Tracer

1: Exiled

It was Desmon's first solo Crossing. He wasn't sure when Jymke would show, but he couldn't imagine making the trek with anyone else leading the way. He had plans that went beyond Packing and Tracing. He'd waited years to Cross with Jymke, and if things went his way, he would never have to Cross with anyone else.

His Group consisted of five Top-Siders. They arrived just two days ago, and the women, the boy, and one of the men wore loose slacks and shirts of soft, light cotton with travel-worn boots. The women wore brightly colored scarves at the neck. The second man wore a dark gray business suit that looked like silk and sported a hat set at a jaunty angle.

Unfortunately, it didn't appear that they possessed a single set of Duster clothing between them. Desmon was certain Jymke would cover all of that. His uncle always did before.

"Shouldn't he be here by now?"

He rested dark blue eyes on the frowning woman. She was becoming annoyed with the heat, the flies and the lack of manufactured air. Desmon could relate. It was unusually quiet and still. He wondered at the empty feel of the hostel, but decided Jymke would answer his questions when he arrived.

"Tracers aren't dogs," Desmond explained patiently. "They come if they can, when they're asked to. It's not an easy trip, and Jymke has to make sure his Dusters are cared for along the way. He might be here today, or he might not arrive for another two weeks. It just depends on which route he takes."

She muttered, snapping open an ornate silk fan. "This is just barbaric. Don't these people know how to properly host paying customers?"
"Yes, ma'am, they're well aware of it." Myron Lyle, Desmon's retiring uncle sprawled comfortably before the cold fireplace gave the woman a bland smile. "It seems we may have caught them in an off week."

She blinked cornflower blue eyes at Myron in surprise.

Before Desmon could comment, the door swung open and the earthy, unmistakable scent of Duster reached him. His eyes quickly adjusted enough to make out the tall man striding fluidly across the floor toward him. Desmon was so happy to see him, he couldn't speak so he stood, fighting back a huge grin.

"Desmon," Jymke's tone was low and welcoming, and his wide dark eyes shimmered with violet sparks within the shadow of his hood.

Desmon remembered to breathe and smiled. "Jymke. You came."

A shorter, more compact Tracer stepped around Jymke, and a smile lit his face. His dark eyes exploded with violet flames.

"Myr-r-r-ron," he warbled happily and opened his arms.

"Jylke!" Desmon's uncle and Jymke's met and embraced.

Desmon and Jymke shared an indulgent smile as the older Tracer stroked the other man's graying chestnut hair.

Jymke pushed back the Duster-hide hood, revealing milk-white skin and those huge midnight-dark eyes with a pinpoint of violet pupil that expanded into an upright oval in the dimmed room. He carried a long, slender staff, hooked at the top and curved at the bottom.

"You Called me."

"You-" Desmon stuttered to silence as the hood fell to his shoulders. Jymke's hair, which Desmon recalled falling like a blood-red river down his back was hacked off, just touching his narrow, triangular ears now. "What...what did they do to you?"

Jylke lifted his head and frowned. "Oh, yes. That." The violet flames in his eyes faded.

Jymke's dark eyes grew sad, and the sparks dimmed. "I am exiled from the Clan," he whispered.

Desmon's legs gave out in shock, and he was very glad his chair was still behind him. Jymke sank into a chair beside him, turning so he faced the stunned Packer.