“Is it the fate of human beings to be separated? Is the race’s homogeneity the very thing that tears them apart? Notions of ‘class’––these are the pillars that in their just creation of ‘society’, bring it down.”
– Render
Eleanor was looking particularly spiffy today, he noticed. The sun cast its bright pedestal onto her casual running shorts and light vest fresh with zippers of alter metal. As if they were on a morning jog. As if “running shorts” were still in vogue when their every meal was crafted to optimize nutrition and taste, when body-maintenance prescriptions kept your appearances, when physical exercise was viewed as a leisure activity. A diversion.
Now this was a true diversion, heading to the Lowers in broad daylight. Tr’aedis grinned to himself and asked the first question.
“Tell me, Eleanor, what is your favorite Levgion?”
Eleanor glanced at him as she continued to walk, facing forward. “There are only four to choose from, Tr’aedis. And I haven’t been to the Lowers.”
And she’d only been to High twice, both with her father for his Netbank conferences. But both had been before they’d moved up here from Might, a perfunctorily worse place, just not as perfect. She’d surely admired the Governors’ residential areas although she’d gotten lost in them, wandering off on her own. Mother had had to rescue her, with the aid of a real Governor.
“You can ask me again, after our visit today,” she said.
“Oh, but I can’t. You’re being asked the question now.”
Eleanor sighed. “Well. We live in Plent. I’ve been here long enough. High is supreme, the seat of our many Governors, the most arrogant architecture, all that. So I’ll say Might. All of our techists, actors, teachers live there––art, engineering, education all in one. How about you, is there a clear answer?” she said.
“With novelty being the theme, I would select the ‘Lowers’.” His stride unbroken, he removed his receptor and began tossing it up and down on his palm. “The only Levgion in this Sector without the pervading influence of alter this, alter that, alter everything. Your vest, my family apparel, see?” She nodded. “It’d be nice to go through life without a receptor constantly on you, having to use actual vehicles to get places, and so on,” he continued. “A different world.
“Looks like that’s the border security!” Tr’aedis exclaimed, catching and pocketing his receptor. Looks like that’s the Lowall, Eleanor noted, as the vast wall separating Plent and Lowers––which had been in sight for some time––became more clear. The “Lowall” as it was dubbed wasn’t actually a wall, in the sense that it wasn’t exactly a physical “wall” like the one surrounding the Government district up in High, but more an invisible barrier that interacted only with your receptor. You couldn’t be wearing it or your brain would be destroyed, or at least that was the rumor. More likely a sharp shock or, at worst, unconsciousness, to prevent advanced technology that wasn’t permitted in the Lowers from entering. Another relic of that Edict from the 21st century.
Reaching behind her right ear, Eleanor pressed her thumb to her receptor, activating the unlock with her fingerprint, before grasping the small object between her thumb and index finger. She stared at it, as she had so many times, taking it off before sleep––but then again, she left it in most of the time. Everyone did.
“Our liberation begins. Do you have any other tech on you?” Tr’aedis asked. “Well, I guess you wouldn’t, since you knew we were coming here.” She nodded. The woman at the security booth nearest them––they had one every hundred meters or so––waved her hand in their direction. Tr’aedis cheerfully waved back as they approached. Eleanor wondered if people ever tried to bring receptors into the Lowers. Or if people ever threw their receptors through the barrier first, even if it got destroyed, before entering themselves. I guess the border personnel would intercede if that happened, she thought.
The security person smiled as they reached the booth. She was wearing a uniform similar to what Sector engineers wore, all bright blue, suitable for capturing attention. The booth itself was a bit small, Eleanor felt, only affording the person inside enough space to take their receptors. Eleanor fingered her alter metal vest and the guard politely took that as well, hanging it on a small coat rack on the inner wall. They then handed over their receptors, Eleanor’s Jade Steel® and Tr’aedis’s Cobalt Sky®, which were placed in a small basket that had one receptor already. A nondescript, brand-less model––which was peculiar, as whosever it was had to have come from Plent like they did.
After they gave their names and stated purposes for visiting––"for research on a History project”––they were finally allowed through, the barrier flickering as they passed. Eleanor tried not to sigh audibly and took in the expanse before her. The Lowers. Geographically speaking they were on the same level but technologically it was a different world, truly. Taller buildings, probably their version of banks that used touchable money, lined the horizon that lay behind blocks of houses. Throughout the architecture was far more dull than she had imagined; what looked like a central building had long, white columns at its front entrance––
“Superancient Roman-influenced, I believe,” Tr’aedis was saying, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Still popular here, but even more antiquated in modern society.”
“Yeah.” Eleanor ignored him and continued surveying. A moderately sized building had VISITOR CENTER in red letters on its front was closest. “Are we going to this visitor center first, or––"
“That would make our visit official. We’re heading straight into suburbia.”
“We’ve already given them our names––"
“Elly, you need to let go. Let go of the perfection. The fewer who know we’re here, the more clandestine, the better. Our parents can’t know, of course. Your father in particular.”
She had to agree with that. Delano Vyaedus Dorr was a Scion just like she was and yet so fully human, following the rigid technosocial culture he had grown up and succeeded in to the numeric, prohibiting independent visitation to the Lowers and never––not even once––talking to her about her trait. She hadn’t even told Tr’aedis or Mr. Tupil about it. She hadn’t told anybody besides her mother, who didn’t really count anymore. “You’re right,” she said.
He nodded, and they continued forward. Deeper into the Lowers… to do what exactly, she had no idea in her head but decided she would follow Tr’aedis’s play.
Eleanor was strangely self-conscious of her lack of alter clothing.
The hot air burns through the fabric lining of my forgotten grace church lobby sweater but I am still wearing it. Aren’t I am the holding Utmost, in my hand, while smoke weeps out from burning building. It is a school. Facing the coming gods’ ire and brimstone with only wind magic and spirit to guide, for no such character resides in the life I live––“Ha!”––name of the children, they are running out of the house, they are screaming in the daycare. For those without parents––for those whose parents go somewhere that isn’t home.
A small girl is crying. I see her by the fire, her silhouette thin, crying for parents. They’re not here. I see the memory of birds. Dead birds, unhappy and thrown at the dreaded green walls of nightmare. Mario turned them into pipes. Good practice. Utmost used to reave the thief, wielding sheathed as if I have one studded or Avalon wound generating heat. Call me by its name.
It also has Cycles. Sixteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-four of them. But I’m still only on Cycle Seven. I’d need a greater amount of speed and strength, the two sides of power, maybe Cycle Twenty or higher to reach these flames. Flare. The tips of the trickling flames rise up into the burnished sky, dimming the air above them. I need to strip off the sweater but they say armor is needed for a good fight. The sun
Is a figure in the flames. It’s hot. A good site for my practice. Get those numbers down and swinging. My pocket asks for my hand and I reach into it. It’s not a ring or an infinite closet but it is a pair of my second most beloved possession after my sword, my earbuds and I put them in.
“Right before the sunrise, one thing is on my mind, need to take the stress and throw it all away,” I take my stance, my first of five, the Weather Guardian, the sword held in front of me, my hands holding it, my feet firm on the hard ground, my “feelings to discover, knowing under cover, what does it really mean to me,” the First Cycle, I swing the blade down. Simple. Pure. Without an enemy and yet a clear path. “You are the flower I’m the rain, without you life is not the same,” Reset weather––Second Cycle, I turn and swing the blade sideways. Different. Pure. A change in direction. “And we both become one heading towards the sun,” Reset weather––Third Cycle, move hands to middle for the blade itself is hilt entire, raise above my head and spin, slow but increasing in speed. The burning school provides an image to my training, a tourney of sweat is racing its teardrop course down my face, and a person is emerging from the conflagration and walking forward.
After the tempest had completed its ritual movements, before the fugue of rain slicked onto poor concrete, and during the sistine consecration up above, as the clouds tainted, shifted, and changed to let light––the fire kept burning.
It had no character. It had no name for the few moments it burned without definition. But properly the air moved like water and REIFY emerged.
Reify adjusted his jacket, dusting off his shoulders; they were tweed, like a Lowers motorbike gangster’s, or alternatively, a Sector III roto’s but neither were names he knew. He tightened the white shoelaces on his boots and patted his long white jeans; the one word Reify was emblazoned upon them, only visible when he stood in a certain way. But no crowd stood before him to see. No watcher except the boy.
The boy was playing with fire. No, playing with swords. No, playing with a stick. A flimsy branch, with silver tape cut around its tip, and ears plugged by lopsided white earbuds. Reify wanted its attention. Reify wanted him to know its name. So he raised his arms and the fire behind him grew.
And then, only then, Revé opened his eyes.
“But alter! What light through yonder jaded lenses breaks? It is the Lowers, and Eleanor is the sun.”
Tr’aedis swept back his cloak, squinting at the light of Helios as he did so, sweeping back his hands to encompass the nonexistent shadow of Selene. “Fair Eos has not joined us to break our fast this morning,” he murmured. “Lady Eleanor shall do.” He bowed to her.
Eleanor sighed. He didn’t even have a cloak, and while she barely appreciated the flattery, he did just remind her of the Liveogg’s® cereal they’d consumed an hour before, which while being perfectly made and healthful, was a taste she was used to.
They were standing in the center of a town square, complete with a fountain splashing water in the form of a fading blue dolphin––an extinct animal, yet another sign of the Lowers’ ancientness––spilling forth the clear liquid from its nose. What were probably stores and other low-industry venues filled the rows on either side, merchandise and samples visible through their windows. Some Lowers residents passed by as they would, with clothing that went by on colors and linings but were so uninteresting. A few paused to stare. Eleanor and Tr’aedis’ shirts alone probably cost more than their annual incomes, after all.
Tr’aedis was slowly pacing, she saw, taking in their surroundings with the air of one who would conquer it. He was excited. “Where are the elderly? The diseased, the ravaged, the ones contorted in unholy positions?” he queried of the air. Eleanor began regretting the whole thing. The Lowers weren't all that different from normal society. Just looked a lot different. Her companion abruptly strode off, gesticulating at a pair of what looked like fellow high schoolers going on their everyday stroll, putting up a hand for them to stop. They did. Eleanor groaned inwardly. Now he had to go and talk to some strangers. Looked like they were going to do research for History after all.
“Hello, hello! How’s the weather here for you?” he asked them, and they frowned. The sky was clear as it had been upon their arrival, but some clouds––a welcome sight and scarcely given––pleasurably filled it. “I haven’t been to the Lowers recently due to the epidemic; but now that it’s passed from the area, I’ve come back!” No one was ill and things like plagues were relics of the past. “Do you look upon the other Levgions with envy?” They had every reason to; they were kidding, of course. What reason would they have?
Tr’aedis left them. They had little to give him because of their suffering.
Eleanor watched him walk away, as the high schoolers shrugged and continued on their mundane stroll, chatting animatedly as if nothing had happened. So much for his Shakespearean enlightenment. She smiled to herself and followed Tr’aedis, who was silent for once as they headed down a sidewalk adjoining a row of shops. A sign sticking out of the building’s end ahead read BELUGA WAY. They were on Sturgeon Street––a terrible name for a street if you asked her, as it sounded like a poor attempt at masking surgeon––but she supposed that they still had surgeons in the Lowers. She glanced at Tr’aedis to see him looking almost despondent, like a dog that had lost its frisbee. Maybe she’d pretend to be a pirate and get him to forget about this silly business. “Have at thee, Elly!” he’d then shout, lunging forward with an imaginary saber. Ha ha.
Tr’aedis stopped walking. These piscine streets were disasters in the sun. For what purpose, for what search of being did he suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in these Lowers? That was the question he now saw.
Eleanor looked back at him. She put her hands on her hips. “What am I to do with you, old friend? Have you studied enough history for today?”
Rather than answer, he suddenly started running. “Hey! Where are you going?” she shouted, glad that she was wearing the right shorts as she ran after him, as he turned right at Beluga Way. She shook her head as she kept pace. If they got lost they’d just––no, wait, they gave their receptors away––well, they could just ask for directions. Or go to that visitor center. Either way, he’d tire soon. Body-maintenance prescriptions only made you look good, after all. She actually ran in the mornings. Up and down their tired street.
Only a minute later, she saw Tr’aedis slow down and stop outside of a place with assorted breads in its window. POISSO’S read across its top. No one was inside, she saw, except for the one worker standing behind the counter. She did see some small tables and chairs, though.
“You want to take a breather inside, Tr’aedis?” she asked him. He looked back at her, breathing heavily, and nodded. “Some light pastries should do the trick.” We had breakfast an hour ago, she thought, but she followed him into the bakery as he pulled the door open, causing the bell attached by a string to ring.
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Swing, turn, and strike for Cycle Four. Turn and strike for Cycle Five. “Without you I am incomplete”––I open my eyes and confront the sun’s fire, which was disappeared, but the sun walks by the unnamed figure walking towards me. He comes closer and I can read the word reify on his legs, revealed by the glow of the flames. He was one who walked from fire, Utmost is trembling in my grip, the lyric forgotten, the Sixth broken my recollection. It was Denethor, departed from the pyre of his own making, unblemished, to forgive his son. It was Kvothe, fiery hair, unrescued namer. I was the sword, but He is the fire.
He asks me if I am impressed, I cannot see a man unburned, or even ashes to decorate his leather jacket; is “reify” a word, I wonder, did he merely escape from the flames unscathed, or he says he can do it again, snaps his fingers, and with a powering swoosh the wreckage is shot in a monstrous pillar of sheer orange and red with streaks of white like unseen lightning threads I am dreaming, I must be dreaming. I close my eyes and snap my fingers. When I open them I will be on Cycle Seven, listening to the sunlight and not faced with the sun itself, alone by the school. This is the real world, Revé. You need to wake up and stop spinning your branch.
I open my eyes.
I see one named Reify before me. He removes his sunglasses and squints. “Man, it’s hot don’t you think?” he asks me, frowning, before wiping them off with his shirt. Done, he tucks them into his jacket pocket, and holds up a hand. “I know––I know. You’re stunned. Wowed. Awed. By me.” He cocks his head, and the fire simmers down again. “Oh, okay. I get it. You don’t believe it. You can’t! I’m a slightly different case. Unique.”
I do.
All my life I had waited for this moment. I hadn’t dared to believe that we only wrote fantasy because it wasn’t real. I knew it was real, deep down in my heart of hearts. I’d pretended it wasn’t real, by skipping school and training for, for what, I don’t know. It was as if––it was if I had realized my dream into reality and today was the day it came true. I didn’t want to think that my life was beginning to follow the hero’s journey––I am not a hero––but here is the wake-up call, the magician’s entrance.
And I would not refuse it.
I reached down and picked up Utmost. “I acknowledge your existence, Reify,” I said, setting my blade back against my shoulder. “I am known by many names. Some call me Soulbringer. Others, the Sword of Dreams. Windwaker.
“But you can call me Revé.”
“Now that is not a name I know!” he replied, pointing to my sword. “What is that, anyway? A toy?”
I strengthened my grip. “Its name is Utmost––it has been with me on many a journey, in many a battle. It embodies my soul.” I tensed.
“Your soul!” He laughed, angering me. I readied for Cycle Eight. “You are Soulbringer, are you not? The soul is not confined to wood. Here––select an element.” He held his hands out, palms upward. “I’ll give you a better weapon.”
My soul is in Utmost, I told myself. Swinging it too many times to count. Creating the Cycles. Polishing. Naturally smoothing it from use, roughening from application. Sleeping with it in my hands. My sword, my blade. The physical manifestation of my endurance.
But I saw one before me who, with his hands alone and no auxiliary implement, mastered the flame. He acknowledged me; he recognized my strength. I imagined fighting beside him, wielding an unbreakable sword by his unquenchable fire. A duo to storm the world entire. I smiled.
“Utmost is a memory,” I said, extending it to Reify. “Give me diamond––but keep the hilt of the original wood.”
He nodded and took it. “I will remake it in that strongest material, in a non-brittle form.”
Almost solemnly, he closed his eyes, as if picturing the new blade, the hardened branch of wood resting on his palms. With no further sign of change it seemed to glow, still retaining its original color––but somehow growing brighter; shimmering, its previously rough surface being smoothed, the lines and edges becoming one. Its surface coruscated, patches here and there acquiring a shape of water, but silvered. By the waters of Lothlórien. The light apparent continued to remake itself until the blade was complete. Reify opened his eyes and beheld his creation.
“Wow, if I may say so myself,” he said. He nodded to me. “Take it.”
I took it by the hilt of polished Adam. And almost dropped it.
The sword was light. Somehow after being transformed into diamond, it was lighter, but still felt strong. I turned from Reify and swung the first Cycle with just my right arm. It arced through the air like a lightsaber, but whistling as if it enjoyed its new world and wielder and was singing its freedom.
“I name you Moonbeam,” I proclaimed, holding it to the sky. “For you will not represent my soul, but reflect it.”
“I am to be your sun,” Reify said, nodding his head in agreement. “I like the sound of that.”
Distant blaring. “They’ll come put the fire out,” I told him, to which he frowned, before chuckling. “They’ll have a hard time,” he said, and I laughed. “Of course. Shall we go?”
“Where to, Revé?”
“I have another school to burn.”
“Welcome to Poisso’s!” the baker said as they entered. She was wearing a clean white outfit, complete with hat and buttons. She was young, Eleanor noted, maybe still in university, with bright yellow hair tied back in a ponytail. She was smiling at them, genuinely, as if they were her first customers of the day and she hadn’t yet been jaded by doing the same motions over and over again.
“A fine establishment,” Tr’aedis said, immediately losing all semblance of exhaustion and inspecting the nearest shelf of packaged bread. He glanced back at Eleanor and nodded. “You can sit down, Elly, you look tired.” He returned to the bread, which did look inviting, actually made in the store as their small tags indicated, and not by Blucorps. The girl looked like an eager audience, unlike the high schoolers they had met by the dolphin.
So he’d been acting, Eleanor realized, from the moment he began running. After he couldn’t figure out his Buddha gig, he took to finding another hapless audience, and found this young baker to forget his whims on. Well, she wasn’t hungry, but she wasn’t going to take that smile off her face. Eleanor walked up to the counter.
Tr’aedis was probably waving bread in the air. She smiled at the baker, who was, she couldn’t believe it, trying to stifle a laugh. “How can I help you today?” she asked, and Eleanor pointed back towards her friend. “Don’t mind him––he’s practicing for our school play.” He was waving bread around, one loaf in each hand, saying something grand, and she wasn’t listening. “What’s your recommendation? We’re new to this part of the levgion.”
The baker laughed lightly. “Don’t worry about it––I see all kinds of people in here.” She seemed to ponder a bit before pointing to a large, lumpy loaf below her in the array of samples behind the glass. “This one’s very good.”
“LUMPY BREAD––OUR SPECIALTY” the label read, which caused Eleanor to laugh, tinkle, tinkle went the bell again, and she didn’t turn around, although Tr’aedis stopped speaking. “It really is lumpy,” she said, returning to a full standing position; the other bread items didn’t look that different from Plent sandwiches anyway.
“Not as lumpy as myself today,” a voice said from behind her, followed by “You mean, Humpty Dumpty” in another’s. The baker girl’s cheery face turned stern but back to affable. “Come in, come in,” she said. “She’s almost done.”
Eleanor Thought for––nothing happened––she didn’t have her receptor, of course. They were in the Lowers. Tr’aedis had brought tangible currency. She looked towards him to find him sitting with the two new customers. Not again.
“My excellent good friends! Rosencrantz––Guildenstern––what brings you to Poisinore? Not my uncle, I hope,” he chuckled, extending his hand.
The two visitors, who looked to be in their late twenties, only stared back at Tr’aedis. Sir Humpty Dumpty was one of those jokers who wore glasses but didn’t seem to need them, a smile curling around his thin beard. He wore simple clothing (which was a pleasant sight, to be sure, no alter this or that) and a small green bird was perched on his shoulder. Rosencrantz never had a bird.
Sir Lumpy (whose name was incongruous with his appearance) was frowning, a contour that hurt otherwise strong features beneath a slightly wavy top of dirty blonde hair. He was similarly dressed. He shook Tr’aedis’s hand. “My name’s Lucas, not Golden Stern, but sure, nice to meet you, kid,” he said. “Poisonore, or whatever it’s called, is great. I come here every day.”
“He’s kidding. I come here every day, this is his first time.” Dumpty. “I’m Cade!” he said, smiling broadly, taking Tr’aedis’s hand as well. “That’s a really nice shirt you got there.”
“But disgusting, right? I––" he started to say.
“Thank you.” Eleanor smiled her best at the two Lowers residents. As good as Tr’aedis thought he was, they couldn’t just give themselves away. Who knew how fast rumors could spread in a receptor-free environment? She pulled a chair over and sat down, making their small table crowded; she avoided stepping on Tr’aedis’s feet from under their chairs.
“We’re in the school play. My friend likes to wear his costumes even when he’s not on stage,” she said simply.
The man with glasses frowned, but smiled again just as quickly. Just like the baker. Eleanor paused. It was almost as if… “We actually just got back from your performance,” the one called Lucas said. “That wasn’t you in the dragon costume, was it?”
What? So there actually was a performance somewhere in this part of the Lowers? And––there was no way he was referring to her being Scion, was he? Eleanor didn’t know what to say for a moment. Tr’aedis shook his head. “If I was in the school play, my name would be known even here,” he began saying, before the slightly annoying tinkle, tinkle was heard again.
“New recruits? When you don’t speak, Agate, you’re more tolerable than Valha’ya,” someone else said. Tr’aedis looked up to see the speaker, a rather tall fellow with striking red hair, gleaming blue eyes, and a smile sitting on his face like one of the dispensable but interesting trinkets his parents would keep sketched out on their holosurface. The girl who’d been playing a baker let out a loud sigh before walking out from behind the counter and coming over. “Don’t lie, Zefayus,” she responded, putting a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder where she sat. “We were just entertaining some first-time customers.” Elly was silent for once, Tr’aedis thought to himself; the gods were being unusually solicitous today.
“Oh, leave her alone, Agate,” Lucas said. “She’s clean.”
Tr’aedis suddenly realized that the theater troupe was not asking him to join them.
Eleanor started. She became conscious of the baker’s standing right behind her. She noted the familiarity in the adults’ mannerisms, their treatment of her and Tr’aedis as younger, which they were, and yet another stranger walking into the bakery––this time a young woman with blonde hair even more vivid than Agate’s, and hazy brown eyes that were almost orange, or even gold. She shook her head. Something didn’t feel right. Not to mention her stomach was feeling a peculiar clench, a strange feeling that, she realized, was growing stronger.
“Faer!” Lucas exclaimed, as Cade grinned and Zefayus chuckled from where he stood, leaning against the wall next to the door. “Hey guys,” Faer said, beaming, her smile seeming to light up the room. Then she frowned, and the light dissipated––it had lit up the room––she pointed at Eleanor and Tr’aedis. “Uh, who are they?”
Lucas waved his hand. “They’re both fine. Just some high schoolers. Super rich and not from Lowers, but high schoolers.”
He turned to face Eleanor again. “Sorry for ignoring you. It’s just that we’re a theater troupe ourselves and came back from trying to see Tragedy of Hope, which wasn’t able to happen. Unfortunate, really.” He gave a sheepish smile.
“Um, we’re not in the school play,” Eleanor said. The feeling wasn’t going away.
“I know.”
“Wait, what?”
“Lucas!” Agate exclaimed, and he nodded. “Just a hunch of mine.” He grinned. “I’m just in a good mood because I got to glimpse Nodari with my own eyes.” Cade laid a hand on his arm, but he didn’t care. They wouldn’t know what he was talking about and didn’t look to be from this area, anyway. “But damn! Nodari! Now that’s some fire I could get close to. That Agent didn’t even spare me a glance when he entered the stage.” An audible intake of breath––from the girl. She was staring at him fiercely.
Instinctively, he checked her emotional content again.
Shock. Hesitation. Nervousness. Only three––which meant she was a Scion. She’d reacted to his mention of fire and that could only mean––well, no, it could mean many things, she could of course just be an arsonist. He hadn’t really thought of himself that way, as it was for a cause, but––
Tinkle, tinkle. He turned his head to see d’Voris coming through the door.
“Malae!” Faer and Agate said together, as the look of bewilderment on the boy’s face made him laugh. Yeah, anyone would react that way seeing her for the first time. He stood. “Well, it was nice meeting you two, but we kind of have this place reserved, so––"
Twange. Eleanor stood up as well. It can’t be. But she had to confirm. They really could be a theater troupe, but the opportunity––she took a deep breath.
“Are you––are all of you Scions too?” she asked.
Everyone in the room froze.
Tr’aedis slapped the table. Zefayus blinked.
“To be a Scion or not to be a Scion––that is the question,” Tr’aedis stated, interlocking his fingers and trying to look very calm about it. He was a terrible actor. “Whether it’s nobler in the mind to suffer––"
In what seemed like an instant, d’Voris crossed the room and, almost pushing Agate out of the way, laid one hand on each of Tr’aedis’ and Eleanor’s necks. “Don’t move or say a word,” she said softly.
Eleanor’s breath caught.
“Who else are we waiting for?” their captor asked, to no one in particular.
Cade spoke. “Porte from Communications, Kelit and Glid from Tech, and… Valha’ya, of course. Wisteria and the chief.”
“And Nodari’s not coming, as per plan,” Zefayus said.
d’Voris nodded. “Lucas, you confirmed they’re not Agents?”
She was looking very seriously at him––okay, it was a serious situation. The girl knew about Scions. “Yeah. But the girl could be a Scion Element’r.” He immediately glanced at her mind again––recognition. “Yep, she is.” He said it calmly, but his inner anti-Government liberator was pumping the air with its fists. Zef was joking, but–– if we can get her to join us, that’d be another Scion Element’r to Nodari. I wonder if her friend’s also… He almost checked the boy’s emotions again, but there’d been four earlier.
Faer, Agate, and Zef started talking all at once. Cade looked surprised. d’Voris didn’t remove her hands from the high schoolers’ necks.
“Everyone––calm down.” They stopped speaking. You could always rely on d’Voris to be calm in these kinds of situations. “Zefayus, any word from the others?”
The tall Scion Ligaeryaen reached into the pockets of his trench coat and removed a smartphone, which he checked briefly before returning it to the folds. “Glid’s bot’s with Kelit, who’s on the way. And… ” He paused, before adding, “Valha’ya says she’ll be late.”
“Of course,” Lucas said. Agate held up a hand, before putting it back down.
“That’s fine. Cade, Agate, stay here until everyone else arrives,” d’Voris told them. They nodded. “Zefayus, Faer, Lucas––we’ll head upstairs.”
She then released Tr’aedis and Eleanor.
A new act begins. Tr’aedis looked around him once more at the so-called Scions. He knew he was a “scion”––and hated the fact––and that Eleanor was of course, but the fact that the six others here were as well wasn’t astonishing except that they were in the Lowers. Well, that was astonishing. He didn’t come here to converse with the wealthy. He came to redeem those who didn’t know themselves.
Eleanor stared at the man called Lucas. He noticed her looking and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, miss, but I had to confirm you weren’t working for the Government.”
She then realized that it had indeed been his presence in her mind, why she blanked out several times in the past few minutes. She couldn’t explain how she knew other than she knew. He was a Scion. The first she had met besides her father. She couldn’t explain it to herself but there was no other reason for the feeling in her stomach; that twange, which almost felt a little warm.
“And, yes we’re Scions.” He stood and beckoned for them to get up. “C’mon, you two, we’re gonna have to take you with us for now. Protocol.”
Tr’aedis rose and dipped his head. “A fine pleasure it is to make such noble acquaintance, sir,” he said. Zefayus laughed out loud as he passed by. Eleanor also rose, and extended her hand automatically; Tr’aedis’s acting had finally worked for him.
She shook Lucas’s hand. “The pleasure is ours,” he said. “Welcome to the Lowers––" he winked–– “fellow Scion. We are the Furies.”