I will never finish my errands at this rate. I study the newcomer. He’s dressed in wovens, similar to what Perg wore, and I wonder if his caste is low. Allowing myself some courage, I mutter, “Unach 935 will be very angry if I do not retrieve her rations.”
The troll turns and looks at me. Frowns.
But, to my relief, he steps back and allows me to retake my place. I let out a long breath and hurry to the counter. The troll managing it isn’t surprised to see me. I place my order, as well as Azmar’s and Unach’s, and I receive three packages that I can barely carry. I imagine the small one, the length of my forearm, is mine. I’m impressed that my information is here so soon . . . but according to Perg, I’m becoming more well known than I ought to be.
I go to the Rooms Office. The troll there is less friendly and says nothing about accommodations, only scribbles down my name and returns to other work. I find the supply center, and after spending half an hour in a line, I receive a fourth package and another frown when I give thanks for it.
I juggle the packages to review Azmar’s map, trying to sort my way back to his and Unach’s apartment. I’m near the edge of the market when I see a wonderful sight. My pulse quickens. There are other humans here!
This is into the field of family, the Cosmodian’s voice echoes in my head. You will have one of your own.
Every time I found a new township, this promise has come to mind, along with the hope that maybe here will be where I belong. Here will be my home. Here I’ll find my family. A good family. Someone who loves me.
I think of this every time I’ve left as well. Chased or scared away. Next time, I think. Next time, it will work out. The broken road just stretches a little farther.
Maybe it can finally end in Cagmar.
The humans’ clothing is similar to the trolls’ in material but not in style. An older man wears a leathery vest and matching kneepads. Another man, a girl, and a woman wear knit fabrics in beige and gray. The woman, who looks to be about fifty, notices me and peers with drawn brows, almost as if she recognizes me, but try as I might, I cannot place her. She has a fallow complexion and graying auburn hair pulled back in a low tail. The others are on the paler side, which isn’t surprising, given the general darkness of Cagmar.
After checking the way to ensure I won’t cut off the path of any trolls, I pass quickly to them, smoothing my hair as I go, hoping to make a good impression. I’m taller than all of them, even the men, and I hunch down a bit. They regard me with interest, though the younger man frowns.
“Hello!” I say, maybe too cheerily. “You must be from the enclave?”
“We are,” the older man says. His white hair pokes out from a cap as though trying to escape, and his thick white mustache curls at the ends. “And you’re the newcomer.”
They’ve heard of me. A good sign! “My name is Lark.”
The girl chimes, “I said it was Lark.”
My heart swells.
The woman says, “You said Loon, Tara.”
I beam. “Which is very close.”
“Is it true?” asks the younger man, who looks about my age. His isn’t a remarkable face, but it might grow more handsome with familiarity. The way Andru’s did.
I blink away that seed of memory before it can take root. “Is what true?” I think of Perg and lower my voice. “The monster . . . fighting?”
He nods. I nod.
He reels back like I slapped him. It shifts his hair, and I notice a bruise on his forehead, drooping down the side of his temple. It looks to be a day or two old. I hesitate, wondering if I should ask—
“Remarkable,” says the older man. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
The younger man shakes his head, letting his hair cover the mark.
Searching for a reason that isn’t entirely false, I say, “I have good aim.” At least, with my fear, I do. I need only to look at my victim . . .
A chill runs up my arms. I rub it away. I won’t let fear destroy this chance. My last chance. I’ve nowhere to turn if Cagmar’s people turn me away.
Family.
“Impossible,” the younger man says.
“This is Colson,” the woman intercedes, still studying my face. “I’m Ritha.” She gestures to the older man. “Wiln. And Tara.” The girl.
I greet each of them. They act comfortable with each other, familiar but unrelated, based on their looks. But there’s more to friends, to family, than blood. “Are there many of us? In the enclave?”