EVERWINTER:
THE FORERUNNER ARCHIVES
☯
a novel by
J. Rock
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright 2014 by J. Rock
All art/graphics by J. Rock
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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Other works by J. Rock, available at all online ebook retailers:
Dinosauria Part I: A Memory of Time (Free)
Dinosauria Volume I (also available in serial format)
Dinosauria Volume II (also available in serial format)
Dinosauria Volume III (also available in serial format)
This one’s for Jude. Daddy loves you.
I often dream that I’m the last human alive.
The dream seems to come when the winds are blowing from the north, where it is said the Great Poison took root, making natural things unnatural and a mockery of creation. I don’t know if I believe it; I’ve seen one of the very few maps of this side of the world in my Father’s study, and to the north there is nothing but water. A vast black ocean. The south is much the same. How could the Poison come from the sea?
We live in the province of Eversummer on the world’s only continent–a craggy strip of land that circles the globe at the equator. Eversummer is on a northern sea bound peninsula and our city, Krakelyn, is at its tip. My Father’s map shows all the known cities on this side of the world–there aren’t many–and all the zones that are habitable.
There aren’t many of those either.
In my dream, I’m traversing the barren streets of some unnamable city. It’s not Krakelyn, but it always looks the same: two-story, wood framed buildings, thatched roofs, stucco walls. I’m searching for somebody. Anybody. I call out and I scream and I yell, but no one comes. I know it shouldn't be possible, but it is.
The world is empty and I’m the only one left.
I'm the last human.
It’s then that I see the footprints, starting out of nowhere in the middle of the street and defining a path through blizzarding snow that goes on forever. Funny, I almost forgot to mention the snow. You’d think I wouldn’t let something as important as that slip my mind. After all, I’ve never seen snow before. In real life, I mean. There’s a reason they call our province Eversummer; it's the same reason we call the other side of the world Everwinter.
It doesn’t snow here. Ever.
I don’t even know what snow is really. My Father says it’s a form of solid water, but I can’t wrap my head around the concept. We don't get snow in Eversummer because the sun never leaves the sky, making the land and air too warm. But my Father, he says that as you get closer to the other side of the world, the sun begins to slip below the horizon then disappears altogether, taking the light of the world with it, leaving only dark, and cold, and snow.
And mutants.
I know it sounds crazy, but it’s been documented. Verified.
But I'm getting off track here.
In the dream, I follow the footprints through the snow and they terminate at a house at the end of an alley. I step up and knock on the door but, as I do, I hear all the other doors in the alley opening at once. Suddenly, I’m no longer alone in the world, and the twisted, frightening people that shamble out of the houses all tell me the same thing.
They whisper it.
Summer is ending...
“Oh, there’s always rumors going around like that,” Jude blurts, giving me a raised eyebrow kind of look. “My Mom says summer was supposed to end when she was a kid too.”
I shrug nonchalantly, then narrow my blue-gray eyes at him and say, “So that was at least a century ago, right?”
Jude moves toward me, matching my grin. Then he raises his right hand to my face and, to my surprise, pinches my lips shut. “Do me a favor, and just shut up, okay, Juno?”
I shove him away playfully, his fingers ripping away from my mouth, the sensation akin to sandpaper and fire. “Fine, cry baby,” I say, using my still burning lips to steal a quick peck from his cheek. I change the subject. “What do you think we’ll find today?” I ask the question, despite already knowing his response.
Jude smirks deliberately, unsurprised by the change in topic. “I dunno. Maybe one of those fancy flying carriages that are in all the stories. Or maybe a whatayacallit? A synthetic brain.”
“You mean a cumpewter,” I correct him. “That’s what my Father says they’re called.”
Jude scowls. “How would he know? Unless he’s a thousand years old, he wasn’t around to see ‘em, Juno.”
It’s my turn to scowl. “They’re just stories, Jude.”
He stops abruptly on the trail we’re following. We call it Woody Trail, but only because we aren’t clever enough to come up with something better. Tall, leafy whitewoods, and broad thick sentinel pines line the way before us. Jude has stopped at the bottom of the last rise before the beach–our destination–but the look on his face suggests he’s in no hurry to get there.
He says: “Then where did they come from, Juno? The stories, I mean. Why do we come down here every day if the stories aren’t real?”
I shrug at him and make my tone formal, mocking my Father’s: “Why do we get up in the morning? Hope. There’s always the hope that they might be real. It’s the hope that we might find something to give us a better life, to lead us to salvation.” I pause, seeing the unimpressed look on Jude's cherubic face. I just smile and continue. "But we won’t. We all know that the Forerunners were real; the same as we know that the sun will never leave the sky. But the Forerunners had their time, and they perished. They left behind some wonderful things, but we shouldn’t be quick to embrace them. As the saying goes: The ways of the Forerunners..."
"...are the ways of death,” Jude finishes for me.
“Right,” I smile as I take his hand in mine, feeling his trepidation as I lead him up the rise. He hesitates for a moment, but then I finally feel him squeezing my fingers gently.
“Too bad you don’t believe it though,” he says, moving as I pull him along.
I turn a smirk back on him. “Sounds convincing though, right?”
He shrugs. “It’s fooled your Father, so far.”
“I know. It’s almost too good. If he found out that we actually keep some of the stuff we find...”
“Whataya mean we?” Jude replies with a foolish grin.
“I mean that if I get caught, I’m taking you down with me.” I wink at him.
“Oh, thanks. You’re such a good friend, Juno Quinn.”
“I know,” I reply as we breast the top of the hill. The beach comes into view and, though I’d like to tell you it took my breath away, that wouldn’t be true. The fact is: I'm sick of that view. I’d been tasked by my Father, almost a year ago now, to come down to this hidden cove every day after work. A group of adventurous Krakelyn boys discovered the place and the treasures it contained, reporting it to my Father. Big mistake on their part.
I would’ve kept it a secret.
This is mine and Jude’s special place; a place we can duck the rigors of our home lives and just be together. Jude and I are the only ones allowed down here. It was only me, at first, but then I finally convinced (okay, begged) my old man to let Jude join me. We're always alone down here, in practice, but of course, there's always the chance of being spied upon by my Father’s men. The Deacons. We rarely actually see them but, every once in a while, we get a feeling; I guess you’d call it. We know when they’re watching us. That’s why whenever we take something from the beach, we do it discreetly, scouting the area before sneaking back with our treasure in tow.
Gifts from the Forerunners.
“So, what do you think the dream means?” Jude asks, this time leading me on as we descend the slope to the beach. Cool, pale sand engulfs my toes as I sink into it, my leather sandals providing zero cover.
Not that I mind.
“How should I know?” I reply. “It’s just a dream.”
“Ha! There’s the understatement of the century!” Jude bellows. “Just a dream? Conveniently you leave out the tendency for your dreams to come true!”
“No, they don’t!” I say with just a hint of annoyance. “That’s only happened, well, twice I guess. But those were just coincidences!”
Jude glares at me with his earthy brown eyes. “Was it coincidence that brought you to my house that morning and begged me not to go to work?” Not knowing what to say I just shrug, feeling stupid. “And was it a coincidence that there was a cave-in at the pit that day?” he finishes.
“You’re welcome,” I snipe at him, but only because I know he’s right.
“You know what I mean, Juno. You came to me that morning all in hysterics, telling me you had a bad feeling... From a dream! And I believed you, thank the gods!” I smile at that. It's one of the reasons I like Jude so much; he's always on my side, no matter what kind of craziness I may be spouting. He has my back like no other. He says: “An incident like that happening one time, well, yeah, it could be a coincidence. But twice? That’s more like something akin to a...”
“A mutant?” I finish for him, my indignation coming back ten-fold. Jude just nods his head. I grumble, “Why do you think we’ve never told anyone about it. Right?”
Jude frowns. “Of course not! Don’t worry, Juno, I’ve never told anyone about your prophetic dreams. And I don’t think you’re a mutant. I don’t think it has anything to do with a mutation–”
“Good,” I interrupt, lowering my voice to the best approximation of my Father’s: “Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live!”
Jude keeps talking as if I’d never cut him off: “I think it’s something else. Like a gift or something.”
I'm thrown off. “A gift? You mean, like from the gods?” I never took Jude to be the religious type, though I suppose we’ve never broached the topic much.
“Well, if you want to put it that way. Yeah, I guess. I mean, not in the dogmatic sense your Father believes in the gods, but there has to be something else out there besides us, Juno.”
“There is something,” I say, but I’m not looking at Jude.
I’ve stopped on the sand about ten feet from the high tide line. Jude follows suit, following my gaze. My heart is pounding a snare roll in my chest, the adrenaline heightening all my senses. I’m staring down the beach–way down the beach–because there’s something washed up on the shore. I can just make it out because it causes an irregular splash where the waves catch it.
“What is it?” Jude asks in a whisper.
“I... I dunno,” I say, hardly louder. We’re both frozen, daring not to move. What if it’s something good? What if it's something from the stories, like a cumpewter or an electric compass? Every history I’ve ever heard of the Forerunners flies through my brain in the intervening seconds. Every glorious, magical device that they were supposed to have created. And then my Father’s voice intercedes, overtaking the images: “They were so great, and yet, they failed. So utter and complete was their downfall that we have but fragments of their history and artifacts. The mutants of Everwinter are their creation, and because we are their ancestors we must continue to atone for their sins. We must keep the stock pure and never suffer a mutant to live, until the day comes when all lines are pure and the gods have forgiven us.”
By now, Jude and I are moving down the beach, though I hardly notice over my Father’s invasion of my psyche. The object is beginning to resolve itself into a square shape, and my mind automatically begins to compare it to other objects we’ve found on this beach: small, strange, humanoid sculptures made of a hard yet pliable material; torn and rusted metal sheets of a type unknown to anyone in Krakelyn; peculiar garments, emblazoned with unreadable symbology and fashioned of indefinite materials.
Mundane things, really.
Those kinds of things were sent to my Father’s men for processing and, if deemed safe, put up for auction. Those kinds of things Jude and I rarely kept for ourselves. But there were other things too. Scary and dangerous things, according to my Father. Things that were never meant to be discovered and had to be destroyed immediately. Whenever we found something like that, and we wanted to keep it, well, we had to be careful. Coveting objects of the Forerunners is considered a blasphemy.
The first thing I coveted was a book.
Yeah, just a plain old boring book.
Except that it wasn’t boring. I found it in a sealed container and the pages were perfect, smooth and glossy like glass. It contained pictures–hundreds of them–of strange and exotic cities of metal and crystal and fantastic conveyances. Cities of the Forerunners. There was text, but I couldn’t understand it. Every image took my breath away, every page a study in wonder and imagination. The people in it looked no different than my fellow citizens of Krakelyn! I looked at those pictures and I knew my Father was right about it having to be destroyed. If the people of Krakelyn saw those pictures, there’d be no telling what would happen. We were always told that the Forerunners were terrible. But from the pictures I saw, I just couldn’t believe that a people capable of building cities so fantastic, so wonderful, could be capable of destroying themselves. It didn’t seem fair to me. But I couldn’t let my Father know that.
I burned the book myself.
Since then, I’ve never found anything nearly half as wonderful as that book. But I have kept some things. We don't know what they are half the time, and I doubt my Father does either. In the beginning, we'd take every object we found before him for inspection and judgment, destruction or auction. This didn’t bother me so much, at first, until I found something truly interesting: a curious reflective surface set into an ornate gold frame. And I could see myself in it! Jude was equally stunned at the find. Of course, we’d seen our reflections before, in water buckets or windows or even chrome metalwork, but never this clearly, never this defined. It was like stepping out of my body and looking directly at myself. This reflecting glass was special, and I knew I had to petition my Father to keep it safe, to share its wonder with others. When I watched him grind it to dust beneath his boot heels less than an hour later, I knew I couldn’t let it happen again.
A week later, Jude and I smuggled home our first artifact: the book. My Father’s plan had blown up in his face. Did I mention why my Father gave me this job? My fascination with the Forerunners had him fretting over his only daughter blaspheming, and so when the beach was discovered, he thought that spending time around the desecrated objects of my fallen idols would help me see the light, so to speak. The ways of the Forerunners are the ways of death, remember?
Too bad it didn’t work, because...
Jude and I are running down the beach at a full gallop, racing toward the unknown object, our sandaled feet slapping against the hard packed sand near the water’s edge. The cool wind blows against the shaved sides of my head, my short red hair flailing like whips over the exposed skin. We’ve done this race a thousand times before; it’s become a sort of game whenever we spot an object on the beach.
First one there wins.
Jude is just slightly ahead of me. I can catch him up, if I really want to, but I might need that extra burst of energy at the end. Jude suddenly slips his sandals off midstride and, unencumbered, begins to pull away. I curse and he turns his head back at me, laughing, knowing his victory is inevitable. He turns back around and–
And slams to a dead stop on the sand.
I sear past him, turning my confusion laden face on his, seeing an expression of pure fear there.
“JUNO! STOP!” he shouts.
And I do. Sort of.
Just in time, I turn back around and see the object, a metal cube, on the sand about three feet ahead of me. I leap over it, coming down daintily on the other side, tip toeing to a stop and whirling on the spot. Jude is on the other side and he’s staring downward, but not at the metal box. It’s what’s around the box, pressed into the golden beach sand, that has him stunned.
It’s what caused him to stop the race.
I follow his gaze and see them too: footprints, leading away from the object, up the beach into the woods towards Krakelyn.
And each footprint has six toes.
“Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live,” my Father’s voice echoes in the recesses of my mind.
1.
Going about my day, acting as if nothing of significance had occurred the day before, proves to be the challenge of my life. As always, I leave the Manse and make my way toward the Glass Gardens an hour before my shift starts at the sixth hour. The sunvisor from my bedroom window fell out and broke two days ago, and so I’d barely slept with the sun’s constant glare in my room. I'd only had a few thin sheets to hang up as a replacement. Adrenaline, mixed with fear from the day before, still lingers, but I'm groggy as hells.
The streets of Krakelyn are a foggy blur as I walk, all my attention focused on getting one thing: my morning cup of coffee. Coffee is a relatively new thing in Krakelyn, imported from one of the southern cities. It was hard to get (and expensive as hells) for years, but then a new passage through the southern Bleaklands was discovered that was both passable and breathable; a rare combination. Coffee started to flow more readily into Krakelyn. I was hooked instantly, finding I had trouble starting my day without it. My Father likes it too–another rare occurrence–considering he tends to be wary of new things. He always has to know exactly where something comes from; to be sure no mutant had a hand in its creation.
But he was the one who led the expedition that discovered the new passage through the southern desert, and had been to the cities where the coffee comes from, so he knows that it's safe to drink. He tells me it grows on a vine, like a bean, but the idea seems funny to me. Not that it matters. I just thank the gods everyday that my Father and his Deacons found that passage–and by sheer dumb luck to boot.
They'd been trying to locate a rumored land bridge across the Great Desert Canyon, finding themselves in a low lying area with little air to breathe. There are many such places in our world. We call them Bleaklands. My Father says they are a result of the Great Cataclysm that brought the Forerunners to their ultimate destruction. It was to such a place my Father led his caravan. When the men and their horses began to black out from lack of oxygen, he called a retreat. But they were waylaid by a vicious storm, forced to seek shelter inside the canyon itself. The next days found them following the dry riverbed at the canyon’s bottom, their way out washed away by the storm. They emerged near Apollyon, a southern port city, nearly a week later. So uncharted are the Bleaklands that no one knew that the canyon could be followed in such a way before! It’s not exactly easy to map out places you can’t breathe in!
“Morning, Juno!” a breathless voice calls to me, breaking my reverie. I blink my eyes and force them to focus on the approaching form of Rayanne Nedaris, a girl I’ve known my whole life. I guess you could say that we’re friends, though we kinda run in different circles. But ever since she got on at the Glass Gardens a year ago, we’ve been kinda forced together.
I meet Ray’s russet eyes, noticing that she's had her hair undercut like mine. I smile. “Morning.” I look down and see two wooden cups of simmering coffee in her plump digits. Since when did Ray drink coffee? She’s sweating too. Did she run here?
“I got you a coffee!” Rayanne blurts, thrusting one of the steaming cups of liquid into my chest, droplets scorching me as it sloshes. I don’t want to take it–there’s no way she’s mixed it right. But it’s then that I realize I’ve forgotten my cup at home and will either have to go back and get it, or buy a new one at the coffee shop.
“Thanks, Rayanne,” I say, taking the cup, “but I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll see you at work.” I push past the plump girl and steal down an alleyway.
I can hear Ray’s voice echoing after me: “Okay, see you at work!” Without looking back, I dump the coffee before I make it to the other end of the alley, coming out on Mainstreet with the cup still in hand.
To my right, the morning traffic is abuzz with the sounds of street vendors, peddlers, performers, gawkers, and shoppers, all spread down the length of a long granite bridge marking the entrance to Krakelyn’s business district. A farmer with a cart, laden with supplies, trundles past me. I don’t recognize the man and my heart begins to flutter. Instinctively, I look down at his feet, but they’re covered with thick leather boots.
I can’t tell if he has six toes or not.
Stop it! You’re being paranoid! I tell myself, driving yesterday's images of the six toed footprints molded in the beach sand out of my head. I want so badly in that moment to go and tell my Father about it, but I can’t after what happened to Jude when he touched the silver box...
“Did you hear? They caught a mutant in the city last night!”
I’m trotting down one side of the crowded cobblestone street when I stop dead in my tracks. I spin on the spot to see old Mrs. Cromarty chatting with one of her girlfriends in front of a fruit vendor, inspecting apples, oranges, and melons, placing them in burlap totes.
“No, I never heard anything,” Cromarty’s friend replies. I slip back against the flow of people and move toward them.
“Morning, Mrs. Cromarty!” I say, greeting the elderly woman warmly.
“Oh, well, hello there, Juno Quinn!” Cromarty returns. “You’re just the girl I wanted to see!”
I cringe at Cromarty’s affectation of calling me “girl” (I’m eighteen, for the sake of the gods), but I brush it off.
“I thought you might,” I say. Mrs. Cromarty can never resist a juicy piece of gossip, especially one concerning mutants. And with my Father being the High Deacon, well, I’m often privy to rumor. I say, “You want to know about the mutant, right?” acting as though I know something.
“So, it’s not a rumor then?” Cromarty asks, her expression wanting.
“Well...what did you hear?” I reply, acting coy.
Cromarty frowns. “Well, nothing really. Just that the Nightwatch caught one last night scrambling over the city walls. First one in quite some time. The kicker is: they say the thing was helped by someone inside the city!”
It’s my turn to frown. Someone in the city helped the six-toed mutant get in? That would be considered treason to the human race! The penalty for such an act is, well, no one really knows anymore because no one is stupid enough to do it! And yet, I’m stupid enough not to tell my Father what I know! The Deacons would consider that treason too.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I say to Mrs. Cromarty, then pretend to have my attention caught elsewhere. “Oh, sorry, I have to go!” I slip back into the throng on Mainstreet, ignoring Cromarty’s protests that I haven’t actually told her anything.
I’m still planning on getting my coffee, but I have to make a detour first. I slip down a nearby alley, disrupting a group of boys playing Fox Eyes, and work my way toward the center of town. Judgment Square. If there was a mutant caught in the city last night, Judgment Square is where it will end up. I quickly look up at the Clock Tower–the center of Judgment Square and so tall as to be visible from anywhere in town–and am dismayed to see that it is already quarter past five. I only have forty-five minutes to get my coffee and go to work. I’ve been late twice this week already, and unfortunately being the High Deacon’s daughter doesn’t afford me immunity from that offence.
I push through the crowd faster.
Five minutes later, I emerge from a narrow brick alley–I have to move sideways to slip through it–and into Judgment Square proper. To my surprise, there is already a crowd gathered in the shadow of the Tower. A large one. Judgments are not generally advertised. In most cases, nobody knows one is happening until they hear about it through the rumor mill.
My view of the stocks at the center of the Square is impeded by the throng, and so again I push my way through the people of Krakelyn, something I’ve learned to do well in my eighteen years. I finally emerge from the pack like a lost explorer in a dense forest of sentinel pines. When I look up, I see a man fastened to the center of the trio of stocks here, all standing upon a raised stone platform. He is entirely naked, his enormous and hairy gut thankfully covering that part of his body to which my eyes want to automatically drift. Without thinking about it, I continue to let my gaze fall until it comes to the man’s feet.
His toes.
“What’s he up there for?” someone asks behind me, echoing my own confusion. Why indeed? I count his toes again.
“No one knows yet,” another person answers. “We’re waitin’ on the Thesis. It’s a helluva fall from grace though.”
It’s at these words that my heart flutters and I look up into the stockaded man’s face for the first time. If my jaw were not securely attached to my face, I could have expected to hear it clatter to the cobblestones in that moment. The man is Thomas Whiskeyjack, the Second Deacon, my Father’s understudy and closest friend. Thomas had kept his head hanging since I got here but, now, almost as if he feels my gaze upon him, he looks up, pushing his neck forward through the stocks to do so. He locks his eyes with mine, and I cringe at the bruised and purple state of his face. The Deacons had been to work on him; men whom this poor man had once commanded under my Father.
My heart pounds. Does my Father know about this? The High Deacon has the final say in all Judgments…so he must! Did my Father really sentence his best friend to death? He has a reputation for being a hard man, earned after he passed Judgment on my Mother, but since then he’s been more lenient on those close to him. I think it’s ‘cause he feels guilty. Just look at how he coddles me! If I wasn’t his daughter, he would’ve had me flayed and sent to the stocks ages ago!
“The Thesis!” someone in the crowd bellows, breaking my train of thought. A man, dressed in a black hood and cowl, emerges from the Basilica at the base of the Clock Tower, carrying a thick scroll rolled up under one arm. My gaze is glued to the man as he approaches, unrolling the scroll when he reaches Thomas. The man, whom we call an Abdicator, pulls out a hammer and a metal spike from his cloak, nailing the Thesis to the post of Thomas’s stock. The words written upon it, large and easy to read are:
For Aiding and Abetting a Mutant
My mind reels.
Thomas is not the mutant (which I kinda figured out when I saw he only has five toes), but helped one break into the city! I want more than anything to talk to Thomas, to ask him about it, but I know the crowd won’t allow it; they’re getting riled up as the words of the Thesis are passed on to those who can’t read or are out of eyeshot.
There’s nothing I can do.
“Scum!” I hear a familiar and high pitched voice call as a rotten red tomato sails out of the crowd to explode on Thomas’ exposed head. My anger boils and I whip about to see Traylor, my obnoxious little brother, smiling devilishly and attempting to hide the rest of the rotten fruits and vegetables he has in his hands. My face melts into a snarl and I’m about to advance on the little bastard, but it’s too late.
The Judgment riot has begun.
2.
“I didn’t do it!” the voice of Thomas Whiskeyjack pleads over the enraged outcry of the mob. But his words are drowned in a rain of rotting food and excrement.
And stones.
The first one strikes Thomas in the stomach, his cries cut off in a grunt of pain. The second strikes him in the shoulder, his grunts becoming screams, mingled with the creaking of the stocks as he struggles against them. The rage in the crowd is escalating, and Thomas’s cries are joined by others as people are trampled, battered, or struck by thrown projectiles meant for Thomas Whiskeyjack himself. I start to panic. I’m trapped behind an advancing wall of furious people!
My claustrophobia kicks in.
It doesn’t happen often, as I’ve managed to get the fear mostly under control during my eighteen years but, every once in a while (and usually during a high stress situation), it gets the better of me.
As it is now.
Traylor sees the look on my face and comes toward me gingerly; he knows something is wrong. "It was just a joke, Juno!" he says, taking my hand as I begin to feel dizzy, bending prone at the waist. I feel something slimy and pull my hand from his, finding it coated in a disgusting blend of rotten vegetables. I grab Traylor and wipe it on the back of his black tunic. The rest of the vegetables he'd intended to throw are now a mushy pile beneath our feet, some of it leaking onto my sandaled feet.
"Did you even bother to find out who was up there?" I chastise him, grabbing him by the elbow and moving him away from the bloody cries of the dying Thomas Whiskeyjack.
Traylor shrugs with a smirk. "Do I ever?" He's being cocky because he knows I will tell Father, no matter how much he begs me not to. We've been through this countless times before.
"It was Thomas Whiskeyjack," I say, finding satisfaction when I see the blood drain from the little guy's face.
"What?" Traylor stops moving, turning around, standing on the ends of his toes to try and see over the crowd again. We're almost at the edge of Judgment Square, but we're both fairly short, and Traylor more so because he's only ten years old. But the crowd is breaking up already. Thomas Whiskeyjack must be dead. Just like that, the bloodlust is a memory and the throng begins to file out of the Square in all directions. My claustrophobia eases as Traylor begins to elbow his way back toward the stocks.
"Where you going?" I call after him.
He half turns his head and replies, "You're lying! It's not him!"
I sigh and follow my little brother.
I should have known this would be hard on him. Thomas had been like a second Father to Traylor. Not to me though. I'm old enough to still remember our Mother. Somewhat. I was eight years old when Father passed Judgment on her, shortly after Traylor was born. I still haven't forgiven him for it, High Deacon or no. She was born without a nail on the second toe of her left foot. No big deal, right? Wrong. Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live, no matter how small or insignificant the change. As Father says: "If we let ourselves deviate from the True Body Plan, if we play god like the ancients did, we only invite another cataclysm upon ourselves. The ways of the Forerunners are the ways of death."
I don't know whether my Mother kept her mutation hidden from Father all those years, or if he knew about it and just never said anything. Either way, the truth became public, and my Father had little choice as High Deacon. Our whole family would have stood to be Judged otherwise. Instead, he did his duty and passed Judgment on her, in the very place Thomas Whiskeyjack's corpse now hangs limp and lifeless.
I still think he made the wrong choice.
Traylor stops at the base of the platform and stares upward, wide eyed, a few stragglers shaking their heads in disbelief that the High Deacon's second in command had just been Judged. I come up beside him, and the confused look I see on his face makes me realize that Traylor still retains most of the innocence of childhood.
"That's not him," Traylor says, denial coating every word. "I can't tell who it is." I look up and see that Traylor is right. Thomas' face is so smashed and bloodied now, there is little left to distinguish it.
"It's him," I say softly, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Traylor shakes his head, staring not at the man now, but at the Thesis tacked to the post beneath him. "Thomas would never help a mutant!" he says between clenched teeth. I nod my whole hearted agreement. Thomas Whiskeyjack was the last person–other than my Father–that I would have ever expected to see at the center of Judgment Square. My thoughts keep drifting to the six toed footprints in the sand yesterday. And the strange metal box. Hopefully Jude is alright. He's supposed to be lying low after what happened.
"I bet this has to do with whatever you found on the beach," Traylor says, gesturing to Thomas.
I freeze, doing a double take. What did my little brother just say?
"Where did you hear that?" I ask, my heart fluttering in my chest. How could anybody know? Had the Deacons been watching us? I look up at Thomas Whiskeyjack trepidatiously.
Traylor shrugs. "That's the rumor going around. People are saying that you and Jude found something from Everwinter on the beach, and that's why there was a mutant trying to get into the city last night. It wanted to get the thing back. What was it, Juno?"
If I'd had a reflecting glass in my hand at this moment, I know I'd see a pale, shocked face staring back at me. "Who's saying these things, Traylor?" I ask vehemently. "How many people have heard this rumor?"
Traylor shrugs again. "I dunno. I heard it from a few of my buddies near the docks. Well, one of them anyway. He told the rest of us."
I want to ask Traylor who his friend is, but I realize it doesn't matter. The docks are the center of commerce in the city, with people coming and going all the time. If the rumor spread from there, most of Krakelyn would have heard it by now.
"I have to go," I say abruptly, turning away from the stocks. "Go home, Traylor."
"Juno, what's going on? I–"
"Just go home, Traylor. Go home and grieve for Thomas Whiskeyjack. I won’t tell Dad you were here." Traylor is forbidden from seeing Judgments, at our Father's discretion. He isn't mature enough yet.
"Really?" Traylor asks with a raised eyebrow. He looks at Thomas and a sob wracks his chest. But then he forces composure onto his face and smiles. "You don't have to tell me twice!" With that, Traylor bolts from Judgment Square.
I follow seconds later, but head in the opposite direction.
3.
I find Jude exactly where I would expect to on any normal day.
Except, this is far from an ordinary day.
"What in the name of the gods are you doing here?" I elbow him, talking under my breath, muttering curses.
"Getting my morning coffee, what else?" he replies, as if the answer should have been obvious. He grins at me stupidly, lifting his head up so I can examine it more thoroughly, then leans down for a kiss. Aghast, I pull away from him, my eyes fixed firmly to his left cheek. I almost laugh at what I see. He's gotten into his Mother's face paint kit, using a shade far too pale for his darkly tanned skin. Everyone has darkish skin in Eversummer, but this leaves a blotchy mess that, despite the color difference, covers the blemishes on his face quite well.
There is that at least.
"You look like a godsforsaken jongler!" I elbow him harder. People in the coffee line at the Bridge Market, in front of us and behind, stop their conversations to eyeball us. I'd cut the line to join Jude, but these people aren't grumbling about that. We cut the lines all the time. Instead, they’re pointing to their own faces, giggling.
"Hey, I thought I did a pretty decent job!" Jude says indignantly, now angling his cheek away so I can't see it.
"You're insane!" I chastise. "If my Father's men see–"
"They won't," Jude cuts me off with a rude wave. "I can't afford to take the day off work, Juno. And who knows how long this rash will last?" He winces painfully.
"Rash? Ha!" I bark at him. Calling what Jude has on his cheek a rash is like calling a third degree sunburn a case of dry skin. I move around him to get a closer look at the ‘rash’ and see that it is indeed better than it was yesterday. But if a Deacon were to take a second glance, they would undoubtedly notice his skin pockmarked with bumps and holes. Sure, Jude could try and pass it off as an injury–call it roadrash–but with that rumor going around town now...
I pull him in close. "Who did you tell?" I ask, thinking someone must have seen him sneaking home last night with those huge blisters on his face. I'd given him my hooded cloak to cover it once we’d got back to town, but it was too small and hadn't hidden his deformity completely.
But is it a deformity or a mutation?
"No one!" Jude bites back indignantly. "Why? Does somebody know?"
I roll my eyes. "Yeah," I say. "Most of Krakelyn."
Jude stares at me. "Tell me you're joking."
I pull him even closer, feeling as if every eye in the city is upon me. I look around and a few actually are. Gods, I'm getting paranoid. "Traylor told me," I say. "He heard it at the docks. Somebody knows we found something. The Deacons must have been watching us."
Jude looks like he wants to cry. "I avoided talking to anyone this morning," he says. "I haven't heard any news. I just wanted to grab a coffee and get to the pit for my shift." He pauses briefly to collect himself.
"I don't suppose you heard about Thomas Whiskeyjack then?" I say, a little too loudly. Behind me, someone gasps at my mentioning the name. In Krakelyn, it's somewhat of a taboo to speak someone's name aloud after they've been Judged.
Jude shakes his head. "No. What happened?"
"He was Judged," I mutter, barely a whisper.
Jude's eyes go wide. "You don't think it has something to do with us?"
"I don't know. But if Thomas was the Deacon that was spying on us and saw what happened at the beach, my Father is the only person he would tell about it."
Jude seems to collapse at my inference that my Father had Thomas Judged in order to cover up our wrongdoing. "You hid it in the usual spot, right?" he asks.
I nod. "There's no way anyone knows where it is, but someone knows we have it. You need to hide, Jude. I can sweet talk my Father if he confronts me about it, but if the Deacons see your face..."
He nods back. "You're right." He looks around quickly, the paranoia visible in his eyes.
"Lay low until I sort this out with my Father," I say. "He never came home last sleep cycle. He's probably investigating this mutant that tried to break into the city and–" I cut myself off, seeing Jude's face go from shocked to horrified. "Oh, uh, you don't know about that either, do you?"
Jude shakes his head. "Nope." I quickly recount the rumor I'd heard from Mrs. Cromarty.
"This all has to be connected, Juno," Jude says, stepping behind me to wrap his arms around me, making it easier and less conspicuous to whisper in my ear. "The footprints in the sand, the Box, everything."
"I know," I nod. "I'll talk to my Father after my shift at the Gardens today. Until then, hide."
Jude squeezes me tight and gives me a quick peck on the lips. "I love you, Juno Quinn," he says. Then I feel his arms slip away and, by the time I turn around, he's melted into the crowd, gone. I touch my cheek where he'd kissed me, feeling a bit of the wetness left behind, flabbergasted.
Jude has never told me he loved me before.
"I...I don–" I start to say to myself, when somebody cuts me off.
"Juno! Hey, Juno Quinn! What can I getcha?"
I shake my head from my stupor and look up dumbly to find I'm at the head of the coffee line, staring blankly into the eyes of the proprietor, Jaq Eldin. He hates it when people take too long to order; it backs things up. The people behind me mutter their annoyance as well.
"Oh, uh, I'll have a–" I cut myself off again. My eyes have fallen on a clock set on a support post at the back of the kiosk. "Bloody ashes!" I curse, realizing I won't be getting my much needed cup of morning coffee after all.
I'm late for work.
4.
"That'll be a half hour docked from your pay, Juno."
I check the clock on the wall. I'm only ten minutes late, but it's hardly the first time. "But–" I begin to protest.
"Wanna make it an hour?" Cantrell cuts me off, his tone harsh, his glare like stone. Cantrell is a short man, with darker skin than most and pitch black hair combed to one side. He's only a few years older than me, but he acts like he’s fifty.
"It won't happen again, sir," I admonish, though we both know the chances of that are pretty slim. My boss just nods and gestures for me to get out of his sight. I dart away quickly, finding the change room and slipping into my work bib in less than a minute. I pull my semi-short, red hair into a dirty ponytail, fully revealing the shaved sides of my head, and enter the Glass Gardens proper.
The heat is the first thing that strikes me, as it always does. It's like a thick, moist wall. The second thing is the pleasant aroma of fresh, dewy vegetation. Row upon row of various crops, plants and trees, extend as far as the eye can see from the head of the Gardens where I'm standing. Drought is a particularly prevalent problem in Eversummer, and so the Gardens were built to accommodate large scale food production without fear of losses. Above me, massive glass panes set into thick metal frames create seemingly random color patterns of light and shadow. Each pane is tinted uniquely, having been scavenged ages ago from ancient towers of the Forerunners. We haven’t the technology to produce such thick glass ourselves, and so salvaged what we could use. The remnants of Forerunner cities can be found all over Eversummer, though I've never seen one myself yet. They lie mostly in the Bleaklands, where air is hard to come by. My Father says they've all been picked clean now anyway; there is little left to find that wouldn't be blasphemous to possess.
A few of my coworkers give me cursory nods or good mornings as I enter, but I'm in such a crummy mood from my lack of coffee that I mostly ignore them. I make for the corn belt, near the center of the Gardens, where I'd been working lately. I duck down the nearest row and find myself relieved as the tall stalks envelop me, knowing there are no prying eyes to find me. Thinking of Jude, sick with worry, I want to cry but push the bad feelings aside, pulling my machete from my tool belt and start hacking away at the lush leaves. The corn around me is ready for harvest. I click the radio transmitter, also attached to my belt, and a confirming series of three clicks follows.
Then I really start working.
I chop the stalks just below the golden ears of corn and gently guide them to the black tilled soil for REX to pick them up later. Technically, I'm not supposed to start harvesting at the center of a patch, but I'm so desperate to avoid any and all human contact today that I'm willing to get reamed out by Cantrell again if he should find out.
He probably won’t though.
A low rumbling comes to my legs through the soil and I look back to see REX ambling toward me, his rusty gears whining in protest with every turn of his rotting axels. On the surface, REX appears to be a large flatbed on wheels, a stupid machine remnant of the Forerunners. But inside his deteriorating carapace, REX does have a brain of a sort, and I have often been amazed to witness it solve simple problems on its own.
"Morning, REX," I say as the machine pulls up to the first few stalks I have lain out. A mechanical appendage, not unlike a hand, grasps the crops and flips them onto the flatbed. REX does not reply. I stop what I'm doing and wait for him to catch up to me. He does so and I wait, not moving. There is a tiny lens at the head of the machine, what you might call an eye, and I watch as it moves about now, looking back and forth between myself and the corn. REX realizes I have stopped working and is trying to figure out why. It's at this point that a small, metallic probe issues forth from beneath the machine, flying toward me at great speed. I dodge it easily, but then REX moves his entire body and I'm caught, the probe giving me a shock on the shin.
"Ow!" I protest with a smirk. It's what I get for teasing the machine. "Did Cantrell have you programmed to do that, or did you figure it out on your own?" I ask. Everyone knows that REX was designed to record data on individual worker production, but this shock treatment is something new. Is REX turning himself into the boss? I laugh and hit the transmitter on my belt again. Immediately, REX stops inching toward me and, with a squeal of metal, darts back the way he'd originally come.
Too bad Cantrell doesn't have an on/off switch like that.
"There you are!" a nasally, high pitched voice calls to me. I look over into the next row of corn to see the plump form of Rayanne Nedaris coming toward me. I roll my eyes; I should have known REX would give away my position. "I've been looking for you all morning!" Ray exclaims, finally coming up next to me.
"I was late," I reply with a tone of finality.
"I heard," Rayanne smirks wildly. "Cantrell must have lost a gasket!" I shrug noncommittally. "I also heard," Ray continues, "that you and Jude found something on the beach yesterday. A weapon of the Forerunners or something?"
My breath catches in my throat. A weapon? "Who told you that?" I ask.
Rayanne gives me a sheepish look. "Well...everyone. The whole town's talking about it. It's not true, is it? Did you really find–"
"Nothing," I interrupt her. "We found nothing. Just some old, washed up garbage. Metal mostly. We were going to bring it to my Father, but a mutant tried to break into the city last night and he was preoccupied."
"Yeah, I heard that too," Ray replies.
I sigh. "One of the Deacons must have been spying on us and told somebody else who blabbed about it." Thomas Whiskeyjack's face flashes through my mind. "Somehow the two stories got intertwined. The stuff we found yesterday has nothing to do with the mutant in the city. That's all there is to it, Ray." The lie sounds convincing, even to my own ears. Hopefully, Ray will spread it around and take some of the heat off of me and Jude.
Ray squints her eyes at me. It's clear she isn't buying all that I'm selling, but she seems satisfied enough. "Well, thank the gods that's all it was then," she says, reaching behind herself to pull a wooden travel mug from her tool belt. She cracks the seal and instantly the sweet aroma of Krakelyn coffee assaults my nostrils. She takes a sip then offers the mug to me. My eyes blast wide open and a slick smile bursts onto my lips.
"You're a life saver, Ray!" I say, reaching quickly to take the drink.
Before I've got it in my hands, Ray pulls it back and says: "You sure there's nothing else going on?" She sighs deeply. "I've always been truthful with you, Juno. I've been a friend to you. You can trust me."
I nod. That was true, but Ray and I are hardly good friends. I think of her more as a desperate clinger trying to improve her social standing by befriending the High Deacon's daughter. "Ray, there's nothing else to tell," I say. And with that, Ray finally seems satiated. She hands me the mug. I down it in a single go.
"Hey! That was supposed to last me all day!" she protests. "Where's the coffee I got you this morning?"
"Gone," I shrug. "Already drank it. Thanks, by the way." I hand the mug back.
"Yeah, you're welcome, Juno," Rayanne grumbles. "For everything." With that, the plump girl stalks away into the corn, green leaves rustling reddish-blonde hair cut in the same fashion as mine.
"Whatever," I reply to myself, gripping my machete and, with fresh coffee coursing through my veins like wildfire, start hacking at the corn as if I am fighting it for my life.
5.
I leave work just after the eighteenth hour, the warmth of the Eversummer sun feeling like a cold draft on my skin after twelve hours in the Gardens. Usually, I would take Mainstreet across the bridge and cut through the business district to get home, but tonight I crisscross alleyways and parks in order to avoid prying eyes. It works, mostly, as I only run into a few people I know along the way. I can tell that they all want to talk to me, but I brush them off before our cursory small talk goes any further. I slip into our yard through the back wall door and stalk cautiously across the browning lawn to the wide double doors that open onto the patio. Yeah, we have a big house. A nice house. Two stories. But my Father's the High Deacon. The most powerful man in Krakelyn can't be seen living in squalor, can he?
It's all a joke, in my opinion.
Wealth never mattered to me; Jude's family lives in little better than a shack down by the docks. Everything about my house feels fake to me; like it was made to prove how much better we are than everybody else. I've never thought myself better than anyone in my life. Okay, well, maybe Rayanne, but she's annoying.
Every window in the Manse is ablaze with fiery sparklights; it's cloudy at the moment, so the ever present sunlight is muted. Sparklights are another luxury we could do without, in my opinion. It's bright outside all the time. Why bother? Very few homes in Krakelyn have sparklights. They require specialized knowledge to operate. Copper cords run out of an oil fed machine spouting noxious fumes at the back of our property. I don't fully understand it myself, but I always thought candles worked just as well.
I slip through the patio doors, open to permit fresh air into the building. One of the serving women, Ryonyx, greets me upon entering with a smile. "You're just in time," she says. "Dinner is about to be served."
"I'll eat later," I reply curtly. "Is my Father home?"
"He is," Ryonyx replies. "But he is in his study, and is not to be disturbed."
"He'll want to see me,” I grin.
Passing more servants, I come to the wide, balustraded main stairwell and head up to the second floor. Paintings, tapestries, and golden candelabras line the hall, but I hardly notice them anymore. As I said, it all feels fake to me. I pass Traylor's room. The door is wide open, my little brother passed out on his bed, already snoring softly. I smile and continue on to the door at the end of the hall.
My Father's study.
I knock and a deep, intimidating baritone answers from the other side.
"Come."
I open the door, not wasting any time. My Father's study is a small room, compared with the rest of the Manse, but it feels positively claustrophobic to me. Relics of the Forerunners line shelves and hang from every wall, cluttering every square inch of available space. Many of the objects were discovered by me and Jude on the beach. Father doesn't like my being in here because I am so enthralled by the Forerunners, but I doubt that will matter to him today.
"What are you doing here, Juno?" he asks bluntly, seated before an oversized sentinel pine desk. His tone doesn't catch me off guard exactly– Father has always been a blunt man–but it still isn't the greeting I was expecting. After today, and with all the rumors flying around, I thought for sure he'd be dying to see me.
"Well?" he asks, cold eyes boring into my own. I'm drawing a blank. I’d expected him to start grilling me immediately. Was he waiting for me to confess about the beach? That wouldn't be like him. Father never beats around the bush. My eyes dart around the room, finding the only object on the walls that even remotely catches my eye anymore. Something called a ‘foto’. It's like a painting, but not. Father says it’s a snapshot of real life, like a recorded memory put to paper. The foto is ancient, ripped and weathered, depicting a young family in front of a strange looking home. It's like something out of a child's fantasy. The family wears strange garments emblazoned with even more bizarre symbology.
But they seem happy.
"Juno? What's the matter with you?"
I tear my eyes from the foto and back onto my Father. Even sitting down, he's an imposing figure, taller than most men and rail thin. A graying moustache droops in cascades from his upper lip, hanging to just below his chin. He's still wearing his High Deacon surcoat, but its wrinkled and dirty and... Is that a blood stain?
I finally find my voice. "I... I just wanted to make sure you're alright, that's all. I heard about Thomas at work." I'm testing the waters here, seeing what my Father knows. He'd call me out right away if he knew I'd actually been at the Judgment.
"Oh," he replies, his face melting from a scowl to a deep frown. "I suppose you would have. Listen, Juno, I already had this discussion with Traylor. I can't tell you everything, but know that what was done, was done for the good of Krakelyn. It was a regrettable thing, and the hardest Judgment I've had to make since your Mother."
I wince at the mention of her but, again, I'm used to this type of forthrightness from my Father. He knows my feelings on the subject, but I've learned to look past it when we're together. It took a long time for me to do that though. "I'm sorry it had to happen," I tell him, genuine sympathy in my tone. "I, um, well, I've heard all the rumors flying around. A mutant in the city." My Father nods. "There isn't anything I should be concerned about, is there?"
Without hesitation, my Father shakes his head. "No, Juno, it's been taken care of. Everything is alright." He pauses, meeting my eyes with a warmer glance and a hint of a smile. From his creaky old chair, he reaches out and takes my hand. "Do me a favor and go check on your brother for me. I know you weren't close to Thomas, but Traylor was in positive hysterics when I came home. I think he may have seen the Judgment this morning."
I smirk, trying not to give away too much. "It would be like him to disobey your orders," I reply. I lean down and give the old man a kiss on the forehead. "Don't work yourself too hard," I say, "you need to grieve too." He squeezes my hand in thanks but says nothing, only nods and turns back to the stack of parchment on his desk. That's as much cue as I get that the conversation is over.
I slip quietly out of the study, closing the door, stopping in the hallway and breathing hard in time to my hammering heart.
Why hadn't he asked me about the beach? And Jude?
He must know that I have that strange metal Box from Everwinter hidden away. Thomas would have told him. So why didn't he call me out on it? Did Thomas Whiskeyjack die because of what we found? If so, why? Father had to have heard the rumor about me and Jude. So why didn't he ask me about it? Selfish hope rises in my chest. If my Father went to all these lengths to protect me, he may have instructed the Deacons to lay off us as well. And if that rash on Jude's cheek clears up quickly enough, all just might be well! Thomas Whiskeyjack's dying face flashes through my mind in that moment.
Yeah, but at what cost?
With these thoughts racing through my brain, I traverse the hall once more, pausing momentarily at the entrance to Traylor's room. He's moved around since I'd first come by, but he still appears to be out cold. I keep going, down to the other end of the Manse where my own room is situated. I open the door and slip inside, my large, down filled mattress calling to me immediately.
There's nothing more I want to do in that moment than to flop down on the bed, but there's something else I have to do first. I head straight for the window, seeing with a smile that a new sunvisor has been installed. My old one broke a couple days ago. I took the blame for it, saying I had trouble getting it to roll back up. The truth was I'd accidentally kicked it loose climbing onto the roof. Father wouldn't let me cover the window for two days afterward as a lesson.
Live and learn.
Or not.
I roll the visor up, going easy, pushing the shutters wide. I take a quick glance into the yard to be sure no servants are in the yard below and quickly hoist myself onto the sill. I look over and see that the window into Traylor's room is shut tight. He won't hear me. I grasp the eave with my hands and push off hard with my feet, propelling them onto the rooftop. It's not a graceful act, but I've done it enough times that it hardly poses a problem anymore. It's a lot harder when I'm actually trying to bring something up here with me.
This is where I stash my stuff from the beach, after all.
I'm up on the roof in seconds, my hands grimy from grasping the gutter. I wipe them on my pants and tread carefully up the pitch. Most houses in Krakelyn have roofs constructed of thatch, but ours, of course, is topped with a series of wooden tiles tucked up under one another in rows, the advantage being that the tiles have to be replaced a lot less often than thatch. But they're expensive as hell. I tiptoe across the tiles, using my hands for purchase as I clamber up the steep grade. I reach what remains of a square brick structure near the top. An old chimney. I don't even know where it ends up inside the house. The top of the chimney is covered by a wooden panel that I constructed myself. I lift it off, revealing a large cubby hidden within. Jude built a floor for me inside the chimney–he's really good at building stuff–and I climb inside, enveloped in shade.
I'm inside my stash.
I pull a filthy old blanket aside, revealing the wealth of Forerunner treasures I’ve managed to squirrel away over the past year. There's a piece of a reflecting glass; a ball made from a soft, yet durable material; books written in languages no one in Eversummer can understand; metal sheets that are neither rusted nor weakened by age; a female doll constructed of a similar material as the ball; a few containers, like cups, but again made of a hard yet pliable substance; a few fotos and images ripped from books; bizarre clothing fashioned of indefinite materials; and the shiny, metal Box.
The Box we found on the beach yesterday.
Unconsciously, I reach out to touch it just as Jude had, but stop myself when I realize what I'm doing. The memory of that bright flash of light is burned into my mind. Along with Jude's scream as the light seared the side of his face. Disgusted and fearful, I spit at the object and cover it back up quickly.
I just wanted to check that it was still there, that’s all.
The real problem is gonna be figuring out what to do with such a dangerous artifact. But that problem can wait 'til morning. I'll find Jude, and we'll decide if it's safe for him to come out of hiding. With a yawn, I crawl out of the chimney, replace the wooden cover, and stealthily retreat to my room.
I'm asleep before my head hits the pillow.
6.
He waits a few minutes, just to make sure, then pushes the shutters wide as his sister had moments before. Traylor isn't stupid; he knows Juno has a stash of Forerunner objects up on the roof. After all, it's what he would do if he were tasked with cleaning up the garbage on that beach. The loss of Thomas Whiskeyjack still weighs heavy on his heart, but the pain recedes to a dull throb in the back of his mind as the excitement of finding out what Juno and Jude found yesterday overtakes it. Other than Thomas' death, he'd thought about little else all day.
Traylor climbs onto the window ledge and grasps the eave, swinging his legs up with more grace than Juno had formerly exhibited. He barely makes a sound. He waits another moment to be sure no one sees him, then darts up the sloped roof toward the ancient chimney. He's there is seconds, lifting the wooden panel away. Juno really should be more careful with this stuff, he thinks, clambering into the hole himself. He pulls the blanket away, revealing a trove of stuff he's seen plenty of times before, and one thing he's never seen.
"What is this?" he grumbles to himself in amazement. It looks like a simple box; pure, silvery metal, perfectly made.
"There must be a way to open it."
Traylor reaches out with his right hand and, as his skin makes contact, an electric shock jolts through him like a snakebite. "Ow!" he snarls, pulling his hand up to his mouth. That really hurt! Anger boils within him.
Anger over Thomas' death.
Traylor feels like he's had so little control over his life lately, and here is this stupid box, an inanimate object, taunting him.
"I will get you open," he vows, reaching over to the box again. This time, he wraps the blanket around his hands, picking the object up directly. It vibrates in his grasp, but it can't shock him through the material. "Ha!" Traylor laughs, triumphant. "Now, how do I open–"
But it's too late.
With a flash of skin searing light, the box opens by itself, and Traylor remembers no more.
7.
One Month Later.
A cloaked figure moves about the streets of Krakelyn at night. We call it night in Eversummer, but there is actually nothing to distinguish it from day because the sun never leaves the sky. We call it night, because it’s the time when everyone usually sleeps. Sleeping hours, we call them more often than not. But lately, people haven't been sleeping so well. Of course, it doesn’t help that over half of Krakelyn is dead.
Suicides mostly.
The cloak I'm wearing is oversized–it was my Father's–but that's kind of the point. It covers my face and body completely. I'm not the only one who goes about like this these days, though we're fast becoming a minority. I've been in hiding since the Final Judgment–that's what people are calling the day that Traylor opened the Box–but since my return to Krakelyn, I've been hearing rumors of a gang that doesn't take too kindly to people masking their deformities. Children of Mutanity they call themselves. A play on the words ‘mutant’ and ‘humanity’, I guess.
I've yet to see them for myself.
If the rumors are true, then this supposed gang would sure be anathema to all that the people of Eversummer previously stood for. It makes sense though, in a twisted sort of way. After all, after centuries of believing we were doing the will of the gods by weeding out the imperfections in our bloodlines–the True Body Plan–the gods turn around and do this to us. What are people supposed to think? Perhaps we had the TBP all wrong. Maybe mutations are the will of the gods, and what we think of as perfection is actually ugly and evil.
Maybe, but I don't believe it.
I'm angling my way toward the Manse, taking an indirect route so it’s not as obvious as to where I'm headed. Just in case. Our house has been at the center of a lot of hatred and violence since the Final Judgment. People want answers, and my Father has none. I still remember my Father's face, starkly gaunt and fearful, pocked with bleeding tumors and peeling skin when he ordered me to go into hiding after the Final Judgment. He told me to stay away as long as possible, to hide somewhere no one would think to find me. He had the servants pack rations in a tote and sent me away before things got really bad. I slipped off our property into the woods, never experiencing the devastation of Krakelyn firsthand. I could faintly hear the screams as I left though, accompanied by black smoke and the warm glow of massive fires off in the distance.
Krakelyn was burning.
Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, but I kept my back turned and made my way to the beach. There was nothing else I could do. The first few days, I constantly second guessed my choice of hideout–a small cave just off the shoreline. I thought for sure someone would come looking for me. But no one did. In fact, I heard not a sound from the direction of Krakelyn the entire month I was in exile. It was hard, but I stayed away as long as I could.
A month was all I could handle.
I kept clinging to the hope that Jude might find his way here. Surely he would have asked my Father where I was.
But Jude never came.
I'm pretty sure now that he's dead.
I've been back in Krakelyn for just a few days now, but I’ve scoured the city high and low, sniffing for rumors where I can find them without giving myself away. To no avail. If Jude was still alive, he'd be doing the same thing that I'm doing now.
I'd already cried about it a great deal.
I'm alone on the street now, walking slowly up a deserted stretch of Main. Well, maybe not totally alone. My mind is playing tricks on me, making me think that the dead bodies strewn all over the ground are moving. Just a twitch, here and there. It makes me shudder. These corpses are either murders or suicides, victims of the chaos of the Final Judgment. Victims unable to grasp the notion that their religion was a lie.
Thou shalt not suffer a mutant to live, remember?
I'm sure many who took their own lives felt they were doing the gods' will, afforded a place in Paradise for doing so.
I'm hardly that optimistic.
"Bloody ashes!" I curse, tripping over an old man with large bulbous growths all over his face. There's no trauma visible on his body, so maybe he just had a heart attack.
Maybe.
I carry on and almost trip again. In the name of the gods! Why doesn't somebody clean up these–
HHHHOOOOONNNNKKK!!!
I whirl just in time to witness a massive mechanical hulk barreling toward me. The machine honks again and I bolt out of the way, diving headlong to the dirt, scraping my palms. The machine takes its own dive, veering away to avoid hitting me and smashing directly into an abandoned storefront. The resultant crash is ear splitting. It should have attracted onlookers in seconds, but no one shows up.
People are scared.
The machine's engine is still rumbling, laboring, shooting forth great jets of black smoke before finally dying. The thing reminds me of REX, only on a larger scale. A box on wheels. I've seen one like this before, near the docks, used to load and unload freight. As the engine dies, the machine sags and a latch at the back of the box pops open, releasing the tailgate and spilling its contents.
Bodies.
I nearly vomit.
I hear cursing from the front of the vehicle, followed by an attempt to refire the stalled engine. It doesn't work. A hatch at the side suddenly plops open and a man–tall, fat, and covered in blisters–emerges, seeing me and cursing louder.
"What in the name of the gods were ya doin' in tha middle of the street?" he scolds, shaking a fist at me. "I coulda run you down! Then you'd just be another stiffy to throw on the pile!" He ambles toward me and I consider bolting. But this man is the first person I've actually seen doing something productive since I came back to Krakelyn. It makes me trust him somehow.
"You... You're cleaning up the bodies?" I ask, dumbfounded.
"Yup," the man replies. He has the husky air and burly chest of a sailor; or a dock worker at the very least. It seems he hardly notices the deformities on his face. "Deacons are offering ten credits per stiffy," he continues. "How could anyone pass that up?" He looks me up and down slowly. Though my hood is pulled up, obscuring my face, I feel like he can still see right through me. "Help me get these stiffys back on the wagon,” he says, “and I'll make it worth your while. We'll split 'em, seventy-thirty. Whataya say?"
"I say I better be gettin' the seventy portion," I reply cheekily. He laughs, finally letting his guard down a bit.
"You got a wagon of your own?" he retorts cockily. I shake my head. "Then seems only fair I get the lion's share," he smirks. "Don't it?" I shrug, thinking it unwise to point out that this wagon likely doesn't belong to him either. "So? How 'bout it?" He inches closer and I consider bolting again, but there's a very good chance now this man could catch me. He's more limber than he appears. I let my gaze fall uncomfortably, and it comes to rest at the man's hip where he has something clipped to his belt. Something I've only seen a handful of times in my life.
"Is that a shooting iron?" I ask, amazed that this uncouth miscreant possesses it.
"Yup," the man answers proudly. "Got it off a stiffy after the Children of Mutanity took care of 'em. They didn't even know he had it! Can you believe it? They thought the poor guy was still pure."
"Pure?" I ask, glad of the diversion in topic.
"Yeah, you know. Not mutated. The Children are out to take care of anyone who was untouched by the Final Judgment. They say that the gods have spoken, and that the True Body Plan is no longer the norm. Maybe it never was."
My heart skitters in my chest. "And have they actually found any, um, pure people?"
The man shrugs. "Who can say? Oh, they think they have, but I've collected the bodies afterward, and it’s always people who haven't had their faces marred up too badly. They might have only a few poxes on their face, but their bodies are always ravaged. The Children don't seem to care much 'bout that though."
"And just who are these Children?" I ask, keeping the diversion going.
The man inches closer. "You've really been outta the loop, haven't ya?"
I nod. "I... I was scared. I hid for nearly a month."
The man nods. "Aye, ya wouldn't be the only one." He's really close to me now; so close that I can smell the foul odor emanating from the sores on his face. "Some say that the Children are former Deacons, given their fervent zeal. But who knows? Times are strange. So, how 'bout it?" he asks. "Help a brotha out?" He leans down suddenly, trying to look into the deeper recesses of my hood. A sudden noise–a bang–issues from the front of the man's wagon and, spooked, he pulls his shooting iron, aiming it directly at my chest.
I throw my hands up immediately. "Hey, wait!" I say.
With the iron still leveled, he turns and stares at the wagon. Then when he's sure there's no threat, he turns back to me. "Sorry," he says, "just a little jumpy." He pauses, still aiming. "But if we're gonna work together, I gotta be sure..."
He steps toward me and, in that moment, I know it's all over. The man reaches up and throws back my hood.
"In the name of the gods!" he gasps, letting his weapon hand fall to his side. "Juno Quinn?"
I nod, eyes wide. "Uh, yeah," I reply.
The man shakes his head. "My gods, it really is you! Of course I know who you are! Who in Krakelyn doesn't? But... How is this possible?" He lifts his empty hand, filthy and work torn, up to my face, caressing the unmarred flesh of my left cheek.
My eyes are still on the shooting iron.
"My gods," he says again. "My gods!" He raises the iron once more. "Lift up your shirt.” My eyes bulge. "Nah, ne'er worry, Miss Juno," the man says, "I ain't gonna force meself on ya. I just need to be sure is all."
I nod, feeling tears well up. I lift my shirt. My stomach is just as pristine as my face, lightly tanned and glassy smooth. It's the man's turn to bulge his eyes. "Satisfied?" I ask.
He nods, then shakes his head. "My gods, Juno, you might be the only pure human left! Do you know what that means?" He lifts the iron so that it’s pointed directly at my face. "I could get a thousand credits for you! Maybe more! Oh yes, your Father or the Children of Mutanity would pay handsomely for a prize like you!"
"You're going to sell me?" I ask indignantly, unbelieving where this is all heading.
The man shrugs. "Times is tough, young Juno. Who knows when an opportunity like this might come along again?" He wags the gun toward the wagon. "Walk that way," he orders.
Defeated, without recourse, I do as he asks, my anxiety rising to fever levels. We get to the hatch of the machine and I see the small driver's cab within, cramped with only two seats. He urges me inside and forces me into the driver's chair, pulling a thick length of cord from a nearby cubby. I want to convulse, knowing what comes next.
"Please don't take offense, Miss Juno," the man pleads as he binds my wrists to the steering column. "This is business, nothin' personal."
I say nothing, biting my tongue.
He steps back out of the wagon. "Now, you hold tight while I get these stiffys back on the cart. Won't take a sec." He disappears, closing the door behind him. The sound is like the final nail driven into my coffin. I want to sob.
"You okay, Juno?"
I whirl about–as much as I can with my wrists bound–and there's Traylor, hidden inside an oversized cloak much as I am, a huge grin plastered across his face.
"Where in the name of the gods have you been?" I curse at him. "I've been worried sick!"
"I got held up at the docks," he says, shrugging sheepishly. "It wasn't easy asking around about Jude without giving myself away." He throws back the hood of his cloak, revealing a face very similar to mine–we get our looks from our Mother–and just as unblemished as mine. Traylor and I might be the last pure humans left, in Krakelyn anyway, but we don't know for sure.
We have to find our Father.
Traylor pulls a small utility knife from one of his pockets and sets to work on my bonds, releasing them quickly. Immediately, I start examining the control panel in front of me.
"What are you doing?" my brother asks. A stupid question.
"What do you think?" I retort, finally finding a switch labeled 'ignition'. I flip it and the machine sputters, coughs, then roars back to life.
"You don't know how to drive this thing!" Traylor extols.
I shrug him off. "Would you rather take your chances out there with that slave trader? He wanted to sell me, you know."
Traylor huffs, plopping down in the passenger seat of the cabin. "I didn't know that," he replies.
I find the gear shifter and slam the vehicle in reverse just as a loud banging issues from the side door.
The slave trader is trying to get in.
"Don't worry, I locked it," Traylor says.
Grinning, I hit the gas pedal and the machine lurches backward with a death shriek, pulling out of the smashed storefront. Through the windscreen I see pulverized shelving and the goods once contained therein, scattered about like dead leaves. This had been old Mrs. Cromarty's shop. I feel a pang of sadness, but I realize I don't even know if Mrs. Cromarty survived the Final Judgment.
The accelerator is touchy and the vehicle literally flies in reverse, slamming into something behind us that I can't see. There's no mirrors. I've driven a loading cart at the Glass Gardens, but this is a bit more complicated. The fat, deformed slave trader appears before us, waving angrily for us to stop and get out.
"Fat chance," I sneer, shifting into drive. I wave back, indicating he should get out of the way. I hate the man, but I won't kill him if I don't have to. Then I hit the pedal and the vehicle blasts forward, barreling down the streets of Krakelyn, the slave trader diving theatrically to the dirt to avoid getting smucked.
8.
Traylor and I have a destination in mind; the only problem is that the slave trader will likely know it’s where we're going.
We don't have much time.
With Traylor laughing hysterically, I pilot our newly acquired vehicle over the Mainstreet Bridge, corpses on the road acting as speed bumps that send us bouncing in our seats. We reach the outskirts of Krakelyn in a matter of minutes, the Manse coming into view at the top of a wooded hill.
Our destination.
For a moment, I'm worried that the massive wrought iron gate at the driveway entrance will block our path, but when we get there we find it already on the ground, torn from its hinges.
This doesn't bode well.
I race recklessly up the long drive, the Manse hurtling into view seconds later. I carve the wheel and guide the vehicle across the front lawn, chewing up chunks of sod as I go, bringing us around the back of the building and out of sight from the street. I park right on top of the rear patio and, before we're even climbing out, the house servants have appeared, pouring out of the Manse.
"Juno!" one of the women exclaims. It's Ryonyx. The sight of the kindly old woman warms my heart. "Thank the gods! You've returned to us!" Ryonyx's face is a boil of tumors, all looking fit to burst. She grabs Traylor and me both in a hearty embrace, caressing and marveling at our still unblemished faces, then pulls away. "Your Father has been sick with worry!"
"Is he..." I begin.
"He is well," Ryonyx replies. "I will take you to him now." Relief floods me and we enter the house.
"What happened here?" I ask. The house is a disaster, overturned furniture and our personal effects strewn everywhere.
"The Children of Mutanity," Ryonyx replies. “Your Father's former Deacons. When the, um, Final Judgment occurred, they disavowed the old religion. They now believe the True Body Plan to be an abomination, and mutations to be the will of the gods."
"Did all of them turn?" I ask, stupefied, though I'd already surmised much of what Ryonyx is telling me.
"Not all of them," a husky baritone answers.
I whirl to see my Father ambling toward us through the devastated kitchen. He's followed by another man whom I've never met before. He's handsome–maybe five years my senior–but projects an air of authority that makes him seem older. His face is stern, expression unreadable behind cold green eyes. His face is covered in a harsh, red rash, but it’s hardly the worst I've seen since returning to Krakelyn.
"Father!" Traylor and I both exclaim at once, greeting him with open arms. I'm so happy to see him I hardly notice the sores on his face and the smell emanating from them.
He grunts at our embrace, allowing it for a moment, then pulls away with a rare smile. "It is good to see you both," he says, the pride evident in his tone. "You truly are resourceful to have lasted this long, Juno."
I blush. Father rarely compliments anyone. "What happened here?" I ask, glancing around at the devastation again. "Why would the Deacons do this?"
"Not the Deacons," my Father shakes his head. "Not anymore. Most of them have joined the Children of Mutanity. When I refused to lead them on their quest to rid the world of the True Body Plan, they sacked the Manse, urging me to reconsider. As High Deacon, they want me to legitimize their fool crusade. They will be back in a few days for my, ahem, formal reply."
"What will you do?" I gasp, fretful.
"I don't know," Father replies, uncertainty coloring his voice. It's not often my Father doesn't have an answer for a given problem. "At the moment, I'm more worried about you two." He gestures at Traylor and I. "You two just might be the last pure humans left in the whole world!"
"You can't know that!" I interject. "That object I found on the beach... It couldn't possibly have affected the entire planet!"
Father hesitates, exchanging a nervous glance with the stern young man who had come in with him. The young man nods. "Actually," Father replies, "it can and it did. You two are the last hope for humanity."
Traylor and I exchange skeptical looks at that moment, and I see that my little brother is nearing the brink.
Then he goes over.
"It's all my fault!" he bawls, wrapping his arms around Father again. "I touched the Box! I'm the one who set it off!"
Father hunkers down, grabbing Traylor by the shoulders. "No, Traylor. No. You were just curious. You and Juno both. If your sister hadn't found that Box, someone else would have." Father pauses, sighing deeply. "It was a modified weapon of the Forerunners, sent here by the mutants of Everwinter."
I blink at my Father, disbelieving what I've just heard. "What are you saying? That Everwinter attacked us?"
"That is exactly what I am saying," Father confirms in his usual, no-nonsense tone.
I can feel the color draining from my face. "But... Why? I thought we had an understanding with Everwinter. Why would they attack us?"
"It doesn't matter right now, Juno" my Father replies, his eyes suggesting he knows more than he's willing to tell. "What matters is that you two are in grave danger. You have to leave Krakelyn."
"And go where?" I immediately interject. "If the whole world is now mutated..."
"Ryonyx," Father calls to the servant, "bring it in for me, will you?" Ryonyx bows and leaves the room, returning less than a minute later with a large, rolled up parchment. Father unceremoniously clears the center island of the kitchen by sweeping all of the clutter to the floor, taking the parchment and laying it out. I recognize the document immediately as the map of Eversummer from the wall in his study, depicting a narrow strip of land circling the globe at the equator. He quickly finds Krakelyn on the grid and points to it. Traylor and I track his finger as he moves it to the great port cities of the southern coast. He stops at Venecici, the eastern most of the southern cities.
"You must travel here," he says. "It should only take a week or two if you use the new canyon route. There you will find a woman named Ursa. She is a scientist. Before all this happened, she was working on a cure for mutations."
My jaw drops, stunned. I look around the room and see I'm not the only one. Traylor and the rest of the servants are just as shocked. Clearly, the time for secrecy has passed.
"But why us?" I finally manage to ask. "Once word gets out that Traylor and I are still, um, normal, we'll be more famous than we already are!"
"That's why it's important that no one finds out. Disguise yourselves so that... What? What is it?"
I stare at my Father sheepishly. "Um, someone may already know. About me anyway."
Father frowns. "What happened?"
"Um, I might have been kidnapped by a man cleaning up dead bodies in the city. He knows who I am, and he knows I'm not a mutant. He wanted to sell me..." Bitter bile rises at the back of my throat.
"That complicates things," Father states simply. He turns to the young man who came in with him and says something so low I cannot hear it. He turns back to us. "You leave immediately," he says.
"What!?" I protest. "No! Father, I have to find Jude and–"
"Out of the question, Juno. This is no time for romantics. I was hoping that I wouldn't have to tell you this but..." I shudder, shoring myself for the blow that Father was about to deliver. "I searched for Jude after you left Krakelyn, thinking you might have made contact with him. I found nothing."
"No..." I say, nearly a whisper. Sobs begin to wrack my chest. "He went into hiding, Father, shortly after we found the Box. It marred his face and we were afraid the Deacons would–"
"That may be true, Juno, but what reason would he have to stay in hiding once everyone else became a mutant? It should not have been difficult to locate him."
I sag, realizing the truth, and nod dejectedly. "When do we leave?" I finally ask.
Father turns to the young man, gesturing for him to step forward. "Altair will see you safely to the south," he says. "You will be traveling through the Bleaklands and–"
"You're not coming with us?" Traylor suddenly wails, seeming more a child than ever.
"I cannot, Traylor," Father answers. "I am too well known in the cities of Eversummer, and with the eyes of the Children of Mutanity upon me, we would never make it. My absence from Krakelyn would be immediately noted."
Traylor collapses into Father's arms, sobbing. "I hate this," the boy says.
"As do I," Father agrees. "But part of being a leader and a man, Traylor, is doing your duty to those beneath you, no matter how unpleasant the task may be. You want to be a man, don't you?" Traylor shakes his head and Father smirks, expecting such a response from his son.
"You haven't answered my question," I cut in suddenly, realizing it for the first time. "Why does it have to be me and Traylor? Why not just send your buddy here? Altair, is it? We're not soldiers, Father. We can't fight if there's trouble."
Father sighs heavily. "You are my children, Juno. You'd be surprised what your genetics can grant you." I only stare at him confusedly, and he sighs once again. "It's your blood," he finally states flatly. "It has to be you and Traylor, because you are likely the only humans left with an untainted genetic structure."
"What does that mean?" Traylor asks, reflecting my own thoughts to an extent.
"It means that you are special, Traylor," Father answers. "You have special molecules inside your blood that show us a map of the True Body Plan. All other blood samples were corrupted during the Final Judgment. Since you're not mutated, your blood was shielded somehow."
I'm starting to get mad. "Father, I know you don't want to hear this but... Why not just let it go?"
"What do you mean?" Father asks sternly.
"You know what I mean. What if the Children of Mutanity have the right idea? What if we were wrong all along and the gods never cared about the True Body Plan? Maybe it's time to let nature steer our course for a change."
Father grins, a rare thing. "I forget sometimes that you have never seen a mutant from Everwinter, Juno. You have heard the stories, I am sure, but I have seen them in the flesh.” He pauses dramatically. “They are horrible things, aberrations of nature. Their eyes are entirely red, nearly devoid of sight because they live not in the sun. Their bodies are covered in a coarse, reeking white fur that lends them invisibility in the drifting white snow. And worst of all, they feast on the blood and flesh of their dead as it is the most readily available food source."
Father stops speaking and I look over at Traylor whose jaw is nearly on the floor. I am not quite so gullible, but Traylor is eight years younger than me.
"No, Juno," Father continues, "the mutants of Everwinter are what happens when humanity forsakes the will of the gods and lets nature speak for itself. If we need a more cogent deterrent, we need look no further than our past. To the Forerunners. The ways of the Forerunners..."
"...are the ways of death," I finish with an eye roll. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
"I'm serious, Juno," Father puffs up, sensing my sarcasm.
"You should know me better than that by now, Father," I reply in earnest. "It'll take more than just a few scary stories to convince me there was ever anything wrong with the Forerunners."
Father nods, deflating somewhat. "You are your Mother's daughter," he concedes. "Very well. There is one last thing I must tell you before you leave. I am certain it will convince you to go, but you won't like hearing it."
I shake my head doubtfully. "What is it?" I ask.
"We're sterile, Juno."
His words echo in my mind. I almost have to ask him to repeat them. Did I just hear that right?
"You mean everybody, don't you?" I say. "Everyone who was affected by that Box is now sterile."
Father nods. "Yes, Juno. It was confirmed at the Krakelyn Hospice about a week ago. Unless we find a way to reverse the condition, humanity as we know it will cease to exist within a century." It's my turn for my jaw to drop. Father pulls his eyes away from me when he sees the shocked expression. "Now you know why you and Traylor are so important," he says.
Because we're not sterile, I realize. "But... We're siblings," I interject. "Traylor and I can't breed..."
Father laughs, almost hysterically. "Gods, no!" he replies. "But this Ursa woman I am sending you to can study your genes and compare them to mutant ones in the hope of finding a reversal switch, so to speak."
I nod with my head hanging to my chest. Everything has just crashed home. Everything is now real.
My brother and I are the last hope for humanity.
When I finally look up, it's not at my Father, but at Altair, his henchman. I know most of my Father's men, but I've never seen this one before in my life. Where had he come from? He doesn't have the look of a southerner. He looks like a cold, hard killer. And I'm supposed to trust this guy with my life? I haven't even heard him speak yet.
"I guess we better move," I finally say, seeing a look of relief explode onto my Father's face.
"The sooner the better," Father agrees. "I've already had the servants pack some gear for–"
BAABOOOOM!!
The entire Manse shakes, seeming to twist on its foundations. Smoke, debris, and the telltale glow of blooming fire emanates from the front of the house. Most of us have ducked for cover, but Altair is already moving, lithely sneaking toward the source of the explosion. He returns less than a minute later.
"Children of Mutanity," he says without preamble. It's the first thing I’ve heard him speak. I'm surprised to find that his voice is soft though, almost tender. "They're at the front of the house but moving to surround us."
"Altair, get my children out of here," Father orders. Altair simply nods. The young man gestures for Traylor and I to move when–
"HIGH DEACON, JONATHAN QUINN!" an amplified voice calls out from the back of the house. "WE KNOW YOUR DAUGHTER IS PURE! WE KNOW YOU HAVE THE LAST HUMAN!"
Altair curses and I look out the patio doors to see the Children of Mutanity are now in the backyard. The entire house is surrounded. Altair tells us to stay where we are then starts moving from window to window. By the time he comes back to the kitchen, the backyard is full of Children and a man I'd hoped to never see again so long as I live.
The slave trader.
The fat man is standing next to another man who seems to be calling the shots, brandishing a shooting iron. I shudder in revulsion. The man in charge is holding a cone shaped object I've seen used at the docks before. An amp, they call it.
"YOUR HOUSE IS SURROUNDED, DEACON QUINN. SURRENDER PEACEFULLY, AND THIS WON'T HAVE TO COME TO VIOLENCE. ALL WE WANT IS YOUR DAUGHTER."
Father grits his teeth. I can almost hear them grinding. "Blaine," he says.
The name registers instantly in my mind. Blaine is said to be my Father's 'Third', under Thomas Whiskeyjack, though no such position actually exists. He’s rumored to be a zealous man, fervent to the point of extremism. But that’s about all I'd heard about him. Blaine is hard looking, with a square jaw, black hair peppered with gray and equally graying stubble. One of his eyes is nearly squeezed shut by a bulbous tumor growing over it.
"YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO COMPLY," he announces over the amp.
I watch my Father turn to Altair, a desperate look on his face. "I'll need less than that," Altair states coldly, gesturing for us to follow him through the house. As we move, a servant arrives with something I'd only seen once before in my life until today: a shooting iron. The servant hands the weapon to my Father.
"Thank you, Asha," Father says, giving the iron a quick once over.
"What in bloody ashes is that?" I ask, Father’s own immortal words echoing in my mind: The ways of the Forerunners are the ways of death...
Father just shrugs sheepishly at his own hypocrisy. "Sometimes rules must be broken for the greater good," he replies.
I shake my head as we stop at the end of the main hall. Altair urges us to keep back from the window even as he approaches it. He unlatches it and lets it swing wide. Instantly, there's a hue and cry from outside. Altair's hands move in a blur and the cries are silenced. "Come on," he says, leaping through the opening, landing in the yard. I push Traylor through first then quickly follow. We're in the east garden. On the ground are two men I recognize as former Deacons, both lying face up in pools of their own blood. Altair reaches down to them, pulling a pair of sharp, silvery objects from each of their throats.
Throwing stars.
The weapons of an Assassin!
Just who had my Father fallen in with here?
There are no other men around, but shouts are beginning to issue from nearby. The garden is thick, all sculpted shrubs, flowering trees, and vines, shrouding our presence for the moment.
"Come with us!" I hear Traylor plead, turning to see him standing at the open window, looking up at our Father still inside. "Please!"
"You know I can't, Traylor," Father argues. "Now go, we don't have time to–" Father breaks off and raises his shooting iron, aiming at a man who has just appeared between two hedges. He pulls the trigger and the roar is deafening in our proximity. The unwary man drops, clutching the gaping hole now frothing blood from his chest. "GO!" Father orders. "I'll hold them off!"
Altair grabs Traylor and me by the shoulders and quickly marches us away from the house and into the thick of the garden, coming to the east wall moments later. Altair boosts Traylor over the stone edifice into the woods on the other side. I follow, wondering how Altair will follow us without someone to boost him. As I clamber over the wall's apex, I hazard a last look at my Father: he's leaning out the window, firing shots at a group of six men advancing toward him. The men are firing back with their own irons. I realize then that it’s hopeless.
My Father is going to die.
I can't let it be in vain.
I let myself drop into the woods next to Traylor, safe.
Ten seconds later, Altair is with us, seeming to have crawled up the eight foot wall like a spider and leaping to the ground.
Without a word, we turn our backs on Krakelyn and disappear into the forest.
9.
One Week Later.
"Oh! Thank. The. Gods!" I raise my arms to the heavens triumphantly. "I never thought I'd see the open sky again!"
The sun hits my face full on and I bask in its glow. We'd been traveling under the dense canopy of the Sentinel Forest for the past seven days, and the shade was getting to me.
It's depressing being in the dark for too long.
A wide, flat road extends through yellowing grasslands below us, snaking a course that follows a meandering river next to it. On the horizon, a wall of snow capped, blunted spires extends as far as the eye can see. Mountains. Real mountains. I'd never seen anything bigger than a hill previously.
"Is that the Spine of the World?" I ask with excitement, turning to Altair. The man simply nods, saying nothing. "You know, could try showing some enthusiasm once in a while," I say, but Altair ignores me, slipping his pack off his shoulder.
"We break here for lunch," he says, "then we make our way to the road."
"Cool!" Traylor bellows with glee. He's nearly forgotten how much he misses Father already, and now this whole thing seems a very fine adventure to him.
"We must use caution while on the road," Altair continues, biting into a sandwich previously prepared by one of our servants. The last of our rations. "We will be more easily spotted, but it is the most direct course."
I sigh. We've been almost incessantly on the move this past week, and now the monotony is getting to me. At first, I found Traylor's adventuresome attitude somewhat infectious. I mean, we're on a quest just like in a story! But I've never read a story quite as boring as this one. Once we were well away from Krakelyn and our pursuers, the days became an endless parade of marching through endless tracts of the Sentinel Forest, the brush often so thick it was a wonder Altair knew where he was going. We'd stop only briefly for meals, and sleep only when Altair said so. Also briefly.
I'm exhausted.
Altair urges us to our feet ten minutes later. I look down to see I've only taken two bites of my sandwich, too tired to take any more. My stomach rumbles angrily and I quickly take two more, packing the rest away. I've lost my appetite anyway.
There's still a long way to go.
I keep my eyes on the white of the road as we descend the grassy embankment, realizing for the first time that I'm now as far from home as I've ever been. Jude's been further; he's been all the way to the southern cities on ore runs to the markets. Not for the first time, my thoughts fall to Jude and how much I could use his help right now. Not just as a guide, but as a source of comfort. Altair, stalking the grass ahead of me like a predator, is about as comforting as a butter knife in shark infested waters. And Traylor, my brother, lumping along close behind me, well, we've never really been that close.
It's the age gap, I think.
"What do you think are the chances Jude cut and run south?" I ask, inching a little closer to Altair. "I mean, when I told him to go into hiding, he was pretty damn terrified the Deacons would find him." I pause, considering. "Maybe he was so scared that he skipped town altogether before the Final Judgment even happened. Maybe he headed east. I mean, nobody in Krakelyn's heard anything about him. And like my Father said, there's no reason for him to stay in hiding now that everyone's–"
"Shut up!" Altair silences me with a quick hand gesture. I'm taken aback by his rudeness. I come up to where he's crouched low in the grass, peering dead ahead.
"What is it?" I whisper as low as I can.
"SHHH!" Altair returns with an even ruder gesture.
"Yeah, Juno, shut up!" Traylor smirks just behind me. I want to elbow him but don't.
Altair guides his right hand up before him, nudging a few blades of the tall, wiry grass aside, opening a surprisingly adequate hole through which to spy. I see the road, but that's all I can see. I wait patiently for a full minute to go by, and still Altair hasn't moved. He's just staring forward. I fidget uncomfortably, lightly clearing my throat.
I can't take it anymore.
"What are we–" I start to whisper, but am cut off as Altair deftly slips two fingers around my lips, actually pinching them shut. I'm so taken aback that I can do nothing but scowl at the man. The funny thing is, Jude used to do this same thing to me when he’d want me to shut up. For us, though, it was a romantic thing. With Altair, it's just plain weird. He lets me go and puts the same fingers to his own lips, indicating silence. I'm about to make a rude gesture at him when I hear it coming:
Cla-clop cla-clop cla-clop...
Ten seconds later, my breath is frozen as a large cloaked figure ambles by on a massive black destrier. The man coughs heavily as he passes, seemingly oblivious. I see red cracked sores on an emaciated hand as the man brings a kerchief up to his mouth. He appears to have the wasting disease.
Rot, some people call it.
His horse, similarly, has lumpy tumors all over its body, but they seem not to hinder the creature. The man gets a few good paces away from us and, surprisingly, Altair urges me forward. I inch up directly beside him.
"Watch the horse's ears," he says calmly.
Mystified, I do. Altair reaches to the ground and picks up a small, thin twig, dried out and fossilized. I keep watching the horse as it continues to wander away.
Altair snaps the twig.
Nearly instantaneously, the horse's ears twitch in the direction of the sound. The man coughs loudly and turns his head slightly in our direction. Then he turns back after a time and continues on his way, never slowing his mount. We watch him until he's no more than a speck on the horizon.
"Come on," Altair finally says, ushering us onto the road proper. It feels good to have solid, hard packed earth beneath my sandaled toes again. We start walking immediately.
"Do you know who that was?" I ask Altair, trying to make my footsteps as light as possible. Altair's feet seem to make no sound at all.
Altair looks back at me and nods. "He’s a tracker,” he says. “Likely in the employ of the Children of Mutanity. Only a tracker watches his horse's ears like that."
I nod, eyes wide. "You almost gave us away, you know."
Altair shakes his head. "He already knew we were nearby."
I hear Traylor gasp from behind me. "How?" he asks in astonishment.
Altair shrugs, still moving purposefully down the road. "The same way I knew he was." He says no more.
"Um, that doesn't explain anything," I interject, but Altair remains silent. We continue on this way for a time, the mountains slowly growing larger on the horizon like the bottom jaw of a saw-toothed fish. "How long 'til we reach the canyon?" I ask, simply trying to fill the void with idle talk.
"Another day," Altair says, adding nothing more.
"Ugh," I complain, but carry on nonetheless. "You know," I continue, "you cut me off earlier before answering my question."
Altair sighs audibly in front of me. "What question?" he asks.
"Do you think Jude could have cut and run south before the Final Judgment? I only ask 'cause you seem to be in the know about a lot of stuff."
"I don't know," Altair states simply, and I get the feeling that he is being honest.
"I just wish I could've at least looked for him more before leaving Krakelyn. I feel like I've abandoned him, you know?"
I love you, Juno Quinn...
Jude's last words to me echo in my mind.
And I never said it back.
At the time, I hadn't known what to say.
Altair and Traylor say nothing.
The rest of the day's walk I spend in reflective silence. I'm sure Altair would have liked to do the same, but Traylor keeps him busy with incessant question asking. Stupid stuff, mostly. I get the feeling Altair doesn't mind though. He even smiles when Traylor makes a joke. It looks good on him, almost making up for the horrible, puss filled rash on his face. I helped put that rash there, I have to remind myself, the memory of the cursed Box on the beach flashing through my head.
When it becomes clear to him that we're more than just a little fatigued, Altair calls a halt. It's the middle of the night, technically, but again, the sun doesn't ever set in Eversummer. He leads us off the road at a small, babbling brook, adamant that we walk directly through the water so as to not leave a trail as we go. By the time we reach a small copse of trees a few hundred feet inland, my feet are drenched. I hang up my sandals on a nearby bush and collapse into the small pile of leaves beneath it, falling asleep instantly.
As I close my eyes, I see Altair standing watch at the edge of the copse, staring back toward the road.
Doesn't that man ever sleep?
I'm out before I can come up with an answer.