by Liz Delton
It was only when the train began to slow that the dread began to sink in. He could feel the sterile halls of Castle Tenny closing in around him already. But he had to go back in.
Only thoughts of his mission would distract him. So he tried to focus on all of the things his father had told him, and recall the diagrams and maps. It worked until they reached the castle steps. Black Knights lurked at their posts on the rooftop and two stood at attention at the door. Had there always been this many of them? His thoughts immediately switched to wonder how many would be guarding the jets.
Oliver wasn’t at his post in the entrance hall, so Atlan sedately headed for his rooms. He wondered if he was condemning himself to a locked door when he entered it, but didn’t hear the customary click after it closed. Perhaps his good behavior in Brightstone had earned the unlocked door, though he could still hear the Black Knights outside. The one who had tailed him to Brightstone had disappeared the moment Atlan entered the castle, probably to go get some rest, or, more likely, give Lady Naomi a detailed description of Atlan’s every movement since leaving the castle.
There were four new sensors in his rooms, two of them in completely new hiding places. Atlan’s bark of disbelieving laughter lasted only a second. Longing for the castle at Brightstone sprang upon him, where no one had spied on him, and his parent wasn’t trying to manipulate his every move.
Someone had also left a parcel and a letter on his desk. He ignored them and went to unpack instead. If it was from Lady Naomi, he didn’t want anything to do with it, especially not while he was missing his father’s house.
The first thing he unpacked was the new earlink his father had given him, which he carefully hid away. He didn’t want to arouse suspicion if Lady Naomi could tell the earlink he used wasn’t his own. He would continue to use his original one until the time came to act.
Just when he was beginning to wonder what he would do for lunch, a link came through from Oliver.
Atlan, welcome back. I hope your visit to Brightstone went well. You received a letter while you were away, I left it on your desk.
Atlan looked at his desk, wondering why Oliver hadn’t mentioned the package.
Curious, he tore open the envelope, but the paper inside was completely blank. He turned it over, twice. Nothing. Then his eyes fell on the parcel, and he remembered his father’s words from this morning. Was Oliver seriously going to help him subvert Lady Naomi?
He opened the parcel with a little more care than the letter, sliding his finger under the tape holding the brown paper in place. His fingers glided across the unmistakable threads of datawoven fabric, and not just fabric, a belt of tools and—
I got it, thank you, Oliver, he replied simply, heart in his throat.
Oliver closed the connection, and Atlan pulled the Black Knight uniform out of the wrappings and held it up.
The appearance wasn’t striking, it was only datawoven fabric, but the possibility of information stored inside the strands... His excitement drained away as quickly as it had come. There was no way he would risk connecting to the strands with his earlink being monitored by Lady Naomi—a suspicion confirmed with Oliver’s need to use fake letters with no explanation.
He sunk down onto his bed, suddenly heavy with thought. He had everything he needed, and now with the Black Knight uniform, he should be able to pass through the tunnels fairly undetected and into the hangar where the hydrojets were stored. It was decided. He would go tonight.
Atlan pulled his satchel back out from his wardrobe and began packing all over again. With the weapons from the uniform, he would have protection against anyone he encountered on his way to rescue Sylvia, and with an unlocked door, it wouldn’t be so hard to contrive a way out of his rooms.
He was just considering how he might get some provisions, when a knock at the door made him jump out of his skin. What now?
He dropped the satchel and kicked its contents to scatter them on the floor as if he were still unpacking. He shoved the uniform underneath his mattress, then went to open the door.
There stood Lady Naomi, towering in the doorframe clad in a turquoise and silver gown that fluttered behind her. He looked into her face and quailed. She never came to his rooms. Did he miss a camera sensor or mic-record?
“How was your visit to your father’s?” she asked, sweeping into the room and stopping by the fireplace. Atlan left the door open and retreated to lean against his bedpost, schooling his face into a mask of nonchalance.
“Good,” he replied. “His library is nice,” he said vaguely. He folded his arms across his chest.
“Good,” Lady Naomi repeated. She stared into the fireplace and Atlan wondered if she was looking for the remains of all of her sensors, or just simply gazing at the flames. Had she learned of what Oliver had done? Did she know what his father had told him?
He waited for her to speak, his mind wandering to the Black Knight uniform tucked under the mattress, his heart pounding even though he was standing quite still.
At last, she asked quietly, “How is your father?”
She had her back to him, but he could see that her hands were clenched tightly at her sides.
“Fine,” Atlan said, his eyes narrowing. “He’s doing well with his tenants and the castle,” he added, something in her voice making him want to say more.
Naomi nodded, then turned to him, piercing him with her dark stare.
“Have you thought any more about...”
She didn’t even need to say it.
Immense guilt flooded him, but he shoved it down. No. He wouldn’t let her make him feel guilty about the serum, not now.
“Still thinking,” he said tightly.
She nodded again. Atlan wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her move towards him, but instead she headed for the door.
He held his breath. What in the world was going on here?
She spoke again as she stalked out the door. “Your friend Emrick has invited you for dinner with his family tonight.”
Atlan’s heart leapt into his throat. Would this be his way out?
“Do not make me regret letting you go,” was all the permission he got, and all the permission he needed.
As far as regrets would go, he was sure she would regret much more than that by the time he was done.
Twenty-Two
They were coming for her again. Over the past few days, Sylvia had attuned herself enough to feel the vibrations of their boots thudding down the hallway leading to her cell.
She dragged herself to the far back wall, waiting for the door to slam open as it always did. They never tired of tormenting her. She peered out of her good eye, the right one swollen almost shut now from the Scouts’ last visit. Her hands clenched into fists.
With a jolt she heard the door open—but it was not her own. Dumbstruck, she stared at the wall to her left, knowing that the sound had come from there.
Her stomach dropped as if she had just looked down at her floor—had they captured one of the Defenders?
She slid herself toward the door, favoring her right leg and being careful of the scrapes on her arms. She didn’t know if the pain in her stomach was from the bruises or hunger.
Carefully she lowered her ear to the almost non-existent crack under the door, and she heard them—
“—don’t ask questions, old man,” said one of the Scouts who beat her yesterday. She wouldn’t forget any of their voices for a long time.
“But I didn’t do anything—”
“Shut it,” the oily voice of Grebe interjected. “You’ll keep quiet in here until Governor Greyling decides what to do with you.”
Sylvia felt the door slam and quickly pulled herself back from her own despite her protesting injuries, in case they decided to torment her next.
But the boots tramped past, and disappeared into silence down the hall.
For the rest of the morning, Sylvia sat propped against the wall, waiting. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to try speaking to the man next
door—they had called him old man, which didn’t sound like any of the Defenders—so she just waited. She didn’t know if he would even be able to hear her anyway.
She drifted in and out of sleep. She had little to do besides sit there, since she no longer tried to use her earlink during the day, with the Scouts’ visits to her cell random and with almost no warning. These days, she extracted the tiny silver instrument from her sock only at night, and tried to connect with her drone, with no success.
It was late afternoon when she felt the boots again. She prayed it was someone bringing her some food, but tried not to get her hopes up. It wouldn’t be the first day she had gone completely without. She slid herself to the back wall and waited, curious as to whether they were coming to her, or her unknown neighbor.
Indeed, it was her door that slammed open this time. As they strode in, she idly wondered if they would ever get sick of opening doors that way. Probably not, they enjoy every moment of it, she answered herself grimly.
Greyling didn’t even bother showing up anymore. Instead, one of his cronies brought in a heavenly-scented dish full of food, and held it high above her head.
Sylvia’s mouth watered, but in the back of her mind she knew they would never give it to her. Not if she didn’t give them the information Greyling sought.
“Dinner, girly,” Grebe enticed. “Just tell ol’ Grebe what you were doing in Seascape.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. She knew she wouldn’t get to eat those roast potatoes and chicken, the smell of which wafted enticingly down to where she huddled on the floor.
“Ignoring us, eh?” said Grebe. “Well, I can’t let it go to waste.”
The other Scout guffawed stupidly as Grebe dug in with his fingers, making a sickening show as he ate each morsel with his filthy hands. Sylvia waited. She would not give in to their taunting; she knew it would only earn her more pain.
She stared at her knees and tried to keep her breath steady as Grebe loudly licked his greasy fingers. She flinched with each hated sound.
But then Grebe’s companion—Sylvia referred to him in her head as the ugly one, with his sweaty lip and sunken eyes—lunged at her, coming inches from her face but not touching her.
“Too good to talk to us, then?” his breath stank and she did her best to hold still.
He tried to stare her down for a minute, then thankfully, the ugly Scout drew back to stand with Grebe, crossing his arms across his chest. Both men stared down at her, waiting. Grebe still held the empty glass plate in his hands.
“If the girly doesn’t talk,” Grebe drawled, “I might suggest to the Governor we snatch ourselves some of her friends I saw out in the wilds.”
Before she knew what she was doing, she had risen up before Grebe—his mouth popped open in surprise—and she snatched the glass plate from his greasy fingers, and slammed it down to the ground.
She dropped to her knees and quickly sought the largest shard of glass she could find before Grebe recovered from his shock.
There was nothing she could do but grasp its sharp sides, and it bit her as she raised it in her fist toward Grebe’s face.
But the ugly Scout was quicker. Before she could bury the shard in Grebe’s neck, the man caught her wrist on its way down. Weak from near-starvation, Sylvia’s hand opened in the man’s vice-like grip. The glass sliced open her palm even more before it clattered to the glass floor. She saw the blood pouring down her arm before a heavy blow to her head knocked her to the floor, which was covered in broken glass.
She shrieked as the shards dug into her. Her head spun from the strike to the head—she could feel blood coming out her ear—she did nothing as more strikes came from boots and the cudgel Grebe carried. The blows dug the shards deeper into her skin. The glass floor was opaque with blood.
Her yelps of pain were mingled with their insults and Grebe’s curses.
She cursed herself. When would she learn?
Whether from the head wound, the blood loss, or another heavy strike, she didn’t know what made her dive into blackness, but it was welcome nonetheless.
Twenty-Three
Sylvia awoke suddenly, as though by some sign. Light seeped into her cell from below, revealing a honey-colored dawn. Someone had cleaned up the blood.
The cold floor felt good on her face. She dared not move yet, but instead began to inventory her hurts. The worst of the pain radiated from her hand and her head. Something stiff was wrapped around her hand, and she felt odd pressure by her hip and down one of her forearms. Bandages.
Someone had also cleared away the shards of glass. She doubted it had been any of the Scouts, and they certainly hadn’t been the ones who patched her up.
Grebe’s threat surfaced in her thoughts like a slimy fish breaking through a calm pool. Would they really go after the other Defenders just to get the information on Seascape? Grebe seemed to be a higher ranking Scout—would Greyling listen to his suggestion?
Just as she was deciding how painful a trip to her bucket might be, she heard something.
Not the sound of boots, but a voice.
“Hello?” she heard faintly. It was coming from the cell to the left. She had completely forgotten about her new neighbor.
“Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
Her eyes darted around her own cell—avoiding, as always, looking down. Stiffly, she dragged herself closer to the wall. Even the small movements made her head swim.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, each heartbeat swallowing her for a moment in delirium, then releasing her as it ebbed. It took several moments to go away.
Hoping this wouldn’t be as brilliant an idea as the one she had about the glass plate, she cleared her throat and said, “Who are you?”
“Oh! You can hear me! Are you all right?” he repeated.
“More or less,” she found herself replying to the wall. “Less, mostly,” she muttered to herself.
“I heard them last night,” the old man said, “after something broke, it—it sounded terrible.” He paused. She didn’t know what to say. It was, sounded a little melodramatic.
“I’m Onen,” he went on.
She didn’t speak. For some reason she didn’t quite want to give up her name—not yet.
“I can’t believe the Scouts—and Greyling supporting it! What’s to be done?” he didn’t seem to expect her to answer.
“Tell me, Onen,” Sylvia said after several long minutes, “What’s gotten you in here? Are you a Skycitizen?”
“Yes. Well, I... I was bringing books to Governor Greyling’s office yesterday, and the door was open, you know, I wasn’t prying—I’m afraid he thinks I was,” he prattled on, and Sylvia wondered if he had been waiting all morning to explain his story to someone, anyone.
“He was talking to someone about Riftcity. He said he wanted to make an example of someone—to execute someone to stop the rebellion.” His voice dropped so low that Sylvia had to press her ear to the wall to hear the last few words.
Execute someone to stop the rebellion.
It was worse than the blow to the head last night. But what could she do?
“Do you work in the Citizen’s Hall?” she asked, curious now.
“No, I’m a Book Keeper at the Library.”
“What books were you bringing Greyling?”
“Well, you see, he asked me to give him everything I could find on the subject of war, for—for defense strategy, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Onen,” she began, truly meaning it. “Let me tell you something about Greyling’s war.”
Twenty-Four
For the beginning of such a serious rescue mission, Atlan was actually beginning to enjoy himself.
He wasn’t sure if Emrick had decided to join him in what his friend had deemed an insane venture, but he expected Emrick had invited him out so Atlan could at least leave the castle. What he hadn’t expected was the appearance of Alice, Talia, Colin and Lena, when he arrived at Emrick’s family ho
me.
The five initiates were excitedly reminiscing about the Trials when Atlan came through the door and shed his Black Knight guards. Laughing at Talia’s description of the tapestry she created in the third Trial— “I’m telling you, a child could have drawn it!” she shrieked—Atlan couldn’t resist enjoying himself, even though he knew he was here for Sylvia.
After a lively dinner with Emrick’s parents, during which Atlan got to hear about all of the internships and careers the others were pursuing, they all agreed to head to the pub, at Emrick’s suggestion.
Atlan’s insides were jumping with anticipation. He would take any excuse to be outside the castle, but wasn’t sure how he was going to get to the hydrojets while he still had his guards, who would no doubt rejoin him when they left Emrick’s house. He hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Emrick about the hydrojets yet.
Just as the others went out the door, he pulled Emrick aside.
“I know where they are,” he muttered. “Are you in?” he asked under his breath.
Emrick nodded definitively, pretending to adjust his collar in the hall mirror. “They’re in too,” he said, cocking his head toward the other initiates now piling out the door.
“Do you have a plan, then?” Atlan hissed, reading the knowing look in his friend’s eye.
Another mute nod from Emrick. Atlan stuffed his hands into his pockets. He would just have to play along.
Emrick’s father was now eying the two Black Knights, who had moved closer to the door, no doubt anxious that their target was intending to slip their watch.
“She was seen,” Emrick muttered as they gravitated toward the door to follow the others.
She was seen.
Of course, it had been over a week since the vid was taken, and it was bound to be spotted eventually, he had known it would be. There were teams of people whose job it was to view all of the vids taken by Observation and analyze them, no matter how random or insignificant the vids may seem.
So Lady Naomi and her inner circle knew that Sylvia had been kidnapped. And were doing nothing about it, no doubt. Perhaps that was why Lady Naomi had visited his rooms—to see if he knew, if he was planning something.