Epilogue

by Etzoli

  “Sort of,” I replied honestly, glancing up at her. Her eyes were so kind and wise. I swore to myself right then, I’d tell her the truth. Not today, but I would. She deserved to know that her son had been a hero. That he’d saved countless lives. That I’d immortalize him in the annals of the Scriveners, and make sure everyone heard his name.

  She put an arm around my shoulders, giving me a brief hug. “Carl, I know he can be a bit harsh sometimes, but he does love you.”

  “Uh huh,” I grunted sarcastically.

  “Believe it or not, all parents make mistakes too.”

  “You’ve given this speech before,” I pointed out glumly.

  “It’s still true,” she said. She ruffled my hair, which I’d always pretended bothered me, but was honestly really comforting. “He wants you to be successful, and he’s doing what he thinks is best to make that happen.”

  “I’m already successful though,” I muttered.

  “As a student, maybe, but there’s a lot more to life than being a student.” Which I knew, of course. I’d stopped being just a student a long time ago. Hard to argue with results like mine, building a guild from almost nothing, becoming the closest advisor and friend to the emperor. Power and success were things I was accustomed to. Here, I was just so… helpless.

  Weak.

  I couldn’t change anything. I couldn’t do anything. My best friend was—

  The emotions roared back into life, and this time I was powerless to stop the oncoming flood. I felt droplets falling to my lap, warm trickles down my cheeks.

  Adela looked alarmed. “Carl, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry,” I choked out. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else.

  “What for? Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t.” I stood up, a little too quickly. The rush of blood from my weak old body sent my head spinning. I stumbled a bit, but I brought it under control. I forced it back under control. I started for the door. “I need to go.”

  “Carl, wait,” Adela started, but I was already out of the room. I took the stairs, two at a time. I needed air. Anything besides the cramped confines of this suburban nightmare. I reached the street, and the sight of trees was enough to subside my panic, if only for a moment. But as the fear dissipated, it was replaced once again by creeping, overwhelming dread and the utter despair of loss.

  Blake was dead.

  The word finally crashed through my skull. I’d been dancing around it for so long, ducking away, trying to avoid its sting.

  My best friend was dead.

  I started running. I didn’t know where to. I didn’t care where to. Anywhere was better, but I couldn’t get to anywhere.

  Blake was dead.

  And I couldn’t do a thing about it.

  Chapter 7 — Jen

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Nothing, sir. We’re still actively pursuing all possible leads.”

  “So he’s been missing since last night.”

  “Yes sir, based on the mother’s testimony. Adela Svartholm last saw Blake before leaving for work the night before.”

  “Leaving for work?”

  “Graveyard shift nurse, sir.”

  “Chief, kid’s been gone for less than twenty-four hours. Doesn’t that mean he’s not considered missing yet?”

  “He’s under eighteen, detective. That rule doesn’t apply. Did you get anything useful from the mother?”

  “Hysterics?”

  “West, do I need to schedule you another sensitivity training?”

  “We’re not sure about the mother’s testimony yet, sir. We have another name or two to run down.”

  “Well, get going, then. Dismissed.”

  I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. Pancake has cake in the name. It’s close enough. And I haven’t had a really good pancake in a long time.

  Matt’s pancakes are amazing. Okay, you might think it’s easy to to make pancakes… and it is. But to make good pancakes, that’s hard. Not everyone’s got that. My brother’s got it; my mom’s got it too. Family secret recipe. One whose ingredients sadly didn’t quite carry over across worlds. Nor did maple syrup.

  Pancakes with maple syrup and powdered sugar. That’s been our family “breakfast for dinner” treat for a long time. The sort of special surprise we’d occasionally get when we actually had the chance to sit down together and eat a good meal. Tonight’s feast was better than any meal I could ever remember—and that included several literal feasts. I’m not claiming Matt was some kind of food wizard, mind you. It tasted great, but the meal was so much better because of the company.

  Mom was actually awake and laughing, for one. We told the usual inside jokes, teased Matt about his unexpected new love life, and just hung out. It felt like we’d picked right back up where we left off. I felt so comfortable and warm there at our little round table, just the three of us. I felt… normal. Relatively. For the first time, I went for hours without a single wayward thought about Cyraveil. Still the occasional glance out the window to make sure no one was there watching, but without the usual hallucination and flash of terror.

  The one spot of real anxiety that cropped up came when Mom asked me about how school was going. I passed it off, or at least I thought I did, but she came back around a few minutes later to pester me again. I knew she was just trying to be the good parent and all, but how the hell was I supposed to answer questions about my classwork from seven years ago?

  Matt was no help at all. He’d gotten all moody and withdrawn, when he could have easily deflected Mom onto another subject. It was only through the years of experience dealing with my opposites in the ambassador tent that I could hide my emotions and redirect the conversation back where I wanted it to go. She was doggedly persistent, something Matt obviously got from her. Once they got a task in their minds, they did not give up. Admirable, really, except when I was the target.

  I love her to death, don’t get me wrong. And I wanted to tell her everything, but Matt said no. And he was probably right. Better we just keep it secret until everything became clear, and we knew what we were doing, who we could trust.

  Yeah, I’m a bit of a hypocrite. Shut up.

  Sara is my best friend. And not that sort of best friend where it’s just the person you happen to hang out with the most. I mean someone I trust with everything. She’s the sort of person who’s seen me cry, who knows every secret crush and weird thought that crossed my mind, who I’d keep awake until three in the morning for weeks straight talking about anything and everything in between. I’ve never lied to her about anything.

  Okay, that’s a lie too, if you want to get pedantic. But the big stuff. I’ve never lied to Sara about that, and she’s helped me through so much. Like stuff with my father, or when Mom was sick, or stupid school stuff, or my massive identity crisis when I realized what it meant that my last name was different from Matt’s.

  (Not adopted, by the way. Full-blooded siblings, it’s complicated. If you ask nicely, I might tell you the story someday.)

  Point is, Sara is trustworthy. She’s the best person I know in this world, except maybe my mom. But while my mom has never quite understood discretion, preferring to share everything between the family, Sara would never break a promise to anyone. Maybe Matt didn’t know that yet, or maybe he just overlooked people like Sara when he said we couldn’t tell anyone.

  So why didn’t I tell Matt about what I’d done yet? If I had to admit it, I was afraid. Afraid he’d say it was a bad idea. Afraid he’d tell me not to talk to her anymore. Then we’d run into a real problem, because there was no way in hell I could ever agree to that. I didn’t want a fight with my brother. We’d done that before, and it only ended badly. Really badly.

  For now, secrecy was the best option. Sara knew just enough to not ask anything yet. That seemed like an okay compromise. Besides, that also kept the rift away from her and Matt.

  Yeah, my best friend and my older brother were goin
g on a date, and that was super weird. But they’re only a year apart… now… and I meant what I said. They seemed like a cute couple. I thought they’d be good together. I mean, they’re my two favorite people in the world, and they want to be together. That couldn’t be a bad thing, right?

  Right?

  No, I’m not worried. It’ll be fine.

  I was worried about whether or not Matt noticed what I carried in that afternoon. When we’d gotten home from school, I’d run to check the mailbox. Lo and behold, same-day shipping is a miracle of modern technology. I’d rushed the package inside and up to my room before Matt got out to the garage—I hoped. He might have seen me through the window. I dunno. I think I hid it pretty well. He didn’t mention it, anyway.

  After dinner, while Mom was helping Matt clean up the kitchen (even as he insisted she go relax and enjoy her unusual day off), I was very quietly and carefully climbing the stairs. Normally, our entire house creaked and groaned everywhere you walked. It was practically impossible to move around without everyone hearing you. I’d learned a lot though about moving quietly, though, and a lot of the concepts still applied. My feet were light and quick, and I still remembered a lot of the specific spots where the old wood made noise. Memories resurfaced, of so many nights with Tethevallen and Naeflin, learning how to move through a forest with only a whisper in my wake, how to avoid rustling the leaves and branches, and how to avoid making any audible footfalls without losing an ounce of momentum. Completely different environment, but I could adapt the basics, and I was a fast learner.

  By the time I reached my room, I was practically a ghost rushing above the floor, with nary a thump of a door or a heel striking the floor to be heard.

  I wasn’t sure why I was doing it. It wasn’t like my family didn’t know where I was. It just felt natural. Being able to move silently almost anywhere was a skill I’d honed over the years, and it had been incredibly valuable. I didn’t want to let go of it.

  Also under the “valuable skills” column was the package I’d ordered that afternoon, using Carl’s phone—a surprisingly short cardboard box I’d slid under the bed. I cracked it open slowly, trying to avoid making too much noise tearing away the tape. Nestled inside was a handsome three-piece maple recurve bow, built to takedown and reassemble easily. A hard leather carrying case with attached quiver accompanied it, along with a set of feathered arrows.

  I took the bow out and assembled it, though I didn’t string it right away. I didn’t want to stress the wood, and I didn’t plan on using it any time soon, so there was no reason to bother with it yet. I slid my hand along the sier, feeling the smooth maple wood and the perfect finish. It was perfect. Too perfect. I wished I still had the bow I’d helped craft myself, but I forced that thought away. It was silly. There was no way I could assemble a bow of that quality with the tools and materials I had here. Besides, there were fancier, modern materials to use to replace the traditional wood, and I wasn’t exactly a purist.

  Case in point, the limbs on this bow were not made of wood—or any material known in Cyraveil—but black fiberglass, rolling back and upward to create a slender curve, increasing the weight of the draw when strung. I shuddered at what Tethevallen might think about such a thing, but it wasn’t like I could just strengthen the limbs with an etomala here. I’d yet to feel any connection or resurgence in this world, so I had to make do. Fiberglass would work, even if the shiny black was totally at odds with the pleasant swirls of brown along the maplewood.

  Satisfied, I disassembled it and placed the three pieces back into their slots in the foam liner of the leather bag. The bag was worn at the waist, and had an attached cylindrical case for the arrows. I tried the getup on, testing it out carefully. After a few adjustments, it flexed with my movements, but it stayed close and firm. It wouldn’t swing around unnecessarily and catch on things or hamper me down. I reached experimentally and found I could grab an arrow, as swift and painlessly as I needed.

  I inspected the arrows. They were more expensive than I’d hoped, but they felt solid and smooth, and the fletching was excellent. The tips were broad and they looked like they’d do the job. They’d fly straight, too, even if they used some weird feather colors. I guess solid white and black made them easier to spot when hunting. I packed them away into the bag, not wanting them out in the open in the quiver in case someone went snooping.

  Finally, the knife. I had a lot less experience with them, in terms of materials and quality, anyway. I definitely knew how to use one. I looked it over, and it seemed fine. The blade was sharp, and it was long enough for anything I might use it for. I felt satisfied.

  The bag went under my bed, concealed under some sheets, and I followed suit and collapsed underneath my own blanket. Every muscle ached from exhaustion. I pulled the blanket tight around me and curled up, waiting for the heat to settle in, wishing I had a fire or anything else since I couldn’t keep myself warm like I usually did.

  You can buy a bow online and have it shipped to you within nine hours. How crazy is that?

  With that passing thought out of the way, I drifted off only a few moments later. Real sleep had finally arrived, after one harrowing night of insomnia and an exhausting first day back. I was so grateful to finally drift off for real. As I slipped away though, my thoughts were fixated on what I’d just purchased. The weapon.

  For the first time since I’d gotten home, I felt safe. That bothered me a lot, but I couldn’t help it. I had no logical reason to expect something, but my brain decided logic could go screw itself. In my hands, that bow was a deadly, swift, virtually silent weapon, and the knife was a great complement. They’d be perfect at putting a swift end to the fight if I were attacked.

  What the hell am I thinking? I didn’t want to kill anyone. That’s not me. I didn’t even want to hurt anyone.

  So why was I clutching the knife tight under my pillow as I fell asleep?

  ***

  The next day (Thursday, as I finally learned the names of the days again) was a disaster.

  I mean that in the nicest way possible, of course, but I’m pretty sure I ruined everything in one day. Go team Jen.

  Let me rewind and explain that a bit, I guess. It started off okay. I woke up the next morning after sleeping something like fifteen hours straight, knife still in hand. I ate breakfast, leftover pancakes from the night before. Matt had set them on a plate in in the refrigerator and left a sticky note with my name on it. Mom was already gone too, so I had the house to myself for a bit. I spent it mostly just staring out the back window while I chewed, at the woods beyond our backyard.

  We had a small forest behind our house. It really wasn’t that large, but it was deep enough that you could get a little lost, feel like your sense of direction was totally gone, surrounded by scattered tree trucks and thickets of underbrush. Of course, since we were still pretty close to a few big roads, the faint ambient noise of cars rushing by was inescapable. The woods muffled it, but only so much. Cyraveil Forest was much larger and more difficult to travel through, but it was way on the other side of town, further away from the city.

  I had an intense, primal longing for those trees right now. To sit down under the shade of some huge trunk, in the comfortable nook of its thick roots, with scattered sunlight filtering through the layers of leaves above me, feeling the wind rustle through the branches and the layers of ivy and fallen twigs coating the floor, filling my nostrils with the scent of the bark and tree sap and maybe the petrichor from an upcoming downpour.

  But I had to go to school.

  I packed up my bag and headed out the door. I’d managed to grab a class schedule for myself later in the day (with an assist from Sara), so I actually knew what I had today instead of just blindly hoping my feet took me to the right room. Our school operated on an alternating day schedule, so I had a new set of classes today. Sara had something in the morning on Thursdays too, so I’d be walking to school without her. My other friends were waiting by the gate in the morning thoug
h. I said hi, did the usual meet-and-greet, but I avoided conversation the rest of the way. I just let them talk. I really didn’t feel it today, especially with them.

  Their conversations seemed so… I dunno. Unimportant, now? I kinda hate myself for thinking that. Does it make me super-arrogant? Naeflin would have a few choice words for it, for sure.

  I just couldn’t get into the gossip anymore, especially since I barely remembered half the people we were talking about. Not much in the way of juicy information when names float by as insubstantially as petals in the wind. I knew I’d be regretting not paying attention later, but for now it just seemed like too much effort.

  Sorry, back on topic, disaster day. Nothing interesting went down in the morning. I’ll skip ahead to the notable bits. It was during the break between my second and third period when it happened.

  I was just standing at my locker in the hall. Nothing special about it. (Thanks, Sara, by the way, for showing me where my locker was with only a few raised eyebrows of pained concern.) I’d been fighting with my bag all day, trying to keep the supplies inside from scattering all over whenever I walked. It made way too much noise. I could tell myself it didn’t matter, but my instincts stubbornly insisted until I gave in. I was separating out everything loose into small bags, and filling them with cotton balls I’d lifted from the art classroom.

  I was feeling clever and satisfied, so of course something had to go wrong.

  A couple guys were playing catch nearby. Nice guys, actually. I vaguely remembered the far one from a long time ago. I think we were in the same elementary school class, or something like that. I was paying attention to them, in the same way I was always keeping track of every single person within thirty feet or so. But I got distracted, trying to figure out the contents of my locker and what half of the junk stored in there actually was and if I’d really picked out the lame decorations on the door, and I didn’t notice the ball coming until it crashed into the wall in front of my head.