by Ryan Wieser
* * * *
Jessop crossed the desert sands quickly, her leather sandals light on the golden granules. The forest was just up ahead, the one salvation from the dunes. It was an oddity to find a lush forest in the middle of the desert, and many who passed through simply stared at it as though it were a mirage, some false salvation. It was no mirage though. It was her home. Her part of the world with her parents, where no one else lived and no one else entered. One may have thought it would have been lonely being ostracized to the woodlands by the Kuroi, but not Jessop. She knew the soft ground, the trees, the creatures, their shadows and their movements, as well as she knew herself. Plus, she wasn’t alone. She had her parents.
Mar’e hated her own mother and father. So did most of the village children it seemed…but not Jessop. Her father, Hoda Jero, had taught her how to track the creatures of both the forest and the desert. He had shown her how to follow the side winding of a snake and the swoops of any bird. He was determined for her to know their lands as well as any full-blooded Kuroi, probably because he knew them in such ways despite possessing no Kuroi blood. Her mother, Octayn Jero, was Jessop’s best friend, and the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She possessed the Kuroi blood, and with it, the same glowing green eyes her daughter had inherited. And she had endlessly flowing fair hair that she let Jessop braid every night after supper.
Jessop didn’t need Mar’e, or anyone else. She had her parents, and her forest, and she was fairly certain that was all she would ever need. She ducked into the shade of the trees, curving under a low hanging branch. Immediately, she felt at ease. Mar’e was a spiteful friend. That was what her mother had called her. Her parents had told her much about Mar’e. They had explained that her friend felt Jessop’s mixed lineage rendered her somehow inferior, despite her superior skills in all things Kuroi. They had told her this was not Jessop’s problem, but Mar’e’s. Jessop and the girl had a relationship that swung from hatred to love on a near daily basis, and Jessop shouldn’t shoulder the misconceptions of her friend.
Jessop stepped over a fallen branch, and moved expertly around a thick mud pit. She didn’t—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of screaming. Her feet stopped. Her heart stopped. And then, all at once, everything started back up again at lightning speed. She took off into the shadows of the forest, weaving through the trees, expertly navigating the treacherous soft ground, swinging over and under, through the thick line of trees. She leapt into the clearing, where her home was nestled against the belly of a mountain. She waited on bended knee, scanning the perimeter. The front door to her house was open.
She didn’t know what she was waiting for. Her mother. Or her father. She wanted to see one of them emerge from the house, mid-errand, a smile appearing as they saw she had returned. But she saw nothing. At the sound of her mother screaming again, she ran for the door.
* * * *
Her father was dead. Of this, she was certain. And it made her want to crawl up beside him and die right along with him, resting in his arms. The room was a scene of mayhem. There was the boy—the telepath—kneeling beside her father, and the older man with his hands wrapped around her mother’s neck. And there was Jessop, just standing there. She may have breathed, may have moved an inch, and the boy saw her. He jerked his head up from her father, and stared at her with large gray eyes.
“Get out!” he screamed, his face contorting in pain. He flung his arm out and somehow, using those abilities his kind had, made Jessop fly back. She hit the door behind her, sliding down the wood to the ground. She shook her head, getting to her knees. The boy had fixed his gaze on her father, his hands hovering above the older man’s chest. Jessop didn’t know what he was doing, but she sensed he was trying to help him.
She looked at all the blood her father was bathed in. His entire chest and neck were crimson. The blood soaked the tunic Jessop’s mother had just finished for him. It soaked the wooden floor Jessop had cleaned just that morning. It soaked the hands of the boy trying to fix a mortal wound. Jessop couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t make sense of anything. She got to her feet and took a small step towards her father and the boy.
With a heavy thud, dishes came flying to the ground, crashing around her mother and the old telepath attacking her. He rammed her body back against the cabinets once more, his hands tight around her neck. Jessop scanned the ground for a weapon, for something to stop the man with, and her eyes fell back on the boy.
“Stop him.”
Her voice was small, but it was a command that the boy leapt at. He threw his hands out at his master and focused with intensity, his eyes narrowing, his arms shaking. To Jessop’s amazement, the older man was jerked away from Jessop’s mother, and thrown into the wall. The young boy began to shake, forcing his master to stay in place against the wall.
“Run! Run!” He screamed his directive at Jessop. But her mother was collapsed on the ground. She ducked around the boy and slid under the giant wooden table, coming to her mother’s side.
“Wake up, wake up!” she screamed, grabbing her mother’s face and shaking her. There were dark red marks around her small neck, and a wound on her head, staining her fair locks with blood.
“Run!” The boy’s voice shook through her. She snapped her head up just in time to see the older man break free from the boy’s hold. He waved his hands and just like that, he could move again.
The older man lunged at the boy. “You dare betray me for these savages, Falco Bane? Me?”
Jessop turned her gaze back to her mother, who lay motionless. Tears fell from her and landed on her mother’s cheek, “Please, please, get up.”
Nothing. No movement. A crashing sound above her elicited the greatest scream she had ever produced. The man had tossed the boy across the table. His body flew into the cabinet and landed abruptly beside Jessop and her mother. He looked at her with his sad gray eyes, blood coming from his mouth, and pleaded with her. “Get out of here.”
He then leapt over the table, and Jessop heard a cacophony of destruction behind her. Swords struck one another and the older man yelled at the boy for his betrayal. There was a giant thud and the now familiar sound of a body collapsing. She did not know what to do, certain the man had bested the boy. She threw her body over her mother’s, holding her tightly to protect her from whatever he had planned. But he never came.
There was a slam of the door and she jolted up. He had left them, even the boy, who now lay in a heap on the floor beside her father. His cloak was spread out around him like black wings, his sword fallen a few feet away from his now open-palmed hand. Slowly, Jessop got to her feet. If the boy lived, they could carry his mother to the village. Dezane would know how to fix this. She crept under the table and crawled to the boy, trying to keep her eyes fixed on him, forcing herself to look away from her father.
“Wake up,” she urged, grabbing his hand. He lay motionless. She sat beside him, her hands grabbing his pale face as they had her mother’s. She shook him more vigorously. “Wake up, get up.” She patted his cheeks, trying to rouse him. She shook him, more urgently, as the distinct smell of smoke began to fill the room. The man had somehow lit a fire. She didn’t know how, but flames were rising, with no source, over the walls.
“Get up!” She screamed, shaking the boy. He did not move. She fell away from him, her eyes landing on her father, motionless, then her mother, who was only inches away from the flames. She bolted to her mother’s side, grabbing her arm and using all her might to pull her away from the walls. As if knowing her intentions, the flames jumped from the cabinet to the table, onto an overturned chair, following her.
She needed Dezane; she needed help from the village. She dragged her mother as close to the boy as possible, resting her between the boy and her father. She stood and immediately began to cough on smoke. She needed to hurry. She ran to the door and grabbed the wooden handle, pulling with all her might. B
ut it did not budge. Something had forced it shut. She pulled to no avail. She released the handle as flames began to travel over the doorway, closing around her.
She quickly leapt for the window, shoving the burning wooden shutters out, releasing a wave of air that gave new life to the flames. She shielded her face, and while she did not feel the fire, she saw it lick past her. It did not matter; she could not shy away from the flames now, not with so little time left. She grabbed the window frame and heaved herself up, teetering in the box, blind from the smoke, coughing, the smell of charring flesh tickling her nose. She rocked her small body forward but before she could move any further, strong hands grabbed her. Through the smoke she saw the dark, evil eyes of the man. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. She wanted to wrap her little hands around his throat and take his life away. He said nothing to her, but with a violent thrust, he threw her small body back into the burning cottage. She hit the ground heavily, rolling to her side as she choked on black smoke.
She had never felt this way before. It was more than fear, more than sorrow. This was simply it. Her life would be over, very soon, as she would perish in the fire with her family, and the gray-eyed boy. She crawled to her parents, staying as low to the ground as she could. She knew she was crying, but it was too hot for the tears to reach her cheeks.
She kissed her father’s forehead, and rolled over him to reach her mother. She had not moved, had not stirred at all. She kissed her cheek, and embraced her still body. A beam fell from the ceiling, crushing the table behind them. She shook with fear, holding her mother tighter as shingles from the roof fell, travelling in ash and fire, around them.
“I love you,” she cried, shaking against her mother’s chest. She did not turn from her mother, did not look his way, but she did not want the boy to feel as though he were dying alone. She reached out to her side and found his hand, lacing her fingers through his. He had tried to save her parents; she knew that much to be true. He had tried to save her. He did not deserve to die without comfort.
The flames were closer now. The snapping of wood, the splintering of their home, their lives, echoed all around her. The fire crackled with preternatural rage and strength, attacking the home in all its simplicity and beauty, destroying everything Jessop had ever loved.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She was not afraid of dying; she knew she would stop breathing long before the burns took her. She thought of Mar’e and wondered who would tell the Kuroi girl that her best friend, whom she had been so cruel to, had perished. She thought of Dezane and wondered how he would cry at this loss, and how he would tell his people. She wondered if there would be a ceremony, something done with all of their ashes perhaps.
She burrowed her face further against her mother and thought of the day before this one. The three of them had walked through the forest, her mother had collected fruits, her father had cut a new path for them to reach the reservoir. She had collected small stones and fallen leaves and the odd desert flower as she followed alongside them. It had been a beautiful day.
Suddenly, just as she was falling into their last moments together, Jessop was wrenched away from her mother. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. The boy had risen and he held her in his arms, forcing her small face into his chest. She fought him, somehow finding her feet. He kept an arm around her back, keeping her near. Smoke and sweat had stained his face, dark blood still pooled around his mouth and near his ear. He had his sword in his hand.
His hood had fallen back and he looked at her with a sadness that could have floored her. Suddenly, he threw his sword-wielding hand out before him, and the space where the door had once been was blown away with a deafening explosion, creating a hole in the wall, an escape from the flames. He forced her further away from her parents and she tried to fight him.
She needed to get her mother, she needed to pull her free. He was bigger than her and much stronger. She flailed against him but he barely seemed to notice, forcing her out of the cottage. They fell to the grass only feet away from the flames. She wriggled free, crawling away from him. She tried to blink to clear her vision, but it was an assault on her eyes. Her skin was warm to the touch, her mouth completely dry. The old man was gone.
She leapt past the boy, determined to make her way back through the flames for her mother. But he was quick. He grabbed her ankle, and with no mercy or hesitation, he dragged her away from the inferno. Somehow, she found her voice, and she screamed and screamed. She kicked at him and fought him. She curled up and attacked the hand that held her ankle. In an instant, he fell to the ground on top of her, pinning her still.
“They’re gone. They were gone before the flames got them. I’m sorry,” he yelled. She knew he was right. She knew what he said was true and she had known it before he freed her, but still, his words were her own death. She buckled over, sobbing tears that barely came, choking on black smoke, fighting him as he kept her safe.
That man had killed her best friends, her parents. She had nothing anymore. She had no one. She wished she had died alongside them.
The boy held her close against his chest, rocking her body slowly as she cried. “You have me.”
CHAPTER 3
Beyond the Grey
Thirteen years ago
When Jessop woke, she was by the reservoir, lying on her side. She blinked and a heron flew off the surface of the smooth water. She took a deep breath, rolling to her back. Why was she here? She hadn’t planned on going to the reservoir. The sky was changing already—darkening. Clouds rolled into one. There was a dark cloud, or was it smoke? The distinct smell of burning filled her nostrils and she thought she might be ill. She rolled to her side and suddenly saw the boy. With just one look at his charcoal-smudged face, she remembered everything.
She didn’t feel fear towards him, though she knew she should. He was one of them. His master had killed her family. The thought of it, the smell of the crisp burned wood and flesh, the memory of red fire circling them, it was too much to contain. She rolled onto her side, turning her back to the boy, and heaved. She didn’t want him to come near her, to attempt to soothe her. She was thankful to find he didn’t.
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, noticing how her fingers and arms had distinctly fewer black smoke stains than the boy’s. She watched him using his cloak to clean his skin and knew he must have done the same for her. It was odd to think he had cleaned her, tended to her, in her unconsciousness. She took a deep breath, surprised to learn she could. Her chest did not ache with fire damage.
“I healed you,” he answered her unspoken thoughts.
Of course he knew her mind; he was a telepath. That was what their kind could do. She shot him her most critical stare. “What do you mean?”
He turned back to the water, dampening his cloak once more before scrubbing his neck. “I healed your lungs. It is something only I can do,” he answered. His words were very matter-of-fact. He may have sounded arrogant, but Jessop thought he also somehow sounded lonely. As though being singular was the most isolating feeling in the world. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t—losing your family was.
She thought of her parents, and her chest fluttered with hope. “If you can heal, then why are we still here? My mother and father,” she began, jumping to her feet.
He was on his feet in an instant, standing before her, his hands out to stop her. “I can’t…I can’t heal the dead.”
She looked up into his gray eyes and wanted to tell him otherwise, wanted to somehow talk him into being able to do it, as if that were even possible. “But—”
“I couldn’t even heal your father before…His wounds were too grave. I tried. I tried so hard I was too drained to fight. I’m sorry.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. How could he be sorry? He had come here and helped ruin her life. “I wish you’d let me die with them.”
He nodded down at her slowly before turning
back to the water. “I know you do.”
* * * *
His name was Falco Bane. As soon as he introduced himself to Dezane, she remembered the man—Hydo Jesuin—saying it before, in her home. Dezane had shown up, with his warriors in tow, ready to save them. He said he saw the smoke in the distance—an impressive feat in itself, Jessop knew—and readied his fighters as quickly as possible. They had simply been too late.
Two of the warriors who had known her parents well wept openly, comforted by their comrades. Dezane had silent tears as he stared at Jessop, unable to take his sad eyes off of her. She had hugged him for the longest time, wishing that if the boy couldn’t fix this, then perhaps Dezane—a true elder—could. But he couldn’t. No one could. They were gone and she was supposed to live without them.
They had made the slow walk back to the village, leaving her scorched home behind. Jessop wasn’t really with them though, even if she walked in the center of their group. Her heart was burned to ash with her parents, her mind was soaring above with the falcons, her body was nothing but a mobile corpse. The boy may have thought he saved her from that blaze, but she had died with her parents.
They had made their way to the council tent, where the elders convened on all their important matters. The Kuroi tents were grand structures; fixed out of hide and wood, they stood some forty feet high, many as high as the trees that surrounded her home. That used to surround her home.
As they had walked through the village, Kuroi tribesmen she knew stood outside their home tents and wept for her, welcoming back their loved ones who had been too late to save the family that lived in the green. They may have shown her sympathy, but she knew they were grateful it was her family who had died and not theirs. She couldn’t blame them. She would have felt the same.
