3. If You Can’t Run, Hide
DESDEMONA
Throughout history, the septic of Lorucille was always a poverty-ridden place. However, after the Arcanian War, with the Folk now holding the Flame, Soma gifted Lorucille the industries of sword crafting and mining. It is believed the septic’s quality of life suffered immensely.
—PIECES OF HISTORY BY HALSEM ARLSEY (REDACTED)
Asecond before I can find my bearings, a deafening alarm fills my ears and a flashing red light comes on with the pure purpose of making it difficult for me to read Mom’s note. The handwriting is sloppy and hard to follow too. Of course it has to be difficult to read and impossible to destroy.
Desdemona
Tell them your father was Dalin Marquees and that your birthday is four months before your real one. If they ask you to prove this, do what they say. If they use your blood, do not let them see the wound cauterize. Do not take off the necklace, ever. Keep it hidden always. Do not talk about me ever. To you, Isa Althenia is dead. You were raised by a kind family in the septic. They discovered your heritage and sent you to Visnatus before a fire took their lives. In a place like that, knowledge is your greatest weapon yet. You have a keen eye—use it. You mustn’t look for me nor let a soul see this note. If I can, I will find you.
Love you always,
Mom
She’s not coming.
I’m on a different world without my mom. Without anyone.
The silhouettes of two people come into view and the flashing red light becomes one steady yellow one. I never expected I’d be here. When I was younger, Mom used to tell me bedtime stories of this place. The magic and the beauty carried through into my dreams.
But those dreams woke up with the war when I was six.
Before the silhouettes become fully-fledged people, I shove the paper in my mouth, forcing myself to chew it and swallow.
It’s a man and a woman in front of me, watching me. The woman looks foreign, with her bright and scrutinizing blue eyes and gray hair so dark it’s almost black. I’ve never seen a Lucent in real life before. The man is pale, short, bald, and has the same honey-brown eyes as my own. He looks like he could be any old Folk back home, and there’s a comfort in that, but not one I allow myself to lean into.
It’s when I see their mouths move with no sound that I know not only is the man an Air Folk, but they’re also likely discussing my life and death. I’m septic, after all. I’m sure their fancy alarm and flashing lights made sure they knew that.
Another man walks in, with scruffy blond hair and a beard, one hand gripping a weapon sheathed to his waist. Then those gray eyes of his land on me. The same eyes that have killed so many of us. Whipped and beaten us for taking more than our sanctioned rations. So he’s going to be the deciding factor in my life. Well, I’m deciding not to die today.
I’m not very good at fighting, I’m more adept at running. I haven’t got a weapon, nor do I know how to use one very well. I can kill still or seizing corenths, but I’ve never hurt another orphia, other than in my dreams. I wonder if I could.
But Mom made sure I had enough information to survive, so survive I will.
Knowledge is your greatest weapon yet.
Their breaths bounce around the circular cobblestone walls, and I wait for them to address me. When the woman asks my name, I say, “Desdemona Althenia.”
The Nepenthe stiffens. “Bullshit,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?—”
“—Leiholan,” the Lucent reprimands. “What are you doing in Visnatus?” she asks me.
“My father was Dalin Marquees,” I tell her. “A family took me in as a baby and they put together my lineage. They sent me here during a welding accident.” I look at the floor, play with my fingers, and shuffle my feet, and most importantly I keep my eyes open until they dry out, forcing tears. When I look back up, I quiver my lip. “Said if one of us could live, they wouldn’t pass on the opportunity.”
The three of them don’t look convinced. I think back to my dreams; the murder wasn’t very hard then. Maybe I could win in a fight.
What a ridiculous line of thought. I pout some more.
“Marquees had no children,” the Folk says.
I shrug and say, “I’m right here.”
“Where does the name Althenia come from?” the Nepenthe asks me.
“My mother.”
“Who was your mother?” he asks.
“Isa Althenia.” I blink to produce more tears from my already stinging eyes. “But I never knew her.”
“Leiholan,” the woman says, and the Nepenthe nods, then the other two head down a dimly lit hall.
Leiholanwatches me with his grip on his sword. I don’t let myself look as defensive as I feel. I make myself appear defenseless. Small and weak, powerless at his hands, hoping for mercy. That’s how the Nepenthe like it. I expect him to ask me questions, interrogate and intimidate me, but he says nothing.
The other two come back into the room, holding a milky-clear ball the size of my hand. “Hogan?” the woman says, and the Folk lifts his hand, his eyes shining indigo just like Damiens, and I can see the small shimmer of an iridescent light flickering out between me and him. So not an Air Folk. I didn’t know Light Folk had any power over sound.
The Lucent walks toward me, the only one whose name I’m missing. “Your hand,” she says. It’s not a question. I hold up the one that isn’t scarred. She takes out a dagger, much fancier than Damien’s fancy one, and pushes the tip of the blade into my pointer finger. After a drop of blood has fallen on the crystal, I yank my hand away and close my fist.
“Squeamish,” I say in a whisper.
There’s the flash of a man’s face that I do not recognize—must be Dalin’s—in the crystal ball, and then my mom. The Lucent looks at me, assessing me, and I know she believes it.
I’ve heard of Dalin before; he was a war hero. A Fire Folk who fought in the second battle between Lorucille and Serpencia—the Folk vs the Nepenthe—six years before the actual war. Much of the credit for Lorucille’s quick victory had gone to Dalin and his ability to wield the Flame as a weapon. His ending wasn’t happy though, a Fire Folk’s rarely is. Despite being called a master of the Flame, he died at the hands of his own.
The Folk—Hogan—and the Lucent look at one another while Leiholan looks at me. “Get comfortable,” he says, and this time all three of them disappear down the hall.
I step forward, and I’m almost to the exit when tingles that feel like being stabbed by a hundred pine needles rush down my body. Then there’s nothing.
* * *
I wake up to the Lucent sitting across from me over a large wooden desk. She has a crystal glass of silver liquid—an intoxicant, I assume—and I am instantly offended that she is the one acting inconvenienced by this.
I take a deep breath instead of screaming. There is a fireplace to my left, full of wood, and a bookshelf to the right of the tall windows behind her seat. I could use a log or a book to knock her out and break the window then make a run for it.
But run where? I don’t even know my way around—which is precisely why knowledge can be wielded.
I try to stand up, only to realize my body won’t move.
“I’m Headmistress Constance.” She sets her glass down with a clunk. “I understand this situation has been shy of satisfactory. For that, I offer you my solace. As I am sure you know, Visnatus is a school for the future leaders of Elysia. It is for the best and most powerful of your generation to learn to wield their energy and their minds. I will not force this to go down sweetly. You do not belong here. Yet, you are a lesser legacy only because of a father you did not know.” She stops and takes a good look at me.
“I’m willing to give you a trial period here. If you can prove to be as,” her fingers tap her desk in unison, “noble as your peers, I will allow you to stay.”
This feels like a trick. “Thank you.” My whole body is starting to feel like my foot when I sit on it for too long.
“I believe it goes without saying that you will be keeping your origins a secret.”
At the mention of my home, I feel my heart ache. I know this place is fancy, can probably offer me three meals a day and snacks between, paper and books and everything my life has lacked, but I don’t care. I don’t want it. I want my home.
“You will be adopting the surname Marquees for the time being.” A jar slides across the table to me. “Go ahead, grab it.” I’m able to lift my arm, but the prickly sensation doesn’t subside. “It’s a glamour for your scars. I advise you to apply generously. It should last three days at a time.”
Right. Who I am isn’t worthy here. It’s good for me that hiding is something I’ve been doing my entire life.
The headmistress declares she will walk me to my suite. I grab a little blue-studded knife from her desk on the way out.
The building is ridiculous, made of beige marble with asymmetrical swirls and sunlight shining in through the many tall windows that line the hall.
Even the floor is marble, with a four-leafed pattern lining the middle of the path. I recognize the materials immediately, seeing as it’s the same marble we quarried in the mountain village I lived in when I was ten. Why would you use something so difficult to retrieve for something as silly as a fancy floor? All you do is walk on it.
It occurs to me that I’m stepping on someone’s wasted life.
The headmistress tells me that one of my suitemates is a Royal, and I do not make any gesture that would show her how taken aback I am by this. A girl from the septic rooming with Royalty? Instantly, I am suspicious of the headmistress. There is no way her intentions are altruistic.
I don’t believe in altruism. And even if I did, she would be at the bottom of the list.
She tells me their names; Aralia, Wendy, and Calista. I’m not ready when I reach for the door, or when it opens, or when I walk down the three marble steps that lead into the suite. It’s bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived before, and these aren’t even the bedrooms.
I’m only in the common area. In the room, there is a couch, a table and chairs, and four doors.
A girl with short black hair dangling off the edge of the beige couch says, “I’m Aralia,” without looking up from her book.
“Desdemona,” I mumble, and the headmistress smiles and nods at me before leaving.
Another girl steps out from one of the four doors. Blonde hair, brown eyes, and a pastel-yellow dress that gives the illusion she is floating instead of walking. She looks me up and down and purses her lips.
This girl has definitely never stabbed a corenth for her supper. How am I going to pull off being poised and proper?
She places a dainty hand on her chest. “Calista.”
Standing up straighter, I say again, “Desdemona.”
“It’s very pleasant to meet your acquaintance,” her voice is soft and airy and regal. The Royal.
I hate her. She’s the reason the Nepenthe killed Marice and the twelve others. This is the girl who’s heir to a throne that ruined my people’s lives.
Her eyes fall back to my body. My chin is where her eyes land, but this feels like it’s meant to be intimidating. She’s even taller than my mom, and I still feel like a giant. Intimidation isn’t going to be her strong suit.
But her voice takes on a different tone altogether when she says, “Why did you join us so late in the year?”
“Welcome to our wonderful suite.” Aralia grabs my hand. “I’ll show you our room.”
Our room? So they have enough pence to make ornate marble floors that cost someone their life, but I can’t even get my own room. Not that I’ve ever had my own room. I’m just thinking that if the headmistress wanted me to hide, she could’ve helped out a bit.
Then I see that the room is even bigger than any one of my and Mom’s dwellings. With two big beds and three windows over the desk between them. There’s a stack of books beneath the seat and some propped on the window sill underneath a dozen pictures.
“I’ll move my belongings to this half of the closet.” Aralia begins to pull her clothes from the closet.
I look at the dresser. Papers and pictures are scattered across the surface. This would be a precious mine back home.
“A drawer will be good enough.”
“Okay.” Aralia sits on her bed. “We can get you some sheets. What’s your color?”
“My color?” I say like I’m thinking it over. I’ve never put much thought into it. “Maybe green.”
“Perfect, we’ll get you green.” She clears the dresser, moving her papers and stuffing them into drawers and notebooks. The only thing I have is the stuff the headmistress gave me. Glamour, I think she called it.
“Is there anywhere I can get food?”
“Yeah,” Aralia says with a laugh and heads to the door. “Coming?”
It’s not a very far walk to the kitchen, not that this is what’s ever constituted a kitchen for me. There’s a long, marble counter and behind it a ton of silver stuff.
I eye the line of pies left on the counter.
“You can take one,” Aralia says. She must have meant a slice of one, but before I clarify, I remember where I am. I pick up the pie greedily and am pleasantly surprised when my first bite is sweet and not savory.
I’ve never had a pie with fruit before, nor have I ever had this fruit before. It must be from Viridis, whose agricultural products don’t reach the septic anymore. Even the wheat crust is sweet, compared to the crusts at home that were always bland. I slow my bites and try not to look like a starved orphia from the septic, but I still finish the pie too quickly.
Pies aren’t a delicacy at home, just a way to stretch the meat when it’s meager.
She offers to help me unpack my stuff, and I make up some bullshit about trying to let go of my past, telling her I’m going to buy everything I need here. As if I have a single pence to my name. Then I lay on the bed—which is softer than even the thickest patch of grass—and sleep for the rest of the day.
When I wake up it’s night, and I carefully listen to Aralia’s breathing until I’m sure she’s asleep. I slip out of bed and stuff a pillow under the cover.
There’s a stack of clothes and green sheets on the dresser. I rub the glamour over my entire back, and to my surprise, every single one of my scars disappears. I can still feel the raised skin, but I can’t see it.
There’s a long-sleeved black shirt, plaid skirts, pants, and jackets, all the darkest blue I’ve ever seen. I think I like it better than the green. A silver emblem of what I assume are the gods is on the chest of every jacket.
I throw one on and walk the school halls like I have somewhere to be. The eyes of the busts seem to follow me all the way to a door that leads outside. Then I’m in a garden more beautiful than any of my old dreams.
In the center is a fountain with a woman whose hair is wrapped around her head like a tall crown. The walls of the school are covered in glowing, purple flowers, and the air is nothing like the muggy, humid air of the welders’ village. It feels sharp going down my throat, awakening my senses like a blade piercing skin.
The bushes lining the school walls are full of overripe berries, reminding me of the kinds of people this school houses.
It’s a shame my enemy is so beautiful.
When my eyes land on the glowing beam in the sky, I figure it’s a moon. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Dark blue and indigo shine with the whites and grays, and I decide I’ll miss it when I make it home.
The moon’s light shines down onto another faint blue glow. It’s within the fence that borders around woods that could almost be the septic. I follow the glow like it’s calling me. It leads to a lake, more iridescent than blue, and I take a silent step back when I see someone sitting on the edge.
I stop when they say, without turning around, “Leaving so soon?”
The voice is like a song I used to know but can’t remember. Before logic kicks in, I ask, “Do I know you?”
It’s a boy’s face I’m met by when he turns. Wavy, dark hair falls over his forehead but not into his eyes. Every angle of him is sharp enough to cut; his jaw and cheekbones are emphasized by the shadows the moonlight is casting over the planes of his face.
He’s perfection. The kind you could only attain by being pampered your entire life. Beautiful, yes, but I prefer the roguish beauty of Damien. It adds depth of character. This boy has none, I’m sure.
His eyes scan up and down my body. They’re so dark that at first I think they’re brown or gray, but when they meet me again, I realize I am mistaken.
They’re a blue as dark as midnight.
A far cry from the headmistress’s bright, almost white, eerie eyes.
His blue eyes glow like the lake, but still darker before he says, “I’d remember a Fire Folk.” Then he smirks. Slow and teasing, the kind that accompanies an enemy before they strike.
I sneer, only in an attempt to find some high ground. “Stay out of my head, Lucent.”
“On the contrary,” he stands, “your head seems like such a lovely place to be.”
I level my eyes on his, maintaining an unwavering and strong glare. I don’t allow my voice to fluctuate for a second. “Same with your memories.”
The boy scoffs with a smile, but I think I’ve made him nervous because he says, “Tell me, what do you see?”
“Nothing you’d want repeated.” Nothing, period. The Folk govern memories, but I’ve never been able to start so much as a measly fire.
Despite my still hoping that’s the case, I take the chance to walk in the opposite direction of him.
Then I think I might just survive here after all.