Lumière (The Illumination Paradox) (5 page)

I’ve no other choice. There’s nowhere else to go.

Boots pummel up the stone road behind me. A band of Brigsmen closes in.

I turn, racing up an alley through a backstreet, only to hear boots again. I slow, breath loping in my chest, hearing the shriek of Ravens overhead. “Pan!” I scream out, seeing her sift through the trees, her tone much louder than the rest.

She swoops, pecking at the arms and legs of my pursuers, giving me a loophole to get away. I rush through it and off up the cobblestones into another street. Smrt closes in behind, his bumbershoot brandished over his head.

Pan swoops. Smrt swings.

“Pan!” I shout, but it’s too late. Smrt connects, knocking Pan from the sky. She falls to the ground, a tiny tuft of twisted feathers rolling lifelessly against the base of a lamppost.

I gasp, pulling to a stop behind a tree to hide myself, peering out around the bark. “Get up, Pan,” I whisper. “Please, get up.”

But she doesn’t. She doesn’t so much as breathe.

Smrt moves in, bumbershoot poised again to strike, waving it like a billy stick over his head.

“
No!
” I shout, stepping out from behind the tree. The handle of Smrt’s bumbershoot slams into the cobblestones, narrowly missing Pan’s head.

He turns and peers at me through shrunken lids.

I meet his gaze. For a moment we stand, frozen in a silent stare—as if the two of us were captured inside one of my episodes. Then one of the Brigsmen sees me.

He lunges forward, his voice calling out to the rest.

I turn and fling myself up the road, soles of my boots grinding the stones beneath them, my arms pumping determined circles at my sides.

Rounding the corner, I thunder down the face of Bayberry Street toward the city’s edge, pendant clapping hard against the bones of my chest. Part way, I ditch off onto Derbyshire, then flank the length of Pickerton, until I reach the mouth of the Dragon Topiary Maze at the base of Lankshire Street and Wells.

Made of hedges, cut into the shape of a dragon, the maze was created for the Ruler by my father—in his capacity as Royal Science Ambassador. It once served as a sanctuary where the ruler’s children played. Secretly doubling as a weapon—a deterrent to all those who dared enter the city through the north end, without the Ruler’s consent. A lethal lure for the deceitful, Father used to say—a ruthless trap set to catch lawbreakers.

Lawful citizens applied for work cards and passed through the gates at a checkpoint just a few hundred meters beyond the hedge. But these days, there are no work cards issued. Those born in Gears must face their fate. They live their lives as low paid laborers, in factories owned by the rich of Brethren, subject to air tainted by the Vapours.

I swallow down the thought and bolt across the intersection’s grassy knoll up into the dragon’s mouth, past its teeth, down its throat, into its gullet, battling overgrown branches as I go. The once ominous and majestic ten-foot dragon hedge has now fallen to neglect. Serving as the wall that marks the end of civilized life it’s become uncivilized itself.

I dart left then right then left again, making quick, careful decisions, twisting through the creature’s belly, on my way to its left hind leg. I need to find the dragon’s claw—the Mother Root—the place where my father planted the two original hedges used to form the maze. As they grew, he braided their trunks creating a gnarled and knotted staircase, leaving loophole steps inside each knot, leading up and out of the maze—a secret escape route through the centre of the hedge, just in case anyone were to become lost inside. My father showed me where to find it when I was little girl, along with how to trip the maze’s mechanical defense mechanism, buried deep beneath the ground—a series of metal spikes designed to spring up at the turn of a crank, deterring intruders—or killing them, depending where they stood.

I fall to my knees at the dragon’s hind leg, ranking my fingers through the dirt.
If only I could remember exactly where it is
…I push aside a broken branch and prick my hand on something sharp. The tip of a nail. “
The claw.”
The word pushes out with my breath. “It must be.” I dig a little farther and expose the rest.

My father sculpted a claw at the base of the Mother Root to indicate its whereabouts. He then fitted the dragon’s three toes with a mechanism, that when tripped activates the maze’s arsenal of defense. I reach for the toes, gently clearing away the dank pile of soggy, decayed, leaves that surrounds them, my hand retracting to the cold chill of metal, and the rusty smell of warn, weathered copper.
I’ve found it.
The mechanism. It’s still here. Triumphant, I suck in a quick breath—startled by the sound of boots advancing up the row behind me.

My head swings around.
Brigsmen.
They’re closing in, their breath heavy. I’m out of time.

Swallowing down the fear that floods my throat, I stand, abandon the clank, and slip inside the hedge. Using the handle of my bumbershoot, I propel myself up through the centre, digging my toes into the knots of the Mother Root staircase, climbing my way to the top of the hedge.

Before I reach it, something rises within me…sharp and dark and slow. I heave in a breath, my body trembling.
No. Not now. I can’t do this now.

The all-too-familiar silver twinge slinks bitterly through my veins. The feeling I get just before I fall into an episode. A migrating metallic feeling that turns my blood cold, my saliva sour, and my entire world—black.

Oh, please, not now.
I cling to the branches.
I need all my wits about me.
I struggle hard to fight the feeling as it feeds toward my brain. A blinding arc of light begins to burn behind my eyes.

Closing my lids, I push through the feeling, willing it to be a small one, just a gentle lapse in time, a tiny break in consciousness, not one of the long, gyrating episodes of absence filled with nothingness, where I’m thrown to the ground and left drooling like a beast. I’ve never gone through one of those without the assistance of my mother. If it strikes, I don’t know what will become of me. I’ve learned to manage the small ones on my own over the years—but a large one, without her—I fear I may never wake up from.

The twinge surges again, my body slackens, and I start to lose my grip. I hang from the branches, praying I’m not revealed, as my world darkens to nothing but shadows. Soon it will all go black. Just as I’m about to submit to the feeling, abruptly it shatters, as if crushed beneath a hammer’s head. The monster that seized me suddenly frees me, and I gasp in relief. The silver twinge has shown me mercy.

At least for now.

I open my eyes feeling lost and confused; in the first moments back from an episode, I’m never quite sure where I am. I hate that feeling. Like I’ve left my skin, and then suddenly been stuffed back in.

And worst of all, I know it’s not over. My episodes come in waves of two. Always a mild one, followed by something worse. And then a reprieve of a month, maybe two.

The strength restored to my limbs, I resume my climb—freezing midway up the trunk inside the hedge at the sound of approaching boots. They stop parallel to me on the path. Hot jagged breaths part the leaves. A set of piercing eyes peers through the branches. My clammy hands slip a bit. I suck in a breath, heart pounding, as the snout of a steamrifle pokes in between the branches, grazing first my arm and then my chin. It’s all I can do not to scream out, feeling the cold, smooth barrel of his gun resting along the side of my cheek.

Please move on. Please move on.

“Over here!” A voice calls from the next row. The snout of the rifle retreats.

I release my breath as his boots thunder away, and quickly descend the trunk through the leaves. Jamming the tip of my bumbershoot into the claw at the base, I activate the maze’s defense mechanism. Ten-foot solid metal spikes rip through the earth, piercing anything in their way.

Brigsmen cry out, their voices screeching. Metal gnashes through bone and tears away flesh. I throw hands to my ears to block out the sound, but it’s no good—I hear everything. The shouts, the screams, the crash of boots fleeing. Random gunshots ring through the air.

I bite my lip and count to thirty before resuming my climb, then crawl out over the top of the hedge when I reach it. Balancing myself on its stiff, sturdy branches, I scour the horizon through the fog in search of Gears. The checkpoint is at least two hundred meters from here. I’ll have to run through an open field, under the windmills, past the purification booms to the edge of the city—without getting caught by the searchlights.

I watch for a minute, seeing them sweep over the grounds like a giant eye.

Please, let me make it.

It’s a good two-meter jump to the ground, maybe more, from where I sit. But I’ve no choice. I’ve got to do it. Closing my eyes, I leap from the top of the bush, landing much to my surprise squarely on both feet. So far, so good.

“Off to Gears, are we, Eyelet?” There’s breath at my back. The words curl around me. Professor Smrt’s beady eyes bear down on me, mere slits in the shrinking twilight.

He stands, Brigsmen at his sides, their steamrifles clutched and ready. I shudder, knowing I don’t stand a chance. I make a move and they could shoot me.

“Funny, in all the years I knew your father, he never shared the secret of his maze design with me. Yet clearly, you knew not only where to find the Mother Root, but how to activate the impalement devices. Which makes me wonder…” Smrt grits his teeth. “What other secrets do you harbor, Eyelet? What other
classified
information do you know?”

I swallow, squirreling backward, trying to distance myself as he closes in, bringing a hand to my chest to cover my pendant. “Hand over the notebook.”

“What notebook?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know you have your father’s notes.”

“I lost them,” I say, dropping my eyes.

“Liar!” He signals for the nearest Brigsman to raise his steamrifle. I shudder as he presses it to my temple. “Now hand it over, or prepare to join your mother and father.”

I reach down, slowly pulling the notebook from its hiding place in my boot.

Smrt snatches it away, my hand refusing to let go. A tug-of-war ensues. The cover of the journal strains then tears in half, revealing a secret flap. A small ticket of paper flutters loose out onto the wind. A storage ticket marked “Confidential,” written in my father’s hand.

It feathers down, coming to rest at my feet. I stamp on its edge and read the rest.

1460 Wortley Rd, Warehouse #47, Gears.

Item stored—The Illuminator.

I can’t believe my eyes.

Lumière. I gasp. Of course—code for the Illuminator.

Smrt’s gaze drops to the ticket under my boot. His hands release the journal. Each of us swoops to collect the ticket first, nearly clacking heads, but I prevail as winner.

“Give me that!” Smrt shouts as I throw up my hand, the wind trying to pry the ticket from my fingers. The look in his eyes tells me he knows what it is—a treasure, apparently to us both. What could he possibly want with this ticket? What does he want with my father’s machine? “Hand that over immediately, you rogue little imp!”

I stand firm and stare coldly at him. Has this been what he’s wanted all along? All the time, following my every move about the Academy—was he just waiting for me to uncover this secret? “Never!” I shout.

I turn and fling myself at the hillside, racing away as fast as I can.

“Stop her!” I hear him shout over the readying of the Brigsmen’s guns. “No! Don’t shoot. I want her alive. Now go! Return her to me immediately!”

Skirts clutched high, I twist through the rocks and down the hill, my heart alive with my new mission. “1460 Wortley Rd, Gears, Warehouse #47,” I chant, sprinting across the open field toward the fence that divides the two cities. “The Illuminator! I’ve found it!”

T
hree

Eyelet

I must make it to the warehouse before Smrt. But first I need to shake loose these Brigsmen.

I
cannot
risk entry through the checkpoint gates. I’ll be spotted there for sure. Besides, I have no work card, no papers with me. I’ll be arrested immediately. I’ve no choice, I’ll have to cross illegally through the forest at the backside of the city.

Looking back over my shoulders, I see the Brigsmen closing in, their eyes those of circling wolves. I swallow, head twisting, and burst for the woods, veering sideways through a bank of trees. It confuses some, but challenges others, their shouts mingling with the snap of twigs under their boots, as they thunder after me.

Inside the trees, I dash through a brook, then take a wicked turn, snaking through a grove of bramble-twisted saplings, hearing the Brigsmen curse as they get caught up in the spiny fingers. I’ve bought myself a small pocket of time, but not much. I need a plan, and fast.

I reach the boundary of the city and skid to a stop, heaving in breath and clutching my knees, astonished at what I see. I expected some sort of barrier dividing the two cities...but I never expected anything like this.