Chapter 1: Quicksilver

I worship a goddess most believe dead, and defend her against a hurricane of jeers. On the floor above me, in this boardinghouse made of living trees, is a man who talks with pigeons, scribbling earnest notes. And on the floor below are the incestuous brother and sister who preach the teachings of a cactus god. My neighbors made the rent cheap, and I bless every copper marlin I save. My purse is light and will soon get lighter, if the prices for insect-catching stay so high. Especially for blue mosquitoes and tiger-striped beetles.

I need blue mosquitoes and tiger-striped beetles, or my neighbors and patients might start whispers that my mind is a ruin and a wreck, no matter how unfair that might be. I didn't flee to Kadrisa because I actually wanted to live in a city literally built over a bug-infested swamp, where the residents get around in small canoes or on the network of wooden bridges built high above the water. The only reason Kadrisa exists is to take advantage of the proximity to the insects and other creatures we use in our magic.

No. I fled to Kadrisa to leave behind my reputation, which was as ugly as a pox-eaten toad. I don't want the rumors trailing me here, and spoiling the cautious new life I'm trying to pull together.

The rock-grey pigeons to whom my neighbor talks are currently flapping outside my mossy door. They didn't wake me—I've already been up for hours with my thoughts galloping. I run to the window and shove open the door, beating the pigeons away, and they flutter away to land on the many branches springing from our tree-boardinghouse—most buildings in Kadrisa are made of moon mangroves, which grow comfortably in swamps. I step out onto the walkway and stare down at the green and red and blue and yellow canoes down in the water below. They are dim in the drizzly rain of winter here, but visible in the light from the misty sun, just edging up. Why must I be in a quicksilver mood now? When the Spindle Masters, the highest authorities on wizardry in the city, are sending an inspector to my little clinic? I hoped to be stable when the inspector arrived, but when it comes to my moods, that's hardly the first hope of mine to crash and burn like a drugged fire-drake.

The Kadrisans are as strict with charlatan healers—with charlatan magic-users of any kind—as the ancient devils were with the souls they captured. What with all the insects around, magic-users who don't know what they're doing aren't just annoying; they're downright dangerous. I'm no charlatan, but if the Spindle finds out I lied about my healing record—especially what I lied about—I could easily find myself a beggar, and I'd rather fight those same ancient devils than try to survive as a beggar in Kadrisa. Certain insect-farmers are rumored to feed their charges with corpses, and it only takes a dagger in the shadows to turn a beggar to a corpse. And I can't use weapons, nor fight with my fists, and starting over again, somewhere else, would take money I don't have.

Yet despite all that, my confidence is building because of my quicksilver mood, and building high as a hawk's flight. How could you not pass these inspections? You've been healing since you were fourteen. That's seventeen years of experience—and you were a temple healer, not some specialist at a university. You've seen it all. I bounce up and down on my toes. Let them come and see your work. And if they find out about your license loss, you can talk your way out of it. That won't be so hard—

I press the heels of my hands against my forehead. No. I have to steady my thoughts. Yes, I feel ready to take on any Spindle inspection, but that doesn't mean I am ready. I need to prepare. My quicksilver mood cannot ruin this, the only chance for a new start I will get. I rub my palms together and squeeze my eyes shut. In reality, I can't talk my way out of it, if they choose not to license me. My quicksilver thoughts may feel true, but they're false as a torturer's pity, and will get me about as far.

Though I try to restrain the happy-fool's excitement buzzing in my mind and body, I keep slipping. I dash around, putting on my navy underdress and blue long tunic, imagining grand conversations until I catch myself, and admiring myself in my steel mirror as I add a little golden face powder to my light brown skin and comb my long dark brown hair. This will be easy. You can—no. Remember, caution. Courtesy. And breakfast—I sometimes neglect food when I'm in a quicksilver mood. I lock my mossy door behind me, light purse tied to my belt, and run down the ramp that loops around our tree-boardinghouse to get to the dock where we residents keep our canoes.

Quella, the sister who worships the cactus god, who has white skin and blond hair, sticks her head out of her door as I hurry by. "Serathi, I'll give you some marlins if you buy us breakfast. Venan's sick with some kind of fever."

I halt in concern. "It's not blossom fever, right?" It sounds innocent, blossom fever spreads like fire in spilled oil, and is often deadly.

"No, I don't think so. I'll watch for it, though." Quella offers me a number of copper marlins. "Mind getting us food?"

"I'm glad to. But make sure you tell me if is blossom fever. I worked in a ward during a blossom fever epidemic. People cried out to the gods to save them day and night. Some of the parents who got sick had to bring their children—nobody else would look after them because they were afraid the children were sick too. We kept them in a separate ward, and I had a friend who'd juggle for them when he could, and when I was done with my shifts I'd always try to read to them before I fell asleep. And there was a captain with a lot of sick sailors, and he paid for some insects out of his own pocket, which was good, since after a few weeks we started running low, and there's a whole process you have to do to request unexpected medicine-insects and it was going more slowly than it should have. But people died in droves—" I stop, noticing that Quella is looking at me oddly. "I'm sorry. You didn't need to know all that. I'll get breakfast." I snatch the copper marlins out of her hand and dash off down the ramp.

Why can't I just stop? I know these signs as well as I know the runes that make up my own name, or know my mother's lullabies. Being unable to stand still, talking too much and too fast, growing too confident. They never mean good, but they feel good, feel wonderful. I don't want to get rid of them—but if I believe anything they say, or do anything they prompt me to do, they'll lead me into riptides.

I run down to our tree-boardinghouse's dock before I catch myself and slow. A minister who taught me how to calm my mind—a fellow worshiper of the Oracle of Friends—always told me that when I'm in a quicksilver mood, I shouldn't run if I could help it. If I walk instead, it will help my mind slow.

So I halt, and breathe, and try to keep my footsteps measured as I walk to the end of the dock, where the blue canoe I bought upon arrival is waiting for me. It's extremely lucky I already knew the basics of canoeing when I arrived in Kadrisa, because that's how you get anywhere quickly here. The network of wooden bridges up above are another method, for those who can't canoe for one reason or another, but it takes forever to get anywhere that way.

I live above the Dozen Gods Pools. It's a deceiving name, since there are home temples in tree-rooms and makeshift shrines on rafts for far more than a dozen gods here. Lucky gods have ministers who house their worshipers in their own homes, setting up hand-painted altars and bribing spouses into cooking for believers' circles. Unlucky gods must make do with stone or wood idols, with a stubborn crier or two calling out parables and proverbs and prophesies from rafts of varying degrees of steadiness. No major gods are housed here, since they have their own moon mangrove tree temples elsewhere. In my native city of Amari, the Oracle of Friends had her own temple, a small one. But though I've kept my ears open and given many a sidelong glance, I haven't heard of any temple for her here, nor seen as much as a cobbled-together shrine. Dead though she is rumored to be, I doubt she has no worshipers here, and I'm determined to someday find them.

I settle in my canoe, pick up my paddle, and row off, congratulating myself on my early rise, for it means few ministers are here yet. Their often-raucous attempts to convert me would only swell my quicksilver mood, since I would be tempted to stay and argue with them. I have enough to do fending off Quella and Venan, who want me to worship their cactus god. The arguments are quicksilver-driven, not based in religion, since I have no objection to other gods, as long as they don't stir up their worshipers to hurt unbelievers.

If I weren't as devoted to the Oracle of Friends as any dragon to their storm-mates, I'd pick the Everlasting Rose to worship. Her ministers captured a demon, the memory cricket, and are now extracting its power for the healers of Kadrisa's main hospital, a piece of cleverness of which I approve. The Everlasting Rose's primary temple is a mighty political force in Kadrisa too, and many flock to serve it. Many people would say I'd be better off giving up on my "dead" goddess and instead serving an obvious living divinity.

Many people are wrong.

I row my way between tree-houses and rafts to the nearest outdoor market. Many other canoers are out and about despite the wet, in a crowd of blinding color to which I'm still not used—in Amari, people don't make it their personal mission to wear more eye-scorching clothing and brighter ornaments than everyone else. I locate the market raft I enjoy most, covered with an embroidered red awning. It sells savory pastries with peas and potatoes and spices, fried pieces of chicken and vegetables, and slices of mango. Gulnar, the owner, is absent when I arrive, but a woman is there, one with dark brown skin and a shaved head, and black tattoos of butterflies all over her arms. She winks at me as I row beside the raft. "You're new."

"Not entirely," I reply, smiling. "I was here a few days ago. Where's Gulnar?"

"Dealing with his mango suppliers. The idiots sold him rotten mangos twice in a row, and he may have to kill them." The woman reaches down and offers her arm. "I'm Winna, Gulnar's wife. And you?"

I reach up and clasp her forearm. "Serathi. Do you mind the stall often?"

"No, mostly I'm a warden. But today's my day off, so I offered to help Gulnar out for the morning."

That explains the tattoos, since the wardens—city guards—communicate with each other through tattoos of flying insects. A Kadrisa warden has no easy job—on top of the trouble humans cause, they have to deal with everything from stubborn swamp merfolk to sludge dragons on a rampage. Most swamp creatures leave you alone if you leave them alone, but the exceptions are…unfortunate.

"You just tell Gulnar to give that mango supplier an earful," I say. "I can't stand merchants who sell defective wares. Once, I ordered crimson-eye moths and obsidian ants from some fool who thought if he mixed ordinary ants with the obsidian ants, I somehow wouldn't notice. And when I came to demand my money back, he acted as if I should be grateful because he'd given me a fractional discount on the crimson-eye moths. And there was another time, with the turquoise beetles—" I realize my mouth is running away with me like paper on the wind again, and stop to make myself breathe. Winna watches me curiously until I recover. "I'd love six of your pastries, please, and nine slices of mango."

Winna starts packing them up. "So you're a healer?"

With all the insects I just mentioned buying, anyone would think so. "I—yes." It's a half-truth, I tell myself firmly. I still can heal, if not legally. And once the Spindle signs off on a Kadrisa license for me, I'll be truly launched in my new life.

I pay for the food and row back to my tree-boardinghouse, delivering Quella and Venan their shares before going up the ramp to my room. Once there, I take out the jars of blue mosquitoes and tiger-striped beetles, wishing I were free from the need for them. But I might as well wish for the sun and the moon to put in my pocket. Without the medicine-insects, my moods would go wild, not just the quicksilver mood but the grey-fog mood too, and I couldn't run my clinic then.

I swallow the corpses of the blue mosquitoes—wishing they were the size of ordinary mosquitoes, and not three inches long—and the tiger-striped beetles, which are at least the size of mundane beetles, even if they taste like pure pepper and have the texture of dust. Then I eat my pastries and mangos and trot down the ramps to the lowest floor of the tree-boardinghouse, which I rent for my clinic, to open up for the day. The man who talks to pigeons is just getting into his canoe, and salutes me with his paddle. I give him a friendly nod. I don't know if he's got magic, or if he hears voices in his head, but it doesn't matter. Everyone deserves to be noticed with kindness.

I get the most business in the afternoon and evening, so I suspect I can use the morning to process the insect corpses I recently bought, to turn them into the medicines I use. More sunset-purple butterflies are my first priority, since I have a moderate surgery tomorrow, and such butterflies are the safest method for anesthesia. Good timing. The inspector will watch the surgery if they come tomorrow too, and they'll see your skill. It'll be easy, you can get it done quickly, and do you really need to worry that much about infection? You've got plenty of ice dragonflies, surely that's—

With effort, I halt my thoughts as I take jars of dead sunset-butterflies off my shelf. No. I'm skilled at surgery, yes, but that doesn't mean it will be easy, or that it will be done quickly. And I do have to worry about infection, because all healers must. Ice dragonflies are effective, but I can't take chances. I can practically hear my teachers lecturing us all—infection can kill, or mean amputation, even if the wound isn't serious at first. And I'm going to do my best for my patients, not just because they deserve the best, but because being a healer is the one part of myself I have always loved, even when I despised all the rest of my being.

I get busy grinding and gesturing over the sunset-purple butterflies. But I've only been going five minutes when I hear the clash of rattling metal bars and a high-pitched wail. The Everlasting Rose ministers must be displaying the captive memory cricket, rowing it by on a large raft—though cricket-shaped, that demon is four feet tall. They don't come to the Dozen Gods Pools very frequently, but I've been told they go to other parts of Kadrisa much more often. Despite my admiration of the Everlasting Rose in general, I do find this action by her ministers somewhat reckless. If such a demon were to escape—

My thought is cut off by the noise of somebody crying.

Crying, in a choked and breathy sort of way. Frowning, I push open my door and step out into the misty rain. There's the raft with the Everlasting Rose ministers, alright. It has an iron cage in the center, and an indistinct shape wrapped in strips of dirty grey cloth inside. The whole cage is shaking, and wailing floats from inside. A flock of canoes trail after the raft, their owners here to view the power of the Everlasting Rose.

None of them seem to be crying, but when I look to my left, to the dock of our tree-boardinghouse, I see her. A young woman, perhaps my age, with short black curly hair and brown skin, sitting in a chair with wheels. I've seen a few such chairs around Kadrisa—what with the ramps, they are feasible. They are a new sight to me, since in Amari, all buildings have stairs. This woman is staring at the figure in the cage, a fringe of tears dripping from her eyes, sobbing and choking and breathing hard, trembling like a sparrow facing a stalking cat.

Even if I weren't a healer, I would know what this is. I've had them. Panic hawks.

I hurry over to the woman. "Hey. Can you look at me?" She doesn't seem to hear. Some people don't like to be touched, but better one touch than let the panic hawk keep her in its claws all day. We healers are trained to start with the shoulder until we're given leave. "Is it alright if I touch your shoulder?" Again, she doesn't seem to hear. I lightly touch her shoulder.

She jerks around, pulling away. "Who are you?"

"Serathi. I'm a healer, and I'm going to try and help you. Alright?" She nods slowly. "Can you tell me something you taste?" She stares at me as if I'd started singing the praises of the cactus god. "I know it sounds odd, but just tell me."

The woman clears her throat. "I drank some jasmine tea earlier. I'm still kind of tasting that."

"Good. Now, three things you can feel."

"I—I feel the mist from the rain on my face. And—um. My hair is tickling my neck. And I feel my chair under my thighs."

Whatever causes her to use the chair, obviously it doesn't prevent her from feeling her legs. I nod. "Nicely done." The raft with the cage is almost out of sight. I can still hear it, but only a sliver. "Now, four things you can see."

The woman takes a breath. "That shrine to the Grandmother Caves, across the pool. A man with a red tunic, rowing that canoe. A flock of pigeons on that branch. You."

I smile. "You're a natural."

She blinks. "That really helped. I feel—calmer. Nothing makes me calmer, when they get that bad. I just have to wait…how did you do that?"

"You did that," I said. "I just helped. So this has happened to you before?"

"Oh, so many times." The woman sounds bitter. "Sometimes I can control them better than this, but when they really get started, nothing can stop them. I just collapse and then go through the whole day on the edge of tears."

"It's not easy to deal with a panic hawk." I'm not about to tell a stranger that I have personal experience with them. "Have you spoken to a minister of the Oracle of Friends about yours?"

"The Oracle of Friends is a dead goddess. Why should I speak to one of her ministers?"

"I know what the rest of you say about the Oracle." I glare at her. It's true that no one has seen my goddess for decades, nor can her ministers bring storms or tame gryphons, nor does she send dreams to bless her most worthy followers. But I would have died without her teachings. "I imagine you've seen other healers about your panic hawks? Could they take them away?"

"Well—no."

"I've known people who got caught by them all the time, until they saw a minister of the Oracle of Friends," I say. "They teach patients how to stop them. And they train healers like me, so they can teach patients to stop them. I could help you, if you let me."

The woman looks at me suspiciously. "Insect-medicines don't work for me, or they never have before. Are you saying you could do better?"

"I can try," I say. "Nothing always works. But I became a healer to heal. Though I'm expecting an inspector from the Spindle, so if you don't want anyone there while I'm helping, you might have to come back later."

"Ah." The woman suddenly looks awkward. "About that."

"What?"

The woman hesitates, then holds out her arm. "My name is Mazin. I'm a birth-giver's healer and a midwife. And I'm your Spindle inspector."

"Oh." I blink. Did I just make a terrible impression or a good one? I don't know enough about Mazin to say. I clasp her forearm in greeting. "I'm Serathi, as I said. Come on in. You can inspect the sunset-purple butterflies I'm working on." I get to my feet. "Sorry about the Everlasting Rose cage coming by."

"I try to avoid it, but sometimes it takes me by surprise." Mazin makes a face. "Does it come down here often?"

"No. The ministers don't like the competition." I wave a hand at the numerous shrines on the rafts, floating on the Dozen Gods Pools. "Are any other god symbols likely to be a problem? Because there are…quite a few here."

Mazin's face tightens. "As long as they aren't caged and struggling to get out, I'll be fine." I'm deathly curious, and open my mouth to ask, but stomp on the urge just in time. My quicksilver mood makes me impulsive, but when I'm reasonable, I know better than to pry into wounds that might not be healed.

"I hope you like sunset-purple butterflies," I tell Mazin as we leave the rainy outdoors and cross through my front area and into the back room, which is my workshop. "I have quite a few to prepare." It was a risk to rent both rooms, since my money is low, but I'm hoping that when I hire more healers, or take on apprentices, I'll be able to turn the front room into another workshop. Until then, my patients can have the luxury of waiting inside and not having to listen to the preaching of dozens of different religions.

"So, surgery? Or for somebody with chronic pain?"

"Surgery, but I do have a patient with chronic pain, so I might as well get some extra done now. He's—" I clamp my mouth shut, holding back the words that want to spill out of my mouth like water. Unless Mazin asks, I won't tell her private details about my patients, no matter how my quicksilver mood tries to make me babble.

"Tell me about how you decided to operate."

I explain about the tumor I'm removing from my patient's breast, while Mazin watches me grind and gesture over the sunset-purple butterflies and ice dragonflies. I'm glad she'll be expecting every detail about the tumor, because my words are gushing out, excited and fast, and I can't seem to stop. See? You know all about this, and she'll see it—why were you ever worried? I bounce into speaking of the surgery itself without Mazin even asking, going through every tiny element of my process. I keep talking and keep talking and—

"Serathi!"

I halt and look at a clearly-bewildered Mazin. "Yes?"

"I said, I have a question."

"You said that?" I frown. "When?"

"Just now, twice," Mazin says. "You just kept talking."

Oh, no. I still feel like a bloodhound chasing a rabbit, but I can't fail. I can't betray the chaos in my head. "I'm sorry. What was your question?"

"How many of these surgeries you've done before."

I explain about my previous experience, forcing myself to take more care with my words. I glance at the ground sunset-butterflies and ice dragonflies and see with relief that they all came out well. Still, I slow my hands, hoping doing so will calm my mind. If Mazin couldn't be here on a day when I'm stable, at least she's not here on a day when I'm in a grey-fog mood. That would be really—

As I realize, I freeze. "Um, Mazin?" My voice comes out an almost-squawk.

Mazin wrinkles her brow, clearly noting my distress. "What's wrong?"

"How many times are you planning to come back and observe me?" I try to calm my voice, but it's still screechy.

"I'm not allowed to tell you the exact number, but at least five days, maybe longer. Why?"

My stomach drops. Five days? For me, moods come and go quickly, unlike some people with my same problems, whose moods can last for months. It's possible my quicksilver mood could last five days, or that I could become stable. But just as easily, my grey-fog mood could show up, and then—oh, Oracle. If it's hard to hide a quicksilver mood, covering up a grey-fog mood is like trying to walk through a blinding storm like it's a sunny day.

"Serathi? What's wrong?"

I look up at Mazin, who's watching me with soft concern. "I've just—never had an inspection under the Kadrisa system." That's true enough, though it's only a tiny part of why I'm nervous. "It's new."

"If it helps, the vast majority of healers pass these inspections," Mazin says. "The Spindle wants more healers in Kadrisa. You just have to prove you're not a charlatan."

Well, I'm a more-than-capable healer, and that's not just my quicksilver mood talking. The only reason the Spindle won't license me is if they find out about my status in Amari. And why would they? Even if somebody from there comes to visit—which they're not likely to, given most people from Amari don't want to visit a bug-infested swamp-city—why would they pay any attention to the boring healer's licensing process? "Thanks." I hear a loud knock on my front door. "Hold on." I hurry into the front room and open the door.

To see a white blond girl and a brown black-haired boy, both seventeen or eighteen years old and both swaying on their feet. The boy is holding up the girl, whose leg is clearly broken, and both are covered with deep cuts and spreading bruises. "Healer, we need—" The boy's voice cracks, but he goes on, voice imploring. "We need your help."

"That's what I'm here for," I say in my calmest voice. "Come right in."

In my front room, the boy helps the girl to a chair. I observe my new patients carefully. The girl has an open fracture—her fibula, her smaller leg bone, has broken the skin. That's likely to be my priority, unless— "Did either of you pass out when you were injured? Even for a few moments?" Both shake their heads. "Let me know if you feel dizzy, or get a headache. If you have concussions, they'll need to be treated." I address the girl. "What's your name?"

"Talya," the girl croaks.

"And yours?" I ask the boy.

"Akesh," the boy whispers.

Given I'm used to working alone, I'm strong enough that moving Talya won't be a problem—which is good, because Akesh doesn't look like he can hold her up for another second, and Mazin in her wheeled chair probably can't help me with that. Since her specialty is midwifery, that's unlikely to matter much—such healers usually travel with assistants no matter what. "Talya, I'm sorry I have to move you, but I'll give you something to dull the pain once you're in my workshop." I'm very grateful I prepared extra sunset-purple butterflies. We're going to need them.

~*~*~

I lean against my sturdy table and wipe my forehead, leaving a bloody smear from my wrist. I'm out of silver grasshoppers, which hasten the healing of broken bones, even though I had plenty initially—as it turned out, Akesh had broken ribs and a fractured ankle, and Talya had broken fingers and a fractured jaw on top of her broken leg. Mazin volunteered to go for more silver crickets, and I accepted gratefully, wanting to start stitching up the deeper cuts all over both my patients. My quicksilver mood has receded somewhat, so I'm closer to stable, but now I'm hungry, since I haven't eaten since the savory pastries and mango this morning—another symptom of quicksilver moods is that I get caught up in whatever I'm doing and forget to eat. The result of which is, now I'm cross and finding it hard to think.

And I still don't know how Akesh and Talya got hurt, or whether or not whoever hurt them is likely to come after them and try to do it again, in which case—

Then I hear a violent sort of hiss from outside, and enough screaming to deafen a giant. I freeze for one second, then grab a jar of raspberry beetles from my shelf and run outside into the rain, onto the dock.

To find myself not fifty feet from a creature I've only heard rumors of, but recognize anyway. A six-foot poison-green water bug with crimson wings, zooming around the nearest pool and knocking canoes and rafts around—some of which hold stones emblazoned with horrified faces. Stones that were once human. It's a basilisk water bug, with the size and petrifying gaze of any basilisk—but with the ability to run over water.

It goes against all my instincts to look away from the basilisk water bug—I want to watch it so I know if it means to attack me next. But if I look into its eyes, I'll just become stone too. Instead, I wrench the lid off my jar of raspberry beetles and reanimate them with a few gestures. They zip out of the jar and fly off. I can only hope they are doing what my gestures were supposed to make them do and distracting the basilisk water bug, because I can't look at them to see if they are. I dash back into the tree-boardinghouse, grab some soft soap and a bucket, and hurtle back out again.

Even more people are screaming now, and I scoop up water in my bucket and mix it with the soft soap as fast as I can. This had better work, because it's the only strategy I can think of right now. I risk a quick glance up, and see the basilisk water bug is swatting away at my raspberry beetles, but its eyes still have the power to petrify, and that has to end. I brace myself, run down the dock towards the basilisk water bug, and throw the soapy water in the direction of its face. Its hissing turns into a kind of scream, and I chance a look. Yes, it's covering its eyes, trying to scrub the soap out—since bugs don't have eyelids, it can't actually close its eyes. I throw more soapy water, determined to be safe, and the basilisk water bug lashes out randomly with one of its numerous legs. I duck, nearly spilling what I have left, and stumble back.

Then a whole cloud of reanimated insects zooms through the air—these ones all six feet in length, too large to be legal for anyone but wardens. The insects surround the basilisk water bug, dragging it away and flocking to cover its eyes—since they're already dead, they're immune to its petrifying gaze. I retreat to a safe distance and watch as several wardens row up in their swift canoes, directing their reanimated insects to bind the basilisk water bug and tie cloth over its eyes. The aftermath of fear hits me, leaving me shaky and weak. I drop my bucket with a clatter and rest my hands on my knees.

"Sit down before you fall over."

I look up in surprise to see Mazin on a miniature raft, a basket beside her. I'd assumed she got around using the wooden bridges, but now I see the raft has hooks to hold her wheeled chair in place, and that she has a pole for steering. Mazin sets the pole down, unhooks her wheeled chair, and puts the basket on her lap, wheeling off the raft and onto the dock. "Seriously, sit down. You look like you're going to faint."

The next second, I almost collapse, and Mazin has to catch my arm. "Thank you," I whisper, sitting down hard on the dock beside her. I close my eyes for a couple of moments, then open them and look at the wardens. "That was…fast." I might have expected two warden canoes here so quickly, but not seven.

"There was some off-duty warden working in the market," Mazin replied. "She used her power to call the others. Though you seemed to be doing fine without them."

"Ha, ha." I rest my head on my knees. "I'm extremely lucky not to be stone right now. All I had were a jar of raspberry beetles and some soapy water."

"It's a trick I've never seen," Mazin says. "Using soapy water against a basilisk. Of any sort."

"Nobody likes soap in their eyes," I say. "There's probably something better I could have done, but it was all I could think of."

Mazin laughs a bit. "I could list off ten elaborate spells to negate the vision of a basilisk that don't work half as well as what you did just now. Have some lime juice."

"Lime juice?" I raise my head to see Mazin taking a clay jug and a covered bowl out of her basket. I sniff, and smell goat curry. "I sent you for insects, not food."

"I got the insects; don't worry. But you're clearly starving, so I took the liberty. And you need to calm down after holding off a basilisk water bug. Drink. Then eat."

I take the jug, pull the cork out, and drink. The tang of the lime juice steadies me, and I know the goat curry will help. It's probably the relief of not being stone right now that gets me staring absently at Mazin's hair. It's shining, like obsidian or a dark waterfall—

That jolts me. Not a chance. I'm not going to term my Spindle inspector attractive, quicksilver mood or not, and no matter if it's true. "Let's go inside," I say, still a little shaky. "Akesh and Talya must have heard all that hissing and screaming. I'm sure they're worried."

As I get up and we head for the tree-boardinghouse, I find myself wishing I could deal with my moods the same way I dealt with that basilisk water bug. Because yes, it was dangerous and terrifying, but I only had to fight it once, and now it's gone forever. It won't come and go and come and go, endlessly. I glance back over my shoulder at the dozens of shrines to dozens of gods floating on the pool. Sometimes I wonder how much use any of them are. Because a world of gods can't save me from what happens inside my head.

Commentary on Chapter 1

This is not necessary to follow the story, but will offer further insight if you want it.

I was diagnosed with bipolar in high school, but for a long time, I didn't want to write anything about my mental health—it was far too painful, and I wanted my writing to be an escape from life, not a reminder of my agony. It took me about a decade before I actually wrote a story with a bipolar character. That story was the first draft of this one. The old version lacked a lot of the depth and worldbuilding I've hoped to add here, but the bones of it—the healer who is herself not well, and the enemy she will fight—brought about Serathi and the Demon Wing.

Quicksilver moods are my word for what we, in our world, call hypomania or mania. Because I have bipolar II, I get hypomania, which can have all the symptoms Serathi has in this chapter, as well as some others I will demonstrate later. Mania has these symptoms too; the difference between the two is that mania tends to be more intense, can include delusions, and may land a person in the hospital. Don't mistake me, though—hypomania is plenty intense, especially when it hasn't been treated. What Serathi deals with is a version that has been treated—with her medicines, and the methods from the Oracle—and as you can see, it still knocks her off-balance plenty.

Grey-fog moods are my word for what we, in our world, call depression. The next chapter will have a demonstration of depression, so I won't go into it in depth right now. However, I will note that not all bipolar moods switch as fast as Serathi's. Mine sometimes do, which is why I wrote the story this way. However, some people's bipolar moods—including mine, at other times—will last for much longer than a few days. They can even last for months. If you want to read about bipolar characters with those kinds of moods, check out my story Blue-Collar Apothecary.

I got the idea for a swamp-city while randomly reading a Pathfinder TTRPG book. (I think it was the Katapesh one, if anybody loves Pathfinder like I do.) There was something in there about a harbor full of bugs; I think it was literally called Bug Harbor. I didn't remember anything else about it, but I was like, "What if there was a city there? Well, why would anyone build a city in a goddamn swamp, without draining the swamp? Hm. The bugs! They need the bugs for their magic!" And then I ran with it.

The majority of the tactics Serathi uses to calm her mind throughout this story come from a therapy called dialectical behavior therapy (DBT), developed by Dr. Marsha M. Linehan at the University of Washington. I learned DBT over the course of a year in 2017 and I still use the strategies on a regular basis, to great effect. (The protagonist of my story You Speak and Stars Fall also uses some DBT tactics.) Obviously, no one in my stories actually uses DBT exactly as we do in our world, but I believe some of the strategies could be discovered independently.

Serathi's mention that being a healer is the one part of her that she's always loved, even when she despised everything else about herself, is a direct inheritance from my feelings about being a writer. I survived some of the worst times in my life through writing—to quote Hamilton: "I wrote my way out of hell."

Mazin the healer/midwife/wheelchair user is dedicated to one of my best friends, who impressed upon me the importance of variety in the realm of physical abilities. It's a realm in which I've been trying to diversify ever since, and although I'm not where I want to be yet, this can be a start. Kadrisa can be as accessible as I want—this is fantasy, after all.

I've done my best to get all the medical details right, but if somebody's some kind of expert on tumors or broken bones and is like, "That's incorrect!" you can contact me if you'd like and I'll fix it.

The soap-in-eyes solution to the problem of the basilisk water bug literally came from a day where I got soap in my eyes in the shower. And yes, I had to use an internet search to find out if bugs have eyelids. My internet search history is weird, I am proud to say.

Thank you for reading! See you next time.

© Elijah Merrill

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