by S McPherson
‘You alright over there?’ Peter now asks as I drip wood glue onto the floor whilst staring blankly off into space. I quickly gather my thoughts and safely place the pot of glue back on the shelf, feeling slightly dizzy from the fumes.
‘Yes,’ I say with forced vigour. ‘A bit tired,’ and exhaling, I slump into one of the new chairs.
‘Lucky it’s lunch time, then.’ He gets to his feet and wipes his hands on the damp cloth in his jeans pocket.
‘What?’ I ask in surprise, my eyes darting back to the clock.
‘You really are tired.’ Peter laughs and I watch with unveiled enthusiasm as he leaves the room, followed by Charlie, Megan and Reese. I am alone. At last!
Immediately I turn to the staff computer on the desk in the corner. In moves I barely register, I make it over and plonk myself down in the swivel chair before it.
My heart seems to be in my throat as I anxiously drum on the base of the keyboard, watching the wheel spin on the computer screen, waiting for it to start up. When drumming fails to keep my hands busy, I flick a pen between my fingers instead.
At last, the screen comes to life and I hurriedly click on the white ‘F’ icon which takes me to the internet browser: ‘Feranvil First’. As soon as the search engine opens—a large, blinking eye that stares back at me from the centre of the page—my fingers react faster than my brain and I promptly type in the name ‘Michelle Tranzuta’.
It seems ages before any results appear, but when they do, I am not sure whether to be deflated or relieved. There are only two entries containing her name, the rest seemingly about her infamous father.
I opt for being relieved, that I won’t have to rifle through thousands of entries, and click on the top one, the one that reads: ‘A lover of Pets…Michelle Tranzuta…’ I wait, almost dizzy with expectation. Please say she is still alive and living in Islon. Please. Please. Please. The page opens and I skim what turns out to be some sort of news article. She supposedly opened a pet shop fourteen years ago, one in Islon, I note with glee. It is very successful, bla, bla, bla, daughter of the brilliant Michél Tranzuta etcetera. I reach the end of the article only to learn nothing more about Michelle. The journalist rambles on for ages about the shop and the idyllic street it’s on.
Flustered, I click on the second link, hoping it has something more useful. It does and my heart sinks when I notice the title: ‘Michelle Tranzuta, Deceased’. I don’t bother reading the rest of the piece. Clicking on the blue ‘c’ in the bottom corner of the page, I close the browser and shut down the computer.
Drat!
Later that day, I march with determination to the Bar and Grill where I told Nathaniel and Jude to meet me A.S.A.P. Buzzing with all I have to tell them—Tranzuta’s journal tucked firmly under my arm—I practically bowl over a leaving customer as I barge in through the Grill’s door.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble, squeezing passed and scanning the crowd inside. It seems like no matter what is going on in this world, or the next, Feranvil Farm Bar and Grill will always brim with cheerfulness. The duke box is playing its usual folk music and a few tequila-happy ladies are gyrating by the dance floor, sucking on lemons. I pucker my lips.
Then, spying Jude and Nathaniel in a booth on the far side, I press myself around the dancing throng, squeezing between cramped tables, and make my way over. As I approach, the boys immediately stop talking and turn to me, expectantly.
‘Well, if it isn’t Ms. Cryptic herself,’ Jude goads.
‘Shove over,’ I order, wriggling in beside him.
‘So?’ Nathaniel urges, ‘news from Coldivor?’
I roll my head from side to side, committing to neither ‘Yes’ nor ‘No’, but perhaps a ‘Sort of’. Planting the journal protectively between my thighs, I shrug off my cardigan. ‘Apparently, the Coltis plan to go to Vedark.’
‘Other realm travel?’ Jude gasps. ‘Have they finally made a gethadrox?’ His eyes are alight and I remember how much he knew about the portal and Spee’ads long before I did. It isn’t any wonder he is spouting off terminology and practically hopping in his seat.
‘There are other realms?’ Nathaniel gawks, looking as though the thought repels as much as attracts him. The contrast between their two reactions is almost comical.
‘According to Tranzuta,’ and I surreptitiously slip the journal onto the table, ‘there are nine: the Nynthst.’
I flick to the first page that says what I want to say far better than I ever could. Operation: Gethadrox. Agog, Jude pulls the book closer. Even Nathaniel is enthralled as they carefully leaf through the pages.
‘I’m taking this to the Coltis,’ I tell them. ‘Milo is meeting me at the next opening.’
A crooked smile snakes along Jude’s lips. ‘Brilliant.’
‘But, to do it, I’ll need your help.’
‘What can we do?’ Nathaniel asks.
‘This “Wood Security”,’ I say, making quotation marks with my fingers, ‘I don’t know exactly what they want, but I do know they’re willing to kill for it. I can’t risk them getting their hands on that,’ and I indicate the journal with a flick of my head.
‘So you need a couple of decoys.’ Nathaniel guesses. ‘Someone to throw them off your scent if they get too close.’
I shrug. ‘I figure it’s worth a shot.’
‘Leave it to us,’ Jude enthuses, pushing the journal back into my hands. ‘Shall we take the car again?’
‘No!’ Nathaniel and I yell in unison shuddering at the memory of last time.
‘I’ve started leaving just as the denomatrix changes colour and walking,’ I say. ‘Much easier.’
After making sure all the usual items are in my rucksack – extra batteries for the torch, snacks, water, pepper spray, kitchen knife – I carefully slide in Tranzuta’s notebook. Then, I wave my hand over the crystal ball as Milo instructed. Apparently, that’s sort of like leaving my webcam on and will allow him to show the Court this world without me having to be here to answer. I flick on my radio too, so the Coltis will be able to hear the language.
I smooth out my jacket, sling my bag strap over my shoulders and head out the door, treading with guarded eagerness. Everything seems significant tonight, every step weighted with purpose. It seems the passers-by murmur in hushed tones so they won’t disturb my thoughts. The rhythmic prance of the stallions and mares in the field is to remind me of freedom; to remind me of what Coldivor gave me and of what I hope, in some way to give them.
I hurry over the slick grass of the hill and skid down the other side, grinning when I near the farmhouse and see the boys waiting by the door.
My insides flutter, a part of me wishing I could be there when the Court sees the journal, but to be the one to deliver it will have to do. I arrive beside the boys, their eyes burning with rebellion. ‘Ready?’ I ask, pulling out my vial of elamine.
‘Born ready,’ Jude grins.
We tramp through the woods, stalking the twisting arrow of the gethamot as though our lives depend on it.
As we trundle down the bank of Beatrice brook, I cannot express enough how much I appreciate the boys being with me, pretty certain I wouldn’t have got this far without them. Their mundane chatter and easy-going air distract me from my real thoughts and of everything I stand to lose if the Court can’t make this gethadrox. Coldivor will never be safe. Consumed by war, I’ll be forgotten. I’ll live my life wondering if those I care for are still alive. And every night I’ll wait for the tinkle of the old crystal ball collecting dust in my closet. I gulp.
The sun is setting and I can already feel myself becoming more alert. As the sky darkens, I find myself searching for eyes beyond the bushes and feel as though my ears perked up, like an excited dog straining to hear the faintest sound.
‘I’m thinking we should perhaps have a duel,’ Jude says, brandishing an imaginary sword and jabbing at made-up opponents.
‘What?’ I splutter.
‘As a distraction, Nathaniel and I.’ Jude thrusts his ch
in at Nathaniel who accepts the challenge and pulls his own imagined sword from its sheath. He even goes as far as making sound effects as they swipe at one another, each with one arm curled in the air behind them, yelling things like ‘On guard, you scallywag’.
I grin and shake my head. ‘I’m not sure a fake battle will do the trick.’
Jude pauses, thoughtfully. ‘We’ll call it “Plan B”.’ he decides, and both boys sheath their weapons.
‘It’s always good to have a backup plan,’ Nathaniel agrees.
I look down at the gethamot, the arrow saying we should go left, away from the footpath. It is fairly dark now, under the cover of the trees, the smell of pine and earth thick in the air, and I pull out my torch, thankful when I see the boys each have their own.
Then there is a shuffling sound, one we all hear, and I quickly conceal the gethamot in my hand. The boys tense, stepping ahead as if to act as a shield. Lowering our lights, we see the gleam of another, heading towards us.
‘Who’s out there?’ calls a male voice. I am sure it’s a member of the Wood Security. I glance at the gethamot, its denomatrix getting lighter. I need to keep moving. As if reading my thoughts, Nathaniel nudges me on.
‘Go,’ he mouths.
I hesitate, feeling as though I am abandoning them even though that is our plan. They’re not in danger. I remind myself, you’re the one with the gethamot and Tranzuta’s journal.
There’s the rustle of leaves, then a large hand pushes its way through them and I sprint behind a tree, breathless and unsure what to do next.
‘What are you two doing out here?’ asks the voice. It is polite but wary. The beam of a torch passes over where I’m hidden and I pull in my shoulders, trying to make myself as small as possible.
‘Accidentally came off the footpath,’ I hear Jude reply, jovially. ‘Don’t suppose you could help us.’ I hear the boys moving away, their steps crunching in the distance, towards the guard.
‘I think it’s to the right,’ Nathaniel explains, ‘he thinks it’s straight ahead.’
‘Well, you’re both right,’ says the man, his tone now welcoming, and I can tell the boys have won him over, as he starts telling them which way is best.
As quietly as I can, I slide down the tree trunk and stealthily crawl away, mud caking my hands and leaves catching in my hair. All the while, I keep the gethamot safe, tapping against my chest. When I can no longer hear their voices, I shield my torch with my hand and peek at the device.
My heart lurches. The smoky arrow is still directing me but the denomatrix is turning to its final shade. I spring to my feet, torch out ahead, and dart through the woods, thrilled when the arrow twists and changes direction as swiftly as I do.
But then the arrow stops spinning, refusing to guide me. Why has it stopped? Flustered, I shake the device.
‘Come on,’ I will it, and then it hits me: I’m here. This is where the portal will open.
As if to confirm, the misty arrow fades and the vibrant green glow extends from the gethamot, stretching out to rip a hole between our two worlds.
Milo isn’t there.
My heart rate races even faster now. I press my hand over it, afraid of having a heart attack. Where is he?
Squinting through the teal swirls, feeling like the air is being sucked out of me and through the gateway, I see him, trying to race towards me as Rijjleton Guards pounce, pulling him to the ground. They jab at him with their spears and apparently block his magic with their shields. He shimmers blue as he gets to his feet, but a shield appears in front of him and he again falls to the ground. He isn’t going to make it and the gateway is getting smaller and smaller. Knowing I have to get this journal to the Court—not in two weeks but now—I charge into the swirls, praying I make it through before the portal snaps shut.
I topple onto luscious grass, a familiar scent greeting me: sweet, like honeysuckle—Taratesia.
Leaping to my feet, I bound towards Milo and the handful of guards.
‘Exlarvus,’ I bellow, thrusting out my hand, throwing one of the guards off his feet, hurtling through the air to land with a thump on the ground. Milo is only momentarily startled to see me, a wave of surprise, relief and finally love crossing his face.
The remaining guards turn on me, almost snarling.
‘You!’ one of them hisses, his beady eyes practically shining in the darkness.
I notice Milo has got to his feet, reaching for the fallen guard’s discarded shield. Time to put all of Jude’s teaching to the test, I tell myself as I wiggle my fingers, embracing the surge of power.
‘Get out of here!’ bellows one of the other guards, angrily thrusting his spear at my gut.
‘Iginassa,’ I intone, and the weapon sets ablaze, a wand of billowing flames. Yelping, the guard drops it, and I snatch a spear from one of his startled comrades. Growling ferociously, I point it at his throat, threateningly. He backs off, turns and flees.
The others lash out and I leap back, racking my brain for an incantation as their spears clank against mine. The ground now ablaze around us, I desperately fend them off, dancing around flames, sweat pouring from me.
There’s too many. Just as I’m about to fall, a shimmer of blue appears behind the guards, and there stands Milo, his eyes gleaming like blue stardust.
‘Iginassa,’ he hisses, and rays of blue stream from his eyes, and burst into cobalt flames that surround the Rijjleton Guards. I am amazed; he seems more powerful than I remember. I wasn’t even aware Teltreporthi’s could cast rays from their eyes. I suddenly feel hot—but not from the fire. The guards growl at first, then yelp, as they attempt to walk through the encircling blue flames. Milo keeps a shield up against them, as he walks over to me.
Without saying a thing, he pulls me onto my tiptoes, pressing his mouth to mine. He is breathing heavily and has to come up for air more than he normally would. Then I taste salt; sweat, I realise, and welcome its intoxicating tang. To say it aloud, I would sound like a crazy person, but in my mind, I feel it’s okay to confess that there is something oddly scintillating to me about Milo sweating.
The spear drops from my grasp and I drape my arms around him, the grunts and roars of the Rijjleton Guards slowly evaporating. When their sounds are no more, I realise Milo has magicked us away.
SCREAM
We arrive outside a great, stone building; wide at the mouth, narrowing to what looks like a needlepoint at the top, the occasional curved balcony on the higher levels. A great wall crowned with concrete thorns surrounds grounds of hexagonal stone and military cut grass. I recognise where we are and involuntarily shudder: the Courts of Coldivor. But this time we come here willingly. This time we come together, to spark a revolution.
‘All set?’ Milo breathes, and I nod. He takes my hand in his and leads me to the great door, pounding on it with his clenched fist. We wait, breathless. No one comes. He knocks again, harder this time. ‘Let us in.’ he calls. Once again, we wait and no one comes.
‘Maybe they went out,’ I snort.
He stares at me, head lowered, eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, they’re here.’ He turns to the door again, beating on it. His bicep bulges, almost ripping through his sleeve. ‘I know you know we’re here,’ he hollers.
I watch, enthralled and frightened. Milo seems fiercer, more rugged since I last saw him. I suppose an endless war will do that.
A loud clash and a swirl of amber startles us both.
‘Well, look who we have here.’
Before I have time to catch my breath, Lexovia is throwing her arms around me and I hold her close. I wasn’t aware of just how much I missed her until now. She is firmer than before, her muscles well defined, probably from all the battles and training, and her hair is a ghostly white. ‘It’s safe to say, I’m the only one happy to see you,’ she says as she steps back.
Milo grunts, clearly amused.
‘I know I said they wouldn’t care about your girlfriend, Milo, but I didn’t mean to bring her with you,’ she chides
.
‘It wasn’t planned, mate.’
‘I haven’t come emptyhanded, though,’ I add.
‘Oh?’ and Lexovia looks at me, intrigued.
I half smile in response.
‘Alright,’ and she purses her lips thoughtfully, ‘they sent me out to get you to leave, and quickly before they lock you both up.’ She lifts a lazy shoulder. ‘But I think I’m going to let you in.’
‘Well, aren’t you a darling?’ Milo smirks and she returns it. I suddenly get a glimpse of how the two of them must have been together in Thornton High; breaking the rules and forever in detention. The simple life…before all this.
Lexovia places her hand on the entrance door. Almost instantly, it vanishes with a disconcerting series of clanks, reappearing once we’ve walked across its threshold.
‘Honorary entry,’ she whispers. Even she seems a little nervous now and I unconsciously bite my bottom lip until it hurts. We have entered a great hall, dimly lit by candle light and torches that burn in brackets. A large stone table lies ahead of us and as we venture forwards, I notice the markings of Thornton High carved into it.
‘Isn’t that—’
‘Sir Thornton was a member of the Court; born and bred,’ Lexovia explains, seeing where I’m staring. ‘He designed this, the crest of Coldivor. And when he came of age, he decided to leave the Court and opened our school, using this as its emblem.’
I look to where the symbol of the Elentri should be and see that its eighth is blank.
‘They’ve removed the symbol of the Elentri?’ I murmur.
Lexovia’s sigh is weighted. ‘They thought we were all gone. Mrs Thor and the other Teltreporthis kept me hidden for a couple of years. It was only when I started school that people realised I existed.’
I’m speechless. It occurs to me that I know so little about my counterpart, how it must have been for her, losing her parents, her entire empire, and growing up in hiding; the last Elentrice.
