Halcyon Rising

by Stone Thomas

  I knocked into a pole of some kind as we crossed the border into a circular mile-wide clearing where nothing but short grasses grew. I had set foot in Barren Moon, and it was ringed with torches, each only three feet tall, but spouting a pillar of flame that rose ten feet further into the air.

  The darkwind brushed against that flame and recoiled, tumbling backward into the safety of the forest and taking its icy touch with it. The grippersnout was still asleep in its bag.

  Barren Moon was a place transformed. The once-empty clearing was covered in red and yellow tents and wooden carriage carts linked up like the cars of a merchant caravan, each covered by a thick green curtain.

  Dozens of gypsies reclined near bonfires eating, drinking, and talking with wide gestures and hearty laughs. Some of those gypsies were dark-haired and olive-complected like Gorinor’s band, others were pale like Tobby. Some had dark brown skin and red hair instead, while others were so covered in dense body hair that their skin color was almost an afterthought.

  “There are so many people here,” I said.

  “And not all the bloodkinds are even in yet,” Tobby said. He took the reins to the grippersnout’s sack. “Gypsies come from far and wide for our little celebration, which means there’s foreign hooch and unfamiliar ladies. I plan to partake of both. Yubo?”

  “Didn’t make it,” I said.

  Tobby sighed and shook his head as he walked away with his prize but leaving the yellow-green familiar behind. Coming toward us from across the clearing was a heavy-set man with dark hair and brightly-colored clothing. His beard was shorter now, cleaner than the last time I had seen him, but his smarmy face and the tambourine hanging from his belt were unmistakable.

  “I’m not the type to pray,” he called out, heading straight for us, “but if I were I’d have prayed for the gods to deliver us a head priest. My wallet was feeling a little light.”

  “Gorinor,” I said.

  “You remember me,” he said. “I’m touched.”

  “We need to set up a portal arch here, and leave the lionkin with your psycholowitch. He has information we need,” I said.

  “Jumping to the end so soon,” he said. “Where’s the foreplay?”

  “I’m all foreplayed out,” I said. “I just want to finish my business and be on my way.”

  “And the boy became a man,” Gorinor said, petting the familiar gently on the head. “Why are you here, of all places? I should throw you in a prison cart with a hungry beast. You made a fool of me in front of my men.”

  “We’re not here for trouble,” I said. “We’ll pay for the help we need.”

  Gorinor’s eyebrow arched at the mention of money. I didn’t have any coins, but I had something better. I took the gold nugget from my pocket and popped another seed from the plethorchid pod. I’d plant a money tree, which ought to be payment enough.

  I cracked the seed open with my Vile Lance and pressed the gold nugget inside it, then I scratched away at the dirt and buried the seed in a shallow hole. Gorinor watched without a word.

  I waited a nervous minute before anything happened. A small shoot emerged from the soil, a rich green swirled with a thin vein of gold. The plant grew a few inches tall before it sprouted its first leaf — an honest to goodness gold leaf.

  My heart raced. I had two seeds left. Let Gorinor have this one. Halcyon was about to be rich!

  Just as soon as the leaf glinted the sun’s light back at us, it turned brown. The gold vein grew thinner, then disappeared. The plant leaned toward the ground, wilting. It shriveled into nothing.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “It should have worked, like with the sword bush.”

  Mamba put her hand on my lower back. “Nothing grows in Barren Moon. Yet another sign that the legend is true.”

  “Hard to grow a tree with a stone tower sunken just below the surface,” Gorinor said. “Not a bush, or a thistle, or a godsdamned dandelion will grow here, only grass. I’ll get my money the old fashioned way instead. By turning a head priest into my own private slush fund.”

  He reached for the tambourine that hung from his side. I tightened my grip on the Vile Lance.

  Gorinor lifted his tambourine and began to shake it, filling the air with the rapid chiming of small cymbals. I watched that weapon, waiting for it to send a burst of magic power or to summon a ridge of rocks beneath my feet like in our last battle.

  Instead, Gorinor’s other hand slammed down on the familiar’s skull, forcing its trunk to flail forward and a cloud of magic to erupt. I lunged forward, but the space ahead was too far. There was no escaping the magic’s radius. I fell flat against the ground and blacked out.

  +32

  “All of our prison carts are full at the moment,” said a man with dark skin and a short white beard. “So the question becomes, what shall we do with you?”

  I looked up from the ground. I was in a very large tent with a red and yellow-striped canopy. No furniture, no windows, and no pillows. I could really use a pillow. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  “I’ll wait for it to wear off,” he said. “You got hit pretty hard by a snoozer’s blast.” I glanced around. Cindra, Mamba, and Brion were here too.

  “Where’s Vee?” I asked.

  “Gorinor had an interest in her,” he said. His shirt and his pants were flowing and loose, but they weren’t the same vibrant patchwork that Gorinor’s men wore. This clothing was a solid color: mint green. “I assure you, she’s safe until I decide she isn’t. Until I decide none of you are. I am the Chalmaster, and I run this show.”

  “Nola,” I mumbled. “And Duul. War.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “These are times of shifting alliances. We watch with interest, but we do not involve ourselves.”

  “We came for help,” I said, “from your psycholowitch. We can pay, just not up front.”

  The old man ran a hand across his bald head. “Some debts are paid through effort when coin runs dry.”

  “What effort do you have in mind?” I asked.

  “The bassador is an annual gathering of community and celebration,” he said. “We host it each year, and during the merriment the leaders of the bloodkinds assemble for our annual Chal. It is our governing council, and as its leader I am the final lawsayer. I review the laws each bloodkind has put forth and ratify them or reject them.

  “We have seven bloodkinds of experienced gypsies converging here as we speak,” he said. “Yet, despite the savagery of our combat skills and the mastery of our magic, we have a mystery we have not yet solved. I called for an early bassador to address this before time runs out.”

  “Your missing women,” I said. “Gorinor mentioned the problem last time we… visited. Is that it?”

  “Gorinor’s bloodkind has lost all three of their mommas,” the Chalmaster said. “They were the first to vanish, but not the only. We require a warrior to hunt down the party responsible and bring them to justice.

  “I spoke with Tobby,” he continued. “You are strangers here, and you spotted the darkwind with a perfect eye. Yet, you ran toward it, attempted to rescue our lost Yubo, then saved the very grippersnout that first attacked you. You fail to tremble in fear before me. You are either surprisingly adept, or surprisingly stupid.”

  “I get that a lot,” I said.

  “I would present you to the Chal as a warrior on whom we will call when we identify the problem at hand,” he said. “This choice requires a vote, however, and Gorinor has already nominated himself for the role.”

  “Why not let him do it?” I asked. “He’s one of yours after all.”

  “Gorinor’s temper runs hot,” he replied. “He wishes to become Chalmaster in time, and I fear he may. He leads one bloodkind, and has gained the trust of three others. Yet, his warmongering could splinter our people at a time when the world is already in flux.”

  “So if I say yes?” I asked.

  “I will ask the psycholowitch personally to assist you, and permit your portal mage to construct a por
tal here, in the archway of the Chal tent. Your group will remain welcome guests of the Chalmaster and partake in the festivities of our bassador.”

  “And if I say no?” I looked back at Mamba, now on her feet with the others. The Chalmaster smiled at me but said nothing.

  “Fine,” I said. “We both know I’m not going to say no. When’s the vote?”

  “In two nights’ time,” he said. “We wait for the other bloodkinds to arrive. Each has one vote, as do I. Eight votes total. Let’s hope there’s not a tie.”

  He walked toward the tent’s exit, turning back for one last instruction. “Don’t disappear on us. Mamba is a gypsy in exile, with none of the privileges the other gypsies enjoy. You are guests here, and that invitation expires if you abandon us. At that point, we’ll deal with you as enemies.”

  “Understood,” I said. “Say, do you expect a mailrunner during the bassador?”

  “No,” he said. “The empire’s mailrunners do not serve our kind.” He let the tent flap drape closed as he left.

  “I’m excited to be back for a visit,” Mamba said, pushing open the tent and letting the evening sun in. We had lost a lot of time under the sleepy magic Gorinor forced from that elephant-shaped snoozer familiar. “The bassador is the best time of year. Let’s hope we have time to enjoy it after we find Gelma.”

  Mamba led us out of the tent and toward the edge of the clearing, to a series of smaller tents and wooden stalls where vendors could sell their wares. Many were unmarked, but one stall had a sign that read, “Fortunes Read.” A few tents behind that we found the psycholowitch.

  I took Mamba by the wrist and pulled her close before we entered. “You should wait outside. I don’t want this woman to hurt you.”

  She kissed me on the cheek and smiled. “You’re kind to worry, but old winds never pick up speed, they only lose it. I’m on my guard, but I won’t run from her.”

  A thin canvas flap opened into a small tent with a middle-aged woman sitting behind a wooden table. “Appointment?” she asked without looking up.

  “We’re here for a consultation,” I said. “The Chalmaster sent us. The lionkin’s mind is warped and we’d like you to fix it.”

  She looked up from the papers on her desk, squinting dark eyes at Brion. “Bring him closer,” she said.

  The lionkin walked toward her and sat on a three-legged stool in front of her desk. She leaned forward and peered into his eyes. “He’s a head priest.” She looked up at Mamba. “Does he fulfill your birthwork?”

  “He’s not here to use for blackmail,” Mamba said. “We just need your help.”

  The woman shook her head. “We really should resume your treatment, my dear. There’s a tumult inside you, and I haven’t quelled it yet.”

  “Focus on Brion,” I said. “Can you fix him?”

  “Any real results will take time,” she said. “I can try, but one never guarantees their work in this field. Some patients reject the treatment.” Her eyes darted toward Mamba, then back to Brion. “Leave him with me and I’ll start work.”

  “We have no money on us,” I said, “but the Chalmaster—”

  “I do this work because it interests me,” she said. “I take the disordered mind and I iron out the creases, organize the patterns of thoughts and dreams. I look into a person’s past and I choose what remains and what to wall away. I will worry later about who pays me, but I will begin immediately.”

  When her eyes grazed past mine, she did a double take. She narrowed her gaze and leaned further toward me. “There’s a darkness in you, boy. I can start a treatment for you too.”

  “If you let her anywhere near me,” Savange whispered in my ear, “you’ll never stop regretting it. Don’t forget what I’m capable of.”

  “Like I said,” I replied, “focus on Brion.” I motioned for the rest of us to leave, but Mamba shook her head.

  “I’ll stay to make sure Brion and Gelma… get along,” she said.

  “And I’d like to stay too,” Cindra said. “If there’s even a chance this woman’s skills could unlock long-buried memories of who I really am, I’d like to find that out.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to go for a walk, but I won’t go far.”

  Gypsy vendors prepared tables to sell jewelry and food, with a few setting up games with darts and targets or with bottles and wooden rings. I headed for an empty patch near the clearing’s other side and took out my map while I walked, zooming out as far as I could. Staring at Valleyvale wouldn’t get me closer, but I couldn’t get my mind off the lost city.

  I kept walking, even when another fairyfly landed on my shoulder and tugged at my ear. “Go,” I said, smacking my ear as I tried to ward off the delicate insectoid woman. She had the same red-gold-green pattern on her wings as all the other fairyflies I had seen. “Be free! It’s like you want me to stick you in a bottle or something.” After a lot of swatting my hands in her general vicinity, she left.

  Finally, I stopped walking when I had left the last of the vendor tents behind. “Savange? We need to talk about what you did in the forest. You could have gotten me killed!”

  “No,” she said. “If I wanted you dead, you’d die. Your misunderstanding of the darkwind is hardly my problem.”

  “Why were you afraid of the psycholowitch?” I asked.

  “There’s a psychic aspect of our bond,” Savange said. “Did I fail to divulge that earlier? Some secrets need to ripen before they’re plucked.”

  “A psychic aspect,” I said. “Psychic shadows. You’re interfering with my connection with Nola, aren’t you?”

  “Just enough to cloak my presence. Most gods don’t take kindly to swarthlings.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “You’ll see,” she said. “Or you won’t.”

  “Poor boy,” a woman’s voice called out. She leaned against a tent pole further behind me, bright blue pants leading to a flowing purple top. Her shirt was thin and loose, revealing different patches of her skin as the gentle wind toyed with the fabric.

  “Muttering to yourself,” she said, “pants and vest both in tatters, face covered in dirt and dried sweat. You give fresh life to the title murder hobo.”

  I looked down at my torn outfit and sighed. “My armor has seen better days.”

  “Come,” she said, stepping into her tent and speaking over her shoulder. “Show me in private.”

  +33

  The tent door flapped closed behind me. “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Isilya,” she said. “Take off your boots.” I sat on a wooden bench and kicked off my boots before I realized she kept her own on. They were the same color purple as her shirt, ending in spiked heels that shaped her calves and gave her an extra six inches of height.

  The inside of her tent looked like a laundry hut had exploded.

  She caught me staring at the mess and laughed. “I’m an outfitter. I make some very special armor. For all occasions.”

  She slipped her thumb inside the waist of her tight blue pants and tugged on the strap to a bright red thong. She let it snap back into place, then put her foot on the wooden bench next to me and leaned over. I could see down her shirt from this angle, which I suspected was her goal, but I looked away. Gypsies had a lot of tricks up their sleeves, and, sometimes, down their shirts.

  I moved to stand up, but she put a hand on my shoulder and pressed me back down onto the bench. I looked into her dark brown eyes, noticing the slight wrinkles that collected at their corners. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said. “I should get back to my group.”

  “You mean Mamba?” she asked.

  “You don’t call her Loonlark like the others do?”

  “Gypsies can be cruel, even to each other,” she said. “Most of them deserve it, but not Mamba. She’s a special girl.”

  “Yes,” I said. “She is.”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Isilya said. “You take her seriously.”

  “Of course I do. She�
�s a powerful woman, with a good heart and a unique sense of the world. Anyone that underestimates her does so at their own expense.”

  “Take those off too,” Isilya said. Then, when I gave her a puzzled look she said, “Your pants.”

  “I’m really not—” She climbed on top of me, laid my body flat against the wooden bench, and reached right for my fly.

  “I’m making you new ones,” she said. “If you’re going to keep that girl safe, you’ll need something better.”

  She yanked my torn leather pants off me, and I let her. Partly because I wanted new armor, and partly because she was so bossy I didn’t know how to resist.

  “People often think,” she said, “that you need to cover yourself with armor to keep safe. It’s not true. It’s all in the material. My thong is made from the silk of adamant spiders. I have a bonus 20 to Hardiness from that one garment alone. It’s too expensive a material to use on a shirt or pants, but a tiny little thong goes a long way.”

  “That’s,” I said, “good to know.”

  “Take off that vest too,” she said. “The fabric is too torn to retain whatever bonuses it started with.”

  I sat up on the wooden bench and Isilya ran her hands up my chest with a measuring tape before pulling the vest off me. I sat there, wearing only underwear that was not made from adamant spider silk.

  She tossed my old, ripped clothing onto the floor, then pulled out a bolt of dark red fabric that looked like a very thin leather.

  “Have you ever met a kobold?” she asked.

  I folded my hands in my lap. “No.”

  “Nasty little creatures,” she said. “They infest the mountains, which is why only experienced adventurers test their mettle on the northern slopes, but their blood is full of strange magic.” She pulled a stretch of leather from the bolt in her hands. “Any leather dyed in that blood absorbs the same, making it a wonderful choice for clothing.”

  She took a pair of shears and started to cut. “Kobolds venture into the beastkin lands when their hunting season ends. They sell their blood in exchange for salted meats that will get them through the long winter in their mountain homes.”