Prologue
The human brain interprets an image in thirteen milliseconds. At any given time, more than a hundred billion neurons are firing in the gray matter of an average kid. I learned that on my very last day of school.
The day before I escaped.
In spite of all those speedy, hard-working neurons, humans frequently make very poor split-second decisions. I’m kind of the expert on the consequences of bad calls.
If the semi-truck driver had serviced his brakes properly, my parents might still be alive. If I’d just lied about my bizarre dreams of Terra, Aunt Trina might not have surrendered us to the state. If I’d dealt with things better at the group home, well. There probably isn’t any reality where that would have happened. But if I hadn’t freaked out and screamed at my caseworker when he suggested separating me from my big brother Jesse, he might never have fixated on me.
If so many tiny details in my life had played out just a smidge better, someone else could be stuck making this decision instead of me. Someone else could be responsible for saving the world, and that would probably be way better for, well, for everyone.
Because if I'm being honest, I'm not sure the world deserves to be saved.
Chapter One: Terra
A few years ago, Abraham decided to add a chicken to the performing animals in the troupe’s show. We all laughed. I mean, who’s heard of a trained chicken?
Except the audiences went wild for her.
That chicken jumped up for treats. She pecked the poodle on the nose when he got too close. She fluffed up and strutted around on command.
A year later, Abraham’s poodle caught a duck, and we ate it for dinner. We didn’t find the honking little duckling until the next day.
It was all alone—doomed, really.
Or so we thought.
But our chicken adopted that duckling, ushering it around, feeding it, and grooming it. They were entirely different animals, but the chicken didn’t care. Sometimes the duckling would hop into a puddle to splash around while the hen looked on with horror, but otherwise, they were inseparable.
I’m exactly like that duckling.
Although, at seventeen, I guess I’m technically a duck.
Either way, after Mom died, the troupe took care of me. Only, unlike the duck, I can’t ever float or quack or honk. I have to pretend to be a chicken, and everyone outside of my troupe needs to believe my act.
When the first rays of the sun warm my face, I slide out of bed and dress. The first hour or two of every day are the very best—because there aren’t any other ducks around to notice me.
I can be myself.
“Alora,” Betty calls from outside. “Are you awake yet?”
“Mornings are the worst.” My best friend Rosalinde pulls a blanket over her head. Her words are so muffled that if she didn’t say the same thing every morning, I might not understand her. “And they just happen over and over.”
“The alternative is probably worse.”
“Too early for jokes.” Rosalinde throws a pillow at me.
I duck and escape out the door of our wagon.
“Wait,” Rosalinde mumbles. “Raisins!”
As if I’d forget.
I love our troupe’s cook, Betty, but her porridge is disgusting. To be fair, it’s not like anyone makes great porridge. It’s essentially mush, after all. Sugar is too expensive for regular use, but raisins make the tasteless slop almost bearable. Unfortunately, they’re usually gone by the time Rosalinde finally drags herself out of bed. Or, they would be, if I didn’t fill my pockets for her.
“I need water from the stream for washing the pots and pans,” Betty says. “And—”
“You need more firewood,” I say.
“Exactly.” Her mouth snaps shut, her hands drop to her belly, and her eyes look off into the distance. She’s not paying attention to me anymore.
“Is the baby kicking?”
She nods. “He or she is a feisty little thing. Kicks like a mule.”
“Do mules kick harder than horses?” I lift one eyebrow.
Betty rolls her eyes. “No idea, but that’s the saying, Miss Sassy. Now get to Lifting.”
I could physically reach down and stack the enormous empty buckets and then lug them down to the stream with my capable bare hands, but it’s so much easier to reach out with my duckling senses until I feel each bucket, and then Lift them into the air.
With the sun barely rising, it’s dark enough that it’s still enormously apparent when I do, because every time I Lift, light spills from my eyes—like a warning beacon that I’m a duckling to anyone close enough to see.
“At least you don’t need a candle to keep from tripping.” Betty laughs. “Now hurry along. I need water for the coffee right away—you’ve seen Martin without it. No one wants that.”
The six large buckets float through the air next to me as I skip down the path to the stream. They’re easy to Lift when they’re empty, but even once I fill them up, it’s not so bad to Lift them back to the wagon circle. I set them down carefully in their proper places around the makeshift kitchen—one on the table near the breakfast pots. One near the fire for coffee. The rest near the washrack. Betty can’t lift anything heavy right now with her baby due any day, so I make her job as easy as possible.
By the time I come back with several dozen logs and stack them in a neat pile by the fire, Betty’s porridge is almost ready and everyone else is turning out of their wagons, bleary eyed and stiff.
“I’m starving.” I pick up a bowl and ladle it to the brim with porridge. Lifting works up an appetite, almost as much as if I had actually hauled everything myself.
“Don’t be taking a double helping of raisins,” Betty says. “If Rosalinde wants them, she can roll out of bed early enough to get them herself.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say.
But when Betty turns her back, I Lift a handful of raisins and tuck them into my pocket. We’ve been playing this game for years.
Betty looks at the raisins in my bowl and narrows her eyes at me.
I’ve never been caught, but she knows I’m doing it. She’s mostly only pretending to be annoyed. Rosalinde isn’t Betty’s daughter, but we’re all part of the same flock in this troupe. Which is why I can Lift here—safely. Without fear. At least until the citizens show up, the ones who would be appalled that a woman can do what only men can.
Everyone always says they want to be special, but in actuality they want fancy feathers or a shiny beak. They want to stand out. . .while fitting in perfectly.
If they really were different, they’d hate having to hide all the time. I scarf down the last few bites of my breakfast, carefully allocating one raisin to each bite, and head for the arena, dropping Rosalinde’s raisins in her bowl with a wink.
“You better hurry, Alora. I hear the citizens of Spurlock wake up early,” Martin says.
I can’t allow any of them to see my eyes light up, or they’ll know. I trot the rest of the way to the clearing where we’ll be performing before too long.
The framework for the set is stacked against a thick copse of trees. I Lift each piece of wood quickly and, almost without thinking, assemble the risers and fix them in place. I’m careful to loop rope around each of my corners so they don’t look anomalous, but I Bind it all nice and tight. Can’t have anything falling apart mid-show. Once the risers are done, I move to the arena floor, the wooden support pieces flying through the air.
I’ve never talked to anyone else who can Lift, and I’ve certainly never been trained properly, but it comes as easily as breathing, as naturally as running or jumping or riding a horse. Maybe even more so.
Finally, I finish by setting up the tightrope across the top of the entire arena, with a rope ladder dangling from either side. Just after I Bind the last cords and cables in place, I notice little specks moving upward from far downhill—from Spurlock castle. They’re people, trekking up the hill toward us.
Martin wasn’t wrong—they do wake up early here. Luckily, Dolores is already standing at the ticket booth, ready to take their money. Healers may not own any arable land, and they may rely on the patronage of citizens to support themselves, but at least they’re able to travel from place to place. Since they’ve taken me in, I can sleep under the stars and see all the sights Terra has to offer. Citizens may look down on Healers, but this life’s not so bad. Not so bad at all.
By the time I walk back to the wagon ring to check in, Abraham has the animals ready in their pens. The horses stomp their hooves and toss their heads, their feather headdresses shaking. Ironsides the elephant sprays the monkeys, and they shriek and throw clumps of what I really hope is dirt at Abraham. He should’ve moved her water bucket once the elephant finished drinking. I Lift it and shove it a few feet back. Abraham salutes by way of thanks.
Martin walks away from our circle and toward the arena, resplendent in his finest suit, the red lapels freshly pressed, his teeth gleaming when he smiles. Rosalinde's stretching to prepare for her contortionist act in the center of the circle, alarmingly close to Betty’s banked fire. All around me the troupe’s finalizing last-minute details for our performance, but there’s still no sign of Thomas, my partner.
When a rock flies past my head, I whirl around, smiling. He’s headed for the clearing, ready to warm up. I jog after him, excitement filling me along with big, heaving lungfuls of air.
We always warm up as the stands start filling to give people a little taste of what’s to come. Citizens have been known to march all the way out here and balk at the ticket price without something to lure them into the show. Sometimes I Lift Thomas up to the wire for our warm up, but not today. The stands are already filling. My lovely fear-free morning is gone. Now it’s time to follow my one cardinal rule.
No one outside of our troupe must ever discover that I can Lift.
Mom’s been gone for a long time and my memories of her fade more every day, but I can still hear her voice in my head, repeating the same thing over and over. “Keep your ability hidden, Alora. It’s the only way to stay safe.”
Healers can’t Lift like citizens—they can only Heal.
And among the Healers and citizens, only men have powers. Women can’t Lift or Heal. They’ve never been able to do either. A woman’s main purpose in life is to bring Mother Terra’s new children into being.
Except for me.
Martin says if anyone finds out what I can do, the citizens will take me away, ripping me from the people and the life that I love. Or worse, they could decide that I’m dangerous. . .and destroy me.
I’d rather avoid both alternatives.
Thomas climbs up the ladder closest to us, one rung at a time, and I follow after him, a little impatient. Once we finally reach the top, I grab the rods sitting on the platform. Thomas snatches both of his staffs out of my right hand, clearly ready to begin, and maybe a bit annoyed that I’ve been following so close on his heels.
He lifts both sticks over his head immediately, but I land the first strike, our poles thwacking loudly, and we're off. Our routine has changed over the years as we've grown older and bolder. Last month I added the second wire, and that has been my favorite addition yet. We race up one side and down the other, striking and blocking slowly, and then a bit faster. We’ve just started when Martin waves at us, signaling that we’re nearly ready to begin. Indeed, the stands below us are nearly full—which means we’ve accomplished our task.
Healers are allowed to camp near citizen settlements because of the service they provide—Healing for the injured. They pay for that, and it’s enough to buy necessary provisions.
Most of the time.
But if citizens get lucky and avoid injury, or if there’s a lean year, things get dicey.
More than fifty years ago, Martin’s grandfather worked with several other wagon trains of Healers and came up with a plan. They needed another revenue stream, another way to earn money and purchase food and textiles from the citizens. Now pretty much every troupe of Healers performs as they travel. Our shows usually only draw a decent crowd for the first few days in a new place, but it’s enough to cover what we need and set a bit aside. Plus, the performances alert the citizens in each area to our presence, and they bring anyone who’s injured after the shows. It’s a win all around.
When Martin stands up and begins talking to the crowd, the usual expectant buzzing begins in my arms and spreads through my body. It’s always like this prior to a performance. Before my very first show, years ago now, I was terrified, worried that I would completely screw up. I thought the buzzing might make my hands shake, or worse, that I might fall.
Today, I watch, high on buzzy anticipation as Gibby the monkey rides Fuzz the donkey. Biff, Boff, and Buff, our three poodles, jump through hoops, and Ironsides stands on her hind feet, her massive trunk held straight up in the air. The buzzing amplifies when Martin announces Betty's singing and again when he brags about Rosalinde's incredible bending abilities. When Martin announces Roland's strength, the buzzing disappears, because I finally have something to do, some way to contribute. I hide behind the barricade while Roland starts off by lifting small objects. A heavy iron barbell. An enormous barrel with liquid in a chamber at the very top, so it sloshes out. That makes it look full when it really isn't, and then finally, it’s my cue.
I help Roland by Lifting an empty wagon for his grand finale. The crowd gasps and cheers, absolutely stunned that he’s a Healer, yet he's lifting an entire wagon. It’s magical precisely because there’s no way he could possibly do it other than using his own brute strength. His eyes aren’t lit up, which is the first piece of evidence for the crowd that he’s a Healer, not a citizen Lifting. But the second piece is that if he could Lift a wagon, he’d be powerful enough to join a Unit, the leaders of the citizen’s standing army. No one strong enough to Lift a wagon would forego that kind of honor.
Unless they weren’t supposed to Lift at all.
Martin announces Thomas and me next. We stroll out from opposite sides of the stage and climb the ladder up to the tightropes, our poles now tucked into the back of our waistbands. The key with any performance like this is to hold their attention while simultaneously building their anticipation. The beginning is actually the hardest part for me, although it's not at all tricky. It’s the panache, the presentation aspect of it that stresses me out, because to prepare them for the second half, I have to make them believe I’m in danger, which means making intentional mistakes and fumbles.
I walk the wire slowly, inching forward, wiping my brow, glancing down at the ground below and wobbling. Thomas walks toward me slowly, steadily, holding out one hand to reassure me. When he finally reaches me, he feints at me threateningly, and we both whip out our sticks. That's when the fighting begins. He and I have practiced pole fighting on a tightrope since shortly after Mom and I joined the troupe. It comes easily to me, mostly because I sense the wire and have a natural understanding of rhythm. Moving fifty feet in the air feels almost as natural as it does on the ground.
After a moment of our sticks clacking as we turn, dodge, and duck, I leap across the three-foot gap to the cable that runs parallel to the one on which we began. No ladders connect it to the ground—it looks as though it hangs from two tall, thin poles. This crowd gasps, exactly as they always do. Thomas leaps across after me. While we jump back and forth, sticks still clacking, Rosalinde climbs up the ladder on my side. She’s carrying a black sash in her hand. It's thick and dark and quite substantial. It has to be, or it won't work. Even with my eyes closed, light leaks through when I Lift.
Martin stops us with his booming voice. “This delightful audience is bored! We demand more.” The audience leans forward in their seats, hooting and shouting, clearly agreeing with him wholeheartedly. They clutch snacks in their greedy hands, their mouths drop open, and their eyes widen.
Martin motions to Rosalinde, and I twirl my way down the wire until I'm standing in front of her. She makes a show of grabbing my wrist. I struggle, but she refuses to release me. Finally I relent, and she ties the sash around my eyes. Not once, not twice, but three times around, and then she knots the back. I can't see anything anymore, but I know that on the other end of the wire, Abraham’s trading Thomas' sticks for two shiny, whip-thin long swords. They're blunt, but the crowd can't tell from so far away. They gasp and sigh and exclaim all around.
One woman, bless her, actually cries out. “Watch out! He has swords!”
Now that my eyes are covered, my other senses rush to fill the void. The wash of cool autumn air flows over my body, and the sun's rays lick the bare skin of my arms. People shift and murmur in the stands. Thomas dances across the wire to face me, but I stay still, fixed in place, while Rosalinde and Abraham climb back down the ladder. The smell of popcorn and apple pies wafts toward me from Betty's food stand. Based on the smacking of lips, the jangle of coins, and the crinkle of the pie’s wrapping paper, she’s doing brisk business for this early in the day.
The thin wire flexes beneath my feet, and I sense the parallel cord as well, Thomas moving toward me along it. Nearly three hundred people are watching down below. It's the perfect time to perform here, really. It’s too early in the season for the fall harvest, and too late for watering to be necessary anymore. While the citizens wait for their crops to dry out enough to be cut, they have very little to do, so a troupe in the area is welcomed with giddy glee.
It's strange to think that I used to need my abilities to handle anything up here at all. After so many years, I'm completely comfortable standing blindfolded on a wire, high in the sky. I rush Thomas, leaning forward as I sprint along the cable. Just as I reach him, I leap into the air, grab a pivot point I've Bound with sand, and spin over his head. I smack him in the back and he stumbles forward. He spins around and comes after me with his swords. I block him easily with my sticks and leap to the parallel wire.
The crowd cheers as we hop back and forth again, much like we did at the beginning, except now I’m blindfolded and defending against Thomas' swords with my sticks. Eventually, we wind up near the platform on Thomas' side of the wire and I stumble backward and drop one stick. The same woman from before cries out again, and a young child sobs. Poor thing.
I hold up my remaining stick to block his sword strike and when he hits the stick with the dull blade, I release a Binding and the top of the stick falls to the ground below as though he sliced it off.
I may never tire of the crowd’s reaction.
The remaining piece of my stick falls from my hands, and I wobble in what I hope looks like fright, and fall, grabbing the wire with my bare hands, dangling pathetically from it. I swing back and forth a few times to get some momentum before I jump out and grab the parallel wire. I swing hand over hand the entire length of the cord until I reach the far end. Finally, I shimmy down the pole holding the wire up and land on the ground. I take a bow to pretty impressive applause for a morning show.
A startled yell from far above me and to the right can only be from Thomas. There's no time to try and sense what's happening that far away. I yank off my blindfold and spin toward the sound. Thomas’s wire has broken and he's holding on to the end, swinging downward. I have a split second before he lands on the hard ground with a splat. I close my eyes as tightly as I can and slow his descent to the ground so that he lands more softly, probably only breaking his arm. I probably shouldn't have done anything, but I couldn't just watch and hope he wouldn’t break his neck and die instantly.
You can’t Heal dead.
Hopefully no one was watching me. I was facing away from the crowd, and my eyes were closed, so not much light would leak. I doubt anyone would notice the split second slowing of his fall.
But if they did. . .
The trouble is, very few people alive can Lift a person. Every single one of them has been born into or drafted for military service, and they're probably all ranked in a unit somewhere, commanding officers for either Isis or Amun. My eyes flaring to light while my friend's descent miraculously slowed could be a beacon for anyone who’s looking.
I finally take a huge breath, let it out, and turn around.
Not a soul is looking at me—all eyes and attention are focused on Thomas. My heart rate gradually slows, and my breathing evens out.
“Alora,” Martin says, his voice urgent and low.
“Yeah?” I brace myself for a monumental scolding.
“Betty’s having her baby.” Martin points. “That means—”
“I’ll take care of her chores too,” I say. “I know.”
He winds his way back to the front of the ring and closes out the show. Even after the performance is over, he doesn’t miss a beat. Not with Thomas falling—he heals his broken arm in front of the gathered audience as some kind of bonus—and not when Betty’s baby decides to come early.
I race to complete all my tasks so that I can be there when the baby’s born. I’ve never seen a Naming, and I’m desperate to be at my first. After all, if I’m ever blessed with a baby of my own, I’d like to know a little more about what’s coming.
I race toward Betty’s bright blue wagon, elbowing my way past my friends who are lined up outside. “She told me I could watch,” I say.
“She told everyone that,” Thomas says.
“You owe me,” I hiss.
He rolls his eyes and shoves Roland back so that I can squeeze past and up the stairs. “Now we’re even.”
“Hardly,” I say. I try to push past Sara, Betty’s oldest daughter, who’s standing on the top step.
“Um, family trumps friends.” Sara crosses her arms. “I can barely see from here as it is.”
I can’t even argue with that, but I’m desperate to finally see a baby be born—and the magic that happens afterward, when Mother Terra names it. Then I notice the window off to the left. No one can see through the window, with it being almost ten feet off the ground. But. . .I Bind some dust in two places and leap across to it, dangling from my newly created handholds and peering through the window and into Abraham’s wagon.
Betty’s lying on her back on the bed, her head leaned back against the wagon wall, her hands braced on either side of her belly. Her face is bright red and her mouth is wide open. She’s in obvious distress and possible pain. I blink. This is nothing like I was led to expect. I release my hold and drop to the ground.
Thomas throws his head back and laughs. “Serves you right.”
“No one mentioned it would be so. . .disturbing.” I frown.
“That’s the birth.” Sara smiles at me. “The birth is always hard. It’s the Naming that people love to see. Give her a moment. The birth is nearly done.”
“Will you tell me when it is?”
Sara nods with a half smile. “I will.”
It doesn’t feel like a moment. It feels like I’m pacing for an hour. Two. But finally, Sara points at the window. “The baby’s born, and she’s wrapped.”
I Bind handholds again and leap upward, dragging my face up and into the window.
Sara’s right. Betty no longer looks upset, or angry. She looks peaceful, and the tiny child wrapped in her arms looks pinker than I expected, but she looks healthy and strong, one arm waving back and forth next to her head.
And then a golden glow begins around Betty and the child. I rub my eyes, but everything looks the same. It really is otherworldly, just like I’ve heard, as if they’re somehow lit from within. Then I notice that Abraham’s glowing, too.
“Her name is Sheena,” Betty whispers.
Abraham bows his head. “Her name is Sheena. Welcome to the world.”
“Does he hear it too?” I hiss. “Or just the mother?”
Sara rolls her eyes. “Both mother and father hear the name when a child is born.”
But sometimes there is no father—or no father who will claim a child, anyway. Like with me. I had only a mother, and when she Wasted. . .
I release my handholds and drop to the ground.
And not a moment too soon. Seconds later, a thundering of hooves sounds just past the ring—coming up the hill from the castle below. Most citizens who need Healing come by foot or in the back of a wagon.
A dozen mounted riders? That’s nothing good.
I think back to the risk I took, Lifting Thomas to slow his fall. . .without the blindfold. No one did anything at the time, but what if someone noticed. . .and took the information back to Spurlock Castle? It would take them some time to determine what to do, and then to return here. My heart hammers, and my mouth goes dry. I consider hiding, but it’s likely already too late for that.
The riders are already here. Eleven horses, by my count, each of them ridden by a soldier in a bright red livery, halt just past our wagon ring.
That’s far too many soldiers for me to do anything other than lift my chin and wait . . . and offer a silent prayer to Mother Terra that they aren’t here for me.
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