Relic

XII: Aprilus 2 Year 242, A.H.

Even though my mind swirls with images of stitching Jasper’s wound, I manage to fall asleep. One of the benefits of complete physical exhaustion, I guess. I return to a familiar dream, one in which Eamon and I stand on the edge of the turret, hands linked. In the dreamscape of a crisp, full-moon evening, we glance at each other in perfect understanding, and then we jump. I always wake up before we land.

This morning is no exception, although it’s not the end of the dream that prompts me to open my eyes. The sound of sled runners coursing over the snow wakens me. In my grogginess, I can only imagine that it’s Jasper—who else would be out here before dawn?—and I almost call out to him. Almost.

A bright light—too bright and concentrated to come from any candle I’ve ever seen—passes over my tent. Jasper couldn’t possibly have carried a lamp with that power. It must be a Scout, the eyes and ears of the Archons. They are omnipresent but usually invisible during first three Advantages. They mostly assert their presence at the Testing camp and Testing Site, where the last six Advantages are played out.

“Testor, show yourself.” A deep voice commands from just outside my tent.

I move fast. Since I slept in my clothes, I only have to pull on my hat, gloves, and kamiks before stepping out into the cold. But the simple tasks are made hard by the fact that I’m shivering uncontrollably. What if the Scout had arrived bells earlier and found Jasper in my tent? Using remedies on him? Somehow, I finish dressing and stand before the Archon Scout.

The bright light, whatever its source, has disappeared. The Scout holds a common oil lamp before him. It casts a dim, yellowish glow on us both. Just enough to make him out. The Scouts are notorious for their tough strength, their unflinching devotion to The Lex, and their imperviousness to anything but the nutus of the Archons. Head to toe in black sealskin with matching eyes, this Scout looks the part. Except for the dark, almond-shaped eyes, which make him look like a Boundary person.

I do not speak. The Lex rule on communicating with Scouts is very clear: do not speak before you are spoken to. I keep my head lowered in deference to him and his role.

The Scout circles me for a long tick, all the while asking, “Tell me, in all this enormous expanse of ice, how did you manage to find another Testor to share this iceberg?” He pauses. “Before you answer, I remind you of your Testing vow of veritas.”

I can hear the accusations imbedded in his deceptively simple question. That I am conspiring with another Testor, that we used outlawed means to find this iceberg shelter, that this Testor and I have some illicit relationship. I wonder if he would make the same inquiries had I been my brother—or any male Testor—but there’s no way I’d ask the insubordinate question. It might invite removal from the Tests.

“It was coincidence, Sir,” I say.

The Scout holds the lamp close to my face, presumably to assess the veritas of my statement. “You expect me to believe that your shared presence on this iceberg was sheer happenstance, Testor?” His tone is harsh, and although he is acting well within his rights as a Scout, part of me is surprised that he’s treating the Chief Archon’s daughter this way. But Jasper is right. And I’ve said it myself: I’m just a Testor out here.

“It’s the truth. By the Gods.”

He says nothing. He stands firmly in place—as if locked in by the ice itself—staring at me with the same quizzical expression. I don’t know what possesses me, but I break from the rule. I speak without being spoken to.

“Sir, you can see that it’s the only shelter out here. Any Testor who came close to this point when the first horn of evening sounded would aim for it. It’s a simple matter of survival that we’re both here.”

The Scout’s eyes are more piercing than the Chief Basilikon’s on a Confessional Day. I start to feel terrified. For my insubordination, the Scout has it in his power to discipline me, even with physical punishment. Yes, even though I’m the Chief Archon’s daughter. What in the Gods was I thinking by speaking first?

Instead of punishing me, he responds in a measured voice: “That’s precisely what your Suitor—I mean, the other Testor—claimed, too.”

Obviously, he doesn’t believe either one of us, but I don’t think that is the point of his words. By his Suitor remark—a clear, if brazen, indication of what he thinks of the Triad’s decision to allow me to Test, that I’m nothing more than a Maiden awaiting a Union and I should never have been allowed the honor of Testing—he means to shake me. He might as well have said, “Let me send you home.”

Under his gaze, I begin to feel even more frightened. Maybe it’s the late-night visit from Jasper. It’s not as horrific a crime as conspiring with another Testor, but it’s grounds for expulsion from the Testing nonetheless. Maybe it’s my use of remedies. Certainly its use would get me thrown out of the Testing, not to mention warrant punishment back in the Aerie. But I do not allow him to see me shake.

Finally, he delivers his verdict. “May the Gods go with you. But remember, it will be me—not the Gods—watching your every move, Testor.”

I watch as he mounts his sled and cracks his whip heavily on his dogs; he’s a cruel master to his team, I’m sure. I am immobilized as he departs. I’ve learned something valuable and unexpected, as Lukas promised I would. But I didn’t foresee this: my sudden understanding that the Scout does not want me in the Testing, and that he will do whatever he can to keep me from success. And he may not be alone. Part of me wants to race over to Jasper and make certain he understands the Scout’s meaning, but a bigger part of me wants to distance myself from Jasper completely. To protect him—from me and from himself.

Only a bell and a half remain until the first horn of mornings, so I busy myself. Even though I am trying hard to concentrate on the tasks necessary for the sinik ahead—on anything but the Scout, really—I’m acutely aware of noises coming from the other side of the iceberg. Noises that mimic the ones I’m making. The crackle of a fire, the whoosh of a tent pulled down, the growl of the dogs as they compete over their food, the thud of the sled being loaded.

Bags packed, dogs ready, I mount my own sled. The orange-red sun begins to show on the horizon, and I tighten my goggles to brace myself for the blinding rays, magnified as they reflect off the snow. I whistle for the dogs to get into place; movement of the sled is permitted before the horn for this purpose alone.

As we skirt the iceberg, I pass Jasper. Even though I’m trying hard not to make eye contact—the Scout could be watching—I notice he’s limping only a bit as he crosses the ice toward his sled. I’m relieved my ministrations last night helped. But my biggest worry doesn’t concern his wound. I’m worried that he might have missed the Scout’s message. If Jasper plans on staying close to me, he will be caught in the Scouts’ web, too.