by Kylie Leane
“Oh…” Ki’b shuffled on her feet. Unwillingly the foggy, blurred features of her Mor-Mor drifted into her mind. She recalled so little about her, but the distinct pattern of the woman’s beautiful glowing tattoos stood out against the darkness of the home she had lost. Even so young, she knew they had not been for beauty, despite how beautiful they were to her innocent eyes.
“Don’t worry.” Jythal smiled. “It doesn’t take too long to grow back, and it will make him look a bit younger. And it will definitely improve his health.”
“You’re right,” Nixlye agreed. “It should be Mother. Technically she has no official pride and therefore no princes. She is an abnormality in the Prides. She should be able to help.”
“She also doesn’t believe in curses,” Ki’b offered, trying to reassure herself.
“That’s right.” Nixlye laughed. “She doesn’t.” The princess clapped her hands together. “Now, I think you young ladies need some calming tea.” Nixlye wheeled backwards, skilfully manoeuvring her chair around the tight room. Ki’b sank back against the bed. Tea sounded delightful.
“It is likely that we will stay docked until the scavengers return. We can go and search for your friends then. My mate will also be back and he is a great tracker.” Nixlye put a pot to boil on a small stove.
Ki’b blinked back tears. She could not comprehend the relief that washed over her. Her head felt heavy and she rubbed her cheeks, pausing as she smudged blood from her cut hands over her skin. A tender paw caught her far smaller hand. Jythal crouched beside her. She wondered if he ever got tired of kneeling, but then remembered that she was actually very small, and she had to be unusual on the sand-ship. Everyone else around her was just huge.
A glow formed over the gooey wounds and shimmering Runes gathered, gradually sealing shut the cuts across her skin. The pain she had not, until now, noticed throbbing up her arms faded, and a tension in her shoulders eased. She looked up at Jythal, into the pink eyes that stared blankly over her in a glassy gaze. Ki’b frowned. They were not at all like Clive’s silver Retenna eyes that had a clarity to them, full of blazing life. They were eyes that stared without seeing. Now she knew why he looked without looking.
“You’re blind.”
“You are very observant. Yes, I am.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Whatever are you apologizing for?” Jythal chuckled. “It is something people do tend to notice eventually. I don’t mind.” He rested a paw on his knee.
“I should not have been so rude.”
“Everyone is rude.” Jythal shrugged. “Even I am rude.” He bent closer and whispered. “You are short.”
Ki’b bit her lip, holding in a giggle.
Nixlye wheeled over, passing her a large cup of tea and throwing a blanket around her shoulders. She noted that Penny, too, was snuggled up warmly. She offered thanks and sipped the brew. Finally, after so long, they were safe. Khwaja Denvy was not going to die today, or tomorrow. She could breathe without a lump in her throat.
“Were you…born blind?” Ki’b played with the rim of her tea cup.
Jythal raised an eyebrow. “Were you born short?”
Ki’b pouted. “Yes. I’m a Kelib. And I’m not that short. You’re just huge!”
He laughed at her. “I suppose I must be. But in answer to your question, no, I have not always been blind. My blindness is the result of forced exposure to the Sun.” He held out his wrists and Ki’b stared. The fur had been rubbed back, no longer able to grow, revealing scars like her own, the ligature markings of shackles.
“I know what it is like to be kept in a cage.”
“Poachers?” Ki’b choked out.
“He would be dead if it were poachers,” Nixlye said. “Let me tell you, little one, that not all queens and princesses respect their rare princes.”
“Rare? You’re rare?” Ki’b twisted back to Jythal.
“I have no colour in my fur, my air-gills, or my fan-tail. It is a bit odd, yes?” Jythal smiled. “Also, it is horrible to keep clean.”
“Very few princes are born amongst the Prides, let alone ones without colour.” Nixlye took one of Jythal’s paws and carefully placed it around a cup of tea.
“I have heard that I am rather like the Human Kimwyns, though we never get any of them across the Border.”
“You would be right,” Penny piped up. “They also have no colour. My father often said he thought the Sun stole their colour from them because they had slept with the daughters of the Stars.”
Jythal guffawed. “I like that story. You’ll have to tell me more.”
Penny beamed. “I’d love to. Father had wonderful stories. I know so many of them!”
Ki’b treasured the smell of the bitter tea. It was reassuring and relaxing, though it could very well have been the presence of the tall Kattamont sitting beside her. “I am a white lion.” He held out a paw. “The Zaprexes created the sky-sea not to harm our kind, but, with the destabilization of the Borders and the collapsing of the Secondary Realm, even here in Utillia we are not welcome any more. My eyes were taken from me by the Sun.”
“But then…the Kimwyns…” Penny looked up from Clive’s side. Ki’b knew what her Human sister feared. Coltarian’s eruption was coming, and not even the sky-sea would survive. Her sister feared for her pale cousins.
“Be glad for the coming of the Long Night.” Nixlye sighed. “The Sun will be less harsh.”
“Indeed.” Jythal smiled. “I do miss the outside world. My dreams are truly not enough. They are just dreams.”
Ki’b blinked. That was a strange thing to say. It sounded rather like something Khwaja Denvy would say because he was a dream master. Was it possible? Had they found other dreamathic Kattamonts? Were all Kattamonts dreamathic?
Perhaps if they were dreamathic then she had found her way to safety.
Ki’b felt the warm tears begin to trickle down her cheeks, collecting under her chin. She could no longer hold them in and wear the brave mask she had so hoped to hold for Khwaja Denvy’s sake. Was it too much to hope that they were finally safe, or was it a fool’s hope?
“Oh, no, no, no, don’t cry. Really, it is fine. I’m quite all right.” Jythal touched her shoulder, but she shied away, shaking her head.
“No, it is not…it is just…I was so scared…and Khwaja Denvy told me it would all be all right and I did not believe him, and now you are here and it is all right but I am still scared.” She sobbed against her dress sleeve.
“I think you have known only fear for such a long time. You may not even believe me when I tell you that you are safe now, Little Mountain Flower.” Jythal wiped aside her tears with a large paw. “Of all the lands in the North, Utillia is the one place orphans will find a home.”
Ki’b curled against his large arm, wondering if he truly meant his words—for would not all of her people become orphans when the sky-sea collapsed and Pennadot’s forests burned?
Would they find a home in Utillia too?
CHAPTER SIX
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NORTHERN TOWER – private communication linkage –
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The remains of the happy little camp Jarvis had left earlier that morning was strewn around his feet. His optical analysis came up with nothing as he scanned the globular trees by the lagoon, searching for any sign of life. The damage to his systems prohibited a deeper search. He knelt, fingers trembling as he picked up Ki’b’s herbal kit. He had bought the little boxes for her a
t the border town between Pennadot and Utillia, and the delight on her face had been brighter than any Sunrise. Now they were slick with blue-tinted blood. It had to be Khwaja Denvy’s.
Carefully he pieced the kit back together, stowing it in his hip-bags.
The thought of his orphan siblings alone and hurt again—he wanted to panic, to rush around, calling out their names. But none of it would help. That much he had learnt. Panicking would be of no aid to anyone and, besides, he could barely stand.
On shaking legs, he heaved himself to his feet, crossing wearily to where Titus crouched over a slain Kelib. Jarvis covered his mouth and nose at the foul stench emanating from the corpse.
“Surely the bodies haven’t started decomposing already?” he muttered.
“Actually they’re…” Titus plucked at the leathery shirt the Kelib male wore. “Cannibals.”
Jarvis’s mouth went dry. Without Khwaja Denvy’s presence in their little prison perhaps even he—Jarvis shook his head—no—he had promised he would stop thinking this way. The moment they had broken out of the box, and light had flooded his eyes once more, he had been reborn. He was not that boy in a box anymore.
“We call them poachers.” Aaldryn approached, dragging another corpse along behind him. He flung it over the other. “They’re utter scum. You mentioned you have an Obilb in your family? And your old Kattamont is golden furred?”
Jarvis nodded.
“Rythrya Stones be blessed there were only three poachers. They usually hunt in far larger packs.” Aaldryn glanced around with a frown. “They can take down a Kattamont queen if they’re in the mood, and I have heard of them killing brotherhoods for sport.”
“Why?” Jarvis spluttered out.
“Our fur. Our tail feathers. Also, apparently there is some kind of trade with the Batitics for our…ah…hmmm…” Aaldryn rubbed his chin. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it later.”
Jarvis paled. “I don’t think I even want to know!”
“Perhaps not.”
Jarvis pointed at the dead poachers with his good arm. “But they’re wearing Human skins.”
Aaldryn shrugged. “Of course. Humans are far easier to kill. Obilb skin is highly prized. Very, very pretty.”
Jarvis grabbed Titus’ arm. “Penny!”
“Don’t worry.” Aaldryn kicked over one of the bodies, revealing an arrow. It had to be nearly the length of Jarvis’ arm. It was fletched with the same bright azure feathers as Aaldryn’s tail. The Kattamont grinned.
“This belongs to my mate. I provide the tail feathers for her arrows. It is likely your family were taken back to our sand-ship. They will be safe with my Mother and my mate. She said our sand-ship is docked off the island—likely around the other side, away from the null-zone.”
“But all the blood.” Jarvis gestured to the patch in the clover-grass. “It belongs to Khwaja Denvy!”
Titus touched his shoulder, trying to urge him to calm. But he simply could not still his racing heartbeat. Something had triggered it and sweat was pooling in the nape of his neck.
“Yeh know the old man, Little Weasel. He’s lived a long life. If he knows he has children ta safeguard, he’ll always keep fighting.”
Jarvis bowed his head. It was true. Khwaja Denvy seemed to have no choice but to try and protect them. It was part of his nature. Titus moved off to collect Penny and Clive’s packs, but he heard his master mutter.
“Besides, the old man has far too much Zaprex in him ta abandon anyone by dying.”
Jarvis rubbed the scar across his arm where the protector bot had savagely slashed him and contaminated him with philepcon liquid. He understood the drive, the intense desire, the need to protect.
He could not deny how very Zaprex it was.
The walk across the small island should not have been difficult, not compared to scaling the heights of the Ovin-tu Mountains in a blizzard, but Jarvis felt himself lagging with each step, his heart racing in overdrive, sweat collecting under his collar. His feet slipped beneath him. Red warning signals flickered across his optical screens as his vision fizzed. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the annoying flashes to focus on Titus ahead of him. The bleeding hole in his chest ached and throbbed, but surely it was fine—his master had patched it up.
Or—maybe it was not all right.
The single thought froze in his mind.
Blaring, sharp pain speared up his spine, snapping every limb into a tight lock and Jarvis felt himself drop. Had he hit something solid, not soft grass, he was sure he would have sounded metallic, landing with a heavy clunk.
“Jarvis!” Titus’ voice was a sharp twang through his skull. “Holy Sun, Jarvis!”
He sensed his master over him, soon joined by Aaldryn. He was pretty sure he grumbled something out, actually he must have sworn, for a moment later his ear was boxed sharply by his master.
“Don’ yeh use that language on me!”
That was rich, coming from his foul-mouthed master.
“You should have said something earlier.” Aaldryn began to cut through his shirt, tugging at the bandage. “Pushing yourself only makes things worse.” The Kattamont pulled out a new wad of sticky padding from the medical kit before pouring something over the bleeding wound, something that made it burn. Jarvis sat up abruptly.
“Holy Sun!”
Titus pushed him back down. “We have ta clean the wound again.”
“I don’t care! You’re making it worse.”
Aaldryn slapped the patch across the hole in his chest. “For someone with a bullet wedged in one of his lungs, you’re doing a lot of yelling.” Aaldryn turned to Titus. “We have to get the bullet out. There is no telling how much longer the philepcon liquid is going to keep flooding the system. I had hoped it might dissolve, but it doesn’t look like it will.”
“Can you do that?” Titus had a vice grip on Jarvis’ shoulders, though Jarvis doubted he could move even if he wished to. Aaldryn should not have mentioned his lung. Now that he focused on it, he could feel the little piece of metal, sitting there, wedged inside his chest and it was making everything scream.
“No, I can’t,” Aaldryn was still talking, “but my blood-brother is a Rune Doctor. He should be able to do something about this.”
Jarvis groaned in protest as Titus lifted him, cradling him against his chest.
“He better be good, this blood-brother of yours.”
Aaldryn’s foot-paws sounded ahead of them. “He’s the best doctor you’ll ever find.”
“Put me down,” Jarvis protested weakly.
Titus glared at him. “Learn ta accept help when yeh get it, laddie. It won’ always be there.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
As you sit upon your high throne, watching jigsaw pieces of lands fit together, do you ever wonder what we little ants are doing down below you?
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Denvy had not been able to dream since the yoke had been firmly locked around his neck. It had drained him of all dreamathic abilities. The darkness of sleep had become a bottomless pit of empty nothingness that swaddled him like a choking death. He despised this lonely, hollow, echoing, dreamless sleep. Always his dreams had overflowed with the rolling of faces from his long past. He wandered the bright sunlight-filled halls of his childhood. Therein the welcoming arms of his family waited. Dreams were the eternal escape from reality, to a peaceful time of harmony, when songs had ruled the Lands of Livila.
He knew now that he was asleep; a dreamathic was always aware of sleep, even if there was no dream to be had. Through the veil of slumber, he could feel the ache of stiff limbs. Skin was on fire. Yet as he drifted through the black tar, a dot kept appearing.
It was a mere speck in the ocean of sludge-sleep, blinking on and off, but it should not have been there with the yoke on. He could not dream; even a little white dot in a sea of no
thing was a dream.
He stepped towards it, one foot-paw at a time. With each step he grew lighter. The burden around his neck became lighter, and the burning sensation down his back eased until it was entirely gone. As they had been in his youth, his muscles became flexible and his bones less brittle. Denvy stirred, fluttering his eyelids. They were not caked shut by conjunctivitis. His lungs were unburdened with mucus, no longer crackling with illness. He beamed brightly, studying himself in the reflection of the glossy floor beneath his foot-paws. A childish, very cubby face looked back at him. He was barely old enough to have been more than a decade past his birth. He was a cub! How delightful a dream this was. Denvy chuckled, prancing down a long hall until he skidded to a sudden stop in alarm.
He was in a familiar world. This was the world of his past—the vast, sprawling city of Tikal. His people had called Tikal the Rainbow City, and truly it was a place of dancing light. The endless arching windows, bejewelled with colours, dazzling white reflective floors and pillars of glass. Interlinking towers and walkways entwined like the webs of giant spiders. Only here there were no spiders, but, instead, little Zaprex ants scampered about.
Denvy frowned.
His fur spiked around his neck as he finally felt the presence nearby. The mere tingling it sent against his skin triggered a flood of awe, love, and hope as he smelt the soft scent of lilies. A faint static discharge nibbled against his foot-paws as the floor beneath him rippled due to a Zaprex’s wings releasing their excess energy. Denvy’s lips parted. Gradually he dared to turn. He had to know—
He had to know if his dream had kept the image of the one who had created him.
Could he still recall the Zaprex who had given him the spark of life?
Across the long hall, a lone figure sat upon a futon, dressed in a simple blue chiton, patterned with azure lilies.