Chapter 13 #2
Wraith Girl lets more space stretch between us, and I know I’ve failed.
I won’t find out anything about anyone from her.
The line stops at a room full of accessories and clothes.
Tables are piled with necklaces, earrings, colorful gloves that don’t tingle when I touch them, rings with gems in every size and color, sparkly bags to store things, jewels for the hair, scents without emotion stimulants that only fragrance the skin.
Syra, my maid, finds me. “You were gone when I arrived,” she says, “and the Scents were in the wastebasket.”
“I don’t want to use them.” I don’t want to use anything the Benevolent “gives so generously.”
She grimaces. “They can help you build connections during the trials. With the pressure of everything and no Heartfillers to reach for, these boosts make feelings safe, controlled, measured. And most important, they help with the symptoms of not having your usual fillers daily. I will restock them.”
I don’t bother arguing. She guides me around the room, pointing out table after table of glittering things to wear and ornament our bodies.
Just when I think we’ve seen it all, we turn a corner and find another dozen tables.
The options are endless. It’s more clothing than any of us could need, even if we each took an entire table of things.
She keeps nudging me forward, but I stop.
“I’ve seen enough.” I look away and cross my arms. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
“You’ll need to gather anything here you’d like.”
The accessories, the shoes, everything sparkles. I tuck my fingers into a fist, hesitant to touch anything. “We get to take them home?”
“Yes.”
I shift my weight between my feet. I pick up a piece of jewelry that shines so radiantly I can hardly look away from it. The gems in it are brighter than the crystal Heartfillers and shinier than gold coins.
“You could win, you know?” Syra says. “Stranger things have happened.”
I glance at her, unsure how to read her sudden stroke of confidence. But one glance at her makes it clear her assurance is about her, not me.
“You’re not disciplined. And the way you look so angry all the time—” She shakes her head once, like the disappointment tastes bitter.
“But there is a fire in you that’s rare so early in the competition.
That could be attractive to another contestant.
The sooner you match the better. That way you can fight through the trials together.
” She glances at my hands. “Write that down.”
I scribble her advice in my journal to skip being chastised.
She sets a jewel in my hand that could buy me passage on a ship, I bet.
Then, she ropes a bracelet around my wrist that probably costs enough to feed the orphanage for years.
Skyborn have all this, and yet one gold a month is the value of our labor.
Scraps of food leftovers, meager supplies of medicine, that’s all we’re worth.
I pull away from the jewels, slipping them off, but Syra holds my arm firmly in place.
“Embrace the process, Axira. Become.”
I force my arm out of her grip, and to my relief Syra relents with a sigh.
“You’re nearly hopeless.”
I look for Mae and see her slipping off her glove to grab a necklace with her bare hand.
“Mae!” I’m too late. A Mercyenforcer rushes over, shoving a stinger into her ribs.
“Skin contact is not yet authorized,” the Mercyenforcer says. “Not until the first trial.”
The excitement in the room settles, people’s palms moving to their chest, watching as Mae sways, shuddering.
“Mae!” I start toward her, but Syra steps in front of me, blocking my view.
“That fire,” Syra chides. “You’re using it all wrong.”
I step around her, but she sidesteps into my path again. “The Grainfolk girl is fine. We have minutes. You need to make your selections. There are two occasions in the tournament that require formal dressing.”
I relent, rummaging through the accessories and grabbing a few things.
Talia and Lira stare each other down over a gold comb with pearls, and I can’t tell if they are back to enemies or becoming better friends.
Next, we are ushered into a room with racks upon racks of colorful dresses, finely embroidered with jeweled details.
No one moves, as stunned as I am. How could someone dress themselves in something so extravagant?
It looks like it should be left untouched, observed, viewed for enjoyment, not wrapped on sweaty skin.
Talia is first to break from the pack, snatching dresses off the racks and piling them on her arm.
Lira is right behind, her thick coiled twist swaying down her back.
The others are quick to copy them. I touch the bodice of a bright pink dress.
It’s heavy, and I can tell that each bead was carefully handsewn.
It reminds me of the needlework Miss Porter does in Dockers Row.
She sews and stitches rags for cleaning, clothes, and covers for our courier boats.
She trades it for fish, Grainfolk gleanings from their harvest, or the rare customers who have spare gold.
If she sold a piece of this dress, it would feed her family for the rest of the solstice.
I back away from the gown. This isn’t right. None of this is right.
“Did you pick?” Syra appears behind me, and it startles me.
“I don’t want any.”
“You have to take at least one, Contestant Fifty-Four.”
“No, no, I won’t,” I tell her. I took the accessories. I have to put my foot down about this. Eating their food is one thing. But this I don’t need.
She scowls, then grabs two dresses off the rack. One is long and flowy in midnight blue, and the other is shorter, also blue, but a lighter shade, like the color of the ocean on a cloudy morning. “This will be yours. I’ll get it to your room. Now, get in line.”
Mae is weaving between stacks of clothes. Both her arms and her maid’s arms are overflowing with fabrics in pastel colors.
“We have to narrow this to three, Contestant Seventeen,” her maid says. But Mae staggers circles around her, still dazed from the stinger, pulling more off the racks, holding them up to herself.
Once everyone’s gathered at the door, Syra wishes me luck with eliminations. I’d be lucky if she left me alone. As we leave I spot Mae, holding her side where the stinger stung her but looking less dazed.
“Salt water and aloe,” I tell her.
“Yes, my maid’s gone to get some.”
We walk.
“I should have known better,” she says. “I just got excited. We’ll have them off soon enough.”
A horn blares, echoing through the steel walls.
The line stops.
“Gratitude to the Benevolent!” The Citadel official leading our line motions for us to chant. With our eyes to the ground, heads bowed in reverence, in practiced unison, our voices ring out “The Echo of the Allegiant”:
Gratitude to the Benevolent, Source of Order.
His strength is steel, his stance is sure.
He governs the heart, for love can betray;
Only the worthy may feel that way.
He grants it slow, and takes it fast—
For only true loyalty ever lasts.
Disruption fails; it never wins.
Revere our words,
so the rebels can hear,
the good, good cheer
of these fearsome patriots!
Once the line is moving again, the pledge replays in my head. It doesn’t stop until we are outside. And I wonder if that’s the point.