Page 11 of Starside

I might not have scraps of metal to spare, but there are some mushrooms still left from my foraging.

My stomach twists—and not just from hunger this time. Stellan and I should be making soup instead of fighting.

Regret sinks through me. He sounded so upset. So disappointed. I should go back home, but I don’t. I turn again, toward the stone I barely made it onto. The crowds begin to thin, most people headed toward the carts. I see a wisp of smoke.

“There she is. The hands thief.”

I jump, then whirl in the direction of the alley I just passed, blade clutched tightly. It’s copper, barely worth anything at all. One of the first daggers Stellan let me make.

A man is leaning against the brick, swirling a drink in a rusted goblet. He has brown skin, dark hair, and is so tall I have to lift my chin to look at his face. I recognize him from the platform. He tilts his head at me. “Aren’t you sweating rivers in all that clothing?”

Yes. Literal rivers, it feels like.

I ignore his question and raise my brow. “Tell me you aren’t really going to drink that.” It’s one of the chipped goblets from the bar.

He cracks a smile. “Not even a drop. I’d like to make it to the gates. It would be a shame to have survived the platform only to be bested by bad ale.”

“Poisoned ale, more likely,” Kira says as she comes walking up to us from the other side of the street. Her red hair is now clean and combed, blood washed out of it. She’s frowning at her own cup. “This even looks disgusting.”

Poison wouldn’t surprise me. Some of the Great Houses would do whatever it takes to ensure their heirs make it to the Fifty. We’re all under the king’s protection for now, but poison is difficult to prove.

Kira dumps the liquid into a half-dead bush next to her. It will likely be full-dead by morning.

A shame. There’s such little green on this side to begin with.

“So,” Kira says, turning to the man. She stays at the mouth of the alley, in a pool of moonlight. “You are?”

“Zane,” he says. “From the Bladelands. Helmspeak, specifically.”

Kira stumbles forward, her suspicion instantly melting into excitement. “Really?” The Bladelands are a stretch of mountainous territory to the west. Stellan says people lucky enough to be born there die there. The top of the mountains remain lush. Every year, hundreds migrate to Helmspeak during the spring, when the conditions are less harsh. Few survive the climb.

Kira’s eyes are wide with a thousand questions. I just have one—if people die trying to reach his mountain’s peak, why leave?

Why risk almost certain death?

“Tell me. Are the Helmhawks real?” Kira is in the shadows now, halfway down the alley. I remain at its mouth, hand still gripped around my blade. I should move on. The frustration curling around my bones has already softened. I should go back and help Stellan finish the last of his orders. It’s the least I can do.

These are strangers. No—now they’re challengers. We’re all fighting for fifty placements. They’re rivals.

But I don’t move an inch. I’m curious to hear Zane’s answer, I realize. I haven’t been west at all.

“They were,” he finally says.

The town weaver likes to talk while she makes my clothing. Listening gets me a discount. She claims she was once the personal tailor to a Great House heir, who wanted fabrics from all corners of Stormside. So she traveled to almost every one, collecting fabrics for her boss as she went. And for herself … she collected buttons. She has a drawer of them, locked with a key. Each button has a story. Over the years, she’s told me almost all of them. I go to the drawer sometimes and pick one out. Tell me this one again, I’ll say. That’s how I know about Helmspeak and the hawks that once lived there.

Helmhawks are said to be larger than people and congregate on the highest peak they can find, which on this side is Helmspeak. Rumor is that hundreds of years ago they allowed themselves to be ridden.

“They’re gone?” Kira says, so loudly a few passersby turn toward the alley.

Zane nods. “About a century ago, they left. Only a few giant feathers remain. The only proof they were ever there to begin with.”

It’s the story of this entire side. After the war, and the gates, all magic on this side faded. Nature withered. We rely on the magic that is brought back. These few years right before the next Questral are the hardest.

Maybe I should feel guilty for not having any intention of returning. Maybe I should be fueled by something more honorable than revenge.

The gods are the reason for our suffering, though. When they die, the gates will fall. Magic will not be hoarded on one side any longer.

Kira grips my elbow, and I nearly stab her through the chest on instinct. I’m glad I hesitate, though, because all she does is laugh and say, “Look at those fools. They’re going to be retching off their carts tomorrow.”