He had time to clear his addled thoughts. Aging floorboards groaned under his treading steps; Rhode was alone with the sound of his [Bellows] – with the exception of a Hornupant. It was difficult to think clearly. It was harder to consider plans.

The wall had eclipsed the last of the musket guard behind him. A thought: was it more useful to measure a path through Four Ring Hill in distance length, or in degrees about the circle? Unimportant. But the Prince’s door should have still been visible. Rhode suspected that the hall didn’t follow a perfect circle. Four Hill was like that sometimes, as rooms varied in size around the circuit of their Halls. There were stranger explanations that one could leap to. But that kind of thinking was overwhelming and unproductive.

They passed from the family rooms into a section of servants’ quarters. The furnishing and ornamentation was largely absent, though the walls were painted in meticulous religious iconography. Much of it was faded, and Rhode could not read the heavily stylized script or recognize the depicted figures.

Most of the doors he passed on either side of him were shut. The narrow, spoke hallways that connected to Spousal Ring’s inner loop were dim.

He was remembering the stairwell he’d blocked on his way to the second floor. It would be impassible, or even ruined. Rhode felt a twinge of shame. He would prefer not to have to explain the damage, and was glad to be headed in the opposite direction.

Following a healer-priest, he came to pass an open frame on his left. The door had been removed entirely, with only the unvarnished shadows of its hinges left behind. Rhode peered in and saw an empty space. The walls were stripped of paper, with naked slats of wood and gypsum plaster. Ancient wooden flooring was interrupted by a patch of fresh planks. A hole had been cut into the ceiling and then sealed off. The smell of mold lingered. But Rhode did not stop.

“Hey. Are you okay, big guy?” an individual asked.

Rhode shook off a sense of melancholy. He had to remind himself that he was under observation even now. “I’m fine. I’m just thinking,” he answered.

“Sorry,” they said nervously. “It’s just that you’re usually so talkative, and now… I mean, I understand that – I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

They were wringing their fingers. It was a nervous tic. Most of the healers didn’t do that.

Rhode stopped. He squinted with intensity and leaned forward. She was sort of short, even for a goblin.

“Rhode, I really kind of don’t do well with direct attention. You’re making me nervous.”

“...Mimai?”

The woman wore a briar-patch of thick curls, cut in a drooping fishbowl shape. She had a soft jaw, and a sharp chin. Though her eyes rimmed with exhaustion, suddenly they lit up.

“Big guy, you got my name! Oh dang, Hrogg’s gonna be jealous. See? We keep telling him he’s got to talk to you more. At this point I’m convinced he’s just holding out to spite Father Oud.”

It wasn’t easy, but Rhode was splitting out vague impressions of persons from his confusing, amorphous impressions of the Hornupants. Because there was one elf, and one girl, and the third one was… he was a strange color, wasn’t he?

Rhode obliged his guide by giving her space, and gestured ahead. “I think I know Tuv-un. Which one is Hrogg?” he asked.

“It’s Btiobhan. Sorry. He doesn’t admit it, but he hates it when people get his name wrong.”

The two of them couldn’t fit comfortably side by side, so Mimai needed to turn to reply. As they continued together, she occasionally struggled to maintain an even pace. Rhode’s stride was long but exhausted, which made it difficult to match.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“It freaks me out that he’s twice your height, but I still can’t tell you apart.” the [Brawn] racked his brain and grimaced. He recalled a distinct hue of russet. “Then is Hrogg the red one?”

“Please, please don’t um, let that be the way you describe him. It’s just –”

“How is it so hard to remember him. Because one of you is literally red.”

“Please, Rhode. I know that for me – oh bones, we can’t be stopping, we’re going to get in trouble. Real quick. For me, I like being overlooked. It’s just a personal thing. But for Hrogg, our aura is a big deal. Most people aren’t nice to [Variants].”

The homunculus frowned. There it was again: the priest-convict had whispered that last word. The people of Sacred were uncomfortable talking about certain subjects. They were deep seated taboos, and it made him feel uncomfortable too. On Earth, he would have barreled through. He understood human prejudice, and understood challenging it. But goblins… elves…

Something about their relationship didn’t fit right. There had been little discrepancies which made him hesitate; to doubt his instincts. He still didn’t know the right way to ask the questions he needed to ask.

“Goodemiss Mimai–”

“No, no. We’re friends, Rhode. I think? I mean, sort of. I hope we are, right?”

“Honestly, I don’t know if that’s fair. Y’all’s aura’s really messed with me, and my sense of who’s who of you. Respectfully, the three of you have mostly been a blur to me.”

Mimai’s ears drooped. She winced. “No. You’re right.”

Rhode ran his fingers along the ceiling, tracing a rafter that ran just above his head. “Nothing against you. It’s just that every conversation I’ve had with y’all over the last two weeks is jumbled up.”

“Two weeks?” the goblin blinked in confusion. “Oh, no. Right,” she whispered. “Right.”

“And it’s not just you three. Your [Anonymous] thing makes me mix you up with other people, too. Am I even going to remember this? Am I going to remember you?” Rhode wondered aloud.

“Of course you – okay. Ugh, Btiobhan would be better at this,” she groaned, “I do want to talk about this, I do. But this is such a bad time.”

There was a sharp turn at the end of the hall. The inner and outer circuits of Spousal were joined at a dead end, and an ornate banister came into view around the corner between them. The Rings didn’t have a second floor connection at this junction, just a narrow stair downwards. Light spilled up from below it, and its handrail was carved into images of long-necked birds.

Rhode glared at the means of his descent, knowing he was going to have to walk down them sideways. At least it wasn’t another spiral.

“Seems convenient,” he spoke flatly. “Every time’s a bad time.”

“That’s not fair either,” she protested. “Our aura shouldn’t affect people this badly. It’s not strong enough to hold up when you see us every day, not normally.”

The floorboards creaked under the homunculus. His hand lay heavily on the banister.

“Okay.”

“Probably the main reason you recognize me is that we’re alone. That’s kind of how it works. [Anonymity] is one of those things that needs other people. It really falls apart if you’re by yourself.”

“Uh huh.”

The woman stopped. She looked back up the stairwell at Rhode. Like the other acolytes, she wore an iron ring around her throat, and around each wrist. The yellow robes of her religious order were broken up along her flanks and sleeves with thin vertical lines of black and white.

Suddenly, and from that angle, they looked like nothing so much as prison stripes.