by E E Rawls
Cyrus nodded, rubbing and massaging her wrists to keep calm. Watching the Master’s long fingers flip through paper after paper, she wondered again: Could he know something about her mother?
“I think I got the hang of it,” Cyrus answered. “Mamoru’s a patient teacher.”
“Hm.” Master Nephryte straightened. “What did you come here to discuss, Miss Cyrus?”
She swallowed. “I’m...” Then swallowed again, leaving his steady gaze to eye the floor of the little tower-turned-library. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She paused, and her lips went dry. Did he just call her Miss Cyrus?
Dumbstruck, she lifted her head slowly. The Master had laced his fingers together, elbows propped on the desk, a knowing smile curving his lips. “Yes, I know,” he replied to her unasked question. “I know both secrets.”
The gears in her brain malfunctioned. All this time he knew? He knew she was a female and half-human? “B-b-but...” Her tongue wouldn’t cooperate.
The Master leaned forward. “People have tried to keep secrets from me my whole life. That is why I learned well how to discover the truth that others strive to hide.”
Cyrus gripped her arms, feeling the urge to flee again. “You sensed it, didn’t you? By touching my shoulder. Is that how you found out?”
Master Nephryte shook his head, and fair brown hair spilled over his lean shoulder. “There are many ways in which we use Touch,” he told her. “I can steal a person’s essence for myself, or I can channel my own into them—transferring super-cells to Heal their wounds. Touch has many uses, but it cannot reveal a person’s race or gender. We are all born of ancient humankind, and are much more similar than we’d care to admit.”
“So...?”
He smirked. “I’ve always been good at making Dr. Zushil talk. It’s impossible for him to keep anything from me, much to his frustration.”
“But the Doctor doesn’t know I’m half-human.”
“You gave yourself away the day you arrived, when you started asking odd questions. Thankfully for you, I was the only adult who heard you asking.” The Master rose, moving around the desk toward her. “But why did you come here? Is it worth risking your life to master your Ability?” He halted before her.
She squeezed her arm. “It’s because...I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she admitted, voice hushed. “Humans don’t want me, and I doubt faeryn or anybody else would either, with these freak powers.”
Master Nephryte lowered to one knee so that he wasn’t towering. The enduring blue river in his eyes met with the insecure lilac petals in hers. “You can belong with us,” he said. She searched his face, every crease and angle. He wasn’t lying. He meant it. His finger lightly tapped her jaw, “And I can get you better fake fangs. Wood must taste terrible.”
Her lips twisted to the side—It did.
“I’m allowed to stay?” She masked any note of hope in her voice. It was too much to believe that Principal Han and the D.G. League authorities would be fine with this.
“Yes, you are, because I’m the one letting you stay and no one else needs to know,” Master Nephryte said. “I’ve already taken you under my wing. You’re my responsibility, and no one can say otherwise.” He tapped the tip of her small nose. “You are God’s creation as well as any of us. To me, your life has equal value.”
Cyrus fought back tears. “Master?”
“Yes?”
“Should I have been honest from the start? Should I have let the school know the truth?”
The Master regarded her. “Vempars outside of Draevensett would despise you either way. But...it’s possible that the school would have accepted you, because of your Ability.”
Cyrus hung her head.
“Don’t dwell on What if’s, Cyrus. It’s far too late to change anything now.”
She gave a halfhearted nod.
Master Nephryte rose. “A difficult road lies ahead of you. You can choose to keep your secrets, for now, but I’ve a feeling they won’t stay secret long.”
She tried to keep her back straight and look resilient.
Lamplight made the outline of his hair golden, and glinted off a silver ring on his hand as he reached for a drawer. “Someone or something will give away the truth. And once the school knows, then all of Draethvyle will know.” He drew a billboard in the air with his free hand: “The Human Training To Be A Draev Guardian—that will be the headline on every front page in the kingdom.”
She groaned. Hopefully those secrets would stay secret long enough for her to complete the training.
The Master took something from the drawer. “Vempars will be shocked, some horrified, but with time I believe many could grow accustomed to having a half-human as a Draev Guardian. As long as you work hard.” He winked. “Anything labeled different is frowned upon, until people realize its value.”
Cyrus turned her head away, unconvinced. “What if the principal disagress when he finds out what I am, and throws me out, or worse?”
Master Nephryte arched an eyebrow. “What did I just say about What if’s? Listen to me, don’t give up your future here just because some can’t see past the shape of your ears.” He ruffled her hair teasingly. She pushed his hand away with a giggle, trying to comb it back down.
“Here, I got these for you.” His palm revealed a pair of metal bracelets. Lamplight played along their decorative feather design. “Wear them and use the metal for your Ability.”
She slipped them on, one each around her upper arms. They looked like a string of swan feathers. “Thank you.”
The Master’s smile became a little more serious and he cautioned, “Never leave the school grounds without me or a Harlow member with you. It’s best we be on the safe side, until your combat skills improve. And keep practicing your Landing.”
She nodded.
‘Why is he in my nightmare?’ The same face, a younger version. If only she could muster the courage and ask him straight out, right now. But asking such a grim thing—“Were you there when my mother died? Did you have something to do with it? She was murdered by someone powerful, you know.”—how could she ask that to his face? He’d been nothing but kind. She shouldn’t suspect him based solely on a dream.
“You look ready to keel over,” he voiced. “Off to bed with you; go on. We can talk another time.” She rubbed her eyelids, emotionally exhausted.
Later, as night lengthened beyond the window of her bedroom, Cyrus snuggled into her fluffy pillow. Her thoughts turned to Huntter in the quiet. Was he okay? She felt so guilty for sending him away...not that it could’ve been done any differently.
The stars were bright, glimmering like a wolf’s coppery eyes around the curtain folds. She slowly drifted into the realm of sleep.
Part 4
The Trial
Chapter 25
Clouds bled rose and lavender across the dawning sky, and a soft hum of music drifted in through the window. Cyrus yawned, sat up, glimpsed the cat clock on the nightstand which read 6:00 am.
“Nuhh...why am I awake?” She turned and swung her legs down, bare feet contacting the plush rug before she stood. Stretching her arms, she peered out the window. The faint music was beautiful. Piano—no, organ. The way it was being played, though, almost resembled piano, each note filled with mystery.
Too curious to go back to sleep, she quickly dressed and tiptoed outdoors onto the spiral walkway, there following its curve down to the fourth-floor. The morning air was slightly cool. She paused at a door where the music hummed clearer.
She turned the handle and crept inside. If she remembered correctly, this wing of the floor was made up of music rooms and art classes, with a branching section leading to the grand library.
She swept across the polished floor and made a right turn, following the melody. Who could be so dedicated to music that they were up this early practicing?
There were no more windows as the hallway became a dim, narrow space; the walls either side a maroon wallp
aper with scroll-work patterns, broken only by closed doors and dark frames.
Tap-tap-clak.
Someone else was roaming these corridors, not far behind.
Her pulse quickened, and her feet hurried the pace.
Tap-clak-tap.
She practically dove into the nearest unlocked door—which happened to be the last door, as the narrow maroon world dead-ended.
She scrambled to her knees and waited.
No footsteps followed. Silence, as if they’d never been.
The mysterious melody swirled around her ears now, and she let the notes turn her head to look beyond the little entryway she’d hidden inside. A set of double doors were propped open, and she inched her head through. The room beyond was like a miniature ballroom. The marble floor a rose, ochre and ivory mix that shimmered as light slanted in through ceiling-high windows. The windows themselves were works of art in metal tracery. A curving set of stairs just beyond her feet waited to lead her down into the tucked away realm.
A separate little staircase ran up the wall to a balcony on her right, its glass door shut. A place for private chats and gazing at the moon after dancing.
Cyrus unpropped the doors, letting them close behind her—just to make sure no one could sneak up without her hearing. She made her way to the marble dance floor, and there the music’s source came into view.
Fluted pipes climbed like vines up the wall from a silver organ. Ivory inlays resembling spiderwebs and ancient symbols covered the instrument’s framework. It looked as enchanting and mysterious as the song being played.
A lovely sorrow seeped into the music. She listened as pale, nimble fingers carried the song without a hitch. She recognized the boy on the red velvet bench—his buttoned-down blue vest and white blouse with lacey cuffs, the too-big hat with its plumes on the seat beside him.
“Quite the talent,” she said to herself.
The music trailed to a stop; his pointy ears twitched. The black, curly ponytail shifted as Zartanian turned to look behind him. “Cyrus?” His timid voice echoed in the near-emptiness of the ballroom.
‘Why’s he surprised?’ she thought. ‘Playing the organ early in the morning—of course people are going to come investigate.’
She found an ounce of satisfaction in being able to sneek up on a vempar, for once, though the music had probably masked her approach.
She crossed the space to the bench. The shy boy drew his hands back from the keys, resting them on his knees instead. “I h-hope I didn’t wake you,” he stammered. “I s-sometimes play this. It makes the world feel better.”
Her mouth opened to ask what he meant, when he added: “It’s better to play early. People don’t come around; most hate mornings, so even if they do hear, they ignore it and sleep.” He hesitated, looking both apologetic and nervous. “I don’t play every day, though. I won’t be a bother.”
Cyrus frowned sideways. “That’s a shame. I liked hearing you play. It felt like I was being wrapped in a lullaby.” Her hands covered her heart as she imagined, “As if I were the Spring Maiden from the fairytail, waiting for the Frost Prince to find her.”
There was an odd look on Zartanian’s face. She stumbled, “If I were a girl, I mean! Which I’m not, of course.” Her laugh came out awkward. She ruffled the sides of her hair to appear more messy.
Zartanian’s head tilted quizzically, but whatever he was thinking, instead he asked, “You really liked it?”
She nodded brightly. “M-hm! I’ve never heard an organ sound so beautiful. Actually, I’ve never heard one at all—I’ve only ever seen them in picture books.”
The boy’s cheeks dimpled in part of a smile. “Thank you for the compliment. I get nervous, though—playing around people.”
“We’ll have to work on that.” She sat down beside him—well, beside the hat; and even then he flinched.
Light glinted off something above his ear, and she realized with a start that Zartanian had a small pair of antlers growing from the sides of his head, just above the ears, sharp as an elk’s and gradient black to white.
He felt her staring and nervously averted his face.
“I w-was going to tell you,” he said quietly, almost embarrassed. “I’m mostly vempar, but a third of me is rehfabel.”
She was tempted to ask why Harlow could accept him so easily, yet had had trouble accepting her.
“I wasn’t judging you for being human, Cyrus,” he said, as if guessing her thoughts. “I didn’t know if we could trust you, if you were really here for the right reasons. I was afraid—I think we all were. Humans and vempars have always been bitter enemies.”
She turned to face the organ. Now his hat made sense. “Are people mean to you?” she asked.
“...Sometimes,” he replied.
“Where are rehfabel from?”
He smoothed his curly hair. “Across the sea, in Bergvolk.”
“Really? How did you end up here?”
“Well...I wasn’t born there. I was born in Draeth. It was my male parent who moved from Bergvolk to here.”
Male parent? Another way of saying father, as if he wanted to avoid the word completely. His expression turned dark and overcast.
“Does this mean you’re a fan of the Three Bladeers books?” she asked, indicating the hat, which looked like a replica of their style.
Zartanian hesitated, then nodded. “We both were. I want to become a swordsmaster, like them, one day.”
“We?”
“...My brother.”
“You have a brother?”
Zartanian’s mouth hung open, as if the words were stuck in his throat, and he turned his face away.
Cyrus suddenly felt awkward. Maybe she’d asked too many questions. Pressing her fingers to the ivory and ebony keys, she tried playing a few piano ditties she’d memorized from watching Heily play: The Bunny Who Was Bald and Twinkle Little Star. The silly tunes carried round the miniature ballroom.
Zartanian’s hands joined in, adding extra notes and flourishes, as his faint smile returned.
THE MORNING KITCHENS bustled, working to get school breakfast ready, when one woman suddenly cried out.
“What is it, Head Baker?” The chef came running at the sound.
Head Baker Bel dashed out of the baking rooms, clogs skidding across the floor, hands waving smoke away wildly. “It’s him again, I know it! He’s using the smoke for cover,” she said.
Head Chef Burly scanned the area with her dagger-eyes. “Yes, I can sense his presence—his conniving little pastry-eating soul.”
Just then, Aken ran out of the baking area, zipping through the connected doorways and into the central kitchen hall.
“THERE HE IS!”
Aken scurried toward the exit doors at the far end, snatching up a cake slice here, a strawberry tart there, and whatever else came close to hand.
The floor pounded with footsteps. The heavy-set form of Head Chef Burly came up behind him, charging like a mad bull. Aken picked up his pace.
He barely made it out the swinging entrance doors and into the dining hall, where he quickly blockaded the doors with chairs, just in time.
Furious fists pounded the doors, striving to burst them open. “Pastry scoundrel! I’ll have your hide for this, boy! I’ll whip it RED!”
Aken quelled his racing lungs. “I’ll make up for it and bake something later,” he hollered, stuffing down the last bit of a blueberry scone before strolling out the dining hall and off into the hallways.
Classrooms were still empty at this hour. Just ahead, he spotted Master Nephryte vanishing around a bend. Aken stiffened to a halt, licking berry juice off his fingers.
This was his chance! The moment when he would best the famous hero Draev and catch him off-guard. Aken flexed his muscles in anticipation.
MASTER NEPHRYTE SAVORED the calm atmosphere. The hallways were quiet in these early morning hours. Such a tranquil serenity—
“Hee-yah!”
—except for the occasional blo
nd howler monkey, who frequently made it his goal to disturb the peace.
Aken came with lightning speed around the corner behind him, shoes barely grazing the floor.
AKEN AIMED HIS RUSHING fist, the gap between himself and his target shrinking—ready for the full impact his strike would deliver. Nobody was as fast as Aken; none could dodge his speedy punch!
He struck.
Then winced.
His vision grayed and went dark. A numbing pain threaded through his body.
Something hard had blocked his face, smashing his nose and forehead in, and he wriggled until one of his eyes could see around the painful object.
There was Mentor Nephryte, staring down at him. He had turned to face Aken at the last moment, with three thick books in hand: Psychology of the Mind & Body volumes 1 & 2, and Encyclopedia of the Known World. He’d held them up for Aken’s face to meet—halting Aken’s outstretched fist well short of its intended target, his young arm not long enough to reach past the painful collision.
“Hmm? Oh?” Nephryte blinked as if just realizing Aken was there. “Aken-Shou, you’re here a bit early, aren’t you?”
Aken glared around the book covers.
“How rare of you to be this eager for class. My, at this rate, you’ll even be on time. What a miracle.”
Aken growled. He’d lost the element of surprise, but he wasn’t about to back down just yet. Yanking his swollen face free of the books, he lowered into a crouch and fell backwards: kicking both feet out, aiming to knock Nephryte off his legs. “Hyah!”
But Aken found himself kicking empty air. The Mentor had vanished.
“Huh?” He looked up in time to see the heels of fine shoes coming down on his head.
“Crud!” Aken fast rolled aside before his skull could be dented in.
Instead of landing on the floor, Nephryte hovered just above it, and began reading the first page of Psychology of the Mind & Body.
“Look at me when I’m fighting you, you show-off!” Aken charged again. This time, he circled his quarry, zipping clay birds at the Mentor’s unprotected sides and activating the essence stored inside.