Sweep with Me

Amber rolled over Sean’s irises. The wolf in his eyes left the dark forest and showed me his big teeth. “Not we, I. I’m going to take him to San Antonio, and you will stay as far away from him as possible.”

I gave him a smile. “That’s so sweet of you.”

On the screen Qoros studied the crushed cockroach impaled on his claw and threw it into the garbage can.

I realized that Orro had stopped moving and now stared at the two of us.

“Yes?”

“What is this humanizer?” he asked.

“It’s an illusion device,” I told him. “Sometimes guests have business on Earth or have to travel between the inns. If their dimensions are not too different from the human dimension, you can use the device to disguise them. It’s expensive and rare, and it works on some species, but not others, and nobody knows why.”

Orro’s quills stood on end. He rushed at us, frantic, and clasped my hands into his. “I know what the problem is. Cooking is a collaborative art. One cannot become a chef in a vacuum. One must observe and learn from other masters; one must taste dishes not of his own making. I have neglected this cornerstone of my art, first during my exile and then after coming here. Look!”

He spun around and flicked his fingers. The TV screen on the wall came to life, showing a website with dates and times. The header on the website announced in big fiery letters “Garry Keys Fire and Lightning Show.”

“The master, he’ll be filming his show in San Antonio today. If only I could watch him work, I could break through the walls of the dungeon constraining me. I could adapt and overcome.”

Oh no. Where had he even heard that?

“Garry Keys,” Sean answered my unspoken question. “He started as an Army cook.”

“Orro,” I said gently. “The TV show is not like real life. It’s staged. I don’t think it would be like seeing him in the kitchen. I’m afraid you will be disappointed.”

Orro struck a dramatic pose, pointing to the screen with a clawed finger. “I have watched every minute of every show. There is nothing he can do to disappoint me.”

I put my hands over my face.

“Please,” Orro moaned.

“Is that even possible?” Sean asked me.

“Maybe. Most humanizers are area-of-effect devices. It would take a lot of calibration because of the difference in species. This is a horrible idea.”

“Please, small human.”

“I can talk to Qoros,” Sean said.

“I can’t believe you. You’re proposing to take a Medamoth and a Quillonian on a field trip into a crowded human space. How are you going to keep them in line?”

Sean turned to Orro. “Do you think you can control yourself?”

Orro clamped his hand over the right side of his chest, which contained his layered heart. “I swear by the blood of my ancestors.”

Sean pivoted back to me. “See? He’s cool.”

“What happens to Orro if the Vein Ripper goes nuts and his humanizer fails?”

“I’ll be carrying the humanizer, and if Qoros steps out of line, I’ll neutralize him and Orro will help me carry him to the car.” Sean glanced at Orro. “Isn’t that right, battle buddy?”

Orro rose to his full height, all quills erect, claws spread for the kill. “I will assist, combat friend.”

“What makes you think Qoros will even agree to this?”

Sean flashed me a wolfish smile. “I can be very persuasive.”

I set my tea down so hard my cup clinked. “You’d fight him. You’d beat up a guest to assert your dominance so he would respect you while you are taking him to Alamo.”

“What?” Sean pretended to be shocked.

“Do whatever you want, Sean Evans, but I’m telling you now if you cause an incident and offend a guest during Treaty Stay, I’ll be mad at you forever.”

Sean seemed to consider it. “I can live with that. The real question is, what would the Assembly—”

I grabbed a kitchen towel and threw it at him. Sean caught it and laughed.

A voice floated to me, carried over by the inn. “Dina, could you bring me a cup of coffee with creamer, and could you do it without Zedas finding out?”

“Of course,” I whispered in reply. I got up. “The liege lord wants a coffee. Sean, please don’t mess this trip up. I know you’re sick of me mentioning the Assembly, but if two aliens pop out of nowhere in the middle of the Alamo, they will take this inn away from us.”

“I know.” Sean hugged me to him. “Trust me.”

I rose out of the floor of the Drífan’s private room carrying a tray with a French press filled with coffee, a mug, and a bottle of International Delight Sweet Cream. If the liege lord was disturbed by my sudden appearance, she didn’t show it.

She sat in a padded chair facing the floor-to-ceiling window presenting us with a view of the orchard and the trees beyond. She didn’t turn or acknowledge me, so I only saw the back of her head. Her green hair was twisted into a messy bun. I walked over to her, set the tray on the nearby coffee table, and pressed the lever of the French press.

Around us the room was quiet. I had gone for an early nineties feel to it. Wall-to-wall beige carpet, a bed with a flower bedspread, pastel lavender walls, oak furniture, matching desk and dresser: all of it was designed with maximum nostalgia in mind. If I’d calculated right, she would have been a teenager in the nineties.

Our most nostalgic memories formed when we were teenagers. You would think that early childhood memories would have the most impact, but no. For the majority of people, the teen years mattered most. The music, TV shows, books and friendships formed when we were teens held a special significance.

Teenage years brought puberty and a new need for freedom. For the first time in our lives, we made independent choices that clashed with the authority of our parents. We fought for the right to listen to our music, to wear our clothes, to dye our hair, to like other people, and to make decisions affecting our future. And for the first time we experienced real consequences based on our actions and learned that parents, even innkeeper parents, were not gods and some things couldn’t be fixed.

When I thought back to my childhood, the kid version of me was an amorphous, fuzzy memory. The teenage me was the first me, a preview of who I would become as an adult. She had definite opinions, thought her parents were stupid, and she knew everything about everything, but she was unmistakably me.

I poured the coffee into the mug and turned to leave.

“Will you sit with me?” she asked. A slight Southern accent tinted her voice, but I couldn’t place it.

“Of course.” I summoned a second chair, identical to the first, moved the coffee table between them, and sat.

The Drífan wore plain pants and a simple tunic of soft pale-green fabric. Her bare feet were tucked in under her. She poured a ridiculously large amount of creamer into her mug, smelled it and sipped a little. “Mmm.”

“Does Zedas not approve of coffee?” I asked.

“Zedas does not approve of a great many things. He claims coffee disrupts the inner energy.”

“Does it?”

“No. Zedas wants me to forget what it’s like to be human. He doesn’t know this room exists and I plan to keep it that way.”

I had guessed right. “Why is it important for you to forget?”

She looked out the window. If I had to pick just one word to describe her, it would be “mournful.” A profound, deep sadness wrapped around her like a shroud. She seemed worn out, like an ornate sword that had seen too many battles. The repeated strikes had worn off the fancy script on its blade, leaving it stripped bare and even more deadly.

“He thinks that if I forget, I won’t be tempted to return. He wants me to leave Adira Kline behind permanently.”

“Can you return?”

“That’s a complicated question.” Adira sipped a little more of her coffee. “The Mountain chose me. It didn’t ask. Twelve thousand souls depend on my leadership. Walking away would throw them into chaos. And even if I did, my life here was severed when I left. It’s been six years. Not so long, but it feels like a lifetime. I don’t know if I could fit back into the old me, into her life. Sometimes I try her on for size, and she’s like an old jacket that I outgrew. It smells familiar, and it holds the right memories, but it’s too constraining.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her, and meant it.

“Thank you. I never wanted adventure. I suppose I’m a hobbit by nature. I was perfectly happy with a mundane life and ticking items off my list: going to school, getting a job, buying a car, getting a mortgage…”

She fell silent.

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes.” Pain sharpened her voice slightly. She caught herself. “It’s a moot point anyway. I promised Zedas that if he agreed to this meeting, I would never again open a doorway to Earth. This is my goodbye.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t Zedas serve you?”

“Yes.” Adira sighed. “Life in my world is treacherous. Prospective liege lords train for decades, learning how to survive imperial politics, discovering how to harness magic, studying strategy and tactics. There are nine ways to greet an official depending on their rank, and the wrong bow or the incorrect inflection can mean the difference between peaceful life and the extermination of your dryht.”