Starsinger

Letters

Malcolm tapped his ring finger against the wood impatiently. The fire in the hearth was guttering as he sat hunched over his writing desk, and the night chill was creeping into his joints.

He had been staring at the pile of letters for hours, until the words began to run together like spiders crawling over the parchment. Too many letters, he thought grimly. Every missive increased the chance that someone might intercept a letter they weren't supposed to, and Malcolm had no desire to draw attention to himself. Not now. Not when we're so close.

He fingered a torn scrap of a note, crumpled in the sender's haste to attach it to the hawk. For days he'd been mulling over the sloppily scrawled words: She's on the move.

Even now, Malcolm felt a tiny thrill shudder through him, an echo of what he felt that day at the palace when he'd first recognized her for what she was. After all those years of searching, she had finally surfaced. He had almost given up. It seemed only fitting that she had been hidden right under his nose the entire time, just out of reach, almost as if to intentionally torment him. Who says the gods don't have a sense of humor?

Now that his quarry had left the henhouse, he would have to move quickly. The letters were an unavoidable liability. He needed to know what was happening on the ground. He needed to ensure all the pieces were properly arranged before the Cycle arrived.

He needed to catch her. Another shiver swept through him. The hunt begins.

In one violent motion Malcolm swept the pile of letters off his desk and into the fire. Only when he saw the dry parchment edges begin to curl in on themselves and the broken seals melt into blobs of wax did he release the tension in his bony shoulders.

His eye caught on the black letter, still folded neatly on the far corner of his desk. He wouldn't burn that one, dangerous as it was. The dark parchment made him nervous. Even the wax seal was black, stamped with the markings of a star, a moon and a jagged swirl.

Would the black paper even burn? It was too conspicuous – yet another reason Malcolm preferred to meet with his mysterious allies in person. For all their usefulness, they lack a certain sense of discretion. Still, he would never dare critique their methods. They were the most crucial element in this plan, and by far the most dangerous. His father would be proud.

No, he would be afraid. But then, father was always too soft to do what was necessary.

Atop the fireplace a warm orange light began to glow. Finally. Its twin had been activated again. Malcolm quickly snatched the glittering amberglass from its sconce and held it cradled in his palms.

The amberglass sent a flood of sensations cascading through his mind. He saw a dusty path, the lush glint of sunlight on a patch of dark berries, felt an urgent need in the pit of his stomach and his tongue. He saw a town all covered in green, with strange flickering lights. Fierce terror clutched his heart and his lungs wheezed from strain. An image of a young man with ash-brown hair and dreamer's eyes sitting by a fire. Behind him curved a rock wall dotted with quartz. The letters of a word crystallized before Malcolm's eyes. Glenburrow.

He grinned. Found you.