by Liz Delton
Neve kept the door open, wanting to hear what the gruff Skycity man wanted.
Her uncle answered the door at the man’s knock.
“Harry Stoughton?” the huge man grunted.
“That’s me, what can I help you with?”
She heard her uncle’s voice fade, as if the two of them had drawn back into the shop. She left the villa door open and crept over to the shop, the door of which was still cracked.
“I understand your shop had an… accident.”
Neve’s insides contracted. Was she in trouble? Were they going to close her uncle’s shop for her clumsiness?
But on second thought, why would someone from Skycity care?
She sunk into a crouch, her ears pressed to the lintel, waiting for the hammer to fall.
Her uncle puffed impatiently. “My niece… Yes, our workroom suffered some damage. What do you care about it?” he added angrily.
She had to give it to her uncle, he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind.
“I wonder if the accident could be recreated?” the man asked quietly.
Neve’s brows stitched together. What was he talking about?
“Recreated? What the hell for?”
“We’d pay, of course. My contractor is very interested in what could create such damage.”
Neve heard the clinking of coins and she raised an eyebrow.
“Well I—Well,” her uncle stuttered, “I—think we can work something out.”
It must be quite a bit of coin, Neve thought as she pulled away from the doorway. The conversation continued, but she didn’t want to be caught listening, so she crept backward toward the villa.
She stumbled on her doorway as she heard the Skycity man say goodbye to her uncle out in the street.
Neve quickly returned to the kitchen where she was supposed to be cutting up bread. She had the knife back in her hands by the time her uncle appeared in the doorway. He walked sedately to the table. He had a leather bag in his hand, and he dropped it on the table, and said, “Come here, Neve,” but it wasn’t angry. What was going on?
She brushed the breadcrumbs off her hands and went to join her uncle, the bag of coins between them.
Neve shooed away the awful memory.
That had been the beginning of this whole strange situation. Embarrassingly, Harry had worked with Neve to sort out which compounds she had accidentally combined to create the explosion. They had worked in the destroyed workspace, with only the smallest measurement of the various possible compounds, until they had recreated it. The water hose was always at the ready.
When the man from Skycity finally returned, they gave him the information, and he gave them another sack of coin.
Not long after, Governor Estella had called a city-wide emergency meeting, in which she announced Skycity’s discovery of a dangerous foe in Arcera, who sought to destroy the Four Cities.
The Lightcitizens had descended into near chaos in the Citizen’s Hall, and the glass walls echoed with their shouts and cries. Finally, Estella told them of Skycity’s plan for defense, and the contract she had signed with Governor Greyling to manufacture weapons to use against their enemy.
Something about it had seemed very odd to Neve. Still seemed odd. As she eyed the Scouts from the shadows of her table, Gemma approached with a tall golden glass. Neve gave Gemma her thanks and slid a few coins into the woman’s hand.
It had been bothering Neve for weeks. She took a sip of the honey-wine, and the cold sweetness that slid down her throat eased the tension in her shoulders.
The Scouts were always in and out of the city, sometimes gone for weeks at a time. She never asked Falcon where they went. She wasn’t entirely sure he would tell her.
Governor Greyling himself had visited Lightcity before winter, to make a speech about the threat they faced, and how the Four Cities were going to work together to protect themselves, with each city doing its part.
But the orbs were carted out of the city, and she didn’t know where to.
Neve rested her head on the back of the bench and peered out of her shadowy corner at the Scouts. One of them dropped a handful of coin into Gemma’s palm, calling for yet another round. They really seemed to be celebrating something.
From her shadowy corner, Neve sipped her honey wine and waited.
After an hour, most of the other patrons had filtered out, and Gemma had brought Neve another golden glass. There was still no sign of Falcon.
“You lucky curs, why can’t I come with you, eh?” one of the Scouts suddenly blurted from behind a forest of empty glasses.
Neve slid further into the shadows of her corner bench.
“We’ve got orders, and you don’t, that’s why,” another Scout replied, his short hair streaked through with grey.
The others guffawed, and the first Scout gave them a dirty gesture.
“Maybe you can see it next time,” a third Scout said, then drained his glass. “We’re only doing observation anyway.”
“Thanks to that bloody fight in Meadowcity, we don’t have enough boats yet. Those woodworkers in Rift are horrible.”
Neve froze. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat.
“Shut yer mouth, Carson,” the grey-haired Scout hissed.
Neve prayed they were too muddled to look her way.
The grey-haired Scout’s chair squealed against the stone floor as he stood, and he barked, “That’s enough, the lot of you. We’ve all got orders for the morning, and none of you better be late to move out.”
He tossed a few coins onto the table and strode out. Cold air filtered in from the brief opening of the door, making Neve stifle a shiver. She waited, frozen.
The remaining Scouts mumbled angrily as they, too, left a coin or two and cleared out. When they had all gone, Neve let out the breath she had been holding. Her mind was reeling in circles.
A fight in Meadowcity? Was there a battle with the enemy and the Scouts didn’t want us to know about it? Or was it something else entirely?
She looked down at the golden glass on her table and pushed it away. Something that had nothing to do with the wine was making her head swim.
She pulled out two coins for Gemma and left them on the table. She quickly looked around the nearly empty pub to see if anyone had eyes on her before she got up.
Once out in the empty alley, she listened for voices in the next street over before moving on. The streets were silent. The Scouts must have left quickly for their new barracks, and whatever journey it was that they were readying for.
Neve clutched her cloak about her shoulders with one hand, looking left and right before exiting the alley. No one in sight.
She was in no mood to go home, to encounter Harry’s cold anger; or worse, spot him asleep in his chair in front of the fire, a sight that always softened her heart. She was such a terrible niece.
The streets were clear due to the late hour, and she wandered past shops and villas, with the Scouts’ words echoing in her head.
“Thanks to that bloody fight in Meadowcity…”
Why would they be fighting in Meadowcity? What did they need boats for? And if Riftcity was making boats when Meadowcity wouldn’t…
Something about the things Skycity had been telling them had bothered Neve since the beginning. Especially since it had all come after she had sold the information on the explosive compounds.
It was late. The moon was the tiniest slip of a sliver in the deep blue night, surrounded by pinpricks of stars.
She reached the edge of the city where the wall stood, adorned with its bright globes that threw their light into the night.
Half stone, half glass, the wall circled the city, just like Meadowcity’s treewall. Meadowcity… “That bloody fight in Meadowcity…”
As Neve walked on, she came upon a part of the wall that was unusually dark. Some of the globes were out.
She squinted up at the wall, cold and grey in the weak moonlight, as a small figure vaulted over it and landed right in
front of her.
Three
To say it was dark tonight would be an understatement, Ven thought as he glanced up at the sky. The stars and moon were entirely hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds.
He peered between the bare branches of the treewall, assuring himself that the woods, too, were as dark as the sky. Not a glint of an eye or blade met his gaze.
Sylvia had been gone almost a week now.
He kept his eyes on his footing though, and walked slowly along the newly built parapet, high up in the treewall.
It hadn’t taken much to convince the terrified city that more defense was needed; and shortly after the Scouts’ invasion of Meadowcity, the master woodworkers were set the task to build the parapet. The narrow walkway now circled the whole city, positioned so that those who trod it could see over the trunks and thicker branches of the treewall; but low enough that they wouldn’t be too exposed.
Ven had volunteered for nightwatch three nights in a row now. He ignored his tired muscles—sore from training—and kept up his steady pace around the sleeping city. His throat, too, was raw from what seemed like endless amounts of instructions that he gave. The nightwatch gave him a solitary relief that he couldn’t find during the day.
He tried not to think of Sylvia, and what she was risking by entering Lightcity. His grip on his bow tightened as he remembered their parting, and regret soaked through to his core as the memory drudged itself up yet again. He tried to push it away, tried to tell himself that Sylvia would be back. That she had to play her part first. They all had a part to play, even the centuries-old treewall, Ven thought as he reached out and brushed a branch as he walked by.
A few weeks ago, when Ven had learned Sylvia would finally be taking the journey to Lightcity, he had just come off an afternoon of watch; patrolling the mostly-complete, and somewhat snowy parapet.
Gero had called a meeting at the Citizen’s Hall, where Sylvia finally divulged the specifics of their plan. Ven had tried to keep his head, and had excused himself from the meeting at the Hall as soon as could be considered polite. He headed for the treewall, fuming.
He knew she wouldn’t follow. The sadness in her eyes as she looked at him over the table in the meeting was eclipsed by an outpouring of resolve: her sometimes crushing sense of duty to Meadowcity, her home, her family.
At the time, many branches of the treewall had been cut to make room for the parapet, hastily cut away once the project had begun. For weeks they had lain at the base of the treewall, a sure sign of the city’s sad acceptance of the war—normally wood from the treewall was auctioned off for its rarity. The trimming of the wall was a necessary evil most citizens now wanted nothing to do with.
He had walked and walked around the base of the wall, a strange emotion enveloping him so much so that he didn’t notice the cold, nor the crunch of his boots on the icy snow that encrusted the perimeter path, nor his breath clouding before him. Why did the thought of her leaving make him feel so empty?
His unseeing gaze finally focused as he neared a section of the treewall that the woodworkers were still altering. Branches and twigs lay in a heap: the beloved and ancient treewall, cut into pieces and laying in the snow.
An idea struck him, and without thinking, he stepped off the path toward one of the piles. The snow was dirty with sawdust, evidence of the woodworker’s labor. He spotted a piece of wood that would fit his purpose, and pulled it out of the pile, thankful that it was short enough to tuck into his coat, which he did, and turned back to the path.
At least for the moment, he had something to focus on. He went back to his villa and took out the filched cutting, sizing it up and trying to imagine patterns.
The carving was a slow process, and he was thankful that the snows remained as long as they did. He knew Sylvia couldn’t go off on her journey when the snow would give away her movements, but the end of winter was in sight. The Scouts were always prowling the wilds outside of Meadowcity, watching them, trying to keep them penned in.
One morning the other week, he was in the back fields readying for the day’s training when Flint came stomping down the perimeter path looking for him.
The Riftcity native had been the one to first warn them of Skycity’s treachery, and the whole city was grateful for his and Ven’s spectacular—though destructive—entrance that had won the battle against Skycity just before Summer’s End.
Flint wheezed a little as he neared Ven, who was unloading wooden practice swords out of a chest. Weapons practice was held every morning at dawn for those who were drafted into the city’s newly formed Defenders, and only recently had they been able to practice outside.
“She’s leaving today,” Flint said without greeting.
Ven shut the chest with a bang and looked up at Flint, the burn on his face finally healed, though it left behind its mark, red and mottled. Just like the one on Sylvia’s leg.
Ven nodded. He took a breath after realizing his lungs had stopped for a moment. He grabbed a pile of swords and headed to the sparring area.
“Go say goodbye,” Flint prodded, following him.
Ven nodded again, and threw the swords down onto the ground in sets of two.
She’s leaving. The words repeated in a harsh echo inside his head.
He tried to shove down the empty feeling, wondering at the same time how he could be so selfish. Sylvia felt bound to protect the city, that was why she was leaving, it had nothing to do with him. They all had to play their part to keep Meadowcity safe.
Ven finally looked up at Flint and said, “I need you to start practice,” then, as Flint tried to interrupt, raised his voice, “—You can do it just fine, I’ve seen you. Just start with the warm-up and split them off into pairs to go over yesterday’s form until I get back.”
Flint agreed unenthusiastically. Ven was under the impression that Flint felt like he didn’t belong in Meadowcity—while Ember was fitting in like it was her own home.
Ven left the fields and hurried over to the Citizen’s Hall, since he knew that’s where she would be. She had spent all winter holed up in the Hall, making all kinds of plans with Gero.
As he skidded through the front door, he locked eyes with Ell, the Secretary of the City, who came out from behind his desk to greet him.
“Follow me,” the balding man said, knowing right away why Ven was here.
They walked down several hallways that Ven had never seen before, and descended two sets of stairs, the last one hidden behind a door in the corner of a room that clearly didn’t see much use.
Ell was quiet, and Ven didn’t feel much like talking either. Actually, he felt somewhat nauseated. His palms were sweating too. The past few weeks had all been leading up to this moment, when Sylvia would leave.
What would happen to her? Ven was sure she knew the risks of her mission—if she were to get caught, what could happen.
But if she succeeded, Meadowcity would be closer to understanding what Greyling’s plans were, and where he would act next. Gero’s wife Anna had told them all about Greyling’s obsession with an unbelievable fifth city; but how did he plan to conquer it? What was he going to do with Riftcity, and with Lightcity?
They had finally come to the conclusion that Skycity had probably needed Meadowcity’s skilled woodworkers for something, though they didn’t know what.
At the bottom of the last staircase, Ell stopped. “They’re through there,” he said, pointing at a narrow opening in the stone. “I’d go in, but there’s not much room.”
Ven gave him an inquisitive look that Ell returned with a face as if to say, You’ll find out.
Ell headed back up the stairs as Ven slid through the crack, and the knife on his belt scraped against the stone as he did. The sound tripped his memory—Sylvia’s gift!
He had only just picked it up from the weaponsmith last night, but it was at home. He slid into the room and saw Gero with a dark-haired girl whose back was to him.
She turned at the sound of his entrance and
the eyes that met his were Sylvia’s. They held that same determined look, mixed with sadness.
“Nice hair,” he said, trying to grin, but it felt like a grimace.
She laughed a little nervously and he saw her cheeks flush pink. A full pack hung from her shoulders, and behind her, a stairwell descended into darkness that he could only assume led out of the city.
There had always been rumors that there were ancient tunnels leading out of the city; but it had always seemed a joke—a myth. He briefly wondered who had found it, or if Gero had known all along—something that was passed down to each Governor by their predecessor.
He had asked her to wait, telling her that he needed to give her something for her journey. He practically ran back to his villa, not remembering his feet pounding down the paths, only his heart pounding in his throat. It beat out a rhythm he couldn’t seem to get rid of: she’s leaving, she’s leaving, she’s leaving.
He darted inside his villa and his mother yelped at the sound of the front door banging open. After a quick apology to his mother, he sought the box in his room that held Sylvia’s gift. He opened it just to be sure it was perfect.
The blade was short, yet wickedly sharp. A wolf’s head topped the pommel, with tufts of fur fading into a leaf pattern that ran down the fair-colored wood. He set it back in the box, and it struck him even harder that Sylvia was truly leaving. He headed back to the Hall, a little less energy in his step now.
He had tried to volunteer to go with her weeks ago, after he had gotten over the initial shock of the announcement, but Gero wouldn’t let him. The Governor had been firm: Ven was needed in the city to help train the Defenders. Everyone had their part to play.
* * *
The hoot of an owl snapped Ven out of his reverie, and he scanned the surrounding forest. Still dark, still empty. He continued on down the parapet, dutifully watching for danger.
He had given Sylvia the dagger before saying goodbye, hoping it would help protect her wherever her journey took her. Intense regret flashed through him again at the memory of their goodbye.