Such a Daring Endeavor (8 page)

We run across town, following the path I took the night before and sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Soldiers march as their commanders shout orders. Others gather on the wide porch of an abandoned courthouse with its nude brick and boxy, colonial structure. We stop under the eaves of a house a block away, but near enough to hear the
shink, shink
of weapons being sharpened.

Ren grips the brick just enough to peer around the corner. “Angels, they’re everywhere,” he says. “This is worse than when I was here, and it hasn’t been that long since Tyrus had me at the Station every day.”

I shudder. Thanks to that Station, Tyrus basically has Valadir in hand. It won’t be long until he has all of Itharia. But the Arcaians dominated our government before, even without owning all of our magic. Why is he going to such lengths for the sake of a war he’s already winning? What’s Tyrus playing at?

Ren ducks his head and grips my elbow, leading me into the inky shadows of an alleyway. I release a shiver in the cooler air.

Ren removes the potion Ayso gave us from his pocket—Illusio, she called it. Its rectangular shape fits perfectly in his palm, its edges rounded and solid. It has no label, but steam oozes from the cork like something possessed.

He then takes another jar—empty this time—and uncorks the top with a soft
pop
. Tipping it to the other, he transfers half of the steaming liquid into the empty jar before handing it to me.

“You ready?” he asks.

I exhale. This potion is dangerous. But it’s our best option. “As I’ll ever be.”

The glass is cool under my touch, and while fear punches a hole in my chest I swat the unease away. Instead, I focus on my other worries. What if the Illusio doesn’t work? What if we get in, but can’t get back out again? Or the worst one of all—what if Talon is already dead?

Acid builds in my throat. The dark stone terraces and rising spires of the Triad point upward, a veritable fortress barricading me in all the ways that matter.

“Illusio,” Ren says to the jar as if introducing himself to it. A small trail of steam twists out from it in response.

His hand shakes, and I don’t blame him. The last time he was here he didn’t belong to himself. And here he is, about to stroll right back in, relying on Ayso’s experimental concoction…

“It will work,” I tell him, knowing it’s not enough. He gives me a small smile anyway, wagging the hand-sized jar before returning it to his jacket. More steam escapes as he does it. I tuck my own flat jar into my pants’ waistline before replacing my shirt—the jar will be too noticeable sticking out from the top of a pocket.

“Why are you going along with this?” I ask him.

Ren’s eyes soften, and he flicks my nose like he used to when we were little. Along with the gesture, his heat is reassuring. He’s here. He’s coming with me. “You’re my sister. And whether Haraway wanted to or not, he helped you.”

“Ren,” I begin. I don’t want to sound like a coward. But knowing he may be just as nervous as I am strangely brings me comfort. “I’m glad you came with me.”

He inclines his head and musses my hair. With a crouch, like he’s ready to spring, he peers around the corner.

“Between Haraway’s skill, my knowledge of the route, and your magic, I don’t think getting out will be a problem.”

“Ren?”

“Ambry?” He mocks my name, letting me know he’s sick of talking.
I know. We need to go.
I inhale, deciding not to tell him the other issue plaguing me with regret. I left the teardrop back at Black Vault. “We’ll probably see Gwynn there,” I say instead.

“I know,” he says, glaring out at the sea. “I saw her there every day. Of course she’ll be there.”

I don’t have the heart to mention her name on his aud’s messager. Instead, I grip the jar.

“Remember,” Ren says. “If anything happens, drink your Illusio and make for the Tapestry Hall. Sneak behind the fifth tapestry on the right. If we get separated, that’s where I”ll meet you.”

I run back through the directions in my head and nod. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

***

Sweat collects in my palms and trickles down my back, while Ayso’s jar digs into my hip. I wait and gauge the steps. The forlorn glances of those who are lined up are so lifeless and bled of all hope, it’s not hard for me to cut in line. Like jumping rope, I wait to spring up with the next rotation and duck at the right time.

Our line slows and narrows out until we march single-file toward the courtyard entrance. Several people shuffle to accommodate this, forcing Ren to step in several more places ahead of me. Angels.

A beeping sound strikes with every forward step we take. I tiptoe upward and glimpse a bearded Arcaian soldier waving a small metal tube over people’s arms, his purple hand glowing with each swipe.

According to Ayso, the Illusio will copy us. When we drink it, we’ll duplicate ourselves, leaving an imprint behind. The Arcaians will go after the shadow, giving the real Ren and me time to make our way to the dungeons. The biggest risk is that we have to make sure we leave the right part of ourselves behind. Unlike our illusions, we won’t fade after a few minutes.

My throat shrinks. I can hardly breathe. This was the plan I agreed to, but reality has more force than a hard slap. Whether they catch me or my duplicate, they’ll know I have magic. They’ll try to take it again. My hand flies to my chest, but for the first time since we left Dircey and the others, I’m glad I left my teardrop behind.
This
is why I left it behind.

We inch closer and closer as men and women are scanned and sent to various areas of the courtyard within for instructions and weapon distribution.

Screams break out every minute or so from the extraction area to my right, every time the line moves forward. I try not to think about it, but screams are pretty hard to ignore.

My determination falters. I urge my feet to move, though I want nothing more than to break for it. I could whip out some magic, bust my way through, but that would draw far too much attention. I need to get both Ren and Talon—and myself—back out again. Alive, preferably.

“Clean,” says the Arc at the door as each person passes and we all take another step forward. “Clean.” Scan. “Clean.”

This is worse than Tyrus waiting to scan us back at pre-col after Black Vault. One more step and it’s Ren. Is he ready?

Am I?

Ayso’s words do little to comfort me. “How do we know we’ll be leaving the impression behind, and not the real us?” I asked her.

“The illusion will copy you exactly as you are when you drink the potion,” she said. “And just as you want to be sure you don’t get left behind, well… The illusion won’t want to be left behind either. It’s an
exact
copy of you. It’s a matter of beating the illusion before it overtakes you and gets itself out first.”

Ayso had a delicate, intellectual look about her. With her broad, porcelain cheeks and inquisitive brown eyes, her long lashes and the single crooked tooth in the front of her mouth when she smiled. There was something childlike about her eagerness to help us.

Ren trusted her. That meant I should trust her too. Why doesn’t that make me feel any better about this?

I pull out the jar.
Beat the illusion,
I tell myself, hearing Ayso’s warning one final time
. Get yourself out first.
Ignoring the escaping steam, I quickly uncork it and duck down into a strange, sideways hunch.

To you, Talon.
I ram aside my fears and tip the jar to my lips.

The liquid is cold. Smoke cloaks my tongue like I’ve just licked charred meat. Cinnamon drizzles after, and the strange combination clacks on my taste buds. Wincing, I work my tongue several times while the smoke and cinnamon spread through me, trickling through my teeth to seep up into my skull and down my throat, weaving in and out through the crevices in my bones like a series of threads zigzagging through a loom.

Then the pressure hits, all at once, crashing into me with the next advancing step. I stumble into the back of the man in front of me, gripping his shirt for balance. Several people glance back at me while more shouting ensues ahead.

“This one’s dirty!” the soldier cries. I try to stay focused, to regain my balance, to release the man currently helping me stand. If there’s a duplicate of my brother ahead, I can’t tell, but sure enough, the soldiers stop when they recognize him.

Ren.

“You just couldn’t get enough, could you, Csille?” one says before slamming a fist to Ren’s gut and shouting over his shoulder. “That means his sister could be close. Call her!”

Ren fights against their grips, but the soldiers hold him fast. One of them plunges a glowing dazeblade right into Ren’s chest. “Officer’s orders,” the soldier says, leering in Ren’s face as he goggles over the injury. Blood gushes from his chest. “You should have known not to come back here.”

The sight hits me as though the knife has gone into me instead. I struggle for breath; the air expels from my lungs. Something pulls at my skin, tearing it from my bones. It’s as though two halves make up the whole of me, and they’re slowly being drawn, snipping each connecting edge. I can’t concentrate—Ren is being hurt. Ren is—

It’s his duplicate. It’s got to be, please tell me it’s his duplicate.

The snipping separates my awareness, my motions, until I finally fall, scuffing the heels of my hands. The edges of my body burn as surely as meat cooked too close to the flame.

Colors burst across my vision. I’m on the ground with the stark realization that I’ve missed something. A girl wearing a purple shirt and jeans exactly like mine dashes toward a passing crowd in the street, her honey blonde hair flapping behind her.

Oh no.

My veins buzz, whirring like a wind-up toy. From down here I see through the line-up of legs. The soldiers ahead begin kicking Ren’s lifeless body, laughing all the while until the bloodied image of Ren fades like ash in the wind.

“What the vreck?” a soldier stammers.

Ren’s illusion faded. Mine took off. It’s now or never.

Taking advantage of their distraction, I push past them like a runner at the crack of a whip and break for the gap behind them, no duplicate to be left behind.

“Hey!” Several soldiers veer around. A peculiar thrumming hammers in my veins, clouding my brain, but still, I run straight for the palace’s open doors at the top of the courtyard.

A high-vaulted ceiling angles above. The mist of magic in my bones staggers as I move sluggishly, hugging my arms to my busy chest. I take the left corridor, push into a hidden alcove in the stone wall, and close my eyes.

At least Ren got away. At least he is safe.

Conditioned air cools my skin. Blood speeds along, going way too fast for how little I’m moving. I grasp onto the magic, praising the angels I still have mine.

A hand claws around my elbow, and my eyes snap open. A boy no older than I am with dark hair and hazel eyes raises an eyebrow at me, his full lips drawn into a smirk. He wears the Arcaian khaki, and a mole dots the space between his mouth and his nose. His eyes follow mine as I glance down to his hand cutting off my circulation.

“Think you can use magic around here and not be noticed? Especially your inborn magic?”

A shorter soldier with a shaved head and earrings in each ear snickers from behind the one gripping me. He nudges past, looking me over. The Xian claw at his belt taps its metal fingers in anticipation.

“That’s odd,” says the shorter, his brows drawn. “I could have sworn I just saw her across the street.”

I pull against his grasp, sweat beading down my back. He steps closer. 

“It’s a replication,” says the one, pulling a dazeblade from his belt. He presses it against my side with a smart sting and I inhale through my teeth. “Her brother’s faded before we finished with him. Which means—”

“He’s somewhere in the palace,” the other finishes, glancing over his shoulder.

“Search him out.”

I grit my jaw and jerk away, attempting to slip free. The soldier’s knife stabs harder into my side, though not enough to pierce, and he pulls me tight against him once more. His hot breath hits my cheek.

“You don’t want to do this,” I say, my brain racing, shoving against him. His blade digs in harder. If Ren’s replica faded, that means mine must have too.

An elegantly carved door to the right of a tapestry with an embroidered set of mountains creaks open, and Gwynn steps out. She wears a stately khaki uniform, dressier than the others, with a higher waistline making the bottom of the shirt flare out just slightly. Her hair hangs in loose curls, pulled back with a teasing segment dangling down one side of her face.

“Actually,” says Gwynn, a gleam in her eyes. “They do.”

T
he last time we were in the same room, she overlooked my brother like he was nothing more than dross beneath her feet; she simpered at Tyrus, screeched how my magic was her right, and then she stabbed a Xian claw into my leg.

But that wasn’t her; it couldn’t be. Tyrus has some kind of hold over her, I know it.

Ren’s insistance that she’s changed thrums at the back of my mind, but he’s wrong. This is Gwynn. This is my best friend.