The Redstar Rising Trilogy

by Rhett C. Bruno

  The beast grabbed it from him and started chewing.

  “Good boy.” Whitney shrugged and made his way back beside the nearest ship. He found the loose end of the rope he’d slid down and carried it to the zhulong. It was still busy chomping on his pants when he knotted it to its saddle.

  Just then, he heard shouting. A Shesaitju warrior fell off the side of the ship Tum Tum was supposed to be hiding on, splashing into the ice-cold water. A contingent of warriors sprung into action and headed for the ship. Before Whitney could even make a move, he saw the towering sails go up, accompanied by a cacophony of Saitjuese cursing.

  “Tum Tum!” Whitney shouted.

  He had to think fast. He ripped the stained piece of fabric from the zhulong’s mouth and tossed it down the beach. The zhulong’s giant nostrils flared with rage, and Whitney had to summon all the courage he had to give it a slap on the hindquarters like he was playing. He closed his eyes, half-expecting to be gored, but the mighty beast turned and ran toward the cloth.

  Mission accomplished.

  It tugged on the rope, which was bound to the mast of the nearest ship, which was connected to the one adjacent, and so on until the compromised galley.

  The sails Tum Tum had raised caught the strong westerly winds, and with the zhulong also pulling with its substantial strength, the row of ships tipped, slamming into one another. There was a series of cracks, loud as thunder, and the zhulong herd went frantic. The rope on Whitney’s friend snapped free, whipping across and taking out Whitney’s legs.

  They stampeded toward the city, throwing sharp, hooked tusks as they charged. Whitney had to roll back and forth to avoid being trampled. Giant, clawed paws smashed into the mud all around him, and when he finally was able to look up, he saw a mass of Shesaitju along the docks, half staring, aghast, at the toppled ships and others trying to calm the zhulong.

  Whitney kept waiting to hear shouting about a dwarf but heard nothing. He dug himself deeper into the mud to hide. All he could do was hope Tum Tum had abandoned ship and hid before it was too late. Used to the deep cold of the northern mountains, dwarves were resilient, maybe enough to survive that water for a few minutes.

  What was certain, however, was that Whitney’s distraction had worked. His service to the Crown was complete, with exceptional success if he had to say so. Now it was up to Torsten to handle his end so they can get started trying to find Sora and the monster who held her.

  XXIII

  THE MYSTIC

  Shavi didn’t have to give Sora any clothes after she dried off. Her chamber in the prefect's estate was already full of them. The old handmaiden quietly finished cleaning and straightening her hair, told her to rest while she could, and left the room—but not without first asking countless times if Sora needed anything. She was warm and welcoming like a mother should be... not that Sora knew much about mothers. Wetzel was called many things back in Troborough, matronly not numbered with them.

  Sora watched her leave, then dug through a wardrobe for something appropriate to wear. As she did, she couldn’t help but wonder who the countless clothes belonged to and what had happened to her.

  It wasn’t hard to discern the answer. Winde Port’s prefect was gone, probably a head on the city walls. There wasn’t a soul with pink skin or round eyes from the heart of the Glass Kingdom to be found. No servants, or wives, or children.

  Sora ruffled through more exquisite clothing than she’d ever seen in one place until she found the plainest dress available. It was tree bark brown and barely hugged her figure. There was no finery along the seams of tan, threaded trim. It wasn’t servant attire or anything, but she was tired of playing the role of a fancy royal. She strapped the fat coin purse she and Whitney got from selling the silk trader’s goods to her thigh underneath the folds, then, she found a pair of long, satin gloves to pull up all the way over her forearms to hide her scars.

  She turned and saw the luxurious bed waiting for her opposite the bath, begging her to get lost in the impossibly soft sheets. Aquira was already curled up in a ball on one of the pillows. Sora didn’t dare join her. Not even for a moment, knowing that if she hit the cushion, she’d be passed out for hours. And she couldn’t do that.

  The sun was falling, its protection against Kazimir with it. Whitney was still somewhere out there, and as soon as the light was gone, he’d be in more trouble.

  Maybe he fled, Sora thought. Maybe he left me behind just like when he ran from home.

  It was a thought that would have usually pained her, but now, all she did was hope he was as bad a man as he sometimes seemed—worse even. She hoped he’d stolen a ship in the chaos and was already sailing the Boiling Waters on another mad adventure.

  Then she remembered Kazimir’s terrible grin and what he’d said about the sacred nature of a blood pact. He’d hunt Whitney to the ends of Pantego if it meant getting her. Yet still, she had no idea why. There had to be countless other Panpingese magic-users hiding around the world. Her people were supposed to share the closest affinity with Elsewhere, whether through blood or otherwise.

  No more hiding. I need to find him.

  “Aquira, let’s go,” she said. The wyvern raised her head and blinked wearily in her direction. “C’mon girl. He may be a pain, but he’s all I’ve got.” Aquira stood and stretched, arching her spine and looping her tail around to brush her neck frills. A puff of smoke poured from her mouth as she coughed, then she hopped down and followed behind Sora.

  It was a short walk down the hall to a huge anteroom, arched windows along the side looking out upon the bay. Dusk was made even darker by a thick layer of clouds and snow flurries.

  Sora stopped in the entry when she realized Muskigo wasn’t lying. The hall was filled with homeless Panpingese men, women, and children wrapped in blankets. A few Shesaitju guards stood silently at the entries but kept to their own.

  It was an odd sight; the room, so luxurious and lavish, and a people so much the opposite. Velvet covered chairs were parked before intricately marked tables upon which were myriad varieties of food and drink. Maybe the people didn’t have a warm bath or hearth to stay warm, but even a roof overhead was a far cry from how so many of them were living in the ghetto.

  She stepped in and immediately recognized two children sleeping on their mother as the ones she’d tossed coins to back in the Panping District. Her hand instinctually fell to the purse beneath her dress, filled with more gold then anybody in this room had seen in a lifetime combined.

  “You need something?” the mother asked.

  Sora shook her head, not even realizing she had been staring. “No sorry, I recognized your sons,” she said.

  “Ah, you must be ‘beautiful angel’ that gived that gold autla.”

  “I...uh... yeah. They looked like they could use it.”

  “Could have used more.” The woman wore a glare for a few seconds, then her features softened and she said, “Thank you.”

  Her skin creased like leather as she smiled, even though she didn’t seem very old. Within her dark, almond-shaped eyes, Sora saw peace. It was strange for anyone to seem peaceful during these times, but as she looked around the room, at the other Panpingese refugees, it was a common attribute.

  “That is Tayvada’s wyvern,” the women stated.

  Sora glanced down and saw the wyvern calmly sitting at her heels. Her heart sunk, but she nodded. “You knew him?”

  “Every Panpingese in Winde Port knowed him. He didn’t go around tossing out gold, but did what he could to feed us.”

  Sora eyed the Shesaitju guards to make sure they weren’t listening to her. She was supposed to be Tayvada’s widow after all. “I wish I had a chance to know him better, but Aquira found me in the chaos and won’t leave my side.”

  “You must be a decent one then. She was his pride and joy, and she has eye for troublemaker. Always growled at these two for causing ruckus.” She shook her children a bit and laughed.

  “Ouch, momma,” one of them groaned. He
rolled over and rubbed a cut on his arm. It wasn’t deep, but Sora knew cuts better than anybody. It was the kind that stung but wasn’t bad enough for anyone to heal. Sora recalled many times when Wetzel scolded her for being a weakling. This mother did the same.

  “Oh, quiet,” she said. “It just a scratch. You’re lucky that’s all we got in the fighting.”

  Sora knelt in front of them then sliced her thumb on her shoe buckle and ran the blood gently over his wound. A bit of blue smoke rose, and the boy’s cut began to seal until all that was left was a line of irritated skin. Sora released a mouthful of air and panted a few times. Healing took more out of her than anything, but the wound was so minor she recovered quickly.

  The boy was too tired to notice what had happened, having fallen asleep almost immediately after changing positions. The mother, on the other hand, gawked at her like she was from another world.

  “Are you a—”

  “Mystic,” Sora finished for her, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the children or earn more attention. “No, I just learned a few tricks with blood magic in the west.”

  “Tricks, eh? Think you can get my leg to stop aching? Knee pops every time I stand.” She grabbed her knee cap and wiggled it around more than was natural.

  Gross as it was, Sora couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t think so.”

  The woman waved her hand in dismissal. “Bah, what good are you?”

  “Still figuring that out.” Sora smiled and sat, legs folded in front of her. Now that the woman had warmed up to her, she figured she might be able to get some real information. “So, you have lived here in Winde Port your whole life?” she asked.

  “Born and raised in ghetto. Never been anywhere.”

  It explained her accent and broken way of speech. Sora imagined most of the district dwellers stayed among their own.

  “Why do you call it that?” Sora asked, her eyes narrowing. “It’s such an awful word.”

  “What more is there to call it?” an old man leaning against the wall beside them spoke up, suddenly paying attention. “We count ourselves lucky to even have a place of our own. So many of us died after the Third War of Glass… better here in Winde Port than in Elsewhere.”

  He spoke with elegance. More like Tayvada than the others.

  “Or some backwater village,” added another. “Here we get to see world, even if only through eyes of travelers.”

  “Or invaders,” Sora muttered.

  Everyone looked to the gray men lining the entries. They all wore weapons, but none were drawn. Several just laughed with one another, shoulders against the walls.

  “They’ve treated us better than others has,” the mother said, shrugging, almost apathetic as if the slaughtering of so many outside meant nothing.

  “Aye,” said the old man. “These warriors have spared us, given us food and shelter in a place bigger than the whole Ghetto. They are no enemies of mine. If the mystics would stop hiding, maybe we could join them.”

  The mother slapped the man’s arm. “That is enough, Nijo. Council is gone, and every time they’re bringed up I have to explain it to my children.”

  “Good. They should learn exactly why we’re here kissing boots.” The old man stood, huffing. His bony legs shook for a moment before he decided to sit back down and continue enjoying his free meal.

  “Sorry about him,” the mother said. “Talk of war stirs up rotten memories.”

  “I don’t remember it, really…” Sora said. “Well, I have one memory actually.”

  “That is enough for lifetime.”

  “It’s of my mother.” Sora wasn’t sure why she started explaining. She’d never told anybody about the memory; not Wetzel, or Whitney. Nobody. But she’d never been amongst so many people that didn’t look at her like she was misplaced, or delicate.

  “I can’t recall my father, but her,” Sora continued. “I can almost picture her face. I think I look like her except my eyes; those must have been my dad’s. Maybe it’s just a dream, but she cradles me and tells me she loves me. She’s crying. I think I am too. She kisses me on the forehead. Then she’s gone.”

  Sora could feel her eyes starting to well up. The woman, however, barely seemed moved. “Sometimes, it is better to barely remember,” she said.

  “It’s always better,” Nijo scoffed. “My wife was burned for using magic. My daughter, chained up and sold. Last I saw she was being dragged away by her hair and I was too broken to help them.”

  “It’s not competition, Nijo.” The woman took Sora’s hand. “It is beautiful memory, dear. But that’s all it is. We here now, eating, thanks to these people. What more is there to ask?”

  “These people destroyed my home,” Sora said, softly.

  “Welcome to the club,” Nijo groaned

  Sora bit her lip upon realizing how foolish she sounded. She couldn’t expect any of these people to feel bad for her. She was delivered to a home after the war. It wasn’t perfect, but Wetzel looked after her, fed her, gave her shelter. And she had a friend who helped her through so many hard and lonely times. He may have abandoned her for a while, but he was back now. Whitney was counting on her, and she’d wasted enough time on her own curiosity over her people’s living situation.

  “You say you knew Tayvada?” Sora said. The woman nodded. “The man they said murdered him, Whitney Fierstown. Did you see what happened to him?”

  “I was not there,” she said.

  “I was,” Nijo said. “Bastard escaped when the gray men attacked. Slipped right into the sewers.”

  Of course! Sewers.

  They were a thief’s best friend according to one of his lessons if she remembered correctly. The one place in the world where Whitney could hide and never be found. Probably not even by Kazimir. But the upyr couldn’t summon a fire that never dwindled in a place that wet. And he didn’t have a Wyvern who’d met Whitney and could no doubt sniff him out.

  “Thank you,” Sora said. She stood and bowed. “Thank both of you.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever been bowed to befo—”

  Nijo was interrupted when the grand, central doors to the anteroom swung open. Muskigo appeared, flanked by his gold-clad guards. Gone was the look of calm Sora had seen on his face since they first met.

  “All civilians must vacate the estate at once,” he commanded. All the Panpingese folk glanced up at him, then returned to their meals. “Now!

  His men flowed in, ripping the people from their meals and shoving them toward the exits. All around the room, soldiers did the same. Nijo’s chair was kicked out from under him. The mother’s children awoke, startled.

  Sora stormed toward the afhem. Aquira caught her leg on the way and used it to get a boost up to her shoulder. “What is the meaning of this?” she questioned. “These people aren’t hurting anybody.”

  “Sora, I don’t have time,” Muskigo responded. He wouldn’t even look at her, too busy watching his men bully the homeless.

  “You promised these people shelter.”

  “I don’t have time!” he thundered. Now he stared straight at her and in his pale gray eyes, she saw storm clouds. He drew a deep breath. “It is no longer safe here. The Glassmen are coming.”

  “It’s safer here, protected, then out there if battle is coming.”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Take them back to their district and stay inside.”

  “I don’t lead them.”

  “Someone needs to. Now go, Sora of Yaolin City. Our conversation will have to wait.” He turned to leave without even a second glance, but it was what he clutched in his hands that drew her attention. It was a letter bearing the unmistakable seal of the Darkings Family—a ship and a coin. She recognized it from the ring Darkings wore, and from the door of his house in Bridleton.

  “Was this all just to impress me?” she shouted as more of her people were shoved by.

  Muskigo stopped but didn’t look back. “No, this is war.”

  Sora watched as he hurried
to the railing around the courtyard and looked down. She watched as armed guards pushed her people around no matter how young or frail they were. Only a moment before they felt safe for once in their lives, and now, children were crying.

  A hand fell upon Sora’s shoulder. She looked left and saw Shavi.

  “You must listen to him, Sora,” she said. “If he believes danger is coming, it is. Fighting. It’s all he’s ever trained for.”

  “Apparently,” Sora replied. “Go, I’ll be right there.”

  “Trust him.” She went to leave, stopped to help an elderly man up, and they continued out of the room.

  “I don’t,” Sora muttered. She turned and spotted the mother and her children hurrying to gather their blankets. Sora ran to them, reached under her dress, and shoved the coin purse into the woman’s chest.

  She stared down, eyes wide with confusion.

  “I don’t need it anymore,” Sora said. It was true. There were no merchant ships left to charter. And even if Whitney was right that she couldn’t make a difference in these people’s lives by handing out gold, she was done not trying.

  “Take it. Be the new Tayvada, or give it out. There’s enough there to fill a dozen flats with new beds and more.”

  “I… I don’t…” The woman fumbled over a response until there was a booming crash. It was like thunder, only the sound repeated a few times and was immediately followed by shouting in Saitjuese.

  Sora grabbed the woman and guided her toward the exit. “Just go!”

  Her eyes darted between her children, Sora, and the money. Then she ran. She ran with enough gold to buy a ship.

  Whitney won’t mind, Sora told herself. And she also told herself that he wouldn’t mind one more detour before she went after him. She glanced back up at Muskigo, still staring down into the courtyard. The sight had the rage she’d been holding down bubbling back to the surface.

  Whatever that bang was, it signaled war. More killing. Muskigo forcing the Glass Kingdom to attack. Her people may have survived their surprise invasion, but nobody would survive an all-out war in the city.