Young Writers Society

iA/N: I know I haven't been the best of writers, and my story hasn't worked out as stories should, but since I went on a rewriting spree, I think I will post it to show you where the new plot is going. The Prologue takes place twenty years after the start of the first chapter. It is written from Ryandrol's POV, whereas almost the rest of the novel is planned as an Aley POV. I’m looking for critique where you will tear everything up, harsh, if you like, but tear it up please. If you could do that, I will give you a cookie. Or ten.

Prologue

Thick caravans of muck roiled down past my feet. They rushed to the plains stretching out miles around from the foot of the hill to congeal in magnificent pools of dark sparkling eyes. Acrid steam cloaked me in an embrace of warmth. The Muck Hill, I thought bitterly, looking back over my shoulder.

I dredged up a cough, bringing up my gullet, and reflexively swallowed. The top of the hill was shrouded in a mist so thick it obscured an ancient platform that had been raised around the bubbling dirt opening of the spring. The heat of the muck, coupled with its weight, had in many places already shattered it, and I saw not a few cracks of concrete spluttering on towards a life of placidity down below.

I shivered. A freezing east wind had begun its daily track over the hill, and it would beat a steady wave of cold for the next hour. With clenched fists, I burrowed deeper into my overcoat, seeking shelter, and stepped unsteadily into the wind, struggling to keep the coat on and the rivers of perspiration from dripping into my eyes. The stumble downhill was much a greater torture than the breezy stroll upwards.

I had come in the wee hours of the dawn, seeking desperately needed solitude, trying to remember the past. As always, I feel the memories I treasure so highly fading into the blackness of unfindable dreams. Memory by memory, I have slowly become this whimpering wreak. My mind seared at the accusation.

"No! Not this!" I spat into the wind. Just the month previous, I had had to take the leaving of one of my most experienced breakers on account of just such a charge. To have done nothing was to have confirmed that view in my men’s eyes. I could not let anyone, least of all myself, repeat such poison, I berated myself angrily, as I stumble onwards to where I hope my horse had remained haltered.

Strong. Keep strong. A tiny voice of pride rang in me.

I quickened my stride, wishing to leave the battling elements to themselves. My insides coiled like constrictors, painfully doubling me over, but I kept the pace, focusing on the clanging sword hanging from my right hip. A jewel as large as my thumb stuck out from the hilt, curving along the same direction as the blade, which tapered out to dangle a foot below my knees. I coughed up a small green blorb streaked in red, and followed up the discharge with a generous mouthful of spittle.

My back strained to rise, my wobbling hands pulling free of their gloves and the muck. I grunted in weariness. My long hair, usually skirted at my shoulder, now hung in moist clumps about my brow. I yanked the gloves and stumbled on. It took me the rest of the light to drag myself to my horse. My hands rushed clumsily to the saddlebag, grasping for a skin of wine I had stored there. The horse whinnied.

The drink burnt its way through my gullet. I felt it unwind the knots in my belly and I straightened up. No sense loitering any longer, I thought bitterly as I clambered up the beast. A sense of abject loss had crept up suddenly, and some small part of me told me to return up the hill, to rest, to seek again what I had lost. I creased my brows in anger, smouldering like the mud underfoot.

With a savage twist of my wrist, reins fluttered. The animal broke into a canter, and four hooves beat their weary way on a slippery path thick with the mist of settling azane. If there had once been an actual path, it had long since been covered or destroyed. A yawn escaped my lips as the horse jolted me forward. If I could keep the saddle, I might make good on my promise to return to my band by dawn. The earlier the better.

Forget it, A voice told me, The mail you have on is enough weight to kill any horse at the speed you’re going, and long before that, too

Shut up, Fate! I thought savagely, not checking my pace. My weight is my own matter.

The thought that my sword would lecture me on how to calculate such things infuriated me. "Insolent thing!" I clamped down hard on the fury rising in me.

More often than not, the cautions of Fate proved right, and I painfully swallowed my arrogance. That’s right, boy. Another voice. Me. An Older, sickly, dying me. My ancient skin-and-bone self, hobbling on a broken piece of bone, in a dark cave. In my mind.

I shrugged off the annoyance. Go away, Freak! I shouted into the back of my mind.

You! He retorted.

Not me. Maybe future-me. I winced.

You, nonetheless. He snidely shot back. A sickly feeling of hunger came over me.

Hunger? We hunger too!

My older self frowned, mildly annoyed. You haven’t eaten yet? He looked to his hip, from which Fate dangled.

Years and years! Came the assertive plea.

False! I clawed at it. You drew blood just two nights ago. That sickly hound.

Not man.

True. Not man. Still, my hand dug into the saddle bag, searching for the hard-baked raisin loaf which had been there since five nights previous. At least one of us didn’t need to remain hungry. Search as I might, my hand came up with nothing but the skin of wine. No bread. With a resigned sigh, I took another draught.

It won’t last till dawn now! Fate, mocking me. Not the wine. Not the horse. Not your strength. Somehow it managed to sing it, and was quickly joined by Skin-and-Bone.

I meshed my teeth together as the voices began to hum to the tune of a popular love ballad. I slammed the voices from my mind and took a deep breath. Not the wine. Not the hor--. A hand came up from my right to slap myself over the cheek, hard.

“Shut it, Hare-brain!” I hollered into the empty fields surrounding me. No sound replied. Not an echo. Not a whisper of wind. I stood up in the stirrups and stared all around me, still urging the horse on. I was scared of the dark. Or so I told myself. Cold sweat broke on my forehead.

I crabbed a trembling hand over the drops. You’re still scared of the dark, are you? Mockery drips in the voice. My hand paused over a scar running over my right eye as I tried to ignore the voices clambering for attention.

Scareredy- Scardy, Scardy, Scardy! A small boyish voice began chanting in a sing-song voice. It grew louder. I jumped.

Snap! The crack came loud over the sound of hooves beating against the ground. I felt myself being pulled towards the ground, and my flailing arms wildly grasped at the horse’s mane. I snagged a fistful, and the pull jolted the pitiful beast on its hind legs before it shook free of my grasp to gallop off into the distance, leaving dust in my mouth.

I wobbled dizzily to my feet. The dried out muck from the hill, now miles behind, had saved me from the worst. Still, a couple of bruises and an uncountable number of scratches would not do anything to encourage a frightened man. My feet hobbled me on as I fruitlessly waved after the disappearing animal. I sank back onto the dust, and it soon layered me in a thick brown.

Little Ry, little Ry, Oh what trouble have you got on the spry! Skin-and-Bones taunted, curling over in laughter. His gibberish fueled my anger.

Not the wine. Not the horse. Not your strength. Your saddle! Fate, belittling as usual. I forced my feet into a rhythm, ignoring the voices. My eyes turned skyward to take in the stars. I altered my course, turning slightly left.

Another fifteen miles, maybe. I told myself, trying to be encouraged. I reckoned I could reach a friend by midday, if I did not run dry before then. I could borrow a horse there, permanently, maybe.

Miles passed, and so too did time. A scorching sun rose through the ground, letting rays of heat shoot through me. I whipped off the overcoat and draped it over a shoulder. A spring returned to my step, but my lips had already begun to swell from my arid surroundings. All through the night I had busied my mind with pointless arguments and fantastical plans, trying to ignore the dark, swirling around me. Now that day had arrived, I felt a growing optimism that I might indeed make it.

It was not long after midday, that I found my wearied feet on the threshold of Mr. Vrisbrin. Vrisbrin was a small time farmer, big time crook. So I liked to tell myself. I was a big time crook and nothing else. I rapped loudly on the wood.

A short, portly and aged woman answered the door. With unkempt hair in her eyes and hands steeped in flour, I might have mistaken her for a baker, which she was. Her slanted bulging eyes took me in, unrecognizing and full of contempt. “And what is it you want here, Mr. Traveler?”

I had the hilt of my sword tucked behind my coat, and so that telltale sign of identity was hid. My face, covered in grime and swollen with dryness, I doubt anyone could have recognized. “A certain Mr. Vrisbrin.” I replied in a deep official voice, holding my hand to my heart and making a slight bow.

“Not in.” She growled and slammed the door in my face. Not quite fast enough. I jammed my steel capped boots through the gap and purred cheekily in a normal voice. "Now, now, Mother Vrissy!" Using the nickname given to her by the band. "Can't you recognize poor young Captain Ry?" I looked down with piteous eyes.

Her face contorted in surprise as she strained her neck upwards to look closer. She squinted quizzically. Shorty. Skin-and-Bones. I buried him deep in my mind and kept the face.

A sudden realization dawned on the woman's face. Her eyes lit with life as she studied me. Then her hands rose up to tug at my beard endearingly. "Oh, sonny!" She laughed. "What happened? I hardly recognize you! Come in! Come in!" I was dragged almost forcibly behind the door. By your beard, no less.

Shut up, sword.

I was barely through before an equally old and portly, but not so short, man waddled out from an inner room. "Why, isn't it young Ry!" He exclaimed, beckoning. "But come on in, you look like you've seen a ghost!"

I was escorted into a familiar living room. Barely furnished, about fifteen paces wide and half that long. It had a small table, a fireplace, and some stools, nothing else. Here I was immediately placed on one of the stools while old Vrisbrin's mouth walked on. I barely paid attention at first, as Mother Vrissy had placed in my hand a large ladle and a pot of mutton stew on the fire with the injunction to make are it was well turned.

"Ah, boy," the farmer said, slapping me on the back. "Been a long time since you came. Why, that last time, I heard you'd just taken a whole chest of gold right from the mayor, under the nose, you did!" And he laughed emphatically.

I smiled along, trying my best to hide my delight at seeing mutton. I loved mutton. I began salivating despite my dehydration. I smacked my lips, and found myself unable to part them again. All for the best, Fate laughed. Vrisbrin went on. "Y'know two weeks off I heard them marketeers say King Daeron got himself a fine present from the Droan king. Some animal can't recall 'em name." He looked puzzled. Deep in thought.

I slashed a mouthful of stew at my lips, and they parted. "Aye I recall!" His eyes lit in amusement. I knew he was trying to bait me into a guessing game and so remained silent. He glinted his eyes at me. Then he leaned forward. In an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper, he said, "Unicorns!"

My muscles clenched. Unicorns. I drew in a deep breath, forcing out the tension. “What about them? I thought they were outlawed years ago?”

“Aye, but Daeron’s been getting desperate. Them nobles fighting, us peasants dying.” Here he paused, commiserating. “He brought back the gladiator fights, to quicken the people’s spirits, he says.” A single tear rolled down his eyes.

I leaned over and placed a gentle hand on his knee. “We’ll live it through, we always have, always will.” I barely knew what was coming out of my mouth. All I wanted to do was to get my host into an optimistic mood so that I could easily get my horse. Perhaps it won’t be so easy any more. Perhaps your luck ran out, as it always does. The snarling comment came from Skin-and-Bones.

“I know, my boy, I know.” Mother Vrissy bustled in from somewhere, carrying three wooden bowls, and as many pewter spoons. “On the bright side, it’s time to get some warmth into you!” So saying, she slammed a foot into a wall-plank, and down tumbled a folded-in table.

“Bring the pot over.” She ordered. Wearily, I dragged myself off the seat to obey her command. My mind returned to the unicorns. My mind saw them as the legends told, glossy black horses, with a curved spiral horn, a tail like a scorpion, with three barbs instead of one. The fangs. I shuddered.

“Quicken your pace, boy!” Mother Vrissy impatiently waved me on. So I lunged the pot and plonked it onto the table. She drew benches from either sides of the wall. I stretched my neck, trying to get an annoying ache out of the way.

“So,” I inquired cautiously, when the bowls and people were set, “how did you come about this knowledge?”

“Oh,” the farmer replied nonchalant, “the mayor was boasting to us from the farmer guild, not three days ago, said he was getting permission to build a pit, that the king gave him so, and unicorns, too.”

“And Raymond took to gloating, again.” I rolled my eyes, referring to the Mayor of Rivercross by name. Yes, that was some nice blood you drew from Raymond, Skin-and-Bones, laughing.

I ran a hand over my hair to ease my mind, bringing it over and through to the end at the back. My mind tried to recall the heist, but strayed constantly to the unicorns. Blood baths, everyday, every hour. Unicorns would tear apart a human as easily as us eating lettuce. I wagged my head and dipped my spoon for another mouthful.

Overdone, my mouth told me bleakly. I scrapped my teeth over my tongue and spooned down more of the food. The image of unicorns tearing into children surfaced time and again in my mind. I grew frustrated. A queasy feeling came over me, and I longed to purge my stomach.

I gulped it all back down, as I did not want to disturb my hosts any more than was needed. I bent my shoulders, removing some of the tiredness, and tried to stand up. My mind wobbled, and my feet tottered.

I woke to find myself staring at a low arched, wood-beamed, ceiling. My mind was groggy. I could not contain retching. My appendages refused to move. I felt as though a giant had given me a box about the ears. My vision blurred, and I fell again into the depth of sleep.

I dreamt of unicorns and gold, my mind wheezing at the effort I placed in my dreams. I was rudely shaken awake. A cough came through my gullet. I choked. A burly man, brightly attired, with two missing front teeth, stood over me. He moved as though I was his patient, and he performing a surgery. I spat out at him, defiant. Something in me screamed danger. He slammed a fist into my forehead. White sparks dazzled their way across my vision, and I gave a gasp of pain. I subsided little, frantically casting glances about the room. It was bare. Absolutely bare. No beds, no cupboards, not even a stool. Dwarf. Burly dwarf. Dim in my mind, Fate spoke his warnings. My hand slid about in bonds. With arms tightly bound to my chest, I could hardly hope to reach my sword, if it even were on my waist.

The man left the room, but soon returned with a small cup, which he tilted into my lips. His voice was melancholy, and he gave a wan smile. “The poison was certainly much too big a dosage. You must have been a greedy little man.” He chuckled to himself.

“Who are you?” I demanded, furious and disoriented at the insult. “What are you doing? Get off from me, dwarf!” I spat the last word in irritable contempt. He merely cocked an eyebrow, smiled again, and left the room.

“Master Vrisbrin!” I shouted into the emptiness. “Mother Vrissy?” There was no reply, only laughter.

The opening in the wall, which was used as a door, soon became shadowed with a portly figure, carrying a tray. Farmer Vrisbrin entered, a cackle in his step, but a frown on his face, and held out a teapot daintily to lay it on the floor beside me. He swiped his calloused and wrinkled hand over my forehead, pushing the hair to the rear. How caressing! Fate.

Why didn’t you tell me he was false, metal tongue? I berated.

Why didn’t you listen, pea-brain? He mocked.

“Since when did you tell me?”

“Tell you what, son?” I jumped from my mind’s conversation to look at Vrisbrin, who was peering down at me with pity in his aged eyes. I glared up at him, refusing to deign him with a response. He sighed apologetically, “What could I do, son? Five thousand measures of silver for you, alive.”

“This is some sort of trick, isn’t it, huh, Vris?” I shouted, my throat constricting in anger. “Some sick joke you think to pull on me, huh?” I dragged out the last syllabus.

He reluctantly stuck a hand into his jacket and pulled a parchment. I could clearly see my visage when he unrolled the piece. “Five thousand silver measures for the capture of Ryandrol Trant, Age fourty-seven.” He went on to describe me, down to the dyed streak of red hair running from my eye scar to the back. “That’s you, I’m afraid. No other Ryandrol Trant I know.” Hu clucked his tongue, agonizing. “I just want peace for me and the missus, is all.” With that, he strode from the room.

The dwarf swaggered back in. Trailing closely was a woman, about my height, with the same copperish skin. Even her hair was jarringly similar to my own. She was decked out in startling purple doublets and jerkins, relieved by streaks of bronze leaves. The three gold leaves on her right shoulder proclaimed her to be a captain, and the spurs told of calvary. She was young, though, probably no more than twenty-eight.

“This is your prisoner, Captain Aley.” The dwarf made a reverential gesture towards the the woman, and somehow managed to use his a point of his thumb to gesticulate obscenely at me. I scowled.

“Good work, doctor Sankley. You will be well rewarded.” She spoke stiffly, as though courtesy forced the words from her. “What about the sword? I will need that as proof.”

“On what grounds do you so indecently mistreat a well-behaved citizen?” I demanded officiously.

“On the charges of possession of a magic weapon, treason, theft, and murder.” A curl adorned her lips.

My mind roiled. Magic weapon? How did we betray ourselves? I was stunned.

Your constant jabbering, what else. Skin-and-Bones laughed loudly inside.

“What? No! You are mistaken! It can’t be! There must be some mistake! You have the wrong man, can’t you recognize me?” I stammered in desperation.

Captain Aley placed a swift hand around the ropes which bound me, silent. With a quick yank, she threw me over her shoulder so that my head was at her hips as I dangled from her back. She threw a jiggling pouch to the dwarf and stalked out into the yard.

“Wait! My reward!” Vrisbrin, calling out frantically. A low laugh came from my captor. She snapped her fingers, motioning towards the farmer. A pair of clanking spurs strode confidently to the farmer. In the blink of an eye, a dagger found its way to Vrisbrin’s bowels. The man sank to the doorstones, his life seeping away.

Aley did not even pause to look. She took me into an adjoining lane and threw me into a waiting carriage. The dwarf climbed in after me. The captain turned to her men and motioned them into a harsh cantor.

We reached Rivercross just as dusk was falling. The poisons that had dropped me still clung to my blood, and I slipped in and out of darkness all through the journey. The carriage was led, jolting, into a very small castle, which I recalled quickly as the mayor’s residence, and I was unceremoniously dragged out. The trooper carried my aching body down deep into the earth, where I was deposited in a moudy and filth-ridden cell not quite big enough for me to lie curled in a ball.

I could feel Fate up on the surface, whining softly to me to get up and do something. There’s a terrible spellish feel to this place, it whispered.

I know, I thought back. Soon, Fate’s presence began to grow stronger. It was descending to me! I could hear the pounding of footsteps, followed soon by the woman captain.

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Aley!” I mocked hoarsely.

“Well, if it isn’t Captain About-to-die!” She replied in the same vein.

“Die? Surely not!” My heart pounded. There was nothing I feared more than death. “There must be some mistake, even you are bearing a magic sword!” I pointed out, sweat breaking on my forehead. This time I could not swipe it away. My nose itched.

“Aye! A magic sword which bawls out deadly lightning when my men touch it. Somehow it doesn't do the same for me." She glided an arm over the naked blade. “I wonder what other power this holds. Should we find out?”

“You should!” I savagely grinned.

“I might." She smiled, just as savage. “I wonder why it is so, friendly, to me. You see,” here she squatted at the bars and began beating out a rhythm with the blade, “I don’t really know much about swords like these, but I do know they are incapable of harming those from the same bloodlines as the maker."

“We all have family,” I grasped the bars. "Even me."

“Are you suggesting that you are a smith?" She barked a merry laugh, "you sure do follow your blades."

“So?” I growled, “not everyone is bound by society, like you.”

“No, I’m not,” She giggled merrily, “I jus happen to thrive in the limits placed by our society. Besides," She stood up and walked up the passage, stopping just within earshot. “Tomorrow at dawn, you die.”

“How?” I queried, a sudden dread filling me. A sudden change in subject was never good.

Why aren’t you helping me? I screamed at Fate.

She’s blood, and closer than you think. Fate reprimanded. I'm sorry, but I can't help you this time.

“Disembowelment? Punctures through your throat? Poison? How am I to know for certain? I only know one thing. Death,” Here a dramatic pause was made, followed by a slow drawn-out cackle, “by Unicorns!”

Chapter One

It has long been a tradition among nurses and mothers to scare their young with many a tall tales. I being one of the young. For hours after her day’s work, my mother would sit my five year old body down and regale it with fear inducing tales of living swords, magic, evil forests, and unicorns. I never believed any of them.

I did have a favourite, just like any other. It began thus: It was a long time ago, long before the rise of the Belasians, that there was a warrior, more evil than any other. He roved from village to village, killing and eating as he roved.

At first, villagers cowered before him, but desperation soon banded them together. He was ambushed one night cooking his most recent victim. Like a bull, he roared to his feet, grasping his mace. The angry attackers threw their spears, and the archers emptied their quivers. Still he did not fall.

Taking a giant leap, the warrior spun his mace like a willow reed. He ripped off the hands of the one nearest to him, and crushed the skull of another. However, he did not notice the pitchfork thrown by a farmer, whose husband he was eating.

With a raging cry, the big man dropped to his knees, where a small knife was slid across his throat. The moment his head touched the ground, a large vine covered tree sprouted. The vines lashed out to wrap in its many tendrils those around.

Everyone who was caught in the vines of the tree were themselves turned into trees. These trees watch the world, luring some with lust for power and other matters, more still with promises of tranquility. It became known as the Blackwood, which, if you go near to, you will never leave as you were.

“Aley! Al? Please come down. Mommy's got something for you to do!” I heard my mother calling me from the ground shop where she sewed for strangers. I disliked them. Some were smelly, some were haughty, but most were just old folk looking for an ear. Mother always listened. I hated that. She was probably calling for me to fetch some biscuits anyway.

I ignored her and continued with my playing. With two rag dolls I pounded a third into the wooden flooring. The noise I was making did not bother me. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. You left us. You left us." These words I repeated with each blow.

Sweat began dripping from my eyes, but still the rage inside of me would not let go. With a frustrated scream, I threw the two straw bundles away from me to pick up the one I had been pounding. I drowned out the world with my screams as fevered hands ripped through the third. Exhausted, I sunk my little legs down to the floor.

It was only then that I noticed my mother. Her eyes and mouth gaped in large circles. Her skin was paler than it had ever been. I glanced towards my own copperish skin, as I always did when I looked at my mother.

"Aley!" Her face dissolved into concern as she rushed to cuddle me. I grasped at her shoulders, my nose tucked deep into her belly. It was awhile before she spoke. "What's the matter with you, Aley?"

I looked up at her lined face, lined all the more with her furrowed brow. "I hate him." I quailed.

"Him? Who?" She looked bewildered.

"Father. He left us all. You said it. He was nice to you but then he left." My childish voice shook as I finished.

"No. No, it's not like that." She shook her head, her eyes shutting tight as she did so, as though to stem a tide of tears.

"Yes it is!" I jumped to my feet and shouted. "He left us here. He made us poor."

"Aley, no. Please," She took my hands in hers as she drew me back to the floor. "Father left because he had to. I'm sure he knows about you. I'm sure he wants to come back. It's only been five years since he left. Others have waited longer."

"I don't care about the others." My seven year old arms were crossed as I pouted. "They didn't deserve better anyway. They're all innhelps and singers and fools."

I sniffed away the goo that was dripping from my nose. My mother untangled herself from me. "Aley. Stop this. Go outside, play with others. You will feel better. Then come back. Mother needs your help with work."

"I don't want to go."

"Then you can help me right away," she said with alacrity. Her feet hustled out the opening that stood for a door, and thumping planks assured me she was running down the flight of stairs.

I crawled over to the torn doll. My fingers rolled it in my palms. I began plucking the straws, my teeth gritted.

My anger at my father was so deep even I could not understand it. All I knew was that the other children in Tailor's Row had fathers, and my child's mind linked their plentiful food with their fathers.

My own mother barely kept the table laid. Sometimes we even had bone soup for supper, and without the bread. Still, she kept me pouring over a stack of papers which she said will help me through life. I hated it. What use was wasting time drawing curly lines on paper when I could be out, pilfering for food.

I untangled the last straws from each other and proudly surveyed my destruction. "Aley. Come down now!" My mother's loud command broke my reverie.

With hasty feet, I clambered down the flight of unfastened boards that served as stairs. "Coming." I swiped at my nose. I dared not disobey her when she gave an order in such a tone.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked over the shop. There was no one. Three large tables stood in the room. Two were piled neatly with fine and rough cloths, to be picked out by the buyer. The third was empty, other than for a rapidly forming dress in my mother's hunched figure.

I hesitantly approached the table. "Take this silk and put a unicorn's horn on it. While you are doing so, recite your alphabets."

With a snatch, the cloth found its way into my hands. I didn't quite know how to put the horn on, but my mom seemed to think I was supposed to know. I didn't dare disagree.

I picked a needle from a small box at the foot of the table. "Aye. Bee. See."

"No. Not that way." My mother snapped. Her hands reached over to me to flip the horn. "Put it like this. Right here."

She went back to her dress. In my mind I gritted my teeth. Aye. Bee. See. See. I couldn't find the next alphabet, so I kept quiet, hoping she would forget her demands. Her hands moved swiftly over the sleeves, and for a long while I watched, crookedly sticking my own needle through the cloths in my hands.

"Well, aren't you going to finish the alphabets?" She asked, somewhat sweetly.

"Aye." I began again, hoping that I could remember this time.

"No. You already said until see. Continue from where you left off."

"Help?"

"I never learnt such an alphabet." She looked up from her work, smiling. "It's dee."

Like a floodgate, the rest of the alphabets came pouring through. I smiled after finishing. "Could I kill father when I grow older?"

Mother' lips stiffened. "You are just as blunt as he was."

"That isn't a no."

"No. That isn't a no. I can't stop you from doing what you want when you grow up." She sighed. "But if you go after him, you will be as bad as he is. Still, that choice is many years from now."

She went back to her dress, and I clamped my mouth shut, working on the horn. After what seemed like hours, mom wrapped up the dress. "There. Done. How's my patch coming along, deary?"

I lifted the unfinished work high in the air, and watched as her face made weird movements. I tried to mimic them. "Stop it!" She barked, a smile coming to her lips. "I need you to get this dress to Master Dwinfer's wife. You know her, don't you? The baker's wife? Her husband has already paid for the dress, so I want you to take this and try to get something for supper."

I wrinkled my nose. Mrs Dwinfer. I disliked her with a passion. Her husband was better, because he always greeted me with a cheery Good Morning no matter the time. When he was in an especially good mood, he would even slip me a sweet cake or two.

He would certainly not be in a good mood today, I grumbled sourly to myself as I headed out our crumbling door. I didn't know why I thought so, but I did. My fingers clutched the brass coin as I tottered through the streets with the wrapped dress.

I tip-toed around puddles of brownish stuff as I headed for the end of Tailor's Row. There were the Buffons, who always kept a merry table. I liked staring through their window, even if it meant having rocks thrown at me sometimes.

I was more familiar with the Harks, who lived beside the Buffons. They were a couple of very old crones who did no tailoring. I wondered why they opened their shop at all. They sat at the front telling each other old stories and more old stories. I did not quite bother to know the names of the rest the tailors in town.

The best and biggest of the names of each trade had houses standing in a circle surrounding the town market. It was here that I stopped to look at the evening crowd.

It was the fifth house from the first house of Baker street that the Dwinfers resided. A small queue was gathered at the front, where a red faced Mrs Dwinfer, with her golden hair all capped up, bantered and bargained with customers.

"Missus Dwinfer?" I held out the package.

"There it is, and too long overdue, too. Well, what are you standing there for? My Ryan isn't here to pet you and steal sweet cakes for you, so shoo along!" She dismissed me with a wave of the package, which she had snatched from me, quote eagerly.

I held up the coin. She looked suspiciously at it before reaching through her table for a hard and blackened fist of dough. "Well, that will get you this bun, no more."

I shook my head. "This is brass." I insisted.

"Well, brass gets you nothing else." She tossed the bread to catch it again.

I wrinkled my nose and stuck out my tongue. This woman would never steal from me. I hated thieves, when they were not me or someone like me.

Spinning on my heels, I dashed back up the street. My mind told me I might be more fortunate down at the river. Fishers would desperately want to rid themselves of their catch and would take just about anything.

I was right. A young fisher was willing to trade two rotting trouts for the brass. Grasping the sticky fishes, I tucked them as best as I could under my arm. I might have looked like a duck with a broken wing.

My feet took me further along the banks, upstream beyond the bridge to where the best driftwoods landed. I looked from side to side. The far bank of the river was cloaked in a thick coat of trees and mossy boulders, reaching to the water.

I could see the stone mosaic of the bridge in the rising fog. In the wavering dusk, moving shadows played out the same scene I had created with my dolls. I smiled and stood, watching raptly. A sudden gust of wind blew the fog away, and the shadows faded. I gritted away the smile and stepped towards the water.

The lapping waves beat a steady rhythm on the pebbled shore. I steeped an ankle into the murky water, and waded in to sit down. Placing my head on the ground, away from the water, I closed my eyes. It felt better. Sitting in the water. The dizziness that flooded my head seemed to take away all my anger. I took in breath after deep breath.

I awoke to the sound of oars. A herd of boats were rowing downstream, their unsteady clicks sounding through the dark. Dark? I sat up with a start. Haphazardly climbed off the ground, squeezing some of the water from my pants. I suddenly remembered my fishes. My eyes frantically searched the shore. I dropped to my knees and began feeling around. My hands patted rocks, mossy rocks. Sharp rocks. Sticky rocks. No. I took a sniff. That’s mine.

Triumphantly, I rose again, with the fishes in my hands. They were not big, as fishes go, but they did fill my hands. A thought came to me, and I instinctively followed it. My feet took me towards the baker. Perhaps, I hoped, John would be in. I never was good with names. The street was mostly empty. Shutters were being closed. I saw Mrs. Dwinfer huffing her puffy hands towards an upper window. I couldn’t hear what she was screaming.

I shrugged. No cakes here. My feet turned homewards, tired though I couldn’t understand why. The latch on the door was broken, but I knew Mom would tie some rags to keep the door shut later. Or ask me to. I placed the fishes on the empty table, and glanced around. Mom was nowhere to be seen. I yawned in frustration, knowing that meant more work for me. The driftwood pile outside the house was getting low.

I crawled outside to sit on the steps. My head nodded against the beams as a chill rode through my wet clothes. I winced. Mom would not be happy at all. My feet pushed me up the stairs to the room. The shredded dolls still adorned the room, but I ignored it. There was another pair of pants on the side of the room which I slept. It was crooked at the seam, and the seat was too high, but I made it, and I was proud of it.

I dragged off the wet clothes and draped them over the thick threads which hung over the small opening of a window. Through the leggings, I could see the brick walls of those who lived around us. Not that I needed to look out. I knew the sight by heart, every crack on every brick. Every scratch on every plank. Nothing ever moved. Other than the rats.

I heard the door creak open downstairs. My eyes raced to the door, and hands dragged on the dry pants. I bent down to smell the sleeves. They were fresh enough. Heavy footsteps and whispered voices told me that my mom was not the only one. I dashed out the door and down the planks.

I stopped in the middle of the flight. Standing next to my mom, cuddling her, was a smelly blob of muscled dirt. A fierce growl came to my eyes. “Get away from her!” I screamed.

Flying down the rest of the steps, I clawed my way past his rags to scratch at his grimy skin. I don’t know where the profanities came from, but they did come out. “Get away. You stink. You don’t deserve her! Don’t even look at her!”

“Aley, stop! Go upstairs!” Mother grasped at my arms. I bit her. The man rolled out a burly laugh.

He picked me up off the floor and looked me up and down like I was one of my mother’s cloths. A feeling of disgust rolled over me. “Get your hands off me you oaf!” I tried to mimic my mother’s tone when she was angry with me. It worked for her, why shouldn’t it for me?

“Har! Oh, look what we have here? My, my!” He tried to kiss me.

I bit down on his nose. Hard. He yelped, and dropped me. "By Prakfura!" he cursed.

I stumbled to the table and picked up a needle from the box on the floor. Pointing it vehemently at the man, I gritted my teeth. "This is why I hate Father. You would not be bringing oafs otherwise."

My mother stood by the door, a look of horror burnt into her features. Her face dissolved into guilt, as her eyes ran from me to the man. Then it hardened. "I think you'd better go."

The man turned around. "Go? Ha! With two of you, I'd be damned if I left!" He lurched for my mother.

I threw the needle. It hit his ear, but did not pierce him. He roared with laughter. I grunted. The fish! Spinning back to the table I grasped the fish with both hands. Yelling madly, I rushed at him with it upraised. "Out!" I elongated the word until my lungs were empty.

He turned and hastened through the door after my second hit. I lowered the fish and glowered after him, my breath ragged. "You brought people again." I accused.

"Yes. I did. You took so long that I thought you might have gone to spend the night in the streets, again." She looked sad, lines crossing her face. My anger fades. I shouldn't be scolding her.

"Ma," I hugged her bosom tightly, "I want to keep us safe. The way father should have." Our eyes met.

Her eyes shone with admiration, but the sorrow remained. "Al, that should be my job, not yours. I do have longings, just like anyone else. We both want some things badly. Different, but still we both want something we can't get."

"I can get what I want, mom." I untangled myself. "But you can't keep me safe having oafs come home. Besides, where were you?" She kneeled and we touched foreheads.

"No, Al, I can't. So," she grasped my small hands in her calloused ones and gave them a small shake, "I promise you I will never again bring another oaf. Do we agree?"

Her voice had dropped to a whisper. I copied her voice, ignoring that she had not answered my question. My stomach burped. "Yes. But can we agree to dinner? I bought two fishes. Missus Dwinfer was being mean, so I didn't buy bread. And we don't have firewood."

She sighed, "Ill get some."

I didn't like the sound of that, so I suggested that both of us head down to the river to gather wood and make a fire there. She smiled and tucked both fishes into her greatcoat. "Get your coat on. It will be cold tonight."

I grudgingly obeyed. I disliked coats. It didn't feel right to have no wind on my arms and back. At least, I never had felt such a wind yet. My coat was a dark brown, which made it easy to hide the dirt. "Hurry, Aley, we don't want to come back too late, do we?"

Mother was back in good spirits. That somehow comforted me. I adjusted the coat the way I had seen many older people do.

Mother went out the door and held it from the outside as I latched the door with a cloth. I clambered back upstairs and draped myself out the window. There were jutting bricks and splintering wood all along the side of the house, and I scrambled down quickly.

Racing to the front of the house, I smiled at mom. "Did it!" I clapped and danced a jig before grabbing her hand.

We paced ourselves to walk slowly down the street. I felt no hurry. If mother had nothing on her work table, it meant that we didn't have to get up early. It also meant very little to eat, as I remembered the fishes.

We passed the Harks. The two seemed to be opening shop, and I glanced at mom. I think she was thinking what I was, because a small smile played in her lips. "Good evening," she called out merrily.

The older of the Harks, who had a bleached tone to her skin and icy blue eyes, turned to regard us with a chilling look. "A good morning to you! The day is for work and not for play. Do you want to hear a story about a little girl who died because she did not work during the day?"

I never liked them, even though I have been among their audience many a times. We passed them and a merry feast of Buffons and headed to the spot where I had fallen asleep.

My mother gathered wood and quickly began a fire while I washed the fish and gutted them out. I regretted not doing it earlier. Gutting a fish by hand never was easy, but without the light it was a clumsy mess.

Mom took a stick and skewered the fishes over the fire. We sat there for what seemed like a long while, me watching her green and blue eyes sparkle in the flames and she telling me the fable surrounding the creation of the bridge.

"There was, not too many generations ago, a very harsh famine in the land. Crops were dying out everywhere, both here and over in Verlisia."

"You come from Verlisia right?" I'd heard this story many times, but only just as often as I asked about my mother's birthplace.

"Yes I do, but that, my sweet, is a different story. Anyway," she went on, turning the fishes, "there was a mason who was so hungry, he began grinding stone and selling it as flour. Perhaps not surprisingly, the Mayor of Rivercross, which is the Raymond's who live up on the hill over there." He she paused to gesture right across town back towards where the edge of the town met the forest, again.

"One day I'm going to burn Mister Raymond and his pompous bum."

"You have a lot to do one day, deary," my mother laughed. "Anyway, the Raymond of that generation found out about the deception. He sentenced the man to build the bridge with all the stones he had ground and for all of his descendants to repair the bridge for all generations, which is why the Keiths are so grumpy about anyone touching the bridge." Here she cackled a merry laugh, in which I joined.

"Mom," I asked, when we had recovered ourselves, "can we go to Droa someday? I've always dreamt of Droa! Jale's father says the glass castles there are beautiful!"

Her face stiffened somewhat. "Maybe, dearest. If we can get together enough money." She took the fishes from the fire and began blowing on them.

"I can find money fast," I volunteered, "I know where the Buffons keep their box."

"Not that way. Money quickly gotten is money quickly lost. Besides, if our neighbors saw us with lots of money suddenly, we would be suspect in any of their minds."

"Who cares what they think?" I asked, licking my teeth after biting into a fish. "They're all just Buffoons."

"You shouldn't make fun of people like that," mom laughed. “Besides, taking their money won’t get you anywhere. They aren’t as rich as they look. I do know they owe a lot of gold to the Mayor. You really shouldn’t be envying them.”

“Do you want to hear a story about Droa?” Without waiting for a reply, I took a deep breath and rattled out the story, word for word as I had heard it from the Harks. “In the mountains of Droa, ice storms are a frequent occurrence. Droans have a very interesting ritual. Every year, a competition is held for a Sacrifice. The best swordsman and woman among the youths are released in the peak of winter, to be hunted down by a pack of unicorns. While they live, the rest of the kingdom fasts. On the evening of the first death of the sacrifice, a feast is held. Here any unicorns which have been killed by the warriors are eaten. When the second sacrifice dies, a feast of fruit and honey is provided, at the expense of the king of Droa.”

“That’s not a very interesting story,” my mother interrupts.

“No, but since when did the Harks tell interesting stories?” I retorted, somewhat stung that my memory was not appreciated.

“You shouldn’t be listening to them so much, and we shouldn’t be staying out so late. Come on!” She picked herself from the ground and motioned for me to do the same.

I led the way as we made our way back home. The door was still shut, and I unlatched the door for her. We went upstairs, and she sang a sad lullaby about a dying bird. I went to sleep curled up against her, our threadbare blankets overlapping.

As each day passed, I remembered my alphabets better. I began to spell words. Words for which I thought there would be no use to put into writing. Words long and words short. I began to see straight lines. I even made a full tunic for myself, one that actually fit.

Time passed swiftly. I began to earn coppers running errands for the tradesfolk. Sometimes the traders would not pay what they promised. In every case, I tried my best to make them pay.

Three months before my eighth birthday, one of the many Keiths had me deliver a note to the Mayor. When I showed up at the Keith home to collect my pay of a silver, everyone denied ever seeing me come to the door, either that day, or the day previous. In the hopes of getting the silver, I decided to quicken their memory, quickly.

The Keith had a large shed at the back of their shop in which they moulded bricks. These were left unattended while they dried. Row upon row of dark red bricks stood in flaming ovens to dry. After being refused the silver, I went to the riverside and there found a small stick. It was as dry as a desert wind. In my fury, I intended to burn something down.

The low wall which surrounded the Keith house was a splendid example of poor masonry. Bricks fell out at every corner. Ivys grasped their way along the entire construction. The motar was crumbling. It was no surprise that they were the last house on Mason Row.

To the rear of the building stood the shed, widely spaced from anything else. It did not have anyone or anything around it. Nonetheless, I crept as stealthily as I could towards the ovens. There were seven of them, all standing unused.

The embers were still burning bright, and the trenches stood deep in coal. I smiled and searched about for something to do. There was a long trough filled to the brim with water. Moss was growing thick in the trough. I started cackling, but quickly clamped a hand over my mouth.

The trough was connected through cannels to each of the ovens, where it would fill and stop the flames if a fire broke out. I ran around the shed, unblocking all the valves. Then I began pumping.

I pumped for a very long while. My hands began to blister, sweat poured down my face, but at last, the trenches were filled. Each piece of coal was submerged fully in water. I clapped a merry laugh and dashed away. I threw the stick into a clump of bushes and straightened my clothes.

Standing still, I waited for my breath to catch up. I caught it after a while began cutting through side lanes to reach home.

I head-butted the door open and nearly collided into a large woman. She rose high above me, I had to crane my neck to painful angles just to see her face. Her hair swept the ceiling.

She barely fit between two of the tables, one of which had already been moved to accommodate her size. She was wearing a brightly colored yellow cotton dress, which I thought made her look like a bloated tent. A few months before, I would have spoke my mind, but a few heavy smacks had all but removed that from me. I simply kept silent. And smiled.

My mother stood measuring a small boy. I assumed it was for a shirt. The fat woman barked her dissatisfaction at the other tailors like they were flies to be swatted.

"How could Buffon be first tailor of the town?" She huffed, "he can't even see a straight line. I bought a skirt from him, and it broke apart when I was trying it on!" She followed this declaration with a slew of imprecations. I suppressed a smile.

Mom kept silent the whole time, busying herself with measurements, and then taking them again just so that she could have somethin to do. I could see that because she wasn't jotting down the numbers anymore. She jet kept the ruler at the boy's shoulder. The woman stopped for a breath. Mom rushed to the table of finer cloths. "Aley, come and help me pick out a nice green for me."

I crossed to stand beside her, my fingers swarming over the table as I tried to reach for a swab of cloth on the other end. I held my breath as I stretched, and my fingers touched the cloth. Letting out a huff, I got off the table and rounded it to pick the cloth out. "Stupid me." I grumbled softly. "This one? What about this?" I held out the cloth for inspection.

"No that just doesn't work for my son's eyes." The woman jabbered crossly.

I gritted my teeth and dropped the cloth. A sudden thought seized me and the words flew from my lips. "Where's your father?" I asked pointedly of the boy, "is he dead? Or working? Or did he leave you like he left us?"

The boy spun around, shock written all over his face. "How did. How." He stammered, and his tongue caught between his lips. His mother glared at me frostily. I cocked an eyebrow and let my head sag to one side, with my hair falling on to my shoulder. Suddenly, my mother cupped her mouth and dashed up the stairs.

I looked after her with furrowed brows. "What happened?" I asked innocently.

"You mother was about to throw up. Do you know how to sew?" The fat woman asked in a hasty tone.

"Yes." I answered meekly, my mind screaming for me to salvage the situation.

"Well get to it. Use that green right over there." She pointed to the cloth I had dropped. I growled inside. "And your mother has taken the measurements so there's no need for us to stay any longer. When you are done, send it to the Keith house, it's the last on Mason Row." She hurried out with the boy. Inwardly, I cackled a devious laugh. A thin smile played across my lips.

----------

I decided no t to split this as then the second chapter would be too short.