Sanctuary for a Night

“Bless the stars… Blay Bughunter!” A spry grin cracked Zefymi’s lips as the young man strode into the light. Water fell from Blay’s hair, a tangled, snow-coloured mess, as rivulets crawled along his armour, dripping on the hardwood floor.

“Good to see you.” He bowed to the huge innkeeper, hobbling through a din of gathered guests to join Zefymi at her table. Her table stood proud and lonely, at the core of the great drinking hall.

The warm lantern light seemed dazzling through Blay’s green goggles. Blinking, he tried to adjust his senses to the overwhelming. Blaring noise and blaring light. Jumbled faces moving all around. Hundreds of strange smells. Zefymi sat across. Waiting, letting him have the time he needed to adjust. “It’s about time I came,” he finally said. “The wastes and woods have famished me.”

“Oh, I’m sure…” Zefymi’s voice was full of understanding. “But you’re back. Back in the right place!”

Zefymi’s assistant perched dutifully by her side, across the table from Blay. Giri, a freckle-cheeked lad of thirteen years, straightened proudly as Blay looked him over.

“Do you remember who I am?” Blay asked him.

Smiling like it was his birthday, the boy replied. “Oh, I never forget a face.”

“Even a face that became this frail?”

“Perhaps your pallor has changed some, but your deeds remain.” Giri turned to his master. “Can I get the Bughunter started with a drink?”

“May I!” Zefymi corrected. “And the man must eat as well. Didn’t you hear the hero? The woods and wastes left him famished.”

Giri opened his mouth to speak, but Blay spoke over him. “I’ll have two bowls of stew, two loaves of bread, and boiled water. And double each!” He grinned.

“Aye, you shall,” Giri sang. “Two and two and two I’ll bring to you. And big and steaming shall they be!” He caught his breath. “Would you be liking any mead with your order, Blay? Or perhaps some cider to soothe your sorrows?”

“No!” Zefymi cut in. “He just described what he’d like. Why must this weary wanderer endure the temptations of your dumb tongue?” Zefymi turned swiftly from the boy. “Sorry, Blay.”

“No need to be sorry,” he said.

“Please accept my sincerest apology for my rudeness.” Giri bowed his head before them.

“Enough.” Zefymi released him with a word. He spun and scurried, into the depths of the smoky kitchen.

“Giri Brayflame.” Zefymi spat. “The boy shall never shine as bright as his father.”

“Perhaps. Few have ever shined half as brightly as Hale Brayflame.” Blay loosened the straps of his green goggles, lifting them to rest against his forehead. His face felt lighter as the pressure released, and the pink grooves carved around his eyes revealed.

“Near every inn in Deepthicket ravaged,” said Zefymi, tucking strands of oily orange hair behind wide ears. “With windows shuttered and scouts stationed. Pitchforks near every hand.” She continued quietly, “Not near enough. The cursed bugs sense the liveliness within the walls. They hunger to ruin it. Every inn down the Daggar Road, ravaged… save our Storm’s Eye!”

“Luck’s favoured you.” Blay nodded.

“Oh, I’ve plenty of weapons. Sixty-six pitchforks from the farms…”

“Many sharpened tines sound like a good start. Better than these dull dinner forks.”

“Aye!” Zefymi chuckled. “My guests never touch them, though. I’ve many more useless weapons, growing beards of rust down in the dark. Lined up in rows against my basement walls.”

“Why are they not getting touched?”

“You of all folk must know my answer. Drink and sharpened tines mix as well as coal in a keg of Yellow Dust. But fear not for us. We lucky few who call Stoneymill our home… thank the Bughunter’s blessing every night as we fall asleep. And now we must be double-blessed!” She gave the table a gleeful knock with her fist, making the cutlery shake.

“Bughunter’s blessing?” Blay chuckled. “The Storm’s Eye was our favourite…” he admitted. “Many of us were even born here. But it doesn’t matter. You must prepare now. Gather your Stoneyfolk and practice with pitchforks, before they’ve grown too drunk each morning. None in Stoneymill holds more power than you, Zefymi. Prepare your people for fighting. And after dusk, expect them.”

Zefymi gave a loud snort. “Prepare to hide and hope, you mean? We blessed Stoneyfolk lack the talents to fight bugs. Brayflame, perhaps, has the bravery to fight, but stars know he’d be useless against one of them. So no, Blay. Without the Bughunters alive, your blessings are all we have.”

“That doesn’t have to be,” said Blay. “Not necesarily. I’ll sail to Tyr. I shall purchase a keg of Yellow Dust for you. For Stonyemill. Protection…”

“Yellow Dust is it now?” Her buggish eyes went wild. “Hah! I hate the freaks more than any, but not near enough to blow my inn to bits for hope of wounding one.”

Blay let out an uneasy sigh, wondering how many were watching. Not counting Giri, had any guests recognized him? If not his gaunt face… his suit of armour? Or perhaps they were all too absorbed in their own drunken dramas to notice him. “We’re not trying to break a siege,” he said at last. “I’ll divide the powder into portions. You’d need no more than half a handful in one night.”

“That little?”

“The flash and great loud bang that half a handful of Yellow Dust makes when it is lit will save your inn some night.”

“I already said-“

“No, more,” he pressed. “Save your village. Stoneymill would be dead without the brightness of the Storm’s Eye. The liveliness within these walls. You know I speak with the truth, Zef.”

Zefymi leaned slowly back, making him wait as she indulged herself in pondering. At last, Zefymi shook her head. “Not a chance for that, I’m afraid. I can count too many reasons against your idea.”

Blay felt a surge of fire flaring up. Has she truly turned so cold since my last visit? But as he breathed cooling breaths, the answer slowly settled in. He knew this woman’s mind well. A shrewd intellect, yearning for play. Yearning for sober debate. Unsatisfied with drunken sparring partners. “Many reasons have you?” he jabbed.

“Oh, aye!” Zefymi’s buggish eyes squinted down at him, barely able to conceal her glee. Blay glared with puzzling eyes. Not speaking, but allowing her giant mind time to brew the inevitable speech. “You Bughunters,” she began, “as all Stoneyfolk know, were quite funded. Quite funded by our generous little queen. So I might forgive you, Bughunter, for not already knowing the reasons of my reluctance… might!” Spit sprayed from her wild tongue. “Yellow Dust, is it? From Tyr. The island with a thousand leaders. Millions of allegiances more tumultuous than the sea herself. Yet you speak of it like it were a village just down the Daggar Road. Tyr’s most precious product, like it were simply salt.”

“Did I ever tell you I’ve had the honour of meeting Lady Yellow? All Stoneyfolk know she’s the richest of Tyrish lords. Second only to our beloved queen.”

“Aye.” Zefymi scowled suspiciously.

“She doesn’t want mere gold, you see? She’ll want to give me a keg of Yellow Dust. A gift for me. Because see, you must see this… a story with Yellow Dust is worth-“

“A story?” Zefymi cut him short. “Oh, we all remember mad Maggie! The great Bughunter. Biggest bravest of you, so say the bards. And one dark night… she blew a bug to bits. Nothing more than a candle, some string, and ten or thirteen fortunes in Yellow Dust, all while the rest of you boulder-footed Bughunters were hiking up a hill to join her. By the time you reached her, there was nothing left but yellow smoke, and gooey pieces of shell dripping from the trees.”

“Not a word of lie. Well said. Lady Yellow invested in us her fortunes. But by supplying Maggie so well, she gained for herself a more precious kind of fortune. A folk story, full of Yellow Dust. And now every time Maggie’s story is told, her Yellow recipe more becomes the stuff of legends.”

“Aye. We Stoneyfolk love our stories. It’s a rare traveller indeed who leaves my without a mind full of our stories. And you, the star of many… but a story is not a thing in your hand!”

“It isn’t. Take me for an example. I’m a human. Made by the stars like all else. But… in the eyes of some who’ve never seen me, I’m more. Folks believe Bughunter stories that simply aren’t true. Doubly they believe in Tyr. Cross the ocean to Tyr, and find they believe things about us that could not be true. Yet they believe the more. Over great spans of water, things become distorted. Tell me if I lie.” He caught a flash of worry over Zefymi’s brow, as wet yellow beads crawled down her face. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I speak for all Stoneyfolk,” she said finally. “To our eyes, Yellow Dust is danger. It is fire compressed. Some say it’s unnatural to steal so from the stars.”

“Just one question if I may.”

She nodded. “Of course, Blay.”

“If you and I questioned the folk gathered here in your drinking hall, how many Stoneyfolk could truthfully say they’ve stepped into the observatory? The tower inside the Blackfort?”

“Now counting the liars? Oh, we may not have seen the stars as you have. But we have eyes! And what we see is terrible… chemistry, bundled chaos. Stolen light.”

“You see only the dark, Zefymi?”

“Of course not! But I’m their innkeeper, and all Stoneyfolk know, Yellow Dust is far too pricey without the queen’s coin.” She swept a suspicious gaze over her huddled guests. Leaning closer to Blay, her lips curled into a snarl, revealing rows of huge, gravestone teeth. One tooth, at the back of her lower row, was a rotted shade of dead brown.

“Bughunter…” she rumbled. “Some of the dirty mutants, or nomads as you kindly call them, are cursed with extra sets of ears. If they heard I was in possession of such a precious thing, well… we could them with their cousins that very night.”

“True,” said Blay, leaning back as the stench of rot wafted from deep inside her giant mouth. “But a Bughunter’s blessing? I’ve never taken you for a believer in such things. To think… you’d trust the lives of Stoneymill to superstition. I must’ve had you wrong all this time.”

“No one said you had to believe it!” She fumed. “What’s your point, precisely?”

“I’m not sure.” He spoke softly, feeling the heat pouring from her sweaty skin. “It’s simply strange to me, to be met with such defiance. All I’m doing here is to protect you.”

“Of course you are,” Zefymi said. She sighed, settling back in her seat, using the moss-green sleeve of her dress to mop her brow. “And yet I’ve enough fears to keep me up at night, without a volcanic explosion dormant under my bed. Yellow pregnancy, birth of fire. A fear too many, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure you’ve nursed many fears,” Blay said.

“Well said,” Zefymi said, chuckling with relief.

Blay slammed his fist on the table. “Imagine it!” he said. “Late at night. You open the front door, and find an eye looking back. Sagging flesh filling the doorway. In the eye sits a scarlet pupil, throbbing. Huge enough you could sink your fist into it… if only the draysk didn’t pluck your hand off by the stem like a ripened berry.”

Zefymi put a finger to her lips, gesturing for him to quiet. She’s desperate to keep them feeling protected by the ‘blessing,’ he observed. “Can you imagine your Stoneyfolk? Deep at night, you hear the sounds of something above. Thumping on the rafters. Trying to get in. When that wretched night arrives, you’ll lose all memory of a Bughunter’s blessing, and reach instead for my gift. You’ll reach for a bag of Yellow Dust, and nothing will have ever felt so safe.”

“Aye, be in your debt forever.”

“Money won’t matter when a draysk comes. But don’t insult me with such accusations, for I promise, Zefymi, I promise. I’ll give you a keg of Yellow Dust if you simply promise me you’ll prepare the Stoneyfolk. Defend your inn.”

Zefymi huffed loudly, nervous fingers tapping the table. “You could hide,” said Blay. “Or pay the price of their lives in stink and smoke. I need an answer.”

“Blay,” she purred. “Why must you?”

“Zefymi. I don’t believe in blessings.” He spoke his words clearly, refusing to hush his voice even as worry played in Zefymi’s eyes. “I believe in this. I know Stoneymill is worth protecting!” With every word, his voice grew harder. “These good Stoneyfolk. Trusting you with-”

“Alright! Now you hush.” Zefymi huffed, wild eyes darting from face to face… slowly settling into the ceaseless din of drunken voices. Content in her privacy, Zefymi’s eyes found Blay again. “Look,” she hissed, rocking the great table as she bore forward on her elbows. “If you trade in Tyr, word will reach the nomads.”

“Oh,” Blay nodded, pressing himself into the back of his seat. “Aye. I don’t disagree.”

“Good.” She smirked, settling down and smoothing some of the creases in her green dress. “So…” she continued, “here is what I will do. I’ll send someone less known than Blay Bughunter to Tyr. And, I’ll give them my coin to pay in secret.” What sort of game is she playing? He wondered. But he bowed his head to let her go on.

“If any ask…” Zefymi smiled. “You tell them what you’ve said to me. The Storm’s Eye is your favourite. It was the Bughunter’s favourite.”

“Aye. True words spill easily from my lips.” Is this all she wants? He thought.

“Then my inn is blessed. Look around us, Blay. Oh, they’re very subtle. If they were unsubtle, I’d be prodding them to the exit, and down the front steps with a pitchfork. But my guests have noticed you. They’ll whisper of this night, Blay. Word will saturate Stoneymill. Stoneyfolk in all corners of our village will praise the Bughunter’s blessing. Children will fall asleep thinking of its protection. Oh, and women. And men.”

“Will you truly do as you’ve said?”

“My word is as good as gold. If you truly want to help us, don’t sail to Tyr. You’ve braved more than enough for us already.”

“Very good then. Very good indeed, old friend.”

His fingertips felt for the strap of his green goggles. The drying leather was stretched perfectly to fit around him. He knew it would be odd to wear his goggles inside, so he contented his fingertips with the leather. Zefymi grinned playfully, like a girl. Was it all sport for her? He wondered. But the innkeeper’s brow hardened when she saw her servant approach.

Giri came bearing bread and stew. But before he could place their water flagon, his master stopped him with a word. “Wait! You’ve kept us waiting, haven’t you? Enjoying a little freedom in the kitchen. Peering out the window again? Is that steam I sense billowing from my flagon?” She beckoned the boy closer, to hold her face over the brass flagon of water tucked in the crook of Giri’s arm. Cheeks darkening, she recoiled. “Boiled does not mean boiling! I ought to make you drink it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Giri stammered, straining to hold himself still as the heavy flagon slowly slipped down. Restraining anger, Blay put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, catching Giri’s attention.

“You got my order right.” He took the heavy flagon and swiftly set it down, before Zefymi could object. The innkeeper huffed and glared at her servant. “Good service, Giri. Very great! I see you’ve served our other guests just as swiftly. The adults have matters to discuss now, so go get the scrubbing started.”

“Oh, we do?” asked Blay. “Just now I’d rather fill my mouth with food than words. I say he’s welcome to our table.”

Smiling sheepishly, Giri began to sit, but Zefymi splayed her hand flat on the boy’s seat, cocking her head toward the kitchen. He sprang back, like the splayed fingers were rods of white-hot metal. Finding his breath, Giri addressed them. “From the stars, from the farmer’s field. From my kitchen to my table. Please you enjoy my supper.”

Blay lifted a finger, telling him to wait. “Before you go.” Blay flicked his wrist and something sparkled through the air. Giri caught it deftly, and opened his fingers to reveal a golden coin. “In case I don’t see you again.” Giri’s eyes widened as he played the golden coin through swift fingers. Blay allowed himself to revel in the boy’s marvel, but the marvel winked away when he turned to face his master. “May I keep it?” he asked in a stoney voice.

“Oh aye,” she answered. “In my kitchen, keep your eyes pointed down inside the pot!”

“You’re spoiling him,” Zefymi grumbled the moment Giri was gone. “Soon he’ll begin begging me for a wage.”

“I think he should have it.” Blay tore off a piece of bread and began chewing, deciding to focus on the stew. It was thick, and green, and smelled of fresh summer.

“Ah!” Zefymi said. “You arrived just in time to savour my last batch of sprout stew. You lucky lad. The delicious sprouts you’re smelling are from the final crop of summer’s harvest. I dare say you’ll soon discover my stew’s been seasoned with the finest of Tyrish spices. Quite a compliment to the nose, aye?”

Blay swallowed a chunk of loaf and took a great swig from the flaggon. The water tasted vaguely of cider. It was scalding hot. Almost to a boil. Without pause, he drank it down, belching a cloud of steam as he set the flaggon down. Zefymi chuckled as Blay lifted the first bowl of stew to his mouth. “I can offer you more of everything. Just tell the boy and he’ll bring whatever you desire, steaming from my kitchen. Even the water.” She laughed. Blay set down an empty bowl. He sighed slowly, exhaling inside a bubble of flimsy bliss. “I admit,” he said after a pause. “It feels like lifetimes since I could fully rest.”

“I’m sure it’s been far too long,” Zefymi said. “You’ll be sleeping here tonight.”

“I believe so. My stomach loves this place.”

“You deserve it! You haven’t been beneath my roof since you were with the Bughunters, stars be good.”

“Aye. That was the last time I could…” he sighed.

“Since you could really rest you, you mean?” She swatted the air. “You flatterer.”

“It’s the truth.” Blay paused, bowl of stew held halfway to his lips. “The back of my head hasn’t felt the softness of a pillow since my Storm’s Eye bed.”

“But that was weeks ago.” Cheer fell from Zefymi’s face. Knots of worry took hold. “Blay,” she breathed, brows suddenly scrunching. Blay set the bowl back down and crunched into a hard burnt corner of loaf. The stench of stew was sickly sweet. He shoved his bowl away and washed his throat with scalding water, meeting the woman’s scowl with his own creased face.

“Hold on now…” Zefymi’s voice went dark. “Don’t dare tell me. Have you been hunting?”

As he nodded, Blay became acutely aware of the Stoneyfolk surrounding them. He squeezed the table’s edge. Gripping hard, turning all his attention to the sensations of mounting pressure in his fingers. Forcing air down his burnt throat. “Nothing’s changed,” he said. Purpling fingertips felt the bumps of old candlewax stuck to the underside of the table. Numbing fingers traced the seams of old scratches. “The only difference now is I’m alone.”

Zefymi leaned away, twisting up a lock of her orange hair with thick, callused fingers. “Nothing’s changed?” she echoed. Blay tore more of his second loaf, crunching and chewing as Zefymi sighed, again and again. At last, the great woman bore forward, rocking the table, making him sit back. “Hunting alone…” she growled, “Isn’t nothing. It changes everything!” The din surrounding them dropped down, as guests paused with drinks half lifted to lips.

“Why are trying so hard to sway me?” Blay whispered.

“Why? Oh, why. Because clearly I’m the only one here who cares whether you keep living.” She was standing now. A monolith towering above him. Her green dress billowed as some guest stepped inside. A gust of wind washing over did not make her shiver. Blay took a massive bite and chewed. Tasting nothing.

“You don’t want to live,” Zefymi said. “You want to die? You want to lie rotting on the Thicket floor, together with the other Bughunters?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Blay swallowed, swishing his tongue across his teeth to clear them of the bitter black flakes. “My hunting’s been fruitless. The last time I met a draysk… was the day the swarm attacked. I haven’t found so much as a draysk path since.”

“I dare say you’ve been lucky. Recall you came to me after the attack. Your heart led you to the Storm’s Eye. Your first thought, of home! That was a good judgement of yours. If you had told me then, in the wake of their doom, that you meant to keep hunting…” she gave a haughty huff. “I’m sorry to say it. But I would’ve kept you here. I would’ve kept you in chains if you forced me to.”

“I would not have allowed you.” Blay sighed raggedly. “After the swarm… after the attack, I held onto a single wish. To find each attacker, and end them.”

“End.” She snorted.

“Tear the wings apart, cut off the gnarled hands… or slice along the abdomen, it matters not.”

The table groaned, bringing Blay’s awareness to his gripping fingers, holding hard. Clamping in a white vice grip. Fire flaring inside his chest.

“Where have you been all these weeks?” Zefymi pleaded. Blay inhaled slowly, watching the innkeeper’s thick ringed fingers quiver out of her control.

“Deepthicket.”

“Of course!” she let burst. “Deepthicket is all around us. I’ll wait for the story.” She moved back, just outside his striking distance. She could knock the light from my eyes instantly. My sword could as easily be by my hand as in the belly of star. My fingertips could be frozen and it would matter not.

“…Okay.” What choice have I?

Blay willed his mind to return to Deepthicket…

Lightlessness. Pressed in from every side by spear-tip branches and itchy, infested bramble. Jumbled. It seemed impossible to his mind. He couldn’t separate threads of time from inside the black drone. But whatever the truth, Zefymi gave him no other choice. He had to try. He had to try to describe something real.

“When I went back… I tried following our final path,” he started. “But… we’d diverged. From it. We’d gone so deep that day. I can’t. No. The swarm found us far from a path.”

“Keep going.” Zefymi had a rare quiet about her, poised.

“I wanted to bury them.” His voice cracked. “Reclaim their belongings – relics to the families. I tried to retread. Our every step. And the step which might have led to that. But…” the Thicket’s black drone filled his ears, his throat. He found the will to whisper, “I couldn’t find them.”

“Ah.” Zefymi sighed. “If you couldn’t find the resting place, it’s lost. I say good! Better we remember them all alive and hearty. Riding… one step below invincible… and allow their skeletons to be but a vague concept.”

“Perhaps.” Blay heard himself muffled, as if through sheets or some great distance. The inn surrounding his body was melting into noise. He was inside.

Inside Deepthicket, nearing his companions. The grey ground covered in carpets of crackling branches. Through the vision of his green goggles, thousands of possible bones appeared. Rubbing his fingertips over them, feeling the disapointing textures of wood, the shame of his relief. Repeatedly. Wondering if every skeleton was swallowed… hiding high above, wandering the open sky in coffins of shell and sinew…

“Hey there.” Zefymi reached over. Squeezed his hand in hers. The clutch of her massive hand enclosed him, and even in tenderness, he felt her giant strength. “Come back to me,” she coaxed. “I have better questions.” He nodded slowly. Zefymi kept holding him, heat pouring from her blood, seeping into his. “Why?” she asked. “Why come home now, when you prefer hunting bugs out there, hunting in the dark…” Leaning closer she whispered, “Did you really merely come here for a night’s rest, for the sake of faster hunting tomorow?”

Blay sighed, trying to cover his drumming heart. “Aye,” he answered. “You’ve it figured out.”

“Insanity!” she growled. She pulled away, wiping sweaty palms thoroughly on her billowy green dress. Disgusted.

“My mind is made,” he said slowly. “But please, go on if you wish. I’ll gladly hear your reasoning.”

“Right then. Let’s examine the facts of your situation. Before the swarm, you numbered twenty-two. Twenty-two brave Bughunters, with weapons fresh from the forges, edges sharper than my tongue. Great copper nets,” she ploughed. “Draysk bolts hard enough to trim my toenails! You had Yellow Dust, and stranger Tyrish things. Secret weapons from Lady Yellow, which I never mention. But I know, and never forget it. You lost. Finished forever.” When she exhaled, a breeze of bitter rot ushered from her mouth. “Now…” she went on, “How would you estimate your odds? Friendless. Weary. Nearly starved. Nothing but a dull blade and platemail around you, that might as well be putty in their freakish fingers.” She lingered, puffing bitter cidery breath, and squinting down.

“It is not a very difficult estimate for me. My odds are low. Though you should know that my swordblade is very sharp.”

“Correct. You’re barely older than Giri. You could live a full life, if only you weren’t set on self-sacrifice.”

“I appreciate these worries.” Slowly, Blay moved his hand closer to Zefymi’s. “But this is my choice. You’ve done everything you can. I won’t belittle you with false promises.”

Zefymi’s lip curled into a snarl, but she sat back in her chair, then excused herself from the table, leaving him alone.

‘Finished forever.’ Her dark words rang within him. Hadn’t the Bughunters been more than twenty-two brave hearts? More than the sum of training, and weapons? My companions may be dead, but Hale’s son reminded me of something. Our deeds yet live. Our fame is more alive than ever. Queen Layla might still see a use in that. Would she give me her coin and her queen’s blessing a second time?

The Bughunters, resurected. For a moment, like the flare of a shooting star, he saw. Twenty-two, brave and bright. Twenty-one new, and one of old. Him. Blay. Leader.

The vision faded. Even with Queen Layla’s coin to furnish them, the Bughunters were dead. He could not imagine who would volunteer to join them now.

When Zefymi returned, she came holding a mug full of cider. The sour-bitter smell wafted into Blay’s nostrils, making him wish he could not smell anything. “I have no wish to tempt you,” she said. “I simply see our conversation darkening the more.” She took a great swig and slowly set down her mug, then raised it to her mouth again. “I need this.”

A white blaze through the windows gave illumination to the pale smoke hovering in the hall. It hung over the heads of Zefymi’s huddled guests, a fog. Thunder followed, rattling the window panes as the great drinking hall fell dim, and Blay was grateful. Sheets of rain slapped the inn’s paint-chipped walls of white outside. Blay found himself lulled by the pleasing, senseless noise. Worries released in the comforting din of downpour. He gave a huge yawn, bones aching with need to rest. Moments merged into a single stillness.

Blay bolted up as big knuckles knocked against his breastplate. Instinctively, he grabbed at his scabbard, palm to hilt of sword, fingers wrapping, drawing the blade. “Awake!” The innkeeper snapped her fingers in his face.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to drift off.” Releasing his fingers, sword sliding inside scabbard. “I’ve forgotten how to let down my defenses.”

“No harm,” she chuckled. “Sometimes a wink of sleep can be enough to clear your mind. On a night like this… nowhere better in the world than an inn like this.” She downed the last of her mug, raising a finger to hold her turn. “Perhaps,” she said, “one may argue, the arms of a lover.” She searched him with merry eyes, exploring the weathered, dented armour. His cold layers of second skin. “But you couldn’t feel that. Could you, Blay? Stars be darkened if you’d known even the first thing.” She grinned. “Here’s a hint. You can’t leave the armour on with your lover.” She stopped laughing when she saw Blay’s grim mouth, lips pressed together in a thin pink line. “But no, no. No inn in the world endures the tides of time like this!” She gave the table a hard, proud knock. “That, Blay, is why we Stoneyfolk named it Storm’s Eye. Your very home, Blay Bughunter. It is a sanctuary for survivors.”

“I believe that easily,” said Blay, casting his eyes over the hall, the drunken gatherings. “This place? It’s where the homeless come to huddle.”

“Well now!” Zefymi gathered herself. “After a restful sleep and a hot, hardy breakfast, you’ll find many reasons to stay here. Stay at home.”

Blay snorted. “Your vagrants and drunks don’t interest me. I’m only here to rest awhile.”

“Bards would make you rich, just at the chance to share a mug of cider with you. Not share, but… oh come. Don’t play the ignorant idealist with me. Your pride is wretched. Worthless. As if the bards don’t sing of you. They sing of your Bughunter stories.”

“Our stories?” He felt the weight of his sword hanging.

“Oh, aye. There’s ‘Morgan’s Swarm’.” She cast her gaze up into the pallid clouds, as if she could find his stories hovering inside the smog of smoke. “‘Morgan’s Swarm’… ‘Last Battle of the Bughunters.’ Oh! And ‘The Dark Revenge of the-“

“Enough!” Spit sprayed with the word as Blay fought the urge to rise. Hands shaking, itching, he forced himself quiet. “Let us… let us speak. Something else now.” He couldn’t look at the innkeeper. Breathing cooling breaths. Sighing, she waited. At last, he met her eyes. “What else have you for me? Is the Storm’s Eye still profitable?”

“Oh, aye,” she said. “Much more since you last came, in fact. Lively night after lively night. Poor Giri can barely grow the skin back on his fingers before he rubs them raw again. Folks flock to my light when it’s dark outside my walls. It has become very strange out there. I see them. They huddle around the lanterns, warming their fingers and tightening around my tables. Hatching rumors in the warmth. These brave Stoneyfolk, mixing their lies in with their beliefs, until the agreed story is so diluted, it ceases to be report, and turns into a fable. A fable, detailing only the opinions and persuasions, the exaggerations and fears of the ones who made it. Oh, I see everything and more. Dying truth, you see.”

“Why? What reason?”

“Well, we know the obvious, Bughunter. But you have heard the new news already, haven’t you?”

A surge of nausea filled Blay’s belly. “The swarm’s been seen again. Who did the bugs attack?”

Zefymi frowned. “No. Our queen, Blay!”

“Ah! Layla’s finally picked a husband, has she? Oh, let me guess…”

“No! She’s gone.”

“What? How?” Perhaps he misunderstood. “She’s gone on a voyage now? Diplomacy with Tyr I guess.”

“No, dead.”

Blay felt stunned. “But how?”

“Oh, how… the plain question with seven thousand answers. Each more onerously concocted than the last. But I’ll answer you with truth now. No Stoneyfolk truly knows.”

“There’s got to be something.” Blay frowned, as an old dry itch tickled the inside of his chest. “We must at least know her cause of death. Or has she disapeared? Perhaps… she’s still alive.”

The huge woman took a sombre swig. “Zef, please. There has got to be at least one common thread from all the tales you’ve been told. Or tell me it isn’t true. One of your jests, is it?”

“See how eager you all are. For it to make sense.”

“Aye…” he said, feeling deeply humbled. “You’re right, Zef. You could say anything next and… I would believe you.”

“Then believe this, Bughunter. I pity you. One more of your loved ones lost. I do not blame you for wanting to understand. Just…” Slowly, she offered to clasp his hand, but he withdrew.

“Just answer me.”

“Alright.”

Zefymi downed the last of her mug, and let go a great belch. From the kitchens came the sudden sound of crashing pots, a clamouring of metal, but she ignored the noise. “As the story is…” Zefymi began, “Layla slept alone in her bedchamber. Many think she tipped her bedlamp, spilling the burning oil across her lap, but somehow, she was aflame. Her Mahersguard, stationed inside the mighty watchtowers, witnessed a red glow. Dim, but bright enough to shine through the curtains of the queen’s bedchamber. As always, they were watching the wall that leads up to her window. But like every night, no one was seen climbing it, and that’s what they’re trained to watch for.”

“The Guardsmen inside the Blackfort must’ve ran when they heard her shrieks.”

“Except she made not any noise. Inside the Blackfort, the first sign of something wrong was a growing smell like charcoal. After hearing report of the unusual light seen through her curtains, her Guardsmen inside the Blackfort rushed to open the bedchamber. Greeted by black smoke creeping from the crack beneath her door. A crowd quickly gathered as they broke down the door, and found her body black.”

“Her door is hard to open without a key.” Blay nodded.

“She was smouldering, curled up by the bedside. The corpse. It could only be identified by the rings she bore and slept in, melded into the fingers.”

“By the light of the stars.” Blay shuddered, trying not to think of his queen’s fear. Her agony. “A flame so strong must’ve burned the Blackfort empty.”

Zefymi shook her head. “Nothing was burnt but the body.”

“Well I see… she met a dark end. I guess… there is a lesson in this. No one, not even Queen Layla, is safe from the rollings of luck’s black dice.”

Zefymi laughed. “Of every explanation, we Stoneyfolk have agreed on one. We think she ordered a sick woman sacrificed. A criminal perhaps, or a filthy nomad bitch taken by her Mahersguard, but a woman of Layla’s shape and size. Burned, wearing the queen’s rings.”

“Why would you invent such-“

“Oh, Blay. They say she wanted escape from the pressure to marry. We Stoneyfolk believe her lesbian in secret.”

“I can see why some would believe that. Many a desperate woman, I imagine, might willingly volunteer her life for the queen. And wouldn’t her bedsheets be ashes? Unless a woman’s corpse was placed in the bed.” Quietly, he knew Layla too clever to make such a mistake. I want her to be alive. She must be. I know she is. I feel she isn’t gone. “I have to admit,” he said, “that doesn’t sound like Layla’s work at all. But what do you think, truly?”

“I think stories are living things. They grow, nourished by our hope. In all my years an innkeeper, I’ve learned which stories tend to be closer to truth. Grey, unsatisfying, plain, means more true. So I believe Queen Layla had a strange accident. That is the end of it. Something rare and weird has happened. Impossible to predict, impossible to explain… but no more.”

Blay looked up. A grey-faced man had risen from his table and stumbled closer to theirs, eavesdropping. As Zefymi finished, she turned to see the man creeping from behind. Grasping, one hand around the back of Zefymi’s chair, the grey-faced man spoke in a gravel-throated voice.

“Aye,” he said, “And when they buried her five nights later, the corpse was smoking. Even now, even burried in a grave, our beloved queen still smoulders.” His wide eyes met Blay’s. Dark and watery, they were full of drunken awe. Blay met the drunk gaze with crystalline eyes, and made his face of stone.

Quaking, Zefymi rose to bellow, “Giri!”