Chapter 1

I fell.

The shock alone made Butu's half-risen head plummet to the ground again. The young elf closed his eyes to keep out the sand as his three playmates ran around him faster and faster, jeering and kicking up a tiny whirlwind, all but obscuring them from sight.

It should have been simple – a complete circuit along roofs of all the tents on the perimeter of the town beginning and ending at the top of Sentinel's Finger. No one ever had questioned his ability to run up the side of the fifty-foot granite column that marked the south edge of town, a crooked finger of a colossal golem encouraging enemies to come and fight.

I fell, the young elf thought again, disbelief and shame sliding into anger. He didn't even listen to the taunts. The simplest of routes, and I couldn't complete it. I've done it a hundred times!

In the dance of a race, Butu thought of himself as water carving its way through rocks in a rapids, shaped by the route but still its master. Or as very fine sand caught in the wind, able to fly. He could run up walls, walk on ceilings and stand on water. He could feel everything and everyone around him before they came close enough to touch him – even on the darkest of moonless nights. He had never tripped or crashed before. He hadn't imagined he could fall. The thought was unthinkable.

I fell. He thought it with a finality that ended his shame and rage, just as the scuffs on his knees and hands had faded. When you fall, you get back up again.

And so the young elf did, leaping to his feet amidst his friends' taunts and joining their whirlwind until it rose above the tent tops.

Butu was short for his age. The black elves of Philland grew tall and lean in their desert homes, so maybe he would grow someday. His skin was darker than most of the clan members' – old Pater's blue-black was certainly the darkest, but Butu was close. His shaven head, bare chest and feet and pryud wrapped around his waist were common enough among boys his age. Three cycles old – just old enough to start wondering about what else there was but just young enough to want to have more fun.

Behind their curtain of the growing whirlwind, the boys sensed their foster mother coming toward them. The same magic that kept them from colliding or falling down also kept them from getting caught doing things that would get them in trouble with the adults. Most of the time.

Zasbey was thirty years old – almost three cycles older than Butu – but she could still somehow tell when her arrival would be most unwelcome. She had no children of her own, yet, and Butu thought it would be a long time before she did, because she made it clear she hated kids. She was certainly bitter about having to watch the four fosterlings she did, in order from oldest: Butu, Paka, Remi and Hatal.

They stopped abruptly, and so did the whirlwind. As Zasbey appeared, the fine sand rained down on them in a glistening shower. They dusted themselves off quickly under her approaching glower.

"Well, is he alive?" Zasbey called loudly from two tents away. Her stride caught up to them quickly.

Looks passed between the boys, warning each other to stay silent. Zasbey waited like a hooded serpent with its head held high as it sized up its prey, searching for the chance to strike – a look that could draw the truth out of them as easily as a first-cycler could draw pure gold from ore.

"He's fine," Hatal said in his small voice as Zasbey's glare settled on him. His face turned purple in embarrassment. "He fell."

"Fell?" The word came out flat. Butu waited for her tongue to flick out to taste the air. Then his foster mother's head snapped toward him, brown eyes boring into his forehead. He felt his face heat.

"From the roof," Hatal said, dodging Remi's outflung foot. "We were racing."

"From up there?" Zasbey asked, pointing with a tiny tilt of her chin.

All four boys looked up at the sand-colored tent behind them. It was a supply tent, and therefore one of the largest in Jasper. The canvas wall blocked out half of the sky and all of the sun. At the edge of the sky and the tent, what felt like very far away, was where Butu had fallen from.

He turned back into the full force of Zasbey's grim stare. He gulped, suddenly very thirsty. With a look like that, she could eat me whole! The other three boys stepped away from Butu, leaving this serpent to her prey.

Her gaze flicked to them, and Butu felt the edge of a small wave of relief before she struck. With one quick movement, she grabbed at his arm. Reflexively he dodged – into her open hand, which grabbed at his ear. He was loose in a second, scowling at her, but her expression had lightened, from furnace to bonfire.

"Back to your play, Butu," she said, patting his cheek with one sun-weathered, brown hand. "You'll be fine."

Butu touched his ear. He had felt no pain – a small patch of mud-like armor had formed from the air to protect him – but something about her reaction disconcerted him. Maybe it was her tone of voice. His foster mother sounded concerned – as if at some point he wouldn't be fine at all. She left, then, not back the way she had come but around the side of the supply tent.

Butu stared after her with a puzzled frown, his hand drifting down from his ear. He looked back at the tent roof, from where he had fallen. If all four boys stood on each other's shoulders, they would just reach it.

"He'll never be fine," Hatal said in a taunting voice. "He'll always be coarse."

Remi laughed, and Paka and he joined the chant.

"Fine then coarse, coarse then fine, come and make our swords all shine! Coarse or fine? Fine of course! Polish, polish, ‘til it hurts!"

The boys' laughter interrupted Butu's musings. Hatal and Remi pounded their fists into the hands in a game of rock, sword, cloth – probably to see who would race next. Paka gave Butu a tight smile, which the older elf forced himself to return. Of all the boys, Paka was his closest friend. He couldn't stand to his shumi – his foster brother – worried.

Movement in the shadows of a tent entrance nearby caught his eye. Someone else had seen! A girl's head appeared for a moment, then vanished. Not back into the tent. Butu could see Jani, the kluntra's niece, clearly, though he knew Zasbey would not have known she was there. She gave him a broad, cheery grin, and he returned it full force.

Hatal gave a shout. He had beaten Remi. Butu turned back to them as Paka leapt to his feet.

"Of coarse, I'm fine," he said, to general groans. "Fine enough to try again!"

He walked up the side of the tent above Jani, and flipped backward onto the supply tent to more groans from everyone but Jani.

"Let's go, Hatal," Butu said, jumping down and jogging toward the Sentinel's Finger's redstone bulk. "I'll beat you this time."

SYNOPSIS  |  CHAPTER 1  |  CHAPTER 2  |  CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4  |  CHAPTER 5  |  CHAPTER 6

Copyright 2005-2007 Eric Zawadzki and Matthew Schick. All Rights Reserved.
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