by K.N. Lee
Blaine raised a mighty branched arm, already half flesh. Anger roiled in him replacing his plan to capture with a plan to kill in a split second.
The last time he had made a choice, he chose to let Davin live. An impossible choice. He had to stop Davin, what he had become was Blaine’s fault. Had to. No matter the cost.
Blaine jumped towards the ship just as the door was sliding closed. He shoved his bark covered arm between the door and the lock.
The voice inside cackled. “You sure you want to hang on? The longer you play with me, the faster she dies.”
The ship began to rise in a quiet vertical ascent. Inching upward.
He looked over at Elly, her face was growing a pale blue. Davin wasn’t lying. She was dying, suffocating on whatever poison he’d pricked her with. He looked at his arm, still holding the door partly open. He could slip inside now… and kill Davin. But she would be dead by the time he got to her. Something wet and cold slipped down his cheek.
“NO!” Blaine cried and slipped his arm away from the ship, falling the distance between the vessel and
“Keep running, you’re never going to be safe until you’re dead,” Blaine yelled at the ship as it rose further away from him. The door slid closed with a bang. Blaine yelled, screaming helplessly as the atmospheric exit engines roared to life.
Blaine grabbed Elly’s body, stiffened from the poison, and dragged her away from the ship’s burner zone. Her breathing had stopped. He had so very little time but hopefully, enough to dribble his own blood onto the wound and counter the poison.
11
Liar, Liar
On a moon she’d never been to before, in a city she’d never heard of before, in a government building of a government body she’d never had dealings with before, in a dark paneled room where she’d been sitting for over two hours, Elly was trying very, very hard not to squirm. Her foxkin self wanted to run around and slap a large quantity of very solemn looking people in the head and tell them to get on with it.
Her neck itched from the scab left by the poison dart. And to top it off, she was still recovering from the full blood transfusion that Ballylock General had put her through after Blaine had given some of his Sanguinary blood on her wound, and if she was to believe him, on her tongue. Yuck.
His chiseled face had been the first thing she saw when she awoke. Pain in his eyes. Had it been pain for her? Concern? Or was it at the price he paid to save her? She looked to her right, Blaine’s eyes were half-closed, his chin sinking. The foxkin elbowed him. He sat up straighter, not jerky or flustered, but in a very smooth regal motion. He turned his head to look down at her.
She stared back. “Is this normal?” she whispered.
“No, it’s not,” he answered, turning his head back to the droning Patriarch who was delivering another report, this time on the ship data of Davin’s stolen vessel.
“That’s good, I guess.” Her nose wrinkled. He smelled distrustful, like old shoes. “You smell… really bad.”
“You’re no bed of petosies, sweetie.”
Ellie ignored him, she couldn’t stand her own wet wool scent, either. “I just… how is it possible be fully clothed and still feel stark naked?” she said. Blaine’s eyebrows raised and a small quirk of a smile tickled the corner of his lips revealing shy dimple, just briefly, before it hid again in his stony expression.
“Be quiet,” Blaire said. He pursed his lips as though sucking sour pickles. But she could tell he was amused.
“What is going on? Are we going to be thrown in jail for letting him get away?”
The patriarch up front droned on and on. He leaned over. “I have no idea other than I had to fill out a ton of reports while you were in the hospital, you’re welcome.”
“Stop reminding me. I’d rather have been working.” She stopped herself from adding with you. That bordered on too personal.
Thankfully, a Patriarch with a shiny shield called their names. Blaine stood so Elly did too. He stiffened his back, so she did. Except the rush of getting up made her dizzy. She wobbled
He looked down at her, checking on her movement and placed his hand on her shoulder. “You alright? Do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine,” it was her turn to suck pickles. She crossed her arms over her chest.
During the proceedings, it became very clear, her kind, the Seannach, were no secret. At least not to the Patriarchs, nor to the Interlunar Council that they now stood side-by-side before as the combined council of kindred went over what happened on Westmeath, in Ballylock.
Elly and Blaine faced the panel of representatives who sat around a round half-moon shaped dais. So many strange faces and yet they all held secrets beneath their skins. Secrets that Elly was only now learning about. Foxkin. Sanguinary.
In the hush of the room, after the speaker had finished, the admin tapped away at her transcription machine documenting the praise for their work. But Elly didn’t feel like being praised. And she was certain Blaine didn’t either.
Davin got away. That would not do. Not for her, nor for either of them.
Over the course of the proceedings it became increasingly clear why the Assembly of Seannach had chosen her, because there was something wider, bigger and better for her to be sinking her foxy claws into. She wasn’t exactly sure what that was they were heading towards, but after tasting this tiny bit of the worlds around her, Elly wanted in. But only if…
She bit her lower lip and looked up at the dais then back to Blaine. He’d saved her life. Let a madman get away to save her. Would they make him into a scapegoat? Blame her?
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the old librarian. Maester Paulen beamed a wide toothy grin at Elly while he stuffed more nicotiana in his pipe. Next to him, a strange grayish colored Council member continued. Maester Paulen waved his pipe, bringing Elly back to the room and the gray female who was speaking.
“It has been decided. The pair of you, now exposed to the truths of the Ghael Interlunar kindred, all brought here by the Forebearers, will together form a special task force to be directed at our pleasure and for the benefit of all the kindred of Ghael. Your first order of duty is to find and stop Davin of the Blood of Ysbal Fortier.” Patriarch Icarus continued, “Elinor, of the Den of Morgan and Blaine, Blood of Solblaine Cornell, we officially commission you, under the Seal of the Council, as Guardians of Ghael.
Elly frowned at them, then pulled her face back to a deadpan but not before she saw Maester Paulen’s eyes twinkle. She addressed the old reynard on the Council. “What, if I may ask, does ‘Guardians of Ghael’ mean?”
“It means you have a lot of work to do, young lady,” Maester Paulen grinned.
Blaine looked down at her. “There are people out there that needed to be protected from Davin,” Blaine said.
“Like me?” she said.
“You were an easy choice,” he said.
“Liar.”
~The End~
About the Author
Jayne Fury was raised in New York by a Boy Scout and a flock of canonical penguins. She went to university in Rome where she developed her lifelong love of shoes. When she returned she promptly moved West because she’s left handed and claustrophobic. She has walked across Spain. Twice.
The author lives on her urban farm in the Pacific Northwest with cats, backyard velociraptors, ukuleles, all the yarn, and extremely tolerant husband.
Jayne writes quirky space opera with a little pulp and a little romance. Her paranormal series is the lovechild of Bones and Cowboy Bebop.
Want more info on Jayne’s latest releases?
Join Jayne’s Ninjas
Also By Jayne Fury
Freedom Bound – A Six Part ScifiRom Serial
Still Life
You’ll find the rest of the author’s books and assorted randomness at
WWW.JAYNEFURY.COM
The Knight’s Secret
Jeffrey Bardwell
Retired hero Sir Corbin rides on one last adventure wi
th the aid of a magic ring. The knight's quest takes him to the capital of the Iron Empire. But the capital is in an uproar. The emperor has been slain by rogue mages. The new empress is livid. Soon all mages are suspect . . . including Corbin's daughter.
Dedicated to Alyssa E., who reaffirmed for me that the vast, endless gulf separating men and women can still be bridged with empathy, humor, and joy.
1
KELSA, YEAR 198
I chewed the end of my braid, daring myself to approach the giant, wooden stasis box in the back corner of the room. My grandfather always said that hair sucking was a filthy habit for silly girls. I could still feel G'fa squeeze my shoulder. See the warm reproach as he crooked one wrinkled finger to beckon the hair out of my mouth or make huge pulling motions with his arms, hands straining to grasp the air as though my tiny braid were a large rope. I would laugh. The braid would fall. All as he intended.
My parents sat on the crude, wooden box arguing. As the whole village knew, that stasis box contained nothing more than the latest shipment of fresh parchments for Ma', choice lengths of exotic lumber for Fa', and perishable delicacies from the capitol for G'fa. I got nothing . . . but fully expected a share of those candies and sweet meats as was a granddaughter's due.
“If the emperor thinks he can erase centuries of tradition with a mere decree, he's insane,” Ma' said. “That horrible man would penalize an entire class of people just to punish a few rebel magic users?”
“More than a few, Miranda,” Fa' said, patting her shoulder. “And lock such thoughts inside your head. That's the emperor you're talking about. The man may do whatever he pleases to whomever he pleases. Who would dare question him? Besides, people are starting to whisper. We're not safe, even this far from the capitol.”
Ma' shook her head. “People have always whispered, Donus. What sentiments a private citizen may or may not express in the sanctuary of their own home is no concern of mine.”
“What if they take those sentiments into the streets?” Fa' hissed, spreading his arms and then slapping the box with his right hand while he gestured towards the front door and the drawn curtains with his left. I winced. Ma' glared. He lifted his hand as though either the wood or her gaze had burned him. Fa' sighed. “I'm just worried about you. What if those private citizens of yours venture into the public? What if they stop talking and start acting? We need a strategy, tactics to prepare for the worst.”
“What does a woodworker know of strategy or tactics?” Ma scoffed. “We need a soldier.”
G'fa was, according to the tales, a soldier without peer and the master of strategy and tactics. But he told most of those tales on himself and G'fa was also the master of fibbing. But whenever I caught him snared in a falsehood, my grandfather would shrug and insist that mere facts never trump a good story.
The story of the mysterious stasis box arriving at our front door spread up and down the village like a breath of wildfire across a dry field. The entire village thought they knew what was in that box almost before the postmen finished unloading it on the porch and my father finished opening it. Ma' had wanted to shoo everyone away and take the closed box inside. Fa' made no argument. He just handed her a second crowbar while she stood there, arms crossed. The outer circles of rapt crowd perched their chins on the shoulders of the inner circles and stared.
Did they expect to see arcane ingredients, bubbling vials, or some other harbinger of magic craft? My mother's spells had always been discreet, for prejudice gripped the village long before their revolutionary fervor. They always whispered about odd burning unguents, suspiciously quick healing, and miraculous cures. But the villagers found the stasis box and its contents wholly disappointing and unremarkable.
The mare pulling the mail cart farted as the coachman tied her to the post by our door. G'fa's old gray charger, Krag, whinnied a challenge from the field nearby while Ma's palfrey, Jenna, continued munching grass. The crowd gathered on our porch dispersed, shoulders sagging, after father offered to share G'fa's delicacies, scoffing at G'fa, telling them that the senile, old soldier was lounging behind the house, stuck on the privy. They refused and backed away. Some, especially the ones reaching towards the box, shoved their hands in their pockets. Such is the reputation of G'fa . . . was the reputation of G'fa.
We repacked and brought the box into the house, careful not to bang it against the walls or Fa's ornate molding, more to preserve the box than the house. It was of unplaned pine construction with sloppy dovetails to strengthen the corners and a simple spell to preserve its contents. The thing was built to fail soon after arrival, wood and spell both. Fa' could have crafted a stronger, prettier container with one hand tied behind his back and Ma' could have bestowed a more permanent enchantment with her eyes closed.
Of course, Fa' would never allow Ma' to enchant her own stasis box or do anything vaguely sorcerous in these tense times. Sale of magic detectors had soared in the wake of the crisis and the entire village was already watching us like hawks circling over a family of mice. G'fa had a small stasis box left over from his army days. He sneered at the stares from the villagers when he used to balance it on Krag's shoulders and I sat behind, hugging him as we rode bareback to market each week. It had been a different time back then and the army had never been so discriminating as our neighbors. Any individuals who were soon had the prejudice slapped out of their fat heads by the Mage Corps or by cavalrymen, G'fa would chuckle, who had friends in the corps.
Now hours after its arrival, the box's old cargo was long since unloaded behind the drawn curtains and its new cargo was something far more precious. I wanted to yell at my parents for sitting on it, for hiding it, as though the contents were somehow shameful. I wanted to scream at Fa' for slapping it, but that would give everything away. My father was eager that the whole village not start gathering on our porch again. Nothing attracts attention like a bubbling, greasy scandal. This one was hot enough to burn the house down with us trapped inside it. I knew that. So I bit my tongue and listened. G'fa would have approved, I think. Hard to know what the old man was thinking sometimes.
Fa' had misled our neighbors. G'fa had been stuck on the privy, but he wasn't ever coming out again. It helped to mask the corpse smell from humans, the locked door was strong enough to discourage scavengers with superior noses, and who notices a few extra flies buzzing around an outhouse? We left him there for five days while my parents ordered the shipment from the capitol and dithered.
We moved G'fa from the privy to the stasis box under the cover of darkness. He could be shipped out of the house now with nobody the wiser. Assuming nobody actually opened the box. Or the preservation spell didn't fail. Or the cheap wood collapse. And nobody actually came looking for G'fa. Thankfully, the welcoming committee from my grandfather's old regiment had already stopped by the house seven days ago to discuss preparations for the ceremony with the guest of honor. G'fa had joked that they mostly wanted to screen his half-written speech and delete all the expletives. Whom would they send when he failed to arrive at the capitol?
We couldn't tell anyone he was dead or get a priest to say the rites. Ma' needed him alive to hold the wrath of our mage phobic neighbors at bay. Without G'fa, none of us wanted to think about what they'd do to her. From the look on his face, Fa' needed him alive, too, which confused me. Fa' and G'fa had made no secret of their mutual hatred for one another. I half expected Fa' to do a little dance on the magic box once we locked G'fa inside. I was already amazed he had restrained himself from kicking G'fa's corpse down the privy hole when he discovered the body and just walked away.
I mean, I know why he didn't. Magic ban or no, woman or no, Ma' would have shoved him face first down that shit hole in three heartbeats and then turned the privy into a dual funeral pyre with a snap of her fingers. He didn't and she didn't. I'd like to think something approaching mutual love and respect rather than a fear of death motivated this lack of privy fires.
I wanted G'fa alive to share affection and stories, but the old
man had slapped the lesson into my head years ago about the vital difference between determining what you want versus what you need. G'fa's absence was a matter of life and death for Ma' and what stake Fa' had in it I could only guess. It all had something to do with the draft G'fa gave me to proofread the morning of his last, fateful trip to the privy. I know because despite my bringing it up countless times, both Ma' and Fa' refused to discuss it. I clutched the unfinished speech in my hands, eyes tearing as I read the familiar scrawling handwriting and walked towards my parents. Ma' waved me over and I remembered advice from G'fa.
“Conversation is like any other battle, Kelsa,” he said, grinning. “Don't reveal your position carelessly. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. Let the other guy yammer. Interject a bit here and there to keep the information flowing. If things slow down, quietly steer the conversation back to him. People can't resist bragging on themselves. And never forget to listen for the silences. What is left unsaid, those unspoken little gaps, are often more important than the piddly words surrounding them. You can fill in the gaps yourself, my dear.” He tapped his skull.
“So, what are you two talking about?” I asked my parents. As if I didn't know.
Ma' curled against my father like a fragile corn husk doll. She even had frizzled, silky hair just like G'fa's. I ran a finger through my own straight, dark blonde tresses. Ma' often wistfully offered to trade. Maybe with her magic, it wasn't an idle jest. I always refused, but I would have given up my hair that instant had she asked for it just to see her smile again. My mother straightened her spine as I spoke. “Is that your G'fa's acceptance speech?” she asked, quirking one pale eyebrow.
