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

8. Secrets

The scent of wool grease filled the Robiary, adding a hint of barnyard to the faint honeyed sweetness of warm beeswax polish and the tang of tanned leather.

Rhoa adjusted the arm of her magnifying glass so she didn't have to hunch so much and shifted the thick sleeve of the Keeper's Robe to better catch the fierce light of the mirrored lantern above her head. Then she peered through the lens again, focusing on the seams of the padded arm guards before moving on to the rest, carefully examining every inch for any tears or weaknesses.

Beside her, Gran ran her gnarled fingers over the leg guard Rhoa had already finished, rubbing it with a glob of softened, purified beeswax, then brushing it to a shine with a fine cloth.

Readying the Keeper's Suit for Administration Day was quiet, detail-oriented work, and usually Rhoa excelled at it, but her thoughts kept returning to the prisoner's words.

How could she possibly be more of a slave than he had ever been? She was part of an important family who performed an important task to keep others safe.

Grinding her teeth, she reached the heavy cuff strap and buckle, sat back and transferred the sleeve carefully to the empty stretch of table to her right, making sure it was where Gran could reach it.

Then she drew the other sleeve section under the magnifying glass, beginning the process again. This time, though, her gaze strayed to the domed copper helmet on the armor stand, and the eyeholes that glittered with blackened glass. 

She knew the legend. All Keepers did. Twelve generations ago, her forefather, Gheris Strongcastle, had fashioned that armor, beating it and setting the glass himself. That was before he became the first Keeper. In those days, the tiny First Colony on the eastern shore was plagued by attacks from great, indestructible beasts that roamed the entire coast, wreaking havoc wherever they appeared. Desperate to carve out a safe place for humans in this rough, unforgiving land, Gheris had used all of his knowledge of science and alchemy to succeed where all others had failed: he discovered a way to subdue the monsters with spraknost poison and bind them in the towers. His techniques and methods had been handed down to all the Keepers after him, his secrets guarded to the point of death.   

Surely twelve generations of rational, scientific minded people wouldn't have fought so hard to keep the monsters locked up if it wasn't necessary. 

Ask your grandmother about her grandfather's journal.

With a frustrated sigh, she yanked her attention back to her task.

"You keep scowling at that thing, it might bite you," Gran said. "What is wrong with you today? You aren't usually so thunderfaced this early in the morning."

"Nothing," she muttered.

"You're good at many things, my girl. Lying is not one of them."

Rhoa glanced at her grandmother.

Gran was giving her the All-Seeing All-Knowing squint.

"It's... Stupid." Rhoa shook her head. "Nevermind."

The squinting intensified, and the Pursed Lips of Reproof came out.

Rhoa rolled her eyes. "It's really stupid."

Expectant silence.

Rhoa heaved a sigh. "The Vanguard thinks our monster got loose, and says I need to ask you about your grandfather's journal. But he's just trying to get in my head. So nevermind. It's stupid."

"Oh, but the monster did get out," Gran said. "And there was a journal." 

Surprised, Rhoa looked at her again.

Gran licked her lips and glanced around, eyeing the doorway to the Armory as if to make sure no one might overhear before leaning closer. "When my father was a boy, his whole family fell terribly ill on a Warmoon and my grandfather wasn't able to administer the poison. The monster broke out of the tower and was gone in a flash of bright light, like a shooting star!" Gran waved her fingers in the air, then dropped her voice again to a low, gravelly whisper.

"A terrible battle raged that night between our family and the monster. When it was all over, we had won, but the village was in ruins, burnt to the ground. The next morning, several people from the village were found in the marsh, dead, surrounded by rings of trampled rushes. But, lo, only the footprints of the victims marked the mud, as if they had been chased in circles by something in the air. And, they bore no wounds except for what they had inflicted on themselves, clawing at their own eyes and face till they were blind. They had bitten themselves, too. There were chunks of their own flesh in their stomachs."

Rhoa grunted and wrinkled her nose, but Gran leaned a little closer still, eyes agleam. "I'll tell you something else, my girl. My father showed me the journal he found in my grandfather's attic, once. My grandfather had investigated the deaths himself... He discovered that there was something wrong with the bodies of the victims. Their skeletons were disfigured, the bones blackened and twisted... And they had what looked like the beginnings of fangs in their skulls."

She held up her fingers like hooks in front of her teeth, then pressed on. "My grandfather disappeared shortly after he wrote the last journal entry. Just walked out one day and never came home. My aunt thought he had gone on his Wandering, but my father said he might have left the Keepers. I think it was all kept secret because of the shame it would have brought on the family."

By the end, her grandmother sounded very much like she was telling a fireside tale to scare the children, and Rhoa lifted an eyebrow. The truth was probably buried in there, somewhere, but Gran was known to embellish, especially when she had a captive audience. Still, even if only parts of her story were true, she had answered Rhoa's question. Now Rhoa had something to defend herself with when she faced the prisoner. People really did die horribly when the monster was free. That wasn't a myth. 

The Vanguard really was insane.

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