by E E Rawls
Cyrus involuntarily snorted a laugh when Aken tried on bike gloves and too-big goggles, winking over the rims at her. “Now that makes you look like the troublemaker you are,” she stated.
Off to the left, a lady was trying on a green dress, twirling its many-layered skirt and matching floral scarf. It was so fancy, so much lace on a gown. Had Mother worn things like that? A part of her actually wanted to try it on.
“Ah, your words just stabbed my heart!” Aken said, clutching his chest.
She shooed him away so she could hand the cashcard over to the clerk. “You’re worse than a two-year-old. Lykale, thanks for helping me out!”
Lykale nodded coolly and continued on with his own shopping. “At least Harlow won’t be punished for murdering fashion.”
Once she and Aken finished getting all the supplies she thought she’d need, the sun was hours higher in the sky. They strolled the walk overlooking the river, shopping bags carried on the back of Limitless, the clay swallow trailing them. She licked at a three-scoop high ice cream cone he insisted she try, from the city’s best Gelatteria.
“So, what are these grade missions the Master was talking about?” Cyrus asked.
“Oh, those. Students are grouped into teams, and every week get a mission from the D.G. League to do,” said Aken. “They’re missions that let us practice our Abilities, and develop combat and team skills—all that stuff. We’re young, so we don’t get the seriously dangerous missions, yet. We’re also graded on our team performance.”
“Hm...when’s our mission?”
He savored a lick of cookie dough ice cream. “Could be anytime, whenever the call comes in.”
Cyrus nodded her chin. “I keep noticing people putting up white feather decorations. What’s that about?”
“The Swan Festival’s coming up.”
That’s right, she’d forgot; Elvenstone would be getting ready for the celebration too, by now.
“That reminds me, you’re new to the city, so you don’t know about the Festival Duel, do you?”
Cyrus shook her head.
Aken explained, “Every year, Draevensett organizes the Festival Duel, where two students face off against each other, and the winner is granted one request from the king. I really want a spot in the Duel—Herc and Bak do, too. But we have to complete all group missions successfully, first, and then we can compete with the other students for a spot.”
“A spot?”
“Only two students get chosen for the Duel.”
“Out of the whole school?” she exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t say the whole school—just those who want to be in the Duel.”
“So, if I mess up on a mission, none of Harlow will get to compete?” She cringed when he nodded.
Aken laughed, “Don’t worry about it. Hey, you’re growing an ice cream mustache.” With a napkin, he reached to wipe the hazelnut and fudge mustache off.
She spooked. “I can clean it off myself,” she murmured hastily and grabbed the napkin. He cocked his head, probably wondering why her face had gone red.
Twree! Twree-kree! Swallows played above the river water. They skimmed the surface like little black arrows, scooping up drinks in their beaks. Aken grinned, “C’mon!” grabbing her free hand.
Down a flight of steep stone steps, they reached a river landing. Little waves lapped against the stone dock. Iron-lattice benches there faced the water on a raised platform.
They both sat on the sun-warmed edge of the dock and dangled their shoes over the water, finishing up the ice cream. She admired the serene view of the river and arched bridges. A breeze tickled her nose with the scent of petunias, and hot pretzels baking somewhere.
No more cares in the world, the view and scent seemed to promise. Not today.
The opposite bank mirrored theirs, dotted in unlit streetlamps. Why couldn’t she have been born here? With Mother married to a vempar who would have loved her, and Cyrus not a half-blood? It wasn’t fair...
“Aaaken! Cyyyrus!”
A holler tore out of the blue, defiling the peace.
Aken’s face became a puckered grimace and titled up, just as Bakoa trotted over the arching bridge above them, waving down from the balustrade. “Yeah, yeah, we hear you loud and clear,” said Aken.
Cyrus kindly waved back. “Hi, Bakoa.”
Pleased as a hyper otter on caffeine, Bakoa hollered down, “It’s luuunch time, and Master Nephryte says to cooome baaack!”
A bell gonged, sounding out the noon hour.
“See? Even Tall Tim is saying so!”
Cyrus spotted the tall clock tower rising over the rows of rooftops, a large intricate clock face on two sides.
“Oookay,” Aken mock hollered back. “But watch out for the raaain, Sand-dude.”
Bakoa tilted his head back to check the sky. “I don’t melt in the rain—how many times do I gotta say that? And it’s not even close to raining now, you fibber.” Bakoa’s lower lip jutted out.
Cyrus didn’t understand the joke, but coaxed Aken to get up. She didn’t want to keep everybody back at Draevensett waiting, especially her being the new kid. Aken’s expression said he had no desire to hurry back, whatsoever, but he forced himself up anyway, leaving the river and tranquility behind.
CYRUS HURRIED ACROSS the school grounds to the Harlow group already there waiting. She had on a new change of clothes—a collared brown shirt with sharp angles and capris. Draevensett’s coat-of-arms sticker on her shirtback, and Floor Harlow’s on a short sleeve.
Hercule, the boy with pearl-gray hair and dragon gold eyes, shot a disapproving frown. Lykale drummed his long fingers on his crossed arms. Cyrus made herself small and stood by Mamoru and Aken.
Master Nephryte had a curious shoulder bag looped around his arm. He ordered, “Now that we’re all here, form a line and hold hands.”
Cyrus tried not to flinch when Aken took her hand on one side and Mamoru the other.
The air around the lined-up group, with the Master at the head, began to stir, turning and rotating, faster and faster, until a whirlwind formed, lifting them up without warning. Cyrus gripped the hands holding her, trying not to scream, ignoring shooting pains in her wrists.
F-woosh! Shaped like an invisible hand, the whirlwind carried all eight of them through the air, over and beyond Draevensett’s spires.
“Whoa.” Bakoa’s sandy-green eyes went wide with thrill, his orange hair whipping like living flames. “Master Nephryte, you’re the most totally awesomest mentor I’ve ever had!”
“He’s the only mentor you’ve ever had,” retorted Hercule. “And awesomest is not a word!” The wind shoved hair in the aristocrat’s mouth, and he choked.
Cyrus squinted, trying not to see how far above the ground they were. After several minutes, the carrying hand of wind faded from underneath them, and with a start she saw the land fast approaching below.
Master Nephryte landed smoothly on his feet with grace, and Mamoru followed, equally perfect. Hercule landed in a kneeling position, Lykale and Bakoa stumbled behind him. Shy Zartanian had to catch his hands on the ground for support. Aken landed flat on his face.
Cyrus flapped her arms in an attempt to grow wings, and would’ve smashed her head in if not for a rope of air catching her shoulders and setting her upright. She straightened, panting.
Aken raised a dizzy head and scrambled to get up, grass in his ears. “Y-you did that to me on p-purpose!” His glare shot off-kilter daggers at the Master.
Master Nephryte shrugged, indifferent. “It isn’t my fault if you haven’t been practicing the Landing Technique I taught in E.M. Study. Aken-Shou, the fault is yours alone.” Ignoring the boy’s glare, he nodded over to Mamoru, “Perhaps later, if you would be so kind as to help Cyrus and...Aken-Shou...with Landing?”
Mamoru gave a nod. Sunlight caught the black edges of the scar down his cheek. Cyrus stared at it, until he turned and winked. She quickly looked elsewhere.
“Exercise first, then lunch. And re
member to use your Ability techniques—that’s the whole point.” Master Nephryte plopped the bag from his arm onto the meadow grass.
Cyrus surveyed where they’d landed: a grassy slope parting the woods, rolling down to a beach of fine sand. They‘d left the city premises entirely.
She watched the boys race each other down to the sand, flinging shirts, shoes and socks off before charging through the warm water lapping the shoreline. It was her first time seeing so much water gathered in one place: stretching beyond the horizon to kiss the sky above.
Master Nephryte must have noticed her awe because he stood beside her, taking in the view. “Lake Doroth, one of the Kingdom of Draeth’s beauties,” he said.
She tilted her head back; he was so very tall compared to her.
He smiled down and lightly patted her head. “You’ll grow up soon enough, Cyrus—don’t be in a hurry.”
She gaped. “I was thinking of the lake, not my height,” she mumbled, and continued watching the lake.
“Cyrus, come on!” Aken waved for her to join them.
She hesitated, staring at them shirtless in the hot sun. She hoped they weren’t expecting her to do the same. ‘Young vempars have fine muscles,’ she thought. Then noticed Hercule still had his shirt on, and Zartanian had kept his hat.
She trotted down to the sand, cheeks hot—from the sun, nothing else.
“I vote for volleyball,” said Bakoa, hands in the air and a silly otter grin on his face.
“You get way too excited.” Aken hefted a leather ball in one hand and turned to her. “What sport do you wanna play, Cy? You choose.”
“Um...” Fidgeting with her gloves, she tried not to watch as dappled light played along his sleek chest. To her left, Mamoru was even more impressive. “I like volleyball,” her voice squeaked. She took off her shoes and socks.
“Volleyball it is!” Aken raced over to a net already set up. “And you’re on my team.”
Bakoa squinted. “Volleyball’s what I suggested. But when Cyrus says it, then you want to? Nobody ever listens to me!”
“Baka.” Aken made a goofy face from the other side of the net, puffing his cheeks and crossing his eyes.
Mamoru moved to take the left corner position, and as he did, bumped Aken’s head with a fist, “Don’t call names.”
Both Lykale and Hercule moved to join Bakoa’s side of the net.
“Two out of three!” Aken called out, rubbing his head, and struck the volleyball high.
Two? The game would be over in no time! And wasn’t someone missing? Cyrus pressed her lips together.
Zartanian. The quiet boy sat in the shade of a round-leaf tree with roots snaking out of the soil, his knees drawn up to his narrow chin. The scene reminded her of a little Cherry-top who, not long ago, had done the same thing during group activities. Sympathy panged in her chest. She watched Master Nephryte make his way over and kneel beside him, speaking too quietly for her human ears to hear. She shifted her attention back to the game.
The volleyball sped toward Bakoa. The goofy boy watched it come, a lopsided smile across his face. A strange calm and focus overtook him, and then he moved:
Bakoa’s right hand lifted, poised above his left shoulder, ready to slash the air. The ball came within reach, and he slashed—but what had been his arm and hand was now a huge hammer of sand, and it sent the ball flying back.
Cyrus’s jaw hung. The volleyball sailed past her left ear. Behind her, it was struck up and back over the net by—
What in the world was that?
Mamoru tossed what looked like a piece of amber rock, and it grew, shifting in midair like a cage releasing a prisoner, and a dark form leaked out from the rock. A being landed on the sand, on two wide feet.
It stood many heads taller than its owner, and when it moved, the being looked made of rubbery wax. A pear-shaped body, dangly long arms and legs, and elephant-ish feet. It whipped one long rubberband arm and struck the volleyball over the net. Far, far over.
Hercule shouted as the ball soared, “It isn’t fair when you use that puppet!”
Puppet? Now Cyrus could see the hair-thin strings, like liquid-gold sap, pulsing, connecting from Mamoru’s fingertips to the being. More like seeping from than connecting from as the strings seemed to be a part of his flesh—melding from the skin of his fingertips as if they, too, were sap.
Mamoru moved his fingers like he was playing a musical instrument, composing a song he had long memorized. “Scurro,” he coolly corrected Hercule, his mulberry-colored eyes slitted. “It has a name.”
Hercule made an expression that he could care less.
“Way to go, Scurro!” Aken pumped a fist.
But Bakoa’s sand-hammer arm lengthened, stretching far back and catching the speedy volleyball; he prepared to throw it back at them.
A tiny clay bird flapped up to Bakoa’s waist and exploded in a burst of lava, burning his sand arm. “Agh!” He quickly doused his arm in wet sand, snuffing out the burn, and the volleyball dropped.
The ball descended—inches from touching the ground.
Lykale bent sideways, diving his hand down just in time to scoop the ball and hit it back up—attaching something to it in the process.
That something blew up in a cloud of smoke as the ball soared back over toward Cyrus. She and her team coughed as the cloud impared their vision.
The ball made a thud on the ground. Round-one lost.
Waving to clear the haze, Aken called out, “Foul! Foul! That was a foul!”
Lykale folded his arms with a satisfied smirk. “We’re supposed to use our Abilities; and creating weapons through chemistry is my Ability. I’m Armavis.”
“You just carry stuff with you and mix it together. That’s not real Element-whatever Maniputation,” Aken shot back.
“The knowledge of how to do so is.” Lykale sniffed indignantly. “An Outskirts bumpkin like you couldn’t figure out a tenth of what I know.”
“Dude, a childhood in the Outskirts doesn’t make me a bumpkin. It’s not the ol’ countryside beyond the wall.”
“You could have fooled me with the way you talk,” Hercule interjected. “You sound like a high born one moment, then a countryside dimwit the next! Dude and ol’ are not proper words,” he lectured. “Learn to speak more consistently, won’t you?”
“Ooh.” Aken posed with one hand on a hip, waving the other at Hercule prettily. “Mr. Fancy Proper-pants don’t like the way I speak, does he? Well, here’s what I think of that...” Turning his back and bending over, he slapped his behind at the fancy boy and stuck out his tongue. “Blehhh!”
Hercule’s face turned flaming crimson, and Cyrus covered her eyes.
“I’M GONNA MURDER YOU!” Hercule charged.
“Shouldn’t that be ‘going to’?” Aken remarked before zig-zagging away down the beach, kicking up water. Hercule lunged after him.
Cyrus peeked between her fingers. That troublemaker...boys were so immature. Did they ever grow out of it?
Mamoru raked a hand back through his bangs, but instead of getting involved, he turned back to the game, directing puppet Scurro to pick up the volleyball. “You give it a try, Cyrus.”
Scurro plopped the ball into her hands. She stared at it. Using Ability was still a foreign thing to her, and she remembered why she’d stopped playing volleyball. Last time, her wrists had ached badly for days. But it was too late now, and there was no telling what they’d do if they learned their new member had a defect.
Instead of using her wrist to hit, Cyrus swung her fist, punching the ball clean over the net. Her fist tingled; it’d hurt later on.
“Sweet shot!” voiced Bakoa as he jumped to catch it. His other flesh hand crystalized into sand and widened, hitting the ball back.
Cyrus dove—sliding on her knees, hands clasped together in a fist, ready to strike the ball up before it could touch ground, when a stab of pain made her left wrist twitch.
“Heads up!” came Bakoa’s shout. The ball glid
ed overhead, and without time to think she reacted—springing up, right hand in a fist, striking with all her might.
The ball flew and struck Bakoa full-force in the head before he could duck or turn into sand. He fell like a plank to the ground.
Cyrus gasped.
They all stared at her—even Aken and Hercule, who’d paused. Why they were staring and not helping Bakoa made her look down at her fisted hand, which oddly wasn’t hurting from the hit.
Gleaming metal covered the surface of her hand, wrist and glove. Metal. She’d coated it with metal, like something out of a magician’s tale!
Thrill pumped in her chest. “Oh, poor Bakoa!”
Aken guffawed, while she raced to the sand boy’s side.
“Baka, erm—I mean, Bakoa, are you okay?”
The boy raised his head, blinking dizzily. “Sure, n-no problem. It’ll p-pass...”
Something crawled up his spiky hair and onto his forehead. “Spider!” she shrieked. Her metal hand slapped the pest away—slapping Bakoa again in the process. His eyes rolled back into his head. “Oh no! I’m so sorry!”
Aken skid to a halt by her shoulder, laughing. And Hercule, too exhausted to chase after him anymore, sagged and doubled-over.
“I’ve never seen a hit like that. Cy, that’s some awesome power you got going on.” Aken clapped her shoulder. “I knew you were keeping some big secret from us.” He winked.
“‘You have.’ It’s ‘you have’—not ‘you got’.” Hercule’s weary fist pounded the sand.
She watched as the metal faded back to skin and glove around her hand. A woozy feeling washed over her body, forcing her to sit.
Someone touched her back and a new surge of energy moved through her bones, making her straighten. The Master moved past her. “I believe you used the iron in your blood to cover your hand in metal,” he said. “The downside is that it will make you weak and anemic. I suggest you use outside sources, and keep something metal with you at all times.”