Unbound: The Unbound Trilogy, #1 60273e

Table of Contents

Title Page

Preface and Acknowledgments

Part One, Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Two, Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Three, Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Part Four, Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Epilogue

THE END OF | Book One of the Unbound Trilogy

Copyright Information

About the Author

Preface and Acknowledgments

Iam proud to present to you Unbound, book one of the Unbound Trilogy. 2020 was a trying year, and while many experienced loss, it also gave some a rare opportunity. Laid off from my position as a chef, I took the plunge into one of my greatest ions—writing fantasy. In the past I studied creative writing, and have written screenplays, short stories, and home-brew campaign worlds for Dungeons & Dragons for decades, but all attempts at completing a full-length novel were cut short by the time constraints of my day job. So gainfully unemployed, I finally reached a goal that seemed so distant. I would like to thank the organizers of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) as it spurred me onward to complete almost half the body of this novel. Also, the online communities whose well-meaning—if snarky—advice provided a wealth of information. I would also like to thank Joselyn, Stephanie, Duncan, as well as my family; David, Dorine, and Marc. A special thank you goes to my biggest er, Tamara Tupper. You were all there to offer kind words when things were rough, and periodically check up on me when I hadn't surfaced for a while. I'm eternally grateful to you all.

This novel is dedicated to the memory of Kentaro Miura. Your series, Berserk, began my love affair with the genre of dark fantasy when I was a child. The complex, strange, beautiful, violent worlds you built influenced the kind of author I would become. Thank you.

Part One, Chapter One

“N o, Djansi. Now sit down and be silent,” barked the schoolmistress, snapping her ruler against Djansi's small wooden desk. He stood in the classroom of the schoolhouse surrounded by twenty seated children near his own age. Each one pointedly avoided looking at him, and either stared forward or down at their papers. Djansi petulantly remained standing, though his cheeks blushed red, and his whole body quivered in embarrassment and frustration. “W-why won't anyone answer my questions?” Djansi muttered. “Djansi,” the schoolmistress said in a tone as calm and terrifying as the stillness of the open ocean in the night. “You will be seated immediately, and never ask about such nonsense as diablerie in my classroom again. Magic is not for people like you.” It was an archaic term, used at best as a slur, at worst as an accusation. The teacher sighed, then motioned with her ruler—which meant Djansi was to place both his hands flat on the desk. He did so as tears blurred his vision. She slid her ruler under one of his hands and flipped it over. “Palms up,” she said casually as a heavy silence fell on the class. Djansi tried to keep from sniffling and breathing hard. He knew his classmates could hear every sound he made in the small, still room. With a whistle and sharp slap her ruler came down fast on Djansi's open left palm. He cried out instinctively as everyone in the room shuddered and shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. The only person who looked at Djansi was a girl with long black hair two desks away. She watched his face as the ruler whipped down onto his other palm, expecting to see abject fear, repentance. She instead saw a scowling young boy biting hard on his lip to keep himself from crying out again. There was something fierce behind his amber-gray eyes. Long, bloody welts formed on his palms. “Dismissed,” announced their teacher to the class as she wiped Djansi's blood from her ruler.

He held his bloody palms against his brown linen shirt as he vainly fought back tears, which rolled down his cheeks unbidden. The other students gathered their belongings and mutely rushed past him, eager to be free. Now, Djansi thought, nobody will ever talk to me again. He left the schoolhouse, hands clutched to his chest, looking at his feet as he walked. The dark-haired girl watched him trudge off through the grassy schoolyard and into the quiet town. She had never really noticed him before. Djansi was quiet and sullen; he was neither particularly attractive, athletic, nor hygienic, often smelling of animal carcass and lye. Most thought him simple, though few had ever spoken to him long enough to be certain. Especially now, the other children gave him a wide birth, backing away and letting him walk far ahead. They wanted to avoid stepping in the trail of bright red droplets he left in his wake. “I've never seen anyone make a face like that,” she whispered, holding her notebook against her chest. She suddenly realized she had spoken aloud and flushed in embarrassment. She looked around to make sure nobody had heard, then darted off to her friends.

Djansi made his way dejectedly through the modest town of Fairriden. It was not particularly grand, but it was old, and well built. The buildings here were stout stone structures to for the strong ocean winds coming off the nearby bluffs. Djansi listened to the cries of gulls and the howling of the wind as he wound through grassy alleyways and cobblestone streets towards the outskirts of town. He byed any major thoroughfare so he wouldn't have any superfluous explaining to do before he arrived home. In an alleyway, he paused and leaned against the back of a building. He was finally alone. He let out a series of great heaving sobs as he slid his back down the wall to a sitting position, gripped his bloody hands tight, and imagined of the looks on his parents’ faces. They'll hate me like everyone else. How many times have they told me not to ask questions. Djansi stayed there as long as he dared, but at the risk of being found, he collected himself, and began his approach down the long country path home. The small cottage where he and his parents lived was built far downhill from the rest of Fairriden; several painful hours’ walk. The road was long and steep, ing from the town proper to the farmland further inland. As he approached, the more he caught the familiar scent of decay and manure. He and his fathers operated a leather tannery on the outskirts of town, where the noxious smells of their work wouldn't bother the townsfolk. There were sparse woods behind the home, rich in white hemlock, the bark of which was integral to the tanning of animal hides, and a nearby stream to rinse them. The cottage was off the main road, down a narrow dirt path. Djansi saw his parents working outside near an open shed that functioned as a workshop. Scattered around the yard were large wooden drying racks with hides stretched across them. Amemre sat behind a large oaken tanning plank, his bare stomach pressed against one end of the diagonal board, the other end set against the ground. A skin was laid over the plank, and with a great two-handed fleshing knife he shaved and cleaned it. Amemre was stout; well muscled, with a hard face, deeply

tanned skin, and a mess of wild black hair tied back loosely into a knot. He did not notice Djansi's approach, focused as he was on his work, as always. “Tkonda, father,” Djansi said, a traditional greeting in Oda. “Inketya, Djansi,” Amemre automatically replied, not glancing up from his work. He was not native to the Odan language and spoke with a faint accent. Amemre seemed more tired than usual. He paid close attention to the skin he worked, ignoring all else. Djansi stood clenching his hands to his chest as hot tears streamed through the dust on his face. Despite his stubborn refusal to cry, he was a young boy looking for comfort. “Djansi!” Agya cried from the workshop. He dashed out, dropping a polehook and hide as he ran. “My boy, what's happened!” Agya was tall and lean, with skin as dark as a moonless night, and kept his cedar hair cropped short. Amemre looked up from his work at last to see his wounded child standing pitifully before him. “Oh!” Amemre choked. He flushed with guilt and reached a hand out, but Agya was already on his knees in front of Djansi, inspecting the bloody mess he had made of his shirt. “Oh my boy, sweet Djansi, show me quickly.” Agya was an experienced hunter who knew a clean wound from a soured one. Djansi peeled his hands from his shirt where the blood had caked solid, and held them before Agya, who placed his own calloused hands beneath them as he inspected the depth of the cuts. “I'm...” Djansi began as tears flowed freely. “I'm sorry!” Agya sighed and spared a glance to Amemre, informing him with a mirthless smile the wound was not grave. “Let's get these wounds cleaned and bound, silly child,” Agya whispered in a comforting tone. Amemre went ahead of them to ready clean water, bandages, needle, and gut.

It was a poor home, a squat stone building with four chambers, but it suited the family's needs well. A large hearth dominated the main room, embers still smoldering from their luncheon meal. Finished leathers and pelts hung about the walls, as well as the heads of several beasts mounted with pride—though one trophy easily dwarfed all others. That of a massive stag-like beast mounted above the hearth. With an elongated muzzle, turquoise glass eyes, and a dozen silver-gleaming sword-like horns that formed a great natural crown that reached to the ceiling. Amemre sat at a long black-oak table before the hearth. He had a basin of clean water drawn from the indoor well and all the tools to triage a small platoon of soldiers. Agya led Djansi to sit on the bench next to him. “Be still now Djansi,” Amemre said with uncharacteristic softness in his voice. “This will sting, though not as badly as those strikes did.” Amemre cleaned the wounds with water, then a cloth dipped in some foul stinging liquid. Djansi tried to remain silent and bear it, but failed. “What happened, Djansi?” asked Agya, sitting beside his son, resting a hand on his back. “Was it those children again?” “No,” squeaked Djansi after a moment, wondering briefly if he should lie to spare himself. “Mistress Ysra, then,” Agya concluded as Amemre hooked the fine needle through a line of gut. Djansi nodded solemnly, his body tensing as the needle pierced skin, and his father sutured the wound shut. “Tell me what you did, Djansi,” continued Agya. “She is not an evil woman, she must have had her reasons.” “Reasons?” Djansi angrily clenched his jaw. “You think it's my fault, of course.” “That's not ... that's not what we meant Djansi, was it Ama?” Agya looked to his husband for , who paused his quiet sewing, surprised why he was being involved. “It's 'we' now that he's angry,” Amemre muttered. Agya's eyes narrowed so slightly a hawk might have missed it. Amemre cleared his throat.

“Djansi, what we mean ... is that you should tell us what happened, exactly.” Djansi flinched as Amemre pulled the needle through, but his father's massive grip braced his small hands in place. They did not rush their child's answer, but let him collect his thoughts and reply at his own pace. Anything else and they knew he would become stubborn and quiet. “All I did was ask her a question,” Djansi said at last. His parents did not respond. A few moments of silence ed, and Djansi elaborated. “I just asked her ... I asked her where magic came from.” Djansi's parents exchanged a distraught glance. “Djansi,” Agya said, “we thought you were done with those delusions. Magic is not something folk like us can learn.” “Why? I heard about the Runewrights,” Djansi protested. “They do magic in the south, right? We use some of their magic in town, even! How did they learn about it? The Drayburns got a stone in their well that turns black water clean! Somebody had to learn that from someone! And what about the stories in my book?” Djansi was frantically pouring out all the questions he'd been bottling up. “And I heard about the mages from across the Epoya. They did magic! Real powerful magic. They could fight with it! Not just clean water or mend a wagon!” Djansi's voice became hoarse, and he realized he had been shouting. Agya was still, his hands on his lap. Amemre finished stitching and bandaging Djansi's hands. He tied a knot, washed his own bloody hands in the basin, then turned to Djansi. “So this is why you want to learn of Nkaya, Djansi?” Amemre looked gravely into his son's eyes. “You wish to use it to fight? To what end? To kill?” “I ... I don't want to hurt nobody,” Djansi said. “But if you're strong, then nobody can hurt you. I'm not strong; I can't work like you or hunt like Agya. I can't run or fight, or anything. I'm smaller and dumber than everyone. If I could learn magic, then maybe....” he trailed off, his shoulders sagging from the weight of his own rebukes. “Djansi,” Amemre announced after a moment of consideration, “I will tell you

what I know of magic.” “Are you sure, Ama?” “He's old enough,” Amemre replied. “Best we do it now, to be done with this nonsense.” Agya nodded his approval, and Amemre cleared his throat. “Long before I came to Fairriden, before I met Agya, and long before you came to us, I traveled and fought alongside the Warbands of Jakim, a desert nation far to the south, beyond the Nuso Sea. It was there I learned the true nature of Nkaya.” Djansi sat, rapt at attention, his mouth hanging open. His father, Amemre, Whose Name Means Tradition, the man who rarely spoke more than a few words a day unless absolutely necessary, was telling him a tale of magic. Djansi would finally learn what he sought for so long. “We came to rest in the city of Drasi,” Amemre continued, “canopied in a desert vine that thrived off heat. It wove between rooftops, trees, and pillars; a blanket of shade for leagues around. At its heart lie a great city square, where beneath a green sky, thousands gathered for an Ascension. A scion; a noble ... a mere child, was to become Unbound by her master.” “Unbound?” Djansi asked. “Those who wield Nkaya. The Unbound. Though every nation has a name for them. The Jakim called them Ilgh'a, The Keyholders. In Fìrean-mòr, they are the Draoidh. Here in Oda, it is Nkosam, the Unbinding. Thus, you become one of the Unbound. Mages and magicians live only in your story-book.” Amemre noticed the sun beginning its descent from the window, and added logs to the hearth fire as he continued. “It was a terrible thing to witness. The toll it took upon her was not something I ever wish to see again. At first, I believed we bore witness to an execution. I even tried to stop them....” Amemre stooped by the fire and absently rearranged the logs with an iron poker. “It would seem,” Agya continued in his stead, “that she had been groomed from birth to become Unbound, and her family had paid a fortune for it. Djansi—only scions; only the very wealthy can afford this. To become Unbound would take

tens of thousands of our hides to hire even the lowliest Unbound to unlock your magic. That is more hides than there are animals in all of Fairriden. Even if it were possible, without training from birth, the process would kill you.” Djansi sat calmly on the dark bench; still and quiet. Amemre did not turn to face him, he could not bear to. He knew all too well the pain of losing one's hope. Agya, Whose Name Means Father, walked to his husband by the hearth, and lifted a large iron pot to a hook over the fire. There, together in silence, they prepared a meal while Djansi reflected on what he had learned. The two figures worked seamlessly, with no wasted motion. Agya pulled a salted hare from a clay pot and handed it to Amemre, who was ready with knife and board to chop it roughly. They seared the chunks of rabbit in lard at the bottom of the pot, added some root vegetables, plus whatever fungi Agya had foraged while he hunted, then water. It shortly made a serviceable, hearty stew, and together they ate. Amemre, Agya, and their only child, Djansi, Whose Name Means Life. With his hands heavily bandaged, eating with cutlery proved too difficult a task. To save them the embarrassment of spoon feeding him, Djansi gingerly picked up his bowl with his fingertips, then crudely slurped the chunks of meat and vegetables. Agya did not particularly approve, but Amemre raised an eyebrow, then began slurping from his own bowl, drawing a scowl from his husband. Djansi managed a small laugh, and soon, with softened expressions, the three of them messily slurped their dinner together. In their home, the only age from the hearth-chamber led down a narrow hallway to three smaller rooms. His parent's on one side, and Djansi's on the other beside the last and smallest chamber, which housed the sole modern contrivance his parents allowed; an indoor water closet. His parents helped him bathe and change for bed. Before replacing his bandages with clean ones, Agya retrieved a small black box from their room. From it, he applied a thick, foul smelling poultice to Djansi's palms, saying it would help. They bade him goodnight, and sent him to bed early without further discussion.

Djansi believed he wasn't bright. The other kids and his teachers had made sure he knew that. But he knew his parents well, and had the wherewithal not to ask any more questions of them tonight, even if a dozen burned hot inside him. Every time Djansi was told 'no', it only fanned the flames of those embers, making them burn a little brighter. He laid down on his raised wooden bed. The woolen mattress was firm, but he still sighed deeply and contentedly, relieved to be alone and safe. He smiled at his ceiling. “So anyone can learn magic,” he breathed to the empty air. Unbound. What was bound in the first place? What does it really mean? How is magic locked up? How do they unlock it? Djansi's thoughts whirled as he drifted off, exhausted. Before sleep took him, one simple question replayed itself over and over in his mind, answerless and gnawing. If someone has to unlock your magic ... then who was the first Unbound?

Chapter Two

Djansi groggily woke to the sounds of his parents beginning the day's labor. With a rush of dull, pulsing pain, he was quickly reminded of the previous day. He rolled to his side and stared blankly into his room. It was small, but it was his, and he was very fond of it. There was a stone hearth in the corner, beside which he kept a tidy pile of logs. He had few possessions to ornament the room save an engraved hunting knife his parents had made for him years ago; this hung on a leather belt on his wall. On his ink-stained desk was flint, tinder, a small reflective disk, and a few unused sheets of parchment; these were expensive, so he kept them neatly stacked on his desk next to his inkwell, homemade quill, and a single tallow candle. Besides these few sundries he had in his possession one book; a collection of faerie-stories. Though many of the words were beyond him, he was enthralled by the tales and drawings contained within. Djansi hung his legs over the edge of the bed as dread welled up inside him. He had to go back to class today. He would see Ysra and have to face the stares and onitions of the other students. He was rarely brave enough to speak with others—it made him anxious, so he preferred to fade into the background, spending his time in solitude. At least, he told himself he preferred it. Today however, he knew it would be impossible to hide. At best, everyone would chatter about him behind his back, laughing at his misery. At worst, he would be cornered by the older children again. To distract himself from his invasive thoughts, he took the small oval from his desk; a polished piece of tin he used as a hand-mirror. He thought himself ugly, and hated that his eyes differed from most. Something else for him to be taunted over. They were hazel-gray, lighter gray on the outside and shifting to gold towards the pupil. Today they were also bleary and red from crying. His curly mop of brown hair was a mess of tangles as usual. He tossed the mirror onto his desk and dressed quickly from the trunk at the foot of his bed. A simple white linen tunic with three wooden buttons at the top, and coarse woolen pants, all homespun. In the hearth-room, a small pot of porridge was suspended by a hook over a smoldering fire. Agya and Amemre had eaten, dressed, and began the day's labor early. Agya was brushing his leather armor as he prepared to hunt. The suit was

made of layers of deep maroon-red hide, some of their finest work. It looked cumbersome, but was feather-light, and made not even a single creak as he strapped it on. “How do you feel this morning?” Agya asked cautiously, as he tightened bracers to his forearm. “Fine, father. Just ... ashamed for asking stupid questions,” Djansi said, and hoped the lie was not as obvious as it felt. “I see,” Agya said, raising an eyebrow. He sighed and began inspecting the fletching of each arrow in his quiver. “Be prepared to offer such penitence to your schoolmistress. She will test your resolve, no doubt. Be firm, be contrite, be sincere, but most importantly—do as you are told.” Amemre came through the open door, smelling strongly of lye and leather, though the three were far too accustomed to the scent to notice it. Already a sheen of sweat was visible on him, and he roughly sat at the table and drank a clay cup of water in one long swallow. The silence which followed had Djansi shifting nervously in his seat. He did not know how to approach his father after the tale he had told. “Your hands,” Amemre said, taking hold of Djansi's hands without waiting for a reply. “Hmm, they're healing swiftly. Good. The poultice we applied last night was aspfoil. We traded a fine set of leathers for it last season.” “Aspfoil?” Djansi inquired. This seemed a safe enough thing to ask. “Yes, if enchanted, combined and stored correctly, it will heal even a mortal wound in a seven-day.” As Amemre spoke, he watched Djansi's face intently. “Your hands should be fine in two or three.” Djansi fought the urge to blurt out a hundred questions as soon as his father uttered the word enchanted. There was magic at work in their own home! Healing his body no less, and he knew absolutely nothing about it. Djansi stared wide-eyed at his own hands, as if he were about to shoot fire and lightning from them at any moment. His parents watched him bemusedly, so Djansi made a show of shrugging dramatically, and returned to his breakfast.

“Well, at least some sense has been knocked into that thick head of yours,” Amemre said. “Ask about that which is beyond your station and you will be met with swift and merciless reprisal from those much less kind than we. Do not meddle with the Unbound, my boy. They love their secrets.” “Also,” goaded Agya, prodding Amemre playfully in the side with one end of his hunting bow. “Also....” “Also,” Amemre sighed. “Here.” He stood, and took a leather jerkin from a peg on the wall, walked back and handed it to Djansi. Amemre quickly turned away, went to Agya, gave him a kiss to wish him good luck as he did every morning, and left the cottage without another word. “Does he want me to mend it?” asked Djansi, confused, holding up the exquisite piece. It was a fine sleeveless leather vest. As fine a thing as he had ever laid his eyes on. Soft as lamb’s wool, pliable, but strong. It was a rich, dark brown, with heavy stitching down each side, and four straps down the front, each with a buckle of polished brass. “It is a gift, Djansi,” Agya said, smiling warmly. Djansi looked back and forth between the jerkin and Agya, wondering how far the joke would go. “Try it on, then. Ama has been working day and night to finish this in time.” It finally dawned on Djansi that this really was a gift. He undid the buckles on the front and slid the jerkin over his shoulders. It was over-sized, but otherwise suited him well. “Ama and I believe you will grow tall before long, taller than either of us. So we left room for it to be adjusted as you get older, should it survive that long, of course.” Agya smiled and tugged on the jerkin, rearranging it and helping him adjust the size with the side straps. “It's so light,” Djansi mumbled, on the verge of tears, “and soft.” “We used the last of its hide,” Agya motioned to the massive elk-like head mounted above the hearth, with its multitude of great silver horns. “It was the oldest, most regal crown-walker I ever witnessed. I stalked it for months, many

years ago—long before you were born. It stood upright, like a man, over fifty paces tall from horn to hoof, hovering a handspan above the earth, as only the most ancient of the crown-walkers do.” Agya then leaned closer, as if telling a frightening tale around a campfire. “Gliding ominously through the deep, forgotten places of the world, they hunt for those who have lost their way. Never look a Forest Lord in the eye, son, for if you do, you will never leave its domain alive.” Agya looked from side to side then leaned closer still; his expression became deadly serious. “Some say the same thing about me!” He tickled Djansi who let out a howl of fright and laughter. Amemre listened outside, leaning unseen against the cottage, his arms crossed. A smirk crept onto his hard features. When Djansi had calmed, Agya stood him up and ran his hands through the boy's hair, doing his best to straighten it. “It took many days, and many trips to remove the head and hide. It soaked and tanned for a dozen years before Ama could even shape it properly. He said it was the most difficult hide he's ever tanned, and despite that I truly believe it produced our best work. Our crowning achievement,” he said, eliciting a groan from his son. “It's what bought us this land, and home. This jerkin marks the last of it.” “It's too fine for me,” Djansi said matter-of-factly, beginning to remove it. “You could trade this for a year of goods, new tools, hides, livestock—” “Djansi!” interrupted Agya, laughing at the prudent boy. “This belongs to you, and only you. Treat it well, respect it, and it will offer you protection and warmth. Many say the Spirit of a Forest Lord lives on, and that if their bodies are wasted, they will know, and become displeased, even beyond death.” Djansi gulped and ceased his protests. Perturbed by the idea, he wondered if there could be magic in this, but set the thought aside. “Why?” he asked. “Why are you giving this to me?” Agya looked at him, perplexed, then smiled. “To the day, Djansi, Whose Name Means Life, it has been thirteen years to the day since your father and I were blessed with you as our son.”

Chapter Three

Agya walked to the road with his son, gave him a firm hug, adjusted the bow slung across his back, then jogged south downhill towards the farmlands leading to the Epoya; the great forest beyond the wall. Djansi watched him, then began the long trudge uphill towards Fairriden proper. It was a cold, mist-laden morning, but Djansi took comfort in the gift he had received, and the warmth it provided. Despite his bandaged hands, he felt a swell of confidence for perhaps the first time in his young life. He ed the same old farms and ranches he did every day until he saw the myriad stone buildings built into the highland knolls. The village was high up near the bluffs that overlooked the Reidher ocean to the north and comprised around a hundred structures of various size. These belonged mostly to Named ancestral Odan families, but over the decades many successful traders had immigrated and carved out a place for themselves. Thus, each year brought more industry and diversity to their small town. Besides the merchants, farmers, grocers and other mundane tradesfolk in the town; sea-faring coral-hewers hauled shell for grinding, and limestone for construction from the base of the cliffs. Anglers braved the rough northern ocean for immense brugata; panther-like sea creatures so large a single catch could sustain a family for a year. Pitmen worked the pentan mine to the east, between Fairriden and Akuraade for its glassy black ore; the only such mine in Oda. This was the most lucrative business in the surrounding area, as pentan ore resembled black volcanic stone, but could be worked and forged like steel. As Djansi approached the schoolhouse, his short-lived confidence began to waiver. I can barely move my hands, let alone hold a quill. I know they'll make fun of me. He ran his hands along the beautiful dark leather. Let them, he thought, and hoped that defiance would not be soon overtaken by fear. The mist dispersed as the sun climbed higher and soon he was walking alongside more students as they made their way towards the school building. It had a grassy courtyard, and two rooms separated by a wide hall. Each class could seat

a dozen students plus standing room. One class had the younger children, of roughly five to nine years old, taught by an elderly schoolmaster, soon to retire. The second, Djansi's class, was comprised of boys and girls from ten to fifteen. Most ended their formal education at ten, though sometimes earlier, to begin an apprenticeship at home, or otherwise take on a suitable trade. Seldom few left for the great city beyond the forest, Bankese. The other students glared at him and chattered like mice behind their hands. Djansi kept his head down and hoped nobody could see how he shook. In the schoolyard, the girl with waist length black hair watched Djansi quickly approach the front steps of the school. She wore an over-sized azure-blue sweater, embroidered with pale white flowers, its sleeves over her hands, and black woolen leggings. Dresses and skirts were unheard of here on the windy bluffs, and entirely unknown to young Djansi, who had yet to see even a bare leg of the opposite sex. The statuesque girl stood with two others, both shorter and standing slightly behind as if part of a retinue. They followed her gaze to the boy coming up the path. One of these two was a short girl with blonde bobcut hair and pixie lips. She scrunched her nose melodramatically at Djansi as he neared them. “You can put a coat on a hound,” the blonde girl snickered, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “But he still sleeps in the mud.” She and a scattering of others tried to muffle their laughter. The taller girl in blue then took a few quick steps forward and blocked Djansi from entering the schoolhouse. He stopped abruptly and had to look up to see her face as she stood a foot taller than he. The moment he locked eyes with her, he looked away. She was Nsia, Whose Name Means ... something Djansi did not know. Odan Names were very private to some. Everyone said she was the most beautiful in Fairriden, and though Djansi knew little of these things, he found he could not look into her large, angular blue eyes longer than a heartbeat without turning bright red and bashfully looking away. “Does it ... hurt badly?” she said. Her voice was soft and quiet. Djansi could barely hear her over the howling wind. He looked up and saw her cheeks flushed red as well, her eyes looking somewhere to the side. Every other student stared intently at these two in the courtyard, who, as far as Djansi could

, had never spoken more than two words to one another in their lives. “T-they're better today. Enchanted aspfoil,” Djansi said, halfway making a fist with both hands. “It can heal a mortal wound in a seven-day.” He glanced up and tried to imitate Agya's warmest smile. He thought of all the trouble his fathers had gone to on his . They had cleaned, bandaged, fed him, and used this priceless magic. All of that, and a gift fit for the Emperor themself. Nsia blinked repeatedly in surprise at the casual mention of magic and regarded the beautiful leather coat he wore. She returned his smile and wondered just how little she knew about this strange boy. “Don't get too close, Nsia,” said the blonde-haired Yucca. “The smell might rub off!” Yucca tugged at the back of Nsia's sweater, making it seem to Djansi as if she stepped away. His smile faded, and he darted around them to the door. It swung open as he arrived. “Ah, so there are bodies with which to fill these empty seats,” Schoolmistress Ysra cooed in her calm, malicious tone. She took a step to the side and held the door open as Djansi, then everyone else quickly filed their way in. Djansi found his desk and sat, glancing at Nsia beside him out of the corner of his eye. He knew her family lived in the nicest part of town and did rather well for themselves. As such, Nsia had several textbooks, papers, and even a wooden tablet set with wax. Using a thin steel stylus she could write onto the soft wax during lessons, and later transcribe her notes with ink, then melt the wax to smooth it over. By comparison, Djansi brought nothing with him. He was mostly lettered, and had ink at home, but that and parchment were too expensive for daily use. He would save it for something important, whatever that might be. Another day of lessons began. Djansi paid little attention in class, as he found few uses in his day-to-day life for arithmetic, or the sciences. He enjoyed the logic puzzles they had begun recently, but he was far too occupied in stealing glances at Nsia. She had talked to him. Nsia, Whose Name Means ... Prettiness? Hmm, Eyelashes? Kindness? It was only then Djansi noticed the quiet figure of the schoolmistress standing beside his desk; for how long he did not know. “Well, little mage?” she said, which brought forth a murmur of laughter from the

class. She quelled this with a stern look. “Do you have any insight into Dtram's syllogisms that you would like to share with us? Or are you busy staring?” “Apologies, no, Mistress Ysra, it won't happen again,” Djansi said, the wounds on his hands burning alongside his rising temper. He would listen to his parents, however, and stay out of trouble. For now. He could bear another lashing, but not the disappointed looks he would receive from Agya and Amemre after all they had done. “Hm,” said the hawkish woman, who seemed placated by his repentant tone. She continued on with the lesson. Djansi, however, had what he believed to be a wonderful idea; to become a brilliant scholar, one for the ages, someone respected and wise. He'd study and master every subject—even the silly, boring ones—and be so damnably smart, they would teach his syllogisms, whatever those were. Part-way through his daydream, Djansi's attention drifted ever so slightly towards Nsia. Maybe her name means ... Blue Eyes? Thus ended Djansi's short-lived pursuit of scholarly learning.

A portly young man ladled out the school-provided midday meal of frument, a thick pottage of cracked grains and vegetables boiled in milk. It was more or less a staple of the village, at least for the children. The large pot was prepared elsewhere and carted over by the assistant, who filled heavy clay bowls for those who did not bring their own meal. Nsia and her group were among those who always had small cloth-bound parcels that held their luncheon. Normally they ate raw sweetfish, meat-filled dumplings, crisp, colorful vegetables, and boiled eggs. Compared to Djansi's lukewarm bowl of milky wheat and tough root vegetables, it always seemed a lordly feast. As they ate, the children would coalesce into their cliques, as children do, rearranging their desks into small clusters about the room. Djansi had early on gotten used to the habit of eating outside on a small stone bench by himself. It was just near enough that he could hear if the teacher called from the school, and far enough away that nobody bothered him. He didn't mind the chill in the salty air overmuch, but the wind was strong today. He sat alone to eat and tried to ignore the others bickering in the distance; it would do him no good to look over and confirm he was being mocked. The wind quieted, and a shadow ed over him. After a moment of stillness he realized that the wind had not lessened, but was blocked by Nsia sitting beside him. Her posture was perfect as she unwrapped her container and spread the small cloth over her lap. She set down its lid, then the small wooden box on top where it rested snugly. Djansi was suddenly very conscious of how he looked, how he sat, and what he ate. His hair was a tangled mess of curls, his skin was probably dirty, or his face was covered in food. He tried not to be obvious as he glanced at her. Nsia's friends were in the distance, arguing amongst themselves and pointing in their direction. Should I say something? He wondered as the silence grew ever longer between them. I should say something. Something ... anything! Why are you here? No, that's dumb ... Hello? No, too late for that.

A Djansi agonized over this, the wind picked up with sudden ferocity, forcing them to hold on to their meals with both hands. Nsia's long hair whipped madly about them, slapping into Djansi's face. The fragrance was not unpleasant, Djansi found. “Sorry,” Nsia said meekly in her dulcet voice. To her embarrassment, she could not let go of her meal to wrangle her hair lest the wind take the light box and its contents. Djansi set his heavy clay bowl down on the bench and reached down to cords used to stitch the sides of his jerkin together. As Agya had said, it was designed to be loosened and refit, so he untied and pulled out a short length of cord with little struggle. “What are you doing?” Nsia asked as one corner of his jerkin began flapping in the wind. He walked around behind her where, holding the cord in his mouth, he gathered up her silken hair in his hands and made a tail. He tied the cord around it, then as he had seen Amemre do a thousand times, gathered the hair into a bun, twisting it around itself, and secured it with the cord. “There,” Djansi said as he sat back down beside her. “That should hold at least long enough for you to eat.” Nsia's face was a deep crimson. The realization dawned on Djansi of what he had just done. He blushed fiercely as he inwardly rebuked himself for being so oblivious. Here he was, touching a girl’s hair in such a familiar way, someone he hardly knew no less. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to....” he didn't even know how to finish his sentence, let alone apologize. “No, Djansi,” Nsia said, their eyes touching for the briefest of moments. “It's fine. Thank you. I was just ... surprised. I'll return it later.” Somehow, just hearing his name from her lips sent his heart into cartwheels. He picked up his bowl and finished his meal with gusto. “You're very interesting.” She held her hand over her mouth as she laughed pleasantly.

“Thankth,” Djansi said with his mouth full. “You too.” They finished, and Nsia even offered to let Djansi finish her last few pieces of sweetfish. Djansi, never one to let a meal go unfinished, kindly accepted. Nsia tidied and wrapped her parcel, then went ahead to the schoolhouse. The surreal experience left Djansi bewildered. Maybe girls are like crown-walkers? If you look into their eyes, you'll never leave.

The rest of the day's lessons seemed inconsequential to Djansi, though he made a wonderful show of listening intently, and nodding along. He even volunteered an answer to the simplest question Mistress Ysra asked all day, something about the proper word for a wagon maker. His answer was, of course, quite wrong, but now he knew what a 'wainwright' did. After class, Nsia was dragged briskly along by her small group of hangers-on. They, mostly Yucca, steered their friend away from the unpopular boy she had been seen associating with. Djansi didn't mind. Any more socializing today, and his head was likely to burst. He truly didn't understand how some people were friends with everyone; always talking and running this way or that. It all seemed a terrible burden. He did, however, hope that she would speak to him again. He made his way home, knowing there would be work waiting for him. His parents had spared him yesterday's labor, but his hands were already regaining their flexibility thanks to the poultice. As he arrived home, Amemre hoisted a massive mallet over his head and brought it down onto a large stump, its center hollowed into a bowl. He was crushing tanbark; crucial in the process of tanning animal hides into durable leather, but unfortunately large quantities were required, which meant long hours of the menial task of pulverizing it. “I see you're taking good care of your jerkin,” Amemre said sarcastically between strikes of his two-handed mallet. Djansi had barely come down the path and already his father had noticed the missing cord. “I needed it ... to help a girl tie her hair, cause' of the wind.” Djansi removed the jerkin cautiously, unbuckling it from the front and laying it down on a pile of timber. “I'll get it back tomorrow,” he said. He ed Amemre at task, scooping out the crushed bark into a wheelbarrow, then loading whole pieces from a pile on the ground. He waited for Amemre to hammer, but when he looked up, his father was just staring at him quizzically. “A girl, you say? Well,” Amemre hoisted the heavy mallet with trunk-like arms

and brought it down, cracking the bark into chips. “There's a surprise.” They found their rhythm, speaking a few words between strikes, with Djansi quickly removing and replacing the bark; his hands barely cleared the stump before the hammer fell. “Does she like you?” Crack. “Dad! No.” Crack. “Ok, ok.” Crack. “She's nice though.” Crack. “So you like her?” Crack. “Dad!” Crack. “Well,” Amemre paused and rested the hammer across one shoulder. “She's nice to you, and you tie her hair up with my life's work ... sounds as if you like her.” “Can we just—” embarrassed, Djansi motioned with both hands towards the bark they were crushing, wishing he could take its place. He would prefer that to talking about girls with his father. “Alright, alright lad, at least tell me her name?” “Nsia,” Djansi muttered. Amemre gave long whistle. “Another surprise. That's Ltal and Dol's girl. If she grows even halfway like her father, she'll be a beauty indeed. You've chosen a fine partner.” “Arrgrh!” Djansi shouted out, cringing. “You're doing this on purpose, Dad, I know it!” Amemre laughed, an uncommon sound coming from the melancholy leather worker, but a welcome one. It was a deep laugh, a sound you couldn't help but enjoy. The two settled back into their work, from time to time glancing towards the road Agya would return from. They kept apace until the sun set and they

headed inside. Amemre spared one last look towards the long road south before he shut the door behind them. Evening came and went. Neither of them had to say it, but they both prayed to the Spirits that Agya would return soon. The Epoya was not the kind of place to stay past nightfall. During daylight hours, its edges were fine woodland, rich with game and herb, but the further in you traveled, the deeper the woods became. Like sinking down a steep shoreline to the blackness of the ocean, it becames too deep and canopied for light to reach, becoming a maze in the dark. Though Djansi had never seen it, everyone knew the stories. The trees loomed larger and taller the farther down you traveled, until they became mountainous, their trunks as wide around as fields. But no one living had gone that far and returned. There was a safe road that circled around the deepest parts of the basin, but the One Road took twenty days to traverse by horsecart, and Agya did not hunt the One Road. The finest and fattest elkwolves, eposaka, and near mythological crown-walker lay in the deeper places that folk never traveled. Deeper still was entirely uncharted. No living person truly knew how far down the forest went; how large it was, or what survived at those depths. Thus it was Named Epoya, The Sempiternal Sea. Djansi paced nervously. Night was full upon them and Agya had not returned. Amemre began to dress in silence. He donned a leather cuirass, then gauntlets, pauldrons, and greaves. Each made of engraved black leather of his own design and reinforced with iron bands. “Where are you going?” Djansi asked, afraid he knew the answer. Amemre said nothing, but grabbed a travelsack from the wall and slung it onto the table. Inside, he placed a skin of oil, a length of bandages, and a coil of rope. He went into his bedroom and returned with a small black wooden box. He opened it, set a leaf beside it, then scooped up half the contained aspfoil, before carefully tying the leaf with twine and gently laying it in his bag, leaving the box and its remaining contents. “You're going into the Epoya,” Djansi stated, then made a dash for his room. He grabbed up his jerkin and knife and came back, hastily getting dressed. “I'm coming too.”

Sullen-eyed, Amemre looked into the face of his son. “No, Djansi,” he said, stopping the boy before he could protest. “You would slow me down. I would worry over you, and miss a trail, or a marker in the dark. Or, Spirits forbid, something wanted to eat you. You're small—elkwolves love small prey, and they're much faster than I am.” “What about you then?” “I am not small prey. They won't bother me.” Djansi said nothing. He couldn't argue any of it. He was not athletic like some; his arms were lean, and he bore little muscle. He had a laborers stamina, but that amounted to naught in a fight. Amemre opened their saltbox and wrapped a large bundle of cured jerky for travel, and filled three waterskins. “How long ... will you be gone?” Djansi asked. “I may be back before sunrise Djansi, or sooner ... it may be several days. Agya has never once underestimated the Epoya in all his years, and neither shall I.” Amemre walked to an empty corner of the room, sighed, then bent down and lifted a floorboard, revealing a hidden stash. This was the first Djansi knew of such a hiding spot in the home he had lived in nearly his entire life. Amemre lifted out a bundle of black satin, from which he pulled a gleaming, flanged mace. At its heavy crown were razor sharp angles, its shaft wrapped in maroonred leather, and its base ending in a single long spike. Mouth agape, Djansi watched his father tie the deadly looking weapon to the top of his pack before slinging it onto his back. He walked to the door, opened it, and paused in its frame. “Come here, son.” The boy stood before his father who, armed and armored, framed by the light of the cottage against the black night beyond, was a truly frightening sight to behold. “Agya is far stronger than I, and more fleet of foot. I am certain he is making his way back to us, even as we speak.” Amemre placed his armored hand on

Djansi's shoulder. “You're a man now, my son. Worry not while I'm away, I'll bring Agya home.” He gripped Djansi's shoulder tightly, then turned and lit a small oil lantern. “Wait for us,” Amemre said as he walked into the night. Amemre, Whose Name Means Tradition, was soon a pinprick of light flickering in the distance.

Chapter Four

Djansi did as he was told. He waited. Agonizingly, he waited. Throughout the night he sat by the window, watching for signs of his parents' return. His eyes were dry for he often forgot to blink, so concentrated was he on making out any change in the shape of darkness. Three times he walked down the front path to the very edge of light spilling from the cottage. There he stared in vain into the pitch black. He entertained no thoughts of sleep, or food. He waited, and he watched for a shape in the darkness. Time crawled by, and after the longest night of his life, the first rays of light began coloring the eastern sky, revealing a thin sheen of frost covering the fields. On a fair day, you could make out the tops of the jackpine, ironwood, and sequoia trees on the horizon. Djansi ate a small wedge of cheese, splashed his face with cold well-water and drank deeply. He found no sleep. He dressed in ill-fitting traveling clothes; a brown linen shirt, heavy woolen pants, and donned his jerkin which flapped open at one corner. He strapped his hunting knife to his belt and slung a small canvas bag over his shoulder, its contents mimicked those Amemre had taken. He placed the small box of aspfoil in his pocket. Heart racing and deprived of sleep, Djansi marched off toward the Epoya. He knew they would scold him, but he couldn't wait a moment longer. He ed the Drayburn's elk ranch, who often traded hides to his family. The herb farm of Tl'lam, Whose Name, he knew, Means Treaty, and the Wallingbrook farms who grew wheat and barley that supplied the village. Djansi's mind wandered; his thoughts were muddled, and his eyes heavy. He looked out at the farmland as he walked. Neither the Drayburn nor Wallingbrook families were Named, meaning their ancestors had immigrated from lands which did not attach great meaning to their Names. These lineages respected the local practice, though. As native Odans recognized their odd practice of asg two, three, sometimes four names at birth, chosen seemingly at random. Odans sometimes took years to choose a fitting Name, the cultural practice being as much a part of their philosophy as their religion.

Djansi didn't understand his name; Life. The one thing literally everyone had in common. Nothing special about it. Not when compared to his parents. Agya, Whose Name Means Father, had once told Djansi that his Name seemed to be a cruel joke for most of his life as he had known from a young age he would never sire children. Then, he met Amemre, Who’s Name Means Tradition. Agya said they had met on a battlefield, and the two had not quite gotten along. Djansi wished he knew the whole story now, curious if they had perhaps fought one another—and who would have won. He always assumed there was all the time in the world to ask such things. The sun climbed higher as the morning frost melted. Djansi flexed his itching hands, then tore the bandages from them. On his palms was only a faint line where the skin had cleanly healed. “I'll hear all your stories,” Djansi said aloud, his vision swimming, his body not used to lack of food and sleep. Several hours after leaving home, he saw the wall; though never had it looked so imposing. Twice as tall as a man, and made of an unknown stone. Neither patrolled nor guarded, with a single stone archway that could fit three wagons side by side. People said it was here before Fairriden, but most believed that was a faerie-story; most but Djansi. Why not? He thought. We see proof of magic almost every day, why wouldn't the stories be real? As far as Djansi was concerned, even the alien Ehfaye were as real as the people of the village. Djansi took a deep breath and ed under the archway that protected Fairriden from the Epoya. He prayed to the Spirits of path, rock, root, and branch for safe travel. “Let me find them soon. Let them be safe. Let them scold me for coming here. Let us go back home hand in hand.” The path turned right from the forest towards the One Road, so Djansi kept straight where the forest gently sloped downwards. It would be safer in the daytime since elkwolves rarely hunted in the light, and eposaka—the forest centipedes, marked the furthest charted areas. If what Amemre said was true, he hoped he need not go that far. Djansi had never before stepped foot in the Epoya,

let alone encountered a wild creature. There were copses of black oak and hemlock near their cottage, and those were the only woodlands Djansi knew, with babbling streams, fat rabbits, and smooth stones for skipping. This place was as foreign to him as the other side of the world. The trees were spaced out, and the ground was littered with all manner of strange plant life. Ferns with wide purple fronds and yellow flowers whose color deepened as he ed, then returned to their vibrant hue. He listened to the calls of birds he didn't know, and the chittering of opresi; wide-eyed serpentine little beasts covered in fur that lived in the trees. And though he wasn't certain, Djansi thought he spotted a few of the elusive pentua kankane trailing him. Chubby, grabby little things, almost entirely translucent as if made of glass—making them troublesome thieves. Already nearing his limit, Djansi paused to sit, and took out a small piece of jerky. He broke it in half, ate some, and held the rest out. After a moment, he felt furry fingers tugging at it. Despite being close enough to touch him, even squinting, he could hardly make out the kankane's outline. Djansi watched the floating jerky bob away into the woods. Fearing he might fall asleep if he lingered, he continued onward. As he walked, he scanned the ground from side to side for signs, but he didn't know woodcraft like Agya. He hoped beyond hope he would simply stumble across his parents gutting an elkwolf, or collecting mushrooms in a clearing. Hours ed. Djansi could not find track or trace where Agya or Amemre had ed. Though he noticed the occasional tug at the string of his pack from suspiciously low-hanging branches. It seemed at least one kankane was following him and his jerky. The ground began its steady descent, and Djansi doubled his pace out of fear. He had grown up walking the steep knolls of Fairriden all his life and built a modicum of endurance for hilly terrain. He hoped it would be enough to get him out. The shadows grew deeper, though it was still midday and the sun should be at its zenith. The forest canopy was so far above him now he could no longer make out individual branches, only a blanket of darkness. He had once heard the

treetops across the entire forest stayed at the same level, and as you traveled further down, the trees became taller and thicker to accommodate their incredible height. The treetops were like the waves on the surface of the ocean, and Djansi swam down into its perilous abyss. Djansi felt smaller the deeper he went. As the darkness became absolute, a faint glow, like soft blue moonlight, began emanating from fungi across the forest floor. It was dim, but enough for Djansi to avoid the jutting roots and decaying branches scattered across the needle-strewn ground. He wanted to scream for his parents, even at risk of signaling his location to predators. It was getting harder to think, and his body shook from exhaustion. His eyes were bleary, his mouth dry, and though his limbs fought on, he lost resolve. He slumped down onto the bed of pine needles and fished out his near empty waterskin. Djansi leaned his back against a towering tree as he drank the last of it. Something tugged at his pack, and despite the fear in the pit of his belly, Djansi smirked, and opened the bag, setting a larger piece of jerky on the forest floor. The invisible kankane prodded it, sat, then held it up and nibbled. To Djansi, it looked like a small piece of food floated, slowly disappearing. He risked reaching a hand towards it. The creature seemed indifferent, and soon Djansi rested his hand on soft fur. Stroking the creature was comforting. Djansi leaned his head back and realized he rested against an ironwood tree. “I've never seen one before,” he whispered, struggling to stay conscious. Its bark was steel-gray, and impossible to cut without a rune-forged blade. “Don't you need ironwood to make a rune-blade though?” he asked the kankane sitting beside him, purring softly. “How did they make the first blade that cut it? ... It's just like the Unbound. Somewhere, someone knows. Someone has to know.” He grunted in frustration at the idea that he was wrong, that there existed any truly unanswerable questions in life. The kankane suddenly dropped the jerky and dashed away, kicking up a trail of pine needles as it ran. Djansi stared after it, but a footfall caught his attention elsewhere. Eyes wide, he turned his head slowly towards the source. In the shadows, something large rustled the ferns between the trees.

Djansi's heart thumped so loudly it rang in his ears. He wanted to grab his knife, but was too afraid to move. He remained still, watching the shape of the darkness. It moved, and nostrils huffed the air. The shape of a quadrupedal creature walked in profile between trees. Djansi swallowed; his breathing came in quick gasps. An elkwolf, he thought, terrified. But the creature then stood up smoothly and walked forward like a man. Twenty paces tall at least, it moved with eerie grace from the shadows towards Djansi. It bore a natural crown of a dozen silver-gleaming horns, the head of a stag, but with arms that were strangely human, each ending in six digits. Its fur was tan, lighter than the umber crown-walker jerkin Djansi wore. It stepped forward calmly and stopped a few feet before the gasping child. It did not hover above the ground as Agya said the eldest walkers did, and its crown was half the size of the one mounted above their hearth. Djansi recalled you should never look a walker in the eye—only a moment too late. They were not the eyes of an animal—they did not have the rectangular pupils common to many beasts. It had the round eyes of a human, full of intelligence and life, but with two distinct black pupils. The surreal being took another step forward, moving as if underwater. Djansi locked eyes with it, expecting a swift and terrible death at any second. He thought of his parents first, then his mind began racing with images of his home and his life. He was little, being lifted onto Amemre's broad shoulders, looking down at him, laughing giddily. He cried, and Agya kissed his skinned knee. He sat bundled between his fathers on a fur before the hearth on a snowy night. He saw an unfamiliar building aflame, Djansi was small, wrapped in a bundle, and being carried by someone he couldn't see. He could smell Nsia's hair as he tied it back.

He saw the crown-walker head mounted above their mantle at home. Moment by moment, Djansi's entire life was flashing vividly before him against his will. He wanted to scream, but could make no sound. All he could do was stare into the Forest-Lord's eyes, whose pupils slowly circled one another. There, Djansi saw each memory he experienced reflected like a flash in the walker's eyes. It was watching his memories. Djansi felt like his mind was being ripped apart, layer by layer, peeled like an onion. A painful pressure began to build in him as every muscle tensed, building to a sharp and searing pain as blood dripped from his nose, ears, and eyes. The crown-walker loomed overtop him and reached out a six-toed hand. The closer it got, the more Djansi's mind and body burned. The creature reached for his head, but paused, then brought a finger down to trace softly, almost affectionately over his jerkin. The images of Djansi’s life faded, and adrenaline surged through him, dulling his pain, and affording him a slender moment of fearless clarity. He screamed, and scrambled on all fours across the ground before sprinting away uphill. He found purchase in the roots, stumbling only a few times, but never looked back. He pumped his legs furiously even as they seared in protest. His breath was ragged, and he dripped with sweat—not that he noticed. His head throbbed, and darkness encroached at the edges of his vision. Still, he ran as fast as his legs would carry him until he was beyond the woods. He ran until he ed the gate, then collapsed onto his side as painful cramps wracked his body. He gasped for breath that would not come. The pale blue moon of their world shone above him in a clear sky. Night? He thought as his vision danced, and the stars doubled. He knew he could not have been in the Epoya that long. Exhaustion overtook him, and he lost consciousness.

Djansi came to with a foul taste in his mouth. He was cold, and laying face down in the road. Dirt and blood mingled on his badly cracked lips. He coughed violently and was struck by a crashing wave of pain as he did. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced; it blinded and sent daggers through him. He would have screamed out if he could. He stopped moving, hoping the pain would subside if he lay still. It did for a time, but always returned worse. He forced himself to stand on shaking legs, resolved that if he were to die, he would do it in his own home. Perhaps his fathers had returned and would rush out to welcome him. It was nearly dawn, and like a drunkard he stumbled up the empty road. It would not be busy for weeks, not until the last caravans would leave to trade before the winter months. Djansi returned home, though it took him many painful hours. The hearth fire was unlit and the room was cold and dark; his heart sank. The house was empty. He walked to his chill room and dropped onto his mattress, fully dressed. A small cloud of dust puffed up as he dropped, but pain flared to life as the cold of the stone room seeped into his bones. He had left his bag in the woods, but pulled out the small black box of aspfoil, thankfully still in his pocket. He opened it and dipped two fingers in, scooping up a third of the pungent stuff. With a deep breath, he plunged his fingers into his mouth and swallowed the sticky black-green paste. He did not know if it would help, but it couldn't hurt. Djansi was soon relieved to feel the pain easing just enough to allow him to drift into blessed unconsciousness. He tried to get his blanket over him, but his limbs would no longer obey him. He slept like the dead.

Chapter Five

In his dreams, the pale walker reached towards him, Djansi's life flickering through its eyes. He did not cry out, nor run in his dream. He wanted it to kill him. He hoped if he died in his dream he would stay that way. Waking up would be too painful. His family was lost. He was useless. Small, and pathetic. Amemre and Agya loomed over him. Useless, Amemre said. You've failed, agreed Agya. We should have never taken you. The alien hand of the Forest Lord clenched Djansi's head, engulfing it. It did not crush him, but was like a cold cloth on a fevered forehead. He no longer saw the nightmare of his parents, nor thought of anything at all. The crown-walker brought its hand away slowly, turned, and stalked back into the shadows of the Epoya, evaporating into mist. Djansi called after it. Wait ... wait ... hello? It looked back towards him as the dream faded. “Hello?” A soft voice called out. Djansi struggled to open his eyes. He was drenched in cold sweat, his clothes and blanket heavy with it. His face was burning hot and his breathing was ragged. He had no saliva and his throat was painfully dry. Light shone in through his small window as the soft voice came closer. “Is anyone—Spirit’s breath!” Nsia jumped as she rounded the corner and saw Djansi through the open door of his bedroom. “I didn't think anyone was here.” Her voice was small but to Djansi it was honeycomb sweet. She stepped closer and her expression changed as she took stock of Djansi's sickly state. Streams of dark blood had dried across his face, he had sweat through his filthy clothing, his skin was discolored as if bruised, and his eyes were crusted with rheum. “Amemre ... Agya ... gone.” His voice was hoarse and the effort sent waves of scratching pain down his throat. Everything hurt, as if bound to the torturer's

rack, some unseen force pulled him apart. Nsia came to his bedside and tossed the wet blanket off him, then began to unbuckle his jerkin. Djansi had no strength or will to protest or be embarrassed. He lay on his back, eyes barely open. “Spirits, nobody has seen you for a seven-day, Djansi,” Nsia said worriedly as she stripped Djansi of his vest and shirt, and set them beside the bed. She found a fresh blanket and laid it over him, then began to clean the hearth of old ash to light a fire. Djansi fell in and out of consciousness as the room spun violently around him. The next hours, days, or weeks, to Djansi's ing were a delirious, agonizing blur. At some point his head was gently tilted forward by a soft hand, and his lips found cool water. He took a few gulps before he began coughing. Nsia, Whose Name Means ... Tender? He thought. Sleep took him, then he felt a cool hand rest on his forehead, easing the pain. Sleep. He was sitting upright at the head of his bed, and heard the sound of gentle blowing before he tasted a spoon of warm broth. Nsia, Whose Name Means ... Virtue? He was being led down the hallway to the water closet, an arm around his waist, his arm around slender shoulders. Sleep. He was wiped down with a damp cloth in his bed. A shirt tugged over him. Broth, sleep, water. Nsia, Whose Name Means ... Love? Djansi opened his eyes. “You're looking better,” Nsia said wearily. It was dark outside and a strong fire was built up. Nsia rested nearby in a chair brought in from the hearth-room. She used a thick fur as a blanket. “You've ... been nursing me,” Djansi said. “I thought I dreamed of you.” He forced himself to sit upright. “Don't force yourself,” Nsia scolded with unerring accuracy. She stood, keeping the fur around her shoulders, and helped Djansi bunch up some blanket behind him for . When he was sitting, she leaned towards his face and rested the

back of her hand against his forehead to gauge his temperature. So close. He blushed and didn't know where to look. She pulled her hand away and sat on the edge of his bed, bundled tightly. She looked terribly tired. “I thought you might die, you know,” she said. “I've never seen fever like this. I lost a baby sister to pox, and Mansa was terribly sick once, but that ed. I've never seen this. You thrashed about in your sleep like you were being attacked. Then you just sort of, stopped.” “I don't ... I don't much right now.” His mind was still sluggish. Day and night were garbled. Dream and reality too difficult to separate. “You talk in your sleep, too” she said, looking into Djansi's hazel-gray eyes. Hers were impossibly blue. Her hair was tied back, but two long strands framed her face. “You ... kept guessing at my Name.” NO, thought Djansi, panicked. Nononono let everything else be real, but let that be a dream, please. His distress was obvious and Nsia laughed kindly, shielding her mouth with her hand. “Don't worry, it was flattering,” she said. Djansi smiled meekly and wondered where the nearest cliff was that he could launch himself from. Then his fragmented memory began to return; important things. His parents, the Epoya, the crown-walker. His face turned ashen as he recalled something Nsia had said. “Did you say I was gone for a seven-day?” he asked. “You must be mistaken.” “Seven-and-two, now,” she corrected. “Since I sat with you at school.” “That means I was in the Epoya for ... six days? That can't be right. It was a day. A day and night at most.” “Djansi,” she said gently. “Believe me. I asked for you on the third day you missed school. By the sixth I told my father to find out where you lived. The next morning I came and found you half dead. The herbalist is away, and I didn't

think it wise to move you. So I stayed. Mother is furious I've been tending to you instead of helping the house ready for Bankese.” Nsia paused. “You were in the Epoya?” “Looking for my parents.” Djansi barely held back tears. “Agya hunts there. He never returned, so Amemre went after him.” Djansi decided to leave out his encounter with the creature for now. There was no point in complicating this further. He heard stories of walkers eating whole bands of travelers, terrorizing settlements, and stealing children in the night. Had this one tried to kill him? Why had it let him go? “Oh,” Nsia whispered, reaching a hand out to rest on top of Djansi's. He was shaking. “There's still time before we leave to organize a search. Others have been found before, Djansi, I'm sure they're fine.” Djansi knew well the odds were slim of finding someone after this long, but his parents would be the exception. “We?” “Right, I suppose you wouldn't know. I'm going to Bankese with the others this season. My first year as an apprentice. We'll winter there, and return in the spring.” “Oh.” Unlike the other misfortunes in his calamitous young life, this one seemed different, though he did not yet understand why. “Well, I don't know how to thank you,” Djansi said to change the subject.“I'm pretty sure you saved me.” “I most certainly did,” she assured him. “And you have all winter to think of some clever and impressive way to thank me.” “I promise,” he agreed. Nsia added a log to the fire, took the fur from her shoulders and draped it over him. “You should get some more rest. I'll head home and tell my parents what's happened. I'll make sure they send a search party at first light.” She gathered up her belongings into a small pack and prepared to depart. “Just rest. I'll visit tomorrow.”

“Ok,” he answered quietly, laying back down. “Thank you.” She paused halfway out the doorway, where Djansi could not see her face. “Djansi?” she said. “Yes?” “What does your Name mean?” He could not blush more fiercely if he wanted to. “Life,” he said, and before he could say another word, she was gone. He listened to her light footsteps as she hurried down the hallway, through the hearth-room, and shut the front door soundly behind her. Djansi stayed motionless for a time, wondering if his delirium had ed, or if all that was another fever dream. Soon his heart calmed its furious beating, and reality settled heavily around him. He was drawn out of both melancholy and bed by the urging of nature, and though his limbs were weak, they worked again. He stopped in front of his parents bedchamber and opened the door. The cold room was left exactly as it had been since it was last used, ten days ago. The hearth was clean. The furs over the bed were neatly arranged—always by Agya —and the large dressing cabinet already had a wisp thin coating of dust. “Ten days?” Djansi climbed onto their cold bed, wrapped himself in their familiar scent, and wept until exhaustion took him.

Chapter Six

Djansi awoke at first light to heavy pounding on the cottage door. During the night he had migrated back to his room, still warmed as it was by Nsia's fire. Physically, he felt better than he had in what seemed like ages. His head no longer throbbed, and his body no longer spasmed. These were minor comforts, however, as sorrow begets lethargy. Half-asleep, he dressed in course gray tros and a black linen over-shirt that was a half size too big. Now that he was alone he would have to clean and mend his own clothes soon, of which he knew the basics, as every rural child does. He paused midway through buttoning his shirt, lost in thought, until the renewed pounding on the door stirred him from his reverie. The first rays of dawn peeked over the hills through gray clouds, and into his home as Djansi opened the door. There stood a middle-aged man; behind him, a frowning woman and another man looking distractedly southwards. Djansi recognized them as locals, but whose Names he did not know. “Did Nsia send you?” Djansi surmised, blocking the doorway. “She did, boy,” said the man standing in front. The irritation in his voice melted away as he took an of Djansi; gaunt and pallid, dressed as a beggar. “We're sorry to hear of what's happened,” he said. The man was well dressed and wore his suit of matching tweed as well as his years. He removed his hat as he spoke, as if he offered condolence at a wake. This struck Djansi as profoundly wrong, considering his parents were alive. “I'm Ltal, Nsia's father,” he said, then waved behind him. “My first daughter, Piesi, and son, Mansa.” Djansi parted from the doorway and bid them enter the cold, unkempt cottage. Piesi was a striking woman in leather riding breeches that hugged her form, and a heavy fur coat. As she ed Djansi, he became embarrassed his home was so cold and unwelcoming. “Thank you,” she sneered, taking in the room with a glance. Mansa was the spitting image Ltal's youth, though dressed in well-worn woodsman's leathers. It seemed the bloodline of Nsia's family produced only the

most beautiful of individuals. Mansa said nothing, but walked straight to the hearth as if it were his own, and stared up at the crown-walker head mounted there. He then began clearing soot and placed kindling to light a fire in silence. Djansi did not mind letting him, odd as the behavior was in a stranger's home. “Thank you,” Djansi said. “All of you. Spirits of home and hearth, I already owe your family a great deal.” He lowered himself to his knees and placed his hands together, touching the tips of his index fingers and thumbs, forming a triangle over his heart. An Odan sign of deferential respect and gratitude. He had seen it offered to Agya once after a hunting accident, who had then explained it was an old tradition, and not a thing to be done lightly, or publicly. Agya had emphasized the word publicly while giving Amemre a poignant look. The meaning of this remark was lost on Djansi, yet another mystery of their past. Now, however, he took some solace in picturing his gruff father Amemre in such a compromising position in public, and made sure he would ask to hear that tale in full as well. “That's enough, lad,” declared Ltal as he looked down at the boy. “Not since my grandfather's day have I observed a Hyira.” Mansa busied himself at the hearth, but kept watch from the corner of his eye. Piesi stood beside her father and laughed behind her hand in the same manner as Nsia. Except unlike Nsia, Piesi's laugh was haughty, rife with ridicule. “Now, give me any information you can, Djansi,” Ltal said, sitting in Agya's chair with a groan. “I've already had word spread of their disappearance to merchants, lenders, and vacationers likely to within a dozen leagues of the Epoya in the next span. Rest assured that many in town respected your fathers and pray to see them returned—for they were fine men, both.” “What were they wearing last you saw them?” Piesi asked impatiently, running a gloved finger through a layer of dust on the mantle. “Agya ... uh,” Djansi furrowed his brow, trying to recall their image, sending a wave of guilt rushing over him. “Walkerhide, dyed dark red, bracers, a bow. Clean shaven. Amemre ... leather with metal strips, shoulder-armor, and a mace.”

“Shoulder pieces are called Pauldrons,” corrected Piesi. “When?” Mansa said, resting on his knees, watching his fire grow. He spoke deliberately, punctuating each word. “Nsia said seven-and-three. Is this correct?” “No, at least, I don't think so. Agya left for his hunting grounds past the gate. Amemre left late that night. I followed the next morning when neither returned, traveled south for a full day, then....” Djansi hesitated, deciding once more his encounter with the walker was his concern alone. “I came out that night, before dawn of the next day, but weak with fever. After I got home, Nsia found me. She saved my life.” The strangers in Djansi's home looked at each other as only family can, exchanging subtle expressions that Djansi could not puzzle out. Whether it was disbelief, affront, or empathy, he couldn't tell. Mansa folded his arms and closed his eyes. Piesi removed her glove and set the back of her hand against Djansi's forehead without warning, causing him to jump. Unbothered by his reaction, she waited a moment before shaking her head. “The fever is ed. Unless it was something else that will resurface,” she said to her father, as if Djansi wasn't there. “There are no fevers I know of which come on so painfully, and depart without consequence.” “Did you take something, perhaps?” she quizzed Djansi. “N-nothing but water, and the broth your sister fed me,” Djansi lied. itting he ate a poultice, something that went on a wound, would be like itting he wrapped bandages around his head to cure a headache. Piesi hummed in reply, more engrossed in the entertaining image of her sister spoon-feeding a boy, alone in his room. She looked at her frowning father, knowing he imagined the same thing. “Could be a sickness of the mind,” Ltal grumbled. Djansi wanted to be angry at them. His body tensed and he wanted to shout that he wasn't mad, but he didn't, because truthfully, he wasn't certain. Somehow losing all that time in the Epoya was unthinkable. It was another question for which he had no answer. Agya hunted those lands with regularity and had never been lost, nor spoken of such a thing happening.

Piesi saw his visibly mounting frustration, and went to her father. “These things can be traumatic to children,” she whispered. “The pain of losing both of them has altered his memories. This is not unheard of.” Mollified, Ltal nodded at his daughter's wisdom. “Let us search under the impression that they have been missing for seven-and-three. Regardless of what events have transpired, that is the worst case, and assuming anything else would be folly.” His decision had an air of finality. “We will ride south and begin our search. Others will us soon but...” Ltal put a hand on Djansi's shoulder, making the boy flinch. “Many of Fairriden's traders are preparing for the road to Bankese, ourselves included. We plan to winter there and have much to do. At most, we can delay the caravan a day to aid in the search. I wish there was more time, but any more and we risk losing our writ of trade, as do many others. That gives us three before we depart. Do you understand, boy?” Djansi was still reeling from the idea that he might be mad. They had already decided he was, except perhaps for Mansa, who remained kneeling mutely by the fire. “Then don't leave for Bankese. Your goods will still have value next season,” Djansi said, his voice rising alongside his temper. “My parent's lives can't be traded.” Ltal took a step back. “No, Djansi,” he said firmly. “We will do all we can while we are here, but you must face the reality, boy. It is the endless Epoya.” He said the word with the reverential fear reserved for the worship of the Spirits. “There is good reason only Agya, of thousands, dared enter that place by choice.” Ltal looked up, his attention caught by the imposing head of the massive crownwalker. It was motionless, of course, its crown of sword-like horns gleaming, but its yellow glass eyes reflected the morning light, giving them an eerie semblance of life, as if following those gathered beneath it. Ltal swallowed hard, and left the cottage. Piesi followed close behind. “We'll by here at day's end, meet us on the road for any news we bear,” Piesi offered from just beyond the threshold. “Wake up, dullard,” she chided Mansa, still motionless by the fire. She scoffed in annoyance and left after her father.

Djansi watched Mansa, who had yet to budge an inch. His armor was well-worn, but clearly cared for. Djansi moved closer and recognized his parents work. It was a decorated suit of hard molded leather, with an iron ring in its center, from which three straps reinforced it. “Mansa, was it?” Djansi asked. “Is everything alright?” “What did you see?” Mansa said. He met Djansi's eyes for the first time; they were the common hazel-brown of most folk, unlike Nsia, Piesi and their father. “Nothing, I couldn't find either of them, like I said.” “Not that. What did you See?” Djansi was uncomfortable, but not afraid. This was a stranger he had only known for the time it took a single log to burn, but something about his bearing put Djansi at ease. “I saw a crown-walker,” Djansi itted. “It looked right at me. More like ... it looked through me. I know that doesn't make sense.” Mansa nodded, as if he expected the answer. “Far younger than you are now ... I looked upon a Forest Lord's calf. At twilight, in a clearing not far beyond the gate. So much like a young elk. I thought the tales were false. Then, the towering shadow of its parent emerged from the Epoya. Tall as an ironwood. I believed I had seen my death. I locked eyes with the calf for a single breath, then it stood— like a human, and ran to its mother. And they were gone.” Djansi exhaled and glanced out the door to see Ltal and Piesi mounting their horses out of earshot. “Why are you telling me this?” Djansi whispered conspiratorially. “Because I fell into a deep and painful fever that day. It lasted barely an hour, then ed as suddenly as it had come. If that pain befell me for the briefest of glances ... tell me, Djansi.” Mansa stood and leaned close. “How long did the Forest Lord peer into your mind?” “Mansa!” Ltal shouted.

Mansa took a step from Djansi, paused, then left the cottage. Djansi watched them from his doorstep. Ltal and Piesi were waiting as Mansa leapt easily onto the saddle of a stamping speckled mare, who snorted in irritation. Tied to the saddlebags was a long spear with a head of gleaming black pentan. “About time,” Piesi said. “You were napping at the fire, weren't you?” “Come now, children,” bade Ltal. “We have ground to cover. And Djansi, Nsia will not be visiting again. She has much to do at home, and has spent enough of her time here. You will be wont for food, so I have arranged with Ysra to provide whatever you require from the schoolhouse provisions. Other townsfolk will call on you today. I suggest you prepare for them.” Without waiting for a reply, Ltal shouted and spurred his mount onward, followed by the others of his party. Djansi watched them turn left at the gate and gallop south down the road towards the Epoya. As much as he yearned to defy Ltal and help find his parents with them, a deep fear settled into his gut at the faintest thought of heading back to that place. Adults were looking now, right? They were capable in their own way. They would find his parents, and before long Agya and Amemre would be sitting down with him for breakfast, eating and joking, and all the events of the last days would be a long forgotten memory.

Convinced his parents would return, Djansi sat by the fire. He was not mad. His parents were alive. He paced the room, stoked the fire, drank a ladle of water, sat briefly, then paced again. He glanced from the window towards the road many times. He was trapped. For all the kindness Ltal and his family were showing him, he despised being told to sit and wait. He continued pacing through empty rooms, reinforcing his delusions by fantasizing about his family, whole and happy by the day's end. “If she can't come here, I could go to Nsia,” he said to the walker-head above the hearth. “I don't want to miss Ltal and them when they come back though.” Djansi's expression became dour as he looked into its lifeless eyes. “If they come back.” A knock at his door made Djansi jump out of his chair. He placed his hand over his heart and spared another glance at the walker-head. At the door was a bent old woman with a basket under her arm; the matriarch of the nearby Dreyburn ranch. They chatted of small things, as neighbors do, then she offered prayers that Amemre and Agya return safely—but as Ltal had said, she could spare none of her household at such a crucial time of the year. She placed her basket of goods onto the table; inside was salted red meat, sweet purple tubers, and a pie. It was a kindness that Djansi found difficult to appreciate. The rest of his morning went by in much the same manner. His doorstep remained steadily occupied by a stream of well-wishers, acquaintances bearing small gifts, and even a few resentful customers who were expecting leathers, bemoaning how inconvenienced they were by the death of Djansi's parents. Djansi shut the door securely behind a couple whom he had never met, but who claimed to be close friends. Once inside, they had eyed the various trophies and pelts about the room. Djansi sighed and watched them go. Down the main road from town Djansi saw even more folk coming. This time, it was the pack of midwives colloquially known as the town's gossip-mongers. Laden with baskets most likely full of biscuits and tea they would eat while Djansi served.

“If I let them inside,” Djansi said to the walker-head. “I'll well and truly go mad.” The irony of saying that aloud to a stuffed head was quite lost on him. He latched the door with a heavy iron bar, then hurried to his room, picked up his jerkin, and only then noticed the leather strap which had tied Nsia's hair had been set back through its loops. Djansi held it close and ran the leather between his fingers. Her scent had long since gone, but he swore it remained on that strap. He slid on the vest, opened his window, and hopped out to the ground below, stumbling as he landed on weak legs. He left the window open a crack so he could return the same way, checked around the corner, then dashed behind the workshed as he heard the chattering get nearer. There, against the building which housed the pits where they soaked hides, Djansi could smell the lime, brain, and bark common in leather-making. He was used to it, but heard the coughs and gasps of the women at his door. Djansi spied on them and considered doubling back to his room. If folk who normally stayed clear of this place had made the trek out here, perhaps it would be too unkind to slink out like a fox from a coop. “—had the decency to take a proper wife, instead of that unkempt brute. Agya could have had a real life, you know,” Djansi overheard one woman say outside his door. “How true, such a shame,” agreed another in hushed tones. “Now let's be away soon ... I fear the stench will linger.” It relieved Djansi he need not feel any guilt for leaving them waiting as he dashed through field and crop. He huffed and panted as he jogged uphill through the rougher paths, avoiding the road and any more visitors upon it. It was midday, the sun high in a clear sky by the time he neared the zenith of the road. As the stone buildings on the edge of town came into sight, Djansi slowed his pace and wiped the sweat from his brow. He wound his way through familiar alleyways and grassy footpaths carved into the hillside. Folks everywhere were busy today, and the crowded roads meant Djansi could go unnoticed with relative ease. Even classes were scaled back this time of year,

as many students were required to work, though Ysra would still be at the schoolhouse with one or two pupils and an apprentice of her own. Under normal circumstances Djansi would have been at home helping finish the last stock to sell in Bankese. Neither Agya nor Amemre made the journey themselves, but paid a small fee for space on the caravan, then tossed in a hastily written list of goods they wanted in trade. Neither were particularly shrewd entrepreneurs, which was painfully obvious even to their young son. Agya cared only for the thrill of a fine hunt, leaving any beast he felt unworthy of his time. This meant some nights they had gone hungry because the game was too slow and fat. Amemre cared only for the quality of his work, not who it went to nor for what purpose it was used. The finest piece of armor he had ever made could be used as a doorstop, but Amemre would care only for the next piece, and the one after that. Djansi ed the general store where mischievous older townsfolk met to gossip and cajole on wooden rocking chairs. The store was a lively place this time of year, children held their parents hands or helped carry goods through the isles, and neighbors lingered to chat on the steps. From a shaded alley across the way, Djansi watched the families laughing together. A blonde girl coming down the stairs noticed him watching from the shadows. They shared the briefest of glances before Djansi ran from sight. “Who was that?” asked an older woman beside her. “Nobody,” said Yucca, still looking where he had been. “Just a stray.”

Djansi soon arrived at the nicest neighborhood of their town, a place he rarely had reason to come near, save one or two visits to deliver a commission to a well-to-do patron. There were a dozen notable estates, each with wide manicured lawns, lush gardens, and imported statuary. As far as Djansi was concerned, it was the absolute pinnacle of wealth in the free world. The two, sometimes threestory homes were all built in a shallow valley, which naturally separated it from Fairriden proper. The valley shielded the estates from the inclement weather coming off the Reidher ocean, allowing more freedom and elegance in their construction compared to the pragmatic stonework found elsewhere. Djansi made his way as casually as possible down the thoroughfares until he came upon a home surrounded by a low stone wall. Its yard was occupied by a fleet of wagons, carts, mounts, and working hands. The home was a wide, two story structure of red clay brickwork, wrapped in a veranda ed by natural wooden pillars. There was a broad case of white kaolin clay steps leading up to an open set of double doors, where men and women hauling wooden crates, luggage, and furniture moved like lines of ants. A short slip of a woman beside the doorway argued with a man holding one end of a pea-green chaise lounge. Even from this distance Djansi could tell she would get her way by the commanding tone of her voice, which did not match her stature at all. The lounging chair was soon being neatly packed and strapped down alongside armoires and chests. Djansi stayed across the street near a broad hedge and watched the curious scene unfold. He could not be certain this was Nsia's family home, but it was the most activity he had seen thus far. I want to see her. Should I have brought her something? Djansi's eyes grew wide and he became anxious over whether he ought to have brought a thank you gift, or come at all. Did people even give thank you gifts? What would you even get someone for saving your life? Without her he would have died in his sleep—only to be found when jilted customers ransacked the place months later. A shudder ran down his spine as he pictured the grisly scenario. “I definitely should have brought her something.” Nsia stepped through the entryway onto the front steps. Djansi dropped flat to his stomach instinctively and scuttled backwards until he was concealed under

the hedge. He wouldn't have her last impression of him to be caught spying from the bushes like a rogue. Though he was hiding in bushes, and he couldn't think of another word for what he was doing, other than spying. He separated the bottom branches enough to see. She wore a heavy green cloak with gold clasps all down its front, and another clasp at her throat. Her long black hair was bound in the same style of functional bun Djansi had once made for her. Nsia spoke with the commanding woman who was overseeing the move, then bent down to give her a hug. The woman was shorter than he, thin, with a cherubic nose and doe eyes. “I'll be back soon, mother!” Nsia called as she ed the movers and made her way towards where Djansi was definitely not spying. Mother! He shuffled back and released the branches to stay hidden. Based on every other member of that family, he had expected a tall, statuesque woman from a tapestry, not someone that needed a ladder to reach a shelf. More important than this discovery was the fact that Nsia walked ever closer to Djansi's hiding place. Getting up now would look suspect, so he stayed concealed, hoping she would turn. He waited, his heart racing, until her footsteps receded, heading away from town towards the northern bluffs. She was humming to herself and so sweet was the sound to Djansi he nearly forgot the predicament he found himself in. He belly-crawled across the ground until he saw her cresting the gentle the rise of the valley before dipping out of sight. It was not his greatest, nor sanest decision, but he decided to follow her. There would be a more opportune moment to cross her path, as if by coincidence. A moment, hopefully, that would not result in her shrieking at his sudden presence. He trailed her loosely, and having no skill in such things, lost her several times, cursing himself for a fool the entire way. The longer he went without announcing his presence, the more dastardly he felt. The worse he felt, the more embarrassed he was, making it even harder to call out. Nsia ed over hill and valley towards the rocky, wind-strewn highland cliffs. No one lived out here, but further out was a game-shanty or two. If someone

were looking to head to the water’s edge, the only safe age was back towards town. Unique wildflowers and lichen grew over the boulders and jutted through the tall grass, and the former seemed to be Nsia's goal. She knelt, brushing her long cloak back, so its hem would not be dirtied. Laying in some flowers, Djansi fought back and muffled an inopportune sneeze that threatened to reveal him; she didn't seem to notice, however, and continued picking a handful of anrokaa; star-shaped orange lilies, before moving to the next patch. Nsia looked peaceful and sang to herself. Djansi took a deep steadying breath and relaxed. It's Nsia. I'm worrying over nothing. Djansi smiled and stood, ready to call out to her. Before he uttered a word, movement caught his eye not far to his right. Crouched in the tall grass not twenty paces beside him was the course gray fur of a large animal. It had two long forward-pointing horns above its muzzle, and two smaller hooked horns below. Its teeth were barred, revealing a mouth filled with rows of dagger-like fangs. It crouched on four legs, low to the ground, and edged forward on padded paws. A full-grown elkwolf. It stared at Nsia's back. Djansi had never seen a live one. And somehow, this live one had yet to see him. They were ferocious predators; as tall as Djansi and as long as a horse. They impaled their prey at great speeds, then latched on until it was too weak to run. But elkwolves didn't come this far north of the Epoya. Djansi remained still as the surrounding boulders, his heavy breathing muted by the shrill winds and crashing of waves coming off the cliffs. He could flee now if he only backed away. He took a step back. His footsteps would be muffled by the wind, and he could run for help. There were plenty of folk nearby. They could get weapons. They could.... Nsia. “N....” Djansi opened his mouth, but his jaw quavered and fear silenced him. The elkwolf took several steps forward, then lowered its body, ready to pounce. “Nsia ... NSIA, RUN!” Djansi screamed loud as he could. The girl and the elkwolf both turned in shock. Nsia first saw Djansi, then the massive predator. It

growled low in its throat, then leapt towards Djansi with incredible speed. He turned on his heel and dashed towards the bluffs, his mind blank with fear, his body moving on its own. He ran to the cliffs for no better reason than that it was the clearest path before him not strewn with imable stone. A high, terrified scream pierced the cacophonous wind. Before Djansi could turn his head towards its source, the heavy padded footfalls of the elkwolf thudded behind him. Djansi inhaled sharply as two horns pierced his back. Before his body could even the pain, fur pressed against his cheek as the elkwolf clamped down onto his right shoulder. The force of the bite brought Djansi down hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. His head struck stone and white-hot pain exploded through him. He screamed as the growling elkwolf whipped Djansi back and forth with tremendous ease, spattering the nearby stones with his blood. It tore flesh, dislocated his shoulder, and crunched into bone. Djansi's vision swam and adrenaline flooded through him so quickly he almost didn't feel the elkwolf any longer. No, he didn't feel it. It had let go. Djansi blinked in confusion as the beast backed away, leaving Djansi on his back near the precipice of the cliff. In a daze, he struggled to sit upright, his right arm hanging useless at his side. He looked down to his chest where neither horn nor fang had penetrated the walkerhide. The strength of the elkwolf's jaw had torn his flesh beneath it, but the garment was barely marred, and helped staunch the wounds. The bleeding injury on his head left him blind in one eye, but he could still make out the elkwolf stalking circles around him. It seemed infuriated that Djansi had not been impaled. It huffed and smelled the air, growling and backing away. With every ing second Djansi became more light headed, his vision darkening at the edges. Nsia was running. Good, Djansi thought. Get away. The predator was done with Djansi, however, and turned towards the fleeing girl. No. Nsia stumbled on her cloak and fell to the ground. She turned to see the beast close the distance between them as she scrambled back. No!

Djansi trembled as more blood flowed. He had no strength to move, let alone stand. He reached out vainly with his left hand towards them, and recalled the way a strange six-toed hand had once reached for him. Djansi stumbled forward, slapping wetly against the stone, his fingers clawing against the rock. He watched as the beast neared Nsia. She didn't scream, but her eyes were shut; waiting. “No!” Djansi howled, spitting blood onto the stone and digging his nails in deeper. He suddenly felt the sensation of cool water rushing, not over him, but through him. As if he stood formless in a running brook. The world slowed around him, and the current sped up, becoming stronger; more violent. Soon, it was as if the churning rapids of a river were trapped inside his body, stretching it, breaking it. Every t popped, and his muscles and skin tore as if pulled apart by some unseen force. He tried to scream; he wanted to die, but more than either, he wanted Nsia to live. The raging current poured into his outstretched arm, then to his hand, shattering his bones to splinters as it traveled. Then something unseen released from his hand to the stone. A slender crack appeared in the rock, then shot out a cloud of dust as it snapped open wider. The fissure expanded, then raced forward, branching out across the surface of the ground. It grew wider and popped louder as the breaks forked out like lightning. The ground rumbled and shook beneath the three of them. The space where Nsia knelt lurched upwards. No, Djansi realized. She hadn't moved. The cliff face that bore Djansi and the elkwolf was falling away to the ocean. Pebble and boulder careened hundreds of feet down to the water. Nsia opened her eyes only to see the cliff sliding away from land. Where it separated, it left a near-perfect outline around her, leaving her safely at the edge, while tonnes of earth carried the howling, maddened elkwolf, and Djansi away. As the space widened, the elkwolf took a frenzied leap towards safety. It fell short, crashing onto the smooth rock face. Its claws left deep gashes in the stone as it yelped in panic, trying to find some purchase. Then it fell, and broke upon the jagged rocks below, before being swept from sight by the roiling water. Neither Djansi's legs or arms moved to obey him. His right arm and shoulder

were dislocated and torn; his left arm was a swollen, bloody mass of broken bone. He was numb to the pain; his vision dark. Only a lingering remnant of the strange current that tore him apart remained. Perhaps because of his head wound, the sky seemed tinted purple and blue. In his last moments, he was overcome with happiness. By the grace of his fathers gift was he able to live long enough to save someone. They had protected him in the end, and let him bear witness one last time to Nsia as the cliff he rode slid further away. She wept, reaching out in vain, and shouted something he couldn't hear. He thought of his parents as he watched her. He could almost see them standing there. Djansi wanted his last thoughts to be pleasant ones. “I did it,” he said, smiling at the three of them as they slipped from view. “I did magic.” Djansi and the cliff crashed into the ocean.

Part Two, Chapter Seven

Nsia watched the cliff fall away bearing Djansi out of sight. Tonnes of stone and dirt crashed into the water, drowning out her screams of protest. Her voice was hoarse by the time she quieted and began scanning the bluffs for some way down to the water’s edge. She leaned precariously far over the lip of the precipice as she called his Name; over and over. She saw only rows of jagged boulders amidst the breaking waves. “Life!” Nsia screamed into the water. “It means life!” She turned and raced back to her home. The moment it was within sight, the disheveled girl began signaling for help. “He fell!” she cried, stopping all in their tracks. “Djansi! Search the water. He was too wounded to swim! That way!” She pointed in the direction she'd come, as her older brother, Akosi, caught her before she collapsed. Dol clicked her tongue. “Fine time for your father to be away. Akosi! Take two, head to the beach path, tell every fisher and hewer to scour three leagues by two leagues out along the northeast bluffs. If they refuse, tell them I will scuttle their ships myself, and take great pleasure in doing so!” The small woman's voice dripped venom, at odds with her child-like bearing. She was Dol, Whose Name Meant Shrewd, and she was not lightly disobeyed. Akosi, a shorter, doe-eyed reflection of his father, nodded once, called to a couple hired hands, and dashed towards the stable. “Annah, head to the bluffs with flint and tinder, signal the boats if you see signs of life,” Dol said to Nsia's second sister, a quiet, studious young woman in round spectacles. “Yes, mother,” Annah said. “Part of the cliffs collapsed with Djansi on them, you'll see it, but it may still be unstable,” Nsia said as Annah departed. “There will be a dead elkwolf by the rock-shore, nearest where he fell. It should be a marker to find him.” Annah turned in astonishment, and Dol grabbed Nsia's arm. Neither found Nsia's tone indicated she was kidding.

“Go then!” Dol snapped to Annah, waving her hand. “Be quick! If the child can't swim, we haven't long.” Annah set her glasses in a front pocket and sprinted away. “I'll take Poplar to the boats. I'm going to find him,” Nsia said. “Well,” Dol replied. “Let's ride together, then. See what we can do.” The two women mounted a dappled white and brown stallion, Dol in front holding the reins, Nsia behind. They rode swiftly through the town, Dol occasionally glancing back to see the tear-stained face of her youngest. Townsfolk called after them out of curiosity, but when the crowds became too thick, Dol shouted in a general's tone for them to move aside or be trampled. One man was too slow and was flung aside by the horse. He cursed them until the moment he recognized the rider’s identities, then quickly shut his mouth. Soon, mother and daughter neared a steep winding road that led through a manmade canyon dug into the cliffs. This led to the anchorage beneath town where a dozen ships of various sizes and states of disrepair were usually moored to floating wooden docks. Two long arms of stone, each a league in length, reached out from either side of the rock-shore, leaving a small opening into the Reidher. This stone breakwater had been built to prevent the tall waves from thrashing the ships against the rocks. Despite that, many inexperienced sailors had been lost to these treacherous waters. Fishing and coral hewing were not only some of the village's more lucrative professions but also the deadliest. Akosi was in the midst of arguing with several sailors on the pier. He had gotten word out, and a half dozen small, steel-reinforced wooden longboats were being rowed out by their teams. Dol and Nsia dismounted, then tied Poplar off before heading onto the floating platforms. The ship moored near Akosi had thick, glistening padding surrounding its hull that made it ideal for staying near the jagged shoreline without fear of being sunk. Dol walked between her son and the sailors. “Mother, thank the Spirits! Buckingsea won't yield the Hateni for the search, ”

Akosi said, dismayed. “An' no strong-armin' by yer maw will change me mind!” Buckingsea said in his thick Fìrean-mòr accent. “Some fae-touched lad'll always kill imself' on the rocks, happened a hunnerd times afore, and suren it won't be the last.” He was broad chested, his fiery beard streaked with white, wearing layers of slick, weatherproofed leather. Dol, less than half the size of the brutish sailor, planted her feet and shoved him backwards with surprising strength. It caught the shocked captain off-guard and he flew backwards over open water to land hard on his backside on the prow of his vessel. Bruised and astonished, he stared at the diminutive woman scowling down at him. “I believe I misheard you, Buckingsea,” Dol said calmly. The crewmen on the dock were ready to take up arms at a word from their captain. “Now hol' up jus' a—” Buckingsea spat, struggling to right himself. “Please!” Nsia reproached both the captain and her mother. She stepped easily off the dock and onto the Hateni, offering her outstretched hand to the sailor. “Djansi,” Nsia said, “has just lost his parents to the Epoya. He saved my life from an elkwolf upon those bluffs. Used himself as bait to lure it to the cliffs where they both fell. If such an act of bravery does not spur you to action, sir, then you are no sailor, nor a man of honor!” The old sailor took her proffered hand and stood. “A'right lass. Ifen words such as yours canny move me, then like ye say, I'd be no man.” He whistled deafeningly loud with both hands in his mouth, and immediately boots stomped across the swaying wooden dock towards the single masted oar-ship. The gathered crew prepared her to launch without another word of protest. Nsia helped her mother board as they untied the final ropes, and the incomplete crew of six men and women, including Akosi, sat at rowing benches, affixing their oars. Buckingsea stood at the forecastle by the prow, watching his crew. Dol stood beside him, at ease on the rocking vessel.

“Sorry about nearly killing you,” she offered politely to the old sailor. “No, ma'm, I'm sorry.” He laughed, watching as Nsia insisted she help row. “Sorry indeed I never had a child to marry yer girl.” They made good speed ing the narrow channel of the breakwater and out onto the open ocean. It was Nsia's first time to sea, and her stomach churned as the ship climbed over the waves. A crewman offered her shelter in the cramped storage cabin at the stern, away from the foam and spray, but Nsia refused and took up an empty seat to row. She caught the rhythm quickly, concentrating only on imitating the movements of the other oarsman. She gripped the oar so tightly her knuckles were white. It was laboriously difficult keeping the ship close to the base of the cliffs without losing control. Buckingsea kept a hand on the fore gunwale and shouted directional commands from the prow, to the helmsman astern. The rowers heaved with all their might, and seemed accustomed to using their oars to press off the rocks when the ship drew too close. They ed several others out canvasing at Dol's order, but none of them could get as close to the stalagmite-like base as the Hateni with her resilient, pliable shell. As they neared the section of cliff that had been sundered, and saw the monolithic debris scattered near the shoreline, Dol and the crew looked in amazement at the scale of it. “Breaker and stone; corrosion and crag,” Buckingsea muttered in prayer, wiping the wet hair from his face. Annah's signal fire was lit atop the cliffs. “There!” Nsia abandoned her oar and rushed to the bow, pointing to a section of stone, whose tip jutted above the waves. “Djansi was near there when it fell.” “Ye heard the lass! Forward!” The ship lurched as it scraped an unseen boulder beneath, sending a frightened Nsia flying, shouting, to the deck. She looked up, embarrassed to see nobody else perturbed by the bump. They were not sinking; in fact, it was only the first of many such collisions, but the Hateni was designed for worse. Dol helped her up and brought her to the forward gunwale next to Buckingsea. Her inexperience at the oars would only hinder the crew in this hazardous

terrain. Nsia gripped the railing with both hands, ignoring her nausea, and searched the water for her friend. They circled the crags for what seemed like an eternity. Nsia could tell that Buckingsea, her mother, and the crew had given up hope anyone would survive a fall like that. If not the fall, he would have drowned, if not drowned, then succumb to his wounds, if not that, then be frozen in the water. Everyone aboard the Hateni searched for a corpse, except Nsia. “Lady Nsia,” the old captain said, removing his cap. “'Tis' almost time. The sun will set.” “No,” Nsia replied. “At least ... a little longer, please?” “Aye, lass. A little while longer, then.” Buckingsea ordered his ship as close to the shore as possible, while the other vessels returned to harbor before nightfall. Something dark bobbed up and down with the advance and retreat of the waves. Nsia leaned dangerously far forward, squinting in the dimming light. “There's something there! Djansi!” She screamed his name again, though she couldn't tell what it was she saw. As they drew nearer, the ship heaved from side to side, bouncing off jutting stone. There, they saw the bloated corpse of the elkwolf—pinned between boulders as large as houses—impossible to see from land. Their vessel ran aground, with no more space to approach. Nsia saw a human arm gripping the fur of the dead animal. “Djansi!” Dol held her back from jumping in herself. One of the younger sailors took off his clothes down to a loincloth and tied a rope about his waist. “He's as fine a swimmer as we 'ave, but...” Buckingsea continued sullenly, “ye may not like what ye see.” The captain said this more to Dol than Nsia—that she should decide whether or not to shield her daughter from what they brought aboard.

Soon the young sailor known as Ora was carefully lowered into the frigid, rockstrewn water. He made his way cautiously, swimming only from crag to crag and gripping where he could so the waves wouldn't catch him. The crew watched and prayed. Ora reached the fallen elkwolf, and held on to it for , alongside the still body that clung to its hide. Ora struggled to try and dislodge the body from the creature. The fingers of one hand were dug into its flesh, the other arm hung limp. Another pull, and the body came free, with a handful—and mouthful of fur. Ora gave the signal and took the body under one arm as the crew began reeling them both in. Nsia waited, and watched; helpless once more. This moment, filled only with the sloshing waves, the creak of timber, and the heaving crew, filled her gut with more dread than when her own life had been at stake. Ora slung the body over the rail of the ship. The sailors hauled it aboard and laid it on its back as Ora clattered over, shivering and panting for breath. Djansi's eyes were locked open, staring blankly upwards. His lips were blue, and his right arm was a hideous, swollen mass of splintered bone and flesh. Both Ora and Djansi were wrapped in blankets as Nsia watched, pale and silent. Buckingsea called for oars, which were then used to free the ship and push it from the crags. He took Ora's empty seat and began rowing while shouting commands. Nsia, Dol, and Ora carried Djansi as gently as they could across the deck to the cabin. Once they were inside, away from the noise and salty ocean spray, Nsia knelt at his side. “Djansi,” she cried over him, “Djansi, please.” Dol looked into the boy's glassy eyes, sighed, and put her hands to the side of his head, then pressed her ear against his mouth and held it there for a long while. Dol shot upright in surprise. “Breath!” she gasped. “He's alive?” For a moment, Ora and Nsia both stared at Dol as if she were mad. “His frozen clothes, get them off!” Dol shouted at them. His shirt and pants were rigid, but the walkerskin jerkin, bearing the deep imprints of an elkwolf's fangs, was

impossibly warm to the touch. Nsia removed the vest, sticky with blood. As she did, she saw the extent of his wounds underneath, and turned away to be sick in a corner. Dol then closed and tightened the jerkin. It had cinched the blood-flow this far, perhaps it would carry him a bit further. They removed and cut away what frozen clothes they could, then wrapped him in every blanket and canvas cloth they could find. There was little else they could do but pray. “Home and hearth; current and creek,” Nsia said. “I knew there was no way the Spirits would let you die. I knew you had to be alive. You don't get to trade your life away like that.” His eyelids drooped and though he could not turn his head, or move at all, his eyes shifted ever so slightly towards Nsia's face, then closed.

Chapter Eight

The Hateni arrived at dock as the sun dipped in the western sky, casting long shadows over the harbor beneath the cliffs of Fairriden. A party had gathered by her berth, Annah at their front. The ship docked hurriedly; two sailors leapt to the pier carrying mooring ropes to tie her off before she’d even stopped moving. “There's a fresh horse-cart ready just off the dock,” Annah called out from the pier. No sooner had a gang plank been heaved over the ship’s side, than Annah came up carrying one end of a stretcher. “I saw from the cliffs—where is he?” Nsia brought her sister to the cabin and together they shifted him over to the stretcher. The crew stayed out of the way as they carried Djansi down the plank and into the small crowd. Some had come just to see for themselves whether he was alive or not. Buckingsea offered his hand to Nsia to help her onto the plank. “Do you know, Captain, what Hateni means in old Odan?” she asked. “Salvage, innit?” She shook her head, expecting the answer, and still gripping his hand. “A common misinterpretation. It means Savior. Hateni, Whose Name Means Savior.” She smiled at him, then followed Djansi and his small procession. Nsia ed him in the back of the cart as the team of plow horses hauled them up the steep incline towards town. It was a moonless night, and the town's windows were shuttered. Their only light was a hooded lantern swinging on a hook mounted next to the coachman, illuminating the dark gravel path into town. Down the main road, a single open door flooded the street with flickering lamplight. Fairriden's herbalist had at last returned. An elderly woman, and her rotund assistant waited outside for their patient to arrive. Larger cities had surgeons, or even Unbound healers, if the client were wealthy enough. Here, as far north as one could be before leaving the continent, cut off from civilization by the vast Epoya to the south, and the Reidher ocean to the north—an herbalist, often known as hedge witch by the elderly, was worth their

weight in pentan. The heavyset assistant helped bring Djansi from the wagon into the cottage hospital as Dol shared a private word with the herbalist. She pressed something into the old healer's hand, which went quickly into her coat pocket. The silverhaired herbalist gave Dol a nod, then followed Djansi inside. Nsia moved to follow as well, but felt a tug at her sleeve. “No, Nsia. That is more than enough for today,” Dol said. “I'm staying with him.” Nsia pulled her hand free. “You'll only be in the way. Neither myself nor Misstress Brightnora will allow you inside.” Dol ran her hand along her daughter's cold arms. “It's enough that you survived today, and have helped save that boy from a watery grave.” The fire left Nsia, and the cumulative events of the day pressed heavily upon her. Her shoulders slumped and she nodded in agreement. As they departed, Nsia stopped several times to look back at the hospital, as if expecting to see Djansi there. The two of them made the brisk, somber walk home, and saw their house brightly lit and bustling with commotion as they arrived. Rounding the gate, they were glad to see Chestnut was back, as well as several other familiar mounts. Ltal barreled down the path, falling to his knees and wrapping his wife and youngest daughter in a great hug before they could reach the house. “We just returned to hear you were at sea! Thank the Spirits you're safe,” Ltal said, his face buried between them. He stepped back and looked them both up and down. They were disheveled, shivering, wet, and altogether ragged and weary. He ushered them both indoors, where Mansa had lit a roaring fire in the drawing room on the first floor. Soon Nsia had changed into dry clothing, and sat wrapped in soft blankets on a long cushioned sofa that had been pushed closer to the fire. The room was mostly barren, as many pieces of furniture and artwork had already been removed and packed for travel. Those items remaining were draped in heavy canvas cloth to stave off dust and mold.

Nsia felt warmth creeping back into her bones as she ate a simple leftover stew. Her siblings each lounged or occupied themselves in a section of the room; separate, but together. It had been a long time since they were all gathered like this, except for formal dinners. Her parents ed them after a private conversation that had not been as private as they believed. Nsia couldn't make out the words, but their voices were raised, and neither Ltal nor Dol came away looking pleased. But their family was here, safe and warm. The eldest daughter, Piesi, had her feet up, and cleaned grime from her nails. Of the brothers; Mansa stoked the fire, and Ekosi fidgeted and paced about the room. Annah, the middle daughter, updated her diary in the dim light, and the youngest, Nsia, still shook as she finished her meal. Ltal slumped into a canvas covered chair by the hearth and let out a deep sigh. “Three of us wasted the day, sun to moon-rise, searching the Epoya for the parents—while the rest of my family searches at sea for the son,” Ltal laughed, “and all of this two days before we depart for Bankese—Spirits of sanity help me, please.” “Father,” Nsia said, her tone sounding like her mother's, though none dared to voice that opinion. “Djansi saved my life today. So you will show him and his family respect. Those three have endured too much tragedy of late.” Ltal held his hands up. “I meant nothing by it. I'm just exhausted from the day's search—as it would seem—are you.” Nsia gave a broken, weary smile. “It's fine. I know. I'm sorry. Mansa, you're certain there was no sign of them?” A silence fell over the room, but it was a silence the family was quite used to. When asking Mansa a question, one needed to be patient. He breathed out slowly into the fire. “Lost, but not dead. Dead, but not lost—adrift in the decay of the Sempiternal Sea.” Everyone took a moment to mull this over, though Piesi simply shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “An answer, but not a response, a response but not an answer,” she said, mimicking his morose manner of speaking with surprising accuracy.

They all shared a quiet laugh, grateful for even a moment of levity after the day they'd endured. Mansa turned to Piesi, his normally placid expression betrayed by the wisp of a smile at the edge of his lips. “At last, sister, you understand. All these years I thought you were just simple, but your words carry profundity. Even if you don't realize it.” Piesi stood and straightened her clothes. “Well that's the kicker—I've hallucinated Mansa finding his wit. I must truly be in desperate need of sleep. Good night family.” Piesi took her leave to head upstairs. “She'll pay you back for that tenfold, you know,” Akosi said in warning to Mansa. But Mansa had already closed his eyes and crossed his legs as if meditating. “Well,” Dol said, who had sat on the arm of Ltal's chair. “This has been a tiresome and exciting day, but now we all must follow Piesi's wisdom and attend our sleep. Tomorrow are final preparations before we depart. Plus I'm sure at least one of us will be too indisposed to be of much help.” Dol motioned to Nsia. “You can't mean we're still leaving,” Nsia said. “What? Of course we are,” Dol replied. “We're leaving the boy in Brightnora's care. He'll be well looked after, assuming....” Assuming he survives the night. Nsia finished the thought, grateful at least her mother had the courtesy not to say such a thing aloud. “I won't go,” Nsia stated, surprising even herself as the words came out. “You've been through a great many hardships today—and no doubt the thought of leaving that boy alone, nor a long unpleasant voyage by land is appealing right now. But you will see the wisdom in it once you're rested. “Dear ... dear,” Dol tapped the face of her husband, who was asleep, sitting upright, his arms crossed, his chin resting on his chest. “Tell your daughter she is coming to Bankese.” “Ask your mother,” he groggily replied, his head bobbing.

Dol sighed. “Time for bed, indeed.” Nsia could no longer argue that she fought every moment just to stay awake. Now that she had slowed down, the need for rest became greater still. Soon the entire family was sound asleep in their respectful rooms; only Mansa remained downstairs, still sitting cross-legged, watching the last smoldering embers of the fire. “Djansi.” He said into the silence, the fire flaring up. “What will you do next?”

Chapter Nine

Djansi Opened his eyes . He looked up at the lush green canopy of the Epoya. Strange, colorful birds sang and chased one another. Opresi slithered and leapt among the boughs. He blinked and furrowed his brow in confusion. “How did I get to the forest?” He ed the day's events; the elkwolf, the cliff, the long hours spent clinging by tooth and nail to a rotting beast in the frigid waters, waiting for death. Those horrible hours were still fresh in his memory; unable to call out, lest he lose his grip and drown. He looked down, only to realize both his arms were perfectly fine. In fact, he felt remarkably light; neither hungry, tired, nor injured in the least. He laughed and flopped backwards onto the sun-warmed grass and felt it tickling his skin. He lay in a clearing, surrounded by tall trees. “Ah,” it dawned on him. “I'm dead.” He took a moment to appreciate the smells, sensations, and the pleasant lack of any pain. He hummed then sat up. “Hello?” Djansi called out. “To which Spirit do I owe for calling me here?” He attempted to appear calm, lounging there on the grass, idly fiddling with a few blades between his fingers. But a myriad of questions assailed him. He had never been certain there was anything beyond death, but was this proof enough? What would happen next, if anything? Not all Spirits were alike, after all. Not all cared for the lives of men. “I am humbly at your disposal, whoever you are. By bough and branch, I swear to honor you and your great domain.” Djansi was sucking up; it couldn't hurt to be polite—he might be here for eternity after all, and first impressions mattered. He paced about the edge of the circular clearing, running his hands along the rough bark of trees, and absently plucked at needles. It all felt real. “Will you show yourself, O' great Nameless Spirit of the forest?” Insolent child.

Djansi froze, as the foreign words intruded into his mind. Your halfheartedness is an insult; your shallow words testament only to your barbarism. Djansi spun, searching for the source of the voice in his head. Fear welled up within; perhaps the afterlife would be cruel as well, an imitation of life. “I, uh, apologize for my insincerity, and for any insult to you. I ... I wanted to be friendly. I'm at a loss, here. This is not how I pictured my death.” Oh? You think yourself dead so easily? Djansi, Whose Name Means ... Give Up And Die? “Am ... am I not in the realm of Spirits?” No, you are not. Not entirely. “Did you bring me here? Is this real? Are my parents—” —Hold, manling. I am not some doddering graybeard to be barraged with the questions of a curious child. Djansi paused, then walked to the clearing and sat in its center. “How should I address you?” he asked. Eposreiger. Yes, that title shall suffice for now. It would behoove you to show deference. “Eposreiger. Are you the Spirit of the Epoya? I am no Spirit—but neither do I belong fully to this sphere. I am a steward. “Hm.” Confused, and with no further information forthcoming, Djansi asked something he hoped was more straightforward. “How ... did I get here?” As a log upon a river, you were caught in the celestial current. I followed as you were swept away, and nudged you here onto the bank.

“I'm sorry, but I don't understand. I'm not ... well-learned.” Oh, I am well-aware. Djansi, Whose Name Means Day-dreamer. Anyone with even a shred of intelligence would never have dared wander so deep into my domain. Not even your father; the slayer. Something stirred in the shadows of the forest nearby, and Djansi was struck with a familiar sense of dread. Standing upright over twenty paces tall on the powerful unguligrade legs of an elk, the crown-walker stepped into the clearing. Its humanoid, fur-covered arms were crossed, and the silver crown of horns glistened like a halo above its head. Djansi did not flee as it approached, but hyperventilated as panic set in. At least you do not dart away like a frightened kankane this time. The crownwalker came to stop in front of the terrified boy, then sat opposite him, and rested its hands on its knees. If you remain silent any longer, I will strip the flesh from your bones and feast upon your mind. The dual pupils of its eyes fixated down on Djansi, who averted his gaze and stared at his own feet. “Y-you can speak to my mind, and see into my memories.” My kind can do many things. “What did you mean by the 'current' that bore me here?” Hm, this at least I thought you would comprehend. The disembodied voice somehow seemed disappointed. You humans call this Nkaya, Magic, Kunsihir, Ceàndrao, and other such ridiculous Names. As if Naming a thing grants you control over it. Only a part of your 'self' is here, your battered flesh resides below, upon your sphere. You must first understand that Nkaya is not a clever combination of words and gestures, nor symbols traced into the air from which flame and death spring forth. These are lies, stories. Nkaya is primordial. From the dark reaches beyond this sphere, it courses and travels in great currents between the stars. There, like the unseen rays of

starlight, it flows over all things. Those you call Unbound—are able to See, and Call to it. You called Nkaya this day. Your recklessness and stupidity is what broke your body and brought you here. Djansi tried to comprehend, but dwelt on the ominous implication that his broken body might still lay on the rocks, or be sinking beneath the waves. He ed Nsia's eyes. “That's ... a lot to take in,” Djansi said. “But where is here?” At this moment, we ride the ebb and flow beyond your sphere. You see the Epoya —because your feeble human mind cannot comprehend the truth. If I had not constructed this echo, your consciousness would have been scattered and lost. “That's terrifying. But none of this should even be possible. I'm not Unbound.” What do you think I did to you in the forest, boy? Though I must it. It was not entirely intentional. The massive beast made a very human-like motion of bashfully covering their mouth and clearing their throat. Strange behavior for something not using their throat to speak. Because of this, Eposreiger continued, you were like a knocked arrow drawn too long. I did not know when you would fly, nor what target you might strike. For this reason, did I pull you from the current and bring you here. As penance, which I have now fulfilled. Djansi blinked, then fell onto his back and laughed until his sides hurt. “You Unbound me, what? By accident? Just, on a whim?” He wiped tears from his eyes and tried to settle himself. He risked looking up at the towering, terrifying crown-walker. It tilted its massive head to one side, and wore a puzzled, almost bemused expression. Its animalistic face was far more expressive than Djansi had believed possible. “This is absurd, even for me!” Djansi said, still grinning in disbelief. “But I suppose I ought to thank you—even if it ended up killing me. If not for you, Nsia might have died. My life for hers. That's fair. I suppose we do grow into our Names.”

Absurd indeed, human. Long ago, Sight was a boon granted by the old beings of the world. My ancestors, the Foreland Walkers among them. Such a thing has not been performed for millennia. When I reached out to you, I was, in a way— not unlike you. I desired answers. To know whether this thing could still be done. “Well what a fine mess we're in,” said Djansi. “Will you be alright?” Do not waste your worry on me, manling. It is you who should prepare yourself for what is to come. “What do you mean?” But even as he spoke, Djansi felt a gentle wind knock him down, and a familiar tugging at his mind in all directions. He suddenly saw double. Your time here is nearing an end. I only hold you on the riverbank, but the current does not abate. Once I depart, you will again be at its mercy. “I didn't think I would be ... but I'm scared,” Djansi said, struggling to stand as the forest spun. I ... cannot aid you any further. You are the one who opened the dam, and set the river loose. If you live, you will return to your physical self. If not, you will be lost forever in the current among the spheres. “Will it hurt? Actually, don't answer that.” The crown-walker stood to its full, impressive height. “Prepare yourself, Djansi.” It warned him with its voice. A real voice; deep and thunderous. “Wait!” Djansi reached out as the forest receded around him. “Just ... just before it happens ... in case I don't make it ... tell me, are Agya and Amemre ... are my parents alive?” The dual pupils of the crown-walkers eyes rotated, spiraling around one another as its form became blurred, then began fading from view like smoke caught in the wind. “They ed far beyond my reach,” the voice said, growing more distant with every word. “Where even I dare not tread. Now, steel yourself.”

Like falling through the ice into a flowing river, Djansi felt shock then slipped below the surface. The jackpines and ironwood trees gave way to inky blackness, spotted with motes of phosphorescent light streaking past him. It was as if his body was traveling at a tremendous speed; a hundred times that of any mount. All the while he spun, tumbled, and fought to keep his head above the water's edge to draw in a lungful of precious air. His lungs burned already. Then they gave out. He opened his mouth and drew in ... nothing. It wasn't water at all, but still he breathed it in. Breathed something in. “This isn't water, this is in my mind!” He screamed but it made no sound in this place. “This isn't air. Or darkness, or sunlight. This is inside me, this is NOT real!” He repeated it like a mantra, clinging to the hope that his body was stationary somewhere. The more convinced he became, the less his lungs begged for air. He stopped struggling, and the current relaxed as if in response. He had only to still his body and mind, and allow it to flow in the appropriate direction. “This is not my body. This isn't bone, or muscle, or blood. It isn't real.” His feet touched something solid, like the silt of a riverbed. He began to walk as the light-speckled abyss flew past. “My feet aren't touching anything. These aren't even my feet.” He stopped. It felt as if he lay in a rushing brook; the current pushing against his back. He looked around and saw the motes of light slow, revealing each to be a spiraling, gaseous galaxy, all splayed out in their infinite majesty around him. The scale was terrifying as it was awe-inspiring. His mind reeling, he turned away and faced the direction of the current instead, too overwhelmed by the enormity of what he saw. He stumbled backwards a step, then caught himself and leaned into the current to keep from falling. “There's no wind, or current, or waves. There's no wind. Or current, or anything.” Djansi concentrated. “There's a way home. A path. A safe road home. Where Nsia's waiting.”

The current swept him away against his will, the light around him fading once more to darkness, except for one pinprick of light ahead. A pale green and red dot in the distance, growing closer. As he hurtled towards it, the current slowed, then drained like water from a basin—leaving Djansi cold, naked, and alone. He shivered more and more violently the nearer the current brought him. Oceans and continents grew before him as a chill radiated painfully through his limbs. His left arm and right shoulder began to burn as if doused in oil and set aflame. He gasped in shock as bloody wounds began opening across his body. Djansi opened his eyes.

Chapter Ten

Despite being bundled in several layers of warm fur blankets, Nsia was stiff and drained from the previous day's events. She had slept little, and her first thoughts upon waking were of whether Djansi had lived. A small steel brazier heated her spacious room, and an assortment of empty and half-packed traveling trunks littered the floor. She dressed from a double-doored armoire into a comfortably large gray sweater, winter tros, and a half-cloak. She perfunctorily combed the knots from her hair and washed her face before making her way downstairs. “Daughter,” Dol greeted her. She sat at the head of a long dining table with Piesi to her right; both were finishing an early breakfast and sipping tea. “Mother, sister,” Nsia said as she sat. She heard heavy booted footsteps trudging through the hallways as the last preparations were being made for their journey. “He lived through the night,” Dol said, watching Nsia. Nsia let out a breath long held, smiled, and helped herself to a plate of pastries laid out on the table. “Are you packed?” her mother continued. “If so I'll have one of the boys bring your things down.” “Almost,” Nsia lied. “I'm going to town first. I'd like to see him myself.” “So you've decided to come without a fight?” Piesi laughed. “How like you, sister.” “Don't mistake me. I am still going to fight,” Nsia countered. “But I have chosen the manner and hill on which I will do so.” Piesi and Dol exchanged a confused look. “You've been spending too much time with Mansa. What do you mean?” Piesi leaned forward, intrigued. “I mean,” Nsia said, “that I could accomplish little by staying here.”

Dol relaxed. “So you'll come with us,” she sighed. “Your father will be so pleased once you're formally apprenticed. Good!” She clapped her hands in delight. “Mother,” Nsia interjected. “I intend to come with you, but I am not taking up the merchant's life. I'll apprentice to another once we arrive in Bankese.” Dol deflated, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Piesi had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh and keep from spitting her tea. “Hammer and plow, girl.” Dol locked eyes with Nsia, both unwavering. “You've clearly thought about this, so which trade, pray tell, have you decided upon?” “I ... am going to learn to fight,” Nsia said bashfully, her cheeks flushing. Piesi could no longer contain her laughter and snorted as she backed her chair away from the table. “Oh, oh sister,” Piesi said, walking over to kiss Nsia on the forehead. “You've already made this the most entertaining journey south yet. Thank you for this.” Piesi departed, though her laughter still rang through the halls. “Explain yourself,” Dol said. Nsia sat upright at her mother’s glare. “The elkwolf ... There was nothing I could do. I am not strong like Djansi. If not for me, he wouldn't be....” Nsia clenched her jaw and fought back tears. “I'll learn to fight, to protect myself, and those near me. I will not be useless again, not when it matters.” Dol was unmoved. “Assuming you find some fool of a master willing to take an unskilled novice this late in the season. Should you find no such teacher, what will you do? Fight in the streets? Brawl in taverns?” “Military service, then,” said Nsia. “Humph,” Dol grunted and stood to take her leave. Nsia stood with her. “I'm serious, mother.” “Yes, I see that. We have a long journey to test your resolve in this matter before

we arrive in Bankese. And be warned, if you upset your father at the outset, he'll make the journey seem twice as long with his miserable grousing. Now go see to your young suitor, then return at once. We'll discuss this later.” “He's not...” Nsia muttered as Dol left her behind.

Nsia avoided her father entirely and left the house. As she jogged down the path to town, several ersby stopped to ask after her. Every one of them was curious about what role Djansi had to play, and what had happened. It seemed they were both the talk of the town, as traders and merchants readied their cargo to travel south—everyone wanted a good ing to tell on the road. As Nsia arrived at the cottage infirmary, there was already a small crowd gathered there. Mostly young children vying against one another to peek inside the vine-laden window. Nsia noticed her school friends among the crowd, Yucca and Ashia. The ones who had chided her for showing kindness to an outcast. They had spoken little in the last weeks. The girls rushed Nsia as she ed through the crowd towards the front door. “There you are! Are you alright? What happened?” asked Yucca. She wore a bright flowing cloak that fluttered in the breeze, and didn't wait for Nsia's response. “I just heard Djansi and an elkwolf attacked you! Did you really push them off the cliffs? I knew he was no good. I told you!” Nsia pursed her lips into a thin line. “The elkwolf tried to kill me. Djansi forced it to attack him instead.” Nsia raised her voice so the crowd could hear. “He sacrificed himself. Then the cliffs collapsed, taking them both into the water. He saved my life, and is nothing short of a hero.” She brushed past the pretentious girl and entered the clinic. Inside, potted plants from every corner of the world littered the walls and hung from the ceiling. Some were shimmering and metallic, some phosphorescent blue, and others seemed to creep and move on their own. Mistress Brightnora was at the threshold, keeping the influx of curious townsfolk at bay before they trampled her treasured specimens. She shut and latched the door behind Nsia. “I expected to see you sooner,” the old herbalist said, adjusting her thick glasses to inspect Nsia. Brightnora was an older woman wearing a simple white tunic and tros. Her wild white-gray hair was loosely tied with several stemmed

flowers. “Sorry ... may I see him? How is he?” “Alive,” Brightnora said. Her tone was kind, but straightforward. “For now. He's lost a lot of blood. The cold took some of his toes, and he'll have terrible pain, and scars about him for the rest of his days. As for his arm,” she took off her glasses and wiped them with a small cloth. “There is little I can do. He'll never regain its use. I'm preparing to sever it now.” Nsia went pale, and a wave of nausea ed over her. “Please,” she beckoned. “Let me see.” The herbalist nodded and ushered Nsia down a hallway, past a few cluttered rooms, some piled high with books, others with implements used to grind and refine herbs for poultices and unguents. The end of the building was an open room with a half dozen beds that could each be curtained off for privacy. Only one was occupied. Djansi was unconscious, and heavily bandaged across his entire body. His arm was splinted and wrapped, and Nsia could only see the very tips of his purple, swollen fingers. “Djansi!” Nsia called out before clasping her hands over her mouth. “Can he be woken? I'm leaving for Bankese and won't be back for months.” “You may not want to wake him. Resilient as the lad is, the pain is terrible. I have given him something to sleep. Letting him do so while he can is a blessing.” Nsia wanted to hear his voice, but understood the wisdom of letting him sleep. “May I ... have a moment?” Nsia asked, eyes brimming with tears. The woman smiled and closed the curtain behind her. Nsia sat on the bed at Djansi's side. “How often have I sat at your bedside?” Nsia said through her tears. She brushed a lock of his curly hair from atop his closed eyes. His bandaged face was purple and black at the edges. “You know ... I told you to find a way to repay me. But I think you overdid it.” She smiled down at him. Djansi's left hand was almost fully wrapped, but his right was relatively unscathed. Nsia held it gently, and saw the thin, faded line upon his palm where he had once been struck with a

ruler. She bolted upright. “Aspfoil!” she shouted. “He used enchanted aspfoil for wounds on his hands!” Brightnora flung open the privacy curtain; whether eavesdropping, or by coincidence, she had not gone far. “Is there any left?” “I'm not sure. It would be at his home, I think. South down the hill.” “I will go,” said a deep voice from the hallway behind them. Mansa surprised them both as he stepped forward. “Brother! What are you doing here?” “To see if he would Return. Chestnut is outside. To fetch the poultice will not take long.” “I thought I locked that door...” the herbalist muttered, then shook her head. “What do you mean by returned?” “Djansi was found, yes. But not all of him. Now, I see he is whole.” Mansa noticed Djansi's feet. “Missing a toe, perhaps, but whole once more.” He turned and walked from the room, pulling his hood up to brace against the chill outside. “Go quickly!” Nsia called after him as he left. Mansa made no sound or motion to indicate whether he heard her. “Did ... Mansa make a joke just now?” mused the herbalist, “about the toe?” “I have no idea.”

The door to Djansi's home swung open. Mansa took a single step inside and peered up at the head of the crown-walker, staring unblinking down at him with its false glass eyes. Sundries, dried herbs, hanging leathers, and half-finished projects littered the walls. Mansa watched the mounted head for a moment longer before being shaken from his reverie by a sound down the hallway. In Djansi's bedroom, a backpack lay open on the floor, its contents scattered about. On the bed, a small piece of dried jerky floated and bobbed to the open window, then disappeared outside. Mansa knelt down and began replacing the various objects that had been pulled out and scattered. A knife, some rope, and an empty waterskin. Lastly, he picked up a small black box.

Mansa returned within the hour bearing the aspfoil, much to the relief of all. Upon his delivery, Brightnora bade them all give her and her assistant Roald space to treat him. “I'll do what I can for his arm,” Brightnora said as she shooed them both from the clinic. “I'll send word to you in Bankese, or better yet. Djansi will.” She smiled as she closed the door, then called for her assistant and began issuing orders. The crowd had since dispersed, as many of Fairriden's residents were preparing to set out south to trade. Only a few wide-eyed children remained, trying to peek inside before the door closed. “I'll be home later. Something I must do,” Mansa said briskly, mounting Chestnut whom he hadn't tied off and was snorting contemptuously. “The caravan is leaving soon,” protested Nsia. To which Mansa galloped off without another word, leaving Nsia alone. “Spirit's breath, that man.” A child approached Nsia and tugged at the hem of her sweater; a young boy no more than five. “Is misser Dansi gonna be ok?” “I'm certain he will be,” Nsia replied confidently. “After all, his Name Means Life.”

The stocked caravan was about to depart. Nsia packed and dressed for the road, tos the last of her luggage while her father waited impatiently at the bench of their largest wagon. Even the horses were stomping at the bit to depart. Ltal had not taken his daughter's news well, his mood made worse by waiting on Mansa. The family had two long covered wagons and a horse-cart laden with their belongings. The plan was to meet with four more wagons on the road south to the gate. These would be laden with raw pentan ore, ground coral, and a wide assortment of preserved herbs grown in the rocky climes of Fairriden and the surrounding area. Many other traders would be on the road by now; they were lagging behind already. Mansa and Chestnut rounded the bend, galloping into view—her saddlebags full to bursting, and large hard sheets stacked and tied to her flanks. “About time!” Ltal shouted. “Eh? What's all this?” Mansa dismounted chestnut next to one wagon and cooed to her while brushing her mane. “Help me pack this onto the wagon,” Mansa said to nobody in particular. He began untying the straps, revealing at least a dozen leathers, furs, hides, and several half-finished jackets and satchels. Akosi leapt down the from his cart and helped find space for it all, squeezing it in where they could. “What's the meaning of this, Mansa?” demanded Ltal. “Amemre and Agya's work. A shame that a year's labor would not see market. Whatever you earn, goes to the boy.” Ltal was about to protest, but stopped himself short, climbed down himself and helped secure the last hides. “I will stay,” Mansa stated loudly to his family. “My place is here. There is much to do. I will watch over the boy.” Nsia ran to her brother and wrapped him in a tight hug. “Thank you, oh thank

you brother.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. Mansa held his arms out awkwardly before returning the embrace. Displays of affection were not his strong suit, but he cared for his sister. This one, at least. “Ok, we're officially late!” Piesi called from her wagon. “Spirits, write him a letter when we get there!” “Piesi is right, however much it pains me to say that,” Dol said. Mansa walked up beside where she was mounted on horseback. She preferred to ride than sit idly in a wagon. Dol rested her hand against his scruffy cheek. “Don't do anything foolish. Write us.” Ltal stood before Mansa and cleared his throat. “And you'll be alright on your own?” “Yes, father.” “Do you need anything before we go?” “No, father.” “Write us then, and, well...” Ltal bent forward and clasped his son in a hug, surprising everyone there, Mansa most of all. Ltal cleared his throat a second time, patted Mansa on the shoulder, and took up his place at the wagon's lead. With everyone mounted, the caravan was on its way. Dol blew a kiss, Akosi, and Annah called out their goodbyes, and Piesi had long since gone ahead. Nsia watched somberly as Mansa remained before the empty house with his mount. “I will become strong,” she said. “Not for you, or Djansi, or anyone. For myself.” She recalled the determined expression Djansi made when Ysra whipped his palms. “I promise.” The remainder of the convoy soon met them on the road, and they began the month-long voyage south to the great city of Bankese.

Chapter Eleven

Djansi awoke to much more hospitable than the last time. His mind was foggy and the figures moving around him left echoing trails, but his body was pleasantly numb. “Hwhaaa.” He tried speaking, but his tongue was heavy and dry in his mouth. An older woman and a disheveled but handsome man stood near him. Their outlines shifted ever so slightly. The woman had a pleasant, soothing expression on her face, and Mansa was ... well, Mansa. “Don't try to move just yet,” said the matronly voice. “Mansa, fetch some water.” To Djansi, it sounded as if they were underwater. Mansa filled a clay cup from a pitcher and sat on his bedside, helping him drink in short sips, while Brightnora replaced the bandages on his left arm. I lost my arm, Djansi thought, even as he watched the herbalist remove the bandages from it. He expected to see the horrific mass of pulp and jutting bone he witnessed before his fall. As the last bandages were removed, he saw a heavily bruised, but otherwise functional limb. Deep red scars arced their way from his hand, circling up his forearm and bicep in the fractal, fern-like pattern often left by a lightning strike. The skin was miraculously sealed, the bones straight. Djansi tried to focus his attention on his fingertips, hoping beyond hope he might still be able to use them, but it was dead weight. “Now enough of that, Djansi, you'll strain yourself.” The healer pressed Djansi back down. He had been leaning forward. Mansa gently stopped her. “Let him try, just for a moment.” Mansa held out his palm to the herbalist. “He needs to know.” Djansi scowled and breathed deeply, sweating. His vision swam, his lips quivered, and the paper thin muscles of his arm strained. His middle finger twitched, and Djansi let out a heaving sigh of relief as he let his body relax,

falling backwards to his beckoning pillow. “Nnnsss,” he mumbled. “Nsssaaa.” “Gone,” said Mansa. Djansi's eyes widened in alarm. “To Bankese,” cut in the herbalist, giving Mansa a scolding glare. “With her family, some time ago. Don't worry, she was quite well when she came to visit you.” Relieved, Djansi was already falling back to sleep. He heard Mansa's quiet voice close to his ear. “Heal quickly, there is much to do.”

The next time Djansi regained consciousness, he was less numb, which meant he could more accurately feel the stiffness in every t, and the lingering pain across his body. He stayed in bed for some time, staring up at the ceiling, marveling at the fact that he lived. It was late at night, and he heard nothing except the occasional dry cough of another patient somewhere nearby. A shuttered window rattled above him as a gust of wind howled in the night. He grunted and struggled to sit upright. He was emaciated. He had always been thin, but now there was almost no meat to his bones at all. His cheeks were sunken, and his ribs visible against his skin. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders to keep the chill from seeping into him. He had been using his left arm since he woke without realizing. Grinning, he opened and closed the hand repeatedly. After a dozen attempts it became too weak to continue. This won't be an easy winter if I don't start eating. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled with such intensity he wondered if it woke anyone in the next town over. “There's got to be something to eat.” He stood, taking a long moment to balance with his injured foot before limping out to explore the quiet hospital. He opened the privacy curtain and saw the only other patient was asleep. On a table next to them was a small wooden tray. Djansi skulked over and pilfered the stale bread there, hoping this person wasn't contagious. At that moment, his pangs of hunger outweighed the consequences. Still not sated, his attention was drawn down the hallway to the entrance, where the hanging flowers and fungi emitted a soft blue glow. He limped forward, one arm bracing himself against the wall. In the darkness, Brightnora's cultivated plants were a sight to behold. Phosphorescent light from the mushrooms was refracted by the metallic surface of some strange flora; the result was a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors casting patterns across every surface of the packed room. The thought occurred to him to try eating one, but fortunately he resisted. Desiring instead a breath of fresh air after his days of rest, Djansi lifted the small latch on the front door. He knew it would be chill since summer had ended, but

he still wanted to look up into the stars none the less; to feel the grass beneath his feet. He pushed the door, then a strong wind caught it and swung it wide to strike the side of the building with a violent crack. Snow and wind billowed into the entrance where Djansi stood dumbfounded, staring out into a harsh winter night. He got hold of the door, bare feet crunching into the snow, and shut it as fast as he could. He reeled at the thought of having lost so much time yet again. First, the days he lost in the Epoya—which he had neglected to ask the walker about— if that too was real. Now, he had missed an entire season. Cold, tired, and hungry, he looked down to his bare, snow-laden feet, and noticed for the first time his left foot was missing its small toe and half of his fourth toe. “Oh.” A door creaked open down the hallway, and the herbalist came out wearing a nightgown and holding a small oil hand-lamp. She spotted Djansi standing at the doorway, covered in a dusting of snow, looking miserable and with a puddle forming around his feet. “It's winter,” Djansi said as she approached. “Yes, yes it is. And that tends to be bad for those recovering from near-death experiences—and the elderly.” She grabbed his arm and led him back to his bed. “How long have I been asleep? And do you have anything to eat? The second question is more important.” “It's good that your appetite is returning, and good as well that you can move. I was beginning to fear you'd be too weak to stand, but you're a tough cookie.” “Don't,” pleaded Djansi. “Don't use that word unless you can produce one.” Brightnora laughed as she sat Djansi down on the edge of his bed. “Very well, I'll fetch something for you, but don't become too accustomed to it. Roald does the cooking, I'm far too important.” She winked, and went to her room, returning shortly with a small platter of cold items; a hard cheese, a link of sausage sliced

into three, and a few pieces of savory bread and soft butter. Djansi wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth as she approached and sat the tray down on the bed next to him. “Slowly now, it would be a shame if you made yourself sick.” Djansi tore into the food at first, but slowed his eating. He had not had solid food for some time; his stomach was small, and chewing was tiresome. “It's been ... many weeks since you were brought here, Djansi. Truthfully, I'm amazed it's only been such a short time. You are remarkably tough, young man. Though you still owe that girl your life, you know.” “Nthia,” he said with his mouth full. “I thaw her, I think. Was I on a boat? What happened?” The herbalist regarded him curiously, then recounted the events to him as well as she could while he ate. How Nsia mobilized her family to search for him, even as Ltal searched the Epoya for his missing parents—Djansi appreciated her use of the word missing—but he knew they had not returned. Brightnora recounted how Nsia convinced Buckingsea, Captain of the Hateni to navigate the dangerous waters; how Ora pulled him on board, and how Nsia and Mansa had gotten him the aspfoil before his arm was removed. “The Athpfoil!” Djansi said, crumbs flying as he spoke. “Nsia knew of it. Mansa retrieved it. A remarkable thing to see in Fairriden. I applied the poultice to your arm and shoulder over several days. There was not much left, but there was enough. Though by all s, it shouldn't have left those peculiar scars.” Djansi looked down in the lamplight to his red-streaked left arm. “Ltal's search,” Djansi said. “Do you know if they found any signs?” Brightnora smiled and shook her head. Djansi didn't want to think about that at the moment, and pushed it aside. “Thank you ... I haven't said that yet. Thank you. By honor and arm, thank you for helping me.”

She smiled at the irony of the prayer. “Strength of arm indeed.” “What about Nsia?” Djansi asked. “She was worse for wear, but unlike you, her pain was not life threatening. They'll winter in Bankese, and return with the spring caravan.” Spring ... so far away. “How do I thank her? For everything? I've already lost count at how many times I owe her my life. I'm ... not good with this sort of thing.” “That's for you to decide, but rest assured no real debt is owned. It's ... like a game,” Brightnora said wistfully, reminiscing of her own youth. Djansi became quiet, and Brightnora rested her hand on his back, moving it up and down as he finished the last of his meal. Djansi rested his hands on his lap. It had been a long time since he had been comforted like this. He wept, slowly at first, then turning to great sobs. She stayed with him as Djansi was overcome by the traumatic events of his tumultuous young life. “It's okay Djansi. You've been through so much. It's okay. It's not your fault.” She stayed with him until he finished; until he had no more tears, then helped him back into bed to rest. She tucked him in, cleared away the empty tray, and bade him goodnight. Djansi wondered for the first time if he had a mother somewhere. “Does ... everyone have a mother?” he asked before Brightnora closed the curtain. “Yes, and no Djansi,” she offered. “Every child is birthed by woman, but that does not make every woman a mother. I'd say you were lucky. Many folk never get one father, you were blessed with two.” She closed the curtain, and Djansi fell asleep listening to the familiar howl of the wind.

Chapter Twelve

Mansa sat by Djansi's bedside with his eyes shut; either deep in thought or fast asleep, it was hard to tell with Mansa. He kept his black hair trimmed short, but that and his beard were getting shaggy. He was not wearing Amemre's armor today, but wore multiple layers of padded leathers of forest green and brown. As Djansi came to, he watched Mansa for a while. The man's breathing was so slow and shallow there was almost no visible rise and fall to his chest; the man may as well have been a statue. His features were chiseled like his father's, though he did not share Ltal's charisma or penchant for mercantile. Beyond that, all Djansi knew about the man—was that nobody really knew anything about him. Several suitors had been callously rebuffed over the years, which was always good gossip. Mansa often left town on a whim, ofttimes for days on end; though none knew his destination. This mysterious nature had made everyone doubly curious, and from that curiosity had sprung several wild rumors. Even Djansi—prone as he was to believing the unbelievable—could not see Mansa hiding concubines in the miller's barn, or of abusing mind-affecting mushrooms that grew near the Epoya. “I am surprised you returned,” Mansa stated in his monotone voice; eyes still closed, arms crossed over his chest. Djansi remained in bed, but shuffled to sit up against the headboard. “It was a close one I'm told.” Mansa opened his eyes. They were common brown—unlike his family—but there was an intensity behind them that felt familiar to Djansi. He looked away. It reminded him of the way the crown-walker had seen through him like a shallow pond in the daylight. Mansa said nothing. “Uhh, I'm not sure what you want me to say here,” Djansi said. “Are you okay?” Still, Mansa said nothing until the silence between them grew tense. “...Okay!” Djansi blurted out in an angry whisper. “I spoke to the crown-walker in my dream! Happy? He told me about magic coming from the stars; and I was trapped there; and I nearly died in some imaginary river; then I woke up.”

Mansa leaned forward in his chair. “What did it feel like?” “It felt like shit. As soon as I woke up my whole body was—” “—No, the current, Djansi. Try to recall it. Was it the same pressure you felt when you sundered the cliff?” “It was different, more intense. Like, bigger somehow? It hurt less, but.... ” Djansi froze as he watched the wisp of a smile reach Mansa's lips. The expression didn't look normal on him; as if he wasn't used to it. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Djansi quickly added. “Far too late for that,” Mansa said. He paused, tilted his head towards the hallway then leaned back in his chair to sit casually and continued as if midway through a different conversation. “I am glad that you are recovering, the aspfoil seems to have been quite potent.” The herbalist pushed aside the curtain and entered, though Djansi hadn't heard her approach. She wore a more formal uniform than the nightgown from the previous evening. Djansi blushed as she entered, hoping she would refrain from mentioning anything about his behavior the previous night. “How are you feeling, young one?” she said cheerfully to Djansi while patting Mansa on the shoulder. “Better, thank you. My foot and shoulder hurt, but my arm feels mostly fine. Even the bruising is going away. But I get tired easy.” “Good, very good,” Brightnora said, sitting beside him. She unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, then examined the new flesh where the elkwolf had torn his shoulder. There was a wide scar and several smaller ones where the teeth and horns had pressed in, but not punctured his jerkin. “You’ll feel that wound as the weather turns. It took most of the balm to repair your arm, which has healed extraordinarily, except for the scarring. Those may fade in time, but it is not likely.” “Can I head home today, then?” Djansi asked.

“It's fine with me,” Brightnora replied. “But the decision lies with your guardian.” “Guardian? What?” Djansi asked. Mansa stood and pulled Djansi's satchel from the floor, setting it beside him on the bed. “Winter clothes. Take your time. Eat something.” Mansa sniffed the air once. “Bathe.”

Roald, assistant to Mistress Brightnora, brought Djansi food and a basin of hot water for Djansi to clean himself in semi-privacy. He did so, and for once rather enjoyed it. After the cold he had endured, and the months of rest thereafter having wasted away both fat and muscle, the tub of hot water was luxurious, and warmed him to his bones. Once clean, he examined the bag Mansa had packed for him, and found his cherished jerkin neatly bundled atop several warm looking garments. He held the vest to his head and smelled deeply. It reminded him of his parents. The leather was marred by bite marks over the right shoulder, but otherwise seemed to be in perfect condition. He ran his hand over the tie that Nsia had used in her hair and he wished he could thank her in person. I should write to her. Or should I see if she writes to me first? His face reddened the longer he worried about it. How long should I wait? What if she doesn't even want a letter, then I send her one—like an idiot—and she doesn't reply? “Uhhhg.” He pressed his face into the jerkin to muffle his groan. Frustrated, he started sorting through the items in the bag. The shirt enclosed was his brown woolen homespun, but the tros were not ones he recognized. They were finely stitched gray wool with deep pockets and a single brass button. They fit well, and except for his jerkin, were perhaps the finest article of clothing he had ever worn. There was also a pair of leather boots and gloves Djansi had worn the previous year, now just a bit too tight. Agya and Amemre had made them, but were nothing grand by their own ission; made from leftover scraps of other pieces, saying Djansi would soon outgrow them. Nevertheless, they were articles his parents had made; a comfort to the boy who had lost so much. Dressed for the cold weather, Djansi thanked Roald and Brightnora once more before leaving the hospice. He narrowed his eyes against the bright glare of the sun reflecting off the banks of snow, and hid his limp as he walked. The wind was not gusting hard today, but it covered the entire village in a brilliant sheet of white, and tall windswept banks pressed up against the stone buildings and

knolls around him. His eyes adjusted and he spotted Mansa and Chestnut nearby. The speckled mare snorted as Djansi approached. He held his hand out to the animal's muzzle, letting the unfamiliar horse come nearer of its own accord. It pressed its nose into the gloved hand and soon Djansi was running his hand up the tall horse's neck, whispering to it. Mansa leaned against the clinic, quietly watching. “So you're to be my guardian?” Djansi asked as he ran his hand through Chestnut's dark mane. “I thought you were heading to Bankese with everyone.” “There is too much for me to do here. We will stay at your home. I have been resting there since my family left.” Djansi was offended that someone had moved in to his house without consulting him, and more than a little upset that he even needed a guardian. Mansa had stayed to help, however; a debt was owed, though it didn't make Djansi any happier. “What is there to do that requires a guardian? Ltal arranged for me to get provisions from the schoolhouse, and I can otherwise tend to myself,” Djansi winced even as he said it. “Trivialities. Food, clothing, lodging. None of this matters now,” Mansa said, waving them away like pests. “How does your family do it?” Djansi shook his head. “Is everything you say a riddle? When is food and a roof not important?” Mansa approached Djansi, unnervingly fast. “When one has breathed Nkaya, there are far more important things to concern yourself with. When one has become Unbound—like you.” The disheveled boy's eyes were wide while his damp hair crystallized in the cold. “How is it you always know so much?” Djansi said, exasperated. “Before all this, you knew I had seen the crown-walker; you know what I did to the cliff— something I don't even understand, and you knew I had seen something in my dreams.” Djansi tried his best to be intimidating, but he was significantly shorter,

and no more than skin and bone. It made his scowl more comical than threatening, like a puppy thinking itself big. “Inquisitive, as always. That trait will serve you well in the days to come.” Mansa mounted the horse and held a hand out to the boy. “One day I will tell you. For now, you will have to trust me. But be assured—there are many other secrets I will divulge concerning Nkaya.” Djansi accepted the proffered hand and mounted behind the strange man. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but then when did Djansi ever get the answer he wanted?

Djansi had very little experience with riding horseback, so he held on tightly as Mansa sent chestnut off at a gallop through the snow. The horse wheeled and spun around any obstruction, and seemed to delight in the panicked shouts of her small enger; clinging on desperately. Djansi's face was pressed into Mansa's back, his arms wrapped around his waist as the chaotic horse charged playfully through bank after bank, sending explosions of powder high into the air. They reached the wide sloping road that led south towards Djansi's cottage impossibly fast. As the path opened, Chestnut broke into a run at an even more extraordinary speed. Djansi leaned his head out, attempting to see down the road, but could only squint as the snow and air streaked past him. In what must have been a record breaking descent from town, Djansi dismounted; dazed and sore in delicate places where he would rather not be sore. He would not have taken Mansa for such a fast rider based on every other aspect of his life. “Were we late to meet the Emperor?” Djansi asked, his legs wobbling. Mansa squinted his face in confusion, then seemed to understand a moment later. “Ah. I control Chestnut's movement no more than she controls mine.” He pulled a small brush from his saddlebag and began wiping the sweat from her. He led the steaming mount towards the double doors of the workshop, which was a small converted barn. Djansi followed them and saw that Mansa had moved the benches, fleshing boards, tools, and drying racks, and replaced them with a small water trough and a thick bedding of hay. “You converted the tannery into a stable?” “Yes. Unless you would prefer Chestnut stay in the cottage with us.” There was no inflection in his voice indicating it was a joke. “When my parents return they'll be furious,” Djansi said. “The smell will be no worse if they return. Though I have sealed the curing vats so as not to upset Chestnut. She is delicate.”

“When they return,” Djansi seethed, not if.” “Be honest with yourself,” Mansa said. “You think there is still a chance they live? I found no track or trace of them. Put that thought behind you. It will only serve as a distraction.” Mansa stood in front of him, daring Djansi to say more; to lash out, to do anything. Djansi took the bait. He punched Mansa in the stomach as hard as he could, but the blow was so weak Mansa didn't move, or blink; all it did was send waves of pain rippling through Djansi's arm. His eyes welled up, and he struck again, already weaker than before. “Well?” Mansa said. Djansi took a step back and held his arm at the elbow. “I know I'm weak, ok.” “Yes,” Mansa said, “but you will not always be weak. I will see to that. It is why I stayed.” The moment of tension ed and Djansi deflated. Mansa awkwardly patted Djansi's shoulder once. “They're alive,” Djansi said, looking into Mansa's eyes. “They're alive.” Djansi stormed away towards the cottage and found the inside, thankfully, had not been altered much. A few additional items of Mansa's seemed to be littered across the room, and several dirty plates were piled up on the counter next to an empty washbasin. Mansa's strange black-tipped spear lay on the mantle, below the crown-walker's head. Djansi stared up at the mounted creature with a new sense of respect and guilt. He had always thought them no different than any other wild beast. The mounted head's real eyes had been long since replaced by amber glass, but it still felt as if it watched him. “I'm sorry. You were smart, and deserved better than being a trophy.” Djansi ran his hand down the front of his jerkin, made from the skin of the walker to which he spoke. “You saved me, same as Nsia saved me, and everyone else.” Djansi knelt and

performed the Hyira to the walker. He pressed his index fingers and thumb together, forming a triangle over his heart. It surprised Djansi to see his new guardian, Mansa, genuflecting beside him—also performing the ancient rite. “You are correct in this, Djansi. Few believe the stories of the Forest-Lords, and pay proper obeisance to them.” Djansi didn't know the appropriate length of time to do this, so once Mansa stood, Djansi went to the hearth to start a fire. The stone cottage was cold and dark. “What are they?” Djansi asked. “Old and wise. Old beyond imagining. Wise beyond understanding. Deadly beyond reason. Though you, perhaps, know more about them than I do.” Mansa waited for Djansi to strike flint and start the fire. “You may be the only one in Oda to have met a crown-walker and survived with their mind and body intact.” “Mostly intact,” Djansi corrected him. “They wanted me to call them Eposreiger. It ... sounds like Epoya? Though I don't know the meaning of it.” Mansa blew out a deep breath at the casual mention of a walker's Name. He shook his head to Djansi's unasked question. “I know not what it means. It does not sound like an Odan Name.” “Maybe we should bury the head? It feels odd to keep it there.” Mansa sat near the hearth, where Amemre had once sat to bandage Djansi's palms. “Let it watch over us.” Djansi stopped poking at the fire. “Not really though ... right? Like, it can't actually see us.” He looked up at the mounted head. The firelight reflected in its glass eyes gave the impression its gaze followed you. Mansa raised an eyebrow then shrugged. A shiver ran down Djansi's spine. The dry wood crackled and popped, filling the silence. Maybe he'd put a blanket over the head when they were home. Determined to keep himself busy, Djansi put the thought aside and pumped a

pale of water from the indoor well to start a pot of tea instead. He was going about his regular chores as if he'd never stopped. He half expected to look up and see Amemre scowling, telling him not to dally. Or to see Agya fletching arrows; telling Amemre not to scowl so much. Djansi set the water to boil and sat at the oak table opposite his new guardian. “How did you know about the cliff?” “Fairriden's cliffs don't just fall over of their own accord, Djansi. Nor do they discriminate against who rests upon them.” Djansi looked at him quizzically. “If you go there, you will see the outline of where my sister knelt when the cliff separated. A perfect trace around her, as if the cliff chose not to take her. Another thing cliffs rarely do. Also”—Mansa reached out and beckoned for Djansi to hold out his left arm—“there is a pattern on the rocks, much like the ones on your arm.” “How though? How did I do it? I still don't understand what happened.” “First, tell me—as best as you can—what you did that day.” “I ... saw Nsia,” Djansi flushed. This was still her brother. He would have to be careful not to reveal anything too embarrassing. “The elkwolf was going after her. I could hardly move or think after it got me. Then I felt it—like water, or wind but, inside me? It hurt. A lot. Especially my arm.” Djansi's gaze became distant. “Then, I just touched the rock, and it all started coming down.” “Breaking.” Mansa nodded in understanding. “Yeah, rock break, fall down.” Djansi thought back to those rumors about Mansa using psychedelic fungi and wondered how he ever doubted them. Mansa ignored the jibe and continued. “Do you know what a Reagent is, Djansi?” “I don't know that word,” Djansi replied. “Re-agence?”

“Reagents, yes. A pillar upon which Nkaya is ed. Materials required by Unbound to guide the current of Nkaya. Herbs, scarabs, dusts, candles, gems, and organic matter all produce different effects when harnessed. These are what allow Unbound to safely channel Nkaya. Do you see?” Djansi nodded. “A little. Not really ... no.” “Aspfoil, for instance. A person loses their leg in battle. The plant itself has excellent properties—but on its own, can do nothing for a lost leg. An Unbound, however, might use the flower as Reagent for their Arts; with this, the Unbound calls Nkaya, using the aspfoil to guide and shape its power. They regrow the lost limb through the Art of Proliferation; the flower is consumed.” “A leg? From a single flower?” Djansi said, trying not to look at his foot and its missing toes. “If one is skilled, and bears the fortitude required for such a thing, then yes. Though few are capable of such a feat. It is more common for a Runewright to produce a weaker, lingering effect; such as a poultice. Once ground, refined, and mixed, it can then be sold to leatherworkers on the fringe of the world to save a dying boy.” “Teach me!” Djansi stood, his eyes ablaze. “I don't know why you know all this, but if you know something about this, teach me, please.” “It is not so simple. Even if ... I do not understand how you became Unbound. There are many unknown elements at play. What happened upon the bluffs should not have been possible.” “How? Oh, well, that was kind of ... an accident?” Djansi stifled a laugh. He couldn't help but imagine a crown-walker being scolded by its parents for doing something reckless. “Eposreiger told me. They didn't know if it was possible, they said it hasn't been done for a long time.” The taciturn Mansa made a conscious effort to keep his jaw shut so he would not look foolish in front of his young ward. “Crown-walkers. Can. Unbind. Humans.” Mansa said each word as if they couldn't belong in a sentence together.

“I don't think Eposreiger lied. I mean, they said they pulled me from the current because I was their mistake. That seems like something you wouldn't it to if you were lying. But they also said they might eat me, so I don't know.” Djansi shrugged. “The crown-walkers have been systematically hunted to extinction,” Mansa said. “Apart from Agya, no other living soul I have met has encountered one. Many doubt they exist at all.” “So why were they hunted?” “A walker's corpse alone holds great value to the Unbound, but if they can perform Nkosam ... ” Mansa rubbed the bridge of his nose. “My parents are lawful folk, but should a competitor seek to undermine their business—they will see them driven away without mercy.” The kettle began boiling, so they broke to warm themselves with tea. Mansa held his cup but did not drink or respond, so Djansi brought his tea and pack to his room to unload his belongings. He shut his window, and instead of unpacking, found himself under the blankets of his bed entering a deep sleep.

It was dark when Djansi awoke; that night, he assumed. Someone had draped an extra fur over him, and a small fire was built in his hearth. His door was open just a crack, and through it he saw the bright flickering of firelight against the wall of the hallway. He wiped the drool from his mouth and stumbled out of his room, wrapped in his blanket. Down the hallway he saw Mansa, shirtless, sitting cross-legged before a dim, minuscule fire in the hearth. Top to bottom, Mansa's chest and back were criss-crossed with the innumerable faded lines left by the lashes of a whip. He was dripping with sweat and clasped something steaming in his hand. He didn't seem to notice Djansi. Mansa drew in a deep breath. As he breathed in, the fire grew taller, and taller, until it engulfed the entire hearth, spilling out from its stone confines as if a dozen bellows had been set against it. As he exhaled, the fire shrank, growing dim until only glowing coals remained. Djansi watched, mesmerized, as Mansa continued this for several minutes. He watched as Mansa somehow made the fire blaze to crackling life, then fall to a dim glow with every breath. Mansa then took a brief, normal breath, and opened his palm. He held a single glowing red ember, which he dropped into the fire. He patted his hands free of soot, there was not a mark left on them. “Come, Djansi,” Mansa said. “There is much to do.”

Chapter Thirteen

Djansi and Mansa sat facing one another before the hearth, below the gaze of the Forest Lord. “You're ... an Unbound,” Djansi said in disbelief. “Does anyone know?” “Only mother and father. I trust I need not worry about my siblings discovering this?” “Of course! I owe you that much. So of course, yes. I won't say a word.” “Good. I mean to teach you what little I can. But the choice lies ultimately with you.” “This has been my dream for, well, forever. Why in the Spirit’s Name would I ever refuse?” “Understand—what has happened to you is unprecedented in our time. I do not know if Nkaya will react accordingly, or if you will be able to call it at all. There are many perilous unknowns.” Mansa motioned to Djansi's scarred arm. “You may experience worse. You must know ... you risk your very life if you do this.” “I understand, and agree,” Djansi said without hesitation. “Despite what you think, I believe in my heart that my fathers live, somewhere in the Epoya. If there is a path for me to become stronger, I'll take it, so I might one day find them. But...” Djansi hesitated. “Why do you want to teach me? If the bluffs were any sign, you're in as much danger as I am.” “I will teach you, because I am the only one who can teach you. Listen well, Djansi; When one is Unbound in Oda, they become indentured by law to those who performed the rite. The tragic irony of living a bound life. My master in Bankese was cruel, and among his pupils, I was the weakest. Every failure to call Nkaya was ... punished.” Djansi could not count the number of scars upon his body; only thin strips and patches of unmarred flesh were visible below the neck. “While others progressed, called Nkaya, and Unbound students of their own, I could not. Thus I was cast aside; exiled. A failure to be forgotten. Then you

happened. Perhaps the first Unbound in millennia not subjected to the avaricious laws of man. So I will be the first to teach you; the first to teach anyone like you. And in this, I will not fail.” Djansi was silent, his excitement mingled with fear. At last, there was a clear path before him—something he could do. It might kill him, but that was something he was fast becoming used to. “What does your Name mean?” Djansi asked suddenly. “I am Mansa, Whose Name Means Spearhead.”

It was before dawn the next day when Djansi's training began. It seemed Mansa had been up for some time preparing what looked like a feast, but smelled ... questionable. Half dressed and half asleep, Djansi sat at the table where a large steaming bowl of frument waited for him. It was the same pottage of cracked wheat and root vegetables the school had served, except Mansa's was dotted with red berries, and smelled ghastly. There was also a large loaf of hard bread, a few blue-skinned vegetables Djansi did not recognize, and a plate of slimy boiled white meat. “This is ... a lot,” Djansi observed, daunted by the disturbing smellscape before him. “Are you going to me?” “No. This is all for you. To begin training. You must finish it.” Mansa sat at the far end of the table and pulled out a small book. Sensing the boy's hesitation, he elaborated, “You are too weak to survive the force of Nkaya. Too small, too thin. Vegetables and meat first; then we train your body.” “This doesn't make sense,” Djansi argued. “I need to learn magic because I'm weak. What good will training my body do?” Mansa sighed and looked up from his book. “Manipulating Nkaya is strenuous. Even with training and Reagents, there is a heavy toll upon body and mind. To accept and channel Nkaya, you must become strong to withstand Nkiri. The when one is not careful. You have no doubt felt it already. Many Unbound lose their lives this way. Fledgling and master alike.” He set his book down and gave Djansi his undivided attention. “You stand between the crashing wave and the cliff. If your mind fails you, and you flee, you are broken. If your mind is sound, but your body fails you. You are broken. Only when both hold firm, do you stand. And since you are ... unique, we will be doubly cautious. Now. Eat. We will save the lessons for when you are stronger.” ittedly Djansi was starving, so steeled himself against the sludge-like food and dug into it with abandon. Within two bites he had determined that Mansa had never prepared any kind of food. Perhaps he had never eaten food, if this taste and texture was any sign. This must be part of my training, Djansi told himself with each bite. There has to

be some riddle or lesson behind the taste. So he finished every gooey bite, leaving only a crust of burnt bread, and the bones of a small beast Djansi assumed died several years ago. “I added extra Hawthorn,” Mansa noted as Djansi fought back the urge to empty his stomach. “It will help you grow strong.” Hawthorn, I loathe you. “Thank you, it was ... a lot.” Bloated, Djansi excused himself to bathe and dress. The sun rose, and Djansi returned in his new tros and jerkin. His brown curly hair had become quite long, reaching to his shoulders, forcing him to periodically brush it from his eyes. He wore his hunting knife on his belt. “You will not need that,” Mansa said, noticing the sheathed weapon. “With all due respect, once you've had an elkwolf try to tear you in half, then you can tell me I don't need it.” Mansa nodded his assent. “Fair enough.” He then grabbed a small trunk from the corner of the room and dragged it out of the cottage. Djansi trailed behind him, occasionally burping. They walked through snow to the boundary of the property where the wide road traveled downhill, south towards the barely visible treeline of the Epoya. North, it ran uphill towards Fairriden. The road was seldom traveled during the winter, so it was covered in several feet of damp, sticky snow on this cloudless morning. The songbirds were active today, flitting through the neighbors crops. Mansa set the trunk down and popped it open, revealing his set of hardened leather armor. He bade Djansi come nearer and held up the chest piece. It was a beautiful cuirass, black and engraved with detailed, flowing line-work. Then, surprising Djansi, Mansa fit it to him. It was far too large, of course, and heavy as solid stone. Djansi knocked against it with his fist; it even sounded like stone. “Why do I need protection, when you say I don't need a knife?” Djansi asked, puzzled, arms outstretched at his sides, as Mansa continued to strap more armor to him; Matching pauldrons, bracers, gauntlets, greaves, and boots. He tightened

them so they would stay fast, despite looking ridiculous on his slight frame. “That sounds like a question I would ask,” Mansa said. “Doesn't answer anything, but ok.” Djansi tested his movement and found he could stretch his arms and lift his legs despite the heavy armor, though he was already sweating. “Sometimes, we seek the easy path, Djansi. It is simpler to strike, then allow oneself to be struck. Violence is the easy choice. You wear the armor, because it will help make you strong. It is wielding that knife, which makes you weak.” Mansa closed the lid of his trunk, slung it over his back, then looked up the long, snow covered road. “Now. You run.” Djansi laughed. “This weighs more than I do! You can't be serious.” “You are made of sterner stuff than you believe. Without aspfoil, you survived an elkwolf, Nkiri, and a drop of a hundred feet into freezing water. After all that, you fear exercise?” “I also recall losing some toes,” Djansi murmured. “Not very long ago, in fact.” “You did, and do you think I have not noticed how you struggle to hide your limp? To walk on that injury must cause you pain. Yet you understand you must bear that pain, if you are to grow. This hill is no different. The armor is an injury you must bear. The path is an injury you must bear.” He handed Djansi a waterskin. “Now, begin.” “We're out of aspfoil, you know,” Djansi grumbled as he trudged away through the snow. “In case I start dying on the way up.” Within minutes of walking, he was lathered in sweat, his breath visible in the cold winter air. As he ascended, the hill became steeper and the snow more shallow. He managed to jog for almost an entire minute before panting heavily. Every step sent a pang of pain up his leg from his wounded foot, and keeping his balance was a constant struggle.

“Come on. You did this every day for years. Every Spirit-cursed day!” He had survived so much—that morning's breakfast included—but the hill was defeating him. He gave up the idea of running, or jogging; so he trudged. His thin muscles burned as he reached the halfway mark; a set of large flat stones just off the side of the road. There, he vomited into the snow, then collapsed on the stones to rest, catch his breath, and drink. “Madness,” he breathed. Nsia entered his thoughts. Her long black hair blowing into his face. Her scent. Her features, somehow sharp and soft at the same time. The impossible blue of her eyes. Her quiet bearing. How warm her hand had been in his. Like a turtle trapped on its back, Djansi flailed and fought his way upright, then took a steadying breath. Revitalized, and blushing, he continued the arduous hike. Reaching town—what he normally accomplished in an hour—took the better part of the day. Djansi believed the return would be simpler, but it became a delicate balancing act. Burdened as he was by the heavy armor, the slick, sloping path became more dangerous than the way up. To avoid falling hard every few minutes, he was forced to make his way tortuously slow across ice and stone. It was late afternoon by the time home was in sight. Cloaked against the wind, Mansa waited at the gate by the road. Djansi had no energy left to even speak; his muscles were far beyond the burning strain and into the realm of blissful numbness. His poor foot trailed behind him as he limped the last few strides to the gate, whereupon he collapsed into the snow. Mansa hoisted up the unconscious boy into his arms and carried him inside. Fires were built in every hearth, and pleasant warmth radiated throughout. Soon out of his sweat-soaked clothing and armor, Djansi rested in the hearthroom between layers of thick furs. It seemed Mansa had more than enough time while Djansi rested to prepare another generous meal. Mansa forced the exhausted Djansi to stretch and move about the cabin every hour so his ts would not lock by the next day. When dinner was ready, they sat together, and Djansi slumped over another massive bowl of the same vegetables and wheat that somehow tasted worse than it had that morning.

“I am to write to my family soon,” said Mansa. “They will all be expecting news of your recovery.” “How muth will you tell them?” Djansi answered between mouthfuls. “Enough. I had documents drafted naming you my apprentice.” “Apprentice what? Did you just write Unbound on it?” “No Djansi.” Mansa said, taking the joke seriously. “This secret stays with us. This is of the utmost importance. Should a lawfully practicing Unbound discover us, there is no telling what they might do. For all I know they would burn you at the stake as an abomination. The Unbound have kept their secrets for millennia, and will stop at nothing to keep it that way.” Djansi swallowed hard. “They don't ... travel this far north, though, right?” “Not for decades. The last ... was an Agiotage.” “A what?” Djansi had stopped eating and focused on Mansa, his trepidation overruled by curiosity. “One of the Orders of Unbound. They are travelers. Seekers. An Agiotage finds resources to be harnessed for Reagent-use. As such they are knowledgeable of the natural world, and the qualities of Reagents; seeking new components, which in turn broadens what is possible with Nkaya. An Agiotage has a wide skill set, and practices many Arts.” “Like what?” Djansi asked. “In layman's , protecting themselves from the elements, healing, transformation, and traveling great distances at speed. They are trained to survive in unknown, hostile environments, manipulating Nkaya to aid as they chart the perilous unknown. 'Beware the venerable Agiotage, for he will outlast us all', the saying goes.” “Remarkable.” Djansi was brimming with questions about the other Orders and their magic, but had learned to sort these questions by priority and set less gnawing ones aside for later, or reason through answers on his own. “So ... if we're keeping this a secret, then what trade am I learning under you? You said

you had papers. I should know in case anyone in town asks.” “Cooking.” Djansi spat out his water. “C-cooking?” “This is what I told my siblings I studied while abroad. It gives me ample excuse to spend time alone. Foraging, training.” “Has ... your family eaten your cooking?” “No, why?” “Oh no, no. No reason.” Djansi looked into the dregs of his bowl, at the small pieces of vegetables that were burnt, while others remained somehow completely raw. “That is enough for this evening. Tomorrow, rest. The next day, you run the hill again.” Mansa helped the wobbly legged Djansi to his room. “Concerning the letter I must write,” Mansa said once his ward was situated in bed. “I'm sure my sister would take kindly to a message from you, should you wish to express your thanks.” Djansi brought his blanket up over his head. “Only if you so choose,” Mansa added. “If so, have a letter penned by evening tomorrow, and I will have it delivered with my own. If the rider is swift, there will be a reply within the month.” Djansi mumbled some kind of response beneath the blanket. Mansa added a log to his fire and shut the door behind him. Exhausted, Djansi fell asleep to the sounds of something small scratching at his window.

Chapter Fourteen

Dear Nsia ... no. Greetings! ... To whom it may concern? ... ugh. Sore and frustrated, Djansi sat at his desk, staring down at several blank pieces of paper, tapping his quill against the wood. His foul mood was made even worse by another of Mansa's excessive meals, whose taste lingered even now. This latest atrocity had comprised of veiny, smelly cheese, some kind of bitter round vegetable that tasted of charcoal, and a whole under-cooked fish, with extra hawthorn sprinkled on top. Mansa had left afterwards, so he didn't witness Djansi retching and trying in vain to rinse the taste from his mouth. Mansa had personal business to attend, and would be away until the evening meal, giving the bloated boy almost an entire day to perfect his letter to Nsia. He was was under strict orders to stretch periodically, but to otherwise rest. He had been at his desk for a full hour now, though his only progress consisted of a crudely drawn picture of Mansa sitting in a boiling kettle. “You're overthinking this. Just, be casual.” He scratched out the runes for 'Hey girl, It's me, D' onto his practice sheet, then groaned, and crossed it out several times. Exasperated, he leaned precariously far back in his chair, balancing on the back legs and looking up at the ceiling. “So I can't tell her what's really happening. Even if I did, she wouldn't believe me. Plus her family might read the letter.” He further distracted himself by imagining Agya and Amemre writing letters to one another, and could only laugh at the idea. He imagined Agya writing page after page of interesting anecdotes and tales, and Amemre replying with the technical outline of a project he was working on. Djansi tried to Nsia's face. The last time he had seen her was aboard the Hateni, after they had pulled him from the water. He could only recall her face as it was then; something so perfect, marred by tears, grime, and fear. He realized there was only one way to start. Nsia,

Thank you. I'm sorry I did not get to say that before you left for Bankese, sorry for everything. That's twice now I owe you my life. I'm feeling much better, and both my arms are soundly attached and working, though your brother's 'care' may see me back in the hospital. I hope your apprenticeship is going well in Bankese. You were always the best at figures and maths and things. What is it like there? How are you? Please thank your family for me as well. Spring seems so far away. - Djansi He sat back and observed his crude work. Though his runes were messy, and he only guessed at the spelling of half the words, it was legible. More than anything, he determined he would not to lie to her. He couldn't fathom anyone being upset that he was Unbound—as far as he was concerned it was miraculous —but he trusted Mansa was right about keeping it a secret. Djansi dried and sealed the letter with hours to spare, and decided he would take this opportunity to beat Mansa to the punch. Later in the afternoon when his mentor returned; wet and cold from the snow, Djansi had a full, palatable meal waiting. It was the simple stew he had helped his parents make a thousand times. Djansi did not know where Mansa was procuring the various foodstuffs he was cooking with, but it was not from the salt box in the cottage, which somehow still contained the last of Agya's rabbits. The stew had a few bones to it, but it was otherwise fine, better by far than what Mansa had been forcing him to eat. No hawthorn in sight. “This ... is pleasant,” Mansa said, surprised. “I will allow it for today, but I have chosen your meals precisely for the properties of their ingredients to aid in your recovery.” He slung his wet cloak on a peg near the fire to dry and sat at the table with Djansi. “Thank you,” Mansa said. “It gave me something to do. I'm not as dead as I thought I'd be today. I had energy to spare.” “You grow swiftly, Djansi,” Mansa said, nodding. “You will one day soon be tall and strong. This is good. We must steel your body before you try to channel the

current, lest it break you.” The scrawny youth beamed at the thought he might one day resemble either of his parents, as unlikely as that seemed then. “But there must be some other, safer way to practice, though? It might be years until I'm taller. I don't think I can wait that long before I try using magic.” “Magic,” Mansa muttered, running a hand through what was fast becoming a full beard. “Few Unbound refer to Nkaya as magic, you know. Magic has an air of theatricality to it. But I hear you. I will think on this.” They contented themselves with a warm meal and a cup of tea afterwards. “What was it like when you were Unbound?” Djansi asked, sitting by the fire. Mansa sipped his tea and watched the fire. “Akin being torn asunder from the inside. As if my mind were splayed out upon the torturer's rack.” “Oh.” “Not all those who undergo the rite respond the same, however. Some are born able to wield Nkaya from the moment they are Unbound. I was not.” “So it isn't just about being rich, there's more to it,” Djansi said. “Biology, training, spirit. These things are important. But in the end, what matters most often is who Unbinds you. The stronger the master, the higher their fee, but the stronger student they will produce. A flawed system favoring the few. My master was a middling noble, regarded as a weak source. If my family were of higher standing, things might have been different.” “So what about me?” “I do not know. Unbound are limited by their masters, and I know not what the crown-walkers are capable of.” The two men tidied after their meal and washed the dishes side by side. “I've been meaning to ask something,” Djansi said as he put away the clean

bowls on the shelf. “You always do.” “If you're an Unbound ... that means your family are nobles, or really important, right?” Djansi said, ignoring Mansa's comment. “An old family, yes—but important no longer.” “Uh-huh, does that mean ... is Nsia ... a Princess?” Djansi whispered the last word. He wasn't certain what a princess was, but based on the fables from other nations he had read, he knew they were important and beautiful. Mansa shook his head no, but Djansi had already decided. He did not know where princesses came from, or what it meant, but Nsia was definitely one of those. “Now Djansi, let me ask you something. A test, if you will.” Djansi instinctively hid his hands. “If I fail?” “I add a helm to the armor when you run tomorrow.” “And ... if I ?” “Your choice of prize,” Mansa said. “A game, an afternoon free. Something from the grocer. Whatever you like.” “Hm. Agreed,” Djansi said, smiling nervously. He sat cross-legged atop the table, rocking from side to side while Mansa stood facing him. “Good. I will ask you a series of questions, and you will answer quickly. Do not overthink the answers. Understand?” Djansi's heart beat loud enough that it rang in his ears, but he nodded. He had never been keen on schoolwork of any kind; he knew he was stupid, his schoolmates, and teacher had made sure he knew it, too. “What is Nkaya?” Mansa began. “Magic. But you don't like that word. It's everywhere.”

“What is Nkosam?” “Unbinding. It makes you an Unbound.” “Agiotage?” “Like an explorer. They look for Reagents, and they're strong.” “What is a Reagent?” “Uhh ... like, a thing, you use for magic. Helps you focus.” “What is an Art?” “It's like ... a spell?” Djansi guessed, a bit embarrassed using a word he had learned from his storybook. “What is Nkiri?” “Damned painful.” “Yes. What Reagent is used for the Art of Breaking?” “Bone.” Mansa was smiling. For such a handsome man, it did seem strange when he did that, it was toothy and unnerving. “Wait.” Djansi felt overwhelmed; his cheeks were red, and his heart raced. “You never told me that last one. I don't know that.” “Some things are learned, Djansi, while others are understood. This too, is the nature of Nkaya. You did well. There is much more to learn, but you did well.” Djansi got up, paced around the room, muttering to himself, then came to sit in the same spot a minute later. “So the bluffs....” “Yes?” “I Broke them with a spell? But you need a Reagent, right? So...”

“Art,” Mansa corrected. “Spells are what sorcerers use in your faery-stories.” The frightening solution dawned on Djansi. He looked to Mansa. “I used my own Spirits-damned arm. The bones inside my arm. That was the Reagent I used.” “Correct!” Mansa beamed with pride at Djansi's deduction, while Djansi himself remained horrified by the implication. “The first pain you experienced that day—that was Nkaya. The body and mind must be strong to bear it. It manifests as a pulling; a pressure within you. The second pain; when you could not control the power you called, was Nkiri. Nkiri is the balance; the debt. The price we pay. Without a Reagent, without focus, or skill, Nkiri consumed the bones of your arm as the Reagent.” “So if I try using an Art—and mess up—or use an Art again without knowing ... I might accidentally explode all my bones ... from the inside?” “Theoretically, yes. The damage from the resulting Art would be devastating, as well. As you saw firsthand.” “I don't think I want to learn magic anymore, thanks. I think cooking might be good. Yeah, cooking is good.” “Now, now. I'm here to make sure you don't do something brash, like explode. Though I gather you better understand the burden you carry.” “I'd say so!” Djansi sat down cautiously, as if doing so too fast were now dangerous. “Tell me more about Reagents. If I know how to use them, maybe there's less chance of blowing myself up.” “Dramatic, Djansi. It is a complex subject, which we will get to in time. But for now; bone. A primal Reagent. Quality, rarity, durability, and size. All are important properties. Say an Unbound carries the bone of a small animal. The thin spine of a bird. Easily carried, but when used as a Reagent, could do little more than crack this table.” Mansa knocked against the solid oak table, as if it would not be impressive to shatter such a thing. “Also, the frail bone would crumble to dust after a single use. If one carried, say—a staff of ancient crownwalker bone; a trained Unbound could shatter the land beneath us, and everything in it. For this use, the bone-staff might bear only minor damage.”

“So they're all destroyed, just some faster than others.” “Yes. Though even with a powerful Reagent. It is a matter of fortitude, both mental and physical, to channel Nkaya. Therefore, we train.” Mansa added another log to the fire, then went back to his book. The strange new things he was learning unsettled Djansi, but he was excited by the wonders he had yet to uncover. Despite images of his body violently flying apart running through his mind, he was still determined to learn. If he could learn these things, he could go back into the Epoya. “Oh! Right, I wrote a letter.” Djansi rushed to his bedroom to find it. As he did, he noticed his window was strangely open, letting a chill breeze indoors. He shut it, grabbed his letter, and went back to Mansa. It was meticulously folded and sealed. “Did you write yours?” Djansi asked. “I did.” Mansa took a crumpled, stained sheet from his breast pocket and laid it on the table for Djansi to read: Family, Djansi lives. House still standing. Chestnut is well. Mansa

Chapter Fifteen

Djansi was halfway up the hill, panting in the heavy leather armor. A strong northern wind whipped the snow into a stinging frenzy this day, his simple woolen scarf doing little to protect him. Djansi had planned on using his reward to take a day off training during the sudden storm, but he instead used it to have Mansa to re-write his letter, and to do it properly this time. Despite the inclement weather, he was motivated today, even after learning the plethora of things that could go wrong when one got involved with magic. He still thought of Nsia, but the idea of literally blowing himself apart if he didn't train provided all the motivation he might need. He doubted Nsia would want to spend time with someone that dangerous. Plus Djansi didn't feel he was the most handsome of young men, exploding would hardly help his chances. He ed a few curious folk as he neared the top of the hill, but so focused was he, he did not even notice them. Agya could run four days without rest. Amemre could lift an adult elkwolf over one shoulder, and me? ... Djansi sped up, breathing in rhythm with his footsteps until he was jogging the last stretch to the top. I might blow up any minute. And have trouble walking up a hill. That day Djansi returned before nightfall.

The days of Djansi's training ed by much the same after that. At first, he ran the hill every other day, and trained with weights on the days in between. Before winter's end, he could run the hill daily, even burdened as he was in the armor. His body was replenishing its fat quickly thanks to Mansa's surprisingly effective culinary horrors. That fat, in turn, became muscle. Far quicker that Djansi had thought possible. He suspected Mansa used some Art; some magic in his cooking, and perhaps the taste was a side effect. Unfortunately, Mansa remained rather tight-lipped on the matter. Despite Djansi's protests, Mansa also still believed it was too early, and far too dangerous to begin the mental exercises required to sense the current of Nkaya. Instead, Mansa brought a store of books from his family home, and a few medicinal texts borrowed from Brightnora. To Djansi's dismay, regular studying became a part of his daily routine. After their evening meal, together they studied any strange, arbitrary topic Mansa had decided upon, seemingly at random. One day cartography, the next day, three hours on testing the ripeness of a plum. Djansi began learning about the natural world; the names and likenesses of uncommon flora, such as the bloodroot saplings; whose name was disturbingly literal, with roots that flowed with blood-like sap. He read about the deadly hammerthorn bushes, whose serrated thorns tripled in length in an instant, impaling nearby prey, and of the phosphorescent blueshield fungi native only to the Epoya—and mistress Brightnora's clinic. One text even included an artist’s rendition of a rare man-sized flower, called the titan ostara, that could imitate the voices of living things, luring them to a slow death in its embrace. These were subjects of study Djansi could get behind. Though against his will, he was also made to study arithmetic. Mansa had explained that they purchased most Reagents already refined, and if he wished to avoid being robbed blind, he would do well to learn the basics of figures and values. Mansa was nothing like Ysra, however, though sometimes his answers made little sense; layered in metaphor, and he needed to repeat them several ways. But he was never short with Djansi, even when he struggled. Djansi, embarrassed by his own inward belief that he was stupid, took to re-reading the subjects he

found most difficult over and over—until he became too distracted by thoughts of Nsia, of course. Djansi learned a little about the world and Oda in his studies, though he drifted off and missed large sections. It was an isolated island nation, upon which Fairriden was the northernmost settlement, separated from the bulk of the landmass by the Epoya. Oda had relations to the rest of the larger world, though only out of necessity, as other nations held powerful Reagents Odans desired. Bankese traded Runewrought weapons to the people of Jakim to the south for their scarab pigments and living-gold, and ironwood planks worth a king's hoard were traded to the stout northern seafarer’s of Fìrean-mòr for anàrach, soulcrystals forged by their Draoidh. Few among these traders and merchants even knew Fairriden existed, however, and it made Djansi feel rather trapped and alone; seeing his home so isolated upon a map. Thus the months ed very much the same by day and night—all the while Djansi longed to return to the Epoya. He knew in his heart his parents were alive, and the idea that they waited for him plagued his dreams. To stay with Mansa meant learning the things he had always selfishly desired with every fiber of his being, while abandoning his parents. To leave, meant giving up on himself, risking his apprenticeship, and his very life in the Sempiternal Sea. Torn by the choice before him, he regularly secreted supplies into the hidden cache where Amemre had once kept his silvered mace—in case the day came when he decided to leave. But every time Djansi had an opening, his gut tightened into a painful knot of fear and guilt. His parents were alive. They were making their way back to him, even now. There is a good reason they have not returned. These, and many other fabrications did Djansi convince himself of.

The unlikely master and student developed a rhythm to their days. Djansi dispelled the animosity he once held towards Mansa. He saw there was only generosity and well-meaning behind his actions, for Mansa took as much risk in teaching, as Djansi took in learning. Should the Orders of Unbound be as keen on keeping their secrets as Mansa believed, then even as far north as Fairriden, they could both be imprisoned for practicing outside the formal establishments of the Unbound. As spring approached, a rider arrived bearing the first responses to their letters, a welcome break to their repetitious days. Djansi had only just returned from his run, and was removing his sweaty gear. He cleaned and cared for the leather armor as he had seen Amemre do a thousand times, brushing it and applying a clear solution to help it stay waterproof. Mansa met the rider at the door, a young squire wearing fine traveling gear. These riders did rather well for themselves, acquiring valuable goods and information in exchange for making the long journey to Bankese and back along the One road. Mansa handed them a small vial, half filled with a silvery liquid. “As promised,” Mansa said. “Many thanks, sir.” The young rider inspected it, then placed the vial in a padded pouch at their side. They then produced two letters from another bag slung over their shoulder. “'Ere' you are.” They gave a curt bow and Mansa nodded acknowledgment before shutting the door. He looked over both the letters after the rider departed. Djansi's heart was likely to fall out of his own mouth. He found he had been polishing the same spot since the knock on the door. Mansa handed one letter to the wide-eyed youth, treating it as if it wasn't the most important (and only) letter Djansi had ever received. Mansa sat himself down across the room in a padded chair and cut the seal of his letter. Djansi didn't know what to do. He wanted desperately to read it, but found he feared its contents. What am I scared of? It's only words.

He decided it would be best to read it in the privacy of his room. He shut and latched his door, then sat at his desk and placed the unopened letter in front of him. On it were written the words, 'To Djansi' in Nsia's beautiful penmanship. He swallowed his fear, pulling out his knife. “Ok, letter,” Djansi said. “I'm going to read you now.” It took him a few more minutes to build up the courage to actually open it. But in time, he cut the wax seal. He set the unsealed letter on his desk, paced two quick laps of his small bedchamber, then sat down and read. Djansi, I am very pleased to hear you are recovering, I knew in my heart that you would. Please don't let Mansa's demeanor put you off. He means well. If, or rather, when he goes too far, just be firm with him. He does not care overly for confrontation and will most likely give way. Cry, if possible. It is his greatest weakness, though it may only apply to me. The city is more wondrous than I ever imagined. It is so much warmer than home, even in winter, and everyone wears the strangest garments. Luckily I have not felt more than a gentle breeze, for if there was wind here as in Fairriden, their dresses would all be over their heads. I saw one of the Mmoasam, a people with skin like steel and a language that is like wood crackling in a fire. My studies occupy all my time however, so I have explored little, but they call Bankese the Emperor's Garden for good reason. The entire city is like a maze blooming with life. Regretfully, I must inform you we have decided to stay longer than I first thought. We will not return in the spring. It will be a year, likely two, until we return. I am sorry. Already I miss the smell of the ocean. I must end this letter and go, my training leaves me exhausted. I hope you will write to me again soon. Keep me informed on the comings and goings of home. It will make my time here easier.

Live fully, Djansi. Yours, Nsia Postscript. You are correct! I have indeed saved you twice now, while sadly, you have only saved my life on one occasion. It seems you have gained more time to think of a clever and impressive way to thank me. So many emotions conflicted within Djansi. His heart sank as his denial wore away to sadness. A Year. Maybe Two? Maybe more. Maybe never. In the space of five heartbeats Djansi decided he would run away and find her, then decided that he couldn't possibly. He went back and forth on the matter with every breath, then dropped face-first onto his bed and stayed there; still as the dead, letting his thoughts spiral out of control until Mansa called out that their dinner was ready. Djansi's shoulders slumped, his emotions plain as day. He sat down to a plate of some brown solid with a large bone protruding from the top. Mansa was not an observant individual when it came to emotion, but even he could tell how dejected his ward was, but he did not know how best to comfort him. He formed words, but said none of them aloud. In the end, they ate in silence. As Djansi struggled to keep down the last bite of his dinner, Mansa produced something from his pocket and set it down on the table. It was another vial, identical to the one he had handed to the post-rider. “What is it?” asked Djansi, devoid of inflection, but still curious. “Quicksilver. A metal which will remain a liquid unless exposed to freezing cold. It is quite unique.” “Is it used as a Reagent?” “All things are Reagents, Djansi. Only, some do not produce noticeable, or valuable effects. This however, does.” “Like what?” Djansi perked up, but remained slumped forward on the table.

“First, examine it. Explain to me what you see. Use what you have learned so far.” Djansi picked up the small vial of silvery liquid. It was wider at the base, and narrow at the neck, stoppered with a small cork. He held it up to his eyes between his thumb and forefinger and swirled it around. “It looks thick.” He started to remove the cork, but paused. “Is it safe to touch, is it poison?” “It is toxic, yes. To touch and to ingest.” Mansa remained unreadable and Djansi got the impression that had he not asked and drank it, Mansa would have let him learn that lesson the hard way. Djansi set it down delicately on the table, then went to a drawer across the room. He returned with a small steel sewing needle. He uncorked the bottle and swirled the needle in the liquid before removing it. “It's not sticky, and if it's poison, then it probably shouldn't be burned, right?” Mansa nodded. Djansi dropped the needle into the liquid, and it floated on the surface. “Ha! Look at that!” He was thrilled at his discovery, as if he were the first to uncover it. He used a clean fork to drag the pin from the vial. He then filled a small porcelain cup with water and dropped in the same needle, which sunk to the bottom. “So it's heavier than water, so stuff that sinks in water, floats in it.” “Quite astute,” Mansa said. “Well done, young man.” It was not the first praise Djansi had ever received, but his fathers were not the kind to dole out compliments. This tutoring was the most attention he had ever received, and while Mansa was not ideal in every way as a mentor, his words fed a deep longing in him, the desire to be needed and useful. It was a moment that Djansi would always . “So, what use does this have as a Reagent, based on its properties?” Mansa asked.

Smiling, Djansi thought for a long moment. “Make something weigh less? Or poison someone?” “With enough skill—it will reduce weight to the point a boulder might float through the air. But it is dangerous. If abused, it will poison the . Your skin will peel, your mind will dull, and your organs will fail. There is also a known case where the Unbound became weightless themself, instead of their target; and fell shrieking into the sky, never to be seen again.” Djansi still held the stoppered vial in his hands. He glanced down at it, as if it were about to attack him, then set it down with exceeding caution on the table. “There is a lot that can go wrong.” Mansa nodded vehemently. “Yes. This is the lesson. Therefore I am cautious with teaching. But I cannot delay any further. The longer we delay, the more likely it is you will use an Art without realizing it. So you get your wish Djansi. Tomorrow, you learn to breathe Nkaya. You are excused for the evening.” “I already know how to breathe ... what I don't know is how to float stuff,” Djansi mumbled. Back in his room, Djansi re-read Nsia's letter until his eyes blurred. He sighed and closed his eyes. Breathing. So stupid. Who can't breathe? Magic is what I need. A weapon. His hands rested on his jerkin. It had protected him from the elkwolf, and despite being sleeveless, had kept him warm in the waters of the Reidher. If walker-bone is a powerful Reagent ... then perhaps walkerhide is good for something, too. He shuddered, imagining the fine jerkin disintegrating; used up for some unknown Art and gone forever. Maybe that won't happen. He couldn't be certain, and as his mind drifted, he thought of Nsia. Not only did she want to hear from him again, but she had said Yours, Nsia. It was a small

hope however, and not enough to liven him. Jarring him awake, a small piece of brown meat landed on the bed next to him, and something tugged at his blanket, climbing it clumsily. Djansi dared not move, and stared at the pilfered food as it slowly began to disappear, bite by bite. Tears welled up in Djansi's eyes. The kankane from the woods had followed him all this way. “At least someone likes Mansa's cooking,” Djansi whispered. Safe from the growing winter storm outside, the soft creature lay next to Djansi as both drifted to sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

The following morning , Djansi awoke to a dark, cold, home. His hearth-fire was out, and the kankane was bundled in the crook of his arm for warmth. He stroked the translucent animal several times, and felt guilty for disturbing it, but dragged himself from bed. He sneezed, and bundled one blanket around where he thought it was. Another fur, the same one Nsia had once used, he draped over his shoulders and left his room, shutting the door behind him. The hearth-room was unlit. Shuttered windows clacked in the howling stormwind. Mansa sat cross-legged and bare chested at one edge of a small fur rug in the center of the room. Before him were several objects, and a single burning candle. From the window, Djansi could see snow piled high against the walls outside. A blizzard was not rare, but they were uncommon for the last days of winter. He wrapped the fur tighter around himself and wanted nothing more than to retreat to the comfortable warmth of his bed and to light a fire in his hearth. He looked at the table and saw no food, either. That was one bit of good news; though he had become accustomed to the quantity, if not the quality. His stomach rumbled in protest as he shivered from the cold. “What exactly is going on?” Djansi asked through chattering teeth. “I'm going to get the fire going.” “Djansi, sit.” Mansa motioned across from him. Perplexed, Djansi stalked over to the middle of the room. The cottage was well sealed, but stone had no insulation, so the walls radiated cold. Djansi sat crosslegged, mimicking Mansa. Between them was a tall blue candle in a saucer. This variety of tallow candle would last exactly twelve hours. On the rug in front of Djansi were also two wooden bowls, each half-full of water. Before Mansa was a fist-sized ivory box. Before Djansi could begin his litany of questions, Mansa spoke; his tone was odd, as if reciting memorized lines of a sermon. “Today you learn to See. To See, you must learn Emptiness. To become Empty,

you must cast off the Self. To cast off the Self, you must Breathe. Meditate, and Breathe.” “Can we eat something before I cast off the self?” “No food. No water. This is also Emptiness. Feel it. Every sensation within your body as you Breathe. Your hunger, your pain. Impermanence. None of these things last. Cast them aside. Become Empty. Now, Breathe as I do.” Not only did he not understand at all, but he was aching, freezing, and starving. His breathing was shallow, and he fought in vain to slow it. Mansa opened his eyes and saw the worry and discomfort on his pupil's face. He reached down to the small white box and opened it. Inside were a dozen glassy, frozen marbles. Crystal, or ice, Djansi could not tell. Each was about an inch in diameter and faceted like a worked gem. Mansa held one, the same way Djansi saw him hold the burning ember. Mansa closed his eyes and breathed deeply, rhythmically. The water in the bowl in front of him turned white at its edges and began to crystallize from the outside in. The water became a solid piece of ice. Mansa opened his hand, and the crystal was still there, glistening as if wet. “The Art of Transition,” Mansa said. “A fundamental Art, a mother Art from which many others may be learned. Water is one of the simplest substances to manipulate, as it most closely resembles the flow and structure of Nkaya.” “You want me to do that? Are you sure?” “Yes, though I am not sure. Most Unbound are groomed from birth in ClearSeeing. The meditative state of mind required to See Nkaya, and from there; call to it, coerce it. You, however, are not most.” Djansi reached for a crystal, but Mansa snapped the lid shut. “Not yet. First, Djansi. Breathe. Cast away your thoughts, focus only on what you feel. Then all will . Once you are Empty, then you See. Only then, you may attempt to call Transition.” To his surprise, Djansi found his heart rate slowed to a normal, steady beat. At

least his anxiety had dulled to the normal level he usually felt. He watched Mansa close his eyes and breathe. As the scruffy, bearded man breathed out, the ice in his bowl melted. As he breathed in, it froze. With every slow breath, in and out, it did this. Djansi mimicked the breathing pattern, following the rhythm he set. Long inhale through the nose, deep exhale from the mouth. As his mentor said, once he was concentrating inwardly, every ache in his body become hyper-present. The shivering of his bones, the tightness of his shoulder, still not recovered, a lingering stiffness in his scarred left arm, an ache in his back from siting on the floor, the sharp pangs of hunger in his stomach, and the dull pain of his right foot where his toes used to be. He focused on each one in turn. Impermanence? Djansi thought. This all reminded him of returning to his body from that strange dream-like place where he had met the crown-walker. Impermanence. This isn't bone, or muscle, or blood. It was what he had told himself before he saw the terrifying light and beauty of Nkaya. At the time, he said it to convince himself it wasn't real. This time, it was real. He could feel it all. It is flesh, but flesh is just muscle and sinew. It's only blood, only bone. He could not tell how many minutes ed, but his pain subsided, melting away as he thought less and less. He soon felt weightless, as if his body was no longer sitting there in the cold. He assumed he hadn't gone anywhere, but it felt as if a gentle breeze ed through him. His eyes were still shut, but in that darkness, as if very distant, he saw a light. A single pinprick, as if he were looking up at the stars through the clouds. It defied reason that he was seeing something with his eyes closed, but soon that light was not alone. It expanded into a long winding stream above him, then another appeared, and more, until all around him was flowing light that rippled like an aurora. The white bled into brilliant hues of purple and blue, and branched out like tributaries flowing from a river. It surrounded him; a gentle pressure that seeped inside, like water soaking through cloth. The last time he experienced this, it had tried to tear his body apart. It had been violent and painful. He had somehow used it to destroy the cliffs, saving Nsia, but using his own arm as the Reagent.

Djansi opened his eyes, shaken from his meditation by a flush of panic as he recalled that day. It felt as if he had been pulled back to the ground from high in the air. The colors and light disappeared instantly, and his vision spun. He was in his cottage with Mansa, but something was wrong. Nkaya flowed inside him— and it was growing stronger. Mansa was close, no longer sitting across from Djansi, and there was fear in his eyes. He was saying something, but the words were out of focus. “Mansa?” Djansi croaked. His throat was dry, he could hardly speak. “I feel it, like—the bluffs, it's happening again.” Djansi wept. “Run! Get away from me! Spirits, it's happening again! Leave, hurry!” Djansi felt the mounting pressure of the current building inside him alongside his panic, as it had once before. It didn't hurt as much; but still felt like some invisible force pulled against every inch of him. Mansa opened the white box and pulled a crystal from it. He pressed it into Djansi's hand and closed his fingers around it. “Focus, Djansi. Let go of your fear. You are far stronger than you were then. You are in control this time. Focus. Breathe.” His voice was calm. He might have been faking it, but it was still calm and steady. It was familiar and kind. “I-I can't!” Djansi grit his teeth against the strain. “You can. Focus, Breathe. Just Breathe. That's it. It's that easy. Mansa was kneeling in front of him, a hand placed on each of Djansi's shoulders. “Just breathe.” Djansi struggled, but took deep breaths, and stopped gasping for air. He still felt the pressure inside him, but it settled like sediment to the bottom of a lake. “Good, good. Keep breathing. You've called Nkaya. Like a fragile vessel holding boiling water; it must go, or the vessel will crack.” He held eye with Djansi, keeping his attention, keeping him from panicking. “Just keep breathing. You'll be fine. Just do as I say.”

Djansi began to breathe steadily, deeply. “What ... what now?” “Now, the way you focused on your pain? The same way. You focus on this, the Reagent in your hand.” Mansa breathed in and out so Djansi could mimic him. Focusing on the small object was abnormal. He could feel it sitting in his palm— it was so cold it burned—but he could sense more than that. Djansi stared at the crystal and furrowed his brow. It was like straining a muscle that didn't exist, but the current seeped slowly into the crystal from him, like water in a basin seeking a drain. The pain and the pressure left with it, and soon the crystal felt heavier, as if pressurized. “I think I did it.” The veins on his wrist bulged and the scars on his arm grew a brighter red. “Good,” Mansa sighed, wiping sweat from his forehead. He shuffled to Djansi's side, so they were both facing the bowl of water. Beside it, the sputtering candle had burned down to the floor. “Now, the water. Focus. Focus on the water. The Reagent you hold wants to freeze the water. that. It wants to change. It is its very nature to change. This is Transition. As the seasons change, the water freezes. Then the heat returns, and the ice thaws, then evaporates. All forms, all matter, must change, transitioning into different states of being. You are the conduit, giving Nkaya direction, so it may achieve its purpose. Now—its purpose is to become ice. To change.” Djansi had long since stopped trying to understand everything Mansa said, but this, this somehow made sense. “It wants to change. I have to let it. It wants to freeze. Ok, easy.” His body shook; he held his hand out, clenching the crystal. “Good. Nkaya is an old friend. A lost neighbor you are helping to find their way.” Djansi could feel it. Like a half-ed face, or a thought on the tip of your tongue. But it was there. Nkaya. He felt it.

In a rush unlike anything Djansi had ever experienced, the pressure held in the crystal erupted. The water in the bowl froze solid in a flash, then ice expanded in a fraction of a second, spreading out across the entire floor of the cottage, coating everything in a glistening sheet of ice. Neither master nor student moved. Their breath came out in massive white clouds in the frozen room. They turned, the movement cracking ice, and stared at each other in shock. In his hand, the crystal was half gone, melted away. The tips of Djansi’s fingers were discolored, and his lips were fast becoming an unhealthy shade of blue. Still, Djansi smiled widely. Mansa shook his head, dumbfounded. He tried to stand, only to find he was frozen to the rug. He fell face-first instead of standing, stuck with his rear in the air. Djansi laughed, then tried to stand himself, and found he had frozen himself as well. He landed close to Mansa, who enjoyed his turn to laugh. They laughed until they cried, the tears freezing halfway down their cheeks. Djansi rolled over to his back. “I'm starting that fire now.”

Having heard scratching at his door, Djansi checked on the kankane with plenty of jerky in hand to appease it. It seemed content to stay in the non-frozen confines of his room, but the smell of its waste was evident. He soon discovered that the creature's droppings were also invisible. Fun. After a tedious time finding the source, Djansi returned to the hearth-room. The ice was receding, leaving everything moist and chill. As big a fire as could be built roared in the hearth. Djansi sat beside his master before it, each bundled in layers of dry clothing and furs. Mansa poured a second mug of steaming tea. “So,” Djansi said, “that wasn't supposed to happen?” “No, it most definitely was not. Show me your hand.” Djansi held it out; the color was fast returning to his fingers, though the skin was badly cracked. Mansa looked it over. “Any other injuries?” “I feel ... stretched out? Sensitive, like an open wound. Bit nauseous, frozen, exhausted; my head aches, my fingers sting, and my butt's killing me.” “Well, some of those are minor Nkiri. Others are the bad posture, hunger, and poor sleep habits of a teenager.” Djansi ignored the latter comment and looked at the damage around at the room. “We sat there all day, didn't we? It seemed like minutes.” If the twelve hour candle hadn't burned all the way down, Djansi would not have believed it. “Clear-Seeing can have that effect.” Djansi brushed away his mess of hair and sipped at his tea. “So what did happen?” “To begin, Clear-Seeing is not normally so easily accomplished. For me, it took months. I fasted for seven days in that meditative state, without food or water, and only then did I witness Nkaya. But you?” Mansa waved his hand dismissively. “Hours. As you yourself said, easy.”

“Because I was Unbound by the crown-walker?” “Perhaps. Perhaps you already had an affinity. It would help to know your birth parents. By chance, do you....” Djansi stiffened. “I have an affinity for losing digits to the cold, is what I have.” He laughed a shallow laugh and flexed his hand. “I see,” said Mansa. He poured them each more tea from the kettle hung by the fire. Before the silence became too awkward, Mansa poked Djansi's knee. “You did well today. This was not like the cliff, you held back. You exhibited control. Not perfect control, but the first steps,” Mansa reassured him. “You called your first true Art today. With purpose and clarity. If you were a formally recognized pupil, you would be celebrated.” “Really?” “The Unbound masters of Bankese would all vie to have such a promising student their Orders, and the Masters of the martial Redans would try to steal you away.” Djansi imagined himself held atop someone's shoulders, surrounded by people all cheering his name. To be wanted. A crowd in his mind was around a dozen people, and it made him anxious even thinking about that many folk in one place. Day-dreaming, he sat there, snowed into his ice-cold cottage that was quickly becoming one big puddle. If he were to celebrate, he'd only want Agya, Amemre, Nsia, and Mansa there. That would be good. One day. “Could I do it again?” Djansi asked, wiping his eyes. “Undoubtedly. Clear-Seeing is the foundation. But the leap from Seeing to calling Nkaya is as far apart as seeing a wild stallion for the first time then taming it to ride. They are two very different skill sets, and this is where novices

stay for years, decades. You, however, have a unique hurdle. You do not seem able to stop attracting Nkaya. The wild stallion flees from any tamer, but is drawn to you against your will, not caring if you are trampled in its approach.” “So I jump on while it charges past me, I suppose.” Djansi finished another cup, and sighed as warmth crept through him at last. “I hope this is another metaphor by the way, and next you don't have me dodge horses.” Mansa paused. “Hm. Chestnut is getting restless with all this snow. But no— what we must do is redouble our efforts. I do not know why the current is drawn to you this way, but I now see it is more dangerous by far for you to remain untaught. If I were not here to guide you...” he shook the thought away. “For now, we will eat, and rest. Tomorrow, we try again.” The kankane ruffled the furs between them and crawled over Djansi, then onto Mansa's lap where it purred softly in the warmth of the fire. Mansa did not seem surprised. “When the weather clears, it will want to head home, to mate and forage,” Mansa said, scratching behind where its ears probably were. “Do not get overly attached.” “Of course not,” Djansi lied, already attached.

The next day they began their meditation with full stomachs and a fire in the hearth. Now that Djansi knew what he was looking for, he found it quickly. The living current of Nkaya. At least it acted like a living thing, by Djansi's reckoning; for as soon as he was focused enough to See it, it was as if the current saw him as well. Like a moth seeking flame, with wings that rippled across the sky, spanning the breadth of the cosmos. Djansi held the half-used crystal Reagent, known as a dinnite gem. A curious mineral which retained cold or heat almost indefinitely. They were quite valuable, or so Mansa explained. Djansi sat in front of a rain-barrel full of water. Which they hoped would contain the ice, if yesterday's exercise repeated itself. Djansi tried picturing the image of dodging a stallion as Nkaya flowed to him, but there was no way to physically move, so he attracted the current to him once more. This time he wasted no time in focusing on the crystal. He called Transition and guided it to the water-barrel. It wants to change. I'm giving it purpose. The current left him, and the water froze. Then the bucket froze, and a broad circle beneath the barrel froze, but not the entire cottage. Progress. Djansi opened his hand, and the crystal was still there. It had melted down to a quarter of its original size, and its facets had become smooth, but it was still there. “It's about timing,” Djansi wheezed, exasperated. He lay panting on his back, sickened and weak. “I just need to take in enough, then use it right away, before it builds too much.” “By all and tradition, the exact opposite should be true. The difficulty lies in not calling enough Nkaya to accomplish anything, not calling too much. Therefore you endure Nkiri to this degree with a simple Art like Transition.” Mansa helped Djansi to a chair by the fire, next to a makeshift bed of furs they had made for their newest little resident. Based on the indentation it left, it was sprawled out on its back. “At least some rules apply to both cases. Once you have called an Art, you are

cut off from the current of Nkaya, and must refocus. What you need now is control. Your will must be ironclad. This is your path.” “My path...” said Djansi, resting his head back. He looked into the eyes of the walker-head mounted above the hearth. “This is my path.”

Chapter Seventeen

Much to Djansi's dismay , when the storm ed, he was back to making the long trek up the hill. Upon his return he would practice Clear-Seeing with Mansa, day after day. Their goal was for Djansi to see Nkaya without calling it to him. Mansa likened him to a leaky faucet, where water could through perfectly fine but refused to stop. Djansi countered that Mansa used too many ridiculous analogies, and needed to cut back by half at least. Djansi was a floodgate? Nkaya was a horse? He was a faucet? It was confusing, bordering on silly. Despite Mansa's peculiar approach, they trained in calling Transition, and time and time again Djansi failed to fully control it. The days bled to weeks, the weeks to months, months, to seasons, and their training fell into new patterns. After exercise, meditation, and calling were his regular lessons where he learned about Reagents, their potential uses, where they could be found, and how best to prepare them, even if he could not yet utilize their Arts. With this, his time alone was commonly spent reading, or foraging and exploring the safer places around Fairriden—never straying too close to the Epoya. Spring came and went, and as Mansa had said, they did not see their little friend again, whom they had taken to calling Tuntum. But after hundreds of callings, and one case of accidental hypothermia, Djansi's control finally improved. Soon he could freeze only the water, not the bowl. While this may not appear to be a great triumph, in their eyes it was more cause for celebration than they’d had for a long while. Thus Djansi's practice began showing tangible results as his accuracy improved. Not only in his Breathing, but he himself grew as fast as Mansa could mend clothes. As he sprang into his fifteenth year, the town did not expect him to attend school any longer; though upon Mansa's insistence, Djansi still attended two days of the week. The decision was less about what Djansi learned, and more to have him interact with others closer to his own age. He would be no good as an Unbound if he were afraid to step outside his own front door. Djansi loathed seeing schoolmistress Ysra again, as she was fierce as ever, but

he had experienced much in the past year and a half, and found her barbs didn't sting as they once did. He had much worse problems than the retorts of a bitter woman, after all. The others in his class said little to him, but his recent notoriety had at least given him an air of mystery. While some dared not approach him, the younger boys and girls enjoyed pestering him with questions about his fall. They especially liked the bit with the elkwolf. The barrage of endless questions drove him mad, and for the first time he empathized with his parents and Mansa. He couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Besides his mentor, Nsia, and Chestnut, Djansi had no real friends. He was always friendly with the grocers and merchants, but never spoke long, and only of simple things. There are always pleasant small-town folk who ask after your health; mostly neighbors, whom he thanked for their gifts after his parents’ disappearance. He knew most everyone's name; such is the way of village life, but it wasn't until Nsia had reached out to him that he understood there could be more to a friendship than courtesy. He simply hadn't known. On those few occasions when his lessons ended early, he longed for someone to explore the woods and streams with him; someone who would care about him, not because of family, or obligation, but because they chose to do so. Even his former classmates who had once teased and tormented him were working hard at their family trades, or had moved elsewhere in the world. Those few remaining now offered him a modicum of respect if nothing else. One who had stayed in town was one of Nsia's old hangers-on, the contemptuous Yucca Finch. She was apprenticed to mistress Ysra, which made perfect sense to Djansi, as their personalities had a few striking similarities. These days, Yucca was always found at the schoolmistress' side, taking notes, making lesson plans, and occasionally speaking to the class on her behalf. She wore her blonde hair quite short, and though Djansi would never it it aloud, he found the young woman attractive. She had a penchant for wearing glittering cloaks and capes that were always dazzling and fluttering in their windy town. They gave her an ephemeral look, as if she were always floating. He felt guilty for thinking about her this way, so it seemed logical and prudent to Djansi that he should avoid her

at all costs, going so far as leaping into a hedge if she came around the corner unexpectedly. Mansa's plan to have Djansi socialize was going perfectly. Regarding Nsia, he sent and received letters regularly at first, a reply every month, then every two months, then three. They wrote of small things going on in their lives, but they each had secrets to keep. Nsia did not mention the fact that she had not taken up her family trade, and Djansi was not willing to risk telling anyone about his training. It made their communications a rather delicate balancing act, made more awkward by the folly of youth. The one aspect of Djansi's life which seemed to progress, was his magic. He could soon See as easily as Mansa. Within minutes Djansi lost himself watching the ebb and flow of Nkaya. He still attracted too much when calling, risking injury at every turn and forced to bear the strain it left on him. He learned the other functions of Transition, though Mansa refused to teach him anything too dangerous. The dinnite gem could act as a strong focus to evaporate water into a scalding cloud of steam. Apparently some could even produce fire with the Art of Vaporization, one of several branches of Transition. One could also use fire directly as the Reagent, but Djansi had no interest in plunging his hand into hot coals, a circus trick Mansa seemed to delight in. As Djansi became more proficient, they trained outdoors when possible, as neither wanted to freeze, burn, or otherwise destroy their home. The wooded stream nearby was far enough away from the town that nobody would find them, and there Djansi practiced freezing and evaporating the flowing water, which proved far more difficult to master than a stagnant bowl. By the end of the year, he could freeze enough water to stand on, cross the stream, then evaporate his stepping stones into mist without much effort. He then practiced freezing objects other than water. Using the moisture in the very air, the water in the trees, or the soil. Once frozen, he would Vaporize the ice into a thin cloud of mist. During one such calling where he had made a misstep and taken on too much Nkaya; deep within the billowing cloud of steam he had created, Djansi swore he saw a flashing streak of light. Mansa assured him he was mistaken. Djansi's next task was to ween himself off the rare dinnite gems upon which he relied. They were in limited supply, and there existed far more common

Reagents to be used, albeit less effectively. A drop of blood for heat. A tear for ice. So—strange as seemed—the young man became accustomed to carrying two concealed steel vials. One of his own blood, and one of tears. Luckily for Djansi, whenever he pricked his finger, his eyes welled up, making it rather easy, if embarrassing, to collect both. Water itself could be used as a Reagent by plunging in one's hand, but made for such a poor focus that Djansi could barely lower or raise the temperature by a few degrees, let alone freeze it. A more dangerous Art that Mansa was willing to teach, was the Art of Deformation. A defensive Art that could affect the Unbound's own body based on the properties of the Reagent they held. Mansa, who could not call a full Art himself, seemed to relish the idea of his student succeeding where he had failed in a calling of this magnitude. It proved far more difficult a task than either had expected however, and became a ready source of frustration for many long months. Deformation was a complex and perilous ability. If Djansi could not master Clear-Seeing without attracting too much Nkaya, he could make terrible, permanent changes to his own body. Mansa detailed a known case where a student once attempted to soften their skin at the request of their lover, only to have it melt it from their body, resulting in a gruesome death. Mansa took great pleasure in Djansi's nauseated reaction to these horror stories, believing it meant they had the desired effect of scaring him to caution. So they progressed slowly; far too slowly for Djansi's liking, but slowly none the less. As for his physical conditioning, whenever the young man became accustomed to the rigorous physical regime, Mansa doubled it. Grueling as it was, it allowed Djansi to withstand the strain of accepting more and more Nkaya with every ing month.

Two years they spent in this way—all the while Djansi continued to grow. Though not as tall as Mansa, Djansi's muscles went from non-existent, to minuscule, to visible, to distinctly visible. Even the branching, fern-like scars on his left arm faded to a dull red. He was becoming a man. Perhaps faster than any child should, but the harsh experiences of his childhood had already left their mark, so he steeled his mind and body against the ever-looming promise and threat of his magic. In their second year, Mansa journeyed west, saying he would be gone for several days; the opportunity Djansi had been waiting for. He had grown, he had learned things. He could survive the Epoya, and find his parents. He donned his jerkin, packed his knife, vials, and the few remaining dinnite gems, then traveled south. He felt guilty for leaving, but told himself that not trying was a disservice to his family. Later that day, he arrived at the gate, and for a long time he stared beyond it into the forest, not daring to its boundary. The nearer he came, the stronger his terror became. Djansi camped before the stone archway that night, looking over his campfire into the Epoya's dark expanse. He had made promises to Mansa. He wanted to see Nsia again. His parents were alive. There was more he needed to learn. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid. His parents were alive. I'm not afraid. In the morning, Djansi made the long walk home before Mansa ever found him missing. He then redoubled his efforts to learn, and with Mansa's guidance, the awkward youth slowly grew into a man, and he there found a sliver of confidence. Enough at least to stop diving into hedges to avoid speaking to people his own age. He even shared a few pleasant conversations with Yucca, who was nowhere near as rude as she once was. She often approached him, asking over how his training and exercise went, though why she would be interested in his training he couldn't fathom. She laughed when Djansi joked about Mansa's quirks, or himself, and not the sardonic laugh she had once mocked him with years ago—but a pleasant, heartwarming laugh. When she left, Djansi noticed for the first time that she

always danced when she walked, her colorful cloaks glittering and bouncing around her. As Djansi returned home that same day, he received what would be his last letter from Nsia. She wrote of her return in the spring, only a few short weeks away. I look forward to seeing you, Djansi, she had written. His heart raced as he finished it, and rested it on his chest. He imagined her kind eyes and face. The shape of her, the Nsia he ed. Without realizing, he began to See. Within seconds he was devoid of all sensation; his mind empty, the impermanent self replaced with a sea of calm. From the darkness appeared the magnificent, flowing currents of magic. He gingerly opened his eyes, and there, like a ghostly afterimage, he could still see Nkaya's haunting ebb and flow. He had not told Mansa of this; Seeing with his eyes open. It would only worry him. Djansi smiled, laying on his bed, and like a child dipping his fingers in a running river, ed his hands through it, delighting in the infinite possibilities it contained.

Part Three, Chapter Eighteen

Two wooden swords clacked deafeningly against one another. The combatants separated, but not far, leaving only a few handspan between them. They paced around each other, mirroring the other's footsteps. They each held a traditional Odan practice sword, whose curvature was so pronounced they more closely resembled long sickles. Everything about Nsia's opponent screamed of strength. Her height, the set of her jaw, the square of her shoulders, the sheer size of her limbs. She wore a brown and gold uniform, the same short-sleeved coat and loose pants as Nsia, except she kept hers open, and her chest wrapped in cloth. She looked as if she boxed wild animals, or hauled boulders up mountainsides for fun. Sweat dripped from Nsia as she circled her opponent in the sparring hall. Odan blades were designed for slashing in close quarters; taking a step away from her foe now would be a deadly misstep. They wielded their swords two-handed, and when one shifted their blade to a new position, the other mirrored the movement. Nsia dropped fast to one knee on the woven straw mat while launching herself forward with her other foot. She spun as she brought her blade forward and across, like a top making a quarter turn. She hoped to score a hit on her enemy's exposed shins. The steel-taught muscles of Nsia's legs flexed as she executed the practiced move. With a sharp blade, it would cut both shins straight through the bone with a single motion. With a wooden practice blade, it would leave a hellish bruise, perhaps a fracture and she was not about to make the mistake of pulling her punches, not again. Nsia's blade connected with nothing. Her opponent leapt above the strike. The fierce, scowling woman Nsia faced had kicked her legs out with such reckless abandon that for an instant she was completely horizontal in mid-air. Her full, impressive weight was about to land on Nsia. Nsia kept her momentum, and dove forward, low to the ground, the motion taking her clear under her opponent’s legs as she came down. Nsia faced away from her adversary, and expected to hear her crash to the mat. No such sound followed. The woman had, with almost supernatural grace, pulled her legs back under her and landed in a crouch. Both now knelt facing away from one another, their backs barely an inch apart.

This time Nsia's opponent moved first, diving backwards towards Nsia, springing like a coiled serpent. She twisted mid-air, bringing her blade to the front. Nsia dropped to her back and blocked the heavy strike as best as she could. The back of her own weapon was knocked into her chest, bruising her ribs and blowing the air from her lungs. She grunted, and kicked both legs up to strike, but missed, and instead shifted the motion to launch into a backwards roll, ending on one knee. She panted, her muscular body matted with sweat. She kept her hair long, but tightly braided into a single long tail that trailed and whipped as she moved. Nsia's massive adversary once more landed gracefully despite her size. The woman shifted her stance until she held the hilt of her blade near the side of her head, point down so the blade curved inwards like the fang of a serpent. This was the trademark technique of her school, the Redan of the Asp. The stance the master held was one Nsia could not yet match. The movements of the technique required a lifetime of practice; Nsia had less than two years. Nsia fell into a defensive stance, eyes wide, breathing heavily, her blade held diagonally before her. She could not match the skill or brute force of her master, but she was agile—or so she thought. Her master shut her eyes, then burst forward in a blur, reaching Nsia before she could the movement had begun. She was suddenly so close Nsia could feel her breath. The beastly master had crossed the room in an instant, her blade now held at her opposite hip, pointing up. Nsia had not seen her arms move, nor felt any blow land. For a second, Nsia thought she might have missed. Then her arm fell limp to her side and her blade clattered onto the mat. It took a moment for the pain to reach her, but a single red point on her arm was already expanding into a fist-sized welt. She fell to her knees clutching her left arm, but she did not cry out. Nsia drew a deep breath, then stood, her face contorted in pain. She stepped back, and bowed. “Why did you lose?” asked her master, casually. Even as she walked across the training room to fetch a towel which she tossed to Nsia, she moved as if ready to strike at any moment, in any direction. Every motion was full of poise and

purpose. Her dark skin glistened with sweat, but her breathing was calm. She was the master of this Redan—Akruma, Whose Name Means Righteous Axe. Nsia caught the proffered towel with her uninjured right arm, wiped her head, then slung it across her shoulders. “You were too fast. The Vipera stance is too powerful to defend against.” “I am not too anything,” Akruma said with disdain. “No stance yet exists that cannot be countered. You lost because you lack sight, not speed.” This was not the first time she had heard this, but it was a concept that was lost on Nsia. Among the small group of Akruma's students, Nsia had ascended the stance chambers quickly, but had made no headway in the final chamber of sight for the last three months. This chamber involved sparring against her master, almost daily. Nsia had tried everything she could imagine to make progress. She trained her vision and reaction speed for hours every day; she could spot the flicker of a candle from the corner of her eye across a crowded room, she could draw a blade as quickly as she could take a breath. But when it came time to spar against Akruma, she felt like a child playing at swords. “I still do not understand,” Nsia itted. “How am I supposed to see faster? It defies logic, science, and all common sense.” “Many things defy logic in this world, little crow. But that does not make them impossible. It means only that we lack understanding of things.” Nsia hated the nickname 'little crow'. Many of the black birds had migrated to Bankese from distant farmlands in recent years—as had Nsia. The things were cunning, opportunistic little scavengers, as was Nsia, according to her master. “I have been trying to understand. But is there no better way than to be beaten senseless day after day? I know your methods are unorthodox, but now I see why you have so few students; and why those who stay are crazy, or desperate.” “And which are you?” Akruma asked playfully. “At first? Desperate. Yours was the only Redan that would take me. Now? Crazy, perhaps both.”

In Bankese, if a family already had an Unbound in their ranks, the remaining young scions often became scholars, diplomats, or chose a Redan. Most, however, chose Redans more likened to a nobles sport than a genuine method of combat. Such as the Redan of the Gazelle, or Feliforme. The houses saw these as more 'refined' and befitting of the upper echelons of society; fit for officers and leaders. It was unheard of, after all, to arrive at a banquet sweating, covered in bruises and lacerations. “Don't get your feathers ruffled. Your time will come. Or it won't. Either way...” Akruma replaced the practice swords on a wall lined with various styles of wooden weapons. “I already got paid.” “Hm. We should have only agreed to pay if you taught me something useful.” Nsia sighed, while Akruma laughed. “At least your wit drips with venom. Too bad it lands more often than your blade.” Nsia took a sharp breath. Her frustration was plain for any to see. Her time in Bankese was coming to an end, and she still had so much to learn. “Now, now,” bade her master. “The lesson is over for today. Your movements were more precise than ever. Had I landed atop you with Gallow's Drop I would have snapped you in half. You did well to stay low with Sidewind.” “But I should have avoided being struck by your Lateral Coil,” Nsia said, then paused to think. “...with Anguiforme, perhaps.” “That!” Akruma pointed. “Right there. That is your problem. You stop. You think. Even in battle, I can feel your little crow's mind always scheming and working. That thinking prevents your seeing.” “You sound like my brother,” Nsia muttered. “But I'll consider your words, Master.” “Consider? That sounds like a fancy word for think. You're going to go think about how you think too much?” “I see your point.” Nsia retrieved her clean clothes from a corner of the training hall. “See you tomorrow.”

Akruma regarded the tired young woman. “No.” “What?” Nsia snapped, dropping her bundle. “Ascension is one week away, and I'm not even close to ready! I need every day of practice I can get.” “Unless you're an Unbound and forgot to tell me, your body isn’t getting any faster in a seven-day. Exercise at one quarter pace only. Otherwise, you are under strict orders to rest and relax.” “Relax?! Relax, she says!” Nsia picked up her bundle of clothes and began angrily dressing, wincing audibly every time she moved her arm. “Every waking hour for two years spent training for this moment. Now you tell me to relax?” She hissed the words. Akruma was smiling at her flustered student. “You know that boy Oteng quite fancies you. Maybe take a turn in the Rosarium with him. He's not the brightest, but he's quite good-looking.” Nsia finished dressing, her cheeks flushed. “No, he's just a friend. He doesn't....” “Oh? So he just happens to bump into you every single day, purely by chance?” Akruma said coyly, lounging like a cat. “The boy is all but stalking you. Normally I'd caution you of someone doing that, but he's so innocent I see no harm in it. Half the city is rooting for him, the handsome dullard. Myself included.” Flabbergasted and embarrassed, Nsia stormed down the hallway to leave, muttering curses. Akruma shouted after her. “In case you run into him, maybe put your shirt on the right way round!” Nsia glanced down and saw all the inside stitching of her shirt, in her anger she'd put it on inside out. She could hear her master's bellowing laughter down the hallway as she fixed it and left the school grounds. Nsia opened the door to the sprawling garden city of Bankese. The oldest, largest, and only real city in Oda, home to tens of thousands. Its buildings were spread apart, but the green space between each estate was densely packed with ornamentation, flora, waterways, and public works of art.

The people of Bankese took great pride in their curating of these gardens, and the native architecture that complimented it. The domed, tiled rooftops of white kaolin-clay buildings, and ironwood towers were meticulously well maintained. Every pavilion was built with their surrounding garden in mind, whether it was a secluded meditative park, a public gathering place, a swimming, or fishing pond. This made the city difficult to navigate, but with a city as beautiful as Bankese, when one inevitably lost their way, it was always a pleasant experience. The locals often said you had not visited Bankese until you'd become lost in her. There were always new places to discover, oftentimes hidden shops and eateries, many of which were tucked away so naturally into their surroundings they became camouflaged. You could a vine covered facade then smell the tantalizing spicy aromas of their cuisine, only to backtrack and search for an entrance. There were wider thoroughfares in areas, and busy merchant hubs like any city, but these were relegated to estates on the outer rim, ensuring most of the city remained unmarred, whether by trash, the garish shouts of street vendors both foreign and domestic, or the inevitable scents that accompanied their pack animals. The centerpiece of the city was the gleaming Palace Ateompong, former home to one of the Emperor's seven children. The Emperor no longer resided within Oda, but their influence and the devotion of the people remained strong. The palace bore seven white spires that rose into the sky, its exterior carved with graven images of the Spirits of Oda; some human-like in nature, others monstrous and abstract. Upon the tallest tower was the crest of Oda, a gray, many-eyed tree, whose roots formed the fingers of a grasping hand. It was the only walled structure in Bankese, and sat unattainable in the midst of the vibrant city. Nsia lived on her grandmother Enarii's estate, where her mother had been born and raised, and where her parents had wed decades ago. It was located on the threshold between the outer gardens and the outskirts of Bankese, where Nsia now made her way. She turned a corner and came upon a hedge-lined stone thoroughfare beneath white arches laden with ivy, and there spotted Oteng waiting by the roadside. He acted melodramatically surprised as Nsia approached on the route she took every single day.

“Oh! Nsia, what a pleasant coincidence! I didn't expect to see you here, I was just getting out of the house for a stroll.” He was obvious as the sunlight on a cloudless day, but had such an effortless, infectious smile that he easily drew others to him. He wore tailor-made clothes in the current fashion, a dress of bright layered blue, silver, red, and yellow; bare from the shoulder, and cinched to accentuate his physique. “Hi,” Nsia replied stiffly. Akruma had gotten under her skin, and she wasn't sure how to act around him now. Spirits curse that teacher. “Are Nuaah and Sao around?” “No, just me. I was hoping you'd finish your lesson early today, and, well...” he bit his lip. “Come take a walk with me?” Spirits of storm and fire, this boy was cute. She nodded and he presented his arm for her to take hold of. Thankfully he was on her right side so she didn't have to reveal she could not move her left arm at all. She kept the hand of the injured limb in the pocket of her pants. Very few people in Bankese wore tros, preferring instead flowing, regrettably pocketless dresses and knee-length skirts. Nsia could not bring herself to scandalously bare that much skin in public. As she walked with Oteng, she wondered what he would think if she were to wear such a thing. Then she imagined little Djansi seeing her in a dress, and she let out a short unavoidable laugh. He would fall over himself in shock. “Did I do something?” Oteng asked, more confused than normal. “No, not at all. I was just thinking of home, and a friend there.” She pulled him a little closer. It was a bold move, but Nsia had decided long ago to be more sure of herself. Her experiences in Fairriden, and the intense training she endured had begun molding her into the person she wished to be, like a silhouette stepping into the light. The tension evaporated, and the two of them talked of their days, told stories neither had yet heard, and entered the Rosarium still arm in arm. It was a large section of garden granted divine status by the Emperor themself, who believed a Spirit of love resided there. Tall hedges formed maze-like tunnels, with walls and ceilings blanketed by Odan roses. The color of these roses shifted from blue to red as you neared them, then back to blue, causing color to ripple everywhere as the pair took in the remarkable sight. It was most often visited by tourists,

lovers, and artists struggling to capture the scene in prose or upon canvas. “When do you leave?” asked Oteng. “A month from now. Ascension is soon—a sort of final exam—then Piesi's wedding, after which we'll be busy making preparations for the journey back.” She frowned, recalling the ghastly voyage to arrive. They had stayed overnight at the Kodanna, as well as several quaint woodcutter settlements along the way, but most nights were spent camping rough at the roadside, surrounded by the dark forest. Her parents had hounded her about her sudden choice of occupation for the entire journey. Argument after argument in such close quarters for so long had greatly strained their relationship. They had been busy since the moment of their arrival, however, so they now saw little of one another. Bankese, and their estate was so large it was not difficult to do. Not only this, but they had brought with them a great haul of goods from Fairriden which needed to be sold, occupying much of their days. Pentan ingots, raw ore, bleeding-heart coral from the Reidher ocean, powdered blueshield mushroom, and many other odds and ends. In return, they filled their coffers and received exotic food stores, wagon loads of ironwood planks, kaolin-clay bricks, and many other fine materials from Bankese' unique tradesfolk. But before any items could change hands, partnerships needed to be made, and official s needed opening, as Odan merchants loved their paperwork. All this meant that her family had little time to see to Nsia, even before Piesi announced her engagement. She would soon be wed to a scion of high standing, Lord Akatia, which Nsia remarked Meant Chimp in a dead Odan dialect. Since the engagement, Nsia's family had been more involved than ever with the local politics of Bankese. Overnight, their status had been elevated far above their wildest dreams. These days, they attended galas, parties, and often enjoyed lavish meals at Akatia's estate. Nsia's parents doted upon Piesi like never before, leaving Nsia as little more than a troublesome footnote on their otherwise prosperous journey. Oteng stood in front of Nsia. She hadn't realized they had stopped moving. She had been so lost in her pitiable thoughts. “I've blundered, haven't I? You seem miserable,” Oteng said. Nsia noted they were alone in a secluded part of the Rosarium. “No, it's just ...

things are difficult with my family right now. They don't seem to want me any longer.” “Oh Nsia, that can't be true!” “It seems that way. With Piesi and Akatia's marriage, my parents have standing in Bankese again. They have no need for me, a mar on their records.” “Scions study Redans all the time, though.” “But they go on to long military careers,” Nsia countered. “Sitting at desks all day discussing politics, or attending parties. I don't want that life. Not anymore.” “Then ... well, why did you take up a Redan? I've never seen anyone train like you do. It's ... like you're going to war.” “I am going to war. In a manner of speaking. A war against who I used to be.” Oteng took her hand in his. “I think you're perfect. Just the way you are now. Beautiful, and smart ... and, and you could kick me halfway across Bankese if you wanted, though I'm glad you don't.” He smiled, and Nsia's frustration melted away. He was so close. She felt the warmth of his soft hand around hers. “That makes me feel better.” She inched closer to him. He bit his lip again in that way he did. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, kissing him softly. The abruptness startled him, but he soon wrapped his arms around her waist and returned the kiss. He moved one hand gradually upwards. Perhaps he intended something indecent, perhaps not, but neither would find out as he pressed his hand against the stinging welt on her arm. “Shit!” Nsia swore loudly, breaking the kiss. “Spirits damnable breath!” She stomped a tight circle, clenching her fists against the fresh pain in her arm and spouting curses. When she looked back at poor Oteng, all color had gone from his face. “Oh no no no.” Nsia rushed to him and lifted her sleeve to reveal the red circle that was radiating outwards, discoloring into a massive greenish-purple bruise. “Spirits, I'm so sorry, I didn’t know. I thought you were going to kill me for

being fresh.” “No, no that was actually...” Nsia may have gained confidence, but there was no way she could mount the courage to say more than that. The moment was over, and they both knew it. Oteng stepped forward, offering her his arm once more. “With a wound like that you should rest, I'll take you home.” Spirits, this boy is cute. She placed her arm in his. Nsia thought of the injured boy she had left in Fairriden so long ago, though she wasn't sure what had brought it on. She looked forward to Djansi's letters, but always felt there was something he wasn't saying; always skirting the topic of his apprenticeship, giving vague answers. There was a sadness there she could not put her finger on. It was fine if he didn't trust her. She found no fault there, since she kept secrets herself. She had no reason to hide her training from him or from anyone, yet she did. Oteng knew, though. He knew and he accepted her, perhaps even liked that part of her. At that moment, having just stolen her first kiss in one of the most romantic gardens in the world, she decided not to worry about Djansi any longer. They eventually approached a fork in the path. “Can I see you tomorrow?” Oteng asked. “Not tomorrow, but soon. Only after Ascension. For now, I need to focus.” Nsia let go of his arm and kissed him on the cheek. Before he could protest, she darted away, her spirits high. She made her way through the winding waterways between the buildings on their estate. At certain points, the narrow canals filled with colorful fish ran through the buildings themselves. They had constructed the walkways alongside the water, following the natural flow of the land, resulting in a wondrous garden. In the largest building on the estate, the staff was preparing the evening meal. Several distant cousins chatted in the parlor, so Nsia ducked inside the kitchen out of sight and purloined a plate for herself, bying everyone and heading to her own rooms.

They had been extravagantly decorated when she first arrived in Bankese, littered with strange plush divans, lounging chairs, and tapestries across every wall. She had wasted no time in removing all except for a floor-desk, a few cushions, her bed, and an armoire stocked more with bandages than clothing. The one modern luxury she kept was a rune-engraved brass box that resembled a small cast-iron stove. With one press it could emit either a steady heat, or a refreshing cool air. It was winter, but the climate here was far warmer and humid than in Fairriden. Instead of activating the device to cool her chambers, she opened a set of wall doors. Beneath her was the stream that coursed through the estate; just beyond it was a beautifully appointed private garden, only visible from this chamber. A circular pattern was raked into the sand, surrounded by trees and flowers. “I think too much? I don't see? Doesn't make any sense. What exactly am I supposed to see?” She sat on a cushion overlooking the stream and garden, dangling her feet, skimming her toes across its surface and watching as the fish swam along the gentle current.

Chapter Nineteen

The next morning, Nsia sat to eat with her family. Even if they did not get along, it was off-putting to miss too many meals. Her parents, older brother Akosi, and several distant relations from Bankese were there. Her grandmother, the matron of the house, was away, as was usual. They ate as servers and attendants moved at their periphery. Nsia wore long sleeves to hide her injured arm. She cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the table. “My ... Ascension is six days from now.” Ltal seemed troubled by this news. Dol was imive but sighed. “Very well,” her mother said. “Do , at least.” “The other students, well, their families may attend. I wondered if, maybe....” “Maybe what?” Ltal spoke up. “I would go see my youngest daughter play at soldiering?” Dol raised her hand to quiet him. “I agree Nsia is not meant to fight, but her gender has nothing to do with it. Regardless, Piesi and Akatia are expecting us that day. So no. We will not attend your ... bout.” Nsia had expected a more volatile reaction. She told herself their opinions didn't matter, but their indifference still stung; not once had they seen her spar, or seen the fruits of all her labor. “I'll go,” Akosi said meekly. He was short, though not as short as their diminutive mother, he followed orders, and was found in the background of every notable family event. “I'd love to see it. I've heard about Master Akruma, they say she's as skilled and ferocious as they come.” “Thank you, brother,” Nsia said, grateful for the . She knew they would scold Akosi for it, making the gesture more meaningful than practical. “Mother, Father. Excuse me.” Nsia left the room, her plate half-full. Her master had said to only train at one quarter the normal amount, but Nsia was upset. Once in her rooms, she slammed open the door to the private garden, leapt across the stream to the patterned sand and fell into an unarmed stance. The

Redan of the Asp was designed for full body close combat, using momentum and weight behind every strike. It combined a variety of hooks, jabs, knees, elbows, and deadly curved blades. So Nsia grappled, tripped and incapacitated invisible opponents. She spun, twisted, and dove, destroying the calming patterns raked onto the garden sand, making it fly with every violent movement. The old gardener who cared for Nsia's private space was used to this. The hunched old caretaker often raked symbols for strength, ferocity, or determination into the sand as encouragement. He had never spoken a word, but remained her biggest er. An hour later she dripped with sweat. Her muscles strained and heavy from overexertion, and her injured arm screamed in protest to every movement. “Shit.” She tested her grip and found it weak. “I overdid it.” She plopped down cross-legged in the sand and watched the water as she caught her breath. So she ed the next few days as her teacher bade her, in rest. Nsia did not stray far from the estate, except on the day before her Ascension to borrow a curved practice blade from the school. She tried wielding it two-handed and performed a slow, meditative version of her techniques one after another, linking them together. Her left arm throbbed by the end of the exercise, covered in a large greenish-yellow bruise. She had put too much strain on it in her anger, perhaps even pulled the muscle. For the rest of the day, she stayed by the water's edge, dipping a cloth into the cool stream and placing it on her arm. She watched the flow, shutting her eyes and getting lost in its soothing babble. The fish always swam with the current, doing languid laps around the entire estate, only doubling back for food. She couldn't see the water's current, even so, she knew it was there. She sighed, knowing she was still lacking something. Some understanding, or knowledge. She prepared the equipment she would need for tomorrow's trial while running through likely scenarios. She did not know what Akruma had prepared, but she would be ready for it.

The day of Ascension arrived and tension was thick in the air. She exhaled deeply, having slept little, then dressed in black linen tros and a gray overshirt. She tied her hair into a tight braid, ate little, drank deeply, limbered herself, then grabbed her satchel of gear, and jogged to the school. When she arrived, a small crowd had gathered at the edge of the grounds, shoving impatiently past one another. Most were dressed like birds of paradise, in the popular Bankesian style of brightly colored layers of silk and cotton. A single strong breeze ing through Bankese would upend the dresses of half the city. Nsia pressed her way through the gate. She had expected a small gathering, but it was still troublesome. Every Redan held open Ascensions after all, some masters even rented out the grand halls, making an impressive spectacle of it for the city. For students, it was a chance to be noticed, perhaps recruited into positions of honor by the old houses of Oda. For Nsia it had become much more than that. It was an obsession. As she rounded the corner, she realized the crowd she had seen so far was only what overflowed from the school grounds. There were so many people gathered here; hundreds, maybe more—all whispering excitedly. She ed through the throng and into the great hall. As she did, she understood their nervous anticipation more clearly. The wooden practice weapons had been removed; in their place were rack after rack of polished, razor-sharp blades, flanged steel maces, shields, axes, and spears. There were dozens of variations of spiked and chained weapons Nsia had only heard of. Opposite the racks, the entire wall of the long training hall was open to the yard, offering spectators a fine vantage. Nsia froze like a player upon the stage for a play she had not rehearsed. Akruma spotted her staring bewildered out over the crowd. The fearsome master was fully armed and armored. She wore steel-banded leather fit to her gigantic frame. Only her wrists, hands, shins, and feet were bare. She wore a narrow steel helm that protected the forehead, cheeks, and bridge of her nose. “Master,” Nsia said. She turned to face her, but kept her eyes on the crowd. “The weapons ... does this mean what I think it does?” “Leave it to the little crow to notice the shiny things. Yes, we fight with real

blades today.” Nsia stiffly turned her gaze from the audience. “Is that not ... dangerous?” “There is always danger,” Akruma replied. “Only when we face great danger, do we beyond the realm of logic. When the time comes, you will see. Or you won't.” Akruma shrugged. “And if you maim a student?” “Then I'll have justified my investment.” Akruma motioned to a hirsute man Nsia had not noticed before, occupied as she was by the crowd. He sat on a small stool in the corner of the sparring chamber, one leg crossed over the other, reading from a pocket-sized book resting on his knee. He was scruffy, wearing rough traveling clothes beneath a long fur robe of burnt umber. “I hired an Agiotage,” the master said loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear. “Cost an arm and a leg, though.” “An Unbound?” Nsia whispered. She had never been so close to one, and found his presence unnerved her. “He has assured me he can heal even the most grievous of wounds. If it comes to that.” Nsia had heard of the miracles, both terrible and great that the Unbound could perform. She gave him a wide berth, as it was common sense to fear them. As she watched, she could not help but wonder how different her life would be if there had been an Unbound on the bluffs that day long ago, instead of Djansi. “Now!” Master Akruma clapped her hands. “Go change, you are second in line, and we begin shortly.”

Nsia waited with the other students for the first bout to begin. The crowd became still and quiet. Nsia took comfort that her armor fit perfectly. It had been designed for her and her alone by Akruma and a team of armorers. For each student, their armor was custom designed to promote their strengths and minimize weaknesses. Nsia's was a deep blue arming doublet with a checkered pattern. A quilted defensive jacket with a hard layer between layers of wool. It had a series of gleaming silver clasps down one side, each resembling a feather. A joke by Akruma which was not lost on her. A doublet was nowhere near as durable as plate, chainmail, or molded leather, but Akruma assured her it would turn most blades. Or stop an arrow, depending on how far it traveled first. Nsia hoped she would not discover that distance first hand. The doublet was long-sleeved, warm, and allowed her to move nimbly and unencumbered. At her waist was a flexible dark leather fauld, a skirt-like piece of armor made of hard leather bands. It reached a few inches above her knees and protected her unarmored legs. To complete the suit, she wore knee-high leather boots over her tros, steelenforced at the knee, foot, and sole. As good for riding as they were in battle. The first student to fight was Kyem. Nsia knew why he was first. His Name Meant Rage, and he personified this. Not by shouting or hurling himself at his opponents, but by his relentless brutality and unending wellspring of stamina. Kyem was the first to test, because their master needed to be at her best to face him. He was the eldest, and largest student—second only to Akruma herself. He wore no armor or clothing above his waist, as was customary among the Diako people, but wore a long chain dress that touched the floor.. He fought with an unconventional weapon, a long iron staff, studded and weighted at both ends. Their master donned the weapons of her namesake; two curved hand axes, each resembling the fang of a serpent. They bowed to one another, and Nsia heard her heart beating in her ears. Kyem had the advantage of reach, but Akruma could not be underestimated under any condition. Kyem lunged forward in an explosive leap and pressed the attack from the

beginning. He meant to keep Akruma on the defensive until he landed a blow. His staff twirled around his shoulders at dizzying speeds, then lashed out like the sweeping of a tail. He struck high and low, always keeping his opponent's weapons separated and moving. Of his many strikes, none landed. Akruma waited. She dodged aside, deflected, and parried strike after clanging strike. It stunned the audience into silence. Soon Akruma's movements built in speed. She deflected a jab of the staff with her forearm, then shot her hand out and retracted it. A deep line of blood grew across Kyem's chest in a flash. He didn't seem to care and ignored it. Soon, another bleeding wound appeared on his arm, and another across his abdomen. Without warning, and in perfect concert, they parted to a distance that favored Kyem, then bowed to one another, blood dripping onto the mat from Kyem's many wounds. A moment of confusion ed communally over all those gathered, none brave enough to react first. “!” howled the master in delight, surprising the crowd, who soon cheered and clapped. Nsia looked into the throng of viewers, which grew steadily by the minute. She spotted the horrified look on her brother Akosi's face near the front. He had expected to see a gentle duel with blunted sporting blades, not whatever this was. Akruma brought cloth to Kyem, and held it to his bleeding chest, then they approached the Unbound together. The man had little interest in watching the battle, as he was reading until the moment they blocked his light. He slid the book into a pocket, stood, and bade Kyem to sit on his stool. With one hand he reach under his collar and held an amulet. With his other hand, he gave Kyem a strip of leather. “Dees for your ... speells?” Kyem spoke in a thick accent, looking curiously at the leather bit. “No,” replied the rugged looking Unbound in a tired voice. “For you to bite down on so as not to sever the tongue.” Kyem did as he was instructed without complaint. The crowd seemed as focused on this as they had been on the match itself. Word had gotten around there would be an Unbound present, and it was a rare event to see one of the old mages at work.

Without warning, the Agiotage pressed his thumb deep into Kyem's chest wound, then dragged it through, following the direction of the slash. Kyem's muffled screams were drowned out by the clamor of the horrified crowd. Where the Unbound’s thumb ed, the wound hissed as if burning, then knit closed. He repeated this to the other wounds until they were sealed, marred only by imperceptible white lines, and the still-wet blood surrounding them. The bored Agiotage made a shooing motion with both hands, and Kyem vacated his stool. The Unbound sat with a grunt and pulled out his book once more. The crowd did not cheer and applaud when Kyem stood, but muttered prayers instead. Soon however, the general uproar resumed as folk calmed. It all ed so quickly—and it was now Nsia's turn to stand before the audience and face her master. She flexed her arm and felt the pain from her bicep. Spirit’s breath, it's still not healed. If she chose the two-handed Odan blade, she would be weaker than her last match. She had to decide soon what weapon to wield that would afford the greatest chance of victory. Akruma and Kyem approached the three other students, still in line against the wall. “Why did he ?” Akruma asked them. “He struck you, and we didn't see it?” Arling said. A thin-faced young man in a chain hauberk and yellow tabard bearing his family's crest of thorns over a red wall. “Wrong. He did not strike me,” Akruma replied. “Yet he ed. Why?” “Technique,” offered Hesis, a short, but powerful bald woman. “He exemplified the stances of the Asp, but he fought true to his name, with great Rage.” “A good point,” Akruma said, placing one hand on Kyem's shoulder. “But it is not why he ed. One day, if you fight for your very life—your opponent will not spare you because you are skilled. You are quiet for once, little crow. Why did he lose?”

Nsia waved the question away. She was focused on her own problems, calculating the odds of each combination of weapon against Akruma. The master cleared her throat threateningly, insisting her pupil answer. “Show them your axes,” Nsia sighed. Akruma took them from their scabbards at her side and held them out for the students to see. They were nearly shattered. Deep cracks ran through the one once razor-sharp blades. “A few more strikes and they would have been dust,” Nsia elaborated. “Kyem was aiming for them from the beginning, even while you thought you were parrying his blows. Once broken, he would have a clear advantage. Adversely, you might have been able to kill him before they broke, but if this were a real battlefield, and you had more opponents, you would be unarmed, resulting in your inevitable death.” Akruma was both pleased and disappointed. “It is Impressive that you saw this.” “No, I thought about it. Seeing isn't everything.” Akruma scowled. “Then let us begin, Nsia. Think hard about which weapon to choose.” Nsia tried to ignore the crowd as she bought time stalking back and forth in front of the weapon racks. The onlookers whispered and chattered. They were looking down on her, whispering cruel things behind her back to unnerve her. This is what Nsia imagined. Those watching, however, believed Nsia resembled a Spirit from the old stories. Tall, beautiful, and moving too gracefully for a human. She exuded an aura of supreme confidence, even if she herself did not feel confident at all. Her piercing blue eyes were large and angular like her mother's, with cheekbones and jaw chiseled from stone. Men and women alike were in awe of her, all wondering how she could possibly fight against such a brutal foe as Akruma. Nsia could not risk wielding her blade of choice with such an injury. But it was not the only weapon she had studied with. She chose instead the ngombe, a wicked-looking asymmetrical sword with a sickle-like hook at its end. It was light enough to wield one-handed, so she also picked a small, oval wooden

shield, and took her time fitting and adjusting the leather straps to her wounded arm. The serrated, cruel-looking blade was a stark, barbaric contrast to Nsia herself. Both combatants took up their places across from one another. When Nsia bowed, she stared down at the drying pools and splatters of Kyem's blood. “You can do it!” screamed a cracking voice from the crowd. It was Oteng, alongside their friends. The audience laughed, some slapping him on the back. It relieved Nsia. She hadn't realized how tense she was until that moment. Her movements would have been stiff, a fatal error. She blew Oteng a kiss, resulting in a chorus of hoots, laughter, cheers, and Oteng blushing fiercely. She shook herself limber, breathed deeply, then focused on her opponent with fresh eyes. Her master was bent over laughing. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, replaced her weapons with two new axes of the same style, and looked to Nsia. As they locked eyes, Akruma’s expression changed instantly. Nsia saw a deep familiarity with death in those eyes. The match began.

Chapter Twenty

Nsia held her shield just below her eyes, the flat of her sword resting atop it. She was balanced, her roots strong. Akruma took a slow, gliding step forward. Nsia waited. Akruma moved forward again. Nsia held. The crowd was deathly silent as the tension built in the air. Neither began their attack, Akruma continuing her calm approach. Nsia flew forward, released like an arrow. She pulled her sword back as she lunged, instead pressing the attack with her shield. The first part of her plan worked. She had goaded her master into knocking the shield away, leaving her vulnerable. In theory. Nsia stabbed forward into her open guard, an unconventional attack using a weapon better suited for slashing. Akruma bent backwards at the waist, allowing the thrust to above her. Nsia twisted the weapon in her hand and brought the sickle end towards Akruma. There was no way she could defend while bent at that angle. The master spun with impossible speed and struck Nsia's blade aside with one axe, then brought the next towards Nsia's stomach. She brought her shield in line to stop it and the blow struck with such force she heard the solid shield crack. The strike sent shock-waves of pain radiating through her injured arm. If a blow like that landed, it would tear through her arming doublet and open her stomach. Akruma pressed the attack now that Nsia was on the defensive. She spun and struck again and again. Nsia danced between the blades, each one missing by a hair's breath. Those she couldn't dodge, she deflected with her shield, always flowing with the momentum of the blow. Absorbing another strike head on would be tantamount to suicide. The master and student wove together, their lissome battle as much art as warfare. It was easy for the audience to get lost in such beautiful movements, until the moment blades crossed, or shield was struck. The cacophonous sound served as a constant reminder of the deadly force behind each swing. They separated as neither side had yet to land a blow. Akruma's face was never imive in battle. She smiled, growled, and cursed. At that moment, she seethed with anger. Both took deep, steady breaths as they circled one another. A

dance they had done a thousand times; gauging your opponent, looking for a weakness in their stance. For Nsia's part, she knew there would be none; she had to act before Akruma used Vipera to finish her. Unlike when they dueled with practice blades, her axes would sever an arm, something she doubted even an Unbound could repair. So Nsia kept thinking. Akruma's scowl deepened. Nsia needed to be unpredictable, so she rushed forward, slashing with her blade, and following with her shield. Akruma parried with her right, then dropped her left axe and caught the edge of the shield with her suddenly free hand. She opened Nsia's defenses and curved her index and middle finger like a serpent's fangs, plunging them into the tender flesh of Nsia's wounded arm, in the exact spot Akruma had struck the week before. Nsia shrieked. If not for the padded armor, Akruma's fingers would have pierced skin and muscle, straight down to bone. Nsia tried to retreat, but Akruma was turning the strike into a grapple. Against her superior strength, that would be the end. Nsia leapt straight up, tucked her legs under her and kicked off Akruma's abdomen with both feet. She shouted as she launched herself backwards, sending her master stumbling away. Nsia landed hard on her back, knocking the wind from her lungs with her own desperate escape. She was finished. Her shield arm was in too much pain to move. She was flat on her back and could scarcely grip her weapon. Akruma recovered and sprinted across the room towards Nsia. In seconds, she would be upon her. Nsia knew she had lost. Lost her match, lost her family, and lost her home. In that moment of acceptance, a weight left her, and Nsia stopped thinking. Victory, approval, happiness, love, pain. None of it mattered when you looked death in the face. Akruma approached, but the moment seemed to as if in slow motion. Nsia closed her eyes, accepting defeat. She imagined the stream beneath her room. The fish followed the current, because it was in their nature to do so. Now, one fish swam against the current, slow and struggling. No, not a fish, she realized. A person, her master. Her silhouette became clear in the negative space in her mind, approaching as if running headlong against a strong wind. Follow the current. Something wanted Nsia to move in the right direction, as if it

was her nature to do so, not fight against it. She had only to step into the water and be swept up in it. Nsia stepped into the current, and flew. She felt a very real rush of air and pain in every protesting muscle and t, then opened her eyes in shock to find she was crouched with her sword in front of her, thirty feet away on the opposite side of the room. The Unbound was no longer reading, but watched with a bemused grin. Nsia could not understand how she was on the other side of the room. She looked back to see her master, still looking at the spot where Nsia had last been. Akruma's head was turned towards her, as if she had barely been able to follow her movements. Nsia could only half- moving at all, like trying to recall a waking dream. Her eyes had been shut—how had she seen where she was going, let alone crossed that distance? Akruma turned towards her, smiling proudly. There was a deep bleeding gash across the master's forearm. Nsia looked down at her blade to see it was bloodied. “,” Akruma said. “Now you See.” The crowd erupted into deafening applause. Her mind swam, and she was soon being shaken from her reverie by Akruma, carefully avoiding her arm. Sound refocused, and Nsia looked out in mute shock to the ocean of faces chanting her name. Akruma raised Nsia's hand in hers to evoke a second, even louder, round of applause. Even as blood trickled down her raised arm, Akruma enjoyed the showmanship, and made the most of this performance with an actor's ion. Unfortunately, the pain held at bay by adrenaline soon returned to Nsia. “Are you alright?” Akruma shouted to be heard over the din of cheering. Nsia tried to make a fist with her left hand. She thought of Djansi aboard the Hateni, and grit her teeth. His bones had been broken, his flesh torn, and body frozen. “I'll live.”

The master laughed and took Nsia away. “Now you See, little crow!” “See what? What even happened? I can barely think! My head, my body ... everything feels strange.” “What you Saw,” interrupted the Agiotage, “was a glimpse of Nkaya.” “Magic?” Nsia asked, incredulously. “Nkaya. Magic is for children. Your resolve must be great. Sight is a rare trait among the Bound.” He looked Nsia up and down. It made her skin crawl. Akruma gave a shallow bow to the Unbound. “Come, little crow.” Akruma guided Nsia away. “Your wound, Master.” Akruma inspected the long slash across her arm. “I'm keeping it,” she said, bearing a proud smile. Akruma led the protesting Nsia to an antechamber away from both the Agiotage and the crowd. There was water, restorative tea, and slices of refreshing melon. There was also a basin of water and medical supplies. “I still don't understand. Not really,” Nsia said. “In fact I have more questions now.” “I'm sure you'll obsess and overthink until you figure it out. But in the meantime, take a well deserved rest, clean yourself, then go kiss Oteng some more.” Nsia's cheeks turned bright red, and she made a mental note to hunt down whoever had told. Akruma started making exaggerated kissing noises so Nsia pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

After Nsia's challenge, an intermission was called, giving her ample opportunity to find Oteng in the teeming crowd, whether she intended on kissing him or not. People cleared a path where Nsia walked, showering her with praise and prayer. It seemed word had spread, for the crowd had doubled. Students and even the noble masters of other Redans now occupied the front row. There were vendors with large insulated baskets full of warm hand pies who seemed to take full advantage of the sudden audience, exchanging the street food for the round parchment notes used in Bankese. These were a far more convenient currency than carrying various trade goods all day. Nsia spotted her elder brother Akosi. He rushed up and crushed her in a warm embrace. She winced in pain, but he didn't seem to notice. “Sister! That was, that was ... I don't even know what that was! But it was incredible!” “I'm glad you came, thank you,” she smiled, embarrassed, and hiding her pain. Akosi looked down. “Don't be mad, okay?” “What do you....” before she could finish, Ltal and Dol both approached. Oh, Spirits of justice, protect me. Nsia was unarmed, but still wore her armor. She stiffened as they stood before her. “I had no idea,” said her father. He wore the formal muted grays of their house. His eyes were glassy, as if he had been crying. “I just ... had no idea.” He took a cautious step towards his youngest daughter, whom he had just witnessed fight as if her life depended on it. Nsia stepped into his embrace. He just kept repeating the words, 'I had no idea'. When at last they separated, wiping tears from their eyes, Nsia saw the disapproving glare of her mother. It seemed directed as much to her husband as her children.

“Mother?” Nsia asked, wiping her eyes with Akosi's offered handkerchief. “You never thought to tell us?” The diminutive woman scolded her. “You didn't think we should know what kind of master this was? What kind of danger you were in? Spirits damn you, girl.” “You never asked!” Nsia shouted. “Not once. Not once did you ask over your own daughter. Not even on my worst days! Not when I was injured, or struggling. Not once did you care enough to speak to Master Akruma. Or see me fight. Not. Once.” She hissed the last words and shoved her father back. Never had she spoken to her family this way, nor had anyone else, let alone in public. Akosi went pale as a ghost. “Nsia,” Ltal pleaded, wounded. “I'm so sorry, child. I was so busy I ... I lost sight of what matters.” “Shut up,” snapped Dol, silencing him. “You,” she motioned to Nsia. “We never should have taken with us. Think of your Name, child. We will speak tonight concerning finding you a suitable new profession. Now come.” Nsia stood silent, but full of rage. If she made a scene, it would discredit her victory, dishonor her Redan, and dishonor her master. She ignored her mother's command. Nsia respected what her mother had once been; if not for her decisiveness, Djansi surely would have died. But her time back among the nobility of Bankese had changed something in her. The city was so beautiful and calm, it was easy to forget that at its heart, it was ruled by the capricious whims of people. Nsia left them where they stood, and made her way back to the training hall, as the next bout would soon begin. Despite her father and brother's good intentions, both were just as responsible in their neglect. “Surprise!” Oteng meant to wrap his arms around Nsia from behind in a hug, but in the blink of an eye he was instead laying on the ground face-first, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. Nsia's knee held him in place. Oh no. She stood, took a step back, and could not find the words to apologize. The crowd nearby stared at her, all whispering. Nsia's friends began helping Oteng

up and stared daggers at her. She tried to make words, but no sounds came out. The combined glares of family, friends, strangers, and the pained look on Oteng's face as he turned towards her was too much. She ran. As fast as her legs would take her, she ran. An embarrassment. She wound through narrow paths, leapt over hedges, and shouldered past strangers not caring about her injuries in her flight. Her master would be disappointed. Everyone would be disappointed. And they would be right. She was a coward. After an hour of fleeing, she was well and completely lost. Alone, surrounded by drooping willow trees around a wide pond. A wooden bridge led to a stilted gazebo at the pond's center. She made her way there and sat against the railing, holding her knees to her chest, hidden from the world. He hates me. Mother hates me. Everyone hates me. Even Djansi will... She wept into her hands, trying to stifle the sound of her sobs. The hours went by, and Nsia had no more tears left. She leaned out over the railing, watching the still water. The afternoon sun was waning, but the ewa, metallic-colored songbirds flitted and sang as if all were good in the world. A lone crow hid from their song. Nsia closed her eyes and tried to see like she had before, but there was only darkness. No stream, no current, nothing. Too many dark thoughts rattled through her mind. Soft footsteps tapped against the wooden planks behind her. Akruma, still wearing her warrior's regalia, stood at the end of the lookout. “You,” Akruma huffed, out of breath, “were difficult to find.” “I didn't want to be found.” “Oh really?” Akruma said sarcastically, walking up beside her. “What about the Ascension? The crowd was expecting more.”

“The crowd? I kicked them all off the grounds. It got too distracting. Plus I already had my fun, and I'll gain a few more students next season now that word is out.” “Wouldn't there be distractions in an actual fight, though? I'd have thought you would relish the crowd, stir them up even more. Give them each a sword.” Akruma placed her hand on Nsia's back. “I'm not in the business of getting my students killed. This is your first Ascension, after all. Do you think I'd fight Arling or Hesis with the same intensity as you? Spirits no! All of you were going to today as long as you stayed after seeing real blades, a large audience, and my bout with Kyem. That was the test.” Nsia felt stupid and guilty. She was the only one that hadn't stayed. She wasn't going to stay, either. Bankese was not her home, and she hated what it did to people. “You could stay, you know. At the school. You don't need to go back to Fairrberg, or whatever it was.” “Fairriden. Why would you even want me to stay?” “Well, I accidentally spied on your entire conversation with mom and pop. I was hoping to catch you locking lips with that pretty boy Oteng so I could tease you about it.” Akruma was a veteran of many battles, but somehow still had the heart of a child. Akruma frowned, disappointed, but Nsia laughed, surprising her. “I appreciate the offer. But this is something I need to do, for myself. I need to go home.” “Why?” Akruma asked in earnest. “Why go back there? You have such potential. You could See, little crow. So few among the Redans gain Sight, especially these days. If you stay, you could become so much more. I could teach you so much. You could have a life here. A home, friends ... Oteng.” Nsia knew it was true. She could have all these wonderful things if she left her home behind.

“There is someone I promised to see.” The words surprised the young woman, even as she said them. “Nsia,” Akruma said dead-seriously. “Are you telling me ... that you've been two-timing some dashing farm-boy with a noble's son? This is better than my stories.” “No!” Nsia shouted, embarrassed. “No, not at all. Spirits only know how your mind works.” Akruma dangled her legs out over the water as she hummed. Regardless of her frightening exterior, she adored peace time, and made as much of it as possible while it lasted. “But there is a someone,” Akruma said. “Very interesting. I won't press you further at the moment, but you should know that Oteng isn't mad. In fact, he believes you hate him. I tried to tell the boy how wrong he was, but he wouldn't listen. He's still out searching for you.” Nsia picked at the wooden railing. “But I'm leaving.” “For now. Go back to Fairville and see to your house, your friends, and your ... farm-boy. Say your goodbyes. Winter with your family one last time. Then, return home. Because this is your home. Not Bankese, but our Redan. And when you return, I'll accept you with open arms. As, I'm sure, will Oteng.” “I ... I don't know. You don't know my family.” “Nsia, I have watched over you day-in, day-out for two years. You are my family now. All my students are my family.” Nsia smiled through brimming tears. “Then how can I not accept? I'll return in the spring.” “Good!” Akruma clapped her on the back. “Now, I need to go put the fear of the old Spirits into some lazy-boned students. You should fly off to the Rosarium, little crow. Enjoy your victory, claim your prize.” Nsia looked puzzled.

“I told that lovely simpleton of yours you would turn up there, and that he should wait for you.” Akruma jogged off, her movement on the bridge sending ripples across the still water.

Lamplighters, with their tall rods made their way through the city, lighting the lanterns that dotted the cobbled pathways of Bankese. Nsia didn't know what she might say to Oteng even as she made her way to the Rosarium. If he was even still waiting; it was early evening by the time she arrived. The shifting petals of the Odan roses gave off a faint bioluminescence, making them even more awe-inspiring as the sun set. She went to the place where they had shared their first kiss. Where I yelled 'shit' right in his face, she recalled. She had a knack for ruining moments, it seemed. Oteng was there, sitting on a small bench with his eyes shut, arms crossed over his chest. As Nsia approached, she realized he was asleep, snoring peacefully. “You sweet dummy. Must have run yourself raged looking for me,” she whispered, sidling up next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder and waited for him to stir. She waited, and waited. Until he started snoring more loudly. She prodded him in the side. “Hwuh?” he said groggily. “Huh—oh!” “I'm sorry.” He smiled and clasped her hands. “It's okay. I'm not mad, really!” “How? How could you not be mad?” “I'm just not. I mean, I surprised you right after a fight. So honestly, it was my mistake. I should have known better.” Nsia shook her head in disbelief. “Just like that? I almost break your arm, and you forgive me just like that?” “Of course! Because it's you. But ... if you want to make it up to me ... tell me your Name?”

Nsia blushed and retracted her hands from his. “I'm ... going back to Fairriden soon, but I've decided I'm coming back to Bankese in the spring. How about I tell you when I come back, and you can tell me yours?” It wasn't what he had hoped for, the but the news she was coming back made him happy. Nsia found she could tell exactly what he was thinking, as obvious as the moon. It was perhaps why she found him so easy to speak with. No hidden agendas, no secrets. Everything laid out on the surface. “I was going to make a speech you know, to ask you to stay,” Oteng said. “A rather dramatic one.” “I thought you might,” Nsia said. “As my wife.” She froze, no idea how to respond. A proposal? It was a proposal. Spirits. It wasn't uncommon to be wed at sixteen, but still. “We'd be engaged for a year,” Oteng said with perfect composure and confidence. “Plus, now that your family has some standing, my parents agree.” “What do you mean?” He looked sheepish. “I don't mean any offense, but until recently, nobody paid much attention to your house. Now that Piesi is marrying into a family in the Emperor's grace, our union is more ... you know, acceptable.” “As happy as I am to be found acceptable,” Nsia rose as she spoke. “I politely decline your offer.” “Look, that's not what I mean! It was my decision, ok? Now my family agrees. Who cares why? I don't care about any of that. Only you.” His words somewhat cooled her anger. “Still, Oteng. I can't say yes. Not yet. Just, wait for me to return, then ... I'll give you an answer.” “What If I ed you? I could come to Fairriden! Meet your family. They could get to know me better. I'm sure they wouldn't mind.”

Nsia believed her family would relish it, in fact. Oteng's house was of at least equal stature with Piesi's betrothed. Their mother would love to see Nsia settle down with a husband, bear a swarm of children, and be done with her nonsense. “That is sweet of you to offer. But the voyage is weeks of camping rough on the road, I wouldn't wish that on you. Stay here.” The handsome young man was not the type to enjoy the wilderness, nor travel by anything short of a well-appointed carriage, but he was earnest, and Nsia knew he would make the journey if she insisted. “Spring?” he asked. “Spring,” she agreed, leaning forward and kissing him. “I need to head back. Walk with me?” He extended his arm for her to take and seemed mollified by the kiss. Nsia did not know what she would do when she returned. But for now, they were both content. Regardless, she had more pressing matters to deal with. Her family, Piesi's wedding, then the long way home. When they arrived at Nsia's estate, the house was asleep. She bid Oteng goodnight and crept through the gardens, so as not to alert staff—or Spirit's forbid—her mother. She used the hidden route that led to the private garden behind her room. When she arrived, there was a single taper lit there, illuminating large Odan glyphs raked into the sand by the caretaker. They read: Victory, and Pride.

Chapter Twenty-one

The next few days followed in an anxious blur. Nsia's mother eventually cornered her and went on a tirade concerning the stupidity of her actions, claiming she intended to see Akruma's Redan dissolved. Nsia hoped this was an empty threat meant to frighten her into behaving, so Nsia did her best not to react. After what seemed like hours of this, Dol grew weary of Nsia's imivity, and turned her ire to her husband instead. Their raised voices could be heard all throughout the night. A small graduation ceremony provided a window of relief from Nsia's home life. Her friends Sao and Nuaah attended, as well as her brother Akosi, who had at some point been befriended by Oteng's clique. Nsia received a scroll, and the fine arming doublet became her own to keep and care for. Afterwards, their Redan, composed of Arling, Hesis, and Kyem, were treated to a meat dinner by Akruma, who drank her own body weight in toncha, the sweet, dark grain alcohol the Odans distilled. Even staunch Kyem was rosy-cheeked as the evening wore on, his accent becoming more and more pronounced as he drank, until he began to sing battle hymns in his native tongue. Nsia sipped a tumbler of sweetened toncha as they toasted their success, and soon found herself talking at length about Oteng and the proposal, though she had not intended to. She swore them to secrecy, then recounted the day's events in full, much to Akruma's delight. Before Nsia knew it, she had told them of Djansi, the elkwolf, and the cliffs of Fairriden. She had avoided speaking about it for so long it seemed as if she recounted the life of another woman. For now, she was at ease with her friends; happy, lightheaded from drink, loose of tongue, and even taking delight in their awed expressions as she told the tale. Akruma asked embarrassingly specific questions about Djansi, which Nsia pointedly ignored answering. She would miss the people she had become so acquainted with, and wondered how far ahead of her they would be by the time she returned. The thought lit a fire under her to train as often as possible while she was away, enough to surprise them upon her return. By early dawn they said their farewells, knowing well Nsia would be swept away in the hubbub of her sister's wedding. Akruma, inebriated as she was, asked her little crow to come see her once more before she

left Bankese.

The wedding came on like a hurricane, drawing in everyone in its path before tossing them aside. The Odans love their tradition, and did not relegate the festivities to just one day, but a full week of royal processions, declarations, feasts, sermons, dances, and ceremony after ceremony. They fit Nsia into a dress with so many components and clasps she might as well have been locked in a steel cage. The rational part of her mind knew she would not have to fight during such an occasion, but throughout the days, her instincts begged for release. Piesi seemed just as uncomfortable, forced to hold back her natural urge to make cutting jokes at everyone's expense. Nsia often said her barbed tongue was wicked enough to grant Piesi an honorary place in the Redan of the Asp. Watching Piesi thank grease-stained nobles instead of sinking her teeth into them brought Nsia no joy. Especially as Nsia witnessed Piesi interact more and more with her husband. She not only hid her personality from the gathered families out of decorum, but from him as well. Akatia was a powerful man in Bankese, but often said such ridiculous things Nsia expected, and rather hoped her sister would set him straight. Crude comments about class, and gender, and propriety. Dated opinions with no place in the modern age. Instead, Piesi lowered her eyes and smiled for everyone to see. It became clear this wedding had not been her sister's decision. As much as Nsia wanted to speak privately with Piesi, they were all soon swept away once more. They gave Nsia time only for a brief embrace, before ushers shooed her away. “Good luck,” Nsia said, locking eyes with Piesi. “I've gotten very lucky already.” Piesi smiled only with her mouth.

During the week of feasts, the nights spent at Lord Akatia's palatial estate were lavish. Endlessly formal, but quiet. The nights spent at their own estate were worse by far. There, her mother and father had free rein to argue away from prying ears. Nsia assumed it was about her, as children do. The morning after one such sleepless night, Nsia received a knock on her door. Ltal, with reddened eyes, was there to speak with her. He entered her room and bade her to sit. “I'm not so dense as to think you'll forgive me for my inattention this past year,” he began. The words sounded rehearsed. “But I will try to make up for it, in whatever way I can, if you'll allow me.” “I don't hate you. Or mother. Or anyone,” Nsia said. “I was frustrated, and alone ... but even now I can't bring myself to hate you.” Her father smiled, for what seemed like the first time in years. “That's more than I deserve. But there's another reason for my visit.” Nsia felt a lump forming in her throat. “What's wrong?” “Your mother has decided to stay in Bankese.” “Oh.” “I will not be ing her. We both feel it is best to ... take some time apart.” She wasn't surprised, but that didn't make it hurt any less. “There's still two weeks before we leave though,” she said. “I'm sure you can work things out by then.” “I'm sorry Nsia, but I've tried. You know your mother. She's made her mind. Annah wishes to remain here with Piesi, and Akosi will return home with us—if you want to come, that is. The choice is yours. But your grandmother has made it clear I am to leave now. I've already had the waggoners begin preparations. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but if you’re returning with us ... we leave tomorrow

at first light.” “But two weeks....” “I'm sorry. This isn't how I want to leave, but things are already set in motion. If you decide to come, be ready at dawn.” Ltal stood with great difficulty. It was the first time Nsia had seen her proud father show his age. “But it's not enough time.” “I know, my child. I am told I do not even have the right to see Piesi. The guards at Akatia's estate would not let me through to her. My own first-born.” His anger was palpable, his eyes too dry to shed more tears. He held a letter in his trembling hand. Nsia snatched it from him. “This is for her, then? For Piesi?” “What? Yes—but....” “She's going to get this letter.” Nsia dashed past him and out through the main doors, drawing attention as she ran. Spirits be damned, she's going to get this letter. It may not have been the most prudent decision, but it was something she could do, no matter what else was spinning out of her control. An hour later, she slowed her gait once Akatia's estate was in view. Four threestory structures. Waterway around the perimeter. Guards in plain clothes. Gardeners, servants, residents, and at least a handful armed with longbows and ceremonial glaives. One of these guards patrolled nearby, wearing heavily ornamented robes in black with gold trim and a yellow-plumed helm. They carried a bow across their back and held the long polearm at their side. They appeared to be following a narrow footpath along the inside perimeter of the water-way, which at that moment resembled a moat, more than a pleasant garden stream. Nsia knew little of skullduggery, but she was nimble, strong, and light on her feet. She had been to this estate many times recently and knew her best means of

ingress. She waited for the guard to , took a deep breath, then sprinted hard straight towards the moat, fifteen feet across. Her feet left the ground, and she flung herself through the air, landing easily on the other side, with several feet to spare between her and the water's edge. I'm going to have to measure that jump, she thought, rather pleased with herself. Now, however, she needed to scale the outside of a building. She stayed as low as she could, pausing every time she heard the faintest noise. Thankfully, Bankesians loved elaborate gardens filled with hedges, fountains, and flower displays. It made for bountiful cover. She reached the building where Piesi and Akatia had their private rooms. She did not know where the couple was at this moment, for all she knew the rooms could be occupied, or empty. Either way, she would leave the letter for Piesi to find. She reached the building unseen, and with no sounds approaching. There was a ledge above her, but no room to get a running start. She crouched and sprang as high as she could go, but her fingertips slid off the hand-hold and she fell back to her feet. She heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel coming closer. Someone would soon round the corner and see her, plain as day. She jumped again, and again found no purchase on the wooden beam before falling. She could now make out the sound of conversation. Just get UP there! She leapt with all her might, straining her tired muscles, and gripped onto the wooden beam with three fingers. She swung helplessly for a moment, her fingers sliding off, then managed to grab hold with her other hand. She brought her body up swiftly and held herself horizontally against the wall as two armored guards turned the corner and ed beneath her. She fought to keep her breathing quiet. There were windows on the second floor that provided safer handholds, so Nsia scaled the side of the building up to the third floor. If she had guessed correctly, the balcony here should attach to her sister's chamber. Glass doors separated the balcony from the rooms, and curtains were drawn, allowing her to climb onto the ornate balcony without fear of being seen from inside. As she crouched there, hidden, she saw there was a pool on the balcony. Shaking her head at the opulent lifestyle of Odan nobility, she heard voices from indoors. Deeper tones, most likely male. If they came outside, she would be

caught and labeled a thief. Or she could plummet three stories down, break her legs, then get caught and labeled a thief. Decisions, decisions. She approached to glance inside. The rooms were massive and filled with all manner of plush furniture. Two men stood in conversation; Akatia offered an unfurled parchment scroll to the other. He was dressed in a robe of gold, smiled and said something to his colleague that Nsia could not make out through the glass. The other male was a rather gruff looking individual with an unkempt beard, and a long fur coat. The Unbound from her Ascension. He read the scroll, made some reply, then rolled it up and placed it in a pocket of his coat. Spirits of luck and life. Nsia ducked out of view once she recognized the Agiotage, but still listened against the outer wall. Akatia laughed, then a door opened. Nsia's heart beat wildly, watching the door handle a few feet beside her, not knowing which door was opening. A door sounded shut from inside the room, then everything went quiet. She breathed a sigh of relief, then crept closer again. The room was unoccupied. The door to the balcony was unlocked, so she slid inside her sister's bedchamber. Not the place one would think to entertain an Unbound. Beside a massive canopy bed at the far end of the room was a vanity with an ornate oak-trimmed mirror. Nsia recognized Piesi's jewelry box atop it and slid the letter inside for her to find. Nsia hated this. Her father had every right to bid his daughter goodbye. No matter what anyone thought. “Master would be so proud of me,” Nsia muttered to herself. But not wishing to be caught with her hands in a noble's jewel-box, she retreated. The climb down was simpler by far since she could see where the guards were from this high vantage, and better time her descent. At ground level, instead of heading towards the moat, Nsia took a novel approach. She strutted through the gardens towards the main entrance of the estate, not hiding at all. In fact, going out of her way to politely and formally greet anyone she ed. There was no gate, but a wide wooden bridge that arched across the water, and a single guard

posted at each end. As she strode past the guard at the entrance, she flashed him a smile that made him stumble. “Please inform Lady Piesi that her sister came to wish her a fond farewell on behalf of our father, will you?” “O-of course, my lady. I will. Deliver it, that is. The message. Personally.” The flustered guard saluted her for some reason, and Nsia laughed gently behind her hand and the guard turned a deep shade of crimson. She crossed the bridge, leaving the confused, saluting guard to wonder where she had come from. Now it was time for Nsia to attend her dreaded next task. A task she so desperately wanted to delay, she had committed a capital felony first, because it seemed easier. So far, her first foray into crime had gone smoother than her first foray into romance.

Chapter Twenty-two

Nsia found Oteng alone at his favorite lookout. She was nervous. If he had been with a group, they all would have cried and hugged and sworn to see each other soon. That, she might be able to bare. Alone, however, she was at a complete loss. She felt something for him, even if she didn't quite know what that was, but Nsia knew little about this sort of thing. Her life in Fairriden had been pleasant and uneventful, until Djansi, of course. Since then her life had been harsh, ing in a frenzied rush, leaving little time to worry about things like love. Oteng spotted her and rushed forward like a puppy. “Nsia!” He wrapped her in a gentle embrace and kissed her. “What a surprise to see you!” “I was looking for you, and thought you might be here. You always say it's your favorite view.” It was a marvelous sight. From this small rise, one could hardly tell Bankese was a city at all. Only once you looked closer could you see the hidden rooftops and spires among the rows of flowers and willows. Hundreds of fine bridges crossed and intersected the ponds and waterways, and flocks of shimmering ewa moved through the sky as if sharing a mind. “It's actually my second favorite view,” said Oteng. “What's your first?” He smiled sweetly as he stared into her wide blue eyes. “Oh,” Nsia batted him on the chest, but kept her hand there. “That's ... nice.” Grinning like a fool, Oteng sat down on the grass and patted the spot next to him. “So why were you looking for me?” he said. “I need to tell you something.” “You're staying?” Oteng beamed. “Oteng. I'm ... not. I'm going, in fact. Tomorrow,” Nsia forced the words out.

“Without my mother.” She wept in earnest, the first time she had allowed herself to do so since leaving Fairriden. Oteng, to his credit, said nothing. He put his arm around her and she buried herself in the crook of his arm and wept for her broken family. He spoke softly to calm her, but was in no better condition than she. They stayed together as long as time allowed, taking what comfort they could while they had the chance. Oteng wanted to convince her to stay with every fiber of his soul; Nsia could read it in his voice, even as he told her to follow her heart. The lights of the city began twinkling into existence as evening came. They said little, but Nsia was determined to spend as much time with him as possible before reality reared its anxious, intrusive head. For she still needed to make peace with her mother. “I'm so sorry,” she said somberly, detaching from their embrace. “I'm not,” he replied. “The time I stole with you was some of the finest I've ever spent in my life. Here.” He handed her a small pin in the shape of an Odan rose. It shifted between red and blue as you looked at it from different angles. He pressed it into her hands. “It's beautiful,” Nsia whispered. “Thank you. I'll write, I promise. As often as I can.” “And I'll cherish every letter as if it were my very lifeblood.” She gave him one last lingering kiss that carried an air of dreadful finality. “I'll miss you. I'll come back.” “Nsia, I know what you said before but, my Name—my Name Means Destined. You don't need to tell me yours; I'll wait like you asked, but I wanted you to know that, and know that I finally understand it. We're destined to be together.” She took a step away from him. Oteng reached out towards her, but she backed away from his hand. That single step caused Oteng such misery she could no longer bear to look at his pleading, pained expression. She left.

It was past midnight when Nsia returned to her estate. All was quiet, and only a single lantern was lit in the kitchens. She entered the side door and peeked around the corner, only to see her mother sitting at the long servant's table. Nsia didn't announce herself, but made sure her steps were audible as she entered the spacious kitchen. “I thought you'd come to the kitchens first. They tell me you always spirit away leftovers when you return late.” “If not for the staff,” Nsia strode around the table and stood opposite her mother, “you wouldn't know I ate at all, or even lived here.” She hadn't intended to be snide, but something about her mother brought out the worst in her. “Here.” Dol pushed a covered plate towards her. “I had them prepare something more palatable than leftovers. If I had known your habits, I would have had Orito await you and prepare proper meals, regardless of the hour.” “If you had known.” “Nsia, I wasn't waiting here to argue. I wanted to have a rational discussion.” Nsia thought of a thousand biting accusations and insults she could hurl, but held her tongue. “What did you wish to discuss, then?” “Your father spoke to you,” the tired woman stated. “This business with Piesi ... you have to understand we can't allow a scene so soon after the wedding. Ltal was being irrational, so I had a runner sent ahead to bar him from Akatia's estate. To protect him from disgrace. We've fought bitterly against the many failures of our family to get this far.” “You,” Nsia seethed, “have fought for, nor protected, anything except your own self-interests since the day we arrived, at the cost of your family. Not for us. As for Piesi, I have seen to father's wishes already.” Dol's stern expression broke, and she laughed quietly. “You are so like me, when I was your age, only far more beautiful.” Dol

composed herself and took the lid off the plate of food before her daughter. “Eat, please. You must be famished.” It was true; she hadn't eaten nearly enough considering the day's exertion. She sat and picked away at the fruits, cheeses, and cured meats arranged on the platter. As she ate, her mother continued. “You may have noticed how little I speak to my own mother. Perhaps a handful of times since we arrived? Not even. Her and I once treated each other as enemies. I had fallen in love with Ltal, a poor merchant with no prospects, nor standing, and she despised me for it. She still does.” “So you treat me the same way?” “The difference is that you and I are not enemies. Not yet. Before I left home, my mother never came to speak with me the way I am now. She just ... let me go. So here I am; trying not to make the same mistakes she did, so we don't end up hating each other for the rest of our lives.” “I don't hate you ... I don't hate anyone. I just hate what this city has done to you. It's changed you—changed all of us, and not all for the better.” Dol sighed, as if she had been holding her breath for a long time. “I'm glad to hear that, truly. I still think you are making a mistake.” She stopped herself from that line of thought. “But you know how I feel, and I know there is no changing your mind, either.” “I plan to return in the spring.” Dol perked at this unexpected news. “To resume my training with Master Akruma,” Nsia said. “I see.” “She says I have much promise, and while my time away will hamper my progress, she's offered to take me in.” Nsia watched her mother's reaction. But Dol could be impossible to read when she wanted to. She could be angry, depressed, neither, or both.

“You have made your decision, then. As have I. As has your father.” “It seems father had no choice. I would hardly call any of this his decision.” “No, I suppose not.” Dol's mask of imivity nearly broke. “Just ... promise that whatever your future holds you'll never fall in love with a stupid man.” “I—I'm not sure I can promise that.” Dol raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you're a bit too much like me.” Nsia changed the subject. “I should pack my things, and get a couple hours of rest if I can.” “Of course, yes. Well, I won't see you off in the morning, you understand. It will be harder for your father if I'm there.” Nsia gave her mother a curt hug. It was not a comforting embrace and was soon over. “I'll see you when I return,” Nsia said. “Take care of yourself.” It's what you're best at, she thought. For a second Nsia worried if she said her last words aloud, for the briefest shadow ed over her mother's face. Perhaps Nsia wasn't as subtle as she believed. “I will, dear. Be safe. Take care of your father, your brothers, and that little boy —what was his name? Duncey?” “Djansi,” Nsia corrected. “It Means Life.”

The dawn of their departure arrived; the wagon teams were loaded and ready, but few came to see them off. Nsia lost her chance to see Akruma as the master had requested, but she would understand, circumstances being what they were. Nsia looked out into her private garden as the first rays of the sun climbed over the city. In the sand were raked the last glyphs the old caretaker had left her. “Good,” Nsia said. “I got here first.”

Nsia said her farewells to Annah, who was a lovely soul and a brilliant sculptor. She was shy, but would do well for herself in Bankese, especially with Piesi's new connections. They exchanged pleasant words and shared their concerns over their father's current state. They loaded six wagons to the brim, and the horses champed at their bits. Ltal sat at the head of the teams, emitting a miasma of melancholy. Akosi led another wagon and yawned. Nsia's belongings now consisted of her armor, a few articles of clothing, and medical supplies, so her meager trunk was easily stowed among their personal effects. She did not openly wear the token Oteng had given her, but kept it pinned to the inside of her collar, close to her heart. If people saw, it would rouse too many questions she wasn't ready to answer. As Nsia walked around the covered wagon her father drove, she noticed an unfamiliar enger in the back among their cargo. The individual had arranged a few cushions to make the cramped space look rather comfortable, and they were draped in a hooded cloak, sleeping soundly. Nsia sat on the bench next to her father, who nodded and snapped the reins. Without fanfare or pomp, he set the horses in motion.

Hidden from view, Dol watched as the wagon teams, and her family, filed away. She wasn't sure if this was another a mistake or not. But it was far too late to change her mind; the damage had been done, and once more the failure was hers to bear. She had chosen Ltal those decades ago. She had moved them to Fairriden to spite her mother. She had decided Mansa would be Unbound, then spent her family's fortune to achieve it. This last act was her greatest failure; an act of desperation, she now realized. A shallow attempt to bring her family back to prominence, which had only resulted in the torture of her first-born son. Now, she pressured Piesi to the same ends; into a binding contract for the sake of her family and future generations. The family she now watched leave her. She had well and truly failed.

As the morning sun rose, the wagon train reached the main roads leading north out of Bankese. Near the city limits, Nsia felt the wagon pull to her side. Akruma swung non-nonchalantly off the moving wagon, holding on with one hand. “Hello little crow,” Akruma said, grinning. “No need to stop the convoy, sir! I just need a moment.” “Master Akruma,” Ltal nodded, in a confused greeting. “Steady on then,” he called to the other wagons. “What are you doing here?” Nsia asked, rather baffled. “You were supposed to come see me. It seems crows are too easily distracted. Like by little pins of roses,” Akruma winked. Nsia made the face that was the universal expression meaning 'hush up this minute or I'll toss you off a moving wagon'. Her father seemed mostly content to watch the road ahead, but leaned several inches towards them. “How do you even know about that?” Nsia whispered. “I helped him pick it out,” Akruma said. “That boy is sweet, but way too simpleminded ... and rich, by the way. He wanted to get you an oak desk as a parting gift. It was a beautiful desk. But it also weighed more than a horse.” “So you came all this way to tease me?” “No, actually! I came to deliver this.” Akruma swung a case several feet long over the lip of the wagon and onto Nsia's lap. “Ta-dah!” The other of their caravan, and any strangers nearby, were watching the curious scene unfold. “Now what is that?” Ltal asked. “Open it gingerly now,” Akruma said.

Nsia undid the latches and lifted the lid. Packed inside was the shield and sword she had used in her Ascension, tucked into a padded insert. “Ngombe,” Nsia said reverently. Akruma nodded, and Ltal craned his neck to see inside, but was trying not to be too obvious about it. “The venom of the asp,” Akruma said, “was once used to execute criminals in Oda. Did you know that?” “I didn't.” “It was fast, painless, quiet, but meant certain death once istered. They gave it only to those who deserved an honorable death. This is the soul of the Redan of the Asp. This blade, however, ngombe, was the alternative to a noble end. Deemed by some, the executioner's blade, it was used to kill cruelly, and painfully. But in your hands—I saw something else. There was grace, there. There was strength. You took a vile tool and turned it into something worthy of our Redan. For long before it became known as the executioner's blade, its name meant something else. Ngombe once meant 'The Spirit of the Forest'. This is what I saw in you.” Nsia ran her hand along the flat of the blade, then closed the lid, latched it, and set the crate down. She then reach over and hugged her master, who returned the embrace with one arm, as she still balanced on the wagon’s edge. “Thank you, Master. This is an honor. I'll train with it, I promise. I will bring honor to our Redan.” “Good, very good. Now, I should let you fly off, little crow. But before I go, let me offer you one last piece of advice.” “Of course,” Nsia said. Akruma came close, and her expression became serious. “The asp is patient, it is calm, and always, always is it wary of those who threaten it. The asp chooses well when to strike, then strikes once, no matter how large the enemy. But the crow—the crow is wise. It knows that a large enemy is not so easily subdued by venom alone. So the crow lives, while the asp does not.”

Nsia didn't quite know what to make of this advice. “I'll ... do my best, Master, and thank you, for everything.” Ltal cleared his throat beside them. “Yes, thank you, Master Akruma. For looking after, what was it? Our little crow?” He stifled a laugh, as it was the first time he had heard his daughter's unusual moniker. “It was an honor, sir. Your daughter is strong of will and arm. You would well to that and trust her judgment.” “I will,” Ltal replied. “I truly will.” Master Akruma hopped backwards off the wagon, and watched them go. Her eyes, however, did not watch her student, but rather, the lone enger behind her.

An ancient Bankesian caretaker languidly walked the same path he always did. He was hunched halfway over with age, and wore a wispy white mustache and beard. He came around the service trail that led to a Nsia's former garden, carrying the same worn tools he had used for sixty years. He followed the same routine, and tended to the same gardens, day after day. Today, however, he blinked in surprise. Written in the sand were a pair of glyphs in beautiful flowing script. They read, “thank you.”

The wagon convoy stopped by the roadside for its evening meal at the end of the first day of travel. Nsia had been curious all along, so as soon as they found a suitable place to make camp, she hopped down from the bench and walked around to the back. “Hello? I wanted to introduce myself properly. I'm Nsia, daughter of Ltal.” “I know who you are,” said a gruff male voice. He lounged in the back of the wagon, reading from a small book resting on his knee. “The Unbound,” breathed Nsia. “Okraman,” said the mangy looking Agiotage. “It Means Bloodhound, if you care about that sort of nonsense.” He extended his large, calloused hand, which Nsia shook tentatively. “At your service.” She fought to keep her voice from quavering. “Hm. I look forward to seeing this town of yours once more. Fairriden. I've heard marvelous things lately.” “It will be a long journey before we arrive. I hope we get along.” She gave a slight bow, as was appropriate. She did not yet know what role the Unbound had to play, but something about his bearing and presence unnerved her. The asp is patient, the asp is calm. “I'm sure we'll get along fine little crow.” The Unbound released her hand, then turned the page of his book.

Part Four, Chapter Twenty-three

The stone mocked him . Round and flawless, without even a single mar on its surface. Djansi scowled at it, then shut his eyes tight and clenched his outstretched hand. He was sweating, wearing only gray tros and his jerkin, his arms bare. He peeked with one eye, shut it, then continued scowling in the stone's direction. The the dull crimson scars on his left arm became a shade brighter. The wooden haft of a spear thudded into Djansi's abdomen. “Breathe! You are not making ice,” Mansa scolded as he paced a tight circle around the young man. Mansa held the spear at his side, ready to ister another reminder. “It's—harder—than—you—think,” Djansi inhaled and exhaled between each word. The veins on his head and neck bulged, and his body shook. His arm lowered by an inch, and again the spear haft wheeled out, slapping it back into position. “No. It is only as hard as you think it is. Think not of its hardness, think of its frailty. Think of the cascade as one crack becomes many. Think of its ease, its weakness. The stone wishes to change.” The stone sat atop a stump by the shore of the river twenty paces away. Djansi tightened his grip on the small bones he held in his hand. “You have taken in too much Nkaya. You always look constipated when you do. Release it. Start over.” “I—can—Break—the—stone,” Djansi smiled, despite the pain flooding through him, and the worse realization that he did, in fact, look constipated. Mansa walked in front of him, shut his eyes, placed both his hands around Djansi's extended one, then breathed out. The strain began to fade from Djansi immediately. Nkaya escaped Djansi's skin like sweat steaming away in the cold, a translucent mist visible only to the Unbound. Mansa released him, then breathed out wisps of Nkaya as if it were air from his own lungs. Djansi visibly relaxed. It was a technique they had only recently

discovered, pioneered by Mansa quite by accident. During a vivid nightmare, Djansi had somehow called Nkaya as he slept, drawing enough power to cause a disaster of frightening proportions. Mansa, in a frantic, selfless attempt to direct that power away, discovered that he could absorb it into his own body, then harmlessly release it. Since Mansa had a surgical level of control over Nkaya, but lacked any talent for calling it himself; with this technique, he could siphon and direct its flow in perfect compliment to Djansi, who called far more than necessary, but still lacked control. This serendipitous accident had taken away some—but not all—of Djansi's fear of violently exploding. “I could have done it,” Djansi huffed. His voice was deeper than when they had first met, and he stood nearly as tall as Mansa, though nowhere near as graceful. The sudden, awkward growth spurt had left Djansi bumping and tripping over everything in his path. They both glanced towards the rock, which was insultingly unbroken. “Perhaps we will try again later. Nkiri?” Djansi opened his hand and inspected the fish-bone he held from the previous day's meal. Except where Djansi had crunched it in his palm, it was whole. “No,” he said, dropping the bone. “Even with the right Reagent, I can't use Breaking.” He stretched the stiffness from his limbs. Calling Nkaya at all was still taxing; calling too much could be deadly, and Nkiri caused by misusing one's Reagent, was something they both desperately tried to avoid. Despite this, Mansa was pleased. Their Siphon, as they named it, was a blessing. Before, a calling such as today's might have had disastrous consequences, but with this technique, they could press their limits further, resulting in remarkable progress. “What troubles you, Djansi?” “I was just thinking. These Arts. We never discuss it, but ... we can use them against people, can't we?” A shadow ed over Mansa.

“No, no, don't misunderstand! I don't intend to use Nkaya like that, but ... I can't help but wonder if there is a way to prevent being, well, liquefied, or Broken. If Unbound came to blows, that is.” “Hm, this is a valid concern,” Mansa sighed. “But Nkaya is not used for such an act. Not since the dark ages of Oda.” “Meaning, it was once used that way?” “Arts once existed to defend against Nkaya, but none that I am able to teach.” Mansa ran his hand along his freshly shaven head. “I fear my failure as a learner has become detrimental to your progress.” “Mansa, Who’s Name Means Spearhead. Without you, I wouldn't be alive right now. Only you can teach me what I need to know. No one else. Not to mention Siphoning is a new Art. One that you created. As far as I know, there hasn't been a new Art in a thousand years.” Mansa blinked and cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. “Perhaps. Perhaps you are right. I apologize for my emotional outburst.” Djansi had a hard time ing his quiet, succinct manner as an outburst, let alone emotional. “Besides, I'm sure there are many more things you have to teach me.” “You are correct again Djansi. There is something I wish to try. If you are willing. It is dangerous.” “I'm listening.” “What progress have you made with Deformation?” It was a sore subject to bring up. They had spent months training, meditating, and practicing. Neither had yet to come close to calling this particular Art. They had all but discarded the idea to focus instead on Breaking. “None whatsoever,” Djansi said. “I try to focus on using the jerkin as Reagent, but ... like Breaking, something stops me. I can't make sense of it. I've come at it

from every angle I can think of.” “No, we haven't.” “You've thought of something! Oh Spirit’s blessings, it's been driving me mad.” Mansa took a dozen steps away from Djansi, retrieved his long spear, with its gleaming black tip, and entered a low stance as if preparing to attack. “What are you—you aren't going to do what I think you are, right?” Djansi held up both hands and took a step backwards. “This isn't funny.” Mansa was serious. He spun the spear, pulled it back, shifted his stance, and thrust the weapon before him, leveling the spearhead at the young man. “Ready yourself. Now,” Mansa commanded. “Ok, you can't be serious, you can't”—Mansa shut his eyes and dashed forward, closing the gap between them in an instant. Djansi gasped at the speed of his movements, watching in a stupor as the deadly spearhead flashed towards his throat. Djansi was about to die. Their recklessness had caught up with them. Neither he nor Mansa could call Proliferation to heal. He would end up bleeding out in the woods, his throat severed. Djansi took in a deep gasping breath. It was all he had time for before the weapon found his soft flesh. It wasn't air Djansi breathed in. Mansa's weapon collided, but it must have been more dull than Djansi thought, because instead of slicing through his neck, it bounced off with a dull whack. The force of the blow sent Djansi stumbling backwards several feet where he landed sorely on his backside. “Ha!” Mansa exclaimed, dropping the spear and picking up the confused Djansi with both arms, setting him back on his feet. “I did not kill you!” “Of course not, not with a dull blade like that.”

Mansa cocked an eyebrow, then pulled Djansi's arms out and forward so he could see them. His skin was different; glossy and textured like hard, layered leather. As Djansi concentrated on it, he felt Nkaya layered over him like a heavy blanket. “Shit!” Djansi exclaimed. “We did it!” Djansi hugged Mansa back, then rapped his knuckles against his own arm—the sound was as if he knocked against iron. He felt his own face and head, to find they were similarly hardened. He turned to face away from Mansa, and quickly checked down his tros as well. “Huh. Well that's interesting.” “Remarkable,” Mansa chuckled. “I did not know if this would work. Unbound never take such risks. They value themselves too highly.” “I'm going to ignore the fact that you might have killed me just now, and how calm you are about it, because this is amazing. How long does it last? It's been about a minute now, maybe less.” Djansi took out the knife his parents had given him all those years ago and poked at his skin. It resisted the knife at first, but then gave more and more. “It appears to be ending. Djansi. Expect Nkiri.” Mansa's tone was disheartening. Djansi knew well what he meant and placed the handle of his knife in his mouth to bite down on. This was the part he hated. Mansa's Siphon could redirect unspent energy—but after the fact, once an Art was called, Siphon could do nothing against Nkiri. Mansa gave him space. “It will come suddenly. I cannot yet tell if you used the walkerhide as a proper Reagent. This may be bad.” Djansi focused on his breathing and closed his eyes. The armor of Nkaya softened, like dead skin peeling after a burn. His whole body became tender, then felt as if his skin was being gripped by an unseen hand, and torn off in great strips. From Mansa's perspective, Nkaya steamed off him much like their Siphon, except Djansi's skin flushed as if badly burnt in the sun. He bit down on the hilt, but his entire body felt like an open wound in the wind. He collapsed on the ground, but even the with grass made him contort into unnatural

positions. There was nothing to be done until the pain subsided. Luckily it left as quickly as it had come, leaving Djansi gasping on the grass. There were deep indents in the leather hilt of his knife, and not for the first time. His skin returned to its normal state. “Spirits that was unpleasant,” Djansi coughed. “How is my coat?” Mansa noted a minuscule patch the width of a needle that was frayed. A testament to the quality of the craftsmanship, and its quality as a Reagent. “Small, repairable. Has the Nkiri ed?” “The worst of it. The pins and needles you feel when your leg falls sleep? It's like that over my whole body now.” “At least,” Mansa said in conciliation, “you don't have a spear in your throat.” “That I don't.” Djansi hopped back up to his feet, patted the dirt off his pants, and inspected his jerkin. It would take more than that to keep him down. “If necessary, Djansi,” Mansa asked, “could you do it again?” “I'm not sure. I just, sort of breathed in. It seemed natural? Instinctual. But how could I have an instinct for something I've never done before?” “With Nkaya, some things are understood. For Nkaya is instinct.” “You've said that before,” Djansi groused. “It made no sense then, either.” “Does everything in your world need to make sense?” “Of course.” “And when something does not fit your definition of sensibility, what then? Will you rage, swear you are right, and that the universe must be wrong?” “No, I just ... everything has an explanation. This has an explanation. Nothing just happens for no Spirit-forsaken reason.” Djansi walked to the river to splash cold water on his face, then drank from his cupped hands.

“Djansi. I know you went to seek your parents,” Mansa said, causing Djansi to pause. “I know you stood before the Epoya while I was away.” Djansi sat back and shook his head, exasperated, not even bothering to look back. “You always seem to know more about me than I do myself.” “Call it ... instinct,” Mansa said. “So what, you used some Art to spy on me?” “I followed you. Mundane, I know. I had no business that required me to leave Fairriden. I needed to see what you would do, so I could better teach you. So I watched, ready to follow you. Unto death, if that was what you chose.” “Don't be melodramatic,” Djansi said as he tied his brown curls into a tight bun. Djansi resembled Agya and Amemre more and more each day. “It was another test?” “In a way. You stood before that forest and faced the source of your greatest fear.” “I'm not afraid of the Epoya,” Djansi said defensively. “You do. But that is the appropriate reaction. That forest is meant to be feared. The Sempiternal Sea is old, deep, and cares not for the people of this sphere. Agya should have feared it more. No, you are wise to fear this thing. But the Epoya is not your greatest fear.” Mansa stood closer to his pupil. “Your greatest fear is acceptance. To accept that they are gone. If you could not face this head on, you would have stumbled blindly into the Epoya once more, a journey from which you would not return. But you did not. Some part of you knew there was more you could do by living, and learning.” “I can't argue with that. Not really.” It was infuriating how Mansa could sometimes miss obvious social cues, but could pick out the most secret inner workings of Djansi's mind with ease. “I still plan to go back there, you know. One day, when I’m ready. You can't stop me.” “Stop you?” Mansa asked. “Why do you think I am training you?”

Chapter Twenty-four

Djansi wiped sweat from his face with a towel draped over his naked shoulders. After their training session, Mansa had taken Chestnut out to get her legs, leaving Djansi alone and bored in the cottage. He tried reading, but ended up restarting the same paragraph in a herbology text over and over. “A hound would be nice.” He thought aloud, looking up at the walker-head. He leaned back in his chair, and rested the book on his lap. “Probably better conversation than Mansa ... I wonder if Tuntum is alright.” Djansi closed his eyes. “I hope you have a fine family and all the food you can eat.” It had been more than a year since he had last seen the jerky-thief. “I wonder if Nsia likes animals.” She was returning in two weeks, and the waiting made him anxious. He hadn't yet thought of a way to thank her, even after all this time. He once asked Mansa if he knew what type of gift his sister would like, and he had replied that Djansi should get her a weapon. As if she would care for such a thing. Djansi couldn't believe Mansa knew even less about women than he did. “I could get a pet for Nsia? A little pup. Everyone likes that sort of thing, then I could visit them both,” Djansi said with a wry grin. It seemed like a cunning plan, but except for a few scraggly old sheep dogs, there weren't many adorable puppies for sale around Fairriden. “Maybe not. She lives near the bluffs.” He imagined handing Nsia a puppy, only for it to launch itself off the cliffs. “I've still got two weeks to think. Maybe Yucca could help.” Someone knocked at the cottage door, and Djansi wiped the sweat from his forehead and shouted from across the room. “It's open Mansa,” Djansi called out, to which there was no reply. “Mansa?” Djansi opened the door to a familiar face. She was taller than him the last time they met, now Djansi stood a few inches above her, and looked down into her large, angular blue eyes, and features so striking they put artists to shame. The woman at his door wore waist length black hair tied into a single braid before

her. She wore a loose cream-colored blouse, a wide belt, riding breeches, and tall leather boots. “Pardon me, does ... Djansi still live here?” Nsia asked. She glanced at his bare chest, then quickly averted her eyes. She leaned to the side and looked over his shoulder to see if little Djansi was perhaps behind the man in the doorway. He grinned stupidly, despite himself. “Tkonda, Nsia.” She looked at the unfamiliar person, then met his hazel-gray eyes, gasping the moment they touched. “Djansi? You...” Her eyes lowered again, then she turned her head away. “You aren't wearing much.” Every drop of blood in his body must have rushed to his face. He was sweaty, disheveled, and his scarred shoulder and arm were on display. Self-conscious, he sprinted away, bumping into every chair, table and surface possible as he did. Nsia watched the lanky young man scramble down the hall, and couldn't help but laugh behind her hand. It really was Djansi. In his bedroom, he threw on a shirt, not realizing it was inside out, then checked his face in his tin hand-mirror. At least he had splashed it with water earlier by the river. She's here. Now! Why is she here? Two weeks ... Spirits curse me for a fool. I should have got her a puppy. He returned to the hearth-room to see Nsia had let herself in, and was perusing the titles on their bookshelf. “I see Mansa has made himself quite comfortable,” Nsia remarked, replacing a book she had pulled out. In front of her on the shelf was the sealed box that contained their store of dinnite gems. “Well, you know how he is. When he first brought me back from Brightnora's he had already turned my parents’ workshop into a stable for Chestnut.” She turned towards him and smiled, but lingered across the room, hands clasped behind her back. “I'm surprised he didn't put her up in the house.”

“That almost happened. I made a fuss over the shop, and he said Chestnut could stay with me instead. At the time I thought he was joking.” “Oh Mansa doesn't joke about that horse. What is it with men and their horses?” “I wouldn't know,” Djansi said. But he loved Chestnut as much as Mansa, even if he didn't want to it that at the moment. Nsia walked to the door. “I don't want to keep everyone waiting too long, but we were ing by and I wanted to stop in. To see a ... familiar face.” She shook her head in disbelief. Djansi came closer and looked out into the front yard. A caravan of wagons and carts waited on the main road bordering the edge of his property. Nsia started towards the wagons and Djansi stepped in line beside her, walking with her down the dirt path. “I wasn't expecting you for weeks yet, sorry it wasn't much of a welcome. You caught me off-guard. Is there a reason you came back early?” “Oh you know how these things go,” Nsia said, offering no further elaboration. Djansi did not know how these things went, but decided not to ask. He recognized her father, Ltal, immediately. Seeming so much like Mansa— until either opened their mouth to speak. Ltal motioned for the other wagons and carriages to go around and carry on ahead. Akosi waved pleasantly as he ed, which Djansi returned. “Is that little Djansi?” Ltal asked. “Spirits you've grown, boy.” “I'm not the only one,” he said, glancing at the small gut Ltal had gained in his time away. Something about being called 'boy' would never sit right with him. A brief moment of silence ed between the three of them, then Ltal burst out in sudden laughter. “Oh, it's Djansi, all right. That temper seals it.” Ltal wiped a tear from his eye. “Thank you, b—Djansi. I believe I quite needed a dose of reality.” Nsia rolled her eyes at the boys, but couldn't help but smile. “Where is my

brother, anyway?” “You might meet him on your way up, or Chestnut's taken him further east. Sometimes we train by the river.” “What training does a cook do out in the woods?” Ltal asked, still sitting atop the bench of the wagon. Damn, Djansi thought. They'd just returned and already he was slipping. “Rehabilitation,” he said. “Even with the aspfoil, my injuries ran deep. Mansa has done more to help me than he ever had reason to. You all have, and I owe your family a great debt, one I can never hope to repay.” “Now, now, don't worry about such things,” Ltal began, but was stopped short by his daughter’s upraised hand. “Not so hasty, father,” Nsia said in a haughty tone. “You do owe us. Basically for everything. As penance, you will meet me tomorrow at luncheon and tell me everything that's happened in Fairriden in my absence. Then, you and Mansa will both dine with us. Non-negotiable.” “That's a tall price to pay, but I can manage it.” Djansi gave a low sweeping bow, fighting to keep from smiling ear to ear. “We won't make you cook for us either, not this time anyway,” Nsia said. Ltal looked up and squinted towards the sun. “We should get going now. Plenty of unpacking to do, and we need to ready a room for our guest.” He nodded towards the wagon behind them. Nsia mounted next to her father and looked down at the young man she hardly recognized as the same sickly, fever-stricken boy she had watched over so long ago. She palmed the Odan rose pin in her pocket. “Inketya, Djansi. It's ... good to be back. Oh, and do wear a shirt tomorrow, preferably not inside out.” Ltal gave Djansi a fatherly scowl, as if to say he would not tolerate shirtlessness around his daughter, then set the horses into a trot.

As the wagon ed Djansi, for the briefest of moments, he was face to face with a shaggy looking man sitting in the back among their cargo. He held a small book in his hand, but stared intently at Djansi as the wagon creaked and clamored up the hill. Djansi was more concerned by his shirt being inside out, but felt the stranger's eyes linger on him.

Okraman was getting impatient. The horses were laboriously slow at making their way up the hill towards Fairriden proper. Forced to sit at an uncomfortable angle as they made their way up the steep incline, he stowed his book in one of the myriad of pockets lining the inside of his long fur robe. At the caravan's outset, he had relished the thought of an extended journey north by horse-cart. It would be relaxing, he thought; it had been years since he had last traveled a distance by mundane means, and in theory, it should have been quaint; nostalgic of the bygone days of his youth. In reality, however, he had soon felt like a caged animal. He could have made the journey on foot in a fraction of the time. He had even increased the horse teams endurance with his Arts, but it had made no real difference. As the hill plateaued, Okraman hopped from the moving wagon, and walked alongside it, where Nsia sat at the front beside her father. “I'll be going for a walk, Miss Nsia,” he said. “This trip has left me yearning for the feel of earth beneath my feet, and I would like to see the Reidher ocean from the bluffs. It has been decades since I last looked upon it.” “Of course. Our home is just up ahead in that small valley beyond the town,” Nsia said, looking into the distance, pointing eastward. “Meet us at home whenever you like, sir.” When she looked back, the Unbound was nowhere to be seen. She leaned far off the side of the wagon, and looked all around, but there was no trace he had been standing there a moment ago. She only heard a faint thrumming, like that of a chord plucked on a lyre.

In a field of orange star-shaped flowers near the rocky cliffs, the same thrumming began to resonate and build. Loose earth, grass, and the blooming anrokaa vibrated as a violent, unnatural wind blew over them. The Agiotage strode out onto the field from nothingness, like stepping out of a heavy fog. He held a thin rectangular wooden block in the palm of his hand, with a single vibrating metallic string attached to either end. The string crumbled to dust, then he retrieved a replacement from his pocket, attached it to the block, then stored the item. He took a deep breath of the salty ocean air and squinted against the gusting winds. The sound of water crashing against earth far below nearly drowned out the calls of the seabirds circling above. Okraman took out his book, which flipped open in the wind. He scanned it for a specific page, then glanced all around him, soon finding an area which matched a description written within. A massive section of the cliffs which had collapsed two years prior. He walked along the lip of the cliff, leaning over to look at the jagged stone debris over a hundred feet below, then came upon a small formation in the stone, and bent down with a groan to inspect it. The Agiotage ran a finger along the unnaturally smooth break, shaped like the outline of a person's knees resting on the ground. He grabbed a handful of dirt, then pulled out a gem fragment and pressed it in. The gem began glowing molten red. He then set the handful of earth down, and pressed down the gem with his thumb as if planting a seed. It melted into the solid stone, which bubbled and hissed. The Unbound closed his eyes and breathed in. The sheer cliff face rippled like water and soon undulating stone took the shape of planks protruding one after another, forming a make-shift staircase. Once he was satisfied, the steps hardened from liquid back to solid stone. Okraman picked his way down the conjured stairs until so he could look directly into the flat of the shorn cliff. The wind whipped his shaggy hair and long coat, but he stood as solidly as a sailor during a storm. He ran a hand along the smooth, planed stone. An old cliff eroding on its own would be jagged. His calloused fingers traced the surface, then he looked closely and smiled. It wasn't

perfectly smooth. There was an indentation in the stone, a pattern. From the top of the cliff, all the way down, there were fern-like forked lines, the unmistakable lightning-strike pattern left by an unchecked surge of Nkaya. “Breaking,” he muttered. The words lost to the roar of the ocean below. Okraman ascended back to safety, dug his gem out of the stone, and the stone steps melted away like ice in the heat. He pulled out his notebook, flipped to the last page, and scribbled a few notations under the name Djansi. He stored the book, picked an anrokaa, and brought it to his nose.

Chapter Twenty-five

It was far too early in the morning, and a gentle rain tapped against the window of Djansi's room. He was awoken not by the pleasant sounds of a spring shower, but by the front door clattering open, making him jump out of bed. Mansa was dripping wet, tracking mud onto the floor, and carrying a brown sack slung over his shoulder from which wafted a putrid smell. “I was ... worried when you didn't come back before nightfall.” Djansi said, plugging his nose as he came around the corner. “Also what in the Spirit’s name is in that bag?” “Ah, of course—because of your parents,” Mansa said. “My apologies.” He dropped the slimy bag on the floor. “An acquaintance showed me where miasmus fungi grew. They are foul smelling aren't they?” “You—you don't plan on cooking those, do you?” “Hmm ... no, no I think not. These are for Mistress Brightnora. They have little use for us as a Reagent. A skilled herbalist, however, can produce a curative that combats diseases of the lung and gut.” “That's all well and good,” Djansi said nasally. “But can you at least store it in the workshop?” Mansa looked offended. “Chestnut has a sensitive nose.” “Outside then! Anywhere but here!” Mansa huffed but brought the oozing sack of fungus outside. “Now bathe, immediately and vigorously,” Djansi scolded. “As many times as you can. Please tell me there is an Art that removes smells.” Mansa mulled on this. “Olfaction, perhaps? A variation of Deformation. It can grant the scent and pheromone receptors of a beast, among other uses. It might remove, or enhance one's sense of smell.” “I was kidding, but honestly, it may come to that. If this smell lingers, Spirits

help me, I'll have to get rid of Nsia's sense of smell, or failing that, get rid of you.” “My sister? They have returned then.” “They did—I'm meeting Nsia for luncheon, then you and I are to dine with them and their guest later.” Djansi led Mansa outside and had him strip down to his undergarments, and set his clothes in a pile, which Djansi moved with a shovel, and buried in the manure behind the shed. “Who is their guest?” Mansa asked, standing naked in the rain, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “She didn't say, but I saw a glimpse of him. Older, rough around the edges. But who are we to judge? Now, you. Bathe. The water's still warm from mine.”

With Mansa taken care of, Djansi was free to worry about himself. He couldn't smell any of the foul mushroom on himself, but worried he had gotten used to it like he had with the scents of leather-working. Instead of risking some new Art, he stared at the few articles of clothing he owned. Three shirts for the warmer months, and two for the colder. Two sets of tros, and his jerkin. Djansi had assumed that Mansa—coming from a well-to-do family—might fill his wardrobe with finery once he had moved in, but Mansa cared little for frivolity. The sole exception being his armor he had commissioned from Agya and Amemre. So the young man dressed as best he could in an ill-fitting pair of charcoal gray tros, and a tarnished tan shirt with sleeves long enough to ensure his scars were concealed. Nsia hadn't mentioned them yesterday, but they were impossible to miss. He would wear his jerkin over top as usual, hoping it would hide the few holes he hadn't yet mended in his shirt. His parents had been infallible in their measurements when crafting the leather coat. They had left enough loose material that it now fit him more comfortably than ever, precisely as Agya had told him it would. He wished they could see him now. He walked into their old bedroom while Mansa scrubbed himself in the bath down the hall. The room was simply appointed, and Mansa had done little to change it except add a trunk with his belongings to the foot of the bed. Djansi walked to his parent's old armoire and opened it. It was well built, having let in very little dust or moisture since it had last been used over two years ago. He picked up the first item of clothing inside, a shirt once belonging to Agya. Djansi had treated their belongings reverentially for so long that it almost felt wrong to disturb them now. He looked down at his own tattered garments and thought of Nsia and her family. He looked foolish. He examined one of Agya's black tunics, then began to undress. The tunic fit him well beneath his walkerhide. Djansi then chose Amemre's forest green tros, which were wide at the hip, but tapered down to fit snugly at his calves. He secured it with a calfskin belt that hung from a peg on the wall. From a nightstand, he took and donned Agya's dark leather bracers, engraved with the silver horn motif of a crown-walker. They fit from the wrist to halfway up his

forearms. Djansi slid on a pair of boots and found them far too large. Amemre's. Beside them were Agya's tall hunting boots. He paced around the room wearing them until he decided they fit well enough. He closed the armoire and leaned his head against it. “They would be proud of you,” Mansa said from the doorway. “Thanks,” Djansi said. He fidgeted, adjusting the clothing that still didn't feel like his own. “I'm proud of you.” Djansi cried softly, still leaning against the armoire. “I am. You have endured much and grown all the stronger for it. This is something we, as Unbound share. For we are, all of us, robbed of a childhood, that we may be nurtured in the ways of Nkaya. It is a bound life, and not the life I would wish for you, but it seems to be the life you were destined to bear.” “It was all I ever thought about,” Djansi said, running his hand along Agya's bracer. “Magic. As early as I can . I just wanted to be strong like them. But Mansa, I would give it all up, all of it ... just to see them one more time.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. Though not his strong suit, Mansa then gave him a hug; albeit a brief and awkward one. Djansi couldn't help but laugh. It was the attempt that mattered, if not the execution. “For what it's worth, Mansa. They would approve of you. You and Amemre especially are more alike than you know.” “In what way?” asked Mansa. Djansi wanted to say that they were both thickheaded men that tried their best. Instead, he wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled at Mansa, his friend, his mentor. “You'll see for yourself, the next time you meet.”

Djansi walked through town like the Emperor themself. It was seldom the young man had ever held delusions of grandeur, or even delusions of adequacy, but for the first time in recent memory, he was happy. Always, his attempts at happiness were cut short by intrusive thoughts; of his parents, or what others thought of him. There was always a voice convincing him he wasn't good enough, that he didn't deserve happiness—that he would fail. But today, today was a good day. He was at peace. His head was clear, the fog of guilt lifted by the morning sun. The sweet smell of grass and earth after a rainfall was heavy in the air. He Looked up into the clear spring sky and watched the ghostly aurora of Nkaya flowing onto their world. He strutted through the principal thoroughfare of town, turning more than a few heads as he did. Djansi did not consider himself an attractive man, but today he was pleasantly confident in himself. He hoped the effort would please Nsia. Nsia, he thought, Whose Name Means ... Home? Djansi blushed at the thought and shook it from his mind as he approached the front door of their estate. It swung open before he reached the top step. Djansi hoped Nsia might rush out and embrace him, as she had in his daydreams. Instead, Ltal stood in the open doorway with his arms crossed, scowling down at the blushing youth. “Djansi,” Ltal said as amiably as a concerned father could be. “Not heading near the bluffs today, are you?” “I hadn't planned on it, sir.” “That's good. Just ... keep your shirt on. I was your age once. I know what goes through a young man's mind.” “That was so long ago, though. Perhaps your memory is going, that happens in old age.” Ltal was torn. As a father, he wanted to laugh, but as the father of a beautiful girl, there was no place more dangerous than on the arm of a quick-witted, cocksure young man. Before Ltal could protest, Nsia came out of the house from behind him. Ltal huffed while Djansi smiled a bit too innocently. “Father, be nice.” She pecked him on the cheek and stepped beside Djansi. She

wore an embroidered, emerald green sweater, black leggings, and kept her single braid wrapped into a tight bun. “We'll be back later. Now Djansi, I thought we might visit the bluffs? Unless you'd rather not. I'd understand,” Nsia said. “On the contrary, it's where I hoped to go.” Ltal could be heard growling on the stoop until Djansi and Nsia ed the stone gate eastward bound. “You look much better than the last time I was in Fairriden,” Nsia said as they walked. “I looked like a drowned rat the last time you were in Fairriden. I wasn't even conscious,” Djansi laughed. “I hope I look better now.” “You do. In fact you—no, nevermind.” “What? What is it?” “It's silly now that I think of it.” “Tell me, please.” “Well,” said Nsia, bashfully. “I know such a thing isn't—I was going to say you look like your parents.” Djansi was so pleased by this comment his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I didn't even know you'd met them.” “Once,” Nsia replied, “when I was little. They came to deliver something and stayed for tea. Sorry—but I being scared of them.” She hid her laugh behind her hand. Djansi grinned. “That sounds like them, but they aren't as intimidating as they look. Agya can always make me feel better; with a joke, or advice, or a kind word. Amemre is ... well he is scary, actually.” Djansi recalled the last time he looked upon Amemre; framed inside the doorway that night, armed as if going to war. “Inside he's a big softie, though, just like your brother.” Nsia looked askance at Djansi. Not only was he speaking as if both his parents

still lived, but the last comment made her pause. “Mansa, my brother Mansa is a softie?” Djansi nodded. “Like a big, weird, bald, violent teddy bear.” “Alright, that sounds more like him, but still. And he's bald?” Djansi nodded again. “It's odd, but he smells much better since he shaved it. He'd go months without washing his hair, or even putting a brush through it. The real kicker came when Chestnut wouldn't let him come near because his mop smelled so bad.” They laughed together as they made their way through the grassy knolls and jutting stone along the coast. They came to the fields of blooming flowers as gulls cried above. “This is where it happened,” Nsia said as she plucked one flower and held it to her nose. “Anrokaa,” Djansi said, skirting the topic and kneeling beside Nsia. “It means star-flower. They're a curative for dry lungs, and heart-fire.” Also a useful Reagent for the Art of Proliferation. Though Djansi was nowhere near adept enough for such a calling. “So you have been studying. I wasn't sure you knew how.” She prodded Djansi with her elbow. “I always knew how, I simply chose not to,” he said haughtily. “It was a matter of pride.” The two of them ed through the field of flowers to where Djansi had Broken the cliff. The devastation was still clear. They stood in silence for a long moment looking out to sea, the wind howling in their ears, the water crashing below where the ocean foamed like a rabid dog. “I never asked,” said Nsia, “ but what were you doing up here that day? There aren't many walking paths, and I didn't see you behind me.” Djansi froze and swallowed hard. It was the last question he expected. Nsia pursed her lips to stop from smirking and tried to look serious.

“I, uh, well. It’s funny, actually. Y’see, I....” The birds above them seemed to ride the currents of Nkaya without even knowing it, as if it was just instinctual. Djansi watched them and sighed. “I was following you. Because I'm a crazy stalker-person. I didn't set out to, honest, but ... I got too nervous to say anything. So yeah,” he motioned towards the cliffs with his thumb. “I'm just gonna’ jump in now, if that's okay with you.” “Let it never be said that Djansi is not the most dramatic man in all of Oda, nor the most honest. I knew you were there all along. I just wanted to see if you had the courage to it it.” “You knew?” Djansi said, covering his face to hide his embarrassment. “How?” “You weren't as stealthy as you thought. I seem to recall thinking that shrubs rarely sneezed.” “Well, I'm still glad I was there,” Djansi said. “And ... I'm, well, I'm glad I'm here now, next to you.” “Me too.” Nsia embraced him. Djansi had no idea how to react, and felt rather like Mansa. Despite everything they had been through, Djansi realized it was his first time hugging her. Or any woman. He returned the embrace and wondered how he had stayed apart from her for so long. He felt at home when she was near. He was surprised, however, that beneath the baggy sweater, her body was as hard as worked stone. Nsia broke off the embrace and cleared her throat. “Let's be off, shall we?”

They spent the morning wandering near and far through the familiar hills and valleys of their home Nsia had missed, before circling their way back to Fairriden proper. Thankfully spotting no elkwolves. The entire experience was unlike anything Djansi had encountered before. Not only did his heart race whenever he looked at her, but every villager they met seemed utterly entranced. Nsia exuded an aura of grace and self-assurance that drew people to her. Djansi felt oafish by comparison. Now, the people of Fairriden all but revered her, as if she were more Spirit than human, and as rumors and tales of her Ascension spread, the townsfolk kept their distance as if unworthy to stand in her presence. Folk often kept their distance from Djansi as well, but for different reasons. As the son of a tanner and a hunter, he had often smelled of lye and carcass. He had struggled in his studies and was treated as an outcast alongside his reclusive family. So he had retreated from people, as much as they had from him. So today, as people smiled, nodded, and greeted them kindly, he couldn't help but read between; for to Djansi, their expressions meant: 'what are you doing beside her'. “Djansi, is everything okay?” Nsia asked, an edge of concern in her voice. Djansi was startled by her hand resting on his shoulder. “Oh, sorry. No, yeah. Just lost in thought for a minute there.” “You seemed a little ... off-balance. What were you thinking about?” He looked into her eyes and his negative thoughts faded away. “Nothing important. I'm just having a hard time believing you're here.” “Me too.” She gave a small smile and the tension ed. “It seems like only yesterday I was in Bankese. But it's as if that life belonged to someone else. Already I struggle to recall the faces of so many people. It's a strange feeling, when things change so suddenly. Like a dream.” “Tell me about this other life of yours. I want to know everything you didn't write.”

“There's so much to tell, I don't know where to begin.” Djansi noticed she held a small pin in her palm. “Your parents must have been a pleasure to work for. I can't imagine they made your apprenticeship easy,” Djansi said. “She didn't, I didn't .... ” Nsia trailed off searching for the right words, but noticed a familiar face coming towards them from down the narrow gravel street. “Djansi!” Yucca called out, waving. Her short blonde hair bounced, and her cloak glittered and flapped behind her. “And ... oh Spirits is that Nsia? Truly?” “Hi Yucca,” Nsia said, hugging her. “Inketya.” “You're so beautiful!” Yucca fawned, “and Djansi”—Yucca faltered and blinked as she looked him over. “You, look incredible. Your clothes, I mean. They suit you. You look so ... mature.” She placed her hand on his forearm. Djansi assumed she was iring the bracers. “It was made by my parents,” he said, scratching his head, his cheeks coloring. Yucca made a show of iring the quality of the bracers, while holding Djansi's arm quite close with both hands. Her eyesight must be bad, he thought, as she stood far closer than otherwise necessary, almost pressed against him. “This is very fine.” Her tone changed as she began to legitimately ire the craftsmanship. She had an eye for these things. “The line-work here is impeccable. I wish I had known how skilled Agya and Amemre were before they ed. I'd have commissioned a traveling cloak, or ten.” Yucca stood between Djansi and Nsia as they spoke and did not witness Djansi’s smile become melancholy. “I'm glad to hear you compliment their work,” Djansi said. “Few folk appreciated them. So, it's good to hear such things, thank you.” Djansi glanced at Nsia, who was being quiet. “Sorry, Yucca, but Nsia and I were catching up. I hope you don't mind.”

Yucca took a step back. “Another time,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice. “Nsia, we'll get together soon, okay? The others are all off Spirits-know-where, so my options for companions are Ysra, Djansi, or Molly, the Drayburn's goat.” “We will, I promise. And Yucca ... you, uh, look beautiful too.” Nsia had never been particularly good at giving, or receiving compliments. Yucca smiled warmly, knowing this well. “Oh, and Yucca,” Djansi added before they departed. “When I find them, I'll be sure to commission a cloak, just for you.” Yucca nodded, knowing he believed his words.

“You two seem to have gotten closer since I left,” Nsia said as she purchased a pair of purple lia fruit for her and Djansi from the town grocer, an affable, rotund man in a pristine white apron. “I shppose tho,” Djansi said with his mouth full of the crisp fruit. Nsia laughed behind her hand and took an appropriate bite. “She'th a lot nither than she uthed to be.” Djansi swallowed the horse-sized mouthful. “Not sure how, working that close to Ysra the Devil. But yeah, no hard feelings or anything.” “You have a gift, you know. You just cannot be kept down, no matter what. I envy that.” “If it's a gift, it's because it's something I was given,” Djansi said. “I wouldn't even be here without the help of people like you. You're the only reason I survived the Epoya, and my fall, and the reason I keep getting up now. So I get up every time, ready to give that same gift to the people who need it. You gave me another chance to live. A few chances, actually. And I plan on using that. For my parents, for Mansa, and for you.” He stuffed the rest of the fruit into his mouth until his cheeks were puffed out. “Mmm, tho good.” Nsia watched him make a terrible mess everywhere with his fruit. She descended the steps from the grocer's store, and Djansi lagged behind trying to find some water to clean his sticky hands. “You're living ... for me?” Nsia said under her breath. How could he say such an embarrassing thing with a straight face? It reminded her of another stupid man she knew. “How is Mansa's instruction?” Nsia said to change the subject. “He refuses to cook for us, and my parents insist we not ask.” “Well,” Djansi coughed. “For Mansa it's ... like an Art. His approach is unorthodox, but it's worked out so far. We take some risks, but the things we're trying just haven't been done before. He's embraced his Name, I suppose.” “Spearhead,” Nsia agreed. “I never thought it suited him, but I should have known. Maybe I just don't know him, or Names, as well as I thought. Dol Means

Shrewd. Ltal, Ardent. Opposites in every way. She ... did not return with us.” “Oh,” Djansi said. “I'm sorry.” “It's okay. Your words earlier helped, without you knowing. Even if you sounded a bit like Mansa for a minute. There are so many people who have helped me. Now, it's my turn to be there when they need it. That's what my training, what everything has been for.” “I'm glad I could help,” Djansi said, quite lost. “I just hope I don't sound too much like Mansa. He uses the worst analogies. They seriously make no sense.” “The spear is like water,” Nsia said, doing a fair imitation of her brother. Nsia closed her eyes, crossed her arms and scowled. “But also like a charging bull, and a willow tree, made of clouds. Like a loaf of bread in the wind.” Djansi laughed until his sides hurt. “Imagine a horse,” Djansi said, doing his best impersonation, and not for the first time. “Not an actual horse, the horse is like a raging river, or a leaky faucet.” Their laughter infected one another, and they drew many a strange look as they wheezed, and wiped their eyes. At that moment they didn't care what anyone thought. It had been ages since either had laughed so much or so hard, or taken a moment to really enjoy their youth. They took their time composing themselves, and when at last the fits of laughing had ed, Nsia glanced down to see she held Djansi's hand as they walked. He didn't seem to notice, as he was still trying to catch his breath. Nsia coughed and gripped his hand a little tighter. “Oh! I'm sorry!” Djansi pulled his hand away, flushing red. “I didn't, I wasn't. You know, it just sort of .... ” “It's ok.” Nsia looked into his eyes, bleary and moist from laughter, and held her hand out for him to take. “Am I interrupting?” came a gravelly voice behind them. They turned in unison to see Okraman looming a step behind them. “Okraman, sir,” Nsia said politely. “Is there something I can do for you?” “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping you could introduce me.”

“To whom?” Nsia asked. Okraman looked to Djansi, and their eyes locked for a moment. Something warned Djansi to look away, like pulling your hand from a fire. “Of course,” Nsia dipped in a curt bow. “Djansi, this is Master Okraman who traveled with us from Bankese. Okraman, this is my friend Djansi. I was going to surprise you later, but, Djansi, Okraman is one of the Unbound.” That was what Djansi had seen in him. There was a terrible depth to those dark eyes, like staring into the ocean at night. It reminded him of looking into the crown-walker's eyes. Djansi fought the urge to call. “I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance.” Okraman extended his hand. Djansi shook it nervously. “Nice to meet you. What business brings a real Unbound to this distant corner of the world?” “I've heard wonderful things about Fairriden lately. And since I'm an old friend of Mansa's, I was overdue a visit.” Djansi's body tensed. He felt as if the elkwolf were bearing down on him. Nsia watched them both. Her hands crept to her sides. “How ... how do you know Mansa?” Djansi asked, plastering on a false smile. “Oh, we go way back, he and I. I'm looking forward to dining together. Won't it be fun to catch up? You'll both be there, of course. It would be rude if you weren't. In fact I would be personally offended.” “We will, of course,” said Nsia deferentially. “Good, very good,” said Okraman, barring his teeth in a crude smile. “If you'll excuse us, sir,” said Nsia, looping her arm around Djansi's and leading him off. “Oh, one more thing Djansi,” the Unbound called out in his raspy voice. “Word about town is that Mansa is your master these days, is that right?”

“Cooking,” Djansi nodded. “I'm an apprentice cook under Mansa.” “Is that right?” Okraman waved them away with the back of his hand. “I'm dying to hear all about it.” Once the pair had gone, Okraman scowled and felt his hand was sticky from the fruit Djansi was eating.

“Unbound,” Djansi whispered, not paying much attention to where he walked. “Is something the matter, Djansi?” asked Nsia. “I thought you’d always dreamed of meeting a real mage?” “Oh, sorry. I’m alright.” He did his best to seem unperturbed. “I just didn't expect to meet one, here, in Fairriden. It’s a bit sudden.” “He’s an Agiotage, I'm told. I saw him heal a blade wound in Bankese. Remarkable, but disturbing if I'm being frank.” Djansi's mind raced. An older man, in an Order where few seldom grew old. He knew the Art of Proliferation. An Agiotage would also know Transition and its derivatives. Vaporization, Fusion, maybe Sublimation. Perhaps Displacement, and Kinetics. Does he know about me? How could he? Where is Mansa? Spirits breath. “It's nothing,” Djansi said after a long silence. Nsia stood before him, stopping him from shambling forward. “Ok, you don't have to tell me. But something is bothering you.” Djansi knew there was little he could say. He trusted Nsia, but if she knew, then she would be in as much danger as he and Mansa, and there was no chance he was going to put her in that position, even if she hated him for it. “It's just,” Djansi began furtively, “I don't think Mansa will be pleased to have a reminder of his past here.” “Why do you think that? I know he failed his apprenticeship, but that's not unheard of.” “Have you ... not seen his skin?” Djansi asked, to which Nsia shook her head. Djansi guided her off the street into a grassy alley where they could speak privately. “They whipped him. Badly, in fact. Tortured was the word he used the one time he spoke about it.” Djansi saw cold anger flash behind Nsia's eyes, an anger he didn't know she possessed. Her jaw clenched and a shiver ran down the length of Djansi’s spine.

He subconsciously stepped away from her. “Who tortured my brother?” she hissed, her lips set in a tight line. “His master, whoever that was,” Djansi offered, “from Bankese. But that was a long time ago now.” She closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths to calm herself. He could tell she was thinking about it from her scowl, but for a moment Djansi swore he saw something shift in the air around her. A faint distortion, like a ripple on the surface of a pond. “I spent all that time on the road with Okraman. You think he would have mentioned knowing my brother at some point. He barely said a word for all those weeks.” “The Unbound love their secrets,” Djansi said, aware of the irony of his statement. “Not just a stereotype. We at least need to tell Mansa that Okraman is going to be at dinner. Whatever their relationship, I cannot blindside him.” Nsia leaned against the mossy stone of a building as she spoke. For a moment, Djansi almost forgot his predicament as her sweater clung to her, revealing the curve of her profile. Djansi's eyes shot upwards, and he tried to refocus his indecent thoughts, not a simple task for a growing youth. “You're right. We should find Mansa first,” Djansi said, pretending to examine the sky for the weather. “We have time if we hurry. I just don't want an angry Unbound loose in Fairriden because we're late. They aren't exempt from Odan law—but an Unbound hasn't been convicted of a crime in six hundred years.” “That can't be true, can it? Even if they aren't human, the law is still the law.” Djansi flinched. “Not that I think he would do it ... but a strong enough Unbound could kill every soul in Fairriden in a dozen horrible ways,” Djansi said. “Don't underestimate him.” Nsia gave him a questioning look, but nodded her ascent. Everyone had heard

the myths and ancient tales of what Unbound were capable of, though few believed them. For every one fable of a mysterious wizard saving a lost child in the woods, there were five of cities turned to dust, and people slaughtered by the Unbound's wrath. Nsia recalled the words of her master for the thousandth time. “The asp is patient.” “What's that?” Djansi asked. “Nothing, just an adage I heard in Bankese,” Nsia replied. “The asp chooses when to strike, and strikes once.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Mansa brushed Chestnut , cooing softly to her as Djansi and Nsia arrived. He was dressed in rather fine clothing, which Djansi hadn't expected he even owned. A maroon jacket with dark hose, matching breeches, and a shoulder cape trimmed in white-gray fur. His expression revealed no hint of emotion at seeing his family. “You are taller,” Mansa said, lifting her arm and extending it. “Good. Longer reach.” “Mansa, I'm not a show-horse. Just give me a hug. Like a person would.” She hugged him tightly while Mansa made uncomfortable noises. Nsia smiled, but still shook her head in exasperation. She had hoped these two would have matured a bit more, but now realized it was more likely that two introverts living alone probably compounded their unique natures. “I am glad to see you, but ... we're here on something of a delicate matter,” Nsia said. Mansa glanced to Djansi, and read the fear in the lines of his face, and the set of his brow. “Explain,” Mansa said. “There is a guest dining with us this evening,” Nsia began as Chestnut nuzzled her in greeting. “He says he knows you, an old acquaintance.” “Mansa, he's an Unbound from Bankese. An Agiotage called Okraman.” Mansa leaned on Chestnut for , who snorted at the audacity. “I told Nsia about your master in Bankese,” Djansi interjected before Nsia could speak. “How they whipped you. That's all. I know I was told that in confidence, but it was important.” “I see,” said Mansa, monotone as ever. “Did Okraman say what his business was?”

“Only that he heard of Fairriden recently, and that he wanted to catch up with his old friend,” Nsia filled in. “He also seemed keen to meet Djansi. Something about him seems off. Master Akruma may have tried to warn me about him.” Nsia left out that she had seen Okraman with her brother-in-law. That was her own affair to deal with. “Djansi, what did he say to you?” Mansa asked. “The exact words.” Mansa was calm, but he gripped a horsebrush so tightly a crack formed. Djansi recalled the words. “He said he would be personally offended if we didn't attend dinner. He ... he knew you were my master, that I'm an apprentice ... cook.” Djansi prayed that the Agiotage believed him to be only a cook's apprentice. “Are you really old friends?” Nsia inquired. “We two, are the faces of a tossed coin. One landing downward, the other, skyward. But for the smallest twist of fate, our places might be reversed.” “I don't understand, are you saying you could have been Unbound?” Nsia chuckled. “There ... was a possibility, yes. Long ago. The details are of little concern now. The less you know, the better. I am sorry, sister.” Nsia didn't seem assuaged, but let the matter drop. “Well, we should go in either case, they'll be expecting us soon, and we have a hill to climb.” “Yes,” agreed Mansa. He motioned for Nsia to mount Chestnut, who seemed far more friendly bearing her as a rider. Nsia mounted in a single graceful leap. Quite pleased to be reunited with the fine steed, she patted Chestnut lovingly. “I thought you said you didn't understand, what was it?” Djansi recalled, “Men and their horses?” “Hm, I did. But Chestnut is the exception. Such a fine girl, she is. I was hoping you wouldn't that.” “Unfortunately my memory's fine, despite falling off a cliff.” They smiled at one another, both glad for the distraction.

Djansi would have gone inside to gather some things, but he had left the cottage this morning carrying a vial of blood, a vial of tears, and three full dinnite gems. He would not be caught helpless again. The three set off northward. As she rode, Nsia slipped the sweater over her head to reveal a fine long-sleeved turquoise blouse beneath it, which revealed only the barest hint of shoulder. Mansa gave Djansi a light slap on the back of the head before Nsia could catch him staring. She stuffed the sweater into a saddlebag and gave a curious glance to Djansi, rubbing the back of his head.

Nsia's family home was well lit, and the double doors were opened wide, spilling light into the cool spring evening. It was hard to believe the family had only just returned the day before. A testament perhaps to their decisive nature, or perhaps because they employed a full third of the surrounding township, and had no short supply of able bodies to unpack, clean, and prepare for a gathering. As the house loomed closer, and the sound of distant laughter and conversation filled the air, Djansi felt dread building deep in his gut. Mansa and Nsia seemed unfazed by the situation; Djansi guessed it was some genetic defense mechanism of their superior genes, that every member of their family could, at will, appear calm even if they were set on fire. Djansi, however, was a mess of nerves. He wasn't out of breath, but sweat profusely; his hands were clammy, and he fidgeted with his new clothes. The nervous young man was familiar with life or death situations. Those he could handle, but social gatherings were unfamiliar territory. Outside of school, the rare town meeting, or a busy market day, he had never been in a large group, let alone in fine dress for a dinner. With an Unbound. “Sister, please see Chestnut to the stable. Djansi, a word in private,” Mansa said. Nsia nodded and trotted off with the horse, who whipped her head around joyfully. It had been a long while since Chestnut had been home as well, and her stable here was far more preferable to the old tanner's workshop and the smells found therein. “Djansi,” Mansa whispered when they were alone in the courtyard. “Just breathe. Offer Okraman nothing. He is the Bloodhound. If you drop any hint, he will use it to pick up our scent.” “Do you think he knows?” “Most likely, yes. But he has no evidence. That is what he wants. If you channel Nkaya, he will sense it.” Mansa pointed to his nose. “That will be all the evidence he needs. Do not give him this. Do not call Nkaya.” “What if we just run, Mansa? Right now. We take Chestnut and leave, he might give chase, but nobody else would get involved.”

Mansa smiled as comfortingly as he could, which was not as comforting as he believed. “It will be okay. Running would be evidence of guilt, and we would leave our family alone with an angry Unbound in their midst. He would only use them to lure us back. We will deal with this, Djansi. Be yourself. He may not even be here for us.” Djansi nodded and they walked up the marble stairway into the house together. They had taken the canvas from the furniture, the art had been replaced with new pieces from Bankese, and everything was dusted and polished to a gleam. Fires roared in every hearth, and for all Djansi could tell, the house had never been empty for a day, let alone years. The entrance opened into a long foyer with a staircase dominating its center. To their right, the foyer opened into a large sitting room. Here, drinks in hand, Ltal and his youngest son Akosi spoke to a man and woman Djansi didn't recognize. “Ah, son, there you are!” Ltal came over and looked Mansa up and down approvingly. “It's good to see you well, my boy.” “You as well, father,” Mansa gave a short, respectful bow. They looked at one another in silence for a moment, both so close in appearance it made Djansi dizzy. Except for Ltal's paunch, a few lines about the eyes, and Mansa's shaved head they could have ed as twins. “Djansi, good to see you as well. Come, I hope you don't mind, but we have more guests this evening you might like to meet.” “Thank you, sir. Of course,” Djansi replied stiffly. He hadn't seen Okraman yet, but searched every corner of the room. Ltal led him to stand before a familiar, weather-beaten face. Captain Buckingsea was deeply tanned, with leathery skin and a red-gray beard. He wore the crisp orange half-cloak of the Odan iralty adorned with several medals. “Breaker an' bone if it isn't the indestructible lad hi'self,” said the old captain of the Hateni. “Captain!” exclaimed Djansi. “Aye lad. Spirits,” Buckingsea whispered in astonishment at the drastic change in Djansi's height. “A' leave for a spell, an' when a' return there's an ironwood

where a sapling once stood.” Djansi clasped wrists with the large man, but Buckingsea became distracted by something over Djansi's shoulder. Nsia entered. She drew people's attention whenever she entered a room, for which Djansi was glad at that moment, as he didn't quite know what to say next. “Father,” she greeted. “Everyone. Captain, so good to see you, and this must be —?” “Oh! A hunnerd apologies, lady Nsia, this is me lovely wife, Kara.” “Lady Nsia, it is a pleasure.” Kara had a stout sailor's build, much like her husband, but wore a long finely scaled dress, she spoke perfect Odan. “You are every bit as beautiful as the rumors say.” “I hope you don't believe every rumor about me,” Nsia said graciously, hoping that's where they ended. “You don't share your husband's Fìrean-mòr accent, are you perhaps a native Odan?” “Kemese, actually. Far south across the Nuso, but I grew up around Akopa. I pulled this one from a shipwreck last year and he hasn't left my side since,” Kara said affectionately, drawing a laugh from the room. “Uh, p-pardon,” stammered Djansi, drawing everyone's attention to himself. “Master, I mean, uh, Captain, sir. I haven't...” Djansi cleared his throat. “I mean to say, thank you. I never had the chance to tell you that. If not for you, Ora, the Hateni, and many others here ... well, I wouldn't be here.” Djansi thought of performing the Hyira, but that was something to be done in private, as Agya had told him, and he was already mortified speaking in front of so many. He bowed from the waist to those gathered. When he looked up, still bowing, he saw many friendly faces smiling down at him. “Yer' well an' truly yer fathers' boy,” said Buckingsea, nodding. “Good men, both. An' it seems they raised ye proper.” “I didn't even know they sailed,” said Djansi. Nsia rested her hand on Djansi's arm to subtly let him know he could stop bowing. When he straightened, it

pleased him that she kept her hand there. In that sublime moment, he forgot why he had been worried at all. “That was very well done,” she whispered close to his ear. “There may be hope for you yet.” Djansi grinned as their last guest entered the room. Okraman wore a suit of white, but over it was the same well-worn, pocket-lined open robe of fur he had traveled in. His hair was greased back, and a striking jade amulet hung from a silver chain around his neck. The room hushed as he stood in the doorway; it was a very rare thing to have an Unbound as a houseguest, especially as far north as Fairriden. Everyone treated him with a mix of fear and reverence, as if an old Spirit walked among them. “I'd like to hear more about this, 'indestructible boy,' you mentioned, Captain,” Okraman said. “If you would be so kind as to tell the tale?” He did not look to Djansi or Mansa as he spoke. “O' course, Master Draoidh. Shall we sit?” The stout sailor motioned to the couches before the fire. “Actually,” Ltal announced to his gathered guests. “Dinner will be served shortly. Perhaps you will regale us while we dine?” As if on cue, they smelled something divine coming from across the foyer in the dining room, and the guests filtered out past Okraman, who waited by the entrance-way so every guest needed to before him. Buckingsea and his wife did not look into his eyes as they ed, but nodded. Ltal smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. Akosi all but sprinted past him. Nsia paused before him, met his eyes, and gave a short curtsy, leaving only Mansa and Djansi alone with him. “Mansa,” Okraman said. “It has been an age, old friend.” “Old friend,” Mansa repeated the words, and found they left a vile taste in his mouth. “Perhaps once.” Mansa did not betray whatever emotion he felt, but Djansi watched the current of Nkaya swell and recede around them like a deadly riptide as they stood toe to toe. He wasn't even sure if they knew the effect they were having on the current—as far as Djansi knew, Mansa, nor any Unbound

saw Nkaya the same way he did; with eyes open. Djansi glanced up for a heartbeat, curious if the larger flow above them was affected. It remained a ghostly aurora, barely visible through all things, but he saw no change in its patterns. When his gaze fell back, both sets of eyes were on him. “Okraman,” Djansi said, bowing politely in greeting. “I believe we are expected.” “Some might disagree with that, boy.” Ltal sat at the head of the table. Mansa, as the next eldest in the family, sat at the other end. Okraman sat to Ltal's right, a position of honor. To Ltal's left was Nsia, then Djansi. He faced Akosi, who was, much to his dismay, sat beside the Unbound. Beside Mansa were Buckingsea and Kora. The table was decorated with crystal decanters and beautiful flower displays. Eight servers soon brought the first course and laid it down before each guest in perfect synchronization. Djansi tried not to seem out of place, but he was the only one who loudly thanked the young woman who served him. Okraman watched him from the corner of his eye. “As I were sayin',” said Buckingsea, who then took a spoonful of the hot cream soup before him. “This ere' lad, an' lass were upon the bluffs when a great brute of an' elkwolf, least' forty stone stalks em'. Djansi lures the beast away, leads it right to the edge of the cliff, an' does battle with the beast! Wrestlin' it to the ground with 'is bare 'ands!” The other guests ate and listened intently. Buckingsea had a confident voice that carried well, as with most career sailors. Okraman sniffed once, looking briefly at his soup. Bloodhound indeed. He's using an Art to improve his senses, Djansi guessed. “So. Djansi 'ere, he thinks he's a goner. He prays to the Spirits, sayin': oh breaker and stone! Smite yer enemy to spare Nsia! An' the Spirits answered, for they see lady Nsia as one o' their own”— Nsia nearly spat out a mouthful of soup, but the captain paid her no attention and continued.

“—and so the council o' great Sage Spirits came down an' says to 'im: Djansi, will ye sacrifice yerself to save her?” Buckingsea used a deep booming voice to play the Spirit. “An' the lad agreed, so the Spirits shatter the cliff to save her, but sends our lad 'ere and the beast a hunnerd feet to the rocks and water. But it impressed the Spirits, an the lad had a magical coat to protect im', so the Sage Spirits keep 'im alive as the very brave sailors aboard the Hateni, and their handsome captain search for 'im. An we'd have given up, but lady Nsia, Spirittouched as she is, knew he was being kept alive. So she tracks him down, and Ora the Seal dives into the crashing waves, and pulls him aboard.” “What,” said Nsia the moment the captain paused, “is all this about me and the Spirits?” “Ah well, it's what most folk believe. In fact I was told the story in a tavern across the Reidher not two months past. Ye should be proud yer tale is travelin' well.” Nsia slumped back in her chair, defeated and embarrassed. She would have preferred rumors of her fight with Akruma, even her and Oteng, over this.

“I believe it,” Djansi said to her, drawing a wide grin from Buckingsea and a disapproving look from her father. “It's as obvious as the moon that there's more to you than we know.” Djansi found he could speak normally, as long as he looked only at Nsia. Though his hands shook beneath the table, his voice was steady as long as he pretended they were alone. “The truth about the cliffs, though, is that they collapsed, as cliffs sometimes do. They eroded over tens of thousands of years, and like the Captain says, the elkwolf must have weighed forty stone, at least. More than enough if the cliffs were fragile. If any Spirit watched over us that day, it was the Spirit of luck.” Their first course was cleared by the servers as Djansi spoke, and a plate of buttered monkowa was served, an Odan octopod with hard-shelled limbs. Each diner had a leg of white meat, with half the shell removed for ease of access. “An incredible tale,” muttered Okraman as he sniffed, then cut a sliver of the tender seafood. “Almost unbelievable. Especially the magical coat, was it?”

Djansi glanced at Mansa, who remained calm. His stability was reassuring. “Walkerskin,” said Ltal. “Magical or not, it's a fine thing. In fact, he wears it now unless I'm mistaken. I've seen the head of the very beast mounted above his mantle. Truly remarkable.” Okraman licked his lips. “You ... have a crown-walker here, Mansa? And a head no less?” “It is many decades old, found far from here,” said Mansa, barely touching his food. “You know what that is worth? To the right parties,” Okraman asked of Djansi. “What they could use it for?” “I'm afraid it's just a decoration. An old trophy of my father's, I don't even think it's real,” Djansi said as naively as he could. “The crown-walkers were hunted to extinction. If real, that head is worth a small fortune,” Okraman said, pushing his food aside. “Aye, an' that's the truth,” agreed Buckingsea. “I'd be willin' to barter a fair price for it. Worth a new house, at least.” Djansi looked around the room, but too many eyes were on him, and he did not know what to say. “Unfortunately the trophy, false or not, has great sentimental value,” Nsia said. “As such, it is not currently for sale, as Djansi has told me.” Djansi mouthed the words 'thank you' to her, and Nsia, seeing Djansi wasn't a fan of this course of their meal, stole it from his plate with her knife and fork, already having finished her own. Ltal cleared his throat and steered the conversation. “You need not worry about that for now, Djansi. I have something for you.” He handed Djansi a folded slip of parchment with his name on it, as well as several signatures and numbers. “What's this?” Djansi asked.

“Your in Bankese,” Ltal grinned. “Mansa had the wherewithal to bring us the work your parents readied for market. Some very fine work, even the halffinished items fetched an excellent price. Every bit is in that , save the fee for opening it.” “Thank you. Is ... this a lot?” Djansi had never used the paper currency found in larger cities before, so had no concept of it. In Fairriden and the surrounding areas, they simply traded goods and services. “Enough you needn't worry about your next meal should you find yourself near Bankese.” Ltal beamed, quite proud of the price he had gotten, even if it was lost on Djansi. “It's a wonderful gesture,” said Nsia. “Very kind of you both.” “Ah yes, Mansa the philanthropist, Mansa the foster-father, Mansa the cook,” said Okraman with a sigh. “It's all so ... pedestrian.” An awkward silence fell over the table as the Unbound wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Tell them, Mansa. That we may move things along.” “Tell them what?” asked Mansa, straightening in his chair. He seemed as if he expected this. Nsia looked between them. Ltal was sweating. Djansi held his breath. Okraman rolled his eyes. “What you've been teaching your pup. What you've really been teaching him.” Okraman poured wine from the crystal decanter into his glass. Mansa sighed and stood. “I am Unbound,” he declared to those gathered there. Buckingsea chuckled at first, but soon quieted as Mansa continued. “I have unlawfully practiced the use of an Art without Order sanction. Against cardinal law, I Broke the cliffs to save my sister. I then took in the orphan and gave him a proper trade as cook. I willingly submit myself under founding decree, on the sole condition we leave alone.” Djansi looked to his master. Mansa's breathing was steady, composed as always. “Son,” Ltal begged. “Is this true, have you broken some law?” “Yes. Cardinal law has existed for millennia to keep the secrets of the Orders of

Unbound. Embittered by my failure in Bankese, I practiced calling without seal or sanction. “Brother?” Nsia asked calmly, surprising Djansi—whose heart now beat like thunder in his ears. “What will they do to you if you go with him?” “I will be tried by the Patukenye. Imprisoned, then hanged by the neck, and burned.” Okraman clapped his hands merrily. “Now, your turn, Djansi! Come now, be like uncle Mansa and tell the truth.” Mansa took a creeping step towards Okraman, but even this slight movement did not go unnoticed. The Agiotage smiled, closed his eyes, and the crystal glass in his hand thrummed, then disintegrated in an instant. Something cold coiled around Mansa's ankles—a crystal vine slithered around him pinning his arms and legs. He cursed and toppled forward, constricted in the span of a breath. “Mansa!” screamed Djansi, but before he had even finished the word, Nsia sprang forward headfirst across the table and tucked into an impossibly quick roll. She took up a carving knife as she crossed the distance, coming up in front of the wide-eyed Unbound on one knee. She slashed across his throat, opening it wide, and releasing a fountain blood over them both. There was a delay in everyone's reactions as they processed what happened. Akosi screamed first as reality set in, and everyone stood back from the table in horror as Okraman's limp body slumped backwards in his chair. His eyes twitched, and he gurgled blood as he died. The servants shrieked and fled from the house, dropping their food-laden platters to clatter across the floor. Nsia stood upright on the table, walked across it, and hopped down casually as the staff fled past her. “The asp strikes once,” she said, wiping the Unbound's blood from her face with a cloth table napkin. “Do not threaten my family.” Djansi's mouth hung agape in shock as he watched Nsia. The crystal strand still trapped Mansa, which he strained against to no avail. Buckingsea took his wife away from the grisly scene.

“What've ye done, lass,” the captain said as Kora muttered a litany of prayers in an unfamiliar language. Akosi made some kind of sound, but all eyes rested on Nsia. “Daughter,” said Ltal. “Spirits of blood and bone help us all.” Akosi made another whimpering sound. Djansi found his head and rushed to Mansa to try to pry the crystal away. It was translucent, like glass, but somehow hard as steel. “More will come,” Mansa said, looking to Nsia. “This place is no longer safe for all of us. We must evacuate Fairriden. You've killed an Unbound.” “Uh-u-he-h-he,” whimpered Akosi, trying in vain to say something before simply shrieking and pointing. Okraman's head had lolled backwards, exposing the wound, but his arm was raised and he pressed his thumb into the bleeding gash. He slid it through the wound, while the amulet he wore glowed a deep, swirling green. The wound sizzled and knit closed behind his thumb. “No,” Okraman rasped, blood oozing from his mouth. “You didn't.” Djansi redoubled his efforts to free Mansa, by pulling and striking at the crystal. He thought of calling an Art, but he could barely see the current, let alone concentrate. Djansi shut his eyes tight, but the current only grew more dim as a wall of panic clouded his mind. The crystal around Mansa started coiling tighter. He gasped and struggled to breathe as his skin took on a purple hue. “Dja...si...” Mansa choked. “Run.” Djansi whirled around to see Nsia moving swiftly. She threw her bloody carving knife towards Okraman's head. Okraman held up his hand before it reached him. On a band around his index finger, there was what looked like a serpent’s fang. He closed his fist, pressing the fang into the flesh of his palm. As his did, Nsia's knife dissipated into a silvery mist mid-air, a second before it would have struck true.

Okraman held his fist shut, stood, closed his eyes, and waved his hand toward Nsia. Djansi watched in horror as a visible wave of Nkaya was released from Okraman's hand. It tore through the chairs, table, floor, and everything else in its path. A swath of solid matter merely disintegrated, bursting into clouds of dust. Nsia dove aside as it raced towards her—landing inches away from where floorboards and foundation turned to mist. Buckingsea shoved his wife towards the door, away from Okraman, then bellowed as he charged unarmed towards the Unbound. Okraman reached one hand inside a pocket, then a deafening crack resounded through the halls. Buckingsea's cry was cut off mid-stride. He fell silent and limp to the ground, his spine snapped unnaturally. He gasped and choked, eyes rolling back into his head. Kora fell to her knees in mute terror. “Enough!” spat the Unbound as he grabbed the fear-stricken Akosi by the hair, and jerked his head back. “Stop!” howled Ltal, but didn't dare take a step towards them. Okraman shut his eyes, held the green amulet and whispered something, then let it fall to dangle around his neck once more. He pried open Akosi's jaw to show everyone his teeth. Akosi's pointed canines were growing longer, towards the roof of his mouth. “A simple, but effective use of Proliferation. Soon, they will pierce his skull, unless I reverse the effect. Disobey me, he dies. Kill me, he dies.” Nsia's body was tensed like a coiled serpent, ready to strike. “What do you want!” The pale Agiotage in his blood-soaked white suit looked towards Mansa and Djansi. “You two will come with me back to Bankese, and you,” he looked to Nsia. “Well, I think it's rather obvious what happens to those who attack one of the Orders.” Mansa was fast losing consciousness. His eyes were dimming, and his color was deepening. Djansi could See Okraman calling Nkaya, focusing it into some Reagent he held. Nsia was waiting for him to move—without realizing that an

Unbound did not need to move to kill someone from across a room. Djansi shouted a warning as Okraman unleashed his Art towards her. She couldn't see it in the physical world, so did not know where to go. Djansi recognized the familiar tendril of Transition as it struck her. Nsia's veins and eyes bulged as her blood froze in her veins. Djansi was pushed beyond rational thought by his fear and anger, and in that white-hot flash, saw Nkaya more clearly than ever before. The tendril between Okraman and Nsia came into sudden focus—it twisted like the tail of a vortex reaching into water. Djansi opened himself to Nkaya, and the tendril was drawn towards him, as all Nkaya was. But like a dog fighting its lead, it resisted. All Djansi could do was open himself to it, and hope that was enough. Djansi called to it, and suddenly felt the familiar pressure absorbed into him, away from Nisa. His body became ice-cold, and he grit his teeth against the familiar pain as Nkaya flowed through him. He had stolen an Unbound's magic. Nsia collapsed to the ground, her skin a shade of blue. She stopped shivering and lay still. “Finally!” Okraman laughed. He gripped Akosi's hair tighter as the man wept and pleaded. One of his canines pierced the roof of his mouth, and his sobs turned from pleading to terror. Okraman held tight to the thrashing man. “What now, boy?” he challenged Djansi. Djansi needed to release the current he had taken in, either by expending it or with Mansa's Siphon. He reached towards the pocket that held his dinnite gems. “I don't think so,” Okraman warned, placing his other hand under Akosi's jaw. Djansi pulled his hand back and gripped Mansa instead. “Okay! Just tell me what you want! Just don't kill them!” The crystal. Djansi kept his eyes open, knowing Okraman would watch for them to close, and focused on the crystal. He poured Nkaya into it until it became malleable enough for Mansa to break free, who then took several shaky breaths as Okraman watched with a bemused grin, allowing them to play their hand. Djansi only hoped the Unbound thought Mansa capable of escaping on his own. Djansi's arms and legs trembled, and excruciating pain shot through him. But something was different. There was an unfamiliar pain in his chest, a sharp stab

in his heart. It wasn't the cold of Okraman's attack, and it didn't feel like any Nkiri he had experienced. Djansi toppled to his knees as the localized pain worsened. His heart beat faster and faster. Djansi could only gasp and grab at his pounding chest. “Stop this,” Mansa pleaded. “We comply, with all of it. Just let them live. I beg of you!” “You'll come willingly? Bound?” “Yes.” Mansa kept a firm hold of Djansi, but his eyes never left Akosi. If his brother was to die, he would at least bear witness. Ltal knelt over Nsia, who lay still. “Anything,” Mansa said. “Please. You win.” This mollified Okraman. He shut his eyes, and the green glow faded from his pendant. Akosi's sharp canines retracted. Okraman let him go, and he curled into a sobbing ball on the ground. “Pathetic. But what a fine beast you've tamed,” said Okraman as he approached Djansi who foamed at the edges of his mouth. “Rabid though he may be. Calling Entropy to divert my Art is no meager feat, though I fear he may have used his own heart as the Reagent. Oh well.” Okraman grinned and inspected the boy like a hound, grabbing his cheeks and turning his head roughly from side to side. Djansi's heart slowed. It was no longer pumping fast enough, and fluid was building up, making him foam and choke. “Fortunately for you—my masters want you both alive. For now.” Okraman lifted his pendant, held it to his ear, then shook it. “Almost used up. Damn.” He pulled a small pouch from one of his pockets, took a bundle of herbs from it, wiped them across the blood trickling from Djansi's nose, then clapped the herbs between his hands, which he began rubbing together. He suddenly struck Djansi hard in the chest with the open palm of his hand, directly over the heart. The strike was hard enough that it sent Djansi flying backwards to crash over the remnants of the table. Djansi gasped, coughed up blood, then twisted onto his side and vomited, but began breathing. “I didn't have to hit him to save his heart,” Okraman confided to Mansa

pleasantly. “I could have just touched him, but he was pissing me off.” Mansa limped to Djansi’s side as feeling slowly returned to his limbs. He was indeed alive. “Father,” Mansa said from Djansi's side. “Nsia ... is she?” Ltal faced his son. He wept and he held Nsia's limp body in his arms. He said nothing, but scowled at the Unbound gathered in his home, and the destruction they had brought. Mansa looked away. He couldn't bear the glower in his father's eyes. “Pick him up and we'll be on our way,” Okraman said impatiently. “He's your burden—as you well know.” Mansa heaved the protesting Djansi to stand. He could hardly move, and Mansa ed him as best he could in his own condition. Okraman produced two lengths of chain from some part of his robe and bound both Mansa and Djansi's wrists. The chain was cold, and as it clasped shut, Djansi and Mansa each felt their senses dull, Nkaya fading from view. “Rune-wrought,” Mansa said. Okraman smiled. “Fancy piece of work, those. Just try to call with it on.” He kicked them both to an open space in the foyer, past the body of Buckingsea and his weeping wife. “We'll make a quick stop for the walker-head. But, well, it's your own heads you should be concerned with.” Okraman pulled out a small block with a steel string, stood close to Djansi and Mansa, and closed his eyes. Mansa gripped Djansi tighter, knowing what was about to happen. He looked to Akosi, Ltal, and Nsia. “I have failed you. I am sorr—” Before Ltal could respond, Okraman struck the string. The three of them vibrated, until each seemed to separate into multiple blurred copies, stretching and thinning until nothing remained. They were gone at the speed of sound. As dust settled to the ground, only the string's thrum and the sound of weeping remained.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Ltal hovered over the still, silent body of his daughter, and watched as the three Unbound disappeared from his home. “They're gone,” he whispered to her. “I think.” Nsia opened one eye. “Took them long enough.” She sat upright and coughed. “You think they believe me dead?” “They're Unbound, Nsia. I can't imagine what they think. But Mansa, at least ... the look in his eyes. He believed it.” Once he was sure Nsia was in no immediate danger, Ltal went to Akosi's side, who fared even worse. “It's okay son, they're gone. Nsia, check on the captain. Nsia?” Ltal looked for her but she had already left the room. Upstairs in her bedroom, Nsia pulled out a trunk, undid the clasps, and lifted out her checkered blue doublet. Beneath was the case holding her sword, ngombe, the Spirit of the Forest, and her shield. She donned her coat, fauld and steelsoled boots then belted the sword to her hip; due to its unique hooked end, its scabbard was more of a fitted cover that clipped onto the edge of the blade, which attached to her belt. She slung the shield onto her back with a shoulder strap, and as she departed her bedroom, ed a full size standing mirror and saw her reflection there. Face and hands still splattered with the Unbound's blood. The innocent young girl that had once lived here was gone forever, replaced by something else entirely. This time, she wasn't helpless, and she never would be again. The asp strikes once, but the crow is wise—it knows a large enemy is not easily subdued by venom. So the crow lives, while the asp does not. Her master's words had been truer than she knew. She made her way downstairs and stood in the doorway of the ruined dining room. “Father,” Nsia said. “I'm taking Chestnut, and I will bring them back, both of them, and I will see that Unbound dead at my feet.” Ltal's face drained of color. Akosi clung to his side in shock. “No, Nsia. Unbound have brought ruin to us all, and I'll not lose another child to their evil.

Kora is running for Brightnora now. Buckingsea may live, and we need to make sure they didn't do something to you.” “Father,” Nsia said. “I'm going now. Take care of everyone. They need you.” Ltal tried to stand, but Akosi gripped him tighter and cried out. The trauma had shaken him. Nsia reached her hand out to her brother. He shrieked and recoiled from her touch. “I'm so sorry.” Nsia gripped the hilt of her sword, once used as an executioner's blade, and vowed to herself that it would be again. It seemed even her own Name bore a deeper meaning than she once believed. Ltal watched another of his children go. Outside there was no sign of them, but Okraman had mentioned the walker-head, believing Nsia was dead. There was only one crown-walker in all of Oda that Nsia had ever seen. She found Chestnut stomping in a panic and tearing at her tether to free herself. She seemed to know her master had left. Nsia opened the gate to her stable, untied her, and leapt onto her back. Without further instruction, Chestnut galloped hard southward. “Show me what you can do,” Nsia said, giving the mount her head then holding tight as they bound across the yard, clear over the stone wall. They flew past Brightnora and Kora in a blur, and were soon weaving through the dark town. Chestnut could navigate her home better than any rider, but it was a long road south to the cottage, and Nsia wasn't sure what would happen when she came upon her prey. If she did, perhaps they had already been whisked to Bankese by some magic. But she was certain of one thing. She would find them.

At the top of the hill, looking south past the farmlands, Nsia saw a light flicker in the distance, and within the hour, the smoldering remains of Djansi's family home were in sight, the glow illuminating the darkness. Nsia rode Chestnut as close to the ruins as she would go, then hopped down. The stone was charred black and the rancid smell of burnt leather and chemicals hung in the air. The stone walls still stood, but the wooden beams ing the roof had collapsed. Everything inside was ashen. Above the hearth was an outline where the stone had not been discolored by flame and dust; the head was gone. She covered her mouth and checked the rooms as quickly as possible, to be certain. She found no bodies, but a gleam caught her eye beside the mantle, and there, beneath charred leather, she found Mansa's pentan steel long-spear. Outside, Chestnut came to her side and snorted at the spear. Nsia looked south, where on a clear day you could see the tops of trees that marked the Epoya. “They've entered the Epoya then,” she said to Chestnut. “And so must we.” Chestnut pressed her head against Nsia and lowered her shoulder, coaxing her to mount. “You're right,” Nsia said. “No time to waste.” Spear at her side, they galloped full speed towards the Sempiternal Sea.

The thrumming note grew louder in the still forest air, as if approaching from a distance. The sound wave became visible as a discoloration, then vibrated, expanding into three misty forms. Okraman materialized first, stepping onto the needle-strewn forest floor. He held a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder, from which protruded immense silver sword-like antlers. The Reagent-string on Okraman's small device dissolved. Djansi and Mansa fell unceremoniously behind their captor, wrists tightly bound. The edges of their forms still vibrated, and Djansi retched. Mansa tried to calm him, but his body was just as unused to Displacement. “One left,” Okraman muttered, replacing the Reagent. He then searched for and took the precious few Reagents Djansi held; his vials, and gems. “Looks like we travel by foot to the Kodanna.” Okraman sniffed the air, squinted at the stars above, then kicked at his captives to stand and walk before him along the One Road that led through the Epoya. More accurately, it circled around the deeper, uncharted parts of the forest, and remained the only sane, if not safe route to take. Kodanna was a rest house marking the halfway point, the only governed part of the ancient woodland. The three were far past the stone archway that marked the border of Fairriden, and marching south-west. Okraman's Art had taken a day off the journey already. Mansa and Djansi walked side by side, with Okraman following a half dozen paces behind. “How do you feel?” muttered Mansa as they descended into the moonlit forest. There were no blueshield fungi to light the way along the road here, and the moonlight would fail them soon as the canopy grew more dense. “Furious,” Djansi whispered in reply. Thoughts of Nsia consumed him; whether she yet lived, he did not know, but he knew there was strength hidden there. He had seen it. He closed his eyes and breathed, seeking the current, but found nothing. His anger was a fire that burned in his gut, but now it was cold and tempered. The more he focused on seeing—the more Nkaya he tried to call—the colder his restraints became. Cold enough that the flesh of his wrists froze and chipped away. Djansi paid it little heed, and tried calling again, opening himself

as much as possible. There is no pain or life. Not for me. He fought to remain calm and empty, but Nkaya eluded him like the lingering memory of a dream that fades upon waking. “I'd stop trying that if I were you,” said Okraman. “Your pup is going to make a mess of himself, Man. Better stop him.” “Djansi, he is right. You must stop. You will lose your hands before you call Nkaya while we are bound.” The chain had become so white it glowed in the oppressive darkness. Djansi's frozen wrists bled. When he looked into his master's eyes, he saw genuine worry reflected there. “Not like this,” Mansa said. He had been willing to give his life to the Unbound in order to save Djansi. In return, Djansi risked both their lives for revenge. Djansi relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his jaw. The glow of the chain faded, and the congealed blood began to run. “It's going to be alright,” said Mansa. “Be patient; focus on your breathing.”

Nsia and Chestnut blazed past the stone archway and into the Epoya. Stopping to check for tracks would do her little good; her woodcraft was poor and this mage could walk unseen through the air. After destroying her thrown blade, turning half their dining room into dust with a wave of his hand, breaking a man's spine with a thought, and healing a mortal wound as if scratching an itch. She had no idea what else they were capable of, and could only hope that if she kept to the road, she would overtake them. Theorems and plans careened through her thoughts as she rode, but only one unanswerable riddle kept creeping forward. Djansi, Mansa, she thought—what have you done? There was no need for crop or spur with Chestnut. All Nsia needed to do was press her heel a little tighter, and the mount sped forward as if she had only been pretending to run. They left a trailing cloud of dust in their wake as they reached the One Road, where the trees grew broad, blocking more of their precious moonlight with every step. Soon all light would fail them. They needed to cover ground while they still could. “Djansi,” she said, her voice muffled by the wind. “Not again.”

The three had been walking for hours. They had no supplies, and the trail was pitch black before them. They could only hear the footsteps of Okraman a few paces behind. A knot of fear grew in Djansi’s stomach, growing tighter the deeper they traveled. A dim light suddenly shone in a sphere twenty paces around them. There was no source, and it didn't radiate outwards like light should. There was simply light around them, and at the sphere's edge where the treeline began, it was pure, impenetrable darkness, as if the light were cut off. Okraman slipped some unseen object into a pocket. He had used an Art neither Djansi nor Mansa knew to produce flameless illumination. “What's the Art of Entropy?” Djansi asked, surprising both mentor and captor alike. Regardless of what his future held, Djansi did not want to die with an unanswered question on his lips, and he had thousands left he wished to puzzle out. A lifetime's worth, in fact. Mansa glanced back to see Okraman grinning. “Well Man, answer him.” Mansa sighed. “It is the peculation of Nkaya. An uncommon Art. A dying Art.” “I don't know that word ... and an Art can die?” “Hm. Is your pup even house-trained?” Mansa ignored the chiding. “Entropy is the unwilling transfer of Nkaya between Unbound. Peculation is akin to ... stealing. This Art, like many before it, died. In a fashion. Since the student is always more limited than the master who Unbound them, naturally, as generations —” “—The older, more powerful Unbound die,” Djansi continued the line of thought. “Leaving the next generation weaker, who then Unbind the magic of others, leaving even weaker Unbound and so on.” “Thus, as Unbound become less capable of calling Nkaya, Arts which require large reserves will fade from existence. Entropy is one such Art.” “So there may come a time...” Djansi gasped. “When magic leaves the world

forever. Someone, at some point ... will be the last Unbound. Unable to make a successor.” “Just like little Mansa here,” said the Agiotage. “Who knew you had it in you to Unbind an apprentice, let alone call enough to warm your soup.” Djansi looked forward, and didn't dare turn to Mansa to confirm. Okraman doesn't know everything. He doesn't know about Eposreiger. Good. Mansa and Djansi became quiet. “Oh don't stop on my ,” Okraman said, stepping in line to walk at their heels. “Please, carry on. It would save me a lot of time if I show up with all the information extracted. I mean, I'll be learning every detail anyway, Man. If we need to—we'll pick out every memory from his brain, one by one, until he can't even how to swallow or breathe.” He spoke so close to Djansi's ear that he could feel Okraman's rancid breath on his neck. “Don't listen to him,” Mansa said. “Or save yourselves the agony. Up to you, though.” Okraman shrugged and halted. “We're sleeping here. Try to escape....” He pointed to his nose and smiled. “I'll know—and you'll be making the journey with a hundred little bones Broken inside you. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to make every step pure agony.”

Nsia walked beside Chestnut. It had become too dark to ride as neither could see more than a few feet in front of them. Nsia had left so impetuously there had been no time to worry about a long journey. She cursed her own shortsightedness. She had no rations, torches, or flint, only a half-full waterskin, and some bandages she had found in the saddlebags. Though she discovered a bag of grain for Chestnut, which would not last long. Without fresh water, though, both rider and mount risked their lives more with every ing moment. If there was no trace of them within two days and Nsia continued onward, they would be forced to tread into uncharted depths in search of water, or risk death by dehydration. She wasn't sure which fate was worse. Nsia decided that as loyal a mount as Chestnut was, she could find her way back on her own. Nsia would not put her in harm's way if she could avoid it. The hours stretched by as her thoughts became more grim. The forest's towering canopy entirely hid the moonlight, and small nocturnal beasts skittered somewhere beside her. Then, a pinprick of light in the distance. It was reminiscent of the moment she won her trial against Akruma. A single point that had grown into something else. But this was real. By the side of the road ahead, three figures were at rest in a circle of supernatural light.

Neither Djansi nor Mansa found any sleep. The Agiotage's spectral light remained even as he dozed. The two captives sat kneeling in a needle-strewn clearing a stone's throw from the road. Okraman rested against a tree; eyes closed, arms crossed, head down. Every time the forest made a sound, his ears twitched. The canvas-wrapped head lay beside him, though a section of cloth had come loose, revealing a fist-sized turquoise glass eye. It seemed to watch Djansi, following him. A trick of the mind. Djansi instead turned his hazel-gray gaze to Okraman, and thoughts of violence crossed his mind. Mansa shook his head, knowingly, sensing what Djansi imagined. It seemed strange to be so uneasy, as their feet were unfettered, and with their captor asleep so close at hand. But bound as they were, with the Bloodhound as their escort, they knew escape would be foolish. Okraman's eared perked up, then his eyes opened, and he began searching the darkness all around them. Djansi and Mansa shared a look, but saw nothing. Okraman stood, and the two captives heard a faint whoosh that drew nearer, followed by a thud. A black-tipped spear landed point first in the ground not two feet from Mansa. He stood and retrieved it, his hands still tied in chain. he spun the familiar spear once, feeling the limitations of his restraints. Okraman growled low in his throat. Mansa spun the weapon again, this time more fluidly, adjusting his form to better suit wrists held close together. He ended in a low, aggressive stance, leveled the spearhead towards the Agiotage, and breathed out. They both understood. The circle of conjured light would be their ring.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Nsia watched her brother pick up the weapon and face the seething Agiotage. She remained concealed for now, but the Unbound may very well have known where she was. Nsia needed to be patient and hope her brother knew how to wield that cumbersome weapon in a fight. It was known as a poor man's weapon in Oda, and she had never actually seen him use it. She stalked the shadows just beyond the perimeter of light—towards Djansi.

“Think about this, Man. Really think about this,” Okraman said. “You gave your word you would come peacefully.” Mansa lunged forward, spear-first. His reach was shorter with his impeded grip, but the spear's point sped towards the Bloodhound's heart. Okraman pressed the fang on the inside of his ring into his palm, but otherwise made no move to dodge aside from the strike. He intended to use Sublimation on the spear as he had with Nsia's knife, transforming the solid matter into a harmless gas. The black spearhead showed no sign of disintegrating. Instead, it released an audible pulse. Okraman swore and dove away late from the attack, the blade piercing an inch into his chest, opening his shirt, and drawing a gushing line of blood. “Rune-blade,” the Agiotage spat. “Of course.” Mansa didn't let up his attack, knowing the surprise of a magic-immune weapon would only work once. Mansa used his speed to his advantage. His attacks lacked any strength because of his restraints. It was all he could do. Djansi watched as Mansa stabbed again and again, pressing his opponent away. Okraman reached into his pocket as Mansa's spear lunged for his throat. The spearhead stopped inches from the Unbound's face, making a cracking, grating sound as if it had struck something solid in the empty air between them. “Do it!” shouted Djansi, not understanding why Mansa stopped short. Mansa's spear was stuck in a translucent shield of ice that hung untethered in the air. It looked as if it had been painted between them by the stroke of a brush, sharp and uneven. Mansa fought to free his spear from the ghostly floating ice. A hand clapped over Djansi's mouth and pulled him backwards into the darkness beyond the arena of light.

“Shh,” hushed Nsia behind him. She released her hand, spun him around and set to hacking at his chains with her belt knife. She glanced over his shoulder while she worked. In the ring, her brother spun his weapon, building momentum, then brought it low, slashing at Okraman's legs. Okraman waved his hand and conjured another shield of ice between them; the moisture in the air itself was freezing solid, protecting him. Mansa's spear chipped away at shield after conjured shield, while Nsia sawed and stabbed at Djansi's rune-wrought chain. “You shouldn't be here!” Djansi said. “It's too dangerous, you need to run.” They could barely see each other's faces in the darkness. She pulled him down to a kneeling position and placed his hands as far apart on the ground as they could go. She pulled out her sword. “Stay very still,” she warned him, ignoring his pleas before bringing her blade down to clang against the chain. “I'm not leaving without both of you!” She brought her blade down again, even harder, but the rune-forged chain only glowed a soft white. Mansa dove away, landing hard on his side; the wind knocked from his lungs, spear clutched to his chest. A path of destruction tore through the earth inches away from him, leaving a smooth, open cylinder where the ground and stone turned to mist. “Dammit,” Nsia cursed at the chains. “I have to help him. You should get away now Djansi.” “What? No, you .... ” Nsia brought his face close to hers so he could see the confidence in her eyes. “Trust me.” She stepped not into the light, but backwards into the darkness, and was gone.

“This is not what I signed up for,” barked Okraman. “Spirits curse that Scion bastard!” “Then leave,” huffed Mansa. “Pretend you never found us and leave. It is not too late. Were we not brothers once?” Mansa rolled over and stood on shaking legs. Okraman's ears twitched, and he sniffed the air. He growled menacingly and reached behind his head and pulled out a thin hood of gray elkwolf fur concealed inside his robe. He scanned through the darkness as he pulled the fur hood down over his head—it more closely resembled a mask. “Brothers. You were a fool then, and you’re a fool now.” Mansa charged forward with abandon. He needed to stop what was about to happen. Hooded, the Bloodhound lifted his hand to form another shield. Mansa feinted with a thrust, and the ice shield appeared where he predicted. Mansa retracted the blade before it connected, and leapt high into the air to strike from above, driving the black point of his spear into the Unbound's collarbone. Even the best among them could only use so many callings in quick succession. Behind Okraman, a lithe figure dashed from darkness wielding a wicked curved blade. Nsia swung with both arms, and the blow connected solidly into the back of the Agiotage's neck. But both Nsia and Mansa met far more resistance than they expected. Okraman howled, but did not fall. They retracted their blades as he hunched over and hugged his fur robe tight. It began to undulate like water. The pair struck again, but their attack struck a body far harder than human flesh. The elkwolf fur melted over Okraman's skin like liquid, covering him in coarse gray hair. The bones in his face snapped loudly and elongated into a fanged muzzle with two long horns growing through the skin above his maw, and two hooked horns below. Neither sibling hesitated long upon witnessing this transformation. Nsia rushed forward, bringing the ngombe back and spinning her entire body to build

momentum. She tried to sever the tendons of his legs, which had snapped backwards at the knee. Mansa attacked from above, thrusting his spear as hard as he could, aiming for the Unbound's exposed throat. The Agiotage leapt high above both attacks; clear above the circle of light, disappearing from view. Nsia dove backwards, keeping low, and watched for his descent. A quiet moment ed that stretched into an eternity, filled only with the calls of nocturnal birds, and opressi among the trees. Okraman did not come down, but he was out there, watching them. Djansi felt rough fur over top of him, and let out a surprised scream. Okraman lunged into the light towards Mansa's back, hoping to impale him. Neither Mansa nor Nsia were caught off-guard. They stood side by side and slashed as Okraman entered their reach, which outclassed his own. The Agiotage leapt backwards as steel clashed against bone, and landed in a crouch on the padded and clawed hind legs of an elfwolf. He was covered in charcoal gray fur beneath his torn, blood-stained suit and robe; his fingers now ended in black, hooked claws. Okraman hunched forward, barred his long fangs and howled into the night. Djansi knew Okraman could have killed him, there in the darkness. ing so close to him was the Unbound's way of saying it didn't matter what Djansi did— because he wasn't a threat. Nsia bit the leather strap that kept her shield attached to her left forearm and pulled it taught with her teeth. She held the shield in front of her, raised her blade high, raised one knee, and remained balanced on one foot. Mansa was in far worse condition and looked wide-eyed at his sister's stance. Okraman pounced toward her, sensing weakness. Fortunately, Nsia knew far more about how elkwolf moved and hunted than she did concerning the Unbound. Nsia let herself fall forward and kicked off the ground, throwing herself into the animal's charge. She guided the horns away with her shield and slashed down diagonally across the side of his neck. It would have decapitated an average opponent outright, but this creature's skin was tough, and its thick fur dampened each blow.

The Unbound swiped with its claws, but a black speartip thrust into its chest, forcing it to retreat. Mansa and Nsia stood side by side, weapons leveled towards their foe. Djansi was shocked for more reasons than he could explain. He felt useless. He struggled against his chains, but all of Nsia's efforts had barely chipped them. He pulled and gnawed at them to no avail. What had all that training been for? The pain, the struggle, if his only weapon could be so easily stripped from him now, when he needed it the most. The siblings worked in perfect harmony. Each had long suspected there was more to the other, but only now did they realize what it was. Instinct. They surrounded and corralled the creature with the heaviest strikes they could bear down upon it, keeping it between them where they had the advantage, but Mansa was tiring fast. Okraman caught the spear in one clawed hand and stepped in close in an attempt to impale him. The beast stopped inches away as Nsia dug the hooked tip of her blade into Okraman's back and pulled as hard as she could, leaning back with her entire body. Djansi could only watch as they fought for their lives against the Unbound. It's my fault, the thought screamed through him. If I had never stepped foot into this Spirit-damned forest, none of this would have happened. He watched as if in a trance as the beast took hit after hit without slowing. What can humans do against this? Claws met Nsia's armor and tore into it. Unlike a blade, the hooked claws held fast, gripping the fortified cloth. She tried to free herself, but was flung a dozen paces through the air. Mansa rained down hit after hit, but his breathing became ragged with exhaustion, his movements were becoming slower and weaker by the second. No sooner had Nsia landed, than sprung back into the fray. She ran and jumped high into the air, tucked her feet and kicked hard off Okraman's muzzle in her iron-soled boots the moment he turned towards her. A bone in his jaw cracked loudly—and stunned, he flailed wildly with his claws until a powerful backhanded swing connected with Nsia's blocking shield, knocking her away. She shouted as she was bashed backwards to the ground, but wasted no time in leaping back to her feet and taking a defensive stance.

Okraman stood panting between them. The girl proving difficult, he turned to cull the weak instead. Mansa held his spear shakily, trying in vain to catch his breath. The lumbering elkwolf ran towards him and swatted the spear from his hands like a bothersome insect. “Mansa, move!” screamed Nsia as she sprinted after Okraman. Mansa's legs would not obey him any longer. “No,” whispered Djansi. The elkwolf's horns pierced Mansa's chest. Mansa inhaled sharply, eyes going wide. The Spearhead fell. “No,” Djansi whispered again, reaching out feebly with his bound hands. “Please, no.” Nsia let out a frenzied cry and threw herself at the creature, tackling him away. They fell together from the circle of light, swallowed by darkness. Mansa lay on his back, blood soaking through his fine clothing. Djansi rushed to his side as the growls and strikes of wolf and warrior clashed just beyond the edge of his blurring vision. Djansi paid them no attention. He came to his knees, and looked down at Mansa. “Djansi,” Mansa said. His eyes were glassy and his breathing shallow. “No,” Djansi wept. “No, no you're going to be okay.” “Djansi,” Mansa said, smiling up at him. “Just breathe.” Nsia flew into the light, tossed like a ragdoll. Djansi followed her with his eyes to where she landed, tucking into a half-roll, and coming back to her feet. She was covered in dirt, blood, and sweat. Her steel fauld was torn and her right leg had five deep claw marks slashed into it. She left splatters of blood on the forest

floor as she limped towards Mansa and Djansi, then raised her shield in alarm and stared past them. Djansi followed her gaze. Beyond the light, only feet away from where he knelt, the four tips of the elkwolf’s bloody horns came forward into the circle. Then a fang-filled jaw flashed open and sped towards Djansi's throat. Nsia was still a dozen paces away. Too far to reach him in time. Djansi gasped as the jaws snapped shut around his throat. Once more in his life he felt the powerful fangs of an elkwolf clamp onto his flesh. It thrashed wildly, the same way it had on the bluffs. The chain binding Djansi's wrists became a beacon of white light, but it didn't freeze—it couldn’t, for his skin had become too hard. The bite felt no worse than if someone gripped their hands around Djansi's throat and squeezed. The rune-wrought chain cracked where Nsia had struck it, and the glow fled, leaving all temporarily night blind. All except Djansi. His world burst into brilliant color as he saw Nkaya at last; they were all of them surrounded by ghostly hues of blue, red, and violet, spiraling in a wild tornado that trailed high into the night sky. A colossal vortex centered on Djansi. How had Okraman or Mansa not seen it? Djansi had never stopped calling Nkaya—from the moment he was bound. The floodgate had been closed, but the storm was here. The Bloodhound released its grip and backed away, squatting down to his haunches and tilting his head to one side. Blood for heat, a tear for cold, Djansi thought. Nsia watched as he placed his hands onto Mansa's blood-soaked chest. Djansi called Transition and heated four patches of Mansa's own blood to cauterize the spurting wounds shut. The moment he called to it, Nkaya rushed into him more violently than ever before. The surrounding vortex spun wildly, and he gasped as the pressure entering him popped his ts and strained every muscle, bone, and sinew in his body. Waves of purple-blue mist shed from his skin as Nkaya overflowed from him. The forked scars on his arm glowed. Okraman watched with a wolfish grin, and Djansi became certain that he didn't See Nkaya the same way he did. If the Agiotage knew of the storm around them,

he would not have been so calm. “More!” Djansi croaked, gritting his teeth against the pain he had spent the last two years learning to endure. He reached out towards Okraman. Djansi focused not only on the tears streaming down his cheeks, but the water in the soil, the plants, and the moisture in the surrounding air. He felt Nkaya like a raging river. Danger, it seemed, the beast could sense. Its eyes went wide, and it dashed away into the darkness. Nkaya flooded from Djansi to crystallize the ground, roots, rocks, and trees in a hundred foot cone from where he stood. He concentrated on forming immense spear-like shards of ice that erupted from the forest floor. The faintest wisp of moonlight caught the ice and refracted far across its glassy surface, offering enough light to locate the fleeing Unbound. Djansi's breath came in white clouds tinged with blue. The spears of ice overtook the Agiotage, threatening to impale him as he scrambled away. His feet froze to the ground first, and he howled as he tore himself free, only to fall and become trapped against the ice. A shard thrust from the earth, embedding itself deep into Okraman's side, followed by a second and third. Nkaya uncontrollably flooded into Djansi, far faster than he used it. It stretched his body and mind thin, as ice continued to grow up the towering trees around them. This was far more than the bluffs of Fairriden, or his training; more than he had ever called or controlled. Even with the right Reagents, he worried it would tear his body apart. Okraman, pinned by the icy spears, pulled out one of Djansi's pilfered dinnite gems, holding it between two claws. It glowed and the ice Vaporized into steam around him, freeing him and warming his frozen flesh. Djansi could no longer maintain the Art and collapsed to his knees. In the distance, Okraman snapped off the next closest ice shard, and held it like a jousting horseman would hold a lance; tucked under his arm. With his free clawed hand, he pulled a small orb from his coat, inside of which was some kind of white granulated powder and a steel spring. As he crushed the orb, a

thunderous boom reverberated through the forest, and the ice-lance shot at dizzying speed towards Djansi. Faster than the bolt of a crossbow, it crossed the distance between them in a second, shattering ice and splintering branches with impunity. Djansi could not react fast enough, and knew his hardened skin would be no match for the projectile. Nsia spun through the air and struck the missile's side with the flat of her shield. It was traveling too fast to stop, but she could redirect it. Instead of ing through Djansi, it instead struck his arm at an angle, launching him spinning away to strike a tree a dozen paces away. Behind them, the entire trunk of a tree was splintered apart by the ice. Nsia's shield arm hung limp at her side as she landed hard. Simply touching the missile had dislocated her arm. Okraman foamed and roared. Nsia limped to Mansa. He lay still in a pool of blood, his eyes shut. She stood over him and raised her weapon. Okraman charged with murder in his eyes. She held the ngombe so its curved point faced downwards like a serpent's fang, closed her eyes, and breathed. A pulse of light. She suddenly saw the forest in stark contrast. Another pulse of light, like the beating of a heart, illuminated the forest. With her eyes shut, she could somehow see the motion of every muscle of the elkwolf as it dove towards her. Just as Akruma said, she could See. The Vipera stance, Nsia realized, was not an attack, or a technique. It was Sight. To Nsia, her opponent moved in slow motion, pushing in vain against the current. She stepped forward, but every muscle in her body screamed in defiance at the speed of her movements. To Nsia, the motion felt languid, as if she waded through mud, but the forest flew past her. In the blink of an eye, she was within an inch of her enemy, and slashed the hooked point of the executioner's blade into Okraman's throat—the same place she had cut with her knife—and easily tore through fur and hide. She stepped aside, the world whizzing by as she did, and opened her eyes, only to see Okraman's momentum send him flying across

the ice, leaving a trail of blood smeared across its glistening surface.

Djansi stopped extricating himself from the thorny brambles at the base of the tree he was caught in to watch Nsia's incredible movement. Nkaya moved around her, and she unmistakably wove through its serpentine flow. Djansi closed his jaw and freed himself. Calling Deformation had saved him from the Agiotage's bite, and helped protect him from the missile, but it was fading fast, and he ed all too keenly how that felt. On top of this, he still drew more Nkaya; the vortex was a wellspring that could not be stopped. “Nsia!” he shouted, overflowing with magic like a pot boiling over. She could not hear him. She fell to one knee, the wound on her leg opening wide. She shouted and cursed as she tried to stand, but fell back again; her shield was dead weight, pulling at her dislocated shoulder. Again she tried to stand. She was losing blood, and Vipera had taken a toll on her wounded body. Djansi came to her side and feebly offered her his hand. The scars on his outstretched arm glowed vibrant crimson and his skin radiated a violet-blue mist that Nsia could see with the naked eye. “What's happening to you?” She took his hand and stood, only to realize Djansi needed more than she. Nsia wrapped her arm around his waist to keep him from toppling over. He opened his mouth, but made no audible sound. The veins in his neck stuck out and he exhaled Nkaya as he breathed. Okraman moved. His body began shifting back to human form, his hand pressed against his throat, where his Reagent glowed green, then cracked, and dimmed. His neck bled still, and blood oozed from his mouth. He was perhaps more frightening in human form. “Twice now, girl!” He cursed, splattering the ice with blood as he spoke. As he looked at them, his anger turned to panic. He blinked at Djansi, seeing Nkaya nearly billowing from him. Okraman dashed towards a nearby tree with all his remaining strength—towards the crown-walker's head. Djansi leaned on Nsia for as Nkiri raged through him. It streaked from his eyes and mouth. He felt as if his skin melted from his bones. He raised a blood-soaked hand towards the Agiotage; the caked blood on it liquefied,

sputtered, then boiled. The ground along Okraman's path hissed, and jets of scalding steam opened around him, scorching him as he ran. The old Unbound pulled a wooden block from his coat and struck the chord as he dove through the air towards the walker's head. A wall of burning steam shot from the ground between Okraman and his target. He screamed, then went silent, as both Okraman and the head were concealed by a sheet of gray mist. Djansi went limp in Nsia's arms. He had experienced great pain in his life, far more than any one person should need endure, but Nkaya, in its cruel neutrality, did not care. Djansi remained conscious through it all, his body refusing to give in and grant him blessed unconsciousness. He gasped for air as his skin blistered. He would be torn apart by magic in Nsia's arms. He looked up at her, but could not speak enough to tell her to run. She shouldn't have to see him die like this. Nsia looked into his tear-stricken amber-gray eyes. “ what you told me?” She said. “You always get up. Now get up, damn you!” Nsia kept glancing between Djansi and where Okraman had last been, wondering when the next attack would come. She lay Djansi onto his back, then unstrapped her shield, letting it tumble to the forest floor. She stuck her sword in the ground, using it as a crutch, and grunted in pain as she stood. She planted her feet and pulled her dislocated arm behind her head, then tugged it back into the socket. She pulled her blade from the ground and held it with two shaking hands towards the dark forest. As the vapor cleared, only an empty canvas cloth and the deep thrum of a struck chord remained. The Unbound, and the head, were gone. d

Djansi couldn't think properly, or even perceive his surroundings, the pain was so great. There was no aspfoil, mantra, meditation, Seeing, Art, or master to save him. Only pain and death awaited. He had lost control because he was too weak. Untested and weak. A hand gently held his, and it was all Djansi could do to tilt his head to better see Nsia as he ed from this sphere. He looked into Mansa's pale face beside him, who smiled his odd, toothy smile, and tightened his grip on Djansi's hand. “Breathe, my son,” Mansa said weakly. Nsia was shouting something at her brother, but the words were garbled, as if a great distance away. Nsia held her hands to Mansa's chest, trying to cover his wounds as tears streamed down her face. Djansi watched as Nkaya flowed from him to his master, whose shackles flashed once, then burst apart. Mansa guided Nkaya's release as a vast pillar of swirling color that rose into the sky then spiraled out to re the whole. Djansi's pain subsided, clearing the fog from his mind. “Mansa ... don't ... it's too much. You ... need help,” Djansi croaked. His skin healed, and strength returned to him. “We need to bind your wounds!” Djansi reached a hand out to stop Mansa, but he would not let go. “He won't listen!” Nsia wailed. She was trying to apply pressure to Mansa's chest. The wounds had opened, and she was covered in his blood. Djansi saw the truth as he looked into his mentor's glassy eyes. He wasn't just Siphoning away the excess Nkaya inside him, like he had so many times before—he was taking Djansi's pain, Nkiri, all of it. He was saving Djansi's life. “No!” Djansi screamed in realization. He felt as if he were a boy again, watching helplessly as his parents left him. “No, please, Mansa, stop!” Nkaya billowed from Mansa as if he controlled the eye of a tornado. It swirled above the treetops until it slowed, and began to dissipate. His grip slackened on Djansi's hand. Mansa exhaled deeply. His last breath was a

breath of Nkaya. He lay on his back, and watched it the greater current above, smiling. Nsia fell over him and heard Mansa's heart beat its last. She didn't cry out, but backed away a pace, and knelt facing him, hands on her knees. Her grim expression set in stone, even as tears streaked through the dirt and blood on her face. She touched her index fingers and thumbs together to form a triangle over her heart, and bowed. The worst of the Nkiri already felt like a distant memory to Djansi. He ed Nsia, and performed the Hyira beside her. He was nowhere near as composed as she, and shook violently as he tried to hold his fingers together, but could not, and instead sobbed into his hands. Nsia reached out and tugged at Djansi's shirt. He embraced her and they wept together. They wept in the slowly fading circle of light, until the sound of hoof-beats alerted them. Chestnut clopped into the circle, approaching warily, then snorted at Mansa, and prodded him with her nose. The mount nipped at him, then stomped her hoof on the soft ground, and nipped at him again. Nsia stood with her sword as a crutch, and tried to pull the mount away from him. Chestnut stubbornly refused, and Nsia had to force her back, burying her face into Chestnut's neck. “What do I do now?” Djansi said through his grief. But he knew what Mansa would say. He could almost hear his master's voice telling him exactly what he needed to hear. Djansi took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Then another. After a few steadying breaths, he pulled bandages from Chestnut's saddlebag and rubbed her affectionately. “We need to get that leg bandaged,” Djansi said to Nsia. She sat and let him bind the claw wounds before they got any worse.

“It doesn't look soured, but we should get you to Brightnora. Chestnut can bear you both,” he said, glancing towards Mansa. “Djansi,” Nsia said, wiping her face with her sleeve, still streaked and splattered with the Unbound's blood. “Why did this happen? Help me understand, before I take another damn step.” There was anger in her eyes, focused entirely on him. Djansi's heart sank even further. “It's my fault. All of it.” He finished wrapping her leg and tied a tight knot. “Do you when you first found me at home, sick with fever?” “Of course.” “That's what happens when you're Unbound, though it usually isn't so bad. I didn't know that myself until after I used an Art to Break the cliff. Mansa figured it out before I did, and stayed to train me—and protect me. From the Unbound's laws, and from myself.” “The cliffs ... this?” she looked at the destruction around them. “You really did all of this?” “It shouldn't seem that impossible. You're Unbound too, aren't you?” “That may be the craziest thing anyone has said to me today, including Buckingsea.” They both went quiet, knowing there was even more tragedy awaiting them at home. “Well you're something. Regardless of what, you can fight. Spirits, can you ever fight. I've never seen anything like it, the way you moved. Why didn't you tell me?” “I could ask the same of you,” she replied tersely. “My master once said, 'nary was there a secret better kept, than by mages and maidens.” At that, their ring of light was nearly depleted, so together they fetched the heavy canvas cloth that once held the walker's head, and laid it out beside Mansa. Nsia crossed her brother's arms and closed his eyes. Together they lifted him onto the sheet, and did their best to wrap him, and place him onto Chestnut.

They had nothing to secure him except the lengths of rune-wrought chain, and knowing Mansa would have despised that, they instead placed him so he rode forward in the saddle. The chain, they placed in the saddlebag. His body rested against his beloved mount. “He would have wanted to ride her one last time,” Nsia said. “Men do love their horses.” Djansi smiled at Mansa, as tears began anew. They secured his feet to the stirrups, but before they left, Nsia went to where he had fallen, and took up his spear. Djansi helped Nsia into the saddle behind her brother. This way, she could rest her leg and keep him secure as they made the long ride home.

The forest was oppressively dark as they ascended the shallow incline of the One Road. There was no fungi here, and they had neither flint nor lantern. Unable to see an inch in front of them, they risked becoming lost. Something small skittered and rustled the pine needles in front of them, Chestnut following whatever made the sounds, keeping them on the path. Eventually, a ray of moonlight pierced the forest canopy, illuminating a patch of road. Something chubby and translucent ran through the light, barely visible. “Tuntum,” Djansi whispered, but it was already gone. Rays of light from the blue moon reached like divine fingers into the forest, showing them the path ahead. “How did it happen?” Nsia asked suddenly. “What?” “Being Unbound. You said it happened in the Epoya, but who could live here?” “It was ... an ally, I think. Not an enemy, at least,” Djansi replied cryptically. “Still more secrets,” Nsia sighed as they made their way. “Tell me about this ally. If more Unbound will come, we may need their help.” She held her brother's still-warm body. “Well, they Unbound me, but it was ... I don't want to use the word 'accident', but I really don't know what they hoped to accomplish. This kind of thing hasn't been done outside the Orders of Unbound for thousands of years. They didn't know if it would work.” “Do you trust them?” “I'd like to think so. They helped me once, when I was lost. But then threatened to eat me. So it's a bit of a toss up, honestly.” “They threatened to eat you, Djansi? What kind of person does that? “I never said they were a person.”

There was enough light that Nsia could see the smirk on his face. She was glad, at least, that Mansa had someone like-minded beside him these past years. “Is every conversation to be a game of riddles now that you're a sorcerer? Is that part of the rules when you ?” A thought dawned on her. “Actually, that explains so much about Mansa.” She rested her cheek against her brother's back. “I wish,” Nsia whispered to him, “I wish I had tried harder. To know you. To be a better sister. Maybe you would have told me.” Djansi stopped abruptly in the middle of the road, and Chestnut snorted loudly. “What is it?” Nsia asked, reaching for her sword. “Ok. Nsia, no more riddles. There's something you have to know about my ally. Don't ... just please stay calm. They aren't a human. They're a crown-walker.” Chestnut whinnied and stomped, and Nsia fought to hold Mansa and keep the horse in check. “Whoa! Easy Chestnut! Djansi, why are you saying this?” “Because,” said Djansi, as he watched a monstrous shadow approach through the trees, moonlight reflected in its crown. “They're here.”

Epilogue

The warbling sound of a string echoed across a needle-strewn clearing between ironwoods. Okraman burst from the mist, gasping and choking. His skin was seared red in patches, and he let the massive crown-walker head fall beside him. Its turquoise glass eyes seemed to stare at him. He took a step, but the skin was burnt away across his bare feet. “Didn't give me time to take off my Spirit-damned shoes.” His transformation had destroyed them. He sniffed the air while looking in different directions, until he spotted a light in the distance. “Tsk.” He picked up the head with a grunt and walked towards the light source, wincing with every step. “Must weigh seven stone, you bastard.” Deep in the Epoya, next to a wide and winding road, was a long oak building reinforced with iron-gray planks, the Kodanna. The only haven in the Sempiternal Sea. A lantern burned on a scroll-hook by the door, and similar lanterns were spaced out down the road in either direction. A few of the stabled horses huffed the air as Okraman, smelling of burnt flesh, made his way to the front door. Finding it locked, he wasted no time and began pounding his bloody fist on it until a steel shutter slid open. “Who's there?” said a muffled voice. “It's me, I'm expected.” A multitude of latches and locked were undone, and the door swung open. Okraman shouldered past the surprised innkeeper into an empty taproom lit only by a single taper at the bar. He sat in front of the light and dropped the crownwalker head unceremoniously to the floor. It rolled over, the sword-like horns clattering against the wooden boards. The innkeeper locked the door behind him and wrung his hands fearfully. Okraman pulled out a feather quill, scraped at its tip with his bloody, blackened teeth, then pulled out an ink horn with a screw cap. He fished a crumpled piece

of parchment from another pocket, flattened it on the bar, dipped his quill, and wrote quickly. “I need to send a message,” he said to the innkeeper, writing as he spoke. “You have a post-rider here? Or a runner? Scullery maid?” “We do, Master Unbound. A post-rider can leave at first light,” replied the portly man, who bowed repeatedly as he spoke. “They leave now.” Okraman finished his note angrily, with a period made by stabbing his quill into the parchment. It read: The boy is indeed Unbound. Have prepared for my arrival the following: armed contingent of soldiers to march north. Full complement of Reagents, and as many skilled Runewrights as can be found. Epoya may be home to crownwalkers. Have the head of an Ancient in my possession. Nsia and Djansi have broken cardinal law. This missive shall act as writ of execution. - Okraman Okraman smeared a bloody thumbprint next to his name then folded the note. He had no seal, so tucked the edges in such a way that would reveal if someone tampered with it. “If you read this, I'll know. If your runner reads it, I’ll know. Should either of you read it, every Spirit combined won't save you from me. Understood?” “Yes, Master Unbound, absolutely. I'll fetch her now.” The Innkeeper left him and hurried up a flight of stairs, tripping as he went. Across from where Okraman sat at the bar was a wall-mirror behind various bottles of liquor. He could see his own reflection in the flickering light. His twice-slashed throat was still bleeding. His eyes were sunken, skin blistered red, and his torn clothing was caked with blood, dirt, and clumps of fur. He bled from wounds in a half dozen places which dripped into the eyes of the walker at his feet. He took out a vial from his pocket, the one containing Djansi's blood, and smiled.

THE END OF

Book One of the Unbound Trilogy

To be continued

Copyright Information

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. If there are any similarities to you personally, it means you are a very odd individual. Unbound, Book One of the Unbound Trilogy Copyright © 2021 C.J. Gagnon All rights reserved. Cover art by Reid Palmer Map of Oda © C.J. Gagnon Title cards © C.J. Gagnon

About the Author

Christian J. Gagnon grew up in Moncton, New Brunswick on the east coast of Canada, and studied creative writing at the University of New Brunswick. He then worked as a farmhand, trained as a blacksmith, and went to college to become a chef (which all seemed quite sensible at the time). He has been writing creative fiction, short stories, and home-brew campaign worlds for Dungeons & Dragons for decades. After working himself to near-death in the hospitality industry, he wrote, edited, formatted, and self-published his first novel at the age of 33. He still lives in Moncton, and will probably die there. For more about his books, visit cjgagnon.wordpress.com.