The Hanging City

by Charlie N Holmberg

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

For a young woman who wields the power of fear, humanity’s greatest enemy is her only hope in a new fairy-tale adventure by Amazon Charts and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Charlie N. Holmberg.

Seven years on the run from her abusive father, and with no hope of sanctuary among the dwindling pockets of human civilization, Lark is out of options. Her only leverage is a cursed power: she can thrust fear onto others, leaving all threats fleeing in terror. It’s a means of survival as she searches for a place to call home. If the campfire myths of her childhood are true, Lark’s sole chance for refuge could lie in Cagmar, the city of trolls—a brutal species and the sworn enemies of humanity.

Valuing combat prowess, the troll high council is intrigued. Lark could be much more useful than the low-caste humans who merely labor in Cagmar. Her gift makes her invaluable as a monster slayer to fight off the unspeakable creatures that torment the trolls’ hanging city, suspended from a bridge over an endless dark canyon.

Lark will do anything to make Cagmar her home, but her new role comes with a caveat: use her power against a troll, and she’ll be killed. Her loyalty is quickly put to the test when she draws the hatred of a powerful troll who loathes humankind. Still, she finds unexpected friendship in the city and, even more surprisingly, love. But if everything else doesn’t undo her, being caught in the arms of a troll surely will. Now in the fight of her life, Lark has a lot to learn—about her past, about trust and hope when all seems lost, and above all, about the extraordinary power of fear itself.

 

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Release date: August 1, 2023

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 344

Sample

The Hanging City 

Charlie N. Holmberg

 

PROLOGUE

“Let me tell you about Paca’s journey to Eterellis,” the old bard says, sitting on a dried stump and drumming knobby fingers on his knees. Everyone gathers around, even the adults. I approach cautiously, still very much a newcomer in this township, even after two months. But I’m keenly fond of stories, and of learning anything this man knows that I do not.

Finnie, of an age with me at thirteen, nods encouragement. I kneel behind a cluster of children, the youngest ones shoving at each other for better seats.

One complains, “We know that story. Tell us another.”

The bard feigns shock. “But there are so few stories to tell. They all dried up with the rain, and folk are so few and far between, no one has a chance to weave new tales.”

I have stories, I think, but none of them have happy endings. Not yet. Out of habit, I look up at the emerging stars. The South Star burns brightly already; it is always the first to appear as the sun sets and never shifts from its position in the sky, ever shining the way to Eterellis, even after the city’s death.

Another child groans.
“My version is special, little ones,” the bard insists. “Listen carefully.” He sits up straighter, pulls a seven-string mandolin onto his lap,

and plays a song that is simple in melody but complex in technique. My mother had an instrument like that. I was never allowed to touch it.

 

“Paca was a poor woodworker,” he begins, “who wanted to marry the local lord’s daughter. Mind you, back then wood was common and didn’t have the value it has today, and lords were well known and powerful.”

I think of my father and shiver.

“And so he wrote her a poem confessing his love, pleading for just over one year’s time to make his fortune and win her hand.”

The bard begins to sing.

My love is true, my heart is yours

You deserve much more than

I am Four hundred suns, and I will come

A wealthy and affluent man

“Then Paca set out to go where any man would to seek his fortune— the great kingdom of Eterellis. Where every building touched the sky and was made of topaz and marble. Jade lined the sidewalks, and the trees grew taller than the mountains.”

I’ve imagined the dead human city many times, though the build- ings were always white as sun-hot sand and the cobblestone gleamed silver. But before I can adjust the image, the bard continues.

“He traveled far over this land, crossing the rivers that once flowed and the forests that once stood. His rations grew thin, but he always managed to sell a carving or fix a wagon wheel when he grew desper- ate. And soon he came to the great crack of Mavaea, and the mighty Empyrean Bridge that spanned it.”

His playing takes on a darker tone.

A canyon so deep, a canyon so wide

Monsters who feast upon flesh lurk inside

On his way to the glory of man

Crossing the bridge built by ten thousand hands

 

 

“But of course, as soon as he stepped onto the bridge—”

“The troll came out,” interrupts the first child, his tone bored. His friends snicker.

“Two trolls came out.” The bard sounds smug at the soft correction, and I smile to myself. He waits for his small audience to quiet before continuing. “Two trolls came out, their tusks sharp in their mouths, their bodies heavy and green as moss.

“The one on the right said, ‘Human, give us all you have of worth if you want to cross the bridge. That is the toll of the trolls.’

“Paca, though afraid, held his ground. ‘But if I do not give it to you, you will kill me where I stand and take it anyway.’

“The troll chuckled. ‘I give my word that I will not.’

“Paca gestured to the troll on the left. ‘But he has not made the same promise.’

“The two trolls looked at one another, smiling. The troll on the left said, ‘But I may.’

“Now, Paca was very clever. He saw that these trolls were trying to be smart; he needed only be smarter than they. Or, in this case, more confusing.” The bard touches the side of his nose and glances at the interrupting boy. “And so Paca said to the left troll, ‘And then you will take all I have for yourself, and leave us both empty-handed.’

“Now the first troll narrowed his eyes, trying to follow Paca’s logic. For of course the two trolls had come out together, and thus the earn- ings should be split fairly. The first troll argued with the second, saying he should not take it all for himself, and the second grew angry that the first would think him a thief. Their honor came into question, and then their seniority, and finally their strength, which made it a sore discussion indeed, for trolls value nothing more than their strength.”

A quiet lad at the front raises his hand. “But we know how this goes. The trolls are so distracted that they do not see Paca draw his sword and kill the both of them. He crosses the bridge without trouble.”

The bard shakes his head. “It is there you are wrong, for Paca was not a violent person. This tale happened in the days of the power of men, so he had little need to be. No, the trolls grew so enraptured with their argument that Paca snuck by unnoticed.”

The boy snorts, but the bard is unhindered.

“Just as he was passing, Paca heard one of the trolls make an oath to the other, words he had never heard uttered before. An oath to promise trustworthiness and innocence. Paca could feel that the oath had power, and so he kept it in his heart and continued on his way.

“He went to Eterellis, and he found his fortune—how is another story for another day—and after four hundred days had passed, he made his way home, a richer man than he had ever been before. And when he stepped back on the bridge, two new trolls emerged atop it, again demanding all he had as toll.

“But this time Paca uttered the oath to the trolls, shocking them greatly. The trolls honored the power of his words and let him pass without trouble. Paca wended his way back home, where he met with his love’s father and boasted of his success and indeed won the hand of the lord’s daughter. And all his life he kept the troll oath sacred—”

“But why?” Danner, Finnie’s oldest brother, four years my senior, asks. He stands at the edge of the firelight, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Why would it matter? They’re trolls.”

The bard gives him a knowing look. “Not just trolls, my boy. They’re your counterparts. There was nowhere for the trolls to go, so they built their city in the darkness descending from that very bridge. The humans drove them from the sun, until the sun searched for them so hard that the land became unbearable for living. The city still stands today.”

A few people murmur to one another. Pairs of adults lean close. No one likes the idea of the endless drought being their fault. I glance to Finnie, but she has lost interest in the tale and draws patterns in the dust at her knees. Her father calls out, “Sing us a song.”

But the bard responds, “That will be another bag.” Everyone groans and begins to depart. A bag of amaranth flour, he means. A small one, barely larger than my fist, but food is too precious to be wasted on a song, especially when there are a few among us who sing well enough.

 

 

The bard puts away his mandolin and picks himself off the stump. I hesitate, but as the crowd clears, I approach him, wringing my fingers together.

“What was the oath?” I ask. I offer him a copper, though foodstuff is worth more. Still, I have a good handful of money taken from my father’s house, hidden away in the room I share with Finnie.

The bard dips his head and accepts the coin. “It is but a story, lass.” “Then it is a story that leaves out the most important part,” I argue. He studies me, his pale eyes raking over my face. “It is told in many ways, Paca’s journey to Eterellis. But the way I have heard is this: that Paca crept away from his would-be robbers, and as they argued, the second said to the first, ‘By sun, earth, and shadow, and as Regret forms on my lips, I am of trollis and am bound by its words.’”

I mouth the strange oath. I don’t understand its meaning, but it’s beautiful, poetic in its own way. “Thank you,” I offer.

The bard smiles before swinging his pack over his shoulder and starting for his bed.

I can’t help but notice the sharpness of his teeth.

 

Chapter 1

The Empyrean Bridge is the most wondrous thing I’ve ever seen. Despite my dry throat and empty waterskins, the blisters on my feet, and the sunburn stiffening my arms and shoulders, I marvel at it. It has not been used in a hundred years or more, not since the drought hit and wiped out Eterellis, the great human city far west of it. The bridge spans a canyon that cuts the world in two, a dark, jagged line stretching farther north and farther south than I can ever hope to see. Its workmanship is impeccable, more brilliant and beautiful than any other architecture I have ever beheld, beyond what I had pictured since hear- ing of its existence. The stories don’t do it justice. Its many arches gleam white as sun-bleached sand. It’s longer than any township, including my hometown of Lucarpo, the largest east of the canyon, 150 miles almost due east, if I’ve read the stars correctly. I know Lucarpo is the largest, because I’ve been to every human outcropping worth a mark on a map. I’ve visited them all, slept in their peoples’ homes, worked in their dying fields, and run from their borders. Often because my father’s men, or rumor of them, arrived. Other times, because others saw the darkness within me and hated me for it. I once wielded it like a vile sword against one of their own, who was equally as vile.
That, I do not regret. But I do miss Terysos more than any other township. Terysos is the reason I’ve sacrificed everything to travel here,

 

Six Years Later

 

to a place of rumor that might not even exist, all on the word of a wayward bard. All on the hope that the South Star shines not as a grave marker for Eterellis, but as a guide, leading me to a place I might belong. Shining as a punctuation of the reading that a kind Cosmodian once gave me by my father’s woodshed, planting the first seed of hope in the gloom of my soul.

If the bard’s tale is true, then this is the one place my father will never look for me. If false, I will die here, overtaken by thirst. There is no other refuge.

Thick parapets gleam copper in the bright daylight across the bridge’s full length, clear to the other lip of the canyon. The bridge spans the canyon’s narrowest point, as far as I know, but surely it will take me half a day to cross it. I think back on the stories of Paca the woodworker and wonder how he got all the way to the end of this monstrosity without killing the trolls who stopped him.

My faith in the old bard wavers.

The bridge grows larger as I near, revealing detail work along its thick stone towers. The decking looks as brilliant as the parapets. If this is simply the bridge leading to Eterellis, then surely the ancient city itself is breathtaking, even in its death. It is said the drought started in that kingdom, its hold so great that nothing can live there, not even tarantulas or sagebrush.

I pause before the great architecture can fill my entire view, know- ing I will not be able to run if I change my mind. I’ve traveled too long and too far. My rations are gone, and there is nowhere to replenish them, save for this place of myth and story.

Cagmar, the city of the trolls.

The gods made the stars, and through them made creatures in pairs: the fette and aerolass to rule the air, the merdan and gullop to rule the sea, and the humans and trolls to rule the earth. And so we did, before the earth changed and ruled us instead. According to the stories, in the time before, humans dominated, despite trolls being larger and stronger.

 

 

War-torn brutes. Angry. Animals. Merciless. In all the tales told at bed- side and campfire, trolls are always the enemy.

I could use the same words to describe my father. I know I should fear coming to Cagmar more than I do, but fear has been such a con- stant companion to me I hardly notice it anymore.

I take in the bridge. Legend doesn’t matter. Now, the humans and the trolls have something in common. We are all trying to survive.

I check over my shoulder, scanning the heat-curled horizon for shadows or pursuers. But I have kept ahead of them, as I always have. I am utterly alone and without options. Even if the trolls are as terrible as stories say, if I can keep even one thread of agency, they will be better than what I left behind.

Pushing one sore foot ahead of the other, I swallow against an arid throat. My pale hair is loose and flows around me as a gust of hot wind passes—better for keeping off the sun this way. The Empyrean Bridge grows as I approach, looming and magnificent.

I have a weapon, if my words fail me, though I’ve never used it on a troll. If Cagmar is a myth . . . perhaps it would be better to jump from the bridge than to be captured. I do not want a slow death. Or perhaps there is a township on the other side of the canyon, not marked on my map, that would take me in, if dehydration doesn’t claim me first.

Theories, theories, theories.

As I approach the canyon wall, I see darkness stretch below the bridge. The sun is descending but is not yet set. That darkness is not shadow but stone.

It does not look like a city, but I of all people know that looks can easily deceive. The dark mass is enormous, unlike any township I’ve ever beheld. It makes me think of a moth pupa.

Despite its majesty, the bridge is not as spectacular as it appears from a distance. It, too, has fallen to the elements. The centuries of drought. Rocks crack, wood splinters, iron rusts. Décor has chipped and worn. Yet the bearings still appear strong, as do the girders. As though they’ve been maintained.

 

Point one for the bard.

I offer a prayer as I stand before the bridge, only a pace from its first plank. I wonder if I am ready for death. I am almost thirsty enough to believe I am.

I wait to be attacked. To be robbed. I wait to see the beasts of legend. I stand at the edge of the broken path for several minutes, waiting, listening, tasting the air. Nothing happens. Neither bird nor cloud touches the sky. Not even a second breeze passes to stir the dust.

I step onto a thick wood plank. I expected it to creak beneath my weight, but it holds steady. A lock of hair sticks to the sweat along the side of my face. I don’t peel it away. I’m surprised I have anything left to sweat.

Another step, and then another. Not a single creak nor echo. I cross the first plank, then the second. The third, down to the eighth. I see no sign of life, only a nearly endless path ahead.

Did the drought wipe out the trolls, too, leaving their shadowed city to hang in ruins? Is my last attempt at shelter to go unachieved?

Could I make it to Eterellis, and see the great ruins for myself, before my body withers and dies?

My steps become surer, my strength rallying as the sun dips, cooling the air a degree at a time. I count the planks as I pass them, wondering at the enormous trees they must have hailed from, when one—the twenty-sixth—groans beneath my weight. I slow, examining it. The wood neither bows nor splinters. I shift my weight, and the sound repeats, but farther to my right.

It is then I realize it has not creaked beneath my weight, but some- one else’s. Someone coming from below.

I step back, my breath coming quick. I search the bridge, scanning from one side to the other, when I hit something solid behind me. Whirling around, I look up, up, up . . . into the face of a troll.

My heart drops to my stomach, while my stomach rushes to my throat. Again, my imagination has failed me.

 

The troll is immense and green as onion shoots. Hammered armor crosses his massive chest, leaving room for the natural spikes on his shoulders to protrude outward. His muscled forearms are covered with sheaves of fur, also cut to reveal a row of smaller bony spikes. Nubs of bone line the widest jaw I’ve ever beheld. His nose is short, and his green brow is so thick it hides half his eyes. His greasy hair forms a widow’s peak, with yet more bony nubs sprouting on either side of it. Short tusks jut forward from wide, snarling lips. A thick belt of some sort of leather encompasses a middle six times thicker than my own.

I am six feet tall standing straight, but this creature towers over me. The top of my head comes to the base of his chest. He raises a spear, and his ears—like large human ears with the top curve sliced off—twitch.

With one muscular arm, he points the tip of the chipped spearhead at my throat.

The bridge creaks again. I spin, my hair catching on the spear, to see two, three, four trolls climbing up and over the sides of the bridge like spiders. Three green, one a sickly shade of gray. Two wield spears, two swords. All are made of thick, rippling muscle.

They form an armored circle around me that narrows and shrinks.

Fear bubbles within me, reacting to my own. It presses against my skin, eager to be released.

Before it overwhelms me, I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth and screech the oath I repeated a thousand times on my journey here: “By sun, earth, and shadow, and as Regret forms on my lips, I am of trollis and am bound by its words!”

The blades stop. Heat pummels me like a hammer. Sweat slicks my skin. The air feels so arid, I struggle to breathe.

The first troll says, “You dare speak an oath to us?” His language is my own, but his accent is hard around the edges, otherly.

I dare to meet his gaze, pressing down my inner darkness. I don’t understand the meaning of the words, but they’re all I have. Fists clenched, I repeat, “By sun, earth, and shadow, and as Regret forms on my lips, I am of trollis and am bound by its words.”

One of the trolls behind me spits. Another grumbles, “It is law.”

The first troll growls, turns his spear around, and jabs its head into the wooden plank he stands on. He pulls a cloth from around his waist.

Large hands grab me, a hard knuckle grazing my arm.

The cloth, a bag, jerks over my head, smelling foul. But it is more than a sour smell, because my head starts to spin. I struggle to focus, only to feel weightless, the air punched out of my lungs.

All is black. When I come to, my hands are tied tightly behind me, and I bounce as though carried over a shoulder. A bony protrusion presses into my ribs. I try to squirm away from it, but the thick, muscled arms around my legs only tighten, holding me in place. The bag clings to the sweat of my temples. I try fruitlessly to spit out my own hair. Panic flashes cold across my skin, but I remind myself that although I’m being taken by trolls, they have not hurt me yet. That must mean something.

Still, I am carried for a long time, shaken as though descending stairs, then weightless again as though slowly falling down holes. The air around me cools significantly. No light peeks through my bag.

How far into their city have they carried me, and how will I ever find my way out?

By the time I’m roughly deposited on a smooth stone floor, I’m shaking, and not from the chill. My stomach threatens to upturn, my mouth is dry, and when the sack is yanked off my head, it takes me too long to orient myself. I stare down at the dark cobbled stone under my hands. I stare and stare, trying to make sense of it.

“She spoke the oath,” a low voice says behind me. The first troll from the bridge.

“Another one?” spits a hard baritone. A beat passes. “I’m going to find this singing louse and rip his tongue out. Well, what is it?”

The words dance around me like drunk fairies.

 

 

A low woman’s voice barks, “Oh, for Regret’s sake, give her some water.”

My thoughts catch on the use of that word, regret, but my mind pushes forward to the more crucial offering. Water?

My dry eyes struggle to blink clear. Something hits the stone beside me with a tinny ring. It takes a moment for me to recognize it as a pitcher of water.

A soft squeak escapes me as I grab it and drink, the water stale and metallic and wonderful. Some of it sloshes down the front of my dress. I drink until the pitcher is empty and my stomach aches.

“Thank you,” I wheeze as I set the pitcher down.

I try again to survey the room. It’s about three times the size of my father’s sitting room in Lucarpo, with a higher ceiling and higher door- ways. It’s lightly furnished, with wide swaths of fabric hanging from the ceiling and connecting to the walls, reminding me of a bed canopy. An enormous fur rug swallows the center of the floor—it comes from a monstrous creature I cannot name, for it is all one hide. I sit only a couple of paces from its edge. On its other side sit five elaborate chairs made of stone, each cushioned, each bearing a terrifying troll. Their skin varies in shades of gray and green. They all sport wide features, though the one on the farthest left throne is a little narrower than the others, with shorter tusks and longer hair—the woman who demanded I be given water. If they have the same bulges of strength as the trolls who brought me down here, it’s hidden beneath their robes.

“Thank you,” I repeat.
Her heavy brow lowers.
The troll in the center throne leans forward. He’s the largest of the bunch, with enormously broad shoulders covered by a fur stole. His hair is short and slicked away from his face, emphasizing the bony nubs trailing back from his forehead. His tusks—or feasibly large lower canines—are massive.

“Do you even know the words you speak, human?” he asks. His is the baritone voice.

 

I nod slowly, though in truth, I can’t possibly understand the oath based on a single story told when I was thirteen. Remembering myself, I reposition onto my knees and bow.

The troll snorts. “A polite human, at least.”

“We’ve enough of their kind, Qequan,” the troll to his right says. His voice is so low it reverberates through the stone. Qequan must be the name of the center troll. Judging by his position and size, I assume him to be the leader. The bass continues, speaking now to me. “Sniveling humans who can’t work their own land come crawling across the desert to take what is ours. The trollis kingdom grew in the cracks of the earth to avoid your kind. And the moment Regret no longer favors you, you beg for help.”

I shiver. I don’t understand his meaning of regret, but his words are not untrue. Yet it seems wise not to respond.

Qequan frowns and studies me. I focus on the fur rug, for I know I will unabashedly stare at him otherwise. Sounding amused, he says, “She made the oath. Will you not honor it?”

The bass doesn’t reply.

Louder, Qequan adds, “Ichlad makes a most excellent point. You sit before the council of Cagmar unharmed. We have fulfilled the words of our ancestors. You will now be escorted out.”

“No, please.” I prostrate myself. “I’ve come a long way to find shel- ter within your city. I can work. Anything you need.” Silently I pray to the South Star. I need to know I chose correctly. I need the brightness that the Cosmodian promised me eight years ago, and I don’t know where else to search for it.

One of the other trolls scoffs.
The woman says, “We do not make a point of housing refugees.” I lift my head. “Have so many come?”
She exchanges a glance with Qequan.
“Some come.” She doesn’t look at me. “Few have even the worth to clean our commodes.”

 

I believe her. Very few humans would be as daring as I, coming to a place rumored to be riddled with war. The home of our ancestors’ mortal enemies. The monsters of the canyon.

But monsters lurk among humans, too.
“Please,” I press.
Qequan sets his elbow on his armrest and leans into his palm. The room is lit by austere sconces that cast his skin a dark olive. “What is your name.” It’s an order, not a question.

Calia Thellele slips through my mind like overused oil. But I have not uttered that name for seven years. “Lark, Master Qequan.” Lark is the nickname my nursemaid gave me when I was small, claiming I sounded like the bird when I wailed. I have never heard one myself. Larks live by large bodies of water, and none of those exist around here.

His lip quirks. “I do not think I’ve ever been called Master.”

At his side, Ichlad murmurs, “Do not let yourself be charmed by one of them.”

The others seem to echo the displeasure, and I wonder what sort of stories have been told about my people at their bedsides. Are we painted as terrible and vicious, or weak and unseemly?

“Your skills?” Ichlad asks me.
I straighten but remain on my knees. “I can read.”
The troll rolls his eyes, which stuns me. In every human township I’ve been to, I have been admired for my ability to read. It declares my usefulness more than anything else.

Are so many trolls literate as to demean the skill?

“I-I can read missives, books, maps, anything.” I see my father’s study around me and blink it away. “I’m familiar with political strategy. I can clean and cook—”

“Everyone can clean and cook,” the woman snaps. “If you cannot prove yourself useful, you will be taken above.”

I hear what she doesn’t say. Your oath will not work on us twice.

The cool touch of panic crawls over me like lice. “I can also read music. Play the harp”—though I haven’t touched one since before my womanhood—“and I can sing.” A little.

Qequan glances to the others. “We have no need for musicians and librarians, little bird. Do not visit us again. And if you’ve any respect for sacred things, you will never utter that oath to another creature, do you understand me?”

They are casting me out.
They are casting me out.
A hand touches my shoulder, ready to drag me away. I start and turn, noticing four armored trolls behind me, by the large door I must have come through. One still holds the head sack.

No, no, no. If I leave Cagmar . . . there is nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to hide.

Your path will not be straight, but broken and looping, the Cosmodian’s voice whispers in my ear. The prediction I’ve clung to since childhood.

“Please. I’ll do even your filthiest jobs.”

The troll grasps my arm and hauls me to my feet. Qequan’s coun- tenance is hard as stone. He looks away from me. The woman shakes her head. The troll drags me toward the door.

“I’m a fast learner!” I shout. “And I’ve good eyesight! I could scout for you!”

The troll on the far right chuckles. Another troll takes my other arm. I don’t know how to read this, Calia, her voice whispers.
My father will find me. He will punish me. And then he will use me, as he always did. Use me.

Use me.

“Wait!” My voice echoes between stone walls. Ichlad startles. Even the guards hesitate.

Qequan’s gaze slides back to me.

“I have one other skill. One you’ve never seen.” My words rush and slide together until they’re almost nonsensical. I can hardly believe I’m uttering them. Never in my life, never, have I willingly shared my secret. Never have I told a soul about my darkness. A few have seen it, felt it for themselves, but fear can always be explained away.

“You try my patience.” Qequan’s voice is a threat.

The guards release me. Rubbing my arm, I say, “It’s a talent unique among my people.” Stars bless that it’s also unique among the trolls. “But it’s a guarded one.”

Qequan raises an eyebrow.

I step away from the guards. “I . . . I ask for as few witnesses as possible.”

The trolls frown at me.
After a breath, Qequan says, “I will not deplete the council.”
I glance to the guards.
“Nor my men.”
I stand tall. Or try to. How would my father turn this to his benefit?

He would play on the troll’s pride. “Do you fear a human will harm you, Master Qequan?”

He smirks again. At least he has a sense of humor. Several seconds pass before he dips his head, and the four troll guards move away from me and out the door. It shuts heavily in their wake.

“If you’re wasting our time . . . ,” Ichlad begins.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I am not. But I do have to demonstrate on someone.”

The second troll from the right, who has been quiet, says, “And what is it you plan to demonstrate?” His tone is mocking, his accent thick.

I lower my hands. “I . . . I scare people.”

Multiple chuckles reverberate across the thrones. Ichlad says, “You are human. You are fragile as the stem of a feather. You seek to incite terror in us?”

Even the smallest among them could likely snap my neck in the crook of an elbow. The gods built these creatures well.

 

If for some reason my darkness is not effective on trolls . . . then my fate remains what it was.

“Would . . .” My mouth dries again. “Would one of you volunteer?”

Qequan and Ichlad exchange a look. Qequan says, “I’m amused. You may try it on me.”

He stands, and he is enormous. Over eight feet tall, surely. Taller than all the trolls in the room and on the bridge. He is broad and mus- cular, though his stomach is round and well fed. He is a troll who has seen battle; it’s evident in his stance.

He crosses until he stands in the center of that large monster’s pelt, then holds out his hands. “Do your worst, little bird.”

“I’ll have on your honor that I will not be harmed.” If trolls have oaths, they must have honor.

He grins, showing me his teeth, emphasizing his tusks. “Of course.”

I swallow. Men usually have two responses to fear—fight or flee. Qequan does not seem like one to flee.

Taking a deep breath, I adjust my stance, feet shoulder-width apart. I want to say I’ve never used my darkness like this, that it’s always been a last resort, self-defense, anything. But I have. I’ve used it in calm, quiet rooms against those both bigger and smaller than myself. Sometimes with my father’s hand on my shoulder, sometimes with his expectations pressed to my spine. I haven’t been so calculated about it for a long time.

I brace myself, trying not to cringe. My ability is a double-edged sword. I cannot wield fire without getting burned, so to speak, though knowing that the fire isn’t real helps me control the pain.

Qequan appears bored, so I dig down. My body is on edge, my mind bogged with worry, and so it comes up readily, a locust eager to feast. I pull it out of me, an invisible force, an unheard song that trickles through my veins and makes my heart race, my back sweat, my jaw clench. The physical manifestations hit first, then the mental ones. My own urge to flee, the tunneling of vision, the warping of time. If I push too hard, the fear goes straight to my heart and becomes my own blind panic, rampant and hungry and cold. I gauge it carefully. I need to stay myself, but I need Qequan to see me.

Steeling myself against the fright, I shove it at the troll.
His reaction is immediate.
His breath hitches. Eyes widen, whites glistening. He takes a step back as though pushed. His knees tremble.
And then he rips the hammer from his belt and rushes at me with a war cry that nearly breaks my eardrums.
I cut off the fear immediately, but he’s still charging. I stumble back and fall onto the cold stone, natural terror surmounting me. I shriek, lift my arms to protect myself—

“Qequan!” Ichlad bellows.

Silence, save for heavy breathing that isn’t mine. My heart ham- mers quarter seconds. Several pass. Carefully, I move my arms and peer out. Qequan is right there, nearly touching me, his hammer raised. Confusion crinkles his expression, his chest heaving like a bellows, just like mine. The faint sconce light glimmers off two rows of turquoise beads on his right sleeve.

He blinks. Heavy lines crease his brow. He lowers the hammer slowly, as though the joints of his shoulders were rusted. Steps back. Again. Looks at me as though I’ve turned into a snake. I swallow deep breaths, trying to find my calm.

Two of the other four council members, Ichlad and the woman, have risen from their seats. Several heartbeats pass before the former asks, “Are you with us?”

Qequan’s body relaxes. He drags a large hand over his face and turns to them. “I am.” He glances back at me.

I’m ready for him to call me a monster, to cast me out the way Finnie and her family did, the way Andru did. But as Qequan studies me, unabashed, the confusion melts into intrigue. That is, if I can even hope to read the expression of a troll.

“You didn’t even move,” he says.
I get my feet under me. “I-I don’t have to.”

“By will alone?”
Rolling my lips together, I nod.
He returns the hammer to his belt and strides across the room,

wholly dignified, taking his place in the center throne. The woman and Ichlad follow suit. Once Qequan is comfortable, he says, “How?”

I walk forward until my toes touch the animal pelt. “I don’t know. I’ve had it since I was a child.”

The troll on the far right says, “She would prove excellent in interrogations.”

Sweat beads down the center of my back. I hadn’t considered what the trolls might use my horrid curse for. They wouldn’t . . . They wouldn’t make me torture people, would they? Because fear is a torture in and of itself. My father’s favorite method.

Stars above, what have I done?

Qequan has not taken his eyes from me. “It works on anything?”

I try not to fidget. “I . . . I know it works on humans, and wolves. And apparently trolls.”

He frowns, though I’m not sure why. “Then it would work on the creatures of the canyon.”

The woman shifts to the edge of her seat. “You think she could frighten those beasts?” She sounds incredulous.

Qequan smooths his stole. “Would you like her to demonstrate on you, Agga, so you can gauge for yourself?”

For the first time since I arrived, Agga looks out of her element. Uncomfortable. And I hate that it’s because of me. But I also need them to accept me. Help me. Hide me. And if they respect this currency . . . I will freely give it.

To Ichlad, Qequan says, “Choose one of our slayers to partner with her until she learns what she needs to know.”

Ichlad considers me. “Will you allow her to wield a sword?” As though I’m not standing right there.

“She doesn’t need to.” Qequan smiles. “She is one.”

 

Chapter 2

I wait for several hours in what must be a prison cell. It’s small and cold, without a single light or window. I’m desperate for a window, to witness the passage of time, to see the stars and any advice they might have for me, for what little of them I understand. I’ve found strength in the night sky when I could find none in humankind, and so I seek out their light even here, locked away beneath the surface of the world.

On the well-worn floor is nothing but an old cot, where I sit, and a tin water bowl like one might give a dog, which I’ve already drained. The door is narrow and heavy, with a thin slider that can be accessed only from the outside. But the slider is open, letting in light from sconces in the hallway, so I don’t worry too much.

As I lean against the cool wall, dozing, heavy footsteps approach. I start and listen. Three pairs of them, but two drop away, leaving only one pair to reach the door. She blocks the light, which makes her dif- ficult to make out, but I do not miss that she is unhappy, for that expression is similar across all the gods’ creatures.

She’s over seven feet tall, with thick divots in her arms and shoulders marking every massive muscle and taut sinew. Her waist tapers above notably round hips. Her skin is a deep shade of green; dark-auburn hair is pulled away from her face, emphasizing a widow’s peak; and bony studs gleam on her scalp. Ivory teeth bookend her lips and nearly reach her nostrils. Her eyes remind me of uncut topaz. I notice two turquoise beads on her sleeve, similar to Qequan’s.

 

I stand, and she looks me over briefly, her frown deepening. “You’re Lark.”

I nod.

She grumbles something under her breath, then turns and leaves. I follow, quickening my steps to keep up with her long stride. When I’m at her heels, she says, “Don’t know what use you’ll be at the docks.”

“Docks?” I repeat, ducking to avoid a sconce. “You have ships?”

She gives me an incredulous look. “No.” She rubs the spot between her brows. “Regret knows what I did to deserve this.”

That term, again. Regret. “I’m sorry, but what was your name?” She drops her hand. “Unach.”
It’s a hard name, oo-natch, and my tongue resists when I repeat it.

“And where are we going?”
Unach seems irritated even by my voice. “We’re going to my quarters. The council has decided that you are somehow worth something, and I’m supposed to house you until they can find some other nook to shove you into.”

I guess by her tone and choice of words that the council respected my request to keep my abilities secret, the last thing I’d begged of them before a guard escorted me to that cell.

Worth something. Even children know the trolls value strength above all else. I never considered myself weak, but I’m truly nothing next to the others I’ve met in size and bulk. All the food and exercise in the world would never get me close.

We start up narrow stairs, forcing me to walk directly behind Unach. At least we’re leaving the prison.

“I’m a slayer,” she continues. “I’ll be teaching you the ropes. Literally.”

Her accent is so heavy it sounds like her words barely make it past her lips. I don’t know what she means by the “ropes,” but I hesitate to ask. She mutters something I catch only half of, but I piece together the meaning. Qequan has finally lost his mind. And then what sounds like a curse about humans.

 

 

Unach searches through a bag at her side as we reach the top of the stairs, and she hands me a hard, lopsided, bright-pink circle, roughly the size of my hand. “Here.”

I take it, the edges rough and flaky. “What is this?”

Her brow lowers. “What does it look like?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s food, human.” And she starts walking again.

I turn the disk over in my hands, hurrying to catch up. This is food? My stomach tightens and rumbles, so I raise it to my lips. It smells oddly floral and doesn’t taste like much, slightly sweet with a mildly bitter aftertaste. But it’s edible, so I chew and swallow, chew and swal- low, until my jaw hurts.

We walk down a narrow corridor that isn’t stonework like the coun- cil room or the prison, but solid stone, carved out of the cliffside itself. The corridor gives way to a short wood-and-metal box, which Unach steps into. There’s a pulley inside, and after I join her, Unach tugs on the rope and lifts us up, her biceps bulging impressively. Her clothing appears to be mostly leather, with some fur, covering her shoulders but leaving her arms exposed, save for two leather straps that meet a leather cuff. Bony nubs, roughly the size of coins, protrude from her forearms. I wonder if she catches me staring, for when we reach the next level, she gives me a chiding look and walks even faster than before.

I hurry to follow her, nearly tripping over myself as I take in my surroundings. The short, narrow passageway opens into an atrium lit by sconces and other lights I can’t identify. I assume that the dark holes in the ceiling are flues of some kind to let out smoke. Carefully mortared stonework, concrete, and metal beams are ever present, but here an artful array of iron and wood composes my surroundings, not unlike the architecture of a bridge.

A gleam of starlight falls through a large window ahead, and I look up, catching a glimpse of the constellation Swoop, the spoon. It’s before midnight, then. My hands tighten on the disk in my hands. Swoop is the constellation of harvest and bounty. It seems to say, See? I’ve fed you.

 

Down toward the shadowed canyon below me, trolls call out to one another, but I can’t understand them. The canyon distends from the city, impossibly deep and dark, but Unach allows me little time to gawk. I glance up and catch sight of one of the Empyrean Bridge’s girders. We are well and truly below the bridge, then. I see nothing else through that sliver of a window, only the bulk of city above me, nearly as dark as the canyon below. Human settlements tend to spread out like an open hand, but Cagmar is long and deep, like a tooth.

My fascination is almost enough to quell my apprehension.

Up, up, up, I’m led, then down again. Unach pushes me through a winding tunnel, past a few watching eyes. No one asks what she’s doing. I wonder whether it’s because she’s unfriendly, or if there’s a different reason. We take another lift and walk a darker corridor before she finally slows at a door. Under the maze of beams and arches, Unach pulls out a heavy key, shoves it in the lock, and turns it.

“Don’t touch anything,” she says. “And stay out of the way. This is only temporary.”

I don’t think she cares for a response. I don’t blame her for her rudeness. Aside from having a stranger cast upon her without warning, humans and trolls have a history. No human township would treat her kindly. Indeed, they’d likely kill her. I’m merely grateful I’m not dead.

The door opens, and I’m surprised at the apartment within. I was expecting something coldly constructed, like the rest of the city, but it looks rather . . . homey. A fireplace fits snug against the far wall, and two braziers smolder on either side of a decent-sized main room. They give it light, though little warmth, and the chill of Cagmar burrows into my skin, almost making my teeth chatter. Furs and woven rugs take up much of the floor, and an enormous, overstuffed pillow—to be used as a chair?—sits near the fireplace. On the other side of the room is a tall table and a narrow kitchen with a strange-looking sink, cabinets, and shelves. Everything is a little too large, made for the use of a troll. The room curves in the back, toward the left, to somewhere I can’t see. Past the entrance to the small kitchen, there’s a door on the left and a door on the right, both closed.

“You’ll not have a room to yourself. There isn’t the space.” Unach shuts the door behind her. She sets her shoulder satchel on the table and strides to the far wall. “You’ll sleep on a pallet there.”

Trying not to feel small, I follow her and peek around the corner. A short, mortared hallway ends at a dark space with folding doors, little more than a closet. Within lies a bin of soiled laundry and a washtub.

I glance at the hard floor. I’ve slept on worse. And Unach had men- tioned this was temporary. I can handle temporary.

“You’ll contribute to housework and run your own errands,” she continues, kicking a half-spent piece of coal into the fireplace. “And you’ll cook for yourself.”

I nod. I want to ask for water, but Unach is a taut band, ready to snap.

The door on the right—now my left—swings open, and a troll steps through. I guess him to be a few inches over seven feet, and the emerald shade of his skin is a little richer than Unach’s. His dark hair is longer, too, corded and held back with a thick tie. His tusks are shorter and more slender, but his torso is notably wider. He wears clothes made of hide and a woven material I can’t identify, but his arms are bare and, like the others’, notably robust. “Unach, who are you—”

And then he notices me.

He doesn’t react at first. At least, I think he doesn’t. I’m hardly prac- ticed at reading trolls. His eyes have the same topaz sheen as Unach’s, though his take on a darker, more amber hue. They could almost pass as human. His heavy brow furrows. “Who is this?”

“Wayward human who convinced Qequan she’d do well as monster fodder.”

I frown and meet the new troll’s gaze, trying to act resilient. I’m still not used to the way they look, the way they talk, the way they regard me. “Unach is kindly showing me the ropes.”

 

 

Unach snorts and folds her arms. “Next time a summons comes to my door, I’m not answering it.” She rubs her head. “She has to stay here until they can accommodate her.”

The male troll looks at her. “Can she not stay in the enclave?”

Enclave? My earlier interaction with the council confirmed that I am not the first human to seek shelter here. How many more live within the city?

“It’s already overrun.” Then, to me, Unach repeats, “Don’t touch anything.” She disappears through the other door, which I presume to be her bedroom. Unsure what to do in her absence, I offer a shallow bow to the other troll.

“I came looking for work,” I explain. “I won’t be a bother. I’m sorry to put you out.”

He seems confused by this admission. “You’d do best to stay out of the way.”

I guess I shouldn’t expect much in the way of friendliness. But I’ll take safety over friendliness any day.

Unach emerges from her room and chucks a blanket at me. Or rather, a badly skinned hide with a few holes where the knife cut too close to the fur. I’m not sure what animal it comes from. “Make up your pallet. It’s late.”

The space allotted to me isn’t long enough for me to stretch out, but I’m in no position to complain. In truth, this is all very dreamlike, as though my mind has not come to terms with being in Cagmar, speaking to trolls. And I’m going to stay here. I notice a slit in the wall just above the short hallway. A window. It’s grown utterly dark outside, so it blends in with the rest of the stone. If I stand on my toes, I can see a few distant stars that don’t belong to any constellation. But surely they aren’t without meaning. Cosmodian belief says that the gods watch us still, but they can communicate only through the night sky. Rich, poor, male, female—it doesn’t matter. The gods made all of us. If only I had a teacher, or a book on the stars, I might be able to sort out what they are telling me now. Until then, I’m grateful for any slice of the sky, however meager.

 

All I can think to say is “Thank you.” Then I glance between the two rooms. “You two are . . . siblings?”

Unach gives me a disgusted look. “What else would we be?” She heads into her room, closing the door firmly behind her.

Her brother frowns at me. Before I can inquire as to his name, he retires as well, and I’m surrounded by closed doors.

Chewing on my lower lip, I hold out the fur. It’s about five feet long, a little short to cover me. I fold it in half lengthwise and set it against the hard floor in the hallway. Then I search about the fireplace coals. Surprisingly, I find a short stack of quarter logs and pull one free.

Unach’s door opens suddenly, and I wonder if she’d had her ear pressed to it. “What are you doing?” Her peevish tone slices through the room.

I stiffen. “The fire—”
She glares at me.
Trolls must be more adapted to the cold, what with their . . . thickness. I quickly replace the log. Unach scrutinizes me, as if she’s thinking about shoving me through that single, narrow window. I hurry to the fur and lie down, and she retreats once more.

I lie on the hide for some time as the braziers slowly fade. I’m used to camping on hard ground, but this floor makes my bones feel too sharp for my skin, even with the hide. The temperature drops, and the night looms. I roll up in the hide for warmth, but without its barrier, the frigid floor shocks my skin. I now understand the need for rugs.

Unach may not like it, but I grab the end of a small rug and pull it over for a mattress. It blocks out the cold, thankfully, though it does little in the way of cushioning. I could try to relight a brazier—but I fear to bring the wrath of a troll upon me. Fear of something always lurks in my thoughts or crawls beneath my skin. Fear has been my greatest companion since before I can remember. It has kept me alive, fuels me, protects me. In truth, I don’t know what I would do without it.

Fear tells me that Unach is a barely contained bonfire. I’m not yet sure of her brother’s temperament.

 

 

And so I lie here, shivering, my knees pulled to my chest, my arms folded tightly together, using my own hair as a pillow.

At least if I don’t sleep, I won’t dream of whatever monsters the council intends for me come morning.

 

I can’t breathe. I can’t—
I wake up to a hand around my mouth. It’s large and calloused, and

I know exactly who it belongs to when it jerks me free of my little pallet in the stable.

Screams build up in my throat as my father’s men pull me back. It’s early, too early. The cock hasn’t crowed yet. Their hands grapple everywhere, holding down my flailing limbs, jerking me this way and that, carrying me out like a rabid dog into the blue-hued light.

“Ignore it! It’s not real!” one hisses to another, and I spare only half a second of surprise that my father would tell them why I’m so valuable. But thieves must know what to expect when stealing something that can fight back.

But that fear is their own. Not mine.

I add to it, pushing the darkness out, escalating my own terror in the process.

The man holding my legs flinches, but the one covering my mouth drops me like I’ve bitten him and reels back.

All my screams escape me, surging through the township of Dorys like a murder of crows. The fear heightens my senses, strengthens my limbs. Pleads with me to flee, flee, flee.

“Shut her up!”
I push my fear harder.
Men drop me. I scramble across the dry ground, trying to orient myself.

Cry out for help.
Something, perhaps a boot, hits the side of my head. The world spins.

The blue light momentarily turns black.

That’s the weakness of my power. I can instill terror into any man, but the minute I leave, so does the fear.

When my thoughts return to my throbbing head, I’m being manhandled again. One of my kidnappers grabs my breast—not in a sexual way, but in an effort to throw me onto the back of another’s horse.

No, no, NO. I will NOT go back, I will not—
“Leave her be!”
The sound of Cando’s voice—it’s his stable I’m sleeping in—is such a relief and a horror that I nearly wet myself. Relief that someone has come for me. Horror at what these three men might do to him, for my father’s men are armed and armored, and they ride horses, which are increasingly rare in these parts. Even Cando doesn’t have a horse. He uses his stable for goats and storage.

I crane to see. Cando stands there in his underclothes, a pitchfork in his hand. Elisher, his neighbor, is also present and half-dressed, but he holds a makeshift club, a heavy staff with nails protruding from its tip. They eye the kidnappers warily.

I send out as much fear as I can, pushing it out like sweat, seizing all three brutes. I’ve only just learned how to do more than one at a time.

Two of them stiffen. The third drops me, and I hit the ground on my knees, splitting the skin of one. Sensing an advantage, Elisher moves forward and takes a swing at one, missing widely. These men aren’t warriors.

And so I direct my attention to the horse. It whinnies and rears before charging east.

“No!” one of my father’s men yelps, while the other draws his sword, ready to fight Cando. I shove terror into him, and he nearly drops the blade. He turns to me, but instead of a hard look, he appears like a child beneath a grizzly beard, likely grown during his search for me. Just a boy, alone and afraid.

Just like me.

I choke on fright, but I am merciless, and the men begin to shake and weep. The legs of one grow wet with urine, and they flee Cando and Elisher, two on horses, one on foot, taking off in the direction of the lost steed.

 

I push the fear as hard and far as I can, until I’m sobbing and can no longer hear their retreat beyond the squat township buildings. Cando lowers his pitchfork. “Are you all right, Lark?”

I’m slow to return to myself. Gritting my teeth, I have to convince myself not to run. Coerce my heartbeat to slow, my breaths to even out. Persuade my mind that that fear isn’t real, though much of it is. But I’m not all right, for I know I must leave, because now my father’s men know where I am, and they’ll come back with reinforcements. An army these people could never hope to best. This is a small place with few people, as most townships are. Farmers and the desperate, not trained warriors. And I, a fifteen-year-old girl, can only do so much.

Had they hit my head first, before dragging me out of the stable, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything, even scream. Next time, they won’t make that mistake.

 

I wake from a fitful sleep with memories of Dorys dancing behind my eyelids. I’d hoped that I’d find the Cosmodian I’d met as a girl when I’d moved to the township, but she wasn’t there. Still, the people of Dorys had been kind to me, until after that morning. Then they were suspi- cious. But humans are superstitious creatures. I don’t know if I could have stayed, even had I tried. Dorys is probably the human settlement closest to Cagmar, about sixty or seventy miles northeast. It sits in the middle of human land, as though its founders had left the long-dried river in an attempt to reach the canyon and given up halfway. Dorys always makes me think of sagebrush. There was so much of it there.

Silver light seeps through the narrow window above me, a predawn sky high above where I slumber, cradled by canyon walls. I smile at it before rubbing sleep from my eyes. As I sit up, a second blanket, thick with fur and heavy, falls from my shoulders. I gape at it, having no recollection of it. Unach must have had a change of heart . . . or my shivering was loud enough to bother her. Either way, my heart fills at the sight of the blanket, for surely where there is kindness, there is hope for me.

I fold the blanket and leave it by Unach’s door. I’m not sure what to do for breakfast. I have only what’s in my small bag, which is little more than a change of clothes. Eyeing the two closed bedroom doors, I slip into the crammed closet and change quickly, my cold fingers struggling with the buttons of my dress. Stepping out, I braid my hair over my shoulder.

Fortunately, I don’t have to wait long. I’ve just returned the rug to its place when Unach opens her door. She is perfectly put together and alert, her topaz eyes darting to the fireplace before looking over the floor. In this better light, I struggle to hide my awe of her. She stands over seven feet tall, equal to her brother. Her clothing reminds me of leather armor, and like the guardsmen on the bridge, she wears a thick belt around her middle, which emphasizes her small breasts. Her arms bear more muscle than any human man’s, and every bony nub and spike on her is polished and white.

She is terrifying and magnificent and every bit a troll.

Eyeing me, she crosses the room to light a small fire, which she then places a pot over. She doesn’t speak as she does this, or as she prepares something in the kitchen. When the water begins to bubble, she pulls a tin cup from the cupboard and fills it. “There’s food for you in the cold storage box.” She points to a cupboard in the floor. “It needs to last the whole day,” she adds with a tone of warning, “which means you need to get your rations from the market. If they don’t have any for you, it’s the council’s problem, not mine.”

Relief calms my hunger. “Thank you.” I head into the kitchen. It’s small and cramped, and it’s not hard to find the cold storage box recessed into the floor. Inside is some dried meat from an animal I’m not sure I want to identify, as well as some cucumbers and what looks like . . . flower petals? I grab the meat and close the box, taking a large bite and working it in my mouth.

 

 

When I return to the main room, Unach looks me up and down and sighs. “Makes no sense.” She heads for the door, stops, and plants a hand on her hip. “Well? You expect me to wait for you?”

I blanch, grab my bag from my pallet, and hurry to Unach’s side. Scoffing, she rips open the door and steps out into the dimly lit corri- dor. She walks with long and purposeful strides. We return to the lift from before, dropping to a different floor that opens up to a maze of tunnels that makes me think of an anthill.

Cagmar is much more alive at this hour; trolls crowd everywhere. While they come in an assortment of heights, shades, and sizes, they all dwarf me. Several give me strange looks as I hurry to keep up with Unach. Others pay me little mind, which means other humans must be here, else my presence would be more novel. When Unach takes a sharp turn, I bump into a dark-gray-skinned woman, who spits, “Clumsy louse,” at me before continuing on her way.

The next corridor has a floor made of wooden slats on metal gird- ers, and it brightens as we walk through it. It takes me a beat to realize that the light comes from the sun itself; the wall to my left suddenly opens up, revealing the steep cliffside of the canyon. It’s covered with various loops and trellises, and hanging from them streams vegetation in all the colors of the rainbow. Vines, climbers, flowers—so many flowers, many the color of the strange disk Unach gave me to eat the night before. The smell consumes me, earthy and floral and lovely. Trolls hang from short bridges and trellises, watering, pollinating, or harvesting the plants. I’m utterly enthralled. My steps slow as I take in the impressive garden, grasping a handrail that separates it from the main path.

A strike from a shoulder sends me to the floor. The shock of the landing radiates up my tailbone. I look up to see a large troll looming over me. He is broad and gray skinned, with beefy arms folded across his chest. His jaw and chin are the widest I’ve seen yet, accented with large bone studs. His tusks are narrow and sharp, almost like fangs.

 

 

“Never seen food before, human?” He sneers at me. He stands aside from the flow of traffic. Did he go out of his way to collide with me? “If you think you’ll get away with stealing it, you’re a fool.”

I grab the handrail and pull myself up. “N-Not at all. I’m already provided for.” I bow my head and try to move around him, but he side- steps and blocks my path. A buzz of fear creeps up my spine.

He leans close. His hot breath smells of fish when he speaks. “You’d do better providing for the monsters below.”

I gape and glance past the handrail. If I wanted to, I could jump past the lip of the opening and fall into that endless darkness. How long would it take for me to hit?

“Move it, Grodd.”
A sigh escapes me. Unach’s voice has never sounded so sweet. Grodd turns and glares at Unach over his shoulder. He has several inches on her . . . and more of those turquoise beads, I notice. “What business is it of yours?” His tone is hard, but not entirely disrespectful. Meanwhile, several passing trolls duck their heads away, as though wanting to be unnoticed. I wonder at their deference.

“Council business,” she answers flatly.

A smirk pulls on Grodd’s lips. He turns his back to me, and I use the opportunity to slip into the corridor and loop around to Unach. He must see the lack of mirth on her face, for his smirk fades. “You jest.”

She gives him a cold look without answering, then starts down the corridor again, and this time I stick to her heels like a pup. I glance over my shoulder once, to see Grodd watching me, his mouth pulled into a frown, his eyes dark.

Once we reach a quiet set of stairs, I ask, “Who was that?”

“A self-important Montra. Stay away from him.” She descends, leaving no room for follow-up.

We walk for a while, always descending, passing all sorts of doors and rooms and atriums I want to know about. But Unach is a woman on a mission, and she does not give a tour, except to announce the south dock when we arrive. It opens just as the gardens did, but the mouth is much wider, the sun dimmer, and there are no guardrails. One other troll occupies the dock, a shorter troll—still a head taller than myself— thickly built and girded about with both animal skins and leather straps covered in various knives. His skin is bright as a blade of spring grass in the morning sun.

“What in the dark pits is this?” he asks when I follow Unach in.

“Council orders,” she says blandly. She sounds tired and imme- diately goes to an open chest full of cords, ropes, and straps. “She’s hunting with us.” She points a thumb at the troll and introduces him as Troff.

Troff lets out a belly laugh that echoes through the dock, but when Unach doesn’t join in, it piddles out to nothing. “You’re serious.” He studies me, his gaze narrow, skeptical. I’ve always been tall, especially for a woman, but under that gaze I feel a slip of a thing. A child.

“Yep. Don’t ask me why.” Unach pulls out a clump of straps and holds them toward me, as though measuring me. “Unless you want to explain?”

Both trolls stare at me. I simply shake my head. I revealed my secret to the council for self-preservation alone. I did not want anyone else to know. Indeed, the only time my horrid abilities have ever truly benefited me was in that council room.

Cold memories slide up my neck. I push them away.

Unach silently strides over and hands me a harness, then returns to the chest to grab another. Troff already wears his, and he studies me unabashedly while Unach suits up. I try to mimic her actions with the harness, but Troff’s steady gaze makes me self-conscious. Finally, Unach comes over and untangles the thing, explaining in as few words as pos- sible how to put it on. She assists me again, once everything is in place, only by grabbing a strap around my waist and yanking it, pulling so tight that it digs into my stomach.

“Thank you,” I murmur, but she acts as though she didn’t hear me.

Troff begins hooking ropes up to various pulleys along the walls and ceiling.

 

 

My stomach drops. “We’re going over the side, aren’t we?”
Unach rolls her eyes. “Where else do you think monsters live?”
I swallow, wondering what sorts of creatures inhabit this canyon.

What sorts of creatures could be more terrifying than a troll.
I think of Grodd and shudder.
Unach shoves my shoulder and leads me to the end of the dock. For an awful second, I think she’s going to push me over, but she doesn’t, only points to the parts of the city we can see. She indicates a tunnel to the left. “That leads to the mines. East dock.” It appears to be the lowest part of the city. “Master armory. Water harvesting. We passed the tribunal, school, and infirmary on our way here. We’re on the southeast edge of Cagmar. You’ll want to get familiar with it as we move around, so you don’t get lost. If you stay with me”—she says it like it will be a chore—“you’ll always work this dock. Otherwise you’ll move to the east or west. How well can you climb?”

I haven’t had ample opportunity. None of the townships on my map are near the mountains. “Well enough,” I manage.

Unach sighs. “Troff, spot us.”

The troll readies himself as Unach secures separate ropes to herself and to me. She opens a closet on the wall, revealing a score of weapons, mostly heavy blades. Unach is already armed; she keeps her weapons in her apartment. But she selects a few blades for me and hands them over. I strap them on, following the style she and Troff use. While I’m not trained, I’ve used a knife to defend myself before.

“So we scout the monsters, and kill them?” I ask.

“If they get too close,” Troff answers, though he still looks at me with a confused expression. At least it’s not one of malice. “Alarms out- side the city scare off most. Sometimes we just scare them away. Hunt the smaller ones.”

“For food?” I’ve eaten worse.

“Depends on the monster,” Unach answers. “Some are poisonous.” She steps toward the edge.

 

 

Troff adds, “We use their hides, their oil, some stuff for medicine. The large ones are too deadly to harvest.”

Unach waves for me to join her. My heart rises into my throat when I look into the depths of the canyon. Supposedly a river flows down there, but all I can see is endless black. My voice borders on a whisper when I ask, “How many are large?”

“Most of them,” Unach snaps before jumping over the ledge.

A gasp catches in my throat, but Unach has only dropped down to handholds bolted into the stone wall of the city. After ensuring that Troff is holding my rope, I carefully lower myself down after her. My arms strain, but I find footholds that bear most of my weight.

A cold wind rushes up, wet and smelling of mildew, as if the canyon itself breathes. Unach doesn’t mind, so I try not to. I’m slow to follow her. I’m suitably strong, but my attention flits everywhere at once, scan- ning the sides of the city, the canyon walls, the gorge’s depths. Looking for movement, for a shift in color, for anything. We climb, sidestep, climb, stopping occasionally at small, flat viewing stations carved out of rock. We pass by windows; Unach gives me little time to peer in, though the enormous drop below me mutes my curiosity.

My hand slips once, and I nearly let go. When I grasp the handhold again, I stay there for a long time, hugging the city like a long-lost lover. “If you slip, you’ll fall, but Troff will pull you back in.” She gives me a narrow look before moving on. But in her eyes, I can almost read,

Though it would be better if he didn’t.