Prologue
Waves of desert heat pulsed over Loren’s skin, but all he felt was cold. He strained to sense his surroundings, seeing wave after wave of yellow dust blowing over the dunes. A grinding static muffled his eardrums, drowning out the screams of his friend.
None of his books had ever taught him this. No book ever told him what it was like to die.
Chapter 2: Lor and his dad
“Loren B. Turtingas! Get up here, now!” Gale’s voice found its way through the thick basement door, jumping down the steps two at a time and rolling into Lor’s dreamy ears. He yawned and turned on a small techlight perched on his nightstand. Its white light painted the crude and splintered wooden surface.
A thick and dusty manual titled Guide for the Non-Guild Faction of Law: Roundsmen sat like a boring brick on the nightstand. Pages poked out from the sides as if desperate to escape their own binding, and a stained wet ring encircled the word Law.
Next to the book, his fingers flopped over a small black disk the size of his palm, and he drew a series of taps on the slick shell. A holopic of his QuickChat sprayed from the disk and hovered. No messages, no calls, no friends.
“Coming!” he shouted back up the stairs.
He had overslept again. Yawning once more, he swung his legs over the side of his hard mattress, throwing aside a padded woolen comforter inlaid with silver threads—a lavish gift his sister, Eva, had purchased from a Shepherd in Audun.
Loren dragged his feet to the base of the stairs and flipped on the main light. A golden hue bathed the area, transforming his ordinary bedroom into what his stepfather always told him resembled a dingy smoking den. He never agreed with that assessment. To him, it was cozy and quaint. He would never leave if he had a choice.
An oversized dark red chair and three tall bookcases crowded the far corner at the foot of the bed. The bookcases were filled with tomes of all shapes and sizes in a rainbow of colors tinted by the golden cast of the light.
He rummaged through the closet with white socks pulled over his calves and a loose left toe that folded over the tip of his foot. Loren chose a wrinkled, plain black shirt to pull down over his messy hair and a pair of stained tan pants and brown boots scuffed all over the toe. Gale always told him he had a laziness in his walk that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and that was why he wore his boots and socks out too fast.
He slid the black disk in his back pocket and checked the mirror. Light gray eyes set into a ruddy face, and a mess of ash blond hair stared back at him.
“Loren! Get up here!” Gale shouted again, as loud as the first time.
The blond mop on his head flopped over a sweaty brow, which he slicked back with a wet palm. The stairs protested under his boots in squeaks and fits as he lay leaden steps over them. Reluctantly, he made his way upstairs and into reality.
Light slapped his tired eyes when he opened the door leading to the main house. A stark white hall stretched before him toward the kitchen. Digital pictures decorated the walls, which cycled through images of the family, places they’d visited, and his stepfather’s medic friends. Only one holopic of Loren and Gale together had been programmed into the cycle of images, and it wouldn’t show when he walked through the hall.
The frames blinked and strobed through their cycles, which made him dizzy. He focused on his feet to drive him forward through the hall until he stepped onto the marble tile flecked with gold. A serious, middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses sat at a wide island counter with an assortment of many tools lying next to him. They were impeccably vertical, with an occasional tube-based tool wrapped in a spiral and fixed neatly in place. They were all pointing at Loren.
“How many times have I told you not to walk around in the house with your shoes on? Take them off.”
“Yes, sir.” Loren slid his droopy socks from the boots and shuffled toward Gale, who glanced up at Loren and shook his head.
Their small house servant stood in the corner of the kitchen, watching the pair still as stone. She was a Foscan, eerie and beautiful. Dag the Small, Gale called her, in the tradition of assigning bastard names to Foscan rebels. She was far from any rebel. Lor only knew her as meek and fragile, with ethereal beauty in unblemished pale gray skin, shiny black hair, and those indescribable eyes. Like a typical Foscan, her eyes were white, catching the light at angles that gave them the appearance of an inner glow. He swore he saw those reflections in the darkness of his room at times.
Gale rustled a newslite paper in his fist. His studied gaze peered over the top of the paper at Loren’s wrinkled shirt and stained pants. “You look like a slob,” he said.
“I need to do laundry,” Loren responded, settling into the chair opposite Gale.
A trio of chirps emitted from the black disk sitting near the tools, identical to the one in Loren’s pocket. Gale’s dark brown eyes continued to study him over the glasses, then he held up a finger.
Yes, of course I’ll wait. Lor sighed.
Gale pressed the center of the disk, and a holopic slung out in front of them.
“Go for Gale,” he said.
“Hey, Gale, we are going to need you in about two standard hours.” The holopic buzzed in a robotic, stilted voice.
“Right. Be there in one and a half.”
“Heard. Donnelly out.”
Gale pressed the center again, and the disk sucked the holopic into its core. He sighed and set his glasses on the counter, rubbing his face pink.
“Lor,” he said, tapping the newslite paper resting on the counter, “have you given any more thought to the program?”
Gale called him by his nickname. Lor knew this game well—it was a manipulation tactic.
“I have,” Lor said as he ran his hand across the smooth stone edge, activating the center of the countertop. A pair of sliding doors hissed open, revealing a maw in the middle of the counter, and a tray of the day’s rations rose from the center.
Among the bland blocks of oatcress and vegemeal, there was a bowl of yellow sarga fruit, which he snatched the second he saw them. The plump fruit was soft in his hand, and he took a big, wet bite.
Lor smacked his lips. “But what would I do without these fine rations to start each glorious day?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. And try to conserve those, yeah?”
He plucked a piece of toast from the neat stack sitting next to the bowl of fruit and flicked his hand across the sensor again. The food plinth descended into its refrigerated holding cell as the doors snapped shut.
“I’m serious, Lor. It’s important that you at least try to join the program. The next class begins nine months from now, after the Desert Maelstrom, and it’s not too late to register.”
Lor swallowed the rest of his fruit. He stared at the toast in his hand, debating whether to stuff it in his mouth and delay his answer, but he knew it would be trouble for him. Then it would be back to being called Loren B. Turtingas.
“I-I just really think I’d be better suited in… Law. Sir.”
Gale pushed his chair back and gaped at Lor.
“Law? Are you serious? What kind of Law?”
This wasn’t what he wanted to discuss today. He didn’t want to discuss it any day.
“Well, I was reading about roundsmen, and I—"
“Absolutely not!” Gale slammed a pencil down on the counter that Lor didn’t see him holding. “Do you want to end up like that kid Gregory?”
“He wasn’t a kid, Dad. I’m pretty sure he was your age.”
“Whatever, he was just a kid when I was a kid.” Gale jabbed a thumb at his chest. “My point stands. Do you want to end up like him?”
“No, but roundsmen work is tricky, and Gregory messed up, right? I’ve been researching the role, and I think that—"
“I said no.”
Lor knew the conversation was over. He swiped the toast and crammed the whole piece in his mouth. Gale pretended Gregory’s death didn’t bother him, but it did. He rarely talked about the guy, but Lor knew he meant something to him at some point long ago. The name had come up for the first time shortly after his mother died while Lor was still young. He had wandered near the bedroom while Gale talked about the incident with someone over the phone. It was the first time he had seen the shimmer of a tear in his stepfather’s eye… and the last.
“Look, Eva is happy in her city and she is thriving. I only want the same for you. You understand that, don’t you?”
Dry toast seized his tongue, and he wriggled his jaw to position the partially soggy ball under his teeth. The wad of bread finally broke down enough to swallow a piece without choking.
“I guess so.”
“Besides, if you don’t develop a gift, you can still be a part of one of the many other non-Guild memberships out there.”
“You mean like Law?”
“Stop it.”
“Isn’t it expensive? I don’t want to fail and waste plats.”
“Don’t worry about plats.”
Lor stared just beyond Gale’s shoulder through the window. The Audun capitol tower stood in the far distance, barely visible against the clear horizon—such an innocent-looking thing to serve as the puppet master of all seven cities.
“I don’t want to fail.”
“You won’t fail.”
“Like you did?” He shouldn’t have said that.
Why did I say that?
Gale glared at him. His mouth zipped up so tight he could crush a hunk of rock between those lips and pull out a diamond. He straightened his collar and ran a hand over the side of his balding head, blowing a puff of air from that tight mouth making an angry whistle.
“I didn’t mean that,” Lor said, tucking his hands in his lap. The words may as well have been a middle finger.
Dag the Small watched them while in her corner, waiting for the tea kettle in Gale’s head to explode. He scared her. He always scared her. She shifted her weight, moving for the first time since Lor arrived in the kitchen.
Gale rose slowly, backing out from the counter and pushing his chair snugly against the stone.
“You had better watch your tone, Loren.”
“S-Sorry, sir. I was just trying to tell you that I’m afraid to fail.”
“Doesn’t matter now.” Gale clicked his tongue. “I’m signing you up for the program, so you find a way to deal with that and swallow your pride.”
Lor’s heart sank. Three words were all it took to course-correct his future.
Like you did? What were you thinking?
“I have to go, they need me. Figure it out, Loren.”
With a final huff, Gale stormed past the servant, who flinched when he left the kitchen. Lor noticed her watching him with her eerie white gaze.
“Stop it,” he said.
***
Nine months to figure it out.
Lor slid down the stairs to his bedroom and plopped on his red reading chair. The passage of time between that moment and leaving for Heart Island would be an unmeasurable drag. He prayed for the Desert Maelstrom to blow away the island and take the program with it. He knew very little about the school and had no desire to find his “gift.” It all seemed a little woo-woo to him, with all the channeling and meditations. There was also rumor of a commune cult on the same island.
One thing he knew for sure was that the program was not far from the black sands of Mount Gehenna. Eva’s first letters to him while she was in the program obsessed over her fear of the mountain. Eventually, she stopped writing about that and focused on how misunderstood the area was. Her language morphed into an aloofness that gave Lor even more pause about the brainwashing program.
He leaned over to study the books on his shelf, searching for anything that might give him insight on what he was getting into.
Cycles and Tradition, Roundsmen Duties
Unusual Flora and Fauna of Northern Budge
The History and Annals of Guild Abilities and Memberships: Formative Years, Tome 1
How to Relate to Others and Maintain Relationships
Medical Marvels and the Salvation Behind Them
Well-Rounded Rations and the Kurb Diet: What They Don’t Tell You.
Lor sighed. At least nothing on this small shelf was of any use.
The one thing that baked his mind was the sheer cost of the program, with no guarantee of success. The price of prestige was steep, and he didn’t want it.
Why stick it near Mount Gehenna?
Why would Gale want to spend plats to put me through a program that might fail us both?
Eva was lucky to find a home with the Engineers in Ascendia. Gale was so proud of her when she discovered her gift, as it brought more social credit to the household. Lor always found it odd that something like Guild work was praised higher than what Gale did, which was saving lives as a medic.
Lor slumped back in the chair, pulling Cycles and Tradition, Roundsman Duties from the bookshelf. He flipped through the musty pages to a dog-eared corner that marked a chapter on dress. Law had his heart, and it was free to learn at Peakwood Academy just down the road. He could live at home, save money, and learn what he wanted, when he wanted.
He tried to remember his conversation with Eva when she came back from the program. She had an implant, and that didn’t sit well with him.
Eva showed him the lump under her skin. “It’s how they unlock your gift.”
“It’s kinda big.” He poked it, watching it slither around under her skin.
“Yeah, it hurt at first, but I don’t feel it anymore. They do it right on your second day, so you have plenty of time to heal.”
“How long does it take for you to find out?”
“Find out what?”
“You know… whether you belong to a Guild?”
“Oh, it depends on the person. It took me about a month, which the guide said was on the longer side.”
“Well, what do you do for the other five months that you are there if a month is a long time?”
“That is when we practice using our gift. Trust me, it takes some getting used to.” She smiled at that, a wistful look in her eye she didn’t explain further. Lor didn’t ask—he didn’t care.
It wasn’t long after that she got the call from Ascendia with an offer from the Seven Cities. Her acceptance marked the moment her shadow cast long and dark over Lor.
