The big engine on the tractor turned over once, twice, and then let out a pained groan, sputtering to silence. A frown came to Cliff’s face as he stared at the big contraption, analyzing the sound and trying to put the pieces together.
“She’s been doing that all morning,” the old man said from the vehicle’s saddle, “hoped you might be able to fix her before I call for a tech. No Couriers around, but my wife says you’re just as good.”
“Start her again,” Cliff said, moving up right next to the machine to get a better look and listen at the engine’s failure.
“Careful there, Hoss,” the old man warned, his lips peeling back to show a yellow grimace. He had an unlit pipe in his mouth that he habitually bounced around with his jaw. “Old girl gets hot when she starts to talk.”
“Gramps, my momma nursed me in the saddle of a tractor – I know how hot she’ll get.” He moved up close, careful to rest his hand on the chassis of the vehicle, not the engine. It was not his first time fixing a machine like this, but the old man’s had a much older design than he was used to. The thing had to be fifty years old, and it was certainly the oldest Magetool vehicle he’d ever had a chance to tinker with. It excited him to get a chance to gut it, to see how it clicked. There was a crude sort of charm to the old, green behemoth, like a child’s attempt at art. The parts were larger and fit together with far more chaos than on his family’s newer, sleeker model.
“If you say so, but don’t bellyache when your fingertips get fried,” the old man muttered. “Starting her up.” He twisted the key and the engine shook in front of Cliff’s head. He might have flinched at the jolt, but he was too focused on watching, on listening. Just like before, the engine gave a valiant effort at starting, but with a few angry thumps and a tortured groan, she failed.
Cliff’s mind was racing, analyzing, thinking, and suddenly, with a jolt of energy down his spine, he saw. The parts clicked into place, and though he’d never gotten inside the machine to take it apart and put it back together, he knew how everything fit.
He clicked his tongue with a disappointed frown, raising a hand to the machine. He tapped a finger on a pair of pipes that looped off the engine, arching off the stack of metal before connecting back to a part whose function he could explain even without knowing its name. “Your exhaust is clogged, probably by dirt or something. Get me whatever ancient tools you use to do surgery on the old girl, plus a thick, strong brush, and I’ll have her purring in a few minutes.”
Heaving himself off the saddle with a grunt of acknowledgment, the old man moseyed off to fetch the tools, leaving Cliff looking longingly at the big, old engine. He had hoped the issue would be deeper so he could really tinker with its guts, but, well, at least this wouldn’t be too hard of a fix.
Half an hour later, Cliff rubbed at his greasy hands with an old rag. He’d been careful not to get any of the black gunk on his clothes – the last time he’d shown up at home with a stained shirt, his mother had lectured him for a good fifteen minutes before he’d managed to soften her up enough to let him free. And at his age, getting a lecture from his momma at all was downright embarrassing.
“Start her up,” he said. The old man had protested, at first, when Cliff took to disassembling the engine, but eventually Cliff’s confidence had won him over. And Cliff was right, here. The problem was fixed. It would work. His Gift told him so.
A twist of a key and the engine shook once, twice, and finally a third time before it settled to an engine’s normal, quiet hum. Well, in the case of an engine this old, it was less quiet and more rickety. “She’s purring,” the old man called over the bounce of the engine, “I think she’s saying thank you, Hoss.” Cliff smiled. It was always amusing to him, how much farmers thought of their tractors like the livestock they’d replaced. When Magetools came around, the oxen and mules were outmatched by tractors, but still, he’d never met a farmer who didn’t call their tractor an ‘old girl’. It was a little silly to Cliff, but he couldn’t deny that there was an odd overlap between the pained whines of a sick donkey and the groan of angry machinery. And, listening closer now, perhaps there was something thankful about the way the engine rumbled next to him.
A moment later and the engine grumbled to a content stop, the old man hopping off the saddle and extending a hand. “A thousand thanks, Hoss, from me and the old girl.” Cliff grabbed and shook, impressed, as usual, by the old farmer’s strong, reliable grip. “Come back to the house with me, Ma will want to make you something for lunch.”
Cliff grinned, shaking his head. “It was no trouble at all. I ought to be thanking you, sir, for giving me an excuse to skip out on my morning chores.” His stomach suddenly growled, a reminder of the hunger he’d forgotten while working on the tractor. “And if you’re offering, I wouldn’t say no to a meal.” From behind him, he heard a frantic voice calling his name. Cliff clicked his tongue. “Seems like I won’t have the time, though.”
He turned to see his sister, Moira, dashing towards him, her skirts hiked up in one hand. “Cliff!” she called again, “Momma says the caravan is headed into town – you need to go! Now!”
The old man popped the pipe from between his teeth, thumbing some leaf from his belt pouch into the chamber. “Seems like you’re going on a trip, eh, Hoss? Did you really have the time to help out here? By the look of your sister, you’re late.”
Cliff shrugged. “Eh, she’s exaggerating.” Moira was usually a little too flustered. It was endearing, in its way, but she always came off as a bit dramatic. Even if he did miss the caravan’s departure, he’d be able to catch them long before they got to Minton. The pressure was low enough along the road that he wouldn’t have to worry about running into anything too vicious.
“Well, come through when you get back, and Ma’ll treat you to something good and filling,” the old man said, jerking his head towards Moira. “You best get going now, calm your sister down and catch the caravan.”
Cliff nodded, waving a casual farewell at the old man and tucking the owed meal to the back of his mind. He would take up the offer if the chance arose, but he hoped it wouldn’t. He was off to school, and if everything went as planned, he wouldn’t be back home any time soon.
***
Loria’s mother wrung her hands as she watched the girl pack. “Are you absolutely certain that you want to go? Your brother did not enroll until he was twenty-one!” The concern in her voice pushed Loria to rush, but a lifetime of discipline helped her to brush the annoyance aside.
“I’m quite sure, mother, as I have said, oh, a hundred times today.” She tried not to sound irritated, but truly, what did her mother expect each time she asked the same question? With a series of quick movements, she folded the dress on the bed, tucking it carefully into her suitcase. It was a formal thing, and she had not wanted to pack it, but her father had insisted. There would be some occasion to show herself off, he said, and she should not miss it for lack of a fetching dress. He was still convinced she was enrolling to find a spouse.
Her mother, wearing a fine dress of her own, paced around the bed as Loria worked. “Of course, dear, but remember, you are always welcome to come back if – if things don’t work out, you know.” Loria looked up sharply at her mother, a bitter response on her tongue, but seeing the concern on her face, her mood softened. Genuine concern, not patronizing or coddling.
“Of course,” she said, rising to her feet and wrapping her mother in an embrace. “I won’t try to do anything impossible. You’ve raised me to be too sensible for that.” The simple clothes she wore were a stark contrast to her mother’s finery, but other than that and a slight difference in hair color - Loria’s platinum to her mother’s strawberry blonde - the two were a near mirror image of each other, Loria of course absent a few wrinkles and other marks of age. She was wearing a trimmed down version of the Federation’s military uniform, the unofficial day-to-day wear of her family. It was a message, really, that even at home in their most casual moments, they wore the service on their sleeve.
They stood there hugging for a moment, until Loria felt her mother relax in her arms. A moment more and they parted, Loria resuming her quick, efficient packing. It was family policy to only bring one suitcase when they traveled, and that policy did not change just because she was moving into a dorm.
Her mother watched silently as she finished the chore, a conflicted look on her face. She spoke again as Loria was clamping the fully-packed bag shut. “Are you sure-” she started, cutting off at a sharp glance from her daughter. The woman sighed. “Fine, I’ve accepted it, you’re leaving.” She paused, speaking softer. “But you’ll always be welcome back.”
“Thank you, mother,” Loria said, lifting the packed bag off the bed. It wasn’t heavy, containing mostly clothes, a few personal keepsakes, and her Personal Magetool, tuned to her preference and tucked safely in its case. She wouldn’t need it on the road to the Academy; her father’s soldiers would make sure of that.
She moved to exit her bedroom, but her mother stepped in front, cutting her off. “Your father wishes to speak to you, before your departure, to discuss your… choice of enrollment,” she said, her face full of a new, different concern. Loria swallowed. She’d anticipated this – after all, her father had signed off on her application to the academy; he’d paid the fees. He knew her decision. A conversation about it was expected. That did not mean she was looking forward to it, nor his disapproval. Loria nodded, and her mother moved aside, allowing her to walk out of the room.
She found him in his study. It was warm, as it always was when he was drinking and his tight control on his Gift waned. He sat in front of the window, staring out at the hilly grounds of their manor. It was a beautiful view, and she would miss the hills and streams that decorated her fondest memories. She still had to leave, of course, but she would miss it.
“Father,” she said, not allowing her unease or hesitation to show in her voice, “Mother told me you wished to speak to me.” She wondered if that cold, even tone pleased her father, or if he saw it, as she did, to be unnatural for a daughter addressing a parent.
He turned in his chair, looking at her with a warm expression. It seemed foreign on his face, with his gunsteel hair and hard features. “Come,” he said, gesturing at the chair next to him, “sit.” His tone, too, was warm. Truthfully, despite his appearance, he had a very warm demeanor. There was a tumbler in his hand full of an amber liquor. There had probably been ice cubes in the liquid at some point, but they had long since melted.
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She sat down next to him, and together they stared out the window for a silent moment. Her father turned to her, gesturing at the bottle of liquor perched on the table between their chairs. “Would you like a drink?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.” She had not inherited her father’s love of spirits. One of many things she hadn’t inherited from the man next to her.
“Suit yourself,” he replied, taking a careful sip from his glass. He let out a brief, contented sigh after the sip as they continued to look at the beauty in front of them. The study was on the second floor, and their home was built on top of a hill. It afforded them a beautiful view of the countryside around the manor. The level here was too high for most to survive, but her father had tamed it, made it his own land. Loria traced the hills with her eyes, recalling the countless times she’d dashed up and down their slopes, playing with her brother and sister.
“The Couriers, hm?” her father said. Despite the heat of the room, a sudden coldness surged in her veins, and she had to suppress a shiver.
She turned to look at him. He was still staring out the window. “Yes,” she replied, immediately defensive, “I just thought-” He raised a hand, and she instantly cut herself off.
“It’s a good choice, I believe,” he said, swirling his glass before taking another measured sip.
“You do?” she said, “But I thought-” He cut her off again, this time by turning to look at her.
“The Couriers see less combat than the Army, and they have more freedom than the Church. It’ll be safer for you, give you more time to – well, to do what you set out to do. That’s why you picked them, hmm?” He nodded slowly, surely, certain his reasoning was correct.
He was wrong. The coldness in her veins had turned suddenly hot as her frustration, slowly building from a day of her mother’s fussing, bubbled forth again. “That’s not why I chose the Couriers, Father, not for safety! I-”
“Loria,” he said, the warmth in his tone replaced by iron, “do not raise your voice at me. I am praising your decision here, not criticizing. You should be grateful.” He shook his head, the barest hint of spite sneaking into his voice. “Honestly, a daughter of mine in the Couriers...” Another sip from his glass, and the spite was gone. “But no, you’re right, and with their lackadaisical approach to, well, whatever it is they do, you should be more than free to live safely and happily, hmm?”
As he spoke, the fire in her veins burned down, fading to cool embers, and her control was back. “Of course, father,” she said, rising from her chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to ready myself for my departure.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, smiling and extending an arm to fondly grab her hand. “I love you, dear. Have a safe journey, and be sure to do your family proud, even if you are among the Couriers.” He tapped his cheek with a finger, and she smiled with a sigh, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek. Despite his misunderstandings and stubbornness, she did want to make her family, him most of all, proud. But she could not do that here.
She glanced once more out the window at the beautiful landscape that had defined her childhood. She loved those vistas, but she no longer needed this place, she decided. There was more for her to do, much more, that could not be done here. The Academy and the Couriers, they were her way forward.
***
Nym took a deep breath, clearing her mind. She was on one knee, and her Magetool was set on the ground beside her, just in case. She knew, with her father here, it was less than likely that any sort of monster would get the jump on them, but he’d taught her to always be on guard, and she drank in his teachings like a plant drank in sunlight.
The bright orange gourd rested on the ground a good bit in front of her. She’d measured the distance as carefully as she could. Any further than three strides, and the chance of her actually hitting the damned thing went down drastically. Any closer and she wouldn’t be following her father’s instruction to always test her limits.
Another breath and she reached out with her Gift. Power shot forth like a new appendage, probing through the earth towards the gourd. She had one Gift, but it was a skill of two parts: the first was to find the target, and the second was to bend it to her will. Half a breath later, and she felt, through her Gift, that she had found the right spot. She reached out and, like clenching her fist, ordered the earth in front of her to crush the overripe vegetable.
A malformed hand of earth, five jagged, oblong fingers, shot forth from the ground and slammed shut – half a stride behind the gourd. She jumped to her feet immediately, stomping a foot in frustration and growling a string of curses. Her attempt had left a rough, rocky little mound of earth behind the gourd, and it joined four others, all just a little off from the bright orange vegetable.
“Who taught you to talk like that?” an amused voice called from behind her. Nym’s eyes widened, and she spun on her heel to find her father strolling into their little clearing. He had a stag-like monster slung over his shoulder. It looked mostly like a run-of-the-mill deer, but its fur had a sickly purple cast to it, and on its antlers, every point came to a jagged, cruel, shiny tip, like pieces of sharpened quartz.
“I wonder,” she said sarcastically, crossing her arms in front of her and raising an eyebrow.
He smiled wider. “Come, I’ve tested the meat and it should be good for eating. Make us up a fire while I skin and bleed it.” She started to move, but paused when she saw his smile fade as his eyes settled on the gourd, still whole despite her practice. “I see you didn’t have much luck today.”
She looked away, scratching at her shoulder. “It’s – well I, don’t know, when I practice at home, I’m reaching through one thing, but out here-” She stamped her foot on the ground. “It looks like one thing, but the ground’s really a million different bits touching, and I have to somehow still make that same connection.” She shrugged. “It’s like running through an endless maze of doorways, and I have to make sure I end up in exactly the right room.”
Her father looked between her and the gourd, sighing lightly. “You’re overthinking things, as usual. It’s your Gift. Yours. Use your intuition, and it’ll come easier.” He raised his free hand in front of him, and the gourd suddenly leapt off the ground, flying through the air at great speed before slowing to land gently in his palm. “At least we can supplement our meat with some vegetables – to make Mom happy, of course.”
Nym looked up jealously at her father. She’d grown up watching him use his Gift, so she had not realized his extreme skill until she had started to train her own. “I wish my Gift was like yours.”
He laughed, tossing her the gourd. “You would not believe how many times I’ve thought those exact words throughout my life, daughter dearest. Eventually, after seeing enough Gifts and growing enough gray hairs, I came to realize a simple truth: no Gift is better or worse than any other. The important thing is how it is used, or even moreso, who uses it. You are my daughter – your mother’s daughter. A little practice and soon enough, you’ll be the envy of every Natural who sees you.”
She frowned down at the gourd, considering her father’s words. It was a very easy thing for him to say when he was the envy of the Couriers, but she also truly wanted to trust his advice.
“Stop staring at the gourd and get to building a fire. We need to leave early tomorrow if we’re to make your enrollment ceremony, and I need you to sleep so you’re not cranky all morning.” She turned to glare at her father, winding up and chucking the gourd as hard as she could at him. It tumbled through the air towards his head before slowing down, looping around him three times, and landing softly next to where he sat, skinning the stag.
“Show-off,” she muttered, moving to hunt for some firewood. When she got through the academy and had a good grasp on her power, she would be the one who could show off.
***
Thalos fidgeted in the overstuffed chair, twisting the ring on his finger as he watched the old woman read the letter. She was a mess of contradictions, old and weathered but youthful and spry, calm and collected yet brimming with energy. From his grandfather he knew this was common among powerful Chosen. He blinked, mentally correcting himself. Not Chosen, Naturals – his grandfather had never abandoned the old word, but here, they might look at him strange if he used it. The last thing he wanted was that kind of attention.
She looked up at him and he felt his back stiffen. “So you’ve come to enroll, hm? Your grandfather always said you would, but I never thought-” She shook her head. “Is it really necessary?”
Thalos shrugged. “You know the laws. I need a permit to travel between cities, and It’s not as if I inherited my grandfather’s when he died. I’ve managed to dodge scrutiny since then, but I’d like to follow the laws. This is the easiest way.”
The old woman scoffed. “If it’s you we’re talking about, I doubt any laws or permits could stop-”
“This is the easiest way,” Thalos said again, more sternly than he intended. His eyes widened, and he immediately moved to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”
She waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. “Of course, you’re right. I’ve had this conversation with your grandfather more times than I can count, and he always came out on top.” She shook her head, her voice softening. “Stubborn fool.” She looked up at him, and suddenly all her youthfulness was gone. She just looked old and very, very tired. “I was sad to hear he had died.”
Thalos nodded slowly, ignoring the distant pang of grief in his heart. “Thank you.” He hesitated a brief moment before continuing. “I know he considered you one of his closest friends and confidants.”
She shook her head. “I tried so many times, in the last decade or so, to convince him to retire here. I needed someone to drink with, and the Gaeon knows that the kiddies could have used a teacher like him.” She looked him in the eye, and the edges of her mouth lifted slightly. “He always brushed me off, saying he didn’t have time to focus on anyone else.” Thalos looked away. “What did him in, in the end?”
“The Sickness,” Thalos said softly, “Sixty years of research in high pressure areas was too long, he told me, and not enough rest.”
She sighed heavily. “Even that old oak could fall, hmm? I would have liked to have met him at least once more, but then, perhaps this is more fitting – him stuck with his research and me stuck here.” There was a moment of silence as they both remembered his grandfather. Thalos had only met the woman in front of him twice before, but both times he’d had the impression that they had a long history of close friendship and bitter rivalry. It was why he’d been sent here. His grandfather had trusted her more than just about anyone in the world.
The moment passed, and her energy returned. “So, the Couriers, hm?”
Thalos nodded. “Yes. It was my grandfather’s reasoning, but it’s easy enough to understand. They’ve got the most freedom, the fewest obligations, and the least oversight. With my plans, I’d rather stay out of sight than anything else, and following military orders or church decrees wouldn’t give me my independence.”
She nodded. “It’s a good plan,” she said. “That ring on your finger – did your grandfather make it?”
Thalos blinked. He hadn’t mentioned anything about the ring to her – he had planned to explain it, of course, but he had not even gotten the chance. “I’m not sure,” he answered, “it was a gift from him, but he never told me whether he made it, just what it does.”
“And it’ll allow you to stay here safely?” she asked.
Thalos nodded. “Indefinitely, I think. Plus, it should help me blend in.”
Her eyebrows raised. “The test?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Thalos confirmed.
She whistled softly. “You wouldn’t happen to know how it works, would you?” Thalos shook his head. “Shame.” She was writing something on her desk as they spoke, filling out some kind of form. The conversation trailed off for a moment, and the only sound was the scribble of her pen.
“How secret do you intend to keep yourself?” she finally asked.
“As secret as possible,” Thalos replied, “But I trust you to tell anyone who you think is necessary.” His grandfather had trusted her, and that was a rare enough honor that he did not want to question it.
“You’ll be added to the Courier’s incoming class, then, and I’ll tell only their advisor – he’s a Church man, but knows his way around the world. I trust him.” She paused, nodding to herself. “It works out well. They needed the extra body to fill out their roster, and the tuition will help pay for their endless field work.”
He fidgeted in his chair as he listened, eager to get the awkward part over with. “About the money – the cost – I have part of it now, but my Grandfather hadn’t realized that tuition had gone up. After I graduate, I can-”
She cut him off, waving a hand. “I owed your grandfather far too many favors to make you pay for tuition at my academy, son. It will be coming out of my purse, and that’ll be the last time we hear of it.” She paused her writing to raise an eyebrow at him. “Understood?”
Thalos sighed, relieved. The tuition had been the last worry of his. It had been a long, trying time to get to the academy, and he’d doubted she would turn him away for something like money, but he was glad it was taken care of, even if it meant owing her a favor. “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll do my best not to waste your generosity.”
She smiled at him. “I’m sure you will, Thalos. If you’re anything like that grandfather of yours, I have no worries at all.” She set her pen down, leaning back in her chair. “And don’t call me ma’am! It’s auntie or grandma from you – well, in front of others, perhaps Headmistress is best, but when it’s just you and me, treat me as family, please. The good Church knows your grandfather was like a brother to me.”
“Yes, ma’am – ah, yes, auntie,” Thalos said with an awkward smile. She nodded at him sternly.
“Now relax,” she said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a pair of cups. From another she pulled a bottle of dark liquid. “Check in is not until tomorrow – we’ve got all night to reminisce about your grandfather.”