We crucify ourselves between two thieves;
Regret for yesterday and fear of tomorrow.
~Fulton Oursler
We slip silently through the darkened streets, no more than fleeting shadows against the background of the fading sunset. Few are left in the streets; even the nighttime thieves and cutthroats aren’t out yet. For once, the city looks quiet and peaceful, untarnished by injustice and crime. But it’s only an illusion. We of the streets all know the truth. There is no such thing as justice anymore.
We reach the western gate ten minutes before it closes for the night. Lisla is standing just inside, next to one of the arches, holding a small pack in her hands. She nods slightly in our direction as we unobtrusively slip through the thinning crowd to her. When we reach her, she nods toward the gates, helps me slip the pack on, then awkwardly ruffles my hair, muttering a hasty goodbye. Jerren hugs me quickly, then they both step back as I duck into the middle of the stream of people leaving. A minute later, I’m out. Gone. For good? Who knows?
I look back at the city walls, odd feelings tugging at my heart and sending stinging tears to my eyes. Regret? Sorrow? I cannot be sure, but I banish them and start walking off, toward Kaythos. The future. If I dare allow myself the hope of having one, for gutter children hide from the past, fear the future, and live only for the moment. I am one of them, in body, mind, and soul. Oh, what a lovely thing the streets can make of a person, isn’t it?
I shoulder my small pack once more and start walking west. Once night falls, I suppose I’ll probably shift to a night bird to continue travel. I don’t want to be outside the city for long. It feels safer in there, behind the thick walls, away from the dark things that roam the night under open skies and over exposed land. The curse of the city-raised, I suppose.
The sun sets, and I shift into the form of a small owl. I fly, skimming over the bare and empty road, my pale feathers shimmering silver in the moonlight. There is nothing so glorious as flying. To feel the wind rush against your feathers and face, under your wings and send you soaring, to feel the moon or sun cool or warm you, to feel so free and powerful...there is nothing that could match that sensation. It’s the most wondrous thing...and then I can forget about everything, my sorrows and cares, and soar free, unfettered, and happy. At least, until I come back down to earth.
I stop flying and shift back a couple hours after midnight, exhausted and needing to sleep. I curl up by a tree, cradled by its gnarled roots, using my pack as a pillow, my cloak as a blanket. I’m too tired to even eat, and, within five minutes, I’ve drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I awaken at dawn as a beam of sunlight steals through the trees to play upon my face and shine in my eyes. I lay still for a few minutes, basking in the soft warmth, before my stomach loudly complains of its painful emptiness. I sit up, stretching, and groan as my muscles complain of a cold night spent on the hard ground. Muttering to myself, mostly curses about hasty traveling, I open the pack and pull out a piece of cold, and slightly stale bread.
I suppose the forest is a nice enough place, for those who like it. The thick leaves of the trees turn the morning light green and golden, and soft birdsong fills the air. Tiny animals can be heard going about in the underbrush, and small insects flit through the air. But it’s so vast...and empty...and alone. I can’t stand being alone anymore. Not since Cobe died.
I hastily banish the thought with my last mouthful of bread, and stand, pulling on the pack once more. Judging by how far I must have traveled yesterday, I should reach Kaythos in three or four hours by foot. My feet ache at the mere thought of walking much farther, and so I shift into a small hawk and take off, flying west.
The warmth of the morning sunlight and the cool, westward breeze make the flight easy, and actually rather enjoyable. After an hour and a half, I land and shift back to myself, the human child. Kaythos is only two miles off, and the smell of the sea is in the air. The sharp, salty odor makes me long to see the ocean, never-ending stretch of blue-green water that runs to the ends of the earth itself...it must be a glorious sight. But I know I don’t have time to waste chasing daydreams, so I shoulder my pack again and trudge toward the city with a wistful sigh.
Kaythos is huge. I know, I thought the same of Kirn when I first saw it, but Kaythos is easily twice as large. It’s surrounded by thick walls at least thirty-five feet high, and probably about ten feet thick. The gates are three times the height of a man, and wide enough for two wagons to pass together. I join the crowd going in, blending easily...after all, who notices a small, unobtrusive child of not quite seven? Exactly. No one.
Much like Kirn, the marketplace is right in front of the gates, but this marketplace is enormous. The air is filled with the cries of merchants and vendors, music from the street minstrels, the smell of food, spices, and ,above all, fish. The colors are a dazzling riot that explodes almost painfully against your eyes. I pull the map of the city that Lisla gave me out of my pocket and hastily memorize the way to the home to the Mistmirk. Taking a dark side street, I leave the marketplace’s sights, smells, and sounds and head deeper into the “bad” part of town.
If you think about it, though, “bad” all depends on your point of view. To me, a child who has been raised on the streets, this place doesn’t seem so terrible. I’m familiar with it, comfortable, and I know how to stay safe. No, it’s not bad at all. Places like the center of the city, where the city hall, guild buildings, and law enforcement are located are “bad.” It’s dangerous there. People die there every day, dangling from the gallows like fresh fodder for the carrion birds. The reek of death and greed hangs all around the place. And they call this little area bad? Some people...no sense...
My idle musings are interrupted a moment later when a hand clamps down on my arm and jerks me into an alleyway. A knife pricks at my throat. I immediately change my mind. This is the bad part of town, yes indeed! I draw in the breath to scream, but a rough hand covers my mouth, and a voice whispers in my ear, “Not a sound, girl. Not so much as a squeak, or it shall be your last.” The words aren’t what shut me up; it’s the cruel, casual menace in the tone. The only thought that runs through my head is, I’ve made a very, very big mistake.
The person then removes his hand from over my mouth (much to my relief, it was growing difficult to breathe) and turns me around to face him, the knife still at my throat. He slowly trails the point up the side of my face, lightly taps it on my temple, then slips it underneath the crimson scarf I wear and neatly severs it. He catches the scarf on the blade before it flutters to the ground and lightly waves it in front of my nose. “You must be Rois Melinor,” he says, his tone cool and mocking. My eyes lift up to his face.
The man is young, younger than Cobe was, but his eyes are the icy grey-blue of the winter skies, and they contain no emotion but cold, hard savagery. He is thin, as are almost all thieves, and his clothes are the drab, threadbare castoffs that all street people are uniformed in. His blond hair is ruffled by the breeze, and a mocking smile plays over his features. I suppose one would call him handsome, but there’s a coldness and arrogance to his face that makes one instinctively want to hate him. He wears a dark grey scarf around his left arm, bordered with black stitching. The word “Mistmirk” is neatly embroidered in black on both ends.
“Well?” he says coldly, tapping the point of the knife under my chin. “Are you or aren’t you?” His tone suggests impatience.
I find my voice at last. “Yes,” I say faintly, with a slight nod.
He lets go of my arm, and I sigh with relief...right as he slaps me. “Speak up, girl,” he snaps.
I swallow hard and speak again. “Yes, sir, I am Rois Melinor,” I answer clearly.
The corner of his mouth twitches with a mocking smile. “Better,” he replies. “You’re a fast learner, Melinor. Lucky you.” A kick connects with my leg. “Come on. Now,” he orders. “I’ve no time to waste on a miserable outcast from Kirn.” He spits out the name scornfully and turns on his heel, heading further up the dark alleyway. I suppress a sigh of misgiving and follow. For some reason, I don’t think this is such a good idea anymore...
We stop in front of a dead-end brick wall, but the thief reaches down and presses against a few places, then pushes. A panel large enough for me to walk through opens, and he stoops and moves past. I follow hastily. Once through, he pushes the panel shut again, and a faint click can be heard as it latches into place. He sets off down the hidden street and stops in front of one of the larger buildings, then opens the door and steps inside. Of course, I follow right behind. After all, I’m not particularly anxious to receive more blows.
The room we step into is small, dingy, and dark. A few vague, people-shaped objects are sprawled on piles of blankets and suchlike; one or two sit up when we enter. One reaches over and lights a lamp; the pale light flickers over the objects and occupants of the room. There are three long tables, one against each wall (except that with the front door), and all three are covered with long, dark cloths. Under the cloths are bulky objects of various sizes and shapes. No doubt the latest “findings.” Two adolescent boys are apparently fast asleep on rough cots. A dark-haired young man sits in a chair by the lamp, beside the wall in front of us, his eyes glittering in the light; by the left wall, a young woman is sprawled lazily in a chair, head resting on her hand, but her eyes are bright and alert.
The thief who brought me here turns and faces me, and bows mockingly. “Welcome to the Mistmirk,” he says, his voice low and deceptively friendly. He turns briefly to the woman and holds out a hand. She rises and produces a scarf from (seemingly) thin air, then gives it to him. He tosses it to me, a shimmery bit of dark grey material like the one he wears. “You wear it on your left arm. Never take it off.” He then gestures toward a door on the right side of the room. “Leave your belongings in there. Danner,” he gestures toward the young man, “will show you around the city.” He nods to the woman, and the two of them leave, brushing past me, and walking out into the street.
The young man in the chair stretches lazily and yawns. His hair is thick and black, and hints of red are teased out by the lamplight. His green eyes are as cold as ice, and the same look of casual menace that was in the other man’s eyes are in his. “Hurry up,” he says coldly, and gestures toward the door. “Time won’t stand still.” I hastily slip through the door and set my pack down beside a wall. Almost as an afterthought, I drape a spare blanket over it...after all, I don’t know what these people are like. No one else is in the room, and I quickly walk back out. Danner stands in the door frame, his cold gaze flicking back to me briefly.
“Put the scarf on,” he orders. I fumble with it until he comes over with a sigh of exasperation and ties it for me. “You’d better learn to do it yourself,” he says, a warning tone in his voice. He then heads out into the street, and I hastily follow.
It’s noontime now, and the marketplace is at its busiest. Danner brushes through the crowd, and I follow behind. None save me notice that he picks a few pockets on his way. Still adjusting to this new, and larger city, I cannot work up the nerve to do the same. Danner points out certain vendors who are “friends,” and others that are despised, and possibly spies for the Guardians, the city guards. I also learn a bit about him.
Danner is only fourteen, but the look in his eyes and the cold set of his features makes one think him to be older. The youngest of seven children in his family, his parents abandoned him in Kaythos when he was three, unable to feed eight mouths. His voice is cold and matter-of-fact when he speaks of it, but from the look in his eyes, I know he’s never forgiven his parents for what they did. The Mistmirk had just formed, and Raveth, the original leader, took pity on young Danner and allowed him in. But, a mere six years later, Raveth was caught and, of course, hanged. Darsinik, the blond-haired thief I first met, was then sixteen, but the oldest in the gang. He took over Raveth’s position, and it was then that everything changed. Darsinik was cold, cruel, and cared only for power and survival. Certain members who could not, by his standards, pull their own weight, mysteriously disappeared. The Mistmirk was now led by a tyrant. Five more years had passed, and then I came.
“Darsinik wanted you, Melinor,” Danner told me. “He’s made no secret of the fact that you’re a shifter, although Lisla didn’t want him to tell. All he sees in you is more power.” He eyes me coolly. “I can see why.”
There’s something about his gaze that makes me feel all crawly inside. “You would be the same way, wouldn’t you?” I ask.
Danner doesn’t even look back at me. “Of course,” he replies. A chill runs down my spine.
Danner bullies me into picking pockets and cutting a few purses on our way back. He seems well satisfied by my catches. “You’re better than Darsinik thought you would be,” he comments. “He will be pleased.” For some reason, I don’t like those words. I don’t want to be here. I wish I’d never heard of Mistmirk or Darsinik Rheen. There is nothing but death in this city, I can feel it, deep inside. And it scares me.
Darsinik is indeed pleased by Danner’s report. I soon become an indispensable part of the Mistmirk, despite my age. I’m taken on all the major “house calls,” as Darsinik is also quite pleased with my lockpicking skills. I hate it, I hate him, but slowly, I become woven into the fabric of life that makes up the Mistmirk, and Kaythos.