Chapter Eight #2
“What do you want with her?” the lanky boy asks, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. It makes me feel guilty again. Clearly, he’s rich but nice. How irritating.
“Listen, creep,” he says, nostrils flaring, “either you leave this girl alone, or I make you.”
Taron remains silent, but he keeps walking towards us, his hands forming fists.
“Wren, leave it,” the girl mutters. She shoots a look at the helmsman, where he’s still fidgeting with the fins on the watercraft. “Whoever this girl is in that shabby dress, she’s not our problem.”
“Don’t be so heartless, Maeve.” The boy reaches into his pocket and retrieves a golden lighter embellished with jewels. It lights with a spark, and then, in an instant, the lanky boy’s hands are ablaze, red-hot flames licking at his skin – he’s a Pyro.
“Oh, just a heads-up,” Wren says, eyeing Taron. “We’re both on our way to compete in the Reckoning. You might’ve heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” Taron says. “I’m in it.” His words catch Wren off guard, and seizing his chance, Taron flicks his wrist upward. Wren is lifted a metre in the air. Then, with a swift downward motion from Taron’s palm, he crashes to the ground with brutal force.
Groaning in pain, Wren writhes on the ground.
The girl – Maeve – lets out a furious scream. She directs her hands at the waterway and moves them in fluid, circular motions. She’s an Aqua. A column of water rises from the waterway and, as she thrusts her arms forward, the water hurtles towards Taron like a wave.
He angles his elbow to block, using his gravitational talents to repel the oncoming wave like he’s holding an invisible shield. I get most of the backsplash. My shawl is drenched, and my dress is soaked through.
Taron twists his heel on the ground and gives a firm stomp. That’s when a pulse of air erupts beneath Maeve’s feet to send her flying. He barely breaks a sweat. I hate to admit it, but Taron is pretty good. Where did Madame Vera find him?
In the corner of my eye, I see Wren raising a hand, preparing to hurl flames at Taron from the ground.
“I don’t think so…” I pull my hand back, absorbing all the fragments of negative energy swirling like a hazy mist in the air around me. Fear. Anger. Frustration.
I gather the energy in my hands and shape it into a whip – the first thing I can think of – before lashing it at Wren with a resounding crack.
The whip takes on a life of its own, wrapping around his wrists and pinning him down on to the ground. His head swivels in my direction, eyes widening with realization.
“Maeve, she’s with him! It’s a trap—” But before he can utter anything else, Taron is on him. His arm is hooked around Wren’s neck, and a white rag is pressed to his mouth.
Maeve screams behind me, and I turn. The burly man has grabbed hold of her, a white rag in his hand, too.
I watch horrified as, a moment later, Maeve and Wren are rendered unconscious, knocked out by whatever tonic is soaked into their rags.
Wren’s flames sputter and die in his palms, and he relaxes in Taron’s grip. Maeve slumps, too. I stare at their limp forms. My heart continues to race.
“They’re not…?”
“Dead? No.” Taron pants. “Just out cold.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“That’s for me to worry about.” The burly man starts sifting through Maeve’s pockets, extracting a scroll. Cream-coloured paper with golden trim, held together by the official wax seal of the High Council.
“What is that?” I ask, trying to get a look at the scroll’s contents, when the burly man unfurls it.
“Your official invitation to participate in the Reckoning,” he says, eyeing the golden script within. He rolls the scroll back up and chucks it at Taron. “Congratulations, you’re now known as Maeve and Wren from Moondance Haven.”
“That’s it? An invitation?” I ask. “What if someone asks to see our sigils to prove our identities?”
“That’s why we have these, courtesy of Madame Vera.
” Taron pockets the scroll and reveals two sigils in his hand.
They’re small bronze medallions, used for identification across the three principalities of the Triumstellar Accord.
Most people wear their sigils as necklaces or bracelets, but I keep mine tied to the end of my shears, tucked into my boot.
“She had these made?” I ask, and it scares me that Madame Vera is capable of something like this – to know people in places high enough to forge a sigil.
“They’re fakes, but to the untrained eye, they look real enough.” Taron extends one of the sigils, and I take it from him.
I place it in the centre of my palm, facing up, the way one would with a real sigil. The writing carved around the edge comes alive, emitting a warm orange glow before the stone embedded in the centre takes on a hazy grey colour to signify my talents as an Emo.
I rotate the medallion to read the writing.
Maeve Speck. Born on the 14th Day of Crea Full, Stellar Year 1180. No formal credentials.
“It looks real enough,” I mutter. “How are they fake?”
“A real one only lights up for its owner. These light up for anyone, so try and avoid having to use them too much.” Taron holds out his empty hand, and I’m confused. “Give me yours. Your real sigil.”
“What? Why?”
“We can’t risk you being seen with two.” The burly man shoulders past Taron and plants himself in front of me. He smells of voidroot smoke and sweat, and he’s leaning in so close, I can count the glistening beads clinging to the sides of his temples. “Be a good big sister, and do as you’re told.”
I look down at his short, chubby fingers greedily reaching towards me. There’s no use in fighting this. Any of it.
“Will I get it back?” I bend down to retrieve my shears from my boot, carefully undoing my sigil before placing it in the burly man’s palm. Unlike the fake one, it remains unresponsive to his touch.
“Hmm… I’ll try not to lose it.” The burly man gives a wicked laugh as he flicks my sigil in the air like a coin.
My hands lock around my shears, my teeth grinding together in anger.
“Right, let’s go,” Taron says, gesturing towards the watercraft, where the helmsman sits, ready to embark.
He lets me board first, ensuring I don’t run off at the last minute. “That damsel in distress routine back there,” he asks, “what was that?”
“You asked me to distract them.” I try to hide it, and it feels wrong, but a smile tugs at my lips. We just won a trial of sorts against privately trained contestants who were hand-picked for the Reckoning. I wish I could tell Elara about this.
“Yeah, distract them,” Taron says, stomping on to the watercraft and planting himself on the woven reed seat across from me. “Not make them attempt to kill me.”