The Wilds (Reign and Ruin 1) (14 page)

I rolled my
eyes at the thought and turned around, tucking the dreamcatcher
into my top, to catch him watching me. Actually, he was standing
bold as ever with his arms crossed in front of his chest. My heart
thumped loudly and he grinned.

"How long have
you been watching?" I asked. Lucan's smile grew wider and he
chuckled indulgently.

"Don't flatter
yourself, your Highness. I was only thinking how royally pissed my
brother is going to be when he hears that we're on the loose
together."

"Yes. Anger.
You were angry, weren't you? Keep that . . . in mind." Keeping the
creeper in my eyesight, I combed my braid out and pulled it quickly
into a ponytail.

"So, shall we
get on?" Lucan asked.

"Yes, we
should." I looked up at the sun and at the endless expanse of sand;
where do you begin to look for a needle in a haystack?

"It would silly
to ask if you had a map in that magical bag of yours, wouldn't
it?"

"Extremely." I
sighed.

"Not to worry.
That's not always how it works here," Lucan said gruffly. He
started walking casually into the dunes, arms swinging by his
sides. Looking over his shoulder, I caught a flash of his blue
eyes. "We'll just let what dream finds us find us."

"Let's just
hope that it's a good dream," I added, following behind into the
Wilds of Palet.

Chapter
12

The rain hit the office windows with loud
thunks
. Outside, the haze of the water blocked any view of
the trees or grass or purple clouds. Cindy had built up a fire,
trying to coax some warmth into the building, but the cold damp
clung to the furniture stubbornly and Cindy was dismissed home
early to fight her way through the storm.

Cirrus sat in
the front of the fire. The light of the flames licked up his face
and blinked into his spectacles. Specks of ash flew up, dancing
into the air above Cirrus's head to settle darkly on the bright
halo of hair.

So far, no sign
has been seen of his runaway. Announcements were made in the cities
and villages and most of Middle Canvas knew to keep an eye out for
a dark-haired girl wearing the symbol of the Painter. She would
most likely be wearing a torn dress with leather shoes. No contact
should be made; simply alert the authorities. Do not help if she
should seek shelter.

The Reign Walk
is in play.

Cirrus's
otherwise handsome features were stretched thin. The exhaustion in
Cirrus's limbs made him look like a man made out of putty; each
finger hung limp and the crossed knees buckled over themselves
grotesquely on the chair. His mouth was drawn in a deep frown and
his eyes were red and dry.

He was sick. He
had thrown up two times that day since arriving at work and his
skin had become numb. He knew his body was straining to give fully
over to exhaustion, but he rebelled against it.
Awake and
conscious at all times, awake and conscious.

He pressed his
fingers lightly onto the bulge on his side, the pocket watch, as a
reminder he had something to stay awake for.

There was a
knock on the office door and Cirrus lifted his head to see a tall
man enter his office. The man's tailor-made suit was a dark blue
with gold cuff-links and the briefcase he held looked like it was
made from alligator skin. This was a high class executive.

The man stayed
by the door, looking at Cirrus seriously. Cirrus stayed sitting
down, not because he especially wanted to be rude, but because he
didn't feel like he could muster up the strength to stand up at the
moment.

"Who let you
in?" Cirrus asked. His voice cracked from disuse and the man raised
an eyebrow.

"You're
grounded, which is a nice change. Your secretary must have left the
front door unlocked when she left for the night and good thing,
too." The man walked to Cirrus's desk and put down his briefcase.
"I wouldn't have wanted to have to knock on your window. It's
pouring down out there." The man looked somberly out into the gray
and then at Cirrus, who was trying his hardest to swallow.

"So, what can I
do for you?" Cirrus asked finally.

"The Council is
concerned, Cirrus," the Council Man said. "We wish that there had
been more progress before now."

Cirrus sighed
and fumbled around his spectacles to rub the blur out of his
eyes.

"So, you're
from the Council," he murmured. Figures.
Say they want nothing
to do with it and then stick their meddling noses in it later, when
it's too late . . .

"I'm afraid so.
I've been sent to get some answers." Cirrus looked up at the
Council Man standing rigidly by the desk.

"Answers to
what?"

"The Walk
should have been over by now, Cirrus. You had her on the train and
then
poof
! She escaped and is now said to be in the Wilds.
That isn't even sanctioned playing ground. This country needs
stability, not an archaic tradition. What's the matter with an
old-fashioned coup these days?"

"I thought the
Council wasn't able to take sides?"

The Council Man
looked at Cirrus skeptically, leaving a pointed silence to settle
over the room.

"We don't take
sides.
Officially
we don't. But unofficially . . ." he let
the words hang.

"I'm trying as
hard as I can," Cirrus said in a soft voice, gripping the armrests
to finally raise himself. The Council Man watched Cirrus's shaky
cross to the window. "I am only trying to be fair."

"Well, that is
all very lovely, but it doesn't address the point of how we are
going to get the Painter's niece back."

"She'll find
her way to me," Cirrus said. He pulled back the curtains to the
misted glass and regarded the sheets of rain sweeping across the
lawns. He pushed up the bottom of the window and let the cool rain
fall against his face and the cold winds sweep the hair off his
fevered brow. The Council Man shivered slightly and pulled his coat
tighter.

He said to
Cirrus's back, "You know, some people are telling stories about
you."

"They've always
told stories," Cirrus answered and his voice whipped quickly back
in the wind.

Cirrus the
Dream Catcher . . .

"Well, more of
rumors I guess, then." The Council Man smiled almost disbelievingly
and even let out a small chuckle. "You won't believe what some are
saying. They are suggesting, probably in jest, mind you, that the
monsters appearing were made by you."

"Oh
really?"

Cirrus the sick
. . .

"Yes, it's
absurd, I know. You haven't done that sort of things in years. But
they're saying it. And that you're desperately in love with the
Painter's niece. Or something of that grotesque nature."

"What a queer
notion." The rain soaked through Cirrus's shirt and down the front
of his chest. "In love with a young woman."

Cirrus the lost
. . .

"Oh, don't take
it what way, Cirrus!" The Council Man coughed. "But you have to
admit, it is completely against your interests. A man of your power
. . . Perhaps if you kept up some other female company . . ."

Cirrus ignored
the man's last comment. He felt ill again. The Council Man's smile
vanished and he looked awkwardly back at his briefcase, fingering
the straps that looped through the expensive gold buckles on the
side. "I don't know how the rumors got started, but it perhaps has
to do with Marty Kleizenberg. He was always very loyal to the
Painter. It might be a good idea to . . . let him go." Cirrus's
stomach was turning into knots and perspiration mixed with rain on
his forehead and palms. The Council Man by the desk shivered.
"Could you close the window? It's freezing in here."

Cirrus pushed
down the window and turned around to face the Council Man. He must
have looked pathetic: hair plastered to his forehead, shirt stained
with the rain, eyes red from the fire smoke and haunted by restless
nights. Cirrus pulled out a handkerchief to dry his face and
crossed over to the fire to turn down the gas. The flames dwindled
lower and clung desperately to the edges of what was left of the
wood, turning first white, than orange and then the coolest color
of red. In his fatigue they seemed to whisper to Cirrus, flickering
back in the reflection of his glasses.

"What else can
I do, Council Man?" Cirrus said into the fire, slicking back his
wet hair and straightening his collar. "What else is there to tell
me tonight before you go back out in the storm?" The man nodded and
smartly unbuckled the fancy leather straps on his briefcase. He
opened it up to a stack of papers, pulling out the one on top and
putting it resolutely on the surface of the desk. "That is a permit
of clearance," Cirrus said.

"Well, it's a
clearance
form
," the Council Man corrected. "It must be
filled out by you, of course. But it's already signed by the
Council."

"What does it
give me clearance to do?" Cirrus asked tersely. The man fidgeted a
bit.

"It gives you
permission to use otherwise . . . questionable methods to steal the
Painter's niece," the man answered slowly.

"What methods?"
Cirrus asked. "The rules of the Reign Walk are very clear –"

"The Council
isn't blind, Cirrus," the Council Man interrupted. "We help govern
this land for a reason – the reason being we know everything that
goes on – and we know what is said about your ‘experiments'." The
Council Man was gaining confidence and straightened his posture.
"But we don't say anything, because you get the job done. At least
you show an interest in something, we say." The man paused. "Some
of your work must be for the better good of Palet, but we know your
history with the Wilds. We're convinced you've changed from
then."

"I have
changed." Cirrus said simply. He looked the Council Man directly in
the eyes and added, "I am a different man than I was then." There
was a tense moment in the room when all that could be heard was the
patter of the rain on the window and the last few remaining cracks
of the dying fire. The Council Man quailed under Cirrus's stare and
looked back down at his briefcase.

"Well, better a
known evil than an unknown one," the Council Man said softly. "The
Council is giving you clearance to use the knowledge you had in
your earlier, more reckless days to find the Painter's niece.
Whatever that means, you decide for yourself. I'm just a council
worker." The Council Man quickly buckled back up his briefcase and
headed for the door. Cirrus picked up the paper delicately.

"What do you
expect me to do? Call up some monster?" Cirrus asked to the

Council Man's
retreating back.

"If that is how
you did what you did those years ago, then by all means," the man
replied as he opened the door. He looked back at Cirrus. "We're
turning a blind eye and signing this paper for you, Cirrus. Do what
you must to get Maggie back into the Middle Canvas of Palet." He
paused again, stepping out the door. "And keep this under wraps.
It's politics."

The Council Man
closed the door behind him and left Cirrus standing alone in his
office.

Cirrus looked
down at the paper in his hands. It was a complicated form like all
the others, full of figures and arrows and blank spaces to sign;
however, this one already had the flourished, self-important
signature of the Council Board, like a blank check. Cirrus had only
to list the actions he planned to do and he was cleared.

Cirrus
regretted the conversation. It blew a taste of ash into his mouth.
Cirrus's dark past was not something he liked to talk about to
anybody or even remember himself. It was why he stayed awake. It
was why he made his creatures: to try and throw away that part of
his beginnings. But with this one piece of paper, Cirrus was being
asked to bring back the monsters and to let them loose on
Maggie.

The blank space
was staring up at him. He was a desperate man, but he didn't want
to resort to this. This malevolent blank space.

He hated
himself, too, because he already knew what was going to fill that
empty space. That one line could be filled up with only one word,
one thing that was sure to find anyone in even the darkest and
deepest corners of the Wilds. It was something from the very
beginning and something he could never bring himself to complete.
But the blank space called for him to finish it.

Cirrus held his
stomach as a contraction hit his gut. But there was nothing left to
come up and the dry retch pushed him down on his knees. The paper
crumpled under his hand and he gasped for air as the contraction
passed.

He pressed the
golden pocket watch hard against the side of his body, a clock that
wouldn't tick, the cold symbol of a lost soul who had nothing left
to live for. He curled up on the ground and pulled his knees to his
chest in the position of a man utterly broken. He gave a short sob.
He held the paper close to his head, pressing it against his cheek
as if for comfort.

Only one word,
one short word . . .

Moth.

Chapter
13

In the deserts of the Wilds, dreams flitted in
and out of being, popping into my vision and out as quickly as one
bursts a soap bubble. I tried to make out what they were before
they disappeared, but I soon realized that it was a pointless and
exhausting task. The flash images seeped out of my head as quickly
as they had popped into it. And under the hot desert sun, it was
hard to concentrate on anything.

Lucan walked
beside me, staring ahead into the horizon and every so often
looking at me sideways. The heat had dried his hair by this time
and it curled slightly over his eyes. I felt sorry for his feet,
which were bare and must have burned on the hot sand. But he didn't
complain; in fact, he hadn't said a word since we had started our
trek into the desert. And I was feeling chatty. Or bored.