zion of arcadia
too much of my own quietness is with me
- Pronouns
- she/her
- Partners
-
Pick clean the bones of Pokémon caught in the sea or stream.
Thank them for the meals they provide, and pick their bones clean.
When the bones are as clean as can be, set them free in the water from which they came.
The Pokémon will return, fully fleshed, and it begins anew.
The magician arrived on the fifth day.
Some said there were only two types of stories: one where a person went on a journey, one where a stranger came to town. The town in question was called Cottonshire, closer to a provincial village, with sod houses and dark burrows tunneled into the cradle of the surrounding moors. When dawn had not yet quite touched the thick, dew-crystalled grass, and soft wind breathed through the heath and the harebells, the quiet slumber of dreamers beneath still earth could almost be felt, a subtle vibration.
The grass was baby blue in color, thick-rooted prairie grass. Once night fell, it would glow phosphorus like bioluminescent creatures hovering upon the surface tension of the sea. It was called The Plains That Never Slept, yet the grass was a blanket that beckoned and whispered: Lie in me. Open, slowly, to me, to a legion of blades made tender and supple-sweet. Forget your worries for a time.
Two pokémon were indulging in just that, on the outskirts of Cottonshire. They lounged about the curve of a gently sloping hill, briefly freed from trouble, the oft-taut lines of their frames slack. Beside them a brace of gutted turkeys hung swaying from a spit, blood creasing the cavity along their bellies as they air-dried in the light of dawn. A pouch full of heart, liver and gizzard had been tucked into the cool shade of shallow earth and rock piles, underneath the spit. Occasionally the two pokémon would glance over at the turkeys, assure themselves that none had been stolen, before returning to their repose.
They were a study in contrasts:
One was squat and leathery, skin the color of dusk. Burns decorated her muzzle, flaps of puckered scars conjoined upon a curiously shaped face, as though it had been squashed flat. In her lidded gray eyes gleamed moonflame, the tide pulled loose. On her back was an unstrung bow, forged from the antler of a twenty-tine spring sawsbuck. It was meticulously curled, layered, glued; bent and shaped and molded into the hybrid wood-bone composite bow. She puffed contentedly on a hawkbill pipe, smoke spirals curling upward where the blue dome of the heavens met the blue dome of the earth.
The other pokémon was a tall, slender humanoid figure of greens and whites. Their forearms had been replaced with iron prosthetics, curved blades painted red to match the spike in their chest. The gallade was focused on the marowak skull situated in their lap. Ink dripped off the tip of their right arm, and they traced long waves of dark red upon it, the waves accompanied by dotted patterns against the grain of the bone. They were entirely absorbed in their work, as though nothing existed beyond it. Just a gallade, an inkstained blade, a half-painted skull.
When they spoke, it was in a solemn contralto, eyes still fixated on their task: "Wanderer. Hark, strangers approach."
Wanderer the dusk-skinned marowak stirred. She had begun to doze, to drift and swoop in the seams of waking dreams, that inbetween where reality and fantasy blurred, became one, lulled by the serene dawn and the comfort of charcoal settling in her lungs—but now she heard the faint rattle of a loose wheel, heard distant calls from some unseen creature.
She straightened and belched, lowering the pipe with more than a tinge of regret. Smoke unfurled around her, dark and black and tar-like, the eyes of an otherworldly being—watching, ever watching—caught within the ash-stricken clouds, but she waved the smoke away and they were only a past flicker. Wanderer reached for the skull situated upon the gallade's lap. The gallade spoke:
"The mind treads incomplete paths. You are lost in the dark."
"Keep saying that, Sticks, and eventually you're gonna hurt my feelings."
Their name was Rowan, not Sticks, but they chose not to remark upon it. Wanderer took the skull and Rowan let her, reluctance obvious in the downward curve dominating their face. They were the sort to smile rarely but also rarely frown, facial expressions almost an unknown concept, reactions stilted and opaque as a result.
The skull molded to Wanderer's skin once she slipped it on, sealed off at the neck. It remembered always those who wore it. Memories were a house, bones the base, a ghost choir nestled in marrow's dense webwork. Legends, and rumors, myths forged from recollection—what was true, what was false—that she made of herself. And, even worse, of others. The skull of a lover lost, from which smatterings of stars in the crypts of kings rose, affixed with a plaque that read, TO FALL ON YOUR KNEES IS SURRENDER.
On the other side of the hill snaked a gravel trail, meandering its way toward Cottonshire. Wanderer and Rowan collected their spoils and crept around the ridge, settled low in the grass to observe these new arrivals. They did not wait long.
The carriage was a tottering amalgamation of scrap wood and patchwork linens. Pots and pans hung outside its frame, clanging like corrupted wind chimes, and a trailer attached to the back dragged along hunks of plated steel riveted together to form a cylinder. It was a hodgepodge collection of treasure and junk in equal measure, the peddler's hoard, and astride it all sat a clefable.
They had a portly shape and pleasant pastel coloration, the golden ring in their left ear yellow like a city lamp at night. But there was a solemnity to their black gaze, eyes narrowed in concentration as they poured over a manuscript while the drampa harnessed to their carriage worked against the strain. The drampa emitted the loud noises Wanderer and Rowan had heard earlier, labored pants and guffs that echoed ungainly through the elegant moors.
Their movements were equally inelegant, a sort of stumbling shuffle that caused the carriage to shudder and judder along the path, amplifying every bump, at constant risk of toppling over. And yet it never did, and the clefable showed no concern that it ever would, aside from reaching out to brace against the railing after a particularly ornery lurch. It also meant they moved at a rate some might generously describe as deliberate.
Wanderer, having determined the duo not a threat, stood and revealed herself. She ignored Rowan's muted dismay and slid down the ridge to wait before the oncoming carriage. The drampa spotted her first but reacted slowly, several full seconds required for the mind to comprehend what the eyes understood. He did stop, eventually, although Wanderer had to step backward several paces to avoid being trampled underfoot by the drampa's crawling cloud-shaped appendages.
"Ah, what's this? A helpful traveler? Or perhaps some vile ruffian, come to rob us of our wares?" asked the clefable, his voice light and smooth. It recalled the image of a struck bell, clear and pure in its peal of sound, rigid in its patterns. His gaze remained fixed on the manuscript.
"Helpful, I'd hope. Not many strangers come this way—are you lost?" Wanderer asked. "Call me Wanderer. This here is Rowan."
Rowan silently joined them, the brace of turkeys slung over their shoulder, attached to the joint of their arm with twine. The drampa shifted his doleful yellow eyes to gawk at the turkeys, a low whine coming from his throat.
"Don't be crass, Grimble!" called the clefable. "If I understand this map correctly, we're near civilization. No doubt we'll be able to resupply there."
"Sorry," Grimble rumbled, the bass of his voice a tremor deep in the sternum.
"Don't mention it. And it's true," Wanderer said. "Matter of fact, you're on top of it already. Welcome to Cottonshire."
"Indeed? Marvelous! Oh, but I forget myself. I'm Altair and this is Grimble. And Skygge is, ah, Skygge! Don't be shy, now! C'mon out and say hello!"
There was a faint prickle on Wanderer's skin. She tensed, as did Rowan, taken by surprise as a third presence revealed herself. Two angular red eyes and a broad grin emerged from the carriage's shadow, a swirling chiaroscuro miasma of ill intent, malice so overt it pierced them like an ice shard through the breast. Wanderer was already reaching for her bow and quiver, Rowan sliding into an aggressive stance, when the presence vanished—gone as swiftly as it came.
"Ah, well. Skygge is an excellent bodyguard, but her skills as a conversationalist leave much to be desired," Altair said, unperturbed.
Wanderer and Rowan looked at each other, wary. Grimble the drampa continued to watch them, thick brows lifted in surprise and a vague sort of amusement, the sort he seemed to want to invite them to share. It was such an open, earnest expression that both Wanderer and Rowan relaxed, set at ease. Altair continued to prattle on, oblivious to the exchange.
"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, I don't suppose you could lead us to the appropriate entrance? We've journeyed long and far, and could use food, rest, shelter, new company. Good company! That's very important."
Wanderer thought about it. Then she shrugged.
"Yeah, sure. No problem." The pouch full of organs was tied around her waist; she removed a piece of liver, slimy and glistening salmon colored in the morning light, and held it up. "Here. A gift, goodwill, if you wish."
Grimble fixated on the liver as soon as it emerged from the pouch, large nostrils flaring at its pungent scent. He started to nod, paused, then twisted his long, serpentine neck to glance back at Altair. Altair was focused once more on his manuscript, but waved a claw flippantly in acceptance.
"Good, good. Do as you like. And if you want a lift, you're more than welcome to it. Your friend is a tad large though, will probably have to ride in the back."
"I can walk," Rowan said.
Meanwhile, Wanderer tossed the liver at Grimble. He watched it smack the bridge of his snout and fall to ground, round pink eyes glimmering. Then, after careful consideration, Grimble lowered his head and snarfed up the liver, noisily chewing and gnashing and grumbling his contentment. Specks of spittle flew from Grimble's maw, catching in his beard and upon anyone in a nearby radius. Wanderer decided to retreat and take Altair up on his offer.
She circled around to the carriage's broadside, which had a step leading to its interior. However, the interior was crammed full of an assortment of useless trinkets. Wanderer could make out the silhouette of a sundial propped at an awkward angle and what seemed to be half of a couch, alongside various knicknacks, before she neatly pivoted to haul herself up to the driver's seat, a hardwood bench, alongside Altair. Huffing and puffing, she settled down left of him, taking out her hawkbill pipe and inhaling more charcoal.
Altair clicked his tongue and, after several seconds, Grimble jolted forward. Their stately pace meant Rowan barely had to break stride to remain even alongside the group, a solemn sentinel, their wine-red eyes fixed on the horizon, ever onward. If Wanderer concentrated, she could catch a dim awareness of Skygge, hidden malevolent in the shade of creation.
"Bit unusual to have a pokémon do grunt work for you," Wanderer commented, needing a distraction. "You couldn't have just bought a couple beasties or something?"
"Have you heard the story of a magikarp who swam alongside a goldfish? When he looked the goldfish in the eye, do you know what he saw reflected back at him?"
Wander had in fact heard the story before. "Nothing."
"Very good." Altair giggled, another bright peal, and peered at her with the lower half of his face masked by the manuscript. "The real reason, though, is that an animal would not answer my questions. I do so love to have questions answered. Isn't that right, Grimble?"
"Mmhmm." Grimble was still chewing on the liver, regurgitating it like cud and then swallowing again, only to spit it back up. After a moment he spoke, words muffled: "The pay is good."
"That too!"
"I see. You'll be disappointed if you've come to Cottonshire for some sort of symposium, you know."
Altair laughed again. "Well, aren't you well-informed? But not to worry, it's nothing so stuffy. I care about magic. What's an unusual marowak like yourself doing out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway?"
Wanderer yawned. The sun was rising higher in the sky and she was beginning to drowse again. "Name says it all, really. But I've been here before, a long time ago. It was different then. There were mienfoo, an elderly mienshao: Luang, He that Slew Buluramba the Terrible, the Great Red Gyarados. I met him in the twilight of his life, and he chose not to dwindle."
That's a lie. Rowan's voice in their heads was deeper, more overtly masculine. Both started with surprise.
"And that is rude," Wanderer said once she recovered. "Besides, some of it is true. The parts that matter."
Rowan continued to stride forward, taking the right path as they came to a fork in the road, the turkeys swaying over their shoulder. The eyes of the dead birds stared vacantly back at the carriage. Grimble followed Rowan without comment.
"What an odd fellow."
"They," Wanderer said, stressing the word, "are a good, loyal friend. We've been out hunting most of the night and Rowan is tired. As am I."
Altair's mouth remained hidden by the manuscript, but she had the sense he was smiling, lilting toward a smirk. However, he said nothing in response. Wanderer blew out a smoke ring and watched it spiral up into the clear blue sky. It wavered then dissipated, naught but traces of the scent of faded charcoal left behind. They continued on their way.
Softly rolling hills became smaller, more misshapen, flat-topped and shaggy with straw. Dark mouths into them faced outward, toward the road, the occasional bright gleam of myriad eyes seen from within. Dandelions sprouted atop the blue roofs of the sod homes, yellow dollops upturned toward the sun. They would soon whiten and scatter; young eldegoss and whimsicott would drift with the seeds like windswept snow, to leave Cottonshire—seek new sights, new sounds, new smells, new worlds. Locals called it the summer blizzard.
The path before them opened, marked by a stone tablet inscribed with footprint symbols. It meant, roughly: WELCOME TO THE CENTER OF COTTONSHIRE. The space plateaued, broadened and flattened, surrounded by more densely clustered sod houses built into the surrounding hills.
They had entered the town square. A leavanny was already outside his home, weaving silk and cotton together on a loom, the hybrid textile a Cottonshire staple, his green leaf-shaped limbs plucking at the loom much like a musician might pluck an instrument. He nodded at Rowan as they strode past—who offered a stiff salute in return—his inquisitive gaze locked on the carriage and its newcomers.
Wanderer pointed at him. "That's Chester. Might as well be in charge. Any questions you have, he can answer."
"Oh, most excellent! Did you hear that, Grimble? You can stop now!" Altair folded his manuscript into a square, precise in how he lined the edges perfectly together, the creases pinched together by two of the three fingers on his left hand. He tucked it into the bag cinched around his broad pink belly.
They were already past Chester when Grimble decided to halt, even further when he actually halted. Then he awkwardly tried to back up, the entire apparatus groaning protest, only to be assured by both Altair and Wanderer that no, truly, that was unnecessary, they could walk the rest of the way. At least Grimble had finished the liver.
Wanderer yawned again, skull helmet split in two to reveal a dark mouth and pink tongue. Small, neat fangs poked out from under the curve of bone. She leaned over the carriage's edge to call out, "Oi, Sticks! I'm gonna hit the hay. Want me to bring the game to Brekken first?"
"I'll take care of it. Rest well, Wanderer." Rowan was already striding away, toward the orange glow of a hearth on the opposite end of the town square.
While dismounting from the carriage, one of the steps loosened and Wanderer lost her footing. She fell to the ground with a heavy thump and lay there, winded, then pushed herself upright, muttering curses under her breath. Altair lightly skipped down to join her, almost seeming to float upon the air. He tutted.
"Oh dear. Are you all right?"
"Just pechy." But she took his outstretched hand and let him haul her back on her feet. Wanderer dusted herself off, checking her bow remained in pristine condition—it had survived the tumble without a scratch, though her tail ached with a bone-deep weariness—then nodded curtly at Altair. "Later."
"Sweet dreams!"
Altair was already turning away to assist Grimble with his harness. Wanderer took in the strange sight one last time, the dragon and his fairy retainer, the carriage and the curious cargo it brought with it, inscrutable, then began to walk home. Her abode was far from the town square, almost on its outskirts; a lone vacant sod hut shared between her and Rowan, they were welcome to it provided they pitched in around town as needed.
The interior was warm and dim, smelling of dried soil. Wanderer headed further inside, shying from the light spilling through the entrance, to where her nest awaited her. First, Wanderer took off the bow and quiver, carefully set them aside. Next, the bone helmet was removed, placed beside the hay bed. Finally, one of the turkey hearts was withdrawn from the pouch.
Wanderer buried the pouch again in the shallow earth. She settled into bed, curled in a thatch of hay around her food, an organ the size of a walnut that she worried at, as though nursing a secret. It tasted rich and thick and gamey and she swallowed the rest whole, propriety forgotten. Sounds of gnashing and squelching filled the darkness—briefly, Wanderer too became a wild thing.
Wanderer awoke from a dream where flower buds burst out hollowed skulls, winding through cracks of anguished marrow to seize and clutch and penetrate. The ague of the skeleton, secrets caught between dried ribs. She framed them as a portrait, carried them out to rest in the shade of the mountain range.
She was not alone. A jagged crescent smile peered through the darkness, ivory piano keys stripped of music. The gengar was here. Wanderer fumbled for her helmet and jammed it on, wary. With it came a sense of stability, of emotions filtered and brought under control.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I know what you are." Skygge spoke the language of spirits, those that had glimpsed beyond, voice sibilant like sand falling down a flight of concrete stairs. "You are the Eternal Flame, the dusk-skinned marowak that stole a chandelure's wick. Incapable of death, a vagabond cursed to roam the countryside for all eternity. I know you."
"If only you knew your manners half as well." Wanderer reached for her bow now. A blanket slid from her shoulders, undoubtedly placed there by Rowan. "Did no one teach you not to barge into rooms while ladies are sleeping?"
Skygge's form was almost indistinguishable from the night, despite the phosphorescent echo at the entrance. She was but a burning pair of eyes and a looming grin. Wanderer was tumbling down into that grin—dropping through a soundless tunnel toward the Graveyard, a pit of sorrow and buried memories. Skygge would have let her fall, she realized, down and down toward poisonous muck and tapeworms. No one could have been more disinterested; no one could have been more alien, alien to the core.
Then Skygge spoke again, or rather laughed, and the spell broke. She broke it not out of kindness, but because of her cold pleasure in knowing what she knew about Wanderer. Skygge saw the cracks in her bone helmet, saw the regrets that festered like dust and lice there.
Skygge chuckled, low and hoarse. She said, "Altair knows more than he says. It may be of interest to you."
Wanderer paused in the act of stringing her bow. A blink, and Skygge was gone; Wanderer was alone once more.
"Fucking ghosts," she muttered.
After several fruitless minutes spent searching for her hawkbill pipe, Wanderer gave up and headed outside. It was evening, the sun set, moon and stars peeking in and out behind sullen clouds. The air tasted thick with the promise of rain and the hills were alive with lights, as though the aurora borealis had been brought down to mantle the earth.
Wanderer held out a hand, absentminded, aquamarine light flecked with purple reflecting patterns on her leathery skin. It was almost like being underwater, distorted rays of the sun streaming through from above. Twin motes of blue flame came to life in her palm, warm and smooth there, and rose upward in slow revolutions. Every so often, the glimpses of whimsy and wonder in the aftermath of darkness caught Wanderer off guard.
She turned away with a sigh and made the trek back to the village center. Pokémon were resting atop their homes, watching the stars; when Wanderer reached her destination, they were instead watching Altair. A small crowd gathered around him, most of them hatchlings, primarily sewaddle and cottonee and gossifleur, but also pichu and rattata and even a machop. They were small enough that Wanderer could easily see the clefable over them.
Altair's carriage, once full of enigmatic mystery, had been emptied and, strangely, diminished as a result. It seemed bereft now, ramshackle nature harder to ignore, the cylindrical steel rising behind it like a smokestack. Altair stood beside his sundial and held a familiar hawkbill pipe in one hand, drawing voluminous streamers of brightly colored silk out of it with the other. The hatchlings ooh'd and aah'd, excited, their excitement louder the longer Altair drew from the pipe. He giggled at their reactions, obviously delighted, then caught sight of Wanderer and winked.
Annoyed, Wanderer pushed through the hatchlings to the forefront. Some began to protest, recognized Wanderer, and wisely changed their minds and held their tongues. She stood before Altair, arms folded. He finished drawing the silk from the pipe and looped it around his head like a headscarf, smiling serenely. As Altair approached, he took a gold coin of poké from behind where the skull covered her left horn and showed it to everyone. They laughed; Wanderer huffed.
"We need to talk."
"Hmm. Well, it has been fun, young ones, but now our time has ended. Yet only for the moment is parting such sweet sorrow! So long, fair thee well," Altair declared, words punctuated by an elaborate bow.
There was protest and milling about from the hatchlings, but the parents in the crowd managed to usher their attention away like a stream diverted. Altair walked over to the trailer and hopped up to sit on it, stubby legs dangling over the ledge. The lights from the hills cast the metal cylinder in a strange green pallor akin to rust. Wanderer followed Altair, slower. Cautious.
"Where's Grimble?"
"Hmm?" Altair twirled Wanderer's hawkbill pipe between his fingers. The silk sash sagged and slid down his back, snagged on those strange wing-shaped ridges of his. "Ah. He retired early. It has been a difficult journey."
He left the sentence hanging, almost a question that Wanderer chose not to oblige. Instead, she said, "That's not yours."
"Very perceptive! You dropped it when you fell. I would've returned it sooner, but, well, you rather left in a hurry." Altair extended his hand, the stem of the pipe facing her, then flipped it at the last second. "A favor for a favor, no?"
Wanderer considered him silently. After a moment, she leaned forward and snapped two digits above the pipe's bowl. A small blue flame flickered to life and smoldered within; Altair brought the pipe to his mouth and puffed on it for a time. Wanderer waited, always waiting. When Altair blew out smoke it bore closer resemblance to pink mist, strange shifting images of mad dancing creatures half-seen within. He returned the pipe to Wanderer.
"Your bodyguard made an unwarranted house call," she said, finally, taking a pull herself. There was a lingering sweet aftertaste to the charcoal now.
"Skygge? That's not like her. You aren't dangerous, are you?"
"Very. The little ones tremble in my wake."
Altair giggled. "So I've seen. I can speak to Skygge, but she is who she is."
"She also implied there's more to this trip than meets the eye."
"I don't know about that. I have always been passing through; I simply have not shared my ultimate destination."
"And do you have any interest in sharing?"
"Perhaps. But there's a cost."
Wanderer gave the pipe back to Altair. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something cloying, perhaps saccharine, maybe even fermented. A wine no one had a name for anymore. Eventually, Altair spoke:
"I met a traveler in Steelmont. He was half-rabid and forced to panhandle on the streets. Not a bad chap for the most part, prone to fits of violence at inconvenient moments, but—he loved watching me perform magic. And I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the recovered rabid. Perhaps it's in my blood. Regardless, we struck up a friendship and would regularly partake in a pint of berry juice together. One day, he told me how he came about his misfortune.
"There was a wealthy gardevoir with two sons, full of promise. They lived in a castle, a castle said to be built by humans eons ago, on a cliff by a lake. But his youngest disappeared on the Turning of the Eve, and his eldest found him in the hillside, where the rabid horde gathered before an altar to sing profane mockeries of life. There the youngest was being initiated into some vulgar ritual. The elder ralts rescued his brother at the cost of his own life, for they slew him and then cursed the younger ralts. And the youngest fled, and joined a monastery, only to return home many years later when his father fell gravely ill.
"It was several days before the father's hatchday, and his son was asked to sing at the celebration. Reluctantly, the son agreed, but on the condition that the doors to the main hall be shut throughout the entire performance. The next morning the frail old gardevoir was brought to the throne where humans once sat, while his son the kirlia stood before him and sang beautifully.
"Understand this: in the eternal beauty that dreamed in honied air nothing stirred or faded or died, nothing sought its happiness in movement or change or newness but had its ecstasy in the perpetual contemplation of all the beauty that had ever been. Thus was his song, the song of the mystery dungeon. At the end of the performance, the son turned from the throne and looked out at the crowd to pronounce the benediction.
"When he did, the doors burst open so that all looked out the open doorway only to see the hill, the mysterious hill, standing open and facing the castle. Inside waited the rabid horde lit by lamps, parted in two rows that led to the altar. When those in the crowd turned back toward the dais, the father had fallen down dead, his son now a gardevoir. He walked through the crowd to the hill and the hill engulfed the castle. Beware, beware the hills that move."
Neither spoke for a while. The night deepened and most pokémon of Cottonshire retreated into their homes. Some pulled stones in front of the entrances to block out the lights, others had the luxury of wooden doors, still others had nothing at all and chose instead to sleep as far as possible from the entrance, much like Wanderer had done.
She had heard whispers similar to what Altair told her. Of a castle in a shifting cavern, of an entire town lost due to the hubris of their leader. But much of Altair's tale was different, and that excited her. Few matters captured her attention quite like newness. It also made her suspicious, because the capacity for newness meant the potential for manifold lies.
"Mystery dungeons aren't like that," Wanderer said.
"They are not. And yet if it's true, it should be known. That's why I wish to seek him out. My friend said the son has kept much of his wits and rules over the rabids even now."
"Impossible."
"Who's to say?" The clefable shrugged. "As a magician, I believe it is my duty to seek out answers to impossible questions wherever and whenever I can. And thus, once more into the night we go. Sally ho!"
He laughed and leaned back, pressed an affectionate hand against the steel plate. When he drew away, faint burn marks could be seen marring the center of his palm. Wanderer almost asked Altair about it but then decided that was a story for another day.
"And you intend to seek it out, then?"
"I do indeed. I was given instructions on how to find it."
"Would you perhaps be willing to take on another bodyguard or two?"
Once, she might have agonized over the decision for days. Those days were decades behind her now. Whenever Wanderer saw an opportunity, her immediate reaction was to grasp at it and hold fast.
"Perhaps." Altair had another one of those vaguely irksome partial-smiles playing at the corners of his mouth. There was a deceptiveness to him, a canny brilliance lurking below the surface of placidity. "But we can discuss logistics further in the morning. It's late and I, too, must eventually tire. And the wonderful Chester has been most accommodating! I would hate to put him up anymore than I already have."
"Fair enough," she said.
Altair jumped off the trailer and floated to the ground, turned from her. The silk fluttered between his wing-ridges like a veil. Wanderer called out, "Although… whatever happened to your friend?"
Altair paused, then shrugged, still turned from her.
"He passed on. So it goes."
Thank them for the meals they provide, and pick their bones clean.
When the bones are as clean as can be, set them free in the water from which they came.
The Pokémon will return, fully fleshed, and it begins anew.
The magician arrived on the fifth day.
Some said there were only two types of stories: one where a person went on a journey, one where a stranger came to town. The town in question was called Cottonshire, closer to a provincial village, with sod houses and dark burrows tunneled into the cradle of the surrounding moors. When dawn had not yet quite touched the thick, dew-crystalled grass, and soft wind breathed through the heath and the harebells, the quiet slumber of dreamers beneath still earth could almost be felt, a subtle vibration.
The grass was baby blue in color, thick-rooted prairie grass. Once night fell, it would glow phosphorus like bioluminescent creatures hovering upon the surface tension of the sea. It was called The Plains That Never Slept, yet the grass was a blanket that beckoned and whispered: Lie in me. Open, slowly, to me, to a legion of blades made tender and supple-sweet. Forget your worries for a time.
Two pokémon were indulging in just that, on the outskirts of Cottonshire. They lounged about the curve of a gently sloping hill, briefly freed from trouble, the oft-taut lines of their frames slack. Beside them a brace of gutted turkeys hung swaying from a spit, blood creasing the cavity along their bellies as they air-dried in the light of dawn. A pouch full of heart, liver and gizzard had been tucked into the cool shade of shallow earth and rock piles, underneath the spit. Occasionally the two pokémon would glance over at the turkeys, assure themselves that none had been stolen, before returning to their repose.
They were a study in contrasts:
One was squat and leathery, skin the color of dusk. Burns decorated her muzzle, flaps of puckered scars conjoined upon a curiously shaped face, as though it had been squashed flat. In her lidded gray eyes gleamed moonflame, the tide pulled loose. On her back was an unstrung bow, forged from the antler of a twenty-tine spring sawsbuck. It was meticulously curled, layered, glued; bent and shaped and molded into the hybrid wood-bone composite bow. She puffed contentedly on a hawkbill pipe, smoke spirals curling upward where the blue dome of the heavens met the blue dome of the earth.
The other pokémon was a tall, slender humanoid figure of greens and whites. Their forearms had been replaced with iron prosthetics, curved blades painted red to match the spike in their chest. The gallade was focused on the marowak skull situated in their lap. Ink dripped off the tip of their right arm, and they traced long waves of dark red upon it, the waves accompanied by dotted patterns against the grain of the bone. They were entirely absorbed in their work, as though nothing existed beyond it. Just a gallade, an inkstained blade, a half-painted skull.
When they spoke, it was in a solemn contralto, eyes still fixated on their task: "Wanderer. Hark, strangers approach."
Wanderer the dusk-skinned marowak stirred. She had begun to doze, to drift and swoop in the seams of waking dreams, that inbetween where reality and fantasy blurred, became one, lulled by the serene dawn and the comfort of charcoal settling in her lungs—but now she heard the faint rattle of a loose wheel, heard distant calls from some unseen creature.
She straightened and belched, lowering the pipe with more than a tinge of regret. Smoke unfurled around her, dark and black and tar-like, the eyes of an otherworldly being—watching, ever watching—caught within the ash-stricken clouds, but she waved the smoke away and they were only a past flicker. Wanderer reached for the skull situated upon the gallade's lap. The gallade spoke:
"The mind treads incomplete paths. You are lost in the dark."
"Keep saying that, Sticks, and eventually you're gonna hurt my feelings."
Their name was Rowan, not Sticks, but they chose not to remark upon it. Wanderer took the skull and Rowan let her, reluctance obvious in the downward curve dominating their face. They were the sort to smile rarely but also rarely frown, facial expressions almost an unknown concept, reactions stilted and opaque as a result.
The skull molded to Wanderer's skin once she slipped it on, sealed off at the neck. It remembered always those who wore it. Memories were a house, bones the base, a ghost choir nestled in marrow's dense webwork. Legends, and rumors, myths forged from recollection—what was true, what was false—that she made of herself. And, even worse, of others. The skull of a lover lost, from which smatterings of stars in the crypts of kings rose, affixed with a plaque that read, TO FALL ON YOUR KNEES IS SURRENDER.
On the other side of the hill snaked a gravel trail, meandering its way toward Cottonshire. Wanderer and Rowan collected their spoils and crept around the ridge, settled low in the grass to observe these new arrivals. They did not wait long.
The carriage was a tottering amalgamation of scrap wood and patchwork linens. Pots and pans hung outside its frame, clanging like corrupted wind chimes, and a trailer attached to the back dragged along hunks of plated steel riveted together to form a cylinder. It was a hodgepodge collection of treasure and junk in equal measure, the peddler's hoard, and astride it all sat a clefable.
They had a portly shape and pleasant pastel coloration, the golden ring in their left ear yellow like a city lamp at night. But there was a solemnity to their black gaze, eyes narrowed in concentration as they poured over a manuscript while the drampa harnessed to their carriage worked against the strain. The drampa emitted the loud noises Wanderer and Rowan had heard earlier, labored pants and guffs that echoed ungainly through the elegant moors.
Their movements were equally inelegant, a sort of stumbling shuffle that caused the carriage to shudder and judder along the path, amplifying every bump, at constant risk of toppling over. And yet it never did, and the clefable showed no concern that it ever would, aside from reaching out to brace against the railing after a particularly ornery lurch. It also meant they moved at a rate some might generously describe as deliberate.
Wanderer, having determined the duo not a threat, stood and revealed herself. She ignored Rowan's muted dismay and slid down the ridge to wait before the oncoming carriage. The drampa spotted her first but reacted slowly, several full seconds required for the mind to comprehend what the eyes understood. He did stop, eventually, although Wanderer had to step backward several paces to avoid being trampled underfoot by the drampa's crawling cloud-shaped appendages.
"Ah, what's this? A helpful traveler? Or perhaps some vile ruffian, come to rob us of our wares?" asked the clefable, his voice light and smooth. It recalled the image of a struck bell, clear and pure in its peal of sound, rigid in its patterns. His gaze remained fixed on the manuscript.
"Helpful, I'd hope. Not many strangers come this way—are you lost?" Wanderer asked. "Call me Wanderer. This here is Rowan."
Rowan silently joined them, the brace of turkeys slung over their shoulder, attached to the joint of their arm with twine. The drampa shifted his doleful yellow eyes to gawk at the turkeys, a low whine coming from his throat.
"Don't be crass, Grimble!" called the clefable. "If I understand this map correctly, we're near civilization. No doubt we'll be able to resupply there."
"Sorry," Grimble rumbled, the bass of his voice a tremor deep in the sternum.
"Don't mention it. And it's true," Wanderer said. "Matter of fact, you're on top of it already. Welcome to Cottonshire."
"Indeed? Marvelous! Oh, but I forget myself. I'm Altair and this is Grimble. And Skygge is, ah, Skygge! Don't be shy, now! C'mon out and say hello!"
There was a faint prickle on Wanderer's skin. She tensed, as did Rowan, taken by surprise as a third presence revealed herself. Two angular red eyes and a broad grin emerged from the carriage's shadow, a swirling chiaroscuro miasma of ill intent, malice so overt it pierced them like an ice shard through the breast. Wanderer was already reaching for her bow and quiver, Rowan sliding into an aggressive stance, when the presence vanished—gone as swiftly as it came.
"Ah, well. Skygge is an excellent bodyguard, but her skills as a conversationalist leave much to be desired," Altair said, unperturbed.
Wanderer and Rowan looked at each other, wary. Grimble the drampa continued to watch them, thick brows lifted in surprise and a vague sort of amusement, the sort he seemed to want to invite them to share. It was such an open, earnest expression that both Wanderer and Rowan relaxed, set at ease. Altair continued to prattle on, oblivious to the exchange.
"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, I don't suppose you could lead us to the appropriate entrance? We've journeyed long and far, and could use food, rest, shelter, new company. Good company! That's very important."
Wanderer thought about it. Then she shrugged.
"Yeah, sure. No problem." The pouch full of organs was tied around her waist; she removed a piece of liver, slimy and glistening salmon colored in the morning light, and held it up. "Here. A gift, goodwill, if you wish."
Grimble fixated on the liver as soon as it emerged from the pouch, large nostrils flaring at its pungent scent. He started to nod, paused, then twisted his long, serpentine neck to glance back at Altair. Altair was focused once more on his manuscript, but waved a claw flippantly in acceptance.
"Good, good. Do as you like. And if you want a lift, you're more than welcome to it. Your friend is a tad large though, will probably have to ride in the back."
"I can walk," Rowan said.
Meanwhile, Wanderer tossed the liver at Grimble. He watched it smack the bridge of his snout and fall to ground, round pink eyes glimmering. Then, after careful consideration, Grimble lowered his head and snarfed up the liver, noisily chewing and gnashing and grumbling his contentment. Specks of spittle flew from Grimble's maw, catching in his beard and upon anyone in a nearby radius. Wanderer decided to retreat and take Altair up on his offer.
She circled around to the carriage's broadside, which had a step leading to its interior. However, the interior was crammed full of an assortment of useless trinkets. Wanderer could make out the silhouette of a sundial propped at an awkward angle and what seemed to be half of a couch, alongside various knicknacks, before she neatly pivoted to haul herself up to the driver's seat, a hardwood bench, alongside Altair. Huffing and puffing, she settled down left of him, taking out her hawkbill pipe and inhaling more charcoal.
Altair clicked his tongue and, after several seconds, Grimble jolted forward. Their stately pace meant Rowan barely had to break stride to remain even alongside the group, a solemn sentinel, their wine-red eyes fixed on the horizon, ever onward. If Wanderer concentrated, she could catch a dim awareness of Skygge, hidden malevolent in the shade of creation.
"Bit unusual to have a pokémon do grunt work for you," Wanderer commented, needing a distraction. "You couldn't have just bought a couple beasties or something?"
"Have you heard the story of a magikarp who swam alongside a goldfish? When he looked the goldfish in the eye, do you know what he saw reflected back at him?"
Wander had in fact heard the story before. "Nothing."
"Very good." Altair giggled, another bright peal, and peered at her with the lower half of his face masked by the manuscript. "The real reason, though, is that an animal would not answer my questions. I do so love to have questions answered. Isn't that right, Grimble?"
"Mmhmm." Grimble was still chewing on the liver, regurgitating it like cud and then swallowing again, only to spit it back up. After a moment he spoke, words muffled: "The pay is good."
"That too!"
"I see. You'll be disappointed if you've come to Cottonshire for some sort of symposium, you know."
Altair laughed again. "Well, aren't you well-informed? But not to worry, it's nothing so stuffy. I care about magic. What's an unusual marowak like yourself doing out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway?"
Wanderer yawned. The sun was rising higher in the sky and she was beginning to drowse again. "Name says it all, really. But I've been here before, a long time ago. It was different then. There were mienfoo, an elderly mienshao: Luang, He that Slew Buluramba the Terrible, the Great Red Gyarados. I met him in the twilight of his life, and he chose not to dwindle."
That's a lie. Rowan's voice in their heads was deeper, more overtly masculine. Both started with surprise.
"And that is rude," Wanderer said once she recovered. "Besides, some of it is true. The parts that matter."
Rowan continued to stride forward, taking the right path as they came to a fork in the road, the turkeys swaying over their shoulder. The eyes of the dead birds stared vacantly back at the carriage. Grimble followed Rowan without comment.
"What an odd fellow."
"They," Wanderer said, stressing the word, "are a good, loyal friend. We've been out hunting most of the night and Rowan is tired. As am I."
Altair's mouth remained hidden by the manuscript, but she had the sense he was smiling, lilting toward a smirk. However, he said nothing in response. Wanderer blew out a smoke ring and watched it spiral up into the clear blue sky. It wavered then dissipated, naught but traces of the scent of faded charcoal left behind. They continued on their way.
Softly rolling hills became smaller, more misshapen, flat-topped and shaggy with straw. Dark mouths into them faced outward, toward the road, the occasional bright gleam of myriad eyes seen from within. Dandelions sprouted atop the blue roofs of the sod homes, yellow dollops upturned toward the sun. They would soon whiten and scatter; young eldegoss and whimsicott would drift with the seeds like windswept snow, to leave Cottonshire—seek new sights, new sounds, new smells, new worlds. Locals called it the summer blizzard.
The path before them opened, marked by a stone tablet inscribed with footprint symbols. It meant, roughly: WELCOME TO THE CENTER OF COTTONSHIRE. The space plateaued, broadened and flattened, surrounded by more densely clustered sod houses built into the surrounding hills.
They had entered the town square. A leavanny was already outside his home, weaving silk and cotton together on a loom, the hybrid textile a Cottonshire staple, his green leaf-shaped limbs plucking at the loom much like a musician might pluck an instrument. He nodded at Rowan as they strode past—who offered a stiff salute in return—his inquisitive gaze locked on the carriage and its newcomers.
Wanderer pointed at him. "That's Chester. Might as well be in charge. Any questions you have, he can answer."
"Oh, most excellent! Did you hear that, Grimble? You can stop now!" Altair folded his manuscript into a square, precise in how he lined the edges perfectly together, the creases pinched together by two of the three fingers on his left hand. He tucked it into the bag cinched around his broad pink belly.
They were already past Chester when Grimble decided to halt, even further when he actually halted. Then he awkwardly tried to back up, the entire apparatus groaning protest, only to be assured by both Altair and Wanderer that no, truly, that was unnecessary, they could walk the rest of the way. At least Grimble had finished the liver.
Wanderer yawned again, skull helmet split in two to reveal a dark mouth and pink tongue. Small, neat fangs poked out from under the curve of bone. She leaned over the carriage's edge to call out, "Oi, Sticks! I'm gonna hit the hay. Want me to bring the game to Brekken first?"
"I'll take care of it. Rest well, Wanderer." Rowan was already striding away, toward the orange glow of a hearth on the opposite end of the town square.
While dismounting from the carriage, one of the steps loosened and Wanderer lost her footing. She fell to the ground with a heavy thump and lay there, winded, then pushed herself upright, muttering curses under her breath. Altair lightly skipped down to join her, almost seeming to float upon the air. He tutted.
"Oh dear. Are you all right?"
"Just pechy." But she took his outstretched hand and let him haul her back on her feet. Wanderer dusted herself off, checking her bow remained in pristine condition—it had survived the tumble without a scratch, though her tail ached with a bone-deep weariness—then nodded curtly at Altair. "Later."
"Sweet dreams!"
Altair was already turning away to assist Grimble with his harness. Wanderer took in the strange sight one last time, the dragon and his fairy retainer, the carriage and the curious cargo it brought with it, inscrutable, then began to walk home. Her abode was far from the town square, almost on its outskirts; a lone vacant sod hut shared between her and Rowan, they were welcome to it provided they pitched in around town as needed.
The interior was warm and dim, smelling of dried soil. Wanderer headed further inside, shying from the light spilling through the entrance, to where her nest awaited her. First, Wanderer took off the bow and quiver, carefully set them aside. Next, the bone helmet was removed, placed beside the hay bed. Finally, one of the turkey hearts was withdrawn from the pouch.
Wanderer buried the pouch again in the shallow earth. She settled into bed, curled in a thatch of hay around her food, an organ the size of a walnut that she worried at, as though nursing a secret. It tasted rich and thick and gamey and she swallowed the rest whole, propriety forgotten. Sounds of gnashing and squelching filled the darkness—briefly, Wanderer too became a wild thing.
Wanderer awoke from a dream where flower buds burst out hollowed skulls, winding through cracks of anguished marrow to seize and clutch and penetrate. The ague of the skeleton, secrets caught between dried ribs. She framed them as a portrait, carried them out to rest in the shade of the mountain range.
She was not alone. A jagged crescent smile peered through the darkness, ivory piano keys stripped of music. The gengar was here. Wanderer fumbled for her helmet and jammed it on, wary. With it came a sense of stability, of emotions filtered and brought under control.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I know what you are." Skygge spoke the language of spirits, those that had glimpsed beyond, voice sibilant like sand falling down a flight of concrete stairs. "You are the Eternal Flame, the dusk-skinned marowak that stole a chandelure's wick. Incapable of death, a vagabond cursed to roam the countryside for all eternity. I know you."
"If only you knew your manners half as well." Wanderer reached for her bow now. A blanket slid from her shoulders, undoubtedly placed there by Rowan. "Did no one teach you not to barge into rooms while ladies are sleeping?"
Skygge's form was almost indistinguishable from the night, despite the phosphorescent echo at the entrance. She was but a burning pair of eyes and a looming grin. Wanderer was tumbling down into that grin—dropping through a soundless tunnel toward the Graveyard, a pit of sorrow and buried memories. Skygge would have let her fall, she realized, down and down toward poisonous muck and tapeworms. No one could have been more disinterested; no one could have been more alien, alien to the core.
Then Skygge spoke again, or rather laughed, and the spell broke. She broke it not out of kindness, but because of her cold pleasure in knowing what she knew about Wanderer. Skygge saw the cracks in her bone helmet, saw the regrets that festered like dust and lice there.
Skygge chuckled, low and hoarse. She said, "Altair knows more than he says. It may be of interest to you."
Wanderer paused in the act of stringing her bow. A blink, and Skygge was gone; Wanderer was alone once more.
"Fucking ghosts," she muttered.
After several fruitless minutes spent searching for her hawkbill pipe, Wanderer gave up and headed outside. It was evening, the sun set, moon and stars peeking in and out behind sullen clouds. The air tasted thick with the promise of rain and the hills were alive with lights, as though the aurora borealis had been brought down to mantle the earth.
Wanderer held out a hand, absentminded, aquamarine light flecked with purple reflecting patterns on her leathery skin. It was almost like being underwater, distorted rays of the sun streaming through from above. Twin motes of blue flame came to life in her palm, warm and smooth there, and rose upward in slow revolutions. Every so often, the glimpses of whimsy and wonder in the aftermath of darkness caught Wanderer off guard.
She turned away with a sigh and made the trek back to the village center. Pokémon were resting atop their homes, watching the stars; when Wanderer reached her destination, they were instead watching Altair. A small crowd gathered around him, most of them hatchlings, primarily sewaddle and cottonee and gossifleur, but also pichu and rattata and even a machop. They were small enough that Wanderer could easily see the clefable over them.
Altair's carriage, once full of enigmatic mystery, had been emptied and, strangely, diminished as a result. It seemed bereft now, ramshackle nature harder to ignore, the cylindrical steel rising behind it like a smokestack. Altair stood beside his sundial and held a familiar hawkbill pipe in one hand, drawing voluminous streamers of brightly colored silk out of it with the other. The hatchlings ooh'd and aah'd, excited, their excitement louder the longer Altair drew from the pipe. He giggled at their reactions, obviously delighted, then caught sight of Wanderer and winked.
Annoyed, Wanderer pushed through the hatchlings to the forefront. Some began to protest, recognized Wanderer, and wisely changed their minds and held their tongues. She stood before Altair, arms folded. He finished drawing the silk from the pipe and looped it around his head like a headscarf, smiling serenely. As Altair approached, he took a gold coin of poké from behind where the skull covered her left horn and showed it to everyone. They laughed; Wanderer huffed.
"We need to talk."
"Hmm. Well, it has been fun, young ones, but now our time has ended. Yet only for the moment is parting such sweet sorrow! So long, fair thee well," Altair declared, words punctuated by an elaborate bow.
There was protest and milling about from the hatchlings, but the parents in the crowd managed to usher their attention away like a stream diverted. Altair walked over to the trailer and hopped up to sit on it, stubby legs dangling over the ledge. The lights from the hills cast the metal cylinder in a strange green pallor akin to rust. Wanderer followed Altair, slower. Cautious.
"Where's Grimble?"
"Hmm?" Altair twirled Wanderer's hawkbill pipe between his fingers. The silk sash sagged and slid down his back, snagged on those strange wing-shaped ridges of his. "Ah. He retired early. It has been a difficult journey."
He left the sentence hanging, almost a question that Wanderer chose not to oblige. Instead, she said, "That's not yours."
"Very perceptive! You dropped it when you fell. I would've returned it sooner, but, well, you rather left in a hurry." Altair extended his hand, the stem of the pipe facing her, then flipped it at the last second. "A favor for a favor, no?"
Wanderer considered him silently. After a moment, she leaned forward and snapped two digits above the pipe's bowl. A small blue flame flickered to life and smoldered within; Altair brought the pipe to his mouth and puffed on it for a time. Wanderer waited, always waiting. When Altair blew out smoke it bore closer resemblance to pink mist, strange shifting images of mad dancing creatures half-seen within. He returned the pipe to Wanderer.
"Your bodyguard made an unwarranted house call," she said, finally, taking a pull herself. There was a lingering sweet aftertaste to the charcoal now.
"Skygge? That's not like her. You aren't dangerous, are you?"
"Very. The little ones tremble in my wake."
Altair giggled. "So I've seen. I can speak to Skygge, but she is who she is."
"She also implied there's more to this trip than meets the eye."
"I don't know about that. I have always been passing through; I simply have not shared my ultimate destination."
"And do you have any interest in sharing?"
"Perhaps. But there's a cost."
Wanderer gave the pipe back to Altair. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and something cloying, perhaps saccharine, maybe even fermented. A wine no one had a name for anymore. Eventually, Altair spoke:
"I met a traveler in Steelmont. He was half-rabid and forced to panhandle on the streets. Not a bad chap for the most part, prone to fits of violence at inconvenient moments, but—he loved watching me perform magic. And I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the recovered rabid. Perhaps it's in my blood. Regardless, we struck up a friendship and would regularly partake in a pint of berry juice together. One day, he told me how he came about his misfortune.
"There was a wealthy gardevoir with two sons, full of promise. They lived in a castle, a castle said to be built by humans eons ago, on a cliff by a lake. But his youngest disappeared on the Turning of the Eve, and his eldest found him in the hillside, where the rabid horde gathered before an altar to sing profane mockeries of life. There the youngest was being initiated into some vulgar ritual. The elder ralts rescued his brother at the cost of his own life, for they slew him and then cursed the younger ralts. And the youngest fled, and joined a monastery, only to return home many years later when his father fell gravely ill.
"It was several days before the father's hatchday, and his son was asked to sing at the celebration. Reluctantly, the son agreed, but on the condition that the doors to the main hall be shut throughout the entire performance. The next morning the frail old gardevoir was brought to the throne where humans once sat, while his son the kirlia stood before him and sang beautifully.
"Understand this: in the eternal beauty that dreamed in honied air nothing stirred or faded or died, nothing sought its happiness in movement or change or newness but had its ecstasy in the perpetual contemplation of all the beauty that had ever been. Thus was his song, the song of the mystery dungeon. At the end of the performance, the son turned from the throne and looked out at the crowd to pronounce the benediction.
"When he did, the doors burst open so that all looked out the open doorway only to see the hill, the mysterious hill, standing open and facing the castle. Inside waited the rabid horde lit by lamps, parted in two rows that led to the altar. When those in the crowd turned back toward the dais, the father had fallen down dead, his son now a gardevoir. He walked through the crowd to the hill and the hill engulfed the castle. Beware, beware the hills that move."
Neither spoke for a while. The night deepened and most pokémon of Cottonshire retreated into their homes. Some pulled stones in front of the entrances to block out the lights, others had the luxury of wooden doors, still others had nothing at all and chose instead to sleep as far as possible from the entrance, much like Wanderer had done.
She had heard whispers similar to what Altair told her. Of a castle in a shifting cavern, of an entire town lost due to the hubris of their leader. But much of Altair's tale was different, and that excited her. Few matters captured her attention quite like newness. It also made her suspicious, because the capacity for newness meant the potential for manifold lies.
"Mystery dungeons aren't like that," Wanderer said.
"They are not. And yet if it's true, it should be known. That's why I wish to seek him out. My friend said the son has kept much of his wits and rules over the rabids even now."
"Impossible."
"Who's to say?" The clefable shrugged. "As a magician, I believe it is my duty to seek out answers to impossible questions wherever and whenever I can. And thus, once more into the night we go. Sally ho!"
He laughed and leaned back, pressed an affectionate hand against the steel plate. When he drew away, faint burn marks could be seen marring the center of his palm. Wanderer almost asked Altair about it but then decided that was a story for another day.
"And you intend to seek it out, then?"
"I do indeed. I was given instructions on how to find it."
"Would you perhaps be willing to take on another bodyguard or two?"
Once, she might have agonized over the decision for days. Those days were decades behind her now. Whenever Wanderer saw an opportunity, her immediate reaction was to grasp at it and hold fast.
"Perhaps." Altair had another one of those vaguely irksome partial-smiles playing at the corners of his mouth. There was a deceptiveness to him, a canny brilliance lurking below the surface of placidity. "But we can discuss logistics further in the morning. It's late and I, too, must eventually tire. And the wonderful Chester has been most accommodating! I would hate to put him up anymore than I already have."
"Fair enough," she said.
Altair jumped off the trailer and floated to the ground, turned from her. The silk fluttered between his wing-ridges like a veil. Wanderer called out, "Although… whatever happened to your friend?"
Altair paused, then shrugged, still turned from her.
"He passed on. So it goes."
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