“’Kathy, I’m lost.’ I said, though I knew she was sleeping. ‘I’m empty and aching, and I don’t know why.’”

  — Paul Simon

  From the song Look for America

  I wondered if children from mannerly households experienced survival situations. From what I could see, most kids grew up with bullying or domestic friction, but few shared fundamental deficits like a bed or hot meals. I’d go years between doctor visits and never by appointment.

  I grew up defending and excusing my mother’s behavior, and I think it’s natural for children to forgive their parents’ shortcomings. We adopt the philosophies of those we depend upon. Good or bad, parents serve as role models.

  Life didn’t revolve around playdates, birthday parties, and child-safe outlet covers. No one held me whenever I skinned my knee. Instead, mom matter-of-factly declared that’s what I got for playing in abandoned buildings. Mom’s indifference prepared me for a callous schoolyard and a dangerous neighborhood.

  Life with her taught me the universe wouldn’t yield to my expectations, and I learned to hustle. She approved of shoplifting and stealing unattended things. My education involved learning when to appear pitiable or defiant to landlords at the end of the month. I learned to ignore loud neighbors and give evasive answers about my mom’s addictions. Among these dubious lessons, I learned how to fight for a home.

  As someone old enough to acknowledge my crazy upbringing, I could see both sides of the argument. I couldn’t imagine anyone growing up in air-conditioned suburbs never learned how to bend the world to their will. Fabulosa bailed when things got ugly. Leaving was easy and, perhaps, the smarter play, but something kept me here.

  For reasons beyond my understanding, I resolved to protect this little town and clean up the relics or die trying. To an outside observer, it made no sense that I’d risk losing the Great RPG Contest over something so trivial as a nonexistent village, but fighting for a home reminded me of my childhood.

  The morning of the goblin’s defeat, I returned to the town hall with dew-soaked boots. I joined the townspeople for our first meal without the specter of a relic-bearer hanging over our heads. My studies of our goblin culture assured me that a power vacuum would preoccupy them with internal conflict for years. After defeating the king’s honor guard, I saw little reason for them to muster another force against us.

  Thrashing our neighbors to the north gave us cause for celebration. Rocky orchestrated volunteers for the spontaneous breakfast feast. People crowded the bakery to supply the kitchen with fresh bread. Others cooked potatoes with chopped vegetables or stuffed links with seasoned meat. Those not involved with cooking decorated the place with garlands and wreaths from nearby flowerbeds, mixing the comfortable smell of breakfast cooking with the fragrance of flowers.

  Everyone exchanged hugs and consolations about Greenie’s undoing, but he died saving his home. It seemed fitting to celebrate our victory over Rezan rather than mourn our loss.

  The activity drew Beaker to his customary perch over the doorway. He presided over the busybodies with fascination.

  Whenever he lifted his wings, I cautioned him to stay put. “No, no, you big turkey. You don’t need to be the center of attention today. You fought bravely, but Rocky doesn’t need griffons flying around, blowing around dust, and dropping feathers. If you want to stay indoors, you need to behave.”

  Beaker clucked to himself, content with my attention. Occasionally, he erupted with screeches, but his brief outbursts seemed appropriate for the festive mood. Though we’d lost Greenie, Fletcher, Sami, and Val, the settlement survived.

  After we ate, I conveyed my appreciation to Hawkhurst with a public address. People applauded and softly knocked their mugs before I spoke, releasing extra energy. “I’m declaring a two-day holiday in honor of our absent friends. Besides, we’ve been burning torches for so long that adjusting to a daytime routine might take time. Tomorrow, we’ll add Greenie to the rock garden. I’m sure Maggie can find the time to commit his name to stone.”

  Maggie stood, cupped her mouth, and shouted. “Anything for Greenie, Guv. You name it!” As the quarry chief sat down, more knocking sounds showed the room’s approval.

  “We need the colliers to build a pyre. I want to burn the goblin corpses before they attract dinosaurs or monsters. Is Gunny around?”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  A dwarven voice from the crowd answered for him. “Gunny and Freya are with the caravan across the river.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot they moved. If they’re busy, I’ll assign pyre duty to someone else.” I pointed to one of the Arlington humans, a strong-looking farmer unequipped with armor. “You and the farmers take the torodon cart around and see to the job? The colliers will make the pyre. Good?”

  Unarmored folks around him nodded in affirmation.

  After settling that unpleasant matter, I caught Yula’s eye behind me in her usual spot by the town hall’s door. She usually lingered there as if proximity to the outdoors maintained her connection to nature—or perhaps having a quick exit set her at ease.

  “Commander, rest the scouts for 24 hours before issuing patrol orders. I want to talk before sending anyone on recon.”

  The orc curtly nodded.

  “And I hereby promote Ida to permanent lieutenant governor.”

  A round of supportive applause and table pounding ensued.

  Ida acknowledged the support with a slight lift of her chin and a quick grin, but she remained motionless otherwise.

  “If you need to talk to me or the L.T., please withhold long-term questions until tomorrow. I want to recon the town and set priorities before arbitrating private issues.”

  I turned to Lloyd. “Can Otto and Gretchen retrieve the caravans from the Eastern inn? The merchants have been waiting for too long already.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. If the youngins haven’t lost their sea legs, it’ll be no problem to ferry them across the river. I’ll watch them from the docks. It’s a fair day for sailing.”

  I stepped down to loud applause and shouts of support. I didn’t deserve it, but I encouraged the noise with nods and fist-raises, letting everyone bond.

  After weeks of trials and errors with the goblins, our victory came from a communal effort. Ally and her crew built the barbican. Our so-called Alpha Company had seen several battles. Greenie saved our skins. Rory and Fin crafted our arms and the throne’s inner workings, and Dino trained everyone.

  After grabbing a breakfast sandwich, I turned to the door, prompting Beaker to plop to the floor and push his way outside first.

  While stepping aside for my griffon, Yula crossed her arms. “What wrinkles governor’s brow on zees glorious day?”

  “Oh—nothing in particular. I’m just figuring out why everyone is cheering me. My contribution to our victory barely moved the needle. I’ve had wins before, but none had inspired so much approval.”

  Yula stepped in my path and gently thumped my chest. “You make great contribution. You are chief.”

  “But I’ve given up governorship and reinstated myself several times. No one cared before.”

  “It ees small matter to be governor. But you are not just governor. Now, you are chief.”

  I smiled and blushed. “Thanks for that. I’m going to get some shuteye. Wake me if something happens. Otherwise, get some rest. We’ll worry about the orc emperor tomorrow, so prepare for more regicide.”

  Yula nodded as I passed. “I focus on emperor every day, Chief Apache.”

  Without looking back, I walked through the barbican on my way to the manor. Last night’s events displaced the twine, rocks, and stakes Greenie and Ally strung together to demarcate the castle’s walls. I made a mental note to prioritize their arrangement. Desecrating the castle’s designs offended me more than goblin corpses littering the meadow.

  As I neared the manor, Beaker launched himself off Hawkhurst Rock. He undoubtedly intended to fly through the bedroom window and beat me to my mattress.

  I made no effort to deter him from doing so. The last thing the office needed was for Beaker to beat his wings indoors over not having a spot on the bed to sleep. He’d blow parchment out the windows, knock over ink wells, and scatter our paperwork. Ida would barbeque him, or worse, me if Beaker disturbed her desk.

  I resolved to push his bulk to one side of the bed to make myself room. His size made moving him difficult, and he never took the hint and made the job easy.

  I resisted the temptation of passing out in Beaker’s nest. It looked comfortable, but maintaining the semblance of a pecking order seemed more important.

  As I passed through the office, I avoided looking at Greenie’s drafting table. The work waiting on everyone’s desks would wait until tomorrow.

  Alone in the manor, my thoughts drifted toward Greenie and Charitybelle. Memories of their contributions dominated my meditations. Afterwards, sleep came easily. I awoke only a few hours later in the afternoon beneath the feathered canopy of Beaker’s outstretched wing. My griffon’s soft hoots ceased, so I knew he wasn’t sleeping. Perhaps it would have been a welcome comforter on a chilly night, but in the midday heat, I sweltered.

  After rolling out of bed, I cooled off, leaning out the window overlooking Otter Lake. Otto and Gretchen ferried merchants beneath me. As they puttered across the surface, I scanned the shoreline until it disappeared.

  The manor stood on the corner of Hawkhurst Rock, standing thirty feet above the waterline. I craned downward at the water’s surface. The lake’s cheerful ripples and reflections advertised none of its murky depths.

  Two relics awaited in that body of water, one recently lost and one yet to be found on the far side of the lake. The first three focused on the schools of arcane, nature, and light magic, leaving the two I feared the most—primal and dark. I could not say which lay in orc country and which rested at the bottom of the lake, but both locations posed unique hazards.

  Judging by the knots of twine lashing it to Rezan’s head, the light magic crown would likely remain attached to his body, drifting somewhere many fathoms down in the muddy estuary’s undertow. I’d investigated the lake’s bottom before, but the environment proved too claustrophobic to survey. Even with my Amphibious swimming powers, the dark currents proved too chaotic to navigate—especially when blinded by mud. And without Creeper, I had no infravision.

  Despite my desire for languor, hunger drove me from my apartment. The smell of delicious turnouts meant the bakery had been busy all day. When Beaker saw me donning equipment, he stretched, climbed to the windowsill, and waited until I reached the door latch.

  His telepathic question reached my brain. “Fish time?”

  “Yeah, it’s as good as any other time to get chow. Until we hit our routine, schedules might be a bit off over the next few days.”

  “Fish time!” My griffon enjoyed showing off, and his disappearance out the window started our race. He liked to present his catch before I entered the town hall, where Rocky forbade him to eat. I dawdled to give him more time if it took him longer to find something. Whenever he appeared with a flopping fish between his talons, I praised him for his hunting prowess.

  After going downstairs and exiting the manor, I found my Familiar already picking apart his latest conquest on the grass. “Good boy, Beaker. That was a fast one. It’s hardly a race anymore. And what a big fish you have!”

  He trumpeted a reply, announcing to everyone in town that the catch belonged to him and that they had better keep their distance.

  I saw no goblin bodies outside. A thin veil of smoke rising from the river’s eastern bank testified to the pyre’s location, thankfully downwind.