Troff snorts. “It’s a lecker. Let’s go.”
Lecker. My mind spins as Troff climbs out of the dock. Edible, large and agile. Lizard-like. Spiked tail? I can’t remember. Unach ties my ropes around her waist with an air of impatience, so I hurry to follow Troff, watching which handholds he grabs. I haven’t yet encountered any canyon monsters, so knowing a lecker prowls nearby spins fear up my legs. But I’m familiar with fear. It’s as much a part of me as my own blood, and I need to prove myself.
Pulling on a mask of bravery, I drop from the dock, grasp my first handhold, and hurry after Troff, who moves far more swiftly than I do. He’s had more practice. Has more muscle as well. All the trolls are riddled with muscle, even the elderly and the few children I’ve seen.
Troff stops at the first lookout. I climb up after him, trying to keep my heavy breathing quiet. He pulls a spyglass from his belt and peers into the canyon. I squint and search. Far to the south, a shadow moves.
“There.” I point. Troff confirms with a grunt. We watch the shadow silently for two full minutes before it shifts into the light. Before I can take a breath, it vanishes into the darkness. “It’s huge,” I whisper.
Troff laughs, readying a sling to scare it away, should it come closer. “That’s only a juvenile.”
A shiver courses down my back. “Truly?”
He raises an eyebrow at me, a shade of distaste passing over his face. “Yes, truly. Are you scared, little human?”
I bury my fear deep inside my gut.
“Yes,” I admit. “But I would be a bad slayer if I weren’t.”
I have only a couple of hours after my second shift to read the almanac before meeting up with Colson and the others, and I don’t waste a second of it. Crouching by Unach’s hearth, I hold the old book sideways, pinching it carefully, as several pages have come unglued from their spine. I read through the entire section on stars, wondering if Azmar would lend me paper to copy down everything verbatim later, including the star charts. I learn that the constellations Ufreya, the queen, and Sankan, the oak tree, cross paths every twelve years. Some read it as an omen for fertility, others as a sign of war, thinking that the queen will take boughs from the tree to fashion weapons. The almanac is very old indeed, for its list of sightings of this phenomenon ends at 796, and the year is 964. I do the math and realize that the constellations will cross again this year, and I wonder if I’ll be able to witness it.
Time rolls forward, and I know I need to leave or else be late. I kiss the almanac and stow it under my pallet. I’m to meet new friends tonight, carve out a little niche for myself in this heavy city made of stone. I think again of the reading that the Cosmodian—a servant to the stars—gave me when I was eleven. She’d come for my mother, who wasn’t religious; none of my family was. But she found star-reading intriguing, a rare treat for the household. For whatever reason, she’d forbidden me to be present, despite including my two half siblings. This wasn’t a surprise. She had never favored me. But the Cosmodian, whose name I never learned, had seen me crying by the woodshed where my parents wouldn’t hear. My mother hated tears almost as much as my father did, and I hadn’t the strength for a beating.
The Cosmodian took pity upon me. Asked me my birthdate and year, traced the lines on my palms. I’ve repeated her words many times since, so as to never forget them.
“You are strong, Calia,” she says with a grin, looking into my eyes. “So strong that others fear you.”
“I know.”
She’s surprised by that response. She taps a line on my hand, then opens up her ledger of star charts. “You are of Iter, the spider. Spiders are often feared, but unjustly so. They will fear you for your strength, my child.”
Such an idea has never, in all my eleven years, crossed my mind.
The Cosmodian frowns. “Your path will not be straight, but broken and looping. Yet there is a purpose in all things, and this path will lead you to your purpose.” She lifts her ledger and tilts it toward the moonlight. “Your stars extend here, and here.” She points to the first. “This is the field of family. You will have one of your own someday.”
A family of my own. Another thing I have never envisioned. I could be a mother and do all the things I wished my own could do. I could choose a good father, someone unlike Ottius in every way. I could have a babe on my arm that might love me the way my siblings didn’t.
“And this.” She traces the second set of stars, then pauses, her lips curving low. I can’t make out the stars she touches; they’re bisected by too many lines on the paper. Lines that, ironically, make me think of a spiderweb. “Hmm. I don’t know how to read this, Calia. But I think your future will be bright, and wholly unexpected.”