31. Hallon's Story (Patreon)

Update: Unlocked for all patrons. Also, two chapters will publish today. (1/2)

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Milo’s back aches and his arm has gone numb, but he doesn’t dare move. Hallon’s asleep on his shoulder, the soft whir of her breathing tickling his ear. This is probably the happiest he’s ever been in his life.

Eratosthenes leans against the window sill. She’ll need to wake soon. There’s too much she needs to know, and you’ve already waited too long. You should understand now that I’m real.

“She was shocked that I was seeing you, but not surprised by your existence.” Milo looks at Hallon’s sleeping face. “She’s so tired. Can’t we let her rest a little longer.”

We’re all tired, Eratosthenes says.

“But—”

Hallon wakes with a start and jumps to standing, her stance ready for an attack from any direction. When she sees that it’s just Milo, she slumps to the ground. “Oh. That wasn’t wise. I feel like someone’s worked me over with a hammer.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they’re unreadable, even with all the new equations filling the world. “Eratosthenes—he’s been here all this time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” Milo says.

The numbers around her shoulders tremble, and Milo’s not sure if she’s going to hit him or start sobbing again. Maybe both. Instead, she takes a hard breath and blows it out. “All I’m going to say is that next time, trust me. I’m your teacher, and if anything unusual happens, I won’t think you’re crazy. I understand the world is strange. Can I get your agreement on that?”

“Yes,” Milo says, feeling chastised.

“Good,” she says, nodding. “Good.”

Her equations transform as she processes information, emotion, thought, and who knows what else at an astonishing rate. The calculations run deep—to the edges of the world and beyond. Milo thought it was impossible to love her more than he already does, but he was wrong. The feeling spreads through him, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“This has been going on for—what? From about the time of the fight with Sab?” Hallon asks.

“How did you know?”

If anything, the pace of Hallon’s thinking speeds up. “When you were injured, I healed you, lending you some of my strength. There was—is, a good chunk of me in you that I never had the opportunity to take back. Then, somewhere along the way, that piece of me must’ve been integrated, probably at a moment when you had to rely on unfamiliar resources.” She quirks her head, studying him. “You’re not sick, but you look dazzled. What happened?”

“I don’t know, but I think I feel wonderful. The equations melted, and when they came back, they were glowing. I felt like I was dying, but now I’m much better.” He blinks. “Can you explain what you meant when you said you healed me and lent me your strength?”

Hallon looks towards the window, but she doesn’t see Eratosthenes sitting there. Her eyes are on the light outside. “You’d been shot, and it was my fault for putting you in that situation. I had to do something, so I manipulated your spirit lines and gave you some of my energy. It was meant to be a loan. None of that is going to make sense to you, and I’ll try to explain in a way you can understand, but not right now. There are things I need to know first.”

“But I really was shot? It wasn’t just a fever dream? And Eratosthenes is real? That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, but the story’s complicated. More complicated than we have time for.” Hallon takes a deep breath before speaking again. “Is—is Eratosthenes still here?”

Eratosthenes offers a seated bow. I am here.

“Er, yes,” Milo says. “He’s bowing.”

Hallon closes her eyes and gulps. She whispers to herself. “Good and bad, bad and good—it’s always been that way. It’s business as usual, that’s all. Just business as usual.”

Eratosthenes moves to kneel beside her, cupping her cheek with his hand. My brave warrior.

“I’ve missed you, you damn dragon,” Hallon says.

And I’ve missed you.

Milo’s heart turns over. Can he be jealous? What’s normal in a situation like this? Not that the situation is remotely normal, but a baseline would help. Eratosthenes waits for Milo, expectant.

“Ah, he says he missed you too.”

Eratosthenes nods in approval.

“All right.” Hallon nods to herself. “That’ll have to be enough.” She opens her eyes and wipes away the stray tears. “I have questions, but first—are we in immediate danger?”

Not immediate, but the situation’s grim. There’s a power that’s united the city’s shadows and is using them to prod the Untainted and Gloop towards violence. There are members of the Upper and Lower Councils, the Army, the Ministry of Civil Order, and the Silent under active possession. We do what we can, but the shadows are many and our allies few.

Milo relays the words verbatim. “But why do they want people to fight each other?”

Shadows generally feed on people’s negative emotions. Their goal is to create a city where neither side is willing to live with the other. To create a cycle of endless recrimination and retribution. The more discord the shadows sow, the more they feed on the resulting suffering.

“And what’s worrisome,” Hallon says, “is that they’re working together. Shadows tend to be chaotic by nature. Whatever is binding them must be powerful. Eratosthenes doesn’t know what or why?”

Not for lack of trying. All we’ve discovered is that they’re building a massive circle of influence under the city; one with an Obolom Collector woven into it.

Milo shakes his head. “I don’t know what those words mean.”

Hallon frowns, deep in thought. “A circle of influence is compulsion magic, a spell to alter a person’s behavior. It doesn’t take away their will, but does create tendencies to act in certain ways. They’re rarely used for good.”

The magic circle spans the length and breadth of Dawrtaine.

“But why would they do that?”

“That’s why I’m worried,” Hallon says. “An Obolom Collector is a magical construct designed to capture the energy released when a living being dies and sheds its corporeal body.”

“Such a thing exists?” Milo asks.

“It was invented by an astrologer named Frans Obolom. It was 1728 or 29, I think. Eratosthenes will remember for sure. He was trying to catch the soul of his dying wife and reinvest it in another body, but it didn’t work as planned. He’s still around. I ran into him in Vienna two years ago.”

“But that would make him almost two hundred years old.”

“Amazing what you can do when you can feed on the energy of the dying, isn’t it?” Hallon grimaces. “On our world, vampires don’t drink blood, but they imitate the shadows and feed on energy to prolong their lives. Obolom is firmly in that crowd.”

None of what Hallon is saying is logical, but Milo is in a strange mood where everything makes sense and the numbers fit together in ways he never expected. For now he just accepts everything, but later—later, he’ll need to do some serious thinking. “And does that mean someone here wants to live forever? That’s why they made this Obolom Collector?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple. If the shadows are driving this, then the energy is meant to serve them. They intend to trigger a large number of deaths and use the energy for what? Eratosthenes doesn’t know?”

Not for lack of trying. We are outnumbered and can’t travel or act as freely as we’d like.

“Who are our allies?”

In the Undercity, they worship a deity named Atu who is sympathetic to our cause. Above ground—Eratosthenes shakes his head—we have only two additional guardians. The rest were either trapped or driven off. We’ve had to prioritize protecting the people around whom the flow of events is fluxing the hardest.

“Leaving the rest of the city unprotected,” Hallon says.

The choices are all hard ones.

“This sounds like a war,” Milo says.

Hallon and Eratosthenes answer together. “It is.” It is.

“Which means you’re a soldier,” Milo says. “In your own way.”

“The entities we associate with, we call ourselves guardians,” Hallon says. “Although not all are fighters.”

The calculations click into place, and Hallon’s model blooms with sudden insight. “That story you told in the forest—”

“I wanted to be truthful,” Hallon says.

“And Eratosthenes is your partner. Wait—for how long?”

“Milo, are you asking a woman her age?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Good,” Hallon says, “I need you to be curious. I’m over six hundred years old.”

All the numbers around her blink and update. It takes Milo a bit longer to catch up. “Ah, uh, what? How?”

“Well, that’s another complicated answer, but it has to do with spirit energy and ways to acquire and preserve it.”

“Like the shadows and Obolom?” Milo asks.

“Nothing like the shadows or Obolom,” Hallon says. “What I do is well within the Light. Techniques I learned from my teachers. The Way of the Soft Fist plays a part. You’ve experienced it yourself. How did it feel?”

“Awkward when I kept messing up.” Milo recalls how the equations flowed. “But that time at the end—that was special. I felt like I was being myself, only more so. If that makes any sense.”

“That’s what it means to follow the light,” Hallon says. “It’s a search for your best self, a true path that’s a lot harder than it sounds, but then again, it’s a much easier path than falling into shadow.”

“This is confusing,” Milo says.

“All I can say is keep an open mind. No, there’s more.” Hallon looks away. She rubs her face, thinking—the equations around her spinning as she considers a decision.

Eratosthenes leans back, surprised. Is he watching the equations too? Or is he seeing something else? It’s the first time Milo’s even considered the idea. If the dragon’s real, he thinks, then I’ll need to update my models. In the meantime, Hallon’s numbers slow, and she nods to herself, as if coming to a decision.

“The world,” she says, “is not how you think it is. That’s what my first teacher told me. His exact words in fact. I can’t put it any better than he did, so I’ll just tell you what he told me.”

Hallon takes a deep breath and starts again. “The world is not how you think it is, but I can help you find—not what you want—but something more important. Along the way, you’ll learn to defend yourself. It will be necessary. You will see astonishing things. Trust me when I tell you that they are not. They are everyday, but only hidden from everyday eyes. You will be shaken to your core. You will be offered great power and great wisdom. If you are truly wise, you will refuse both and walk a truer path. A longer path, fraught with tears, but joy as well. A shorter path than what greatness offers. And somewhere between the cracks of what is and what is not, you will find your answers.”

“When I was a young girl,” Hallon continues, “raiders came to our steading and slaughtered my family—my father and his apprentices, my mother, my brother, and my grandfather—all of them killed. I was the only survivor, lost and terrified and wandering through the winter forest until my first teacher, the Ghost Burner, found me and started me on the way to finding myself. It was so long ago, but I still remember those first words he told me.”

The air shimmers, as a breeze blows from the open window and plays in Milo’s hair. None of what Hallon says makes sense, but the pure data fits her model—the information about her family slotting into gaps he didn’t realize were there. She’s an orphan like me, he thinks. Then, what she’s saying is impossible. Shadows, her age, a spirit dragon—it’s all impossible. Milo’s mind, recently pried open, struggles to stay open. “I’m still confused.”

“I was too when I was in your place.”

“But surely a more probable answer is that I’ve gone insane. That we’re both insane.”

Hallon’s laughter is gentle. “I’m saner than you can imagine, and you will be too, eventually. I’ll make sure of that.”

Beside her, tears stream down Eratosthenes’s face. The numbers in the room tremble from the power of his emotions. Oh my warrior, you are magnificent.

Milo gulps at the intensity of the dragon’s feeling. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is, no matter what it is, I’ll do it.”

“Yes, I know,” Hallon says, her eyes shining.

###

Hallon’s thoughts are a whirl. She feels like a beggar huddled against a warm door on a frozen night. She’ll survive, but hearth and home are just out of reach. Eratosthenes is here, but only for as long as Milo is.

There’s a bump from out in the hall, and a girl says, “It’s unlocked.”

“Don’t be silly,” a boy says. “Who would leave their door unlocked in No Town.”

The lock clicks, the handle turns, but the door doesn’t open.

“See, I told you. And now you’ve locked it.”

Who else could it be but Rashid and Dana Barmaki?

“Let me try,” Dana says.

“No,” Rashid says, “I did it before. I’ll do it again.”

“But I’m bored.”

“Then find your own lock to pick. This one is mine.”

“You’re such a brat, Rashid.”

Hallon shakes her head in disbelief. These children—there’s nowhere safe from their snooping. Too bad for them that Hallon isn’t in the mood for their mischief. She pitches her voice towards matronly and says, “Ahmed, there are ruffians at the door. Beat them soundly for disturbing my rest.”

She hears the patter of steps flee down the hall.

“Clever,” Milo says.

Hallon smiles. “Just like the train. Remember?”

“We were so desperate then.”

“We still are,” Hallon says, her smile fading.

“You mean this war with the shadows,” Milo says, “and trying to stop the Calamity.”

Hallon nods. “And now you’re caught up in it too. I’ll make amends for that, I promise.” Although how is a question yet to be answered. Teaching Milo the Soft Fist is one thing, but taking him as a disciple? When she’s blind and deaf to the spirit world? Maybe he’s right and they’ve both gone mad. She doesn’t have much choice though. Milo needs her, and she needs him.

Well and well, life’s messy. That’s just the way of it, and she’ll do the best she can. The Soft Fist is a good start, but his repertoire will need to be expanded. She’ll mix in Master Leichtenaur’s Chivalric Arts, and between the two, his physical wellbeing should be well assured.

He’ll also need to learn to protect himself from unwanted influences. That first—that’s always first when walking the path of spirit. But then what? If she had time, she’d start with meditation and the cultivation of spirit energy, but she doesn’t have the twenty-thirty years necessary. Not with the Calamity hanging over them. Still, there are no shortcuts when following the light. It requires dogged persistence and time to unwind the knots in one’s spirit.

What can she do to move him along quickly, while taking care to make sure he doesn’t fall into shadow? The Ghost Burner had thrown Hallon into one unpredictable situation after another. He’d been a believer in learning by doing, which wouldn’t have been so bad, except for the utter ruthlessness with which he’d done it. Not one of his more endearing traits, but then he’d had very few to begin with, the only one being his willingness to teach a lost girl. Only much later did Hallon come to realize the plan behind his seemingly random decisions.

So. Teach as you go. Lay the foundation where and when possible. Point out the pitfalls and trust that Eratosthenes will keep an eye on the boy. That last piece is key. Hallon wouldn’t dare take Milo as a disciple otherwise. Yes, she’ll start by initiating him in the Soft Fist, and then go from there, but first there’s more she needs to hear from Eratosthenes.

A yelp from outside interrupts her thoughts. Milo hears it too, and the dismay on his face matches hers. They run to the window, and there, hanging from a seam in the inn’s wall, his feet dangling in the air, is Rashid Barmaki.

Dana looks on from the room next door. “Rashid, you fool, that’s not how you do it. There should be three points of contact.”

“It’s harder than it looks,” Rashid says.

“Then come back, and I’ll try it.”

Rashid’s face is red from the strain of holding on. “I can’t. I’m stuck.”

Dana cries out in surprise and points towards Hallon and Milo.

Rashid looks up. “What? What’s wrong?”

“The bandits from the train,” Dana says. “They’re here!”

“Oh! I want to meet them!” Rashid bites his lip as he feels for a toehold. He finds one briefly, only to slip.

Is Hallon unlucky? Or is it fate to continually cross paths with these children? Their spirits didn’t feel familiar when they’d first met, so they’re unlikely to be old foes who’ve come back to pester her. Perhaps it’s just that the universe likes its cycles and synchronicities. There should be a limit though on how much trouble two children can get into. Still, Hallon’s not prepared to watch a child die and do nothing about it. She jumps onto the sill.

“Milo, grab my feet.”

Bless him, Milo understands what she intends and does as he’s told. “Is this a good idea?”

“No, of course not, but we don’t have time for good ideas.” Hallon lets herself swing down and uses her arms to break the fall against the side of the building.

Up above, Milo has her by the ankles and is braced against the window in a stance called Mountain Impossible from the Third Circle. Quick—Milo’s so very quick on the uptake, and Hallon nods in appreciation.

“Just like that. Root down and let the mountain be your anchor. Now then—” Hallon looks over to Rashid, who’s staring at her like a pig in a dress. She pulls herself over to him and catches hold of a wrist. “There. I’ve got you.”

“Dananis,” Milo says through gritted teeth. “Would you please get some. Help.”

“What? Oh, yes, help. Right away!” Dana disappears from her window.

Hallon checks on Rashid. “How are you? All right?”

“Ah, I’m frightened.”

“Nothing wrong with that. It’s normal to be afraid at times like this. Can you use me to climb to the window?”

Rashid looks past her and shakes his head. “My arms are tired, I can barely hold on.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let go.”

Careful not to approach her power, Hallon visualizes tree roots growing down her arm, circling around the boy’s wrist. It’s a mental trick, but it works to strengthen her grip on him. Rashid looks terrified though, his eyes round with fear and his mouth pressed tight.

“So. How do you like No Town so far?” Hallon asks.

The question surprises Rashid, distracts him as intended. “I don’t know. We’ve only seen it from the back of the truck. Mother—well, she’s going to be angry, so we won’t get the chance to go exploring later.”

“I imagine so.”

From above comes the sound of a door shattering. A giant pair of hands appear behind Milo, and Hallon is suddenly lifted up and up. She tightens her grip on Rashid, and he comes with her, through the window to spill out onto the floor.

The room becomes noisy with people. Lady Barmaki anxiously checks Rashid for injury. The Barmaki’s steward and a Red in livery assist her. Rahima stands outside just outside the room, looking at the key in her hand, while Safi frowns at the remains of the door. Dana peeks in from behind them. She ducks away once she sees her brother is safe.

“Dananis!” Lady Barmaki’s voice carries into the hall. When her daughter doesn’t reappear, she says to the steward, “Khem, fetch my daughter. I would have words with her. With both my children.”

Hallon and Milo also need to slip out as quickly and quietly as possible. The children know that they don’t have papers. Unfortunately, Wahid and the General arrive on the scene and finish the job of filling the corridor. The only uncrowded exit is the open window.

Lady Barmaki sighs and touches foreheads with Rashid. “Safe. Somehow you’ve survived another round of mischief.” Her voice hardens. “You are in such trouble, young man. When are you going to learn? But no—let’s wait for your sister before we start the scolding in earnest. Just be patient.” She turns to Hallon and Milo. “Thank you. Thank you, both, for saving my foolish son. He’s a handful, even on good days, but I love him and would’ve mourned his loss. How can I thank you?”

What Hallon really wants is to escape—the less they have to do with House Barmaki, the better. “We don’t need anything you can give.”

“Is that true? Do you feel the same way?” Lady Barmaki asks Milo.

He stares down at his hands and doesn’t notice the question. Hallon nudges him with her elbow.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Milo says, not looking up. “I don’t need anything either. I’m just happy I could do it.”

“I can’t not reward you,” Lady Barmaki says. “You two must need something.”

“Tea. I could really use a cup of tea,” Milo says.

That surprises a laugh out of Lady Barmaki. “That’s all? Well, we could all do with some, I’m sure. Very well. We shall have tea and then talk again.”

Milo nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Hallon, feeling trapped, pulls him along as they all go downstairs.