by Liz Delton
Though Ember had bullied him into going, he had to admit it was nice to leave the rebel camp for a little while—not that he would ever admit it to her, for she seemed intent on socializing with him, no matter how much he wanted to be alone.
And he wanted to be alone all of the time. Being with other people just made him remember Lightcity, and the faces of his companions when they realized what they had done; what he had done.
Even in sleep he was haunted by faces of the Lightcitizens he did not save, of those that he killed, because he had been too idiotic not to see the fatal flaws in his plan. He was constantly harried by the faces of the dead, like Tems and Dahlia, and even the faces of the living, like Dahlia’s wife and child who had to live without her because of his mistake.
Which was why he preferred to be alone—there were always faces in his head, haunting him, terrorizing his sleep. He just wanted it all to stop.
But Ember never said anything about it, nor did she try to make him talk about it. Being with her was almost soothing, knowing she wouldn’t be pestering him about the thing he didn’t want to talk about. Some days it was hard just breathing, with the weight of those deaths on his chest. She helped lighten it with her banter and jokes at his expense, like she wasn’t fretting over him like everyone else.
By the time Ven and Striker had crossed the stream, Luna had disappeared again and went on ahead to sniff out the trail. Ven could just see the wolf’s fluffy white tail swishing through the trees ahead.
It took another hour to reach their camp from the crossing at the stream. So far no Scout patrol had ventured this far, but they kept a constant watch on the camp day and night.
The sun was setting, making long shadows on the rocky descent to their camp. A cry went up when they were spotted, and they waved in greeting to those in view. Many of their number were gathered around a handful of cooking fires. Some were helping to cook, or eating, or polishing weapons, or mending things. Evening was a peaceful time in the camp.
Ven headed to his tent after giving Ember a quick smile before parting. He wasn’t sure where the smile had come from.
His tent had survived while he was away. He supposed he should be happy that he didn’t have to put it back together, since the canvas roped to the boulder sometimes came undone with heavy wind.
Not seconds after he threw his pack inside his tent, Flint was there.
“How was it?” the Riftcity native asked in a would-be casual tone.
“Fine,” Ven said. “Nothing exciting.” Ven made to head toward the mountain stream to wash up, but Flint was in his way.
Ven sighed. “Really. Nothing exciting happened,” he repeated. “We saw Gero, he told us what’s been going on in Meadowcity, which wasn’t much, and then we headed back. No incidents.”
“How’s Sylvia?”
“Not there,” he replied. “Out on some training mission still.” Neve had seemed rather irritable and evasive when he ran into her, but Ven was at least glad he didn’t have to confront Sylvia yet. He hadn’t even seen her since she had left for Lightcity all those months ago.
He crossed his arms and looked longingly toward the stream to try and give Flint the hint.
“Fine, go,” Flint said, brushing past Ven to return to the camp fires.
Wondering what Flint could possibly be mad at him for, he washed up in the cold mountain stream, then headed back to the fires.
For some reason, Flint kept ambushing Ven and trying to talk to him when Ember wasn’t around. He thought Flint must want to talk about what happened at Lightcity, so he tried to avoid him, like he avoided most everyone else. He couldn’t think of any other reason Flint was so hostile, other than Lightcity.
Flint was there, what’s there to talk about? Ven raged inside his head as he recalled the accusatory look Flint had given him. He didn’t need anyone else reminding him about it. His mediocre mood dissolved completely as the anger rekindled in his core.
When he returned to camp, Rekha was chatting with Ember around the main camp fire, and he spied Flint deep in conversation with Apex on the other side of camp, so he sat down next to Ember and grabbed some stew. Ember was telling her aunt about the trip to Meadowcity.
“With Luna it’s easier than ever, she knows the way there and back better than any Rider, I bet.”
Ven nodded in confirmation when Rekha looked wary.
“She’s scares off the other wolves and mountain lions, too,” he added. “Although, the wild ones don’t really want to approach us in such a large group.”
“You know, I like traveling the wilds,” Ember mused. “Maybe I could be a Rider after the war...” she trailed off, then stared down at her stew.
Ven had to stop himself from reaching for her hand, and ran it through his hair instead to cover his sudden movement. He froze. Where did that come from?
No one ever talked about what it would be like after the war. It seemed so permanent, so destructive, like it would never end. He was amazed Ember could look that far ahead, and in any way be positive about it.
He chewed over his stew in silence as Rekha took the conversation back up. Ven was starting to wish he was back traveling the wilds, too, when he learned they would all meet tonight to discuss their next mission, now that the refugees were safe.
To his dislike, Flint came to sit beside him after everyone had cleared up dinner. He glanced between Ven and Ember together on the bench, then plopped himself down on the end, throwing an irritated look at Ven. The rest of the rebels began to gather around the fire in a hum of murmured conversations.
“Right, quiet now,” Apex announced. They were left with the crackling of the fire as the murmurs died down.
“We did good, the last mission. We freed thirty-one people from the mine, and our Holly made it out all right, too, after some right terrible things the Scouts did.”
Their applause was quick but heartfelt. Apex went on. “But we can’t stop now. We know it’s dangerous. We all know the risks. Every one of you is welcome to go to Meadowcity any time, no questions, no judgments.”
“But I can tell you, I will be here, fighting to undo what I am ashamed to say I had a hand in. It was another life.” Emotion had seeped deep into his words, and Ven felt a pang of understanding.
“But now I’m here, and I’m fighting to free Riftcity,” said Apex.
“I’ll be fighting, too,” Ember stood.
“And I,” called another.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Apex cut across them with a meaty hand before anyone else could pledge their commitment. “We’re all here, we’re all fighting. We don’t need a show about it,” he muttered. A few people chuckled, and everyone sat back down.
“What we do need is to decide if we’re ready to move on with our original plan, now that we’ve got more people.”
With each group of Riftcitizens they had rescued, some had elected to stay with the rebels and fight, slowly adding to their ranks. Anyone else was brought to the safety of Meadowcity, which was swelling with refugees. Riftcitizens and what was left of the people of Lightcity were given cots and space in villas, the back of shops or in the Citizen’s Hall—anywhere there was room.
Holly was still in the rebel camp until she was healed enough to travel, but Ven had a feeling that once she was healed, she’d stay to fight anyway. Volunteering to remain inside the city as a plant was not something people lacking courage did.
“What’s this plan you’re talking about?” a bald man asked from the crowd, one of those who had just escaped the mine in their last mission. He still looked a bit starved, but Ven was glad to see he had a second helping of stew in his hands.
Ven felt Ember straighten beside him. It was her plan, something she had come up with when they had first returned.
“We’ve been on the defensive until now,” Apex began, “getting as many people out of the city as we could. But if we’re ready, we can strike back.”
The group was silent, Apex’s deep voice rolling over the campsite and p
utting them all in a kind of trance.
“Greyling is here for one reason: his obsession with conquering the fifth city in the name of some sort of unification. He wanted to gather the Four Cities to mount his attack on Seascape, but that will never happen now.”
“He needed workers to assemble his boats, and to mine the ingredients for the explosives. All to get to the fifth city, to take their resources, and supposedly redistribute them to the Four Cities.”
“With the loss of Lightcity,”—Ven’s hands bunched into fists— “Greyling has lost his glassworkers, and much of his firepower. We estimate he still has enough orbs on hand for an effective attack, and we think they’re still here in Riftcity. So are the boats. We could take them all out in one strike.”
A short but stout woman poked her head up over the crowd. “What’s to stop the Scouts from forcing Riftcity to make more?”
Apex raised an eyebrow at Ember, and she stood. “Because at the same time, we take out as many Scouts as we can,” she said to the group, her long red hair crackling about her shoulders in her excitement.
“Now that we have the numbers, and the Scouts no longer carry the orbs with them, an attack could work. We could beat them back, and destroy Greyling’s supplies. We put a stop to them, and he has no reason to come back.”
Talking broke out then, a chorus of questions and admonitions. Before the war, it was almost unheard of to purposefully kill another person in Arcera. But things had changed.
Ember could read their reluctance. She had to nearly shout to be heard at all.
“My father was killed when the Scouts invaded,” she said, her voice trembling a little over the quieting crowd. “Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters and friends of yours were all taken from you. Our city was taken from us and ruined. Why?”
No one answered. Ven looked up at Ember with something like awe. She never mentioned her father’s death, and to bring it up in front of all of these people tore a hole in his heart for her.
“Why not strike now, when we are strong enough to make a difference?” Strength had returned to her voice. “I say we rid Riftcity of the invaders and burn everything they created!”
Nineteen
Sorin gazed down at the mountainside through the glass floor as he strode down the corridor, Falx in tow. He had been on his way home—at a normal time for once—when he had run into the Scout on the steps on the Citizen’s Hall.
Since Falx was supposed to be stationed in Riftcity at the moment, his appearance didn’t bode well, nor did the blood seeping through a bandage on his shoulder. Sorin had growled, “Let’s go to my office,” and turned right back around.
He heaved a sigh as they strode through the corridors of the Hall. He was tired. He had been looking forward to a quiet night in his villa, needing the time to bury himself in a book and forget the world around him for at least a moment.
It wasn’t that the war was troubling him, no, the vision of his victory still burned through him just as the day he had stepped foot off the shore of Seascape, seething from their selfishness. He knew it was his destiny to unite the five cities, and bring Seascape’s technology and learning to all of Arcera. Books and knowledge shouldn’t be hoarded by the few.
But the efforts were beginning to wear on him. Especially now, with Thorne in custody.
Even the effort of maintaining a distance from his Secretary of the City was a feat in itself. Glaslyn always had a keen eye, and seemed to know when he wasn’t speaking the truth. But when he gave her updates on the defense of Arcera—it was for their own good that they didn’t know the truth—he turned his mind instead to think of the fifth city, and the joy that would be held in his name when he brought their marvelous learning to the Four Cities. The knowledge that it could be done steadied his voice, and gave him the courage to continue.
Falx followed him into his office, which was beginning to grow cold with the approaching evening. Sorin went to a chair by the fire, which had already gone out, and gave Falx leave to sit across from him. Sorin put a few fingers to his temple and listened.
His irritation grew at each tale of rebel activity Falx told. With the telling of their latest raid—only a handful of rebels managed to steal thirty workers, and Falx himself had been wounded—Sorin could see why Falx had left Riftcity to report to him. Something had to be done.
If only they knew this was for their own good! If only they had listened to his orders in the first place.
But since delivering the first request to lay down their Cities, Sorin had learned much about conducting a war. For the ultimate good, he had to make sacrifices. He had to make examples.
“How do they get in?” he asked.
“Er—we think this time they rappelled down from the top of the rift, Governor,” the Scout grumbled. “Apex was always keen at that.”
Apex. The traitor. One of his best Scouts until some of Thorne’s people had gotten to him, no doubt.
“And the status of Governor Selena?”
“Secure. Deep inside the Hall with plenty of guard on her day and night.”
Sorin nodded. It had to be done. One small example would put a stop to the endless violence.
“This cannot go on. We shall have to make an example, Falx. I think the time has come to present a final choice to Riftcity: cooperate for the good of Arcera, or, we will have to execute—” Sorin’s eyes bulged, and he choked off the last words.
He had only just noticed that Falx hadn’t shut the door properly—and worse, there was someone lurking outside of it.
Falx followed his gaze. He stood without needing to be asked, and strode over to the door in barely two steps, wrenching the door open the rest of the way.
There stood Onen, his trusted Book Keeper. His throat swelled as if he might choke.
“Put him with the other traitor,” he sputtered. Falx marched him off, and the books that had been piled in Onen’s arms tumbled to the floor.
Twenty
Atlan and his father spent the entire next day going over the plan. They shut themselves in the library—which Atlan had already combed for sensors, just in case—and his father wrote everything out by hand.
He started with a map, and explained to Atlan as he drew it where the jets had been stored. “But keep in mind, this was thirty years ago,” he warned more than once.
Next were the controls. Atlan took notes on paper—neither of them trusted the datastrands for this—which he studied all afternoon.
“It was our anniversary,” Ingram said after describing how to get into the jet. “We took a flight around all of Arcera. I got to fly us home,” he mused.
His father was quiet for a minute, and Atlan needlessly sharpened his pencil, eyes downcast. But then Ingram went on with no hesitation in his voice, explaining how the controls worked, what the console looked like, and how they had landed.
“When will you go back?” Ingram asked when it seemed like they had discussed everything Atlan could possibly need to know, and the sun had begun to set in the floor to ceiling windows of the library.
“Tomorrow,” he replied. He kept looking down at his notes so he wouldn’t see the disappointment in his father’s face.
But Ingram only said, “Then I got you this just in time.”
Atlan looked up to see his father pulling a small box from his vest pocket.
“I noticed you don’t like wearing yours more than you have to,” he said, opening the box to reveal a silver earlink. “And I think I know why.”
Atlan grinned and leapt to his feet, throwing his arms around his father. The same thought that plagued him these past few days resonated through his mind again: why couldn’t he just live with his father?
Ingram squeezed him back, then took his leave saying, “I’ll see you off in the morning. There’s one more thing I need to do for you.” He left the library, pausing only to throw a few more logs onto the fire.
Not two seconds later, Ingram poked his head back in. “Oh, and, keep the other earlink. You
might need it.” Atlan nodded and his father disappeared again.
He stared down at the table at all of their diagrams, notes and maps, and began to put them in order.
Even with a new earlink, he still wouldn’t trust the information to his datastrands, so he pulled a lamp closer as the fire grew low, and read on.
At last, when the fire was only a few glowing embers, he felt confident he was ready. He stood and stretched, then went to the fire. The embers ate up his notes, recalling flames for the task, and the paper was gone. He was ready.
Twenty-One
Atlan promised his father he would come back to Brightstone as soon as the war was over and tell his father all about it, vowing to visit as often as Lady Naomi let him—if she didn’t lock him up for the rest of his life, anyway.
Ingram gave him one last surprise as they stood on the steps of the castle. “There’s someone in Castle Tenny who will help you,” Ingram said out of the corner of his mouth as they watched the Black Knight approach from down the lane, clearly meaning to escort Atlan back to the train station. They had spotted his signature all-black uniform with no trouble a few minutes ago.
“He’ll contact you when you get back.”
“Thank you,” Atlan said, meaning it, “For everything. I wish I didn’t have to leave.”
His father clapped him into one last hug, and they parted. Atlan looked back once, which only made it worse.
The Black Knight didn’t speak to him, not surprisingly, only followed him to the train station and sat beside him as they rode back up to the capital city. Atlan briefly wondered where the man had stayed while Atlan was at his father’s, but then decided he didn’t care.
The Lady’s Knights were a surly lot—Captain Barton the worst of all. They followed her every command without question, and rarely spoke, which unnerved most people. He didn’t know why anyone would want to join the Knights. He eyed the weapons that hung from the Knight’s belt, and thought he might know one reason.
