by Wen Spencer
Forest Moss sobbed as he ran his hands over her, rubbing his face against her stomach. “So long! So long since I’ve held true flesh—soft and warm and yielding.”
“Tell me,” Tinker said. “Tell me about him or I’ll go away.”
“Oh, child, you can’t imagine what it is like to live so long. Memories do not stay bright and sharp. Years wear away the polish and then all details. Even with those you love, everything slowly washes away, the shape of their face, the sound of their voice, the scent of their hair. Names of friends and even enemies slip away, lost in the dark waters of time.”
“You don’t remember?” Tinker cried.
“No!” Forest Moss tightened his hold as if afraid she would tear away from him. “It was at one of countless parties at Summer Court. I remember I was on a bridge, somewhere in the gardens, and he found me there. We talked, but I don’t remember the words. All there is left is a dark wind smelling of cherry blossom, and the murmur of voices just over that of running water.”
“How could you forget the male that destroyed everything?”
“We searched for years!” Forest Moss wailed. “I deemed him unimportant. A nivasa, beautiful and talented but nothing more than a sweet, nearly forbidden treat.”
Any questions about what that all might have entailed was driven from Tinker’s mind as Forest Moss pushed his trembling hands up under her shirt. A moment later, he had his face pressed against her bared stomach, his scars rough against her skin.
“Domi,” Pony growled softly.
Tinker caught Forest Moss’ braid and yanked his head back.
“Please, oh, please, let me taste you!” Forest Moss begged.
Tinker flinched at the thought but growled, “Tell me something worthwhile!”
Forest Moss whimpered and groaned, running his hands over her stomach. “Something worthwhile? Something worthwhile? Gods above, nothing in my life has been worthwhile since the oni took my eye. Time has taken all that I had. There is only darkness where my lovelies once lived.”
“Did this nivasa talk with Earth Son? Convince him to lure the children here?”
Forest Moss went still, and his eye slowly widened. “Oh.” He finally breathed. “I did not recognize him. Yes, I saw him with Earth Son.” He pushed his face into her stomach again and moaned softly as he rubbed against her. “I thought nothing of him whispering in Earth Son’s ear, twisting him around and around until he was just as warped inside as I was. Ah, but Earth Son’s lovelies were much more wise than mine—they killed the spoiled brat before he could be the death of all.”
“What about the children? What are the children?”
“They are beautiful—until they’re unmade—then they’re like everything else—just so much dust.”
There was a ding, and the elevator door opened. Blue Sky leaned out. When he caught sight of them, he leapt out of the elevator.
“Tinker! Tinker!”
“What is it?”
“It’s your grandfather!”
“What?”
“Your grandfather! He’s here!”
“What? My grandfather is dead. You know that. You were at his funeral.”
“No, no, the other one! Your great-great-great-something-grandfather. The elf one! He’s here and he’s taking Oilcan away!”
36: BETWEEN A STONE AND AN IRON MACE
Somehow Oilcan managed to escape without being immediately loaded onto the gossamer and hauled back to Easternlands, kicking and screaming. He quickly explained that he had a household and frantically pointed back toward Sacred Heart.
All the while the back of his brain screamed reminders that this man had built a massive palace to trap his heart’s desire in—endlessly painting—until she agreed to become his lover. The male was relentless. Suddenly the story seemed creepy instead of sweetly romantic.
Forge nodded without glancing toward the enclave, his focus wholly on Oilcan. “We were told nothing except that my son’s orphan had been found in the middle of the war zone and there were no clansman here to protect him. We came as quickly as we could.”
“We?” Oilcan had the sinking feeling he was about to be outnumbered.
“Your grandmother’s brother came with me.” Forge waved a hand upward toward the gossamer. “Iron Mace against Stone.”
“Against” implied violent force. It seemed an ill-omened name to Oilcan, especially if the force was applied to him. As if summoned by name, the elevator started to descend again.
“I am just an architect,” Forge said. “While being methodical and exacting makes me excellent in my craft, I react too slowly for battle. Mace would not hear of me going into a war zone alone.”
The elevator reached the ground. The door rattled open and a lone male stepped off. He was all that Oilcan expected in a high-caste elf: tall, elegantly beautiful, and ornately dressed. He wore gold-hued wyvern armor, rich green breeches tucked into tall gleaming boots, and a duster of green fairy silk painted with dragons. Beside him, Forge was short, rough, and earthy. Was that why Forge had felt like he had to court Amaranth so cautiously?
“Mace.” Forge put an arm about Oilcan’s shoulders. “This is my grandson, Oilcan Wright.”
“He’s human.” Mace frowned down at Oilcan.
“Yes, I am.” Oilcan felt the need to underscore that. Not an elf. Not a child. Not to be taken from Pittsburgh. “Unbounded Brilliance was my great-great-great-grandfather.”
The look on Mace’s face made Thorne Scratch shift forward. “He can call the Spell Stones. He is still domana-caste.”
Forge squeezed Oilcan’s shoulders. “He has Amaranth’s eyes and smile, and that’s all that matters. Besides, what is one generation or five to our cruel overlord’s work? We breed true whether we like it or not. Look at him. Is he not all wood sprite?”
“Wh-what?” Oilcan asked.
“The clever little spirits of the woods.” Forge gave Oilcan another half hug. “My mother was part of a new caste that the Skin Clan were creating. Small and clever.”
“Dangerously clever,” Mace said.
Forge grinned at his brother-in-law. “Yes. We are. We remind people of mythical forest guardians, especially after we escaped en masse and set up the first Spell Stones.”
The elevator spilled out Mace’s Hand, and there was a subtle shift of sekasha.
“Come.” Forge gently tugged Oilcan toward the enclaves. “Tell me about my son.”
Forge did not ask “How did my son die?” but clearly that was what he wanted to know.
Mace’s First, though, was asking Thorne Scratch what had happened to the domana and sekasha that came to Pittsburgh. His questions were in High Elvish, and polite, but implied “Why are you still alive when you should be dead?”
Oilcan resisted Forge’s pull to look back at Thorne Scratch. She was squared off against Iron Mace’s First. He didn’t want to leave her having to face all the assembled alone, but he wouldn’t know what was safe to say. His defense might damn her in their eyes.
As Oilcan wavered, Forge’s First noticed him, and his look softened. He minutely shook his head and gave one pushing motion with his hand.
Forge tugged again, and this time Oilcan didn’t resist.
Still, it felt like he was betraying Thorne Scratch as he let Forge lead him away.
* * *
At first Oilcan was too distracted to panic.
It was one thing to tell someone that their son was dead and quite another to tell him that his son was beheaded in front of a jeering crowd. To be kind, Oilcan focused on what little he knew of Unbounded Brilliance’s life at the French court. His elfin beauty and knowledge of advanced biology had made him a favorite of the queen. Unfortunately, it also made him a target when the nobles fell. While other commoners were overlooked, the elf had been hunted down and put to death. Oilcan merely said, “A civil war broke out, and he was killed in the fighting.” Unbounded’s son, Etienne, had been as slow to mature as Blue Sky and was still very young. “His w
ife brought their child to this continent to keep him safe. He became a jeweler and watchmaker.”
By then they had reached Sacred Heart, and Oilcan was beginning to realize that compressed down, his family history was one long tragedy. Unbounded Brilliance had died in the Reign of Terror. Etienne had been killed by jewel thieves. Etienne’s son drowned in the Johnstown Flood. Of all Unbounded Brilliance’s descendants, only Oilcan’s grandfather had died peacefully in bed.
A full Hand of sekasha swept into the school building ahead of them, and all thoughts of past tragedies vanished.
“Wait!” Oilcan cried, dashing after them. “Forgiveness, but please wait.”
The children had gone back to painting. Still clutching dripping paintbrushes, they fled toward the safe room.
Oilcan managed to get between them and the sekasha. “Forgiveness. The children have been through much. They frighten easily.”
With smiles that seemed almost shy, the warriors backed off.
“Sama?” Merry tucked close to Oilcan, ignoring the fact that she was pressing a wet paintbrush into his side.
“This is Forge of Stone.” Oilcan pried the paintbrush out of her hands. “He is my ancestor.”
“Call me Grandfather.” Forge shook his head as he studied the five doubles. “I’ve never seen so many children together in one place before. What are they doing in this war zone?”
Oilcan hoped that Forge wasn’t counting him as one of the children. “Earth Son offered sponsorship to anyone that came to Pittsburgh, but he’s—he’s dead.” Oilcan skirted around explaining how Earth Son had ended up dead. “The children broke ties with their households—they can’t go back.”
Forge continued to shake his head. “I had not heard—but I’m not privy to most clan business. I work too closely with the Fire Clan to be trusted by most of our clan. Still—what was he thinking? Laedin I could understand in a war zone, but naelinsanota?”
“Naelinsanota?” Oilcan had never heard the term before. If he was translating the word correctly, it meant “unclean blood.”
“Forgiveness, the habits of your youth are the deepest ingrained. It’s been nae hou, and yet the old words are the ones that come easiest. Our cruel overlords each had their own breeding projects. Just as my mother’s people were clever, the naelinsanota were just as gifted, although more artistically inclined. After the liberation, the naelinsanota were absorbed into the taunlae.”
“My parents were naelinsanota,” Merry whispered, blushing brightly. “But they let people believe they’re taunlae.”
Rustle took her hand and squeezed it tight. “So were mine.”
“Mine, too,” Cattail said.
“I’m not sure,” Barley said. “I think my father may have been. He wasn’t nivasa caste, and that was all my mother’s household talked about—like she’d lowered herself.”
“Quiee.” It clearly distressed Baby Duck that she didn’t know what she was.
Oilcan frowned. It was one thing if Earth Son had put out a general summons. If he had selectively tapped only the children of a certain caste, then the domana had definitely been working with the oni greater bloods. But to what end?
“Where will Grandfather be staying?” Barley reminded Oilcan that there was a more important problem at hand. “Grandfather” was here on a mission. The young male added with a mix of hope and dread, “With us?”
That seemed too close. “In the house” seemed like it would lead directly to “in control.”
Oilcan shook his head. “We don’t have extra beds.”
“We don’t have any beds,” Cattail Reeds pointed out.
“We won’t be here long.” By “we” Forge probably meant himself, Oilcan, and the children.
This was Oilcan’s life without brakes. “Wait here a minute.” Oilcan backpedaled into the kitchen. He was running by the time he hit the back door. He ran out the back gate and down the back alley, praying that Windwolf was at Poppymeadow’s.
He nearly careened into the male halfway down the road. “Windwolf!” He caught hold of the tall male.
“What is wrong, cousin?”
“Forge of Stone is here. He is the father of Unbounded Brilliance—my ancestor. He is claiming me as his child and wants to take me to Easternlands.”
“I will not allow it,” Windwolf snapped.
Oilcan breathed out in relief. “So, you can stop him?”
Windwolf looked angry. “I am not sure, but I intend to try.”
* * *
Apparently it was the arrival of the gossamer that triggered the gathering of domana. Prince True Flame was on the edge of the faire grounds, already exchanging introductions with Iron Mace. Forge’s First and Thorne Scratch weren’t with the knot of elves: apparently they’d gone on to Sacred Heart.
Oilcan was glad to note that Iron Mace introduced himself to Windwolf, meaning that he was lower ranked. Prince True Flame, though, in the end would be the one that decided Oilcan’s fate.
“Wolf Who Rules Wind.” Windwolf growled out his name and then turned to his cousin. “True, I will not have my territory plundered while I’m dealing with a common enemy. If they are not here to help, they are not welcomed.”
“They just arrived.” True Flame shifted the conversation to High Elvish and made a motion for Windwolf to stay calm.
For reasons that eluded Oilcan, the more polite the conversation, the faster the elves talked.
Windwolf’s response was machine-gun fast but courteous. “I will not stand by and let them take what is mine. It was agreed that humans would be considered neutral but under Wind Clan rule.”
“What is this?” Iron Mace noticed Oilcan and frowned. “You would deny us our own blood?”
Windwolf nodded. “If he does not want to leave Pittsburgh, then yes, I would deny you. He is not yours to take.”
Iron Mace waved a hand toward Oilcan. “He is—what? Thirty? Forty years old? He is not old enough to choose his clan. He is the clan of his birth.”
“I was not born into a clan,” Oilcan pointed out as calmly as he could in High Elvish. “Nor was my mother or my grandfather or his father.”
True Flame looked at him with surprise clear on his face. He glanced to Windwolf. “How is it that the one that is human speaks High Tongue better than the one that is an elf?”
Iron Mace plowed through any answer from Windwolf beyond a spreading of hands. “My sister’s son was lost to us. His children were born to the Stone Clan regardless if they knew it or not.”
Windwolf shook his head. “One’s clan is a personal choice. Loyalty must be freely given.”
“As I said.” Iron Mace raised his voice and talked faster. “He is not old enough to choose.”
None of the elves seem to be considering Oilcan as part of the conversation. They were like dogs fighting over a bone.
“Forgiveness.” Oilcan fought to stay civil. “I am a human, not an elf.”
Iron Mace didn’t even glance in Oilcan’s direction. “If he is domana enough to tap the Stones, then he must be considered an elf.”
Oilcan shifted closer to Prince True Flame. He wasn’t sure what it said that none of the prince’s sekasha considered him threat enough to block his move. It did not help his cause that he only came up to mid-chest on them.
“Honorable one, the question is not how much an elf I am, but if I’m an adult and can determine my own fate. By human reckoning, I reached my adulthood years ago. My mother gave birth to me when she was only a few years older than I am now.” Actually, she had been over a decade older, but it was close enough in elf years. “My grandfather died before he reached his triples. If you don’t consider me adult now, then I will never live long enough for you to see me as an adult.”
“Your grandfather died a double?” Forge joined the fray without bothering to introduce himself.
“He was ninety-eight,” Oilcan said. “His heart gave out.”
At least, that was what the coroner ruled. His grandfather had been fighting
pneumonia for a week before he died. It was possible that if he had let them take him to the hospice and use magic to battle the illness, he would have survived.
“He was no taller than I am now. I am full grown.” Oilcan hammered home on the fact that he had a human lifespan. “I will not live to see my triples. The average lifespan of a human male is only mid-seventies.”
Only then did he see Thorne Scratch behind Forge. Her warrior’s mask slipped, and her eyes filled with sorrow. He wished she was close enough to reach out and take her hand, but he would have had to go through Forge’s Hand to get to her.
“How old are you now?” Forge dragged Oilcan’s attention back to the debate.
Oilcan sighed, hating to answer. “Humans reach maturity in less than two decades.”
“I realize that. How old are you?” Forge pressed for an answer.
“Twenty-two.” Judging by the dismayed looks all around, he had just reduced himself back to a five-year-old in their eyes. “Pittsburgh is my home and if I had to choose a clan, I would choose the Wind Clan. Because of the children, though, it would be best if I could merely stay neutral.”
“Wind Clan?” Iron Mace cried. “What idiocy is that? You are Stone Clan!”
“He is not!” Tinker pushed her way through Windwolf’s Hand to stand between Oilcan and the Stone Clan domana. She was wearing shorts, a Team Tinker T-shirt, and tennis shoes. She had her right arm in a sling and was snarling in Low Elvish. “He’s old enough to decide his clan, and he decided to be neutral, so back off!”
“Who is this?” Iron Mace demanded.
“This is Beloved Tinker of Wind.” Prince True Flame gave Windwolf a look that clearly demanded his cousin to take control of his child bride. “She is the Wind Clan domi.”
The Stone Clan continued to look confused.
“She is my cousin.” Oilcan added the High Elvish term that clearly mapped out how they were related. He shifted back to Low Elvish as Tinker wouldn’t be able to follow the conversation otherwise. “But we were raised as brother and sister.”
Forge instantly grasped Windwolf’s reasons. “You returned her immortality!”
Iron Mace, though, focused on the negative. “You spell-worked one of our clan’s children?”
