It was easily twice Gyre’s height. The magistrate’s warbird hadn’t been nearly as big, he decided, and in retrospect its plumage seemed a bit ragged. It certainly hadn’t been armored in unmetal. Whoever the visitor was, he was considerably better equipped than even a county official. Maybe it is a centarch. Gyre gave the warbird a wide berth, creeping around the edge of the drive toward the front door, which stood partially open.
It led to the parlor, which the family used once a year at Midwinter. The rest of the time, the good furniture was covered by dust sheets, and life at the farm centered around the kitchen and the back door. Gyre and Maya’s room was in that part of the house, an addition that leaked when it rained. Looking into the parlor, Gyre had the feeling of being a stranger in his own home, the shrouded shapes of the sofa and end table looming and ominous.
Gyre’s father stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with dark hair tied at the nape of his neck and skin the color of the soil he spent his time tending. Gyre could tell at once there was something wrong, just from the way his father stood. He was slumped, defeated, his eyes on the floor.
In front of him, in the middle of the parlor, stood the visitor. He was tall and thin, with short hair that gleamed purple-black in the light. He wore an unmetal breastplate and shoulder armor and carried a matching helmet under one arm. On his right hip there was an implement a bit like a capital letter T, or a sword hilt and cross guard with no blade.
It was, without question, a haken. The highest of arcana, able to manipulate the power of creation in the raw. And that made this man a centarch of the Twilight Order, since only they could use the haken. Gyre had never seen one, of course, but he recognized it from a hundred stories. With haken in hand, a centarch was unstoppable, invincible.
Now that he was confronted with one of the legendary warriors in the flesh, Gyre realized he very much wanted the man to be gone. Just go away and leave us alone, he thought. We’re not ghouls, and we haven’t got any dhak except for seeds that kill weevils. What harm can that do to anyone?
“You’re certain?” Gyre’s father said quietly. Neither of the men had noticed Gyre yet, and he pressed himself against the sofa, desperate to hear their conversation.
“Quite certain,” the centarch said. He had a highborn accent. “Believe me, in these matters, the Order does not make mistakes.”
“But …”
Maya screamed, and Gyre’s father started. Gyre’s mother came in through the other door, holding Maya under her arm. The girl was kicking furiously, tears running down her cheeks, and shrieking like an angry cat.
“It’s all right,” Gyre’s father said. “Maya, please. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Yes,” the centarch drawled. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No!” Maya said. “No, no, no! I don’t want to go!”
“You have to go,” Gyre’s mother said. “You know how you get sick. They can help you.”
Gyre frowned. Bouts of a strange, feverish illness had been a regular feature of Maya’s life for as long as he could remember, especially in the winter. But she’d always recovered, and by summer she was herself again. Though Mom did say this year was the worst she’d ever been. Maya hated doctors, who could never find anything wrong and prescribed bitter medicines that didn’t work.
Did Dad call the Order to help her? Gyre hadn’t heard of the Order doing anything like that, though they had access to arcana medicine far better than any doctor’s. But why would they need to take her away?
He bit his lip, watching as his mother transferred the squirming five-year-old to the centarch. The thin man donned his helmet, which made him look like a white beetle, and took Maya under his arm, lifting her easily.
“No, no, no!” she screamed. “I don’t want to go! Mom, Dad, don’t let him take me!”
She hates doctors, Gyre told himself. She screamed her head off when she cut her hand and Dad took her to get it sewn up.
But something was wrong. The way his father stood, hands clenched into fists. His mother’s eyes, brimming with unshed tears, her hands clasped to her chest. It’s wrong. Why are they letting him take her?
Gyre stepped into the doorway, trembling, as the centarch turned to leave. Maya saw him first and screamed again.
“Gyre! Help, help, please!”
“Let her go,” Gyre said. He wished his voice didn’t sound so small, so like a little boy’s.
“Gyre!” Gyre’s father took a half step forward. His mother turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
“Ah,” the centarch said. “You must be the brother. Gyre, is it?”
Gyre nodded. “Put my sister down.”
“It is commendable, of course, to defend one’s family,” the centarch said. “But I am afraid you have made a mistake. My name is Va’aht, called Va’aht Thousandcuts, a centarch of the Twilight Order.” His free hand brushed across his haken.
“I know what you are,” Gyre said. “Put her down.”
“If you know what I am, you know that the Order helps wherever it can. I am going to help your sister.”
“She doesn’t want to go,” Gyre said.
“I don’t!” Maya wailed. “I’m not sick, I’m not.”
“Children don’t get to make those decisions, I’m sad to say,” Va’aht said. “Now, if you would stand aside?”
Hand trembling, Gyre reached for his belt. He drew his knife, the knife his father had trusted him with the day he found all the vulpi. It was a wickedly sharp single-edged blade almost four inches long. Gyre held it up in front of Va’aht, heart thumping wildly.
“Gyre!” Gyre’s father shouted. “Drop that at once and come here!”
“I see,” Va’aht said gravely. “Single combat, is it? Unfortunately, boy, I’m afraid I don’t have time at the moment. Once you’ve grown a bit taller, perhaps.” The centarch turned. “If there’s—”
Gyre moved while he was looking the other way. Va’aht’s torso was armored, and Gyre’s steel blade wouldn’t even scratch the unmetal. But his legs were protected only by leather riding trousers, and Gyre swung the knife down as hard as he could into the man’s thigh. It sank to the hilt, blood welling around the wound.
Va’aht shouted in pain, and Maya screamed. Gyre’s mother was screaming too. Gyre tried to maintain his grip on the blade, pull it out for another stab, but Va’aht twisted sideways and he lost his hold. The centarch’s knee slammed into Gyre’s stomach, sending him gasping to the floor.
“Gyre!” Gyre heard his father start forward, but Va’aht held up a warning hand. The centarch still had hold of Maya, who was staring down at her brother, too scared even to keep shrieking.
“That,” Va’aht said through clenched teeth, “was unwise.”
“He’s just a boy,” Gyre’s father said. “Please, I’ll answer for it, I’ll—”
“That’s Order blood, boy,” Va’aht said, raising his voice. “The blood of the Chosen. Every drop is worth all the flesh and bone in your body. Consider that, and reflect on my mercy.”