by Ted Sanders
“I don’t know anything about that,” Isabel said. “I only know she went home.”
Chloe blinked, but said nothing. She herself had revealed to Isabel that April wasn’t traveling alone. Was Isabel lying to the Riven now, or had she forgotten?
The Auditor stepped gracefully forward, the wind tugging at her hair. She walked a slow, thoughtful circle around Isabel, the crowbar still dangling from her hand. “I wonder,” she said. “It would be foolish of me not to suspect that this entire endeavor is nothing more than a poorly conceived trap.” Now she circled Chloe, coming so close that the tip of her long braid swung through Chloe’s shoulder. “First, a beacon we could not ignore, borne by the one Tinker who has the least to fear from us. Next, the unexpected arrival of her Forsworn mother. And finally, this tale of a new recruit, conveniently alone outside the city, willingly offered up.” She stepped back up to Isabel. “Tell me, Forsworn, where is your proxy?”
“In a safe place. I wouldn’t dare bring it near an Auditor—not with my daughter present.”
“I see. And why should we believe this tale you tell? Why should we not get what we want right now?”
Chloe could not help herself. The fool of a Riven actually believed this whole setup had been planned. “And just what do you want, exactly?” she said.
The Auditor shrugged. “The same thing we want from every Tinker. Acquiesence. Cooperation. Fellowship, if we find you worthy. But failing that?” She drew hard on the Alvalaithen, forcing Chloe to heave desperately back against her. Laughing softly, the Auditor eased up at once. “Surrender.”
The Auditor lifted the crowbar and ran Isabel through, straight into her belly. Isabel flinched violently and slapped her hands over the spot, only to find that the crowbar had no substance. She was unharmed—for now. She blinked at it for a second or two, then lifted her face to the sky.
The Auditor cocked her head at Chloe. “You have a weakness for family, I think. Your father was worth risking your life—and the lives of your fellow Wardens—that night in the nest. How much, I wonder, is your mother worth to you now?”
Chloe didn’t hesitate even for a second, not sure whether she was driven by anger or bravery or bitterness or fear. Or something worse—something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name. “Nothing,” she said. As soon as the word was out, she felt a knot tighten in her throat. She summoned up a fresh jolt of rage—the harp, the accident, her father, April—and swallowed it down. “She’s worth nothing at all.”
The Auditor raised her perfect eyebrows. “Explain.”
Chloe forced herself to look at her mother. “Explain, Mom.”
Isabel still held her head high. She didn’t flinch. “I chose my harp over my family,” she said, her voice thin but clear. “I nearly killed my daughter, and then I abandoned her. I left my family without so much as a good-bye, and I never came back.” Now she turned her head, looking Chloe straight in the eye. “She is my daughter, but I am no mother of hers.”
The knot leapt painfully back into Chloe’s throat. She gritted her teeth, willing her face not to move. The Auditor took a deep breath. She stood there looking lost in thought for several long seconds, and then at last pulled the crowbar from Isabel’s belly. She tossed it over the edge of the pier. It disappeared into the dark water with a gulp.
“There are many abominations the Wardens would foist upon the world,” the Auditor said softly, “but none are more regrettable than the Forsworn.” She turned to the little pack of Mordin, and the four of them began talking quietly in their own tongue, their words crawling through the air like insects.
Isabel had her face turned to the heavens again. Chloe tried to imagine something to say to her. She was so infuriated with her, but whenever her anger threatened to spill over into words, she remembered Jessica’s terrible tale, and the pain Isabel must have suffered the day the Wardens made her a Tuner.
Overhead, out across the lake, stars were creeping in upon the fading twilight. Chloe didn’t know any of their names. How she wished Horace were here right now, to help guide her, keep her true, help her understand what came next.
The Auditor interrupted her thoughts. “We leave you now. Remember this day.”
Chloe tried not to act surprised. “What, like you’re doing us a favor? Letting one Warden go only to chase down another?”
“We do not do favors. We do what is necessary.” Chloe frowned. Why did those words sound so familiar? “We will pay a visit to April’s home, and we will see what we shall see.” She waved a long finger in the air, scolding. “Do not attempt to follow us, Forsworn. Do not intervene.”
“I won’t,” said Isabel.
The Auditor turned to Chloe. “Tell the Wardens not to bother contemplating a rescue,” she said, but Chloe was already making plans. It must be 9:30 by now. It would take an hour or so to get Horace and arrive back at the Warren. And then they would set out for April’s house—all of them. She didn’t know where April lived, but they would have to make it on time. “I will have my sisters with me,” the Auditor continued. “And Ja’raka too. You slipped away from us on the riverbank, but only because your mother saved you. She saved you again tonight. I do not think she means to save you a third time.”
“I don’t even need—” Chloe began, but before she could spit back her reply, the Auditor’s presence slid from the Alvalaithen like a shadow chased by the sun. Despite herself, despite her fury and dread, Chloe gasped and greedily pulled every inch of its power into herself. It was clean again, hers alone. Her knees almost buckled beneath her.
“Need is a funny thing,” the Auditor murmured. She glanced over at Isabel. She looked back at Chloe one last time. Her eyes were earnest and strangely sad. “Maybe you can forgive her your scars,” she said, and then she turned to go, sprinting nimbly up the pier, the shadows of the Mordin falling swiftly in behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Orphans’ Oath
APRIL COULDN’T GET CLOSE TO SLEEP. SHE LAY ON HER BED, IN her own room, in her own home. Everything was just as it was when she’d left.
Everything but her.
It wasn’t late—not even ten o’clock—and she’d only been back for an hour or so. The Warden’s mysterious cab driver, Beck, had driven her home, with Gabriel as an escort. April had envisioned this trip home as a kind of good-bye, a chance to spend time with Derek and mold things into the right shape before leaving to join the Wardens. She’d imagined over and over again how the conversation with her brother would go, but when the actual moment arrived, with Derek actually in front of her at the kitchen table tonight, she couldn’t re-create any of the clever or compelling things she’d thought to say.
“Too tired to talk about it” was all she’d said, when Derek asked about her visit with Maggie. And then she’d fled awkwardly upstairs.
Once in her room, she’d placed the leestone Mr. Meister had given her—a beautiful green-and-golden stone carved into the shape of a bird’s skull—atop her bookshelf. It would protect the house and anyone living in it from the Riven. And there was another protective leestone in her pocket, just for her, as warm as a sun-baked rock—a raven’s eye. A very appropriate name, all things considered. On the drive up in Beck’s cab, Gabriel had repeatedly asked her to check the color of the raven’s eye, which was worrisome, but he seemed satisfied every time she reported that it was still black.
Mr. Meister thought there was little danger of the Riven showing up here. The Riven knew where she lived, of course, but it seemed the leestones would take care of that, in time. Meanwhile April—vine repaired—was no longer the target she had been a couple of days ago, when the Riven hoped to follow her bloody trail straight to the Warren.
Or at least, that’s what Mr. Meister seemed to think. What his logic amounted to, strangely, was this: now that April was whole again, she wasn’t nearly so valuable. It was kind of insulting, in a way, but April took it in stride. It made sense. And after all, she firmly believed it was better to be small and
safe than big and in danger.
No, there was no real reason to think the Riven would show up tonight. Nonetheless, precautions were always necessary, and so Mr. Meister had not only sent the leestone and the raven’s eye, but Gabriel too. Gabriel, in fact, was outside somewhere right now, staking out the house in secret, keeping watch. He didn’t talk much, but April liked him. He seemed like a person who only spoke when he had something worth saying, which was a quality April herself aspired to. However, now that she was here, now that there were things she had to say to Derek, she had absolutely no idea how to go about it.
It didn’t help that the newly repaired Ravenvine continued to bring her oceans full of wonder. Arthur was doing his half-brain dozing thing on the roof. She basked in the sensation of the night breeze ruffling his feathers, the rise and fall of his powerful chest muscles as he breathed.
Her senses wide open, she startled as a bat fluttered into range higher up, echolocating like mad. Her own throat and tongue seemed to vibrate as the bat fired a rapid series of chirping clicks, like the chattering teeth of some tiny, rusty robot. The sounds rose and fell as the bat zeroed in on flying insects. She did her best to ignore the sensation of bugs squishing juicily in her mouth, the taste of their guts on her tongue. She tried to catch a glimpse of Gabriel through the bat’s sharp night eyes, but never saw him.
A little past ten, Uncle Harrison creaked heavily up the stairs for bed, just like always. Not long after, Derek followed. As April lay there—hiding, to be honest—a singular and unfamiliar urge grew in her belly. Escape. She would go outside and find Gabriel, and then Beck would drive them back to the Warren. The urge shocked her. She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t. She would try talking to Derek again tomorrow, keeping it simple. She had Mr. Meister’s folder, packed with brochures and letters and applications to fill out and forms to sign. She would show it all to Derek in the morning and she would . . .
She would lie.
She imagined all the lies she’d have to tell, tomorrow and the day after, and on and on, until her stomach churned with doubt and her head buzzed with angry contradictions and her legs ached to run and before she knew it she was out of bed. She eased her door open into the dark hallway and slipped down the hall to Derek’s room. She knocked twice, heard nothing, and let herself in.
She groped her way toward Derek’s bed and fumbled for his lamp. When she turned it on, he slurred out a mumbled question:
“Whosit?”
“It’s me. Wake up.”
“I just fell asleep,” he said, opening his eyes. “What’s going on? You okay?”
“Not really. I mean yes. Yes, I’m fine. It’s just . . . I have something big to ask you. And you’re going to say no, but I need you to say yes.”
Derek sat up straight, crossing his legs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at her hard. “What is it?”
“I need to go. Away.” She laid the folder for the Mazzoleni Academy on the bed.
Derek eyed the folder warily. “What are you talking about? Go away where?”
“There’s a school in the city. I’ve been invited to attend—to live there—for free. But the thing is—”
“No,” Derek said, not even opening the folder.
“—there’s more to it than just school, I—”
“Absolutely not. What do you mean you ‘got invited’? You’re thirteen years old! You just mysteriously got invited to go to school in Chicago for free. In the summer. For no reason.” He flipped the folder open and slapped it shut again without really looking.
“No. Not for no reason. Something’s . . . happened.”
Derek pressed one hand against his forehead, his thoughts clearly racing. His face turned stern. After several deep breaths, he said, “Pill, tell me you were at Maggie’s house the last few days.”
April took a deep breath of her own. “I was not at Maggie’s house.”
The muscles in Derek’s jaw clenched and unclenched. His eyes were steely but sad. “You swore,” he said at last. “I made you swear you weren’t lying to me, and you swore. Orphans’ oath.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I had to lie.”
“Why? Where did you go—to this school of yours?” Derek turned away, tugging at his hair. “I can’t even look at you. I can’t understand what you’re even telling me.”
“Then listen. Forget the school. The school is just an excuse for what’s really going on with me. And I’m trying to tell you—it’s important. I need you to listen.”
“I’m listening.”
This was the moment. She knew that the school story wouldn’t be enough. It would be enough for Uncle Harrison, but not for Derek. She would have to tell him more.
She would have to show him more. And she could do that. Yes, she could.
The thought of stepping out from under these lies and into her newly found power emboldened her, made her stand up tall. “There’s a reason I lied to you—you know I wouldn’t break the oath without a reason.” Wordlessly, heart pounding, April turned her head and pulled back her hair, revealing the vine.
Derek leaned in, squinting. “Jewelry,” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism.
April let her hair fall. “Not jewelry. It’s an instrument.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It belongs to me. It’s called a . . . Tan’ji. It’s magic, I guess you could say, except it’s more like science, but it’ll seem like magic. To you.”
Now Derek sat back. “I have . . . nothing to say to that. Nothing at all.”
“You won’t believe me unless I show you.” She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of bed. She knew what she had to do.
She led him through the kitchen and outside. The night was hot and moonless and still. They passed beneath a spider, and for a moment April swooned as her vision blurred and multiplied. A vast spray of white filaments appeared before her—the spider’s own web, as seen from the center. But she pushed the spider’s sight away, grateful for the new control she had over the vine.
Arthur stirred and strutted across the roof to perch on the gutter directly overhead. Out in the darkness of the backyard, April could feel First Baron, edging fitfully up from sleep. She’d been avoiding the dog so far, both in person and through the vine—the last time she’d seen him, she’d cried, and she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t do it again. The dog got slowly to his feet as the porch light came on, his sleep dissipating in a polite swell of happy excitement. He came toward them, tail wagging.
And as he approached, she realized she needn’t have worried about crying. The moment she opened herself to the dog with the newly repaired vine, she was overwhelmed with a flood of sensation that swept everything else from her mind, a thick and complicated stew that drowned her mouth and nose. It was his sense of smell, even more rich and astonishing than Arthur’s razor-sharp sight. She’d known that dogs’ noses were incredibly keen—she’d researched it—but she’d never really realized just how dominant Baron’s sense of smell was, how much of his brain was devoted to it. For him, smell far outstripped sight and even sound. With some difficulty, she groped her way through the busy cloud, clearing her head.
April grabbed the dog by his jowls and gave his head a friendly shake. He sniffed and licked her face, a bizarre sensation through the newly attuned vine. She smelled like salt and dirt and girl, and fast-food grease and cheap chocolate shake, and—undescribably but undeniably—worry and hope and sadness. In other words, exactly like herself in exactly this moment. Again she struggled not to let it engulf her. How strange to think that emotions had a scent.
“Is this the magic part?” Derek said.
If you only knew, she thought as she rose and faced him. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to read Baron’s mind.”
Derek paused, then laughed out loud. “Hell, I can read his mind. Food food food, bark bark stranger, food food food, wag wag poop. Oh, and then food.”
“That’s about half right,” April said,
staying calm. “But to be fair—from what I can tell—every animal thinks mostly about food.”
Derek stopped laughing. “From what you can tell? What does that mean?”
“Like I said.” She pulled back her hair, revealing the vine again. “With this, I can read the minds of animals. I can . . . hear what they’re thinking. What they’re feeling, and sensing.”
“You’re serious.”
“I’ll prove it.” She began backing away, the crisp night grass crinkling under her bare feet. “Just wait. Stay here with Baron.” She crossed the lawn. As she moved deeper into the shadowed woods ahead, she began to feel the usual assortment of nocturnal animals out there among the trees. Rodents, mostly, and a solitary sentinel hidden in the branches up high—an owl, patient and predatory. Cautiously, unable to resist, she took in the owl’s eyes for a moment, and its ears. The forest lit up like day. Her own footsteps sounded like a dinosaur’s. A moment later, the owl flew away on powerful, soundless wings, but not before she lost her breath at the sight of a figure on the edge of the owl’s keen vision, crouched motionless twenty yards out among the trees.
Gabriel.
April sighed with relief. At the yard’s edge, she stepped behind a large hackberry tree, leaning back against the rough bark, hidden from Derek’s sight. She pulled her attention away from the woods and back toward the dog. “Okay,” she called out, “Now . . . do something.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Move around or something. Just make sure Baron sees you.”
“You’re telling me you’re going to see what the dog sees?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, yes.” Defocusing on the dimly illuminated trees before her, April let the dog’s vision become her own. She saw her brother’s face through Baron’s eyes, the colors strangely muted. He looked deeply doubtful. “Stop shaking your head and just do something,” she said.
