image [https://i.imgur.com/GmySLQn.jpeg]

Picasso, 1921

Tristan stood between the green knight and the Alter Boy.

Y’sazant, their jade bangs hanging low beneath their chin, T-shirt set in alter white, beginning to touch the V-bow somewhat concealed over their back; their ever-present grin that in that moment, seemingly both the perpetuation of this cloak as Don De Mai as well as Tristan’s ready companion, a troubadour of green, only to play (Not like last time. I’ll tell you exactly where to fire.) at Tristan’s command.

Cel Rin, his grey polygon top a shroud atop his pate, wearing the Rin family’s discernible shirt with silver lines, radiating outward from the Restor insignia; a look of dual stoicism and stentorian confidence, seemed the conductor as he stood at the head of the robot troupe, a stylus in his right hand, waving it from side to side as a silver symphony; Tristan’s rival and sidereal winner, in serious form, without the pulchritude of color.

His back was to them. Tristan pulled Y’sazant to the side, tugging them by the string; Cel was only facing the musicians. They all bore the face of Cel Rin. Anima Rin, the father, stood further behind them; only distinguishable by the like polygon top, more burnished, but on taller shoulders and above only a frown. (Cel! Get it right! Get it right, Tristan imagined the father telling the son, behind closed doors.) There were other passerby stood there, still as cyber trees; and even though no music was being played, the faces of Cel silent as stone, Tristan focused in on the chin of Anima, still; the crescent frown, still; the burnished brow, still.

“Cello,” is the name, Syz said. A bit glaring. There’s no actual cello.

The image created of it is the thing, Tristan responded, instinctively. Turning his eyes to Cel, to the still shirt with its silver lines, tracing them down and across the legs like falling, geometric rain, the shoes vibrating with the unseen rhythm, and sharply back up to Cel’s elbow, forearm, fingers clasped about the wood stylus, in a rapid up-left-right motion, forming the shape of a sail. Watching him this way, Tristan thought, Cel’s left arm, held in front of his chest, unseen, was holding the cello invisible and erect, running his right hand across these hidden wind-strings, and, all throughout, the faces of Cel stood still, all throughout.

The cello was close.

You’re too close, haha, Syz uttered, pulling him away by his shirt, but the sail kept billowing, moving swiftly, tugging along the art ocean—Cel’s arm, Cel’s hand, Cel’s fingers. Cel’s stylus.

He opened his eyes. He was now standing at the rightmost wall, almost turning the corner and going into the next piece—Y’sazant steadying his arm, Tristan now able to make out Cel’s eyes, nose, and mouth—and he remembered, rubbing his eyes—I’ll do as you say, Tristan. Just tell me where to aim—and noting that Anima Rin was now more distant from them, his attention focused only on his son—and there were passerby. Soon all to praise. The salient bow, conducted by Cel, the Rin wonder, constructed by Anima.

Tristan watched them, ready for their praise.

His hand, holding the reed? Would stop everything, came the voice of Don De Mai, and Tristan shook his head, wringing out his hair. It wasn’t wet. Of course, it wasn’t. It was the same—dirty, messy, malfunctioning, unaltered brown—and he remembered the chocolate brown of his father as he looked to the reed-shaped hand, or rather the hand commanding the robots before them, and Thought to Y’sazant, Fire the stylus.

Your wish is my command, sir. Syz, stepping into the shadow created by a bent right angle between two walls, pulled the V-bow completely out from over their back. It was long and mighty, casting shadows of white upon the walls. White without quiver, the two sides of the crescent-shaped, coruscating triangle peering over Y’sazant’s hands reaching for its center, pulling back the wind-string, holding the alter dart. I should have rehearsed this, came Don De Mai’s voice, and Tristan kept looking at Cel’s hand, moving rapidly in its sail-like motion. Up, left, right. Up, left, right. I am the archer, came Don De Mai’s voice, and all kept their eyes on the nonpareil, Cel Rin, none on Tristan. They were all looking at Cel.

A white alter dart peered into Tristan’s vision, just before it struck Cel’s hand—no, sailing past it completely and into the waiting faces of the musicians. Cel’s hand showed no cessation. Give me another, came Y’sazant’s voice, but Tristan was already there, handing his friend silently another alter dart, white and peerless, innocent and unfrayed, and before Anima Rin could notice what was happening around his son, Y’sazant pulled back, knocked and loosed, and fired.

Tristan and Y’sazant watched together as that white alter dart, single and triangular, shot, sailing over the air confronting , green striking the coalescent hand, the stylus losing to , falling like a pale wooden branch, Tristan following its descent to the hyper linoleum.

Clack. It rattled, almost creating a silhouette of brown, as it met its resonance frequency almost immediately, before coming to a still.

He kept his eyes on it. He tried not to think. He vaguely knew that Y’sazant was there, right next to him, waiting; that they had stopped the performance. That Cel Rin was no longer playing. That Anima Rin was watching them now. That Meliodas Mott wasn’t here, ready to give quips to his son. Comparing his son to the Alter Boy, ready to conquer Midyear and Tempest and the Exhibit after that. That green in light of this black and grey, was not a creative color.

But Meliodas Mott wasn’t here.

Tristan forced himself to look beyond. He saw that, as he raised his eyes up, up along the silver-lined pants of Cel, up past his legs and to the still, quivering torso, that he had disrupted the performance, that the conductor was no longer commanding, that the Alter Boy was merely a 16-year-old, lanky, teenage boy who forced himself not to eat all of Restor’s recommendations to maintain his rectangle-like form, who chose Satisfaction every year to maintain his confidence, who obeyed his father’s every command so that he could be Alter Boy.

Tristan found Cel’s eyes. Cel, looking straight at him, without the noticeable glamor of recognition, but only a pallid expression, two eyes coated in a discernible conflict, between maintaining his confidence and turning against this new arrival, this other boy of chocolate hair, and his green knight, but Cel stood there, straight, immovable.

Anima Rin was there. His father, bending close to his ear and giving him quiet words. Tristan could not hear, but he Thought to Y’sazant what he felt the Alter Boy’s commands:

You are not the Alter Boy. The Alter Boy does not lose to an outside force.

Tristan smiled; he smiled softly as he witnessed Cel struggling to remain still.

Y’sazant began clapping. They had placed the V-bow away, it was gone, out of Tristan’s sight. Tristan glanced back and saw the two alter darts: one lost amidst the crowd of robot Cels, he couldn’t see; one on the floor, next to the stylus, which Anima Rin was now bending to retrieve. He would stand back up, and point out Tristan Mott in the audience; Tristan’s plan would fail. Tristan Thought to Syz, Let’s go. We did it.

I can’t believe it. Back to Y’sazant Syzer’s tame bass. You did it, Tristan. They moved along with Tristan, away from Cel who hadn’t said anything, to the audience or to his father, as the clapping, sparse and infrequent, arose from the rest. Tristan moved with Y’sazant as he sought out the next piece, recognizing the triadic color scheme of Starboy, who was himself sprawled out across a gigantic color wheel, each of the three sections showing a diagram, slowly rotating; and as he saw Tristan beginning to grin widely.

“Tristan Mott! You came!” As he struggled to remove himself from his own color wheel, but of course he’d tied his hands and feet to it, with wind-string no less, and Tristan laughed. He made out some various shapes on the three sections: one a scarlet heart, crudely drawn, but a heart no less, and second an outline of steel, perhaps armor, for the body (and it was blue); and third, a helmet with horns, yellow. Y’sazant was helping Starboy with his ropes. It was all very crude. Was Starboy trying to emulate medieval torture systems, play out a disastrous failure from Knights v-World? He laughed.

“Thanks, Don De Mai.” Starboy grinned as he came, spreading his arms wide, in their sleeves of red against the torso outlined halfway blue and yellow, pants in red, and shoes in—brown.

Tristan stopped. He pointed to the shoes. “They’re not primary,” he said.

“That’s what you think, Tristan,” Starboy said, still grinning, as he waved to the few people who were there; there were some people there, three besides Y’sazant, Tristan, and Starboy: a mediary student with a uniform he did not recognize, someone older, perhaps a teacher from some school, and lastly a person with hair of a silver cobalt, wearing the illustrious, nearly reflective material they all wore in High, one of the many patents by Mary Restor—flynder. Tristan stared. Their flynder shirt was unornamented, but had an insignia—a small silver globe. Tristan recognized it—it looked very similar to the sphere Leia Chibio had been sitting in. It was—

“Visionices,” Y’sazant said. Their very light blue, off-white eyes were very still. “You’re—You’re an Agent. Agent Avalon.”

The name didn’t sound familiar. As Starboy, the teacher, and the schoolboy all reacted, Tristan Thought for Government—Agency—Listings—Avalon.

The seemingly endless scroll of names vanished, all replaced by the name Avalon, and as Tristan focused in on his Thought-feed, saw the avatar: and he compared it to the person standing in front of them, and they were the same. Down to the silver insignia, the slim-fitting shoes that had to be iststarkes.

“I’m glad I am recognized,” the Agent said. They patted their insignia. “There are many school insignias, and I don’t even have a full symbol like many Agents. You pay attention to the listings.”

Starboy pushed himself in front of Y’sazant, who was about to reply.

“What did you think of my Three-Body Diagram?” he asked.

Tristan felt that the question was asked rather brusquely. Starboy, the named offender who’d ousted, no, usurped him from his position in this Exhibit, was asking an Agent for their opinion.

Agent Avalon moved smoothly to the side, and then did an about-face to face Tristan. Tristan saw that their eyes were like silver, but with small points of a different color within them.

“What did you call that, the William Tell re-enaction back there, by the Rins?” they asked him.

William Tell. A superancient story of some father who nearly missed striking his son in the eye during target practice. “It wasn’t a piece,” Tristan said.

“Hmm,” the Agent simply said. “And this, your friend,” they said, pointing to Y’sazant—“Were they not part of it?”

“They were, Agent Avalon, but I wasn’t registered—”

“I was,” Starboy said. “Tristan, did you do something to Cel Rin’s piece?”

“It was technically me,” Syz said. “Don De Mai.”

The Agent looked disappointed. They seemed to stare at Syz for a few more seconds, before Tristan saw a Thought-message come into his feed: Thought-message from Senra Beaudicious. He looked at them—they were nodding to him. Accept.

My name’s Senra, and you are?

Tristan. He almost said Mott but didn’t say it.

Tristan, your performance was very impressive, something interesting out of all of these imitations of art. Verbally, Tristan saw, the Agent was now lavishing the triadic techist with compliments. Starboy’s grin almost split his face apart. Thank you, Agent Avalon, he said. He didn’t know what else to say. An Agent was speaking to him, directly, and as Tristan studied them, he realized that they couldn’t be more than a few years older.

Agent Avalon, their hands behind their back, was moving to inspect the Three-Body Diagram. “Does it have to be you on this machinery?” they were asking, and Starboy proceeded to answer. Y’sazant, he saw, was coming over to him, a questioning look on their face.

Do you wish to do it again? came the question, from Avalon.

Tristan let the images wash over him. Giving Y’sazant the alter dart. Watching them pull back the alter dart on the V-bow, aim, one jade strand of hair threatening to touch the string; releasing and the dart soaring over the space between them and the Alter Boy before striking the stylus. An entire performance disrupted.

He felt something warm. Like—the arrow, dipped in residue of nightshade, being handed to the knight smiling as he knocked it back, wearing his white gauntlet—aiming it upwards, to go over the enemy turrets—like a nervousness he had never felt before. But it warmed him. And as he looked at his friend and champion, Tristan looked at the V-bow and smiled.

She held onto the bind in front of her, making sure not to let go – its surface was slick with sweat – no, it was water from the cloud – as she rose, and the other binds rose around her, seeming to herald her ascent – their wings were all fluttering, very rapidly, and she had this strange feeling, that if she just let go, that even if she wasn’t touching any of them, she’d just keep going up – by herself.

Without daring to think further, she unclasped her left hand’s fingers.

She immediately began dropping – she grabbed it again, and her bind sang a clear C. The six others all sung the same, and as she kept on going higher, the cold air brushing past her skin, she could feel it flying past her hair – she knew her cerulean was being tinged silver, like Mr. T’s over there – he was laughing, practically wrapped around his own bind, clutching it close to his chest, as it slowly propelled him upwards – his black hair showing falling streaks of white, and Cerise, not Claude, Cerise, was laughing and smiling while she held onto hers, raised high above her head, holding onto it with one hand; and she thought, was Cerise using her trait, or were her eyes just seeing things – for Cerise’s bind’s handle was seeming to shimmer blue, no, white, reflecting the various shades of white and blue being dazzlingly scattered around them as they kept on moving up – long bits and streaks of cloud rushing all over them.

They all kept on going higher. Skylark tried not to look down – but she couldn’t help it and looked, and thought she saw the great, now turning invisibly white, formless mass that was the chord, and Tammarin and their aliens just bare plumes of white – the distance between that residual and this next one, was higher than she thought – and they were still going – and she thought, I’m not scared, I’m just holding onto this bind, this little wand-stick-key, and it has its own wings, and somehow it’s pulling me, but I’m not hanging by it, but holding it as if I’m standing –

– She almost let go again –

“DON’T LET GO,” Cerise was saying, now closer to her, having maneuvered herself over – of course she’d already mastered horizontal movement with these – Cerise’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement. Skylark’s eyes flitted between them and the ground, no, another cloud!

“Don’t let go,” Cerise told her, and then she heard Jaceus’s voice, no, it was Luke’s – it was muffled by the wisps of cloud they were passing through, like how they’d entered the Sector, but now going up instead of down – don’t look down – Luke was saying, “HOW MUCH LONGER,” and Skylark thought, for eternity, but then, as her binds all pushed upward, rainwater falling past her, sleeking through her hair and cheeks, still holding onto hers with both hands, she burst through, and all was clear.

“You can let go now,” Cerise’s voice said, and she did, and – her feet landed on cloud. Her binds, all seven of them, hovered around her, the one she’d been holding onto a bit slower, its wings more visible, their clear, almost white feathers spreading out in clear compartmented lines from the handle – but she looked away, for she was on a new residual, the third, they were to meet this D Major Eberry, and standing next to Cerise she looked up and all around them. She barely felt the water on her cheeks.

They were standing on a cloud. She wasn’t completely used to it, but this one or rather the area they were standing on, was much smaller than the ones down below, and she could see all of them, Luke and Mr. T laughing and shaking hands energetically over there, their binds sinking back into the cloud – Agate was still holding onto hers, examining it closely, her breath forming a cloud – and Jaceus was in the center, his bind firm in his right hand, taking deep breaths.

It was then Skylark realized two things. It was a lot colder here, now – unconsciously, she reached out, and took hold of a second bind with her left hand – they were surrounded on all sides by walls of cloud, thick and white, and looking up, she saw that they kept on going up, but she thought she could make out – tree branches.

Wait, what? No, they were these sort of ledges – slim, white ledges protruding this way and that, as it all extended upwards… she couldn’t see the top, this tall, white cylinder they were in, and she saw that they were all looking up, the six of them, all staring into that bright, hazy white sky.

She looked back down. She didn’t know what to do next – she almost expected the D Major Eberry to be waiting for them.

“E-bore isn’t here,” Cerise said, ruminating, her hands on her hips. “He got Claude’s note.”

E-bore? Skylark had the sudden feeling… that Cerise, maybe, had not just met D Majors before, but had gone all the way up… or at least Claude had.

“I have to say, how, are we still standing?” Luke was asking, shaking his head with confidence; he was kneeling; he was, slowly, pushing his shoes through the surface. Agate came over and began doing the same.

Skylark just thought that, If I could just go up onto one of those ledges, and stand there… but then she heard, keening and quiet, a clear, piercing whistling… coming from above, and there was a sliver of movement, up on that ledge, some hair – and a bind was emerging from it, coming out from below it, and falling down, emitting the whistling sound. Not any particular note. This one was white, with white wings, blue on their edges, two of them. It floated in the center, Luke and Agate standing up to come closer, and they all focused on it, and then, she threw her head up, two other binds were coming down, both singing Ds, Skylark thought, But Tammarin said Eberry only did sharps and flats, and then, the spaces in sky just around the binds slipped, slipped off, revealing cloaks tugged back by two individuals, both with soggy black hair, both with black shirts beneath the white cloaks that had made them invisible, black pants, and these loud, jangling silver bells on their black shoes. The two individuals were laughing while holding their binds as they descended. The bind that had come first was still humming the C. Together it was discordant, Skylark thought, but she couldn’t tell clearly whether it was the two individuals singing, for their mouths were open, or their binds.

They landed softly on the cloud.

“Dorian,” the one on the left, by Agate, said; the D ceased, as Dorian looked around at them all, looking very amused.

“Dorian, I am Jaceus,” Jaceus said, but then the other spoke, ceasing his D, throwing an arm around Dorian’s shoulders – “Doric,” he said, his eyes twinkling, but almost covered by his black bangs. “We’re Mordants.”

Mordants. Were they not D Majors, then?

And then, the bind in the center stopped its humming, and suddenly all was silent, or more silent, for there was always that sound of wind in the background… Skylark expected Eberry to appear, from inside a cloak, but a hand pushed out of the cloud-surface below, grabbing onto the bind – and the bind pulled it up. More black hair. Grinning, dark eyes. Ears dangling the same silver pieces. A black cloak, black shirt; black pants, only marred by a great silver arc thrown across it all, which, Skylark realized, obviously, was a D.

“I’m Eberry,” D Major Eberry said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He now stood fully in the center, throwing his arms around the two Mordants’ shoulders, all with black hair, wearing clothes almost entirely in black, their three binds hovering by their feet. Eberry turned in a swift circle, catching all of them in his dark eyes – Skylark saw the flash of recognition – as he turned to face Cerise, and his eyes showing a flicker of familiarity, but not instant – there had been the slightest beat of hesitation.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Cerise, Skylark saw, was looking all up and down Eberry, as if she were comparing him to a drawing.

“Still a D Major, E-bore,” she said, grinning, her hair flaring pink – Eberry grimacing, and raising his left hand, pointing to her hair – “You never had hair of that color.”

“I do, Claude didn’t,” Cerise said. She put a hand on Skylark’s shoulder. “D Major, I’ve brought some tourists for you to entertain. Cleave, or concert?”

“Concert – wait. You all besides Claude –”

“Cerise,” Cerise said.

“Cerise,” Eberry said, “don’t know. Cleave is Sector II coffee. I make it. Concert is the same – with my Mordants, and our binds, I perform. Then you all go back down.”

“And you’re still a D Major,” Cerise noted.

I’m at least a D Major, Skylark thought, without saying it. “Clay-ave,” she said.

“No, concert,” Eberry said. “You were just a kid, Cerise, and you liked my concert. I would be off-beat to not show you again, with your tourists –”

“But I love coffee,” Agate interjected. She seemed worried.

She seemed flurried, Skylark thought. But it was just coffee. Agate did have this very clear expression on her face, as if she had been searching for something, searching for something for a long time, and it was just beyond her grasp.

“It’s –” She glanced at Skylark, “– it’s what keeps me going.”

“Not for me,” Eberry said, giving a sheepish short of grin. “I hate this job.” He brushed off some nonexistent snowflakes from the collar of his jacket. Skylark suddenly was reminded of some upper-end Lowers fashion model, like that one with the stylish, somewhat grey-purple jacket, but she forgot his name.

“We’re not kids,” Cerise said. “Claude was very young back then.” She glanced to the side, towards Skylark, as she said this; as if to hint at something, but Skylark couldn’t get what she meant.

She nodded. I just want a quiet moment, me and Cerise, so she can explain everything. But something told her that that wouldn’t happen for a while.

The D Major was looking only slightly flurried. We’re really giving them trouble, us ‘tourists,’ Skylark thought. The thought gave her more questions – did other people from other Sectors also come here? Was it going to be cleave or concert? When was Qumulo coming? Would something happen if Agate stopped drinking coffee?

Eberry glanced once, to each side – Doric and Dorian giving him slight nods – and he shrugged his shoulders, giving off an enormous sigh – sinking slightly down through the cloud-surface as he did. “Okay, okay. My songs are really strong, though, and I’m sure that Tammarin Le, who gives their sheets to me, told you all about –”

“No, they didn’t,” Cerise said. “Agate wants to try your cleave, so let’s have it.”

Eberry sighed again, but nodded to Dorian and Doric, who stepped back a few steps, and, kneeling to the surface, proceeded with their binds to carve into the cloud, up and out, making long, swishing movements.

Eberry watched them for a few seconds, and Skylark saw his expression – almost nostalgic, not quite tireless, or maybe just a bit sad. Then he turned back to them, a large grin on his relatively pallid face, and Skylark shivered.

Her binds keened.

“Is there something we can wear?” Luke asked, gesturing about. “Like the cloaks you people have been wearing.”

“You’re not in Movement Blue,” Eberry responded, but Cerise gave him a look, and he forced a laugh. “Ha, ha, ok, I will do my job, and get you accustomed.” He didn’t do anything, but the two Mordants seemed to go faster, as the cloud-stuff they were mixing rose, forming into something like a mini cloud – one of those tall ones – connected seamlessly to the surface, like an alter hedron. As they stood to mark they had finished, their binds stayed in their hands, their wings flapping slowly; they were tired.

Eberry walked over, and laid his arms across the cloud-table. He beckoned for them, and they all came over to do the same – except for Jaceus, who remained where he was, holding his bind and staring up at the sky intensely. Eberry looked around at them again, and as his Mordants stood off to the side, silent, he cleared his throat.

“Tammarin’s always trying to recruit, and you know, but they just keep falling, right here, they can’t even go past my Mordants,” Eberry said, making a sort of two-finger gesture, and Dorian and Doric, in the back, nodded. “Tammarin had this, objective, to gather the right members for their quartet or quintet or… how many does that go to, again?” he asked Skylark, giving her a curious, questioning look.

“I don’t know,” she said. She thought quickly, back to Modern History… an ancient memory, of some teacher who’d sleep… the thought almost made her feel tired. “An orchestra?”

“Haha, no,” Eberry answered. “It’s the Movement Blue. But obviously, Tammarin couldn’t gather all of us – one, there’s too many, and two, they were only a C Major, so they were stuck trying to get people only from their residual and below.

“You should’ve seen them try to get Calamus Onekind. He’s at least an F by note. That means two scales above me. But the luthiers always work in pairs.”

Jaceus by now had returned… he was positioning himself right across from Eberry, laying his arms across the sleek, silver surface. They almost reflected in it.

Eberry continued speaking to her. “So? Do you get it?”

He hadn’t really used music terms, Skylark thought. Was it intentional?

“Tammarin also wanted to go up, but they didn’t have enough members,” she responded.

“Capricorn agrees,” Mr. T said.

The D Major nodded, then shook his head. “Tammarin had more than enough at their command. You saw them, right? Besides Peridot and Oliviet, those two snowflakes, Tam had all of them on that residual. A full, combined orchestra. But that doesn’t mean they have enough to go up.

“And, Claude had told me that, when she came back, that she’d bring someone who had enough.” He turned to face Cerise, who reacted slightly; and how he’d recognized Cerise, who was so different, in the girl who could walk on clouds, who took Skylark around a v-ArtUniversity, Skylark couldn’t understand.

Claude had controlled her binds, and given one to Sterne.

“So – do you want a pedal?” Eberry asked Skylark, still looking only at her.

“A petal?” she asked. She thought of flowers.

“No, no,” Eberry answered. He plunged his left hand into the table of cloud; “you have to get the ratios right, for it to be a pedal,” and Skylark noted the difference, so it was another musical term.

Agate, she noted, was making jerky movements with her hands, her eyes seemingly trying to capture every single facet of what Eberry was doing. They all watched as the D Major, after shimmying his hand around a bit longer, removed it; unsurprisingly, it was holding more cloud, although it was tinged with a surface of blue, curling in wisps through it; and Eberry took it like he was holding a snowball. In his right hand, still holding his bind, he brought it up close to the ball, like – Skylark thought of, in his all-black cloak, some dark wizard from v-World, about to cast a spell, holding his thin wand out to the ball of blue flame – and sung to it, murmuring notes, really quietly but just loud enough that she could tell they were notes.

The bind flapped its wings, slowly and then more rapidly – and Skylark watched as the ball of cloud slowly rotated, the white-tufted fringes turning – and the blue slivers around it joining together, and even though she couldn’t really see it, she felt that the whole thing was becoming more hard, tougher, even though it was still made of water and the clens.

But that was all she understood – as much as she kept staring at it.

Sitting on Eberry’s palm was a white, fuzzy snowball cloud, with a strong haze of blue coursing around it in one unaltered line.

“That’s alter,” Agate’s voice came from besides her. “Eberry, I’ve seen so many things here so far, but this by far is the most – changing,” she said. “So this is cleave?”

Eberry looked at Agate for a second. Two seconds. Three.

“Leave,” he said.

“What?” Agate said. She glanced at Skylark; she shook her head, she didn’t know either.

“Leave,” Jaceus said. He pointed upward. “Same word, but not the same meaning.”

Eberry grinned quickly. Like someone who’d been smiling so much, that the reaction wasn’t really a reaction anymore. He closed his lips; and then smiled again. He nodded to Agate.

“You’re right, alter person. No, don’t go. Stay. But as you go up, please take this pedal with you.”

Skylark held out her hand; and Agate took the little cloud.

“This is what distinguishes us from your alter. This is leave –” pronouncing it as Jaceus had, with the a elevated – “and it isn’t what makes things a bit better (well, it does), it’s what makes all of us go higher here. It also keeps us warm, even without our cloaks.”

“Yeah,” Doric and Dorian said.

“So – if we drink that, we can – that’s how you all walk on the clouds,” Jaceus said, and Eberry nodded.

“Cerise kept you up, or if it wasn’t her, Tammarin did, as is concert,” he said. “The third residual, where our noted D Majors are hospitable, have particularly trained the clens to keep alter people and other tourists up.”

That’s why, Skylark thought. Jaceus or Cerise wouldn’t have to keep her up anymore.

Eberry put a hand on his throat, just the portion visible above his black collar that had the M.

“You have to sing,” he told Agate. “To imbibe it.”

“Sing?” Agate asked. She seemed a bit nervous, suddenly; Skylark thought to herself that, of all the things related to music in Sector II, being asked to sing shouldn’t have been surprising.

“I don’t know any songs here,” Agate said.

“Just a note,” Eberry said. He smiled again, as if he’d just stifled a laugh; “any note.”

Agate touched her throat; clearing it, she stared straight in front of her, and seemed to be thinking for a note to sing.

It’s just a note.

“Skylark, what note should I do?” she asked her, and Skylark let out a laugh.

“He said any note,” she said, making Agate smile; giving her one last look, Agate returned her eyes front, made a low humming noise – increasing it in volume, with her mouth closed – she was making a note – and then she opened her mouth, and a note sounded, not too high, but definitely on the higher end, very clear, and Agate’s eyes kept tethered straight, as she held it, emitting the A.

Wait, how did she know that? Like back there, with the middle C.

Agate let it go, softly; letting the A disappear into the air, almost without leaving a step. Her eyes were closed; she opened them, and Skylark thought, that was pretty good, but Mr. T and Luke were now coming over, their faces wide in delight and surprise, Luke even throwing his arms up.

“Agate, what was that?” Luke asked, and Agate shook her head, but she was smiling.

“Just an A,” she said, but even Jaceus was nodding, and Skylark thought, it was just a note, she hadn’t sung an opera or anything – but then Eberry, a big grin on his face, one that was natural, was thrusting his hand into the spot of cloud again, and Skylark realized the ball was gone. And Agate was rising.

No, she was actually rising, her face moving upwards, her shoulders – Skylark looked quickly to her feet, below the cloud-surface Eberry was using – and they were off the cloud.

There was air in between her shoes and the white, slowly swirling cloud surface. There was nothing in between except air. Agate was floating. The pedal Skylark had given her was gone.

Skylark felt her mouth drop.

“That’s –”

“Perfect pitch,” Mr. T said. “Rare nowadays!” He snapped his fingers, his eyes full of understanding. “Active human singers in our Sector haven’t been –”

But Agate was floating. Agate was floating. Skylark switched her eyes from Agate’s, wide in shock and amazement and wonder, yeah, since she was floating, and Agate’s feet, off the ground, they weren’t going up any further, but they were hovering, they were staying, they were doing so on their own. They were shaking – no, they weren’t, Agate was holding herself still, her eyes wide; she remained in that hovering position, not even a meter above the cloud, but looking at those in front of her, they were all standing in front of her, as if she was an angel just descended, and rather surprised to see them all there.

“Skylark, you have to try,” Agate said, and Skylark realized that there wasn’t only one, that Eberry was at this moment handing yet another cleave to her, soft and tuft-y on his palm; he now seemed to be rather enjoying himself, even though he’d said he hated this job.

Or maybe… he was pretending. She got the strong sense that it wasn’t so much what he did he hated, and more the tourists that kept choosing cleave or concert. But she wanted to go up, and she knew that there would be further ways to see, to hear, to listen.

So she took the cleave into her waiting hands, thought, Sing and swallow, and did so.

Gulp. The soft sphere of cloud ruffled through her. And – she seemed to feel something –

Her binds rose and turned a vivid shade of blue.

Shock. Like the twang but different. Like the sudden sense of excitement she felt when about to see something that she couldn’t do. It was new, it was a soft chill, it was the cold resonance that filled the air around her as she breathed. She saw and she knew. She could feel the cold, these light pinches at the soles of her feet… as she kept her eyes in front of her she could feel it, she could feel the light, that now shone through her, as she rose.

She followed their eyes. They were slowly moving up.

She came to Agate’s height, and then, and then she looked down, and she saw that she wasn’t standing anymore.

She exhaled. But then she saw that she was moving higher, that Agate’s head was now at her shoulders, and she was moving higher, and their eyes with their heads were fully craned upwards, and she was moving higher, and then –

And then she saw.

She had gone so high up that the sky around her was spinning – no, scattering – these fast and white pieces, it recalled something from a lesson on snow – and she saw the people below.

They were so flecked and tiny, just dabs against the still white backdrop, moving and there were these small lines around them. Binds. She felt the air and cloud-snow amass around her, billowing up and out from what they were doing – and she heard low sounds, and she heard low beats, and she heard them.

Some steps below.

She couldn’t see Agate, like an angel – she couldn’t hear Mr. T singing to his dear Capricorn – she couldn’t laugh at Luke, she couldn’t even see him – just over the long cylinder that held Eberry and the others, some more of those cloud-shelves jutting out, there were still people, arranged in bits and pieces, blues and whites, all along a wide, wide white platform of cloud. There were so many of them. Over and over it, holding their little binds, and amidst their cacophony she could make out the buildings. Large and white, sheer shapes sitting on the white cloud, that didn’t just end as far as she looked, and like the cleave that she had drank, some of them were tinged blue, others tinged in silver, but all in the varying shades of blue and white. She thought they were like the chart and the chord, living, but they were still, people were coming out of them, some jumping out from the upper stories, throwing their sticks out onto the snow, sparks and leaps creating small shimmers above them, and even though she was still so far up she could hear the drumming and the sounds, the synchrony of striving to make the sound, to make something worth hearing.

For all of them could hear. Skylark stretched out her hands – looking down on the people – as she still felt the chorus of cleave shake inside her, keeping her afloat.

Scene 32

Tr’aedis watched the Arcs he knew—Areum, Pener, Goye, Store, and Tueri—run up the low hill, their marks of red flashing. He told himself, as he had several moments ago, that he was almost there, that he was not a child, and that while he was still learning their language, he couldn’t yet express his question—How do I become Arc.

At least he could run with them. He reached the top of the hill, making it in between Pener, who was adjusting his hairband, and Store, her shoulders heaving. He leaned over, catching his breath. He looked ahead. Store was pointing to a small group of Nam, their markings of purple visible from where they were, practicing their creations atop a ring of rocks around a small pool.

“Trix,” Goye uttered, laughing and shaking his head. His long, yellow hair waved along his waist. Tr’aedis nodded, saying the same: “Wow.” He knew nothing of how even to create. But standing there, he could tell, once one with a grey tassel reached Arc (red), and passed that into Raf (orange), then Lye (yellow); Wos (green), followed by Wen (blue), and only then into Nam (purple)… one could create. “Dirne min, dirne mon,” said Store, heading down the hill, towards them—We have to be involved, we have to have the beginning of knowledge; Tr’aedis and the others followed, skirting down the grass on their bare feet.

“Koko tr’aenim taera,” Pener noted as they went, Koko needs a student, but Tr’aedis knew he meant Koko is missing his student, being Tr’aedis, and Tr’aedis laughed, because he had much more to learn from the sixth years than from the toddlers who only floated in their wave-like cribs. “Traedise di-mon, di-mon lvve,” he said, prompting more laughs as they slowed down to a walk, the soft blades tickling his feet; it was ordinary, if not ritual, for the lower students to observe their seniors, but of course they would give them their distance. They were performing as well as creating, and they needed their audience. Even if, from what Tr’aedis understood, most instances of the Magcreat were done with none, even from more advanced students.

They were now just before a moderately sized group of rocks, jutting out from the grass, providing ample vantage for observation; Tr’aedis tried positioning himself in between, or rather just below Goye, whose hair brushed his shoulders; and just above Tueri, who was loosening his red cloth as he watched. Pener and Areum found spots on the left side of the rock, and Store was somewhat behind them, around the center, but he knew that she was somehow seeing through the pink surface, with one of her hands pressed to the rock-surface, and like them, watching with fascination the Nam perform.

One of them, who with bright yellow, nearly silver hair he had seen before at Emeli’s sky-light drawing of Jaceus, was standing balanced on her rock, her left foot upon it, her right leg leaned backward and her two hands raised above her; the first thing Tr’aedis thought of was a peculiar thing he had seen in Lowers, on top of some buildings, with sharp ends pointed in opposite directions. Staring down fixedly at the pool, she seemed to be gazing deeply into something none of them, maybe besides Store, could see at that moment.

The second Nam had her legs dipped into the water. She was sitting up on the rock, her short purple-yellow hair like a flower-bud enclosed, her back to them; she was clinging to the rock with both her hands, occasionally striking it with her palms. As, while Tr’aedis thought he could be wrong, the air directly above her portion of the pool was scintillating.

And the third was lying spread-eagled on his own, looking up at the bright-tinted sun above them; but besides him on the water, with some occasional splashes like the Pegasus fountain back at the von Hiischklen manse, arose, and lowered an object of some crystalline fancy, silver, blue, nascent, arising again, spreading outwards, before centering in on itself, a slow-moving, solid and water, movement of the material from the pool. A slow-moving fountain being made.

Goye proceeded to take long, deep sighs from above Tr’aedis, sighs that seemed to express all in between for happiness, longing, and jealousy; “Aeros,” Alter, or the closest thing to it so far, came Store’s, husky with the same. “Trix,” Tr’aedis agreed. Unable to hold himself any longer, he pushed himself out from between Goye and Tueri, and knew that he was seeing, yet again, a flavor of art he couldn’t quite grasp. But at least he could have their names—like he did his own, and the Arcs with him. It’d be that - in between, and t’raenim.

“T-t’raenim,” he asked breathlessly.

Store turned to face him. She kept a hand on the rock.

“Gloire,” she said, and Tr’aedis suddenly had the impression, that she was referring to the one he’d seen before, with yellow hair so bright, nearly silver and purple insignia on her wrists. He nodded.

“Hye,” and Tr’aedis thought of the one sitting, hitting the rock with her hands. As if by saying the name, Store was bringing up, like pulling a stone out of water, the image of its bearer. And then, as Store took another glance through the rock, nodding to herself—“Irie,” she said, and Tr’aedis knew she meant the one lying on his back.

Now all he had to do was talk to them, by their names—

No, he was only an Arc—no, not even—

Store had returned her attention to the three Nam. Tr’aedis felt a sudden and slight urge, that, if he just wore something purple, and retreated from all gazes, found himself on the rocks by the pool—made sure to be watched—and just—and prepared the water, made it do something—he could—

But no, Store would just look at him, and know immediately who it was. Tr’aedis slowly craned his head around the rock again. No discernible changes, other than some sort of light forming in front of Hye—it was just an idea, a brave and crazy one, he knew he had to do it the long way, like the Arcs with him.

But how? He could do no magic! He was from a world… where people wouldn’t step onto rocks and make the water form shapes, and light, as they peered at the sky—techists would just make an imitation, or something in a v-Art museum about the days before, when the trees around them were actually wood—

But he was here—he wasn’t—he couldn’t go back—

Tr’aedis stared at the Nam, intent and focused and beyond concentrating, born and raised in such a world, one where creation was the thing, and not the thing itself… he touched his newfound golden shards—looked at his grey tassel—felt the grass beneath his feet, saw the sky above with its burning sun. It was a sun. It was warm…

He had to eat more of that leaf, the one Koko had given him—that was how it had happened. He—he stared at the water. The water that was stirring beneath the Nam, the water he had stepped in—he had to drink—

He stared for a bit longer.

Then he ran forward, as the Arcs shouted—he ran towards the water.