by S McPherson
THE GETHADROX
The next day Milo is on his way out of the Portologists headquarters when he notices members of the Court making their way through the great white marble doors. The seven symbols of the empires carved into the doors glisten against the sun as they swing shut.
Standing to one side, Milo watches the Court, a line of emerald, as they traipse across the terracotta tiles and under an archway. Glancing around to make sure he is not being watched, Milo quickly follows after them, far enough behind that they do not notice him but close enough to see what is going on. It is rare for the Court to venture outside their grounds. They are not seen as representing their empires but as an empire in itself. For them to feel the need to mingle with everyday people is quite a bizarre proposition. Even their children who attend the schools rarely mix with their peers outside the Court.
They meander down a narrow, cobbled corridor, many stumbling over the uneven ground, before coming out into a large daylight-lit courtyard surrounded by towering blades of vibrant green grass. Being on the border of Taratesia and Melaxous, the Portologists Headquarters was never moved, generally remaining untroubled until the onset of Feasting Season.
The paved stones are cracked here, some rising off the ground at a slant, as roots of forgotten nearby trees urge their way up from underground. Ahead, only large squares of empty space act as the far-off wall and a sweet honey scent wafts in on the cool breeze.
In the centre of the courtyard is a vast concrete staircase that leads up to a landing, the symbols of the various empires moulded onto its rails. Milo watches as the Court begins their ascent, now knowing exactly where they are headed. He visited the Portologists Headquarters on enough school trips to know its layout. They are going to the laboratory.
When the final Court member reaches the top step, Milo races after them, taking the stairs two at time, remaining close to the ground and deftly quiet. Hidden behind the array of plants snaking up the walls, he waits as Vladimir converses with one of the portologists.
After a brief conversation in hushed whispers the redhead says loudly ‘Follow me’, and then places her hand on the laboratory’s oak door. It appears to melt away, a soft hissing sound like rain, as it shimmers into the doorframe. The Court follows after her.
Milo keeps close behind, making it into the room just as the door starts to reform. He stops, stunned and exhilarated. Even on his school trips they were never allowed into the top floor laboratory. The grey-walled windowless room and its jumble of workstations are not well lit. A few flickering florescent lights, acquired from the days when they worked with the Corporeal, hang dangerously from the ceiling, buzzing loudly but adding little real light.
Looking up, Milo sees that more people work above him, their desks and appliances apparently suspended in the air by magic. Everyone has lit their own station with some incantation or glowing object and are thoroughly engrossed in jotting down notes and tinkering away. Aside from the hum of the lights, the only sounds are the odd shuffle of parchment, the scratch of writing sticks or the clink as they tap against jars of snickleberry ink.
Milo blends into the shadows and skirts along the edge of the room, keeping his gaze fixed on the Court. The redhead stops and turns to them, whilst Milo sneaks closer. Spying an empty station a few rows behind the Court, he nonchalantly saunters over to it as if it were his own and takes a seat, his head down.
‘They’ll be right out,’ the redhead says.
‘Thank you.’ Vladimir bows his head and the girl walks away.
Not long after, brass doors at the far end of the room bang open. Two men in matching opal laboratory coats enter, making their way to the Court members, their faces grim. One is a dwarf with a braided beard and an auburn ponytail stemming from the top of his head. The other is a much taller man wearing elongated spectacles and with spiky black hair. They nod curtly as they come to a halt.
‘We understand you are here about the gethadrox’ says the taller man, his height if nothing else marking him out as a Travisor.
‘That’s correct, Matthew,’ Vladimir says.
‘And you understand that not much progress has been made on this project in years?’
‘We do.’
‘In fact, we have all but put the gethadrox to rest.’
‘I’m afraid it’s time to wake it up.’
Mathew sniggers.
‘I promise we are not expecting miracles.’
‘But you are expecting something.’
‘We want the gethadrox to become the primary focus of all Portologists,’ Vladimir admits. ‘We may have more hope if everyone works together.’
His arms folded across his chest, the dwarf scoffs, ‘The gethamot itself is an immense feat. To travel to one realm is a wonder, but you want to travel to all of them.’
‘Not all of them, George,’ and the dwarf eyes him curiously. ‘We just need to get to Vedark.’
‘Vedark?’ gasps George, his narrowed eyes now springing open.
‘The realm of the Vildacruz?’ Matthew is equally bewildered. ‘Why?’
‘Because we plan to return the Exlathars to where they came from, or eliminate the one, if any, that controls them.’
‘What?’ Milo almost cries, ducking behind the desk before he is recognised. He hears the Court shuffle then become stilled, and hopes they do not come investigating.
At last, the voices start up again but they are quieter this time. Deciding he has heard enough Milo slinks back to the exit and waits for someone to leave—which isn’t long, for people are constantly coming and going—and then mingles with them as they make their way back out and into the courtyard.
Yvane leans forward, resting her elbows on top of the wall. She looks out at Prelang below. The great hay structure that once surrounded it, protected it, has been reconstructed since the battle but it is not as strong as it was. Parts of it flutter away with the slightest breeze and daylight streams in through the gaps leaving patterns on the ground. Yvane sighs. This is where she stood, the night the Vildacruz attacked. In this very spot, trembling with a sword in hand.
Like most places, Prelang had taken a beating that day: everything on fire, red heat lashing out as clouds of black smoke choked the air. It can barely be told anymore but its people remember. They walk around wary and solemn, thin lines marking their tired skin, their eyes cast down, their mouths severe.
A breeze blows and Yvane wraps her arms around herself. She stares over the wall, out at the rest of Coldivor. From here, she can vaguely make out the steep roof of the Court, eyeing it wistfully. She imagines Howard and Lexovia, members of the Court’s guard, taking orders, fighting Exlathars, doing…something, unlike her.
A rhythmic tapping—wood against stone—tells her someone is coming: her father.
With a weighted sigh she turns to see the man who once seemed so strong, now frail and leaning on a long wooden stick. He grips it as though he were a clinging vine. His eyes are drawn, grey speckling his blossoming beard and matted curls. He has the same shock of red entwined within as Yvane does, only his appears duller.
‘What are you doing out here?’ his voice tremors; it always tremors now. Yvane briefly glances down at his legs, his one good one and the half he has left of the other. Her father had been discovered days after the battle ended, when they were almost sure he would be found dead, if at all. He had been trapped under a fallen slab of stone, one leg crushed from the knee down. Fuertés had come, hauling off the rubble, but no amount of extroosal would heal him. The leg was eventually severed at the knee, healing liquid used to seal the stump.
The thought of what he went through; all those days with no food, no water and little hope, makes her stomach turn. But nothing sickens her more than the almost snivelling sap it has made him. Her mother is even worse, a flinching mess as fragile as eggshell.
‘It’s getting late,’ he tells her, his desperate eyes peering at the wall as though something may leap over it.
‘I’m fine,’ Yva
ne says evenly. She swallows and wills herself to stay calm, curb her annoyance. She can only imagine how her father must be feeling and has no desire to make him feel worse.
‘What are you doing up here?’ and his face wrinkles. ‘In this place of all places.’
‘Thinking,’ she tells him, staring wistfully back over the wall. ‘Dreaming.’
Her father snickers, making him cough. ‘Dreaming at a time like this?’
‘I can’t think of a better time to dream. In fact, I’m thinking of volunteering for the Court’s Guard.’
Now her father doesn’t only snicker but full on belly laughs, ‘You?’ he cries. ‘My darling, the Courts Guard is no place for a Premoniter.’
‘That’s not true.’ She turns to face him. ‘There are many Premoniters in the Guard, even as true members of the Court.’
‘That is because they have the ability of concise vision; they can see things at will.’ Her father now seems exhausted, leaning more heavily against his staff. ‘Can you?’
A pang of hurt stabs Yvane in the chest. Biting back her words she only shakes her head.
‘Now come,’ he insists. ‘Get back inside before…’ but then he just slowly ambles back the way he came.
‘Before what?’ she longs to scream. Before we don’t have time to hide?
PAPER HISTORY
I barely notice the faint tinkle of the crystal ball as I apply the final layer of varnish to my latest bookshelf. I’m engrossed in the task, lost in the familiar rhythm. My thoughts bounce from Milo to Wood Security, to the Provolian Pair to the Court visiting nine years ago, then drift back to Milo. I think about the last time I saw him, try to remember the touch of his lips, the feel of his hand in mine. I try to savour every moment of our last encounter, pulling them out every now and then like a starburst.
‘I think someone’s trying to reach you.’ I jump as Mr Picklesby comes into the room behind me, grabbing his coat. ‘Go home, won’t you?’ and he tuts before leaving.
The tinkle of the crystal ball is now clear, like wind chimes in a breeze. Racing over to the wooden cabinet above the old desk, I rip open the doors and carefully retrieve the shimmering globe from its shelf. I wave my hand over it and my heart melts as Milo’s face comes into view. A smile instantly takes over my mouth.
‘I can see you,’ I breathe.
‘And I you,’ he grins. ‘How are you sweetheart?’
‘Better now.’ I gingerly manoeuvre through the backroom, narrowly avoiding the latest creations: the corner of a dresser, the legs of some chairs, and finally take a seat on a rocking chair. ‘How is everything over there?’
Milo smiles, clearly amused as I pull a screwdriver from behind my ear and a pencil from my hair, allowing it to tumble over my shoulders.
‘I love it when you dress up for me.’
I scowl. ‘We can’t all look like…’ Like the heavens carved us out of rock? Like January in a pin-up calendar? Gosh, just look at him! I bite my lip and say nothing.
‘Like?’ and he raises a mischievous brow, his blue eyes glinting.
‘Did you get into any trouble for knocking out that guard?’ I ask, unsubtly changing the subject.
He chuckles, then, surprised, says, ‘None at all. I suppose they didn’t get a good look at me. More guards are on patrol now though with shields as well as spears.’
I grimace, resting the heavy base of the ball on my lap, ‘So sneaking out is going to be even harder.’ I try to swallow the sickly feeling creeping across my insides. What with Wood Security and Rijjleton Guards, my connection to Coldivor is going from sparse to non-existent, though it was foolish of me to hope that it would last.
‘Considerably.’ He agrees.
‘Any news from Lexovia? Howard?’
‘Not yet. But they’re going to have to come back to school eventually.’ He shakes his head. ‘I did overhear something quite interesting in the portologists headquarters though.’
‘Oh?’
‘Apparently the Court want the portologists to try and remake the gethadrox.’
He easily reads my blank expression.
‘It’s the updated version of the gethamot. Not only should it transport between our worlds but it should be capable of traveling all realms.’
I take a minute to collect my thoughts that clatter around me like a spilled drawer of cutlery, ‘What?’
‘It hasn’t been successfully done, mind, other than by Tranzuta…supposedly,’ and he frowns. ‘The mad…’
I don’t hear what Milo says after that as his image suddenly rolls then rotates out of view.
‘Milo?’ I call, registering a thunk, as though his crystal ball has fallen somewhere hard. I see a hand, hear a scuffle and wait. There are a number of grunts and splutters that I guess are Milo fumbling about, then at last his face reappears.
‘Sorry about that,’ he pants. ‘Technical malfunction.’
I laugh. ‘No worries. For a minute it sounded like you were beatboxing.’
‘Beatboxing?’
‘Yes, you know: when you make drumming type music with your mouth.’
‘What?’
‘You know!’ I cry and proceed to do my best imitation, pressing my lips together, collecting spit between them and making all sorts of random, spluttering sounds.
‘What is that?’ he asks, horrified.
‘Beatboxing,’ I insist, holding back my laughter.
‘So…this,’ and Milo does his own imitation, as badly as I had, ‘is music to you?’ He raises an amused brow.
I crack up. ‘You’re not doing it right,’ and once again I show him how it’s done, but just as badly.
Milo stares at me. ‘You really are mental, aren’t you?’
We both laugh harder, but then a hideous siren blares out from his side and my stomach tightens.
Milo growls, ‘I have to go,’ but I can barely hear him over the sound of the alarm.
‘Curfew?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Alright,’ and I force a smile. No matter how often or in how many different ways we do this, I still hate saying goodbye; I wonder if it will ever get easier. ‘Talk to you soon.’
‘Bye.’ He smiles back and then fades. I watch swirls dip and dive where his face has just been, and imagine it reappearing or him suddenly clambering out of the ball and into my arms; I don’t doubt he could invent a way.
Finally, I wave my hand over the ball and it returns to being clear, leaving me to stroke it silently as I wish he’d channel me again. My blind gaze, as I rock in my chair like a metronome, falls upon a clock Peter made this morning. It’s stunning. He’s a master at carving; the intricate detailing on this piece simply breath-taking. Then noticing the time, I leap up, as if stung. I’m supposed to be meeting Imogen for dinner. Scooping up my bag, I race out of the shop and into the street.
It’s particularly lively. I usually venture outside when everyone is already home for the night—in no hurry to leave the comfort of the backroom—but Imogen was quite insistent I join her tonight, and I’m curious to see how her first day went. Being the charming lady she is, it only took her one meeting with a Mister Belendraw Tink to land herself a job organising his shop: Tinkers. According to Jude and Nathaniel, the place needs a lot more than just organising.
‘Fumigation; that’s what it needs,’ Nathaniel had said, shaking his head.
‘A blowtorch. Just take a blowtorch to the place,’ Jude had then urged.
Convinced it couldn’t be that bad, Imogen took the job. I wonder how she feels about it now.
We didn’t talk much the previous night, both too exhausted. Imogen slept in my narrow bed whilst I slept on the couch. Then this morning, I’d woken early for work, leaving her in Jude’s capable hands.
I race up the grassy hill separating the town centre from the farm and practically tumble down the other side. I slip through sodden grass and race past the stables, the horses braying. At last the Bar & Grill comes into view, and I wave as I spy Imogen sitti
ng at a table by the window. She’s already ordered us a bottle of sparkling water and is mulling over the menu.
‘Sorry,’ I pant once I reach her. I hate being late. ‘Were you waiting long?’
‘Not long at all.’ She waves a hand and I shrug off my cardigan, taking the seat opposite. ‘I ordered us a starter platter,’ she announces.
The bar’s not as boisterous as it usually is but still busy enough for a weeknight, and the musk of beer and cider soak the air. Each table has diners cramped around it, and though the music is quieter than usual, it is still upbeat and folksy.
‘So?’ I grin, ‘how are you finding life without bars?’
‘I think I might have preferred the bars.’ Imogen pulls a face of such horror that I splutter, almost choking on my drink, the bubbles fizzing up my nose.
‘Oh no,’ I cringe. ‘Is it as bad as they said?’
‘Worse,’ and she wrinkles her brow, but her eyes are alight with laughter. She grabs a handful of salted peanuts from the bowl in the centre of our table and pops them in her mouth. She seems to savour them, one tantalising crunch after another, and I realise this must be the first time she has had peanuts in years.
‘Mmm,’ she sighs, appreciatively.
I look around at the waiters, all dressed in black and sporting aprons; no Nathaniel. It must be his night off. I still have no idea what rota he is on.
‘Those look different,’ Imogen notes as the waiter arrives with our order.
I follow her gaze. ‘Fried Calamari; haven’t you had it before?’
‘If I have, I don’t remember,’ and she gingerly scoops one from the pile, dipping it into all three sauces—brave woman.
‘So,’ she rubs her hands together eagerly, washing down her mouthful with a sip of crisp, sparkling water, ‘not only did you find Feranvil but you also went to Coldivor.’
‘Yes,’ I twiddle a piece of calamari in my fingers, ‘I went to Coldivor.’ The oil from the fish is smooth and drizzles down my thumb. I catch it with my tongue.
