to be dead. It annoyed them that she wasn't. The woman in black chuckled bitterly. «Strong I am,» she whispered in a queer, sing-song monotone, «and strong shall I ever be. I have danced for the King of Deviance, and the bastard made me his he.» The ache in her chest intensified without warning. Crazy Kel swore. Gasping for breath, she pressed her forehead against her knees, her jaw clenched. «I draw the Springs roundabout. I cast this pain out and out.» When this incantation failed, Crazy Kel sidled closer to a trickle of the copper colored water of the springs diverted from the main by fallen leaves. Crazy Kel thrust her left hand into the iron laden wash, hoping to draw some strength from the minerals themselves. She sucked the taste of it off her dirty fingers, comforted by the familiar feel of the metal flavor in her mouth. «Iron Springs be my friend. Bring the pain of Suxonli to end.» Her shoulders sagged as she wondered just how many times she had prayed for this in the past sixteen years. How long would it take? How long would her internal wounds remain raw? She shrugged. The lashes on her scarred back had healed long ago. But her mind? Crazy Kel groaned. Sometimes she was very, very sane. And sometimes she wasn't. Crazy Kel watched the spray from the falls below her catch the light from the setting sun. A rainbow flickered briefly and was gone. «Don't make promises you cannot keep,» she snapped at the Springs. «What was sown in Suxonli, I forever reap.» The rainbow reappeared as if in contradiction. Crazy Kel spat at the Yellow Springs. When the rainbow remained, she bowed her head unexpectedly. She felt ashamed. The Yellow Springs had provided her safe haven since Suxonli had cast her out. She owed the Springs gratitude, she told herself angrily—even on her bad days. Crazy Kel bit her lips under her black veil, listening to the cheery splash of the water. She smiled hesitantly, as if the muscles of her face were unaccustomed to doing so. Then once again, she put her hand in the rivulet beside her, touching it as gently as if it were a lover she had inadvertently spurned. The rainbow lengthened, then vanished. Night approached. The fading rays of the sun turned dark gold, making the deposit of iron on the rocks below the surface of the Springs appear as bright as a newly minted copper. Crazy Kel inhaled the peace of the place, thanking the Springs again for the long moment of protection they had afforded her. She certainly hadn't deserved it, she thought. But then that was the nature of this place. It didn't judge. It simply gave. Even to the condemned like her; even to a person who had been branded akindo and convicted of murder. Which is the same thing, thought Crazy Kel tiredly. She shook her head. Stupid Springs—giving to a murderess. But then, I suppose that's your business, isn't it? she thought at the falls. And what do I know? I'm just an ignorant village woman. And a criminal at that. Her shoulders sagged again with a bitterness that even the Springs could not alleviate. The Yellow Springs were an ancient place of sustaining spiritual power well known to the locals yet virtually undiscovered by the rest of Mnemlith. Those few who were fortunate enough to drink from the mineral and metal laden water of this hidden place left whispering tales of miraculous cures—both physical and psychological. Lying deep in the black earth piedmont of the Western Feyborne Mountains. They lay half a mile south of Suxonli village —on the other side of the Mazemouth River and just across the border of the land called Piedmerri. Kelandris grit her teeth. She could not remember how she had come to the Yellow Springs. Or who had cared for her during those first months after the Ritual of Akindo. Mostly, she remembered feeling alone. And helpless. Crazy Kel glared at the old scars on her dirty hands, and wondered how she had gotten them. Then she wondered why she had survived the Ritual of Akindo. It was also a mystery to the elders of Suxonli why Kelandris had not died sixteen years ago when they pronounced her akindo: kinless and without soul. The Ritual of Akindo was an ordeal of harsh justice designed to destroy not only the mind but also the body. This had not been the original purpose of the ritual, but the people of Suxonli had forgotten its older significance and meaning: namely, a confrontation with death while still living and a radical release from personal history. The current Ritual of Akindo included a severe beating which was then followed by the ingestion of a toxic dose of an indigenous hallucinogenic substance called holovespa: the whole wasp. Understandably so, the elders of Suxonli had expected the beating alone to kill seventeen-year-old Kelandris, but her six-foot-four body had proved to be as strong as her stubborn, insolent spirit, and she had survived. As a result, the elders had been forced to continue the ritual, now pouring a killing dose of the drug holovespa into Kel's bloody mouth. This had been carried out by the person whom Kelandris had loved most: her fifteen-year-old brother, Yonneth. The holovespa itself was a natural substance, a kind of royal jelly manufactured internally by the Holovespa Wasp Queen—intended solely for her larvae. However, the villagers of Suxonli had been stealing this jelly for centuries, making a potent sacramental compound from it. They called it Rimble's Remedy and dispensed it during their yearly Trickster's Hallows—a late autumn carnival of euphoria. The Ritual of Akindo had turned this wild (but essentially harmless) festival of masquerade into a streaming, screaming nightmare of distortion. As per the requirements for akindo, Suxonli had given young Kelandris enough drug to synaptically unhinge her mind permanently. They had expected her to kill herself. But Kelandris had not. She had lived—not well, but she had lived. Despite Suxonli and its judgement. The Ritual of Akindo had not been without its effect, however. By the end of that particular Trickster's Hallows, Kelandris had emerged certifiably insane. Left emotionally stripped of all normal ego structures—both positive and negative—Kelandris had collapsed into herself and wandered lost in a miasma of mistaken perceptions and uncontrollable fear. Her body bloody and broken by the beating and her mind savaged by the holovespa, the villagers had left her in a cave on the outskirts of town. Kelandris had been too weak and disoriented even to weep. Everyone in Suxonli had agreed that if Kelandris survived, it would be an utter miracle. Kelandris did them one better. She not only survived—she escaped. But not without help. After a week of questioning and piecing together everyone's stories of that night, the elders of Suxonli concluded that Kelandris had received aid from someone outside the community. There was talk (especially by Yonneth, Kel's younger brother) that his seventeen-year-old sister had lost her maidenhead the night of Trickster's Hallows. Yonneth swore that there had been a stranger present—a man who topped Kel's own formidable height by an intimidating two inches, He had also smelled—said Yonneth with disgust—reeked of unusually strong horse sweat. There had been an immediate uproar. Kelandris had not played by the rules. She had added insult to injury; not only had she been responsible for the death of several villagers of Suxonli, but she had also had the bad taste to survive the justice of the Ritual of Akindo and escape Suxonli's borders as well. Some months later, someone reported seeing Kel alive at the Yellow Springs in the land of Piedmerri. As the harshness of a Tammirring village meant little to the gentle Piedmerri-born, Kelandris had been permitted to remain at the Springs with no fear of extradition. Surrounded by the Feyborne Mountains, this region was a place of unusually potent and unpredictable landdraw. That is to say, the geological matrix of the area was naturally tricksterish. Protected by the seemingly random weather conditions of the mountains that surrounded the Springs, the area was a mapmaker's nightmare. Trails were known to disappear at will, and compasses sometimes spun wildly—the magnetic field of the Feyborne Mountains living up to their name. Very fey. And occasionally very sentient. Crazy Kel stiffened abruptly. She had acute hearing and night vision—an inadvertent legacy from the holovespa. The veil obscured nothing but the plaintive beauty of Kel's face. Her senses alert, she listened intently to the sound of an approaching child. An adolescent girl, thought Kelandris. Southern Asilliwir born by the queer brogue of her accent. Crazy Kel wondered who the kid was talking to. Then she realized the answer was no one; the Asilliwir girl was talking to herself. Crazy Kel decided to stay where she was —perhaps give the girl a fright if she became too bold or inquisitive. Crazy Kel patted the double-edged knife she wore hidden in the inside sleeve of her right arm and smiled coldly. As the girl came into full view, Crazy Kel started. The kid was not Asilliwir born at all; judging by the girl's dark hair and green eyes, she was Tammirring. Crazy Kel fingered her knife thoughtfully. Yafatah, which was the girl's name, was fifteen and an only child. Having spent her entire life without the company of a brother or sister, Yafatah almost always talked to herself when she was alone. Especially when she was troubled about something. Like tonight. «I be all right,» she told herself with more confidence than she felt. «The dreams mean nothing. And me Ma be just worried—that be all.» Yafatah lowered a leather water sack to the pool of copper-colored water at her feet. «And it doon't have nothing to do with me being Tammirring. It be just a phase. On account of me getting me bloodcycle so late and all.» Crazy Kel frowned under her veil. Had she heard the girl correctly? Bloodcycle dreams? The woman in black leaned forward, her grip on the hidden knife tightening slowly. Thoughts of Suxonli clouded her mind. Yafatah, who was busy pouring water, did not hear the soft rustle of Crazy Kel's clothing. The young girl sighed heavily and continued trying to cheer herself up. «And I will na' go to a Jinnjirri-born healer. What do they know,
them Jinnjirri? I doon't care if there be a Jinnjirri in me dreams or noo. It be just a dream!» she added loudly, fighting back the tears of panic in her throat. She wiped her face hastily. «And that Greatkin. That Rimble. He be noo dream-friend of mine. So what be everyone's problem? And Jamilla? Just because I be fond of her—of a dread Mayanabi Nomad—oooh, scary, scary,» mocked Yafatah. «So what? Old Jamilla be a Mayanabi, and she be harmless. And her stories doon't be causing me nightmares. They doon't!» Yafatah bit her lower lip, feeling painfully confused. She was sure the dreams would go away if her mother and the rest of the Caravan Council would just leave her alone. Responding to the darkening twilight, Yafatah's gloom deepened. Then, almost against her will, the young girl felt her mood buoyed by the relentless rush of the Yellow Springs. Brimming with the healing properties
