The Tree of Ecrof

by Kobe Bryant

  Now, Rovi reached out and placed his hand on the Self-Splitter. This was the last thing his father had touched before everything changed forever. How could a machine have done that?

  Before Rovi knew what he was doing, he lifted the contraption off its hook. It was designed for a bigger person—for his father, of course. He stepped into the legs. Then the arms. The Self-Splitter was too loose on him. He couldn’t walk in it.

  But why would he want to? The machine had turned his father into someone unrecognizable—“a crazy person.” That’s what everyone else had said. “A crazy person who had tried to cut down the Tree of Ecrof.” It was an accusation Rovi did everything in his power not to believe.

  It was hard to say whether Pallas’s selves had ever come back together properly. He sure never looked the same. He seemed like half a person. That much was clear. The minute his father could talk again after the experiment, it was clear to Rovi that Pallas was not the same. He immediately started raving about trees. Ranting about them. It was all he talked about from the moment he returned to his and Rovi’s rooms. All he talked about until the rumor spread across Ecrof about what he had done—how he was found trying to destroy the most famous tree in Epoca—was killing trees. How trees were the enemy. How they were coming to destroy the students. The school. The world. Even when he became poisoned by all the hallucinatory Somnium potion he drank that made him seem even less like the brilliant inventor he had been before his final experiment went wrong, he still babbled about trees. But Rovi never told anyone this. And he never would.

  Rovi had now fully stepped into the Self-Splitter. Of course he couldn’t make it work. He didn’t know how. It required some kind of power. And Rovi had no idea what that was. But he wanted to know what his father had felt like in the last moments he was himself.

  He pulled the visor down over his face. He felt trapped. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. He wobbled to the left and then to the right. And then—with a deafening clatter, the whole contraption was on the ground. Rovi lay still.

  “Who’s there?”

  Someone was outside the window.

  “Who is in there?”

  He held his breath. The last thing—the very last thing—Rovi needed above all else was anyone in Ecrof finding him trying out his father’s old equipment. Especially the Self-Splitter.

  13

  PRETIA

  THE TOWERS

  Pretia was relieved when Cassandra tapped her on the shoulder on her way into the cafeteria to let her know her uncle Janos had invited her to eat in his rooms. She’d been looking around for Rovi, the only person who didn’t seem to care whether or not she had grana, the only person she enjoyed eating with. But he was missing . . . which was weird. Rovi never skipped a meal. He usually got there early and kept eating long after all the other students had bused their trays.

  Pretia noticed the looks she was getting from the rest of the Dreamers as word quickly spread that she’d received a coveted invitation to eat at the Trainers Towers, but she ignored them. What did it matter? They already thought she didn’t have grana and that the only reason she’d been invited to Ecrof was on account of her parents. So she might as well go.

  In fact, Pretia kind of missed being a princess. She missed her childhood bedroom and she missed her nightly chats with Anara, who always managed to soothe Pretia’s anxieties.

  She hoped this didn’t mean she was spoiled. She knew the accommodations at the Temple of Dreams were luxurious. But there was no privacy. Pretia shared a room with Adira and Xenia, who were always whispering together late into the night, poring over their Grana Books and making silly predictions about everything from what would happen the next day to who would win the first House Field Day. They weren’t unkind, but they didn’t include her, either.

  And while the food in the cafeteria was terrific and plentiful, she wouldn’t have minded her favorite simple meal—honey chicken and flatbread—prepared by Castle Airim’s cooks and delivered to her room so she could eat in peace.

  She dashed down the marble steps that led from the Temple of Dreams to the hill that descended to the main campus. Instead of cutting across the campus, she climbed another hill, where the imposing Trainers Towers looked down on Ecrof. The towers were tall, twin temples to Metus, the God of Fear, who had taught the people of Epoca the importance of embracing and transcending their fears to be their best selves. Both temples had eight columns supporting a narrow triangular roof.

  The interior was pleasantly cool, as if the warmth of the sun knew exactly when to disappear in the evening. The sight of a Flamekeeper tending a ceremonial fire when Pretia entered made her miss Anara more than usual. The man looked up from the flames and directed her to the very top floor, where she would find her uncle.

  The stairs zigzagged up the temple, cutting back and forth over the atrium below. Pretia was out of breath when she reached the top floor. She knocked and in no time Janos had flung the door open. Without even thinking, Pretia rushed into his arms. His strong hands drew her close, filling her with happiness.

  And suddenly she wasn’t in Ecrof anymore. She was momentarily back in Castle Airim or the Ponsit Palace—her mother’s ancestral home.

  “Favorite niece!” Janos said.

  “I’m your only niece,” Pretia reminded him.

  Janos let her go. “It’s so good to see you, Pretia,” he said.

  “You see me every day,” she replied.

  “But it’s not the same. Out there you are only a recruit. Here, you are family.”

  Pretia looked away to hide the tears that had sprung to her eyes.

  “Come,” Janos said, leading her away from the door.

  As Cassandra had mentioned, Janos’s rooms were magnificent and luxurious. They stretched across the whole top floor of the tower. The front was a double sitting room, as opulent as the king and queen’s quarters at Castle Airim. Behind the sitting rooms, Pretia could see a large kitchen and what she imagined was a bedroom that seemed to be glowing with a flickering light.

  Everything in Janos’s chambers was done up in Realist blue—drapes, cushions, couches. The fabrics were luxurious—the finest Chaldean silks. Pretia recognized all the finery. It was exactly how she’d grown up. Without having to be told, Pretia flopped down on one of the large floor cushions.

  “Aaah,” she exclaimed without thinking.

  Janos laughed. “You don’t find Ecrof up to your standards?”

  Pretia bolted from the cushion. “Oh, no— Everything is perfect. Everything—” she stammered.

  “I’m only joking, Pretia,” Janos said, his green eyes shining under his heavy brow. “I invited you here so you could feel at home.”

  Pretia breathed a relieved sigh and fell back again on the cushion.

  “Now,” Janos said. “I seem to remember you liking honey chicken, and what was it?”

  “Buttered flatbread!” Pretia exclaimed.

  “The girl who could have anything wants chicken and buttered flatbread.” Janos laughed.

  Pretia tried to hide her excitement. “Is that what we’re having?”

  “Of course!” Janos clapped his powerful hands together. “My cook trained under the best at Ponsit Palace. Even I need a break from all the variety of food in the cafeteria! Sometimes simple is best.”

  As if on cue, Pretia could smell the sweet caramelizing scent of her favorite food. She closed her eyes in anticipation.

  “Honey chicken? For real? I climbed all the way up here to have peasant food?”

  Pretia’s eyes snapped open at the sound of her cousin Castor’s voice. He was standing in the doorway to Janos’s chambers, an irritated look on his face.

  “If I’d known, I’d have stayed back at the Thinkers Palace.”

  “Castor, aren’t you going to say hello to your cousin?” Janos said.

  “Oh, hey, Pretia,” C
astor said. “Make yourself at home.”

  Pretia rolled her eyes. “I already have.”

  “All right, you two,” Janos said. “I thought Ecrof might teach you to put aside this childish rivalry.”

  “What rivalry?” Castor snorted. “How could I ever even compare myself to the Child of Hope?”

  “Quit it, Castor,” Pretia said. “That’s just a dumb name my parents use to impress people.”

  She was cut off by the cook bringing a heaping tray of honey chicken and buttered flatbread to the table.

  “Child of Hope,” Castor teased, “I hope you’re hungry.”

  Pretia ignored him, went to the table, and started helping herself to the enticing food. Janos and Castor followed. For a few moments, all Pretia could think about was how every bite of chicken reminded her of Castle Airim and her parents. Life had been so much simpler then. She didn’t have to decide between Dreamer and Realist—her parents celebrated her as both. Even with her cursed grana, she could have easily hidden away in her room in the castle. She wouldn’t have been tempted to use it in races, in Granology, and in Visualization. She could have kept on playing her pretend games alone and waiting until she had to become queen. That is—if she would be allowed to be queen.

  Despite his earlier complaints, Castor was eating furiously, shoving chicken into his mouth as if he hadn’t had a proper meal in months.

  “Guess honey chicken isn’t that bad,” Pretia said. In her uncle’s chambers, she was feeling more like her old self—like she could stand up to Castor.

  Castor finished chewing. Then he looked from his father to Pretia. There was a devious gleam in his eye. “Father,” Castor said, “is it true that if Pretia doesn’t have grana, I get to rule?”

  A grave look crossed Janos’s brow. “Castor, that is a very serious question. Probably not one that I should be discussing with you.”

  “Why not?” Castor asked. “Who else should you be discussing it with?”

  Janos sighed and rubbed his muscular hands together. “Well,” Janos said, “if it were really true that Pretia didn’t have grana, I suppose that when the time came, the rule would eventually pass to you—rule of House Relia, that is. Of course, rule of Epoca itself is decided by the Epic Games every four years. So the Realists would have to win the Epic Games for you to be ruler. And if the Realists lost, I believe Moira, Pretia’s second cousin on King Airos’s side, would rule.”

  “Well,” Castor said, “judging from the way things look around here, I don’t think I’m going to have to worry about my distant cousin Moira. Our Realist players are amazing. Julius Renovo alone could—”

  Janos held up his hand before Castor could say any more. “Hold on, Castor,” he said. “All of this talk is nonsense unless Pretia really doesn’t have grana. I’m not sure I believe it. Pretia, is it true?”

  Pretia stared at her uncle. For as long as she could remember, he’d believed in her. He’d told her that she was good enough, strong enough, that she would one day be an Epic Athlete even if no one else in all of Epoca believed it. He’d always told her she reminded him of the strongest woman he knew, and she’d basked in this comparision to her mother. The truth was on the tip of her tongue.

  Castor’s eyes were wide with anticipation.

  “Pretia,” Janos said quietly, “is it true?”

  Pretia looked from her cousin to her uncle. Her mind was ping-ponging between telling the truth and maintaining the lie that she didn’t have grana. If there was anyone she could tell, it was Janos. But then she’d have to explain why she’d been hiding it. And the minute Castor got hold of the fact that she had done something dangerous—not just one thing, but several things—he’d never let it go. He’d make her life even more miserable than he already had.

  “It’s true,” she said finally.

  Janos looked at her quizzically. “Pretia,” he said, “grana comes at different times for everyone.”

  Pretia shrugged.

  Castor’s eyes lit up with delight. “She doesn’t have grana, Father. Remember.”

  “Castor,” Janos warned.

  “But that means I—”

  Janos banged his fist on the table. “Castor, I’m warning you, as the Head Trainer of Ecrof, to hold your tongue. Or there will consequences for the Realists.”

  Castor clenched his fist just as the cook emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of pistachio cakes. “You know what,” Castor said, “I don’t need dessert.” And he dashed from the table.

  Janos watched him for a moment, then shook his head. “Come on, Pretia,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “have a pistachio cake. They came via ship from the mainland for you.”

  Reluctantly, she reached out and took one of her favorite pastries.

  “Grana is different for everyone,” Janos said. “Sometimes it comes on strong and early but never gets stronger. Sometimes it’s weak and only gains strength as you mature. In fact, my sister’s grana came very late. Very, very late.”

  “My mother?” Pretia asked.

  A strange look crossed Janos’s face. “Not Helena. Syspara.”

  “Syspara?” Pretia said. She rarely heard anyone mention her aunt.

  “Yes,” Janos said, “her grana was different.”

  Pretia bit her lip. It probably wasn’t as different as her grana. It probably wasn’t cursed. She shoved the rest of the pistachio cake in her mouth.

  “But you know what?” Janos said. “Sometimes challenging events have a way of drawing out your grana. So perhaps yours will come on Realist Field Day. Castor is right about one thing. From all the reports from the Trainers, your house is going to need all the help it can get to beat the Realists. So I’m counting on you! It’s time for your grana to emerge.”

  Pretia nodded, her mouth full of food. She was glad the sticky pastry was preventing her from speaking, from lying once more to her uncle about her grana.

  When she’d eaten her fill of pastries, Janos put the rest in a small bag for her and showed her to the door. “I love my son, Pretia, but I see him with open eyes. You know enough to understand that Castor teases you because he’s so insecure. After all, he’s spent his life second to the marvelous Pretia.”

  “I guess,” Pretia said.

  Janos opened the door to his chambers. Then he wrapped his arms around Pretia. “You are always welcome here. Ecrof is magical, but it’s not perfect. I want you to know that my rooms are your second home if you ever need it.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” she said.

  “But a word of caution. Tomorrow, I’m not your uncle. I’m back to being the mean Head Trainer who expects great things.” And with that, Janos pinched her cheek and sent her on her way.

  Pretia took the steps quickly and in no time she was out of the Trainers Towers and down on the main field. She was in no hurry to get back to the Temple of Dreams. The moon was full. The campus was quiet. For once she could enjoy it without the snickers and stares of the other students. The Infinity Track was hovering over the cliffs—half of it dangling over the sheer drop. The leaves of the Tree of Ecrof were glowing like mercury. She could smell the eucalyptus vapor wafting from the TheraCenter.

  She passed the Halls of Process, the low temple of classrooms. Suddenly she heard a bang, like crashing metal. Pretia froze. She was standing in front of a large window that looked into the storage area between the Visualization classroom and the room for Granology.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  Someone was behind the window. She could hear a sharp intake of breath.

  “Who is in there?” she repeated.

  There was no answer.

  Pretia tiptoed toward the window and, holding her breath, peered inside. In the silver moonlight she saw Rovi on the floor, trapped inside some kind of strange cage that looked like the skeleton of a diver’s suit.

 
“Rovi!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

  “N-nothing,” Rovi stammered.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.” Pretia laughed. “What is that thing?”

  Rovi looked from side to side, like he might avoid answering the question.

  “And what is this place?” The room seemed to be filled with all sorts of wild machines of different sizes, forged out of all the metals mined from different areas of Epoca. It was a mess and looked long abandoned.

  Rovi took a deep breath. “It’s my father’s old lab,” he said.

  “A lab for what?”

  “His visualization machines. So are you going to help me or not?”

  “With what?” Pretia asked.

  “I’m stuck in this thing.”

  Pretia covered her mouth to avoid laughing. He looked so ridiculous, toppled over in the weird cage suit.

  “Are you going to stand there and laugh at me, or are you going to help?” Rovi asked.

  Pretia held her laughter and rushed around the Halls of Process to the entrance. Between the doors to the two classrooms was a narrower doorway, which she found unlocked. Inside, Rovi waited in his strange contraption.

  “So your dad invented all this stuff?” Pretia asked when she’d helped Rovi out of the machine.

  “Yes,” Rovi said.

  “And what does it all do?”

  “Different things. Some allow you to re-create a perfect motion. Some allow you to experience what another player is feeling. Some help you visualize better, like those Mensa Crowns we used on the first day of Visualization class.”

  “And it all works,” Pretia gasped.

  “Kind of,” Rovi said with an unusual look in his eye.

  Pretia was about to ask another question, but Rovi quickly changed the subject. “What are you doing out of the Temple of Dreams?” he asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” Pretia said. “I was having dinner with my uncle in his rooms.”