used to while away her younger hours imagining her thoughts somehow, magically leaping across the Bounding Main and landing in the middle of her parents’ sentences. Hello, this is your daughter. I’m alive. Come back.

Root rolled over and noticed a timber box with the word Supplies. It sat next to a tiny clay pig on the bedside table, the singular attempt at room decor.

She opened the box and looked at what appeared to be little flattened sponges. There was also a dropper and a

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bottle labeled, Leavening Oil. Underneath these she found an instruction menu and eagerly turned to the first page.

She had not noticed the intruder creeping toward her from the farthest corner of her room.

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7 Root’s ear twitched. She leapt up and had the intruder

pinned against the wall before a word was uttered. “Who are you? What’re you doing in my room?” she

demanded. “I’m sorry,” the boy wheezed, “I didn’t mean to alarm

you.” He was orderly looking, with hair swept tidily to one

side. There was an earnest look about him but, still, he was in Root’s room uninvited.

“You didn’t answer my question.” “I’m, well, my name’s Lian Blick.” He swallowed

anxiously. “And…um, I think there’s just been a mistake with the rooms. They must’ve double booked by accident.”

Root softened. He looked like a frightened squirrel in his furry collar and fitted jacket. She released her grip and stepped back. “Were you Called?”

The boy nodded. “You?” “Yeah.” They stared at each other for a long while

before she decided to venture a question. “What d’y’think our duty’ll be?”

He shrugged. “They’re building a new prison, bigger’n Death Flat even. Before they took prisoners to Death Flat they put youth in to see if they could escape any small,

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unnoticed crannies.” “How long did they keep ‘em?” “Awhile. They were pretty skinny when they came

out. Allegedly.” Root eyed him. His hands were so clean. “Where’re

you from?” “Century.” Her eyes widened. The First City. Sleek buildings and

sleepless lights conjured in her mind. Fledger had been there. He said it was too big for him, too clean.

Suddenly the boy’s features looked porcelain and Root felt self-conscious. She casually slipped her hair behind an ear and covered up her dirt-filled fingernails.

“You?” the boy asked. Root pretended not to hear him. She could tell he was

already making assumptions by her clothes. She had just left Shade Howl behind. She didn’t want it following her.

She held up her timber box. “What’re these for?” “Those’re extra room supplies.” “Sponges?” “No, no they’re…here, may I?” He reached in the

box. “There should be a dropper and some…yup, there it is.” He pulled out the Leavening Oil. Using the dropper he sucked up some of the green liquid. “So, what do you need?”

Root looked around her stark room. “Pretty much everything.”

“Well, it’s a bit drafty in here.” He picked out a sponge. “How ‘bout a fireplace?”

“Um…sure.” “In the corner?” “Okay.” Lian walked over and set the sponge down on the

floor. “Okay, you just have to put your money in the slot

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on the box.” “Money?” “Yeah, just in the slot.” Root felt a rush of panic. She had no money. While

the boy looked at her expectantly she could feel her face beginning to burn with embarrassment. Shade Howl started rising up around her.

Wait! The junos from the watering can! Root reached in her pocket and spread a large handful of coins onto her bed. “H-how much is it?” she asked, praying the boy wouldn’t notice beggary through her cracks.

“Should be in the menu,” the boy said. Root picked up the booklet and flipped to the menu. Fireplace. Three hundred junos. She felt her body seize. So much money. But she

couldn’t turn back now. He’d laugh. Or worse, repulse. She reluctantly counted the junos. Fifty…sixty in the purples and blues. But the other colours. She did not know how much they were worth. And now she could feel the boy watching her. She fumbled with the coins, feeling shame and rage in her trembling fingers.

The boy slowly stood up. Root could see him out of the corner of her eye, judging her, probably smirking.

“Actually, I’m not very good with leavening,” he said. “I always overestimate and make a huge mess.” He walked over to the bed. “You should probably do it.”

Root said nothing. She silently fingered the junos, feigning concentration.

“And after your fireplace, maybe you can get a chest of drawers,” he said. “Heck, with nine hundred junos you could get a galvanized tub.”

Root looked at the boy. He smiled tenderly. And for the first time in Root’s life she knew what the

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grace of a stranger felt like. She wanted to burst into tears. She couldn’t understand it. But she did, she wanted to reach for the arms of some god…and sob.

She edged off the bed to the fireplace sponge and watched the boy pick up each coin and casually count out loud to himself. Loud enough for her to hear. “Okay, let’s see. It was three hundred…so, that’s one hundred, two hundred, three hundred.”

Root watched him painstakingly plunk three bronze coins into the slot.

Bronze. Hundreds. She squeezed the dropper and let a few tears of liquid

fall onto the sponge. At once it began to grow and take shape and soon a lovely ivory fireplace had taken over the corner of her room.

“You want a dresser, too?” Lian asked. Her eyes smiled. She nodded. “Okay…uh…fifty…seventy…ninety.” This time Root saw the red was a fifty and the green a

twenty. A minute later, the dresser grew up along her wall. Root ran to the bed and scanned her eyes across the remaining coins.

“I’ve still got…five hundred and…” she double checked, “…ten left!”

The boy beamed at her. There was no hubris in him. He was, in fact, in admiration. Root held him in her eyes, trying to tell him she would never, ever forget this. After a moment they both cleared their throats and returned to the sponges.

“How can you tell what one is?” she asked. “It’ll take shape as you touch it.” “Oh!” Root eagerly grabbed hold of a sponge and

held it up. It morphed into the shape of a toilet. They looked at each other and burst into laughter.

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“Always handy!” the boy grinned. By the time the room was finished, Root had curtains,

a bathtub, a rug, a toilet, two towels, and quite possibly, a friend. It was more than she’d ever had in her life. She and Lian admired their creations over a shared bite of his last maple cake.

A curt knock on the door interrupted them. “Yes?” they both called. “Young Master, is that you? It’s me, Swinston.” Lian’s shoulders drooped. “It’s my dad’s attendant.” He waved his hand, causing the door to swing open

and reveal a harsh, pointy looking man. Upon spying Lian, he was overcome with relief.

“Young Master. I have searched everywhere. Thank goodness, you’re all right!”

“I’m fine, Swinston.” Lian was plainly annoyed. Swinston leered around the room. “What’re you

doing in the eastern wing? You are the son of Lord Blick.”

Lian, noticing Root’s cheeks flush stood up. “I happen to like it here.”

“And what, may I ask is wrong with your arrangements? Ah, let me guess,” he imitated the boy, “Too big and too clean.”

Root lowered her chin and smiled. “Well, they are.” Lian insisted. “I’ll hear nothing of it. If you have concern, take it up

with your father.” “Like he ever listens to me,” Lian groaned as he

gathered his belongings. After sweeping the area he began patting himself and checking pockets, panic growing in him.

“Your hat,” Root said. Lian looked at her.

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“Your key. It’s in your hat.” Lian went to his satchel and pulled his hat from its

hang. He reached in. His eyes lit up as a small paintbrush emerged. He gaped at Root curiously.

“I…saw it drop in,” she shrugged. Swinston eyed Root coldly and ushered Lian forward. “G’bye, Root,” Lian said. “And good luck in your

duty.” “Yeah, you too.” Without uttering a word, Swinston quickened their

pace, closing the door behind them. The moment the door closed, Root was at the tub.

She leapt in and scrubbed. She scrubbed until her skin was red and the grunge of Shade Howl was forever lost down the drain. Fledger’s clean shirt and belted shorts capped the intention.

“Shoulda leavened a clock,” she said later when she noticed the darkened sky.

“I will choose to ignore that remark,” someone answered.

Root flew to the ground and hid behind her bed, where she could safely locate the voice.

The clay pig, not clay at all, but fleshy and wiry and moreover breathing, rolled over from his position on her bedside table. “You’d better hurry,” he grumbled. “It’s time for the Briefing.”

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8 Root trooped through corridors and down stairs with

the anxious flow of Called. A boy slid down the railing past them all. Root would have acted on her impulse to follow suit, save for the fact that it was the big mouth, Dwyn Puffler. She opted to conform to the masses.

They made their way toward the back of the citadel where the flux bottlenecked into a large, open foyer. Here, at least a hundred more were already claiming turf and loudly cheering some action Root could not yet see.

As she moved to the front she caught sight of an animal. It was small, not even to her knees, with a thick ringed tail and two very frightened eyes. It seemed to have wedged itself under a table and now Root could see a boy moving toward it.

He pointed his fist. A flare dartled from a large ring on his finger and the next thing Root knew the creature was decimated. There’d been a cry of despair and then dead. Just like that. She stood in horror as cheers erupted around her.

When the cheers became louder she looked to see that there were three more ring-tailed creatures desperately vying for escape. The crowd actually gave the boy room to hunt them, laughing as he sent more killing flares into their desperate path. Root was shocked that no

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one was helping these creatures, which were hardly a danger worth such violence.

She held back, looking for a door she could open, hoping to entice the animals out. They were fast, very fast, zooming in and around the foyer, taking to walls, drapes, even the large chandelier. But despite their quick defences, the boy took them down one after the other to the great entertainment of a crowd that Root now decided was of the cruellest mentality. When there was only one animal left, a desperate, trembling thing now cowered in a corner, Root sprang without thought. She had the animal in her arms in no time and was warning the boy not to take another step.

The crowd boo’d her. Boo’d her. She couldn’t believe it.

“What’re you doing!” the boy yelled. He was a bony thing with sly, puny eyes.

“Leave the poor thing alone!” Root yelled back. “Can’t you see it just wants to be set free?”

“What’re you talking about!” the boy looked baffled. “Get outta the way!”

“No!” “You better move or I’m gonna…” A sound filled the room. It was like a spin of music

going down a drain. Nearly everyone in the crowd moaned in protest. The boy’s eyes narrowed at Root. “You stupid feebus! You just lost me money!”

“What about these animals! They lost their lives!” Root tucked the creature in closer to her.

“Are you serious?” The boy looked at the crowd, “I think the kracker might be serious!”

A wall of faces broke into searing laughter. “It’s a game!” the boy yelled. He took the ring off his

finger and held it up for her to see the embossed letters.

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“Rival Ring Sporting Guild…It’s not real!” Root’s tongue suddenly failed her. A game? “But what

about…?” She lifted the animal. It was stiff, like a taxidermic trophy. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I thought it was…”

“Sorry doesn’t get me my junos back!” The boy blocked her path.

“Leave ‘er alone, Kor. She said she didn’t know.” Root looked to see Lian Blick move into the open.

The boy, Kor, stiffened then glared at Root. “How can you not know? You from Shade Howl or something? A Grayshank?”

More laughter. Root felt heat rise in her cheeks. Lian walked past Kor and held his hand out to Root,

“C’mon.” “Where d’ya think you’re going?” Kor intercepted

her. “You owe me a Quarry. How ‘bout I take that little gewgaw around yer neck as payment!”

Behind him, a stalky boy with a protruding lower jaw laughed and reached for Root’s necklace. She clutched it and swerved back.

“Just ignore them,” Lian said, tugging forward. Kor turned to Lian. “Wow, the corndip’s actually got

a voice. Guess he thinks he’s pretty important now ‘cause he got Duty. Don’t kid yourself, Blick. Everyone knows you’re just here ‘cause your daddy pulled strings. How else would a feebus like you get Called for service?”

“Woah,” Root cut in. “Look, just ‘cause I wrecked your dumb game doesn’t give you the right to snark off to everyone else.”

“Ooooooo, look! Blick’s got himself a Grayshank for a girlfriend. Better hide your dad’s coffers!”

A few snickers came from the herd behind him. Root’s whole body steamed. She hurled the now defunct Quarry at Kor’s head. He turned and caught it with ease.

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“That all you got, Gewgaw?” He squeezed the animal until it flared and withered into ash.

Root shrank back, silently cursing the Heat that refused her this same power.

Lian doused the embers with a slow wave of his hand. “Cut it out, Kor.”

“What’re y’gonna do, Feebus? Tell your daddy? Can’t handle it yourself.”

“Pretty sure he just did,” came a voice from behind Root. “He put out your cheap Secondhander, didn’t he?” All eyes turned to see Dwyn Puffler walking defiantly toward Kor, space fully given him. For the first time, with the advantage of proximity, Root got a clear picture of him. He was tall and athletically built with a casual wave of dark hair. His eyes, set strongly upon Kor were strikingly blue. He was, Root had to admit, quite good looking. And by the expressions on many girls’ faces, she was not the only one who thought this. One girl, a pretty blonde in dazzling pink, actually gasped.

“And I’m hungry,” Dwyn kept his stance, “So if y’don’t mind, I’d like to get my dinner.”

Kor returned Dwyn’s glare, “I could turn you to dust.”

Undaunted, Dwyn drew in closer, “I’ll see your dust and raise you a fielder’s ass.”

In that single sentence Dwyn won a host of new admirers. Even Root was surprised to find herself silently cheering for him. The lesser of two evils, she thought. Even so, she didn’t need him to fight her battles. She was about to intercept when diverted by the carbonated arrival of Master Hillywur Gubelyn.

“Ah, wonderful. You’re all here. Well then, let’s not waste any time. You must be starving!”

He threw a pair of stained glass doors open to display

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the enchanted garden court, where thousands of golden lights twinkled along a border of trees, keeping the night at bay. Root noticed they were not strung lights, but living buds of the actual boughs.

“Fire Blossoms,” Lian stated and tugged her forward into a sea of meticulously adorned tables.

A gilded moon hung so large and low it looked like one could reach up and scoop of its cream. Gubelyn disappeared into a bustle of workers while Root and Lian found a festive table further into the garden. A bouquet of Fire Blossoms took its center, gently illuminating their faces.

The table sat in front of an immense Fire Blossom tree, by far the grandest in the garden. Its girth was nearly the width of the Copper Quill and to Root’s amazement, several full size tables were cradled among its twisting boughs.

“Dominion and Bind Jury,” Lian pointed out. Master Gubelyn’s workers ascended and descended

stairs that were carved along both sides of its enormous trunk.

As Root gawked, a round-faced boy in knickers and suspenders approached their table. He looked to Root like one of those cherubs she had seen floating around in old paintings. Even his cheeks had a rosy shine to them.

“Anyone sitting here?” He referred to a chair beside Root.

“No, go right ahead,” she smiled as he slipped in beside her and folded his hands in his lap.

“My name’s Root Karbunkulus. This is Lian Blick.” The boy’s face turned rosier. “Blick? Nifty! Is your

dad Lord Blick, then?” Lian nodded uncomfortably. “Wow! I’m Milden Ibbbs, with three bs.”

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“Isn’t your dad on the Jury?” Lian asked. “Yes,” the boy beamed. “Milwart Ibbbs. He’s more

nervous than me, which is saying something!” A steaming bowl of soup and freshly baked rolls were

placed in front of them, the beginning of a sumptuous meal. A luscious, succulent, deliciously sumptuous meal that Root would not easily forget. Their glasses were filled and refilled with what tasted like grape cream and dessert arrived in mounds of molten chocolate.

When she finished, Root thought she might explode. She pushed her chair from the table and took a few deep breaths.

“You okay?” Lian asked. She nodded. “Just…never eaten so much.” With her hands over her stomach she regarded the

other many guests in the courtyard. She spied Kor. He was beside the jut-jawed boy who, along with the rest of the table, sat in silent, undivided attention while Kor monopolized the conversation.

At a table to Kor’s right, hard not to notice, sat the girl with the dazzling pink dress, the one who had practically swooned at the sight of Dwyn Puffler. Root was mesmerized by the girl. Her hair fell in gilt coils, crowned by an actual tiara. She had large, painted eyes and a painted mouth. She was like a firework.

The girl was gazing dreamily at something. Root followed her eyes, which sure enough led to Dwyn Puffler. He, too, spoke with dramatic flair and his table, almost all girls, seemed positively mesmerized. Root shook her head and laughed.

A hush skimmed over the garden. Lian poked Root. She drew back around and saw that a man had risen from his table in the giant Fire Blossom. He was reedy everywhere but in the belly, which was straining over red

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pinstriped trousers. With a gold napkin, he dabbed the corners of his mouth and placed it on a podium clutched in the leaves of the biggest branch.

“The Guardian,” Lian whispered. There he was at last, Lanlynne’s storied leader,

bearing no resemblance to the Grim that Root had expected and, in fact, looking somewhat familiar, as if a distant uncle. She must have unknowingly laid eyes upon his picture in the dailies around Shade Howl.

“Thank you, thank you very much. Yes, indeed, thank you. Good evening and welcome, welcome!” the Guardian commenced animatedly. “My name is Studaben Picklepug…” He paused, nudging more applause. “Goodness, thank you, thank you. As the Guardian of Lanlynne, I welcome you to this honoured occasion, where men and women before you have served this great land in the name of freedom.” Another gap elbowed further applause. “Yes, thank you! As your loyal leader, I am humbled by the ceaseless volunteering of Lanlynne’s best resource, its citizens! It is these small sacrifices of service that are creating a great country, indeed!”

Only the cleverest of observers would have noticed the slight dip in the ovation, the silent tension that suddenly pocked the room after his last two sentences. But Studaben Picklepug was far too impressed by the flash of his shiny new teeth in a reflection. And so he continued, oblivious to the fact that there had been a war and in its wake was left a chasm of loss and bitterness.

Root Karbunkulus had felt the dip. She felt it in her stomach, like a hoist drop.

Picklepug continued. “Now, there is much to discuss, of course. But first, please allow me to thank those whose generous support has allowed us this wonderful venue and superb feast.” He unfurled a list. “Foremost, for his

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unceasing patronage, Master Grotius Vulcherk.” A man with oily strings of white hair stood up,

looking not unlike a corpse. He pushed the tall stiff collar of his cloak to one side and bowed. The audience response was mixed. Kor’s table seemed to appreciate him the most.

So that’s Grotius Vulcherk, Root thought. Though he had never shown his face in Shade Howl, his name had been bounced around often at the Jobbery. There seemed to be a lot of things this man wanted Found. Dark things. The Aunts had many times tried to get Root to take one of his jobs, to no avail. Even his name had made her skin crawl and this night was no different. “Doesn’t look the encouraging sort,” Root commented.

“The only thing Grotius Vulcherk encourages is the gaining of riches,” Lian said. “He owns a buncha shops across Lanlynne, practically one in every town. Mum says he’s got connections with the Soot Markets. She won’t even let me near his windows.”

Root knew of the Soot Markets and wasn’t surprised. “Maybe she thinks he’d sell you,” she joked. But looking up at the man’s cadaverous eyes, she secretly wondered if it might not be true. “Where is your mum, anyhow?” she asked at last.

“Well, after she dropped me off at dad’s she said she was going on a Swooshing trip. So, at this moment she’s probably on the peaks of Mount Ganache. But usually she’s at her house, outside of Century.”

The Guardian continued his list, which was rather long and dull until Master Hillywur Gubelyn was named and invited to the podium. Lian filled Root in on his story.

“Hillywur Gubelyn,” he began dryly, “is eighteenth in a long line of merchants who have attempted to convert

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the Shack into a venture of some sort, this latest, of course being a so-called luxury inn. Each attempt, however, has failed…”

“’Cause of the Krux,” Milden said nervously. “I wish we were placed somewhere else. Why do they always have to put the Marrow Binds here?”

“Because the Guardian likes to keep his secrets far from the public eye,” Lian said. “At least that’s what mum says.”

“Gee, she and my friend, Fledger would probably get along splendidly,” Root laughed.

Master Gubelyn’s speech ended with a proclamation of gratitude toward the Historius Aevum Madam Mordgidika Keen. “The Hub of Gub, as we lovingly call her...without whose knowledge and guidance we would be lost.”

An elderly woman nodded modestly from a table halfway up the Fire Blossom. Her smile drew many lines and, from these etchings, two eyes shone like dewdrops. She looked to be a fitting keeper of Lanlynne’s history, worldly and wizened as if she’d lived it herself.

Beside the woman, Root caught another pair of eyes. They had been staring right at her but now were taking in the whole of the room with enormous concentration, as if sweeping it for clues. A short beard of loose braids covered the man’s chin, each tip wrapped in soft, mellowed hide. He gave the impression that he had seen many trials and from him came a Heat Root could hardly ignore.

“Who is that man?” she asked Lian. “The one beside Madam Keen?”

“That’s Jorab,” he whispered “Now, he’s amazing. He should be Guardian, not Studaben Picklepug. Pfff, he should be Monarch.”

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“That what your mum says?” “That’s what everyone says.” Once finished with his list, Studaben Picklepug

cleared his throat, “Now then.” He grasped both sides of the podium and regarded his audience. “I have brought you all here for a very unique purpose. A purpose that has failed in the hands of my finest Badges. As it turns out, I need a particular person for this mission. A citizen of elite quality.

“The Marrow Bind was a necessary doing, for it was the only way to unify such a faculty. As your loyal Guardian, I myself took great care in settling the requirements, even greater care in selection. And now you are here, all of you possessing the missing piece, the light that will enable Lanlynne a golden recovery.

“Hear me now. Not one among you has come through the crown gates without this distinction. Perhaps it is a slim line from your forefathers, perhaps full in the blood. But all of you, every single one of you…

…are Bone Grits.”

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9 There was such a clamouring from the crowd that the

Guardian had to stand back and wait for it to settle, which was a long time coming. From disgusted scoffs to howls of disbelief, the crowd of hundreds took its time assimilating the information newly thrust upon them.

At Root’s table, Milden’s surprise was peppered with disbelief that he could exhibit anything of value, let alone a skill that might aid his country. His smile grew bigger as the notion settled in.

Lian went inside himself. He seemed to be processing the information like a barrister, piecing things together and nodding as earlier suspicions all began to make sense now. From there, he gathered upon the facts of his lineage and deduced that, yes, indeed there could be a thirteen per cent Bone Grit line from his mother’s side. He seemed pleased with his assessment.

Root said nothing. Hers was flat out shock. After years of brutality, indeed a whole life of it, she could hardly fathom that the same bane of her breath also lived in the clean, pink, sheltered faces of this courtyard. And now, all of a sudden it was given value. Overriding this was the flush in her cheeks as these same faces flat out denied such ‘filth in their veins’. Amidst her confusion, rage paced like an animal.

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The Guardian eventually returned to the podium, his eyes flashing with satisfaction. “Alright now, settle down. We’ve a lot to cover. There will be plenty of time to discuss in days to come.” When there was no reaction, he raised his voice. “Silence!” and the chatter subsided. “Now then, as there are so many of you, which I might add was most unexpected, it was necessary to affect a special Jury designed for the uniqueness of your mission. And here to share its purpose, please welcome the head of the Finding Jury, Madam Hyvis Punyun!”

An ample lady in a garishly glittering ensemble and stacks of platinum hair rose and immediately took center stage. Root had never seen someone so glossy. “Thank you!” the woman gushed, squeezing Picklepug to the side. “I am honoured to be involved in this extraordinary Marrow Bind. As my daughter Hilly had been Called, my duty as a parent was to ensure first and foremost her safety; she was to be working among a…well, a different sort, after all. And what better way than to become head of the Finding Jury!” she laughed ineffectually, like an elbowed joke. “Like you, we were agog to learn our Hilly had…” she pretended to whisper “…black blood,” then added mockingly, “From her father’s side, of course!” This time, her audience laughed with her. It grated on Root’s nerves. “But once the nausea wore off and I realized I could be here in an influential way, as an example of civility, well, let us say I leapt at the chance.”

Root felt her blood pitch with anger. Her fists were clenched to white.

Hyvis Punyun held up a small booklet and took in her audience like a scholar to toddlers. “This shall be your sacred creed, children. In it I have detailed the expectations and rules that each and every one of you shall obey. For some of you who may not be…

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accustomed to rules, know that they are here for your own safety as well and the Guardian has graciously allowed me to invoke strong measures of punishment for those who abuse its necessary means. I shall not bore you now with all two hundred clauses. You will each receive your own copy of The Finders Book of Propriety to peruse at your leisure. If you have any questions, the chambers of the Finding Jury shall be located in the west wing. Once again, I welcome you all and look forward to a successful mission! Especially you, Hilly dear!”

“Thank you, Madam Punyun,” Studaben Picklepug returned. “Now if you’ll please…”

“Stand up, Sugarbowl!” Hyvis Punyun was not about to leave anytime soon. “Go on, Hilly sweets. Show them your new gown, my little Spritzer!”

The girl, Hilly Punyun stood up and Root immediately made the connection. Dazzling Pink. Blonde. Tiara. She waved at the crowd as if she were a queen.

Picklepug forcibly pressed Hyvis Punyun down, smiling as he did. “In continuing with this evening’s agenda, may I present Lord Borgnine Blick!” Picklepug trumpeted.

The room energized as a man descended the stairs from the very top table of the Fire Blossom. Lian sat up straight, triggering Root to do the same.

“Is that your father?” she asked. He nodded, not taking his eyes off the man. Lord Blick had a smooth, bald head and commanding

eyes. A rich purple uniform clad him stiffly and importantly. He cleared his throat and set a pair of glasses upon his nose.

“As Studaben mentioned, I am Lord Blick, Brédin Master, though it is my sincere desire you will not need the services of a Brédin…” His was a powerfully rich

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voice, a voice of respect and authority. “Having said that, I do not mitigate the challenges that you may endure while on your missions.” He cleared his throat. “Throughout recent history, a Finder’s path has not always been easy.”

Y’don’t say? Root thought and with accustomed reflex she threw him onto the Dominion pile with all the others who had the power and authority to change that ‘small matter,’ but chose not to.

“But now, now you have the powers of Lanlynne at your back.” Lord Blick energized. “You have its blessing! This is your chance to be bigger than the curse that has tailed you for far too long! A chance to shine as one of Lanlynne’s finest patriots!” His words entranced the audience. "As those who have served before, you may be pushed beyond all normal capabilities. You may be dragged into the very trenches of doubt. There shall be times when you will surely beg for the comforts of your homes. Indeed, most of you, after enduring such journeys, will fail.”

It wasn’t exactly what his audience wanted to hear, but any doubts were soon trampled by the now swelling thunder of Lord Blick’s epilogue. “But among you, from the fires of allegiance shall rise victors! This Bind will find you not beaten, not broken, but rebirthed. Never to know the suffering of petty lives again. Your fellow patriots, indeed all of Lanlynne shall place your names along the Hall of Heroes!”

The final note of his speech rang like a distant bell of old, conjuring images of majesty and greatness. Most everyone felt their hearts soaring. Others, like Root were choking in suspicion, waiting for the other boot to drop.

Lord Blick’s voice fell earthbound again. “We are keenly aware of the Bone Grit instinct and thus, exclusive

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to this Marrow Bind, we have granted permission to move freely as per the direction of your intuition. However, for the purposes of safety and accountability, there will be parameters. Firstly, you will be divided into Bonds of three, arbitrarily chosen by the Jury.”

Root panicked as her eyes darted around the room in consideration of possible Bondmates.

An explosion of discussion commenced for some time before Lord Blick raised his hand. “Each Bond will receive truss packs. These will include pertinent aids such as Roads, Bloworms, funds, BeanBugs, et cetera. And while we’re on the subject of BeanBugs, they are not to be misused. They are there for your protection if you have exhausted all other measures. To those of you with selective hearing, let me make myself clear. Never is this tool to be used carelessly. The Brédin’s time and mine are not to be mistreated.”

“What’s a Brédin?” Root asked. “Let’s just say I’m glad they’re on our side!” Milden

said with childlike amusement. Lian was not so enthusiastic. “They’re ancient beings

gifted with immortality and the wisdom it affords them. They’re renowned for their higher pursuits of peace, poetry, and fine arts. Paradoxically, they are also among the most powerful military force in all of Lanlynne.”

“And your dad is Brédin Master?” Root’s eyes were wide.

“A position that’s passed down from generation to generation!” Milden added.

“Does that mean you’ll be Brédin Master, too?” Root loved this idea.

“I don’t know,” Lian blanched. “I’m not…I’m not like him.” He shifted an anxious gaze to his father.

Lord Blick pressed on. “Each Bond will be given a

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Rover who will aid in navigation and general wilderness survival, but will not take a leadership role. Theirs is to be an entity of non-interference, a mere aid not unlike the aids in your truss packs. Now then, the Bonds. These will be your family, your comrades for the duration of duty. Pay attention. Once your name is called, please join your fellow Bondmates and wait patiently.”

The room snapped to attention. Some of the Called clutched each other. Some crossed fingers. Some closed their eyes and silently begged for the perfect mate. As Lord Blick read off names, more than one bawled once, separated from a friend or placed with someone less favourable.

Pink tiara girl, Hilly Punyun squealed with delight as she was put with two of her closest friends. In fact, all three shrieked so loud some of the Fire Blossoms went out.

Lord Blick continued down the long list of names, which, despite its length, had everyone at the edge of their seat. Finally, he called out, “Root Karbunkulus!” Root stood up and dug deeper for breath. She closed her eyes and planted Lian’s name firmly in her mind.

“Lian Blick,” came Lord Blick’s resonant voice. Lian sprang for Root. They clutched in relief until

halted by the disapproving throat clearing of Lord Blick. They awaited the third name.

“Dwyn Puffler!” Root’s relief swiftly faded as Dwyn rose and strode

toward them. Sure, he had demonstrated a certain amount of bravado standing up to Kor, but how would she deal with such arrogance? She barely managed to applaud.

Dwyn passed Kor’s table, and with far too much coincidence, suddenly fell face first to the floor. “That was no accident,” Lian whispered. “Kor tripped him!”

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The general laughter subsided once Dwyn got up. Undaunted, he waved like a plucky cowboy, smoothing over any doubt as to his charm and calmly sauntered away. Root watched Kor, who smirked not unlike the Aunts. As Dwyn approached, she resolved that despite his ego, he was a much better pick than Kor.

The moon had sunk so low that Lord Blick had become an impressive silhouette in its middle. Finally, he came to the anticipated end and relinquished the podium once more to the Guardian of Lanlynne.

“Well, that was quite lengthy, wasn’t it?” Picklepug said. “I hope you are all satisfied. I must add here that there is to be no switching whatsoever.”

Upon the crest of his audience’s attention he carefully placed his next sentence. “And now, perhaps the most important feature of this evening’s events, the Find itself.”

All sound yielded as Fate entered and cocked its head to listen. In the centre of the courtyard, a candescence of light took full attention. It came from the biggest Imitari Root had ever seen. Within its crystalline bounds, a figure gathered into form, igniting the crowd into excited whispers.

Picklepug positively beamed, “The Miist of Kalliope!” It was beautiful. Its enlarged image hung in the

Imitari’s light for all to see, a golden flask, round bellied with a long, elegant neck. From its base, the inlaid images of arms reached skyward and its front yielded a colourful mosaic of precious gems. Among these, in its center, a great ruby dominated.

Root took one look at the Miist and her skin erupted with bumps. But it was not due to its beauty, nor its mysticism. It was something else. The Miist was Lost, she could feel that. Deeply Lost. More so than anything she’d

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ever felt before. She was almost suffocated by the power that held it from light. But coupled with this was the impression that this marvel was actually hiding itself. The Miist of Kalliope did not want to be Found.

Root knew instinctively that this was going to be the biggest job she’d ever done, way bigger than the cheap contracts of the Jobbery. No wonder the Guardian did a full Bone Grit Marrow Bind.

Studaben Picklepug launched into the Miist’s history. “The Miist of Kalliope was an elixir of profound healing, even known to have transcended death. It was unique to Kalliope’s powerful Pyre, never able to be duplicated.” At this, the Imitari swirled and shifted into an image of Kalliope herself, a raven-haired beauty that stole the breath.

“She had many vials on hand that saw many wars,” Picklepug continued. “In fact, hers was the name most often called out on the battlefield.”

Again the Imitari shifted its light and the terror of war came into view. Here, men and women lay in the throes of mutilation and death. Picklepug continued, while the Imitari accorded with more visuals. “Kalliope would arrive and release the Miist’s power upon the wounded and dead. It would settle over them like a cool drink and within moments those that were lifeless walked again.”

His audience remained rapt as the Miist of Kalliope returned, spinning and sparkling before them. “Yes, a potent force to be sure. Now a long lost fragment of Lanlynne’s rich history. Meant for the care and study of our most esteemed chroniclers but, alas, obscured somewhere among the terrible shadows of war.” The Imitari switched off, pulling the Guardian back into focus. “And that, my nimble little Finders, is your mission…to use your unique skill to Find the historic

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Miist of Kalliope and return it to its rightful place in Lanlynne’s halls.”

Studaben Picklepug clapped his hands. “I expect great things from each and every one of you as you take on this special duty for your country, no longer common citizens of Lanlynne, but Bone Grits. Brave to the Bone!”

Root caught a glint in his eye and the familiarity suddenly fell into place. She shot up, ignited by memory, a terrible recall of disdain from a man who had kicked her bread into a sewer, covered his face, and left her bleeding in an alley. She saw him now so clear. The fleshy cheeks, the narrowed eyes, the repulsion he held in them. That man had been Studaben Picklepug. The Guardian of Lanlynne.

It was all true. The spit at the end of every sentence. The other boot, loud and clear. The Guardian left the podium with a flourishing bow,

allowing Lord Blick to cap the night. “You have until the hour of sleep to familiarize yourselves and choose a Bond name,” the Brédin master said. “The date upon which the Find begins, along with other pertinent details, shall be convened in the second briefing tomorrow night. Please collect your truss packs at the doors. Thank you and good night.”

A question sat at the tip of Lian’s tongue, one that he was sure had stumped the rest of the room. “I wonder why he only called Smalls?”

Root seethed. “Talls would sell him down the soot. They know what lies under the belly of the Guardian. They would take Studaben Picklepug for his little ride, Find not just his Miist, but his deepest, darkest secrets. Then they’d wait for him to turn his back, even for a moment, and their knives would go deep. And the Guardian would never be Found again. No, Talls

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wouldn’t have been seduced so easily.” She paused. “And nor shall I.”

She marched from her chair and joined the exodus. She did not care that she’d left her Bondmates with their jaws hanging open.

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10 Dwyn and Lian wanted to meet in Root’s room. She

paced the floor dreading their arrival, trying to summon tact. Any minute they would be here, dragging excitement in with them, calling themselves Bone Grits and not having the slightest notion that, had they made the same claim not one day earlier they’d have probably been quarantined by Lanlynne’s illustrious ruler.

He shunned us! He nodded the noose mobs! And now with need at his back, he insults us with vulgar, false flattery! Does he think us so brainless? So asleep?

Her jaw clenched. No way. There was no way she was going to work for those eyes. Nor that forked tongue. He could use it on everyone else, but not her.

Fledger had mentioned a Dodging Stamp. He couldn’t do it himself. But somebody could. If a Dodging Stamp existed, then somebody could. For a price.

She reached up to the bun in her hair and pulled the tie loose. The strands tumbled down and with them an object wrapped in light netting. Root caught the Siren without looking and brought it around to face her.

As its warm red glow cast into her eyes she wondered if the Aunts had noticed it missing yet. She smiled. Surely this would pay for a good Dodging Stamp. Initially she was going to wait until her Marrow Bind was over and

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then take the Siren directly to the Wolf. But now that she’d decided to give the Marrow Bind and, in particular, the Guardian Studaben Picklepug a very wide berth, there was no time like the present.

She just needed to find a way to contact his Proxy without a Badge breathing down her neck.

“Ahem.” Root jumped and spun around to see her Knocker.

“Your guests have arrived.”

***** From a handy compact Imitari, a smaller version of

the Miist hung midair between them, basking in starlight while the Bond launched into deliberations. Dwyn, eagerly looting the truss pack wanted to simply start running and decide as they went along. Root played along, feigning interest. Lian was of the very strong opinion that they needed to plan and research first. He pulled out a quill and parchment.

“We’ll need a list of assets,” he said. “Aside from Bone Grit blood, what else do we have? Does anyone have a heated Pyre?

Root lowered her eyes. Dwyn, still mesmerized by the goodies of the truss pack didn’t even seem to hear Lian.

“Dwyn?” Lian said louder. “Mmm.” “Pyre. Do you have a Pyre?” “What? No, I haven’t even Bloomed yet.” Root nearly choked. Lian’s mouth went dry. Dwyn lifted his eyes from the truss pack. “What? You

got a problem with that?” “No, I…I just…” Lian turned to Root for relief.

“Okay, Root. How ‘bout you? What’s your Pyre?”

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“Um…I…I haven’t Bloomed yet, either.” This time Dwyn stopped rifling and looked up. His

eyes met Root’s, searching for the punchline. But she met him with sincerity. And a red face.

Lian was flabbergasted. Root could only guess what he was probably thinking - Two Colds? Surely he couldn’t be this unlucky. A moment later, the misfortune was assimilated. A mere setback. “Well, my predominant Pyre is Natruism.”

“What’s Natruism?” Root asked. “I have a talent for engaging nature, usually for

inventive purpose.” “You can bend nature to your will?” Dwyn translated. “I wouldn’t say bend. I’m more of a conduit for

which the Heat may channel to generate symbiotic…” When his audience blinked in lost interest, he stooped for layman terms. “Yeah, I can do nifty things with plants ‘n stuff.”

They seemed to like that. “Great,” Dwyn said. “Well, I’m strong.” “And fearless.” Root added. “The way you took on

Kor. And you didn’t even have a Heat.” “Strong and fearless.” Lian’s quill added the words to

his list. “Good. That’s good.” “I’m agile. And fast,” Root said. “And experienced,” Lian looked at her. Root felt exposed. He knew. Of course he did. She

sighed, tired of the cover. “But I’ve never used it for something so big.”

“I’ve never used it at all,” Lian said. “Me neither.” Dwyn added with a shrug. It was enough. Root could breathe in that. What did it

matter anyhow? She’d be gone soon enough. Dwyn dove back into the truss pack. “This is better’n

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Winterset!” “Okay, let’s see what information we can gather about

the Miist.” Lian turned to a new page. “What little I do know,” he expounded, “is that Kalliope’s Pyre was Concoction and…”

“What’s this for?” Dwyn held up something that looked like a chunk of soft putty.

“It’s a universal key,” Lian grabbed the putty and rather curtly put it back in the bag.

“I remember Kalliope,” Root said. “She was one of those statues along Guardian’s Gate. Brave and beloved.”

“Well, to some,” Lian clarified, “To others she was most despised…Don’t do that!” Lian had spied Dwyn about to dump out the contents of a velvet pouch.

“What?” Dwyn stopped. “I was just gonna throw out this dirt.”

“That’s not dirt, that’s our Road. And it’s quite happy left alone where it belongs!” Lian spewed.

Dwyn sorely put the pouch back into the truss pack. “So, what’s this Kalliope got to do with anything?” he snarked.

“She was only the creator of the Miist, the thing you’re supposed to Find!” Root snapped, then immediately hoped they hadn’t noticed that she’d said ‘you’re’ and not ‘we’re’.

Dwyn crossed his arms. “You said some despised her…” Root pressed Lian. “There was one battle…” “Aw, not another story! C’mon, let’s just wake up and

go get the dumb thing!” Lian was not very good at being mad. He got all tense

and flustered and the nubs on his ears went red. “I’m not…I’m not pointlessly running around with no destination in mind!” He stamped his foot. Root tried not

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to laugh. Dwyn, on the other hand, was not amused. “Look,

this is a Find, not a laboratory project!” “Oh, suddenly you’re the expert on Finding! An hour

ago you didn’t even know what a Bone Grit was.” Thankfully Root’s knocker reduced any homicidal

odds. “Message for one Root Karbunkulus.” It dropped the scroll, again just before she arrived for it. She glared at the Brute and snatched the message. “It says our Rover can’t make it tonight.”

There was no reply, only a few stiff grunts. “Aw, c’mon you two,” Root sighed. Dwyn gave in first. “I know! Let’s choose our Bond

name!” His heartiness was hard to resist and though the little pig reminded them that it was now way past bedtime, they vigorously doled out ideas.

After narrowing it down to three names, all of which were utterly disagreed upon, they decided to draw lots. Lian opened the window against the storm that was fermenting outside and managed to break off a branch from a swaying tree.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he lobbed it into three pieces. They were about to draw when a deafening screech was heard from outside. They sprang to the window and saw, strobed in branches of lightning, an enormous creature. Wings of crimson and blue flashed as it rose from the forest into the grinding storm above.

Lian sat back relieved. “It’s just a Valador.” “A what?” Root asked. “You never heard of a Valador? What Scholarly did

you go to? “I didn’t,” she answered, red-faced. “Oh.” Lian’s own face flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t

mean to…”

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“It’s okay. And anyway, that doesn’t make me stupid!” She fixed a glare on him, daring him to say otherwise.

“Yeah! Add ‘not stupid’ to Root’s list, will ya?” Dwyn teased.

She turned on him, but there was only sport in his eyes. She curled a retorting smile. “Add ‘cocky’ to Dwyn’s.”

“And ‘comic genius’,” he quipped. Now they laughed freely. “Alright,” Dwyn brought them back around. “So,

what’s a Valador, Blick?” “It’s a creature that actually flies into the heart of a

storm rather than hiding from it.” “Why?” Lian shrugged. “No one knows for sure. The poets

say that it seeks its true Self in the calm of the storm. In Lanlynne literature it’s often depicted as a symbol of inner strength.”

No one said a word. It was in their eyes and concurrent smiles. Instant and unanimous. From this day forth, they were Valadors. Yawning, dozing, exhausted Valadors, at that.

While the haunting, noble cry of the great bird continued outside, the boys drifted sleepily to their rooms, content in the strides they’d made.

Root, however found sleep elusive. She sat up in her bed while the Miist of Kalliope hung over her like a hornets nest. Or was that her Bondmates? Under her skin already? She turned from the thought. Her heart was already anxious over the deed to be done, she hardly needed to burden it with guilty sentiment, too.

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11 When his shouting drew no response, the little pig

crawled onto Root’s head and placed his wet snout in her ear. “You’re going to miss breakfast if you don’t get up!”

Once her brain grasped what he’d said, Root opened her eyes and sprang from bed. She was ready and on her way out when she noticed the pig resting his head on crossed hooves, watching her.

“Do you have a name?” she asked. The pig shook his head. “May I choose one for you?” The pig shrugged. “How about Horologe? It’s an old word that means

time keeper.” The pig thought about it, then nodded casually and

closed his eyes. He waited until she was gone before allowing a smile to spread across his little face.

*****

In the dining hall, a spacious chamber with light, airy

walls and dark wood accents, the ceiling sported hundreds of chairs that hung precariously like bats along the top of a cave. Evidently, the furniture problem had not been resolved. Guests were reduced to sitting on tables with

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plates in their laps. Breakfast was served, a bland grain meal, as the

kitchen Warmers had apparently been overnight victims of the Krux. Root couldn’t help but notice the workers were a dreary contrast to the cheer of last night.

“Y’want it warmed, you’re gonna hafta warm it yourselves,” was their morning greeting.

Lian was unfazed as heat rose from the tips of his fingers underneath Dwyn and Root’s bowls. “This was my very first Stamp. Fyrian Pulsus.”

“You crafted it yourself?” Root asked. “Ya, I’ll never forget. I was around ten and I broke

my alchemy scale and had to solder it before my dad got home. It was desperation that actually made it.”

“Why didn’t you just use a Secondhander?” Dwyn had stopped eating. He, like Root, was eager to know all he could of Stamping.

“I did, but it looked bad and I knew he’d notice. Besides Secondhanders, even the expensive ones, never last. I had no choice but to craft my own. I swear I sweat blood for hours until I came up with Fyrian Pulsus, but it worked! And what a difference! Secondhanders are nothing compared to your own Stamp. The difference is unbelievable.”

“How so?” Root asked. “The power is just way cleaner. It’s pure when it’s

yours. And durable. Now I craft all my Stamps.” “How many do you have so far?” “Um…about twenty five…” “Twenty five stamps! Already? That’s incredible.” “Hundred. Twenty five hundred.” Root and Dwyn looked at each other. There were no

words. “At least the bread’s fresh,” Dwyn finally broke the

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awkward silence and grabbed his third piece, “And the tea’s not bad either.”

“That’s water,” Root said. “Oh.” “I think we should go to Perderly,” Lian announced.

“It’s a town not too far from here. Used to be located on the other side of Mammoth Rock until it was destroyed some time ago and then rebuilt. Anyway, I’ve discovered it has a little known private library. I think we can find some pertinent information on the Miist there.” He was definitely not giving up on his intentions of a well-planned expedition.

“How’d you discover that in the time we left last night ‘til now?” Dwyn asked suspiciously.

Lian flopped a gigantic book on the table, sending a thick mouldy smell into the air. Dwyn quickly moved his food to avoid it.

“I stopped by the Word Pantry after we left Root’s,” Lian said.

The book was easily four inches thick. Even Root was doubtful. “You read that whole thing…last night?”

Lian nodded. “Right. How?” Dwyn’s irritation was gaining. “Slept on it.” The casual tone of Lian’s voice was

hard to ignore. Dwyn and Root looked at each other. “Are you serious? You can read books just by

sleeping on them?” The impatient look on Dwyn’s face was replaced with bubbling curiosity. He grabbed the book and flipped to a page. “Page two hundred and thirty nine,” he challenged.

“‘The Pernsnig is of great interest to a tourist of this particular persuasion…’” Lian knew the words of the page by heart.

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“I don’t believe it!” Dwyn showed Root the exact same sentence in the book while Lian tried to hide his smile.

Root was wholly impressed and now more than willing to indulge Lian. “So this library?”

“Well, according to the book, the secret library holds another book, an original with no copies.” Lian spoke low and gestured them in closer. “It was written by Sir Wilbury Heart, a man who fought in the Battle of Bloodsong, where Kalliope is said to have been killed. He was a close companion to her and claimed to be an authority on the Miist. I believe his book could lead us to its last whereabouts. It will give us a strong start at any rate.”

It was unanimous. “To Perderly,” Dwyn announced and held out his

flattened hand. His Bondmates looked at him. He ahem’d. They amusedly went along, layering their hands on top while he affected a dramatic tone.

“Evermore from land to sea Upon the wings of Victory!” His friends blinked. “What?” “Add ‘corny’ to Dwyn’s list, Lian,” Root teased. They all laughed as a blond girl pranced over. “Is that

your little slogan?” Hilly Punyun was sans the dazzling pink gown and tiara. Today, she was sporting a fashionable traveling ensemble. Also pink.

“This is our Bond name.” She pirouetted, revealing an emblem on the back of her cropped cape. The Pinks.

Will wonders ever cease? Root thought. The letters had been placed like a pink pearl inside the

pillowy pink velvet of a glittering pink clamshell. While Lian and Root’s eyes rolled, Dwyn’s were positively

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doting. “Do you like it?” Hilly flipped her hair. “It’s perfect!” Dwyn’s slushy response made his

Bondmates instantly nauseous. The young admirers introduced themselves with an

annoying amount of giggling, leaving Root and Lian quite happy to have been ignored.

“I still can’t believe it! Bone Grit blood!” Hilly said with far too many trills for Root’s liking. “I mean, I grew up playing Grit Games…you know, where we all got to dress up in mock rags and race to find the little prizes on the list. Once, we even got to scavenge across the whole of Century for treasures! And now I know why I won all the time!”

The hair flipped again, barely missing Lian’s eye. He and Root eagerly moved out of range where they could quietly discuss, well, anything else. When Hilly sashayed away, Dwyn returned, a goofy smile still stuck on his face.

“You shouldn’t fraternize with the enemy!” Lian fumed under his breath. “And of all people. Believe me on this, Hilly Punyun is the enemy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she Hindered you just now.”

“I was just being friendly.” Dwyn stuffed more bread in his mouth. “Besides, the guide book says we’re not allowed to use our Heats against each other.”

“Hilly Punyun doesn’t play by the rules. And anyway, the Finders Book of Propriety also says…” Lian began reciting, “…inter-bond relations are strongly advised against.”

“That was hardly a relation!” Dwyn balked igniting yet another argument that Root was happy to see detoured by an approaching worker.

“Lian Blick?” the worker questioned. “Yes.”

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“You have a Parley.” The worker presented Lian with a blue Parley that immediately lit up with a long resonant chime.

“Oh, thanks,” Lian pressed the receiving latch. The Parley animated to reveal a miniature snow-covered forest of evergreens surrounding a range of mountains. All along the mountains, in designated runs, were tiny people in the midst of a day of swooshing.

On a manor’s sunny deck a woman in a smock stood in front of an easel, an array of paints and pots beside her. When she saw Lian she put down her Parley. “Oh there you are, lovest.” Her full size drew up to greet him. “How was your sleep?”

“Great, mum. I’m sharing the Called wing. Dad finally agreed.”

“He did? Well, it’s about time. Bet Swinston choked on that one. Anyway, listen, I don’t have much time. I’m doing a portrait for Log Swane, the famous Swoosher.”

“I know Log Swane, mum.” “Well, he’s just on a break, so I wanted to call and

wish you all the best, Puffaluff. You’re okay? I mean, I know you can’t share details but…you’re eating? Socializing?”

“Yes, mum.” Lian’s cheeks pinkened. “This is Root and Dwyn. They’re my new Bondmates.”

“Oh, hello there!” They waved while she pulled out a package. “I got

you all something. It’s nothing really, just a little… well, when I heard there were to be Bonds, I thought it might be nice.” She handed the package to Lian, a soft bundle wrapped in simple brown paper. He opened it eagerly and found three full-size grey cloaks. He passed them out to his giddy Bondmates.

“They’re Wesh fibred, warm in cold weather, cool in

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hot. Do you like them?” “Love ‘em mum. Thanks!” “Your father told me you were supposed to have

given your Bond a name. Did you come up with one?” “Yeah, the Valadors!” “Oh, that’s a perfect name! Okay, hang on a sec.

Here, pass the cloaks back.” “What?” “Just for a second.” Lian reluctantly collected the cloaks and handed them

back to his mum who pulled one of her paintbrushes from a pot. She dipped it into a deep red pigment. They watched in awe as she touched the brush onto the cloaks, turning each to the same rich crimson colour. Then she played with a few other brushes while they waited eagerly.

When she was finished she handed the red cloaks back to Lian. “What do you think?”

He flipped one over to reveal her handy work. On the back, she had painted the noble storm seeker, the great Valador, with its magnificent sapphire wings soaring to unseen heights.

“You like it? The colour is actually called Valador red. Honestly. Isn’t that nifty?”

“Mum, this is amazing!” “Yes, thank you so much!” Root added, feeling

another pang of guilt. “Yeah, thanks Lian’s mum!” Dwyn already had his on

and was hitching the golden clasp. “You’re quite welcome.” “Okay, well, we have to go, mum. We’ve got to plan

our routes ‘n stuff.” “Oh, okay. Love you, sunshine! And be careful!” “Love you too, mum! We will.” While mountains, pine trees, and swooshers

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contorted back into the Parley, Lian and Dwyn gulped the remainder of breakfast and set off for a productive day of maps, almanacs, and more lists. Root, however, was taken by an upset stomach, so dismissed herself, promising to meet them later.

Once around the bend of the stairs she crouched down and waited until they were gone before running back down and returning to the dining hall, thrilled to have an answer for her Proxy dilemma.

“Excuse me!” she called out to one of the workers. The woman looked up. “Where are the Parleys?”

The woman pointed to House Registry where a bank of wooden booths lined up along a back wall.

“Thanks!” Root called, already out the door. She discreetly found an empty booth and once inside

with the door locked, she pulled off her boot and sock and turned the sock inside out. Along its sole, she scanned a series of symbols. Passwords. When she found the Wolf’s she quickly memorized it, put her sock back on and entered it on the Parley’s rune panel.

The Wolf’s Proxy leapt up to greet her. She was a beautiful, unfriendly woman.

“Where are the sisters?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

Root swallowed nervously. “I…I no longer work for them. I’m…independent.”

The Proxy looked down her nose at Root. “The Wolf doesn’t deal with Smalls.” She lifted her finger toward the release button.

“I’ve got the Siren!” Root cried, then reduced her voice. “I’m Root. He…asked for me.”

The agent looked interested now. She held Root with a raised eyebrow for a long time before speaking again. “The price is the same. Five thousand junos.”

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“Of…of course,” Root tried to swallow down the shock. The Aunts, it seemed, had made a very tidy profit indeed. She could hardly believe her naiveté. And now she could hardly believe her luck.

“Tonight. Eight o’clock. At Coldhedge.” The Proxy reached for the button again. “Don’t be late.”

“Wait! I’m in a Marrow Bind on Mammoth Rock.” The eyebrow raised again. “There are a great many

Talls in the Wolf’s service that will gladly Find traitors.” “I’m not lying! I’ve been called and I…” Root looked

into the woman’s dark eyes. “I need a Dodging Stamp.” The Proxy paused thoughtfully before announcing,

“The Badges do not walk the rock’s base. Eight o’clock.” “But how do I get down? There may be none at the

base, but there are plenty up here on the grounds.” “That’s not my concern. Do not be late.” This time

the Proxy’s finger found its aim.

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12 By the time evening arrived, Root’s head was

pounding. She had somehow managed to evade her Bondmates, memorize the Badge schedule, and assemble an escape route along a path of Cypress trees skirting the cliff’s edge. Their trunks were close enough and their soft evergreen branches thick enough to hold her.

She ate her dinner alone while the Shack became a dark silhouette in the setting sun. At seven thirty, she stood in her room one last time. Fledger’s books were already in her bag, along with some food. In the afternoon, with no trust of Knockers and pig Kloks, she had moved the Siren from under her mattress and, declaring Marrow Bind purpose, convinced a Badge to allow her across the Bridge. Here, she transported the red jewel deep into a cleft at the top of the stairs and overlaid it with heavy tile. It had blended in perfectly with the rest of the disrepair and throughout the day, she herself had to skew her eyes to spy it.

Now, under a sloe sky, next to a five hundred foot drop Root made her way through the Cypress trees. Not one Badge looked up. But then, she didn’t expect they would. She’d made a living shadowing turf and leaves, after all.

Even so, her heart had not stopped its thump. There

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was still the unlit staircase with its missing and broken steps. As she dropped soundlessly at Guardian’s Gate, a Badge came into the lamplight. Root took on the scenery as if one of its own. The Badge walked past. She watched him. He was the ten-minute mark. Nine, once he rounded the corner.

She browsed, silent as a moonbeam until arriving at the tile. It lifted easily and she reached in. Her breath caught. The Siren. It was gone.

There were six minutes of panic. But when the bell tower noted the hour and Root looked down the staircase to see no one in the lower lamplight to greet her, she knew.

She’d been betrayed. The Wolf had already sent a Tall. “You there!” someone cried. The Badges were on both sides of her, running full

speed. Root had no choice. She made for the bridge.

***** Finn ‘the Slug’ Mackery sauntered through the doors

of the Soup Galley and paused with smug satisfaction at the threshold. “Paxton, your best single malt!”

Paxton, the barkeep grunted and reached for a high shelf.

The Slug strode over, stretched, and scratched his ribs histrionically before sliding onto a stool. Paxton slid the cup across the counter and moved on to the next pour. The Soup Galley was busy, as usual.

The Slug ended the swig of his drink with a great ‘Aaaaahh’ and set it back down. “Yup, made m’self a fine profit t’day, I did.”

As he was hoping, the shoulders of the slender

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woman next to him perked up. She turned to face him. The ruddy flush of his cheeks drained.

“Oh?” The Wolf’s proxy said. “Do tell.” The Slug pulled in his tongue and found his swagger

in another swig of malt. “Nothin’ t’tell that the Tattlers won’t already have on their front pages t’morrow.”

The woman smiled unruffled. “I see. The Wolf pays you more for the Siren or you expose him and his dealings with Grayshanks. Tsk, tsk. He’s not very fond of extortion.”

The Slug lifted his cup in a mock toast. “T’the highest bidder then.” He emptied the cup and slammed it back down, self-contented.

“Hmmm…” the Proxy turned back to her own drink. The Slug broke into a toothy grin. He knew he was

good, but this was even easier than he’d thought. “Personally, I would have hidden the Siren first,

before blabbering victory.” The Slug checked. “I…I did.” The Proxy turned back, having heard the worry in his

voice. Her lips thinned in amusement. “I meant, not on your person.”

The Slug scoffed. The woman was half his size, a fragile thing of powders and corsets. “And wha’d’y’think you’re gonna do about it?”

“I’ve already done something about it.” The Slug’s expression lost its balance. He looked at

her. Her beautiful face was monstrous. Her eyes glanced at his cup. Horror struck him. He began panting.

“You have approximately one half hour to get your affairs in order before your insides begin disintegrating,” the Proxy said without emotion. She stood up and reached into the groin of his pants for the Siren, then daintily glided for the door while chairs and men parted

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for her. Outside, she pulled out a compact with a bowl-

shaped base. She unhinged the lid and saw the water level was low. But it was enough for a short communication. She held her face over the water’s surface until recognition was made and the Wolf’s voice rose up.

“You have the Siren?” The proxy opened her palm and noted the glowing

red jewel before sliding it into her sleeve again. “I do, sir. You were right about the Tall.”

“Of course I was. And the girl?” “Still in the Marrow Bind.” “For now.” “You think she’ll escape, risk the hand?” “She may. Be ready for it. A skill like that cannot be

overlooked. No matter the sewage that houses it.” “Yes, sir.” The Proxy closed her Water Glyph and tucked it

away. The doors to the Soup Galley swung open and she

turned to see the Slug running out. Their eyes met with loathing before he staggered down the street with mortality listing after him.

The Proxy disappeared down the alley toward the Tattlers.

*****

While the Guardian rambled on about duty and

loyalty, trying to soap the crowd into a lather of patriotism, Lian tried not to nod off. Beside him Dwyn was exchanging glances with a pretty girl. Root was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is she?” Lian said at last.

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Dwyn shrugged. They hadn’t seen her all day. “Still sick?” he suggested.

“Too sick to miss the second briefing?” Lian was not impressed.

Dwyn shrugged again and returned to the girl. The Guardian said something and the entire room

lost its breath. “Did he just say what I thought he said?” Dwyn asked

Lian. Lian looked at him with wide eyes and nodded.

***** Root ran into the main hall of the Shack and ducked

behind a heavy curtain. The Badges, trailing closely behind, paused for signs of direction. One wandered to the curtain and spotted her shoes poking out. Without speaking he gestured the attention of the other Badge and pointed. They smiled and slowly made for the curtain. With one quick move it was thrown open. Root’s shoes looked up at them. Root herself was nowhere to be seen.

The Badges swerved around and caught sight of her bare feet skidding around a corner.

Root was chastising herself as she sped along the corridors. She should have known the Wolf would send a Tall. She’d had no contract, no security. She had foolishly given her whereabouts to the Proxy. She had no one like the Aunts to enforce the matter. And now she was destitute. This had been a week for hard lessons.

She made for the stairs. The Badges followed her, one on each staircase, intending to trap her at the mezzanine. Root swung from the railing with a graceful twist and landed back on the main floor. They cursed and clumsily ran down the stairs again.

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A thunderous noise stopped Root in her tracks. It was coming from the garden court. She swerved toward it, into a new corridor that welcomed her with an unmistakable cold. She lingered merely enough for the Badges to see her, then ducked away as the Krux formed. Before the Badges could do anything, they were head to toe in painful lesions. Root gave them a sheepish smile and made for the garden court, where, had there been a roof, it would have been lifted off by the applause.

While she tried to discreetly source out the commotion she heard her name called and saw Lian and Dwyn racing over.

“There you are!” Lian said. “Where have you been?” “What’s going on?” she detoured his question. Dwyn grabbed her shoulders. “There’s a reward! The

Guardian’s offering the Bond that Finds the Miist ten thousand junos! Each!”

Root’s jaw dropped. She could hardly hear Lian and Dwyn as they rattled on in excitement. Her mind felt like it was compressing. She turned abruptly and marched away, leaving her mates once again blinking and scratching their heads.

*****

With the second Briefing now long over and sleep

drawn over the citadel, Root straddled a moonlit gable, replaying the moment in her mind; the sea of newly stoked faces, the rules of the game changing before her very eyes. Dwyn had whooped in delight, listing the decadence he could buy; a suit with golden cuffs, a tour of Lanlynne’s finest, two girls on each arm. Lian had seen immediate independence, away from century’s thrones and the probing eyes of his father. His very own

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sanctorum of study. Root felt her throat tighten. A home. She could build

one of those little one-roomers with that kind of money. Right next to her and Fledger’s garden in the back. They could get new tiles for the shop. A fresh coat of paint. A second wind. She suddenly hated herself as she realized ten thousand junos might sweep everything under the Guardian’s rug. Yes, he had played himself well, indeed. All without one utterance of apology.

Her nose lifted to the wind. Another storm. She slipped inside and prowled back to her room, slowed by snuffed out window torches and a resulting stubbed toe. She eventually spied light and saw that it came from a door cracked slightly open. In spite of herself, she peered in.

In a worn wicker rocking chair sat a woman. Root recognized the silvering hair that fell in soft, unruly waves. Madam Mordgidika Keen.

Stockinged feet stretched out from under the woman’s nightgown and on her lap was a book. Though it was closed, a finger marked it. Root could see the book’s title along the spine: The Bard’s Book of One-Legged Fragments. It was one of Fledger’s, a libram of poems and shorts. Root could, in fact recite more than a few pages of it if pressed. She would definitely tell Fledger of his growing fame when she got back.

The woman was singing. To a toad. The fattest, wartiest, crankiest looking toad Root had ever seen. The toad sported a hat with a thoroughly disliked strap along its chin. And no matter the degree of soothing strokes from the woman’s hand, the toad looked fit to destroy the get-up the moment opportunity allowed.

“Come in, my love.” the woman said without looking up.

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Root started and began to sneak away, but the woman turned around now and saw her. “Come now, the door’s open.”

Root swallowed and entered warily. “Make room for our guest, Gruel,” the woman said to

the toad and offered its plump and comfy armchair. Gruel however, would not leave. He merely moved over. A bit. Reluctantly, Root crawled in beside him. She tried not to squirm as his damp, blobness nestled up close.

Mordge handed Root a wool blanket. “So, tell me, what has a young lady wandering in the middle of the night to my door?”

“Oh…I was…just having trouble sleeping, is all.” Root was a terrible liar.

Mordge seemed to pick up on her unease. “You must be exhausted. Would you like a cup of Chorm, dear?”

“Um…I should be going…” “This is not just any old Chorm. This is the best

Chorm you will ever taste. A recipe come all the way from the monarch’s top bakers.” Without waiting for an answer, Mordge picked up a silver carafe, filled two cups with hot, creamy liquid and topped them each with a tiny flame of fire. She gently blew on the flames until they burst into a deep red powder and settled into the drinks.

“The Flame Dust sort of mellows it out,” she said offering a cup to Root. “You’ll be in blissful sleep in no time.”

Root didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to leave. Mordge watched her now more intently. A kind of

softness spread in her face. “I imagine this has been hard for you,” she said at last.

Root caught her gist and shrugged. Mordge sipped her cup. “I could’ve punched out

Hyvis Punyun myself.”

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Root looked up in surprise, then laughed in spite of herself. “I had a few ideas where she could put her Finders Book of Propriety, yes.”

Mordge added a hearty snicker. “She’s a piece, is Hyvis. But you must know not all feel the way she does about Bone Grits.”

“Oh, so the nausea only runs on her side,” Root said snidely.

“As does the ignorance,” Mordge nodded. “Some of them started crying when they found out

they had the blood.” “And some cheered,” Mordge added. “I guess so.” “But that is not why you are leaving.” Root’s heart skipped, but when she caught the

tenderness in Mordge’s eyes she knew she was safe. Suddenly she could bear the weight no longer. “It’s just…the Guardian. First he uses hollow flattery and then adds salt to the wound by trying to buy our goodwill. He doesn’t do this to amend the long years of our torture. And it’s not to ease his conscience or our hands wouldn’t be held as ransom. It’s just to get what he wants. Why should I help him? He’s a silver tongue who’s done nothing but deaden my light!”

“I see. Now tell me why you are staying,” Mordge said.

Root suddenly felt bare. She hung her head. “When I think about that money, it feels like two creatures are battling inside me, the one that desperately wants to snatch it and run with my head down and the one that wants to walk away…handless and hungry with my head up. And I don’t know which one will win.”

Mordge seemed to be looking at her with admiration. “You are wise to know your heart. There is a saying:

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Despite the rapids the river still flows.” She smiled. “The decision itself is never as bad as the fumbling to it.”

*****

The storm stayed with Root all the way back to her

room. Lying in her bed, she felt the anger of it entering her. The more it thrashed and bolted, the more she tossed and cursed.

She knew she had to make a decision. And the bitterness of even that realization made her choke in rage. She despised the vile abject thing inside her that was grasping at the money. She could feel it pushing for domination and already starting to unravel shreds of her dignity.

Rising over this, like a ship come from the deep was the Copper Quill with Fledger at the helm and Wingbit tailing the sails. Ten thousand junos could make the old scribing shop young again. Some of the kindnesses could be repaid.

“Fine!” Root screamed. “One time! Do you hear me! One time! And mark my words, with a price so high as this I will Find that Miist! I will not dip my foot into the Talls’ ash heap just to fail!” Root felt like her blood was burning her from the inside out.

And even as she said it, the rocks of Mordge’s river released. But Mordge did not tell her of the sudden fierce rush of water that came with decision. Nor the ease of drowning in it.

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13 The stables were a quick, fragrant run past tea roses.

Lian and Dwyn were surprised to see Root standing silently in the doorway.

“Add ‘reliable’ to my list,” was all she said. They smiled. And it was done. Soon a man arrived. He wore rugged liveries and a

weather-beaten hat that seemed to be a natural extension of his head, probably never taken off. Root could hardly ignore the mole that squared visibly on his chin. A grape came to mind.

“Welcome!” he said with a brisk voice. “My name’s Benoline Crabbitt. I’m a Hover Keeper. If you will just follow me, we’ll cover basic introduction and get right on with Selection.”

He led them to a field fully loaded with Hovermutts. They dotted the landscape in broad assortment; shaggy, shorthaired, brown, grey, black, the variety was endless. Choosing seemed impossible.

Benoline Crabbitt led them to a viewing area. From here they could watch through a huge rustic frame with an imposing paneling of glass that stood between them and the Hovermutts. From each of its sides ran a tall fence, which seemed impractical until they learned that Benoline Crabbitt had an affinity with his ‘pups’ who were, as a result, in no hurry to escape. On the contrary,

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the fence was to deter thieves. Root and Dwyn tried to narrow their choices while

Master Crabbitt acquainted them with the qualities of “these fine beasts!” Lian, having already been endowed with his own, was there for the thrill.

“A Hovermutt’s loyalty is fierce. Once a choice is made, it will allow no other on its back unless with agreement. This is an honour never to be taken for granted…”

During his speech, many Hovermutts approached curiously and peered at them, while some paraded by with nary a sniff. One fell asleep pushed up against the panel, his large black nose making a cloud of steam on the glass. He was larger than many, with long, slobbering lips and drooping eyes.

“A Hovermutt is called so for a reason. It hovers. And let me remind you that it does not do so at all times, as the expenditure can be exhausting. Nor does a Hovermutt soar. To force it to do so would be to put its very life in danger. It has neither the breath capacity nor the strength for a lengthy stay of heights. A standard knee length is a reasonable hovering height for travel. Of course it varies from one to another… ”

Dwyn poked Root in the ribs and gestured toward the glass. A puppy, the size of a bathtub, had bounded up and was now jumping on the sleeping Hovermutt, chomping its ear. Despite the lack of response, it lifted its rear in the air and pounced again. Root was enamoured.

“Kismet! Go from us, please. You’re distracting.” Benoline Crabbitt’s tone was kind but firm, and the puppy reluctantly obeyed. It was not long before she was amused again, in the middle of the field vigorously digging a hole.

“…And they will be your closest ally, your most

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reliable friend, indeed your companion for life.” Benoline Crabbitt ended with a sentimental sigh. “Now then, I believe it’s time for Selection. Please, stand back while the panel is opened.” The glass began to split down the middle and open with dragging anticipation. Once wide enough, Root and Dwyn squeezed through and set to race into the field.

“Hold!” cried Benoline Crabbitt. They waited while his thickly crusted boots sloshed past them. Without saying a word, he led them at a slackened pace into the center of the field. “Now then, you must be perfectly still. The Hovermutt will not be forced. Please, stay where you are and be patient.”

They stood for a brutal length of time, waiting for some sort of signal to go. Dwyn had spied a distinctly noble-looking white Hovermutt to his right and was about to tear off in its direction, when Benoline Crabbitt raised his hand, “Shshshsh, it’s time.”

Just as he said this, a Hovermutt came bounding through the air toward them. He was a dynamo brindled in black and ginger. His ears flopped as he charged and lunged…landing right on Root. She flew to the ground while he proceeded to lick every available inch of her face. His tail spun like the blade of a cooking wheel.

“Ah, very good!” Benoline Crabbitt was pleased. “Stogie, it seems, has selected you, Miss Karbunkulus!”

She was barely able to stand as Stogie continued to inundate her with sloppy wet hellos. “Selected me? I thought I was the one selecting.”

“What? You?” Benoline Crabbitt laughed, “Highly unnatural, my dear.” He took on a serious expression, “Only a Soot Dealer would do such a thing. And Stogie would be smart enough to know the difference! As his tail surely indicates! In the meantime I believe you have also

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been selected Dwyn!” They turned to see a grey Hovermutt sitting shyly just

behind Dwyn. She had large brown eyes and when he looked at her, her stub of a tail wagged, bringing her whole rear end along with it. She howled a gentle, happy howl and lay an old shoe at his feet. Dwyn was instantly smitten. His entire heart filled with her right then and there, completely, eternally, utterly. He embraced her with long scratches behind the ears and a ridiculous amount of cooing.

“I see that you and Hana will get along just fine!” Mr. Crabbitt smiled.

Lian arrived. He was on the back of the humungous, droopy-eyed Hovermutt. Once he dismounted, it stretched and plunked its enormous body back on the ground. “This is Pilsnips.” Lian lifted Pilsnips’ great head. “He’s very pleased to meet you!”

“Another successful Hovermutt selection!” This was clearly Benoline Crabbitt’s favourite part of raising them. He allowed a generous amount of time for acquaintance and soon they were racing the field, chasing each other, gliding, sliding, and basking in the delight of their new companions. Root could tell Stogie was going to be a rascal. And her brimming heart widened to love him all the more.

After a time, the next arrivals were announced. The Bond set up their Hovers in the stables and returned to the Shack lobby where they were to meet their Rover, Master Henrig Homer IV.

*****

Across the country, head to toe in breathable black leather, with a red sashay swinging from his hips, Henrig

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Homer IV was vigorously performing the last eight bars of a Tango routine as if his life depended upon it.

***** After an hour of waiting, the Valadors were starting

to get nervous. While Lian obsessively reorganized the truss pack for a third time, Root peered out a window to watch the commotion in the bailey.

It was quite an impressive scene, a promenade of hammering, sawing, and yelling, all of it the bustle of workers preparing for the Marrow Bind’s grand Send Off.

In the delay, Dwyn and Root decided to try coercing their Bloom using Lian’s Fyrian Pulsus Stamp. It was a long shot. They all knew it. Fyrian Pulsus was Lian’s Stamp. It bore his unique measure of Heat and personality. The words came, as usual, on the heels of the crafting. And once it was mastered, the words were needed no more.

Root’s Stamp would be a different crafting altogether, with its own distinct incantation. Though the result would be the same, her Stamp upon it would make it purely, uniquely, powerfully hers. As would Dwyn’s.

At any rate, Lian said some Blooms had been triggered just by dabbling and so they decided it was worth a try. Now that she was staying, Root planned on doing everything she could to gain her autonomy once the Bind was over. And quickening her Bloom was top of the list.

Lian dodged her finger as it thrust forward. “No, no…I told you. It’s not about the finger.” He was an impatient teacher. “It’s about what comes through it. Just hold out your hand. Good. Now concentrate. Like you’re aiming.”

Root and Dwyn both narrowed their eyes and held

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their hands stiffly in the air. “Well, yeah, except you gotta relax at the same time.

You’re allowing it, not forcing it,” Lian noted. After a while Root felt something…a tingling in her

thumb. Was it working? She concentrated harder, putting all her focus on the tips of her fingers. The tingling seemed to feel like it was spreading. To her other thumb. And her pointer finger. Was this what Blooming felt like or was her hand just falling asleep?

“Ha! Careful now, you might get Cold Cramp.” Kor Bludgitt’s voice was already painfully familiar. He grinned over them, arms crossed as his friends gleefully stopped to watch. Immediately Root felt drained, as if she’d been siphoned off.

Without opening his eyes, Dwyn moved his hand toward Kor. “Well, if it turns you into a pile of worm crap then it’s worth it isn’t it?” He opened his eyes and though Kor was still standing in front of him, he gasped. “Hey, it worked!”

Laughter from the ranks. The scales had tipped and Kor knew it. Enraged, he stood back and skewed his eyes at Dwyn.

Suddenly his own hand swept up and slapped his own face. Then it grabbed his own hair and yanked him to the floor. While he screamed, his jut-jawed friend tried to save him. It was a clumsy attempt that only attracted more laughter. When Kor’s hand finally let go, Root dropped to the ground and tried to help him up. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean for it…I mean it just…happened.”

“Get away from me!” Kor leapt to his feet, “You did that?”

Root was hesitant. “I…It just happened and…” “You’re gonna pay for that, Gewgaw!” Kor raised his

arm but was stopped by the sudden grip of pasty green

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fingers. They wrapped securely around his bony wrist revealing long nails, broken and stained. “I hope you’re prepared for the consequences of that, my dear boy,” the man smiled coldly.

Root instantly recognized his cadaverous face from the Briefing. Grotius Vulcherk. Speaking of worms, she thought as she stared at the stringy clumps dragging along his shoulders.

“Look what she did!” The imprint on Kor’s cheek was rising into a welt.

Vulcherk turned to Root and narrowed his eyes. “You did this?”

“I didn’t mean to…It just…He was gonna seriously attack Dwyn!”

“As if!” Kor was now rubbing his hand where Vulcherk had squeezed.

“You were!” Root insisted, “I heard you!” “She lies! I said no such thing!” Kor turned to Jut-jaw,

“Did I, Flinkus?” “I said no such thing!” Flinkus echoed in a dither. “Yes, he did!” Root now tried to rally her own troops,

“Didn’t he, Lian?” Lian looked pained. He shifted from Root to

Vulcherk then to Root again. Reluctantly he shook his head.

Vulcherk’s lip curled. “What is your name?” Root was now too upset to answer. “It doesn’t matter if he didn’t say it, he was gonna do

something to me!” Dwyn blurted. “And what proof do you have of that?” Dwyn gave no answer, surrendering to Vulcherk’s

knack for intimidation. “Perhaps you, too, heard a tiny voice in your head,”

Vulcherk mocked, “like your friend…”

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“Root Karbunkulus!” Kor spat the words. “Root. I would love to hear the etymology behind

that choice.” Fledger had known the etymology. It was a day when

young Root was sullen and cagey, resenting a recent slandering of her name. Snout Digger, a kid had called her.

Fledger had plunked down one of his books. “Look it up,” he said.

So she traced her finger along the ‘R’ words. Rain: rigare, which meant wet. Rolf: from rodulf, meaning wolf of fame. Romance: romanz, epic verse. And there, Root. “From Wroten…to dig with the snout,” she had said

bitterly. “After that.” She continued reading. “To fix or firmly attach.” “Closer. Next.” Her finger trailed the last offering of her name. “A

strong foundation.” “Aha!” Fledger had said and thrown a candy at her. Of course, Root couldn’t rightly share this happy

episode with someone like Grotius Vulcherk who’d already formed his answer and was now looking at her with its meaning in his eyes.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Root.” Spit came out with his ‘T’. “Instigators are not tolerated in civilized company…”

“Nor is bullying.” Jorab’s arrival thawed the chill in the air, though the wide application of his comment certainly ruffled Grotius Vulcherk. “What seems to be the problem, Grotius?”

Grotius Vulcherk backed off slightly. “Nothing more than a youthful brawl, Jorab.”

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“Yeah! How d’y’like her handiwork?” Kor flashed his stinging cheek.

“Oh? Now, why would she do that?” Jorab asked calmly.

“She said I was gonna attack Puffler!” “Really? And were you?” Kor stuttered, suddenly unable to look Jorab in the

eyes. Jorab turned to Root. In his gaze, she too buckled and averted her eyes.

Vulcherk feigned mediation. “She insists Master Bludgitt had uttered threats. But no one, not even her friends concur.”

“I see.” Had Root looked up she’d have seen the curious glint in Jorab’s eyes.

Instead she kept her lids lowered. “I thought…I mean, I was sure Kor had…but…” she looked at her friends, “I guess I was just assuming…It’s my fault, sir. I got so mad and it just happened. Before I knew it Kor was pulling his own hair. But I had only wanted to stop him…not this…I’ve never done anything like this in my life.”

“A Bloom rarely arrives elegantly,” Jorab said. A Bloom rarely arrives elegantly. A Bloom. Arrives. A Bloom! Root gasped.

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14 “Your Heat is making itself known,” Jorab smiled.

“Rest assured, time and discipline will permit better control. Were you able to stop?”

“Hmmm?” Root was still lost in wonder. “Oh, yes. As soon as I realized.”

“And she apologized!” It was a stretched defense from Lian, but Root appreciated it.

“Did you not hear her, Master Bludgitt?” “I heard,” Kor snapped. “Fine. Just don’t let it

happen again!” He stomped off, Flinkus in tow. When he was out of Jorab’s view he mouthed ‘Gewgaw’ with a threatening point of his finger and left. The spectators, along with Grotius Vulcherk naturally displaced, leaving Jorab alone with Root, Lian and Dwyn.

“I can’t believe you did that, Root! That was the best!” Dwyn crowed. When he saw Jorab’s eyebrows raise, he back-pedaled. “I mean uh…too bad about Kor’s massive red mark, huh? And anyway, you Bloomed!”

Root smiled uneasily. She had wanted this for so long but had never expected it to be so fierce and…volatile. Now she understood why Fledger had so many copies of Stitch Craft in the shop. Heat, when it ignites, is like a fury rising.

Jorab offered a reassuring voice. “I’m sure both you

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and Kor have learned from the experience. As part of its lesson I trust you will, in the future, learn to reject such a course of action but…” he placed his hands squarely on Root’s shoulders giving her no choice but to face him, “…do not reject the intuition that led to it.” He held her gaze for a moment longer then straightened again, broadening his voice to include Lian and Dwyn. “Now then, I have some rather unfortunate news. Master Henrig Homer will not be able to participate as your Rover in this mission. As it turns out, he is Lanlynne’s newest Tango champion and as such, has found himself too inebriated for the task. I’m afraid, due to timeliness and lack of volunteers, you will have to use me as your Rover.”

If ever there were a sound of dropping jaws, it would surely have been heard in this moment. Jorab as their Rover! They’d be invincible!

As if having read their minds Jorab added, “Of course I am bound to the same rules of non-interference as all Rovers. I am not your leader. I will apply my knowledge and experience to your journey but any and all decisions are to be yours. As well, my availability will be limited as I am often called away.”

They had yet to close their mouths. Jorab amusedly accepted their silence as approval.

“Right then, what are our plans this afternoon?” Lian snapped out of it. “Well sir,” he asserted, “We

are bound for Perderly. I learned of a secret library there that houses a rare book. This book may offer pertinent information on the Miist.”

“I see. Most excellent. I strongly suggest the road through Springberry Bridge.”

“Why, is that the stealthiest route?” Dwyn asked eager to wax danger with his new Rover.

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“No, it’s quite lovely this time of year.” “Oh,” Dwyn blinked. “I shall meet you all at the starting gate.” Jorab patted

Dwyn on the back, turned and was gone through the funnel of Finders that were bucketing outside.

*****

The bailey was swarming with activity. An early

summer sun steeped surrounding flowers and shrubs in cheery warmth. Gubelyn’s workers had done a commendable job of repairing the yard. With a bright banner waving and considerable attention given to clean up, it was a handsome contrast to its earlier condition. Only one corner bore a Krux wound, a cold, damp patch of mud where worms twisted and crawled.

Far from its chill, Dominion and Jury officials stood with pleased expressions upon a platform adorned with ribbons and flowers. Finders darted about on Hovermutts while Dwyn posed in the center of a coil of simpering girls, among them Hilly Punyun, who was standing the closest and giggling the loudest. It wasn’t until her mother, Hyvis pulled the swathe of pink away that he returned to his Bondmates. Unfortunately, his goofy smile came with him.

In a farther corner, a crowd began to gather. Root craned her neck to see the commotion and was at once aghast by the discovery. It was Kor. He sat on the back of a heaving beast of a Hovermutt. On the contrary, it looked like it could eat a Hovermutt. But worse than that, all of Kor’s Bond was dressed in crisp quality uniforms of royal blue and shimmering gold. Emblazoned on these were the words Kor’s Kings with a golden crown topping the K of Kor’s. In fact everywhere one looked there was a

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golden Kor crown…on the Hoverbeast’s draping, even the burgeoning supply bags. The entire overture made the Valador cloaks look like rags. Root wanted to throw-up.

“Poor Tamik,” she heard a girl say beside her, “First she gets stuck with those two and look, now she has to put up with that ridiculous Bond name.”

“And outfit!” another girl added. Root followed their eyes to the girl on Kor’s Bond, a

slight figure with a pony-tail like a long, blue-black raven feather down her back. She kept a distance from the clamour, preferring to amuse herself with the aerials of a dragonfly instead. She saw her friends beside Root and crossed her eyes, mimicking Kor’s over-the-top swagger. The girls laughed sympathetically.

“Poor thing. But what can you do when you’re outvoted?” the first girl said.

“And out-moneyed,” her friend added. Root looked again at Kor’s Kings and saw that

indeed, money ruled in this case. Their Hovermutts were impressively laden with supplies superior in every way.

“How’d they get all that stuff?” Dwyn drooled. “I imagine they bought it,” Lian answered dryly. “The

Finders Book of Propriety, clause one hundred and thirteen: Upon approval of the Finding Jury, participants may engage external means of support to further their mission’s success.”

“Authored by one of Lanlynne’s wealthiest, of course.” Root sneered as she gestured toward Hyvis Punyun.

“Well, let’s get some of our own,” Dwyn said. “The amount of junos supplied us in our truss pack

would cover the cost of Kor’s helmet alone,” Lian said. “Well, can’t your dad get us stuff? He’s Brédin

Master, after all.”

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“No. And I’m not asking him either,” Lian snapped. “We don’t need it, anyhow. It’s all for show!”

In perfect timing, the chafe of his father’s voice cuffed Lian. “Since when does a Blick walk around with his shirtwaist hanging out?”

Lian quickly straightened and adjusted his clothes. “Sorry, sir. I hadn’t noticed…”

“Well, start noticing. How can an entire army respect you if you don’t respect yourself?”

“But I’m not…” “You will be.” Lord Blick was familiar with this

trailing of conversation. “Like it or not, you will step into my shoes and carry on the Blick tradition. You will lead legions and serve as highest mentor to the Brédin. I suggest you start remembering that when you dress yourself in the morning!”

“Yes sir.” Lian had learned a long time ago not to argue with his father.

“Good. Are you groomed for the mission?” “Yes, sir.” “Very well then,” Lord Blick clicked his heels and

stiffened, “Do me proud, son.” He filed away, Swinston traipsing behind.

Sheesh. And Root thought the Aunts were bad. “Kinda makes me glad I have no parents,” Dwyn said

under his breath. “What?” Root asked startled. “Wha’dya mean?” “I was raised in a Nest.” “And your parents…they…” “Never came back.” Root looked at him. In that single glance she’d caught

it, the many starless nights when loneliness had tucked him in. Perhaps, there was camaraderie in Dwyn Puffler after all.

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A band cued and a troupe of brightly costumed performers burst from the Shack doors, making their way through the cheering audience toward the stage. Here, the Guardian of Lanlynne, peacocked in green and yellow greeted them with his signature teeth. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dominion members, Jury, and honoured guests!” his voice roared. “Welcome to the Commencement of Marrow Bind, Bagnio Galitus! Picklepug motioned the band into a ‘this is the moment’ prelude, cuing the assembly to silence. “And now my dear friends, it’s time! The moment you have been preparing for has arrived! All Bonds please approach the starting gate!”

Root’s heart veered into a sprint. This was it. She moved with the herd toward a shining beam of red-flecked light that stretched across Guardian’s Gate.

“Where’s Jorab?” Dwyn asked impatiently. “Right beside you, dear boy,” Jorab said with a

twinkle in his eye as Dwyn jumped. “And now without further ado…” The Guardian

lifted a finger in the air, “Onward, fellow patriots! Be strong! Be loyal! And above all be…Brave to the Bone!” His finger came down and touched the red flecks of the light beam, changing its glow to green.

The Bone Grits, hundreds all, filtered from the gates while a host of cheers broke out from the platform. Root jumped on Stogie’s back and, with her Bondmates, hovered past the green light toward the awaiting world of the Miist of Kalliope.

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15 A glutted sun was just beginning to flood the heavens

when the Valadors came upon the knickknack-y town of Perderly. It was rife with stands and chatter as shoppers and sellers exploited the warm weather, children dodged about in bare feet, and a spaghetti-legged man played on his fiddle:

‘Ickabee-doodle, Ickabee-dye Wild is the wind in me hair Ickabee-doodle, Icka…put that juno back y’little

snotnosed turd afore I crack yore walnut…atsa a good boy…

Ickabee-doodle…’

Quaint and cozy storefronts boasted fresh meats and fruits and plenty of other trinket-y whatnots. Root was thrilled to encounter streets so unlike Shade Howl. Perderly was a town recovered from the war and full of colour. Unfortunately, the Bond turned the corner and chanced upon a sprawling black and grey superstructure that abruptly broke the charm. Grotius Vulcherk’s monstrosity was open for business and garnering much swarm from its mob of customers. Here the Valadors spied several other Bonds elbowing about, topping

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supplies. Despite their own dwindling stock, none of the three

wished to add to Vulcherk’s coffers, nor did Jorab feel so inclined, so they moved on.

“Alright, so where’s this library?” After a rather uneventful length of travel, Dwyn was eager for some action.

Lian led them to Fortune’s Fountain. It was nestled beside a music barn that was to feature a town dance that evening.

“According to the book, there should be a boulder…” Lian drew around the base of the copper fountain, while Root and Dwyn made sure no one, especially another Bond, was looking.

“I can’t find it,” Lian announced after a time. “Wha’dya mean you can’t find it?” Dwyn whispered

trying not to attract attention. “I mean I can’t find it,” Lian snapped. “There’s

supposed to be some sort of big boulder with words on it and I can’t find it.”

They began to search in earnest for the noted Big Boulder, jumping into casual positions for passersby before resuming. Their wanderings eventually followed a spiralling track of cobblestone that led away from the fountain all the way to a bench Jorab had claimed for himself. He seemed to be having a lovely moment with a family of finches.

He leapt up to make way. Lian walked past him deeply concentrated. As the cobblestone came to an abrupt end he saw to his excitement what could only be the Noted Big Boulder. It was a plain rock that, from an ordinary glance looked to be pocked or wrinkled. This, Lian surmised correctly was the result of etched writing.

Lian moved in closer to read the inscription. He

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hesitated, preparing nervously for a challenge of astounding wisdom. Fingers crossed as he bent low to read the words aloud, “What’s the secret password?”

The chirping of crickets rose in the ensuing silence. “‘What’s the secret password?’ What kind of

nonsense is that?” Lian was plainly annoyed. “Wait there’s more!” Root leaned in to read the stone.

“Never odd or even.” More crickets. Dwyn noticed further writing. “Mr. Owl ate my metal

worm.” Lian impatiently pushed his friends out of the way,

certain they had misread. While he repeated the exact words, Dwyn huffed. “This is ridiculous! No wonder no one’s heard of this place. It’s non-existent. Probably a big joke. I bet someone’s watching us right now and laughing!”

“Wait a minute!” Root had remembered something. More than a scribe and bookseller, Fledger was a Lexik whose mastery of text had gained the Copper Quill a voluminous amassing of ancient codes and encryptions. Many a night he had spent amusing Root with word puzzlery. She looked closer at the hints. “They’re palindromes.”

Lian joined her and read the etchings on the boulder. “You’re right!” Before Dwyn could ask he added, “They’re the same forward and back. ‘Never odd or even’ reads the same both ways! Okay, hang on a sec…” Lian began pacing, mumbling under his breath.

After a minute or two Dwyn realized Lian was walking in a pattern. “He’s doing figure eights,” he whispered to Root.

“So?” “Well, don’tchya think that’s kinda odd?”

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“No.” “Circles maybe. Straight lines, sure but…” “Oh, give it a rest, Dwyn.” “What? Who paces in figure eights?” “I do,” Lian stopped with an intensely furrowed

brow. “Okay, okay. Pace away.” Dwyn put up his hands. They gave Lian more room. Jorab had already moved

to the fountain. Followed by the finches. And one curious gull. Finally Lian returned to the Noted Big Boulder staring it down as a matador, certain that if the boulder had had arms they’d be crossed.

“Name no one man!” Lian proclaimed boldly. Noted Big Boulder’s cocky demeanour dropped with

an audible ‘doh!’ The distinct sound of slow scraping rose as the stone cracked and shifted its shape into a square opening that plunged into the ground below. As the opening grew wider a descending staircase began to form before their eyes.

“You did it!” Root said. Dwyn was still confused. “What did you do?” “I just thought of a new palindrome.” “Oh! Oh yeah! Excellent!” “Well done, Lian,” said Jorab who now sported the

whole family of yellow birds on his shoulders. He gestured to the dark staircase and offered “After you” with a smile. Lian suddenly lost his confidence.

“I will!” Dwyn pushed forward. Root followed warily. Lian took the end. Jorab’s tall frame could not fit in the meagre cubbyhole and so was left to keep watch.

The narrow staircase corkscrewed endlessly with the same cobbled stone of the fountain. There was no light, save for that which came from the boulder’s opening. And that was waning with each step downward.

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Eventually, they encountered a torch and were able to gain its benefit via the palindrome game. The torch had challenged with ‘Draw, O Coward!’ to which Lian blew his friends away with “Nurse, I spy gypsies. Run!”

The staircase twisted and plunged deeper into claustrophobic silence, effecting the awful impression of being buried alive. More than once, cobwebs that were unanimously decided to be way too big wisped across their faces.

At last they came to some flooring, a landing where they could spread out slightly. It was here they spied a single door. It was arched wood against the old stone. Red paint chipped from it as a torch flickered from each side. A sickeningly large spider slept on its brass handle.

Root tucked her hand in her sleeve and swatted the creature away. It dropped with an acutely audible thump and looked to be extremely cross as it teetered on its round hairy back. In a matter of moments it would be back on its feet and lunging. Root hastily rapped against the door.

No answer. The big fat spider gave a heave and landed on its feet.

It looked even bigger and fatter now. All three of the Valadors sprang to the handle and

pushed. The sluggish door began to move. But the spider, oh it was motoring now. It flew at the last leg to enter the room, Lian’s. Lian slammed the door in the nick of time and they heard the second audible spider thump that day.

They entered a chamber that was floor to ceiling in books. Tables housed them, swaying inward from the weight. Corners harboured them. Shelves were spilling with them and what couldn’t fit in those was stacked in teetering piles along with parchment and other scribing paraphernalia. There seemed to be a good inch of dust all

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over leaving everything a dull powdery grey, like the dead ashes in the fireplace across from them.

They hadn’t even noticed the man slumped on the roomy wing back chair for his wild ashen hair and pale complexion blended in with the dust. A cat also grey sat on his bony knees. Its glowing green eyes were the only colour in the entire room.

The old man had been staring at them the whole time. His slow, breathy “Welcome” was not expected. Lian screamed and fell backward into a pile of scrolls. The old man waited, unstirred, for the ensuing chaos to placate before continuing. “I...” he spoke very, very slowly, “am the Li…brar…i…an.” His eyes rounded as if he’d just finished the climax of a terrifying story.

Root’s voice had recovered first. “Uh, hello sir. Uh, we’re here for a book.”

“A book!” the man yelled sitting up, then ever so slowly seeped back down into his chair. “What…kind…of…book?” He smoothed his pale, thin hand over the cat.

Root and Dwyn pushed Lian forward. “It’s uh…it’s called ‘Tales of the Miist’ by…”

“Tales of the Miist!” The man abruptly raised himself again. Then slowly, with an arthritic flick of his knobbly finger he gestured the three closer. They reluctantly obliged. When they weren’t quite near enough, he gestured them even closer. To their annoyance he did this two more times. On the fourth arthritic flick, as they drew in he took a deep breath to speak. Then he closed his eyes and said nothing.

For a very long time. The Bond stared at each other, then back to the

mummified face. Still nothing. “Uh, sir?” Root whispered.

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The man began to snore. “Oh for crying out loud,” said Lian. “He’s sleeping!

Dwyn wake him up.” “I’m not waking him. He gives me the creeps. Look,

his eyes are still half open! Let’s just look for the book ourselves.”

Agreed. As they rifled through shelves and stacks, the Librarian woke again. He spent a moment or two casually observing then once more wheezed a fossilized, “Welcome.”

This time, Dwyn started and tripped over a pile of quills and inkpots. Lian however was not in the mood for repetition. “Look sir,” he spouted, “we’re here for a book. It’s the only one of its kind. It’s called ‘Tales of the Miist’ by Sir Wilbury Heart.”

The man smiled and began a laugh that shortly turned into a cough. They waited impatiently, half hoping he’d just get it over with and croak. Once he recovered, the now familiar arthritic finger gestured Lian closer again. Lian was clearly not amused as he grit his teeth and took a stomp closer.

“You won’t find it here…” the old relic wheezed. “What’re you talking about? This is the only place it

can be!” “This,” the Librarian announced with full-blown eyes

as if sharing a spooky tale again, “is the only place it was!” As if tagged by his assured rigor mortis, the Bond

froze. “Was? What do you mean?” Lian said. “What do I mean? What do I mean?” The excitement

made the old man cough again. It took everything in them to not shake the old corpse into some semblance of life. Instead all they could do was watch in bitter silence until the choking spluttering affair was ended and he was ready to speak again. When it was finally over, to their

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horror the enemy finger began to once again gesture them in closer.

“Look!” Dwyn swatted the finger away, “We’re not here for ghost stories. We just need the stupid book!”

The cat suddenly hissed and leapt from the man’s lap forcing Dwyn back. Root gave chase and scooped it in her arms. “Just relax, Dwyn, and let the poor man talk.” She sat down, gently calming the cat, thankful of its dawning purr.

The Librarian began again, seemingly oblivious to Dwyn’s scowl. “There once was a Bond on a quest…”

Heads turned. The Librarian smirked and resumed his limerick.

“Whose palindromes made it our guest…” “He’s talking about us!” Lian cried. The man slowly shook his head and continued.

“They’d come for a look…And left with a book…” Lian crashed into outrage. “Who? Who left with my

book?” He turned to his friends. “I can see someone knowing the passwords, they’re simple palindromes. But how did they know about the library in the first place?” He duelled the old man again. “I was the only one who had that information! No one else knew about this place!”

The librarian sat back, the same smirk pasted across his wrinkles.

“He’s probably lying,” Dwyn jumped in. “Look at ‘im. He’s playing some sort of evil trick on us!”

“Geez, Dwyn, it’s a poem. I hardly think villainy would resort to rhyme.” Root was certain the limerick had merit. She turned back to the Librarian and took his bony white hand. “Please. Go on.”

He stared at her for a long time before shifting his crumbling gaze to Lian and Dwyn. Nope. He closed his lids and turned away. It was a clear rejection.

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“See!” Root yelled. “You offended him! And now he won’t tell us anything!”

Dwyn couldn’t care less. He was quite ready to go. He and Lian, who was still angry that someone had trumped him, made for the door. Root remained, repeating the limerick. When she’d exhausted all possible rhymes, she set the cat down with a morsel from her pocket and turned fuming toward her Bondmates.

“Exchanged for a roseate crest,” a voice said. They swung around to see the librarian snoring, his

mouth gaped like a tunnel. The cat jumped into his lap and stretched its back leg. “Thanks for the bread,” it purred.

Root’s mouth gaped wider than the librarian’s. Her eyes lit up. “You’re welcome,” she said at last.

“You’ll have to excuse the ol’ man. He’s not amused with ill manners,” the cat emphasized this last part pointedly to Lian and Dwyn, “I’m Wickletosh. But my friends call me Wicks.”

“Hi, Wicks,” Dwyn began. “I’m--” “I said my friends call me Wicks,” the cat growled.

Dwyn shut up. “Hello Wickletosh. I’m Root Karbunkulus.” “Hello, Root. Please call me Wicks.” “Wicks. And this is…” “So, didjya get that last part?” The cat kept his eyes

only on Root. The others were verbally disowned. “Would you mind repeating it?” Root asked, enjoying

the exclusivity. “Not at all.” The cat stretched again and launched

into the limerick. “There once was a Bond on a quest Whose palindromes made it our guest

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They’d come for a look And left with a book Exchanged for a roseate crest”

The Bond poured over the words but no revelation came.

“Maybe this’ll help.” From a book on the small table beside the old man’s chair Wickletosh pulled out a glitzy pink emblem. A clamshell. Instant recognition! Hilly Punyun!

“You mean the Librarian took The Pinks’ logo in exchange for the book?” Root asked.

The cat nodded, “That clam’s genuine pink sapphire!” “But how did she know?” Lian was dumbfounded. “Forget her. What about us? Now what’re we gonna

do?” Dwyn slumped. He was right. Now what? There were no leads and no

alternate plans. “That book you wanted…” the cat was now

licking…well, where cats lick. “By Sir Wilbury Heart?” “Yes?” Lian drew in. Wickletosh ignored Lian and turned his whiskery face

to Root. “Bet he could help you.” “Sure, if he was still alive…” Root sighed. “He is.” The Bond snapped to attention. Wickletosh continued. Licking. It was awkward.

Finally, he spoke. “He lives in the lighthouse on Moody Bay. Old, mind you, but y’never know…”

Hope flooded back! Root swept the cat in her arms. He bid her farewell and soon the Bond was back above ground, Noted Big Boulder closing quickly behind them. And for the third time that day, against the relodged stone, the acutely audible thump of an unforgiving spider

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was heard. Jorab had fallen asleep with the Hovermutts in the

cooling shade of a tree. When they woke him and shared their news, he was delighted, “Sir Heart is a dear friend!” he said.

They gawped. “You mean we could have avoided the whole library

fiasco if we’d just told you his name?” Lian asked. “What, and miss out on the adventure?” Jorab

winked. “We’ll need to replenish supplies, enough for a good fortnight’s travel.”

They scarfed down dinner quickly. There was no time to lose. They were behind now. Hopefully Moody Bay Lighthouse would offer better results.

“Sir Heart has a lovely arachnid collection,” Jorab announced as they glided from Fortune’s Fountain.

So much for that.

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16 The thick shrubs and trees of their journey gradually

gave way to grainy white sand and the occasional clump of long dried grass. The smell of the ocean began to dominate along with an amassing wind.

Several times Root noticed Jorab’s attention to the sky. As if concerned it might somehow disappear.

Once clearing a high peak, they could see Sir Wilbury Heart’s lighthouse in the distance. The horizon was now nothing more than smoldering embers that cast the gangling tower into deep silhouette. It leaned toward the sea like a precarious shadow on a crag of rocks while wave after wave crashed beneath it.

“Ah, Moody Bay,” Jorab said. His words were lost on the rigid Bond, now goggling

the lighthouse where they could see a terrifying Something perch like a monstrous warden on its very top.

“Is that a Shield?” Dwyn asked. “It is,” Jorab nodded grimly. “Great,” Root said. “And they are important

because…” “Shields were often employed for protection during

the war.” “So, why does he have it now?” “Oh, he’s not the only one,” Lian interrupted. “Lots

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of people still have Shields. My mum has one.” “Why? Didn’t the Guardian say we’re in a cold

truce?” Root asked. “In my mum’s own words: ‘I’d rather trust a Shield

than the words of Studaben Picklepug’.” Root wrapped her cloak tighter. She didn’t know

which sounded worse, the transitory times or the Shield that was to protect from such times.

The Bond arrived in darkness. A single window near the top of the lighthouse glowed miserly and all that could be noted of the Shield was the deep sheen of feathers and the puncturing weight of yellow eyes. They gathered about the door trying to evade a wind whose sole purpose was to harass. All were suitably tormented by the time Sir Wilbury Heart arrived.

From his appearance he was, as the cat had suggested, old indeed. But the cat had failed to mention the other rather shocking traits of Sir Wilbury Heart, like his face for instance. It was more of a landslide; one eye here, one eye there, with a nose that seemed to mash to the left and a mouth that sagged shapelessly. Root wondered what could have happened to him and reasoned that whatever it was pretty much justified the creepy Shield perched on his lighthouse.

Sir Heart’s eyes however belied both his age and his appearance. They were bright and keenly alert. He wrangled the Bond in with voracious warmth and dragged about the room fetching blankets and toasting their insides with steaming cinnamon tea and honey.

He gave Jorab a particularly lengthy embrace, “How’ve y’been, y’ol blug!” and made sure his old friend sat in the most comfortable chair with his feet up. Soon, all were thawed as a fire snapped and stole away any thought of the cold outside.

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With damp clothes steaming over the mantle, Sir Heart at last joined his guests. “Now then, my old friend,” he said to Jorab. “Tell me what brings you here and with such a troupe of traveling companions in your service?” He smiled warmly at the Bond.

“On the contrary, my dear Wilbury,” Jorab announced. ”I am in their service, their Rover in fact. They come by duty of the Marrow Bind.”

“Ah, yes. And was I right in hearing this one relies on Bone Grit blood?”

Root felt her hackles rise. She looked at Sir Heart, looking for insult, but his face contradicted such things.

“Yes, indeed.” Jorab nodded. “Oh, do tell.” The old man leaned in. Jorab handed it over to the Bond and lounged back

into the vintage folds of his chair. Root took the cue and sat forward. “We’re in search of the Miist of Kalliope. Our journey’s led us here, to you, as we’ve heard you hold the highest knowledge of its existence.”

“Ah, a wise Bone Grit t’boot! Indeed I do, child.” Sir Wilbury Heart poked at the hanging cloaks, a deep concentration spreading across his face. For some time he seemed to drift into a mesmerizing dance of olden days until at last he spoke. “Young as she was, Kalliope was my dear and trusted friend. We rode into many trials and wonders at each other’s side. All were blessed to have her in company for she, of course was the great Healer. Without her we would not have defeated the first enemy Vor.”

Jorab shook his head fondly. “I’d forgotten your flair for melodrama.”

Sir Heart continued, flushed with passion. “Alas, today we fight a greater enemy. Kakos is the evil we endure now, the face behind our most bloody war, indeed

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the evil that killed my dear friend Kalliope, too young and too soon.”

His audience respectfully paused with him. He seemed to transcend place and time as he called back the demons of memory. “Kalliope’s Pyre was Concoction. Her prodigious skills and desire created a potent elixir that could literally heal hundreds if not thousands at a time…”

“The Miist,” Lian said. “Yes…yes…” Sir Heart switched gears, “I remember

as if it were yesterday. The joy on the soldiers’ faces when she was spotted over the haze. I had ridden ahead and sent word of the sick and wounded…thousands near death. Others desperately lending aid to the Curatives.”

He smiled nostalgically now. “She came from the West as the Daystar was rising and casting glorious light upon her. Hope spread through the camp and some soldiers were healed by the mere anticipation of her arrival.” Sir Heart breathed raptly, grief now taxing his face. “She removed the stopper from her flask as she’d done so many times before, but something of the most hideous nature happened. Instead of the sweet, quenching breath of life, an unspeakable violence fell upon the soldiers. There were waves of darkness and despair. I’ll not ever forget the screams.

“I woke some two days later, the sole survivor, though there are days when I wish I hadn’t for what I saw haunts me to this day…Death…and more death. Even Kalliope herself. The land was charred with putrid smoke rising from it in stacks…and thus it remains. The Black Hills.”

His ghastly features were all put into perspective as Root pondered Sir Heart’s own terrible suffering at the hands of such horror. She shuddered.

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After a time Dwyn spoke. “Sir…what happened? I mean, she didn’t mean to…”

“Of course not. She was Kalliope, the gentlest creature to have ever walked Lanlynne’s earth. No, my boy. My belief? Someone else did the deplorable deed. And I do not hesitate to say they waited especially for her arrival and when she released the Miist, they, at the same time released their more powerful and deadly concoction onto the battlefield. That way they could mark her as the source.”

The fire was low. Outside the wind and sea sounded fit to engulf them. Root sat in silence. The images Sir Heart had conjured led frustratingly to more questions than answers. Did Kalliope annihilate all those people? If not, then who?

“I think we should go there,” she said as much to her own surprise as the others. A Bone Grit reflex.

“Where?” Dwyn asked. “The Black Hills?” Root nodded. What could they say? As hideous a place as it

sounded, it was their best option, being where the Miist had last been seen.

“Very good,” Jorab nodded. “The Black Hills are on Loz, the largest of the Squawnch Islands.”

“Hold now,” Sir Heart interjected. “What you do not know, what only a select few do know is that safe passage to Loz is by ferry,” Sir Heart gave them a serious glance and narrowed his lower eye. “And there is only one ferry given such shelter…run by the Sea Wraith.”

Any remnant of courage in Dwyn skidded to an abrupt halt. “Um…No, thanks.”

“You needn’t be afraid,” Jorab assured them. “The Sea Wraith is peaceful as long as you do not offend it, which I’m sure you will have every intention of not

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doing.” “Oh I’ve got no problem with Wraiths. It’s water I

don’t do.” After a fair amount of convincing, Dwyn eventually

lowered his guard and agreed to the ferry. Root noticed he was awful quiet after that.

Sir Heart faced them, “Well then, you must ready yourselves.”

Root felt a skipping panic of her heart. “What? Right now?”

“The Sea Wraith only travels under light of moon. And we are in the last crescent. It’s your choice, but it will be three days before the moon is seen again. Of course, if you stay I would be honoured to show you my prize arachnid collection.”

Apparently Root and Lian’s fear of spiders outweighed Dwyn’s fear of water, for the boys were sent upstairs for supplies while Root was pointed in the direction of the larder for foodstuff.

While she collected cheese and bread, gruff whispering between the two men distracted her from down the hall.

“There is not much choice, I’m afraid,” Jorab said. “If it is true, we must prepare for the worst.”

“He’s a fool,” Sir Heart scoffed. “And now you say he taunts fate by playing favourites among the Bonds?”

Root dropped her supplies. “Such is his arrogance,” Jorab answered. “And greed,” Sir Heart added. “And what of the

other Bonds then?” “Despite his clever words at the podium you and I

both know that Studaben Picklepug’s goodwill lasts only as long as his yield. Our watch must be diligent.”

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“Aye.” “You will lead the Valadors to the ferry, then?” “I will. Off you go. And, Jorab…don’t waste your

breath on semantics. That’s what he wants. When the shepherds argue, the wolf has won.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Jorab had opened the back door. “Look to the sky for word. Our decision will be swift if we are to counter this menace.”

*****

Wind tore at the Bond relentlessly. No one spoke. It

felt like it had been hours since Jorab left. And maybe it had. Root’s mind wandered the edge of a cliff, feeling any minute she could be pushed off, if not by the cunning Guardian himself then by one of his Bonds, his favourites. How did she not see this coming? The Aunts had mastered rivalry among the other traders, dangling bonuses and threats by the same noose rope.

And yet, in all the years Root had seen this, she had still gained the title of best trader. She didn’t play politics then and she didn’t need to now. She grit her teeth and stoked her blood. And, like all her Finds, she seared the Miist of Kalliope into the forefront of her mind.

Sir Heart led them on a blister-making journey before finally stopping in a small cove encircled by a mass of layered sand. From its calm interior one could see the ocean’s daunting immensity and the dark night that possessed it.

“The Sea Wraith comes upon the moon’s highest ascension,” Sir Heart looked up, “It is time.”

The Bond looked at each other, sharing an uneasy ‘uh-oh’ through their eyes. Sir Heart began handing out long thin objects. Fish bones, finely carved into sharp

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points. “Now, then. This is your fare. When the Sea Wraith

arrives you must prick your finger and pay with one drop of blood, no more no less.”

“Blood?” Dwyn was the one who spoke but all three were clearly opposed. “I’m not giving my blood to some ghost. Bad enough I have to ride in a boat with it.”

“If you do not pay your fare, you will not ride period.”

Lian wondered aloud, “What if we accidentally give more than a drop?”

“Then it will be interpreted that you are offering your life.”

“Offering my life? To what?” “To the service of the Sea Wraith.” They shrank back horrified. Root then asked, “And

too little blood?” “This will be considered an insult. The Sea Wraith will

seek recompense.” “How much?” “All your blood.” Upon seeing the colour leave his friends, Sir Heart

assured them, “There is no need for alarm. A Quantifier will ensure you give the exact amount.”

“A Quantifier! Right!” Lian swung the truss pack around and started digging. He pulled out a round pewter dial and began calibrating it, mumbling about not having used one before and how he should have slept on a particular book.

“Look!” All turned to where Root had pointed. From the edge

of the sea a small boat had become visible. Upon seeing its size they now understood why Sir Heart had insisted the Hovermutts stay back. It seemed to barely fit the

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towering Sea Wraith. A hooded cloak flowed dark over the specter as it slowly, seamlessly pushed a long oar through the water. From this hood no face was seen, only a long, grey tentacle that hung like a lifeless worm. Its end seemed to have an eye though no one would linger long enough to confirm.

“Okay, uh…Form…Time? No. Water? No…” Lian was fumbling with the Quantifier.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Dwyn asked with more skepticism than he’d intended.

“You wanna do it?” Lian snapped back. “You must hurry,” Sir Heart said. “The Sea Wraith

will not wait.” “Well, it’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it?” Root

didn’t mind one bit that Lian was being careful. “Ah, there it is…” Lian carefully spun the

Quantifier’s dial point to Blood. “Okay, amount?…One…drop. There.” Lian finished, his hands trembling.

Sir Heart checked the calibrations and nodded. The boat had silently glided upon the sand and come

to a stop. The Sea Wraith stood without word and waited. As the Bond approached, Lian who’d been pushed to the front pulled a thin silver thread of light from the Quantifier and attached it to his fishbone.

“Steady…steady…” Dwyn said. “You’re not helping, Dwyn.” Root snapped. Sir Heart gave Lian a supportive nod. “You’re fine,

son.” Lian smiled weakly. Then, with eyes squeezed in

anticipation he pricked the fishbone deep into the tip of his finger.

The Sea Wraith stretched its draping sleeve revealing a hand of opaque skin and bone that looked to be not of

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this world. Long fleshless fingers caught the blood as it fell from Lian’s finger. Then silence.

The Bond waited. If Lian had given too little, would blood just start draining from them? If he’d given too much, would the Sea Wraith suddenly grab them and drag them to its depths? Thankfully, it was none of the above. The Sea Wraith remained in cold silence.

Lian, in spite of himself, crawled over the boat’s edge and sat on a plank of wood to wait. Root went next. Dwyn had to be given a solid push by Sir Heart and even then, he staggered in with a pale complexion. When all three were sitting, the boat slid from the shore with silent ease. Sir Heart swiftly faded from view and all that was heard was the pounding of three young hearts.

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17 There was no life in the sea, as if the Sea Wraith’s

vessel was something to be avoided. Root and Lian stared at the orange moon the same way one stares at a fire, with silence and awe. Dwyn kept his eyes closed. The Sea Wraith soundlessly pushed the oar. It was a horrible feeling to know that it stood behind them, its tentacled eye watching them breathe. Though they grew heavy with exhaustion, sleep was out of the question.

The night drew on in limbo until at last a shadowed vision of land came to view. The Sea Wraith wordlessly disappeared as they set foot upon the soft sands of a new shore. Loz of the Squawnch Isles.

Of first priority was a suitable resting place. This they found under the dry canopy of a soft pine just off the beach. Sleep followed through the rising of morning and broke in early afternoon to the lilting cry of sea birds. The sky was vast and vacant. There was no wind here and the sun gleamed. Yet a crisp chill remained.

As Root attempted a fire and Dwyn laid out eatables, Lian pulled a familiar pouch from the truss pack. His friends stopped to watch as he sprinkled its contents, a plain mound of dirt over a patch of ground and asked simply “Where are we?”

At once the dirt began to sift and merge with its

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flooring, taking on the incredibly detailed form of a relief map of the entire island of Loz including two mountain ranges, three lakes and an expansive forest. A face formed in the top right corner. “Good day to you, sir! This is your all day, every day Road at your service!” the face grinned.

“Hey, Road,” Lian replied. “Do you know where we are?”

“Of course. You’re on the Eastern shore of the Island of Loz.” Road highlighted a convenient X for visual effect.

“Close in,” Lian commanded. “Please.” “Please,” Lian said curtly. Road completely neutralized and began a new version

of itself, a close up with even more detail. From the contoured points of the treetops high above them to the spiky shrubs that splayed right beside them Road left out nothing.

“How do we get to the Black Hills?” Dwyn asked. While engraving a circle around the area of the Black

Hills and a series of arrows leading to it, Road commented like a tour host. “The Black Hills are located on the edge of the Filligrin Forest approximately six days by Hover reckoning from where you are right now.” Road forged a potential route from the X to the Black Hills. “I recommend the northern path. It will take you past the Squawnch Caves but it is hunting season and the Squawnches will have taken to the Isle of Quoz.”

“Um,” Root interrupted, “what’s a Squawnch?” Lian looked at the earthen map, “History, please,

Road.” Road sifted itself once again, forming a blank

landscape. “The Squawnches began as a colony of

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criminals who developed a Soot Market trade in Lightning Stalk weapons.” At this, Road detailed a long leafy reed from which a constant bolt of lightning ignited.

“The Squawnches ravaged the islands, using cheap, Secondhand dark Stamps to make the Lightning Stalk grow faster. This soon infected their water and food supply, stunting their growth, marring and discolouring their skin, rotting their teeth, and so forth.”

Road pushed the earth into a revealing sculpture of a Squawnch, showcasing its squat, crooked body and a host of unsightly deformities. It looked ferel, like it might eat them.

“They managed to nearly destroy the Lightning Stalk, which, now frail and close to extinction produces far less than what buyers had paid for. Thus most Squawnches are forced into labour to repay debts.”

Road funnelled back into its velvet pouch. The Squawnch held out until the very end, its long fingernails scratching to stay out of the bag. It was very unnerving to watch and, as they had to now trespass Squawnch lands Root hoped it wasn’t an indication of things to come.

Their meal was a fast and filling inhalation and soon they were crunching pine needles along a wide path. Once deeper into the forest the air thickened with moss and sap. Yet, even as it burdened, the Bond kept a bold pace. At least until the Squawnch grounds were met. Thankfully with abandoned silence.

Following an anxious tiptoe past the crusted caves, all of them sporting gnarled unwelcome totems with gnarled unwelcome faces, they arrived as Road had indicated at the crown of an infinite hill. A wrought iron archway, sober and regretful, indicated the only way through. The words Rest Now were placed in iron lettering at its center while clumps of wild roses twisted in and out, exhaling a

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paradoxical pleasantry into the air. “I guess we can just go in,” Lian surmised. It seemed

a reasonable assumption. There were no locks or ‘keep out’ signs. With commensurate nods, they passed through.

None could have prepared them for the startling image that met them. The spongy green of the forest had ended jarringly, replaced by scorched grass and smoke geysers. Nothing lived here. Nothing could. Instead, sinking into a mass of hills and larger ranges were thousands upon thousands of black granite headstones. Each had been meticulously carved into the image of the life lost.

The sun was beginning its departure pitching the graves into further bleakness. Root, in recalling the Black Hills’ tragedy couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the sight. It was devastating.

The Bond stood for some time before Dwyn spoke. “Where can we…I mean…I don’t know where to start.”

It seemed wrong to disturb this place. Not to mention foolish. He received no answer. Instead they each followed their own meandering intuition among the headstones, fathoming the horror, scanning expressions…pulling their cloaks tighter.

Root wandered further into the Death Yard’s gloom. A Smoke geyser sprung up beside her, sending her heart into a gallop. She leaned against a dead tree to catch her breath. This place was the work of some force she’d never known until now, far beyond the burlesque cruelty of the Aunts. She felt like she could be splintered by its fierce cold.

“Root!” Dwyn was headed toward her with concern. “I think maybe we should go. It’s starting to look pretty creepy around here.”

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Root had just noticed night’s arrival and the shadows and strange murmurings that had come with it. “Okay, you go get Lian and come back.” Dwyn was not impressed. “In case he comes this way,” Root explained. “I won’t leave. Promise.”

Dwyn tread cautiously away. Suddenly keenly aware of her solitude, Root crouched down. When she looked up she was staring into the intricately carved face of a young man. Below him an epigraph read:

Be at peace, be at peace May the battle horns cease

She imagined the terror of war, bereft of any

comprehension. “You look so young,” she whispered to the expressionless face.

“I was,” the face responded. Root fell back, trampling over her cloak so that it

nearly choked her. “Not much older than you at any rate,” the headstone

continued. “I was going to be married. Miss Lulu Swane.” Root scrambled to her feet. “Oh, don’t go. Please. It’s been so long since we’ve

had visitors. Sometimes I think we’re forgotten.” Root took a closer look at the headstone and relaxed

slightly. By his expression he was genuine in both loneliness and regard. She released the rock from her hand but kept a wary eye just in case. “You’re not forgotten,” she said. “Sir Wilbury Heart keeps your memory alive.”

“Sir Heart?” the face cried joyfully. “He was my captain. Bless him! Oh, he was a great leader. He and…” The face dropped.

“Kalliope?” Root braved.

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“Kalliope. I still can’t believe it and yet here we are.” Root trod lightly, “What happened?” “She…killed us.” He was clearly dead and yet

disbelief consumed him. “Are you certain it was her?” The face nodded weakly. “But, couldn’t someone else have?” Root asked. “I

mean, what if there was another who released a counter draught even more powerful and that’s what…”

“She did it!” came a deep, gruff voice beside Root. She jumped to see another sculpted headstone watching them. This one was a man of later years. His bushy eyes were angry. “Kalliope was the Great Healer. Who could have been more powerful?”

“Kakos?” Root asked meekly. “Kakos?” the old man sniffed. “His skills were great,

yes, but not in that Heat. Indeed, they were miniscule compared to the burning of Kalliope’s Pyre. There could have been no other!”

Root spun around to the sound of a woman’s voice. A thin face with large, sad eyes looked out from the marble slab beside her. “I saw Kalliope, Amos, and the look on her face was not of murder. It was shock. She was no less staggered than the rest of us!”

Amos, the older man humphed and turned his eyes from them. Root kept her gaze on the woman. “You saw her?”

The woman nodded. “For that moment before the darkness and then I only knew…pain.” She lulled into memory. All of them, silent memory.

“Who’re you talking to?” Lian approached. “Name’s Norbert Grankle,” the first tombstone said.

“And you?” Lian gulped. “Er…Lian Blick.”

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“Blick? As in Borgnine Blick?” “Yes.” “Well, well, well, did you hear that, Swiffy? Borgnine

Blick’s son!” Another headstone perked up. This one was as young

as Norbert. “Blick, eh? An honour. And what brings you by this neck of the woods?”

“We’re…we’re on a Find.” “A Find? For what?” Lian hesitated. “The Miist of Kalliope.” The marble eyes averted, stemming any further

pleasantries. After a long pause Norbert spoke. “The Miist is best left alone, lad.”

Root understood the gravity of his words. “You’re right. Forgive us. We didn’t mean to…” She grabbed Lian’s arm and turned to ‘forget the whole thing’ but crashed instead head on into terror.

The monster had been watching for some time; its leer was frothed in saliva. Running was futile. Root squeezed Lian’s hand and awaited the inevitable.

“I can’t find Lian.” Dwyn called, a short distance away. “Did you see him?”

In fractions of a second the beast was gone. “Dwyn! Look out!” Root cried. She and Lian strained

to see in the darkness but they could not locate Dwyn. And the silence meant the beast was stalking.

Lian swung the truss pack from his shoulders and frantically dug in. With fumbling hands he pulled out a long tube. It was some sort of algae he’d collected along the Moody Bay shoreline. He closed his eyes, mouthed a few words then banged it down hard on a stone. When nothing happened he modified the Stamp and tried again. On the second bang the tube lit up and emitted a powerfully bright phosphorescent light from its end. He

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scanned it across the black until it captured the site. A demon titan-ed over Dwyn, its black hide glinting

with a mesh of silver scarring. Dwyn, who was crawling on the ground did not see it readying to pounce.

“Dwyn! Behind you!” Root screamed. Dwyn rolled just in time to see the long tail of the

beast swing around and reveal a barbed claw at its end. The claw thrust, barely missing him. The monster roared and prepared for another deadly strike.

No one had noticed the second beast that now pounced from the darkness. It was a different species altogether, russet-coloured and much smaller. But it had the advantage of surprise. It leapt atop the first monster like a bolt of shining copper and sunk long spired teeth into the fleshy black neck. The sound curdled blood as both creatures plunged into bloody battle.

When Root’s wits recovered she yelled to Lian, “Quick, we’ve gotta get Dwyn while it’s distracted!” She noticed no reaction. “Lian!”

But Lian did not move. His eyes were wide and his legs were locked.

“Lian!” He didn’t even seem to hear her as he beheld the

creatures with a tremoring jaw. Root grabbed his makeshift light and ran to Dwyn. As they clutched each other, using the beam for escape, the copper beast was thrown lifeless to the ground and the long serrated claw of the black beast returned. In swerving from its stab, the makeshift light fell from Root’s hands, leaving them in darkness. The claw struck again, barely missing them and smashing nearby headstones into rubble. A smoke geyser forced it back, allowing Root and Dwyn a moment to scramble to safety behind a large rock.

Root looked for the light. It had landed near Lian.

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And now the claw was moving toward him. “Lian!” she yelled. “Run!” Lian’s face was pale and wet. He tried to move, felt

everything in him wanting it, but his legs would not take him. And his blinking eyes could not turn away. The jagged barbs of the claw lengthened as it drew up over him and plunged.

“Liiiiiaaaaaannnnnn!” His mind heard a voice. His legs reflexively threw

himself aside. The light. It was right there. How did it get there? It fumbled out of his grip. He crawled toward it with his back now to the monster. The claw drew up again.

“Hey, ugly! Over here!” It was Dwyn. In the open. The claw turned toward him.

Root reached Lian a moment later. “C’mon!” He looked at her, his face a swollen void of shock. “It’s okay, Lian. Just grab my arm.” “I…I’m sorry.” “It’s okay, just…” The claw dove at Dwyn and trapped him into a

corner. “Scopus…” Lian said almost inaudibly. Root looked at him. “What?” “To…to stop it…” “I can’t do it, Lian. It’s your Stamp.” “Root!” Dwyn yelled. Root left Lian to run into the fray and pull the beast’s

attention to her. “Lian!” she yelled. “Whatever it is, do it!” Lian’s body moved in a stupor. He held up his

makeshift light with hands near to convulsion and projected it at the monster. “Sco-sco-pus,” he stuttered.

Nothing happened. As the claw rounded on her, Root screamed for dear

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life. “NOW!” “SCOPUS!” The phosphors of the light swirled free of the beam

and, within moments found target with the claw, landing as burning shavings on its skin. The creature hissed and recoiled with rage, backing away into the darkness. Lian held the light for an age until nothing more was seen or heard, save for the rasped breathing of his friends.

In the apparent respite, Dwyn and Root limped toward Lian, who now held a path of light for them. But, just as they thought they had escaped, the scorched tail of the black beast snuck back around and struck, sinking its baneful claw deep into Root’s back.

Sound sucked from her ears. She arched and fell. There was a flash of copper. Time collapsed.