Oath Keeper

None may speak against the King, Kijamon knew. To do so would be treason. But any Djin could choose not to speak for him. This was the logic behind the Chorus of Silence, though it was a song that had not been sung in half a thousand years. The old Djin wormed his way down the narrow tunnel, inching forward on his belly, toward the small room that awaited him ahead, set deeply into the stone of the mountain behind the Wind Forge.

Sometimes called the Dragon’s Sinus, it was a chamber in which those who sought his voice could come to seek it in stillness. But for those who knew the secret, other voices could be summoned there as well, and that’s what he sought now, crawling forward in the darkness, as he had not done for many years. Kijamon paused and lifted the coverlight to shine into the tunnel ahead, peering after it into the darkness. He sighed. Still no sign of the chamber wall ahead. Once more the Master of the Wind Forge cursed himself for having dug this passage so deeply, and pushed the coverlight back into his vests. But curses would shift no gravel, so with his hands free once again, he put them to use and resumed his awkward slither into the gloom.

When he at last reached his destination and brought out his light again, Kijamon muttered in displeasure. He had forgotten how small the chamber was. All the better to hear, of course. The smaller the sphere, the more precisely it could be shaped to focus the sounds. But even so, he had carved the room large enough so that his own ear would rest at the precise center of the space when he stood upright.

Although, that had been when he was a young Djin, in the prime of his life. And the prime of his height. The old man grumbled irritably as he looked around and found the thick stone on the floor, which he dragged into the center of the chamber. It’s what it was there for, of course. But he had never imagined having to use it himself.

Stepping up onto the stone, Kijamon had to bend his knees a trifle, but eventually, his ear was at last centered in the room, and the dim and distant sounds of the Djin city fell away, leaving only the crushing silence of the world beyond. It was the soundless sound that had always filled the center of the chamber, and it waited there, patiently, ready for new sounds to be placed into it by others.

Kijamon leaned back slightly, bringing his mouth to where he felt his ear had marked the center. Then he puckered his lips and whistled. It was a low, steady note, but not quite right. Working on instinct, he raised the pitch of his whistle slowly, and shifted his weight to the left a bit. In a moment, he was rewarded with a rich, resonant sound, as though the Dragon himself whistled back. Such a thought was nonsense, of course. It was just his own tone reverberating in harmony with the sphere of the room. But such fanciful beliefs were fun to think sometimes, even if they were silly.

As the tone reverberated through the space and then trailed away, the blue stone of the cavern around him began to glow. The summons had been sent. Soon, the Masters of the other Great Houses would be alerted to a similar glow in their own chambers, and they would rush to find out who it was who had summoned the Chorus.

And the best part was, since there was only one such chamber in the entire city and he himself was standing in it, Mabundi would have no way of listening in on the discussion that was about to take place.

Kijamon pushed the cover light back into his vests and then settled himself to await the Chorus.

All the way down the Trail of Sky, Tayna wondered if she would ever get the chance to go back to searching for her family. She wasn’t complaining, exactly. It was awesome that she had been given such an important job, finding old maps to help her people and all that, but she couldn’t help feeling that it was just another distraction keeping her from family yours, home come. And she was close now. They were here, somewhere on the Anvil. She just knew it. But it was Zimu who put it into proper perspective for her when she grumbled about it.

“Will they still be at home when you reach them?” he asked. Abeni had been busy making a list of the things he wanted to take with them to the Wasketchin, and another list of things that should be prepared and sent along later. So he had been delighted when Zimu had offered to guide Tayna instead. And since he had questions of his own for the old historian, it only made sense.

Tayna blinked though, in response to his question. “You mean, do they still live there? I don’t know, but a girl can hope, right?”

Zimu smiled, but he shook his head. “No, I mean, with all that is happening in the Forest, and to your people, do you think that you will find them at home now?”

And of course, as soon as he asked, the answer was obvious. “No,” she said. “You’re right. They could be anywhere today, running from the Gnomes, or even captured already. They won’t go home again until all this is over. Probably.”

Zimu nodded. “So if you wish to find them, the best course for you to follow would be?”

And now Tayna had to grin at this crafty son of an even craftier father. “Let me guess. I should help bring all the troubles to an end maybe, so they can go home again?” Why did everything always sound so much more logical when a Djin said it? But curiously, now that he had said it, Tayna felt a sense of relief. She wasn’t avoiding her mission at all. She was actually doing it. Just not the way she’d expected. She was still puzzling over this latest wrinkle of thought when Zimu led her up to a large door and stopped.

“The Hall of Histories, I presume?”

Beside her, Zimu nodded. According to both him and Abeni, behind that door lay a vast room filled with delicate old scrolls, heaped in scholarly disarray, but rich in the smells and even the artifacts of the stories they told. Tayna could almost see the famous sword, lying chipped and dented next to the scroll that recorded its tale. All waiting for her, just beyond this door. Well, not a sword, maybe. Not in a world that had known thousands of years of Peace. But a famous shoe, perhaps. Or the Grand Gem of Something Awesome. Whatever they were, the room she saw in her head was filled with the trinkets and treasures of a thousand tales, each one a touchstone that would launch the wizened old traveler who now cared for them into another tale of past exploits and lessons learned. It was this very warehouse of adventures, curated by Bosuke himself, that had first ignited the imagination of a young Abeni. And Tayna was about to see both for the very first time. Her skin prickled with anticipation. “I’ll take what’s behind door number one please, Zimu,” she said, waving her hand imperiously at the entrance in front of them.

What they found, once Zimu had pulled the great door open however, was nothing at all like what she’d expected. Here, the walls were lined with rows upon rows of boxes, each set deeply into the stone, each the same depth, and each holding exactly one curled spool of paper. If there were any trinkets, keepsakes or touchstones, they were not visible. This was not the tantalizing explorastorium that Abeni had described to her. This was a records office. A cold and emotionless storage depot for scraps of paper, each to be filed and counted, and perhaps rolled a quarter turn clockwise, once each half year.

Tayna could feel Zimu tense up beside her as he too looked around, startled into blinking rigidity. Clearly, the room was not as he remembered it either.

“Have you made an appointment?” said a voice. Tayna had to look around twice before she saw the middle-aged Djin, stooped over near the back wall, making marks on a board as he counted the cubby-holes. He had not turned to face them.

“We have questions for the Master of Histories,” Zimu said.

“Come back later,” the man replied, still counting the holes in the wall in front of him. “I’m busy just now.”

Tayna caught the unmistakable aura of no-sayer coming from the guy. Like the Goodies and most of the adults she’d ever encountered in connection with them, there were some people who just seemed to live for the chance to say, “No.” As if saying it gave them power. “Hello, dear. How was your day?” “Delightful. I gave out 38 ‘nos’ today, and 17 ‘not until next week at the earliests.’” “Oh, what fun! Let’s celebrate!” “No.” “Ha ha ha ha ha!” Tayna hated no-sayers.

While Zimu stood there fuming by her side, clenching and unclenching his massive fists in an effort to calm himself, Tayna marched into the Hall, walked up behind the man, and ‘accidentally’ knocked the board from his hand.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, bending over to pick up the board and then holding it out sweetly in front of her. “If you could just tell the Master of Histories that we’re here…”

The officious Djin straightened himself up and sniffed indignantly as he snatched the board from her hands. “I am the Master of Histories,” he said. “Wijen. Now I told you, I’m busy. Come back later. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“You are not,” Zimu said, his tongue finally jolted into action by the insolent tone of the box-ticker in front of them. “Bosuke is Master of Histories. Summon him.”

“You really have been living in a pit, haven’t you, boy?” Wijen drew himself up to full height, as though he thought to intimidate Zimu, but he quickly abandoned that ploy when he realized just how big Zimu really was. “I tell you again. Bosuke is not the Master of Histories. He was, but now that duty is mine, and I mean to do it properly. Now leave me. As I said, I’m busy.” Then he turned back to his wall of holes.

“But where is Bosuke?” Zimu demanded.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Wijen responded, waving a hand at them over his shoulder. “The door’s back there somewhere. Use it. And begone.”

Tayna could sense Zimu’s rising anger, but before he could work himself to a full boil, she put a hand on his arm. She knew how to deal with no-sayers. Stepping past Zimu, she addressed herself to the historian’s back. “Oh, we are sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Wijen. Yes, of course we’ll let you get back to your work.” Then she turned back toward the door and pulled at Zimu’s arm, urging him to follow her lead. “I’m afraid Wijen can’t see us just now, Zimu. We’ll come back tomorrow. I just hope they aren’t all dead by then. I’m sure the King will understand.”

They had almost reached the entrance when Wijen’s voice called out behind her. “The King?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Tayna called back over her shoulder, as she pushed Zimu ahead of her toward the door. “Just something about wanting to gather the scatterlings. And about getting them out before the attack. Bye, Mr. Wijen.”

“Wait! That’s absurd!” the historian shouted. Tayna heard his counting board clatter to the floor again, dropped no doubt in his haste to rush after her. A moment later, she felt his hand grab at her arm. She allowed herself to be turned back toward the man, and greeted him with a smile of concern.

“Mr. Wijen? Is something wrong?”

“Gather up the scatterlings? It can’t be done!” he said. “And what attack?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she said. “I just know that we were to ask you where those poor people could be found. Before it’s too late. But I don’t know anything more. We’ll come back tomorrow, as you suggested.” Once again, she turned her back on the man, and again he grabbed at her arm.

“But girl, they can’t be gathered up! Not in a day. It would take weeks. Possibly months. They’re called scatterlings because that’s what they are: scattered. They’re everywhere. Strewn about the flanks of the Anvil, scattered across the Plateau. There are even some living down in the undertowns. But never do they gather in large numbers. There’s only ever two of them together, or four or three. Never more. Here, look,” he said, then he scurried to one of the holes in the wall and came back. At the low table beside her, he rolled it out. “See? Look here at this map. See? Here, and here, and all those over there. And up here. These are all undertowns. The Plateau is infested with them. And there could be scatterlings in every single one of them, not to mention a thousand other places. You’d never gather them in time.”

“Really?” Tayna said, pursing her lips and looking down at the map in feigned concentration. Then she lifted the scroll out of the historian’s hands to squint at it more closely. “As many as that, you say?”

“Well that will certainly upset Mabundi’s plans,” she said. “Will you come with us to tell him yourself? I’m sure he’ll want to thank you for pointing out his error.” The Djin’s face paled in horror.

“Oh, no! I mean, I’ve got so much to do here, and it’s all quite plain on the map, really. Just take that and show him. I’m sure he’ll work out an even better plan once he sees it.”

Tayna pursed her lips, as though frowning in unaccustomed thought. Then she looked up. “Well, I don’t want to take all the credit for correcting him,” she said. “Are you sure you won’t come?” By this point, Tayna could barely keep her laughter contained. The look of horror on the man’s face was just too much fun. But on the outside, she just smiled sweetly when he again refused. “Okay then. Well, thank you so much, Mr. Wijen. You’ve been so helpful. We’ll just take this and let you get back to your important work.”

She turned away from the flustered Djin, tucking the map neatly under her arm, and headed for the door. Zimu fell into step alongside her, and a moment later, they were in the corridor, with the Hall door closed firmly at their backs.

“The Little Fish is well named,” Zimu said. “She is very slippery, and darts quickly in unexpected directions.” There was laughter in his voice, and Tayna laughed along with him.

“No-sayers are all the same,” she said. “Just start talking about secrets and important people, and they all turn into yes-men.

“But where is Bosuke?” Zimu asked.

To that, Tayna had no answers.

Most people Shaleen knew liked to seek the quiet heart of the Sinus when they had a question to put, but she herself had never understood how such a dark and isolated little cave could be expected to connect her with any great current of inspiration. How could you foster new ideas by shutting yourself away from all the currents of the world? When Shaleen needed insight, she much preferred the Dowager’s Leap—the proud jut of stone that erupted from the back of the Anvil’s shoulder, just a little ways downslope from the notch of the city. Tradition had it that the Dowager Queen, Xolile, had spent many long days upon that spar of rock, seeking answers to her pressing questions. If any Djin had ever been plagued by doubts and a need for inspiration, it had been Xolile, widowed queen to the king who had forged the Dragon’s Peace—and then died, leaving his widow to forge a nation. If the Leap had been good enough for that fabled queen, who had hammered the rough iron of a hundred power-hungry warlords into a single peaceful and honorable society of artisans and craftsmen… Well then, it was plenty good enough for a heartsick mother too.

Shaleen had not yet told her husband, had not wanted to pile her troubles atop his own, but she had not been sleeping of late. Not since word had first been brought of Sarqi’s capture by the Gnome King. And it had only worsened since Abeni and the girl had arrived, adding their own stories of Angiron’s malice to what she already knew of him. She had met the First Prince of the Gnomes on a number of occasions, and not once had she come away feeling anything other than itchy. The Gnome prince made her twitch, in her heart. It was a feeling she could not describe, but there was something about the way he spoke, the way he stood, the way he breathed. Everything about him made her… itch. As though his very presence had scratched a wound somewhere inside her, and her mind could not leave alone with its poking and prodding at it. And now, to think that her most sensitive and complicated son was captive to a being such as that. Well, surely it was understandable that a mother could not sleep with her son in such peril.

The journey from the Wind Forge to the Leap was not a difficult one, but it was not easy either, and when Shaleen finally reached it, she stood there for a moment to gather herself. The long, black finger of dragonstone erupted from a field of loose scree, stabbing into the eye of the sky like an accusation. The field of dusty rubble from which it emerged had flaked from the grayish slopes above, but there wasn’t so much as a single black pebble to be found that might have fallen from the Leap itself. Dragonstone simply did not appear to weather or age. It was an otherness, curious and distinct from everything around it. Shaleen had often wondered why this might be so. What could cause a spear of such different stuff to emerge from out of the mountain like that, with no sign of kinship to any of the stone around it? Not that the question held any great import, one way or the other. It was just a passing curiosity. Part of the litany of thoughts she wandered over whenever she prepared herself here, making herself ready to ascend the tower and throw her question to the winds. Already she could feel them flowing around her, tugging at her vests and shawl, teasing her with a hundred different thought-tastes at once. It was time.

Quickly, before the feeling could pass, Shaleen clambered up the finger of stone—damp with rocksweat, as dragonstone always was—and stood proudly upon its tip, a flattened area no larger than her bed. From this place, there was only Shaleen and the sky and the wind between them. A wind that had scoured the world, touching upon every being who lived, snatching up their breath, and their sweat, and the particles of their skin, and even their ideas, then flinging it all up into the sky and carrying it here. To where she now stood. Her own mind was an unmoving nexus in the cacophony that swirled around her. A cacophony that she now gave shape, channeling the winds and the sweat and the ideas into threads, and the threads into voices, and the voices into harmony. A symphony out of chaos. A symphony of raw inspirations that washed over her. Around her. Through her.

And into this symphony, she called out her question. “Hear me, Song of Life! Wind of the World! Hear the plea of a mother, worried for her son. Of a woman, worried for her people. I have need of news, but no place to seek it. The world boils in a kettle with no spout, and soon it will burst. I must know of Sarqi and of the Gnome King, but I have no messengers to send to my son, nor he to me. How can I hear the words that cannot be sent? How can I learn the thoughts that cannot be spoken?”

Then she stood still. And listened.

In truth, it was as much meditation as listening, but she liked to think of it as listening. She tried to detach herself from her pressing need for answers, and instead, open herself to the voices of suggestion that flowed past her on the wind. It was as Kijamon had said. “The spirit of invention is not a muscle one can clench, nor even a place one goes in the mind. It is an opening. An emptying. A removal of the self, to be replaced by an awareness of the else. One does not create an idea—one becomes aware of it. Like a mouse nibbling grain in a corner, one cannot see or hear it until one has settled all the noises and commotions and distractions from the world. Leaving only the mouse. And in that stillness, his nibbles will become his roar.”

So Shaleen stood there, on the fingertip of the Dowager’s Leap, with her eyes closed and her arms stretched out, touching all of the winds she could gather. She emptied her mind of all that she could jettison, save the one question on her mind.

Waiting for an idea is not like waiting for a friend, or waiting for soup to boil. One always knows that, in time, the friend will come. If not today, then tomorrow. If not for lunch, then perhaps for supper. So too, the soup will eventually boil. But inspiration carries no certainty. One can stand for an hour, or a day, or even a lifetime, and never be certain whether an idea will occur in the following minute, or never at all.

So waiting for inspiration, especially regarding a question so entangled by love and fear and need, was an ordeal of its own.

Shaleen waited patiently, for half a day. It was not a test of endurance. From time to time, she would lower her arms and walk around in a small circle, flapping blood and warmth back into her fingers against her sides, but such respites were always short, and as quickly as she could, Shaleen would resume her posture and let her feelings flow back out into the streamers of the wind. How does one send messages over distances? The wind could carry shouted words over many strides—one hundred, two hundred, perhaps even more—but Sarqi was many leagues distant. Much too far for a voice to carry on the wind.

She wondered too, about Kijamon’s Chorus of Silence. Some special charm he had devised for speaking across great distance, among the more powerful Houses, but she did not know the how of it, and he would say little, only assuring her that it could be of no assistance in her present quest. Was it some charm of mind-touching?

It was said that, long ago, before the Peace, some creatures who then walked the world had possessed the power to speak mind to mind over great distances. But none of their kinds had been known since the time of Xolile herself, if truly they had ever existed at all.

Round and round her mind whirled, spun in the currents of wind and cold, and the further she wandered in her thoughts, the more frantic she became, fearing that there was no answer. That Sarqi truly was alone in his misery, and she in hers. Oh, Sarqi, how can I reach you?

And then he was there.

The surprise of his voice settling upon her mind, with such force and such abruptness, rocked Shaleen backward on her heels, and she stumbled. “Sarqi?” she said, whispering the words into the wind.

“I am…” But the words faded. For a moment, Shaleen feared that he had somehow come and gone before anything could be said. But as his voice faded, the images began, flooding her in rapid succession as his mind skimmed in chaotic fashion. He had tasted of some Gnomileshi elixir and it flowed through him now. Quickly his story unfurled in her mind. Impossible memory images of a giant white-furred beast, and a battle with Gnomes. The Spinetop. A pile of stone slabs beside a river. Of capture and escape. Tunnels in darkness. Of rescuing the Wasketchin Queen! But all too quickly, the images faded away, and Shaleen opened her eyes to see the sky teetering before her. She reached out to her son again, only to find what she already knew.

The elixir had swept him beyond the place where he could touch her mind, but it had been enough. More than enough. Oh my son! My beautiful and capable son! To think that she had dared hope only that he survived. And then to learn this. Such wondrous news beyond hoping! More than alive, he was free! And from his captivity, he had dragged a powerful gift. A mighty gift! M’Ateliana, captured by Gnomes, but then delivered from them before they learned of their fortune. By her wonderful, wonderful son! This was news that must reach the Wasketchin King.

Shaleen turned and scrambled her way back down the Leap. Abeni and Tayna must leave at once!

When Tayna went to bed that night, it was with the jangling accompaniment of an electric current burning through her skin. At least, that’s how it felt. So much seemed to be going on, and as usual, most of it seemed to be orbiting around her. Since the family had gone into action mode, things were happening quickly now, and it was hard to keep it all straight in her head. She need to talk it out, put it in some kind of order.

And who better to write to, than a powerless god who listens to frightened children but does nothing useful about what she hears?

But lying there in the dark, her head whirling too fast to let sleep slip through, Tayna realized that maybe all those old letters to Shammi really had served a purpose. She had always been so focused on the suspicion that nobody was out there listening, that she forgot there was one other important person who needed to hear it all laid out too.

Only, she didn’t exactly need to write it down for that to happen, did she? All she really needed was to think it through, in logical order, as though it were a letter, but without all the accessories.

With that, Tayna rolled over onto her back and began to “write.”

So here I am at Abeni’s house, at the top of the Anvil, and things are going so fab! It’s such a cool place, and there’s so much to tell, but I’m too excited to go over all the old news. Let me just say: Miseratu, ice fields, Judgment, Gnomes, refugees, more Gnomes, kings, Keshwa-Ji, and more kings. There. You’re now up to speed. (grin)

Okay, seriously. I’ll tell you about all of that later. Right now I’ve got to tell you about the really important stuff.

Most of it’s all chuckles, but the Hall of Histories turned out to be totally lame. I was really looking forward to meeting this Bosuke guy everyone keeps talking about, but it turns out he flaked, and now they’ve put some office-bozobot in charge. Imagine, running a library like a bank! Anyway, tomorrow morning, we’ll ask around and see if we can find out where Bosuke went. I totally foxed the map from Wijen, but Abeni thinks Bosuke probably knows more useful intel that hasn’t even been marked down yet, and Zimu really needs to talk to him too, so finding him will probably be good. Plus, having something to do in the morning will be extra helpful, because if I don’t have something to do, I’ll probably flip a squirrel, worrying about this whole Mabundi thing tomorrow. (See above. Specifically “kings” and “more kings.” Don’t worry about it. I’ll fill you in later.)

Speaking of Abeni, you should see this enormous list he wrote. It’s like he wants to take half the Anvil down to help Malkior and the Wasketchin. Kijamon told him he could have it all, if he really wanted it, but that it would take six months, so he should probably write a shorter list and just concentrate on what he needs first. So now the big goof is all grumpy, and he’s still up, making a smaller list. But he’d better hurry. We’re supposed to be leaving first thing, the day after tomorrow, and somebody is still going to have to build and pack whatever we’re taking. It’s kinda funny seeing him here with his family. He’s so much more like a kid than his usual wise and powerful adventure Djin. Turns out the “wise and powerful” bit is sort of a family thing.

So is crankiness, now that I think about it. House Kijamon doesn’t like stupidity much. It makes them all growly. Like, today Kijamon went to sing his Song of Whispers, or whatever it was he called it. Well it worked, so “Yay!” But it turns out the other Houses are kind of dragging their heels now, and Kijamon’s having a fit, but can you blame them? They’ve been moaning for weeks about how Mabundi seems to spend all his time here, and then the guy in charge of here contacts them on the bat-phone to tell them the King’s insane and we might need to put a bullet in him. Okay, those are my words, not his, but you get the idea. What were they supposed to say? “Oh, okay, Kijamon, go ahead and whack the King and take over yourself. We’ve got your back?” Yeah, right.

But I can’t really blame Kijamon either. The other Houses want to talk and talk and talk about what to do, but they don’t get how bad things are, and how fast they’re getting worse. Still, he’s a pretty impressive guy, so he’ll probably get it sorted out. Everybody pretty much worships him around here, and you should see him work a crowd. Everyone talks, and everyone answers, and somehow, it all gets processed.

Oh, that reminds me. You will not believe what Shaleen found out. Sarqi is alive! And not just alive, but it sounds like he’s throwing down with Angiron and the Gnomes all over the place, and kicking hairy butt! Not only did he manage to break out of Gnome prison, but he got somebody else out too. Somebody important. You ready for this?

Who could Angiron have in his prison camp that would absolutely destroy Malkior and kick the sails out of all the Wasketchin? Queen M’Ateliana, right? Well that’s exactly who they had! Only they didn’t know it. So Sarqi tosses around some wocky-socky-hiya! action, and soon he’s strolling around, free as you please, with Queen freaking M’Ateliana along for the ride! You should see how proud everybody is. Even me! I mean, Sarqi is a bit of a sourball, but I gotta admit, he came through big time on this.

Now all he has to do is figure out where Malkior is, and then he can get her home, safe and sound. But don’t ask me how Shaleen got all this, because it sounds like fairy dust and wishing to me. She goes up to some middle-finger-in-the-sky rock and asks it questions, and it answers her. I don’t get it, but everybody else does, so I’ve gotta trust them on that.

Anyhow, that just leaves tomorrow, and I’d tell you all about it, but I don’t want to scare you. Or me. Let’s just say I’ll fill you in after it’s all over. Okay?

And that’s it. Did you know that mountains have thin air and long days? Well they do, and now I’ve gotta get me some zee-time. I’d ask you to write back, but we’re past that now, right? So if you do have any questions, just wake me up and ask. I’ll be the doofus drooling on the bed with her eyes closed.

See ya when I see ya,
Tayna of the Mountain.

With her skin still crackling and buzzing like she was on fire, Tayna rolled over and pulled the pillow up over her head. She’d sleep now for a while. If she could.

And tomorrow she’d find out if she had sparked a civil war.

Tayna came awake blind and confused. The darkness around her was absolute and the tendrils of sleep were slow to withdraw. She could almost feel them pulling away from her, like a silk scarf being dragged across her face, leaving confused questions in its wake. Where was she? Could be anywhere. The Old Shoe? Veest’s dehn? The Cold Shoulder? She had been dreaming of voices in the night… Slowly, the scarf withdrew further and the answers began to swim up out of the dark. Kijamon’s house. Abeni’s old bedroom.

There was a scratching noise, but she couldn’t see. It came from the far side of the room, over near the corner. Wasn’t that where the window was? It would have been visible if there had been any light in the sky to see by.

Tayna rolled off the low bed as silently as she could, and felt around the table until her fingers settled on the coverlight. She snatched it up but she couldn’t find the seams of the leather cover. “Dammit, I need light.” The seam must have popped at that point, because now a faint blue light flickered in her hand, revealing the dim shapes of the room. She waved the lamp around three times, peering long and hard into the corners before she was satisfied that nothing was crouching at the edge of vision, waiting to jump her. Just a dream, then.

She was about to turn over and go back to sleep when she heard the scratching again, along with a hoarse whisper. “Come! We must flee. Now!”

The voice had come from the open window.

Tayna held the light in front of her as she slipped from the bed and advanced cautiously toward the window.

“Who’s there? What do you want?”

“It is Abeni. Come! Quickly!”

“What? Abeni? What are you talking about?” Suddenly, his big face pushed in through the window, where coverlight lit him from below, making the expression of near-panic on his face seem all the more sinister.

“Abeni has spoken to an old friend,” he said, his voice wavering between fear and anger. “Mabundi denies the Keshwa-Ji. He has given the Gnome permission to take any Wasketchin girls found within House Kijamon.”

“What?” Tayna hissed. “How can he—?” But Abeni shook his head.

“There is no time!” he urged. “Quishek comes at any moment. Perhaps even now. We must flee!”

“Just a minute,” Tayna whispered. “I’ll go tell Shaleen.”

“No?” Tayna said, cocking her head as though she hadn’t heard him right. “Why not? Shouldn’t we at least tell your parents?”

“It is very important,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “All must be able to deny knowledge. To defy Mabundi’s decision would be… bad. For any of my House who had knowledge. Abeni has left signs. They will know. But they will not know. Now come!”

So just when she thought she’d get a chance to explain things to Mabundi and settle everybody down, now it was all sliding down a mountain again. And even faster than anybody had guessed too. Why did trouble always have to come in Gnome clothing?

Tayna dressed quickly and then hopped up onto the low sill of the window, taking a last look back into the room to be sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. Abeni pointed at the light in her hand and shook his head. Great. Now she’d have to run away in total blackness too. Tayna sighed and tossed the coverlight back onto the bed. “Sorry Shaleen. It’s been nice.” Then she eased herself through the slot window and followed Abeni out into the darkness. It was official.

Chapter 23