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life with this boy.
Their friendship had grounded them both when all else on Alatrice
had wavered. It was too much to leave with those eyes on him still
harsh and confused. It was a chastening Darse could never bear.
    Then do it quickly, you old fool.
    He inhaled, and plunged. “Massada isn’t just
a story. I have a portal here. My mother was from Massada. I was
born there.” His open palms swept through the air in hurried
gesture. As the words flowed out, they left him with a bitter
taste; this was not simply his own secret. He now spoke of a hidden
world full of lives and souls, and he had promised his father to
safeguard it with his honor.
    “You’re a liar.”
    Darse narrowed his eyes at the boy, but
something in that young face softened the man. Darse understood
Brenol and his imperfections. He had known the boy for orbits. He
could see with the practiced eye of the aged that one day Brenol
would be so much more: strong, controlled, honorable, good, kingly.
Something in that small forethought tickled at him, as though there
was a depth to it beyond mere musings, but he let it settle.
    “Wait a moment. I’ll show you something,”
Darse said.
    He stood from his seat and let the comfort
of the blanket fall to the ground. Cold wrapped him as he
methodically set to lighting his lantern. He then stepped across
the dark room—the lantern’s brass handle creaking beneath each
movement—to the far wall where a trunk lay dusty from disuse.
Brenol had barely ever given notice to the yellowing box; his
friend had never once opened it in his presence. Interest sparked
in his green eyes. He leaned forward, hands upon his knees.
    The man extracted a few diggings from his
pockets before selecting a rusted key and feeding it into the dark
hole.
    Darse peered at him sideways. “I’ve never
shown this to anyone. You must keep it a secret, you
understand?”
    Brenol nodded, hardly breathing.
    Darse bent again and pilfered through the
trunk, until he rose hugging a small box the size of one of
Brenol’s lesson books. Darse gingerly set it between them. He
lifted the lid, and dust fell like a sheet before rising in a
cough-inducing cloud. Brenol squinted at the paper Darse held
before him.
    “Look,” Darse whispered, unfolding the
yellowing page with reverent care.
    Brenol bent to examine the find. It was an
aged map of Massada, beautifully drawn in vivid colors. It was
realistic and intricately detailed. The terrisdans of Massada were
each labeled and had lines to display blue rivers cutting through
the countrysides. The mountains were gorgeous, artfully drawn
purple peaks, with names upon each rise and plateau. The
inks—although the paper had aged into a lemony beige—had remained
intact and vibrant. Brenol’s interest was already keen, but when he
looked through the hand glass Darse laid before him, he gasped. The
glass revealed pictures of creatures in precise areas as the
marking of species’ communities: umburquin , juile , human, ignalli, frawnish , maralane … It was
beyond intriguing.
    “The paints and ink for this…they must have
cost a treasure.”
    Brenol pored over the paper, and Darse felt
an unforeseen delight ignite within him. He himself had known that
awe; his father Sim had slipped the map between book and small
nose, laughing at his stammering son. Yes, the mystery had once
filled Darse mind like a song. It had long since grown stale with
waiting and disappointment, but now Darse found the amazement from
his youthful friend drawing the secret to life in him with a
renewed awe.
    Brenol gaped at Darse. “How did you make it?
Where did you get the supplies?”
    Darse smiled, shaking his head. “Don’t you
see? This isn’t mine. All these stories of Massada that I’ve told
you, this map, everything—it is real , Bren. It’s not a
trick. This is real. And I’ve been called back.”
    Brenol stared hard at the man’s face.
Darse’s eyes pleaded tiredly, his weariness aging him more than the
salted