by Hanna Peach
“I’m not lying.”
“Aren’t you?” A small smile plays at the corner of Yael’s lips as he surveys his audience. “You expect any intelligent Seraphim to believe that you, an unsanctioned child of two ungifted Rogues has at eighteen winters suddenly revealed herself as an Oracle?” Yael throws back his head in a roasting laugh, his two friends joining him. Yael’s head snaps back, the laughter cut off. “You must think we’re stupid.”
“How did I come to predict the body to be in the park then?”
“Simple,” Yael says, taking one grinding step forward. “You put it there.”
“No,” Alyx cries. She hears the murmur pick up around them. Some of the lightwarriors are nodding, already accepting Yael’s accusation. It is, after all, a more believable scenario.
“It’s pathetic what lengths you will go to try and impress the Elders with your new gift.” Yael punctuates this last word with finger marks.
“I don’t need to invent gifts to impress the Elders. I already did that when I beat you at the Winter Games.” It’s a low blow. Alyx knows that she will probably pay for it later but at the moment she doesn’t care.
Yael’s jaw tightens and his snarl seems to coil further. “You got lucky.”
Luck had nothing to do with it. Her flock had beaten Yael’s, despite coming up against stolen advantages and near-cheating. Alyx had been instrumental in securing the title. Right now, however, she takes little pleasure in reliving those moments.
“You’re just a sore loser, Yael.”
“And you are an unsanctioned throwaway. It’s only a matter of time before you join your pathetic parents in exile where you belong. The only question is... will you jump before you are pushed?”
Her nostrils flame and she shifts her legs wide in a fighting stance, fingers gripping in hard knots by her side. “You say what you want about me, but you will not talk about my parents. Take it back or I’ll beat some manners into you.” Alyx notices too late that Yael has started straightening up and that the crowd has gone silent.
A voice bellows from behind her, “I don’t appreciate you threatening my warriors and delaying the start of my session.”
Her shoulders pinch. She turns slowly. The crowd is already shrinking back. Leader Varian.
Varian is one of the oldest earthborn in Michaelea. The centuries under this planet’s cruel sun have toughened his skin to weathered leather. It is rumored that of all the leaders, only Varian was given the right to choose his warriors from those who had Come of Age. It is no secret that Varian works his trainees to the ground. He has forged out some of the best lightwarriors from Michaelea, winning the Winter Games for the last twenty years. Unbeatable... until last year.
“She started it, Leader,” says Do’hann.
“That’s right, Leader. We were just minding our business,” Stantanople says.
Alyx starts to protest.
“Silence,” Varian’s voice reverberates around the platform. “Fifty points against your flock, Alyxandria. I’m sure Symon will not be pleased.” A rumble starts in the crowd but quickly falls silent under Varian’s glare.
This is how they are punished, how they are kept in line. This is how they are rewarded ― as a flock. One suffers, they all suffer. One gains, they all gain. Punishment against your self is easy to take, but when anything you do affects your leader and your flock, the Seraphim who risk their lives to stand beside you... that is different.
Points are gained, or lost, throughout the year, and are redeemed at the beginning of every Winter Games for weapons, armor, food and other advantages. Fifty points is half a dozen weapons or a week’s food rations. These things Varian just took away from Alyx’s flock.
No one dares move even as the final call to training sounds.
“That isn’t fair.” Alyx fights to keep her voice steady.
“It doesn’t matter what you think is fair. Now take your leave. Or do I start deducting more points?” Varian raises an eyebrow at her, a challenge to disobey him. Alyx can feel the crowd around them collectively holding their breath. She seeks out some support in the midst of faces around her, but no one will meet her eye. No one from her flock is here. And it appears that no one else is prepared to speak out for her.
Cowards. She hates them all.
She wrestles for control as she turns back to Varian. Her fists itch to strike at him. Instead, she forces herself to tilt her chin down in a bow. She can hear the soft sniggers of Yael and the other two behind her. Her cheeks flame and she bites back the sting that is forming along her jaw. They are getting away with it, again.
Control over self is the greatest battle, Alyx can almost hear Symon say. Just walk away.
She forces herself to turn. She pushes through the crowd, trying hard to ignore the whispers trailing behind her.
One day you’ll show them. You’ll show them all.
On a platform across the fields, Jovanna stands in front of her flock as Alyx slips into the group. Jovanna nods slightly to Alyx, a small frown of concern at her sullen expression. Alyx keeps her head down, ignoring Jovanna.
“As I was saying,” says Jovanna, apparently content to leave Alyx unquestioned for the moment, “today, we are working with FireTwirler.” She indicates a wooden box sitting on the bench behind her, the lid held upright by metal arms. In the box are a pile of tattoo quills. In the lid are pockets containing small vials of red liquid. FireTwirler bloodink. “Pair up and fill in a full mark.”
Using the tattoo quills the warriors take turns in tattooing each other’s FireTwirler marks. Alyx is the odd one out, so Jovanna fills in her mark. Alyx refuses to look at Jovanna despite Jovanna’s attempts to catch her eye. Alyx sets her jaw. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want Jovanna’s pity.
When the last tattoo is finished Jovanna speaks again, “FireTwirler may be a first level bloodink but it's the hardest of the first levels to control. I have a full WaterBearer here if you set yourself, or anyone else, on fire.” She taps her own arm where her WaterBearer mark shimmers with a deep blue. Jovanna nods. “You may begin.”
Alyx loves the feeling of Fire in her veins. It is hot and liquid and smells sweet like roasting nutmeg. Alyx draws at the bloodink on her arm, pulls it though her veins and collects it in her right hand. It sits like a small sun in her palm and radiates a flickering red light. Alyx starts to hook her finger into it but her anger has made her distracted.
Too late. The power is already burning her. In a reaction Alyx tosses the ball of magic back and forth between her hands, a grimace on her face as the heat gets too much. In her periphery she can see some of the other warriors doing the same. One lightwarrior has dropped his Fire on the ground which he is trying to stomp out before it takes hold of the grass. Jovanna pulses out a spray of Water and the grass at his feet sizzles.
Alyx almost drops her Fire, forcing her attention back.
“Come on Alyx. This should be easy for you,” Jovanna says.
Alyx grits her teeth, steadies the ball of Fire in her right palm. Ignoring the searing pain she hooks her right forefinger into the ball. With a flick of her wrist the ball rolls out from her finger as if it is on a string.
“Well done Alyx. First one to spin it out. Now control it.”
The Fire ball now hangs just above ground level. The grass is already starting to smoke. Alyx starts to arc the flame around her body in a slow controlled motion, twirling it to her left then her right. She keeps the speed of the ball slow and steady.
“What about a second one?” Jovanna says a challenge in her voice.
Alyx feels her focus sharpen further and the anger reside a little more. While keeping the first Fire ball twisting around her body, Alyx draws again upon the bloodink, this time pulling the energy into her left hand. Alyx doesn’t hesitate this time. She flicks the second ball out and starts to twirl it around her.
Alyx feels her gaze soften as her arms move rhythmically, the balls of fire swooping around her in a flaming or
bit.
The FireTwirler
First level magic.
The FireTwirler is able to manipulate and control the element of fire. Fire magic can be difficult to control and dangerous to use because of the heat that the magic generates.
All lightwarriors are to receive their FireTwirler mark prior to being released for patrole.
All deceased Darkened and mortal bodies are to be destroyed with the application of Fire.
The Lightwarrior’s Protocol
Chapter 7
The Heart is the largest dome that has been constructed in Michaelea soaring well above the green cape of trees. An open-aired balcony wraps around the outside of the Heart. On the top of the balustrade is a continuous flame that encircles the whole building to keep away the animals attracted by the smell of food, as well as for light and warmth.
Inside, the ceiling arcs like the spine of a great beast over the crowd of Seraphim that now fill it. Dropping from the ceiling are rounded platforms, wound with vines and halolights, which hang at different heights. On these platforms the Castus sit around low tables. It isn’t that lightwarriors aren’t allowed to sit up on the platforms; it’s just that they don’t.
Curling around the inside of the Heart is a horseshoe-shaped balcony, the Elders’ balcony. There they sit, looking down, at their earthborn descendants.
Alyx approaches the centre of the Heart where the food is set up on tables, filling the air with its rich smells. Whole roasted pigs rubbed with orange peel and herbs and cuts of pistachio-encrusted deer sit on large platters, surrounded by plates of steaming string beans sautéed in garlic and lemon-myrtle, honey-cinnamon baby carrots. There are tiers of berry and rhubarb tarts topped with whipped butterfly-milk and dusted with pollen, large crystal pots of pears poached in honeysuckle and violet syrup, pitchers of maple-mint juice, apricot and plum nectars, pot-bellied kettles of dandelion and spicy milk-dew tea’s.
Alyx doesn’t notice the group of Castus girls floating past her until one of them speaks.
“I really don’t understand why they make us eat with the warrior class. Do you think being ungifted is contagious?”
There is laughter.
Alyx spins. Constantine and her two friends Desmona and Avalon. Alyx snaps at Constantine causing her to halt in her tracks, “You have something to say, say it to my face.”
The laughter stops. Abruptly. Desmona and Avalon gasp.
Constantine narrows her eyes at Alyx, her alabaster cheeks beginning to flame. “How dare you. I should have you penalized for speaking to me like that. But I suppose someone like you wouldn’t know any better. Speak to me again like that and you’ll be sorry.”
Someone like you. Alyx feels her body go cold.
Before she can react Constantine spins in the air, her silky rose dress flaring around her creamy legs. Her two friends follow close behind her, sneaking glances at Alyx as they float up towards their usual hanging table where their other Castus friends sit. One of them, Daniel, has been watching this whole exchange. Alyx glares at him. He looks away.
“Forget them,” says Lutando who was close enough to hear the exchange.
Alyx turns back to her plate, trying to shake off the anger that is twisting around inside her.
At the flock’s usual table Alyx takes a seat next to Elysia and across from Symon.
Elysia turns to her. “Do you think you’ll be Announced?”
Alyx almost chokes.
“Announcement!” she says a little too roughly. “Is that all that anybody is talking about these days?”
Announcement is less than a week away, three days to be exact, and she is trying her best to ignore it. Unsuccessfully.
“Settle down Alyx. I’m just asking.”
Alyx avoids Symon’s eye. She can see in her periphery that he is staring at her.
After her parents abandoned her Alyx was raised by the city, passed around to the next unlucky Seraphim every time she became uncontrollable. Symon had been the only one who hadn’t given up on her. She had been raised by him and eventually she trained under him. So if anyone could identify the panic that flashed behind her eyes at the word ‘Announcement’, Symon could.
Alyx forces a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just tired I think.” Elysia waves off her apology and it seems she is forgiven. Alyx pulls her face into what she hopes is a picture of nonchalance. “Besides, I’m too young to be entwined. I’ve only seen eighteen winters. And I’m too valuable as a lightwarrior.”
“Or there is just no seraph that has sinned enough to earn the sentence of being your entwined,” Xavier says with a grin. Alyx sticks her tongue out at him.
“That’s not too young,” Elysia says. “Remember that Cassandra was coming out of her sixteenth winter when she was entwined.”
Alyx doesn’t remember.
“It was because she had blossomed into a powerful MirageWeaver,” Elysia says giving Alyx a pointed look.
Youngling seraphelle’s would play silly games with stones from the Great Lake to try and predict their future Promised, giggling and clapping when the results came through the stones. Alyx never, ever played that game. She knew she would never be a candidate for Entwinement due to her unsanctioned status. But this year because of her new gift, would things be different?
Alyx shakes her head as if it could make it fact. “I’m still too young.”
“They seem to be announcing at younger and younger ages,” says Lutando. “When I was your age we weren’t promised until we had at least seen our twenty-fifth winter.” Lutando has been around for at least five Saturn Returns, but for a mortal he could pass for a twenty-five year old.
Elysia leans over the table and her voice drops low, “It’s cause we’re not populating fast enough to replace the ones of us who are killed.”
“Elysia.” Symon’s voice is a warning. The table grows silent. Passar seems to pale.
But Elysia continues talking, “And less and less of us are being born with gifts, don’t you think?”
“Elysia, it’s not wise to speculate on such things.”
“I’m not saying anything you aren’t all thinking.”
It takes another stern warning from Symon before the subject is dropped.
“I need to talk to you.” Symon grabs Alyx’s arm before she can disappear back to her pod. Last meal is finishing and the Heart has emptied to a few chatty and laughing groups.
Symon leads Alyx to an unoccupied space of the Heart’s outer deck. The flickering light from the flames along the balcony makes Symon’s skin look like it is dancing.
Alyx watches his jaw; if she can see the twitch of muscle it means he is tensing which means that whatever he wants to talk to her about is not going to be pleasant.
Twitch. Not a good sign.
“Varian came to see me just now,” his voice is even but his eyebrows press together. Definitely not a good sign. “He tells me that you caused a scene this afternoon at his training session.”
“I didn’t start it.”
“Alyx.”
“That point’s deduction was totally unfair. Yael was saying the most―.”
“Alyxandria.” This time Alyx closes her mouth. Symon takes a deep breath before he speaks again. “People will always talk, you can’t stop that. But―.”
“―but I shouldn’t react to it. Yes. I know.”
“If you know then why―.”
“He insulted my parents.” Alyx bristles as rage surfaces like blood in water. “He accused me of planting that body at the park so I could claim to have a gift.”
“He says those things because you react to it, just like he wants.”
“It was hateful, Sy. Completely hateful. In front of everyone. You ask them, they’ll tell you.”
“Alyx, any fool can start a fight. It takes real courage to walk away from one.” Symon sighs and rubs his forehead. “Your parents were good Seraphim, despite... despite some poor decisions that they made. I know that. You know that. What
does it matter what Yael or anyone else says?”
Alyx feels her internal controls begin to shake against the swelling of her anger. Why doesn’t he ever take her side? “It matters to me. But you obviously don’t care.” Alyx spins to fly away from him.
“I’m not finished with you yet.”
Alyx halts but she doesn’t turn back to face him. She folds her arms across her chest and waits.
“Elder Michael has instructed for you to visit with Elder Mayrekk. Starting tomorrow after your regular classes.”
Elder Mayrekk.
Alyx has only ever glimpsed Elder Mayrekk once, along the banks of the Great Lake, one night when she couldn’t sleep. He was a hunched figure wrapped in fur. Walking.
Alyx spins to face Symon. “Why?”
Symon gives her a look. You never ask an Elder ‘why?’
Chapter 8
This night is not a patrole night. Alyx is huddled around a single glow-light reading a mortal book, A Tale of Two Cities, when she hears swords clashing. She springs up, her fingers clutching at the kris under her pillow.
It’s a swallow fluttering at her window, fussing against her broken-blade wind chime. It gives up trying to enter her pod and lands instead on her sill, little head bobbing out of the way of the swaying metal.
Alyx slides the book and her blade under her pillow and moves to the window. Holding the blades aside she lets the swallow hop onto the two outstretched fingers of her other hand. “Hello little one,” she says in a low voice. She spots a thin strip of material tied in a ribbon around the swallow’s leg. “What do you have here?”
It is a Thread. Alyx unties it and lets the swallow fly back out the window. She runs two fingers along the Thread.
Valle de la Luna. Devil’s Hour.
Her skin starts to tingle.
Drawing on her FireTwirler bloodink tattoo she sets the Thread alight. She lets the material go before it burns her fingers, one last flare before the grey ash disintegrates into the air.
