The Night Parade

by Scott Ciencin

  “So did I!” Myrmeen howled.

  They both stared at one another. Krystin did not need to gauge the quality of the silence this time. She could see the confusion and anger in Myrmeen’s eyes, along with the guilt that had motivated her in the first place. The chasm between them was widening with every quiet moment.

  “What did you, um,” Myrmeen said haltingly, “what did you want to tell me?”

  “Nothing,” Krystin said with a tired laugh. “Nothing, Myrmeen. It doesn’t matter.” Say that it does, she thought. Say that you want to know. Let me tell you who I am. Stop thinking about who you want me to be.

  Myrmeen was silent.

  “What about the scarf? You were about to tell me something,” Krystin said.

  “No. Like you said, it’s not important.” Myrmeen sounded tired and defeated.

  They continued through the marketplace in silence and soon allowed themselves to be separated by the crowd. Krystin did not object; even with Myrmeen beside her, she felt more alone than ever.

  Krystin found a merchant selling tiny brass figurines. The statuettes were of elven folk. They were taken from a collection of stories that had been read to her by Madame Childress, the woman who had tended to the daily needs of Byrne’s hunters at the estate. Krystin never knew if Childress was a Night Parade member or not. The woman had shown the children compassion and light, even as Byrne had embodied the shadows that always appeared to be watching them. Her memories of that place were vivid and overpowering.

  The estate was overrun. Melaine didn’t know you. And the storm is coming closer, Krystin. You can feel it.

  “May I be of assistance?” a voice asked.

  Krystin looked up to see a muscular, sun-baked blond man with a dark-haired child in his arms. The little girl he carried buried her face in his chest and took only a quick peek at Krystin. From the glimpse that Krystin had of the child, she could tell that the three-year-old would be a devastating beauty when she grew up.

  “I was admiring your handiwork,” Krystin said.

  The man laughed and hefted the girl into the air. He kissed her forehead. “You see, my dear? I’m not the only one who thinks you’re pretty.” The man looked back to Krystin. “Or were you talking about my other handiwork, the ones on sale before you?”

  Krystin smiled. “Your daughter’s very beautiful.”

  The girl peeked out, chanced a slightly longer look at Krystin, then turned away and held on to her father for all she was worth. The man grinned.

  “She’s very shy,” he said. “She’s adopted.”

  Krystin asked the man if he had ever heard of Malach Byrne or his daughter, Melaine.

  “Yes, it is very sad,” he said. “Malach secured his fortune in the wake of the great storm—he was a builder. The city needed builders at any cost. He was a good man, though a trifle vain. He lost his hair and insisted on wearing a wig to make himself look younger.”

  The hair Melaine clutched to her breast, Krystin thought. The fact that she had not sliced it away from his cold flesh was comforting to Krystin.

  “When did he die?” she asked.

  “A year ago.”

  Krystin flinched.

  “His daughter was never found. They say she hides somewhere in his old house. New tenants do not stay long. They are certain the place is haunted. I saw poor Melaine once at the outskirts of town, picking through refuse for her evening meal. A poor, sad child, no longer sane.”

  “A year,” Krystin repeated dully. In her memories, Byrne had been alive three weeks ago.

  “Dear miss, forgive me for inflicting sadness upon you. There are happier subjects. My figurines, for example. Each comes with its own personal story, which I will tell you—”

  “I have no gold, I’m sorry.”

  The man smiled gently. “If I did not need to feed my princess and keep the roof above our heads, I would gladly part with one of them for you.”

  “No, you’ve given me all I need. I thank you.”

  Krystin turned and left the merchant, waving good-bye to his retiring young daughter. She envied the girl the life of love and happiness that would stretch before her in the coming years, then realized that there were no guarantees in life. A totally unselfish thought, something that even she would admit was quite unusual for her, came in that instant:

  May she always know happiness. Don’t worry about me. Protect the girl.

  She stopped in the marketplace and wondered if that had been a prayer to some god or another; if so, it had been her first. Perhaps exposure to Myrmeen and the Harpers was changing her after all.

  Suddenly a glint of green fire caught her attention. She stopped and found herself captivated by a beautiful emerald pendant. The item hung from the fat arm of a dark-haired woman who had her own booth in the marketplace. Several other necklaces were displayed on the woman’s pale, meaty forearm, but it was the emerald pendant that arrested the girl’s attention. Upon closer examination she realized that it was a locket. As she stared at its polished surface, Krystin began to see images form. Suddenly the world fell away. She was no longer aware of the crowd surrounding her, of the suffocating shroud of voices that had hung upon her. For a single, precious moment, all that existed in the world was the locket. Within its emerald depths, she suddenly knew, lay the answers that she so desperately sought. A face began to form as she stared at the locket, the face of the old man from her waking dreams.

  “There you are,” a voice called.

  The sounds of the crowd fell upon her like a wall of distress. She turned from the locket and saw Myrmeen standing before her with an expression of impatience.

  “I thought I told you not to wander far,” Myrmeen said.

  “Did you?” Krystin said absently, her gaze returning to the locket, which now held only a glimmering promise of the magic she had felt within it only seconds before. Hope seized up within her as she took Myrmeen’s arm. “Buy it for me.”

  “What?”

  “Please, Myrmeen.” She swallowed hard. “Mother, if you like. The green locket. Buy it for me. You can afford it.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Myrmeen said darkly.

  “No,” Krystin wailed. “You have more money than can be found in any temple in this city. Buy me the locket!”

  Before them, the fat woman stared at the mother and her child with amusement. She shook her arm, making the chains rattle slightly. “I like a customer who knows what she wants. Go on, buy her the locket. It’s cheap.”

  Myrmeen grabbed Krystin’s arm and yanked her away from the booth, where the fat woman urged them to come back, offering to cut the price in half.

  “Didn’t you really look at it? It was dented and cracked,” Myrmeen said. “If it’s baubles you want, I’ll give you a cartload when we get to Arabel. But for now we’re low on gold and we can’t squander it on cheap costume jewelry.”

  Krystin looked over her shoulder. She was able to glimpse the locket for another moment, then the crowd intervened and the fat woman disappeared.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Krystin lapsed into a sullen mood. Late that evening, when Myrmeen brought the evening’s meal, Krystin refused to acknowledge her presence. Myrmeen set the tray down carelessly, the loud crash of steel plates and utensils causing Krystin to tense momentarily, then relax once again.

  “Fine,” Myrmeen said. “If you want to act like a child, then I might as well treat you like one. You can sleep in this room alone tonight. I’ll make other provisions.” Myrmeen waited for a nasty retort. When none came, she frowned and left the room.

  Several hours passed. When the hunger in the pit of her stomach became too overwhelming to be ignored, Krystin went to the tray and bit into the corns and meats that had been left for her, though they now were cold. In the gleaming metal of the picked-clean dish, Krystin saw the reflection of the room behind her. She thought of the terror that once sought her out in the darkness, the nightmares that until recently had come for her every night. They had gone away
only when she had begun to sleep in Myrmeen’s presence. Bringing a metal cup to her lips, Krystin drank deeply and was surprised by the pleasant surprise of peppermint bubbling in her mouth, a treat that she had told Myrmeen she treasured when she was a little girl.

  Suddenly, out of fear and loneliness, Krystin began to sob. When her tears had run their course, she left her room and tried to find Myrmeen. She decided that she would tell the woman about the strange images that she had seen. Her memories seemed to be unraveling like a tapestry with a single thread that was slowly being pulled loose.

  The door to Reisz’s quarters was ajar and Krystin heard voices within.

  “That’s all that’s left,” Reisz said.

  “We’re all right,” Myrmeen replied. “I chose this place for a reason. There’s a depository less than a mile from here. In the morning, I want you to take this claim ticket and retrieve the cache I left there for emergencies. The gold you’ll find should be enough to get us through another week or two, if we’re careful.”

  “They’re open all night. Why not go now?”

  “Because the Night Parade revels in the darkness. We don’t want to be seen by the burning man who nearly had us before, now do we?”

  “Good point.”

  A sudden change came over Krystin. She thought once more of the locket, of the strange images that had come to her as she stared into its jade depths, and she knew that she had to own that locket, had to possess it no matter the cost.

  Krystin crept back to her room and waited for midnight, her fear of the darkness all but forgotten in her excitement. When she was certain that the hour had come, Krystin returned to the room shared by Reisz and Ord. She found the door unlocked and quietly entered, using every technique of stealth that Myrmeen had taught her. She froze when she saw Myrmeen lying on the floor, her face turned to the wall, then relaxed and moved to the small nightstand beside the bed where Reisz lay. The claim note rested in plain view. She took it without incident, then retreated from the room without disturbing the others’ sleep.

  As she walked down the hall, Krystin heard Myrmeen sob quietly in her sleep. She stopped for a moment, thought about going back, then hung her head low and proceeded down the stairs.

  Twelve

  Krystin was painfully unaware that dawn had arrived. She had lost most of the night staring into the emerald depths of the prize she had betrayed her benefactor to acquire. Procuring Myrmeen’s cache of valuables had been a simple task. The locket had been waiting for her in the marketplace. She had divided the gold that she had not spent, burying most of it in the soft, well-packed earth of a deserted, fire ravaged barn. The money would serve as insurance that, in the event the others did not survive the war on the Night Parade, Krystin would have a stake to begin a new life elsewhere—in Arabel, perhaps.

  Returning to her room at the inn, she had sewed the remaining gold into the lining of her sash and the inside of her boots. Then she had curled up on her bed and held the emerald locket before her. Thin white beams of moonlight had sliced into her room and fallen upon the locket, reflecting the light with brilliant, prismlike shards.

  It was not the beauty of the object that accounted for its fascination to the young woman. Krystin knew that if she had been pressed to explain the locket’s significance, she would fail in the attempt. All she knew was that she had seen this locket, or another trinket that looked identical to it, once before. She sensed that if she could remember exactly when and where she had glimpsed it the first time, she would be on the way to solving the mystery of what had happened to Melaine, Byrne, and Caleb Shar. She had to know if she could trust her memories.

  As the night went on, her world had become a sparkling green field, a beautifully woven tapestry of hazy, indistinct images. She shuddered in anticipation as the fog encompassing her vision stepped up to the threshold of clearing then hesitated. Figures danced back and forth in the emerald world. They gestured broadly, inviting her into their land with words that she could not hear and actions that she could not quite discern.

  Suddenly she was aware that it was morning. She glanced out the window and watched the final stages of the sun rising above the city. Her fingers closed over the locket in frustration. Krystin could not tell if the visions she had glimpsed had been inspired by the locket, or if she had imagined them all. She felt exhausted. Realizing that further examination of the locket would have to wait, she hid the item by carefully sewing it into the fabric of her sash.

  For the first time she understood that she should have felt guilty for stealing from Myrmeen, but there was no emotion attached to the knowledge. The woman should have purchased the locket for Krystin in the first place. She had more gold in other caches in the city. The Harpers would not have starved.

  Krystin no sooner had looked up after hiding her stolen sewing kit than the door swung open wide and Myrmeen entered the room. The older woman came to a sudden halt, obviously surprised to find Krystin awake and fully dressed.

  “I didn’t bother getting undressed last night,” Krystin explained truthfully.

  “Get your things. We’re leaving here,” Myrmeen said. “There are not only rats and spiders in these rooms, but vermin that walks on two legs, too.”

  Krystin shrugged as Myrmeen left the room, closing the door behind her. She had seen no trace of either spiders or rats during the night. Myrmeen’s terrible dreams were returning, and, in Calimport, the line separating dreams from reality was as thin and sharp as the cutting edge of a sword. The claim note’s theft obviously had been discovered, and the thief was closer than the woman ever would have expected. Krystin gathered her few belongings and left the room, pausing only to touch her sash and feel the locket’s comforting weight.

  The others were waiting for Krystin downstairs. They wasted little time after paying for their lodgings, and within the hour Krystin once again was standing before the Blood-Stained Sword. Myrmeen emerged from the building, shaking her head.

  “What are we going to do?” Krystin asked.

  “What else can we do?” Reisz said in annoyance. “We’ll have to go to the next cache, that’s what.”

  Myrmeen held the claim note. “They have it in their logs that I came here last night and retrieved my property with this. Gonzmart, the gentleman who was on duty last night, was fired this morning. They say he was drunk.”

  Krystin ran her hand over her face. “Maybe he took your things,” she said, careful not to mention that she knew that it was gold they had come to retrieve.

  “I doubt that a drunkard could have slipped into our rooms last night,” Myrmeen said.

  “Unless he had an accomplice,” Reisz said. “Go back in and tell the day manager, Myrmeen. We may never see your gold again, but the Harper in me wishes to see justice done.”

  “Does it matter?” Krystin said nervously. She had decided that intimating the guilt of the night guard would avert attention from herself, but she had not stopped to think of the consequences. If the man were caught, he would be able to identify her.

  “He took what was mine,” Myrmeen said. “If this were Arabel, he would see damned quick exactly how much that matters.”

  “I understand,” Krystin said, “but wouldn’t he have left Calimport by now? Or at least found a hideout that he knew was secure? We could spend days trying to find him—”

  “She has a point,” Erin Shandower said, breaking the long silence that had suffused the others.

  “I agree,” Ord said as he turned to look at Krystin. “Our mission is not to capture and punish common thieves. My mother and father did not give their lives so that we could waste the time they purchased for us with their blood.”

  For a time, no one spoke. Ord’s words had struck deep within the hearts of Myrmeen, Shandower, and the Harpers. Krystin felt an elation that was difficult to hide when Myrmeen finally hung her head and whispered, “We shouldn’t have made it so easy for the thief in the first place.”

  Reisz frowned and looked away. “Let’s mo
ve on. We’ll be more careful next time.”

  The group remained together in a tight formation as they made the journey back to the inn, where their mounts were tethered. The streets already were filled with people, and Krystin wondered if there ever was a time when Calimport truly slept. The people of the city seemed to maintain shifts to keep the busy trade streets bustling at all times. The Harpers merged with the crowds whenever possible. On a barren street they would have attracted attention, but here they were invisible.

  They passed street performers who sang of sad, mournful times, then collected the guilt and sympathy of the crowds in the form of their loose change. A contortionist executed a bone-snapping arrangement of his limbs that had the two dozen men and women gathered about him clapping and shouting in approval. Krystin watched a dark-skinned young man place a series of towering obstacles in his way. He approached them with a running start and vaulted over them, one after another, without touching them with any part of his body. The display was impressive, and Krystin felt a slight flush in her cheeks as she watched the young man’s sweaty body as he spiraled in midair and surmounted each obstacle with matchless grace. Moments later the boy walked past her and the musky scent of him made her weak for an instant.

  She did not know why the sight of him had affected her so strongly. She had never felt much of an interest in boys; most of those she had met were not worth her time. Nevertheless, since Ord had been paying her such close attention, Krystin had found herself thinking about them with increasing regularity.

  Krystin suddenly felt a sharp tug at her waist. She looked down in time to see a curved blade slicing at the golden threads of her waist sash with practiced ease.

  “No!” she shouted, realizing that she was about to fall victim to one of the city’s many thieves. Twisting away from the blade, not caring if she was cut by its razor-sharp edge, Krystin unwittingly helped the thief slice open her waist sash. There was a slight ripping noise that was absorbed by the sounds of the crowd in the marketplace, and the fistful of gold that she had sewn into the lining rained down to the paved street. With a cry of agony, Krystin dropped to her knees, searching desperately for the emerald locket, which might have fallen as well.