Cheyenne eyed the last skiff and pressed her lips together. Valid points. Fine.
She dropped her backpack beside his and climbed over the edge. Persh’al studied the control panel, which had even fewer symbols to help him steer. He hummed in indecision, then pressed both hands down on the metal, and they took off at a slow but steady pace toward the other side of the Oronti Valley.
“What is that, anyway?” Cheyenne nodded at the control panel.
“There are many possible answers for that, kid.”
“I mean, what you did with your hands? What those guys back there did. All the gestures and whatever. Are those spells that work with the tech or what?”
“Uh, sometimes.” Persh’al chuckled and lifted his hands to peer at the mostly unmarked panel. “If you know your gear, you don’t need any help. It melds with your magic and is basically like a projection of yourself. Most magicals don’t get that far, especially out here. No training and no time to improve when you’re desperate for an extra boost to take whatever you can get. I’m sure our little surprise party had a few other pieces strapped on ‘em somewhere. Personally synced, right?”
“So, anyone can do it.”
“Sure! Anyone with magic.” He turned to see the halfling studying the control panel and the soft glow emanating from between the poorly welded seams. “Think you found a new hobby?”
Cheyenne shot him a blank stare before returning her attention to the edge of the valley. “I just wanna know how this works.”
“Uh-huh. I know the feeling. Kinda itches, doesn’t it?” The troll chuckled and stuck his hands in his lap as the skiff soared across the dry grass. “I’ll tell you what. When we get to the city, I’ll find you some toys.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “You can stop trying to turn this into a kiddie field trip. I’m fairly sure we’re past that point.”
“Very funny. We can call it gear or tech or whatever, but I’m talkin’ about the good stuff. The finely tuned artistry of cutting-edge O’gúleesh tech. My fingers are tingling just thinking about it.” Persh’al wiggled his fingers at her, and she swatted them away with a snort.
“Well, keep your tingly fingers to yourself. Just so we’re clear, this hovering fishing boat isn’t considered cutting-edge, right?”
He shot her a sly smile. “Not even close.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The farther they traveled away from the Border portal in the Outers and, “In toward civilization,” as Persh’al called it, the healthier the land became. On the other side of the Oronti Valley and through another gently sloping mountain pass was another thin forest. Most of its trees were dead or dying, but there was new growth underneath, and what little wildlife they saw looked less affected by the blight than that mutated creature.
“That troll kid,” Cheyenne said as the skiff took them around a village with living, breathing, working magicals going about their business. “He called me the same thing: mór edhil.”
“An old word for drow, kid. Spit in your face in some circles, muttered while groveling at your feet in others.”
“Okay.” Neither of those things seems like a fun way to have a conversation. “He said some weird stuff when I had him pinned down. That I just keep taking.”
“He wasn’t talking about you specifically. He doesn’t even know you.” Persh’al gave her a reassuring smile, and she rolled her eyes.
“Trust me, I knew it was an insult. I’ve got thicker skin than that. But everyone out here thinks the same thing about the drow— that they just keep taking.”
The troll scratched the back of his head. His mohawk, having lost most of its rigidity, was now flopping down the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. Didn’t used to be that way.”
“New Cycle. New Crown.”
“You said it, kid. What else did he say?”
She wanted to laugh, but the image of the troll kid’s vacant eyes staring at the grass by his head made that impossible. “Something about sucking on my mother’s tit or whatever.”
Persh’al barked out a laugh. “Not your mother. The Mother. Capital M. It’s an old word for the Crown, who clearly weren’t always such heartless, bloodthirsty assholes. I mean, there’s a certain level of it that comes with being a drow. That’s just how it goes. But the old Cycles produced saints compared to this bitch on the throne. No, this one eats her children.”
“Not literally.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past her. That troll kid was just spittin’ venom ‘cause that’s all he knows. The Crown’s been fucking up Ambar’ogúl for centuries, obviously, but she still favors the other drow over the rest of them.”
“Doesn’t sound like it when she cut down all the Nimlothar and forced everybody to pass their trials in her own private arena.”
“I said she favors them, not that she’s nice to them.”
Cheyenne shook her head and watched the rolling landscape around them. They passed a paddock with a herd of what looked like fluffy miniature giraffes, and Persh’al steered the skiff around a copse of trees beside a much smaller river. “Looks like the water’s getting better too.”
A round creature on three spindly legs stood like a stork at the edge of the river. The minute its elephantine trunk touched the surface, a red flash of light raced up its snout and across its back. The thing shrieked and ran down the riverbank before disappearing around tall, thorny bushes with tiny orange flowers.
Persh’al blinked. “Mostly, yeah. Drinking that goo in the Oronti Valley would’ve killed that thing.”
“It didn’t kill the mutant radan.”
“No, that furball on stilts wasn’t a mutant. Carako. They’re a real pain in the ass if you’re trying to keep wildlife out of your sheds and stables. They can change the length of their legs pretty much at will.”
Cheyenne couldn’t help but laugh at the image. “The water’s gotta be clean somewhere if that thing’s still running around like normal. And the villages look like they’re keeping things going.”
“I know.”
