A BOX FULL OF SKY

By Hannah Clark

Chapter One: Light

Night had fallen over Civetsi, and it had taken all the light.The people lit candles in the windows to ward off the dark spirits, and many had painted their thresholds. Tonight was no ordinary night; it came every year and every year it seemed to get worse. During the day the air was not as warm as it should be, and during the night a mist so thick you could use it for butter would spread across the city. On the outskirts in the monastery outside the forest, the monks hurriedly piled wood upon the bonfire. The flames leapt and bound in the darkness. Its light could be seen from all places in Civetsi. A casual onlooker would have seen nonsense in the way the monks tossed the wood, but to the trained eye the pattern was obvious. An untrained ear would have heard a song, but one who knew the traditions of Civetsi would have joined the song. It was sung from an acoustic heaven, and it echoed through the city.

Stories are told and miracles grow old

And this is the tale of a man who would die

A legend and a hero no one would believe

In the age of the Absence of Light

It was the Song of Tuzani, son of the Creator and Slayer of the Demon King. His tale had held true for many thousands of years. The people sought comfort in the song as it rang out through the stone alleys and the intermittent wind, as people often do. It told the story of a young man whose place was lower than dirt, only for him to rise into legend and be loved for all eternity. His sole baptised disciple, Mtava the Knight of Carum, had travelled all over the continent to spread the story.

Those lucky enough to own houses had locked the doors and barred the windows, leaving the curtains open to make best use of the candlelight. Rams blood stained the thresholds of the more superstitious residents. Unfortunate souls who lay in the streets were forced to keep their fires going despite the sudden shocking winds. Some had been taken in by the kinder families, but they would be forced out in the morning.

The monastery had no space or time for these souls tonight, for it was their duty to safeguard the city. The bonfire was growing higher and higher, hotter and hotter, as more fuel was piled on.

Stralen, son of Magnen, took his turn and let his wood fly into the bonfire. The hot smell of burning brought back memories of home. Soon it would be time to add the flowers.

The monastery was known for its Wishwake garden. Though the flower had a tragic association, it was a powerful healing agent and useful in many religious ceremonies. Ceremonies like the Bonfire Night.

Abbot Vortimer was a man who wore his age like a robe. He usually wore an easy smile to accompany that robe, but tonight his brow was furrowed with worry. His dark brown hair hung down to his shoulders and was tinged with red at the ends. He held the Book of Sky and Light in his hands, open to the beginning of the last chapter.

From light there came darkness, and from darkness light. Abbot Vortimer spoke with a gentle voice that held love for the people below in Civetsi. Baptised Mtava called upon the spirit of his friend, mentor, brother, Tuzani the son of our Creator and Slayer of the Demon King. He called for courage and for light. Tuzani, in the Land Beyond the Mountain, heard his brothers call and appeared to him and gave him light. Baptised Mtava appealed again for courage, but this could only come from him.

The Age of Darkness was ending, but perpetual night had sunk. Times seemed darker than ever, but Tuzanis light was bright. Baptised Mtava saw Tuzanis love and cast aside his sword. He walked through the spectre and took on the light, and together they walked through the Valley of Damnation and shone light upon the demons.

Coming upon the people, Baptised Mtava blessed them and their souls were clean. With each blessing, a small part of the sky would clear. Finally, when all in the Valley of Damnation were cleansed, the demons fell into the Other, for no longer could they corrupt the Blessed.

Glorious Tuzani left Baptised Mtavas body and once again stood before him. He called his disciple brother, and returned to his own body in the Land Beyond the Mountain. In jubilation, the people of the Valley of Damnation lit a bonfire with the cursed corpses of the demons who had not returned to the Other. Mtava found a petal of Wishwake in his scabbard and threw it on the fire. And there was a brilliant silver glow as the demons were purified.

Abbot Vortimer stopped reading as a gust of wind kicked up. His cassock fluttered around his ankles. Dust swirled around him and settled in his hair. He closed the book and withdrew a Wishwake flower from the pouch around his waist. He stepped up to the bonfire and cast the first flower of the evening.

A cacophony of smells briefly flooded the air. While scentless as a flower, once burned the Wishwake flower revealed another layer to its beauty. Fresh seawater, sweet lavender, and the mouth-watering tang of liquorice. And then it was gone. The crimson and gold petals burned and shrivelled up against the firewood. He gestured and, one by one in the traditional pattern, the monks each threw in their flowers. The intertwining smells of seawater, lavender and liquorice filled the air around them. Another gust of wind flew by, carrying the musk down to the city.

Abbot Vortimer rose his voice against the wind as it picked up in intensity. From Tuzanis exile came the understanding, and from Mtavas embodiment of him we remember this day. The flames were going crazy, dancing this way and that with the force of the wind behind them. There can be no light without darkness, so this night we remember Tuzanis sacrifice by going without our own light. This night the Other is open, and all the devils have come. He turned to face the bonfire, and felt the warmth on his face. He breathed deeply of the smoke and tried to hold the memory of liquorice in his mind. My sons and I risk ourselves this night to protect our city. He cast another flower into the bonfire and brought the smell of the sea to his mind. Brave Tuzani, Son of the Creator and Slayer of the Demon King. We thank you for your sacrifice, and tonight we honour you.

The night wore on. Wind whistled wildly through the forests and stirred the dirt around them; the burning of the Wishwake flowers kept the air pure and sweet. Soon the pink of dawn began to break, and the bonfire began to die. The flames slowly climbed down until the sky was a clear blue and there was a pile of smouldering charcoal left.

The night is done, declared Abbot Vortimer. Blessed be the sanctum of our city. He made the symbol of Tuzani about his person, and his sons followed suit. Abbot Vortimer went inside and prepared for the mornings gathering while the monks cleared the yard.

The younger monks pulled the hot charcoal from the pile and stowed it in canvas bags while the older monks tended the Wishwake garden. There were fewer flowers filling the bushes and hanging from the vines, but the crimson and scarlet flowers remained a beautiful site even in their diminished numbers.

Looking down from the hill, Stralen saw the men and women of Civetsi coming out of their homes, many of them wiping down their thresholds. Some of them were walking towards the monastery in anticipation of the Poets Day sermon. A congregation had begun to gather, but the sermon would not be read until the sun had reached its peak. A glance at the sundial told him that it would be another few hours.

Stralen heaved his full sack of charcoal over his shoulder and marched himself into the monastery. He presented it to Vicar Carlei and went to the bathhouse to clean himself off. Bonfire Night often left the monks smelling of sweat, sea salt, and burned wood. It was a custom to remain presentable on the Poets Day.

Young Stralen took a towel, sandals and a cake of lye soap, and stripped. He dumped his robes into the basket and thanked Tuzani that the monastery had been built around a natural hot spring. Whether this was by design or by luck, Stralen did not care. He was simply relieved to be in the heat. He filled one of the bronze jugs and dowsed himself. He shook his head and felt his light hair cling to his face and neck. He submerged himself and scrubbed all over with the lye, emerging as graceful as a mermaid.

A bath and a show, brother! Gelberts voice came out of nowhere, startling young Stralen. Gelbert slid into the spring with his monastic brother and began to clean himself. Stralen stared at him, jaw clenched and fist closed tightly around the cake of lye soap.

Gelbert paused and considered his friend. What?

You scared me, said Stralen, his voice thick. I want an apology.

Gelbert scrubbed his hair and shrugged, the motion looking slightly awkward. Fear is something to embrace, Young Stralen. There is no shame in being scared of the dark if there is no light.

There is always light, Stralen leaned back against the rock of the spring and rubbed the soap between his hands. Always. Light and darkness are the same thing, so all you need to do is tell the darkness to go away.

Gelbert made a noise of consideration, then huffed in dismissal as he splashed water over his face. That only works if youre Tuzani, or Jax the Stormbringer. Though Jax is arguable, I do not recommend trying to be Jax.

Seeing no point in continuing, Stralen finished his bath and dried off, replacing the soap in the dish and draping himself in the towel.

He went to the dormitory, passing several of his brothers along the way. Abbot Vortimer passed him on the way to the bathhouse and acknowledged him with a graceful nod, eyes averted. The warmth of the spring was steaming off of him in the chill of the stone monastery, and he was thankful when he found his Poets Day robes laid out for him on his bed. He powdered himself with talc and dressed in the ceremonial white and crimson, misting the air surrounding him with lavender. The robes hung loosely, hiding his feet and dragging behind him as he walked.

He arrived at the Hall of Congress and began to light the candles. Brother Riikin was at the head, providing blessings for the homeless souls. Stralen found the smell overwhelming as he approached, but shrugged it off. He lit another candle, a red one, and the flame glowed a rich gold.

Early sunlight glittered through the window. Stralen liked this window. It showed Jax the Stormbringers baptism in the Burgundy Lake. Jax stood in the waist-deep water while Mtava stood on the crimson clay; droplets of water flickered from the end of his sword and landed between Jaxs open eyes.

Salty water in the eyes must have been painful, thought Stralen as he went about his candle-lighting duties.

Brother Riikin finished his blessings and approached Stralen as he lit the last of the candles. His curly grey hair framed the owl-like face under his hood and made him appear older than he really was. Brother Riikin was known for his kindness towards the homeless, and had been the one to open the night shelter in the unused rectory hall.

Young Stralen, he said. He had a high-pitched voice which demanded attention without being too disconcerting. As it is your first Poets Day as a Student, you will be giving the children their blessings and stories. How familiar are you with the Book of Sky and Light?

As familiar as you want me, Brother, Stralen said, picking his words carefully. He struggled to keep the smile off of his face. Telling stories had always been a talent of his, though he often had to keep his tongue in check when in the presence of a Brother. Blessings may not be in my league, unfortunately, as I have not yet been shown the proper method.

Oh, but you have surely been watching me? Brother Riikin lay a hand on Stralens shoulder.

Indeed, Brother, he bowed his head and allowed Riikin to guide him to a room across the cloisters. Despite the early hour of the morning, there was already a small group of children running rampant. Two of the little girls were playing tug-o-war with a sackcloth doll, and a young boy was throwing a hard ball against the wall with all his might.

The children are restless from the nights activities, Brother Riikin patted Stralen on the shoulder. It is the way. I will leave you to it.

And Brother Riikin left. Stralen closed the door and called the children to attention. They were rambunctious alright, none of them seemed interested in Stralens presence.

Several of them ran into him and tugged at his robes so hard the seams began to stretch. One of the girls won the tug-o-war and the other girl burst out in tears. She threw herself on the floor as the other girl ran around, crashing into several breakable artefacts. Stralen scrambled around, catching and replacing everything that was about to fall.

He looked around and panic began to overcome him. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The children stopped and snapped to attention, startled by the source of the noise. Thats better, said Stralen, taking a seat at the bench. If you could all gather around I would be delighted to tell you some rather magnificent stories today.

The children sat down and Stralen took the opportunity to count them. Thirteen. A good number for his first Poets Day. Anyone below age twelve did not sit the sermon, so they were sent here to learn the stories, and keep out the way of the adults as they received their blessings.

Does anyone know what day it is? he asked, looking around the semicircle.

A small hand shot up.

Go on, Stralen gestured the child.

Its Wilting!

Stralen stifled a smile, Yes, it is Wilting. Its also Poets Day. This is the day after Bonfire Night, when the Other is open and dark spirits roam the world.

At this, all thirteen pairs of eyes widened and several of the children began to whimper, all of them looking confused. The girl with the sackcloth doll clutched it close to her chest, tears welling in her eyes.

Are the spirits here? as a panicked little voice.

Of course not!

They are, he just said!

No!

Were possessed!

The children began to scream and cry and shout with confusion, and Stralen began to worry that he was failing.

No, no, they arent! Stralen recovered quickly, hushing the children and pulling the Book of Sky and Light from under his seat. This book tells the story of why we no longer have to worry about dark spirits. Last night, your parents all lit candles, and there were fires lit in alleys all across Civetsi. We do this because fire is a source of light, and light battles darkness.

The Other is open only one night every year, Stralen explained. Everyone was sitting to attention, eager to listen. Though Tuzani brought peace with his slaying of the Demon King we must still allow restless darkness into our world. It is simply a method to obtain peace.

He let the children ponder this for a moment.

The Other is a world that exists in tandem with our own, he told them. And it was once the place where the dead would go. It is a dark and filthy place, once ruled over by the Demon King. None of us slept. There was once a time, the Age of Darkness, when dark spirits would cross over their leisure to torment us.

Why? a little girl asked.

Because they could, Stralen told her. If you see a plate of biscuits on the shelf, you have the opportunity to take one. If you take the biscuit, you do it because you can; if you dont, then all is well. The dark spirits were the same.

The children thought on this and cuddled together.

Can you light a candle? asked a little boy. His eyes were so wide with fear that Stralen could see himself reflected in his pupils.

Of course, he said softly.

Stralen concealed his smile as he lit one of the candles by the window. Returning to his seat, he held the hands of a nearby little girl and looked into her palms.

Before I begin with the stories, it is my duty to bless each and all of you.

He pulled a phial of rainwater from his robes and shook it over the childrens hands, muttering a prayer as he did so.

Tuzani show these young souls the light in the path, he chanted, though the dark road appeals may their souls know the light.

He showed them step-by-step how to do the blessing. This was a vital part of sermon, and it was imperative that they know how to do it. Next he made the symbol of Tuzani and sang an incantation.When the blessings were said, the children looked up patiently. Some of them looked curious and confused, wondering what was going to happen next.

When you go to sermon, he began, you will be asked to recite your favourite story before the Abbot. This is how you will become a rectified member of the Tuzanites. Some of you may choose to further your spirituality and become Nuns or Monks, others may simply choose to worship. However you choose, you must know at least one story, and why it matters.

So, I ask you to remain still and silent, for one of my duties today is to tell you stories of Tuzani and his disciples. I shall begin with one of my favourite, the first story of Jax the Stormbringer.

***

This is the story of Jax the Stormbringer, and how he came to be a disciple of Mtava.

As we know, his brother was Santas Eran, the Saint of healing and kindness. His brother had been made into soap by the Soap-Maker.

Following his brothers example, Jax cared for the townspeople. They saw the light of his brother in him, and said that his mother had been a star. Jax became silent, saying only Please or Thank you when necessary and taking payment only in hot meals or extra cloth. When his father became ill, this payment became too little and he was forced to take up work as an armourer, crafting weapons, shields and armour for the Kings men.

After many years had gone, Jax became the best armourer in the land. There was not a sword or a shield that he could not make, and he took all commissions on the condition that he put his fathers health before his work. Many soldiers saw this kindness and offered Jax medicinal herbs and potions. Some of them helped, others proved useless. Still, Jax accepted them with gratitude and continued his work.

One night, there came a travelling man. He was tall, had seen many battles, and fair, and he was ragged. His armour said that he had been a Knight, but the symbol had been ripped away. He came to the town square and desperately pleaded for a bed for the night. He would work, he said, for all the hours in the night for a moments rest on a real bed.

Jax saw him from his shop and came forward, taking the traveller by the hand. With a smile he offered him a bit of lunch in the armoury. The hungry man welled up with gratitude and followed Jax, who gave him the bread and cheese he had been saving for himself.

The man watched in silence as Jax forged dagger after dagger, and when his saviour was done he thanked him profusely for the food.

Jax took him back to his home and helped him wash. After inoculating his father, he gave the man a spare suit of clothes and fed him again.

The man asked how he could repay his kindness, to which Jax replied, Tell me only your story, my friend.

The man looked away, ashamed of himself.

Jax promised no judgement, for like his brother, his promise was as strong as iron.

And so the man told his story. It was the story of Tuzanis Stand Against the Demon King. Jax had caught wind of it, some years ago, but had passed it off as rumour. Strange things happened in a land that had lost its name, but the Stand had happened in Kavale. No one travelled to Kavale, lest they be drafted.

By the end of the story, Jax was stunned. The Stand had actually happened, and before him sat Mtava, wearing a suit of borrowed clothes and desperate for help. He must have been seen as a madman, his mind addled by demons. Jax took another look at the armour, and saw it clearly. It was etched with claw marks and burned at the edges, but beneath all the grime and dirt he could see that the metal was not of this world. He touched it, and he could feel its home. It had known the touch of the Creator, as had Mtava.

Your armour is strong, Jax said, taking his hand away. But it bears a tragic story. Your sword wants to fight no more battles yet it wants you alive. As for your shield, the next strike will be its last. My good man, you must allow me to make you a new suit of armour, a new sword, and a new shield. My skill is unmatched in these parts. You will want to pay me, and I assure you that I will take no money from you. In exchange, I ask you to care for my father while I focus on my work.

Mtava accepted the offer, seeing in Jax the same light as many had seen in Eran.

It took one year to forge the suit, the sword, and the shield. Mtava became a welcome member of the town, and a second son to Jaxs father.

When the suit, the sword, and the shield were forged, they each bore the Mark of Tuzani. After a prayer, Jax had smelted the metal and given it new forms, new purpose, a new slate upon which to write Mtavas new story. The sword was embedded with pure turquoise, the shield with amethyst and runes, and the armour was laced with the purest bloodstone.

Mtava had to be on his way, telling the story of Tuzani in his new suit of armour. He begged Jax to come along with him, but Jax had to stay to care for his father.

And so Mtava stayed, vowing that he would continue to care for Jaxs father. He was happy in the town in the land without a name.

They stayed for many years, but once Jaxs father finally passed into the arms of the Creator, he suddenly felt that all ties to the town in the land without a name were cut. He felt an urge to move on, and so forged one last suit of armour, one last sword, and one last shield. They matched Mtavas in appearance, but each of his were inlaid with obsidian. He, too, bore the Mark of Tuzani.

Together they set off, bidding a fond farewell to the town that had loved them. In his travel sack, Jax carried a gem he had made from his fathers ashes. Along the way, they came upon a river where Mtava baptised Jax.

There, he gave him a new name: Stormbringer.

And this is how Mtava collected Jax the Stormbringer. They walked the continent as brothers, spreading the Song of the Tuzani and gathering followers.

***

When the story ended, the children perked up. Jax was always popular with children, particularly in this part of the world.

Stralen looked out the window and into the cloisters. It was brighter now, but there was still time until sermon. Four more hours of entertaining children. Though he was happy to do it, he felt that there was more he could be doing this Poets Day. The evenings monastic prayers would give him time for reflection and questioning, but there felt something wrong in telling children these stories.

In the Hall of Congress, Brother Riikin sang the prayers as the congregation filled the pews. When the pews were full, they gathered in the back and a chorus of voices joined Riikins.

When the sun reached its highest peak, sermon began. Brother Riikin gave a blessing and pulled out a bottle of red wine. He decanted it into the crystal flagon and made the symbol of Tuzani. Beside him the other Brothers stood in line. Behind them, the stained glass windows lit up the room. The scenes were illuminated in great splendour, showcasing in full glory the story of the Exile.

When the prayers ended, Abbot Vortimer entered. The gathering parted. He held his head high. He was robed in crimson and gold, drawing looks from everyone gathered. They stepped back in reverence and swarmed back when he took his place at the front of the Hall of Congress, making another symbol of Tuzani over Brother Riikin before he stepped down.

He looked out across the congregation and poured a small measure of the wine into one of the brass thimbles. Taking the first sip, he could smell seawater and liquorice. He could taste the lavender in the wine as it clung to the back of his tongue. He sang the first verse of the Song of Tuzani and when that was done, he peeled open the Book of Sky and Light to the second chapter and began to speak.

We remember today the life of Amara the Poet. It was she who chronicled the story of the man who battled for the light.

From the light came darkness, and from darkness light, the congregation said as one. The voices echoed through the monastery, ringing out like a thousand little bells.

But today we discuss the darkness felt last night. It moves through us, it permeates the air, and it tempts us. Last night as I stood before the Bonfire, praying for and cleansing the air around the city, I felt the familiar tug against the light. A voice whispered to me, that I should throw myself upon the fire and roast like a goose, so that I could cross into the Other and know true power.

As you see now, I stand before you. I smelled the burning Wishwake blossoms and held the memory of Tuzani in my mind. I saw light at the edge of darkness and brought myself to it. The voice departed, and left me be.

Amara the Poet fought such a darkness. She was born like Tuzani, lower than the soil beneath her bare feet. She found her light when she heard the story of Eran and the Soap-Maker, but like all who had been born to soil she struggled to keep it.

Cai could barely keep his eyes open. Keeping awake all night had been no easy feat. His mother had had them gathered in the darkness of their small kitchen, holding hands in a prayer circle and singing in low voices. Despite what everyone else seemed to believe, Cai could not feel the darkness in the air. It dark, just as if someone had turned out the lights.

Abbot Vortimers voice was a dull monotone. His father always claimed to hear a wise, fatherly love to the old Abbots voice, and Cai could certainly see how this was the case. Vortimer was well into his forties, but retained a youthful glow. Yet when he opened his mouth and spoke it was in a consistent low register that drove Cais eyelids downwards and his mind into a wall. Every year the sermon was the same: the story of the Exile, the slaying of the Demon King, Mtavas endless roamings about the continents, the story of Amara, and finishing with the Night of Crystal Rain. Insert a few well-placed songs and prayers, and it made for a moderately pleasant afternoon.

Cais family had left at the first crack of dawn to come here. They had travelled from the Eastern Moors, only an hours walk away. They could have left after breakfast, but his mother had insisted they leave early so as not to offend the Creator and the Poet. What could there be to be offended about? Cai believed that the Creator had more important issues to address than whether the family missed a Poets Day sermon.She smacked him for his cheek and ordered them all to dress in their nicest clothes. For a family form the Eastern Moors, this meant their least ragged shirts and pants, and a cold bath in the troughs.

Cai was a strong young man. At fifteen, he could heave and pull barrows across a square mile of field in under one hour. Now seventeen, he ploughed and sowed seeds. He had his light brown hair pulled back and tied with a piece of cord, revealing his rough square face. A grim layer of patchy stubble grew around his jaw. He had worked on the coffee farm since he could walk, and had never been to school. As a result, he had a permanently bronzed complexion. This earned him looks of derision from the wealthier residents of Civetsi whenever he went into town to drop off an order. His mother snapped the back of his head and Cai struck out of the doze he had been dropping into. He dared not blink for the remainder of sermon. He could feel his mother watching him while his sister, whose head was bowed and eyes were closed, gave a perfect performance.

And so what can we learn from Amara the Poet?

There was silence in the Hall. No one was expected to answer this question, it was held that it was the Abbots job to answer something such as this.

We can take from Amara, continued Vortimer, that the power of a story is the greatest force. She kept her light through telling the story of Tuzani, it gave her the courage to become literate in a time when only the clergy were permitted such knowledge. And so she wrote the song by which we are able to worship, which united us all under one banner. We can learn that light begets persistence. Poet Amara, this day we have dedicated to you and your bravery. Appear to us and show us your light in this time of encroaching darkness. And now we pray.

A minute of silence passed as everyone bowed their heads and prayed. Cai followed in appearance, but could not think of a genuine thing to pray for, save for the protection of his family.When all was done, the Hall of Congress slowly emptied out into the cloisters. Some people converged around Abbot Vortimer to receive blessings, and a thimble of wine.The sun was lower in the bright blue sky. Wishwake vines wrapped around the columns, the blossoms opened in full bloom. The smell of grass rose from the ground and mingled with the soft summer air. Cai closed his eyes and opened them, feeling a little more awake now that he was out of the sermon.

He broke away from his family and took a stroll around the grounds, looking into the windows. Children were pouring out of several doorways. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He could remember sitting cross-legged before a Student Brother who rattled off story after story and song after song. He could remember feeling the first cold splash of rainwater on his hands as they were taught the Tapwel Blessing.

And then he would return home, and everyone would go about their business until next Bonfire Night and Poets day.

One of the Student Brothers came out of his room, looking harassed and bothered about something. It had to have been his first Poets Day. Cai smiled a bit more broadly, taking comfort in knowing that someone was as tired and frustrated as he was feeling.The Student Brother was walking in his direction, head bowed and arms folded in prayer. Cai bit his lip and walked towards him. They both crashed to the ground in a tangle of robes, limbs, and harried apologies. All around them people gasped and shouted and made the sign of Tuzani, generally shocked that someone accidentally bump into one of the Brothers. Cai felt the mischief laugh inside of him, and his collar dig into his throat as his mother pulled him off of the Student Brother. Another whack to the back of the head.Were leaving! she whispered harshly, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him out of the monastery, the rest of the family in tow. All of them bowing their heads in shame of Cais behaviour.Rosen apologised profusely on Cais behalf, but the young Student Brother waved her off silently and bowed in her brothers direction, signalling forgiveness.

Rosen! Come along! screamed their father. The young girl ran along and joined up with them. Their mother covered her face with a hand, gritting her teeth. Cai looked at his younger brother, Panke, and shared a toothy grin and a wink. Panke was fifteen, not as strong as Cai but more agile. They both took after their mother in appearance, and were usually mistaken for one another. The way you could tell them apart was the eyes. Panke had their mothers bright blue eyes, full of laughter but quick to fury. Cai had inherited their fathers dusty grey eyes, full of mischief and hidden things. never been so embarrassed! their mother was saying as they reached the bottom of the hill. In front of the entire city! Or near enough

Cai nodded along and grumbled a half-hearted apology. Rosen sidled up to Cai and gave him a cross look, her grey eyes burning with disappointment. She huffed and ran back to their mother, kicking up clumps of grass as she ran.

Cai spent the walk home in silence while the rest of the family discussed the sermon.

It was beautiful, as always! his father was saying. Thoughtful and true to the word of the Creator.Abbot Vortimers doing a perfect job! said his mother. Such a nice man, and such a wise voice.

Every year they said the same thing about the Abbot. Every Poets Day they stepped outside of their normal selves and gushed over a man who made no effort to know the city that lay below the monastery.

Cai had to restrain himself from sighing as they approached their house. It was more of a cabin than a house. Built from a combination of logs, bricks, mud, dung, and tar, the bloody thig was ugly as sing. And the family would not have had it any other way. It had been standing for nearly two hundred years, and despite its faults, it was the loveliest house in the Eastern Moors.

Cai looked from the house to his family, and the family to his house. There were seven of them, and three bedrooms in the house. Two girls and three boys, plus their parents. Rosen and Jyssa had one room to themselves, which worked out well since they were still very small. Cai, Panke, and Henka took the second bedroom. It got very crowded very quickly, since the rooms particularly small. Their father had run the farm for twenty-five years. It was coming up on his twenty-sixth year, and it had been all he knew. Like his own children, Jens was literate enough to be able to read the Book of Light and Sky, but not enough to write about it.Behind it lay the farm. The soil was right for soft coffee plants, but only in the right weather. The Eastern Moors had such indecisive weather patterns that it could make or break the harvest season. So far, the weather had held up pretty well. It was bright and sunny and the crops were growing on schedule. The Eastern Moors were lovely in the summer, but in the winter it could be as detrimental as Snow Town. Jens sliced the onions for Poets Day supper while his wife ground coffee. The boys tidied up the house and the girls brought in the wood for the fire. Jens boiled the onions and added beef sausage, salt, celery, and small potatoes. The smell of cooking onion hit Cai with a soft blow, and his mouth watered. He licked his lips, trying to taste the air. He and Henka were in the drawing room. Cai was dusting and Henka was wiping down everything he could reach.

Cais stomach gave a low rumble, and he tried to think of the last time the family had eaten beef. He had bought it at Dans butchery weeks ago after dropping off an order of green onions. It had caught his eye, hanging like a thick forearm off the wall. Dan had given it to him for a good price, and his family had been shocked at the sight of such a sausage. The meat was lean, ground well, and seasoned with spices from Xaleia. It smelled great, and they had wanted to have it then and there, but Jens had taken it form Cais hands and stowed it away for Poets Day supper.

To say the entire family had been looking forward to it for almost two months would be an understatement.

Henka? Cai tossed aside his dusting cloth and pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. His brother looked over his shoulder at him, then went back to wiping, taking extra care with the blue stone vase their grandmothers ashes.

Henka! Cai took a sterner note to his voice.

What, Cai? he grumbled, replacing the vase and whipping around to face his older brother. Im busy.

Anyone ever tell you youre a mini-Mum? Cai gave his brother a cheeky grin and wrung the dusting cloth between his hands.

Crap or off the pot, Cai, there was exhaustion in the thirteen-year-olds voice.

Go see if Dad needs any help with the soup, he ordered him. The dustings almost done, I can finish off your wiping.

Dad can handle the cooking, its only soup. Henka narrowed his eyes in suspicion and tossed down his rag. What you hiding?

Theres bread to make, too, Cai raised an eyebrow, wiping down the bureau. Much of the furniture in this room had been there since the house was built. And pudding. Youre the only one who knows what to do with proper sugar.

Sugar? his eyes narrowed further and his voice took on a wary tone. How did you manage to get sugar with the budget Mum gave you?

Cai shrugged. Same way I got the sausage, Johukari gave it to me for a good price. Reckoned the coffee she ordered was best quality she could buy.

Henka still did not trust his brothers words. Right. If you say so. He picked up the rag and tossed it to Cai. As he walked through the door to the kitchen he called over his shoulder, DO it the way Mum would. Properly!Cai heaved a huge sigh and finished the cleaning. By the time he had gotten the drawing room spotless, dinner was ready. Panke had been in charge of the dining room, and he had gotten it perfectly done, right down to laying the table correctly. The ceremonial candelabra stood proudly in the centre of the table, all four candles lit. Two black, one gold, one red. All four were halfway gone from previous years, but they still had much light to give.

Jens dished out the soup and the family joined in prayer, led by Elyzeria.

Amara the Poet, we thank you for your bravery and your light. Without your writings we would not be joined here today at this time of reflection. They broke hands and each made the symbol of Tuzani, then began to eat.

Cai broke the bread and buttered it, handing out equal portions to the family, oldest to youngest saving the smallest portion for himself. The sausage made a luxurious addition to the soup, and Cai had to pace himself so he would not eat too quickly. Henka had made several small prune tarts with the remaining unleavened bread dough and sugar. Cai found himself thinking that he was lucky to have such a talented cook for a brother.

When the dinner was finished, the boys cleared the table and the girls closed the candles. Elyzeria lit the lamps and sent the children to bed.

Cai rinsed his mouth out with spirit and water, content in the feeling of a full stomach. The sugar in the tarts was hitting him, but he was still tired from being awake all night.

When he finally climbed into his bed, his body sighed with relief. He folded his hands under his head and he stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. The musty air of the bedroom and the thin cotton of his blanket comforted him, and helped lull him into a sleep.

He awoke in a dark dank cave with warm water running over his fingers. To his left lay a sack of coins and to his right a bronze ring. Ahead of him lay a path of grey stone, and at the end of the path he could see a silver light. He was down on one knee, hands in the stream that ran through the cave. He pulled himself up and continued down the path. The cave became narrower the further he followed, the light growing a little brighter with each step.

His steps did not echo in the cave. Instead, words came from his footfalls. Lightning.

Storm.

Salvn.

Aquigard.

Everything sounded familiar but he could not think where. The end of the path seemed so far, but the light was within reaching distance.

Obsidian.

Tuvali.

Amara.

The last one he knew. Amara the Poet. He clung to the name like a string hanging from a branch. He squeezed throw a narrow crevice and came through the other side.

Yes, the light was brighter here. It was closer. He could feel it.

Cai!

He woke up in his bed. Panke was standing over him holding a lantern, his hair mussed and nightshirt ruffled. Cais heart was pounding like it had never beaten before. His chest felt tight; he coughed a few times and was able to breathe again. Panke handed him a wooden mug of water. Cai drank, the water hitting his stomach like a fist to stone. He made a pained noise, but carefully kept drinking. What? he said, his voice thick with sleep and choking for breath.

You were talking, said Henka. Cai looked over and saw his brother curled up in his bed, looking more than a little bit frightened.

I was? Cai thought back to his dream. What did I say?

The boys looked at each other awkwardly.

Finally, Panke spoke up. We dont know.

What?

You were speaking something else, Panke said nervously. We could make out Amara but that was about it.

What language was it? Cai asked, but immediately he know the answer.

We dont know, shrugged Henka. But it was loud, and you sounded scared, and you stopped breathing halfway through. Panke thought youd died!

Im sorry I had to wake you, Panke looked worried, his brow furrowed the way their fathers did whenever the harvest was doomed. I needed to check that you were alive.

Cai thought for a moment and lay back in bed, stretching. Its okay, he said after a further moment of meditation. Id rather be awake and alive than asleep and dead. He smiled at his little brother. Now back to sleep, both of you. Regular work in the morning.

Panke smiled back and climbed back into bed. Both of the young boys were asleep in moments, but Cai lay awake, afraid of sleep. His dream still rattled around his brain, haunting him.Feel of the water had been so real, and light at the end of the cave still shone in his mind. He wondered about the bronze ring. When he had first dreamed of it, he had held it. it weighed as much as a pound of lead and felt cool to the touch. Inscribed on the outside was a name. Cai did not know what language it was in, he could hardly pronounce it, and it was lost to him as he tried to recall it. Yet theer was a voice in the back of his mind that told him the ring was not his.He didnt know when he finally managed to fall into a dreamless sleep, but he woke up to the sound of Elyzeria ringing the morning bell. He readied himself for a day of work, and left the dream in bed where it belonged.

***

The morning after Poets Day saw normality return to Civetsi.

Johukari watched from the threshold of her shop. Horses drew carts, the market sellers set up their stalls, and the newsboys were just beginning to arrive. One of them shot past, breathing hard and sweating profusely. Johukari held out an arm and stopped the boy. He looked up at her, fear rampant in his tired brown eyes. She gave him a once-over; he was about ten, and had the dark features of Aquingard. She smiled at him, and he shrank back as though fearful of reprimand.Dont be afraid, she said in his language. You look tired, would you like some milk?The boy looked taken aback that someone other than the Newsmaster knew his language. Grateful, but unsure of himself, the young boy nodded and let himself be led into the shop.

Wait here for a moment, said Johukari, disappearing into the supply room. Feel free to look around.The boy stayed put, biting his lip and wringing his hands. The Newsmaster would be wondering where he was, but this lovely woman was offering him a drink. His mouth was dry and his lips were starting to try out. His legs felt rubbery, his chest was tight, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down. His stomach felt hard as a knot, and despite his first his mouth watered at the sight and smell of the sweets and spices that lined the shelves.

Pouches of soft and hard coffee hung from hooks all around the room. Rounds of chocolate from all walks of the continent stacked the shelves. In the glass cabinet that held the ice box she had buckets of iced sherbet available in all colours. He pressed his hands against the cool glass, swallowing.

Would you like some? Johukaris voice came from nowhere.

The boy jumped back, pulling away from the glass cabinet. He looked at her with wide eyes and mouth agape, hands clasped begging for forgiveness.

Johukari gave a pleasant, musical laugh and handed the boy his milk. He took it cautiously, hand shaking.

Dont worry, she said, kneeling down so she could look him in the eye. I dont bite, she jerked her head towards the glass cabinet. If you come back from the Newsmasters safely, Ill let you have some.The boys heart leapt in his chest, and he could feel himself getting excited over the thought of something sweet. He nodded gratefully, and again Johukari laughed her musical laugh. He drank his milk, and felt better for it.The orange one? she asked with a knowing hint to her voice. The boy nodded and she got up. Grabbing a name label, she dipped her pen in the ink well.

Whats your name, child? her voice was so soft and warm that the began to ease up.

Kiska, he said, making sure to avoid eye contact. Well, Kiska, Johukari said, scribbling his name, if you come back here after youre done with the Newsmaster, your orange iced sherbet will be ready for you. Now hurry along, hell be waiting!

Kiska nodded and ran off, returning briefly to return the cup. Johukari took it and Kiska ran off, arriving at the Newsmasters late, but in better shape than the other boys. They were gathered around the Newsmasters desk in a semicircle, boys from all over the continent. Youre late, lad, said the Newsmaster, looking at his ledger. Join the others. He gestured to the semicircle and continued scratching away at his ledger book. The boys stood in silence, some of them breathing heavily and others shifting.

Kiska coughed, the Newsmaster stopped writing and glanced in the boys direction. He returned to writing, and half a turn of the clock later he stood up and paced from one end of his desk to the other, hands folded behind his back.He stopped and strode over to the boy at the farthest end of the semicircle. The Newsmaster gave him a once-over. From the North?Yes, sir. The boy averted the Newsmasters eyes and looked at the floor.

Which city?

Kinna-Mntz.

Humph, the Newsmaster huffed, returning to his seat. He wiped off the nib of his pen with a soiled rag and dipped in in the inkwell, then drew a line under whatever he had been writing previously and looked up at the boy expectantly.

Well, he said, tapping the dry end of his pen on the desk. Im waiting! A bulbous vein appeared in his temple, scaring the boys.

The kid from Kinna-Mntz stuttered and stumbled his way about his voice, trying to put together any kind of words.

K-K-King Sascha fallen gravely i-ill, the kid stuttered. His Kinnain accent was hopelessly thick, forcing the Newsmaster to demand him to repeat himself whenever he stumbled. P-P-Prince Samavad Regent until recovery. To help with war effort, Prince is issuing call for man aged fifteen and above to bulk his army. Stated in the Call that each Civetian receives two golden shekel.

two golden shekels, the Newsmaster said under his breath, scribbling furiously. He read back the information and the young Kinnain corrected parts that he had missed. The Newsmaster released him and moved on to the next boy.

Kiska was last in the semicircle, so the last to give his news. While he waited, he learned that the Xalien Empire were launching an expedition across the Mountain (More money than sense, bloody Xaleia, huffed the Newsmaster), the price of Snow Dew was set to increase based on a high demand in the South, and dark clouds were forming over the Eastern Reaches.

The Newsmaster rested his hand and lay both his hands, palms-down, on his desk, either side of the ledger. Dark clouds? he asked serenely, as though genuinely concerned. He scratched his nose and wiped his hand on the lapel of his burgundy jacket. What the hell are we sending our taxes for? he smacked the table so hard it shook the ledger and sent the pen rolling off to the side. he caught it before it rolled off the edge. The ink stained the wood where it rolled. Casting an idle glance at the mess, the Newsmaster shrugged and wiped his pen, leaving the fresh stain to join the many others, the scratches, and the dents from one outburst too many.Soon, all the boys were gone, and it was just Kiska left.

The Newsmaster gave him the same once-over that Johukari had given him, only this time Kiska was feeling afraid and watchful, rather than cautious.

Aquingard, eh? the Newsmasters moustache ruffled unpleasantly with the taste of the city that lay in the coastal region of the continent. Raising the taxes again I suppose, bloody leeches the lot of you. Well, go on then! Prove me wrong. The way his eyebrows twitched and the breath in his voice issued the last three words as a challenge.Kiska took a deep breath and tried to mentally translate Aquingian into Civetian.

I dont have all day, boy! the Newsmaster was agitated. Kiska could hear the stiff tap-tap-tap of the wooden pen on the desk, surely adding more dents to the pock-marked wood.

King Miatish presented his new-born son, Prince Cearanin, to the Royal Court the Bonfires Eve, he said thickly. He intends to sign a betrothal to unite with Kinna-Mntz.The Newsmaster scratched away at the ledger, then looked up expectantly. That cant be all, boy! Shake your leg out and get with it!

Um, he fumbled for words, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The salt mines in Salvn have not been tapped in many weeks. Miners grow restless for lack of veins.Salt again, the Newsmaster grumbled, not caring if Kiska heard him.Further, spice yields cinnamon and, uhm, kojati

Nutmeg, boy! Grace of the Light, do they teach you no Civetian?

Kiska was beginning to feel anger. Something crackled in his fingertips. He wiped his hands on his shirt to drench the feeling, but it remained.

Cinnamon and nutmeg yields are larger than they were last harvest, he continued, but the reserves are on decline. To prepare for post-harvest sale, a larger portion of the spice harvest will need to be set into reserve.The Newsmaster said nothing, only scratched and scribbled his way through the ledger.

Finally

Finally? the Newsmaster looked horribly offended, as though Kiska had dared interrupt an important function in his honour.

Yes, sir, there is one final piece of news.

The Newsmaster made a derogatory noise and waved a dismissive hand. Fine, get on with it! Some of us have to print this up.

Kiska allowed himself to smile, imagining the sweet taste of the orange sherbet he was about to pick up. Several artefacts have been taken from the Palaces Historium. A sword, said to have belonged to Tuzani, Amaras set of duck-feather quills, and half a block of pure obsidian ink.

The Newsmaster stopped himself, the colour draining from his face. He slowly looked up at Kiska, who had wiped the smile off of his face.

The King has issued a warrant for the execution of the thief, Kiska continued, and one thousand silver rubes to anyone who reclaims all three stolen items.

The Newsmasters brow furrowed. Youre sure, my lad? he said in a soft voice. You didnt mishear anything?I am a newsboy because I have a perfect memory, Kiska said sheepishly. Not for my running ability. I repeat all that I hear.

The Newsmaster nodded and waved a hand, dismissing the boy.

Kiska left the building and returned to the sweet shop. Along the way he rolled up his sleeves and waved to a returning Civetian newsboy. The boy looked very much like Kiska had when he had arrived earlier in the day; sweating, breathing hard, and ready to sleep. Kiska approached the boy and gestured for him to follow. The boy held up his arm and shook his head, bending over with his other arm wrapped around his abdomen. Kiska nodded and thought no more of the matter as he picked up into a slow jog on his way to the sweet shop.

Welcome back, Kiska! said Johukari with a broad, warm smile. She was in the middle of serving an older gentleman who was buying eight bags of soft coffee. Ill be with you shortly, okay?

The older gentleman gave a snort of derision and gave Kiska a disgusted look.

Girly, he said in a high-brow voice, if you want your business to remain respectable I suggest you cease pandering to the low and commonly!

Johukari weighed the bags of coffee as though she had no part of the conversation.

You ought to heed me, little miss, he shook a finger in her face as she piled the small bags into a woven carry-sack. How are the Aquingians ever goin to learn that we are the superior commonality? Speakin their language only appropriates their entitled little minds into believing that its okay to be one of em!

Kiska watched as Johukari looked between the bag and the customer, biting her lip and raising her eyebrows as if to dare him on.

I can run my sweet shop how I choose, sir, she said carefully, treading around her words. I happen to be fluent in Aquingian and will flex that muscle at any given opportunity.The customer opened his mouth, then closed it again. His face flushed red as he struggled to think of something to say.

I do not mind having you as my customer, sir, Johukari said in apologetic tone of voice, but I do get Aquingian customers from time to time, like my little friend over there, she jerked her head towards Kiska, so knowing the language helps. More so because the majority of my inventory depends on Aquingard, where chocolate beans and spices grow. It helps me get good deals so I can sell for cheaper prices than any other store.

The man exhaled through his nose and scowled her, clearly having been bested, but he decided to have one last go and said, Selling your stock for cheap attracts the wrong sort, he pointedly turned and pointed out of the window where a small crowd of children, as if on cue, had gathered to stare at the confectionary within. Poverty-stricken farm-hands the lot of them. From terrible breeding stock. If the mares a mess mores the foal! he tapped his walking stick on the floor and reached into his pocket. What do I owe?

A shekel and five bits, Johukari said with her arms folded, and a sly look on her face.

The mans eyes widened, A shekel and Mother of Tuzani, I thought you said you sold for cheap? The price is two bits per bag!

Johukari smirked, Yes, two bits a bag. Eight bits make a shekel. Six bags of soft coffee at two bits a bag comes to twelve bits. A shekel and four bits, to be precise. Add an extra bit for your attitude towards my customers, management skills, and suppliers, and youll see that I am being lenient, sir.The man pursed his lips and paid up, taking the carry-sack of coffee with him. Johukari poured the coins into the flower pot beneath the counter, all but one bit. She gathered up a smaller carry-sack and handed it to Kiska. One pot of orange iced sherbet for Kiska the newsboy, she said sweetly in Aquingian.

Thank you, miss, he said in Civetian.

Johukari beamed at the boy and handed him the extra bit, This is for you, she said in Aquingian, it is yours. Spend it however you please, or save it. I know your work goes unpaid, so consider this a small payment. Should you ever come through Civetsi again, there will always be a pot of orange sherbet and an extra bit for you.A warm feeling moved through Kiska as he graciously accepted the bit.

Now run along! she said, gently ushering him back into the street. He shouldered the carry-sack and started running, passing a young man of about fifteen with light brown hair and bright blue eyes, pushing a wheelbarrow full of cloth bags filled with something that smelled sweet and strong.

Panke strolled through the streets of the market.

Fresh Eastern apples! called the fruit vendor.

Spices and sweets from all corners of the continent! called the spice vendor.

Artefacts from beyond the Mountain! called the psychic.

Panke struggled with the barrow as he reversed and backed into Johukaris shop. She came to his aide and held the door open, while he wedged the barrow in the threshold.

He regarded it for a long, slow moment, Thatll come out with some butter, he said, his voice edged with a little sarcasm. Or maybe some melted liquorice. He winked at her, and she gave a girlish giggle.

Panke, she said as they unloaded the cloth bags, how many times do I have to say? Youre much too young for an old bag like me!

I can be attracted to you if I want to be, he said playfully, heading into the stockroom and pouring the sacks out into the coffee barrel. Same as you can be annoyed by me if you choose to be!If you annoyed me Id never buy from your parents, she said. The Creator told me that I could be getting better coffee for a cheaper price. No, I told Her! Ill buy from the family whose second-oldest thinks he knows his way around a woman.

Panke blushed a light pink as he emptied the last of his coffee bags and retrieved some more, piling eight of them into the crook of his arm. They were each a chilo in weight, though this did not bother him. He was used to hauling heavy things around the farm.

Speaking of your parents, she said, dragging the sacks of coffee across the floor, leaving trails of cloth dust and coffee oil as she did so, hows all up at the Eastern Moors? How was your Bonfire Night and Poets Day? I didnt get a chance to go to sermon this morning, lots to do here. She let go of the bag and gestured the empty storefront that served as her business.

Panke liked Johukari, and not just on an emotional level. Much like Cai, Panke did not see much of a reason for the Poets Day sermon, or the staying up into the wee hours of the morning for Bonfire Night. The stories became more unbelievable every year, and Panke was looking forward to the day when he could leave for Aquingard and serve as an agricultural consultant. That day would have to wait until Cai had inherited the farm, unfortunately, but it would be a wait worthwhile.Johukari seemed to share is lack of enthusiasm for pomp and circumstance. Not only that, whenever he walked into the store he noticed that he could never smell the chocolates or the bags of coffee, or even the liquorice ropes that were stacked neatly on doilies of grease-proof paper. Johukari always went to the effort of making herself look nice, which made her stand out from the market sellers and the other shopkeepers.

Today, she was wearing a long, forest-green skirt and a white shirt, over which she had buttoned a well-tailored leather waistcoat. The materials were quite fine, a small luxury a shopkeeper in this part of Civetsi could save for over a decade and still not afford. To compliment her look, she smelled like early morning by the lake. It was a very particular smell, something Panke had taken many visits to place.

She smelled like the lake where he and his father took the cows on their morning runs. It was green, flowery, and had a slight after-scent of springtime.

Bronze bangles hung from her thick, muscular wrists and jangled whenever she moved. Panke wanted to ask where she had gotten them, but thought it improper to ask a lady such a thing. He could, and did, chat idly with her about almost everything. With the exception of tax incursions along the borders. That seemed like something you would not discuss with someone who bought your coffee.Finally, her long red hair hung to her waist and swished about like a cape when she turned around. Most women tied theirs up in a horsetail or had it braided, but Johukari seemed to prefer it all out. How much do I owe you today? she asked when they had finished packing away the coffee. I didnt need as much as I ordered, but Im happy to give you the full amount she trailed off, pulling the flower pot out from under the counter.

Panke swallowed, doing some quick sums in his head. Eight shekels, two bits, three pennies.

Johukari flinched, then proceeded to dig out the correct sum of money.

But thats for the full barrow, he said quickly, feeling a small pinch of guilt in his stomach. For what you actually needed its five shekels and six pennies.

No, I should pay for what I ordered, she said, double-checking the coins in her hand. She went over to hand them to him.

Panke took the coins and pulled out some coins at random, totalling two shekels, a bit, and three pennies.

Youre a great buyer, he said gently, best shopkeep we could hope for in this filthy corner of the city, you can have a discount today. He handed back the coins and dropped his share into his purse, then grabbed the barrow and eased it out of the threshold.

Birthings about as tricky, Johukari called from inside the shop, laughter and light in her voice. Here, she brushed up beside him. Climb over. I push, you pull. The bloody things stuck as a sword in a rock.

Panke laughed as he clambered over the iron barrow, catching the seam of his pants as he did. He grabbed the front and began to pull with all his strength as Johukari pushed. The barrow shot free, knocking Panke to the dusty ground and pulling Johukari forward into the well. She landed on the sacks of soft coffee, but still hit her head on the lip. A metallic clang rang out and people stopped to see what was going on. Grace of the Angels, Johukari! Panke scrambled up and helped the shopkeeper out of the barrow. She was nursing the spot on her frhead that had hit the rim. She was moaning and groaning in pain; Panke had to pry her hands away from the area to see that it was red, angry, and beginning to swell. We need to ice it, he said breathily. Quick! He pulled her inside, and sat her down. Nobody touch the coffee! He called out as the street children gathered conspicuously around it. They jumped away when he shouted at them.

He turned back and dug around in the ice box, pulling out a nice chunk of ice and wrapping it in the cleanest rag he could find. Johukari took it and pressed it to her forehead, closing her eyes from the pain.Thank you, she mumbled. You can go now.

Not until I know you can stand on your feet.

Ive held up against worse than a wheelbarrow to the head, Panke, she said with a less than concerned look in her eyes. I just need to take honey and milkseed every few hours, and sleep upright tonight. Tomorrow Ill be right as sunshine.

Panke smiled admiring her optimism. If youre sure, he said, I just want to make sure I can fleece you while youre incapacitated. Johukari gave him a playful shove and he was on his way, waving goodbye and wishing her well.

On his way home, he passed by the news board to catch up on the news. Usually, on a day like today, the board would have been empty. Literacy was not particularly great around these parts, but many were able to understand the news bulletins. It was the novels and poems that had to be explained to them.

Whats going on? he asked an onlooker. The young woman was about his age, and looked terribly worried.

Its the Prince of Kinna-Mntz, she said with a tremor in her voice, the Kings sick. So Samavad has stopped negotiations with Snow Town and Pangalor. Tomorrow, she swallowed anxiously, thinking of someone close to her. Tomorrow, theyre going to start drafting every man whos fifteen years or older. Price per man is two golden shekels.Two golden shekels. That would be enough to buy the farm twice over, with change for passage to Aquingard.

A golden shekel was similar to a regular shekel, only it was worth two hundred regular shekels. The thought of such an amount made Pankes mouth water. Thoughts of being drafted then deserting crossed his mind. He grabbed a print copy and put it in his pocket, setting off at a run.

When he was home, he pulled the barrow into the back and shot into the house, pulling everyone into the drawing room. Everyone was shouting, protesting, dropping what they held and trying be heard over one another. What in the Other is so urgent? his mother demanded, looking harried. Her voice cracked like a whip and silenced everyone. The air tightened. Did the Aquingian bint stiff you? I knew I should have sent Henka, at least he knows how to count!

Ill ignore that, said Panke, blue eyes twinkling. The King of Kinna-Mntz is drafting tomorrow. Two golden shekels per man over fifteen. He pulled out the sheet and gave it to Cai. Read that.Cai read over the sheet, growing paler with every word he read. He looked at Penka, then stepped back to sit down on the bureau.

Its really happening, then? he asked softly.

Panke nodded enthusiastically, After how long? All the threats and tax hikes? Its happening!

Whats happening? Rosen whined. War, said Jens. He simply said it, no emotion to his voice. The word hung in the air like a bad smell. War is happening, sweetheart. Brave Tuzani give me your strength, his voice strained. He turned tail and ran out of the room. Elyzeria stood hunched over, wringing her hands nervously. War, she said softly. Not again. She choked on the last word.

Mum? Cai said cautiously. Are you alright?

She could not answer, instead she followed her husband and ran out of the room. The three younger children looked confused and went out to comfort their parents, while Panke and Cai looked over the leaflet.

News from Kinna-Mntz:

King Sacha has fallen gravely ill. Until his recovery, Prince Samavad will serve as Regent.

The Regent has ceased all planned talks with Snow Town and Pangalor in response to proposed rises in the prices of Snow Dew, ice, silk, and sugar beets. In response, Pangalor has issued an open Act of War against the small Kingdom. This would imply that war is a last resort for the land-locked country. Regent Samavad has accepted the clause of war, and will begin drafting as early as to-morrow morning. Price for the draft is two golden shekels per man over fifteen who joins. Men below this age may join as message-runners at a price of a silver shekel.Cai rubbed his eyes and wiped his face with his hand, worry gripping his stomach. It weighed him down to think that he would have to sign his name away soon. He had never been drafted before, all he had to go on was the men who came back from wars that had been fought and won before he was born. He had always assumed that the tax hikes were a natural progression, like a seed turning into a flower, not an escalation to war.

He looked over at Panke. His brother seemed excited at the prospect of some real money in his pocket. He could barely keep his teeth inside his smile as he snapped the leaflet away and read it over again.

Two hundred shekels to go out into a field and die, but Cai liked to think that he knew his brother well enough to know that he was looking at a would-be deserter.

Theyll find you, he said heavily as Panke mouthed the words on the paper. Captains are trained to spot the deserters and the loyals. You cant trick them.

Well find a way, said Panke, his grin growing cheeky. Theres usually a way.

Well find a way? Cai repeated, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice, but failing. There is no we in this, its all you.What? Pankes face dropped with disappointment.

Join if you want, said Cai, getting up and walking to the other end of the room. Im not doing it unless I have to.

With that, he left the room, leaving Panke alone with his thoughts.***Stralen had been called to the Abbots office. There was no one inside when he arrived, so he took a seat nearest the bookshelf. He had been transcribing when he had been summoned, copying from the Book of Light and Sky.

Stralens quill had broken, sending ink skittering over the paper. Brother Ouiamus had come through the arch at the moment and had summoned him. Immediately he thought that he was to be scolded for wasting paper.The office smelled of old vellum, dust motes, and lavender flowers. Dried Wishwake hung on thin silk strands from the curtain rail.

His fingers were still stained with ink from where he had tried to wipe up the ink with the wiping rag. His arms had started to bruise from the fall he had had the day before, when a burly man had crashed into him. The man had apologised, but had been ushered away so quickly that Stralen was quite unsure of what he had looked like.

A shadow fell over him.

Abbot Vortimer towered above him, his long dark hair hanging down to his shoulders like normal. He wore a placid expression, his dark blue eyes serene.Good afternoon, Student Stralen, he said evenly. Stralen avoided eyed contact, though he made a quick attempt to see whether the Abbot was smiling. It was hard to tell in the solitary beam of sunlight that came through the small window in the corner of the office. The Abbot swept past the Student Brother and stopped to stand ahead of him. He faced away, admiring the mural of Tuzanis Exile across the Mountain.He slipped into a silent meditation, leaving Stralen ignored.

Father? he asked quietly. The Abbot did not stir. Father? he asked a little more loudly. This, the Abbot responded to. He slowly turned around, his expression still as placid as a lake in the evening.Student Stralen, he said, his voice carrying throughout the room, do you know how Tuzani lost his sword? The Abbot watched the Student Brother, arms folded as though in prayer.

Mtava broke his sword in battle, Stralen said, reaching for memory. His sword was generations old. Being so, it broke in half when he struck a changeling, and its blood boiled through the metal. Tuzani gave Mtava his sword for the duration of the battle, and used his shield to deflect attacks.

Abbot Vortimer nodded, a small smile creeping onto his face. Very good, he said. What about Amaras duck-feather quills?Stralen had to think a little harder, Amara was refused access to the archives where she could write her stories. She forged a set of quills from ash twigs and duck feathers, and ground ink from soft coffee. She wrote on maple leaves until she learned how to make paper.Very good, said Abbot Vortimer, his smile knowing. Student Stralen, do you remember the day you came to us?

The memory is blurred to me, Stralen admitted, crossing his legs.

The Abbot nodded and took the chair opposite the Student Brother. You were sick with a fever, he said. And your parents had promised you to the Creator if you survived. So they gave you to me. He looked searching over the young Student Brother. As studious as you are, Stralen, his voice dropped, when I speak with you about our work I do not feel the same energy as I and the other Brothers possessed when we were your age.Stralen thought he could see where this was going. Something gripped him and made him feel sick as he struggled to maintain his composure.

The Abbot continued, You have more fire to you than befits a monk or a future Abbot. Vicar Carlei and Brother Ouimas have told me that you seem bored by your lessons. Be honest, and tell me if you are.Stralen licked his lips, In truth, Father, I do find myself thinking of other things.

Abbot Vortimer raised an eyebrow, What manner of other things?Historical events, Stralen said, looking away, I think about archery and sword forging. His voice faltered as he tried to pick and choose between his thoughts. Abbot Vortimer listened with great intensity, his tight smile seeming more and more brilliant with every moment. Stralen was unnerved by this, as he had never known the Abbot to smile like this before.

Tell me more, the Abbot invited.

Ive thought about the potential for war, Stralens voice shook. Rumours have been circulating for many years about Prince Samavads interests in the Central Nations.Forgive me for being presumptuous, said the Abbot, but it seems that your disposition would be better suited elsewhere.Stralens stomach dropped like a stone in a well. The Abbot continued speaking, but Stralen could not hear him. He felt like he wanted to cry, but kept himself composed before the Abbot. He had to maintain a dignified image, one of respect and understanding

so it would best suit the Abbot trailed off when he noticed that Stralen had drifted out of attention. He snapped his fingers and the boy regained his focus. What troubles you, Stralen?

The thought of being disrobed, Father, the boy said with a quiet earnestness to his voice. I have failed you and the Order, and can only apologise for my lack of attention to the cause.

The Abbots smile softened, and Stralen caught a glimmer in his eyes. You are not being disrobed, my son, said the Abbot. If you had not drifted out of attention, you would have heard me say that the Sword of Many Faces has been thiefed.

Stralens heart leapt. The Sword of Many Faces had been Tuzanis sword, and then Mtavas, before finally coming to rest in the Kingdom of Aquingard.

Who would do such a thing? he asked, trying not to demand the Abbot.It does not matter whom, said Abbot Vortimer. Primus Abbot Rogen has issued for a return of the Sword. It has been missing for two weeks, and the Aquingians have been suspicious since the first day. The King has only recently made it public knowledge, for fear that the sword had been misplaced.

Forgive me my doubts, Father, Stralen interrupted, just as Abbot Vortimer opened his mouth to continued. That story makes little sense.

I see that, my son, he conceded. There is certainly something untoward happening, and this is why I have summoned you. He gave Stralen a knowing look and tented his fingers. Would you like to pay a visit to the Hallowed Land?Excitement welled within the young Student Brother. He had expected to be disrobed for his lack of commitment, but instead he was being offered an opportunity to become an active member of the Order.

More than anything, he said in an enthralled whisper. When can I go?

As soon as you are ready, the Abbot smiled more broadly and stood up, laying a fatherly hand on Stralens shoulder.

I could prepare today, he suggested, and begin my journey after morning prayers. I would not want to risk such a treacherous voyage without the right sort of protection.

Smart boy! laughter laced Abbot Vortimers voice. He patted Stralens shoulder and swept past him. He held open the door to the office. You are dismissed for the remainder of the day so that you can prepare. I am sure that in light of the circumstances, the Creator will be willing to overlook your lack of attendance. He gave a laugh, a short bark of a sound, as he gently ushered Stralen out. Not to exacerbate your fears, but you might want to take off your robes and purchase a new suit. Use the Orders credit account, that is what its for! He closed the door, leaving an excited Stralen to run to his room and disrobed. Underneath his robes he wore a white form-fitting shirt and loose leggings. His hair was cut in the standard bowl fashion, something he would need to address. He was not so nave as to believe that the Aquingian fashions were the same as in Civetsi.Brother Riikin stopped in shortly to hand him a small grey purse that jingled. It felt heavy in his hands. He drew it open and counted six shekels. He drew it closed and hung it around his neck as he left the monastery, making sure to say a quick prayer before he went into the city. Moths flattered about in his stomach. It had been years since he had stepped into the city.The first thing he noticed was how out of place he felt. Nobody stared directly at him as he walked through the dusty streets, but he could feel them take a second look. The monks rarely made an appearance outside the confines of the monastery; anything they needed was delivered via longstanding arrangements. It was only in extreme circumstances or for ceremonial reasons that they journeyed down from the hill.Stralen could feel their knowing eyes, their wonder, as he passed through the streets, trying to find a barber. He asked several people, all of whom gave him reverent looks, made the sign of Tuzani, and left him in the middle of the street, frustrated and lost. He began to resent his life on the monastery, for it seemed to have taken away his ability to navigate.

By luck or simple coincidence, he stumbled across a barber and thankfully went in. He grabbed a nearby chair and waited for a few minutes. The barber came out of the back room carrying a black bottle. He looked up over his spectacles at the skinny monk sitting by his window, and motioned to the seat next to an older gentleman who was having his beard trimmed and tinged with black henna by a boy not much older than Stralen. Surprise flashed across the barbers face when he got a good look at Stralen.The barber was a lanky old man with his white hair cut closely to his head. He dressed in red and black with a half-apron wrapped around his midsection.What do you want? the barber asked, wrapping an apron over Stralen.

Stralen tapped the arm rests of the chair, How familiar are you with the fashions in Aquingard?

The barber hummed, thinking over the customers who had passed through these parts. The women like really these elaborate braids, he said, inspecting Stralens hair. Wearing them, that is. Men vary. The richer ones like to shave completely bald and top off with a powdered wig.Um Stralen was lost for words.

Youre right, not your cup of coffee, the barber said quickly as he picked up a clay dish and filled it with water. You havent been given the bald spot yet, he came back over and poured the contents of the black bottle into the clay dish. It came out with a thick glunk and several large dollops smacked into the dish, muddying the water. The barber mixed it with a flat blade and pulled Stralens chair backward. He was now looking up at the ceiling, and was stunned by the fact that there was a mirror up there.

Whoever for? He wondered as the barber rubbed his hair with the mixture. The water was cold and smelled like tar.Even though he knew the process of a haircut, it felt strange having it done by someone who was not holding a specialised bowl over his head. It felt nice having his scalp massaged, but he tried not to enjoy it too much.Im going to cut it short, said the barber as he slid the blade along a lock of Stralens hair. Though if you decided to grow it, I wouldnt blame you. You have very lovely hair.

Do I? Stralen wondered how hair could possibly be lovely.

Oh yes, the barber mused, moving through locks of hair at an increasing pace. All the rage in the Central Nations at the moment, long, blond and thick as anything. Once youre older you might grow a matching beard.

Stralen briefly entertained the thought of himself with long, flowing hair and a beard to match, but the concept felt alien to him.

The haircut took half a turn of the clock, and afterwards the barber took him over to a sink where his hair was rinsed. The barber swept off the apron and grabbed a towel, which he used to roughly dry Stralens hair. Then he grabbed a comb and after a few quick strokes he had given Stralen a completely new look. When he held up the mirror, Stralen had to force himself not to look away. He hardly recognised himself without the rounded fringe that usually hung over his forehead. He actually felt disappointment when the barber drew the mirror away.

They settled payment, and Stralen was given directions to a tailor, who would be able to set him up with some new outfits.

The tailor was a more pleasurable experience. Stralen knew that he would have to make some hefty penance for allowing vanity to consume him like this. An hour later he left the tailor, the purse significantly lighter, and his wardrobe drastically more fashionable. He walked about the streets in his new clothes, still a shekel and four pennies to his name. The sun was beginning to set, so he thought he ought to be heading back.Only he looked around, and did not know where he was. There was hardly anyone on the street. He stood in the middle of an intersection, turning around and looking every which way.At the end of a dusty street, Stralen could make out a silhouette moving towards him. Hope flooded within him.Excuse me! he called out to the solitary shadow. He ran forward, carry-sack knocking against his backside. The figure stopped, and became clearer. It took on the shape of a young man taller than Stralen. The closer he got, the clearer he saw him. Light brown hair tied back, thick muscles, and a thick layer of stubble around his jaw. He was pulling a small, empty cart.

Excuse me! Stralen called.

Whats wrong? the man called, dropping the cart.

Stralen slowed down and stopped in front of the young man. The orange sunset glared against him.

What W-what part of the city am I in? Stralen asked breathlessly.

Where do you need to go? the young man rubbed his hands, the thick callouses rubbing against each other like sandpaper.

The monastery? Stralen sounded unsure.Ive just come from there! the young man gestured his clasped hands behind him, and Stralen could see the hill where the monastery resided. He pulled a dissatisfied face and felt stupid for panicking.

Yours face says that that was not what you were expecting, the young man said. He held out a hand. The names Cai, and youself?Stralen shook Cais hand, Stralen, son of Magnen.

A look of familiarity crossed over Cais face, as though he had heard the name before but could not place it. Are you, eh, a monk by any chance? he sounded doubtful, and took another look at the way Stralen was dressed.

Student Brother, Stralen admitted, letting his hand drop free. Not particularly good at it, mind. Im being sent away to Aquingard, hence he gestured his new look. He gave a sheepish smile.

Not a bad trans And his eyes widened. Youre the lad I crashed into! He snapped his fingers. Bloody Changelings of the Other, I thought you looked familiar!You! Stralen laughed. You gave me a great bruising, it almost got me out of morning prayers. He gave a conspiratorial wink and shifted his carry-sack, pulling it further up so that it rested between his shoulders.

So my brute strength did some good, Cai picked up the cart. How old are you, mate?Fifteen, sixteen on Santas Tazahinas Day, Stralen shuffled his feet.

I suppose, Cai stopped himself and pursed his lips as though he was thinking about what he was going to say. I suppose youve heard about the draft.

Yes, Stralen had heard about the draft. It was hard not to hear about it. In the tailors, while he was being fitted for his pants, two mothers had come in. They were merchants, by the sound of their voices, and the way they spoke.

Tobie wont shut up about it, one of them had said. Doesnt want to go to war like his Pa. Cant say I blame him. Young Samavad is a right nut, actually tried to declare war on the salt flats in his own bloody country!

The other mother gave a throaty sigh, Theres a war every generation, Merta. Ruben and Joskie are talking desertion. Take the shekels and run!Dont talk so loud, Merta shushed her friend. Never know whos watching.

Stralen had been silent for a while, and he became very aware that Cai was watching him. He struggled to think of something to say, so he just nodded.

I reckon he began, I supposed youre an exception? Being with the Order and all.

Thats not something I can say, Stralen admitted. The sun was setting; the sky had turned from orange to a dull red. It would be dark soon, and he had to get back in time for morning prayers before he had to be on his way for Aquingard.

I understand, Cai saw that Stralen was getting restless and bade him goodbye.Just as he was about to set off, Stralen called out for him.Look, he said reshuffling his carry-sack. Im going to Aquingard tomorrow, Im going to be on my own. We dont know each other, but I would appreciate having somebody who speaks the same language accompany me.

Cai set down the cart again and rested his hand on his waist. Honestly, that would be lovely, but I have a farm to run.Disappointment weight down on him like a small stone. He had not expected Cai to accept.

Okay, he said softly. If you change your mind, meet back here after morning prayers?

Cai considered this, What time would that be?

Stralen had never thought about that before. He did some quick time conversions in his head, Tenth bell. Do you have a sundial?

I know what time you mean, Cai assured him. Ill have a think. If I dont see you, enjoy Aquingard. He picked up the cart and headed into town. Stralen turned back and began to climb the hill back up to the monastery. His legs ached by the time he crested it, and a thin sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.

The sun was in its last phase of setting. It framed the monastery; the brown bricks appeared black against the glowing sun and the dull red sky. Stralen thought he could smell something sweet, something tangy settled on his tongue, but both smell and taste were gone as soon as they had come, so he ignored them and made his way into the monastery.Good evening, my son, came Brother Carleis voice. Stralen felt hands on his carry-sack and turned too tug it away, to find Brother Carlie gently holding it as though he would a child. You have walked a long way, my son. Tell me your story. Brother Carlei wrestled the carry-sack from a profoundly confused and frustrated Stralen.

Brother Carlei, he said, its me, Student Brother Stralen. He reached for his carry-sack, but Brother Carlei had already walked off which it and did not appear to be paying the least bit attention.If you follow me, my son, I take you now to the Sleeping Hall, said Brother Carlei. Stralen rounded the Brother and caught him off guard, grabbing for his carry-sack. The pair stopped and began playing tug-o-war with the carry-sack, each of them grabbing at one end.

Brother Carlei! It is me! Stralen freed the sack from Brother Carleis grip. Only then did Brother Carlei finally lift his eyes from the floor and recognise his student.

My goodness, he said swiftly, how you have changed, Student Brother! I take it that this is in preparation for your journey to Aquingard?

Stralen nodded, pressing his lips together. Brother Carlei gave a gentle smiled and apologised for not recognising him sooner, for which Stralen forgave him.

He went to his room and packed up his personal items, none of which he had seen in years. Among them was a sackcloth doll, its face stitched into what might have been a smile. He lay back on his bed and held the doll, trying to remember his parents. He could not remember being ill with a fever as a child, though he supposed that he would not, if it had been severe enough. He drifted into sleep and dreamt of his mother handing him the sackcloth doll. In his sleep, he smiled and clutched the doll.A shadow passed over him, but he did not stir. The man looked down at the sleeping Stralen and made the symbol of Tuzani, then lit a stick of cinnamon and incensed the room. The air smelled sweet and spicy after it was done, and so the man put out the stick of cinnamon and stowed it in a tinder box which hung from his waist.Tetiohigl, Stralen. Travel safe, Stralen.The man left, his cloak opening out behind him like a pair of dark wings. The smell of cinnamon still hung in the air when Stralen awoke, but he paid it no heed.

***

That same night, Cai sat down to dinner with his family, all except for Jens. It was silent, as it had been the night before. It hung in the air, disturbed only by the clatter of cutlery against the crockery. Outside the window, the stars had returned. Cai bit the tip of his tongue, thinking about all that had transpired over the last two days. He lifted a spoonful of the leftover soup to his mouth, but he could not taste it. Everything that went into his mouth tasted like ash. Textures became either too hard or too soft, too difficult to chew or two sour to swallow. Even the sausage they had added tasted soggy and bland.

He could have buttered his bread with the tension that existed in the room. It existed in his mother, and Panke. Panke had made it clear that he would take the golden shekels. He was fifteen, he was legally a man, and he could draft himself if he wanted to. Henka, Jyssa and Rosen hurried their dinner, looking awkwardly between their mother and brother. Rosen ate so fast that she lost her attention and dropped a spoonful of soup down her front. The spoon clattered to the floor, breaking some of the tension.Please clean that up, dear, said Elyzeria, moving her spoon around the dish. Her voice was low and sad.

Rosen obeyed, collecting a damp rag from the wash bucket and wiping up the spill, and the front of her shirt. She returned the rag when she was finished and returned to eating her dinner, slower this time, but still hurrying to finish. Jyssa followed suit. Henka lay down his spoon and lifted the bowl to his mouth, drinking all the liquid and stuffing the chunks into his mouth with his fingers. This rendered him horribly filthy with streaks of grease running down his face.Elyzeria didnt look up, but she still said, Clean yourself up, Henka.

Henka quickly got up and ran out of the dining room.

No one had spoken much since Panke had brought home the leaflet. Elyzeria had given them orders, thanked them, but could look neither of her