Chapter Two - The Awakening, Part Four

Tritus was rubbing his hands eagerly. He could feel a sale.

Peace was good for business and war was good for business, but nothing shakes up the economy like a nice shift in power. With Ilstan gone a new aristocracy was going to emerge, rich with new money from Venger's campaigns in the Westerlands. With any luck, he'd be a part of it. A bigger house, more staff perhaps.

Vytrycean gold, Wystian sea-silk, Gythrian whisky… the allure of names and wealth teased him. All he wanted to do was ask questions like a small child.

"I want good-looking, capable slaves. No half-breeds. Preferably trained, but otherwise capable of learning." The Mage named Vyshe continued.

They were standing in Tritus's private booth overlooking the Arena. Below, the morning's fights were underway, around them the mob roared.

"Of course, all of my slaves are obedient and completely Human." Tritus replied, trying to hide the eagerness in his manner. Vyshe was tall, intense and dressed in Venger's dark, rich colours. He'd heard from his sources that Vyshe had played a key role in the capture of the city.

"Good." Vyshe said, staring out into the stands, watching the crowd. "Are you interested in politics, Mr Tritus?"

"In a manner of speaking. Only insofar as it affects business." Tritus said, watching the slaves below in their fight with the Dragon. It was a pale and sallow creature, hardly a Dragon at all, at least in a Classical sense.

"I've spent three years liberating the Westerlands, Humans, Giisi – many of the lesser races. They say this is the end of the line, that Venger's war ends here. What do you think?"

"I couldn't possibly comment." Tritus replied with a nervous chuckle. He was in the company of one of Venger's Mages – one of the Iryan traitors.

"Try." Vyshe commented dangerously. "As you say, your political interest is based on business. Is the name of Venger good for business?"

Tritus coughed. "People are investing, people like yourselves are buying. This is a good thing."

Vyshe nodded. He was watching the action below. The Idjian slave was leading the other slaves, guiding their attacks, circling the Dragon. "What do you think these people want?" Vyshe waved to the crowd, the mingled faces of the mob, all braying for violence and death. Each time a slave fell they crowed and cheered like carrion birds.

"Blood." Tritus said, the hair on his arms standing up.

"Indeed." Vyshe said. "The cry for blood. Stability and peace will not last. Venger's war has been one of vengeance and status. He has brought his army and his name to the doorsteps of the Harzish Kingdoms and the forests of Aelfheim."

The uncomfortable truth disturbed Tritus. He wasn't stupid, it was hard to ignore the proximity of the world's greatest races pressing down on Ymylic's borders. Ffin was a poor city, in a poor province in a poor land. The Human wealth lay elsewhere, across the sea in Idjia, Opello and Luuria.

"Soon, all will have to answer." Vyshe took a step towards the balcony's edge. The crowd was beginning to rise in anticipation. Blows could be heard from the sandy floor of the Arena. Tritus took a step forward and stood next to Vyshe.

"Who is that?" Vyshe was pointing at the Idjian slave who was locked in battle with the Dragon. His club was swinging in sharp, precise arcs, deflecting each blow of claws from the lizard. He was good, very good. Tritus had bought the boy when he was but a child from a Giisi trader in the Idjian capital. They said he's been brought up fighting Aurks. Tritus had believed them.

"That is one of my best fighters –" Tritus's reply began, but Vyshe didn't listen. From within his long navy robes a Staff appeared. For an instant Tritus recognised it, but couldn't think of where he'd seen it. With a clap of energy Vyshe leapt from the balcony and dropped the thirty foot to the Arena floor below.

Tritus swore under his breath and dived for the door. His short legs clattered on the stone as he descended the spiral staircase, shoving past all in his way.

The bright light of the Arena obscured his eyesight for a moment, when they adjusted he saw an incredible sight before him. Vyshe, the slave and the Dragon were engaged in a three-way battle. Thunderstrikes of power boomed around the Arena, prompting a frenzy from the crowd.

Terror gripped Tritus as his sandalled feet moved unconsciously closer to the battle. The slave moved with the grace and energy of a survivor. The Dragon attacked both Vyshe and the slave without prejudice, but Vyshe was only attacking the Slave. His movements were sharp and precise, his staff meeting the Slave's club blow for blow.

Shocked and horrified, Tritus watched as the Slave seemed to gain the upper hand, mastering the Dragon and using the beast against his opponent.

"Enough!" Vyshe bellowed, a wave of light exploding from his staff with a peal of bells. The Dragon reeled backwards, frozen mid-movement by a lyric of magic.

The slave fell, the club falling from his hands. Vyshe approached and picked up the weapon, calmly he examined both staff and club side by side. They were almost identical.

There was a silence from the crowd.

"I knew the man who crafted this boy," Vyshe said dangerously, his voice propelled menacingly around the Arena, "Where did you get it?"

The slave wasted no time, fearlessly he answered, "I defeated him. I took it from his cold, dead hands."

Vyshe's eyes widened, there seemed to be no question of the truth in the matter. Tritus's breath caught in his throat as he looked between Mage and slave.

Vyshe turned to Tritus and smiled, "How much for the Barbarian?"



Saraii's feet echoed unnaturally on the stone floor. Around her, Ilstan's quarters opened out, cave-like. An enormous four-poster bed, plush rugs and tapestries, lounging sofas and enormous open fire. He was standing in the centre of the room wearing only a loose gown.

"Come here, Saraii," his voice boomed, sounding distant and hollow. Her legs obeyed without question, her heart quailed within her chest. This was a mistake.

He took a glass of wine and passed one to her. Her hands stuck to the cold glass as he encouraged her to drink the alien liquid.

"Do not be afraid, child," his voice sounded light, but the words did not, "I am not going to hurt you. I merely wish to thank you for all the hard work you have done for me."

He retreats towards the bed and gestures for her to follow. Slower this time, she obeys his command and sits lightly on the edge of the bed. He looms over her like a storm-cloud, watching and waiting.

"I am very proud of you, Saraii." His hand reaches forward and touches a lock of her hair.

The air suddenly shimmers and her stomach twists…


She's awake and panting. Darkness envelopes her but she can still see the sickening room, his hands, the robe, the wine. Valiantly she works hard to quell the violence in her stomach, the disgust.

Who's were these memories? She wondered. Every night this week she'd dreamed of altenating places. In one, she was in the castle with the monster Ilstan. In the other she was in a house she was convinced was hers, surrounded by trees and cars. She had a brother, family – a happy, perfect life. A dream.

Tired and feeling empty she sat up and looked out of the narrow window. Her room was hundreds of feet up. She could see most of the city from this vantage. In all honesty she felt as detached from the world below as it looked.

From the next room she could hear whimpering then the rushing sound of the bell.

Saraii stood and walked to the door, gathering her robe around her. She opened the large wooden door and entered Attani's room. Candles lit the large bedroom revealing the bright colours and foreign antique toys. It was a playroom, bedroom – an entire universe for the creature that lay on the bed. A slender grey hand gripped the bell pull and Saraii walked over and took it away.

Softly her voice hushed the girl, wrapped up in her blankets.

"Cold, so cold," the girl whimpered. Saraii sat on the bed and drew the girl into her arms, rocking her back and forth. She'd done this every night since she'd been with the poor thing. Saraii would wake up from a nightmare memory and Attani would wake up too having seen an echo of the same nightmare in her own mind.

At first both had been scared. What connected them? How could they share a dream? But no answers were forthcoming to a maid and the girl everyone wished was not there. Captain Kytan and the Mage Scholars at the Academy had all ignored her appeals for answers. Now, they were both tired and wished they could just go to sleep.

"I know, I know," Saraii repeated gently feeling herself warm up slowly.

"I saw his mind. I saw what he wanted…" Attani whispered. Saraii seized up, horrified, and squeezed the girl closer.

Later, when Attani was finally resting, Saraii paced the room and unconsciously tidied things. The toys were put away, all the clothes arranged neatly for the morning. She emptied bed pans, changed the water, re-arranged the curtains, dusted the mantles until finally, she too was exhausted.

Attani called her the tidy-fairy, the imp that comes in the night and does all the things that no one wants to do. Despite herself, Saraii was growing attached to the burden she'd been placed with. Not even Venger wanted anything to do with his daughter. The rest of the staff ignored her, she was free to come and go as she pleased. But, of course, leaving their tower-top apartment meant leaving Attani alone. Over the days she'd watched a reluctant pattern emerge. She'd go down early in the morning to gather what they'd need for the rest of the day so that later, she would not have to leave the girl alone, in a cold room atop the highest tower in a land she didn't know.

From the bed Saraii flinched at the sound of a whimper. Softly she sat on the bed and finally slid under the covers. In her sleep the girl slid closer to Saraii and she lay there, staring at the patterned, childish ceiling of the bed until she too drifted off into the dark, sleep that awaited her.


Karnival. Saraii. Karnival. Saraii.

The words rebounded in Cole's mind like a game of Pong – not that he could visualise what that word meant anymore – the same two words, the same vital urgency, but with each passing second the meaning was slipping. He had memories – he was certain they were memories – of names, faces, places.

"It will all come back to you boy," the Apothecary told him serenely, "Do not worry. The siege made us all a little mad."

Cole was forced to listen to this every time he brought up the question of his memories. To them there was no question of where he'd come from, but Cole knew that he was not of this place.

"A force will remain here and continue to try and retake the city. Expeditions will be sent abroad to muster a counter-attack. Lord Ilstan has gone to Ylic, they say." The General said, confiding in the Apothecary.

Cole listened from the shadows. He kept away from the other soldiers when he wasn't helping out in the infirmary. He listened to the sounds of the camp and the whispers between comrades.

There'll be no help. We're on our own.

If we were any kind of patriots we'd be supporting Venger.

We'll stay until Ffin is ours again.

Rebellion was in the air, the soldiers were lost, split and lacking the leadership to unify them against the war to come. But Cole didn't care. He didn't bellong here and with each passing moment he lost the ability with which to see the details in his own mind. Dread and unease filled the wake left by his dreams.

One morning, a week, a month after his 'arrival', he was handed a pickaxe.

"You'll join the rest of the boys on the front now," a Captain commanded the tent of able bodied madmen, "We're shoring up our defenses for the winter. We need permanent shelter."

"How long will it take?" A small voice cried.

The Captain looked up sharply, his haunted eyes passed over the room. "A month – a year. As long as it takes."

"What about reinforcements?" Another asked.
The Captain shrugged and left them to their thoughts. Cole smiled, feeling the grip of the pickaxe. It felt real and comforting. Maybe the work would take his mind off things – help him remember. Maybe.

World Map

Chapter Two - The Awakening, Part Three

"I'm sorry child, I simply cannot find any record of you."

The old man was sitting forlornly in the middle of pile of books and papers. Pere's eyes wandered from the smashed hole in the wall to the mass of burned mulch at their feet. Beyond, the city of Ffin glowed in the afternoon light.

Pere nodded and Xete shrugged.

"I really don't know what to suggest. All the Mages who might be able to recover your memory are either engaged with tasks for Captain Kytan or they fled when Lord Ilstan left." A dark look passed over the man's face as he returned to his sorry job of resorting all of the scattered papers. Every moment more and more pieces of parchment floated away with the wind. "In the former case they'll be highly unwilling to help you based on their shifty slip in allegiance, or as in the case of the latter, incapable of doing so due to their untimely absence. My respect for the faculty of this institution flutters away with every lost scroll out of that gods forsaken hole."

Pere rubbed his arms and sat down on the floor. Listlessly he sifted through the papers and began gathering them up into piles. Xete followed the contour of the wall until it ended, below him the floor broke away into a chasm that dropped a hundred feet. They were on the second floor of the Academy, but the Academy itself sat on top of a small cliff overlooking the servant's wing of the castle.

"Watch yourself boy," The Record keeper said, without much energy. Xete retreated, he looked distant.

"So, they call you Pere, do they?" the old man looked up, his wiry hair jutting at all angles, a pair of pince-nez perched on his nose. Pere shrugged.

"That's what Xete calls me." Pere said.

"Oh. Well then, may name is Ustan." He smiled as warmly as he could manage. "I assume you've asked around to see if anyone recognises you?"

"Yes – but we'd only just arrived." Xete said.

"Somebody must have known you…"

Pere shook his head, thinking about all the stolen trinkets now stored beneath his cot. Whoever he'd been, Pere was sure he'd not wanted to draw attention to himself.

"Ah well, welcome to an institution founded by loners, for loners. We all come here for the same reason child – we're drawn by power and the need to be around misfits like ourselves. Of course it was all different back in the Iryan days." He smiled warmly, looking up from his pile of paper. "All of the Greater Races gathered together in search of the ancient secrets left to us by the Elders."

He looked around him, "This Academy is but a pale imitation of it."

"What's going to happen to us?" Xete asked, for the first time his voice seemed to lack confidence.

"You'll be trained up, probably according to a new, Venger approved curriculum and then, most likely, you'll end up serving as Mages in his army." The Record Keeper didn't try and hide the scorn in his voice. "Keep your heads down boys and pray you are feeble and unruly at Magic like me." The Record Keeper seemed to drift away into his own little world, his voice trailing off into a mumble. Xete leaned down and tapped Pere on the shoulder indicating they should probably leave.

Outside in the dark, drafty corridor they stopped, "What do you want to do now?" Xete asked.

Pere assessed his options. One, he could go on searching and dig up a past he may not want; or two, he could forget about the entire thing and start from scratch.

"Forget about it." Pere said finally. Xete smiled and they began walking.

"In that case we should probably go down into the city and buy supplies. I heard some of the girls were going down this afternoon – we could meet up with them. I can tell them all about my Giant lineage." Xete left the suggestion hanging, presumably to see if Pere was interested. He was. Every fibre of his being wanted to distance himself from that room of stolen things. He hadn't thought about his memory loss as a good thing until now, maybe that roof caving in had been a blessing.




"Welcome to a new day! Lord Venger salutes you." The amplified voice of the Cryer boomed through the streets. "Your cooperation and service will be rewarded. There will be work for every citizen, a home for every family. Disorder will be punished. Citizens are encouraged to join the City Guard and serve in Lord Venger's army. Service will be rewarded with tax cuts and bonuses for married couples."

Eonid dropped the box onto the low, hard cot and leaned back. Along her spine she felt the ripple of tiny clicks and wondered when she'd ever got this out of shape. Fortunately, that box was the last.

Sitting down on the cot she tucked Feold into his basket and winced every time a loud noise or a bang drifted by. The walls of the barracks were thick, but the only window allotted for them was four feet from the floor and very narrow. The space felt cold and dark and totally unlike the home they'd been promised.

Between the curtains and hanging sheets that served as dividers, the rest of the company were moving into their own little corners. At least they were all together.

Leaning against the wall was her quarter staff, painted in tribal colours and decorated with feathers and fur, the staff served as a reminder of the past she could only partially remember. True, her skin was darker than everyone else's – but she didn't remember the dusty, hot homeland that everyone seemed to think was hers. Her name was Eonid – it was a Brythic name. She looked down at her son and his light bronze skin and wondered.

"Hey."

Eonid turned her head and held a finger to her lips. Quietly she stood and went to examine her husband in his new Guard's uniform. The dusty old leather was replaced by a dark navy overcoat and an obsidian leather breastplate. Irik smiled wanly. "What do you think? Do I look like enough of a traitor to fool them?"

Eonid shushed him, "No. You're doing the right thing." She watched him take strength from her support and felt herself content.

"This isn't quite the townhouse we were hoping for, is it?"

"Well, at least we aren't living with your mother anymore." Eonid replied. She only had a dim memory of Irik's mother – but it was enough. "I think I really hurt my head the other day, I can't seem to remember anything much from before it happened."

Irik leaned back and held her head in his hands, "That looks like a nasty bump. You should get a salve from the 'cary – there's one around the corner on the banks of the Ffryc." She shook her head free, wearily.

"I'm serious. It could turn nasty." He went to one of the boxes and pulled out a hand-glass and brandished it towards her. She retreated instinctively and held out her hands. "What's wrong?"

"Put it away," she said. Hearing the tension in her voice he put the glass down and hugged her.

"You're still beautiful," he murmured softly, misunderstanding her anxiety. Let him think I'm being silly, she thought, better to think I'm silly than mad. The memory of her image in the puddle on the street returned to her. Her own face, but not her. She shuddered. Around them the small, cramped space leaned in on them; the cold stone floor, the draft from the high window, the noise. Outside the Cryer continued to chant his message…

"Food for the needy, homes for the poorest. Venger's reign will usher in a new age of prosperity for the region. Commerce with his Empire in the Westerlands, opportunities to travel across the sea! All will benefit in the glorious new day!"




They would have made Ean by nightfall. The slope of the forest led them further into the foothills where the density of the trees began to falter. When they found the Ean tributary they followed it northeast until it led them to a secluded valley. In the distance Frank could see lights glowing. His heart brightened for a moment until the wind brought with it an ominous smell. Smoke. A ripple of anxiety spread through the Marauders. Smoke in itself wasn't unusual, but to be able to smell it this far down the valley was a sign. It implied that more than just cooking fires were burning.

Arytar, the silver-haried leader of the Marauders gestured to one of the others, who nodded and disappeared into the forest. The order was simple and obvious enough to understand – scout out the village, bring back answers.

Quietly and steadily they led the survivors into the next valley and found a secluded glen in which the Marauders deemed it safe to start a fire and build a camp for the night. Frank kept his eyes on the survivors and off his wandering thoughts. His hands gripped the bow haft tightly and the rhythm of his leather gloves squeaking over the polished wood kept him atuned.

The survivors talked amongst themselves and eased their bones. Soon, fresh game was brought and the cooking began. Many of the survivors were cooks and they threw themselves into the preparation. Soon, all of the survivors were doing something to contribute while their green cloaked watchers stood around the circle, their eyes and ears waiting for word from Ean. From above the circle of silhouettes the stars shone and the cold of night descended quickly. Wood was gathered and after all had eaten the fire was stoked and smaller ones were started so that the company could sleep.

Frank traced the constellations in his mind and noted the rise of the moon. Soon it would be midnight – the scout should have returned by now. He caught an anxious look from Elai from the other edge of the clearing, with a nod of the head she called him over. Softly, Frank made his way around the sleeping company and tried to swallow the dread in his throat.

"Loosen your arrows," Elai whispered as he approached, gesturing to the group of Marauders gathered in the darkness beyond the firelight. He shrugged the hood of his cloak over his head and joined the group with Elai.

Silently they began to hike over the valley and into the next. When they reached the crest of the valley they got an elevated view of the village. Not a word was said as they watched a column of smoke tower into the sky. At the trees' edge they were forced to move slower, between the shadows of the larger rocky outcroppings which dotted the valley floor. When they were close enough to see the details of buildings it became clear that the village was burned or burning to the ground. Not many houses were left now.

A series of inhuman cries and yells echoed across the valley. Frank felt the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak and waited for the signal to continue. Cautiously they went on until they reached the river. From here they could see the darkened water. Elai leaned down and tasted it from a finger.

"Blood." She confirmed. Bows were notched and swords loosened as they approached now in formation. A confrontation was now guaranteed if the aggressors were still in the village. Possibilities flashed through Frank's mind – but the foremost was the most obvious – a trap.

The closer they got the more details the stench of the smoke revealed. Burning flesh, wood and crops. There were a few signs of trouble, but not much to imply an active defense. They'd been taken unawares.

"The Mana?" Elai whispered to Arytar – who pointed to a low stone cairn carved into the mountainside. The door was broken in and as they approached the hair on the back of Frank's arms squirmed underneath his tunic and guards. The air seemed to throb at the entrance of the cairn and no one dared enter.

"Empty," Arytar muttered, "They've probably taken the Mine. Probably using it as a base." With a gesture he directed them to cautiously examine the buildings and search for survivors in pairs.

Elai and Frank crossed the stone bridge, ignoring the pools of smeared, black blood on the path. It led them to the highest point where the outer houses were surrounded by small barren fields. Beyond a small copse of fir trees lingered like watchers. Frank barely felt the strain in his arm as he kept his arm arm taught against the tension of the bow. Elai moved before him, dagger in hand. The farthest house was a smoking husk built on a flat foundation of stones. The charred, skeletal remains of the house needed little examination. All within were dead.

Another cry sounded out across the valley. This time it sounded more like laughter, and, more importantly it sounded closer. Frank's eyes worked overtime to scour the shadows for movement, but the village was infuriatingly still.

"Frank," Elai whispered, kicking a stick with her boot. He glanced at it quickly and recognised an expended wand. It was a crude single use affair, the echoes of the writing revealed it was used to create fire.

"Matches," he muttered, frowning.

"What?" Elai whsipered.

Frank shook his head.

Suddenly they heard the recall whistle, shrill and piercing. They made their way swiftly back to where the others were gathered. They were standing around the body of one of the Marauders, a long black arrow shaft had pierced his neck. The Marauders on the outer circle were guarding, bows raised to the ridges and tree lines.

"Crude." Arytan commented on the origin of the arrow, "Krytahs to be sure. Made bold by recent events."

His words were cut short by a flurry of activity from the shadows. Ten, then twenty – forty arrows landed at their feet and skittered across the stones. The valley erupted with laughter as dark little shapes moved out of the darkness. The Marauders opened fire. Frank loosed two arrows, finding his mark both times before realising that they were surrounded and outnumbered by insurmountable odds.

He lowered his bow and pulled his sword, its glittering edge dancing in the moonlight. His other hand found its way into Elai's as their backs closed together. Arytar whispered furious orders to them but Frank didn't hear. He was looking for a way to get out alive but the chances were grim.

"Make for the river," Arytar commanded, "Now!"

They moved as one, leaping over the stones and heads of the small leathery creatures in their way. Frank's blade found flesh just as easily as others nicked his own. The valley rang out with the noise of frantic battle as the Marauders fought off the advance of the Krytahs. Watery amber eyes and nasty little daggers winked in the dark, their scattered, broken language crunching the air. They were close to the water's edge when a flash of light shot into the night.

"Wagicka! Wagicka!" The Krytahs screamed while the Marauders looked around for the source of the light.

"Gods," Arytar muttered, "They've stolen the wands – they've got the Mana!"

Frank's eyes widened, his heart stopped just as a scream of energy tore through the air and landed amongst them, scattering the Marauders across the village. Frank heaved himself to his feet and shook the stars from his eyes to see a score of animal-like beings descending on him. Wildly his arms flailed to protect him but their sharp little daggers found their mark and he screamed as he felt burning metal scratch the length of his face and into his left eye.

Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt pounded in his face and a madness gripped his limbs. His legs pounded over the loose stone and through the hoards of Krytahs, his aimless, blind escape took him away from the shouting, and the sounds of battle. More explosions rung out in the night but Frank couldn't see. Desperately he scrambled over the ground, fear and pain fuelling his body. He fell and passed out several times, after each he was awake and running again until he finally fell into the punishing cold water of the Ean and everything faded.

Time seemed to slow around him as the poison in his eye spread into his blood and his mind ignited with visions of people and places.

In that one moment of brief feverish delirium he saw her face again, the girl from his dream. Her name was Sarah and she was here, he knew it. But the moment passed and he drifted into unconsciousness and the wilderness of unknowing darkness that precedes death.

Chapter Two - The Awakening, Part Two

Frank felt himself crushed under Cole's weight. The sounds of the Carnivale invaded the tunnel as they entered the maw of the ride.

Sarah was screaming, her hands on Cole trying to hold him back.

A sound grew in the belly of the beast, lights danced around them. Faces lit up in a frenzy of kinetic movement. Demons and ghosts, violent images.

The sound grew into a scream that absorbed all others.

Then, there was silence.

He woke up to a dead leg.

"Get up!" The gruff voice shouted, moving on to the sleeping lump next to him. He blinked, trying to discern the details around him. A canopy of trees shimmered into focus. A gloved hand wiped his face as he stood up unsteadily.

Frank looked down at himself and tried to piece together the holes in his head.

Beyond the trees he could see a valley stretching out below a ridge. Gentle farmland rolled away into the distance away from the wooded foothills until it reached a smoking walled city sitting atop cliffed plateau. Around it stood the dark moat of the sieging army, trying vainly to reclaim it.

"Ffin," a voice muttered beside him, he turned to face a woman. She was dressed head to foot in a camouflaged cloak of green leaves. Beneath it she wore a tunic of green leather similar to his. "And the Aelf say we can't build beautiful cities." She snorted before turning to walk away. Frank meant to stop her but his voice caught in his throat. Something was wrong. His dream infected him, it had all seemed so real. The last few days blurred together in one long stream of images.

Lined down the path, resting in the shade of the trees was a score of unnumbered people. Bedraggled survivors and refugees worn with marching. The gruelling pace they'd set could be seen in their eyes.

Something definitely wasn't right. Uncertainly he followed his legs up the slope, trying to work the sleep out of his stiff muscles. At the top of the path he found the woman. She was old enough to be his mother.

"What's your name?"

"Elai," she replied with a brisk smile. She handed him a short sword, a wooden quiver and a short bow. Unconsciously his hands strapped them to his body.

"Elai. That's a nice name."

She laughed at him. "Why do you want to know?"

He shook his head, distracted, "My name's Frank." He blurted, ignoring her question. There were things he needed to say, he needed to have said.

"That's a strange name." She replied, handing weapons to another figure dressed in green. "Nice, but strange."

He nodded. He knew it was a strange name

"Are you feeling well?" Elai asked, a look of motherly conern in her bright grey eyes.

He nodded again. In truth he felt fine – better than fine, he felt wonderful and intensely alive. But something sat at the centre of his being like a stone of dread. Bizzarely, this stone had a face. She was young and pretty. He didn't know her name but he knew she was real. Images returned to him from his dream but he couldn't think of the words to describe them.

Frank looked up and saw an old couple stumbling up the path. The man was shaken, his wife was trying to hold him back, but his withered hands were determined to stretch out before him towards the branches of a specific tree. Frank placed a hand on the old man's arm and asked him what was wrong.

"The fruit…" he muttered earnestly, his eyes wide and wet, "The fruit."

"He's a little confused," his wife compensated, her voice frail and worn, "We grew these trees back in the city and made preserves. We worked for Lord Ilstan in the Royal Gardens. He loved the fruit. When his mind was sound he'd enter them in the Karnivale."

Frank leaned up and pulled one of the fruit off the trees. It looked familiar but he couldn't think of the word. "What is it?" He asked softly. Her look was puzzled, as if he'd just fallen out of a tree.

"It's Symblene dear," she replied, "Haven't you ever had one?"

He shook his head, smiled and walked a short distance away. Something fundamentally wasn't right. Why couldn't remember the name of the fruit?

Under the light of the rising sun he adjusted the scabbard at his waist and shrugged the quiver and bow on his back into a more comfortable position. Ahead the rest of the marauders were gathered in a semi-circle around their leader.

"Keep the civvies moving." The silver bearded man addressed the assembled, "We'll make Ean by nightfall."

Frank watched the faces of the marauders. Misfits, grey faces and grey eyes for the most, those without stories or no wish to tell them, they moved away to gather the flock silently.

Why did all of his memories feel like dreams?



Sarah could still hear Cole's voice pummelling in her ears. She'd never seen him like this before. The sight of him, his pupils wide, incensed and all of his massive form driven to violence, terrified her.

Inbetween then and now she must have passed out, she thought, a degree of clarity returning to her. She must have gone somewhere and drunk a barrel of beer to get over it. She certainly felt like she'd drunk enough o floor an elephant. All of her muscles ached and there were defintiely cuts and bruises in places.

Grimly she tried to sit up and assess where she was but it was easier said than done. Her hands and clothes were soaked in some slimy substance. Something was itching her and an entire side of her face felt numb and cold. Around her she could hear noises, clanging, the rushing of feet – high voices.

Her eyes opened slowly and for a moment all she could see was darkness. Light and shadow slowly seperated like oil over water. She was on the floor of a long, smoky stone room. Her nostrils were assaulted by a rainbow of pungent kicks. The floor, she realised, was filthy. Rife with mud and faeces.

Shocked and sickened, she sat up and saw that her hands and dress were covered in the stuff. Wait a moment…

Dress???

Looking down at the coarse, pale sack-cloth disaster she was wearing in horror, she almost dismissed what was going on around her. Similarly dressed were dozens of men and women bustling around her. The same drab materials, all to-ing and fro-ing across the room.

Across the vaulted space she saw a blazing fire, over it, spit-roasting and dripping with fat must have been an entire pig. Enormous pots were boiling. The air above the floor was rich with the smell of cooking and heat. Everyone was ignoring her. This was ridiculous. How much could she have drunk in order to end up in a medieval recreation?

Slowly getting to her feet, she assessed how she felt. More bewildered than angry – though whoever had put her up to this would pay. Obliquely, ignoring the people around her and rubbing the sore spot on her head and arms she moved through the throng of the kitchen towards the door. Her thoughts lingered on a hot shower, a big breakfast then a consolatory binge of retail therapy, when a sweaty, slug-fingered hand gripped her by the ear.

"There you are, you swine of a gel!"

The hand spun Sarah around until she was face to face with a rotund, greasy middle-aged woman who must have been one of the cooks. The woman's expression curdled from angry to disgusted as she examined the horrific state Sarah was in. "Rolling in muck again, have we? Time enough to clean you I suppose, you lazy slut. The Captain of his Lordship's guard wants to examine you."

The woman's grip didn't lessen as she dragged Sarah through the murky kitchen and into the sharp outside air of a courtyard. The smell out here was so appalling that it made her reel. Dogs, pigs and fowl in all states were hobbled together in pens between four towering stone walls. The narrow chasm seemed to lean in on her, trapping out the light.

"Get over there and get those rags off." The woman commanded. Meekly Sarah began to pull away her dress, wondering whether this was all part of the act. Sarah's mind slugglishly tried to figure out where all of her clothes had gone. When she was down to her petticoat Sarah heard a splashing noise from behind her. She turned to see the imposing woman holding a bucket of filthy water.

"Arms up gel," she sneered before dousing her with the bitter tasting, ice cold water.

The next moments passed in a haze of shock and terror. The effect of the water reduced her to tears, unlocking all of the hidden hurts she'd been valiantly hiding behind for some time. Cole, Robby and Frank haunted her in vivid detail. As the woman rubbed her down with a coarse sheet and rough-handled her into a new dress, the guilt and anger sat in her gut, indigestible and acidic, like bile.

She was led dejected by the hand through the bowels of the castle, along the back corridors and narrow servants passages until she was led out into a wider, plushly decorated avenue of tall windows and tapestries. All the while the austere woman muttered bitterly to herself.

"Why Ilstan ever gave a rag like you the time of day, I'll never know. Private maid, my arse. I wonder how intimate you were with his sheets, you sly cunny." Sarah winced at every remark, every bewildering comment. Her eyes were beginning to blur and her skin was crawling with the sickening rhythm of fever. Was it a hangover? She couldn't remember anything and this charade was beginning to scare her. The intensity of it, the reality. It was like she'd walked into someone else's life.

Two enormous wooden doors swung inwards admitting the woman and Sarah. They were standing in a wide hall, lining both sides were two lines of black armoured knights facing each other. In the centre of the hall stood a tall black knight in a long, flowing cloak. His helmet was adorned with the black tusks of a ram.

The woman bowed deeply and retreated without saying a word, leaving Sarah alone and terrified in the middle of the hall. When the black knight finished looking over a roll of documents he looked up and walked towards her.

"You must be Saraii." He said, his voice echoing mechanically from within his helmet. Sarah blinked.

"I am Captain Kytan." He continued without waiting for a reply. "I hear you served the recently departed Lord Ilstan as his private maid." He was scanning down a roll of parchment and looking to her for verification. Blank with fever she nodded weakly. "Good. I have been sent ahead by my own Lord to prepare for his coming. Top of his list of priorities was the task for which I have you in mind."

He turned and began walking away, like a ghost she followed him unconsciously as if commanded like a puppet. "The new master of this city is a generous man. A man who has been misrepresented and resisted for his beliefs. He's a man of principle and I hope you will come to see that." He led her down the aisle of knights to the end of the room. The light draining in from the wall of glass blinded Sarah momentarily. As the glare cleared she could see the castle sweeping away from them. Towers and keeps rose up with within the walls of castle in tiers. Beyond, a vast and ancient city surrounded it. Sloped tile rooves, thousands of chimneys and a haze of smoke that glowed in the early morning light. Sarah's breath caught in her throat and her hands began to tremble.

"I want what is best for this world. I want to help my master carve its future. Have you heard the motto, Strength in Division?" Kytan said, his voice sounded more alien by the second. This is a dream. A nightmare, Sarah thought. "Most people believe that strength comes from working together. Unity forms a semblance of strength, but it is a mirage, a falsehood. Strength comes from driving the individual to meet its own needs. Ambition, focus and purpose – these are the organs of strength. To this end Lord Venger wishes to distance, himself from someone close to him. Lord Venger has no need of a Maid, but his daughter does."

Sarah barely heard him speak, she only listened to the rhythm, the reality of the fact that she could hear his words. Nothing else seemed real. Nothing else mattered.

What had happened? Sickened and numb she thought of her brother. What on earth had happened?




The Idjian slave sat up in his cot and rubbed his ears. They were waxy.

The earthy bowels of the Arena were hot at this time of the morning. The cattle, slaves, fighters and workers bundled in close proximity created a swealtering heat. He was used to it. It was all he'd ever known.

Around him, the other men and boys were stirring, hanging through the bars of the cells waiting for food. He didn't need food, not yet. Maybe if he lived to the afternoon he might think about it. For now, the gnawing sensation was comforting.
When the time came the guards opened the gates and the slaves of the morning were led out and chained together. They sat in the low armoury that huddled near the gates of the arena.

They'd told him that there was a war going on – that the city had changed hands. New rulers were stepping it. All that didn't matter down in the Slave Pit. People still wanted to see violence and gore and the Arena kept its gates open.

"Barbarians," Tritus, his owner greeted the assembled, "We have come a long way together. You've proved yourselves worthy fighters. I have been told that you embody, in pure fighting form, everything that our glorious new ruler admires in our sickening, putird race. Aelf we are not, Harz we are not. We are Brythic flesh, flawed, infertile and violent to the core."

He looked around at them, admiring each in turn for their reserve, blank and hollow. They were bred to die, they all understood this. A worker shuttled along the lines and unlocked the chains. Every man and woman walked past the the weapons rack. The Idjian slave reached into the rack and found his favourite weapon, the club. Everyone else chose swords or maces or any of the pointed, vicious looking weapons. The Idjian slave liked the feel of the wood flesh. It served him well.

Adjusting his loincloth he stood awaiting the rapture of the fight on the ramp that climbed into the arena. From here they could all hear the roar of the crowd, and just over the top of it, the sound of puking flame. The Idjian slave smiled.

"Barbarians. Die with honour. Today, you fight Dragons!" Tritus bellowed up the ramp and the slaves roared in kind, before running out into the sun.

Chapter Two - The Awakening, Part One

He tasted mud. It lined his mouth like bile, clinging to his teeth and throat with grit and bitterness. It was a sensation with which Cole was familiar. His mind returned to him in lapping waves, recovering fragments of memory and feeling in increments. Slowly he felt his skin was wet. Around him people were shouting, in the distance great sounds bellowed over the wind and periodically, the soft, wet earth shuddered as if in revulsion.

In a haze he attempted to move his body but found that his limbs didn't want to respond. A fatigue seemed to be holding him back. Languidly his arms attempted to purchase the ground beneath him but even they felt weighted and heavy. Shaking his head, Cole opened his eyes and wiped clumsily at the coating of cold soil that sealed them shut.

He was lying in a ditch, gouged from the earth and banked on its higher side with sharpened trunks of wood. Lying in puddles, half obscured by the mire, were bodies.

Panic set in as the details became clearer. The violent sounds were coming from beyond the ditch. Desperate energy compelled him to his feet and he floundered in the mud, uncertain of where to go now. He stumbled over the uneven ground until he found the nearest body and his hands trembled as he turned the bloated corpse over. He needed answers. Images were beginning to return of his last memories. His hands around someone's neck – a dark, gaping chasm lined with teeth – anger unlike anything he'd ever felt.

The man's face was drained of colour, whiter than alabaster and flecked with blood and dirt. His cold yellow eyes stared up into oblivion. From his chest two arrow shafts jutted at violent angles. Cole's head reeled in incomprehension, his hands gripping the dirtied leather tunic of the man pulling him away from the surface of the mud.

This couldn't be real.

Dropping the man Cole stumbled onwards, trying desperately to climb the bank and face whatever horror lay on the other side. An innate sense of danger rang in his mind, he soundly ignored it, wondering instead where his strength had gone. Why was he so fatigued?

His questions silenced in his mind as he faced the sight beyond the ditch. A siege was underway. Great wooden engines were assailing a white city wall that seemed monumentally high. In the intervening no-man's-land a sea of turned earth and pitted crates filled the space. Fields of arrows and embankments of defenses coalesced across the landscape like tufts of grass and shrubbery.

This couldn't merely be unreal, this was impossible.

Violently, Cole's mind sought to betray and deny the compounding sensory evidence before him. Where was Sarah? Where was the Carnivale?

In a wave of nausea and bewilderment his footing failed and he fell backwards into the ditch. He lay there staring up at the sky for what seemed like an age. His eyes roamed the new world around him as if he were watching a movie or a music video. Dimly he observed that he was dressed head to foot in chain mail, soaked leather and a drenched tabbard. Woven into its surface was a embroidered image that he traced with his fingers.

His senses whispered betrayals. You are part of this world, a part of its very fabric and what scares you is that you know this can't be a dream. Nothing this real is a dream.

Even as hands gripped him by the collar and lifted him to his feet, dragging him from the sodden prison, his mind denied the vast terrifying truth that was unfolding around him. Bright eyes looked down at him calling out for recognition and life. Cole could only stare back blankly.

Cold terror gripped his bowels. He began to weep as he was guided down the trench by strong arms, out of the wasteland and into the heart of the attacking army's forces. Faces and bodies passed him by in waves of total unrecognition. His guides found a long tent and lay him down on a pallet. Cole stared upwards at the canvas ceiling as brisk hands examined him.

"He's fine." The field surgeon decreed before moving on. His saviours evaporated into the background and their voices drifted over to him with the breeze.

"We heard him muttering – something about Karnival and Saraii." One of them muttered worriedly.

"Ah." The surgeon sighed, "Pray for him. This war and Venger's evil have unmanned him. His body is fine. Time will tell if his mind has the same strength."

Cole's breath caught in his throat.

"The retreat has been ordered. Pray for us all."



Eonid braced her hands against the stone floor and shook her head. Around her chaos was tearing the city streets apart. Falling masonry; the clambering of people as they sought refuge. For a brief moment though, from the corner of her eye she'd seen something in the reflection in the puddle at her feet.

A severe looking woman with a round ball of thick, kinky hair had been staring back at her, wearing strange clothes no less. The experience left her cold and vulnerable. The woman was her – she was seeing her reflection, but the face she bellonged irrefutably bellonged to someone else. Tentatively she felt the back of her head as the crowds piled around her, jostling her, narrowly missing her fingers on the cold pebbled street.

Standing up she dusted down her skirt and heaved Feold in his basket up onto her shoulders.

Wait. A baby?

For a moment the thought of her having a baby felt abhorrent, alien even. She shook the thought away and felt the back of her head again. She felt woozy and didn't trust her legs to walk very far. Overhead a siege boulder struck a nearby building throwing the street into a cloud of dust and screams. Quickly, Eonid heaved Feold into a recessed alcove that normally housed a market stall. Sitting down on the step she decided to wait for someone who she felt certain was following her. She couldn't remember having heard their conversation though, she just knew he was coming.

Feold slept within the comfort zone of his blankets, soundly ignoring the noise around them and Eonid held him close to her, taking him from the basket.

She felt uncertain, her memories felt dimmed as if she couldn't remember significant pieces of information, but she could – they were all there, tucked within her mind. Gall and fear welled up within her chest in equal measures as her head darted around looking for a familiar face among the crowd.

"Eonid!" A voice cried over the clamouring din. A man emerged from the swathe, tall and dressed in a guard's leather uniform. She recognised him at once, but the sensation was strange, she felt as if she hadn't seen him for years.

"Irik," the name passed her lips in recognition and bewilderment as she and the baby were swept up in his arms.

"I thought you were lost," he muttered his fear into the privacy of their proximity, "Come, we must away. Venger's forces have locked down the city. We must find your Company and get you out." He kissed the baby on the head and held her hand tightly. She felt naeseous at her own fear as Irik led her down the street to an alley. His sure footing and intimate knowledge of the city led them away from the crowds and into the heart of the city's backstreets.

Light and dark mingled in equal measure as the sun tried to penetrate the tall tenements and tightly packed stone buildings. Wooden extensions, fences and scaffold frames interrupted their passage. From above the light was dappled and broken by the cobwebs of washing lines and abandoned clothes. Here, the noise of the chaos was dimmed. Distinctly she could hear the distant roar of the people.

With a sharp movement from Irik they were tucked into a recess, hidden by a wooden wall. Eonid wondered briefly why they'd stopped, then she heard it – the regular rhythm of armoured bodies marching towards them. Through a crack in the splintered wood they watched as black armoured troops filed past them, their alien design and raiment sending erratic shivers down her spine.

Suddenly the soldiers stopped with inhuman precision.

The officer in charge stepped forward. His armour was more ornate; a long cloak flowed from the recesses of his violent looking shoulder pads. The helmet the officer wore bore two Ram's horns making him look demonic.

"Brother soldier," the Officer said, his voice rattling inside his helmet making it sound hollow and metallic. He was addressing someone Eonid couldn't see. "You and your men have fought valiantly, but the war was over before it began."

There came the sound of a struggle, the rattle of armour, a cry and then silence.

"Don't stuggle Brother. It will look bad on your men. Join me in subduing the masses. Lord Venger doesn't want any more bloodshed."

"I wont submit. I wont surrender." The subject gasped against the stretched silence, his voice rattling in his chest.

"This one is dying. You have brought me a dying man. He cannot command." The Officer spoke harshly to his soldiers.

"Kill me." The wounded man begged in an undertone.

"Tell me this soldier," the Officer demanded, ignoring the dying man's request, "Will the people yield?"

"Depends," the soldier replied bitterly, "on your definition of 'yield'."

"Hear this," the Officer replied, lifting the man to his feet, "Your people will accept Lord Venger in time. They hold their lives in too high regard. Your obstinacy is pointless." The Officer's chest swelled with the pride of his thinking. "Venger offers strength. He will make this city strong again, he will stand up for your rights at the Forum of Voices and you will cheer for him in time."

The Officer dropped the man to the dust and turned to his soldiers. "Take him to the Castle."

"Strength in division," the soldiers chorused.

"Strength in division." The Officer replied.

The party departed leaving the alley empty again. Only a long trail of blood led away along the cold stones. Eonid squeezed Irik's hand as he led her tentatively down the valley of stone and into the shadows, the echoes of the Officer's prophecy resounding in their ears.



Boy!

Boy!!

A hand gripped his face and shook it gently. A wave of nausea rippled through him so intensely that he sat up too fast, his eyes jammed open. He stopped himself from being sick but only through the shock of what he saw around him.

Rubble and books piled like mountains in the gloom. Fires burned in sconces along the walls and in little pockets of destruction scattered around the room. Above him, light streamed down in shards from a hole in the roof.

"Boy!" The face in front of him beamed, all pimples and freckles and blue eyes. "You're alive! By the creator I thought you'd be dead for sure."

Blinking he felt himself being pulled to his feet.

"I can't remember anything." He muttered, his voice rattling in his head.

"One too many knocks to the head, eh?" The freckled boy laughed. "Come, we must gather in the Hall of Runes." The boy dragged him to his feet and towards the door at the end of the room.

"Wait." He muttered, panic setting in at the blankness of his mind. "What's my name?"

"How the hells should I know?" The boy replied brightly, "I've never met you before – I just heard a noise from the library and found you, floundering in the rubble."

Who am I?

"But don't despair, I'm sure somebody knows you. There are hundreds of us after all." The boy responded kindly to his dismay. "Look, my name is Xete. For the time being I'll call you… Pere."

Pere… the sound was familiar. P – p – p…

The newly christened Pere nodded his head and accepted his new name. Xete led him swiftly out of the library and into a narrow corridor, richly carpeted but bear walled.

"My eyes – my vision is blurry."

"I daresay you wear lenses, like most adepts. I have Giant's eyes, of course, one day I will be enormous." Xete laughed. "I think you've learned your lesson about spending too much time with your head buried in books."

Pere couldn't quite find the courage to laugh. So much of this felt new yet familiar, the corridors and stout wooden doors, the bowels of a vast castle, the networks of activity.

Xete led him into the gallery of a large hall. Below, there was activity and a wide stone staircase led them to a line of similar youths of both sexes all dressed in the same blue tunics as Xete and Pere. They took their places briskly and watched as soldiers in black armour discussed things on the far end of the hall.

Screams from outside the castle followed a vast and earth trembling explosion. The sounds died quickly but a wave of sharp breaths rippled through the assembled youths. From among the guards their leader strode into the centre of the hall, his armour rattling in a chorus of sharp clinks.

"Adepts of the Academy, I salute you." The voice of the soldier filled the room, as alien and metallic as his steel skin. "From among your ranks my glorious leader rose. Now, in our hour of triumph I speak to you not as a conquering Captain, but a brother. As your brother I am concerned for your welfare and the endurance of this great institution."

Pere's eyes tried to discern a glimmer of humanity from the cloaked, helmeted figure before him. He watched the swirl of the horns adorning his helmet. Apart from the two arms and two legs, there seemed little to prove he was a man. Everything about his bearing was wrong.

"This Academy will continue its teachings." The Captain continued, "Our Lord Venger will address you in due course but I was ordered to speak to you, to reassure you that your lives are safe, that your new leader values learning and the arts. He has expressed a desire for this institution to move forward and guide its people in the difficult days of transition ahead."

The Captain bowed his head and retreated from them into the shadows. They were ushered from the hall quickly and sent to their quarters by the teachers who prompted them like nervous sheepdogs, nipping their heels anxiously, their voices hushed.

Whispering erupted among the adepts like wildfire and Pere was forced to listen mutely as events swirled around him in confusion.

"Don't worry. We'll find you a healer." Xete muttered, standing at Pere's side while the others gossipped.

"Thank you," Pere replied quietly, his muscles bunched. He didn't know whether to run or cower.

Steadily they were all encouraged into their rooms, small cupboards in the walls lined with straw with a single cot and desk. Xete smiled encouragingly as Pere listed unconsciously towards the only unopened door. Around him the others disappeared into their own rooms, the sound dropped into the background as his hand gripped the door knob and pushed.

Behind him Xete disappered into the crowd. He was alone. Pere closed the door and darkness enveloped him but for a beam of light from a small window in the wall. He turned and breathed heavily against the reality of the door's strong wooden surface.

Frowning he waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. Glimmering in the darkness were trinkets arrayed across the surface of the small desk. Idols, bracelets, cutlery, paper – all manner of junk. His stomach lurched at the sight. Were these his? He couldn't remember anything specific but something told him these things had been taken. Each invoked a curious sensation within him, an association he couldn't quite recall, memories that lingered like shadows behind a veil.

Who am I? He demanded inwardly, sinking to the floor, weeping.

Chapter One - Pilgrim's Howe - Carnivale

Carnivale

"She's broken up with Cole?" Frank asked down the phone.

He'd spent all day worrying about Peter – he hadn't heard or seen the, apparently, quite public break-up of the golden couple.

"Really? She's going on her own?" He continued, listening to Robby's voice as he worriedly explained the situation. "Yeah – I'll be there." with a slow, determined gesture he replaced the receiver and turned around.

He'd been friends with Robby forever, even though he was a few years younger. In a way he'd been friends with Robby longer than he'd been friends with Sarah. His voice had sounded worried. Robby was right in thinking that she shouldn't go on her own, she'd need company – especially after what happened in school. Frank felt uncomfortably chivalrous, but at the same time he felt like there was part of the picture he was missing.

"Frank? You out there boy? You off that phone?"

"Yeah Dad." Frank replied, walking over to the living room door. His father was lounging in the gloom, watching the TV with the remains of a microwave dinner in front of him.

"Good."

"Dad," Frank began, hoping to draw his father's attention away from the TV, "I was wondering whether I could go to the Carnivale this evening." Frank didn't hold his breath. As a pillar of the community, Don Ryker was meant to be the pinnacle of respectability.

"Why would you want to go and throw your money away to those gypsy trash?" Don Ryker turned away from the screen to glower incredulously at his son.

"Because Sarah Meyer will be there," Frank replied levelly, not breaking his father's gaze, "On her own."

Frank's father, however blind he was to Frank in an everyday sense, did at the very least have a sense of what the girl-next-door meant to him. This wasn't about all his usual fears, which included but where not restricted to – sex, drugs and rock & roll. This was about what Frank's father had always striven to impress upon his son, being a man, being the good guy.

Don Ryker nodded and no more word was said regarding the matter. When the time came Frank left the house without a word, his mother in work and his father staring into the vacuum of the television.


Dione's reason was a pretense. Some casual acquaintainces were going and she couldn't stand the thought of sharing an evening in with her parents, so she went.

It was dark by the time they got there and the lights from the stands were garish and sickly. Half the school was there, crowding the stalls, waving their hands and cheering. Dark booths dominated muddy aisles. Flickering attractions drew in their small crowds while dark figures hung in the background, casting their spells over the gormless mob that throbbed at the pulse of the Carnivale.

Or so it felt to Dione who found that her hands staid firmly within her pockets as she was led around the site by her friends.

"Lighten up Di – it might never happen!" Crooned Lyla, a girl she knew through her science class. It was nice knowing someone who was wholly unconnected with her sports. Lyla didn't know and Lyla didn't care – it was comforting. Dione smiled, mildly surprised that she didn't have to force herself to do it. Lyla was right, in her roundabout kind of way, she was here to have fun.

"Want to go on a ride?" Lyla piped.

"I don't know." Dione shook her head, unconvinced that there was anything here worth her money. Then she spotted the tent. It was smaller than all the others and not so vibrant in its colour scheme. It looked faded and old, out of place and richer somehow. "What's that?" She asked, her tone changing.

"Dunno – could be anything. Let's go over here…" But Dione was no longer listening. The tent had an eery appeal, and coupled with the lure of having her future foretold, Dione succumbed to a moment of madness. Before she knew it, her spare change was out and her feet were touching the threshold.

The sound from outside seemed to dim as she left the fold of the tent's entrance fall behind her. She was standing in an enclosed, dark space filled with a heady smoke that wasn't quite incense. A light flickered from an oil lamp and around it Dione could discern a small round table, two chairs and a man, sitting in the low light. Softly, intrepidly, Dione moved towards the table and sat down.

"Do you tell fortunes?" Dione asked.

"In a manner of speaking." The silhouette replied, "I have a question before we begin. Do you believe in other worlds? Dimensions beyond our ability to grasp or understand – places we can never visit?"

Dione considered the question, her mind ticking off the possibilities, the train of logic, as far as she could see it, to her conclusion. "No." She replied.

"Excellent, then let us begin."


Peter moved silently through the crowds, his hood pulled over his head and his rucksack burdened with the weight of its contents. Nobody recognised him and he savoured his anonymity. In his hand he was holding Lee's monacle, he'd been following the boy for a few minutes, watching him approach stalls and amusements, listening to him talk to his friends.

Blissfully unnoticed Peter wove through the crowd and slipped the monacle into Lee's back pocket and moved on.

Behind a hotdog stall he pulled the next item from his rucksack and examined it. It was a cheering medal that bellonged to Sarah Meyer. He scanned the crowd briefly to see if she was anywhere in sight. When he couldn't see her he began to move through the throng, his eyes darting from face to face, clique to clique. From under his hood he could feel his face burning and his ribs ached. He was going to do this tonight – he could think about getting help tomorrow.

After five minutes of searching he felt faint again. His stomach was full of acid and he hadn't been able to keep anything down all afternoon. The school nurse said he was in shock, that he might have internal damage – he could press charges. But Peter just wanted to give back everything he'd taken. Nothing was more important to him.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw her. Sarah was standing on her own near a booth where she was watching someone – her brother? – playing a game. It was strange looking at her in her own little world, away from her normal bitchy friends. She was dressed all wrong – leggings and a long sleeved woollen jumper. Even her hair was down. This was a prime social event – why wasn't she looking her best?

His curiosity was dismissed as he tried to think of a way in which he could approach her without being seen. In the end he decided not to bother trying.

Sarah looked up at him with a blank expression before realising what it was he was holding. Her hand reached out tentatively and took the medal, rolling it around in her fingers. "Where did you get this?"

"I stole it." Peter said, frankly. "Now, I'm giving it back."

Peter expected an outburst, he didn't expect a clear, honest "Thank you."

He inclined his head slightly, turned around and walked calmly away, his heart racing inside his chest. Now he had to find Cole Steadman and give him back his Varsity ring.



"Who was that?" Robby asked, turning around to see Sarah staring after someone in the crowd. He was holding an enormous bear he'd won for her.

"No one." Sarah replied airily.

"I got this for you." Robby said, unprepared to grill her any further. She looked down at the bear and smiled, taking it from him. He'd never felt more comfortable in her presence, it was as if a dam had burst between them and now they could be friends again. His friends talked ceaselessly about how much they despised their siblings, but Robby knew he was different.

He looked down at his watch as they walked on to the next attraction. Around them he could feel people's eyes following Sarah – no doubt wondering who Robby was, or wondering what she was wearing or why she wasn't with her friends. But it didn't matter anymore, he had his sister back.

Frank should be here soon. He'd told him to meet Sarah around seven by the Dungeon Gate ride, with any luck he'd be able to bring them together at last. He knew it was what they both wanted.

"What are you up to?" Sarah asked, a glint in her eye.

"Nothing." Robby replied, perhaps a tad too sharply.

"All this kindness," Sarah replied, shrugging the bear and smiling, "After what I've said and done to you."

Robby shrugged it off, "Water under the bridge. I'm just glad now you see Cole Steadman the way the rest of the school sees him. A jerk."

"An asshole." She seconded, her face changing despite her smile. A shadow seemed to sweep over it and undo all the hard work he'd put into cheering her up.

"Look," he said, excitedly, "We can do anything. The night is yours. Let's just have fun." But it was clear Sarah no longer wanted to have fun. Robby was fighting a losing battle and he knew it. Despite all the bluster and bravado, she had actually felt something and Cole had hurt her. Robby felt wretched with despite. He wanted to tear Cole up and stuff him into a body bag. When he looked up again though another change had swept over her features.

Robby turned around – they were standing near the Dungeon Gate sign. Frank was waiting for them.



Sarah stopped in her tracks and looked at him standing under the bright lights. Robby noticed him too and between the three of them a moment passed where no words were needed. They knew each other all too well. They'd been the only kids on the block. Despite High School splitting them apart some friendships just refused to go away.

Suddenly the Bear felt heavy in her arms and she passed it to Robby who seemed to see this as a sign for him to retreat. Sarah's skin flared up in a blush. What did he think was going to happen?

"Are you okay?" Frank asked, a noble and chivalrous air about him. Sarah smiled weakly and swallowed the bile of her emotions.

"I will be," she replied. This was too soon. She wasn't ready for a conversation like this. All she could feel was guilt and embarrassment.

Around them jocks and cheerleaders were ganging up to go on the ride and for the first time that evening she could feel their eyes watching her. Not for the first time in her life, the familiar embarrassing feeling of standing with Frank came over her like nausea. He was her friend. Didn't they see that? Had they stuck by her? Had they invited her to the Carnivale? No. It had taken the kindness of her brother and the pulsating warmth of Frank's presence to make her understand that she was beneath them, unworthy of the company. Her skin crawled.

"I heard you broke up with Cole." Frank said pithily.

Sarah nodded, "He was cheating on me with Tracey Dawkins." She replied, devoid of feeling. After the fact, the events of the afternoon had left her numb. She was welcome to him, she tried thinking, hating herself for not believing it, hating herself for wanting to cling to his affection.

She watched Frank's chest fill with air and consternation which only made her feel worse. She looked away. She was beginning to hear the whispers.

"Sarah! Frank! Come on the ride!" Robby called to them from the queue. Frank looked up and smiled, Sarah glanced over and saw her brother's earnest face among a crowd of hostility and derision. All at once the gall she'd felt for herself and Cole and Tracey inverted itself on the people who stood there judging her now. Screw it, she thought, joining her brother in the queue, her old pride returning with its new face. If they wanted to laugh at her, let them laugh.

"Cole!" She heard someone whouting. It was Tracey. She was further back in the queue and looking through the crowd to a small parting where Cole Steadman was standing, looking murderous.



Cole was already drunk by the time the car squealed to a halt across the gravel car park. Numbly he fell out and into file with his friends who'd stolen a keg of beer from somewhere. After a day in his basement with a bottle of whisky, Cole felt like having a party. Tonight, no one could touch him. Tonight was his.

The hours past in a blur of pop guns, hotdogs and cigarrettes. The taste of alcohol and smoke filled him with a raw, base passion that swole in his belly, making him feel invincible. Around him, the music was blearing, the people swayed past in colourful waves and the crowds parted as he strode through, King of the Carnivale.

He was just managing to forget about Sarah and Coach and the day's events when his bladder demanded a rest. Cole stumbled away from his friends, down inbetween the tents and trailers into the darkness of the surrounding field. Above him, stars were twinkling above the pines and it almost felt good to be alive as he emptied himself into the gloom. Blood was pounding in his ears and his breath came thick and fast, his lungs swelling with life. Who needed girls, who needed football?

As he enjoyed the moment an alien sound drifted into hearing. Someone behind him was whimpering. With his flies done up, Cole swung around and peered into the shadows. He couldn't see anything. Vaguely he could hear the crying over the beat of the Carnivale and he followed it slowly and surely until he found a silhouette in the gloom, cowering by one of the tents.

"What have you got to cry about?" He demanded, noticing for the first time that his words were slurred together. The figure wiped its eyes and stood up.

"You," it muttered with incredulity.

"Me?"

"Stay away from me." It stammered, "And stay away from the Dungeon's Gate." It cried, moving away. Cole, angered at what he didn't understand followed the voice's source, gripped it by the arm and spun it around.

"Dione?" He spluttered.

"Steadman." She replied with a dread certainty. Dione tore her arm away from Cole and stormed off.

Cole was left standing inbetween two tents staring at the space Dione had just been standing in. He knew her vaguely from school. She was a good athlete, their paths crossed from time to time but he couldn't remember any specific emnity between them.

"Cole?"

He spun around to find one of his friends staring at him with concern. "It's Sarah. She's here dude – with Ryker."

Again Cole could feel his blood beginning to boil. Sarah with Frank Ryker!

In a haze of anger and fear he was led through the crowds – minutes, hours passed and he wouldn't have known. A space cleared before him like a sea parting. Before him was a hideous ride adorned with goblins and knights on horseback with a long queue snaking away, all staring at him. Vaguelly he heard someone calling his name but his eyes were only for Sarah. Distantly he saw her head next to Ryker's – they were being guided across to one of the carriages.

"Steadman!" Dione called from behind him but he ignored her. What could she want? Couldn't she see that his girl was with another guy??

Cole cleared the way before him but not fast enough. He tore at people, gripping them by the collars and pulling them out of his path, climbing over their fallen forms, stamping violently at hands, faces and feet until he reached the walkway that led to the carriage. Sarah was getting in, Ryker was standing behind her with her brother.

At his side someone stuffed something into his hand. It was his Varsity ring. His drunken eyes stared at it open mouthed and livid. Where on earth - ?

His hand lashed out and grabbed the guilty looking freak cowering away from him. Swiftly, Cole tore away the hood revealing Peter. All of his anger and frustration caught in his throat as he stared at the injuries on the boy's face. He was barely recognisable. A dreadful desire to explain everything came upon him in an instant and his grip on Peter's wriggling, terrified body didn't loosen as he dragged him towards the carriage.

Every uneven footfall could be heard across the metal walkway as it led upwards. Behind him he could hear the sounds of irate kids. In front of him stood the attendant, but if he thought he was going to get in Cole's way then he was sorely mistaken. The man barely had time to utter a syllable before he was slung over the railing.

"Ryker!" Cole bellowed, throwing Peter bodily into the back seat of the carriage. "Get the hell away from my girl!"

Frank stood up and bore down on him, a savage intensity evident in the air between them. "Your girl? Stay away from her you cheating scum!" Frank spat in return. Cole hadn't known what to expect, but he hadn't expected that. For a moment he was floored. What did Frank mean? Evidently he believed it, but Cole didn't know what he was talking about.

"What?" He asked, his voice sounding small and quiet.

"You know." Frank replied, his face twisted with disgust. "Stay the hell away from us."

Us? Cole didn't hear anything after that.

He was propelled forward by his own fury and sense of injustice. He didn't feel Dione behind him pulling him away, didn't feel as he tore her off him, striking her down onto the seat. In a flurry of energy he threw himself on the carriage as it began its inexorable movement towards the maw of teeth that formed the mouth of the Dungeon Gate. Blind anger swallowed everything for Cole as the darkness of the ride enveloped them all.

Chapter One - Pilgrim's Howe - Ladies and Gents

Ladies and gents

Peter couldn't think all morning. When he got to school he hid his new stash of cards in with the rest in his locker. A gallery of wizards and witches, ghouls and goblins stared down at him brandishing their scores and numbers compounding the confusion he was feeling into a knot in his head. He closed the door to the locker, hiding away his private little world of character sheets, score cards and dice.

On the soccer field before lunch he didn't notice as balls sailed by or as jocks clamoured for the ball. He ran around zombie-like shadowing other players, his mind firmly elsewhere.

Guilt was setting in – guilt about his light fingers and their collecting habits. The money he pilfered from his sister, the borrowed items that littered his locker all gnawed at him as he realised how selfish he'd been imagining himself to be a hero in some stupid fantasy.

That didn't matter. It never had – only his family mattered, every last stupid one of them.

BANG!

Peter tasted blood in his mouth and heard Coach screaming down at him to look where he was going. He'd done it again – getting lost in his head, blocking out the real world.

Rough hands picked him up and directed him towards the changing rooms. The rest of the class were slouching off. Wiping his mouth, Peter jogged to catch up with a couple of fellow nerds who he loosely called friends.

"Hey guys," he stammered, realising he probably hadn't talked to them since he'd last wanted to swap cards.

"I want my monacle back." Lee muttered. He was a big guy with thick braces and an uneven complexion. He didn't look happy. Peter recalled the last time they'd played a game – Lee had been a Mage and insisted on wearing the monacle. It was so shiny.

"What makes you think I know where it is?" Peter asked evasively.

Some of the other guys snorted and turned away from him. Lee just flushed and turned on him. "Because you're thief Pete. If I thought it were funny I'd probably give you a Level Four Stealth Class, but seeing as I don't – I'm just gonna call you a stinking thief."

Lee turned away and ploughed on ahead leaving Peter behind. A mixture of feelings were brewing in him as he kept his head down on the way into the changing room. Anger, embarrassment, guilt and a strong sense of injustice.

"Donaldson!" Coach's dulcet baritone boomed through the narrow, tiled space. What ensued was a tirade about his lack of enthusiasm and commitment. Did he want to graduate? Did he want his GPA to drop because he wasn't committed? Angrily, Peter soaked it up until he was permitted to change.

He stood near enough to Lee and his friends to be away from the jocks, but not close enough for him to intrude. Stonily he concentrated on getting changed without incident. He was so wrapped in his anger and unhappiness that he dropped his glasses and watched them blurrily skate across the floor and under a bench. Angrily he trotted over and bent down to reached under the bench.


Dione was carefully folding her towel and gym clothes in the girl's changing room. She was trying to be as quiet and as thorough as possible as a blazing row was happening in the adjacent bathroom and she didn't want to be seen overhearing or indeed walking out halfway having heard. It was a tiresome affair, two popular girls from her year seemed to be screaming at each other over a boy – none other than the overrated Cole Steadman.

"Just stay away from him you dirty tramp!" One of the girls screamed, tearily – was her name Sarah?

"Hah! Watch me." Tracey Dawkins replied with a bitchy flourish. Dione admitted to herself that Cole could possibly have been considered attractive, but only in a square jawed white-guy kind of way. She didn't see it. And as for his 'skill' at sport – well, if he spent more time practising and less time staring at his own reflection then he'd be a true athlete.

As the last of her things were neatly packed away it became clear that she'd have to leave and risk being seen. Tiresome, she thought. Dione did her best to avoid all the traps and loopholes in High School politics. She did not want to get caught between the grudge of two highly-strung socialites – they could easily make her life uncomfortable.

She was in luck – she looked around a corner to see Tracey stride out triumphant while Sarah stood with her back to Dione, trapped in a blanket of her own misery.

Momentarily she considered going to comfort her then decided against it. She didn't want to get involved.


Frank waited until all the other boys had left before kneeling down and helping Peter. A million different feelings were running through him at once – he was intensely angry, piteous and frightened all at once. The attack had been nothing short of brutal, even by Steadman's standards.

Peter was crouched against the wall of lockers and was cradling his head in his towel. Frank wondered fleetingly why he hadn't used it to cover himself up – but then he saw, the towel was covered in blood. Quietly, Frank pulled his own out of his bag and offered it across the gulf to Peter, who still hadn't noticed him.

"Pete?" Frank ventured kindly. Who was he kidding? Who called him Pete, for crying out loud? Nobody. Frank wasn't entirely sure he'd shared more than two words with Peter in all their time at High School.

Peter seemed to hear the voice and look around, he was snuffling and squinting at Frank as if through misted glass. Glasses. Frank immediately began looking for them on the floor. It gave him an opportunity to recover. Peter's face was a mess.

"Frank?" Peter blubbed.

"Yeah, it's me." Frank replied, handing him his glasses, "Here you go buddy."

Peter took his specs and didn't reply. Frank wanted to be more friendly, more supportive – do what his father might have done. He could strike up a conversation about a shared interest; blabber incesssantly to hide the awkwardness. He could do a hundred things to handle the situation, but Frank honestly didn't know what to say to a boy who'd just received the beating of a lifetime. Looking back later Frank realised that he too was in shock, but Peter may as well have been on another planet because Frank had no idea how to reach him.

Sitting weakly on the bench Peter stared down at his glasses, retreating down into himself and away from what he'd just been reduced to.

"Do you want a glass of water? Can I get you anything?" Frank asked, embarrassed and frustrated. Peter shook his head but Frank had no idea whether this was in response to the question.

"Ryker."

Frank jumped at the sound of his surname being barked. It was Coach. "What in the blazes happened?" He stood stoutly, bearing down on the both of them. "I turn my back for two seconds and I get this." He hadn't seemed to have taken in the enormity of what had happened to Peter. Then it dawned on him. The silver haired, tough-skinned old weasel whistled between his teeth as he leant dow to examine the extent of the injuries.

"Jesus Donaldson," he whispered between his signature clenched teeth, "What in God's name happened?"

Frank lingered uncomfortably between the two of them, picking up instinctively on the evasive use of the word 'what' as opposed to 'who'. The strategy didn't last for long as Coach stood up and looked between Frank and Peter sternly. He looked guilty. There was a pause before Coach spoke.

"How is Don?" He asked gruffly, "Your father, how is he?"

"Good. The chest still gives him trouble – in the cold."

Coach nodded, "Knew him well. We played football together in College. A more honest man I never met. Good to know he's serving his community. I bet he makes a damned fine Fire Officer."

Frank nodded. He was used to the working man's fanfare that accompanied the use of his father's name. Coach hadn't brought it up for a reminiscence though. He was fishing for the truth, not a cover story.

Frank nearly laughed. The thought of lying to protect Steadman and by proxy, himself had only just occurred to him. Telling the truth, in the face of his inability to help Peter directly, was the only option he entertained. So, with no trimming, he relayed the events beat for beat and watched Coach's shoulders sag.


"You ungrateful, selfish little rat!" Coach screamed from across the space of the vice-principal's desk. The vice-principal himself was standing in the corner, arms crossed and his expression hidden behind the reflection in his glasses.

Cole tried not to squirm as he replied, "I'm sorry Sir, I don't know what came over me."

Despite being the only things he could have said, these words clearly weren't what Coach wanted to hear. "You're sorry? Sorry for beating on a kid half your size, with half your talent for no reason? Or sorry because you've let the team down, me down and yourself down?"

Cole's shoulders bunched up at the sound of his words. They hit home, stinging his pride and his muddied sense of honour. The truth was he actually regretted what he'd done. Even while it was happening he couldn't have given anyone a decent reason why he was doing it. There was no honour involved – Peter had just been there, under his feet, worming around like a freak. He could feel the anger rising up in him again. It wasn't like he'd caught him with Sarah – he'd just felt offended –

"Look at me!" Coach shouted again, "My hands are tied. The faculty has to suspend you. There is no other option. I can't weasel you out of this one Steadman. Phoney homework and extra credit are one thing, but beating on some kid for no reason. Hell, there aren't words to describe how angry I am with you boy. I've a mind to throw you off the team and have done with it."

Cole looked up, a streak of fear flashing through him. The story of him getting suspended for beating someone up he could live with, he couldn't live with getting kicked off the team.

"Now I'm getting through your thick skull, eh Steadman?" Coach sneered. "Get out."

Cole spun around and walked out with two competing feelings battling it out within him. One was destitution, although Cole didn't see it as that – he only felt fear. The other was anger – anger at Coach's temerity, anger at Peter and anger at everyone and everything bar himself.

"Get out of my way!" He screamed at a group of Freshmen who half blocked his path. They retreated like a shoal of fish. Dimly he recognised Sarah's scrawny brother among them - Bobby? Robby? One of the two. Another snot who didn't make any effort. He saw a glimpse of his own feelings reflected back at him from the kid and it was at that point that he began to feel shame for what he'd done.

He determined to go to his car, drive home and break into his father's liquor cabinet. Briefly, the thought cheered him up. Then he ran into Sarah.


She was composed. Her battle with the Dawkins bitch did not show on her in the slightest. As far as the plebs were concerned, she was her normal picture of brilliance. Inside on the other hand, she was rattled. Her confrontation with Tracey hadn't gone as she'd hoped or expected. She'd underestimated the girl and now everything seemed clearer. Her revenge would have to be more than just casual, it would have to be complete, if only to protect what was hers. When fighting weeds, she mused, you had to go for the roots.

First of all however, she needed to know how much of what tracey had claimed was bluster and how much was truth. For that, she needed to confront Cole.

Her legs led her through the school, slowing to be seen in places, speeding up where she could afford it. She unconsciously checked all of his familiar haunts and was terrified when she couldn't find him anywhere. Fearing the worst, she slowly lost her composure and her search became desperate.

Eventually she found him in the long hallway that cut through the centre of the main school building, leading to the front doors. He was going somewhere.

"Where are you going?" She demanded, arms crossed as she stepped into his path. For a moment she didn't notice the expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

"I've been suspended." He replied in a deadly undertone.

She blinked, wondering whether she'd heard him right., "Suspended?"

He nodded, impatient, his body racked with anger and frustration. He looked like a time bomb and Sarah felt scared. Cole nodded fiercely.

"What happened?" She asked quickly, her hands springing to the nearest forearm. "Tell me." She whispered, needing to know the details – fearing to hear her name, although she could smell it already. It was only a matter of time before it reared its ugly head.

Cole moved her aside with a gesture and strode out into the sunlight. He was going for his car.

"Talk to me Cole – tell me what happened." She demanded, her voice rising.

"Stay away from me Sarah – I need to be alone."

Terror gripped its vice-like, chilly fingers around her insides and squeezed.

"It's her – isn't it!"

Cole didn't stop, he didn't even flinch, he didn't even seem to hear. Tracey's victory burned within her threatening to tear her apart. Only her keen self-awareness stopped her from sinking on the stone steps into a gibbering wreck.

Of all the things she'd expected to feel, she hadn't expected to have been this attached to Cole. It stunned her. She wasn't stupid and her own cynicysm had forced her to see the attraction of a such an animalistic choice in mate. He had a big car, he was good-looking, he was Captain of the football team. He was a symbol of status and she was a symbol of his. But she'd never once thought that she actually felt attracted to him.

She was stricken.

It was a long time before she noticed a meek presence behind her. It was Robby. Around them, she noticed that everyone had gone, afternoon classes had begun. She needed comfort, she needed solace and she needed her brother. It was the intensity of his anger and frustration that drove her on. Without that passion opposing her every move she didn't think she could have risen to her school-wide position of power. Now that Cole was gone, Robby was still there, because he loved her – he would never betray her.

Despite how much she loathed herself at times; despite how much she hated him, at times, the bond between them exapanded to allow her to accept his hand across the social gulf between them and squeeze it. She'd have hugged him had they not been standing outside the entrance to the school. In its own simple little way, she felt, his sweaty hand meant more to her than all the pompoms and cheers life threw at her.


Robby sat and chewed his dinner quietly. This truly was bliss.

The parents ate unsteadily, expecting a row or a comment at any moment, but the moment never came. Sarah was keeping quiet, she was even eating ravenously, which almost never happened. She was notoriously picky about what she ate, causing the parents no end of further worry. But tonight was different. Earlier that day he'd witnessed the public breakdown of Sarah's relationship, if he could call it that, with Cole.

Everyone had seen him stalk off at the mention of another girl's name. He was a Cheater, then, Robby mused. He couldn't say he was surprised. After all his other crimes, Cheating just seemed like another one on the list.

Sarah was no longer top girl. Whether or not she realised it was another matter, all afternoon she'd seemed distant and dreamy. Cole would no doubt hook up with whatever skank he'd been seeing on the side and he'd have his new queen. Good riddance, Robby thought. Sarah was no longer Princess at home and Queen in school.

Robby contemplated something now which made his heart skip a little. Before today he'd never have tried anything like this. With calculated stealth he pulled a flyer out of his pocket and unravelled it. The flyer was advertising the Carnivale. Everyone in school was going – half with consent and half without it. Robby himself had been thinking of sneaking out as he was convinced that his parents would have stopped Sarah, forcing her to do so herself.

He slid the strip of paper across the table towards her until he caught her attention. Her eyes scanned over it and didn't recognise it at first.

"Mom," she said, he voice creaky, "Dad? Could I go to the Carnivale, please?"

Robby would have laughed had the situation not been more delicate. He hadn't heard Sarah use the word please since… well, he couldn't remember it at all. The same thought occurred to his parents who looked equally baffled.

"Er- er – only if you take your brother." His father said defensively, falling back on a time worn discouragement. Sarah seemed to consider this for a moment before replying.

"Okay."

Chapter One - Pilgrim's Howe - Morning

Morning

Robby awoke to find a Dragon, Darth Vader and Michael Jackson staring down at him. He rubbed his eyes and swung his legs out from under the blankets before turning his alarm clock off. Sufficiently awake, he began the ritual of getting ready for school.

In the room next door, Sarah was already half-way through her morning ritual. She was enthroned on plush stool, facing her own reflection in the mirror of an antique dressing table. Her hair was pulled back in a towel turban and her blemishless skin was undergoing the early stages of its daily transformation.

On the drive of the house next door, Frank dropped his bike unevenly at the door of the garage and walked into the kitchen. The morning paper run was done and now he had to make breakfast and get ready before his father got up and his mother came home from work.

One street over Dione stepped out of the car and walked up the drive with her father and into the house. She gave her sports bag to her mother and alighted the stairs to her room and a hot shower. Her muscles throbbed with energy from her swim and she moved with graceful precision. She closed the door of her bedroom firmly behind her.

An entire estate away Cole was waxing his sleek, red Porsche 912 on his parent's drive in full view of the neighbours. He was wearing his letterman jacket too with deliberate pride, shrugging the colar every now and then to make sure everybody knew. Satisfied that he was seen, he retreated to the house where his mother had prepared pancakes.

On the other side of town Peter snuck out of the house early in an endeavour to escape his brothers and sisters. Guiltily he rifled through the pennies he'd lifted from his sister's coat, ignoring the long hours she worked in the constant fight for necessities. Ducking under the fence to the wasteland, he decided to skip the bus that morning and walk the ten blocks to school.


Robby sat on the steps of the porch wringing his hands, on his right sat his sister Sarah who was stoutly ignoring him. He was angry with her, intensely so, and not for any reason he was willing to admit to out loud. To begin with there was the constant warring with their parents that she maintained she did nothing to exacerbate. He hated the fact that when they weren't fighting with each other, each party ranted about the other incessantly. He hated the fact that she'd started an argument this morning quite deliberately in order to incense them into buying her a car. But, most of all, above and beyond everything else, Robby loathed, despised and detested the creature she was dating.

The second he heard the squealing of tyres around the corner, Robby looked up in time to see her eyes brighten. He's coming! He could almost hear her squeak.

The polished red Porsche ground to a halt in front of the drive and Cole Steadman, Varsity champion and warlord of idiots leaned across the sixties leather seats and waved at Sarah. Instantly both siblings got to their feet, but whereas Sarah bounded across the lawn to meet her beau, Robby hung back and lumbered deliberately down the lawn in reserve.

"Yo girl," Cole greeted her inanely. Sarah giggled and Robby nearly flinched at how offensive he really was. He was so wrapped up in his assessment of the lummox that Cole actually noticed. "What are you looking at, turd? What's he looking at me like that for, babe? He looks like he's shit his pants."

Sarah didn't even look at him, she just squeezed Cole's arm and snuggled up against the vibrant purple and yellow jacket he was wearing. The letter C was emblazoned across his chest.

"He probably has, sweetie," she muttered, just low enough for it to sound like she was trying not to be heard, but not low enough for Robby to not hear. Cole burst into peals of raucous laughter and gunned his engine, growling into Sarah's neck, making her giggle even more. She could obviously feel Robby's uncomfortable stare boring into her head as she faked a smile and tried to persuade him to drive off. Cole had other ideas.

"Frank!" He boomed as their next door neighbour appeared at the bottom of his drive. Frank seemed to flinch at the sound of Cole's voice. "When are you going to pluck up the courage and try out, buddy?"

Frank shrugged.

"We could use your legs on the football team. You'd have to bulk out a bit and make an effort to care, but you could be a work in progress." Cole nodded to himself up, sizing Frank up.

"I'll think about it Steadman," Frank replied stoically.

Cole snorted, gunned the engine and screamed off down the road.


Peter rifled through the cards quickly, sizing up which ones were useful and which ones he could swap. Arcturus the Bold – a bit lame, he could potentially be useful as canon fodder. An imp – eeshk, get rid, get rid, get rid. A Mage – valuable, level three too, he mused.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see his sneakers padding softly on the sidewalk. He didn't notice the shadow fall in front of him until he nearly walked into its source.

"Excuse me," he stammered, dropping the cards to the floor. The man stooped down to help him and smirked at the cards. Peter felt his ears begin to burn.

"Role-playing, eh?" the man muttered softly. Peter found his eyes drawn to the man's red leather shoes. Looking up he found the man was strangely dressed throughout. Pin-stripe suit, dark glasses, an umbrella and a portable telephone.

"Sorry," Peter muttered again as he walked away, but the man caught his arm.

"My friend and I were just talking about it. Are there many who enjoy it?"

Peter wrapped his head around the question, "Sorry – I don't quite –"

"Role-playing."

Peter shook his head and grimaced, pushing his glasses up on his nose irritably. The man was making fun of him. "No. It's pretty niche, dude."

The man looked down, disappointed. It was at this point that Peter noticed the portable phone – the receiver seemed to be emitting music, strange lyrical sounds.

The man caught Peter's eye and looked down, "I'm on hold." He said with a shrug. Peter shook his arm loose and the man released him.

"Shame." The man continued, "Role-playing is a dynamic skill." He stopped and examined Peter closer. "Aren't we all playing out our own lives? Don't we act when we lie, hide our feelings? Don't we try and be who we are not?"

Peter took a step back and the man seemed to realise how freaked out he was and let go. Swiftly, Peter turned on his heel and walked away. He tried looking over the cards again but was distracted by what the man had said. He wasn't stupid, he understood what he was trying to get at; the loose Shakespeare reference, the garbled philosophy. Uncomfortably he shrugged off the allusions he seemed to be making about Peter – hiding his family life from his friends, consciously building up a world in which he could escape into.


Dione stepped out of the car a block away from the school. Her father ran neatly around to the trunk, from which he removed her sports bag and handed it to her. She looked at her watch irritably and realised she probably wouldn't have time to run before class.

"Be sure to call us tonight." Her father said earnestly, passing her a portable phone. The thing weighed a ton and she put it into a side compartment before walking off. She looked down at the short, balding man and thanked him in her own way before walking off.

She strode with assured invisibility through the crowds of kids hanging around outside in their little groups. There was the girl going to the Olympics, they thought, assuming her social group was as large as her training timetable. The truth was, she didn't have time for socialising and she liked it that way. Bitchy girls left her alone, broody admirers kept their distance and the teachers doted over her almost as much as her parents. Her life, she liked to think, was like clockwork – an oiled, precise machine with rhythm and value. Dione was happy.


Frank and Robby turned the corner and started walking towards the school, which loomed in the distance. they both naturally understood that if they were seen together in anything other than a neighbourly sense then a rumour would start. Not that there was anything to start a rumour about anyway, but school was a strange beast and friendship interchanged with acquaintancy depending on which sides of its walls you stood.

"My parents can't afford another car." Frank was saying, trying to taper Robby's rant with cooling comments. It didn't work, they just seemed to make him more incensed about Sarah.

Sure, she'd changed. She was moving in a wider circle, she was beautiful and popular, but Robby was talking about her as if she'd changed. He wasn't sure he liked it.

"She started the conversation though. She knew it was going to piss them off and she did it anyway. You can see it in the way she smirks and twirls her hair." Robby kicked a coke can down the sidewalk and into the gutter. Frank coolly leaned down, picked it up and put it in the trash. "I just wish she could see herself – she thinks she's such a princess."

Frank remembered fondly a time when he and Sarah had acted out Snow White in her back yard. Robby had taken it in turns to play the Seven Dwarves but had got bored before the all important final scene. The kiss and the riding off into the sunset.

In this case it had been a peck on the cheek and them riding off down the street on his bike to buy ice-cream, but those moments still glowed within him. The wind in his hair, the dappled sunshine through the trees, her arms around his waist as his legs burned with the effort of pedalling for two.

" – I wish there was a way for her to see herself."

Frank suddenly felt cold and didn't want to talk about Sarah anymore. Robby never seemed to stop, he was so angry and bitter. Sure – Cole Steadman was an ass; sure, Sarah could be a bit of a prima dona – but she was still his sister. Where did all the anger come from?

"Dude – I'll speak to you later yeah? We'll go to the arcade." Frank said kindly before loping off to meet his friends, who were still about fifty yards away. Behind him Robby kicked up some dust and stayed absorbed in his own little world.


Sarah stretched and yawned as the man onstage droned on. She was sitting in assembly – around her the entire year was sitting in the auditorium. On everyone's faces she could see their boredom. It was fairly obvious to her that whoever-he-was was talking to a room full of zombies.

"When my son went missing, it changed my life." He continued, standing on the podium and reaching out with his voice. He was rich and powerful, at least within the city of Pilgrim's Howe and the state limits. "A young man, fresh out of college. His entire life ahead of him. Top of his year in chemistry and physics. An ivy-league man tipped for greatness. I couldn't have been more proud. I grew up in a local neighbourhood, I was never particularly academic and I just worked hard to open my own business. But Richard was going places.

"I was devastated." Eeshk Grandpa, Sarah thought – lay it on thick, why don't you? Although, she thought fleetingly, he was a bit of a silver fox. Tanned, smart, powerful features, if a bit rounded. Who did he remind her of – something from one of Robby's comics… Iron Man? The guy with the goatee and the eyes. Internally embarrassed, she looked around to see if anyone had seen her geek out. "What could have lured him away? For years I thought it was drugs, something scandalous. Maybe he was trying to protect me – I thought, assuming his reasons were noble. At other times I was convinced he'd done something and was too cowardly to face up to it. The truth is – it could have been anything.

"But, I'm not here to talk about Richard. I'm here to talk about the value of education and why these years are so vitally important to you – " And with those words Sarah could feel herself switching off and slipping into a world of plans in her head. She'd planned a speech she was going to give to Tracey Dawkins at recess. The bitch had it coming. Briefly, Sarah envisioned the scene in her head, the hurt way she'd look when it was over, how she'd flinch at every double-layered insult. Then she went over the evening game plan – what she'd say to her parents to make sure they didn't check in on her until it was safe. Then, she'd sneak out and meet up with Cole and his drongo buddies and sneak off to the Carnivale.

It was all perfect, how could it go wrong?


Cole looked down at his watch – it was nearing dinner time and he felt like he'd worked up a decent appetite. Coolly, he pulled off his sweaty shirt and dropped it on the bench in the changing room and pulled his towel from his locker. In the shower room he could hear the water and steam starting, the sound of laughing and cheering. Coach was grinding someone down in the corner for not making an effort.

It was Peter. Cole wasn't surprised, the boy was a weed and a complete waste of space.

After showering he dried himself with the rest of the guys – the ones worth a damn. The dweebs kept to themselves in the corner with their pale, underdeveloped bodies and sickening little habits. Braces, glasses and inhalers made Cole feel physically ill. He found it disturbing that infections and diseases and deviations existed at all. He never got ill – he ate well, worked out, looked after himself. He found it insulting that others didn't.

He scanned around the guys he loosely considered friends. They all had tanned, ripped bodies, white teeth – good hair-cuts. They looked after their god-damned skin, for crying out loud.

Standing off to one side he noticed Frank. A quiet guy. Probably gay or some shit. Cole shuddered at the very thought as he watched the guy dress. Nodding to himself, he stood by his earlier appraisal and thought to ask Coach about getting the guy a try-out. Frank was a fast runner, very good with a javelin – he just never competed, he never tried.

Behind him he heard a cough and the sound sent shivers up his back, making his hair stand on end. Suddenly incensed he spun around to find Peter's skinny, rank little form worming its way under the bench behind him. Before he knew what was happening Cole had gripped him by the towel and yanked it away making Peter bang his head against the bench.

Cole barely heard the laughter that erupted in the changing room. He was furious and he didn't quite understand why. With ease he tore Peter from under the bench by the hair and slammed him into the lockers, his hand gripped tightly around his neck.

He heard himself making a game of it, asking all the token questions. What do you think you're doing, queer? And all that. It all rolled off his tongue with natural confidence. But Cole was looking at the fear in Peter's eyes and found himself disgusted. What followed next was a textbook humiliation that Cole took great satisfaction from enacting.

Naked and sobbing, the Varsity Football Team and their righteous leader left Peter on the cold floor of the changing room while they went in search of lunch.