by Jodi Meadows
My stomach dropped, but Merton held everyone’s rapt attention. He looked just as eager to say what they were all waiting to hear.
“Now we need to learn to defend ourselves against this new threat.”
He thought of us as monsters. This baby who’d barely drawn breath, and me. Several people thundered agreement. With Merton as the conductor, the shouts and rage crescendoed.
The baby wailed, and Lidea held him close, but she wept too. My friends yelled in my defense, and the birthing assistants ordered people to leave the room. No one obeyed. People kept shouting and pointing, pressing closer to me as the scowls and glares deepened. They practically burned.
Their heat filled me, leaving no room for disbelief or shock. How could I be shocked when some of these people had treated me with nothing but hatred?
But as the shouting grew and the baby screamed, my own anger replaced my fear. Like a geyser, pressure built inside of me, boiling with the heat of the cacophony all around—like the power of the Range caldera. I was ready to erupt.
“Stop!” I wrested myself from Sam’s grip and climbed onto a chair. “Enough!”
They all stared—birthing assistants, observers, and Soul Tellers—and I imagined geyser steam wafting through the room, stunning them into silence. Only the baby cried, and then Lidea put him on her breast.
Silence.
Oops. Everyone was looking at me.
On the bed, Lidea cradled the baby to her. Sweat dripped down her temples, and her skin flushed bronze. The room smelled of salt and copper and other things I couldn’t identify.
I focused on the geyser feeling, how furious I’d been about everyone scaring the baby, threatening to kill him as if he were some kind of monster.
They would not hurt him. I wouldn’t let them.
“I was led to believe that you were all rational people who knew how to behave around an infant.” My voice shook. So much for being strong like a geyser. “If you want to yell, do it outside. This isn’t the place.”
No one moved; I wasn’t sure this was better than the yelling.
“If not for the baby, please show a little consideration for Lidea. Or don’t you care about her anymore?”
That shamed a few people into slinking out of the room. I stayed on my chair as they passed.
“Anyone else?” I mimicked an angry expression Li had always used to force me to confess when I’d been listening to music. It seemed to work, though I felt more like a chipmunk addressing a room full of wolves. “We’re here to celebrate a birth. If you can’t do that simply because he’s a newsoul, you’re welcome to leave.”
More people left. More than before. A few had the decency to look ashamed. I didn’t bother hiding my disgust for any of them.
Across the room, Merton stood there with his arms crossed, his face crimson and contorted with rage. He stalked toward me.
Everyone watched, and Sam eased toward my chair, but when Merton reached me, he just glowered and walked around me—to the door.
I tried not to let my relief show. If he’d attacked me, there’d have been little my friends could have done. Merton was huge. And strong.
But he was gone for now. I focused on breathing, and trying not to crumple under the stares of birthing assistants, observers, and friends. Most of the hostile people had gone ahead of Merton, so why did my heart speed up now? Surely I should have been able to say something coherent in front of people who didn’t completely hate me.
“I believe the tradition is to welcome newborns.” Welcome them back, anyway. But this one hadn’t been here before. He was like me. Newsoul. “I’ll go first.” I ached for him, this unnamed child facing an existence like mine. At least he wouldn’t be the only one.
Sam offered a hand to help me off the chair, and I accepted. The last thing I needed was to fall on my face.
As I approached Lidea’s bed, I imagined what the scene must have been like when Li gave birth to me, and the Soul Tellers announced I wasn’t anyone. There’d probably been fewer people in the room. And all of Ciana’s friends would have been there.
Ciana, whom I’d replaced.
I doubted anyone had welcomed me to the world.
I stopped by Lidea’s bed. Someone had pulled sheets all around her and wiped sweat off her face, though her skin remained flushed with heat and anger and the labor of birth. Black hair hung in tendrils over her shoulders; the baby’s hand reached upward at nothing, losing his fingers in the tangles.
Sam stood next to me, and everyone else queued behind him. Except Wend, Lidea’s partner; he didn’t leave her side.
I searched for the right words, but what did you say to someone who’d had a newsoul? Apologizing seemed wrong, because this wasn’t bad, and I’d had nothing to do with it. The only thing that made me sorry was knowing how much everyone already hated him.
“Thank you.” Lidea’s smile was strained. “For making them stop. For making them leave.”
“I couldn’t let them continue.” What if they’d hurt him? He was tiny, all splotchy red and brown skin, and his face scrunched up with the stress of being born.
She lowered her eyes. “The idea of having a newsoul—it was terrifying. And”—her voice caught with the confession—“humiliating. But holding him now, I’m glad he’s here. I love him completely.”
My throat tightened from choking back tears. “He’s lucky to have you.”
“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he’s happy. I’ll keep him safe.”
So would I. “I’d like to welcome him. Will you name him?”
“I thought about naming him after you, in honor of your standing up for him.” Her eyes were only for the baby. She didn’t see the way my mouth fell open. “But that would be confusing, and I don’t want to start a trend of all newsouls being Ana.”
I hoped not. Li had told me they’d chosen my name because it was part of Ciana’s name, symbolizing the life I’d taken from her. The name also meant “alone” and “empty.”
“It was a generous thought, but not necessary.” And I didn’t deserve that kind of honor.
Lidea caressed his round cheeks, small nose. “It did give me another idea.” Sweeter anticipation filled the room. “Anid is close.”
My heart felt swollen as I reached, glanced at Lidea for permission, and then touched Anid’s tiny hand. He didn’t seem to notice. “Hi, Anid. Welcome to the world.” My voice trembled as I whispered, “I’m really glad you’re here.”
We were in this together now. Neither of us were alone. Asunder.
He looked toward me with wide, dark blue eyes. He was beautiful, and I wasn’t ready to move on, but people waited behind me, so I touched Lidea’s hand, then Wend’s, and gave Sam a turn. As the line moved, I watched how everyone else was with the baby, trying to memorize the faces of those who’d stayed. Were they friendly, or just polite?
After everyone but the birthing assistants had left, I offered Anid my finger again. His fist closed around it immediately.
“Don’t let anyone call you a nosoul again,” I whispered to him. “If they do, tell me and I’ll take care of it for you.”
Lidea looked amused. “Are you corrupting him already?”
“Just a little.” I smiled so she’d know I wasn’t serious.
“I’m worried,” Lidea confessed. “After earlier, all that yelling.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears shimmered across her lashes. “What if they really try to hurt him?”
Wend appeared by her side, hand on her shoulder. “Nothing will happen to him.” When Lidea twisted toward him, he leaned over to hug her.
Sam touched my elbow and murmured, “Ready to go?” I nodded, and we said our good-byes, fetched our belongings, and headed for the exit.
It was raining again when we went outside, and fully dark now. Only the temple glowed, shedding watery light across the market field. Without conversation, we headed back to the southwest quarter of the city where all our homes were located. Sarit and Stef
broke off onto their streets, close to ours.
Inside and dried off, I said, “Sam,” before realizing I’d spoken.
He paused on his way to the piano, one hand drifting over my hip as he faced me. With his face in shadow, Sam’s eyes were even darker, more mysterious, and heavier with the weight of centuries. Millennia.
“Once, you called me a butterfly, because my existence seems so fleeting to everyone else in Heart.”
A line formed between his eyes. “Ana—”
“I know you didn’t mean it to hurt me, and I know you’ve apologized a thousand times.” I swallowed nerves caught in my throat. “That doesn’t make my existence less potentially ephemeral. I could die and never be reincarnated.”
“Please don’t say that,” he whispered.
“You, Stef, Sarit, others—you’ve made the Year of Hunger bearable. I didn’t think I could have friends until you proved me wrong.” I reached up for his shoulders, let my hands slide along the backs of his arms. “But the beginning of my life was terrible, and half the people still treat me like I’m responsible for Templedark and every other horrible thing that’s ever happened.”
He looked downward, like I blamed him for others’ actions. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. None of it’s your fault. I just meant to say, I don’t want Anid to grow up like I did.”
“Lidea and Wend will care for him. So will we.”
I nodded. “But it’s not enough. You saw what happened in there. People were anxious to welcome back a friend, and then it was terrible. Within minutes, people were talking about killing him. If that’s any indication of the rest of the city’s reaction to his birth, when other newsouls start coming, there won’t be anywhere safe. Not in the city. I need to make it safe. Somehow.”
“Ana.” Sam stepped so close I had to drop my head back to meet his eyes, and the way he said my name—it was same reverence people used in their prayers to Janan. My insides knotted up as he touched my jaw and kissed me. Softly, gently, aching with restraint. “Anything you need from me, just ask. I promise, we’ll give these newsouls the chance you never had.”
Hearing it in those words made everything so clear. Sam understood me better than I understood myself, and he’d known what I needed all along.
9
LAKE
I’D BEEN RIGHT about the shift in Heart over the next couple of weeks.
Twice, when I went out on my own, someone threw rocks at me. People jeered and called me names. At the market, people refused to sell things to me without one of my friends there. Strange calls came on my SED, just loud breathing. Stef traced them for me and blocked them from calling again. Then Sam started getting calls.
I tried to ignore it. The rock throwing and SED calling were new, but all in all it wasn’t much different from when I’d first arrived in Heart. The fear and anger were the same.
Every morning, Sam and I had music lessons and practice. I took Council-required lessons in the afternoon—they’d kick me out of the city if I didn’t—and my monthly progress report was coming up. After my long trip to Purple Rose with Sam, I should have been trying to squeeze in more study to make up for time lost, but Lidea called and asked if Sam and I wanted to go to the lake with some friends.
Absolutely.
“What about your paper on the history of geothermal energy?” Sam asked, not quite hiding his smirk as we walked to Lidea’s house.
“I’m sure you can see how devastated I am about going to the lake on the last warm day of the year. Spending time with you, with friends—Ugh. I don’t know how I’ll make it through the afternoon.” I grinned and slipped my hand into his.
With Lidea, Wend, Anid, and a handful of other friends in tow, we headed out the Southern Arch, toward Midrange Lake. It was the biggest lake in Range, and mostly used for the city’s fish and water supply, but there were a few beaches set aside for enjoyment. Sam and I had gone a couple of times over the summer.
Geyser steam wafted across the barren land between the city wall and the forest, reeking of sulfur. I wrinkled my nose until the wind shifted to blow the stink away from the path.
I held on to Sam’s hand, listening while Stef and Orrin inquired about the baby’s health, and Whit and Armande discussed the effort to rebuild sections of Heart that had been destroyed during Templedark.
“The Council isn’t even trying,” Armande complained. “Have you noticed the statues by the Councilhouse? And the relief over the front? Not to mention the stairs.”
“Those things are hardly as important as rebuilding the mills and agricultural areas.” Whit shook his head. “Lots of private gardens and livestock were destroyed, if not by sylph or dragon acid, then by drone fire and neutralizing chemicals. Even with sharing and appropriating supplies from”—his voice caught—“the darksouls, it’s going to be a hard winter.”
“Because the Council stored food in buildings that won’t stand up to dragon acid.”
“Armande,” Whit said gently, “even if they’d put everything in the Councilhouse, it could have been destroyed just as easily. Templedark, remember? The walls were useless.”
The white stone had repaired itself when Janan awakened, so some people preferred to believe the cracked temple had been only a nightmare.
“Anyway,” Whit continued, “you’ve completely changed the subject. You’re upset about the statues and stairs, but don’t you think that’s a little shallow, considering all the things that need to be repaired?”
Armande snorted. “Maybe so, but I’m the one who has to look at them every day.”
“You don’t have to set up your stall. Let people make their own pastries if it’s so difficult to look at pockmarked statues.”
Armande pressed his palm to his chest. “You’re condemning even more people to starvation. Or, at the very least, bad breakfast. Besides, our art is a testament to our society. It’s a symbol of our achievements, like your library and Sam’s music. It’s something to be proud of, and we should take care of it.”
I thought about that as we stepped into the shade of fir trees and headed down a smooth path that thumped solidly beneath my boots. We were off the thinnest part of the caldera.
Sam held aside a low-hanging branch for me, then ducked under after.
“Thanks.” I glanced back; the branch was as big as my arm. “If you’d left it, we could have had matching bruises on our foreheads.”
He laughed. “That’s not as romantic as matching hats or belts.”
“And that’s not romantic at all. Did anyone really do that?”
“Some did. About a thousand years ago.” He rolled his eyes, but his grin widened. “I don’t think I was ever so happy to see a fashion pass. The hats got worse every year. Taller, bigger feathers, ridiculous shapes. It was terrible.”
“Did you ever wear matching”—I couldn’t believe it was a real thing—“hats or belts?”
He shot a look that said I’d wasted my breath asking. Of course he hadn’t. He didn’t even like attending the rededication of souls.
My tone slipped toward mocking. “I should have known not to question your sense of fashion.”
Sam squeezed my hand, his smile full of mischief. “If you asked, I’d probably find us matching hats.”
“You’re such a tease.”
Another ten minutes and we arrived at the beach, all sand and frothy gray water, veiled by evergreen trees on three sides. Immense snow-blanketed mountains stood on the horizon like walls, shaded blue and gray in this weather. These walls, unlike the one around the city, made me feel safe. Protected.
“The beach looks bigger today,” Sam said, as we came off the narrow path, the only access to the beach.
Orrin glanced southward and scowled. “It is. The water line is lower.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Nothing, probably.” Orrin and Whit exchanged looks, and Orrin shrugged. “We’ve had a lot of small earthquakes. Nothing you would have felt, and earthq
uake swarms don’t necessarily mean anything. They’re just part of living on the caldera.”
I knew that. “But would a tiny earthquake change the level of the lake?”
“Maybe.” He gazed toward the water, probably wishing Rahel—the soul who’d been responsible for monitoring these things—were still alive. “A crack might have opened in the bottom of the lake. We’re on such a thin crust of land here. But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
“If you say so.” People used the lake for water and fish, so if the level dropped, surely that would have an impact on life in Heart. But I didn’t want to get into an argument on such a nice day. When the group stopped in the middle of the beach, I helped Sam spread out a blanket and then squatted by the basket of snacks. Surely Armande had packed honey-glazed buns.
“Don’t worry about the caldera,” Orrin said, crouching next to me. “Whit and I are taking up some of Rahel’s work. If you’re interested, you’re welcome to join us when you have time.”
“Thanks. I might.”
He smiled and peered into the basket. “Have you seen muffins?”
Soon everyone was chatting, laughing, listening to waves brush sand. A few cranes and herons braved the day, but most waterfowl had already migrated south. The baby cried, but Lidea held him close, wrapped up in soft wool blankets, threaded with cinnamon-colored buffalo yarn for extra warmth.
Wend flirted with Lidea, while the others talked about their projects or music they were hoping to play together. After admiring Anid’s tiny fingers and nose and ears—all pointed out by Lidea, as if I couldn’t figure it out myself—I mostly lay on the blanket for hours, writing in my secret notebook and taking in the afternoon’s thin near-winter sunlight and the happy sound of friends’ voices.
The voices stopped.
Suddenly conscious of the change, I looked over my shoulder to follow everyone’s stares.
By the forest, shadows twisted toward sunlight. Five sylph. Ten. They emerged from the forest, silent across the sand.
