Dissonance (8 page)

He smirked. “Not for you.”

Eliot turned his back on the guard to look at me, his dark skin shiny with nerves. “I'll go with you.”

The guard beckoned, and a woman in an identical uniform—badly cut black pants, white shirt with black trim, Taser and other paraphernalia hanging from a thick leather belt—joined him.

As a precaution against creating strong pivots in the building, Consort guards didn't carry lethal weapons. Before today I'd assumed the stun gun and pepper spray were to protect the Walkers from discovery by Originals. Now, as the second guard stared down my best friend, I reconsidered.

In a nasal, overloud voice, she said, “The summons is for Delancey alone. We will escort you to the chamber. The rest of you will proceed to training as usual.”

Eliot met my eyes, ready to argue.

“I've got this,” I told him, trying to keep the wobble from my voice. “See you in a few.”

Maybe they would let me off with a warning. If they did, I'd be a model student for the rest of training. I'd help out at home. I'd be nicer to Addie. Anything, as long as they didn't take Walking from me.

Our path to the elevators was blocked by my classmates. Behind us, the younger kids were coming inside for their training, some of them accompanied by their parents. As the lobby filled and the murmurs grew, my face went fiery. I'd wanted to be known for my skill, not my screwups.

I kept my eyes fixed on the elevators, tuned out the whispers
and snickers, and moved across the room on autopilot. Shame burned through me, hotter with every step. But it wasn't until I was inside, steel doors sliding shut, that I nearly lost it. The glimpse of Eliot, stricken and sympathetic, was infinitely worse than the onlookers' scorn.

Given a choice, it seems like pity would be easier to bear than mockery, but that's not true. Mockery hardens defenses; pity slips through, finds the softest places you have, and slices to the bone.

Pity will break you, every time.

One guard slid a card through a reader and pressed the button for the sixteenth floor. I thought about asking what would happen, but they looked straight ahead, feet braced wide and hands clasped behind their backs. They didn't seem like they'd welcome a conversation.

I wondered if they knew the full story, or if they'd simply done the Consort's bidding without asking for details. Probably the latter. Nobody questioned the Consort. Their rulings were absolute, their directives inviolate. Even my parents didn't challenge the orders they received.

The display counted steadily upward, and I knotted my fingers together as the elevator slowed. The doors opened and my lungs closed.

My parents stood in the cream-and-ebony foyer, their heads bent together. Monty perched on an upholstered black bench, looking around owlishly. He must have been here plenty of times, but he was acting as if he had never seen this place before.

One of the guards prodded me in the back, and I stumbled
into the hall. My mother's head snapped up, her mouth tightening in annoyance. “Del! Why did you run off? I told you we would come in together.”

“And I told you I'd ride with Eliot,” I said, palms sweating. “I can do this without you.”

“You're a minor,” she said. “The Consort can't sentence you unless we're present.”

“Sentence me?” I repeated. “I'm on trial?”

“No, sweetheart.” My father pulled me to his side, like he could protect me from the impact of his words. “The trial's over. They've called witnesses, reviewed the reports . . .”

I jerked away. “I didn't get to defend myself!”

“Your actions are your defense, Del. Intentions don't count. Explanations don't count. The only thing that matters is the end result,” he said.

“Deaf and dumb,” Monty grumbled. “Every one of them.”

Mom shushed him. “Dad!”

He waved her off. “Rose used to say I should have been given a Consort seat. Thought I could do some good. Don't let them scare you, Del. You're worth ten of them.”

My mom pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dad, you're not helping matters. Can you please keep it to yourself until we get home?”

Monty's disdain for the Consort was nothing new—their failure to find my grandmother was a grudge he'd nursed my whole life. But his words could be twisted if the wrong person overheard.

“I keep all kinds of things,” he said, tapping his forehead with a gnarled finger. It would have been better for him to stay home, and I realized we were short one person.

“Where's Addie?” I asked.

My dad tugged at the knot of his tie. Cleavers rarely dressed up, and now I understood why. Hard to run in business casual. “She's inside.”

Sympathy stirred within me, but it was comforting to know I wasn't the only one on trial. They must have already sentenced her, since she wasn't considered a minor.

The female guard touched her earpiece and gestured to the twin doors of the Consort's chamber. “Go in.”

Monty levered himself up with a grunt. My mom helped me with my backpack and coat, handing them over to my dad. She started to say something, but stopped. Instead she tucked my hair behind my ears and sighed, as if it was the best she could do. My dad reached for the door handle, not meeting my eyes.

I started to shake, and the worst-case scenarios I'd been trying not to imagine crowded into my head. Prison. An oubliette. Another cleaving, one I couldn't escape.

A blue-veined hand closed over mine, cool and reassuring. Monty angled his head toward the door. “Together?”

At least Monty was looking out for me. “Together.”

I looked up at the marble plaque above the chamber doors. The Key World frequency was carved into the polished white stone, a line of peaks and valleys in perfect symmetry. The motto beneath captured everything I'd ever been taught.

To the true song, all honor;

From the true song, all gifts.

For the first time in my life, the lines rang false. Walking was my birthright, my gift, but the people inside that room had the power to snatch it away. My whole future—the only one I'd ever wanted—had narrowed down to a single moment. A single decision.

And it wasn't mine to make.

The Minor Consorts number forty-eight, each responsible for a specific time zone on one side of the equator. They govern the branches and Walkers within their territories and are accountable only to the Major Consort.

—Chapter Ten, “Ethics and Governance,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

T
HE CHAMBER OF
the Minor Consort sounded impressive, but the room itself was spare and anonymous. Institutional gray carpet, white walls, and no chairs except for those behind the table at the front of the room. The three Consort members were already seated, tracking my movements closely. Addie was standing to the side, arms crossed over her stomach.

These Consort members had served for as long as I could remember. They'd probably worked with Monty. Before my grandmother disappeared, he'd risen pretty high in the ranks, leading a team of Cleavers to the most critical Echoes. But he gave no sign of recognizing them.

My mom guided him toward the wall, her voice so soft I couldn't make out the words. Addie joined them, taking her place next to my dad. She looked wan but resolute. They must have come down hard on her.

“Come forward, Delancey,” said the woman in the center. “I'm Councilwoman Crane.”

I knew who she was. I knew all of them, though we'd never met. The Consort was comprised of three members, one from each section: ethics, science, and cleaving The ethicists were the ones who made the rules and policies; the scientists studied the physics of the multiverse and the Key World; the cleavers dealt with the day-to-day effects and protocols of cleaving. All three were represented on the Consort to ensure their decisions were balanced—all their decisions were unanimous, to symbolically avoid pivots. Whatever my sentence, they'd agreed upon it.

Crane spoke in a faintly scratchy alto. Her white hair was cut short and severe, but her features were soft behind her frameless glasses. She didn't look kind, exactly, but she did look fair. As the ethicist, she'd be in charge of my sentencing.

I edged to the center of the room and tried to look contrite.

To her left sat another woman, Councilwoman Bolton, the head of the scientists. Her dark hair was as long as mine, arranged in countless tiny braids, heavily shot through with silver and caught in a low ponytail. Her eyes—a harder, sharper brown than Eliot's warm gaze—seemed to catalog every one of my faults. I curled my toes inside my shoes, and tried to read my future in their faces.

The man on the right was easier to read but no more reassuring. He had a narrow face, steely hair swept back from a high forehead, and a strong nose. On some people it would have been aristocratic. But he caught sight of Monty, and for an instant
his lips peeled back. Aristocratic turned arrogant. Councilman Lattimer, who ran the Cleavers.

Before today these people had been only names—last names, no less, unlike the rest of the Walkers. They'd been printed across the bottom of the letters I received every June, congratulating me on another successful year and welcoming me to the next round of my training. They'd been mentioned over dinner, when my parents were discussing a policy change, or in class, during our unit on governance. I'd never envisioned them as real people.

Now they seemed even less human.

I looked back at Monty, hoping for reassurance. He'd deliberately turned away from the Consort, tugging fretfully at the buttons on his coat, inspecting the door as if he could escape.

“Let us begin,” said Councilwoman Crane.

I locked my knees to keep them from giving out.

“Yesterday we received a report stating that, on an accompanied Walk, you unraveled a world resonating at the specific frequency of . . .” She read from a paper in front of her, rattling off a number at least twenty digits long, complete with decimals and exponents.

“It was an accident,” I protested, my voice as high and plaintive as a child's.

“Within every accident lies a choice,” Bolton said, her expression stern.

Before I could say anything else, Lattimer held up a hand. “We are not concerned with your excuses or opinions. Only the outcomes and evidence matter here.”

Councilwoman Crane continued, setting the paper aside. “We've spoken with your instructor. The parameters of your assignment neither required nor permitted direct contact with the strings. Our investigators confirmed the frequency in question has ceased transmitting. According to the witness statement, you are the one responsible.”

“The witness statement?” I whirled, but Addie wouldn't meet my eyes. “You sold me out?”

“As the only other Walker present, her testimony was required,” Bolton said. “Based on the findings of our investigators, we believe her statement to be accurate and reliable.”

Addie nibbled on her thumbnail, head bowed. I took a step toward her, and the guards at the door both shifted—hands on weapons, faces impassive, intent clear.

I dug my fingernails into my palms, trying to see through the haze of anger. It wasn't enough for Addie to be perfect, to be the one everybody fawned over. She had to screw me over, too.

Councilwoman Bolton read from her own paper. “Your interaction with the Echo child was unnecessary and increased the existing damage. You ignored the direction of your accompanist, and your actions endangered her life. Your cleaving was improperly conducted, resulting in a weakening at the cut site of the pivot.”

“Any one of these is a serious infraction,” Lattimer said. “To commit so many on a single Walk indicates a tendency toward recklessness that does not bode well for your future.”

A hint of a smile snaked over his face and his gaze flickered to
Monty, then back to me. “You are suspended from your Walker training for the remainder of the year. You may not attend classes with your cohorts. You may not Walk alone, or with anyone but licensed family members.

“At the conclusion of your suspension, you will be expected to take the final licensing exam with your classmates. If you pass, you may continue on to your apprenticeship. If you fail or violate our terms, you will repeat your fifth year while your peers move on.”

The room wavered along the edges. “The entire year? How am I supposed to pass the exam if I can't go to training?”

“That responsibility will fall to your family. We'll expect a weekly report of your lessons, to ensure you're receiving proper instruction. Naturally, this would be in addition to your parents' usual duties.”

My parents couldn't find time to help with a homework assignment, much less an entire year of training. The fifth-year exam was notoriously hard—cumulative over all our years of training, covering every aspect of our work. The last three months of class were essentially a giant cram session, and Shaw made sure we were prepared. Without his help, I'd fail.

By June my classmates would have their licenses. Eliot would be off to his apprenticeship. Everyone would know I'd been left behind.

Walking was the only thing I was good at, and they were taking it away. Something inside me twisted sharply at the loss.

Councilwoman Crane cleared her throat, waiting for a response. Shock had stolen my words, and I eyed her mutely.

Her expression thawed. “Do you agree to comply with the terms of this sentence? The alternative is to permanently forfeit your right to Walk.”

People weren't kidding when they said the Consort went out of their way to minimize choices. I'd do anything to be a Walker, and they knew it. I looked back at my parents, who appeared solemn but unsurprised. Maybe even relieved. Next to them, Addie stood frozen, fingers pressed to her lips.

“I object!” shouted Monty. My mom took his arm, but he shook her off, stomping past me toward the table. Crane and Bolton exchanged knowing looks, while a mottled red crept up Lattimer's neck.