There’s movement in the distance. A shout rings out from the walls, causing a mass scramble toward and through the gates. Someone’s coming from the outside.
Ash? I lean, narrowing my eyes and raising one hand against the glare.
There are several forms hunched over dark solar bikes, including a few extra wide four-wheeled models towing squat carts heaped high with unidentifiable bundles. But as they near, it becomes obvious Ash isn’t with this group. I don’t recognize any of them from that first day when his squad tried to talk to me, but they all seem pretty young, and they’re dressed in dark, close, tough-looking clothes like Ash’s, with cropped or braided hair.
They move like him, too. My cheeks warm, but I scan the long, dusty line of the road anyway, hoping his team is still on their way. Which is stupid, because there’s no guarantee he’d be able to help me if he were here.
The distant road remains empty. The returning riders sweep through the gates in such a tide of backslapping, hugs, cheers, and shouted song that I’m glad to be up here and not stuck in the midst of the chaos.
I shudder. All that enthusiasm . . .
“ . . . Right.” Cadence says, with her equivalent of an eye roll. “Super miserable to be welcomed home. You’d hate it for sure. Oh wait, that already happened.”
My shoulders twitch with the urge to swat her. It must catch the attention of someone in the crowd below because the next moment, they’re pointing me out on the wall and waving. They shout and beckon me down from my perch, and the only thing for it is to make my escape quick—before they catch me and I’m pulled into the middle of that noisy group.
“Or you could just, you know, make some new friends.”
I jump the last few steps to the ground and set off running. Cadence is altogether too comfortable here. We didn’t come to make friends or, in her case, reconnect with old ones.
“I know, okay? But what do you want me to do about it? I’m not the one who couldn’t make the grade. In kindergarten.”
This time, I swat at her, ineffectual as it may be.
Not my fault, not her fault, not anybody’s fault, I know—but it’s still a crummy situation, and I’ve had enough, and still I can’t fix it, and I can’t change it.
Ugh.
I cut a weaving line through town, changing course whenever there are too many people crowding the path ahead. I wind up back at Susan’s place, standing on the edge of the poor garden I can’t seem to stop killing.
She’s not alone.
“Our—Susan—tells me you don’t remember us,” the strange girl says.
She grins up at me with unexpectedly pale eyes in a more than just sun-darkened face, looking hopeful. Streaks of every shade of brown shimmer through her braids, from a bleached near-blonde to deep earth tones, and her sleeveless tunic is brightly patterned and a little tight too tight.
She clearly spends a lot of time outside, but she’s softer looking than the kids I saw at the gates, and younger-looking. Not a fighter, then. And not a hint of the telltale silver dreamwalker’s sheen I expect to see.
“Gracie!” Cadence says.
“ . . . Sorry,” I say. The girl’s sunny face falls.
Susan bends to pick up a trowel. “I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you two head on inside and start without me?”
The girl brushes off her knees and bobs her head. “I’m Grace. We—uh, Cady and I—knew each other. Before. Actually, we’re kind of cousins.”
I take a step back, shocked beyond words.
Cousins? Despite how hard Ash tried to sell me on the idea of being welcomed back, somehow, I hadn’t picked up on the idea that there would still be so much family waiting for me. Or, for her, at least.
Susan was one thing, but a kid? What next?
“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!” Cadence says, ignoring my panic.
Grace cocks her head and furrows her brow but doesn’t respond. At least, not to Cadence.
“Sorry for the suddenness, but I, uh. I actually live here? I was staying in Steph’s—my sister’s—dorm while her squad was away, but now she’s back, so, um . . . I guess we’ll be roommates?” Her voice tilts up in apologetic question, but she smiles as she brushes past to open the door. “Come on. We should get started—sounds like you’ve got a lot to learn!”
“Gracie?” Cadence says. “What—”
Susan shakes her head in my peripheral vision. “Grace can’t hear you. She didn’t inherit.”
Grace pokes her head out the door. “What was that?”
“Your supplies are on the counter, kiddo. I haven’t taught her to harvest yet, so just start with the fibres today.”
The girl pops back out of sight.
“She can’t dreamwalk?” Cadence sounds horrified.
“Don’t go making her feel bad about it either, now. She’s worked hard to contribute in her own way. Here, take these in while you’re at it.”
I accept the woven basket, popping an early blackberry into my mouth before taking it inside. The juice is tart, the seeds wedging between my teeth. I’m still not entirely used to actual flavours or food with texture.
“They can’t be that bad,” Grace raises her eyebrows at my expression, takes the basket from me and rinses the berries in the sink. “So? Are we really going to do this or are you just conning Gran and the council? Promise I won’t tell if you are.”
I dip my fingers into a bowl on the counter, tangling them in long brown fibres submerged in the water. “What are these?”
She huffs. “Going to be like that, is it?”
“Well, this is fun,” Cadence says.
Grace picks up the bowl and carries it to the table. “Come on, get over here. Gran said to start at the beginning.”
She untangles a couple strands and holds them dripping over the bowl. Then she drops them again and leans over the table, grabbing my wrist. “Okay, but seriously. You, like, forgot everything? You were top of your class back in the day!”
Cadence snorts. “Don’t remind me.”
I just stare. It’s bad enough dodging the curiosity and pity of strangers on the street who think they know me. The last thing I need is someone in my very own house making me feel like—
“Like I’m the one who should have survived?” Cadence’s voice is flat.
I wince. Then I shake it off. “You’re not dead.”
“Uh, nope?” Grace says with that strained listening expression again.
“Not talking to you,” Cadence and I say at the same time.
Grace’s grip tightens. “So it’s really true? You’re—she’s still in there?”
I pull my wrist back and rub it. “We don’t want to talk about it. Can we just get on with whatever it is that Susan wants?”
“So weird,” she whispers. Then she grins. “Okay, I’ll play along. Welcome to weaving for dummies.”
Chapter 12: Skills
I have never felt clumsier.
Grace turns out to be five years younger and about five hundred times more graceful as she twists the fibres into long, smooth cords. My attempts—when I don’t shred the fibres outright—are scratchy with jagged lumps or so loose they unravel as soon as I let go.
After a couple hours of failed attempts, Susan pokes her nose in, shakes her head, makes us tea, and wanders back out to her garden without comment. My fingers are raw from the damp fibres and my wrists ache from the twisting. My temper’s about as frayed as the cords.
“I’m so bored,” Cadence announces, echoing Grace’s sigh.
I slam my hands on the table, letting my latest attempt unknot itself in a flailing whirl. “I can’t do this.”
Grace smirks. “Infant.”
“I’m here to get my powers back, not help with the chores.”
She shrugs. “So you used to have skills. Now you don’t. This is where you start.”
“Weaving isn’t the problem! I just need to be able to see the threads again.”
“I wouldn’t know anyth
ing about that.” She laces her hands behind her back and stretches, joints popping, seams straining. “You might not remember, but I’m no good with that stuff. All I know is, the council says you need to relearn the basics and Gran asked me to help. So here we are.”
“It’s not her fault,” Cadence says. “It’s yours. Get it together, Cole.”
“This is a waste of time,” I snap.
“Yeah. It is.” Grace rubs both hands across her face, massaging the corners of her eyes. She puffs out a frustrated breath. “Okay. Let’s try taking a walk. You can tell me about what you do remember. You know, what’s it like where you’re from, how the journey back was, that kind of thing. I’ve never been anywhere.”
She pops her head out a window, calls to Susan, and hands me a large basket.
I let it drop. “I don’t have time for a walk.”
“Fine, stay here and teach yourself.” She shrugs and stalks off without me, tidy braids bouncing against her back.
“Cole . . .” Cadence says.
I twist to look at the jumble of crumpled and snapped cords on the table, then down at the blisters on my fingers. I scratch, pressing into the clear fluid until there’s a wet burst and the burn of raw skin.
I’m not just being difficult. I’m not.
I didn’t choose to leave home and come here. Ash dragged me away from the place I’d only just earned, and now he’s not even here to answer for it. Who knows how many have died since I left? How many will die before I fix whatever’s blocking my access to magic and get back to them? But instead of healing, or training, or whatever I should be doing, I’m wasting time with an old lady and some hick kid.
“You don’t have a choice,” Cadence says. “You’re useless without my magic. You’d only get killed if you went back—especially without Ash.”
I dig harder into the blistered skin. Red drips from my fingertips.
She’s wrong. I have choices, even if I don’t have the power I need. Even if the only good choice I have left is to lay low and wait for Ash to come back. With or without my magic, when he returns we’re going home. He got me out of the city somehow. I don’t see why he can’t do the same for my friends.
If I can regain what I have lost, I will. If I can fight, I will. But if all I can do is lay low until Ash returns and lull everyone into a false sense of security until I can force him to help me escape?
Well, then it’s time to become a model student.
GRACE DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING when I catch up, but her pale eyes arc in what might be a smile. Her pace quickens. With my long legs, I shouldn’t have to try too hard to keep up but, true to form, I manage to trip on every exposed root and fallen branch while she strolls along as if the path is as smooth and clear as a concrete corridor.
It feels like the forest starts even before we reach the wall, cultivated patches shading to free-growing ground cover and small brush, then young trees, then not-so-young ones. The buildings step up likewise from the hill- and pit-houses of the rolling center to the taller solid wooden and pressed earth structures as we near the edges, and, finally, the soaring green-and-silver towers and inhabited trees along the inner ring of the wall.
Grace tells me the names of some of the trees and other plants as we pass, repeating them in a few languages. I dutifully mouth the syllables after her, but despair of actually remembering any. All this green looks the same to me.
But I start paying attention when we pass the last tower and stand facing the sharp limit of the wall.
“Don’t ever do this alone.” Grace grins like she’s perfectly well aware there’s no way I’ll listen.
She leads me to a small gate—more of a door, really—set into the base of the wall. A key hangs from a hook set off to one side. I let out a huff at this evidence of the elders’ cluelessness. The city gates are only locked against whatever’s on the other side. It’s as if, despite my experience, this city was never meant to be a prison.
I take a minute to look around and try to fix the spot in my memory. If I could figure out the way home, this could be a good escape route. Doesn't even seem to be guarded.
Grace ushers me through and locks the gate behind us, dropping the key’s cord over her head. I breathe my first breath of free air in a week and sneeze. Nature is denser out here, the air full of pollen and insects and the sharp tang of trees in the sun. I miss the over-processed, dank, and generally toxic air of home.
“This is home,” Cadence says.
“Not mine.”
Grace squints at me. “Are you talking to her again? How does that even work?”
I shrug. “Ever been haunted? It’s like that.”
Grace stops walking and flips a braid over her shoulder. “Yeah, I’m gonna need a little more to go on.”
“Don’t move.” I step behind her, grabbing her soft shoulders to hold her in place. She giggles a little, shifting her weight. I lean in real close until my breath makes the tiny strands poking out of her braids quiver and whisper, “You suck at everythiiing.”
She jumps and swats me. I laugh.
“I’m not like that,” Cadence huffs.
Grace hunches her shoulders and rubs at her ear. “Ugh. Really?”
I nod, lips pressed together.
“Come on, tell her you’re joking,” Cadence whines.
“Exactly like that,” I flap one hand behind my head. “Like there’s this irritating fly just behind you nagging, and judging, and pestering you all the time, but you can’t ever get rid of it.”
“Stop it. She’ll really believe you, you know?”
“But she’s actually you?” Grace asks. “Like, you’re basically talking to yourself, right? Or is it more like your conscience?”
Cadence snickers. “Oh, I like that.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No. Definitely not.”
“Oh. But . . . I mean, it’s Cady, right? Like, she still exists and, um. She remembers me and stuff. Doesn’t she?” Grace chews her lip, staring up at me with tragic eyes.
I cave. “Yeah, she remembers you. She remembers all of this. I think.”
“Then how come you don’t?”
I start walking down the beaten path between the undergrowth, away from the wall. Away from their home, wishing that meant I was headed toward mine, instead of just away.
“Stuff happened. It’s just how it is.”
She rustles along quietly for several minutes, leading me first down clear, well-trampled paths, then along fainter passages through the undergrowth, then, as far as I can tell, into the trackless woods. Every so often she stops to show me things, naming them, explaining how best to harvest them, loading up first the basket she brought for me to carry, then her own. I would have thought we had enough plants growing on our roof, but apparently we’re taking more back with us.
My feet are getting sore and I’m tempted to abandon the loaded basket when she tugs my sleeve and says, “We’re here.”
I look around. Trees, bushes, and oh, hey, look at that: more trees, same as before.
I mean, of course there’s other stuff. There’s dirt and smaller things growing on the ground, and bugs, so many bugs, and rustling that could be birds or small animals or just the wind in the branches. But the point is, there’s nothing to see here.
“It’s too young to share much yet,” she says, reaching out to touch the narrow trunk of one of the smaller trees. “But your mother planted this one when she first learned to gather from the forest. Cadence knows.”
I freeze, images of a bleeding, silver-dusted woman slumped across a golden floor flitting behind my eyes. They’re not Cadence’s memories, the ones that fade from my mind as soon as she shares them. They’re Ravel’s, painted with the vividness of his childish horror. I reach out shaking, bloodstained fingers—and bark rasps against my fingertips.
“Cadence . . .” I whisper.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, distant.
Grace touches the bark too, tracing a scar. “Do you miss
her?”
I pull back. “No. Like you said, I didn’t know her.”
She strokes the tree. “I miss her. She was a good teacher. She treated all of us like her own.”
Cadence’s breath hitches and I feel a pinch deep inside. I don’t want to know these things, don’t want to picture that dying woman as a planter of trees and a teacher of small children.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“This is what you’ve forgotten. Weaving doesn’t start with dead fibres, it starts with something alive.”
She moves to trace a long scar on a much larger tree. The bark has been broken away, exposing a smoother layer beneath. “You came out here as a little girl, like I did, to learn respect. Balance. How to share in life, not just take it for yourself. How to create, and not just destroy.”
She moves to a different tree, unscarred, and pauses for a long moment. She just stands there, head down, eyes closed, palm pressed to the trunk. Then she draws a blade from inside her basket.
“We take just a little.” She drags the blade near the base of the tree, pressing hard and cutting deep. The bright scent of fresh sap fills the air. “Too much and it will die. You start by learning of limits and boundaries.”
Grace pries up the bark and pulls. Cracks splinter further up the trunk She grunts and steps back, leaning with all her weight until the long, narrow strip runs into a branch high on the tree and tears free, showering us with tree-bits on its way down.
“Well, come on.” She jerks her chin. “Grab the other end.”
I help her gather her harvest, heaping it into a loosely folded pile. “Now what?”
“We use the inner bark of young, straight cedar trees like this one to teach our dreamweavers. And also to make beautiful and useful things—when we’re not wasting it on trainees.” Her tone is more teasing than mean-spirited, despite the harshness of her words.
I groan, suddenly glad to be hauling big, rough lengths of raw tree instead of fiddling with the small, slippery bits at Susan’s table.
Black the Tides Page 8
