Relic (The, Books of Eva I)

by Heather Terrell

  I raise my hands as the Scout instructs. But instead of gazing up at the sky as The Lex demands, I sneak another look at the remaining Testors. I really take them in—not just as a Maiden in the Aerie would look at a Gallant, or as one Testor would size up another—but as fellow human beings.

  Most everyone looks sad and scared. The hard reality of the Testing has just hit them. Knud is crying as he stares up at the heavens. Tristan was one of his closest friends; I never recall seeing one without the other. In fact, they were so inseparable at School that we nicknamed them “the Flaxen twins.” I didn’t know Anders that well; he kept to himself. Still, I have a very clear memory of his face shining with pride when he answered one of Teacher’s most challenging Healing-history questions. Maybe it was this interest in Healing scholarship that possessed him to brave the Testing.

  In the firelight, tears glisten on other cheeks—those of Jacques, Benedict, William, Thurstan, and Jasper. But I don’t see tears on Aleksandr or Neils. Aleksandr actually looks stony. And I can’t cry, either. Why? At first I think it’s because I wasn’t particularly close to either one, but then I realize that I’ve already suffered the most unimaginable loss. Why in the Gods did Eamon have to take on the foolish challenge of the Ring summit, and abandon me to all this?

  Instead of tears, rage kindles inside me. These young men are some of the very last people left on this Earth, and they are risking their lives for the Testing. Humankind clings so precariously to the surface of the world; why would the leaders of New North subject its brightest and best to a competition that kills without fail, every year? Why must the Archon Laurels be so dearly won? I know The Lex tells us that in order to win the Archon honor we must risk our lives, as our Founding ancestors did, so that the memory of the Healing never dies. We are humankind’s last hope for survival, after all. Still, it seems that our lives—all lives, in fact—should be cherished and protected.

  Is that what my brother meant when he asked: Must we truly risk our lives in the Testing in order to be worthy of the Archon Laurels? Our lives are so precious and so few … Will they still love me when I do what I must?

  Do what he must? Did he mean to change the Testing?

  As I head back to my igloo for the night, I promise myself that I will solve the riddle of Eamon’s words when I return home to the Aerie. I kneel before my diptych and pray to the Gods for relief from my doubts and for sleep, but neither comes.

  I keep imagining myself wearing the circular wreath of the Laurels—just like Eamon wrote—and I wonder what Eamon would really think if he saw me now. I took on the mantle of the Testing because I believed it was his dream. But isn’t this exactly what he didn’t want? Me, out here?

  I write all my secret thoughts down in this journal. I can’t fall asleep. Images of Tristan and Anders haunt me. I picture their eager, hopeful faces as they mounted their sleds at the Passage and plowed through the snow drifts. And memories of Eamon replay in my mind. All casualties of the Testing.

  Finally I doze, and even though I wake up anything but refreshed the next morning, I am determined. I will pursue this Johansen Site strategy. I will not be lost to these rituals. At the first horn, I will race to my Claim and do everything possible to unearth a Relic from the ice. I will give purpose to the sacrifices of Tristan and Anders in addition to Eamon. Even if I’m right that he did question the Testing—or more.

  I KEEP MY VOW, but my artifacts are not so keen to be extricated from their icy grave. Bit by painful bit, I dig into the ice to erect more scaffolding, melt down a thin layer of ice, and siphon the runoff down a tube to the crevasse below so that it won’t refreeze in the night. Just like Johansen did. Then I do it all over again.

  By the first horn of evening, all I’ve accomplished is creating a small hollow in the side of the crevasse.

  And so I spend the better part of six siniks burrowing into the ice wall in this maddening manner. Yet the artifact refuses to reveal itself. Every time I think I’m getting closer—and that the elusive grey shadow is taking form—I find myself up against another layer of ice. Each evening, I return to my igloo empty-handed. Only to face another sleep-deprived night, filled with visions of Eamon and Tristan and Anders.

  By midday on the sixth sinik—exhausted but at least well-fed—I begin to doubt my strategy. The frozen stale air around me is loud with other Testors calling out for Boundary Climbers to witness their Relics. Lex protocol demands a Climber witness the actual removal of an artifact from the Claim in order for the item to be considered a Relic for the Testing.

  The crevasse’s ice wall has begun to crawl with Testors and Boundary Climbers and new ropes and pulleys to carry the Relics to the surface. I catch snatches of whispered conversations between Testors and Climbers. Funny how the structure of the crevasse allows me to hear discussions on the far side of the ice wall, yet discussions taking place right above me remain inaudible. Not funny at all, actually. This strange phenomenon means that I can’t figure out what Jasper found even though he’s dangling directly overheard, yet I can hear quite clearly the conversation among Aleksandr, Neils, and a Climber about their shared discovery of a large cache of weapons—the Tech called “guns”—that the pre-Healing people used for their destructive wars. Gun Relics are always hugely popular finds, as they are almost always of a different breed, and they often lead to an Archon victory. Learning this doesn’t exactly help my mood.

  With every overheard whisper, with every gobbled-down meal over the communal fire, with every Testor’s race back to his igloo to study his Relic under the gaze of a Scout serving as Reliquon, I get more and more upset. The Scout-Reliquons are the Relic keepers. I imagine the carrier pigeons landing in the Aerie town square, carrying initial reports of the Relics in the tiny packs around their necks and then the actual Chronicles, and the people’s reactions at the daily Gathering. And I can envision the disappointed expressions on my parents’ faces when, day after day, no report from Eva arrives. But news about Aleksandr and Neils’ Relics does.

  By late afternoon of the sixth sinik, the ice wall becomes sapphire, and I gaze up at the sliver of sky I can see from my perch. I have maybe a bell before the first horn of evening sounds, and the Sun makes Her descent. I hold my naneq close to my hollow for the millionth time. It seems that the grey shadow is nearing the surface, but I’ve thought that many, many times over the past few siniks.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I examine the ice again. It truly looks darker, as if that damned elusive shadow is finally surfacing from the ice.

  I grab my pick and scrape at the emerging shape. After a few ticks, my pick meets with a resistance different than ice or snow. I hitch my naneq to a Claim stake and use my trowel along with the pick. My heart pounds. I can see it! The object is oblong and about the size of my pack. But I can’t get a clear fix on it just yet. A stubborn layer of ice clings to the artifact like winter frost, and I strip it away as hastily as I dare.

  This … thing materializes in the low light of my naneq. It glows like a rare jewel in the white-blue of the crevasse wall. The color is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. In the Aerie, the closest shade would be found in the Ark—in the radishes that grow underground in the autumn, or the rare raspberries that burst forth from their delicate bushes in the summer. Or sometimes, you might see something like it in the long sunsets.

  What is the name of that color again? I think Lukas used it once for me.

  Oh, yeah: pink.

  “Relic!” I call out. My breathless voice echoes loudly throughout the crevasse—too loudly, really—but I don’t care. It’s finally my turn.

  The Climber takes tick after tick to reach me, and the wait feels unendurable, particularly in the fading sunlight. My pick and trowel are at the ready, and I’m dying to pry that pink treasure out of its ice grave. Just when I think I cannot wait another tick, the Climber scuttles down the ice wall. It’s the Climber from my first sinik in the crevasse, the one with the shock of white hair. I feel uncomfortable u
nder his steady gaze as we start the ritualistic exchange.

  “Are you ready to remove the Relic from the ice, Testor?” he asks.

  I feel like screaming “yes.” Instead, I answer calmly in the sacred response, “Yes. It nears the surface, but hasn’t hit the air.”

  “I have the Relic bag ready. You may begin, Testor.”

  I start chipping out the artifact. I’m so eager to remove the stubborn last layer of ice that I wield my pick a little too roughly. “With care, Eva. With care,” the Climber whispers.

  His gentle advice and his use of my name startle me, and I turn away from my Claim to look at him. The Climber meets my eyes. His unflinching gaze makes me feel embarrassed by my reaction. Why do his words surprise me? Is it the advice, or is it that he called me Eva? Both would be frowned upon by the Triad, no doubt. As a Climber, he would be briefed on all the Testors—their names, their family backgrounds, their skills—so, of course, he would know my Water-name. Is it that he’s a Boundary person? A Boundary person wouldn’t ordinarily address a Maiden of the Aerie so familiarly, although I never minded when Lukas called me Eva. Then again, I had to beg him. I don’t know why I feel so funny around this Climber.

  I return to my Claim and work a little slower. Soon the Relic reveals itself. The pink material covering the object doesn’t feel like any animal skin or weave spun in the Aerie that I’ve ever seen. It has a consistent pattern and texture that is somehow smooth yet bumpy, all at once. What animal could have yielded this skin? No, it’s not animal hide. The pre-Healing people made fabrics out of all sorts of unnatural materials and by unnatural means.

  I chisel around its oblong perimeter. Locked in place for the past two hundred and fifty years, the object releases with a whoosh that sends me flying. I swing back and forth over the crevasse with the Relic gripped in my hands. I know I should reach out to stop myself from getting lanced by one of the jagged ice formations jutting from the opposing wall, but I won’t risk dropping my Relic.

  Without a word, the Climber pulls me back to my Claim. My heart thumps again. This is forbidden. Why has he helped me once again? Did Jasper put him up to it? Did my parents? I cannot imagine any one of them breaking The Lex so egregiously to protect me in the Testing, no matter how much they care about me.

  I nod my thanks to this Boundary person, who of course does not respond. As if nothing unusual had happened between us, he motions for me to slide my Relic into the special bag he hands me. We are suddenly performing the rituals again as proscribed in The Lex. I place the Relic carefully into the bag. Then I take the bag back from the Climber and put it into my pack.

  I say a special thanks to the Gods and start my ascent. With the Climber at my back, subtly pushing me along, I make it to the top with a couple of ticks to spare. I’m desperate to tear open the Relic bag and discover just what I’ve found, but I have to comply with the rituals or lose my Claim. As soon as we reach terra firma, the Climber leaves me to report my Relic discovery to the Scouts, who, in turn, are supposed record it into the Testing book.

  I don’t trust that Scout Okpik will allow the recording to transpire without some kind of protest. So I wait, watching the ritual in its entirety. Okpik listens intently as the Climber describes my Relic.

  “Pink?” I hear him say loudly across the Testing Site.

  Okpik scoffs and glances over at me with a little smirk, and then enters my find into the book without a fight. I guess he thinks my find is worthless—especially after Aleksandr and Neils’s discovery.

  I don’t care. I have a chance. Maybe not at winning the Archon Laurels, but at surviving—which is the key out here. I have my Relic. I clutch the bag to me, tight as I dare. I must wait until I return to my igloo to examine it—and even then, under the watchful eyes of a Scout-Reliquon—so I look around the Testing Site. The other Testors are clambering to the surface.

  The final horn of the evening sounds. I look around to see if anyone notices the Relic in my hands. No one glances my way except Jasper, who gives me a little grin. I know he’s watched how the days without a discovery have weighed upon me; I’ve caught him staring at me. The more I’ve observed him in return, the less I suspect him of hidden motives. I believe that he really was looking out for me in the crevasse on that first sinik, simply as a Gallant. I think that he might have even finagled access to a secret map, maybe that of his grandfather Magnus, so he would be sure to stay ahead of me in the Testing. To keep an eye on me. Not to win. Or maybe to do both. Which, in a way, I love.

  I sneak a smile back at him.

  The communal meal over the fire passes by in a blur of hurried eating and rushed prayers to the Gods. I just want to get to the solitude of my igloo. But then the moment arrives. When it’s just me and my Relic and a hefty Scout-Reliquon—one I don’t know—invading the tiny space of my igloo, I feel scared. What if I handle the object improperly? Some Relics are so delicate they can fall apart once their icy coffin melts around them. Every year, after coming so far, at least one Testor loses for that reason. I did not want to be that Testor this year. Mentally, I review Eamon’s notes on the safe thawing of artifacts.

  No matter how eager, always act slowly; the Relic is fragile and could disintegrate at an overly hasty touch. Light your work space, but be certain to keep the warmth of the flame at a distance. Warm the air steadily, and remember that it might take more than one evening to thaw the Relic safely. Only if you must—if the Relic is refusing to emerge—use the smallest of picks to gently scrape and loosen the ice around the Relic and then return to the process of warming the air around the Relic with patience.

  On the sealskin mat work area I’ve set up in my igloo, I set up two lighted naneqs. Mindful of the Scout-Reliquon’s stare, I retrieve the supply of caribou moss that I collected in the Taiga. The Scout-Reliquon smiles, I think. Perhaps he knows what I’ve learned about the prevention of decay from my time in the Ark. I wonder what else he knows. I slide the pink object out of the bag. Its vivid color looks startling—even kind of riotous—here in the center of the black mat in the all-white igloo. I close my eyes for a brief tick, trying to imagine a world where such bright, unnatural colors were commonplace. A world where everything wasn’t the Lex-sanctified white or grey or black. Or Gods-given ice-blue or blood-red or animal-brown. This is New North. I simply cannot picture anything else.

  The exterior of the Relic has thawed. It is roughly the size of my pack, and a bit lighter. Turning it over, I see that the object—which is unadorned on the front—has two wide pieces of identical cloth attached to its back in an arc. I cannot think of a possible purpose for these odd strips of material. I haven’t seen anything like it in any of Eamon’s carefully transcribed histories of the Testings.

  Careful not to put too much pressure on the material, I turn the Relic this way and that. The more I examine it, the more I think the pieces of cloth look like the straps of my pack. I don’t want to stretch the material to the point of tearing, so I align it with my back to see if the straps would fit. They do.

  So it is a pack of some sort. Does that mean the Relic holds something else inside? Something even more important than the pink object itself?

  My heart starts up again. If it’s true that the Relic is a case or pack, how in the Gods do I open it? I don’t see an opening on any side. One edge of the Relic is lined with a metallic edge that, upon closer examination, looks a little bit like clenched teeth. I assume it’s decorative—as so many things were in the days before the Healing—but then I play with the metal tab at the end of the edging.

  I stop breathing. The Relic opens with a strange “z” sort of sound.

  Four objects spill out onto the sealskin mat. Each item is encased by a clear coating I assume is a thin layer of ice. What else would so tightly cover an object and yet be so transparent? Yet, when I look at each item—careful not to touch and unduly warm the delicate artifacts—I realize I am wrong. The objects are enclosed by translucent pouches.

  Incredible. What a
re these strange transparent sacs made of? And, more importantly, how can I get the objects out of them? There’s nothing in Eamon’s journal addressing such things, and I’ve never heard past Testors mention them. But I have read that pre-Healing materials sometimes melt when they got too close to flame or warmth. I’d hate to destroy this cache so carelessly. Eyes wide, I examine the items without touching them or bringing my naneq too close. I notice the Scout-Reliquon holds his breath, too.

  Getting as near as I dare, I study one pouch that contains a rectangular black object, decorated by a triangle with the word Prada. What is a “Prada”? I’ve never heard that word in English, Latin, Boundary, or the odd smattering of French, Finnish, Swedish, and Russian—the pre-Healing languages that work their way into everyday talk in the Aerie. Prada doesn’t sound like any of the false charms and talismans associated with Apple or his demons. It isn’t one of the names that come up in The Lex or in one of the prayers we recite in the Basilika. And, just by looking at the black triangle, I can’t figure out what a Prada is supposed to be.

  My pulse quickens. This is a true discovery. Unprecedented. My curiosity gets to me, and against the better judgment of probably every Archon and Testor in New North, I seize the pouch. The Scout-Reliquon gasps, but I’m so fixated on this Prada that I barely hear him. I expect the object to be hard, but its translucent material is flexible, like the woven cloth we use to make our gowns in the Aerie. In fact, it’s so unexpectedly wiggly that I drop it.

  The pouch hits the sealskin mat and splits open. Many small rectangles spill out of the Prada into the clear sack. The rectangles have colorful stripes and patterns on them, and I kneel close. All are emblazoned with strange words: Visa, American Express, Nordea Bank Finland, and Kirov Ballet. But only one is instantly recognizable: MasterCard, the wicked currency promoted by Apple and his demons. I shudder involuntarily at being so close to an evil thing. The mirror has been in my home since I was born; I’ve always known it. But this is different. Being so close to an evil thing that hasn’t been sanctified by ritual scares me. And perhaps these other rectangles are MasterCard’s minions.