“Agh, Rose!” Sara tried to fight her off, but Rose tickled her sister unmercifully. Sara, not expecting this, giggled before she could stop herself.
She felt her insides spasm. As with Rose mere minutes before, once Sara began laughing she could not stop. Sara had never been one to giggle uncontrollably, and had certainly never allowed herself to be tickled. The suppressed joy of fifteen years feasted heartily on her.
Rose and Sara laughed together until they both ached, attempted to catch their breaths, and fell apart once more. That sometimes the laughter shifted to silent sobs was only to be expected.
“So, I have this idea,” said Rose when she finally managed to calm herself.
Sara, feeling strangely loose within her own skin, blossomed under her sister’s conspiratorial gaze. Even so, she couldn’t help but be the naysayer.
“I can’t see anything we can possibly do,” Sara’s forehead creased as the weight of the world fell back upon her.
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Rose rolled her eyes, “and we have years of great material to choose from.” Reaching a hand to her sister’s face, Rose pushed and prodded at her skin until she had shaped Sara’s mouth into a smile. “There’s always something you can do,” Rose said simply: “lesson the first.”
The flower in Sara’s heart bloomed.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Rose sat back, gesturing to the starry sky. “There’s this muddy orange flower that grows in the hills back home. Benson and I met a shepherd once who told us about it. I think he called it Heladon, I think. He said the sheep that ate it went crazy for a while and had to be tied up. Once he lost a whole flock because they grazed on it and became so frightened that they all ran off a cliff.”
Sara shuddered at the idea.
“The shepherd told us to stay away, which is a stupid thing to say, because that only made us want to try it. We had…” Rose looked hauntingly into the night. “Look, I’ve experienced a lot of weird stuff these past few days, but nothing will ever be like eating that Heladon.”
“That’s all…great, Rose, but what does that have to do with getting Mama and Tobi back?” Sara asked eagerly, feeling the thrill of being a part of the plot.
“The thing is, when Benson and I were…you know”—Rose crossed her eyes—“we would believe anything we were told—anything at all—and the suggestions became more real than reality. Tad figured out what we had done and decided to mess with us. He had us convinced that Old Man Potts was breeding three-headed, fire-breathing chickens. He said now that we knew, Potts was going to send the whole flock of them after us. I still cringe whenever I see a chicken.” Sara frowned doubtfully, but Rose continued, “Anyway, that’s what the flower does. You can convince anyone who eats it to see whatever you want them to see.”
“And you think you can convince Uncle to help us?” Sara asked, brow furrowed but heart beating in excitement.
“No…I think I could terrify him into helping us,” Rose said with a shake of her head. “And then, when Mama and Tobi are back, we can scare him into keeping you.”
“You mean ‘us’?” Sara asked, retreating from these odd words.
“Of course. What did I say?” Rose said, a little too quickly for Sara’s uneasy mind. “But, anyway, I need you to sneak into the inn and bring me some of cousin Tavis’ clothes.”
Sara stiffened, horrified. “I can’t do that! Why don’t you do it?”
Rose bit her lip. She contemplated reminding her sister that, barring their immediate action, they may never see their mother or youngest sister again. Rose was accustomed to having an equal and knowledgeable co-conspirator, but that was not a thing she could expect from the timid Sara. She would need to be careful.
“Of course you can do it, it’s not difficult,” Rose explained, sending confident energy through the air to Sara. “Just use your brain, okay? I know it’s in there somewhere.”
Sara made shallow gulping noises.
“Look, I’ll let you in on a little secret, okay?” Rose said, taking her sister’s hands. “There are three words every prankster must internalize: Purpose, Position, and Planning. The first, Purpose, has to do with why you’re doing something. So, what is the job I’ve given you?”
“To get boy’s clothes,” Sara said with a grimace.
“Good,” encouraged Rose. “The second, Position, is about getting to the right place. So, where are clothes kept?”
Sara whimpered, “In locked bedrooms.”
“True, but there’s somewhere else, somewhere no one thinks to keep safe.” As Rose said this she gestured silently towards a fountain across the street. The view was mostly blocked, but Sara could just make out a woman’s hands scrubbing a shirt.
“The laundry room!” Sara exclaimed proudly.
“That’s right,” Rose said, resisting an eye roll. “The third, Planning, has to do with finding exactly the right moment to act. What time of the day are people least likely to be in the laundry room?”
“I guess…” thought Sara, “while they’re sleeping? Oh, or eating!”
Rose smiled smugly, “I knew there was a troublemaker inside you somewhere.”
“But I can’t possibly do it!” Sara looked worried again. “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because,” Rose sighed, “I have to grab enough coins from Uncle’s stash for the apothecary, unless you’d rather do that.”
“His coins!” Sara shook her head violently. “Oh Rose, how in the world are you going to do that?”
“Purpose, Position, Planning, my dear sister,” Rose smirked. When Sara remained less than confident, Rose added, “The hardest part is deciding to do it. The rest is surprisingly easy. Just slip into the laundry room when you know it will be empty and grab a few things.”
“But how do you know—” Sara began, chin quivering.
Rose grabbed her sister’s shoulders firmly, looking her straight in the mismatched eyes. “I need you to stay in the present with me, okay, Sara?” Rose said calmly but firmly. “You can’t know what will happen, and worrying about it won’t help. Repeat after me, okay?”
“Okay,” Sara said.
“Everything it going to work out,” Rose said.
“Everything…is going to work out?” Sara repeated, uncertainly.
“I know what I have to do and I’ll use my brain to do it,” Rose said.
“I…I know what I have to do and I’ll use my brain to do it,” Sara repeated.
“I’m a smart and remarkable person,” Rose said.
“Rose!” Sara pleaded.
“Say it!” Rose hissed.
“I’m a smart and remarkable person,” Sara mumbled.
“Oh, come on!” Rose chided.
“I’m a smart and remarkable person,” Sara said forcefully.
“And I will succeed,” Rose said.
“And I will succeed!” Sara concluded.
Sara felt differently after saying these words, even though she’d felt stupid during. She felt brave.
*
Chapter 6:
The Scribe
* * * * *
Fenric and Mysteries of Our National History
Doctoral Thesis in History Studies at the University of Illiam City
Statement of Purpose
By Henry Pflumigan
*
I first stumbled upon the name of Fenric in my early days at UIC while visiting the Library of the Great Palace. While browsing the list of those ancient texts, now locked in the vaults, I saw as intriguing an entry as it is possible to find: “The Personal Journal of Lucivak Mallar, King of Illiamna V.1-5: containing words calling for the cleaning of the towers and the disillusion of the guise of Fenric.”
I left with no further thought to pursue this topic, but as I studied other subjects, I found that I encountered this name over and over, and always in the most unlikely of places. His mystery called to me. Many years later, as a high-ranking student and after much petitioning, I was granted
access to the cavernous vault beneath the Palace to study the King’s journal in detail.
It was less a journal and more the notes of a court scribe. The account stayed pleasant but vague, as royals dictating at the time felt obligated to be. At last, however, I caught sight of such a direct phrase: “As for the falsely-known Fenric, let him be unmasked and his deeds at last be known.”
It is unclear whether these “deeds” were for or against the crown, for after his “unmasking,” little else of him can be found. I continue to petition to explore such journals further, and perhaps the vast vault of ancient texts will someday reveal all that it knows, but at this time I will draw upon what is currently available.
There are, to be brief, a collection of requisitions and orders containing this man’s signature, some as mundane as purchasing grain for a ship, yet some as unsettling as demanding that a man be hanged. There are lease documents for rooms or buildings in major cities in all twelve provinces and in five other countries, marks of credit to be paid from famously elite banks, and even an instructional booklet of poisons thought to be of his making. It is also rumored that the “Children’s First Book of Letters” is modeled after his writings. There are accounts of him on shipman’s logs claiming that he brought ill luck upon them, his name is mentioned in letters regarding the search for the missing heirs, and there are even letters both signed by and sent to “Fenric,” suggesting that—whatever his goals, be they nefarious or fair—he did not act alone.
Though it is my duty in this thesis to remain objective, I cannot help beginning with the observation that what little remains of this man tends to paint a bleak portrait. If, for now, this man is to remain an enigma to time, we can at least conclude one thing for certain: Fenric played a central part in the day’s game of secrets and lies, and though he enticed many to participate, few knew his intentions.
* * * * *
For the first time in his fifty odd years, Fenric felt every bit his age. For all he knew, he looked it too.
Fenric had never been a striking man, though his shoulder-length silver hair and well-groomed beard suited him more than the tawny mane of his youth. The lines of age on his face cut deeply into his character, but his dark black eyes shone bright.
As he hobbled through the littered stone streets of Portridge on his makeshift crutch, the heat of summer swelled within the furnace of black stone. He may have imagined it, but he was almost sure that, if he stood still for too long, the bottoms of his shoes began to smoke.
While his body shifted through the heat, Fenric’s dark thoughts threw his actions of the past decade into stark relief. He saw, in his mind’s eye, a regal woman drinking from a poisoned cup. It was a short jump from there to another memory of the same day when he wrenched a sword from a man’s chest. He saw the lifeless body of a child, watched from a riverbank as a palace burned.
Had it all been worth it, he wondered, these years scouring the world—these years of forcing the wheels to turn?
Clutching at a scalding stone wall, Fenric paused to steady his ragged breathing. He willed away his black mood with little success. Spying a place to sit behind an inn—a patch of shade out of the merciless sun—Fenric hobbled to it and lowered his weight.
He had barely settled himself when he was overcome with sleep.
He traveled back, in a dream, to the Turnagain’s cargo hold where the Tikaani slave girl sat carving symbols into the thick wooden planks. She cocked her head, as though sensing an odd presence. Her eyes met his, though he had no eyes to meet.
I didn’t know you were a dream walker—said the slave girl, smiling as though at a precocious child.
Fenric made a mighty effort to respond to her in the dream, but the only sound he emitted was a giant snore from his seat in the town.
I know what you need—she said to his mind. The slave girl passed her hands over the carved symbols. In a parallel world somewhere between her reality and his dreaming, a wisp of smoke appeared. It grew and shifted, shaping itself into the face of a man long dead.
The man of smoke, dark hair blowing in another world’s breeze, gave Fenric a pleading look.
For me?—the apparition begged.
The appeal shook Fenric to the core. He was so shocked to see that dead man’s face that he jerked violently awake.
As Fenric jumped in surprise, his leg shot out from under him. At the same moment a girl turned into the alley in time to be tripped by his injured appendage. She cursed loudly.
The girl’s gaze met his and her bright green eyes opened wide in recognition. She gasped. The girl was tall, with shoulder length yellow hair and a square jaw. She was not pretty in the usual sense, though she might certainly be called handsome. She clutched at a small bag with a tightness that Fenric couldn’t help interpreting as guilt.
Turning quickly, the girl rushed further into the alley, but her odd reaction lingered in Fenric’s mind. He watched her disappear into an alcove.
Fenric was stunned by her odd behavior. He tried to explain her apparent fear as a reaction to the frightened look he no doubt wore after being so forcefully shaken awake—or at least to the possible threat that could accompany being kicked by an old man in an alley. And yet, her foul language had sounded so unafraid, so unladylike, and the look she gave him was one of undeniable familiarity. He was sure, however, that he had never seen her before.
Fenric shook his head. He was reading too much into it.
With a shrug, Fenric turned his attention to his injured leg. It throbbed where the girl had slammed into it. His concentration wavered.
Needing to refocus himself, Fenric closed his eyes. As his Tikaani companions had instructed, he began by counting his heartbeats, not with numbers but with his breath. When he had reached the ancient sum of rest, Fenric attempted to open himself to the swirling energy that was—so they claimed—surrounding him.
He let his thoughts become loose and fall away. Slowly filling his lungs with the energy of the world, Fenric tried to feel them dance within his body. As he inhaled, he opened himself to the cast-off emotions of others. As he exhaled, he thought of how his breath might affect the pulsing currents around him.
His leg jerked painfully as another person tripped over it.
Fenric’s eyes flew open in time to observe a second girl, blond haired and very pretty, despite a birthmark that covered a quarter of her face. The second girl threw him a nervous glance as well, along with a polite pardon. Like the young woman before, this one too held a bundle far too tightly in her hands, guilt clearly read in her expression. She continued down the alley and disappeared into the same alcove.
Fenric considered attempting to clear his mind again, but his interaction with the two young females had set his scheming mind into motion. It was useless to resist his own plotting penchant, the Scribe knew. If he had learned anything from his active and eventful life, it was that a wandering mind was far more likely to find new and interesting ideas than one continually reigned in. Fenric, therefore, sat where he had come to be, feeling an excited charge in the air.
A significant amount of time passed before anything happened, but it felt like mere moments to the Scribe, whose patience was restored by intrigue. Fenric heard the click and clack of boots against cobblestones and looked up in time to see a boy emerge from the alcove. He had strangely familiar shoulder-length hair and bright green eyes. He and the first girl could have been twins.
The boy was startled to see Fenric sitting there. After a brief hesitation, he made a beeline for the street. As he passed, Fenric tipped his hat in greeting. A familiar guilty look bloomed on the boy’s face.
Fenric couldn’t describe the feeling, but it seemed to him that a path had been lit after the retreating boy. It seemed the most obvious thing in the world to follow.
Fenric dusted himself off and rose to pursue his destiny.
* * * * *
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Captain Kaille yelled at the shipboy. He stood menacingly in the door
of the mate’s cabin, filling the frame and blocking escape.
Inside were four pathetic figures: one unconscious man, two cowering slaves, and one mortified shipboy. Noticeably missing, as usual, was the Scribe.
Cricket, previously charged with guarding the door, had slumped inside. He stared at Kaille through his red bangs with the eyes of a wounded puppy.
“I,” Cricket cowered, “I think he’s gone ashore, Cap’n.”
“You think? Even after I gave you specific instructions to keep him here?” Kaille asked incredulously.
“I tried to stop him leaving,” said Cricket lamely, “but I got confused. There’s some kind of sorcery happening on the ship, I swear it. Maybe it’s the woman’s curse—”
“I don’t wish her aboard by any means, but in times of emergency we’re allowed certain liberties, Cricket. The gods wouldn’t grudge us her rescue. Let us hear no more about a curse,” Kaille said wearily. “Go get your dinner. Tomorrow we’ll discuss your place here with the new hands coming aboard.”
The boy shrank further in on himself. He slunk out of the cabin.
Kaille looked at the three that remained. He recognized the unconscious man as the bloody body he had rescued from the depths of the sinking ship. His wounds had been cleaned, though by whom Kaille did not know, and he lay serenely on a collapsible cot. A journal, no longer hidden in the man’s pockets, had been set atop his gently moving chest. Whyl Winesmith, the cover read.
It was taboo to read the personal writing of a man without his permission, or at least before his death, so despite his curiosity, the Captain left it unread. He did, however, take it into his possession, so as to lessen the temptation of others.
Kaille sat wearily on the cabin’s bed next to the Tikaani girl and boy.
The slave girl regarded the Captain with unnerving calmness, her purple Tikaani eyes boring into him.
He asked her, “Do you speak?”
She nodded, but said nothing.
“Do you have names?” Kaille tried again.
“He is Ikpek,” said the girl with a significantly thicker accent than she used with Fenric. She pointed to the boy and then to herself. “She is Dezadeash.”
“Ick-peck and I’m sorry,” Kaille said gently, “slower please. Dezza—“
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