Asunder (Incarnate) (9 page)

WHEN I CAME out the side door, the market field was still busy with people walking around, chatting, and listening to music on their SEDs, but not as crowded as before. Merton’s group was gone, though the effects of his speech lingered. People eyed me with distaste, and some had gathered into small circles of gossip.

I slumped on a bench and fumbled for my mitts.

“Hey, Ana.” Armande sat next to me and offered a paper cup of coffee.

“Thanks.” I balanced it on my knee and watched a group of children chase one another through the market field. They weren’t really children, though. They were five-thousand-year-old children, burning off the excess energy of their
age. Would I know what that felt like, being a kid again but remembering everything I did now? I wanted the chance—ached for it—and acceptance.

“Don’t worry, Ana.” Armande gave me an awkward sideways hug, somehow knowing what I was thinking about. If I was that easy to read, surely my lies in the Council chamber had been, too.

“Did Lidea and Anid get home safely yesterday?” I asked.

He nodded. “Thanks to you. Wend is with her, of course, and Stef waited a few hours to make sure everything was all right. I think she’s rather taken with Anid.” Armande grinned. He was Sam’s father in this life, so the physical similarities between them were striking: dark hair they both wore perfectly shaggy, wide-set eyes, and strong builds. But that was where their likeness ended. Sam was quiet and graceful; Armande was outgoing and…less graceful.

I liked trying to figure out which traits were inherited each generation, and which traits had become habits.

“How’d it go in there?” He jerked his chin toward the Councilhouse.

I sipped my coffee, letting the heat flood through me. “The Council is angry with me.”

“The Council is always angry.”

“Deborl thinks I can control sylph.”

Armande snorted. “That’s like saying you control dragons. Ridiculous.”

I tried to smile, but I couldn’t forget the way the sylph had responded to my voice, to physical gestures, and my words when I shouted for them to flee. Maybe they’d have fled simply because I was shouting.

“It’s curious how there were so many, though. Aside from Templedark, we haven’t had an attack that size in centuries.”

It hadn’t even been an attack. Maybe. No one had been hurt—besides my reputation—so did it still count? In hindsight, it seemed like the sylph had just wanted to look at us.

We sat in silence while I waited on Sam, and Armande…made sure no one threw rocks. His stall was close enough to keep an eye on it while he kept an eye on me, too. I hated that, but I really didn’t want the girl across the way to yell at me, or the guy on the Councilhouse steps to call me names, so I said nothing.

“I’m worried about Anid.” I placed my coffee on the bench beside me. “About how he and other newsouls will grow up. The Council isn’t going to do anything.”

I couldn’t help but remember my first conversation with Councilors. Sam and I had just reached Heart, and I wasn’t allowed into the city. They’d insisted the no-Ana law was because they hadn’t been sure the city could support newsouls. Who would feed us and teach us? But there’d only been me.

Now there were two.

Soon there could be more.

“I expect there will be fierce debates from both sides, not
just from those afraid of change. Lots of people like you and are looking forward to meeting more newsouls.” Armande patted my shoulder fondly. “If nothing else, the next few months will give you an idea of whom to avoid.”

I hated knowing this was something I had to do, not only for myself but for other newsouls. “At least when policies are finally made, we’ll know what kind of things to watch out for. Like if they say it’s legal to throw rocks at us. I think I still have a bruise from the last one.”

Armande didn’t laugh.

“Ana!” Cris towered above the crowd, features sharp in the near-winter sunlight as he moved toward us.

I waved.

“I didn’t realize you knew Cris,” Armande said, voice low and tinged with something I couldn’t identify. Memories? The past? Definitely something he didn’t want to tell me.

“We met him at Purple Rose Cottage when he was on his way back here.” I took another sip of my coffee as Cris approached and sat on the other side of me, placing a rose across my knees. Velvety indigo petals shivered in the breeze, and settled as I brushed my fingers up to the tips. It was the same kind of rose I’d tended in Purple Rose Cottage, though the thorns had been clipped off this one. “Where did you get this?”

He cocked his head, shadowing his expression. “I didn’t abandon them all.”

Oh, right. Like I’d accused him of doing. “I’m glad to hear that. I didn’t realize you’d kept growing them.”

“It’s not something someone stops doing just because other people don’t agree about color.”

“Technology didn’t agree either,” said Armande. “They tested whether the color registered more red—like purple—or blue.”

Cris smiled. “What do you think, Ana? Blue or purple?”

I held up my hands, torn between being stunned and pleased someone had asked my opinion. “I’m not getting into this.” My chuckle came out high and shaky. “This is clearly an inflammatory topic, and I think it’s safer not to have an opinion.”

Cris laughed. “Very well. I was more curious whether you’d like to continue gardening. You’ve been taking lessons from everyone, right? Are you still interested in roses?”

I nodded toward the southwestern residential quarter. “I’ve been tending the roses at Sam’s house. It’s not nearly as involved as what you’re used to, I’m sure, but I enjoy it.”

“That’s good to hear.” He motioned toward the rose still on my lap. “Were you interested in learning more about the genetics and how to begin projects like these roses? We’ve actually learned a lot about human genetics by breeding plants to see what traits pass on.”

That
was something I didn’t want to hear about—how carefully the Council and geneticists decided who could
and couldn’t have children. Maybe I was only sensitive to it because I was new, or maybe they’d become
de
sensitized after living with the awkwardness for millennia.

But since I was interested in the first part—making new kinds of roses and things that required more gardening knowledge—I said, “Sure. I need to check my schedule to see what days are free. Last week I had to learn about automated sewer maintenance. Soon I’ll be accompanying Stef and a few others into a mine to rescue a broken drone. I’m supposed to help fix it.” I made a face. More than likely, I’d be holding a flashlight.

“Gardening won’t be quite as physically exhausting as that.”

“You can’t trick me. I’ve fought weeds before.” I fondled the rose petals, soft against my fingertips peeking out from my mitts. It was just like the roses from the cottage, even the sweet scent. “We usually go to lessons in the afternoon, unless another time is better for you.”

“We? Sam goes too?” He raised an eyebrow.

I frowned. “Is that not okay? The Council makes him report everything.” Plus, it was nice having him around in case we ran across someone like Merton—not that I would admit that out loud.

“It’s fine.” His expression had darkened, though. “I just didn’t realize Sam accompanied you. But please call when you’re ready to schedule.”

“Thanks. I look forward to it.” I offered back the indigo rose, but he shook his head.

“That’s for you.” With a quick smile, he headed off, almost lost in the crowd again, except he was so much taller than everyone. Did he have to duck to get through doorways? How did someone even get that tall? I stared enviously as he vanished behind a crumbling statue of someone riding a horse.

Armande shifted his weight and hmmed. “That was kind of odd.”

“I agree. Why would he just give me a rose when people are supposed to pay for them?” Maybe he’d request payment during the lesson, or hint at Sam later since I, of course, had no credit.

A dark figure appeared around the Councilhouse, hair tousled as he scanned the thinning crowd for me.

I placed the rose and my coffee on the bench and met Sam halfway. He hugged me so tightly my feet lifted off the ground, and then he pressed his mouth against my neck.

“Everything okay?” His coat collar muffled my voice.

“Better now that I have you again.” But he didn’t sound happy, and across the market field, someone made rude comments to their companion. Something about how boring it must be, being with a newsoul. Sam cringed and dug his fingers into my coat. “Don’t listen to them. There’s nothing boring about you.”

Face red, I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for standing up for me in the Council chamber.”

“I don’t know if it will make any difference, but it’s better than silence.” His voice sobered further. “Stay away from Merton if you can.”

That guy again. Had he gone into the Council chamber after I left? Perhaps that was why Sine wanted me to leave. Perhaps she yelled at him for the way he’d behaved in the hospital, and the way he kept holding public rants. “I hadn’t planned on asking him to be my new best friend.”

Sam didn’t smile. “I think he’s the person who attacked us after the masquerade. With Li.” He held me tighter when I winced. “I don’t have proof, but I asked Sine if someone would keep watch on him. For now, the best we can do is avoid him.”

“I understand.” I glanced at the temple, so high it made me dizzy to watch the clouds drift around it. “Can we go home now?” When I was aware of it, the building seemed more solid, taller and wider and hungrier. It seemed like it
hated
me, and if a building could hate, it would be the one Janan inhabited.

Sam kissed my forehead. “Home sounds good.” He slipped his hand around mine as we headed over to wish Armande a good day.

“Hi, Sam.” Armande stood, and his gaze flickered toward the bench where I’d been sitting.

Sam’s followed. “Someone gave you a rose?”

It took me a second to realize that was a question for me, not Armande. “Cris did. I’d accused him of abandoning the ones at Purple Rose Cottage. I guess he wanted to prove he hadn’t.” I plucked it off the bench. “He offered gardening lessons. I said we’d call him.”

“Okay.” Sam and Armande exchanged more silent communication—most of which came from Armande—but it was the kind that came from knowing each other forever. I couldn’t read it.

When we left Armande with his pastry stall, I tossed my coffee cup in a recycle bin and asked, “What was that look about?”

Sam didn’t answer.

Okay. Question for later, then. “What happened in the Council chamber after I left?”

He just shook his head and didn’t speak until we turned onto his street, like he’d been putting the words together the entire walk home. “They wanted me to remember the truth about newsouls.”

“THE TRUTH ABOUT newsouls?” I couldn’t breathe.

“No one’s sure how to respond to Templedark,” he admitted at last. “At first, the community was in shock. We reacted how we always react to battles: tend to the wounded; rebuild the city. We could do that in our sleep. But eventually, we woke up and realized.” Sam’s voice broke, and he stopped walking. “So many souls are gone forever. We’ll never see them again. No one knows what happens after you die like that.”

Almost a year ago, he’d said the scariest thing he could think of was no longer existing. True death.

Living in Heart and witnessing Templedark gave me new appreciation for how frightening that thought was. I still didn’t know what would happen to me when I died.

I didn’t want to stop existing either.

“People are born in patterns. For me, it’s just usually being male and being born in the Year of Songs. Nothing special. But others have the same mother or father so often it’s eerie. Most keep their close friends through generations.”

I knew all that. Sam and Stef had been friends since the beginning—five thousand years—and Whit and Orrin had practically built the library together in the first Year of Binding.

Sam went on. Fire-colored leaves floated to the ground behind him. “Some of those best friends and perpetual parents are gone. I keep thinking, what if Stef had been one of them? Or Sarit or Armande or Sine? They’ve been my friends for thousands of years.”

I couldn’t imagine. Didn’t
want
to imagine. I just wanted him to stop hurting.

He began walking again, fast, clipped steps like he could outrun the pain. “People want revenge.” His words almost didn’t carry over the breeze, the rustle of conifers, and the tapping of naked deciduous branches. “But Menehem is gone, at least for now. There’s no one to punish.”

Waiting for his return had to be unsatisfying. I was the next logical choice.

“The Council wants to search your room for anything Menehem might have left you.”

“Why?” I hugged my notebook to my chest as we turned
onto his walkway. A chill breeze tugged at the rose in my fist, and leaves skittered across the cobblestones.

“They’re afraid Menehem might have left clues for you, and they’re afraid of what would happen if you knew how to put Janan to sleep.”

“
Oh
. Even though I just told them it isn’t possible?” Maybe they’d seen through my lie after all. The thought made me sick and dizzy. “Anyway, how could they think I’d risk sacrificing my friends? Or you?”

For a moment, I hoped he might joke about being upset that he wasn’t my friend, but he just turned his face to the sky and sighed.

“You know I’d never risk you.” The wind nearly stole my words away. I stepped closer, heart aching. “You know I’m not like Menehem. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I’d never do what he did. You know that, right?”

“I know.” He stared far away, cracks showing in his normally calm demeanor. They’d planted something nasty inside of him, and it was growing, bursting out. “I think they’re imagining what it might mean, you not being the only newsoul anymore. Having more has never been a possibility before, but if you knew how to do it—”

“I’d
never
risk you. You know how I feel.” Didn’t he? Maybe he didn’t, if I couldn’t say it. “And it seems like everyone else knows how I feel, too.” Given how often they gossiped about our relationship.

I shifted my belongings to one hand and touched his shoulder. We stood there in the middle of the walkway, underneath one of the skeletal fruit trees and a sky full of clouds. Chickens and cavies rustled in their pens, softly clucking and wheeking as they waited to be fed.

The world moved around us while I waited for him to look at me. While I waited for him to believe me.

“You know how I feel,” I repeated, heart twisting into knots. “But maybe the newsouls being born, like Lidea’s baby, won’t have the same problems I did.” I stopped myself before adding, “Still do,” but only just. He knew.

“Are you”—his words came like dread—“happy that newsouls are being born? That you’re not the only one?” His face revealed no hints of his true question.

“Yes? No?” I dropped my hands to my sides, notebook and rose still clutched in my fist. “It’s not safe for newsouls, and I’m terrified we’ll never be accepted. So no, I’m not
happy
they’re being born into this life. And I’m not
happy
that darksouls are gone. Friends, families. I did everything I could to avoid losing anyone.”

“I remember.” The words became white mist, and he didn’t look at me.

“Some souls aren’t coming back. There’s nothing we can do for them now. So in that, I
am
happy newsouls are being born. It’s better than no one being born.” Gooseflesh prickled over my skin as I stared at the sky, searching for answers in
cloud formations. “Ever since Anid was born—since I realized I hadn’t just gotten stuck or left behind five thousand years ago—I’ve been thinking there must be a place full of souls waiting for a turn at life. Waiting and waiting, never having a chance because Janan makes someone else reincarnate instead.”

His voice turned low and careful. “And now almost eighty will have a chance. Do you think that’s a fair trade?”

“Nothing is fair. Not even souls being reincarnated for a hundred lives while newsouls never get one.”

“Well, now they’ll live, and Devon won’t. Neither will Larkin or Minn. Neither will Enna, my current mother, or four Councilors.” His voice shook with barely restrained grief. “They were here five thousand years. They were part of our lives. Julid, one of the greatest inventors, is lost forever. Rahel kept watch on Range, making sure we never overhunted, making sure the caldera wasn’t going to erupt. People who were necessary to our lives are gone. Thanks to Menehem’s meddling, the entire world has changed. You’ve tried to understand that, I know, but you can’t. Not this life. Maybe not your next, either.”

My heartbeat raced in my ears. My notebook and rose dropped, purple-blue petals vibrant against the gray stone, like paint on canvas. Shouts itched to get out, and I almost succumbed. I didn’t. He was already hurting enough.

Instead, I turned up my chin, keeping my gaze and voice
steady. “If not for Menehem’s meddling, I wouldn’t be here.”

His mouth dropped and his eyes went wide. “Ana…”

I scooped up my belongings, swallowing anger. We were both right, and he knew it. There was no
good
answer. There was no fair answer. “Let’s just go in.” My voice rasped with tears.

Sam watched me a moment longer, then nodded and went for the door. I trailed after him, and when he sat at the piano—to work on it or practice, I wasn’t sure—I headed up the spiral staircase, through the hallway, and to my bedroom. Not even watching Sam play the piano could lift my mood right now.

Like every room upstairs, mine had interior walls made of sheets of silk, and pinned together by delicately carved wooden shelves. So when Sam started playing downstairs, I could hear every note perfectly. He began with scales and warm-ups, playing with such force that his discontentment and confusion cascaded through the house.

Jaw clenched to cage frustration, I gathered up the books I’d stolen from the temple. To keep anyone from noticing them, I’d hidden them separately, in drawers or behind other books. With the Council’s promise to search my room, I would need to come up with better spots.

But for now, I sat at my desk and placed one of the books in front of me.

More than ever, I needed to understand Janan, and what
was happening with the newsouls. I hadn’t magically been able to decipher the symbols in the books yet, but I’d definitely never be able to read them if I didn’t try.

The binding creaked when I opened the first book. Dashes of ink stood dark on pale paper, grainy and thick, as if it had been made hundreds of years ago. I let my thoughts drift as I searched the page for anything familiar, and Sam’s practicing seeped into my consciousness like water. His practice sounded better than my playing, even when he stopped to work through a section. His music was beautiful even when he was angry and exasperated, emotions spiraling out of control.

Spiraling.

Spirals.

Snail shells. Rose petals. Hurricane clouds. Faraway galaxies.

The nonsense markings jerked into place.

When I blinked, they were random again. Nevertheless, I’d found the pattern, like when I’d first taught myself to read, or when Sam had played music and I’d been able to follow the dots and bars—but never for more than a few seconds. At first.

I pushed the book aside and opened another and another, making a rainbow of ancient texts across my desk.

I couldn’t read anything, and it took practice to see it again, but every page in every book had the same structure: a spiral.

Seeing the spiral was difficult at first. After straining my eyes for an hour, I realized my problem: I’d assumed the lines, for lack of a better term, were all the same size, like bars of music were all the same height.

But like looking into a pit with stairs spiraling down, they appeared smaller toward the center. A two-dimensional representation of something three-dimensional. I’d seen it in my mathematics studies, but it wasn’t part of my curriculum, so I hadn’t had time to pursue it.

Once I realized that, I could see the spiral as clearly as any other line of text, though the characters themselves still made no sense. Not to mention why they’d go in a spiral, forcing the reader to turn the book around and around.

I copied symbols into a notebook to view them flat, but they still looked like random scratches.

Downstairs, Sam’s playing stopped, and he played the same note several times, as though testing it; he’d said earlier he wanted to work on the piano.

I put in my SED earpieces and tapped the screen for a random recording of his music. There was so much, I hadn’t managed even a quarter of it in my months here, and I still had my favorites and pieces I had to study for lessons. A random piece would be good for me.

A flute sang, low and breathy, reminding me of earth. I’d listened to Sam’s playing enough to recognize his vibrato,
and the power that lurked behind the gentle sound. A lute joined in a moment later with a light, delicate voice, and soon both played together in an unfamiliar minor key.

The rhythm unfurled oddly, unpredictable almost, though there
was
a pattern I could almost hear—

Then I lost it.

The peculiar beauty swept me along in the sweetness and warmth, and just as it ended, I glanced at the title on the screen. Blue Rose Serenade.

Shivers marched up my spine.

The second player…

I pressed my hands over my mouth as though I could smother the stab of hurt. Why couldn’t Sam really be a boy my age, with no more experience than I had? No past lives, past loves.

Why couldn’t he be only for me?

I hated feeling jealous. It was petty, and I knew he loved me. He’d
told
me. And still my inability to believe he’d choose me over anyone—it squirmed in my gut and made me sick.

I turned the music down as the next piece came on, letting nocturnes and minuets seep into my thoughts while I focused on the temple books.

“This looks like a crescendo symbol.”

I jumped as Sam’s forefinger touched the paper. I hadn’t heard him come into my room, but there he was, leaning on the corner of my desk.

Blushing, I removed the SED earpieces and shrugged. “Maybe. Or grow, expand, increase, swell. Or none of those things. Chances are just as high it means something else.” Still, I wrote “Crescendo?” next to the lines.

“How are you getting these markings?” He didn’t sound skeptical that I saw them, just curious.

“Here.” I slid one of the books toward him and grabbed a pencil. “Watch.” Lightly, so I could erase later, I traced a spiral under the text, starting from the center.

“
Oh
.” Sam glanced at the other books and flipped a few pages, just as I had done. “That’s incredible. I don’t suppose you’ve translated everything
but
the crescendo symbol, hmm?”

“No, unfortunately.” I leaned back in my chair, stretching cramped muscles. “But I’ve looked at these things how many times? I’m glad for any progress.”

“I’ve no doubt.” He picked up the rose, which I’d left on the edge of my desk. It was tiny in his hands, delicate, and the way he gazed at it was more mysterious than the books. “What else are you looking at here? I see the size changes from the center to the outside.”

“It does, and I couldn’t tell you if you read it outside to inside, or inside to outside. Or why anyone would write in a spiral, making you have to turn the book around.”

“It does seem like a lot of trouble.”

“I’ve tried to write down when I see symbols in patterns,
but it’s hard to tell when I’m not even sure of the direction of the text.” I spun my notebook to face him. “Does anything else look familiar?” Maybe if more were music symbols, that would offer a place to start. But he shook his head.

“Not yet.”

I let my thoughts wander through all the information I’d learned about Heart, its history, and where people had come from. He’d told me about tribes, people discovering Heart already built.

“Once, you told me you’d found bones in the agricultural quarter?” I watched him from the corner of my eye. “They might have been from a civilization before you.”

He wore caution like a mask. “That was a long time ago.”

I refused to be discouraged. “If people lived in Heart before you, perhaps these were their books.”

“Perhaps.”

How unhelpful. I tried again. “Do you remember anything? Any writing on rocks or trees? Anything like this?” Knowing who wrote it might give clues to what it said.

“Ana, that was a
long
time ago.” His gaze dropped toward the rose bloom, cupped in his hand like a puddle of twilight. “And it wasn’t my specialty. I avoided the agricultural quarter whenever I could. The only thing I wanted to do then was carve whistles that sounded like my favorite birds.”