Healing Salve, Instant
Illus. Hannibal King

Amulet of Unmaking, Artifact
Illus. Kaja Foglio

"And you I rename Twelve of Twelve," I dub the goat once called Thirteen of Thirteen, but she and the other goats are staring at Eight of Twelve. From the moment of Seven of Thirteen's passage into the fire of his breath, Eight of Twelve has been munching on the prairie grass of the Ntatsu Plain. Maybe he thinks it will soothe the magic in his stomachs. Maybe he just does not want to think.

I do not blame him. It is the Yellow Rock that has done this. My Mtenda grandfathers, they talk of these things. The children listen to their stories of Mtenda herders who wander from their herds to gain the riches of the cities. There they find objects of power and light, and adorn their bodies with oils and jewels and forbidden pleasures.

In all such stories, the young hero who seeks power and herds gains the evil thing, and then is destroyed or transformed or driven mad or run into exile. I am now such a hero.

I hate those stories.

Today I will not be a hero. Today I will march my goats to the wise woman under the monkeytree, and she will remove this Yellow Rock from my goat. And then all will be as calm as the wind.

Eight of Twelve looks up from the blasted earth, and bleats to the sky. He dances on the plain, but not the dance of rain or blessing. He dances as if to escape the demons in his hooves. He dances, and he escapes the earth.

My goat, he flies. I rush under Eight of Twelve, but he is now the height of two men above the land. He pulls against his lead rope, which stretches as tight as the fang of a sabertooth cobra. And I feel a pain.

My foot. My foot is caught in the lead rope. I must cut it--

"Owww!" My shoulder slams against the earth and then I am hoisted into the sky by my soaring goat. I see the tops of the trees, and oh, there is the nest of a windreaper falcon, and my goats below.

I have never been above the plain before, and on another day I might thank the skies for allowing a visit. On another day. Today, I want my bone knife.

Now, while I have a chance of seeing my family again, I cut the lead rope with the knife my father gave me for my first shearing. With a prayer to the skies, I fall the height of ten men.

I greet the earth a second time, and pain thunders through my chest. My father's knife, it flies from my hand.

At least I have landed on something soft, I think as I surrender to sleep. Something soft and . . . white.

Oh no.