The Native Star

by M. K. Hobson

  “Your placement in Lost Pine was a calculated humiliation. You can’t deny that. Why does Mirabilis want to undercut your power, Stanton? Why does he want to make you a failure?”

  “I know exactly who’s trying to undercut me, sangrimancer,” Stanton said with a contemptuous half-smile. “You’ll hardly send me crying with a squink or two.”

  “Maybe not,” Caul said. “But sangrimancers—men who practice real magic—have better weapons than squinks and Trines.”

  He moved quickly, his hand going to his throat and the two-chambered pendant that rested there. In one smooth movement he brought the alembic up and stretched the hand toward Emily, simultaneously speaking words that were dark, low, guttural. His hand was wreathed in brilliant shifting light, but he did not throw the magic; he just kept speaking, the power dancing around his fingertips growing brighter and brighter.

  Emily’s right hand shot up as if grabbed. She tried to set her feet, scramble for purchase on the slippery fir needles, but it was no use—she was pulled inexorably toward Caul and the magic gathering around his fist. Dag grabbed her, tried to hold her back, but Caul just spoke louder, and more quickly, and Dag was dragged along with her, skidding toward the chanting sangrimancer. When Emily was within Caul’s reach, he shot up his other hand to grab her throat, his fingers nearly circling it. The magic that had drawn her to him evaporated into the stone with a loud pop; nausea billowed through her, mingling with pain and asphyxiation.

  Dag threw himself at Caul, but Caul sidestepped, slamming a heavy elbow into Dag’s back as the lumberman stumbled past. Before Dag even hit the ground, Caul kicked him square in the gut, hard. Dag crumpled, groaning.

  Then Emily could see nothing but Caul’s face as his huge hand squeezed more tightly around her throat. But she could hear Stanton’s voice, booming cadent Latin. And she felt sudden little impacts coming from all around them. Little stones were whizzing through the air. Pebbles, cobbles, hand-size rocks, sharp little chips of granite—all were flying with tremendous force right at Caul’s head. The big sangrimancer winced, ducking, but the projectiles were battering him with the viciousness of a bee-swarm.

  “Sometimes smaller weapons serve better,” Stanton said, each word keen as the edge of a knife.

  The stone was attracted to vast concentrations of power, like the one Caul had summoned, but less powerful spells—like the séance, or Stanton’s ever-ready fingersnap flames—could still work if she was far enough away …

  The storm of small missiles pelted Caul mercilessly, peppering his face and arms, leaving bloody cuts and welting bruises. Thrusting Emily roughly to the ground, he seized his alembic and stormed toward Stanton.

  With a roar, he threw his body against the protective magic of Stanton’s Trine. The alembic glowed in his hand as he slammed his shoulder against the Trine’s magic again and again, as if he was trying to break down a heavy door.

  Finally, drawing a deep breath, Caul gave a rumbling bellow from the deepest part of his gut—a roar that saturated the air with fury and hatred and terror. The sound echoed in the darkness, not fading but rather growing louder and more horrible. As it did, Emily saw the little projectiles fall away, dropping dead and still on the ground. Then, with a rush of massive power, Caul crashed against Stanton’s Trine a final time.

  With a screaming sound of shearing metal, the invisible walls broke, shattering in a shower of glittering gold. Stanton staggered, his long legs almost buckling beneath him. Pain contorted his features, but he managed to raise trembling hands in a posture of defense.

  “Run,” he whispered, so softly that Emily was surprised she could hear him. “Emily, run!”

  Caul charged, brushing aside Stanton’s defense and throwing him to the ground. Pinning him with one knee, Caul pressed the alembic hard against Stanton’s chest, hissing guttural words of cursing. Stanton screamed, convulsing horribly as Caul’s foul power tangled around him like red-hot wires.

  Caul was going to kill him.

  With a wild cry, Emily threw herself at Caul, leaping onto his back, scrabbling over his shoulder to grab the hand that held the alembic. When she finally got it, she pressed the stone in her palm against his monstrous fist. She felt the hugeness of the magic at his command, felt the stone struggling to absorb it. Her stomach roiled; the world spun. A piercing wave of fresh nausea knifed through her belly.

  Caul lurched to his feet, leaving Stanton splayed like a blown-down scarecrow. Emily clung desperately as Caul wheeled, trying to throw her off. Finally, he got hold of her shoulder, and with a grunting heave, he sent her flying. She slammed into the ground hard, the breath punched from her body. The world spun in blackness, and when she could see again she saw that Caul was standing over her, his eyes calm and still.

  “You troublesome skycladdische bitch,” he said softly. He reached to his belt, pulled out the long silver knife. She stared up at him, unable to move.

  Caul reached down. He bunched the collar of her shirt and jerked her upward. There was the sound of ripping fabric as her shirt tore away, leaving her throat exposed. The knife flashed down. Caul was going to kill her, she realized suddenly. Everything moved terribly slowly after she realized that.

  And then, for no good reason, she opened her mouth and said the word “hemacolludinatious.”

  Caul’s hand, in which the knife gleamed, slowed down even as the rest of the world sped up. Finally Caul stopped moving entirely and stood frozen, his knife trembling inches from her throat. He stared at her, his eyes glossy and unfocused. A smile broke out over his face, and a tear trembled in his eye, and his cheek flushed with rage. He gave a strangled cry—half a laugh, half a sob—and slowly sank to his knees, releasing his grip on the fabric of Emily’s collar as he did.

  The silver knife dropped to the ground, clinking against granite gravel. Caul bent his head, burying it in his hands for a moment, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Then he lifted his head to the sky and screamed, then he was seized with violent tremblings of laughter.

  Emily stared at Caul, perplexed. From the corner of her eye she saw Stanton climb to his feet, unsteady on his legs as a newly foaled colt.

  “What did you say to him?” Stanton rasped.

  “A word,” Emily said. “It popped into my head. I don’t know what it means.”

  “What word?”

  “Hemacolludinatious,” she said.

  Stanton blinked at her. He looked astonished and horrified all at once.

  “That’s not a word, that’s a neologism.” Stanton rubbed a hand over his mouth, and Emily saw that the hand was trembling. “You Sundered him.”

  “What do you mean, Sundered?”

  “Military sangrimancers use a special magical technique to keep themselves under complete emotional control at all times.” Stanton stared down at Caul. The man was clenched in a twitching ball, sobbing and snarling and clawing at the ground with dirty fingers. “They lock themselves up inside their own minds. Memory, emotion, everything. They keep just one key. A made-up word … a neologism. Speaking it when a man is unprepared is … horrible. It sends the sangrimancer crashing back into himself, crushing him under his own betrayed humanity …” Stanton’s voice trailed off into a mutter. “You Sundered him. My God.”

  The loud sound of a train whistle broke in sharply. The train was coming up the hill. It couldn’t be more than five minutes away. She put her hand to her mouth.

  “Dag!” she muttered, rushing back to where the big man lay. She knelt by him, touched his face. To her great relief he stirred, moaning, his hands pressed against his belly.

  “Emily?” he said. “Emily … are you …”

  “We’re safe,” Emily breathed, looking over at where Stanton was crouched beside Caul’s crazily spasming form. Stanton had put a hand on each side of Caul’s head and was muttering something in Latin.

  Tears streamed down Caul’s cheeks as he struggled ineffectually against Stanton’s grip. “I won’t f-f-forget forever!” He stumbled over the w
ords as if his tongue were being jerked from his mouth. “I won’t forget you or h-h-her either … I will f-f-find you …”

  Teeth clenched, Stanton terminated the magical recitation with three loudly barked commands: “Lacuna! Caesura! Oblivio!”

  He jerked his hands away from Caul’s face. Caul slumped back, abruptly silent, his head lolling. Stanton reached down, taking the alembic from Caul’s clasped hand. He stood, staring into the distance for a moment, as if he’d forgotten where he was.

  “Is he dead?” Dag looked up at the Warlock with new respect. “Did you kill him?”

  Stanton didn’t answer, but threw the sangrimancer’s alembic to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot. The glass shattered with a pop and hiss.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Stanton said. “I’m not a murderer.”

  “Then what did you do to him?” Emily rose, putting a hand on Stanton’s shoulder to steady herself.

  “Put him to sleep, made him forget. Forget us …” Stanton’s green eyes were strangely unfocused. “Forget everything. He’ll wake up in a few days, but …” Stanton did not complete the sentence. Instead he stared off into the darkness, his eyes fixed and unseeing. Emily gave him a shake.

  “Mr. Stanton?” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “All right?” Stanton slurred the words like a drunkard. “No, I’m not, I’m fine …” Then he stopped speaking entirely.

  The train was coming up the tracks, the beam of its headlamp a brilliant knife slicing the darkness. Emily found that she was no longer leaning on Stanton for support; rather, he was leaning on her. His eyes were sliding closed and then opening abruptly, as if he were trying to keep himself from falling asleep.

  “Your train’s here.” Dag climbed to his feet slowly, straightening with a wince. “Let’s get you both on it.”

  Emily looked at Dag, as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Dag …” she whispered.

  “I understand now, Emily,” he said.

  The huge black train pulled to a stop with a vast rushing of steam and a piercing squeal of hot brakes. Dag threaded an arm under Stanton’s, shifting the weight of the Warlock from Emily’s shoulders to his own. Stanton’s eyes fluttered briefly; he looked up at Dag and mumbled, “Yes, I’d like coffee with the eggs, thank you …”

  “Is he going to be all right?” Dag asked Emily as he dragged Stanton toward the passenger car. There was a loud hiss from the front of the train as the fire tenders jerked down the water pipe and sent cold mountain water gushing into the engine’s tanks.

  “I don’t know,” Emily said as they approached the closed door of the passenger car. The conductor leaned out the window, his face registering slight alarm. Emily could see her little group reflected in the man’s eyes—three shabby men, torn and bloodstained, drunk, probably.

  “Two for New York,” Emily blurted, digging into Stanton’s pocket for the purse of money Dag had brought. “The cheapest you got.”

  Emily dearly hoped the conductor couldn’t see Caul’s motionless form lying a few feet off. Apparently he couldn’t, for while he hesitated a long moment, he finally took her money, tore off two tickets, and punched them slowly.

  “I’ll help you get him on,” Dag muttered, and he lifted Stanton up the step into the car. With a bit of wrangling, he managed to get the lanky Warlock into one of the wooden bench seats.

  The train whistle gave a curt blast; the conductor gestured impatiently to Dag.

  “We’re going!” he snapped. “Buy a ticket or get off!”

  Dag turned to climb off the train. Emily stopped him in the vestibule, the little space between the cars.

  “What about Caul? He’ll wake up eventually, Mr. Stanton said—”

  “I’ll drag him way up one of the old timber roads. Easy to get lost up there, right?”

  “And you’ll watch out for Pap?” she said. The train gave another whistle; the conductor gave an impatient growl.

  “We’re goin’, mister!”

  “I’ll see that he’s safe,” Dag said, ignoring the conductor.

  The train began to move. It gave a jolting lurch forward and then began to rumble out of the clearing. Dag swung out of the open door, holding onto the side railing, but Emily caught his hand one last time.

  “Thank you, Dag,” she murmured. “Thank you for everything.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her with bright, brief intensity. Then he leapt from the train, disappearing into the darkness.

  Emily stood in the vestibule for a long time. The conductor reached past her to close the door, making a sound of weary disapproval. She touched her lips where Dag had kissed them. They felt strange indeed. Then, shaking her head, she went back to Stanton.

  The cheapest seats were in the emigrant cabin—a large drafty car with a coal stove at each end and hard wooden benches. Given the late hour, most of the seats had been folded down so that passengers could stretch out to sleep. The coal-oil lanterns that swung in gimbaled fittings in the ceilings were turned down low. The faint yellow light made everything seem dingy and mysterious at the same time.

  Emily slid into the seat next to Stanton, elbowed him softly.

  “We’ve made it, Mr. Stanton,” she whispered to him. “We’ve made it!”

  But Stanton did not reply. His head lolled against the window. She shook him again. The train was gathering speed now, rattling and jolting.

  “Mr. Stanton?” she said. He did not wake. She shook him harder, giving him little slaps on the cheek. He still did not wake.

  He’s just tired, Emily assured herself, swallowing hard. She laid a hand on his chest to feel if he was breathing. He was. Well, that was a good sign at least. Looking at her own hand on Stanton’s chest made her remember the way Caul’s hand had pressed the alembic there, just over where Stanton’s heart was, and the sizzling wires of magic, blood red and rot black, that had surrounded him …

  Just tired, she repeated to herself, letting her hand drop and closing her eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mother Roscoe’s Eye-Opener

  Her own exhaustion made it easier for Emily to convince herself that there was nothing sinister about Stanton’s abrupt slide into unconsciousness. Almost as soon as she closed her eyes the train’s soothing clatter rocked her into a deep, dreamless sleep. She was jolted awake by words that seemed to be shouted directly into her ear:

  “Fresh candy! Candy and cigars!”

  Bolting upright from where she’d slumped against Stanton’s shoulder, she found that the train had stopped. Brilliant sunshine streamed through the dusty windows of the car. A glance out the window at the name on the station indicated that they were someplace called Wadsworth. Young boys were walking up and down the aisle.

  “Nice oranges from California, last you’ll get!”

  “Papers, getcher papers! Books just a dime! Full-color covers, gents! Thrilling exploits, madcap mayhem, wild adventure …”

  “Can I see?”

  The request came from a girl sitting in the seat across from them. She was plump and blond, with smooth skin and bright brown eyes. She wore a poke bonnet and a clean white apron over a cream-colored dress that was sprinkled with tiny pink rosebuds.

  The newsboy lifted the flap on his battered canvas satchel so that she could paw through his assortment of brightly colored pulps.

  “Have it … read it … thought it was awful dull …” she muttered to herself as she discarded one after another. Finally, she seized on one with a happy cry. “Oh! Haven’t read this one before! I’ll take it!”

  Clutching the treasured find to her chest, the girl dug into a little woven purse and pulled out a dime. When the girl saw that Emily was watching, she blushed.

  “It’s a Jack Two-Fist,” she said, as if Emily should know what that meant. Then the girl looked away shyly, but not before letting her eyes linger on Stanton with some concern.

  Emily glanced at Stanton. She nudged him with her shoulder, hoping he’
d stretch and groan. She laid a hand on his cheek; his skin, always quite warm, was now burning hot.

  Her first impulse was to grab him by both shoulders and give him a really tooth-rattling shake, but the girl was right there. So, Emily went to address herself to more immediate concerns.

  Being dressed as a man, she certainly couldn’t use the “ladies’ rest,” so it was with great apprehension that she picked her way back to the “gentlemen’s rest” at the rear of the car.

  It was as disgusting as she expected. There was a dicey-looking chamber pot, and a trapdoor in the floor through which said pot was supposed to be emptied. Men being men, however, it seemed that most dispensed with the chamber pot altogether and opted for the more direct and inaccurate route.

  Using the room’s tiny cracked shaving mirror, Emily freshened her costume, brushing at the dirt on her suit and hastily smoothing her hair back up under her brown hat. Then she scrutinized herself. It was the first time she’d gotten a good look at herself in her masculine disguise. The hard traveling and meager accommodations had conspired to make her look more like a young man than she would have thought: grimy, angular, and … yes, ruthless. Her hand went up to her throat. The collar of her shirt was torn where Caul had grabbed her, the top two buttons missing from where they had been wrenched off. She clutched her collar, holding it closed. The last thing she needed was someone getting a look down her front.

  On the way back to the seats she paused at the water spigot, where there was a dented tin cup for common use. She filled it and went back to where Stanton was sitting. She tried to force the water through his dried lips. Most of it ran out of the corner of his mouth.

  Emily’s hands trembled as she returned the cup to the spigot, balancing herself against seats to keep her footing on the rocking train.

  Why wouldn’t he wake up?

  The train stopped in Mill City for lunch. Those who hoped to hit the lunch counters left at a flat run, for the train stopped only briefly for meals and sometimes pulled away without so much as a warning whistle. But Emily couldn’t even think about eating, and wanted to take advantage of the empty car to employ more desperate means in her attempt to wake Stanton. Unfortunately, the blond girl stayed behind, too. She was using the coal stove at the end of the car to boil water for tea.