Page 95 of South of Nowhere

And she disconnected without waiting to hear her husband’s own words of farewell.

41.

Now, the despised guards on the other side of the wall, Arana Braveblade walked to the far edge of the garden, the spot from which if you stood tipatoe you could see the village and—thrillingly—Fraeland, to the East of Central Realm. The wind bathed her skin, the sun graced her hair and shimmered it golden before the broodclouds returned.

She had spent hours here in the garden, avoiding Thamann Hotaks and his minions—and most everyone else in the castle. She would tend the herbs, practice spells and look through the foul air that hung like a stale cloak about the village in hopes of catching a glimpse of those lands.

And dream of her escape and reunion with her brother and the other villagers Hotaks had kidnapped, each because of his or her special talent that he jealously coveted.

Was Nathon still alive? His skill at steel shearing was unparalleled. But he also had a way of speaking his own mind—to his detriment.

And the others?

A faint rain had arisen and it whispered, “Wait no longer, wait no longer!”

She stuffed the herbs she needed into a pouch and crushed them together. This velvet bag she slipped into the forbidden pocket of her blouse, just over her heart.

She recited the incantation—and in uttering these particular words, committed a death-by-steel offense.

Would it work?

Yes!

Shimmering and humming, a Blue Strayer appeared before her, resembling the sleigh in which she and Nathon would gleefully ride down the hillsides in the snow when the family went to the mountains for the LowSun holiday.

The Old Times.

The Happy Times.

She inhaled deeply and climbed inside. She felt an odd sense that it was grateful for being conjured. She wondered if it was aware of existing in the OffState tired of its condition and impatiently awaiting materialization. Or did it sleep, dreamless like the dead, until brought to life?

Whatever was the case, the Strayer now closed the sides tightly around her, as if a hug of gratitude. Did she hear a voice?

Some said Strayers had a heart and soul.

And could be more intelligent than many people.

She bent to the ground and retrieved what she’d hidden here one stormy night, when even the guards were sheltering. She gripped the sword’s hilt and lifted it, still in the scabbard, and slipped the weapon into the Strayer beside her.

She now looked to the horizon.

To the place where she could be herself, out from under the heel of Thamann Hotaks.

There would be no need to be a Somewhat Person any longer.

She leaned forward and whispered, “Mym Vayantos!”

Take me away!

The Strayer rose slightly off the ground, as if studying the wall, and then with no warning surmounted it like a horse taking a jump.

Arana Braveblade inhaled a deep breath as they plummeted straight down, toward the cluster of buildings that was the village, growing bigger and bigger with every passing fraction.

—

All right, hold on, Fiona Lavelle thought, gazing down at the passage in her notebook, which was twice the thickness as when she’d bought it, because of the ink and coffee and soda stains—a few ketchup blotches too.

The pages were filled with her handwritten prose—and also many angry and frustrated and exasperated cross-outs. One thing about writing by hand, and not on a computer: your limitations stared you in the face; they weren’t banished into the ozone like bits and bytes when you deleted on Word.

---