Archives for April 2026

    The Narrow Way led straight through the great city of Vanity.  There was no mistaking it.  Her dress hung in torn, blood-stiffened strips.  Her hair was uneven where she had hacked it short.  Bruises throbbed beneath her skin with every step.  She scanned the path behind her.  The abyss.  The valley.  No way around.  Her path led through.

    She could wait for nightfall.  Slip through the shadows.  Go unseen.  No.  Every moment mattered.  And she didn’t even know if this path would lead to Perry.

   Still… this was Vanity.  Anything went here.  She might pass through without a second glance.  She had heard the stories.  Anything could be bought here—for the right price.  Husbands.  Wives.  Prostitutes.  Slaves.  And if you knew who to ask… kidnapping.  Even murder.

    But that wasn’t what met her.  Beelzebub’s pennants hung from the city gates.  Beyond them stretched the world-famous Vanity Fair—colorful tents and banners glimmering in the sunlight.  She passed a cage—an ape inside, baring its teeth.  A bear lumbered past on a leash, dragged by its handler.  Vendors shouted, hawking wares and haggling, their voices rising above the din.

    A burst of flame from a flame-breather stopped just short of her face.  She nearly collided with a juggler.  He slipped past her, deft and fluid, never missing a beat.

   “Removes all stains.”  A shabby merchant sidled up to her.  “Even blood.”

    Eva’s gaze snapped to him—hard.  He flinched and backed away.

    She caught her breath.  Right in front of her stood… him.   No.  Not now.  She didn’t have time for this.  His eyes met hers—empty.  No recognition.  The breath left her slowly.  She turned and kept walking.

    “Evadne?” he called after her.

    She stopped.  Turned.  

    “Brisk?”

    “My god, Evadne.  Whatever has happened to you?”

    A young woman—five, perhaps ten years younger than Eva—caught at his sleeve.

    “Who is she, Brisk?”

    “A friend I once knew.”

    The girl looked Eva over—and her lip curled.

    A crowd gathered.

    “What happened to you?”

    “Where have you been?”

    “Who did this?”

    “Are you all right?”

    The crowd closed in around her.  Hands took her arms—not restraining, just guiding.  Steering her forward.  They moved her through the streets.  Someone pressed water into her hands.  A cloth.

    A magistrate stood waiting, deputies at his side.  Brisk lifted a hand—pointing.  “She’s not well.”

    Her hands went to her daggers.  No.  Not for this.

    “You won’t need those here,” the magistrate said.  He was young.  Strong.  Handsome.

    The deputies moved in.  One caught her wrist as she shifted.  The other took her arm.  Not violently—but firmly.  Decisively.

   She twisted—tried to pull free.  A blade flashed in her hand—then stilled.  No.  She would not cut flesh.  They tore the daggers from her grip.  Rope bit into her wrists as they dragged her arms behind her back.

    “She’s not well,” the crowd murmured.  “For her own good.”

    The magistrate turned the bloodied daggers over in his hands, frowning.  One of the deputies leered—then stepped in.  His hand plunged into her bodice, dragging out the hidden throwing knife.  

    Eva lunged—spitting in his face.  He drew back to strike her, but the magistrate caught his wrist.   “Stop.”

–

    Eva lay in a cage—hands and feet shackled, chains biting into her skin.  The crowd gathered to stare.  Just another attraction in the Fair.  Just like the ape she had seen not long before.

***

    Tisiphone stood before the throne of Beelzebub, her head bowed.

    “Go to Vanity.  My daughter is in danger.”

    Tisiphone did not move.  Beelzebub knew this was not her office—to rescue, but to acquit.

    “Go.  Wait for me in Vanity.  Try the guilty.  Release the innocent.”

    Tisiphone bowed deeper.  “As you command, Your Majesty.”

–

    Tisiphone returned to her chambers, fastened her cloak, slung her sword over her shoulder, and stepped into the hall.

   Megaera shook her head as she passed.  “Not this time.”

   Alecto fell into step beside her.  No words passed between them.  Alecto knew her office—and would not interfere.

***

    “Evadne.” 

   Eva jerked upright.  The sun had sunk low, and the crowd was gone.  Brisk stood before the cage.

     “I don’t know what happened to you,” he said, shaking his head. “But I didn’t want this.”

     “Brisk?” she said.  “Help me… please.”

    He only looked at her, a pained expression on his face.

    “Brisk,” she pleaded.  “If ever you loved me at all—give me something.  A knife.  A pick.  No one has to know it was you.”

    Then he turned and left.  Gone.  Like always.

***

       “All rise.  The Honorable Judge Hate-Good presides.  Court is now in session.”

       “Good morning, Judge—Your Honor.  I will plainly show that the prisoner who stands before you, was caught red-handed in acts of treason against our Lord.”

     “Call the witnesses.”

    “My lord, I have known this woman a long time, and I will attest upon my oath before this honorable bench that she is—”

    “Hold.  Give him the oath.”

    “I, Envy, do swear…”

    “My lord, despite this woman’s good name—Madame Wanton—she has no regard for our country or our people.”

     “Swear in the next witness.”

    “I, Superstition, do swear…” 

    “I don’t know her—and I don’t want to.  But I heard that she keeps company with satyrs…”

     Gasp!

     “And spills the blood of travelers!”

     “I, Pickthank, do swear…”

     “She—and that rogue with her—have rebelled against our Great Lord Beelzebub and taken up arms against his servant, Apollyon.”

    “What does the accused have to say for herself?”

    “…”

    “There is no need for the jury to retire.”

    “She is clearly guilty.”

    “Away with such a woman from the face of the earth!”

    “I hate the very sight of her.”

    “A sorry wretch.”

     “My heart is set against her.”

    “Hanging is too good for her.”

    “Burn her at the stake!”

***

    The guard dragged Eva to the pyre outside the courthouse.  The wood was stacked high, the ropes already waiting.  He bound her fast, then set the wood alight.  Flames licked upward.  Smoke curled around her.

   She lifted her chin and looked to the sky.

   “Oh King,” she prayed.  “Keep Perry safe.”

    The Bear drifted above her, watching.

***

    A hush had fallen over Vanity.  Only one thing emptied the fair.  Alecto moved on.  Tisiphone inclined her head, then turned toward the courthouse.

    The crowd parted around her.  Lady Evadne stood bound at the stake.  Misapplied judgment.  

    “She does not belong to you,” Tisiphone said to the flames.

    The guards rushed her.  She did not reach for her sword.  Cruelty.  Blood-guilt.  All of it directed at her.  She turned it back.  She did not judge.  She revealed.

   One froze, a look of horror on his face.  Others wept.  Those who could not bear it broke—laughing madly.

    Tisiphone ignored those who lay broken around her.  She made her way to the stands—to the magistrate.  Guilt.  Anguish.  And something else.  Something worth keeping.  She reached into him and brought it to light.

***

    The flames were gone.  The magistrate stood before Eva.  He cut her bonds with her own dagger, then placed it back into her hand.  

    “These are yours.”  He returned the other dagger, the throwing knife, and finally the satyr’s leather pouch.  Then he turned and walked away without a word.

    Eva dropped into a fighting stance.  The satyr stepped back, hooves scraping softly against the stone, watching her warily.  Was he afraid of her?  Curious?  She couldn’t tell.

    His shape was wrong in a way that her mind resisted naming—man and goat stitched together, as if neither had claimed him.  But he didn’t seem hostile.

    The satyr extended an empty hand—long-fingered, rough, a dusting of coarse hair along the wrist.  “You are hurt… little blade.”  He took a step toward her, the curve of his horns shifting with the movement.

    Eva stepped back, daggers raised.  He didn’t move.  She edged away, inch by inch.  Outside, the giant hammered against the cave.

    “The heavy one does not tire,” he said.  “If you go out, it will remember.  But there are other ways… places the ground forgets to close.”  He showed sharp teeth in what Eva guessed was meant to be a smile.   “Not far.”

    Eva’s vision blurred.  Her head pounded.  Her ribs burned.  She staggered.

    “You fall out of yourself,” the satyr said.  “You will not walk the leaning places like that.”  He turned slightly, glanced down—hesitated—then met her eyes.  “There is a quieter place.”  The satyr turned and moved deeper into the cave, hooves finding the stone with an ease she couldn’t match.

    Eva didn’t move.  It could be an ambush.  She might be able to take him—but not more than one.  Not like this.  His footsteps echoed down the tunnel, torchlight flickering against the walls.  She didn’t want to be in the dark.  Alone.  She followed.

    The cave twisted and turned, then began to widen, the ceiling disappearing into the darkness.  Drops of water echoed in the distance, mingling with the faint, steady flow.

    A fire burned low.  The satyr added a few pieces of gnarled wood from a pile along the wall and stirred it with a stick.  It could hardly be called a camp at all.  A dirty blanket lay nearby, along with clay bowls and jars—most chipped, some broken.

    “Rest,” he said.  “Until you are better.”  He turned away from her.  He poured water from a jar into an iron pot, crushed dried herbs between his fingers, and let them fall into the water before setting it on the fire.

    Eva slumped down against a stalagmite, letting her daggers fall at her sides.

    “How can I reach the bottom of the abyss?” she asked.

    The satyr stiffened.  “No.”  He shook his head sharply.  Fear flashed in his eyes.

    “Too many goblins,” she muttered.  “Drakes.  There must be another way.”

    “No,” he repeated.  “No, little blade.”

    He set a bowl before her, filled with roots dug from the ground.  They had been cleaned—after a fashion.  She lifted one to her nose.  Bitter.  She shook her head.  “No.”

    He held out a handful of small, dark berries—popping one into his mouth before dropping the rest into the bowl with the roots.  

    “It has not bitten me,” he said.

    He lifted the iron pot from the fire—it was scalding, but it didn’t seem to trouble him—and poured the liquid into a hollow shard of stone.  He drank it in a single gulp, then filled it again and offered it to her.

    Her lips were dry.  Her throat burned.  She couldn’t risk it.  She shook her head.

    “I will go to the bottom,” she murmured.  “I am Eva the Fearless.”  A faint smile touched her lips.  “The favorite of the Author.”  She was babbling.  She knew it.

    “These,” he said, striding toward her.  He traced the gouges across her chest.  “Teeth.  Claws.  They end you.”  Pain flickered across his face—quick, almost hidden.  “Things go down with their names.  They come back… if they come back… without them.”

    Eva didn’t flinch.  “I don’t care about my name.”

    “You fight those.  There is nothing to fight there.”  He turned away.  “It does not hunt.  It keeps.”

    He returned to the far side of the fire, sat down, and picked up a small flute.  It was a hollow reed, its finger holes uneven.  He raised it to his lips and began to play.  The sound was thin, wavering, sometimes off—but steady.

    He played the same pattern over and over, with slight variations.  It reminded her of the music she had heard before—but something was different.  Not beautiful.  But strangely soothing.

    Eva’s eyes grew heavy.  But she refused to sleep.  She shook her head, then buried her face in her hands.  Just for a moment.

–

    A lightness washed over her.  The sun shone.  Birds sang.  She walked through the Interpreter’s orchard, hand in hand with Perry.  She reached up, picked an apple, took a bite—then held it to his lips.  He drew her into his arms.  Happiness flooded her.  She tilted her face up towards his.

–

    Eva jerked upright.  Her heart pounded.  Sweat drenched her skin.  Her hand flew to her daggers.

    The satyr sat quietly on the far side of the fire, his attention fixed on a ragged piece of cloth.  It was dirty, torn—but unmistakably a woman’s handkerchief.

    His large, uneven hands fumbled with a needle and thread, trying to mend the tear—but making no progress.  They were better suited for tearing than mending.  She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

    “Let me try,” she said, gently taking the needle and thread from his hands.  He watched her for a long moment, then handed her the cloth.

    She sat down beside him and began to sew.  Slowly—each stitch careful, the way her sister had taught her all those years ago. When she finished, she placed it in his hand, closing his fingers around it.  Something glistened in his eye.

    “Maybe she comes back now,” he said.  But something in his expression told her he knew she wouldn’t—whoever she was.

    “Nothing goes there on purpose,” he said.  “You do.  You are not empty.  Why go where empty things are made?”

    “Perry,” she breathed.

    “Let the name go.”  He shook his head.  “It will not follow you back.  You will not come back.”

    “I will go anyway.”

    “Why?” he asked.

    “Perry,” she said.  Her voice faltered.  “I love him.”  The words startled even her.

    Understanding dawned on the satyr’s face.  “Not here.”  He laid a hand on hers.  “The deep opens elsewhere.  Past the bright-noise.  In the high places.  Not safer… but you might pass.”

    “Show me,” she said.

    “I can take you where the dark thins.  I do not go past it.”  He motioned to the blanket.  “Rest.”

    She shook her head.

    “Eat.”

    She shook her head.

    He poured the tea into the broken shard and handed it to her.  She lifted it to her lips and drank.

    He wrapped the roots and berries in the silk handkerchief, tied it in a rough knot, and placed it in her hands.  Then he rummaged through his belongings, pulled out a small leather pouch, and handed it to her.

    Inside were dried, shriveled things—black, with a dull sheen.

    “What is this?” she asked.  When the firelight touched them, it almost seemed as though something lived beneath the surface.

    “Things that do not like the dark.  These keep the edges from falling.  Do not take many.  They make you… less.”

    The satyr led Eva through the tunnels to another exit.  He took her hand and guided her past pits and snares until they reached the edge of the valley.

    Sunlight spilled across the ground before her, but the satyr remained in the shadows, hooves planted at the edge of light, as if he could not—or would not—cross it.  In the distance, the great city of Vanity spread out—unmistakable, with its brightly colored tents and banners.

    “Bright-noise,” he said, pointing toward the Narrow Way.   “Beyond the air is clear.  But not all.”  He closed his eyes and recited:

Leave the hard way, and the ground will take you,
Doubt keeps Despair,
Despair takes the eyes…
Feet walk among the dead.

    Eva took his hand in hers.  “Thank you.”

    As she set out, she almost missed his whisper.

     “Forgive me, little blade.”  

    Eva took his hand in hers.  “Thank you.”

    As she set out, she almost missed his whisper.

     “Forgive me, little blade.”  

    She glanced back.  A tear traced down his cheek, his horns silhouetted against the shadows behind him.

    Eva rose slowly to her feet and scanned the abyss.   It was as deep as the Hill of Difficulty was tall—perhaps deeper still.  The trail of blood ended here.  Firelight flickered below, revealing ledges and outcroppings, but the rock walls were sheer—no handholds.  Perry was down there.  She had no doubt.  And she would find a way down.

    She retraced her steps to where the fight had taken place—if it could even be called that.  The Narrow Way ran along the edge.  She followed it.

    Her progress was slow, each step placed with care.  On the other side lay a bog—but not like the Slough.  Heat rose from its surface, carrying the stench of sulfur.  The mire seemed to boil from some fire far below—the same fire burning in the abyss.  One moment, an unseen force tugged her toward it; the next, it drove her toward the edge.

    Nothing lay ahead but inky darkness.  She imagined the Bear beyond the smoke and clouds.  She imagined Perry’s hand in hers as they walked beneath the moon.  But there was nothing.  She was alone in the darkness, with nothing but the path beneath her feet.

    A faint sound caught her attention.  She strained to make it out.  Was it music?  Singing?  Strangely, it seemed to harmonize with the moans and shrieks rising from the abyss.

    Something whispered in her ear.  She spun—tight, controlled—and drove her dagger forward.  Nothing.  She turned and kept walking.

    “He’s gone, you know.”  She wasn’t sure it was a voice—or her own thoughts.  There was no one there.

    She slipped her daggers back into her sleeves and prayed—not for herself.  Keep him safe.  Somehow, it made her less afraid.

    One foot in front of the other.  It was all she could do.  Ignore the dizziness.  The pain in her ribs.  In the darkness, she lost all sense of time.  There was only the endless now.

    She blinked.  The clouds had parted, and the moon broke through.  It was no longer full, but it still washed the valley in silver light.  Ahead, the way was strewn with bones—snares, traps and pits stretching all the way to the distant mountains.  But that was not her destination.

      She left the certainty of the Narrow Way and moved along the edge of the abyss to the east, searching for a way down.  There should be a way down.  There has to be.

    Movement in the distance caught her eye.  Two shadowy figures hunched over something.  Guttural noises.  Stories her sisters had told to frighten her when she was little—goblins.  She dropped into a crouch.  One faced away from her.  The other had his back completely turned.

    She slowed her breathing, the way she had been taught, and moved forward as quietly as she could.  The goblin lifted his head.  She froze.  He didn’t see her.  He gnawed on a bone.  Her stomach turned.

    She crept closer.  The goblins continued eating, unaware of her in the shadows—now only inches away.  She steadied her trembling hand, then drove the dagger beneath the goblin’s ribs.

    No one had told her about the resistance—how close she had to be to kill with a dagger.  The goblin tensed, a gurgling sound escaping him—almost a whimper.  She pushed with all her strength, held it a moment longer than she wanted, then let him fall.

    The second goblin didn’t react at once.  Her heart thundered.  For a moment, she froze—caught in the hate burning in its beady eyes.  He reached for his weapon.  She slashed at his wrist.  Then she seized him—harder than necessary, more force than she needed—and pressed her dagger to his throat.

   “How do I get down there?”  she demanded, her voice ragged.

    The hatred vanished—replaced by fear.  He began to gibber, harsh guttural sounds spilling from him.

    “How do I—” she began again.  It was no use—there was no comprehension in his eyes.  She pressed the dagger down—then stopped herself and threw him to the ground.

    The goblin lay stunned for a moment, then scrambled to his feet and darted away.

    Eva didn’t hesitate.  This was her chance.  She sprinted after him, ignoring the pain flaring in her side.

    Eva halted abruptly.  The goblin had vanished into the rock face before her.  She stepped closer—there, a narrow scar in the stone.  An opening barely wide enough for one person.  She could have passed it a hundred times and never seen it.

    The stone sloped inward.  Eva lowered her head and paused, testing her footing.  Her hair fell into her face.  She twisted it into a bun and tied it back with her sister’s ribbon.

    She inched forward, squinting into the darkness.  The goblin pounced—almost knocking her off her feet.  She swung, aiming for its eye.  It screamed.

    Pain shot through her head as she was dragged to the ground.  Sharp rocks bit into her back.  She tried to pull free, but something had her by the hair.  Another goblin pounced, claws grazing her chest.  She struggled—swinging wildly.  Some of her strikes connected.

    She scrambled to her feet and spun, swinging both daggers at once.  Her hair whipped into her eyes.  Something struck her.  She drove forward, knocking the goblin to the ground—and stabbed.  Over and over.

    Her panic subsided.  Two goblins lay dead beside her—she was sprawled atop the mangled body of the third.  A sob escaped her lips.  Her blades—and her hands—were slick with blood.  Her hair clung to her face, matted with sweat… and perhaps blood as well.

    She wiped one dagger on her dress and set it on the ground.  Then she reached up, gathered her hair in one hand, and cut it as close as she could with the other.  It fell uneven—loose strands slipping free.  She no longer cared.  She stood, letting it drop at her side.  She didn’t look down.

    It felt strange—she had never worn her hair short before.  But her vision was clear.  And there was little now for an enemy to grasp.  One less thing to work against her.

    The wind stirred.  The stone was sharp, recently broken.  But the wound itself felt ancient.  This was no mere cave, but the beginning of a fall arrested in stages.  The way down was no true stair, but a broken ledge road—part natural shelf, part old cut, part the ruin of a greater work.

    Eva was afraid.  Before her lay shallow shelves, cracks and crawlspaces no one would enter willingly.  A thousand places for goblins to crouch in the shadows, waiting.  Eva the Fearless?  She scoffed.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

    Thoughts flooded her mind—despair, grief, guilt, shame.  From the depths, specters rose:  faces of men, half-formed, flickering in and out of existence.  The same voices that had plagued her before.  Her daggers were no use against them.  She closed her eyes and thought of Perry.  The Prince.  Innocent.  Charity.  And kept walking.

    Fires burned in clusters in the distance.  The incessant chattering of goblins filled the air, rising above the wails and moans below.  Metal rang against metal in the darkness.  Far off, a drake swooped.  A shriek—then angry howls.

    The ledges began to widen—shelves of stone layered one above another, connected by ladders, crude stairs, rope bridges, pegged ruins, and narrow traverses cut into the rock.

    Eva grasped the top of a ladder leading down and began to descend, one step at a time.  At the bottom, movement caught her eye off to the left.  She dropped into a crouch behind a rock.  Several drakes tore at the carcass of a goblin, devouring it.

    She tensed and backed away slowly, then turned.  She wouldn’t be going that way.  Along the shelves stood lean-tos, smoke pits, refuse heaps, hanging racks, and piles of bones.

    Across a wooden bridge, a sentry stood guard, a jagged sword hanging slack at its belt.  She crept forward, careful not to make a sound.  It scanned the sky, searching for drakes.  A board creaked under her weight—the goblin spun, surprise flashing across its face.  Before it could draw its sword, Eva stepped in and slit its throat.  But not before it raised the alarm.

    Three goblins stepped into her path.  She dropped into a fighting stance.  Then four more appeared.  She turned—and ran.

    Eva bounded across the bridge—she could hear them now, almost feel the goblins at her back.  She sprinted toward the ladder.  The drakes lifted from the carcass, rearing up with wings spread wide.

    She climbed the ladder frantically.  Something grabbed at her boot—she kicked free.  At the top, she ran the way she had come.  A wing brushed her.  Can’t slow down.  Goblins sprang from the crevasses she had passed on the way down.

    Blinding pain shot through her head—she had forgotten to duck on the way out of the cave.  She couldn’t stop.  Had to stop.  Pits.  Snares.  She cast a hurried glance over her shoulder.  They had stopped following.  She dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.

    A spiked club slammed down beside her.  Eva rolled just in time—the blow crashing into the ground where she had been.  She scrambled to her feet and ran—straight into a pillar of muscle and flesh.  A leg.  Bigger than any she had ever seen.

    She spun and fled, heedless of pits and snares—and ran straight into a rock wall.  Footsteps thundered behind her, the ground shaking beneath them.

    Not far ahead, a crack split the stone.  If she could just reach it—wide enough to squeeze through, far too small for the giant.  She pushed herself harder than she ever had.  She slipped inside just as the club crashed down.  She stumbled and dropped hard on the stone.  She scrambled away as a massive hand reached for her. 

    Her back hit the wall.  The giant peered in at her, its face twisted with rage.  The fissure veered sharply to the left.  She pivoted and lunged forward just in time.  The giant thrust its club in—it slammed against the stone.

    The crack opened into a small cave.  She was safe—at least from the giant.  It couldn’t reach her here.

    Then she froze.  Eyes glowed in the darkness.  It raised a torch, revealing itself—the body of a goat, the chest, arms, and head of a man.  Sharp teeth.  Curving horns.

    A satyr.