by K. E. Blaski
“Are you stirring?”
He was. And with renewed enthusiasm. Argathe had successfully swapped two animals’ souls. He saw it for himself: a docile hare acting like an annoyed polecat. Impossible, yet there it was. The transfer would work. Nyima would be safe. He’d always had faith, but now, he had proof.
Smiling broadly, he glanced into the pot. The liquid swirled into a mass of fog. Scattered pinpoints of blue light pierced the backs of his eyes, and when he jerked his head away, spots peppered his vision.
“What’s happening to it? It’s not even liquid anymore.”
“Oh, it’s liquid all right,” Argathe called over her shoulder. “And vapor, and solid, and energy, and sound, and light. Quit talking and keep stirring.”
When he looked back down, the pot had changed too, its sides dissolving into the swirling fog, and the end of the spoon had—melted. “The spoon—it’s gone!”
“It’s not, you fool. Your eyes deceive you. And you spoil my concentration. Quit talking or I’ll sew your lips shut. Don’t stop stirring, or we’ll both become a bloody mess for sure.”
He continued stirring, although a ball of tiny blue stars now engulfed the pot, and he could swear his hand now held emptiness instead of a spoon.
Argathe paused in her marking, the star chart now riddled with intersecting lines and patterns, all converging onto a single circle. “How much more time?”
He pulled out his timepiece, still pantomiming circles above an invisible pot with the other hand. “Two more minutes.”
“Where is that carbon? Where did I put it?” She fumbled through the pockets of her robe and pulled out a dark rock the size of her thumbnail, the twin of the one he’d given Nyima. She placed it on the circle where her drawn lines intersected.
“Why there?” he asked.
Her wrinkled face cracked a grin. “The numbers are never wrong. It’s another planet of souls! Farther than Little Neo’s planet. Farther than I’ve ever reached.” And before he could ask more, to try to understand what she’d meant when she’d said “planet,” she shouted, “Time!”
“Thirty-five seconds.”
She counted the rest of the seconds off aloud, and at a breath past “one,” her voice filled the cabin. “Stop stirring!”
The moment he paused, a moist fog overpowered him, stuffing his mouth and throat, stinging his eyes and lungs. The blue points of light blazed, twirled around him, multiplied, expanded. They packed the room, swirling and pressing against the cabin walls.
“I can’t breathe,” he tried to say, but his voice pushed out only a groan. He couldn’t see Argathe, the cabin too thick with whatever the Urion had become. He couldn’t hear either, because a growing roar filled his ears.
Like the sparks from a fire, the blue stars flew everywhere. Then all at once, as if responding to some unseen cue, they dived upon the carbon stone, melding into one another, becoming larger and brighter until, in one awe-inspiring moment, a pillar of blue light blasted out from the stone, pierced the roof, and shot upward into the night sky.
The force of the blast threw Damen against the fireplace. The last thing he saw was the blue pillar of light collapsing back down onto the carbon stone—which glowed like a tiny star.
JENNICA
CHAPTER FIVE
THE EXCHANGE
Her second attempt at Shodan-Ho, and neither of her parents bothered to show up. Dad too far away with his new family in California. Mom too busy pretending to be at work. It would’ve been nice if her mom had come just this once, but she couldn’t think about her. She had other things on her mind—like how she was going to get through this when her last failed attempt was only five months fresh.
Jennica gripped the mat with her feet, toes tensed, waiting. Pushing her fingers against the inside of her hand pad, she tried to release her nerves. The mouth guard felt huge.
Six other sparring matches were already starting. What on earth was keeping the ref for her match? Scanning the bleachers, her eyes searched for a sympathetic, familiar face. Grandma Lorinne waved, Grandpa Paul smiled, and Great-Uncle Ed scowled at her opponent. Her parents weren’t there, but her grandparents and Uncle Ed wouldn’t miss it for the world. Uncle Ed was the one who’d encouraged her to try again, so she could earn a provisional black belt.
Her opponent, Justin, acted nervous too. He kept pounding his hand pads together, then rocking on his heels on the edge of the circle, repeating the movement in a jittery, let’s-get-this-over-with kind of way. She wished she were matched against anybody else but Justin. He used wild moves and zealous follow-through, instead of restraint like the more advanced students.
The last time they’d sparred, she’d gotten cocky after a well-placed kick, and while she’d stood there grinning like she’d already won, he’d kicked her so hard in the chest he cracked a rib. First bone busted. Ever. Electric pain and then cold, and then every time she took even a shallow breath she felt an achy knot. Three weeks of misery. She shivered just thinking about it. Her blocking skills had gotten better with loads of practice, but here, in front of Justin, her ears still pounded, her spit still disappeared.
Anger was easier than fear—and more empowering. Channeling as much fury as possible, she bowed to the boy who would not take her down this time. No, this time was her time. Shohan Sato gave her a thumbs-up, and the ref, who had finally appeared, yelled, “Hagimei!”
She felt good—strong even, scoring contact against Justin’s body right away. The ref halted the spar to award her the half point, and then they began again.
Focusing, she relaxed her thigh muscles and breathed. She could win this one. She scored again.
The color seeped from Justin’s face. His lips set into a tight line. He half-spun and thumped her with the back of his foot.
Yeah, all right, she missed the block. She pointed her toes, stretched her calf muscles, and refocused. Today would be a good win because she’d have to work for it. She wouldn’t let him score again.
Justin swiped, but she was ready. She bobbed to the left. He swung wide, almost losing his balance. Ha. He’s not so bad.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of her great-uncle celebrating with a fist pump. Exhilaration flushed her skin. Beating Justin was easier than she’d imagined. What a great party she’d have tonight. Uncle Ed would take them all to her favorite restaurant.
She realized her mistake when the ball of Justin’s foot powered toward her chin like in a comic book panel, and she wished she were anywhere other than here, in this gymnasium, in front of Uncle Ed and her grandparents, failing again.
In one fluttering heartbeat, her head whipped backward and her body went limp. She heard gasps circling, and the slow-motion voice of Shohan Sato. Crumpled on the mat, her forehead pressed against the padding. There was no pain. Only light—blue, shimmering light.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Princess? Princess! Someone come quick, she’s collapsed. Have some sense—wear your gloves, man.”
“Marcis? What happened?”
“Don’t know. Heard a scream. Found her on the ground like this. Let’s get her back to her room.”
“How ’bout we take her to my room?”
“Dammit, go get Madam Meilyn and have her meet me in the princess’s room. I’ll take her there myself.”
Air left Jennica’s body with a whoosh as someone threw her over his shoulder. Thick arms encircled her legs to keep her from slipping. The man carrying her—it had to be a man, right? A woman couldn’t be so burly and strong—bounded down stairs and raced down long hallways, like he was being chased.
Her vision fogged. White fire streamed above her like a stop-motion video of car headlights on fast play. She must be dreaming. She strained to wake up and remember what had happened, but the pressure on her legs and stomach from being carried felt real. She was very much awake.
“Shohan?” Why was her teacher carrying her off like he was a fireman? As her vision cleared, the stream of lights separated
into individual frosted-glass lanterns attached to a stone wall.
Whoever was hauling her around grunted, and flopped her down onto the largest bed she’d ever seen. A pool-sized bed, covered in dozens of pillows and layer upon layer of dark orange cloth. “What? Where am I?”
“You’re distraught, Princess. Madam Meilyn will come soon to look you over. Can’t stay till she gets here, ’cause your skin, it’s a bit much. Understand?”
No. She didn’t understand. She tried concentrating on the man talking. Large and brawny like a lumberjack, but not dressed like one. Some kind of tunic draped over his shoulders, cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt. She caught a glint of silver on his cheek as he closed the door behind him.
With some effort, she struggled out of the soft bed to look around and get her bearings. Stone walls rose up at least fourteen feet before they reached a wide ceiling covered in jewel-tone geometric patterns. The same lanterns she’d seen on the way encircled the room and flickered with little balls of white fire that seemed to dance behind the frosted glass. Where was Justin? Her grandparents? She tried to open the massive door, but it was either too heavy or too locked.
She crossed over to a hole in the opposite wall, where moonlight dropped onto the smooth stone floor. A round window, without glass. A city of towering spires and gabled roofs lay below, illuminated by two crescent moons.
Sweat seeped through Jennica’s clothing. The back of her neck tingled like her nerves were at a rock concert. Her heart became the bass, beating down her chest into her stomach. This was not real. It couldn’t be.
“My princess. Are you feeling well?”
A dark-skinned woman, cheeks slashed with raised scars and lips painted black, faced her. Where the hell was she? And who the hell was this? “Madam Meilyn?” She repeated the name she’d heard from the man who carried her here.
“Who else would I be?”
“And I’m a princess,” she stated in the same tone she used when she told people, and I’m five-foot-seven.
“Did you fall and hit your head? You speak strangely, dear. Looks like you’ve gotten a bump. May I examine you?”
Jennica touched her head and felt a very real goose egg under her fingertips. This was no joke. She must’ve hit Justin’s knee on the way down. She must’ve been knocked unconscious and was at the community hospital, hallucinating behind closed eyelids.
Madam Meilyn came over, her hands encased in thick black gloves. The lumberjack who’d carried her had worn gloves too. That would make sense if she were in a hospital. They must be wearing those latex gloves, but her injured brain was morphing them into something else. She allowed the woman to touch her forehead and tried not to wince.
“Am I dreaming?” Anxiety trickled inside her chest.
“Now why would you ask that? Your injury has made you confused.” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “You should rest. You want to be well for your wedding tomorrow.”
Jennica thought Madam Meilyn had said “wedding,” but she was distracted by the way the woman stayed an arm’s distance away. Why does she keep looking at the door, or the ground? She won’t look me in the eye—like she’s nervous to be with me. The woman wasn’t acting like a nurse at all.
“Madam Meilyn, why do you wear gloves? It’s so warm in here.” It felt like a Florida summer sauna, not a crisp Midwestern fall. The hospital must have the heat turned up as high as it could go. She looked around for the vents. There weren’t any.
“Such silly questions. I must wear gloves around you. We all must. To touch you is a crime. It’s why I wear black lips, to leave evidence of my kiss.”
“But—that’s crazy.” This woman was crazy.
“My dear, you are a Rosen princess. Committed to Noble Tortare. Your skin tempts us, but I mustn’t, no, no. I mustn’t surrender to my desire, or I will die.”
“My skin? What’s wrong with my skin?”
Madam wrinkled her brow, and then bowed, gesturing toward a small mirror hanging by a bedside table.
Jennica took a few steps toward the mirror, reaching out with her arms. The sleeves of the gauzy robe slid to her elbows, and she inhaled sharply at the sight of her reddish-purple skin. She ran the rest of the way and yanked the mirror from the wall, feeling its heaviness, its thick carved frame. Her senses were so—awake. She raised the mirror. The dark eyes of a flower-colored face stared back at her, and the girl in the mirror screamed and screamed and screamed long after the mirror crashed to the floor.
◊ ◊ ◊
Jennica woke. It was still night, and she was still in the other girl’s room, the girl in the mirror. She must’ve passed out. Woozy, from the kick to her head, or from falling to the ground, or maybe from the smell. Salty, humid air blew through the glassless window. It smelled like the fishing docks in California. She peered over the edge of the bed. Someone had cleared away the mirror shards. She sat up, pulling her arms around herself. They were still purple.
The bed started to spin, and she pressed herself against the pillows until the dizziness passed. Afterward she felt nothing. She was numb—because the wishful part of her brain, the part that believed in God and miracles, had hoped she’d wake up to the smell of antiseptic, in a harsh white hospital, wearing a flimsy cotton gown open at the back. To have her mother hovering above her, eyes filled with tears and worry. That was her unanswered prayer.
The lanterns were dark, but when Jennica moved, they began to burn a soft white, like little motion-sensored night-lights, so she could find her way out of bed. Sweat dried against her skin and she shivered, setting off waves of trembling. Before she could even wrap her mind around the fact that there were still two moons staring at her through the window, sobs racked her body, and she slid to the floor with a moan.
“What are you doing?”
Fear replaced her tears. Her body tensed and she prepared to scream, but her inhale twisted into a hiccup instead. She pulled herself off the floor and scanned the room for something heavy she could use to defend herself. A wide hairbrush with a metal handle lay on the bedside table. She grabbed it. “Who’s there?”
He stepped away from the shadows against the wall, a teenage boy with mouse-brown hair to match his robes. Dark eyes stared curiously at her from underneath a curtain of lashes any girl would envy. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders. He reminded her of one of the boys on her high school swim team. Of course, her classmates didn’t wear goofy robes like this boy, who clutched at the front seams across his stomach like he was going to explode with nervous energy. One of his hands was bound in cloth like he’d been wounded.
She couldn’t think of anything to say, except the obvious. “Why are you spying on me?”
“The soldiers and Madam Meilyn were upset. I came to see . . . if you are . . . all right.”
“Well, whoever you are—I’m not all right.” She moved closer to the boy, her hand tight around the handle of the brush. She’d club him with it if she had to. “I don’t belong here. I’m not . . . this.” She pulled at the skin on her arms. “Something terrible is going on, and if you know what it is, you better tell me, or fix it, or both.”
“Ha.” He clapped his hands. “It worked. For a minute, when you made those noises on the floor—I thought the transfer had gone wrong again, but oh, no—it’s perfect. Perfect. Now tell me what village you’re from and I’ll find Nyima.”
“Village?” she repeated, though some of the other words he used had grabbed her attention, like transfer and perfect. His tone struck her, too, like he wanted to break into a happy dance at her misery.
“Yes, who are your people? I need to go to them and recover Nyima.”
“Nyima?”
“Enough. Tell me where you’re from!” He seized her arms, sending the hairbrush to the floor, and the first goofy thought that swept through her mind was, You’re not wearing gloves, followed by, Don’t you dare grab me. Instinct took over; she was back at the sparring match and it was Justin threatening her. She broke
his grip and spot-kicked him to the wall.
“No! I’ll ask the questions.”
His eyes went wide. He rubbed the spot on his chest where her foot had landed.
“Who are you?” she lowered her voice, sensing he wasn’t a physical threat to her. For now, anyway. He rubbed his chest and winced. Before she could stop herself, she placed her hand on the side of her own lower rib cage, remembering. She hoped she hadn’t broken his rib.
“My name is Damen.”
“I want more than your name.” Her empathy drained away and her hands curled into fists. “Who are you?”
“I’m a Tovar. A truth teller. I advise Noble Tortare and his council.” He clenched the front of his robe between the long fingers of his left hand, holding the other, bandaged hand close to his side. “I live here in the castle, but was raised in the village of Elliot, outside the city of Durand. I—” The boy poured out nonsense, like his tongue had escaped a prison. Almost like he couldn’t stop.
She interrupted. “Okay, most of that doesn’t mean a thing to me. How ’bout this: Who am I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not good enough.”
“Some girl from one of the villages.”
“Wrong. I’m not from any of your villages. At least, I don’t think I am.” Her voice trailed off. What if all of this was real and the life she thought she knew was false? She pushed the crazy thought away. If that was true, she was lost for sure.
“Damen the truth teller—if you don’t know who I am, you can at least tell me why I’m here.”
“I saved the princess from marrying Noble Tortare, and you’re the sacrifice.” He spoke like what he had to say was a normal, everyday occurrence. “A dark scientist used Urion to swap your souls. You’re here in Nyima’s body and she’s in yours. Now if you’d please tell me where you’re from so I can find her.”
She repeated back what she thought she’d heard, trying to understand. “You stole my soul, somehow transported it here, and stuck it into this body? And my body is back home, with someone else living inside it?”
