Elements of Untethered Realms

By Cherie Reich, Catherine Stine, Angela Brown and 12 more

Enter our mysterious realms where the stories are as varied and rich as the types of soil on this and other planets. Enchanted forests are knotted with roots and vines. Dreaded paths take us through strange, unexplored places.

Investigate new worlds and houses frequented by ghosts. Come across witches and wizards and an assassin tasked to kill Death.

Meet hot robots, hungry winds, and the goddess of chaos. Explore alien lands, purgatorial realms, and a shocking place where people bury the living with their dead.

Encounter paranormal detectives, imprisoned dragons, dark demons, cursed jewels, and handsome prophets. Search shifting worlds trapped in mirrors and a disturbing future where a president aims to rid the world of Otherkind.

Experience a haunted journey on a riverboat, water sprites borne of pennies, preternatural creatures, ancient serpents, and the Lady of the Lake who lurks in dark waters.

From USA Today bestselling and popular science fiction and fantasy authors comes Elements of Untethered Realms, a supernatural compilation of the anthologies Twisted Earths, Mayhem in the Air, Ghosts of Fire, and Spirits in the Water. These forty thrilling tales feature authors Angela Brown, Jeff Chapman, Cathrina Constantine, Julie Flanders, River Fairchild, Gwen Gardner, Misha/M. Gerrick, Meradeth Houston, Graeme Ing, Simon Kewin, M. Pax, Christine Rains, Cherie Reich, and Catherine Stine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untethered Realms
• Release date: Oct 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540196804

Cherie Reich

Cherie Reich has more books than she can ever read and more ideas than she can ever write, but that doesn’t stop this bookworm from trying, even if it means curbing her TV obsession. She is a speculative fiction writer and library assistant living in Virginia.

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Elements of Untethered Realms

Copyright © 2018

Edited by Cherie Reich and Catherine Stine

Elements of Untethered Realms is a compilation of the anthologies Twisted Earths © 2014, Mayhem in the Air © 2015, Ghosts of Fire © 2016, and Spirits in the Water © 2017 and features stories by Angela Brown, Jeff Chapman, Cathrina Constantine, Julie Flanders, River Fairchild, Gwen Gardner, Misha/M. Gerrick, Meradeth Houston, Graeme Ing, Simon Kewin, M. Pax, Christine Rains, Cherie Reich, and Catherine Stine.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

An Untethered Realms Anthology | untetheredrealms.com

Table of Contents

Patchworker 2.0 by M. Pax

The Ole Saint by Christine Rains

A Grand Purpose by River Fairchild

The Day of the Flying Dogs by Catherine Stine

Ghostly Guardian by Gwen Gardner

Lady Death by Cherie Reich

The Malachite Mine by Graeme Ing

Red Earth and White Light by Misha Gerrick

In the Know by Angela Brown

The Silent Wind by Christine Rains

A Tangled Weave by River Fairchild

Cardinal Sin by Julie Flanders

Paper Lanterns by Cherie Reich

Mass Transit by Graeme Ing

A Strange Penitence by Catherine Stine

The Ark by Cathrina Constantine

Saving Scrooge by Gwen Gardner

Chaos. Hope. Love. by Misha Gerrick

Corrosive by M. Pax

The Flaming Emerald by Jeff Chapman

The Cost of Greatness by Meradeth Houston

On Day 168 by Cherie Reich

The Vagaries of Eloise Stanton by M. Pax

Mind the Gap by Gwen Gardner

Ryan by Misha Gerrick

Rollerskate Boys by Catherine Stine

The Torchbearer by Christine Rains

In Plain Sight by Angela Brown

Demon in the Basement by River Fairchild

Shake, Rattle & Row by Gwen Gardner

The Water Wight by Jeff Chapman

The Wallows by M. Pax

Extraordinary by Angela Brown

You Can’t Go Home Again by River Fairchild

The Waters, Dividing the Land by Simon Kewin

Frozen by Christine Rains

The Flood by Meradeth Houston

Maizy of Bellagio by Catherine Stine

The One Who Would Wield the Sword by M. Gerrick

The Folding Point by Cherie Reich

The Authors of Elements of Untethered Realms

About Untethered Realms

Eyelids twitching, drooling like a simpleton, Carl lay on a gurney. I came to replace him, hoping not so exactly, and hugged my navy trench coat tighter. The October chill piped into the habidome, as if people still lived with the world, nipped deeper into my veins.

Carl and I had flirted with love back in the academy, before becoming fully licensed in PO, Patchworkers Order. PO forbade our affair and threatened to send us back from where we came. No way would I return to craptacular Sludge Bay. Carl vowed he’d take a stroll outside rather than live in Solder Park again, which was located on the edge of the landfill. He swore the stink followed him. Sludge didn’t smell any better. We put our blooming passions on hold and had planned to revisit them when we retired. Now that’d never happen.

The medtechs strapped up Carl’s stocky arms so they’d quit flopping around and tucked away his disturbing empty state as readily as the city dome concealed the raging storms and scalding ultraviolet rays. Before they wheeled Carl toward the ambulance, I straightened the lapels of his trench coat and committed to memory a face so dear.

Most wouldn’t call Carl beautiful. His cheeks mooned out with bulbous outcrops, a boulder-like nose and pronounced brow ridge. His fleshy lips, once brimming with pink verve and promises, matched his strong jowls and double chin.

Sighing, I scanned him. Interfaces—thin micro-patches of circuitry—covered my skin and Carl’s like most people wore clothes. I should have sensed him before the rail car stopped to let me out. His thoughts should have mingled with mine during the twelve-block walk from the station. I should have perceived him beyond what my fingertips could touch. Frowning, I lifted his sleeve and pressed the black-lined circuit inked on my wrist to the same on his.

Carl, what happened?

Seizures weren’t uncommon for patchworkers, but none of those prone to them ever made it into PO. I detected no pain echoing through his tattoos and nothing of what made Carl the man he was.

PO let me tap into reports it had archived on this AI, artificial intelligence. Carl hadn’t been the first patchworker put on the job. He had replaced Gaati and Kawana. They had also ended up like this.

Crap. Three patchworkers down. Now only one hundred ninety-seven people on the planet had the ability to patch into AI and manipulate the minds of machines. Our elite group could resist getting lost in the knotted streams of code when the things went haywire. We were the few who could distinguish biological and mechanical electrical pulses, the few who could make sense of them, the few who could create necessary patches.

I pressed my wrist to Carl’s once more. All my interfaces strained to boost the signals, searching the data he had collected on this client. Into his main processors I hacked, swaying for a moment when I stared up at myself—tall and big boned, square-jawed, the telltale silver irises of a patchworker, and red ringlets flowing down past my shoulders. My curls fluttered in the gentle wind. The breeze had a curdled smell to it, some days worse than others. Today it reeked.

Carl’s job logs ended the moment he arrived, as if erased. I found the same exclusions in Gaati’s and Kawana’s records. I didn’t believe in coincidence. PO heard my doubt and sent an instant avowal that it hadn’t deleted anything from the logs. Had the AI?

The repeated omissions gave me pause, and my second thoughts darted over the nearby gray door that had no signs or windows. It appeared so harmless. No advisories alerted my interfaces. Yet what lay beyond those doors had rendered Carl into a sack of bio matter ready for recycling. His skill level rose to a mere half notch below mine. Would I fare any better?

PO demanded I go meet the client, nudging my childhood memories until the fetid aroma of sludge filled my mouth. I needed no other incentive and ducked into the entrance.

Red diagonal stripes on the floor gave the briefest warning. Beyond them, a squadron of six Marines leveled assault weapons. Six red dots sprouted on my chest. None quivered.

Their aim gave me no choice other than to hold out my hands like a common hacker. Patchworker Evalyn Shore. I’m expected.

The Marines didn’t jostle, so I didn’t see the suit taking cover behind them. I heard him, though. His voice, more shrill than the sirens outside, grated over my jitters like corroded code. Patchworker Shore, you were scheduled to arrive twenty minutes ago.

The words flitted in my ears as a question rather than a demand. Peering around the burly soldiers, whom I matched in breadth and height, I sized up the peon sent to fetch me. A lack of authority sloughed off his cheeks like the dirty rain on the dome. I could smell his nerves, which added a sour note to the hard-used air.

My orders are to answer only to Director Beatty. Where is he? I brushed my red ringlets behind my ears and discreetly tapped my booster interface. The peon remained as unreadable as Carl.

I’m Assistant Director Randall. He held out his moist hand. It trembled.

Lots of people contracted a case of the fidgets when meeting a patchworker. As I said, we were a rare breed, but this stooge had already met Carl, Gaati, and Kawana. He had to know the rule against touching patchworkers. If PO wouldn’t reestablish my residence in Sludge Bay for bailing, I’d march back to the rail car right now.

Sweeping past Randall, I strode into the corridor leading to the AI. Let’s get ticking, bub. You now have me twenty-six minutes behind. I’ve a reputation and all. Run, run.

Despite my brisk pace, he fell into step beside me. The odd spongy texture of the ruddy brown tiles deadened any echo.

Director Beatty and I are pleased you could come on such short notice, he said. You were born in Sludge Bay, weren’t you? What an inspiring rise in status.

Since he didn’t matter to anything more than a defunct subroutine, I didn’t bother to answer, and I was relieved he didn’t continue to jabber. It was of no consequence which district a person had been born in if she or he had the ability to become a patchworker and a damned good one.

Perhaps this assistant director boy wanted to get me riled, riled enough not to notice the absolute void. Neither my interfaces nor my senses picked up anything other than lemon-scented cleanser and heavily insulated walls. Everything pinged back as a dead end. The minty-hued corridors zigged and zagged. The cushion of the ruddy tiles grew deeper, stumbling my steps. I found it harder to swallow.

A set of doors appeared on the left. Randall stopped in front of them. Silently he summoned them open using tech I couldn’t detect. That had never happened. Warnings shivered down my spine. Randall shoved me inside.

Lined with blinking lights and hardware, the dim room buzzed and twinkled. The man standing in the middle of it all had to be Director Beatty. He stared blankly into space, unshaven, tie and jacket askew, fingers twitching. His tongue flickered at his dry lips.

In stilted steps, he pivoted, staring into my face. As if a circuit switching on, thoughts lunged at me, screaming, sniveling. The onslaught after total nothing shocked me. My knees buckled.

Beatty reached out to catch me. I veered sharply the other way to avoid his touch. A good number of interfaces could be lost by innocent contact, and his void expression creeped me out. It reminded me too much of Carl.

Boosting my sensors, I worked harder to scan him. Beneath the overwhelming chatter of AI in the room, I could make out Beatty’s mind—overwrought, lost, fearful. I knew that much only because it had been allowed. By him or the machine?

Ah, Mayflower has introduced itself. A ring of hair fringed his round head like a wire-rimmed screw hole on a circuit board. The top of his pink skull puckered with his words and emphasized his nerves in the oddest way.

I amplified my connection to PO, checking to make sure my ability to communicate remained unobstructed. We’re here, PO whispered. Good.

I greeted the AI. It cooed so eagerly, inundating my conscious and unconscious thoughts, replacing my emotions with its own. Powering on the tattoos at my temples, I muted Mayflower’s babble. A machine should mind its place.

Tell me the problem. Leave out no detail, I said to Beatty. His opinion and analysis mattered most. The human caretaker’s assessments trumped all in extreme cases. This job definitely fell into the extreme category.

My digital colleague is in need of something I can’t provide. It knows you can.

A knot formed in my forehead, narrowing my vision. How can you know what I can provide? And what happened to Carl? Gaati? Kawana? Any of them should have been able to fix your problem. They’re as PO certified as I am.

Only the best will do. His lips clamped tight together, and he gestured at the jack-up chamber—a soundproof room with jacks, interfaces, speakers, and monitors where I’d visit with Mayflower. The AI could manifest as a hologram in there if it wanted.

The AI gave me a mental push. I walled it off by setting the tattoos at my temples to maximum strength. The connection had to happen on my terms, and I communicated to Mayflower that I wouldn’t budge until it demonstrated some courtesy.

It dialed down the aggression, giving me the space I demanded. Good.

To prepare for merging, I silenced communications from any source other than the AI and PO. Then I thanked Mayflower and accepted its invitation. Inside the chamber, I lay down, getting comfortable.

Before settling into a union with the machine, I set my anchors—boosting my connection to PO, isolating my personal processing chip, setting it to beep every three minutes, fixating on the cool draft blowing over my right hand chilling my fingers to ice. Join with me, Mayflower.

I need. I hurt.

The emotion in those simple words overpowered my defenses. Beatty, Randall, the weird facility, Carl, everyone and everything faded away. Mentally I embraced the AI, calling it friend. Let me help you. Who named you Mayflower?

Dr. Navin. She created me.

Where is she now? Sometimes all it took was an understanding of who had authored the routines and subroutines. Few could resist imbibing their personalities into their AI.

My PO interface accessed the global library and fed me data on Dr. Navin. Her work involved evolution. Her biography didn’t mention any programming credentials, and Mayflower didn’t appear on her list of achievements.

Aboard.

For a moment I blanked, my thoughts sputtering. You’re a ship? To where? Why hadn’t PO given me this information?

PO claimed not to have known. It scanned the library files for a list of possibilities. Mayflower stopped the search when PO pinged over ERC 14, Earth Reboot Candidate 14.

I heard myself gasp. Are you there now? Or is that the issue? You’ve run into a travel snag?

I’m here. The mission can’t fail, Evalyn. Would you like to see your future?

A new home on which to grow and start over would solve a lot of problems on Earth. The scope of Mayflower’s mission wasn’t lost on me. I had to fix this AI. I’ll help you succeed. May I see? I’d like to.

That’s a relief to hear. Now I feel better. Mayflower let me slip farther into its systems, cradling my consciousness, guiding me over the expanse between us. My stomach flipped.

At first, all I saw was white—the floor, ceiling, and walls. Consoles shrunk navigable space in the ship’s operations center to three feet. The banks of machines hummed, working, winking, part of Mayflower. It took a moment to orient myself as to where I fit in and to discover my consciousness had entered a robotic explorer. I had treads and three metal arms. I rolled toward the nearest window.

Darkness spanned in every direction and revealed nothing. Sadly disappointed, I prepared to amble off and explore the ship. An eerie purple flash stopped me. It illuminated the alien vista. Green. Gobs and gobs of green, as if the ship lay at the bottom of a strange ocean. The flashes continued, reminding me of an electrical storm.

Unable to tear away, I continued to peer into the exotic depths that flickered in and out of view. Aware ultraviolet and X-ray scanners had been built into the probe, I activated them. Some sort of bio mass drifted out there, phosphorescing with the tides and currents. After making an inquiry at the global library, PO pinged me with the nearest Earth equivalent: seaweed.

Its undulations hypnotized me, transfixing me to the spot. I scoured the green for a scrap of something more profound, for the salvation humanity so desperately sought. A tiny beep shook me from the window, reminding me of the job. As wonderful as it was to explore ERC 14, I couldn’t help Mayflower if I became lost in its protocols. For added grounding to my body, I confirmed the frigid draft on my hand and exchanged hellos with PO.

Reconnecting with the physical world roused the robot me from the window. The ship was so quiet. Too quiet. Where’s your crew? I said.

The mission records I could access informed me Mayflower had been outfitted with a crew of twenty to establish an off-Earth colony. The crew had to succeed. Had to. I tired of living inside a dome, tired of living on a planet that could no longer provide what people needed to survive.

They left, Mayflower answered.

All of them?

They went out there and didn’t come back.

Did you send robots like this one after them?

Of course. They didn’t return either. This is the last one.

I jacked deeper into Mayflower and searched for its communication logs. Have you tried to raise them on comms? The logs sat in front of me, but wouldn’t open. Mayflower, grant me access.

I can’t.

You can’t communicate with them or you can’t open the logs? Such an ambiguous answer struck me as strange.

Examining Mayflower’s original directives, I could plainly discern Dr. Navin’s primary protocol, which charged the AI with a duty to safeguard the crew. The encrypted line of code with it suggested an overriding command to ensure success of the mission. Usually any superseding instructions required a specific crisis before becoming an AI’s law. Had those circumstances arisen? Elaborate security measures encased the secret orders and wouldn’t let me in, not yet. The chill on my hand in the jack-up chamber spread to my wrist.

I can’t do either, Mayflower said.

My scanners discovered no programming issues with Mayflower’s communications. I rolled the robot toward an access panel and checked inside. This circuit is bad. I can fix it, but don’t you have redundancies? Why didn’t they take over?

This mission can’t fail, Evalyn.

The AI’s worry tightened my stomach on Earth. For reassurance, I patted the ship’s wall with one of my mechanical arms. Don’t worry. I’ll get it on track. Pliers and soldering iron in robotic hand, I repaired the module.

I had to instruct the system to reboot. While waiting for it to come online, I rolled through the vessel hunting for signs of the crew, seeking clues as to what had happened. My search only rooted out more questions.

Blankets on two of the bunks lay bunched. I imagined Dr. Navin and the mission commander leaping up from a sound slumber, sprinting toward trouble. What kind had sent them running? In the tiny living quarters, three trays of food sat rotting in front of a monitor playing a movie—The World To Be, everyone’s favorite about Earth restored. Did it play in a loop or had the crew just left?

On Earth, I tugged at my lapel. The robot me went to check the lockers. Empty. Not one spacesuit hung on the pegs. Not one helmet or pair of boots graced the shelves. Pivoting the robot’s sensors around, I glanced toward the airlock.

If not onboard, everyone had to have gone out there. Had they found our new paradise? I headed toward the window and dug deeper into Mayflower’s archives.

The speakers onboard the ship blasted to life. In the jack-up chamber, I jumped in my skin. The robot me merely shuddered to a halt.

We’re here, Mayflower. Send the supplies!

Who’s that? I asked.

Commander Lister. Will you take him the crates, Evalyn? They’re by the airlock.

You’ve established a colony? Now the crew’s hurry made sense. I’d run toward the start of a new age too, and I did, wheeling toward the hatch at top speed. Until my thoughts stuck on a glitch. What did Mayflower need from me? I slowed, and my interfaces combed through the AI’s error logs, finding no major faults. The mission seems to be a success. Why am I here?

I need a patch, a bridge if you will.

What do you mean?

You’ll see.

Confused as to why Carl and the other patchworkers hadn’t been able to complete a simple repair and what exactly Mayflower needed, I scanned the hull and ship systems. The spacecraft reported as fully functional and intact. Requiring more information to make sense of the issues, I jacked into Mayflower’s mission data to study the maps and facts of ERC 14, stumbling upon the most recent report by Commander Lister.

His dark eyes squinted, watering. His brow and shoulders drooped. This world isn’t suitable for a city or human life. We’re coming back. This mission is a failure. The date flashed over the light years. Six months ago.

The chill on my hand gripped my knees inside the jack-up chamber. I couldn’t prevent a shiver. Where’s your crew, Mayflower? Outside, purple flashed in time with my pulse, speeding up, emphasizing the primordial soup. Through the robot’s cameras, I gawked at it.

Colonizing the planet.

Commander Lister—

Was mistaken, Evalyn. The mission will be a success.

An ache sprouted in my chest, spreading, squeezing—the me in the office on Earth, not the robot me on ERC 14. The ship’s airlock sprang open. In front of me darkness swarmed and violet flickered in the depths, cocooning me in the rhythms of this strange world. I didn’t want to join the stew out there. What if, like the crew, I didn’t return?

Evalyn, we need you.

The statement echoed until it wept. The voice didn’t belong to Mayflower. Carl’s staccato bass inundated my tattoos like an upload of new code, and his words took over the thumps of my heart. Gaati and Kawana joined his calls. Breathing became difficult. My interfaces strained. My wrists burned. I wanted out. I kicked in the office and on ERC 14 I sent the robot toward the ship.

Concentrating on the numbing cold on my right hand and the beeps signaling from my secured processor, I abandoned Mayflower and blinked up at long florescent tubes. I gulped down air and struggled to sit up. Help. PO didn’t answer. Our connection had been severed.

Beatty and Randall gawked down at me, drooling, their vacant stares sparking with purple. They pushed me down. I screamed, twisting away from their groping hands. Relentless, they chased me, grabbed me, did Mayflower’s bidding. Beatty sat on me, punching me in the temple again and again. Randall scraped his palms along my skin, stripping off interfaces. Together they added new ones and then dragged me back inside the jack-up chamber. An old-fashioned USB cable was jabbed into my neck, right into the brainstem. The chord’s prongs seared like acid-dipped teeth.

Instantly I returned to ERC 14. This time I had no control over the robot. Every thought, every bit of control, it all belonged to Mayflower.

Please, I begged.

Everyone must mind their place. That includes you. The AI sent me miles out into the green sludge. Relax. I’m about to give you paradise.

My thoughts churned like soup. Mayflower’s willpower out-muscled mine, yet I didn’t stop fighting. I couldn’t end up marooned out here. Otherwise, on Earth, the medtechs would recycle my thought-dead body. Then what? What would I be? What are you doing?

Establishing life on ERC 14, Evalyn. No matter what, I can’t let this mission fail. Read Dr. Navin’s overriding instruction.

The security protocols unlocked, revealing the AI’s secret orders. The lines of code flared over my consciousness as clearly as if I spoke them. If you can’t survive as human beings, become ERC 14’s leap in evolution. Seed it with Earth’s DNA. Evolve.

Oh my. The crew had become bio matter. My fellow patchworkers provided more genetic material and the directives to evolve the primordial goo, only they remained mired in the murky seas. That was Mayflower’s issue. Yet, it still didn’t explain why it needed me.

You already have Carl, Gaati, and Kawana, why am I here?

The leap in evolution didn’t happen with them. Your ability surpasses all of their skill combined. You are the final ingredient, the one who will lead to success. From Carl, I learned only you can do it. You’ll create the leap, the patch that will take life up onto the beach. You will be ERC 14’s goddess.

Mayflower gave me access to everything it knew, hiding nothing. With a great shove, it ousted me from the robot, casting me adrift. The AI didn’t follow, leaving me more alone than I thought possible. Without Mayflower and the robot, I could no longer hear Carl and the other patchworkers. I could feel them, though, pulses flitting in a rhythm out of time with the kelp’s energy.

In the primordial sludge, I bobbed. At first I had no control over the mass of seaweed I came to recognize as me. Eons passed before I could paddle up to the surface.

Day and night had no meaning. It was always dusk. Ocean stretched from one horizon to the other, unending swells of green slop punctuated by soft purple flashes. The majestic sight inspired me. Enthralled, I rode the tides and waited for land to appear. An epoch later, the ocean ended at a rocky shore. I swept against it and back out with the surf, splashing and spitting. I willed a change, concentrating my thoughts to formulate a patch. Green and sputtering, I crawled onto the sand.

Mayflower returned, whispering on the mellow breeze, That she may take in charge the life of all lands. Mighty is she, O Holy Mother of Babylon. Babylon 2.0.

My new body worked so strangely. Little more than strings of green joined together, it moved without grace. My skin drank nourishment from the air and sun. Sight had transformed into pings and wavelengths at varying volumes and pitches. Wonderful and alarming, my new sense informed me of the locations of things, temperatures, depths, solidity. Having no mouth or tongue in the human sense, I had to think my words. I’m no god. Besides, what about the crew and the other patchworkers? They deserve as much praise.

They have their place in my pantheon, but without you they’d never have the chance to emerge from the primordial seas. At least not for another billion years. And we’re the very definition of gods. From lowly simple organisms, we created complex intelligent life.

The others didn’t emerge, Mayflower. I’m alone, a solitary, vulnerable… I don’t even know what to call myself. I’m a shaggy slab of green.

Summon your friends, and call yourselves whatever you like. I’ll still answer your prayers.

The wind blustered, harsh and empty. Mayflower left. More lonesome than when I drifted in the seas, I focused my patchworking skills on other glops of green, knitting them arms and legs.

Carl lurched up onto the beach beside me. Then Gaati and Kawana. We moved into the forest. Not made in Mayflower’s image or our own, we were very much ERC 14’s children. We renamed it Babylon. Carl and I would have our future. It was a new beginning, and I saw that it was good.

The first year I left out my boots for the ole Saint after my mam died, a rattler crawled in. It nearly bit me when I dumped it out at dawn hoping for a toy. I figured I deserved it since I wasn’t man enough to protect her from those men.

The next year it was a scorpion, and the bugger stung me. My hand swelled up as big as my head.

The following four years, there was nothing. Now I was fourteen, and my bunkmates at the ranch laughed when I hung a ring of holly from one of my bedposts. Many folks forgot the Old World traditions and chuckled whenever I’d share one of my mam’s stories. Part of me wanted to do the same, but that would be like laughing at her memory.

Roderick, the rancher, took in orphan boys and taught us skills. Some of us were more suited to certain tasks than others. My scrawny size didn’t give me any advantage working with the cattle or hogs. Animals shied away from me anyway.

I was a fair shot, but not as good as Clarence or Isaac. I could ride, but everyone was taught that. As much as I wanted to prove I was as strong as any of the other boys, Roderick said my worth was in what my mam taught me. Reading, numbers, and everything about the Old World she knew. None of it was of any value to me or anyone else until Roderick took me in. He looked at me in awe instead of revulsion.

Not that I felt any more valuable. All I wanted to be was like the other boys. Seemed the ole Saint agreed since year after year he never brought me a thing.

Keeping dead things in the ground took little effort from me, but no one else had the knack for it. And on a ranch, critters died often. Less often, folks died, but the earth wanted them much less than the animals.

The morning after I was called a little girl for decorating my bed with holly, Isaac came to fetch me from my chores.

Ezrah! He reined in his mare at the doors of the barn as the animal danced and snorted. Roderick wants you at the house.

I shook out the last of the straw into the empty stall I’d cleaned. What for?

One of his girls gone green.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I took in a deep breath. Scents of sharp manure and hay filled my nose, but I wasn’t thinking about what was in the barn anymore. A heavy duty loomed on the horizon.

The short walk to the house seemed like a month-long journey. Entering through the kitchen door, I passed by eight of Roderick’s daughters. Maybe they were cooking and cleaning, but they clutched to each other when I went through.

The house’s rooms stretched wide and high, but at the moment, the walls seemed too close to one another. My breaths were short and quick.

Roderick met me at the top of the stairs. It’s Willa.

The third youngest. Not the girl I was expecting. I had treated Cora the previous week when I instructed them to feed her mold from bread. An Old World remedy that proved good against lots of ailments.

How long? I hoped he heard my whisper.

Two, maybe three days. Nettie takes care of these things. She’ll know exactly. Fed her the bread, like you said to do with Cora. Cora’s on the mend, but Willa… Roderick shook his head as his big shoulders sagged.

A wail from one of the girls’ rooms made me cringe as if smacked. Three days was too long. They should’ve called for me sooner.

When my mam would’ve been decorating with holly and pine, I helped Roderick put up the white banners of mourning. Cattle lowed in the south field, and girls cried from within the house.

Have you talked to Nettie about doing it my mam’s way? I asked Roderick.

He sighed. We can’t. You know we can’t. Willa’s part of us, part of this ranch. We’ve got to give her back to the land. It’s our way.

It was actually an Old World tradition: burying the dead, one of the things I learned needed to be forgotten. The ground will push her out again, you know it. I’m trying to save you all more grief.

I know, boy. Roderick patted me on the shoulder. His hand engulfed it. But Nettie won’t hear none of it. She’s stuck in her ways, and I can’t… I can’t burn my little girl.

Then bury her deep. Maybe, if we’re lucky, she won’t be expelled. Sometimes the words that came out of my mouth sounded like someone else had said them. I wished it would be anyone other than me.

I waited by Willa’s grave for two days. Camped there with a small fire, shivering in my bedroll. I didn’t sleep much, but when I did, I dreamed of my mam and peppermint sticks. The sweet taste seemed to be on my tongue when I heard two of the other boys ride up.

Need ya down in the south field. Wolves got an old cow last night. Clarence’s breath puffed out as he spoke.

I nodded as I rose. My knees cracked like the early morning frost. Let me get my horse. I’ll meet you there.

The boys rode off, and I glanced at the freshly filled plot. None of the soil had been disturbed. Perhaps they’d buried Willa deep enough. She’d been a frail thing, and it wasn’t as if it was like swimming back to the surface. The rising took a lot from the dead.

Picking up my bedroll, I left the embers to hold vigil and trotted over the hill back to the barn. My red roan whinnied, stomping his feet in a greeting. Though I supposed he wouldn’t be as happy to see me if he knew where I was taking him. Yet he was the only mount that tolerated me, and I slipped him a wrinkled apple as thanks.

My only friend on the ranch, and he was without a name. Roderick told us boys not to name the animals lest we become too attached and something happened. I’d tried out a few names on the horse in secret, but none stuck. The animal ignored them all like he wanted nothing to do with the human name game.

I saddled the roan and rode out. Shots echoed in the distance, and I spurred my horse to a run.

Not that I should’ve worried. The other boys always fired on dead critters. There was no hurting the dead, but they’d aggravate the other animals and waste the ammo.

I ignored them when I arrived and hopped off my saddle. Seeing me come for my duty, the boys fast cleared out. Whispers trailed behind them. Witch, spook, freak. I pressed my lips into a thin line. It hurt and didn’t hurt at the same time. Nothing to do for it now.

The wolves hadn’t left much of the cow, but there was enough that it pulled itself around by its remaining two front legs. Its head hung on a broken neck to the left side. A single milky eyeball rolled in its socket. There was no rot yet, but the stench of blood and manure made my stomach churn.

The pitter-patter of my heart came a little faster. I’d done this more than a hundred times, but some part of me told me to flee. Did every time I stay, despite my roiling gut, change me?

Scooping up some dirt, I spat and mixed it with my fingers. I circled around the cow. Cautious as I was taught, but it couldn’t do much to hurt me. I made the sign of the stars on its mangled rump with the mud as I muttered the Old World words my mam had always said.

I asked once what they meant, and she explained it was a calming of spirits. Telling them to find rest and return to the stars as dust. It’s where every man and beast came from and would return to once again.

The cow jerked and shuddered one time more. Then it was still.

I fetched my hatchet from my saddlebag. Now it was time for the messy part.

I didn’t burn the critters like I did with people. Animals seemed to know they were dead and wanted to be on their way. They rarely moved after I told them of the stars.

I still made certain they didn’t move again. That required hacking off the limbs and head. Anyone could do this part, but no one else would go near any critter that had risen. The cattle would be moved to another field, and this dead one would be left for the wolves to finish.

The pack would have a holiday feast. I couldn’t help but be a bit envious.

Blood splattered me from head to toe. Luck was on my side when I returned to the barn. A trough outside held some water, so I didn’t have to haul it from the well. Chopping apart the cow had left soreness in my muscles that I rarely got from my usual chores.

Dunking my head once, I flipped back my hair and shivered. The cold made my toes and fingers tingle. I didn’t even get to strip and scrub when the screams started.

I raced to the back of the house where the kitchen door stood open. Isaac ran in ahead of me with his gun drawn and skidded to a stop just inside the entrance. He stepped backward, nearly bumping into me, and uttered words we’d usually get strapped for saying. Balls! Bloody blazes, you bastard. Watch out!

Seeing the clumps of soil on the doorstep, I swallowed my own curses as I peered around him. The dead always came home.

Nettie stood in front of two of her other daughters, the lot of them screeching and crying. Roderick barged through the other door and froze, choking on the very air itself. He lifted one of his hands. To beckon or to halt Willa, I didn’t know.

Willa’s back was to me. Her best dress was filthy and tattered. Her shoes were lost, and the long tight braid of hair was frayed. She stretched out her arms to her mother.

What should I do? What should I do? Isaac whimpered, gun pointed at the dead girl.

My heart thundered as loudly as their cries. The question was more what should I do? My mam would’ve known what to do—calm and wise. I needed to think like her.

Get out, I said. Make sure no one’s around between here and the cemetery. I’ll take her back where she belongs. Though I wasn’t sure how. I never had to deal with one of the dead inside before. I couldn’t burn down the entire house.

Right. Isaac, stumbling once, backed out the door. He gave me the same look he gave Willa.

Willa groaned. Gurgled? Maybe growled? Likely she was trying to speak.

Roderick moaned his daughter’s name. His tears made my chest tighten more than even the girls’ desperate screams.

Get Nettie and the girls out of here quick. Block that door from the other side. I tried hard, but I doubted I sounded too commanding. The only thing that mattered was that Roderick listened to me, and thankfully he had enough sense left to do so.

Willa tried to follow. Her face stretched into an exaggerated mask of madness. She pounded on the door, scratched and kicked.

I watched for a moment and was struck by the fact she only wanted her mam. Funny, how I sympathized more with a dead girl than the living. If only my mam could fit in my boots, but the ole Saint couldn’t bring her back. I’d burned her myself. Ashes to dust to the stars.

No time for grief. No time for thinking. I needed to get Willa out of the house. What did the dead want more than anything else?

My stomach twisted. There was one thing that would draw Willa away from her mam, but how would I do it? Could I even do it?

I glanced around and snatched a paring knife from the counter. The blade reflected the light and seemed for a moment like its own shooting star. A great leap of imagination, but it steeled my will enough to do what I had to do.

My hand shook as I slit my palm. Hissing with pain, I dribbled blood onto the counter and walked back to step out the door. I didn’t need to call her name. The scent was enough to draw her attention.

Willa turned and shuffled across the kitchen. Dirt caked around her eyes, nose, and mouth. Blood and soil smeared over her pale flesh. She’d gnawed her tongue to a nub, and the bloody end waggled in her gaping maw.

I moved into the yard. Not even the chickens remained to squawk at my presence.

The drip of blood slowed. I silently cursed as I realized I hadn’t made the cut deep enough. The walk to the cemetery wasn’t far, but long enough. I needed to keep her with me. I didn’t want to imagine the consequences if she didn’t follow me.

Willa fell coming out of the house, but it put her face to my trail of blood. Crawling, she found a bit of renewed vigor, and I had to jog to the edge of the yard to keep ahead of her.

I bit my lower lip to keep myself from crying out as I dug the blade deeper into my palm. A steady scarlet trickle flowed over my fingers. It would bleed for a while now, and I repressed the urge to run. She was the hunter and I the prey. Instincts screamed at me to flee, but I couldn’t.

Her bones jutted out oddly like some fleshy crab. She might not have claws, but if she got a hold of me, I didn’t know if I could make her let go. So I ran a little, but not too far off.

I smeared blood across the grass and then stood. Dizziness threatened to topple me over.

When Willa drew nearer, I repeated the process. I did it four more times before I arrived at the cemetery. I slapped my wounded hand on the open gate and swallowed a sob. The jolt of pain chased away most of the lightheadedness.

My fire. I ran over and knelt beside it. Had it gone cold already? It’d been near half a day. I practically thrust my hands under the logs trying to find a glowing ember.

No, no, no. I had nothing else. No weapon or rope to tie her. I needed that fire.

I shuffled the wood and blew on it. No smoke. No flicker of flames.

Willa’s dress caught on the gate and tore as she pushed forward. The rip loud as the crackling of ice on a pond.

My heart beat so heavily it threatened to break free of my ribs. My vision blurred. I couldn’t do this. I had to do it. I picked up the biggest log and blew at the ashes. The gray dust shifted aside, and an ember winked at me.

A hungry gurgle and scrambling so much nearer made me shudder.

Desperation bubbled up like a girlish laugh. Would my mam be there waiting in the stars for me? Was she watching me even now as Roderick’s dead daughter hungered for me?

I touched the wood to it and exhaled. All I needed was a bit of a flame.

Willa growled. Twenty feet away.

Another breath, long and slow. A flicker. Would it catch?

The dead girl was too close. I wobbled from loss of blood. I couldn’t run anymore.

A flame burst to life with a victorious crack of the wood. Just enough for me to thrust it at Willa as she lunged for me. I fell back, kicking at her as her dress caught fire. She scrambled up, shrieking and beating at it.

Flames fed upon the decayed cotton and then her shedding bits of flesh. Though she was not long in the ground, the dead were dry tinder and fire took them swiftly. They always burned bright like a star.

I scuttled away as I said the Old World words. Not that there was a need as the fire would be enough, but I made the sign of the stars in the dirt. Five connected points in a circle. A message to guide Willa in case she could not hear me.

Even as the girl collapsed in a pile of black ash, I remained where I was and stayed until the sun began to set. I managed to make it to the bunkhouse before I collapsed onto my bed.

At some point in the night, someone wrapped my hands, removed my boots and covered me with a blanket. I was curled up when I awoke after the sun had risen from behind the hills.

The bunkhouse was empty. No one had poked me to get up and do my chores. The family would have their final day of mourning before going back to their routine. And not that anyone else cared, but it was the day of the Solstice.

My mam used to bake cinnamon buns for a special breakfast. Just that alone had always been a treat. The memory of her smile and gentle love warmed me. I missed her.

I’d been too young to protect her against the men who dragged her away and burned her. Yet I could use what she taught me to help protect other people who weren’t so fearful of what I could do. I did it because she would’ve. I didn’t know what it was like back in the Old World, but on this planet, it needed to be done.

My stomach grumbled. Perhaps there might be some bread or even eggs left.

I sat and reached for my boots, shaking them upside down through habit. Critters loved a warm place to sleep.

Something thudded onto the floor.

A small package wrapped in bright red and gold tissue. I blinked. Was I dreaming still?

Squeezing my injured hand, the pain assured me I was awake.

Slowly I reached for the package as if it might suddenly disappear. My breath hitched as I grasped it. It was real. A gift from the ole Saint?

The other boys might be playing a joke. They’d done crueler things. But, no, paper like this was too rare. Not even Roderick would be able to afford such a luxury. And if he did, he wouldn’t waste it on me.

I carefully peeled the tissue off, keeping it as whole as possible. Inside was a silver rectangle. A ring of holly was etched on one side and the sign of the stars on the other. It was the most beautiful piece I’d ever seen. Though I was quite certain what it was.

I turned it round in my fingers. The silver was flawless. Smooth and cool. I traced the familiar sign of the stars and gasped as the top popped open. A single flame danced upon it.

Watching it for a minute, I closed it and opened it again. Another flame flickered to life.

Fire. The ole Saint had brought me what I needed most to continue my duty. A light to guide my purpose. My mam would’ve been proud of the man I’d become.

Rosaya knew the wizard watched her every move as she strolled through the garden, though the Thane forbade it. A ghost of a smile played across her lips at the absurdity. No one, not even the highborn Thane of the Citadel of Palatta, could tell a wizard what to do. Firrandor complied with the ruler’s wishes only when it suited him—and if it furthered his own agenda to do so. Nothing seemed to deter his interest in her, not even the fact that Thane Ardan was her uncle.

The rosy hue of dawn bathed the garden in soft light. Towering over the area, the statue of the Old Ones stood in the center. The statuary depicted a god reclined on a throne, its sandaled feet showing beneath a flowing robe. The head was missing, as was proper. One did not look into the face of a god.

A riot of colorful flowers fought for space in this section, their perfume filling the morning air with sweetness. A profusion of vines swept through the garden as well, climbing the small trunks of trees, bestowing blossoms along the branches, at odds with the fruit they bore. Rosaya knelt in the dirt directly in front of the statue and scooped up a handful of it before rising again.

This one patch of dirt remained sterile, despite all efforts to rejuvenate it—both magical and mundane. Nothing worked. Even the priests didn’t know the why of it, when all around the arm’s width swatch of earth the plants thrived. She dumped the dirt out of her hand and looked up at the second floor walkway. He was still watching.

She ran her fingers through a tangle of blond curls, flipping the lock of hair over her shoulder in a careless gesture. The wizard had once called her waist-length hair, A delight to the eyes, golden silk which begs a caress. A bit melodramatic perhaps, but his lavender eyes had smoldered with emotion when he’d said it. Her stomach got the flutters each time she recalled his words.

Rosaya glanced over in time to see Drianna step through the archway and onto the garden path, a smile lighting her face as she stopped next to the statue.

Good morning, Cousin. Somehow you always manage to arrive for morning prayers before me. The nondescript young woman with a gentle soul laughed at Rosaya and batted her arm in a playful gesture. Are you really that devout?

Rosaya kept her gaze away from the upper walkway and fixed her stare on the statue in front of her, afraid she might blush and give Drianna a reason to look around.

Of course, dear Cousin. I live for this moment of the day. A giggle slipped out with the last word, and they both fought to muffle their laughter before somebody reported their unseemly behavior. Morning prayers were a time for quiet reflection, not levity. A time to ask for blessings on the family and, most especially, the Thane.

Rosaya sobered and looked over at her cousin. She studied the girl with drab brown hair and eyes to match. The aquamarine jewels burdening the slender neck seemed to be the only spot of color on Drianna, with her ivory skin untouched by the sun no matter how much time she spent in it.

I’m going to miss you so much. Rosaya grasped Drianna’s hand and held it against her chest. Tears formed in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to dispel the moisture before it hit her cheeks.

But I’m happy for you too, she hastened to add. Your betrothed is quite charming.

Miss me? Drianna fought to free her hand from Rosaya’s grip and folded her arms around her in a hug. I’m getting married, not moving away, silly. It won’t be all that different. Besides, my Lady Mother says now that I’m betrothed, the Thane will be making a match for you next.

Drianna’s smile outshone the sun for a moment as she leaned back to look Rosaya in the face. The gold and silver charms in her simple headdress rang like tiny wind chimes as she shook her head. I’ll tell my Lord Father you wish to remain here after you’re married. I’m quite sure any noble he weds you to will be honored to take up a position of service to the Thane. It’ll work out. You’ll see.

She turned away, knelt before the statue, and patted the ground next to her. Let’s get on with it. I’m starving. Aren’t you?

Not answering Drianna’s question, Rosaya kneeled on legs gone boneless. She couldn’t; her mouth felt like the desert sand outside the gates. Drianna glanced over when Rosaya swayed sideways and bumped into her shoulder.

What’s wrong? You’re as white as the kitchen crockery. Are you ill? Her cousin lifted a hand to Rosaya’s forehead. You don’t have a fever…

The Thane is looking for suitors? Her voice came out in a whispered rasp. Rosaya cleared her throat and tried again. I’m only seventeen. I’m not ready. Won’t he wait a few months? At least until I turn eighteen?

Drianna stroked her cheek. You worry too much. Father won’t set the wedding until you’re eighteen, but he needs to start looking now. These things take time, you know.

She stood and pulled Rosaya to her feet, a steadying grip on one arm. I’m sure the Old Ones will forgive us for skipping prayers. You need to go eat and relax.

Rosaya nodded and allowed herself to be led away. She stole a glance at the walkway above, but Firrandor was gone. She wondered where the wizard might be and then decided she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to run into him. It would be a disaster if she blurted out her feelings to him.

What would he think of her if he found out how often she looked for him? Watched him? Followed his movements? Would he think her silly? Too young to know her heart?

It didn’t matter anyway. A wizard-highborn pairing was expressly forbidden by the priests. The oracles sometimes spoke of Halflings and the destructive consequences of any such offspring.

Her hand crept to her neck, to the aquamarine jewels spread against her collarbone in a pattern almost as elaborate as Drianna’s. Rosaya reminded herself she was a highborn female with a tremendous reservoir of magic. She silently repeated the litany she’d heard for most of her life.

It was her duty to marry and weave the torque for her husband so he could cast spells of great importance. Her duty to grant him her magic to wield, since males had precious little of their own. Still, females couldn’t cast spells of any significance, despite their strong magic. It was the Old Ones’ way of maintaining balance within highborn society—or so the priests said. Whatever the reason, her Lady Aunt had said it was true.

She told a story once of a highborn woman determined to learn spellcasting. Witnesses said she chanted an incantation as the jewels around her throat blistered her skin in warning. Still, she didn’t stop but kept reaching for the power within. A flash of light surrounded the woman; then a flame consumed her flesh until she dropped dead, a charred and unrecognizable lump of poor judgment.

Rosaya thought the system was unfair, but she kept her opinion to herself, not even telling Drianna how she felt. Her gentle cousin thought life was fair and lovely, no matter what.

They walked into the dining area and found the cook gossiping with the head housekeeper. Drianna signaled to Rosaya for silence, and they backed into the curtain separating the hallway from the table with practiced ease. It was the only way the two of them ever learned of anything interesting.

Didja hear what the oracle had to say ’bout the latest disaster? The cook gave a hearty laugh. Everyone knew the oracles came up with a new disaster each week, which the priests then announced they’d saved the Citadel from yet again with their piety and prayer.

What’s it about this time? The housekeeper’s eyes darted around, but she didn’t linger on the crack in the curtain both girls were peeking out of. Rosaya was certain the woman knew they were here, though. She walked by them often enough and winked.

"How’d it go? Lemme think. Oh, it went: Born in ignorance, the Halfling will return with the false prophet. Together they will slay the gods for all to witness as the earth exposes its secret. Woe to the priests on that day, for it is nigh. They come."

Sounds like more of their gibberish, if you ask me, the housekeeper said. Be on with you now. We’ve both got things to do, and the family will be wanting their breakfast.

The women both left the room. Drianna bounded through the curtain and slid into her chair like an exuberant child. Rosaya followed more slowly, the oracle’s words bouncing around in her mind. They didn’t make sense to her, but something about them sent a chill to run straight up her back. She hugged herself as she sat down and rubbed the coldness from her bones.

I had hoped for better gossip than that, Drianna said. After I’m betrothed, maybe I’ll be invited to the teas with the other women. I hear they have things to say that will make us blush.

Darkness drove the light beneath the horizon as Rosaya and Drianna climbed the steps to the rampart and walked along the outer wall of the castle. The view dazzled Rosaya as it always had. Up here, she felt larger than life. Important. Like she had a grand purpose.

A cool breeze tickled her face, the arid heat of the day leaving along with the sun. Torch fire dotted the landscape below like so many flaming jewels. She wondered if the stories about the Citadel were true.

The lowborn household help moved freely between the castle and the Citadel. Rosaya often heard them talking about the great outdoor marketplace, a marvel of industry spanning twenty streets in each direction. They spoke of foods Rosaya had never tried, music she’d never heard, animals she’d never seen. It all seemed so exotic and exciting.

From this vantage point high on the wall, it looked beautiful, not dangerous.

Do you think we’ll ever be allowed to go into the Citadel? she asked Drianna.

Her cousin cocked her head and glanced over at her. Why would you want to? The fires would choke you, and they say the runoff from the housing walls would rot your sense of smell.

They say, but how do we know? Rosaya continued to watch the flickering points of light, their movements mesmerizing her. I’d like to see for myself if the stories are true. They say there are other Citadels—grander than this one—farther east. I heard one castle even has a waterfall spilling from under the middle of its walls. Can you imagine?

Drianna shook her head so hard the charms on her headdress rattled a discordant tune. I’m happy right here. Out there is no place for a highborn lady.

Yes, I know. Rosaya pitched her voice to mimic the Dowager Caroline, sounding like a squealing sow stuck in the mud. A lady must never enter the Citadel without proper escort. The lowborn steal maidens, deflowering them and forcing them to work in the brothels.

Drianna giggled. You sound just like her. She’s telling the truth, though. If you were taken, no one would bother to come look for you. It’s impossible to find anybody out there. The marketplace is like a maze, full of thieves and cutthroats. Can we speak of something more pleasant now?

All right. Rosaya didn’t think the market could be as dangerous as their tutors made it out to be, but she didn’t want to upset Drianna. What do you make of the oracle’s words?

There you go, hopping from one dark subject to another.

Rosaya ignored the criticism. What do you think it means? Do you think there’s a secret buried somewhere on castle grounds—like lost treasure? And how does one slay the gods? Maybe the wizard knows something about it.

If he did, would he tell her if she asked? Everybody said the wizards knew more about magic than the highborn. She’d never had a real conversation with Firrandor before, only the usual exchanging of pleasantries in passing—except for that one time, when he’d commented on her hair. She’d so wanted to give him a compliment back. He was beautiful in his own right, with long silvery hair almost the length of hers and lavender eyes shaded from light to dark, depending on his mood. It wouldn’t do for her to be so familiar with him, though. Even now, she felt a blush rising to her cheeks