Lyrua sat on the empty bed frame, fresh from the bath. Athen stood between the bed frame bars behind her, his little fingers tickling the back of her neck as he lifted her hair to pass the brush through. Drops of water splashed about as Ove preened with no regard for the floor.

“Ove?” Lyrua gave the tub a gentle kick.

Ove stopped rolling in the bath and cocked her head. Her white beak sparkled as water ran over it. “Yes, my Lady?”

“How much gold do you have with you?” Lyrua asked. She had almost forgotten about Braheem and her dagger, but there were still a couple of hours to bring him the gold.

“Twelve hundred,” Ove said. “If you want to count what Four-staile asked me to hold, six hundred more.”

She wanted to ask when Fourstaile had given her that, but if there were five Oves, it could have been any time. “I need you to find Braheem and give him a thousand to get my silkite dagger back. I left it as collateral for the Oil. He is a Geodoman merchant, and has a tattoo on his neck. He should be at The Royal Chamber, room twenty five. We have until dusk to pay him.”

“The Oil is not worth that much!” Ove leaned forward, spilling water. The light washtub creaked as she pressed on one of the boards. “This is why Four-staile gave me more coin. You don’t know what any thing is worth.”

“I overpaid to make sure he accepted the deal quickly,” Lyrua said defensively, “I know what Oil of the Sunflower Tree is worth.”

“He could have sold it for eight hundred,” Athen said. She winced as he worked a knot out of her hair. “Maybe a thousand in Geodome. He should not count on getting more than six or seven hundred for it though.”

“That’s right.” Ove’s head bobbed a trilogy of nods. “Even little Athen knows. You should have told him seven hundred. I’ll go get it now.”

Ove did not get out of the tub. She prodded beneath her wing with her beak to dislodge a clump of dirt.

***

Ove crouched on a rooftop in the eastward shade of a chimney, where the sun did not directly reach. A simple spell twisted the shadows around her, swaddling her in them like a silk sheet that guarded her from even the most discerning eyes. She did not expect anyone in West Eddy was skilled enough to detect her meagre mana leak. Only a rare few would be attuned to Dark at all.

The lengthy shadow of the chimney laid a path that she followed to the edge of the roof. She hopped off into the dark of a tree, and stayed clothed in the dim alleys of shade as she made her way to The Royal Chamber. The inn was only a street away from Town Hall. She thought of paying Osvaldus a visit, just to taunt him, but Lyrua wanted Athen’s dagger back before dusk.

A man dressed in a yellow parody of fine clothes lazed before the gaudy building. His shoulders hung slumped and his fingers fidgeted idly with the hilt of a thin silver blade dangling loosely on his hip, ornate and unblemished. Beyond him the entrance hung agape, but was as dark as Athen’s under-bed at midnight inside. A rolled-up rug made a little wall warding the entrance from the street and leaked water over the marble. She tilted her head quizzically.

With a wave of her wing she cast a Sound spell to smother any noise she made.

Another man stood guarding the shade cast by the inn over the side gate. She hopped right up to it, ignoring the guard, and slipped through the shadows between the planks to the other side. The west-facing garden was warm from the low sun, and proper shadows were disappointingly scarce. There were two more vivid inn staff complaining vacantly to each other about being summoned on a dead day. Their blades were mere steel. She hopped back through to the front.

Lyrua must have done something very silly to have them all in a huff. She walked past the clueless guard into the inn. It was not as dark as she thought from outside, but it was dark enough. The bare wooden floor would have clicked against her talons without her spell, and it was a bit damp.

She began to piece together what happened, noticing the empty fountain with a hole dug carelessly in the side. The missing brick sat on top, the edges blatantly shaved. She shook her head. Lyrua scolded the boy for the dagger, then went about carving up bricks with it?

A human man sat in the dark at an ugly desk that looked like something Osvaldus would have. He was staring out the front entrance; his crossed arms bulged in his shirt. She ignored the door with a gentle light flicking in the crack at the bottom, and went right up the stairs. Room twenty five, marked with an ugly gold number attached to a hinge at the top.

She let the tips of her fingers slip out of the swath of silence and knocked.

The door opened to a brawny catfolk with a neck puffed up like a hatchling’s bum and a face to match. His eyes narrowed at her. Just what she needed, a man attuned to Dark. She slipped through the cracks near the hinges to get into the room, and looked around. It was bright, so she ended her Dark spell. The fluffy man was wearing the same laced-up shirts as the guards out front and the other man in the room, so they were not Braheem.

“Who the hell are you?” the catfolk growled, finally noticing her behind him. The other man turned from the window he was pretending to search, and his crooked nose was one she recognized as Sullivan’s. The only good work Osvaldus had ever done. That she was willing to admit.

“Where is Braheem?” Ove said. “I have gold for him.”

“Braheem is not here.” Sullivan crossed the room, his hands balled into fists. “There was an attempt on his life. You would not know anything about that would you, Puppet Master Ove?”

“No, I was napping all day,” she shrugged.

“It was not her, I am certain of that,” The lion said, tossing his fluff and jingling his four large earrings. “The thief was attuned to Light, I told you that. Otherwise I would have sensed him come in like I did this bird.” He stuck out his chest, attempting to project competence.

“Look, Ove, I never much understood Osvaldus’s reason for banishing you, but you are banished.” Sullivan leaned with one fist on the table. “What do you think he would do if he knew you were defying your exile?”

“He would leave me alone,” Ove said. Osvaldus would not have the courage to oppose Lyrua even if he believed it could be done. He would sooner defy his precious Archangels.

“And what if he brought the Puppet Masters against you again?” He took an apple from the table and bit into it.

“Then he would die,” Ove said plainly.

“If you keep speaking like that, I will have to tell Stalherre that you are a threat to the Mayor.” The old man examined the apple, paying more mind to his teeth marks than to her.

“A fork is a threat to the Mayor.” She narrowed her eyes, and with encouragement from her mana the shadow between the apple and his hand opened, stealing the fruit from him. “Where is Braheem? He will want his gold.” Ove tapped her talons on the wood as her impatience peaked.

Sullivan sighed. “He is under the protection of the Puppet Masters, where no thief or assassin can get him. Paranoid if you ask me, the security at The Royal Chamber has always been ample,” Sullivan said. The fuzzy cat nodded in agreement. “What is the gold for? Leave it with me and I will see that he gets it.”

“No thank you.” Ove grabbed the floorboards, and pulled open the shadows between them to exit the room. She chuckled inwardly at the thought of them unnerved all day by an intruder who was only Lyrua playing stealth like a child sneaking a read past his bedtime.

She emerged on the back side of the gate, pushing against the fence to free herself, and quickly cast her spells again. When the inn staffman flung the gate open to look for the sound, she was already gone, trotting down the street towards the Guild.

The Puppet Master’s Guild loomed before her, casting its long shadow across the city. The lowest section of the building was the main stage hall, domed with oval windows that glowed in the setting sunlight like sinister eyes.

Her memories of the place compelled her to leave, but her legs stopped on their own, freezing her in place. She could feel Osvaldus’s boot upon her throat.

***

The sun baked her feathers, burned her wounds. Her vision had gone, and only the mixed cries of the crowd offered anything to take her attention off the pain in her body. She could not split her pain five ways as she wanted. It was always with her. It was always hers. Pain was all she was.

Puppet Master Holmfridur’s sobbing was a murmur in the background of the intermittent cries of the crowd. She floundered between unbridled hatred and penitent trepidation, as she always had. Her betrayal flared like searing blisters on Ove’s heart. The rustle of her dress made Ove flinch as if the sound were a flick of accusations reaching out to burn her further.

Ove could hear Puppet Master Theophilus’s tapping foot, impatient for justice, but hesitant to voice judgement. The sharp look of disappointment he had worn had scratched itself deep into her memory. “Just let her leave,” Theophilus finally said in his deep, melodious voice. “She will not return here.”

“I am of the same mind,” Osvaldus replied. His boot lifted from her throat, and she choked for air.

Puppet Master Cyprian voiced protest, but Ove heard only wordless rage from him. She tried to subdue his voice, to keep it from her mind, but every unprocessed word tore at her, threatening her.

She had only wanted someone she could confide in when dark thoughts stalled her sleep and haunted her dreams. She wanted someone to aid her when she could not succeed on her own. She had never felt strong enough to carry herself forward. It pained her to be alone, more than her cracked ribs and bruised neck. She could have been that person for herself… but she was too weak even for that.

She fought to live for so long, and for what? To end in the dirt, filthy and alone as she had always been. She wanted to gut Osvaldus with her Key. She wanted to peck the eyes out of Holmfridur and Theophilus and hear their screams match her own. Cyprian she would melt in flame, or condemn him to a Nightmare. Why was she the one who had to die? Why was she always the one who suffered?

Pounding metal steps against the cobblestone road shushed the crowd. Stalherre, come to lock her away? She struggled to move, but she could not. Even if she did not die here, she may never be whole again.

“What in the Goddess’s name are you doing?” shouted an approaching voice. A human, Ove thought, young and feminine. She strained to turn her head, but her neck throbbed.

Ove allowed her eyes to open.

The girl argued with Osvaldus, jerking her finger at him in eye-threatening jabs. He cowered away from her, trembling as though she were a bear. She was as finely dressed as a Lady from the city, but paid no mind to the lace of her orange dress dragging in the dirt. Shiny beads of varying sizes adorned her hair. Her sweaty face and rough tongue denied her any grace, but she did not seem inclined to claim any.

As Osvaldus choked out his defence, she stepped over Ove. The skirt of her dress granted Ove shelter from the harsh sun. Osvaldus was not willing to repeat the accusations before an audience, and the girl was unsatisfied. The Lady shook her head, and seven orbs of glowing puresteel popped out of her hair to spin around her.

The Satellite Crown.

The orbs created a sevenfold assertion of her authority as they spun loosely around her head. The girl swung a kick into his leg and broke it with a gruesome crunch. Osvaldus collapsed into a whimpering heap. She stood over him with the imposing stubbornness of a high-born human and berated him mercilessly. The aging man clutched his leg above the break, stifling his stuttered whimpers to absorb her words. Ove could not make out the girl’s words through the pounding in her head.

The shadow of a Child of Iron fell over her, further sheltering her from the harsh judgement of the light. He lifted her carefully into his arms, his orange eyes comforting her like a pair of soft suns. Was this man Stalherre? His lustrous head shone brightly, glowing with a halo of reflected sunlight. He cradled her head gently.

The young girl turned to face her. There was fierceness in her anger, but it was not for Ove. She had the eyes of a girl who spent her mornings in tears, the signs hidden under a layer of makeup, but now they shone brightly with determination. Brighter than the orbs that danced around her head.

Lyrua Kirkegaard, High Queen of Nythyemere, laid her hand on Ove’s head, and a gentle warmth returned peace to her heart. Not warmth of the spell, which filled her feathers with a chilling tingle as her bruises faded and her cuts closed. The warmth was in the friendliness of her smile.

***

Ove felt her feathers settling. Her eyes followed the length of the tower skyward. It mimicked the twisting trunk of a corkscrew tree, including a canopy of false leaves. It was taller than the last time she saw it. She walked towards it, her heart beating stiffly in her chest. She would enter silently, and with luck would not even see the Puppet Masters.

By the stands crowded around the Guild Hall, the autumn show was The Last Child of Power. There was a caricature of Daetan poised for battle in full armour with a replica of Afgorende, the Gemshorn of Life around her neck. Her vibrant red curls were a bouquet of springs bouncing in the breeze. Ove had always admired how Mettemarie could bring characters to life with wood and paint. A closer look revealed the hair was carved into layered flakes frayed at the tips. The wistful strokes of paint added texture as much as the intricate carving. Daetan’s face was smooth and rounded, so the green marbles of her eyes, nestled in rounded sockets, always stared back.

Ove hopped around the standees, sparing a glance for the details, as she went to the back of the hall. Lyrua’s boot prints were clear on the cobblestone path, surrounded by flecks of dirt. That woman had certainly found her way around. Whatever she had done or seen, there was nothing but her dirty tracks now. The colossal theatre wagons were gone, and that meant most of the Puppet Masters were gone with them.

Ove peeled open the shadow of the Guild Hall, took a deep breath, and climbed into the blackness. She wriggled forward until her head poked out in the old storeroom. It was crowded with crates and shelves, holding bolts of cloth and bundles of horsehair. An old loom rested above her. She readied her other Oves as she climbed into the room, except the Head at the inn, where she was cooking supper for Lyrua and Athen in Setthorn’s kitchen.

She bounced over the crates and slipped under the door into the corridor, where she was pleased to find it quiet and dark. Her eyes squeezed shut and she released a probe of her mana to search with Sound. A high ping humans could not hear returned the shapes of things in the dark to her. It was not all familiar to her, but it was as still as a winter night.

Confident she was alone on the lower floor, she hurried to the main stage, where the doors hung open. Anyone who walked in in the evenings could see a play performed by lesser Puppeteers, except near Highest Tide. A crescent of over a hundred green tiered seats watched over an oval stage like shrubs squatting in a rolling valley. The ocular windows above directed the sunlight in brilliant beams into the shrubbery seating during the day, but the light shifted to the stage in the evening. Hidden behind a waterfall of frilly blue curtains the stage lay quiet, watched over by colossal stone statues of Archangels who supported the roof with their arms to keep the prying eyes of the Gods at a distance.

Ove drew her Puppet Master’s Key from her cloak, an intricate steel shortsword inlaid with rubies along the hilt to accommodate the Guild Spells. She flicked the sword at the eyes in the roof, and they blinked shut, bestowing darkness upon the theatre. With a wave of her hand, she blanketed the statues, the roof and the walls with silence.

She pointed the Key at two of the statues next. The grey interpretations of Quareel and Faaldet lowered their left arms with a shudder and rumbled silently, releasing their hold on the ceiling to slip their fingers into grooves in the back walls. As they pulled, the wall unfolded like the paper crafts of noble children, unwinding into a ridged staircase that ascended into the tower.

Ove sneered at the unnecessary extravagance as she climbed the stairs. She might have had a bit of respect for it if Osvaldus had had the talent to cast the enchantments himself. The statues were decent work, but she would not tell him that to his face, and they were still plain compared to the ones along the Queensway.

She slipped the Key back into her cloak and hopped up each of the large steps until the glow of Holmfridur’s Halls engulfed her. The elongated corridors were almost blindingly bright, lit by channels of flame that ran through the walls and reflected off polished plates to snuff any shadow that dared attempt to walk them. Puppet Master Holmfridur feared things creeping in the dark. The light made Ove nervous, but her cloak of shadow was ineffective in it so she let it end.

“Ove the Forsaken,” a familiar voice called out from down the hall. She spun around, and found no one there. Just the polished white stone walls reflecting waves of orange firelight like streaming water. The tapping of boots echoed towards her, slowly trailing the voice. “I thought I felt the floor shake… You really shouldn’t have returned,” Puppet Master Theophilus’s voice said.