by J. D. Lakey
“I know how to feed myself,” she said acidly. “I will eat if you talk.”
“Eat and I might let you see the surprise we made for you,” Connor said. Cheobawn glared at him, her spoon hovering over her soup.
“You first,” she growled. “Start by telling me what day this is.”
“It’s Restday. You have been out of your head for a week,” Connor said. “Breyden took you up on Cloud Eye and whisked you away and when we finally got the cattle settled and into the dome, Amabel and Mora wouldn’t let me anywhere near you. I finally had to make an appeal to the First Fathers, reminding them that I had first of kin rights as your packmate but by then they had given up on you and did not care if I came here or not.”
“Given up?” she prompted around a mouthful of pudding.
“Eat your soup first, you little savage, and don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Cheobawn wrinkled her nose at him but switched to the soup all the same.
“Given up. Moved you out of the full time care and up here, to wait and see if you would die. You surprised them when you didn’t. You surprised them even more when your arm returned to normal about three days ago.”
“Hayrald wanted to cut it off,” Cheobawn said as she dumped the remaining pudding into the compote and began eating it with gusto. “Amabel wouldn’t let them.”
“That’s disgusting,” Connor said with a grimace. She wasn’t sure if he meant the thought of amputating her arm or the weird combination of flavors.
“You aren’t the one they are trying to starve to death,” she said between bites.
“Well, anyway,” he continued, “while you were up here dying, Mora had everyone in the dome go out after the storm ended and hunt for spider eggs. Finn even rigged an egg finder out of a handful of bloodstones and a med unit which worked pretty well. It could pick up the resonance frequencies of the baby spider brains even under a couple of feet of snow. We stockpiled them in the waterworks dome until they could figure out a safe way to dispose of them. Fire seems to work best. They have been burning them in the furnaces of the Foundry pretty much non-stop since midweek.”
Cheobawn put her spoon down and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry.
“It’s OK,” Connor said gently as he patted her arm.
Cheobawn threw her spoon at him. He batted it away without flinching.
“It is not OK,” she shouted. “None of this is OK!” Cheobawn shoved the bed-tray away, splashing soup and tea everywhere. She slid out of bed and tottered over to the row of cupboards along the far wall. One after another she threw them open and rummaged through the contents.
“What are you doing?” Connor asked.
“I am going to get dressed and then I am going to go outside to go egg hunting. I will save all I can from the fires and then after that …” she growled, “well, I don’t know what I will do after that. I am sure I will think of something.”
“Come back to bed,” Connor said, pulling the doors to the cupboard out of her hands. “I’ll go get you some clothes. We can go for a walk in the plaza and get some sun, what do you say?”
“Terrible things are going to happen if we can’t save the babies,” Cheobawn insisted, grabbing his arms to hold him still. How could she make him understand the urgency of this situation?
“I know,” he said. “Calm down. Come out to the plaza. We can walk and talk freely and you can watch the War matches.”
“I don’t care about games,” she shouted, “I care …”
Connor flicked his fingers in the sign that meant silence but the hand gesture slid almost immediately into a chin scratch and a slight roll of the eyes. Cheobawn closed her eyes. Someone was behind her, having come in unnoticed as she was yelling at her packmate. She turned. Amabel stood in the doorway, a small pile of clothing topped by a pair of dome slippers in her hands, an inscrutable look on her face. Cheobawn wondered how long she had been standing outside the door and how much she had heard.
“Mother,” Cheobawn and Connor said politely.
“Already stirring up trouble for your Pack, I see.” Amabel grunted, handing the clothes to Connor. “This last week has been the only peace I have had since you were born. I had forgotten what it was like. Mind what I said, young Father.”
Turning to leave, Amabel paused and met Cheobawn’s eyes. Cheobawn did not flinch away from that inspection, returning her Mother’s gaze curiously. Zeff had rewritten her own personal history with his words somehow. Even Amabel’s disapproval could be seen in a different light.
Amabel opened her mouth to say something. Cheobawn waited. Amabel scowled, perhaps nonplussed by Cheobawn’s look of encouragement. The Maker snorted, turned on her heel, and left, her skirts swishing in her wake.
“Wow. She was almost …” Connor said.
“Nice?” Cheobawn asked, retrieving the clothes from Connor’s arms.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Connor mused. “I was going to say human.”
“What did she mean about minding what she said?” Cheobawn asked shaking out the tunic. It was too long and there were no pants. “What is this? I can’t wear this.”
“It’s called a dress,” Connor said patiently. “Girls wear them on Restday.”
“I don’t. It’s pink. And covered with flowers. Go find me some pants,” Cheobawn said, tossing the dress over her shoulder. Connor retrieved it to inspect the offensive embroidery.
“Not flowers. It’s just a viney thing and it’s only on the hems. It could have been worse. Put it on and come with me. We’ll find your own clothes and maybe even some real food if you don’t get too tired.”
“Food?” Cheobawn asked hopefully. “Like steak pie and mash swimming in gravy?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Connor said, holding out the offending dress. “They have been feeding you pabulum through a tube for the last week. It was not a pretty sight. Steak pie would probably kill you right about now.”
“I don’t care. It would be a great way to die,” Cheobawn said fervently. Connor held out the pink dress. She shuddered and closed her eyes. This was Mora’s revenge. She was almost sure of it. She slipped her arms out of her nightgown and let it drop to the floor as Connor slipped the dress over her head. Like all village dresses, it was sized to suit many body types. She could have fit four of herself inside it. Luckily, it was spidersilk, meant to be tied close to body so that it could drape around feminine curves, something she did not have. The long sash confused her. She ran the mint green piece of silk through her fingers, trying to remember how Megan tied her sashes.
“Gah,” Connor said, as he took it from her, spun her around. “We don’t have all day. Let me do this.” He passed the sash across her torso, did a quick half knot between her shoulder blades before tossing the ends over her shoulders and back under her arms to cross at her back one last time. He spun her around again to finish off with a simple knot in the front. He was at a loss to do with the excess so he just left it hanging. Cheobawn giggled.
“That’s not how the Mothers wear it,” she said. The Mothers made intricate bows that turned silk sashes into flutterflies or flowers; a useless art Cheobawn hoped she would never have to learn.
“No, but Mothers have assets that you don’t. Plus, all that dangling sleeve is stupid. This way, you can spin a bladed stick without it tangling in the material. Do this.” He did the first movement in their Air Warrior form, a quick twisting motion that was supposed to imitate meeting two foes in opposite directions. The dress resisted at first but then the pink silk eased a bit around her shoulders as she worked it free of its bindings. Connor grunted in satisfaction.
“I don’t think Mothers have to worry about spinning sticks,” Cheobawn said smiling.
“Shut up and put on your slippers,” Connor said. He opened a drawer in the night stand, pulled out a comb and dipped it in the glass of water. “Come here. You have a serious case of bed hair.” She let him comb the snarls out of her hair, taming the worst of the mess wi
th the water. Connor’s movements were efficient and practiced, as if he had been doing this for a while. It occurred to her suddenly that she had left him all alone and that he had stayed by her side, caring for her, taking the work that should have been done by the infirmary apprentices. What had that been like, sitting here day after day while she was off communing with spiders, watching her fade away and unable to do anything but pray that she did not die?
Cheobawn wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him as hard as she could.
“Hey,” Connor said trying to wiggle free. She held on, her face pressed into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I forgot to come back. It took me a while to remember that I was not a spider.”
Connor relaxed and wrapped his arm around her, hugging her back.
“By all the goddesses in all the heavens, wee bit,” Connor whispered against the top of her head, “I thought I had lost you for sure. Don’t ever do that again.”
“OK,” she said, letting him go and wiping the tears from her lashes. She could not promise anything of the sort, but she would try harder not to hurt the people who loved her from now on.
“Mostly I just sat here trying to figure out how to get transferred to another dome before Tam got out of Temple and killed me for losing his Ear,” he snorted ruefully as he pressed her mussed hair back into place.
Cheobawn smiled at that thought as she met Connor’s gaze. The misty look in her packmate’s eyes did not support his lie. She opened her mouth to apologize again.
“Come on,” Connor said gruffly, cutting off any further words on the subject. “We can’t miss all the fun.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door.
The walk down the hall and down the staircase to the reception area left her weak-kneed. She took a firm hold on Connor’s arm in case her legs decided to give out from underneath her and let him guide her while she concentrated on breathing. The bright light of the plaza blinded her as they stepped through the main doors of the infirmary and out into the central plaza. She stopped, blinking hard.
“Tell me again why I have to humiliate myself by parading around in this embarrassing dress. Let’s hope the plaza stays empty. Ohhh …”
She opened her watery eyes. The plaza was full of people.
“No,” Cheobawn said firmly, backing away.
“Please?” Connor begged, tugging her back into motion. “Ramhorn Pack is trying to take sixth place and the odds against them are getting longer by the minute. I think Sigrid could use a little morale boost. Come show him how well you are doing.”
“I hate you,” she said in resignation.
“I know. Play nice and I will find you a steak pie even if I have to make it myself,” Connor said, a huge grin on his face.
Connor forced his way through the crowd, dragging Cheobawn behind. She clung to his arm as the crowd closed in around them. Nedella had broken out a barrel of beer for the Elders and had made fruit punch for those who did not imbibe; the mood of the onlookers was almost as festive as a Darknight celebration. Cheobawn caught snatches of conversations as her packmate elbowed the audience aside to make room for her. Sigrid was playing Red Oak Pack and losing badly, it seemed. At the edge of the plaza Connor cut left, circling the playing field, its chalk continents freshly outlined, the game pieces standing at the ready, the War Master’s aides ranged out across the battle arena.
Ramhorn Pack stood in a cluster around the dome shaped game piece, its Queen piece planted next to it with a red and white checked ribbon tied around her neck to match the checkered pennant hanging over their heads. Erin looked up at their approach and smiled in delight. Breyden bent and scooped her up, hugging her to his chest as he crowed in delight.
“Unhand my Ear, Ramhorn,” Connor growled good-naturedly. Breyden set her down gently but kept her hand imprisoned in his as he ran his fingers over her palm.
“You’re alive,” Breyden said with heartfelt relief. “And in one piece. Who would have believed it?”
“It would take more than a little bite to kill me,” Cheobawn said with a laugh. She turned and embraced Erin. Much to her surprise, she spotted Sigrid in their midst. The Alpha sat upon a small bench next to the dome piece. Sigrid beamed at her and patted the bench beside him. Ramhorn parted to let her pass into their midst, Connor hovering at her back. She sat next to Sigrid and put her arm around his waist to hug him gently, careful of his ribs. Truth be told, she needed to sit down before she fell down. A week was far too long to lie in bed.
“Are you well enough to here?” Cheobawn asked with concern as she looked up into Sigrid’s face.
“As well as you, it seems. You are as pale as snowpudding. I can count every freckle,” he said, tapping her nose with the tip of one finger. “I had no choice. It would have been a forfeit if I refused to play. Keep me company while I finish destroying Xander’s team. Let’s see if we can put some color back in those cheeks.”
“I always wondered what was said in these team huddles. Are you discussing strategies?”
“Hardly,” Meshel snorted softly as he bent over Sigrid’s opposite shoulder. “We’ve been pretending confusion while we lure him out into the open. Now we pounce.”
“Time,” called the War Master.
“Non team members off the field, please,” Sigrid’s War Master liaison said sternly.
“She is my lucky charm,” Sigrid said, putting a protective arm around her. The liaison shrugged and signaled the War Master that Ramhorn was ready. The War Master nodded and set the clocks back into motion.
“Do it,” Sigrid said to his team, sending them out with a lift of his chin, “just like we discussed. Step by step.”
Ramhorn Pack moved out onto the playing field and took up positions beside the ranks of armies. They all watched as Breyden took a piece that represented a unit of light cavalry and set it to charge Xander’s defensive troops arrayed around his city dome. As an opening ploy, it left a lot to be desired. Breyden moved two more beside it before he joined Meshel and Iroc with the main attacking units of Ramhorn’s offensive line. Light cavalry was a strong piece but three of them were not powerful enough to take out a walled and defended city. It was a puzzling strategy.
The rest of Sigrid’s troops split and tried to envelope the opposing army. It was to be a land war, Cheobawn saw, looking around for Sigrid’s ships. Soral and Erin were valiantly trying to save the few remaining ship pieces he had left. He must have lost most of his fleet in the early part of the game, the pieces out of play and resting on the verge of the plaza.
Xander’s team, the Red Oak Pack, responded to Sigrid’s attack, spreading his line of warriors wide across the land part of the board, choosing to ignore the three light cavalry pieces that raced across the chalky plain towards his city. Instead he turned his full attention on the remaining land troops Sigrid had arrayed against him.
Xander attacked.
Sigrid retreated in a frantic attempt to protect his King as Xander’s armies curled in around him. Xander had turned the tables and used Sigrid’s tactic against him. The crowd began to hoot in anticipation for the coming carnage.
Cheobawn did not watch. She was preoccupied by the doomed trilogy as it neared the city defenses, Breyden dashing between the two battle fronts to move the pieces with every call of the time keeper. It was an expensive sacrifice for an obvious feint, a ploy Xander had chosen to ignore.
“It has not worked, Sigrid,” she whispered. “Bring them back before you lose them.”
“Shh,” he said softly out of the corner of his mouth. “This is your fault, you know. I think I will call this the Little Mother Feint when I become War Master.” His console beeped. Sigrid touched an option. His liaison looked up from his own screen.
“If that was a mistake, I will reset the game for you,” the liaison said.
“It was not a mistake,” Sigrid said calmly. “Play it as entered, please.”
“The Luck odds are two hundred thou
sand to one against,” the liaison said pointedly.
“I have studied the game. I know the odds. Play it as is,” Sigrid insisted calmly, but he reached out and took Cheobawn’s hand in his own, squeezing it as he watched his console, the dampness of his palms belying his outward calm.
Something in the read outs made Sigrid shout for joy, which was not wise for someone healing from a couple of broken ribs. He gasped and clutched his side, muttering imprecations under his breath. Connor knelt down beside him to offer a supporting arm. Sigrid grabbed it, a grateful grimace on his face.
“Your Queen is taken, Red Oak. Your dome has fallen,” the War Master intoned. “Concede or continue?”
“What!” screamed Xander. “That is not possible!”
The crowd around the plaza erupted into a frenzy of noise. Cheobawn cringed, not sure whether it was rage or pleasure that fueled the outburst.
The War Master’s aides began tying red checkered ribbons around the necks of the defensive army arrayed around Xander’s dome. His green and yellow striped flag was taken away along with his Queen. The crowd was now beside itself.
Xander stormed across the chalk covered plaza towards Sigrid. Ramhorn Pack sprinted to intercept him but the aides got to him first, grabbing him by the arms to guide him towards the War Master’s table. Erin and Soral joined Breyden and Iroc for a celebratory dance around the fallen city.
“What did you do?” Connor asked. It was a question Cheobawn wanted answered as well.
“There is an old tradition written into the rules of the game concerning the power of the Queen piece. Some Masters leave it in, some purposefully take it out. It is a long shot that works maybe once in every thousand games. I actually had to check this morning to make sure the War Master had left it in and given it a Probability ratio,” Sigrid said softly, his voice almost lost in the general hubbub around them. Xander and the War Master were in a very heated debate that was growing louder by the moment. “If you can get a minor game piece within the circle of influence of the dome, you can opt to use the strategy called Castle; with one random number you can turn a piece into a Queen, battle the opposing Queen and if you win, she converts all the defenders into your own troops.”