Andrea Höst: Stained Glass Monsters

Somehow. Falk swarmed, as overrun as a harvest fair, and Rennyn shook her head at the mass of people buying, selling and gawping. It had been little more than a day: how had they assembled so quickly?

Attention was centred around a grassy area behind the main body of houses. It had been roped off, and was barely visible through the stalls and crowds lined up to pay for entry. This was not how Rennyn had pictured this day, but she decided that it was after all an advantage. Among so many, she was wholly unremarkable. It should be possible to hide her actions in plain sight.

Paying a coin, she left Cuddy to be watered and rubbed down while she waited in line. It was hot, a little past midday, and the press of folk made it seem hotter still. Rennyn adjusted her hat and gazed about at all the people come to see something strange and intriguing. Children who chattered or squabbled. Merchants bargaining over vegetables. Young couples, standing close together. A hired guard carefully cleaning his musket. She felt like she was on the other side of a pane of glass, as if she were in the world beside this one, and none of these people could see her.

Sternly, Rennyn forced herself to smile and look excited. Remember Great Grandfather, Seb had said. Remember the threat of violent death.

The people of Falk were charging a petthine to view their newly acquired curiosity, controlling the influx by only allowing groups of ten through at a time. Rennyn might have been annoyed by their greed if she did not have a reasonable idea of what the area would look like in a week’s time. They would need more money than this soon enough, so she paid over her petthine ungrudgingly, and gazed across a sward of daisy-studded grass to the centre of her existence.

"So lovely," murmured one of the women in the new group of sightseers.

It was true. The figure on the ground was much younger than Rennyn had pictured, but a semblance of youth was common where mages and magic were concerned. The face reminded her faintly of a cat, with those very curved lips and large, wide-set eyes. A white cat, sleek and pleased with itself, somehow imperious lying in that fan of carefully arranged hair. Rennyn had known about the white hair, but was still puzzled by it. Had the bleaching occurred during the casting, or was it some by-product of the woman’s long sojourn in the Eferum?

And so? Nearly sixty years of planning had led to this day. Niggling questions were no more useful than thinking too much about whether it was fear or anger knotting her stomach.

Her fellow sightseers were holding their hands into the circle of distortion, marvelling at the sudden weight. Rennyn tried it herself, recognising the sensation from her own transitions, though there was no true comparison. She glanced around at the crowds, the village beyond, relieved that there was sufficient space left empty, since there was no way to stop what would happen that night. What would she have done if the manifestation had been among the buildings? But – she forced herself to ignore all but the task. She had to focus on doing what she must.

Ignoring the others, she moved within reach of the woman’s left hand. The smallest finger was missing its tip, severed cleanly at the upper joint, the injury long ago healed. Rennyn frowned at this tiny, vital thing, but didn’t hesitate longer, curling her own finger to press against a pin threaded through her sleeve.

Dropping down to her heels, she held her hand into the circle again and allowed a bead of red to fall to that blunted tip. Then she waited, trembling with an effort of will. Blood to blood. They would call to each other. Almost anything else could not truly touch her, would be slowly shifted by the distortion to the edge of the circle. But – yes. This bright mote did not. With a sluggish shimmer it sank beneath flesh and was gone. Blood to blood.

Relieved beyond words, Rennyn stood away from the distortion, catching her breath. Done. Done without notice.

Businesslike, she moved to stand near the woman’s head, and reached into the pocket of her skirt to close her hand around cold crystal. Her left hand she held against her chest, as if still catching her breath, pressing the familiar shape of her own focus against bare skin. A tingle ran over her, and all the hair on her arms and neck stood up.

She could taste it, could almost see the forces which warped the air in front of her, through the figure on the ground to a vast space beyond. She had to lock her knees or fall, for the weight of the distortion swayed briefly to envelop her, to press the stone in her pocket hard into the flesh of the hand which circled it. Her vision blurred, and for the barest moment most of her was standing in a dark place outside the world, with a sketch of a village in the distance and a blaze of white in the shape of a woman at her feet.

An eye-blink was all that was needed. Rennyn let go of both stones with a sigh, and looked away as if bored with Falk’s new curiosity. Done. Done and done. It was time to head home.

"My eyes have come over queer, Danel," complained the man nearest her. "Let’s have lunch now."

A good plan. But Rennyn paused, surveying the patch of green around her one last time. A fortunate location, not in the heart of the village. Hedge to the south, buildings to the north, a tree shading a puddle-pond far to the east. Closest were the back gardens of a number of houses slicing southwest, some with fences, some without. A girl had gone into a small shed at the near corner of one of the lots. Beyond, where the house should be, was a collapsed tangle of charred timber, the remains of an old fire surrounded by an extensive and well-tended vegetable garden.

Chewing her lip, Rennyn left the circle and counted steps to the rear wall of the shed. Too close.

She could hear movement inside, and circled the rough building to look in the open door. A narrow bed, a shelf, a brazier, pots, pans, clothing. It was surprisingly neat and clean, and barely large enough to accommodate the wary girl who had turned to look up at her. A delicate and pretty child of fourteen or so: blonde hair raggedly cropped to short curls, a sharp little chin and very blue eyes. The straight, dark brows lowering above them declared their determined rejection.

"Can I help you?" the girl asked, careful politeness underlain with hostility.

"I – was told you’re available to run errands," Rennyn said, making some quick guesses. The child obviously lived here, and could probably use the coin.

"Sometimes," the girl said. She made a general gesture toward the busy crowds. "Not right now."

"Ah. Do you, then, know of anyone who would be available? It’s important to me – I can pay a sennith for half a day’s work."

That shifted her, rapid calculation flickering through blue eyes. However much money the village might be making at the moment, little of it would trickle down to the children set to handing out tickets or playing fetch and carry.

"What’s it involve?"

Good question. "I was to meet a friend in…Morebly." Rennyn lowered her eyes demurely. "My father does not approve, and it has taken much to arrange. But my family’s plans have changed, and, well – I must send word to him. The Gold Knight Hostelry. It just requires a note to be delivered before sunset, so he will not worry."

"Morebly," the girl said slowly. Two hours' walk away – easily done before dark, but not to return.

"I will add five petthine for your night’s accommodation. Will you do it?"

"I – yes. All right."

Rennyn smiled, projecting relief. "Thank you. It’s so important that he know where I’ve gone. You need only leave the note with the hosteller: he will ask if he has received any messages when he arrives. A moment."

She turned away, groping in the purse dangling from her wrist. There was a crumpled scrap of paper, fortunately. She had nothing prepared, but with her back turned she willed into existence a line of script, something suitably maudlin. It was even an advantage that the conjuring would fade in a day or two.