Edge of the Falls (After the Fall)

by Nazarea Andrews

  The older dark haired man sitting across from me laughs. “Many doors open when you are Prince, my dear.”

  I smile sardonically, and look at my plate. The color is exotic, and blurring—I can barely see past the brilliance of it to see what is actually on the plate.

  “She’s lovely, Wrenfel,” the Prince says, sipping his tea. I want to shout at them—I’m not a specimen to be observed, nor a shiny toy to be trotted out and admired.

  “I knew you’d think so,” Wrenfel agrees proudly.

  “What do you think of our City?” the Prince asks.

  I’m startled, realizing he’s talking to me. He hasn’t spoken to me much, since we arrived—instead, he and Wrenfel have murmured to each other excitedly. The Prince’s gray eyes skip away from me constantly—I think I make him nervous.

  “Um. It’s… lovely,” I say. Something like displeasure flickers in his eyes and I add, “I haven’t seen much, but what I have is gorgeous.”

  “And your tests—have you gone through them?” he asks, cutting a tiny bite of processed tofu chicken.

  I shift. I don’t want to think about them. “Yes, sir.”

  The Prince looks at Wrenfel, his eyebrows arched. “It will be three weeks, sir. The Commission did not want this flagged—they want no undue attention,” Wrenfel says, almost apologetic.

  My stomach clenches and I go very still. Why should the Commission care about me? Now that I was a Citizen, and given a sponsor—why should they take any further interest in me?

  “I didn’t realize the Commission cared,” I say sharply, unthinking.

  The Prince smiles tightly, but doesn’t say anything. Wrenfel gives me a dark look and I shrug, pushing my chicken around the plate. He shouldn’t expect me to be polite, when I didn’t want to come in the first place. The girl glides forward at a subtle signal from Wrenfel and presents a dessert course.

  “Your Insured is making quite an impression at the University,” the Prince says, watching me.

  I shrug. “Berg usually does. He’s impressive—you’d know that if you hadn’t thrown him away as a child.”

  Wrenfel actually gasps at that, and the Prince’s eyes narrow, a small sign that I’ve finally angered him.

  As the pretty waitress clears the last plates—my dessert untouched—the Prince looks at Wrenfel. “I’d like a word with your protégé, my friend.”

  It is not a request. Wrenfel gives me a worried glance, and I smile, sweet and false. He leans down to kiss my cheek, murmurs, “Behave, Sabah.”

  The Prince is staring at me, his eyes bright and intent. I want desperately to be the first to speak, to ask about the Commission. But that, I think, is what he wants.

  I reach for my glass, take a sip of water and lean back, staring at him impassively.

  “Why do you think we gave you Citizenship?” he asks, lacing his fingers.

  “Berg is a trained—or partially trained—scientist,” I answer immediately. “He was trained by the Mistress, who has… unique knowledge.”

  “Then why am I not meeting him?” he asks, a mocking smile on his lips.

  I grin. “Because I’m by far the better looking in our pairing.”

  It surprises a laugh from the Prince. And that makes the tension in the room drop. I let out the breath I have been holding.

  “You are indeed. Which is one reason we wanted you,” he says casually.

  The tiny hairs on my neck lift, and I shiver. “And the other?”

  “Did you know the Commission keeps birth tests on record dating back to the first City? Most of the tests you just went through are done at birth, not Majority.”

  I shake my head—of course I don’t know that. The Commission is notoriously closed-mouthed. He nods. “We do. And five years ago, they issued an order. They wanted a pair of Exiles, and failing that, a girl from Outside. A fertile one.”

  Ice trickles down my spine as he smiles and says, “And you are fertile, Sabah. The tests are formalities—we checked the records before we made the offer to Berg—we knew he’d demand your Citizenship.”

  “Why?” I whisper, shaken.

  “When we first built Cities, almost all of those who spent any amount of time Outside gave birth to mutated children. Stillborns. It usually cost the mother’s life as well.”

  “But?” I say.

  “The Commission has watched the birthrate in the animal population. The abnormalities are dropping. Every year, the survival rate goes up and those born are stronger. They want to know if that is true of humans as well.”

  He says it so casually I can almost forget the chilling words themselves. That they are about me. And then they sink in and I understand. I realize what they intend.

  Rage fills me. This is not what I agreed to. I did not agree to be the test subject for the Commission. I did not agree to give them my children.

  I agreed to life, in the safety of the City. My anger chills, dies. The fact is, that’s forfeiting my choices. I belong to the Commission now.

  “You’re angry,” the Prince observes.

  I take a deep breath, counting silently to maintain my composure. Finally, I say, “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “No. Not when I considered what my other options were—life in the City or with the tribes. It would be quite easy to see which was the better option. And we are not asking for much.”

  I laugh. How many times have I heard that from Berg? How many times have I been told the price is worth paying?

  I shake my head at the Prince, shaking memories away. “No one ever does.”

  Berg knows something is wrong when he gets home. He finds me in the kitchen, chopping savagely at the meat I am going to use for last-meal. His eyes go wide as he takes in the chaos of food and knives. I ignore the look. “Watch your step,” I say peremptorily, nodding at the shattered glass he is about to walk through. “And we’ll need to buy more wine glasses.”

  He looks down, and then at me. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. The look of satisfaction gleaming in the Prince’s gray eyes is too present, too fresh. I can’t talk about it yet. So I ask about his day and Berg—wisely—allows the matter to drop.

  Until we are sitting across from each other. I stare into my stew, stirring it listlessly. I can’t stomach it. The very idea of eating makes me want to be sick and I push it away.

  Berg is talking of an experiment his mentor has asked him to work on. It’s a cure, I know, for the plague that is sweeping Outside. The Mistress’ patronage had opened doors for him at the University, and already, they are talking about his ability to create working serums and cures. Word that reached Mlena said plague had hit a few Cities out west. The restrictions had tightened in the week we had been in Mlena.

  Berg’s heavy spoon clatters on the table, bringing my attention back to him. He’s staring at me, and I’m not sure what to say—I feel like I have missed something important.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “What happened?” Berg demands softly.

  “Wrenfel took me to see a friend of his,” I say. Even I recognize my voice is remote.

  He settles back in his chair, watching me.

  “Do you know they brought me here as a breeder?” I ask bluntly. I see him flinch, and curse myself. I have had hours to formulate how to tell him. And yet, those hours have vanished and I still don’t know.

  “What do you mean?”

  I tell him about the lunch, about meeting the Prince. I tell him how they had watched me—how Wrenfel had confirmed my medical records. My helpless fury comes back with the retelling and I feel a headache pounding in my temples.

  “But your tests could come back negative,” he says.

  I give him a disgusted look. “You know that’s not true. They wouldn’t have brought me here if they had any doubts.”

  “You knew you could have a Quota,” he says, cautiously. There is an edge of hurt in his voice that anyone else would miss.

  “And if this was a normal circumstance,
that would be one thing. I could fill a Quota if the children were going to be just ordinary Citizens. But they won’t. They’ll be property of the Commission. The Commission will hand them over to their scientists. They’re not even alive, and the Prince is already planning the tests and experiments. I won’t subject a child to that.” My voice is shaking, and I can feel my eyes burning. I can’t cry, though. I’m out of tears.

  “So, don’t,” he says.

  My eyes go to him, startled. “What choice do we have?”

  “They don’t share our bed, love,” Berg says reasonably, ignoring altogether that ‘our’ bed is in truth only mine. “And when the quarantine lifts, we’ll go to the Mistress. Even if she can’t help us, Gwen will have something that can prevent pregnancy.”

  I stare at him, this friend who has always wanted children—how many times has he told me that he wanted them? How many times have we lain tangled together while he ponders names? “You’d do that?”

  He puts down his drink and leans forward, capturing my hand and kissing my knuckles softly. A shiver goes through me, summoned by muscle memory. “I’d do anything for you, Sabah.”

  Chapter 26

  The City is on edge, waiting for the plague.

  “They think they have the pathology down,” Berg says over first meal. I sip my coffee and I wonder if they realize that stopping the disease is almost impossible. The plague will run its course, and nothing can be done until it has. No one has ever been able to stop plague. And they have so little time to find a cure before the disease will make it irrelevant.

  After he leaves for University, I pack a small bag and leave the house. I use the maptable to navigate the quiet streets—even with the bright lights, the Citizens are keeping to their homes. No one wants to risk contracting the plague, even though Mlena has not reported any cases.

  But that tells me nothing of the Outside. I want to see the Shield, need to get as close as I can to the Manor. Eventually, I reach the park that borders the Shield. Keepers eye me, but I ignore them, tugging my cloak tighter around me as I walk along the Shield, as close as I can get. The Falls look beautiful from this vantage point, deadly and devastating. And there is the Manor, darkly forbidding. A few pinpricks of light shine from high in the Manor. It’s not proof, but the lights are reassuring. Someone is alive—and Gwen is there, taking care of them. Maybe. Hopefully.

  I miss them, so much it makes me hurt. But I cling to the small token that they are surviving the plague. I eat my lunch there, in the stillness broken only by the rattle of Keepers patrolling nearby. I miss the music of the water and wind.

  Eventually, I rouse myself. There is still one more thing to do before I go back to the house and wait for Berg.

  The records hall is dusty and badly lit, and much too boring for most Citizens to bother with. A few students from the University stare at their tablets with blank expressions, checking facts and recording statistics—but even they ignore me. They have become used to my presence.

  It’s calming, I realize, setting aside another birth record. The feeling of brittle paper between my fingers, the soothing music in the background, even the soft whispering of the Citizens asking questions of the records scrivs. I sip my water and make a face at the tepid taste before focusing on the next birth record.

  Eventually I find them—the birth records for both Arjun and Gali. And on them, a single address, and two names. I scribble on a piece of paper—I’m using my tablet more and more, but I still relish the feel of paper under my fingers. And that it is untraceable is infinitely appealing.

  I’m not sure I’m ready to face her, though, so I turn toward our little home. I hurry upstairs before I start dinner, and hide the scrap of paper with my unopened note from Merc.

  **

  Berg finds me in the bedroom that night, stretches out on the bed next to me. He nudges the stack of sketches next to me and I bite my lip, wondering what he will think. “These are good, Sabah,” he says, almost surprised. I hide my smile and he pokes me. “They are. When did you learn to do this?”

  “The garret. I always drew when I was up there,” I say, focusing on the tree I’m working on. The dark branches are skeletal, reaching. I draw the moon quickly with the charcoal stick, smudge it with my fingers.

  “You could use the spare room to make a studio,” Berg says suddenly, startling me.

  I cock my head at him. “Do you really think I need a studio?”

  He shrugs. “I have my library—wouldn’t you like a place of your own?”

  The thought is strangely appealing. “I’d get lonely,” I say dismissively, toying with my charcoal.

  He is still and quiet, so much so that I look at him, quizzically. “If you want company, all you need do is ask, Sabah,” he says, voice low.

  I blush and look away. I slip from the bed, gathering the drawings quickly and stacking them in a tidy pile on the table. As I run warm water over my hands and watch the charcoal run and vanish, I ask, “What would I need?” He looks at me, confused, and I clarify, “To make it a studio.”

  He smiles, a slow smile, “We’ll have to go shopping.”

  **

  I spend hours in my studio every day, sometimes sketching, sometimes kneading sculpting ply. I quickly realize that my favorite things are a laser wand and the charcoals.

  It fills the hours of the day. And in the evening, when I sit with Berg over a carefully prepared dinner, it gives us something to discuss. He seems pleased—almost as if I have found something that truly makes me happy.

  And if I were left to my own devices, maybe I would be. It is easy—too easy—to avoid thinking about Arjun.

  But the two hidden scraps of paper are all too present, silently mocking me from where I have them hidden in my cloak from the Manor.

  Wrenfel unexpectedly offers a distraction. We have been in the City a month, when he comes to the house. It happens infrequently now--he has lost his initial zeal for us, or maybe he is simply waiting.

  I am in my studio painting when Wrenfel knocks. I let him in, surprised by his bubbling excitement. He hands me a pale cream envelope--and my stomach drops. I know what that means. It's been a month, after all, and usually it does not take even this long.

  "My test results?" I ask, and he nods.

  I step aside, and he sweeps in, energy crackling off of him. "They just came in."

  "I was painting," I say, and turn away. He follows me, oblivious to my discomfort—or maybe he does not want to acknowledge it. Wrenfel may irritate me, but there is no denying he is smart. Either way, the painting has taken days, and I am too close to finished to stop now. I ignore him as I pick up my brush.

  He is quiet as he enters my studio, and I glance at the walls, detached. How does he see my art--the view from the edge of the falls, the mist rolling off the jagged rocks as water crashes down, the Shield gleaming with water and light in the blackness—and the forest? So many views of the forest and eyes. I don't know when I started sketching eyes, but I can recognize all of them that stare back at me from various places on the walls.

  Merc, lazy and amused.

  Gali, warm and concerned.

  Jade, shaky and blunt.

  Rook, distant.

  Arjun—so many pairs of Arjun's eyes, showing so many different expressions. Berg is the only one who has seen my studio, and he does not ask about them. It is an unspoken agreement—I do not press about the Mistress, and he does not ask about Arjun and the wolves.

  "My test results," I prod, and Wrenfel's eyes snap back to me. They are shrewd, full of questions, but he does not ask them. I wonder when he will—and what answer I will give him.

  "A full bill of health. The tests say you are very fertile, my dear." He is almost bouncing with glee, and his words pound at me like nails. I shake my head. I don't want to hear this.

  "That's wonderful," I say, my voice soft. I let my paintbrush kiss the canvas, clarifying the shadows.

  "What is that?" he asks, me, casually.

&nb
sp; I glance at the painting. A shade of white, a gleam of gold, a canvas of black and the dull glow of light on a Shield. "A dream," I say, my heart squeezing.

  He doesn't push. One thing I have to admire about Wrenfel is that he knows just how much he can nudge me before I will balk. He knows enough not to pursue my pictures.

  "The Prince would like to see you again. To congratulate you,” he says, deftly changing the subject.

  "Shouldn't that wait until I'm pregnant?” I ask, adding another stroke. The painting is done—everything I do now only detracts from the picture, but I can’t leave it alone, not with Wrenfel watching me for a reaction.

  "Of course, if that's what you want, Sabah,” he pauses, and says, "And how is that?"

  I look at him, an arch smile on my lips. "You knew before I was offered Citizenship that Berg and I are together. Give us time."

  He seems satisfied. I don't care much either way, but life is easier if Wrenfel is not pushing constantly.

  “So. You will meet him?”

  I sigh, and look at Wrenfel. “Do I have a choice? He’s the Prince of Mlena.” He gives me a disapproving look and I relent. “Fine, fine. I’ll see him, Wrenfel. Happy?”

  He smiles at me, pleased. “Always.”

  **

  After Wrenfel leaves, I find myself restless. I dress in soft warm pants and a loose sweater, and go out in the City. It’s quiet at this time of day. The children of the City are still in classes—they have finally resumed, which gives me a vague hope that the plague is abating.

  I’m not thinking too much of where I’m going. I wander the City, lost in thought. I’m not ready for this. And for the first time, I can’t get Arjun off my mind.

  He’s been on the edges of my consciousness constantly since he sent me back into the Manor. And if I keep him there, if I don’t dwell on my memories of him, I can function. But if I think about him—about any of the pack—the pain looms before me like a huge pit.

  After watching Wrenfel’s expression as he stared at the visual representations of my memories it’s impossible to push them down.