by Melanie Tays
And then I hear the high-pitched shrill of the Enforcer’s blaster firing straight at my chest.
***
I wake with a start and see flames beside me. I roll away and fall several feet with a thud.
“Oh, dear!” a woman exclaims in a wispy chime.
I pull myself up. In my stupefied state, what I thought was fire is actually just this tall, slender woman dressed in yellow and red sparkles from neck to ankles. Her hair is styled up in yellow spikes, all done to create the appearance that she is fire personified.
She frowns at me. “Not a good start, Emery. I’m quite disappointed.”
“Huh?” I mutter, confused. I feel my chest and move all my muscles, assessing myself for damage. “Am I okay?”
“Of course. A stun blast will only knock you out for a little while,” the woman explains as though speaking to a small child.
I examine my hands to see how badly I’ve injured them on the razor-wire fence, and am confused to find no trace of the injury except light pink lines crisscrossing my palms.
“The doctor fixed those right up for you,” the woman says. “Don’t fret about it. In an hour or so those ugly lines will be gone, too. I just hope you’ve learned your lesson about the fence.”
The room is softly lit, light flowing from an overhead chandelier. I’m in an immaculate room next to a single bed, off of which I just tumbled to the sparking tile floor. There’s a window behind the woman. The sky outside is still dark, and it sounds like the crowd has not fully dissipated yet, though the clatter is unorganized and beginning to wane.
“I am Keya. I’ll be your Burn Master,” the woman goes on. “I will be guiding you through this exciting journey of discovery and purification to find the place in our society where you truly belong.” She makes this wretched ordeal sound like some kind of spiritual journey of enlightenment.
I pull myself up off the floor. “Keya, listen, I didn’t actually want to join the Burning. I just want to go home. Isn’t there any way that you can help me get out of here? This was all just a big mistake.”
She smiles knowingly. “I’m sure that this is all very overwhelming and disorienting for you,” she says in a consoling tone. “You’re not the first person to have second thoughts and trepidations after becoming a contestant. Most people wait until they’re a trial or two into the process before having such a complete meltdown. However, what you’re experiencing is totally normal, and you need to trust your first instinct that led you here. It shows that you have a desire within you to be something of true value to The City and humanity. Now it is your time to see if that’s possible.”
“But Keya, please, isn’t there any way I can quit and just go home?”
“No, my dear,” she says, the corners of her eyes turned down in sympathy.
I start to protest, to make one last plea, but she holds up her hand for silence.
“Emery,” she says. “I know that things are different here than you’re used to. But things are never going to be the same again. The sooner you accept that, the better your chances will be of surviving the Burning and receiving an assignment. That’s what you have to focus on now, because your only other alternative—from the moment that you crossed the Wall of Fire—is the Ash.” Her words are cold and direct, but something tells me that she’s really trying to help me, and maybe even hopes that I’ll pass the Burning.
I nod. There’s really nothing else to say.
A knock sounds at the door, and Keya calls out, “Come in, come in,” in a sing-song cadence, as though we’ve just been having a lovely, light-hearted chat this whole time.
A man in a dark suit enters clutching a small black case as though it holds something precious.
“There you are, Ronaldy,” Keya greets him. “Perfect timing.”
“Why don’t you sit on the bed for this?” he suggests as he approaches me.
“For what?”
“Just sit,” Keya says. “Remember, don’t be difficult. This is all for your own good.”
I strongly doubt that, but I take a seat anyway.
The man sets the case down on the bed next to me. Both Keya and Ronaldy hold their black wristbands next to a sensor, and the case’s latch pops open. Inside rests an identical black band, just like the ones that everyone in the street was wearing.
I guard my arms. “What is that?”
“Why, it’s your intercuff,” she proclaims with pride, as though she’s offering me a gift. “It’s your identification. No more need to carry around a silly card. It will also give you messages about what you need to do, and can allow you to communicate with people. Not that you have anyone here to communicate with, but details, details…” She waves her hand in the air like she’s erasing something. “We all wear them here in the Flame. This is the first step to making you one of us.”
I fail to show the proper enthusiasm, and her smile fades to a scowl.
“Okay, just put it on the nightstand and I’ll be sure to wear it tomorrow,” I say. “I’m very tired now. I should really get some rest.”
“That’s not how this works,” the man states, his voice low and monotone. “Hold out your arm.”
I would honestly prefer to cut off my own arm rather than let them affix that thing to me, but I’m not really given an option. Besides, based on how efficiently they healed my hands, I’m betting that if I tried this, they’d just sew me back up with the band already attached to my reconnected limb.
Without any real alternative, I hold out my right arm. The man clamps the band down around my wrist. I consider whether it’s too tight to slip out of, but then he inserts a silver, notched pin into a small hole on the side. The sensation of a thousand needles jabbing my wrist assaults my nerves. I yelp, and then the pain is gone.
“I forgot to warn you that it will hurt—a lot,” the man says, straight-faced, and I wonder if he enjoys hurting people. He seems like the type who might.
“Wonderful,” says Keya. “Now we will let you get some sleep. Tomorrow is a very big day, after all. The first trial starts bright and early, and heaven knows that you of all people could use some beauty rest.” She says it with a smile, though it’s clearly not a compliment. “There are clean clothes in the closet,” she informs me. She crinkles her nose in distaste. “You can just throw the ones you are wearing in the recycle bin.”
The two of them exit my room. I remain seated where they left me until their footsteps fade away. When I can no longer hear them, I move to the door and wave my band in front of the scanner to open it. I’m not sure exactly what I plan to do next, but it doesn’t matter because the door is locked.
I sink to the floor and let the cold wash of hopelessness engulf me. Never once in my life did I consider joining the Burning. The chance at a life in the Flame, with all its benefits, has never appealed to me because it’s a fantasy. Keya and the Council might pretend I have a chance to pass, but it’s far more likely that Oran the dragon, or any of the other mythical creatures from Dad’s stories, will waltz through the door right now. It’s a ruse to punish those who can’t be satisfied with what life has given them.
And now here I am, in the Council’s crosshairs.
The streets have mostly fallen quiet, but suddenly they erupt into commotion again.
I pull myself up and go to the only window. It overlooks the gate through which I just entered. It appears that a tall, slender guy with dark hair has just entered the Burning. I can’t make out his face exactly, or hear the name that the guard announces. Something about the situation has made the people who still linger in the streets go insane.
People who had started to return to their homes now come rushing back to see what has happened. They join in the shouting as well. It’s strange, but I can’t make any sense of the situation.
I expect the Enforcers will be here soon to break up the disturbance. They never let something like this go on long. But the few Enforcers wandering through the crowd seem unconcerned, despite the accelerating agita
tion. I wonder how long they’ll wait before putting an end to this.
I don’t have to wait long before I get my answer. It’s not shouts or the firing of a blaster that sends alarm bells blazing in my head. It’s a sudden, eerie quiet, as if everyone in the streets has decided in unison to shut their mouths and go home. Silently and orderly, the streets begin clearing. As far as I can tell, nothing has been resolved. No order to end the demonstration has been issued. The Enforcers do not raise a hand. And yet, the people all move like an ancient herd of sheep.
The only hint I have as to the catalyst for the change is the wrist bands, which have shifted from black to yellow. It’s strange enough that it almost distracts me from my actual worries, but not quite.
I collapse onto the bed and nestle into the warm blankets. I am exhausted. I need to sleep. But sleep eludes me. In my head, I try to recall some of Dad’s stories. He used to make them up for me too, when I was little. Whyle loves stories about fairy tales where anything is possible. I always preferred stories about how the world was in the pre-Wither days. Maybe that’s why I’m so fascinated by the history book I got from Kenna. But tonight, I don’t need real—I need magic and hope. So I think of the stories he tells to Whyle—ones where anything, even a girl from the Smoke passing the Burning, is possible.
I wish I could believe in them now—believe the impossible. But at least I can take these stories with me to the Ash, and maybe Dad will think of them too, and they will connect us across time and space.
Chapter 6
Sleep finally overtakes me, but not for long.
“It’s time to get up,” a timid voice says, jostling me awake. A girl, not much older than me, stands near my bed looking anxious.
I groan and roll away, covering my face with my pillow.
“Breakfast is already being served,” she says. “The first trial will start soon.”
“Breakfast?” I whirl around and leap from the bed. I missed breakfast yesterday, and couldn’t bring myself to do more than pick at lunch and dinner. The only thing I feel more strongly than despair at this moment is a deep, penetrating hunger.
“You aren’t going out like that, are you?” the girl asks, genuinely alarmed.
I still haven’t changed, and my clothes are the faded, filthy, thread-worn apparel of a girl from the wrong side of The City.
It’s not like I have a chance in the Burning anyway, so I can’t see how it matters much what I look like. Still, I might as well enjoy the amenities while I’m here, so I pull out a clean set of clothes from the closet. “Um, do you mind stepping out while I change?” I ask the girl.
She points to a door. “You can change in there while I make your bed.”
I open the door to discover that I not only have my own private bathroom, but it’s as large as my entire bedroom back home, and far nicer, too.
“Don’t be shy about using the shower,” she calls, and I take that as more than a mere suggestion.
Grime clings to my skin and mats my hair. I turn on the running water, and it comes out in a strong stream. I undress and step in. The water rains down like a gentle massage. There are several levers that dispense soaps. I don’t know what the differences are, but they all smell so good that I doubt it matters. Whatever I use is bound to make me cleaner and more fragrant than I have possibly ever been.
Even though it feels nice, I don’t linger. My stomach aches, and I just want to get to breakfast. I towel off and get dressed in new, clean clothes. They aren’t as fancy as I would have guessed. Just a simple green shirt and dark pants, but it’s still luxurious. I’ve never even felt fabric like this before, let alone worn it. The sensation reminds me of being wrapped in a gentle hug—not too tight, but soft, and strong, and comforting.
When I come back out, clutching my old clothes to my chest, the bed has been transformed into a decorative mound of blankets and pillows that looks more like a work of art than a place to sleep. The girl is busily wiping away at every surface. Presumably she’s dusting, despite the complete lack of anything dust-like in sight. If she wants to see dust, I should show her the shelves at the market back home where they keep the luxuries too expensive for anyone to even touch, let alone buy—things like jeweled necklaces, colored paper, scented candles, and other equally useless things. I mean, who’s ever going to spend twelve credits on a beaded bag to carry your stuff around in when you can make a bag out of scraps for free? Honestly, I don’t know why they waste the space on these items. I suppose many of those things are commonplace here in the Flame, but they’ve never really been that interesting to me.
“Who are you?” I ask, not sure what’s going on here, and whether she expects me to be helping her.
“I’m Petra. I’ll be taking care of your room while you’re here,” she says, smiling.
I’ve never had someone wait on me, and it feels awkward. I wish she would leave, because there’s something I want to do and I’m not sure if she should know. “Can you do me a favor?” I ask.
“That depends. Is it your hair? Because you desperately need some help there! If it’s your hair, then I can definitely help.” She looks so excited that I don’t dare turn her down or admit that my hair hadn’t even crossed my mind, even though it hangs scraggly and damp halfway down my back.
She leads me to the mirror and instructs me to sit. I wonder how long this can possibly take. Back home, it has never taken me more than a minute or two to brush my hair and pull the long, auburn strands into a braid or bun. Petra goes to work, complaining about the tangles but smiling and talking all the while. Then she uses a small, buzzing device to dry my hair in seconds. I hope that she’s almost done with me because I really am hungry, but it seems that brushing and drying were just the prelude to the actual styling.
“What assignment are you hoping for?” she asks, pulling and twisting locks of hair.
I almost have to laugh at that, because the idea that I’ll get any assignment at all is ludicrous. There’s no need to point this fact out, though, so I just turn the question around on her. “Is this the assignment you were hoping for?” I ask. I’m not trying to be rude, but she casts her eyes down as though I’ve embarrassed her, so I add, “I mean, it seems like a really good job, to be a maid here in the Flame.”
That appears to cheer her, and she smiles with a little shrug. “It’s not so bad, really. I actually do kind of like it, but it’s not really the most desirable job, you know.”
“I would have thought any assignment in the Flame is great,” I say honestly.
“Of course any assignment is great compared to being sent to the Ash, but some jobs are more desirable or more prestigious than others. Things like designers, and performers, and the Burn Masters, of course.”
The Burn Master I understand, but I have no idea what those other things she’s talking about are, which is probably a big part of the reason why I don’t have much chance of being assigned to do them.
Her hands fall still, and I look at myself in the mirror. While we talked, she has turned my head into a masterpiece. I hardly recognize my own face, framed in flowing waves that cascade from a fountain on top.
“Beautiful,” I whisper in awe.
“Not quite,” she contradicts, and rifles around in a drawer, then approaches my face brandishing a small tube with a red stick.
“What’s that?” I say, backing away.
“Just some lipstick. Come on, let me. It’ll look great.”
Hesitantly, I allow her to rub the red along the lines of my lips. The color it leaves behind has a waxy texture I can’t quite get used to. I hope it wipes off.
She’s reaching for something else, but I’m done. “No more,” I say, standing. “I’m hungry.”
“Okay, fine,” she says with just a hint of a pout. “You’re a million times better than when I walked in,” she remarks, looking me over from head to toe. “That’s what I really wanted,” she whispers, as though sharing a deep secret.
“What, to make me pretty?�
�
“To be a stylist.”
When I just stare back blankly, she adds, “They’re the people who make everyone else look beautiful.”
I look back to my reflection. “I can’t imagine why you didn’t get that assignment. You’re amazing.”
“The City didn’t need any more stylists when it was my turn. I guess this was the best thing available at the time.” She picks up a dusting wand and waves it in the air. “Not that I’m complaining,” she adds quickly.
“Now, you’d better go to breakfast,” she urges. “You’ll need your strength today.”
“Okay, thanks for everything. Just one last thing.” I tuck my old clothes under the mattress while she watches in puzzlement. “Can you just leave those alone? They’re the only thing I have left of home, and I’d kind of like to keep them.” Even as I do it, I know it’s silly and pointless, but I can’t bear to part with the one last piece of home I may ever have.
She nods conspiratorially and pushes me to the door, rattling off quick directions to the dining hall. I follow them eagerly, and soon a new and strange aroma fills the air. It makes my mouth fill with saliva. The scent leads me all the way down the hallway and around two corners until I reach its source.
The dining hall is huge, and filled with at least three dozen people—mostly contestants, from the look of it. Instantly, I understand Petra’s concern for my appearance. Compared to everyone else in the room, I look about as impressive as a little house made out of mud standing next to mansions. This fact appears to bother the other contestants more than it does me. I draw many openly curious glances, but it’s easy to pay them little attention.
All I care about is following the red, plush carpet to the familiar serving window at the front of the room. My stomach grumbles in anticipation of being filled, and I can’t help hoping that maybe they serve bigger portions here in the Flame. This is supposed to be the place of luxuries, after all. Shouldn’t that include enough food to make you feel truly satisfied? What must that be like?