Chapter 170

The path wound through tall grasses that whispered secrets to each other as we passed. I walked beside Caelion, my hand in his, watching the horizon where the sky met the earth in a blur of blue and gold.

"Caelion," I said, breaking the comfortable silence between us. "Do you know where the sea lions live?"

He glanced at me, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "The sea lion coast?"

"Mirena tried to explain it to me before," I said, remembering her enthusiastically trying to explain to me in animated gestures, her hands moving like she was conducting an orchestra.

Caelion laughed, the sound rolling out across the plains. "Mirena does enjoy her dramatics."

"She drew a map in the dirt," I said. "Then erased it. Then drew it again differently. Then got distracted by a butterfly and forgot what she was talking about entirely."

"That sounds like Mirena," he agreed.

"So," I pressed. "Do you know?"

He nodded, his expression growing serious. "Yes. The sea lion coast isn’t far from where the ocean meets the land. It’s in the middle of the ocean, actually. Where you can’t get there unless you swim."

I stopped walking. "In the middle of the ocean?"

"In the middle," he confirmed. "It’s what makes the sea lion home safer than most places. Sea lions can live above water and in the water. They are warriors in the water and on land."

He gestured broadly, his hands carving shapes in the air. "Think of it this way. The fish tribe, they’re like land beasts. You can get to them. Hunt them. Other land beasts can reach them. And the Mer, the deep sea creatures, they can be hunted by other sea creatures. Everyone has a weakness. A place where they’re vulnerable."

"But sea lions," I said, beginning to understand.

"Sea lions can fight in and out of water," Caelion said, his voice filled with admiration. "They are never at a disadvantage. If you attack them in the water, they drag you onto land. If you attack them on land, they drag you into the water. They are always in their element. Always dangerous."

"That sounds terrifying," I said.

"That sounds perfect," he corrected. "For a safe place to raise children. To build a home that cannot be breached."

I nodded slowly, imagining it. A fortress of rock and wave, accessible only to those who could swim the deep waters, guarded by warriors who could fight anywhere, anytime.

"I like that," I said. "I like that very much."

We walked on, the children running ahead and doubling back, their energy seemingly endless. The leopard cubs shifted back and forth between forms, running on four legs, then two, then four again, as if they could not decide which was more fun. Niku and Sikai raced each other, their laughter carrying back to us on the wind.

Soryn walked slightly apart from the group, a large woven basket hanging from his shoulder, the seven serpents coiled inside like a nest of living rope. He spoke to them constantly, his voice a low murmur, pointing out interesting plants and insects as we passed.

"How are they?" I called to him.

"Restless," he said. "They want to hunt. But they’re behaving."

"Mostly," I added, noticing one small head poking out of the basket, tongue flicking at the air.

"Mostly," Soryn agreed, gently pushing the snake back inside.

We walked until the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Finally, Ravin called a halt near a stand of trees that offered shelter and a small stream that bubbled nearby.

"Here," he said. "Safe spot. Good water. We camp here."

The children cheered and immediately began to unpack, or rather, to pull things out of packs and drop them randomly on the ground.

"No," I said, laughing. "Not like that. Here, let me show you."

I set up the cooking area, then had Ravin build me a small fire with dry wood the boys gathered. The flames caught and grew, casting dancing shadows on the surrounding trees. I pulled out the supplies, the crowhen meat we had preserved, the rice we had brought, the vegetables I had packed carefully in oil cloth.

"Crowhen stir fry," I announced, and the children cheered again.

I cooked over the open flame, the meat sizzling in the pan, the rice steaming in a pot, the smell of garlic and herbs filling the clearing. The children gathered around, watching with the intensity of predators stalking prey, their eyes fixed on the food.

"Is it ready yet?" Atlas asked for the fifth time.

"Almost," I said.

"How about now?"

"Almost."

"Now?"

"Atlas," I said, not looking up from the pan. "If you ask one more time, you will be eating grass for dinner."

He closed his mouth. But his eyes kept asking.

Finally, finally, the food was ready. I served it out on wooden plates, the stir fry heaped over rice, steaming and fragrant. The children attacked it with the ferocity of starving wolves; their faces smeared with sauce within seconds.

"Slow down," I laughed. "There is plenty."

"There is never plenty," Chase said around a mouthful of rice. "There is only now."

"Philosopher," I observed.

"Hungry," he corrected.

After they had eaten their fill, and after I had eaten my own portion, I turned to the task of cleaning the children. They were covered in food, dirt, and what I chose not to identify. I used water from the stream, wetting cloths and wiping faces and hands, working my way through the crowd of cubs.

"You missed a spot," Niku said, pointing to his elbow.

"I got your elbow," I said.

"Other elbow."

"That’s your wrist."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

Sikai presented his face for inspection. "Am I clean?"

I looked at him. He had rice in his hair, sauce on his forehead, and a leaf stuck to his chin. "You are a work in progress."

"What’s that mean?"

"It means hold still."

When they were finally clean, or clean enough, I settled them around the fire, the flames now burning low and warm. They sat in a circle, eyes wide and expectant, waiting for the nightly story.

"Tonight," I said, "I will tell you the story of Cinderella."

"Cinderella," Tavren repeated, trying out the name. "Is that a fish?"

"No," I said.

"A bird?"

"No."

"A very small rock?"

"No. She is a girl."

"Oh." He seemed disappointed.

"She had a very hard life," I began. "Her mother died, and her father remarried a woman with two daughters."

"Already I don’t like this," Aureon rumbled from behind me.

"The stepmother and stepsisters were cruel to Cinderella," I continued. "They made her do all the work. Clean the house. Cook the meals. She slept by the fireplace, which is why they called her Cinderella. Because she was always covered in cinders."

"What are cinders?" Niku asked, his nose wrinkled.

"The black stuff left over after wood burns," I said. "The soot. The ash."

"Like when you clean out the fire pit?" Sikai asked.

"Yes," I said. "Exactly like that. She was always dirty. Always cleaning. Always tired."

"Why didn’t she just wash?" Tavren asked, genuinely confused. "We wash. Mama makes us wash."

"She didn’t have time," I said. "And her stepmother wanted her to stay dirty. To stay low. To stay working."

"Why didn’t she leave?" Atlas asked.

"Where would she go?" I asked.

"Anywhere," Atlas said. "I would leave."

"She had nowhere to go," I explained. "And no one to help her."

"She should have bitten them," Zarek suggested. "That’s what I would do."

"She is like mommy ," I said. "mommy don’t bite."

"That’s the problem mama. If you don’t bite how will they know you want something?" Zarek asked.

"Oh we know," Aureon said mischievously from his bedroll, not even opening his eyes. "We know very well."

I threw a small pebble at him. It bounced off his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

"Anyway," I said, trying to get back to the story. "One day, there was a big party at the prince home. The prince was looking for a wife. And Cinderella wanted to go, but her stepmother said she couldn’t because she had too much work to do and nothing to wear."

"So she didn’t go?" Layla asked, her brow furrowed.

"Not at first," I said. "But then her fairy godmother appeared."

There was a pause.

"What’s a fairy godmother?" Niku asked.

"She’s a magical person," I said. "A woman with magic who helps people."

"Like a shaman?" Soryn asked.

"Sort of," I said. "But with a wand."

"What’s a wand?"

"It’s a stick," I said. "That does magic."

"A stick," Sikai repeated slowly, as if I had told him the sky was made of cheese.

"Yes. And she used the wand to turn a pumpkin into a carriage."

Silence.

"A pumpkin," Leon said. "The vegetable."

"Yes."

"Into a carriage."

"Yes."

"That pulled itself?"

"No," I said, feeling the conversation slipping away from me. "It was pulled by mice. That she turned into horses."

"Mice," Ravin said. "Tiny mice. Became horses."

"Yes."

"And pulled a pumpkin."

"Yes."

"That was a carriage."

"Yes!"

"Why didn’t she just ride the mice?" Kaizen asked. "If they were big enough to pull a pumpkin, they were big enough to ride."

"Because... because that’s not the story!"

"Sounds like a better story," Aureon observed.

"Anyway," I said, my voice rising slightly. "Cinderella went to the ball. In her pumpkin carriage. Pulled by mice horses. And she wore a beautiful dress and glass shoes."

"Glass," Caelion said. "As in, the thing that breaks?"

"Yes."

"For shoes."

"Yes."

"To walk in."

"To dance in," I corrected.

"On her feet."

"Yes!"

"That seems dangerous," Leon said. "What if they broke? What if she stepped on something sharp?"

"They were magic glass shoes," I said. "They didn’t break."

"Everything breaks," Leon said. "I’ve broken things that weren’t even made of glass. I broke a rock once."

"You did not break a rock," I said.

"I did," he insisted. "With my head. It hurt."

"That’s not the point," I said, my voice climbing higher. "The point is, she went to the party, she danced with the prince, she ran away at midnight because the magic was going to end, and she lost one of her glass shoes on the stairs."

"So she was hopping," Sikai said.

"She was running," I said.

"With one shoe," he pointed out. "So hopping."

"Fine. She was hopping. The prince found the shoe. He went looking for the girl it fit. He tried it on every woman in the kingdom. And when he got to Cinderella, it fit. And they got married. And lived happily ever after."

There was a long silence.

"That’s a terrible story," Atlas said finally.

"What? No, it’s not. It’s romantic."

"He had to try the shoe on every woman?" Chase asked. "That sounds exhausting."

"And unsanitary," Soryn added. "Sharing shoes."

"And what if someone had the same size foot?" Niku asked. "What if the shoe fit someone else? Would he have married the wrong person?"

"He would have known," I said. "By her face."

"But he didn’t recognize her face at the party," Levy pointed out. "He needed the shoe."

"Because she was wearing a mask," I said.

"So he fell in love with a mask," Leon said. "Not a person."

"He fell in love with her dancing," I said.

"While she was hopping," Sikai added.

"She wasn’t hopping during the dancing!"

"She was probably thinking about hopping," he said. "Knowing she would have to hop later."

I put my face in my hands. "I hate this story."

"I liked the part where she should have bitten them," Zarek said. "That was good advice."

"She didn’t bite anyone!"

"She should have," he maintained.

"I should have prayed for patience before starting this story," I mumbled.

I looked up at the stars, at the dark sky, at the fire burning low. The children were settling down, curling up in blankets, their eyes heavy with sleep despite their earlier protests about the quality of my storytelling.

"Tomorrow," I said, my voice soft in the quiet night, "I will tell you a different story."

"One with biting?" Zarek asked hopefully, his voice already half a dream.

"Maybe," I said.

"Good," he said, and closed his eyes.

I sat by the fire, watching them sleep, listening to their soft breathing. Caelion settled beside me, his arm around my shoulders.

"Glass shoes," he said, his voice amused.

"Don’t start," I warned.

"Pumpkin carriage."

"I will push you into the fire."

"Mice horses."

I turned to look at him, ready to argue, and found him smiling at me with such fondness that my irritation melted away.

"It is a strange story," he admitted.

"It’s a human story," I said.

"Humans are strange," he agreed.

"Yes," I said, leaning into him. "We are."

We sat together, watching the fire die down, listening to the night sounds around us. Tomorrow we would walk again. Tomorrow we would get closer to the ocean. Tomorrow we would face whatever came.