Prodigal - Book III

Secrets in the Hollow Stone

They are sock'em figurines, sharpening their edges on each other in the moonlight. Allayria practices very little with swords and clubs and knives and bows these days. Her exhaustion, her bone-deep weary comes from nighttime sparring consisting of pointing two fingers at a small face and whispering into it.

Her days are spent wrapped in preparation, plans, schemes, and devises hewn out of an absentee dynast's strange devices. When Dost showed her the sleek bolts and self-shooting bows she was intrigued; when the Beast-caller had presented the hulking, mechanical device that purportedly launched rock and stone into the air, Allayria was amazed.

"The trick of this—the real magic he's sent—is this," The Chieftainess had said then, and she pulled out a small, brown box.

Inside was shifting gray powder, like dust or fine gravel.

And then she set it on the ground and, from a distance, a Smith Skilling soldier set it on fire.

In Lei's eyes, Allayria saw the reflection of the explosion's golden glow and wonder; in Hiran's was alarm; and something deeper, unsettled, lurked in Ruben's.

The time for comfort is over.

They take their meals with the Chieftainess now—her and General Jin, and Marron. They sit, and talk, and laugh. The Chieftainess laughs a lot, Allayria learns. She makes Ruben laugh too. It's almost as if Vatra does not loom in the distance for them. As if it does not wait.

It's one of these nights when the woman recounts a journey off-land, to an island in the southernmost reaches of the world, and she talks about simians, creatures whose faces are on the edge of human, but are more limb than torso, teeth than nose.

"Cleverest little things," she tells them over a flagon of mead, the gray tendrils of her hair falling down across her face as Finn, eyes wide and luminous over his tea cup, follows her every word. "They swing from vines, pick locks, and jabber so much I started to think they could nearly talk."

"Oh, I would like one," Finn says, and some of the shadows beneath his eyes recede. "It could be my friend."

He half glances at Tara's bird when he says it, and the Chieftainess follows his gaze.

"You can't Skill a simian," Aren Dost scoffs, her brow half quirking in question, her own gaze flickering toward Ruben's for a half a moment. "They're far too intelligent to be called, kid. They won't cede control."

None of the four friends look at Finn, but Allayria sees them all stiffen and it's less that they're looking at Dost, and more that they're not looking at him.

It's Tara who breaks the moment, Tara who leans back, hand reaching out to lazily pat her hawk, and says: "Their minds are too strong to dominate, Finn... Just like people's."

The boy stares at her a moment, but he seems to understand enough not to say anything to the contrary, only murmuring into his cup: "But maybe I could talk to one."

Dost's laugh is quizzical, a bark of harsh surprise, and Hiran, ever quick, ever smooth, joins in with her and Ruben, leaning forward to slide, oh so deftly, another flagon their way. There's an indulgent look cast Finn's way by the older crowd, and when Tara asks another question their attention drifts away, mollified.

It's when they turn in for the evening, when the chairs scrape back on the dirt floor and Dost is slapping a hand on Ruben's back, talking animatedly with a worn-looking Jin, that Allayria sets a grip on Hiran's sleeve and he hangs back.

"Why's it always me?" he grouses as Lei, a pace ahead of them, glances back, his eyes flitting to both of them as he hesitates at the tent doorway.