Stars of Pale Fire

I. Adventurer Stew.

  The stars were never something one considered stealable.

  Silver's pretty sure stealable isn't a word, but he can't read anyway, so it doesn't really matter. He knows that the stars are very far away. They're actually quite large, though they seem to be small pinpricks of light, scattered across the sky like someone dropped a whole bag of them. The stars are massive spheres of fire, like the sun in their midst, that burn for years uncountable, until one day, they give up and die like any ordinary man—in a massive ball of fire. Or so he assumes. He's never seen a dying star.

  Yet someone has indeed stolen a star. Plucked it straight from the sky and shoved it in a sack, Silver assumes. He's not really sure. No one tells him anything, not since he was scooped up by this motley group of grim-faced adventurers. But he knows, from what they discuss by firelight and speckles of moon, that someone's stolen a star. That's why they're all together, after all. To get the star back.

  Silver's here, too, though he's not sure why.

  They found him in one of the towns. It's an ordinary town, if a bit small, unaccustomed to such a large and mismatched group of visitors. Silver didn't do anything to make himself known. He was simply existing, and the leaders of the group looked upon the gray haired, ragged orphan boy, and decided, yes, we want that one. Once they established Silver was unattached, they simply added him to the group. Dropped him into a pot to make their weird adventurer stew.

  Silver scratches the ears of his companion, Reaper, as he considers this. Reaper is his dog, or, at least, Silver thinks he's a dog. He's about two years old and he's roughly half Silver's height, which Silver thinks is weird for a dog but he doesn't really know enough about dogs to argue. Reaper is Silver's friend, if a dog-like creature could be called such a thing. Silver wonders if Reaper considers him a friend, or a source of food. Reaper lifts his amber eyes to gaze upon Silver, pupils blown wide in adoration, and Silver decides he doesn't really care.

  Gwynestri, the golden-haired mother figure of the group, says, "Silver. Come eat." And Silver gets to his feet, his legs numb from not using them. He crosses to the fire, and sits down beside Halberd, the long-limbed sharp tongued archer. Elyon, whose heart is as unforgiving as his hair is black, sits beside him, and they don't all quite fit on the log they've chosen, but Silver doesn't bother saying so. Elyon has no concept of personal space.

  Halberd, whose legs stretch so far Silver half expects him to kick the fire over, takes a bowl from Gwynestri, and says, "Let me guess. Gruel again."

  "It's stew," Gwynestri says with a withering glare, her golden eyes all the more piercing in the fire's glow.

  Halberd, never one to take a warning, says, "What's the difference?"

  Silver thinks. Gruel is some kind of oat or meal ground up and then put in milk. It's a thinner version of porridge. Stew is a combination of solid foods cooked in liquid. It's a thicker version of soup. He takes his stew from Gwynestri.

  "Thank you," he says politely, almost on instinct.

  "See?" Gwynestri says, handing stew off to Elyon. "Someone appreciates my cooking."

  "I always appreciate your cooking," Elyon says, with the wounded sort of look one would expect of a petulant child.

  "You don't count," Gwynestri announces. She passes out stew to the others.

  Silver eats his stew, ignoring the way Reaper has set his head on Silver's shoulder and is whining softly. It's good. Surprisingly flavorful, considering they've been on the road four days. Very salty. Gwynestri tends to favor salt in her food, Silver has noticed. Halberd leans and silently tips a bit of his bowl into Silver's.