Relic (The, Books of Eva I)

by Heather Terrell

  Peeling off his gloves first, he folds down his kamik and starts to roll up his sealskin. Even though I’ve seen a boy’s bare shin before—Eamon’s, of course—Jasper’s motion feels very intimate. Suddenly, the Lex rules for Maidens rush at me unbidden—let no immodesty touch your eyes or thoughts—and I cannot help but blush. My mother would die if she saw this. Or kill me first.

  “I knew it. I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jasper. I need to see your leg.” Before I really think through what I’m saying, I blurt out, “I have remedies.”

  He raises an eyebrow at the mention of the word “remedies,” but continues to roll up the sealskin past his knee. I have to stop myself from gasping when I see the deep gash in his mid-thigh. He has a cloth tied around the cut, but it’s no tourniquet, something Lukas taught me. The cloth is soaked with blood. I’m shocked the metallic smell hasn’t alerted every nearby predator.

  “How did this happen?” The wound is deep and straight and perfectly formed. For an injury resulting from a sled crash, I would’ve expected something messier, with tons of bruising.

  “When the sled fell on top of me, the knife at my waist got loose. I pulled it out, but I’m left with this,” he says.

  I reach for my remedy bag. My fingers are moist. All remedies and surgeries are prohibited by The Lex. Rightly so as they led to man’s downfall: let no man-made remedies touch your skin and no man-made blades open your bodies, as this allows the ancient wickedness to enter your soul. Yet Lukas still stocked my bag with herbal Boundary remedies derived from Ark plants, like salves for cuts and scrapes. He showed me how to treat basic wounds. All Boundary people use such remedies, and many of them outlive us chosen. Lukas’s grandmother, his aanak, is almost eighty—and she was the one who taught him such ways. So I relented with him, as I relent now.

  I study my notes. I think I can help.

  “Look away,” I tell him. I definitely do not want him to see what I’m about to do. “And brace yourself.”

  As I dab the wound with a strong-scented oil to clean it, Jasper gulps. Even though I know it burns—and what I’m planning next will hurt even more—I have to proceed. A wound like this will turn Jasper into a delirious shell of a man if the animals don’t get to him first. From my bag, I pull out a needle and start to thread it. Telling myself that it’s just like sewing at home—that I’m sitting before my family’s hearth working on a cloth for the Basilika with my mother—I hold the needle over the wound, and pierce Jasper’s skin. I start to gag. I am lying. This is nothing like stitching a tapestry of the Healing. This is a horror.

  Jasper cries out and moans, but I force myself to finish. I try to comfort him. “I’m sorry Jasper, but I’m almost done.”

  He doesn’t answer. I don’t think he can. I’m not sure I can.

  Finally, after very nearly losing my goose dinner, I close up the wound with a knot after the final stitch. I wind a clean cloth tightly around the injury. “I’m finished. You can roll the pant leg down now.”

  Jasper’s face is drenched and snow white. He shivers uncontrollably. But his jaw is tightly set, as if he’s angry. He doesn’t look at me as he reassembles his clothes. Perhaps he’s upset about my Lex infraction. But, how can he be mad about that, when he broke The Lex himself by coming here tonight? Something else must be wrong.

  “Jasper?”

  “You must think I’m a coward,” he mutters.

  My shoulders sag. Part of me wants to slap him. Oh, the Lex rules of chivalry. Is that what’s really going on? Am I really that blind? “How can you possibly say that? You weren’t even going to mention your wound. And you even risked The Lex tonight to check on my well-being, when you’re the injured one.”

  His cheeks glow pink; his face bears none of its usual Gallant self-assuredness. “I can’t believe I put you at risk by visiting you. Injured. How idiotic.”

  “I can’t believe you’re out here worrying about me, when you’ve got a gaping hole in your leg.”

  Now his eyes bore into my own. “How could I not come over, Eva? You’re a Maiden.”

  I feel something stir in me, but I don’t respond. It doesn’t seem right under the circumstances. This change in our roles has left me unsettled as to how to act and what to think. Jasper too, it seems. He pushes himself to his feet and lifts the tent flap. He is not trembling anymore. Before he leaves, he turns back and musters a tired smile. “Oh, excuse me, I forgot. Out here, you’re not a Maiden. Just a Testor.”

  Even though my mind swirls with images of stitching Jasper’s wound, I manage to fall asleep. One of the benefits of complete physical exhaustion, I guess. I return to a familiar dream, one in which Eamon and I stand on the edge of the turret, hands linked. In the dreamscape of a crisp, full-moon evening, we glance at each other in perfect understanding, and then we jump. I always wake up before we land.

  This morning is no exception, although it’s not the end of the dream that prompts me to open my eyes. The sound of sled runners coursing over the snow wakens me. In my grogginess, I can only imagine that it’s Jasper—who else would be out here before dawn?—and I almost call out to him. Almost.

  A bright light—too bright and concentrated to come from any candle I’ve ever seen—passes over my tent. Jasper couldn’t possibly have carried a lamp with that power. It must be a Scout, the eyes and ears of the Archons. They are omnipresent but usually invisible during first three Advantages. They mostly assert their presence at the Testing camp and Testing Site, where the last six Advantages are played out.

  “Testor, show yourself.” A deep voice commands from just outside my tent.

  I move fast. Since I slept in my clothes, I only have to pull on my hat, gloves, and kamiks before stepping out into the cold. But the simple tasks are made hard by the fact that I’m shivering uncontrollably. What if the Scout had arrived bells earlier and found Jasper in my tent? Using remedies on him? Somehow, I finish dressing and stand before the Archon Scout.

  The bright light, whatever its source, has disappeared. The Scout holds a common oil lamp before him. It casts a dim, yellowish glow on us both. Just enough to make him out. The Scouts are notorious for their tough strength, their unflinching devotion to The Lex, and their imperviousness to anything but the nutus of the Archons. Head to toe in black sealskin with matching eyes, this Scout looks the part. Except for the dark, almond-shaped eyes, which make him look like a Boundary person.

  I do not speak. The Lex rule on communicating with Scouts is very clear: do not speak before you are spoken to. I keep my head lowered in deference to him and his role.

  The Scout circles me for a long tick, all the while asking, “Tell me, in all this enormous expanse of ice, how did you manage to find another Testor to share this iceberg?” He pauses. “Before you answer, I remind you of your Testing vow of veritas.”

  I can hear the accusations imbedded in his deceptively simple question. That I am conspiring with another Testor, that we used outlawed means to find this iceberg shelter, that this Testor and I have some illicit relationship. I wonder if he would make the same inquiries had I been my brother—or any male Testor—but there’s no way I’d ask the insubordinate question. It might invite removal from the Tests.

  “It was coincidence, Sir,” I say.

  The Scout holds the lamp close to my face, presumably to assess the veritas of my statement. “You expect me to believe that your shared presence on this iceberg was sheer happenstance, Testor?” His tone is harsh, and although he is acting well within his rights as a Scout, part of me is surprised that he’s treating the Chief Archon’s daughter this way. But Jasper is right. And I’ve said it myself: I’m just a Testor out here.

  “It’s the truth. By the Gods.”

  He says nothing. He stands firmly in place—as if locked in by the ice itself—staring at me with the same quizzical expression. I don’t know what possesses me, but I break from the rule. I speak without being spoken to.

 
“Sir, you can see that it’s the only shelter out here. Any Testor who came close to this point when the first horn of evening sounded would aim for it. It’s a simple matter of survival that we’re both here.”

  The Scout’s eyes are more piercing than the Chief Basilikon’s on a Confessional Day. I start to feel terrified. For my insubordination, the Scout has it in his power to discipline me, even with physical punishment. Yes, even though I’m the Chief Archon’s daughter. What in the Gods was I thinking by speaking first?

  Instead of punishing me, he responds in a measured voice: “That’s precisely what your Suitor—I mean, the other Testor—claimed, too.”

  Obviously, he doesn’t believe either one of us, but I don’t think that is the point of his words. By his Suitor remark—a clear, if brazen, indication of what he thinks of the Triad’s decision to allow me to Test, that I’m nothing more than a Maiden awaiting a Union and I should never have been allowed the honor of Testing—he means to shake me. He might as well have said, “Let me send you home.”

  Under his gaze, I begin to feel even more frightened. Maybe it’s the late-night visit from Jasper. It’s not as horrific a crime as conspiring with another Testor, but it’s grounds for expulsion from the Testing nonetheless. Maybe it’s my use of remedies. Certainly its use would get me thrown out of the Testing, not to mention warrant punishment back in the Aerie. But I do not allow him to see me shake.

  Finally, he delivers his verdict. “May the Gods go with you. But remember, it will be me—not the Gods—watching your every move, Testor.”

  I watch as he mounts his sled and cracks his whip heavily on his dogs; he’s a cruel master to his team, I’m sure. I am immobilized as he departs. I’ve learned something valuable and unexpected, as Lukas promised I would. But I didn’t foresee this: my sudden understanding that the Scout does not want me in the Testing, and that he will do whatever he can to keep me from success. And he may not be alone. Part of me wants to race over to Jasper and make certain he understands the Scout’s meaning, but a bigger part of me wants to distance myself from Jasper completely. To protect him—from me and from himself.

  Only a bell and a half remain until the first horn of mornings, so I busy myself. Even though I am trying hard to concentrate on the tasks necessary for the sinik ahead—on anything but the Scout, really—I’m acutely aware of noises coming from the other side of the iceberg. Noises that mimic the ones I’m making. The crackle of a fire, the whoosh of a tent pulled down, the growl of the dogs as they compete over their food, the thud of the sled being loaded.

  Bags packed, dogs ready, I mount my own sled. The orange-red sun begins to show on the horizon, and I tighten my goggles to brace myself for the blinding rays, magnified as they reflect off the snow. I whistle for the dogs to get into place; movement of the sled is permitted before the horn for this purpose alone.

  As we skirt the iceberg, I pass Jasper. Even though I’m trying hard not to make eye contact—the Scout could be watching—I notice he’s limping only a bit as he crosses the ice toward his sled. I’m relieved my ministrations last night helped. But my biggest worry doesn’t concern his wound. I’m worried that he might have missed the Scout’s message. If Jasper plans on staying close to me, he will be caught in the Scouts’ web, too.

  The horn sounds, and I no longer have time to think. The dogs, trained to race at the very tick they hear it, take off. The sinik is bright and clear, and the snow is mingullaut, the perfect mix of ice and powder. The terrain proves flat and even, for now. My team is in their element; I simply let them loose.

  Lukas’s map shows that the quickest route to the Taiga is a direct northeastern one. The same route Jasper seems to be following. I suppose that either Jasper or I could veer off to maintain a distance, but that would require we speak. And there’s no way I’m going to initiate a conversation with Scouts lurking everywhere. So we ride to the Taiga close together, as is natural.

  Ostensibly, we ignore one another. We never speak, never glance at the other. We simply drive our teams as hard as possible to the Taiga border, and, to my surprise, we are evenly matched in skill and speed. If a Scout was watching, he would have nothing untoward to report. Nothing in The Lex prohibits Testors sledding in close proximity. Sometimes the topography makes it absolutely necessary. But I feel Jasper’s presence. And oddly enough, even though I can’t speak to him or rely on him in any way, he comforts me.

  The Sun continues Her progress across the sky, and well before She nears the horizon, we reach the Taiga. I cannot believe how quickly we’ve reached the borders of the famed boreal forest. The first horn of evening will not sound for at least two bells. It seems a surplus of time.

  What starts as an occasional dry shrub thickens into a line of trees flagged by the winds, and then into a tangle of birches and evergreens. Intuitively, Jasper and I part as we near the Taiga border, taking slightly different paths into the increasingly dense forest. I stare in amazement at all the plant life; I have never encountered such verdancy anywhere but the Ark. I have entered a green world utterly different from the one I know, the white world of ice and snow.

  When I dismount, I know I should ready my camp, as Lukas instructed. But the carpet of caribou moss glows such an enticing emerald that I simply must touch it. The apprentice Gardener in me—the one who spent years growing to love botany and agriculture in the hopes of serving in the Ark—cannot be denied.

  Tying my team to a sturdy birch tree, I signal for them to wait. I wander a bit, collecting specimens of evergreen needles and birch leaves for Ark botanists and gardeners back home, as well as some samples of caribou moss and edible greens for myself. From my study, I know that the caribou moss will help preserve the artifacts I find, and that the edible greens could stave off scurvy and other nutritionally based diseases. I marvel at nine-foot-tall shrubs, willow trees, and broad-leaved grasses. A hare leaps through the moss, startled by my tentative footsteps. The thick moss cover makes it hard to walk, especially in kamiks more accustomed to ice. But I feel oddly at home for the first time since leaving the Aerie.

  I wonder if this is what His Earthen lands looked like before they were submerged in the Healing. Or if they looked more like the Ark, where the humid air seems to breathe and every corner of Earth is alive with growth. But, unlike the Ark, this place is Gods-made.

  I hear a crack of sticks and immediately regret my little stroll. What am I doing in the Taiga acting as if I’m on some Ark-mission instead of the Testing?

  It’s Jasper. He’s walking some distance ahead of me, also without his sled and team. His stride is firm and surefooted; his wound has healed with astonishing quickness. Gently touching the pine-needles and birch leaves along the way, he appears as awestruck as I am.

  As if he senses me staring at him, he turns around. He smiles, a beautiful slow smile. It’s like those looks of delight one sees from the youngest children in the School. For a brief tick, my breath catches, and I forget why we are here in this magical place. I smile back.

  But then, when his mouth opens as if to call to me, I shake my head. The smile quickly disappears from my lips. Before he can actually speak aloud, I raise my hand to stop him. I mouth the words, “We can’t talk. The Scouts are watching me.”

  “I know,” he mouths back. His smile grows sad. He’d allowed himself a few ticks of forgetfulness, too. We permit ourselves a tiny farewell wave.

  And then we hear other voices.

  “What should we do about her?”

  “I think we should—”

  Without waiting to hear the full response, and without even a final glance at Jasper, I hurry back to my sled. I pad across the growth, praying that I don’t crack a twig and betray my presence. I’m initially so worried about getting caught in the forest close to Jasper that I don’t think about the source of the voices. Only a few ticks later, once I’ve started the business of making camp, does it occur to me that no highly trained Scout would be so careless and unprofessional as to be overheard b
y a Testor.

  Which of the Testors would be talking in the Taiga? About me, the only “her” out here? And why would they take such Lex risks? Were they conspiring? Alliances are banned—whether formed before or during the Testing—but they are not unheard of. In one particularly rampant Aerie rumor, a highly regarded Testor ensured a friend’s equally respected quest for the Archon spot in exchange for a promise; supposedly, the two now serve as the Aerie’s Chief Archon and Chief Lexor. Yes, my father and Jasper’s uncle Ian. We laugh about those rumors at home, but other alliances have been proven and incurred swift punishment.

  As I prepare my camp—digging a hole for my dogs, starting the fire, readying the water for the dogs, pitching my tent—I watch the forest. The Testors have to emerge from the evergreen thicket at some point. But no one materializes.

  The first horn of the evening will sound soon, and I can’t delay any longer. I have to reenter the Taiga to hunt. My dogs are fighting among themselves as their hunger mounts, and I can’t afford an injured husky. Weaving through trees and underbrush, I return to the area where I spotted the hare. Where one hare lives, others must, too, I figure.

  Knives, bola, spear, and atlatl, my spear, in hand, I squat behind the wide trunk of a birch tree. As I wait, I try to imagine which Testors would dare conspire. Eamon’s journal entries contain assessments of my competition. He thought well of Jasper, Jacques, Benedict, Thurstan, and William—but only in terms of physical skills. He didn’t think much of their ability to synthesize the past with the artifacts, a critical talent for the final, and most important, three Advantages. In fact, Eamon described them as “able but addled,” even though they generally did well at School. He outright dismissed Knud, Tristan, Anders, and Petr as serious competitors, believing their parents put them up to the Tests; he believed they lacked the strength of spirit to win. The Commitment by Neils confused Eamon, who perceived Neils as a bookish type, and Eamon understood that Aleksander entered the Testing to prove something to his Ring-Guard father.