The Meeting by Nicole DragonBeck

For Sara 🙂

I no speak English..

It was the only phrase Mara could think of, the only phrase left in her mind. It made no sense to her, but it had sent her through spinning thunderclouds of silver and gold and thrown her out here, in this realm, somewhere out in the wilderness, in a small crack in the mountain of stone that felt wrong to the touch.

A man had already been there, standing in shock when she fell from the sky in a flurry of spark driven by the wind. He had shouted at her, and she had mumbled through her sobs to him, but her words made no sense to him, and when he spoke, she heard only a mishmash of sounds with little more meaning than a dog barking.

She smoothed down the lace pleats in her dress, her bright green eyes fixed on the floor covered with strange, dark leaves, her heart pattering, trying to slow her breathing. She didn’t want to say it again – what if it plucks me up again and sends me somewhere even worse? – but what choice did she have left? It was hard to make her mouth move, her lips forming the alien syllables.

“I no speak English.”

She couldn’t know what effect the words would have on him, and after the initial relief that nothing further had happened to her, the silence became unbearable. At long last, it took all of her willpower to raise her eyes to meet those of the man. He was tall, and much stouter than the men she was used to seeing – lithe, elven men, with slim limbs and a sly grace.

This man had a grace, but it was solid, sure. His clothes were like him, thick and sturdy, made of metal and hairless animal skins. His feet were covered; hers were bare, like all of her kind. He was looking at her with wide brown eyes, with a gaze that seemed to be able to pierce her thoughts.

Perhaps he is one of the wizards who live high in the mountains who know the minds of others, she thought. There were exercises one could do to protect oneself from the invasive nature of these wizards, but Mara never learned them. Only the most skilled were invited into the beautiful palaces of learning to become proficient in words, and letters, and the art of magic. Mara was not that skilled, and she was only a farmhand, tending the pear trees, and the grape vines for the farmer who employed her.

When no understanding dawned on the man’s face, Mara realized he could not read her thoughts, and she was glad. Though it may make communicating easier, she did not want her most secret dreams and ideas invaded or bared for any to see, least of all this man she did not know.

He had a sword. It hung in its scabbard, but his hand rested on the pommel with an easy grip, his fingers ready, but not twitching. The weapon was very much like the ones that had killed all the workers except for Mara, and all the animals, and finally the farmer and his family – his wife and their two small boys.

Mara still didn’t know why the others had come or what they had hoped to achieve by what they did. A bountiful, productive farm now reduced to ashes, for what? Tears filled her eyes at the thought, and her hand went to her throat for the comfort of the necklace that had always been there, hanging from the fine silver chain.

Except the necklace was no longer there, nor was chain. Mara had used it, tearing it from her neck, breaking the tiny glass bottle with the pale fairy dust, and choked out the incantation her mother had taught her through the burning smoke in her lungs and her eyes.

It was supposed to send Mara somewhere safe, but she didn’t know this place. The rock was too dark, the trees smelled funny, even the dirt was the wrong size, to coarse and dry. It was a wonder anything could grow in it, but somehow the bushes and flowers and trees managed. How could this be safe? Why didn’t it bring me home?

Her heart leaped into her throat when the man came and knelt before her. He held up his hand to stop her from scrambling away and spoke again, this time in a gentler voice. He spoke slowly, but she did not understand. Mara shook her head. He said something else, and Mara caught enough difference in the sounds to know he was speaking a different language. She shook her head again, and he frowned, letting out a frustrated sigh.

Mara’s fingers went again to the empty spot where the necklace used to rest, warm against her skin. The instructions were simple: if in mortal peril, send the dust to the wind, utter the arcane words I no speak English, and it would spirit her away to safety.

Her mother gave it to her, just before she sent Mara away to work on the farm, no longer able to support her along with her younger brothers and sisters on the meager wages of a seamstress. Mara’s father worked in the mill and didn’t make much more. They wanted the best for her, but keeping her in the city would only sentence her to the same fate.

A heavy, icy feeling grew in her chest. If the necklace truly worked and took me somewhere safe, and this place is not of my world, then no place there is safe back there. The city has fallen, and all the cities like it. It was a terrible, overwhelming thought, and sent her spinning close to sobbing again. One tear leaked down her cheek, but she brushed it away with an angry swipe of her hand.

She had taken care of herself for many years. She was not a child, nor was she weak. She would not cry, and not in front of this stranger. Fingers pressed under her chin, forcing her face up to look at him again.

He had a comforting look about him, hard, but not cruel. He took note of her tears, but did not become distressed. He reminded her very much of her father, and that sent her towards painful grief for a different reason. The man used his thumb to wipe the tears that escaped from her cheek and offered a steadying smile.

He went away, leaving her in the dim light at the front of the cave, and when he returned, he handed her a steaming mug of thin, hot soup. Mara took it and sipped it, burning her tongue in her eagerness. The man paced, glancing at the darkening sky, which turned red, and blue, and a purple color Mara had never seen before. She finished the soup, and with the nourishment warming her stomach, she found some of the courage she knew she had.

Mara stood and walked over to him. He watched her carefully but did not seem threatened. She stood before him, her head coming only up to his chest, and looked straight into his alien face. She pointed at herself.

“Mara.”

He smiled, showing a row of straight, white teeth. “Hamael.”

“Haimail,” she repeated the syllables as well as she could. “Pleased to meet you.”

 

Showdown by Alanna J. Rubin

For Seth Bodak

He slugged down the rest of his beer, slammed the mug on the bar, and walked outside. The hot sun beat down on him and the dry breeze ruffled his black duster as he stepped out on to the dirt road in front of the saloon. Mad Jack was already there, waiting for him. He was rumored to be the fastest gun this side of Kansas City, and he had a bounty on his head to prove it and it was Derek’s job as the law to bring him in. He pulled the brim down on his black Stetson to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun and flexed his right hand in preparation for the quick draw that was to follow. Mad Jack nodded to Derek in greeting, “Sheriff,” he acknowledged then spat. “I hope you made your peace. I hate to think that I killed a man, and he left unfinished business.”

“Rather polite of you,” Derek responded.

“Well, there ain’t no reason to be uncivilized about the whole thing,” Mad Jack countered.

“S’pose not. So, let’s do this then.”

Mad Jack and Sheriff Derek stood about twenty paces apart and stared at each other. Derek shook his hand as it hovered over the gun in his brown thigh holster. Mad Jack drew fast, but Derek was that much quicker and…Mad Jack suddenly slumped over. “What the?” Derek exclaimed and stared at the gun in his hand that he hadn’t fired.

“Derek,” he heard a woman call out. “It’s time for dinner.”

Derek sighed, “Coming, mom” he called back. “I only needed two more seconds,” he mumbled in disappointment. Derek walked over to Mad Jack and looked at the indicator on the back of his neck. “Parental Override Engaged” flashed LED indicator on the android. Derek hit the reset button on his neck and put Mad Jack into charging mode. “Next time, you won’t get off so easy,” he warned Mad Jack in a southern drawl before leaving the room and turning off the holographic image of his surroundings behind him.

Jabberwalky by Nicole DragonBeck

For Shannon, thank you for this amusing starter 🙂 And yes, I did mean Jabberwalky.

Sometimes all it takes to ruin a date is to ask a rhetorical question like: how many chickens could we fit in that car?

Other times it wasn’t so easy to quickly and efficiently get out of the torture trap of a date one was no longer interested in. As the renowned Mr. Shaw said: the fickleness of the women I love is only equaled by the infernal constancy of the women who love me.

Too true, Alor though with dismay as he took another sip of beer and tried not to look at the person sitting across from him. Making eye contact was a bad idea. She was appealing enough to look at – blue eyes, blond hair, and a pleasant face – and nice enough to be around, but her unblinking, raptured gaze was giving him the creeps. That, and the monosyllable answers to the his questions.

“So,” Alor tried again. “Do you like sports?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Do you?”

Alor sighed. He knew where this was going. Now they would spend the next ten minutes talking about what sports he liked, what sports he played, how many goals he’d scored, ad infinitum. Fortunately, Alor was good at making things up about who he was and where he’d been. It was one of his Talents, but she was trying him to the limit.

This woman was going to know everything about him down to his first word and favorite drink, and he was going to know nothing but her name. Or not, he amended when he remembered that he actually didn’t remember her name. He tried to think of what it was, and then wondered if she hadn’t introduced herself at all.

That’s ridiculous, Alor told himself. Of course she did; you just weren’t paying attention. It was hard to convince himself though, because usually he was better at remembering names. That’s just another sign that this is going nowhere. Time to get out of this before I waste any more time.

He looked up, trying to find a polite and rapid way of ending this line of questioning, and then the date, and saw his reflection staring back at him out of her eyes, crystal clear and magnified by her retina. A faint suspicion blossomed, and the reflection narrowed its eyes and frowned. Alor took another sip of beer to buy some time and worded his next question with care.

“Where did you say you grew up?”

“Nowhere special,” she replied, gazing at him with round eyes, leaning forward on the table. “Where did you grow up?”

They had already covered this. Alor had been prompted to recount almost all of his childhood activities, habits, and pastimes, including what his imaginary parents fed him, and the things his imaginary older brothers and sisters did to torment him. The suspicion grew. For the first time, the woman blinked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You already said.” She paused, and looked like she was searching for words.

“What do you do for fun?” he asked casually.

She brightened and leaned even closer. “Not much. What do you do for fun?”

His suspicion confirmed, he downed the beer with one gulp and stood. “Well, it was real nice meeting you, but I have to go.”

Alor walked away before she had a chance to answer. He didn’t bother keeping an eye on her. A Jabberwalky wasn’t really dangerous, not in the physical sense. The information they extracted from their unsuspecting victim could of course be used against them, in a court of law, or worse, in a spell, but Alor was in no danger from that, thanks to his Talent.

He was more worried about who had sent the Jabberwalky after him in the first place. Who was this person, and what did they think they could gain? There was nothing unusual to attract attention to Alor — he made sure of that. He was average height, with brown hair and a short beard. He wore clothes that were just drab yet well-tailored enough to be boring while not making people think he sat on the side of the road with a tin cup.

Alor walked out of the little tavern with the red roof, candlelight spilling from the windows into the purple dusk, his eyes darting from side to side. Jabberwalkies had to be controlled by eyesight, so the person could be outside, looking through a window.

Glancing through the glass as he walked past, Alor noted the table they had been sitting at, and the woman was now gone. That was bad. Alor flattened himself against the wall, pleased to have his back covered. He edged to the corner and peered around. It was hard to see in the failing light, but he didn’t think there was anyone lurking in the trees behind the tavern.

Taking a deep breath, he darted around the corner and dashed for the relative safety of the trees. He had taken no more than two steps when something grabbed his ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he came to rest, he was already kicking and thrashing with all his might to dislodge his attacker. He looked back into the blue eyes of the Jabberwalky, still glassy and staring. Now, this was new, he thought, and redoubled his effort.

Her nose gave way under his heel, and the blood sprayed into her eyes. For an instant, she was disoriented, and Alor used it to pull free and scramble for the trees. Fingers brushed his back, but found no hold as he launched his body forward. He skirted the tree, the Jabberwalky on the other side, maneuvering around to try to break the eye contact of whoever was controlling it.

No matter where he went, the Jabberwalky continued to come after him, and he started to get worried. This wasn’t like anything he had experienced before. Alor reached for the knife in his belt. Nothing for it, he thought. I’m going to have to risk killing it.

Spells could be hidden in the life force, unleashed when the force fled. Usually the spell-wrought blade he carried protected him from such a thing, but this was no ordinary Jabberwalky. He couldn’t be sure how it would react, but he didn’t see how else he was going to get away. If it was still active, the Jabberwalky would talk, telling where he had gone, and enable someone to track him. He darted out from behind the tree and slashed at the woman. He caught her arm, and bright red blood stained her white shirt, low cut to leave only a little to the imagination.

The spell-made creature didn’t give any sign of pain, though the glassiness faded from her eyes. She fell back, and sudden, overwhelming fear etched itself on her face. What is going on? Alor groaned to himself. This was just supposed to be a nice dinner…

“Please don’t hurt me,” the woman said.

“Who are you?” he demanded, waving his weapon in front of her face.

“My name is Susan,” she answered quickly, as if her words could fend off his knife. “I…I’m…I don’t know what’s happening!”

The lie in her eyes snagged his attention, another one of his Talents.

“You’re a sorceress,” he accused, and then things began to align. “You spelled yourself! You turned yourself into a Jabberywalky!” It was crazy, mind-boggling, some might say impossible, but showed a sort of brilliance, if a suicidal one. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I thought you would find it more attractive. There aren’t many men who would have me in this town.”

It was a half-truth, but his Talent still caught it. Not wanting to give it away, he nodded.

“You know I can’t let you go,” he said.

“Please, I won’t hurt you. I’ll just leave you alone,” she said, as her hand came up.

The green light under her fingernails warned him in time, and he brought the knife up to deflect the power she tried to fry him with. The metal was spell-protected, and the vibrant lightning shattered on the blade. Enough’s enough, he thought. She’s got to go.

It was easy to change the motion of the knife from a parry to a stab. Her soft flesh did not offer much resistance, and the knife was buried up to the hilt in a blink of an eye. She gasped, breathed once, and then slumped, the life going out of her eyes. Alor braced himself, preparing for the spell that could be unleashed, but none came. After a moment, he relaxed and glanced down at his stalker/attacker.

In her fist was a piece of crumpled paper. Alor wrenched it out of the stiffening grip and scanned down it. He had seen it a dozen times before, and he was sure he would see it at least once more before he died. No doubt there were more of them, up around the town on lamp posts and store walls.

The picture was fuzzy, but looked enough like him. The only difference was the reward had gone up, and the list of offenses had grown. Soon the murder of the woman in front of him would be added to it.

Time to get out of town. Alor sighed. I was just getting to like this place, he thought. But I suppose there’s another town just like it over the horizon, where they don’t know who I am. Yet.

Guest in the Garden by Nicole DragonBeck

For Kitty, here’s your quasi-instantaneously written story 🙂

She was slowly going around the corner, guided only by a sliver of moonlight, when she felt something around her ankle.

Her heart leaped to her throat, but it was only a creeping vine. Mina shook the offending plant away and continued creeping through the gardens. In the year since her father, Lord Uric, had passed, the entire estate had gone into a rapid decline. The fountains stopped working, the water fouled, the gardens and grounds grew wild, the older parts of the castle creaked and crumbled, and luxuries afforded the Lords family like magic fireplaces, secret doors, and ice on summer days were gone.

Mina berated herself for taking so long to put the facts together to realize that her father must have taken whatever it was that kept the heart of his estate beating and hidden it. It took even more time for her to deduce it was most likely in the garden. That was the first reason she was here, creeping about in the tangled and uncared-for plants. The reason she was doing it in the dead of night was more concisely stated: her half-brother, whom she would not mention by name, and his Red Guard.

Silver light illuminated the path enough for her to continue without tripping. She kept her eyes peeled for the magical undertones that would reveal things that couldn’t be seen under the light of the sun. Unfortunately, Mina didn’t have the first clue what it was she was looking for, and even after four hours of searching, she still hadn’t seen the slightest trace of it. To make matters worse, she was now being followed.

She bend down, felt around until she found a thick branch, then stood and slipped behind a tree and paused, listening but hearing nothing. She waited, holding her breath, and was rewarded with the sight of a shadow walking with stealthy steps along the path she had taken. She went after it, the follower now the followed, the branch clutched in her hand.

She came up behind the shadow and brought the branch crashing down. A solid thunk and a low moan reached her ears as whoever it was crumpled to the ground, turning around in the process. The light of the moon fell on the face of her most trusted advisor, Malco – who had served her father before her – his eyes crossed as he fought to stay conscious to gasp out a message.

“I have come to warn you…” He blacked out as a cloth was thrown over Mina’s head.

She struggled and a swung her arms around. She felt the branch connect with something, and her attacker fell away. Mina whipped the covering from her head, clubbed the figure on the ground once more for good measure, and rushed back to Malco. He was beginning to come around, groaning as his fingers explored what must be a giant bump on his head. His eyes widened when he saw Mina.

“My lady!” he exclaimed. “They are coming for you!”

She didn’t need to ask who he meant. It could only be the Red Guard, the sell swords her half-brother had been moving into the castle at an alarming rate.

“They think you’ve found it,” Malco continued, getting slowly to his feet. He glanced at her with concern. “Are you alright?”

Mina shook her head. “I’m fine. There was someone, but I didn’t see who it was.”

She pointed at the attacker she had dispatched. They both looked back at the form still crumpled on the ground, and then walked over. Malco bent down and turned the person over so they could make out his face. Mina gasped.

“Is that an elf?”

Malco nodded, wearing a similar expression of shock. “What is he doing here?”

“I have no idea,” Mina answered. “I thought they were extinct, at least this far south.”

“He’s not wearing the uniform of the Red Guard,” Malco said.

Sounds came from behind them – sounds of people moving through the trees – drawing their attention.

“We should get out of here,” Malco said. “And find someplace to hide.”

“The pump house,” Mina replied at once.

Malco nodded and started to walk off. Mina couldn’t stop staring at the unconscious elf, silky blond hair like moonlight on the ground, foreign features delicate and striking. He had a mark on his neck, perhaps a tattoo.

“We can’t leave him here,” she said, her mouth moving before she thought it through.

Malco looked confused and pained. “He attacked you. Even if he is not working for your brother, we have no obligation to him.”

Mina couldn’t explain it, and didn’t try to. “We have to bring him.”

At her firm tone, Malco obeyed at once. With one of them on either side, they carried the slight elf with little difficulty further into the gardens. The pump house loomed up in front of them. It kept the waters in the fountains pristine and flowing, but since Mina’s father had died, the wheels and pipes had mysteriously stopped working, just like all the other contraptions on the estate.

They let themselves into the stone rooms, the faint dripping echoing in the darkness. Mina and Malco propped the elf against the wall.

“What do we do now?” Mina asked her advisor.

“We wait, and in the morning, when the sun comes out, we can go back,” Malco told her. “The Red Guard won’t do anything in the light.” He looked at her, a reproving frown on his face. “Which, I might remind you, is why you’re supposed to stay within the walls of your keep after the sun goes down.”

“I know, but I had an idea,” Mina said. “What will we do with him?” she asked, changing the subject from her midnight wanderings.

“I don’t know,” Malco replied, eyebrow raised. “You’re the one who wanted to bring him.”

Mina went over to stand by the elf, looking down at him, arms and legs at odd angles, chin on his chest. His head snapped up, and Mina stumbled backwards with a gasp. The elf looked up at her with bleary, green eyes. When he focused on her, his eyes widened and he tried to get away. He looked like a cornered wild animal. Mina held her hands out.

“It’s okay,” she said in a soothing voice, hoping he could understand her.

His head cocked, and after a moment, he spoke. “You’re Lady Mina.”

Mina nodded, somehow not surprised he knew her name. “Who are you?”

“My name is Neir.”

“What are you doing here?” Mina asked.

Neir smiled. “I am…was here on your father’s words.”

“Prisoner?” Mina asked tentatively.

“Guest.” The elf played with the hem of his shirt. Mina noticed he was thin and dirty.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

The elf stared up at the ceiling as he counted to himself. “A long time. In your home? About thirty of your years. Hiding here? A year.”

“What…” Mina stopped, and worked it out for herself. The truth dawned on Mina with the warm glow of a particularly beautiful sunrise. Her father hadn’t hidden an object, he had hidden a person: the elf.

“Why did my father keep you here?”

The elf gave her a look which clearly said don’t be thick. Mina changed her question.

“Are you responsible for the state of this place since my father died?”

“Not the way I would put it,” the elf said, sounding affronted. “I would say I was responsible for the wonders of this place while your father was alive.”

“You kept it all going?”

“Everything,” Neir said. “At least, I used to.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I think you know that,” Neir answered, with another of his don’t-be-daft looks, though his voice sad. He took a deep breath. “Your father didn’t want anyone to know because he thought it would endanger his alliances if the other Lords knew he was harboring a creature such as myself…”

“Why would that matter?” Mina asked with a frown.

“You don’t know much about why there are no elves in your part of these lands anymore, but suffice to say, knowing your father tolerated my presence would have soured the favor of the other lords. We made a deal, Lord Uric and I. He would provide me with shelter, I would help him with magic. It worked quite well for a time, but then his son became greedy and had him killed in order to take over what Lord Uric had built.”

“So you stopped to spite him?” Malco asked, sounding none too pleased. He knew none of this either, Mina realized.

“I stopped because continuing would call attention to my being here,” the elf said. “And now I have to spend all my time hiding from the Red Guard. They are slow, but they’re catching on. I thought you were one of them,” he confessed. “I didn’t mean to attack you, Lady Mina.”

Mina accepted his apology with an absent shake of her head, the memory of the heart-pounding terror at being assaulted in the dark the furthest thing from her mind right now. She thought for a long time, another idea forming in her mind, not the same blinding light of the idea to search the garden, but the slow unfurling of a rose’s petals with the light of the sun. “If I promised to harbor you, as my father did, would you be willing to help me?”

Neir smiled and shrugged, but his green eyes gleamed. Mira looked at Malco and smiled; at last, now they had something to use against her brother.

Inspiration by Nicole DragonBeck

For Zhenya, one of the best people I’ve ever met in my life 🙂

I was sitting there looking at the best person I’ve ever met in my life.

Well, not exactly the best person, but it was the best person I could hope for right now. As I had the guards on my tail, and I had no way to get rid of the ruby necklace.

Harry looked down at the last line, mussed his already wild brown hair, and sighed. Setting his pen down, he took the piece of parchment and balled it up, tossing it over his shoulder in disgust.

This story is going nowhere, he thought miserably. How am I going to get my hero out of this one? He glanced around at the lumps of discarded paper littering his study. Preferably without spending a fortune I don’t have on reams of parchment.

He read back over the previous pages, pages he was tentatively considering not crumpling up and putting in the fire. Nathanial Dumond, the disgraced Duke of Northland, had gotten himself into a bit of a conundrum with a horde of goblins and some stolen goods in the third or fourth chapter of Harry’s latest attempt at a novel, and now Harry had no idea how to get Nathanial to the ship that was supposedly waiting for him at the port city of Albahedron, just over that mountain ridge with no name.

“If only there was some way…” Harry muttered to the empty room, rubbing his eyes. “Some way I could just make it all work out…”

“What if I told you there was?” a voice chirped right next to him.

Harry gave a startled yell and fell off his chair. Looking up from where he was now lying on the floor, he saw a small creature perched on the edge of his desk, feet dangling over the side. It was a muddy red color and had small, sharp horns, on which rested a glowing gold halo. Fluffy white wings protruded from its shoulders and it twirled something that looked like a trident in its hands. It smiled down at Harry, revealing sharp teeth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the thing told him.

Harry pushed himself off the floor and brushed the indignity from his clothes. “Yeah, that’s alright,” he said, trying to look anywhere else but at the creature. “What are you doing in my study?”

The creature gave a delighted beam. “Why, I heard your call for inspiration, and…” the creature spread its arms wide, “here I am!”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, hoping he looked polite and not horrified.

The creature frowned and it became a lot less friendly. “What, you didn’t think inspiration just came from the gentle thought of a benevolent god, or the silver ringing of magic bells, did you? Or maybe a cup of particularly fine coffee, is that it?” it said with a faint sneer. “Well, it’s not that easy, I can tell you.”

“You’ve, um, had lots of experience with it then?” Harry replied, pulling his chair upright and sitting down.

He noticed the creature was sitting on one of the pages of his story.

“Lots?” the creature barked. “It’s all I do all day, cater to whingeing, whining, pathetic…” it stopped suddenly, collected itself, and forced a smile back onto its face. “But that’s really beside the point.”

“And what is the point?” Harry wasn’t sure of the wisdom of asking this question, but he couldn’t see anything else that he could do.

“The point is, you called for help, and I came,” the creature smiled. “Now let’s see, what are you writing here?”

It looked down, and pulled the disorganized sheaf of papers from under its bottom. It read for a bit, then turned the papers the right way up with an apologetic smile. “Styles differ, you know, and I thought perhaps it was a new way of expressing yourself, with no apparent grammatical structure. I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, I suppose,” Harry said, watching the little imp read the words he had attempted to wrench from his heart and soul, the intangible ideas he had tried to give corporeal form to with ink and paper. And blood and sweat and tears, lots of tears, Harry thought, his mind started to wander just a bit, as was not unusual. A sharp cough brought him back into the real world.

“It’s got potential,” the creature announced.

“Really? You think so?” Harry said, greatly cheered.

“No, that just what I have to tell you all, or I would be out of a job,” the creature sighed. “But it’s not horrible. I didn’t want to scratch my eyeballs out and set my head on fire when I was reading it.”

“Do you feel that way often?” Harry asked, trying to be sympathetic.

“Of course. Every time I set my head on fire after reading some particularly bad piece of…” the thing nodded and waved its hand inarticulately at the instruments of Harry’s work.

“Oh,” Harry nodded, and carefully extracted the complimentary aspects out of the creatures words, namely that its head was not on fire at the moment. “So, um, what are you here for exactly?”

The creature huffed impatiently. “I think that should be rather obvious, really. Intervention! Incentive! Inspiration!” It didn’t seem impressed with Harry’s blank look. “I’m here to help you finish your story!”

“Oh!” Harry’s expression morphed into something like hope. “Really?”

“No, I’m a figment of your imagination,” the imp said with a scowl. “Yes, really.”

“Excellent!” Harry said, and then thought of the million caveats that would most definitely come with something appearing on his desk with this offer. “What’s the catch?”

“You mean what is the price for the service?” the imp sniffed. “Well, we have several different options we are able to provide our clients…”

It whipped out a black ledger and shoved some brochures at Harry. Harry looked down at them, and saw pictures of people showing off stacks of books, people rolling in gold, people writing with beatific faces in exotic locations with cocktails and gorgeous sunsets. He looked at the prices and paled.

“Do you have anything, um, cheaper?” he asked.

“Why?” the creature demanded.

“Well, these are a bit out of my budget,” Harry explained.

The imp peered at him with unveiled contempt, then snatched back the promotion. “Well, we have our starter package, but I can tell you, everyone who has tried it would recommend going for the higher-end options.”

“I think I’ll start with the starter,” Harry said. “What’s the price on that?”

“One hundred gold pieces,” the imp answered promptly.

“One hundred!” Harry gasped.

“Or,” it continued as if Harry had not spoken, “your soul for two years.”

Harry blinked. “That’s a bit…”

“A bit what?”

“Steep,” Harry said softly. “I sort of…need my…soul.”

“It’s just a lease,” the creature said. “We give it back when the contract is up. Besides, how do you know you need your soul? How do you know life isn’t better without it?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s fairly common knowledge,” Harry said, but the creature just stared at him, unimpressed.

Harry vacillated, acutely aware of the imp squinting at him with beady eyes. Harry looked down at the papers filled with his frantic handwriting now scattered even more haphazardly across his desk, and recalled the happy writer in the picture, showing off the dozen books with his name on them. He looked around his dingy, messy office, and thought of the serene writer on the beach with the brightly colored cocktail in hand. Then he thought of the writer lying on the mountain of gold.

“You know, I rather think my soul is worth more than fifty gold pieces a year,” he found himself saying.

“That’s what they all think,” the imp rolled its eyes. “Inflation and all that. Fine. I can cut you a deal. One year.”

“A month,” Harry said. “My soul is in mint condition.”

“Six months, final offer,” the creature countered.

“Okay,” Harry nodded.

“Sign here please.”

“Can I read it first?”

The creature stared at him in shock, then handed over the contract. Harry read it through carefully, his finger following the line of tiny legalese. It looked straightforward enough, one measure of inspiration to finish the novel, in exchange for one soul for the time of sixth months, at which point it would be returned, in a condition not unlike it had been deposited, etc., etc.

“Satisfied?” the creature gazed at him over crossed arms.

“What’s your refund policy?” Harry inquired.

The creature gave him an impatient look, which made Harry wilt. He took the pen it handed him and signed his name in shining red ink on the bottom of the contract. The creature snatched it back, rolled it up, and stuck it in the black ledger. Then it stood up, making ready to leave.

“Wait! What about the…” Harry indicated the papers splayed out on his desk.

“Right.” The creature looked at its trident with shining eyes, then leaped at Harry and stabbed him with it.

“Ow!” Harry shrieked, the sight of blood on his arm worse than the slight sting of pain. “What was tha…”

His vision was going blurry, and his body felt heavy.

“Sweet dreams,” he heard someone say from a long way off.

Then all was black.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he did not know where he was. It looked like he was in the mountains, but the nearest mountains from where he lived was two weeks’ travel north. In fact, Harry had never seen a mountain in his whole life. They were nothing like he imagined, much harder and stonier.

He groaned as he sat up and realized he was not alone. He also realized his hands were tied. Someone was watching him, hunched close to the ground, a sword lying across his knees. The person looked familiar, the piecing blue eyes and the dark hair, fine features, and the scar that ran down his cheek.

Nathanial Dumond, the disgraced Duke of Northland!

The person started. “How do you know my name?”

Harry didn’t realize he had spoken aloud. He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it.

“Where am I?” he asked instead, struggling against his bonds.

“More importantly, how did you get here?” the Duke asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, giving up on the rope. “One moment I was in my study, the next, I woke up here.”

The Duke studied him for a long moment, then nodded. With a brisk motion, Nathanial stood and advanced on Harry, sword out. Harry closed his eyes, heart beating frantically, but the blade only cut through the bindings on his wrists. Harry sighed and opened his eyes. A horn blew, somewhere in the trees, and the Duke looked up that way, his face tense.

“Those would be the goblins,” Harry moaned to himself. Why oh why did I think stacking the odds so badly against him was a good idea?

“Those would be the goblins,” the Duke agreed. “And this is where we part ways.” He hefted a sack, which Harry knew contained some very old and powerful objects – objects which, Harry realized, the Duke had no idea what they were capable of – and began to make his way down the mountain. He rounded a boulder and disappeared from view, leaving Harry by himself on the mountainside.

This can’t be happening, Harry tried to convince himself. I must be dreaming.

Sweet dreams, the echo of an impish voice told him. Harry pinched his arm, hard enough to bruise, and gave a wounded yelp, though he had no one else to blame but himself for the pain. He definitely wasn’t dreaming. This was happening.

“How is this supposed to be inspirational?” he yelled at the sky. “I’m not going to be able to finish my novel if I die out here!”

The horn sounded, louder and closer this time. All of the sudden, Harry was rather less worried about Nathanial Dumond, the disgraced Duke of Northland, and more interested in how he was going to get himself out of this mess.

 

The Request by Nicole DragonBeck

For Miss Connie, love from Nicole

“Well today I am 69 and I never thought I’d see the day my only son would forget me…ohhhhh wait that’s the phone maybe it’s him..”

Barb hurried across the house to catch the phone. It stopped ringing just as she reached to pick it up. Her shoulders slumped, and her face drooped into into a wistful look. She jumped when the phone rang again. Barb picked it up and put it against her ear.

“Hello?” she said.

“Grandma?” a little voice on the other side asked. “Grandma, is that you? It’s Stacy.”

“Hello sweetie,” Barb said, a smile growing on her face. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” the seven-year old replied importantly. “How are you today, Grandma?”

“I’m just fine, sweetie, thank you,” Barb said, and switched the telephone receiver to her other ear.

“That’s great, Grandma,” Stacy said, and then continued talking in her very bossy little girl’s voice. “Grandma, I wanted to make a request.”

Barb thought she sounded so grown up when she talked like that. “Of course, sweetie. What do you need?”

“I want you to come over. Mommy and Daddy have gone out, and Julie – she’s the babysitter – she’s just watching TV. I have no one to talk to.”

“Well, sweetie, I’d love to come over, but you live all the way across town…”

“Please, Grandma, it’s really important,” Stacy implored, the trace of a whine entering her voice.

“Okay sweetie. I will be there in an hour.”

“Great!”

Stacy hung up the phone with a sharp click and a dial tone sounded. Barb shook her head. What a strange request. She went around and put on her hat and her coat, then grabbed her handbag. She made sure the lights were off, and that Fluffy had food in case he came back from wherever he had gotten to. She started to go out, then remembered she needed her driving glasses and went to retrieve them from her bedside table.

The garage smelled dusty, and the garage door groaned in protest when it opened. Barb pulled the cover off her car, and for a moment, she forgot whether she had enough gas or not. The car spluttered to life, and the dial showed three-quarters full. She drove slowly out of the drive way and down the street to the gates of the retirement community where she lived.

The traffic wasn’t bad at this time of day, but Barb didn’t like to speed, and she kept hitting red lights. It was almost an hour and twenty minutes before she pulled into her son’s driveway. Barb got out of the car, pulling her large handbag after her, and made her way up the little path to the front door.

She raised her hand to ring the bell, but the door opened right away, and there was Stacy, beaming on the other side.

“Hello, sweetie,” Barb said, holding her arms out.

Stacy gave her a quick hug, then pulled her inside and shut the door behind them. There were no lights on inside, and Barb peered about in the gloom.

“Why is it so dark in here, sweetie?” she asked Stacy.

“Would you like me to turn the light on?” the little girl asked, a slyness in her voice.

“Yes, sweetie, that would be good.”

The sound of the light switch being flipped preceded the deafening shouts of “Happy Birthday”! Barb was overwhelmed and flustered, trying to take everything in at once. There were so many people.

Stacy was grinning and clapping her hands beside Barb. Barb smiled at her and turned to the crowd of people before her. In front there was Daniel, her son, and his wife Sandra. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from the Bridge Club were there, and John, Dorothy, and Jessie from the little AARP chapter in town; behind them were George, Susan, Natalie, and the others from the Volunteers-R-Us Barb belonged to, and even Mr. Sanderson and Jamie Peters, Barb’s neighbors, were there.

A table covered with a bright cloth and strewn with heaps of colored streamers was to the side, and in the middle was a giant cake with white and yellow icing that spelled H-A-P-P-Y 6-9-T-H B-A-R-B-A-R-A-!-!-!

As Barb realized what had happened, she felt tears spring to her eyes, and her hand went to her chest, the tears and a growing smile fighting for their place on her face. Daniel came forward, smiling, the light shining off his glasses where his brown eyes, so much like hers, were twinkling.

“Happy birthday, mom,” he said, and bent to give her a long hug.

 

And Then There Was One by Nicole Dragonbeck

For Desi, thank you for getting the flow going!

Forever 21 can kiss my ass.

Jane looked at her sweet, unlined face, which did not look over a hundred years old, and sighed. It had been exactly 97 years, four months, and three days since Jane, Katrina, Marianne, and Erica had concocted that potion and together, on the count of three, downed their smoking goblets. Contrary to popular opinion, immortality was not all it was cracked up to be. At times, it was better than others.

Jane tugged at the tight waistband and looked down at what she was wearing for the dozenth time. Fashions changed every two or three years, and though Jane had seen a lot, some things she still had trouble believing. Whoever had designed this had been drunk, high, or severely visually impaired and had forgotten to put on their glasses.

Marianne had been the first to give in to the madness of everlasting life. She had always been a romantic, and envisioned a white wedding, a blissful honeymoon, and a long life with many children, more grandchildren, and dying together when their hair was white and their mouths were more dentures than teeth.

After she had to leave Robert, she was miserable for a couple years, then she met Henry. That lasted for seventeen years, then she had to let him go when the grey started coming into his beard. After this, there were three more, but they were briefer, and her heart was no longer in it. Marianne had disappeared about twenty years ago, and though no one wanted to say it, everyone thought the same thing.

Jane put on the makeup with the quick proficiency of someone who had done an action so many times she no longer had to think, she just did. Her eyes were a delicate shade of brown with honey highlights. The green eyeshadow brought out similar shades in her eyes.

Next was Erica. After three decades, the adventurous, thrill-seeking, adrenaline junkie woman had done everything that could be humanly done three times over, from wing walking, to storm chasing, to shark diving in South Africa, climbing to the peak of Mount Everest, and racing motorcycles on the Dragon’s Tail. Then she ran out of things to excite her. Her eventual demise did not require guesses or suppositions like Marianne’s – what else was to be expected when you jumped off the top of a condemned building in the process of imploding?

Jane put on the jacket, made sure her keys and lip balm were in her purse, and let herself out of the apartment. A silver sports car sat in her parking space. The blue license plate proclaimed it an antique. Jane smiled as she got in, savoring the feel of the leather. She grew attached to things, and had difficulty letting them go, which was why she spent so much money keeping this thing going.

Katrina had gone only two years ago. For her, it had been her friends that had prompted the regret for their rash, unthinking decision to drink the potion that would give everlasting life. With only Jane left after Marianne and Erica had gone, Katrina became afraid that soon there would be no one, that she would be left on her own with no one to talk to, no one who understood what her life was truly like.

She had been working on the counter potion for a while, and when she hadn’t shown up for their usual tea date on Sunday afternoon, something told Jane that Katrina had found the potion. Katrina had been found in her bed, and they told Jane she had died peacefully in her sleep. The fact that she looked like a woman of one hundred and ten, and not the young woman in her mid-twenties was a mystery medicine and science were still trying to figure out.

Jane was the last one left. She was still hanging on, determined to continue on with her very, very, very long life. It was her game, she was the one living her life, her life was not living her. It was hard sometimes, especially when she thought of Katrina, Marianne, and Erica, or when she tried to act normally with the people around her, but they and their concerns seemed so petty and shallow. She managed, mostly.

Putting the key in the ignition, Jane paused before starting the car. Her eyes went to the shiny brochures and promotions on the passenger seat. Just now she was on her way to apply to another college, where the teachers would try to help her to find her way, find herself, if you will, find what she wanted to do with this life, with no inkling that that the sweet, naive young woman in front of them had lived many lives in that time.

Jane remembered the last time she had gone to do this; it had been the four of them together. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. It was going to be okay. She started the car and backed out of the parking spot.

 

Unraveling by Nicole DragonBeck

For my mom, love, DragonBeck

 I opened the door and couldn’t believe my eyes. 

Standing on the doorstep was Glenson. He was a medium built man, half an inch taller than I, with dark hair and blue eyes. The only problem was that Glenson had died two days ago. I’d seen it with my own eyes, the blood, the death rattle, and the burning of the body. And yet…

“What are you doing here?” I asked, too stunned to stop him as he brushed passed into my house and marched through to the study.

“Not much time, not much time,” he muttered, beginning to rifle though my effects, pulling things out of drawers and off bookshelves, glancing at them briefly and tossing them aside.

Some of the things were quite valuable, and others quite old and delicate, but his jitters were getting on my nerves, and I had little attention for that. And all this about not much time…that didn’t bode well. That didn’t bode well at all.

“Glenson, tell me what’s going on,” I demanded. “You…you died!”

That made him pause. “Oh, did I?” he wondered in an absent voice. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“So what are you doing here?” It was taking all my will-power not to scream. “This is not part of the plan! What is happening in the Underealm? Where are the others? What about the Homestones?”

For the first time, Glenson turned to look at me. His eyes were different, the eyes of a man who had seen things he would never forget, things that got stuck inside the head and changed the way one thought about things. I didn’t want to know what those things were, but with him standing in front of me, I didn’t really have a choice.

“What about the Homestones, Glenson?” I demanded.

“They weren’t there,” his voice was heavy. “Someone moved them.”

“They were stolen!” I said, my heart leaping to my throat.

“No,” Glenson was shaking his head. “Much worse. They were moved.”

I tried to wrap my mind around what he was saying. “What does that mean?”

“It means the whole world is in danger,” Glenson said. “If the Homestones have been moved to other locations…”

“Then the fabric of the universe is no longer held in place,” I whispered, the full scope of our problem becoming clear to me. “Are there…” I could barely bring myself to say it, “…unravelings?”

Glenson rolled his eyes and gestured to himself. I felt like slapping myself. Of course. People coming back from the dead would be one of the first, and indeed, milder things that would be expected to happen.

“Alright, so what do we do?” I asked. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Glenson said, turning back to my study and continuing his dismembering of it. “I think…yes, I think we might have brought it back from one of our trips.”

Now I rolled my eyes at him. We had been on a thousand excursions and brought back many artifacts, some of which were in my study. Others were in the vaults at the University, and in others’ homes, and some of the most powerful pieces were held in secret places known only to a few.

“Aha!” Glenson exclaimed, holding something aloft.

It was a small carved piece, from some ancient society that was no longer with us, a man with two faces and no features, and four arms with no hands. I speculated it was from some board game, but Glenson was looking at it as though it were much more.

“What is that?” I asked, reaching out for it.

He snatched it back, cradling it in his hands, shaking his head. The strange light in his eyes flared up again, making me cold inside. I knew then that it might look like Glenson, but it was no longer completely my friend. I withdrew my hand and waited for him to explain.

“I cannot tell you accurately what it is like to travel the deep, dark rivers between here and the Underealm. The Ferrymen are silent, and their eyes…” he shuddered. “I was on my way to the Underealm when the Ferryman disappeared. The creature that replaced him was unthinkable, unimaginable, not seen above ground. It told me that the Homestones were gone, and that if I did not put them back, then everything goes poof.” His hands came together illustrating the world collapsing in on itself.

“How did you get out?” I wondered.

“I dove into the water,” he said, as if that were something similar to going out for tea. “And swam upstream.”

He smiled a haunted smile in response to the expression on my face. He was always so dedicated, so headstrong, so certain of what he was doing. I was suddenly struck by the thought that there was a reason Glenson had been the one to die that day, some strange cosmic logic too big for mortal minds to fully understand. I shook off the feeling.

“So what do we do with that?” I nodded at the figurine.

“I don’t know,” Glenson said, turning it over and over in his hands. “I think we have to find them all, and put them together, and then something will happen.”

There was that cosmic logic, I thought, but what else did we have to go on?

“I’ll get the others,” I said, making to grab my coat and my bag.

Glenson shook his head. “No. There can only be two. You, from the Upperland, and me, from Underealm. Perfect balance.” He smiled sadly. “We are the last Homestone, holding the world together and apart.”

The responsibility hung heavily in my chest, and I didn’t like it one bit. It made me feel very alone and inexplicably doomed because of Fate’s terrible sense of irony. I imagined the ground tipping under me, sending everything into chaos and darkness.

“Let’s get this over with,” I told Glenson. “I’d like the world to go on for a little while longer.”

 

Mystery Man by Nicole DragonBeck

Searching the corners of her mind, she could not shake the feeling that she knew this mysterious stranger.

Or perhaps Clara’s mind was playing tricks on her, trying to come up with a way to entertain her so she made it through this agony of boredom with some of her sanity intact.

Her father, Lord of Westin, was an important figure in the court, and as such, his family was obligated to attend such functions as this ball. With lavish decoration and scrumptious food, it could have been Clara Westin was simply a jaded, over-privileged young woman who had never known anything but her ostentatious life.

But if one could look past the disdainful eyes into the thoughts behind them, one might see a keen sense of balance of right and wrong, and an astute shrewdness that belied the smooth skin and rosy cheeks of youth.

Clara tried to figure out what it was about the man without staring outright at him. It took some study, but she finally decided it was something in the pleasing yet serious lines of his face, and the way his eyes watched the whole room, somehow seeing more than what was simply there. I do know this man, perhaps from somewhere long ago, but I know him.

It was disconcerting, knowing and not knowing at once. It bothered her, which irritated her. She was the daughter of a Lord, and she was above standing here being tormented by it.

As Clara made her way across the crowded foyer of the wealthy patronage of some artist who had their latest masterpiece on show, the man turned and disappeared. Clara walked through the rooms of the ostentatious home, trying to find him, but he was well and truly gone.

He may have been gone, but his face would not leave her mind. It turned up in her dreams. She thought she saw him in other men, but when she looked again, it had changed to less appealing countenances. She doodled his face on pieces of parchment and in the fog on the mirror after a hot bath.

And then he reappeared in the most unexpected way. Clara was browsing through the library and found a tome so old the pages were made of brown cotton instead of parchment, and the binding was frayed. Intrigued by the ancient runes of the title, which she could not quite make out, but thought they looked familiar, Clara pulled it out and went to sit by the window. The pages were heavy and resisted her wish that they turn. In thick ink made in the days when days things were made to last for ages, family names, details, and portraits filled the pages.

Clara was lost in the history of the realms of Westin and Hortford and Bellmast and Slatemore on the Sea, her eyes moving over the events written in the dry wordage of bookish historians and the precisely depicted faces in the pictures, until she had gone back through a ten of thousands of years and reached the Time of Flame and Frost, the earliest of the known histories, and then he was there.

She blinked and forgot how to breathe. Peering closer, she looked twice and then again, to ascertain she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. The same intense eyes, the same chiseled face, looked back at her from the ancient page. It was him.

Clara read the facts of this picture, still holding her breath, and somehow not noticing that the ancient semantics and inflection that made the language almost unrecognizable in the present did not hinder her in the least. His family name was Ir’Morgon. They owned estates up in the flatlands beneath the Hedran Mountains before they were carved up into the lands of Hortford and Bellmast. After assimilating all the dry information which told Clara precisely nothing, she turned her eyes back to what must be a family portrait.

An older man with a beard and the same eyes as the mystery man and a woman with grey curls and crows feet at her eyes sat in the middle. Two younger women with features like the older woman stood to the left, and each had a man beside them, hands clasped between them, obviously husbands.

On the right was the mystery man. Clara spent many long moments memorizing every line before she noticed there was one more in the picture.

Standing slightly behind the man, with her chin on his shoulder and her arms around him was a woman with wide eyes and dimple in her chin from her mysterious smile.

Clara stared at the woman who had her face and let out the breath she was holding.

 

The Traveler and the Searcher by Nicole DragonBeck

For Ayla S.

I knew it was coming, but every winter when the humans leave and the wolves come, I hope this year will be different.

This year it got worse, just as the giant, staring eye in her dreams had told Sabra it would, in so many horrible, silent pictures with no color and stark lines. She sat on the benched, pressed between the enormous bulk of Mother Hansom, and Josie, who was four years older than Sabra, but an orphan and under the care of Mother Hansom, just like Sabra. For a moment, Sabra wondered if Josie saw the eye in her dreams. She looked at the other girl’s face, and knew she did not. Josie had not known any of this was going to happen.

“We’re not going to make it,” Old Benston said. “Not this year.”

The whole clan was gathered in the tight, smoky meeting hall. The fires were choked and smoldering to preserve the little remaining wood. Sabra looked around at the gaunt and worried faces. A stirring in the back drew eyes. Several people stood up, faces now angry. Because Sabra was twelve, she had to stand up in her seat to see, and only when the man came closer could she tell who he was.

He was tall and dark. His face was covered by a black beard, and what was left free of hair was covered with pale scars. His eyes were blue and piercing. In his left hand, he carried a staff made of sliver-green wood. The wood ended in a cunningly carved claw, which held a golden orb.

Sabra was transfixed. It looks like the sun in summer time, she thought. Not the pale circle that passed for a sun in the depths of winter.

“You have no leave to be here!” Old Benston’s voice thundered through the hall.

Old Benston was old, but in his prime, he had been the strongest fighter and best hunter. Now in his elder years, his brawn still showed. Next to the other man, though, he appeared frail and bent.

“You have no power to command me.” The man’s voice was soft, yet compelling, and everyone quailed when they heard it. “Only the gods and the seasons can do that.”

“What do you want?” someone called from the gathering.

The man’s eyes swept over the assembled people. “I have come for the Searcher.”

“There is no one here who has shown the promise,” Old Benston declared, but there was a tremble in his voice.

“Let me be the judge of that,” the man replied in the same calm, certain tone.

His eyes passed from face to face, and over Sabra’s. He caught her gaze for half a second, and in that time, her heart sped up and a warmth grew in her stomach. Then his eyes moved on, and Sabra was left empty. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up. This close, the man was much taller than she had at first thought, and his eyes were brighter.

“What is your name, child?” he asked.

“Sabra,” she told him.

“And where are your parents?”

“They were taken by the winter,” she said. “Four years ago.”

He nodded, his face full of compassion. “And what of the dreams?”

Sabra paled. How could he see into her mind like that? “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Have you dreamed of me yet?” he pressed.

Sabra looked closer, examining the lines of his face, the way his left eye squinted when he wanted something, the strong muscles flexing in his arms, and the scars that covered his body, as if an army of thorny creatures with tiny blades had attacked him. He wore no shoes.

She shook her head. “I have never seen you before.”

He signed, gave a single nod, and turned away. Her eyes widened. Sewn into the back of his cloak was the giant eye, white and ominous, taking in the whole of the world with an unblinking gaze. He turned at her inarticulate moan, his eyes questioning.

“The eye,” she mumbled, pointing with a shaking hand. “On your cloak.”

He looked over his shoulder, then turned fully so his back was once again visible. The eye was gone. Sabra frowned, suddenly confused. Had she imagined it? Was she dreaming while awake now?

“There was an eye,” she explained. He waited in serene silence for further clarification. Sabra looked up met his gaze. “The eye that shows me the things that have not yet happened in my dreams.”

His eyes lit up and his elated expression made him more handsome and less frightening. “I knew I would find you here!” he cried.

“How?” Sabra wondered.

“The eye told me,” he answered simply.

“What does that mean?” she asked, though she had no doubt as to the truth of his words.

“You must come with me,” he said and held out his free hand. The glowing ball upon his staff grew more luminous. “To the Land of Eternal Summer.”

Sabra swallowed. “I thought that was just a dream.”

He shook his head. “I have been there, once before, many, many winters ago. But I cannot return.”

“Why not?”

“I am the Traveler.” He smiled. “Only the Searcher can find the way back to the Eternal Summer.”

Sabra took his hand, and the light on his staff exploded, enveloping them in warm brightness, bleaching the details of their surroundings, the shock on Mother Hansom’s face, Josie’s scared expression, the bulk of Old Benston beside the fire slowly fading until there was nothing but light.

Then the light was gone and they were outside, on a low hill. The village was nowhere in sight. Only a few twiggy trees broke the icy flatness of the land. Overhead, a single black crow flapped away, leaving behind a harsh warning croak.

“How did you do that?” the young girl asked.

“I am the Traveler,” he answered with a shrug. “It is easy as breathing for me, and I do not know who I do that any more than I know how my heart beats.”

“Where are we?” Sabra said, gooseflesh rising on her arms.

The Traveler handed her a cloak like his. It was thin, worn, the patchwork of colors almost indistinguishable from one another. Sabra did not believe it would be able to hold off the cold, but when she put it over her shoulders, she could no longer feel the chill.

“Beyond the borders of the Westland,” he told her. “That way…” he pointed with his staff, “is the city-state of Doheedron, and that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction, “Is the realm of Jarmander.”

“And there?” Sabra pointed ahead of them, where great mountains rose up.

“That is the Stria, the end of the world,” the Traveler told her. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”

“Have you been that far?” Sabra looked at him with wide eyes.

“I have stood atop the highest peak and seen the horizons of all the realms of this world,” he said. “But no matter how I have tried, I cannot pass beyond the boundaries.”

“So the land of Endless Summer is somewhere beyond the end of the world?” Sabra reasoned.

“What will we do?”

“Once we have found a way there, we will come back and bring all the people to the land of Eternal Summer,” the Traveler told her. “Now, which way do we go from here?”

Sabra gazed around. The horizon beyond the mountains called to her, and she started in that direction with confident steps, the smell of warm grass and the drone of lazy insects pulling her onward. Eternal Summer awaited, the eye promised her, and for the first time, Sabra was not alarmed by the picture it showed her.