Such a Daring Endeavor

by Cortney Pearson

  Chills brush across Shasa’s skin. “Color it yellow, and that could be Craven’s.”

  Jomeini rubs her arms as if chafing away whatever memory fills her mind at that moment. Shasa wonders if it’s the same one she’s recalling, the sight of the dingy yellow trenchcoat Craven wore the day he snatched Shasa from right in front of the Triad Palace into an abandoned building and stole her magic then and there.

  “What does the star mean, then?” Shasa asks. When Jomeini doesn’t answer immediately, Shasa continues thinking aloud. “Stars provide light in the night sky. They’ve held their places for years, giving sailors something to sail by.”

  “But this one is a shooting star,” Jomeini says. “This one is setting off on its own course.”

  “And you think it pertains to Tyrus?”

  Jomeini shakes her head. “I thought so at first. I Saw Tyrus, yes. But I Saw others with him. Among his soldiers was a blonde woman I didn’t recognize.”

  “A group of stars,” Shasa says inwardly. “With one straying from all the rest.”

  “It means change is coming, and someone is at the center of it. I thought it was Tyrus, but now I’m not so sure. See the other star beside this? See how the bursts on the star go one way, so it looks like the star can be spearing to the left? But if you look at it this way…” Jomeini turns the card until it’s upside down. “Now the star could be shooting to the right.”

  “So Tyrus isn’t leaving?”

  “Not in so many words. It’s more complicated than I can explain, but something Tyrus is going to do will be as vast as the effort of crossing an ocean with no other guide but the stars. It’s going to change the world as we know it. And depending on what we do, that change is going to veer the races one way or the other. For good.” She holds the star picture one way. “Or for ill.” She turns it the other direction.

  Shasa swallows and takes the card, experimenting. The star’s direction turns with each flip, more indecisive than the weather. It’s like the picture of a smiling man with a furrow in his forehead her mother used to draw. She would turn it upside down, and though the picture hadn’t changed at all, the man would look sad and menacing instead. All because of one or two carefully placed lines.

  “So how do we get this change to veer in the direction we want it to go?” Shasa asks.

  Jomeini doesn’t answer. Instead, she fingers the collar at her throat. The two girls sit in the boat in silence, bathing in the deep wake of their thoughts.

  Warwick Cunningham could have sworn nothing would ever surprise him again. How wrong he was.

  He eyes his surroundings in the lower level of the Triad Palace and rubs the talisman on his wrist. It’s thick metal, tarnished like his grandmother’s silver. With his hands strapped together by the thin Prone, also around his wrists, he imagines earlier days, romping through wheat fields in the blazing hot sun and being called in by his grandmother to polish that silver. The acrid smell of the polish is so vivid he can almost smell it now, the way the cloth felt in his hands and the residue that left his fingers slick like grease.

  “Like that, do you?”

  Tyrus Blinnsdale’s voice breaks across the lab, echoing off empty glass beakers and silver pans resting over unlit stoves.

  The general—not just any general, but the Office of the Arcaians—comes into view from behind stacks of metal sheets that are larger than the walls of Warwick’s meager home back in Jienke. General Blinnsdale wears a tan uniform, a stiff, short hat with a narrow black brim tucked under one arm. His head is bald, and a sturdy mustache nestles above thin lips.

  Warwick isn’t sure if he likes the talisman or not. Some type of technology wired into the metal released his emotions the instant Miss Hawkes’ will overrode his own. Though it’s been a day since it happened, his thigh still burns where the blonde girl thrust her Xian claw in and claimed him for her minion.

  She struts behind the Arcaian general now, her face beaming in Warwick’s direction. Fear layers itself in at the sight of her. Fear and anger so hot it makes sweat bead down his spine beneath his tweed shirt. And the realization of it all makes him weak. So weak, his knees give out, and he collapses to the marble floor of his new chambers.

  The instant the blonde Miss Hawkes snapped this bracelet on, the wharf blocking his emotions opened. A collision of pain welled at the wound, searing a heavy, wretched pulsing clear into his bones and back. His eyes bulged, burning away any moisture that should’ve been there.

  Miss Hawkes laughed at this pain. She laughed at his reaction to it, as emotions he hadn’t felt in the eight years since his magic Torrented emerged anew.

  Now, Tyrus gestures to Miss Hawkes, urging her forward. The heels of her pointed nude shoes clack their way to where Warwick kneels on the cement.

  “Looks like you’re finished reconnecting with the real you,” she says, kicking against his shoulder with her heel so that he lifts himself to face her. “You should consider yourself lucky. This talisman is a gift, one we only give to servants who are more…valuable than others.”

  Warwick raises his eyes to hers. She is disgustingly beautiful with porcelain skin and celery green eyes. She wears a fitted pink suit that cinches in at her narrow waist. He’s sure she meant to pay him a compliment just now, but it didn’t sound that way to him.

  Servants. He had goals, dreams. He was advancing well in pledgeschool, he was preparing to graduate with a career in magitech electronics, to upgrade the way vehicles were fabricated. Of course his emotions were gone, but his intellect was there, and that was enough of a drive to pursue the highest point in his education that he could. And now he’s nothing more than a servant.

  “What do you want with me?” Warwick finally asks, struggling, unable to find his feet.

  General Blinnsdale pulls a clipboard from the counter behind him, perusing through papers as though he’s a physician examining a patient’s medical history.

  “Warwick Alexer Cunningham, top of your class at St. Nichol Pre-Col in Jienke, graduating with a scholarship to Windsor Pledgeschool where you’ve been studying magitech and engineering.”

  Miss Hawkes smiles at him, the corners of her eyes squeezing in an almost-wink. Does she expect Warwick to reply to a read-out of his transcripts? He knows full well they already know who he is. A sour twinge eddies in his stomach and pulls him to open his mouth despite the strong desire to deny her the satisfaction of an answer.

  “That’s me,” he says without knowing why.

  “Come here, Warwick,” says the woman, wagging the first finger of her petite, well-manicured hand.

  Against his will, he obeys. She’s even lovelier up close. Golden hair weaves into a braid banding around her head, while straw-colored tresses tumble down her back. Her face is one he wouldn’t likely forget either, but something beneath the pretty exterior is poisoned, like a shiny red apple rotted inside by worms.

  “Do you realize how important you are?” she asks him.

  He rolls his eyes at her pathetic attempt to sound smart. What does this girl know, and why is she keeping it from him? “This grows tiresome. Why don’t you ask a question I can actually, legitimately answer?”

  Tyrus booms a heavy laugh, stepping forward to clap Warwick on the back. “I like him,” he says to Miss Hawkes, as though Warwick was a pet she just selected at the store.

  “Stop playing games with me. Tell me why you took me from my studies. Why you took my freedom.” He brandishes the talisman at them as if they need the reminder.

  Miss Hawkes frames her face into a pout. Clearly, she doesn’t like being criticized. She huffs before opening her mouth to speak when the thick door at the far end of the lab swings open, and a pair of soldiers rushes in, looking harried.

  General Blinnsdale directs his attention toward them. “Odis, you see I’m with someone. Can’t this wait?”

  In a uniform similar to the general’s, Odis inclines his head toward Miss Hawkes, then at Warwick, which surprises him, before returning his attent
ion back to the general. “Apologies, sir. You said to report immediately. There’s still no sign of Haraway or the Csilles, sir.”

  General Blinnsdale slams the clipboard back on the counter, and Miss Hawkes lifts her chin, a severe expression in her eyes. Her heels clack as she moves toward the soldiers.

  “Then keep looking,” the general commands. “No soldiers must be spared until they are found, do you hear me, Odis?”

  Odis lowers his head. “Yes, sir. We did find the location, though. Csille didn’t lie—”

  “Of course he didn’t,” General Blinnsdale says wryly, fingering the claw at his belt. Warwick winces, remembering the sting when Miss Hawkes stabbed a similar weapon into his thigh. “He couldn’t.”

  Odis dips his head. “Their leader is gone, but traces of the wares were unmistakable. It’s Black Vault, all right.”

  General Blinnsdale straightens his posture, giving them a pleased smile. “Tell the men to gather whatever spoils they can find. Take everything—and everyone—back to Valadir.”

  Odis’s heels click together. “Yes, sir.”

  Black Vault? Warwick hadn’t thought the black market actually existed, and yet here someone was claiming they found it? These Arcaians may have questions for him, but if they want answers, they’ll have to provide some of their own.

  The soldiers leave the room, and General Blinnsdale turns to Miss Hawkes. A spark flickers in her eyes, and the glare she was holding melts away under his calculating stare. The general slides his hand to her cheek, drawing her to him in a quick kiss. Although he’s old enough to be her father, she smiles when he pulls away.

  “I’ve got to make sure things are taken care of,” General Blinnsdale says. “You okay here?”

  She gives him a smug smirk. “Under control, sir.” The words are more playful than affirmative, yet he kisses her once more before stomping out of the room.

  Warwick watches with interest. He should have known she was no ordinary recruit. It’s not like Miss Hawkes has the build, carriage, or dress of a soldier.

  She clacks her way back to Warwick, taking an empty beaker and balancing it between her fingers. Her lips are puckered up into the same expression she wore the first time he saw her two days before.

  “You have my transcripts,” he says. “You know who I am. I want to know why. Why, of all people in Itharia, did you pick me?”

  She moves in closer, her gaze lowering. The same pull from earlier compels him now. He grits his teeth. He tries to back away, forces his mind to fight it, but his arms lift to encircle the blonde girl’s waist.

  The stark green of her eyes swirls with segments of gold and the smallest traces of blue. His pulse quickens. He swallows.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, wishing he could back away, wishing he didn’t enjoy the closeness.

  “What is one flaw you’ve found in the transportation system in Jienke?” she asks.

  So she read his report. Or at least she knows what he was working on when she unceremoniously stole his freedom.

  He fidgets in discomfort. The heat of her, the line of her body against his… She’s standing far too close. The same pull from earlier forces the words from his lips.

  “We need a perpetual source of energy for the public transportation system in the city. Workers who drive the vehicles for pedestrians tire easily because of having to use their magic consistently throughout the day. They have to end their shifts sooner than others working different jobs, and they’re not earning the amount they need to support their families. Many of them end up working multiple jobs as a result.”

  “And you’re designing a vehicle that will run on an alternative source of energy?”

  He clears his throat, wishing he could step away. After the adoration she directed at the Arcaian general, and the fact that she kissed him right in front of Warwick, how can she hold him so close to her?

  “I’m working on it, ma’am.”

  She tilts her head and examines him, her mouth pressed in a knowing sneer while he struggles to steady his breathing. This makes no sense. Why would she stab him, steal his magic, kiss the general goodbye and now hold Warwick like this? It’s not an equation he can solve by working through its facts.

  “That alternative way of thinking is exactly what I need from you, Warwick,” she says, capturing his attention. The sense of a snake coiling its way up his spine overtakes him, and he clenches his fists with exertion. But no matter how he tries, he can’t push her away.

  “Why me?” Warwick asks again, needing the answer, hating her stupid distraction and the fact that with her bright green eyes and pink lips tilted toward him he wants to kiss her.

  “I am fascinated by your ambition. Your work is impressive. Aside from your ideas for a more conservative energy source, your instructors say you developed a new, more efficient way for magic to stream through vehicles so the exhaust doesn’t pollute the air as much as it has in the past.”

  “What of it? You need a mechanic?”

  She chuckles for a minute before stepping back. Air settles over him, and he takes several gasps, enjoying the control over his own faculties. The lab grows silent once more.

  She sets his transcript down and faces him from across the table. “No, Warwick. I need you to design something for me.”

  Sweat pools down my back, and the wood floor of this room is harder than dirt and roots had been. Body planked over the floorboards, I lower myself and push up. Lower and push up. The movement isn’t enough. Not without Talon here shouting critiques and praise while I work.

  It’s already been two sunsets. Gwynn said Talon was set for execution, and I have no doubt Tyrus will make good on that promise as soon as he can.

  I can’t wait here much longer.

  “Tell me again what the hold up is?” I ask my brother.

  Ren’s Black Vault friends won’t let us out. They don’t trust that Ren could actually be free from the Arcs—more specifically, from Tyrus Blinnsdale, the tyrannical Arcaian general who stole my brother’s magic and used it to control him.

  Ren sits at a desk near the window, one of his socked feet propped on the side of an open drawer. He wears a pair of wrinkled khaki slacks and the undershirt that was beneath his Arcaian uniform. He’s been sitting there, watching me, for at least four minutes.

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “They’re probably waiting for one of the higher authorities to come and deal with me.”

  As far as the other gatekeepers know, Ren betrayed their location to Tyrus. It’s why they’re here in Valadir in the first place, hiding right under the Arcs’ nose. The fact is, my brother did betray their location, and got several of them captured and forced to fight in this upcoming war, but he was forced to. They know that, Arcaian control is nothing new to them, but they fail to see how Ren could do that and suddenly not be under Tyrus’s control anymore.

  It’s only because they won’t stick around long enough to hear my side of the story.

  “And how long will that take?”

  “No idea. You know," he adds, "I’ve never seen you so much as run around the block, let alone do all these pushups and lunges."

  “So get down here and join me,” I puff with the effort. I close my eyes, trying to remember the counsel Talon would give. My magic froths beneath my skin, bubbling up from within my bones and seasoning the air with sparks and tinges of electricity. The back of my neck prickles; the doorknob rattles from the sudden gust of energy.

  “Seriously?” says Ren, gaping at the door. He leans forward just enough to playfully tap at my forehead with the tip of his toes. “What else are you hiding from me?”

  “Hiding?” I pause, badgering the magic back down. The Black Vault gatekeepers who are detaining us can’t know I’m using it despite their magic-blocking Prone. Not if we want them to trust Ren again. My leg throbs where Gwynn’s Xian claw stabbed in, but I ignore it.

  Ren sniffs. “Yeah. I was taken for two months, thinking I was a lost cause. Then you show up wit
h Tyrus Blinnsdale’s surrogate son who just happened to include you in his title of Itharia’s Most Wanted. Not to mention you suddenly have magic. I can’t figure it out.”

  I sit up, absentmindedly fingering the teardrop beneath my shirt. I’m not sure where to start. Unwanted reminders of the Firsts’ charge, when Nattie initially gave me the teardrop that was the result of their attempt to recreate tears, burble forward. How the tears were shed for me. How I’m to use them to save Itharians and break a spell that’s been stealing people’s emotions for years now.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell Talon after I first heard it, and I certainly can’t tell my brother the First creatures of Itharia think I’m some angel-chosen savior. Ren said it himself—I couldn’t channel a thing two months ago. How do the Firsts possibly think I’m supposed to break a spell as powerful as the one Solomus Straylark cast to bind people’s emotions?

  Ren would snigger at the mere mention of it. He would ask exactly how I plan to use a jar of tears I no longer have to accomplish it, tears that burned my hand when I tried to drink them.

  What else is a girl to do with a vial of magical tears if they aren’t meant to be drunk?

  “I got some tears at Black Vault that night you got Gwynn and me in,” I tell Ren. “And before I knew it, Tyrus and Talon were both after me for them. When Tyrus managed to steal my tears, Talon agreed to help me rescue you if I helped him get them back.”

  I wait for his reaction, which, sure enough, ends up being a skeptical raise of the brows. He purses his lips when I don’t change my answer.

  “And where are these tears now? Haraway has them?”

  I shake my head. “I left them with the sirens. They promised to keep the tears safe.”

  Silence passes between us. Ren bops a fist on his knees. “And do I want to know how you managed to meet sirens?”

  “Probably not,” I say with a grin, lowering my head.

  I used the sirens’ song to get Ren out of the Triad. I wonder how much he remembers. A pang strikes through me; I wish I still had it. I wish I saved it and used it on Tyrus like I planned. Then he wouldn’t have been able to turn Gwynn against me.