Neverseen

by Shannon Messenger

  Sophie snatched the vial out of his reach. “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Boo—you’re worse than my mom! Actually, no you’re not. No one is. Was. What’s the right verb? It needs to be past tense, right?”

  The thought seemed to sober him up and he rolled onto his side, curling his legs into his chest. He tapped his empty vial with his fingernails.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Sophie studied his expression, wondering if this was the real Keefe. Without the jokes to hide behind, he looked angry. And really scared.

  “Right now it’s in the ‘we don’t know’ tense, Keefe,” she said gently.

  “Yeah.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “I made her a necklace one time. Did I tell you that? I made it out of beads to match her favorite bracelet. I painted a different flower on every one. And do you know how many times she wore it?”

  Sophie was pretty sure she could guess.

  He held up both of his fists with no fingers raised. “That many. I really thought she would. She even defended it. My dad said I’d wasted an afternoon when I could’ve been preparing for my Foxfire entrance exams, and she told him she thought it was pretty. I’d painted the flowers from memory after studying for the agriculture exam—not that my dad cared. So I thought she’d wear it. But nope. She always wore the ugly ruby necklace he bought her.”

  He tapped the bottle so hard it slipped out of his hand and bounced to the edge of the tent.

  Sophie got up to grab it, sucking in a breath as she put weight on her burned leg.

  “That’s what you get for climbing out of bed before I tell you,” a sharp voice scolded.

  “Hey—it’s the boobrie dude!” Keefe said as a green-cloaked figure slipped into the tent. “Got any more of the good stuff?”

  The boobrie dude frowned, which looked especially strange now that Sophie understood what Keefe meant about his mask. The black metal had been decorated with yellow feathers that stuck through the fabric of his hood.

  “I don’t think you should give him any more,” Sophie told him.

  “No, I don’t think so either,” the boobrie dude agreed. “Don’t worry, his head will clear soon. What about you?” he asked Sophie. “You’re not having the same side effect?”

  Sophie held up her still-full vial. “Didn’t seem like a good idea. Plus, I had to make sure there’s no limbium in it.”

  “Ah, so you’re the one with the allergy—I wasn’t sure if it was you or the other girl. I was careful just in case. Now let’s see that burn.”

  Sophie stretched out her leg, cringing when she saw the blisters coating the top of her foot and running all the way to the middle of her calf.

  He pulled out a nearly empty tube and squeezed the last of its contents onto the burn. The cream was gray and chalky and felt scratchy on her blisters.

  “We’re out of numbing ointment,” he explained. “We’re out of most everything, but this should be enough. I make what I can with any herbs I stumble across, but what I wouldn’t give for one measly supply shipment.”

  “The Council doesn’t send any?”

  He snorted. “All they ever send is more Waywards—though never five in a single day before. How’d you manage that?”

  Sophie shrugged. “The Council doesn’t like us.”

  “Well, it’s good you’re used to that, since the Coaches don’t like you either. You ruined the Arch of Dividing.”

  “They were the ones who left us dangling like piñatas.”

  “Piñatas?” he asked.

  “They’re a human thing.”

  “Well, I’m assuming comments like that are what got you here. Probably those eyes, too.”

  “Hey, I like Foster’s eyes,” Keefe told him. “Brown is so much warmer than blue.”

  “You two should be careful,” the boobrie dude said as Sophie blushed. “Names are not welcome here.”

  “Does that mean I can keep calling you boobrie dude?” Keefe asked.

  “If you must. But I’m serious about my warning. Keep to yourself. Focus on the skills. And wipe off that leg.”

  It took Sophie a second to realize he wanted her to use the towel he was offering, which didn’t necessarily look clean. But there weren’t any other towels, so Sophie wiped the gray gunk off her skin, relieved to see no trace of the blisters.

  The boobrie dude nodded. “You’re lucky she put out the fire so quickly.”

  “She?” Sophie asked.

  “Our Hydrokinetic. She called the wave that caught you—which should’ve gotten her ejected, by the way. But she also put out the rest of the fire, so the Coaches let it slide.”

  “Why would helping me get her ejected?” Sophie asked, hoping it meant “expelled” and not actually being launched out of the campus.

  “Because here it’s about everyone for themselves. And since you seem like the type, you should know it would be a terrible idea to thank her. Communication will get you both in trouble—and then you’ll have to deal with the Shade.”

  The way he said the word gave Sophie chills. “Who’s the Shade?”

  “The worst Wayward here. And he’s incredibly protective of the Hydrokinetic. If you want to survive here, you’ll keep your distance from both of them.”

  He turned his attention to Keefe, unwrapping the bandage and rubbing a green gel on Keefe’s ankle.

  “How long have you worked here?” Sophie asked, hoping he’d say a long time. If she could learn something about the Psionipath, it would make the whole physician-visit-on-the-first-day thing less embarrassing.

  “Honestly, I’ve lost count,” he said. “I think it’s been ten years, but it all blurs together.”

  Ten years was a good answer. “Did you ever treat a Psionipath—or remember meeting one—over the years?”

  “I’ve met several,” he said, turning back to face her. “Why?”

  Sophie shrugged, hoping she looked casual. “I ran into one a few weeks ago and he said he used to go to Exillium.”

  He shook his head. “If this is a crush thing, you can do better.”

  “It’s not a crush thing,” Sophie said, ignoring Keefe’s snickers. She realized it was going to take a little more “truth” to coax out the right answer, so she added, “I think he might be part of some sort of rebellion.”

  The boobrie dude flinched, and she knew she was onto something. Especially when he said, “Stay away from him.”

  “So you know who I’m talking about?”

  “I’m pretty sure I do, though I couldn’t tell you his name. And he’s even worse than the Shade. Anger at the Council is pretty standard around here, but I remember thinking, ‘This guy could spark a revolution.’ And given the strangeness I’ve seen in the Territories . . .”

  “What strangeness?” Sophie asked, her heart officially in thunder mode.

  “These are dangerous questions,” he said. “The kind that could get you ejected—or worse.”

  “It’s wrong to want to know what’s happening in our world?” Sophie asked.

  “You don’t have a world anymore. You’re banished.”

  “She’s just trying to settle a bet,” Keefe jumped in before Sophie could argue any further. “I bet her that the guy was lying about being at Exillium to sound tough, so she’s trying to prove me wrong. And my leg feels all better now. Thanks.”

  The boobrie dude didn’t look convinced by Keefe’s excuse. But all he said was, “Both of you need to get dressed.” He pointed to new pants and boots at the foot of their beds and lowered a curtain between their beds to give them privacy. “The Coaches are ready to mark you.”

  “Mark us?” Sophie asked, trying not to picture a dog marking its territory.

  “Yes. It’s time for you to learn your place in Exillium.”

  FORTY-THREE

  THE BOOBRIE DUDE escorted them from the Healing Tent to a stage under a golden canopy, where the three Coaches stood in their colored robes in the center of the platform. The rest of the Waywards were lined up in fron
t, in neat rows with their arms at their sides, like soldiers.

  Sophie searched the crowd for the rest of her friends, but the hoods and masks made it impossible to recognize anyone. The only distinguishing marks were colored handprints on their sleeves—either a red handprint on their left arm, a blue handprint on their right arm, or a purple handprint on both arms. The colors corresponded to the Coaches’ robes, and also to the three tents set up in the remaining corners of the campus. The canopies reminded Sophie of the pictures she’d seen of celebrity weddings, with raised peaks in the middle and silky panels of fabric flapping in the strong mountain winds. The tent on the right was deep blue, the left tent was ruby red, and the center tent was royal purple. The Coaches stood in the same order, each holding a bowl of matching paint.

  “Since these two have taken it upon themselves to delay today’s lesson with their accidents,” the red Coach said in her raspy voice, “we will be skipping lunch and switching today’s skill to appetite suppression.”

  Every Wayward groaned, and Sophie was pretty sure she was officially the most hated girl in school. Fortunately, that was familiar territory.

  “And now, for your marking,” the red Coach said.

  The blue Coach stepped forward and faced Keefe. “Your immediate, impulsive action—despite being foolish—made it clear that you belong in the Right Hemisphere.”

  He dipped his hand in the paint and smacked Keefe’s right arm, leaving a blue handprint on his sleeve.

  “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Keefe asked.

  “Very much,” the blue Coach said.

  He moved back to the other Coaches, and the purple Coach stepped forward, handing Sophie the bowl of purple paint.

  “Your indecision to act, as well as your unconventional solution, made it clear you are neither right nor left, but Ambi.” She dipped both of her hands in the purple paint and marked each of Sophie’s sleeves.

  Sophie stared at the purple handprints, wishing she wasn’t being separated from Keefe. The Coaches dismissed the crowd, and she hoped she’d find at least one of her friends at the purple Ambi tent. But there were definitely no friendly faces. A few Waywards even tried to trip her as she walked past.

  The tent had no chairs. Only mats on the floor, and the fabric had seen better days. Everything was frayed, with patches and stains. She chose a spot in the back to hide. No one sat near her—though no one sat next to anyone, except for one boy and a girl who sat as close as they could sit without technically touching. Sophie sucked in a breath when she noticed the girl’s pin: swirling waves and drops of rain. She had to be the Hydrokinetic.

  The girl sat hunched, like she was trying to shrink away. The boy was her opposite. Everything about him felt defiant. His uniform sleeves were rolled up, and he angled his body toward the girl, making it clear he would not be kept away from her. His ability pin was silver, with a black hand reaching from the center like it was trying to claw free. Sophie assumed that meant he was the Shade.

  She was still studying the boy, trying to decide if she believed the boobrie dude’s warnings about him, when the purple Coach shouted for everyone to get into position. Sophie copied the others as they folded their legs crisscross-applesauce and kept their backs rigid.

  “Our bodies need food,” her Coach said, “but they do not need to be hungry. Hunger is a choice—a warning system that can be switched off by those strong enough to defy it. Take control. Concentrate. And put your head between your knees if you feel faint.”

  The first hour passed easily, though Sophie had to keep tilting her legs so her butt wouldn’t go numb. But as the second hour stretched into the third, she could feel the sloshy sourness in her belly growing. She hadn’t had breakfast—choosing to nab an extra fifteen minutes of sleep. She regretted that decision when her stomach started growling.

  “Stop giving in to your weakness,” her Coach told her.

  GROOOOOOOWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLLL! her stomach protested.

  She tried to take her mind off it by repeating what little she’d learned. Clearly the physician knew something about the plague, but he wasn’t telling. She wondered if asking adults was the wrong way to go. Maybe she’d have better luck if she found a way to talk to one of the Waywards—but who? Without seeing their faces she couldn’t tell if any of them looked friendly. All she had to go by were their ability pins.

  She knew the Telepath pin was blue, with a silhouette of a face and a lightning bolt zapping across the brain—way prettier than her Inflictor pin, which was black with a silver hand radiating jagged silver lines. Her Polyglot pin had a purple background with pink lips and a white speech bubble, and her Teleporter pin was her favorite—a starry sky with a flying alicorn. She also knew from Dex that the Technopath pin was dark green with a silver handprint covered in black lines like circuits and wires, and Keefe’s Empath pin was red with an open book and a silver heart painted across the pages.

  But the rest she had to guess. Could the yellow pin with two hands holding the sun mean a Flasher? Was the tree with wind-whipped branches a Guster? And what did it matter anyway? Were certain abilities friendlier?

  Her eyes traveled back to the Shade and she sucked in a breath when she realized his head was tilted toward her.

  Sophie? Fitz transmitted, nearly making her scream. Sorry for slipping past your blocking without permission, he said. I kept trying to get your attention, but you never looked over, and I realized you didn’t know Biana and I both ended up in Left Hemisphere. I’ll cough so you can see where we are.

  Soft hacking drew her gaze to two cloaked figures somewhat close together on the far side of the red tent.

  Where’s Dex?

  He’s with Keefe in the Right Hemisphere. You okay over there all alone?

  Of course. But her mind wandered to the Shade.

  Why’s he staring at you? Fitz asked, reminding her he could see what she was thinking.

  I don’t know. But the physician said he’s the worst Wayward here.

  I wouldn’t be surprised. Shades control darkness with a force they call shadowvaper. I don’t really understand it. But you should never trust a Shade—especially one who ends up here.

  And yet, when the Hydrokinetic girl started swaying from hunger, the Shade scooted closer, helping her put her head between her knees until she caught her breath.

  That’s the girl who saved you, Fitz transmitted. You should’ve seen how crazy her power is. She waved her arms and this huge wave curled out of the fog, and I swear it looked like she grabbed you with a giant water hand. Then she set you down and the hand reached up and smacked the arch until all the flames had been stamped out. I’m pretty sure everyone thinks you’re a Pyrokinetic now, by the way. Even I wondered for a second—especially when I saw how fast the flames moved. And they were white, like those fires Brant set before.

  I know—I don’t understand, Sophie said. Why would the Black Swan give us something to make fire like Pyrokinetics?

  Maybe they wanted to even our chances against Brant.

  Maybe. Not that she loved the idea.

  Her stomach growled again and she clamped her hands around her middle.

  Wow, I heard that all the way over here. You need to think about food. It tricks your stomach. What would you eat right now if you could?

  Sophie’s mouth watered as she thought of Calla’s starkflower stew. But the happy memory quickly drifted to how she imagined the gnomes in quarantine must look—which did at least kill her appetite.

  How long do you think we have before someone dies? she asked Fitz.

  Hopefully long enough.

  And hopefully tomorrow they move the campus to somewhere we actually learn something—assuming I get a bead. My fire incident was a pretty epic disaster.

  Try not to worry—I think you’ll be fine.

  But really, were any of them “fine”?

  She thought about Keefe in the physician’s tent, in that brief glimpse of the fear and anger he was hiding.

  Do
you think Keefe is really okay?

  I . . . don’t see how he could be.

  It was an honest answer—and totally terrifying. Neither of them seemed to know what to say. So they sat in silence, connected but separate as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon.

  A gong finally dismissed them, and Sophie followed the Waywards to the golden pavilion, where the blue Coach held a jar of green beads. The purple Coach clapped her hands, making the beads float until each Wayward had a bead hovering over their head, even Sophie.

  “To our new Waywards, who do not understand our traditions,” the red Coach said. “We offer beads only to those we deem deserving. But it’s always your choice to refuse or accept.”

  “Accepting comes with sacrifice,” the blue Coach warned. “The cost of continuing your fight for redemption. Refusing has no consequence, but it is also irreversible.”

  “We won’t tell you how to decide,” the purple Coach finished. “You choose your path.”

  Sophie reached for her bead and a jolt of electricity stung her hand. She hadn’t realized the sacrifice would be such a literal consequence. But she was glad to know she could survive it.

  She tied the bead onto her black cord, and it looked so small next to the blue one. Especially considering how many beads the Waywards around her had.

  “If you’re thinking it’ll get easier, it won’t,” a deep voice whispered in her ear.

  She turned to find the Shade with his head tilted toward her. But he was too far away to be the whisperer.

  She opened her mouth to reply and he nudged her attention to where the purple Coach stood watching.

  “You should be careful,” his whispery voice said, despite the distance between them. “The Coaches are very interested in you.”

  She couldn’t figure out how he was doing it, until she glanced down and noticed his shadow crossing hers.

  Wait, Sophie transmitted, as he turned to walk away.

  She hadn’t forgotten the physician’s warnings—or Fitz’s—but she couldn’t pass up a chance to make a connection.