The Bard laughed and swallowed the woman and the musician in a cage of water. It pressed over them, choking the air from their lungs. The wind shrieked. It rushed at the water, but the liquid doused its whirling flames.
The father laughed at his children’s struggle. The water bound them so tightly they couldn’t conjure. They couldn’t breathe. The woman tried to twist her hands, but the water held them immobile.
“Luvic,” the father said, his voice cajoling. He called to his son. “You did well. Now, watch. Watch. We Bards love our tragedies.”
The trickster opened his orange eyes and lifted his jackaltooth head from the ground. A rattle sounded in his throat. He whimpered, his limbs shaking. Another rattled sounded as he tried to heave himself upright and then fell back to the pavement.
The wind licked at his fur, spinning close. The fire of its tornado singed the trickster’s paws.
Inside the water cage, the musician’s shoulders slumped. His head lolled forward. He’d run out of air.
The woman struggled, mouthing, “Luvic!”
The trickster lifted his head and howled.
The eerie, mournful sound of it raced through the wind.
So quietly that it was nearly impossible to hear, a cricket began to chirp. The trickster shuddered, whimpered, and then, with teeth bared, he shoved to his feet.
He snarled at his father and then moved toward him like he was pushing through quicksand.
The Bard laughed.
The woman’s eyelashes fluttered and drifted closed. Her body slumped forward.
The wind screamed. It beat fire and wind against the water cage. It frantically called to the woman. It shouted for the child’s spirit.
The wind cried, Fight!
The woman’s eyes snapped open. She looked toward the wind.
She’d heard it! She’d heard the wind!
Fight!
The trickster launched at the father.
The Bard grunted in surprise. He twisted his hands, conjuring death. The trickster leaped into the air. He soared over him and slammed into the water cage.
At the same moment, the woman’s eyes filled with shadows.
They were the boy’s shadows! The boy’s power!
The trickster was swallowed by the cage. The cage was swallowed by darkness.
Then the walls exploded.
The trickster flew through the air, the woman gripping his back, the musician in his maw.
They slammed to the ground, water raging around them.
Free.
102
A leggerock could heal his mines. And so, with the swiftness needed when death is chasing you down a dark alley, Jagger punched his blood into me.
It raced through me, as cold and merciless as Furtig. Sometimes, healing hurts. It’s like setting a bone or wrenching your dislocated shoulder back into place. The agony rushes through you, and then there’s numbed relief.
