by Daryl Banner
“I really won’t hurt you,” he promises. “I have no intention. I … I don’t even know who you are.”
The girl whispers. Link doesn’t understand anything she says. Through the distortion of the water, he thinks he sees her hands go up to her mouth as she hisses into her fingers.
Then the water stops pouring at once. The curtain dropped, the two stare at one another across the canal.
Her Legacy is in water, he realizes, staring at her in wonder. And she is quite a curious sight to behold, indeed. She doesn’t have a single hair on her smooth, spritely head. The girl’s eyes are beautiful and vibrant, perhaps even more so with the lack of hair. And despite them being strange and curious and far apart, Link finds them utterly hypnotizing, like he could stare into them forever. Her eyelashes are long, giving her a sweet, fragile appearance. The only bit of clothing she wears is a slip of fabric to cover her full breasts and another that hangs off her hips. She has nothing on her petite hands or feet.
The room fills with silence and peace, the water below having been stilled by her words and the water above no longer pouring.
He’s stunned by her ethereal beauty. Maybe she is one of those exotic women from the second ward who know other languages, far from home. He had heard the girl say a word or two that he didn’t understand. That was right about when the ceiling caved in on him. “M-My name is Link.”
The girl says nothing in return. She only watches him, though now she appears somewhat less afraid. Her lips are parted with the possibility of wanting to say something, but she doesn’t. She only breathes softly, one hand on her chest, as if to express her caution, the other hanging loosely by her side.
“I … I was separated from my friends,” he goes on. “I came here with two … well, with three of my friends. We were looking for something in the Waterways. Well, someone. Kinda.”
She still says nothing.
“I heard singing.” Link catches himself wringing his hands, then lets them settle by his sides. “I felt compelled to follow it. The tune was familiar, actually. Was that … Was that you singing?”
Her eyes soften and her breaths come slower. She seems curious and attentive. Link can’t tell if she’s coming to trust him, or might still run if he tries to approach her. For all he knows, she doesn’t even understand a word he’s saying.
“You have a beautiful voice,” he tells her.
“Thank you.”
Link lifts his eyebrows, startled by her unexpected answer. The sound of her voice is musical in itself—crystalline and smooth. He is awed at once, hearing her unusual voice. “Oh. So you do speak my language. M-My name is Link,” he says again, then extends a hand.
The girl stays right where she is. Her wide eyes flit downward. Link realizes how foolish he must look, reaching out for a handshake while he’s halfway across the room.
He drops his arm when he realizes she’s not taking it. “Do you live down here?” he asks. “W-With the water? Is it because of your Legacy?”
She shrugs. The gesture is oddly casual.
Link feels lightened at once. “Maybe you are lost too, then. Lost like me. Lost like … like the person I’m looking for.”
“Is the person your friend?”
Hearing her voice again sends chills of delight up his arms. “Um, yes,” he says, figuring it a better answer than the full explanation, which he’s not sure he even wants to believe. “I have a strong feeling that she’s down here in the … canals.”
“I’m sorry.”
Link lifts his eyebrows. “For what?”
“For hurting you. And for your missing friend.” She frowns, her big, gorgeous eyes hypnotizing Link even when they’re sullen.
“It’s okay,” Link assures her. “I’m … strong.” He’s never felt it appropriate to say that about himself, ever. He’s always been the smallest of his brothers, and has never felt strong or big or powerful. “Where are you from? The ninth?” She shrugs again. “I’m from the ninth,” Link volunteers, “but I don’t know these parts of the tunnels. My … f-friend could be anywhere. She can be—”
“Do you need help finding her?”
Her voice is so kind and genuine, untouched by the heaviness of hardened slummers. She’s a girl of the Waterways, Link decides. Orphaned and on her own. She’s not a Goddess. Quit thinking it. I know it’s what you’re thinking, foolish self. “If you know your way around these tunnels, I … I think I could definitely use the guidance. You’re very kind to offer.”
She doesn’t smile, but her eyes seem to. “Thank you, Link.”
Perhaps she’ll just tell me she’s a Goddess. Would it be that easy? “W-What do I call you?” he asks tentatively.
“Faery.”
He smiles at that. He isn’t sure what name he expected, but it certainly wasn’t Faery. She pronounces it with a strong emphasis on both syllables: Fay-Ree.
“Faery,” he repeats back to her. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, Link. And thank you for—”
Before her words are finished, a light appears in the tunnel leading out of the domed room. Link and Faery back away from the approaching light, wary at once. It is from a torch, glowing and fiery and dancing. It lights up two faces.
Ames and Baal. “I don’t believe it …” murmurs Baal.
“That’s her?” blurts Ames, his eyes wide and unblinking. “That’s the Goddess?”
Faery grips Link at once, half-hidden behind him and trembling.
And now it is Link who experiences a storm of self-doubts and confusion in his mind. They think she’s the Goddess, too. Am I being completely naïve? Am I a fool not to see what’s so clearly in front of me?
Or rather, directly behind me? “She’s lost down here,” Link tells them, his voice faltering slightly. “She’s … going to help us.”
He still feels Faery trembling behind him. Why is she scared at all, after the power she displayed to him? She has the seemingly infinite command of water at her grasp. Can’t she instantly drown the ones who threaten her? If Link was her, he certainly wouldn’t be afraid of a middle-aged time-walker and a wimpy-looking half-burnt boy with a torch.
“She’s not a Goddess,” Link states with more confidence. “Does she look like a damn Goddess to you?”
The two stare at him through the dancing torchlight, their wide-eyed expressions seeming to answer his question. Link would be a fool not to acknowledge the girl’s odd beauty and otherworldliness himself, but he hardly thinks that it proves she’s one of the Sisters.
Faery whispers into his ear, “Your missing friend is a Goddess?”
Now it’s Link’s turn to shrug lightly. “I guess so. Something like that.”
Faery smiles. She wears the expression adorably, making Link’s heart light at once. “This sounds like fun!” she sings privately to him.
Link feels warmed by her clinging to him, giving him a heroic sense of pride and power. She trusts me. I am her defender, this girl of the Waterways with the power of water at her disposal—a true and powerful Elementalist.
But if there is a tiny possibility that this strange girl could be the Goddess—pieces of his vision having led him directly to her, where she was humming the very song he’d heard when his first life ended and this second life began—he’s not sure he’s ready to give her up so easily to Baal. I wonder if I can trust him any more than I could trust his brother.
Link faces the others with a plan. “It’s possible that the Goddess is down here. But … maybe we’re not in the right spot. We should consider the other parts of my vision and … maybe … we can find her in the Dark Abandon.” He spontaneously borrows a suspicion that Baron had had before. “I s-saw darkness when I was drowned. Lots of darkness. I saw ghostly figures, too. It makes sense to me that—”
“You take me for a fool, Link?” asks Baal.
The question comes out sounding oddly polite. Link lifts his eyebrows, unsure what to make of it. “Not at all. It’s the truth. I saw darknes
s and three ghostly figures that may or may not have been the Sisters. They looked like the murals of the Sisters at The Brae.”
“He tells it right,” confirms Ames, his suspicious eyes studying Link’s from across the room, and for a moment, Link can’t tell if Ames is catching on to Link’s guardedness and is playing along, or if he is just as easily falling victim to Link’s game with Baal, assuming the girl to be just a girl and nothing more. “B-Back in the Waterways in our own time. He mentioned three figures in his vision …”
“Ghostly figures,” corrects Link. “And they were Three Goddess, most likely, and they were in the dark.” Link lifts his chin to appear far more brave than he feels. “I think the Dark Abandon is our place.”
Baal’s eyes, heavy-lidded and reserved, speak a thousand words that his twitching, thin-lipped mouth cannot. After the pummeling sound of water gushes in their ears for a solid minute, the man finally gives a curt nod. “Very well. We will make for the Abandon, then. Your new … friend … can help guide the way there, yes? Your girl of the canals?” he asks, his words clipped.
Link fears his ploy is not starting on a strong foot. Faery holds on to Link tightly, which warms him. He turns his head slightly, leaning into her. “Would you … like to help us find a Goddess? Your Legacy of water could prove really useful.”
Her eyes seem doubtful, and for a worried second, Link assumes that she’s changed her mind. But to his surprise, she nods meekly.
Ames waves his torch, impatient. “This way, then. We found a path around the cave-in.”
The moment Link takes a step toward his friends, he finds Faery joined to him like an article of clothing, and her hand shoots out to take his. He smiles mutely, accepting the grip and feeling like a sort of guardian over her—this strange, beautiful girl of the canals. He joins Ames and Baal who lead the way into the jagged shadows.
Only when the darkness swallows them whole does Link feel the invisible brushing of yet another presence at his side. He allows himself a private sigh of relief.
0177 Wick
They pause again in the eleventh by a barred sewer opening, through which they hear the endless rushing of water. The noise of the water and of the coughs of Juston’s Legacy seem to cancel one another out.
“We can’t sleep yet,” murmurs Athan in Wick’s ear, stirring him from a half-remembered dream of a river, the sound of rushing water in his ears. “Just a bit farther before we meet up with Arrow, yes?”
And even farther than we’d planned, Wick would grumpily spit back, but he hasn’t the energy. Arrow and Prat had relocated back to the Noodle Shop at the end of ninth, lengthening Wick, Athan, and Lionis’s journey by the distance of two entire railways. Every alley they pass, Wick mourns, thinking it the perfect place to put down his head and drift away. So furious is he at himself for having this most inconvenient condition.
Yes, that’s what he calls it. It isn’t his Legacy anymore. It’s an illness, a disability, a broken part of him that doesn’t conform with all the rest of the citizenry of Atlas. “Why?” he muses out loud as they stagger down a backstreet of the tenth. “Why dreams? Why sleep? Why the curse …?”
Lionis hasn’t said a word since their fight in that underpass. He breathes funny now, his nose stopped up with dried blood and likely broken, if that cracking sound when Wick’s fist met his face was any indication. Wick hardly recalls the fight at all; it’s like some bizarre dream he had days ago. Twice he’s fought an instinct to ask Lionis what happened—until he remembers what he said. Those words, I’ll never forgive him for. How dare he think he can get away with any thought he lets fly from his stupid, arrogant mouth. Juston’s body is now slung over Athan’s shoulder like a sack of meat from the ninth ward market, his arms dangling down and his Legacy coughing out a sudden, startling noise every few paces. The boys have since grown used to it, and no rogue in the night has disturbed them.
“Broken broadcast,” murmurs Wick sleepily. “Just like one.”
“What?”
“The noise. Juston.” Wick staggers, nearly colliding into a trash bin, then rights himself and keeps up with the others. “He sounds like a … just like a broken broadcast.”
The boys pay little mind to Wick’s half-asleep mutterings, much to Wick’s comfort. For most of the way, they’re silent. Twice, Lionis offers to share the weight of Juston’s body with Athan, to which he seems quite grateful, and though it makes the endeavor of carrying Juston a touch more awkward, it also makes the poor boy lighter.
When the familiar street looms ahead, Wick feels his heart grow as weightless as a bug bouncing from plant to plant in the Greens. The boys turn onto the street that was once their home away from home. “Arrow,” moans Wick drunkenly, hardly able to lift his voice enough to make a shout. “Arrow. Please. Let us … Let us in.”
Arrow is at the front glass doors in five seconds, pushing it open to let in three exhausted boys and a friend’s corpse. Juston is laid across one of the booths in the Noodle Shop, and Athan and Lionis stare at him a while silently. He could be mistaken as a boy who’s been knocked unconscious; it’s the closest thing to sleep that anyone above the age of two can hope for.
Except for Anwick Lesser of the ninth, who curls up in a dusty booth at the opposite end of the restaurant and shoves his red hoodie under his head for a pillow. The world is gone the very second he closes his heavy eyes.
0178 Athan
Athan stands at the top of the stairs while Arrow fishes through a bucket of supplies for something to nurse Lionis’s wounds with. Prat sits at the old wooden table by the window, a big, dramatic bandage wrapped about his neck and shoulder. “Really bad gash,” Prat had explained earlier when Athan looked his way. “I was bleeding everywhere, Athan. I soaked clean through my shirt. The pain was unimaginable.” But now Prat simply sits there sullenly, his expression blank as he stares at the floor, not really seeing anything or moving at all. Athan suspects the news of Juston’s death has gutted him worse than he already was; they were quite close. Now, that gash on his neck seems long forgotten.
“Thanks,” mumbles Lionis as he applies the salve to his aching nose and bruised cheek. “No, I’ll do the bandage myself,” he insists when Arrow tries to do it for him, taking the supplies into the loft bathroom and shutting the door partway, a crack open for light. Arrow heads downstairs to check on Wick and the doors.
Athan sits across from Prat, but his eyes are on the pretty girl on the other side of the room. “Who’s she?”
“Ivy,” Prat answers quietly, though Athan suspects his voice carries across the whole silent room anyway. “Arrow had saved her from … from the red light,” he adds with a hush.
Athan lifts a dubious brow. “How is that possible?”
“After it struck,” Prat clarifies. “She fainted. He carried her to the Warden’s tower. The girl is immune to fire.”
“Wow. That’s quite a Legacy.” Athan observes her. Ivy’s one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen, even more so than some of the dolled-up flashily-adorned Lifted girlfriends his sister Janna used to bring to the house. “She need never fear the Finger Of Madness.”
“Oh, but she’ll fear it the same,” whispers Prat, leaning over the table and causing his bandage to crinkle. “It took her whole family from her. She’s the last surviving one.”
The news sits cold in Athan’s belly. I suppose I could relate to that, he muses, surveying her once more with a new understanding.
Arrow returns from downstairs. “Exits are secured. Wick is still asleep.” He stops at the top step. “Any idea how long we need to wait for him to finish his … rest?”
“He’ll sleep for several more hours,” explains Athan. Though he doubts he needs to, he is the one who’s with Wick during all of his hours of slumber, and the most of what people think about sleep is assumed from the patterns of babies and toddlers. “Six to seven or so, usually. Maybe longer. He’s been through a lot.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” mumbles Prat
, speaking of his friend Juston.
Arrow takes a step toward the table. “Did Wick tell you what happened? At the warehouse?”
Athan shakes his head no. “Lionis and I found the whole thing collapsed. We searched the area for an eternity, and that search led me to the Dark Abandon where I found him and Juston. We couldn’t leave the body.” Athan sighs, leaning his back against the window, the chair creaking in the effort. He lifts his face to Prat. “We thought we might find an Ashery and burn his body. Do you know where his family lives?”
Prat nods. “Yeah. Assuming they’re … still there.”
“I wonder if we might do the same for Victra,” Athan offers.
Lionis’s sudden voice at the bathroom door catches them all by surprise. “Where is Victra?”
Arrow turns from the table to face him. A thick silence sits upon the room, a silence through which no answer seems to come. Prat and Athan share a puzzled look. The pretty girl Ivy in the corner doesn’t move, her shimmering eyes fixed on Arrow and too long awaiting an answer.
“So?” prompts Lionis curtly. “Where is she?”
Arrow sputters, “I … I told Athan that she’d—”
“I know she didn’t make it, Arrow. I am asking about her body. So we can burn her and give her ashes to her family, Arrow. You know. To honor her. Where is she?”
Arrow gives a tiny uncomfortable shrug. “I …” He makes an odd sound with his throat—half a swallow, half a grunt—and then he says, “I … I was being shot at. They were attacking us. I … I had to—”
“You just left her?”
His voice is frosty, as if he’s borrowing the tone from every admonishing, disappointed professor that has ever stood before a classroom in all the schools of Atlas. It’s the tone of Athan’s mother’s voice when she reprimanded him for his questionable choices in behavior. Athan feels a stab of indignance on Arrow’s behalf as he considers the hypocrisy. You had wanted to leave Juston behind …
