Such a Daring Endeavor

by Cortney Pearson

  Ren removes the potion Ayso gave us from his pocket—Illusio, she called it. Its rectangular shape fits perfectly in his palm, its edges rounded and solid. It has no label, but steam oozes from the cork like something possessed.

  He then takes another jar—empty this time—and uncorks the top with a soft pop. Tipping it to the other, he transfers half of the steaming liquid into the empty jar before handing it to me.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I exhale. This potion is dangerous. But it’s our best option. “As I’ll ever be.”

  The glass is cool under my touch, and while fear punches a hole in my chest I swat the unease away. Instead, I focus on my other worries. What if the Illusio doesn’t work? What if we get in, but can’t get back out again? Or the worst one of all—what if Talon is already dead?

  Acid builds in my throat. The dark stone terraces and rising spires of the Triad point upward, a veritable fortress barricading me in all the ways that matter.

  “Illusio,” Ren says to the jar as if introducing himself to it. A small trail of steam twists out from it in response.

  His hand shakes, and I don’t blame him. The last time he was here he didn’t belong to himself. And here he is, about to stroll right back in, relying on Ayso’s experimental concoction…

  “It will work,” I tell him, knowing it’s not enough. He gives me a small smile anyway, wagging the hand-sized jar before returning it to his jacket. More steam escapes as he does it. I tuck my own flat jar into my pants’ waistline before replacing my shirt—the jar will be too noticeable sticking out from the top of a pocket.

  “Why are you going along with this?” I ask him.

  Ren’s eyes soften, and he flicks my nose like he used to when we were little. Along with the gesture, his heat is reassuring. He’s here. He’s coming with me. “You’re my sister. And whether Haraway wanted to or not, he helped you.”

  “Ren,” I begin. I don’t want to sound like a coward. But knowing he may be just as nervous as I am strangely brings me comfort. “I’m glad you came with me.”

  He inclines his head and musses my hair. With a crouch, like he’s ready to spring, he peers around the corner.

  “Between Haraway’s skill, my knowledge of the route, and your magic, I don’t think getting out will be a problem.”

  “Ren?”

  “Ambry?” He mocks my name, letting me know he’s sick of talking. I know. We need to go. I inhale, deciding not to tell him the other issue plaguing me with regret. I left the teardrop back at Black Vault. “We’ll probably see Gwynn there,” I say instead.

  “I know,” he says, glaring out at the sea. “I saw her there every day. Of course she’ll be there.”

  I don’t have the heart to mention her name on his aud’s messager. Instead, I grip the jar.

  “Remember,” Ren says. “If anything happens, drink your Illusio and make for the Tapestry Hall. Sneak behind the fifth tapestry on the right. If we get separated, that’s where I”ll meet you.”

  I run back through the directions in my head and nod. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  ***

  Sweat collects in my palms and trickles down my back, while Ayso’s jar digs into my hip. I wait and gauge the steps. The forlorn glances of those who are lined up are so lifeless and bled of all hope, it’s not hard for me to cut in line. Like jumping rope, I wait to spring up with the next rotation and duck at the right time.

  Our line slows and narrows out until we march single-file toward the courtyard entrance. Several people shuffle to accommodate this, forcing Ren to step in several more places ahead of me. Angels.

  A beeping sound strikes with every forward step we take. I tiptoe upward and glimpse a bearded Arcaian soldier waving a small metal tube over people’s arms, his purple hand glowing with each swipe.

  According to Ayso, the Illusio will copy us. When we drink it, we’ll duplicate ourselves, leaving an imprint behind. The Arcaians will go after the shadow, giving the real Ren and me time to make our way to the dungeons. The biggest risk is that we have to make sure we leave the right part of ourselves behind. Unlike our illusions, we won’t fade after a few minutes.

  My throat shrinks. I can hardly breathe. This was the plan I agreed to, but reality has more force than a hard slap. Whether they catch me or my duplicate, they’ll know I have magic. They’ll try to take it again. My hand flies to my chest, but for the first time since we left Dircey and the others, I’m glad I left my teardrop behind. This is why I left it behind.

  We inch closer and closer as men and women are scanned and sent to various areas of the courtyard within for instructions and weapon distribution.

  Screams break out every minute or so from the extraction area to my right, every time the line moves forward. I try not to think about it, but screams are pretty hard to ignore.

  My determination falters. I urge my feet to move, though I want nothing more than to break for it. I could whip out some magic, bust my way through, but that would draw far too much attention. I need to get both Ren and Talon—and myself—back out again. Alive, preferably.

  “Clean,” says the Arc at the door as each person passes and we all take another step forward. “Clean.” Scan. “Clean.”

  This is worse than Tyrus waiting to scan us back at pre-col after Black Vault. One more step and it’s Ren. Is he ready?

  Am I?

  Ayso’s words do little to comfort me. “How do we know we’ll be leaving the impression behind, and not the real us?” I asked her.

  “The illusion will copy you exactly as you are when you drink the potion,” she said. “And just as you want to be sure you don’t get left behind, well… The illusion won’t want to be left behind either. It’s an exact copy of you. It’s a matter of beating the illusion before it overtakes you and gets itself out first.”

  Ayso had a delicate, intellectual look about her. With her broad, porcelain cheeks and inquisitive brown eyes, her long lashes and the single crooked tooth in the front of her mouth when she smiled. There was something childlike about her eagerness to help us.

  Ren trusted her. That meant I should trust her too. Why doesn’t that make me feel any better about this?

  I pull out the jar. Beat the illusion, I tell myself, hearing Ayso’s warning one final time. Get yourself out first. Ignoring the escaping steam, I quickly uncork it and duck down into a strange, sideways hunch.

  To you, Talon. I ram aside my fears and tip the jar to my lips.

  The liquid is cold. Smoke cloaks my tongue like I’ve just licked charred meat. Cinnamon drizzles after, and the strange combination clacks on my taste buds. Wincing, I work my tongue several times while the smoke and cinnamon spread through me, trickling through my teeth to seep up into my skull and down my throat, weaving in and out through the crevices in my bones like a series of threads zigzagging through a loom.

  Then the pressure hits, all at once, crashing into me with the next advancing step. I stumble into the back of the man in front of me, gripping his shirt for balance. Several people glance back at me while more shouting ensues ahead.

  “This one’s dirty!” the soldier cries. I try to stay focused, to regain my balance, to release the man currently helping me stand. If there’s a duplicate of my brother ahead, I can’t tell, but sure enough, the soldiers stop when they recognize him.

  Ren.

  “You just couldn’t get enough, could you, Csille?” one says before slamming a fist to Ren’s gut and shouting over his shoulder. “That means his sister could be close. Call her!”

  Ren fights against their grips, but the soldiers hold him fast. One of them plunges a glowing dazeblade right into Ren’s chest. “Officer’s orders,” the soldier says, leering in Ren’s face as he goggles over the injury. Blood gushes from his chest. “You should have known not to come back here.”

  The sight hits me as though the knife has gone into me instead. I struggle for breath; the air expels from my lungs. Something pulls at my skin, tearing it from my bone
s. It’s as though two halves make up the whole of me, and they’re slowly being drawn, snipping each connecting edge. I can’t concentrate—Ren is being hurt. Ren is—

  It’s his duplicate. It’s got to be, please tell me it’s his duplicate.

  The snipping separates my awareness, my motions, until I finally fall, scuffing the heels of my hands. The edges of my body burn as surely as meat cooked too close to the flame.

  Colors burst across my vision. I’m on the ground with the stark realization that I’ve missed something. A girl wearing a purple shirt and jeans exactly like mine dashes toward a passing crowd in the street, her honey blonde hair flapping behind her.

  Oh no.

  My veins buzz, whirring like a wind-up toy. From down here I see through the line-up of legs. The soldiers ahead begin kicking Ren’s lifeless body, laughing all the while until the bloodied image of Ren fades like ash in the wind.

  “What the vreck?” a soldier stammers.

  Ren’s illusion faded. Mine took off. It’s now or never.

  Taking advantage of their distraction, I push past them like a runner at the crack of a whip and break for the gap behind them, no duplicate to be left behind.

  “Hey!” Several soldiers veer around. A peculiar thrumming hammers in my veins, clouding my brain, but still, I run straight for the palace’s open doors at the top of the courtyard.

  A high-vaulted ceiling angles above. The mist of magic in my bones staggers as I move sluggishly, hugging my arms to my busy chest. I take the left corridor, push into a hidden alcove in the stone wall, and close my eyes.

  At least Ren got away. At least he is safe.

  Conditioned air cools my skin. Blood speeds along, going way too fast for how little I’m moving. I grasp onto the magic, praising the angels I still have mine.

  A hand claws around my elbow, and my eyes snap open. A boy no older than I am with dark hair and hazel eyes raises an eyebrow at me, his full lips drawn into a smirk. He wears the Arcaian khaki, and a mole dots the space between his mouth and his nose. His eyes follow mine as I glance down to his hand cutting off my circulation.

  “Think you can use magic around here and not be noticed? Especially your inborn magic?”

  A shorter soldier with a shaved head and earrings in each ear snickers from behind the one gripping me. He nudges past, looking me over. The Xian claw at his belt taps its metal fingers in anticipation.

  “That’s odd,” says the shorter, his brows drawn. “I could have sworn I just saw her across the street.”

  I pull against his grasp, sweat beading down my back. He steps closer.

  “It’s a replication,” says the one, pulling a dazeblade from his belt. He presses it against my side with a smart sting and I inhale through my teeth. “Her brother’s faded before we finished with him. Which means—”

  “He’s somewhere in the palace,” the other finishes, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Search him out.”

  I grit my jaw and jerk away, attempting to slip free. The soldier’s knife stabs harder into my side, though not enough to pierce, and he pulls me tight against him once more. His hot breath hits my cheek.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I say, my brain racing, shoving against him. His blade digs in harder. If Ren’s replica faded, that means mine must have too.

  An elegantly carved door to the right of a tapestry with an embroidered set of mountains creaks open, and Gwynn steps out. She wears a stately khaki uniform, dressier than the others, with a higher waistline making the bottom of the shirt flare out just slightly. Her hair hangs in loose curls, pulled back with a teasing segment dangling down one side of her face.

  “Actually,” says Gwynn, a gleam in her eyes. “They do.”

  The last time we were in the same room, she overlooked my brother like he was nothing more than dross beneath her feet; she simpered at Tyrus, screeched how my magic was her right, and then she stabbed a Xian claw into my leg.

  But that wasn’t her; it couldn’t be. Tyrus has some kind of hold over her, I know it.

  Ren’s insistance that she’s changed thrums at the back of my mind, but he’s wrong. This is Gwynn. This is my best friend.

  I fight against my captor, wedging my knee upward between his, but I’m not fast enough. He dodges, shoving me back into the arms of the shorter man with the earrings, who twines my arms backward, pulling at my sockets. Gwynn clacks forward and spears purple magic from her tainted hands. Fiery electricity circles my wrists, and I hold back a shriek. I try to writhe, but she’s holding me fast.

  Gwynn walks alongside me, her magic a chain between us.

  “Gwynn,” I begin.

  “Shh.” Her eyes gleam despite the reproach. Then she speaks to the servant over my shoulder. “Release her, Duncan.”

  Duncan loosens his grip. And despite Gwynn’s magic tethering me to her, I relax, allowing her to guide me.

  She looks older, if possible, than the last time I saw her a few days ago when she had my hands strapped to a table so she could drive a claw into my leg. That wasn’t her, I tell myself. She wouldn’t have told her guard to release me if it was.

  She leads me through the door she exited, waiting for Duncan to close the three of us in. Gwynn releases her magical hold on me, and relief instantly seeps into my wrists like ice. Where anyone else would have left the flesh rotted and bloody, a single red line is the only mark.

  Duncan takes his place before the door.

  An opulent desk is the room’s focal point. A quill and ink bottle stand in the corner—more for decoration than anything else, I suspect. A canopied bed lies within the wall to my right, as though a section was cut from the stone wall just to accommodate it. As I’m beginning to wonder what it is exactly she does at the palace, I rotate.

  A control panel like the one in the Station displays several different rooms above a collection of buttons and knobs. One square displays ranks of soldiers; bedrooms in another; dining areas, the extraction grounds outside. A series of small rooms with shackles and metal bars segregating the cells appears in the bottom right, zooming in every now and then on one particular occupant.

  Talon.

  He’s alive.

  Expectation rushes in. “Gwynn,” I say.

  “I knew you’d come for him,” she begins. “You can’t possibly think I wouldn’t have all the guards keep an eye out for you. He’s dying tomorrow morning, by the way,” Gwynn says, signaling Duncan behind her. He gives a nod and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  My gut twists. Tomorrow morning.

  “Please, Gwynn, help me get him out.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t do that,” she says, flopping herself on the high-backed chair near the desk. “Do you have any idea what Tyrus would’ve done if he caught you first?”

  I scrutinize her against this backdrop of grandeur. I wanted this for her, for her to escape her stepfather’s abuse, for her to find her emotions again, her freedom, her happiness. But not like this, not as nothing more than a puppet held captive by its strings.

  Any minute now she’ll drop the charade. She has to.

  “What happened, Gwynn? When you left my house that night, where did you go? How did you end up with him?”

  “He found me outside a shop in Jienke. An Arcaian was trying to rob me, and apparently Tyrus saw something in me that he liked. He ordered his soldier to stop and let me do whatever I wanted to him in exchange for the humiliation.” Her lips purse in some kind of secret delight.

  I blink at her. For someone who went from being nothing more than a moving, emotionless statue to suddenly having full range of passions, it only makes sense for her to latch onto the first person to show interest in her. Too bad that someone happened to be Tyrus Blinnsdale.

  I step across the rug toward her, an agonizing curl in my stomach. My voice lands softer than I mean for it to. “You were my best friend. What did Tyrus do to change you like this?”

  She coughs out a feeble snort of laughter. “You think
Tyrus is behind this? Tears are funny things, Ambry.” The bitterness in her voice swarms straight to my heart. She finally slides her self-righteous glance toward me. “They reveal the truth. And I saw the truth almost the instant I drank mine.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I saw how eager you were to let me go. You never wanted me around. I saw how you looked when Ren kissed me that night—how disgusted you were. And the way you rammed in to get to the gypsy even though you knew I wanted her tears. You just barged right in front of me!”

  “It wasn’t like that at all! I—”

  “I came to you for help! I heard through the way you used to talk to me. Back when I couldn’t feel like you could. You were always annoyed at me.”

  “I wasn’t annoyed at you! At the spell, Gwynn! At your stepdad, at what he was doing to you. I wanted you to feel what I did. You don’t understand—I didn’t want you to leave, don’t you get that?”

  Gwynn holds one hand in the other, sitting far too still for the anger in her tone. “And then it was much clearer when I saw you again. Tyrus told me you couldn’t be trusted. I hoped he was misled about the bounty he placed on you, but there you were with that traitor Haraway. And then you attacked me. And you wonder why I’m angry.”

  “Gwynn, please, I can explain.”

  She flutters a hand in my direction. “I don’t care anymore. Besides, you’ve elicited a kill-on-sight order from Tyrus. We’ve all received the mandate. I’m not about to disobey him.”

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I force softness to my voice though I want nothing more than to scream at her. “If that were true, then you would have your guard kill me instead of dragging me in here.”

  She lifts the hand she’s been cradling. It glows a soiled, vibrant purple, and her eyes flicker with a devious glint. “That’s the thing. Why would I let someone else do it when I could do it myself?”

  I call my magic forward carefully, letting it sizzle just below the surface, and with it, my hope rematerializes. She hasn’t Proned the room. It’s all so Duncan can hear outside the door and report back to Tyrus, nothing more.