5 #2
“My mother is Commander Faroe Athira, chief strategist for our army. I have two brothers and one sister, all of whom are soldiers in the war against The Shield and New Manhattan. You’ve been lied to your entire life, Poet, and though I never intended to tell you the truth about everything when we met, it seems fate had other plans. ”
He says the entire thing in a controlled rush, like he’s practiced this speech for my benefit.
“I was being honest when I said I came to Amery to find out more about what I am. What I didn’t tell you is that I’m known as a Storm Caller.
Very few people know we exist at all, and for now, my father wants to keep it that way.
Discovering you was a shock. I was being truthful when I said I’ve never met anyone like us.
We’ve found evidence of other Storm Callers in the Tiera Frais, but we’ve never been able to locate them.
Either way, we’re sure that The Shield, and specifically General Sol, has more information, and I need it.
It could mean the difference between life and death for our world. ”
While he talks, I barely move but for the rapid thumping of my heart. I must be holding my breath because I start to feel woozy. It’s so much to process that this barrage of information sticks in my head like a snarl of wet threads. I have even more questions, but I can’t seem to tease them out.
The sound of footsteps approaching has us snapping apart. I immediately miss his warmth. He shoves his hands in his pockets but offers me a look that begs me to be silent. I nod to tell him I understand, and he exhales a long, shuddering breath.
A moment later, a trio of Solitudes appears. Not Solitudes. People of the Tiera Frais. The Veil. These new words settle heavy and thick in my head, like layers of paint coating the inside of my skull.
The Wastes were never a lonely, desolate plain.
This is a nation.
The trio approaches, carrying a comatose Keeper between them.
“Hey,” the one out front says, his eyes narrowing. “Are you supposed to be here?”
“We were just trying to find our way to the bunker,” Rook says. “There wasn’t time to ask anyone for directions.”
“Right,” the guy says. “You’re Rook? The high commander’s son?”
He nods. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Simon,” he says, pointing toward himself. “I was just heading to the gathering point if you want to follow me.”
“That would be great.”
Simon approaches, his gaze landing on me.
“This is Poet,” Rook says.
“Hi,” I say, lost and unsure, prepared for an insult. No one has been very friendly so far.
“The Crust,” he says, but there’s no harshness in it. Simon shakes his head. “Sorry. Nice to meet you, Poet.”
“Thanks,” I say, practically gushing because he used my actual name. I’ll take what I can get.
“This way,” he says, and we turn to follow him while the other two people trudge behind us with the Keeper between them. We approach an intersection, and Simon leads us left while the rest of our party turns right.
“Where are they taking her?” I ask. “Is she okay?”
Simon glances at their retreating forms and then back at me, darkness flashing in his gaze.
“Poet,” Rook says. “People have . . . opinions about how they treat Whispers in New Manhattan.”
Simon huffs, but he must take pity on me because he answers. “We keep them safe. They’re given a sedative that suspends them in a comatose state until they can safely be released.”
“Safely?” I ask. “As in . . . they’re cured?”
“Yes,” Simon answers. “That’s the goal.”
I have more questions. So many things don’t make sense.
“But where do you keep them all? How many are there?”
“I don’t know the exact numbers,” Simon says.
“But we estimate approximately eleven percent of the population has fully succumbed to the Silence, while another thirty percent bear the markers of becoming Whispers.” He pauses, and I understand that he’s carefully choosing his words.
“Of those, we guess about eighty percent will eventually complete the transition.”
I sway where I stand, mentally calculating just how many people could be affected.
Simon continues. “But those numbers are quickly increasing. It’s spreading faster. Without a cure, we worry that eventually the entire population will be lost to the Silence, possibly in as little as a few years.”
That knowledge sinks through me like a brick as I wrap an arm around my aching ribs. My gaze shifts to Rook, but he doesn’t appear affected. None of this is new information to him.
I’ve never known how many Keepers live within the boundaries of New Manhattan.
That information is suppressed and hidden.
But I think about the murders reported in the last few months.
How the Shield was forced to increase Extinguisher presence to “protect” us.
It seemed like these were mostly isolated incidents, but maybe that’s another lie.
I want to know more, but my injury throbs, and I’m starting to sweat from the effort of walking. Rook must notice, because he wraps a gentle arm around my waist and guides me down the corridor.
We round a corner and find a long hallway that ends in a set of wide double doors leading into a large room. Inside, we find dozens of people sitting in chairs or on mats on the floor. Children. The elderly. Several of the same people I noticed in the camp earlier.
“C’mon,” Rook says, leading me to an empty mat along the wall. I feel every eye in the room following me as he stops and turns toward me. “Can I check your ribs?”
People are whispering, shooting me looks, and I glance away, wishing I could curl into an invisible ball.
“Sure,” I say, and I lift the side of my shirt with a wince, blanching at the spread of mottled bruises. Blue and purple and every shade in between. Rook gently prods at the skin, his touch skilled and careful.
I inhale sharply before he looks up. “Sorry.”
I shake my head while he continues probing.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” he says. “But we’ll get Vess to look at you as soon as we can.”
I shake my head, recalling the look on her face the last time Rook asked for her help. “No, don’t bother her. I’ll be fine.” He opens his mouth, but I give him a pleading look. I don’t want to put her on the spot, and I can’t handle her rejection again.
His mouth presses together in a hard line, and he dips his chin in a sharp nod.
“Fine, but if it gets any worse, I don’t want any arguments.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“We’ll get you something for the pain, though.”
“Sure,” I say as I start to sink onto the mat, my knees melting out from under me.
Rook guides me to the floor, then heads to a cabinet on the far side of the room.
He grabs a few things and offers me some pills and water.
I swallow them, and then we sit shoulder to shoulder.
People are still watching me, casting not-so-subtle looks.
A hand lands on my knee, and I peer up at Rook. “It’s okay,” he says softly. I should shake him off. I should tell him not to touch me, but I can’t find the will.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice low, trying not to draw any more attention.
“We wait,” he says. “They’ll let us know when it’s safe to go aboveground.”
I think about what he said about the Keeper he killed. Something troubled passes over his expression, and I get the sense he’s thinking about it, too.
“Just try to rest,” he says.
Sure, I think I can do that. I’m exhausted, bone-deep weary, both mentally and physically. My insides are filled with lead, heavy, hard, and cold.
I sit back, my eyelids drooping, my eyes scratchy. Rook presses up against me, and I can’t help it when my head drops, resting on his shoulder.
He’s warm, and he feels safe. In spite of everything. Despite how we left the city and the lies he told me. The half-truths I’ve heard so far.
I don’t belong here. This place is so far removed from everything I’ve ever known.
Never once did I think I’d find myself here.
Never dreamed about it. Never thought about it.
Never wondered.
The Tiera Frais.
An entire world right outside our door.
Why did I never really wonder?
How did The Shield so thoroughly convince me and everyone else that New Manhattan was the only thing left?
More importantly, why did we all believe it?
And if they lied about this, what other secrets are they keeping?
“Rook, what’s the matter?” I ask, sensing tension radiating off him in waves.
“I’ll be punished for killing the Whisper,” he says, soft enough for only me to hear.
“He was about to kill me,” I say. “You had no choice.”
“It doesn’t matter. I deserve to be punished.”
“What will they do to you?” I ask, suddenly terrified that I’ll be left out here all on my own.
He takes so long to reply that my heart races, all sense of fatigue vanishing.
“Whatever they do to me, Poet—”
He pauses. Inhales deeply.
“Rook, what—”
He shakes his head. “Let’s not talk about this now. I’ll be fine. You need to sleep. Tomorrow will be bad enough.”