by Steve Thomas
Keshdel stormed off, muttering. She stayed ten steps ahead of Laremma all the way to the village.
***
Three days later, Kreon was still living in the bridge. Laremma’s dark hair was showing through again, though not completely and the texture was unsalvageable. She had resolved to wear a wig on her next trip and spare herself the mockery and frustration.
Keshdel walked beside her. She still wasn’t happy about offering Kreon sanctuary and outfitting her for travel. On the night they had first met Kreon, Keshdel had scrounged up some old clothes and blankets while Laremma bought a meat pie from the baker. Laremma went alone the next morning to deliver those supplies while Keshdel pointedly ignored her requests for company. That was the last they had spoken of the girl. They hadn’t spoken much at all, but when Laremma knocked on Keshdel’s door with a picnic basket and a bottle of wine, her friend nodded and followed her out of the village.
Keshdel broke the silence. “I don’t see an army of inquisitors on the bridge,” she said. “I’m willing to concede that Kreon isn’t a spy. Probably.”
Laremma rolled her eyes, trying to mask the flood of relief that Keshdel was talking to her again. “Is this you apologizing?”
“And you aren’t naive.” Keshdel’s face gave a rare flash of sincerity, gone in an instant. “Just overly trusting.”
“You’re taking that apology back already? Did an inquisitor just pop into view?” She playfully craned her neck to try to peer over the bridge.
When they veered off the trail and down to the river, they saw the flies. Insects flitting about their hideaway were hardly rare, but the swarms of flies buzzing around dead fish certainly were. Had a tide washed some fish ashore? It was clear when the girls got closer, though, that the fish had been flayed. Not eaten, not rotten, but flayed. Their skins and innards had been surgically removed and laid out beside the flesh, and the whole display sat just outside the bridge’s shadow, festering in the warm sunlight.
Keshdel’s eyes widened as they approached. She glanced back and forth between the dead fish and Laremma. “She’s still here,” the girl said with some trepidation.
“She probably doesn’t know where to go,” said Laremma.
“She could have come to town instead of setting up camp in a closet under a bridge.”
It was ironic to hear Keshdel say that, after all the suspicion and resentment that had flavored her attitude toward Kreon. The rest of Greatbridge wasn’t much different. Most of the people there were like Keshdel. They never strayed far outside the walls and were wary of outsiders. They didn’t even fully trust people like Laremma’s family, who had been born within the walls but ventured to distant cities for trade. What foreign customs and ideas were they bringing back? Worse, had they been converted into agents of the Convergence?
Laremma knew that if Kreon caused any trouble, she’d face exile for harboring the girl and keeping her a secret. She knew also that as a fugitive of the Convergence, the longer Kreon stayed, the more likely she’d bring trouble to Greatbridge. Every day put Laremma at risk. But even without the Convergence chasing her, Laremma wasn’t sure that the people of Greatbridge would be any more welcoming to a foreign refugee than Keshdel was. How could Laremma explain that to her friend?
She could only settle for a reassurance that there would be no trouble. “She’s being hunted, Keshdel. She’s probably too afraid to poke her head out.”
Keshdel shrugged. “She poked it out long enough to poach our fish.”
Laremma sighed, unable to hold back a snide comment. “Maybe she got the sense that the fine people of Greatbridge would arrest her for poaching instead of protecting her from the zealots hunting her down.”
Keshdel shrugged, uncorked her bottle of wine, and took a draft, as she often did when she wanted to avoid an argument. A mouthful of wine made it hard to talk back. She and Laremma passed the bottle back and forth until neither felt like arguing. They hopped unsteadily across the debris and slid into their meeting place.
The room was a mess of fish bones, food scraps, and blankets. Kreon sat cross-legged in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and seemingly unaware of their presence. But when Laremma moved forward to tidy up the bones, her left eye snapped open. “I’m not finished with those,” said Kreon. “I need them.”
“We expected you to be gone by now,” said Keshdel, not missing a beat.
“It’s not safe,” said Kreon. At last her other eye opened and she popped to her feet. “Did you bring me any food?”
Laremma handed over an apple from her basket. “How did you catch all these fish?”
Kreon smiled and bit into the fruit, but said nothing. Her gaze turned to Keshdel, who leaned into a corner and uncorked her wine. Keshdel took another sip and said, “I’ve come to a decision. Laremma, get the cup.”
“You’ve decided that I should get a cup for you?”
“No. Well, yes, we decided that months ago. I’ve made another decision. Kreon, you can stay. Laremma, the cup.”
Laremma sighed and crouched to grab the cup, then tossed it to Keshdel. “I don’t think she ever asked your permission.”
“Yes, and we’ll try to forgive her for that.” She poured the wine, then took another draft from the bottle. “But there’s a catch. The Troll Bridge Sisterhood has two rules: We meet under the bridge in this room, and we only invite members.”
“So she has to sit outside while we drink?” said Laremma. “How hospitable of us.”
Keshdel shook her head. “No. She’s here to hide. She’ll stay in here until she feels safe moving on. We’ll keep her secret, and she’ll keep ours.”
“Just a few minutes ago, you wanted her gone.”
“Because her presence interfered with our meetings. I’ve found a solution. You should be happy.”
All the while, Kreon stood in the corner, her eyes fixated on, or rather past, Keshdel as the two older girls discussed her. She waited patiently for the conversation to end, then said simply, “I accept. I’ll join.”
Laremma placed a hand on Kreon’s shoulder. “Do you promise to keep the Troll Bridge Sisterhood secret and attend all our meetings as long as you live in the town of Greatbridge?”
Kreon laughed. “As long as I’m here, I promise.”
“We need a better oath,” said Keshdel.
“Hush,” said Laremma. She held out a hand to the girl, who shook it. “Welcome to the Troll Bridge Sisterhood. Keshdel will give you some wine and…well, that’s the whole thing, really.”
“My father thinks he drinks even more than he really does,” said Keshdel, handing over the cup. “So we found a hiding spot to capitalize on his drunken stupidity.”
Kreon looked back and forth between the cup and the two girls, as if working her way through a decision. Then she drank, and the two girls cheered. The three of them finished the bottle, and soon Laremma found her head swirling and her legs disobedient.
When the sky turned red, Laremma and Keshdel moved to file out the door.
“Wait,” said Kreon, and they stopped. Then, without any of the mirth or levity befitting the Troll Bridge Sisterhood, she said, “There’s one problem. I can’t swear an oath on wine. Where I come from, we swear on blood.” She plucked a fish’s rib from the floor and, unflinching, pricked her finger. A crimson droplet emerged.
Laremma paused. According to the stories, a blood oath was a serious matter, and the Troll Bridge Sisterhood was just a silly game she played with Keshdel. It was an excuse to sneak off with a bottle of wine and enjoy a conversation with a friend, not some eternal promise. But the stories were silly, too, and what was a blood oath, anyway? Whatever reservations she may have had were drowned in alcohol.
While Laremma’s mind was on the stories, Keshdel’s face was grim and sober, with no sign of the crass and bubbly girl Laremma knew. She said nothing, but took hold of the fish bone and poked her thumb. Despite her apprehension, despite her growing fear, something drove Laremma to do the same. Her will was to
o weak now, her mind too cloudy to understand what she was doing.
The three of them pressed their bleeding fingers together. Their blood mingled, pooled together, dripped together, seeped into each other’s bodies. Kreon smiled then, not a smile born of safety or affection, but the smile of pride and satisfaction. A smile of dominance. She muttered some words in a language Laremma had never heard before.
And Laremma awoke in her bed, with no memory of anything that had transpired in between.
***
The Troll Bridge Sisterhood, now three strong, met every night from then on. Each afternoon, when the sun dipped low, Keshdel and Laremma returned to their secret alcove with wine and food and whatever supplies they could scavenge. They came every day, no matter the weather, no matter what duties their parents had assigned them. They came with a compulsion they had never felt before. It was no longer a silly club. It was an obligation.
They met each afternoon, but they remembered so little. They told Kreon about their village, their lives, and their dreams, much as they had gossiped together when it was the two of them. Kreon spoke also, but her words passed through their minds with nothing but the scant memory that words had been spoken. They would talk and drink, and when they awoke the next day, they remembered nothing more than a vague feeling of shame.
More dead animals piled up under the bridge. First the fish, then small birds and squirrels, then larger and larger things until one afternoon, Laremma and Keshdel arrived to see a flayed dog spread atop the rocks. They knew that dog, a red hound named Ember. She belonged to Orlesh the blacksmith. She always paced around Orlesh at work, alerting him to visitors and sometimes fetching him tools. Now she was a pile of rotting, desecrated meat and bones. The next day, Orlesh knocked on every door looking for his Ember, but Keshdel and Laremma both told the same lie. Laremma knew on some level that she should be disgusted, that she should tell poor Orlesh that the little girl under the bridge killed his dog, but those thoughts were a half-remembered dream, never real enough to act upon.
An afternoon came when Keshdel arrived outside the alcove with a bruised arm.
“What happened?” asked Laremma.
“My stepmother tried to stop me from coming tonight,” she said. “I called her a fat bitch. She grabbed my arm, threw me out of the house, and told me not to bother coming back.”
Laremma knew she should feel sympathy, that she should tell Keshdel to quit the Troll Bridge Sisterhood and make amends with her family. But she also knew that Keshdel’s stepmother really was a fat bitch and nothing else mattered but their duties to Kreon. Kreon was weak and alone. She needed them. “I guess you’ll be sleeping over, then,” she said. “I never liked her.”
“Me neither.”
They walked in together. What was once a barren room was now Kreon’s domain. She had hung bones from the walls with twine. She had fashioned a bed out of driftwood and pelts and cloth Keshdel had stolen from the family business. The walls were covered in arcane symbols drawn in blood.
Kreon sat cross-legged in her bed and regarded Laremma and Keshdel with the authority and self-importance that only a young girl playing queen can muster. Gone was the terrified refugee with nowhere to run.
“I have something to show you,” said Kreon as the three girls passed around their first cup of wine for the evening. She pointed at the bell, still mounted on the stone wall, but now adorned with a wreath of bones. “I fixed the bell.”
“It was broken?” asked Keshdel.
Kreon smiled. Laremma knew by now that Kreon’s grin was never meant for anyone but herself. “Oh, there is magic tied to that bell. You see that vial?” The glass vial screwed to the bell’s mount now swirled with a smoky, indigo filling. “That vial stores the magical essence. The trick was finding a full one, but I had an ember of a plan when I first saw it. Such things are common where I grew up.”
The explanation washed over Laremma and Keshdel, their minds already clouded by the wine. The only thought that registered was that Kreon had accomplished something, and they should be impressed. “What does it do?” Laremma asked.
“It rings when someone crosses the bridge. A bridge like this was too important to entrust to mere watchmen. They must have had an artificer build some extra alarms. I wonder what happened to them.”
“The same thing that happened to everyone else, I would guess,” said Laremma. “The War of the Gods.”
Kreon sniffed and brushed back her midnight hair. “Hmm, I suppose so. Anyway, I was hoping the two of you would help me test it. We need to ensure that the alarm will sound.”
“Why?” asked Keshdel. “We meet in this room every night. We’ll hear if someone is at the end of the bridge, and no one can see us from up there. I’d be more worried about our parents finding out about this place than a merchant trotting into town.”
Kreon took a quick step forward and slapped her. Keshdel fell back a step, surprised and indignant, but all emotion slipped off her face before she regained her balance. “Because,” said Kreon with an unusual harshness in her voice, “the Convergence could be looking for me! You said you would keep me safe while I’m here, so go walk across that bridge.”
Kreon had struck Keshdel. That was wrong. Laremma knew it was wrong. Keshdel didn’t deserve that sort of misuse after what she had done for the girl. But that thought, like so many others, was swimming beneath a frozen lake, unable to break through the surface. She knew only that Kreon needed their help. Whatever she had done to Keshdel, surely it was warranted.
And so Keshdel crossed the bridge, and the bell rang, and Kreon smiled, and Laremma awoke in her own bed.
***
Laremma and Keshdel strolled down the grassy hill, hand in hand, Keshdel with a bottle of wine and Laremma with a basket of bread and jam. “We never met this often before,” Keshdel mused.
“I know,” said Laremma. Her mind felt clear for a moment, clearer than it had been in weeks. “Maybe we should turn back. I’m sure Kreon will be fine.”
Keshdel rubbed her swollen cheek. “No. See needs us. She’d be angry if we didn’t visit her.”
“This club used to be more fun.”
“I know.” Keshdel nodded.
Laremma ran her fingers through her hair. It finally felt like hair again. “It used to be our club.”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do now.”
“Maybe just a little wine before we meet with her.”
Keshdel nodded again, and they stopped. They sat and opened the jug. “Let tonight’s meeting of the Troll Bridge Sisterhood commence.”
“Prematurely,” said Laremma. They passed the jug back and forth a few times. “Do you remember what happened last night? After the bell?”
Keshdel shook her head. “I don’t even remember a bell.”
“We drink too much at these things.” Laremma chuckled and took another pull.
But Keshdel didn’t laugh. “I wonder about that sometimes,” she said, somberly. “I wonder who Kreon really is.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think the blood oath was a mistake. You know the stories.” She coughed and took another sip of wine to soothe her throat. “I wonder if…if,” she coughed again, a harsh, rasping assault on her chest. “What was I saying?”
Laremma shrugged. She’d already forgotten herself. “It doesn’t matter. Kreon needs us.”
When they slid into their secret room, Kreon was waiting for them. She paced back and forth, her small, bare feet unleashing a storm of tiny slaps on the stone floor, stopping only to kick at skulls. The worry was back in her eyes, and her unkempt raven hair framed a child’s face again, with a child’s fears.
“What took you so long?” she asked in a soft, timid voice. “I needed you.”
Laremma put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Did something happen?”
Kreon leaned into her for a moment and said, “The alarm bell sounded. I know I should have stayed in the room, but I had to know who it was, so I went
outside. I saw…” she buried her head in Laremma’s arm.
“You can tell me.”
“I saw a scout. He walked to the end of the bridge, looked around, and turned back. My friend said she saw the same thing before…What if he saw me? They’re coming back and what if he saw me?”
“We’ll keep you hidden,” said Laremma. “They probably won’t even look here.”
“They won’t have to look!” Kreon rushed across the room and launched herself onto her makeshift bed. She reared up on her knees and pounded her fists against the detritus she called a sleeping place.
Laremma and Keshdel froze, shocked at this outburst. They watched as Kreon yanked a piece of driftwood from between the cloth scraps and threw it at the wall. They watched as she ripped out a pelt and whipped it against the ground over and over, spraying bits of animals in all direction. Keshdel and Laremma shared a wide-eyed look of fear and dread.
Eventually, Kreon regained control. She stood in the center of the tiny room, huffing. “They have inquisitors,” she said between breaths. “They probably tracked me here.”
“Maybe,” Keshdel started slowly, struggling with the words. “Maybe…you should move on. Find somewhere farther away to hide.”
Kreon sprung and slapped Keshdel across the face, leaving one mark among many. Keshdel had a way of enraging the girl, no matter how cautious she tried to be. “Oh, you’d like that,” said Kreon. “You never wanted me here. But you’ll help me. You have no idea how helpful you can be.”
Keshdel growled as she rubbed her fresh bruise. “I’ve had enough of you. Enough of this.” She shouldered her way through Kreon and Laremma. “Laremma, tell me when she’s gone. I’ll see you then.”
“Stop,” said Kreon flatly. There was no question in her voice, no distress, no enthusiasm. It was nothing but a command. Keshdel froze in place. “Stand by the wall.” Keshdel groaned and flexed, but she obeyed.
A red glow filled the chamber.
Laremma moved between them. “What are you doing to her?”
“Quiet,” said Kreon, and Laremma’s mouth went numb. “Stand next to your friend.” Laremma did. She glanced at Keshdel, whose eyes were filling with tears.
