Blood, Ink & Fire

by Ashley Mansour

  “Listen to me,” Ledger says. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Grandpa, how could you do this? You know I don’t have a choice but to surrender! Fell won’t stop. They’re never going to stop!”

  “This is not the way!” he shouts, banging his fist against the tile. “Noelle, I am sorry, but as long as I am still alive, I will not see you give in to Fell this way. I may be an old man, but I will do everything in my power to keep you from them while I still can.”

  “Grandpa, please!” I say, holding his hand to my cheek. “Please,” I whisper. “You must let me do this. You must let me try to save us. If you love me, you won’t try to stop me.”

  His face shatters into hurt, sadness, regret. “Noelle, I love you with my whole heart.” His eyes soften, then grow cold, resolute. “But I’d never forgive myself if I stood by and didn’t try do something to end this. Once they have you in immersion, it’s over. It’s done. You’ll never be the same. It will kill you.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” Ledger says.

  Tears flood my grandfather’s eyes. He clutches his stomach and winces as a violent stab of pain grips him. The poison has reached his organs. I know the hours are dwindling. I glance at my watch. 46:02:12. We need to hurry.

  “Ledger, keep driving. Get us there.”

  He nods and races back to the front of the RV. In moments I feel us picking up speed. I clean up my grandfather and help him back to bed, but I don’t leave him alone this time.

  The hours blend into each other until I don’t recognize anything but the numbers on the watch Mac gave me. I turn from Grandpa to check it every half hour, seeing the minutes and hours evaporate. When the watch gets to 44:15:02, I start pacing the bedroom. At 43:19:08, Grandpa starts shaking violently, and he vomits for the next two hours. At 41:03:10, he falls asleep from sheer exhaustion. At 39:00:00, I really start to panic.

  I head up front to Ledger, catching sight of the road for the first time in a while. A ridge of enormous white-capped mountains looms ahead. We pass endless evergreen trees and cross a river. The air changes, becoming dry and thin, the quiet around us cut only by our engine. After forty minutes of driving, the evergreens become sparse, revealing two cities side by side, guarded by a pale stone fortress. The city to the right is full of hard lines and firm edges. The city to the left is lush and radiant, its towers twisting serenely in the distance.

  “These must be the sister cities,” Ledger says. “Fair Verona and Stoneleigh.”

  “Which is which?” I say.

  The road answers me, scooping and swerving toward the city to the left. We veer beneath a sign above the curved arch of the gate that reads “FV.”

  The gates open. A flood of colored umbrellas and flags rush the RV. We stop, unable to move in the gigantic crowd of people. Arms wave. Flags circle. Faces light up and point at us through the windshield.

  “A welcoming committee?” Ledger says. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  A far-off horn sounds. The people stop and disperse. The faux cobbled streets empty, becoming quiet in seconds. “Look,” Ledger says, pointing to a baby-pink umbrella. It floats toward our dashboard, then collapses with a whoosh. A girl with yellow hair stares at us through the window. The horn sounds again. She scampers to the driver’s-side door and knocks on the window. Ledger lowers it halfway. She climbs up, wedging her face to the opening. “Quickly!” the girl says. “The reader is needed at the quorum!” She hops down and opens her umbrella.

  “You’re expecting us?” I say.

  “Killem said you’d be coming,” she says. “But we don’t have much time. Please, you must come with me now.”

  Ledger and I get Grandpa from the back room. “We’re here,” I whisper to him, but he barely lifts an eyelid.

  Ledger goes to his side and scoops him up. “Let’s go.”

  When we step out of the RV, the sunlight hits us directly, its glare blinding us. The golden-haired girl tilts her umbrella, covering us in her shade. “Quickly now.”

  We follow her through Fair Verona’s streets, which appear to have been paved with all sorts of colored tiles, pottery, and glass. We pass under several archways, each decorated with leaves, faces, and ornaments carved into the stone. In moments, the girl heads into a long tunnel. I feel Ledger following me, his breathing slightly labored with the weight of my grandfather in his arms. “You’re taking us to your volume, right?” I ask her.

  “To the amphitheater, actually. The ministers won’t wait for you, even if it is your case.”

  “My case?”

  “Yes. You’re Noelle Hartley, the reader?”

  I turn back to Ledger, who’s eyeing the girl and our surroundings carefully. “That’s me,” I say.

  “Then it is your case they are hearing today. Whatever it is, it must be big. They don’t draw together a quorum for nothing, you know.”

  “A quorum?”

  “It’s like a hearing,” she says, turning slightly. “My name is Moana, by the way. Please keep up. We don’t want to be late.”

  We pull through the stretch of tunnel as it opens onto the ground floor of an immense circular amphitheater. “Pardon us, please,” she says, leading us around columns and clusters of robed officials whispering in corners. They stop when they see us. Some smile, though most look concerned.

  She takes us up into the stands. The roar of the crowd intensifies as I make my way through, following Moana up the vertical rows of benches. We take an empty seat near the top. I slide down, making room for Ledger and Grandpa, when Moana stops me.

  “They will have to come with me,” she whispers.

  “What? Why?” Ledger asks.

  “The golden ministers have requested an audience with Mr. Hartley. And the legatee ministers want to see you.”

  “Who are the legatee ministers?” I ask blankly.

  Moana stares at me curiously for a beat, then shakes her head. “If you want to have even a chance at winning today, you’d better watch closely and learn quickly. There are a great many votes that must be won by your side today.”

  “My side?” I say. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Ledger says. “We came here for your volume, and that’s it.”

  “I know,” Moana says. “That’s what the quorum is for.”

  With that, Moana leads Ledger and my grandfather back down the steps toward the tunnel. I try to focus as the amphitheater fills with the hum of people.

  I count no less than eighty rows of seats arranged in a circular pattern around the center ring where a single chair occupies an immense stage. The amphitheater is strangely divided, but its arrangement is starting to make sense. The side across from me is full of noisy, talking people waving blank banners and flags, opening and closing umbrellas. My side, however, is mostly empty, with a few rows of people entering calmly to take their seats, all of them in similar dress. To my right, the people wear long gold-and-red robes over their clothing. They sit talking to one another, nodding and agreeing and raising their hands to greet new entrants. I notice something else strange: every single one of them is about my grandfather’s age.

  On the left side are rows of people in green robes. I scan them quickly, struck by the difference in this group. All of them are young, around my age, and they sit laughing, talking casually, leaning on the benches and behaving as though they’ve done this a million times.

  In moments, Moana returns and takes her seat next to me. “Your grandfather is well now. They’ve given him something to lessen the pain.”

  I nod gratefully and thank her, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. “The quorum will begin soon,” she tells me.

  I shake my head with confusion. “Who are all these people?”

  “Those are the golden ministers,” she says, pointing to the older people in the gold-and-red robes. “And they,” she says, pointing to the people in the green robes to my right, “they are the legatee ministers.”

&nbs
p; “What do their titles mean?”

  “Legatee ministers are the recipients of the legacy of our future. They have been chosen to help guide us toward a more satisfactory tomorrow.”

  “And the others?”

  “The golden ministers. They are our oldest citizens, the ones with the knowledge of the earlier time.” Moana lowers her voice. “People say they have been chosen to help us avoid the mutiny of the past, of which they still have memory. Each will present one side of the case to the public.” She points across the stage.

  “You say this is my case?” I ask.

  Moana leans forward and takes my hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. “If the rumors are true, this must be very hard for you. But let me advise you of one thing.” She pauses to look around her quickly before pressing her mouth to my ear. “When it is time, speak from your heart. As you would speak to your dearest friend. Be honest, be impassioned, but above all, be fair. The public must see that you are not like the others.”

  “Moana, what others?”

  She tips her head and smiles at me. “The others from the UVF, of course!”

  A white figure enters the stage from the back of the amphitheater. “Here comes Juliet, the prime listener.”

  As the white figure takes the center of the large stage, the crowd grows silent. “Ministers, are we ready to commence?”

  “Indeed, Prime Listener,” the ministers reply in unison.

  “Good.” She turns back toward the center. “People of the public. My esteemed golden ministers. My forthright legatee ministers. We are here today to hear the case of the two volumes of Fair Verona and Stoneleigh. Our ministers have not agreed on this matter, thus resulting hereto in this quorum. Therefore, according to the Acts of Fair Verona, I formally call the eighty-seventh quorum to order in the case of Noelle Hartley versus the people of Fair Verona and Stoneleigh.”

  A gasp escapes from me, and I cover my mouth. Moana doesn’t stir. She just glances at me with a look that says I should know better.

  “Let us begin with the opening remarks. First we shall hear from Tyba, leader of the golden ministers.”

  A woman with a long white braid rises from the front row. She takes her time moving through the rows and onto the stage, walking straight to the center. I note the curve of her spine as she bows her head respectfully. Someone ushers in a small silver amplifier, which she attaches to her lapel.

  “Prime Listener, my fellow ministers, citizens of Fair Verona and Stoneleigh, I thank you for hearing me. As you know, today brings forth the case concerning Noelle Hartley and Volumes VI and VII from Fair Verona and Stoneleigh, respectively. A question has been brought to us as to whether these volumes should be handed over to Noelle Hartley, a Valer.”

  The crowd buzzes with uproar.

  “Order, citizens! Please!” the prime listener shouts until the people die down. “You may continue, Tyba.”

  Tyba nods graciously. “Citizens, you may be asking yourselves why such a question has come to us, and for this I will offer an explanation by way of argument. We are to understand,” she says, turning to point directly at me, “Noelle Hartley has bargained with Fell, our oppressor. She has promised the volumes in exchange for her grandfather’s life, who is also a Valer.”

  An outcry from the audience knots my stomach. They’re already against me. I don’t stand a chance.

  “Citizens, I implore you, do not agree to the relinquishment of our precious volumes to our sworn enemy. For in doing so you are agreeing to the death of our traditions, our way of life, and by default our Sovereigns. The facts are these: Noelle Hartley has already broken Fell’s laws. A runaway, an outcast, she has stolen the volumes of no less than five other Sovereigns. Following this, she sought refuge in Fort Numb, which we all know has little to no standing as a Sovereign anymore since their despicable alignment with the UVF. Then, friends, we are to understand that this runaway has bargained with Fell to spare her own life and save one of her own—another Valer—by giving up the volumes to Fell. She has deceived everyone into believing she holds a great and elusive power, and that she, a Valer born, mind you, somehow possesses the natural ability to read!”

  The crowd erupts into laughter.

  “Order!” the prime listener cries. “Order, please!”

  “Thank you, Prime Listener,” Tyba continues. “But the public is right to laugh at this spectacle before us. For the legatee ministers will try to convince you that her ability is real and that we should follow suit in the name of Sovereign solidarity. They will try to argue that Noelle Hartley has made a wise decision and has kept the peace. They will want to convince you, friends, that she holds these volumes purely because she is a reader. But let us not be fooled by these unsubstantiated claims. Let us not be taken by their naive statements. We must forgive the legatee ministers for having cursory arguments without full sight of the recent past. I would remind you, citizens, they were not yet born when the fires of Fell first raged . . .”

  A girl from the legatee ministers rises. “Challenge, Prime Listener,” she shouts.

  The prime listener waves her hand, granting her the floor.

  “The auditory bylaws state that a minister’s age, gender, and other personal details relating to their parentage or social status cannot be used in quorum as evidence or testimony. And I believe Minister Tyba is arguing our age discounts our arguments, which I’d like to state for the oral record, have not been presented yet.”

  “Quite right, Minister Sonia,” the prime listener says. “Tyba, please stick to the facts.”

  “Very well, Prime Listener,” Tyba says. “The facts are these.”

  Tyba pauses and strides toward the humming crowd. They hang upon her every word. “Firstly, there is no alliance of the Sovereigns, friends. Need I remind you today we stand as the only Sovereign with a formal government? Need I remind you, Fort Numb has long been cooperating through covert deals with our oppressor? Need I call attention to the fact that it was in that very Sovereign that Noelle Hartley made the agreement with Fell which brings us to our quorum now?” Tyba raises her arms dramatically, energizing the public. They clap and cheer for her in their seats.

  I turn to Moana. “How does she know all of this?”

  “It is her job to know,” she says simply. “To defend her position.”

  “Citizens, I ask you, does this smell of an alliance between Sovereigns over a reader? Or a rogue Valer, nay, a Fell outlaw, who has sought the safe harbor of the Sovereigns, one by one? Now, let us take a look at the argument that our legatee ministers will put forth to you: that Noelle Hartley is not planning to use our precious volumes to release the invaluable information they contain, the Archive, friends. The Archive we have long sought. Are we to believe she will resist them as she says? How can we trust her when she has already compromised us through a bad deal with our enemy?”

  Tyba’s voice rises, and the crowd follows suit. I feel my chest tighten, my head spin. I’m never getting those books. Not now. Not like this.

  “Now, citizens,” Tyba says, calming the audience. “That the girl made a bad deal with Fell is not the only reason you must vote against her. As we know only too well, Fell never upholds their end of the bargain. And because they never do, you will see very shortly that William Hartley’s life has already been compromised. His already brief time left on this Earth has been rendered briefer by a Never Blade from Fell’s own troops in Killem. He has but hours remaining to live. Are we really to believe that the volumes, if procured and given to Noelle Hartley, will not be given over to Fell in exchange for the Fellmaceutical that will save him?”

  I grab Moana’s hand. “She’s twisting the facts,” I whisper. “I have to stop this.”

  “You can’t,” says Moana. “You can’t stop it now. She’s doing her job.”

  “Now, as you know, friends, the golden ministers and I value every human life as much as you do. But I submit to you that William Hartley is, regretfully, past the age at which medical care would have
been provided in our sister city, Stoneleigh. But even if he were not, friends; even if he were in perfect health and did not have the poison of the Never Blade coursing through his body, William Hartley does not wish to be saved. He, like us, believes keeping the volumes here in Fair Verona and Stoneleigh is more important.” Tyba pauses, as if shedding a tear. “Yes. Even more important than his own life.”

  My heart races with anger as she pretends to be overcome with emotion. “Forgive me, my heart has stopped under the weight of Mr. Hartley’s sacrifice, and I must pause until its beat returns.”

  Tyba fans herself with her hand, feigning sadness. “And now, with the permission of the prime listener, I would like to call Mr. Hartley to the stage to present us with his testimony.”

  “She can’t be serious,” I say to Moana. “My grandfather would never have agreed to this!”

  “On the contrary,” Moana whispers. “It was his idea.”

  “Permission granted,” the prime listener says. “Mr. Hartley, please come forward. We will hear you now.”

  I watch, dumbfounded, as the golden ministers help my grandfather onto the stage, where a chair is brought for him to sit in the center. A minister brings him an amplifier and attaches it to his shirt.

  “This can’t be happening,” I say. But before I know it, I hear my grandfather’s voice echoing through the amphitheater.

  “Thank you, Prime Listener. As you can see, friends, there is no denying my age. I, William Hartley, am indeed a very old man.” He steadies himself. Tyba comes to his side. “Even if saving my life could be guaranteed, I would ask you not to do it.” Tyba nods, as if willing him to continue. “I implore you not to vote in favor of my granddaughter, Noelle Hartley. She must not have the volumes of your Sovereigns. As sure as Fell’s poison runs in my veins, it is my dying wish that she should remain here, with full pardon and protection in Fair Verona and that the volumes should, too.”

  “No!” I shout, rising to my feet. I don’t care who stops me, or what they do. I have to end this. “Grandpa! You can’t do this!”