“What are you doing, thief?” Kazimir asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I wanted to go see the shack but... I… I couldn’t.”
“You don’t carve your own path here.”
“I always do.”
Kazimir ground his teeth. “The Sanguine Lords must truly be angry to strand me here with such a fool.”
“The farm is just over there, beyond the town center,” the boy said, pointing.
He started running again, waving Whitney and Kazimir along.
They passed the Twilight Manor and a small oak whose leaves were turning that wasn’t so small the last time he’d seen it. Whitney’s was so distracted by the tree that he nearly plowed over the boy when he stopped in the middle of the courtyard.
“That’s the Twilight Manor,” he said. “Dad says it’s the porthole to Elsewhere and exile, and only rotten sinners go there.”
“Sounds like something my old man would have said too,” Whitney said to Kazimir. The upyr walked at a brisk pace behind them, refusing to run. He wore the jaded glare one does when being dragged to church on the turning of the moons. Like it was all too routine.
Whitney stole a glance to the sky. It returned to blood red, only now one of the moons peeked out from soft clouds. Whitney never paid much attention to the moons if he wasn’t forced to during Dawnings, but now, Celeste the bright moon was nowhere to be found. Loutis hung alone in the sky, haggard and skull-like, no light shining from it and barely able to be seen.
He didn’t even have a chance to ask about the moons before his gaze turned down and he noticed that the old Troborough Church of Iam stood in ruins across the plaza. The bit of stone around the altar remained standing along with half a statue of Iam’s Eye, but the rest of the place was burned down, charred. Whitney couldn’t remember a time when the church was in such disrepair except after the Shesaitju's razing. A blind priest sat, legs folded, before the ravaged altar. Only he too was different, with dark skin like a man from Glinthaven and not the old, white-haired priest Whitney remembered growing up.
“What happened to the church?” Whitney asked.
The boy slowed. “Not sure,” he said. “Burned down before I was born and the Crown hasn’t sent anyone to fix it.”
“Then where do you all… you know… pray?” Whitney recalled how many hours of his life he must have spent in sermons within that unimpressive building. He’d never cared for all the pomp and circumstance, but it was undoubtedly a big part of his childhood.
The boy stopped to observe him quizzically, tilting his head, but never answered the question. After a brief moment of silence passed between them, he said, “C’mon, my house is this way,” and continued down one of the roads.
“Even the creators of this place cannot abide prayer to the one who damned them here,” Kazimir said, catching up to him. “This is where you grew up, isn’t it?”
“How can you tell?”
“I hated where I grew up too.”
Kazimir passed by as well, leaving Whitney staring at the devastated church. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and followed, unable to take his eyes off the out-of-place priest. A cloth wrapped his blinded eyes, but he seemed to be looking straight at Whitney, through him.
Whitney turned away quickly and jogged to catch up to the boy. Something about the imposter was familiar, and it sent a very inhuman chill up Whitney’s spine.
Loutis still hung alone in the sky when their young guide led Whitney and Kazimir to a wooden fence surrounding farmland.
“Welcome to my home!” the boy announced. “I hope Ma made candied plums. Farmer Branson grows the best plums.”
Whitney’s legs stopped working. His mouth fell so wide he thought it might've soon touched the ground and filled with dirt.
“This is…” He couldn’t get the words out.
“You are dull as a wizard’s blade,” Kazimir said.
“You knew?”
“I told you this isn’t my first foray through this realm.”
“You, mighty assassin of the Dom Nohzi, have been to this town? My house? I—I mean, my parent’s house?”
“Elsewhere is different for every traveler, but nearly all the problems of men seem to stem from their homes, no matter how it looks, or who occupies it.”
Whitney’s home was exactly as he had remembered it—or how he’d chosen to forget it. He never even went to take a look when he’d returned to the Twilight Manor what seemed like ages ago and was challenged to steal the Glass Crown.
It was a simple farmhouse, wattle, and daub with a broad, thatched roof. Over the years, Whitney’s father had begun reinforcing the frame with long pieces of timber, and it looked like he was in the midst of repairing the roof. It might have been one of the nicer houses in Troborough, but that wasn’t saying much.
The boy ducked under the fence and waved to them. “Come along.”
“You—you live here?” Whitney asked.
The boy turned and grinned. Whitney felt the air flee his lungs.
“My name is Whitney,” the boy said without prompting. “Whitney Fierstown. I know, it’s a girl’s name. Ha, ha, very funny.” The boy stood staring, waiting eagerly for Whitney and Kazimir to respond to a joke Whitney knew too well. He’d spent his entire childhood getting ahead of the game before other children teased him first.
“My name is Kazimir,” Kazimir said. Whitney had no idea he could sound so polite. The boy offered a broader smile and nod of approval. Whitney couldn’t believe a child—himself—could look upon the pale upyr with his snow-white hair and dark, soulless eyes and not be gripped by terror.
The boy then turned to Whitney.
“I’m Whi—” Whitney began before Kazimir interrupted.
“Willis.”
“Yeah, Willis Blisslayer.” Whitney took a step, then had to grab hold of a fencepost to keep himself upright.
“Want to meet my parents?” Young Whitney asked. “I’m sure they’ll love company.”
“Doubtful…” Whitney said under his breath.
“Huh?” the boy said.
“Would love to,” he said, forcing a smile. He didn’t. In fact, he wanted to turn tail and run the other direction as fast as he could, but just as he had been led away from Wetzel’s shack, he was compelled toward his childhood home. His legs moved, seemingly disconnected from his thoughts.
They walked down the dirt path Whitney had walked a million times before. He hadn’t been there since the day he left at sixteen, but it all felt familiar—eerie even. A candle burned in what Whitney knew was the kitchen window. Several of them, in fact. He could remember how comforting that sight was every time he’d return after playing by the river with Sora or getting into trouble alone. His mother would be in there with a white smock covering her plump figure, probably pulling some kind of fruit pie from the oven, so it had time to cool before dinner was through.
He could smell the roast duck wafting through the window. Then, he heard something that reminded him of why he’d left in the first place.
“Iam's light, Lauryn, that’s gotta be a whole week’s worth of butter you used!” His father shouted, somewhere inside. “No wonder you keep growing.”
Again, Whitney stopped and swallowed hard. “Maybe we should find someplace else for the night? I always preferred the Twilight Manor.” He fought the urge to keep walking and finally spun around to leave, but the next time he blinked he found himself facing his childhood home again.
“Nonsense!” Young Whitney shouted. “Didn’t you hear that? Pie!” He licked his lips before running toward the house. When neither Whitney nor Kazimir moved to follow, the boy called back, “Lazy as you are ugly?” He laughed.
Kazimir grinned, and not the wicked sneer that made grown men shiver that Whitney was used to, but a mortal one, like he was delighted. “This will be fun,” Kazimir remarked.
“How do you figure that?” Whitney asked.
“You’re about to be as annoyed by you as th
e rest of us are.”
Whitney rolled his eyes and continued ahead, but then a thought crossed his mind that he wished would go away. “If this is Elsewhere... and you’re… how do you know you didn’t?”
“Because I’m here, in your Elsewhere.” Kazimir shoved by him; only Whitney didn’t go flying onto his rump. All that supernatural strength the upyr had displayed in Winde Port, he was now no stronger than all the countless drunks who’d nudged by Whitney over the years.
Up ahead, Young Whitney threw the front door open and cried out, “I’m home, and I’ve brought guests!”
“I hope it’s not that little knife-ear orphan!” his father shouted.
“Hush,” said the voice of a woman. Her finger was still over her lips as she rushed into the mudroom. She was large for a woman, and her messy apron couldn’t cover it. But her red cheeks and warm smile were sweet as spring after winter. She’d left work at a bakery in Yarrington to live with her husband and never looked back. Just like Whitney hadn’t when he left the farm behind, not even when he’d heard that a plague passed through Troborough’s water supply and claimed his parents' lives.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. “Did you have fun?”
“Did you get into more trouble this time?” his father questioned.
“No!” Young Whitney shouted defiantly.
Big Whitney knew precisely what that tone meant. He had gotten into trouble, and by the look on his face and the redness of his cheeks, it was pretty serious.
The boy’s father—Whitney’s father—stood in the doorway leading into the sitting room, two hundred pounds of muscle and a beard down to his heart. He looked the way he’d always looked, like he’d just worked the whole day. That’s all Rocco ever did, after all. From the moment the sun rose to well after it set, taking only the yearly Dawning off to relax. For all his work, they still lived in this shog house, in a shog town, just west of nothing but more shog.
Kazimir elbowed Whitney, and he realized he’d been making a face like he smelled the shog.
“Who’re these vagabonds?” Rocco asked.
“They’re not vagabonds, Pa,” Young Whitney said, then turned to Big Whitney and said, “Are you?” He smirked before Big Whitney could answer. “This is Willis and Kazimir,” he said. “I told them they could stay for dinner and then sleep in the barn.”
Rocco took a few lumbering steps toward the two. He got so close to their faces, Whitney could feel the whiskers tickling his skin.
“We look like an inn?” he asked.
“Nope, you’re right,” Whitney said. “We’ll head right down the road to the Twilight. It’ll only cost a few autlas.”
”Nonsense,” his mother said. “Rocco, you said it yourself, this is too much food for the three of us. Why don’t we let them stay? By now, the Twilight will be full of ruffians. Nobody these two fine gentlemen would want to deal with.”
Whitney thought his mother was about to receive a wallop, but instead, Rocco nodded and with a snort said, “Fine, Lauryn. They can work off their share on the farm first thing in the morning before they head off. Big harvest tomorrow.”
“Yippee!” shouted Young Whitney.
“Yippee, farm work,” Whitney whispered sarcastically to himself. He’d dedicated his entire life to escaping the tedium of farm work, and now, somehow, he was at risk of it again. He decided he’d play along with Elsewhere’s games, enjoy his mother’s cooking—which was one of very few good parts about Troborough—then slip out in the night to find a way out of… whatever this was.
“Better than spending autlas on room and board,” Rocco said.
Lauryn invited them to a too-small table in a cluttered kitchen where she had the feast laid out. Roast duck with fingerling potatoes and cabbage. It looked delicious.
Whitney stared at his mother, just as he’d remembered her. When she and his father passed from illness, he’d probably been across the world on some adventure. He wouldn’t have come back even if he’d known. He preferred never to see his dad again and wanted to remember his mother with some fondness. Truth was, he resented the woman for sitting by while his father did whatever he wanted, treated them both however he pleased, and slandered Sora and any other foreigner relentlessly. He was a nobody yet she let him act like he ruled Yarrington.
“Where you from, sirs?” Rocco said, shoveling a large, juicy bite of duck into his mouth.
Kazimir shot Whitney a look that said, "Think this through." He was glad for it too. He might have blurted Troborough out of reflex, and then who knows what mess would follow.
“Yarrington,” he said instead.
“Figured as much,” Rocco replied, mouth still full. “You don’t look like the type who've done a day’s work in a long time.” Lauryn kicked him under the table, but he ignored her and grinned. “We’ll fix that tomorrow, huh?”
Whitney held his tongue. “Yes. I suppose we will.”
“Pa, if they’re helping you, does that mean I don’t have to?” Young Whitney asked. His mouth was full of food as he talked as well, though when he did it, it wasn’t nearly as repulsive.
“What, so you can go play around with the knife-ear and the old codger who’dun took her in?” Rocco questioned.
“Not at the table Rocco,” Lauryn muttered under her breath.
“The war with her kind got your aunt and uncle killed, boy!” Young Whitney’s gaze snapped toward Rocco upon being scolded. For a moment, staring at the sad expression of his miniature doppelgänger, Whitney forgot which body he was in.
“If King Liam didn’t decree that we take in refugees,” Rocco went on, “she’d be on the streets wit—”
"You sure look awfully familiar, Willis," Lauryn said, cutting her husband off. "Have you been here before?"
After a pregnant pause, Whitney said, "No."
“Hm, guess you just have one of those faces. And where are you from?” Lauryn asked, turning to Kazimir. “I haven’t seen hair that white on a man your age in all my life.”
“The far north,” Kazimir said.
“You don’t look like a Drav Cra heathen,” Rocco remarked.
“Brekliodad.”
“Oh, how fun!” Lauryn said. “I’ve never met anyone from there. What brings you so far south?”
“Yeah, Kazimir old pal, what does bring you so far?” Whitney said.
“Work,” he answered.
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Rocco said. “It’s about time someone your age learned the meaning of hard work. Too many soft hands around these parts.”
Whitney wished his old man could experience Kazimir’s “work” firsthand. If he’d known what the upyr was, he’d be calling for the King’s Shield. Only they’d never bother coming to such a worthless town in the first place.
“Pfft,” Whitney said before he could stop himself.
“Excuse me?” Rocco’s glare could have shot icepicks.
“Sorry, had a stray hair on my lip.”
Young Whitney sniggered into his napkin.
“I see,” Rocco said, placing another bite of duck in his mouth, eyes fixated on Big Whitney.
“My dear, you haven’t touched your meal,” Lauryn said to Kazimir after a brief silence.
“I’m not hungry.” Kazimir regarded the food, his lip twitching with disgust. He pushed the plate away.
“I see.” Lauryn frowned. Her head tilted to the side, and she stared at him so intensely it looked like she was going to cry. Whitney didn’t remember her ever acting that way. “You should eat. I can make you something else.” Her head tilted the other way. “I can make you something else. I can make you something else.” She stood to go to the kitchen.
“This is fine.” Whitney grabbed a piece of duck and held it up to Kazimir’s face. “More than fine, right old friend? Nice, bloody duck meat for you.”
Kazimir snagged it. Just the smell had him looking like he was going to gag. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and dropped it into his mouth like he was eatin
g a worm, then he swallowed in a single gulp.
Whitney would have taken pleasure in how miserable Kazimir, the man who tried to kill him and drink Sora, appeared if his mother’s strange behavior wasn’t so unsettling. As soon as Kazimir had his bite, her head straightened, her smile returned, and she continued eating like nothing had happened. Neither Young Whitney nor Rocco even seemed to notice her repeating herself like Gold Grin Grisham’s parrot before Whitney accidentally set it free.
“Is it pie time?” Young Whitney asked after another long moment of silence.
“Not until you’re done,” Rocco said. “And even then, you’d better slow down before you end up a tub of lard like your mother.” He laughed a mirthless laugh and his mother chuckled awkwardly.
Big Whitney closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He felt a hand rest upon his thigh under the table and squeeze. When he opened his eyes, he saw Kazimir giving him another warning look.
His mother said nothing and Young Whitney stuffed his mouth with all his food. Then he opened his mouth and said, “Ah” for his father to see.
“Oh, yes,” Lauryn said. “Blueberry and lemongrass with flakes of ginger.” She looked at Young Whitney. “Some Panpingese merchants came through today with buckets of fresh ginger. Did Sora go see them?”
Big Whitney rolled his eyes. Typical. His parents figured every place on earth was as small and insignificant as Troborough. As if every Panpingese person in the world knew each other, even the ones who hadn't been since birth.
“Oh, yes,” Young Whitney said. “I believe that was Sora’s mother you bought that ginger from. Oh, wait. No. She’s dead. Maybe Uncle killed her?”
A fist landed hard on the wooden table, sending silverware and goblets soaring, their liquid contents covering the table and dripping onto the floor. The same fist reached out and grabbed Young Whitney’s ear.
“You want to get funny with your mother, I’ll make your ears look like that little wench’s,” Rocco said. “That what you want?”
He pulled so hard Big Whitney thought he might succeed in his threat. Without conscious thought, he grasped at his own ear.
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 77