Inevitable Dusk Prologue: Part 2

Prologue

2

When Bolyern reached the streets, the noise of celebration threatened to explode his eardrums. He wondered what had happened, and then remembered the execution. Perhaps Lalo Steppe had been killed early. Olarans loathed traitors above all else.

Or perhaps this was a birthday party. Lillas crowded outside the House of Belle, where one of the richest families on the island resided. “Lilla” referred to a people from the far east. They had a pale purplish hue to their skin, and their hair colors ranged from white to brown to shades of purple. Somehow, Bolyern doubted that this crowd was celebrating the execution; the Belle family held great disdain for the government and its affairs.

Once inside the House of Seward, Bolyern shrugged off his pack, which contained religious books and a great thermos of water and set it on the long dining table. He still clutched the stained-glass leaf in his left hand. It may not have been an exciting gift, but it was a gift nevertheless, and Bolyern knew he would have to show Father so that Father could write a letter of thanks to George Rivers.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs. He saw Father, sweating and in his dress clothes.

“Father! Hello, Father! I went to see the Lady of the Ice today.”

Father didn’t look up.

“I met someone, Father. Someone who said he saw you at the mines. His name’s George Rivers.”

“What?” Father stopped dead. “What did he say, Bolyern?”

“He asked me about the execution, Father. And he gave me a leaf.”

“A what?”

“A leaf, Father. Made of stained glass.”

Father gaped. “Bobo, son, come here, please. May I see it?”

Shaking because of Father’s reaction, Bolyern met him at the bottom of the staircase. “See?" he said, opening his hand.

Father pressed his right hand to his forehead, either in consternation or reverence. “Son, do you know where this came from?”

“No, Father. He said it was a gift.”

“A priceless gift. Mr. Rivers has an Almagata back on Verdegran. She’s a beautiful ocelot spirit. Many call her a piece of art. She’s quite the artist herself as well.”

Bolyern rolled the specimen in his palm. “Artist?”

Father frowned down at the leaf. “Yes, son. She produces stained glass.”

Bolyern turned the leaf over in his palm. “Wow. And he gave this to me.”

Father spread his hands. “Which is something I don’t understand. He doesn’t sell any of the ocelot spirit’s glass, much less give it away. Jesenia—the ocelot—makes a little piece of her projects at a time, and she uses her magic to levitate the pieces and fit them together.”

That was curious; Mr. Rivers’s Almagata hadn’t produced the many sapphires that the man wore. Bolyern studied the leaf.

“Hm. I wonder what project this leaf came from.”

Father sat down on the bottom stair. “I can tell you that. The ocelot spirit is currently working on a ten-foot-high and five-foot-long stained-glass depiction of the Lady of the Ice.”

Bolyern recalled how he had just told Mr. Rivers that the Lady of the Ice was one of his ancestors. Mr. Rivers must have found it a fitting gift.

That evening, Bolyern headed down to the docks to think, glass leaf in hand. He watched the fishermen in the distance as they hauled in their catches. He passed many Almagatas and many humans, too. It was a busy time of day on the island, and a busy time of the week; many businessmen from Verdegran and elsewhere traveled to Olara at the end of the workweek, so all the vendors were out.

The weekend was going to be busy for Bolyern, too. He had a literature essay to finish, a speech on foreign relations to perfect, and a lot of physics homework. And he had to convince his younger brother, Acio, to start on his own final project of the semester. Acio never did his assigned work and was forever in trouble with Father, Mom, and the school. But Acio was far from stupid. He was stubborn and placed importance on other things. Mostly his art.

Bolyern bumped into a slight woman with matted yellow hair. He had gotten distracted again. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, stepping back.

“Excuse me,” she said. She spoke with an accent that betrayed her origins; she was from the North, probably the continent of Kullarvit. The ID band on the woman’s wrist showed that she was a slave who lived with her masters on the Continent. She had probably originally been a slave in her home country and was then traded or sold to someone from Verdegran. Bolyern ached for her. Slavery had long been outlawed on Olara, and Father always hated when visitors insisted on bringing their slaves to this island, this slice of paradise, this respite from the world. The woman pushed past Bolyern, her head down.

Two Lillas stepped aside to make way for her; she had kicked off her sandals and was now speeding away. It took a minute for Bolyern to realize what he had seen on the woman’s metal bracelet: the shape of a wild cat. Perhaps she worked for the House of Rivers. If so, that meant George Rivers was still to be found on Olara.

Bolyern’s pace quickened. He wanted to ask about the ocelot spirit, her current project, her previous works of art. Maybe even see the ocelot spirit herself. But mostly, he wanted to know why Rivers had entrusted him with something so precious. The slave woman was lost in the crowd; Bolyern had a better chance of finding Rivers’s ship and waiting outside it.

Ship after ship, Bolyern read their names. He couldn’t imagine what Rivers’s would be called; some ships were named after their owners’ wives, and Bolyern had no idea if Rivers was even married. Some of the ships possessed figureheads, but again, none had clues that Bolyern could connect to Mr. Rivers.

In the gathering dark, he sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees. A chilly breeze blew, and he hadn’t thought to wear a sweater. Fishermen marched past him. From the nearby seaside huts, the smells of smoking fish hung heavy on the air.

Bolyern was nodding off when someone shook him awake. It was his younger brother, Acio, sent to fetch him.

The moon was high in the sky. Bolyern yawned and stretched. In his pocket, the stained-glass leaf brushed against his thigh. Acio was blabbering on, about what Bolyern couldn’t decipher at first.

“Man!” yelled Acio. “Quill’s missing! Dad thinks that rich bastard took him away. Hey, wake up!”

Bolyern blinked. “What?”

“His ship left hours ago! I talked to Miss Evita. The woman with the short hair and a big nose. They’re trying to get a party together to go after Rivers’s ship.”

Bewildered, Bolyern tried to process this. “Mr. Rivers? He stole Quill?”

Shaking his head, Bolyern stood. Something didn’t feel right. Before he could piece together what was wrong, he leaned out over the dock and puked. Once the first deluge was over, the pain and nausea got worse. He gripped the railing just as bile came up his throat one moment too fast, drenching his shirt and dripping down his chin.

Acio stared, dumbstruck.

“Acio,” choked out Bolyern. “Go get Doctor Ramel.”

Bolyern knew it had to be poison. He wrapped his left shirtsleeve around his hand and fished the glass leaf out of his pocket. He needed to save the evidence. Dropping it down by his feet, he leaned over the railing again and, racked with pain, let the vomit come freely.

One of the “illness charms” that was running rampant utilized small objects like that glass leaf. How many times had Father and Mom warned of them? And yet even Father didn’t suspect that a man so respected would poison anyone, much less the child of one of his clients and business partners.

Obviously, Bolyern had overheard something that George Rivers hadn’t wanted him to.

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