QSFer Kim Fielding has a new dark gay fairy tale telling out: Firestones.
Born with a deformed foot and abandoned as a young child, Brand spent his youth in indentured servitude to a mediocre wizard. Now Brand is grown, but with no other prospects to support himself, he remains in his master’s employ, doing small chores and selling firestones on the bleak streets of Greynox. Until one bitterly cold day.
In this dark take on a classic fairy tale, Brand encounters the most sinister of magics. With his firestones gone, can he find his way to the light?
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Excerpt
“It’s gone very cold outside, sir.”
Mr. Alvey, sitting in his worn armchair by the fire with a tankard of mulled wine in one hand, didn’t look up from his spellbook. “Then you ought to sell a lot.”
Brand chewed his lip nervously. “I sold a lot this morning, sir. But now it’s gone much colder.” Even through the closed door, the chill reached toward him with long, pale fingers, making him shiver.
Now his master did look up, his pale eyes almost hidden beneath beetled brows. “Your indenture expired when you were eighteen—three years ago—and I’m under no obligation to keep you here. I can’t afford a leech. Earn your keep or leave, and good luck finding anyone else to take in the likes of you.”
Brand had heard this from Mr. Alvey many times before, and the threat never failed to terrify him. If he were cast out, he’d have nowhere to go. His family had abandoned him when he was hardly more than an infant. Brand didn’t remember them or even know their names. He was far too old to return to the foundling hospital, where Mr. Alvey had essentially bought the eight-year-old for an indenture fee. Brand wasn’t capable of physical labor—he could barely walk without his stick—and being entirely unschooled, he wasn’t qualified for any job requiring knowledge of letters or numbers. That left stealing or begging, and both occupations brought police beatings and potential death due to gaol fever. Besides, he wasn’t quick enough to be a thief.
He knew he ought to be grateful to Mr. Alvey for keeping him on—a fact Mr. Alvey often repeated. But it was difficult to appreciate his master’s generosity when Brand was forced to be outdoors while the wind shrieked across rooftops and through deserted alleys.
In response to Brand’s hesitancy, Mr. Alvey scowled more deeply. “Don’t bother returning until you’ve twenty pence in your pocket.”
Brand knew how to count that high. It would mean he’d have to sell every firestone in his tin bucket.
He swallowed. “May I…. Perhaps I could have something warmer to wear? Your old coat? I promise I’ll—”
“You have your own clothing! Now get out!” Mr. Alvey cast a warning glare in the direction of his heavy wooden staff, which leaned against the wall. Brand was well accustomed to the feel of that implement striking his body. The bruises from his last beating had not yet disappeared.
Brand hunched his shoulders protectively against the remembered blows and paused near the door. His clothes were threadbare and thin, held together with patches and hope. The sole had separated from his single shoe at the toe and was tied shut with twine. Rags bound the other foot, which was too deformed to fit inside the matching shoe. None of this kept him warm even on ordinary winter days, and this was no ordinary day.
“Sir, may I—”
“Out!” Mr. Alvey’s roar crackled with magic and sent Brand scuttling outside, one hand grasping his crutch and in the other, the tin bucket of firestones.
The sky was an overturned pewter dish, trapping all the smoke and soot near the streets despite the wind. The air smelled of ashes, and colors were reduced to muted grays and browns. And the cold! It cut into Brand at once, inflicting a thousand invisible wounds, making his eyes sting, causing the perpetual ache in his hip to deepen. He lowered his head and shuffled down the pavement, keeping close to the buildings for whatever poor shelter the walls might offer him.
There was nobody else foolish or desperate enough to be out in this weather, but he wouldn’t have been able to sell his firestones in this neighborhood anyway. The wizards and alchemists around here could make their own. Or if not, their servants purchased firestones in bulk at the shops.
Except for Jerold Mayes. Brand smiled as he thought of him. Although Jerold clearly had very little money, he would sometimes buy Brand’s entire bucket of firestones and invite him in for tea, biscuits, and conversation. Jerold had been gone for over a week, visiting his family in a little fishing village in the southwest, but perhaps he had returned by now.
Brand walked the few blocks to the very edge of the district and knocked on the green-painted door that led into Jerold’s two-room flat, rented from an elderly charm-maker. Jerold had made the space cozy with small souvenirs he’d brought from home: shells, polished stones, and bits of sea glass. He never minded if Brand touched these items. Now, standing in front of the door, Brand remembered the smooth feel of a creamy whelk shell under his fingers, although his hands were certainly too numb from the cold to actually feel anything.
But nobody answered the door, so he leaned against the wall for just a moment and then turned away.
Author Bio
Kim Fielding has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time. She also dreams of having two perfectly-behaved children, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.