Guardian: Ismene Post

I stared up at my new Home Post. Nested in the region's giant trees, one perch led to the next, with aerial pathways connecting them. I couldn't see a single ladder that led to the ground, and none of the buildings — not even the kitchen — were on the ground.

'Which is odd — anyone coming to request a message delivery… just can't? 'In fact, if the clear quartz that held my assignment hadn't prompted me, I wouldn't have looked up; I'd have missed the Post altogether.

The place didn't exactly bustle, but it wasn't deserted either: about fifteen adults in faded denim traveled the pathways, all on the other side of the post. Closer, a pair of women, also in faded denim, watched a small herd of silent children chase one another from perch to perch. I studied them with a frown; their actions seemed the same as the pre-trainees at the Training Post, but the quiet was almost creepy.

'There's something off about the adults, as well, but I can't sink my talons into it.'

With a shrug, I yanked my pack higher on my shoulders, adjusted my still-stiff gauntlets, and walked within shouting distance of the women, which left me craning my neck to see them high above.

"Excuse me!" The distant murmur of their chatter stilled. "I'm looking for Butterfly Yorn."

One woman gathered the children like a hen with chicks; once they stopped running, there weren't more than five, all young enough that boys blended with girls. Even from where I stood, I could see their denim clothes, though clean, were worn. 'Hand-me-downs.'

The other woman placed herself between me and the children, despite the fact that I was at least fifty wingspans beneath them on the ground, and glared down at me.

"Yorn isn't available," she said.

"Oh." I was supposed to check in with him, according to my crystal, before completing a sweep of the Out Posts. The records were sketchy, and I hoped Yorn could provide better information. "Do you — When do you think he'll be available?"

"Who are you, to be looking for Yorn?" As the first woman challenged me, the second herded the children into a perch and a few of the more-distant adults began jogging toward us.

"I'm Guardian Cairn, sent from the Training Post — Guari — to be Out Post Guardian here." When her face remained hostile, I continued, "I, uh, take it you didn't get word?"

"Guari, huh? They decided we needed a Guardian after 15 years? And send some down-tufted nestling?" She spat, the globule falling interminably to hit the brown leaves at my feet. "And if you're from Guari, why are you looking for Yorn?"

Aghast, I blinked up at her. 'She… doesn't want a Guardian? And how does a Home Post survive without at least one Guardian?' Feeling like my updraft had cut off beneath my wings, I couldn't think of anything to say.

A red-tailed hawk shrieked behind me, and I jerked around. It perched on a dead branch, lower than any other on the massive trunks around me, and mantled its wings. Ice doused my spine. 'He followed me, and I didn't even notice. If he thought I'd meant harm here, I wouldn't have made it into the post.'

The hawk stooped, sweeping low enough for me to feel the wind of his passage, and used the momentum from that to power up to the platform above. He shifted into a grey-haired Flit and landed next to the woman, his height emphasizing her petite stature.

"Sati, that's enough! Guardians can't be expected to know the local death rolls."

'Bones and feathers! I was asking for a dead guy?' I dropped my pack, shifted to my butterfly — small, dark grey, with tiny orange spots on my rear wings just above their tails. The world looked simpler as a butterfly, and fluttering up to the platform soothed me. 'Hopefully, the extra time will allow their heads to cool a bit, too.'

When I reached the living level of the Post, the woman, Sati, had left, and the grey-haired Butterfly stood back to give me a wide landing space. Three other Flits had reached the platform as well and placed themselves behind the former hawk.

'Which means they're between me and the children.' Consternation distracted me briefly — 'they can't think I'm a danger to the children?' — but I quickly realized that every Flit I could see had wrinkles and grey hairs.

"My condolences," I said, bowing. "Is… Yorn's loss recent?"

"Eh." The leader scratched his stubbled chin. "Not so much. He got caught on the ground last winter. Rabbits got him. I'm more or less in charge now. Name's Heath."

"He — I — What?" 'Rabbits?' A quick glance at the red, yellow, and brown leaves assured me it was nearly winter again. "He died almost a year ago? And…" My fingers fumbled for the assignment crystal. "Guari — the other posts — they don't know?" 'And it's expected that we don't know?'

"How would they?" Heath's head tilted — the raptor-like gesture as familiar as the air beneath my wings. "The last Butterfly down that Route was…" His face creased in concentration. "A year ago this past spring?" A murmured assent from behind him supported this tally. "Said our denim shipment was delayed."

My mouth opened and shut uselessly. 'That's impossible. There might be an Out Post here or there that remains out of contact that long, but not a Home Post!'

"I… see?" 'No, I don't!' "Do you, uh, have any messages for the Out Posts? And maybe a map?" I darted a guilty look at the pack I'd left below. "And is Sorcha around?"

Erebus had chased me down just before I left and given me a soft, brown-paper wrapped bundle for the Flit. He said she'd be the only blonde around our age and easy to spot, but as the Flits from the other platforms gathered to gawk at me, I couldn't see anyone whose grey hair didn't have a base of brown.

"Really?" Heath watched me with pursed lips, then sighed. "You'd better come in and sit down." He led the way across an aerial path. "You planning to spend the night?"

"I hadn't decided." I glanced at the afternoon light that filtered through the branches above. It wasn't especially late, but I'd walked all night on the Trade Route to get here, rather than take the strain of flying with the pack. A snap at the Route's base left me feeling refreshed enough to continue under the noon-time sun. 'But I'm definitely out of the loop, here.' "Will my pack be ok?"

"Go get it?" Heath suggested to one of the trailing Flits. With a grunt of acknowledgment, she slipped off, leaving me to bite my tongue on my suggestion that I go get it myself.

Heath led me into one of the smallest perches and we sat cross-legged on a pair of tattered cushions. Sensing this was a personal space, rather than common, I averted my eyes in engrained courtesy, stomping my curiosity's demands into dust. The other Flits, not fitting inside, jostled for position at the door and window.

"Sorcha's not here. Hasn't been for five years." Heath shook his head. "You're here as Out Poster Guardian? She's it."

"If she isn't dead," someone muttered at the window. "Serve her right."

"She's too crazy to die — even the rabbits won't touch that."

"Hush!" Heath stilled them with a glare. Heaving a sigh, he gestured around the dwelling.

I followed his hand, seeing a rough-finished table with a tall stool, some shelves on the walls that held tools, foodstuffs, and belongings. There wasn't much of anything, and everything, though clean, was worn. The tree trunk was wrapped in a faded tapestry, bearing glyphs of the old tongue. I squinted through the sunbeams dancing through the door and window, trying to read the glyphs.

"So much for the mighty Ismene, first among Posts, eh?" Heath's grin was bitter. "Our ancestors' wings bore hundreds of messages before the priests decided—" He broke off with a phlegmy cough. "Well, you know what they decided. We wove the tapestry when the flames died. Each glyph is the name of one who was slaughtered."

Heath studied my face, and I fought not to squirm.

"Out Posters are the bridges between Home Posts and the world. What makes you think we want any connection to the savages who slew our women and children in the night? Who burned our homes to the ground? Who haven't forgotten, in five hundred years' time, the lies their priests told?"

I swallowed, eyes searching the tapestry because I couldn't meet the anger in Heath's gaze. The plans I'd entertained for years — that seemed within reach as I walked the Trade Route to get here — sounded so childish in my head, and they withered in their shell, unhatched from my mouth.

"You can stay here through the winter. We've enough supplies that you won't starve."

Heath's voice wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm, either. 'Indifferent. Nothing I can do will change their place.'

"Or you can go back to Guari — there's time yet before the storms lock us down."

Storms. The word tickled my mind. A single, red-gold leave swirled in the open door, and the errant breeze stuck it to the tapestry before letting it fall. My eyes fell on the image revealed. One man — 'no, one Guardian' — standing on the stony foot of a Trade Route, blocking an aerial pathway just like the one I'd crossed to enter this perch. 'Maybe…'

"Sorcha's your Out Poster?" I turned back to Heath, a tight smile twisting my lips. "I'd be remiss if I didn't see her. Besides, Erebus sent her a package."