Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  “Are you afraid, Grom?” Roen asked. “Are you such kings of the rooftops that one of you is now in prison? But I’m not afraid, Grom. I want to free my father just as you want to free Ketya.”

  The crowd had grown silent around them. Roen feared he had gone too far, but then, he had nothing to lose now.

  “What are you saying, ground man?” Grom demanded quietly.

  “Only this: I will kidnap Hyan Redfort and make him free his prisoners. Then I will give him to you to deal with as you like.”

  The crowd stared at him.

  “You’re lying,” Grom said.

  “There are plenty of Esirens here. Ask any one to read my mind. I am not lying.”

  Grom drew a curved, silver-handled knife from his belt and leaned close. “If any harm comes to Ketya, ground man, if so much as a hair is torn from her head, don’t think I’ll be afraid to descend these roofs to find you. I will make you wish we had thrown you to the ground.”

  With that, he slashed his knife across Roen’s cheek. Pain blazed and blood trickled. Grom grunted, turned around and leapt onto another roof, where he disappeared into a camouflaged tent. The rest of the outlaws dispersed to their own tents, until only Nepo and Roen remained outside.

  Roen shut his eyes and mustered his magic. It tingled inside him. Shakily, he passed his hands over his cheek, healing it.

  Nepo looked at him. “That’s some healing. Didn’t even leave a scar.”

  Roen shrugged. “I’ve always been good with magic.” If only we could heal illness like wounds, he added silently, I wouldn’t have been in this mess.

  Nepo stared at him a moment, but then she sighed and smiled. “Now, that much magic probably made you hungry. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  He followed her back into her tent, where she fetched him a wheel of cheese, three grainy rolls, and a jug of milk. Roen realized his stomach ached with hunger. He took the knife Nepo offered him, sat down, and began to eat voraciously.

  Between mouthfuls he asked, “Why do you live here, Nepo? You’re obviously not an outlaw if you work in the Dungeon.”

  “No, I’m not an outlaw,” Nepo said. “But after my husband left me for my barrenness, I decided that life with my brother was preferable to life alone. I work at the Dungeon so I can spy on the Redforts and smuggle things to our imprisoned folk. I bring Ket candy sometimes, and candles. The poor thing. She only tried to save her Esiren friends.”

  Roen chewed his bread-crust thoughtfully. He was still not sure how he felt about the Esiren girl. Why had he tried saving her that day? What did he care about her? She had robbed his shop! And yet... Roen had to admit that he, too, would probably rob strangers if it could save his father. Ketya had only tried to save her fellow Esirens.

  He swallowed the last roll. “Many Esirens are outlaws, I see.”

  Nepo poured him a mug of milk. “A moon ago, Hyan decided to arrest all Esiren refugees in Heland. He never explained why. Some Esirens returned to Esire and its war against Sinther. Others fled into the Forest. Some fled up here and live with us now. But many were imprisoned in the Dungeon.”

  “Maybe we can save them yet.” The milk was cold and thick.

  Nepo sighed. “You truly do intend to fight the Redforts, don’t you?”

  “The law is corrupt. I want to resist it.”

  “But mostly you want to stop Grom from throwing you off the roof.”

  “Mostly I want to save my father.”

  Nepo touched his hair. “I know, Roen. But it will be difficult. Hyan is powerful, and the rooffolk don’t trust you yet. You must be careful what you say to them; they have been living this way for years. Some have had children born here. They don’t want trouble. And Grom still blames you for Ket’s imprisonment.”

  Roen swallowed the last drop of milk and rose to his feet. He wiped crumbs off his knife, then began to crop his yellow curls. Stubble already covered his face. Good. He wanted to be hard to recognize.

  “Is Hyan still in the city?” he asked as he worked.

  “He’s been spending the last few days in the palace, the turnkeys whisper. They say the queen and he are going to make a speech off the balcony today.”

  Roen nodded. “Then I’ll go there now. I want to see him. Do you have a hood or a scarf—something to hide my face?”

  Nepo opened an old chest, rummaged through a pile of clothes, and finally produced an old cloak with a long hood. The brown thing was shaggy and moth-eaten, but when Roen donned it the hood pulled deep over his face.

  “It belonged to my husband,” Nepo explained.

  Roen brushed off the dust and stepped outside the tent. He crept down the sloping roof till he stood on the ledge, above an empty street below. Leather Lane, he thought with a thin smile. He had bought parchment there many times, never thinking to look up. Before jumping over the narrow street, he turned to face Nepo. He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself lost for words. This woman saved my life, he thought. Twice. How can I possibly thank her?

  Nepo seemed to read his thoughts. “I know,” she said, smiling. “Go. And be careful.”

  Roen nodded. “I will.”

  He took a deep breath and leapt into the air. He landed on the next roof, scraping his knees on the tiles. His head spun. Not long ago he had leapt over these roofs heedlessly. Now, in daylight, the height churned his belly. The next roof was easier, though, and soon Roen found that, as long as he didn’t look down, jumping became natural as walking. He became stronger as he leapt, and the brisk autumn air seemed to cleanse his illness away.

  But if his body felt healthy, his heart was heavy. If he failed to rescue the prisoners, Grom would hunt and kill him. And Roen couldn’t flee the city, not with his father in prison. Roen didn’t know if Smerdin had been tried yet, but he suspected it made no difference. Hyan had been too clever. Legally, Smerdin was guilty; he hadn’t granted Hyan a painting, and hadn’t returned its price. Even if the Queen’s Court hired Esirens to read Smerdin’s mind, they would learn the same. So what if Hyan had arranged for the money and painting to disappear? The only person who knew it was Ketya, and she too was imprisoned. And who would listen to a refugee thief anyway?

  The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, gilding the thin clouds. Roofs, spires, and domes sprawled ahead, basking in the metallic light. Half a league east, Roen recognized the roof of his workshop. He forced his eyes away. The sight was too painful. He raised his head and looked up at the palace, which perched on the crest of Brownbury’s mountain, soaring above the city. Sunlight glinted off its teardrop domes, so bright Roen squinted. In one tower’s wall ticked a large clock with brass hands. From the crest of another tower flapped Heland’s flag, the red firefly on a cream field. Roen had painted these towers dozens of times, always in awe. Today the sight rankled him. In this grand palace Duke Hyan was a guest of honor. It made all the gilt and marble worthless in Roen’s eyes.

  Why had Hyan framed them? What were simple painters to him? Roen could not imagine. In truth, he did not care. All he wanted was his father free. And his workshop back. And to paint again. As he traversed the rooftops, a plan formed in his mind. Hyan had to leave the palace sometime. Roen would watch until he did. Then, he would follow Hyan along the rooftops. At the right moment he would jump down, place a knife on the duke’s throat, and force him to free the prisoners. Roen tried to convince himself it was possible. Noblemen had been assassinated or kidnapped before. Why not again? And after all, Roen had almost kidnapped Hyan once before.

  Closer to the palace, the roads widened, and the jumps between roofs lengthened. Here lived the rich merchants and minor nobility. Their fine, paved streets were too broad to jump over. Roen would have to walk. He found an empty alley between Wool Walk and Scribe Street and climbed down a spout, glancing around furtively. The road was empty.

  Pasted on the wall beside him was a poster with his portrait. Roen recognized the drawing; he had sketched it last moon. For a moment he stared at the serious, soft-che
eked boy in the poster, with the wide plumed hat. Had this truly been him only a moon ago? Roen felt like he had aged years since. Words were scribbled beneath the sketch: Wanted, dead or alive (preferably dead), twenty golds reward. Roen glanced around him. He saw no one. Hurriedly, he tore off the poster.

  He began to walk, hood tugged low. He tried to seem casual, but his legs were stiff as logs, and he couldn’t help but clench his fists. When he turned off Wool Walk onto busy Main Avenue, he held his breath. Nobody, however, spared him a second glance. They didn’t recognize him.

  After what seemed an eternity, Roen finally reached the palace gardens. They were fringed by a row of cypresses, beyond which sprawled grassy blankets that sprouted not a tree, bush, or flower. The palace glistened ahead. Roen soon found the main path—a wide marble lane stretching through the sward. He walked it quickly, shoes clanking against the marble. White statues speckled the grass around him, likenesses of past monarchs. Roen could almost imagine them glaring at him.

  Townsmen walked the road with him, flocking to hear the queen speak. The Royal Guard was keeping order, men in burnished hauberks and purple surcoats, filigreed swords at their waists. Roen followed the flow of people into the courtyard—a wide, cobbled square beneath a balcony in the palace wall, in the shade of a gilded tower. The crowd was thick, and Roen tugged his hood lower. No one paid him any mind. To them he was just another townsman.

  Up on the balcony, the purple curtains opened. The crowd below fell silent. Two servants in lavender rolled a red carpet onto the balcony, then straightened and blew golden trumpets. One of the men announced, “Her Royal Majesty, Healer of all Hurt, Sovereign of all Heland, Elorien Purplerobe!”

  The queen stepped onto the balcony, and Roen and the crowd bowed.

  At over fifty years of age, Queen Elorien was still beautiful, standing regally straight and tall. Pearled nets held her hair in buns and supported her brittle crown. Emeralds and sapphires speckled her flowing purple gown. A single lapis lazuli twinkled in the center of her forehead. Roen found himself thinking how he would love to paint her.

  “Rise, my people,” the queen said. Her voice quivered slightly.

  The crowd straightened, and Roen noticed that the queen’s face sagged, and that her eyes glistened with tears.

  “I have an announcement to make,” she said. “It might not be easy to hear.”

  The queen paused, and Roen felt dread curl in his belly. He did not like this one whit.

  “For years,” Elorien said, “I’ve been harboring a lie. It’s time to reveal the truth. The children of my womb, the royal princes and princesses, are bastards.” A murmur swept over the crowd, and Elorien continued speaking. “They aren’t the children of the late king, as I’ve led people to believe. The late king, may the Spirit protect his soul, was sterile. My children are of a lover, a commoner like yourselves.”

  Roen released his breath with relief. For a moment, he had expected calamity. The news was shocking, to be sure, but not disastrous.

  But then the queen continued. “Since my children were improperly conceived, they cannot succeed me. I therefore name my new heir Duke Hyan Redfort.”

  Roen’s mouth fell open. For a moment he could not breathe and stood gaping, shaking his head.

  “How can this be?” he whispered. “The Purplerobes hate the Redforts.”

  It made no sense. Even if the princes were bastards, there were still other Purplerobes, or even Greenhills. Why would Elorien name Hyan, a Redfort, her heir? Everyone knew the two houses detested each other.

  Up on the balcony, the servants trumpeted again, and Hyan came stepping outside, smiling and waving. The fat duke wore enameled scales, and garnets studded his carmine robe. He began a speech, but Roen was too rankled to listen. Hyan, who had ruined his life, heir to Heland’s throne! But soon Roen was stung by a deeper consternation. Now that Hyan was heir, he would leave the palace rarely, and only in a carriage, under heavy royal guard. If once he had been well-protected, now he would be unreachable.

  How would Roen kidnap him now? If he did not, Grom would kill him, and Smerdin would languish in prison. Roen knew he had a choice. He could either storm the palace to kidnap Hyan, or storm the Dungeon to rescue its prisoners.

  He needed an army, he knew. But could he convince the outlaws to become one?

  Chapter Seven

  Betrayal

  Aeolia’s clothes dried slowly in the dim, damp woods.

  The Forest was a strange land, she thought, gazing at it silently. Cold, rotting leaves murmured beneath her bare feet, the only sound to disturb the silence. The clammy air hung foglike, smelling of lichen and humus and age. Trees huddled around her, dense as darkness, growing tall and twisted and bearded with moss, hiding the sky behind their foliage. Everything is alive here, Aeolia reflected, even the boulders are more lichen than rock. And yet it’s so lonely here, and so sad. Like me.

  She still shivered when she remembered how close to death she had come. Whenever she shut her eyes she saw the waterfall rushing toward her, felt the water flow over her head, heard the dizzying laugh of the terrible, terrible height. But she had lived, and now she was fleeing again. She hadn’t seen Lale since his fall, but she had seen his footprints trudging out of the churning pool. And Aeolia knew he was following her. She could feel it.

  She looked at Talin, who walked beside her, and drew reassurance from his presence. The half-breed had used his Forestfolk magic earlier, blending into his surroundings, and his clothes were now earthy green and brown. Aeolia felt safe beside him. Soon, she knew, she would be even safer. Talin’s cousin, he had promised, was the finest hunter in these woods. Soon, Aeolia dared to hope, they would catch Lale. Soon she’d be able to go find Joren.

  “Is your cousin’s village still far?” she asked.

  “We should reach it soon, I think,” Talin said. “It’s hard to remember. I haven’t been here in several years.”

  Aeolia plucked some bark off a birch and juggled it idly. There was so much of Talin she did not know. He was a lord’s son, and the son of a shaman. He had probably traveled all over the Island, having adventures like in the fairytales.

  “Where have you been these past years, then?” she asked.

  “In prison.”

  Aeolia looked at him. “You were a prisoner?”

  “In Brownbury, capital of Heland.”

  Aeolia felt strangely ashamed. “Oh,” she said quietly.

  Talin nodded. “I escaped just last year, and have been hunting the prince since.”

  Aeolia gave him a sharp stare. “What prince?”

  “Why, Prince Lale, of course.”

  Aeolia dropped the bark. Her tongue clove to the top of her mouth. It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you telling me that that scarred, sickly, beastly man is the Crown Prince of Stonemark?”

  Talin shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

  “No!” she said, shaking her head. Lale, King Sinther’s son! Aeolia lowered her head in despair. Suddenly her struggle seemed hopeless. What chance did they have, an escaped slave and an escaped prisoner, fighting an entire kingdom? She was only a callow girl. She could not fight such power. She could not kill her own prince.

  She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to tell Talin no, she could not continue their quest. But before words could leave her throat, the shadows darkened, and she looked up, and her jaw unhinged, and all words escaped her.

  A village loomed above her. It clung to the treetops like moss, a hodgepodge of rope and wood and grass, of bone and vines and leather. People scurried about the jumble, crossing swinging bridges, climbing rope ladders, swinging on logs tied to vines. Round huts speckled the branches like acorns. Water gurgled through twisting wooden pipes. Gardens grew on jutting ledges. It looked like something out of the fairytales Joren would tell her. Aeolia gaped, her head tilted back, feeling dizzy.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “It’s a village in the air.”

  Talin nodde
d. “All Forestfolk villages are.”

  “I get all dizzy looking at it.”

  “That’s because you’re a plainswoman, used to thinking horizontally. The Forestfolk think vertically. Rather than cut down trees and live side to side, they live up and down.”

  “Is this Yaiyai, your cousin’s clan?”

  Talin nodded. “Come, let’s go find her.”

  Aeolia followed him around a clump of gorse and mushrooms, and there she saw a rope ladder that dangled from a swinging bridge two dozen feet above. Talin began to climb and motioned her to follow. Aeolia stood still, her belly roiling.

  “What’s wrong?” Talin asked.

  “I don’t think I can climb that high.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s safe. These ropes have been hanging here for generations.”

  Aeolia swallowed. “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Do you want to wait here while I fetch my cousin?”

  Aeolia shook her head. Lale was following her, she was sure of that. She dared not stay alone.

  “I’ll climb,” she said. If she had managed the waterfall, she would manage this.

  She climbed the first rung. The ladder swung. Aeolia quickly pulled herself up another rung, then another. Cold sweat beaded on her brow. I can’t do this, she thought. It’s too scary. Only the memory of Lale’s sword on her neck spurred her onward, and she climbed quickly, her heart hammering. The rope ladder swayed like reeds in a storm. Tears budded in Aeolia’s eyes. I can go down now, she thought. I can still climb down. How high am I? She glanced down to check.

  The whole earth spun. She clenched her eyes shut and clung to the ladder, frozen. Even Lale’s Bloodtalon now seemed benevolent. How had she ever survived the waterfall?

  “Are you all right?” came Talin’s voice from above. “Do you need help?”

  “No!” Aeolia squeaked. If he came to help, he’d only make the ladder swing. “I’m fine. I’ll be right up.”

  She opened her eyes to slits and climbed another rung, stubbornly stifling the thought of the distant ground. With every rung surmounted, the ropes creaked like coffin doors. Aeolia held on so hard her fingers turned raw. She felt her heart would stop beating. Nothing mattered now, not Lale, not Talin, only getting off that ladder. And as the closest end was now the top one, Aeolia climbed, biting her lip so hard it bled.