Hide Your Fires

Chapter Ten: Myriad Ghosts

Let's make this quite clear: I don't believe breaking and entering should be a crime in and of itself. Intentions matter, and mine aren't bad. Really. Stealing isn't on my to-do list today. Learning is.

Surviving is.

Unfortunately, it's not the only thing on my poor bird's mind.

"Shideh!" I hiss, running toward her on tiptoes through the cluttered hall. "What are you doing?!"

Vases shake. Bowls rattle. Shideh sways like a felled tree, but she collapses before I can reach her. She drops onto a conveniently placed sofa where she languishes like a tragic princess.

"Shideh!"

It's not her fault. I know it's not. She's sick, and she's tired. My poor bird came into this world with Death's wind ruffling her feathers. Long have we been out in the cold. We can hide for a while, but if the history of the family Gorrah has taught me anything, it's that the cold always slips in through the cracks.

Shaking my head, I return to my tomes, my questions, my hopes. Shideh is not the Korsa of myth. She is no threat to a god. Her beak is a prize, of course... but what could it do against weapons of starlight, weapons of effervescent gold? Why does Gran think the Fetterlings would care to find her in the ruins of our home?

The Aviast's shelves offer no answer, so I devote myself to a more practical line of questioning: how to keep Shideh moving. How to keep Shideh alive.

"Would you say you have more in common with a Plaugis Emu or a Corvine Ostrich?"

Tiny teeth press together in a grimace.

"I know, but I can't find anything on Korsai except for the Romance of the Aljar, which paints you as-"

But there it is: that eerie caress that brushes my nape, a chill that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

My gaze skips to the rustling drapes. To the feline shadow beckoning me on.

I motion to Shideh to stay put- don't ask why- and creep toward the balcony, grabbing a broom on my way. Breaking and entering is, legally, a crime. Assault and battery is just one more. Evading arrest is a necessary third. Yes. For Shideh, I'll beat the crap out of whoever- whatever- lurks beyond this sanctuary. Steeling myself, I reach out, pinch shut my eyes, and grasp the sheer fabric with one shaking hand.

Three... two.. one... go.

But shoving the drapes aside reveals nothing but my own paranoia.

Shoulders fall. Breaths tumble free and my heart resumes its regular beat. I even manage to laugh a little. What am I afraid of? It's a festival day. The cops are probably all downtown, dealing with drunks and pickpockets and-

Ghosts.

I scream, stumbling back through the drapes until instinct kicks in to scold me for leaving Shideh with a shroud of her own.

That corporal form of that catlike shadow sits on the empty divan, clad in a veil of tattered silk.  Twin peaks support a crown of gold and silver unlike anything One Tree housed. Her clothes are fine and strange. Otherworldly. She is otherworldly.

She is a Fetterling.

I can tell before she stands, before her slender hands emerge from her veil. I can tell from the way the very air seems to fear her, the way even Shideh labours to lift her head to gaze at the girl's cagéd wrists. No, not caged: fettered.

She is not caged. She is not bound. She is not a girl. She is nothing comparable to me.

"Get away from her," I breathe.