by E. W. Pierce
Jarvis stood. “May I?” He stepped toward the nearest shelf and started inspecting the items collected there, picking them up one-by-one for careful examination. He frequently hmmed, and when especially intrigued—or confused—said “interesting.”
Mel ignored Jarvis’ mutterings. “Where did it all come from?”
“Where?” Flanagg looked at her incredulously, as though she’d just asked where rain came from. “The Mist, of course. Wherever else would it come from? The stuff is just lying around, waiting to be found. Every morning, we go into the Mist—Casting, we name it—and see what the night has brought. The Casting is our primary pursuit.” His gaze shifted and he eyed the piles. “We try to make sense of what the Casting returns. Sometimes, the purpose is obvious. Usually it is not.” Gray smoke curled from his nostrils.
He seemed more sure of himself, seated in his home, sucking on his pipe. So Mel pressed. “How did you come to be here? Where did you all come from?”
“Those are one in the same, I think. And they are questions to which you already know the answer.”
Knew? No. Suspected, certainly. But it was too impossible. Wasn’t it? What other answer could there be? They weren’t from Alterra. “You are from the Fog.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Smoke curled up through the open roof. “That is close, but not quite correct.” He spoke softly, and though she could hear his words easily enough, Mel found herself leaning in so that she might fully understand them. “Not from the Mist. Of the Mist.”
“How?”
Flanagg shrugged, a minute shifting of his thin shoulders. “I can’t say. One moment I wasn’t, the next I was. Born from nothing to an old man in less than the blink of an eye. I don’t know how I came to be, any more than I can explain how things just appear in the Mist overnight where before there was nothing.”
Mel was reminded of an eerily similar conversation she had with Jarvis when they’d first discovered Sildrian stowed away in Jarvis’ suitcase. He, likewise, had been unable to explain how a clockwork man had come to live. But Sildrian had been born in the Ministry of Manifestation. Flanagg and his people had been born in the Fog, a place haunted by the minions of the Imp.
She tried to peer past Flanagg’s grandfatherly exterior. Was he a minion of the Imp? In no way did he resemble the monstrosities that had attacked the Misty Morning these last weeks, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an evil creature somewhere inside, wearing the skin of this old man as some kind of mask. “How is it that you are safe here? Do the monsters roaming the Fog leave you alone?”
“They harass us when at the Casting, and swarm our borders at night, but we are safe.”
Mel could see the Fog through the open roof, rising hundreds of feet into the sky. It encircled Alterra much in the same way, but here the Fog was much closer. Claustrophobic. She didn’t know if she could spend her days walled in so closely. “Why are you safe here? How did you create this place?”
“Create?” He guffawed softly. “You over-state my abilities. I did not create Fosis. I discovered it.”
Mel’s shoulders slumped. She’d been hoping that these people had discovered some way of holding off the Fog, something she could use to forge her path through the confounding mists. But it seemed this isle was a naturally occurring phenomenon.
“Do you want to see it?”
Mel cocked a single brow. “It?”
Thadon made a choking sound, his face darkening. Flanagg ignored him. “The vault, of course.”
Vault? The word conveyed all sorts of wonderful possibilities. She tried to keep her expression neutral. “Is it nearby?”
“Milord…” Thadon said.
Flanagg shooed him away. “I mean to take a walk with Captain Locke. Be a good sort and see that her companion has whatever he needs.”
Eyes bulging under his helm, Thadon looked like he’d as soon take a long walk into the Fog.
“If that is alright with you, Captain? Will your man be alright here for a spell?”
Jarvis was admiring an onyx cube so black it seemed to drink light. “I doubt he’ll even notice we’re gone.”
The vault was a fortified locker buried amid the detritus of ancient leaves. The wooden cellar-style door was kept clean, either due to attentiveness or frequency of use. It wasn’t locked.
At Flanagg’s insistence, Mel grasped the rusty handle. The door was heavy but opened easily on well-oiled hinges. A wooden ladder was propped up against the wall. Beyond, shadows gave way to the blackest of blacks. Looking down into the yawning opening, Mel felt a severe reluctance to disturb the stillness emanating from the dark depths. She didn’t want to go down there, and it had nothing to do with her natural inclination for the great blue sky.
Flanagg led the way down. Once inside, he touched the crystal on his staff. A brilliant blue-white light filled the vault. The crystal was not only pretty, but functional too, the best sort of bauble.
The vault reminded her of a root cellar: slightly chilled and heavy with the smell of good soil. Bone-white roots protruded from the low earthen ceiling. A few crystals like the one on Flanagg’s staff littered the floor near the ladder. Flanagg pointed his staff, rolling back the darkness. The vault was overflowing with crystals, hundreds into thousands, great shimmering piles that threw back the light.
She knelt in the dirt and cautiously touched a squarish gem the size of her fist. It did not alight. She picked it up, peering into its cloudy interior.
“These ones are yet immature,” Flanagg said.
“What are they?”
“Fairie Fire.”
“They create light?”
“Something quite like that. Ah—here she comes.”
“She?”
“Shh.”
There was a wet rustling sound, like bones rubbed across damp stones. The largest pile, rising almost to the ceiling, shifted, spilling gems in a rushing avalanche of light and sound.
Mel took a step backward, the crystal tumbling from her hands. She?
“Behold—the Great Mother.”
A pair of bristling black antenna quested outward from the pile—from the nest, Mel recognizing it for what it truly was—and briefly twitched toward Flanagg before angling in Mel’s direction.
“Have no fear,” Flanagg continued. “She is quite shy.”
The head of a large black beetle protruded from the nest. Its dark faceted eyes glittered in the crystal’s light. Mandibles as long as fingers clicked together. Mel tried to imagine how large the creature must be. Man-sized. At least.
She wondered if Sildrian would hear if she screamed.
Flanagg bowed low, his beard sweeping the pebble-strewn floor. “Back to your nest, Old One. We wished only to pay homage.”
The large beetle ducked back into the crystals, retreating from sight. It burrowed deeper in staggered movements that had the pile pulsing like a monstrous crystal heart. There was something alive down here, protecting the treasure of Fosis. Mel did not relish the idea of returning, alone, to face it.
Aboveground, bathed in the warm rays of the sun, Mel had a hard time accepting what she’d just witnessed as real. “What was that thing?”
“I have already introduced you, haven’t I?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. “We call her the Great Mother. She shelters us, keeping us safe from the Mist.”
But who kept them safe from her? Mel wanted to ask what sorts of meals a gigantic beetle preferred but it was a question she didn’t want answered. “Where did she come from?”
“From? I can’t say. She was here already when we arrived. But I think it is safe to assume she is of the Mist.” He started in the direction of his tower. “Fosis is here because of her.”
Mel stopped abruptly, staring at the Fog. Flanagg trailed off as he realized she was no longer listening.
In Alterra, the Fog encroached like the tide, rushing forward and then drawing back. But here, it just stopped, like it was pressed up against a glass wall. In her mind, she heard the end
of the conversation they’d had before the beetle made its horrifying entrance.
They create light?
Something quite like that.
She rushed off the path, moving toward the nearest border. There she found a triple-row of crystals embedded in the soft earth. The crystals glowed brightly with blue-white light, though those of the outermost row were dimmer than the rest.
Mel reached over the crystals, into the Fog, swirling the mist with her fingertips.
By the Crown… With a hold full of such crystals, she could name her price to the Parliament Guard and they would gladly pay. She side-stepped the issue that they were outlaws and would almost certainly be arrested on sight. Such were practical concerns, and Taul’s specialty. Just now she was making plans, which was hers.
She needed crystals. Enough to create a pocket around the Misty Morning and allow them to finally escape the Fog. And more besides, with which to profit.
Flanagg stood where he left her, leaning heavily on his staff. He watched her closely, saying nothing.
“It’s the crystals, isn’t it? They somehow hold the Fog at bay.”
He nodded slowly.
“What do you want for them?”
“You can’t have them.”
“Well, not all of them. A few… hundred. Or so.”
“Fairie Fire is our shield against the Mist. Without it, we all die.”
A hard bargain, was it? Maybe there truly was a shrewd edge under the sleepy-eyed facade, but he’d botched his chance to drive her too high when he’d shown her the vault. “A few dozen, then. Surely you can spare that much. Beside, won’t the beetle just make more? The Old Woman, I mean.”
“The Great Mother,” he corrected. “And it is not so easy as you suggest. It is a long process, with uneven results.” His hand fluttered. “Thadon knows the details better than I. Perhaps you should speak to him.”
Unlikely. “I noticed the crystals in the outer row are dim. How often do you replace them?”
“I believe every three nights, but Thadon would better know.”
“How often does the Mother make more gems?”
Flanagg shrugged. “Thadon…”
“Yes, yes, Thadon would know. Only I don’t suspect he’ll talk to me about it.”
“No,” Flanagg allowed. “I believe you are correct.”
He continued along, tapping his staff merrily on the beaten path, the matter sufficiently decided in his opinion.
Mel let the matter drop, recognizing the futility of talking to Flanagg any further. Thadon would be no help, she could see that already. That only left one option so far as she could tell.
They retrieved Jarvis from the tower. He was still studying the black cube. Flanagg told him to keep it.
Thadon did not accompany them when Flanagg escorted them back to the raft. The dwarf was all too ready to have done with them, that was plain. It was just as well, Mel had no intention of asking him about the crystals. Her mind was set on another course.
As they crossed one branch of the bridge, the glitter of lights from underneath caught Mel’s attention. Lit crystals littered the sandy bed of the river, their bright light refracted by the shifting water. “You have so many that you just toss them away?”
“Not so. Water extends their usefulness, we’ve found. The bridge serves as a line of last defense, then.”
Sildrian lay in the back of the raft, watching the clouds overhead with a dreamy expression.
Flanagg bowed and then gave the back of her hand a dry kiss. “I have enjoyed our time together, Captain. It pains me to see you take to your sky bridge and leave, never to return. Come back this evening, I beg. We will feast in your honor, and depart company as friends.”
Yes. Mel smiled warmly. I would very much like to return.
That which remained of her crew was waiting on the deck when they arrived. Sam Pitford, the brash young man. Ton-Ton, the ship’s simple-minded chef and porter. Hindral, their navigator and doctor. And Taul, the empty sleeve of his coat billowing in the wind.
They retreated below decks to gather around the dented table in the commons. Mel explained the situation and what she intended to do about it.
CHAPTER 5
In the Company of Fairie
As before, Mel did not commit her full crew. Taul stayed behind, this time alone. She’d yet to train a new pilot since Dee had left. People were forever inconveniencing her. She recognized the resentment at Dee for what it truly was—the buried sense of loss—but had always found that irritation was the easier emotion to handle.
Hindral wanted to stay behind, to mind Taul, as he put it. Taul didn’t need looking after, not for the short hours they’d be gone. With his only valid excuse so ably deflated, Hindral had grudgingly climbed into the raft between Sam and Ton-Ton.
Sildrian stood at the bow, again, as though he were commandeering this voyage. He looked back over his shoulder as they pushed off from the Misty Morning, his eyes locking with Mel’s. His expression was unreadable, as ever. Jarvis seemed to have a way of telling what was on the clockwork man’s mind, but it was a skill Mel hadn’t learned yet.
Her stomach flipped over as the raft lurched, but her discomfort had nothing to do with the sudden movement. She’d had her air legs a long while and wasn’t easily discomforted by turbulence. No, the nausea she felt seeping up the back of her throat had to do entirely with what they were about to do. They were only taking a little, enough to see them through the Fog and earn a bit of profit. Not enough to put Fosis in any danger. Yet she kept picturing Fosis surrounded, the Imp’s hordes queuing up as the last crystals in the line of defense went out. She saw Flanagg trampled under the hordes. She saw him dead. And as the light fled his eyes, would he curse her name?
Flanagg was a decent sort and deserving of better. But so too were her own. It was her responsibility to ensure the safety of her little family. And if that meant endangering some villagers, well, that was the way it had to be. Probably they shouldn’t have tried living in-Fog to begin with.
She tried not to think, busying herself with the controls, but the raft was stupidly easy to fly, and so her thoughts kept circling back like water around a drain.
It wasn’t too late to change her mind. But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t, no matter how much Melanie Locke, the girl still somewhere inside the Captain, wanted to. Captain Mel Locke had no room for feelings or second guessing. Those were luxuries of the well-appointed, not delicacies fit for the captain of a secondhand ship barely clinging to sky. With the crystals, they needn’t fear the Fog any more. And, yes, they would profit handsomely by them, either from selling them in Alterra or elsewhere, someplace beyond the Fog.
Knowing all of this didn’t make it any easier. She watched the others, talking quietly and laughing excitedly as Fosis grew larger below. They were so lucky, to be able to live life at face-value, on their own terms, with no concern beyond the immediate. Beyond themselves. It was tiring thinking and planning for an entire crew of people. They had no idea.
She wondered what Sam would decide, in her boots. Or Hindral. Or, even, Jarvis. But she already knew. They’d do the right thing. The moral thing. It was human nature, wanting to help, and she wasn’t so distanced from her own humanity to not recognize that pull, that desire, to do good. But she was seasoned enough to know that good intentions did not fill the larder.
She hated herself sometimes.
By night, the river was a glowing blue ribbon, pulsing with Fairie Fire as it wound through the heart of the village. The people of Fosis surrounded the bridge, watching as the raft settled to the ground, whispering excitedly to one another.
The reaction of her crew was just as astonished, despite the fact that she’d warned them what these villagers were.
“Is that a dwarf?”
“Crown above, look’it the size of him!”
“Pointed ears and lithe physique suggest elves, but, of course, that is impossible.”
Sam’s eyes were wide and vacant
of their normal bluster. “Are they real?”
Sildrian answered before she had a chance. “Creatures of story, but as real as you. Or me.”
Hindral scoffed. “You jest poorly, metal man. Such a thing is impossible.”
“It has been said that the simplest explanation is oft the correct one.”
“Simple?” Hindral made a strangled sound, like he was trying to laugh and it’d gotten stuck in his throat. “Madness is what it is.”
“Quiet now.” Mel had reacquainted with her tongue. “Flanagg comes.”
At the mouth of the bridge, a grouping of elves parted somewhat reluctantly. Thadon appeared, outfit in the same piecemeal armor. As before, he carried the standard of the blue crystal. He was not alone this time, however; with Thadon came a pair of dwarves in similarly mismatched armor, a scarred elf in dark leather, and a bare-chested giant wearing the hide of a bear as a cape. They followed in Thadon’s wake, and like their leader, they did not look happy to see Mel or her crew.
Flanagg came last. As he passed, the crowd bowed reverently.
“He’s a queer sort,” Sam observed.
“Hold your tongue before I get ahold of it.” Mel clambered out of the raft. “Come on, you lot. Act like you’ve seen fairie folk before.”
“Sure, a real everyday occurrence,” Hindral muttered as he drew-up beside her.
“I’m just saying,” Sam continued, “what’s with the hat?”
“Ask Jarvis.”
“Erm, pardon?”
“Quiet.”
Thadon thumped the stones with the butt of the spear. His booming voice rolled across the clearing. “Presentin’ his Eminence, Flanagg the Far. King of Fosis.”
Flanagg stepped around the dwarf. He put out a hand in greeting. “Captain Locke, I am pleased beyond words that you’ve returned.”
“Never been one to turn down a free meal.” She accepted his hand and then awkwardly bowed over it.
He sighed. “There is no need for that. Please, all of you—stand up.” He put a hand on Mel’s shoulder, encouraging her to rise. “I am but a man, and not deserving of the honor you bestow upon me.”
