Where Madness Roosts

A Flameforged Story By Darrell Drake

WHERE MADNESS ROOSTS Copyright © 2013 Darrell Drake All rights reserved worldwide. ISBN 978-0-9917247-9-6 Cover art by Lune Miletic No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. http://www.darrelldrake.net

C H A P T E R O N E

Philanthropissants

Almi peered over the aft railing, taking care to ignore

safety; hazardous situations were ever so tantalizing, and what a poor gamine she’d be if she refused the allure. The cleverly designed lift lock was steadily moving its charge, a mid-sized galleon, ever higher up a towering dam. This afforded her an aerial view of the treacherous Ruul Strait. Walls of rock rose high and sheer to either side, as if some marauding giant had cleft the land while battling a particularly pesky swarm of gnats. Almi would have liked to watch that spectacle and wondered if the chimerical giant had long ago retired to some hilltop cave to munch on mountain goats.

Traditionally the view would have been much more perilous: ankles secured beneath her sister’s arms to totter close to plummeting—it would have been exhilarating! Frowning, Almi extinguished that unseemly thrill and cast askance at her twin. Merill stood quietly to her side, tired fingers tapping ever so lightly at the balustrade. At any other time the twins might have been difficult to tell apart—Merill playing a due to a gladsome pair—but the symptoms of pregnancy had changed many things. Almi did not need the

intimacy of their telepathic connection to know her sister was exhausted; that she simply wished the trial would end.

“What’s a magpie without her tailcoat?” Almi asked, using their telepathic umbilical. A hop deposited the elf behind her twin, whereupon an embrace followed, fingers interlocking over navel. Almi hooked her chin over her sister’s shoulder and ground it affectionately into collarbone.

“Flightless,” Merill answered, leaning into her twin. She knew the significance of the wordplay: that they were nothing without their only one, and a month-long maritime voyage in his company should be treasured accordingly. She should be perfectly blithesome. “So many sorries,” Merill said aloud. “You shook the dreams away so we could watch. But I’m so sleepy I could snore on a—” A chasmal yawn gave the claim credence and cut off her oral response. “Horse.”

“A what?” inquired the most silvery, most hypnotizing voice her ears could ever know. In truth, it wasn’t particularly special, but something in her chest melted whenever Merill heard it.

The twins pivoted to face their benefactor, a middle-aged man wearing the trappings of a master weaver: heavy robes adorned with beckoning talons. Never had there been a more favored refuge for the elves than in those voluminous stretches of black fabric. “Our Virgil,” they crooned in unison.

“I should have known the two of you would be out here,” he said as he approached. “Though I do recall instructing you to rest.”

“I was, but . . .” Merill looked down and tapped her toes against the damp, cold deck. She wasn’t particularly fond of the sensation, but habits were habits—not to be abandoned for the want of grass or shaggy rugs. To her chagrin, she could not even delight in watching their grub-like wriggling; the ever bothersome bulge of her belly prohibited the smallest of pleasures.

For a moment there was only the sound of frothing water while Virgil downed the last of his morning brew and handed the goblet off to a nearby barrel. “Well, you’re awake and we’re here, so I suppose it cannot be helped.” He breached her forelocks to rest his palm on her head.

Merill grinned, positively cock-a-hoop despite her condition. “Our Virgil,” she chirruped.

“Your fever is all but gone. How do you feel?” “Tired.” “That’s natural, I’m afraid. You’re six months in, so it’ll be

over soon.” Merill pursed her lips and Almi spoke her uncertainty.

“Soon is not soon enough. Merill is . . . is . . . she’s a crippled old harpy with this swollen beastie in her. Won’t our Virgil pluck it out?”

“Soon,” Virgil assured them. “I’m not a harpy,” Merill grumbled. Virgil gave the elf a slight smile and drew her hair back to

kiss her forehead. “Harpies aren’t so bad, songbird.” The whine of gears and abrupt bob of the boat signaled the

end of their ascent. “Amriel,” Virgil said with venom as he turned toward the

bow. “Center of all that is good in Grea Weralt, seat of the council of the Confederacy.”

“Do-gooders,” Merill scoffed. “Philanthropissants,” spat Almi. They were still a fair distance from ground level on what

used to be an underground lake. The roof had caved in long before the founding of Amriel, leaving a massive water-filled wound in the earth. Terracotta roofs could be seen peeking over a white wall that ringed the edge of the cliffs, sometimes sagging down to accommodate hanging roosts for watchmen.

The deck sprung to life then. Sailors who had been resting on the lengthy trip up the lift were now adjusting the sails, while others disappeared below deck.

Virgil swept an arm from stern to bow, plucking his life-cord to weave forth a gust. It whipped around the twins’ crimson tunics—he knew they’d enjoy that—and filled the main sail. Wind generally loathed to be commanded, but the element had an almost sentient predilection toward huffing into sails.

Almi and Merill watched the simple cantrip with apparent enthusiasm. They’d seen him conjure infernos, but could

appreciate even his most insignificant of deeds all the same. Dementia had its perks.

“You should get ready,” Virgil instructed. “We’ll be here for a week, so pack your belongings. Don’t forget Merill’s elixirs. They’re important.”

Merill rocked forward to press her face to his back; it was strong, warm. She sniffed, and continued inhaling until her lungs were full of his after-the-rain scent. She would have held it in until unconsciousness set it free if it weren’t for the weaver hurrying her off to prepare.

The twins made their way to the cabin and began packing, which took a great deal more time than it should have. Elixirs were the only easy decision. Treats gave them the most trouble. Brioche de Rois was an incumbent, but what of its accomplice or accomplices? After a bout of heated debate and almost-fisticuffs, they finally agreed on a pair of fruit tarts.

When the boat docked, Almi was still struggling to pull on her sister’s left boot. It’d proven as unusually cantankerous as her moody sister. In seventy-four years they had never fought; now, this belly blight.

“What’s taking so long?” Virgil asked just as she tugged the boot on.

Almi sighed and wrung out her hands, flexing them like grasping claws. They felt so very agitated. She would not think to blame them if they thought to abscond. “Kerfuffle happened. Made everything all higgledy-piggledy.”

Virgil nodded his understanding and reached to help her up, who in turn helped Merill to her feet. “Let’s get going.”

Merill waddled silently behind Virgil as they passed from the galleon to the port-housing alcove to a network of tunnels worked from stone. They were well-lit, and capacious enough for cargo to enter the thriving city above. She did not care to gawk, as she would have on a better day, at the scintillating mineral deposits studding the walls.

Instead she eyed the cuff of her sleeve, kneaded guilt into the toothsome inner fold where a line of stitches held it in place. Arguing with Almi did not make sense. She might as well have been arguing with herself; in fact, she figured that

might have been half of it. Merill knew she was at fault. She was the anomaly.

Sharing an umbilical—those ethereal cords that moored souls to physical forms—meant the saturnine thoughts were conveyed as clearly to Almi as if they were her own. “Everything is luvverly jubberly,” she telepathically assured her twin. “Our Virgil says soon, so soon it’ll be.”

Almi seized Merill by the waist and gave a quick kiss to the pinnal point peeking through her hair. “Our Virgil has noticed us lately,” she mused.

“He has,” agreed Merill. “Last night was scrumptious.” Merill smiled like a clam at high water. A shiver caught her

sides, a giggle her throat, and the marriage of the two emerged as a delighted shiggle. “Our Virgil noticed us so good,” she said, and even unspoken her voice was husky. She stroked the discolored ring around Almi’s neck, thinking fondly of the asphyxiation they’d gleefully suffered.

“Waiting and waiting and waiting. To think he looked at these old things.”

Merill wondered whether they’d waited too long. “Our Virgil,” she called, “when do we die?”

The weaver had been walking ahead of them, engaging in small talk with some dignitary: whether the voyage went well, whether he was hungry, whether his wards were hungry. “Only when you will it,” Virgil assured them over his shoulder.

The woman escorting him glanced back at the twins with an almost imperceptible smile. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said. “I’m Salise.”

Almi furrowed her brow. Why was this one talking to them? Virgil had asked the twins to be courteous, so she said nothing in lieu of an insult. Instead, she scrutinized the woman. There was the thin pearly-white robe secured around the waist with a golden belt that punctuated her slender frame and marked her as a weaver. Almi found it boring. She did, however, make note of two peculiarities: that she wore no shoes and her ears were distinctly elven.

“The wallydrag—this one has bare feet,” said Almi.

“Mine ache so,” complained Merill. Salise stuttered a step as though they’d said something

terribly revealing. “Shoes are treacherous,” she eventually replied.

The twins solemnly nodded their concurrence. Virgil raised an eyebrow. Salise waved the implied question away. “I was raised in Saradin, you know.”

Virgil chuckled dryly. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, “but I don’t

despise you. I left for . . . personal reasons. Of the seven council heads, I’ll give you the least trouble.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Salise produced the first full smile since her arrival, and

the sisters thought it terribly fake. The remainder of the walk surfaced only once: in a pergola

made green tunnel which afforded them little more than ivy and sunshine. The twins turned their faces skyward to welcome its bronze touch. While they’d grown accustomed to subterranean life, they were heliotropes at heart. Another descent into stone-carved tunnels and it wasn’t long until they stopped at a single ironclad door.

Salise motioned toward the pair of guards posted at either side of the ingress. “They’ll take your belongings for inspection and return them when we’re certain there’s nothing dangerous within.”

“Shouldn’t you have done that when we arrived?” asked Virgil.

The weaveress gave him an impish look. “I do not fear you or anything you could wield against me. Those inside, however, do.”

“Very well,” agreed Virgil. “But the elixirs are important to the one with child. The voyage hasn’t been kind to her.” Thinking he’d finished, Salise started to instruct the guards but found herself interrupted. “Search me if you will. I’d sooner call this off than submit my wards to a search, though. You’ll have to trust me same as I’m trusting you to host me in this wretched city.”

Salise leveled her stare on him, and while it didn’t seem she’d relent, she eventually turned back to the guards and instructed them to oblige.

Almi reluctantly handed over her pack, but not before snatching two fistfuls of brioche and shoving one into her mouth. Merill was quick to devour the other half. She took particular pleasure in the chunks of melon which had been baked into the pastry and now gave way in sweet, pulpy defeat.

“Into the Chamber of the Few then,” Salise instructed. She rolled up her right sleeve, revealed a hidden hole and buried her arm to the elbow. A few seconds of tinkering and a metallic clink had the portal sliding open.

A waft of salty ocean air rushed from the entrance as though it had been waiting to escape. There was another aroma alongside, something thick and woodsy neither Almi nor Merill could place. The hallway leading in was a far cry from the stone passage.

The walls were lined with a shade of cedar not much darker than the twins’ flaxen crowns. Oriflammes hung at regular intervals from the high-vaulted ceiling, where a tangle of crossing support beams kept the stone at bay. Lanterns interposed the oriflammes to cast reaching shadows.

Almi noticed these arrangements in passing, as one would the mundane furnishings of their own home. She’d have plenty of time to return, and if not, they hardly mattered. What did manage to hook her mercurial eye was a knot in the fifth span of cedar. Almi turned an accusing scowl its way. It harkened to her time in Virgil’s alchemical workshop, where she and Merill would look on while drops of oil dribbled and surfed over some grey tincture on their way through a series of winding glass tubes. There were other knots inching along the cedar, but this one, this one was insidious.

Salise tugged the lever that would close the entrance behind them and led the group farther in. “You’d do well to keep your cards close to your chest here,” she said. “The Chamber is a communal area. While there are partitions, there’s a shared ceiling and sound travels.”

“We’re worried about this one,” said Merill, indicating the knot with a warily crooked index. “An interloper; devourer, maybe.”

“It’s nothing,” Virgil assured her. “If our—” “It’s nothing, songbird.” The twins frowned uncertainly, but continued along the

orange-red tiles leading deeper into the compound without argument. Ahead, weaver and weaveress chatted as though their nations weren’t at each other’s necks.

“How far along is she?” Salise inquired. Virgil pondered the swollen belly and her most recent

symptoms. “Soon. She only has two or three months ahead of her.”

“This was a risky voyage, then. Why bring her along?” “You have a penchant for asking questions not normally

leveled at despots from enemy nations.” Salise shrugged. “People are people. I don’t see why we

can’t maintain civil conversation despite our differences.” The passageway opened to a much larger area—a repurposed cavern—that was spruced up in the same manner as the entry tunnel. There was such an abundance of crisscrossing timber overhead that it was impossible to see the ceiling; someone was either exceptionally thorough or had gone overboard in making their art statement.

She stopped there, a fair distance from the nearest structure in what was a contained hamlet of sorts. “I once heard a tale of a tyrant who would dress as a common traveler in order to make friendly with the locals. For no other reason than the genuine company. And children are children. One should care for them no matter the circumstances.”

Virgil glanced at the twins and considered her initial question. Merill stood hands-on-stomach, a bare curve at the corners of her mouth, looking his way. Almi was lost in the chaos of the rafters. Both were waiting, he knew, for love. They were so broken and yet so brilliant, the former feeding the latter. “I brought them along because they’re persistent creatures . . . and I’d not trust another with their care.”

Salise gave a bob of her head, and her ears followed suit. She quieted for several breaths of distant deliberation before finally responding. “You’ll make an excellent father.”

“The child isn’t mine,” Virgil lied. “Oh, of course. They’re only your wards.” “Your spies have quite an imagination.” Virgil considered

the woman for a moment before veering the conversation elsewhere. “I don’t suspect this city is very accepting of elves. I’ve heard of the conflict between the Confederacy and the elves of Jheelhan. You don’t look or act the part, but I doubt that affords you much solace.”

“I’m only half elf,” Salise corrected. “And no, it doesn’t. I like to think the people of Amriel will embrace me one day. It isn’t their fault: the jungle elves have bitten at their borders for generations. Prejudice, especially prejudice born of fear, isn’t easily won over.”

Virgil only nodded his accord. He was all too familiar with the disdain for elves—and not entirely sure it was misplaced in most cases.

“Shall we proceed with introductions, then? We’ll delay negotiations until you’ve had some time to settle in, but protocol dictates a formal arrival.”

“I’m aware of your protocol. Let’s get this over with.” The twins followed in silent rumination, chewing over the

idea that something—a cave bear, perhaps—nested in the rafters above and was somehow in cahoots with the malevolent knot.

The central building was the largest in the cavern and appeared to be more an oversized cabin than a single room. As far as they could tell, it was the only structure to reach the rafters; at which point it became part of the tangle, as though the mess of timber was a result of the main structure unraveling. There were smaller structures to both sides: two rows to the left and one to the right. A stiff gust thick with sea water originated somewhere beyond the central building.

“In you go,” said Salise. Almi gave her philtrum a scratch but said nothing. Where

did this half-breed think she was going? Were there goings to

be gone that weren’t at Virgil’s heels? She shook her head at the absurdity of the thought and entered behind her only one.

“Today we welcome Virgil al-Ghuraab, sovereign of Elusia, and his wards, Almi and Merill al-Ghuraab to the Chamber of the Few,” rang Salise’s commanding voice.

“Welcome,” sounded a chorus of replies, some warmer than others.

Virgil took a seat at the nearest end of a table occupied by emissaries, men and women who represented the six city-states which formed the Confederacy. Their eyes were all on him; all but one. His layered robes marked him a weaver. The scowl marring his fair features and hardened jaw made clear his disapproval, disdain or some equally unfavorable dis-drawn term of the elves. Almi and Merill would have paid it no heed if they had noticed it at all. But they hadn’t: they were making a very selective manifest of their surroundings.

The table, which was very table-like in appearance, looked heavy as a harlot’s hind-quarters and had seen its fair share of skirmishes. A deep scar ran along the center, and the edges were worn with many smaller crevasses; it might have been a giant’s shield epochs ago. And the idea wasn’t particularly far-fetched given Almi’s original appraisal of the Ruul Strait.

Merill sought the stairs before all else. Heights were scrumptious, and in her eagerness to get a closer look, she bumped her belly against Virgil’s chair. She grunted and pulled taut one side of her mouth such that a single deliberative dimple appeared. There was no obvious second floor, but she knew the stairs would eventually give way to a roost, and roosts were magnificently favorable to songbirds, archers and timid peris alike.

Almi, less partial to heights than her sister, found her curiosity wandering the walls, where there hung a collection of maps, trophies, paintings and gewgaw whose names she did not know. While none of the individual items struck her fancy, as a whole they did well to pique her interest. It seemed to Almi that they were hanging there mainly out of compassion for the chastity of the wall beneath: too much timber would not be fit for a proper partition. Given the sanctity of the canvas of self-inflicted gashes and burns

beneath the twins’ tunics, she could appreciate the need to keep oneself chaste. Those scars were made in mad devotion to Virgil and were for his gloriously corrupting eyes only.

“Minrva Cafatia of Insula Agrippina,” said the woman directly to the left of the Elusian party. Her voice was smooth, sure and drenched in muliebrity. The white streak cutting through her hair reminded the twins of a bird they’d spied occasionally during their woodland romps back home—a warbling singer.

“Liam. Just Liam,” spoke the brawniest of the lot in a gravelly, gut-forged timbre. He gave a casual wave. “From the Northern Wan.”

There was a pause before Salise, who had circled around the table to take her place opposite Virgil, tapped the forearm of the next in line.

“Cassandra, matriarch of the Cafatia line and Agrippina Major.” She produced a tired smile, and appeared more the common lady one might find buying rabbit in a busy market than leader of a powerful family. “A pleasure.”

“Salise, Adjudicator of Amriel.” The delegate to her left was a corpulent fellow whose

jowls flapped alongside his vocally pleasant chin-waggery. He stared at the half-elf for several breaths after her formal introduction, almost longingly so, before chiming in. “Rigald Leftliss, senior representative of the merchant amalgam governing Thaneport.”

“Scoundrels and thieves,” muttered Cassandra. “At your service,” Rigald continued as though Cassandra

had said nothing—or perhaps because of it. “And I apologize for the grim demeanor of my colleagues. I’m not the leader that they are . . . more a messenger, but at your service all the same.”

“Danica,” said the sixth with a sultry glance Virgil’s way, “Danica Wryweather.” Merill, who had been masticating roost-related fantasies, found the hair on this one favorable. She likened it to a scoop of black ribbons flung heavenward to rain down in delighted spirals. “And if you’d like a . . . taste of how we treat criminals in The Barrow, you’re welcome to join me in my quarters.”

There were disgusted groans from the Cafatias, and a round of enthused clapping from Rigald. Danica paid them no heed; instead, she slung her leg over her chair and onto the table. “Or if you’re eager to gain my support you can crawl on over and use that mouth of yours for something more convincing than chatter.” She followed by slowly running her tongue over her seductively full upper lip. “I promise to return the favor, and I can be quite inventive.”

The yet unnamed councilman reached over and shoved her boot off the table. “By the Sundered, Danica, what is wrong with you?”

“The offer stands.” Danica finished with a wink and mischievous grin. Virgil returned her smile, if only for the sake of diplomacy. The twins were incensed, red with rage. Their scorching glowers would have burned through the woman if intent could be flung as sorcery. “This harlot, this concupineapple could never please our Virgil like we do!” Almi silently fumed.

“S-Slatternion!” Merill blurted. She reached instinctively for her bow, and if she hadn’t been prudently instructed to leave it aboard the ship Merill would have eagerly given the woman the shaft she so craved. She would have given a salvo.

“Oh, there’s no question with this one. It’s his, and a damn shame, too.” Danica shook her head in apparent disappointment, and the salacious smokiness left her timbre. She extended her palm toward Rigald. “Pay up.”

The merchant frowned but relinquished a purple velvet pouch. “Should’ve known better than to bet against you. Fair’s fair.”

Merill was ready to pounce, to snap quite literally at the woman’s throat. Illustrative of his familiarity with the elf, Virgil placed his hand gently over hers. It was a brief meeting, and the frisson of a thumping heart evoked by his touch was enough to soothe the elf. Merill relaxed her grip on the chair; likewise, the tension that’d drawn her muscles taut sloughed away. While he possessed the thaumaturgic capacity to sedate her, it was scarcely necessary. A touch was as potent as—more than!—any weaver’s spell.

She watched with unguarded enthusiasm the length of hair that slid from his mantle to hang, tantalizing, over his face as he leaned forward. Virgil was going to speak. She could see it in the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. He gave her the all-overs.

“That’s enough of that. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I am not here for you to antagonize my wards.”

“Lovers,” said Danica. “Your lovers. They’re awful actresses. The worst.”

“Even if that were true, my personal affairs are none of your business.”

The hitherto nameless delegate turned a scowl deeper than when they’d entered toward the guests. “Julianos. Feel free to gather my domain from process of elimination. And as it turns out your personal affairs are very much our business in these matters. Men with wives or children are more likely to turn to the side of peace as it were. Yet your choosing elves as companions makes your character all the more questionable. Wretched beings. I’d sooner put a knife in my back than trust someone abject enough to bed an elf.”

“These are introductions, not condemnations,” warned Salise. Her tone and carriage lost the softness she’d previously displayed for the hardened authority of an arbiter.

“And Salise is half-elf,” reminded Liam. His words were as powerful as his frame and very obviously chosen carefully. Likely a sign of his trouble with a foreign language. “Your hatred of the blighted elves is not misplaced, but I’m thinkin’ she’s done nothin’ to deserve your scorn, indirect or not.”

Julianos deflated at that. “You’re right. I chose my words poorly. I meant no harm, Salise. You’ve done well by me.”

“None taken,” the half-elf replied. The twins weren’t sure whether a smile or a frown would

be appropriate. Being acknowledged as his lovers made them giddy, inspired their heels to springiness. But the one with the weird name and cutting tongue seemed displeased by the idea; further, Virgil had instructed them to remain mum on the topic. Against her better judgment—which was already suspect in its caprice—Almi inserted herself into the conversation. “Our Virgil has had . . . a shaky trip.”

All the delegates save Salise turned furrowed brows her way. Salise offered a smile. Almi averted her eyes, finding refuge in the familiar mantle of her king. He hadn’t looked at her at all, but she could tell he was waiting for her to finish. Almi and Merill generally preferred the role of wallflowers, looking on with curious appreciation. But on the rare occasion when they wanted to take part in his work, he was supportive—even if it proved to be disadvantageous.

“Merill has been beneath, under, beneath the weather. And the tempest had us tossing and turning.” Almi wondered why they all had to leer at her. Were there not manifold items moseying along the walls that they could inspect as she had been? “So you tyrants should let us rest.”

Rigald let loose a paunchy chuckle. “The elf thinks we’re the tyrants, does she?”

“Irony at its worst,” said Minrva. Cassandra nodded. “Still, if the child—” “Seventy-four!” interjected Almi. “We’re seventy-four

years old!” The Cafatia matriarch gave the twins a once over before

bowing her head apologetically. “Forgive me. One can never tell with elves. As I was saying, if they feel we’re treating them as tyrants would, perhaps we should act more like hosts.”

Rigald gave a dismissive wave. “It was all in good fun. Are good-natured jests tyrant-like now?”

Minrva arched an eyebrow. “Is that what you call jesting? We all know Julianos is a man of hatred who has no place in these meetings or the Confederacy.”

Seething, the accused jumped from his chair and slammed his fists on the table. Merill noted its resilience: the ashen surface didn’t tremble in the slightest. She was proud of its tenacity.

“Who is it that faces the daily threat of death by the piss-be-damned elves so that you can sit safe on your island while your faunlets feed you fruits and cock? I’ll not have you questioning my place in the Confederacy! I’ve given everything in the name of the peace you so enjoy!”

“Councilors,” Salise evenly cut him off. “Your bickering is not what we’re here for. This man has come to offer his aid in the daunting task ahead and you’d rather occupy yourselves with pointless quarrels.”

“This man, this Virgil is also suspected of committin’ each of our highest crimes,” contested Liam. “A feat of evil, that. This makes me very uncomfortable.”

“Suspected,” said Salise. “And I assure you we will not proceed without first considering what he’s suspected of. Until then, I suggest we allow the Elusians a chance to rest. They have requested a break. That should be more than enough.”

Cassandra crossed cobalt-sleeved arms over her chest and inclined her head toward the Elusian party. “Please excuse our . . . turbulence. Recent trials have begun to weigh heavily on our shoulders.”

Virgil stood and addressed the council. “You’re only mortal. Something I hope you’ll consider throughout our talks. For now, I’ll have to ask that you find the clemency to heed my ward’s request. We’re all very tired.” He gave a slight bow and turned to Almi. “Give me some time alone, songbird. Look after Merill.”

“Yes, our Virgil,” the elf lilted. She touched his robe as he walked off, and a smile so diaphanous as to barely grace her lips followed his egress. Almi watched the exit for a score of heartbeats before turning to her sister. “Roost?” she asked.

“Roost,” Merill agreed. Weary, she leaned into her twin, who gingerly accepted her weight. Almi applied a peck of a buss to the comforting walnut smell of her hair and they shuffled to the stairs.

“Think it’s a lofty one?” asked Almi. “Oh, wouldn’t that be super-marvy?” “So very.” Merill tentatively tapped her toes on the first step. She

grimaced at the tightness of her boots and promised her imprisoned digits they would have their freedom soon enough.

“There’s nothing to see up there,” said Minrva. The twins gave her an inquisitive look as though she’d said something baffling. “Only old chairs and what-have-you.”

“They don’t care for snooping,” explained Salise as she pushed out her chair and approached the two. “They only want to look from the loftiest perch.” The half-elf extended her hand to Merill. “An elf thing,” she said over her shoulder.

Almi and Merill inspected the offered hand with dubiously pursed lips. The palm was covered with a network of tiny trenches traveling from digits to palm and back to digits. Some disappeared over the sides, where chimerical cataracts emptied to the tile below. The twins knew those creases. Virgil had introduced them to a strange practice known as palmistry decades earlier. They remembered him condemning it as a charlatan’s craft used to trick others. They’d said he could trick them all he wanted: his touch excited their palms to tingle so very approvingly. He’d concluded that their heart and fate lines were especially noteworthy; that they’d frolic on the plains of the red sky.

Think the preview was super-marvy? Or moderately marvy? Well, it only gets marvier from here. Decidedly flippant at times, morbid at others, and grim when it needs to be. I'd liken it to Alice in Wonderland, only more grounded—at least in the scope of a high fantasy world. So go ahead and pick up the full novella, won’t ya.