by Richard Due
That night they all celebrated with a big dinner in Cora’s cramped little house. Quib served several plates of dragon jerky as a special treat. Jasper made do with only things he felt certain were vegetables, relying on his dwindling supply of LUNA Bars for protein.
Right before going to sleep, Jasper slipped under his blanket and pulled out the moon coin. Tripping the fob, he watched anxiously as a nearly complete circle of silvery white spheres appeared—all but Earth. Staring at the little moons, he wondered when—precisely—they might all glow. Figuring out the exact timing struck Jasper as a priority. It had been many hours since his last look at the coin. He’d arrived on Dain a little after noon, almost a day and a half ago. How much longer would he have to wait? Jasper tried not to let this worry him, making a mental note to write down everything he knew as soon as he got home.
First thing in the morning, Jasper checked the coin. This time, all the spheres lit up—including Earth. Propped up on one elbow, Jasper stared at the little circle that meant home. He closed his eyes and thought about all the things he had seen and done since entering the Moon Realm. Had he accomplished all he wanted to?
Someone in the next room laughed loudly, and a voice shouted, “Dubb!” Suddenly, Jasper was reminded of one more conversation he needed to have before leaving.
Dubb must have arrived sometime during the night. He was clearly fatigued, but standing in front of Cora’s breakfast table, he couldn’t have been happier. He already had an overfilled plate tucked into the crook of his arm and was filling a second. His coarsely woven, long-sleeved shirt may have once been white but was now peppered with the dust and dirt of a long ride, and his britches were made of dragon scales, a mixed-up patchwork of many colors introduced through constant mending. There were several small areas on his thigh where Jasper could see bare skin. When Dubb moved, the armor was utterly noiseless.
“How are Bree and Annora?” asked Jasper.
Dubb shoveled a pile of bacon onto his plate. He was swaying and humming loudly and showed no awareness of Jasper’s presence, yet without looking up, he handed Jasper an empty plate and pointed around to the various selections on the table. Cora appeared, fresh from the kitchen, and held out a basket. Dubb stared at it expectantly. She pulled aside the cloth napkin, revealing steaming biscuits marbled with red berries. Dubb’s eyes locked onto them, and his hand shot out, snatching one like a man half-starved. Holding it to his nose, he took in a long, intoxicating breath.
“Cherries,” he said weakly. He tucked the biscuit under his chin and reached for another. “Cora, you dear woman, where did you ever find them?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I bought them.”
Dubb looked longingly at the second biscuit in his hand, licked his lips, and then slowly put it back.
“Quib doesn’t know,” she said.
Dubb’s eyes shifted about the room.
“In fact,” continued Cora, “it would probably be best if they just—disappeared.”
Dubb motioned with his fingers, and Cora placed the basket into his arms. Dubb let the biscuit under his chin drop into the basket. After a second sweep of the room, he stole like a thief toward the courtyard, balancing his load expertly. Just before springing through the doorway like a deer, he turned sideways and signaled with his head and eyes for Jasper to follow. And then he was gone, the sound of his scurrying footsteps fading.
Cora smiled, slowly shaking her head from side to side. “The moons love them, but they can be s-o-o-o-o simple at times.” She grabbed an empty platter from the table and headed back to the oven.
Jasper topped off his plate and filled a mug from a pitcher that smelled faintly of spiced apples. In the far corner of the courtyard, he discovered Tavin and Dubb having their own personal feast. A fortress of chairs surrounded them, the seats heaped with plates, baskets, jugs, and cups. They must have made three or four trips apiece to the table. When Tavin saw Jasper, he swiveled around and removed his leg from a chair, patting it invitingly.
“Ah, Jasper,” he said, a weary smile on his face. “Come and sit.”
Cora appeared in the doorway and quietly shut the doors. Jasper wondered just how long they’d been waiting for him to wake up.
For a long while, Tavin and Dubb seemed perfectly satisfied stuffing their mouths with food. Periodically, one of them would make a sound of pleasure over a morsel, the other responding in kind, as though they were sampling delicacies. Often they laughed for no apparent reason. In time, Jasper came to believe they were communicating somehow, speaking whole sentences without exchanging a single word.
Half an hour later, when the last of the cherry biscuits were buttered, Dubb said, “So, I understand you delivered a rather improbable message to Ember . . . from Barreth.” Dubb’s smile faded. Tavin’s face, however, broke into a wicked grin that made Jasper uncomfortable.
“She told you?” asked Jasper.
Dubb nodded. “We have been known to partake of. . . .”
“. . . unconventional outings?” finished Tavin.
Dubb smiled in acknowledgement. “Yes. Though never one quite so outlandish as this. You see, Jasper, people who visit Barreth have the rather nasty habit of never coming back. And the ones that do? Well, they come back missing pieces—breathing optional.”
“When was the last time you heard of someone going over there?” asked Jasper, wondering if they knew about Ember’s visits to the Rinn lunamancers of Clawforge.
Tavin scrunched up his face and blew the hair out of his eyes. “Well, not in our time, I wouldn’t think.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Dubb. “But, The Glaive, he could tell you a story or two, I suspect.” Little glints of light appeared in Tavin’s fierce eyes. “Maybe you can even entice him to tell you about the leg.”
Dubb chuckled grimly and shook his head. “Oh, The Glaive—can you imagine what he would think of this talk?” They both laughed, almost as if a madness had taken them, making them seem more wild than human. It was a sight Jasper would become accustomed to.
When they finally settled down, Tavin asked, “So, how many of these riders are they looking for?”
“Dainriders. They’re called Dainriders. And I think twelve would be a good—”
Dubb gagged on his drink. Tavin fell into a sudden fit.
Jasper tried to be patient, but it wasn’t easy.
“Oh—” began Tavin, rubbing moisture from his eyes, “By the moons, that’s rich.” Another fit seized him.
Disgusted, Jasper picked up his empty plate and stood.
Dubb, who was drying his eyes with a napkin, reached out a hand. “Wait! Just give us a moment,” he pleaded. They worked hard to contain themselves. “Listen, Jasper, those Rinn are feral. They live only to eat.”
“And we’re what’s on the menu,” Tavin explained, causing them both to nearly lose it again.
“Well, they didn’t eat me,” stated Jasper.
“And why do you suppose that was?” asked Tavin.
“Lily said they don’t eat cubs,” Dubb said to Tavin. “Don’t you remember?”
Tavin searched his memory, but shook his head. “No,” he answered blankly. “I don’t. Should I?”
“So what if we sent them cubs?” interrupted Jasper.
Dubb put down his plate, shaking his head. Tavin shifted taller in his seat.
“What?” he challenged Jasper. “You mean give them our children? A tasty snack they’d be.”
“Falin, Grimm, and Darce seem plenty capable,” said Jasper.
“They don’t yet possess the proper skills,” corrected Dubb. “Besides, Falin and Grimm would surely appear as men to those beasts.
“They aren’t beasts. They’re intelligent. And they need help fighting the scaramann and the fire-breathing dragonflies.”
“Scaramann,” hissed Dubb l
ike a curse.
“Fire-breathing dragonflies?” said Tavin with a hint of curiosity.
“They get thirty feet long and can seat a dozen scaramann saddled on their backs.”
“Really! An archer would need a damned lucky shot against something like that,” said Dubb. “And a scaramann’s armor is thick. You would need to be very accurate for arrows to be effective.”
Jasper set down his plate and leaned forward. “A Rinn’s war-saddle comes bristling with armaments, chief among them being the dirazakein,” said Jasper.
“Dirazakein,” said Tavin, instantly sounding interested. “And what are they?”
“Rinn-scale throwing discs, razor-sharp. They weigh some forty pounds apiece.”
“Forty pounds!” Dubbed snorted. “How would a man—”
“He only has to lift them to the Rinn. When well-practiced, a Dainrider can hand one off at full gallop. With a good push of its back legs, a Rinn can launch a dirazakein with the deadly speed and accuracy of an arrow.”
Dubb and Tavin exchanged a look, and Jasper could see they were impressed. “They carry lances, spears, bows and arrows, too,” he went on temptingly. “They’re like a mobile armory.”
As if on cue, Dubb picked up his plate again and fumbled for a bite of food while Tavin ripped off a huge chunk from a loaf of bread and began devouring it with gusto. Jasper thought they no longer looked merely like hungry men; they tore at the food like slavering dogs. Though they remained quiet, Dubb and Tavin processed the information Jasper had given them with a savage intensity. He knew they would not speak in front of him, but he was satisfied to have gotten their attention. Jasper stood to go, and this time, they made no protests. This time, they said nothing at all.
Inside, Jasper watched the children repairing bits of dragon scale armor with long needles that Cora kept glowing with spells or charms she pulled forth from her peerin seemingly at will.
Ridley sensed Jasper’s discomfiture.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Yes. I need to talk with my sister. And I’m sure my parents are beside themselves.” It had been so long, Jasper feared, that not even Lily could come up with a story good enough to hide his tracks—and that was really saying something.
Jasper pulled out the coin, released the fob, and spun the inner circle of moons, a little click sounding in his head as each moon passed by the pointer. He set it to Earth and paused just before flicking it shut. Whoever came back—whenever that was—would come back to precisely where he was standing.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ridley.
“I was just thinking . . . “ Jasper looked around him, judging if his location in the room had any obvious flaws. “ . . . about—”
But Ridley, being quick-minded, had guessed it. “Is that how it works?” he said slyly.
Jasper looked at Ridley and sighed. “You and my sister’s friend Isla would get along like a house afire.” Then, after a moment’s consideration, “Yes.”
“Well,” said Ridley, looking around at the other children. “It’s safe with me.”
Jasper motioned with his eyes toward Ridley’s room. A minute later, Ridley joined him there.
“Ridley, where would be a good place for someone to reappear in this house?”
“Well, here isn’t bad,” said Ridley. “Not much traffic in my room. You could just stand here in the corner.”
“Hmm. What if Lily comes back next?”
“What of it?”
“What if you’re—I don’t know—getting dressed?”
“Oh!” said Ridley, his face turning a deep red. “Hadn’t thought of that. Well, let’s think. The courtyard wouldn’t be any good—if you came back in the middle of the night it might be locked. The kitchen is too busy. And so is the living room and . . . all the other bedrooms would be bad, due to the dressing problem.” Ridley’s voice trailed off.
“I know! What about Annora and Bree’s room? They won’t be back for a long time, right?”
Ridley shifted uncomfortably on his feet and ran his fingertips through his hair. “I’m not so sure about that. I heard Mom saying that technically, Annora and Bree did nothing wrong—that the competitions are meant to encourage new ideas.”
“But the Lintel boys . . . won’t their parents have something to say?”
“I doubt it. The center arena is a dangerous place, Jasper. Everyone who steps in there knows the risks.
“How about a closet?”
“A closet?” said Ridley, as though Jasper were making some rude remark. “Do we look that rich to you?”
But then he caught himself. “Wait,” said Ridley, “I have just the place.”
With the pointer squarely on Earth, Jasper flicked the fob shut, clamping the pincers to the inner circle and locking it into place. A moment later, he was gone.
Chapter Eight
Isla Gorpmarch
The door opened, and Lily’s mother, Linnea, walked in. Her eyes searched among the sheets of Jasper’s empty bed, then settled on Lily, her eyes locking down hard—the way only a mother’s can.
“Lily? What are you doing here, and where is your brother?”
Lily knew that look. When she was younger, Lily thought her mother had the ability to send paralysis rays straight into her brain. However, having spent so much of her childhood bathed in their light, Lily had built up a powerful immunity. Still, she always feigned the paralysis—her mother was easier to manipulate when she thought she was in control.
“Where is your brother?”
Lily had no ready answer.
“Uh,” she heard herself say.
Linnea closed the door and folded her arms. They were powerful farm arms, like an Olympic swimmer’s, and she was broad-shouldered, almost like a man. Linnea was in her forties now, and the resemblance between her and Lily was so strong that Lily used her to gauge how she might look as an old person. Her mother still cut a fine figure, which gave Lily a small ray of hope.
“Have you been out exploring in the night again?” she asked, a typical line of questioning. But then she did something unusual. She stopped projecting the paralysis beams and distractedly bit her fingernail, which Lily took as a sure sign that Ebb’s disappearance was taking its toll. “No,” she muttered to herself. “In that case you’d be gone and Jasper would be sitting in your room.”
Lily felt her jaw drop. Good grief! Lily thought. She’s been paying attention! When did this disturbing development take place?
“So what are you doing here?” Linnea asked, half to herself.
“I . . . had a bad dream?” said Lily. It came out sounding just a tad too much like a question.
Linnea snapped out of it, feeling out the falseness of her daughter’s fear.
“Oh really,” she said.
Lily inwardly cursed herself for the fumble. Such a beginner’s mistake! She could practically hear the sirens wailing, see the prison searchlights sweeping the grounds, hear the dogs barking. She had to turn things back in her favor. Lily began to concentrate on sad and scary things. She needed to convince her mother—now—that she’d had an awful nightmare. She willed herself to think of the things that had terrified her so recently: slimy bits of scaramann landing at her feet; fire-breathing dragons; and thirty-foot long dragonflies. She thought of Wrengfoul and what someone so terrible must look like. Then Lily looked into her mother’s eyes. She remembered the sound of the roaring Rinn as the scaramann had tried to surge over them to get her.
“Ye-ah!” wailed Lily, mustering an impressive little sob to go with it. And . . . where was Jasper anyway?
Linnea crossed the room, holding out her arms. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” Lily reached up her arms, and they hugged tight. “You had a bad dream?”
“Mm-hm,” sobbed Lily ag
ain, thinking of the hideous Wornot and the high price the Rinn paid to kill the Queen Scaramann. And that horrible, inky black smoke rising from the top of Fangdelve.
“Did your brother leave early this morning, the brute?”
“Uh . . .” Lily thought about the moon coin sending Jasper away during the night, after she had fallen asleep. “Uh-huh,” she said, and hugged her mother tighter for fear that, at this close range, her mother might suck the truth right through the dark holes of her eyes.
“Well, Isla is waiting for you at the kitchen door. She said the two of you were riding from our bus stop today.”
“Isla!” said Lily, suddenly remembering. “School! What time is it?”
“It’s ten after seven.”
“Oh no!” Lily leapt up and ran to Jasper’s wall mirror. The girl looking back really, really needed a shower. “No time!” she moaned to her image. “No time! No time! No time!”
Lily bolted from the room and ran down the hall to the bathroom, where she wet and soaped a washcloth and gave herself a lightning fast wipe-down shower. Back in her own room, she sampled tops from her “floor closet,” tossing one after another over her shoulder before finally pulling one over her damp skin, followed by a pair of jeans. Twisting an emergency ponytail into her hair, she slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed her book bag, and raced down the stairs to the kitchen.
Isla was standing on the porch, just outside the open kitchen door. She tended to avoid big-people furniture whenever possible: big-people chairs, big-people tables—they made her feel small. Standing beside the door didn’t make her feel all that much taller, but putting distance between herself and the Winters’ tall kitchen counters allowed her to remain in her comfort zone.
Isla Gorpmarch, in her bare feet, stood just four feet six inches tall. Officially, she was not a dwarf, though she sometimes wished she were. At least then she would have belonged to a bona fide group. But no luck. Isla was simply very short. She was two years older than Lily, even though she was in the same grade. This had nothing to do with Isla’s mental prowess, which was considerable. First, the guidance office had suggested she start a year late, even though her birthdate was two weeks before the cut-off date. Her parents held her back the next year as well in the vain hope that she would have a growth spurt. Isla was Lily’s best friend. They had known each other since kindergarten.