Page 10 of Starside

He shook his head. Pointed his massive finger at the tiny figurine. “This here’s a dagger. Not a sword. And you will, if you get up and stop your crying.”

That was when he pulled a blade from his pocket. Something in me thought perhaps I should fear this towering man, with his hard eyes and weathered skin and long beard. He had a weapon. He could kill me. But I was so stunned by the sparkling metal, I stopped crying for the first time in weeks.

He quickly sheathed it.

“It’s yours, when you’re ready for it. You can even design the hilt if you want. But only if you get up. It’s your choice.”

He stood. Then he offered me his hand. I knew what it meant, even then. Either burn or rise from the ashes once and for all.

I took it.

And from then on, he spent his days teaching me to make swords and his nights teaching me to use them.

In the last decade, I never once saw his brow furrow. I never saw him display any type of emotion.

But now his face is all twisting lines. It’s easy to see the time that has passed.

I take a step forward, pushing off the wall. My tone softens. “If—if you want to help me live … then tell me something. Anything that will keep me alive.”

Stories about Starside are full of creatures and magic that are nearly too far-fetched to believe. But he knows the truth. He was one of the few survivors of the last Questral. He can tell me how he did it.

Stellan’s face hardens again. I ready myself, believing he might finally tell me something about the other side, after all these years.

“You want to live?” he says.

I nod. Of course. I need to survive until the very end to get to the gods. “I do.”

He leans in closer, as if about to tell me one of the world’s great secrets. I don’t dare breathe, in anticipation. It’s so quiet, I can hear the simmering of the forge, and I remember all the work still left to do for the night. His mouth is almost to my ear.

“Don’t go, then,” he says, and then he passes by me on the way to the forge. I stay frozen in front of the hearth, hoping he might return, might actually tell me something useful, until I hear the familiar sound of pounding metal. It’s only when I feel around in my pockets that I realize he’s taken his dagger with him without my noticing.

Shit.

I don’t know what else I was expecting. He’s never said a word about Starside. Why would he help me now, when he’s still hoping I’ll stay?

In my foolish mind, I envisioned us sitting in front of these weak flames. Him—telling me everything I need to know. Me—planning my survival.

Now I take a lesser blade from its hidden place on a high shelf, cursing Stellan and his ever-present concern for my well-being, and duck out into the night.

It’s suffocatingly hot, as always. A very convenient place for someone who must wear so many layers to live. Sweat already slips down the center of my chest, but I dutifully check the fabric at my throat, the way I have most of my life, just in case the collar has slipped.

Cursed markings.

As I approach the village square and see women wearing just bits of material, I wonder what that must be like. Feeling the wind against my bare skin. Having people look at me. Not hiding.

A curl of laughter spills out from inside a bar that is normally empty, considering few here have scraps of metal to spare. Through the open window, a teetering man spots the arc across my brow and tries to shove a chipped goblet into my hand.

I decline and cross to the other side of the road, making my way through a sea of strangers. I brush against fabrics worlds softer than the scratchy ones made by the local weaver, a woman with long, dirty nails who buys clothes I steal off corpses. Some weeks, she’s the reason we have enough to eat. She’s also the reason I have clothes that cover me, when usually so much fabric would be seen either as wasteful or dangerous in heat like this.

I turn another corner—then stumble back as a group of travelers pours out of the local inn. An inn I was sure was abandoned, given the fact that I have not, in the past decade, seen a single person inside of it. Now, its second floor is visibly sagging because of the crowd.

Stellan warned me of the throngs months ago. I thought he was exaggerating. Who would travel for days, or weeks, to see people die fighting to get onto a stone? It’s not like they actually get to see the events of the mysterious Culling …

Thousands of people, apparently.

Merchant carts have been wheeled in from miles away. Their lines make mazes through the normally empty streets. I weave through them, eyeing foaming mugs, whipped sugar, and spice-encrusted pastries. Some travelers will stay for as long as their coins last, just to await news of anyone making it back through the gates.

My empty stomach grumbles. I introduce it to my empty pockets.