Nora followed with a lantern, her legs burning. When the amber light illuminated a sign reading Floor 34, Eira at last entered a musty hallway. They made a few turns before she stopped, unlocked a door, and said, “Shutter the lantern.” Nora obeyed, and Eira led her into an ancient office.
Sunlight and a cool breeze entered the room through a large window covered only by a thick, metal screen. Dust motes danced throughout the room. A desk sat in a corner, and two preday chairs were positioned in front of the window.
Eira pointed at a covered clay jar on the desk. “Drink some water, then sit. As your friend says, it will be hours before the entire army arrives. There are rooms like this on all four sides of this building. We will travel between them and keep watch.”
When Nora was hydrated and seated, she asked, “Won’t the soldiers notice the screen?”
With a soft sigh, Eira lowered herself into the other chair. “We have screens in many rooms and many buildings.”
Silence fell. Nora’s mind was too full to initiate small talk, and Eira wasn’t exactly chatty.
After perhaps a quarter hour, they moved to a different room. From there, Nora could see the street where she and her friends had battled the militia two days before. As she stared at the area, her mouth went dry. That was where she’d faced off with Faylie, her friend who’d been turned into The Overseer.
I didn’t have to kill her. I could’ve found another solution.
She replayed the scene in her mind, desperately trying to think of how she could’ve avoided killing her best friend. She shook her head and turned her attention to a different part of the city. Like a magnet, the warehouse drew her gaze again. Her mind agonized as she remembered.
Faylie.
The dagger.
The spike of ice.
Heart pounding, Nora suggested they move to the next room. But they returned to the second room again and again on their endless circuit. Every time they stepped through the door, Nora’s stomach clenched in anticipation of the torturous memories.
A few hours after they’d come up the stairs, they spied a scout on orsaback. He wore the Cellerinian Army uniform: black pants, a blue shirt, and a black jacket. Nora knew she shouldn’t fear one lone soldier. Nonetheless, she was short of breath. They’re coming. They’re really coming.
The quiet wait continued. It was late afternoon when Eira at last said, “Look.”
Nora squinted, then drew in a sharp breath. In the distance, hundreds of soldiers marched in their direction, accompanied by a smaller group on orsaback. Within minutes, the army separated into six sections, each one funneling onto a different street. “Six groups for six clans,” Eira said.
Eira and Nora returned to their original room, where they’d have the best view of the Star Clan. Dozens of soldiers soon entered their streets.
Nora pointed to about ten soldiers who’d broken away. “Where are they going?”
“They have entered our residential street,” Eira said. “If they touch our homes . . .” She left the thought unfinished, the muscles of her jaw clenching visibly.
Most of the group of soldiers continued to the main street below Nora and Eira. They all gathered before one woman, who seemed to be their leader. After she addressed them, they gave a shout. A battle cry.
The soldiers spread out along the street. Several men and women ran into the building entrance below Nora and Eira. Nora’s heart began beating as hard as it had while she was climbing the stairs. She knew the chances of anyone finding them in here were slim, but by the sky, she didn’t like knowing their enemy was so close.
A soldier in the street pulled out a gun. A loud POP sounded, making Nora jump. The glass window of the butcher shop—one of the few such windows she’d seen in this place—shattered. The man and his companions kicked the rest of the glass out of the window, then went in through the door and returned with two wooden chairs.
The biggest of the group used his brutish strength to break apart the chairs. Each soldier took one or two pieces of wood then continued down the street. They used their improvised clubs to break door handles, destroy plants, and generally cause as much damage as they could.
“Are you watching this?” Nora murmured, pointing.
“I watch others,” Eira said.
Nora followed her companion’s gaze to a group of soldiers tossing furniture into the street. They formed a pile that dwarfed them all, then lit it on fire. “Oh no,” Nora said softly.
“We can live without furnishings,” Eira said. “Not without food.” She pointed to the nearest rooftop garden. The soldiers atop it were ripping up plants and dropping them to the street far below. Their comrades on the main street threw smashed plants into the fire.
After a few minutes, Eira said, “We must see what they do in other areas. Come.”
Moving from room to room, Nora watched frenzied men and women wreaking havoc. At first, all the violence was directed at the trogs’ buildings and possessions. Then fights started breaking out between soldiers. A short, particularly brutal confrontation ended with a young man lying in the street, bleeding heavily from his head.
Nora had to look away. “I’m so glad your people aren’t out there.”
Eira nodded. A tear slid down her wrinkled cheek.
When they returned to their original lookout, they saw more bonfires. One blazed on the residential street. Nora could guess its contents: Clothes. Food. Furniture. Toys.
She shook with anger. Through his orders to his army, her father was destroying the trogs’ homes. How could you do this, Dad?
Then her entire body stiffened. In the street below, as if he’d heard her silent question, King Ulmin had appeared.
He looked as regal as ever, wearing luxurious clothes and riding his gorgeous, brown orsa. The golden band encircling his head glimmered in the sunlight. Nora leaned forward, pressing a hand against the window screen. She gritted her teeth, trying not to cry. By the stone, I miss you. I don’t want to, but I do.
More than ever, she wanted to separate him from the fuel that had poisoned his mind. He still had the capacity to be the father and king she used to know; she was certain of it.
Well, maybe not certain. But I won’t stop hoping.
Her father proceeded down the street. As soldiers spotted him, they held their arms out and lowered their heads. He acknowledged their bows with nods. Smiling, he engaged them in friendly conversation, even as bonfires burned around them.
Desperate for air, Nora gulped in one breath, then another.
“The king?” Eira asked, her voice low.
“Yes.”
“Why does he do this to us?”
“He’s angry that the trogs helped bring down the militia.” Nora didn’t know how her voice could sound so calm while her insides twisted like brambles.
“I know that.” Eira turned her whole body to face Nora, not speaking again until she held the teenager’s gaze. “When I feel angry, I yell. I hold my hands tight so my nails cut my skin.” She held out a tightly formed fist. “I do not destroy things. I ask you, why does your father do this?”
Nora opened her mouth. “I—" She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
“He is your father. When you ask to come with me, you tell me you know him like no one else does.”
“I did tell you that.” Nora pulled her eyes away from Eira, fixing them on the king below. “I know who he used to be. I think he’s still in there. But the man we’re looking at? I don’t know him at all.”
The hours passed slowly in the manmade cavern hosting all the trogs. At least Krey could chat with Zeisha, who remained cuddled up to him. Could be worse.
There were frequent lulls in their conversation, though. Zeisha was pensive, an unusual state for her. At one point, Krey felt her breaths turn quick, almost frantic.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
He tried again. “Do you miss your family?”
“It’s not that.
I do miss them, but that’s not why . . . It’s just—the militia battle. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You know what the battle showed me?” His lips brushed her ear as he spoke. “How strong you are. Zei, you’re stronger than you’ve ever been. And now you’re free. You can use your talents for good.”
She stiffened a bit at that. He held her tighter. It was all he could do. His helplessness grated on him. When she remained silent, he whispered that everything would be okay.
But would it? He had no idea what she’d been through over the past months. She had little idea either, which made things worse. He wished she’d see herself the way he saw her—strong and talented and absolutely beautiful.
At last, the “Silent” call went out one final time. “The soldiers are gone,” a trog announced. “Go home.”
Most people rose to their feet, though Krey soon realized those who stayed seated were the smart ones. It would take time to move this many people. He turned to Wendyn. “You know the army will come back, right?”
She nodded. “We are not stupid. When they return, we will be ready. We will use our knowledge of our city against them.”
Krey felt his own mouth widening into a smile. “Can’t wait to hear more.”
After a long wait, the track behind them cleared. Wendyn and her group began their return journey. By the time they reached the lobby they’d entered so many hours earlier, Krey’s nerves were alight with anticipation. Is Nora okay? What’s waiting for us out there?
A night sky, full of stars, was visible through the windows. After walking through dark streets, they approached the back entrance to the building where they’d met to get their assignments. Next to Krey, Zeisha breathed, “Oh no.”
Others responded too, but all Krey could do was keep walking, right up to the door, his mouth agape. Inside, tables and benches were upended. Several had been thrown into a pile in the middle of the space. Flames consumed the pile. Smoke filled the room. The preday building was made of fireproof materials, but when the fire burned out, the room would be full of soot and ash. The Star Clan would need another community space.
Wendyn stood as tall as her small frame would allow. Flickering light from the flames reflected off her profile as she lifted her chin and spoke to the group of newcomers. Krey was close enough to see that the fire in her eyes was as hot as the one in the building. “We walk to the street,” she said, pointing.
They circled around to the front of the building, where more bonfires burned. The breeze blew acrid smoke into Krey’s mouth and nose. He coughed, waving a hand in front of him.
He didn’t realize Nora had come up behind him until she spoke, her voice full of vitriol. “No, they’ll never do that.”
Krey turned. “What?”
She pointed at a building across the street. Flickering firelight revealed a message, painted in red:
TROGS: BOW TO KING ULMIN
Krey gritted his teeth. “Fat chance.”
A male trog ran up to Eira, who stood next to Nora. He held out a sheet of paper. “This was left on a porch. It says, ‘To the trog leader.’ ”
“That’s my father’s handwriting,” Nora said as Eira took the paper.
“He was here?” Krey asked.
Nora was obviously trying to read the note, but Eira walked off to hold it closer to the firelight. “Yes,” Nora said, sighing. “The king was here.”
“That’s good news.” He explained Wendyn’s concern about Ulmin controlling militia members. “Apparently he can’t connect with their minds if he doesn’t know where they are,” he concluded.
“But he controlled Osmius before he saw him.”
“I think that’s because Osmius was chained up. Your father knew exactly where he was.”
Nora nodded slowly. She looked exhausted. “I’m glad something good came out of today.”
Eira returned. “Come,” she said, beckoning Krey, Nora, Ovrun, and Zeisha. They followed her to a quiet spot in front of the neighboring building. She gave the note to Nora and held the lantern so the princess could read her father’s words.
In a slightly shaky voice, Nora read aloud:
To the Trog Leader:
We have reason to believe you may be harboring the following Cellerinian citizens:
Princess Ulminora Abrios
Kreyven West
Ovrun Kensin
Every surviving member of the militia which, until recently, trained in your territory
The princess must be returned home for her own safety. The rest are fugitives and must be brought to justice in Cellerin City. You will immediately send each of these individuals to the palace, escorted by your own armed guards.
When you meet this requirement, I will personally sign an agreement to ensure the continued independence of Deroga’s trogs.
If you choose to claim ignorance of the whereabouts of these Cellerinian citizens or if you defy my order to return them, a larger army will soon invade Deroga. We will fight until the city is part of my domain.
His Majesty Ulmin Abrios
King of Cellerin
Nora’s gaze found Eira. “Will you accede to my father’s demands?”
The old trog straightened her back and lifted her chin. “As Krey says, fat chance.”
“Even if it means he’ll attack again?” Krey asked.
“Since The Day, trogs are independent. If we bow to the king’s demands, he will require even more from us. An agreement from him is worthless. Just as he is worthless.” Eira’s eyes flicked to Nora, but she didn’t apologize for the statement. “The king will regret the day his boots touched Derogan streets.”
4
According to a new study, gardening is the fastest-growing hobby for teenagers.
People assume we want to connect to our planet. But that’s not why I have a garden. I grow food because I don’t trust the systems we have in place—big farms, transportation, distribution. What if it all breaks down one day? I want to provide for myself. Even if it’s just a couple of salads a week.
-“Teen Gardeners” by Genta Ril
The Derogan Chronicle, dated Quari 4, 6293
“You are tired,” the trog woman told Zeisha. “Eat more fuel.”
Zeisha flinched. She was twenty-five stories above the city in a rooftop garden. How long have I been staring into the distance—without even enjoying the view? With a smile, she took a handful of rinsed plant roots from the bowl the woman held.
While Zeisha appreciated the fuel, her tiredness had nothing to do with magic. These days, life itself exhausted her. Yes, she’d been freed from the militia, but she couldn’t go back to normal life. She couldn’t even contact her parents; the king might’ve sent someone to watch them. And she had nothing in common with the other militia members. They all seemed to be energized by the possibility of battle. Was she the only one who didn’t want to fight?
“Are you all right?” the trog asked. Her brown eyes were bright, the skin around them smooth. Zeisha guessed she was in her mid-twenties.
“I will be,” Zeisha said. It was more a hope than a promise. “Let’s get these plants growing.” She knelt and dug her fingers into soil that still bore treaded boot prints from the king’s soldiers.
Growing plants in the ground differed from creating a vine in her hand. She couldn’t grow crops or trees from scratch; she had to start with a piece of the species she was growing. Thanks to the roots the Cellerinian soldiers had left behind, Zeisha could, in time, regrow this entire garden.
She released a soft sigh as the creative warmth of magic suffused her hands. A green sprout emerged from the dark soil, growing into a bluish-purple, flower-like collection of hardy, edible leaves. When the violitus plant was fully grown, Zeisha pulled her fingers from the soil and scooted over to start on the next one.
The trog woman knelt. Her medium-brown hair, short and curly, quivered as she harvested the violitus and moved it into a crate. “You save trog lives by doing this.”
“Your own vine eaters are doing the same on other rooftops.”
The woman smiled, and the sun reflected off her bright teeth. Where do they get enough toothpaste for two thousand people? Zeisha wondered. Realizing she was staring, she wiped her right hand on her pants and held it out. “I’m Zeisha.”
“You live with trogs now. You must learn our trog greeting.” The woman held up her left hand, palm facing Zeisha. “Fingertips only.” They pressed their fingertips together, then pulled their hands apart. “My name is Kebi.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kebi.” Zeisha went back to work.
Minutes later, Kebi harvested the third plant Zeisha had created. She put it in the crate and stood. “Come. We must deliver these.”
The statement broke Zeisha’s concentration, and the plant beneath her fingers stopped growing. “We’re done? I’ve got plenty of magic left.”
“I know someone who needs food. We will take this, then return.”
Kebi carried the crate to the edge of the roof. Zeisha followed. Kebi placed the crate in a large, wooden box attached to a pulley. As she pulled the rope hand-over-hand, the box descended. Halfway through, Zeisha took over.
“I wish we could use the same method to get down to the ground,” Zeisha said as she finished. She and Kebi walked to the trapdoor that led to the building’s stairs.
As they descended, their way lit by a candle Zeisha carried, Kebi said, “You must have questions about trogs. Please, ask.”
Zeisha asked the first one that came to her mind. “Have you ever left Deroga?” She’d heard that sometimes trogs left the city to purchase supplies.
“I am born in Deroga,” Kebi said. “I live here all my life. One day, I will die here.” She stopped for long enough to touch Zeisha’s shoulder. “I am happy to meet a new-city woman.”
The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2) Page 3