Jackal Among Snakes

Anneliese entered into a shabby old hut by the oceanside. As the door shut behind her, memories that she had long ago forgotten came rushing back. She and her mother had lived here, for a time. The little Anneliese walked to the center of the room, carrying the fish. She hung it up on a rack, where various implements for cleaning fish rested just beside. And there, back in the corner of the room on the bed, was Anneliese’s mother. She was unmoving, deep in sleep.

The door shutting behind Anneliese jolted her back to awareness. The little Anneliese, meanwhile, walked to some logs. They were nearly as large as she was, but the little girl crouched down, gripping them with her tiny hands that already bore some calluses. She dragged them across the ground quietly, looking toward her sleeping mother again and again to be sure she was not roused. When they were in the fireplace, she gathered some kindling, and then a flint and steel. She struck the flint, again and again, both implements larger than her hand. Feeble sparks barely dyed the dry grass black, but the kindling never caught aflame.

Anneliese walked over and lit the fire with a simple spell. She saw the small version of herself widen her eyes, and open her mouth as though it was the coolest thing imaginable. She didn’t forget to look back and whisper, “Thank you very much.”

Anneliese crouched down beside her past self. The little girl kept her white bangs over her eyes, and a forgotten memory flooded back—Anneliese had kept her bangs like this to hide her eyes from her mother, Kressa. Hiding her eyes helped her avoid inspiring a foul mood.

Anneliese knew there was a puzzle she was intended to solve here, but her own curiosity drove her forward. “Why are you doing this?”

Little Anneliese looked back to her mother, and then to the fire. “I light the fire to warm mommy, and to get cook ready. Then, I gotta gut the fish, and unscale… no, descale it. Then, I gotta make a soup.” She counted on her fingers as she ran down the list. “Mommy eats the soup—I eat later. And then, I gotta get the wet laundry from outside, and put it by the fire. But if I put it too close, the clothes go black. Mommy hated that last time.” Her fingers traced a bruise on her arm—obvious hand marks. “After that, I gotta—”

“Why is your mom making you do all this?” Anneliese asked.

“Shhh,” little Anneliese held her finger to her mouth. “You’re angry. You can’t wake up mommy.”

That the little her could read her emotions better than she realized surprised Anneliese, and she looked over to the sleeping figure once more. How old had she been at this time? Five, perhaps, maybe a little older? Veidimen children grew larger than humans, so that sounded about right.

“Is your mother sick?” Anneliese questioned, whispering this time. The little Anneliese shook her head, white hair whipping about quickly. “Then why are you doing all of this alone?”

Little Anneliese blinked innocently, eyes barely visible behind her bangs. “I’m supposed to.”

“Why?” Anneliese pressed, the fire crackling in the silence that came after.

“Mommy told me,” little Anneliese said. “And everybody else says… I should listen to my parents.”

A memory came back, unbidden. She was a child again, looking up at her mother who seemed tired from carrying wood. Kressa cast a few logs down, then looked to Anneliese bitterly. You do it, she’d said, utter resentment on her tongue. You can do me some good. Not that it’ll make up for your birth.

Anneliese blinked, feeling nauseous. “What else do you do?” she asked quietly.

Little Anneliese raised her hands, counting again. “I wash the clothes, the underwear, the blankets, I go fish with the old misters, or help carry things for the farm men. Oh! I also—”

things. What about things for yourself—things you want to do?”

“Mommy doesn’t like me. I knew already, but she told me a few times. And sometimes she loves me. She holds me tight, and she cries,

swallowed, her throat feeling like it had

that pity—” she stopped, having bit her tongue. “She says that pitying yourself is useless. She said that, no matter what she does, I can’t pity

rushing back as memories. You don’t deserve to pity yourself, Kressa would

had been shattered. She had been so proud of this creed of hers—proud enough she’d boldly shared it with Argrave. She’d told him that self-pity does nothing for no one. She thought it a strength she’d found—a power that she’d clung onto to cure all of

village… they all knew. But just as they knew, so did they fear to welcome a Veidimen child into

bangs to avoid being hit because her mother didn’t like their color. She saw a girl with a mother who utterly resented her, yet

broken girl who wanted love,

this girl, forgotten who she was. She’d forgotten the longing to be saved, and the utter lack of any reprieve no matter where she went. When returning to Veiden, things had become better by a small margin, and so it was all too easy

tried to keep the sadness from her voice as she said, “You know, your

in her face… but the girl so desperately wanted help that she was willing

teach you how to read. I could teach you

out, gingerly taking the snowflake with utter awe on her eyes. After a few moments, she looked up, like all the troubles

your mother says anything… I’ve got your back. And I’m bigger than her.” She

with wonder at this shack, like she’d never been carried before. She looked so happy, so excited, as she delicately handled the snowflake that had been conjured

whiteness

The girl was gone. But as she pondered it more, answers came to her. No—that girl wasn’t gone. She was standing here, today. And for the first time in perhaps her whole life, Anneliese allowed some small

than her. Black hair, black as night, almost the opposite of hers, dropping by his shoulders. Unblemished white skin. Gray eyes as steady as stone. He had a smile on his face as soon as he saw her, and in those eyes… there was love for the

#####

walked through the endless White Planes, clearing his mind of that encounter with Garm. Or fake Garm, he supposed. But slowly, it drifted back to his responsibilities, and the things that he needed to be doing in this place. And as if this place was reading him, the moment he did… he very nearly

backward, spotting one person and then three. He put names to some faces—the hulking giant, about as large as Orion, with half a dozen weapons hanging from his body and a huge red mane of hair was Sataistador, the god of war, chaos, and ruthless destruction. He wore barbaric armor that exposed much of his ridiculously toned white body, and his green eyes pierced Durran effortlessly. Yet the woman beside him was no slouch in the muscle department—wearing a wolfskin over her head and

skin to draw tight against his bones, he struck an imposing figure

who’re you?” Durran inquired

“I am Gaunt.”

name. And as he looked further, he realized the man standing there wasn’t a man at all—he was undead, his eyes glowing with the fires of some of the highest

gods, and you sought a connection with us. What’s your purpose?” Stout Heart Swan beckoned

his back. “I represent a group organizing a heist against Erlebnis. We intend to steal from him, and war against the Ebon Cult. I am a pivotal part of the organization that would

and stared after the red-headed man. Durran had seen many killers, but none quite like that man—it was in his green eyes, his soul. There was chaos there, so intense it projected outward enough for

to