Glass Sword

19

After three days of finding nothing but dead newbloods, three days of failure, we travel to Templyn. A quiet town on the road to Delphie, mostly residential, consisting of vast Silver estates and cramped Red row houses along the river. Masters and servants. Templyn is tricky—it has no vast forest, tunnels, or crowded streets to hide in. Usually we’d use Shade to slip inside the walls, but he’s not with us today. He twisted his leg yesterday, aggravating a still-healing muscle, and I made him stay behind. Cal is missing too, having elected to teach, leaving Ada to man the Blackrun. She’s still there, cozy in her pilot’s seat, reading as she always does. I try to not be jumpy, to lead as Cal would, but I feel strangely bare without him and my brother. I’ve never been without both of them on a recruitment mission, and this is my proving ground. To show the others that I’m not only a weapon to be unleashed but someone willing to fight with them.

Luckily, we have a staggering new advantage. A newblood named Harrick, saved from the quarry pits of Orienpratis two weeks ago. This will be his first recruitment, and hopefully uneventful. The man is mousy and twitching, with the wiry muscles of a stonemason. Farley and I make sure to flank him in the cart, quietly watchful in case he decides to dart off. The others with us, Nix across from me and Crance driving the cart, are more preoccupied with the road ahead.

Our cart falls in line with many others, merchants or laborers heading into the town center for work. Crance’s hands tighten on the reins of our stolen cart horse, an old, spotty dear with a blind eye and a bad hoof. But he urges her forward, keeping pace with the rest, trying to blend in. The town boundaries loom before us, marked by an open gate flanked by intricate stone columns. A flag is strung between them, a familiar banner of a familiar house. Red and orange stripes, almost bleeding together in the early-morning light. House Lerolan, oblivions, the governors of the Delphie region. I blink at it, remembering the bodies of three dead oblivions, Lerolans all killed in the shooting at the Hall of the Sun. The father, Belicos, murdered by Farley and the Scarlet Guard. And his twin sons, barely more than babies, blown to bits by the explosion that followed. Their dead faces were plastered all over the kingdom, in every broadcast, another rallying flag of Silver propaganda. The Scarlet Guard kills children. The Scarlet Guard must be destroyed.

I glance at Farley, wondering if she knows what the flag means, but she focuses on the officers ahead. As does Harrick. His eyes narrow in concentration, and his trembling hands clench. Quietly, I touch his arm, encouraging him. “You can do this,” I murmur.

He offers me the smallest smile, and I straighten in assurance. I believe in his ability—he’s been practicing whenever he can—but he must believe it himself.

Nix tenses, muscles bulging beneath his shirt. Farley is less obvious, but I know she’s itching for the knife in her boot. I will not show the same fear, for Harrick’s sake.

Security officers man the gate, eyeballing every person who passes through. Searching their faces and through their wares, not bothering to check their identification cards. These Silvers don’t care for what’s written on a piece of paper—their orders are to find me and mine, not a farmer straying too far from his village. Soon, our cart is next, and only the sweat on Harrick’s upper lip indicates he’s doing anything at all.

Crance halts the horse and the cart, stopping at the command of a Security officer. He keeps his eyes down, respectful, beaten, as the officer stares at him. As expected, nothing sets him off. Crance is not a newblood, nor a known associate of ours. Maven will not be hunting him. The officer turns to circle the cart, eyeing the inside. Not one of us dares to move, or even breathe. Harrick is not so skilled that he can mask sound, only sight. Once, the officer’s eyes meet mine, and I wonder if Harrick has failed. But after a heart-stopping moment, he moves on, satisfied. He can’t see us.

Harrick is a newblood of an extraordinary kind. He can create illusions, mirages, make people see what isn’t there. And he has hidden us all in plain sight, making us invisible in our empty cart.

“Are you transporting air, Red?” the officer says with a hateful grin.

“Collecting shipment, bound for inner Delphie,” Crance replies, saying exactly what Ada told him. She spent yesterday studying trade routes. One hour of reading and she’s an expert on the imports and exports of Norta. “Spun wool, sir.”

But the officer is already walking off, unconcerned. “Move on,” he says, waving a gloved hand.

The cart lurches forward and Harrick’s hand grips mine, squeezing tightly. I squeeze right back, imploring him to hold on, to keep fighting, to keep up his illusion until we’re inside Templyn and clear of the gate.

“One minute more,” I whisper. “You’re almost there.”

We turn off the main road before entering the market, weaving through half-empty side streets lined with humble Red shops and homes. The others search, knowing what we’re looking for, while I keep my attentions on Harrick. “Almost there,” I say again, hoping I’m right. In a moment or two, his strength will fail, and our illusion will fall away, revealing us all to the street. The people here are Red, but will certainly report a cart suddenly full of the country’s most wanted fugitives.

“The left,” Nix says gruffly, and Crance obliges. He eases the cart toward a clapboard house with crimson curtains. Despite the sun shining overhead, a candle burns in the window. Red as the dawn.

There’s an alleyway next to the house, bordered by the Scarlet Guard house and two empty, abandoned homes. Where their occupants are, I don’t know, but they probably fled the Measures or were executed for trying. It’s cover enough for me. “Now, Harrick,” I tell him. He responds with a massive sigh. The protection of his illusion is gone. “Well done.”

We waste no time climbing out of the cart and sidling up to the Guard house, using the overhang of the roof to hide as best we can. Farley takes the lead, and knocks three times on the side door. It opens quickly, showing nothing but darkness beyond. Farley enters without hesitation, and we follow.

My eyes adjust quickly to the dark house, and I’m struck by the similarity to my home in the Stilts. Simple, cluttered, only two rooms with knotty plank floors and grimy windows. The lightbulbs overhead are dark, either broken or missing, sold off for food.

“Captain,” a voice says. An older woman, her hair steel gray, appears by the window and snuffs out the candle. Her face is lined with age, her hands with scars. And around her wrist, a familiar tattoo. A single red band, just like the one old Will Whistle bore.

As in Harbor Bay, Farley frowns and shakes the woman’s hand. “I’m not—”

But the woman waves her off. “According to the Colonel, but not Command. They have other ideas where you’re concerned.” Command. She notes my interest and bows her head in greeting. “Miss Barrow. I’m Ellie Whistle.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Whistle?” I say. “Are you related to—”

Ellie cuts me off before I can finish. “Most likely not. Whistle’s a nickname mostly. Means I’m a smuggler. Whistles on the wind, all of us.” Indeed. Will Whistle and his old wagon were always full of smuggled or stolen goods, many of them things I brought myself. “I’m Scarlet Guard too,” she adds.

I knew that, at least. Farley’s been in contact with her people over the last few weeks, those not under the command of the Colonel, who would help us and keep our movements quiet.

“Very good,” I tell her. “We’re here for the Marcher family.” Two of them, to be precise. Tansy and Matrick Marcher, twins judging by their birthdays. “They’ll need to be removed from town, within the hour if possible.”

Ellie listens intently, all business. She shifts, and I catch a glimpse of the pistol at her hip. She glances at Farley, and when she nods her head, Ellie does the same. “That I can do.”

“Supplies as well,” Farley puts in. “We’ll take food if you got it, but winter clothes will be best.”

Another nod. “We’ll certainly try,” Ellie says. “I’ll have whatever we can give you ready as fast as possible. Might need an extra pair of hands, though.”

“I’ve got it,” Crance offers. His bulk will certainly help speed the process.

I can’t believe Ellie’s willingness and neither can Farley. We exchange loaded glances as Ellie gets to work, opening cabinets and floorboards in succession, revealing hidden compartments all over the house.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Farley says over her shoulder, quietly suspicious. As am I, watching every move Ellie makes. She’s old, but spry, and I wonder if we’re truly alone in this house.

“Like I said, I take my orders from Command. And they sent out the word. Help Captain Farley and the lightning girl, no matter the cost,” she says, not bothering to look at us.

My eyebrows rise, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You’re going to have to fill me in on this,” I mutter to Farley. Again, I’m struck by how organized and deep-rooted the Scarlet Guard seems to be.

“Later,” she replies. “The Marcher family?”

While Ellie gives her directions, I move to stand with Harrick and Nix. Though this is Harrick’s first recruitment, Nix thinks this is old hat, and rightfully so. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s accompanied me into hostile territory, and for that I’m so grateful.

“Ready, boys?” I ask, flexing my fingers. Nix does his best to look gruff and nonchalant, a veteran of our missions, but I don’t miss the flash of fear in Harrick’s eyes. “This won’t be as hard as coming in. Less people to hide, and the officers aren’t bothering to look this time. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, uh, Mare.” He straightens, puffing out his chest, smiling for my benefit. I smile back, even though his voice trembles when he says my name. Most of them don’t know what to call me. Mare, Miss Barrow, the lightning girl, some even say my lady. The nickname stings, but not so much as the last. No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to be one of them, they see me as something apart. Either a leader or a leper, but always an outsider. Always separated.

Out in the alley, Crance begins loading the cart, not bothering to watch us blink out of existence with the grace of a Silver shadow. But unlike them, Harrick cannot only bend light, creating brightness and darkness—he can conjure anything he wishes. A tree, a horse, another person entirely. Now that we’re on the street, he masks us as obscure Reds with dirty faces and hoods. We are unremarkable, even to each other. He tells me this is easier than making us disappear, and a better alternative in the crowd. People won’t wonder at bumping into thin air.

Farley leads, following Ellie’s directions. We have to cross the market square, past the eyes of many Security officers, but no one gives us pause. My hair blows in the slight wind, sending a curtain of white-blond across my eyes. I almost laugh. Blond hair … on me.

The Marcher house is small, with a hastily built second floor that looks liable to collapse on top of us. But it has a lovely back garden, overgrown with tangles of vines and bare trees. In the summer, it must look wonderful. We pick through it, doing our best to keep the dead leaves from crunching.

“We’re invisible now,” Harrick mutters. When I look in his direction, I realize he’s gone. I smile, though no one can see it.

Someone reaches the back door before me and knocks. No answer, not even a rustle inside. They could be out for the day, working. Next to me, Farley curses under her breath. “Do we wait?” she breathes. I can’t see her, but I see the puffs of breath clouding where her face should be.

“Harrick’s not a machine,” I say, speaking for him. “We wait inside.”

I head for the door, bumping her shoulder, and sink to a knee before the lock. A simple one. I could pick it in my sleep, and it takes no time now. Within seconds, I’m greeted by a familiar, satisfying click.

The door swings back on shrieking hinges and I freeze, waiting for what might be inside. Like Ellie’s house, the inside is dark and seemingly abandoned. Still, I give it another moment, listening hard. Nothing moves inside, and I feel no tremors of electricity. Either the Marchers are out of rations, or they don’t even have electricity at all. Satisfied, I beckon over my shoulder, but nothing happens. They can’t see you, idiot.

“Head in,” I whisper, and I feel Farley at my back.

Once the door is safely shut again, we burst back into sight. I smile at Harrick, again grateful for his ability and strength, but the smell stops me cold. The air is stale in here, undisturbed, and slightly sour. With a hasty swipe of my hand, I brush half an inch of dust from the kitchen table.

“Maybe they ran. Lots of people have,” Nix offers quickly.

Something draws my focus, the tiniest whisper. Not a voice, but a spark. Barely there, so soft I almost missed it. Coming from a basket by the fireplace, covered in a dirty red rag. I drift toward it, drawn by the small beacon.

“I don’t like this. We need to regroup at Ellie’s. Harrick, pull yourself together and get ready for another illusion,” Farley barks as quietly as she can.

My knees scrape the hearthstones as I kneel over the basket. The smell is stronger here. And so is the spark. I should not do this. I know I won’t like what I find. I know it, but I can’t stop myself from pulling back the rag. The fabric is sticky and I tug, revealing what lies beneath. After a numb second, I realize what I’m looking at.

I fall backward, scrambling, gasping, almost screaming. Tears fall faster than I ever thought they could. Farley is the first to my side, her arms surrounding me, holding me steady. “What is it? Mare, what—”

She stops short, choking on the words. She sees what I see. And so do the others. Nix almost vomits and I’m surprised Harrick doesn’t faint.

In the basket is a baby, no more than a few days old. Dead. And not from abandonment or neglect. The rag is dyed in its blood. The message is disgustingly clear. The Marchers are dead too.

One tiny fist, clawed with the stiffness of death, holds the tiniest device. An alarm.

“Harrick,” I hiss through my tears. “Hide us.” His mouth falls open, confused, and I grab his leg in desperation. “Hide us.”

He disappears before my eyes, and not a moment too soon.

Officers appear in the windows, bursting through each door, guns raised, all shouting. “You’re surrounded, lightning girl! Submit to arrest!” they roar in succession, as if repeating themselves makes any difference.

Quietly, I ease myself under the kitchen table. I only hope the others have the sense to do the same.

No fewer than twelve officers crowd inside, stomping back and forth. Four break off, heading upstairs, and one pair of boots halts by the baby. The officer’s free hand twitches and I know he must be staring at the tiny corpse. After a long moment, he vomits into the fireplace.

“Easy, Myros,” one of the others says, pulling him away. “Poor thing,” he adds, moving past the baby. “Anything upstairs?”

“Nothing!” another replies, coming back down. “Alarm must’ve malfunctioned.”

“You’re sure? The governor will skin us if we’re wrong.”

“Do you see anyone here, sir?”

I almost gasp when the officer drops to a crouch right in front of me. His eyes sweep back and forth beneath the table, searching. I feel a slight pressure on my leg—one of the others. I dare not respond with a nudge of my own, and hold my breath.

“No, I don’t,” the officer finally says, standing again. “False alarm. Back to your posts.”

They leave as quickly as they burst in, but I dare not breathe until their footsteps are long gone. Then I gasp, shaking, as Harrick drops the illusion, and we all blink back into sight.

“Well done.” Farley exhales, patting Harrick on the shoulder. Like me, he can barely speak, and has to be helped to his feet.

“I could’ve taken ’em,” Nix grumbles, rolling out from beneath the stairs. He crosses to the door with short strides, one hand already on the knob. “All the same, I don’t fancy being here if they come back.”

“Mare?” Farley’s touch on my arm is gentle, especially for her.

I realize I’m standing over the baby, staring. There were no babies on Julian’s list, no children below the age of three. This was not a newblood, not according to our records or any Maven might possess. The child was murdered simply because she was here. For nothing.

With determination, I remove my jacket. I will not leave her like this, with only her own blood for a blanket.

“Mare, don’t. They’ll know we were here—”

“Let them know.”

I pull it across her—and I fight, with everything I have, the urge to lie down beside her and never get back up again. My fingers brush her tiny, cold fist. There is something beneath it. A note. Quietly, quickly, I slip it into my pocket before anyone else can see.

When we finally get back to Ada and the jet, I dare to read it. It’s dated for yesterday. Yesterday. We were so close.

We arrive back at the Notch at nightfall. I cannot eat, I cannot speak, I cannot sleep. The others discuss what happened in Templyn, but no one dares ask me. My brother tries but I walk way, deeper into the burrows of our hideaway. I cower in my cramped hole of a bedroom, convincing myself I need to be alone for now. On other nights, I hate this solitary room, being separated from the others. Now I hate it even more, but I can’t bring myself to join them. Instead, I wait for everyone to be asleep before I let myself wander. I take a blanket, but it does nothing for the cold, inside and out.

I tell myself it’s the autumn chill that sends me to his room, and not the empty feeling in my stomach. Not the frozen abyss that grows with every failure. Not the note in my pocket, burning a hole right through me.

Fire dances on the floor, confined to a neat dip ringed by stones. Even in the strange shadows, I can tell he’s awake. His eyes look alive with flame, but not angry. Not even confused. With one hand, he pulls back the blankets of his sleeper, and slides to make room for me.

“It’s cold in here,” I say.

I think he knows what I really mean.

“Farley told me,” he murmurs when I settle in. He puts an arm across my waist, gentle and warm, meaning nothing but comfort. The other presses against my back, his palm flat to my scars. I am here, it says.

I want to tell him about Maven’s offer. But what good would it do? He would only refuse like I have, and have to suffer the shame of that refusal with me. It will only cause him pain, Maven’s true goal. And in this, I will not let Maven win. He’s already conquered me. He will not conquer Cal.

Somehow, I fall asleep. I do not dream.