Sanctuary for a Night 

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

“Good to see you.” He bowed to the huge innkeeper, hobbling through the din of gathered guests to join Zefymi at her table. The 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 the time he needed to adjust. “It’s about time I came here,” Blay finally said. “The wastes and woods left me famished.”
“Oh, I’m sure…” Zefymi’s voice sounded full of understanding. “But you’re back in the right place!”

 

The Inkeeper’s assistant perched dutifully by his matron’s 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.
“Oh, I never forget a face,” the lad replied, smiling like it was his birthday.
“Even one that became this frail?”
“Perhaps your pallor has changed some, but your deeds remain.” Giri turned to his matron. “Can I get the Bughunter started with a drink?”
“May I!” Zefymi corrected. “And he must eat as well. Didn’t you hear the hero? The woods and wastes left him famished.”
Giri opened his mouth, but Blay spoke over him. “I’ll have two bowls of stew, two loaves of bread, and boiled water. Double of each!”
“Aye, you shall,” Giri sung. “Two and two and two, I’ll give to you. Big, and steaming. Would you be liking any mead, or perhaps some cider to soothe your sorrows?”
“No!” Zefymi cut in. “He just listed what he’d like. Why make this weary man endure the temptations of your dumb tongue?” Zefymi turned swiftly from the boy. “Sorry, Blay.”
“No need to be,” said Blay.
“My sincerest apologies for my rudeness.” Giri hung his head, bowing.
“Alright,” Zefymi released him with a word. He spun, and scurried into the depths of the smoky kitchen.

“Giri Brayflame.” Zefymi spat the name. “The boy shall not shine as bright as his father.”
“Perhaps. Yet few have ever shined half as brightly as Hale Brayflame.”

 

Blay loosened the straps of his green goggles, and lifted 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 her ears. “With windows shuttered and scouts stationed. Pitchforks near every hand.” Quietly, she continued, “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. Oh… I’ve prepared plenty of weapons. Sixty pitchforks from the farms.”
“Sharpened tines sound like a better start. Better than these dull dinner forks.”
“Aye!” Zefymi laughed. “My guests and I 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 aren’t they getting touched?”
“You, of all folk must know my answer. Drink and sharpened tines mix about 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 rose from her seat and thudded down with glee, making the cutlery shake and rattle.
“Bughunter’s blessing?” Blay chuckled. “The Storm’s Eye was our favourite…” he admitted. “Many of us were even born here, but it matters not. You must prepare now. Gather your Stoneyfolk to practice with pitchforks before they’ve grown too drunk. No one in Stoneymill holds more power than you. You must lead them now. Prepare people each morning. And after dusk, expect yourselves to be attacked.”
Zefymi gave a loud snort. “Prepare to hide and hope, you mean? We blessed Stoneyfolk lack the talents to fight the bugs. Perhaps Brayflame has the bravery to fight, but stars know he’d be useless against one of them. Even if he could wield his father’s sword. So no, Blay. Without the Bughunter’s protection, blessings are all we have.”

 

“That doesn’t have to necessarily be true,” Blay said. “I’ll sail to Tyr. I’ll purchase a keg of Yellow Dust for you.”

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

Blay sighed, wondering how many of her guests might be watching. Had they recognized him? If not his face, his armour? Or perhaps they’d been too absorbed into their own drunken dramas to see him. “We’re not trying to break a siege here,” he said at last. “I’ll divide the powder into portions. You’d need no more than… half a handful.” 

“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. It could save your village. Stoneymill would be dead without the brightness and liveliness of the Storm’s Eye. You know I speak the truth, Zef.” 

Zefymi leaned slowly back, making him wait as she pondered. At last, she 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 flare up in him. Has she truly turned so cold since I last visited? But as he breathed cooling breaths, his answer slowly settled. He knew the woman’s mind well… a shrewd intelligence, yearning for sober debate. She wanted a sparring partner. “Many reasons have you?” he jabbed.
“Aye!” Zefymi’s buggish eyes squinted down at him, barely concealing her mounting glee. Blay gave her a puzzling glare, not speaking, but allowing her giant mind time to brew the inevitable speech.

“You bughunters…” she began, “as all Stoneyfolk know, were quite well funded. Quite well funded by our sweet, and lovely, and generous little queen. So, I might forgive you, Bughunter, for not already knowing the reasons of my reluctance. Might!” Her voice seemed steeped in wildness. “Yellow Dust, you say. From Tyr, the island with a thousand leaders. Millions of allegiances more tumultuous than the sea itself! Yet you speak of it like it were a village just down the Daggar Road. Its rarest product, like it were simply salt.”
“Zefymi, did you know that I’ve had the honour of meeting Lady Yellow? All Stoneyfolk know she is the richest of Tyrish lords, second only to our beloved queen. She doesn’t want my gold. She’ll be glad to gift me with a keg of Yellow Dust, because see, you must see now, Zef. In her golden eyes, a story with Yellow Dust is worth-”
“A story?” Zefymi cut him off. “Oh, we all remember mad Maggie, the great Bughunter. Biggest and bravest of you all. One night, she blew a bug to bits using nothing but a candle, some string, and ten 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 for you but yellow smoke, and gooey pieces of shell dripping from the trees.”

“All true. Lady Yellow invested fortunes in us. But by preparing Maggie, she gained another kind of fortune. A folk story full of yellow dust. Now, every time Maggie’s story is told, her yellow recipe becomes the stuff of legend.”
“We Stoneyfolk do love stories. It’s a rare traveller who leaves my inn without them. But a story is not a thing in your hand.”
“Exactly right. A story is not a thing in your hand. Take me, for example. I’m a man, made by the stars like all else. But in the eyes of some who’ve never met me, I’m more. Folk believe Bughunter stories that simply aren’t true, and doubly they believe in Blackdaggar. Note the great distance between here and there. In Blackdaggar, they believe things about us that could not be true, and yet believe the more.” He caught a of flash of annoyance on Zefymi’s twitching lip, as wet yellow beads crawled down her ruddy face. She was not smiling anymore.
“I speak for all Stoneyfolk,” she said. “In our eyes, Yellow Dust is dangerous. Fire, compressed. Some say it’s unnatural, to steal so from the stars.”

“If we questioned all the Stoneyfolk gathered here in your drinking hall, how many do you think would dare say they’ve stepped inside the Blackfort’s observatory tower?”
“Counting the liars? Oh, aye. We may not have seen the stars as you have. But what we see is terrible: chemistry, chaos, and stolen light.”
“You see only that?”
“Of course not! But I’m their inkeeper, and all Stoneyfolk know, Yellow Dust is far too pricey without the queen’s coin.” She swept a suspcious 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 that I was in possession of such a precious thing, well… We could expect them and their cousins visiting 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, of all folk, for a believer in such things. To think you’d trust the lives of everyone in Stoneymill to superstition. I must have had you wrong all this time.”

“No one said you had to believe it! What’s your point?” 

“I’m not quite sure what it is,” he spoke softly, feeling the heat as it poured from her sweaty skin. “It’s simply strange to me. To be met with such defiance, when all I’m doing here is to protect you.” 

 

“Of course you are,” Zefymi said softly. She sighed, settling back in her seat and using the moss-green sleeve of her dress to dry her brow. “And yet,” she said, “I’ve enough fears to keep me up at night, without need of volcanic explosions lying dormantly beneath my bed. Yellow pregnancy, we may call it. A fear too many, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m sure you’ve nursed many fears.” Nodding in sympathy, Blay abruptly slammed his gauntleted fist upon the table. “Imagine it!” he said. “Late at night, you open the front door, and find an eye looking back. Sagging flesh fills the doorway. In the eye, a throbbing scarlet pupil. Huge enough, you could sink your fist into it, if only the draysk didn’t pluck your hand off from the stem like picking a berry from a bush.”

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?” he continued. “Deep at night, when 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 bug comes. But don’t insult me with accusations. Zefymi, I promise, I’ll give you a keg of Yellow dust if you simply promise me you’ll prepare the Stoneyfolk, and defend your inn.”

Zefymi huffed, nervous fingers tapping the table. 

“You could try to hide,” he said. “Or pay the price for 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 clearly, not hushing himself even as he saw the look of worry in Zefymi’s eyes. “I believe Stoneymill is worth defending!” With every word his voice grew harder. “These good Stoneyfolk, trusting you with-”

“Alright!” She said frantically, “Now you hush.” Zefymi huffed, wild eyes darting from face to face, slowly settling again as the din of her guests continued on. “Look,” she hissed, rocking the table as she bore forward on her elbows. “If you trade in Tyr, word of it will reach the nomads.” 

“Oh,” Blay nodded. “Hadn’t thought of that.” 

“Not at all,” she smirked, settling back down and smoothing some of the creases in her dress. “So, here is what I’ll do. I’ll send someone lesser known than you to Tyr, and give them my coin to pay in secret. If any ask, you tell them what you told me. The Storm’s Eye was your favourite. Aye? The Bughunter’s favourite.” 

He nodded. 

“Then my inn is blessed. They’re subtle about it, or I’d be showing them the way to leave, with a pitchfork… but many of my guests have already noticed you. Once you’re gone, they’ll whisper of this night. They’ll praise the Bughunter’s blessing, and sleep at night thinking of its protection.” 

“Will you truly do as you’ve said?” 

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

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

“I know.” she said, grinning playfully. For a moment, he wondered if the ordeal she’d put him through had simply been for sport, but her brow hardened again when she saw her servant coming.

 

Giri came bearing bread and stew, but before he could place their water, his matron stopped him with a word. “Wait! You’ve kept us waiting, haven’t you? Enjoying a little freedom in the kitchen. Peering out of 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!” She bellowed. “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. 

Holding back anger, Blay put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You got my order right.” Swiftly, he took the flagon and set it down before Zefymi could object. Zefymi huffed and glared at her servant. 

“That was great service,” she said at last. “Very great. I see you’ve swiftly served my other guests as well. But we grown-ups have matters to discuss, 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 join our table.” 

Smiling sheepishly, Giri began to sit, but Zefymi set her hand flat on the boy’s seat, cocking her head toward the kitchen. Giri sprang back up, as if the fingers splayed across his seat were rods of scorching metal. “Well, please enjoy your supper,” he said, honouring Blay with a long bow. 

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, opening his hand to reveal a golden coin. “A tip,” said Blay. “In case I don’t see you again.” Giri’s eyes widened as he played the coin swiftly through his fingers.

 For a moment, Blay revelled in the boy’s marveling, but the boy’s marvel winked away when he turned to face his matron. “May I keep it?” Giri asked in a stoney voice.

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

 

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

“I think he should have it.” Blay tore off a piece of bread and began chewing, focusing his senses on the stew. The stew was thick and green and smelled of fresh summer.

“Ah!” Zefymi grinned. “You arrived just in time to savour my last batch of sprout stew. You lucky lad! Those delicious sprouts you’re smelling are from the final crop of summer’s harvest. You’ll discover my stew is seasoned with the finest of Tyrish spices. Quite a compliment to the nose, isn’t it?”

 

Blay swallowed his last bit of loaf and took a great swig of water. The water tasted vaguely of cider. Scalding hot, almost boiling. Without hesitation, he drank it down, belching a cloud of steam as he set down his empty cup. 

 Zefymi chuckled as Blay carefully lifted the first bowl of stew to his cracked lips. “I offer more of everything, as much as you like. Just tell the boy and he’ll bring what you desire, steaming fresh from my kitchen. Even… water, as you like.” She chuckled. 

Blay soon set down an empty bowl. “Ah…” He sighed in bliss. “I’ll admit it feels like lifetimes since I could really rest.” 

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

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

“Your safe return deserves to be celebrated. You haven’t stayed here since you were with the Expedition!” 

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

“The last time you could really rest, you mean?” Zefymi gave a playful swat. “You flatter me.”

“No. It’s the truth.” Blay paused, holding the second bowl of stew halfway to his mouth. “My head hasn’t felt the softness of a pillow since my last Storm’s Eye bed.” 

“But that was weeks ago.” The cheer fell from Zefymi’s face as knots of worry took hold. 

Blay set down the bowl and crunched into a hard, burnt corner of bread. The stench of stew tasted sickly sweet to him. He shoved the bowl away, and washed his throat with scalding water. “Hold on… Don’t dare tell me. ” Zefymi’s voice went dark. “Have you been hunting?” 

 

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

 

Zefymi leaned away, twisting a lock of her orange hair with thick, callused fingers. “Nothing’s changed…?” she echoed. Blay tore off more of his second loaf, crunching and chewing as Zefymi sighed, again and again.

 

 At last, the great woman bore forward, rocking the table and forcing him to sit back. “Hunting alone isn’t nothing, Blay. It changes everything!” The surrounding din dropped low, as nearby guests paused with drinks halfway to lips. 

 

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

“Why? Oh why. Because I’m apparently the only person here who cares whether you continue living.” She was standing now, like a great monolith towering over him. Her green dress billowed as someone stepped inside, letting in a gust of wind, yet she would not shiver.

Blay took a massive bite and chewed. He tasted nothing. 

“You want to die, is that it?” Zefymi said. “You want to lie rotting on the Thicket floor with the rest of the 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 hunt’s been fruitless. The last time I met a draysk was the day the swarm attacked. I have not since then found even a single draysk path.” 

“Then I dare say you’ve been lucky. Recall that you came to me after that same swarm attacked. Your first thought was of the Storm’s Eye. Your first thought, of home! That was one good judgment of you. One! If you told me then, in the wake of their doom, that you meant to keep hunting…” Zefymi gave a haughty huff. “I’m sorry to say, but I would have kept you here. In chains, if needed.” 

“I would not have let you,” Said Blay. “After the attack, I had but one wish. To find each of our attackers, and end them.”

“End?”

“Tear the wings off, then the heads. Or cut the abdomens, it matters not.” 

 The table groaned, bringing Blay’s awareness to his gripping fingers, clamped around the edge. 

“Where have you been?” pleaded Zefymi. 

Blay inhaled slowly, watching the innkeeper’s thick, ringed fingers quiver.

“Deepthicket,” he answered. 

“Of course!” She let burst. “Deepthicket is all around us. I’ll wait for the story.” She stepped back, just out of striking distance. 

“…Okay.”

Blay willed his mind to return to Deepthicket…

 

Darkness. Pressed in from every side by spear-tip branches, and itchy, infested bramble. All was jumbled. It seemed impossible to separate threads of time from the dark drone. 

 

Whatever the truth, Zefymi left no choice. He had to try. Try to describe something. 

 

 “I tried following our final path,” he started. “But… we’d… diverged from it. We’d gone deep that day. The swarm found us far from any 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. But… I couldn’t find them.” 

“Ah.” Zefymi sighed. “If you couldn’t find the fateful place, it’s lost. I dare say good. Better we remember them alive and hearty, riding, victory upon victory… and let that bloody graveyard remain imaginary to us.”
“Perhaps.” Blay heard himself distantly. The inn surrounding his body was just noise. He was inside again. Inside the Deepthicket, nearing his companions. 

 

“Hey there.” Zefymi reached over and squeezed his hand in hers. The clutch of her massive hand enclosed him. Even in tenderness, he felt the matron’s domineering strength. “Come back to me,” she coaxed. “I have better questions to ask.” 

He nodded. Zefymi kept holding. Heat was pouring from her hot blood, flowing into and warming his blood.

“Why?” She asked. “Why come home now, if you prefer hunting bugs out in the dark? Why?” She whispered. “Did you mereley come for a night’s rest for the sake of hunting better tommorow?”
“You have me figured.”

“Instanity,” she growled. She pulled away, wiping her sweaty palms thoroughly on her billowy green dress.
“My mind is made,” Blay said. “But go on if if you wish. I can hear your reasoning.”
“Right then. Shall we examine the facts? You numbered twenty-two before the swarm. Twenty-two young Bughunters, with weapons fresh from the forges, edges sharper than my tongue. Great copper nets,” she plowed. “Draysk bolts hard enough to trim my toenails. Yellow Dust, and other Tyrish things. Secrets from Lady Yellow which I never mention to others. But you lost. You’re finished, forever.” She exhaled, releasing a breeze of bitter rot. “Now how do you estimate your odds? Friendless. Weary and half-starved, with nothing but a dull sword and platemail that might as well be putty in their freakish fingers.” Zefymi lingered, puffing bitter cider breath and squinting down.
“My odds are not high,” he answered. “Though you should know I still keep my sword quite sharp.”
“Correct. You could still live a life, if only you weren’t so set on self-sacrifice.”
“I appreciate these concerns.” Blay placed his hand on Zefymi’s. “But this is my choice. You’ve done all you can. I won’t belittle you with false promises.”
Zefymi’s lip curled, but she sat back into her chair, then excused herself from the table, leaving Blay alone.

‘Finished forever.’ Her dark words rung inside him. Hadn’t the Bughunters been more than twenty-two brave hearts? More than their sum of training? My companions may be gone, but Hale’s son has reminded me of something. Our deeds yet live. Our fame is alive. Perhaps Queen Layla still sees usefulness in that. Would she give me her coin to me a second time? If I pleaded well, would she resurrect us?

The Bughunters resurrected. For a few dazzling moments, he saw it. Twenty-one souls, brave and bright, plus one veteran of old: their leader.
But the vision drowned to nothing. For even with Queen Layla’s coin to furnish them, the Bughunters were all dead.

Zefymi returned with a mug of cider. The smell, sour-bitter, wafted to Blay’s nose. “I have no wish to tempt you,” said Zefymi. “But I can see our conversation darkening the more.” She took a great swig and set down her mug, then slowly raised it to her lips again.

A white flash through the windows illuminated clouds of pale smoke, which hung over the huddled guests. Thunder followed, rattling the windowpanes as the drinking hall fell dim. Sheets of rain slapped against the inn’s paint-chipped outer walls of white. Blay found himself lulled by the pleasing, senseless noise. His worries released into the comforting din of downpour. He gave a huge yawn, bones aching with the need to rest. The moments merged into a single stillness.

 

Blay bolted up as big knuckles knocked against his breastplate. Instinctively, he grabbed his scabbard, palm to hilt of sword, fingers wrapping, drawing the blade.
“Awake!” The Inkeeper snapped her fingers in his face.
Blay jolted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drift off,” he said, fingers relaxing as his let his sword slide back inside the scabbard. “Really. I’m sorry. It’s been long since I could let my guard down.”

“None harmed,” she chuckled. “Sometimes, a wink of sleep is enough to clean your mind. On a night like this, there’s nowhere better in the world than an inn.” Zefymi downed the last of her mug, raising a thick finger to hold her turn in conversation. “Well,” she said, “Perhaps, one may argue, in the arms of a lover!” She pondered him with merry eyes, exploring the weathered armour fitted around his body like cold skin. “But you couldn’t feel it, could you? Stars be dark if you’d know even the first thing. Hint: You can’t keep armour on in bed.” Upon noticing Blay’s grim look, she finished laughing. “But no, no. No inn in the world endures the tides of time like this!” She gave the table a hard, proud knock. “That’s why we Stoneyfolk named it Storm’s Eye. Your home, Blay Bughunter, is a true sanctuary for survivors.”
“I can believe that,” said Blay, casting his gaze over the motley gatherings of guests. “This place… is where the homeless come to huddle.”
“Well now,” Zefymi gathered herself. “After a restful sleep, and a hot, hardy breakfast, you’ll begin finding more reasons to stay.”
Blay snorted. “Your vagrants don’t interest me. I’m here to rest.”
“Bards would pay just to share a mug of cider with you. Not share, but. Oh, come. Don’t be ignorant. Your pride is worth nothing, as if the bards don’t sing your stories already.”
“They sing our stories?”
“Oh, aye. There’s ‘Morgan’s Swarm,’ ‘The Final Battle of the Bughunters,’, ‘The Dark Revenge of-”
“Enough!” Spit sprayed with the word as Blay fought the urge to rise. Hands shaking, he forced himself quiet. “Let us speak of something else now. Is your Storm’s Eye still profitable?”

“Oh, Aye,” Zefymi huffed. “Much more since your last visit, in fact. Night after lively night. Giri can hardly grow back the skin on his little fingers before he rubs them raw. People flock here to my light when the dark out there is strange and uncertain. I see them, Blay. They huddle around my tables discussing rumours, or hatching their own. They mix lies with truth until the common story is so diluted that it ceases to be report, and turns instead into a fable, describing only the persuasions and opinions of those who made it. Oh, I see everything and more. Of late it’s grown much worse.”

 

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Well besides the obvious, you’ve heard the terrible news haven’t you?” 

“The swarm appeared?”  

Zefymi frowned. “Our queen, Blay.” 

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

“She’s gone.” 

“What? How?” Blay wondered if he’d misheard the woman. “A voyage?”

“No, dead.”

Blay was stunned. “How…?”

“Oh, how… the question with seven thousand answers, each more onerously concocted than the last. I’ll answer straight. No Stoneyfolk truly knows.” 

“There must be something.” Blay frowned, feeling an old itch tickling inside his belly. “We must know her cause of death, at least. Or has she disappeared? Perhaps she could still be alive somewhere…”
The huge woman took a sombre swig.
“Zef, please. There must be a common thread from all the tales you’ve heard. 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 humbled. “You could say anything next, and I would believe the same.”
“Then believe this, Blay. I pity you. Another one of your loved ones lost. I don’t blame you for wanting to understand. Just…” Slowly, she offered him her hand, but he withdrew.
“Just answer me,” he said.
“Alright.” Zefymi downed the last of her mug, releasing a great sigh.

 

“As the story goes, Layla was alone in her bed chamber. Many think she must’ve tipped over her bedlamp, but alas. She caught aflame somehow. Her Mahersguard, stationed in the watchtowers, noticed a red glow coming through the curtains. But they were watching the wall below her window, and saw no one try to climb it.”

“The Guardsmen inside the Blackfort must’ve ran when they heard her shrieks.”
“Except she made no noise. The first sign of something wrong inside the Blackfort was a smell like burning coal. Her Guardsmen rushed to the bedchamber, and saw smoke creeping from the crack beneath her door. A crowd gathered as they were trying to get inside, and when the Gaurdsmen broke down her door, they found her body smouldering inside. Curled up by the bedside. She could only be identified by the rings she bore, melded with the flesh of her fingers.”
“By the stars. A fire that strong must’ve burned the Blackfort empty.”
Zefymi shook her head. “Nothing was burnt but the body.”
“Well she had a dark end. But no one, not even Queen Layla, is immune to simple luck.”
Zefymi laughed. “Of every explanation… we Stoneyfolk convereged on the idea she sacrificed a sick woman. A powerless criminal, without nobility, but of Layla’s shape and size. Burned wearing the queen’s rings.”
“Why say it? Why invent such-”
“They say she wanted to escape the pressure to marry.”
“It has some sense, that theory. Many women would willingly volunteer, in exchange for Layla’s favour. And wouldn’t her bedsheets be ashes? Unless the corpse was plaaced there after. But this doesn’t sound like Layla’s work at all. But what do you think, Zefymi?”
“I think tales are living things. They grow. In my years, I’ve come to see the plain and simple ones tend closer to the truth. I believe our queen suffered a strange accident. Rare, surely, but no more.”

 

Blay looked up. A grey-faced man had risen from his table and stumbled over to them, eavesdropping on their conversation. As Zefymi finished speaking, she turned to see him creeping from behind.  Pressing a steadying hand to the back of Zefymi’s chair, the grey-faced man spoke in a gravel-throated voice. “Aye,” he said, “and when they buried her four nights later, her corpse was smoking. Even now, our queen still smoulders.” His wide eyes met Blay’s. Dark and watery, they were full of drunken awe. Blay met the grey gaze with a crystalline eyes, making his face of stone.

 

Shaking in anger, Zefymi rose to bellow, “Giri!”