He stares at me and says nothing. I want to help him in a real way, not just clean him up and walk him home, but how?
He’s silent as I gently sponge his small body clean and help him back into his ragged clothes. I then find scissors and trim away his burnt hair. Sweeping the floor afterward, I have an idea.
“There’s a good chance your sister will become a palace Shimmerling,” I say, “If she does, then when you arrive in Kaverlee, find Sir Calvolin Nelvaso and Fedorie Straechos. Tell them Xylia sent you. They’ll help you get settled, and you can trust them, I promise. They took care of me and… loved me for many years.”
They did love me, didn’t they? I’ve never thought of it like that. I feel guilty that I’ve only exchanged a few letters with them since our rescue, and as for Kary, I should write to Clicks and ask if he’s reappeared.
Vonnet tries to respond but can’t manage it. Instead, he nods weakly.
I take one of Theandra’s blank evaluation forms and write Clicks and Fedorie’s names on the back, and then I fold the paper up and give it to Vonnet. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, so I tuck it into his pocket.
I still feel heartsick as I help him stagger back to his hut, but at least he might escape a life of manual labor and poverty. Instead, hopefully he’ll spend a lot of time playing dashball with Fedorie and attending academic parties with Clicks. Vonnet’s life will be different, but it won’t be ruined.
As for me, though, I don’t want a different life. I just want my old life back, and I hate that it keeps drifting farther and farther out of reach.
10
The Blue Folder
Rutholyn leaves the labor agency settlement with us, and we travel through the next lunar day, hoping to reach Marin Harbor by the evening. The sunset days have arrived. Outside the cabdwell windows, the sky glows orange and red and is often striped with slow moving, purple clouds. The temperature is also gradually dropping, and it’s hard to believe that in only three days, it will be time to shelter again.
I still find it strange that I’m not rushing around on the Grimshore, preparing to lingersleep. Usually I’d spend the last Bright Month days eating a lot and making sure our cave shelter is secure. Instead, I’m now sitting in the jouncing cabdwell, helping Theandra duplicate evaluation forms.
We arrive in Marin Harbor as the moon sets, and it’s a pretty town with brick buildings circling a sandy bay. As we climb out of the seg-coach, I see that even though it’s late, the townspeople are still busy preparing for the Dark Month. They’re leading livestock through huge shelter doors, scrubbing all traces of food out of their homes, and covering their windows with heavy shutters and boards. And even though it’s moonset, small children play in the cobblestone streets, throwing felted balls and flier kites. I suppose if I were a parent and my children were about to be cooped up for a month, I wouldn’t care about bedtime either. The boys and girls are well-bundled because it’s now very chilly, and they look so comical in their thick, wool cloaks, pointed knit hats, and mittens with fuzzy baubles.
After parking the seg-coach beside the statue of an ancient Great Drae—Drae Phillaberah I think—Golly sets out to rent a room in a nearby cauponium. Before leaving, he tells me, “It’s too early to enter the shelter, but Theandra needs a softer bed. The seg-truck is an uncomfortable home for a mother-to-be.” He mimes himself an imaginary swollen belly. “You’ll stay here with Rutholyn.”
I wouldn’t expect him to rent me a room too, but it still feels like a punishment. Golly’s made it clear he thinks I interfered in Rutholyn and Vonnet’s evaluation. He’s given me two lectures on “living up to my potential” since we left the labor camp, and I get another as he replaces one of the coach’s large cagic reservoirs.
“It’s not that I don’t value your contributions,” he says while reaching under the coach to unlatch a steel canister. “It’s a matter of respect. You must respect Theandra and me. You also must respect the longstanding traditions of Authentication, the children we evaluate, and above all…” He straightens and gives me a probing look. “I beseech you to respect yourself, Xylia.”
He’s using far too many words to make a simple point, which I’m sure is, “do what I tell you.” But I nod, and even though something about him always makes me want to clench my teeth, maybe he’s right. Maybe I should trust the Shalvos more. They do have a lot of experience, and this is important work. Yet if Golly’s going to demand my respect, I wish he’d show me some. I don’t say this out loud, though, because I want the lectures to end.
Grunting with effort, Golly locks a full cagic reservoir into place and hauls the empty one out from under the coach. “Don’t feel too discouraged, though,” he adds. “I have a treat for you—something you’ll really like.”
I’m immediately skeptical because I doubt Golly knows what I like. Surely he won’t surprise me with a fine Kaverlee meal, a visit to the theater, or the thing I long for most of all: news that Drae Devorla has changed her mind and named me Predrae again.
Sure enough, his treat is not a treat at all. It’s a disorganized pile of handwritten notes.
He smiles indulgently, though, as he places them on the cabdwell table. He acts like he’s presenting me with the key to Triumvirate Hall’s treasury.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound grateful rather than baffled. The first page simply says, Replace with portrait of Golly.
Theandra enters the cabdwell just then with Rutholyn trailing after her. They must be coming from the public baths, for the little girl’s hair is damp and she’s wearing a clean stola that’s much nicer than the rags she had on before. I suspect the Shalvos travel with plenty of children’s clothes.
“I hope you realize how lucky you are.” Golly lovingly pats the jumble of paper. “You’ll be the first to read my masterpiece, aside from Theandra, of course, my editor. And keep this manuscript to yourself, lots of trade secrets in there. Once it’s published, it will surely be required reading for all new Authenticators.”
When I pick up the manuscript, Theandra gives me a glowing look as if simply touching Golly’s writing is an accomplishment I should be proud of. “It is an excellent book,” she says.
Back in my cabin, I try to read a few pages before falling asleep, but Golly’s writing is even drier than the Matreornan manual. The first chapter has a lot of disconnected stories and constantly mentions what Golly calls the “Five Signs of Authentic Authentication.”
Yet I’d probably struggle to read anything right now, for I can hear Rutholyn crying in the neighboring trailer. I wish Theandra was here to comfort the girl, but she’s at the cauponium, so I guess it’s up to me. The trouble is, I don’t know much about children. For a while, I simply wait, hoping Rutholyn will cry herself to sleep, but her shuddering gasps go on for an hour. Finally, I climb down from my bunk, venture out into the cold, golden light, and climb into her trailer. She’s in a cabin identical to mine, lying on the lower bunk with her back to the door.
“Are you alright?” I ask, even though the answer is clearly no.
She doesn’t respond, and worse, she cries even louder.
Ugh, what do I do? I think I remember Maternals bringing me milk-spice tea when I was small and couldn’t sleep. I’m also pretty sure a palace musician once played me a relaxing lullaby. But I don’t have comforting drinks to offer this child, and I don’t sing well. Fedorie used to rub my back when too much cagic crackled through me, so I try that. Sitting beside Rutholyn, I gently stroke her bony rib cage.
At first she clenches up, but after a few moments, she softens. And although she doesn’t turn to face me, she wiggles closer.
“I would like to ask if there’s candy in the palace,” she whispers.
“There is,” I say. “There’s even a bakery where you can order anything you want.”
“I’d ask for a brightberry muffin.”
“They’ll make you a dozen,” I say. “Once I ordered a cake, and the palace bakers decorated it with real,
sugared flowers. It was delicious and so big I had to share it.”
Rutholyn rolls over and looks at me. Her eyes are red, and her round cheeks are splotchy. “I just want one muffin. I don’t want to share it.”
“I suppose I wouldn’t want to share a single muffin either,” I say.
Rutholyn’s mouth curves into a tiny, reluctant smile.
And she’s no longer crying, so I must be doing something right. I pull up her blankets, and I keep rubbing her back until she closes her eyes. When I’m pretty sure she’s sleeping, I creep back to my trailer, feeling strangely elated. I might not be a certified Authenticator yet, but successfully calming Rutholyn must be a step in the right direction. I feel like I’ve earned a checkmark on one of Theandra’s many charts.
◆◆◆
When the town’s lunar morning chimes sound, I test Golly’s patience by putting on a wool suitwrap. It’s his fault he forgot to approve today’s outfit.
As soon as Golly and Theandra return from the cauponium, they summon Rutholyn and I to the cabdwell for breakfast.
“I have good news,” Theandra announces, while awkwardly maneuvering her large belly around the small kitchen. “We discussed you two and made a decision.”
“You have?” I say, suspicious of decisions reached without my input.
Golly joins us at the table, taking up an entire side of the wraparound bench. “Usually Theandra and I personally bring potential Shimmerlings to the Great Drae. However, we still have several children to evaluate here, and we’d like to finish those evaluations before our little man arrives.”
“Or our little miss.” Theandra gives Golly a twinkly smile. She then turns to me. “There’s a subtrain station here, therefore Xylia, you will bring Rutholyn to Triumvirate Hall.”
Golly raises one of his bushy eyebrows. “Does escorting the child sound like something you can handle?”
“Of course,” I say, wishing he had more faith in me.
“Perfect,” Theandra says. “You’ll also deliver paperwork to the Authentication Office for us. I’ll need a few days to prepare it, though.”
That doesn’t leave me with much time to practice transference before seeing Drae Devorla. I can’t waste a moment, so how will I avoid the mundane chores Theandra always assigns me?
With a troubled sigh, I drape my hand over my forehead. “Merciful realms… I’m not feeling good. Seg-coach travel still doesn’t agree with me.”
Golly frowns. “Theandra hasn’t been sleeping well, and you don’t hear her complaining.”
Theandra also gives me a skeptical look, but after touching my brow, she says, “She does feel warm, Golly. Maybe she should rest. She can’t bring Rutholyn to Kaverlee if she’s sick.”
I put on a show for a few more minutes, picking at my breakfast, then I feebly say, “I’m going to lie down.” Yet as soon as I’m alone in my trailer, I pull on warm clothes and sneak back outside. It’s now misting rain, but hopefully that will make it easier to find an isolated place to practice. Thankfully, I soon come across an empty spreadfarm field on the far side of Marin Harbor.
I’ll still have to be careful, though. When it’s overcast, nocturnes sometimes manifest early. At least I can see a sentry tower in the foggy distance, and nocturnes usually appear near open water. If the sirens start wailing, I should have plenty of time to run to safety.
Finding a flat stretch of grass, I experiment with a different type of transference—creating a bar of cagic energy and hanging onto it while it moves.
Since transference is easier when I have momentum, I jog across the soft ground holding up a bar of shimmerlight. Then still clinging to the energy that’s spitting and crackling in the rain, I tuck my legs up. Thank the realms, I keep gliding forward.
My second attempt is even better. Not only do I move forward, I also will myself upward through the misty raindrops. Yet I struggle to control my descent, and I land hard on my side.
“If Tah Roli Miri can do this, I can too,” I tell myself.
So I get up and try again. I splash through the intensifying rainstorm, picturing Triumvirate Hall, my true home. And as icy rain pelts my clothes and numbs my skin, I imagine I’m the Predrae again: important, valued, and best of all, able to keep my cagic powers for the rest of my life. Finally, as I launch myself upward, I think about how badly I want to be Great Drae Xylia.
Again, I reach an impressive height, streaking upward with my clothes flapping behind me like a wet flag. As my vision dims with the inevitable cagic-blindness, I take a massive risk. I release the bar of energy I’m hanging onto and attempt to land on a new shape, a disc of shimmerlight, midair. So what if I break my neck? My neck is useless if I’m not the Predrae. I must push myself.
Yet the cagic always simmering in my chest suddenly feels hotter than usual, and I lose my focus. My disc of shimmerlight disintegrates, and I plummet to the ground, landing flat on my back. Air gusts out of my lungs, leaving a hollow of frustration. I probably should have broken some bones, but the soft, muddy earth saved me.
I lie there for a while, sore and tired and waiting for my vision to clear. It’s strange because what I’m trying to do, this aerial transference, feels so possible. It almost seems like something I’m meant to do, but there’s also something holding me back. An invisible thread seems to tie me to the ground, and I don’t know how to break free.
Fat raindrops smack my arms and legs as I pull myself out of the mud, and then I try transference again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes I fly high, but I can’t land safely. Sometimes I travel far, but I’m just grazing the ground. Once, while cagic-blind, I accidentally ride a shimmerlight disc into a tree. That’s certainly my most painful mistake. Snapped branches tear my pallacoat and scratch my arms, stomach, and thighs.
Yet I don’t give up, and I’m sure my Grimshore friends would be proud of me. If Clicks was here, he’d probably tell me about some accomplished genius who failed many times before succeeding. As for Fedorie, she’d urge me to “beat my fear into submission,” and Kary would simply say something like, “Xylia, of course you can do this. Don’t doubt yourself.”
I practice for eight long hours, and by the end, I feel hopeful. I’m much better at transference than I was yesterday, and hopefully my new skills combined with my old ones will impress the Great Drae.
Thunder rumbles above and lightning jabs at distant trees. I should probably head back to the seg-coach. If I was on the Grimshore, we’d be entering our cave shelter early.
So I trudge back toward Marin Harbor, attempting to avoid the soggiest parts of the field, and when I reach the town, I see I’m not the only one who’s worried. Families hurry past, carrying suitcases and little children, while civilian guards patrol in groups, their shockguns charged and glowing.
I hurry over to the seg-coach. There I find the Shalvos also hastily preparing to enter the shelter.
“Where have you been?” Theandra gives me an exasperated look as she struggles to carry an evaluation machine. “You said you were resting, but I couldn’t find you. Now you’re covered in mud?”
Golly appears behind her, lugging an even larger machine. “You’re hardly worth the trouble, aren’t you? We’ve been toiling away, while you were off playing in the rain.”
“I’m sorry.” I should probably offer more of an explanation, but I struggle to think of one. “It seemed like fresh air might help me feel better, and then…” I gesture at my muddy clothes. “I fell.”
“It was foolish to leave without telling us,” Theandra says as I help her lift the evaluation machine into a nearby cart. “And to be honest, I think you’re lying. You’re filthy from head to toe. You can’t have merely fallen. But we can discuss your misbehavior another time. Hurry and get your things. Marin Harbor’s tucking under early. The shelter gates shut in a half hour.”
“But I need to change.” I look down at my grimy, soaked clothes.
“You’ll have to d
o that in the shelter,” Golly shouts. “Go on! Get your trunk, or you’ll have nothing to wear.”
Splashing back to the second trailer, I climb inside. My muddy boots make a smeary mess on the metal floor, which I’m sure I’ll hear about later.
Well, the Shalvos make mistakes too. Someone left a light on in the cabin opposite mine, the one used for storage. A blue, glowing line gleams beneath the narrow door. If that light stays on for the entire Dark Month, it’ll drain the seg-coach’s energy reservoirs. Golly will probably do a final check before locking up, but if he doesn’t notice the light, I’m sure he’ll blame me.
So I try to turn it off. Yet when I open the storage room door, a crate tips over. Numerous moss green folders spill into the hall. Drat. The filing crate must have been leaning against the door.
“No!” I moan.
Why wasn’t it secured better? The seg-coach is constantly driving over bumpy roads, and I know how meticulous and organized Theandra is.
It’s probably Golly’s fault. He must have dumped it in here while he and Theandra were rushing to pack up. He surely left the light on too.
I quickly gather folders and shove them into the crate, not bothering to put them in any particular order. Soon I’ve put them all back—or wait… maybe not. There’s another folder beneath the lower bunk.
I’m not sure why a lone folder would have slid farther into the cabin while the others scattered in the opposite direction, yet that doesn’t matter. It’s not in the filing crate and it should be. I strain for it, and as I’m stretching my fingertips out to the far, dusty corner, I hear an odd whining wail—a siren.
Deepest realms, nothing is going my way.
I pinch a corner of the folder.
Someone must have seen a nocturne. I need to move. There’s no longer time to haul my trunk to the shelter either. I’ll just grab an outfit or two.
I toss the folder on top of the others and reach for the lid. But before I close the crate, I notice that the new folder isn’t moss green like the others—it’s dark blue. It doesn’t go in this crate. It must have already been under the cot.
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