by Cora May
In 1956, Larr successfully opened a portal into the Reaper’s Realm. This was the beginning of the end for the Reaper of Death. Larr led his army through the portal with a great charge. The army stabbed its way through the gray Realm, using the blades crafted by the Anam Dorcha. Those blades were meant to kill the Anam of the afterlife. Slashing their way through the clouds, they were looking for only one being: the Reaper.
The Reaper had been waiting for them on the other side of his Realm. He stood tall, fully cloaked in his black robe, with his scythe at his side. He was tall, powerful, and fierce. He looked at the army, which had paused to take in his glory, and said nothing. He only looked on them with eyes that expressed sorrow and anger at the same time. There was no surprise, though, for he had seen this battle coming for quite some time.
When the battle raged, it was three hundred men against the Reaper. The Reaper had swung his scythe, killing them mercilessly one by one, until his scythe had hit the blade that Larr bore. His blade had been crafted specially by the Realm of Darkness. It was a blade crafted of the best material: the strongest Gold stone, and the strongest of a second, lesser-known stone. In its core was the Obsidian stone, proudly mixing its power with the Gold of the blade. When the Reaper’s scythe hit this particular blade, it did not shatter the blade as it had done countless times before. Instead, the scythe was met with resistance.
That was the first time that shock could be read on the Reaper’s face. He had never seen the blade crafted, not from his bird’s eye view of every Realm. Something had slipped in his vision, he could only assume. He engaged Larr in a battle that lasted only a few moments, for, when Larr’s own blade was the one that struck the scythe, it shattered into many pieces.
Larr dropped his blade, a satisfied grin spread across his face. The few humans that were left gathered a piece of the scythe that had fallen, gingerly placing it in a burlap sack and retreated back from where they came.
Still wearing his satisfied, evil grin, Larr turned to follow them through his portal.
The Reaper had picked up the blade and examined its material. Before that day, he had never known his own weakness. He hadn’t been aware that he even had a weakness. It was a terrifying prospect. In that moment, he felt utterly human.
And in the many, many moments to come, he would feel more and more human. He set to work immediately repairing his scythe. It was like a puzzle, putting together every shattered piece. When he was done, he was missing the tip of it. He could feel it, too, as if a piece of his own being had been shattered and stolen. His existence was very much tied to that scythe.
From that moment on, the Reaper would begin to deteriorate.
Chanta wasn’t sure what shocked her more: the actual story, or the fact that she saw her own name. Larr wasn’t a very common surname—in fact, she had never before seen it written anywhere else that wasn’t directly attached to her first name or her mother or brother’s first names. This story had taken place over fifty years ago, though. Surely, they weren’t connected in any way.
And yet, the name is the very thing that changed her mind. She was going to stay now, she knew that. If the man in the story had been her family, then there had to be answers in this place that she could find.
She spent the next few hours flipping through that book. There were many stories told of a Blessing that changed someone’s life for the better. Stories that saved lives and changed the world and made a positive impact. Chanta skimmed past those happy tales. There were stories of Communicators connecting people with their loved ones and providing families with answers they sought. Those stories were emotional, both for good and bad reasons. Sometimes it was the family of a kidnapped child that would receive the worst news they never hoped for. Chanta skimmed past those stories, too. She searched the book from cover to cover, but never again found mention of her last name.
She eventually passed out on the desk, the book left open underneath her face.
CHAPTER SEVEN: CHANTA
C hanta looked through the dresser that had been gifted to her. She was in search of something special to wear. She had been told that today was the day she would get her stone. She had been told, not by Fenneck, but by the older, kindly woman who had brought her breakfast. The woman had spoken softly to her, and yet, with such excitement in her eyes that Chanta could not help but feel the excitement herself. In hindsight, she wondered if the woman had been an Amber Soother, because she wasn’t really sure why else she would feel so excited over the prospect of getting a stone. And yet, she was.
So she dug through the drawers, throwing out pants and tops and leaving them on the ground wherever they landed. Nothing seemed quite right. It all looked somewhat the same, really. The jeans varied in color, but they were all brand new, without any sign of wear and tear on them. That meant she wasn’t being given hand-me-downs, which she was eternally grateful for—even just the thought of wearing someone else’s clothes grossed her out. Yet, none of the jeans had any personality in them. There was no style, nothing special about any of them. She would have liked if some of them were ripped, maybe patched up with a cute lace that showed off just a bit of skin… Something like that.
The skirts were equally as bland. Black pencil skirts, gray pencil skirts, there were even a few cute plaid skirts in the mix. They were cute, but they were all the same somehow. Uniform, Chanta decided was a good word for them. Then again, this was a private school. Perhaps they were very much meant to be a uniform.
When she looked through the tops, she found that she was right. There were polo tops, long-sleeved turtleneck tops, and even cute, simple tops with three quarter length sleeves. They varied in color, but the fit didn’t really vary. She knew without even trying them on that they would cling to her body in a way that didn’t reveal anything, yet wasn’t baggy, either. But the thing that made them all very uniform was the logo over the left breast on each and every one of them.
The logo was made of two beings, bowing toward each other. Chanta wasn’t really sure why, but she knew the beings were meant to represent angels. They didn’t have wings, and they weren’t made in any sort of color—the logo was stitched directly into the shirts with black stitching. It looked so expertly done, she could imagine it had taken hours just to finish the detail on one single shirt. Underneath the two beings was a banner, and inside the banner read Prisanni’s School for the Blessed in beautiful script that did not vary in the slightest from one shirt to the next. Each of the angels bowed with closed eyes, but with open palms, cupped together and slightly outstretched toward each other. Each of them held a stone in their palms. Even though it was only black stitching on various colored shirts, the stones almost looked like they glowed, and they somehow felt warm. She wondered if she was imaging that—an after-effect from the testing—or if the logo was somehow alive. Magic seemed the only possible answer as to why each logo was stitched exactly the same anyway—maybe there was some sort of magic to make it warm, too.
Whatever the case was, magic or no, it didn’t make her that thrilled to be wearing any of the clothes that were given to her. She would be one of many at this school, stripped of her own style and uniqueness. By the time she turned over every last shirt and found the same logo, she had stopped caring about finding something special. She put on a deep purple polo top and a black pencil skirt with leggings. She found a sensible pair of black flats in the bottom drawer, and, pleased that they looked new, slipped her feet into them.
When she was done, she sat on her bed. She wasn’t really sure what the next step was, but she wasn’t really sure she wanted to walk out into the basement without supervision. She had been told, after all, not to do that on her first day. So, she waited.
It wasn’t long, though, until someone was knocking at her door.
It was the same little old lady that found her at her door. Upon seeing her face, Chanta’s enthusiasm was restored. That was all the proof she needed—the woman was definitely an Amber Soother.
Chanta
forced a frown on her face and followed the woman.
As they climbed the stairs that led out of the basement, Chanta’s enthusiasm began to take over in ways she hadn’t expected. She hadn’t really thought all the way through what it would mean to get her stone. She was leaving the basement… She was going to be an official part of the school.
She wouldn’t end up like Douglass.
“Who are you?” Chanta suddenly asked, her heart thudding hard against her chest. If she was going to be integrated into the school, she realized she needed to start learning about the place.
The old woman looked back at her with a smile.
“I am Avery Swan,” she told her politely as she turned her attention back to leading the way.
Avery’s voice was sweet and soft, and her tone seemed genuine and accepting. Yet, there was something about the way she looked at Chanta, something behind the smile she wore, that gave Chanta a shiver that ran down her spine. Despite her continued enthusiasm, hairs were raised on the back of her neck in warning.
“Are you an Amber Soother?” Chanta continued. Warry or not, she wasn’t ready to drop the conversation. She would learn all there was to know about Avery—at least, as much as was possible. Then she would take it back to Fenneck. Back to someone she trusted.
“Very astute,” Avery congratulated her. She didn’t turn to face her as she spoke this time. “You’re a quick learner. It’s important to be observant in this place.”
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve worked with the headmistress for almost ten years now,” she said, seeming a little lost in thought. “Perhaps it’s closer to eight? It’s been a while.”
A while, sure, but it seemed odd to Chanta. This woman looked to be in her seventies, at least. It seemed strange to see such an old face in this place for some reason. Perhaps she had just been under the misconception that everyone here had started out as Prisanni’s student. Or, perhaps Avery had been a student—couldn’t it be possible for older people to be Blessed by a lost loved one if that’s really how it worked? That seemed even more logical, perhaps. After all, the older you get, the more likely it is for your friends and family to die.
Chanta’s mind was going down a morbid path, and she didn’t like the way it paired with her enthusiasm. It was creepy.
“What do you do for her?” she asked Avery instead. “What’s your role here?”
“Oh, I’m kind of like a caretaker,” she told her. “I see to it that everyone does their jobs, and I fill in when people fall ill. I deal strongly with the new students and making sure you have everything you need. You think those clothes happened by accident?”
Avery turned then to give Chanta a wink.
Chanta grimaced the minute she turned away.
“I thought it was Prisanni, but I guess it makes more sense for her to have someone else do it,” she said, halfway under her breath. “Do we always have to wear uniforms?”
She knew it was incredibly vein, but she couldn’t help asking it. She was used to wearing whatever plain, ill-fitting clothes were available to her, but before then she had been a beauty queen. She was finding herself craving that bit of her life again. She realized that was why she was so disappointed after Avery had left her earlier.
“Chanta, my dear,” Avery said in a sweet, crooning manner, “you’ll come to find yourself proud to bear the logo of Prisanni’s School for the Blessed. Give it a bit of time, and you won’t be asking that anymore. Now, we do have a few seamstresses in here, mind you. Should you go to them with instructions on what kind of garments you prefer, they will be sure to create something to your liking.”
“Really?” Chanta asked, stunned. She felt a bit of her vanity return, along with a small bit of hope for the life she used to have. “Like we have our own designers?”
Avery laughed.
“Something like that. Keep in mind, this castle is full of people of all talents and walks of life. Most people here have found a way to rebuild the dreams that were crushed when they lost control of their Blessings. I know you have much the same story as many of the students and professors here. You’ll find your place among us, and you’ll find it hard to go back to life outside of this place.”
“Is that why everyone stays?”
“I’d like to think it’s the sense of family that keeps everyone around. Give the headmistress a chance.”
It was something everyone had been telling her to do. And this old dried-up crone seemed to be the one that would finally get her to do it.
The castle was really a place of wonder, too, she supposed. She stopped asking questions and took in the scene that surrounded her. They were walking down a long hallway now, with walls made of stone and tall windows lining one side. Outside, there was a peaceful courtyard scene. There were a few benches, a couple of trees, and even a tiny fence that clearly separated the main walkway from a flower bed. There wasn’t much else that she could tell, though, because it was snowing pretty hard. She let herself be mesmerized by the big, white flakes as they fell quickly down from the sky—like a saltshaker, but light and fluffy like powdered sugar. She hadn’t seen a sight like that in so long. Not just because of where she lived, but because she hadn’t really been outside in so long. The scene prompted her to ask more of Avery.
“What day is it?”
Avery looked back at her with soft understanding. It briefly annoyed Chanta—she didn’t want anyone to have any level of understanding with her. She wanted isolation. But it wasn’t looking like she would get it here.
It made her wonder, though, how many other students had a very similar story to hers, that her question hadn’t taken Avery by surprise at all.
“It’s January first, my dear! Happy New Year.”
That was all the time they had, it seemed, to speak on the matter. Avery led her through a door on the left side of the hallway, which led straight into a room that looked somehow very ceremonious.
The walls in this room were made of brown stone, which accented the red carpet royally. It was a long, narrow room—or maybe it only looked to be that way because of the people that were lining both sides of the walls. She recognized no one.
“This is where I stop,” Avery whispered to her. “Now you must walk yourself to the front to receive your stone. Don’t worry, I’ll be here to take you to your room.”
Chanta’s enthusiasm had vanished, swallowed up by the fear that was beating from her heart. She looked at Avery, and, despite the woman’s gift, knew that the fear was visible in her eyes. Avery only nodded encouragingly and motioned her forward.
“Give her a chance,” she reminded her.
Chanta gulped as she turned back toward the lines of people she didn’t recognize. At the end of the room, all of the heads of houses were there, with Prisanni standing in the middle. She was smiling softly, but, even from this distance, Chanta could see that it wasn’t quite reaching her eyes.
She took a breath and began to make the walk down the line.
She wasn’t sure what pace she was supposed to walk, or at what pace she was actually walking. Everyone she passed bore the logo of the school over their breast and crossed their arm over their chest, forming a fist on the opposite breast. It was a militant stance, a type of solute, and it made her feel unsure of what kind of behavior she should be exhibiting. Nothing about it felt like any kind of ceremony she had ever been a part of before.
No one said a word to her as she passed. No one greeted her, no one locked eyes with her, no one so much as smiled at her as she passed. She stopped looking at them, stopped trying to find a familiar face or a friendly face. She trained her eyes ahead of her instead. She didn’t train them on the headmistress, though, who was standing directly in front of her. Instead, she trained them on the space behind her. She didn’t think she could look Prisanni in the eyes at that moment. She wasn’t prepared for what she would see there.
Then again, she wasn’t prepared for any of this, really.
>
As she made the final steps past the lines of saluting attendees, she took a very shaky breath. She stopped in the space between the lines of random people. In front of her, the heads of all the houses were standing side by side behind Prisanni. She took another breath, one that felt far too loud in her own ears and in the silence of the room, and looked up at the headmistress. She felt so small in that moment, though the woman was not much taller than she was.
Prisanni’s eyes were suddenly full of deep understanding as they looked on Chanta. She felt the warmth of the woman’s eyes, even though the rest of her face did not entirely match. Though she still wore a smile, her features told the story of a woman who had better places to be and more important things to do. Her eyes, though—Chanta felt a shiver run down her spine again. How could one woman’s face tell so many different stories? And how could her eyes contradict everything else so wholly?
“Chanta Elizabeth Larr,” began the headmistress.
Chanta noted right away that the mere sound of her name seemed to get a reaction from the entire room. Or, at least, from most of the room, but especially from Reiter, Nessi, Olly, and Thurien. They seemed uncomfortable as they shifted, like they were in a strong disagreement for some reason. Sahira and Arbella, though, looked on her with the same kindness they had when they first met her. When the negative reaction from everyone else came, their kindness seemed to burn stronger, as if to tell Chanta their friendship was true.
