Rhone

by Kelly St Clare

  He smiled as one of the boys waved back. Usually they all turned their backs on him because he was six; at least, Granny said that was why they were doing it. He hoped she was right about that, too.

  “Look! It’s looney!” one of the boys shouted.

  Frowning, Rhone glanced around the cobbled lane, but no one else was there. He peered up at his grandmother and saw she was staring at secrets again. Smiling, he took her hand and pulled her out of the way of a clothesline before it caught her around the waist.

  The boys behind him erupted into hoots and Rhone scowled at them, realizing who they were jeering at.

  “Come on, Granny,” Rhone urged her with a whisper, his cheeks burning.

  She didn’t answer. She barely blinked, lost to the things only she could see. He gritted his teeth as the boys shouted after them. If grandfather was still here, Rhone would grab him and they’d chase the boys down with spears—see if they were still laughing after that.

  But he wasn’t.

  “Granny,” Rhone said louder, shaking her arm. The boys were laughing harder.

  No answer.

  “Granny!” he screamed as they reached the door of their small abode.

  The woman jolted, her eyes wide with fright. “Rhone?”

  Thick tears rolled over his cheeks. “Why do you have to stare like that?”

  “What?” she asked, thickly, clearly still half in her other world. “What’s the matter, dear? What’s happened?”

  Rhone shook his head, throat too tight for words, and pushed past his grandmother into the house, the boys’ laughter echoing after him.

  Chapter Six

  Rhone groaned, reaching to clutch the side of his head, where a throbbing beast had taken up residence inside his skull.

  “Uh, uh,” someone tutted above him, grabbing his hand and pulling it down to his side. “No touching.”

  He groaned again. “Not you.”

  “Yes, me,” the woman withered. “But if you’d like, I can leave you down here with no possible way to get home.”

  What? Ignoring his body’s warning not to, Rhone opened his eyes and saw Monikah wringing a cloth in water. His water.

  “Where am I?”

  “In the Oscala. You fell.”

  A piece of rock had broken away. “I remember.”

  She sniffed, bringing the cloth to his temple. “You weren’t paying attention. You shouldn’t walk in the dark, idiot.”

  Rhone moved his feet and legs. His body felt like he’d been repeatedly slammed into a wall, but—he moved his arms—nothing seemed broken. Except his head.

  Monikah sniffed again, and Rhone caught her hand, looking up at her.

  “What are you upset about?” he asked. “You’re not the one with a broken head.”

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Yes, but I spent hours looking for you after seeing the pear—”

  “You saw the pear?”

  “—and then when I found you, I wasn’t sure if you were dead or not. I mean, you’re not just a dead cow or chicken. There was blood everywhere and you weren’t moving, and I didn’t know if you were alive.” Her teeth chattered, green eyes huge.

  “Monikah.”

  “I don’t know what to do with a dead body.”

  “Monikah,” he said gently. “Come here.” He took hold of her arm and pulled her down beside him. She cried on his shoulder for a while, his arm wrapped around her slight frame.

  He closed his eyes, white light stabbing behind his eyelids in time to the throbbing pressure in his skull.

  Eventually, she stopped shaking. Rhone had killed many people in his time, and beaten even more, but he’d never forgotten the first dead person he saw—his grandfather. He still remembered the shock of that moment, the fear as he crept closer, a cold knowing dread in each step he took.

  Rhone hadn’t been dead, but finding out whether he was or not couldn’t have been nice. “I’m sorry you went through that,” he said.

  She’d stopped crying, and they both lay on the ground looking at the underside of another island five meters above. He eyed the drop; no wonder he hurt so much. Still, he was lucky there’d been an island underneath at all. Monikah was right—he was an idiot for walking in the dark.

  “What are you sorry for? Nearly dying?” Monikah drew out a handkerchief attached to a piece of yarn, wiping at her face. She let it ping back to her belt when she was done. “Of all the ridiculous things to say.”

  Rhone began to shake with silent laughter that was hell for his head, but couldn’t be controlled. “Why is your handkerchief on a string?”

  “So I don’t drop it, why else?”

  He clutched his head as a deep bubbling rose in his chest. Oh, what the hell. Rhone laughed, a booming sound that made Monikah jump. Tears of pain squeezed at the corners of his eyes, but he couldn’t stop rolling as the pent-up laughter burst from him.

  “I think you have a concussion,” Monikah said, eyeing him askance.

  Rhone shook his head, still grinning. “No, I’m just laughing at you calling anyone else ridiculous.”

  Pink stained the tops of her high cheekbones. “I am not ridiculous.”

  He grabbed her hand as she made to roll away. “You are, urchin. But it’s not a fault.” The woman was a creative mind; that was why she was so eccentric. Creative types often were, in Rhone’s experience.

  Monikah stilled, her face in front of his. She licked her lips, green eyes lifting. “Now I know you have a concussion. Was that a compliment?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well. . . .” The pink color in her cheeks intensified. “Thank you.”

  “You’re still annoying.”

  She whacked him, accompanying it with a scowl, and rolled to her feet. Rhone snorted and began to shift side to side in an attempt to sit.

  “Stay still,” Monikah ordered. “You need to rest here until you can fly.”

  “I’m not flying, I’m walking.”

  “And how do you propose to use your legs to get off this island?”

  Rhone glanced around and conceded the point with a shrug.

  “You can’t continue on the pathway with a concussion; that’s not an option.”

  His brow furrowed at her commanding tone.

  She passed him a water skin, and Rhone eyed the surrounding area. About five water skins were scattered about. Spilled water stained the rock darker in large patches.

  He took a sip and winced as the swallowing motion sent a stabbing pain to his temple. “So what’s your plan then?”

  “I’ll need to fly us up to the Ire. When you’re better, I’ll bring you back down to continue your misery walk.”

  Perhaps the pain in his head had something to do with it, but Rhone didn’t feel quite so miserable anymore. “I don’t want to go to the Ire.”

  “And I didn’t want to leave it,” she snapped at him.

  He waited until she met his gaze.

  “Sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I’m a bit touchy about it.”

  “No kidding. You were meant to report any sign of life to your leader, correct?”

  The Ire woman nodded.

  “And what happens when you fly in with me?”

  She waved a hand, turning away. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about that.”

  Rhone highly doubted it would be fine. He’d seen the current leader during a meeting on Glacium. The man wasn’t as bad as Jovan, Olina, or Olandon, but he was no pushover.

  He opened his mouth to press her for more details, but Monikah turned and dropped to her knees beside his prone form, picking up one of his hulking hands between her small white ones.

  “Rhone,” she said, biting her lip.

  “Urchin,” he said, matching her seriousness.

  She smiled at him. “Thank you for leaving the pear.”

  He looked at her sparkling eyes. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  Chapter Seven

  Monikah’s voice was tight as she said, “I’m not t
oo sure how this landing will go. But on a positive note, this Soar held up to two people. I knew my design was airtight.”

  He stiffened. “This is the Soar you made? The one Hamish broke his leg using?”

  “Sure is,” she quipped. “That’ll show them.”

  Rhone released a slow breath. This woman would kill him. Whether today or a week from now, she would be the death of him.

  They were flying through the Ire—and where Monikah wasn’t sure, Rhone was very sure the landing would be painful. Securing two people into the Soar had taken an hour. Now, he was jammed behind her in the cursed flying contraption, the wooden framing whacking him in the back of the head each time she flexed and extended the wings. Not ideal considering his recent head injury. At this point, he didn’t care how painful the landing was, as long as he could be free of her pointy elbows. Nothing could be as terrifying as the takeoff where they’d nearly smashed into three separate rock faces, anyway.

  “Here we go!” she shouted.

  Rhone was twice her size. The only way they were staying up is if he kept his balance. Rhone wrapped an arm about Monikah’s middle and felt her tense, but she didn’t stop in the delicate push and pull required to keep them stable as they lowered.

  He tightened his grip and coiled his legs in preparation for the shock of landing.

  “Nearly there . . . oops!” she shouted.

  The air caught under the wings as Monikah pushed too firmly on the bar. Rhone clamped her to him as they were thrown back, and the air whooshed from his chest as he hit the ground. Hard.

  He choked for air, staring up at the underside of an island. This sight was too familiar.

  Monikah laughed. “Phew, we nearly got it.”

  She turned over and peered down at him, pushing her goggles up to her forehead. “You all right?”

  Rhone dragged in a breath and gasped, “Elbow.”

  “Oops, yes, that can’t be comfortable.”

  He sucked in a huge gulp of air as she removed her pointy joint from the area under his ribs. Did she sharpen her elbows at night or something?

  Monikah unstrapped the leather belts of the Soar and knelt by his side. She glanced over her shoulder as a series of thuds vibrated the rock under his back.

  “Bugger,” she hissed. “They’re already here. Better get control of yourself, Rhone.”

  Control of himself? If his body wasn’t broken during his fall two days before, it certainly was now. His scowl was lost on the urchin as he rolled to the side with a heartfelt groan and somehow managed to stand. Rhone was certain he’d never completely straighten again.

  The leader of the Ire was landing, accompanied by two hulking men, one on each side.

  “Monikah,” Yarik called out. “Why are you back here? There is still a further two months to your punishment.”

  The urchin toed the ground. “I found an injured man in the Oscala, and brought him here.”

  The man didn’t bother to remove his Soar, though his companions did.

  “Surely it was easier to take him back to Glacium?” the leader said, flicking a look over Rhone and categorizing him as Bruma.

  Monikah quailed visibly. “Well, he was in the dark blue zone. The Ire was closer.”

  “How was it this man managed to get to that zone and I did not hear of it until now?”

  Monikah was silent.

  “I asked her not to report me,” Rhone spoke, limping forward next to her.

  Yarik stilled. “And she chose to acquiesce to that request over her duty to her leader and people?”

  Rhone shrugged. “Well, she was pissed at you for chucking her out, wasn’t she?”

  The air seemed to cool.

  “Our affairs do not involve you, Bruma,” one of the other men said, moving closer.

  Rhone smiled. “They do when this woman saved my life.”

  The leader perused him. “Why were you in our territory?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  Monikah gasped and jabbed him with her elbow. Rhone winced.

  “I beg to differ,” Yarik said. “Where are you from on Glacium?”

  “Would that affect how you treated me?” Rhone countered. In his experience, the answer was yes. Fury churned in his stomach, in preparation for the leader’s answer. People were the same wherever you went. Even now, with the tri-world accords.

  The steely-eyed man tilted his chin. “Good point.”

  Rhone blinked.

  Yarik continued. “Since you will not answer my other questions, what is your name?”

  Monikah interceded. “His name is Rhone.” She smiled at him, ignoring his exasperated look.

  “Well, Rhone,” the leader said, “you are welcome to stay in the Ire until you are recovered. Whatever Monikah’s . . . misdemeanors, I am glad she found you.”

  “I thank you.” Rhone dipped his head.

  “You, however. . . ,” he said, turning to Monikah. The man contemplated her and sighed in a way that Rhone had often wanted to when dealing with the woman. Except for some reason, the leader doing it made Rhone want to hit him.

  “Monikah,” Yarik said. “Why do you keep putting me in this position? If you stuck to the rules of our sanctuary, I wouldn’t have to keep punishing you. Failing to report this man’s presence in our territory is something I can’t ignore. You could have reported him and—”

  “I couldn’t report him,” she replied, frowning. Red circles around her eyes were still apparent from where her goggles had dug in.

  The leader sighed and shared a glance with his companions. “And why couldn’t you report him?”

  “Well, because he—” Monikah trailed off and glanced up at Rhone, who was very sure the end of that sentence had involved the words ‘misery walk.’ “Because I couldn’t,” she said.

  “I am happy to take any punishment on her behalf,” Rhone said. “It is my fault she didn’t report.”

  “No, it isn’t.” The leader disregarded his comment with a wave. “Monikah frequently flouts the rules.”

  “I don’t flout them. I seek ways to improve them,” she replied.

  “Like with your new Soar?” Yarik asked.

  The two men either side of him laughed, and Rhone stared at the one closest to him.

  “Her Soar carried both of us here,” Rhone said. Just. “Usually I hear a whistling sound when a Soar is approaching. I didn’t hear a thing with Monikah’s.” The latter part was all truth.

  They stopped laughing, though each of them still wore a slight smile.

  Rhone shrugged. “You’d be foolish to ignore what could be a better design, even if the new model requires . . . honing.”

  A small hand slipped into his. Monikah’s eyes shone. “Thank you.”

  He pulled his hand free, grunting. “Don’t mention it.”

  The leader stepped forward. “You may be right, but that doesn’t take into account her recent actions. Monikah, you are exiled from the Ire for a further month on top of your current punishment.”

  “What?” she exploded. “That’s three months.”

  “Yes, it is,” Yarik agreed. “You’d be wise to reflect on what you can do to prevent the same punishment happening again and again. You know I don’t like to do this, but you scare people with your. . . .”

  Whatever he was about to say, it wasn’t complimentary. “She’s not leaving,” Rhone said. “I will.”

  The leader held back a condescending smile. “Bruma, it is not your choice.”

  The other men advanced on Monikah, and Rhone stepped in front of her. She rested her small hands on his aching back, calling out, “Don’t worry, I’m going.” Her voice was choked. “Maybe I’ll just go live somewhere else. You guys don’t like me here anyway.”

  Yarik sighed. “That has nothing to do with it. I would punish anyone else for the things you have done.”

  Her hands left Rhone’s back and he heard her pick up the Soar. Three months was a huge amount of time to spend down there. And she’
d already spent a few weeks out in the Oscala, by his count. Rhone was all for disciplining your troops, but this was ridiculous.

  “She’s not going,” he repeated as the muscled men took another step forward.

  The leader turned away. “She is.”

  His body ached from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, but anger licked his insides. The urchin was eccentric but harmless. Once, he’d told his grandmother that he had no friends because she was crazy, and she hadn’t painted for a month. Aside from his grandfather’s funeral, it was the saddest Rhone ever saw her. You couldn’t force creative people into straight lines; their minds wanted to spill everywhere. That was why they were able to think up beautiful things. To force them into strict lines was to take away who they were.

  The leader forcing Monikah away from her people wouldn’t achieve anything except to wound her.

  Monikah was staying.

  Rhone eyed the closest of the giants, his hands curling into fists.

  Chapter Eight

  Six men lay on the ground groaning, and Rhone stood, slightly worse for wear, and panting hard.

  Yarik had gone to rally more men when Rhone took care of the first two.

  “Would you like to go and get more?” Rhone asked him, wiping at the sweat on his forehead.

  He’d heard a few squeals from Monikah, but Rhone didn’t look back, unsure what the woman would think of all the fighting. Rhone was a violent person. He’d been raised in a violent area, fought in the pits, enjoyed fighting, and on occasion had helped extract information from the king’s prisoners. When people saw him unleashed, they quickly grew afraid of him. They always had, unless they were a fighter themselves and understood.

  “Is there any point?” the leader asked through clenched teeth. He unstrapped his Soar and knelt by the nearest man, feeling for his heartbeat.

  Rhone hadn’t killed any of them; he’d made sure not to do that. Killing was only for his true enemies.

  Monikah crept up beside him. “You—”

  He stiffened, waiting for her shocked horror.

  “—totally messed them up!” she said gleefully, ignoring the leader’s glare. “You were like, ‘She’s not going,’” Monikah replayed in a deep voice, “and then throat punch! Headbutt!” The urchin cackled. “I enjoyed that a lot.”