Rose from the River bristles suddenly. “Foxes! Wishes! Ha!” Her cheeks are darker than dark, her flowers are blooming in delicate purples all up and down her braids, and she very deliberately does not look at him. “Do you think I can let myself be distracted? There is so much to do, so much that should be done! Do you think that little princess will see herself where she needs to be on her own? So that I can go and ask a fox for something I could do for myself?”
She is not lying, not precisely, but she is betraying herself. She has had dealings with foxes before, and she knows that she will be tempted to be vulnerable around them, and allow them to take liberties with her, and she knows, too, that she is not supposed to be going and playing with fluffy-tailed tricksters. She needs to get Chen somewhere important, she needs to find Yue the shepherdess, she needs nails to finish this fence, she…
No! She is not going to go from indulgence to indulgence! When she straightens up, it is with flashing and furious eyes. Furious, that she should be so revealed. Furious, that she does not want to follow the subtle nudges of the Way because she is distracted by memories of a fox. Furious, that she gave him the opportunity and he failed her test anyway.
“If you owe me, Watchman,” she says, as dangerous as a cobra’s flared hood, with a voice as level as a sword’s edge, “then you can give me the nails to fix this, and then go hopalong with your master to go and wish for fox-treasures. Of course you know that it’ll come from someone else’s hands, don’t you? And that the fox will go and sing their pretty song to half of the Nine Kingdoms until someone wishes for that treasure to come to them instead? It’s a rare fox that’s got an inch of kindness in her tails! And what do you mean for an offering, hmm?”
The question coils in the air. There are few options left to the god. He can tuck his tail between his legs and run, if he still has some humility clinging to him. Or he can answer her implicit challenge, send her nails from the barrel of his gun, to see if she can snatch each one out of the air or if he will manage to pin her humble tank-top to the boards of the fence. Or he can suggest to his master that here is a prize that a fox would give heaps of gold and jewels for.
She’s all tangled up in guilt, see. To help her into her vices requires taking her culpability out of it, sneaking it behind her back when she’s pretending not to look. She hasn’t been a good enough monk, has she? Not a bit. So here she is, trying to be better, trying to be good for everyone and to show them the proper walk of the Way, but one hint of a fox’s brush promising her even more enjoyable distractions and she’s gone bristly as a boar and dark as a plum.
Now, if only he had a Princess to dangle in front of her. But she’s got the one already, and another on the way. All Princessed up, and in a direction that’s not on his way. No, the only way to get her to indulge is to toss her in the trunk of that car.
***
“It’s not hard to tell you’re security,” the fox says to him with the same cocky sort of look that half the princesses— no, Princesses. There’s a difference in how it’s written and how it’s said. But half the Princesses have that arrogant, knowing look on lockdown, like they have all the answers already. Like they’ve seen everything before them and dismissed any possible danger with a floof and a fluff, and for all that this world doesn’t have many dangers left, it still feels presumptuous to him. He sighs, looking her up and down; she’s all frills and lilac lace, the bustle of her ballgown hiding the number of her tails. Ruddy orange-brown ears poke out of her coiffed hair, and when they are straight up, they peek just above his head; he suspects heels. He is a tower looking over the ebb and flow of the party, and here comes a fox to pull his eyes away, like he isn’t trained to thread sensory data.
“Whatever gives you that impression?” Probably the suit. It is a very carefully chosen indigo, a suggestion of color that will become darker than black when his Lady flares her heart. The contrast with his alabaster skin and white-gold hair is pleasing to her, and First of the Radiants lives to please her, in any way that she desires. He is the sword that fits perfectly in her hand; he is the sanctified monster that she keeps on a holy leash.
“You’re so stiff,” she purrs. The look he gives her is flat. The worst pickup line he’s heard in… no. Posture. Ah. Maybe he is. But isn’t a knight supposed to be at the ready? The festivities are loud and garish. Ysian dancers dominate the ballroom, half-dressed and gyrating to the beat of drums and flutes from a dozen different cultures. An obvious distraction from Ysel. Princess Ysel. The real challenge of the evening will be watching for her move: where her soldiers will storm the ballroom, where they will attempt to cut off exits, the shortest path that he can take to Yin to defend her while she casts Ysel down and defeats the army by cutting off the head. And thinking about his posture is going to distract him. But the perfect knight has to be able to show courtesy. Another test. One he will pass. He will earn this.
“You will have to forgive my ignorance,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “What, exactly, do you foxes… do?” The implication is vicious enough. I am a trusted knight, a Handmaiden, who is on a path to become the Countess of the Radiant Lands. You are a fuzzy little trickster and I see through you, even if I don’t know the specifics. There’s a dizzying amount to learn about this new world, after all, and foxes weren’t quite at the top of the list. And, like clockwork, the fox (vixen?) puts one hand (paw?) on her chest and gives him a dramatically offended look.
“Why, you don’t know?” By Yin’s elbow, a dancer comes perhaps too close; a shadow lingers just a moment too long at a window; the maddening whirl demands more and more processing as the drums swell. “We grant wishes. Whatever the heart wants most. And since you are a very special someone indeed, I might be persuaded to give you a free sample.” The lure is transparent. His eyes flutter up for a moment in exasperation.
“So if I were to tell you that my heart’s deepest desire is to be ready to defend my Lady Yin? Surely there isn’t anything you can give me that I don’t already have.” He does have it all. Shining armor. Squires. The love of a Princess. Anything he wants is at his disposal, as Yin’s consort-in-training. Through her generosity, he could have pearls, white rings, a cape in furs and cloth-of-gold, jewels; if he expresses dissatisfaction with anything, she will order it removed and changed for him, and that is why he does not express dissatisfaction with anything. That and that there is nothing to be dissatisfied with, yes. Yes.
On the bandstand, an electric sitar begins to play, jaunty and full of bounce, played by a heavy young woman with golden bangles and a broad grin. A Baron, and one of some repute, if the wild cheering is any indication. The noise is enough that no one can hear the whisper of the fox, as she leans into his shoulder, fingers taking his hand and squeezing, not maliciously, but with some strangely overfamiliar tenderness. Perhaps he has misjudged her, he thinks for just a moment; she is not attempting to distract him, but rather she is the sort of wild fool who thinks that she can seduce the chosen of Princess Yin, perfect and radiant, the Anahata of the Radiant Mercy School, the auspicious ruler chosen by Heaven. Then he hears her whisper: “I know why you won’t let yourself look at the dancers.”
He should say something. He can’t. His throat just isn’t working. She has him by the hand. Everything, the whole of it, there was nothing dangerous in here expect for her all along. She’s tempting him. Leading him out into open air. He can’t. He shouldn’t. What would Yin say? What would Yin say about what, exactly? What does he think she’s offering him? What does she think he wants? Maybe she thinks he’s guilty of a wandering eye. She’s going to flash her navel at him and offer to let him collar her. He can say no to that. If that’s all. He knows he is owned. He is pure in that he is only used by one. She has taught him so much. What is the fox offering?
“Come with me,” she says, laying out her trap so neatly. And he doesn’t know yet if it’s one that he can escape. He shouldn’t take that step. It won’t be what he is eagerly terrified it is. Then the traitor-thought envelops him like a serpent: if it is not a trap that can catch him, then he will seize the fox that thought herself clever and present her to Yin as a gift. Perhaps some time as a songbird will make the fox eager to sing about her employers. Following her is the clever thing to do. It’s not wrong. He can make it right.
But he is half-blind as she leads him by the hand, so obsessed with the fear that he will be seen and marked that he only slowly realizes that she has indeed taken him backstage. There are no stagehands; did she arrange this, or is it simply luck? There are rooms set aside for Barons here, and it is to one that she draws him. The room is dark; she only opens the door a crack and pulls him inside, slamming it shut behind them. He flexes and takes her wrist in his hand, ready to fight both her and whoever she has with her, ready to take her by the ears and beg for mercy. He is a fine knight, but he was born a better hunter.
Then, with a wave of her hand, the soft lighting flickers on. It is shadowy, low, and makes the narrow room seem like it could contain multitudes. And the amethysts drink in that light. His grip tightens but now he is holding onto her for support. He’s going to fall over. His heart is throbbing, almost painful. It’s impossible and frightening because of how much he wants. He’s not supposed to want. He’s supposed to be what she needs him to be. She saved him. “I can’t,” he stammers. His ears pulse with heat.
“You can,” the fox says. “I know wishes. And your heart sings in the empty places you deny yourself, because if you let yourself want things, you’d risk wanting things that she doesn’t want. Isn’t that right?” Her fingers slip down his chest, and buttons come undone as smoothly as if she’d cut them with a knife, an impossible magic.
It isn’t until she comes to his belt that he blurts out, again, cheeks ruddy with betraying fire, “I can’t. I won’t…”
The slim trousers snake down his legs. The fox stops and cocks her head.
“Oh,” she says, and he can hear the suppressed laughter. It hurts. He tries to push her back.
“I’m not going to be a joke, fox--”
She lays one finger on his lips.
“You’re not going to be.” She cups him, pushes Yin’s delight back against his legs. “Trust your Auntie Sa-chan. I promise you that you will look just like you always wanted. Not a joke. Not a billboard.” So she’s seen those, too. Down in the Burrows. “I am a fox, darling. And we work in wishes. And you don’t want to be laughed at.” She guides him to step into some unusually thick undergarments, and when she pulls them up to his hips, he’s flat, not sexless as he once was but… “You want to be beautiful.” She smiles, like she’s sharing a joke between the two of them. “And we can’t have your Princess hogging all the beauty for herself, now, can we?”
She guides him over to the mannequin. The thin silk is the color of spring flowers, lavender and vervain. He’s uselessly thinking that over and over as she helps him into it. Lavender and vervain and plum-flowers. It whispers against his smooth skin, loose and revealing, decorative. As if he was just another of the dancers offering a distraction. Just a decoration. And that’s not how he thinks of, of the Princesses, but… but he wants to think it of the dancers. Because he wants to be one of them. He always has, from the first time he saw them in this soft and gentle new world, because they are something delicate and lovely and kept close, because they are beloved but objectified, and he’s never been allowed to simply be the figure of want, all eyes on him. Except that’s not quite right, is it? He’s Yin’s trophy. But the shape is wrong. His shape is wrong. And this… this is right. It makes him feel almost right.
He knows he can’t become this. There are other shapes that are worrying at him. A Way, still here, still believed in despite all he did to stamp it out. Something older and truer than him. Much is called to those to whom is given much. And while the cult surrounding his Princess is wrong, laughably wrong, it is their intepretation and not… but he does not think about it. He lets himself believe, if only for a moment, that this is who he can be.
Finally she reveals her tails, so many of them, and each one is curled around a brush, a comb, a palette. He obediently closes his eyes and lets her drape spring over his lids, scatter stars in his lashes, dust his high cheeks with life, bring crushed plum to his lips. His stomach twists with delight as she gathers his pale hair.
When she guides him in front of the mirror and tells him to open his eyes, it is the bravest thing he has done since he awoke in this age. And when he does, it does not matter that he is tall, it does not matter that the silk lies flat on his chest, it does not matter that he is still in this form Yin breathed into him. He is radiant. The way he toys nervously with his fingers, the shy glance through glittering lashes, these things just make him feel more right. Happier. His hair lies in a tail draped against his neck, caught up with a jade barette, and amethysts radiate from his slim collar to his low neckline, caught on invisible threads, looking as if they are simply part of him, as if he is a princess’s doll. The billowing trousers are low on his hips, scandalously so, and a deep violet gem flashes in his navel.
“May I?” It is the first question that the fox-- that Sa-chan has offered him in some time. He should be worried about Yin. He should thank her for his… for this. He should leave and go and help her, doubtless under attack by Ysel’s ruffians, or soon to be. But the silk in her hands is the thickest that he would wear, perfect for hiding his lips, his nose, his chin, drawing all eyes to his eyes. He nods, still not trusting his voice, and she sets the loops carefully about his ears. He shivers and suddenly feels as if he is going to cry. And he can’t! He would ruin his eyeliner, not to say anything about his lashes!
So he stares and he stares and he turns from side to side and admires the slimness, the leanness, the way he is turned into a delectable sylph of a… of a dancer. If he walked out there right now, would they know? Would they see him? Or would they see a boyish young woman doing her best to draw attention to her femininity? Would he… he wouldn’t know the first thing about how to dance. He didn’t let himself watch. He’d end up shaking his ass in circles as everyone laughed at him. Better to stay here. Safe.
“Usually, I don’t do this for free,” Sa-chan says to him. “And I haven’t. I was paid quite a bit to draw off Yin’s bodyguard, you know. But that’s as much as I was paid for; you can still go and be the hero, if you want.” He turns, stupid, off-balance again, and finds her offering the hilt of his sword, thin and wicked silver. But when he reaches out on instinct, she lifts it ever-so-slightly out of reach. “You can, but you don’t have to.”
She meets his eyes, and there is a… there is a kindness there, hidden behind the glee at her own cleverness. One that says that she is happy at his happiness. That she did this for money and her own satisfaction and her own caprice, but that she is not quite done granting wishes, either.
And in the face of what she is offering, he cannot be strong and noble and chivalrous. He cannot take the blade and shove her aside and charge out like some sort of battle-dancer. Because she is giving him the choice to choose the dream he’d kept hidden and close tight inside of him. And he does not know if it is programming that makes his body light and airy, and he does not know if he is doing a right thing or a wrong thing, and all he knows is that he would regret it every day if he did anything else.
First of the Radiants offers her wrists to Sa-chan, who smiles like only a fox can.
“Good girl.”
And when the Radiant Knights arrive, they will take hours to find their redeemed captain, because none of them think that releasing the squirming, helpless dancers backstage is a priority when they have a captain and a Princess alike to save. And they will assume that he was hidden among the dancers so that they would not find him for a long time, and they will be very right; and they will assume that this was why First of the Radiants was dressed so, and they will be very wrong.
The last piece is the eyepatch. It suggests motive for joining the Order: if you’re missing one anyway, why go through regrowth therapy when you have the perfect opportunity to get an upgrade? The strap breaks the silhouette of her green bangs, and the skull-molded cap sits perfectly from the bridge of her nose to the corner of the socket, hiding that unnatural blue. Nobody will give her a second look; she’s just a spunky little acolyte here to fetch and carry and transcribe for her master.
“To the end, follow the Path,” she says, bowing with one arm crossed over her chest. “Your will be done, Navicularius Saeculāris.” Captain, not of the Order. It is amazing what little bits manage to stick in her head, isn’t it?
There might actually be a chance she manages to stay incognito, as long as Iskarot can keep an eye on her and nobody pleads for heroic assistance within earshot and also someone distracts Hera. Which is unlikely, but tantalizingly possible.
Rose from the River considers the god’s words carefully as she works the flock back through the gap in their pasture fence. So rapt in thought is she that the goat almost manages to sidle right past her to make a second run at that tether. Almost, but not quite; one hand takes the goat’s horn again and gently rotates him in a circle so that he once again faces the paddock that the herd is inexorably filling once more.
“One thing still amazes me every day,” she says, finally. “The hidden name of this world is Freedom. I am free, certainly, but not only that, they are free.” She gestures to the technomancer and the Princess, still wiggling in the mint leaves. “The heavy yoke that lay on everyone has been broken into pieces for all of us. It guided them down furrows of profit motive and market optimization, and we followed as the plow follows the ox. And now? The only question is not whether something is profitable to do, but whether something is right to do.”
She lifts up a particularly troublesome little lamb in one arm; he bucks and squirms but is as helpless as Princess Chen, a comparison that would make the girl quite sheepish. “And yet how are we to decide what is right? We are set in our ways, things like us. If we think ourselves wise, we will either run in the furrows or play between them. I thought I was doing the latter when I was unearthed and rose to serve at the right hand of a Princess, but I could not escape the furrow. I went from serving one master to another, and it took a new breath for me to realize I was stuck on that same path.” She manages to get the lamb over the fence, even though he puts his hooves up on a slat and bleats indignantly at her upon reaching the ground.
Rose from the River meets the eyes of his mask. She no longer hides her nature, despite the risk she runs from being recognized by those who might seek Qiu’s favor. She has had enough of concealing herself through changing shape for one lifetime; now she does it to reveal herself. Her eyes are careful, and requires intent for her gaze to not be predatory by instinct, but she manages. See how she relaxes and does not tense for a strike. See how she patiently guides a ram’s head away from chewing at her belt. This is a creature that has learned how to change both inside and out, even if she is not always able to change completely.
“I require no payment, Watchman,” she says, simply. “Guiding the flock back to safety is worthy in and of itself, I think. The road is meant to be traveled, and these travelers... yes, allowing them passage feels right. This wood was not broken in the fulfillment of the Way.” She kneels and takes the broken fencing from where it lies. She could set it right, if she had the nails. She does not ask; she allows the Watchman to make his own choice as to whether he will offer.
[Rose from the River rolls an 8 to Figure Out the figure that I have named the Watchman. Let me offer these questions, and take one in return: what do you hope to get from your life? what are your feelings towards the driver of the car?]
Your ears prick up. You have just heard the last words of some fool. There he is, white-painted, black-clad, eyebrowless, impossible blue hair falling in thick ringlets, standing vigil next to the Test of Strength, which he is attempting to entice a sheepish-looking axolotl to spend a ticket on. Fabulous Prizes! Enticing Delights!
“If even she could win a prize,” the clown rasps, “then you’ve got it in the bag. Give it a try.”
The look that the axolotl gives you is shy and quickly flicks away, seeing you in a light that the clown obviously does not, much to his imminent misfortune.
***
Lucien!
“You know,” Professor Pagliacci says, “you could get more than fried pickles here, my boy. Out of everyone here— well, my students are too headstrong and sure they’ll find some mystic knowledge at the bottom of this hellhole, and the Engineer has his duty to tend to, but you don’t have an obligation to fulfill down there. You could stay, you know. Find a new purpose. The clowns actually have a meaning of life down here, one that I am close to grasping. Follow in my footsteps, lad; there’s life here and death waiting further below.”
***
Jackdaw!
Wolf growls something that might be thanks around the stickiness of the candied apple. She’s been slowly putting on some weight, but is still standoffish. If she had an out, she’d probably take it, but going off? On her own? In the Heart? She survived Wormwood Station by being smarter than that, probably.
Still, is it right to bring her along? You’re going into even more dangerous territory. Maybe the moral thing to do would have been to volunteer to take her back up. What if she’s eaten by clowns, Jackdaw? What if she’s tossed full of knives while strapped to a spinny wheel and you’re the last person she ever looks at because you fed her and that means she put her trust in you and instead you’re taking her deeper into danger?
You need to figure out exactly how you’re going to keep Wolf safe, because it is now totally and completely and definitely your responsibility and not something that she can do herself, because if she dies it’s going to be 1000% your fault and your fault alone.
***
Coleman!
Sasha takes in all that’s around her. Tell us a little more about how Sasha senses the world, how she might try to experience the stalls. Tell us as only one of the Engineers of the Vermissian could.
It would be very silly of you to get offended, wouldn’t it, Constance? Just because you can feel your heart hammering and your mind keeps twisting around to try and defend yourself, that doesn’t mean you should break your word. You said you were listening. So you will listen, even though you feel less like stone and more like a mudslide the longer you listen to him.
“The sword is not for me,” you say, very calmly. Such calm! Witness, birds and beasts and Cath Palug, your calm!! “It is for the rightful wielder. Unless you mean to say I will not recognize the rightful wielder when she comes.” You bring the box back to your chest and straighten up with smothering levels of calmness. “In which case, please, do reveal your wisdom, ageless one. And don’t even think of telling me that it’s you, because both Cath and I know that’s wrong.”
You squat there in the dust, river-daughter, the world having shifted underfoot. Just as well that you are the one here, that Robena does not have to try and keep her footing. You can handle the ways in which the world may change unexpectedly and dangerously in a moment.
“Why are you here, ageless one?” Several names are possible. Do not make an assumption before you are certain. Bend like the willow. “I am listening now.” The world around you is a still thing, easily drowned in his eyes. You are listening. What else could you do?
Ah, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Rose from the River frowns as she considers the scene before her, because she knows that there is a simple way to clear her path. Sheep are easily panicked; one Throat-Fortifying Breath and she could send sheep and peasants alike scattering, slipping on wet grass in frantic desire to return to a place of supposed safety from fangs and coils. It would save her time and effort.
But it would be like stirring up silt at the bottom of a lake. Satisfying at first in its swirls, still it would muddy the waters and make them unwholesome, impossible to see through. For we stumble through the world blindfolded, listening to a thousand instruments all around, and only with careful practice may we discern the pure flute of the Way, its soft notes audible even in the thunder of drums and the screech of electric strings.
And so it is that Rose from the River stops and unties one knot in the woolen scarf: the one that secures Chen as a bundle to her staff. Hoisting Chen under one arm, she approaches the assembled travelers with incongruous calm, as if Chen of the Twin Shards was as natural for a traveler to carry as a piglet or a lamb.
“Peace be with you,” she says to the woman who has paused in the erection of her tent. She bows, and Chen bows with her, feet in the air. “Forgive me, but I believe I may be of assistance with this flock. Please look after my companion.” This done, she sets Chen face-down into the mint that grows wild by the roadside.
This is another part of the game, after all. Chen will most likely be served tea while Rose works, and asked if she is all right, and if she wants her restraints loosened, and what news from her kingdom, and she will be just as safe as she was in Rose’s care. And if the little princess wants to break free, well, that just makes things more entertaining.
Rose does not, however, resist the temptation to pat Chen’s rump affectionately before shouldering her staff again and approaching the sheep. Can she be blamed for wanting to hear that flustered, muffled squeak again?
Now, for the sheep. She takes the goat by one horn and pulls him steadily away from the yeller’s wagon. Poor goat! How it scrabbles for purchase on the road, doing its best to resist and dig its hooves in, bleating complaints! And yet Rose does not so much as miss a step, her grip on the goat restrained but irresistible. “That’s enough mischief,” she says to it. “Come on. We’ve work to do, you and I.”
Once released among the flock, the goat might try to sneak back, but here he will find the path blocked. Rose from the River will not draw her blade for the likes of a herd of disorderly sheep, but her staff-play is more than fine enough for them. See how she hooks one end under the goat’s belly and lifts him up and around with a click of her tongue. See how she raps it on the road in order to guide sheep up and away.
Several sheep, perturbed by the beginning of what will be a successful herding, make a valiant attempt to scatter in the opposite direction, further down the road. Skillful Thorn Pilgrim! She vaults up on her staff and lands neatly in front of them, having performed a perfect Cloud-Passage Leap across the herd. What grace in her effortless ascent and landing! And what patience she shows with the miscreants, guiding them back towards the perturbed herd.
She is merely one woman, but she is Rose from the River, and she has hounded many in her long lives. Fortunate sheep! They will not be bound and carried off to those who would see them further oppressed! They need not fumble down sepulchral alleyways, blind and frantic with terror, split apart from the mass of humanity all around them by the knowledge that the thing that hunts them could be anyone, that any offer of shelter or assistance could be the jaws of a trap closing shut about them. They must instead simply fear the staff of Rose from the River striking the ground beside them or rapping their rump to get them moving. And instead of bleak cells that their credit will be charged for the privilege of occupying, drooling around black rubber and cuffed to a wall as they wait for Enhanced Interviewing, the sheep’s prison will be one of clover and mint and earth apples, and soft places to sleep until the long dawn.
Oh, Chen. Poor, sweet, innocent little Chen. The flash of those eyes is enough, isn’t it, for the Princess to suddenly understand that she has made a dreadful, delightful mistake. Maybe she could sputter and try to play it off as being intentional, but look at that blush! Rose from the River can feel the girl’s red cheek through the scarf, it’s so warm.
“Why, Your Majesty,” Rose purrs, draping the scarf around Chen in loose curls, suddenly and wickedly servile, “when asked so forcefully, how can your humble servant refuse? I shall return it to you at once, O Most Imperious Excellence!”
The strike, sudden and sure, is hidden by the scarf passing over Chen’s face. The river-washed fabric is pushed between those soft lips by two insistent fingers, getting it well-packed in her cheeks, making sure it’s pressing down her wagging tongue comfortably. Once satisfied that the Princess’s complaints (or are they rapturous thanks? with that expression, it might be difficult to tell) are appropriately (but not oppressively) muffled, Rose drags her fingers out of Chen’s mouth and wipes them off on the dark-haired girl’s bottom lip: front, back, front again. This done, she pats Chen’s comfortably filled cheek like one might indulgently show affection to a precocious child.
“There, a gift from me to you. Do try to hold onto it better than you held onto your sword, Chen of the Twin Shards.” She stops, leans in, cupping Chen’s face as she pretends to listen. “Oh, I assumed that you wouldn’t need help, but I suppose a girl your age needs accommodations from her elders now and then.”
The scarf is pulled firmly over Chen’s lips, pressed up on one side against the bottom of her nose ticklishly and cupped beneath her chin on the other as Rose knots it well behind the Princess’s hair. Of course, there’s quite a bit of scarf left, but rather than wrap it around and around Chen’s head until there’s nothing left poking out, not nose or lashes or hair, she slips either end around and around Chen: under her armpits, around her adorable tummy, and between her bound ankles. There’s just enough left over to secure the ends to the staff-form of the Conciliatory Ice-Star Blade.
So little Chen has gotten away easy in one sense, for Rose from the River has not covered that precious scarf with others, smelling of small pink flowers, to muffle her until she can make no more squeak than a mouse; but instead, she finds herself lifted into the air like a bindle as Rose from the River effortlessly hoists the staff onto her shoulder, one hand cupping its butt (and not Chen’s) to serve as counterbalance. The scarf digs in an unavoidable amount, but it is fluffy and large and Rose knows the art of suspension well enough to distribute her weight. (And, having only so much scarf and so much acquaintance, pointedly did not pull that scarf between Chen’s thighs.)
Imagine if anyone happened upon them now! Here Chen sways, a caught little trophy, gagged with her most beloved scarf and suspended from a traveler’s walking-stick by the very same, unable completely to hide herself in those strong arms! She is like a mountain-goat caught by the Sourcefall shepherds, except for the fact that she is, blessedly, right side up. She has all the time in the world to stop and admire the landscape while Rose moves with at a surprisingly steady clip down the road. That is, if she can avoid daydreams of her peers laughing at her and playfully swatting her unprotected rump as Rose from the River dangles her like a toy before them. Or of Rose walking through a Terrace-town with Chen swaying behind her, stared at by dumbstruck peasants, the tale of her defeat at the hands of a simple monk sure to spread! And, oh, whatever would Princess Qiu think?
But even as Rose continues on her way, a prickling knot twists inside of her. She did not need to feel such savage delight in battle; she could not keep herself composed, a weapon in the hands of a mighty yet subtle wind. She burst off her leash like an overexcited wolfhound, and left herself blind to the quiet signs and tugs of the Way. Even now it is difficult for her to focus on divining on which way her many-chambered heart is being led; her thoughts drift ever back to the Princess on her shoulder. That look as the gag was pulled tight! That look as she buried herself in Rose’s arms! Maybe she should stop and check on the Princess, tease her more (was it enough for the surrender offered?). Maybe she should... no. She has to shut her ears to the symphonies without so she can hear the faint melody of truth within. She is not allowed to tarry longer and seduce the pretty young thing until her head spins and her chest bounces and she begs wordlessly for kisses and more than kisses.
She is not allowed, because the knowledge that she would be trading personal pleasure for what is best for everyone hangs around her neck like a yoke. And like an ox in the field, Rose from the River obediently follows the switch on her flank and the tug on her ring, not looking back at the delicious meal just over her shoulder.
It has to be enough to know that she has made Princess Chen happy.
[Rose from the River feels Guilty about her indulgence, and takes -1 to Emotional Support until it is resolved, such as by sacrificing something important just to hurt herself, or by Emotional Support. She currently has 1 XP (because she does not miss rolls) and 1 String on Chen.]
Redana shrugs off her coat and begins to modify it distractedly. She had made it more military in aspect, thinking Vasilia would want to project strength: epaulettes, braids, and a double row of buttons. The buttons stay, but her fingers smooth out the rest of her decorations back into the fabric. Instead... something more Hermetic. Bella would know what to put on there. A wing? A talon? The wand? The tablet? An eye, ringed in feathered orange, bright and stark on the dark synthfabric.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, and not just because they have the right to travel among the stars. The Auspex makes something breathtaking out of the throbbing furnaces and intricate fields, magnetic and otherwise, like an impossible butterfly pinned against the glittering stars. Of course Mother forced them out here to be her hands and eyes and ears. If something like that hung like a second moon over Tellus, it would always be an implicit challenge, even if the entire Ceronian fleet sat on their haunches by its side.
Then she closes her eyes and focuses. Everything’s been so... so unreal. Ever since Baradissar. Ever since Bella. Ever since she was touched by Dionysus who makes women mad. If he had touched her differently, what would she have done to Bella? If he hadn’t touched her at all, would she have given in and been taken home by her, in her fury, with her threats?
Was Dionysus on her side at all, or was the Mirrored-Mask simply touching a coin as it spun through the air to make it land on its side?
What’s important is that Alexa is on her side. What’s important is that the Starsong Privateers believe in her. And so she believes in them, too.
“Awaiting your orders, Captain,” she says. There is, unconscious, underneath, her mother speaking through her. She does not ask Vasilia if she may be of use; she simply asserts that her place is, in this moment, doing whatever she can to assist Vasilia. Confidence. She has to have confidence. Alexa deserves that, at least.
And Alexa deserves the gentle look that Redana shoots her way as the princess pulls on her remade jacket. One that says: you got this. One that says: I’m thinking of you, so don’t worry. One that says: you’re not alone, Alexa.
”Now, at times, brothers in the Blood, a pilgrim will come crawling up to me and ask: why?
“Why?
“Why a carnival? We hold life everlasting, we hold the holy Transubstantiation, we are made pure by the Blood, and we run a sideshow and rides? Oh, tell me, Ringmaster, why do we have a riding wheel when ain’t nothing to look at but more of the Wound in the World all around? Where’s the castle, where’s the statues, where’s the seven thousand step temple?
“Well, I could tell you what I tell the pilgrims. I could tell you all that it’s because we’re called to be Life, and Life is ridiculous as much as it’s lethal— because, let’s face it, you and me are the only ones who get on the ride who won’t get off sooner rather than later! Yeah! Yeah, let me hear you, brothers! Whoop it up!
[pause for howling]
“So why shouldn’t we let our little operation be like the life of the uninitiate? Why shouldn’t we take our little grain of death and wrap it up in gaslight and grease paint and fried megagator? Why shouldn’t we tell the rest of the world the joke and laugh at them for not getting it?
“But let me lay the truth on you. That’s right, I’ll lay it on you righteous! That’s nothing but another hoop for them to jump through! Ain’t no choice in this!
“We hold the Dark Carnival, day and night, no matter how the Wound contracts around us, because it was here waiting when I got here. The lights were on, the sausages were hot, and I wondered who stepped away and left it running—
“But then I found the Grail, here, and it realized it don’t so much as matter if I don’t understand. We have got Eternity; and so this’ll be the last thing standing when all the other lights. go. out.”
***
The Dark Carnival smells of fried food and sugar-breath and dried blood.
The lights overhead are bright, bright enough to see by, but the cavern roof above (if this is a cavern) is nothing but a suggestion in the dark between the bulbs. And there is a crowd.
Some of the things that pass you are inhabitants of the Heart, almost-Angels. Some of the things that pass you are fellow delvers, looking for the exit, bristling when you get too chummy, as if you mean to take their supplies or their tickets. Some of the things that pass you are tall and cloaked and unfold spindly arms to play the Toss-a-Ball. And some, unfortunately, are clowns.
There is a conditional docility that lies upon them, saturates them, when they leer at you in greasy polka-dot aprons and lean casually against the posts of a ring toss. That you are safe, so long as you do not break the spell. If only you knew what was forbidden you! What in the Heart holds them back from the impossible, brutal violence promised in their bulging muscles and beetle-dark eyes, in their rows of teeth and their rust-brown nine-pins— and how you could avoid the forbidden secret that will cause them to tear you limb from limb, laughing and honking and praising the Holy Grail.
And you travel with a man who wants to become one.
“We’re going around in circles,” he says, confidently, “because we have not gone there.” He jabs his turkey leg at the massive red-and-burgundy Big Top that squats at the center of the labyrinth-carnival. From the food square, delineated by thin ribbons fluttering between posts, it seems deceptively easy to get to, as if five minutes (surely ten at most) would get you there. “The Grail knows. I am ready. I have witnessed the death of Wormwood Station; I have passed through the Stations, if you will forgive the joke. We must go there, comrades. And when my honor guard brings me before my apotheosis... then you will be allowed to leave. The signs are clear.”
Shrieks ring out above the tents. They coincide with the dreadful rattle of the Jet Courser, but correlation is not necessarily causation. Wolf continues to stuff coleslaw tins into her coat.
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