Sarza entered the silent streets. Several hours (and one near miss from a trog arrow) later, she at last reached the silent, dusty suburbs. The golden light of dawn illuminated layers of colorful graffiti, left behind by The Day’s jaded survivors and their descendants. Plenty of preday artifacts still existed too. Several times, Sarza shook her head at signs for weirdly specific businesses. What the hell was a versabox, anyway? And why would someone go to a store that only sold lipstick?
At last, she arrived at the squat, black building she was seeking. Behind it was a large, open lot where hover scooters, glidecrafts, and solarcars were still parked after all these years. Even with broken windows and weather damage, they were still pretty cool-looking vehicles.
Sarza approached the back door. As instructed, she called out the passphrase. “Carribird here!” When no one responded, she went inside.
Musty hallways swallowed the open doorway’s light. Sarza lit her candle and started exploring. When continued shouting of the passphrase didn’t attract any attention, her stomach clenched with angry nerves. Don’t tell me that soldier left. Did he desert? Couldn’t handle a few weeks alone? What a—
Her light fell on smudges in the dust around a doorknob. Sarza opened the door, calling, “Carribird here!”
Nobody responded.
She stepped into the windowless room. Her light fell on a crumpled blanket on the floor and a few dishes sitting on a table.
In preday times, people had probably hated working in a dark space like this. Now, it was a decent place to stay warm on chilly nights. Unfortunately, the most recent occupant had liked the room so much, he’d used it as a latrine too. The stench was so strong, Sarza could taste it. Disgusting, man. Seriously?
The big question was, did the soldier still live here? He might be out hunting or something. Sarza knew how she could tell. The idea made her lips twist with disgust, but she went with it, following her nose to the source of the terrible smells.
Don’t puke. DON’T PUKE. She obeyed her own instructions—admirable strength, she thought—and examined the human waste. The walls and floor were both stained with dried liquid. The crap in the corner looked dry too. Sarza groaned. That meant her contact—the guy she was supposed to report to, the one who could’ve brought her back to the army as a spy hero, worthy of a promotion and a raise—had been gone for some time now.
Sarza huffed and let a river of expletives exit her mouth in a toxic flood. She stomped out, slamming the door behind her. She’d grab a nap in another room. One that didn’t smell like a soldier’s stupidity.
22
Allow me to speak for all teens.
We know we should go outside. We know sunlight and green plants and human interaction are healthy.
But how do you expect us to drag ourselves out of our homes when you’ve put such exceptional entertainment at our fingertips? Adults, you designed flexscreens. You put them in our hands.
(And be honest. You’re as addicted to your flexes as we are.)
-“I’m an Inside Girl” by Genta Ril
The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 5, 6293
Zeisha tried to put on her shoes quietly, but Krey woke anyway. After releasing a big yawn, he asked, “Where are you going?”
She knelt by the pallet on the floor where he’d been sleeping. A ray of dawn light, shining from between the shutters, cast a bright stripe on his hair. Touching the side of his face, Zeisha said, “We’ve got another magic practice today.”
He absentmindedly rubbed the wrist that had, until a few days ago, been shackled. “I wish I could come.”
“I do too.” She kissed his cheek. “Soon, I hope. Why don’t you take the bed? Get some more sleep?”
Krey stood and opened the shutters to let the breeze flow through the barred window. Spring had arrived, and the mornings were getting warmer. Lifting his arms, hands clasped, he grimaced as he stretched. “In the last couple of weeks, I’ve had enough sleep for a year. I’ll run instead.”
She laughed. “Don’t go too far.” Krey missed his frequent runs around Deroga. The last couple of days, he’d taken to running in place for an hour at a time in the middle of the bedroom that served as his cell.
It had been nineteen days since Krey’s palace break-in. Zeisha had stayed in his room every night. At first, she’d slept on the floor, far from Krey. Everyone had feared he’d grow violent. That fear ended up being unfounded, but his constant wheedling and begging that first week had nearly driven Zeisha mad.
The next week, his craving for animal brain matter had remained strong, but he’d stopped asking for it constantly. He’d acted more like himself again. And two weeks after Krey had ingested six shimshim brains, his cravings had finally become manageable. Eira had told the guards to remove Krey’s shackle. He was still, however, confined to this room. He’d started sleeping on the pallet on the floor, giving Zeisha the bed.
When Krey finished his stretch, Zeisha put her arms around his waist. He returned the embrace. “Have fun out there,” he said.
“I’ll try.” She couldn’t imagine enjoying it, though. Eira had recently told all the magic eaters and the trog fighters to get serious about their drills. They were preparing for war, she’d said. They should act like it.
With that admonition heavy in her chest, Zeisha made her way to the warehouse where she’d been held captive. Anxiety pressed against her mind, but she refused to let it in. Instead, she allowed numbness to swallow her as she entered the warehouse and fueled up with bark and roots. Back outside, she waited in the street for instructions.
Nora, who was leading the magic eaters’ practice time, instructed them to get into pairs. “Practice hurting each other,” she said, grinning, “without actually hurting each other.”
Zeisha’s numbness dissolved, making way for sharp dread.
A tall, muscular male dirt eater from the militia invited her to partner up. She nodded silently, and they found a wide space to practice in.
“You go first,” Zeisha said.
“Don’t worry; I won’t bury you!” The dirt eater smiled, revealing dark soil stuck between his teeth and in his gums. Gaze fixed on Zeisha, he knelt and placed his hands on the dusty street.
The dirt under Zeisha’s feet shifted. Small cracks formed. She held her arms out, swaying along with the ground. The cracks grew, and a cloud of dust enveloped her.
With a series of sharp pops, the hard dirt beneath her loosened into soft dust. Zeisha gasped as her legs sank down to her calves. She swayed, then fell, sinking into the ground. She tried to scream for the dirt eater to stop, but her breath caught in her throat. Her waist was level with the street now, her backside and lower legs buried, knees poking out of the ground like round stones.
Zeisha couldn’t breathe fast enough. With every frantic inhale of air and dust, her panic grew. Her exhales were half coughs, half cries.
The dirt eater seemed unaware of her state. Zeisha sank farther, sucked into the soft ground. Through the thick dust, she couldn’t make out the dirt eater’s features. He was nothing but a blurry blob—a body, a neck, a head.
A neck.
Coughing, Zeisha surrendered to instinct. She raised one hand and shot out a thick, flexible vine. Its tapered end snagged the dirt eater’s neck.
The dirt stopped sucking her in. She released the vine from her palm and grabbed it like a rope, pulling herself hand-over hand out of the soft pit. In seconds, she was back on solid ground, coughing violently.
Her eyes fell on the dirt eater. He was on his belly, hands on the tight vine at his neck. His tan face had turned dark red. His soft-brown eyes bulged. His mouth was open, like he was trying to gasp or scream. He could do neither.
The reality of what she’d done slammed into Zeisha like a club. “No!” she cried, releasing the vine from his neck. “Oh, I’m sorry, oh—no, no, no!”
Hands grasping his neck, he drew in rough, wheezing breaths. Zeisha tried to crawl closer, but he scooted away.
He’s
afraid of me.
Zeisha stood, horror widening her eyes and burning her cheeks. She ran through the other magic eaters. Seeing her face, none of them attacked. “Healer! I need a healer!” she screamed.
Someone directed her to a blood eater. Zeisha found him and brought him to the dirt eater she’d strangled.
She sprinted away, gasping apologies into the cool air.
When Zeisha arrived at the rooftop garden, panting from her climb, Kebi was there. Her group, the archers, had drilled the day before. Kebi stood and rushed to her friend. “What is wrong?”
The story came out in a stream of self-loathing words. At some point, Kebi guided Zeisha to sit.
When she finished describing her experience, Zeisha was surprised to find she wasn’t crying. She was numb, inside and out. “Apparently this is what I do now. They trained me to use my talent as a weapon. I did it when I saved that kid from the spy, and I did it today.”
“You are panicked when the dirt eater uses his magic on you,” Kebi said.
“Of course I was panicked! But I could’ve wrapped my vine around his waist.” That was what she’d done to Krey at the palace. Why hadn’t it occurred to her to do the same today? “I just needed to stop the dirt eater, not hurt him,” she continued, “and I needed an anchor to pull myself out. So I went straight for his neck. Because that’s what I do now.”
“You say that twice.”
“Huh?” Zeisha looked up and found Kebi’s eyes waiting.
“You say that twice. That this is what you do now.”
“It is.”
Kebi stood and extended a hand. “Come.”
Zeisha allowed her trog friend to lead her to a row of bollaberry bushes. When they were both sitting again, Kebi pulled a few leaves off the nearest bush and held them out. “Eat.”
Zeisha obeyed.
“That plant,” Kebi said, pointing at a bush smaller than the rest, “struggles to grow. What will you do about it?”
Zeisha raised her eyebrows but played along. She grew the bush until its thriving branches were heavy with ripe berries.
Kebi handed Zeisha a wooden box about the size of two fists. “We will fill this. Our young friend with the baby does not sleep well. This will cheer her up.”
Half an hour later, they left the young mother’s house, having delivered the berries. As soon as the door closed behind them, Kebi took Zeisha’s hand. Eyes glued to her vine-eating friend, Kebi said in a soft, firm voice, “You grow things. You bring life to the hurting. This is what you do.”
Zeisha nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
Back atop the roof, they worked quietly. After some time, Kebi stopped what she was doing and looked up at Zeisha. “When the king comes, you do not have to fight. Do you want to change your mind?”
Zeisha couldn’t answer that question. She pulled her hands from the soil and hugged herself, breathing deeply. “Do you have any idea how terrible it feels not to know yourself?”
“Who do you want to be?”
Zeisha yawned and lay back on the soft soil. “I want to be the strong person other people think I am.”
“Other people? Do you mean Krey?”
Zeisha laughed softly. “Am I that transparent? Of course I mean Krey.” She turned her head to gaze at Kebi. “He didn’t pressure me, you know. He just . . . inspired me. To see more in myself.”
“Hmm,” Kebi said. She returned her attention to the soil, pulling a weed.
Zeisha’s brows lifted as she watched Kebi. “Please tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Kebi’s lips twitched. “New-city folk use odd phrases.” She pulled one more weed then repositioned herself, sitting next to Zeisha’s prone form. “Here is what is in my head, Zeisha. You say you do not know yourself. Then you say you want to be who Krey thinks you are. It is strange to look at yourself through another’s eyes instead of your own.”
Zeisha scooped up soil and filtered it through her fingers, watching it flow from one hand to the other. She couldn’t argue with Kebi’s words. Why did she feel threatened by them? She swallowed, eyes still on the soil she was sifting. “Of course I want to see myself through his eyes. He loves me. And I love him.”
“This I do not doubt.” Kebi laid a hand on Zeisha’s shoulder. “But I must ask: do you love yourself?”
Zeisha squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a deep breath. Her exhale was shaky. She whispered, “How can I love myself when I can’t stand myself?” After another few breaths, she spoke again, eyes still closed, her voice a little stronger now. “When Krey looks at me, he doesn’t see a monster who murdered people. Of course I’d want to see myself the way he does. He sees my violence as strength, not . . . not wickedness.”
“Sit up.”
Kebi’s voice was so stern that Zeisha’s eyes popped open.
“Up,” Kebi said. “Face me. Bring your eyes to mine.” She held out a hand. Zeisha took it, pulled herself up, and lifted her wary gaze to Kebi’s face.
Kebi took Zeisha’s warm cheeks in her cool hands. Her expression softened, though she wasn’t smiling. “You call it your violence. My friend . . . this violence is not yours. It belongs to those who force you to be the person you are not. If there is wickedness in your actions, it is not yours. It is theirs.”
Zeisha felt herself nodding. The tightness in her heart released, just a notch.
“Some warriors are strong and good,” Kebi continued. “If you become a warrior, I know this is the kind you will be. But open your ears to me, Zeisha. You are strong and good now.” She removed one hand from Zeisha’s cheek and gestured at the thriving plants around them. “You are strong now.” She pointed down into the city, toward the home they’d just visited. “You are good now. You need be no one but the person you are.”
Kebi opened her arms. Zeisha fell into them and held on tight. When she pulled away, her eyes drifted toward the city below. “I should go see Krey.”
Kebi’s eyes narrowed. “You spend all your time with him in his locked room, yes? Unless you are with me?”
Zeisha nodded. She’d told Kebi about Krey’s imprisonment, though she hadn’t given any details about why he was there.
“You need time by yourself,” Kebi said. “In the sun, with spring green around you. You say you do not know yourself. We know someone by spending time with them.”
“He needs me right now. More than ever.”
Kebi smiled. “Krey will be fine. When you care for yourself, you are stronger for others. Will you do this? Spend time with yourself before you go to him?”
“Okay.” The word surprised her.
As soon as she walked into the park she and Krey had claimed as their own, Zeisha felt lighter. She breathed the crisp air, listened to birds grumbling, and ran her fingers along green leaves. Prayers left her mind and her lips, whispers to a God she’d been too distracted to talk to lately. She’d expected to miss Krey. Instead, she found herself more content than she’d been since her release from the militia.
Before she left the park, she sat on a bench. After making sure no one else was around, she whispered to herself, “Hello, Zeisha. I don’t know you anymore.” She felt silly, but she kept going. “Maybe if I spend time with you, that’ll change.”
23
I’m tired of films about advanced technology. You know what I want to watch? Movies about pre-computerized societies. I want films with bladed-weapon combat, people lost in jungles, and spies infiltrating cities instead of databases.
-“Take Me Back in Time” by Genta Ril
The Derogan Chronicle, dated Cyon 10, 6293
Krey sat on the edge of his bed, trying to read a book. His eyes kept roaming to the closed window shutters, where rain pattered in a steady beat. For once, his three friends all had the day off—and they were stuck in Krey’s little room.
They’d planned to spend the morning wandering Deroga’s streets. It was the first day they’d all had off since Eira had started allowing Krey to spend time outside. T
hat was two weeks ago. In total, eight weeks had passed since he’d consumed shimshim brains. While he’d committed to never touching his dark fuel again, he still battled daily cravings. Any time he left the prison house, at least one friend had to accompany him.
When a rainstorm had ruined the group’s plans, they’d settled for relaxing together. Lanterns and candles provided light, but the little room was still dreary. They’d talked for a while, until the rain’s soothing sounds had lulled first Nora, then Zeisha, to sleep.
Krey read a paragraph for the third time and still had no idea what it said. The rain’s steady taps against the shutters felt like a personal attack. I just want to go outside.
“It must be almost time for lunch,” Ovrun said from the corner where he was seated.
Nora blinked and yawned, then cuddled closer into his side.
“Aren’t we supposed to meet Elo?” he asked.
“Oh!” Nora sat up straight. “I forgot! We’d better get our shoes on.”
Krey slipped a bookmark into his book. “You’re meeting Elo Golsch? The spy?”
“Yeah,” Nora said as she put her boots back on. She seemed to be avoiding Krey’s gaze. “Eira’s coming too. We’re trying to figure out if we can trust him.”
“Can I come? I’d like to be part of that conversation.”
Nora slowly tightened the laces of her boots. “I’ve . . . been talking to him a lot lately. I don’t know if I’m supposed to bring anyone else.”
Krey set his book down. “You said Ovrun’s going with you.”
“Yeah, he . . . he comes along sometimes.”
Krey stared at Nora. When she finished with her boots and met his gaze, he said, “I haven’t seen Eira since the day she put me in this place. I haven’t been part of any strategizing. Just say it, Nora. Eira doesn’t trust me.”
The Vine Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 2) Page 20
