Flashback (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 7)

by Shannon Messenger

  Fitz sighed, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

  Okay—don’t freak out, he said, which of course had her freaking out even before he added, but . . . matchmaking technically goes by age. You have to be fifteen in order to pick up your packet, sixteen to turn it in, and seventeen to get your first list. And since those ages kinda match the Levels at Foxfire, it became a tradition to say, “Register after the Level Five midterms, turn the packet in at the end of the year, and get your first list at the end of Level Six.” But it doesn’t have to be that way. Once you turn fifteen . . .

  He didn’t finish the sentence—but he didn’t have to.

  Just like he didn’t have to remind her that she was fifteen.

  So . . . she could register now.

  I thought elves didn’t pay attention to age, Sophie argued, grasping for any loophole that would save her from what Fitz was saying.

  But it was also a valid point. Ever since she’d moved to the Lost Cities, Sophie had been struggling to keep track of exactly how old she—or anyone else—was. The elves didn’t acknowledge birthdays, counting age by something they called their “inception date” instead—but then they barely paid attention to that. No one ever mentioned when they turned a year older, and half the time it seemed like they weren’t even sure how old they were—especially the Ancients.

  The system had felt strange at first. But Sophie had grown to understand why the elves didn’t feel the need to mark every year when they were going to live for thousands of them.

  The match is different, Fitz explained. They want us to have our lists as early as possible, so we have lots of time to consider everyone on them—and probably so we don’t get too attached to anyone before we know who we’re matched with. But also not so young that we haven’t manifested our abilities, since that’s one of the big deciding factors.

  Sophie was pretty sure her human parents would’ve told her that the ages Fitz was talking about were still way too young for dating of any kind—much less matchmaking. Actually, they’d probably have a lot to say about the whole system.

  But . . . she wasn’t living with humans anymore.

  She was an elf in the Lost Cities.

  She was supposed to be doing things their way.

  And, for better or worse, the elvin way involved matchmaking—which she qualified for right now.

  But you said I had time to think about it, she reminded him. When we were sitting under Calla’s Panakes tree.

  She remembered that conversation very clearly, mostly because it was the same conversation where he’d told her he was hoping she’d decide to register. And even though there was a decent chance he’d only said that part because he was trying to protect her from all the problems she’d face if she ended up in a bad match, her silly, hopeful brain sometimes liked to imagine there’d been another reason.

  You do have time, he told her. Fifteen’s the minimum age, but there’s no maximum. It’s not like I went the first day I was old enough or anything.

  Yeah. True.

  Fitz smiled. Do you realize you look like a cornered gremlin whenever you have to talk about this?

  Gee, thanks.

  What? Gremlins are cute.

  She tuned out the part of her brain that was suddenly wondering if Fitz had just called her cute and tried to find something to make him understand where she was coming from. I know matchmaking’s normal for you, she tried. It’s just . . . not for me.

  I know. And I would NEVER want you to think I’m trying to pressure you. I just don’t want you to make it a bigger deal than it is and end up with all kinds of stress and drama for no reason. I mean, even if you register, you haven’t committed to anything. You could choose to never pick up any of your lists—or you could pick them up and choose to ignore them.

  I guess. But . . . won’t I show up on other people’s lists—even if I don’t get mine?

  Yeah, but it’s not like you’d be obligated to date anyone.

  No, but it’d be super strange knowing there are people out there being told we’d make a good match.

  Well . . . what if you liked some of them, though? Wouldn’t that end up being a good thing?

  YES! the silly, hopeful part of her brain wanted to scream. But she forced that part to be quiet.

  All the match lists mean is we’re genetically compatible, right? she asked.

  Nope. Genetics are the starting point. But you’ll see when you pick up your match packet—well . . . IF you pick it up—the questions make you think about things you never would’ve thought about before. It’s hard to explain until you work through it, but it’s actually pretty brilliant. You should at least pick up your packet and read the questions. You don’t have to turn it in.

  Sophie sighed. Maybe. It’s just . . . every time I think about doing that, I think about the people the system’s hurt.

  It’s definitely not perfect, Fitz agreed. But . . . that doesn’t mean it’s ALL bad.

  I know.

  The smart thing would’ve been to stop there—back far, far away from the dangerous territory they’d wandered into.

  But Sophie must not have been feeling very smart.

  What would you do if you didn’t like any of your matches? she asked, blurting out the words in a messy burst.

  Fitz shifted his weight. I have no idea I mean . . . being a bad match is a mess for anyone. But for a Vacker?

  Has anyone in your family ever—

  Nope. Some have never gotten married—but that’s different. If I ended up in a bad match, it’d be this huge thing that EVERYONE would talk about. I’d never, ever stop hearing about it. My parents and sister would never, ever stop hearing about it. And . . . I don’t know if I could handle that.

  She couldn’t fault him for not wanting to live through that kind of drama.

  But he’d also shone a big, glaring spotlight on something she hadn’t let herself think about. She’d been so worried about confessing her crush and wondering whether or not he might ever like her that way that she’d never realized . . .

  Even if he did, it might not matter.

  Not if her name wasn’t on one of his match lists.

  NINETEEN

  OKAY,” SOPHIE SAID, CLOSING HER eyes and taking a second to shove all matchmaking-related worries into another mental box marked Deal with Much, Much, Much, Much, Much Later. “Somehow we got sidetracked. We’re supposed to be figuring out what to do about meeting with Fintan.”

  “Right,” Fitz agreed, sitting up straighter. “So . . . maybe we should test where we’re at. We could count to three and each say which way we’re leaning. See if it syncs up.”

  “Worth a shot,” she said, even though she was pretty sure she knew exactly how that was going to go.

  Sure enough, when they got to “three,” Fitz said, “I think we have to do it,” at the same time she said, “I’m worried it’s not worth the risk.”

  Fitz blew out a breath. “Well, that didn’t help.”

  “I know,” she agreed, half wondering if they’d be better off leaving it up to rock, paper, scissors. But they probably needed to put a little more thought into it than that.

  “Maybe we should try a speed round,” she suggested, “and each give one sentence about why we think we should or shouldn’t meet with Fintan.”

  “All right,” Fitz said, brushing his hair off his forehead. “I . . . want to find out if he knows anything about what’s going on with my brother.”

  “And I’m worried he’ll only tell us things that mess with our heads—or our echoes,” she told him.

  Fitz nodded slowly. “So . . . how does that help us figure this out?”

  Sophie wasn’t sure.

  “Well . . . I guess it shows we’re coming at this from different places,” she realized after a few seconds. “You have an agenda. And I’m . . . afraid.”

  “Is one better or worse?” Fitz asked.

  “I don’t know. Trying to get anything from the Neverseen usually leads t
o disappointment. But . . . fear’s a terrible reason to decide anything. It’s like letting them win without even making them earn it.”

  “Okay, so, where does that leave us?”

  “Between a rock and a hard place,” Sophie grumbled. “But . . . if there’s no obvious right choice, maybe it’s better to go with the option that at least tries.”

  “Meaning . . . we meet with Fintan?” Fitz verified.

  “As long as we do everything we can to prepare for whatever head games he’s going to play, yeah. We can’t let him set us back any more than Umber’s attacks already have.”

  Fitz nodded. “Does that mean we’ve decided?”

  “I think so.”

  “Should we hail Magnate Leto, then?” he asked, a hint of excitement leaking into the words. Sophie was sure Fitz’s brain was already imagining how the meeting would go—all the questions they’d ask and all the things they’d learn.

  “He said to wait until morning,” Sophie reminded Fitz, bracing for a long day of stressing and second-guessing—and an even longer night.

  But Silveny broke the worry cycle when she reached out a few hours later.

  The motherly alicorn insisted on sorting through Sophie’s recent memories, catching every single one of the doubts and worries that Sophie was trying to bury. And instead of the usual flying dreams, she filled Sophie’s head with images of them galloping through the white-capped rapids of a surging river—cold water crashing into them. The currents tried to drag them under, but they kept their legs moving, kept their heads above the surface because they were stronger and faster and more powerful than anything the river could throw at them.

  For a sparkly winged horse, Silveny gave a pretty awesome pep talk.

  And when Fitz held up his Imparter the next morning and asked, “Should we tell Magnate Leto?” she didn’t hesitate to agree.

  Magnate Leto took the news better than she’d expected. No lecture. No questions. No noticeable reaction, really. He’d simply nodded and told them, “I’ll let the Council know to start making arrangements,” before his image flashed away.

  “Arrangements for what?” Keefe asked, striding through the doors to the Healing Center.

  “And please tell me it involves extra ooze!” Ro added.

  Fitz groaned. “I forgot about the next Ooze Fest.”

  Ro grinned. “Good thing we didn’t!”

  “But getting back to my question,” Keefe said, stopping at the foot of their cots and putting his hands on his hips. He studied both of them for a beat before his eyes settled on Sophie. “What arrangements is Leto making—and why does the Fitzster look way more excited about it than you do?”

  She wasn’t sure if they were allowed to tell him—but it was so much easier than arguing.

  He took the news about as well as she’d expected.

  “You’re wasting your time,” he warned.

  “Maybe,” Fitz said. “But if your mom was demanding a meeting, would you turn her down?”

  “Of course not! But you’re kinda scraping bottom if you’re using me as the model of good decisions. Especially decisions concerning my parents.”

  “That’s right—how’d it go with your dad yesterday?” Sophie asked.

  “Pitiful attempt at a subject change, Foster. Tell me more about this Fintan meeting. I take it you guys are planning on going all Mega-Cognate on him?”

  “Yes, but we’re going to be smart about it,” Sophie promised. “Now back to your dad. What did he want yesterday?”

  Keefe shrugged. “Oh, you know, typical father-son bonding time.”

  “Which means?” Sophie pushed.

  He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the style a little. “He thinks my empathy Mentor isn’t pushing me hard enough. So he wants me to start training with him—because nothing says ‘good idea’ like combining me, my dad, and a bunch of emotion exercises. What could possibly go wrong?”

  “Uh, you told him no, right?” Sophie asked.

  “Not this time.” His eyes dropped to his feet and his shoulders curved slightly inward—which happened sometimes when he was dealing with his dad. All the fight and energy drained out of him, leaving a muted Keefe shell. “No need to fling so many worries at me, Foster,” he said.

  “Then tell me how he’s forcing you to do this,” she countered.

  He shrugged, raising one defiant eyebrow as he glanced up to face her. “You’re looking at it the wrong way. My dad sooooooooo hasn’t thought this one through. Do you have any idea how miserable I can make him?”

  “Probably about as miserable as he can make you,” Sophie noted.

  “Nah—he also has me,” Ro jumped in. “And I have parasites.”

  “Speaking of which,” Elwin said, clattering into the room carrying the silver basin they’d been using for their skill lessons and a tray of colorful balms, “I’m surprised Lord Cassius hasn’t hailed me about another round of stomach issues. Does that mean you decided to go easy on him?”

  Ro batted her eyelashes. “Give it a few more hours.”

  Elwin grimaced. “Are you going to at least tell me what you gave him this time?”

  “Now, where would the fun be in that?” Ro asked. “Besides, it’s good training! The traitors who defected from my father might use this stuff against you someday. Better learn how to recognize it.”

  “Unfortunately, I suppose that’s true,” Elwin said, setting the basin on the floor between Sophie’s and Fitz’s cots.

  “Is it ooze time, is it ooze time, is it ooze time?” Ro asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet and clapping her hands.

  Elwin nodded, turning to Fitz and Sophie. “Who wants to go first?”

  “Foster volunteers!” Keefe said, with a smirk that so deserved a pillow to the head.

  “You good with that?” Elwin asked her.

  “Wouldn’t you rather do it not knowing what’s about to happen?” Keefe added—which was an excellent point.

  Sophie shot Fitz an apologetic glance as she told Elwin, “Yep, I’ll go.”

  Elwin set the tray of balms in her lap. “I’d recommend plugging your noses,” he told all of them as he lifted her bad arm and held it over the basin.

  “Psh, I want to bask in this!” Ro sucked in a long breath as Elwin untied the bands securing Sophie’s chain mail and unleashed a plume of something Sophie could only describe as weaponized morning breath.

  The strips of bandage underneath had gone from white to brownish yellow, and they made a horrible squish as Elwin slowly cut through them with narrow scissors.

  “Here we go!” Ro said, clapping as Elwin pulled the cocoon apart and . . .

  Keefe coughed. “Okay. That might even be too gross for me.”

  Sophie couldn’t decide which was worse: the way the ooze fizzled and foamed the second it hit the air, or the way it clung to her skin, dangling off her arm in long snotty threads instead of dripping into the basin.

  “Any chance I can get a bottle of that stuff?” Keefe asked. “I think my dad really needs to smell it.”

  “Nope. This is all going to Livvy,” Elwin told him.

  “Uh, if she’s going to use it for an elixir, I’m never taking one of her medicines ever again,” Fitz jumped in.

  “Me neither!” Sophie agreed.

  Elwin laughed. “It’s only for tests. She wants to study how the shadowflux affected your cells. And let’s see . . .”

  He used a tiny squeegeelike device to swipe the slime into the basin in long, gloopy strips. Her skin was pink and shriveled underneath—like when she soaked in a hot bath for too long. And her fingers were finally the size they were supposed to be.

  “I told you your hand would be almost back to normal,” Elwin said as Sophie gently touched each of her knuckles, grateful to feel solid bone in all the places that had collapsed during the attack.

  “What about the numbness?” she asked.

  “That’s where the ‘almost’ comes in,” Elwin admitted. “It’s going to tak
e me at least a couple more days to fix all the nerve damage. And it’ll be even longer before you get back your strength. Can you try moving your fingers for me? Go one at a time, like this.”

  He showed her the back and forth motion he wanted, and Sophie tried to copy him. But halfway through, her arm was shaking and she was breathing like she’d just run a marathon.

  “I know this probably doesn’t seem very encouraging,” he said when she had to admit that she couldn’t finish, “but this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. Your hand is mostly new right now—new bone, new muscle, new flesh. So you’re going to have to teach it how to work again. Fitz is going to face a similar struggle with his leg.”

  “I am?” Fitz asked.

  Elwin nodded. “I’m sure you’re going to need crutches for a week or two. Don’t let it freak you out. We’ll get you there, okay? Both of you.”

  He smeared a poultice over Sophie’s arm that looked like regurgitated spinach and wrapped it in a layer of gauze. Then they got to endure the ooze all over again—much to Ro’s delight—as he repeated the process with Fitz’s leg. Fitz’s ribs also got a bandage change, along with a thick layer of bright orange balm that smelled very, very fermented. And for the finale, they each got trays filled with dozens of elixirs.

  Sophie wasn’t sure how she’d find the will to choke them down—until Elwin told her, “This next round should get you out of those cots. I’m betting by tomorrow night you’ll be able to move around a little. And if all goes to plan, you should be able to leap home in two to three days.”

  “Glad to hear it,” a familiar voice said behind them, and they all turned to find Sir Tiergan watching them from the doorway, shaking his pale blond hair out of his deep blue eyes.

  “That’s right,” Elwin said. “I forgot Magnate Leto said you’d be stopping by this morning. Don’t worry, we’re almost done.”

  “You just missed the Fitzphie Ooze Fest,” Keefe informed him.

  Tiergan stole a glance at the slime-filled basin, and his olive-toned skin took on a greenish tinge. “That explains the smell.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” Elwin told him. “I’ll take care of it as soon as I get this packed up.”