The sky-cycle cut through the clouds, and Xenon laughed as a sudden updraft blew the hem of her square-cloak right over her head. She pulled the fabric free with one hand while keeping her other hand steady on the throttle. Mercury grabbed the flapping cloak’s hem and jammed it down into the edge of her piloting sister’s belt—it had become a tediously common occurrence during their days of flight. They would be humming along, magenta light spooling out behind them, goblin eyes wide at the vast and beautiful landscape beneath them, then whop—faceful of cloak. Xenon snickered as her younger sister grumbled—her cloak was perfect for travel and investigating clammy ruins or burning sands—but it patently was not intended for the air speeds that Tobio could reach.
“Take off the cloak!” Mercury spat in her ear.
“Nope!” Xenon laughed and straightened her goggles. Something about the way it flapped against her shoulders felt proper and just—plus the wind’s bite and the high altitude made the skies a fierce torrent of cold.
The last silver-white vestiges of the cloudbank parted and the city of Corinth lay before them, like a child’s plaything. The surrounding grassland green, broken occasionally by outcroppings of sheer granite and thin copse of oak and elm, smashed up against the gray-stone walls of the city like a verdant wave. Xenon took a long breath of cold fall air and wished she could make her eyes go wider, or pause their descent a moment so she could sketch it all in her journal. The city walls were vast slabs of granite, surely quarried from the surrounding countryside—but each slab showed a hundred scars. Scorch marks, cracks wide enough for a goblin to stick his hand in, a pockmarked graveyard of abandoned steel rusting away in the walls, arrowheads, lances, halberds, and glaives—all flung by the champions of evil come to lay siege to the crown city of Gilead. Time itself seemed to be the greatest beast savaging the high walls; the simple erosion of rain and sun had widened the gaps between slabs to the point where industrious soldiers were working now to construct wooden palisades and gates in between the dwindling granite. Corinth was a city that had known the hammer and the breaking of stones, and every shattered line of building or errant cobblestone street carried the memory of the days when darkness had beaten down her defenders and made vicious festival in the home of the righteous.
And yet the sun shone down on Gilead’s capitol as if it could not remember Night. From every tower, every high place, the brave blue flags flew and snapped in the wind. Blue for the sky, where the priests of the Nameless God teach that all valor is recognized. A white circle, for the will of the heart that cannot be broken. Inside the circle, three blue swords crossed. Rage, Fear, Despair—all bound by Faith. Xenon turned the sky-cycle into a slow banking arc across the northern face of the city, information running through her head. Gilead had never been her specialty, but there were things that any scholar worth their salt knew by heart. The small country, really a city-state with allied territories across a small corner of the continent of Eridia, had managed to involve itself in far more than its proper share of history. The Dragoon War. The MNO Incident. The Sandwich Rebellion, where Carroway broke free of the domination of the Dwarven empire. The Swords of the Faith, found in every major conflict for hundreds of years. Always on the side of Good. The goblin’s academic brain quivered at this last thought, a shallow mealymouthed platitude. It was the sort of statement put in children’s history texts, not the thing a true researcher would accept at face value. Tobio flew lower across the spine of the city, and she shrugged off her quibble. Of course it’s hard to assign such gross qualifiers as “Good” and “Evil” to historic events—but I think it’s a reasonably safe approximation to assign “Evil” to the Red Wizard and his armies. And “Good” to the Knights of the Nameless. The Knights of Gilead have always answered the call of any other country in peril and nearly lost their own country many times. This is the place where I’ll find help with Shame.
The interior of the city showed a veritable maze of cobblestone streets, old architecture next to new in haphazard reconstruction. The three largest structures that caught her eye were the vast Temple of the Nameless in the center of town, the Academy where the soldiers and knights of the Legion were trained, and the grand castle of the king pushed forward through the granite walls of the city facing the empty plains. Any approaching army would fall upon the walls of the Keep first, like a shield thrust out through the granite. Many researchers had remarked how unusual it was for royalty to place its seat in the location of greatest danger. An example or an error? Xenon wondered.
“Hey!” Mercury’s sharp fist banged her ribs. “Where are we going to park?”
Xenon shook her head to clear it and peered down below. “Uhh. I don’t really know?”
The vast warren of gray-and-black streets wound beneath them. Her sister stood up on the back of the cycle, using Xenon’s shoulder as a brace. “There!” the young goblin pointed down toward a wide, flat area adjacent to the Academy. It was a large field with short-cropped grass, with a few other small airships docked, their anchor lines swaying in the breeze. Of course. The knights would want to keep an eye on any travelers arriving via air. High-profile merchants, diplomatic envoys, and archaeologists bearing vague warnings about uncertain danger from over a thousand years ago. Xenon grinned but felt a spike of anxiety in her stomach. It was the sixth of Towerspan, still over a month before the Precursor’s dragon prison would open and . . . what? What happens then, scholar? She laid on the throttle and tried to outrun her confusion and concern. I have time. Still have time. It doesn’t matter what happens when it opens; something here can help me stop it from happening.
Her cloak came unstuck and flopped into her face again.
Mercury howled in frustration, pulled the fabric free, and held it out of the way, her sharp teeth grinding loud enough to be heard over the wind. Tobio rolled slightly as Xenon adjusted to the movement, making their landing slightly more dramatic than she would have liked, missing the prow of a crimson-stained sloop by inches. She did her best to ignore the angry shouts from the sloop’s Dwarven captain as her fingers ran along the sky- cycle’s console. As the cycle settled onto the grass, she slipped the metal bangle free from its customary place around the handlebars and locked it into place on her wrist. The command- circle resonated with the aerolith that powered Tobio—it meant that no one could activate or fly the sky-cycle without it being present, a useful deterrent against theft. Her sister was already off the cycle, stalking around the perimeter of their landing area and yelling back at the sloop’s captain with one hand on her dagger. Xenon shouldered her travel bag and slid down to the ground, hoping to stave off any immediate bloodshed.
“You can’t be thundermad about a thing that didn’t even happen, stonefoot.” Mercury wagged her head, red bone-clips clattering. The dwarf shook his fist and bellowed a response, to which the goblin sneered. “Eh, punch water and die on an ant bed!”
“Mercy, you really can’t talk that way,” Xenon moaned, then noticed a figure trotting across the green field toward them, a scroll-board in hand.
It was a tall young woman with straight yellow hair that fell to her waist, contrasting with her dark skin and black tunic. She wore a simple breastplate held on with leather straps that bore the three crossed swords of Gilead etched in the metal, an unadorned rapier at her side. “Hail and . . .” she began, then stopped to blow out her cheeks and catch her breath. “Sorry, you caught me by surprise, and it was quite a sprint to this end of the landing field. I am Ganalie Cadet, Sparrow Unit. Welcome to Corinth and the land of Gilead, travelers. Who are you and what business have you here?”
Ganalie turned her attention to the scroll-board in her hand and plucked a chunk of glasschalk from a cunning slot recessed into the bottom of the board. She raised the writing instrument expectantly.
Xenon took a breath, then abruptly spun to clap her hands over her younger sister’s mouth. Mercury’s eyes exploded with wrath at being denied an opportunity to further embarrass her sister and complicate their journey. Sharp goblin teeth gnawed on her fingers, but Xenon did not release her grip, only with as much gravity as possible ignored the ravening beast between her palms and politely answered the cadet’s questions.
“My name is Xenon, and this is my sister, Mercury. We are from Pice. I’m a scholar, here to do some research and also to request assistance from . . . OW.” Her sister’s canines had found purchase in her right palm.
“She has no idea who to request assistance from, strawmane.” Mercury swaggered up to the cadet and eyed Ganalie’s rapier with open admiration. “She found out about some thing, some bad dragon thing that’s going to happen.”
Ganalie had been filling out the docking form and nodding, but on “bad dragon thing” her eyes had slowly risen, and now she was looking at the two goblins with a mix of concern and confusion. “I could take you to my unit commander or maybe even to one of the knight instructors?”
Is that what I want? Xenon ran a bleeding hand down her face and pushed her goggles up. “No, thank you, Cadet. There is no need to—” What? Go get an adult wearing lots of steel to come figure this out for me?
In the days of flight, the archaeologist had sifted her predicament most carefully, trying to separate the sand of delay from the few shards of fossil-possibility. She was sure that Enton’s clue was solid; Corinth was the place to be to find some aid, or the next piece of the puzzle. But what do I do? I could turn this over to the knights, but it would take a great deal of luck to convince them of the severity of the danger. I have a few scrolls, my journal, and a report of a Precursor urn that I cannot even show to them. The spike of anxiety in her gut became a spear, and Xenon felt the weight of the clock on her shoulder. Time was passing and the Precursor’s dragon prison was returning, and every moment she blinked in the concerned face of the cadet was another moment she could never reclaim on her quest.
“No need to take us to them so abruptly, Cadet. I have some research that I would wish to share, but it is not complete. What would be the proper method to seek audience with the Legion, if my work bears fruit?” Good! Collected, polite, leaves the door open for later. Xenon congratulated herself. Mercury spat on the green turf.
Ganalie ran a finger along her forehead, guiding a long shower of blonde hair to a better position out of her eyes, then cocked her head in thought. “Any citizen of Gilead can visit the Academy and ask to speak to one of the knight instructors, or the commandant. But, as you are an outsider, it might take some time before you were heard, and your words might take even longer to reach their hearts. I could help you, though—my mentor is Sir Dryden, a Knight of the Scroll. Come find me in the cadet barracks, Sparrow Unit, and I’ll invite you up to tea with him. Knights of the Scroll are the spy masters of our order, and Sir Dryden would be both more interested and more likely to aid you. He’s a . . . outsider, like you.”
The cadet looked away at these last words and Xenon’s eyes widened. Outsider. That must be the colloquial, semipolite way of saying “not human.” Unlike most major city-states on the continent, Gilead’s population was almost completely human. Ah, those qualifiers are already beginning to show cracks under close observation. Racism! Not unexpected in an isolated geographic location with a monolithic faith and governmental structure. Xenon felt a little of her mother’s iron enter her spine. But “outsider”?!? Don’t they know that goblins are one of the three native races of this planet? Humans are the outsiders; most experts in the field place their arrival at approximately a thousand years after the Precursors arrived. We were here before all of them! “Goblins for might, and elves for grace, and dragons for will” as the Pondiver Doggerel goes. She made herself smile and nod to the slender cadet; the tall human was offering to help them after all.
“Why are you being so accommodating, suntower?” Mercury crossed her arms with naked suspicion.
Ganalie looked confused, then repeated her elegant hair adjustment. “Why wouldn’t I be helpful? It is my duty to aid the new arrivals, and also part of my oath as a cadet. My sword is ready for any noble deed.”
The younger goblin squinted up at Ganalie, then slowly backed away, never taking her eyes off the cadet. Xenon slipped in between her sister’s field of vision and waved her hands apologetically. “Thank you for your help, Ganalie. Is there any fee for leaving our vehicle parked for a few days? Could you suggest lodging that is—err—reasonably priced?” She tried very hard not to clutch at the extremely lean coin purse at her side.
“Your vessel can remain here as long as needed; you are a guest of Corinth. I have your name and business here, so we will find you in the city if we need to adjust the landing area if a larger ship arrives.” Ganalie’s voice became businesslike as she returned to the rote passages of her duty. “If your stay will extend beyond a fortnight, we do require that you return to the landing field to check in with the flight squire. No departures after sundown, except in case of emergency.”
Xenon surreptitiously stroked her coin purse in relief. She and her sister had eaten lean on the way to Corinth, but she had no idea how long her vanishing store would need to sustain them.
“As for lodging . . .” Ganalie seemed slightly embarrassed again. “You may want to avoid the inns on Cooper’s Row as they do not welcome outsiders. The Weary Titan next to the northern Shield Wall would be best.”
Xenon gritted her teeth in irritation and turned to gaze off toward the sagging granite wall that the cadet indicated. Easy enough to find. And well away from all these fine humans.
“Also, a warning to be on your guard. A wild mage has been savaging several small towns in the vicinity. It is reported to have the form of a young girl, with a swath of hair as white as snow. If you see it, please sound the alarm immediately and bring it to the attention of the closest soldier of the Legion.”
A wild mage? The archaeologist turned back in alarm. “Really? How reliable are these reports? One hasn’t been seen in decades.”
Ganalie nodded. “We’ve had survivors from the burned towns and reliable witnesses from the slaughter it brought to Shiloh. It might not be a wild mage, it could be some other form of mad demon or dark spirit, but there is definitely something out there and it is incredibly dangerous. Our instructors were very clear.”
“Shiloh! Wow, we almost stopped in Shiloh,” Xenon looked across the back of the sky-cycle to where her sister was gathering the rest of their paltry gear. Mercury shrugged, nonplussed by their near miss with unbelievable danger.
Xenon’s mind started to flip through all the information she had on wild mages, but she made herself stop. There’s a whole army worrying about that problem, and you are the only one trying to unravel Shame. “Thank you for the warning, cadet, and the assistance. I suppose we’ll be off.” The goblin took one step forward, only to find it immediately mirrored by Ganalie with her scroll-board between them like a shield.
“There’s one last thing. Could I say the blessing of the Nameless for you?” the cadet implored.
Xenon looked down at her sister. Mercury looked back, then shrugged. Their family kept the gods as distant neighbors. You were aware of their presence, and were not above borrowing a cup of sugar when needed, but they were not regular guests underneath their roof. Taking their silence as assent, Ganalie pressed her scroll-board to her chest and closed her eyes. She spoke with simple, unaffected faith.
“Time and wave, sun and wind, night and fire, moons and stone. We walk through the world Only Once. Only one life is given by the Nameless. It is a gift, a burden. A challenge, a duty. To not waste it. To serve the Highest. To the end of the Path, with our honor intact.”
When she finished, Ganalie smiled with relief, as if she had forced a thick cloak on them as they stepped out into winter’s chill. Xenon and Mercury looked at each other again, then made their way off the landing field and into the twisted cobblestone streets of Corinth.
*
“I believe that winter is an abstraction.” Bolander raised the fine porcelain cup to his black-furred lips and took a long sniff, allowing the tea’s careful aroma to fill each nostril.
His cohort, Munch, scratched behind his left horn but said nothing. He was a younger Minotaur and gave way to his senior, quietly focusing his attention less on the conversation and more on the pile of cucumber sandwiches in the center of the table.
“Yes, yes. Is it a function of cold? A permutation of the calendar? When does Winter truly begin, or end? Ask each man or woman on the street and receive a different tale. If we cannot proscribe the limits of a concept, we must concede that it is purely a fictive construct—a trick of language bereft of Truth.” The blackfurred Minotaur took the most petite of sips from his tea.
“No,” the third Minotaur at the table, a wide-shouldered, redfurred beast, intoned.
“Oh ho, a challenge from the Axis of Spirit.” Bolander chuckled, setting his teacup down on its matching saucer. “What fairy wings will you sprinkle upon us today, friend Pembleton?”
Pembleton was very still, but then could not resist the bait. He turned so his broken horn was facing his opponent, and took an atom-sip of his own tea. “Winter is a reality. It is a bone-deep knowledge, primal and sure. Every mouse, every grub, every leaf on every bough knows Winter’s scythe. Plotted in every hair of our pelt is the watchword of Death that nature has prepared us for. You can bandy about the nomenclature and the calendar and the regional definition all you want, but Winter is real. The quiet hush of cold that pulls us down, that prepares the world for slumber.”
Munch bit down on another cucumber sandwich, his eyes rocketing between his comrades.
“Poetry! Poetry and piffle!” the older Minotaur bellowed. “No Truth here, just the limited worldview of a culturally bound observer. What about worlds where there is no change to the season? Or creatures that thrive in vicious cold, such as the ice serpents, frost weasels, blizzard whelps, and no-molecular-motion molemen?!?”
“Why waste an argument upon premises that are so outlandish as to be absurd?” Pembleton countered.
The red-and-black Minotaurs locked eyes, and the silence grew fraught. Pembleton and Bolander each took slow, glacial sips from their tea without ever breaking eye contact. Munch ducked down below their ocular entanglement to reach the teapot and freshen his own cup—he shook a horn in Xenon’s direction. “Take a cucumber sandwich, miss?”
Xenon held a cooling porcelain teacup between her fingertips and waved a polite dissent. The Weary Titan was as advertised: reasonably priced and welcoming to goblins and demi-humans of all sorts. Mercury had flopped upon the narrow bed that the sisters would share and fallen immediately into snoring oblivion. The innkeeper, a short Gilean man with iron-gray hair had warned her that the Minotaurs came each week on this day to have tea and discuss philosophical matters. “It can get rowdy in there, miss!” he had warned with a twinkle in his eye.
She sat at the far end of the common room table, watching the Minotaurs’ tea party and trying not to panic. When at last the silence broke and Pembleton embarked on a blistering monologue about the teachings of the northern barbarians and their attitudes about the cold, she would have liked to focus on it—the vicious tribes of Malgor were a culture that she had not sufficiently studied. But the spear of anxiety in her stomach had become a lance, and she felt pinned to the seat like a botany specimen, watching her tea cool.
Something about checking into the inn, and sitting down in the common room, had pushed her over the edge. The days of flight on Tobio’s back had been ones of simple exhilaration. The sky-cycle was a wonder, and she’d had a clear destination and a clear goal. Now that she was here, she had no road map. She didn’t have the first idea of where to start, other than throwing herself at the Legion or the king and praying that they would be willing to listen, capable of understanding, and able to help. As she pushed the three criteria around in her head, she couldn’t convince herself that any of them were all that likely.
The tea cooled. The heat escaped. Time marched forward. Time she would never have again to find a solution. Xenon wanted to scream.
The goblin sat in the common room of the Weary Titan and distracted herself with the spirited debate, and at the youngest Minotaur’s insistence, finally a cucumber sandwich.
Then, out of nowhere, a perfect idea appeared in her head. Xenon laughed with relief and threw back her tea with relish.
Unfortunately, that perfect idea soon fell apart under further inspection. She had four more perfect ideas while sitting in the common room that lived short but happy lives before her ravenous anxiety fell upon them and ate them whole. Xenon spun the drained cup slowly between her hands and tried not to look down at the empty circle that could have been a zero.