All the Beautiful Sunsets

By Andrew Knighton

A fairy noble hunting for spies. A soldier digging for his life beneath a battlefield. A man learning the cost of renting out his brain. Meet all these characters and more in fifty-two short stories set in worlds beyond our own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Knighton
• Release date: Dec 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386772606

Andrew Knighton

Andrew Knighton is a freelance writer and an author of science fiction, fantasy, and steampunk stories. He lives in Yorkshire with his cat, his computer, and a big pile of books.

Book preview

All the Beautiful Sunsets

Jareg stood on a mountainside ledge looking out across the plains. The sun was sinking into the west, bathing the world in a golden glow, its light warming his green skin and giving him the strength to stay awake a little longer. Here, he could make the most of the sunset, drawing out every last second before night fell and he sank inexorably into sleep.

He could save every last second for her.

As the first edge of the sun hit the horizon, the shadows shifted among the rocks. She stepped out, trailing streamers of darkness. Bright eyes sparkled amid skin as smooth as obsidian.

You came, she said in a voice like smoke.

For you? he said. Of course.

So sweet.

She wrapped her arms around him as she had done so many times before. He hugged her back, feeling the familiar curves of her body, breathing in her scent.

They each took a step back. Despite himself, he couldn't help glancing at the horizon. It had always been part of the thrill, snatching time together while it was still both day and night, during those fleeting moments when they were both awake and in the world.

Remember dusk over the salt desert, she said, looking out across the plains.

Every inch of the earth sparkled, he said. It was like a field of stars had fallen just for us.

And dawn over the Eastern Ocean, making love by the red light.

Trying not to fall off that rickety raft you'd stolen from a fisherman. I could have drowned!

Wasn't it worth it?

Oh yes.

The looked into each other's eyes, caught between happy memories and the inescapable fading of the light. The sun was halfway across the horizon, the sky turning from orange to red.

I have something for you, Jareg said.

He took a ring from one of the pouches on his belt and held it out to her. A diamond gleamed as bright as the tears at the corners of his eyes.

My grandmother's ring, she whispered, cupping it in her hand. Then she slid it onto her finger with a small smile. I should keep this safe.

I thought that you would want it back, he said.

I thought the same. She held out another ring, this one in beaten brass engraved with tiny images of animals at play.

I made that for you, he said, unable to keep the sorrow from his voice. He had spent weeks crafting it, an image of his world to be carried into hers. You keep it.

I can't, she said. Please don't ask me to. It's too much.

Reluctantly, he took the ring and slid it into his pouch. Weariness was bearing down on him. The sun was little more than a blood red sliver where the merciless desert touched the endless sky. There was so little light left, so little time.

I'm sorry, she said. I wish that...

So do I.

He sank to the ground, leaning back against the rock face. She knelt next to him and they embraced.

We'll always have the memories of the sunsets, she said, settling his head gently against the stone.

All the beautiful sunsets, he mumbled, eyes closing.

Then he slept and the dream was over.

Empty Nest

Tarvel spat a gobbet of chewed up moss into his hand, spread it across the interwoven branches, and then reached for a fresh piece. This part of the nest would be Rena's room and he wanted it to be good and solid. Live branches, carefully interwoven, would create an interior soft and fragrant with growing leaves. The chewed up moss would harden and bind it together. A place of comfort as well as safety.

He hummed to himself as he worked, weaving together those living branches as well as dead twigs and freshly harvested foliage. The balance of parts was important in building the perfect nest.

Badok landed beside Tarvel and folded her wings in behind her shoulder blades.

It's looking good, she said. But do you need this many rooms?

This one's for Rena, Tarvel explained. Only the best for her.

Mm-hm. Badok's face crumpled. Then she untied a sack from her belt and handed it to Tarvel. Feathers from my family's moulting. I thought they might make good lining.

Are you sure? Tarvel looked at the sack. That's too generous.

Anything for a friend.

Tarvel hugged her, then opened the sack and looked at the feathers. These would insulate the nest ready for winter. Rena hated the winter.

There's something I wanted to talk about, Badok said, pulling Tarvel to sit down beside her. The bark here was smooth and comfortable, one of the reasons Tarvel was making it his home. About Rena. You do remember that she's gone, don't you?

Of course, Tarvel snapped. She's apprenticing for the season under Silolu.

And marrying him, Badok said. She's not coming back to your nest, Tarvel.

Tarvel snorted.

Silolu is too old for her, he said. She won't go through with it.

They married last week.

She would have invited me.

They tried, but you kept throwing away their carved barks.

No! Tarvel leapt off the branch, wings spreading behind him. He swooped around and landed back in the nest, back where he had been working.

This is her home, he said loudly. Why wouldn't she want to come back?

Because of this, Badok said. Your daughter loves you, but when you're together you two argue all the time. Is that really what you want?

Tarvel squeezed a lump of moss. Juices ran between his fingers and green fragments fell to the floor.

At last, he let out a breath and sank to his knees.

She could just live here some of the time, he said. I've built it for her. Surely that counts for something?

Was it really for her, or was it for you? Badok asked.

Tarvel turned to glare at her.

That's not fair, he said.

And that's my point.

Tarvel crouched, his whole body tense, like a hunter about to strike. The last time he had wanted to hit Badok they had been younglings fighting over woven toys. Then she had fought back. Now she sat still, looking at him with sadness in her eyes.

I'm sorry, she said. I went too far.

The tension inside Tarvel unravelled.

No, you're right, he said, hanging his head. But what can I do?

What do you want to do?

I want to build Rena a nest. Tarvel's tears dripped onto the interwoven leaves.

She doesn't want a nest with you. She wants one with Silolu.

Tarvel sighed. He didn't know the words to mend what he had broken, but perhaps there was another way. He closed the sack of feathers and fastened it to his belt, alongside a bag of moss. Then he flexed his wings ready to fly.

If I can't build a nest for us, then I can build one for them, he said. She can be safe and comfortable even if she isn't with me.

Badok stood and spread her wings. She smiled.

Let me help, she said.

You already have, Tarvel replied.

He leapt from the branch, letting the wind catch beneath his wings and lift him up. Badok followed, swift and sure. Together, they left the half-finished nest behind.

On Butterfly Wings

None stood brighter in all the Court of Arcadia than Lady Elithia. None stronger. None more elegant. None wiser in the ways of war. The beasts of the forest, awed by her prowess, bore her banners before her when she entered the mortal realm. Butterflies darted between the warp and weft of reality just to bring her morsels of fruit.

And so it was that a butterfly with gold and ebony wings landed before her on the council table laid down a grape.

You are a fine creature, she said, running a finger down its back. More beautiful than those that normally tend upon me. Has nature adapted to pay fitting tribute?

She split the grape in two, placed one part before the butterfly, and relished the taste of the rest on her tongue.

The Dark Court knew we were coming, Lord Asahar said, standing tall in his umber robes as he glared down the table. How do they keep doing this?

There must be a spy, The Frozen One turned their ice blue gaze upon Elithia. Your mortal soldiers drink until their tongues loosen. My bones tell me that one of them let slip.

Then your bones are as hollow as your head, Elithia replied, still stroking the butterfly. I am too wise to give our game away. My mortals learn our intent only when the time comes to charge. Your weather sprites, though, are fickle and wind-blown, easily swayed. Clearly one has turned traitor.

My children would not dare! Ice crackled across the table from The Frozen One's fingers. Elithia laid her hand down to stop it before it reached the butterfly.

Your children run wild every winter. They cannot be trusted.

How dare you, you pompous banshee.

Cold-hearted cur.

Pale pariah.

Enough! Asahar's fist shook the table. The weather sprites were locked away when the Dark Court countered our summer campaign. It must be another.

One of your scribes? Elithia asked.

Not this time. Asahar shook his head. I have... taken measures.

A lord or lady turned traitor?

Too much to lose.

One of Elithia's armourer lovers? The Frozen One asked. Perhaps you whisper secret somethings in their ears.

Do not take me for such a fool.

You give the impression of it well enough.

Elithia rose, the butterfly perched on one hand, her sword in the other.

I have time for more than one war, she growled, as The Frozen One drew their ice-rimmed bow.

I said enough! This time, the table buckled beneath Asahar's fist. Sit down, both of you. All our fates are at stake here.

Grudgingly, Elithia did as she was told. She sank her sword into its scabbard and cupped the butterfly in her palm, stroking its wings to sooth herself.

At least you understand me, she whispered.

It flicked its wings, about to take to the air, to return to its blander cousins in the mortal world.

Elithia's heart sank as realisation dawned.

Perhaps you understand me too well, she said, fingers closing like a cage around the butterfly.

It flapped and butted against her hand, desperate to escape, but her grip only tightened, squeezing until, with a flash of darkness, the creature transformed. Elithia was left clutching the arm of a dirty, jut-chinned boggart.

Ha! The Frozen One pointed. The spy was in your camp! I would never be so stupid.

There is wisdom in learning from our mistakes, Asahar said, and with a flick of his hands ropes appeared to bind the creature.

Then maybe Elithia really might wind up the wisest of us all, The Frozen One said.

Elithia picked up the leftover piece of grape, placed it in her mouth, and relished the flavour on her tongue. None stood stronger than her still, none more elegant. That would be enough.

Selling Mercy

I recognised her the moment she walked into the shop. It wasn't the rune-encrusted armour or the greatsword that stood out. A dozen heroes a day came through Blackroad wearing such outfits, on their way to adventure in the Blighted Land. But I'd seen her face before, part of a regular adventuring party, one of those that made a living out of this barren landscape of dead men and monsters.

She killed time looking at the jars on the shelves, waiting until the other customers had left. Then she walked over to the counter.

I'd like to buy some mercy, she said, not looking me in the eye.

You're Tolarch, aren't you? I asked. The one they call the Bond-Breaker?

She nodded. Do you have any?

Preparing for a big quest, are we? I smiled, stepped around the counter, and latched the door. This was a customer with a big reputation and a deep purse. She deserved my undivided