"Will anyone invoke the Laws of Fein or Fyer?"

The shouter's voice echoes in the courtyard, resonating from cobbled house to white-knuckled grip to stone-set eyes until it finds its way upward, to the noonday sun beating down on hard-set shoulders.

The executioner stands motionless, gloved hands resting on the head of his axe. All eyes fix themselves on the armored form standing before the dais, ready to do his duty should the people allow it. Not a single soul is absent. Even the young and the sick are required to join an execution, because in the case of an invocation, all might be needed. The only sound in the courtyard is the ragged breathing of the soon-to-be corpse that kneels behind the one who will kill him.

No one invokes the sacrifice.

"Then by the laws of this land, by the will of this town, and by the justice of Death, the murderer shall die in Feinfall, and will know no more of this life."

The shouter's voice carries through the silence and the corpse sobs in despair. The people know he's guilty. That he murdered a neighbor for his money, and they have no mercy for him.

Dead wind hisses across the cobblestones, snaking through people's feet, cool and biting, like the whisper of vengeful spirits. The shouter's wife blinks rapidly, eyes slightly red, and a bead of sweat runs down her temple. The blacksmith's son shivers despite the heat, his little hands white-knuckling his father's large one, eyes fixed on the glinting axe blade. The silver-haired Apothecary slides her hands deep into the pockets of her robes, eyes wanting to turn but unable to leave the face of the man she condemned, the man they all condemned.

Two brothers lean into each other, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. The ring of stone gazes doesn't falter as the executioner runs a careful hand along his blade. A rat scuttles through a murky puddle and disappears around a corner. The shouter opens his mouth to speak again.

"Assume the Face of Death."

The executioner draws an object from his robes. It's wrapped in soft cloths that he reverently peels away to reveal a carved diamond mask. An ornate silver plate curves along it to form a helmet that he rests on his head. The glinting gem distorts his grim visage, leaving visible only eyes as dark as night.

His cloak rasps over the cobblestones like the breath of a ghost. Death turns to the murderer and the man cowers in terror.

The axe is raised.

The axe falls.

The head of the corpse rolls four times, and the people leave for home.

I am one of them.

My bare feet splash through muddy puddles on Guloth Street, and I imagine that I'm sloshing through the murderer's blood. It pooled in a similar way between the cobblestones, and the puddle is probably much bigger by now. But this water is warm like blood, and murky like blood. And disgusting, like blood.

"Hey, Terry!"

A grin spreads across my face at the sound of Daren's voice. I pretend I don't hear him and wait until his running footsteps are right behind me, then I whip around and tackle him to the ground. He laughs and tries to throw me off, but I have him pinned in less than five seconds.

"Alright, alright, you got me." Daren groans. "You know, I have more bruises than you do, you win so much."

"It's not my fault you fight like Lady Silman." I smile and help Daren to his feet and he shoves my shoulder. We've been best friends since before I can remember. He lives on the floor below me, and since I only have a sister, he's basically been my brother forever too.

"I do not!" Daren complains. "Sir Terian Dragon is just a genius fighter."

I bow low in mock gratitude. "Sir Terian accepts the compliment and requests that Lord Daren Wolf attempt to sneak up on his prey before striking."

"Oh fine." Daren grumbles. "Next time you'll be begging for mercy."

We continue toward home in silence for a minute. Guloth Street is mostly empty. On a normal day it would be packed with customers for the Selling, but markets are closed for four hours when there are Town Callings. Bergen, an old cranky fruit vendor, makes a face at me as he shuts the door to his shop. Everyone's in a bad mood after executions, but Bergen Crow has always disliked me.

Daren breaks the silence. "I hate going to those fool executions. They're horrible."

"At least it was quiet for this one. The talk is always awful. I don't know which makes me feel worse. That the men are eager for the axe to fall, or that their wives threaten what they'd do if their husbands ever end up under the axe."

Daren's sour expression says that he feels the same. "And no one even thought about Fein or Fyer. Usually there's some looks. My mum is always glancing aroung, like she hopes we'll all go for Fyer, but the whole town agreeing on something is impossible."

"Yeah, and Fein would be stupid while she has you and your sisters."

"Yeah..." Daren kicks at a blood puddle, sending muddy droplets flying through the air. "But I still hate going."

"Just be glad you're not the one on trial."

Daren and I part ways at his front door with promises to meet once the Selling begins, and I continue up a flight of stairs to the two rooms I share with my mother and sister. They aren't home yet so I have the silence to myself.

I push aside the tacked up sheet that divides my room from the space mum shares with Belina. Bel is too little to walk down the cracked streets without tripping, so mother has to carry her home. They won't be here for at least another five minutes, and that's if they don't stop to talk to Grendel Goose. But mum always does. Rhen Tiger is just kind in that way. Fierce, but kind. And the old widow Grendel has lived alone since her husband chose Fein last year.

A man came to town, to Feinfall. Strange; tall and dressed in a cloak that billowed behind him as he walked. The rags of a drifting specter that glided slowly into town, untrusted and unwanted.

He had a name for himself: Wren Grassfell.

The people called him Wren Ghost.

Unique. Rare. To share a last name with another was nearly unheard of. Only one living pair existed out of the hundreds of Feinians.

Wren and Shrieva Ghost. Unheard of.

As it is with pairs, they were like two sides of the same coin. The dark stranger and the pale Apothecary, silver and shadow, lifeless laughter and devious danger. They fell in love instantly, and the estranged and the stranger found solace in their isolation.

But then a man was found dead by a poison, and their world was ripped apart too quickly for Shrieva to realize it had happened.

The body's veins turned rust red where he lay in the back alley of his shop. Shrieva the Apothecary, Shrieva the Ghost, Shrieva the unknowing, named the poison Crimson Ring after a forgotten flower in a distant land. Shrieva the innocent condemned Wren as surely as would the town. For Wren was known to have possession of the poison, of two blood-red petals seen by Mole the bartender.

The council met in their closed rooms and damned the foreign man to death for the muder of their fellow with the poison of a foreign blossom.

Crimson Ring.

The people gathered in the courtyard; not a single soul was absent because they might all be needed should Fyer by invoked. No one thought it likely. Shrieva's eyes never left her pair, and Gunter Black's eyes never drifted form Shrieva's tears.

Gunter. Beast of a man. Brave of heart and quick to wit. Strong, and fierce to enemies. Broad and and course as a black grizzly. Lover and wife. Hung his hat outside of town, in a small one-room cabin by the farm he called home. The same that Grendel Goose called home. She would call every evening at sunset, voice carrying from the blades of grass by her feet to the last crumbling lumps of dirt at the farthest edges of the strawberry rows. Pledged to the beast of a man.

Mother and Father to a ghost.

Will anyone invoke the Laws of Fein or Fyer?"

Gunter Black's eyes never drifted from his daughter Shrieva's tears when he spoke the damning words.

"I invoke the Law of Fein!"

Silence. Then, places switched, brief words exchanged, eyes still glistening but for different reasons as the great Black Bear knelt in the place of the haunting, horrified Ghost.

Gunter's head rolled four times before it halted, dead on its side, eyes reflecting Shrieva's tears.

The people did not leave for home. And the weeping of Grendel and Shrieva rose like the keening of spirits for their own bodies after death.

Wren Ghost left that night as Wren Grassfell and was never seen again in Feinfall. Although it was said that he pled his innocence to his pair, to Shrieva, before departing with a bag slightly lighter than when he arrived. The only things missing were the two dried Crimson Ring petals that were stolen from him hardly two days before.

Grendel was widowed forever.

I pause for a moment in the silence. Mother must have stopped by Grendel's, or she'd be here by now. Despite the absurdity of it, I glance around the room to make sure I'm alone before I pull the package from under my lumpy straw mattress. I carefully peel back the rough sackcloth to reveal a bright orange tube. The brilliant color takes my breath away, and I relish the thought that I'm holding an actual Firebird in my hands. I push the paper over to reveal a much duller, much smaller yellow tube. Two course strings dangle from the ends of each and the smell fo soon-to-be-smoke stings my nostrils.

I nudge the cheap knock-off with a chuckle. I don't know who'll be subject to the prank, but I can't wait to use it on someone. Anyone. Just to see how bad the popping and whizzing sparks terrify them.

But the sunset-orange Bird will be for a very special occasion. I just don't know when the perfect time is yet.

Someone screams downstairs.

My face goes red, almost like I've been caught in the act of a crime. But there's no one here to see me. Someone downstairs has screamed. I quickly rewrap the Firebirds and stuff them under my mattress. The floor creaks loudly as I hurry down to Daren's dwelling.

Someone is crying inside and I knock briefly on the door. Daren opens it a second later, his face red with anger. I immediately recognize the crying as his mother's and rush past my best friend without a word. Lydiette Hen is in her room, her oak jewelry box in her hands. And it's empty.

Branden Dragon's last gift to his wife is gone.

Lydiette whimpers and shakily sets down the plain box that used to hold her most prized possession. Her eyes wander for a moment, and then they settle on me.

"Dragon." She whispers and opens her arms to me. I step forward and hug her tightly. She's like another mother to me, and since her husband--my pair--died, I'm like another son to her. "Someone took it." Lydiette releases me and picks up the empty box. There's a slight impression in the old linen lining from where the amber pendant used to sit. The outline of a flying dragon is marked by clean white cloth where the jewelry shielded it from dust for years.

For as long as she has owned the pendant, Lydiette has never removed the amber dragon form its box, and now someone has stolen it.

Daren is next to me, his face still red, fists clencheed. One glance at him and I know he knows who did it. Silvi Crawler, Daren's youngest sister, stands quietly off to the side. Named for her petite form, and expected future transformation into unnatural beauty, she would never be caught dead stealing from her mother. No. Silvi is too innocent, too kind to ever take something from someone else. And Mirtle Otter, the other sister, is the same, despite her fondness of tricks. Both of them too sweet to take even a single coin from anyone.

So who does Daren think stole the amber dragon?

Silvi rushes forward and wraps her arms around her mother's waist. Daren and I take the chance to slip out into the stairwell while Lydiette smoothes her daughter's hair and sheds silent tears.

"So?" I ask quietly, not wanting to be overheard. Daren isn't really known for using his brains before jumping to conclusions and actions. That's why he was named for a wolf, and not a lion, or a dragon like me. "Who do you think took it?"

"Think?" Daren growls. "I know who did it. It was Fox. Had to have been."

"What makes you so sure?" That's me. Always the skeptic about assumptions before I see the proof myself. Mother calls it cunning. Daren likes to call it squeamishness.

"Jerimiah Fox was talking yesterday. At the Selling. Remember when I was on lookout for you at the old shack?" I nod. Daren was making sure no one barged in on my deal for the Firebirds. He didn't really know what I was doing--still doesn't--but what are friends for if they don't have your back no matter what?

"Well," Daren continues. "Fox came around and he was talking to some guys. Serpent and Bandit were meeting him in the next alley over so I listened in."

I open my mouth to protest but he puts a hand on my shoulder. "Just making sure they weren't causing any trouble for you. Don't worry." I nod and let him continue. "Jerimiah was asking about trinkets. Jewels, bone beads, that sort of thing. He said he had a buyer from Derna interested in amber. Honestly, Terry, I had no idea he might steal mum's pendant! I should have stopped them!"

"Hey," I shove his arm. "You know what happened last time you took on Serpent and Bandit." An image of Daren's bloody face and broken arm flash into my mind. Daren was never good at fighting alone. Like a wolf that needs its pack, he needs someone with him. To have his back no matter what. That person has always been me, though I could definitely handle myself alone if I have to.

"And we don't even know for sure that it was Jerimiah who took it." I continue.

"Yeah, we do!" Daren forgets that we're trying to remain unheard. He spins around and yells at the wall. "That maggot-infested mongrel stole it! You know it Terry!" He whirls back to me. "Don't stand there and tell me it doesn't look suspicious. That Fox asks about amber and the next day my mum's dragon is gone!"

"Alright, alright." I sigh, knowing he won't let this go, and knowing the evidence is pretty condemning. "And Jerimiah did rush out after the Calling, like he had somewhere to be. We can go to the council if you want."

"Yes." Daren calms a little. "They'll get him. Maybe even hold an execution."

"I thought you hated going to those things. They're horrible. I examine the fierceness in his bearing. His jaw is set, his shoulders confidently back, his hands slightly curled to fists--the image of a predator that has his prey in sight.

"I'm a wolf remember?" Daren/s expression is grim as he says, "I don't like anyone messing with my pack."

By sunset everyone in Feinfall knew of the accusation. That Lydiette Hen's amber dragon was missing, that Daren Wolf was accusing Jerimiah Fox of the theft, and that the council met hardly an hour after the execution to discuss the matter.

Closed doors in a small town are like unending ripples on a lake. They build on themselves, increasing in volume and power until they crash against the shore with the force of a hundred men. The waves are anxiety, curiosity, and expectation, knocking down the wise and foolish alike. Unstoppable, impossible to ignore, and absorbed by the mind and heart until there's no room for anything else. Closed doors give away everything, and nothing at the same time.

The doors of the council room were old and heavy. And not one, but two sets of them separated the eleven council members from the outside world. Ideas were formed and buried in the room, behind the two doors. Buildings were raised and trenches wer dug. Fields were plowed, harvests were counted, and money was colleted. The death of many a man was decded behind the two doors, and the lives of many spared. A certain Wren Ghost was found guilty and sentenced in the room; Silman Doe was fined for trading poison in the room; and on this day, Jerimiah Fox was judged innocent of the thievery of Hen's amber dragon, in the room.

Daren, the Wolf of Feinfall, would not have it.

Burren Forest echoes with the torrent and cacophony of Daren's rage. I doubt there's a deer, scorpion, or hawk within two miles who hasn't heard his fuming.

I groan and bump my forehead against a tree trunk. The bark scrapes against my skin and I watch a tiny spider wind its way through the grooves in the wood an inch from my nose. A cool breeze tickles the back of my neck and the heavy smell of rain tells me a storm is coming, fast. We should really get back to town.

I twist around and lean my back against the tree, my sweaty shirt sticking to my skin. Daren keeps going like I haven't moved. Knowing him, he won't notice anything short of me slapping him until he's finished howling.

"There's all the evidence they need! Right there! Every fool thing I told them, and they still won't listen and can't seem to use plain sense! Why are they even a council anyway? If they can't see clear facts right in front of them! Argh!" Daren whirls toward a tree and punches at one of the low-hanging, dead branches. The wood cracks but doesn't give and Daren starts cursing at the tree in reply before resuming his raging. "Those addled DEADHEADS!" He screams the last insult louder than before, and I know he's almost done. "WHY THE GRAVE CAN'T THEY JUST GET FOX?!"

Daren slumps to the grassy floor, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He's still fuming, but instead of getting hotter, his anger is simmering down. I push away from the tree and sit down next to him, now that he's in a state to talk. A Yellowtail Scorpion scuttles toward my bare feet and I carefully kick it away.

"So." I lean over and bump Daren's shoulder. "I know something that might cheer you up."

"Oh yeah?" Daren shoulders me back, almost knocking me over. I laugh. Daren manages a tight smile. "What could possible help me forget that my mum's dragon was stolen, and that the thief is getting away without even a lash? And that we'll probably never see the dragon again? What could possible fix that, Terian?"

Well, now I know he's finished cooling down. Daren always calls me Terry, never Terian, unless he's feeling utterly defeated. Then he stops being a wolf and is more like one of the tame dogs that Gretel Lark keeps. The demeanor doesn't suit him.

I rock back to my feet and drag him into a standing position too. The first drop of rain hits Daren's cheek and runs down toward his chin like a tear. Like the sky is crying for his mother's loss and can only show it in the form of a tear on the wolf-boy's face. But wolves shouldn't cry. They're better off hunting and howling at the moon.

"Oh, just a little something I have for a prank." I smile slyly and a spark of interest lights up my brother's face. "You'll like it, but we better get back to town before the clouds open. They're already warning us now." I flick at a drop of rain that lands on my arm.

"Alright." Daren doesn't even try to get me to tell him what the prank is. He knows dragons are good at keeping secrets. It's part of riddling. "Race you back to our place?"

"Sure." I flash a feral smile and kick his legs out from under him. I take off through the trees as he struggles to his feet, laughing. I turn my head and call over my shoulder, "But you know I always win!"

Daren charges after me, dodging through the trees and covering more ground with each successive stride. I fly ahead, too shrewd and swift for even the Wolf to catch me. Nothing can match the speed of a dragon once he takes to the air, and my feet send me flying with each bare step.

The amber thief of Feinfall could not halt his pilfering with only a single success under his belt. Amber, silver, jewels, brass... Nothing was beneath the sleek Fox's gaze. Everyone was a target, and everything was fair game.

Never mind the accusations weighing down his shoulders. Never mind that he might have been brouth to punishment for his thievery. never mind that the penalty could be death if the council considered how many items of worth he had stolen since he lost his sister two months before--but he hadn't learned enough of Emalia's trade to take her place as an honest craftsman of baubles and trinkets to sell to the wealthy people of other cities and towns.

No. Never mind all that. He was a Fox, and what is ever honest about the wily ways of their kind? His kind. No. Better to be who he was, and to be the best he could possibly be at that.

The amber buyer had been very pleased with his purchase. He didn't need anything specific quite yet, so that left the choosing up to the thief. He had his favorites of course, and a list of places and items easily picked. The next stop would be for silver, and Fox knew just where to find a nice set of burnished armlets.

I whip around the corner of Guloth street and nearly run into Bergen Crow as he struggles to wheel his cart out of the market. A capering laugh escapes my lips as I dodge the old man and stumble against the side of a cobbled house.

“Sorry!” I call, albeit insincerely, as I rush on ahead.

“Watch it, deadhead!” Bergen croaks crossly. I ignore him and press forward. Daren is hardly ten meters behind me and I can’t slow for even a second. Rain and sweat from the three mile sprint soak my skin and hair. My clothes are drenched too, and the clouds continue to pour their bodies into the filth of the earth.

Bergen caws again in outrage, signaling that Daren is rounding the corner, even closer than before. Drops sting my eyes and cloud my vision, and the pouring shifts to tumults, buckets of warm water rolling like waves from the heavens. I’m blinded by the downpour but I don’t slow for visibility. Thus, it’s not entirerly surprising that our house appears out of nowhere through curtains of rain, and I don’t have time to slow before slamming into the wall by the door.

Daren is there hardly two seconds later, with a similar yet softer collision with the wall. The rebound threw me backward, and I’m lying on my back in a puddle that reaches my ears. I can feel bruises forming as I gasp for air through the rain, and yet I thrust my fist into the air in triumph.

The Wolf manages to keep his feet, unlike me, and he groans dramatically in defeat. “Why do I still race you when I know you always win?”

“Because you’re a deadhead.” I close my eyes as the rain runs in rivulets down my face and through my hair, turning it so dark its nearly black.

“Says the one who’s lying in a mud puddle in the middle of the street because he ran into his own house.” Daren extends a hand to help me up.

“True.” I grin and take his offered hand with my left one. I can feel a deep ache settling in my right shoulder, and Daren doesn’t fail to notice.

“Looks like you’re the one with the bruises now.”

I chuckle, knowing he won’t let me forget this for a long time. “Looks like it.” I say, and swing the door open to get out of the rain.

Daren follows me past his own front door and up the stairs to mine. I pause for a moment outside and listen. Silence. That’s good. Mum must hace been shopping with Bel when the storm hit. Knowing her, she would have taken shelter in a friend’s house rather than run home through the rain.

I head straight for my side of the room and kneel on the floor by my bed. Daren starts to come up behind me but I push him back.

“No. Wait over there.” I point to the other side of the tacked up sheet.

“But why?” Daren crosses his arms, feigning anger. I know he’s not really mad. Posturing is somehting he does so he won’t look weak. Again, another reason he was named for a wolf, since they often growl and ruff their fur up when they feel threatened.

“Because it’s a surprise, remember?”

Daren grumbles a few curses and ducks around the sheet. I pull out the cloth package for the second time today and silently marvel at the sunset-orange tube. But now isn’t the time for that. Now’s the time for a prank.

I take the dull yellow Firebird and rewrap the other before tucking it back under my straw mattress. Daren is leaning against the wall, arms still crossed, when I wave the Bird in front of his face. I watch his expression go from sullen to excited to mischievous in a matter of seconds.

“Now, Sir Terian,” Daren says. “Who do you have in mind for this tricky little birdie? I do hope he has an uncanny resemblance to a Fox. I’m in the mood to see one squeal.”

I smile at his predictability but shake my head. “Sadly, Lord Daren, I don’t think now is a good time to go after that particular deadhead.” Daren’s eyes narrow a little in disappointment, and I try to explain. “If we went after him today then everyone would know it was you and the council would find your mum.”

Daren nods his consent. He knows what a fine could do to his family, no matter how small. They’re already low on money, and debts left unpaid are like betrayals of trust in Feinfall. A shopkeeper will withhold items, refuse to give even an inch in a deal, and sometimes refect offers just because you have an unpaid debt to someone on the other side of town. Daren would never do that to his family.

“But,” I continue. “There is a certain Hardy Robin who cut a bad deal with old Grendel a few weeks back. I think he needs a little scare to remind him he’s not the boss of helpless old widow.” Daren’s smile returns and I know he likes the idea of justice, though it isn’t being dealt to the one he prefers.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Daren pushes off the wall and takes hold of the Firebird. “Let’s arrange a reckoning with fate.”

The Robin of Feinfall remained in his workshop late the night of the execution. The room was lit up like day for visiblity; a hairsbreadth mistake could ruin a piece, and Hardy was working on something especially difficult.

The flames of eleven candles and thirteen lamps wavered with every quick motion he made. Eleven and thirteen. Lucky and not.

Hardy Robin was a superstitious man. He believed in balance and equality, justice and penance. Not too much good, not too much bad, or the scales would tip and his life would come shattering down around him. What better way to preserve balance than to light his work, to guide his hand, with the flames of the lucky and the unlucky?

Two soft taps from the hammer to the chisel. Pushing metal with even numbers and shining it with odd. A silver armlet glinted under the Robin's careful spindly hand. The pattern was one he had learned in Derneth the month before. Already he had five finished armlets wrapped in cloth upstairs in his attic storeroom, and one armlet already sold to Hilly Sparrow.

He had them numbered, the candles and lamps. Lit them in the same order every night. One through thirteen for bad luck, then one through eleven for good. Every candle burnt out within a minute of the other ten, and every lamp ran out of oil within a minute of the other twelve. It was a pattern, a delicate balance of life and death and flame. Hardy was very careful not to tip the scales.

Two more soft taps from the hammer, and the silver ridged upward, following the delicate line of a spellberry vine. Eleven candles and thirteen lamps flickered. A lingering raindrop plinked against the windowsill. Then a second one. Even numbers.

The Robin smiled.