“We are the stalkers in the jungle, the winds in the rafters, the lamplight along the trodden path. We wreathe these maligned in flames, our perches unassailed. We are the pillars holding men above a sea of rot and worms.”

—A Thurmgeist’s Lament, Verses I to III. Author unknown.

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Fingernails like raking claws. Armor scraping on stone. Women scream as maligned tendrils pull them closer, dig through flesh, encircle the blood vessels, and travel further, turning and turning. Gurgles. Blood-curdling cries, then pleading, then gasps, then choking. June runs with Grace, squeezes her hand tight, and suddenly sees her face in shocked horror. She becomes the roots of a tree first, then clawing fingers, the maligned feelers that pull the skin of Grace’s forehead tighter and tighter until it rips, and Grace is screaming, and the screams drown out June’s own screams until there is nothing.

The faces of her Thurmgeists hover in front of her like rising bubbles. They laugh, sneer, and cry for her while she can only reach out and watch them dissipate.

June wakes as the rainwater patters against the shed’s roof like the salvos from the six-pound cannons that ripped into waves of maligned on Hyrnlak. Her Thurmgeists beside her tore into the press of hellish creatures, unable to contain their eagerness to extinguish an entire land of those things. Now she is back in Kaskit, and they are still on Hyrnlak. Probably dead.

Rain collects on the windowsill, spilling a waterfall onto June’s exposed feet. She rises underneath an avalanche of shivers, prying in the darkness for the syringe on the spool that is her bedside table. Jethry warned the inoculations would fuck with her sleep, but whether that means nightmares or lack thereof, she isn’t sure. She isn’t sure of anything anymore, save for pain and the ignorance of men.

She presses the syringe in and lets coolness flow through her body. If what’s got her is a strand, the Kaskit’s inhibitor atmosphere should work. They always work. The Decree always worked, didn’t it? Now look at what’s happening.

The door shakes, and the lock jangles. June sits up just as a lightning bolt cracks the sky wide open, filling the shed with piercing light before it’s gone. Thunder bangs, falling to a pitter-patter of knuckles raking across the wood. They stop moments later.

Across the yard, the door to Tale’s house is open. The man pokes his head out, heedless of the rainwater soaking his hood. He holds a tiny box, nods to where June looks down, and finds a box of her own at the bottom of the shed’s door. She takes it inside, drying it off while her stomach rumbles in anticipation. Jethry could win over any woman with his cooking if most weren’t chained to a vat.

Inside the box is not food, but something else. A bed of soil lines its bottom, where a few stones form a circle, and at its center sits a mushroom about the size of her fist, pale white and spotted green. Its broad cap sprouts further out as she lifts the lid, to which Tale has glued a note.

TALK LOUD AND KEEP OUT OF THE LIGHT.

“What the Hells?”

“June!” says the mushroom.

She almost drops it.

“June!” It says again, only in Tale’s voice.

She bends closer and sees a face on the mushroom’s stalk peeking back at her. It’s not an unfamiliar sight. “Where in the Hells did you get a mycorrhizal?” The last time she’d seen one of the fungi was in a Corps camp at Hyrnlak, just outside Jubilee. Officers had been lining up to relay updates to their commanders in Kaskit. Those men must be turned by now.

“Being constable has its benefits,” continues Tale through the mushroom. The fungus moves its mouth to match the words. “Label it as ‘official,’ and no questions are asked.” A grunt as Tale takes a seat somewhere in the house. “How’s your leg?”

“Still fine.” The mycorrhizal is silent as she places it on the spool.

“June.” Tale loves saying her name. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Even his recent experience in the precinct starts to show. He’s getting better at reading people. Or maybe you’re too obvious. You already said too much earlier. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She isn’t sure. People will need to know eventually, but only certain people, and Tale isn’t one of those. What can he do, worry about her? She regrets involving him for a second, but that is a comfortable thought in a comfortable place. She'd think otherwise if she were back in Jubilee’s dank depths, chased by the krab that turned her Thurmgeists.

“Alright,” she says. “A maligned did this.”

The mycorrhizal’s tiny eyes are placid like dark ponds; no emotions, no thoughts. “Unintentionally,” Tale says through it.

Very much intentionally. Can she trust Tale with this information? “Of course, but I should see a surgeon anyway. The surgeon.”

Tale says something, but she can’t hear it over the nightmare creeping up, the krab turning her whole squadron. Why did it come for them? And how? There was nothing reckless in its gesturing, nothing but hunger and soulless intention as Alcina’s body swayed in her direction like some limping flag of a rival army caught in the wind. June’s head is a thousand tons, and she lets it fall onto her knees, weighed down by the simple fact that she left Alcina, Grace, and all the others to die. The women in the pods, too, staring up at her like dead children, only not dead but pumped alive by the maligned. What were those things? The sight becomes a horrific visage she can’t shake, let alone mutter an ounce of to Tale. If he knew, he would probably hand her over to the Second Signature himself—or keep you chained up in his basement. Hells, what fate is worse?

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The mycorrhizal’s placid stare bores deep holes in June. She turns the box to face away. Hopefully, Tale understands that she can’t consult just any surgeon, as most would turn her over to the incubators without hesitating. She can trust Tale that much.

“I have plenty of inoculations,” Tale says. “Been building up quite the supply. They won’t notice if I keep bringing you some.”

The memories rise again, the nights spent in Tale’s basement among conspirators, plotters, and hopefuls. Where are they now? “Wait. Who won’t notice?”

“You know, June. It’s still going. All of it. Two years…” Tale trails off. “Two years isn’t that long to be gone, and I have been busy. We have all been busy.” A long pause. “Some were caught, but they didn’t speak. I ensured it. There are ways, June.”

June wonders what those ways are. The worst part, however, is that she believes him. Every word. Never would Tale lie to her.

“Nobody knows more than they have to,” he continues. “I keep things in silos, you know? Any information is in pairs. I’m the only one who sees the big picture.”

Progress, then. Lofty goals, but isn’t survival itself lofty? That is all man is trying to do after the Bursting, and maligned too, though they got the better end of the deal. Yet, we have stabilized in some respects.

Even while raw ground spews forth from the Gashes, men like Tale have realized humanity must still expand and plan for the future, whether that means building out from Kaskit’s enclosure or shattering its rulers. To a visionary like Tale, the two operations are steps forward, and progress must never stop.

“The First Signature has the Second Signature in his fists,” says Tale, and mumbles something in between. “The girl refuses to share his secrets, but we would be safer if she fessed up. We could all work together.”

It’s not that easy, or so the pundits would say. June has not even met the Second Signature, but she knows the balance the Decree upholds, the dichotomy between man and maligned. Tale is clever, but he can be ignorant. You can be, too. She had schemed alongside him back then, helping to plant the seed before she learned it was better to fight than to overthrow, or so she thought.

It’s then that something hits June, low enough to sting her pride. It wedges itself deep, and it won’t move. “I can help you,” she says.

Tale doesn’t speak. Despite his drunken fervor for her, his ignorance, and his pipe dreams, he is not a stupid man. As Tale had said, two years is not a long time, but it is sufficient for him to question her loyalty. She had left him before already, along with the women she rescued. Back then, he appeared understanding, but his insistence now means he may have dwelled on her absence the whole time. Now, she can see why Tale would hesitate to recruit her to this grand scheme. Slowing down to get June up to speed could also compromise the whole endeavor. As much as she wants to deny it, if June is to get to the Second Signature and the Surgeon Elder and find out what that maligned had done to her Thurmgeists, she needs Tale’s help.

“You didn’t tell anyone?” Tale asks.

“No.” It seems like the only truth she’s uttered today. “I’ve no reason to.”

“Alright.” A brief consideration marks Tale’s final chance to keep June out of this. She knows he won’t. “We’re almost there. We’ve arranged it. We’re almost in league with Skelton, too. It’s just going to take more convincing. You remember Skelton?”

June pauses. “Shipspinner Skelton? The old man?”

“Not the father, but his son. He’s quite the bright lad but also forward-thinking.” A sigh on the other end, manifesting as a puff of the mushroom’s breath. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

June doesn’t hear that last bit. Shipspinner Skelton spun up vessels for Kaskit’s Far Flung Sails, but as the raw ground burst out and sucked most of the world’s water, so too did Skelton evaporate into the shadows, leaving behind his legacy. His son inherited most of his father’s projects and specialized in shipspinning gondolas, borrowing much of his old man’s lessons and improving on them. He is a wunderkind, a person June thought devoutly loyal to the Signatures. So how did Tale rope Skelton’s son into all of this?

June wants to ask more, but a more significant point looms. “How close are you?”

Silence as Tale likely decides what to tell June. “We’re ready to move maybe this month or next. The front runners have been briefed. The mercenaries paid. The only problem is that her alcazar is impenetrable. We can’t even get spies among her staff. Outside, however, we have a solid foothold. We’ve looped men in from the bullwheel terminals, the trade unions, and even some towns outside the enclosure. If the Second Signature has an inkling of us, she hasn’t revealed it. It could be the greatest counter-offensive, or we could be in the clear. Either way, we have to try and get into that damned alcazar.”

This is, perhaps, the loftiest goal Tale has ever had. The Second Signature’s overgrown mess of a palace compound will be more challenging to breach than Jubilee, for at least in that assault June could rely on the Emergence Corps. No, they relied on us.

Then, June looks down and reminds herself of the intense privilege she carries over Tale and his other conspirators. “I’m a woman, Tale. Do you have women involved in this? I can get in.”

The longest silence yet. “None.”

“Not yet.” How can he turn her down?

“Are you sure?” Tale asks. “I cannot guarantee your safety in there. I have no one inside. They burned the few that tried to get in, and that was after you left.”

Out of desperation for my leaving, then. Poor man. “But you’ve had people speak to her directly?” June asks. “Right?”

A pause. “Unfortunately not. I don’t think she’s left since…” He refrains from mentioning something that is probably unimportant. “Even if we did get in, her Entrusted always guard her.”

It’s a good measure. Still, how obtuse it is to plan a conspiracy against a girl you haven’t even spoken to, only heard of. Like everyone, June had thought the Second Signature was just a concept until she saw the girl and, at that moment, comprehended what could be possible with the Writings.

“I can reach her,” June urges. “She’ll talk to me. She'll listen to me.”

Another pause as Tale considers. “Let’s assume you get an audience with her. What makes you think she won’t chain you to an incubation vat?”

The very mention of it shutters June to the core. It’s why she formed the Thurmgeists in the first place and fled from Tale’s hopeless conspiracy. Now, the plan has grown and flourished. Perhaps men are capable of significant change, after all. Some of them, at least. “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

The silence stretches. “Not a word, June.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

Tale’s exhalation translates into the opening and closing of the mycorrhizal’s mouth. A thunderclap roars in the distance before he speaks. “There’s a Debut coming. We can’t see inside, but we know some details. You won’t be able to get in with the usual house staff, so I was thinking-”

“Let me handle it,” June says. “Keep this all to yourself.”

A sigh, a puff of breath from the mycorrhizal. “I appreciate it.”

“But just one thing.” It’s small, and she’ll have to get accustomed to it. “Get me a dress. Something plain, noticeable, but not too much. Just enough that the castellans will question my presence. Enough to start a conversation because of its simplicity.” June’s no stranger to fashion when it counts.

Tale coughs. “You really think you’ll manage in there by yourself?”

“I’ve done worse.” Hasn’t she?

Tale grumbles, translating as a vibration of the mycorrhizal’s box. “Will you come back?”

Hells. Tale always has to make things difficult, then and now.

“I will,” she lies.