Unlikely

by Frances Pauli

She smelled dirt. Her bones hurt, and something rough pressed into her face. Far off, she heard shouting. Her body stiffened. Far off? She tried to move, but only succeeded in brushing her arms and legs against the ground. Vane’s boot rested in the small of her back. He’d thrown her to the ground, had dragged or carried her here, and now she lay pinned like a bug under his foot.

  “There’s a pocket here, yes?” His voice frayed and graveled.

  “Where?” The boot twisted until she yelped.

  He bent down and grabbed her hair, lifting her head so that her neck pinched and sent stabs of pain down her spine. She saw the forest around them, a familiar lump of bushes with a pocket shimmering beside. He’d brought her to the little stairs. How he’d slipped the Starlight’s noose, she couldn’t imagine, but the faint sounds from the trees told her the battle still raged. Marten fought the Starlights out there, and in the pocket beyond, Hadja struggled alone with two of them.

  “Where is it?” Vane shouted at her. “The pocket!”

  “Find it yourself.”

  He pushed her face into the dirt, crushing her nose and mouth until she had no air. Her arms flailed, and she kicked and squirmed, but her lungs tightened and burned. Vane rolled her over, and she gulped a breath. He stepped on her chest now, fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a familiar packet. Only one hand could have folded that paper. Satina remembered his visit, the night she hid in her room and feigned sleep. She remembered the clay jug labeled “death.”

  “Wait.”

  His fingers pried up the tab, unfolded the flap.

  “I’ll open it.” She could take him anywhere. An image flashed through her mind. She could take him to Henry. “I’ll do it.”

  Vane sneered and unrolled the packet. “Damn right you will,” he said. “The witch said this will make you do whatever I tell you to.”

  She clamped her jaw tight and shook her head. Whatever Hadja had told him, she’d seen the mark on that jar. One had been a lie, and she didn’t fancy finding out which the hard way. Her lips glued together, and she squirmed under his boot.

  Vane grinned and upended the packet. Powder rained from the paper. It fogged the air between them, fell like desiccated rain and covered her chest and face in dust. She held her breath, but Vane’s leg flexed. His boot sank into her chest, and her lungs emptied. When he lifted his foot, they sucked for air, inhaled and breathed in a cloud of powdered herbs.

  “Now.” Vane didn’t have any patience left. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, keeping his face turned away and managing to hold his breath with no trouble. The clearing tilted to one side before steadying. Satina blinked at it, at the colors flared into a rainbow of new shades. The staircase danced behind him. “The pocket!”

  He spun her around inside a sea of colors that shifted and glowed, twisting together into ribbons of light. She giggled, and he shook her until the colors vibrated.

  “Open it!” His voice vibrated as well. It stretched into slow, exaggerated syllables.

  “You sound funny.”

  Vane held her out at the end of his arms and stared into her face. “OPEN THE POCKET!” His voice twanged. His features melted and dripped colors onto his shirt. She giggled again.

  He grabbed her by the head, turned her around and spun in a circle so that the woods blurred into a smear that rippled as much as any pocket. His voice sang in her ear. “Open the pocket open the pocket open.”

  “Okay!” She yelled to the dark sky, the only thing that didn’t shift and turn colors. Her eyes fixed up, glued to that black spot and gave her mind a moment’s rest.

  Branches crashed and crackled. Vane yelled again, called her name, “Satina!” except now he was far away, even though he still held her. His hands drove her gaze back down. His mouth tickled her neck. “Hurry. Where is it?”

  She found the ripple and pointed one arm out like an arrow. “There.” A man stepped out of the woods just to the right of the bush. She recognized him. He still had hold of her head. “That’s you. There you are.”

  The lips snarled in her ear. The man they belonged to hunched, ten paces away at the edge of the woods. How could he stand there growling while his arms had her all the way over here?

  “Let her go, Vane,” Vane shouted.

  She laughed, and the arms holding her flexed and cut the sound short. Fingers pressed into her jaw and temple. Her head tilted.

  “I’ll snap her neck.” Vane’s voice came from the mouth at her ear. His hands held her tight, but he also frowned at her with his other face. “I’ll kill her.”

  “No.” The new Vane held up his hands. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Where’s the pocket?”

  Satina pointed. She stretched her fingers out and waved them at the ripple. Each one shot a long stream of colored fire, trailed a rainbow that wiggled with the motion of her hand. “It’s right there,” she said. “Look” The ribbons rolled from her nails and then melted as Vane pushed her toward the pocket. “Ouch.”

  She held up her hands while he steered her toward the rift. His twin just waited by the bush, fingers flexing and trailing ribbons just like hers had. She laughed, but it made her head hurt. The voice in her ear yelled at Vane, “Move aside, and don’t follow us.”

  Satina stretched her fingers and watched her rainbows merge with the ripple. The colors bled onto the rift and drizzled down to the ground. She giggled, cringed at the pressure in her ears, and teased open the pocket.

  Something shoved her through. She blinked and watched the world sparkle.

  “Move!” Vane stood behind her. He released her head, but wrapped one arm around her shoulders and crushed her to him. “Get us out of here, now.”

  “But it’s so lovely.”

  “Another pocket!”

  “You shout too much.” He pushed her across the bubble. This one only stretched about six steps, and she reached for the far wall. He wanted a different place. Images danced across her mind, but they all blurred and twisted with color. She laughed and wiggled her fingers.

  “Move,” Vane said. He pushed her right into the bubble membrane, and she stood there watching the waterfall of colors tingle down on all sides. Behind them, Vane burst into the pocket. He had a sword in one hand. A dark cloud clung to the metal. It whispered to her of death and blood.

  She opened a rift and dove through. Something dragged against her, and she pulled hard and brought it along. The world blurred and shifted. Colors danced, and she fled from that stink of death. She flickered from one bubble to the next, wove the fabric of space and slid through it like a rainbow dream.

  Finally, exhausted, she fell through into a grassy place. Pink trumpets dotted the lawn, and she rolled onto them, sprawled on her belly and breathed in the scent of growing things. The pocket spun slowly, like one of her warming disks, first one way and then the other. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to sleep.

  “Where are we?” A nasty voice demanded.

  Satina ignored it. She peered through her eyelids at the huge blades of grass, at trumpet flowers that opened and closed their mouths and spoke in Vane’s voice.

  “Are we safe?” they asked. “Where have you taken us?”

  “It’s very pretty,” she said. Had she been here before? The whole lawn sparkled with the first hints of dust, golden and full of power. It lay thin now. The full moon would be more than a week away yet. Still, she brushed at the nearest growth and pulled her hand away tinted with golden powder. “I need some dust.”

  “Get up.”

  “No thank you.” She rolled onto her back and looked up at him. He curved in a huge arc, standing on teeny, tiny feet and making enormous faces at her, rumbling like a far off waterfall. She shook her head, and he rippled until her stomach clenched and she had to look away. The pocket sparkled and spun, and her insides rolled and threatened to be sick.

  “Worthless,” he said.

  Satina tittered. “Worth more than the whole gang, you said
.”

  “Yes, but not like this.” He pushed her with his boot, and she rolled with it, turning on her side to gaze out across the pocket. “The powder was supposed to make you pliable not drunk.”

  “Death.” Satina wriggled her fingers through the grass and then shook the film of powder off in a miniature golden rain. “It’s going to kill me.”

  She sighed and watched the dust scatter. A few more days and the pocket would be thick with enough to scoop up by the sack full. She’d have liked to see one more full moon in Old Space. She’d have liked to see it with Marten. The pocket rippled in front of her, and she imagined him stepping through. His clothing had mud staining it, bits of forest clinging to the hem of his tunic. His leather pants had torn, and he carried a bloodied sword. She frowned. Why would she possibly imagine him in that state?

  Her heart leapt just the same. He’d found her, even if it were in her own mind. Marten crouched low and crept forward, and she thought he meant to pounce on her. Color trails drifted from his feet, marking the grass like magic puddles. His sword clouded and went dark. Something moved behind her, and she remembered Vane just in time to see him step around and face her imp.

  She had quite the imagination today.

  Vane had a sword out as well, and though it bore no cloud of death, it looked much longer and sharper than the Skinner’s blade. It certainly reached farther when the two dove together. The metal clanged nearer to Marten’s chest than she’d have preferred. They danced apart, lunged again, and Satina sat up.

  “How did you find us, Skinner?” Vane snarled and circled. “Did she leave some kind of trail?”

  “Your men are gone, Vane. Your gang is broken.”

  “I still have her.”

  Marten growled and thrust. Vane parried, and the swords sang and slipped off only to be swung back together again. Sparks flew in all directions, red, yellow, purple. They landed in the grass like tears. Vane danced to the side and slipped Marten’s defense, and a streak of green sprouted on his lovely cheek. It drizzled down over his jaw.

  “I don’t like this,” she told them. The pocket spun when she tried to sit up. “Stop it.”

  Both men ignored her. They circled and circled opposite the pocket’s spin. It made her feel sick. Her stomach twisted and, though she wanted to look away, her eyes fixed on the battle. Her hands tore at the grass, and each breath she took grew shallower than the last. The black fog around Marten’s sword swirled, as if to remind her that something very bad was about to happen.

  “No!” She shook her head and made them all into ribbons of light. The pocket wall lay just to her right. Beyond it, she wouldn’t have to watch. Satina tried to stand, but her legs wobbled like the ribbons, everything danced and shifted and she couldn’t be sure which ripple was real and which was in her head.

  She scooted on her belly, swam through prismatic grass while the swords made music overhead. She wanted quiet and safety and the sweet smell of thistledown. “Henry?” She called to her guardian. “Henry, where are you?” Her fingers brushed a wall that tingled. She felt the rift dance at her caress, shift for her.

  Something heavy landed on her back. It pressed down until her spine bent and pinched.

  “Henry!” She shouted for help, tore the rift open.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Vane’s voice floated above. His boot twisted into her back.

  “Maybe not.” Marten spoke softly, sounding far weaker than normal. Swords smashed together, and the boot eased up enough for her to roll and scramble from beneath it. Marten bled from his face and left arm. His sword pulsed and he limped on one side. “But we are.” He charged into Vane, slammed their bodies together so hard that they flew through the air. Vane brought his hilt down into Marten’s shoulder. Something cracked as they sailed past, hit the rift she’d torn and vanished through it.

  She clawed at the air. Waved her fingers and watched the long trails wiggle. “Henry?” Nobody answered her. The pocket spun and glittered, and she was alone in it. “Marten?” She rolled onto her back and looked up. Pink clouds padded by, driven on winds she could actually see. They coiled and twisted and pushed the skies forward. She’d ingested death, and it was so beautiful.

  “Henry, Henry” She sang to it and watched the words fly from her lips and rise up to join the rippling air. “I’m going to die.”

  “Satina!”

  “Marten.” She giggled, and the sound trailed out and up. “Marten, Marten, Marten.”

  “Satina.” He dropped to his knees beside her. Out of thin air, still bleeding, but looking at her with glorious, glowing amber eyes.

  “Are you dying too, Marten?” She tried to touch his face, but her hands danced and warped and refused to go where she told them.

  “You’re not dying.”

  “Oh yes.” She nodded, and his face melted. “I breathed Hadja’s death.”

  He laughed, great bubbles of crimson and gold that landed on her face and burst.

  “It’s not that funny.”

  “Death mushroom spores,” he said. “You’re higher than a sprite.”

  “Where’s Vane?”

  “Playing with Henry.” His eyes narrowed. Sparks flew from the corners. “I don’t think we need to worry about him.”

  “Shhh.” She reached for his lips and missed, tapping him on the shoulder instead. “It’s a secret.” Nobody was supposed to know about Henry.

  “Okay. It’s a secret.” His face blurred and dimmed. The pocket darkened. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Don’t tell, Marten.” He’d kept secrets too, and Hadja, and Maera also. Too many secrets. “Don’t tell Marten.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t tell him.” The darkness deepened. All the colors dripped and turned purple black. The spinning stopped, and everything grew very still and quiet. He said she was high, not dying, but this looked like death now. It looked like the cloud that clung to Marten’s sword. Only shadows hung around her, and somewhere, a voice sang. It told her to sleep, to stop talking and drift away. “Don’t tell,” she whispered and let herself sink down and down. “Don’t tell Marten I love him.”

  Chapter Twenty-One