by Ted Sanders
“Falo,” Horace interrupted.
“Sil’falo Teneves. The maker of the Fel’Daera. That was her name.”
The maker of the Fel’Daera. Sil’falo Teneves. “What did she . . . ?”
“You want to know what she looked like,” Horace’s mother said. “You’ve seen the Riven, and you’re wondering if Falo looked like that.”
Horace could only nod.
“Have you ever encountered a Mordin?”
An image of Dr. Jericho rose up in Horace’s mind, impossibly thin and monstrously tall, with his cruel face and savage hands. Much taller than ordinary Riven, the Mordin were fearsome and relentless hunters of Tanu, and Dr. Jericho was perhaps the most fearsome and relentless of all. Worse, he had a particular skill for being able to sense and track the Fel’Daera. Horace’s skin went cold, remembering his last encounter with Dr. Jericho. “Yes. Very much so.”
His mother pressed her eyes closed for a moment and then looked out the window. “Well,” she said. “Let’s just say that Sil’falo didn’t . . . feel like a Mordin does, or the way the rest of the Riven do, even though she looked similar. Falo was beautiful, in a way, if you can imagine such a thing. The Altari are tall, and long limbed, but full of light and life in a way the Riven aren’t.” She went on gazing across the lawn for several more seconds and then took a deep breath. “But anyway. Falo brought these Tanu to the Warren. Some of the Tan’layn were quite unusual, powerful. A few of them were her own creations that she’d somehow managed to track down. There were three in particular, really serious instruments. The Laithe, the Box of Promises, and—”
“Wait,” Horace said. “The Laithe.” He remembered the tiny, miraculous globe from the House of Answers, the warehouse where he’d found the Fel’Daera. The same globe he’d later seen on Mr. Meister’s desk. “The Laithe of Teneves, right? She made that?”
“Yes. You know it?”
Horace nodded. “I think so. I think it was one of the other Tan’layn there when I found the Fel’Daera.”
His mother considered this thoughtfully. “It makes sense that Mr. Meister might present them both to you. The box and the Laithe had the same Maker. And I suppose they are similar, in a way.”
“In what way?” asked Horace.
But his mother shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. Tuners aren’t supposed to reveal the inner workings of the instruments they cleanse. But let me finish. All these Tan’layn that Falo brought were in serious need of tuning—especially the Fel’Daera and the Laithe. Messy, scarred up, badly imprinted, the Medium knotted and torn inside.”
Horace shifted in his seat uncomfortably, rubbing his thumb across the lid of the box, but his mother seemed not to notice, caught up in her memories. Chloe shot him a sympathetic glance. “Mr. Meister brought me to the Warren to tune the box and the globe, but . . . it was hopeless. Not only were they wrecks, but they were the most complex instruments I’d ever seen. I worked on the Fel’Daera like a dozen times, with several different harps, but I couldn’t do a thing. Same thing with the Laithe. Falo felt sorry for me, I think.” She cocked her head, her voice suddenly dreamy. “She was nice to me, which meant a lot. I was probably fourteen at the time. Every kindness loomed large.”
“So if you didn’t tune the Fel’Daera, who did?” asked Horace.
His mother absently plucked a string of her harp. “There was another Tuner working for the Wardens, a girl four or five years younger than me. At first, she didn’t have any more luck with the Fel’Daera than I did, even though she was more talented. But Falo had brought an unfamiliar harp with her. Very old. Very powerful. They let this girl try it, and . . .” She shook her head in rueful admiration, looking down at the Fel’Daera. “I watched her tune the box. What she did with that harp was so complicated I couldn’t even follow. Afterward, I tried to use it to tune the Laithe, but the harp was beyond me. Too many threads—far too many, more of a cloud, really. And the threads had to be worked with the mind instead of the hands. I was totally lost. But the other girl took over for me, and she tuned the Laithe easily. I was so embarrassed. I felt like an amateur.” To Horace’s surprise, a little bit of blush rose in her cheeks.
Chloe sat up. “Well, I don’t know about this other girl, Mrs. Andrews, but I just want to say that however badass I thought you were before, you’re like twice as badass now.”
Horace’s mother laughed merrily. “Thank you, Chloe. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do want you both to be impressed. Not by me, necessarily, but by Tuners in general.”
“Why?” said Horace.
“Just for example?” His mother leaned forward, her face suddenly serious. She placed all ten fingers on the threads in some complex symmetry he couldn’t quite discern, adjusting their positions meticulously. Then she glanced up at him and pushed inward all at once.
The Fel’Daera, a constant presence in Horace’s mind, instantly vanished from his thoughts. He heard himself let out a choking gasp. He could still see the box, there his hands, but he couldn’t feel it. He started to drift into a familiar sick gray—this was just like passing through the Nevren. The Nevren was a kind of energy field that the Wardens used to protect the entrances to their strongholds. Within it, Keepers were completely cut off from their Tan’ji, unable to use its power or even sense its presence. Horace was feeling that now. He heard Chloe speak, a sludgy drawl of concern that he couldn’t comprehend. But before he sank too deep into the void, the box was back again. The connection coursed through him once more.
His mother pulled her hands away from the harp and looked at him ruefully. “Sorry,” she said. “I know that doesn’t feel good.”
“You severed him?” Chloe asked sharply, sounding shocked.
“Yes. We Tuners can manipulate the Medium, remember? We can even cut it off completely. For a while, anyway—it takes effort to keep it up.”
Horace looked at the harp with renewed respect. “Mrs. Hapsteade told us that if a Keeper stays severed for too long, they can become dispossessed. Permanently cut off from their Tan’ji. Can a Tuner do that too?”
Chloe’s face was rigid, her gaze distant.
“Not me,” Horace’s mother said. She gestured to the bouquet of daisies on the table, glowing in the afternoon sun. “Think of it this way. Imagine that the connection between you and your instrument is one of these daisies. The Medium is the sun, bringing power and life. Cutting off the flow of the Medium is like blocking out the sun. This is severing.” She cupped her hands around a single flower, encasing it in darkness. “The flower starts to wilt, but usually no real damage is done. If it stays in the darkness long enough, however, the flower—the bond—will die completely. That’s dispossession, and it is permanent.” She dropped her hands. “I’m not strong enough to sever a Keeper for so long that they become dispossessed. Especially not with anything as complicated as the box, or the dragonfly. But the best Tuners could certainly do it, if it was required.”
“Like the girl you worked with,” Horace suggested.
“Yes. Also, you should know that dispossession isn’t the worst thing a Tuner can do to you.”
“It’s not?” Horace said. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than losing the bond permanently. And the way he understood it, Keepers didn’t generally survive being dispossessed.
“No.” His mother grabbed a daisy by the stem. “The very strongest Tuners could grab hold of the bond directly and tear it apart by force.” With a savage flick of her thumb, she popped the head of the daisy completely loose. It tumbled onto the table. “Cleaving, they call it. Supposedly the agony is unimaginable.”
Horace realized his face was frozen in horror. He smoothed it and resisted the urge to clasp the box to his chest. Why had no one told them about this before? He expected Chloe to be just as outraged, but she hardly seemed to be listening, still lost in some dark thought.
“Cleaving,” Horace said, looking at the decapitated flower head. “So basically, Tuners are potentially very bad news.�
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“Potentially, yes.”
“What about the Riven? Are any of them Tuners?” he asked.
“Not technically, no. You need the Wardens to become a Tuner. You need Mr. Meister.”
Chloe stirred. “Why?”
Horace’s mom hesitated. A shadow seemed to flit across her face, and then she said, “It doesn’t matter. The point is that without Mr. Meister, none of the Riven, as far as I know, can become Tuners. But remember . . . that doesn’t mean they don’t have any Tuners on their side.”
Horace understood. He remembered Ingrid, the flute-playing former Warden who had last been seen in the nest, right by Dr. Jericho’s side. A traitor. “How many Tuners are there?” he asked.
“Not very many, I think. I’ve only met three others.”
“But they were friendly, right?” Chloe asked.
“Friendly, yes, but . . . there were issues with the girl who tuned the Fel’Daera.”
“What kind of issues?” asked Horace.
“Well, she kept using that same crazy harp, off and on, for a couple of years afterward. But it was too strong, even for her. She couldn’t totally control it. She was pretty temperamental to begin with, and when she got angry or frustrated, those emotions would come out through the harp. She would sever people—just for a second, but with no warning, for no reason. She’d be tuning, and all of a sudden it’d be like the power went out, for every Tan’ji in the area. Heck, I couldn’t do that, no matter how hard I tried.” She rocked her harp absently on the tabletop. “Thank god no one ever taught her how to cleave.”
“So what happened to her?” asked Horace.
“She ran away. Or she was banished, depending on how you look at it.”
“Banished,” said Chloe. “By Mr. Meister, you mean.”
“Yes.” Horace’s mother frowned, remembering. “Being a Tuner isn’t easy. Since we’re not Tan’ji, our instruments aren’t really ours to keep. The only reason I still have mine is because Mr. Meister let me take it when I left. And I think he did that only because he felt guilty about what happened with the other girl.”
“Why did he banish her?” asked Horace.
“She wasn’t happy being a Tuner. She wanted to be a Keeper. After she got a taste of this new harp that only she could use, she started to act like she was Tan’ji. She actually seemed to think she could become Tan’ji, if only Mr. Meister would let her keep the harp. But Mr. Meister would never let us take the harps home with us. He was always reminding us that the harps weren’t ours, and he would only let us use them in the Warren. She blamed him for the problems she had controlling the harp—she was sure there was a way to fix it.” Her voice grew stronger, more agitated. “She was so young. It wasn’t fair what happened to her. Mr. Meister makes her a Tuner, and then he gives her this crazy powerful harp, and then he—” She stopped and shook her head, her eyes faraway.
“Is that why he banished her?” Chloe asked. “Because she wanted to keep the harp for herself?”
“Oh, it went way beyond wanting. One day, a couple of years after she tuned the Fel’Daera, she snuck into the Warren and she stole that harp. The Nevren is no obstacle when you’re not Tan’ji, so she just walked right in, took the harp, and walked back out again. She disappeared. The Wardens tried to track her down but couldn’t. So instead Mr. Meister banished her. Permanently.”
Horace frowned. “But . . . why banish her if she’d already run away?”
“For the Wardens, banishment isn’t just a warning not to come back, Horace. They make it so that you’re physically unable to ever find the Warren again.”
Horace and Chloe glanced at each other. It made sense that the Wardens had such a power, but Horace had never considered it before.
“Anyway,” his mother said, “I was deeply disenchanted when I learned that they’d banished her.” She tilted her head thoughtfully, as if measuring something inside herself. “She and I weren’t exactly friends—we didn’t hang out or anything—but we were . . . close, in our own way. And I was sixteen by then. It was easy to get passionate about things. I kind of drifted away from the Wardens not long after. I think Mr. Meister understood—he knew I was done.”
Chloe said, “And meanwhile, this girl is still out there somewhere—or woman, I guess.”
“I assume so. I never saw her again. I always wondered what she would do, once she realized she wasn’t going to magically become Tan’ji just by having that harp all to herself. She wanted so badly to be a Keeper, and she was sure there was a way. She was convinced the Wardens were holding out on her. Holding her down.”
“Do you think she still thinks that, wherever she is?” asked Horace.
“I don’t know. She was so stubborn, so fierce. I remember she had flaming red hair, and it suited her—like she would set fire to anything just to get what she wanted.” She looked out the window, across the lawn toward the sun. “But life passes. Obsessions fade. I genuinely hope, after all this time, that she’s found new things to fight for.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Traveling Companions
“WHAT DID YOU DO?” APRIL ASKED AGAIN, HER VOICE GOING—OR not going—out into the void. Red. Green. She was so cold. It was so cold without the vine. So cold and numb she couldn’t even remember what the vine was, or why she cared.
Something moved. Red hair. Isabel. That was a name. The name had done something—stolen something and left her alone—but why?
And then abruptly, warmth poured through her. As quickly as it had disappeared, the vine returned. She was April again. Arthur’s alert curiosity and the hum of the forest blossomed again in her mind. April took a deep breath and unclenched her fists.
Isabel was watching her, her face half angry and half apologetic. “You’re okay,” she said flatly.
“What did you do?” April asked for the third time, or maybe the first time. The wicker sphere—Miradel, that was its name—was small and dark again.
Isabel crossed her arms. “I told you to stop.”
“You cut me off,” said April.
“I warned you.”
“Yes, and I tried to stop. But I didn’t know you would do that. I didn’t know it was possible to do that.”
“Now you know,” Isabel said, wrapping her hand around Miradel.
April collected herself. She had to stay calm. She had to keep still. “I’m wondering what Miradel actually is,” she said quietly. “And if I’m an empath, what are you?”
“I’m—” Isabel began, and then started over. “Miradel is my harp. With it, I can protect you. But you have to listen to me.”
“And if I don’t, will you punish me by cutting me off again?”
“Severing isn’t a punishment. I told you—I’m trying to protect you, not hurt you.”
Except that it had hurt. Even the sound of the word itself was cruel—severing. April stood there in silence, letting her sour face speak for her.
Isabel shifted uncomfortably. “Look. I’m not going to apologize for severing you. I’m not even going to tell you it won’t happen again. And if that scares you, fine. Now you understand why the Riven fear me too.”
Comprehension dawned over April. “The Riven weren’t running from Arthur. They were running from you.”
Isabel shrugged. “The Riven enjoy being severed even less than you do.”
“But if they can be severed, that means they’re Keepers like us.”
“Not like us. They don’t call themselves Keepers. But yes, they are Tan’ji. And because they are Tan’ji, they fear me. Now you’ve got proof that I can help protect you while we’re together.”
“And if we’re not together?”
“The only way to be truly safe is to retrieve your missing piece. The sooner the better.” She turned to leave.
April clambered to her feet. She really did need Isabel’s help to find the missing piece, that much was becoming clear. But she also needed answers. “Truly safe, you say. I would like to know how, please. Specifically.”<
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Isabel hesitated, heaving a long sigh. Then she bustled back to April so fast that April almost recoiled. But instead of scolding her again, Isabel began to explain, her voice low and swift.
“The Riven that are hunting you now aren’t ordinary Riven. They’re Mordin—taller, fiercer, more cunning. They can see in the dark, can disguise themselves. Most importantly, they have instruments that make them especially good at sensing and tracking down Tan’ji. But you’re lucky. You’re an empath, and empaths aren’t easy to detect. Empaths are passive—receivers instead of transmitters—and ordinarily, even a Mordin might not sense one from more than a hundred feet away.” Her eyes flitted over the vine almost apologetically. “Ordinarily,” she repeated.
April soaked this in as Arthur rummaged through the underbrush. Trying not to sound sullen, she said, “So while I’m broken, I can’t use the vine at all, or the Mordin will hear me.”
“You can’t completely hide a broken Tan’ji from the Mordin,” Isabel replied. “Even if you never use the vine, your amputation is going to leave a faint trail. That’s not all bad—it means that taking little sips from the vine won’t make the situation much worse. But don’t get greedy. The harder you push your broken instrument, the louder you get. The more you struggle to bring an animal mind fully into your own, the more danger you’re in. And if you go so far that you lose yourself . . .”
“My whiteouts,” April murmured.
“Yes. Our instruments are like . . . filters for the Medium. Valves, I guess. The veins of the Medium enter and get put to use. Energy turns into function. But your instrument is missing an important valve, some crucial function—”
“I wish you could tell me what,” April said.
“I can’t. But when you pull too hard, you’re taking more of the unfiltered, uncontrolled Medium into yourself than one person could possibly handle. It’s dangerous, and your body rejects it. And when that happens, every Mordin within a dozen miles can feel it. That’s how I first heard you.”
