Amelia L Rigby | Stories, Editing, Audiobooks

@ameoddly.bsky.social

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Writer of weird stuff. Dog aficionado. Lover of the eclectic. Editor and audiobook narrator, too. www.amelialrigby.com

With a few exceptions and latecomers such as Cass herself and Ferran, Rustrock was comprised of the rabble from Lava Town – Cass distinctly remembered it being explained to her this way as a child, when she had thought the word 'rabble' had something to do with rocks. The rabble and the rabble's children and grandchildren, more accurately. Depending on who was asked or the mood they were in when you asked them, it might also be said that they had been the working class, the physical laborers, or the slaves. But the schism had been coming for much longer than sixty years, and when they had moved to revolt from the much larger settlement, they had done so definitively. “We took almost every single weapon,” Basia had told the children in one of her many history lessons that went along with teaching them to read and write. “We took almost every single hound. Hope's Wood did not give up its workforce easily, but we made it because we out-thought them and because we had much more to fight for.”
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“. . . not going to find a damned thing,” Francis was saying, “mostly because there isn't a damned thing.” Cass was able to make out a thin cloud of smoke through the trees before she was able to see them, and it was Francis that stepped into view first. He was carrying his glider across his shoulder, neatly folded to become only a bit thicker than a walking stick. His black hair was tied up in a bedraggled knot that was no longer doing the job of keeping it out of his eyes, and he held a thin cigar between his teeth, the source of the strong-smelling smoke. Cass had seen him many times, but rarely had the opportunity to get a good look at him: Francis's skin was a shade of dark gold, cut through by the white of a deep scar on his chin that was visible even through the dark stubble. He had the air of someone compensating for being a little shorter and softer-looking than the others – Ferran came to mind, though she would never let him know she compared the two – and come to think of it, Cass was sure that this was the same one that Hare had gotten into a fight with when they were about fourteen. He had been proud of the vibrant purple bruise under his eye. That fight had apparently not done much to prevent their companionship as they grew, however. “And everyone knows it. It's to get us out of their hair.”
“Are there towers around here?” Velt asked, taking a seat on the blanket next to the buzzing Caster. “Towers?” Cass began to turn one of the dials, and all kinds of delightful sounds started emanating from the machine, even if they were harsh, like thick paper being crumpled repeatedly. She looked over at Velt to see that he was arching an eyebrow in her direction. “For the signal? No? You don't know how to use it,” he observed finally, though he didn't say it in a scolding way. He leaned back, propping himself up on his hands, making himself comfortable. “Well, no, I don't,” Cass replied a little defensively, turning another of the dials so that it crackled even louder. “Do you want to teach me? Is there some way I should be using this?”
“Bee, come,” Cass said quietly, firmly. Bee ignored her, locking eyes on the threat instead. Cass knew at once that she was foolishly unprepared: her machete was snugly holstered to her side, and in the rush to leave Rustrock, she had not even brought her damn pistol. She was afraid to make any large movements, afraid it would trigger the attack all the faster, so she placed her hand slowly on the handle of her machete. “Bee, come on, honey.” She tried to say it a little sweeter, but her voice was quavering. “I can handle it. Come on.” But in a blink, the yow and Bee were at each other's throats, on top of one another, limps flailing and the air filled with snaps and growls.
The darker it got, the more magical the clearing looked, with everything beyond it looking pitch black. Cass and Anya tried to keep close to Ferran, having learned long ago that he avoided situations such as this one for just how difficult it became to understand anything that was going on since he couldn't read lips as well and there was nearly no one making the effort to sign or look him head on. He looked sour and glowering as usual while he drank some of the Kisian tea and made a variety of distasteful and then intrigued expressions before taking another drink. The mask Anya had painted onto him made him look so attractively strange that he kept receiving second and third looks by passersby that didn't recognize him at first glance. Ferran would have looked even grumpier if he'd noticed.
Ferran motioned around them and signed with a pointed expression – 'Lava Town.' His gesture for Lava Town was the one he used for 'fire' combined with a rude gesture. They had decided on this as children, as with many of Ferran's signs. If it had a direct translation, Cass would say it was 'Fire-Fucks.' “But would they attack a random peddler?” Anya said skeptically. “That isn't their usual routine . . . I don't think.” “Who's to say they're a peddler?” Cass said, giving another long look around them before stepping forward and beginning to work on the knots that closed off the tent.
Cass had involuntarily clutched at her chest and nearly fell backwards, and was all the angrier for it when Hare grinned in response. “What are you, a cat?!” was the best insult she could come up with in the moment. “Maybe,” he shrugged. “I like cats.” He looked much the same as he did on the hilltop, with the moonlight catching on the buckles of his boots and on some bauble in his hair. Somehow, though, even though it was dark now, Cass felt like she could see him better: The shirt he wore was some kind of soft leather that laced up at the front, there was an extra piercing she didn't remember in his ears, and if she was just a little closer, Cass was sure she could make out the freckles. His hair still did not lay flat in the least, but he still had excellent cheekbones.
Something cold had dropped through Cass's chest. “Harlow's son taking over?” She repeated, ignoring his pointless flattery. “Yes, Harlow the younger, now that Harlow senior's health has gotten to be what it is. I wonder if they'll keep using that boring naming convention,” Gregor mused, and then catching sight of the look on Cass's face, he burst out in laughter, a raucous sound. “You didn't know about Harlow's health either? How is it that you two are neighbors and you don't even catch wind of the loudest gossip!” Cass tried to regain her composure, glancing over at Bee and seeing that even she was watching Cass closely. She had begun to pace the room without realizing it. “It isn't like we chat with one another. And it isn't as though there is any love lost between Harlow and anyone here.”
On Marco's other side sat Farah Deloros. The Council member of the South District had claimed the seat closest to Hare with a quickness that was unusual for her. She wasn't being quick now, however. “Half of the fields were razed and then replanted in an effort to curb the pests,” she droned, staring at her plate as she did as though she were reading from it. She had to have been in her seventies now, though Hare could not remember a time when the small woman's face had not been heavily lined. She had been kind to Hare when he was a little boy, giving him candy and ensuring that his parents saw her doting on him. It had ended as soon as his 'acting a fool' began, as his Father called it. His acting a fool had never subsided, so she still didn't like him. They said that her wits were slowing, but she still adeptly oversaw her District, and she reported on every detail. Slowly. “It should all grow back by next quarter. The farmers in charge are, of course, distressed . . .”
The Coven of Cagliasaro by Carol Ann Moore, now on Audible
Behind Cass and Anya, Ferran was half-sprawled in the narrow back seat, and if Anya's expression showed her displeasure, his showed a full spectrum of sadness, anger, and a resigned acceptance of how dreadful things were, all flashing through his face somehow at once. It could not be said that his not talking limited his communication or expressiveness: Ferran had been perpetually like a lightning strike for as long as Cass had known him, and that had been a decade now. He was loud and bright in his own way. His already pale hair had long since been bleached near-white by the sun, currently cropped short enough to stay out of his way, and was unkempt and dirty as usual. His face was round, and Cass always thought a little feminine. This might have softened his features, but it somehow did not. His skin was a few shades darker than his hair, and this also because of the sun's work on them all though he still managed to be among the palest in Rustrock. As he stared around the horizon, patrolling their perimeters like the hounds would, Ferran flicked each of his fingers into the air, one after the other at a rhythmic pace. A nervous tic that Cass had caught herself doing sometimes after being around it so much.
She felt his hands grab her by the feet and push her upward. It wasn't enough. “I said give me a boost.” “How do you want me to do it? You're going to get hurt or you're going to be mad at me-” “I swear to every god, Julius,” Cass snapped though gritted teeth, beginning to slide back downwards in spite of her best efforts. “Well, don't do that.” Before Cass had time to react, he had all but thrown her, boosted from her ass, and she hit the ledge of the top of the rock hard, knocking all the breath out of her. She just managed to throw her arms up and hold on. “Are you alright?” Anya called worriedly while Cass tried to breathe again. She tossed the pickax on the vastly uneven rocks ahead of her, silently thankful that she didn't bonk herself in the face with it. “Yes,” Cass said in a little hiss, scrabbling upwards with every bit of strength her arms and legs could gather and dragging herself over the top. “She's going to be mad at me now,” Julius muttered from below.
“Why are you giving me that look?” he asked in a scandalized way, “I would have been much more inventive with my defacement of a shrine, I promise you.”
The evening before the trip, Cass took her bike out on the dirt paths outside of town, just her and Bee. No clandestine meetings this time, but despite the fact that she would be traveling soon, she felt the keen need to wander. She had sorted through and helped Berlin neatly wrap the gifts that had made the cut: a fine bottle of wine made by Geena (not the harsh stuff that Cass, Ferran, and Anya buried in the dirt), some of Bram's best leather, a sampling of the lovely-smelling soaps that Ariel had made (Cass hated to see them go. Even if they knew her techniques, it felt like giving away something precious to people who may not appreciate them as much), and a delicately made dagger from Tola's most active metalworking days. On its dark wood handle were carved flowers and thorns, and they wrapped it in a scarf that had been hand-painted by Anya. Cass thought that they had made good choices, at least. She hoped that the folks from Kisaint thought so, too.
“Cass!” A familiar voice came from above, drawing Cass's eyes to Geena's roof and the legs that casually dangled over the side from where their owner rested. “Bring me back something good?” Cass faced forward again and kept her pace while the men behind Julius chuckled knowingly. She'd just caught sight of him, still idly holding the hammer, covered in sweat and giving her a brilliant grin. But she was unwilling to give him the satisfaction. “Not a damn thing, Julius,” she called back firmly.
Her distraction was such that, on the next morning while she was gathering water from the well's pump, she let her guard down enough for some responsibility to finally catch up with her. “You've been avoiding me like I have the plague, child,” Basia said from directly behind Cass. Cass jumped like she'd been scalded, knocking the bucket against the metal of the pump and causing an uncomfortably loud clatter in the process. When she turned, she found Basia standing there with a sullen look on her face and her arms crossed. Cass suddenly felt like she was a child again, caught and scolded for getting herself muddy and bruised. Her initial thought was unbidden – How does she know? Fortunately, within the moment it took her to stand and awkwardly clear her throat, she had realized Basia in fact did not know, and was giving her that look because of her outburst in the meeting days ago, and probably her adventuring since. “Basia, I . . . haven't been avoiding you, I only-”
“I know who the Enforcers are,” Cass cut in, unable to help it as she gave him a pointed look. “They're usually talked about in Rustrock as the ones who would come find you and beat the shit out of you if you missed work.”
Cass tried to keep the subject away from herself and from the misadventure, knowing full well that she would have to tell Basia momentarily anyway. “I need to talk to that damn peddler about trading you any.” She turned her back to the woman's cold stare, shuffling around the place and putting things away, peering in at the stew, lighting the lamp as she went. Things to keep her hands busy. “Ha,” Basia said humorlessly, watching Cass walk around the small room. “Because he would listen to you over me. And you feed this dog of yours too much, girl. She was after me for food all the time.” “Only because she was testing what you'd give her,” Cass said. “Turn that light off, I'm not reading anything,” Basia puffed at her pipe some more while Cass pretended she hadn't heard her. “Well? Did you find your treasures and have some fun?” “They weren't treasures for me,” Cass snapped back, keeping her eyes averted as she added, “I have a few things to talk to that peddler about, actually.” “Oh, so did you not find what you were looking for?”
“I propose a penalty for those drinking the weakest drinks,” Rainer announced, dragging a chair over. “I agree,” Francis said quickly, looking pointedly at Hare. “What did I ever do to you?” Hare wondered, setting down his wine with a sigh. They had just gotten to the point of starting the game, Priya leading the charge as she usually did by throwing a couple coins down and announcing the round's goal, when a creak on the stairs and a raspy voice announced that the last of the Flock had joined the party.
“There's a place not far north of here,” Cass began, leaning in eagerly, “We call it the Great Basin. A huge civilization used to be there. Do you know it?” “Yes,” Velt said, scratching his neck absentmindedly as though checking for stubble. He was very cleanly shaved. “They call it . . .” He said a long string of words in the Kisaint tongue, screwing up his face in thought, before finally adding, “It translates to something like Death City, or the Home of Death. But specifically a violent, angry death. There are a lot of words for death.” “Oh,” Cass said, while Anya patted her on the shoulder. “Yes, Cass, let's go to the city of violent, angry death, shall we?” Anya joked. “Sounds delightful. I am going with Jaq to try some of that jam.”
“A toll?” Basia spoke up, and Cass heard Berlin's sharp intake of breath. There was no stopping her now, however. “You maintain the roads – who built them?” “Certainly not you,” Harlow replied with some amusement in his voice clear now. There was a light ripple of laughter from some in the crowd. Berlin quickly responded, raising his voice before Basia had a chance. “I'm afraid we didn't bring anything to pay a toll with, Harlow.” “And how is that my problem to solve?” Harlow cut him off, still lounging comfortably against his handlebars. Cass caught Hare's reaction to this – sucking the air in through his teeth in a cringe. The reaction from the friends around him were similar, with the girl covering her initial grin and turning away like she couldn't watch. It was not very reassuring.
Cass let out a breath slowly, while a few feet away a group of people, mostly men, had gathered to drink some Grime. She watched them, deciding to be quite interested in the show of it in order to avoid talking to those around her. It was a traditional liquor reserved for special occasions, supposedly as a test of strength, and an old tonic for those about to go into battle. As the saying went – 'strong enough to sprout hairs on your chest, wretched enough to knock them off again.' It was a secret recipe passed down among a select few, and Julius and Lester's father was the current favored brewer, which meant they were always included in the drinking whether they liked it or not. “Come on, get in here you two!” Their father called out to Bram and Ferran. “No thanks, I like my guts intact,” Bram replied in his deep rumble, before throwing his arm around Ferran's shoulders. “And I believe the rule is that you're exempt if you've still got your kill's blood on you.” Ferran stared up at him, his eyes huge.
Ferran motioned them both on with a sharply pointed look. “And what's your problem this time, Feral?” Lester growled. Ferran made a rude gesture in his direction and mouthed a few words that could not be misinterpreted, and Lester visibly bristled. Before Cass could intervene herself, Julius had reached out and given Lester a sharp smack on the back of the head. “What, are you trying to start a wrestling match in Bram's yard? Go on, you pup.”
“What do you think happened in here?” Julius asked uneasily, while Ferran prodded at the debris of a collapsed shelf. “Well . . . I don't know about this raider camp in particular, but they were probably wiped out at some point. I guess violently,” Cass said, looking down at the feet of the skeleton. They hadn't been wearing any shoes when they died, or perhaps someone had taken the shoes as loot. “Or maybe these weren't even the raiders. Maybe the raiders joined Lava town and these were . . . who knows?” Julius did not reply, but she could tell he was looking forward to getting out of the cramped rooms already. She wondered if they were underground. It felt like a cave. The next room they entered was different, wider, with taller ceilings and a slightly raised platform in the middle, like a stage. There were busted barrels and crates lining the walls, and tables and chairs here and there, some still standing and some in splinters. Cass and the others held their lanterns high for the light to travel to the other side of the room. There were signs of old hangings on the walls, tattered and slashed or rotted enough to fall off. She tried to imagine what the room might once have been as she stepped carefully onto the platform, which creaked and groaned under her boots. How many had lived here once?
“I know who the Enforcers are,” Cass cut in, unable to help it as she gave him a pointed look. “They're usually talked about in Rustrock as the ones who would come find you and beat the shit out of you if you missed work.” “Oh,” Hare blinked in surprise. “Well, I'm sure that was a part of my grandfather's era. But I'm not aware of anything like that happening now. They usually just wander around and don't do much of anything.”
Cass ended the pitiful thing's pain with a quick slash through the neck. Even a yow didn't deserve to die slowly, and this one had probably once been a perfectly normal deer. It had to be horrible just to become a yow in the first place, Cass imagined, and now it couldn't even be used as food. They would burn this one and the other they'd found. One thing that the Elders had theorized was that it was spreading through corpses. Better to be safe than sorry. Ferran was cleaning his blade off in the grass nearby. Anya was staring down at the dark blood pouring out of the yow with a disgusted but almost sad look. They hadn't even made it as far as the first of the northern ruins before running into yows this time. It was a large part of their purpose in coming out, though, so they had been prepared.
She carried some guilt home with her, too, which surfaced when Anya asked her where she wandered off to today. Cass told a blatant lie about her restlessness and needing to take Bee out for a good run, and Anya seemed to accept it. It was useful to have a reputation as a hopeless rambler sometimes. But the lie did not feel right and she wished she could have been honest about her day. That said, Cass found that the guilt was fleeting. What she was mostly filled with was still that heady feeling of warmth and satisfaction, and that was what she carried with her throughout the rest of the day.
If they had been quick on their route up to this floor, it was nothing compared to their ascent to the roof. It was lucky that the trader had no use of his traps in this direction, because they surely would have raced right into them. As it was, Cass holstered her blade and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, taking stairs two at a time and rattling the rotted floor beneath her. If there was a chance, it was a narrow one. But if they could just catch up to them before . . . Ferran stayed close behind her. Anya lagged further behind. Cass's legs and lungs were burning, but she kept pace, letting her rage fuel her. If she had slowed down enough to think of what she would do when she caught them, she may have given up the chase as futile, but as it was she just wanted to get her hands on the supplies and on the bastards that took them out from under her.
“I'm giving my mother a chance to handle herself,” Julius replied. He was better at keeping his voice casual, though there was a strained sound to it. “Or I'll never hear the end of it.” “Good,” Cass said. She realized that she would loath to see him angry. It just didn't happen, and that was usually a sign that it would be bad when it did. “What do you think she'll do?” “Eh,” Julius made a face, “You remember the time she beat Ward with her shoe?” “Oh no,” Cass said. Next to her, Ferran looked bright-eyed and ready to help Nasrin in a fight that could not happen. Cass quickly tried to shooed him on. “He's probably just a little drunk, you know. You know, Julius?” She pushed, eager for some sign of goodwill or that he wasn't taking this seriously.
Basia uncrossed her arms with a deep sigh, and reaching forward, placed her hand firmly on Cass's shoulder. “I do not agree with you, Cass. You know that much. But I'm not here to scold you.” She began to steer Cass, with her half-filled water bucket, toward her own house. “I think this use of your energy is a waste, your decisions are your own.” Cass looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing this uncharacteristic admission. “In fact, if you had given me a chance to tell you so in the first place -” Basia shot her another stern look out of the corner of her eye before continuing, “I would have told you that I am proud of you for your willingness to try and be a solution for these things.” Staring at Basia, who still wore a small frown but seemed to have lost her anger, Cass now found herself wondering if something had happened or if she was sick. She was proud of Cass, although Cass was doing something she specifically did not like? It seemed like a trick.
“It's good that you're standing up for yourself, Harlow,” Priya said encouragingly. “Just do it a little more politely next time. Pretend to be your dad.” Hare opened his mouth and pointed the cigar at her, before seeing her impish smile and deflating with a sigh. “If you ever see me fawning over them, please just shoot me while I have a shred of dignity left.” Francis put his arm around Hare's shoulder and gave him a firm kiss on the cheek, clearly proud.
“Oh, you prick,” Cass scoffed, yanking it out of his hand and drinking the rest down. To her surprise, although the heat came back just as strong, the drink ended with a thick layer of sweet honey-like nectar that seemed to cool the effect faster. It would have been helpful to know that before.
Bee joined her at a trot, as casually as ever, ready for the day's adventures. This time she had a friend along, a black and white hound named Calla that claimed at least three houses as his home that Cass knew of, depending on where he wanted to sleep at night. He galloped beside Bee, trying to entice her to a wrestle, until Bee finally growled and snapped at him, sending him scurrying away, thoroughly unapologetic. Cass looked down at her with raised eyebrows. “You're not going into heat, are you? Because it would be a bad time for that.” The look Bee gave her could have encapsulated a dozen lectures or sarcastic replies, and Cass understood that she should perhaps be more polite to one that kept so many of her secrets.
“What is the matter with you? Don't you talk?” The black-haired man's words to Ferran floated up to them, and Cass jumped when Hare called down to him. “Keep your pistol in your pants, Francis. This is a friendly visit.” The firm words were answered with some scattered laughter, though not from the man he directed them at. At the same time, Hare raised his hand in a stilling gesture to his apparent-defenders, walking up the hillside. Cass saw a couple of the rings on his fingers flash in the sunlight, before he turned back to face her. “You want to talk about this? Pick a time.” Cass made a flustered sound, somewhere between a couple different words. “I don't think so,” She decided on, flatly. “I don't need to talk to you.” “It seems like you do. Pick-” Hare spoke distinctly, firmly, and looked her straight in the eyes in a way that made her terribly uncomfortable,“-a time.”
“This must mean we're getting close, right?” Anya rasped in the stillness. But no sooner had she said it than a loud, distinct thump came from a floor above them. There was no mistaking it or denying it now: someone or something was up there. As Anya and Cass's faces turned upwards toward the sound, Ferran waved his light pointedly back and forth to get their attention. 'Someone is here,' Anya quickly signed to him, and his head snapped upwards to look at the dark ceiling above them too, though there was nothing to see. Cass gripped the handle of her blade a little tighter and compulsively checked her holstered pistol. Both of her companions were close behind her as she kept onward. When they reached their goal, all three quickly knew it. The heavy crates that had been blockading the room had been shoved aside, one of them busted open to reveal not much more than molded cloth and more junk. The door still hung ajar, and as Ferran raised the lantern high, they could see where the old trader must have slept, on a padded cloth bedroll in the midst of all his things, his horde of treasure now abandoned since he had gone out to meet some unfortunate end. He had no doubt once had his wares more carefully arranged in the boxes and cases that packed the small room, but that had been undone now: they had been shoved aside, opened, broken into and ransacked.
Hare's father was already fully dressed in the usual shades of blacks and browns and grays, and his dark hair was tied back neatly. His face was as serious as ever, never a smile to be found, at least when he was looking in Hare's direction. “You're ready for the day early,” Harlow the elder observed, looking Hare over from head to toe in a glance. Both of them knew he didn't believe it, but Hare wondered just how much of a mess he looked. “Yes, I certainly am,” He said, refusing to look but remembering the fresh tear on his collar and the wine that had spilled on his boots earlier. “What about you? Up from last night or fresh from this morning?” His father gave a short, humorless laugh and did not deign to respond to the question. He didn't look like he had been to bed either. “Come with me.” He turned and led the way back down the hall, and Hare threw his head back in silent sorrow. It was not a request.
“Julius,” Cass stepped just into the doorway to get out of the rain, and motioned him further into it as well before peeking into the bathhouse, but there was no one else there. He obliged easily enough, and he took a breath and gave her a look that said he knew what she was going to ask. “How's your mother?” “She's fine. Mostly just angry,” Julius said, leaning back in the door frame and looking up at the deep gray of the sky. He looked tired. “Well, the captain didn't know who he was messing around with,” Cass said, with a pause before adding, “Not you. Your mother.”
Bee's fat, squared snout was immediately sniffing Cass all over, pressing her wet nose here and there on Cass's face, hair, and clothes, examining her thoroughly, taking an inventory of all the places she had been since they were separated. “I missed you too, my pretty girl,” Cass assured her, feeling the hound's crooked ears and breathing in her musky, dusty scent. Bee was a mammoth of a hound at nearly a hundred pounds, muscular and tall, with her head going to Cass's waist when she stood upright on all four paws. At two years old, she was bigger than any other female dog in town, and Cass took a certain pride in those broad hocks and massive head, though it wasn't as though Bee wouldn't have been a big girl no matter what Cass did.
“That came from your dark and twisted mind, love, not mine,” Julius said with a wondering shake of his head while he nudged her feet with his in one more adjustment. “No, you're never going to make a head shot.” “Julius!” Cass hissed. “Well, no one is! I don't do head shots either. Only a showoff goes for a head. And if you're shooting for your life, you don't want to choose that moment to be a showoff. Besides, a cave lion's skull is so thick that even if you make the shot, it's probably not going to take it down fast enough. You want vital organs – lungs or heart, just like you would with smaller stuff. And if you miss, maybe you'll be lucky enough to shatter a shoulder blade and give yourself time for another shot,”
Harlow had never had any love from Rustrock, but the hatred for him was soon renewed like a blazing fire once the story of what happened spread. Amid the outrage there were many suggestions of of sabotaging Lava Town and their road in some way, of confrontation or purposefully starting the fighting back up again, none of which would actually happen. It was a fortunate thing that they had the distraction of the men from Kisaint coming for a visit to keep everyone busy. And it did keep them busy – Berlin made certain of that. Some of the other elders of the town seemed dubious of the merits of building such a relationship with these strangers at first, but soon got caught up in the current of preparations too. They might as well take advantage of the opportunity to hear about the outside world, after all, and it had been so long since Rustrock had the excuse for any kind of big celebration.
“Yes,” She said quietly, and when Basia closed her eyes with a tight-lipped scowl, she began to speak louder. “But you're not going to believe anything I say when I try to explain.” “My girl,” Basia's voice was suddenly soft, but that was worse. The disappointment was palpable, and Cass could have fallen over like she'd been hit. “You are not the first to be taken in by promises and a pretty face.” “That's not what happened!” Cass's voice came out shrill. “You're smarter than this, and you're meant for more than to be a pawn of any man.”
They stood that way a precious few moments, only watching as Gregor's caravan grew gradually smaller, breathing in the morning air. Cass knew that the town behind them was beginning to wake, and she was not surprised when she heard more bootfalls behind them, walking in a poor attempt to be gentle. “You know,” Julius said as he came to stand on Ferran's other side, “we could just take all of his wares and the cart they're in before he ever gets far. Would take care of that problem.” Cass looked over at him: Julius was dressed for hunting, a mix of sun-bleached cloth and well-worn leathers, with a machete and a rifle strapped across his back. His hair was slicked back and tied in a small knot. She suspected his father and brother were somewhere waiting on him, but here he was. “I don't think that would solve many of our problems, actually,” she replied. Ferran was keeping his eyes forward, stubbornly ignoring him.
With everyone talking longer than expected, Berlin finally spoke again, so that at least some fell silent. “There has also been a suggestion,” his voice was a little higher, but he did not let the frustration show in his expression, “that we set up an outpost by the Red River, nearer to the forest. This could give us better and more regular access to water and new hunting grounds.” “You mean Lava Town's hunting grounds,” Cass heard the low voice of Julius's father behind her. He was not the only one that took offense at this suggestion too, as a cry near the front burst out at the same time: “That would be like declaring a war! Do we want more fighting?” “I am not trying to convince anyone of anything,” said Berlin firmly. “I am putting our thoughts forward and gathering more input, that is all.” “I think you got your input,” Julius laughed bitterly, before being shushed by his father.
The image of Kestrel with the holes shot through her was not the only depiction of the martyr in the Book, though it had been the one that bothered Cass the most as a child. There was one drawn in several different forms throughout the old pages, once more detailed and taking up an entire page, and several other times scrawled in the margins. In it, Kestrel was shown whole, but in the place where her arms should be were three sets of wings. In this depiction, she was still given no facial features, a blank slate entirely. Sometimes it looked like the artist had begun to make a nose, but either erased it or never completed the necessary lines. Cass still remembered the speech she had gotten from Basia as a child about the meaning of symbolism. “This is why you must not be ashamed about the marking on your chest, child. Don't they look like wings to you?” “Kestrel was also found in the forest without any parents.”
I am in one of the fanciest hotels in a massive city, in the heart of downtown. (no, I didn't pay for it.) It is surreal to be here, with the glossy lights and the Starbucks in the hotel and the amenities everywhere (for an additional price). But when you look just a little closer, the pretty veneer is so thin. Tons of white fluffy towels and big fancy shampoos, but the wallpaper in the bathroom is a weird rubbery coating, and the glue can be seen in the gaps. The water fountains don't work. There are bottles of water in the room. $6 a bottle, but they assure you it's the purest you can get. The stadiums and the bridges the massive overpasses right beside us feel like they are all part of the ruse.
“I am never going anywhere with you!” Anya said once again, her fuming coming back around in a cycle. “I know,” Cass said again, doing her best to sound apologetic. Ferran, for his part, did not seem angry at Cass or bothered in the least. He had a small split in his lower lip that would be swollen and bruised by the next day, but he wasn't bothered by that either. It wasn't his first busted lip, nor would it be his last. They had driven on for almost another hour in their trip around the Queen. The conversation had been either this or an angry, stewing silence. “What were you thinking?” Anya continued on, holding her head in her hands. “We could have been shot! Who knows if this will have repercussions for Rustrock?”
“She had a lot of admirers,” Hare nodded. “My mother was engaged three other times before she married my father. Once to Marco's dad! It's always the slightest bit awkward. And don't believe what you read – she never took Auberon as her name. Couldn't stop them from putting it on the tomb though.” He stretched his arms out wide and sighed. “She didn't even want to be buried up here at all. Much more of a 'throw me in a hole, kick some dirt on top and call it a day' sort.”
Ferran had his shawl around his shoulders, and the paint on his face was smeared now. “Oh!” Cass yelped, stopping in her tracks as her thoughts caught up with reality. She had no doubt that he had been out on one of his usual early walks, but how long had he been watching her? And what must he think? Ferran, however, didn't seem to have any theories, as he watched her very mildly before nodding her on, and walking with her the rest of the way to park her bike. Cass's mind reeled with stories and excuses. Nothing seemed very believable or adequate. But once her bike was put away and they were facing each other again, Ferran signed his question in a very non-accusatory way: 'Where do you like to go at night?'
“Don't get any ideas,” Cass said in a low voice, taking up the charcoal pencil and beginning to carefully smudge it across his eyelids. “My head is as empty as ever, dear,” Julius replied, visibly trying not to smile. Nonetheless, a moment later when Cass was tracing his lower eyelid, he asked, “Do you remember the last time you did my mask?” “Not at all,” Cass lied in a casual voice. She remembered it very much, the little festival that they held on the longest day of the year, and how they'd decided to go all out that year. She wished she remembered more of what she had painted on him, actually. She knew his already dark eyes had looked supernaturally large, but some of the evening was blurred by wine they had snuck. “Mmm,” Julius gave a doubtful little smile, and Cass was tempted to smack his nose like Ferran had smacked Lester's. “What are your plans for the night?”
“You know that a pack of angry yows aren't the worst things you're going to find north at the Basin,” Anya said to Cass, though her little smile was a patient one as she filled some dough with a meat mixture while the little oven's fire began to crackle. “I know,” Cass said with a wary sigh, wishing she had kept count of how many times she had been told that since speaking her intent at the meeting hall. “It's dangerous, I'm going to get myself killed, so on and so forth. I'm still going to do it.” She carefully peeked under the wrapping that Anya had put over her freshly engraved skin last night, and saw with relief that it and her sleeves had seemingly prevented the dirt from getting in it.
They finally reached the final floor before the roof, and Cass barely skidded to a stop and slammed herself into the heavy door that would lead to the final staircase, before yanking it open. These stairs were lit from a busted out window on the door at the top, and the relatively fresh air here filled Cass's lungs with clearer breath and renewed purpose. Even before she yanked the door open and even with the sunlight stinging her eyes, Cass could see them. They stood some forty feet away by the edge of the roof, five of them, and they already had the tall rods free from the holsters on their backs, the wings of them unfolded. She could not make it to them in time. She still tried.
“Are there towers around here?” Velt asked, taking a seat on the blanket next to the buzzing Caster. “Towers?” Cass began to turn one of the dials, and all kinds of delightful sounds started emanating from the machine, even if they were harsh, like thick paper being crumpled repeatedly. She looked over at Velt to see that he was arching an eyebrow in her direction. “For the signal? No? You don't know how to use it,” He observed finally, though he didn't say it in a scolding way. He leaned back, propping himself up on his hands, making himself comfortable. “Well, no, I don't,” Cass replied a little defensively, turning another of the dials so that it crackled even louder. “Do you want to teach me? Is there some way I should be using this?”
The worn steps to Basia's old house were a familiar comfort in themselves. Cass dropped the scrap beside them, and she and Bee climbed to the front door. The house was more of a hut, with only two rooms built over low stilts to avoid the floods. The door's curved handle had only been there a couple years, made by Cass herself from an interesting piece of brass she had found and shined to a dark gleam. Basia had rolled her eyes at the gesture, calling Cass's tinkering a waste of her time as usual, but Cass thought there had been a glint of happiness there anyway, and in any case, Cass liked the weighted feel of it in her hand when she opened the woman's door. When Cass stepped into Basia's shadowy home, a familiar and acrid scent met her nostrils. Before she greeted the woman or even set eyes on her, Cass was waving the smoke away from her face as she said, “I thought you weren't going to mess with this shit anymore!”