Relic

XXIII: Aprilus 10 Year 242, A.H.

Instinctively, I recoil. I know I should be thrilled to see a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old body frozen in a crevasse—that’s why I’m out here, after all—but I fly off the ice wall, and sway out into the air. When I swing back, I crash right into the area where I saw the face. I brace myself for a closer look, but when I stare right at the spot, the face has disappeared. All I can make out is the grey shadow.

Was the shape of a body just a trick of the light?

Even though I can’t perceive the precise outline of a body again—no matter the angle of the naneq—I’m excited. Whatever is buried in the ice wall of my Claim, I have definitely discovered a Relic.

Energized, I hitch the naneq to one of my stakes and pull Eamon’s diagram out of my pack. Using my pick, I map out my design in the wall. Then I start unloading the wood from my pack and hammering the initial frame of my scaffold into place. By the time the light darkens, I have managed to hollow out an area behind the frame. In the morning I’ll be ready to begin the difficult work of excavation.

Well before the first horn of evening sounds, I start to haul my way to the surface. I don’t want to get stuck like I nearly did yesterday. Although I struggle with the climb, I remember that I have Eamon within me, too. I manage to reach the top of the crevasse just as the first horn blows. When I emerge, the air is nittaalaq, thick with snow. The Gods-blessed days of Sun are over. I hope Their blessings haven’t left with Her.

Once all the Testors emerge from the crevasse, we follow the Boundary Climbers and the Scouts back to camp. I can only see a few hands-breadth in front of me. When we reach the clearing, other Boundary workers have lit a communal fire. Snowflakes melt in midair. I can see the fish roasting over the flames. The Lex provides that, once the Testors have proven their mettle in the wild through the first three Advantages, they need only focus on the archaeological excavation and the Chronicles at the Site. Having had my food prepared for me all my life, I didn’t know just how much I’d appreciate it once I reached the Site. It feels almost decadent having someone else find food and prepare it for me. I’ll never take the Attendants at home for granted again, if I get the chance to be indulged by them once more.

At the elder Scout’s signal, we Testors head toward sealskin mats laid around the crackling blaze. I look around for Jasper. My gaze sweeps over the other Testors, all of whom look exhausted and thin. They didn’t have the benefit of the musk ox during their journey. Then, I see Jasper behind them, moving toward a sealskin mat. In comparison, he doesn’t look quite as gaunt.

When the Boundary workers serve the fish over a grain-root vegetable mix, we all devour it. When we finish this silent meal, the elder Scout stands and motions for us to rise, too. I assume that he’s going to release us back to our respective igloos. Instead, he raises his hands to the sky in supplication.

“We offer a prayer to the Gods for our brothers Tristan and Anders. When Testors Tristan and Anders did not make camp last evening as expected, Scouts went out in search for them. Her light of morning revealed that our brother Tristan surrendered to the icy grip of the Tundra—caught in a barren area at the final horn of evening. Her morning Sunlight also made plain that our brother Anders met a similar fate, though the Tundra’s wild creatures trapped him in their grips before the cold did. While we lament the loss of our brothers, we know that the Gods will welcome Tristan and Anders into their realm. For they lost their lives in the sacred trial of the Testing, which the Gods themselves sanctified in The Lex for the good of mankind after the Healing. We raise our hands in prayer for Tristan and Anders.”

Tristan and Anders. Gone. I feel sick. Their deaths bring back the terrible moment when the Ring-Guards brought Eamon’s broken body to our home. I don’t remember much about the bells that followed on that awful day, but I do recall falling to my knees and letting out an instinctive, keening cry. And I remember my parents’ crumpling to the floor, too. Sobbing over Eamon’s lifeless face. How will Tristan and Anders’ poor parents react when the Scouts deliver their sons’ maimed bodies to their doorsteps? Will they remain brave and stoic at that moment—and the funeral in the Aerie’s cemetery—because their sons “lost their lives in a sacred trial” like the elder Scout said? Or will they fume like I did, before I shut it all down to come out here?

I raise my hands as the Scout instructs. But instead of gazing up at the sky as The Lex demands, I sneak another look at the remaining Testors. I really take them in—not just as a Maiden in the Aerie would look at a Gallant, or as one Testor would size up another—but as fellow human beings.

Most everyone looks sad and scared. The hard reality of the Testing has just hit them. Knud is crying as he stares up at the heavens. Tristan was one of his closest friends; I never recall seeing one without the other. In fact, they were so inseparable at School that we nicknamed them “the Flaxen twins.” I didn’t know Anders that well; he kept to himself. Still, I have a very clear memory of his face shining with pride when he answered one of Teacher’s most challenging Healing-history questions. Maybe it was this interest in Healing scholarship that possessed him to brave the Testing.

In the firelight, tears glisten on other cheeks—those of Jacques, Benedict, William, Thurstan, and Jasper. But I don’t see tears on Aleksandr or Neils. Aleksandr actually looks stony. And I can’t cry, either. Why? At first I think it’s because I wasn’t particularly close to either one, but then I realize that I’ve already suffered the most unimaginable loss. Why in the Gods did Eamon have to take on the foolish challenge of the Ring summit, and abandon me to all this?

Instead of tears, rage kindles inside me. These young men are some of the very last people left on this Earth, and they are risking their lives for the Testing. Humankind clings so precariously to the surface of the world; why would the leaders of New North subject its brightest and best to a competition that kills without fail, every year? Why must the Archon Laurels be so dearly won? I know The Lex tells us that in order to win the Archon honor we must risk our lives, as our Founding ancestors did, so that the memory of the Healing never dies. We are humankind’s last hope for survival, after all. Still, it seems that our lives—all lives, in fact—should be cherished and protected.

Is that what my brother meant when he asked: Must we truly risk our lives in the Testing in order to be worthy of the Archon Laurels? Our lives are so precious and so few … Will they still love me when I do what I must?

Do what he must? Did he mean to change the Testing?