A Girl Called Snort

The next junction of guide ropes led to a dead end, and a dozen strides took them through a door and into a small room. They reached its far side almost as soon as they entered.

“Sit,” Silencia ordered, pushing Anilitak onto a rope mat. Some cloth gathered beneath her, a sheet, perhaps. “Tell me what happened.”

Allowed to speak, the words tumbled out, but Anilitak had barely mentioned the ghost when Silencia cut her off. “Quiet!” No other command followed, and after almost a minute, Anilitak tried to start again. “I said be quiet!” Silencia hissed.

Anilitak, understanding finally, listened for Shrill in the crowd, but she hadn't the aural memory to recognize Shrill's voice amid so many foreign ones. Anilitak was invisible to the crowd because she remained silent; the Crown was invisible because he spoke with the voice of another.

Wind resumed his casual conversation, though even Anilitak could hear the stress underneath. “I have something I want you to give to your friends when you hear them.” She felt his hands removing her arms from around his waist. “A little something from my friend to yours.”

The babble of the room fell against Anilitak like rain; it seemed to strengthen at intervals, then let off, like storm clouds passing overhead. It gave her a sense of unease, too, as if she were waiting for lightning to strike. Wind said no more to her, and she dared not speak. Occasionally, his hand would touch her arm or squeeze a few of her fingers, but she couldn't understand if he meant to encourage her or if he wanted to reassure himself of something. Once, she placed her hand on his back, patting it tentatively. As far as she could tell, he did not respond.

The silence of their passage weighed heavily on Anilitak. She wanted to encourage Wind somehow, but even had she the opportunity, she had nothing to say.

He had killed a man. To protect her, he had killed a man. Wind's broken voice, when he had said “I killed him,” became Anilitak's eyes to the murder. In the confused minutes of the attack, she had barely realized what was happening. Now the enormity of the act filled her; she needed to say something, to confess her own guilt in the murder, to ask forgiveness, to reassure Wind that he had done no wrong--

Had he done no wrong?

Harken back to the epoch of our glory, to days replete with pleasure and plenitude, when the peals of trumpets filled the bowl of heaven with our victories, and songs of wine lulled the moon and stars into the sky. Remember bygone years, consider again those glorious heights, the wealth and might of the men who encircled the world and embraced it with fierce paternal love.

Even as Wind cried out, “Move,” Anilitak had already found her feet. A swift, almost noiseless, patter gave warning, and then she screamed as two hands grabbed her, twisted her, tried to drag her away. The intruder stumbled as something hit him. Anilitak fell toward the ground, his hands like claws in her flesh. Another shock, more hands, a grip loosened by force, and Anilitak regained her balance. She kicked and punched wildly, striking out at her assailant. The blows landed, one, then another, but the invisible attacker matched her frantic attacks with a frenzy.

“What escaped?”

“Our weapons were...special,” Wind explained. “Our swords thirsted. They sought the lives of others and aided their wielders in their defense. They were formed of wicked magic, and they grew more brutal with each battle. Not all who wielded them survived. Sometimes, the sword turned on its master when it grew too thirsty. You understand now, don't you?”

For a moment, she was speechless. Then: “That's what—I was right there when the man died!” Anilitak remembered his final screams. If she had been any closer....

Anilitak let the darkness rush over her like spring breezes in a green field. She wanted to laugh, as if she were a girl racing hand in hand with a lover. That is not what Flit meant when he shared his name, and that is not how she took it at first, but the idea did enter her head. For a time, she forgot her snout and her ears and her teeth. She forgot about her lost friends, her doubts, her situation. She allowed herself to be swept away in the dream, and the darkness aided her in her self-deception.

“You're the one who found her,” Silencia said. “Don't blame us. She just now deciphered the words, for as much good as it'll do us.”

“Hide her away, Zealous,” said Noon. “I fear for her. The Crown must not find her. We will go our separate ways for a time.”

“No,” demanded Silencia, her voice rising above the low tones they had been using. “We must enter now. The Crown will find us out. But if we have one of the swords--”

“Do not even think of it,” Noon said, rebuking her. “Not even against the Crown.”

Fingers brushed Anilitak, and Flit's voice found her. “Let's go.”

The pieces began to click together for Anilitak: Flit's finding her near the body, the murders by a blade, the existence of a plowshare, the repeated stories of the fall of darkness, the need to open this door—to the Armory.