The streets’ wheel-and-spoke design was the same as back in her hometown, though the distances were so vast that it would take ten towns the size of hers to fit along just one spoke. The central park was enormous, and she remembered from school that only Blacksun’s State Park outshone it. But that was far to the north on the Argolis continent, a place that might as well have been the farthest moon. Rahel could not imagine that she would ever see it.
Wildwind Bay was “the jewel of Whitesun,” according to the map, and she decided to go there first. It was an easy trip, the endpoint of three different magtran lines. That meant she could take the earliest capsule and not have to worry about moving into the correct one once it connected with the magtran. She shouldered her bag, stepped into the nearest waiting capsule, and found an empty seat by a window.
It had been more than a cycle since she last rode a magtran, and it was just as exhilarating now as it had been then. More so, she thought, since this time she was on her own and not beholden to her parents.
The doors sealed, the countdown reached zero, and the capsule launched up the entrance tube to latch onto the front of the passing magtran. Rahel settled deeper into her seat, watching the tall buildings of Whitesun flash by the elevated tube. One after another, capsules detached from the rear of the magtran to coast down to their stations, while new ones accelerated up and attached to the front. With each change, her capsule made its way toward the end. She knew they were near the bay when the countdown clock for capsule detachment went blank. That meant no more capsules were coming off the end; they were almost to the last station.
The entire magtran came to a smooth halt, the sound of its arrival eclipsed by the rustles and murmurs of passengers rising from their seats. Rahel stood as well, tightening her grip on her bag and waiting anxiously.
When the doors whooshed open, the air that hit her nostrils seemed like it came from a different world. There were sharp industrial odors and the scents of salt water, wet wood, and fish. Underneath it all was a pervasive scent of something rotting, but not in the disgusting way that forgotten food in her cooling unit smelled. The exotic combination of smells was heavy, invigorating, and alive in a way she had never imagined.
Caught in the stream of passengers flowing along the platform, she swiveled her head from one side to the other, trying to take it all in. The arched ceiling was covered in shimmering tiles of blue and green, giving the impression of being underwater, while the walls bore murals depicting undulating sea reeds, colorful creatures of all shapes and sizes, and, near the open exit to the stairs, a wrecked ship.
Down the stairs they went, into the open air, and now the sounds rolled over her. Sharp clanging of metal on metal, deep, resonant groans, the hum of skimmers and transports, and people shouting back and forth in accents and dialects so different from High Alsean that Rahel could hardly make out a word. In school they had learned of the many different languages Alseans had spoken before the unified government, and how a common language had done as much as the government to bring people together into the Alsean identity. She thought everyone spoke High Alsean now, having never heard anything else. This was like stepping into the past.
The crowd thinned as passengers split off in different directions, everyone walking with a purpose except her. She stood indecisively before spotting a sign indicating that the docks were to her left.
Fifty strides brought her to the top of a steep slope leading straight down to the docks. At the bottom, an endless sea of blue stretched to the horizon. She had thought the bay would look circular, the way it did on the map, but this was so enormous that she could not grasp it in its entirety.
She trotted down the hill and onto a wooden pier, where the scents that had assailed her in the magtran station increased in strength a hundredfold. Resting her hands on the rail, she inhaled deeply and smiled.
She was free. And someday, she would step aboard one of those great ships and sail off to explore the world.
After a magical morning spent wandering the docks and the bayfront, Rahel hopped onto another magtran. This time she had to make her way to the correct capsule, and hurried through five of them before seeing the illuminated sign on the door of the sixth: “Central Park.”
She found an empty seat and sat down with relief. On her earlier ride, some people had waited until the last piptick to walk into the end capsule, settling down just before it detached. She would rather be in the right one from the start.
This ride was much shorter, and her capsule soon detached and slipped down to the grand station at the edge of the park.
It was more beautiful than she remembered, or perhaps she simply had a better appreciation of the landscaping and open green spaces. She loved the different-colored domed roofs of the six caste houses: sky blue for the builders, deep blue for the scholars, dark green for the producers, purple for the merchants, and the striped roof of the crafters in blue, green, and yellow.
Lastly, there was the house she was now marching toward, its roof a crimson red. She strode up the stone steps the way the other warriors did, back straight and exuding purpose, and walked through the entry with all the confidence she could muster.
Six steps in, her confidence drained away and she stopped to stare at the vaulted lobby. On her last trip to Whitesun, she had wondered if the warriors hung swords in their caste house. Here was her answer.
Eight sets of crossed swords were displayed on the walls, their blades brilliant in the lights trained upon them. Real jewels glinted in the grips of some, while others were wrapped in teffalar, the rare, soft bark that often cost more than gems.
The grips looked old, so old that they must have predated the modern collapsible technology. Venturing closer, she found discreet signs identifying each one. Her breath caught when she realized she was looking at the actual sword that had killed the Mad Queen. It didn’t look anything like the wooden sword for which she had invented that story, but who cared when it was right here. If she were a little taller, she could have touched it.
In addition to the swords, there were daggers, staves, and odd links of chain sprinkled amongst colorful banners, tapestries, and shields. Everywhere she looked, the walls were decorated with fascinating things. Between two tall windows, she found a set of modern folding knives with blades of all types, straight and serrated and curved, along with signage indicating how they were used aboard ships. This held her attention to such a degree that she was unaware of her surroundings until someone spoke beside her.
“May I be of service?”
She turned to find a short man, not even her height, wearing a ceremonial red cape and a dark blue tunic with brilliantly embroidered designs. His black boots were so polished that she could see individual lights reflected in them.
“Um . . . yes? I want to know what I need to do to challenge the caste.”
“Ah, I see. A worthy endeavor.” He winked at her. “But you’re alone. Did your parents not bring you?”
She looked down, then squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “They don’t want me to be a warrior. But I know it’s what I’m meant for.”
His welcoming expression faded to sympathy, though she could feel nothing from him. “I’m sorry, child. That’s a difficult place to be. Then you’ve found a sponsor?”
“A sponsor?”
“An inscribed warrior who will vouch for your honor, protect your person, and stand for your training expenses should you pass the challenge.”
Her heart fell into her shoes. “I didn’t know I needed one.” Brasdo would vouch for her honor, she was sure, but her expenses? “Do you offer scholarships?” she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “Not for caste training. We fund training houses all over Alsea for young warriors just starting out, and for those who wish to learn our arts even if they never join our caste. But at this level, no. Sponsors fill that need. And it’s not just the expenses,” he added. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“I tho
ught as much. You want to challenge our caste without parental support. A sponsor acts as a substitute parent. The law will not allow us to take a trainee without that protection.”
The sound of her world crumbling around her ears almost made her miss his next words.
“If you could provide proof of income to pay your expenses, and find a warrior to vouch for your honor, you could challenge without a sponsor once you celebrate your eighteenth birth anniversary.”
Her head snapped up. “I can?”
“At that age, you’re considered old enough to protect yourself and take responsibility for your actions.”
Three cycles. She had to wait three cycles.
“Go home, child,” he said kindly. “Join one of our training houses and learn as much as you can. We’ll still be here when you come back.”
She blinked away the tears. “I can’t go home. My father wants to inscribe me in the merchant caste next moon.”
He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. But there’s nothing I can do for you. In three cycles, I can.” After a pause, he said, “If you go to the merchant caste house and give them your name, your father’s membership will be enough to qualify you for up to three nights of lodging.”
“But they’ll tell him,” she said miserably. “Won’t they?”
He nodded.
And if she went to the crafter caste house, they would call her mother.
“I can’t. He’ll come and inscribe me. I won’t have a chance. Can’t I stay here?”
He sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and pursed his lips. At last he met her eyes and said, “One night. I can give you one night. After that, I’m sorry, but you have to go home.”
5
FREEDOM
The warrior caste house was laid out in much the same way as the merchant caste house, with an auditorium, smaller meeting rooms, offices, archives, a tavern, and, starting on the third level, small but clean rooms for lodging. The biggest difference was the underground level devoted to training, with rooms dedicated to specific disciplines. Some were small, for exercising or hand-to-hand sparring, while those holding racks of staves or practice swords were quite a bit larger. But what took her breath away was the centering room. It was easily twenty times the size of Brasdo’s, with trees instead of plants, their branches reaching up toward circular openings in the ceiling that somehow directed sunlight from outside despite their underground location. A subtle scent of cinnoralis reached her nostrils, wafting through the room to help the warriors relax.
She stood in the doorway for a tick or two, gaping at this unexpected beauty, before realizing that she was probably disturbing the warriors using the room. Quietly, she toed off her shoes, set them in the rack by the door, and found the cubbyholes holding the mats.
Too tired to use an upright position, she lay on her back beneath one of the exotic trees and rested her hands atop her pelvic ridges to complete the energy circuit. The leaves above her were so shiny that they seemed to have been polished. They easily caught her attention, allowing her to calm her mind and let it pick its own way through the events of the day.
A jumble of images flowed past: the long public skimmer ride to Whitesun, workers shouting at the docks, ships resting from their journeys, the breathing of Wildwind Bay.
She focused on that, remembering how the water rose and fell, taking everything with it no matter how large. Ships the size of this caste house were feathers on the breath of the bay, being pushed up and down, rubbing against the dock bumpers and producing the loud, low groaning sounds she had first heard at the magtran station. They were like great beasts pulling at their chains.
She was chained, too.
Counterproductive thinking, Brasdo would say. Refocus.
Wildwind Bay. Breathing waters. Ships free on the bay, sailing out, going to unknown places. Free on the bay . . . free . . .
Her mind slipped into the level she sought, floating above her fears. She floated with it, relaxing as the energies in her body cycled and found their proper strengths. Brasdo could center himself within a few ticks, a proficiency she would never achieve. He told her that high empaths could center themselves between one breath and the next, without any need for a special room to provide shelter from disturbances. That was almost inconceivable, but she liked to imagine it.
When she came back to herself, she felt rested and ready to plan her future. After replacing her rolled mat in its cubbyhole and fetching her shoes, she stepped outside the centering room to find the short man from the lobby waiting for her.
“Will you come with me, please?”
She nodded and followed him down the hall, up the stairs to the ground level, and down another hall to a small meeting room. He closed the door behind them and indicated a chair on one side of the table while he sat on the other.
“For a mid empath at your level, you’re showing excellent control,” he said. “You’ve had training.”
“Only one cycle.” Her schoolteachers taught just the basics of empathic application, nothing like the level of control that Brasdo insisted on.
“Very impressive. I hope you’ll keep up your training when you go home.”
“I’m not going home.”
He leaned forward. “I know what you’re planning. And I understand, truly. I didn’t want to be a warrior.”
“Why not?” she blurted. This was unfathomable.
“Why don’t you want to be a merchant?”
“Because I’m not—oh.”
“Exactly. I wasn’t meant to be a warrior, either. But both of my parents were, and I’m a high empath. My choices were limited. I thought about challenging into the scholars, but . . .” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been any easier, really. What I needed was to find a way to be a warrior that I could live with. I’m not courageous, I don’t like fighting, I don’t have the strength or stamina to be a firefighter or a caretaker . . . the list of warrior jobs I couldn’t fill was endless. But it only takes one job to make you happy. I found mine.” Waving toward the door, he added, “I work in the archives and at the entry desk. I help people. I found my place, and if I can, you can, too.”
“I’m already working as a merchant,” she said. “Since I was ten. I don’t like it.” But she loved her training with Brasdo. Why was it so difficult for everyone to understand?
“You’ve only worked for your father,” he said gently. “It’s very different working for someone else. And you found happiness in your training, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Yet you didn’t know how much you’d like it when you started.”
She knew he was leading her somewhere, but so far, she had to agree. “No, but I was pretty sure I’d like it.”
He smiled. “There are many, many jobs in the merchant caste. Someday, you’ll find one you’re pretty sure you’ll like. It could make you just as happy. And,” he went on, stopping her interruption, “you can still train. You can train all your life. You don’t have to give that up.”
“I do have to give it up,” she said bitterly. “My parents won’t pay for it.”
He sighed and shook his head, though she wasn’t sure if it was at her or her parents. It was odd to sense nothing from him. Until now, she had never met anyone with a perfect front. If she were to close her eyes and plug her ears, she would think she was alone in the room.
“Your parents are making a mistake,” he said. “They do that sometimes. Parents aren’t infallible. But you’re already fifteen. In two cycles, you’ll finish base school. After that, you can go anywhere you like, work in any job you want in your caste. Then you can pay for your own training and it won’t matter what your parents think.”
“But I’ll be stuck! I won’t ever get free!” Just the idea of going home destroyed all of the peace she had found in the centering room.
“Freedom is up here.” He tapped his head. “You know that from your training. That already makes you luckier than so many children yo
ur age. It’s just two cycles, and then you can do what you want.”
“Sure, as long as it’s being a merchant.” She crossed her arms over her chest and remembered Wildwind Bay breathing.
He pushed his chair back, came around the table, and sat next to her. “I know this seems like the end of the world. But it’s not, I promise you. And there are much worse things than being in your second-choice caste. What you’re thinking about, child—you’ll be an outcaste. If you don’t go home, you’ll have no home to go to.”
“I already have no home to go to.”
“Agh!” He pushed his hand through his shoulder-length hair. “Listen to me! You’re running straight into the kind of trouble that can ruin your life.”
She frowned and looked away. Her life was already ruined; how much worse could it be?
“Outcastes have no protections,” he said urgently. “You won’t be able to get a legal job. No bank will hold your money or give you a loan. If you get in trouble with the law, you’ll have no caste to represent you at the tribunal or protect you if you go to prison. People, bad people, will use you because they can get away with it. There are children your age down at the docks, working under conditions that would crush the strongest Guard. The ones who aren’t strong enough for that steal and go to prison, or they sell their bodies instead.”
“They what?” That got her attention. She knew about pleasure houses, of course. But only adults worked in those.
He hesitated, his eyes saying what his emotions did not. “Not everyone has legal tastes. Pleasure houses only serve those who want to join with adults, but some people like children. And some people like to do things, horrible things, that no pleasure house would allow. That’s the risk you run, child.”
Outcaste: Book Six in the Chronicles of Alsea Page 3
