What makes a man something worth admiring and when will you doubt his worth? — Queen Didianne, in the reign of the mad queen

A buzzing brushed Aunia’s skin like a hive of bees as she lurched in a mad attempt to keep her footing. The smell of woods, perfumes, and herbs had disappeared and in its place was the stench of waste, unfamiliar food, and burning metal.

A village-full of voices swirled within the buzzing . . . one pulled at her plaintively, though she couldn’t make out the words. Dust skated over Aunia’s feet as she appeared in a long boxed-in area surrounded by bulging timber buildings covered in faded paint and smeared pitch. And pressed within this area were more people than she had seen in her entire life.

“I said let the child go,” a gruff voice said from behind her.

Aunia swiveled.

An older man with a broken-nose, well-muscled and tall, like Oskan from her village, stood in front of two men in red cloaks.

“We don’t take orders from you, Mason,” the shorter of the two red-cloaked men said. He yanked a small boy towards him by the arm and the child’s sandy-haired head bounced off his chest.

“He’s hungry is all,” the broken-nose man said. “I’ll pay for him.”

“Bugger off,” the red cloak said.

Aunia stepped forward. “You can’t let a child go hungry.”

Several of the people glared at her.

“Shut your mouth, rover,” said a pillar-built woman with a messy bun, brown hair streaked in gray. She stood in front of a building with large windows and a swinging sign, which read ‘Forged Tankard.’ “Ain’t no food he stole.”

“Brana,” the broken-nosed man growled.

The woman rolled her eyes and pushed past him, holding up a small ring with two finger-length keys. “Missing these?”

The larger of the two red-cloaked men reached under his cloak patted his side, and his face turned red. “It’s the stocks for ye, boy.”

The boy dropped to the cobblestones and the shorter, red-cloaked man yanked him back one-handed. Held his other hand high to strike.

“Stop it,” Aunia yelled.

The larger of the red-cloaked men turned in her direction.

“Not the stocks.” A bearded man in a long-sleeved patchwork tunic, white powder streaks along his sleeves, stepped forward. “You’ve the boy’s mother in custody already. She was an unbraceleted faeblood. He’d be the same. You know it. It’s prison he should go.”

Faces pressed against the glass windows of the Forged Tankard’s tavern. Some folk stepped forward. Others melted back, including the broken-nosed man.

Aunia shook. Taya was indeed right of cities being dangerous. If this was how they treated small children . . . but what could she do? She was only one in a crowd.

“Stop,” she slid back, beseeching the broken-nose man. “You have to help. He’s just a boy.”

But the man slid into a narrow alleyway between the tavern and another building, and past a pig rooting in a pile of broken barrels, jugs, food scraps, and rags.

“She ain’t my mom,” the child screamed. “Not my real one. She picked me out of the garbage. I was just a slave to her.”

The taller, red-cloaked man yanked the child’s sleeve up. “Unbraceleted. You. Run to the Yanna’s forge. Grab a cuff. Now.”

“Don’t be thinking of calling on any magic,” the shorter, red-cloaked man said, bending to sneer those words in the child’s face.

“I’m . . . not a faeblood.” The child stopped his struggling and with his wrist in the guard’s grip, pointed in Aunia’s direction. “That’s the one you want. A real faeblood. Didn’t you see? She just skipped out of nowhere.”

The larger man straightened. “You. Rover.”

Aunia backed away, nearly colliding with a press of people guarding her back. Rover? But of course, she was wearing their garb. And by their expression and harsh tone, they did not like rovers.

“Don’t think you’re going anywhere,” one woman in a dark gray gown said.

 Faeblood . . . this is how the people saw Reina. “I’ve . . . I’m looking for flyers,” Aunia said. “I flew with them over the Grashbear. Mathias. Keston. Fallo. You’ve had to have seen them. This is Dalin, isn’t it?” 

The scowls of the people deepened. They shuffled closer. People in front of her and behind her, but the alleyway . . . could she flee with that pig in the way? Pig. She blinked. It had a quilted cloth saddle fastened around its girth with knotted cloth straps. And stitched cloth saddlebags hanging along the pig’s side. Who would be riding a pig?

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“Look alive,” a raspy voice sounded.

Aunia squinted. Amongst the broken wooden boxes and broken jars, two little men, shin-high, drank from a clay jar over half the size they were. Clurichauns with their rosy, weathered faces. They were solitary beings generally. The last time she saw one was in Gaitha’s basement lapping up a bit of spilled apple brandy.

Someone, the taller red-cloak, grabbed Aunia’s upper arm and a raw thrill, like a sharp nail, rose through her throat. “Leave me be.” 

She yanked. He held her firm, his fingers pressing into her flesh like a vise.

The adrenaline spike landed against the pit of her stomach like a stone. Mygul. She sucked in a breath, squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to coax a pinching sensation in her temples. Nothing. Her mouth turned to dry paper. Did she even have her glowing blue globefire anymore? She hadn’t seen it since the Boggleman’s veil tendril lodged itself in her gut when she stood on Hebsolum’s palm. Did that mean Hebsolum had it? Hebsolum, the thief who took her mother’s amulet. The only good thing he had done was to help her cage the roiling blue storm cloud made of Edvaras’ magic . . . but her bit of magic . . . the one that caused mischief, made her an outcast, kept her safe. He must have taken it, too.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Prison. Was that where they were sending her? How would Mathias even find her? A soft mew escaped her and Aunia shook her head. She couldn’t show weakness. And there were clurichauns. Faeries often would help her. Would these?

She turned her head to the alleyway where the clurichauns swilled leftover booze from broken crockery. “Help me.”

One of the clurichauns looked her way, bright eyes going wide. “She sees us.” His voice, gravelly and sing-song, sounded over the clamor of human voices.

“She don’t.” The blonder of the two clapped the auburn one’s shoulder. “She do. Drat it. On our way, Sharpish.” He pointed to the pig.

“She be the one Mara made mention.”

“We can’t be making the Boggles mad now, can we, you know,” the blonde one said. “We go.” 

The Boggles? Did he mean the Boggleman? Aunia struggled against her restraint. “I want to, too.”

“Want to what?” the red-cloaked man sneered.

“Want you to let go,” Aunia said between her teeth. “You’re hurting me.”

The man tightened his grip. “I’m barely holding you.”

Aunia struggled toward the alleyway. Saying please would cause possible faery aid to disappear but what poem could she utter? Aunia groaned. “Help me now it’s good folk fashion. Aid to for those who seek compassion.”

“You call that a poem,” the blonde clurichaun said. He shook his head then made a running jump onto the pig’s back. His green pants contrasted with the wine-stained saddle. “Come on, brother.”

“Brandy. I’ll bring you brandy,” Aunia yelled.

“No one bribes the guard.” The stinging heat from his slap rang into her cheekbones. “Where’s that Davis? Cuff her good and she can blubber whatever nonsense with the other lobheads.

“Don’t know,” the shorter of the red-cloaked men said. He still clutched the boy’s arm. “But that face is sweet even with your handprint.”

“Ah, that’s done it,” Sharply said. “Dismount, Gargle. Now.”

Gargle patted the saddle. “There’s another tavern were—”

“Certain things don’t get done. Now off brother, lest you go for a ride.”

The two clurichauns glared at each other while some of the townsfolk shuffled aside and a thin man with iron cuffs jogged forward.

Gargle dismounted. “It’s on you if this is a bad decision.”

“I’m always the one you blame.” Sharply scooped up the neck of a broken bottle, drew his arm back and made a mighty throw at the pig’s backside. It hit with a thunk and the pig gave a squeal. People standing at the mouth of the alleyway fell back as the pig pelted straight for Aunia and the red-cloaked man.

“Doxy-churl,” the guardsmen swore. He staggered back, pulling Aunia with him out of the way but Aunia yanked with everything she had in the other direction. The man’s fingers slid over her upper arm painfully. There was the sharp rip of fabric. And then she was free.

Aunia ran.