Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Nineteen

Time with Ed was short and for good cause: they were all running out of it. It was still at least three days, maybe two. It was never decided how long they had spent in Jack’s forest but the common assumption was that it had been only for one night.


What delayed them further was Terry’s healing arm. It was proposed that they walk the distance to the supposedly large Stone but that was advised against by Ed. The area was laden with ground serpents. Sylvester inquired as to why they weren’t simply called snakes, a question which drew a small guffaw from the old man. The guffaw which drew a shroud of shame across the king.


Ed explained that snakes were usually small and mostly harmless. Ground serpents, also known as tips, were lethal and larger. They burrowed out a good-sized hole in the ground and then went in, turned themselves around, and poked only their head outside of the hole. Opening their jaws to their widest, they flattened their serrated teeth and used their prehensile tongues to draw debris over parts of the mouth. In essence, it was a near-perfect trap as they struck not only against prey that wasn’t watching their step but also one that might be nearby. Tips were usually small enough so they couldn’t swallow a man whole but that wouldn’t stop them from trying, Ed warned.


The warning was taken to heart. They waited until Terry was healed, knowing the option of leaving him behind was out of the question.


While waiting, Sylvester pondered on the revelation that Tuette truly had not known his actual name. How had such a thing occurred? They had been traveling for days together and she usually had not stated his name unless she was being exceptionally snarky. How often do I state her name for that matter? It seemed like he said it often. When she had said it the last time, he had felt like upending the table. Thankfully, Ed and his odd gift were present. Do more people have particular gifts like Ed? If so, what kinds are there?


But now, at last, she finally could state his name correctly. Looking at the others as they tried to doze during this interim of destinations, Sylvester could only wonder as to why none of them had bothered to correct Tuette, just like she asked. It seemed peculiar. Have they been trying to make a fool of her because they recognize how haughty she is? That she needed to be taken down a notch? The incident did seem to settle harshly on her, even to the point that Sylvester felt sorry for her.


Glancing at the two Guards, Sylvester found himself practically staring at the older one. His name was also Sylvester, but he went my Vest.


And Sylvester thought Vest, in some way, resembled himself.


Is there a closer connection than either of us realize? Vest certainly looked more than twice Sylvester’s age but was in far better shape. But the idea that he could be some paternal figure never entered his mind as a serious notion. My true father was King Gould, and he’s dead.


Isn’t he?


Sylvester suddenly became uneasy and he wanted desperately to check the back of Vest’s neck. For all that he didn’t know about the kingstone, he knew that each king carried one, no matter what, until death.


But no, it had to be a mere coincidence. Sylvester remembered that both he and Vest grew up in the Fortright Isles, where beards were considered fashionable and ideal: the cold sea winds tended to cause freezing temperatures that beards naturally protected against. And even if they hadn’t been born in the same region, they were raised there as all kings and Gousheralls had been. The bond they were supposed to form as children tended to solidify their stances as the protectors and the protected. The fact that Terry didn’t have a beard just said he didn’t enjoy them. Sylvester often didn’t relish his, finding it to itch between odd intervals of time.


Recalling the first time he met Vest, he remembering silently wondering if the man was actually Sylvester sent from the future. The idea seemed comic at the time, but now… Well, Tuette often stated that anything was possible with Magik. He shook his head once, trying to force the thoughts to dissipate.


Ed was still sitting at the table, poring over the map weave. Sylvester joined the old man, sitting next to him. Ed smelled of herbs and they made the king’s nose wrinkle.


“Whatcha lookin’ for?” asked Sylvester as he leaned forward in the manner that Ed was.


Ed scowled quickly and then displayed a smile. “Just lookin’. Tis was I do.”


“Lookin’ for what, though?”


The old man’s smile quivered slightly and he paused, blinking rapidly, and then raised both his arms as if to pound them into the table. Sylvester jumped at the motion but Ed desisted just before he was to strike the table’s surface. Looking around at the others to check if they had seen the display, Sylvester saw they were in their various states of dozing or, in Tuette’s case, thumbing through Dermy’s small tome, nearly hunched into a frumpy ball in the corner.


Ed then leaned close to Sylvester. His breath was rancid. Ed whispered “I be lookin’ fer the las’ Stones!” He spit a little on the map and wiped it up with his fingertips, drawing some animal furs with it. Ed then swore and wiped the furs on his ragged tunic.


Sylvester felt like he should offer some advice: to tell Ed to keep at it or stop looking for a while and it’ll show itself in time. Or even that he should enjoy loftier pursuits, like someone to help him around his tolo which. But the trinkets and stuff on the shelves, which seemed to cover every wall space, were dusty and possessed no sense of order. Sylvester’s eye was caught by an intricately carved little stone statute which depicted a creature of some kind. Probably something of Magik origin. He recalled how, a couple hours before, it had drawn Tuette’s attention.


Drawing Ed away from the map, Sylvester pointed at the statue and asked in a murmur “What’s that?”


Ed didn’t even look up. “Carving of a kigla. Tiny rodent that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s a Burtle original.”


“What do you mean?”


“Burtle. He carved it. Only he can carve something so detailed. It’s his gift. And curse.”


“He’s Cursed?”


“Not in the sense of... Roost, or whoever. But he just has a problem, with his head energies. Like me.”


Sylvester pondered. So others can possess more useful gifts than name-knowledge! “Does he have to hold his breath, like you?”


Ed sighed. It seemed like he didn’t want to answer any questions, and that made Sylvester curious enough to want to ask more. “People… People like Burtle an’ me, we just have these energy blocks, in our heads. Some people are jus’ born with ‘em. We get to excel at one thing – Burtle with carving Constructs, me with name-knowing – and we have to give up somethin’ else.” Ed made the motion of whistling but didn’t make the noise, making Sylvester wonder if he couldn’t properly do it. Like me. And he smiled briefly. “Burtle’s case is pretty severe, compared to mine.”


“What conditions your blockage?”


Ed smiled but his eyes looked pained, like he didn’t want to say. “Nah children. Not for me.”


“You can’t have kids?” Ed shook his head, emphatically pouting out his lip. “Are you sure this isn’t a Curse?”


“Oh ho!” he exclaimed in hushed tones. “If only! If I’n could Curse up folk like the count be doin’ down south, you think I be livin’ alone? Not even a welcome mat to my once and future Mokel?” His face dulled then, his eyes staring through everything. “Naw. Nah kids. Jus’ me, a name-knowin’ mule.”


Sylvester felt sad for Ed and wondered at the unfortunate trade-off. And he wondered if he would ever make the choice like that, knowing that Ed and the Burtle character didn’t have such a choice. Would I choose children over innately knowing someone’s name or vice versa?


But Sylvester remembered: Burtle’s stipulation was different, and somehow worse. Sylvester began to ask Ed when Terry stood up and patted at the flesh of his arm, grinning. “I think it’s fixed up, people! Sir!” Tuette was drawn out of her word-induced gaze while the other two pulled out of their light naps. “Time for us to head out.”


It is, indeed. Sylvester gave Ed one final glance.


Standing up, he could only think of his own situation: he knew he could have kids. And he knew that he eventually would have to sire the next king. But will I be ready?


He cast the thought away, almost as soon as it formulated, knowing that he needed to worry about actually saving the kingdom before he could even think about the next king.


Another idea formulated in his mind, and it was just as misgiving and one that Penson had failed to answer before. If I die out in the midlands or by Roost’s maniacal hand, who will be Decennia’s king?





*          ~          *          ~          *





It had been a very short flight to the large Stone that Sylvester was told was part of something called the Ring of Ten Minus Two. But it was long enough to converse with Penson though the Comgem. Though it was a difficult procedure of Sylvester having to pull his hand to his mouth and then back to his ear, most of the words got through to each other.


Penson had actually been approached by Trisden Fellowes and, through anything but coincidence, it was the tent of Fortright Isles that would become the next king in the extremely unlikely event that a monarch died before conceiving an heir. Penson constantly reassured Sylvester that his kingstone would protect him but the king was anything but assured by the notion.


After saying goodbye to his dear friend and landing, Dermy scooped the Comgem back from Sylvester, saying that it had been dangerous to use it in broad daylight. He was also angry that Sylvester had taken it without his permission. All Sylvester had said was “You said it’s for talking to Penson. I needed to talk to him.”


Dermy screwed up his face into a menacingly wide smile but said nothing more. He didn’t need to: the smile was disturbing enough, as if the specialist’s disguise was intending to make him look comical.


The seleagles didn’t leave right away. “We are making certain that yooo traverse well tooo your next destination,” said Burrin. Tuette hugged him and Sylvester patted his mount on the neck, stroking a few feathers as well. Passage via the large birds had been unexpected, to say the least. And at first, Sylvester had been fearful to stand near the towering creatures but he had gotten used to it.


The five approached the nearest large Stone as the sun began to set. The moon was already visible and Sylvester absently noted it was nearly full. It will be a full moon in a matter of days. He stopped, attempting to think as someone with Magik might, meaning he wasn’t sure he knew what to think.


“Wha’ stoppin’, Kingasir?”


Sylvester pointed up to the moon. “It’s nearly full.”


Tuette looked up. “Yeah, so?”


“The Curse of the Thumb that Roost cast. Could it be coming to fruition when the moon is full? It seems like it’s going to coincide.


Terry and Vest both looked up now. Tuette merely shrugged and kept moving. “Maybe. It’s possible.” Well that’s a pretty flippant answer.


“Well, if it’s possible, doesn’t that mean we know something else?”


She stopped again, swinging herself around fully, her face looking a little tired. “So what if it is, Sylvester?”


The way she said his name made the king feel like he was being pounded with rocks. But he persisted, not wanting to drop it. “Well, doesn’t that mean anything? I mean, I don’t know much about Magiks—“


“You’re kriffing right ‘bout that.”


“—but it seems that since we might’ve solved one facet of the Curse—“


“Then we’ll what, king?” she all but shouted, throwing her hands wide while shrugging her shoulders. “Then we’ll… What? Stop the moon from becoming full?”


A silence settled coldly on all of them. Sylvester realized the issue: whether the Curse was tied to the moon becoming full or not didn’t matter because either way, they couldn’t stop it. But with Magik… “Is there such a way to do that?”


Tuette rolled her eyes and looked like she wanted to spit. She actually did spit and approached Sylvester. “Yeah,” she said, he lips buttery with sarcasm. “Yeah, there’s a big ol’ Spell that we like to do every so often to stop Estella from fillin’ up. Because we crazy women of the night just don’t like it when we see a face prettier ‘an ours up in the sky!”


He didn’t feel angry, just a little sad. Sylvester had hoped this type of behavior was behind and beyond them. All misunderstandings were complete and he was just posing an honest question about something he didn’t wholly understand.


Sylvester honestly felt like crying, but didn’t, though he knew that the desire too was playing out on his face. Not shedding tears became his new, immediate goal.


Did this register for Tuette? He looked her in the eye and she, after a handful of heartbeats, backed down, turned towards Terry, and her face flushed red. Tuette turned around with a heavy sigh, and continued towards the Stone. The others made to let it go and he knew that was the only thing he could do. She seemed stressed over something and he wanted to ask but realized that wasn’t the correct course of action.


In front of the Stone was a wooden sign that was carved with traditional lettering. It looked fairly new, which only told Sylvester that someone was tasked with its upkeep, but who? Looking around, there was no one who lived immediately nearby and, like Jack had said, the fields between this point and Mokel were pocked with tips. Sylvester guessed that it didn’t truly matter. The words on the sign didn’t comfort him though, beginning with a bold Travel At Your Life’s Own Risk at the top. Below that were instructions on how to travel in the Ring though each line ended with implications that only negative results will come about, the worst of which was death: After the line Wait for an insufferable amount of time… only to arrive on the other end to suffer for some time was most ominous.


“It seems like someone really doesn’t want us to use the Ring of Ten Minus Two, yeah?” said Vest.


Tuette snorted. “If they really didn’t want us to use it, they would have more than some carved words set up to scare us.”


“Th’ trip’s ‘pposed ta bein’ scar-ee,” said Dermy.


Tuette shrugged her shoulders, ignoring the specialist. Sylvester felt like he might comfort the man because of her currently-callous attitude, but she walked up to the Stone and placed both of her hands against the smooth surface, her reactions making him think twice about doing that. She pulled them both away just as quickly, wincing, as if it hurt to touch it. Is it like shrent?


“Is it hot or something.”


“Or something,” she began, putting her hands to the Stone again and withstanding whatever was occurring. “It’s cold. Really cold.”


Sylvester approached and placed his own hands to the monolith. The Stone was impossibly chilling, almost to the point of actually burning. Sylvester pulled away as Tuette had but didn’t want to put them back. He looked behind the group, watching the seleagles mill about while watching the outcome. He couldn’t relish the idea that they might carry the group all the way to the Seagulf Islands. It would’ve been ludicrous to ask, seeing as a more expedient means of travel was right at hand. Would the birds even be able to make it across the sea to reach the nearest island? It seemed doubtful: it was a considerable distance and they seemed winded just flying from Jack’s forest to Mokel.


Looking again at the Stone, he motioned for the others to join. Tuette hadn’t removed her hands again and it looked like they had taken on a bluish tinge. Is this some perversion of Magik? Do the Stones ask an operator to risk losing their hands to extreme cold just to show how much they want or need to travel elsewhere so quickly? If so, it seems like a cruel game. But no, the sign said that all who wished to travel through the Ring had to, as one, quote the last line printed on the sign.


All of them standing there, their hands all finally against the Stone, it was Terry who pointed out the obvious: “I can’t remember the exact phrase.”


Tuette sighed, but not as loudly as she might’ve had Sylvester stated the predicament. She let go of the Stone, walked to the sign, stood there and read it for a few moments, her lips moving quickly, and she joined the men again. The action was clearly an indication that she also hadn’t been able to remember the exact recitation but Sylvester didn’t dare point that out; he wanted to get things between Tuette and he on a better course and it seemed like now was as good a time as any to start.


Placing her hands again with a smaller wince, she said, “It’s ‘Traveling far, riding the Ring, quicker indeed, won’t cost a thing’.”


Tuette was then quickly ensnared by little white, lightning-like tendrils.


And then she was gone.


Dermy shrieked in a manner that Sylvester had never heard uttered by an adult male. The Gousheralls were wide-eyed but that was about it. Sylvester felt a lump rise in his throat, recalling the dangers not only presented by the nearby sign but by what had to practically be yanked out of Ed regarding the nature of traveling alone through the Ring: that it was dangerous because the traveler was typically thrown from the Ring entirely. Probably even smashed against the next Stone in the network.


“Okay, men!” he said quickly, drawing their focus. “We need to hurry! We need to follow her. The Stone could’ve…” He didn’t want to say what they were all obviously thinking. “So, yes! Let’s say it, as one. Do we all remember it?” Dermy looked white as a bank of snow, which surprised Sylvester because it seemed like the disguise should accommodate for that type of physical change. He was obviously worried for Tuette. “Dermy? Hands on the Stone! Remember the line?”


Absently, Dermy returned to his position, nodding the whole time, mouthing something. “No!” shouted Sylvester, feeling ire rise inside himself. “Together! Don’t even mouth it! We don’t know how…” He swallowed, licking his lips. “We don’t know if that’s all it takes. Or not.”


Looking to both Gousheralls, he said, “Ready?”


They nodded in unison and Sylvester counted them down and they all four repeated the line that had taken Tuette away from them.


Nothing happened.


Sylvester felt like retching.


“What the crap?!” said Terry. Sylvester looked at the Guard. Is he going to lose it? “Why isn’t it working?”


The three looked at Dermy, who looked genuinely confused. Sylvester remembered something. “Dermy, what’s Battery Magik? How’s it work exactly?”


Dermy shrugged. “Like a charg’, oh.” He licked his lips, sounding hoarse. “It takin’ time ta be refillin’. Oh.”


Feeling dizzy, Sylvester thought of the possibilities. We could get the seleagles to take us to the closest set of Stones within the Ring and see if Tuette landed there. But where’s that? He mentally swore, remembering that the Seagulf Islands was the closest, next to that Accordia place.


His hands ached form the cold, the pain they caused distracting him. Sylvester pulled them off… or tried too. They remained firmly fastened. He pulled again and immediately thought that some type of Magiked frostbite had taken form. The other men could easily be seen to struggle, grunting away their useless efforts.


Vest said, “Maybe—“


And the last thing Sylvester saw was the white energy explode at him from the towering Stone, only to engulf him and pull him towards the rock and into it. The movements made him feel like retching again and he thought he might actually have done so.


His vision blurred red at the edges, just before blackness swallowed him up. His stomach leaped into his chest and he fell into the oblivion of his own head energies.





*          ~          *          ~          *





Sylvester landed with a wind-stealing thud. His chest felt compressed and he knew that not enough air was being taken in. Opening his mouth wider, Sylvester tried gasping and, after a few efforts, became successful.


But where am I?


And where’s everyone else?


This area, be it Schove, Accordia, or that remote location in he northeast, was pitch black. In standing, he immediately tripped, feeling very dizzy, like he might fall again. Putting his hand to his head, he felt soreness there. Pulling it away, he felt moisture on his fingertips and immediately imagined it to be blood.


A scream was uttered from beyond his inky surroundings. It sounded like a woman, like… Tuette? Sylvester was very nervous and even afraid. His stomach was knotting itself, which in turn made him feel even weaker in the knees.


A dull thud sounded in the further distance, accompanied shortly by a subtle tremor rumbling beneath Sylvester’s boots. What could’ve caused it? Looking up, Sylvester thought he saw a broad shape pass by, silhouetted against the dark-but-visible clouds, and immediately thought of the seleagles. Have they arrived at this place before us? Another thud sounded close by and was followed more quickly by an even stronger tremor. It seemed like some creature – creatures? – like they were jumping around in the dark, but he couldn’t be sure. And the uncertainty made him feel a deeper sense of terror.


Should I move about in the dark? Should I call for the Guards or Dermy even?


A heavy mass slammed into him and he fell over, his face landing in something wet. He groaned and turned his head to see mostly blackness. But he could smell Terry, as distinguished by the scent of the milky-muddy stuff he had used on his arm.


“Terry, what’s happening?”


“Sir? Sylvester?”


He nodded into the dark, his eyes adjusting to his surroundings finally. The nod apparently didn’t register because Terry said nothing. “Yes, it’s me, Terry.”


“Thank the forgers! I thought either you were gone or I was blind or we were somehow stuck inside the big Stone—“ That thought had never occurred to Sylvester: he assumed they had come through without trouble. Well, with some trouble. “—or maybe we were in transit too long and now it’s night, or next week. Oh col, what if we didn’t get back out in time to stop the Curse?!” He asked, sounding frantic.


Sylvester finally scrambled up, pushing Terry off and then helping him up. A small sense of pride began to fill him as he was relatively maintaining some kind of composure. He then began to feel a little embarrassed, thinking he just wasn’t smart enough to come up with as many differing conclusions as Terry, a Gousherall, had.


He bunched his fingers around his thumbs, nervously squeezing gently… and realized he still had thumbs. “Terry, it can’t be that last thought. We still have our thumbs. Remember? The Curse was designed to take them away.”


“Then what if we were sent to that missing location? You know, the one that Ed couldn’t find on his map?” That thought settled coldly inside Sylvester. Perhaps the Magik of the Ring has recognized my kingstone and landed us in the unknown region? It certainly seemed a stranger location than anything they’ve yet encountered in Decennia so far.


Thinking that made Sylvester feel oddly proud once more: he had actually seen the countryside and a few towns of his beloved kingdom. The kingdom he was aching to save.


“While that might be possible, I don’t think so.” In the distance, two round points of light appeared and Sylvester felt relief: he recognized them as lit windows. Meaning it was a home. Meaning someone lived nearby. But what caused the tremors?


In stark surprise, Sylvester saw the two round windows disappear and then reappear, but not in the manner of someone closing a shutter or putting out a light and then relighting it. It looked like someone had drawn two shade rolls, simultaneously, and then released them. Sylvester was wholly reminded of... a blinking eye.


The experience sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t know of any animal whose eyes glowed in the dark, resembled window panes, and were at least two-stories tall. Then the window-eyes disappeared altogether and another tremor was eventually felt.


Terry seemed to be shaking. “Terry, we need to remain calm. We need to find the others and get to the other Stone. That is, if this isn’t the Seagulf Islands.” He doubted it was: he knew he should be smelling at least a light tinge of salt on the air, wafted in from the surrounding sea. And, though we could be in the unknown location, we’re most likely in Accordia… or in northeast Decennia, inside the Broze region.


Both locations called for the immediate finding of the next Stone in the Ring. He knew they didn’t need to waste too much time in this area.


Looking into the sky, Sylvester realized that it most likely was night, but there was no nearly-full moon. That told it was just cloudy in this region, and not that they hadn’t been instantly transported. Surely, it’s the same day as… today.


With clouds usually came rain. Living on Mount Reign, the atmosphere seemed thick with moisture almost all the time so Sylvester had a good idea when it could start raining and when it was just cloudy.


This seemed like a case of overcast and nothing more. But it was night while they had left Mokel well before the sun was entirely ready to settle down for the day. An odd wonder came to the front of his mind. If we had found a means of even faster travel between Mokel and this place, might we have arrived even before Tuette? In that vein of thinking, Sylvester thought it might’ve been grand to arrive by alternative means, only to catch Tuette and save her from a head-smacking doom. Especially since she had been so careless. Maybe foolish, too.


No, I wouldn’t say she was foolish, just mildly forgetful. It had something to do with Terry. He recalled how she had been less enthused about verbally admonishing him earlier. Sylvester also thought back to instances in the close past, where Tuette seemed to have been possibly staring at Terry. And she had even left Ed’s Magik-item-filled tolo to see if Terry’s arm had been mending nicely.


Yes, it’s something about Terry.


And for an unfathomable reason, Sylvester didn’t like it.


He looked around in the dark, his eyes adjusting more to the area. Terry stood next to Sylvester but the most noticeable aspect was his labored breathing. He had either been running or he was in shock about the situation.


Terry is a young Gousherall. Even though they’re trained from birth, the younger ones most likely don’t have as much field experience as the older ones, like Vest. Sending his gaze around, Sylvester wondered about Vest’s whereabouts. And Dermy’s. “According to what Ed said, we should’ve landed in relatively the same area while Tuette might’ve been thrown.”


Sylvester shook his head, knowing he couldn’t comprehend many things when Magik was involved. But what if Tuette, traveling singularly, had arrived instantaneously and the rest, traveling in a group, were held back for a time because we’re in a group? He hoped that wasn’t the case. That meant they would have an even more difficult time finding Tuette, especially if she wandered off.


A tapping was heard somewhere to their right. Terry shut his mouth and audibly swallowed. Even in the pale light, Sylvester could detect a sheen of sweat over the younger Guard as if it was a second skin. And another thought occurred to him:


Terry’s probably the same age as me, if not younger.


He certainly maintained a youthful physique but Sylvester recalled that he hadn’t grown up with the king in the Fortright Isles, which meant he must’ve started his training after the king was withdrawn to claim his throne. So, yes, Terry had to be younger and Vest must be serving as some sort of teacher or leader. That would explain why Terry had lost almost his entire composure upon getting separated from Vest in a dark and unfamiliar place.


The tapping was heard again; it was a rapid succession that sounded almost identical to the first.


Terry then withdrew his sword, the twang of metal evident in the dark. Terry then began repeating the taps, mimicking the first iteration, by hitting his forearm armor plates against the weapon. “What’re you doing, Terry? We don’t know…”


“It’s Vest, sir,” he said, finally sounding calm. “He’s just over there.” A vague direction was pointed out but it was where the taps had come from. Terry sheathed his sword and grabbed Sylvester’s arm. The king’s first reaction was to throw Terry’s grip from himself but he acquiesced and let Terry lead him through the dark, ever mindful of the fact that it was the Guard who had been running blindly in the dark and crashed into the king.


In a few moments, they came across Vest and Dermy. They must have landed close to each other. A series of sniffs came from Dermy. “I smellin’ somethin’, oh.”


“Well, Terry still has a hint of that muddy, healing stuff on his arm.”


“Nah,” said Dermy, sniffing again and getting closer to the king. “Eggs, oh.”


“Eggs? You smell eggs? Are you okay, Dermy?”


But Vest began to sniff too. “No, you do smell like an egg yolk. Or something.” He was getting close, sniffing more empathically. “It’s in your hair!”


This doesn’t make sense. He put his hand to his head to touch the blood and inhaled the aroma personally… and was immediately reminded of any random breakfast back in Fyse Castle that might consist of smoked meats and bird eggs.


“What’s this about? What’s happening? Where did we land?”


Dermy licked his lips in the dark. “No’ bein’ in th’ ‘gulf Isles, oh. An’ it bein’ too warm to bein’ up in Broze.”


“So that leaves Accordia, then.”


“You think so, Vest?” He seemed very competent, like he had handled this situation before. Or at least something similar, though both instances seemed unlikely.


“I do.”


“Oh k’iff,” whispered Dermy.


“What is it?” Another tremor was felt, the vibrations lingering, and all Sylvester could think about was how Dermy should discard his disguise and make understanding him all the easier. The idea to pull on his wrist with necessary force in order to disable the disguise occurred to Sylvester, but he wasn’t sure he could accomplish such a feat. And besides, that would leave Dermy more communicative but he’d be short one arm.


“Th’ fra’s.”


“The what?” Terry sounded a little impatient and Sylvester wondered if Vest would admonish him in the dark some how.


“Th’ f-r-ogs! An’ th’ eggs! ‘member T’ette’s Lif’ Spell? To be bringin’ her swan to lif’?” The image of that swan-shaped structure came to mind and Sylvester remembered being afraid that it might attack the group. How long ago was that? It felt like months to Sylvester.


“What about it?”


“Th’ eggs bein’ used for a Lif’ Spell. ‘ccordia be known fer havin’ ‘olos build up shaped ‘ike f-r-ogs! If th’ eggs bein’ ‘ffected, wit’ th’ Spell, an’ landin’ on th’ fra’s, th’ fra’s be comin’ ta lif’!”


Sylvester, unfortunately, didn’t follow much of what Dermy had said and the urge to pull on the farmer’s wrist built ever stronger. Instead, he asked Terry and Vest, “What? What is he talking about?”


“He says that Accordia is known to have some tolos or homes built in the likeness of giant frogs. I can’t imagine why, though. But he’s worried that the reason you have egg on your head is because they’re Magiked somehow to give life to objects. Like Tuette’s swan?”


Terry spoke up. “Uh, yeah, she said she used to fly by night in that thing to get around.”


“By night?”


He sensed Terry shrugging. “Her words.”


Dermy huffed. “She canna be flyin’ ba dayligh’ ‘ours, oh! Th’ eggs on’y be workin’ ba nigh’time! If’n th’ fra’s be livin’, we bein’ in trouble ‘ntil sun’ise!”


That Sylvester understood. “Well, how can we tell if, first, we’re definitely in Accordia and secondly, that the frog-houses have—“


Suddenly, the ground shook as something landed nearly on top of the men. They fell with Sylvester on his back and when he looked up, the only things he could see was… nothing. Whatever had nearly landed on them blocked the sky out.


A quick flash came from above, like someone opening a door quickly and shedding light onto the ground outside. Dermy was lit by the glow, his face nothing but a strained smile and tears streaming down his face. Unrecognizable words were falling out of his mouth as, without warning, someone shot a string of linens at Dermy. He was then taken by them, drawn straight over Sylvester’s head, as if he was stuck to a mess of blankets!


Then the massive thing took away the light and leaped away.


With the recent introduction and taking away of the light, the king was having a hard time readjusting his sight again. He stood up and began groping around in the dark. Sylvester then swore when he knocked his unguarded hand against the light plating of one of the Gousheralls.


“Sir,” came Vest’s voice. “I guess that confirms it.”


“That was one of the frogs, then?”


“Didn’t you see it?”


“I guess I was under its mouth. I saw Dermy get taken though.”


Terry’s gasps could be heard nearby and they both approached him in the dark. He was still on the ground, by the sound of it, and they helped him up, Sylvester knocking him in the mouth on accident. “A giant frog! Like Dermy was talkin’ about!” He all but shrieked.


Vest shushed him, quick and stern like. “We still have a mission.”


“We do, but we can’t leave Tuette and Dermy.”


“Sir, the other Stone should be very close. We can end this in maybe a matter of hours and come back for them when we’re finished.”


Sylvester was shaking his head before Vest even finished the sentence, his cold rationale not finding footing on the king’s heart. “No, no. We can’t. They have the Magik. Or know how to work it. We’re going after a count who is crazy enough to send fake spirits after us to try and kill some of us and who is bold enough to make a move against my kingdom. To try and put a Curse on everybody. No. We need them. I need them.”


He hadn’t realized that it was such a strong truth inside of himself, that he actually didn’t just need Tuette and Dermy, but cared about them to the point of nearly being fearful for their wellbeing. Dermy was just taken by a large frog-house and Tuette was…


Tuette wasn’t anywhere, just yet.


Thinking that made Sylvester feel very uneasy. And afraid.


“So, we need them. Both. I’m a little concerned for Decennia, yes, but right now, I can’t tell you I don’t care about them.” He sighed, his breathing nearly faltering, revealing his haggard insides. “We’re gonna get ‘em back,” was the last that fell out and he felt an itchiness around his eyes and began trying to rub it out of both of them.


“I’ve never been so proud to serve a king, sir,” was all Vest said before he clapped Sylvester on the shoulder. In the bleak surroundings, all he could see was the Guard’s broad smile.


Sylvester almost felt like weeping and knew he probably already was.


Switching from rubbing to wiping his eyes, she sniffed once and said, “So what’s our plan? What do we do?”


They exchanged blind glances in the dark, though vision was slowly returning. Another tremor was felt. “Well, Dermy said that this’ll stop at sunrise. We might have to wait it out until then. And go into the different houses to find ‘em both.”


For Sylvester, that sounded like the only viable plan. “Then we do that. But where? Where do we go until then?”


“Not all of these buildings are supposed to be built to resemble frogs. Maybe in one of them?” suggested Vest.


“Yes,” chimed in Terry, though Sylvester felt like he would’ve said yes to anything that his superior recommended.


So that’s what they did, after their eyes became reacquainted with the darkness.





*          ~          *          ~          *





They found the Ring Stone that dropped them first but discovered it was not as cold as it was before. “That’ll be how we can tell one Stone from another, I guess. Since the other’n should be around here somewhere.” The logic made sense to Sylvester at least, so he didn’t object to Vest’s statement.


Groping around in the dark, with the king between both Guards, as if they had been back atop the splints, Vest came against a form in the dark. Sylvester’s immediate thought was that they had stumbled into one of the large and Magiked frogs. But it didn’t move and, in feeling around the exterior, they finally came to an entryway and let themselves in.


Calling into the dark, Vest identified the trio and their intentions. Sylvester thought it made them sound cowardly, but he also couldn’t help but feel a little cowardly, seeing as they were waiting until day for the monsters outside to stop moving about.


A tremor was heard that caused some loose items inside to rattle a little. Nothing broke though. Vest continued leading the way into the structure and, before too long, Vest forcibly brushed his hip into a table. Items on the table clattered and one began to roll towards Sylvester. Instinctively, he caught it before it could fall and, upon touching it, realized it felt like a candle. Groping the waxy shaft, he found and held onto the wick.


“Either of you two have a way to light a candle?”


Terry then stretched over the table and slid his hands around until he caused a clatter. “Hold it up,” he said and Sylvester, with curiosity, did. Terry then made a quick motion and there was a clack and a sudden spark. In the brief light, he had seen the candle and Terry and one thing in each of Terry’s hands. He made the noise again, this time closer to candle’s wick and the sparks weakly caught the material at first but they remained mutely present.


In no time, the flame grew and Sylvester settled the candle down on the table and looked at Terry’s hands. “What’re those?”


Terry seemed baffled. “You never seen effet rocks?” Sylvester shook his head, feeling foolish for asking yet another seemingly-useless question. “I figured they’d be near the candle. Most people keep candles and effet rocks in the same place. Strike the rocks, get a spark, then a flame. Easy.” Terry looked dubious but continued. “Don’t they have these in the castle, sir?”


Sylvester blushed and hoped the scarlet coloring he felt didn’t show as easily in the poor light. But he answered as honestly as he could. “I just enter a room and the candles are already lit.” This was another silent realization, he deduced. Sylvester knew that cooks and maids worked inside Fyse Castle. But, apparently, there was also someone who washed the clothing and even had the duty of striking rocks together to light all the candles. Thinking further, Sylvester recalled that some rooms seemed like they owned dozens of candles. Whoever is the candle lighter of Fyse Castle has quite a chore!


Refocusing on the present, Sylvester looked around the room. It seemed like a kitchen in the same vein as Jirra and Yuka had owned: it was lacking in suitable space. “How does anyone prepare meals in such a tiny area?”


“It probably helps that they’re tiny meals.” Sylvester couldn’t tell if Vest was demonstrating dry wit or bold truth. Either way, it did make a small amount of sense to Sylvester, so he let it go.


In the next room, a long cushioned bench was against one wall and a fireplace on the opposite side. There was a mantel about the ashy alcove and upon that were small, stone carvings. No frogs but a few small-bodied creatures with large, flat wings. “Butterflies. Neat,” said Terry with some enthusiasm. Vest let a humph out.


Looking at the wall, Sylvester saw it opened onto a short hallway that, judging by the shadows, contained two doorways. “We don’t need to invade their privacy, sir. Just stay in here until dawn. Maybe catch some sleep.”


Sylvester nodded, letting the idea of seeing a bedroom that differed from his own slip away. Bodily, he sat on the cushioned bench. It was soft in some places but overall, not very comfortable. The wood did creak though, like it might break. “Where are these people?” Sylvester asked finally, a tremor adding tension to his words. “Where are the Accordians?”


Terry only shrugged, going to a window on the far side of the room and looking out. Vest returned to the kitchen, apparently to keep a watch at the door there. Sylvester had the idea to light a fire to provide the room with a little more light. Inside the fireplace, he had noticed a few logs that hadn’t burned completely. One even had some thin bark peeling away that might catch fire quickly. Standing and looking again at the mantel, he saw more easily the effet rocks. Apparently, wherever you might need a flame, they would probably be there. He made a mental note that, if he ever returned to the castle, he would keep an eye out for the rocks.


With some exertion and after hitting a rock against each of his thumbs a couple times, he managed to light the bark on fire which, in turn, brought the wood to a slow burn. Warm light bathed the room and Sylvester actually felt accomplished for being able to ignite his own fire. Standing with a groan and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he resumed sitting on the bench and enjoyed the brightness of the room.


And then he noticed something peculiar; there was an uneven line running around the entire room. Below it, the building’s stone and mortar was a shade darker than what continued above it. Sylvester recognized what kind of line it was from his childhood at Majramdic. Lessons in shallow-water boating had been given to him and he remembered thinking how odd it was that older boats tended to get marked permanently: a ring denoting their submersion points becoming more apparent over time.


The line he had learned, when on land, was considered a flood line.


Are we, after all, on the Seagulf Islands?


That or we’re near a large lek that floods with heavy rains.


He was glad it wouldn’t be raining.


A hope lightened his heart at possibly being that much closer to truly ending the quest. He didn’t relish confronting Roost but the desired ends were the true prize.


“Terry,” he called.


“Sir?”


“I think this area is prone to flooding.”


Terry only pondered the statement, looking around the room to notice that the flood line was everywhere, at the same height. For him, it was just above the kneecap, but Sylvester didn’t hold that against the Gousherall.


As if the pair thinking about it was some sort of Magik cue, a gurgle of water was heard outside. Vest entered the sitting area, stating that water had entered the structure from beneath the door. “We really don’t have to worry. The flood line is right there,” said the king while pointing at the wall. “That should be as high as it goes.”


Vest asked, “Why would these Accordians build their homes and places of business in an area that was prone to flooding?”


Sylvester shrugged as the water began climbing high enough to began dousing the flame in the fireplace. “Maybe it only started after they moved here?”


Terry shook his head. “No, Tuette said that old towns like Zharinna and probably even Accordia were centered around… Talking Plants. Or Talking Poles. Or Trees, or something. If that was the case, it would’ve been flooding for many years and these structures should be on stilts or somethin’.”


“Maybe Accordia isn’t like the other towns,” offered Sylvester, feeling confident with his supposition. “Maybe with the Ring-Stones, the people orientated on them centuries ago.”


“Then that still means they should already have preventive or precautionary measures. Those flood lines are relatively new. No telling how recently the flooding began.”


A piercing shriek, like a large bird dying, cracked through the outside world like an explosion. Then a powerful pounding sounded just outside, along with a splash that sent water into the house.


Dermy’s unmistakable voice drifted in sharply, making Sylvester’s heartbeat accelerate. Now’s our chance!


“Dermy’s just out there—“ he started when they all saw, with the candle’s diminished clarity, the frog-house leap again and land somewhere with a distant splash and a subtle tremor. “Come on!” said Sylvester while heading back the way they came in.


“King, sir!” began Vest as he grabbed Sylvester’s arm. “We needn’t be foolish right away. Those living buildings, however many there actually are, are out there, hopping like crazy persons. Suppose one crushes us?” Sylvester hadn’t thought of that and again felt admonished. “And it’s flooding out there for some reason, even though it’s not raining. Those are unknown variables that I really don’t like.”


Feeling his pumping heart, Sylvester felt a little dizzy and he couldn’t tell if he was becoming disorientated or if he was excited for the chance to save Dermy, even when the odds and unknown variables were stacked against them all. “But,” he began, not knowing what to say after that. “But, shouldn’t we try?” It felt like a weak plea when it left his lips and he immediately wondered if he’d lost whatever respect he had gained from these Gousherall Guardsmen.


Terry looked like he was getting excited by the prospect as well, his eyes darting quickly between Vest and Sylvester. Vest finally let out a sigh and said, “Well, at least let experience go before exuberance.” He huffed once, his eyes suddenly looking twenty years tired. “I’ve a bad feeling about this,” he muttered under his breath.





*          ~          *          ~          *


Outside, the water wasn’t sloshing around like it might on a river or lek or lake. It was just slowly rising. Sylvester found himself immediately wondering if they were standing at a high point or a low point in Accordia.


It then dawned on Sylvester that this flood might be one of the reasons the Accordians were hiding, or had simply left.


Or maybe their frog houses ate them up.


Dermy’s shriek was heard in the distance again, accompanied with some wild sloshing. Has he escaped? How could a man disguised as Dermy sound so terrified while shrieking?


The possibility occurred that Dermy’s wrist might’ve been accidentally jerked, breaking his disguise. If that was the case, and if the trio was indeed standing on a higher point in Accordia, that meant Dermy might be desperately trying to swim for his life.


And trying to do so with only one hand.


Sylvester darted forward, the rising water – it smelled like a swamp – making progress difficult. Vest was quick to grab the king by his dirty and somewhat tattered cape. His momentum brought to a halt, Sylvester nearly fell backwards; he was caught by Terry. “Sir,” stated Vest. “I will lead. We don’t know if there’s any deeper portions of water up ahead. We’re dealing with unknown topography.”


Indeed, looking around, everything was still fairly dark but the water level was consistent throughout. Looking up, Sylvester saw that the cloud cover had thinned somewhat: the burgeoning moon, almost full, was finally starting to make an appearance.


The area wasn’t lightened by much but it did help. The sloshing could be seen in the immediate distance. “Dermy’s there! Won’t your armor keep you bogged down? If you have to swim out to him?”


Apparently, neither Vest nor Terry had thought of that. Vest reluctantly began stripping away the heavier pieces of his outfit. “I’ll retrieve him.”


With his upper torso exposed, Sylvester suddenly worried that Vest might become chilled and suffer a sickness. But he seemed adamant to perform what Sylvester was glad to have otherwise done. Silently, in the deep of his heart, Sylvester did wish that Vest would catch at least a small cold, if only to teach the stubborn Guard some sort of lesson.


Vest, without hesitation, leaped into the water – the surrounding structures revealed it to be deep enough to not touch the bottom in this area – and began swimming expertly out towards Dermy. The farmer, on the other hand, was producing weaker and weaker water slaps. “Hurry!” shouted Sylvester though he seriously doubted that Vest heard him over his splashes.


In almost no time, Dermy was underneath Vest’s arm, the whole scene witnessed clearly as the moon was being allowed access to the flooded scene.


When the pair reached the shallows that Sylvester and Terry stood in, the king reached down to discover that Dermy was still in his guise. But he was cradling his right arm, as if he had broken it.


In a matter of seconds, with Vest dressing himself and explaining what Dermy was actually saying, the brief story was dictated:


After Dermy had been snatched by the frog-house, the frog had landed inside the southern marshes. More of the large creatures joined Dermy’s and this was what was causing the flooding: the overflowing marshlands. Dermy panicked though and attacked the linen-tongue, tearing it. This alarmed the Magiked frog and he immediately left the swamp and literally spat Dermy out, just outside the house the trio had been inside. But Dermy had fallen beneath the massive frog and, in trying to find adequate footing in the shallow water, stumbled, and the frog, shifting its weight for a leap, stepped on Dermy’s arm, breaking it. Dermy had grabbed the frog’s webbed foot in utter surprise and was still connected when the thing leapt. In midair, Dermy had only but let go and he found himself splashing around, nearly drowning, before Vest had rescued him.


Sylvester could only wonder about Dermy’s arm though: it had been broken, the bones shattered under the literal weight of a house. “Nah!” Dermy corrected the king when he made this statement of concern. “Not th’ weigh’ o’ the ‘ouse, jus’ weigh’ o’ th’ fra’.” Sylvester understood: a frog of even that size would undoubtedly weigh a large amount. Which meant that a densely heavy stone could be made light if carved into a small animal and brought to life.


But his arm is broken. We have the Healing Pote, yes, but that will probably take days or even weeks to fully heal. He looked at Terry and then his arm that had broken in his fall. The Guard was still unconsciously shielding it, not letting others touch it lest the true pain be revealed. That means the healing process isn’t complete and he’s placed his own welfare behind that of the group, this quest.


Dermy’s broken arm would take longer. And Sylvester felt sorry for Dermy. In his Magiked disguise, he had one useless arm and in reality, he had two. Well, assuming the arm-break seeped through to the real Dermy. Could the disguise have taken the brunt of the damage and left his other arm fine? He’d ask Dermy while the Guards were occupied with something else. His lack of trust had to be the only reason he hadn’t told them about his disguise, and Sylvester was trying his best to honor that decision.


Some splashes were heard in the distance. Heavy splashes. And Sylvester could only imagine the frog-homes hopping about before settling in for a rest in the swamp.


Sylvester then wondered if that’s what had happened to Tuette. Has she been taken by a frog-shaped structure and dragged underwater? Dermy confirmed that if that had been the case, it didn’t mean that she was gone. “Fra’s bein’ wa’tigh-t, oh. Even if they’re’n big an’ Magiked, they’n still wa’tigh-t.” Sylvester realized he had to only accept that and hope that any frog that had possibly taken Tuette hadn’t decided to ingest a bunch of water.


Looking at the water, another sickening thought bubbled up in his head. Suppose when she landed, she struck something blunt and remained unconscious, even after water was swallowing her up? She might drown! He voiced his concern.


“It’s more likely she was abducted, or was cast a good distance from the Stone. The former would mean she was still a prisoner of the homes. The latter could mean that she’s still in Accordia and just lost. Or even waiting until daybreak, like we had tried a short while ago.” Both notions didn’t ease Sylvester’s worry.


Suppose the frog-homes turn into regular homes come sunrise: will they remain underwater then? And after the change-back, will they still hold the water out?


Tuette might survive the night only to drown when the sun comes up.


“We have to find her!” exclaimed Sylvester. He thought of the problem regarding the frog-shaped homes that might remain in the water. “The ones in the swamp: we have to get ‘em out. We have to get them back to the actual land. Otherwise…” He didn’t want to say the possibility, though he couldn’t help but mentally focus on it.





*          ~          *          ~          *





The moon was fully exposed now with the area lit almost as if it were daytime. Dermy explained that the abundant light would keep the frogs from moving around too much.


They chose to make their way along the northern side of Accordia, mindful that they still hadn’t encountered anyone. Where are the citizens? Do they abandon the town every year when it begins to flood? It was no question that the frog-shaped homes coming to life would be the only thing to cause the flood. Are the Accordians being subjected to some form of Magik terrorism?


The idea made Sylvester shiver: if that were the case, whoever might’ve caused this disaster – and had been causing it for some time – was in the same league as Count Roost. But who’d do such a thing? Threatening the whole of the kingdom was one thing, but performing potentially-dangerous acts against one little village was a different branch of the tree.


Keeping to the shallows as denoted by the water level in comparison to the buildings, they found even further confusion when they came to a wall. Literally.


A large, black-stone wall reached into the sky. The face was sheer and smooth. The water sloshed at its base, now only ankle deep. “This is a rather large structure. Perhaps several families live inside?”


Dermy might’ve groaned had he not been clutching his arm to his chest as a means of protecting it until they could do something about it. Until then, Dermy was made to bare and grin it.


“I think it’s merely a wall, not the side of a house or anything like that. Maybe a dividing barrier, built by the Accordians to keep a group of people out?”


“Or,” added Sylvester, “someone built it to keep them in.”


“That seems unlikely, sir,” said Terry. “How could someone build a wall like this without the Accordians trying to stop them or at least send for help?”


“The same people who’ve been bringing these odd forms of architecture to life, I would assume: Magikals. And maybe the Accordians are now being held prisoner somewhere, or they’re all holed up in their homes.” Sylvester sighed, sensing that a greater wrong was being perpetrated. But he also knew they couldn’t honestly tackle it until after Tuette was rescued.


And after Count Roost has been dealt with.


Vest was looking around, between the wall and the large Stone that they had arrived through. As they had traveled on the north edge of Accordia, they had come back across it, deducing that the wall formed the western border of Accordia and the swamplands obviously had to be to the south.


“What’s to the east?” inquired Terry.


Sylvester had Dermy present his rucksack and he reached in to take the old map weave of Decennia. Sure enough, Accordia was represented finely on it. According to the weave, the eastern boundary was a cliff or possibly even a plateau of some kind, considering that no mountainous prospects were around.


Of course, the plateau didn’t make much sense either and when Sylvester pictured in his mind’s eye what a plateau might actually look like, all he could think of was a lek that was truly the opposite. Do raised grounds like the one to the east of Accordia pop up as frequently as leks? If so, that might indicate the two kinds of landmarks are connected. But, yet again, that had to save the speculations for another day.


Maybe Tuette will know.


Sylvester, in the very least, was quietly priding himself over being able to jump to such logical conclusions all on his own. That much alone made him feel prepared to handle the throne, once he returned home.


Home. Mount Reign and Fyse Castle, in one.


He suddenly but briefly missed home.


Sylvester felt himself almost on the verge of tears over such thoughts but he quickly dabbed his eyes with his sleeve; a useless gesture as nearly his entire outfit had become damp in one way or another.


And he realized that the odors from the swamp water did nothing to decrease his own potent scent. He nearly gagged when he brought his sleeve to his face and Sylvester was suddenly aware that he smelled. The thought actually embarrassed him, but also allowed him to focus on the present and not worry about home just yet.


As soon as we find Tuette, I’m going to learn how to wash my clothes, at least.


“So, the Accordians are now blocked in with only north to go. Maybe that’s where they are? Maybe they have means of drawing the frog’s out of the swamp?”


Vest wasn’t paying attention though and it was Terry who said, “Uh, I think the frogs might actually come out on their own. After they all soak for a while, they probably leave the water and go back to their original stances.” The younger Guard shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, maybe something in the water drives them back out of the water anyway. I’d worry more if the flood line that you pointed out, sir, had several levels, but it only had one, meaning it reaches the same level every year. Meaning the frogs all go in to occupy the swamps entirely and then they leave. I couldn’t guess why, but—“


“Vest,” Sylvester finally had to say. The older man should’ve known better than to let his gaze fall around so lazily, especially when his junior officer was trying to verbally stake a claim on a viable, if not shaky, hypothesis. “Are you paying attention?”


“Sir,” said Vest. In the dark, his face had gone sheet-white though Sylvester assumed it was the moon reflecting off the water in a splendid manner.


“What is it? Terry was explaining—“


“Sir, I think we’re in trouble.”


Sylvester felt like sighing, but he didn’t. Has he not heard anything Terry said? “But that’s what Terry was talking about. He thinks the frog-homes come out of the water on their own accord. If Tuette’s been taken, we don’t have to worry about her drowning, at least.”


Gulping once, then twice, Vest shook his head slowly, his wet hair letting loose some stray drops that landed soundlessly on the water’s surface. “Not that, sir. That’s nothing.”


He felt his face grow hot. “Tuette’s not nothing, Ves—“


“I think the next Stone in the Ring… the Ring of Ten… I think…”


He looked like he was about to loose composure. Sylvester stepped forward, put his hand on the Guards shoulder, and said, “What is it?” He could detect urgency even in his own voice and Dermy might’ve swore but the king couldn’t be sure.


“The Stone. That we need to get to our next destination. I really think it’s on the other side of this wall.”


As one, the four looked up to check if the wall’s zenith could be seen. It was dizzying, like the wall was actually leaning over them but he knew it was an optical illusion. The top was seen: it was several times taller than the Accordian structures.


“Oh col!” spat Terry, who fell back under the sway of dizziness. That splash was loud but not as loud as the night-piercing scream, somewhere from above and obviously from as far as the other side of Accordia.


It unmistakably belonged to Tuette.


It sounded like she was afraid.


Or was in a great deal of pain.