Eleven #6
“Oh, please, don’t,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to be anyone’s savior. I just wanted to get the kids I’d come here to protect safe home to their parents, and that meant saving everyone else as a side effect.”
“Just what everyone loves to hear, that they were a side effect,” said the Satyr, wryly. She looked to Tybalt. “Who’s this?”
“Her husband,” said Tybalt, dryly. “I remain quite glad that she chose not to become another man’s ‘lady,’ however glorious he may have been. I quite prefer her at home with me.”
“Makes sense,” said the Satyr, rising. Her wings half-opened, flapping to maintain her balance as she sat heavily, a small cloud of dust resulting from the impact of her rump against the ground.
“I’m Eutychia. I was taken from the Kingdom on the Golden Shore.
My parents are Spiridon and Voula. I’m sure they wonder what happened to me. ”
I paused, sudden regret filling me from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.
Every resident of Blind Michael’s lands, with the exception of Acacia, had been stolen from their parents and swept away here like their lives were just toys to be collected.
Their families of the ones the Luidaeg didn’t find in time for the last Ride didn’t know whether their loved ones were alive or dead; they had no closure.
“Do you … do you want me to find them and tell them that you’re all right? ” I asked.
“What I want is to go home, but since that’s not possible, yes, that would be a great gift from you to me,” she said. “I would be eternally in your debt.”
She couldn’t bow while seated, but she inclined her head, following all the proper rules of courtly behavior.
It was remarkably smooth, given how long it had likely been since she’d needed any of those skills.
Blind Michael’s skerry wasn’t total anarchy, especially with Acacia keeping things in order, but it wasn’t a place that put much weight on manners, either.
“I … I’m sort of in the middle of trying to find my friend Raysel and get her home right now, but as soon as that’s done, I’ll be happy to help,” I said. “I know the King and Queen on the Golden Shore. I’m sure they’ll assist me in finding your parents.”
Assuming Spiridon and Voula hadn’t moved away after their daughter vanished from her room and never came home.
While he’d been active, Blind Michael had been single-handedly responsible for a whole lot of relocations among the adult population of the Westlands.
People don’t normally want to remain where they were living when their children were stolen from them.
Funny, that. So there was every chance I’d go to the Golden Shore and discover that Eutychia’s parents were long, long gone.
Which reminded me … “Do you know what year it was when you were brought here? Time doesn’t always work the same way in the skerries as it does in the Summerlands.”
“That, and none of us got any older until our Lord stopped his dancing,” said Eutychia. “I was taken from my home in 1973, and I lingered in the Children’s Hall exactly as I was until you came before us and broke the chains. I’ve been growing since then.”
Sounding bewildered, Tybalt said, “But the Riders are adults, or the size of such.”
“Yes, and when you were chosen to Ride, you would very quickly grow to the age and size our Lord required,” said Eutychia.
“He only took children, but children didn’t make the kind of Riders he wanted, so He remade us in the image of His desire.
I Rode with Him three times. Only the first was astride a horse.
I thought He might straighten my legs, make me better suited to equestrian activities.
Instead, He made me a steed in my own right, while leaving me the potential to claim the status of Rider one day.
I still can’t decide whether that was a kindness, or whether it was just another game that never saw its proper end.
Either way, this is what I am now, and this is where I’ll stay. ”
1973 … “That was a long time ago,” I said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you any sooner. But I’ll look for your parents, and I’ll tell them what happened to you.”
“That’s all we can ask,” she said, softly. For the first time, I saw the deep sorrow etched into the circles under her eyes, the dullness in her feathers.
“We?” echoed Tybalt.
“She’s not the only one who was left behind when we broke the Ride,” I said.
“It’s why Acacia stayed here, at least officially.
” Unofficially, Acacia had lived outside of mortal time for so long that I wasn’t sure there was a world for her outside the skerry.
She was immortal—we didn’t need to worry about time catching up to her and aging her into dust in an instant—but even the immortal can wind up so out of touch that they can’t catch up unless they truly want to.
And Acacia had already shown that she didn’t want to.
Tybalt frowned, looking uncomfortable. “All the children we were unable to recover? All the lost ones? They’re here?”
“Not all of them,” said Eutychia. “Riders die. It’s always a risk to being allowed to join the Ride: they go out into the mortal world to hunt for the children most suited to becoming one of their number, and sometimes, parents catch them in the act.
Sometimes, they try to defend their children, and sometimes, they succeed. ”
“You said all that like it was still happening,” I said. “It doesn’t happen anymore, right?”
“Right,” she said. “Our Lord is gone, and his Lady doesn’t open the doors for us. No one joins the Ride any longer, and the Riders who already are no longer risk themselves such as to die in the deliverance of their duties. It might be better if they did.”
I didn’t want to think too much about that, didn’t want to wonder how many of them had become like Rayseline, their own blood turning inimical to their survival.
I was going to have to, now that I knew it was an issue: that’s what heroism means, sometimes.
It means going back to fix as many of your mistakes as you possibly can, even when you’d rather be doing anything else.
It means trying to save people. No matter how hard it gets, I have to try.
“Eutychia,” I said, carefully feeling out the syllables of her unfamiliar name. “Do you know what’s going on right now? With your Lady, and with her family?”
“When the spell came that changed the world, it restored a facsimile of our Lord to his throne,” said Eutychia. “You unmade Him.”
“You saw that?”
She nodded, a silent accusation.