image [https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ea/Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg/757px-Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg]
VAN GOGH, 1889
I am standing right outside it; its silver, rectangular surface almost gleams. If I stare long enough, I might be able to convince myself that it shows any sort of reflection; but so far it is only silver. A scion of its own, from the originals made by one of the Restors. And since revealed to be an instrument of the Government, as a minor version of the two portals that daily purify the Scions among us.
But compared to the revelation Raegoth gave me, it is but one of many instruments played by the Government, among their infinite concert. After running and re-running my memory of the birthports, golden dew revealed, I just can’t help but think, over and over, that I have no agency. The same word, the organization, the institute that has my sister in its grip, that always had superiority over the Furies, that constructed these many portals that run, run their silver course through all of society. Above Lowers everyone walks through them; sends their atomic memory into the silver ranks, to be concocted, studied, and re-organized into whatever plans they have for everyone I have ever known.
A Thought from my to-be captain, Siara, enters my mind: Melea, are you coming?
I send affirmation. I enter the portal and send a Thought for Beacons. Everything around me vanishes as my surroundings change; keeping my eyes open, in that indiscernible turn my window of sight is now an empty sky. I did it again; I portaled directly to Golden Seat, and turning myself in all directions I confirm that I am the only one on the platform of gold; looking below, the blades of alter grass scintillate and shine, being swept by the feet and golden launchpads spotting the environment as various Beacons run through them. The golden seat below my own feet is solid. I look down and sight Siara, Bodi, Vie, Lacon, and a few others across the field. I summon launchpads and hurtle down them to join the matrix of alter plastic ball and golden circle, rackets glinting in the sun and raiders shouting.
Vie sees me first. Her brown-and-white hair flecks as she passes beneath me, and without looking behind me I know that I had left a trail of gold.
“You can’t use all your launchpads that way,” she says quickly, tapping her receptor, I nod and say over Thought, But I was high up. Bodi wasn’t up there this time.
There’s still the limit you can have out at once.
She is right—any single player is limited to three out at the same time. But I suppose that the other team’s gold is of the same hue. I follow Vie along the edge of the field, Siara has the ball in her racket, not quite holding it in the net, but folding—bouncing it rapidly, but so low and so fast that from where we ran, only showed vibrations of white in the sun. “Beacons, spread out!” she yells, and then the Thought comes, Melea save your launchpads. We’re trying the “folder” today.
We each summon 3 launchpads at once, 6 on each side, Vie says. I am now just behind Siara—she glances my way, and then flicks the ball forward and beneath another player’s swipe of their racket, out so fast I barely catch it, and it’s caught by Lacon—by their racket handle, spun and tipped back to their own folding.
The “folder” is Lacon’s idea. But they probably stole it from the original Sun.
Vie’s covering a player from the other team; Siara runs to set up the folder on the other side, covering a third player; I catch up to the second, recall my launchpads, and before sending the Thought for launch send a Thought for score—Beacons 44, Melea 0. Hmm, OK in this round they’re not showing the other team’s.
Alter. I put more energy into my legs. I soon overcome the second player, and suddenly Bodi drops out of the sky, landing on his own launchpad, tilted vertically, and our double envelopment is broken before it has begun. Siara fails to get the pass from Lacon, and the player I was covering overtakes it. Score—Beacons 45, Melea 0. Ayer you knew we were doing the folder today! Siara says, and Bodi slips off his launchpad as it disappears, landing on the grass. He then whips his racket over and about, it whisks through the air like a frisbee—and Vie, out of nowhere, catches it, and now she’s running over on her launchpads to the Burner players adding to their pass score, wielding her two rackets behind her like a roadrunner’s back feathers. A sharp image roils forward, I remember the V-movie, that had displeased most Sector audiences, of Dunc: WILD-E and somehow trying to adapt a slew of ancient works simultaneously, where WILD-E the android roadrunner, sleek and silver, chased after Fayar Gaebus on her sandworm. Vie, I see, is doing what I just did—summoning and recalling launchpads right after each other, so that she always has three below her.
Stop staring, Melea, Siara berates, and I nod and run after. Soon we will hit the 50s, and be halfway there to Governor’s Arena. My original objective… but I keep seeing new things in this game, that preUni Mik’vael and I never tried—throwing a racket!
Bodi is returning to the sky, without a racket, which is still within the rules!
I love this game.
Score—Burners 100, Beacons 88, Melea 5. Governor’s Arena. Out in the distance, three golden saucers become visible.
We come to a stop. Bodi falls out of the sky nearby, but only I notice it. Vie is beginning to sweat; Siara and Lacon are breathing lightly. I take some breaths in between their frequencies; for I feel no fatigue. I always had increased stamina, but ever since I acknowledged my Governor’s Gene, it had become… more apparent.
“We’re doing good,” Siara says, wiping her mouth. Her light ochre hair fringes there. “Melea, again, if—”
“I know.” I send a Thought—If any of them is my aunt. I’m more worried if they ask me if I’m a tree again. But I hadn’t forgotten my mission. “Our folding isn’t working.”
“Siara, please tell Bodi to stop interfering,” Lacon complains, but to which Siara only smiles.
“Bodi is our agent of chaos,” she says, simply, tossing her hair in Bodi’s direction. Bodi is staring, his back to us, intently at the arriving Governors; something like a shape is arising on each of them. “There’s a reason I don’t tell him your strategies.”
“Siara—” Lacon begins to say.
“We’re 12 behind,” Vie says to them, slapping their racket with hers; clack. “Siara hasn’t done her lightning yet.”
“Yeah. OK, Melea.” Siara nods to me, and I head over to join Bodi.
I look at the Governors. Their Golden Seats, three in number, shimmer in the heat of the sun. One of them is a warren, husky and eldritch; I glance at it for the minutest second so that it doesn’t ask me again if I’m a tree. I’m not. I focus my eyes on the Governor to its left, stage center, the one shaped as a world. It pulsates silver and ripples seem to beam across, from this distance, apparently concave surface. Its look is varied and speaks to me of two things. Perfection and Constancy. I feel an itch in my knees. Not the itch I need to scratch; a deeper itch. It is imperfect. It is inconsistent.
I look away from my knees. The Governor stage left is comparably human. It is wearing a hologram suit. I remind myself that they are all wearing hologram suits. Golden Rule. The Governor is rather small from this distance. But I can make out their distinctly pointed ears, larger than a human’s, and what shone out to be the cloak of a forgotten age—red and yellow and a searing gold.
A twang pierces my soul.
“Melea—thoughts?” Siara’s voice comes from the background. I barely hear it. Some voices rise within me. They number in three.
I am not a tree. I feel my legs, stolid and filled with the invisible ichor of Governor’s Gene.
My trait is full-body, and I’m using it effectively. My hand is strong upon my knee.
I am Scion Emulus. And that Governor makes me feel the twang that comes to Scions in the presence of another not felt before.
I remember what Majine had instructed me to do. I barely hear Siara’s voice behind me, I barely see Bodi begin running towards the three Governors, and I barely feel the grass beneath my feet as I send a Thought, looking in the direction of the one who asked me if I’m a tree, Portal to the Governor Warren :
image [https://i.imgur.com/UfJzZel.png]
A tree, tall and curling and black (or a green, imposing).
A sun, distant and concentric and yellow (or a sunflower, dying).
A sky, horizontal and creeping and blue (or an ocean, tempting).
Applause.
The crowd claps its hands (clasps chains) together. I see these three significant objects placed on the stage. I am somewhere in the middle row. I cannot see well in front of me, except for the scene set, only that there are others seated to my right and left, in the six rows in front of me and the six rows behind me. Their faces I cannot see, only their hands, a cuffed chain tying right to left, as they gleam and glitter in mighty applause.
There is no one standing on the stage. Only the tall tree. Only the spurts of sky streaming behind it. Only the phaethon plunging the scene into an awareness of despair. It all seems very familiar, like something I have seen before but with a name.
The sun shines deeper and a face appears submerged. I can see from back here, those eyes of jade, her eyes following mine, like a portrait in a gallery. It is Majine, she emerges completely (clothed in the attire of a Governor, hologram suit made for everyday wear), leaping lightly to the stage, walking towards the front. A sticker of black. She stops at a small sticker of black, taped onto the stage. She clears her throat; the movement causes some even smaller spurts of something gold out, like a flower emitting pollen, they float.
She speaks.
“I AM TODAY’S ORDINAL. WELCOME TO OUR SHAREHOLDERS’ MEETING.”
Ordinal. A number related to math.
Applause. It is automatic; but it is also voluntary. I keep myself from clapping. I focus for the briefest of seconds, and find that I can feel the seat beneath me; peripherally still the shadows of hands appear in shadow; the voice of Majine felt real to me as the calls across the grass of the other Beacons.
Beacons. Objects or personages, giving light or inspiration. The premiere raider team of the Sector. Melea Voraëson yet to be partnered. I have to remind myself.
Some rows above, a clear sound of struggle. A hinge of white confronts the darkness; it is a sign. Words appear upon it, colorless but different than the white.
(0.25, 0.5]
More numbers; but before I had discerned them as such in my mind, or the image of the words in my mind, if this is physical space, I had read them as letters. Raised lettering; pale nimbus white. Not because they had been shaped as such; but simply as they had appeared before my mind.
“OUR QUARTERLY PROJECTIONS ARE POSITIVE.”
Applause.
The white sign sinks into the dark. Majine seems to look at me.
“WE HAVE THE SILVER SPHERE.”
Applause. It is seemingly louder this time; and suddenly, the black peeling dilapidated pieces of bark over the skin of the tree peel. They are more individuals. ,Peeling away like silver stars of people, like the climactic scene in The Scream’s Museum Oslo where paper-people danced around the pretend prince, the ashes of the apocalypse falling around them, uttering the cry of an unrelinquished despair. Mik’vael and I had joined them, screaming our hearts out after winning the raider tourney. In these dancing the bore of the tree came to reveal, the silver sphere, not too large or too small but just right. The humans can fit inside it. Human pathos you are become.
Goldilocks, her gold braids dandling, held up the little humans by her pinkies. “These are just right!” as she plopped them into the silver pot, a paintbrush on the workbench, sketches beside her depicting a pot in pencil yellow labeled HONEYPOT, and lavish paint run on her parents and sibling, making them the THREE BEARS, and all is good, and all is happy, and all is right.
A pathogen of a breed, the human + bear child, dressed in a frock the color of dying sunflowers, with drops of gold spun into plaits, the lock of youth being dripped into the pot named of the hive’s ambrosia, her paws holding paintbrush and paintbucket, her pawed unshod feet mixing trails of gold upon the stage, walks across and churning to face center on a sticker of black, emits a soft growl, and weaves her arm with the brush. Golden spray cause wreath of heaven. A slowed down scintillation of honeydrops ineluctable curve. And while the air is her canvas, various images shot through my mind: the Aegis line’s recording of one’s every action as if experienced in a V-movie, a row of leprechauns waiting the pot of gold, watching the rainbow streamers; screaming skeletons rushing in the rainbow road, their nanoseconds counted; the slowed-down spray of water in the opening scene to Parasite. Shot on Colorovo.
After some silence, I realize the identity and the name of the Director in front of me; not an Ordinal, and certainly not a shareholder:
Goldilocks effect, the Con Artist
Goldilocks effect, the Con Artist proceeds to slap some golden paint onto the silver sphere, as Majine, no longer on the black sticker, stands out of the way a bit further behind on stage left; near the props presenting the little rows of houses. They appear empty and silent. There is no bodies coming out of them; I almost expect miniature figurines of black to rise out, an army of charred gingerbread demanding restitution from their baker, but they are empty and silent.
They are empty.
And silent.
Soon the bear-painter seems about finished, splattering one last spray onto the sphere; it is about fully covered, a drop of golden sun. Pattering on her golden paws a few steps ‘round it, she seems to inspect her work, her glittering alchemy, giving some growls now and then; but, continuing to paw around it, gradually making a mess on the wooden flats of the stage, she seems unsatisfied. She growls, again, louder; louder.
Louder.[1]
Claps. Majine, still stage left, is clapping. She is looking at me. Goldilocks effect, the Con Artist is still looking at the sun. Here it comes. I am expecting, me, a name I call myself:
d’Voris
‘Twas the name I call myself. I see the sun. It is gold. I hear the applause. I see their hands chained. I see the card inside me. I take it out. I see he letters on ‘t. I read them, inside my stomach unreading unraveling the card white bone:
Melea Voraëson
Shocks and colors of faces around me. I see them. I see the humans who call me by that name. Keep your shoulders straight, sis. Stepping onto self-scanner Alterface I am altering! Melea, an Agent says. I see them. You’ll join us, says the sport. I see them all. Are you a tree? No, the Conjuring.
I am holding the large white card out away from my body.
I am laughing.
I am chortling.
I am cackling.
I am.
Large, grubby paws reach around the shadows of the dark; a tubby fur reaching me in the darkness of the card. Its claws do not grasp me. But it clings onto the bone of the card and takes it. It takes the card. And the paw disappears, again into the dark. And
Goldilocks effect, the Con Artist takes it up. The artist reads the card aloud.
Applause. I feel my hands enchained.
She reads the card and drops it into the sphere. It swallows it. Gulp.
Chew. I hear it. We all do. Gnashing of teeth.
A child’s voice coaxes me to run, running very far
And the sphere becomes, And the sphere becomes, And the sphere becomes, And the sphere becomes, And the sphere becomes, And the sphere becomes one of ichor.
Applause.
And I feel it. Something inside me, yanking out. A needle pulling thread.
Majine is staring at me.
A note to follow, says the Artist. She pulls into her apron’s pockets for some jam and bread, to eat it. She eats the needle. Do.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
A deer, a female deer
Siara’s tongue, sticking to the grass. Bodi’s voice, shouting of hoarse, as he fights the Governors. Vie’s thighbone like a fallen chopstick. Lacon’s arm, holding their racket.
d’Voris’s name, taken. I feel my antlers, and they are dripping gold.
The wind blew through the sky, causing unseen roils of power, she thought. But then she realized, they were all already in the sky. So the power was all around them.
They were named the Powers, after all. Skylark thought to herself that Jaceus had gathered them together, had chosen them, because of their powers. He had said back then—she had the power of the sky. She looked around her; Agate was holding her bind, her golden hair (as seen in the mist) strewn about her, as she struggled to hold onto it; it was vibrating, as it tried to escape. Luke was in the same position—exerting great effort, he had struck his own bind into the cloud-surface, and planting one of his feet inside as he used his other to hold himself on top. Cerise was walking over to the chord, ready to select hers; Mr. T was in line behind her; and then it was Jaceus and herself.
The chord was kind of like—like a Lowers schoolbus, but dark, misty, and white, seeming to keel or retch as it lay (on its side?) waiting for Cerise to pick. Cerise sure was taking her time. Was the chord like the clens, alive but not really? Skylark saw that Tammarin was tapping their feet, constantly; as they watched in turn, very conspicuously moving their head to change gazes between the Powers already begun the test, and those waiting in line. And the rest of the green alien costume people were all around them, watching silently.
We have no idea what we’re actually doing, she thought. Agate had just stepped up, volunteered to go first (not surprisingly); picked a bind at random, which had immediately begun attempting to fly out of her hands, as she moved, haphazardly, to an empty space on the cloud they were on, and tried to wrestle with it. Force it into submission. Luke seemed to be having greater success; but Tammarin hadn’t said anything, and she had so many questions still, like how exactly was Tammarin speaking to the clens, and the green people, and the chord only by using their feet; what Tammarin was, being this C Major; how were they all being kept up, if Jaceus and Cerise weren’t doing anything, and why was Cerise taking so long.
Skylark stared at the cloak, spelling these letters, spelling two words, on Tammarin: MOVEMENT BLUE.
“Can I select more than one?” Cerise asked, to no one in particular.
Tammarin’s stepping didn’t lose its beat, but it almost lost one, Skylark thought. “No,” they said. The tube suit people remained silent.
“OK, makes sense,” Cerise simply said. Skylark—without stepping out of line, but just staying in the same horizontal position as Jaceus—moved herself over some to see—Cerise’s eyes were now a vivid shade of violet, piercingly visible through all the mist, and her hair was changing likewise to a deep silver. She reached over to a bind on the skin of the chord. She put her right hand around its handle; she pulled it out.
Twang.
Skylark felt that. She hadn’t felt that in a long time. Cerise, now with bind in hand, moved to find her own spot; but the bind wasn’t shaking, wasn’t fighting; Cerise simply moved over to an empty portion of the cloud, and began whispering to the bind.
Their audience began humming again.
“I feel like I’m in class,” Mr. T murmured, giving her a wink as he looked back; as he moved up and put his hands, both of them, around another. He pulled it out, giving a grunt; his large black hair, which had lost its T shape, frizzled in the mist, and with a final heave he yanked it out, stumbling; immediately the bind began struggling, Mr. T, with a jerk of his whole body, fell forward, losing his grip—the bind flew out in a sharp curve, returning to the chord, where it stuck itself back in like a knife slipping into butter.
Mr. T heaved himself back up. “No, Capricorn, not now,” he said, to himself; but Skylark heard. I can speak with the stars. “Did I fail?” he asked, to no one in particular.
“You have—” Tammarin began to say, taking a step forward—Skylark held her breath—
“Tammarin Le,” Cerise said, but her voice was deeper, more—not full, moist was the word Skylark thought of—or colored with something like water. She was walking over. Her bind was not in her hands—it was hovering alongside, following in her wake, slight wings of a deep, striking blue already emerged as it flapped along—her feet creating ruffles of white on the cloud. The C Major stepped aside. Cerise stepped past Mr. T, who was looking at her strangely—and struck her hand around the bind he had just lost.
It didn’t resist. The bind only unfurled a pair of wings, limply, and Cerise handed the second bind to Mr. T’s waiting arms. It fell there, its wings moving slowly.
Before anyone could react, Jaceus was moving over and taking hold of another bind, his right arm seeming to shimmer in the mist. As he pulled the bind out, its wings burst out, flapping hard. Jaceus let go, and his bind flew about, making circles around him as he watched, smiling.
“So this is mine,” he said. “I’ve won my will over it.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Tammarin responded. “You and Cerise, if she still goes by that name here, have become in tune with your binds. That’s a good key. What do you say, Peridot,” they said, and Peridot, seeming to smile sheepishly and simultaneously trying to get out of his tuba, nodded. Oliviet hit him over the head.
“They’re alter people, you’re so offbeat,” she scolded. “Skylark, you’re next,” she said, and Skylark nodded; it was finally her turn. She stepped past Jaceus, who was still smiling—or trying as best as he could to stifle it—was smiling at how well he had done, but it was her turn, and Skylark knew, she just had this feeling, that just before taking the bind into her hands, pulling it out of the soft skin of the chart, that as its wings unfurled, all the other binds in the chart called out in various hums, all singing different notes, and they were all coming out with wings spread, and as she held the one she had in her right hand, another flew into or around her left, trying to touch it, and she instinctively grabbed it, and the humming became a sharp keen, as the others flapped furiously about, but she only had two hands! She took a step back from the chart. They followed her. She counted five, six, seven of them? In total, including the ones held in her grip.
I believe I can fly, she imagined them all saying, and without thinking she began to hum, and without knowing she was humming high C.
They were all about her, but she saw a gap created by them, as they moved aside, and she saw the faces of Agate and Sterne and Tammarin, Luke’s jaws agape, it looked like they were all in shock, or maybe Tammarin was both surprised and delighted to finally have the member they’d always wanted. She could sing.
“Now that’s concert,” the C Major indeed said; their brown hair looked ruffled in the wind, created by Skylark’s binds. “Now I have a quartet.” They seemed to be simultaneously trying to conceal the biggest smile Skylark had ever seen and forcing one of the most stilted politeness, as they tugged their blue jacket tighter over their shoulders. They turned to the side, saying sans rigeuer quickly, and turning back to Skylark, seemed about to shout, opening their mouth wide, but Skylark heard a clap, and then another, and then another; the humming around them resumed, increasing in volume, and as Tammarin stepped aside, Claude stepped through.
“Cerise has been procrastinating, ad libitum,” she said, and immediately Skylark knew this was different; she was entirely different from Cerise, and had suddenly appeared. It wasn’t like when Cerise had been wearing all blue, and she continued to feel inside that the person in front of her was colored differently. Deep inside; and she watched as Claude stopped clapping, let her right hand fall down by her side, and raise her left hand; extending just a finger, she pointed—no, she was moving it through the air in front of her, in broad and wide strokes, but also seeming to catch Skylark’s binds in its grasp, for she saw them begin to follow in sync, their wings fluttering with the same up-down, side-to-side movements, as Claude moved her left index finger through the air like a painter on her canvas.
She stopped. There was nothing actually painted on the air; but the binds were now humming a low note, one that sounded very like the one Skylark had herself hummed just a moment ago; but lower. The binds were still. Tammarin’s expression of forced politeness was now—amazement. If they were shocked before at Skylark’s display, she realized, Tammarin was now amazed.
“You should have tested on the metronome along with Cerise,” Claude told her, but Skylark didn’t understand, shaking her head. “Tuera, little blue, below, with those two luthiers. They had the audacity to not test you.
“Her melody’s at least D Major, Tammarin Le!!” With that, Claude turned to face the C Major—they immediately resumed their foot-beat with the cloud-surface—Oliviet slapped her own cheeks and started to bounce—but rather than attack, Claude looked upward, and her bind shot up.
Skylark hurriedly followed it—but all she could see, craning her eyes, was that, high above—up to the next residual—was a thin, barely noticeable but perfectly straight blue line traced in the mist, like a thin funnel, a steep cylinder of air and water, that the bind had made.
She looked back down—but no one was saying anything.
She’s at least D Major! Skylark looked back at Claude, who still had those vivid violet eyes, and her silver hair—no, it was now blending in with the mist around them, so that it looked just a halo. A bare silhouette around her head. It reminded Skylark then of Cerise’s head, floating in that transparent case, like a miniature portal.
She then realized that all the humming had stopped. And before she could say something more, with a sharp, scissoring note that sounded just higher than the C, the bind shot back down, and Claude caught it.
She held the bind in her hands; touching one of its wings, she seemed to smile.
“It seems he still remembers,” she said.
7 years ago, outside the Tribunal, the Nötr Kingdom
“Apolle, you’re swinging too lightly,” Etr ce said in between breaths, “that’s not how you wield your shape.”
Apolluceus laughed, and Jaceus watched as his older brother continued to twist his Magpotis, its shape seeming to follow his torso as he moved, like an illuminated bird or bright shadow, a green outline tapering to a point. Etr ce, her long ochre braids somehow evading it, held her own Magpotis up, deftly parrying, its three prongs catching the light of Apolluceus with vivid green shocks. Jaceus watched with awe. He couldn’t wait for Apolluceus and Etr ce to choose a path, so he could choose one to follow.
He felt a nudge on his shoulder. Puræ, his own bright gold hair a shock on his forehead, was making Etr ce’s shape with his fingers. His middle three, but he was trying to bend them so that they all had the same length.
“I can’t wait to find my shape,” he said. “Myodors really are different.”
Green shocks. Etr ce had jumped back. Apolluceus was saying something about how their two shapes weren’t meant to match. It wasn’t the first time; Jaceus wondered if match had any special meaning. He’d ask Triomphe later, or maybe a Wos or higher.
“Me too,” Jaceus said. “I think my brother’s holding back.”
“I heard that, Jay,” Etr ce said, making Apolluceus laugh again, a sound that made Jaceus think of that bright and relaxed feeling, of going back to sleep after waking up too early. “Shouldn’t you two be at the Taenim?” She pushed forward, and Jaceus thought he saw sweat appear on his brother’s forehead.
“We got Raf yesterday!” Puræ piped up, holding out his wrists, both of which had the telltale orange length of string. Jaceus felt his, just a bit tied around his left ear.
“Tell that to Triomphe,” Apolluceus said, dodging a prong. “A Magpotis is far away for you!” Dodging another. “And stop smiling, little brother, it isn’t funny.” He moved forward; catching his Magpotis in between prongs, he lunged, and Etr ce careened over with her Magpotis, still holding onto it, arcing over him like a swallow. As she landed, she thrust her Magpotis straight into the ground, cracks appeared in the stone, and faster than Jaceus’ eyes could follow, was shooting towards Apolluceus feet first, past his Magpotis, and that jade outline around him wavered, struck him on the cheek!
Now landing past him, she stood, and made the hand-flutter for victory. Puræ and Jaceus did the same, and of course Apolluceus had enhanced himself, for he had no bruise.
“And that’s why I’m not taking the Route of Color,” Etr ce announced, but a bit more loudly, as if she wanted them all to hear.
“Etr ce,” Apolluceus started to say, glancing at Jaceus.
The Route of Color? Where their parents were? In his mind, Jaceus saw their faces. Invisible and clear, unmoving and silent. He turned to his friend. Puræ’s eyes were also wide.
“I didn’t know either,” he said.
“No,” Jaceus said. Apolluceus had a Magpotis! He knew what his shape was!
“Jaceus,” Apolluceus said then, making his Magpotis go away, its green light flickering out, that vivid green outline leaving him. “You should be at school.” He walked over; Jaceus saw the silver cloak around him, marked by their family’s wings, and the shape of its wearer. Jaceus was only wearing the white cloak, and there were no wings on it.
A hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and Apolluceus’ eyes were there. Bright, direct.
“I—” his brother started to say.
Then Etr ce was there, pushing him aside. “You moonshot idiot,” she said, and took both of Jaceus’ hands in hers. Her magenta braids swung just over them, making his skin tickle, and he realized that he and Puræ had been sitting on the stones, not on the grass, and it was uncomfortable. He thought, He’s joking, but then he also thought, the many times recently Apolluceus had spoken of the ones beyond, of Ra and the others, how only those in the Route of Color could feel their shapes. That the shape of a god wasn’t just something to draw around you, to understand you. That the shape of a goddess was understanding itself.
“He wasn’t going to tell you, and he’s going in there today,” she said, and Jaceus knew, it was right there, just a bit beyond that hill: the Tribunal, the formidable statues of the ancient birds.
He was going in there.
Apolluceus, his brother, was going inside. Jaceus looked, and saw the doors, made of brightwood by the Ligaeryen carpenters, fragile and mighty. A light seemed to shine through them…
“You’ll still be able to talk to him,” Puræ said, but Jaceus felt only the tickling, from the reddish braids, and he shook his head, and he closed his eyes. “No, no, no,” he said. Maybe just by thinking, those memories of Apolluceus speaking that way would disappear. Just like his Magpotis.
“Ahhhh,” Apolluceus said, his voice sounding fragile, and Jaceus looked, and his oldest brother was standing, hands clutched around his head, teeth gritted and eyes closed. “I can’t do it anymore, Etr ce,” he said, and shaking, waving from side to side, Apolluceus was trying his hardest not to cry.
Jaceus closed his eyes. His brother never cried; his brother was the oldest, he was strong. Herceus was the weak one; only recently entered the Taenim Laev. Still with a grey ribbon, oohing and aahing with the other young ones and the Tree-man.
Apolluceus and Etr ce were arted. They had the wings.
“They won’t understand even if I try to explain.” His brother was making obscure movements in the air. “It’ll take years before I fully leave them. Speaking to the pantheon takes time.” He was caught between turning back, making these confusing, wild, harsh signals to Jaceus and Puræ, and looking over at that hill. Jaceus got up and, avoiding Etr ce’s hand, looked at Apolluceus’ face. His brother, his older brother, had a confusing expression, one that Jaceus hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t like that time he’d interrupted their class of Arcs, spying on a trio of Nam practicing the water-game, and had burst into joyous, raucous laughter at seeing the much younger students quail. It wasn’t either like that time, Jaceus remembered suddenly, when Emeli was drawing a sky-light of all the Myodor siblings, and he saw how Apolluceus looked as he tried to correct his teacher on the proper contour of his hair tuft. And it wasn’t like that time when Jaceus watched his brother walk on the water outside their house, speaking to the whale that would become their guardian, in words not in Nox, as their parents watched from the sky.
It wasn’t like any of those. Apolluceus had such a look on his face, beneath his sunflower crest, that made Jaceus think of when he met Puræ last year, an Element’r born into a family who all flew, all with wings, but chose not to grow his out, and instead wanted to go to the Taenim, and become arted someday. Jaceus had known then, and he knew now, that he’d follow Puræ.
He looked at Apolluceus, and Apolluceus back at him.
“You’ll hear it someday, Jay,” his brother said. “The sound of birds.”
the present, 2nd residual, Sector II
Jaceus watched the way the bind flew about him, and tried to keep smiling.
He watched as Claude continued to berate Tammarin, saying without saying, that she had been to this Sector, and how the Movement Blue was too linear, and how Cerise had delayed everything, and merely watching Skylark wasn’t enough, that the little bird needed to just jump out of its nest, to truly fly.
Skylark had on this expression, somewhere between confusion and eagerness, and he remembered, he thought back to when he had first met her, completely in awe when she saw him—her expression of astonishment upon learning about the races—the amazement she caused on the Furies’ faces when demonstrating her trait, raising his arm—and later—her expression of concentration, teeth gritted, as she held the Porter Perry up by the ceiling—and now, while he couldn’t of course fully grasp what it meant, she had commanded not just one bind, but seven, who were all flying about her.
Jaceus looked again. Her eyes were silver—matching Claude’s—but he had the thought, he wondered, just how much further she’d go, would she be like Cerise, who by changing her self to another, could change her trait, would she continue to amaze, and fly up further with her binds up through the Sector, would she join the Movement Blue, go up higher.
And meanwhile, he, a former member of the House Myodor, arted, had received his Magpotis, had succeeded through the seven colors of the Taenim Laev—he was now here, with this small group of Scions he’d dared to name the Powers. Without his Magpotis. Without Puræ.
Jaceus watched the little binds, all humming softly, and lowered his head. He stared at the surface of white, just beneath him, which he was still, somehow, standing on. At the behest only of this C Major, with Claude’s implication of Tammarin being at the lower ranks, like an Arc, in comparison to the other Majors that flew high above.
The surface was clear. The mist swam slowly around his ankles.
What was he doing?
“Sorry, Skylark, she comes out like that, sometimes!” came a cheery voice, and Claude was back to Cerise, and as she touched her hair, turning it back to pink, and back to her hairpin; Skylark shaking her head, saying it was okay, and asking Cerise if she had been to Sector II before; Cerise nodding, and saying she had to pretend, “because the colors here tend to be blue.”
And Jaceus realized, that he still really didn’t know them, Skylark and the others—turning his attention towards them, he thought, all he’d done back then, in making that negotiation with the Agents, was to not purify these Scions, for their traits, but without really thinking of what they’d wanted, what they could gain out of traveling with him to another Sector, in a hapless pursuit of home, for they were all leaving theirs.
“Skylark, you have passed, crescendo,” Tammarin Le said, “and yes, as you just saw, Cerise, unless she has a sky name, has just passed notes with a D Major on the next residual. You may go up, yeah,” they said.
They were visibly flustered. Jaceus thought, they were probably supposed to tell her, You can’t bring more than one bind with you, or so do I now have a quintet, but he waited for what Tammarin would say to him; for by now, Agate had also passed, her bind no longer trying to escape, held still in her hands, and the same with Luke.
Tammarin opened their mouth; then closed, shuffled their feet, and reopened it. “Jaceus,” they said. “You also possess a bind, as you yourself noted, on beat,” and Jaceus smiled, although he already knew that. He already knew that; and now Tammarin was turning to face Agate, who held up her bind in front of her as one might hold a child. “You do as well, alter person, but it took you some measures longer,” and Agate let out an audible sigh of relief, turning to Skylark and giving her a smile, Skylark returned it, Mr. T and Luke giving the former Fury some happy remarks; Jaceus just wanted this to be over, and Skylark announced a D Major, or something along those lines. Along those beats.
He should’ve studied how music was organized on Earth more, he thought. Even if, above Lowers, it seemed to be mass-produced by the Government, and there wasn’t as much variation as he had anticipated. But maybe he’d understand more some of the words this C Major was speaking, as it sounded like they were all from preexisting Sector I (or he supposed pre-modern Sector I musical vernacular).
“And lastly, you the oldest here, while it seems that Cerise synced your bind for you, which, well, our concert doesn’t dictate, it’s not yours,” but Cerise seemed about to protest, taking a step forward; and Tammarin coughed.
“Peridot, Oliviet, please contact Eberry,” they said, and Peridot laughed awkwardly, Oliviet the same expression but on her face; “that D Major, Eberry?” she asked, and the C Major nodded. “There’s only one in all of Movement Blue,” they said, giving both of the bouncers a hard look. Peridot squealed, hopping once, twice; he continued hopping, and moved backwards, into the mist which quickly swarmed over him as he joined the rest of his peers.
Only one D Major, Jaceus thought. Maybe I have a chance, came the wayward thought, but he struck it down, feeling a pang of embarrassment. He may be arted, but he’s not his sister, Cerise had said. He wondered, again, if she’d known that he’d heard. Jay, someday you will hear birds, Apolluceus had said.
Well, so far there were none here. Jaceus moved to gather together his Powers, stepping closer on the cloud towards them. Luke gave him a nod, but the others kept their attention on the C Major.
“Tammy, I think you mean the D Major Burberry,” Oliviet was saying, but Tammarin shook their head, adamantly.
Jaceus sighed, quietly; in the light, sibilant hiss of the mist, he hoped no one’d heard.
“Burberry was recently—”
They gave Skylark a look; different than before, slightly tinged, Jaceus felt, with uncertainty. “Eberry, Oliviet, the one who only plays sharps and flats, don’t be offbeat,” they ended in a whisper.
Oliviet nodded rapidly. She clicked her tongue, and the rest of the other bouncers moved away; their green forms melded into the silver-white mist, and Jaceus thought he saw the chord also, slowly, disappear. Then Oliviet hummed two notes, close together, paused, and repeated; they all waited as, eventually, maybe after a full minute or so, the surface in front of her became disrupted, and a bind shot up, and she just barely caught it with her mouth. Continuing to hum, the bind’s two wings flapping, grazing her cheek, Jaceus watched as she called.
He felt the bind he had; the slim handle of the staff was cold, but smooth. It did not resist, but he could feel it flapping its wings, as if it was trying to leave. He held onto it more tightly.
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[1] Goldilocks effect, the Con Artist plays a piano + vocal cover of The Beatles’ 2009 remastering of “Here Comes the Sun” from their 1969 iconic album Abbey Road, the one with the linear sequence , where 1 = black, 0 = white.