Novels

Raiselig stood at the forest edge for an hour, running through every contract they could think of in their head. Every gesture, every token, every aspect of the meeting had to go according to plan.

When at last they were prepared, they reached out and selected a small twig from the forest floor. Holding it tightly in their fist, they set out into the darkened forest.

The journey was long, but easy. Raiselig knew the myriad contracts addressing safe travels through claimed woods. They probably didn’t need to obey each one — there were few spirits both powerful enough to harm a Scrivener and yet foolish enough to attempt to do so — but it was a sign of respect to follow the obligations in any case, and Raiselig was as bound by their duties as any spirit. They could not force any signatory to do anything they did not wish, unless expressly detailed in a forfeit clause.

I didn’t betray Leon. I swear. After Cindy’s chant, what he said, did he think he was recruiting me? Like making me part of his team? What did he think was going to happen? How he think it was going to go? Binny step down and everything work for him?

Cindy asked one day. Binny didn’t say anything except ‘dark magic.’ That was that. Leon was gone. He wasn’t ever coming back.

Cindy didn’t like that. She pouted about power-plays and how no one should ever get kicked out, that wasn’t what the chant was about, was it? That was the point of a circle.

It took less than an hour after Padarom left the dais for the headman to return, followed by two women.

The first was Mala, her eyes filled with an uncertain peace. The second woman wore glasses and carried a thick leather book and kept her head bowed.

“Who is this?” Raiselig asked before the headman could stammer out his obsequities.

“This is my secretary,” the headman gestured. “She will answer any questions about our town that you have, and remain at your service for anything you require. She is your servant as long as you remain in town.”

When the seasons began to change once more from the cold season to the planting, the fair maiden Mala at last consented to be Padarom’s wife.

This was an event of great portent, for Mala’s family had lived in Souran Village for many centuries, while Padarom had arrived only two years ago, with nothing more than a cart full of wood and a tired old horse. The old women of the village were not warm to him, and they wasted no time in whispering among themselves at what would bring such a young man to such a small village that lay half-way between civilization and nowhere.

Edmund set down his pen, and closed the book.

“Enough. A good place to stop. Because that’s where things started, you see?”

I walked home from the hospital. Didn’t want to take the train. Didn’t have the green, didn’t bother to chant. Just walked. Wandered up from Downtown. Nothing special. Done it before.

Walked past old stores locked up for dinner. Office buildings with guards out front, standing still and watching life flow by. Saw restaurants with people inside, eating together, their minds on the day past or the day ahead. I saw lots of things, but people didn’t see me.

I didn’t feel good. Wrong kind of not good, too. Wasn’t sick, or needed a sizzle. Not hungry, not dizzy, nothing like that. Don’t know why I felt so bad. Never felt like it before. Something about seeing Ribber in the hospital bed. Don’t know.

The Wedding of Patron Edmund Moulde is regarded by historians as one of the most significant events in the history of Europe. By means of demonstration, one need look no further than the story of Her Honorable Grace, Lady Milkquise of Donturry.

After accepting the invitation to Edmund’s wedding, Lady Milkquise of Donturry chose to dress in a thick crinoline and bustle, frilled with thin lace and pearl beads. Her hair was done up with a delicate lace of birch twigs, all in all creating a picture of elegant, if ever so slightly dated, fashion.

While most onlookers considered this a somewhat daring commentary on the speedy social changes that had come about since the Great War, several other gentry made similar choices with their own dress, wearing styles and fashions that were haute couture not a year ago.

However, Lady Milkquise of Donturry had not chosen this dress out of sociopolitical anxiety, but because she had worn a dress of similar design and color three years ago, during a particularly lovely picnic alone with the then eligible bachelor Lord Grumsworth of Tent. The spring rains had come early, and the two of them had been forced to separate from their chaperons to seek shelter under an old fishing hut on the edge of the lake.

Edmund’s announcement ball was held on the 22nd of July, two months before his wedding.

The guest list included every head of the other eight Founding Families, (All of whom declined to attend) and a collection of dignitaries from various important royal families and elite gentry. The provided food and drink was passable, if traditional, and seasoned with a small chamber orchestra of substandard reputation.

All in all, it was not a particularly memorable evening in itself. Luckily, the only reason anyone showed up was to say they had been one of the first to hear who Patron Moulde was going to marry.

In accordance with tradition, Edmund gave a short speech, making sure to follow the proscribed etiquette to the letter, and announced his betrothal to Googoltha Rotledge, granddaughter of the recently emigrated Tricknee Rotledge.

As he crested Haggard Hill, the rhythmic beat of Ung’s spade hitting the earth of Haggard Hill reached his ears. It was soothing to Edmund, slow and steady like a heartbeat.

“Tea’s ready, begging-your-pardon.”

Edmund nodded his thanks while Mrs. Kippling curtsied again and again as she slipped back inside Moulde Hall. He glanced at the tea-service. Two cups; perfect. “I will meet with her now,” he nodded to Enga. Turning his gaze back to the garden, Edmund watched as Ung toiled away, scraping and pushing at the earth.

“Is it worth it?”

Ung paused to brush his thick hand across his brow. “Sir?”

Edmund clasped his hands behind his back. “You have been working in the garden ever since the war. You’ve toiled for months, and I cannot help but wonder…are you getting what you want out of this effort?”

You know what I got?

I got no apartment. I got no green. I got the chant and the emptyspace and a circle who chant with me. I get hungry, I get lucky. Chant for green, sometimes, chant for food. Darla, she buys me food, share the spoils. I got a roof to sleep under, and if Darla ever shove me out, I got flops and couches, couches for days.

You know what I got? I got self respect.