Chapter 4
Mistrun
Itoed the dark sand of Aeridor beach with my boot, stretching my legs to the limits of my shorts to prepare for whatever came next.
This was one of the biggest events on the island, and the Ascendancy had spared no expense with the preparations for today's race. Stalls with colorful candied honeybell, grilled glimmergill fish on sticks, and more exotic delicacies were set up all along the edge of the inner perimeter, with crowds of participants and their families partaking in them. I wasn’t hungry, Mama had seen to that, but the scent of fresh honeybell was tempting.
I was well-fed, but far from well rested.
Nightmares had infected my subconscious all night, probably summoned from stress.
Ever since childhood, visions of Krakens had periodically preyed on me while I slept.
Sometimes it was one Kraken, sometimes an army of them, but at the end of the nightmares, I always died.
And last night, I’d tossed from one Kraken nightmare only to turn into another, only to wake up with the Skinscript still between my breasts, an unwanted remnant of yesterday.
I hoped the lack of sleep wouldn’t impact my performance today.
The Mistrun was an annual tradition, named for the race element it always featured and that it qualified the fastest hundred participants for Voyager service, which required crossing the colloquial mist, or miasma.
But the Mistrun didn’t always play out the same. Anyone of any age could participate, but those who didn’t qualify would go back to their assigned service or be returned to the Reformatory if they were Apostates, like myself.
Those were about the only consistent features it maintained year over year.
Sometimes the race involved relays, with randomly assigned teams that would sprint to reach specific goal posts. Other times, the race could involve acquiring specific objects, swimming through lakes or even crawling through mud.
There were no visible hints of what to prepare for.
I tried not to let my nerves get to me.
From a young age, I'd been taught that trying to change your Tide was a futile effort, that spending a life in purposeful and willing service was the noblest calling.
This was expected of me, even if I hadn't anticipated being thrust into this particular service.
Today's Mistrun was the first step in the process of establishing the unchanging Tide of a productive adult life.
Who was I kidding? Certainly not myself.
Once I’d dreamed of being a Cultivator, back before I learned they were assigned to each resident by the Ascendency, not something we chose. Choice in much of anything was a rare privilege only afforded to the lucky or well-off.
The particularly hot summer sun toasted my exposed shoulders, the faint breeze a welcome relief as it tugged my shirt’s hem askew.
I approached the sign indicating the registration for entrants. There was a line, but it was shorter than I expected. When I reached the front, a short woman greeted me.
“Name, please?” Sweat had smeared sea hare ink onto her fingertips, and it looked like she was actively trying not to spread it onto the bleached sweetstalk bark.
“Lisia Ellington,” I answered.
“Age?”
“Twenty one,” she blinked up at me, wiping sweat from her face.
“Awfully young, you sure you don't want to try your assigned service for a year first?”
I shook my head, not elaborating further.
She didn't know that this was my assigned service, and I wasn't about to volunteer the information.
She made a tutting noise and wrote down my age, pointing toward a group of officials.
“We'll be announcing the rules soon, head over there to make sure you can hear them well before we start. Good luck, as the Devourer decrees. Next!”
I stepped out of the line and toward the organizers. There were a few hundred people gathered around already. Trying not to size up the competition made it harder to stop myself.
Some looked to be in their early twenties, and many older than that.
Likely citizens who had decided to try something other than their assigned service for one reason or another.
There were only a handful of competitors that were the same age as me.
One dark-haired woman caught my gaze and gave me an arrogant sneer.
Some twins were participating this year as well, a set of young males who appeared lean and agile.
They'd be difficult to outrun. A burly man shot me an unpleasant glare when he saw me glancing his way. I'd keep an eye out for him.
Some of the older participants were clustered in a group talking with reserved confidence. Casually, I made my way toward them to overhear any wisdom they might be sharing amongst themselves.
“—know it isn't a team event this year, there is no way to tell who would be on each team.”
“Yeah, and it won't involve a mud crawl either, thanks to this blasted heat.”
“Sure would be nice to do a short sprint,” commented a man who looked to be the oldest in their group. “My endurance isn't what it used to be.”
They didn’t know anymore than I did. Oh well.
I moved past their group and away from the crowds to sit closer to the shade of the tree line, which also happened to be the closest spot available to the Mistrun officials. They were keeping too quiet for me to gain any valuable insights, glancing occasionally at the sky.
My best chance today would be to conserve my energy for the actual race, not cook under the full heat of the sun.
I leaned back against a palm, checking my hands for injuries from my climbing excursion the day before.
Only a few raised red callouses across my palms, no scrapes.
The slice on my fingertip had fully scabbed over.
It was fortunate I didn't have any open wounds.
“Well, well! Small world beyond bars.”
A mischievous face I recognized grinned at me. “Henrik!” I stood, pulling him into a quick hug.
“Guess you got released in time to join the suffering today after all,” he mused, ruffling my hair. I scrunched up my face, shoving his arm aside.
“Yeah, well. We both knew it could happen.” I shrugged.
“Well you look good,” his eyes roamed over me in a more than friendly manner. I didn't react. It wasn't the first time he’d ogled me. “Really good.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling awkward.
“Guess it’s a small crew from the Reformatory this year, then,” he scratched at the hairs growing on his chin.
Yeshar stood a few yards off, measuring out exact quantities of water in a small cup and sipping it.
His free hand was strumming a silent song against the side of what had to be a custom-made running outfit, tailored to a precise fit.
A small group of other Reformatory acquaintances surrounded him.
“I never liked that guy. Hope he doesn’t qualify.
I kind of hoped that Layla and Mateo might be released in time for this year's Mistrun too.”
“Layla won't be out for another three months, and Mateo won't be out for a while.” It was hard to remember the exact release times for everyone I'd grown familiar with while in the Reformatory.
“I'm glad we're going into Voyager's training together. Maybe we'll even end up working as crew mates on the same Arc,” he reached out and mussed my hair again, giving me a teasing smile. “Why didn't you come say hey as soon as you got out?”
“I got out yesterday,” I admitted. “Haven't really had time to do much yet.”
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You in good enough shape for this?”
I shrugged. “I can run like the winded.”
He laughed. “Hmm. Well, I've been out for a solid six months now,” he sounded like he was bragging, and I tried not to begrudge him for it. “So this should be a cakewalk for me. Tell ya what, why don't we have each other's backs, for old times sake?”
I scoffed. “You mean like when I covered for you with that stunt you pulled in the mess hall and ended up locked in solitary?”
“That was legitimate business.” Henrik crossed his arms over his chest. “But I still figure it’s my turn to do you a solid since you did get me out of a few tight spots.”
“Well, you don't have to. But thanks.”
“Listen up!” one of the organizers shouted, clapping to get more attention. Henrik and I both turned to face her.
She had two swirling Skinscript symbols inked on her right arm, but no others I could see. All of the organizers here had Skinscript. Were they all Voyagers?
For the first time I noticed the figure who stood off to the side partially obscured behind the first organizer.
Well, well, if it wasn't the handsome hideout intruder from last night.
The one I wanted never to see again. My hand drifted involuntarily to hover over the spot on my chest where the Skinscript was hidden beneath my top.
Was he also a Mistrun official? He hadn't noticed me, but almost as soon as the thought crossed my mind, his eyes slid over to land on mine.
He took a step toward me. I took a step back. He stopped, sending me the same knowing look from last night. A flare of heat shot to my face as I remembered the challenge he'd accepted for himself yesterday.
“Who's that?” Henrik asked.
“Just some jerk,” I told him.
I scowled, tamping down the impulse to send a rude hand gesture his way. Pissing off someone who could end up judging my performance in today's race was a bad idea.
The first organizer cupped her hands in front of her face and continued shouting so everyone could hear.
“Today's Mistrun is an obstacle course.” My stomach churned.
I was fast, but I wasn't particularly observant.
If they'd strung up trap wires and other obstacles, I'd be eating a lot of sand and dirt.
“On top of that, this race will be around the entire inner perimeter of Mesmoria, meaning that your finish line is right here,” she tapped the starting line.
“It should take you at least six hours, end to end.”