Warmoon [ONC 2020]•[Shortlisted]•[Honorable Mention List, Stunning Worlds]

1. Lye Day

A swift flicker of green lit up the inside of the Sifting Room, casting shadows along the walls and gilding the lines of the furnace for a split-second before plunging everything back into the dull orange glow of the embers in the grate. The lightning was followed closely by a rolling grumble overhead, and then a parade of tiny, splashing feet began marching in quick-time down the metal roof.

More rain.

With a hard look at the ceiling, Rhoa shoveled another scoop of cold ashes from the cooling pile and dumped it into the sifting screen, then paused to warm herself in front of the massive maw of the furnace. It didn't do much. The load of oak logs was nearly gone, and even stirring the coals only brought up a brief flare of red.

It had gotten quite dark in the last hour, the storm creating an early dusk, and after a moment she lit the sconces so she could keep working, making a mental note to add the extra inch of wick and oil to the supply ledger when she was finished. It was warranted. She still had one more load to finish before dinner.

She had just taken up the sifting rake and started pushing it through the ashes when the clatter of hooves and wooden wheels on cobblestone announced that someone had driven into the stable yard beyond the lean-to.

They were light. That didn't bode well. She bit her lip and winced when they didn't back the wagon up to the unloading platform.

A few minutes later, a male voice called, "What? It's lye day already?"

Rhoa glanced up from the sifting trough but didn't stop raking. "No, I'm mucking about in the cold for the fun of it," she deadpanned. Then she grinned. "It's good to see you too. Did you find the nest?"

Her brother shook his head and came all the way into the Sifting Room, stomping mud off his armored boots and unbuckling his gauntlets and gloves. "I think the bugs are learning. We found their most recent den – the hounds went mad over it – but I swear the crawlies knew we were coming. The nymphs weren't hiding in the grotto, they had moved all their eggs... all we found were a few old sheddings and a dud they left behind. The trail went cold at the river."

"That's three weeks without a catch," Rhoa said slowly, the narrow-tined rake going still in her hands.

Kennon gave her a meaningful stare, then shrugged out of his heavy cloak and hung it on its peg by the door. "We'll have to dip into the reserves again. Father won't like it."

That was an understatement. Rhoa offered him a small, sympathetic smile before he trudged to the sink by the stairs and began washing up.

She started raking again, her arms moving automatically, each pass of the rake's peg-like teeth breaking the ashes down over the sifting mesh and shoving any larger chunks of charred hardwood into the scraps bin at the end of the trough. The swish-thump-tap-thunk was a familiar rhythm, but it didn't have the usual lulling effect.

Kennon finished toweling his hands, bent to brace himself on the edges of the sink, let out his breath on a swift, soundless whistle like a prizefighter about to enter the ring, turned, and headed up the stairs to the kitchen.

Rhoa didn't envy him that job. Their parents' reaction to his news wouldn't be loud. Father never yelled. But his disappointment was worse, somehow, than knowing he was angry. He would grind his teeth in frustration, and the worry-line in Mother's brow would deepen, and then they would share that look that meant they were both thinking up ways to tackle a major setback head-on.

Dipping into the reserves this close to the Warmoon could very well be disastrous. After nearly a year of coming back empty handed more often than they brought in a catch, even the reserves were running low.